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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Betrayal

If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous,
he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between
a dog and a man. 

—Mark Twain

The aftermath of the siege and the battle was, in more ways than one, a bloody mess.

Karl happily left the beginnings of reconstruction to Furnael and his people. War could ruin in weeks what had been built up over many years; it would be a long time before the barony was back to anything near its former prosperity. The lack of people to work the fields was compensated for only by the lack of mouths for the keep's siege stores to feed.

Furnael now had an excess of land in what would have been a buyer's market—if there had been any buyers. Of course, there were none: The populations of the neighboring baronies had been decimated, slaves and freefarmers alike clapped into chains and shipped off to be sold along the Cirric coast, to work in the mines of Port Orduin and Sciforth, plow fields in Lundescarne, or serve in fine houses in Pandathaway and Aeryk.

There was a chance that some could be freed, up on the slopes of Aershtyn, where a few escapees reported that the slavers had their camp, a staging ground for what the captured Holtish prisoners said was to be a vast human cattle drive to Pandathaway.

Maybe they could be freed. But there were preparations to be made. The most important ones were the ones that Karl found most pleasant: resting and eating. Aveneer's team was road-weary almost to the point of exhaustion; Valeran's people and the mercenaries who had signed on in Biemestren weren't in much better shape. Even Karl had to admit that regular meals and regular sleeping hours had their attractions.

Well, the regular sleeping hours would have been nice. There was just too much work to do. The foremost priority was maintenance on the firearms. There were flints to be cut, frizzens to be rewelded, bent triggers to be straightened, barrels to be freshed out, split stocks to be glued or replaced. That had to be left to Ranella and Slovotsky, who spent their days closeted in the keep's smithy, the doors always heavily guarded.

The gunsmithing, though, interfered with another high priority—reshoeing of the horses. Most of the animals were long overdue, and the necessity that they be reshod created a logistics problem: All gunsmithing procedures were secret, and had to be conducted in the privacy of Furnael Keep's sole smithy, but shoeing required some of the same facilities.

The solution was more work for Karl. While he wasn't enough of a smith to turn bar stock into horseshoes, he could take shoes that Ranella made in the smithy and then fit them to the horses.

Of course, the shoes did have to be adjusted, and that required an anvil—and a forge. Or a reasonable facsimile.

Stop that, Ellegon—you're scaring the—would you please try to broadcast calm? Karl thought as he ducked aside, trying to avoid the brown mare's kick.

He was almost successful: The hoof just barely caught him on the right thigh, knocking his leg out from underneath him. It felt as if he had been hit by a hammer; he fell to the ground and rolled to safety.

Rubbing at his thigh, he glared at Theren and Migdal while they struggled with the horse. "I thought you were supposed to be helping me shoe this fleabag," he said, keeping his voice calm and friendly for the mare's benefit, not theirs.

"Sorry, Karl," Migdal said, pulling down on the reins.

Erek ran over and helped him to his feet. Karl stood on his good leg for a moment, debating whether or not to just pack it in for the day and let this idiot mare go only three-quarters reshod. It was always the last horse that could break a bone, just as it was that one last run down the ski slope that had once broken his leg.

Distant fingers touched his mind.

*That's true. But remember: There was a very simple reason that it was the last run in which you broke your leg.*

Oh? What was it?  

*After you broke your leg, you weren't interested in skiing anymore.*

Always got to keep me honest, eh?  

*It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.* Ellegon closed both eyes.

"Okay, people, let's give it another try. Just one more shoe and we finish this one off—then I'm calling it quits for the day." And a rather productive day at that, he thought, eyeing the late-afternoon sun with satisfaction.

There wasn't a whole lot of thrill in this stint as a farrier, but there was a certain something to it. Karl had always found a certain magic in metalworking, and while shoeing was something that a real smith would have found almost agonizingly routine, Karl liked it. Working with horses and working with metal, both at the same time—what could be better?

"Retirement," he muttered to himself. He set his nippers down next to the anvil and reached for the right rear hoof, turning around and pinning the hoof between his thighs.

Now, keep the animal calm, okay?  

Ellegon gave out a mental sniff as he lay on the ground on the other side of the low brick wall that had a one-foot-square hole in it. *Go to sleep,* he began to sing, his mental voice low, but intense, *go to sleep, go to sleep, little horsie . . . *

Karl felt his own eyelids start to sag shut. "Stop that!" All right, you made your point. Now cut that out. Just don't scare the horse, okay? 

The dragon didn't answer; Karl decided to take that for an assent.

He picked up his nippers and began to loosen the old nails. Sometimes the hardest part was getting the old shoe off, particularly if the foot had had time to overgrow it too much.

As this one had. He grunted as he pulled out the last nail, then pried the shoe off, throwing it on the all-too-large pile of used shoes. Accepting the wood-handled trimming knife from Erek, Karl quickly trimmed the sole, the frog, and the hoof wall, then tossed the knife back to Erek, who handed him the rasp in exchange.

Rasp gripped tightly, Karl gave the bottom of the hoof wall two dozen quick strokes, then eyed the hoof.

Not quite right, but almost. He tried an additional half-dozen quick passes with the rasp, then looked again. Better, nice and level. The toe length looked about right, too. He rasped away the splinters around the old nail holes, then held out his hand for a shoe.

Damn. "Anything less round? These feet are about as pointed as I've seen today."

Erek handed him another. Close, but not quite.

*That is what I'm here for, isn't it?*

Straightening, Karl let the foot drop and walked over to the brick wall.

Well, it really wasn't much of a wall, just a six-foot-long, four-foot-high stack of bricks with a hole in the middle, right next to where the small anvil stood on its stump. Karl gripped the shoe with a yard-long pair of pincers and stuck it through the hole in the wall.

Ellegon breathed fire, the backwash of heat almost sending Karl stumbling away. Instead, he closed his eyes and forced himself to hold on.

*That should do it.*

Karl pulled the red-hot shoe back through the hole and brought it over to the anvil. A few quick taps with the hammer, then he dipped it into a pail of water, ducking his head aside to avoid the hissing steam. He brought the shoe over to the mare and picked up the horse's foot, comparing.

Not a bad fit, not bad at all, he decided as he brought the shoe back for Ellegon to heat. It took only a few seconds before he was able to bring the hot shoe back to the horse, lift the hoof, and set the shoe against it, watching the hoof smoke as the shoe burned itself into place.

Quickly, he nailed the shoe in, bent the excess length of nails down, clipped them off, and clinched the nails.

His thigh was still throbbing where the horse had kicked him.

Enough. He let the foot drop. "I'll let you rasp off the edges," he said to Migdal. "I'm done for the day."

He eyed the setting sun, then waved up at one of Furnael's guards on the ramparts. No need to ask if the watchman had spotted anything unusual; that would have resulted in an immediate alarm.

Where's Andy? he thought, as he exchanged his tools and apron for his sword, pistols, and pouch.

*Up in your rooms,* Ellegon answered. *Doing some work with Henrad.*

Anything you can interrupt?  

A pause. *Nothing dangerous.*

Good. Relay: I'm done for the day—any chance we can get some time to ourselves?  

*She says: "Give me about an hour—Henrad's almost got this cantrip down, and I don't want to break quite yet."*

Fine. It'll give me a chance to take a bath.  

*Thank goodness for small favors,* the dragon said, sniffing in distaste.

Karl laughed. "Come heat the water for me," he said, rubbing at his thigh as he limped across the broken-ground courtyard toward the bathhouse, the dragon lumbering along beside him like a four-legged bus.

Over by the east wall, Valeran was teaching a class in Lundish swordsmanship, both of his blades flashing in the light of the sun that hung just over the wall of the keep. Karl didn't dare interrupt him; what if, up on the slopes of Aershtyn, one of the warriors Valeran was teaching missed a parry?

*Not everything that goes wrong is your fault, Karl.*

Maybe not. But why does it always feel that way?  

*Egotism.*

Thanks.  

