The Silver Crown
by Joel Rosenberg
Guardians of the Flame
Book Three








reformatted by Brrazo 01/2004


Acknowledgments
I'd like to thank Mary Kittredge, Mark J. McGarry, 
and most particularly Harry F. Leonard, all of whom 
helped to make this a better book than it otherwise 
would have been. This is both my fourth book and 
the fourth time I've thanked all of them in print; that 
isn't coincidental.
I'd be more than a little remiss if I didn't also thank 
my agent, Richard Curtis; my editor, Sheila Gilbert, 
for her advice, support, and patience; my favorite 
policeman, Officer William T. Badger, NHPD/VSU, 
for creating the quiet; and Felicia, for the usual—and 
more.



There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, 
more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its 
success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a 
new order of things.
—Niccoló Machiavelli



DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Ahrmin—master slaver
Fenrius, Danared—journeyman slavers
The Matriarch of the Healing Hand Society
Doria—Hand acolyte
Karl Cullinane—warrior, raiding-team leader
Tennetty, Ch'akresarkandyn ip Katharhdn, Piell ip 
Yratha—squad leaders in Karl Cullinane's raiding 
team
Walter Slovotsky—Karl Cullinane's second-in-
command; thief, warrior, smartass
Wellem, Erek, Therol, Donidge, Hervean, Firkh, 
Restius—warriors, members of Karl Cullinane's 
raiding team
Gwellin, Gerrin, Daherrin—dwarf warriors, 
members of Karl Cullinane's raiding team
Sternius—master slaver
Jilla, Danni—slaves
Ellegon—a young dragon
Henrad—novice wizard; Andrea's apprentice
Andrea Andropolous Cullinane—wizard, teacher, 
Karl Cullinane's wife
Jason Cullinane—Karl and Andrea's son
Aeia Eriksen Cullinane—Karl and Andrea's adopted 
daughter, teacher
Mikyn—freed slave
Alezyn—Mikyn's father
Ahira Bandylegs—Home Mayor
Louis Riccetti—ex-wizard, the Engineer
Ranella, Bast—apprentice Engineers
U'len—cook
Thellaren—Spidersect cleric
Kirah Slovotsky—Walter Slovotsky's wife
Jane Michele Slovotsky—Walter and Kirah's 
daughter
Ihryk—farmer, houseman
Pendrill—stableman
Werthan—farmer
Anna Major— Werthan's wife
Anna Minor—Werthan and Anna Major's daughter
Afbee—assassin
Nehera—dwarf blacksmith
Daven—warrior, raiding-team leader
Wraveth, Taren—warriors, members of Daven's 
raiding team
Jherant ip Therranj—elf warrior
Dhara ip Therranj—emissary from Lord Khoral of 
Therranj
Beralyn, Lady Furnael
Thomen Furnael—heir to barony Furnael
Chton—farmer, leader of Joiner faction
Petros—farmer, of sorts
Harwen, Ternius—farmers
Valeran—guard captain in the service of Lord Gyren 
of Enkiar
Halvin—Valeran's second-in-command
Norfan—one of Valeran's warriors
Prince Harffen Pirondael—ruler of Bieme
Aveneer—warrior, raiding-team leader
Frandred—Aveneer's second-in-command
Theren, Thermen, Migdal—warriors, members of 
Aveneer's raiding team
Zherr, Baron Furnael
Garavar—a captain of the House Guard
Taren—warrior of the House Guard
Arthur Simpson Deighton/Arta Myrdhyn—lecturer 
in philosophy, master wizard



Introduction
It had long since ceased being a game. Friends didn't 
really die in a game.
But... it had been just a game, years before. 
Professor Arthur Simpson Deighton was the 
gamemaster. Karl Cullinane, Jason Parker, James 
Michael Finnegan, Doria Perlstein, Walter 
Slovotsky, Andrea Andropolous, and Lou Riccetti 
had sat down for an evening of fantasy gaming. The 
game suddenly, without warning, became real: 
James Michael became Ahira Bandylegs, a powerful 
dwarf; skinny Karl Cullinane turned into Barak, a 
massive warrior; Lou Riccetti became Aristobulus, 
wielder of powerful magicks; Andrea became 
Lotana, novice wizard.
It had become real, every bit as real as the pain 
Jason Parker felt in his last moments kicking on the 
end of a bloody spear, every bit as real as Ahira's 
fiery death, and his resurrection by the Matriarch of 
the Healing Hand Society.
But there was a price to be paid for that 
resurrection: Karl and the others promised to fight to 
end slavery. They declared war on the Pandathaway-
based Slavers' Guild, the dealers in human flesh who 
traveled across the Eren regions, securing and 
selling their cargo.
Attacking the slavers was one thing—but what to 
do with the freed slaves? Some could be sent home, 
but some had no home to go back to. That was easily 
solved: They built Home, a new kind of society for 
the world they found themselves in.
Aeia Eriksen did have a home to go back to, a 
village in Melawei. While returning her there, Karl 
discovered evidence that Professor Deighton was 
actually the almost legendary wizard Arta Myrdhyn, 
who had left a magical sword in a cave, clutched in 
fingers of light, waiting.
Waiting for whom? For Karl's son, it seemed; 
Deighton/Arta Myrdhyn had plans for Karl's son....
Not my son, Karl said. He left the sword of Arta 
Myrdhyn in Melawei and returned Home, continuing 
to venture out and attack Slavers' Guild caravans 
wherever they could be found.
It had long since ceased being a game.
A revolution is never a game; it is, in more senses 
than one, a bloody mess.



PROLOGUE
Ahrmin
"You may enter, Ahrmin," the acolyte said. She was 
a slim woman, dressed in the long white robes of the 
Healing Hand Society. Her long blond hair 
shimmered in the sunlight as she stared coolly at him 
out of the yellow-irised eyes set exotically but not 
unpleasantly far apart in her high-cheekboned face.
Idly, Ahrmin estimated that she was easily worth 
thirty gold; he could remove that air of superiority 
within a tenday, perhaps less. Perhaps much less.
She shook her head as though in response to his 
unvoiced comment. "You, and you alone. The others 
shall remain outside. It is unpleasant enough to 
tolerate their presence on the preserve; I will not 
have their breath fouling the air of the tabernacle 
itself."
She started to turn away, but spun back as Fenrius 
growled and started toward her. Fenrius towered 
menacingly over her slim form, but the huge man 
froze in place as the acolyte raised her hand, all the 
while murmuring soft words that Ahrmin could hear 
clearly, but never recall. As always, he tried to 
remember them, but he couldn't; they vanished as 
the sounds touched his ears.
As the spell ended, the cleric gripped the air in 
front of her; Fenrius' arms flew down to his sides, 
his leather tunic wrinkling as though he were in the 
grip of a giant invisible hand. Muscles stood out 
cordlike on his unshaven cheeks; his mouth worked 
silently, lips drawn wide in a soundless gasp as 
sweat beaded on his forehead.
"No," she said, smiling gently, almost 
affectionately. "Not here. Here, you are within the 
grasp of the Hand. In more senses than one." She 
began to tighten the grip of her straining fingers. 
Leather squealed in protest; Fenrius' breath 
whooshed out of his lungs.
His mouth worked frantically, but no sound 
escaped.
Ahrmin's five other men stood stock-still, 
Danared shaking his head in sympathy. But even he 
was not foolish enough to make a move toward the 
acolyte.
Just as Ahrmin was sure that Fenrius' chest would 
cave in beneath the pressure, the acolyte stopped, 
cocking her head to one side, as though listening to a 
distant voice.
"Yes, Mother," she said, with a deep sigh. She 
raised her hand and twitched her wrist; Fenrius 
tumbled end over end through the air, landing on the 
grass with a thump.
"You may follow me, Ahrmin," she said.
Ahrmin limped after the acolyte down dark 
corridors to a vast, high-ceilinged hall, the drag-slap 
of his sandals a counterpoint to her even steps. They 
walked through a high arch and into the hall, halting 
in unison before the high-backed throne, as though 
obeying an unspoken command. Later, he couldn't 
recall whether the room was crowded or empty; his 
eyes were drawn to the woman on the throne.
If the acolyte was thin, this woman was positively 
skeletal. He always remembered the tissue-thin skin 
on the back of her hands, skin as white as a dead 
man's, unmarked save for the bulges caused by 
underlying bones and sinews.
But despite the funereal slimness of her form, she 
radiated a sense of power as she sat there, her face 
hidden by the upswept cowl of her faintly glowing 
white robes.
"Greetings, Ahrmin, son of Ohlmin," she said. "I 
have been expecting you."
Her voice was like nothing he had ever heard. 
Though she seemed to speak softly, her words 
rattled his teeth.
"Then you know what I want."
"What you... want is obvious," the acolyte hissed. 
"Karl wrecked your body—he should have killed 
you. He should have—"
The Matriarch raised a hand. "Be still, daughter. 
We shall take no side in this matter." She turned 
back to Ahrmin. "Which is precisely the point. You 
were injured in combat with Karl Cullinane—"
"Injured?" He raised a fire-twisted hand. "You 
call this injured?" Had it not been for the bottle of 
healing draughts he had drunk while the ship burned 
around him, Ahrmin would have died. As it was, he 
had never fully recovered from the burns or the long 
trip over the mountains from Melawei to Ehvenor.
"Yes. Would you not agree?" She gestured, her 
long fingers twitching spastically as she spoke words 
that could only be heard and forgotten.
The air to one side of the Matriarch shimmered, 
solidifying into a mirror.
"Look at yourself," she commanded.
He did, forcing his shoulders back and standing 
tall.
It wasn't a pretty sight; it was never a pretty sight. 
The hair on the right side of his head was gone, the 
skin permanently browned and puckered, save for 
the few fleshy spots where his trembling hand had 
splashed enough of the healing potion to restore 
those patches to normal health.
The left side of his face was normal enough; the 
fire had only singed him there, and the healing 
draughts, combined with his body's natural healing 
ability, had brought that back to normal.
But the right side of his face was a horror. The 
flames had seared away his ear and most of his lips; 
it had burned his cheeks down to the bone. While the 
draughts had healed what remained, their power was 
not great enough to bring flesh back from ashes.
Surely, the Matriarch was powerful enough to do 
that; she was said to be able to raise the dead. 
Surely—
"No." She dismissed the thought and the mirror 
with a wave of her hand. "I do not expect that you 
will understand this, but there are forces involved 
here that even I would not wish to involve myself 
with again. I have done so three times. Once, many 
years ago, to protect the tabernacle and its preserve, 
and twice again," she said, laying a gentle hand on 
the acolyte's arm, "for reasons that do not concern 
you. I will not do so now."
"But I've brought gold." He waved a hand toward 
the door. "Sacks of it."
"Gold?" The acolyte sniffed. "Bring a mountain 
of gold, and we still won't help you. Right now, you 
wouldn't have a chance against Karl. But if we 
healed you—"
"I'll hunt the bastard down and kill him. He 
murdered my father—and did this to me." I'll hunt 
him down whether you help me or not, he thought. 
I'll hold his head in my hands.
The Matriarch folded her thin arms across her 
chest. "That is entirely a matter of opinion." She 
extended a skinny arm, her sleeve rippling. "Now, 
go."
There was no point in staying. He couldn't fight 
the Hand, not even if he had the entire guild behind 
him. He spun on his heel and limped away. Their 
words echoed down the marble halls after him.
"We have to help Karl, Mother. Or at least warn 
him."
"Ahh. Your skills have improved, daughter. You 
read beyond Ahrmin's surface thoughts?"
"Yes—Karl must think he's dead. He doesn't 
know—"
"Nor can we tell him. Our responsibilities lie 
elsewhere. And else-when. To interfere now, to 
involve the Hand further at this juncture... it would 
ruin everything. As well you know."
"I do know, but... Forgive me, Mother—I was 
lying. He just might be able to kill Karl, or have him 
killed. It's—"
"You are forgiven. You are not the first of our 
order to tell a lie."
"He could kill Karl, if he took him by surprise—"
"I think you perhaps underrate this Karl 
Cullinane of yours. In any case, my decision stands, 
daughter."
"But what can we do?"
"For now, nothing. We must wait. Waiting is a 
difficult skill; I commend its practice to you, 
Doria...."



PART ONE
The Forest of Wehnest

CHAPTER ONE
The Hunter
Out of the darkness of the tent, a hand reached out 
and gently grasped his shoulder. "Karl, ta ly'veth ta 
ahd dalazhi." Karl, it is time to wake up.
Karl Cullinane came awake instantly. He clamped 
his left hand around the slim wrist and pulled, 
slamming the other into the tent pole, almost 
dislodging it. He brought his right hand around to 
block a possible knife thrust—
—and stopped himself when he realized who it 
was.
"Ta havath, Karl." Easy, Karl. Tennetty laughed, 
her breath warm in his ear. She switched from 
Erendra to her thickly accented English as she 
pushed away from him, rubbing at her shoulder. "I 
don't think Andrea would approve. Besides, if you 
move around much more, you'll bring the tent down 
around both our heads."
He released her and sighed. He would have 
preferred Tennetty to be a bit more nervous about 
waking him, a bit less trusting that he would 
recognize her before doing something sudden and 
fatal.
"What is it, Tennetty?" he asked in Erendra. "Is 
the dragon here?" Ellegon? he thought. Can you 
hear me?
No answer.
"Wake up, Karl—you're a full day off. He isn't 
due until tomorrow."
"Slovotsky, then?"
She nodded. "On his way up," Tennetty said, 
smiling faintly in the dim lanternlight as she 
untangled herself from his blankets. "Gerrin spotted 
him—and a small caravan, camped down by the 
fork."
"Slavers or merchants?"
"He couldn't tell, not from here." She shrugged. 
"But if they are slavers, it would explain Slovotsky's 
return." She rose to her knees and took up a piece of 
straw from his bedding, using it to carry fire from 
her lantern to his, idly pausing to straighten his tent 
pole in passing. Tennetty was a slim woman, but not 
a soft one; beneath her ragged cotton undershirt, 
strong muscles played.
"I've had my team's horses saddled and ordered a 
general weapons inspection." She flashed a smile at 
him, then dropped it. Tennetty seemed to have a 
permanent sneer, which somehow started with her 
narrow eyes and continued down her thin, broken 
nose, all the way to her cracked lips. A scar snaked 
around her right eye; a black patch covered the 
remains of the left.
"You take a lot on yourself, don't you?"
"Perhaps." Picking up her lantern, she rose 
smoothly from her half-crouch and held the tent flap 
for him. "Let's go." She hitched first at the wide-
bladed shortsword on the left side of her belt and 
then at the crude flintlock pistol on the right side.
"I'll be a minute," he said, his hand going 1o the 
spider amulet secured around his neck by a leather 
thong.
That was a long-standing reflex, its source back 
in his long-ago college days. Karl Cullinane had 
always had trouble keeping track of things; pens, 
pencils, books, lighters, change, and keys always 
seemed to vanish from his possession, as though 
they had turned to air. The amulet was too 
important; it couldn't become part of that pattern of 
lost valuables.
"If you see Slovotsky, tell him to get up here. In 
the meantime, give the order to break camp, then 
have your team wait by their horses—and tell 
Restius to keep the animals quiet this time, even if 
he has to slit the throat of that idiot mare of his."
"You want me to have your horse saddled?"
"Fine. But make sure the bellybands are tight—
no, forget it." He shook his head. "No, I'd better take 
care of Stick." No reason to put someone else to the 
trouble when Karl would have to check the work 
himself.
"Anything else?"
"Mmm—tell Chak I want to see him when he 
gets a chance. That's all."
She nodded and left.
Tossing his blankets aside, Karl dressed quickly, 
first donning skintight knit-cotton pants and a thick 
under-shirt. He pulled on a pair of rough leather 
trousers before slipping on his socks and forcing his 
feet into his tight steel-toed boots.
Vibram, he thought, for the thousandth time. How 
much would I pay for one pair of Vibram soles? 
Certainly a hundred pieces of gold; definitely his 
third-best horse. But would he trade, say, Carrot or 
Stick for a good pair of soles? Probably not, but it 
would be a close call. Not that he'd ever get the 
chance; such synthetics were easily a hundred years 
away on This Side.
He uncorked a jug of water and drank a scant 
mouthful, then splashed some on his face, drying it 
with a dirty towel. He slipped his leather tunic over 
his head before belting his sword around his waist, 
reflexively checking to see that it was loose in its 
scabbard.
Forming his hands into fists, he stood and 
stretched broadly, trying to loosen the almost 
permanent knots in his neck and shoulders.
Dammit, he thought, this doesn't get easier.
He stooped to retrieve two unloaded pistols and a 
small pouch from his saddlebags, tucked the pistols 
crossways in his swordbelt, and tied the pouch to a 
small brass ring mounted on the right side of the 
belt. He gave his hair a quick fingercombing before 
blowing out the lantern and stepping out into the 
night.
Above, a million stars winked at him out of a 
coal-black sky. The faerie lights were active tonight. 
Sometimes, when they changed slowly, it was 
difficult to distinguish them from stars, but not 
tonight. Hovering halfway between forest and sky, 
they flickered on and off, pulsing through a 
chromatic scale. First a series of deep reds, then a 
quick flash of orange before they worked their way 
through the yellows, greens, and a chorus of blues, 
turning indigo and vanishing, only to reappear in a 
few moments in a flash of cerulean.
"Lights are bright tonight," Wellem said. He 
stood sharpening a dagger and staring up at the sky. 
His hands moved in a smooth, practiced motion, 
stroking the stone lightly, evenly across the blade. 
"Awfully bright."
"That they are."
"Makes me feel like I'm back in Ehvenor, 
almost." He sighed. "Not used to seeing them so far 
north."
"What do you think they are, really?" Karl asked 
idly.
"I haven't learned anything new, Karl Cullinane." 
Wellem shrugged. "I can still only give you the 
faerie answer: 'Sometimes they are, and sometimes 
they are not.' Tonight they are." He turned away, still 
whisking the stone against the dagger.
There had been a time when a younger, less jaded 
Karl Cullinane would have stood and admired the 
clear sky, the many colors blinking in the night—
But that time, that youth, was gone. Now he 
simply saw a sky clear enough, a night bright 
enough to provide little cover for either the slavers 
or for Karl's people. Too bad—were it cloudier, the 
dark-sight of his six dwarf warriors would have 
given their side an extra edge. Karl always took any 
advantage that came his way. He saw no sense 
pushing his luck further than necessary; as it was, it 
was necessary to stretch it awfully far.
The encampment spread out around him on the 
mesa. His hundred warriors were breaking camp. 
Some brought down the tents and stowed the 
noncombat gear; some gave a final cleaning to a 
crossbow or flintlock rifle; others took a few 
moments to touch up the edge of a sword or a 
Nehera-made bowie. The tiny cooking fires had long 
since been doused; a few stray flinders might have 
betrayed their presence to slavers en route from 
Pandathaway to their hunting grounds in the east.
All made their preparations quietly, with only an 
occasional grunt or muttered comment. Before a 
battle was always a quiet time. By dawn, even if 
everything went well in the forest below, some 
would surely be injured or dead.
The bushes behind him rustled. He reached for 
his sword.
" 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, 
I will fear no evil . . .'" a familiar voice said.
Karl let his hand drop. "'. . . for I am the meanest 
son of a bitch in the valley,'" he finished. "That's too 
long, Walter; not a good password. Besides, I'm the 
one already in camp; I'm supposed to give the 
challenge, not you. Cut the crap and come on out. 
And be more careful next time—Gerrin already 
spotted you."
"Damn dwarf has good eyes," Slovotsky said, 
pushing his way through the brush. As usual, he was 
dressed only in sandals and a blousy pair of 
pantaloons, his throwing knives strapped to his right 
hip, a shortsword belted to his left. His chest, arms, 
and face had been blackened with a mixture of 
grease and ashes, and his chest and belly were 
scraped bare in spots, but his cocky, all-is-right-
with-the-world-because-Walter-Slovotsky-is-in-it 
smile was intact, although just barely so.
"Welcome back," Karl said. "I've missed you. I've 
been getting a bit nervous; it feels like it's been a 
long time."
"Sure does. It's good to be back." The corners of 
Slovotsky's mouth lifted into a knowing smile. 
"You're not the only one. But thanks, anyway." He 
fondled his own spider amulet between thumb and 
forefinger. "You're not going to like this, Karl," he 
said. "This thing started flashing red—the slavers 
have a wizard with them."
"Damn!" Karl spat. That was surprising, but not 
unprecedented. Usually, only the largest Slavers' 
Guild raiding parties would spend the money on the 
services of a wizard. "Well, we can handle that—just 
have to take the wizard out first." Wizards were just 
as subject to a surprise attack as anyone else, after 
all.
"That was the good news. Karl, they have guns."
"What?"
"Guns. I spotted three, and there're probably 
others. Could be rifles, maybe smoothbores—they 
look just like our flintlocks, as far as I could see. I 
didn't want to get too close; I've always thought I 
look better without bullet holes."
This was bad. And it shouldn't be happening. The 
secret of making gunpowder was something that 
Karl, Walter, Ahira, Andy-Andy, and Lou Riccetti 
guarded carefully. Riccetti had yet to share the secret 
with any of his Engineers, though undoubtedly most 
of them suspected what the ingredients were. But 
Engineers didn't talk.
To the best of Karl's knowledge, no guns or 
powder had fallen into unauthorized hands during 
the five years they'd been using guns on This Side.
They'd known it wouldn't last forever, but Lou 
Riccetti's guess was that it would take a minimum of 
ten years for the secret to get out, and Karl had 
thought Lou's estimate conservative, if anything. 
While there was room for error, the mixture had to 
be close to the traditional ratio of fifteen parts 
saltpeter to three parts sulfur to two parts powdered 
charcoal for it to be usable gunpowder. It would take 
a long time for others in this world to work out the 
ingredients and proportions, given only descriptions 
of the weapons that the Home raiders were using to 
supplement their bows and blades. The construction 
of rifles that didn't blow up in a user's face should 
have slowed the locals down, too.
It should have taken a long time....
"Damn," he said. "You're sure? Never mind." He 
gestured an apology. If Slovotsky was willing to 
make the absurd claim that the slavers had guns, 
then the slavers had guns.
Karl beckoned to the nearest of his warriors, a 
gangling teenager whom he often used as a message 
runner.
"Yes, Karl?"
"Erek—message for Tennetty. No attack yet; tell 
her to have the horses hobbled. I want a staff 
meeting, right away. I'll need the squad leaders up 
here, and fast. And I'll want some fire for the lantern 
in my tent. Repeat."
Erek closed his eyes. "Attack postponed 
indefinitely; Tennetty to order the horses hobbled. 
Chak, Piell, Gwellin, and Tennetty to report to you, 
here, immediately. Your lantern to be lit."
He opened his eyes, looking questioningly at 
Karl. At Karl's nod, Erek smiled and ran off.
"Good kid," Slovotsky said. "Too bad he's such a 
lousy shot."
"Guns aren't everything." Karl snorted. "I wish 
you were as good with a sword. Little Erek can 
outscore Chak almost a quarter of the time." He 
beckoned Slovotsky into his tent as Wellem arrived 
with a lantern.
"You want it now?" Slovotsky asked, seating 
himself tailor-fashion on the rug.
"Save it. The others will be along in a minute."
Being in charge, Karl thought, all too often 
required listening to silly arguments. It wasn't 
enough to command obedience; he had to earn it—
not once, but over and over again. And one of the 
things that meant was giving his warriors room to be 
wrong, at least when being wrong wouldn't hurt 
anything.
"Why all the fuss?" Gwellin shrugged. "They 
might not move on in the morning—"
"They will," Slovotsky put in. "Why would they 
stay?"
"Come nightfall tomorrow, we'll have the dragon 
to help out. Bullets can't hurt it."
"Idiot!" Tennetty spat. "What if they have 
dragonbane? Besides, do you really think we can 
take them by surprise with a dragon in the sky?"
"So who says we have to surprise them? Ellegon 
should be able to roast all of them."
"Fine idea. I'd love to see that." She turned to 
Walter. "Roasted gunpowder is kind of noisy, isn't 
it?"
"Yup. Not a good idea, not if I'm going to be 
anywhere in the neighborhood—and most 
particularly not if we want a sample for analysis. Try 
again, Gwellin."
"Then," the dwarf said, pounding a fist on the 
ground, "I'd say we just let this group go." Gwellin 
and his six dwarves were serving with Karl's team 
only temporarily, saving their shares of the loot, 
building up their savings so that they could return to 
Endell well laden with both captured valuables and 
acquired knowledge. Karl liked having Gwellin 
around; it was good to have the advice of someone 
who could be more objective, more businesslike 
about the business of killing and robbing slavers.
"Go on," Karl said. "Why do you think we should 
let them go?"
The dwarf stroked at his craggy face. "They aren't 
pulling a chain of slaves, so all we could get out of 
this would be a bit of blood, whatever money they 
have on them, and maybe this powder of theirs. I 
don't think they'll be carrying a lot of gold, not a 
group this size. And I don't want to face guns, not if 
we don't have to." He hefted his oversized mace. "I 
can't move this faster than a bullet."
"Don't be stupid." Ch'akresarkandyn shook his 
head. He was short for a human, only a head taller 
than the dwarf. The movements of his head and hand 
were slow and lazy, but Chak was neither; the dark 
little man was a good swordsman and an energetic 
and effective teacher of both blade and gun. "Do you 
know how to make gunpowder?"
"No, do you? What's the point?"
"The point," Tennetty put in, her usual sneer 
firmly in place, "is that they shouldn't, either." She 
looked over at Karl, her forehead momentarily 
wrinkling, as though she was wondering why he let 
this discussion go on. Tennetty's squad was run 
without dissension; her warriors could either do 
exactly what she said, when and how she said it, or 
they could find someone else to lead them on the 
next raid. "And we have to find out how they got it, 
and—if possible—cut it off at the source."
Idly, she brought her right index finger up and 
slipped it underneath her eyepatch, scratching. Karl 
made a mental note to have Thellaren look at the 
socket, once they got back to Home. Or maybe he'd 
try to push her into getting the glass eye that the 
cleric had been trying to sell her on.
Gwellin shrugged. "That is your concern—the 
fire burns in your belly, not mine."
"You're right about that," Tennetty agreed grimly.
"But how did they get the powder?" Piell asked. 
The elf steepled his overlong fingers in front of his 
face, considering. "It must be that Riccetti. He must 
have sold out."
"Piell," Slovotsky said, with a loud snort, "there 
is an old saying, back on the Other Side—"
"Not again." Chak threw up his hands. "There's 
always an old saying back on the Other Side. And 
for some reason, they're always called Slovotsky's 
Laws. Which one is it now?"
"The one I was thinking of goes something like 
this: 'When you know not whereof you speak, your 
mouth is best used for chewing.' Forgetting the fact 
that Lou has never even had the opportunity to sell 
out, there's about as much chance of his betraying a 
friend as there is of your falling in love with a 
female dwarf." He pulled a piece of jerky out of his 
pouch and tossed it to the tall elf. "So try this."
Piell batted the jerky aside and glared at him. 
"Walter Slovotsky—"
"Enough." Karl raised a palm. Not that he had 
any objection to a little bickering among his squad 
leaders, as long as it was confined to a war council. 
A bit of argument helped to blow off steam, helped 
to keep everyone's nerves from growing wire-tight 
before the battle. But enough was enough. "You see 
the problem: If they do have guns—"
"I saw—"
"Shut up, Walter. If they do have guns, we have 
to find out how and why. Most likely, the wards 
aren't as good as Thellaren says they are."
And there was another possibility, and that one 
chilled his insides: Home had paid the Spidersect a 
great deal of money to install and maintain the wards 
that both served as a magical burglar alarm and hid 
the valley from the view of Pandathaway wizards' 
crystal balls. Both Thellaren and Andy-Andy had 
said that it would have taken a wizard close to the 
level of Grandmaster Lucius to pierce the spell.
What if they were up against someone like that?
He let the thought drop. No, there was no reason 
to worry about that. If they were up against a wizard 
as powerful as Lucius or Arta Myrdhyn, they would 
already be dead.
"In any case," Karl said, "we've got to rethink the 
attack."
Gwellin shook his head. "Even if what you say is 
true, there isn't that much difference. If we can take 
them by surprise, maybe—"
"—we can kill them all," Karl finished for the 
dwarf. He shook his head. "And that's no good. We 
can't afford to have just dead slavers on our hands. 
Not this time: Dead bodies can't talk. I'll want at 
least one of them alive, preferably two."
"Make it three." Tennetty studied the edge of her 
knife. "I am likely to use them up quickly." She 
raised an eyebrow. "I do get to do the interrogation, 
don't I?"
"Maybe. We'll also need to capture one of their 
rifles—"
"That's no problem, not even if we—"
"—and at least a pouch of their powder for 
analysis. I'll want to get as much as we can. So, the 
original plan is off. We can't just have a horseback 
attack to draw them out so the rifles can get at them. 
We're going to have to get a bit more tricky."
Chak smiled. "I like it when you get tricky."
"Sorry, Chak. Not this time."
His face fell. "I have to stay with my squad?"
"Yup. Walter—"
"Now wait a minute, Karl. I'm not the one who 
likes it when you get tricky."
"You're going to like this even less than usual, 
Walter. How good are you with a crossbow these 
days?"
Slovotsky frowned. "Not very, as you know."
"Right." Karl could count on Slovotsky for a 
good recon. Slovotsky had made his way into and 
out of places that Karl would have sworn a stray leaf 
couldn't have invaded without notice. Walter was 
also a reliable knifeman and a passable swordsman; 
he was also one of Home's better rifle shots. But he 
wasn't good with a crossbow, and taking out at least 
one watchman without alerting the slavers might 
require a crossbow's range and silence.
He sighed regretfully, trying to decide if he was 
being hypocritical. But I can't trust this to anyone 
else, dammit. It's my responsibility. "You've just 
gotten yourself an assistant."
"Who?"
"Me."

Karl finished rubbing the greasepaint over his 
bare chest, then stood motionless while Walter 
tended to his face.
Slovotsky nodded. "That should do it. Remember 
to keep your mouth closed—don't want to flash 
those pearly whites at them. Also, if he starts to look 
your way, close your eyes as much as you can—the 
whites can stand out."
"Got it." Karl turned back to the others. It wasn't 
really necessary to give the final orders himself—
Tennetty or Chak could have handled that—but Karl 
didn't allow himself to hold the others distant. They 
weren't just his warriors, they were his friends. This 
could easily be the last time he'd see some of them 
alive. He owed them at least the remembering.
Morality didn't prevent mortality. There was 
probably some sort of epigram in that, too 
depressing to be converted into one of Slovotsky's 
Laws.
But it wasn't just true, it was important. Good 
people could die fighting on the right side in a just 
war. It had happened at Gettysburg, and at the 
Somme, and at Anzio, Normandy, and Entebbe.
It had also happened in Ehvenor, when Fialt's 
death had bought Karl and the others a few seconds. 
And in Melawei, where Rahff Furnael's lifeblood 
had poured on to the sandy ground. And outside of 
Metreyll, and Wehnest, and...
"Chak?" He turned to the little man who stood 
quietly by his side.
"Yes, Kharl?" Chak was tense; his accent was 
slipping. "You were going to tell me about why you 
assigned Erek to my squad. It isn't because he's any 
good with a rifle or shotgun. Must be because you 
want me to keep an eye on the boy, eh?"
"Stop trying to read my mind. Ellegon's the only 
one who can do that."
"Sorry. What did you want?"
"Well..." Karl smiled. "As it happens, I was going 
to ask you to keep an eye on the boy. Eh?"
Chak returned the smile. "It's too bad that I can't 
read your mind."
Karl laughed.
Chak sobered. He opened his mouth, closed it, 
then shrugged. "He reminds me a bit of Rahff, too." 
He fastened a hard hand on Karl's shoulder. "But," 
he said in his thick English, "I want to turn the two-
guns squad over to Wellem. He can handle this kind 
of slaughter as well as I can—and I've already told 
him to watch out for Erek."
"So—"
"So, I want to keep an eye on your back. It has a 
tendency to sprout holes when I'm not around." 
Chak raised a palm to forestall Karl's objection. 
"Think about it, please—Jason told me to watch out 
for you, and I don't like disobeying Cullinane 
orders."
Karl hesitated for a moment.
"One more thing to say, and then I'll be quiet: 
Three have a greater chance of getting a sample of 
this powder out than two do. Is that not so, Kharl?"
"It is so." Karl sighed. "Strip down—you won't 
need the paint."
He picked Wellem out of the crowd and caught 
his eye. "Wellem, do you want it?" he asked.
At Wellem's nod, Karl gave him a thumbs-up 
sign. "Very well. Two-guns squad is yours for this 
one."
Wellem nodded again, then turned to the rest of 
his group and began whispering.
"Listen up, people," Karl said. "For those of you 
who haven't heard, the slavers have guns. At least 
three, although we're going to assume that there are 
more. We also know that there's a wizard with them. 
Before all hell breaks loose down there, Walter and I 
are going to try to kill the wizard, then make a grab 
for a slaver or two, a gun, and some of their powder. 
It's our job to pick out the slaver and keep him 
alive—don't worry about killing the wrong one.
"There are two things I do want you to worry 
about. The first one is that Walter, Chak, and I are 
going to be out in front. Watch where you point your 
guns. I don't want a repeat of that Metreyll fiasco." 
He rubbed his back, just above the kidney. "It's not 
that I mind the pain, you understand, it's just that 
bullets and powder are too expensive to waste on my 
hide."
A rough laugh ran through the crowd. Good; that 
would loosen them up a bit.
"The second thing I want you to worry about is 
the fact that there are shortly going to be about thirty 
very scared slavers down there, all of whom will 
know that they're under attack, all of whom know 
that we're not interested in taking them prisoner. 
And they're not going to be too thrilled with Walter 
or with Chak or with me."
He nodded to Slovotsky. Better for Slovotsky to 
give them a firsthand description than for Karl to 
give them a secondhand one.
Walter Slovotsky knelt in the light of the 
shrouded lantern and smoothed the dirt. "Here's their 
campfire, right smack dab in the middle of the 
meadow, just east of the fork." He made an X on the 
ground. "Three wagons—here, here, and here. This 
one is the most ornate; I'm assuming it's the wizard's. 
The two—the three of us are going to make our 
move in from the southeast, parellel to the main 
road, here.
"That leaves two more watchmen. They were, 
umm, right about here and here. All of the watchmen 
have rifles. We have no way of knowing if there are 
other rifles located inside the circle of wagons, or in 
the wagons themselves." He shrugged. "Since 
they're coming out of Pandathaway, it's not 
surprising that they aren't carrying slaves; clearly, 
the wagons are all being used to hold their supplies. 
It could be just food—but, for all I know, they could 
be loaded with guns and powder. So watch out."
"Hear that, folks?" Karl said. "A barrel of powder 
can produce one nice explosion. So keep your eyes 
open. If you see any fire going into any wagon, yell 
'Fire.' If you hear anyone yelling 'Fire,' try to get 
some cover between yourself and the wagons. 
Everyone got that? Fine. Gwellin—your turn." /
The dwarf stood. "My squad stays as close behihd 
you as we can, making sure we're far enough back 
enough so that we can't be seen or heard. If you 
come under attack, I light my rocket. Then we 
support you with a volley in the direction of the 
wizard or his wagon, and switch to crossbows for a 
second, third, and fourth volley. After that, we move 
in with axes, maces, and hammers. If you're not 
spotted, we wait for your signal, then do the same."
"Good. Piell?"
The elf nodded. "My group stays behind the 
dwarves, and becomes the second wave. Our 
objective will be to get the slavers to run away, into 
Chak—into Wellem's squad. If that is not possible, I 
will light off another rocket. Yes?"
"Yes. Tennetty?"
"I'm what you always call a free safety. My squad 
is the reserve; we wait with our horses on the road, 
making sure we're out of earshot until the attack is 
well under way. Then we mount up. If they're 
running, we help chase them into the two-guns 
squad. If they hold fast, we try to scatter them, then 
pick off the stragglers. We're also responsible for 
killing the two other watchmen, if Gwellin's or 
Chak's people don't get them first. It's simple stuff: If 
they run, we chase them. If they don't, we make 
them run, and then we chase them."
"And?"
She sighed. "And if everything goes bad, we 
rescue whoever we can, and pull out. We also pick 
up our wounded, carry them out of danger, and treat 
them with healing draughts, then haul ass back up 
here and wait for Ellegon. I'd rather—"
"—be in the thick of it." Karl repressed a sigh. 
Tennetty had spent ten long years as a slave; there 
was nothing she enjoyed more than bathing in a 
slaver's blood. Lady, you're a psycho. But 
fortunately for the both of us you're one hell of an 
effective psycho.
He looked from face to face. "Enough talk, 
people. Let's do it."

Down the road, the slavers' campfire burned an 
orange rift into the night. With Chak bringing up the 
rear, Karl kept himself two yards behind Walter, 
mimicking the other's half-stoop as he eased his way 
through the woods, parallel to the road, stepping 
carefully across the damp floor of the forest, a 
cocked but unloaded crossbow held in his left hand. 
Occasionally he patted the top of the quiver strapped 
to his right thigh.
A leather pouch slapped silently against his left 
thigh as he walked; his swordsheath pressed 
reassuringly against his back; a manriki-gusari, cloth 
strung through its links to prevent rattling, was slung 
across one shoulder. He let his hand rest against the 
two oilskin-wrapped flintlock pistols stuck 
crossways into his belt.
Goddam walking arsenal, that's what I am, he 
thought. But there's always—
"Down," Slovotsky hissed, his voice pitched low 
enough to carry only a few feet, no more.
Karl stepped behind a tree and dropped to the 
ground. Half a dozen feet behind him, Chak dropped 
to the ground and froze in place, motionless as a 
statue.
The skin over his ears tightening, Karl strained to 
hear whatever had alarmed Slovotsky.
It didn't make any difference. The wind still 
whispered through the trees, and the flames of a 
campfire crackled somewhere off in the night, but 
that was all. Or were there distant voices? Maybe.
Slovotsky beckoned for Chak to move forward, 
then crabbed himself backward to join them, his 
mouth only inches from their ears. "Something's 
wrong. Hang on for a minute," he said. "I'm going to 
do a quick recon."
"Problem?"
"Maybe. Back in a jiffy. Watch my stuff." 
Slovotsky laid the oilskin containing his own pistols 
on the roots, set his scimitar down next to it, and 
crept off.
He was gone a long time; Karl stopped counting 
his own pulse-beats at three hundred, and lay 
quietly, waiting.
Dammit, hurry up, Slovotsky, he thought.
Chak patted his shoulder. "You worry too much, 
kemo sabe."
"It's my job, dammit," Karl whispered back. He 
couldn't wait forever; there were just too many 
people involved. Eventually, Tennetty or Wellem or 
Gwellin would get too nervous to wait for a signal 
and trigger the attack. If Walter and Karl hadn't 
taken out the wizard by then, the odds would quickly 
switch from their favor to the slavers', despite the 
advantage of surprise, despite the fact that they had 
the slavers outmanned. "And don't call me 'kemo 
sabe.'"
"Whatever you say, kemo sabe."
The thing about Chak that Karl depended most on 
was the dark little man's rock-solid trustworthiness 
when it came to any thing serious; one of the things 
about Chak that he liked best was his unwillingness 
to take anything seriously except when necessary. 
Chak always liked to joke around before a fight; he 
said it kept his mind calm and his wrist loose.
"Karl," Walter's voice whispered out of the 
darkness, "it's me."
"What—"
"Relax—we got a break, for once. The wizard 
was off away from the wagons and the fire. Seems 
there's a bit of a gang-bang in progress, and I guess 
it must have offended his delicate sensibilities. He'd 
walked at least a hundred yards into the woods to 
relieve himself, so..."
"What did you do?"
"I slit his throat. Stashed the body under the roots 
of an old oak. Getting a bit bloodthirsty in my old 
age, eh?"
"Never mind that—you said something about a 
gang-bang?"
"Yeah. They've got a couple of women. Taking 
turns. Strange, no?"
"Yes." That was bizarre. These slavers were 
coming from Pandathaway. Pandathaway was where 
guild slavers brought slaves to, not from. Bringing 
slaves out wouldn't mean just the extra expense of 
feeding them or the lost income of not selling them, 
it would also cut down on the available space for 
human cargo on the slavers' return trip.
"What do you make of that?" Slovotsky asked. "It 
just doesn't make sense."
Chak shook his head. "Yes, it could make 
sense—if they are not on a raiding mission but doing 
something else. If they're not planning on bringing 
slaves back, they might bring themselves some 
company. Or it could be some sort of purchase. If 
they're bringing back a big chain from somewhere, 
the added expense of bringing along a couple of 
women for pleasure wouldn't matter to them."
A buy? That meant that the slavers would have a 
lot of coin on them. Unless—
The guns. Maybe they were taking guns 
somewhere, planning to sell them. But where? Why? 
Now they needed a captive to question more than 
ever.
"Change of plans," Karl said. "We don't kill the 
guard—we snatch him."
Chak rolled his eyes heavenward. "You don't 
always have to complicate things, do you?"
Walter shook his head. "I don't like it. The guard's 
still where he was when I was here before—about a 
hundred yards ahead, but across the road from us."
"Which way is he facing?"
"Sort of sideways, looking down the road."
"Fine. You go back and tell Gwellin to bring his 
people up closer, just the other side of the bend in 
the road. Have him send Daherrin back with you."
"No good—you can't move that many people 
silently, Karl. The watchman would hear them from 
there."
"We'll have him tied down by then. After you 
bring Gwellin's people around, you and Daherrin 
hurry back to where the watchman is now. That's 
where we'll be. Daherrin hauls the watchman away, 
then the three of us work ourselves close to the fire, 
before the shit hits the fan. We've got to try to get 
the slaves out."
"I knew it." Chak looked knowingly at Walter. 
"That's what the change of plans is about." He 
shrugged. "I guess there's no need for me to get 
much older—how about you?"
"Cut the crap," Karl hissed. "Once the attack's 
fully under way, it might not be possible to get them 
out alive. How's all that sound to the two of you?"
Chak shrugged. "Not bad, not really."
"I don't like it, Karl. He's got kind of a thicket of 
brambles behind him; you'll have to come right 
across the road to get him. And I'm quieter than you 
are. I should take out the watchman while—"
"No." Walter might be quieter than Karl was, but 
Karl was stronger. That might be important. 
"Eventually, someone's going to check on the 
wizard. Do it."
Slovotsky clapped a hand to Karl's shoulder. 
"Good luck—"
"Thanks."
"—you'll need it."

Karl crouched behind a bush, peering through the 
dark at the watchman sitting across the road on a 
waist-high stone, staring blankly out into the night.
He would have to cross the road under the eyes of 
the watchman in order to get his hands on the other. 
And even then, he'd have to move quickly, in order 
to silence the watchman before the slaver could raise 
an alarm. /
Not good odds. The deeply rutted dirt road was 
only about five yards wide at this point, but those 
would be a long five yards.
Maybe too long.
At times like these he could almost hear Andy-
Andy's half-mocking voice. Looks like your mouth 
has gotten you into trouble again. Okay, hero, how 
would Conan do it?
Well... Conan would probably sneak up quietly 
behind the watchman and club him over the head, 
knocking him unconscious.
Then why don't you do it that way?
Because I'm Karl Cullinane, not Conan. Because 
things just didn't work that way. Even assuming that 
he could get within clubbing range, it was much 
more likely that such a blow would either draw a 
scream out of the watchman or simply crush his 
skull.
Better think of another way, then. He edged back 
into the woods, his fingers searching the ground 
until he found a small stone, one about the size of a 
grape. He worked his way back to the brush until he 
was beside Chak. Setting his crossbow, quiver, and 
pistol down carefully, Karl unslung his manriki-
gusari and draped it carefully around his neck, then 
reached over his shoulder to loosen his sword in its 
sheath. He took a wad of cloth and several thongs 
from his pouch and held them in his left hand.
"Here," Karl whispered, handing Chak the stone. 
"Give me a slow count to fifty, then throw the stone 
over his head and past him."
Chak nodded. "One... two... three..."
Matching the count silently, Karl crept back to 
the road and waited.... twenty-three... twenty-four...
The watchman stood for a moment to stretch, 
then scratched at his crotch before seating himself 
again.
...thirty-five...thirty-six...
Karl braced himself, clenching his jaw to keep his 
teeth from rat-1 tling as he hefted his manriki-gusari.
...forty-two...for—
The stone whipped through the brambles; the 
watchman jerked to his feet and spun around, 
bringing his rifle to bear.
Karl eased himself up to the surface of the road, 
swinging and throwing the manriki-gusari in one 
smooth motion.
The meter-long chain whipped through the night 
air, wrapping itself around the watchman's neck, 
bowling the man over, his rifle falling into the 
bushes. Karl drew his sword and lunged at the other, 
slapping at the watchman's hands with the flat of his 
blade when the slaver reached for the knife at his 
belt.
Karl set the point of the blade under the other's 
chin. "If you cry out," he whispered, "you die. Be 
quiet, and you live. You have my word."
"Who—"
"Cullinane. Karl Cullinane."
The slaver's eyes widened. Karl toed him in the 
solar plexus, then stuifed the wad of cloth in the 
other's mouth while the slaver gasped for breath.
"I didn't say you wouldn't hurt—I just said you'd 
live."



CHAPTER TWO
Battleground
First say to yourself what you would be; and then do 
what you have to do.
—Epictetus

As he had grown older, Karl had learned to deal with 
the fear. He'd had to.
Deal with it, yes, but not well. That would have 
been too much to ask of himself. Karl Cullinane had 
spent twenty-one of his twenty-nine years as a 
middle-class American, living safely in the last half 
of the twentieth century. Deep inside, he still wasn't 
used to having lost that safety, that comfort. The 
only way he could handle that was to push the fear 
away, if only for a time.
The quiet moments before a fight were always the 
worst. Too much time to think; too much 
opportunity to let himself be scared.
His heart pounding, Karl checked the slaver's 
knots and gag once more before turning him over to 
Daherrin.
"And take this, too," Karl said, handing the 
slaver's rifle and pouch to the dwarf. It was a 
strange-looking rifle: The lock, if any, was inside the 
stock; the trigger looked more like a miniature pump 
handle than anything else.
But there wasn't enough light or time to examine 
it fully; that would have to be saved for later. If there 
was a later.
Karl clenched his hands into fists. It wouldn't do 
for Walter, Chak, or Daherrin to see his fingers 
tremble.
Grasping the slaver by the front of his tunic, the 
dwarf swung him to his right shoulder, balancing the 
man easily, then accepted the slaver rifle and powder 
kit in his oversized left hand. Dwarves weren't just 
shorter and more heavily built than humans; their 
joints were thicker, their muscles denser, far more 
powerful.
"And remember," Slovotsky said, "if everything 
blows up in our faces here, this stuif has to get 
back—"
"—to Home," Daherrin finished. "Including this 
useless piece of meat," he said, bouncing the slaver 
up and down on his shoulder. "It will be done."
The dwarf turned and walked away.
Karl finished unwrapping his pistols from their 
protecting oilcloth, then primed their pans. He 
tucked the vial of fine priming powder and oilcloth 
in his pouch before sticking the pistols back in his 
belt, making sure that the barrels pointed away from 
his feet.
Chak had done the same with his two pistols; he 
patted their curving butts and flashed Karl a quick 
smile.
"Gwellin had a couple of spares," Walter said, 
handing each of them one of the three shotguns he'd 
brought back, along with the dwarf. "Hope you don't 
mind my supplementing things a bit."
Chak hefted his shotgun easily. "I don't mind at 
all."
"Me neither." Karl propped the butt on the ground 
while he slipped a bolt into his crossbow and nocked 
it with a practiced motion of his thumb. "Is the gun 
loaded?"
"Standard shotgun load. Everything but the pan. 
Gwellin did it; I watched him myself."
"Good." Handing the crossbow to Chak, Karl 
picked up the shot gun. He took the vial of priming 
powder from his pouch and primed the pan, bringing 
the frizzen down and locking it into place with a 
quiet click. He handed the vial to Chak and waited 
while the dark little man primed his own shotgun.
Karl was a bit vain about the shotguns; they were 
his own innovation. Normally, when the lands inside 
a rifle barrel had worn down to uselessness, the 
weapon had to be rebored and rerifled, which 
changed the caliber, making standard rounds useless. 
Karl had come up with the notion of doing a more 
thorough reboring of the barrel, until the bore was a 
thumb's width, then cutting it down, turning the 
weapon into a smoothbore shotgun.
Walter gave the crossbow back to Karl, then 
clapped a hand to his shoulder. "It doesn't get any 
easier, does it? You want me to do a quick recon?"
"No. Let's get this over with." He gave a quick 
glance down the road. Five dwarf warriors waited 
off in the distance, just on Karl's side of the bend.
He waved at them to follow, then started walking 
down the road, Walter on one side, Chak on the 
other, the campfire growing closer with every step.
"Here we go," Karl said.
Chak sucked air through his teeth; Walter brought 
his shotgun up.
Ahead, the road forked. In the dark, three boxy 
wagons stood around the campfire. While more than 
a dozen slept under their blankets, ten grizzled men 
sat around the fire, drinking and talking. Beyond 
them, several others stood over a huge blanket on 
which lay the moaning forms of the two women. 
The men called mocking words of encouragement to 
their friends while waiting their own turns.
Walter turned to beckon to the dwarves. With all 
the noise from the camp, they wouldn't be noticed 
for the next few seconds. "Ready when you are," he 
whispered, his voice faltering momentarily.
Chak brought his shotgun up to his shoulder.
Karl's hand grew tight around the crossbow's 
stock. He raised it to his shoulder, curled his fingers 
around the trigger as he took aim at the nearest of 
the slavers around the campfire, and squeezed.
Fffft! The slaver lunged forward, clutching at the 
feathers that just barely projected from his chest.
The crack of Chak's shotgun split the night. Three 
of the slavers screamed in pain as they caught some 
of the scattering pellets; a fourth clapped both hands 
to what had been a face.
As the other slavers leaped to their feet, Karl 
dropped the crossbow to one side, transferred the 
shotgun to his right hand, braced it against his hip, 
and fired.
Another man lunged for a rifle, but the blast from 
Slovotsky's shotgun opened his belly as though it 
were an overripe melon; he fell to the grass, vomit 
pouring from his mouth in a bloody torrent.
Others dashed across the meadow, running for the 
road. Chak raised a pistol and sighted down his arm.
"No!" Karl shouted. "Leave them to the two-
guns—follow me." He dropped the empty shotgun 
and sprinted for the blankets, snatching his pistols 
from his belt and cocking them.
The slavers were beginning to react to the attack. 
Several of them made a mad dash for the nearest of 
the boxy wagons, only to be cut down by two quick 
volleys of gunfire.
Piell's signal rocket screamed into the night.
"Down!" Karl threw an arm across his eyes and 
looked away as it exploded above the meadow, a 
white flash that momentarily dazzled his eyes.
The nine slavers around Karl, Chak, and Walter 
hadn't been prepared for it. They screamed, blinded, 
if only for a few moments.
One of the slavers, clad only in his leather tunic, 
was pawing around the ground for his sword. Karl 
kicked him in the face, bones crunching beneath his 
boot. He turned to shoot another who was trying to 
bring an unsteady rifle to bear on Chak. With his 
left-hand pistol, he quickly gutshot a third, then 
reached over his shoulder to draw his sword as a 
blocky man, his teeth bared in a snarl, lunged for 
him, a foot-long dagger clutched tightly in his white-
knuckled fingers.
Karl's sword was barely out of its scabbard when 
a heavy mass slammed into his back, a hairy arm 
snaking around his throat.
There wasn't time to think about it. He could deal 
either with the enemy clinging to his back or with 
the one charging from the front.
Instinct took over. Ignoring the slaver on his 
back, he parried the other's knife with the flat of his 
blade, then thrust the point of his sword into the 
knife wielder's throat, twisting savagely as he pulled 
the blade back.
Crackl Impact shook the slaver on Karl's back as 
the pistol shot rang out. The slaver shuddered, and 
the arm around Karl's throat went limp. Karl grabbed 
the thick wrist, spun, and twisted, bringing his knee 
up into the man's chin, bone shattering like glass.
Two yards away, Chak favored him with a brief 
smile as he dropped his smoking pistol to the 
ground, then drew his falchion to parry the attack of 
another slaver.
Walter's scimitar clanged against the ninth 
slaver's steel. It looked as though Walter could 
handle the man, but it didn't occur to Karl to play 
fair: he skewered Walter's opponent through the 
kidney, then spun around into a crouch.
Chak's opponent was down, clutching at a 
wounded arm. The dark little man didn't waste any 
more time on the slaver; he drew his remaining 
pistol and shot him in the chest.
With a clatter of hooves, Tennetty's horsemen 
galloped through the meadow, sending the last of the 
uninjured slavers into flight. Therol detached 
himself from the rest of the group, leaping off his 
horse to dispense healing draughts to two injured 
dwarves, the only casualties on Karl's side. So far.
Karl breathed a sigh. It was over for him, at least 
for now. Piell's and Gwellin's squads had knocked 
down all of their targets, and the now combined 
squad was working its way through the scattered 
bodies, administering deathblows to the wounded.
Down the road, shots echoed, horses whinnied, 
and men screamed.
"Karl!" Gwellin called out, standing over the 
body of a slaver, a bloody battleaxe in his hands. 
"Do you want us to—"
"No. Not until the shots die down." Killing the 
rest was the job of the two-guns squad and 
Tennetty's horsemen, not Gwellin's dwarves or 
Piell's squad. For them, the fight was over. 
Unmounted men rushing the slavers from behind 
would risk being mistaken for slavers in the 
darkness. Karl had lost far too many of his warriors 
in his time, but not one had been killed by friendly 
fire, and he didn't intend that any ever should.
A low moan from the ground drew Karl's 
attention. The half-naked slaver that Karl had kicked 
in the face was starting to move, holding the 
shattered remnants of his jaw together.
Over his cupped, blood-dripping hands, the man's 
eyes grew wide as Karl approached him.
"Karl," Walter snapped. "We want another live 
one, remember?"
Karl kicked the man in the shoulder, bowling him 
over, then stooped to bring the slaver's hands behind 
his back and tie them tightly with a leather thong 
from his pouch.
"Therol, check the wagons for healing draughts, 
and treat this one. A few drops from every bottle, 
eh?" It was always necessary to test captured healing 
draughts on someone expendable; two years before, 
Karl had lost one of his warriors to what had looked 
to be a bottle of Healing Hand Society draughts, but 
had actually been poison.
"Done," Therol called back. "And how about 
you?"
"Me?"
"Don't talk about it, Therol," Chak shouted. "Just 
get your ass over here. Karl's hurt."
"Chak, I'm fine."
"Right." Slovotsky snorted. "Sure you are." 
Walter's hand slipped down Karl's back. When he 
brought it in front of Karl's face, blood dripped from 
the fingers.
"It's not too bad, Karl. Just a nick—but you'd 
better get it healed before your adrenaline level 
drops and it starts to hurt you."
What had been a dim, distant pain suddenly cut 
across his back like a whip. He gasped, then willed 
himself to ignore it. There's no danger. Therol will 
have me healed up in a minute. Pain was just a 
biologically programmed warning of danger. There 
wasn't any danger here, so the pain should go away. 
It was logical, but it didn't help.
It was best to keep busy, try to keep his mind off 
the pain. "Chak, you and Gwellin's people check out 
the wagons—except for the wizard's wagon. Just put 
a guard on that one and leave it alone."
"Do you think there's anyone in there?"
"I don't know, so assume that there is."
"I was just asking." Chak sniffed. "I have done 
this before."
"Sorry. Put it down to nerves."
"Yes, Karl." Chak ran off, calling for Gwellin.
Every motion making the wound on his back cry 
out in agony, he turned to face the two women 
huddling in the blankets. He took a step toward the 
nearest one, a blonde, her almond eyes and high 
cheekbones betraying a mixed heritage, with 
forebears from both the Kathard and the Middle 
Lands.
"No." Her eyes grew wide. "You're Karl 
Cullinane. Don't kill me, please. Please. I'll do 
anything you want. I'm very good, really I am. 
Please—"
"Ta havath." Easy. Karl tried to smile 
reassuringly. "T'rar ammalli." I'm a friend.
Therol arrived with the bottle of healing draughts 
and slopped some of the icy liquid on Karl's back. 
As always, the pain vanished as though it had never 
been. He worked his arms for a moment, relishing 
the comfort.
The blonde was still pleading with him. "Please 
don't hurt me. Please..."
Damn.
"Those bastards." Slovotsky shook his head. 
"Again?"
"Yeah."
Slovotsky held out a hand; Karl exchanged his 
saber for two of Slovotsky's knives.
The women edged away from him as he slowly 
approached, holding the knives out, offering them 
the hilts.
"Everything you've been told is a lie. I'm not 
going to kill you. I'm not going to hurt you—you're 
free, as of now." It was a calculated gamble, but one 
that hadn't yet failed, although he still had a scar on 
his right cheek from the time that it came close to 
failing.
The blonde took the proffered knife, holding it 
awkwardly at arm's length. The brunette mimicked 
her.
"Karl," Walter said in English, his voice pitched 
low, "either I've been away from Kirah too long, or 
both these ladies are gorgeous."
"Ta havath," he murmured. "So what if they are?" 
With the way they were huddled in their blankets, he 
couldn't see much of them, but what he could see 
looked good.
Awfully good, which was privately embarrassing. 
It wasn't just that he intended to remain faithful to 
Andy-Andy—he should have been feeling only 
sympathy for these two poor wretches, not noticing 
the swell of a full breast or the smoothness of a 
shapely thigh.
He switched back to Erendra. "Nobody's going to 
touch you. We'll get some clothes for you in a little 
while, just as soon as things settle down."
"So," Slovotsky continued in English, "we're 
looking at prime stuff, here. I could see the slavers 
taking some culls out of Pandathaway, but these two 
would go for a hell of a lot of money there. Or 
anywhere else."
Slovotsky was right, of course. As usual. But 
what did it mean?
The pounding of a horse's hooves spun Karl 
around, his hand reaching for the hilt of a sword that 
wasn't there.
It was only Tennetty. She slipped from Pirate's 
back, her face creased in a broad smile. 
"Everything's fine, Karl," she said. "Three casualties 
on our side."
"How bad?"
"I said that everything's fine. Wellem was the 
worst. He caught a round in the gut, but we got the 
draughts into him in plenty of time. Mm, I got a 
capture, too." She eyed the slaver that Therol was 
treating. "That makes three, yes?"
"Yes."
"Good. So—"
"Would you take care of the women, first? Later 
there'll be plenty of time to stick a knife in these 
bastards and get them to talk."
"Agreed. But I'll take care of the women my way, 
since we have a spare slaver. Unless you're really set 
on stopping me?" Tennetty carefully kept her hand 
away from her swordhilt. "I'm asking nicely, aren't 
I?"
Karl shrugged. "Go ahead."
She took a shrouded lantern down from her 
saddle and slipped the baffles, then elbowed Therol 
out of the way and urged the slaver to follow her 
into the woods by the simple expedient of grabbing 
the man by his hair and pulling him to his feet.
"Follow me," she ordered the two women, 
smiling gently. "And bring your knives. Relax—this 
is the best thing in the world for you." The slaver 
safely in hand, she led the two women into the 
woods, her voice trailing off in the distance. "Now, 
you can take your time with him, but Karl doesn't 
like it, so it'd be better if you start with..."
Slovotsky started to object, but Karl quelled him 
with a sudden chopping gesture.
"She's been there, Walter. And we haven't."
"I don't have to like it. I don't have to like any of 
it, and I don't, Karl. I've gotten used to killing, but—
"
"No, you don't have to like it." Karl shrugged. 
"What you have to do is not let it get to you," he 
said, looking Walter square in the face as he forced 
himself not to shudder at the screams coming from 
the woods. "Let's check out the wagons."
"Right."

