 
The Edge of Justice

15th Anniversary Edition

a novel about the application

of

ethics and morality

by

Robert Luis Rabello

This book is a work of fiction. All the names, characters and incidences are either a product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 1995, 2002, 2017 by Robert Luis Rabello. All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1439251881

ISBN-10:1439251886

ASIN: B0061OHZBQ

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

Dedicated to the glory of God,

who blesses me with every good gift,

and to my devoted wife, Benita Madaline

Robert Luis Rabello

Aldergrove, British Columbia

December 2001

City of Fire

Clouds of bright red dust, mingled with hot, steamy smoke settled like a suffocating veil into my trench, coating my sweat-glistened arms with gritty powder. To my right, forty-five young men, most of whom had never fired a shot in anger, awaited nervously. Some coughed, others cursed, while a few prayed to obscure, small-town gods, or even the emperor himself. I didn't bother with prayers. I'd long ago given up and forgotten how to pray.

The moment before me had long haunted my dreams, occupying the free space of idle time, drifting through my existence like a lazy river in midsummer. I believed that my training and intellect could make a difference, that my destiny lay in changing the world, rather than ordering a mass of marginally insolent, bored recruits to carry out a shouting centurion's bidding.

We'd marched for weeks with little rest. Our journey began in the heat of the far south, gradually transforming into a miserable slog over rainforest-covered ridges. We swatted swarms of mosquitoes while living in a slimy, red muck that sucked the soles of our boots as we walked. Mud stained our fatigues and stuck to every speck of unprotected skin. Biting insects, interminable midsummer rain, heat and high humidity sapped morale as we fought a retreating enemy, but now, with our objective in sight, we hoped this wretched campaign might soon meet its end.

Overhead, the shrieking of artillery shells faded as the proud battlements surrounding the Lithian city of Shirak succumbed to their pounding. A spectacular explosion showered the trembling ground with slivers of splintered stone. Through the haze I could see many wide breaches in the crumbling wall. A trumpet call rang out across the battlefield, followed by a tremendous roar as thousands of men's voices aspired in a unified war cry.

"Let's go! Let's go!" I screamed above the din, scrambling out of the sodden trench, racing toward the enemy with conviction driven by adrenaline. My legs pumped, my heart pounded, and my lungs burned from inhaling smoke; yet other, younger and faster men surpassed me easily.

How the skinny vermin on the other side survived our shelling I'll never know, but they were still alive and waiting. Speeding silently through swirling fog flashed wickedly well-aimed arrows. Many brave men stumbled in mid-stride, screaming in torment as sharp ceramic-edged steel tore through their skin. I witnessed the slaughter of young men who would never again know a loving caress, the fine delight of friendship or the comfort of home. Most of our first wave fell face-first into the rain-drenched and shell-cratered ground. Fighting back unspoken terror I raced forward, hoping desperately that I would not be found among their number.

Before me loomed a shattered basalt wall, its angular face designed to deflect catapult shots, battering rams and obsolete cannon balls. No proud stone could turn back our modern, high explosive shells. Its ruin, sealed from the order that brought our big guns forward, foreshadowed the demise of many nations that would fall into our hands, once we'd finished our work in this hell of heat and endless green. At that moment, however, I believed that this assault comprised the final act of a long and bloody drama.

I staggered toward shelter, coughing from the exertion and smoke, squatting down to recover near a shattered stone block. Sergeant Aransen, my favorite NCO, a veteran of many campaigns, began clustering enlisted troops into five-man squads, ordering bayonets fixed. Our advance, covered by an endless rain of gunfire from the trenches, stalled dangerously as we picked our way through the smouldering debris field.

Regaining my breath, I realized we might get pushed back if we didn't advance. "First squad," I shouted, "through the breach! Second squad, fire support on the left flank! Move! Now!"

Obediently my soldiers responded. Within a single step, the point man dropped to the ground as an enemy arrow found its deadly mark. As he fell, another warrior stepped forward. The second group opened fire at the unseen sniper as I sent in the third and fourth, until our numbers overwhelmed resistance.

With our toehold established, my unit and thousands of cohorts on our flanks, streamed through the broken walls like the tide of a rising flood, preceded by a rain of profanity and bullets. The sight inspired my pride, but my confidence didn't long survive.

