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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:

The Hunters

The dead don't die. They look on and help.  

—D.H. Lawrence

The cavern of the sword was empty, save for a naked, shivering Karl Cullinane and the shining sword.

The sword . . .

Clutched in fingers of light, the sword of Arta Myrdhyn hung in the air above a roughly hewn stone altar.

There was no sound, save for his own breathing, the wet slap of his footsteps on the cold stone, and the fast, even thrum-thrum-thrum of his own heart.

Karl Cullinane had never felt so alone.

The sword looked the same as it had years before, probably the same as it had for century after century: a two-handed broadsword with cord-wound hilt and thick brass quillons, its surface shimmering in the ghostly light, unblemished save for the spidery shapes that crept across the blade, forming letters and then vanishing.

Take me, the letters spelled out. Give me to Jason. 

"Like hell," he said.

He crouched for a moment, huddling in the Mel blanket. Under the rough blanket, he was still wet and naked except for his amulet, shivering from the cold; the cavern, hidden inside a close-offshore island, was accessible only by the underwater passage.

Across the blade, spidery letters again played.

Take me, they said. I wait for your son. 

"Not as far as I'm concerned," he said. This was what this was all about, at least according to Arta Myrdhyn: a sword that protected its bearer against even the strongest of magical spells; a sword made for killing wizards.

Arta Myrdhyn's way of preparing to strike at Wizards Grandmaster Lucius, his ancient enemy.

Not with my son, you don't.  

Jason would find his own destiny; Karl's son would not become a pawn in Deighton's game.

Karl Cullinane forced a chuckle, the laugh sounding thin even in his own ears. Make a play for the sword, indeed. Hah. It wasn't the sword that had brought him to Melawei; it wasn't the sword that had brought him to the hidden offshore caverns. But he did have to see it again; he couldn't have come all this way without seeing that it still stood here.

No, what Karl Cullinane had come here for was in the outer room: his edge against the slavers.

Ahrmin had taken Eriksen village, chasing the Eriksens back into the hills. It was understandable: That was the area of Melawei where Karl had defeated him before; Ahrmin would want to avenge himself on the land and villagers, as well as Karl Cullinane.

But there was something else near that village.

You made a huge mistake, bastard, he thought as he walked into the outer room. You picked the wrong spot to lie in wait for me. 

Glowing crystals were scattered across the walls and ceiling of the outer chamber; captured starlight played across the mottled far wall. Karl knew that if he'd had the genes to work magic, the dim markings on the wall would have resolved themselves into sharp-edged runes, the words of spells that could be impressed on the mind of a user of magic, to be saved, hoarded in the mind, spilled out as needed.

But he didn't; it was only a dirty wall to him. It wouldn't have been to Andy, but . . .

But she wasn't here.

She wasn't here. He'd likely never see her again. What would he give to hold her in his arms again? What wouldn't he give?

Easy, Karl. We've got work to do. He forced his mind back to the task at hand, and decided that it had been too long since he had last eaten, although he didn't feel hungry. Killing took away his appetite.

At least, it used to; it used to be that he felt sick to his stomach both before and after a kill. Lately, over the past few days, he had returned from his forays ravenous.

He wasn't hungry now, but, still, the body-as-machine had to be taken care of, if only for a short while longer. Karl Cullinane left the cavern of the sword and walked back through the roughly hewn tunnel to the outer chamber where he had left his gear.

His tunic, breechclout, and leggings were spread out on the cold stone, drying as well as they could. He squatted for a moment, feeling at his clothes. His? Well, close enough; the slavers he'd relieved of them wouldn't have any further use for them. They were all still wet from last night, as were half the stack of blanketlike towels that the Mel had left in the cave, for the convenience of their clan wizards.

He shrugged. He'd be in for worse than damp clothes before the night was over.

Ignoring the two big sacks containing guncotton sticks and the small one with the detonators, he dug into the fourth one for a hunk of dried beef, and bit off a piece while he examined the near wall.

What appeared to be a picture window looked down on the nighttime sea.

Waves roiled beneath flickering stars, while a distant darkness covered the horizon. To the west, south, and east, other offshore islands lay, some only tiny rocky outcroppings sporting a tree or two, some large ones only technically islands, just barely separated from the shoreline by passages too narrow for any craft save a Mel dugout canoe. A bird flitted across his field of view; it was gone before Karl could make out what kind it was.

Off in the distance, a slaver ship lay, floating freely at anchor. That would make a juicy target, but not for tonight. The slavers were starting to pull in their outlying posts, but the process wasn't finished.

There was an old Vietcong trick Karl planned to try tonight, which should speed things along, another turn of the screw: He'd cut off tonight's victims' genitals, and leave them stuck in the corpses' mouths. He'd thought about doing so for days, and had decided to wait on it. Mutilating bodies didn't bother him, not at all. He had put off doing it to give himself something else to add to the pressure on the slavers.

He turned back to the window. It wasn't really a picture window, of course; the cavern was at sea level, but the view looked down from a height. The Eye, the sphere, which transferred the image to the glass, was on the island's heights, waiting.

For this.

Karl ran his fingers over the glass; in dizzying counterpoint, the view spun until the beach filled the window. Karl would have given a lot to be able to move the Eye out and over the forest to do a more complete remote recon—village Eriksen was hidden by the trees—but even without that, it was a powerful tool.

Besides, he liked it; the Eye and window suited him.

It was magic-as-technology—do this with this, and this happens, see? There was something far more satisfying about a device that he could see work, emotionally preferable to even something as useful, as important, as the amulet that protected him from being located.

He moved his fingers again, then examined the glass closely until he could see a distant fire that was at least a mile down the beach. It was the spot where, just a few nights before, he had killed the two watchmen, leaving one burning.

Right now, all it was was a vague glow, so he lightly touched his index finger to the flicker, and pressed down while the flicker grew, zooming in, the watchfire growing on the screen until he could see the two slavers sitting in front of it, one tending a head-sized piece of meat on a spit, the other scanning the water and forest. The view was flat, as though he was looking through a telephoto lens.

That didn't bother him. The trouble was that it looked far too easy. By now, the slavers would be trying to trap him; there would be a backup.

"So, let's find the backup."

It took him five hard minutes of scanning to find it: another pair of slavers, hidden in a blind built into a nearby tree, visible only momentarily when the more skittish one would shift position.

He still didn't like it, though. Ahrmin was clever; there was probably a second backup, at least, but a half hour of intense scrutiny, making minuscule motions to barely move the Eye, didn't reveal it.

Karl Cullinane sighed. He probably wasn't going to be able to hit that target. Not tonight. There had to be backups, or booby traps on the approaches to such a tempting target; until he could figure out exactly what the slavers were up to, he'd have to give this target a pass. The next step had to be to persuade the slavers to pull their men in close, defensively. Pull all the outlying guards into one camp, and huddle together there.