"So?" Walter asked, squatting in front of the 
blanket Karl had spread on the grass. "What do you 
make of all this?"
"Trouble." Karl stood and stretched, squinting at 
the noon sun. He rubbed the back of his aching neck 
and sighed, then held out his hand for the waterbag.
Walter tossed it to him. Karl drank deeply, then 
splashed some on his face before recorking the bag 
and handing it back.
Walter uncorked it and took a sip. "Speaking of 
trouble, not only did I find three bottles of 
dragonbane extract in one of the wagons, but 
Daherrin has been checking out their crossbow bolts. 
A lot of them seem to be absolutely coated with the 
stuff. Looks like the slavers are still interested in 
offing Ellegon."
That wasn't surprising: Ellegon was awfully 
useful for the Home forces to have around.
"Are you sure you burned it all?" Karl asked. 
Once thoroughly burned, dragonbane was every bit 
as harmless to Ellegon as burned pollen would be to 
a pollen-sensitive human, no matter how serious his 
allergy.
"Of course. Dumped the bottles in the hottest part 
of the fire; threw in every suspicious bolt."
Karl looked over to the slavers' campfire, now 
barely smoldering. "Have Daherrin build up the fire, 
just to be sure."
"Right."
Karl looked around. The aftermath of the battle 
wasn't pretty. It never was. But it had, in its own 
gruesome way, become almost routine.
Just beyond the campfire, two piles of bodies lay, 
gathering flies. The smaller pile was a haphazard 
arrangement of fully clothed slavers; it continued to 
shrink as Daherrin and two assistants frisked the 
bodies, reclaiming both valuables and whatever 
clothing was sufficiently unbloodied to be usable, 
then stacking the corpses like cordwood.
By Karl's orders, the wizard's wagon had been 
left completely alone. There hadn't been any 
complaint; wizards had been known to leave hidden 
glyphs.
While the two remaining wagons had been left 
intact, their contents had been unpacked, sorted, 
inventoried, and repacked. Piell had removed the 
inlaid brass wave-and-chain insignia of the 
Pandathaway Slavers' Guild from the wagons' sides 
and propped up the plaques facing the road.
Standard operating procedure—slavers were 
always left for the vultures, along with some means 
for passersby to identify them as slavers. It was 
important that everyone know that only slavers had 
to worry about unprovoked attack by the Home 
forces; it took most of the steam out of pursuit by the 
locals.
"Well?" Walter raised an eyebrow. "What have 
we got?"
"A puzzle. I don't like puzzles." The guns weren't 
guns, and the powder wasn't gunpowder. What the 
slavers had been using was a fine-grained powder 
that looked more like ground glass than anything 
else. The gunlocks fired what appeared to be water 
through their breechholes and into the barrels. The 
water had to be loaded with something, but what?
Whatever it was, it worked. Loaded into one of 
the slaver's smoothbores, the powder could sink a 
lead ball a full two inches into a block of pine, only 
a quarter-inch less than a Home-made rifle firing 
Riccetti's best powder.
"Take a look." Karl unlooped his amulet from his 
neck and held it over the glass vial containing the 
slaver powder. The amber gem came alive: It pulsed 
with an inner light, first a dark red, then a greenish 
blue, then red, then blue again. "There's a charm 
involved."
"Well, your wife should be able to puzzle that 
out. What's bothering me is that it doesn't stink when 
it's lit off—however the hell their guns light it off. 
You try tasting it?"
"Tasting it?" Karl raised an eyebrow. "Do I look 
stupid?"
Slovotsky smiled. "Answer me first." His face 
grew grim; he shook his head. "We know that it 
works—somehow—and that it's charmed."
"Or the pouch is charmed, or something." Karl 
eased the cork out of the bottle and sniffed at it 
again. No scent at all. "Could it be cordite? Or just 
plain guncotton?"
"Not cordite. I've seen smokeless powder; it's 
darker, and it stinks when it's lit off, not like this 
stuff. But I've never been around pure guncotton, 
although I think it is white like this." Slovotsky 
stood, stretching in the bright sunlight. "It can't be 
guncotton, though—you use fire to set off 
guncotton, not water." He jerked a thumb in the 
direction of the woods where Tennetty had gone off 
with the two surviving slavers in tow. "Maybe Ten'll 
have something more. She's taking her time with the 
prisoners."
"Maybe they've got a lot to say."
"Don't count on it. We killed the master in the 
fight, and master slavers don't tell their journeymen 
a whole lot."
"So? Where do we go from here?"
Slovotsky thought it over for a moment. He 
pursed his lips. "Go back to first principles. What 
would you have wanted Daherrin to do if he'd gotten 
out with that one pouch and gun, the rest of us left 
behind, dead?"
"Get it back to the valley; have Riccetti analyze 
it." Karl nodded. "Which is what we'll do—although 
we'd better include Andy-Andy and Thellaren in on 
the group."
Tennetty's slim form appeared through a break in 
the trees. Karl beckoned her over.
"How are they doing?"
"Just fine." She nodded. "Chak and I got them 
drunk; they're sleeping it off. I think Chak likes 
Jilla—the blonde."
"Really?"
"She could do worse," Tennetty said. "It's going 
to be a major adjustment for both of them. They 
were raised as room servants in the Velvet Inn in 
Pandathaway. Sternius picked them up at a 
foreclosure sale, for a bit of diversion during the 
trip." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "I 
gave them your tent; didn't figure you'd mind."
"Must have taken you quite a while to do all 
that."
She shook her head. "Not really. I spent most of 
the time interviewing the two slavers."
"What'd they tell you?"
She smiled thinly. "Everything they knew." The 
smile fell. "Which wasn't much. You were right; this 
wasn't a raiding party. It was some sort of a trade. 
They were on their way to the inn in Enkiar to 
deliver guns and powder to whoever the buyers are."
"Any idea how much they were going to be 
paid?"
"Sure. Each of them was to get—"
"Not that—how much were they going to get for 
the cargo?"
"They didn't know. I do know what they were 
going to be paid in: a chain of slaves. How many?" 
She shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"Or as bad." Thirty or so slavers could handle a 
chain of anywhere from about one hundred to well 
over a thousand slaves, perhaps as many as two 
thousand. It all depended on how closely chained 
and how well tamed their human merchandise was. 
"What else have you got?"
"Not much, and most of it negative. These two 
don't know where the guns and powder were 
supposed to go from Enkiar. They don't know who 
made the powder in the first place; Sternius had all 
the barrels loaded in his wagons before he put 
together his team."
"How about the guns?"
She shrugged. "They picked them up at a smith's 
in Pandathaway, just before they left. Arriken the 
Salke—he has a medium-big shop on the Street of 
Steel." She chewed on her lip for a moment. "You 
know, we could go into Pandathaway and look him 
up."
Karl nodded. "Not a bad idea. Although the idea 
of entering Pandathaway makes me a bit nervous." 
He fingered his beard. "I guess I could lose the 
beard, maybe dye my hair. Dressed as a sailor—"
"No way." Slovotsky shook his head. "Thousands 
of people in Pandathaway saw you win the swords 
competition; a lot of them must still be around."
"I wasn't suggesting that Karl do it. But me, 
well—"
"Right, Tennetty." Karl snorted. "And there are a 
whole lot of one-eyed women warriors wandering 
around."
"Well, there's that glass eye that Thellaren has 
been trying to sell me. Maybe it won't look natural, 
but..." She fingercombed her bangs to half-cover her 
eyepatch. "But if I wear my hair like this..."
"Hmmm." Slovotsky nodded. "It might work. But 
why not take it from the other end? Pandathaway is 
too risky—but we could try it from the Enkiar side. 
I'm more than a little curious about who the guns 
and powder were going to, and why. And 
particularly how much they were paying. There's a 
technical term for the kind of trouble we'll be in if 
this stuff is relatively cheap."
"What's that?" Karl asked.
"Deep shit." Slovotsky smiled.
"But how would we do it?" Karl rose and 
stretched. "We don't know who we'd be looking for. 
The leader might have, but—"
"But what if he got himself killed? What if, say, 
the group was jumped by that evil, wicked Karl 
Cullinane and his raiders? And what if they lost, say, 
a quarter of their number before their guns drove 
that wicked Cullinane character off?"
Karl nodded. "Not bad." He turned to Tennetty. 
"How soon are they due in Enkiar?"
She shrugged. "Whenever they got there. Sternius 
wasn't rushing, but he wasn't lollygagging, either. I 
figure they're due in about three tendays, but I doubt 
that the buyer'd be worried if it took four. Only one 
problem."
"Well?"
"We need the right... props. By the time we get to 
Enkiar, I'm sure we'll be able to handle these slaver 
rifles, but that's not going to do it, not all by itself."
"So? What's the problem?"
"The first is the wizard. The buyers will be 
expecting one; apparently this stuff is too valuable to 
trust to such a small party without having a wizard 
around for the extra protection. Even if we put one 
of us into wizard's robes, that might not fool them."
"That's easy," Walter said. "Ellegon's due tonight; 
we'll have him fly back Home, bring back Henrad. 
Time the kid earned his keep."
"That's not enough." Tennetty shook her head. 
"What if the buyers are expecting the slavers to have 
a couple of slaves with them? I don't think we could 
expect Jilla and Danni to play along."
"No," Walter said, "we couldn't. Besides, if 
everything blew up in our faces, they wouldn't be 
able to fight their way out. No, we'll do it this way: 
What happened is that one of the slaves got killed in 
the fight, and the other tried to escape. We flogged 
her seriously, then healed her up when infection set 
in and it looked like it was going to kill her. Left a 
few scars...."
Tennetty finally got it; she gasped, her face paled. 
"I can't. No—nobody's putting a collar around my 
neck."
"Easy, Ten." Karl laid a hand on her arm. "You 
don't have to. Maybe it won't be necessary for the 
disguise to work. The thing is, though..." He let his 
voice trail off.
"Well?"
"Who else could do it? Who else could look the 
part—and fight her way out, if all hell breaks 
loose?"
Slovotsky nodded. "As it always seems to. The 
only other choice I can think of is Andy."
"No." Karl shook his head. "No. Not if I'm going 
to be around. And not if I'm not. Clear?" When 
Andy-Andy was endangered, it was hard for Karl to 
concentrate on anything but her safety. He owed the 
others better—he owed himself better.
Tennetty looked him straight in the eye. "So I'm 
expendable, but Andrea isn't. Is that the way of it?"
"If you want to think of it that way, then go 
ahead. It's your choice." He folded his hands over 
and cracked his knuckles. "But damned if I'm going 
to justify myself to you, or to anyone else. You got 
that?"
She grunted.
"I asked if you got that."
"Yes."
"I can't hear you."
"Yes, dammit."
"Fine." He closed his eyes for a moment. He was 
missing something.
Ahh—if they were going to impersonate the 
slavers, then this raid didn't happen. And if it didn't 
happen, then what were all these bodies doing 
littering the meadow?
He raised a hand and beckoned Erek over. "I want 
Stick saddled and brought to me; I'm going up to the 
mesa to wait for Ellegon."
"Messages?"
"Two. First is to Chak. Begins: You and 
Slovotsky are going to pick a thirty-man team to 
impersonate some slavers; report to Walter. I want 
the wagons cleaned up and the insignia remounted; 
they're to be ready to roll by morning—but keep 
everyone out of the wizard's wagon; it's to stay 
sealed up until we have Henrad check it out. Ends. 
To Gwellin. Begins: Report to Tennetty, 
immediately. Ends. Go."
Erek nodded and ran off; Karl called Daherrin 
over. "Change of plans—I want the slavers buried in 
the woods."
"Buried? What for?"
"Practice."
Daherrin snorted, then broke into a deep-chested 
laugh. "I will get an explanation eventually, won't 
I?"
"If you live until dark. Bury them deep; I don't 
want any wolves digging them up. This raid didn't 
happen. Got it?"
"Yes, Karl Cullinane." The dwarf walked away, 
bellowing for his assistants.
Karl turned to Slovotsky. "Walter, I want you to 
pick the team carefully. No dwarves, and go light on 
elves."
"Of course."
"Compare notes with Tennetty and Chak. This 
could easily turn out to be messy; anybody who was 
even a bit off his game last night goes back Home."
"How about Donidge? I hear he was damn good 
last night."
"So?"
"So, his wife's due in a few tendays. I think it 
would be nice if he was around for it."
"Good point—count him out. Same for anybody 
else with pressing business back Home." He lowered 
his voice. "Exceptway orfay oinersjay; Ahiraway's 
avinghay enoughway oubletray, as it is. Kapish?" 
Pig latin wasn't exactly an elegant code, but no 
adults from This Side spoke English well enough to 
puzzle it out.
"Si, senor. Gwellin's going to lead the overland 
group?"
"Right. Also, I want you to have the team work 
out with the slavers' guns, but make sure everyone's 
damn careful with that powder until we know more 
about it. Turn in your own guns to Gwellin; he's to 
have them broken down and loaded onto the 
flatbed."
"Can I keep a couple of pistols?"
"No—and none of our bullets or powder, either. 
We're going to play slaver until we get to Enkiar, 
and I don't want any slipups." Karl turned to 
Tennetty. "You're to supervise the stowing of the 
slaver powder. I want a little taken out of each barrel 
and put in a flask. Carefully, now—this stuff might 
be poison; make sure you don't get any on you. Then 
seal the barrels back up tight and leave them alone."
"Fine." She nodded. "Who's going back Home 
with the powder?"
"You are. If Ellegon's brought the basket, you'll 
take Jilla and Danni with you. Otherwise they'll go 
back overland with Gwellin. Prepare them for both 
possibilities. Also, take three of the slavers' guns for 
analysis—put them with the powder. You're to take 
slaver rifles and powder to Riccetti and Andy-Andy; 
have them run an analysis. I'll want Ellegon to catch 
up with us somewhere this side of Enkiar; we'll set 
up a rendezvous when he gets here. He can bring 
Henrad along with him."
"And me?"
"Look—if you want in, you've got it. If you don't, 
you may as well take some time off at Home. If you 
do want in, you'll have to get yourself outfitted with 
that glass eye."
"Very well," Tennetty said. "You can count me 
out of this one, Karl. I don't want to wear a collar 
again. Ever."
That was too bad, but he wasn't going to try to 
push Tennetty into doing something that she really 
wasn't willing to do. "Fair enough. We'll have to do 
without."
Walter opened his mouth, then closed it. "Fine."
Erek arrived, leading Karl's horse. Karl pulled 
himself to Stick's broad back. "Anything else?"
"Yes." Tennetty jerked her thumb at the woods. 
"I've still got those two slavers."
Damn. Karl had forgotten about that for a 
moment—forgetting wasn't a luxury he could allow 
himself. "What kind of shape are they in?"
She shook her head. "Not too bad. Just a few cuts 
and bruises. I mean, I hamstrung them, of course—"
"Of course."
"—but they're not near dead. Should I fix that? Or 
do you want to?"
"The watchman lives. I promised him."
"Oh, great. 'Karl Cullinane's word is as good as 
gold'—is that it?"
"Yes."
"No!"
Stick took a prancing step backward; Karl reined 
in the stallion with difficulty. "Easy, damn you.... 
Yes, Tennetty. My word counts for something."
"What do you want to do? If we're going to try to 
impersonate a slaver team, we can't afford to have 
him wandering around, working his mouth. Do you 
want me to turn him loose?" she shrilled, her hand 
resting on the hilt of her saber.
Walter moved behind Tennetty; Karl waved him 
away. "No, Ten. Take a bottle of healing draughts—
one of theirs. Fix up his legs, and one arm. We'll 
take him back Home, keep him locked up. He won't 
see any more than traders already have. Once we 
come back from Enkiar, we'll turn him loose. I 
promised that he'd live."
Tennetty took a deep breath. "And the other? You 
didn't promise every bloody slaver his life, did you?"
"No, I didn't. Kill him. Walter, go with her, take 
charge of the prisoner. I won't want a ley de fuga, 
kapish?"
"Got it."
Karl gave a light tug on the reins; Stick broke into 
a canter.



CHAPTER THREE
Ellegon
I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.
—Job

The night passed slowly, filled with the chirping of 
crickets, the whisper of wind through the trees, the 
flickering of the stars, and the pulsing of the faerie 
lights overhead. The faerie lights were more 
subdued, tonight changing slowly, as though the 
bloodshedding of the preceding night had shocked 
them into sullen dimness.
Karl finished laying the fire, spread his blanket 
near the edge of the mesa, then sat down, watching 
the sky, leaving the wood unlit.
Be here tonight, he thought. Please.
Stretching out on the blanket, he pillowed the 
back of his head on his hands and let his eyes sag 
shut. It could easily be a long wait.
Karl wasn't on the watch list—rank hath its 
privileges; and he could have allowed himself to fall 
asleep in his own tent—but if he wasn't up on the 
mesa waiting for Ellegon, he would have to put up 
with the dragon's nagging complaints until Ellegon 
took off for the trip back Home.
Ellegon was reliable within his limitations, but he 
did have limitations. It usually took the dragon three 
days to make it from Home to this particular 
rendezvous, but any number of things could throw 
him off schedule. Sometimes, innocuous things—
Riccetti might have delayed him to fire a load of 
soft-pine charcoal, or Nehera might have been 
working on a batch of high-alloy steel.
Occasionally, Ellegon would be late because the 
dragon had been delayed at another resupplying 
stop, helping a hunter team out of trouble.
More than once, Ellegon's arrival had meant the 
difference between victory and death. A fire-
breathing dragon was a nice hole card; standard 
doctrine, whenever possible, was to schedule a raid 
just before one of Ellegon's resupplying runs.
Karl smiled, remembering the expression on the 
face of the slavers who had trapped his team just 
outside of Lundeyll. Everything had gone wrong that 
time. A sudden rainsquall had come up, making it 
impossible for his team to reload their weapons, and 
it turned out that most of the supposed slaves 
chained behind the wagons had really been slavers. 
His back to the Cirric, Karl had resigned himself to a 
fight to the death, until a familiar voice sounded in 
his head.
So he had surrendered. Sort of.
Thermyn had been very pleased with his catch, 
until the moment Ellegon's massive head snaked out 
from behind a rock outcropping and bit off his legs, 
leaving an expression more of surprise than pain on 
his face....
Usually, though, lateness was just a result of 
Ellegon's trying to avoid people. Dragons were close 
to extinct in the Eren regions; humans seemed to 
have an almost instinctive fear of the creatures.
Ellegon didn't fly over populated areas during the 
day. While the dragon was immune to almost any 
nonmagical threat, a dragonbaned crossbow bolt 
could cut through his scales like a hot knife through 
butter. And though he could fly far, far above the 
range of any bow, he did have to land eventually. It 
was best that nobody know when he was in the area, 
the dragon said.
That was true, but Karl had long suspected that 
fear of being attacked was only part of the reason the 
dragon avoided coming within range of strangers; 
Ellegon simply didn't like reading the hate and fear 
in their minds.
They had worked out a routine for Ellegon's 
resupplying trips. The dragon would leave the valley 
during the afternoon, flying throughout the night and 
reaching his first resting place just before dawn. He 
and his human assistant would rest during the day, 
taking to the air at night, flying as high as possible, 
crossing the land in night-long hops, finding another 
resting place before morning, then sleeping, eating, 
and talking during the day.
Karl had long ago noticed that the more Ellegon 
liked whoever had been assigned to assist him, the 
later the dragon tended to be. Extended conversation 
with adults was a rare pleasure for the dragon; the 
few Home citizens who really liked Ellegon and felt 
safe around him were usually too busy to spend 
much time with him.

Karl lay back, occasionally nodding off, until a 
vague reassurance touched his mind, bringing him 
quickly out of his light sleep.
A familiar voice sounded in his head. *Well? I 
brought the fatted calf—where are the party hats?*
"Ellegon!" A smile spread across Karl's face; he 
jumped to his feet Where are you?
*Just out of sight. I'll be there in a moment. Hang 
on, stupid.* The flapping of leathery wings sounded 
from below. Ellegon's massive form rose above the 
edge of the mesa; the dragon folded his wings 
against his sides and landed on the flat surface like a 
sparrow rising to a perch on a rooftop. A very 
massive sparrow—the shock of his landing knocked 
Karl off his feet.
*Hello, clumsy,* Ellegon said. He was a huge 
beast, fully the length of a Greyhound bus from the 
tip of his twitching tail to the end of his saurian 
snout. He loomed above Karl in the dark, gouts of 
smoke and steam issuing from nostrils the size of 
hubcaps.
*Would you help Henrad down? The ride seems 
to have disagreed with him. He's been like this for 
the whole trip.*
"I can't imagine why," Karl said. Light the fire, if 
you can reach from here.
*No problem.* Ellegon snaked his head out and 
carefully flamed the wood, while Karl walked 
around the dragon's side and climbed halfway up the 
rope ladder to help Henrad unbuckle his riding 
harness and dismount.
Even in the flickering firelight, the apprentice 
wizard was almost green. Karl brought Henrad over 
to his blankets and helped him sit down. The boy 
gratefully waved Karl away, then leaned forward, 
his head between his knees.
*We ran into a bit of turbulence—rain clouds are 
moving in. I'll want to take off fairly quickly, if I'm 
going to outrun it.*
Fine. But why Henrad?
*Objection?*
No, as a matter of fact, he should come in handy. 
In the morning, the boy could check out the wizard's 
wagon and disarm any magical glyphs, leaving any 
physical traps to Slovotsky. But you didn 't answer 
my question.
*Your wife's idea. His crush on her is getting a 
bit out of hand—stop that.*
Stop what?
*Stop reaching for your sword. Andrea can 
handle him; if she couldn't she would have let me 
know. She just thought she could use a break from 
his roving hands and from him "accidentally" 
bumping into her at every opportunity.*
Karl glared at Andy-Andy's apprentice. I'd better 
have a word with him, anyway.
*I don't remember you being tolerant of other 
people messing with your apprentices. Leave it be, 
Karl, leave it be.*
As you did?
*Me?* The dragon's mental voice was all 
innocence. *What did I do?*
I suppose that you didn't make the ride as rough 
as possible. Karl snorted. I guess I'm just overly 
suspicious.
*You should watch that tendency of yours. It's 
not one of your prettier failings.*
Others had already arrived to help unload. They 
began by removing the saddlebag-slung leather 
sacks, then untied the huge wicker basket cupping 
the rear half of Ellegon's back and unloaded the 
burlap sacks underneath it.
Tennetty led the two former slaves up to the 
dragon, muttering reassuring words, while Daherrin 
carried the bound, blindfolded, gagged slaver over 
and unceremoniously dumped him in the basket.
"Daherrin," Karl called out, "sling the basket and 
rig the tarp. It might get a bit wet up there." What 
did you bring?
*Lamp oil, salt, dried beef, mutton, vegetables, 
bread—the usual. Open that wooden box first. Lou 
sent along a dozen bottles of the latest batch of 
Riccetti's Best.*
Oh? How good is it?
*What does a dragon know about corn whiskey? I 
can tell you that Ahira swears by it, although I think 
he's been using a bit too much, of late.*
Karl walked over to the dragon's head and 
reached up to scratch the fine scales under Ellegon's 
chin. It was like trying to pet a granite wall.
*Mmm... nice. Harder.* It was the thought that 
counted; Karl would have had to use a hoe for the 
dragon actually to feel it.
It's good to see you, he thought. I'm sorry you 
can't stay long.
*Don't be too sorry. You'll be seeing a lot of me 
over the next few days. Chton and his Joiners have 
petitioned for a town meeting; Ahira said to tell you 
that he is—and I quote—"looking down the barrel of 
a vote of confidence" and that you are to—quoting 
again— "hie your ass Homeward, on the double." 
He's worried, Karl.*
How about you?
*I think it's going to be close. And with two 
hunter teams away, he could lose. Pity you didn't 
think to allow for proxy voting in the Constitution.*
Well, if Thomas Jefferson didn't think of it, how 
would you expect me to?
*I have higher expectations of you—*
Thanks—
*—despite the fact that you are a constant 
disappointment, and—*
a whole lot. Karl beckoned Chak over. "Which 
would you rather do: take a side trip Home with me, 
or run the team until Enkiar?"
"Run the team?" Chak opened his mouth, then 
closed it. "Why me? Why not Slovotsky?"
"I thought you don't like taking his orders."
*He doesn't, but he didn't think you noticed that.*
It's not polite to peek into somebody's mind 
without his permission.
*True. Then again, dragons aren't particularly 
polite.*
I've noticed.
*Observant, aren't you?*
"Well, Chak?"
The little man shrugged. "I'd just as soon go 
Home with you, all things being equal."
*Why are you bringing him Home?*
Peep better. Tennetty says that he likes one of the 
new women. I want to give him a good shot at her, 
so to speak. It's about time Chak settled down and 
started a family. Can you reach Slovotsky?
*Mmm... got him. He's on his way up.*
Good. Relay, please: Nothing to worry about, 
Walter, but I've been called Home.
Ellegon's mental interpretation of Walter's voice 
was even more animated than usual. *"Trouble? 
Please don't let there be trouble—"*
Honest. No real trouble. It's just politics. I've got 
to kick some tails—
*Metaphorically, for once,* Ellegon put in.
Right. How would you feel about running the 
team until Enkiar?
*"No objection, other than the obvious one..."—
he wants to go Home, is what he's saying, Karl—
"...but why not Chak?"*
Relay: Because he's not married, and you are, 
and there are a couple of possible candidates that 
will be going home with Ellegon and me.
*"Good idea. No problem; I'll keep things 
together."*
Good. Hurry up and get up here. We're going to 
make this a quick turnaround.
*Don't you want to know about your family?*
There's nothing wrong with my family.
The reason Karl hadn't asked Ellegon about his 
family wasn't that he didn't care—it was just the 
opposite. The dragon knew that giving him news of 
anything wrong with Aeia, Jason, or Andy-Andy 
took precedence over everything else; since Ellegon 
hadn't said anything, there wasn't any problem.
*True.*
He turned back to the dragon. "Any chance of 
Walter's running into any of our teams between here 
and Enkiar?"
*None. The last of Daven's team have returned 
Home, and Aveneer is working the edge of the 
Kathard. Hmmm, I'd better play mailman. If you'll 
excuse me?*
"Sure."
Ellegon raised his head. *Personal messages,* he 
announced, *for the following: Donidge, 
Ch'akresarkandyn, Erek, Jenree, Walter...*
Karl always liked to watch people get their mail, 
although Ellegon was scrupulous about turning him 
out. As the dragon relayed each message from home, 
the recipient's face would light up like a beacon.
Chak's dark face broke into a wide smile as 
Ellegon gave him the message. He nodded three 
times, then sighed, a far-off look in his eyes.
Karl waited until Chak's eyes cleared. "What's the 
news?"
The little man shook his head, still smiling. "Your 
son says that I should be real sure not to get my fool 
ass killed. I think he's been spending too much time 
around U'len."
"Probably."
Walter arrived, almost breathless.
Karl stuck out a hand. "We're taking off. Run 
things as you see best."
"I always do."
"But if you don't mind taking some advice... 
Ellegon says that you can't get jumped by any of our 
teams, but don't take chances. There may be some 
independents working the road between here and 
Enkiar. I'd rather you avoid them. Use roving point 
men, okay? Next, I want you to fill Henrad in, and 
have him go over the wizard's wagon, for magical 
traps, and—"
"Hey, if you're leaving me in charge, you'd better 
trust me not to stab myself in the foot, eh?"
"Right." He clapped a hand to Walter's shoulder. 
"Take care of things, okay?"
"Sure. Kiss my wife for me—and kiss yours for 
me, too."
Karl glared at him.
Walter spread his hands. "Face it: I'm 
irrepressible."
"Right." Karl helped Chak into the basket, then 
climbed up the rope ladder to the saddle on Ellegon's 
back and strapped himself in. "Everybody clear. 
Daherrin, are the straps okay?"
"Tight and strong," the dwarf called back, as he 
finished belting Chak, Tennetty, and the two women 
into the basket, then tied down the tarpaulin, leaving 
only their heads peeking out.
*You ready?*
Home, James.
*My name is Ellegon.* The dragon's wings 
blurred; he leaped skyward.



PART TWO
Home
 
CHAPTER FOUR
Kail's Day Off
If a man insisted always on being serious, and never 
allowed himself a bit of fun and relaxation, he would 
go mad or become unstable without knowing it.
—Herodotus

*Almost Home. Close your eyes.*
As they passed through the invisible barrier of the 
Spidersect wards, the air around the dragon 
shimmered and sparkled, reacting to Ellegon's 
partially magical metabolism.
Even through his tightly closed eyes, Karl was 
dazzled, although the momentary discomfort was 
reassuring. The ragged circle of wards enclosing the 
valley didn't only prevent outside wizards from 
peering in, it also prevented anyone from carrying 
anything magical inside. Soon after Thellaren had 
set up the wards, three different assassin teams had 
tried to slip through, but even when they had no 
other magical implements, their healing draughts 
had tripped them up.
Word had gotten out; there hadn't been an 
assassin team in the valley for more than three years.
The light faded; Karl opened his eyes as Ellegon 
banked and turned, circling in.
The valley spread out beneath them, the fields of 
corn and wheat a patchwork blanket, ragged toward 
the edges. Roads crisscrossed the valley like a 
spider's web, most of them crossing near the 
compound at the south end of the valley or just 
outside of Engineer Territory in the north.
Ellegon lost altitude as he swooped across the 
lake, circling in toward what once had been the 
original compound and now housed the grainmill, 
silo, Karl and Andy-Andy's first house, and the 
former smithy, now used for receiving and settling 
new arrivals.
The basket barely missing the sharp points of the 
compound's palisade, the dragon slowed, then 
hovered, lowering the basket to the ground with a 
gentle thump, then landing beside it.
Karl unstrapped himself from the saddle, then 
turned to untie the basket's straps. He quickly slid 
down the dragon's side to help Chak, Tennetty, and 
the two women out and onto the ground. They left 
the slaver inside. There was no rush about him.
"Solid ground," Tennetty breathed. She favored 
Karl with a smile. "I think solid ground is one of my 
favorite things in the world."
Chak stretched broadly. "I know what you mean."
"Hey," Karl said. "No complaints. Next time 
Ellegon'll let you walk."
"Karl's Day Off. I don't see you," Tennetty said, 
jerking her thumb toward the Old House. "I'll take 
Jilla and Danni through Receiving and see that the 
prisoner is properly guarded—my word."
"I can finish up—"
"Karl's Day Off," Chak said, nodding. "Go."
"But the powder. I've got to get that to—"
"The Engineers," Chak said. "And you want 
Riccetti briefed. Consider it done, kemo sabe. It's 
Karl's Day Off—begone!"
Chak and Tennetty turned and walked away as 
though Karl simply weren't there.
*You seem to have difficulty winning arguments 
with people you care about.* Ellegon chuckled 
mentally.
"Really? I never noticed," Karl said.
•Sarcasm doesn't become you. School will be 
letting out shortly. I'm going swimming.*
"But there's... I give up." Karl threw up his hands. 
"You win. I'll go change, then join you." He jogged 
over to the Old House, deliberately ignoring the 
three millworkers who were deliberately ignoring 
him.
Early on, Andy-Andy had insisted on a few 
luxuries for Karl, for fear that if he didn't claim them 
firmly enough, he'd never get even a taste of them. 
One of the most important was Karl's Day Off.
The rule was this: Despite whatever was going on 
at Home, regardless of the fact that there were 
usually five to ten people who wanted to see him the 
instant he got back, Andy-Andy had made it clear 
that Karl was not to be bothered by anyone except 
members of his immediate family for a full day after 
returning Home.
It had become almost ritualistic; citizens would 
pretend not to see him, treating him as though he 
were invisible.
Shutting the door behind him, he unbuckled his 
swordbelt and hung it on a peg, then untied the 
amulet from his neck, stowing it safely behind the 
top door of a crude bureau. It wasn't necessary to 
keep the amulet on his person at Home; the entire 
valley was under the wards' protection.
Hopping on alternate legs he loosened his boots 
and kicked them toward a corner, then stripped, 
slipping on a pair of shorts and tucking a towel, 
shirt, a pair of drawstring jeans, and sandals under 
his arm before exiting the Old House and jogging 
the few hundred yards to the lake.
Down the beach, Ellegon had already set down in 
the water just beyond the end of the schoolhouse's 
dock. Only his huge head and a portion of his back 
rose above the clear, cold water, and both were 
almost concealed by the crowd of half-naked 
children swarming over him.
Relay, please: Andy?
*She knows you're home, but she's busy. Leave 
her alone while you get clean.*
Good idea. Karl dropped his bundle of clothing to 
the hot sands and dashed for the water.
As always, it was far colder than he'd 
remembered. The lake was fed by the icy streams 
that trickled down from the mountains; as he entered 
the water, he wondered for the thousandth time if it 
was possible that ice melted at minus forty on This 
Side.
He forced himself to run into the water until it 
reached his waist, then dove headfirst and set off 
with a clumsy but powerful breast-stroke toward the 
dock and the dragon.
If God had ever set out to create the perfect 
swimming companion for adult or child, Ellegon 
would have been it. With the dragon around, there 
was no need for a buddy system to ensure that any 
head going under the water surfaced with a live body 
attached. Ellegon would simply order any overtired 
child—or adult—out of the water, and nobody was 
interested in flouting his orders.
Well, almost nobody; Jason was a special case.
But Ellegon wasn't just a lifeguard.
*Care for a dive?*
As Karl reached the dragon, he set his feet against 
Ellegon's right forward knee and stood, rising half 
out of the water. He shook his head to clear the wet 
hair from his eyes, making a mental note that he'd 
better get another haircut, and soon.
*I asked if you would care for a dive.*
"Sure."
Ellegon carefully shook a pair of twelve-year-
olds from his head, then craned his long neck so that 
Karl could step onto it.
Gently, this time. Wouldn't do for the kids to see 
me scream in terror.
The scales slippery beneath his feet, Karl stood 
gingerly and flexed his knees, balancing himself just 
behind the dragon's eye ridges. Ellegon quickly 
straightened his neck and tossed his head, sending 
Karl flipping head over heels forty feet into the air. 
Karl stretched out his arms, air-braking into a swan 
dive as he fell; he pulled himself into a tuck, then 
straightened as he slammed feet first into the water, 
slipping down into the dark iciness, rebounding 
gently off the sandy bottom of the lake.
As his head broke the surface, a slim arm snaked 
around his neck, a hand pressed hard against the 
back of his head, and a pair of firm young breasts 
pressed against his back, while powerful thighs 
scissored his waist.
"Hi!" Aeia said, kissing him on the back of the 
neck while firmly endeavoring to force his head 
underwater. "You're back."
"I noticed." She's getting a bit too old for this, he 
thought, far more conscious of her young body than 
was comfortable. He took a quick, deep breath, and 
dove.
*Do you want to know what's really going on in 
her head?*
No. Don't peep my family for me.
He'd caught her by surprise this time, diving 
before Aeia had the chance to grab a breath; she 
released her grip before he ran out of air.
He surfaced, blocked her next try, then grabbed 
her by the wrist and spun her around, pushing her 
toward the dock. "Go put on your halter."
"For swimming? Don't be such a—"
He forced a grim expression to his face. "Do it. 
Now."
She pouted and swam away, slipping seallike out 
of the water and onto the dock, then padding 
sullenly toward the schoolhouse, adjusting her shorts 
as she did.
What am I going to do about this?
*As I understand it, a bit of repressed sexuality 
between father and daughter is normal, whether the 
daughter is adopted or not.*
Where did you get that bit of bullshit?
*From the usual place: your head. Psych 101. 
Remember?*
Oh.
*One bit of advice, if you don't mind?*
Yes?
*It would be best for everyone if it's kept 
repressed. Adopted daughter or not, a husband really 
shouldn't cheat on a wife who can turn him into a 
toad.*
Well, Andy-Andy couldn't really turn him into a 
toad, but the dragon had a point.
"Right." He looked around, then quickly 
submerged to avoid the outstretched hands of three 
boys and two girls who had apparently decided that 
it was time to drown Karl Cullinane. He swam 
underwater, ducking under Ellegon's broad belly, 
then surfaced on the other side. Is she still busy? 
Where's Jason?
*She kept him after school. If you ask my 
opinion—*
Which I didn't. But I have a hunch I'll receive the 
benefit of it anyway.
*Good guess. I think she's too strict with him. 
Karl, he's only six years old. Just—*
Ellegon was interrupted by the pounding of feet 
on the dock and a sudden splash.
*Not again!* The dragon ducked his head 
underwater and came up with the wriggling form of 
Jason Cullinane in his mouth, then carefully spat the 
coughing boy onto the pier.
Clearly forcing himself to stop coughing, Jason 
straightened.
*He says that he's fine. I'm giving him a bit of 
hell.*
Good for you.
With the sole exception of Jane Michele 
Slovotsky, Karl had never really been impressed 
with children. The so-called special things about 
them were clearly parents' illusions, born of parents' 
need to feel special.
Jason, on the other hand, was special. It wasn't 
just that he had Andy-Andy's knowing brown eyes 
and smooth olive skin, or that the boy's straight 
brown hair was somehow finer than hair had any 
right to be. Even at six, Jason Cullinane had 
developed his own skewed ideas about what was 
right and wrong, which tended to be resistant to 
anything short of force majeure, and were 
completely immune to a father's attempts at reason.
What was simultaneously convenient and 
completely infuriating was that Jason, who could 
give a donkey stubbornness lessons as far as Karl 
was concerned, was easily influenced by his peers, 
and would obey Ellegon almost readily.
*You're not old enough to keep the water out of 
your nose when you jump unless you hold your 
nose. Until I tell you otherwise, I want you to hold 
your nose when you jump into the water. I am not 
going to pull you out again,* the dragon threatened.
*I am lying through my many teeth,* he said to 
Karl in a mental aside.
I know.
Jason wiped his nose and sniffed; his brown eyes 
grew vague.
*Talk with your mouth. I want your father to hear 
you promise.*
"I'm sorry, Ellegon," he said. "I won't do it 
again."
Karl swam over to the dock and pulled himself 
onto the hot wood. "Hi there."
"Hi, Daddy." Jason walked over to where Karl 
stood and stuck out a tiny hand.
"What's this?"
"Wanna shake hands."
"What? Jase—"
"Too old to kiss. Only babies do that."
"Who says?"
"Mikyn says."
"He does, does he? Well, whoever Mikyn is, he's 
wrong. He—"
"Is not. Shake hands."
Karl shrugged and sadly accepted the boy's hand 
in his. "Well, if you're too old, you're too old. What's 
new?"
"Can I go play?"
Karl could almost have cried. Well, when he was 
six years old, a lake with a dragon in it would have 
been a lot more interesting than talking with a father. 
"Sure."
Before the word was halfway out of his mouth, 
Jason was already jumping into the water, this time 
holding his nose.
Karl sighed, then turned and walked down the 
dock to the school-house. It was a single-roomed 
building, the classroom roughly the same size as 
those that had been used on the Other Side since the 
Sumerians invented schools. While the walls were of 
good pine, and the benches and desks solidly built, 
the windows were of smoky, barely translucent 
glass. Glassmaking was one of the crafts that Home 
was still deficient in.
At the far end of the room, Aeia and Andy-Andy 
were crouched in front of a young boy, perhaps two 
years older than Jason, who was seated on Andy-
Andy's chair, shaking his head.
Seeing her always brought it back to him: A 
smile really could brighten a room. She fingered the 
bend in her ever so slightly too large nose as she 
listened to Aeia talking with the boy.
Andy-Andy's frown spoke volumes: She was 
unhappy, but not with either Aeia or the boy.
She tossed her head, sending her shoulder-length 
black hair whipping about her face as she turned to 
glance at him, rewarding him with that smile.
Lady, you still take my breath away.
*Should I relay that?*
Don't bother. If she doesn't know...
He cleared his throat. Aeia, now wearing a halter, 
turned to wave him to silence.
Karl raised an eyebrow. He'd never been shushed 
by Aeia before. He walked over and laid a gentle 
hand on Andy-Andy's shoulder. She turned her face 
upward, giving him a quick peck.
"What is it?" he asked. "This all I get?"
*Old saying: When you don't know what you're 
talking about, your mouth is best used for chewing.*
"Mikyn?" Andy-Andy shook her head. "Please 
take off your shirt." She turned to Karl. "He's been 
holding his side all day; he almost couldn't get out of 
the chair."
"Can I help?" Ellegon, please relay: Maybe he's a 
bit shy about taking off clothes in front of you two. 
Mikyn apparently has some funny ideas—it seems he 
told Jason that only babies can give their fathers a 
kiss.
*She says, "Karl, I think this is a bit more 
serious."*
Ellegon, why don't you just peep him?
*She already asked me to. There's a block—a lot 
of emotion going on under the surface, but I can't 
read it at all. I'm not perfect, you know. Sometimes, 
when you get too intense, I can't even read you.*
Okay; back to basics. Relay: Let me give it a try. 
What's to lose?
She nodded, then rose, giving him a quick peck 
on the lips before taking Aeia out of the room.
Karl chuckled thinly. Some welcome. "Hi there," 
he said in English, then switched to Erendra when 
the boy didn't answer. "What's the problem?"
No answer.
"You know who I am?"
"J-Jason's father."
"Right. You can call me Karl. Andrea says that 
your side hurts. Can I take a look?"
Mikyn shook his head.
"You don't have to." Karl nodded. "We'll do it 
your way. Do you mind talking for a while?" Karl 
pulled over Andy's chair and seated himself ass-
backward, folding his arms over the chair's back.
"No."
"I don't remember seeing you around. Are you 
new here?"
"Yes."
New here. Well, if Karl hadn't brought the boy in, 
then somebody else had; Jason was the oldest person 
to be born in Home, Jane Michele Slovotsky second 
by half a year.
Relay: Tell me about the boy.
*She says, "Not much to tell. Sad story, but 
typical. Daven's team brought him and his father in, 
about tendays ago. They're cropping for the 
Engineers until they earn their grubstake. They're 
from Holtun—used to be owned by some baron or 
other who got burned out by the Biemish; apparently 
got scooped up early this year, after some battle or 
other. The mother got sold off. This isn't the first 
time he's been hurt; Mikyn bruises easily. I think one 
of the older boys may have been beating him up. But 
Ellegon can't peep out who—"*
No need, dammit.
*You know what it is?*
I know what it sounds like. He dialed for his 
command voice. "Take the shirt off, now."
Wide-eyed, the boy started to comply, then 
remembered that he wasn't supposed to take his shirt 
off and pulled it back down.
But not before Karl saw the huge bruise across 
his ribs. "Aeia, get in here." His jaw clenched. So 
much for my day off.
He forced a smile to his face. "I'm going to have 
Aeia take you over to Thellaren. You won't have to 
take off your shirt for him to fix you up. And then 
you can go right home."
That last hit Mikyn like a slap. The boy's face 
whitened.
Karl smiled reassuringly. "No, not your home. 
Jason's and mine. You don't have to go back to your 
father, if you don't want to. But when you do, he's 
not going to hurt you anymore. I promise."
*You want me to send for a sword?*
No. Drop Ahira off at the Old House. Then find 
Mikyn's father and probe him. If I'm right, scoop him 
up and bring him, too.
He nodded to Aeia. "Take Mikyn to the cleric. 
When you're done there, find him a bed in the New 
House; he's staying with us tonight. I'll see you 
later."
He walked to the door and walked back to the 
Old House, his hands balling themselves into fists.

Leathery wings flapped outside the Old House, 
followed by a solid thump.
Limping slightly, Ahira swung the door open and 
walked into the room, his forehead creased in 
irritation.
The dwarf was barely half Karl's height, but fully 
as wide. That, combined with his heavy brows and 
overmuscled body, always made him look as though 
nature had intended Ahira to be a tall man, but his 
body had never gotten the hint.
Despite the situation, Karl had to repress a smile. 
He always had to, whenever he saw Ahira wearing a 
pair of Homemade jeans and a blue cotton workshirt. 
Somehow the dwarf looked more natural in 
chainmail and leather.
Karl gestured him toward a chair. "Good 
afternoon, Mr. Mayor."
The dwarf remained standing. "Cut the crap—I'm 
busy. I was busy, that is, until that damn dragon of 
yours swooped down out of the sky and scooped me 
up without so much as a by-your-leave."
"What's the problem?"
"Territory dispute. Riccetti's complaining that 
Keremin's encroaching on a field that belongs to the 
Engineers."
"Well? Is Lou lying?"
"Fat chance."
"So? What's the big deal?"
"Well, Keremin's a Joiner, but he's been a quiet 
one, lately. I'm trying to smooth it over, without 
getting him all that angry at me just before the town 
meeting."
"Any chance of giving Lou a substitute parcel?"
Ahira shrugged. "It's the lot just west of the 
cave." He sighed and sat down. "And it's his. Politics 
is thirsty work—hint, hint."
"Sure." Karl found two clay mugs in the near 
cabinet, then took a bottle down from the shelf, 
uncorked it, and poured each of them three fingers 
of Riccetti's Best. "You missed something kind of 
important."
"What is it now?" Ahira sipped his whiskey, then 
made a face. "This isn't too bad, but have you tasted 
the beer lately? I could swear that it's getting worse. 
I'd give my kingdom for a Miller, my empire for a 
Genee Cream."
"Ahira, we've got a case of childbeating, I think."
"Shit. Who?"
"New folks. The kid's name is Mikyn. I don't 
know the father's."
The dwarf's free hand clenched into a fist. "You 
want me to handle this? I don't like childbeaters any 
more than you do."
"Sure you do. You feel a lot of sympathy for the 
poor, misunderstood bastards. Matter of fact, you're 
the only thing that's standing between big, bad Karl 
Cullinane and this particular poor, misunderstood 
bastard."
"Really? You're sure about that?"
"Yup."
Leathery wings flapped overhead. *We are here. 
And you were correct about Alezyn. I'm sorry, 
Karl.*
Why?
*Dammit, this is the sort of thing I'm supposed to 
spot, and prevent. It's just that I hate probing people 
I don't know, and it's really—*
Shh. We're not required to be perfect. We're just 
required to do our damnedest.
*But what do we do when that isn't enough?*
There wasn't an easy answer to that. Karl lifted 
his head. "Alezyn, get in here. Now."
The door swung tentatively open, and Ellegon 
nudged Alezyn into the room. Alezyn sprawled face-
first on the floor, then picked himself up.
The trouble was, Alezyn didn't look like a 
childbeater. He was a short, balding little man, with 
a round face and wide eyes; his expression was half 
hostile, half frightened; he looked far more like 
someone beaten on than the sort of brute who would 
take his frustrations out on a child.
"What is this all about?"
"We want to talk with you," Ahira said.
"Yes, Mr. Mayor." Alezyn started to tug on his 
forelock, then caught himself.
"And," the dwarf went on, "either we're going to 
have a very productive talk, or..." He let his voice 
trail off.
"Or?"
Ahira turned to Karl. "Show him."
Karl stood. He grabbed the smaller man by the 
front of his tunic and easily lifted him off the 
ground.
"We haven't met before. My name is Karl 
Cullinane. And what I want is for you to understand 
why I'm going to start with this." He bounced 
Alezyn off the nearest wall, then took a step forward 
as the other lay on the bare wood floor, gasping for 
breath.
Ahira caught his arm. "No, don't kill him."
Ellegon poked his head through the door. *No, I 
have a better idea. Let me eat him. I've always 
wondered how a man who beats children would 
taste.*
Karl wouldn't have thought it possible for the 
little man's eyes to grow wider. He was wrong.
"Never mind, Ellegon," Karl said. "It'd probably 
poison you."
*From Ahira: "You're planning to put the fear of 
God into him, right?"*
No, the fear of me. Sometimes God doesn't follow 
through.
*"Too risky. He might take his frustrations out on 
the kid, then panic and kill him."*
So?
*"So follow my lead."* "Put him down, Karl."
"But—"
"Put. Him. Down." As Karl complied, the dwarf 
helped Alezyn off the floor, and threw an arm 
around the man's shoulder. "Let's talk, just you and 
me."
Alezyn made an abortive attempt to shake the 
arm off, but he might as well have been trying to pry 
away a steel bar.
"I understand what you've been going through," 
Ahira said gently. "Captured, enslaved, your wife 
sold off. And now, you're in a new country, and we 
don't do things the way you did them at home. 
Frustrating, eh?" He helped Alezyn to a chair, then 
offered him a sip of whiskey. "Go ahead. It'll be 
good for you."
The little man took a shallow sip. "Yes, b-but—
can I talk freely? Without him hitting me again?"
"Of course. You're under my protection while 
you're in this room." The dwarf turned to glare at 
Karl. "You hear that?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Mr. Mayor."
"Better." Ahira turned back to Alezyn. "You were 
saying?"
"Mikyn is my son. When he disobeys, I have the 
right to punish him-He's my son. Mine."
"That's right. And what you're going to have to 
learn is that here, 'my son or 'my wife' or even 'my 
horse' means something different than 'my shovel.' 
Or..."
"Or?"
"Or I'll kick your ass out that door and let Karl 
slice you into breakfast for Ellegon," the dwarf 
bellowed, his face a mask of rage. "As I was 
saying," he said in a calm voice, "you've got a lot to 
learn. And I don't think you're going to learn it 
cropping for the Engineers. I've got just the 
schoolroom in mind. Karl."
"Yes, Mr. Mayor?"
"Escort Alezyn over to the parade ground. 
Daven's team is running some maneuvers." He 
switched to English. "The other day, I was telling 
him some stories my father used to tell me about 
Marine boot camp. He'll understand when you tell 
him that Alezyn is to be treated as a boot." He turned 
to Alezyn and spoke in Erendra. "Karl will take care 
of your son until you're done training."
"Training?"
"Yes. We're going to make a warrior out of you."
"A warrior?" Alezyn's face whitened.
"Yes. It's either that, or banishment. You can start 
running right how, if that's what you want. Or..."
"Or?"
The dwarf chuckled. "Whenever I end a sentence 
with an or, you really should hold off your curiosity. 
We're going to make a warrior out of you, or we're 
going to kill you trying. You can either get your 
stupid butt out the door and wait for Karl, or..." His 
voice trailed off.
Alezyn didn't ask; he bolted for the door.
Karl chuckled. "Ahira, I like your style." He 
sobered. "We've got lots to talk about. Why don't 
you bring Kirah and Janie over to the New House 
for dinner?"
Ahira picked up his cup and drained it, then 
looked inside. "I seem to be out of whiskey." Karl 
passed him the bottle; ignoring the cup, the dwarf 
uncorked it and tilted it back. "Mmm... dinner 
sounds good—want to include Riccetti?"
"Sure. Can you put him up for the night, though? 
I'm putting Mikyn in our guesting room, and I 
wouldn't want to slight Lou."
"Damn well better not. And sure, he can have my 
room. I don't get much use of it, lately."
"Really? I didn't know that your social life had 
picked up."
"Very funny. Janie's been having nightmares 
again. I have to sleep with her most nights." The 
dwarf snorted. "At least, she says she has bad 
dreams; I think maybe she just wants some more 
attention."
"You're spoiling that kid."
"You think so, eh?" Ahira cracked his knuckles. 
"You want to try to stop me?"
"Me?" Karl raised his hands in mock surrender. "I 
wouldn't dare—but I'd better get over to the house; 
U'len will have my hide if I don't give her a bit of 
warning. And we'll add Thellaren, too. Get some 
work done tonight."
"How about Karl's Day Off?"
"Screw Karl's Day Off." He walked out into the 
square, where Alezyn stood waiting.



CHAPTER FIVE
Dinner Party
No medicine can be found for a life which has fled.
—Ibycus

