'I think Nerak is sensing our coming conflict, because he hasn't dispatched Seron warriors in hundreds of Twinmoons.'

Steven, feeling a growing pain in the pit of his stomach, asked, 'Why were we not attacked?'

'Who?' Mark asked.

'Gilmour and me,' he said, 'we weren't attacked. At least, I I wasn't attacked until I made a move to help Garec. I wonder why.' wasn't attacked until I made a move to help Garec. I wonder why.'

'Because they need you, Steven.' Gilmour had filled his pipe and was now smoking contentedly. 'You arrived in Eldarn via the far portal Nerak hid in your bank. I imagine he thinks you have Lessek's Key.'

'But you said he would just go there and find out where the key is hidden by taking over the minds of my family and friends,' Steven said bitterly.

'That's true, he can, but if he has you, Nerak doesn't need anyone else. You or Mark can tell him everything he needs to retrieve the key to the spell table.'

Versen chimed in, 'So why weren't you attacked, Gilmour?'

'I think someone else out there wants to kill me himself.'

'Nerak?' Brynne asked, suddenly fearful.

'No, I would sense Nerak coming,' Gilmour assured her, handing a bandage strip to Sallax who was dressing an injury on his forearm. 'This is someone else, a cunning someone who has been tracking us since we left Estrad Village. The Seron who came for us tonight were created and sent here by Nerak, but tonight they were obeying that someone's orders.'

'Should we push ahead then?' Versen asked, hoping they could move beyond their vulnerable position in the ravine.

'Yes,' Sallax suggested quietly.

'I don't think so,' Gilmour interrupted. 'We must give Mika his rites, and we should burn these Seron bodies as well.'

He glanced about the clearing again, almost sniffing the air to detect threat. Sensing nothing, he returned to his work collecting pine boughs for Mika's funeral pyre. 'We'll see no more trouble tonight.'

Jacrys Marseth murmured a string of curses into his fist as he watched Gilmour destroy the last of his Seron warriors. Although he was certain the old man's magic was focused entirely on killing the injured soldier, the spy felt a curious energy ripple through the forest and up the hillside where he lay hidden. The attack had failed miserably: only one of the pathetic 'freedom fighters' lay dead. Communicating with the filthy and unpredictable Seron was an unappetising task, and watching them fail to dispatch the Ronans threw him into a brooding rage.

He had planned to kill Gilmour himself, to take the old man while he grieved for his fallen comrades, but now that pleasure would have to wait. His teeth clenched tightly together, Jacrys fought the urge to charge down the wooded slope and run the old man through with his rapier.

A throbbing pain began in his temples, spread across his forehead and lanced down the back of his neck. He had been tracking Gilmour since the attack on Riverend Palace and the constant vigilance and pursuit had left him on edge. He was hungry and tired, and furious that his carefully orchestrated ambush had gone so awry.

Jacrys breathed deeply and rubbed his temples vigorously in an effort to calm himself down. Meticulous planning, a level head and a ruthless nature had always been his most effective weapons. He could not afford to fly into an uncontrolled rage this close to such a dangerous target.

He fastidiously pulled evergreen needles from his tunic as he watched Gilmour gather boughs for the dead man's funeral rites. Malagon would sense the magician's continued presence in the Blackstones; he would know Jacrys had been unsuccessful in this assassination attempt. His life would be worthless if he did not see the job finished before Gilmour arrived at Welstar Palace. Malagon would certainly send more Seron, and perhaps another herd of grettans. The almor continued their hunt, but he had no idea where the closest demons were now.

He bit off an obscenity. Swearing wouldn't help now. If he failed to get ahead of the travellers once again, he might be forced to make his way into their camp and kill the old Larion Senator in a more traditional fashion.

Jacrys turned his attention back to the band of partisans. From this distance they looked battered and bleeding, ragged and worn threadbare, like a handful of third-generation dolls. Only the pale stranger had a sense of strength about him. It was difficult to see, because the foreigner knelt weeping near the trail. But he had fought bravely, an unexpectedly deadly foe, especially as he was armed only with a length of wood he had picked up off the ground.

Jacrys was rarely surprised by the actions of his enemies. This one surprised him. For some reason, Malagon wanted him and the South Coaster alive, transported to Welstar for torture and interrogation. Jacrys had no idea why they were so important, but he silently promised he would discover more about the foreigners before he brought them to Malakasia.