So that Karl Cullinane could blow them to bits with guncotton bombs. He smiled. Just a little more, he thought. Just a few more deaths, and the slavers would gather together for him. And then, boom. Cut them down to size, then cut them to pieces.

Back to work.

Maybe he could spot the traps here. It would be nice to take apart a three-level trap; that would mean killing at least five slavers. Not a bad night's work at all. If he could do it.

He spun the view and looked westward down the beach, scanning slowly until a motion caught his eye. He zoomed in, yet again, and spotted three dark figures moving single-file along the treeline.

Not a bad job of skulking, he decided. The slavers wouldn't be visible except from the sea, and except for their own ship, there were no ships in evidence—even a keen observer wouldn't have been able to spot them from the island, not without the Eye.

Too bad—for them—that the slavers didn't know about the Eye.

Wait. He shook his head.

That hadn't looked right. There was something about the walk of one of them.

He zoomed in closer, but they were gone; they had probably ducked back into the trees. He scanned the Eye farther down the beach, and saw two others, trailing the first three by about a hundred meters. The hunting team's backup, probably, looking for traces of him, wisely figuring that Karl wasn't going to be skulking inside the forest itself at night, for the same reason that the slavers weren't: Only a few dozen meters inside the forest, the overgrowth of leaves blocked out all light.

But . . . that didn't make sense. Maybe they would put out one man as a Judas goat—Ahrmin seemed to have little concern for his men; likely most were hired mercenaries and not guild slavers—but not three, not with two following. To justify using three men as bait, there would have to be a much larger party waiting to spring the trap.

Granted, the two following looked to be fairly tough: two large men, one half crouching as he followed their trail, the other holding two loaded crossbows.

But still. It didn't make sense at all. Unless . . .

Karl spun the view again, leaving the two hunters while he searched for their quarry.

He found them. Three figures, hiding in darkness. Not hiding well enough.

The three came to a spot where a wide trail led away into the trees. The right move would have been to go into the forest, and cross the trail under cover.

Even Karl knew that; Walter Slovotsky had taught him.

You didn't cross open spaces, not if you didn't have to.

They crossed the open space.

"No!" His heart pounded in his chest as he zoomed in tight on their faces, his fingers automatically making the minor corrections to keep them in view.

It was Aeia, Tennetty, and Bren Adahan. What were they doing here?

Getting themselves killed, in just a few minutes, if Karl didn't do something.

Wait a minute, he thought, and then smiled. If they were here, that meant that Jason had been found; they'd still be looking for the boy, otherwise. This had to mean that they'd found the boy; they were here to pull Karl's head out of the noose.

He knew how Atlas felt after his shrug.

Change of plans, Ahrmin, Karl thought. "I, Karl Cullinane, hereby cancel my last run, and promise to get my butt out of here in one piece, if at all possible."

He would take another try at Ahrmin, and soon, but with better odds than were offered here and now.

Now, to rescue his rescuers. . . .

He ran to his gear and pulled out his bowie, then went into one of the leather sacks and produced a dozen guncotton sticks, each carefully sealed for water-tightness. He dug into the small bag for sealed packets of detonators, igniters, and fuses, putting all of the retrieved explosives and equipment in a canvas rucksack. His guns, powder, and sword were cached in the woods with his boots; he hadn't wanted to expose his guns to the water, and, once having tried swimming with a sword, had no intention of swimming with it and other gear.

His clothes were still wet, but dark clothes would provide more cover in the night than his bare skin. On top of the explosive, he set a brass flask of healing draughts. Just in case.

No. He shook his head. He couldn't afford to take the bombs, because he couldn't afford to use the bombs. If he did use explosives on the hunters, it would only call attention to this area—and while the offshore island probably could stand a casual search, it probably couldn't take a more thorough one. There was a crack in the outer chamber that let in air and, during the day, a bit of light. A thorough search might involve someone putting his eye to the crack, and seeing the crystals inside.

Worse, any use of the bombs might suggest to Ahrmin what Karl's game plan was; the slavers would spread out to several smaller camps, and wait Karl out.

But what if he needed the bombs?

Shit. If I need the bombs, I'm dead anyway. He set the canvas sack down. Best not to take it.

There was something wrong. It felt suddenly colder in the chamber. But only physically; inside, he was warmed.

For a moment, he wasn't alone anymore.

He closed his eyes, and they were there. Maybe. He was never sure if it was real or just his subconscious sounding an alarm in a way it knew would get his attention, but it was as though the three of them were there, with him: Fialt, Rahff, and Chak.

He opened his eyes, and they were gone; but when he closed them again, he could almost see them; their presence was almost palpable.

Saturnine, slow-speaking Fialt, who didn't want to be a warrior, but had died on an Ehvenor dock, distracting assassins for a priceless second. Karl knew the price of that second; it had been Fialt's life.

As Karl squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he could almost see Fialt shaking his head no.

Young Rahff, his face a mirror to his soul, never able to resist asking why—like his brother Thomen, but even more so. He'd died here, in Melawei, protecting Aeia, here on the goddam Melawei sands, his belly sliced open, gutted like a trout.

Karl could almost feel Rahff looking up at him, a puzzled frown on his young face that would never grow old.

And short Chak, an easy grin always on his dark face. Chak, who had spent too much of his life protecting Karl's back, making sure it didn't start sprouting knives. Chak had died outside of Kiar, blown to pieces in an explosion of slaver powder, protecting the myth of the invincibility of Home forces.

It was as though Chak was there, cocking his head to one side.

Leaving the bombs behind doesn't make sense, kemo sabe, he seemed to say. Since when do we count on getting out of anything alive? There was a distant chuckle. If you need them, you need them. Take any weapon you can carry. 

Karl Cullinane opened his eyes.

There was nobody there. But there was.

Take the bombs, Karl.  

Karl squeezed his eyes shut once more, and then nodded as he opened them to stoop for two of the packets, packed them in a small leather pouch, then tied that tightly to his left shoulder. It was less than a tenth of his stock, but that would surely be enough for now; with any kind of luck at all he wouldn't even need it.

He patted his bowie for a moment, then shook his head. He was going to have to make a run from the sea, and take out the two of them before they could react. It was a chancy gambit, at best. Better to have more than fourteen inches of steel to use.

He dashed back to the cavern of the sword.

It still hung in the air, the spidery letters playing across the surface. Take me, they said.

He fastened his fingers around the grip. It was blood-warm, alive.

"No promises, Deighton," he said. "No deals. But I'd like to borrow this, for a while. With no obligation." He tightened his fingers around the hilt and pulled.

The sword didn't give.

Take me for your son, the letters said.

"No." He pulled once more, hard. But the sword was anchored tightly in the air.

"Fuck you, asshole," Karl Cullinane said.