Karl considered the last thick wedge of blaeberry pie 
on the earthenware serving tray, then decided that 
the remaining shards of Karl's Day Off entitled him 
to it.
He slipped it onto his plate and brought a 
spoonful to his mouth. Damn, but it was sweet. 
Fresh-baked goods were what he missed most when 
he was on the road.
At the other end of the table, Andy-Andy smiled 
a promise at him.
Well, maybe fresh-baked goods weren't exactly 
what he missed most.
Sometimes, life is almost worth living. He folded 
his hands over his belly and sat back, letting his eyes 
sag half-shut.
Reaching for a piece of cornbread, Ahira 
accidentally elbowed a knife from the table; it 
clattered on the floor.
Karl leaped out of his chair, his hand going to his 
waist for the hilt of the sword that wasn't there.
"Karl!"
He stopped himself in midmotion, feeling more 
silly than anything else. Gesturing an apology, he 
took his seat, feeling every eye in the room on him. 
"Sorry, everybody. It's... just that it takes a while, 
after you've been out. I kind of need to... 
decompress."
"You're not the only one," Chak said from the 
doorway, chuckling as he sheathed his falchion. The 
little man walked over to the table and took a piece 
of cornbread from the breadboard. "When I heard 
the clatter, I rolled, drew my sword, and was 
halfway down the stairs before I realized that it was 
probably just some eating ware."
"How are the children?" Andy-Andy asked.
"Wonderful." Chak smiled. "Jason and Janie are 
snoring, and I was finally able to get Mikyn to fall 
asleep."
Karl snorted. "You didn't have to play baby-sitter, 
you know. You're allowed to come up and eat with 
the rest of us."
"I never see enough of Jason and Janie," Chak 
shrugged. "I've seen you eat more than often enough, 
Karl. It's no thrill."
"Thanks." Karl gestured to a chair. "Do you want 
to join us, or would you rather go watch the children 
sleep?"
The dark little man pitched his sheathed falchion 
into the sword-stand in the corner and sat, pulling 
himself up to the table next to Aeia. "U'len, I'll have 
some beef," he called toward the kitchen.
The answer came back immediately: "Then go 
bite a cow!"
A chorus of quiet chuckles sounded. Karl looked 
around the long table. Except for Chak, everyone 
seemed satisfied, although Aeia's plate was closer to 
full than he liked to see. Was she eating so lightly 
because of some teenage pickiness, or because she 
was afraid to appear less than grown-up in the way 
she handled a knife and fork?
Well, either way, she could always snack later, he 
decided. U'len wheedled easily.
In the seat of honor at Karl's left, Lou Riccetti 
had pushed his chair away from the edge of the table 
and loosened his trousers' drawstrings, accepting the 
offer of a damp cloth from the teenage junior 
apprentice Engineer who waited attentively behind 
his chair, one hand always resting on a holstered 
pistol.
More than once, Riccetti had privately offered to 
waive the bodyguard when he was visiting, but Karl 
had vetoed that. For the next few years, Lou Riccetti 
would be the most valuable person in the valley, and 
the rituals that Riccetti and Ahira had developed for 
the Engineers were too useful to allow for 
weakening exceptions. Karl wasn't necessarily going 
to remain the only target of guild-inspired 
assassination attempts.
He frowned; Riccetti's weight bothered him. Karl 
had always secretly suspected that Riccetti, pudgy 
before they'd been transferred to This Side, would 
run to fat, but he'd been dead wrong. Lou was almost 
skeletal these days; he claimed he was just too busy 
to eat, and while his junior Engineers cooked for 
him, none was ever presumptuous enough to tell the 
Engineer to slow down or eat more.
"I should send U'len over to cook for you," Karl 
said. "Got to get some meat on your bones."
"I'm doing fine."
"I'll tell you when you're doing fine, asshole. Eat 
regularly, put on some weight, or I'll tell U'len to 
keep the stew coming while I hold you down and 
force-feed it to you."
The apprentice—Ranella, that was her name—
kept her pimpled face calm only with visible effort. 
In Engineer Territory at the north end of the valley, 
nobody spoke to the Engineer that way. Ever.
"And I get no say in the matter?" U'len said with 
a sniff, as she bustled through the curtains covering 
the arched doorway that led from the kitchen to the 
dining room, two fresh pies balanced on a wooden 
slab next to a platterful of roast beef that 
overflowed, dripping red juices. She was a 
profoundly fat woman of about fifty, her face 
perpetually red from the heat of the stove.
"You think I have little enough work to do here, 
that you can make me cook for those filthy 
Engineers as well? You should lay off your sword 
practice for a few tendays, and exercise your mind. 
If you have one." She handed Chak the platter of 
beef, then set one pie down gently on Andy-Andy's 
end of the table and slammed the other down on 
Karl's. "Always making problems for me, for your 
wife, for everyone and everything..."
"Easily solved—at least as far as you're 
concerned," Karl said. "You're fired."
"I am not. You wouldn't dare, you brainless son 
of a—"
"Enough."
"I will tell you when I've said enough," she called 
over her shoulder as she vanished back into the 
kitchen. "Damn fool swordsman. I'd say he had 
droppings for brains, except that'd be unfair—to 
droppings...."
Well, U'len was the best cook in the valley, 
although her tongue was just as sharp as her kitchen 
knives. Karl was secretly pleased with her 
irritability; U'len had come a long way from the 
cringing wretch in the slave markets of Metreyll.
Sitting on Riccetti's left, Thellaren brushed a few 
stray crumbs from his black robes and smiled as he 
reached for a piece of pie, his hands seemingly 
immune to the hot drops of bubbling blueberry 
filling.
"You seem to collect irritating people around you, 
Karl Cullinane." The fat Spidersect priest shook his 
head. "One would think that you like it that way." 
Thellaren broke off a crumb and blew on it before 
feeding the tarantula-sized spider on his shoulder. 
The creature grabbed the morsel in its mandibles, 
then scurried away, hiding itself somewhere inside 
the priest's ample robes.
"True enough." Ahira grinned slyly. "After all, 
look who he married."
The dwarf had timed that just right, just as Andy-
Andy had lifted her goblet and begun to drink. 
Water spurted out of her mouth and onto her plate.
Riccetti flashed a brief smile. "Two points, 
Ahira."
Andy-Andy glared at both the Engineer and the 
dwarf, then broke into a fit of giggles.
Karl sighed happily. He hadn't heard her actually 
giggle for years.
After a brief glance at Ahira for permission, 
Kirah joined in the general laughter. Walter's wife 
was still, even after all this time, reserved, almost 
silent, around Karl. The dwarf was a different case; 
since Ahira lived with her, Janie, and Walter, she 
had come to take him for granted.
Karl pushed his chair back from the table and 
folded his hands over his navel. "So? Where do we 
stand?"
"Which?" Riccetti downed the last of his water. 
"Politics or powder?"
"Dealer's choice."
Ahira bit his lip. "It's the politics that worries me. 
Even if the locals—"
"The slavers."
"—even if the slavers have figured out how to 
make powder, we have quite a few tricks in reserve. 
Nitrocellulose," Ahira said with a sigh. "If 
necessary."
Riccetti snorted. "Fine. You figure out how to 
keep it stable."
Karl raised an eyebrow. "How's the research 
going?"
"Not well. It's still averaging around ninety, 
ninety-five days before the damn stuff self-
detonates." He threw up his hands. "It could be that 
I've got to figure out a better wash—or maybe just 
bite the bullet and admit that I can't do it with the 
kinds of impurities we're getting in the sulfuric. Or 
maybe I should just tell you to find yourself another 
jackleg chemical engineer."
Guardians of the Flame: The Warriors
"Hey, Lou—"
"Don't heylou me, dammit. If I had wanted to 
major in chemical engineering instead of civil 
engineering, I would have. You know how I was 
taught to procure explosives?"
"Well—"
"I was taught to order them. Out of a catalog. 
You get a license, you fill out the forms, you write a 
check..." He chewed his thumbnail. "And really pure 
chemicals—"
"Wait." Ahira held up a hand. "Lou, with all due 
respect, do we have to go through this again? We all 
know that you're going to keep working on 
guncotton, and everybody in this room believes that 
you'll lick the self-detonating problem, eventually."
"Sure I will. Ever read that Verne book about a 
trip to the moon?"
"The one where they shot them out of a cannon? 
No. Why?"
Riccetti spread his hands on the table. 
"Observe—at no time do the fingers leave the hand. 
I like it that way." He drummed his fingers on the 
table. "Most of the book was nonsense. But ol' Julie 
had one thing right. Most of his characters—people 
who spent a lot of time dealing with explosives—
were missing a few body parts. If I had to start 
making explosives in quantity, God knows what'll 
happen."
"So don't make any quantities until you're ready 
to."
"I guess I should have studied chemical 
engineering. Or brought along a few pounds of 
PYX, maybe."
"There is a... nastier alternative," Andy-Andy's 
face grew grim. "I could put in the work to learn 
transmutation of metals, instead of just doing this 
agricultural kid stuff. How many pounds of uranium 
would it take to—"
"Forget it." Riccetti shook his head. "Three 
problems. First, without good explosives for the 
lenses, setting off a fission bomb isn't easy. Second, 
it isn't only uranium you need, you need uranium 
that's ninety-seven plus percent U-two-thirty-five. 
Third, you won't live to get good enough to do any 
kind of transmutation. It's not like rainmaking. 
Aristobulus wasn't far enough along for 
transmutation, and you're still not half the wizard... 
he was."
"Delicately put." Ahira raised his eyes to heaven. 
"But Lou's right, although for the wrong reasons. 
We're not taking that route."
Thellaren raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask. "Mr. 
Mayor, what do you think we ought to do about the 
political situation? You are not willing to consider 
Lord Khoral's new offer?"
"New offer?" Karl asked. "Something I don't 
know about?"
"Yeah." The dwarf shook his head. "We've got 
another emissary from Khoral due between now and 
the town meeting, and I expect he's going to go up 
the ante. More serfs; titles enough to go around—
how would you like to be Karl, Baron Cullinane?"
Karl snorted.
"All he wants is your fealty, Karl. And, just 
maybe, he wants Lou to give him the secret of 
gunpowder."
"What he wants, Ahira, is both Lou and a 
bargaining chip to bludgeon the Slavers' Guild 
with."
"It's not the bludgeoning that bothers you. It's the 
possibility of not bludgeoning. C'mon, now, there's 
never been a human baron in Therranj," the dwarf 
teased. "Wouldn't you like to be the first?"
"No, thanks." It was partly a matter of ego, partly 
a matter of dignity. But mainly it was a matter of 
independence.
Karl didn't like the idea of being told what to do 
by anyone, and he most particularly didn't like the 
idea of becoming a second-class Therranji. Elves 
had ruled in Therranj forever; the present Lord 
Khoral claimed to trace his ancestry back for 
thousands of years. Humans were second-class 
citizens in Therranj, and though most of them were 
as native-born as the elves, descendants of 
immigrants from the Eren regions, humans were 
forbidden to own land, ride horses, or practice half a 
score of professions.
And despite the fact that Khoral had already 
offered full Therranji citizenship to everyone in the 
valley—humans, elves, and dwarves alike—Karl 
was more than sure that that wouldn't quite take. 
Racial prejudice was different here, but still every 
bit as firmly entrenched on This Side as back on the 
Other Side.
Maybe worse, in a way; here, there was a sound 
basis for at least some of it. While Karl didn't have 
anything against dwarves or elves, he wouldn't want 
Aeia to marry either; any children would be sterile, 
mules.
And then there was the matter of the Slavers' 
Guild. Western Therranj was a prime raiding ground 
for the slavers, and certainly that was a common 
interest between Home and Therranj for now—but 
that could change. There was no doubt that Khoral 
wanted to hold the threat of Karl Cullinane over the 
slavers' heads, promising to restrain him if the guild 
would lay off the raids on Therranj.
What bothered Karl was that Khoral just might 
persuade the guild. The spreading war in the Middle 
Lands increased the supplies of slaves in its wake; it 
was becoming increasingly easy for the guild to 
trade in Bieme and Holtun rather than raiding into 
Therranj.
There was an even darker side to it. What if 
Khoral was sincere? What if he really would make 
Karl some sort of baron?
That was a trap for both ruler and ruled. Karl's 
authority over his warriors flowed from respect and 
choice—both theirs and his. There might come a 
time when he could give up that authority and what 
went with it, when he'd be able to say that he'd never 
again have to see friends' intestines spill onto the 
grass.
But that could only happen as long as he 
remained free. Not trapped by a title.
"The town meeting is the problem," Karl said. 
"At least for now. It might get a bit dirty—"
"Karl—" Andy-Andy started.
"—politically," he went on. "No bloodshed. I'll 
handle it. Just make sure that the envoy's kept busy 
until the meeting. Give him a full, in-depth tour, 
excluding Reserved caverns. Hell, you can have 
Nehera discourse for a couple of hours on alloys. 
Hmmm... I don't see any need for the envoy to be 
muttering with the Joiners—so be careful." He 
turned to Lou. "Anything outside of the caverns that 
shouldn't be seen?"
"Well, nothing critical, but yes," Riccetti said, 
frowning. "There's a charcoal heap still 
smoldering—that's no problem. But we've got a few 
pots boiling over wood fires. I'll draft Ellegon to 
hurry the job, but getting them inside before they 
cool would be a problem. Andrea, would you 
levitate them for me?"
"After that crack about how easy rainmaking is, I 
shouldn't—but I will." She wrinkled her brow. "I 
hope they're covered, though. You did know I'm 
rainmaking tonight?"
"I knew," Riccetti said. "The pots are under flies. 
As for getting it out of sight... I can have everything 
inside by tomorrow night if you'll come over after 
school and give us a hand."
"Sure."
He didn't say what was in the pots, but Karl 
assumed it was dirt from the cave floors, saltpeter 
being crystallized out of the bat guano as an 
ingredient for gunpowder. There was no need to be 
overly secretive. Everyone in the valley either knew 
or suspected that the making of gunpowder involved 
boiling something. Exactly what would be hard to 
guess, but there was no need to take extra chances.
Karl nodded. "Sounds good. As far as the 
emissary goes, he can say what he wants to; I just 
want the last word. Both with the elf and before the 
voting."
"Karl, you're treating this too lightly," the dwarf 
said, shaking his head. "I really think you ought to 
go around and talk to people."
"Too obvious. The Joiners will be expecting me 
to do some politicking for you."
"Hell, I'm expecting you to go around politicking 
for me."
"Guess again." Karl shook his head. "You're 
thinking like a politician."
"Which you're not."
"Precisely. We living legends do things 
differently." Karl blew on his fingernails and buffed 
them on his chest. "By now, it's common knowledge 
from here to the caverns that I'm back because you 
sent for me. And since I've always hated to do the 
expected, I'm going to do nothing political, say 
nothing political, until the town meeting."
"And then?"
"And then I... transcend the political."
Ahira chuckled. "The last time I was around 
when you 'transcended the political,' you beat the 
hell out of Seigar Wohtansen. Hope you don't end up 
as unpopular around here as you are in Melawei."
"Don't mention Melawei." Karl slammed his fist 
down on the table, sending plates and silverware 
clattering. "Ever." It wasn't just that Melawei was 
where Rahff had died; Melawei was also where the 
sword of Arta Myrdhyn lay waiting in a cavern 
beneath an offshore island, clutched in fingers of 
light.
It's not waiting for my son, you bastard. You keep 
your bloody hands off Jason. He rubbed his fingers 
against his eyes until sparks leaped behind his 
eyelids. "I'm sorry, Ahira—everybody." He opened 
his eyes to see Lou Riccetti standing, his fingers 
clutching the apprentice's wrist. Chak stood behind 
her, one hand gripping her hair, his eating knife 
barely touching the wide-eyed girl's throat.
"Easy, Chak," Karl said. "Let her go."
Eying the apprentice suspiciously, Chak let go of 
her hair and took his seat again, carefully examining 
the knife's edge.
"Ranella," Riccetti said quietly, releasing the 
girl's arm. "We have discussed this. You may pull a 
weapon on me before you threaten Karl. 
Understood?"
"But I was just—"
"An excuse? Did I hear an excuse?"
"No, Engineer."
"Am I understood?"
"Yes, Engineer."
Riccetti held out his right hand; the apprentice 
laid the pistol gently in it. "Report to the officer of 
the watch as quickly as possible, and ask him to send 
me a pair of decent bodyguards; I'll remain here until 
they arrive. You won't need to use your horse; the 
run will be good for you. Begin now. Dismissed."
"Yes, Engineer." Her face a grim mask, the girl 
spun on her heel and sprinted from the room.
Riccetti turned to Karl. "I... understand about 
some things making you angry, but I really don't 
want you to ever force me to do that again. Ranella's 
a good kid; I don't like having to punish her."
Riccetti was right. At Karl's original insistence, 
Engineers were trained always to be careful of 
Riccetti's safety, and anything that might dull that 
training was wrong.
Karl raised a hand in apology. "Sorry, Lou—you, 
too, Ahira. My fault, again. I've been out too much 
lately; I really should spend more time at Home."
Thellaren cleared his throat. "I believe we were 
discussing the political issues?"
"Right." Karl smiled a quick thank-you at the 
cleric. "There's two sides to the problem: the Joiners 
and Khoral's emissary. We've got to pry enough 
votes away from the former to make sure you stay in 
office, while letting the latter know that Therranj is 
better off with us as a friendly neighbor than they 
would be if they decide to get nasty. So..."
"So?"
"So, trust me."
The dwarf sat silently for a moment. "Done."
Karl picked up the handbell from the table and 
rang it. Footsteps sounded on the stairs; Ihryk 
stepped into the room.
"Hell, Ihryk. I didn't know you were working." 
Ihryk worked part-time for Karl and Andy-Andy as 
a houseman, using the income to supplement his 
work on his own fields. He could have expanded his 
fields and supported himself and his family entirely 
by farming, but he seemed to like the variety almost 
as much as the pay.
"We finished planting my wheat two days ago; I 
start my tenday tonight."
"It's good to see you. How are things upstairs?"
"The children are fast asleep."
"Good. Aeia, why don't you say goodnight to 
everybody and let Ihryk tuck you in."
She frowned. "But Karl—"
"Enough of that," Karl said. "If you don't get 
enough sleep, the kids'll run you ragged tomorrow."
"Uh, Karl?" Andy-Andy raised a finger. "With all 
due respect, buzz off. While you were on the road, 
Aeia and I decided that she's old enough to pick her 
own bedtime."
"Right. Sorry, Aeia." Karl added another entry to 
his ever-lengthening list of things to do. He'd have to 
get Aeia married off. Not that he could force her into 
anything. God knew where she'd picked up that 
stubborn streak, but she had.
One way to do it might be to pick someone 
appropriate and forbid Aeia to see him. But who? 
Karl couldn't see turning her over to some ex-slave 
farmer who didn't know one end of a sword from 
another, but the idea of Aeia ending up as a warrior's 
widow didn't thrill him, either. Besides, Andy-Andy 
wouldn't stand for that.
Maybe an engineer. He'd have to talk to Riccetti, 
have Lou keep an eye out for someone who might be 
right for Aeia.
Well, I'm not going to solve that one tonight. Karl 
turned to Kirah. "It would be a shame to wake Janie. 
Why don't you let her spend the night here?"
It wasn't just that he liked having Janie around, 
although he did. Mainly, he was thinking of the 
morning; Jason thought of Jane Michele as a sort of 
younger sister who required a good example in order 
to stay out of trouble, and that tended to suppress 
Jason's natural inclinations to get himself into 
trouble.
She nodded.
"Good," he said, standing and stretching. "Sorry 
to interrupt the party, people, but I've had a long day, 
and I've got to turn in."
Andy-Andy rose. "Ahira, Lou, Thellaren, I'll give 
you enough time to get home before I start the rain."
Riccetti frowned. "Do you have to do it tonight?"
"I promised. Ihryk isn't the only one who's 
planted in the past few days; a good rain will give 
those fields a nice start." She smiled at Karl. "I'll 
help them all on their way. Why don't you go up and 
stretch out?"

He opened the door slowly. Karl stepped into 
Jason's room, moving quietly, softly, like a thief in 
the night.
Barely visible in the dim starlight that streamed in 
through the open window, the three children slept 
together, Mikyn's and Janie's bedding rumpled, but 
empty.
Janie was snoring, as usual. How a cute little girl 
like Jane Michele had developed such a snuffling 
snore was something that escaped Karl.
Mikyn huddled on his left side, curled into a fetal 
position, his breathing shallow, ragged, as though he 
didn't dare relax, not even in his sleep.
Maybe I let Alezyn off too lightly, Karl thought. 
Well, if so, that would be easy to fix. Then again, 
killing somebody just because he was a bastard was 
probably not the best way to handle things—the 
world was so damn full of bastards.
He had to chuckle at the way Jason slept between 
the other two children, stretched out flat on his back, 
one little arm thrown protectively around each of the 
other's shoulders.
Karl seated himself tailor-fashion next to the bed 
as the rain began, falling softly, a gentle benediction 
on the ground outside. He reached out and gently 
cupped the back of Jason's head with his hand. 
Jason's hair was fine, silky... and clean, for once.
Little one, he thought, I don't see nearly enough 
of you. That was one of the troubles with this damn 
business. It took Karl away from home too much, 
and left his nerves frazzled too much of the time that 
he was home. Normally, it wasn't as bad as it had 
been tonight; usually, the trip back gave him a 
chance to decompress. But riding Ellegon back had 
cut that time short. Too short.
Slowly, gently, Karl bent over and carefully 
kissed Jason on the top of his head. Arta Myrdhyn, 
he thought, you're not going to get your hands on 
Jason. Not my son.
He heard Andy-Andy's footsteps on the stairs, 
and waited to hear her walk to their room, and then, 
seeing that he wasn't there, turn around and look for 
him with the children.
She surprised him; she came directly to Jason's 
room. She stood in the doorway, the light of the hall 
lantern casting her face into shadow. A stray breeze 
touched the hem of her robes, swirling it around her 
ankles.
"Everything okay in here?" she whispered.
"Fine," he answered, rising. "Come take a look."
"No." She touched a finger to his lips. "You come 
with me." She blew out the hall lamp and led him 
down the hall to their room.
Wind whipped at the curtains, sending their hems 
fluttering over the bed. Andy-Andy pulled the 
covers aside.
"Well, well." He raised an eyebrow. "Andy, what 
do—"
"Shh." She shook her head slowly. "Don't say 
anything." She pulled her robes over her head, 
tossed them aside, and stood naked in front of him. 
"Your turn."
He returned her smile, pulled off his shirt, and 
stooped to unlace his sandals.
Ellegon's roar cut through the night. 
*...assassins,* his distant voice said. *With 
crossbows, dragonbane...*
Karl could barely hear the dragon. Where? he 
thought, trying to shout with his mind.
The mental voice cleared. *Better. Werthan's 
farm. They have taken the house, but they aren't 
planning on staying inside. I'll have to get closer to 
read them better.*
"You said they had dragonbane. Get the hell up in 
the sky. I want you on high sentry. Do not get within 
range of the bows. How many of them are there?" 
And what the hell was wrong with the wards? They 
should have picked up the assassins' healing 
draughts, even if they weren't carrying anything else 
magical.
*They don't have any healing draughts—and 
dragonbane isn't magical. It just interferes with the 
magical parts of my metabolism.*
Never mind that. How many of them are there?
*Three. I couldn't get much out of their minds, 
but they're headed this way.*
"Ihryk!" he shouted. "Unlock the guncase and get 
me two pistols. Move." He saw that Andy-Andy was 
already struggling back into her clothes. "Chak! To 
me!"
He turned to his wife. "We'll play it just like a 
drill, beautiful," he said, forcing a calm voice to 
come out of his throat. "You get the children into the 
cellar."
Andy-Andy was capable of giving him a hard 
time, but not in this sort of situation; she dashed for 
Jason's room.
Karl ran to the top of the stairs. "U'len, bring the 
maids; I'll send the stableboy and Pendrill."
Until and unless he knew better, Karl was going 
to assume that the assassins were after him; the first 
thing to do was to see to the safety of his family and 
servants.
At the bottom of the stairs, Chak had already 
retrieved Karl's saber as well as his own falchion. He 
tossed the scabbarded sword up to Karl, then gave a 
quick salute with his falchion. "You have a better 
second in mind?"
Karl was about to answer, but a shout from 
outside interrupted him.
"Karl! It's Ahira. I have Lou and Kirah with me."
Karl ran down the stairs and swung the door 
open. The three of them were half naked, although 
Ahira had his battleaxe clutched firmly in his hands.
"Get in here—move it. Kirah, help Andy get the 
kids to the cellar. Ahira and Lou, get down there. 
Chak, you go with them. I'm going to take Tennetty, 
if she's available, or go it alone."
"But—"
"My family comes first. I'm counting on you and 
Ahira to keep them safe for me. I need to worry 
about my own neck."
Chak opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged. 
"Yes, Karl. Nobody will get past me."
The dwarf nodded grimly. "Understood." 
Handing his battleaxe to Chak, he helped Andy and 
Kirah usher the three sleepy-eyed children down the 
stairs to the basement.
Karl paused to think. Reinforcements, that was 
the first order of business, but the New House was 
between where Ellegon reported the assassins were 
and where Daven's encampment was. Not good.
Ellegon—where's Tennetty?
*She'll be outside in a moment. She plans on 
having Carrot saddled for you.*
"Good. I want Daven's team surrounding this 
house. Light bonfires. Nothing and nobody gets 
inside until you sound the all-clear."
*On my way.* The dragon's mental voice began 
to fade in the distance.
"Wait—this all could be a feint. After you alert 
Daven, I want you to fly a spiral search pattern."
*Over the whole valley? That will take—*
"Just do it. Then back to high sentry over the 
assassins, but not until you're sure that we're clear."
*I believe that the three of them are alone—*
Ellegon—
*But I hear and obey. Luck.*
Ihryk arrived with two pistols from the 
downstairs weapons case, plus a beltpack containing 
powder, bullets, and swatches for bullet patches.
Karl nodded his thanks as he belted on his saber, 
tucking the pistols in his belt. He'd better get outside 
immediately and let his eyes begin to adjust to the 
dark. He glanced down at his naked chest, 
drawstring jeans, and open-toed sandals. Not a good 
idea. His scabbarded sword in his hand, he ran for 
the door and up the stairs to his bedroom.
He stripped quickly in the dim light of the 
overhead glowsteel, then dressed himself in black 
suede trousers and a black wool shirt, drew a black 
wool half-hood over his head, pulled on his steel-
toed boots, belted on his sword, and ran down the 
stairs.

The barn was less than a hundred yards from the 
New House; Pirate, Tennetty's usual mount, stood 
properly ground-hitched in the light drizzle.
Despite everything, he almost laughed. Pirate was 
a snow-white mare, her sole marking a black patch 
over right eye—sort of a horsy equivalent of 
Tennetty, although Pirate's patch was only a 
marking.
He stepped inside the barn. Assisted by sleepy-
eyed Pendrill and the stableboy, Tennetty had 
already bridled Carrot and slipped a horse blanket 
onto the chestnut mare's back.
Karl jerked his thumb toward the house. "Both of 
you, get into the cellar, and tell Ahira I said to bar 
the door. Run."
As Pendrill and the stableboy exited the barn at a 
trot, Karl took his western-style saddle down from 
the rail and saddled Carrot, matching his strength 
against the mare's as he pulled the cinch tight, then 
tucked the pistols into the top of his pants before he 
slipped his scabbarded sword into the boot and 
lashed it into place.
He felt very much alone. There were three of the 
others, and unless he wanted to wait for 
reinforcements, it would be only him and Tennetty 
facing them. Not that he despised Tennetty's or his 
own skills, but three against two was not good odds, 
not when the three could be waiting in the bushes for 
the two. Too bad Slovotsky wasn't here; this was 
definitely Walter's sort of party.
"Chak?" she asked.
"With the family."
"Good." Tennetty nodded. "I wish Slovotsky 
were here," she said, as though she were reading 
Karl's mind. "Do we wait and pick up some of 
Daven's crew?"
His first inclination was to say no, but he caught 
himself. "What do you think?"
She shook her head as he led Carrot out of the 
barn and onto the dirt of the yard. "I don't like 
working with new people. Daven's may be good, but 
we're not used to them. And in the dark? They'd just 
as likely shoot us as them. Besides," she said, patting 
her saddlebags, "if any of Werthan's family are still 
alive, they might need some healing draughts, and 
soon. I say go."
He pulled himself to Carrot's back and settled the 
reins in his left fist. "We go." He dug in his heels; 
Carrot cantered over to the back porch, where Ihryk 
stood, waving at him.
"Karl, you said to get into the cellar, but—"
"Your family." Karl nodded. "If Ahira can't 
handle things here, you won't matter much. Take one 
of the horses."
Tennetty kicked Pirate into a full gallop; Karl 
spurred Carrot to follow.
The east road led directly toward Werthan's farm; 
they galloped side by side down the muddy road, the 
drizzle soaking them down to the skin, rain and wind 
whispering through the cornfields.
No, he thought. This didn't make sense. An 
ambush wasn't a strategy Karl and his people had a 
patent on. If he was going to set up an ambush for 
someone moving between Werthan's farm and the 
New House, he'd set it up along the road. No 
guarantee that the assassins weren't at least that 
minimally clever.
"Wait," he called out, pulling Carrot to a halt. He 
wiped the rain from his face and shook his head to 
clear the water from his hair.
Tennetty braked Pirate fifteen yards ahead, then 
waited for him to catch up.
"We can't stay on the road—we're too vulnerable. 
This way." He urged Carrot off the road and into the 
fields, Tennetty following. It would slow them 
down; the horses couldn't move as quickly between 
the rows of corn and across the wheat fields as they 
could on the road. But galloping full-speed into a 
hail of crossbow bolts would slow them down even 
more.

Less than fifteen minutes later, they were within 
sight of Werthan's one-room farmhouse.
Light still burned through the greased-parchment 
windows, but everything was deathly still. Even the 
normal night sounds were gone; all Karl could hear 
was the panting of the two horses and the thudding 
of his own heart.
He vaulted from Carrot's back, landing clumsily 
on the soft, wet ground.
Tennetty dismounted next to him. "Do you think 
they're still inside?" she asked in a low whisper. 
"Damn silly way to run an assassination."
"It won't be so damn silly if you and I are stupid 
enough to knock on the door and walk in. No 
chances; we'll assume they're inside, maybe with one 
hidden outside, on guard."
"And if that's not the way it is?"
"If they're not, we'll work out what to do next. 
Right now I want your cooperation, not your 
temperament."
He untied his scabbard and slipped it out of the 
saddle boot. "Keep your blade sheathed—got to 
watch out for light flashes." He'd hold his 
scabbarded sword in his left hand, a pistol in his 
right. If necessary, he could fire the pistol, drop it, 
then draw his sword in little more than a second, 
tossing the scabbard aside. Much faster than the time 
it would take to draw a sword by reaching across his 
waist.
Tennetty went to Pirate and took saddlebags 
down. She slung them over her shoulder, lashing 
them tightly against her chest with leather thongs.
Karl dropped Carrot's reins carefully to the 
ground and stepped on them. "Stay, girl," he said, 
then beckoned at Tennetty to follow as he walked 
away in a half-stoop, dropping to his belly and 
crawling when he reached the edge of the fields.
They worked their way around to the back of the 
house, and waited there, crouched silently on the 
hard dirt, listening.
Werthan didn't have a proper barn, just a smaller 
shack that served as a toolshed and chicken coop. 
Whatever had happened in the house hadn't left the 
chickens awake.
Tennetty pressed her lips against his ear. "Do you 
know the layout inside?"
"No. Do you?"
She shook her head. "Sorry."
"Then I'll take it." He handed her both of his 
pistols and slipped his saber from his scabbard, 
laying the scabbard gently on the ground. In the 
cramped quarters of the shack, a sword would be a 
better weapon than a pistol. The pistols would be 
more useful in Tennetty's hands.
"Work your way around to the front, then make 
some noise— nothing too obvious. I'll move when 
you do. If I need your help, I'll call out—otherwise, 
stay outside. But if I kick anyone out the front door 
or window, he's yours."
She nodded and started to rise.
He grasped her shoulder. "Watch your back—
they may not be inside."
Tennetty shook his hand off. "You do your job, 
I'll do mine."

Karl stood next to the rear window, waiting. The 
shack could easily be a trap, but so what? Let it; let 
the trappers become the trapped.
Tennetty was taking her own sweet time. She 
should be making some—
Crack!
The snap of a twig sent him into action; he kicked 
open the rear door and then moved to one side and 
dove through the greased-parchment window.
He landed on his shoulder on the dirt floor and 
bounced to his feet, his sword at the ready.
All his precautions were unnecessary. Nobody 
was in the shack.
Nobody living. The room stank of death.
Karl forced himself to look at the three bodies 
clinically. Werthan lay on his back, staring blindly at 
the ceiling, the fletching of a crossbow bolt 
projecting from the left side of his chest. His wife 
and daughter lay on their sides, their limbs and 
clothing in disarray, the pools of blood from their 
slit throats already congealing on the floor.
It wasn't hard to reconstruct what had happened. 
Werthan must have heard a noise outside and gone 
to investigate, expecting that perhaps a weasal had 
gotten in with the chickens. The assassins had killed 
him, then murdered his wife and daughter to prevent 
them from raising an alarm. Scratches on Werthan's 
heels showed that they had dragged him inside the 
shack.
He couldn't bear to look closely at the little girl. 
She was only about three.
I won't let myself get angry, he thought, willing 
his pulse to stop pounding in his ears, failing 
thoroughly. Anger leads to reaction, not thought. My 
anger is their ally, not mine. I won't be angry.
"Tennetty," he said quietly. "I'm coming out." He 
walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped 
through, closing it gently behind him. The rain had 
stopped; the damp night air clung to him.
"Well?"
"Dead. Werthan, his wife, and his daughter."
*I have them pinpointed, Karl.*
He tilted his head back. High in the sky, Ellegon's 
dark form slid across the stars. "Where are the 
bastards?"
*Alongside the road, a quarter-mile from here, 
just beyond that old oak.* Karl nodded. He could 
barely see the tree in the dark.
*They've spotted the glow from the bonfires 
around the New House and are trying to decide what 
to do next. The leader suspects that somebody may 
have raised an alarm, but he isn't sure. And they are 
after you, in case you were curious. You ought—*
"Weapons?"
Two crossbows, plus swords, knives. Karl, I can 
get one of Daven's squads, and—*
"No." He stuck two fingers in his mouth and 
whistled. "They're mine."
"What are you whistling for?" Her eyes wide, 
Tennetty snatched his hand away from his mouth. 
"They're not that far away; they'll hear you."
"That's the idea." He pulled off his shirt. "And 
they'll see me, too." He raised his voice. "Did you 
hear that? Can you hear me?"
No answer.
"You're crazy, Karl, we can't—"
"No." He stopped the back of his hand a scant 
inch from her face. "They're all mine," he said 
quietly. "Each and every one."
"At least take your pistols—"
"No." He shook his head slowly. "I want to feel 
them die. I want—" He stopped himself. Save the 
feeling for later. When they're dead.
He raised his sword over his head and waved it as 
he ran down the road toward the old oak.
"My name is Karl Cullinane," he shouted. "I've 
heard you're looking for me, you bastards. I'm 
waiting for you. If you want me, come and get me."
As he neared the tree, a dark shape rose between 
two rows of cornstalks; Karl hit the ground and 
rolled as a bolt whizzed overhead.
Karl sprinted for the man. But the assassin didn't 
simply wait for him; he ducked back down in the 
corn and ran. He was in too much of a hurry. Karl 
could plot his progress by the rustling of the stalks. 
He leaped through a row of corn and crashed into 
the assassin, both his sword and the assassin's 
crossbow tumbling away somewhere into the night.
It didn't matter; he was half Karl's size. As they 
rolled around on the ground, Karl kneed the other in 
the crotch, then slammed the edge of his hand down 
on the assassin's throat, crumpling his windpipe.
The assassin lurched away, gagging with a liquid 
awfulness as he died.
One down.
Karl rolled a few feet away before rising to a 
crouch and looking around, the skin over his ears 
tightening.
Nothing. No sound. The other two weren't stupid 
enough to flail around in the cornfield in a panic.
And Karl was unarmed, his sword lost 
somewhere in the darkness.
Not good. He regretted his stupidity in charging 
blindly into the field and ordering Tennetty to stay 
away, but there was nothing he could do about it 
now. If he raised a voice to call for help, all that 
would do would be to pinpoint his position for the 
two remaining assassins, one of them still armed 
with a crossbow.
*Then again, you might want to use me, no?*
Right. I'm missing two—where's the nearest one?
For a moment, Karl felt as though distant fingers 
stroked his brain.
*I can't go deep enough, not without getting 
closer. I can't tell which way you're facing. Where is 
the bonfire in relation to you?*
Karl raised his head momentarily above the 
cornstalks. Down the road, a distant glow 
proclaimed that the bonfires surrounding the New 
House were still going.
*Got it. The one with the crossbow is two rows 
behind you, just about halfway between you and the 
road. But he's looking in your direction, and you're 
not going to be able to sneak up on him.*
And the other one?
*You're not going to like this. He's running 
alongside the road, about halfway between here and 
the New House. No crossbow, but he's carrying 
more throwing knives than Walter does, and I think 
one or two of them may be dragonbane-tipped.*
He's Tennetty's—you spot for her. I'll take care of 
things here.
The dragon swooped low over the cornfields 
toward the house.
Karl cursed himself silently. His temper could yet 
be the death of him. Kill the slavers—hell, yes—but 
letting his anger instead of his intellect control the 
means was something that he should have outgrown.
The first thing to do was to find his sword.
He searched around the soft ground, finding 
nothing but weeds and dirt. Come daylight, finding 
it would be no problem, but daylight was hours 
away.
Let's test his nerve a bit. Karl lifted a dirtclod and 
pitched it off into the night, aiming roughly where 
Ellegon had said the assassin was.
It whipped through the cornstalks, and then...
Silence. Nothing, dammit. This one knew his 
business; if he'd fired blindly, Karl would have been 
able to attack before he reloaded his crossbow.
On the other hand...
Karl walked back to the dead assassin and 
relieved the man of his beltknife. Not a bad weapon; 
it was a full-sized dagger, with almost the heft of a 
Homemade bowie.
He hoisted the corpse to his shoulder, then 
walked opposite to where Ellegon had said the 
remaining assassin was and crashed through one row 
of cornstalks, propelling the body ahead of him 
through the next row.
The bowstring twanged.
Karl stepped through the stalks, the knife held out 
in front of him.
Kneeling on the ground, the slaver was using a 
beltclaw to pull back his bowstring.
"Greetings," Karl said.



CHAPTER SIX
Mindprobe
He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to 
spare, And he who has one enemy will meet him 
everywhere
—Ali ibn-Abi-Talib

At the sound of a gunshot down the road, Karl 
spurred Carrot into a gallop.
*Everything is under control,* Ellegon said, 
momentarily probing deeply. *As I see it is for you.*
Sure. Fine. Three more innocents dead, their 
throats slit. Just fine. He eased back on the reins; the 
horse settled into a gentle canter.
*You take a lot on yourself, Karl Cullinane.*
There was no answer to that; he didn't try to find 
one.
He rounded the bend. In the vague glow of the 
distant faerie lights, Ellegon stood over Tennetty and 
the prostrate corpse of the last assassin.
No—not a corpse. While Tennetty's shot had 
opened the assassin's belly nicely, the bastard's chest 
was still slowly moving up and down.
The dragon lowered his head.
"What's going on?"
"Shut up—Ellegon's busy." Tennetty turned to 
glare at Karl, her fingers fastened on the assassin's 
wrists. "It might be a good idea to find out what this 
one knows, if anything."
*Too much pain, I can't get through.*
"Damn." Tennetty spat as she pulled the bottle of 
healing draughts from her pouch and sprinkled a bit 
of the liquid on the assassin's wounds, then dribbled 
some more in his mouth. "I hate wasting this stuff." 
She raised her head. "How about a hand here?"
Tennetty had already frisked the assassin and 
relieved him of his knives and pouch. Karl gripped 
the assassin's right wrist and pressed it firmly against 
the ground while Tennetty did the same with his left.
*Better. Shh—no. He's blocked too thoroughly. I 
can't go beyond his conscious mind.*
She shrugged. "No problem." She picked up his 
knife and flicked the scabbard away.
The assassin's head started to stir; his eyes 
opened.
"Who sent you?" she asked. "Tell us, and you'll 
live."
The round-faced man clenched his jaw. "I tell you 
nothing." He struggled, uselessly.
"Thank you." She smiled as she set the knifepoint 
against the side of his face, just over the trigeminal 
nerve, barely breaking the skin.
*Stop that, Tennetty. It was not necessary. Try 
another question, but don't distract him this time. He 
has to think of the answer for me to read it.*
Karl shrugged. There was always the obvious 
question. "What do you know that you don't want us 
to? What are you hiding?"
*"Ahrmin. He wants to know about Ahrmin."*
Ahrmin? Karl almost lost his grip.
Ahrmin was dead in Melawei, burned in the 
Warthog.
*Guess again. He hired these three in Enkiar less 
than a hundred days ago. They're not slavers, they're 
mercenaries... I've broken through, Karl. Give me 
another moment, and... I have it all. Ahrmin, Enkiar, 
the Healing Hand, everything.*
The Hand?
*It seems Ahrmin requires major reconstruction. 
I'll give you his face later. For now... stand back 
from him, and move away.*
"No!" Tennetty drew her beltknife with her free 
hand. "He's my kill."
*You will stand aside, Tennetty.*
"Why?"
Ellegon's mental voice was calm, matter-of-fact. 
*You will stand aside, Tennetty, because the little 
girl's name was Anna. They called her Anna Minor, 
as Werthan's wife was Anna Major.
*You will stand aside because I had promised to 
teach her how to swim. And you will stand aside 
because she always called me Ehgon, because she 
couldn't manage the l-sound.
*And you will stand aside because this is the one 
that smiled down at her to quiet her as he opened her 
throat with his knife.
*And if you don't understand any of that, you will 
stand aside, Tennetty, and you will do so now, 
because if you do not stand aside I will surely burn 
you down where you stand.*
Tennetty moved away.
Gently, Ellegon picked up the struggling assassin 
in his mouth and leaped skyward, his mindvoice 
diminishing as he gained altitude and flew away. 
*There are balances in this world, Afbee. And while 
there is no justice, some of us do our best. I see you 
have a strong fear of falling....*
"Karl? You want me to finish up here?"
"Can't. I lost my sword somewhere, and then 
there's—"
"I'll find it. You go home." Tennetty's face was 
wet. "Go."

Karl lay back in the huge bed, his head pillowed 
on his hands. Homecoming was supposed to be a 
joyous time, a passionate time for him and Andy-
Andy. No matter what happened on the road, this 
was separate, different. Home.
But not tonight. He just couldn't—
"You're not sleeping," Andy-Andy whispered.
"I can't." His eyes were dry and aching. You'd 
think, after all I've seen, after all I've done, it would 
get easier. He patted her shoulder and slipped out of 
bed. "You've got school and some crops to deal with 
tomorrow—better get some sleep. Don't wait up."
"Karl—"
"Please."

Ahira was waiting in the hall. The dwarf was in 
full combat gear, his battleaxe unsheathed, his chair 
propped up against the door of Jason's room, his feet 
not reaching the floor.
Karl raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?" he asked in a 
whisper.
"Not at all," the dwarf answered him quietly, 
shaking his head. He cradled a clay bottle in the 
crook of his arm. "Everything's quiet. Chak and 
Ellegon are doing a search out over the plain, 
although I'm sure it won't turn up anything. It's just 
that..." He rubbed his hand down the front of his 
chainmail vest, then tinged his thumbnail against the 
axeblade. "Sometimes I forget what we're all about. I 
get caught up in the politics so much, sometimes..." 
He let his voice trail off, then smiled sadly. 
"Tomorrow, I've got to raise a burying party, to go 
out to Werthan's place and put him and his two 
Annas in the ground, and that hurts.
"But that's tomorrow." Ahira uncorked the bottle 
and took a sip, then offered Karl the bottle. "Tonight 
I'm going to drink a swallow or two of Riccetti's 
Best.
"But mainly, I'm going to sit here in my armor, 
with my axe at hand, and keep in my mind the 
simple fact that there are three children sleeping 
safely in that room there—two of whom I couldn't 
love more if they were blood of my blood and flesh 
of my flesh—and that nothing and nobody is getting 
past me to hurt them."
"Damn silly thing to do," Karl said, his eyes 
misting over.
"Isn't it, though? Mmm... you want me to find 
you a chair?"
"I can find my own chair."



CHAPTER SEVEN
The Bat Cave
It is always good
When a man has two irons in the fire.
-Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher

The best way, maybe the only way, to deal with the 
pain was to get to work, whether or not the work 
was pleasant. Riding into Engineer Territory at the 
north end of the valley was a mixture of the two; it 
was something Karl always enjoyed, the pleasure 
dimmed only by the awkward necessity of stopping 
to see Nehera when he did.
The weathered Erendra sign on the split-rail fence 
was unchanged; it translated to "Proceed further 
only with permission"; it was amply decorated with 
the glyph for danger.
Karl laughed. Riccetti had changed the English 
part of the sign again, or at least had had it changed.

ENGINEER TERRITORY
Louis Riccetti, Prop.

Screw the rest—we work REAL magic here.

The smithy interrupted the miles of fence; huge 
doors like those of a barn stood on both sides of the 
line, although the eight half-sheds containing wood, 
charcoal, and iron stock were on the Engineers' side 
of the fence.
Nehera was a quasi-Engineer; his services and 
those of the apprentice Engineers learning smithing 
from him were needed by everyone in the valley: 
There were always horses and oxen to be reshod, 
plow blades to be sharpened and straightened, nails 
to be drawn from thin nail stock, tools to be made 
and repaired, horsecollars forged, and so on.
Not all of his work was secret, nor did he do all of 
the secret work. While Nehera did virtually all of the 
barrelmaking, the rest of the gunsmithing was done 
deeper in Engineer territory, in the two other 
smithies.
Better get it over with, Karl thought, as he 
dismounted from Carrot's broad back, then stepped 
on her reins for a moment, ignoring the hitching post 
in front of the smithy. If Nehera hears that I had 
someone else do the work, I'll have to put up with 
more sniveling than usual.
But dammit, why couldn't the dwarf be more like 
U'len? Just once, couldn't he snap at Karl, or tell him 
to go to hell?—anything that showed a bit of spine.
The civilian-side door was closed, indicating that 
something secret was going on inside. Karl walked 
toward the apprentice Engineer outside the 
guardhouse at the gate.
The boy was well trained. "Vhas!" he called out, 
bringing his rifle almost in line with Karl's chest. 
Halt. "Who goes there?"
Karl obediently halted, keeping his hands well 
away from his sides. "I am Karl Cullinane. 
Journeyman Engineer," he added, with a smile.
The boy nodded and smiled. "You are 
recognized, Journeyman Engineer Karl Cullinane, 
and welcome to Engineer Territory. I have a 
message for you from the Engineer: You are to join 
in the cave at your convenience."
"Thank you." Might as well have some fun, Karl 
thought. "Your name and orders, apprentice?"
"Journeyman!" The boy drew himself into a stiff 
brace. "I am Junior Apprentice Bast. My general 
orders are as follows:
"My first general order is: I am to remain at my 
post until properly relieved.
"My second general order is: I am to challenge 
anyone who approaches the fence or the gate, calling 
for them to halt as they do so.
"My third general order is: I am to allow no 
person to cross through the gate or over the fence 
into Engineer Territory within my sight unless and 
until he has halted for my challenge, and I am 
satisfied that he is authorized to do so.
"My fourth general order is: Should any situation 
not covered by the first three general orders arise, I 
am to send my second for the senior apprentice of 
the guard."
"And what would you have done if I had 
advanced after your call to halt?"
The boy sobered. "I would have sent my second 
for the senior apprentice of the guard, Journeyman," 
he said, pointing his chin toward the guardhouse.
"What for, Bast?"
There were only two answers; the boy picked the 
right one.
"To haul away your dead body, Journeyman," he 
said with utter seriousness.
"Good." Fortunately, there had never been a case 
in which an innocent citizen had tried to cross the 
fence after being hailed. It was just as well; many 
Home citizens resented the Engineers' patent 
arrogance.
Karl vaulted the fence and walked into the 
smithy.
Nehera was busy at work at the forge, two 
apprentices working the bellows while the smith 
held the long-handled tongs, occasionally pulling 
them back to check the color of the work.
From where he stood, Karl couldn't be sure, but it 
looked as if Nehera might be working on another 
sword. Homemade blades weren't popular only with 
Home warriors; they were slowly becoming a major 
trade item. Nehera had taken Lou's and Karl's scant 
knowledge of how Japanese swords were made and 
added his own considerable knowledge of 
steelworking; the result was finer blades—lighter, 
stronger, better able to hold an edge without 
chipping—than could be found elsewhere.
As the dwarf pulled the bright-red iron out of the 
fire and spun on his peg, bringing it over to the 
blocky anvil, Karl's guess was verified: Nehera 
sprinkled a scant spoonful of carbon dust over the 
steel, then hammered the iron bar over double, the 
anvil ringing like a bell.
He stuck the dull-red bar back in the fire, then 
turned to splash water on his face.
As he shook his head to clear his eyes, he spotted 
Karl for the first time.
Here we go again.
"I crave pardon, master." Nehera dropped to his 
knee, his peg skittering out sideways at an awkward 
angle. "I did not see you."
Karl didn't bother to tell Nehera that he didn't 
have to go through this every damn time; the dwarf 
still didn't get it, couldn't get it. Somewhere, 
somehow, Nehera's spirit had been broken, beyond 
Karl's ability to repair it.
That was the pity of it all: Nehera couldn't 
understand that he wasn't property anymore. The 
deep scars that crisscrossed his face, back, arms, and 
chest showed that he had been hard to break; the peg 
that served as his right leg confirmed that he had 
once too often tried to run for his freedom.
"Rise, Nehera," Karl said. "You're forgiven, of 
course."
"I thank you, master." The dwarf's puppy-dog 
smile almost made Karl vomit.
Dammit, you don't have to kneel in front of me, 
you don't have to beg me for forgiveness for not 
kneeling immediately, and you sure as hell don't 
have to look at me like that for forgiving you for not 
cringing quickly enough.
But what was the use? He could, once again, 
explain to Nehera that he didn't have to do that—he 
could even make it a command—but neither 
explanations nor commands of that kind had any 
effect. Whether Karl liked it or not, Nehera felt that 
he belonged to Karl, and that this was the way a 
slave was supposed to act; he simply refused to 
comprehend orders to the contrary.
The strange thing was, there were actually people 
in the world who liked this sort of thing, who felt 
that some other person cringing in front of them was 
their right, and their pleasure.
At that thought, Karl's fists clenched.
Nehera's face blanched.
"No, no," Karl said, forcing a smile to his face, 
"it's not you. I was thinking about something else. 
How goes the work?"
"I work hard, master. I swear it." The dwarf 
snuck a sideways glance at the forge, caught 
himself, then gave the slightest shrug Karl had ever 
seen.
Karl raised a hand. "Please, don't let me interrupt. 
We can talk while you work. I wouldn't want you to 
ruin something."
"I obey." Nehera momentarily drew the steel out 
of the fire, then replaced it, gesturing at the 
apprentices to pump the bellows harder. He treated 
them with a distant sort of superiority. After all, 
though they were free men, Nehera's owner had put 
him in charge. "It will take some time, master. Is 
there something I can do for you?"
"Three things, actually." Karl unbelted his 
scabbard. "First, this edge needs a bit of touching up. 
Do you think you might be able to do that for me 
sometime today?"
"Immediately."
"No rush, Nehera. I have to visit the Engineer, 
and I'll hardly need a sword here."
"May I speak?"
"Of course."
"I humbly crave your pardon, master, but you 
should always carry a sword." He limped quickly to 
the wall and brought down a scabbarded saber, 
pulling it a few inches from the scabbard, then 
offering it to Karl. "If you would care to test the 
edge?" Nehera extended his arm.
"No. I'm sure that it's fine."
"But, master—"
"No, Nehera," Karl said, cursing himself 
immediately for raising his voice as the dwarf 
dropped to his knee again.
"I have offended you again, master. I am sorry."
Karl sighed. "Forgiven, Nehera. Rise."
The dwarf got back up with irritating speed. "You 
said that there were three things, master?"
You make my teeth itch, Nehera. "Yes. Number 
two: I know you'd rather work in steel, but I need a 
golden collar made—human size. You can melt 
down some Metreyll coin."
The dwarf bowed his head. "Yes, master. That 
will be done before the next time I sleep."
"No, it won't—take your time. But I do want it 
before the town meeting. There is one other thing, 
Nehera. I've been hearing stories about how you've 
been working yourself too hard. That is to stop. 
When you are too tired to work, you must rest."
"As you command, master."
Damn. Enough of this; I'm going to go see 
Riccetti.

Karl accepted the clay bottle and took a light 
swig, then washed down the fiery liquor with a long 
drink of water. "Thanks, Lou. I needed that."
Still, the whiskey didn't wash the bad taste out of 
Karl's mouth. Which was perhaps just as well. Life 
was full of bad tastes.
He sat back in his chair, enjoying the coolness of 
the cave.
Well, this section of the warrens wasn't a proper 
cave, but a relic of the long-ago dwarven 
inhabitants, driven away, so legend had it, by 
Therranji elves. But it looked like a cave, and that 
was what they called it.
Caves were supposed to be damp and musty 
places—and most of the caverns were-—but 
Riccetti's quarters were different, almost homey.
Riccetti's apprentices had cleared out the dirt, all 
the way down to the bare rock. Then they had 
installed four wooden walls and built a massive oak 
door to block Riccetti's quarters off from the rest of 
the tunnel, chiseled the floor smooth, and then 
finally bored openings through the rock to the 
outside to allow both for airflow and for the pipe 
venting Riccetti's Franklin stove.
Glowsteels hung from pulleys set into the arching 
ceiling above, fitted with ropes and winches so that 
they could easily be lowered and removed for Andy-
Andy to recharm.
It was very much a Lou Riccetti type of place: 
rows of wooden worktables stood along two of the 
four walls, well laden with bottles and vats of 
various and sundry preparations, steel pens, bottles 
of ink, and stacks of notes awaiting copying and 
filing by apprentices.
But it was Riccetti-type homey: the sleeping and 
socializing part of the room consisted only of a pile 
of bedding in a corner and two armchairs, now 
occupied by Karl and Lou.
"Try the beer," Riccetti said. "I think it's the best 
batch yet."
Karl set down the whiskey bottle, lifted his mug, 
and sipped at his beer, forcing himself not to make a 
face. Ahira was right: While Riccetti's corn whiskey 
was usually good, his beer was a crime.
"Drink up," Riccetti said, chuckling. "You're 
being awfully patient. It isn't like you."
"I'm not like me. Not today." There were things 
that a human being just couldn't get used to, not if he 
wanted to remain a human being.
Riccetti tsked. "I should give you hell, for once. 
You're the one who's always saying that instead of 
getting worked up over something you don't like, 
you should do something about it." He snickered. 
"Not that I've always been a fan of how you've 
handled things. But you usually do well enough."
Yeah, Lou? And how am I supposed to bring a 
murdered baby back to life? But he didn't say that. 
"Any progress on the slavers' powder? I know you'll 
need help from Andy and Thellaren, but—"
"Guess again." Riccetti smiled. "Nope. It's all 
done. I stayed up part of the night, doing a few 
simple experiments. I finally figured out how they 
were doing it this morning. I'm going to have 
Andrea check my results, but—"
"What? And we've been sitting here making idle 
chatter for—"
"Take it easy, Karl. I'm sorry. It's just that..." 
Riccetti's voice trailed off.
Karl nodded his understanding. It was lonely, 
constantly dealing with people who were 
subordinate to you, even when some of those people 
were friends. Riccetti rarely could make the time to 
visit Ahira or Andy-Andy at the south end of the 
valley; last night had been an exception. "Sorry. So, 
what is it? Some sort of explosive?"
"Nope." Riccetti set down his own beer mug and 
rose from his chair. "Just let me show off for a 
minute."
He walked to the worktable and took down a 
small glass vial and a stone bowl. "This is slaver 
powder." He uncorked the vial and tipped about a 
quarter-teaspoon into the bottom of the bowl. "And 
this," he said, taking down another vial, "is distilled 
water—about the only really pure substance I can 
make. Stand back a second." Riccetti tilted the bowl 
to point against the naked wall, then dribbled a 
careful drop of water onto the bowl's lip. "It'll take a 
moment for it to work its way down to—"
Whoosh! The backblast of heat beat against Karl's 
face.
"Just plain water did that? What the hell kind of 
compound—"
"No, idiot, it's not a compound, it's a mixture." 
Riccetti poured more powder on a marble slab, then 
beckoned Karl to come closer. "Take a good look at 
this—and don't breathe on it; it's already sucked up 
some water from the air."
Karl looked closely. Mixed among the white 
powder were tiny blue flecks. "Copper sulfate?"
"Yup. Heat it up, and it becomes cupric sulfate—
plain white. Add water—even let it pick up some 
from the air; it deliquesces nicely—and it sucks it 
right up; turns blue. Which is what it's in there for."
"Now, wait a minute. Copper sulfate isn't an 
explosive. You use it for—"
"—blueing rifles. Right. But in this, it's a 
stabilizer. It's there to absorb the water, and prevent 
the real stuff from being exposed to too much. 
Visualize this," Riccetti said, cupping his hands 
together. "You've got a hollow iron sphere, filled 
with water. Got that?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, now, heat it over a fire, a damn hot one. 
What happens?"
"The water starts to boil."
"Right. But since it can't escape?"
Karl shrugged. "If it gets too hot, it blows up, just 
like a pressure cooker does if it isn't vented right."
"Right." Riccetti frowned. "But what if you're 
cheating? What do you get if you're using some sort 
of spell to hold the iron sphere together?"
"Huh?"
Riccetti snorted. "Pretend that the sphere is 
absolutely, unconditionally unbreakable—doesn't 
break, doesn't bend, doesn't stretch, doesn't warp. 
Nothing. What does the water become?"
"Superheated steam?"
"Right—maybe even a plasma. Now, imagine 
that someone puts some sort of preservation spell on 
the contents of the sphere, forcing what's inside to 
remain as is. Let the sphere cool, remove the 
protection spell so you can cut it open, and what do 
you find inside?"
"Something that's very hot, but isn't." Karl's brow 
furrowed. "That doesn't make any sense. What 
would it be like?"
"This." Riccetti pursed his lips. "That's what they 
did, I think. Some sort of preservation spell, with a 
built-in hole: If the stuff gets in contact with too 
much water, the spell fails, and what do you have? 
You've got superheated steam—lightly salted with 
copper sulfate—which wants to expand, and fast."
"And if the only direction to expand in is along 
the barrel of a gun—"
"—pushing a bullet ahead of it... you've got it. 
There's nothing special about the water that their 
guns use—doesn't have to be."
Karl buried his face in his hands. "Then we're in 
for it. If they can do it—"
"Hang on for a second, Karl. You're not thinking 
it through. Look at the brighter side. These aren't 
easy spells. They're a hell of a lot more advanced 
than anything your wife can do—and she's not bad. 
They're even beyond what I used to do, way back 
when."
"All of which means what?"
"I just build things." Riccetti shrugged. "That's 
your department. I can tell you that it takes a very 
heavy-duty wizard to do this, and that there aren't all 
that many of them, and that they won't work cheap. 
My guess is that this powder cost your slavers one 
hell of a lot of coin.
"Take it a step further. Even in Pandathaway, 
there aren't more than a handful of wizards capable 
of something this difficult."
"So? Even, say, five or six of them, working full-
lime—"
"Never happen. I can tell you that from personal 
experience." Riccetti shook his head. "Magic is like 
cocaine, Karl, assuming you have the genes that let 
you work it in the first place. Anyone who does can 
handle a bit now and then, but everybody has his 
limits. Once you get beyond those limits, you're 
hooked. All you're interested in is learning more, 
getting more spells in your head. Drives you a bit 
crazy."
That sounded familiar. That was the way Riccetti 
had been, back when he was Aristobulus, back when 
the seven of them were first transferred over to This 
Side. The only things that had mattered to 
Aristobulus were his spell books and his magic.
Come to think of it, it was reminiscent of the 
crazies who hung around the Ehvenor docks. Being 
around Faerie too long drives some crazy, Avair 
Ganness had said. Maybe it wasn't just Faerie—
maybe it was magic itself.
"Now," Riccetti went on, "look at it from the 
point of view of whoever got the Pandathaway 
wizards to make this stuff. It's going to be hard to 
pull the wizards away from their studies to do it, and 
it won't be possible to do that very often. This slaver 
powder is going to stay rare—unless they start 
producing it in Faerie."
Karl nodded. "That'd do it."
"Damn straight. If the Faerie were to line up 
against us..." He shrugged. "You may as well worry 
about Grandmaster Lucius deciding to take us on, or 
somebody bringing an H-bomb over from the Other 
Side." He waved at the door. "In any case, compare 
their production of this with our production of real 
gunpowder. You notice any shortages?"
"No."
"Exactly."
There was something Lou was missing about all 
of this; it hovered on the edge of Karl's mind.
Andy-Andy! "But Andy—she's a wizard. She 
could—"
Riccetti threw his hands up in the air. "Of course. 
Idiot. Do you want more beer or would you like a 
whiskey?"
"But—"
"Shh." Riccetti poured each of them more 
whiskey. "Drink up. And for God's sake have a little 
faith in your wife."
Karl sipped the whiskey. "You've got a lot of 
respect for her, don't you?"
"Damn straight. You lucked out, Cullinane." 
Riccetti nodded. "But, if you'll notice, she spends 
most of her time teaching school, and almost all the 
magic she does is agricultural, bug-killing, glowing 
steel, the occasional levitation when somebody runs 
across a boulder when trying to clear a new field. It's 
all baby stuff; she has almost no time to learn more.
"Hell, she only picked up the lightning spell this 
year. She hasn't had the chance to push herself as far 
along as Aristobulus did. And in my opinion, deep 
down she's even more strongminded than... he was." 
He shook his head. "Relax. In order for her to push 
her skills to the addiction point, she'll have to have 
years of leisure time—just as Pandathaway wizards 
do."
Or as Arta Myrdhyn must have had, at some 
point. He was a wizard powerful enough to turn the 
forests of Elrood into the Waste, to charm a sword to 
protect its bearer against magic, then set up a watch-
charm to hold it for its proper user.
Not my son, bastard. Karl shook his head to clear 
it. No more time to waste, not with Riccetti having 
figured out what the slaver powder was. The 
question was, what was going to happen in Enkiar? 
And how were Ahrmin and the Slavers' Guild 
connected with the powder?
Riccetti cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, I 
have to get back to work. I've got a few things going, 
and I'd better go chew out that idiot apprentice who 
tried a quarter-charge of powder in a new rifle. 
Quarter-charge—I told him to use a quadruple 
charge, but his English isn't as good as it's supposed 
to be."
Karl shrugged. "Quarter charge? What's the 
problem?"
"He hung the bullet, that's what the goddamn 
problem is. He has to take the lock off the gun and 
the barrel off the stock, then clamp down the barrel 
and unscrew the breech plug—and then shove the 
damn thing out with a rod—" Riccetti caught 
himself. "But I was forgetting!" he said, brightening. 
"Got a present for you."
He walked to one of the shelves and pulled down 
a plain wooden box, holding it carefully but proudly 
as he opened it.
Inside were six iron eggs, a seam running across 
their equators, each with a small fuse protruding 
from the top.
"Grenades?"
"Yup. They break up nice—jagged pieces, about 
the size of a dime. Cast iron does that." Riccetti took 
one out of the box and held it up, flicking a bitten 
fingernail against the three-inch fuse. "Slow fuse, 
burns for just about five seconds. Then, whoom. Use 
them a bit sparingly, eh? They each contain enough 
powder for a signal rocket." Riccetti closed the box 
and fastened the lid.
There was a rap on the door.
"Enter," Riccetti said.
A teenage apprentice opened the door and 
stepped inside. "Message from the Mayor, Engineer: 
The emissary from Lord Khoral has arrived, and 
seeks an audience with Journeyman Karl Cullinane. 
The Therranji are camped just outside the customs 
station."
Karl sighed. "Back to work. Both of us."
"See you before the town meeting tomorrow?"
"Probably not. Can I count on you, anyway?"
"Always, Karl. Always."



CHAPTER EIGHT
An Acquaintance Renewed
Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs 
Receive our air, that moment they are free! They 
touch our country, and their shackles fall.
—William Cowper

"I don't like it. Don't like it at all." Daven shook his 
head, his hairless scalp shining in the sunlight. He 
was probably the most battered human being Karl 
had ever seen. His left eye was covered by a patch; 
half of that ear and three fingers of his right hand 
were missing. Long scars ran down his face and 
neck, vanishing into his tunic.
"Your opinion wasn't asked, Daven," Chak said.
"Be still, Chak." Karl shook his head and 
switched to English. "Don't irritate him, 
understood?"
"Yes, Karl." Sitting astride his gray gelding, Chak 
glared down at Daven. It was possible that he 
naturally had little liking for Daven, but more likely 
Karl's own distaste was infectious.
Karl didn't particularly like the former Nyph 
mercenary, not the way he enjoyed the company of 
Aveneer, the third raiding-team leader.
Still, Karl had to admit that Daven had a certain 
something. A year or so back, after a raid on a slaver 
caravan, one of Daven's men had gotten the bright 
idea of selling some slaves instead of freeing them. 
Daven hadn't returned Home for advice or 
instructions; he had hunted the bastard down himself 
and brought the charred bones back.
"The Mayor agreed to allow an emissary," Daven 
went on as though Chak weren't there, "but they've 
sent more than two hundred—and I wouldn't swear 
on my life that the only soldiers among them are the 
fifty wearing armor."
"Can't blame them," Karl said, fitting his boot 
into Carrot's stirrup and pulling himself up to the 
saddle. "There've been enough slaving raids into 
Therranj; traveling without military escort would be 
asking for trouble."
Daven smiled. "So why are we here?" He 
gestured at the log cabin that was officially Home's 
customs station, and the grassy slope below the 
cabin, where fifty warriors from his team waited, 
guns loaded and horses saddled.
"Because I don't like to take chances."
"No, not you." A snort. "I believe that. How 
many of my men do you want to take with you?"
"None. You're here for show. Period. I'm just 
going over to chat. I don't care what you hear, all of 
you stay here until and unless I send for you." Karl 
jerked his thumb skyward. "Ellegon covers me on 
this." He pulled on the reins and turned Carrot away, 
Chak following on his gelding.
Daven shrugged. "You have all the fun." His 
laugh followed Karl and Chak over the rise.