*You're welcome.*

Karl passed by the low stone smithy. Wisps of smoke floated up from its brick chimney, only to be shattered in the breeze. Two guards stood with their backs to the door, while the clattering of metal on metal came from inside.

Karl nodded to them as he walked by and into the low bathhouse next door.

The room was dark and dank. Karl set his weapons and his amulet on a dry spot on the rude shelf before stripping off his clothes and pumping water into the huge oaken tub. Ellegon snaked his head inside and dipped his mouth into the tub. Almost immediately the water started hissing and bubbling.

*Touch—carefully, now.*

Karl dipped a hand into the water. It was nicely warm.

*Then I'll be on my way.*

"What's up?"

*Ahira wants some help with the timbers he's clearing out of the Holts' tunnels, and I have to get my patrol out of the way if I'm going to help him.*

"Fine."

*About his leaving . . . do you want me to—*

"No. I don't want you peeping my fam—my friends for me."

Without another word, the dragon ducked his head back through the door. Momentarily, wind whipped dust in through the open door . . .

 . . . and then silence.

After rinsing the dirt from his body with the icy water from the pump, Karl went to the tub and lowered himself slowly, gingerly, into the steaming water. As always, what had been comfortably warm to his hand felt as if it would parboil his calves and thighs, as well as more delicate parts of his anatomy.

But he forced himself to sit back against the oak sides of the tub and relax in the heat. Gradually, the tension in his neck and shoulders eased. He rubbed his hands against his face, then shook his head to clear the water from his eyes before leaning back.

Aershtyn was going to be bad, there was no doubt about it. If the slavers had as large a collection of slaves there as Karl suspected, they would guard them well.

And that probably meant guns. Karl didn't like the idea of sending his people up against guns. That was how Chak—

No. His hands clenched into fists. No, he couldn't keep thinking about Chak. That was the way of it: Good people had died, were going to die before this was all over.

There wasn't any cheap way out. There never was.

A round cake of scented soap lay on the rough table next to the tub. Karl picked it up and began to work up a violet-smelling lather.

Smell like a goddam flower, I will.  

His face washed and rinsed, he lay back and tried to relax. But the water cooled all too quickly. He could either get out now, lie in a tepid bath—

Or do something else. "Guard," he called out, careful to make his voice both loud and calm.

Almost immediately, Restius stuck his grizzled face through the door. "You called, Karl?"

"Yes. Knock on the smithy door and see if Slovotsky would be willing to join me for a moment. Wait," he said as Restius started to leave. "Not so quick. Ask him to bring a red-hot bit of bar stock," he said, splashing the water. "A large bit."

Restius smiled. "I see." He disappeared, returning in a few minutes with Walter Slovotsky.

Walter held a large iron bar in his massive pincers. Even in the light coming through the open door, it glowed redly, although it was only a dull red.

"My, but we're getting fancy," Slovotsky said as he dipped one end in the tub, the water quickly burbling, boiling. "How's this?"

"Better," Karl said, working his hands underwater and kicking his feet to spread the hot water around. "Much better. I owe you one. If you want the next bath, I'll heat it for you. Deal?"

"Deal." Slovotsky made no motion to leave. He lowered the pincers to the ground and threw a hip over the edge of the tub. "Got something to talk to you about." He pursed his lips, opened his mouth, closed it.

"Well? You getting shy in your old age?"

"Me? No, it's just that . . . How long do you think it'll be before we finish up here?"

Karl shrugged. "Well, I figure we'll move on Aershtyn in about three weeks. That should be over quickly. It's shutting down the damn war after that that bothers me—that could take anywhere from a few tendays to . . ." He let his voice trail off.

"To however long you'll put into it before you give up." Slovotsky nodded. "Which is probably the way it's going to be. Listen to Furnael's people, Karl, listen to them. They don't just want peace, they want revenge." He shrugged. "Can't say as I blame them, but that's not the point."

"And neither is how long this war is going to go on. Is it?"

Slovotsky didn't meet his eyes.

Karl reached out and gripped his hand. "Walter, be a bit bolder. Remember how it used to be? You weren't ashamed to look me in the eye after the time you made it with my wife—"

"Hey!" Slovotsky's head jerked up. "Andy wasn't your wife, not then."

"True enough."

"But I wasn't all that eager to discuss it with you, even then."

"True again. But that wasn't because you were ashamed, was it?"

"No." Walter chuckled. "That was because I didn't want my head bashed in."

"I won't bash your head in. Not even if you take Kirah and Janie and go to Endell with Ahira."

Slovotsky's jaw dropped. "You knew?"

"Andy worked it out."

They sat in silence for a moment until Karl snorted and tossed the soap away. Somehow, even warm, the bath wasn't comfortable, not anymore.

"Hand me that towel, will you?" he asked as he pushed himself to his feet and stepped out of the tub.

He dried himself quickly, then slipped his amulet over his head and began to dress. "What do you want from me, Walter? My permission? You don't need that." He buckled his swordbelt around his waist, his hand going to its hilt for a moment.

Slovotsky looked him straight in the eye. "Maybe . . . maybe sometimes it feels as if I do, Karl. It's just that all of this . . ." His awkward gesture seemed to include the entire universe. "It's starting to get to me. I can remember a time when the most violent thing I'd ever done was sacking a quarterback, Karl. It's . . . I don't know how to say it."

He started to turn away. Karl caught his arm.

"Listen to me," Karl said. "You don't need my permission, but if you want my blessing, you've got it. We've . . . been through a lot together, Walter, and I love you like a brother. If you really need to spend a few years away from the action, then you do it. That's an order—understood?"

"Understood." Slovotsky smiled weakly. "Besides, it may not come to that. Who knows? I could get myself killed on this Aershtyn thing."

"Always looking at the bright side, eh?"

"Always."

They emerged into a golden, dusky light.

Slovotsky held out a hand. "Thanks, Karl. I appreciate it." He seemed to be about to say something else.

Karl took his hand. "Walter—"

*Alert! Danger! Warning!* came the distant voice.

Karl's head jerked around. Nobody else was reacting.

"What is it, Karl?"

"Ellegon—can't you hear him?"

Slovotsky shook his head.

Ellegon, what is it?  

He felt that Ellegon was trying to answer, but he couldn't hear him. The dragon must have been at his extreme range, and only Karl's mindlink was tight enough to pick up Ellegon's broadcast, and that only irregularly, unpredictably.

"There's trouble." Karl cupped his hands around his mouth and called up to the watchman. "Sound the alert!"

The warrior began beating rhythmically on the alarm gong.

"Walter," Karl snapped, "get your squad armed and up on the ramparts. Take charge there. Erek! Where the hell's that—" He stopped himself as the boy ran up. "Message to Peill, Chak—" He clenched his fists. "Belay that last. Add Aveneer. Begins: Ellegon has sounded an alert. Nature unknown. I'll be at the main gate. Arm your people, report via message runner to me there. Ends. Message to Valeran. Mount up and bring your men and my horse to main gate. Ends. Message to Baron Furnael: Begins: Trouble. Am at main gate. If it pleases you, meet me there with your chief man-at-arms. Ends. Go."

*Karl?* The distant voice was clearer, firmer. *Can you hear me?*

Yes, dammit. I've sounded the alert. What's going on? The dragon swooped over the ramparts and dropped into the courtyard, sending up puffs of dust as he landed heavily on the sunbaked dirt. *I'm not sure. Did we want a troop of about five hundred Holtish cavalry to be about half a day's ride east of us on the Prince's Road?*

"No—did you say east?" That didn't make any sense. Biemestren lay in that direction. How had the Holtish worked their way that deeply into Bieme, and why? It didn't make any tactical sense, not after the way that Karl had broken the siege.

They could have been sent before the breaking of the siege, but any force sent to reinforce the Holtish siegers would surely have been sent in via the west, through Holtun.

It just didn't make any sense, none at all, unless—

"Ellegon, check the west road. Now."

