He sighed. Pursuing this would mean confronting the Trolls. He would have to walk over there to determine what it was they were trying so hard to reach. He was not fond of the idea, but what was he to do? He couldn’t walk away if there was a chance that the origin of the magic he was sensing was one of the missing black staffs.

He stood looking at the Trolls, debating. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of shadows moving like quicksilver on the air, so thin they were virtually transparent. He didn’t bother looking at them. He didn’t need to; he knew what they were. He knew, as well, that trying to look directly at them wouldn’t work. You couldn’t see them that way. You could only glimpse them as bits of motion.

Feeders.

Once, they had been clearly visible to those who had use of magic. Humans and Elves and their ilk couldn’t see them, not unless they had magic at their command. But demons could. And Knights of the Word. But something had changed all that with the destruction of the old world, and in the aftermath of the Great Wars, feeders had evolved into something that was almost entirely devoid of substance. They still fed on human emotions, still savaged those consumed by their darker instincts. But they had become as empty as wind.

What mattered here, however, was that there were feeders present at all. Their appearance signaled the presence of magic; it was the possibility of feeding that had attracted them. Use of magic expended the sort of dark emotion that feeders craved. They were drawn to it like flies to garbage and Men to evil. He smiled. You couldn’t find a better indicator than that, could you?

Decided, he switched directions and walked slowly toward the Trolls, the now distinct possibility that his search was over a guiding light.

Chapter Three

THE TROLLS DIDN’T NOTICE HIM AT FIRST, ABSORBED in their efforts to find a way into the complex, working to pry loose the locks and hinges on massive iron doors that sealed the exterior walls. One Troll had found a ladder and climbed to a second level, where he was poking about at windows that were barred and shuttered, having not much better success than his fellows. The ragpicker approached slowly, so as not to alarm them unnecessarily. If he could just speak to them, he might be able to discover whether or not what he was looking for was inside the complex and could then determine if any further action was necessary. It was a risky business; Trolls were unpredictable. But they didn’t usually attack you without reason, so it was possible to believe they might listen to him first.

Not that the ragpicker cared if they didn’t. But it would be a nuisance to dispose of them.