knives for the most part. The melee is too confused and the ghouls too numerous for them to use the few guns we have without risking hitting each other in the dark and crowded tunnel. The ghouls outnumber us at least three to one and they are quickly overwhelming the warriors. I see one of the others go down under three ghouls who bear him to the ground and rip the weapon from his hands. His name is Joshua, and he paints some of the best designs of the Net-walkers' totem spirits. But I don't have time to find out if he is alive or dead. I feel the same cold feeling in the depths of my spirit from the night when I was taken by the Tamanous, and the ghoul's words echo in my mind: the meat is always best when it's fresh. Then a ghoul conies at me, snarling and hissing like a wild animal. The monofilament-edged razor snaps out from my forearm, and I slash at the onrushing thing in a blur of movement. The tip of the blade rips across its face, parting flesh and showing white bone. The ghoul shrieks and falls to one side, clutching its torn face. Another just as quickly comes at me and I slash at it, but not quite fast enough. The ghoul's filthy claws rake across my side, leaving a trail of pain behind them. The light armor in my vest protects me from the worst of it, but the force of the blow puts me off balance. That's when Crawley decides to make his move. He lunges forward with a slash of his hook-hand, and I back-peddle out of the way as it makes an arc through the air near where my stomach was. "What do you want?" I ask as Crawley and I circle each other, each looking for an opening. He only snarls and bares his teeth, like a maddened animal. My mind races, looking for an explanation for the attack while I try to defend myself. Is Crawley just looking for revenge? He said someone "wanted to see me." The other ghoul steps in at me again and a jab of my blade keeps him at bay. I hear one of the other warriors cry out in agony and the sickening sound of splintering bone. The noise makes me break one of the cardinal rules taught to me by Hunter: I look toward the sound and away from my opponent. Only for a split-second, but that's long enough. A wiry body crashes into me and bears us both to the ground, pinning my arms. I struggle to bring my arm-spur to bear against Crawley, but I don't have the leverage this time. He knows to avoid it now. The cold concrete floor comes up in a rush and the wind is knocked out of me with a crack, leaving my sore lungs gasping for breath. Something hard and metal hits the side of my head, snapping it to the side. I taste blood in my mouth and see stars. I look up to see the savage death-mask of Crawley's face leering above me, lips curled back from his sharp teeth. "Goodnight, meat," he whispers as he raises his remaining fist. It comes down on me and then everything fades and goes black, like a computer switched off. Shutdown.

To travel to the otherworlds, the metaplanes of astral space, an initiate must first pass the trial of the Dweller on the Threshold. This mysterious entity may be a creature living on the narrow, misty border between the etheric plane and the dark depths of astral space or it may be nothing more than the living embodiment of the magician's own subconscious fears and insecurities trying to sway the traveller from his course. In the end, it makes little difference which is the case. The Dweller always challenges the traveller at the Threshold of the metaplanes themselves. The Dweller seems to know every dark secret, every hidden thought, the magician has ever had, and it uses the knowledge to try and convince the questor to turn back and give up the journey. Passing the Dweller on the Threshold and the dark revelations it offers is very difficult for new initiates to conquer. Little do they know it is only the beginning. -from Otherworld Quest: Metaplanar Experiences, by Francis O'Rourke, ThD., UCLA Press, California Free State, 2054 I'm almost getting used to the idea of waking up in strange places from time to time. This time I wake in the depths of the underworld, one of the Lost Stations of the T system. It's like the Market, but is a place I've never seen before and never want to see again. Once quite proud and elegant, the old art-deco platform and archways are now corroded by a century or more of dust and decay, the black and white tile floor cracked and discolored. I can smell the strong musty odors of rust, dust, and oil in the dimness of the place. There is a shuffling sound as I stir and open my eyes. I see shadowy forms moving in the dim light cast from the glowing lichens and mosses clinging to the dank tunnel walls, shedding a pale greenish light over everything. The dark shapes move closer to me with a shuffling movement and hoarse whispers in some guttural tongue. I cannot make out their words, only the rasping sounds of the voices. My vision begins to clear and I see white, sightless eyes staring back at me. I scramble to my feet, and crawl backward, away from the leering ghouls until my back presses against the cold wall, fuzzy with glowing moss. I tense my wrist, preparing to unsheath my arm-blade when another figure cuts through the knot of shadowy forms around me. It's Crawley. He pushes aside some of the others with harsh words and threatening waves of his hook-hand. "Step aside, you