A voice cut through his semi-slumber.

"Richard!"

He knew the voice yet could not name it. It came from everywhere and nowhere.

"Richard, do not sleep!"

Something slapped him, hard. He twice felt the hot sting of a hand on his face. His eyes flashed open, alarmed.

"Sabra?" His own voice sounded strange, thick and slurred as if he had been long abed, yet he had not dozed off. Or had he? He did not know. "I hear you, Sabra. What is wrong?"

"You must not sleep, my love. This is a dangerous place, treacherous. Time is not as it should be for you. Many have been here before and slept, some never to waken, some to return eventually to life but old, confused, swearing that they had closed their eyes but a moment. A moment here may be years elsewhere. Time is loosened and is your enemy."

He stood and rubbed his eyes. The air was cooler now, the birdsong more remote and less seductive. "Where are you?"

"Beyond." Sabra's voice was distant, fading. "This is all the help I can give, and then only by the strength of the Goddess and the Nine Sisters. To find Michael you must follow the signs as in the old days."

"What signs?"

"You will know them. Trust in that. But beware, there is danger for you that I did not foresee."

"What danger?"

"In this land you are an ordinary man once more."

"Ordinary? How can that be?" He could not believe such a thing.

"The magic demands balance. The blood of the Hounds of Annwyn was the price of your passage here. I did not know the Guardians would take it from you. In this place you are a fragile mortal man. You can die here. Truly die."

No-that was impossible. He felt no different. Or did he? "Sabra... ?"

"Take care, my love, for there is danger all around. Hurry, do not tarry. Find him!"

And the voice was gone.

Nerves taut and all his senses alert, Richard stared around with fresh eyes. Mortality? How? The first rush of terror froze him a moment, then eased as he thought things through. Danger was all around, true, but he'd survived in a tougher, much more demanding world than this for thirty-five years before his change. He could deal with this summer land for however long it took.

At least now he understood why his run to the shelter of the trees seemed to take so much effort. And why his senses seemed so muffled.

He would indeed take extra care. Yet there was one advantage to this return to mortal frailty. He stepped into the sunlight, raising his face like a supplicant for a blessing. It shone full on him, and for the first time in many, many centuries, all he felt was its warm healing caress. No blindness, no acidlike burning. He closed his eyes and spun slowly in a circle, arms outstretched, a game he used to play as a child, though he could not remember what it was called.

It was in truth a blessing, and he would remember it forever.

A sharp, cracking sound. A careless footfall? Richard dropped to his haunches, jolted from his reverie. He would remember forever... if he lived that long.

Something moved in the woods across the clearing, and he could not pierce the thick shadows under the trees to see.

There, again! A twig snapping and the rustle of dead leaves. It was closer. Richard, mindful of his new-vulnerable state, slipped back to the shelter of the trees on his side. There was silence once more for several long minutes. All he could hear now was the pounding of blood in his brain. Dear Goddess, but he'd forgotten the feeling of this kind of fear. Terror and exhilaration at once. He'd lost the memory of how alive it made him from one instant to the next.

He strained his eyes searching the trees opposite for any sign of whoever or whatever it was but could see nothing.

He abruptly heard the sound again... there... yes, something white moved there. But what?

It emerged slowly from cover; delicate, shy, huge eyes innocent yet wise, a pure white hart stepped out into the sunlight, graceful as a dancer.

He slumped and tried to steady his still-racing heart. Relief flooded through him so strongly that he wanted to laugh; instead, he held himself quiet, not wanting to startle the animal.

The hart came a few paces into the clearing, standing quite still, only her ears flicking nervously for sound. And then she saw him. He would have sworn that it was not possible for her to know he was there. He'd been quite silent, and was mostly hidden behind a tree. Yet as he watched she turned deliberately, and fixed her great brown eyes upon him. Come.

He gaped in response to the flower-soft whisper. It could have been a trick of the wind. Merely the leaves above shifting and not- Come!

The voice was clear in his head this time. Then the hart turned and walked daintily back whence she had come. At the edge of the clearing she paused, as though waiting, looking once over her shoulder at him.

Follow the signs as in the old days, Sabra had said. The white hart had ever been a sign, a very powerful one, leading to adventure and danger. Richard's nerves tingled at the thought. She could only be here for him, to lead him to Michael. If his soul had retreated to this sanctuary, he might well have followed the hart himself. What child could have resisted?

Richard stood. The sudden movement startled the animal, for she skittered and seemed about to flee, but spun and stood her ground. He now stepped into the clearing, and they faced each other, man and beast united in common purpose.