Beyond the artillery damage near its walls, Shirak looked unlike any city I'd ever seen – dense with trees, lacking much open space. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I realized that the Lithian savages lived in buildings crafted out of tight-fitting stones between thick, vine-covered trees. These custom-shaped structures perfectly fit the surrounding foliage. Graceful, gated archways led into manicured, private gardens, complete with obscene, ceramic fountains – evidence that the Lithians enjoyed displaying nudity. The stone walls mingled with living palisades of watered plants, extending two and three levels high into the canopy.

Cautiously moving beneath the multi-layered tree canopy, we followed narrow, well-worn stone paths set in a herringbone pattern, bordered on both sides by ferns, mosses and other varieties of light-hating plants. Between the battle smoke and the deep gloom, I struggled to see where we were going. Their trails, slick with slime and rain, led through the city in a twisting, undulating maze of intersecting circles.

I'd formed my men into three units of fifteen soldiers, spaced apart by about twenty paces, with Sergeant Aransen up front controlling the first squad. I remained with the second group, leaving the third for Sergeant Laredimus – a tobacco chewer whose incessant spitting inspired my desire to keep him well behind me.

Confusion reigned in the twilight. Gunshots, smoke, the stench of loosened bowels and a sense of impending death, punctuated by the occasional whine of a stray artillery shell and the rumble of its subsequent explosion, isolated my senses from awareness of the larger battle lumbering around me. We plunged deeper into the alien city, losing contact with other squadrons.

The Lithians never attacked in recognizable patterns. Their armies no longer offered organized resistance, relying on ambush tactics and stealth. Death arrived suddenly, silently and mysteriously as hidden snipers selected their targets, then slipped away into the darkness. We ended up shooting at shadows, sending concentrated volleys of lead in their direction until they didn't shoot back anymore.

Despite encountering many enemy casualties, the sniping intensified. Among the dead warrior bucks we also found Lithian cows, dressed in gossamer silk and thin, transparent material, while others – perhaps older ones – littered the ground in more modest clothing. The ones we learned to fear were the Black Widows – older cows dressed entirely in black. Their fearless, savage attacks with bows and swords sharp enough to cut through gun barrels dramatically raised the butcher's bill with every encounter. We cheered whenever we killed one of them.

The Lithians weren't alone in resisting us. We'd been told that traitorous Abelscinnians – big, dark-skinned people from the east – had joined their ranks. They fought with skill, using modern rifles, grenades and mortars, but they weren't as fanatical as the Black Widows.

Our battle, a taxing ritual of entering and investigating every building, flushing out snipers and evading traps, inspired increasing frustration as the enemy continually faded away from conflict. Their amorphous resistance steadily drained ammunition to the extent that I started limiting return fire to conserve bullets. By the time noon arrived I'd lost eight men, and the rest of my troops grew increasingly edgy.

We found trinkets, a few coins and alabaster or jade furniture, stepping over the bodies of the elderly, naked children, and any warrior who dared oppose our entry. We discarded worthless Abelscinnian guns, but stripped the dead of their knives and swords because Lithian metallurgy surpassed our own in quality.

Roughly three hours into the battle a messenger arrived, cursed profoundly that we'd been so hard to find, then breathlessly recited an order from my centurion that demanded we push north to a central plaza at all possible speed. His irritation indicated we were destined for some heavier action in a hurry.

Curiously, after passing on the orders to my sergeants, I noticed a lift in the men's spirits – enthusiasm spread with the anticipation of coordinated action. Finding this plaza, however, proved complex. We couldn't march there in a straight line. Deep gloom, the contradictory, deceptive battle sounds and an unfamiliar landscape confused everyone. We were soon lost, and I became impatient. I had not come here to fail.

Sergeant Laredimus, sensing my frustration, quietly suggested that we send a small scouting party ahead to map out the best approach, moving the main group only when we were certain that the chosen path did not backtrack. This sounded like a good idea, so I picked my most reliable men, checked the calibration of their compass, and sent them off.

As our progress slowed my patience wore thin. Eventually, we arrived at a crossroads, a clearing where several paths intersected at odd angles. A fountain of jade and obsidian, carved indecently in naked male and female figures playing harps and woodwind instruments, lay at the center of this intersection. I paused to let the men refresh themselves while I tried to figure out where to go. I discreetly discussed the navigational problem with my sergeants, anxious to arrive where ordered, hoping to avoid more embarrassment.

