A crow's call wakened me from another terrible dream. I opened my eyes. The sun reached in through the brush. It dappled me with spots of light. I'd hoped nobody could see me in there but that proved a false hope.

Someone was moving around the edge of the bushes. I glimpsed one, then another. Damn! The Shadowmasters' men. They moved back a little and whispered.

I saw them for just a moment but they seemed troubled, less like hunters than the hunted. Curious.

They'd spotted me, I knew. Otherwise they wouldn't be back there behind me, murmuring too low for me to catch what they said.

I couldn't turn toward them without showing them I knew they were there. I didn't want to startle them. They might do something I'd regret. The crow called again. I started turning my head slowly.

I froze.

There was another player here, a dirty little brown man in a filthy loincloth and tattered turban. He squatted behind the brush. He looked like one of the slaves Croaker had freed after our victory at Ghoja. Did the soldiers know he was there?

Did it matter? He wasn't likely to be any help.

I was lying on my right side, on my arm. My fingers tingled. My arm was asleep but the sensation reminded me that my talent had shown signs of freshening since we'd come down past the waist of the world. I hadn't had a chance to test it for weeks.

I had to do something. Or they would. My sword lay inches from my hand. ...

Golden Hammer.

It was a child's spell, an exercise, not a weapon at all, just as a butcher knife isn't. Once it would have been no more work than dropping a rock. Now it was as hard as plain speech for a stroke victim. I tried shaping the spell in my mind. The frustration! The screaming frustration of knowing what to do and being unable to do it.