*The west road?*

"Yes, the west road, dammit." It was the only explanation. A cavalry force of that size wouldn't be sent to reinforce a siege. It had to be intended to block an escape.

An escape from what? From whatever was moving in on them from the west. "Get airborne, do a nice, high recon until you see something interesting, and then get back here. Move it, dammit."

*You're welcome.* His leathery wings a blur, the dragon leaped into the air and flew over the ramparts. *I will keep you in—*

Ellegon screamed; his mind opened.

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

"Karl!" Furnael slapped his face again.

He shook his head as he lurched to his feet. "No! Ellegon—"

On the ramparts, a dozen guns fired in volley. Slovotsky turned to call down to Karl. "The dragon is down. We've fired on four crossbowmen, driving them back into the woods."

Hooves clattered as Valeran, leading Stick, arrived with his twenty mounted men.

"Four bowmen—watch for them." Karl leaped to the horse's back and spurred him through the gate, Valeran and his men galloping along behind.

Ellegon lay writhing on the ground by the side of the road, half in, half out of the ditch, his grunts and screams strangely animalistic, his flailing treetrunk legs sending huge volleys of dirt into the air.

Three crossbow bolts projected from his chest, their fletchings barely visible.

Karl dismounted from Stick's back. "Go," he shouted to Valeran. "Find them. I want them dead."

There was nothing to do as the huge dragon lay there, dying. Dragonbane was a poison to Ellegon, and every second it was working its way deeper into the dragon's body.

No. I won't give up. Ellegon had been able to survive his only other contact with the stuff, more than three centuries before. There was a chance that he could survive this. The poison would have to be gotten out—but how? Karl couldn't even break through the wall of pain around the dragon's mind.

I have to. Ellegon, he thought, can you hear me? 

*Yes.* But the word was accompanied by nauseating waves of pain. Clutching at his chest, Karl crumpled to the ground.

No, don't, he thought, as the mindlink faded. Don't answer. Just hear me. I have to get those bolts out of you. Try not to move. 

He worked his way in between the writhing forelegs, only to be batted aside by a fluttering wingtip that knocked him off his feet.

"No, Ellegon. Don't move." The three bolts were spread out across the dragon's chest, all but one above Karl's reach.

He quickly pulled that one out and tossed it away, then tried to climb up the dragon's side to get at another.

But his toes couldn't find purchase among Ellegon's hard scales. There was just no way to reach them.

"Karl!" A hand slammed down on his shoulder. "Lift me!" Andy screamed at him, a long-bladed knife in her hands.

Karl stooped, clamped his hands around her ankles, and lifted her up, holding her tightly as high as he could.

The dragon screamed again—

Don't move, Ellegon. Please don't move. If you knock us away, you'll die.  

*Karl . . . * The mental voice was distant. *My friend . . . I'm afraid that this is goodbye—*

"No, dammit, don't you dare die on me, you scaly bastard. Not you, Ellegon. Andy—"

"Shut up," she hissed. "I've almost gotten the second one."

The dragon's mental presence was fading quickly, and his struggles were slowing, not from control, but from weakness.

"Got it," she exclaimed. "Take five big steps to your right so I can get at the last one."

While it felt like hours, Karl knew that it was only a few seconds later that she cried out, "Got it. Let me down."

He lowered her, shaking the tears from his eyes. "No, that's not enough. We've got to do something about the poison in the wounds."

Think, dammit, think. He looked up the dragon's side to the red holes in Ellegon's gray hide, and at the slow ooze of thick blood dripping down Ellegon's scales. The trouble was that dragonbane was poison, a chemical poison that dragons, virtually immune to most forms of physical attack, were subject to.

Andy-Andy buried her head against his chest, the bloody bolts falling from her hands. "He's not going to make it, Karl." The dragon's breathing was almost imperceptible.

"Shut up. Let me think." There had to be something to do, some way to clear the poison out of—

Got it!  

He opened his pouch and pulled out his powder horn. "We'll burn it away," he shouted. "With gunpowder." Drawing his beltknife, he snatched at the hem of her robes and cut a swatch off, then used the rag to dry the most accessible of Ellegon's wounds as best he could.

He handed her the knife. "Give me another swatch," he said. He packed the wound with the fresh cloth, then opened his powder horn and tipped a third of the powder into the cloth. "Valeran!" he shouted, "get me a torch, some fire—now!"

Her face brightened. "Lift me."

He braced his back against the dragon's chest, caught her by the waist, and lifted her. As she planted her feet on his shoulders, he passed up the horn. "Do the same thing I did. Then get as much powder as you can into the swatches."

In moments the remaining wounds were packed with gunpowder. Lowering Andy-Andy to the ground, Karl accepted the torch from Valeran and touched it to the nearest of the wounds.

It puffed into flame and acrid smoke. He touched the torch to the other two rents in Ellegon's hide, and again they burned.

Andy gripped his arm. "Do you think—?"

The dragon was still breathing, but that was all. Ellegon? Can you hear me? Dammit, say something. 

He shook his head. "I don't know. And I don't know what the hell else to do. We'll just have to wait." He bent over and kissed Andy-Andy gently on the forehead. "Make that 'I'll just have to wait.' This area isn't secure, yet." He turned to Valeran. "Put a guard around him—borrow men from Aveneer. I want a full circle, twice as wide as a bowshot, well lit with watchfires. There may be other assassins around. They're not to get within crossbow range—nobody is to get within crossbow range—understood?"

"Understood." Valeran nodded. "But—"

Karl turned. "Erek! Gather all team leaders and seconds for a full staff meeting, main dining hall; ask the baron's permission. Invite him and Thomen to join us—particularly Thomen. Go."

The boy nodded and ran off.

Valeran looked as though he was about to ask why, then shrugged. "Yes, Karl. But I was trying to tell you that we captured one." He led Karl around to the other side of the dragon and pointed to a greasy little man who lay on the ground, tightly bound, next to Norfan's horse. "Do you want me to hand him over to Tennetty?"

"Yeah." He nodded.

"Instructions?"

"She's to make him talk, and then she's to make him die."

Karl stood at the head of the long table, gathering his thoughts, trying to forget about Ellegon for the moment. There was nothing that could be done about the dragon now, but this meeting was critical.

Gathered around the table, the others sat quietly, waiting for the storm to break.

Sitting together at the far end of the table, Valeran, Frandred, and Aveneer talked calmly, in soft tones, as though nothing at all bothered them.

Karl had never truly understood that mentality. He understood the necessity of generating the image, of course, but the calm resolution that one was going to die in battle, and that this coming battle might easily be the battle, well, that was something Karl could simulate, but never quite understand. That was something he had given up when he had deliberately subsumed his Barak persona.

Sitting next to him, Andy-Andy reached over and squeezed his hand momentarily, then dropped it. Relay, please—he caught himself. Damn. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered, smiling back at her.

"Hate sleeping alone that much, do you?" She smiled back.

"Right."

Next to her, Tennetty and Ahira sat quietly, their faces more impassive than calm. But the dwarf's brow was furrowed. His stubby fingers steepled in front of his aquiline nose, he occasionally glanced over at Karl, then resumed his own thoughts.

Karl let a chuckle escape his lips. Ahira was trying to anticipate him. There had been a time when the dwarf was a better military tactician than Karl, but practice and study had honed Karl's skills. Still, Ahira's ability to think well under pressure was something to reckon with . . . or to rely on, depending.

On the dwarfs right, Peill sat back on his high-backed chair, feigning calm, while opposite Ahira, Walter Slovotsky waited patiently, his all-is-well-with-any-universe-clever-enough-to-contain-Walter-Slovotsky smile intact, as always.

Next to Slovotsky, Zherr Furnael sat stiffly, looking like a compromise between the way he had been six years before and the way Karl had found him. Well, a compromise it would have to be. Furnael was the key to everything, and if the baron could just hold himself together for a few more years, maybe . . .