The Therranji had camped on the plain, almost a 
mile from the ridge that overlooked the valley. 
Khoral's emissary traveled in style; the encampment 
reminded Karl of an old-time circus, the several 
dozen tents ranging in size from three barely larger 
than a typical Boy Scout Voyageur to a mammoth 
red-and-white silk one that could almost have served 
P.T. Barnum as a big top.
Near the entrance to the main tent, a team of 
cooks attended to a side of beef, turning it slowly 
over a low fire. The wind brought the scent to him; it 
smelled absolutely wonderful.
Mounted elven soldiers in chainmail and iron 
helmets patrolled the perimeter. Three of them 
approached Karl and Chak as they rode toward the 
camp.
*Don't make any unnecessary enemies.*
Karl looked up. High overhead, Ellegon circled.
"Since when do I go around making enemies 
unnecessarily?"
Chak laughed. "How about the time you drew on 
Baron Furnael? That could have turned bloody. Or 
when you beat Ohlmin—"
"Enough. It was necessary, or I wouldn't have 
done it."
*That's what they all say.*
Karl ignored the jibe. Tell me, Kreskin, what are 
the elves up to?
*My name is Ellegon. And they're all shielded. 
Sorry. But you might want to get on with this; your 
wife is already inside—*
What?
*—with Tennetty to keep her company. Not my 
idea, Karl; I told her you wouldn't like it.*
Karl quelled the urge to spur Carrot past the 
horsemen, then forced himself to pull her gently to a 
halt. This was a time for negotiation, not violence.
*Just keep it that way. I can recall a time or two 
that you've turned—*
Enough. Don't you ever forget anything?
*Nope. Just think of me as a many-tonned 
conscience.* A gout of fire roared through the sky.
Chak shook his head. "I don't like it."
"Neither do I." Karl bit his lower lip for a 
moment. "When we dismount, hand the nearest elf 
your falchion—don't wait for him to ask—then go 
inside, quietly. When I call for you, I want you and 
Tennetty to bring Andy out. Move slowly, but get 
her on a horse and over the hill."
"And what will you be doing?"
"That all depends on them. But I don't want any 
potential hostages clogging the negotiations." Karl 
wound his reins around his saddle horn and folded 
his arms over his chest. He didn't even have a pistol 
with him; SOP was to avoid letting any foreigner see 
guns, although he had made several exceptions to 
that rule in his time.
"Greetings," the foremost of the soldiers said, in 
an airy voice. In full armor and padding, he looked 
almost fully fleshed, if exceedingly tall; elves 
always looked like regular people, stretched 
lengthwise in a funhouse mirror. But the appearance 
of fragility was deceptive; pound for pound, elves 
were stronger than humans. "You are the human 
called Karl Cullinane?"
I'm called Karl Cullinane because that's my 
name—and what do I look like, a dwarf?
*Temper, temper.*
"Yes, I am Karl Cullinane."
"You are expected. You and your servant will 
follow me."
I just might have to teach you how to say please, 
but this isn't the time—not quite yet. Karl unwound 
his reins and nudged Carrot into a walk. The speaker 
took the lead, while the other two rode beside Karl 
and Chak.
*Can I trust you to keep out of trouble for a 
while? I have a patrol to fly, and I've got to see that 
Aveneer's supplies are packed.*
Go ahead.
*I'll be back.* The dragon wheeled across the sky 
and flew away.
The soldiers led them toward the large tent, then 
stopped their own horses, waiting for Karl and Chak 
to dismount first.
Nodding at Chak to copy him, Karl levered 
himself out of the saddle.
While Chak surrendered his sword to the elven 
armsman and was ushered inside, Karl dug into his 
saddlebag and removed a carrot for Carrot. He 
slipped her bit, dropped the reins to the ground, then 
stepped on them before feeding it to her, running his 
hand down her neck. "Good girl."
The soldier cleared his throat. "They are this 
way."
Karl turned and started to follow him into the 
tent; one of the other soldiers reached out a hand and 
grasped Karl's arm.
"I'll have your sword, human."
Karl didn't answer. On the other hand, maybe this 
is the time to teach you some manners.
He looked down at his arm, then up into the elf's 
eyes, and smiled. He had put a lot of practice into 
that smile over the years; it was intended to frighten, 
to suggest that the bared teeth were going to be sunk 
into a throat.
The elf dropped his hand. "I will need to take 
your sword before you enter," he said, his voice a 
touch less arrogant.
"Guess again." Moving slowly, Karl walked back 
to Carrot and tied her reins around the saddle horn, 
then let her nuzzle his face for a moment before 
turning her around and slapping her rump. "Go 
home, Carrot. Git!"
He turned back. The three soldiers had been 
joined by six others; mounted troops were gathering 
around.
Good.
"Why did you do that?"
"I don't want my horse to get hurt." He raised his 
voice. "Chak?"
"Yes, Karl," came the distant answer.
"Get Andrea out of there."
"Understood."
I'd damn well better be doing this right, he 
thought. He turned back to the elf who had 
demanded his sword. "Now, you were going to try to 
take my sword away from me?" He stuck his fingers 
in his mouth and whistled, beckoning to all the elven 
soldiers in the area.
He drew himself up straight, resting his right 
hand on the hilt of his sword. "Listen carefully, all of 
you. This... person—what's your name?"
No answer.
"I asked your name!"
"Jherant ip Therranj, personal armsman to—"
"I didn't ask your rank." Karl sneered. "I'm not 
interested. Now," he said, addressing the rest, 
"Jherant here wants my sword. He didn't ask 
politely; he demanded it.
"I don't think he's good enough to take it." Karl 
smiled again. "Little Jherant here doesn't look quite 
sturdy enough." He looked from face to face as he 
gripped the sharkskin hilt. "Which of you wants to 
help him?"
An elf dismounted and tossed his helmet aside. "I 
will, human," he said, pronouncing the word like a 
curse. The elf nodded to another, who began to 
circle around behind Karl. Karl heard a distant whisk 
of steel on leather as the elf drew a dagger.
"Good," Karl said. He pointed to another. "You, 
too. And you, and you, and you. We're going to play 
a little game now. What we're going to do is to see 
how many of you have to die because Jherant hasn't 
learned a little bit of elementary politeness. I'm 
willing to bet my life that it's all of you." He looked 
Jherant straight in the eye. "But don't go away. 
You're going to be first. Even if your friend at my 
back closes—"
Karl kicked back, catching the elf in the solar 
plexus. As the air whooshed from the elf's lungs, 
Karl reached up and twisted, relieving him of the 
dagger, then dropping it point-first into the ground.
Karl lifted the gasping elf in his arms and handed 
him to the nearest of his companions. "Next?"
Jherant paled. This was ridiculous--one human 
against more than a dozen elven soldiers?
Slowly, Karl drew his sword, then raised it in a 
salute. Three of the elves copied him, while others 
moved away, also drawing their weapons.
He stood, waiting.
Tension hung in the air like taut wires. His sword 
in his right hand, Karl crooked his fingers and 
beckoned to Jherant. "Come here. You wanted my 
sword—here it is."
Another elf snickered and nudged Jherant from 
behind. White-faced, he drew his sword—
"What goes on here?" a firm contralto demanded. 
The tent flap was pushed aside and a woman walked 
out, blinking against the bright sunlight.
She was something from a dream: tall, slim, and 
fineboned, her long hair so blond it was almost 
transparent. Her features were delicate; most 
beautiful human women would have looked gross 
and crude standing beside her.
She looked down at the nearest of the soldiers and 
frowned. "What goes on here?" she asked again.
The elf ducked his head. "Your pardon, Lady. 
This... human wants to fight with us."
She looked over at Karl, one eyebrow raised. "Is 
this so?"
"Not necessarily. I just want to kill the ones 
without any manners. Improve the breed a bit for 
you. I might have given this idiot my sword if he'd 
asked politely, but he demanded it."
"You're Karl Cullinane, I take it." Her lips 
twitched. "I see that the stories are true. You'd take 
on all of my soldiers, hoping to hold out until your 
reinforcements arrived?"
"You don't know my husband, Lady Dhara," 
Andy-Andy said, as she pushed through the tent 
flaps and stood beside the elf woman, Tennetty and 
Chak to either side of her. "I don't think he's waiting 
for reinforcements."
"Now," Karl said quietly, "get Andy out of here. 
No reinforcements. Tell Daven."
Tennetty nodded and pulled at Andy-Andy's arm.
One of the soldiers reached out a hesitant arm as 
though to bar them; Chak grabbed, twisted the elf's 
arm up and behind his back, then booted him away, 
snatching the sword out of his scabbard as he fell on 
his face.
A thin smile crossing her face, Tennetty's hand 
snaked out and seized another elf by the trachea. Not 
daring to move for fear that she would rip his throat 
out, the elf stood there as she quickly unbuckled his 
swordbelt and let it drop to the ground. Looking him 
straight in the eye, Tennetty suddenly snapped her 
knee into his groin, then stooped to retrieve the 
scabbard. She turned around, her newly acquired 
sword held easily in her hand.
Nobody else moved.
"Sorry, Karl," Tennetty said. "I gave them my 
sword. Andrea said there was to be no trouble."
Dhara eyed Karl. "I take it that you have other 
ideas."
"Perhaps, Lady. It all depends on you. I've been 
told that you've come here to negotiate. Would you 
rather do it with words, or with swords?"
"Words," she said. "Definitely words." She 
gestured at Jherant. "You are dismissed from my 
service," she said, before turning to another elf. 
"Captain, have that fool stripped of his weapons and 
driven away. Karl Cullinane may keep his sword. 
Anyone who is discourteous to him will answer to 
me. If he survives." She gestured toward the tent 
flap. "Karl Cullinane. If you, your wife, and your 
two friends would be kind enough to join me?"
Karl sheathed his sword. "Delighted, Lady. After 
you."
*You were taking a big chance.*

Karl sipped at his wine. It would have been more 
of a chance not to.
*You can explain that later.*
"Your eyes look... distant, Karl Cullinane," Dhara 
said, reclining on the opposite couch. She held out 
her own wineglass for a refill.
"Just talking to the dragon." He jerked his thumb 
skyward. "No offense intended."
Dhara chuckled. "In your world, politeness must 
be much more important than it is thought to be 
here." She wetted a slim finger and ran it around the 
rim of her glass, enjoying the clear, ringing tone. 
"Although I must confess that I wonder how serious 
you were. Mmmm... 'No offense intended'—is that 
the correct phrase?"
Andy-Andy shook her head gravely. "Lady, I 
wish you wouldn't do that. You weren't around when 
he declared War on the Slavers' Guild single-
handedly. I was."
*From Andrea: "I could back your play better if I 
knew what it was." She's not thrilled with you, 
Karl.*
Tell her I'll thrill her later. "If you'd care to find 
out just how serious I was, Lady, it could be 
arranged."
Chak sighed and got slowly, painfully to his feet. 
"Here we go again."
"Hold on for a moment." Tennetty drained her 
glass. "Can I get in on this? You always get all the 
fun." She tested the blade of her newly acquired 
sword with her thumb. "I've heard dull blades are 
good for cutting cheese—how's yours?"
"Another cheese cutter." Chak shook his head. 
"Maybe Nehera can put a decent edge on it."
*From Tennetty: "You're absolutely insane, you 
know."*
"Don't bet against Karl Cullinane, Lady Dhara," 
Tennetty said. "The odds are too long."
"You think he could take on my fifty soldiers? 
Even with your help?"
"I didn't think that was the issue. You're an 
emissary from Lord Khoral, and one of your men 
challenged Karl—doesn't that make the question 
whether or not Karl is going to declare war on 
Therranj itself?"
Dhara paled. "Are you—" She caught hersdf. "I 
find myself in an awkward position. Lord Khoral 
sent me to negotiate your incorporation into 
Therranj. I seem to find myself having to negotiate a 
peace treaty instead."
*From Andy-Andy: "I see a method in your 
madness, but there's still too damn much madness in 
your method."*
Thanks. "Sit down, Chak. Frankly, I'd rather not 
get involved in a war with Therranj," he said to 
Dhara, trying to sound as though he were 
considering the subject casually.
*I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. If you can 
create the slightest doubt in her mind that Therranj 
couldn't take on you alone, then she's not going to 
have any trouble swallowing the idea that leaving 
Home alone is the best move—assuming that she 
can't get you to join up.*
Right. And we've made that point. The threat is 
patent nonsense—
*Which only makes it better.*
Exactly. 'Legend' is another word for 'nonsense.' 
She's not sure that she believes any of this, but there 
have been too many stories about me being passed 
around, growing in the telling. Last time I heard 
about how I took on Ohlmin, Slovotsky wasn't in on 
it, and Ohlmin had a hundred men, not eight. The 
rest of this is just pro forma; I've made the point.
*And if she had called your bluff?*
Karl didn't answer. There wasn't a real answer. 
Years ago, it had become clear that he wasn't likely 
to die of old age. His situation wasn't like that of an 
Other Side soldier in a normal sort of war; Karl had 
enlisted for the duration, and the duration was sure 
to be longer than even his natural lifespan.
If this was where he was going to die, that was 
the way it would have to be. Chak and Tennetty 
would have been able to get Andy-Andy out in the 
confusion, and that would have had to be enough.
*Well, as long as you don't believe your own 
bullshit...*
You so sure it's bullshit?
*Yup. And you are, too. Now, stop sweating and 
start negotiating.*
The elf woman beckoned another servitor to refill 
their glasses. "Now, where were we?"
Karl smiled back at her. "We were discussing 
peace between Therranj and Home. Sounds like a 
good idea to me—as it should to you."
"I thought the issue was to be the incorporation of 
the Valley of Varnath into Therranj proper. That is 
its proper name, you know."
"Not anymore." Karl shrugged. "Look. We're 
going to have a town meeting on the question of 
joining Therranj. The majority will decide—"
Tennetty interrupted him with a loud snicker. 
"Karl's always thought that counting noses means 
something."
Dhara raised an eyebrow. "And you don't?"
She laughed. "Of course not. But my opinion 
doesn't matter—it's my loyalty that does."
"Enough," Karl said. "As I was saying, I'm voting 
against. I think Ahira is going to stay in office, and 
Home is going to stay independent. But that doesn't 
mean that we can't continue to trade with you. We 
have things you want: Riccetti's horsecollars, better 
plows than you're used to, finer blades—"
"Guns. And gunpowder. We want your Lou 
Riccetti to produce them for us."
"—and we also produce a fooq surplus, each and 
every year. That doesn't amount to much yet, but 
we're still growing. And as far as the guns go," he 
said with a shrug, "those are our secret, and are 
going to stay that way for the foreseeable future."
"Really?" She raised an eyebrow. "I've heard 
otherwise."
*I don't like this, Karl.*
Neither do I. Has anyone been talking about the 
slaver powder and guns?
*Negative.* Ellegon made it a blanket statement 
of fact.
"As a matter of fact," Dhara went on, "there have 
been guns operating in the war between Bieme and 
Holtun. I have it on good authority that the Biemish 
reverses have been due to the Holts' having some."
*I haven't heard anything about this. Pry for more 
information.*
"I'd have to doubt that, Lady. Your sources must 
be mistaken. We haven't taken sides in the war—"
"Nevertheless, there have been guns. You would 
like witnesses?"
At Karl's nod, Dhara snapped her fingers. "Bring 
them in."
Elven soldiers brought three humans into the tent, 
guarding them closely.
"Thinking that you might demand reliable 
witnesses, I couldn't resist buying these, when I ran 
across them in a Metreyll market. Which is 
somewhat ironic; it seems that they were originally 
headed to Metreyll, although not to become slaves. 
They were captured by mercenaries employed by 
Holtun—mercenaries who used guns to kill their 
bodyguards."
Karl started to speak, but as the three were led in, 
his words caught in his throat. He didn't recognize 
the adult man, but both the woman and the boy were 
familiar.
"Rahff!" Karl leaped to his feet. "How? I saw you 
die—"
"Karl!" Chak caught his arm. "It's not him."
No, it wasn't Rahff. Rahff had died in Melawei, 
protecting Aeia. If Rahff had lived, he would have 
been older than this boy. If Rahff had lived... but he 
hadn't.
And then there was the woman. White streaks had 
invaded the black of her hair, but the high 
cheekbones and eyes were a feminine version of 
Rahff's.
They were Thomen Furnael and his mother 
Beralyn, the baroness.
Years ago, Karl had suspected that Zherr Furnael 
had a plan to get the rest of his family away from the 
oncoming war. Just as he had apprenticed Rahff to 
Karl, hoping that Karl could teach the boy enough to 
lead the barony through the war.
But it hadn't worked. Rahff had been killed in 
Melawei, and now it seemed that Furnael's plan to 
safeguard the rest of his family had failed.
Until now. Ellegon, get the dwarf. I want him to 
take over Daven's team. Just in case. "Thomen, 
Baroness," he said, inclining his head. "It has been a 
long time."
Dhara snapped her fingers. "Beralyn, you will tell 
him about the guns. Now."
"You don't understand, Lady Dhara," Karl said, 
his hand on the hilt of his sword. "The baroness and 
the boy—all three of them are here now, they're 
under my protection now. They're free. They're 
beholden to nobody, owned by nobody."
"Another bluff, Karl Cullinane?"
Tennetty was the first to move; she kicked a table 
toward the nearest guard, then leaped at Dhara, 
wrestling the elf woman from the couch, bringing 
one arm up behind Dhara's back in a hammer-lock, 
setting her blade against the elf woman's throat.
One of the soldiers drew his sword and lunged 
toward her from behind. Chak parried, then kicked 
at the elf's elbow; the blade fell from nerveless 
fingers. He stood, smiling at Dhara's guards.
In the distance, three gunshots rang out.
*Nobody's hurt, yet. I've sent for the dwarf 
instead of fetching him; Daven needed a bit of 
persuading to stay put. We compromised on a few 
warning shots.*
"Nobody's seriously hurt yet, Dhara. Those shots 
were just a warning."
Andy-Andy raised her hands and wet her lips. 
"These are the mother and brother of Karl's first 
apprentice, Lady Dhara. I wouldn't push the matter."
Even with Tennetty's blade at her throat, Dhara 
managed a smile. "Lord Khoral intended to give the 
three of them to you, as tokens of our sincerity. If 
you wish to free them, well, that is your concern. 
Not mine."
Gently, she tried to push Tennetty's blade away; 
at Karl's nod, Tennetty let her.
"We'll have to continue this discussion later," 
Karl said. "Baroness, Thomen, and-you, whoever 
you are, if you will follow me, we'll see to your 
needs."
The three didn't say anything; they just followed 
sullenly.



CHAPTER NINE
A Matter of Obligation
A sense of duty pursues us ever.... If we take to 
ourselves the wings of the morning, and dwell in the 
uttermost parts of the sea, duty performed or duty 
violated is still with us, for our happiness or our 
misery. If we say the darkness shall cover us, in the 
darkness as in the light our obligations are yet with 
us.
—Daniel Webster

"You expect me to be grateful, Karl Cullinane?" 
Beralyn sneered. "You, who might as well have 
murdered my son." She sat back in her chair. "Go 
ahead, kill me. That won't change anything."
The shack was small, but neat; originally, it had 
been Ahira's house, but now it was one of the three 
small log cabins that were used for receiving new 
arrivals, giving them a place to sleep and take their 
meals until they could adjust to Home life.
Karl bit his lip, opened his mouth, closed it. He 
turned to the boy.
"Thomen, I need to know something." Karl 
tapped at the two rifles on the table in front of them. 
"One of these is a Home rifle; the other is one we 
seized from slavers just about a tenday ago. The men 
who killed your guards and took you—which kind 
did they have?"
Karl was sure what the answer would be—but 
what if he was wrong? What if someone on his or 
Daven's or Aveneer's squad had taken up slaving?
Hesitantly, the boy started to point toward the 
slaver's gun, but his mother's voice brought him up 
short.
"Don't answer," the boy's mother snapped. "We 
will give your brother's killer no help."
*Anything I can do?*
No. Just go away. Karl couldn't even work up the 
strength to blame Beralyn. She had been against 
apprenticing Rahff to Karl from the first, knowing 
that it would endanger the boy.
It hadn't just endangered him. It had killed him.
There was a knock on the door, and Aeia walked 
in without waiting for an answer. "Greetings," she 
said, her face grave. "Andrea says that Rahff's 
mother is here. Are you her?"
Beralyn didn't answer.
"We didn't meet when I was in Bieme. But I did 
get to know Rahff well. You should know something 
about how your son died."
"I know how my son died."
Aeia shook her head. "You weren't there. I was. If 
it hadn't been for Rahff..." She let her voice trail off.
Thomen looked up. "What if it hadn't been for 
Rahff?"
Aeia smiled gently. "I would have been killed 
instead. The slavers had gone crazy; they were 
killing everyone they could reach. Rahff stood 
between me and one of them."
Karl pounded his fist against the table. If only I'd 
been a little smarter, a little faster. If he had been 
only a few seconds faster he would have gotten to 
the slaver before the bastard opened Rahff's belly. If 
only Karl had worked out that Seigar Wohtansen 
would treat his own people first, he would have been 
able to get the healing draughts to Rahff in time.
Aeia sat down next to Thomen. "Rahff hit me 
once, did you know that?"
"What for?"
She shrugged. "I doubted Karl—out loud. Rahff 
sort of elbowed me in the side. What did you tell 
him, Karl?"
"Aeia..." Karl shook his head. "I don't 
remember."
"I bet Rahff did. You said, 'A man whose 
profession is violence must not commit violence on 
his own family, or his friends. You and I are 
supposed to watch over Aeia, protect her, not bully 
her.'"
Just as I was supposed to protect Rahff. Teach 
him, protect him, not watch him die.
*It has been more than five years, Karl. Isn't it 
time you stopped flogging yourself over Rahff?*
"Don't you ask me that." Karl jumped to his feet. 
"Ask her, dammit, ask Beralyn. Tell her that it's 
okay now."
He pounded his clenched fists in front of his face. 
"There hasn't been a day gone by when I haven't 
remembered. He trusted me. The boy practically 
worshipped me." He turned to Beralyn, trying to 
think of the words that would soften her stony 
expression. "Baroness..." But there weren't any 
words.
It was too much; Karl pushed away from the table 
and walked out into the courtyard. He leaned against 
the wall of the old smithy.
High above, Ellegon's dark form passed across 
the stars. *Anything I can do?*
"No. Just leave me alone." Karl buried his face in 
his hands. "I've just got to be alone for a while."

Time lost its meaning. He never knew how long 
he stood there.
A finger tapped against his shoulder. He turned to 
see Beralyn standing next to him, her face wet. "You 
loved him, too, didn't you?"
Karl didn't answer.
"I've spent years hating you, you know. Ever 
since a trader brought us your letter, telling us that 
he was dead."
"I... understand."
"I thank you for the understanding. What do we 
do now, Karl Cullinane? Do we go on hating each 
other?"
"I don't hate you, Baroness. You've never given 
me any reason to hate you."
"But you don't like me much, either. You feel that 
I should be grateful because you freed Thomen, 
Rhuss, and me."
"Just tell me what you want, Lady. Don't play 
games with me."
She nodded slowly. "My husband sent Thomen 
and me away, once the Holts started using these 
guns and the tide of the war turned against us. He 
thought we would be safe. But it seems that guns are 
flowing out of Enkiar these days—flowing toward 
Holtun."
Enkiar, again. That was where the slaver caravan 
had been heading. That was where Ahrmin had hired 
the assassins. What did it all mean?
Well, he'd find out soon enough.
"Aeia told me that you're going to Enkiar. She 
didn't say where you would be going after that."
He shrugged. "I guess that depends on what 
happens there. Maybe back here, maybe on another 
raid." And maybe to the source of the slavers' guns. 
Not only was there a score to be settled there, but 
even light trading in slaver guns and powder had to 
be stopped.
"You owe me, Karl Cullinane. You owe me for 
my son. I wish to collect on that debt."
He looked her full in the face. "How?"
"You know my husband. Zherr isn't going to 
survive this war. I'm likely never to see him again. 
Unless..."
"Unless what?" Dammit, couldn't anyone speak 
plainly?
"Unless you take me back to Bieme. I want to go 
home, Karl Cullinane. And I want your word." She 
gripped his hand. "I want your word that if it's 
humanly possible, you'll take me home, after Enkiar. 
That's little enough payment for my son's life."
"Baroness—"
"Isn't it?"
"Yes, but—"
"Do I have your word? This... word of Karl 
Cullinane that you prize so much?"
"You have it."
"There is one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Thomen. He is to stay here, to be sent with 
another party. I won't have him around you."


CHAPTER TEN
Practice Session
Even if you persuade me, you won't persuade me.
—Aristophanes

Karl gobbled down the scrambled eggs, then took a 
last bite of the half-eaten ham steak before pushing 
his chair away from the table.
"And just where do you think you're taking your 
brainless body off to, Karl Cullinane?" U'len asked, 
her fists on her more than ample hips.
Suddenly he felt about eight years old, and was 
surprised to find that he liked the feeling.
"Gotta rush, U'len. I've got a workout with 
Tennetty and a couple of Daven's men, and then I've 
got to get ready for the town meeting."
"First things first. Eat."
"No—"
"Yes." Andy-Andy shook her head. "U'len's right. 
Sit down and finish your breakfast."
Jason hid a broad smile behind his tiny hand. 
"Daddy's in trouble," he announced in a stage 
whisper, addressing nobody in particular.
"Damn straight," Aeia said, the English words 
still incongruous coming from her. "He acts as if he's 
in charge here or something."
He glared at her.
"Siddown, hero," Andy-Andy said. "Out there 
you may be the legendary Karl Cullinane, but in 
here you're an all too often absent husband and 
father who thinks he can wolf down his food and 
run."
Relay, please: You didn 't think I was so damn 
absent last night.
There was no answer: He snorted. Question: Why 
is a dragon like a cop? Answer: You never can find 
one when you need one.
"Give me a break, please." Keep it light, he 
thought. There were too few opportunities to have an 
argument that could be treated lightly, where 
winning or losing didn't really matter; he decided to 
enjoy this one. "I've got things to do."
"Exactly right. And the first heroic thing you're 
going to do today is to finish your ham. All of it."
"Yeah," Jason piped in. "Children of Salket are 
starving, and you wanna throw away good food?" he 
went on, in a fine imitation of his mother's voice 
when she got angry.
"Name two."
"Karl—"
"I'm eating, I'm eating." He pushed his chair back 
to the table. Somehow, it seemed that the remaining 
ham had grown larger in the past seconds.

Karl's workouts tended to draw crowds. Even on 
a morning when most people were doing their best 
to finish whatever they were working on so that they 
would be free for the late-afternoon town meeting, 
more than fifty had gathered around the corral to 
watch.
Pendrill and the stableboy chased the three horses 
out of the corral, while Wraveth and Taren cleared 
out the fresh dung, then stripped to the waist before 
donning padded shirts and trousers and slipping the 
wire-mesh masks over their heads.
Karl settled for just a mask. The practice swords' 
edges had been dulled, and the points had had steel 
balls welded to them; with the mask precluding the 
possibility of losing an eye, there was little chance 
of much more than a bruise or two, and Karl wasn't 
likely to get bruised. Besides, the padded practice 
garments tended to interfere with his freedom of 
movement. His overfilled belly was going to do 
enough of that; no need to aggravate the problem.
Tennetty was late. After a few minutes that Karl 
spent chatting with Wraveth and Taren, she rode up, 
then hurriedly slipped from Pirate's back, waving 
away Taren's offer of a mask and practice sword.
Her wrists were bandaged. Karl walked over to 
her.
"Problem?"
She shook her head. "You still want me in the 
Enkiar operation? I'll need some fresh scars on my 
wrist, and I'd rather get them from Thellaren's 
scalpels than by wearing cuffs a moment longer than 
I have to." She tapped at her patch, her lips pursed in 
irritation. "Thellaren's working on the glass eye, and 
I asked Chak to ride out and get Nehera started on 
trick chains—you happy?"
"It's necessary, Tennetty." But why the sudden 
change of mind? Karl shrugged mentally. It wasn't 
any of his business.
She broke into a smile. "I have a surprise for you. 
Remember Jilla and Danni?"
"Yes?"
"They want to join our team. Seems that they've 
decided to become warriors, get a bit of revenge."
Wonderful. Once Karl had let a woman join up 
just because she had a thing for seeing slavers' 
blood. That someone had been Tennetty; he had 
lucked out.
But he didn't want to push his luck. He'd been 
fortunate enough to find in Tennetty someone with a 
natural bent for combat, plus a personality skewed 
enough to be able to handle it. "How did you talk 
them out of it?"
"Well..."
"You did talk them out of it, didn't you?"
"No." She snorted. "They don't think it's all that 
hard." She set a hand on her hip and bent her other 
wrist. "'It looks soooo easy. You pull a trigger, slice 
with a sword—'"
"You're joking. Tell me you're joking."
"Nope. They'll be here in a while. I made them a 
deal: Whoever scores on you we'll sign up. Whoever 
you beat has to find herself a man and settle down—
and we get to pick the man."
"We?" He raised an eyebrow. "You got anyone in 
particular in mind?"
"Obvious: Chak for the blonde, Riccetti for the 
brunette. By the way, they're both good cooks, 
although I can't vouch for their... other talents. You 
might want to try them out—"
"Tennetty..."
"Think about it, Karl. Might give Chak something 
to come Home to, put a little weight on Lou, and 
maybe smiles on both of their faces."
That might not be a bad idea, provided Chak and 
Lou agreed to it. Not bad at all. As far as Karl could 
tell, none of the female apprentice Engineers were 
sleeping with Lou; Riccetti had always been shy 
around women. And while Karl trusted Chak with 
his life, discussing Chak's relationships with 
women—or, rather, the lack of them—wasn't 
something he was comfortable doing.
Karl raised an eyebrow. "They went for it?"
Tennetty nodded. "That they did. Remember, for 
most of their lives, they were owned by a 
Pandathaway inn. Their only real talents are over a 
stove and in a bed, unless you consider arranging 
flowers to be a major skill. I don't think that either of 
them would have a hard time getting Riccetti to 
agree. If you want, we could rig it so that Lou thinks 
it's his own idea. I don't vouch for Chak; he can be 
clever, in his own little way."
"That wasn't what I was asking. They really 
agreed to sparring with me?"
"Well, I had to throw in a few conditions for them 
to be willing to face the great Karl Cullinane."
"Such as?"
"First, they get to use real swords."
"Great. Thanks a lot." That was pushing things a 
bit far. Even an absolute tyro could get in a lucky 
slash. "I'd better send for some armor." Normally, 
Karl didn't like wearing a lot of armor; in combat, 
speed was more important, particularly if you had a 
bottle of healing draughts handy to take care of the 
occasional nick.
"Umm, that was the second condition. You don't 
get to wear armor. No mask. Nothing but your 
pants—"
"Thank heavens for small favors."
"Really?" Tennetty snickered. "I never noticed. 
The third handicap is that you use only a practice 
sword."
Karl snorted. "Anything else? Do I have to fight 
with one hand tied behind my back?"
Tennetty produced a leather thong. "Number 
four."

Look, Karl wanted to say, this isn't a pleasant 
business. Don't get into it if you don't have to.
But he didn't. It wouldn't have done any good. 
For some people, blood was a drug. Tennetty was 
that way; the killing never really bothered her.
Then again, how do I know that? Karl hid his 
own feelings as much as he could, even from Andy-
Andy.
There were things he had to do; horrible, awful 
things. The only justification was that not doing 
them was worse. Remonstrating with himself was a 
luxury for late at night; he couldn't spend precious 
moments in combat remembering that an enemy had 
once been a cute little baby, bouncing on a mother's 
knee.
But he didn't have to like it. He didn't have to 
force himself to feel the pleasure that Tennetty got 
from the killing, and that Jilla and Danni seemed to 
have learned at her hands.
He worked his left hand in the leather thongs that 
bound it behind his back. It wouldn't be hard to work 
it out of the thongs, but that would take time. And it 
would be seen as cheating.
Not that he had anything agaffist cheating, not if 
it made the difference between bleeding and not 
bleeding, but...
Damn. One of the watchers in the crowd was an 
unfamiliar elf, not a Home resident. One of Dhara's 
people, no doubt. Which upped the stakes: Karl 
wouldn't only have to win; he would have to win in 
such a way as to impress the elf. The Therranji had 
already been shocked by the scene Karl had pulled 
the day before; best to keep them impressed.
How the hell do I get myself into things like this?
*Do you really want an answer?* With a rustling 
of leathery wings, Ellegon landed next to the corral. 
*It's because you're egotistical, smug, stupid, 
foolish—*
Ellegon—
*—and those are your good points.*
"Thanks."
Jilla and Danni walked out through the gate from 
the Receiving complex, naked swords held clumsily 
in their hands, whispering conspiratorially to each 
other. Each wore a deeply cut halter and a sarong slit 
well up the thigh. Rather nice thighs, at that.
*Naughty, naughty. And if you're thinking that's 
accidental, guess again. Jilla decided that if you're 
watching other parts of their anatomy, you won't be 
concentrating on the hands with the swords. By the 
way, the halters are loosely tied; they'll slip off with 
just a bit of exertion. Sort of a second line of 
defense.*
Well, at least Andy-Andy isn't—
"Hey, hero," Andy-Andy said, tapping him on the 
shoulder. "What goes on here?"
"Great. Just great." He put his free hand on the 
corral railing and vaulted over, accepting a practice 
sword from Tennetty. "Let's get to it."

Naked blades didn't always make Karl nervous, 
but they did always make him serious. He eyed both 
of the women professionally as they circled him, 
waiting for him to make the first move.
If this had been for real, he would have tried for a 
quick injury to either—preferably a leg wound, 
some sort of disabler—and then taken out the other, 
finishing off the injured opponent at his leisure.
But that wouldn't work here. There was prestige 
at stake, as well as injury.
*Why you're worrying about prestige when you're 
facing two swords is something I fail to understand.*
He made a tentative lunge toward Danni, 
allowing her to retreat, the sword held awkwardly in 
front of her face. Because I can't afford to lose face 
before the town meeting.
*In either sense. Think about it. You're not all 
that pretty to begin with—*
Shh. He forced a casual smile to his face.
Mr. Katsuwahara had had it right, way back 
when.
The way to think of kumite, of practice, he had 
said, is to treat it as real, except for the last inch of 
your own blows. Block as though the punches really 
would crush your trachea, the kicks would truly 
rupture your diaphragm. Your strikes should be 
aimed just outside the kill points—the navel instead 
ofthe solar plexus, the upper thigh instead of the 
groin, the orbital ridge instead of the eye—and then 
focused just an inch away from the flesh.
That wouldn't quite do it here, but it was the right 
idea. Treat the swords as real—because they were, 
dammit—and then work out how to come up with an 
offense that wasn't really an offense.
Danni slashed at his leg; he parried easily, putting 
enough force into the move to make the steel sing.
He spun to block Jilla's stab at his left shoulder. 
Dammit, they had him between them, and both of 
them had moved in too close.
But why was that bad? In a fight, you wanted 
your opponents' blades to endanger each other; they 
had to avoid cutting into an ally's flesh, while any 
meat your sword met was an enemy's.
And what of someone who was foolish enough to 
move in too close? Why wasn't that a problem? That 
was supposed to be an opportunity to bring feet and 
elbows into play.
Because this isn't a real fight, dammit. It isn't 
supposed to be.
Danni poked her sword at his shoulder—
Where thought would have failed him, reflex took 
over.
He didn't stop to think that ducking aside brought 
Danni's sword into line with Jilla's face; there just 
wasn't time to think about it.
It wasn't thought that opened his right hand, 
letting the practice sword drop, while his left arm 
clenched, snapping the leather thongs that bound it.
And it wasn't thought that brought his two palms 
together, clapping his hands against the flat of 
Danni's blade, stopping it a scant half-inch from 
Jilla's left eye.
"No."Danni gasped. "I almost—"
"Right." He twisted the sword from Danni's hand, 
then turned and snatched Jilla's blade from her 
nerveless fingers.
Jilla rubbed at her left eye, although it hadn't been 
touched. Her breath came in short gasps; her face 
was ashen.
Karl forced a chuckle. "You've just had a taste of 
what it's really like. Just a little taste, mind." He 
tossed one of the swords end over end into the air, 
letting the hilt thunk into his palm. "You know what 
we really do? We're merchants, in the business of 
selling pieces of ourselves. Tennetty's eye, Chak's 
toes—take a look at Slovotsky's scars sometimes, or 
Daven's.
"Look at my chest," he said. "I picked up this scar 
outside of Lundescarne. A slaver had a chance to 
whittle on me with a broken sword while I was busy 
choking the life out of him. And then there's—" He 
stopped himself. "And we're the lucky ones."
Anger welled up and choked him. "Idiots. You 
don't have to see a friend's intestines spread across 
the grass because he wasn't quick enough with his 
sword. You can let yourselves sleep soundly at 
night, because a little sound or a light touch doesn't 
have to mean anything to you. You don't have to 
jump through a window and find three people dead, 
their throats cut because someone was after your 
blood and they happened to be in the way.
"And you don't have to keep going, death after 
death, killing after killing, year after year.
"But you want in on it?" He offered them each a 
sword, hilt first. "Congratulations. You've got it."
Eyeing the sword with horror, Danni staggered 
away.
"Yes, Karl Cullinane." Jilla gripped the other one 
tightly. "I want in. I understand what you're saying; 
I've spent the past tenday listening to Tennetty. And 
I know I'll need training, but—"
"You want in." He shrugged. "Tennetty, she's in 
your charge. You get to train her. I want you to start 
by running her until she drops." He turned and 
walked away.


CHAPTER ELEVEN
Town Meeting
The deadliest enemies of nations are not their 
foreign foes; they always dwell within their borders. 
And from these internal enemies civilization is 
always in need of being saved. The nation blessed 
above all nations is she in whom the civic genius of 
the people does the saving day by day, by acts 
without external picturesqueness; by speaking, 
writing, voting reasonably; by smiting corruption 
swiftly, by good temper between parties; by the 
people knowing true men when they see them, and 
preferring them as leaders to rabid partisans or 
empty quacks.
—William James

Ahira snickered. "Ever wish you hadn't freed Chton? 
Just sort of let him slide by that time?"
"No." Karl pursed his lips. "Just 'cause he has 
clay feet like everybody else?" Including me, for that 
matter.
He bit into his sandwich, refusing the offer of a 
wineskin from a passing carouser.
Town meetings were half a political event, half a 
valley-wide party. Since everyone in the valley took 
at least the afternoon off from work, the meetings 
would have been called far more often if they didn't 
require a petition by twenty-five percent of the 
voters.
Behind the speaking platform and its chest-high 
ballot box, six whole sheep were slowly turning over 
cooking fires. A team of volunteer cooks took turns 
cranking the spits and basting the carcasses with 
wine and oil, slicing off sizzling pieces of meat, 
wrapping them in fresh-baked flatbread, handing out 
the sandwiches as they were ready.
Someone had broached the whiskey bottles and 
beer barrels early. Karl noted with satisfaction that 
none of the Engineers or the warriors joined in the 
throng milling around the booze, filling their mugs 
with the trickling liquid fire.
Good. Let the Joiners get drunk. Anyone who 
was passed out couldn't vote.
Like most things democratic, Home town 
meetings were a zoo. There were many things to be 
said in favor of democracy, but neatness wasn't one 
of them. With the exception of the absent warriors 
and a few outlying landowners who were too busy 
with their own fields, all of the voters and most of 
the other citizens had elected to attend.
He turned back to the dwarf. "Any landowners 
playing games?" Karl patted at the large leather 
pouch dangling from the right side of his belt. Still 
there; good.
Ahira shook his head. "Not that I can tell. I'll 
keep my ear to the ground for complaints, though—
assuming I'm still Mayor by nightfall."
The law involving town meetings was explicit: 
Nobody was ever to be pressured not to attend, 
under penalty of fine, confiscation of property, or 
banishment, at the pleasure of the Mayor, depending 
on the nature of the pressure.
That applied to nonvoting citizens as well as 
voters; it was important that nonvoter citizens get a 
taste of democracy. Get someone hooked on 
deciding his or her own fate, and the security of 
cropping quickly lost its appeal. The trouble with 
sharecropping back on the Other Side hadn't been 
the basic idea of trading labor on someone else's 
fields for a portion of the harvest and a place to live; 
the flaw was that it could easily become a form of 
debt slavery.
In the short run, the cure for that was easy: Just 
make sure that there were more proven fields than 
there was labor to farm them. Let the landowners bid 
for labor, rather than letting laborers bid against each 
other.
"Should be straightforward, assuming things go 
right." Ahira nibbled at his sandwich. "Although 
we're likely to run into at least one challenge."
"Oh?"
"See that kid over by the barbecue?"
Karl followed Ahira's pointing finger. The subject 
was a boy of about twelve, dressed in dirt and rags. 
He was busily feeding himself, wolfing down 
sandwich after sandwich.
"New arrival? What the hell is going on with 
supply?"
"Not new; he's a voter, believe it or not. He's been 
here for the last quarter. Aveneer brought him in 
while you were gone. Umm, Peters? No, Petros—
Petros is his name. Stubborn kid. He didn't want to 
crop and build up his grubstake, so he managed to 
sweet-talk Stanish out of the use of some rusty old 
tools, then proved a field halfway up the mountain, 
just above and beyond Engineer Territory. It's barely 
inside the wards. I don't know what he's been living 
on, or how he managed to clear the ground without 
the woodknife, but he did. Then—
"Then, he trailed a flatbed carrying seed corn out 
to your fields, and picked up the spillings from the 
road—at least, that's what he says. More likely, he 
stole a few pounds of seed, but just try to prove it."
"I don't think so." The theft of a few pounds of 
seed didn't bother Karl. But a twelve-year-old child 
looking like a famine victim did. "He's working a 
full-sized field all by himself?"
"Yup. Scraggliest-looking field I've ever seen; I 
doubt that there's as much as one cornstalk per 
square meter. The rest is weeds. He sleeps under a 
brush lean-to. Last time I was inspecting, I saw what 
he had, and it's not much: crummy handmade bow 
and arrows, fire-hardened spear—probably lives off 
weeds and rabbit. There's at least one mountain lion 
working that area; likely he'll wake up in its belly 
some morning. Pitiful."
"Damn." Karl shook his head. "You really think 
anyone's going to challenge his vote?"
Ahira nodded. "He says he's fifteen, but nobody 
believes it. I think he should be in school, but you 
want to argue it with him?"
"Not at all. You'll have to excuse me; this is 
someone I've got to meet. Go do some politicking."
Karl worked his way through the crowd around 
the barbecue until he was next to the boy. It wasn't 
much of a problem; nobody wanted to be downwind 
of Petros.
"Greetings," he said.
The boy's eyes widened. "Are you who I think 
you are?"
Karl stuck out a hand. "Karl Cullinane."
Petros' eyes shot from side to side.
"T'rar ammalli." Karl smiled. "I just want to 
shake your hand; no harm."
The boy extended his own hand. Karl took it 
briefly, then released it, forcing himself not to wipe 
his own hand on his tunic. "I have a proposition for 
you."
Petros shook his head. "I will not crop for 
anyone. My field is mine, and so is my vote. I don't 
need help."
Then why do you look more like a Biafran refugee 
than anything else, kid? And has anybody ever told 
you what a bath is? But Karl didn't say that. A 
twelve-year-old former slave with this kind of pride, 
this kind of stubbornness, was a treasure. The trick 
was to make sure that this particular treasure 
survived, its pride intact. "Maybe not, but I could 
use yours—and not with cropping, either. You know 
Nehera?"
"The smith? Of course. What of it?"
"Take a walk with me," Karl said, taking a couple 
of sandwiches, then urging the boy away from the 
rest of the crowd.
Petros shrugged and followed him.
"I have a problem with Nehera," Karl said, 
handing the boy a sandwich and taking a bite out of 
the other one. "He hasn't gotten the idea that he's 
free. Thinks he has to belong to someone, and he 
figures that someone is me."
"Poor you."
Karl let a bit of steel creep into his voice. "You 
think I own people, boy? Ever?"
"Well, no, I've heard about you."
"Better, then. As I was saying, I can't break him 
of the notion."
"Damn dwarves are supposed to make lousy 
slaves. That's what my mas—what someone who 
used to own me said."
Karl shrugged. "That's the theory. His spirit's 
broken, though. And I don't know how to go about 
fixing it. That's your job, if you want it."
"Broke spirit?" Petros snorted. "How am I 
supposed to fix that?"
"If I knew how, I wouldn't need you—that's your 
problem. I want you to play apprentice one day out 
of three. I'll clear it with the Engineers. While he's 
busy teaching you about smithing, I want you to 
teach him how to be free. Interested?"
"What's the pay?"
"Not much. You get to work on your own tools, 
and while you're playing apprentice, you eat out of 
Nehera's pot. Might even pick up a few skills while 
you're at it."
Petros shook his head. "My fields take too much 
time—"
"Nonsense. All you're doing between now and 
harvest is a bit of weeding. If you didn't have to 
spend so much time gathering food, you'd have 
plenty of spare time on your hands."
The boy considered it. "Maybe. That your best 
offer?"
"What else do you want?"
"Next planting, I want the use of a horse and 
plow."
Was that an honest counteroffer, or was the boy 
pushing, testing him?
Karl shook his head. "Just the horse. I've got 
plenty of horses. You'll have to rent a plow 
yourself."
"Deal." The boy stuck out his hand. "Shakeonit."
"One more thing."
"Well?" Petros eyed him suspiciously.
"You smell like an outhouse." Karl jerked his 
thumb toward the lake. "Take a bath. Now. You can 
pick up a cake of soap at the schoolhouse. Tell Aeia 
I said so."
"Done. But I'll be back in time to vote. Nobody 
taking my vote from me."
The boy walked off toward the lake, trying his 
best to hold back a smile.
Karl didn't bother trying; he just turned his head 
away. Go ahead, Petros, think of me as a sucker.
Standing on the speaking platform, Ahira 
pounded his fist against the metal gong. "Your 
attention please," he called out, his voice even 
louder than the gong. "The twenty-third Home town 
meeting is hereby called to order. Get the food off 
the fire and plug the kegs," he called out to the 
cooks. "There is a decision to be made."

"...and the offer is a good one," Chton said, for 
the eighteenth time. Karl was sure it was eighteen. 
As he lay back on the grass, propped up on his 
elbow next to Andy-Andy, he hadn't had anything 
better to do than count.
Oh. Before I forget. Ahira says that there's a 
mountain lion around Petros' farm—
*Such as it is.*
Right. It would be kind of convenient if that lion 
got itself eaten.
*Consider it munched.*
"...what are we here? Just a few thousand, barely 
eking out a living from the soil and what we have to 
trade our blood and dying for."
That did it. Enough of that crap. Point of fact, 
please.
*Who? Moi?*
Chak, please. And cut out the Miss Piggy 
imitation; you don't have the right intonation down.
*Then you don't remember it clearly; I stole it 
from Andy-Andy's head, and she's got a better aural 
memory than you.*
"Point of fact," Chak said, leaping to his feet.
Chton tried to go on, but Ahira interrupted him. 
"Point of fact has been called. Your claim?"
"I don't remember Chton shedding any blood. I 
don't know him all that well, but I thought he was 
just a farmer."
Correct that, and quick.
Chak's eyes momentarily glazed over. "Pardon 
me, I didn't mean to say something bad about 
farmers. What I was objecting to was Chton's taking 
credit for the blood that the warriors and the 
Engineers shed—not him."
Ahira nodded judiciously. "You may continue, 
Chton, but omit taking credit for prices you haven't 
paid."
For a moment, Karl thought that Chton was going 
to burst a blood vessel. "Haven't paid? How about 
Werthan, and his woman and child? Were they not 
farmers? Is a farmer's blood any less red than a 
warrior's? Would they not be alive today instead of 
lying in cold graves if we were under the protection 
of Lord Khoral?"
Karl kept his face blank, but he couldn't help how 
his fists clenched. A child, body sprawled on a rough 
wood floor, her life-blood a pool that would stain 
forever...
A murmur ran through the crowd.
*You'd better answer that, Karl. If that wasn't 
addressed to you, I don't know what is.*
No. There wasn't an answer; there wasn't an 
excuse. Ihryk rose to his feet. "I'll answer him, Mr. 
Mayor."
"You?" Chton sneered. "One of Karl Cullinane's 
hirelings?"
"I don't remember that sneer in your voice when 
Karl pulled you and me out of the slave wagon, 
Chton. I don't even remember you at Werthan's 
houseraising." Ihryk raised his fist. "But I'll tell you 
this—Werthan and Anna would have spent their 
lives with collars around their necks if it weren't for 
the likes of Karl Cullinane. And so would you and 
I."
"Yes," Chton shot back, "the noble Karl 
Cullinane, the great man. Who just happens to be 
the richest man in the valley. If we join with 
Therranj, we'll all be as rich as he is, have as many 
servants as he does. Is that what bothers you, Karl 
Cullinane? Is that why you oppose Lord Khoral's 
offer?"
*Karl, I think it's about time. If he calls for the 
vote now—*
I know. Karl rose to his feet. "Point of personal 
privilege, Mr. Mayor."
Ahira nodded. "You may address the point."
Karl walked to the platform, forcing himself to 
move slowly, knowing that a hurried step might 
make it look as though Chton's taunts had scored.
He stepped up onto the rough wood and turned to 
face the crowd.
"About damn time, Karl," Ahira whispered. "This 
better be good."
"It will be." He raised his voice. "Chton has made 
a point, and a good one. I... guess I should be 
ashamed. Yes, of course, the reason that I don't want 
Home to become part of Therranj is that I'm afraid 
for my status. It's only logical, isn't it? If everyone is 
better off, then it only follows that I would be worse 
off...."
He wrinkled his brow. "Wait. That doesn't make 
sense. Wouldn't I be better off, as well?" He nodded. 
"I know what Chton means, though." He picked a 
familiar face out of the crowd. "Harwen, I was just 
talking about it to you the other day, remember? I 
was complaining about your being out riding. I 
figured I'd be more comfortable riding both Carrot 
and your horse," he said, taking an absurdly wide 
stance.
A quiet chuckle ran through the crowd.
"And Ternius, you noticed me over by the 
cooking fire? I was glaring at everyone who was 
eating. After all, I can eat more than will fill my 
belly, can't I?" He glanced at the remaining roasts 
near the fire. "Well, I'll try, but I don't think I'd enjoy 
it.
"You know something, Chton? I just can't do it. I 
just can't ride more than one horse at a time, or sleep 
in more than one bed at once, or eat more than my 
belly will hold. Or lie with more than one woman at 
a time—"
Now.
"You had damn well better not, Karl Cullinane." 
Andy-Andy leaped to her feet. "Point of 
information, Mr. Mayor."
"Recognized. What information do you want?"
"None. It's information I'd better give. You cheat 
on me, Karl Cullinane, and you'll be missing 
something I have reason to know you're fond of." 
She produced a knife from the folds of her robes and 
considered the edge.
The quiet chuckle became a full-throated laugh.
*Now that you've got them laughing, what are 
you going to do?*
That was just the warm-up. Watch me.
Karl raised his hands in mock surrender. "You 
see my point, Chton."
"Listen—"
"You've had your say; I'll have mine now." He 
hitched at the leather pouch at his waist. "Khoral 
doesn't want much from us, and that's a fact. All he 
wants is our fealty, and he'll give us much in return." 
Karl untied the pouch from his belt and held it in 
both hands. "Very much. He'll make me a baron, and 
give me the whole valley as my barony. Maybe, if I 
turn it down—and make no mistake, I would turn it 
down—he'll give it to Chton.
"He'll send us serfs. All of you who have farms 
will have people around who will have to work your 
fields for you, or starve. Doesn't that sound good? 
Doesn't that sound familiar? Khoral will divide up 
the land for us, and then we can make them farm it. 
We won't even have to clap collars around their 
necks—they'll either work for us or starve.
"And what does he want for this? Stand up, Lady 
Dhara, and tell us what he wants for this."
She stood, but Karl didn't give her a chance to 
answer. "All he wants is our fealty; each and every 
one of us. That's all. He will give us gold, he says, 
and promise that our taxes will be low. All he wants 
is our fealty. All he wants is for us to say that he, 
Lord Khoral, is better able to decide how we should 
live than we are. You like that idea, Tivar?" He 
beckoned to a farmer who he knew was undecided. 
"You like the idea of turning your destiny over to 
that elf?"
"N-no."
"Wait!" Chton spun on Karl. "What's the 
difference between having Khoral rule and letting 
you and Ahira run the valley as though it were your 
fief? Tell me that."
Karl walked to the ballot box and slammed his 
hand down on it. "This is the difference, fool. The 
difference is choice. Khoral wants you to trade this 
in—you know what he'll give you instead of this?"
"Yes, gold—"
*Now.*
Don't teach your grandfather— "Gold. That's 
what it comes down to, isn't it, Chton? You and the 
rest of your Joiners want gold, and Khoral offers 
gold." Karl dug his hand into his pouch. "I have 
some of that gold right here." He pulled his hand 
out.
The buttery golden collar shone in the bright 
daylight. "Is this what you want clamped around 
your neck?"
"No," several voices cried out, most of them 
Engineers.
"I can't hear you. Do you want this?" I
"No!" The voices were stronger, although the 
warrior and Engineer factions were still the most 
vocal.
"Now," Karl said, deliberately lowering his voice, 
forcing them all to listen carefully, "you have a 
choice. You can vote your confidence in the Mayor, 
or you can throw him out. Even if Ahira stays in as 
Mayor, you can still change your minds later. But 
this?" He raised the golden collar over his head. 
"Once you clamp this around your throat, do you 
think you can decide to take it off later? What if it 
doesn't fit you, Chton?" He tossed the collar to the 
platform. "What if it chokes you?"
"Wait, that's not fair—"
"Fair? I'll show you fair. Lady Dhara—catch 
this." He kicked the collar at Dhara; she caught it 
automatically, then dropped it as though it were on 
fire. "You can take that back to Lord Khoral and tell 
him that Home might make a good ally for Therranj, 
but if he tries to swallow us, he'll choke."
He strode to the ballot box and stopped in front of 
the two barrels next to it. "You all can vote in 
privacy, if you wish," he said, selecting a single 
stone from the barrel of white ones, "but here's how 
I vote; I don't mind any of you seeing." He held it up 
for all to see. "I vote my confidence in Ahira—and 
for independence." He slammed the stone down into 
the ballot box, then walked off the platform.
*Daven, Andy-Andy, Tennetty, and half a dozen 
others want to know if they're supposed to join you.*
No, not yet. Let someone else go first.
Petros vaulted to the platform. "I vote with Karl 
Cullinane," he said, taking up a white stone. 
Somewhere or other, the boy had managed to 
procure a knife; now he brandished it. "Does 
anybody value his life little enough to try stopping 
me?" He dropped the white stone in the ballot box, 
then leaped from the platform, standing beside Karl.
Before Chton had his mouth half open, Ranella, 
the apprentice Engineer, had jumped to her feet. 
"The Engineers stand with Ahira," she said. "All of 
us."
"I do, too," Ternius said. "And I don't see any 
need to wait."
"And I—"
"I will—"
The trickle became a torrent, and then a flood.

"Transcending the political, eh, Karl?" Ahira 
smiled up at him as they walked down the road in 
the starlight. "Sounded to me like you were being 
very political, in your own way. Including lying."
"Lying? Me?" Karl stooped to pick a pebble from 
the road, then threw it off into the night.
"That golden collar was inspired."
Karl breathed on his fingernails and buffed them 
against his chest. "Thank you. I thought it made a 
nice metaphor. Didn't you?"
"Right. But I don't recall that as being one of 
Khoral's gifts."
"I never said it was, did I?"
"No. You didn't." Ahira was silent for a few 
minutes as they walked along the road toward the 
house that the dwarf shared with Walter and his 
family. "We make a good team, you and I. I can 
handle the day-to-day stuff, but I can't... inspire 
people, not the way you do." He shrugged. "Just not 
in me."
"Don't put yourself down."
"I'm not. It's just that if you hadn't been here, we 
might have lost. You might have found yourself 
faced with Chton as Mayor the next time you came 
Home."
"Stop talking around whatever it is that you want 
to talk about, Ahira. Just say it."
"You've got to settle down, Karl. Spend more 
time here, not on the road. If you'd been here, you 
might have been able to shame Chton into not 
pushing for a town meeting in the first place."
"Can't. Too much work to do. There's the Enkiar 
operation coming up, and I've promised to take 
Beralyn home."
The dwarf nodded grimly. "It might be best, in 
the long run. I've been talking to Gwellin; he's 
always thinking about going back to Endell."
"I knew that—but why you?"
"You notice a lot of dwarf women around?"
Karl nodded. "Well, it was always understood 
Gwellin and his people are only temporarily with us. 
But their word is as good as—"
"The word of Karl Cullinane." Ahira chuckled. 
"Quite right; no word will be said about guns. But, 
Karl..."
"Well?"
"Well, if they ever throw me out of office, I'm 
thinking that it might be a good idea if I went with 
him. I'm still not sure what I am, Karl. I've spent 
seven years now as a cross between a human and a 
dwarf, and I'm beginning to wonder..."
Karl stopped. "Ahira. Look me in the face. You 
wanted to lose today, didn't you?" *
The dwarf didn't answer.
"Didn't you?"
"Karl, I... just don't know." Ahira pounded his fist 
against the flat of his hand. "I really don't know, not 
anymore. It's different for me than it is for you. You 
subordinated Barak to your own needs years ago. 
I'm... still betwixt and between. And I know that I 
owe my life to Walter, and Riccetti, and Andy—and 
most particularly to you, but..." He looked up. 
"Dammit, Karl, why can't things be clearer to me? 
You always seem to know what you're doing."
"Not you. Please." Karl threw up his hands. 
"Don't you start to buy into the legend. I'm still me, 
Ahira, just plain old Karl Cullinane who staggers 
through life, improvising as he goes." And some of 
those improvisations have cost lives, Jimmy. "I just 
do the best I can." He clapped a hand to Ahira's 
shoulder. "But once I finish with this Enkiar 
operation and get Beralyn back to Bieme, what say I 
hang around Home for a while? Would that do for 
the time being?"
"Let's try it." The dwarf nodded. "I think so. It 
wouldn't be all bad, you know. You could teach 
some school, spend more time with your wife and 
son."
"Okay. Just give me time, Ahira. It'll take a while 
to finish up what I've started. One favor, though."
"Yes?"
"When it's just the two of us alone, could I call 
you James Michael? It'd be sort of a taste of home."
"And it might remind me who I really am 
supposed to be, eh?"
"No. That you've got to decide for yourself."
They walked along in silence for a long time. In 
front of them, the lamp still burned on the porch. 
The dwarf climbed the steps and turned to him. 
"You do what you have to, Karl. And I'll hold out 
here just as long as I can. Who knows? This whole 
Joiner nonsense may subside."
But your own problem won't. "Maybe it will."
"About that favor..."
"Yes?"
"I think you'd better call me Ahira. It's who I am, 
after all. Goodnight."



CHAPTER TWELVE
Parting
The voice of the turtledove speaks out. It says: Day 
breaks, which way are you going? Lay off, little 
bird, must you scold me so?
—Love Songs of the New Kingdom

Karl checked the third packhorse's cinch for the 
twentieth time as he eyed the house in the predawn 
light, wondering if he'd ever see it again. I've always 
got to make my goodbyes count, he thought. They 
may end up being all too real.
*You're stalling. Which is probably the most 
sensible thing you've ever done. You should let 
me—*
No. Case closed.
Beralyn and Tennetty sat astride their horses, 
waiting with patently false patience. Chak, sitting 
comfortably in the saddle on his gray gelding, was 
more phlegmatic. It didn't matter to him whether 
they left now or in a few minutes.
Karl shook his head. I'd better go.
Andy-Andy stood on the porch, watching him 
silently. There was nothing more to say; all of it had 
been said last night.
I'll miss you terribly, he mouthed. As always.
One more thing to do. He walked up the steps and 
into the foyer, then climbed the stairs to Jason's 
room.
Mikyn and Jason lay sleeping under their 
blankets.
Karl knelt on the floor and gently kissed Jason on 
the forehead. No need to wake him. Watch over him, 
will you? He tore himself away from the room, and 
the boy.
*As always, Karl.*
U'len caught up with him on the steps. "Look, 
you—be careful," she said, her voice a harsh 
whisper. "I have a bad feeling about this." She shook 
her head, her hands behind her back.
"You always have a bad feeling."
She snorted. "True enough. Here," she said, 
producing a muslin sack, then turning away. "For the 
road."
"But we've got plenty of food—" He stopped 
himself. "Thank you, U'len," he said. "See you 
soon."
She nodded gravely. "Maybe. Maybe this time. 
But one time you won't come back, Karl Cullinane. 
Get your fool ass killed, you will, sooner or later."
"Maybe." He forced a smile. "How about double 
or nothing on your salary? If I'm not back in, say, 
two hundred days, you get double your pay for that 
time—otherwise, you work for free for however 
long I'm out."
"I don't bet against you." She cocked her head to 
one side. "Although, if you'd care to give me odds?" 
She put her hands on his shoulder and turned him 
about, then pushed him toward the door. "If you're 
going, get out of here."
Andy-Andy was still waiting on the porch. "I still 
think you should let Ellegon fly you."
He shook his head. "I don't want him away from 
Home. Not until Gwellin and the rest are back on 
guard. They should be back in a couple of weeks at 
the outside; then he can go back to resupplying runs. 
But until then, I'd just as soon not have to worry 
about whether or not you're safe when I go to sleep 
at night."
"And I'm not supposed to—" She stopped and 
shook her head in apology. Arguing over a settled 
issue wasn't a luxury that Andy allowed herself. 
"Did you mean what you told Ahira the other night? 
About spending some more time around here, after 
this one?"
He nodded. "I think a couple of years of 
semiretirement would do me a bit of good—let Chak 
run the team for a while. Besides, if the guild keeps 
raiding into Therranj, I might just take a small group 
out for a tenday every now and then, keep them on 
their toes."
The whole world didn't rest on Karl's shoulders, 
not anymore.
With Aveneer's and Daven's teams working, with 
rumors of others attacking and robbing slavers, the 
guild was on the run.
Even if he knew that he couldn't possibly live to 
see the end of the work, it was fairly begun. A 
phrase from Edmund Burke popped into his mind: 
"Slavery they can have everywhere. It is a weed that 
grows in every soil."
Not any soil around me, Eddie. Just think of me 
as a weedkiller.
No. Lou Riccetti was the weedkiller, although 
eventually, the secret of gunpowder would get out. 
And that might not be a bad thing. Like them or not, 
guns were a leveling phenomenon, a democratizing 
one, in the long run. "All men are created equal," 
people would say. "Lou Riccetti made them that 
way."
He hitched at his swordbelt, then threw his arms 
around her, burying his face in her hair. "Be well," 
he whispered.
"You'd damn well better take care of yourself, 
hero." She pressed her lips to his and kissed him 
thoroughly.
He released her and walked down the steps, then 
over to the roan he had picked for the trip. Carrot 
was getting a bit too old to be taken into battle; this 
mare would have to serve until he was able to 
reclaim Stick from Slovotsky.
He levered himself into the saddle.
Tennetty tossed him a square of cloth. "Wipe 
your eyes, Karl."
He tossed it back. "Shut up. Let's get out of here."