Wiping his palms dry on the front of his tunic, he moved slowly up the hillside and out of sight.

Later that night, Brexan struggled to locate a trail in the darkness. Straining her eyes in an effort to pick out overturned or disturbed ground, she considered giving up until dawn. A light breeze blew down from the north. She took a moment's respite, turned her face into the fresh air and inhaled deeply. Flesh. Somewhere beyond the next ridge, someone was incinerating bodies. Resolutely, Brexan turned her horse towards the sickeningly sweet aroma. Certain Jacrys was somehow responsible for the lingering smell of death above the foothills, she spurred her mount into a brisk canter.

BRANAG OTHARO'S LEATHER GOODS AND.

SADDLERY EMPORIUM.

In the days since her arrival in Praga, Hannah Sorenson had seen nothing of Southport; except for a few nervous glances around as Hoyt and Churn led her hastily to Branag Otharo's Leather Goods and Saddlery Emporium, she had no idea what Southport was like. She had seen the harbour from the hilltop where she spent her first night, but since then she had been sequestered in the storage area at Branag's. Her deadly dull routine was occasionally enlivened by having to duck inside a hidden antechamber tucked artfully between the saddler's workshop and the cold room adjacent to the Seaweed Inn, a tavern catering for the more reprehensible of Southport's wharf rats, sailors and dockside whores. Those were the worst moments: Hannah nearly gagged every time Branag or Hoyt adjusted the replaceable planks to create a space for them to crawl inside. Hannah was becoming increasingly certain nothing but rancid meat and spoiled beer were ever served at the Seaweed, and that every single patron in the dilapidated waterfront structure chain-smoked something Hoyt called fennaroot; in an effort not to breath in the foul stench she kept her face pressed against the ancient boards forming the back wall of Branag's storage room. From that position, she could at least imagine the tangy aroma of tanned leather and heavy polish breaking through the miasma.

The drill was always the same. A riotous clamour would begin at the far end of Branag's narrow street whenever a Malakasian patrol was conducting a house-to-house search for the fugitives who had allegedly murdered five or perhaps even seven soldiers in a surprise attack outside the city. With each search the brutality worsened as the number of supposed Malakasian casualties grew. On their first night in Southport, a squad of black-clad soldiers burst through the entrance of Branag's store looking for the murderers who might might have killed one soldier somewhere along the coastal highway east of town. They were especially interested in finding a young woman dressed in odd, brightly coloured clothing, wearing white cloth slippers and heavy breeches. have killed one soldier somewhere along the coastal highway east of town. They were especially interested in finding a young woman dressed in odd, brightly coloured clothing, wearing white cloth slippers and heavy breeches.

Several days later, the number of Malakasian dead had increased, as had the fugitive band of killers, now a veritable brigade of well-armed, half-crazed homicidal monsters who at any moment might turn against the peaceful citizens of Southport.

The din was a reaction, people crying out, shouting for family members, children, even pets to come inside, but in actuality, the noise was nothing more than a warning that the patrol was coming. Anyone who needed to be hidden had better get hidden quickly, to ensure the Malakasian scrutiny passed harmlessly over the otherwise quiet street.

Branag's response was always the same as well. Hustling back into the storage area, he whistled a quick warning to Hoyt, who in turn scurried behind the rows of tanned cowhides dangling loosely from the ceiling like macabre curtains to pry open two planks leading to the hidden chamber. Once inside, the trio would sit absolutely still, saying nothing, avoiding positions that forced them to shift their legs or arms, and counting the moments until the platoon moved on to the next block. Hannah would bury her face in her hands and listen to the shuffle and scuff of heavy Malakasian boots as they made their way through Branag's building. She would try to slide deeper into the shadows, shrinking and folding her thoughts down into the darkest parts of her mind, sitting stone-like, somehow closer to death every time those boots stopped shuffling about. Had they seen something? Did they notice a plank askew? Had one of them finally seen that this building was slightly narrower inside than out? There would be no escape; they were trapped in a closet.

But the soldiers never came. They never noticed. With their departure each time, Hannah would slowly raise her head and bright fireworks of yellow and white light would dance about where she had pressed her eyes too tightly against the hard surface of her knees.