Without warning, something very bright flashed around us, blinding our eyes in brilliant light. Female voices, speaking strange words, called fire out of thin air and directed it toward my soldiers, several of whom were completely engulfed in unquenchable flame.

"Hold your fire!" I screamed, trying to prevent the men from wasting ammunition, not understanding that the infernal Lithian magic had cooked off our ammunition packs and ignited loaded muskets spontaneously.

Over the din I heard more voices speaking the strange, musical language of the Lithians. The water in the fountain thickened and came alive. With great speed, it divided into multiple streams that gushed forward, each seeking a man's face, including mine. Unable to breathe, blinded and defenseless, I faced the incredible prospect of drowning with my feet standing on dry ground.

It coiled around my flailing hands and wrapped around my neck when I turned my back – its force so powerful I could offer no effective resistance. My body slammed against the unyielding cobblestones. Water clung to my flesh, hammered in my ears, crawled into my mouth and nose, reaching down my throat like a malevolent serpent. I coughed, spat and rolled in agony, resisting death as I fought the urge to inhale. Nothing in my life had ever terrified me like this.

Just before I believed I would surely die, the water slithered back into the fountain. My heart pounded. I could hold my breath no longer, but when I gasped for air, my lungs functioned perfectly. I pushed myself upright, noting not even a drop of moisture on my skin, my uniform or the surrounding ground. Mysteriously, the fountain lay quiet once more.

Fear lingered in the eyes of every survivor.

Those of us who had not drowned endured the stench of cooked flesh and screaming as the magic fire continued burning. In an effort to save a friend, one man dunked his helmet into the fountain and tried to quench the fire, but the water simply recoiled and raced back from whence it came. When another tried to snuff out the flames with a blanket from his pack, he too, caught fire. It seemed that those destined to die in this place would die, while the rest of us watched, helplessly.

No new and clever leadership ideas came to mind. I felt like a complete failure. One by one, my burning soldiers succumbed to their fate. I watched them perish, knowing I could do nothing to save them. Their screams will forever echo in my memory . . .

For want of a better idea I ordered all survivors fifteen paces away from the fountain, trying to mask my own panic by acting like I knew what I was doing. "Form up and count off!" I ordered, facing the water nervously. "Eyes on me!" I figured that if the water erupted again, we would be wiser to have our backs to it.

The youngest recruits seemed most unnerved by the fire, the fountain experience and the nauseating reek of burning bodies. A few men coughed, hacked, spit, retched and shivered, while others, glancing backward, grimaced. I worried they would blame me for getting lost and leading them here. Then, cursing profoundly, I added, "There's nothing you can do for them now."

That truth haunted me for the rest of the day.

Anxious to move onward, I sent the men across a creek and had Sergeant Aransen reassemble the seventeen survivors on its far bank before continuing on our way. I lingered to take up the trailing position, my eyes fixed upon a scene that inspired nightmares for months to come.

The rain resumed. My men fell into sullen silence, slogging along in wet boots that chafed their skin raw. I checked the compass again, wondering if other lieutenants performed with equal ineptitude, or whether my inability to inspire confidence indicated a personal problem. Thus far, my singular success consisted of leading men to pointless, painful deaths. The possibility that such a thing might happen under my command had never crossed my mind.

Sergeant Aransen waited for me. "Buck up, lieutenant," he warned, discretely. "You still have soldiers to lead. If they see you wringing your hands like an old woman, they'll start acting like old women too."

I bristled at the comment, but Aransen, a veteran of the coastal islands campaign, had survived some of the worst fighting any Azgar army had ever encountered, and I trusted him.

We never found the plaza. Almost two hours later, we couldn't even hear the battle anymore, and even the most dim-witted recruit realized that we'd become utterly lost. Hungry and footsore, we paused in an area dominated by large, empty villas surrounded by towering, moss-covered walls. Swarms of biting insects rose from their nesting puddles in welcome as we settled near the silent stones to eat cold rations and offer our blood to the bugs.

Just as I rose to move on again, one of the recruits approached me with an ornate string of freshwater pearls, fashioned with nuggets of turquoise and gold filigree. It was delicate and pretty, about the size of a young girl's wrist. Curious, I inquired, "Where did you find this?"

"That house," he said, pointing to a gated structure behind him. "There's probably more stuff left. Backrin and Gehenoff went in further than I did."