He dropped his hand from the hilt and ran from the cavern of the sword of Arta Myrdhyn and into the outer chamber. He paused a moment before the pool leading to the underwater tunnel that was the only exit from the caverns. Karl Cullinane didn't believe in ghosts. It must have been just his subconscious acting up, trying to prevent him from making a mistake.

Still, it wouldn't hurt. He hefted the canvas bag.

"Fialt, Rahff . . ." He choked for a moment, "Chak. My friends. Thank you. For everything." He raised his bowie in a quick salute, then slipped it back into its sheath, thonged it into place, took a deep breath, and dove.

* * *

He broke surface on the seaward side, quickly crossed the rocks, and resubmerged on the landward side of the island to keep the island between him and the offshore slaver ship.

Good. If only he could keep the island between him and any possible observers, he might be able to take out the hunters without drawing any undue attention.

Tennetty's group was more than a hundred yards to his left as he crept up on the shoreline; the two slavers were too intent on them to notice Karl Cullinane silently rise from the water and bear down on them. The only sound he made was the whisking of his bare feet on the sand, and that was covered by the lapping of waves on the shore.

The slavers crept on silently, the leader in his curious half-crouch, the bowman lagging behind.

Unstrapping the package and setting his packet of explosives gently on the sand, Karl Cullinane drew his bowie and closed in on them.

Perhaps he was breathing too loudly, perhaps an unconscious growl forced itself from between his lips, perhaps his heart was beating too hard; he was never quite sure why, but when he was only about six feet behind the bowman, the slaver gave a gasp and turned, bringing his bow up.

Karl Cullinane took a broken-field half-step to one side and launched himself toward the bowman, just as the bowman fired.

The bolt burned against the left side of Karl's ribcage; he knocked the weapon aside, the slaver losing the other bow as the two of them rolled around on the sand.

The slaver clawed for Karl's eyes with one hand; he tried to block the downward thrust of Karl's knife with the other, fingers straining to grip Karl's wrist.

Fingers snapped as Karl Cullinane stabbed downward, once, twice, three times into the slaver's chest, then jerked his knife from the enemy and rolled free, coming to his feet to rush at the other.

The other man stood silently wide-eyed, his mouth working as though he was trying to say something. But only a harsh moan and a trickle of dark blood escaped his lips as his spastic hands pulled at the knife that projected from his throat.

Knife? The slaver fell to his knees.

Another knife thunked home, this time into the slaver's chest.

"Tennetty, Aeia, Bren, freeze," Walter Slovotsky hissed from behind Karl. "It seems that we found him."

Karl turned to see three people: Slovotsky, Ahira, and someone he didn't re—no, by God! it was Avair Ganness!—emerging from the trees.

"O ye of little faith," Slovotsky said, his smile unforced. "You think I'd send them out without giving them an escort?"

As Karl stripped off his bloody tunic and examined the six-inch-long shallow gash on his side, Ahira hauled the bodies past the treeline, the others gathered around him.

"Bad?" Ahira asked, dropping to his knees, scrubbing at his arms with handfuls of sand.

"I'll live." It hurt like hell, but it wasn't deep. Certainly not bad enough to waste any of his precious supply of healing draughts; he let Tennetty apply a bandage and tie it in place, then he took a brief moment to exchange hugs with Aeia and Ahira and handclasps with Bren, Tennetty, and Ganness before turning to Slovotsky.

"Is he back in Biemestren or with you?" Karl asked.

"Who?" Slovotsky's brow furrowed. "Oh, Jason. Well, I hope he's back in Holtun-Bieme, or Home. —Now, let's get the hell out of here. We've got Ganness' ship hidden in a cove about—"

"You hope?"

It was instantly clear.

Slovotsky had gone independent on him.

Again.

Once more.

As goddam usual.

Blindly, Karl swung a fist at Slovotsky's face, but the smaller man wasn't there when the blow should have arrived; Slovotsky ducked to one side, raising both palms.

"Easy, Karl. Just take it easy," Walter Slovotsky said.

"You were supposed to go after him," Karl said. "I can take care of myself."

Stepping between the two of them, Ahira shook his head. "Save it, Karl. Now, is this gear what I think it is?"

"Don't change the subject. You deserted my boy."

"Karl," Ahira said, "Jason's not the one who's really in danger. You are."

"That's your opinion."

"Karl." Ahira took a deep breath. "We don't have time for this. You'd better get your temper under control right now; we can argue later. We all decided that you would probably need our help more than he would. Walter's right; let's get out of here. I don't like the odds. We've bought Jason as much time as we're going to, by now. He's probably hooked up with some Home warr—"

"No." Karl shook his head. "You get going; I'm going to finish this."

He wasn't done here; the disappointment was like a physical blow. From the moment he'd seen Tennetty, Aeia, and Bren skulking along the beach, Karl had been sure that he was finished here, that he could leave Melawei and Ahrmin behind, and go back to Andrea.

Back to Andy. . . .

But not now.

To his left, Tennetty stood motionless, her arms folded across her chest. "You're not going to finish this alone. Not alone."

"Father," Aeia said formally, "I won't leave you, either." She took his hand. "I won't."

Bren Adahan reached out for her arm, "Compromise. We'll compromise."

"Compromise," Ahira said judiciously. "Makes sense."

Tennetty frowned. "I don't like it. Let's make sure we finish the bastard here."

Slovotsky snickered. "With these odds? Are you tired of living? I don't mind a hit and run, but let's not just put our heads on the block."

"I think we ought to leave," Ganness said. "I don't even know why I'm here."

Karl raised an eyebrow as he looked at Walter. Come to think of it, why was Ganness here?

Ahira snorted. "We wanted to make sure that the ship was still there when we got back. So, since nobody else aboard knows these waters enough to guide it out safely, we, er . . ."

"We took the keys," Slovotsky finished. "But how about it, Karl? A nice compromise, instead of a goddam Götterdämmerung?" Slovotsky cocked his head to one side. "An old time hit-and-run?" He gestured at Karl's packet of explosives. "We have enough there to put a hole in their ship while we make a run for it."

"We've got better than that." Karl smiled and nodded, which wasn't a good idea; he realized that he must have lost more blood than he'd thought. His head spun as he clapped his hand to the gash in his left side; he leaned against Tennetty to steady himself. "A lot more than this. We use it all, then we run. Okay?"

Slovotsky nodded. "Deal."

Karl turned to the dwarf. "You or me?"

Ahira didn't have to think about it. "You know the lay of the land better than I do. Take it."

"Fine." It all clicked into place. The trouble had not been that there were too many slavers, just that there had been too few of Karl.

Now, that had changed. Even if they couldn't wipe out all the slavers, they could do a lot of damage, and then get the hell out.

"Aeia, Bren, Walter, and Ganness—I want you to swim out to the cave and get the rest of the explosives. Bren and Aeia, you swim over to the slaver ship, set the charges, and get ready to blow it—and be sure to—"

Aeia held up a hand. "Yes, Karl. Make sure to swim away fast after we strike the igniters. And I won't," she added with an impish smile, "forget not to breathe underwater."

