ridge eaten away so that it was impossible to climb past. His
only choice was to go around, deeper into the moor. He moved
quickly, following the line of the swamp, listening for sounds
of pursuit. There were none. The moor was still and empty. He
swung back toward the bluif, encountered a maze of gullies with
masses of things moving through them, and swung wide again.
Steadily, he went on, exhausted, but unable to rest. The dark-
ness deepened. He found the end of the maze and started back
again toward the bluff. He walked a long way, circling quag-
mires and sinkholes, peering expectantly through the gloom.
He could not find Toffer Ridge.
He walked more quickly now, anxious, fighting down the fear
that threatened to overwhelm him. He was lost, he realized-
but he refused to accept it. He kept searching, unable to believe
that he could have mistaken his direction so completely. The
base of the ridge had been right there! How could he have be-
come so turned about?
At last he stopped, unable to continue with the charade. There
was no point in going on, because the truth of the matter was
he had no idea where he was going. He would simply continue
to wander about endlessly until either the swamp or the Were-
beasts claimed him. It was better that he stand and fight.
It was an odd decision, one brought about less by sound rea-
soning than by fatigue. After all, what hope was there for him
if he didn’t escape the moor and how could he escape the moor
if he stopped moving? But he was tired and he didn’t like the
idea of running about blindly. And he kept thinking of that child,
that Shadowen-shrinking from him, driven back by some shad-
ing of his magic that he hadn’t even known existed. He still
didn’t understand what it was, but if he could somehow summon
it again and master it in even the smallest way, then he had a
chance against the Werebeasts and anything else the swamp
might send against him.
He glanced about momentarily, then walked to a broad hill-
ock with quagmire on two sides, jutting rocks on a third, and
only one way in. Only one way out, as well, he reminded him-
self as he ascended the rise, but then he wasn’t going anywhere,
was he? He found a flat rock and seated himself, facing out into
the mist and night. Until it grew light again, this was where he
would make his stand.
The minutes slipped away. Night descended, the mist thick-
ened, but there was still light, a sort of curious phosphorescence
given off by the sparse vegetation. Its glow was famt and decep-
tive, but it gave Par the means to distinguish what lay about him
and the belief that he could catch sight of anything sneaking up.
Nevertheless, he didn’t see the Shadowen until it was almost
on top of him. It was the child again, tall, thin, wasted. She
appeared seemingly out of nowhere, no more than a few yards
in front of him, and he started with the suddenness of her com-
ing.
“Get back from me!” he warned, coming quickly to his feet.
“If you try to touch me . . .”
The Shadowen shimmered into mist and disappeared.
Par took a deep breath. It hadn’t been a Shadowen after all,
he thought, but a Werebeast-and not so tough, if he could send
it packing with just a threat!
He wanted to laugh. He was near exhaustion, both physically
and emotionally, and he knew he was no longer entirely rational.
He hadn’t chased anything away. That Werebeast had simply
come in for a look. They were toying with him, the way they
did with their prey-taking on familiar forms, waiting for the
right opportunity, for fatigue or fright or foolishness to give
them an opening. He thought again about the stories, about the
inevitability of the stalking, then pushed it all from his mind.
Somewhere in the distance, far from where he sat, something
cried out once, a quick shriek of dismay. Then everything was
still again.
He stared into the mist, watching. He found himself thinking