Thomen sat quietly next to his father, his eyes watching everyone, missing nothing. Thomen was different from his brother: Rahff had been much more of a talker, less of a watcher.

"It's going to be tough, people," Karl said. "The first item of business is getting Ellegon in through the gates. Andy, can you levitate him?"

"I've been expecting that. And I . . . think so." She nodded, biting her lip uncertainly. "I may be able to lift him, but that doesn't mean I can float him in here—and with his mass . . ."

"That's easily solved. We tie some ropes to his legs and everyone helps pull him in through the main gate." He looked over at Furnael. "If he does survive, he's going to need to eat a lot of food. You can start with your scrawniest animals—he won't care."

"It will be done." The baron nodded. "We have some smoked beef in the cellars that has turned. If that wouldn't do Ellegon harm—"

"Turned?" Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Why haven't you disposed of it?"

Furnael answered slowly. "Because, Walter Slovotsky, when you are under siege you would rather your people have moldy beef to eat than see them starve in front of your eyes. That is . . ." He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "My apologies. I was asking—would the meat be bad for the dragon?"

"Not at all," Karl said. "He doesn't poison easily."

Aveneer raised his head. "I don't understand all this hurry. It can't be because of five hundred cavalrymen a day's ride away to the east, so I—"

"Wait," Ahira interrupted. "How do you know it's not?"

Aveneer threw his head back and laughed. "You may have observed that Karl Cullinane does not panic easily. Five hundred cavalrymen would not panic him, not when we've that many effectives here, most armed with guns."

"No, it's not the horsemen." Karl shook his head. "They're only there to cut off our remaining avenue of escape. The reason that I'm worried is that I'm all but certain there are at least two thousand heavily armed soldiers only a few days to the west. I've been sold out, people, and Ahrmin is about to arrive and try to collect."

"Surely," Valeran said, studying the fingernails he was cleaning with the point of a dagger that he hadn't been holding moments before, "you aren't accusing anyone here? I realize that I am new to your service, but I've never been fond of being the target of a false accusation."

Tennetty pushed back her chair and rose slowly, her hand on the hilt of her sword. "If it is you—"

"No, Tennetty," Karl snapped. "It's not Valeran. Think it through.

"Holtish cavalry moving in from the east on the Prince's Road is an obvious suggestion that there's more trouble brewing in from the west. They can't be here to reinforce the siege—they wouldn't chance swinging in through Bieme if that were the case. Doesn't look like a normal military procedure, does it?

"The attack on Ellegon cinched it." He looked at Tennetty. "You interrogated the surviving assassin. Who were they after?"

"Ellegon. At least, that's what he said."

"Right. Think about it. Assassins armed with dragonbane, sent to kill Ellegon. That has to mean that whoever is behind this is after me—and who has known that I'm here long enough to prepare and send out assassins?"

The words hung in the air for a moment.

"Not the Holts," Furnael said, tenting his fingers in front of his chin. "If they had known about you and your people, they would have been prepared for your lifting of the siege, and reinforced their positions, not sacrificed the horsemen who chased after you, then retreated. You're saying that your betrayer is Biemish, some traitor in Biemestren?"

Karl nodded. "In a sense. Assume that I'm right, assume that a large part of the Holtish army is headed this way—who would benefit?"

Furnael shrugged. "The Holts, of course, if they can take the keep."

"Nonsense. The Holts already had the keep under control; they could have cracked it like an egg anytime they wanted to divert the manpower from the north. But they didn't do that, did they?"

Furnael wrinkled his brow. "No, but . . ."

"But who else stood to benefit? Who had already written off barony Furnael as a lost cause? Who would love to divert a few thousand Holts and their slaver allies south—"

"Wait—"

"—and who would gain by weakening the Holtish advance in the north, possibly taking advantage of the situation to order a counterattack? Tell me, Baron, who?"

"Son of a bitch!" Slovotsky nodded. "Pirondael." He threw up his hands. "Look at it from his point of view. It'd be a gorgeous bit of betrayal. It was common knowledge in Enkiar that Ahrmin's as irrational on the subject of you as you are on the subject of him—why wouldn't Pirondael know? He's counting on the little bastard's taking off after you with every gun and soldier he can muster."

He pushed his chair back from the table and began pacing up and down. "Shit, Karl, that changes everything. We don't have any line of retreat at all. Even if we could somehow punch through the Holtish cavalry at our back door, we can't sneak hundreds of warriors through Bieme."

Furnael sat up straight. "Bieme is not your enemy, not even if—"

"Nonsense, Baron," Andy-Andy snapped. "If your prince has betrayed Karl, he'll know it, and he'll be deathly afraid of my husband. As he has a right to be." She looked up at Karl. "Assuming that I don't get to him first."

Furnael shook his head. "I find this difficult to believe. My prince would not dishonor his crown this way."

"You're confusing the myth with the reality, Zherr. Wearing a crown doesn't make a man honorable." Karl turned to Slovotsky. "Walter, how many men do you think you could sneak past the Holts?"

"Depends. You thinking about sending me to Biemestren?"

Karl nodded.

"Damn." Slovotsky shrugged. "Then you'd better tell me what you want me to do."

"I want you to find out if I'm right or not about Pirondael's betraying us. If I'm wrong, you've got it easy: Talk him into sending some reinforcements."

"If you think that's easy, would you please tell me what you consider difficult?"

"If I'm right, then I think it's time we put a new prince under that crown of Pirondael's, and make sure that the new prince sends out reinforce—"

"Who?" Furnael snarled. "Both of my prince's sons have died in this cursed war; Evalyn is long past child-bearing. The succession is in doubt. The best claim is probably Baron Tyrnael—"

"Not if we seat the crown firmly on your head, Zherr." Karl looked the baron straight in the eye. "Not if we . . . persuade Pirondael to abdicate in your favor."

Furnael looked him straight in the eye. "You are asking me to commit treason, Karl Cullinane."

"But what if I'm right? What if he's betrayed you, your barony, and your son?" Karl pointed toward Thomen. "He'll die here, as surely as the rest of us."

Furnael sat back in his chair. "It does come to that, doesn't it?" For a long moment he sat motionless, his eyes fixed on Karl's.

Then he shook his head. "No. There's no way it can be done. I can't be in two places at once. How can I defend my barony and decide whether or not Pirondael is guilty?"

"You can't, Baron. You're going to have to go along with Slovotsky, and decide for yourself." Slowly, Karl drew his sword and balanced the flat of the blade on the palms of his hands. "We'll button up here; I can't go anywhere until Ellegon's well enough to travel, anyway. I'll do my best to safeguard Furnael Keep for you. You have the word of Karl Cullinane on that."

Furnael hesitated. Karl wanted to take that for assent, but he sensed that if he pushed the baron at this moment, it would only push him away from what had to be done.

Finally, Furnael nodded. "We shall do it."

"Fine." Karl slipped the sword back into its sheath. "Walter, I want you out of here before sunup. How many do you want to take with you? Twenty, thirty?"

Slovotsky spat. "Don't be silly. That'd be suicide. It's got to be a tiny group, to have any chance of getting through, and into the castle." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sitting silently for so long that Karl was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong.

Slovotsky's eyes snapped open; he shrugged. "Okay. The group is me, the baron, either Henrad or Andrea—"

"Not Andy. I need her here."

"Make it Henrad, then—I'm going to need some magic. And I'll need someone to handle the horses—Restius should do for that—and one other. Ahira?"

The dwarf nodded. "I was hoping you'd ask." He pushed his chair away from the table. "We'd better decide on equipment and get packed." Ahira looked up at Karl. "Are you sure you can hold out here until we can relieve you?"

Karl shrugged. "No. But I'd better. You see another way?"

"No. I'm worrying about the dragon. Do you think he's going to be okay?"

"I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see."

*Not . . . terribly long.* The voice was distant, and it was weak.

But it was there.

Karl didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He settled for slapping his hands together. "Okay, people, let's get to work."