"Right. Walter and Ganness, you bring back what they don't need."

"I like it." Tennetty smiled. "An old-fashioned Karl Cullinane-style ambush?"

Slovotsky smiled too. "Just like Mother used to bake."

Karl nodded. Just like in the old raiding days. Dammit, those days had been too long gone; it was good to remember them properly. "Right. We'll set up a bomb attack from the far side of the camp, drive them down the path toward the sea, blow the hell out of them on the path, and then run like hell." He turned to the dwarf. "I'll want you and Walter to take the far side—"

"We throw out the first ball?" Slovotsky asked.

"Right. Then use the rest of your bombs to take out as many as you can—but you'd better make fast tracks back to the ship, because your bomb will be the signal for Aeia and Bren to light their detonators, and that'll start all the rest of the fun."

It would also stir up the slavers in the outlying watchposts, but that couldn't be helped; they'd have to get to Ganness' ship and get out before the slavers caught up with them.

The dwarf nodded. "Makes sense to me."

"Tennetty?"

"I know." She nodded as she hefted her rifle. "Ahrmin. If I can get him in my sights. Then I get back to the ship. I'm not as fast in the dark as Slovotsky is; I'd better get going."

"No." Karl wanted Ahrmin dead, but Tennetty didn't have the dwarf's darksight, and she didn't have Slovotsky's recon skills—and, besides, he needed her here. "I need someone to watch my back. Ganness isn't going to be enough."

She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped herself and gave a grim smile. "Yes, Karl."

It was amazing: He felt young again; a weight that he hadn't realized he'd been carrying was dropping from his shoulders. "Let's get to it, people. Walter, the entrance to the cavern—"

"—is exactly where it was the last time you told me about the cavern." Slovotsky was stripping off his boots and shrugging out of his clothes as he spoke; he was stark naked in seconds. "Aeia, Bren, Ganness—let's go. We'd better get this show on the road before that patrol's officially missing."

Walter's group headed into the water; the four silently swam away toward the island.

Karl turned to the dwarf. "Looks like it's just the three of us for a moment. Ten, you keep your eyes on the trail. Ahira, you want to keep watch to the east, or to the west?"

Ahira shrugged. "Dealer's choice." He clasped Karl's hand, hard, with one hand, while he hefted his axe with the other. "It has been too long."

* * *

It felt like hours, but it couldn't have been much more than half an hour later when Slovotsky and Ganness returned, pushing the floating sacks.

With Ahira and Tennetty watching for possible slaver patrols, Karl waded thigh-deep into the water and helped Ganness and Slovotsky drag the explosives up on the beach and back up to the treeline, then helped Walter and Ahira assemble a dozen sticks, detonators, and igniters into a dozen bombs.

The big man and the dwarf disappeared into the night.

Tennetty sighed.

"Save it for later," Karl said. "And keep an eye open." He turned to the captain. "As far as assembling the bombs goes, it's you and me, Captain Ganness," Karl said.

"Captain Crenn—" Ganness caught himself, and gave an almost Gallic shrug. "Ahh . . . it makes no difference, I suppose."

Karl looked over the path. He mainly had to go by a memory of what it looked like in the daytime, but there was a little dogleg about thirty yards in; that would be a fine place for the ambush, when the slavers were sent charging down the path.

But first things first.

"Ganness, were you watching when I assembled the bombs for Walter and Ahira?"

"I could do it," Tennetty put in.

"Shut up. Just keep your eyes open. Ganness?"

Ganness spat. "No. I've been too busy trembling to watch, if you must know."

"Do what I do. It's not difficult." He beckoned to Ganness. "First, you take a stick of explosive, carefully—easy, easy; this stuff would just as soon blow up on you as not—and stick one of these metal things in the end. That's a detonator. Then this thing that looks like a match—I mean, then this other thing. You stick that in the other end."

The mixture on the end of the fuse was mainly gunpowder; the detonators were fulminate of mercury; the explosive itself was guncotton, nitrocellulose. Karl had first used these bombs against slaver cannons, but he had avoided making more since the end of the Holtun-Bieme war. Until Ranella's new wash had gotten rid of impurities in the guncotton—if indeed it had—the stuff had been too unstable to leave around for long.

The British had fooled around with guncotton too early; deadly explosions had forced them back to black powder for years and years. Better to have to make the transition only once.

Ganness spat on his palms, rubbed them nervously together, and knelt next to Karl. He reached out his hands, then drew them back. "No." The captain rose, shaking his head. "No. A man has to say no sometime. I won't do it, I won't do it. This kind of magic frightens me, Karl Cullinane, and I won't have any part in it." Ganness folded his arms over his chest.

"You're not thinking of abandoning us, are you?" Karl said in a low, cold voice, forcing a grim smile to his face. It was intended to chill the blood.

It worked. Even in the starlight, Ganness visibly paled. "No, no," the captain protested. "But I don't want to touch that. That's all."

Karl shrugged. "Then you keep watch to the west. While I finish."

While Ganness kept watch, Karl assembled the bombs. He was only halfway done when Tennetty spoke up.

"Karl, I heard—"

Something whizzed by Karl's ear.

Tennetty's word turned into a harsh scream as she looked down at the crossbow bolt projecting from her belly; drooling blood, she fell writhing to the sands.

A harsh voice whispered, "Ta havath, Karl Cullinane. If you move, you die."

Two large men stepped out of the darkness. Each carried a slung rifle and an unslung crossbow, the nearer reloading his with a fresh bolt.

Avair Ganness turned toward Karl, his face even paler than before. "I was looking, Karl Cullinane, but—"

"Silence," one of the men hissed. "Karl Cullinane, step away from there, and set that device on the sands, then stand back. Or you may fight us and die here and now. It doesn't matter." He spared his companion a brief grin. "We've gotten him, Chuzet."

"Just be careful. Do what he says now, Karl Cullinane. Or die now." The slaver gave a half-shrug. It didn't matter to him.

"Let me get some healing draughts into her, first," Karl said. "The bottle is in the bag over there."

Tennetty was almost motionless, her eyes staring glassily up at him. But even in the starlight he could see the pulse beat in her neck.

"No. I'll put her out of her misery, if you like. But put the device down now, or die now."

Play for time, he thought. There wasn't anything else to do; these two looked like they knew what they were doing.

Karl took three slow steps away from the explosive and then crouched to set the bomb gingerly down on the sand in front of him.

"Now, Chutfale? May I?"

"Now. Stand up and move away from there, Karl Cullinane."

Chuzet pulled a horn from his pouch, brought it to his lips, and blew. The horn shrilled a pure note into the night.

The clear, pure sound chilled Karl Cullinane quite thoroughly.