The first night in Southport, Hoyt insisted they remain in the foetid chamber as random searches continued until dawn. Teams of soldiers burst in and tossed saddles, leather harnesses, belts, half-finished boots and even untreated hides aside in hopes of turning up evidence that the saddler was harbouring criminals. That night had been the worst of Hannah's life. After a while Hoyt, sensing her burgeoning anxiety, lit a thin paraffin taper to bring the tiniest, muted half-light to the foul closet. In the candlelight, Hannah saw weapons, hundreds of primitive axes, swords, daggers and bows, hanging from hooks and wires along the narrow interior of the hidden chamber. Behind her were five bloated hemp bags; one, slightly open, revealed thousands of silver coins.

At that moment Hannah realised she had been rescued by two members of some kind of organised militia. If she were found in this place, with this cache of weapons and money, she would most likely be interrogated, tortured and killed. Wrapping her arms tightly about herself, she tried not to think about how they might try to extract information information she didn't have and couldn't give them. 'Steven,' she whispered, too low even for Hoyt to hear, 'where are you, Steven?'

When not huddled together and holding their collective breath in Branag's secret hidey-hole, Hannah, Hoyt and Churn were confined to the storage room. While the two men planned their trip to a town called Middle Fork, they passed the time working on some of Branag's leather creations. Hannah, bored, discovered she was quite skilled at polishing and buffing saddles to a mirror shine; she beamed when the saddler complimented her work. Branag managed to spirit them food and beer in wooden crates draped with untreated hides or leather goods in need of repair. He was renowned locally for his titanic appetite, and did not think occupation soldiers were scrutinising his behaviour so closely that he would be questioned for having an abundance of food on the premises but he had learned never to take risks. Preserving his anonymity while protecting the weapons and silver stashed behind his store was of paramount importance, so all their food tasted faintly of leather.

In spite of that, Hannah found the food acceptable. Some of it was delicious, though she elected to pass on a few items: some were unidentifiable, others frankly so disgusting she couldn't manage, even for politeness, to force herself to eat the gristly morsels. Her jacket and sweater were traded for a wool tunic with a leather belt and, despite her pleas, Hoyt demanded she give up her trainers and blue jeans for sturdy homespun leggings and a pair of newly sewn boots at least they were Branag's finest.

Churn cut her hair. Motioning for her to turn around and sit on a short stool, he used a pair of Branag's sharpest shears to slice off the flaxen tresses. After six or seven deft snips, any evidence that Hannah's hair had ever reached below her shoulders rested now in a clump at Churn's feet. He whistled for Branag, who must have known Hannah's impromptu shearing was on the agenda because he came into the storage room stirring a palm-sized ceramic bowl with a fine horsehair brush. A heavy-bodied dog, a wolfhound, Hannah guessed, padded along beside him.

'This won't be permanent,' Branag told his apprehensive customer. 'It's a mixture of berries, tree bark and thin sap, all boiled down with fish oil to make it smooth.'

'Lovely.' Hannah looked around the room for the most appropriate corner in which to wretch. 'Uh ... what colour are you- Well, not to be picky, but what colour-'

'Light blue.' Branag's face was stone, the dog at his side, silent. Hannah blanched. 'How about if we look into a hat or something?'

The big Pragan's icy countenance broke and his bright smile warmed the room. 'Brown, Hannah Sorenson. I thought we would dye it a darker shade of brown.'

Hannah sighed with relief. 'Oh, well, brown shouldn't be-' She craned her neck to get a view inside the bowl; for a moment she'd worried that Churn might forcibly hold her down while Branag painted the top of her head the colour of a cloudless summer sky. The leather craftsman tilted the mixture towards her and Hannah calmed noticeably when she saw the grim-smelling amalgamation. It smelled like a fisherman's socks, but at least the colour would pass.

When they were through, Hannah's face wrinkled into a grimace she feared she might wear for the rest of her life. 'How long will it smell like this?' Even Branag's wolfhound had moved to the other side of the room, his nose buried beneath two enormous paws.

'Not long,' Hoyt assured her, 'eight or nine days at the most.'

She laughed and slugged him hard in the shoulder. 'Well, I won't need to worry about them finding me in that closet. They'll get within two or three steps of the door and decide something hideous must have died in there.'

Periodically, Hoyt and Churn ventured out separately to check on the disposition of the Southport citizens. Branag had told them several young men had been accused and hanged for the soldier's murder and Hoyt had to fight the urge to summarily strangle every occupation soldier who happened by. Neither he nor Churn had ever had an innocent bystander punished for their efforts before, and he didn't like it.

