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must explore them."
    Ravencrag yawned.
    Cope ignored him. "The ritual is similar to those used by shamans to induce visions. You are familiar with the ways of the Heshette Seers, the bone women of the north?"
    "That old coot's familiar with plenty of women from the north," said Ravencrag. "So far it's caused him nothing but trouble."
    Nevertheless, Greene acquiesced. What did he have to lose? His life? His eternal soul? Better that than the lives of his family. He pricked his thumb on a needle the thaumaturge produced, then, under Cope's instruction, let a drop of blood fall into the dust inside the hound's skull.
    But Ravencrag refused to have anything to do with the ritual.
    "You summoned my master here," Cope said to him. "Without your blood, we cannot proceed."
    The phantasmacist shrugged. "You know where the door is."
    Greene felt his anger swell. "You will prick your thumb, or I'll bite off your bloody finger myself. I've not come this far for you to wreck everything!"
    The other man scowled at him.
    "Do you want your bonus, or not?"
    Ravencrag did as he was told.
    The thaumaturge then scooped the clotted dust into a spoon, and heated it over a candle.
    "Shouldn't we be uttering an incantation?" muttered Ravencrag. "Words of power, or some such thing?"
    "If you know any incantations," said Cope, "feel free to utter them. I shall not object."
    Ravencrag sank deeper into his coat pockets.
    The dust smouldered and released green smoke which had an earthy woodland odour. The fumes thickened until they engulfed the three men in a dense, stinking cloud. A candle on the mantel guttered and blew out. Greene laboured to breathe. In the distance he thought he heard the braying of a pack of dogs, the thunder of hooves, and the clatter of steel: the sound of the hunt. Hot, humid air crept over them. They were assailed by powerful odours: of soil, loam, wood and moss.
    And then the smoke cleared.

    * * *

    Sal Greene found himself standing in an oak forest. Sunshine filtered through green leaves, dappling a thick carpet of moss. A breeze rustled the canopy overhead, through which he spied glimpses of vivid blue sky. The light was soft and verdant and full of birdsong.
    He stumbled and fell onto his rear, gaping at his surroundings. "Is this Heaven?" he exclaimed.
    "This place no longer exists," said Cope. "We are inside the dream of the first hound. This was your world, an age ago, when forest covered the Deadsands. Come, quickly now, there are dangers here."
    Ravencrag said, "You drugged us!"
    "I did nothing to impair your senses, Mr Ravencrag," said the thaumaturge. "Now curb your tongue. An aspect of Basilis exists beyond those trees. You will show respect, or be cast out."
    Greene got to his feet.
    Othniel Cope set off at an energetic pace. He led the men through the woods, swinging his walking stick at his side. The mossy ground compressed under their heels, springing back like cushions. It was a maze of green shadows and whispering leaves, with the scent of summer pollens upon the air.
    After only a short distance, the party reached a glade in which stood a single mighty oak. It was much larger and older than the others, and yet it looked sick and wasted. Black leaves sprouted from its gnarled branches. It had queer, blistered bark which glistened and seemed to weep fluids. A fungal infection? The trees beyond this sentinel appeared to be similarly afflicted. Disease had crippled the forest, reducing it to a snarled morass of mould and shadow.
    The hairs on the back of Greene's neck stood up. He had the sudden feeling that he was being watched. He looked more closely at the oak, then suddenly recoiled. "Those are eyes!" he exclaimed.
    The bole of the tree was full of eyeballs, thousands of them, each shifting in its wooden socket as it turned its attention towards the three men. Granger perceived movement above him, and glanced up to see countless more eyes watching from the branches above. Several blinked, their wrinkled bark