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noise: "Frrr frnnn, frrr."
    Cope strode purposefully towards them, slapping his hands as if to shoo them away. "Leave!" he commanded. "Go! Begone!"
    "Thrrrrrr." The flea-men shifted and twitched; their mouth combs blurred. "Thrrrrr garrrrr."
    "They possess little intelligence," explained the thaumaturge. "But they can be dangerous, particularly if they attack as a group. Show no fear or they will certainly pounce."
    "We can be killed?" asked Ravencrag. "By a hallucination?"
    "It is a dream, Mr Ravencrag, but it is not our dream. As interlopers, we are bound by the physical laws of this place. Our souls can be damaged here. Yes, we can be killed." He clapped his hands at the armoured creatures again, and then raised his walking stick as if to strike one of them. "Get away! Hah! "
    "Frrrrrrnn frrrrrrnn." The creatures flinched, clearly agitated. Most backed away, but one crept closer to the thaumaturge, coiling to pounce.
    "Hah!" In a quick, fluid motion, Cope pulled a thin sword from the hollow body of his walking stick and stabbed the vile insect through its chest. It crumpled to the ground. The thaumaturge put a boot on the thing's body, and yanked his blade free. Black fluid dripped from the steel. Twitching, the other flea-men leapt away. They danced beyond the reach of their attacker's weapon. "Frrrrnnn Thrrrrr Frrrnn Thrrrrr."
    "I require assistance, gentlemen," said Cope. "The scent of blood, even their own, excites them. Stand with me and clap and shout. Show no fear! Hah!" He lunged at the nearest creature, forcing it to recoil.
    Greene surged forward, slapping his big hands together, and yelling. "Away with you! Away!"
    Ravencrag fled.
    The phantasmacist, who had previously seemed so infirm, moved with a speed Greene could scarcely believe. His little bowl-shaped hat bobbed as he ran back through the Forest of Eyes, leaving his comrades alone to face their foes.
    Clicking and chattering, the flea-men advanced. Cope swung his slender blade, nicking one creature's shoulder, but then the others were on him.
    Greene searched wildly around for a weapon. He saw nothing.
    He saw...
    He grabbed at a branch from the nearest tree, and yanked hard. Something popped in his fist, leaking fluid. A rotten stench filled his nostrils, but he ignored it, heaving with all of his might at the branch. The wood cracked and split. He twisted it. Bark peeled away. Another yank, and the branch came loose. Greene swung the makeshift club at the nearest attacker, striking it square across its chitinous head. The creature hissed, retreated a step, its onyx eyes fixed on the prospector. Greene raised the club. To his horror, he saw that the branch was glaring at him.
    Othniel Cope was having a hard time of it. Six of the creatures had surrounded him. Again and again the thaumaturge struck out with his sword, but the flea-men ducked and wove around his blows. The demon forest looked on in mute fury, its countless eyes narrowed on the battle.
    "Have you no magic to help us?" yelled Greene.
    "I dare not ask Basilis for aid," the thaumaturge cried. He struck out again as one of the creatures swiped at him, driving the foul thing back even as the others pressed closer. "It could be the end of us."
    The flea-men chattered and buzzed. "Frrrrnn. Thrrrr."
    Greene lashed his club at his own opponent. The wood connected, leaving a wet smear across its segmented face. But it was an impotent weapon against this creature's armour. The prospector could not hope to damage his foe, and already he was tiring. Pain cramped his hands. When had he lost the strength to handle himself in a fight? "It'll be the end of us if you don't do something," he said. "These bastards are relentless."
    Cope took down a second attacker with a well-aimed thrust to the neck, but this sent the rest of them into a still greater fury. Two pounced at once, and, while he strove to drive the first one off, the other clung to his side, burrowing its head into his shoulder. Blood sluiced down