'We will make them pay for this,' he promised under his breath. Hannah detected a different side of the otherwise cheerful young man, a sinister side normally veiled from view by his carefree demeanour. She made note of it, and vowed to be out of the Pragan healer's reach if he got angry again.

During the next couple of days Hannah marvelled at how Hoyt could change his appearance without apparently trying. A sunken chest, a dropped shoulder, or a protruding stomach: Hannah was startled at the difference such simple changes made. He would leave the store a different person altogether.

When Hoyt returned, he and Branag would speak in hushed tones while signing for Churn. She was sure they were planning something, some retaliation for the innocent lives lost; she was almost glad the trio was keeping her out of the discussion. But as much as Hannah worried their plans might bring her into harm's way, she did not want to flee and turn herself over to the Malakasians. The only occupation soldiers she had met had been determined to gang-rape her; the Malakasians she was now experiencing albeit second-hand were responsible for murdering innocent civilians and trashing Branag's store at regular intervals for no reason.

Though she tried not to eavesdrop, she could not control herself and strained to make out anything that might give her more information on her whereabouts, on Eldarn, and especially on how she might find Steven and get home.

One morning, Hoyt dared a limp, a dangerous endeavour, he explained, because limps had to be consistent. 'I'll never get away with the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't kind of limp popular on stage. All of those actors are trying to appear as if they have a limp. That's their mistake. People with a limp are always trying to look as if they don't have a limp. That's my secret.'

'I'm sorry, Hoyt, but that doesn't sound like much of a strategy to me.' Hannah was dubious. 'You're going out as a man with no limp pretending to be someone with a limp who doesn't want people to know he has a limp?'

'Churn!' the young man bellowed excitedly, 'we have a virtuoso among us.' He grinned. 'That's exactly it. Well, that and rhythm.'

'Rhythm?'

'Yes. I have to ensure I have the rhythm down. People can live with almost anything if it eventually has a predictability ... I mean look at Eldarn. No one really gets riled up about revolution until Malagon starts ordering his emissaries to play too rough and people start dying. Predictability breeds a sense of consistency and security. As long as my limp has a steady rhythm, a steady beat, let's say drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step, I'll look like I have been struggling with it for fifty Twinmoons.'

'Amazing,' Hannah said, surprised herself at how impressed she was with the young man's resourcefulness, 'but why not just change your hair or wear a hat or maybe grow a beard?'

'Amateurs.' Hoyt draped an irregularly shaped length of tanned cowhide over one shoulder, tousled his hair until it fell in ragged unkempt strands across his face and shuffled awkwardly out front, the rhythm of his limp perfected already.

When Hoyt returned that evening, he came back in a rush. His hands were dirty, stained almost black by what appeared to be a mixture of soot and blood. He was breathing heavily and sweating, and his face was covered with a thin coating of dark grey dust.

'We need to be ready to move into the back,' he said, signing simultaneously to Churn, 'there may be searches again tonight.'

Churn was sitting against one of Branag's trestles while Hannah rested against the far wall. Two tall candles illuminated the room. She fought the desire to ask Hoyt what had happened, deciding he would tell her if it were something she needed to know. She was quietly impressed that even in the wake of whatever blow he had struck for the Pragan Resistance, Hoyt's adopted limp was still there, drag-toe-step-drag-toe-step. She watched him move towards his bedroll in the back corner and wondered if the sinister side of the healer, the invisible spirit that haunted Hoyt from time to time, had been permitted to emerge and stretch its gossamer legs that evening.

Branag Otharo was a different matter. From what Hannah had gathered during his periodic visits to the storage room, he was an honest businessman who hated the Malakasian occupation force and their leader, someone called Malagon, a prince of some sort. His long days at the shop were fuelled by venison stew, fresh bread and cold beer at the corner tavern, which led her to believe he was not married, or attached, or whatever they called it here in Eldarn. Flanked constantly by the dog Hannah never heard him refer to as anything but 'dog', Branag didn't appear to have any other companions besides the customers who stopped by periodically, and the itinerant rebels hiding in his back room.