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Framed

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Contents

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:

The Hunters

The dead don't die. They look on and help.  

—D.H. Lawrence

The cavern of the sword was empty, save for a naked, shivering Karl Cullinane and the shining sword.

The sword . . .

Clutched in fingers of light, the sword of Arta Myrdhyn hung in the air above a roughly hewn stone altar.

There was no sound, save for his own breathing, the wet slap of his footsteps on the cold stone, and the fast, even thrum-thrum-thrum of his own heart.

Karl Cullinane had never felt so alone.

The sword looked the same as it had years before, probably the same as it had for century after century: a two-handed broadsword with cord-wound hilt and thick brass quillons, its surface shimmering in the ghostly light, unblemished save for the spidery shapes that crept across the blade, forming letters and then vanishing.

Take me, the letters spelled out. Give me to Jason. 

"Like hell," he said.

He crouched for a moment, huddling in the Mel blanket. Under the rough blanket, he was still wet and naked except for his amulet, shivering from the cold; the cavern, hidden inside a close-offshore island, was accessible only by the underwater passage.

Across the blade, spidery letters again played.

Take me, they said. I wait for your son. 

"Not as far as I'm concerned," he said. This was what this was all about, at least according to Arta Myrdhyn: a sword that protected its bearer against even the strongest of magical spells; a sword made for killing wizards.

Arta Myrdhyn's way of preparing to strike at Wizards Grandmaster Lucius, his ancient enemy.

Not with my son, you don't.  

Jason would find his own destiny; Karl's son would not become a pawn in Deighton's game.

Karl Cullinane forced a chuckle, the laugh sounding thin even in his own ears. Make a play for the sword, indeed. Hah. It wasn't the sword that had brought him to Melawei; it wasn't the sword that had brought him to the hidden offshore caverns. But he did have to see it again; he couldn't have come all this way without seeing that it still stood here.

No, what Karl Cullinane had come here for was in the outer room: his edge against the slavers.

Ahrmin had taken Eriksen village, chasing the Eriksens back into the hills. It was understandable: That was the area of Melawei where Karl had defeated him before; Ahrmin would want to avenge himself on the land and villagers, as well as Karl Cullinane.

But there was something else near that village.

You made a huge mistake, bastard, he thought as he walked into the outer room. You picked the wrong spot to lie in wait for me. 

Glowing crystals were scattered across the walls and ceiling of the outer chamber; captured starlight played across the mottled far wall. Karl knew that if he'd had the genes to work magic, the dim markings on the wall would have resolved themselves into sharp-edged runes, the words of spells that could be impressed on the mind of a user of magic, to be saved, hoarded in the mind, spilled out as needed.

But he didn't; it was only a dirty wall to him. It wouldn't have been to Andy, but . . .

But she wasn't here.

She wasn't here. He'd likely never see her again. What would he give to hold her in his arms again? What wouldn't he give?

Easy, Karl. We've got work to do. He forced his mind back to the task at hand, and decided that it had been too long since he had last eaten, although he didn't feel hungry. Killing took away his appetite.

At least, it used to; it used to be that he felt sick to his stomach both before and after a kill. Lately, over the past few days, he had returned from his forays ravenous.

He wasn't hungry now, but, still, the body-as-machine had to be taken care of, if only for a short while longer. Karl Cullinane left the cavern of the sword and walked back through the roughly hewn tunnel to the outer chamber where he had left his gear.

His tunic, breechclout, and leggings were spread out on the cold stone, drying as well as they could. He squatted for a moment, feeling at his clothes. His? Well, close enough; the slavers he'd relieved of them wouldn't have any further use for them. They were all still wet from last night, as were half the stack of blanketlike towels that the Mel had left in the cave, for the convenience of their clan wizards.

He shrugged. He'd be in for worse than damp clothes before the night was over.

Ignoring the two big sacks containing guncotton sticks and the small one with the detonators, he dug into the fourth one for a hunk of dried beef, and bit off a piece while he examined the near wall.

What appeared to be a picture window looked down on the nighttime sea.

Waves roiled beneath flickering stars, while a distant darkness covered the horizon. To the west, south, and east, other offshore islands lay, some only tiny rocky outcroppings sporting a tree or two, some large ones only technically islands, just barely separated from the shoreline by passages too narrow for any craft save a Mel dugout canoe. A bird flitted across his field of view; it was gone before Karl could make out what kind it was.

Off in the distance, a slaver ship lay, floating freely at anchor. That would make a juicy target, but not for tonight. The slavers were starting to pull in their outlying posts, but the process wasn't finished.

There was an old Vietcong trick Karl planned to try tonight, which should speed things along, another turn of the screw: He'd cut off tonight's victims' genitals, and leave them stuck in the corpses' mouths. He'd thought about doing so for days, and had decided to wait on it. Mutilating bodies didn't bother him, not at all. He had put off doing it to give himself something else to add to the pressure on the slavers.

He turned back to the window. It wasn't really a picture window, of course; the cavern was at sea level, but the view looked down from a height. The Eye, the sphere, which transferred the image to the glass, was on the island's heights, waiting.

For this.

Karl ran his fingers over the glass; in dizzying counterpoint, the view spun until the beach filled the window. Karl would have given a lot to be able to move the Eye out and over the forest to do a more complete remote recon—village Eriksen was hidden by the trees—but even without that, it was a powerful tool.

Besides, he liked it; the Eye and window suited him.

It was magic-as-technology—do this with this, and this happens, see? There was something far more satisfying about a device that he could see work, emotionally preferable to even something as useful, as important, as the amulet that protected him from being located.

He moved his fingers again, then examined the glass closely until he could see a distant fire that was at least a mile down the beach. It was the spot where, just a few nights before, he had killed the two watchmen, leaving one burning.

Right now, all it was was a vague glow, so he lightly touched his index finger to the flicker, and pressed down while the flicker grew, zooming in, the watchfire growing on the screen until he could see the two slavers sitting in front of it, one tending a head-sized piece of meat on a spit, the other scanning the water and forest. The view was flat, as though he was looking through a telephoto lens.

That didn't bother him. The trouble was that it looked far too easy. By now, the slavers would be trying to trap him; there would be a backup.

"So, let's find the backup."

It took him five hard minutes of scanning to find it: another pair of slavers, hidden in a blind built into a nearby tree, visible only momentarily when the more skittish one would shift position.

He still didn't like it, though. Ahrmin was clever; there was probably a second backup, at least, but a half hour of intense scrutiny, making minuscule motions to barely move the Eye, didn't reveal it.

Karl Cullinane sighed. He probably wasn't going to be able to hit that target. Not tonight. There had to be backups, or booby traps on the approaches to such a tempting target; until he could figure out exactly what the slavers were up to, he'd have to give this target a pass. The next step had to be to persuade the slavers to pull their men in close, defensively. Pull all the outlying guards into one camp, and huddle together there.

