He frowned, shook his head dumbly. I picked my way through the wreckage, stepped out into knee-high brush. A gust blew my candle out. In the dark I stared at my back yard, the crumbled pit that had been the barbecue grill, the tangled thickets that had been rose beds--and a weathered length of boards upended in the earth. "What the hell's this...?" I fumbled out a permatch, lit my candle, leaned close and read the crude letters cut into the crumbling wood: VIRGINIA ANNE JACKSON. BORN JAN. 8 1957. KILL BY THE DOGS WINTER 1992. III The Baron's men came twice in the next three days. Each time the old man carried me, swearing but too weak to argue, out to a lean-to of branches and canvas in the woods behind the house. Then he disappeared, to come back an hour or two later and haul me back to my rag bed by the fire. Three times a day he gave me a tin pan of stew, and I ate it mechanically. My mind went over and over the picture of Ginny, living on for twelve years in the slowly decaying house, and then-- It was too much. There are some shocks the mind refuses. I thought of the tree that had fallen and crushed the east wing. An elm that size was at least fifty to sixty years old--maybe older. And the only elm on the place had been a two-year sapling. I knew it well; I had planted it. The date carved on the headboard was 1992. As nearly as I could judge another thirty-five years had passed since then at least. My shipmates--Banner, Day, Mallon--they were all dead, long ago. How had they died? The old man was too far gone to tell me anything useful. Most of my questions produced a shake of the head and a few rumbled words about charms, demons, spells, and the Baron. "I don't believe in spells," I said. "And I'm not too sure I believe in this Baron. Who is he?" "The Baron Trollmaster of Filly. He holds all this country--" the old man made a sweeping gesture with his arm--"all the way to Jersey." "Why was he looking for me? What makes me important?" "You came from the Forbidden Place. Everyone heard the cries of the Lesser Troll that stands guard over the treasure there. If the Baron can learn your secrets of power--" "Troll, hell! That's nothing but a Bolo on automatic!" "By any name every man dreads the monster. A man who walks in its shadow has much _mana_. But the others--the ones that run in a pack like dogs--would tear you to pieces for a demon if they could lay hands on you." "You saw me back there. Why didn't you give me away? And why are you taking care of me now?" He shook his head--the all-purpose answer to any question. I tried another tack: "Who was the rag man you tackled just outside? Why was he laying for me?" The old man snorted. "Tonight the dogs will eat him. But forget that. Now we have to talk about your plan--" "I've got about as many plans as the senior boarder in Death Row. I don't know if you know it, Old Timer, but somebody slid the world out from under me while I wasn't looking."