He was a powerful man, with a barrel chest and thick forearms, dressed in a long-sleeved cotton tunic tucked into wool breeches with high boots, regardless of the heat. But what made the greatest impression on Hannah was Branag's kindness. Despite his size, he appeared to be a gentle soul; he didn't strike her as the kind of person who would hold anyone, even an occupation force, in such contempt. Like Hoyt though, there was something beneath the surface of the artisan's jovial demeanour, something unspoken that was motivating him. Hannah could not bring herself to ask what Branag's grim secret was.

One evening, after a particularly difficult stint in the foul-smelling secret chamber, Branag made a special trip to the tavern to find Hannah some tecan. He brought back a flagon-full, and bottles of beer for Hoyt and Churn.

As she sipped it gratefully, he asked if she had any children.

'No,' Hannah replied, 'at least not yet.' The question was unexpected; no one had shown much interest in her background so far. She tried to read him, but his face was impassive, not brooding or sullen, but rather devoid of any emotion at all. 'I do hope to have children one day ... perhaps even one day soon,' she added optimistically.

'I see,' he said as he poured her another cup, then he patted the big dog affectionately behind his ears and wished them all good night. Turning to leave, he paused momentarily in the short hallway separating the storage area from the shop's main showroom. Backlit by a rank of thick candles casting a hazy yellow glow across the burnished saddles and leather goods, he whispered, 'I believe children are as close as we are allowed to come to feeling as though we have, for just a moment, been singled out by the gods. It is their way of touching us, even briefly, as we make our way to the Northern Forest.'

Hannah could not see his face, but the emotion in his voice answered all her questions. They were gone, and of course he would fight. She felt her chest tighten; she hoped she could reply before he heard her choke back a sympathetic sob. She didn't feel she had earned the right to cry for the older man.

Casting him a bright smile, Hannah replied, 'When I have children, Branag, I will remember that, I promise.'

'A good journey to you, Hannah Sorenson,' he said, then turned to the Pragans. 'Hoyt, Churn, good luck.'

Before dawn the following morning, Hannah Sorenson made her way silently out of Branag's saddlery shop, crouching low behind Hoyt as she moved into the dark street beyond.

Steven Taylor was up and in the saddle, awaiting his companions, before dawn. He felt no hunger or thirst, just an urgent desire to move away from this place. Maybe time and distance between himself and his violence would mitigate the anguish he felt every time he pictured the Seron, dying with a broken length of hickory jutting clumsily from his neck.

He had not been able to participate in Mika's funeral rites. He had no right to be there. The stench of burning flesh when Sallax ignited the pine boughs beneath the body made him vomit. But he did feel a sense of closure, if not happiness, when Versen and Garec tossed the Seron dead onto their own fire. Even from a distance, Mika's funeral had been touching. The young Ronan looked as if he were sleeping soundly on a bed of soft, scented pine needles; disposing of the Seron was its antithesis, a makeshift common grave for the animal-like warriors. Soulless and perhaps godless, they burned away in an anonymous pile of broken and dismembered bodies. Garec and Versen tossed the dead into the flames of the pyre, then paid them no further attention.

Now Steven sat astride his mount and waited for the coming dawn. In his hands he held the hickory staff he had used to save his friends' lives. He absentmindedly ran his thumb over the bloodstain that discoloured the wood: how could Gilmour have reconstructed it so perfectly? Steven could detect no scars where the fragments had broken apart. This morning, as it rested across his lap, he began to grow more comfortable with it there, if no less terrified of what he had done with it.

Steven thought of the magic that had glowed between Gilmour's fingers; he hoped the old man had enough sorcery left to reconstruct him him, to help him forget his experiences in Eldarn and return to Idaho Springs as the timid, scholarly, assistant bank manager he had been only two weeks earlier. He had lived his life as a coward and a pacifist. Although he had discovered bravery in recent days, bravery he had never imagined finding inside himself, he could not accept that he had become violent too. He was deeply uncomfortable with the fact that he had killed two Seron warriors in hand-to-hand combat, even though it had undoubtedly been necessary to save his friends' lives, but it was the third man who would haunt him for ever.

He had won the fight, disabled the enemy, and then shown no mercy.

Ignoring the sharp chill that sent cramps rippling through his legs, Steven realised he had never known how important mercy was to him. He had often been shocked and horrified at newspaper or television reports of the brutal behaviour of terrorists, or soldiers battling for a cause. His mental tally included kidnappers who killed victims even after collecting ransom money and gunmen who fired on bystanders even though their escape routes lay open. He had hated those people, he abhorred anyone who chose to be merciless: they were the cruellest and most deplorable examples of humankind.

