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tentatively at the mud, exposing more of the strange silver metal. Beside him, Nostrilamus flapped excitedly, like a moth-eaten bat in the
terminal stages of dementia. As each shovelful of mud was removed, the shape of a metal casket was revealed. Sweating with the effort, Toadflax dropped his shovel into the slurry at his feet and hauled on a corner of the casket. Making a sucking sound, it slid effortlessly out of its muddy cradle, its weight propelling the legionary backward with a grunt of surprise.
    “Up here!” commanded Nostrilamus, scaling the wall of the pit with an agility at odds with his ravaged appearance. “Under the tree, quickly.”
    Curious to see what manner of treasure this was, all the legionaries scrambled out of the pit and gathered round their leader. Toadflax laid the casket on the ground with something approaching reverence. His brow furrowed in concentration, he pointed to where a series of marks were embossed in the metal.
    “Begging your pardon, Caledon, but what's that then? Those weird symbols on the lid? What's it say? You being schooled in the interpreting of symbols, not like us dumb squaddies.”
    Nostrilamus cleared his throat and leaned over the casket. Must be a name, he guessed, racking his brains in an effort to recall the alphabet used by the native Caledonians. “Sih, Ah, Mih, Sih, Aw, Nih,” he pronounced at length, peering intently at the metal and adding, “Ih, Tih, Eh—S-a-m-s-o-n-i-t-e. Never heard of him. Must be the previous owner. Well, hey, who
cares
? It's mine now.” Prying the lid apart with the edge of his sword, he inhaled sharply.
    So absorbed were they all in the sight of the jeweled contents of the Samsonite suitcase that they completely failed to notice the vast shape that had tiptoed up to stand behind them. The vast shape with an even vaster appetite . . .
             
    Wallowing comfortably in a scented pool five hundred miles away from these events in the Forest of Caledon, Astoroth heard the unmistakable sound of his cell phone ringing. Apologizing to his fellow bathers, he wrapped a linen towel around his hairy thighs and clip-clopped off to answer it, his forked tail undulating behind him. Plucking his cloak from the astonished slave in charge of the cloakroom, he headed for the privacy of the vomitorium to take the call.
    “Excellent,” he whispered, grinning into the mouthpiece. “What took him so long? Three years, for pity's sake! What a
moron
—he had the map, after all.” Listening to the voice on the other end, Astoroth was momentarily distracted by the sight
of a portly tribune who staggered into the vomitorium and, oblivious to the demon's presence, leant over a hole in the floor and emptied his stomach of all contents. The laurel crown on the man's head fell off into the pool of regurgitated food, and sank without a trace.
    “Rrrevolting,” muttered Astoroth, adding into the mouthpiece, “can't wait to be relocated in a more civilized time zone. Look, I have to go. Walls have ears and all that jazz. Does this mean I'm in line for promotion? It was I who did the deal with Nostrilamus and descendants, after all. Surely
that
counts for something?”
    From the other end came an outraged roar, causing the demon to turn pale and blurt, “It said nothing in
my
contract about retrieving the Chronostone. Why are you picking on me? I've never even
seen
it. What does it look like?” Across the room, the tribune was fishing for his laurels in what appeared to be an open sewer. Gritting his teeth, Astoroth whispered, “You're dropping me in the poo here. Are you one hundred
per cent positive it's been muddled up with the gems I planted for my new client?” Trying desperately to rein in his thoughts, the demon groaned. Even if he set off on horseback immediately, he'd
never
make it up to the Forest of Caledon in time to find the suitcase. That meant hanging around in this hideous time zone till Nostrilamus popped his clogs and had a