So that Karl Cullinane could blow them to bits with guncotton bombs. He smiled. Just a little more, he thought. Just a few more deaths, and the slavers would gather together for him. And then, boom. Cut them down to size, then cut them to pieces.

Back to work.

Maybe he could spot the traps here. It would be nice to take apart a three-level trap; that would mean killing at least five slavers. Not a bad night's work at all. If he could do it.

He spun the view and looked westward down the beach, scanning slowly until a motion caught his eye. He zoomed in, yet again, and spotted three dark figures moving single-file along the treeline.

Not a bad job of skulking, he decided. The slavers wouldn't be visible except from the sea, and except for their own ship, there were no ships in evidence—even a keen observer wouldn't have been able to spot them from the island, not without the Eye.

Too bad—for them—that the slavers didn't know about the Eye.

Wait. He shook his head.

That hadn't looked right. There was something about the walk of one of them.

He zoomed in closer, but they were gone; they had probably ducked back into the trees. He scanned the Eye farther down the beach, and saw two others, trailing the first three by about a hundred meters. The hunting team's backup, probably, looking for traces of him, wisely figuring that Karl wasn't going to be skulking inside the forest itself at night, for the same reason that the slavers weren't: Only a few dozen meters inside the forest, the overgrowth of leaves blocked out all light.

But . . . that didn't make sense. Maybe they would put out one man as a Judas goat—Ahrmin seemed to have little concern for his men; likely most were hired mercenaries and not guild slavers—but not three, not with two following. To justify using three men as bait, there would have to be a much larger party waiting to spring the trap.

Granted, the two following looked to be fairly tough: two large men, one half crouching as he followed their trail, the other holding two loaded crossbows.

But still. It didn't make sense at all. Unless . . .

Karl spun the view again, leaving the two hunters while he searched for their quarry.

He found them. Three figures, hiding in darkness. Not hiding well enough.

The three came to a spot where a wide trail led away into the trees. The right move would have been to go into the forest, and cross the trail under cover.

Even Karl knew that; Walter Slovotsky had taught him.

You didn't cross open spaces, not if you didn't have to.

They crossed the open space.

"No!" His heart pounded in his chest as he zoomed in tight on their faces, his fingers automatically making the minor corrections to keep them in view.

It was Aeia, Tennetty, and Bren Adahan. What were they doing here?

Getting themselves killed, in just a few minutes, if Karl didn't do something.

Wait a minute, he thought, and then smiled. If they were here, that meant that Jason had been found; they'd still be looking for the boy, otherwise. This had to mean that they'd found the boy; they were here to pull Karl's head out of the noose.

He knew how Atlas felt after his shrug.

Change of plans, Ahrmin, Karl thought. "I, Karl Cullinane, hereby cancel my last run, and promise to get my butt out of here in one piece, if at all possible."

He would take another try at Ahrmin, and soon, but with better odds than were offered here and now.

Now, to rescue his rescuers. . . .

He ran to his gear and pulled out his bowie, then went into one of the leather sacks and produced a dozen guncotton sticks, each carefully sealed for water-tightness. He dug into the small bag for sealed packets of detonators, igniters, and fuses, putting all of the retrieved explosives and equipment in a canvas rucksack. His guns, powder, and sword were cached in the woods with his boots; he hadn't wanted to expose his guns to the water, and, once having tried swimming with a sword, had no intention of swimming with it and other gear.

His clothes were still wet, but dark clothes would provide more cover in the night than his bare skin. On top of the explosive, he set a brass flask of healing draughts. Just in case.

No. He shook his head. He couldn't afford to take the bombs, because he couldn't afford to use the bombs. If he did use explosives on the hunters, it would only call attention to this area—and while the offshore island probably could stand a casual search, it probably couldn't take a more thorough one. There was a crack in the outer chamber that let in air and, during the day, a bit of light. A thorough search might involve someone putting his eye to the crack, and seeing the crystals inside.

Worse, any use of the bombs might suggest to Ahrmin what Karl's game plan was; the slavers would spread out to several smaller camps, and wait Karl out.

But what if he needed the bombs?

Shit. If I need the bombs, I'm dead anyway. He set the canvas sack down. Best not to take it.

There was something wrong. It felt suddenly colder in the chamber. But only physically; inside, he was warmed.

For a moment, he wasn't alone anymore.

He closed his eyes, and they were there. Maybe. He was never sure if it was real or just his subconscious sounding an alarm in a way it knew would get his attention, but it was as though the three of them were there, with him: Fialt, Rahff, and Chak.

He opened his eyes, and they were gone; but when he closed them again, he could almost see them; their presence was almost palpable.

Saturnine, slow-speaking Fialt, who didn't want to be a warrior, but had died on an Ehvenor dock, distracting assassins for a priceless second. Karl knew the price of that second; it had been Fialt's life.

As Karl squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he could almost see Fialt shaking his head no.

Young Rahff, his face a mirror to his soul, never able to resist asking why—like his brother Thomen, but even more so. He'd died here, in Melawei, protecting Aeia, here on the goddam Melawei sands, his belly sliced open, gutted like a trout.

Karl could almost feel Rahff looking up at him, a puzzled frown on his young face that would never grow old.

And short Chak, an easy grin always on his dark face. Chak, who had spent too much of his life protecting Karl's back, making sure it didn't start sprouting knives. Chak had died outside of Kiar, blown to pieces in an explosion of slaver powder, protecting the myth of the invincibility of Home forces.

It was as though Chak was there, cocking his head to one side.

Leaving the bombs behind doesn't make sense, kemo sabe, he seemed to say. Since when do we count on getting out of anything alive? There was a distant chuckle. If you need them, you need them. Take any weapon you can carry. 

Karl Cullinane opened his eyes.

There was nobody there. But there was.

Take the bombs, Karl.  

Karl squeezed his eyes shut once more, and then nodded as he opened them to stoop for two of the packets, packed them in a small leather pouch, then tied that tightly to his left shoulder. It was less than a tenth of his stock, but that would surely be enough for now; with any kind of luck at all he wouldn't even need it.

He patted his bowie for a moment, then shook his head. He was going to have to make a run from the sea, and take out the two of them before they could react. It was a chancy gambit, at best. Better to have more than fourteen inches of steel to use.

He dashed back to the cavern of the sword.

It still hung in the air, the spidery letters playing across the surface. Take me, they said.

He fastened his fingers around the grip. It was blood-warm, alive.

"No promises, Deighton," he said. "No deals. But I'd like to borrow this, for a while. With no obligation." He tightened his fingers around the hilt and pulled.

The sword didn't give.

Take me for your son, the letters said.

"No." He pulled once more, hard. But the sword was anchored tightly in the air.

"Fuck you, asshole," Karl Cullinane said.

