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out like a truckload of coal in a snowbank. But there was no sign of the dragon or of his quarry.
    â€œNobody. Neither of ’em,” he said disappointedly, turning back to look down into the wagon. Talea had just raised her head from beneath a pile of blankets and blinked at him sleepily, her red curls framing her face like the scribbles of a playful artist.
    â€œI am most concerned,” said Clothahump. He was seated at the front end of the wagon, stirring a pot of hot tea. The little copper kettle squatted on the portable stove and steamed merrily. “It is possible that—” He broke off, pointed toward Jon-Tom, and opened his mouth. Jon-Tom heard only the first of his comment.
    â€œI do believe there is someone be—”
    Something yanked hard at Jon-Tom’s ankles. Arms windmilling the air, he went over backward off the platform. He landed hard, the grass cushioning him only slightly.
    Blackness and colorful stars filled his vision, but he did not pass out. The darkness was a momentary veil over his eyes. By the time his head cleared his hands had been drawn above his hair, his ankles placed together, and tough cords wrapped around them. Looking down at his feet, he saw not only the bindings but a remarkably ugly face.
    Its owner was perhaps two and a half feet tall, very stocky, and a perversion of humanity. Jon-Tom decided it looked like a cross between an elf and a wino. The squat creature boasted an enormous, thick black beard.
    Out of this jungle peered two large brown eyes. They flanked a monstrous bulbous nose and were in turn framed by a pair of huge, floppy ears that somehow managed to fight their way out of the wiry hair. There were hints of clothing beneath the effervescent mass.
    Thick, stubby fingers made sure of Jon-Tom’s bonds. A set of sandals large enough for the recumbent youth floored enormous feet.
    Tying the other knots was a slightly smaller version of the first ugly, except he was blond instead of dark-haired and had watery blue eyes.
    Something landed on Jon-Tom’s chest and knocked the wind out of him. The newcomer was solid as iron and extremely muscular. It was not the build of a body builder but instead the seamlessly smooth and deceptively porcine musculature of the power lifter.
    The one on his chest now was female. Only a few red whiskers protruded from her chin. She was no less gruesome in appearance than her male counterparts. She was shaking a fist in his face and jabbering at high speed. For the first time since arriving in Mudge’s meadow words had no meaning to him.
    He turned his head away from that indifferently controlled fist. Angry noises and thumping sounds came from the wagon. He looked to his right, but the grass hid whatever was happening there.
    Of only one thing was he certain: the sward was alive with dozens of the fast-moving, excited creatures.
    The dray lizards wheezed and hissed nervously as the little monsters swarmed onto harness and reins. Mixed in with the beelike babbling of their assailants Jon-Tom could make out other voices. Most notable was that of Caz, who was speaking in an unfamiliar language similar to that of their captors. Mudge could be heard alternately cursing and bemoaning his fate, while Talea was railing at an attacker, warning that if he didn’t get his oversized feet off her chest she was going to make a candlewick out of his beard.
    A pole was brought and neatly slipped between the bindings on Jon-Tom’s ankles and the others at his wrists. He was lifted into the air. Clearing the ground by only a few inches, he was borne off at considerable speed through the grass. He could see at least half a dozen of his captors shouldering the pole, three at his feet and three above his head. Although his sense of speed was artificially accelerated by his proximity to the ground, he fervently prayed that his bearers’ sense of direction was as efficient as their deltoids. The sharp grass did not seem to