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Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Betrayal

If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous,
he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between
a dog and a man. 

—Mark Twain

The aftermath of the siege and the battle was, in more ways than one, a bloody mess.

Karl happily left the beginnings of reconstruction to Furnael and his people. War could ruin in weeks what had been built up over many years; it would be a long time before the barony was back to anything near its former prosperity. The lack of people to work the fields was compensated for only by the lack of mouths for the keep's siege stores to feed.

Furnael now had an excess of land in what would have been a buyer's market—if there had been any buyers. Of course, there were none: The populations of the neighboring baronies had been decimated, slaves and freefarmers alike clapped into chains and shipped off to be sold along the Cirric coast, to work in the mines of Port Orduin and Sciforth, plow fields in Lundescarne, or serve in fine houses in Pandathaway and Aeryk.

There was a chance that some could be freed, up on the slopes of Aershtyn, where a few escapees reported that the slavers had their camp, a staging ground for what the captured Holtish prisoners said was to be a vast human cattle drive to Pandathaway.

Maybe they could be freed. But there were preparations to be made. The most important ones were the ones that Karl found most pleasant: resting and eating. Aveneer's team was road-weary almost to the point of exhaustion; Valeran's people and the mercenaries who had signed on in Biemestren weren't in much better shape. Even Karl had to admit that regular meals and regular sleeping hours had their attractions.

Well, the regular sleeping hours would have been nice. There was just too much work to do. The foremost priority was maintenance on the firearms. There were flints to be cut, frizzens to be rewelded, bent triggers to be straightened, barrels to be freshed out, split stocks to be glued or replaced. That had to be left to Ranella and Slovotsky, who spent their days closeted in the keep's smithy, the doors always heavily guarded.

The gunsmithing, though, interfered with another high priority—reshoeing of the horses. Most of the animals were long overdue, and the necessity that they be reshod created a logistics problem: All gunsmithing procedures were secret, and had to be conducted in the privacy of Furnael Keep's sole smithy, but shoeing required some of the same facilities.

The solution was more work for Karl. While he wasn't enough of a smith to turn bar stock into horseshoes, he could take shoes that Ranella made in the smithy and then fit them to the horses.

Of course, the shoes did have to be adjusted, and that required an anvil—and a forge. Or a reasonable facsimile.

Stop that, Ellegon—you're scaring the—would you please try to broadcast calm? Karl thought as he ducked aside, trying to avoid the brown mare's kick.

He was almost successful: The hoof just barely caught him on the right thigh, knocking his leg out from underneath him. It felt as if he had been hit by a hammer; he fell to the ground and rolled to safety.

Rubbing at his thigh, he glared at Theren and Migdal while they struggled with the horse. "I thought you were supposed to be helping me shoe this fleabag," he said, keeping his voice calm and friendly for the mare's benefit, not theirs.

"Sorry, Karl," Migdal said, pulling down on the reins.

Erek ran over and helped him to his feet. Karl stood on his good leg for a moment, debating whether or not to just pack it in for the day and let this idiot mare go only three-quarters reshod. It was always the last horse that could break a bone, just as it was that one last run down the ski slope that had once broken his leg.

Distant fingers touched his mind.

*That's true. But remember: There was a very simple reason that it was the last run in which you broke your leg.*

Oh? What was it?  

*After you broke your leg, you weren't interested in skiing anymore.*

Always got to keep me honest, eh?  

*It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.* Ellegon closed both eyes.

"Okay, people, let's give it another try. Just one more shoe and we finish this one off—then I'm calling it quits for the day." And a rather productive day at that, he thought, eyeing the late-afternoon sun with satisfaction.

There wasn't a whole lot of thrill in this stint as a farrier, but there was a certain something to it. Karl had always found a certain magic in metalworking, and while shoeing was something that a real smith would have found almost agonizingly routine, Karl liked it. Working with horses and working with metal, both at the same time—what could be better?

"Retirement," he muttered to himself. He set his nippers down next to the anvil and reached for the right rear hoof, turning around and pinning the hoof between his thighs.

Now, keep the animal calm, okay?  

Ellegon gave out a mental sniff as he lay on the ground on the other side of the low brick wall that had a one-foot-square hole in it. *Go to sleep,* he began to sing, his mental voice low, but intense, *go to sleep, go to sleep, little horsie . . . *

Karl felt his own eyelids start to sag shut. "Stop that!" All right, you made your point. Now cut that out. Just don't scare the horse, okay? 

The dragon didn't answer; Karl decided to take that for an assent.

He picked up his nippers and began to loosen the old nails. Sometimes the hardest part was getting the old shoe off, particularly if the foot had had time to overgrow it too much.

As this one had. He grunted as he pulled out the last nail, then pried the shoe off, throwing it on the all-too-large pile of used shoes. Accepting the wood-handled trimming knife from Erek, Karl quickly trimmed the sole, the frog, and the hoof wall, then tossed the knife back to Erek, who handed him the rasp in exchange.

Rasp gripped tightly, Karl gave the bottom of the hoof wall two dozen quick strokes, then eyed the hoof.

Not quite right, but almost. He tried an additional half-dozen quick passes with the rasp, then looked again. Better, nice and level. The toe length looked about right, too. He rasped away the splinters around the old nail holes, then held out his hand for a shoe.

Damn. "Anything less round? These feet are about as pointed as I've seen today."

Erek handed him another. Close, but not quite.

*That is what I'm here for, isn't it?*

Straightening, Karl let the foot drop and walked over to the brick wall.

Well, it really wasn't much of a wall, just a six-foot-long, four-foot-high stack of bricks with a hole in the middle, right next to where the small anvil stood on its stump. Karl gripped the shoe with a yard-long pair of pincers and stuck it through the hole in the wall.

Ellegon breathed fire, the backwash of heat almost sending Karl stumbling away. Instead, he closed his eyes and forced himself to hold on.

*That should do it.*

Karl pulled the red-hot shoe back through the hole and brought it over to the anvil. A few quick taps with the hammer, then he dipped it into a pail of water, ducking his head aside to avoid the hissing steam. He brought the shoe over to the mare and picked up the horse's foot, comparing.

Not a bad fit, not bad at all, he decided as he brought the shoe back for Ellegon to heat. It took only a few seconds before he was able to bring the hot shoe back to the horse, lift the hoof, and set the shoe against it, watching the hoof smoke as the shoe burned itself into place.

Quickly, he nailed the shoe in, bent the excess length of nails down, clipped them off, and clinched the nails.

His thigh was still throbbing where the horse had kicked him.

Enough. He let the foot drop. "I'll let you rasp off the edges," he said to Migdal. "I'm done for the day."

He eyed the setting sun, then waved up at one of Furnael's guards on the ramparts. No need to ask if the watchman had spotted anything unusual; that would have resulted in an immediate alarm.

Where's Andy? he thought, as he exchanged his tools and apron for his sword, pistols, and pouch.

*Up in your rooms,* Ellegon answered. *Doing some work with Henrad.*

Anything you can interrupt?  

A pause. *Nothing dangerous.*

Good. Relay: I'm done for the day—any chance we can get some time to ourselves?  

*She says: "Give me about an hour—Henrad's almost got this cantrip down, and I don't want to break quite yet."*

Fine. It'll give me a chance to take a bath.  

*Thank goodness for small favors,* the dragon said, sniffing in distaste.

Karl laughed. "Come heat the water for me," he said, rubbing at his thigh as he limped across the broken-ground courtyard toward the bathhouse, the dragon lumbering along beside him like a four-legged bus.

Over by the east wall, Valeran was teaching a class in Lundish swordsmanship, both of his blades flashing in the light of the sun that hung just over the wall of the keep. Karl didn't dare interrupt him; what if, up on the slopes of Aershtyn, one of the warriors Valeran was teaching missed a parry?

*Not everything that goes wrong is your fault, Karl.*

Maybe not. But why does it always feel that way?  

*Egotism.*

Thanks.  