PART THREE
Enkiar
 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
To Enkiar
Cease to ask what the morrow will bring forth, and 
set down as gain each day that Fortune grants.
—Quintus Horatius Flaccus

The watchman picked them up less than a mile 
outside of camp.
"Two all-beef patties," a harsh voice whispered 
from somewhere in the trees, "special sauce, pickles, 
cheese..."
The voice fell silent.
"...lettuce, onions on a sesame-seed bun," Karl 
called back, deciding that he was going to have to 
have a serious talk with Walter about the passwords 
Slovotsky was selecting.
It was a sound idea, in principle, and Karl had 
approved of it when Walter had suggested it several 
years before: The password phrases were culled out 
of Other Side popular culture, guaranteeing that 
Karl, Walter, or Ahira could answer a challenge 
without having been given the response ahead of 
time.
But this was just too much. It was too damn 
much. Karl had been dreaming of Big Macs and 
similar delicacies for years.
His mouth watering, he dropped his reins and 
turned to Beralyn. "Baroness, raise your hands."
"What?"
"There is someone pointing a gun at you who 
doesn't know you, and doesn't know that you don't 
have a pistol trained on my back. He will know it if 
you get your hands high in the air. Now."
Slowly, she complied.
Piell stepped out onto the road, his slaver 
smoothbore carefully just out of line with the 
baroness' chest. "Greetings, Karl." The weapon 
didn't waver. "I don't recognize your... companion."
"Ta havath, Piell. Beralyn, Baroness Furnael, I'd 
like to introduce Piell ip Yratha."
"May I lower my hands now?"
"Certainly," Tennetty said. "If you really want a 
hole through your chest. Piell isn't going to take 
either Karl's or my word that you're harmless, not 
until he's sure that we're not under some sort of 
threat. You still could have a pistol up your sleeve; if 
you were fast enough, you'd be able to get it out 
before we could do anything about it. We've got to 
prove that you don't."
Chak snorted. "You could have warned her before 
you said 'certainly,' instead of after."
"It's more fun my way."
"Shut up, both of you." Karl slowly edged his 
horse over to the baroness, drew his saber, and held 
the point a scant few inches from her throat. 
"Satisfied, Piell?" He resheathed his sword.
The elf lowered his rifle. "Yes." He turned and 
gestured to someone hidden in the woods; leaves 
rustled momentarily.
Piell bowed deeply as he turned back. "Please 
lower your arms and accept my apologies, 
Baroness—Furnael?" He raised an eyebrow. 
"Rahffs mother?"
"Right." Karl nodded. "Now, I don't want to get 
shot on the way in. How much of a lead should we 
give your second?"
"He is quick on his feet, Karl Cullinane. I suggest 
you take a few moments to water your horses, then 
ride directly in." Piell eyed the late-afternoon sun. 
"We are camped in a clearing—you'll be met. I'd 
better move up and find another watch station. If 
you'll excuse me?" He bowed deeply toward 
Beralyn, then vanished into the bushes.
Karl dismounted, took a waterbag and a wooden 
bowl down from a packhorse's bags, and began to 
water the horses. "Sorry about the discourtesy," he 
said. "But it can save a bit of trouble. If you did have 
us covered, all we'd have to do is go along with 
whatever you wanted, and count on Piell to take care 
of things from the other end."
"There seem to be many... strange rituals 
involved in this business of yours."
Tennetty snickered.

The interior of the late wizard's wagon was 
elegant: The floor was deeply carpeted, the wooden 
walls covered with tapestries. Karl, Chak, Walter, 
and Henrad, Andy-Andy's apprentice, sat around a 
common bowl of stew, eating a late supper. Piell 
was busy settling the baroness in for the night, while 
Tennetty was off by herself, working on her 
disguise.
Setting down his spoon, Karl reached over to 
what had been the wizard's study desk, took down a 
leather-bound book, and idly flipped through the 
pages, ignoring Henrad's wince. He hadn't brought 
up the Henrad problem with Andy, but there was no 
sense in taking it any easier on the boy than 
necessary.
The pages of spells were just a blur to him, 
although anyone with the genes that allowed him to 
work magic would have found the letters sharp and 
black.
There was no sense in staining the pages; Karl 
tossed the book to the boy, then picked up his spoon.
"You cut it kind of close, Karl," Slovotsky said, 
folding his hands behind his head and lying back on 
a floor pillow. "I was beginning to worry. Piell, 
Henrad, and I have been talking about doing Enkiar 
without you. Why didn't you just have Ellegon fly 
you over? Come to think of it, why haven't you lost 
the beard, like we were talking about?"
Karl swallowed another mouthful of stew before 
answering. "I didn't have Ellegon fly me over 
because I'm nervous about leaving the family alone, 
after that last attempt. I want him guarding them 
until Gwellin, Daherrin, and the rest are Home, and 
on watch. Besides, there's another reason that I'm 
nervous about leaving the valley alone right now...."
"Well?" Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Don't you 
trust me anymore?"
Karl forced a chuckle. It wouldn't do to go public 
about Ahira, and about Karl's own doubts that Ahira 
would want to stay on as Mayor forever. That was 
for Walter's ears only.
"No, not at all. It's just that... don't you think that 
this business with the baroness smells kind of 
funny? Supposedly, she, Thomen, and Rhuss were 
just witnesses that guns have been used in the 
Bieme-Holtun war. But why them in particular? 
Why did Khoral go to the trouble to find someone 
that he must have known I'd feel beholden to?"
"To get you out of the valley for as long as 
possible." Slovotsky nodded. "To let them push for 
another town meeting while you're gone. Why did 
you play along?"
Karl shrugged. "I think that Khoral is 
underestimating our people—the Engineers, in 
particular. I think I persuaded Dhara that they won't 
go along with any sort of fealty to Khoral. It's 
Riccetti's Engineers that Khoral really wants, not the 
land."
Henrad spoke up. "But what if you're wrong?"
"If we don't solve this powder problem, it doesn't 
matter," Chak said, talking around a mouthful of 
stew. "I think this slaver powder is more dangerous 
than all the elves in Therranj put together."
Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Ow! This is hot," Chak said, his eyes tearing.
"You probably just bit into a pepper."
"Pass the water." Chak accepted the jug, tilted it 
back, and drank deeply. "You know, this isn't bad 
stew, but someone has to teach your cook that 
pepper's a spice, not a vegetable."
"You didn't answer my question."
Chak snorted. "I was busy being peppered to 
death.... It's a matter of status, of legend. We are... 
the feared Home raiders; we carry thunder and 
lightning with us. And as long as we're the only ones 
who can do that, local lords and princes are going to 
be nervous about interfering with us, no matter what 
the reward; as long as we don't make a habit of 
taking on local lords and princes, they won't feel 
obliged to.
"But what if they can come up with their own 
guns? Couldn't that change the whole balance?"
"Maybe." Karl wasn't sure that Chak had a solid 
point, but he didn't like contradicting him in public.
"In any case," Walter said, "you're probably right 
that Ellegon's the best person to keep an eye on 
things—including politics. Even if the elves are 
shielded, Chton and the rest of the joiners aren't, 
eh?"
"Right. But the person that they're really 
underestimating is Ahira, I think. He can keep a lid 
on Home for years." As long as his heart is in his 
work, Karl added to himself. "And then..."
"And then?"
He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. "We 
had a huge victory; I don't know if anyone else saw 
it. There's this twelve-year-old kid, name of Petros. 
He lives in a lean-to next to what Ahira says is the 
scraggliest field that he's ever seen. Doesn't crop for 
anyone, because he wants his own land, his own 
vote, and he wants it now."
Karl opened his eyes and smiled. "You give me 
another hundred like Petros, and I won't ever have to 
worry that Home might be bought out by anyone. 
Ever." He waved it away. "But forget about that for 
now. We've got Enkiar to deal with. And Ahrmin."
"Ahrmin." Walter shook his head. "I hope 
Ellegon's wrong about him. His father scared me 
shitless. The son is probably going to be worse." .
"He's badly burned and scarred, but he's still 
alive—and he hired the assassins. In Enkiar."
Slovotsky pursed his mouth. "If I remember right, 
he's the one who killed Fialt. Tennetty'll be all over 
him like ugly on an ape—which explains her being 
here. I've got to admit that her being with you 
surprised me."
"Dammit." Karl threw up his hands. Of course. 
That was why Tennetty had changed her mind, 
decided that she was willing to play slave. 
Sometimes I think U'len's right about my lack of 
brains.
Slovotsky smiled. "You missed one, eh? Happens 
to the best of us. You think we'll have a shot at 
Ahrmin?"
"Maybe. If he's still in Enkiar. If he shows his 
face. If this whole thing isn't a trap for yours truly." 
Karl bit his lip. "Which is why we're going to do 
things a bit differently than we'd planned. I don't 
think that Lord—what's the name of the Lord of 
Enkiar?"
"Gyren," Chak said. "Otherwise known as Gyren 
the Neutral. Trying to make Enkiar the trading 
center of the Middle Lands—he never gets involved 
in anything."
"Exactly. I don't think we have to worry about the 
locals being involved in some sort of guild plot, but 
we do have to face the possibility that the other end 
of this gunrunning operation is going to put us face 
to face with Ahrmin."
Karl rubbed a hand against his face. "Which is 
why I haven't shaved. He's seen Tennetty and Chak, 
although only for a few minutes and in the dark. He 
probably won't recognize them. I'm the problem. No 
matter what I do, if Ahrmin sees me, he's going to 
recognize me."
"So? What are you going to do? Sit this one out?"
"No, Walter. I want you to keep an eye on 
Beralyn."
"You're going to stay behind?"
"No, I'm going ahead. I'm going to be the bait. 
Well, half of the bait, anyway."
Chak smiled. "If I'm reading your mind correctly, 
I'm the other half."
"Any objections?"
"Well... I've always liked it when you get tricky." 
Chak eyed the edge of his eating knife. "I liked Fialt 
a lot, Karl. And Rahff." He nodded grimly. "And if 
you'll recall, I was the one who chiseled through 
Anna Major's chains."
"Well?"
"Promise to save a piece of him for me. If you 
can."
"If I can. I won't try too hard, though."
Chak laughed. "At least you're honest."
"Someone has to be." He turned to Walter. "We 
brought only half a dozen rifles and four pistols. I 
can't exactly hide the rifles under my cloak—so I'll 
take whatever pistols you have."
"Hey, you had me send all of our weapons back 
Home with Gwellin. Don't blame me if—"
Karl held out a hand. "I love you like a brother, 
Walter, but that doesn't mean I don't know you. You 
held out a few pistols and rifles as insurance, didn't 
you?"
"Well..." Slovotsky spread his hands. "Can't 
blame a guy for trying."
"Not this time, anyway."


CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Valeran
What we anticipate seldom occurs; what we least 
expected generally happens,
—Benjamin Disraeli

"I'm getting a bit irritated," Karl said, keeping his 
voice pitched low as they rode side by side down the 
street toward Enkiar's inn. "Nobody seems to have 
recognized me."
"What a pity!" Chak laughed. "So—Karl 
Cullinane is supposed to be the center of the world, 
eh? Have you been taking lessons from Walter 
Slovotsky on the sly? We don't have..teebee on This 
Side, remember?"
"Teevee."
"Eh?"
"Teevee, not teebee. Teebee is something else."
"In any case, we don't have it. As I was saying, 
your visage isn't all that well known. Which is just 
as well."
"Right." But if Ahrmin was still in the Enkiar 
area, he would certainly have somebody out 
watching, just on the off chance of spotting Karl 
Cullinane. The ill-feeling was mutual; Karl had 
killed Ahrmin's father, Ohlmin.
One of the few times I really enjoyed killing, he 
thought, remembering.
Whatever had happened to Ohlmin's head? They 
had left it behind in the wagon outside of Bremen, 
and the Gate Between Worlds; likely the skull was 
still there.
A sextet of foot soldiers approached them as they 
neared the inn.
"Greetings," their leader said. He was a tall and 
rangy man, perhaps in his mid-forties, though his 
hair and short beard were still coal-black. His stern 
blue eyes considered them carefully. "Your names 
and purpose in Enkiar?"
Chak spoke up first. "I am Ch'akresarkandyn ip 
Katharhdn—"
"I can see that you are a Katharhd, fellow." His 
pursed lips made it clear that seeing a Katharhd 
wasn't his idea of a great treat. "Your business?"
"I watch his back." Chak jerked a thumb toward 
Karl. "To see that it doesn't sprout knives."
"I see. And you are?"
"My name is Karl Cullinane." Karl smiled 
genially, raisijng his right hand, keeping his left 
hand near where the two pistols tucked into his belt 
were hidden by the folds of his cloak. "And I am just 
passing through. Have you any objection to that?"
"None. As long as you don't bring your... feud 
into Enkiar." The leader turned to the man next to 
him. "Though I don't believe that there are any 
Pandathaway guildsmen in Enkiar at the moment, 
are there?"
"No, Captain. There have not been for several 
tendays, at the least. Just the—"
"Good." He turned back to Karl. "Keep your war 
out of Enkiar, and you and your gold are welcome. 
Unless you intend to free our slaves?"
"Not today." Under special circumstances, Karl 
made exceptions, but a general policy of slicing up 
all slaveowners was a general policy of suicide. Give 
us a generation, and we'll change that.
The man next to him tugged at the captain's 
sleeve, then whispered in his ear for a moment.
Karl shook his head. "I wouldn't."
"You wouldn't what?"
"I wouldn't think too seriously about trying to 
collect the bounty that the Slavers' Guild has placed 
on my head, no matter what it's risen to. Not that you 
couldn't take me, but I do have friends; the final cost 
is likely to be far too high, all things considered. 
Best to check with your lord before taking the matter 
any further."
The captain smiled back at him, almost 
affectionately. "I will. Assuming that he doesn't 
want you poisoned, would you join me for dinner?"
"And if he does want me poisoned?"
"Would you join me for dinner anyway?" He 
smiled with patently genuine friendliness.
"My pleasure, Captain." Karl laughed. "My 
pleasure."

"Ta herat va ky 'the last run' ky, ka Haptoe 
Valeran," Karl said. It is called the last run, Captain 
Valeran. "The notion is that none of our lives are 
taken cheaply. Ever."
A servant brought another bottle of wine. Valeran 
pulled his sleeves back before uncorking it, then 
splashed some wine first in his own glass, then in 
Karl's, then in Chak's.
Valeran drank first. "Not bad. I think you'll like 
it. And as for this 'last run' of yours, I have heard 
about it. Reminds you of the old days, Halvin, eh?" 
He smiled at the silent soldier standing next to the 
door. "It tends to take all the fun out of treating you 
and your people as outlaws, I suspect." Valeran 
nodded sagely, then sighed. "Not my sort of life, not 
anymore, but an... interesting one, I take it."
Karl chuckled. "There's an old curse, back in my 
homeland: 'May you live in interesting times.'" Well, 
that wasn't much of a lie; from here, China was as 
close as America. Or as far. "Not something I'd 
suggest, given an alternate. And it looks like you 
have a good one, here. You're from Nyphien, 
originally?"
"All my men are; we were first blooded against 
the Katharhds, in the Mountain Wars." He 
considered Chak carefully. There was a trace of 
hostility in Valeran's voice, although the Mountain 
Wars between the Nyphs and the Katharhds had 
fizzled out more than fifteen years before. "I've 
always preferred being a barracks commander to 
being a field soldier, even being a field soldier 
against the Katharhds."
The little man shrugged. "My family was in the 
north during the Mountain Wars, Captain Valeran. 
My father died fighting against the Therranji and 
their dwarf hirelings. Bloody work, Captain Valeran, 
just as bloody as the Mountain Wars."
"Yes," Valeran conceded. "It was bloody. But... I 
must confess I miss it, from time to time. There was 
a certain something to it, no?"
Karl shook his head. "All things considered, I'd 
rather be in Phil—I'd rather be bored."
"Then I beg to suggest that you could find boring 
employment as a soldier anywhere in the Eren 
regions. Although... perhaps Lord Mehlen of 
Metreyll wouldn't be interested, or Lund of 
Lundeyll, come to think of it—and perhaps Enkiar's 
neutrality would make it difficult for my lord to 
employ you. But, if you'd like, I could broach the 
subject to Lord Gyren?"
"I'm not much for giving fealty."
Chak snickered. Karl silenced him with a glance, 
then turned back to Valeran. "Meaning no offense, 
in my native land your present function wouldn't be 
considered a soldierly one."
"No?" Valeran raised an eyebrow as he sipped his 
wine. "What would they call me, a doxy?"
Karl had found himself liking the guard captain. 
There was an undefinable something in the captain's 
manner that made Karl certain he was a man to 
whom honor wasn't just a word, but a valued 
possession.
"No, not at all," Karl said. "We would call you a 
'policeman'—your primary task is to maintain 
internal order, not protect Enkiar from invading 
forces."
"True, true, but it must be a strange country you 
come from, Karl Cullinane, where such subtle 
distinctions are considered important."
Karl laughed. "We had many strange distinctions. 
There's the color of one's skin, for example. In my 
land, my friendship with Ch'akresarkandyn would be 
thought strange—"
"—as it is here; I've no fondness for Katharhds. 
Meaning no offense," he said, ducking his head 
momentarily in Chak's direction. "Are you certain 
you'd care for nothing?"
"I can't eat the local food," Chak said, glaring at 
Karl. Just once, his look said, could you be the one 
with the delicate digestion?
"You were telling me why those in your land 
would think your friendship strange, I believe?"
"Because of Chak's skin color. Or mine, for that 
matter. Depending on which point of view you took, 
he would be considered too dark, or I too light. It 
was our version of racial prejudice."
"Racial? But he's every bit as human as you and I. 
It's not as though he were a dwarf or an elf."
"In my world there are no elves or dwarves. We 
have to make do with... peripheral distinctions."
"Skin color. Skin color. Skin color." Valeran tried 
the words as though tasting them. "Skin color." He 
shook his head. "And were you and I friends, my 
own coloring would cause comment?" Valeran 
extended a deeply tanned arm.
"No, because it's acquired, not natural. You tan 
more thoroughly than I do, that's all. It wouldn't be a 
matter of import."
"And I suppose that, say, a Mel's eyefolds would 
be considered significant."
"Of course."
Valeran laughed. "A strange land, indeed. You 
were telling me in which direction it lies?"
"No, I wasn't. Although if you're interested, there 
is a way to get there, if you'd like to try it. You just 
have to tiptoe past the father of dragons, that's all."
"No, though I thank you for the kind suggestion."
They drank in silence for a few minutes.
"It must be interesting work, though," Karl said. 
"Few people meet many outlanders; you must 
encounter them all the time."
"True, true. And a strange lot many of them are." 
He snorted. "We have had a lot of Biemish and 
Holts coming through, of late—some deserters, 
more slaves. Vicious war—and over what?"
Valeran meant it as a rhetorical question, but Karl 
decided not to take it that way. "Depends on how 
you look at it. Last I heard, the war was started by 
some raiders coming down from Aershtyn into 
Holtun. The Holts decided that Bieme was 
responsible, and there you have it."
"War, and a dirty one. You can tell by the 
scavengers, coming through with chains of slaves. 
We had another one here, just a couple of tendays 
ago."
"Really? The guild operates regularly out of 
Enkiar?"
"Not a guild man, no—we haven't had one since 
Ahrmin was here."
Karl's wineglass snapped in his hands.
Valeran laughed again. "So. That is what this is 
all about. You have been prying for information on 
Ahrmin, eh?" He shook his head. "You won't find 
him here; he left... some time ago, to pick up another 
chain of slaves... somewhere or other. Nice fellow, 
actually, although it's pitiful the way he looks. Did 
you have something to do with that?"
"Why do you ask?"
"He was just as eager for news of you as you are 
for word of him."
"Understandable." Karl nodded. "I... burned him 
a little."
"I wouldn't have thought you so foolish. You 
should have killed him, or let him be."
Chak snorted. "He has a point there, Karl."
"I thought I had killed him; I'd intended to. He 
was bound for Bieme, you said?"
"I didn't say. And won't. He will be back here 
eventually, although you will be long gone by that 
time."
"I will?"
"I'm afraid I'd have to insist." Valeran looked him 
straight in the eye. "I'm really afraid I would."
At the door, a soldier thumped his hand against 
his breastplate. "Message, Captain," he said, entering 
the room at the captain's nod of permission and 
handing Valeran a scrap of paper.
Valeran read the message twice before cocking 
his head to one side and looking Karl over. "I am not 
one to believe in coincidences, Karl Cullinane. It 
seems that a group of guild slavers have just entered 
the town and taken rooms at the inn. I'm curious as 
to your intentions."
Karl sat back, pretending to consider the matter. 
"How many of them are there?"
"Thirty or so. And they are armed with guns, as 
you may have gathered. I wouldn't suggest that you 
attack them, not in Enkiar."
"I agree."
Valeran raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised. You 
agree not to attack them?"
"No, all I agreed was that you would suggest that 
I not attack them."
"Thirty to two?" Chak put in. "Long odds—"
"Then you will agree to leave them alone while in 
Enkiar?"
"—but I guess they'll just have to take their 
chances."
Karl raised a hand. "I'll give you my word, 
Captain. This group of slavers... as long as they do 
not attack either Chak or me, we will not attack 
them, for as long as they remain in Enkiar." He 
wrinkled his brow. "Or let us say for up to a tenday. 
I wouldn't want them to think that they can safely set 
up shop permanently here, or anywhere else."
"I have your word on this?"
"You do. I'll swear it on my sword, if you'd like." 
Slowly, Karl drew his saber and balanced it on the 
flat of his palms. "As I have agreed, so will I do." He 
polished the blade with a soft cloth before 
resheathing it.
"Very well. You won't object to my posting a 
guard outside of your rooms, will you?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Certainly. You may object, or you may not 
object." Valeran shrugged. "I'll post guards, either 
way."

The Enkiar inn was seven two-storied buildings 
of varying sizes, grouped around a common 
courtyard. Karl and Chak's suite was on the second 
floor of one of the smaller buildings. Its balcony and 
windows faced outward, away from the courtyard. 
The inn was at the edge of the town; beyond the 
road, a sea of wheat beckoned in the starlight.
Below, Karl could see three soldiers on watch, 
although there were others nearby; he knew of 
another three on guard outside the single entrance to 
the suite.
That could be trouble. Karl couldn't see a way out 
of the suite that wouldn't involve fighting past the 
guards. He drew the curtains.
"I can't think of anything useful to do," Chak said. 
"We're fairly neatly hemmed in for the night. Best to 
leave things to Slovotsky, eh? Come morning, he 
should have some idea of who's buying the guns and 
powder, and maybe what Ahrmin's connection is. 
We might as well get some sleep, eh?"
"Might as well."

Bare feet thudded quietly on the balcony outside. 
The curtains were momentarily whisked aside, and a 
dark shape moved into the darkness of the sleeping 
room. It stepped toward the nearest of the two beds 
and leaned over it.
Karl silently rose from the pile of blankets in the 
corner and tackled the intruder, grasping the other's 
right wrist and bringing the arm up behind the 
other's back, to the hammerlock point.
"It's just me, dammit," Walter Slovotsky said. 
"Leggo."
Karl released him. "Sorry. Announce yourself 
next time, okay?"
"Definitely. I'd have done it this time except 
there's a guard patrolling below, and I was sure he'd 
hear." Slovotsky seated himself on the bed, rubbing 
his right shoulder. "Do me a favor and put that 
down, Chak." He gestured a greeting at the little 
man, who sat in his pile of blankets, a cocked pistol 
pointed at Walter's midsection.
Chak uncocked the pistol and set it on the floor. 
"We weren't supposed to see you until tomorrow. 
And how did you get past the guards?"
"I came over the roof—that sort of thing's my 
specialty, remember?" He eyed the ripped hem of his 
pantaloons with distaste. "Got my pants caught 
between two shingles; had to rip them loose.
"We've got trouble. They made contact too 
quickly. The deal's been concluded."
"Dammit, why—"
"Because I didn't have any choice!" Slovotsky's 
whisper was harsh. "Because there wasn't any way 
to stall without making things look funny. The Holts 
have taken their powder and guns and left town, 
leaving me with the claim token to the slaves in the 
pens." He spread his hands. "Nothing I could do."
"Holts?"
Slovotsky nodded. "They're the buyers. Prince 
Uldren sent High Baron Keranahan, his nephew. We 
got more than three hundred slaves, all Biemish. 
They're apparently most of what's left of barony 
Krathael; the fighting there has been bloody. I tried 
to stall, honest, telling him about the raid by you, but 
that only made him more eager to finish things up 
and get out of here. He's a lot more interested in 
getting the guns and powder to Holtun and passing 
along word of your location than he is in trying for 
the bounty himself."
"Did he say who he was going to pass word along 
to?"
"No, but I've got a good guess. Ahrmin. I don't 
know exactly what's going on, but that little bastard 
seems to be working hand in hand with Holtun—and 
with the Aershtyn raiders—"
"Shut up for a second." Karl waved Slovotsky to 
silence.
It was finally starting to make sense. Bieme and 
Holtun had been at peace for two generations, until 
the raiders from Aershtyn had reawakened old 
hostilities. It was possible, perhaps even likely, that 
the Aershtyn raiders who had triggered the war had 
been encouraged by the Slavers' Guild, if they were 
not actually part of the guild itself.
Cui bono? Who benefits? That was the question.
The answer was simple: The war left the guild 
and its allies easy pickings in its wake.
Karl nodded. Guild backing also explained why 
the Holts were able to keep the war going, despite 
the incompetent generalship of Prince Uldren: With 
the guild supplying Holtun with guns and powder, it 
was possible that the Holts could win, or that the war 
would go on forever.
The only beneficiaries would be the guild. And 
the buzzards.
"There's more," Walter said. "And you're not 
going to like it. Tennetty went with them."
"What?"
"Her idea—she doesn't want to see the powder 
get to Holtun, and she had this crazy idea that she 
can do something about it. And Keranahan seemed 
sort of interested in her, so I... kind of gave her to 
him. But she was still wearing those trick chains. 
She should be able to—"
"She'll get her fool ass killed is what she'll do. 
You spotted the reason she decided to play slave, to 
come along. How could you be such an idiot?" 
Tennetty wasn't going to do anything about the 
powder, not until she got within range of Ahrmin. 
She hated Ahrmin as much as Karl did; the little 
bastard had killed Fialt, speared him through the 
chest.
No. Not Tennetty, too.
Karl sat down on the bed and rubbed his hands 
against his eyes.
"Karl," Chak said, "we can't do anything about it 
tonight. We have to trust her to know what she was 
doing."
"Like hell we do." He stood. "Walter, get going, 
over the roof. You're pulling up stakes and heading 
out tonight. Your story is that you're nervous after 
hearing that I'm in town. Leave one of your knives 
stuck in the roof, right near the peak."
"Why—"
"Shut up. Have Piell split off and work his way 
around; I'll meet him east of town—tonight if I can 
manage it, tomorrow if not. He's to have two extra 
horses, healing draughts, his longbow, and all the 
guns and powder that you can scrape together."
"What do I do?"
Karl closed his eyes, concentrating. "One: Play 
slaver—take the Biemish slaves down the road to 
the rendezvous; wait for Ellegon. Explain to the 
Biemish who you are and that they have a choice of 
going back to Bieme or going to Home. We're going 
to have to split the team more, dammit.
"Two: Those who want to go to Home, send them 
back with the smallest group you think safe.
"Three: Drop the masquerade—"
"All right!" Slovotsky slapped his hands together. 
"You mean I can stop playing slaver?"
"Shut up and listen. I want you to wait at the 
rendezvous for Ellegon's supply drop. He should be 
there any day now, and he'll probably have some 
guns and powder. Tell him I'll want a massive drop 
outside of Biemestren—we'll use barony Furnael as 
a backup—every gun Home can spare, powder, 
grenades, the bloody works. Tell him to add Nehera 
and a couple of apprentice Engineers to the drop.
"Four: Once you've rendezvoused with the 
dragon, I want you to ride after us. With a bit of 
luck, you'll catch up with us this side of Bieme. 
Make sure you keep Beralyn safe—she's our 
passport." Karl opened his eyes. "Am I missing 
anything?"
"I don't like this." Chak shook his head. "I 
thought you didn't want to choose sides in this stupid 
war."
"I didn't; it seems that Ahrmin's chosen them for 
me. The way I read it, the guild is backing the Holts. 
We're siding with Bieme, at least long enough to 
break up the guild-Holt alliance."
"And what are we going to do about Tennetty?"
Karl bit his lip. "Walter, how many of them are 
there?"
"Fifty or so. All armed to the teeth, now." 
Slovotsky spread his hands. "I'm sorry, Karl, but you 
know Tennetty. When she's got her mind set on 
something..."
"Just get out of here."
White-faced, Slovotsky turned to go, but Karl 
caught his arm. "Walter..."
"Yeah?"
"I'm sorry. I should have anticipated this." 
Tennetty hadn't had any enthusiasm for this, not 
until she had heard that Ahrmin was still alive, and 
had been in Enkiar. This was what she had been 
planning all along. Damn—if Karl had thought it 
through, or had Ellegon probe her, this could have 
been avoided.
It isn't Slovotsky's fault; it's mine.
"Right." Slovotsky shook his head. "I'll be telling 
myself that for years." He clasped Karl's hand. "You 
getting her out of it?"
"I'm going to try. Now get lost."

Chak looked at Karl and raised an eyebrow. 
"You, me, and Piell against fifty?"
"Don't forget Tennetty."
"I wasn't. But I don't know how useful she's going 
to be, not in this."
"You don't like the odds?"
"No. Not one little bit." Chak shrugged. "Do you 
see another choice?"
"Maybe." Karl pounded on the door, then swung 
it open. "Hey! I want to talk to Captain Valeran, and 
I want to talk to him now."

"I thought Enkiar claimed to be neutral in the war 
between Holtun and Bieme, Captain." Karl gestured 
Valeran to a chair and poured each of them a mug of 
water.
"Yes, Enkiar is neutral, Karl Cullinane. Anyone 
may trade for anything here." Valeran rubbed a 
knuckle against sleepy eyes, then sipped at his 
water. "Am I to assume that you had me waked at 
this hour to discuss our neutrality?" he asked acidly.
"No. I had you waked to discuss Enkiar's siding 
with Holtun in the war—a fact that is shortly to 
become very public knowledge, from Sciforth to 
Ehvenor."
"Nonsense. Lord Gyren does not take sides; both 
Holtun and Bieme are free to trade in Enkiar."
"Including for gunpowder? You consider 
allowing the Holts and the Slavers' Guild to trade 
here in guns and gunpowder to be neutral?"
"What is this nonsense?"
"High Baron Keranahan brought in a chain of 
slaves to trade with the guild—"
"Yes, yes, for gold. To pay—"
"No. For this." Karl took a small vial of slaver 
powder from his pouch. "A form of gunpowder, 
made in Pandathaway. Enkiar has been where the 
trade has taken place." He tipped a spoonful onto the 
floor—"Stand back, please"—then picked up a water 
pitcher, stepped away, scooped up a handful of 
water, and threw it.
Whoom!
"Think about this long and hard, Captain. Bieme 
will soon know that the Holts were able to trade for 
guns and powder in Enkiar, while the Biemish 
weren't. Do you think that they will consider that 
neutral?" Karl cocked his head to one side. "If you 
were they, would you? Do you think that anyone 
will think of Enkiar as neutral?"
"N-no. Not if... what you say is true," Valeran 
said slowly, eyeing Karl with suspicion. "How do 
you know all this?"
Karl smiled. "That's the first good question 
you've asked, Captain. Sit back and relax; this is 
going to take a while. Now... we were on a sweep 
through the forests near Wehnest, when I received a 
report that there were slavers in the meadow below 
with guns...."

"...and I can tell you that if you were to search 
Keranahan's wagons, you'd find almost one hundred 
guns, and eight large barrels full of this," Karl 
finished.
"Which your man sold to him, Karl Cullinane. 
Not the Slavers' Guild—"
"Captain. You are trying to avoid facing the 
simple truth that the Holts have used Enkiar as an 
unintentional partner in their... arrangement with the 
guild. Do you really think that tonight was the first 
time Enkiar has been used to trade slaves for 
powder?" Karl said. "Tell me, Captain, how do you 
think that would reflect on Enkiar's supposed 
neutrality?"
"Not well." Valeran shook his head slowly. "But 
what do you expect me to do?"
"That all depends on whether you are only Lord 
Gyren's puppet, or can think for yourself. You and 
your men are sworn to uphold Enkiar's neutrality?"
"My oath is to Enkiar; my men are fealty-sworn 
to me." Valeran pounded his fist on his open palm. 
"But I can't remain faithful to that oath, not and 
challenge Baron Keranahan at the same time. That 
would kill the neutrality, just as surely as if Enkiar 
was seen as taking sides with Holtun. It's the 
principle, Karl Cullinane: Once Enkiar's neutrality is 
shattered, it can't be restored." He pursed his lips for 
a moment. "Unless... unless nobody ever hears of 
how Enkiar's neutrality has been violated. The Holts 
could be quietly persuaded to conduct their 
gunpowder trade elsewhere...."
"It's too late for that," Karl said. "My friend 
Walter Slovotsky has already been in and out of here 
tonight."
"So you told me." The accent on the second-to-
last word was definite. Valeran eyed him levelly, as 
though to say, I may well not be your match, Karl 
Cullinane, but that will not stop me from trying to do 
my duty.
Karl nodded his understanding. "Unless I tell him 
otherwise, the story will soon be spread wide and far 
of how Enkiar has been the place where Holtun got 
guns and powder. And to tell him otherwise, I'll have 
to live."
"That would go well with some proof."
"Check the roof. You'll find a knife at its peak. 
Slovotsky left that as a bit of evidence that he was 
here. Or do you want to believe that I walked out on 
the balcony and climbed up the sheer face to the roof 
without being spotted?" Karl rose to his full height 
and stretched. "I don't think I can climb that 
quietly—do you?"
"No. I'll have it checked immediately." Valeran 
beckoned to the guard at the door and whispered 
briefly in his ear. The man ran out of the room.
"But I ask again," Valeran went on. "Assuming 
that you're telling the truth, what do you suggest that 
I do?"
"It all depends on you, Captain Valeran, you and 
your twenty men. I ask again: How loyal are you to 
Lord Gyren?"
"What do you mean, sir?" Valeran drew himself 
up straight. "Are you questioning—"
"No, I'm not questioning your honor, Captain. I'm 
asking if you're loyal enough to Gyren to have him 
put a price on your head, if it comes to that. Well?"
Valeran sat silently for a moment. "I see what you 
mean. And the answer is yes, Karl Cullinane. But if 
you've lied to me..."
"I know. But I haven't."
Valeran sighed. "Then I must see Lord Gyren, 
explain the situation, and... resign from his service. 
He will understand, Karl Cullinane. I assume you 
wish to employ my men and me in hunting down the 
Holts?"
"Obviously. You and your men have families?"
"Not I, but most do, yes."
"Chak, how are we fixed for money?"
The little man nodded. "Well enough. I've got 
about six pieces of Pandathaway gold on me, five 
sil—"
"Fine. Give." Karl accepted the pouch from Chak 
and tossed it to Valeran. "That is for their women 
and children, to maintain them until a group from 
Home comes to guide them. Leave one of your men; 
they will remain in his charge until then."
Valeran bounced the leather pouch up and down 
on his palm. "I may regret doing this, but..." He 
nodded, a vague smile playing across his lips. 
"Damn me, but it's good to be alive again. Halvin!"
The guard at the door turned about. "Yes, 
Captain."
"I thought I would never say this, but... we ride 
tonight."
Halvin gave him a gap-toothed smile. "Yes, 
Captain. It has been a while, sir."
"Put that smile away, fool. Your memory fails 
you." Valeran turned to Karl. "I repeat: Should I find 
that you have lied to me, Karl Cullinane, one of us 
will die."
"Understood. And until then?"
"Until then..." Valeran got to his feet and drew 
himself into a rigid brace. "What are your orders, 
sir?"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Firefight
Take calculated risks. That is quite different from 
being rash.... The most vital quality a soldier can 
possess is self-confidence, utter, complete and 
bumptious.
—George Patton

Ahead, the well-rutted road twisted and turned in the 
predawn light. As Stick cantered down the road, 
Karl reached down and patted at the stallion's neck. 
"Faster, Stick, faster," he said, digging in his heels 
and settling himself more firmly in the saddle, his 
hand automatically checking to see that the rifle was 
still secure in its boot.
Valeran spurred his large black gelding, barely 
matching Stick's pace. "I would like to hear your 
plan, Karl Cullinane, if that's permitted," he called 
out above the clattering of hooves. "You do have a 
plan, don't you?"
"Of sorts. Be still for now—and hang back, if you 
don't want to risk getting shot."
Piell was waiting around the next bend. Karl 
pulled on Stick's reins, swinging his leg over the 
saddle and dismounting as the stallion halted.
The elf was not pleased. "Ch'akresarkandyn told 
me what you're going to do—what you're going to 
try to do. I don't like it at all."
"I don't remember asking your opinion."
He snorted. "You're going to hear it anyway—"
"Shut up." Karl reached up and gripped the front 
ofthe elf's tunic. "If you want out, you've got it. Just 
leave the bow and guns and get the hell out of my 
way."
"Ta havath." Piell raised both palms. "Ta havath, 
Karl."
As the others rounded the bend and cantered into 
sight, Karl released the elf. "How many rifles do you 
have?"
"Five—and I have two shotguns left; I gave one 
to Chak. I also have my bow and just over twoscore 
arrows."
"Can you rig a few of the arrows for fire?" Karl 
asked, beckoning to Valeran and his men to 
dismount.
"Yes. You intend to fire the wagons?"
Karl nodded. "Think about what happens if they 
try to put out the one with the slaver powder in it."
"I have." The elf smiled. "Do you think we can 
actually get Tennetty out?"
"Oh? So you're in on this?"
"I always was."
Karl took his shrouded lantern down from his 
saddle, pulled back the baffles, and hung it from a 
knot in a tree. He turned to Valeran. "It normally 
takes anywhere from two to ten days to teach 
someone how to use a gun correctly. We don't have 
the time to teach reloading and safety, but I'm going 
to teach you and four of your men to use guns right 
now." He extended his hand. "Unloaded?" he asked, 
flicking open the pan and feeling inside.
"Yes."
"Good. Valeran, pick four of your people."
Valeran pointed at four of his men. "Over here, if 
you please."
Karl called out to the other fifteen. "You can 
listen to this, too, but those of you with crossbows, 
get them cocked and loaded.
"Now... using a rifle is simplicity itself. There are 
five steps. First, you pull back the hammer—that's 
this thing—until it locks." He thumbed the hammer 
back until it clicked. "Hear that sound? Second, you 
raise the rifle to your shoulder, selecting a target."
He aimed the empty rifle at a nearby tree. "Third, 
you line up your front and back sights right on the 
center of whoever you're going to shoot. At the 
range we're going to be, do not allow for drop as you 
would with a crossbow. Four, hold your breath and 
squeeze the trigger—"
Snap! Sparks flew from the lock.
Halvin spoke up. "You said that there were five 
steps?"
"Yes. Five: Drop the damn rifle and get your 
sword into your hand as quickly as you can, because 
there are going to be one hell of a lot of very angry 
Holts around you, even if you've killed your target."
He tossed the rifle to Halvin. "Practice."
Hoofbeats sounded from down the road; Karl 
beckoned Valeran and his soldiers over to one side, 
drawing a pistol and cocking it.
It was only Chak. His horse was panting, the 
cloths wrapped around its hooves cut to ribbons.
The little man dismounted, almost out of breath. 
"They're not moving too quickly; we should be able 
to get around in front of them by taking the north 
road."
"Did they see you?"
Chak snorted. "Screw you, kemo sabe," he said in 
his halting English. "Your nerves are making your 
mouth say stupid things."
"True. Sorry." Karl jerked his head toward the 
road. "Grab another shotgun, and a crossbow. I want 
you and Piell to take the north road, and set up some 
sort of roadblock; the rest of us will lag behind until 
we hear shots. Piell, listen up: When they near your 
roadblock, I want you to drop the lead horse of the 
lead wagon, then fire that wagon. Got it?"
Piell nodded.
"Go."
Valeran opened his mouth as though to say 
something, then changed his mind.
God, but I wish Ellegon were here. Was Valeran 
as trustworthy as he seemed? The dragon could have 
found out with a moment's effort.
Karl shrugged. No point in worrying about it; he 
was already committed to trusting Valeran. He 
lowered the pistol's hammer, flipped the pistol, and 
caught it by the barrel. He held it out to Valeran. 
"This works just like a rifle; you hold it at arm's 
length, pull the hammer back, then sight down your 
arm. Squeeze the trigger gently; don't pull at it. Or 
you can just press the gun against my back."
"Your back?"
"You're wondering if I've been leading you on—
if I have, you can get even very quickly. In the 
meantime, mount up."

A single shot sounded from down the road. Karl 
kicked Stick into a gallop; behind him, Valeran 
urged the others along.
Ahead of them, the Holts had dismounted from 
their horses and the three wagons. The lead wagon 
was skewed sideways across the road, its lead horse 
lying on its side on the road, whinnying in pain, an 
arrow projecting from its chest. )
Damn. "Take cover, everyone. Valeran, assign 
somebody to handle the horses. Make sure he keeps 
a good grip on their reins."
So much for Karl's original idea. Piell could have 
picked a worse place for the ambush, but not much 
worse. The Holts had already set up a line of defense 
behind their wagons and in the irrigation ditch along 
the side of the road. Rushing them would just be 
suicide. The worst of it was that dawn was already 
breaking; in the light, Karl's people, already 
outnumbered and outgunned, would be even more 
vulnerable.
Another shot sounded; a bullet whizzed overhead, 
snapping through the leaves.
"Don't shoot yet," Karl shouted, untying his own 
rifle from the saddleboot, slinging his saddlebags 
over his shoulder.
"Go!" He slapped Stick on the rump, sending the 
stallion back down the road, out of the line of fire. 
He ducked into the ditch on the right side of the 
road, tossing the saddlebags to one side.
"Piell, can you hear me?" he called out in 
English, knowing that Tennetty would also 
recognize his voice. "Fire the wagons, now. Then 
move; I don't want them fixing on your position." He 
cocked the rifle, then looked out onto the road. 
There were plenty of targets; the Holts weren't used 
to facing guns. Karl took aim at a head, took a quick 
breath and held it, then squeezed slowly on the 
trigger.
The rifle kicked against his shoulder as the Holt's 
head exploded in a bloody shower; Karl ducked 
back behind into the ditch, fumbling in his pouch for 
a rag and his powder horn, leaving the tallow box—
here, a spit patch would serve just as well.
Coughing in the acrid smoke, he blew down the 
barrel to clear it, then poured a measure of powder 
from the horn into the rifle, spat on a patch and 
slipped it over the hole, then thumbed a ball into 
place. He drew his ramrod and shoved the ball and 
patch down the barrel, seating them firmly.
"Karl Cullinane," Valeran called out. "There are a 
group of them, moving toward us."
"On my command," he called back. "You with 
the rifles will rise, raise your weapon to your 
shoulder, pick a target, and fire—and then duck back 
down, quickly." He pulled back the hammer to half-
cock, quickly cleared the vent with his vent pick, 
then took out his vial of priming powder.
"They're moving, again."
"Now!"
Gunshots thundered. Karl charged the pan, then 
snapped the frizzen securely into place.
He raised his head above the ditch. All of the 
Holts had taken cover, except for one wounded man 
lying on the road, cradling his belly in his hands. 
One out of four shots reaching a target wasn't too 
bad, not under the circumstances.
Another of the Holts rose, only to drop his rifle 
and scream as a longbow's arrow sprouted from his 
side.
Thanks, Piell.
But this wouldn't do. The Holts would gather 
themselves for a charge in a few minutes, once they 
realized that they had their enemy outgunned and 
outmanned.
"Bows, covering fire. Valeran, get that lamp to 
me." He untied the straps from his saddlebags, then 
pulled out the box of grenades, opened it, and 
extracted one from its padded compartment.
Valeran arrived with the lantern. "I don't like this. 
They have all used rifles before, and we haven't. 
And my men aren't used to facing these... guns."
"I know." Karl slid the lamp's baffle open just a 
crack, then stuck the end of the fuse into the flame.
It caught immediately. He raised his head above 
the boulder and threw the grenade high and far, 
directly for the spot in the ditch where he hoped the 
remaining nine rushing Holtish soldiers were.
"Down!" he called, following his own advice.
The grenade dropped behind the road and into the 
ditch, then exploded with a loud crump! followed by 
a chorus of screams.
Karl looked out. The lead wagon was burning 
nicely; Piell's fire arrow must have gone inside and 
caught something flammable. Tennetty's slim form 
was outlined against the fire as she worked her way 
behind one of the Holtish soldiers, then slipped an 
improvised garrote around his neck, pulling him 
back, out of sight.
Good. She'd worked her way free. The Holts 
didn't know it, but they had more to worry about 
than some outsiders attacking; they had a tiger 
among them.
More gunshots sounded. One of Valeran's men 
pitched forward, clutching at his throat; another 
stooped, uncorking a bottle of healing draughts, then 
shaking his head and recorking it.
This just wasn't going to make it. There're too 
many of them, and Valeran's people aren't used to 
this kind of fighting.
Karl didn't like it, but he would have to settle for 
getting Tennetty out and forget about the slaver 
powder.
"Withdraw," he called out. "Everybody—and I 
mean everybody!" he shouted, hoping that Tennetty 
could hear him over the crackling of the fire. He 
sneaked another glance. One of the Holts had 
spotted her and was bringing his gun to bear.
Karl raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim, 
ignoring the whipcrack of bullets around him, then 
squeezed the trigger. The bullet caught the Holt on 
his chestplate; it knocked him down, his own 
weapon discharging toward the sky. Tennetty dove 
for cover, disappearing into the ditch.
"Withdraw," Karl repeated. "Piell and Chak, 
acknowledge, dammit."
A distant shout marked Piell's position, but where 
was Chak? Perhaps it was just as well. If Karl 
couldn't spot him, likely the Holts couldn't, either.
Chak sprang up next to the second wagon, fired 
his shotgun into an intervening soldier, then 
disappeared into the wagon's interior, a waterbag 
clutched in his hands.
What the hell does he think he's doing? Karl had 
given the order to withdraw. The main objective had 
been accomplished; they would just have to let the 
powder go by.
Three of the Holtish soldiers followed Chak into 
the wagon. That was probably their mistake. In the 
close quarters of the wagon, they would probably get 
in each other's way more than Chak's. But what's he 
doing with a waterbag—
"No!"
The wagon exploded in a cloud of steam and 
dust, sending pieces of horses and soldiers tumbling 
into the still air.
That was enough for the few uninjured Holts. 
Some mounted their horses and galloped away; 
others just ran.
Valeran grabbed at Karl's arm. "What happened?"
"Chak. He... took out their powder. Lord Gyren 
will be satisfied," he said, his voice sounding 
curiously flat and emotionless even to his own ears. 
"We have preserved Enkiar's neutrality."
"There are still some of them alive."
Karl tossed his rifle to one side, bringing his 
sword into his right hand and drawing his remaining 
pistol with his left. "Not for long. Follow me."

There is nothing quite as ugly as sunrise over a 
battlefield. In the dark, it is possible to ignore the 
spilled contents of the bags of skin, the flesh, blood, 
and bones that once were human beings.
During a battle, it's necessary to look beyond the 
carnage, in order to avoid becoming part of it.
But in the light of day, it's a different matter 
entirely. This battlefield had once been a wheat 
field. It would again be just a wheat field, someday.
But not this day. Now, it was the blood-drenched 
floor of a slaughtering ground, corpses already 
attracting scavengers.
Using his saber like a flail, Karl shooed two 
crows away from the body of a Holtish soldier and 
forced himself to look at the man's face.
No, not a man, a boy, perhaps seventeen, maybe 
eighteen years old, beardless. Under a shock of 
brown hair, his ashen face was pale, still; a casual 
glance would have made Karl think he was only 
sleeping.
Valeran cleared his throat. Karl turned to see 
Tennetty standing next to the captain.
"Karl—" she started, then caught herself. "We... 
haven't found any sign of Chak. Could he—"
"No." Karl shook his head. "There was only one 
door to the wagon. He must have set the waterbag on 
top of one of the powder barrels, then put his pistol 
right up against the bag."
He could almost see it in his mind's eye: the three 
Holts satisfied that they had Chak cornered; Chak 
quirking a smile at them as he fired, the bullet 
crashing through the bag and wood, driving the 
water into the slaver powder, then...
He looked Tennetty square in the face, at first not 
trusting himself to speak. If only she had followed 
orders, none of this would have happened; Karl 
would have let this shipment get by, rather than 
attack at such unfavorable odds.
And Tennetty knew that. Let her live with the 
guilt.
Why, dammit, Chak—why?
What happens when you decide that some 
objective is more important than your own life is?
But it wasn't as important as Chak's life, not this. 
The Holtish had gotten powder before, and would 
again. Not in Enkiar, though. Enkiar would now be 
closed to them for the trade in slaver powder, but 
Enkiar would have been closed to them in any case.
It wasn't worth Chak's life. But it had been, to 
Ch'akresarkandyn.
That wasn't enough. "Tennetty."
"Yes, Karl." She stood in front of him, her hands 
well away from the sword at her waist, making no 
movement to protect herself.
"We're moving out." He kept his voice low, little 
more than a whisper. He knew that if he started 
shouting, he would lose control completely. "I want 
you to start Valeran and his men on marksmanship 
tonight, when we camp. By the time we reach 
Bieme, they are to be as competent as possible. 
When Slovotsky and his people catch up with us, 
you turn the training over to him. Bieme is going to 
be tough; I want us up to strength."
"Yes, Karl. Although I don't know what you think 
a few tens of us can do in that sort of—"
He reached out and gripped her throat, the tips of 
his fingers resting against her trachea. He could 
bring his fingers together—
—but that wouldn't bring Chak back. "Shut your 
mouth," he said, dropping his hand. "If I want your 
opinion, I'll ask for it."
She started to turn away.
"One more thing, Tennetty," he said, grabbing her 
by the arm, spinning her back to face him. "I don't 
want you to get yourself killed. You're to live a long, 
long life—hear me? And every day, you're to 
remember that it was you who killed Chak, just as 
surely as if you'd slipped a knife between his ribs. If 
you hadn't gone independent, if you had just played 
things out as I told you to, this wouldn't have 
happened."
"If you had let me try for Ahrmin—"
He backhanded her to the ground, then booted her 
in the shoulder as she started to rise, sending her 
sprawling on the dirt. "Don't speak to me, not 
anymore. Not unless I speak to you first. 
Understood?"
Her hand slipped to the hilt of her sword.
"Go ahead, Tennetty, please."
She shook her head slowly, her hand falling away 
from her sword. It wasn't fear that saved her life at 
that moment, it was guilt.
And what do I do about my own guilt? he 
thought.
There wasn't any answer.
"Just get out of my sight," Karl Cullinane said, as 
he turned to Valeran. "Have you buried your man?"
Valeran shook his head. "Not yet."
There was no real point in hurrying. I should 
probably wait here for Walter, Beralyn, and the rest, 
instead of letting them catch up farther down the 
road.
That would be the logical thing.
"Bury him, Valeran. We're getting the hell out of 
here."

That evening, they made camp beside a brook to 
wait for Walter Slovotsky and the rest.
In the morning, Tennetty and two of the horses 
were gone.


PART FOUR
Bieme

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Prince Pirondael
Our fathers and ourselves sowed the dragon's teeth.
Our children know and suffer the armed men.
—Stephen Vincent Benét

Biemestren, the capital city of Bieme, reeked of a 
long peace, now shattered.
The castle itself was surrounded by two 
zigzagging stone walls, each barely shy of ten 
meters in height, the inner one with eight guard 
towers scattered around its circumference. The 
residence tower rose from inside the inner wall, 
resting on the flat top of a twenty-yard-high, almost 
perfectly circular hill.
But the castle itself was only a handful of 
buildings that housed the prince, his court, and the 
House Guard; the vast majority of the population of 
Biemestren seemed to live in the newer buildings 
outside the wall, clinging to it as they fanned out like 
a tree ear on an old oak. Beyond them were the rude 
encampments housing several thousand refugees 
from the west.
A breeze brought a foul reek to Karl's nostrils. If 
the local clerics weren't on the ball, vermin-spread 
diseases would likely do as much damage as the 
war.
"Nice location for a castle," Walter Slovotsky 
said. "That hill is the highest spot for twenty miles 
around."
"It's too round to be a real hill; it's a motte," Karl 
said. "This was probably a basic motte-and-bailey 
castle, originally."
"I know what a bailey is, but what's a motte?" 
Slovotsky raised an eyebrow.
"The hill that the castle's on." Karl searched his 
memory for an Erendra equivalent, but there wasn't 
one. "Basically just a pile of dirt. If we dug down, 
we'd find timbers of the original castle's foundation 
buried in it.
"It's an old trick. Goes back to before 
Charlemagne; it was how the Norman nobles held 
out, carved out their own fiefs in both France and 
Britain. Siege engines can break the walls, but the 
motte itself is practically indestructible. Even if 
invaders breach the outer wall, they have to fight 
their way up a steeper hill than nature would 
probably provide, and then have the inner defenses 
to contend with."
"And meanwhile the defenders don't have to sit 
on their hands. Nice bit of defense." Slovotsky 
nodded. "Back Home, when we were building the 
original palisade, why didn't you suggest a motte?"
"If you'll remember, Riccetti was running that 
show. Besides, we didn't have the manpower to 
move a whole lot of earth, not even if you include 
Ellegon. He's got his limitations, just like the rest of 
us."
"Besides, you didn't think of it."
"True."
"This is pretty damn near impregnable, though," 
Walter said. "Even if the Holts get this deep into 
Bieme, there's no law that says the Biemish have to 
sit tight and not shoot back, while they're working 
on breaking the walls. One wizard shooting out a 
flame spell or two a day—"
"Wouldn't do it. Not if I was running the siege, 
and I'm sure that the Holts know a lot more about 
siege warfare than I do." Karl shrugged. "Bring up 
ten, twelve onagers at once, and it's watch-the-walls-
go-down, even if they have a garden-variety wizard 
and you don't."
"But you said that they wouldn't be able to break 
through."
"Not immediately, no. Ever hear of a siege? 
Breach the walls in a few places, keep the defenders 
too busy to plug the holes, and you can still starve 
them out if they don't drop their guard enough for 
you to take the castle any other way. If the defenders 
are really good, it could take years, but who's going 
to come to Bieme's rescue? The Nyphs? They're 
more likely to try to lop off a piece of the country, if 
they can be sure that Khar or some Katharhd bands 
won't move on them while they're distracted."
"Motte, eh?" Slovotsky said, clearly preferring a 
lighter subject. "I'll remember that. They probably 
just call it a mound."
"So we'll teach them the right word."
Slovotsky laughed. "Your mind is a junkpile, 
Karl. I know for a fact that you know squat about 
world history—"
"Give me a break. I never got around to majoring 
in any kind of history. Too much work. Always 
liked the soft sciences; if you had anything on the 
ball, they'd practically give the school to you."
"So where did engineering come in? You were 
going to be an electronics engineer when I first met 
you."
"Just that one semester; I was young and 
ambitious. Too much work. I switched to poli sci 
right after that; electoral behavior is a hell of a lot 
easier than electrical behavior."
The outer wall's portcullis was raised, announced 
by a squeal of metal on metal that could be heard for 
miles.
A troop of fifty armored, mounted soldiers rode 
through, cantering down the road toward Karl and 
his people.
"Pay attention, folks, we've got company," Karl 
said in English, repeating it in Erendra for Beralyn, 
Valeran, and his people. "Let's hope that Baron 
Tyrnael's runners got the message through. I'd rather 
not get mistaken for an enemy."
Once again, he found himself pausing, waiting for 
a cynical bit of bravado from Chak. Chak would 
have said something, maybe "Too bad for them if 
they do, kemo sabe."
Damn you, Chak, he thought. Who said you could 
up and die on me?
"Pay attention, Karl. Shall I go back for 
Beralyn?"
"No. Stay with her; bring her forward when I call. 
I want to make sure that these folks are ready to talk, 
not fight. Her face is our passport; I wouldn't want to 
get it slashed."
"Right. One suggestion, though: Your temper gets 
out of hand every now and then. This might be a 
good time to keep hold of it. Beralyn says that 
temper is one thing that Prince Pirondael doesn't put 
up with."
"Don't end a sentence with a preposition."
"Fine," Slovotsky said. He broke into a broad 
smile. "Temper is one thing that Prince Pirondael 
doesn't put up with—asshole."