maggots!" he says, his voice loud in the enclosed underground. The other ghouls scatter before him with grunts and whines of protest, more like animals than intelligent creatures. Crawley turns his blind eyes on me and smiles his predator's smile. He levels a snub-nosed pistol at me from his good hand. "Get up," he says, gesturing ahead of him with the gun. "Mama is waiting to see you." I know of Mama, of course. Everyone who goes anywhere near the Catacombs knows about her, but very few people ever see her. The stories say she styles herself the ruler of the Boston underworld and that everything which happens in the Catacombs reaches her ears sooner or later. She is a power-broker and deal-maker, with contacts and connections forming a complex web of influence throughout the shadows. Her influence makes fixers like Milo look truly small-time. Mama is also reputed to be a hideous witch who calls upon dark powers and feasts on human and elven flesh to sustain herself. Maybe she is the source of the rumors Milo mentioned. Is Mama planning some kind of move to consolidate her power in the underworld and make good her claims of rulership? If so, what would she want with me? Influence over the Net walkers? I see no choice but to do as Crawley says, so I let him guide me from the station platform toward one of the dark side tunnels. When we reach the dark pit of the train tracks, the ghoul gestures with his gun. I look down into the trench and back at the ghoul, then jump down among the rusting rails, broken ties, and loose gravel. Crawley follows and prods me in the direction of another dark tunnel with the snub-nose of the pistol. The walls of the tunnel are decorated with strange totem figures made from broken parts of cars, trains, and machines mixed with fur, bone, and other refuse. The figures stare out from the walls with their broken headlight eyes and rusted chrome mouths like guardians who watch all who come and go from this place. These are the dark and secret totems of the city's rusting underground and I silently pay respect to their dominion. Crawley tells me where to take a turn off to the left into yet another narrow tunnel. The tunnel looks too narrow to be part of the train system. Perhaps it is a siding or a maintenance tunnel, I can't say for sure. The tunnel ends at a heavy steel door set into the wall. A wheel is set in the middle of the door to open it, like an old-fashioned airlock of some sort. Crawley steps up to it, keeping the gun trained on me, and I consider running. I might be able to bolt down the short tunnel and around the corner before the ghoul can get a shot off. I quickly dismiss the idea, however. Even if I could avoid being shot, I have no idea where I am in the underworld or how I can get out of the tunnels here. Crawley and his ghoul companions would hunt me down easily in the darkness, tracking as they do by scent and magic. Easier to go along and find out why Mama wants to see me while I learn more about my situation and what the old woman wants. I might be able to bring that knowledge back to the tribe with me, if I survive. Crawley raps sharply on the door with his hook, once, twice, three times. The sound echoes in the tunnel and, after the third rap, there is a squeak and the wheel on the door turns. The door swings outward, and a huge troll steps back from the doorway. Crawley gestures with his gun and I step through the door, followed by the ghoul. He almost runs into me as I stop short to look up at the massive troll standing on the other side of the door. Over three meters tall, his skin is like a rocky cliffside. He-at least I think it's a he-is covered with lumpy deposits of bone on the surface of his skin, forming a kind of natural armor, as pale and white as the shell of some kind of underground beetle. His eyes are small and pink, staring out from under beetled brows topped with long and twisting horns that look formidably sharp at the ends. His body is squat and heavily muscled, and I'm certain he is easily capable of crushing me with one hand. "Keep moving, meat." Crawley's sharp comment pulls my attention away from the pale giant standing in front of me. "You don't want to keep Mama waiting." I turn away from the troll and begin walking down the brick-lined corridor, aware of Crawley and the troll falling into step behind me. The way is lit by flickering bulbs set into brackets in the wall-like torches. They cast a wan, yellow light over the hall, but brighter than the dim phosphorescence from outside. "Don't speak to Mama unless you're spoken to, if you value your hide, boy," Crawley says in a loud whisper. He sneers. "And be sure to call her 'grandmother.' She likes that. If you call her anything else, she's likely to have you flayed alive. Not that I would mind the entertainment… call it dinner theatre." I shudder at the idea of what Crawley and his pack would consider entertaining, or dinner. The hall ends in a wine-dark curtain of velvet that is surprisingly clean and intact. I gently push it aside and step past it. Crawley follows, then the troll squeezes his bulk through the narrow doorway into a place like something from out of the distant past. The room is fairly large and lined in brick. Several tall, brick archways are filled with dark, flowing curtains much like the one we entered through.