He had become one of them.

He and Gilmour had murdered Seron in blind rage even though, ironically, they were the only members of the Ronan company who had not been attacked when the assault began.

Steven looked down at the hickory staff. It would never happen again. He would never again forget to show mercy. There was no cause worth fighting for if victory meant he was devoid of compassion. He ran his hands along the smooth wooden grain and raised the stained end to sniff at the vestiges of dried blood that clung to the shaft. He had learned bravery and violence in the last weeks. He was strong and athletic, with a sharp mind; Steven was afraid he had only begun to uncover the potential he had for warfare. Death would surround him on this journey; to live through it, he had to remember his true values. He had been a coward and pacifist, and his life had been empty. He could not afford to be a coward or a pacifist here in Eldarn. Somehow he had to tread the thin line between being a killer and killing to preserve love, compassion and peace for the people of Eldarn.

'Ah, you're lying to yourself to soften the blow,' he chided. 'That's a bullshit excuse, and you know it.' He wanted it to be true, though. He wanted to be the one who would fight for something good, something meaningful for those around him. His grandparents talked of the Second World War, and a common unity in the resolve to prevail against evil. He and Mark faced evil now. Why then could he not achieve that righteous vision, a vision his grandparents had realised in the 1940s?

Perhaps, Steven thought, it's because we have the illusion of happiness. Perhaps we all live with fear or regret, and that is a tragic reality we face but never discuss it's because we have the illusion of happiness. Perhaps we all live with fear or regret, and that is a tragic reality we face but never discuss. He glanced at the remains of Mika's funeral pyre. Perhaps my inability to differentiate between killing and killing for a cause is the reality that will crack the foundation of my illusion of contentment Perhaps my inability to differentiate between killing and killing for a cause is the reality that will crack the foundation of my illusion of contentment.

With resolve and time, maybe his conscience would settle. For today, he would use Garec's dry Ronan wine to soften his guilt.

'Again the coward,' he said, and forced a laugh.

'What's that?' Mark approached carrying two brass goblets filled with the hot tecan Garec had brewed over their small campfire. He handed one up to Steven. 'Good morning to you too. How long have you been sitting up there?'

Steven pulled a tunic sleeve down far enough to protect his fingers and took the cup gratefully. 'I don't know, a couple hours, an aven, a lifetime.'

Mark drank as well. 'I think I have this tecan figured. When Garec strains it twice and adds an extra pinch of the darkest leaves, it tastes almost like a French roast.'

'You're right,' Steven agreed, 'it is good.'

'Now if we could only get some decent coffee cups ...' He grinned, before turning serious. 'How are you doing this morning?'

'I've stopped shaking, if that's what you mean.' He inhaled the aroma, then gestured at Mark's scratched face and bandaged shoulder. 'You?'

'I'm alive, thanks to you.' He patted Steven's horse gently on the neck. 'I know you're sitting up there analysing yourself to a standstill, but that Seron would have killed us. You saved my life, and Brynne's too: we couldn't handle him on our own. You didn't start this.'

'How is she this morning?'

'I haven't talked with her, but I'm sure she's fine,' Mark replied. 'She's tough, tougher than any woman I've ever known. She didn't hesitate to pull her knife. Sallax was right; she is is skilled with that thing. I can't believe how she moved in on that big bastard, stabbed him right in the chest, and it barely slowed the motherhumper down.' skilled with that thing. I can't believe how she moved in on that big bastard, stabbed him right in the chest, and it barely slowed the motherhumper down.'

'I hope she's okay,' Steven moved to dismount, 'and I'll be all right, too. I just never imagined I would kill anyone, never mind three people in fifteen seconds.' He handed the hickory staff and goblet down to Mark. 'Hang onto these for a second.'

Mark ran his hand along the smooth wooden staff. 'It's remarkable. I can't see where it was broken.'

'I can't either, and it seems stronger than it was last night, almost as though Gilmour's magic has imbued it with some impenetrable strength.' He laughed at himself. 'Listen to me: I sound like I believe all this voodoo magic shit.' He shuddered slightly, then added, 'I wonder why he insisted on repairing it anyway. It's just a piece of hickory.'

'I've been thinking about that too,' Mark said.

'And?'