Karl disliked Prince Harffen Pirondael at first 
sight, although he wasn't quite sure why.
It wasn't because the prince had kept him waiting 
for more than an hour for no apparent reason, or that 
his men-at-arms politely but firmly insisted on 
relieving Karl and Walter of their swords before 
they were ushered into the Presence.
The first was an irrelevant, if petty, perquisite of 
office; the second was an understandable precaution, 
under the circumstances. This wasn't the same sort 
of situation as he had faced with Dhara; there was no 
need to step on Pirondael's toes until he apologized.
So that wasn't it. Karl wrinkled his brow. Then 
what was it? He didn't dislike the prince simply 
because he had chosen to meet with them in a large, 
bare room in the dwelling tower that had only one 
chair, now fully occupied by Pirondael's sizable 
bulk—that was just another princely perk.
Karl didn't dislike the prince because of the way 
that his two guards stood just beyond springing 
distance, their crossbows loaded, eyeing Karl with 
professional caution. Quite the contrary: Karl had a 
profound respect for Pirondael's guards. Back home, 
back on the Other Side, there were people who 
sneered at the notion of honor. But that was clearly 
the only thing that kept Pirondael's House Guard 
faithful. They weren't surrounded, not yet; those who 
wanted to desert could have escaped to the west.
Those who remained with Pirondael couldn't have 
been expecting that Bieme would win the war, not 
against an army armed with Slavers' Guild guns.
Why were they waiting for the coming of the Holt 
army?
Because they had sworn their loyalty to Prince 
Pirondael, and they meant it.
Maybe that was it. Pirondael didn't look like the 
kind who deserved that kind of loyalty, this fat 
prince lolling back on his throne, wearing his purple-
and-gold finery, his silver crown of office resting on 
his oily black curls, not a hair out of place.
And perhaps Karl resented the unnecessary 
formality of Pirondael's wearing his jewel-inlaid 
crown instead of a simple cap of maintenance.
He knew that he resented the way that Beralyn 
had gravitated to her prince's side, occasionally 
interrupting him to whisper in his ear. No, that 
wasn't a betrayal, even if it felt like one. Beralyn 
didn't owe Karl anything. It wasn't like Tennetty 
running out on him.
He shrugged to himself. It didn't matter why he 
disliked the prince, or even that he disliked the 
prince. This wasn't about personalities.
"There's an old saying where I come from, your 
majesty," Walter said in Erendra, then switched to 
English. "'The first hit's free, kid.'"
"Which means?"
"Utshay upway, Walter." Karl elbowed Slovotsky 
in the side, then turned back to the prince. "It 
translates to 'A wise man accepts a gift in the spirit 
in which it is intended.' It's a simple proposition, 
your majesty," he said. "We're willing to get rid of 
the slavers and their powder—and we'll start by 
lifting the Furnael siege."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "We'll have to 
capture two or three slavers or Holtish officers for 
one of my people to interrogate; she can find out 
where their center of operations is. All I need is a 
few mercenaries, provisions, and the temporary use 
of enough land for our training and staging grounds. 
The rest is up to us."
"But as an independent force, not under my 
barons' command." Pirondael stroked his salt-and-
pepper beard. He looked vaguely like Baron Furnael, 
which was understandable: apparently, all of the 
Biemish nobility were more or less related. "You see 
the problems that would cause?"
"No. I don't. And, honestly, I don't care. Before 
the slavers brought guns and powder into the war, 
you took how many baronies away from Holtun? 
Two?"
"Three." Pirondael smiled, remembering. "The 
Holtish should not have started the war. Prince 
Uldren isn't much of a general. Then again, neither 
am I. The difference is that he insists on being one, 
while I do not; I leave the planning to those who 
know war."
"And how many of those baronies do you still 
hold?"
The smile vanished. "None. Since they brought 
those accursed weapons into the war, we've lost 
those, plus barony Arondael, Krathael, and most of 
Furnael—most of them almost emptied of their 
people, hauled away by slavers. As we speak, 
Furnael Keep is under siege." Pirondael shrugged. 
"It may already have fallen, for all I know—"
"Your majesty," Beralyn put in, only to be 
quieted by a quick chopping motion.
"—and while I wish I could, I can't spare the 
troops holding the line in Hivael to try to break the 
siege. You say that you can do that, with how many 
men?"
"One hundred—forty of mine, sixty of your 
mercenaries to be released into my service. Plus a 
few... surprises that I have in mind."
"I'm told that there are more than a thousand 
Holts maintaining the siege."
Karl smiled. "Their misfortune."
"Or mine, if you are not sincere." Pirondael shook 
his head. "My men tell me that you are... not 
oversupplied with these guns of yours." He raised a 
palm. "No, Karl Cullinane, none of my soldiers have 
tried to capture any. I'm told that would not be wise. 
But I was asking what else you require."
"To break the siege and take the slavers out of the 
war? Nothing. Except..."
"Except? I thought that there would be more."
"I'll need you to get rid of any dragonbane in 
Biemestren and its environs. I want it all burned—by 
the end of tomorrow."
The prince spread his hands. "That is hardly a 
problem. We have not cultivated dragonbane for 
hundreds of years. I wouldn't know where to find 
any. Why is this important to you?"
"Within the tenday or so, a friend of mine is 
arriving. He doesn't like dragonbane."
"A friend?" The prince whitened. He started to 
turn toward Beralyn, but Karl stopped him with a 
nod.
"Yes. And if you're still thinking about trying to 
torture the secret of gunpowder from Walter and me, 
I'd caution against it. For one thing, neither of us 
knows how to make it," he lied. "And for another, 
my... friend wouldn't like it. Don't get Ellegon angry, 
your majesty. Dragonbane or not, you wouldn't like 
him when he's angry. Now, have we an agreement, 
or not?"
"Possibly, possibly. If you manage to break the 
siege of Furnael Keep, what then? You will require 
additional forces in order to attack the main guild 
camp on Aershtyn, no?"
"Possibly. We'll talk about it then, your majesty. 
Have we an agreement?"
The prince nodded.
Karl turned to Walter. "Walter—"
"I know, I know." Slovotsky raised his hands. 
"You want a recon of the siege of Furnael Keep, and 
you want the report yesterday. It'll take me a bit 
more than a week; you think you can live without 
me for that long?"
"Yup." Karl turned back to Pirondael. "Your 
majesty, if you'll have your soldiers lead us to our 
staging grounds, we have many preparations to get 
under way." The prince nodded. Karl and Walter 
turned and walked out of the room, reclaiming their 
weapons at the door. Accompanied by three guards, 
they walked down the stone staircase of the tower 
and out into the bright daylight.
"I don't like it, Karl. I don't like it at all. Assume 
we succeed at barony Furnael and in knocking out 
the slavers on Aershtyn. What if Pirondael decides 
that's enough, once we've taken guns and powder out 
of the war? It could be Holtun that gets chopped up 
and shipped off by the slavers—after all, the guild 
has been free to deal in Bieme before. Would that be 
any better?"
"No. But I don't think he'll push for that."
"And if he does?"
Karl looked him full in the face. "Three guesses. 
The first two don't count." They emerged from the 
arched doorway, squinting in the bright sunlight.
"That's what I thought. Who've you got in mind 
to replace him? The line of succession passes to his 
sons—"
"Both of whom are dead." Maybe that was it. The 
death of his sons should have been bothering 
Pirondael. What kind of man shrugged that sort of 
thing off?
"And then probably to a near relative, no?"
"As I understand it, right now the legitimate 
succession would be pretty much up for grabs 
among the barons—at least one of whom is a man of 
honor, one who will keep any agreement we make 
with him. And he's under siege. For now."
"Which is why you want to break the siege of the 
keep, instead of going directly to Aershtyn. I don't 
like it when you get tricky." Slovotsky caught 
himself. "Sorry."
"Better get going."
"Right."
"One more thing, Walter?"
"What?"
"Don't get yourself killed."
Slovotsky smiled. "My pleasure."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"One Thing at a Time"
Do not peer too far.
—Pindar

Karl spread his blankets on the ground and lay back, 
staring up at the night sky.
There were no faerie lights dancing in the 
overcast sky tonight; only a dozen of the brightest 
stars were visible through the haze. Across the field, 
the five equally spaced signal fires sparked their 
message up into the night. Either Slovotsky or 
Ellegon would recognize the signal; both of them 
should be showing up soon.
He closed his eyes, but he couldn't sleep.
This time I may have bitten off more than I can 
chew, he thought. Even if Ellegon brought enough 
guns and powder, the odds were just too much on 
the other side. The sixty mercenaries that Pirondael 
had released to him would have to be watched 
carefully; it was unlikely that they'd be worth much 
in a firefight. Valeran's men were coming along 
quickly, granted, but riflery wasn't something that 
they could learn enough of in only a few tendays, 
not when it was such a new skill. While their 
marksmanship was adequate, their reloading speed 
was pitiful even during practice; in combat, it could 
only be worse.
That left Karl, Walter, Piell, and their ten 
remaining warriors, plus Henrad. Maybe Ellegon 
would bring along a couple of warriors, in addition 
to Nehera and the Engineers.
That still wasn't enough, not even with Ellegon. 
The dragon couldn't be risked in close combat; the 
slavers would surely have some dragonbaned bolts.
Reflexively, he started to curse Tennetty for 
deserting, but one more person wouldn't really have 
made any difference.
Dammit, I can't do it all by myself, he thought.
But this war had to be stopped, no matter what. 
The guild couldn't be allowed to trigger a war with 
impunity. This was even more dangerous than 
slaving raids: Human spoils of war could easily and 
cheaply supply Pandathaway and most of the Eren 
regions with slaves for years to come.
This wasn't how Karl and the others had planned 
it. Their plan to interfere with the slave trade was 
three-pronged: first, to make the business deadly to 
the slavers; second, to drive the price of slaves up, 
forcing the locals to invent and adopt better ways of 
getting things done; third, to turn Riccetti and his 
Engineers loose, seeing that new technology was a 
medium for freedom, not repression.
That last was always a real fear. The invention of 
the cotton gin had brought new life to slavery in the 
United States.
So... the slavers had to be stopped, and stopped 
here; war was too efficient a way for them to 
procure human merchandise.
But how?
We just don't have enough manpower, just don't 
have enough time.
It was conceivable that they could break the siege 
of Furnael Keep; possibly they could surprise and 
savage a slaver encampment; but ending the war was 
just too much to ask. Old hatreds, old angers had 
been awakened. How could they be stilled?
That's what it came down to: If the war couldn't 
be ended, the guild would profit. The Holtish and the 
Blemish were willing to sell each other off. It had to 
be stopped.
But I just don't know how to shut a war down.
He shook his head. It would have been nice to 
have Chak to talk to. Chak had long ago come to 
terms with the notion that he was going to die in 
battle, and had accepted it almost eagerly. Or maybe 
not almost.
How do you stop a war?
I don't know. But since when is not knowing an 
excuse?
"Hail, Caesar: We who are about to die..." Walter 
Slovotsky's voice sounded in the distance.
Karl stood. "...are going to take one hell of a lot 
of the bastards with us," he called back.
"That's not the response."
"It'll have to do, for now. When did you get 
back?"
"Just a few minutes ago. Valeran said you left 
orders I was to report to you the instant I arrived. I'm 
reporting."
"How does it look?"
Slovotsky rubbed at his tired eyes. "Look, Karl, I 
had a hard four days' ride to Furnael, a tough all-
night recon, and a harder ride back. Can we let it 
wait until morning? I've got to get some sleep. One 
thing at a time, eh?"
"What did you say?"
"I asked if we can wait until morning."
"No, not that—what did you say after that?"
Slovotsky's forehead wrinkled. "One thing at a 
time?"
"One thing at a time." Karl nodded. "Sometimes, 
Walter, you're a genius."
"Huh? I don't follow."
"Never mind." Karl shook his head. "Don't worry 
about it." One thing at a time. First we save Furnael 
Keep, then kill Ahrmin and his group, and then stop 
the war—somehow, dammit, somehow. "That's my 
department. You get some sleep; we'll talk in the 
morning."
"Fine by me."
As Slovotsky stumbled off, Karl lay back down.
"One thing at a time," he said to himself.
And then he was asleep.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Aveneer
One finds many companions for food and drink, but 
in a serious business a man's companions are very 
few.
—Theognis

"Karl," Walter called out from the top of the low 
rise, "I think you'd better get up here."
"Trouble?"
"No, but move it, anyway."
Karl handed the rifle over to Henrad. "Keep them 
working at it—dry firing only."
The boy nodded, his face a sullen mask. Henrad 
was supposed to be Andy-Andy's apprentice, 
learning magic, not teaching basic riflery.
Too bad for him. Karl started up the slope, 
pausing for a moment to speak to Erek, who was 
busy conducting a class in speed reloading for the 
benefit of Valeran and his men.
"How's it going?"
The boy smiled. "Good. Valeran is almost as fast 
as I am; Halvin's a touch faster."
"Great. Keep at it." Karl broke into a jog.
Slovotsky was beaming as he stood atop the rise. 
"Things just started to look up," he said, as Karl 
trotted over. "Check this out."
Oif in the distance, a line of more than two 
hundred mounted soldiers rode toward them. But not 
Biemish soldiers; even at this distance, Karl could 
see that they were armed with rifles. He squinted; 
the man at the head was a burly redhead.
"Aveneer!" He turned to look at Slovotsky. 
"How—"
"I don't know." Slovotsky shrugged. "It sure 
wasn't me."
"Maybe Ellegon? When you met up with him 
west of Enkiar—"
"I just relayed your orders, Karl. As far as I 
know, the dragon was planning to head home and 
pick up the supplies and crew you ordered, then 
rendezvous here. If he had anything else in mind, he 
kept it a secret."
"I guess we'll know in a minute."
Aveneer spotted Karl and waved, then gestured to 
Frandred, his second-in-command, to have the men 
dismount. Aveneer spurred his roan into a full 
gallop, braking the horse to a panting halt as he 
neared Karl.
He dismounted heavily, then stood for a moment, 
oversized hands on his hips. Nature had intended 
Aveneer to be a towering giant of a man, but 
something had gone wrong; although his hands, feet, 
and facial features were larger than Karl's, the Nyph 
stood more than a head shorter.
"You look well, Karl Cullinane," he said, turning 
for a moment to check the leather thongs that bound 
his battleaxe to the side of his fore-and-aft-peaked 
saddle. Aveneer was the only human Karl knew who 
preferred a battleaxe to a sword; an axe was 
typically a dwarf's weapon.
"I heard," Aveneer said, his voice a slow basso 
rumble, "that you could use some help." He ran 
blunt fingers through his dirty red hair. "I hope you 
don't mind the presumption. But it was... convenient 
for us to ride this way."
His appearance and that of his men made his 
words a lie. They were all road-dirty, with the 
deeply ingrained filth that only a long forced ride 
could cause.
"No, I don't mind." Karl took Aveneer's 
outstretched hand in his. Aveneer's grasp was firm, 
although he wasn't trying for a bone-crushing grip; 
Aveneer wasn't much for childish games. "I don't 
mind at all. But—how?"
Aveneer nodded slowly. "I told her that would be 
the first thing you would want to know." He raised 
an arm; a lone rider broke off from the rest of the 
group. "She caught up with us in Khar."
It was Tennetty, the glass eye gone, now replaced 
by a ragged eyepatch that somehow looked much 
more fitting.
Karl didn't know whether he wanted to hug her or 
shoot her down as she stopped her horse in front of 
him and waited, her face impassive.
"Tennetty..." What could he say? Karl had been 
sure that she had deserted; it now was clear that she 
had decided to hunt up some reinforcements. Did 
that make up for her indirectly causing Chak's 
death? No, but...
Dammit, why couldn't she have stayed deserter? 
That had made things so much simpler.
"Greetings, Tennetty," he said, the words 
sounding warmer than he had intended.
She nodded grimly, not saying anything.
"We have plenty of powder left, and a few spare 
guns," Aveneer said. "The pickings have been slim. 
We were hunting for a slave-raiding party in the 
Kathard, but... nothing."
"Well, you won't be able to say that in a while. 
How tired are you?"
Aveneer rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. "Bone-
weary, Karl. As is obvious. And our horses—"
"Walter, have their animals seen to."
"Right." Slovotsky trotted away.
Karl turned back to Aveneer. "What I meant was, 
can you and your people ride with only a day and a 
half of rest?"
"Of course. What will we be facing at the end of 
the ride?"
"Slovotsky says that there are a thousand men 
holding Furnael Keep under siege. He guesses that 
there's anything from one hundred to four hundred 
warriors inside."
"Can we count on them? Do they know we are 
coming?"
"No. If Walter could have snuck inside, then—"
"—the Holts could have done so, too. Hmm.... 
The Holtish have these slaver guns I've been hearing 
about recently?"
"Yes. Not many, though—Walter guesses less 
than two hundred, about one gun for every five 
men."
"Most of their weapons are up north, where most 
of the fighting is going on, eh?" Aveneer pursed his 
lips and nodded. "Let me see if I understand this: 
You want to take less than three hundred of us 
against a thousand Holtish line troops—perhaps with 
some slavers mixed in—relying on Baron Furnael to 
support us, although there won't be any way for us to 
coordinate our movements with him. Correct?"
"Correct."
"Well." Aveneer brightened. "Then it looks like I 
won't die in bed after all. Now, is there someplace 
where an old man can sleep?"
Karl started to open his mouth, then closed it. 
Karl wouldn't have gone to sleep unless he was sure 
that his people were settled in, but there were sound 
arguments for doing it the other way.
It's Aveneer's team, not mine; criticizing would 
only be asking for trouble. "Use my tent," he said. 
"See you in the morning." He called for Erek, then 
had the boy lead Aveneer away.
Behind Karl, Walter Slovotsky cleared his throat.
"I thought you were going to see to the horses," 
Karl said.
"I delegated it. Just as well I did, Karl—I heard 
that last." Slovotsky shook his head slowly. "I don't 
like the idea of riding out. I thought we were going 
to wait for Ellegon."
"And I thought he'd be here by now. We can't 
wait forever; we move out day after tomorrow, 
regardless. He'll probably catch up with us en route."
I hope, he completed the thought. Though 
Aveneer's people had plenty of rounds and powder, 
that could be eaten up quickly in battle. Besides, 
since Chak had died, there had been nobody around 
who Karl could talk freely and comfortably with. 
Being around Slovotsky wasn't the same as being 
around Chak or Ellegon.
"He'd better." Slovotsky nodded grimly. "And 
Aveneer's team? How are you going to split them 
up?"
"I'm not. He and Frandred know their people 
better than I do, and they're all used to the way he 
splits them into three equal-sized teams. We're better 
off adapting to him, rather than the other way 
around. I'm going to stay in overall command—"
"Surprise, surprise."
"—and keep Valeran and his squad with me. 
We'll scatter Pirondael's mercenaries among 
Aveneer's squads."
"Sounds okay."
"One more thing: I want to get as close as 
possible to the keep before we're spotted. I guess 
that means we'll have to travel at night."
"That won't do it, not all by itself. You'll need 
somebody extremely talented—ahem!—riding 
ahead, doing recon and watcher removal."
"Can we do it?"
"Maybe." Slovotsky considered it for a moment. 
"They've set out watchers along the Prince's Road, 
so the obvious route is out. I'm sure that they've also 
got some in the forest, but not as many. Besides, the 
visibility is poor; we'll be able to slip by a lot. If 
you're willing to go the forest route, I'll try to clear 
the way, about half a day ahead. But I can't do it by 
myself. Not and have a half-decent chance of getting 
all the watchmen."
"That's the problem. If one reports back we're in 
trouble."
"It's worse than that. Think it through, Karl: If 
one of them doesn't report back on time, that's a 
warning. But that kind of warning should move 
slowly; we can probably outrun it." He paused, 
closing his eyes. "Ten. Give me Piell and nine others 
who can move quietly, all of us with the fastest 
horses available. Crossbows and longbows—if we 
need to use guns, then we've already blown it."
"Any chance of pulling it off?"
"Fifty-fifty. If Aveneer's people are any good. Do 
I get my choice of backup?"
"Talk to Frandred, but he'll want to clear any 
selections with Aveneer."
"Fine. How about Tennetty?"
"No." Karl shook his head. "She's my second."
"You'll trust her with your back?"
"Looks like it, no?"



CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Siege
He either fears his fate too much,
or his deserts are small,
That puts it not unto the touch
To win or lose it all.
—James Graham, Marquess of Montrose

During peacetime, a trip from Biemestren to Furnael 
Keep would have been a slow, pleasant five-day ride 
along the Prince's Road, their nights spent in the inns 
scattered along the road, each inn an easy day's ride 
from the next. They would have slept on fluffy down 
mattresses in dry, airy sleeping rooms, taking their 
meals at the common table along with merchants 
and other travelers.
But this wasn't a normal time. None of the inns 
were open; trade along the Prince's Road was 
suspended for the duration of the war.
They had to try to avoid being spotted. So they 
traveled at night, eating cold meals when they 
camped at daybreak. Daytime was for sleeping, the 
night for traveling, carefully, quietly, trusting to 
Walter Slovotsky and his scouts to kill or capture 
any watchers, to ride back to warn of any 
concentration of troops, or to tie white cloths at eye 
level on the proper side of forks in the paths, blazing 
the trail in the only way that they could follow at 
night.
It took a full ten days to get from the outskirts of 
Biemestren to where the forest broke on cleared 
farmland in barony Furnael. Ten days of interrupted 
sleep during the day, uninterrupted hours of 
plodding on horseback at night.

In the distance, the battered keep rose above the 
morning fog. From his hiding place just within the 
tree line, Karl could see the charred remnants of a 
siege tower against the south wall, the stone near it 
blackened, some merlons cracked, others broken and 
tumbled to the ground below.
The keep was battered, yes, but not broken. 
Several of Furnael's soldiers stood watch on the 
battlements, occasionally peering out an embrasure 
to try a chancy crossbow shot at one of the Holts 
below.
Slovotsky had been right: The Holts were 
tunneling, and that meant trouble.
Karl swore softly, then stopped himself. It could 
have been worse. There were basically four ways for 
the Holtish to lay siege to the castle. First, they 
could just try to starve the defenders out. That would 
be a long and drawn-out process, one that the Holts 
had undoubtedly discarded immediately.
Thank goodness for small blessings. That would 
have been most dangerous for Karl and his people; if 
the Holts were taking a passive view about attacking 
the keep, they would likely be ready to repel a 
relieving force.
The Holts' second option was to try getting over 
the walls, either by siege towers, ladders, climbing 
ropes, or some combination. The charred remnants 
of one siege tower showed that they had tried that, 
and it had failed; the lack of further tower or ladder 
construction suggested that the Holts had abandoned 
that idea.
The third possibility was for the Holts to try to 
break the walls of the castle or force the gate. They 
could do it with rams, or with siege engines like 
catapults and onagers.
Karl had been hoping that the Holts had switched 
to that. It would be the easiest technique for Karl to 
counter; a quick attack on the siege engines would 
leave them in flames.
But the Holts had chosen the fourth method: They 
were mining, attempting either to break into the keep 
at a point which they hoped would be a surprise, or 
simply to undermine the walls and collapse them.
The chained workers were likely captured 
Furnael slaves or freefarmers, now forced to work 
for the Holtish, which explained why the watchmen 
on the walls didn't simply fire their bows at the 
workers bringing wheelbarrows loaded with rocks 
and dirt from the tunnels.
Doesn't look good, and that's a fact.
Karl worked himself back from the tree line and 
made his way into the woods to the clearing where 
Walter, his outriders, and Tennetty stood waiting 
with their horses.
The problem was one of coordination. Between 
Karl's people and Furnael's warriors, they probably 
had force enough to disperse the Holts, despite the 
fact that the Holts probably had them outmanned. 
Home guns were more accurate than slaver 
blunderbusses, and a score of sharpshooters on the 
keep's ramparts would quickly make the notion of an 
active siege unattractive. Combined with a couple 
hundred mounted troops that could strike anytime, 
anywhere, the Furnael/Home forces should present a 
strong enough threat to scare the Holts off, or kill 
them all, if necessary. But in order for it to work, the 
keep's defenders would have to know that they had 
allies out here, and Furnael—or whoever was 
commanding the defenders, if he was dead—would 
have to agree to cooperate, to coordinate.
And even so, it would be bloody. "I read 
something once, something that concluded two 
armies of roughly equal strength meeting is a recipe 
for disaster," Karl said. "You know where that 
comes from?"
"Sorry," Walter Slovotsky said. "Sounds familiar, 
though." He raised an eyebrow. "You've got 
something better in mind?"
"Yup. Two things. First, we have to do some 
damage to the Holts, to demonstrate our credibility. 
Second, we've got to get someone close to the wall 
with a voice and a note—and that calls for a major 
diversion."
"So? You're going to try something tricky. Maybe 
a combination ambush and bluff?"
Karl smiled. "Almost right. A combination feint, 
decoy, ambush, and double bluff." He turned to 
Tennetty. "You willing to take a few chances?"
She nodded. "As many as you are, Karl 
Cullinane."
Good, he thought, here's where you can die to 
settle your score for Chak. You deserve—
He caught himself. No, that wasn't right. There 
was enough evil in the world, more than enough. 
There was no need to add to it by betraying one of 
his own people.
"Tennetty," he said, "ride back and tell Aveneer 
to set out guards with crossbows, then bed 
everybody down until dusk. I'll want him to bring 
his people forward then. Dig up eight volunteers 
who don't mind trying something a bit risky, and 
bring them back with you at dusk—oh, and bring 
Erek, too."
"Make that seven volunteers, Tennetty," 
Slovotsky said. "I haven't volunteered for a long 
time; I want to make sure I remember how."
"No." Karl shook his head. "Before this is over, 
you're going to remember why it's been so long. 
Besides, I've got something else for you. Get 
moving, Tennetty. Remember, it's eight volunteers, 
with their horses."
Slovotsky stared into his face. "What are you up 
to, Karl? Am I supposed to sneak through the Holts' 
camp while the fight is going on, or is it something 
even more idiotic?"
"How did you guess?" He jerked his thumb over 
his shoulder. "Go back into the woods and get some 
sleep. You're going to need it."

A cool night breeze whispered through the 
branches, caressed his face.
The night was clear and almost cloudless. Which 
was just as well, for once; rain would make it 
anywhere from difficult to impossible for Karl's 
people to reload.
He patted at Stick's neck, then reached across to 
check the short horn bow lashed to his saddle horn, 
and the quiver, crammed full of short arrows, that 
was stuck tightly in his rifle boot. There would be no 
guns, not for the first rush. Guns would announce 
who they were, and that had to be avoided.
He swore, uncomfortable in the cold steel 
breastplate and helmet, but there wasn't a remedy for 
that, not this time. This was one time that putting up 
with his armor's weight was going to be a necessity, 
even if the damn breastplate and its underlying 
padding did seem to weigh half a ton. It would 
deflect anything but an unlucky point-blank shot, 
and it was more than likely that he'd need that luck 
and that breastplate before too long.
He looked over at Tennetty. "Think we've given 
Slovotsky enough time?" It would take Walter a 
while to work his way close enough to the keep to 
take advantage of the diversion.
She nodded.
"Then let's do it." He hoisted himself to the 
saddle, then leaned forward and reached down to 
hitch at his greaves. The damn armor kept slipping.
He made sure that his sword was firmly seated in 
its scabbard, although he hoped that he wouldn't 
actually have to use it on this run. If Karl ended up 
in sword range of any of the Holts, that would mean 
that everything had fallen apart. Still, he'd rather 
have it and not use it than the other way around.
At his right, Tennetty and the eight others were 
already mounted, their horses snorting and pawing 
the ground in impatience. No guns for them, either; 
they carried only crossbows and bolts, except for 
Bonard, who had a horn bow like Karl's.
Aveneer signaled for Erek and Frandred to raise 
their lamps; the two mounted them on the trees on 
either side of the path, the baffles barely letting 
traces of light peep through.
"Let's go," Karl whispered, digging in his heels 
and ducking his head as Stick stepped over the stone 
fence and into the fallow field, the others following.
He spurred the horse into a canter, and then a trot.

There were things about This Side that still 
amazed Karl, even after all this time. The number of 
soldiers around the keep, for one. Back at school, 
there had been dorms with more people than the 
thousand or so laying siege to Furnael's keep.
It seemed strange that something as impressive-
sounding as a siege was capable of being carried out 
by only a thousand or so soldiers. Maybe it really 
shouldn't have; hell, Richard Lionheart's Crusade 
expedition hadn't numbered more than eight 
thousand, and that was a force that had been raised 
throughout all of England. Maybe it was reasonable 
that the whole Holtun-Bieme war was being fought 
by just a few tens of thousands of soldiers on both 
sides.
But it still looked funny.
The Holtish commander had divided his force of 
a thousand men into four groups, each one camped 
just out of bowshot of one of the four walls of the 
keep.
They hadn't been divided equally, of course. That 
would have been foolish. The largest group, slightly 
more than a third of the Holtish force, was camped 
opposite the keep's main gate. Another two hundred 
and fifty were planted across from the minor gate, 
the two remaining groups of about a hundred and 
fifty each camped opposite the remaining two walls.
It was an intelligent arrangement, one that 
prevented the keep's defenders from safely 
attempting any sort of horseback smash-and-retreat 
sortie; in the time that it would have taken Furnael's 
forces to raise even the small portcullis, both of the 
smaller Holtish forces could have joined the 
attackers at the rear gate and used the opportunity to 
force an entry.
Furnael and his people were sealed in, tight.
Karl rode slowly across the fallow field toward 
the main force of the Holts, the others strung out to 
his left.
Off in the distance, he could barely see the main 
gate of the keep, its iron portcullis visible against the 
flickering flames of a watchfire inside the keep. Karl 
had ridden through that gate years before; now, he 
hoped that Slovotsky had worked close enough to it 
to alert those inside when the time was right.
He transferred the reins to his teeth and unlashed 
his bow, nocking an arrow.
The Holts clearly weren't ready for an attack from 
outside; Karl had closed to within two hundred yards 
of the guards' fire when a soldier leaped to his feet 
and shouted a warning into the night.
"Do it," Karl said, drawing back the arrow to its 
steel head, then sending it whistling off into the 
night. Karl was an indifferent shot with a shortbow 
or longbow; no sense in trying for an accuracy that 
he didn't have, not from Stick's pitching back.
He drew another arrow and fired it at a forty-five-
degree angle, aiming as best he could for the center 
of the encampment.
Tennetty steadied her crossbow and pulled the 
trigger. A Holtish soldier screamed and grabbed at 
the bolt in his thigh, then fell forward.
"Aim higher, dammit!" Karl yelled. "This isn't the 
time to play sharpshooter." A low shot would just 
plow into the ground; a high one might find flesh 
deeper in the camp.
"No closer, anyone," he said. The nearest of the 
Holts were at just about maximum effective range 
for the slaver rifles.
He let another shaft fly, noting with surprise and 
pleasure that as the arrow fell it caught a Holtish 
soldier in the throat.
Screams and shouts echoed through the camp. 
Karl unstrapped his lantern from his saddle and 
dashed it to the ground. Stick danced away from the 
flaring fire that marked his position, just in case any 
of the Holts had missed the point.
As gunshots sounded from the camp, Karl quelled 
an urge to dive from the saddle. At this range, the 
enemy's guns were next to useless. They would have 
to mount up and give chase. Which was just fine.
"Ready another volley." He nocked an arrow and 
waited for the crossbowmen to load their weapons. 
"Aim high, now, and... fire!"
Nine bows went off in a volley, immediately 
rewarded by more cries and screams from the Holts.
It had been only a few moments since the fight 
had started, but already a troop of a hundred, 
perhaps a hundred and twenty, soldiers were 
mounting up, preparing to repel the attack. Good. 
Both the size and the speed of the troop spoke well 
for the abilities of the Holtish commander, and Karl 
was counting on him to be good at his job.
"Secure weapons and prepare to run," he called 
out, already tying down his own bow.
One of Karl's horsemen started to bring his horse 
around.
"Hold your position!" Karl snapped. "Run before 
I tell you to and I'll shoot you down myself."
It was going to be tricky. They would have to 
draw the Holtish along with them, not letting them 
get close enough to do any damage, not 
outdistancing them altogether. About ten seconds, he 
thought. Nine. Eight. Seven.
To hell with it. "Run for it!" He wheeled Stick 
about and galloped for the trees, the others following 
him.
Their baffles now fully aside, the lanterns at the 
tree line beckoned to him; the path broke through the 
forest exactly halfway between the two. Stick 
galloped for the path, hooves throwing soft earth 
into the air as the stallion leaped over the low stone 
wall.
It was fortunate that the path back into the forest 
was straight: Stick's hooves had trouble finding it; 
branches and brambles beat against Karl's helmet 
and face until he had to close his eyes tightly for fear 
of losing them. Behind him, the others crashed 
through into the forest.
A signal rocket screamed into the sky; Karl 
opened his eyes to see it explode high above the 
trees in a shower of white-and-blue fire.
Aveneer's basso cut through the night: "Fire!"
Seventy rifles went off in a volley, their almost 
simultaneous whip-cracks sounding more like a 
sudden flurry of popcorn popping than anything 
else.
Horses and men screamed.
The path widened. Karl pulled Stick to a stop and 
dismounted from the horse's back, while Tennetty 
and the others galloped beyond him.
"Second section," Aveneer's basso boomed, 
somewhere off in the distance, "fire!"
Again, the crack of seventy rifles firing in a 
volley sounded; Karl dashed back down the path.
Aveneer's first section, the one that had fired the 
initial volley, advanced over the dark and bloody 
ground, their rifles now slung, using their swords 
and knives to administer the coup de grace to 
wounded animals and humans alike. Of the hundred 
cavalrymen who had pursued Karl and his nine 
warriors, barely a dozen had survived unscathed, and 
those few were riding hell-for-leather back toward 
the main Holtish camp.
Karl began stripping off his armor as Erek ran up 
with Karl's rifle, pistols, and a large leather pouch; 
he accepted Karl's breastplate, helmet, and greaves 
in return.
"Message to Aveneer—deliver, wait for a 
response," Karl said. "Begins: No casualties on my 
team; Tennetty and others moving into position. 
Orders: Advance by section, volley fire and 
leapfrog. Send another runner back with Erek. 
Query: Any casualties? Ends. Go."
The boy ran off.
Karl primed his rifle's pan. Now we'll see if the 
third part works. The first part of his plan had 
worked like a charm: A hundred Holts lay dead on 
the ground, and the Holtish were buzzing like bees. 
The second part had either succeeded or failed by 
now; either Slovotsky had or hadn't been able to take 
advantage of the distraction to get within throwing 
and shouting range of one of Furnael's warriors 
manning the ramparts of the keep.
But the third part depended on just how good the 
Holtish commander was. When what had appeared 
to be a small Biemish raiding party had approached, 
his first response had been the conservative one of 
sending out an apparently overlarge troop of cavalry.
But then, when the guns had gone off, his whole 
picture of what was going on would have, and 
should have, changed. As far as the commander had 
known, his side was the only one in this war that had 
guns—the only other force in the world with guns 
and powder was Karl Cullinane and his warriors—so 
he would identify Karl as his opponent. Or, perhaps, 
he would consider the possibility that his slaver 
allies had turned on him.
Either way, it would be a whole new 
development. And what would a good commander 
do when confronted with an attacking force of 
indeterminate size?
In another tactical situation the right response 
would be different, but here the commander knew he 
was already up against the keep's defenders, and had 
arrayed his forces for a siege; the conservative 
response, the safe reaction, would be to withdraw his 
entire force along the Prince's Road toward Holtun 
and barony Adahan, probably sending a cavalry 
detachment through to make sure that the way was 
clear.
His command should be more important to him 
than his mission. If he was good enough.
Karl stepped out through the trees and into the 
starlight. While the cavalrymen mounted up, a large 
contingent of Holtish soldiers were setting up a 
quick line defense, bringing guns and bows around 
to face Aveneer's slowly advancing sections.
"First section, fire!" Aveneer called out.
Karl crossed his fingers. It didn't look good; the 
Holts were setting up for defense, not withdrawal.
"You've got guts," he whispered to his unseen 
adversary. "Too damn much guts." Hadn't the 
bastard decided that he was outnumbered? Was he 
about to try a last run, himself?
Erek ran up, one of Aveneer's younger warriors 
beside him.
"He says," Erek said, panting, "'Understood; 
firing by your order. Casualties low: seven wounded, 
none dead.'" Erek shook his head. "I don't think he's 
seen everything, Karl. Some of those horsemen 
broke through the line."
Easily a mile away, two more signal rockets 
momentarily brightened the night, as if to say, We're 
on our way.
Karl let himself ignore the report on casualties for 
the time being. I'll worry about it later, when I know 
how many lives my being clever cost this time. "It 
looks like Tennetty and the rest of the horseborne 
squad got to their signal rockets," he said. "And 
made it into position."
"Yes, Karl." The boy smiled. "Will the Holts 
run?"
"Count on it," he said.
I hope so, his thought echoed. Okay, General 
Patton. How about now?
"Second section, fire!"
That started a rout. The small detachment camped 
opposite the gateless northern wall broke and ran, 
some soldiers fighting each other for possession of a 
horse, others dropping their weapons and running 
down the road.
Karl couldn't see the other small detachment, but 
he was willing to bet that they'd be the next to break.
The group camped opposite the keep's rear gate 
began to move out, but in an orderly fashion: foot 
soldiers double-timing toward the road, cavalrymen 
with crossbows riding ahead to clear the way. 
Apparently their commander had decided that 
discretion was the better part of valor.
Good. But the main force wasn't moving, and 
with the one remaining small force, those almost 
three hundred men were enough to hold off Karl's 
people indefinitely, unless Karl was willing to shed a 
lot of Aveneer's men's blood.
"Erek—message to Valeran, return. Begins: Do 
it. Ends."
Again, the boy dashed off, this time in a different 
direction.
This was the last trick Karl had up his sleeve. If it 
didn't work, things were going to get very messy. If 
the hundred men now under Valeran's command 
weren't enough to persuade the Holtish commander 
that there was a huge force opposing him, Karl 
would have to count on Slovotsky's being able to get 
more than his note through to Furnael, on Furnael's 
believing him, and on Furnael's being able to take 
effective action.
All of which wasn't too likely, not in 
combination.
Well off on the right flank, Valeran's group 
stepped out of the forest, firing in volley.
But the Holts held, firing and reloading their guns 
and bows.
And then it happened: The main gate to the keep 
began to creak open, accompanied by battle cries 
from within the keep's walls.
The Holts had had enough; their line broke.
Karl beckoned at Aveneer's runner. "To Aveneer, 
and return. Begins: Belay volley fire. All reload, 
advance. Targets only by eye and ear. Ends. Go." 
The runner ran off.
At a brightening on the horizon, Karl's head 
jerked around. A gout of flame scoured the eastern 
sky.
Flame? What the hell was going on?
*What... think... on?*
"Ellegon!"
He could barely hear the mental voice as the 
dragon roared across the sky, well above the range 
of the most powerful crossbows as he vented fire 
and steam, hastening the Holts in their headlong 
flight.
*The air cavalry is here. I see I'm a bit late. Hope 
I didn't inconvenience you too much.*
No, not at all. It gave me the chance to figure out 
how about two hundred and fifty could send four 
times that number running, Karl thought, letting his 
mental voice drip with sarcasm. Thanks for the 
experience, Ellegon.
*No problem.*
Karl felt the dragon probe more deeply.
*I'm sorry about Chak. We'll have to talk about 
him.*
Later. Business first. "Erek, get over here—move 
it, boy. Message for Aveneer, return. Begins: Belay 
attack. Nobody takes a step forward of your first 
section until further orders."
With the Holts on the run, and with Ellegon in the 
skies to make sure they kept running, there was no 
reason to take any chance on getting someone killed 
by friendly fire. Furnael's people had been under 
siege for a while; it was likely that they were more 
than a little trigger-happy. "Healing draughts to be 
dispensed as needed," he went on. "Ends. Message 
for Valeran. Begins: Acquire three prisoners for 
interrogation. Keep your distance from Biemish until 
further orders. Ends. Go."
His neck muscles were already starting to unkink. 
It was as though a huge weight had been lifted from 
his shoulders; Ellegon's presence in his mind buoyed 
him like a lifejacket.
Lightning crackled from the dragon's back, the 
white ribbons descending into the midst of the 
fleeing Holts, now more mob than army.
Lightning? Ellegon must have picked up Henrad 
and—no, not lightning. Henrad wasn't up to 
anything that difficult.
Ellegon, tell me Andrea isn 't with you.
There was no answer.
Please.
*It was her idea, Karl, not mine. The same for 
Ahira. I told them you wouldn't like it,* he said 
petulantly.
Ahira? What the hell is going on at Home? Are 
the children—
*The children are fine. Kirah and all of them are 
staying with the Engineers for the time being.* 
Ellegon banked, wheeling across the sky. *Let me 
bring her to you—*
"No!" Stay the hell up in the sky until everything 
settles down.
He would have to talk to Furnael, and—
No, better—tell Aveneer to move one of his 
companies back to the campsite, and then you can 
land there. First things first. He had intended to go 
down and talk to the baron, but this had to take 
priority. Can you reach Slovotsky?
*Yes.*
Tell him I'll be a while. Then get your scaly self 
over to the LZ, on the double.
*Yes, Karl. It's good to see you again, too.*
Despite everything, he smiled. "Right.... Hey, 
you—yes, you. Get me my horse."



CHAPTER TWENTY
Several Acquaintances Renewed
Only the brave know how to forgive....
—Laurence Sterne

Karl pulled the stallion to a halt, then swung his leg 
over and lowered himself slowly to the ground. He 
reached up and tied Stick's reins around a branch of 
a tree; unlike Carrot, Stick wouldn't stay ground-
hitched, although the stallion usually respected a 
light hitching.
*Are you sure enough of that that if your horse 
tries to run, I can eat it?*
Ellegon sprawled on the grass, his massive 
saurian head cradled on his crossed forelegs.
No. And why is it that you always want to snack 
on my horses?
*Everyone always says that when it comes to 
horseflesh, you've got great taste.*
Apparently, the dragon had included Andy-Andy 
in on the conversation. She groaned as she stooped 
to pick up a fist-sized stone and bounced it off his 
thick hide, before turning back to her work.
Ahira and Thomen Furnael sat on the grass, 
resting against one of the dragon's treetrunk forelegs, 
while Andy-Andy and Ranella directed ten of 
Aveneer's warriors in the unpacking of the dragon's 
harnesses and the huge wicker basket.
"Leave that keg alone," Ranella said, indicating a 
small one that was tied tightly into a padded nook of 
the basket. "Do not try to move it, do not drop 
anything on it, do not even look cross-eyed at it."
"Okay, what the hell's going on?" Karl said, 
glaring at Ahira and Andy-Andy. "I sent for—"
"Shh." Andy-Andy smiled as she threw her arms 
around his neck and gave him a quick kiss. 
"Mendicants can't be choosicants. Hey, you—easy 
with that box." She pushed away from him and 
walked over to where Ranella was directing the 
unloading.
"Help is what you sent for, and you got it," the 
dwarf snapped. "As I remember it, nobody elected 
you God, Karl."
"Just what are you doing here, Mr. Mayor?"
"Call me Ahira." The dwarf shrugged. "I'm not 
mayor anymore. I lost a vote of confidence four 
tendays ago. Which is why I'm here—"
It hit Karl like a slap. "You what?"
"I lost. Chton called another vote of confidence, 
and a lot of the farmers who would have voted the 
way you wanted them to didn't vote for me." He 
shrugged again.
"You left Home with Chton as mayor? You—"
"Do I look, stupid? I didn't have enough votes to 
hold on to the job, but the joiners couldn't get 
enough support to win a clear majority, either."
"So who—"
"Riccetti, of course."
"Now, wait a minute. How did you get him past 
Chton's faction?"
Ahira turned to look at Andy-Andy. "Should I tell 
him? Or did you really want to try that experiment?"
"Experiment?"
She ignored him for a moment, talking quietly to 
Ranella. "You jan handle the rest of it, yes?"
"Yes, Andrea."
Andy-Andy turned and walked over to Karl. "The 
experiment is fo see if someone can actually die of 
curiosity."
Enough. How safe are we?
*Not an unfriendly thought as far as my mind can 
reach. Why?—oh.* The dragon snorted, parboiling a 
stretch of grass.
"Ahira, I don't want anybody going down toward 
Furnael Keep until the mopping-up is done. When 
that happens, you can take Thomen to his father, but 
not until then."
The boy spoke up. "But, Karl Cullinane, this is 
my home. I know—"
"You may know every rock, tree, and bramble, 
boy, but we're on the fringes of a war. I'm not going 
to have to tell your father that I got his other son 
killed, understood?" He turned back to Ahira and 
switched to English. "Slovotsky is down there; 
coordinate things through him. Keep the kid alive, 
kapish?"
"Yes, Karl." The dwarf hefted his battleaxe. "It's 
good to be back in business."
Karl snorted. "A hell of a lot you remember." He 
walked over to the carrying basket and pulled out 
three blankets, throwing them over his shoulder. 
Without a word, he scooped up Andy-Andy in his 
arms.
If I remember right, there's a tiny clearing about 
a quarter mile this way. Tune us out, and make sure 
we're left alone.
*Yes, Karl. Have fun.*
"Karl!" She struggled against his grip. "What do 
you think you're doing—"
"It's pretty damn obvious what I'm doing, Andrea. 
The question is, do you intend to stop me?"
"And if I do?"
He shrugged. "Then you will."
"That's fine, then." She leaned her head against 
hischest, "Just so I have a choice. I missed you too, 
you know."
"Don't tell me, show me."

Andy-Andy peered over his shoulder. "We're out 
of sight, Karl. You can put me down now," she said. 
Her voice was flat, businesslike.
He lowered her legs to the ground, then released 
her. "You didn't buy the act?"
She shook her head. "I know you too well. That 
pseudomacho act probably fooled everyone except 
maybe Ahira. I still don't know why you bother with 
it, though."
"Got to keep up the image, beautiful." He sighed. 
Getting the job done depended on whether others 
would follow him, and that depended in large part 
on his image. There was another side to it, too: 
Sending his friends out to die was bad enough; 
public breastbeating wouldn't make it one whit 
better. But this wasn't public.
He swallowed. "Let me give it to you straight: 
Chak was killed outside of Enkiar."
A brief intake of breath, and then: "How?"
He shook his head. "He... decided that stopping 
the slaver powder from getting through was more 
important than his own life." He pounded his fist 
against a tree, sending chips of bark flying away. 
"The little bastard..."
He dropped to his knees. As she crouched beside 
him and wrapped her arms around his neck, he 
closed his eyes, buried his face against her breasts, 
and finally let the tears flow.

After a while, she reached into her robes and 
rummaged through an inside pocket for a cloth, then 
handed it to him. "Better wipe your nose, and give 
your eyes a chance to clear up, hero," she said, her 
voice infinitely gentle, despite her words. "You'll 
blow your image to hell otherwise."
"Thanks." He forced a calm tone. "Now, tell me: 
What the hell is going on back Home? Did Ahira 
blow the vote, or was Chton too good for him?"
She shook her head. "I think he blew it, maybe 
even deliberately. Gwellin's finally decided to go 
back to Endell—" She raised an eyebrow. "That isn't 
a surprise to you?"
"No," Karl said. "He mentioned it a while back."
"In any case, he invited Ahira to go along with 
him. Ahira said no, but... after that, it seemed like he 
was... deliberately going out of his way to annoy 
people. You remember the dispute between Lou and 
Keremin?"
"Something about some farmland?"
"Right. Keremin was in the wrong, but it's an 
honest disagreement. When Ahira manhandled 
him—in front of a dozen farmers, Karl—and told 
him to stop trying to steal the fields..." She shook 
her head. "He earned himself another enemy. And 
then he insisted on working out with Daven. Ahira 
beat him badly in front of his own men."
Was it conscious or not? Had the dwarf 
deliberately been trying to get himself thrown out of 
office, or had it been an unconscious unwillingness 
to hold on to the responsibility?
He didn't ask. If anyone would know, Ellegon 
would—best to save it for later.
"I tried to smooth it over," she went on, "but I 
didn't get far. When the town meeting came up, 
Ahira just didn't have the votes, not without you 
there to back him up."
"So how did you get enough of the Joiners to 
agree to Riccetti as mayor? Magic?"
"Better than that." She grinned. "Sneakiness. I 
had Riccetti explain to one of Chton's Joiners that 
the Engineers weren't interested in any trade with 
Therranj, not if Chton became mayor. Apparently, 
Chton figured out that Khoral wouldn't take that at 
all well, so he decided to outsmart us: Chton 
nominated Riccetti. Clever move, really: It satisfies 
Khoral by letting him try to negotiate with Riccetti 
directly, and lets Chton drive a wedge between us 
and Lou."
"But Chton ought to know that won't work. Lou's 
loyalty isn't in question." Is it?
"Well, it wasn't." She breathed on her fingernails 
and buffed them against her chest. "Uhh... it seems 
that Riccetti has long had a horrible crush on me, 
and that he made some moves on me in your 
absence. And when I was overheard telling him to 
keep his filthy hands off me..."
Cute. A phony division for Chton to try to 
exploit. But just a bit too tricky. "I think you've been 
hanging around Walter Slovotsky for too long."
"Oh?"
"That's his style, not yours."
"And where is it written that I can't learn?"
He didn't answer that. Obviously she could learn 
the sneaky side of Home politics. Matter of fact, 
there's a lot she could teach me. My natural 
inclination would have been to stick my thumb in 
Chton's eye. "Last question: Why did Ahira come 
along with you?"
She didn't answer for a moment. "I don't know; 
he just volunteered. Gwellin agreed to hold off going 
back to Endell until he returns. Tell me, if you had to 
guess what one thing he'd miss most about Home, 
what would it be?"
"Close call—it'd be either Janie or Walter." Karl 
sucked air in through his teeth. "He's going to ask 
Walter to come along with him, and bring Kirah and 
Janie."
She nodded. "That's my guess."
Damn. Well, there wasn't anything that could be 
done about it now. But maybe, later on, either Ahira 
could be talked out of asking, or Slovotsky could be 
talked out of saying yes. "Do me a favor. Keep your 
head down and your eyes open, okay?"
"Okay." She smiled thinly up at him. "But tell 
me: What would you say if I told you to do the same 
thing?"
"I'd say that I already do." He helped her to her 
feet. "C'mon, let's join the others."
A smile creeping over her face, she shook her 
head. "No. I've got a better idea." Extending a 
tanned forefinger, she ran a fingernail up his arm. 
"Since we're trying to maintain an image and all..."

Fingercombing the dirt and leaves from his hair, 
Karl led the way back to the clearing.
Ranella had most of the gear unpacked, and 
spread out on tarpaulins on the ground. There 
seemed to be about two hundred guns, plus several 
kegs that undoubtedly contained powder and shot, as 
well as some lead ingots, no doubt for bullets. He 
nodded silent approval; running bullets was easy 
enough, and ingots took up less space than premade 
rounds.
"Karl Cullinane," Ranella said, nodding. "It is 
good to see you, Karl."
He raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth to 
ask why an apprentice Engineer didn't treat a 
journeyman with a bit more formality, but caught 
himself. Riccetti must have promoted her during 
Karl's absence.
"Journeyman Ranella," he said, returning her nod. 
"It's good to see you, as well."
Her face fell. She had expected him to snap at 
her, and had been looking forward to flaunting her 
new status at him.
"What have we here?" he asked.
"Quite a lot, Karl. Fifty-two pistols, one hundred 
and sixty shotguns, thirty-three rifles—"
"Where did you get all these?"
"You said to bring every weapon we could, so 
we... requisitioned Daven's team's old rifles and 
most of your squads' weapons. Nehera is working 
full-time on barrels until they are replaced. 
Apprentices are taking care of the stocks, locks, 
rifling, and boring."
That still would be one hell of a lot of work for 
the dwarf. Turning a flat bar of iron into a rifle 
barrel took hundreds of welding heats, and even 
though Nehera could work on several barrels in 
rotation, he would have to sleep sometime.
Well, Karl would send word to Riccetti not to 
work Nehera too hard.
*Don't be silly.* Ellegon snorted, sending 
Aveneers' men reaching reflexively for their 
swordhilts. *Lou Riccetti is not as old and wise as 
some people, but he is no fool, either. He will see to 
Nehera's health.*
Karl nodded. Good point. "What else do we 
have?"
"Three thousand rounds in that sack, Karl—lead 
ingots, a bullet-running kit. Those two barrels 
contain gunpowder—and the Engineer sent along a 
surprise."
"Yes?" Karl raised an eyebrow.
"Do you see those two small kegs, Karl?"
"Yes."
"One of them contains a gross of the Engineer's 
new grenades. They're loaded with... guncotton." 
She raised a palm. "The Engineer said to inform you 
that he has not solved the instability problem—but 
we have kept it cold." She shrugged. "He won't 
swear how long it'll go without self-detonating, but 
he said he would be surprised if any of them go 
before another six tendays. Now, Karl, the other 
hogshead contains very carefully packaged 
detonators—"
"Detonators?"
"Fulminate of mercury, Karl. Silver fulminate 
goes off if you blink at it. This is stable. Relatively."
He repressed a shudder. Fulminate of mercury 
was touchy stuff. Almost anything could set it off—
heat, friction, a sudden blow. "Any special 
instructions for the detonators?"
"No, Karl." She shook her head. "Other than not 
to insert the detonators into the grenades—or keep 
them near the grenades—until you're ready to strike 
them."
"Strike them?"
She smiled. "He said that would impress you. 
He's rigged a sulfur-tipped fuse. You rub the fuse tip 
against a rough surface until it catches fire, and then 
throw." She held up a cautionary finger. "There is no 
guarantee that it won't explode on impact, though."
Surprise, surprise. Still, that sounded good. 
"Assuming that things go well down there, I'll 
requisition some space in Furnael Keep for a 
magazine—mmm, make that several magazines." It 
would be best to keep the grenades spread out; if one 
self-detonated, it would send the others sky-high. 
"You'll take charge of that—talk to Frandred and 
Aveneer about guards."
"Understood, Karl."
Ranella had been giving his first name a thorough 
workout. He let a chuckle escape, then dismissed her 
questioning look with a shake of his head. "Very 
well. Later, I'd like to—"
The pounding of a horse's hooves sounded from 
down the path.
Erek rode up, then descended from the saddle of 
his mottled pony in what was more of a barely 
controlled fall than a voluntary dismount. 
"Aveneer... reports," he said, gasping for breath.
"Trouble?"
Erek shook his head. "No. He says..." He paused, 
panting, then tried to start again.
Karl held up a hand. "Ta havath, Erek," he said. 
Sometimes, he thought, it feels like I spend half my 
life telling people to take it easy. "If there's no 
problem, then take a moment and catch your breath."
Erek nodded, then waited while his breathing 
settled down. "Aveneer reports... that all is clear. 
Walter... Slovotsky reports that the baron will... see 
you."
"Andy? Could you get Erek some water?" He 
clapped a hand to the boy's shoulder. "I want you to 
rest, Erek. I won't need a runner for a while."
"Yes... Karl."
Karl beckoned to Thomen. "Let's get you to your 
father, boy."

Baron Zherr Furnael was waiting for them just 
inside Furnael Keep's main gate, fifty of his warriors 
keeping him company while the rest manned the 
ramparts.
Karl almost didn't recognize the baron; the years 
hadn't treated Zherr Furnael well. Before, he had 
been a solidly built man, sporting a slight potbelly; 
now, his leather tunic hung on him loosely, as 
though it had been made for a larger man, a younger 
one, less skeletal.
Deep lines matted the baron's face; the whites of 
his eyes had developed a definite yellow tinge. 
Worse, Furnael had developed a nervous twitch 
around his left eye; he constantly seemed to be 
winking.
But there was still an echo of his old inner 
strength. He threw an arm around Thomen's 
shoulders for only a moment, then stood with his 
shoulders back, his spine ramrod-straight, his face 
somber as he faced Karl.
"Greetings, Karl Cullinane. It has been a long 
time." Furnael's voice was more fragile than it had 
been, but a trace of its old power was still there.
Karl dismounted, handing the reins to one of 
Furnael's men. He wasn't sure how Furnael would 
feel about him. Would the baron blame Karl for 
Rahff?
Right now, he needed Furnael's cooperation as 
much as the baron had needed Karl's help in 
breaking the siege; it took a great deal of effort not 
to break into an idiot smile when Furnael extended a 
hand.
The baron's grip was astonishingly weak. Karl 
tried to keep an acknowledgment of that from his 
face, then regretted his success when he saw the 
implied pity mirrored in Furnael's eyes.
Releasing Karl's hand, Furnael turned to one of 
his men and called for his horse. "We have much to 
discuss, Karl Cullinane. Will you ride with me?"
"Of course, Baron. I am at your service."
An echo of a smile pierced through the gloom 
that hung over Furnael like a shroud. "That, Karl 
Cullinane, remains to be seen."

Six years before, on the night that Furnael had 
indentured Rahff to Karl, the two of them had ridden 
down the road from Furnael Keep to the row of 
clean shacks that served as Furnael's agricultural 
slaves' quarters.
Although the question of whether or not that 
night was going to end with spilled blood had 
hovered over them like a crimson specter, it had 
been a pleasant ride: lush fields of corn and wheat 
had whispered gently in the night wind; they had 
talked idly, while Furnael had dismounted from 
Pirate's back to remove a stray stone from the 
smooth dirt road.
There had been changes. Now, ruined fields 
sprawled on either side of the deeply rutted road, the 
cornstalks trampled by booted feet and shod hooves. 
The Holts hadn't wanted head-high cornstalks 
obscuring their view, possibly hiding an enemy; 
what they hadn't harvested for their own use they 
had trampled or burned, like a jackal covering the 
remnants of a too-large meal with its own vomit.
Furnael pulled on the reins of the brown gelding, 
then dismounted, beckoning at Karl to do likewise.
"Not quite like last time, eh, Karl Cullinane?" 
The baron stared at him unblinkingly. "You look 
older."
"I feel older. About a million years, if not one 
whit wiser."
"Yes." Furnael sighed. "Yes, that's a feeling I can 
sympathize with. Remember when you offered to 
take on the Aershtyn raiders if I would free all the 
slaves in my barony?"
Karl nodded. "Maybe I should have tried harder 
to persuade you. I've often wondered about that."
"No." Furnael shook his head. "I wasn't... 
equipped to believe that you were serious. Not then. 
Not until word of you and your Home raiders 
trickled back. Many good men have died because I 
didn't believe you. Rahff, for one...." The baron 
stood silently for a moment. "Did you know that I 
had my best friend killed half a year ago?"
"No, I didn't." Karl shook his head. "Baron... 
Adahan of Holtun?"
"Yes. Vertum was one of Uldren's better 
strategists; it was necessary to order him 
assassinated." Furnael clenched his fists 
momentarily. "I am grateful that Bren is up north; 
perhaps at least Vertum's son will survive."
Karl breathed a sigh of relief. With Bren up north, 
at least he wouldn't have to kill Rahff's best friend.
Furnael chuckled hollowly, as though reading 
Karl's mind. "And what if someone else kills Bren? 
Will that make him any less dead?" He clapped a 
hand to Karl's shoulder. "We think alike, Karl 
Cullinane. Tell me: How did my son die?" the baron 
asked, his voice infinitely weary.
"I sent a letter with a trader, years ago," Karl said, 
toying with Stick's reins.
"Your letter only said that he died honorably, 
protecting another. How did he die, Karl Cullinane? 
You must tell me. I... need to know."
"Understood." Karl sucked air through his teeth. 
"Do you remember Aeia, Baron?"
Again, Furnael's face momentarily became an 
echo instead of a ghost of what it had been. "Call me 
Zherr, Karl. And yes, I remember her. The Mel child 
that you were returning to Melawei."
"She didn't stay in Melawei; she's my adopted 
daughter, now. A slaver was trying to kill her. Rahif 
stopped him. I don't know... maybe I hadn't trained 
him well enough; perhaps he just wasn't fast enough. 
Before I could intervene, the slaver... ran him 
through."
"He died quickly?"
"It must have been almost painless," Karl lied 
reflexively. Didn't Furnael have the right to know 
that his son had died in agony, his belly slit open by 
a slaver's sword?
Probably. But I'm not going to be the one to tell 
him.
"The man who killed him..." Furnael's eyes 
burned with an inner fire. "Did you...?"
"I broke the bastard's neck." Karl spread his 
hands. "With these hands, Zherr."
"Good. Now... it seems that what is left of my 
barony is in your debt. How can we repay it?"
"For one thing, all my people need food and rest. 
Aveneer's soldiers have been on a forced march for 
more days than they care to count. I'd like your 
people to see that they're fed, and given a chance to 
rest."
"Done. Your plan is to move on the Holts' slaver 
allies, I take it."
"Yes." And then to—somehow—shut this war 
down, deny the buzzards and the slavers their 
profits. "Have you heard of a burn-scarred slaver 
working with the Holts?"
"That I have." Furnael nodded. "Name of 
Ahrmin?"
"Right. He led the slaving raid in Melawei when 
we were there, and he's backing the Holts, providing 
them with their slaver gunpowder." Karl reached up 
and stroked Stick's muzzle. "I'll have one of my 
people interrogate the prisoners, and we'll see if we 
can find out exactly where on Mount Aershtyn the 
raiders are camped, precisely what resources they 
have there. I'm willing to bet that somewhere on 
Aershtyn is the guild's headquarters in the Middle 
Lands."
"But even so..." Furnael shrugged. "What good 
will that do? No matter where they're camped, 
there's no way you could approach them without 
being spotted at least a day in advance. With a 
chance to prepare for an attack—"
"You're forgetting Ellegon. While the main force 
is working its way up and hanging on to their 
attention, I'll have the dragon drop me and a few 
others in from behind." Karl hitched at his sword, 
forcing a smile. "If we can do it, if we can break the 
back of the Holt-slaver alliance, maybe the Holts 
will sue for peace."
That was the best shot, if it all could be done 
quickly. It would require Prince Pirondael and his 
barons to accept an unsatisfactory truce, in place of a 
war they were losing, while Holtish Prince Uldren 
and his barons would end the war knowing that the 
tide of battle was about to turn against them.
Winning a cease-fire instead of losing a war 
would make both sides feel very clever... for a 
while; within ten years, both sides would probably 
claim that they would have won if the peace hadn't 
been forced on them.
Karl repressed a sigh. He could spot at least three 
major weaknesses in his plan, but at least it had a 
chance.
Furnael held out a hand. "It is good to see you, 
my friend."
Karl accepted the baron's hand, and was pleased 
to find that the grip was stronger now. "Zherr..." He 
closed his eyes and forced himself to say it. "I'm 
sorry about Rahff. If only..."
"No." The baron shook his head. "We both have 
to go on." He easily pulled himself to his horse's 
back. "There's a war to be won." He slapped himself 
on the leg and laughed as he spurred his horse, 
"Damn me, but there's a war to be won!"
Karl smiled. Furnael had been given just the 
barest taste of possible victory, of possible life for 
his barony and his people; and the baron had shed 
about twenty years.
So Karl kept quiet as he spurred Stick, all the 
while thinking: No Zherr. There isn't. There's a war 
to be stopped.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ahrmin
Whom they fear they hate.
—Quintus Ennius

"Master Ahrmin?" Fenrius' basso boomed from 
outside his tent. "It is time to go."
Painfully, slowly, Ahrmin got to his feet and 
limped out of his tent, squinting in the early-morning 
sunlight. His carriage was waiting for him; he let 
Fenrius help him through the door and onto the 
padded seat.
The slaver camp at the base of Aershtyn was 
different from its cousin halfway up the slopes. Up 
there were the pens and corrals holding the well-
chained cream of the captured Biemish population, 
guarded only by the few guildsmen necessary to 
keep them safely confined.
But this camp was a military operation, a place 
where Pandathaway-made powder was stored, guns 
made and repaired. Until today—now, the camp was 
breaking up, as Ahrmin's guildsmen prepared to 
move out.
It would be difficult to move three hundred men 
silently, and when they joined up with Prince 
Uldren's Holtish troops it would be impossible. 
Fortunately, the element of surprise wasn't always 
necessary.
The problem with you, Karl Cullinane, isn't that 
you challenge me. Were that all, I would still have 
you killed, but you wouldn't haunt my dreams so. If 
you were only the murderer of my father, I would 
have you killed slowly.
But I was wrong about you: You are not only my 
enemy; you challenge the fabric of what is. I can't 
allow myself the luxury of killing you slowly; it is 
vastly more important that I kill you surely.
"You're sure of the assassins?" he asked Fenrius.
"Nothing is certain," the big man said, choosing 
his words carefully, "but they are said to be 
competent. I am... confident that he will be dead, or 
at least out of action, by the time we get there."
"Good." No, surprise wasn't necessary. Not when 
your enemy was trapped like a bug in a well-corked 
bottle. Then, all that was necessary was to heat the 
bottle.... "Very good. Make sure the barrels are tied 
down." Ahrmin leaned out the window, his good left 
hand pointing to the wagon that contained the huge 
barrels of powder; the massive, well-oiled oaken 
barrels were sealed so tightly that neither air nor 
water could have penetrated their sides.
"Yes, Master Ahrmin." Fenrius snapped his 
fingers and pointed toward the wagon; a dozen 
journeyman slavers ran to it, giving tie ropes another 
examination.
"You have had word from the Holts?"
"Nothing new." Fenrius shrugged. "Prince Uldren 
has pulled out most of his army from the battle in 
Arondael, as promised—although I'm not sure he 
believed the message—"
"I believed the message. And that is more than 
sufficient. As Uldren knows." If Uldren hadn't been 
willing to cooperate fully, well, the Biemish would 
have made adequate allies. Perhaps better ones—it 
was unlikely that Pirondael would stupidly fail to 
press home a tactical advantage, the way Uldren had 
in the north. It was clear to Ahrmin that Prince 
Pirondael was determined to benefit from every 
possible advantage.
Still, switching alliances hadn't been necessary; 
Uldren knew that his own survival depended on 
slaver powder and slaver guns.
"There should be more than enough for the task—
once we join them." Fenrius gestured toward the 
tarpaulin-covered cylinder, twice the length of a tall 
man, that was mounted on the largest of the flatbed 
wagons.
Ahrmin nodded. "True. Have you seen the latest 
shipment from Hivael?"
"Yes." Fenrius nodded happily. "A hundred 
slaves came through this morning."
"I take it they aren't like that last batch?"
"No, not at all. Baron Drahan seems to have 
understood your message."
Ahrmin smiled. "A simple matter of withholding 
powder until their commitments were met. And with 
the shipment to Keranahan destroyed, the shortage 
was acute."
"Perhaps, Master Ahrmin, but it was effective." 
Fenrius smiled his approval. "I held back a dozen 
women. Definitely not culls." He smiled thinly. 
"Prime stock, although perhaps a bit spiritless."
"Fine. Send two of the best to me as a diversion 
for the trip."
"Yes, Master Ahrmin. At once."
That was a pleasant prospect. The trip was likely 
to be agonizingly long; best to have a distraction. 
"When they are delivered to me, move us out."
"Yes, Master Ahrmin."
Ahrmin leaned back against his cushions. Soon. It 
would be soon.
You and I have a score to settle, Karl Cullinane. 
It is only proper that a... version of one of your own 
devices will kill you.



