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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."

Peill 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 of the 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." Peill 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 Peill to take the north road, and set up some sort of roadblock; the rest of us will lag behind until we hear shots. Peill, 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?"

Peill 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. Peill 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.

"Peill, 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, Peill.  

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; Peill'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. "Peill and Chak, acknowledge, dammit."

A distant shout marked Peill'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.

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Framed

Back | Next
Contents

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."

Peill 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 of the 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." Peill 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 Peill to take the north road, and set up some sort of roadblock; the rest of us will lag behind until we hear shots. Peill, 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?"

Peill 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. Peill 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.

"Peill, 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, Peill.  

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; Peill'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. "Peill and Chak, acknowledge, dammit."

A distant shout marked Peill'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.

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Framed