He dropped his hand from the hilt and ran from the cavern of the sword of Arta Myrdhyn and into the outer chamber. He paused a moment before the pool leading to the underwater tunnel that was the only exit from the caverns. Karl Cullinane didn't believe in ghosts. It must have been just his subconscious acting up, trying to prevent him from making a mistake.

Still, it wouldn't hurt. He hefted the canvas bag.

"Fialt, Rahff . . ." He choked for a moment, "Chak. My friends. Thank you. For everything." He raised his bowie in a quick salute, then slipped it back into its sheath, thonged it into place, took a deep breath, and dove.

* * *

He broke surface on the seaward side, quickly crossed the rocks, and resubmerged on the landward side of the island to keep the island between him and the offshore slaver ship.

Good. If only he could keep the island between him and any possible observers, he might be able to take out the hunters without drawing any undue attention.

Tennetty's group was more than a hundred yards to his left as he crept up on the shoreline; the two slavers were too intent on them to notice Karl Cullinane silently rise from the water and bear down on them. The only sound he made was the whisking of his bare feet on the sand, and that was covered by the lapping of waves on the shore.

The slavers crept on silently, the leader in his curious half-crouch, the bowman lagging behind.

Unstrapping the package and setting his packet of explosives gently on the sand, Karl Cullinane drew his bowie and closed in on them.

Perhaps he was breathing too loudly, perhaps an unconscious growl forced itself from between his lips, perhaps his heart was beating too hard; he was never quite sure why, but when he was only about six feet behind the bowman, the slaver gave a gasp and turned, bringing his bow up.

Karl Cullinane took a broken-field half-step to one side and launched himself toward the bowman, just as the bowman fired.

The bolt burned against the left side of Karl's ribcage; he knocked the weapon aside, the slaver losing the other bow as the two of them rolled around on the sand.

The slaver clawed for Karl's eyes with one hand; he tried to block the downward thrust of Karl's knife with the other, fingers straining to grip Karl's wrist.

Fingers snapped as Karl Cullinane stabbed downward, once, twice, three times into the slaver's chest, then jerked his knife from the enemy and rolled free, coming to his feet to rush at the other.

The other man stood silently wide-eyed, his mouth working as though he was trying to say something. But only a harsh moan and a trickle of dark blood escaped his lips as his spastic hands pulled at the knife that projected from his throat.

Knife? The slaver fell to his knees.

Another knife thunked home, this time into the slaver's chest.

"Tennetty, Aeia, Bren, freeze," Walter Slovotsky hissed from behind Karl. "It seems that we found him."

Karl turned to see three people: Slovotsky, Ahira, and someone he didn't re—no, by God! it was Avair Ganness!—emerging from the trees.

"O ye of little faith," Slovotsky said, his smile unforced. "You think I'd send them out without giving them an escort?"

As Karl stripped off his bloody tunic and examined the six-inch-long shallow gash on his side, Ahira hauled the bodies past the treeline, the others gathered around him.

"Bad?" Ahira asked, dropping to his knees, scrubbing at his arms with handfuls of sand.

"I'll live." It hurt like hell, but it wasn't deep. Certainly not bad enough to waste any of his precious supply of healing draughts; he let Tennetty apply a bandage and tie it in place, then he took a brief moment to exchange hugs with Aeia and Ahira and handclasps with Bren, Tennetty, and Ganness before turning to Slovotsky.

"Is he back in Biemestren or with you?" Karl asked.

"Who?" Slovotsky's brow furrowed. "Oh, Jason. Well, I hope he's back in Holtun-Bieme, or Home. —Now, let's get the hell out of here. We've got Ganness' ship hidden in a cove about—"

"You hope?"

It was instantly clear.

Slovotsky had gone independent on him.

Again.

Once more.

As goddam usual.

Blindly, Karl swung a fist at Slovotsky's face, but the smaller man wasn't there when the blow should have arrived; Slovotsky ducked to one side, raising both palms.

"Easy, Karl. Just take it easy," Walter Slovotsky said.

"You were supposed to go after him," Karl said. "I can take care of myself."

Stepping between the two of them, Ahira shook his head. "Save it, Karl. Now, is this gear what I think it is?"

"Don't change the subject. You deserted my boy."

"Karl," Ahira said, "Jason's not the one who's really in danger. You are."

"That's your opinion."

"Karl." Ahira took a deep breath. "We don't have time for this. You'd better get your temper under control right now; we can argue later. We all decided that you would probably need our help more than he would. Walter's right; let's get out of here. I don't like the odds. We've bought Jason as much time as we're going to, by now. He's probably hooked up with some Home warr—"

"No." Karl shook his head. "You get going; I'm going to finish this."

He wasn't done here; the disappointment was like a physical blow. From the moment he'd seen Tennetty, Aeia, and Bren skulking along the beach, Karl had been sure that he was finished here, that he could leave Melawei and Ahrmin behind, and go back to Andrea.

Back to Andy. . . .

But not now.

To his left, Tennetty stood motionless, her arms folded across her chest. "You're not going to finish this alone. Not alone."

"Father," Aeia said formally, "I won't leave you, either." She took his hand. "I won't."

Bren Adahan reached out for her arm, "Compromise. We'll compromise."

"Compromise," Ahira said judiciously. "Makes sense."

Tennetty frowned. "I don't like it. Let's make sure we finish the bastard here."

Slovotsky snickered. "With these odds? Are you tired of living? I don't mind a hit and run, but let's not just put our heads on the block."

"I think we ought to leave," Ganness said. "I don't even know why I'm here."

Karl raised an eyebrow as he looked at Walter. Come to think of it, why was Ganness here?

Ahira snorted. "We wanted to make sure that the ship was still there when we got back. So, since nobody else aboard knows these waters enough to guide it out safely, we, er . . ."

"We took the keys," Slovotsky finished. "But how about it, Karl? A nice compromise, instead of a goddam Götterdämmerung?" Slovotsky cocked his head to one side. "An old time hit-and-run?" He gestured at Karl's packet of explosives. "We have enough there to put a hole in their ship while we make a run for it."

"We've got better than that." Karl smiled and nodded, which wasn't a good idea; he realized that he must have lost more blood than he'd thought. His head spun as he clapped his hand to the gash in his left side; he leaned against Tennetty to steady himself. "A lot more than this. We use it all, then we run. Okay?"

Slovotsky nodded. "Deal."

Karl turned to the dwarf. "You or me?"

Ahira didn't have to think about it. "You know the lay of the land better than I do. Take it."

"Fine." It all clicked into place. The trouble had not been that there were too many slavers, just that there had been too few of Karl.

Now, that had changed. Even if they couldn't wipe out all the slavers, they could do a lot of damage, and then get the hell out.

"Aeia, Bren, Walter, and Ganness—I want you to swim out to the cave and get the rest of the explosives. Bren and Aeia, you swim over to the slaver ship, set the charges, and get ready to blow it—and be sure to—"

Aeia held up a hand. "Yes, Karl. Make sure to swim away fast after we strike the igniters. And I won't," she added with an impish smile, "forget not to breathe underwater."