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Betrayal
If you pick up a starving dog and make him 
prosperous, he will not bite you. This is the principal 
difference between a dog and a man.
—Mark Twain

The aftermath of the siege and the battle was, in 
more ways than one, a bloody mess.
Karl happily left the beginnings of reconstruction 
to Furnael and his people. War could ruin in weeks 
what had been built up over many years; it would be 
a long time before the barony was back to anything 
near its former prosperity. The lack of people to 
work the fields was compensated for only by the 
lack of mouths for the keep's siege stores to feed.
Furnael now had an excess of land in what would 
have been a buyer's market—if there had been any 
buyers. Of course, there were none: The populations 
of the neighboring baronies had been decimated, 
slaves and freefarmers alike clapped into chains and 
shipped off to be sold along the Cirric coast, to work 
in the mines of Port Orduin and Sciforth, plow fields 
in Lundescarne, or serve in fine houses in 
Pandathaway and Aeryk.
There was a chance that some could be freed, up 
on the slopes of Aershtyn, where a few escapees 
reported that the slavers had their camp, a staging 
ground for what the captured Holtish prisoners said 
was to be a vast human cattle drive to Pandathaway.
Maybe they could be freed. But there were 
preparations to be made. The most important ones 
were the ones that Karl found most pleasant: resting 
and eating. Aveneer's team was road-weary almost 
to the point of exhaustion; Valeran's people and the 
mercenaries who had signed on in Biemestren 
weren't in much better shape. Even Karl had to 
admit that regular meals and regular sleeping hours 
had their attractions.
Well, the regular sleeping hours would have been 
nice. There was just too much work to do. The 
foremost priority was maintenance on the firearms. 
There were flints to be cut, frizzens to be rewelded, 
bent triggers to be straightened, barrels to be freshed 
out, split stocks to be glued or replaced. That had to 
be left to Ranella and Slovotsky, who spent their 
days closeted in the keep's smithy, the doors always 
heavily guarded.
The gunsmithing, though, interfered with another 
high priority—reshoeing of the horses. Most of the 
animals were long overdue, and the necessity that 
they be reshod created a logistics problem: All 
gunsmithing procedures were secret, and had to be 
conducted in the privacy of Furnael Keep's sole 
smithy, but shoeing required some of the same 
facilities.
The solution was more work for Karl. While he 
wasn't enough of a smith to turn bar stock into 
horseshoes, he could take shoes that Ranella made in 
the smithy and then fit them to the horses.
Of course, the shoes did have to be adjusted, and 
that required an anvil—and a forge. Or a reasonable 
facsimile.

Stop that, Ellegon—you're scaring the—would 
you please try to broadcast calm? Karl thought as he 
ducked aside, trying to avoid the brown mare's kick.
He was almost successful: The hoof just barely 
caught him on the right thigh, knocking his leg out 
from underneath him. It felt as if he had been hit by 
a hammer; he fell to the ground and rolled to safety.
Rubbing at his thigh, he glared at Theren and 
Migdal while they struggled with the horse. "I 
thought you were supposed to be helping me shoe 
this fleabag," he said, keeping his voice calm and 
friendly for the mare's benefit, not theirs.
"Sorry, Karl," Migdal said, pulling down on the 
reins.
Erek ran over and helped him to his feet. He 
stood on his good leg for a moment, debating 
whether or not to just pack it in for the day and let 
this idiot mare go only three-quarters reshod. It was 
always the last horse that could break a bone, just as 
it was that one last run down the ski slope that had 
once broken his leg. Distant fingers touched his 
mind.
*That's true. But remember: There was a very 
simple reason that it was the last run in which you 
broke your leg.*
Oh? What was it?
*After you broke your leg, you weren't interested 
in skiing anymore.*
Always got to keep me honest, eh?
*It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.* 
Ellegon closed both eyes.
"Okay, people, let's give it another try. Just one 
more shoe and we finish this one off—then I'm 
calling it quits for the day." And a rather productive 
day at that, he thought, eyeing the late-afternoon sun 
with satisfaction.
There wasn't a whole lot of thrill in this stint as a 
farrier, but there was a certain something to it. Karl 
had always found a certain magic in metalworking, 
and while shoeing was something that a real smith 
would have found almost agonizingly routine, Karl 
liked it. Working with horses and working with 
metal, both at the same time—what could be better?
"Retirement," he muttered to himself. He set his 
nippers down next to the anvil and reached for the 
right rear hoof, turning around and pinning the hoof 
between his thighs.
Now, keep the animal calm, okay?
Ellegon gave out a mental sniff as he lay on the 
ground on the other side of the low brick wall that 
had a one-foot-square hole in it. *Go to sleep,* he 
began to sing, his mental voice low, but intense, *go 
to sleep, little horsie...*
Karl felt his own eyelids start to sag shut. "Stop 
that!" All right, you made your point. Now cut that 
out. Just don't scare the horse, okay?
The dragon didn't answer; Karl decided to take 
that for an assent.
He picked up his nippers and began to loosen the 
old nails. Sometimes the hardest part was getting the 
old shoe off, particularly if the foot had had time to 
overgrow it too much.
As this one had. He grunted as he pulled out the 
last nail, then pried the shoe off, throwing it on the 
all-too-large pile of used shoes. Accepting the wood-
handled trimming knife from Erek, Karl quickly 
trimmed the sole, the frog, and the hoof wall, then 
tossed the knife back to Erek, who handed him the 
rasp in exchange.
Rasp gripped tightly, Karl gave the bottom of the 
hoof wall two dozen quick strokes, then eyed the 
hoof.
Not quite right, but almost. He tried an additional 
half-dozen quick passes with the rasp, then looked 
again. Better, nice and level. The toe length looked 
about right, too. He rasped away the splinters around 
the old nail holes, then held out his hand for a shoe.
Damn. "Anything less round? These feet are 
about as pointed as I've seen today."
Erek handed him another. Close, but not quite.
*That is what I'm here for, isn't it?*
Straightening, Karl let the foot drop and walked 
over to the brick wall.
Well, it really wasn't much of a wall, just a six-
foot-long, four-foot-high stack of bricks with a hole 
in the middle, right next to where the small anvil 
stood on its stump. Karl gripped the shoe with a 
yard-long pair of pincers and stuck it through the 
hole in the wall.
Ellegon breathed fire, the backwash of heat 
almost sending Karl stumbling away. Instead, he 
closed his eyes and forced himself to hold on.
*That should do it.*
Karl pulled the red-hot shoe back through the 
hole and brought it over to the anvil. A few quick 
taps with the hammer, then he dipped it into a pail of 
water, ducking his head aside to avoid the hissing 
steam. He brought the shoe over to the mare and 
picked up the horse's foot, comparing.
Not a bad fit, not bad at all, he decided as he 
brought the shoe back for Ellegon to heat. It took 
only a few seconds before he was able to bring the 
hot shoe back to the horse, lift the hoof, and set the 
shoe against it, watching the hoof smoke as the shoe 
burned itself into place.
Quickly, he nailed the shoe in, bent the excess 
length of nails down, clipped them off, and clinched 
the nails.
His thigh was still throbbing where the horse had 
kicked him.
Enough. He let the foot drop. "I'll let you rasp off 
the edges," he said to Migdal. "I'm done for the day."
He eyed the setting sun, then waved up at one of 
Furnael's guards on the ramparts. No need to ask if 
the watchman had spotted anything unusual; that 
would have resulted in an immediate alarm.
Where's Andy? he thought, as he exchanged his 
tools and apron for his sword, pistols, and pouch.
*Up in your rooms,* Ellegon answered. *Doing 
some work with Henrad.*
Anything you can interrupt?
A pause. *Nothing dangerous.*
Good. Relay: I'm done for the day—any chance 
we can get some time to ourselves?
*She says: "Give me about an hour—Henrad's 
almost got this cantrip down, and I don't want to 
break quite yet."*
Fine. It'll give me a chance to take a bath.
*Thank goodness for small favors,* the dragon 
said, sniffing in distaste.
Karl laughed. "Come heat the water for me," he 
said, rubbing at his thigh as he limped across the 
broken-ground courtyard toward the bathhouse, the 
dragon lumbering along beside him like a four-
legged bus.
Over by the east wall, Valeran was teaching a 
class in Lundish swordsmanship, both of his blades 
flashing in the light of the sun that hung just over the 
wall of the keep. Karl didn't dare interrupt him; what 
if, up on the slopes of Aershtyn, one of the warriors 
Valeran was teaching missed a parry?
*Not everything that goes wrong is your fault, 
Karl.*
Maybe not. But why does it always feel that way?
*Egotism.*
.Thanks.
*You're welcome.*
Karl passed by the low stone smithy. Wisps of 
smoke floated up from its brick chimney, only to be 
shattered in the breeze. Two guards stood with their 
backs to the door, while the clattering of metal on 
metal came from inside.
Karl nodded to them as he walked by and into the 
low bathhouse next door.
The room was dark and dank. Karl set his 
weapons and his amulet on a dry spot on the rude 
shelf before stripping off his clothes and pumping 
water into the huge oaken tub. Ellegon snaked his 
head inside and dipped his mouth into the tub. 
Almost immediately the water started hissing and 
bubbling.
*Touch—carefully, now.*
Karl dipped a hand into the water. It was nicely 
warm.
*Then I'll be on my way.*
"What's up?"
*Ahira wants some help with the timbers he's 
clearing out of the Holts' tunnels, and I have to get 
my patrol out of the way if I'm going to help him.*
"Fine."
*About his leaving... do you want me to—*
"No. I don't want you peeping my fam—my 
friends for me."
Without another word, the dragon ducked his 
head back through the door. Momentarily, wind 
whipped dust in through the open door...
...and then silence.
After rinsing the dirt from his body with the icy 
water from the pump, Karl went to the tub and 
lowered himself slowly, gingerly, into the steaming 
water. As always, what had been comfortably warm 
to his hand felt as if it would parboil his calves and 
thighs, as well as more delicate parts of his anatomy.
But he forced himself to sit back against the oak 
sides of the tub and relax in the heat. Gradually, the 
tension in his neck and shoulders eased. He rubbed 
his hands against his face, then shook his head to 
clear the water from his eyes before leaning back.
Aershtyn was going to be bad, there was no doubt 
about it. If the slavers had as large a collection of 
slaves there as Karl suspected, they would guard 
them well.
And that probably meant guns. Karl didn't like 
the idea of sending his people up against guns. That 
was how Chak—
No. His hands clenched into fists. No, he couldn't 
keep thinking about Chak. That was the way of it: 
Good people had died, were going to die before this 
was all over.
There wasn't any cheap way out. There never 
was.
A round cake of scented soap lay on the rough 
table next to the tub. Karl picked it up and began to 
work up a violet-smelling lather.
Smell like a goddamn flower, I will.
His face washed and rinsed, he lay back and tried 
to relax. But the water cooled all too quickly. He 
could either get out now, lie in a tepid bath—
Or do something else. "Guard," he called out, 
careful to make his voice both loud and calm.
Almost immediately, Restius stuck his grizzled 
face through the door. "You called, Karl?"
"Yes. Knock on the smithy door and see if 
Slovotsky would be willing to join me for a moment. 
Wait," he said as Restius started to leave. "Not so 
quick. Ask him to bring a red-hot bit of bar stock," 
he said, splashing the water. "A large bit."
Restius smiled. "I see." He disappeared, returning 
in a few minutes with Walter Slovotsky.
Walter held a large iron bar in his massive 
pincers. Even in the light coming through the open 
door, it glowed redly, although it was only a dull 
red.
"My, but we're getting fancy," Slovotsky said as 
he dipped one end in the tub, the water quickly 
burbling, boiling. "How's this?"
"Better," Karl said, working his hands underwater 
and kicking his feet to spread the hot water around. 
"Much better. I owe you one. If you want the next 
bath, I'll heat it for you. Deal?"
"Deal." Slovotsky made no motion to leave. He 
lowered the pincers to the ground and threw a hip 
over the edge of the tub. "Got something to talk to 
you about." He pursed his lips, opened his mouth, 
closed it.
"Well? You getting shy in your old age?"
"Me? No, it's just that... How long do you think 
it'll be before we finish up here?"
Karl shrugged. "Well, I figure we'll move on 
Aershtyn in about three weeks. That should be over 
quickly. It's shutting down the damn war after that 
that bothers me—that could take anywhere from a 
few tendays to..." He let his voice trail off.
"To however long you'll put into it before you 
give up." Slovotsky nodded. "Which is probably the 
way it's going to be. Listen to Furnael's people, Karl, 
listen to them. They don't just want peace, they want 
revenge." He shrugged. "Can't say as I blame them, 
but that's not the point."
"And is how long this war is going to go on. Is 
it?"
Slovotsky didn't meet his eyes.
Karl reached out and gripped his hand. "Walter, 
be a bit bolder. Remember how it used to be? You 
weren't ashamed to look me in the eye after the time 
you made it with my wife—"
"Hey!" Slovotsky's head jerked up. "Andy wasn't 
your wife, not then."
"True enough."
"But I wasn't all that eager to discuss it with you, 
even then."
"True again. But that wasn't because you were 
ashamed, was it?"
"No." Walter chuckled. "That was because I 
didn't want my head bashed in."
"I won't bash your head in. Not even if you take 
Kirah and Janie and go to Endell with Ahira."
Slovotsky's jaw dropped. "You knew?"
"Andy worked it out."
They sat in silence for a moment until Karl 
snorted and tossed the soap away. Somehow, even 
warm, the bath wasn't comfortable, not anymore.
"Hand me that towel, will you?" he asked as he 
pushed himself to his feet and stepped out of the tub.
He dried himself quickly, then slipped his amulet 
over his head and began to dress. "What do you 
want from me, Walter? My permission? You don't 
need that." He buckled his swordbelt around his 
waist, his hand going to its hilt for a moment.
Slovotsky looked him straight in the eye. 
"Maybe... maybe sometimes it feels as if I do, Karl. 
It's just that all of this..." His awkward gesture 
seemed to include the entire universe. "It's starting to 
get to me. I can remember a time when the most 
violent thing I'd ever done was sacking a 
quarterback, Karl. It's... I don't know how to say it."
He started to turn away. Karl caught his arm.
"Listen to me," Karl said. "You don't need my 
permission, but if you want my blessing, you've got 
it. We've... been through a lot together, Walter, and I 
love you like a brother. If you really need to spend a 
few years away from the action, then you do it. 
That's an order—understood?"
"Understood." Slovotsky smiled weakly. 
"Besides, it may not come to that. Who knows? I 
could get myself killed on this Aershtyn thing."
"Always looking at the bright side, eh?"
"Always."
They emerged into a golden, dusky light.
Slovotsky held out a hand. "Thanks, Karl. I 
appreciate it." He seemed to be about to say 
something else.
Karl took his hand. "Walter—"
*Alert! Danger! Warning!* came the distant 
voice.
Karl's head jerked around. Nobody else was 
reacting.
"What is it, Karl?"
"Ellegon—can't you hear him?"
Slovotsky shook his head.
Ellegon, what is it?
He felt that Ellegon was trying to answer, but he 
couldn't hear him. The dragon must have been at his 
extreme range, and only Karl's mindlink was tight 
enough to pick up Ellegon's broadcast, and that only 
irregularly, unpredictably.
"There's trouble." Karl cupped his hands around 
his mouth and called up to the watchman. "Sound 
the alert!"
The warrior began beating rhythmically on the 
alarm gong.
"Walter," Karl snapped, "get your squad armed 
and up on the ramparts. Take charge there. Erek! 
Where the hell's that—" He stopped himself as the 
boy ran up. "Message to Piell, Chak—" He clenched 
his fists. "Belay that last. Add Aveneer. Begins: 
Ellegon has sounded an alert. Nature unknown. I'll 
be at the main gate. Arm your people, report via 
message runner to me there. Ends. Message to 
Valeran. Mount up and bring your men and my 
horse to main gate. Ends. Message to Baron Furnael: 
Begins: Trouble. Am at main gate. If it pleases you, 
meet me there with your chief man-at-arms. Ends. 
Go."
*Karl?* The distant voice was clearer, firmer. 
*Can you hear me?*
Yes, dammit. I've sounded the alert. What's going 
on?
The dragon swooped over the ramparts and 
dropped into the courtyard, sending up puffs of dust 
as he landed heavily on the sunbaked dirt. *I'm not 
sure. Did we want a troop of about five hundred 
Holtish cavalry to be about half a day's ride east of 
us on the Prince's Road?*
"No—did you say east?" That didn't make any 
sense. Biemestren lay in that direction. How had the 
Holtish worked their way that deeply into Bieme, 
and why? It didn't make any tactical sense, not after 
the way that Karl had broken the siege.
They could have been sent before the breaking of 
the siege, but any force sent to reinforce the Holtish 
siegers would surely have been sent in via the west, 
through Holtun.
It just didn't make any sense, none at all, unless—
"Ellegon, check the west road. Now."
*The west road?*
"Yes, the west road, dammit." It was the only 
explanation. A cavalry force of that size wouldn't be 
sent to reinforce a siege. It had to be intended to 
block an escape.
An escape from what? From whatever was 
moving in on them from the west. "Get airborne, do 
a nice, high recon until you see something 
interesting, and then get back here. Move it, 
dammit."
*You're welcome.* His leathery wings a blur, the 
dragon leaped into the air and flew over the 
ramparts. *I will keep you in—*
Ellegon screamed; his mind opened.

Pain tore through Karl's chest as three oily-
headed crossbow bolts sank into his massive chest, 
passing through his thick hide as though it weren't 
there. He tried to flap his wings, struggled to pull 
upward with his inner strength, but he crashed to the 
ground and—

"Karl!" Furnael slapped his face again.
He shook his head as he lurched to his feet. "No! 
Ellegon—"
On the ramparts, a dozen guns fired in volley. 
Slovotsky turned to call down to Karl. "The dragon 
is down. We've fired on four crossbowmen, driving 
them back into the woods."
Hooves clattered as Valeran, leading Stick, 
arrived with his twenty mounted men.
"Four bowmen—watch for them." Karl leaped to 
the horse's back and spurred him through the gate, 
Valeran and his men galloping along behind.
Ellegon lay writhing on the ground by the side of 
the road, half in, half out of the ditch, his grunts and 
screams strangely animalistic, his flailing treetrunk 
legs sending huge volleys of dirt into the air.
Three crossbow bolts projected from his chest, 
their fletchings barely visible.
Karl dismounted from Stick's back. "Go," he 
shouted to Valeran. "Find them. I want them dead."
There was nothing to do as the huge dragon lay 
there, dying. Dragonbane was a poison to Ellegon, 
and every second it was working its way deeper into 
the dragon's body.
No. I won't give up. Ellegon had been able to 
survive his only other contact with the stuff, more 
than three centuries before. There was a chance that 
he could survive this. The poison would have to be 
gotten out—but how? Karl couldn't even break 
through the wall of pain around the dragon's mind.
I have to. Ellegon, he thought, can you hear me?
*Yes.* But the word was accompanied by 
nauseating waves of pain. Clutching at his chest, 
Karl crumpled to the ground.
No, don't, he thought, as the mindlink faded. 
Don't answer. Just hear me. I have to get those bolts 
out of you. Try not to move.
He worked his way in between the writhing 
forelegs, only to be batted aside by a fluttering 
wingtip that knocked him off his feet.
"No, Ellegon. Don't move." The three bolts were 
spread out across the dragon's chest, all but one 
above Karl's reach.
He quickly pulled that one out and tossed it away, 
then tried to climb up the dragon's side to get at 
another.
But his toes couldn't find purchase among 
Ellegon's hard scales There was just no way to reach 
them.
"Karl!" A hand slammed down on his shoulder. 
"Lift me!" Andy screamed at him, a long-bladed 
knife in her hands.
Karl stooped, clamped his hands around her 
ankles, and lifted her up, holding her tightly as high 
as he could.
The dragon screamed again—
Don't move, Ellegon. Please don't move. If you 
knock us away you'll die.
*Karl...* The mental voice was distant. *My 
friend I'm afraid that this is goodbye—*
"No, dammit, don't you dare die on me, you scaly 
bastard. Not you, Ellegon. Andy—"
"Shut up," she hissed. "I've almost gotten the 
second one."
The dragon's mental presence was fading quickly, 
and his struggles were slowing, not from control, but 
from weakness.
"Got it," she exclaimed. "Take five big steps to 
your right so I can get at the last one."
While it felt like hours, Karl knew that it was 
only a few seconds later that she cried out, "Got it. 
Let me down."
He lowered her, shaking the tears from his eyes. 
"No, that's not enough. We've got to do something 
about the poison in the wounds."
Think, dammit, think. He looked up the dragon's 
side to the red holes in Ellegon's gray hide, and at 
the slow ooze of thick blood dripping down 
Ellegon's scales. The trouble was that dragonbane 
was poison, a chemical poison that dragons, virtually 
immune to most forms of physical attack, were 
subject to.
Andy-Andy buried her head against his chest, the 
bloody bolts falling from her hands. "He's not going 
to make it, Karl." The dragon's breathing was almost 
imperceptible.
"Shut up. Let me think." There had to be 
something to do, some way to clear the poison out 
of—
Got it!
He opened his pouch and pulled out his powder 
horn. "We'll burn it away," he shouted. "With 
gunpowder." Drawing his beltknife, he snatched at 
the hem of her robes and cut a swatch off, then used 
the rag to dry the most accessible of Ellegon's 
wounds as best he could.
He handed her the knife. "Give me another 
swatch," he said. He packed the wound with the 
fresh cloth, then opened his powder horn and tipped 
a third of the powder into the cloth. "Valeran!" he 
shouted, "get me a torch, some fire—now!"
Her face brightened. "Lift me."
He braced his back against the dragon's chest, 
caught her by the waist, and lifted her. As she 
planted her feet on his shoulders, he passed up the 
horn. "Do the same thing I did. Then get as much 
powder as you can into the swatches."
In moments the remaining wounds were packed 
with gunpowder. Lowering Andy-Andy to the 
ground, Karl accepted the torch from Valeran and 
touched it to the nearest of the wounds.
It puffed into flame and acrid smoke. He touched 
the torch to the other two rents in Ellegon's hide, and 
again they burned.
Andy gripped his arm. "Do you think—?"
The dragon was still breathing, but that was all. 
Ellegon? Can you hear me? Dammit, say something.
He shook his head. "I don't know. And I don't 
know what the hell else to do. We'll just have to 
wait." He bent over and kissed Andy-Andy gently 
on the forehead. "Make that 'I'll just have to wait.' 
This area isn't secure, yet." He turned to Valeran. 
"Put a guard around him—borrow men from 
Aveneer. I want a full circle, twice as wide as a 
bowshot, well lit with watchfires. There may be 
other assassins around. They're not to get within 
crossbow range—nobody is to get within crossbow 
range—understood?"
"Understood." Valeran nodded. "But—"
Karl turned. "Erek! Gather all team leaders and 
seconds for a full staff meeting, main dining hall; 
ask the baron's permission. Invite him and Thomen 
to join us—particularly Thomen. Go."
The boy nodded and ran off.
Valeran looked as though he was about to ask 
why, then shrugged. "Yes, Karl. But I was trying to 
tell you that we captured one." He led Karl around to 
the other side of the dragon and pointed to a greasy 
little man who lay on the ground, tightly bound, next 
to Norfan's horse. "Do you want me to hand him 
over to Tennetty?"
"Yeah." He nodded.
"Instructions?"
"She's to make him talk, and then she's to make 
him die."

Karl stood at the head of the long table, gathering 
his thoughts, trying to forget about Ellegon for the 
moment. There was nothing that could be done 
about the dragon now, but this meeting was critical.
Gathered around the table, the others sat quietly, 
waiting for the storm to break.
Sitting together at the far end of the table, 
Valeran, Frandred, and Aveneer talked calmly, in 
soft tones, as though nothing at all bothered them.
Karl had never truly understood that mentality. 
He understood the necessity of generating the image, 
of course, but the calm resolution that one was going 
to die in battle, and that this coming battle might 
easily be the battle, well, that was something Karl 
could simulate, but never quite understand. That was 
something he had given up when he had deliberately 
subsumed his Barak persona.
Sitting next to him, Andy-Andy reached over and 
squeezed his hand momentarily, then dropped it. 
Relay, please—he caught himself. Damn. "I'm glad 
you're here," he whispered, smiling back at her.
"Hate sleeping alone that much, do you?" She 
smiled back.
"Right."
Next to her, Tennetty and Ahira sat quietly, their 
faces more impassive than calm. But the dwarf's 
brow was furrowed. His stubby fingers steepled in 
front of his aquiline nose, he occasionally glanced 
over at Karl, then resumed his own thoughts.
Karl let a chuckle escape his lips. Ahira was 
trying to anticipate him. There had been a time when 
the dwarf was a better military tactician than Karl, 
but practice and study had honed Karl's skills. Still, 
Ahira's ability to think well under pressure was 
something to reckon with... or to rely on, depending.
On the dwarf's right, Piell sat back on his high-
backed chair, feigning calm, while opposite Ahira, 
Walter Slovotsky waited patiently, his all-is-well-
with-any-universe-clever-enough-to-contain-Walter-
Slovotsky smile intact, as always.
Next to Slovotsky, Zherr Furnael sat stiffly, 
looking like a compromise between the way he had 
been six years before and the way Karl had found 
him. Well, a compromise it would have to be. 
Furnael was the key to everything, and if the baron 
could just hold himself together for a few more 
years, maybe...
Thomen sat quietly next to his father, his eyes 
watching everyone, missing nothing. Thomen was 
different from his brother: Rahff had been much 
more of a talker, less of a watcher.
"It's going to be tough, people," Karl said. "The 
first item of business is getting Ellegon in through 
the gates. Andy, can you levitate him?"
"I've been expecting that. And I... think so." She 
nodded, biting her lip uncertainly. "I may be able to 
lift him, but that doesn't mean I can float him in 
here—and with his mass..."
"That's easily solved. We tie some ropes to his 
legs and everyone helps pull him in through the 
main gate." He looked over at Furnael. "If he does 
survive, he's going to need to eat a lot of food. You 
can start with your scrawniest animals—he won't 
care."
"It will be done." The baron nodded. "We have 
some smoked beef in the cellars that has turned. If 
that wouldn't do Ellegon harm—"
"Turned?" Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Why 
haven't you disposed of it?"
Furnael answered slowly. "Because, Walter 
Slovotsky, when you are under siege you would 
rather your people have moldy beef to eat than see 
them starve in front of your eyes. That is..." He 
pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and 
forefinger. "My apologies. I was asking—would the 
meat be bad for the dragon?"
"Not at all," Karl said. "He doesn't poison easily."
Aveneer raised his head. "I don't understand all 
this hurry. It can't be because of five hundred 
cavalrymen a day's ride away to the east, so I—"
"Wait," Ahira interrupted. "How do you know it's 
not?"
Aveneer threw his head back and laughed. "You 
may have observed that Karl Cullinane does not 
panic easily. Five hundred cavalrymen would not 
panic him, not when we've that many effectives 
here, most armed with guns."
"No, it's not the horsemen." Karl shook his head. 
"They're only there to cut off our remaining avenue 
of escape. The reason that I'm worried is that I'm all 
but certain there are at least two thousand heavily 
armed soldiers only a few days to the west. I've been 
sold out, people, and Ahrmin is about to arrive and 
try to collect."
"Surely," Valeran said, studying the fingernails 
he was cleaning with the point of a dagger that he 
hadn't been holding moments before, "you aren't 
accusing anyone here? I realize that I am new to 
your service, but I've never been fond of being the 
target of a false accusation."
Tennetty pushed back her chair and rose slowly, 
her hand on the hilt of her sword. "If it is you—"
"No, Tennetty," Karl snapped. "It's not Valeran. 
Think it through.
"Holtish cavalry moving in from the east on the 
Prince's Road is an obvious suggestion that there's 
more trouble brewing in from the west. They can't 
be here to reinforce the siege—they wouldn't chance 
swinging in through Bieme if that were the case. 
Doesn't look like a normal military procedure, does 
it?
"The attack on Ellegon cinched it." He looked at 
Tennetty. "You interrogated the surviving assassin. 
Who were they after?"
"Ellegon. At least, that's what he said."
"Right. Think about it. Assassins armed with 
dragonbane, sent to kill Ellegon. That has to mean 
that whoever is behind this is after me—and who has 
known that I'm here long enough to prepare and send 
out assassins?"
The words hung in the air for a moment.
"Not the Holts," Furnael said, tenting his fingers 
in front of his chin. "If they had known about you 
and your people, they would have been prepared for 
your lifting of the siege, and reinforced their 
positions, not sacrificed the horsemen who chased 
after you, then retreated. You're saying that your 
betrayer is Biemish, some traitor in Biemestren?"
Karl nodded. "In a sense. Assume that I'm right, 
assume that a large part of the Holtish army is 
headed this way—who would benefit?"
Furnael shrugged. "The Holts, of course, if they 
can take the keep."
"Nonsense. The Holts already had the keep under 
control; they could have cracked it like an egg 
anytime they wanted to divert the manpower from 
the north. But they didn't do that, did they?"
Furnael wrinkled his brow. "No, but..."
"But who else stood to benefit? Who had already 
written off barony Furnael as a lost cause? Who 
would love to divert a few thousand Holts and their 
slaver allies south—"
"Wait—"
"—and who would gain by weakening the Holtish 
advance in the north, possibly taking advantage of 
the situation to order a counterattack? Tell me, 
Baron, who?"
"Son of a bitch!" Slovotsky nodded. "Pirondael." 
He threw up his hands. "Look at it from his point of 
view. It'd be a gorgeous bit of betrayal. It was 
common knowledge in Enkiar that Ahrmin's as 
irrational on the subject of you as you are on the 
subject of him—why wouldn't Pirondael know? He's 
counting on the little bastard's taking off after you 
with every gun and soldier he can muster."
He pushed his chair back from the table and 
began pacing up and down. "Shit, Karl, that changes 
everything. We don't have any line of retreat at all. 
Even if we could somehow punch through the 
Holtish cavalry at our back door, we can't sneak 
hundreds of warriors through Bieme."
Furnael sat up straight. "Bieme is not your 
enemy, not even if—"
"Nonsense, Baron," Andy-Andy snapped. "If 
your prince has betrayed Karl, he'll know it, and he'll 
be deathly afraid of my husband. As he has a right to 
be." She looked up at Karl. "Assuming that I don't 
get to him first."
Furnael shook his head. "I find this difficult to 
believe. My prince would not dishonor his crown 
this way."
"You're confusing the myth with the reality, 
Zherr. Wearing a crown doesn't make a man 
honorable." Karl turned to Slovotsky. "Walter, how 
many men do you think you could sneak past the 
Holts?"
"Depends. You thinking about sending me back 
to Biemestren?"
Karl nodded.
"Damn." Slovotsky shrugged. "Then you'd better 
tell me what you want me to do."
"I want you to find out if I'm right or not about 
Pirondael's betraying us. If I'm wrong, you've got it 
easy: Talk him into sending some reinforcements."
"If you think that's easy, would you please tell me 
what you consider hard?"
"If I'm right, then I think it's time we put a new 
prince under that crown of Pirondael's, and make 
sure that the new prince sends out reinforce—"
"Who?" Furnael snarled. "Both of my prince's 
sons have died in this cursed war; Evalyn is long 
past child-bearing. The succession is in doubt. The 
best claim is probably Baron Tyrnael—"
"Not if we seat the crown firmly on your head, 
Zherr." Karl looked the baron straight in the eye. 
"Not if we... persuade Pirondael to abdicate in your 
favor."
Furnael looked him straight in the eye. "You are 
asking me to commit treason, Karl Cullinane."
"But what if I'm right? What if he's betrayed you, 
your barony, and your son?" Karl pointed toward 
Thomen. "He'll die here, as surely as the rest of us."
Furnael sat back in his chair. "It does come to 
that, doesn't it?" For a long moment he sat 
motionless, his eyes fixed on Karl's.
Then he shook his head. "No. There's no way it 
can be done. I can't be in two places at once. How 
can I defend my barony and decide whether or not 
Pirondael is guilty?"
"You can't, Baron. You're going to have to go 
along with Slovotsky, and decide for yourself." 
Slowly, Karl drew his sword and balanced the flat of 
the blade on the palms of his hands. "We'll button up 
here; I can't go anywhere until Ellegon's well enough 
to travel, anyway. I'll do my best to safeguard 
Furnael Keep for you. You have the word of Karl 
Cullinane on that."
Furnael hesitated. Karl wanted to take that for 
assent, but he sensed that if he pushed the baron at 
this moment, it would only push him away from 
what had to be done.
Finally, Furnael nodded. "We shall do it."
"Fine." Karl slipped the sword back into its 
sheath. "Walter, I want you out of here before sunup. 
How many do you want to take with you? Twenty, 
thirty?"
Slovotsky spat. "Don't be silly. That'd be suicide. 
It's got to be a tiny group, to have any chance of 
getting through, and into the castle." He leaned back 
in his chair and closed his eyes, sitting silently for so 
long that Karl was beginning to wonder if there was 
something wrong.
Slovotsky's eyes snapped open; he shrugged. 
"Okay. The group is me, the baron, either Henrad or 
Andrea—"
"Not Andy. I need her here."
"Make it Henrad, then—I'm going to need some 
magic. And I'll need someone to handle the horses—
Restius should do for that—and one other. Ahira?"
The dwarf nodded. "I was hoping you'd ask." He 
pushed his chair back away from the table. "We'd 
better decide on equipment and get packed." Ahira 
looked up at Karl. "Are you sure you can hold out 
here until we can relieve you?"
Karl shrugged. "No. But I'd better. You see 
another way?"
"No. I'm worrying about the dragon. Do you 
think he's going to be okay?"
"I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see."
*Not... terribly long.* The voice was distant, and 
it was weak.
But it was there.
Karl didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
He settled for slapping his hands together. "Okay, 
people, let's get to work."



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Biemestren Revisited
It is a bad plan that admits of no modification.
—Publilius Syrus

Walter Slovotsky moved quietly through the dark 
night, slipping in and out of the shadows of 
Biemstren Castle like a wraith.
Two hundred yards to the west, a dozen peasant 
shacks huddled up against the outer wall like moss 
against a tree. Four hundred yards to the east was the 
outer wall's main gate. But this stretch of wall was 
empty, the grasses growing almost chest-high.
"Just a short way, Baron," he whispered to 
Furnael. The baron's breathing was heavy; he 
considered offering Furnael a hand, but decided that 
the old man's pride would be wounded.
This wasn't a job for an old man. On the other 
hand, complaining about Furnael didn't make sense; 
the baron, after all, was a manifestly necessary 
component of any plan to put the baron on the 
throne.
So? Who says I have to be logical all the time? 
I'm Walter Slovotsky, dammit, not Leonard Nimoy.
To his left, Henrad stumbled. Ahira's hand 
whipped out, caught and lifted him, setting Henrad 
back on his feet before the boy could fall.
Slovotsky shook his head. Henrad might be 
coming along well in his magical studies, but he'd be 
about as useful on a quiet recon as a belled cow. He 
kept looking behind him, as though he could see 
where Restius waited with the horses, or possibly 
what was going on a week's ride away at Furnael 
Keep.
Walter shook his head. That was going to be a 
bitch if the Holts and slavers were attacking with 
any kind of seriousness.
Karl me boy, I sure hope that you're every bit as 
good as everybody else thinks you are.
Granted, the defense had the edge in this kind of 
warfare, but it wasn't an insuperable one. Everything 
really depended on how many of the Holts were 
moving on Furnael Keep. Or had moved on Furnael 
Keep; it could actually all be over by now. Come to 
think of it—
Whoa. Methinks you'd better get your mind back 
on what you're supposed to be doing, Walter me boy. 
You 're doing with your mind what Henrad is doing 
with his eyes.
Despite the silent complaining, he was pleased 
with how things were going, so far. Though it was 
obviously bad for morale for someone in authority to 
gripe openly, a constant stream of silent complaints 
helped Walter keep himself sane. Relatively sane, at 
least.
Besides, being impressed with his own abilities 
was something he still hadn't gotten over. In the old 
days, he was large and reasonably well coordinated, 
but it would have been difficult to think of himself 
as terribly graceful.
Spiderman, watch my smoke, he thought. Then: 
Walter, Walter, remember Slovotsky's Law Number 
Seven: Thou shalt always cover thy ass.
The castle guard wasn't set up badly, but whoever 
had set out the guards had been more capable at 
maintaining order than security: two-man watchfires 
were scattered evenly on the outer ramparts, touring 
sentries only on the inner curtain wall.
It didn't take a military genius to deduce a 
manpower shortage; the main gate on the outer wall 
was only lightly manned, and the northern bastion 
wasn't manned at all.
Still, that wasn't surprising, Walter decided. The 
bastion was supposed to be a strongpoint for an 
active defense of the castle, not a lookout tower. 
Pirondael—or the commander of the House Guard, 
more likely—expected to know in advance about 
any attack in force, and would man the bastion when 
appropriate.
Slovotsky nodded his approval. The commander 
of the House Guard was right; any large force would 
have been spotted long since.
On the other hand, the ramparts overhead were 
silent and empty, which pleased Slovotsky as the 
four of them crouched in the dark at the base of the 
wall. Overhead, the massive stone merlons at the top 
of the wall stood invitingly.
Ahira beckoned to him. "Ready? Or do you need 
a rest?"
Slovotsky shook his head. "We human flies don't 
need rest."
"Eh?"
"Do it, Ahira, do it."
While Walter slipped into his suede climbing 
gloves, the dwarf reached over his shoulder and 
unfastened a long braided-leather rope from his 
rucksack. Ahira measured the merlon by eye, 
adjusting the size of his loop.
He swung the rope several times around his head 
and threw.
The loop settled raggedly around the stone 
merlon; Ahira twitched at the rope to settle it into 
place, then pulled it tight.
"You're on," the dwarf said, taking a strain on the 
rope.
The trick to climbing up a rope was to let the feet 
and the leg muscles do as much of the work as 
possible; only the foolish relied on the weaker 
shoulder muscles any more than absolutely 
necessary.
Walter Slovotsky swarmed up the rope like a 
squirrel up a tree. At the top of the wall, he lowered 
himself to the stone walkway and listened. That was 
one of the tricks of the trade: At night, the ears were 
every bit as important as the eyes. The whisk of a 
leather sole on stone could carry hundreds of yards 
through the dark.
Halfway around the jagged curve of the outer 
wall was the main gate, and there a fire blazed 
orange against the night. Walter closed his eyes, 
held his breath, and listened.
Perhaps the wind brought him faint murmurings 
of the distant guards' voices. Perhaps not. In any 
case, there was nothing closer, nothing except for 
the night sounds of insects, and the distant sound of 
voices from the village shacks.
He reached over the merlon and tugged on the 
rope three times, waited a moment, then tugged 
twice again. In a few moments, Ahira was at his 
side. After pulling up the rope, and rigging a sling 
on one end, they lowered it and pulled Henrad up, 
then Furnael.
"What next?" Ahira said, as he coiled the rope 
and lashed it to his belt.
"Stay here for a moment," Walter whispered as he 
slipped away from the other three. It was still well 
before midnight, and there were hours of darkness 
left; best to use that darkness liberally, safely.
He found a stone staircase only a few hundred 
feet away, then went back for the others and led 
them to it, down the stairs, and into the tall grasses 
of the outer ward.
The slope was steep as they climbed quietly 
through the night toward the inner wall, slipping into 
the shadows.
Walter decided that Karl had been right: This 
would be a difficult slope to fight up. The defenders 
wouldn't even have to kill you to stop you; all they 
would have to do would be to get you to lose your 
balance and you'd roll down the grassy slope to the 
bottom. Certainly it would be nearly impossible to 
set up siege towers or ladders at the top of the motte.
Walter beckoned to Henrad. "Are you getting 
anything yet?"
The boy shook his head. "Nothing. I don't think 
there's a wizard in the area. Except for me."
Ahira snorted. "Don't put on airs, Henrad."
The absence of Pirondael's wizard surprised 
Walter for a moment, but only a moment.
Actually, it made sense; Furnael's wizard had 
deserted at the start of the war. Most wizards seemed 
to be abject cowards when it came to physical 
danger, although they often weren't. It was just that 
in any kind of combat situation, the other side's 
having an active wizard was such a huge 
disadvantage that any successful strategy 
necessitated killing the wizard.
That tended to discourage all but the more 
powerful wizards from getting involved in combat 
situations, and usually the more powerful wizards 
were far more interested in augmenting their own 
abilities than in using them.
"Henrad," Walter whispered to the boy. "Be sure 
you're ready to zap the hell out of any group of 
guards before they can raise a cry."
"Zap?"
I just plain gotta remember to persuade Andy to 
teach these people more colloquial English. "Be 
ready to put them to sleep, then. Understood?"
"Yes, Walter Slovotsky."
The inner wall was a different sort of problem 
than the outer wall had been. Not only was its 
circumference studded with manned guard towers, 
but Walter could hear the slap of sandals as a guard 
walked his tour above.
This was one of the times that Walter almost 
wished Karl Cullinane were running this one instead 
of him.
He sighed. No, it was best this way; keeping 
Furnael Keep intact wasn't something that Walter 
would have wanted to try. Besides, Karl wouldn't 
have done this right—he would have tended toward 
silencing a guard or two, hoping to make it down the 
wall and into the fortress itself by speed alone, 
expecting to power his way through any opposition.
That would have been suicide here. This wasn't 
like a typical slaver camp, where the guards would 
usually sit in one place, waiting for eventual relief. 
That sort of thing was easy: All you had to do was 
hit an outer guard station just after it had been 
relieved, and you would have scads of time to get set 
up and move in.
This was different. It was like planning on 
jumping through the blades of a whirring fan 
without being cut into bloody little slices.
Not getting cut into bloody little slices is, after 
all, the key to a sound plan, he thought, suppressing 
a chuckle.
He told the others to wait at the foot of the wall, 
then slipped off into the night. Maybe the inner gate 
was up; perhaps they could slip in that way.
No good. The portcullis hadn't been lowered, but 
the whole area around the gateway was lit by dozens 
of smoking, flickering torches—too well lit. He 
could probably slip in, but that was too much to 
expect of the others.
Damn.
Ahira, Furnael, and Henrad were waiting where 
he had left them. Above, he could hear the slap of 
the sandals of an approaching guard, walking his 
tour on the ramparts.
Walter put his mouth to Ahira's ear. "Can't use 
the gate," he whispered. "So we've got to do it the 
hard way. The timing's going to be critical here. Get 
out the rope."
Unless he missed his guess, a guard walked by 
this part of the wall at least every fifteen minutes, 
which left barely enough time. Assuming, of course, 
that there weren't extra sentries posted, or that a 
soldier on duty in the nearest tower didn't happen to 
step out into the night to clear his head and spot 
them. If that happened, Henrad's Sleep spell 
wouldn't do them any good, not after one quick 
shout.
As the guard's footsteps vanished in the distance, 
Walter nodded to the dwarf. "Do it."
Again, the dwarf unfastened the long braided-
leather rope and adjusted the size of his loop. He 
whipped the rope several times around his head and 
threw.
It missed. Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. Missing 
when it counted wasn't what he was used to from the 
dwarf.
"Better do better, Jimmy me boy," he said.
Ahira glared at him and threw again. This time 
the loop settled down around the jutting merlon as 
though God Himself had slipped it on. One quick 
tug and it was tight.
Slovotsky swarmed up the rope and slipped to his 
belly on the rampart. Nothing.
Again, he tugged on the rope, rising to help Ahira 
up, then the two of them pulled the other two up. He 
led the others down a staircase and into the shadow 
of the wall of the inner courtyard.
Well, that's the easy part.
"Henrad," he whispered. "Locate her—and be 
quiet about it, boy."
"Yes, Walter Slovotsky." The apprentice wizard 
nodded. "Consider it done," he said, a trifle too 
smugly. Still, a short-distance Location spell wasn't 
supposed to be terribly difficult, not when the object 
of the search was already well known to the wizard.
As the boy quietly murmured the harsh words 
that could only be heard and forgotten, Walter 
glanced down at his amulet, which was hardly 
flashing at all.
Still, it was flashing, and there was no need to ask 
for trouble; he unlooped it from his neck and tucked 
it into an inner pocket of his blousy black 
pantaloons.
"She is... in a suite on the second story of the 
keep, directly opposite a guardroom. Beralyn is... 
awake, and irritated at the noise the guards are 
making across the hall.... There is a female servant 
in her outer chamber, although she believes that the 
woman is sleeping on duty."
Walter turned to Furnael. "Do you know where 
this suite is?"
Furnael nodded, his face grim. "Yes. What are 
you going to do about the guards? Even if Karl 
Cullinane's accusations against Prince Pirondael are 
true, they're not to blame. It would be—"
"I'm not after their blood." Did you say "Prince 
Pirondael," Baron? You're not calling him "my 
prince" anymore, eh? Good. It looked, more and 
more, as if Furnael was accepting Karl's accusations 
against Pirondael. "Besides, they're essential to the 
plan—I can't kill them. Have some faith." He 
nodded to Ahira and Henrad. "Let's go."

After all the difficulties getting over the walls, 
getting into the residence tower itself was almost an 
anticlimax. They waited in the shadows until nobody 
was in sight, then simply walked in through the 
arched front door and made their way quietly up the 
dark stone staircase.
Walter kept one of his throwing knives ready in 
his hand. Though he wasn't after any innocent's 
blood, if they were spotted, blood would be shed in 
any event.
And if somebody's going to bleed, I'd just as soon 
it not be little ol' me. It was only fair, after all: The 
rest of the universe consisted of millions and 
millions of people who collectively had millions and 
millions of gallons of blood; Walter Slovotsky had 
only his meager few quarts, all of which he 
continually put to good use.
The tower was quiet. That was the advantage of 
doing this in the middle of the night, after all: As 
long as they avoided anyone who could sound the 
alarm and wake the soldiers in the adjacent barracks, 
all they had to worry about was those few 
guardsmen on duty.
They reached the second-floor landing and crept 
into the hall. The door to Beralyn's suite stood open, 
the entrance room lit by a single oil lamp. The room 
across the hall was well lit. Walter could make out 
several voices talking quietly; there were at least 
four soldiers talking in the room, perhaps as many as 
eight.
He nodded to Henrad. "Once more, Henrad," he 
whispered, then turned to the dwarf. "Watch your 
timing, Ahira."
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "Nervous, are we?"
"No, I'm not nervous," he whispered back. "What 
the hell do I have to be nervous about? I'm really 
calm about sneaking around inside a castle that's 
next to a barracks, both of which are inside two 
separate walls, all of which means that if anybody—
anybody—raises an alarm I'll be dead within 
minutes, if I'm lucky. So what the hell do I have to 
be nervous about?"
"Damned if I know."
Henrad knelt on the floor, murmuring the words 
that could only be heard and forgotten, the rough 
syllables that vanished on the ear like a sugar crystal 
on the tongue, leaving behind only a vague memory.
As Henrad completed me spell, Ahira, his speed 
belying the shortness of his dwarf's legsrdashed 
around the corner and into the room.
Walter shuddered, waiting for the clamor of steel 
on steel or steel on stone that would alert someone, 
somewhere, that something untoward was going on, 
but...
Nothing.
He walked around the corner. Ahira had already 
relieved the seven sleeping soldiers of their swords 
and quietly stacked the weapons in the corner of the 
room. As the dwarf spotted him, he flashed Walter a 
quick smile.
Whew! Walter leaned back against the wall. That 
was out of the way. Next...
He beckoned to Henrad. "Help the dwarf tie them 
up, and bring them into position. Now it's Furnael's 
and my turn."
The dark archway into Beralyn's suite beckoned 
to them. Walter slipped inside, opening his pouch 
and removing several strips of cloth from it.
This was almost too easy. The serving girl was 
sleeping over by the window, starlight streaming in 
and splashing over where she sat back in the chair, 
fast asleep, her mouth open. He wadded a fistful of 
cloth into a gag, then beckoned to Furnael, pointing 
at the door beyond.
Furnael crept through the doorway and vanished 
from Walter's sight into Beralyn's sleeping room.
Walter rubbed his fingers together as he crumpled 
the cloth tight, then carefully pushed it into the 
serving girl's open mouth. Her eyes flew open; she 
gathered in a quick breath for a scream. He punched 
her in the solar plexus; she folded over like a 
blanket.
Within five seconds, she was fully gagged and 
tied.
John Norman, eat your heart out, he thought, 
then instantly regretted it. The poor girl was scared 
stiff; if this hadn't been necessary, it would have 
been an inexcusable thing to do to her. As it was, he 
wasn't terribly proud of himself.
Furnael pushed his way out through the curtains 
of the other room, carrying a lamp. "Beralyn is 
dressing; she will be along directly."
Dressing? Damn all women. This was something 
that could be done in pajamas, or whatever the hell 
Beralyn wore to bed. "Wonderful. She can come on 
up with Ahira." He hefted the bound form of the 
serving girl to his shoulder and walked out through 
the door.

The stairs up to the third floor waited for him. 
Walter hesitated for a moment, gathering his nerve.
Ahira tapped him on the shoulder. "If you need 
help—"
"Then we're already dead meat." He shrugged. "I 
don't have the slightest idea what you ought to do if 
you hear fighting sounds from upstairs, but make it 
good."
He crept up the stairway toward Pirondael's 
sleeping chambers, Furnael following along behind 
him. He peered out of the shadows. Two fully 
armored soldiers stood in front of the door, each 
with a spear in hand. They stood at full attention, 
although their eyes were glazed over, their shoulders 
stooped just a trifle.
Damn. Walter ducked back and hefted a throwing 
knife.
"No," Furnael whispered quietly, laying a hand 
on his shoulder.
There wasn't time to argue. Walter pushed him 
back and stood.
Pain sparked through his head like an explosion; 
the world went gray as he felt strong fingers prying 
the knife out of his hand.
No, he thought, I can't—
Through force of will alone, he kept himself from 
slipping away into the darkness.
He could hear Furnael rise and walk down the 
hall.
"I am Baron Zherr Furnael," Furnael said in a 
firm voice. "You will awaken Prince Pirondael and 
tell him I am here to see him."
"How—"
"Now, fellow."
Walter pushed himself to his feet and peered 
around the corner. One of the guards had vanished 
into the sleeping chambers, but the other, not 
looking at all sleepy anymore, stood between 
Furnael and the doorway.
Damn you, Furnael. Walter lifted a throwing 
knife, moved out into the hall, and threw, all in one 
smooth motion.
Later, he couldn't decide whether or not he had 
done it on purpose, but the hilt of the knife caught 
the guard directly between the eyes with a solid 
thwock; he collapsed like a marionette with its 
strings cut.
Walter caught his spear before it could clatter 
against the wall and lowered it to the ground, then 
quickly tied and gagged the guard before he paused 
to glare at Furnael.
The baron looked back at him impassively. If this 
can't be done honorably, his look seemed to say, 
then it shall not be done at all.
Up yours, Walter thought, resolving—assuming 
they got out of this alive—to spend some time with 
the baron and a baseball bat, before his own self-
honesty made him admit that in the relief of getting 
out of this alive he'd surely be more glad than 
anything else.
Besides, where would I get a baseball bat?
Footsteps sounded from inside the room. "The 
prince will see you shortly," the other guard said, as 
he stuck his head out through the curtains.
His eyes grew wide; his mouth opened—
Walter caught him in the throat with a 
backhanded slap, then clapped both hands on the 
soldier's naked ears. Leaving the collapsing soldier 
to Furnael, he dashed through the curtains, already 
drawing another throwing knife, praying he wouldn't 
have to use it.
The prince, dressed only in a nightshirt, was 
fumbling in the dark, trying to load a crossbow, 
when Walter rushed in.
Walter tackled him; and they rolled around on the 
thick carpet for a difficult few moments before 
Walter could get a proper hold on the larger man.
But finally he had one of the prince's arms 
twisted up into a hammerlock and the point of a 
knife barely pricking the skin over Pirondael's 
jugular.
"I think this counts as a gotcha, fatso," he said in 
English, then switched to Erendra. "I advise caution, 
your majesty—and silence."
He raised his voice fractionally. "All set in here, 
Baron." Walter frog-marched the prince over to the 
bed and pushed him face-down as Furnael entered 
the sleeping chamber and began lighting the several 
lamps scattered about the walls. "Search the bed for 
weapons, while I keep an eye on your prince."
The baron quickly pawed through the bedding, 
sweeping a dress dagger from the nightstand and 
onto the floor. "Nothing else, Walter Slovotsky."
"Good. Load the crossbow, please, then give it 
here."
Furnael slipped the bolt into the slot, nocked it, 
and handed it to Walter.
"Take a seat, Baron," Walter said. "The show 
starts in just a couple of minutes." He curled his 
fingers around the trigger as he let go of the prince. 
"You can turn over now, your majesty," he said 
merrily. He pulled a stool over next to the nearest 
wall, rapped on it to assure himself of its solidity, 
then sat down. "Now, I'm renowned for being one of 
the best shots with a crossbow that ever there was," 
he lied. "Matter of fact, back where I come from, an 
officious official once forced me to knock an apple 
off my son's head from a good hundred paces 
away... so, I wouldn't think that there's going to be 
any difficulty about putting this bolt through your 
throat if you cry for help, is there?"
The prince shook his head.
"I can't hear you."
"No," Pirondael whispered.
"No, no," Walter said. "Don't whisper. There's 
nothing that attracts attention like a whispering 
voice." He had to repress a smile when the prince 
looked at him as though he were insane. "Just talk in 
normal tones. Now: Karl Cullinane sends his 
greetings. Karl's a bit irritated with you for betraying 
us, and he sent the baron, Ellegon, and me to see 
about bringing back an explanation."
The prince's feigned look of surprise and shock 
came just a heartbeat too late.
"Then it's true." Furnael sucked air in through his 
teeth. "All along, I'd wished that there was another 
explanation."
"That counts as gin, shithead," Walter said to the 
prince, then switched back to Erendra. "Why, 
Pirondael?"
Pirondael spread his hands. "I do not know what 
you are talking about, Walter Slovotsky. I've... 
betrayed no one."
"Then how do you explain that the Holts knew 
enough to send assassins with dragonbane ahead? 
Other than our own people, there were only four 
who knew that we were expecting him: you, two of 
your soldiers, and Beralyn. None of the other three 
had any reason to betray us. You did. It didn't work, 
but," he said, eyeing the window, "Ellegon's 
irritated. He'll be along before morning to explain 
that in person." Walter leaned back against the wall. 
"So, we've got a bit of a wait."
"What did you say about the dragon?" Pirondael 
said, raising his voice just a trifle.
Walter ignored him as he turned to address 
Furnael. "You know why people don't like dragons, 
Baron?"
"No, Walter Slovotsky. I don't."
"It's not just that they're large and carnivorous, 
although that helps. But there are a lot of things in 
the world that are large and carnivorous, and—I 
wouldn't move too far, Pirondael—people don't fear 
them the way they do dragons.
"The real reason," he went on, as Pirondael 
folded his hands back in his lap, "is that dragons can 
read minds. They know what you're thinking, and if 
that's not enough, they can probe for everything 
you've ever done. Every dirty little secret, every 
private disgrace that you've tried to forget—every 
betrayal, Pirondael."
"I've betrayed no one, Walter Slovotsky."
Slovotsky shrugged. "Tell that to Ellegon. He'll 
eat you, if you've betrayed us. Too bad; the baron 
here would just banish you, load you up with gold, 
and let you and a small band hit the road."
"Banish me?"
"That's the other part of the deal that lets you get 
out of facing the dragon. You'd have to abdicate in 
Furnael's favor."
Pirondael laughed. "So. Now we know what this 
is all about." His face grew somber. "And I'd thought 
better of you, Zherr. I wouldn't have thought you a 
traitor."
"Traitor?" Furnael snarled. "You call me a 
traitor? I haven't breathed an unfaithful breath, 
Pirondael, not until I was persuaded you sold out my 
barony, my people, and my friends."
"Hah. Sold out indeed. Barony Furnael was 
already lost, Baron. I'd been forced to write it off to 
the Holts. It was dead. If the corpse could serve 
Bieme, then—"
"I held!" Furnael slammed his fist against the 
wall. "And would have held out forever, if need be. 
But you, you treated us like gamepieces on a 
board—"
"Save me your noble pretensions, Baron. Put 
yourself in my place—what would you have done?"
Furnael paused for a moment. "I don't know," he 
said softly. "But I would have kept faith with my 
people, Pirondael. As I always have."
"Honorable of you," Pirondael sneered. "Very 
honorable. I did what I thought best for Bieme, and 
I'm not ashamed of it."
"You wouldn't be." Furnael strode to the curtain 
over the doorway and jerked it from its hooks. "But 
you ought to be."
The bound forms of ten soldiers of the House 
Guard stood silently there, Ahira, Henrad, and 
Beralyn collectively brandishing more than enough 
sharpened steel to assure their silence.
Furnael spun the nearest of the guards about and 
slashed the rope binding his hands. "What do you 
say to this, Guard Captain?"
It's nutcutting time, Walter thought. This was 
what it all depended on. If the kind of soldier who 
would remain proudly on station on the losing side 
of a war didn't care about what kind of man he had 
pledged his life to defend, then everything was 
shortly going to go to hell.
But if Pirondael's guards did care, if it was 
important to them that their prince be a man of 
honor, and not the kind of sniggling opportunist that 
the prince had proved himself to be...
The captain stood and faced Pirondael, tears 
streaming freely down his grizzled cheeks. "I would 
have served you to the last, your majesty," he said, 
pronouncing the title like a curse. "I would have died 
protecting your body, pig." Wiping the tears away, 
he turned to Walter Slovotsky. "You mean to put 
Baron Furnael on the throne?" he asked quietly.
"If not, I've come a long way for damn little." 
Walter nodded.
"He's got as good a claim as anyone. And he 
doesn't betray his people or his friends."
"And what would you do with this?" He jerked a 
thumb toward the prince.
"If he abdicates in Furnael's favor, it would be up 
to Prince Furnael, no?"
"Banishment," Furnael said. "If he abdicates."
"Generous." The captain nodded. He held out a 
hand to the dwarf. "Give me a sword."
Ahira raised an eyebrow. Well? his expression 
asked.
Furnael didn't wait. He jerked his sword out of his 
scabbard and threw it hilt-first to the captain, who 
caught it, then balanced it on the flat of his palms.
"I swear my loyalty to you, Zherr Furnael," the 
captain said, "for as long as you are worthy of it." 
He offered Furnael the sword.
"Keep it," the baron said. "And these others?"
The captain nodded. "They are my men, majesty. 
I wouldn't have them in my company if they weren't 
worth having."
"Then please unbind their hands, friend Ahira."
"Excuse me." Walter raised a hand. "If you two 
will stop playing kiss-my-ring for a minute, we've 
still got an abdication to arrange."
The sword whistled through the air until the point 
rested just beneath Pirondael's chin, the hilt held 
firmly in the captain's hand. "I do not think there 
will be any problem," he said. "Will there, 
Pirondael?"
"N-no. I abdicate in favor of Tyr—" The prince 
went into a spasm of choking as the flat of the 
captain's sword slapped him across the throat.
"No. The choice is ours, not yours," the captain 
snarled. "Do you agree to that? Nod your head more 
briskly, Pirondael. Good. Taren, procure paper and a 
pen, and fetch the Warder of the Seal. No 
explanations—just bring him."
Walter looked at Furnael.
The baron laughed. "If you don't want to trust 
Captain—what is your name?"
"Garavar, majesty."
"Not majesty yet. As I was saying, Walter 
Slovotsky, if you do not wish to trust Garavar, who 
will be chief captain of my personal guard, I'll be 
more than happy to listen to alternatives."
Walter laughed. "Then be on your way," he said, 
gesturing with the crossbow.
That was a mistake. He never knew where 
Pirondael got the knife. It could have been hidden in 
the bedding and missed by Furnael in his search; it 
could have been concealed somewhere on 
Pirondael's ample person.
Six inches of steel flickered through the air until 
stopped by Furnael's throat.
Walter centered the crossbow on Pirondael's chest 
and jerked the trigger. The bolt caught the prince's 
shoulder. Walter whipped one of his throwing 
knives through the air, relishing in the meaty thunk 
as it sunk into Pirondael's chest, directly over the 
heart. A last knife caught Pirondael's twitching 
outflung palm, pinning it to the headboard.
He dropped his crossbow and rushed to Furnael's 
side. No good. There was no time to send for healing 
draughts.
Furnael was dead.
He crouched there for a long moment, until 
Garavar's shaking of his shoulder brought him back 
to the here-and-now.
Beralyn cradled the body in her lap, weeping 
silently, her husband's dead face hidden in her hair. 
Before, she had been able to face her husband's 
death almost casually, but not here, not now.
He glanced over at the bed. Pirondael's blind eyes 
stared glassily back at him.
Garavar shook his shoulder again. "What do we 
do now, Walter Slovotsky? Have you any good 
ideas?"
Walter stood, and forced himself to nod. Shit. I'd 
better think fast. Technically, the heir is probably 
somebody like Tyrnael—or Thomen, maybe, if we 
assume that Pirondael actually abdicated in 
Furnael's favor. I guess we can wrap his hand 
around the seal long enough to stamp anything we 
want.
But that won't do it. Tyrnael would probably have 
all our heads just on general principles, and Bieme 
doesn't need either a sixteen-year-old prince or 
some sort of regency.
"Yes," he said. "I have a suggestion. Pirondael 
abdicated in favor of whoever we choose, didn't he?" 
He took a deep breath.
Forgive me, my friend. "Now..."