*You're welcome.*

Karl passed by the low stone smithy. Wisps of smoke floated up from its brick chimney, only to be shattered in the breeze. Two guards stood with their backs to the door, while the clattering of metal on metal came from inside.

Karl nodded to them as he walked by and into the low bathhouse next door.

The room was dark and dank. Karl set his weapons and his amulet on a dry spot on the rude shelf before stripping off his clothes and pumping water into the huge oaken tub. Ellegon snaked his head inside and dipped his mouth into the tub. Almost immediately the water started hissing and bubbling.

*Touch—carefully, now.*

Karl dipped a hand into the water. It was nicely warm.

*Then I'll be on my way.*

"What's up?"

*Ahira wants some help with the timbers he's clearing out of the Holts' tunnels, and I have to get my patrol out of the way if I'm going to help him.*

"Fine."

*About his leaving . . . do you want me to—*

"No. I don't want you peeping my fam—my friends for me."

Without another word, the dragon ducked his head back through the door. Momentarily, wind whipped dust in through the open door . . .

 . . . and then silence.

After rinsing the dirt from his body with the icy water from the pump, Karl went to the tub and lowered himself slowly, gingerly, into the steaming water. As always, what had been comfortably warm to his hand felt as if it would parboil his calves and thighs, as well as more delicate parts of his anatomy.

But he forced himself to sit back against the oak sides of the tub and relax in the heat. Gradually, the tension in his neck and shoulders eased. He rubbed his hands against his face, then shook his head to clear the water from his eyes before leaning back.

Aershtyn was going to be bad, there was no doubt about it. If the slavers had as large a collection of slaves there as Karl suspected, they would guard them well.

And that probably meant guns. Karl didn't like the idea of sending his people up against guns. That was how Chak—

No. His hands clenched into fists. No, he couldn't keep thinking about Chak. That was the way of it: Good people had died, were going to die before this was all over.

There wasn't any cheap way out. There never was.

A round cake of scented soap lay on the rough table next to the tub. Karl picked it up and began to work up a violet-smelling lather.

Smell like a goddam flower, I will.  

His face washed and rinsed, he lay back and tried to relax. But the water cooled all too quickly. He could either get out now, lie in a tepid bath—

Or do something else. "Guard," he called out, careful to make his voice both loud and calm.

Almost immediately, Restius stuck his grizzled face through the door. "You called, Karl?"

"Yes. Knock on the smithy door and see if Slovotsky would be willing to join me for a moment. Wait," he said as Restius started to leave. "Not so quick. Ask him to bring a red-hot bit of bar stock," he said, splashing the water. "A large bit."

Restius smiled. "I see." He disappeared, returning in a few minutes with Walter Slovotsky.

Walter held a large iron bar in his massive pincers. Even in the light coming through the open door, it glowed redly, although it was only a dull red.

"My, but we're getting fancy," Slovotsky said as he dipped one end in the tub, the water quickly burbling, boiling. "How's this?"

"Better," Karl said, working his hands underwater and kicking his feet to spread the hot water around. "Much better. I owe you one. If you want the next bath, I'll heat it for you. Deal?"

"Deal." Slovotsky made no motion to leave. He lowered the pincers to the ground and threw a hip over the edge of the tub. "Got something to talk to you about." He pursed his lips, opened his mouth, closed it.

"Well? You getting shy in your old age?"

"Me? No, it's just that . . . How long do you think it'll be before we finish up here?"

Karl shrugged. "Well, I figure we'll move on Aershtyn in about three weeks. That should be over quickly. It's shutting down the damn war after that that bothers me—that could take anywhere from a few tendays to . . ." He let his voice trail off.

"To however long you'll put into it before you give up." Slovotsky nodded. "Which is probably the way it's going to be. Listen to Furnael's people, Karl, listen to them. They don't just want peace, they want revenge." He shrugged. "Can't say as I blame them, but that's not the point."

"And neither is how long this war is going to go on. Is it?"

Slovotsky didn't meet his eyes.

Karl reached out and gripped his hand. "Walter, be a bit bolder. Remember how it used to be? You weren't ashamed to look me in the eye after the time you made it with my wife—"

"Hey!" Slovotsky's head jerked up. "Andy wasn't your wife, not then."

"True enough."

"But I wasn't all that eager to discuss it with you, even then."

"True again. But that wasn't because you were ashamed, was it?"

"No." Walter chuckled. "That was because I didn't want my head bashed in."

"I won't bash your head in. Not even if you take Kirah and Janie and go to Endell with Ahira."

Slovotsky's jaw dropped. "You knew?"

"Andy worked it out."

They sat in silence for a moment until Karl snorted and tossed the soap away. Somehow, even warm, the bath wasn't comfortable, not anymore.

"Hand me that towel, will you?" he asked as he pushed himself to his feet and stepped out of the tub.

He dried himself quickly, then slipped his amulet over his head and began to dress. "What do you want from me, Walter? My permission? You don't need that." He buckled his swordbelt around his waist, his hand going to its hilt for a moment.

Slovotsky looked him straight in the eye. "Maybe . . . maybe sometimes it feels as if I do, Karl. It's just that all of this . . ." His awkward gesture seemed to include the entire universe. "It's starting to get to me. I can remember a time when the most violent thing I'd ever done was sacking a quarterback, Karl. It's . . . I don't know how to say it."

He started to turn away. Karl caught his arm.

"Listen to me," Karl said. "You don't need my permission, but if you want my blessing, you've got it. We've . . . been through a lot together, Walter, and I love you like a brother. If you really need to spend a few years away from the action, then you do it. That's an order—understood?"

"Understood." Slovotsky smiled weakly. "Besides, it may not come to that. Who knows? I could get myself killed on this Aershtyn thing."

"Always looking at the bright side, eh?"

"Always."

They emerged into a golden, dusky light.

Slovotsky held out a hand. "Thanks, Karl. I appreciate it." He seemed to be about to say something else.

Karl took his hand. "Walter—"

*Alert! Danger! Warning!* came the distant voice.

Karl's head jerked around. Nobody else was reacting.

"What is it, Karl?"

"Ellegon—can't you hear him?"

Slovotsky shook his head.

Ellegon, what is it?  

He felt that Ellegon was trying to answer, but he couldn't hear him. The dragon must have been at his extreme range, and only Karl's mindlink was tight enough to pick up Ellegon's broadcast, and that only irregularly, unpredictably.

"There's trouble." Karl cupped his hands around his mouth and called up to the watchman. "Sound the alert!"

The warrior began beating rhythmically on the alarm gong.

"Walter," Karl snapped, "get your squad armed and up on the ramparts. Take charge there. Erek! Where the hell's that—" He stopped himself as the boy ran up. "Message to Peill, Chak—" He clenched his fists. "Belay that last. Add Aveneer. Begins: Ellegon has sounded an alert. Nature unknown. I'll be at the main gate. Arm your people, report via message runner to me there. Ends. Message to Valeran. Mount up and bring your men and my horse to main gate. Ends. Message to Baron Furnael: Begins: Trouble. Am at main gate. If it pleases you, meet me there with your chief man-at-arms. Ends. Go."

*Karl?* The distant voice was clearer, firmer. *Can you hear me?*

Yes, dammit. I've sounded the alert. What's going on? The dragon swooped over the ramparts and dropped into the courtyard, sending up puffs of dust as he landed heavily on the sunbaked dirt. *I'm not sure. Did we want a troop of about five hundred Holtish cavalry to be about half a day's ride east of us on the Prince's Road?*

"No—did you say east?" That didn't make any sense. Biemestren lay in that direction. How had the Holtish worked their way that deeply into Bieme, and why? It didn't make any tactical sense, not after the way that Karl had broken the siege.

They could have been sent before the breaking of the siege, but any force sent to reinforce the Holtish siegers would surely have been sent in via the west, through Holtun.

It just didn't make any sense, none at all, unless—

"Ellegon, check the west road. Now."

