Or magic.

He closed his eyes and pivoted, relying on his magic- sensing ability to home in on a tiny brightness in the dark. He opened his eyes to see the sheriff and his two deputies standing in a small clearing behind him. Their hands were extended in his direction. He didn' t have to hear their chants to know they were casting a deepsleep spell on him.

He pulled out one of the clockwork pistols. Lan didn' t want to injure any of the three men; he counted them as friends- or had. Now they would reduce him on the spot if he gave them the chance. Intellectually he knew he should slay, if possible. The gun came up and he sighted along the barrel. Something stayed his hand, however. He couldn' t murder in cold blood. That would make him the killer they thought him to be, a killer like Surepta.

The pistol kicked backward in his hand as it spat out its leaden message. The bullet careened off a branch and whistled off into the still night. The ear- splitting report broke the concentration of the three men. The lethargy wrapping him like a cotton- wool blanket vanished.

Lan raced the wind into the dense thicket. The sheriff was slow to follow, not from weakness of spirit but from infirmity of body. Still having one pistol left, Lan carefully sighted along the barrel, wondering why some sighting device hadn' t been fastened to the top. At what seemed the proper instant, he pulled the trigger, heard the whir of the unwinding spring and a pop as the fulminate cap ignited; then the pistol bucked in his hand. The sharp crack deafened him, and the acrid gunpowder stench robbed his sense of smell of its usual keenness.

But the bullet did its work. One of the deputies- the one Lan hadn' t been aiming at- fell, gripping his leg and screaming in pain.

The diversion was enough to allow Lan to run for his life. He knew the sheriff wouldn' t pause long. The man' s honor was at stake. Without a successful capture- or a dead body- the sheriff would lose respect. Losing that, there would be little left for the old man. In a way, Lan felt sorry for him. But personal survival overrode any such maudlin sentiment.

He wasn' t about to surrender himself so the sheriff could keep his job, his self- respect. Being reduced to a blob of animal fat burning with cold magical fire wasn' t the way Dar- elLan- Martak wanted to depart this world.

The forest had fallen silent after the pistol discharge. One at a time, the animals began stirring again. The noises soon returned to normal. The soft clucking of a phor- hen was stifled by the sound of a python feeding. The scents came clean and fresh to Lan' s nostrils after breathing the vapors of civilization.

A pine- needle carpet crushed moistly under his feet, and a heady odor rose to be savored like the aroma of a fine vintage wine. The beads of salty sweat forming on his forehead were pulled away by the gentle breeze blowing into his face. Sensing the direction of the wind, Lan quickly turned to his right. The sheriff tracked with magic, but spells took time to conjure. Tracking by spoor might prove easierand Lan didn' t want to stay upwind too long.

Lan found a small hollow in a lightning- struck tree trunk. Breathing heavily, he leaned into the depression, his hands coming together in front of him. Tiny sparks jumped from finger to finger as he quietly chanted spells of his own. This confused predators intent on serving him as their dinner. He hoped it might momentarily confuse the sheriffs magics as well.

He strained his ears for sounds of pursuit. All he heard was normal nighttime symphony. No human scent disturbed the pungency of the forest, and he saw only dim shapes moving through the night, predators thwarted from feeding at sunset and now hunting anything incautious enough to stay away from the safety of burrow or nest.

Lan felt a surge of power pass through his body. This was his domain; he belonged here.

To share such glory with Zarella wouldn' t have been possible. He saw this now that it was too late. She was a creature of the bright lights, of the teeming city, of the mechanical world. Blown by the winds of fad and fashion, she never appreciated such beauty as that surrounding him now.

A fugitive of the law, yes. A criminal? Never. The forests knew no law save one: survival. Lan was fit; he survived. Simple to state, difficult to achieve. That was the way life was meant to be lived, at the very edge, constantly on the alert. The weight of a thousand manmade laws pressed down heavily on him. He didn' t understand why people tolerated such robbery of their freedom.

They did. He didn' t. Simple. He would return to the world he knew best. He heaved himself out of the charred wooden cradle and continued in a direction he hoped would further confuse the tenacious sheriffs pursuit.

A dark pile of tumbled stone loomed out of the forest' s shadow kingdom. He halted his headlong run, checked the direction of the wind, making sure he had successfully turned downwind from his pursuers, then sat on his heels, breathing heavily. He soon recovered enough to study the rock edifice.

The Old Place was deserted, and few came here. They claimed it was inhabited by evil spirits.

It was.

Lan had spent much time learning the ways of those spirits, finding the nexus of their power, the limits of their ghostly abilities. Here, unique of the power spots he knew, was the Pit of All Knowledge. With a little luck, the Resident would aid him. How, Lan didn' t know. There was only one way of discovering that. He boldly walked into the shadow world of the Old Place, barely noticing the humid, clammy air stroking at his skin.

" It' s not too bad. You' ll live," the sheriff said, examining the bullet wound in his deputy' s leg. " You just take a pinch of this powder and recite a level- two painkilling spell. The two of us will get back to you."

" What if you don' t, Honor?" the man whined, the pain chewing at his self- control.

" You mean what if we' re stupid enough to get ourselves shot to pieces, too? Then, son, you' re just going to have to hobble back to town on your own."

" Unless you can talk the demon in that stolen car into working a little for you," chimed in the other deputy.

" Never mind. Let' s go get Lan. Damn him to Hell! I hate going after him, of all people," the sheriff complained.

" A friend, isn' t he, Honor?"

" Yes. A friend. I just can' t imagine him doing five murders like that. Well, four of them I can. Lan was never one to take guff off anyone, and if the guards annoyed him, sure, I can see him cutting their throats. But not Zarella' s.”

" Women can twist a man around inside, Honor," said the deputy, as if stating a truth of the universe.

The older man didn' t answer. He stooped and picked up the discarded wheel lock pistol. Silently he laid it back on the ground and began pulling various phials from his pouch. Assiduously mixing pinches of powder from three of the containers, he produced a violet paste that soaked up water from the atmosphere.

Muttered quietly, the mage' s spell caused the paste to turn again into a fine- grained powder. The sheriff tossed this into the air and carefully watched the results.

" See, youngling? The hygroscopic powder shows Lan' s profile. If we' re careful and the wind doesn' t blow too hard, we can get a good trail on him. He' s too expert a woodsman to leave any other trail behind."

The deputy headed in the direction indicated by the grainy clouds of powder. Every few feet appeared the outline of their fugitive. Like a fuse ignited, the trail leaped onward into the forest with increasing speed.

The sheriff and his deputy were puffing hard when they came to a small clearing. Only a jumble of violet dust indicated the path.

" May all the gods of Ulfblom take him," cried the sheriff. " He' s used some sort of magic to muddy his track. The dust can' t figure out how to follow. Damn him!"