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Defense of Furnael Keep
In war more than anywhere eke in the world things 
hap-pen differently from what we had expected....
—Karl von Clausewitz

Karl Cullinane walked the ramparts, looking off to 
where the Holts waited. His eyes teared, partly from 
the glare of the setting sun, partly from the acrid 
smoke that the light breeze wafted his way.
"Belay firing," he called out, his words picked up 
and echoed down the line of two hundred riflemen. 
Slowly, the ragged volley died out. "Clean and 
reload; oil patches, only," he said. "Aveneer, take 
over. Fire only at reasonable targets."
He turned and climbed down the ladder to the 
courtyard below, then walked over to where Ellegon 
lay sprawled on the dirt. The dragon's eyes were 
almost impossibly bleary, but they still glowed with 
life.
*What is going on, Karl?* Ellegon's mental voice 
was still weak, but growing firmer as every day 
brought the dragon more strength. Just today, he had 
been able to lift his head from the ground for the 
first time.
"Damned if I know," he said, reaching out and 
rubbing his fingers against the hard scales of the 
dragon's jaw. "They're redeploying a bit, but nothing 
much." Just the sort of idle shuffling of positions 
that would keep the defenders worried, but it didn't 
look as if the Holts were really getting ready for an 
assault, not yet.
It just didn't make any sense. After Tennetty's last 
recon, she had reported that the Holts were doing 
absolutely nothing, other than holding position. No 
building at all—no ladders, no siege engines, no 
beams being cut for shoring the walls of tunnels—
nothing. Somewhere between thirty-two hundred 
and four thousand Holtish troops were sitting there, 
the nearest just out of rifleshot, all of them waiting.
Now I know how a candle on a birthday cake 
feels. But even so, even if Ahrmin is on his way, why 
the wait?
Why would the top Holtish commander be 
willing to let line troops stand idle, when they could 
undoubtedly be put to good use in the north after 
polishing off Furnael Keep?
What could they be waiting for?
*I don't know. Maybe Tennetty would have some 
ideas?*
Speaking of Tennetty... where is she?
*On the northern... rampart. I've sent for her; 
she's on her way.*
"Shh," Karl whispered. "Save your strength. 
Sleep, if you can."
*Young dragons don't need much sleep.*
"You don't look all that young right now."
*Good point.* The plate-sized eyes sagged shut.
Tennetty's slim form appeared atop the rampart; 
she bounded down the rungs to the bottom.
"You sent for me?' she asked, her index finger 
working its way under her eyepatch as if of its own 
volition.
"I was considering it—but Ellegon decided for 
me," he said, as he beckoned her over to the well in 
the center of the courtyard. He worked the crank and 
raised the bucket, scooping out a dipperful for 
Tennetty first, and then for himself.
The water was cool and wonderful as he tilted his 
head back, pouring it in his mouth, relishing the way 
the icy overflow ran down his beard and onto his 
chest.
That was the nice thing about now: Every sense 
was sharp, every sensation special, even the slightly 
metallic taste of Furnael Keep well water. Karl 
nodded softly to himself. It was easy to forgive your 
friends, at the end of it all.
"Move it, you," a merry basso sounded from the 
ramparts, as Aveneer brought the two hundred 
riflemen down from their full alert, passing out 
watch assignments for the night.
Karl nodded in approval. The Holts almost 
certainly weren't going to try for some sort of tricky 
night assault, but there was no sense in taking 
chances.
He turned to Tennetty. "You think we're going to 
get any visitors tonight?"
She shook her head. "No. And I don't understand 
it. I haven't seen any evidence of their building siege 
towers or engines—or even ladders."
He nodded. "Me neither. It's like we're all waiting 
for someone, or something. But I don't understand 
why."
"Ahrmin, of course... I can see that he'd want to 
be in on the end." She fingered the amulet around 
her neck. "But why would the Holts want to wait for 
him?"
"I don't know."
Tennetty cocked her head to one side. "Want me 
to find out, Karl?"
"What say we find out?"
She shook her head. "I don't think you can sneak 
well enough. Maybe Piell and me?"
"I've got a better idea; let's go talk to Andy." He 
walked toward the nearest door into the keep proper 
and headed for the suite that he and Andy-Andy 
were using.
She was seated in front of a flickering lamp that 
stood on a wide wooden table; a huge leather book 
was open in front of her as she carefully studied the 
words that Karl couldn't even see.
He knew better than to interfere while she was 
studying, so he waited until she lifted her head 
before he cleared his throat.
"Karl." She smiled as she turned in the chair and 
rose to her feet, stretching catlike in her gray robes. 
"Are they still out of range?"
"Yeah. Funniest damn siege I've ever seen. How's 
your invisibility spell these days?"
"Good enough," she said, then paused for a 
moment as she sucked air in through her teeth. 
"You're planning on taking a walk tonight?"
"Tennetty and I are, if you can manage it."
Tennetty raised her eyebrow. "Be still, my heart."
The tension between the two of them had 
evaporated in the past days. A small part of it was 
that he needed somebody around who he was used to 
working with; with Chak dead, Piell occupied with 
his longbow squad, and Walter and Ahira gone, 
Tennetty was about the only one remaining from his 
original team he was really used to.
The big reason, of course, was simpler.
I'm not going to make it alive out of this one, he 
thought. There was no sense in taking hard feelings 
to the grave, not when the object of the anger was 
really a friend. Tennetty had had a horrible breach of 
judgment back in Enkiar, true, but she was a friend.
And death was a time to forgive one's friends, a 
time for gentle goodbyes.
"When are the two of you planning on leaving?" 
Andy-Andy asked.
He reached out and rubbed his thumb gently 
against her jaw. "About midnight, I thought. Give us 
some time to ourselves, before."
"Good." She smiled up at him. "I guess I didn't 
wear you out last night."
"Apparently not."
The conviction that his own end was near had 
brought a fierce passion to their lovemaking, and he 
didn't feel like stinting himself. Not when the end 
approached so quickly.
Maybe, if Walter and Furnael were successful in 
Biemestren, relief would be on its way, eventually. 
Hell, if they had actually gotten to Biemestren, and 
in the unlikely event that (a) they could put Furnael 
on the throne quickly, and (b) Furnael had ordered 
the House Guard to ride immediately, and (c) the 
House Guard had obeyed, and with alacrity, and (d) 
if they came in enough force to break through the 
Holtish roadblock on the west road, then relief could 
arrive in another week or so.
But that wasn't about to happen.
It probably wouldn't make a difference, or not 
enough of one. Since the Holts weren't building 
catapults and onagers, it was likely that already-built 
ones were on their way down the road.
Maybe that was it. But certainly Karl and the 
defenders didn't have forever. The Holts either knew 
or had to assume that the dragon was recovering 
within the walls; they and the slavers among them 
would have no desire to stall the assault until the 
dragon was recovered enough to fight.
He shook his head. Hell, they could take the keep 
by rushing it with siege ladders, if they didn't have a 
more elegant, a less costly way.
But maybe, just perhaps, the Holts would hold off 
until Ellegon got well enough to flee, if not to fight.
And then, beautiful, we can get you out of here. 
You, Thomen Furnael, perhaps Erek and Ranella. 
I'll give the orders, and see that it's done.
And then, he thought, lifting her from the chair, 
gathering her in his arms, we'll give Ahrmin and the 
rest of those bastards a last run that'll make them 
wake up screaming for the rest of their lives.
Tennetty cleared her throat. "You want me to put 
together a couple of kits? Crossbows, I suppose—
can't use guns.... Andrea? Can you include the bows 
and everything in the spell?"
"Yes, but..." Andy-Andy pushed away from him. 
"I... can't keep you invisible for much time at all." 
She wrinkled her brow as she looked up at Karl. 
"Just a few minutes, if it's going to be both of you. 
Enough time to get out—"
"But not enough to get back in, eh?" He smiled. 
"Shouldn't be a problem. We'll leave just after dark, 
and coordinate our return with Aveneer. Tennetty, 
include a signal rocket in our kit, and two grenades 
each, plus fuses." He'smiled at Andy-Andy as he 
jerked his thumb toward their sleeping quarters. "I'll 
be with you in a minute."
Andy-Andy smiled gently back at him and 
walked away, her spell book tucked carefully under 
her arm.
He turned to Tennetty. "There's something I've 
been meaning to talk to you about—"
"I know; consider it said." She eyed him levelly. 
"I'd better get us packed up for tonight." She started 
to walk away, then turned back. "It's all been worth 
it... hasn't it, Karl?"
You know, Tennetty, I've never heard you sound 
unsure of yourself before. I'm not sure I like it.
He forced a smile. "Count on it. Now get lost for 
a while."

Aveneer was waiting for them near the front gate. 
His eyes sparkled in the light of the torches as he 
shook his massive head. "It's not been my 
experience that generals do their own scouting, 
Karl," he said, "and I don't like the idea."
Frandred nodded, then shook his head. "Bad idea, 
Karl, bad."
Karl had never liked the way that Aveneer's 
second-in-command always had to say something 
twice. It reminded him of a retarded boy who had 
been his neighbor, long ago. Long, long ago...
"You think that man of yours is a better scout 
than I am?"
Aveneer nodded. "Possibly."
"He is, of course he is."
Karl nodded a false agreement. "Then fine, bring 
him up. One thing, though: Would he be able to tell 
a mobile gunshop from a mobile smithy?"
"No, but that's not relevant." Aveneer shook his 
head. "It wouldn't be his responsibility to decide, but 
to report."
"Right." He crooked a finger and beckoned 
Aveneer close. "And it isn't your responsibility," he 
whispered, "to tell me what my job is; it's your 
responsibility to carry out my orders. Understood?"
Aveneer pulled back and snorted. "True. But I'd 
be a bit careful, were I you. Eh?" He clapped his 
hand to Karl's shoulder. "You wouldn't want to get 
killed prematurely." He clasped Karl's hand in his. 
"Just in case you don't return, any advice?"
"Nothing much." Karl shrugged. "Except the 
obvious. Hold off using the grenades until the very 
last. You've got to get them bunched in order to get 
the right payoff. When they rush, I'd try for volley 
fire, instead of fire-at-will—you might be able to 
break the rush." He walked to the portcullis and 
looked out.
Perhaps five hundred yards down the road leading 
from the keep, the nearest of the Holtish 
encampments waited, campfires blazing away into 
the night. He slipped the heavy bolts on the man-
high door that formed part of the base of the 
portcullis and then walked back to where Andy-
Andy and Tennetty stood waiting.
He quickly stripped off his jerkin and leggings, 
then pulled a loose pair of shorts on over his shoes, 
belting the shorts tightly around his waist. That was 
a trick that Walter Slovotsky had taught him, long 
ago: On a recon, it was best to keep as little as 
possible between your skin and the air. It was almost 
as though he grew extra nerves; it was certain that he 
felt more vulnerable when creeping almost naked 
through the night.
Tennetty smeared the greasepaint over his skin, 
then strapped a crossbow across his back and handed 
him a drawstring-topped leather quiver, which he 
tied to his right thigh.
He looked at his swordbelt, debating whether or 
not it was right to take it. No, he decided; the 
crossbow and quiver were already going to be 
enough trouble to handle, and if this recon came 
down to swordplay, he was already in too deep.
He nodded to himself. Best to go as lightly armed 
as possible. He selected a Nehera-made bowie and 
belted its scabbard around his waist, thonging the 
knife into the scabbard. Logical; he wouldn't need 
the saber, but a knife could be handy.
To hell with logic. He belted on the saber.
Tennetty had already armed herself and stood 
ready, her fists clenching and unclenching. Karl 
turned to his wife. "Do it," he said.

Andy-Andy began to murmur the words of the 
spell, the harsh, flat sounds that could only be 
forgotten, never saved in the mind.
The world slowly went gray around him, until it 
settled into a total black. That was the trouble with a 
simple invisibility spell: It made its subject totally 
transparent to light, and that included his retinas. 
Transparent retinas couldn't react to light.
But this wasn't a simple invisibility spell; Andy 
wasn't done. Her hand reached out and touched his 
forehead, the fingertips sliding down until she 
touched his eyelids.
The pressure of her fingers increased as the words 
of the spell finished.
She released his lids; he opened his eyes. Two 
feet away and a foot below his eye level, he could 
see the dark discontinuity that marked where 
Tennetty's eye was.
Karl looked down. He could see right through 
himself, all the way down to the outline of his 
bootprints in the dirt.
He reached out and took Tennetty's hand.
"Let's go," he whispered. They would have to 
touch each other; in the darkness outside the keep, 
he wouldn't be able to see her any more than the 
Holts could see him.
They stepped out through the door and into the 
night. Down the road, eager-eyed sentries had 
perhaps already noted the open door, and were 
probably waiting to see if this time it meant that 
somebody was leaving the keep, trying to slip away.
But they had been keeping watch for five nights 
now, and every night Karl had ordered the small 
door opened, then closed several times, both when 
Tennetty was trying to sneak away for a quiet recon 
and not. By now, the watchers were probably 
persuaded that this was simply intended to spook 
tlhem.
Karl and Tennetty walked swiftly down the road.

By the time they had faded back into visibility, 
they were far down the road, well concealed in the 
trees.
The main Holtish camp spread out in front of 
them. Despite the greater size of his force, the leader 
of this expedition had followed the same general 
plan as the leader of the last one. He had split off 
three cavalry units to camp separately opposite the 
keep's other walls, and even put his main camp on 
the same ground his predecessor had chosen.
But that was where the similarity ended. This 
Holtish general was much more security-conscious. 
There were twelve watchfires spread around the 
camp's perimeter, each manned by at least twenty 
guards. And even within the camp there was added 
security: The inner portion of his main camp was a 
corral-like compound, perhaps forty yards across, 
containing what Karl was sure was the powder 
magazine, as well as several boxy travel wagons—
one of them a wizard's wagon, no doubt.
There was something else in that corral as well, 
something that scouts hadn't reported seeing. But it 
was almost hidden between the wagons and covered 
by a tarpaulin, and all he could tell was that it was 
longer than it was wide, which didn't do a damn bit 
of good.
"That... thing in the compound wasn't there last 
night." Ten-netty looked at him. "Do you think we 
could get in there?" she whispered, her words barely 
carrying the few inches to his ear.
"Not and get out, that's for sure."
"I wasn't talking about getting out. If we could 
blow up their magazine, scatter the powder, the 
morning dew would finish the job for us."
A nice idea in principle, but it just wouldn't work. 
The interior of the camp was clearly too well 
guarded—he wouldn't even be able to get within 
throwing range. Besides, unless it was very well 
thrown, a grenade probably wouldn't break open the 
barrels containing the Holts' reserve supply of slaver 
powder.
He shook his head. "I don't think even Walter 
could get in there." Damn. He lifted his amulet. It 
was flashing red, though; clearly, the Holts had 
added a wizard in the past few days, as well as 
whatever that thing under the tarp was.
He looked up at the overhanging branches of the 
dying oak. It might be possible to get about twenty, 
maybe twenty-five feet up, and that might give a 
decent view of whatever was going on in the camp. 
"How's your tree-climbing?"
"Better than yours. And quieter. Give me a hand 
up." She quickly stripped off her weapons and boots. 
Karl cocked and loaded both rrossbows, then set 
them carefully on the ground before boosting 
Tennetty up to an overhanging branch.
Silently, she climbed, while Karl kept watch. She 
would be almost invisible to anyone looking, but 
only almost. Off in the distance, Karl could hear 
something moving through the field. He hoped that 
Tennetty could hear it, too, but loosed his sword in 
its scabbard in case she couldn't.
The sound grew closer; a whisk of leather on 
grass.
Great. Patrolling Holts weren't what he needed 
right now, but it looked as if he was going to get 
them anyway. If he was lucky, as they passed by his 
position they'd be discussing whatever strategy the 
Holtish general was planning for the morning.
He wasn't lucky. Two Holtish soldiers, each 
armed with a slaver rifle, walked by, only yards 
from where Karl huddled in the shadow of the old 
oak's projecting roots. It seemed for a moment as 
though one of them looked directly at him before the 
Holt's gaze swung by, but perhaps he was mistaken.
In a few minutes, they were gone.
Tennetty dropped lightly from an overhanging 
branch. "Unless they've got another cripple with 
them, he's there. I saw him coming out of the 
magazine with a wizard."
"Ahrmin?"
"Who else? He was showing the wizard that 
ram."
"Ram?"
"The... thing near the powder magazine. Ahrmin 
had the covering off for a moment. It's a ram, a 
damn large one."
That was strange. A ram attack, intended to 
breach the keep's walls, ought to be accompanied by 
some other sort of attack elsewhere; by itself, the 
ram and its crew would be too vulnerable to 
concentrated fire from the defenders. So where were 
the onagers and catapults or the siege ladders?
A chill washed across him. "Describe this ram."
"Strange-looking thing. Like a long metal 
sausage, about twice as long as you're tall. It's 
mounted on a cart. I guess they're going to have 
some sort of rigging for horses to propel the thing, 
but the wagon it's on is rigged for pulling, not 
pushing." She shrugged. "And why it has a hole in 
one end..."
A hole?
Omigod. "That's not a ram. It's a cannon." Which 
explained what the Holts had been waiting for. A 
cannon could shatter the walls, or, firing chainshot 
or grapeshot, quickly reduce the defenders on the 
walls to bloody hunks of flesh. The Holts had been 
holding up the attack, waiting for this to arrive.
His heart thudding in his chest, he forced himself 
to breathe slowly. He would have to see that Andy-
Andy was smuggled out, and not tomorrow, but 
tonight. The cannon that they had waited for had 
arrived; the Holts would attack in the morning.
But would she go? And who could he trust to 
smuggle her out of here? Damn Walter Slovotsky 
for taking Ahira.
Tennetty. It would have to be Tennetty.
"What is a cannon?" Tennetty whispered.
"Like a big rifle. Except that it can knock down 
walls."
"Knock down—I see." She nodded sagely. "How 
do you counter a cannon?"
"You spike it—" He caught himself. Maybe? No. 
There were ample guards around, and a wizard 
within the compound, likely there either to assist in 
the attack or to keep the slaver powder from picking 
up water from the air and self-detonating. "Or you 
do what Chak did, except on a large scale. Without 
enough powder, a cannon is useless."
She nodded wisely. "Then we'd better get to it, 
no?"
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. There wasn't a 
chance in a billion that the two of them could get 
through the Holts and into the magazine, and there 
wasn't a chance in a million that a large group could.
But a group didn't have to. Only one had to, if 
that one knew what to do. If in the noise and 
confusion, one man could break through to the 
magazine or have just enough time to spike the 
cannon, that might buy some time for Slovotsky to 
put Furnael on the throne and bring relief to the 
keep.
At the very least, it would force the Holts to 
switch strategies, and spend some time building 
ladders or siege engines.
"Karl, we may never get another chance at him. 
We've got to—"
"Don't tell me what we have to do. Ahrmin is 
secondary, dammit. The cannon's the first priority. 
Listen," he said. "Get back to the keep—"
"No. You can't do it yourself."
"Damn right, Tennetty. Bring back as many 
people as you're sure you can smuggle out without 
being seen. No guns; we're not going to have time to 
reload, and even if we pull this off, they're going to 
need them in the keep. But load up with grenades. 
And all of the smith's hammers and a dozen spikes."
"And if we can do that...?"
"The magazine and the cannon first. Then we kill 
the little bastard."
"Fine." She smiled, and turned to leave.
He caught her arm. "One more thing: Bring my 
clothes. I don't want to die half-naked."

It felt as if it took forever for Tennetty to get 
back. By the time she arrived, seven others in tow, 
Karl had made and rejected a thousand different, 
useless plans for getting in and out of the Holts' 
camp all by himself.
Seven others. That was all she had brought back. 
Karl didn't admonish her; she knew better than he 
did how many she could sneak out of the castle.
But she could easily have picked a worse seven: 
Piell, Firkh, Hervean, Rahnidge, Thermen, Erek... 
and Aveneer.
"I thought I left you in command," Karl said to 
the red-bearded Nyph, as he handed Aveneer his 
share of the grenades. It worked out to nine each, 
with two extras, both of which Karl appropriated for 
himself.
"You did. And I left Valeran in command." 
Aveneer shrugged. "I've spent far too much of my 
life away from the center of things. Figured that this 
one time I'd make absolutely sure I don't die of old 
age."
Karl shrugged. There was nothing that could be 
done about that now, even if he didn't want Aveneer 
and his battleaxe around.
Which he very much did. "Fine," Karl said. "First 
thing, we've got to be sure that we take out the 
wizard." He lifted his amulet. "This won't provide 
much protection, but it's all that we've got—"
"No." Tennetty looked over at him soberly. 
"Andrea sends a message: The wizard is hers. When 
she hears the sound of the first grenade going off, 
she will—how did she put it—'brighten her fire.' The 
Holts' wizard will see that as a challenge."
Ellegon, relay—He caught himself. He was out of 
range, and there wasn't a damn thing that hecould 
do. Except—"My orders stand. If you see the 
wizard, take him out. Understood?"
Tennetty looked him square in the face. "Even if 
that means missing the magazine? Or the cannon?"
He grabbed her by the tunic. "You challenging 
my orders, Tennetty?"
She raised her palms. "No. I'm asking what they 
are. Think about it."
Andy... He forced himself to keep his harsh 
whisper under control. "Get the magazine and the 
cannon. No matter what."

Accepting his tunic from Tennetty, Karl drew it 
on and belted it tightly around his hips with a length 
of rope. After inserting the fuses in the detonators 
and the detonators in the grenades, he carefully 
tucked them into his tunic, their iron sides cold 
against his belly, then buckled on his swordbelt, 
with the pouch tied tightly to its right side.
"Keep an even spacing," he said. "Not too 
close—if a shot hits you in the wrong place, you're 
going up, complete with grenades."
Tennetty smiled. "Right, right. Do we get to it or 
not?"
There had been a time, long, long ago, when a 
younger Karl Culli-nane wouldn't have been able to 
face the idea of walking into the lion's mouth.
But that was long, long ago. He looked from face 
to face, trying to come up with the right words.
He couldn't find any.
"Follow me," he said.

On hands and knees, they crept through the waist-
high grasses in the dark, Tennetty and Piell armed 
with crossbows in addition to their grenades. With a 
bit of luck, perhaps all nine of them could get to the 
Holts' outer perimeter before they were spotted.
Their luck was not in; when they were still a good 
fifty yards from the outer edge of the cleared area 
that marked the Holtish camp, a harsh voice called 
out a warning; a shot rang out, a bullet hissed 
overhead.
Piell rose, his crossbow discharging. The bolt 
caught the watchman in the chest; he screamed 
hideously. Hervean rose to his feet, a sizzling 
grenade in his hand.
But the Holtish guards reacted quickly; Piell and 
Hervean were cut down by a flurry of gunfire, 
Hervean's grenade exploding while still in his hands, 
miraculously not triggering any of his or Piell's 
remaining grenades.
Already on his feet and on the run, Karl struck the 
tip of a fuse on his swordbelt buckle and sent a 
grenade hissing toward the Holts. It landed in 
between three of them and exploded, sending bodies 
and pieces of bodies flying into the night.
An explosion on his right shook him from his 
feet. As he rose, he pulled out another grenade, 
struck it, threw it, then another.
Three Holtish swordsmen came at him. Karl drew 
his saber and parried the first's lunge, letting the rush 
carry the man past, while he speared the next one 
through the throat.
The third one smiled as he lunged for Karl.
The smile vanished as he went down, a crossbow 
bolt transfixing his neck. Tennetty laughed as she 
sent another grenade hissing off into the Holts. Karl 
drew one from his tunic and threw it into the 
watchfire, not bothering to strike it. It blew almost 
immediately, turning the fire into a shower of sparks 
and flinders.
Karl couldn't see what had happened to most of 
the others; all except Tennetty and Aveneer had 
been carried away from him.
"This way," he shouted, as the three of them 
worked their way farther into the camp, Aveneer 
using his axe like a scythe to clear the way, Karl and 
Tennetty lighting and throwing grenades one-
handed, their swords weaving like snakes.
The flat of his sword parallel to the ground, Karl 
speared a Holt through the chest, then kicked the 
body off his wet blade before turning to cut down 
one on Tennetty's back.
Less than a hundred yards in front of him, the 
Holts' wizard stood within the inner camp, halfway 
between the magazine shed and the cannon.
Lightning issued from the wizard's fingertips, 
crackling off into the night.
Andy—"No!" He fought his way toward the 
wizard, but a heavy blow hit him on the right side, 
just above the waist, knocking him down before he 
heard the rifle's crack. As he tried to get to his feet, a 
booted foot caught him in the chest, knocking him 
back, half out of breath.
Instinct brought his sword up, slipping the saber's 
tip up the other's thigh and into his groin, Karl 
lurched away, giving his saber a savage twist before 
he leaped to his feet. Another Holt was bringing a 
rifle to bear on Tennetty; Karl booted the weapon 
out of the man's hands, then caught him by the.hair, 
the Holt's body spasming twice as he absorbed two 
shots meant for Karl.
He drew his saber across the Holt's throat before 
sending him on his way, then decided that it had 
been too long since he'd set off a grenade, and 
quickly lit off two.
Thunder echoed the grenades' explosion.
Now I'll get the wiz—
Where was the Holts' wizard? Where he had 
stood but moments before, there was nothing, 
nothing but a small crater.
He felt Tennetty pulling at his arm. Momentarily, 
the screaming and the shooting rushed around them 
like a stream around an out-thrust rock.
"I took out the wizard," she shouted. "Hope you 
don't mind."
There wasn't time to thank her. "I'm going for the 
cannon. Cover me."
She fended off two attackers as he dashed toward 
the cannon, dropping his sword and drawing the 
spike and hammer from his pouch.
A heavy weight landed on his back; he thrust 
back an elbow, then swung the smith's hammer 
around, feeling the Holt's skull cave in like an 
eggshell.
Spiking the cannon took only a second, but as he 
dropped his hammer and stooped to retrieve his 
sword, a sharp blow to his back knocked him down 
to the ground. He clawed inside his tunic for another 
grenade, but they had all bounced away in the dark, 
and the weakness in his side and back was 
spreading.
There was another explosion somewhere off to 
the rear, but that wouldn't do any good. The 
magazine was ahead, not behind.
He started to crawl toward it as thunder shattered 
the sky into rain.
A dark mass crashed into him from the side; 
blindly, his hand clawed at the other's face, only to 
encounter an eyepatch. "Tennetty!"
She smiled weakly at him, her mouth working, 
but no sound issuing from between her bloody lips 
as her eyes sagged shut.
I'm sorry, Tennetty, Rahff, Fialt, Erek, Aveneer, 
Chak—all of you—
But rain? It wasn't rainy season—
Andy. It was a goodbye from Andy, her way of 
telling him that she had survived. The Holts' wizard 
wouldn't have started a rainstorm, even if he could 
have; you couldn't reload in the rain, because the 
powder would get wet. And the Holts were under 
attack; they would want to reload. Now, they 
couldn't—
No, they couldn't, could they? Real gunpowder 
would become wet and useless in the rain.
But slaver gunpowder had to stay safely under 
cover, or it would turn back into superheated steam.
The powder would get wet. His fumbling fingers 
tore at Tennetty's tunic until he found a grenade. He 
struck the fuse against his thumbnail and flicked it 
toward the magazine shack.
The powder would get wet. The explosion tore off 
one wall of the shack, sending the barrels inside 
clattering.
He gathered Tennetty against his chest as he 
heard the crack of splitting wood...
...and the largest explosion of all, that shattered 
the world into white-hot sparks of pain that quickly 
went black.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Arta Myrdhyn
What though the field be lost? All is not lost; th' 
unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal 
hate, And courage never to submit or yield.
—John Milton

For a long time, there was nothing. Nobody was 
there . . . and no body was there.
And then there was a spark, and the spark 
thought: So this is what being dead feels like.
"I doubt that you have nearly enough information 
to decide that yet, Karl," an airy tenor voice out of 
his past said. "Although if you ever do find out for 
certain, I would be most grateful if you would let me 
know. If you can let me know, that is. It's something 
I have wondered about for... for a long time." 
Deighton chuckled thinly, a hollow sound.
There was no question; the voice was Deighton's. 
Professor Arthur Simpson Deighton, Ph.D. Lecturer 
in, though not practitioner of, ethics; gamemaster, 
wizard.
The bastard who sent us all across.
"My parentage is not at issue here. And I won't 
accept the blame for the second time, Karl. As I 
recall, you had a knife to my throat." A thin chuckle 
echoed through the empty universe. "Although I 
would gladly have done it simply for the asking... as 
you may have surmised by now."
Where are you, Deighton? Hell, where am I, for 
that matter?
"Matter, Karl, has rather little to do with it. 
Would you settle for illusion? It will be quite 
persuasive, I can promise you that."
What the—
"I'll take that as an assent."
There were no loud sounds or bright lights. The 
universe simply came back, until Karl Cullinane was 
sitting in a wooden chair at the battered mahogany 
table in Room 109 of the Student Union.
The room was as they'd left it on that long-ago 
night: books and coats piled against the wall and on 
the extra chairs; pens, pencils, paper, and dice 
scattered around the battered surface of the old 
mahogany table. He looked up at the overhead 
lights. Strange, so strange to see fluorescent lights 
again. No flicker, just a steady light.
Slowly, gingerly, he got to his feet, waiting for 
his wounds to start hurting.
But they didn't. He felt fine, except that he wasn't 
himself, not the self he should have been, not here. 
While he was wearing jeans and a slightly tight plaid 
shirt—just as he had way back then—he was still 
himself from the Other Side, not the skinny Karl 
Cullinane of This Side.
He flexed his right biceps in the sleeve; the fabric 
split along the seam.
"And yes, if you prick yourself, you will bleed," 
the directionless voice said. "But it is all illusion. 
Have an illusionary cup of coffee, and perhaps a 
phantom cigarette. You may feel better."
He looked down at the table. A white porcelain 
mug of coffee sat steaming next to a battered half-
empty pack of Camel Filters.
"Drink up, Karl."
He shrugged and picked up the coffee cup, then 
took a cautious sip.
Good Colombian beans, gently roasted, well 
laced with rich cream and sugar. Karl had once 
thought coffee an acquired addiction, but one that 
could be broken with a bit of abstinence. He now 
knew he was wrong: This was absolutely delicious. 
He picked up the cellophane-wrapped pack of 
cigarettes and extracted one, snickering at the 
Surgeon General's warning.
I don't suppose us dead folks have to worry about 
whether something is hazardous to our health. He 
stuck the filter between his lips. "Light?"
"As I told you, you are not dead. Still, an illusory 
cigarette is harmless. Enjoy." The end of the 
cigarette flared into flame.
Karl inhaled the rich smoke...
...and doubled over in a spasm of coughing. He 
threw the cigarette away.
"I said it was harmless, not unirritating."
"Fine." He wiped his mouth with the back of his 
hand. "Deighton—or should I call you Arta 
Myrdhyn?"
"Either will serve."
"Why don't you show yourself?"
"If you'd like." Across the table from him, the air 
shimmered momentarily, and there he sat, just as 
Karl had seen him on a night more than seven years 
before. A thin, stoop-shouldered man in a tan wool 
suit, puffing on the bulldog briar pipe that was 
responsible for the burns that marked the pockets 
and arms of the suit.
Deighton removed the pipe from his mouth and 
touched it to his lined forehead in a brief, mocking 
salute.
"How have you been, Karl?" He puffed a cloud of 
smoke into the air.
Karl considered lunging across the table for 
Deighton, but decided against it. This was either 
some sort of very real dream or it was Deighton's 
turf. Either way, jumping Deighton was unlikely to 
get any results.
"I've had friends die because of you, Arta 
Myrdhyn," he said.
"True." Deighton nodded slowly, gravely. "True 
enough. And I assure you that I'm as aware of that as 
you are. Including Jason Parker, by the way. It was 
rather nice of Andrea to name your son after him." 
His face grew pensive for a moment. "I... truly didn't 
mean any of you any harm. And I truly would tell 
you everything, Karl, if there weren't sufficient 
reasons not to."
"What do you want?"
"We had an agreement, Karl Cullinane." The 
pleasant demeanor vanished, as Deighton's eyes 
turned icy. "You agreed to keep my sword for your 
son, hold it for him until he was ready to use it. In 
return for that promise, you were allowed to use it 
against that young fool Thyren. But you didn't keep 
your promise, Karl."
Karl pushed himself to his feet. "Not my son, 
bastard. You keep your filthy hands off of him."
"Sit down."
Karl gathered himself for a leap—
—but found himself sitting in the chair.
"Illusion, remember? My illusion, not yours." 
Deighton puffed at the pipe for several seconds. "I'll 
offer you another deal: Fetch the sword for Jason, 
hold it for him until he's ready for it, and I'll send 
you back."
Karl dialed for a calm voice. "I thought you said 
this was an illusion," he said, pleased to find that he 
could talk calmly. "How can you send me back?"
"Right... now, I guess you would call it?—right 
now, Karl, your body is lying on the battlefield, a 
knife's edge from death. Normally, I couldn't 
communicate with you across the barrier between 
This Side and the Other Side, but this is... a special 
circumstance. While you're not on This Side at all, 
you're not fully on the Other Side. Does that make 
sense to you?"
Deighton cocked his head to one side as he 
steepled his fingers in front of his chin. "I couldn't 
bring you back from the dead, and I wouldn't push 
you over the precipice, but I will... use my best 
efforts to hold you on the side of life, for the time 
being. If, that is, we have an agreement."
"No deals." Karl shook his head. "No deals, Art. 
You're not going to play around with my son's life 
the way you have with mine," he said, instantly 
resolute. He was surprised at himself. There had 
been a time when he had had difficulty with 
commitment, even when it was only a matter of 
committing himself to a course of study.
But that had been long, long ago.
"Yes," Deighton said, studying him closely, 
"there have been some changes. It is clear nothing I 
would be willing to do would make you change your 
mind." He rose to his feet. "Well, I suppose that is 
that," he said matter-of-factly, tossing his pipe aside. 
It vanished.
The room started to melt away, the colors running 
together. Karl braced himself for the final darkness. 
Goodbye, Andy...
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic." The room 
solidified again. "You may dispense with the heroics 
for now. Save them for when they're appropriate. As 
they will be. I still have to send you back," Deighton 
said, shaking a finger at him, "although you really 
ought to be more careful. It's unlikely I'll be able to 
do even this little for you next time we meet."
"Next time?"
Deighton nodded. "Once more, Karl Cullinane. 
Once more."
Suddenly, Deighton stood at his side. The old 
man stuck out a hand. "Be well, Karl Cullinane. 
Take good care of that son of yours. He's awfully 
important, as you've suspected."
Karl didn't take the hand. "I will take care of my 
son, Deighton, whether you want me to or not."
"I'd expect no less."
"Just tell me one thing, please—why?"
"I can't tell you. Not now."
"Will you ever?"
"No." Deighton caught his lip between his teeth. 
"I'm sorry, Karl. I can't explain it to you right now, 
and I doubt I'll have the opportunity the next time 
we meet." He clapped his hand to Karl's shoulder. 
"Be well, my friend."
"You're no friend of mine!"
Deighton looked surprised. "Of course not. But 
you are one of mine. It is my fond hope that you will 
do me a great favor, the next time we meet. Until 
then, be well."
"Wait—"
"One more thing: Ahrmin isn't dead. He got away 
again. While I can't blame you for this one, you 
really ought to have been more thorough in 
Melawei, Karl."
Deighton smiled genially. "Be well."
The room melted away.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Silver Crown
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
—William Shakespeare

"Karl," Andy-Andy's voice called to him, sweeter in 
his ears than anything he had ever heard. It occurred 
to him that she had been calling his name over and 
over again—for minutes, or was it hours?
She sounds worried. His eyelids weren't, heavier 
than twin Volks-wagens, so he opened them. It 
didn't make much of a difference: The room was 
dark, and it was far too much effort to focus. He was 
stretched out on a down mattress, the heavy blankets 
piled on his chest threatening to interfere with his 
breathing.
"Karl," she said urgently, "can you hear me?"
"Of course I can hear you," he tried to say, but the 
words came out as glmph.
*He can hear you perfectly well.* Ellegon's 
mental voice was firm. *Karl, don't taijcjust use your 
mind—assuming you have one. I'll relay.*
Fine. Got to tell her about Deighton—
*Save that for later.*
But—
*But nothing; you've been dreaming about 
nothing else since they brought you within range. I 
know it all.*
Ellegon—
*Shut up and listen. You're the luckiest human 
that ever there was. As far as blood goes, Andrea 
thinks you're down more than a quart, so you have to 
take it easy. We pulled five bullets out of your hide; 
none of them hit anything vital. And not only did 
you fall into the cannon's blast shadow—that's what 
saved your life—but Andrea got to you with the 
healing draughts quickly enough to save everything 
except most of three fingers on your left hand. 
You've been hovering on the edge for eleven days 
now, and we've all been worrying about whether or 
not you were ever coming out. Happy?*
His eyelids had increased in mass until they were 
much heavier than Buicks, so he let them sag shut.
Tennetty, Aveneer, Erek—did they—
*Tennetty's fine, Karl. She cracked some ribs, 
that's all. Although once we figured out that you 
were going to be okay, she did have some words 
about you pawing around inside her tunic. Says if 
you want to do that again you should ask really 
prettily.*
Ellegon, you're not telling me about the others. 
Did any of them—
*No. None of them made it.*
His fists started to clench, but he didn't even have 
the strength to do that. The Holts and the slavers—
*Chased all to hell and gone. After the explosion, 
Valeran led a rifle company out after them. The 
Holts couldn't use their own guns, not with Andrea 
keeping up a light drizzle; Valeran captured about 
two hundred, killed more than three times that 
number, and sent the rest running. Now go back to 
sleep.*

The next time he woke, light was streaming in 
through the mottled glass window, splashing 
warmly, brightly on the bed.
Andy-Andy was next to him, sitting on a low 
stool, her face only a couple of feet from his. She 
smiled at him as she reached out and took his hand.
"Hello there," she said, her calm, level voice 
belying the exhaustion written in her face. The dark 
shadows under her red-rimmed eyes showed that she 
clearly needed a night's sleep.
"Hi." Lifting and dropping his hand to pat the 
mattress next to him wasn't quite impossible. "Get... 
in."
"Really?" She brightened. "You're getting better 
quickly, but not that quickly."
"No. Sleep."
'Maybe later. Would you like some broth?"
*I've already sent down to the kitchen for the 
food. Andrea, I've got to tell him.*
"It can wait!" she hissed.
*That is a matter of opinion. Mine differs from 
yours. Karl, Walter wants you to know that 
Pirondael did abdicate, just as you wanted, but 
Furnael didn't survive through Biemestren.*
Furnael was dead. That meant that Thomen was 
now the prince? A bit young, but Beralyn might be a 
decent regent.
*Guess again. Thomen is Baron Furnael; his 
mother will be regent, but only of barony Furnael.*
Wait. If Pirondael abdicated in Zherr Furnael's 
favor, then—
*But he didn't. What Prince Pirondael agreed to 
do was to abdicate in favor of Captain Garavar's 
selection. As far as Garavar and the rest of the 
House Guard are concerned, that pretty much settles 
it: Garavar picks the next prince, and if the rest of 
the barons don't like it, they can try to revolt.*
Who's this Garavar person?
'Officially, he's a guard captain in the House 
Guard. Unofficially, he's the Biemish commander-
in-chief, although that'll have to be ratified by the 
new prince.*
Great. So who is the prince? Some—
*You.*
Very funny.
*I thought so, too. But Captain Garavar of the 
House Guard is here along with all of the House 
Guard except for a skeleton force that's waiting at 
Biemestren castle, and Garavar and the two 
thousand House Guardsmen don't think it funny at 
all. Matter of fact, he's pretty damn impressed with 
the firepower your majesty is bringing to the throne, 
including one spiked slaver cannon, a few hundred 
real gunpowder guns, a dozen hand grenades, and—
ahem!—one slightly damaged dragon. Dowager 
Baroness Beralyn has dispatched messengers to the 
remaining barons, pledging barony Furnael's loyalty 
to your majesty, and explaining that you and five 
hundred men just scattered two-regiments of Holts 
and slavers all to hell—which ought to impress 
them.*
This is all crazy, you know.
*That is entirely a matter of opinion. If I were 
you, I'd try to get used to it. Now go back to sleep.*
But—
*That wasn't a suggestion.*
None of it made any sense to him.
Sleep, on the other hand, did.

Sleep, food, and rest gradually brought back some 
of his strength. Within three days, Andrea decided 
that he could have visitors, as long as they didn't tire 
him.
Walter Slovotsky was the first. "Hey, Prince, how 
you doing?" he asked, manifestly pleased with 
himself. As usual.
Karl pushed away the bowl of soup that Andy-
Andy was trying to force on him. "No more beef 
stock. I want a beefsteak. Thick one. Pan-fried. With 
butter, lots of it. And corn—on the cob. And maybe 
some deep-fried chotte—"
"Whoa, hero." She laughed, kissing him lightly 
on the forehead. "Take it slow." She gave him 
another sisterly peck.
Karl quietly resolved to even the score for that, 
and shortly.
*Sex. All this one thinks about is—*
Shh.
Andy-Andy rose to leave the room, stopping for a 
moment to whisper to Walter that she wanted him to 
make the visit short.
"Well," Slovotsky said, shaking his head, "I'll 
keep it as short as possible; there's a lot to catch up 
on."
"Think about it." Her face stern, she held a hand 
in front of Walter's face and murmured a few harsh 
syllables. Sparks arced from her thumb to her 
forefinger. "Just a few minutes, I said."
"Right. Just a couple of minutes. One minute. 
Thirty seconds—whatever you say." Slovotsky 
waited until the door shut behind her. "Whew!" He 
shook his head. "I'll be happy to get back to Kirah. 
My wife isn't deadly." He threw a hip over the edge 
of the bed. "How long you figure you'll be laid up?"
Karl sat up all the way, his head spinning only 
slowly. "Another couple of days and I'll be on my 
feet. Probably be quite a while before I'm back to 
par, but..."He eyed the fresh bandages covering the 
still-painful stumps of the three missing outer fingers 
on his left hand. "It could be worse."
"Good. I'm going to send Garavar in here in a 
couple of minutes." Slovotsky snorted. "I'll tell you, 
there was a time when I regretted getting him and 
the House Guard to go along with Pirondael's 
abdication—I'd planned on showing him an upright 
Karl Cullinane, not a comatose one."
"What is this nonsense about my being a prince?"
"Not nonsense. Bieme's all yours—unless you 
abdicate. Which I wouldn't suggest. There've been 
enough changes—"
"But why me?" Dammit, Walter, this isn't my sort 
of thing, and you—
"Garavar went along with it because there had to 
be somebody, and your name was the one on the 
table." Slovotsky shrugged. "I pushed for you 
because the only way I can think of for this war to 
be ended is for the Holts to sue for peace quickly. 
And that wouldn't happen with some revenge-
minded baron on the Biemish throne.
"Which is where you come in. After word 
percolates through Holtun of your defeat of two 
regiments of combined Holtish and slaver troops, 
you're going to be the most feared man in the Middle 
Lands. If the Holtish don't come to the peace table, 
my guess is that with Andy making sure that the 
Holts can't use their guns, Valeran's improvised 
brigade can go through them like shit through a 
goose."
"But I'd intended on ending the war—"
"In your own way." Walter spread his hands. 
"Which might or might not work. This will. 
Whatsamatter, don't you want the crown?"
Karl clenched his fists. "Don't give me that—"
"Then fine. Give it to Thomen, and let Beralyn 
rule as regent. That'll be a fine gift to Furnael's son."
"Now, wait—"
"Or let the barons fight over which one gets it. 
They might settle it quickly enough so that Bieme 
doesn't necessarily lose the war. Bieme might even 
win, Karl—and instead of Bieme's being chopped up 
and sold to Pandathaway on the installment plan, it'll 
be Holtun that gets the axe."
"Not while I'm alive, it won't."
Slovotsky nodded. "And not while you're prince, 
either. Here's one hell of a chance for you to make 
some changes, Karl. Go ahead and use it." He turned 
to the door and raised his voice. "Garavar! He'll see 
you now."
Garavar was a large, grizzled man of about fifty. 
His features were regular, and his hands of normal 
size, but he had something of Aveneer's expression 
around the eyes, the same look of eagles.
"Your majesty?" he said, as he walked slowly 
into the room, an aged wooden box in his hands.
Karl sighed. Walter was right. He was stuck with 
it, for now. But not forever.
*Of course not forever. You're not even going to 
live forever.*
Good point.
*Thank you.*
"I am Karl Cullinane," he said carefully.
"I am Garavar, of the House Guard. With the 
others, I have been... managing as best I can, waiting 
for you to be able to take over your duties."
"Fine." Karl swung his feet over the edge of the 
bed. "Give me a hand, both of you. Walter, get me 
some clothes. There's work to be done."
"Andy-Andy said—"
"If I'm prince, then I outrank her, no? Move. 
Captain," he said, forcing himself not to waver as he 
pushed himself to his feet, "I'll want a staff meeting 
tonight. Frandred, Valeran, Beralyn, my wife, 
Tennetty, plus you and anyone from the House 
Guard you think needs inviting. In the meantime... 
Ellegon, are you flying yet?"
*Just short distances. I... still have a ways to go. 
And the same goes for you—*
"Shut up. Captain, tell Valeran I want a recon of 
the slaver camp on Aershtyn, and I want it 
yesterday."
The warrior nodded gravely. "Yes, your majesty. 
You intend to send a detachment up Aershtyn?"
Karl snorted as Walter helped him on with his 
breechclout and leggings, then slipped a clean tunic 
over his head. "I plan on leading a detachment up 
Aershtyn, Captain."
"With all due respect, princes don't—"
Kneeling to slip Karl's boots on, Walter threw 
back his head and laughed. "With all due respect, 
Captain, this prince is going to do whatever the hell 
he damn well pleases. Get used to it." He belted 
Karl's saber around his waist. "Better give him 
what's in the box."
Garavar opened it. Inside lay a circlet of silver, 
studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. "You 
could wear a simple cap of maintenance, if you'd 
prefer, but—"
"This will do for now." Karl took the crown and 
set it on his own head. It didn't feel steady there; he 
had to hold himself up straight to make sure it didn't 
slip off.
Probably I can improvise some sort of bobby pin, 
but... first things first. "Captain Garavar, as of now, 
nobody owns people in Bieme. Anybody who thinks 
he owns anybody else—"
"Ta havath, Karl." Slovotsky chuckled. 
"Garavar's already had that explained to him, 
complete with ruffles and flourishes. No point in 
bothering with any proclamations right now; no 
matter how you yell and scream, there aren't going 
to be any changes, not until the war settles down. 
Hmm... what are you going to do about the former 
slaves?"
"Sharecropping is a step up, no? No, not 
sharecropping," he decided, remembering little 
Petros' fierce devotion to his scraggly field. "Better: 
We'll give the former slaves some of the barons' 
land, and allow the barons reasonable taxation 
privileges."
I'll soon be known as Karl the Tyrant by the 
barons, but that's their problem. Government 
needn't worry about the strong and wealthy; they 
could always take care of themselves. "Give me your 
arm," he said. "I've got work to do."



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Goodbyes
Why is it, Maecenas, that no man living is content 
with the lot that either his choice has given him or 
that chance has thrown to him, but each has praise 
for those who follow other paths?
—Horace

Andy-Andy and Tennetty standing at his side, Karl 
said goodbye to Walter and Ahira at the keep's gates.
Their mounts and their packhorses were 
champing at their bits, possibly because of the way 
that Ellegon was eyeing them interestedly.
"You sure you don't want an escort?" Karl asked. 
"If you'll just wait a couple of weeks, I can send 
Ranella with you—and I could send a company with 
you as far as Biemestren right now."
*Karl, since when does putting something off 
make it not happen?*
I don't know. But how can I say goodbye to either 
of these two?
*Briefly and matter-of-factly, if you don't want to 
nauseate a recovering dragon.*
Sitting uncomfortably in his pony's saddle, Ahira 
shook his head. "'Tis best done quickly, eh?"
Adjusting a rifle in its saddle boot, Slovotsky 
shrugged. "Seems that way to me, too. Hey, who 
knows? Endell might turn out to be a real drag; I 
may get so bored in a year or so that I'll need to get 
back into harness. Hell, we might even still be Home 
when you and El-legon show up to pick up the kids."
"I'd like that."
"Karl." The dwarf looked down at him. "I have to 
say this again: If you ever need either of us... you'll 
know where to find us, Karl. Come if you can; send 
word if you can't. This isn't goodbye—just so long."
I need you two now, he thought. But he couldn't 
say that. Not in front of everyone.
Damn. He reached up and shook hands first with 
Ahira, then with Walter. "I'll miss you, both of you."
Slovotsky snorted. "Tell me about it." He clasped 
hands briefly with Tennetty, then vaulted from the 
saddle to kiss Andy-Andy thoroughly, whispering 
softly in her ear as he held her close.
*You're supposed to be jealous.*
Shut up, Karl explained.
Walter's all-is-well-with-a-universe-whose-
center-holds-Walter-Slovotsky smile seemed a bit 
forced as he climbed back up to the fore-and-aft-
peaked saddle, making sure that the packhorse's 
leads were still tightly bound to it.
Andy-Andy walked over to Ahira, threw her arm 
around his waist, and buried her face against his 
thigh, not saying anything, while the dwarf ran 
gentle fingers through her hair. She turned away, her 
face wet.
"Watch your butt, Karl. Or Andy's; it's much 
prettier," Walter Slovotsky said as he and the dwarf 
turned their horses around and rode them slowly 
through the open gate, the three packhorses trailing 
behind. "And remember Slovotsky's Law Number 
Twenty-nine: 'It ain't over 'til it's over, and maybe 
not then, either.'"
Karl watched them for a long time, until they had 
vanished around the bend.

Finally, he turned to Tennetty. "Once we hit the 
slavers on Aershtyn, you want to hitch a ride Home 
with Ellegon and take over our raider team?"
"No." Idly, she fumbled in her pouch, pulling out 
her glass eye, holding it ujywith thumb and 
forefinger, considering it in the daylight. "We're 
going to have to rush this Aershtyn raid, so that you 
and Ellegon can take off soon enough to get back to 
the valley before Gwellin leaves."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"You're going to see if you can persuade Daherrin 
to take over the team, instead of going back to 
Endell. Gwellin wouldn't go for it, but I think 
Daherrin might."
"So, you want Aveneer's team instead?"
"Frandred's team, now," she said firmly. 
"Granted, he'll give every order twice, but that won't 
hurt anything."
"So what are you going to do?"
She tossed the glass eye high into the air, then let 
it thunk into the palm of her hand. Tucking it back in 
her pouch, she adjusted her eyepatch and smiled up 
at him. "I'm going to watch your back. Somebody's 
got to make sure it doesn't sprout knives."
*How about me—*
"You?" Tennetty spat. "You who can't even dodge 
a quartet of clumsy crossbowmen? You're going to 
watch out for Karl? Who's going to watch out for 
you?"
Ellegon didn't answer; he just lowered his 
massive head to his crossed forelegs and closed his 
eyes.
Andy-Andy smiled her approval.
Karl turned away from all of them for a moment, 
forcing his shoulders not to sag, though even his cap 
of maintenance seemed heavy.
But it wasn't really the cloth cap or this absurd 
title that weighed on him. Karl had long ago taken 
on a task vastly more important, far more difficult, 
than governing a two-bit principality, and neither a 
manipulating wizard nor a crippled slaver was going 
to stand in his way. There were going to be some 
changes made, no matter what.
*Karl.* All the playfulness was now gone from 
Ellegon's mental voice; it was gentle but serious. 
*Do you think that Walter and Ahira don't know 
that? Do you think that they aren't committed to it? 
Taking a vacation isn't the abandonment of a 
vocation, Karl.*
I know that.
*And so do Walter, Ahira, Lou, Andrea, 
Tennetty, and all the rest. They're every bit as 
committed as you and I are, my friend.* Gentle 
fingers stroked his mind. *The phrase is: "and we 
mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, 
and our sacred honor." And we shall keep the flame 
burning.* Ellegon sent a gout of fire roaring into the 
sky. *In more ways than one.*
"Fine by me." Karl Cullinane straightened his 
shoulders, then wiped his eyes before he turned back 
to the others. "We've got a lot to do. Let's get 
started."



EPILOGUE
Ahrmin
Fortune is like glass—the brighter the glitter, the 
more easily broken.
—Publilius Syrus

Ahrmin looked around the Aershtyn camp, shaking 
his head ruefully. The slave drive to Pandathaway 
had to start within a matter of days, or it surely 
would never leave. It was a certainty that Karl 
Cullinane would be sending a force up the slopes of 
Aershtyn to steal the slaves; Ahrmin had no 
intention of being around when that happened. 
Under other circumstances, he would have wanted to 
try to ambush Cullinane, but not this time. This was 
Cullinane's moment; best to let him win. There 
would be another day.
Just one more time, Karl Cullinane....
It was even possible that Cullinane and that 
damned dragon of his would somehow manage to 
ambush the drive en route to Pandathaway. Ahrmin 
had no intention of being around for that, either. Let 
Fenrius take the caravan to Pandathaway; Ahrmin 
would travel more quickly by himself.
He shook his head. The assault on Cullinane at 
Furnael Keep had been a disaster, but Ahrmin had 
survived disasters before. The trick wasn't simply to 
survive, but to turn the setback into an advance.
Things didn't work out as well as you must think, 
Karl Cullinane, he thought. Until now, Cullinane 
had been able to move freely about, magically 
protected from being Located; the only place in the 
Eren region in which he ever could surely be found 
was that blasted valley of his. And that had been too 
well defended.
But now it was different. Cullinane was pinned 
down in Bieme; that would make him more 
vulnerable, not less so. Let him wear a crown for a 
year or two; a crown could be separated from a head 
as easily as the head could be separated from its 
shoulders.
We aren't done with each other, Karl Cullinane, 
Ahrmin thought. You have won two battles, that is 
all.
The third battle and the war will be mine.
"Fenrius," he said, "saddle my horse. I want an 
escort of twelve men ready to leave before nightfall. 
You will bring the chain to Pandathaway; I will meet 
you there."
"Yes, Master Ahrmin."
The next time we meet, Karl Cullinane, you die, 
he thought, completely certain that it would come to 
pass.
Ahrmin smiled.



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joel Rosenberg was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, 
Canada, in 1954, and raised in eastern North Dakota 
and northern Connecticut. He attended the 
University of Connecticut, where he met and 
married Felicia Herman.
Joel's occupations, before settling down to 
writing full-time, have run the usual gamut, 
including driving a truck, caring for the 
institutionalized retarded, bookkeeping, gambling, 
motel desk-clerking, and a two-week stint of passing 
himself off as a head chef.
Joel's first sale, an op-ed piece favoring nuclear 
power, was published in The New York Times. His 
stories have appeared in Isaac Asimov's Science 
Fiction Magazine, Perpetual Light, Amazing Science 
Fiction Stories, and TSR's The Dragon.
Joel's hobbies include backgammon, poker, 
bridge, and several other sorts of gaming, as well as 
cooking; his broiled butterfly leg of lamb has to be 
tasted to be believed.
He now lives in New Haven, Connecticut, with 
his wife and the traditional two cats.
2