"Where is Michael, good friend?" he murmured. "Lead me to him, if you will."

She broke away at once, ears canted to hear his progress as he followed.

Deeper in the woods the daylight faded, filtered by the dense foliage. The hart kept her distance ahead, and he did not try to close the gap. The white of her coat was easy to see as she picked her way, and Richard knew better than to try to hurry her, else she would leave him.

The journey was not easy. The trees grew close together here, often forming a barrier that he was unable to get through. Then he would have to circle around searching for a clear path. She would wait for him at these times, nibbling at tender leaves or snuffling the ground until he caught up, then she would head off again.

The exertion was beginning to have its effect on Richard. The day was still warm, and no cooling breeze could penetrate this growth. Sweat plastered his hair, and his clothes were soaked. Branches snapped and snagged at his progress, scratching him, and a myriad of insects clung in a hovering cloud. They got in his eyes and nose, biting, feeding on his blood.

So this is how it feels!

He swiped impatiently at them, angered that such small things could create so great a hurt.

When he looked up, the hart was gone. She'd ever been in sight, but no longer. The forest went unnaturally still.

No birds, only the insects remained to continue their torment. He was quite alone, deep in the tangled trees and undergrowth with no idea of where he was or which way he must go.

He looked around desperately, cursing himself for a fool for having followed the animal unthinkingly. He looked for the path that he'd broken through the trees, but it had vanished as well. Fear began to rise up once more, for it was in dark places as this that panic was first bred and birthed. This forest was an enemy, terrifying in its vastness. He had to fight the urge to shout for help as he looked desperately around; who would hear him? Should he stay or go, and which way? He could not see the sun to mark a direction.

It would get dark all too soon. He had no wish to spend the night in this place. Blindly he set forth, snapping branches as he went, going as fast as he could in the close surroundings. At least he was moving. That certainly made him feel better. Then he spied a strangely gnarled tree just ahead and knew he'd seen it before. His heart sank as he realized that it marked the spot where he'd stood when the hart disappeared. Without her guidance he'd walked in a circle.

He sank to the ground, his heart hammering as he gave in to a moment of pure terror. He was lost, utterly, utterly lost. He wiped his brow and held his head in his hands, cursing the price he'd unknowingly paid to come to this hellish place. What he would give for his vampire senses now. Tears of frustration welled in his eyes, and he rubbed them away impatiently.

"This is not for me, but for Michael!" he called out. "Take me to him! Please!"

Movement.

A flash of white barely glimpsed through the tangle ahead. A pale gleam like a ghost.

He hauled himself upright and with fresh hope staggered forward through tangling vines and tree roots. The forest seemed against him, trying to hold him back, branches reaching forth to twist about his arms and legs, slapping his face and neck, leaves rustling with cruel laughter. He pushed and fought his way through. It had to end eventually. It must. He thought of free-flowing air and escape from the damned blood-sucking insects.

But when he finally burst through into a clearing, the white he had glimpsed was not that of the hart. It was the tattered dress of a woman leaning with her back against a tree. Her head was bowed as though praying or asleep, her long, rippling hair hanging free.

The sight so surprised him that he forgot caution, standing in the open to stare.

She was not really leaning. Her arms were drawn back around the trunk. She moved a little, and across the space between them Richard heard the unmistakable sound of chains clanking, chains and her quiet sobbing.

She was not alone. Some twenty feet from her was pitched a knight's pavilion. His war-horse, in full battle armor, cropped contentedly at the sweet grasses of the clearing. A shield bearing no token to identify its owner hung from one of the boughs nearby along with a sword in its scabbard. A lance leaned up against them.

Follow the signs as in the old days. Sabra's words once more rang in his head.

This was definitely a knightly quest. The hart had led him here, and now he must rescue the lady. It was one of the immutable laws of chivalry. A test of his courage. But he was mortal here, so any conflict could be deadly, and this would be conflict against a fully armed and armored knight. He had no doubt such a one occupied the pavilion.

Well, I've learned a few new tricks since those old days. Let's see what happens.

Richard stole forward, his soft boots silent on the grass. The woman looked up at him, her eyes sad and full of fear.

He signed for her to be still, then reached for the sword and shield.

That's when he heard the knight emerging from the tent.

Chapter Sixteen

He was a giant, half again Richard's height, broad of shoulder, and clad in blood red armor. Again, there was no sign or emblem of any sort on his things. His face was hidden by a tall, conical helmet with small, hooded eye slits. In one hand he held a mace.