*The west road?*

"Yes, the west road, dammit." It was the only explanation. A cavalry force of that size wouldn't be sent to reinforce a siege. It had to be intended to block an escape.

An escape from what? From whatever was moving in on them from the west. "Get airborne, do a nice, high recon until you see something interesting, and then get back here. Move it, dammit."

*You're welcome.* His leathery wings a blur, the dragon leaped into the air and flew over the ramparts. *I will keep you in—*

Ellegon screamed; his mind opened.

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

"Karl!" Furnael slapped his face again.

He shook his head as he lurched to his feet. "No! Ellegon—"

On the ramparts, a dozen guns fired in volley. Slovotsky turned to call down to Karl. "The dragon is down. We've fired on four crossbowmen, driving them back into the woods."

Hooves clattered as Valeran, leading Stick, arrived with his twenty mounted men.

"Four bowmen—watch for them." Karl leaped to the horse's back and spurred him through the gate, Valeran and his men galloping along behind.

Ellegon lay writhing on the ground by the side of the road, half in, half out of the ditch, his grunts and screams strangely animalistic, his flailing treetrunk legs sending huge volleys of dirt into the air.

Three crossbow bolts projected from his chest, their fletchings barely visible.

Karl dismounted from Stick's back. "Go," he shouted to Valeran. "Find them. I want them dead."

There was nothing to do as the huge dragon lay there, dying. Dragonbane was a poison to Ellegon, and every second it was working its way deeper into the dragon's body.

No. I won't give up. Ellegon had been able to survive his only other contact with the stuff, more than three centuries before. There was a chance that he could survive this. The poison would have to be gotten out—but how? Karl couldn't even break through the wall of pain around the dragon's mind.

I have to. Ellegon, he thought, can you hear me? 

*Yes.* But the word was accompanied by nauseating waves of pain. Clutching at his chest, Karl crumpled to the ground.

No, don't, he thought, as the mindlink faded. Don't answer. Just hear me. I have to get those bolts out of you. Try not to move. 

He worked his way in between the writhing forelegs, only to be batted aside by a fluttering wingtip that knocked him off his feet.

"No, Ellegon. Don't move." The three bolts were spread out across the dragon's chest, all but one above Karl's reach.

He quickly pulled that one out and tossed it away, then tried to climb up the dragon's side to get at another.

But his toes couldn't find purchase among Ellegon's hard scales. There was just no way to reach them.

"Karl!" A hand slammed down on his shoulder. "Lift me!" Andy screamed at him, a long-bladed knife in her hands.

Karl stooped, clamped his hands around her ankles, and lifted her up, holding her tightly as high as he could.

The dragon screamed again—

Don't move, Ellegon. Please don't move. If you knock us away, you'll die.  

*Karl . . . * The mental voice was distant. *My friend . . . I'm afraid that this is goodbye—*

"No, dammit, don't you dare die on me, you scaly bastard. Not you, Ellegon. Andy—"

"Shut up," she hissed. "I've almost gotten the second one."

The dragon's mental presence was fading quickly, and his struggles were slowing, not from control, but from weakness.

"Got it," she exclaimed. "Take five big steps to your right so I can get at the last one."

While it felt like hours, Karl knew that it was only a few seconds later that she cried out, "Got it. Let me down."

He lowered her, shaking the tears from his eyes. "No, that's not enough. We've got to do something about the poison in the wounds."

Think, dammit, think. He looked up the dragon's side to the red holes in Ellegon's gray hide, and at the slow ooze of thick blood dripping down Ellegon's scales. The trouble was that dragonbane was poison, a chemical poison that dragons, virtually immune to most forms of physical attack, were subject to.

Andy-Andy buried her head against his chest, the bloody bolts falling from her hands. "He's not going to make it, Karl." The dragon's breathing was almost imperceptible.

"Shut up. Let me think." There had to be something to do, some way to clear the poison out of—

Got it!  

He opened his pouch and pulled out his powder horn. "We'll burn it away," he shouted. "With gunpowder." Drawing his beltknife, he snatched at the hem of her robes and cut a swatch off, then used the rag to dry the most accessible of Ellegon's wounds as best he could.

He handed her the knife. "Give me another swatch," he said. He packed the wound with the fresh cloth, then opened his powder horn and tipped a third of the powder into the cloth. "Valeran!" he shouted, "get me a torch, some fire—now!"

Her face brightened. "Lift me."

He braced his back against the dragon's chest, caught her by the waist, and lifted her. As she planted her feet on his shoulders, he passed up the horn. "Do the same thing I did. Then get as much powder as you can into the swatches."

In moments the remaining wounds were packed with gunpowder. Lowering Andy-Andy to the ground, Karl accepted the torch from Valeran and touched it to the nearest of the wounds.

It puffed into flame and acrid smoke. He touched the torch to the other two rents in Ellegon's hide, and again they burned.

Andy gripped his arm. "Do you think—?"

The dragon was still breathing, but that was all. Ellegon? Can you hear me? Dammit, say something. 

He shook his head. "I don't know. And I don't know what the hell else to do. We'll just have to wait." He bent over and kissed Andy-Andy gently on the forehead. "Make that 'I'll just have to wait.' This area isn't secure, yet." He turned to Valeran. "Put a guard around him—borrow men from Aveneer. I want a full circle, twice as wide as a bowshot, well lit with watchfires. There may be other assassins around. They're not to get within crossbow range—nobody is to get within crossbow range—understood?"

"Understood." Valeran nodded. "But—"

Karl turned. "Erek! Gather all team leaders and seconds for a full staff meeting, main dining hall; ask the baron's permission. Invite him and Thomen to join us—particularly Thomen. Go."

The boy nodded and ran off.

Valeran looked as though he was about to ask why, then shrugged. "Yes, Karl. But I was trying to tell you that we captured one." He led Karl around to the other side of the dragon and pointed to a greasy little man who lay on the ground, tightly bound, next to Norfan's horse. "Do you want me to hand him over to Tennetty?"

"Yeah." He nodded.

"Instructions?"

"She's to make him talk, and then she's to make him die."

Karl stood at the head of the long table, gathering his thoughts, trying to forget about Ellegon for the moment. There was nothing that could be done about the dragon now, but this meeting was critical.

Gathered around the table, the others sat quietly, waiting for the storm to break.

Sitting together at the far end of the table, Valeran, Frandred, and Aveneer talked calmly, in soft tones, as though nothing at all bothered them.

Karl had never truly understood that mentality. He understood the necessity of generating the image, of course, but the calm resolution that one was going to die in battle, and that this coming battle might easily be the battle, well, that was something Karl could simulate, but never quite understand. That was something he had given up when he had deliberately subsumed his Barak persona.

Sitting next to him, Andy-Andy reached over and squeezed his hand momentarily, then dropped it. Relay, please—he caught himself. Damn. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered, smiling back at her.

"Hate sleeping alone that much, do you?" She smiled back.

"Right."

Next to her, Tennetty and Ahira sat quietly, their faces more impassive than calm. But the dwarf's brow was furrowed. His stubby fingers steepled in front of his aquiline nose, he occasionally glanced over at Karl, then resumed his own thoughts.

Karl let a chuckle escape his lips. Ahira was trying to anticipate him. There had been a time when the dwarf was a better military tactician than Karl, but practice and study had honed Karl's skills. Still, Ahira's ability to think well under pressure was something to reckon with . . . or to rely on, depending.

On the dwarfs right, Peill sat back on his high-backed chair, feigning calm, while opposite Ahira, Walter Slovotsky waited patiently, his all-is-well-with-any-universe-clever-enough-to-contain-Walter-Slovotsky smile intact, as always.

Next to Slovotsky, Zherr Furnael sat stiffly, looking like a compromise between the way he had been six years before and the way Karl had found him. Well, a compromise it would have to be. Furnael was the key to everything, and if the baron could just hold himself together for a few more years, maybe . . .

