The shot was an excellent one. In any other archer, it would have been considered a success. But Will was using the three-piece bow, not the yew longbow that he had practiced with during the last three years of his apprenticeship. Over the two hundred meters it traveled-although it actually covered more distance through the air, moving in a smooth curve-the arrow dropped farther than he had estimated. Instead of striking home into Buttle's upper body, it came out of nowhere and slammed into his thigh, tearing through the fleshy part of the leg and pinning it to the hard leather of the saddle.

Buttle screamed with the sudden burning agony in his thigh. His horse reared in fright, as did several others around him. His men, already wary about venturing toward Grimsdell Wood, took one look at the feathered shaft that had transfixed their leader and turned and rode for the shelter of the bend in the track. Buttle, cursing the pain and his men with equal savagery, wheeled his horse helplessly, then, furious, he gave in to the inevitable and rode after them, reeling in the saddle with the pain.

"Damn," said Will dispassionately, watching him go. He remembered Crowley's words about the bow. A flat trajectory at first, but then it would drop faster than he was accustomed to. "No more long shots," he said to Tug, whose ears flattened back against his head in answer. Will glanced down at the dog, who was looking up at him, her tail moving slowly. It seemed she was quite content to see the arrow hit Buttle anywhere at all, he mused.

He looked back at the road. There was no sign that the men were renewing the pursuit, so he nudged Tug with one knee to turn him and followed the track into the wood.

He caught up to the others a hundred meters down the trail, where be had told Xander to wait. Orman was sinking further and further into the coma that he had predicted, swaying in the saddle, almost totally unconscious, mouthing meaningless words and making little mewling noises.

"How's he doing?" he asked Xander, although the question was clearly unnecessary. The secretary frowned.

"We don't have a lot of time," he said. "Do you have any idea where Malkallam might have his headquarters?"

Will shook his head. "I assume it'll be right in the center of the wood," he said. "But where that might be is anyone's guess,"

Xander glanced anxiously at his master. "We'll have to do something," he said, the worry evident in his voice.

Will looked around helplessly, hoping for an idea. He knew that, Ranger skill notwithstanding, they could blunder for days in this thick forest, with its narrow intersecting trails. And they had hours, at best.

His gaze fell on the dog, sitting patiently, head cocked to one side, looking to him for direction. There was a chance, he realized.

"Come on," he said tersely to Xander, and nudged Tug, starting out down the path that he and Alyss had followed only a day ago. So much had happened in that short time, he thought. They skirted the edge of the sinister black mere until they came to the spot where Alyss had found the scorched grass. Will stopped there now and dismounted. Xander, after a moment's hesitation, followed him. He looked at the scorch marks.

"What caused this?" he asked. Will told him of Alyss's theory about a giant magic lantern. Xander's eyebrows went up, but he nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, she could be right," he said. "Mind you, you'd need a near-perfect lens for the job."

"A lens?" Will asked.

"The focusing device that would create a beam of light. I've never seen one of the standard you'd need for this, but I imagine it would be possible to construct one."

"You'd need one hell of a light source as well," Will told him, bur the small man shrugged that objection away.

"Oh, there's plenty of ways you can achieve that," he said. "Whiterock, for example."

"Whiterock?" Will asked. The word was unfamiliar to him. Xander nodded again.

"It's a porous rock that releases a flammable gas when you drip water onto it. The gas burns with an intense white flame. Very hot too… just like whatever caused these scorch marks." He nodded to himself several times. "Yes, I'd say whiterock would do the job. But what do you have in mind here?" he added.

Will clicked his fingers and the dog moved closer to him, eyes fixed on him as she waited for instructions.

"I figured if there was some kind of lamp here, there must have been people tending it. And people leave a scent. Maybe the dog can track them. Odds are, if we find them, we'll find this wizard's lair as well."

He ruffled the dog's ears and pointed to the ground around them.

"Find," he said.

The black-and-white head went down and she began quartering the ground by the bank of the mere. After several minutes, she began casting wider and wider. Then she stopped, one forepaw rising into the air as her nose stayed close to the ground. She sniffed several times, then barked once, a sharp, urgent sound.

"Good girl!" Will breathed. Xander looked doubtful.

"How do you know she hasn't scented a deer, or a badger?" he asked. Will looked at him for a few seconds.

"If you've got a better idea, now's the time to mention it."

Xander made an apologetic gesture with his hands. "No, no. Carry on," he said mildly. Will turned back to the dog. As ever, she was watching him and waiting for new orders. He moved to her, pointed to the ground where she had found the scent, and said: "Follow."

The dog barked once and bounded away. She went a few meters, then stopped and turned back, looking at him. She barked again, the message obvious: Come on if you're coming. We haven't got all day.

The trail wound and twisted and seemed to double back on itself. There were side trails and forks in the path as well, and Will began to wonder if the dog really knew what she was doing or if she was just wandering at random. There seemed to be so many choices, so many different ways they could go. Then, as he realized how focused she was on her task, he knew she was definitely following something. The question remained, though: what was it? He realized that Xander could be right. They could well be hurrying through the wood in pursuit of a badger or some other animal.

Skilled as he was in woodcraft, it wasn't long before Will was totally disoriented, and he knew that he would be hard-pressed to retrace their path if he had to. He realized that Orman's life was now well and truly in the care of the dog and, from the worried glances that Xander kept darting at him, he knew the secretary was aware of the fact as well. They didn't speak. There was no point in voicing their fear and the looming nature of the dark wood discouraged idle conversation. It was as if Grimsdell itself had a presence-a character. Dark, depressing and threatening, it weighed down on them, alleviated only by the occasional clearing and chance view of the sky overhead.

They had been traveling for over an hour, Will estimated, when they came to a three-way fork in the trail. For the first time since they had started out, the dog hesitated. She cast down the right-hand fork for a few meters, then stopped, nose down, forepaw raised uncertainly. Then she snuffled her way back and tried the left fork.

"Oh God," Xander said quietly, "she's lost the scent." He looked fearfully at his master, lolling in the saddle, eyes closed, head sagging, held in place only by a rope they had lashed to his hands and tied to the saddle pommel. If they were to be left blundering through the wood, without any sense of direction or purpose, Xander knew it would spell the end for Orman.

The dog glanced at him, as if in reproach, then uttered a short bark and started down the left fork, all traces of uncertainty now gone. Will and the secretary urged their horses forward to follow. They had gone fifty meters, winding and twisting and perhaps making only twenty meters of progress, when Will heard Xander let out a gasp.