"I am charged with delivering a warning," the menhir said. "There are strangers on the Plain."

I asked questions. When it did not answer I turned irritably. It was gone. "Damned stone…"

Tracker and his mutt stood in the mouth of the Hole, watching the Taken.

Darling interviewed Tracker thoroughly, I'm told. I missed that. She was satisfied.

I had an argument with Elmo. Elmo liked Tracker. "Reminds me of Raven," he said. "We could use a few hundred Ravens."

"Reminds me of Raven, too. And that's what I don't like." But what good arguing? We cannot always like everyone. Darling thinks he is all right. Elmo thinks so. The Lieutenant accepts him. Why should I be different? Hell, if he is from the same mold as Raven, the Lady is in trouble.

He will be tested soon enough. Darling has something in mind. Something preemptive, I suspect. Possibly toward Rust.

Rust. Where the Limper had raised his Stella.

The Limper. Back from the dead. I did everything but burn the body. Should have done that, I guess. Bloody hell.

The scary part is wondering if he is the only one. Did others survive apparent certain death? Are they hidden away now, waiting to astound the world? "

A shadow fell across my feet. I returned to the living. Tracker stood beside me. "You look distressed," he said. He did show one every courtesy, I must admit.

I looked toward those patroling reminders of the struggle. I said, "I am a soldier, grown old and tired and confused. I have been fighting since before you were born. And I have yet to see anything gained."

He smiled a thin, almost secretive smile. It made me uncomfortable. Everything he did made me uncomfortable. Even his damned dog made me uncomfortable, and it did nothing but sleep. Much as it loafed, how had it managed the journey from Oar? Too much like work. I swear, that dog won't even get in a hurry to eat.

"Be of good faith, Croaker," Tracker said. "She will fall." He spoke with absolute conviction. "She hasn't the strength to tame the world."

There was that scariness again. True or not, the way he expressed the sentiment was disturbing.

"We'll bring them all down." He indicated the Taken. "They aren't real, like those of old."

Toadkiller Dog sneezed on Tracker's boot. He looked down. I thought he would kick the mutt. But instead he bent to scratch the dog's ear.

"Toadkiller Dog. What kind of name is that?"

"Oh, it's an old joke. From when we were both a lot younger. He took a shine to it. Insists on it now."

Tracker seemed only half there. His eyes were vacant, his gaze far away, though he continued to watch the Taken. Weird.

At least he admitted to having been young. There was a hint of human vulnerability in that. It is the apparent invulnerability of characters like Tracker and Raven that rattles me.