"Come to test me, boy?" he boomed, his voice harsh, mocking.

Richard hurriedly seized the sword and shield-just in time. He barely got the shield up to block a devastating blow from the mace. The force of it cracked against his lower arm and traveled up his shoulder, knocking him to the ground.

Training from centuries past reasserted itself. He cast his shield arm to the side and rolled that way on the momentum, keeping his sword close to his body. He got clear and was on his feet before the return swing, circling to keep just out of the giant's line of sight. It would be severely limited by the helmet.

"Who art thou who gives no challenge?" he demanded.

"Thy life and death at once!"

The great man lashed out wide. Richard ducked, darting forward and thrusting up at the unprotected base of his weapon arm. The point of the blade connected and bit deep, raising a howl of pain and anger. Reaction was quick, though; he had to drop and roll again, feeling the breeze of the mace as it brushed just over the hair of his head.

I can't smell the blood, he thought. He could see it, glistening as it flowed over the armor.

The giant paused only long enough to shift the mace to his left hand. He strode forward, roaring. He moved very fast, each stride a match for two of Richard's, and as for his reach...

Richard used his shield again as the mace crashed down. The wood began to splinter along some hidden flaw.

Richard chopped at the man's extended arm on the inside, striking sparks against the mail.

"Weak vessel," taunted the giant. "Unworthy! Think thou art a man?"

The mace swept down. Richard danced just outside the radius of the swing and went close again, this time trying for the back of a leg. He succeeded, slamming a strong enough blow to buckle the left knee, but failed to cut through the mail to break flesh. He blocked the return strike of the mace with the shield. He got his sword up and caught the knight hard on the wrist. The armor prevented him from severing it, but the weapon dropped.

"Yield!" he shouted.

"Never!"

"I would not kill thee. Yield and depart."

The giant seemed not to hear and struck out. The thick mail of his gauntlets saved his hands as he warded off sword blows, laughing as he pressed on.

The best Richard could hope for was to keep the giant at a distance. Though larger and much stronger, the weight of all that armor would tell on him sooner or later. When that happened...

But Richard had to keep backing away, step-by-step, his chest aching for want of air. He should not be so tired. In a few moments he'd be too exhausted himself to fight.

"Come, boy! Come and show me just how weak you are!"

Still backing, fighting defensively, trying to catch his breath and plan. He was faster and could see better than his opponent, about the only advantages left; time to use them before he was too spent.

He feinted to the left, then darted right, out of the giant's view. Before he could turn, Richard had reached the woman. He dropped the shield, using both hands to arc his sword down on the heavy chain.

More sparks. He struck again and again to no effect, then the blade snapped in two.

No time to curse the luck. The giant seized him round the waist, lifting him high. Richard struggled, swinging down and backwards, hacking at those massive arms. That helped; he was half-thrown, half-dropped to the springy turf. He'd forgotten what it was to take a fall from a horse, all bruises and disorientation; this was like that. He pushed upright, focusing to hold onto the sword. At a sound behind him, he instinctively dodged, whirled, struck. Metallic clank. Bellow of outrage. Something hit his shoulder. He spun and nearly fell.

He needed the lance. The length and weight of it called for much skill on horseback, which he possessed, but there was no time to mount the tethered beast, and certainly no room to maneuver in this all-too-small clearing.

Richard stumbled to the tree, discarded the sword and grabbed the lance. It was heavier than he expected, more clumsy to balance than he remembered.

But now he was reduced to ordinary strength.

He'd have only one chance with it, too, for there was no way he could prevent the giant from taking the weapon.

To him, it would be as light as a jackstraw and as easily plucked away.

Point control. One of the hardest things to master. Difficult enough on the back of a galloping horse, holding balance, keeping the lance steady and level, placing it precisely in one telling spot, all that while another man is charging at you with the same intent-and yet it was still easier than trying to do the same thing on foot.

He held it crosswise over his body like a spear, quickly moving on as more laughter erupted behind him.

"Think you to defeat me with that?"

He turned. The giant was in the center of the clearing, and except for the blood coming from his wound, seemed little the worse for wear.

"Come and charge me, boy! Unhorse me with that twig." He shook both his fists. There was less movement in his right arm.

Richard hurried to his right, the giant's left, causing him to turn. Sluggish he was, and there was pain in that booming voice. All his effort was in intimidation and insult. He was in midword, when Richard suddenly cut left, bringing the long staff to the horizontal as he rushed forward.