Thomen sat quietly next to his father, his eyes watching everyone, missing nothing. Thomen was different from his brother: Rahff had been much more of a talker, less of a watcher.

"It's going to be tough, people," Karl said. "The first item of business is getting Ellegon in through the gates. Andy, can you levitate him?"

"I've been expecting that. And I . . . think so." She nodded, biting her lip uncertainly. "I may be able to lift him, but that doesn't mean I can float him in here—and with his mass . . ."

"That's easily solved. We tie some ropes to his legs and everyone helps pull him in through the main gate." He looked over at Furnael. "If he does survive, he's going to need to eat a lot of food. You can start with your scrawniest animals—he won't care."

"It will be done." The baron nodded. "We have some smoked beef in the cellars that has turned. If that wouldn't do Ellegon harm—"

"Turned?" Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "Why haven't you disposed of it?"

Furnael answered slowly. "Because, Walter Slovotsky, when you are under siege you would rather your people have moldy beef to eat than see them starve in front of your eyes. That is . . ." He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "My apologies. I was asking—would the meat be bad for the dragon?"

"Not at all," Karl said. "He doesn't poison easily."

Aveneer raised his head. "I don't understand all this hurry. It can't be because of five hundred cavalrymen a day's ride away to the east, so I—"

"Wait," Ahira interrupted. "How do you know it's not?"

Aveneer threw his head back and laughed. "You may have observed that Karl Cullinane does not panic easily. Five hundred cavalrymen would not panic him, not when we've that many effectives here, most armed with guns."

"No, it's not the horsemen." Karl shook his head. "They're only there to cut off our remaining avenue of escape. The reason that I'm worried is that I'm all but certain there are at least two thousand heavily armed soldiers only a few days to the west. I've been sold out, people, and Ahrmin is about to arrive and try to collect."

"Surely," Valeran said, studying the fingernails he was cleaning with the point of a dagger that he hadn't been holding moments before, "you aren't accusing anyone here? I realize that I am new to your service, but I've never been fond of being the target of a false accusation."

Tennetty pushed back her chair and rose slowly, her hand on the hilt of her sword. "If it is you—"

"No, Tennetty," Karl snapped. "It's not Valeran. Think it through.

"Holtish cavalry moving in from the east on the Prince's Road is an obvious suggestion that there's more trouble brewing in from the west. They can't be here to reinforce the siege—they wouldn't chance swinging in through Bieme if that were the case. Doesn't look like a normal military procedure, does it?

"The attack on Ellegon cinched it." He looked at Tennetty. "You interrogated the surviving assassin. Who were they after?"

"Ellegon. At least, that's what he said."

"Right. Think about it. Assassins armed with dragonbane, sent to kill Ellegon. That has to mean that whoever is behind this is after me—and who has known that I'm here long enough to prepare and send out assassins?"

The words hung in the air for a moment.

"Not the Holts," Furnael said, tenting his fingers in front of his chin. "If they had known about you and your people, they would have been prepared for your lifting of the siege, and reinforced their positions, not sacrificed the horsemen who chased after you, then retreated. You're saying that your betrayer is Biemish, some traitor in Biemestren?"

Karl nodded. "In a sense. Assume that I'm right, assume that a large part of the Holtish army is headed this way—who would benefit?"

Furnael shrugged. "The Holts, of course, if they can take the keep."

"Nonsense. The Holts already had the keep under control; they could have cracked it like an egg anytime they wanted to divert the manpower from the north. But they didn't do that, did they?"

Furnael wrinkled his brow. "No, but . . ."

"But who else stood to benefit? Who had already written off barony Furnael as a lost cause? Who would love to divert a few thousand Holts and their slaver allies south—"

"Wait—"

"—and who would gain by weakening the Holtish advance in the north, possibly taking advantage of the situation to order a counterattack? Tell me, Baron, who?"

"Son of a bitch!" Slovotsky nodded. "Pirondael." He threw up his hands. "Look at it from his point of view. It'd be a gorgeous bit of betrayal. It was common knowledge in Enkiar that Ahrmin's as irrational on the subject of you as you are on the subject of him—why wouldn't Pirondael know? He's counting on the little bastard's taking off after you with every gun and soldier he can muster."

He pushed his chair back from the table and began pacing up and down. "Shit, Karl, that changes everything. We don't have any line of retreat at all. Even if we could somehow punch through the Holtish cavalry at our back door, we can't sneak hundreds of warriors through Bieme."

Furnael sat up straight. "Bieme is not your enemy, not even if—"

"Nonsense, Baron," Andy-Andy snapped. "If your prince has betrayed Karl, he'll know it, and he'll be deathly afraid of my husband. As he has a right to be." She looked up at Karl. "Assuming that I don't get to him first."

Furnael shook his head. "I find this difficult to believe. My prince would not dishonor his crown this way."

"You're confusing the myth with the reality, Zherr. Wearing a crown doesn't make a man honorable." Karl turned to Slovotsky. "Walter, how many men do you think you could sneak past the Holts?"

"Depends. You thinking about sending me to Biemestren?"

Karl nodded.

"Damn." Slovotsky shrugged. "Then you'd better tell me what you want me to do."

"I want you to find out if I'm right or not about Pirondael's betraying us. If I'm wrong, you've got it easy: Talk him into sending some reinforcements."

"If you think that's easy, would you please tell me what you consider difficult?"

"If I'm right, then I think it's time we put a new prince under that crown of Pirondael's, and make sure that the new prince sends out reinforce—"

"Who?" Furnael snarled. "Both of my prince's sons have died in this cursed war; Evalyn is long past child-bearing. The succession is in doubt. The best claim is probably Baron Tyrnael—"

"Not if we seat the crown firmly on your head, Zherr." Karl looked the baron straight in the eye. "Not if we . . . persuade Pirondael to abdicate in your favor."

Furnael looked him straight in the eye. "You are asking me to commit treason, Karl Cullinane."

"But what if I'm right? What if he's betrayed you, your barony, and your son?" Karl pointed toward Thomen. "He'll die here, as surely as the rest of us."

Furnael sat back in his chair. "It does come to that, doesn't it?" For a long moment he sat motionless, his eyes fixed on Karl's.

Then he shook his head. "No. There's no way it can be done. I can't be in two places at once. How can I defend my barony and decide whether or not Pirondael is guilty?"

"You can't, Baron. You're going to have to go along with Slovotsky, and decide for yourself." Slowly, Karl drew his sword and balanced the flat of the blade on the palms of his hands. "We'll button up here; I can't go anywhere until Ellegon's well enough to travel, anyway. I'll do my best to safeguard Furnael Keep for you. You have the word of Karl Cullinane on that."

Furnael hesitated. Karl wanted to take that for assent, but he sensed that if he pushed the baron at this moment, it would only push him away from what had to be done.

Finally, Furnael nodded. "We shall do it."

"Fine." Karl slipped the sword back into its sheath. "Walter, I want you out of here before sunup. How many do you want to take with you? Twenty, thirty?"

Slovotsky spat. "Don't be silly. That'd be suicide. It's got to be a tiny group, to have any chance of getting through, and into the castle." He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sitting silently for so long that Karl was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong.

Slovotsky's eyes snapped open; he shrugged. "Okay. The group is me, the baron, either Henrad or Andrea—"

"Not Andy. I need her here."

"Make it Henrad, then—I'm going to need some magic. And I'll need someone to handle the horses—Restius should do for that—and one other. Ahira?"

The dwarf nodded. "I was hoping you'd ask." He pushed his chair away from the table. "We'd better decide on equipment and get packed." Ahira looked up at Karl. "Are you sure you can hold out here until we can relieve you?"

Karl shrugged. "No. But I'd better. You see another way?"

"No. I'm worrying about the dragon. Do you think he's going to be okay?"

"I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see."

*Not . . . terribly long.* The voice was distant, and it was weak.

But it was there.

Karl didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

He settled for slapping his hands together. "Okay, people, let's get to work."

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