"Right. Walter and Ganness, you bring back what they don't need."

"I like it." Tennetty smiled. "An old-fashioned Karl Cullinane-style ambush?"

Slovotsky smiled too. "Just like Mother used to bake."

Karl nodded. Just like in the old raiding days. Dammit, those days had been too long gone; it was good to remember them properly. "Right. We'll set up a bomb attack from the far side of the camp, drive them down the path toward the sea, blow the hell out of them on the path, and then run like hell." He turned to the dwarf. "I'll want you and Walter to take the far side—"

"We throw out the first ball?" Slovotsky asked.

"Right. Then use the rest of your bombs to take out as many as you can—but you'd better make fast tracks back to the ship, because your bomb will be the signal for Aeia and Bren to light their detonators, and that'll start all the rest of the fun."

It would also stir up the slavers in the outlying watchposts, but that couldn't be helped; they'd have to get to Ganness' ship and get out before the slavers caught up with them.

The dwarf nodded. "Makes sense to me."

"Tennetty?"

"I know." She nodded as she hefted her rifle. "Ahrmin. If I can get him in my sights. Then I get back to the ship. I'm not as fast in the dark as Slovotsky is; I'd better get going."

"No." Karl wanted Ahrmin dead, but Tennetty didn't have the dwarf's darksight, and she didn't have Slovotsky's recon skills—and, besides, he needed her here. "I need someone to watch my back. Ganness isn't going to be enough."

She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped herself and gave a grim smile. "Yes, Karl."

It was amazing: He felt young again; a weight that he hadn't realized he'd been carrying was dropping from his shoulders. "Let's get to it, people. Walter, the entrance to the cavern—"

"—is exactly where it was the last time you told me about the cavern." Slovotsky was stripping off his boots and shrugging out of his clothes as he spoke; he was stark naked in seconds. "Aeia, Bren, Ganness—let's go. We'd better get this show on the road before that patrol's officially missing."

Walter's group headed into the water; the four silently swam away toward the island.

Karl turned to the dwarf. "Looks like it's just the three of us for a moment. Ten, you keep your eyes on the trail. Ahira, you want to keep watch to the east, or to the west?"

Ahira shrugged. "Dealer's choice." He clasped Karl's hand, hard, with one hand, while he hefted his axe with the other. "It has been too long."

* * *

It felt like hours, but it couldn't have been much more than half an hour later when Slovotsky and Ganness returned, pushing the floating sacks.

With Ahira and Tennetty watching for possible slaver patrols, Karl waded thigh-deep into the water and helped Ganness and Slovotsky drag the explosives up on the beach and back up to the treeline, then helped Walter and Ahira assemble a dozen sticks, detonators, and igniters into a dozen bombs.

The big man and the dwarf disappeared into the night.

Tennetty sighed.

"Save it for later," Karl said. "And keep an eye open." He turned to the captain. "As far as assembling the bombs goes, it's you and me, Captain Ganness," Karl said.

"Captain Crenn—" Ganness caught himself, and gave an almost Gallic shrug. "Ahh . . . it makes no difference, I suppose."

Karl looked over the path. He mainly had to go by a memory of what it looked like in the daytime, but there was a little dogleg about thirty yards in; that would be a fine place for the ambush, when the slavers were sent charging down the path.

But first things first.

"Ganness, were you watching when I assembled the bombs for Walter and Ahira?"

"I could do it," Tennetty put in.

"Shut up. Just keep your eyes open. Ganness?"

Ganness spat. "No. I've been too busy trembling to watch, if you must know."

"Do what I do. It's not difficult." He beckoned to Ganness. "First, you take a stick of explosive, carefully—easy, easy; this stuff would just as soon blow up on you as not—and stick one of these metal things in the end. That's a detonator. Then this thing that looks like a match—I mean, then this other thing. You stick that in the other end."

The mixture on the end of the fuse was mainly gunpowder; the detonators were fulminate of mercury; the explosive itself was guncotton, nitrocellulose. Karl had first used these bombs against slaver cannons, but he had avoided making more since the end of the Holtun-Bieme war. Until Ranella's new wash had gotten rid of impurities in the guncotton—if indeed it had—the stuff had been too unstable to leave around for long.

The British had fooled around with guncotton too early; deadly explosions had forced them back to black powder for years and years. Better to have to make the transition only once.

Ganness spat on his palms, rubbed them nervously together, and knelt next to Karl. He reached out his hands, then drew them back. "No." The captain rose, shaking his head. "No. A man has to say no sometime. I won't do it, I won't do it. This kind of magic frightens me, Karl Cullinane, and I won't have any part in it." Ganness folded his arms over his chest.

"You're not thinking of abandoning us, are you?" Karl said in a low, cold voice, forcing a grim smile to his face. It was intended to chill the blood.

It worked. Even in the starlight, Ganness visibly paled. "No, no," the captain protested. "But I don't want to touch that. That's all."

Karl shrugged. "Then you keep watch to the west. While I finish."

While Ganness kept watch, Karl assembled the bombs. He was only halfway done when Tennetty spoke up.

"Karl, I heard—"

Something whizzed by Karl's ear.

Tennetty's word turned into a harsh scream as she looked down at the crossbow bolt projecting from her belly; drooling blood, she fell writhing to the sands.

A harsh voice whispered, "Ta havath, Karl Cullinane. If you move, you die."

Two large men stepped out of the darkness. Each carried a slung rifle and an unslung crossbow, the nearer reloading his with a fresh bolt.

Avair Ganness turned toward Karl, his face even paler than before. "I was looking, Karl Cullinane, but—"

"Silence," one of the men hissed. "Karl Cullinane, step away from there, and set that device on the sands, then stand back. Or you may fight us and die here and now. It doesn't matter." He spared his companion a brief grin. "We've gotten him, Chuzet."

"Just be careful. Do what he says now, Karl Cullinane. Or die now." The slaver gave a half-shrug. It didn't matter to him.

"Let me get some healing draughts into her, first," Karl said. "The bottle is in the bag over there."

Tennetty was almost motionless, her eyes staring glassily up at him. But even in the starlight he could see the pulse beat in her neck.

"No. I'll put her out of her misery, if you like. But put the device down now, or die now."

Play for time, he thought. There wasn't anything else to do; these two looked like they knew what they were doing.

Karl took three slow steps away from the explosive and then crouched to set the bomb gingerly down on the sand in front of him.

"Now, Chutfale? May I?"

"Now. Stand up and move away from there, Karl Cullinane."

Chuzet pulled a horn from his pouch, brought it to his lips, and blew. The horn shrilled a pure note into the night.

The clear, pure sound chilled Karl Cullinane quite thoroughly.

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Framed