I counted the men around me, only fifteen, and made a mental note to give these three a sound chewing out for wandering off, thinking the scolding would have to wait for another time. As I was mulling over my list of favored obscenities, I heard a stray shot and a distinctively male scream from inside the building. Some of the Lithians had guns, but this sounded like one of ours.

"Come with me," I ordered, signaling for the others to follow, pointing to where I wanted support squads to assemble. The troops followed my lead and I suddenly forgot about my confidence problem, plunging inside, bayonet ready.

Private Backrin crouched at the base of a magnificent stone staircase that spiraled up to the next floor. He suffered obvious grief, clutching his right wrist, biting hard on his lower lip to avoid crying out again. I inspected the damage, and although little daylight penetrated the house, I could see that a very sharp blade had cut quite easily through a stout leather glove, slicing flesh to the extent that bone appeared beneath the exposed sinew and muscle. "Get Sivestri up here!" I ordered, calling for our medic. The bleeding seemed serious, darkening the cowhide glove that Backrin could not bring himself to remove.

"What happened?" I inquired.

The soldier wouldn't raise his eyes to mine, trembling with fear and shame. "There's this pretty girl," he began. "She's all alone in there and we wanted her. We didn't know she was armed. We didn't think she could fight."

"Lith cow!" I muttered, grateful that she wasn't a Black Widow. "Where's Gehenoff?"

"Upstairs," Backrin replied. "Be careful, lieutenant. She's got a bow and she's a damn good shot."

I arose to ascend the stairs but Sergeant Aransen put his hand on my shoulder, stopping me. He sent two privates up first. "We need you, sir," he warned.

Once the lead man reached the top step I saw him panic, raise his gun and fire a shot. Immediately, an arrow sank into the soft spot at the base of his neck. Another followed in rapid succession, striking his companion in the same place. Horrified at their swift demise, both men slumped and tumbled down the stairs, gasping grotesquely as their lives slipped away.

Blindly, a trio of nearby comrades opened fire upon the second-floor railing in an ear-shattering fusillade that matched my personal rage with its fury. It had been stupid to do that, however, for as soon as they began to reload, she appeared at the rail and quickly picked off all three. I screamed at my men to take cover, huddled beneath a table and recited the most foul list of obscenities in the Azgar Vulgate for emphasis. To my surprise, she answered me!

"Leave now, and I'll spare your wretched life!" she threatened menacingly, in my own tongue.

I was astounded at her audacity. "Who are you to talk to me that way?" I'd never heard anyone speak to an Azgar officer in such an insolent tone of voice.

"I live here. Go away! Leave me alone!"

As the smoke from our guns dissipated I peeked above the table to check for myself. Gehenoff lay on the upper landing in a pool of his own blood, an arrow extending from the exact place at the base of his neck where his companions had been struck.

Illuminated by overhead light, dressed in a dark green skirt and a thin, silky blouse, the Lith stood one step back from the top of the staircase. Raven-haired, with shining blue eyes, the girl was the first Lithian I'd ever seen alive. My heart raced with both fear and desire as I gently lowered my gun and slowly inched upstairs.

The Lith held a recurve bow ready. A pair of arrows, one nocked into her bowstring, the other just half a heartbeat from its mate, awaited flight in her right hand. She glared at me, backing away as I advanced, allowing progress as if taking my life would be no more difficult than spitting on the floor.

The staircase opened into an odd-shaped room with windows made of mosaic-patterned green and yellow stained glass. Underfoot, ceramic tile clicked at my booted step. Eating couches with carved, stone legs lay arranged around a huge oval table hewn from a single slab of translucent, green crystal. A parquet-patterned bowl filled with fresh fruit graced the center of the table.

Dario deGaspar, one of my warriors from the town of Marioch, rose to my side with his gun upraised. The girl lifted her bow toward him and took aim. I motioned for him to lower his weapon, and as soon as he complied, the girl did the same, relaxing visibly. She said nothing further.

One by one, my ten surviving men gathered around me. I knew by the lust overflowing in their eyes what they intended to do once we'd subdued this lovely creature, and I can't deny that I wanted her also. I knew many of them would think she was asking for it, being dressed that way, but many Lithian carcasses we'd seen thus far had been clad like this, and I figured that it was just another indecent custom.

Before the battle, however, my centurion had threatened every NCO and officer with unspecific retribution, should we allow what he called "improper relational encounters" with the Lithians to occur among our men. Sergeant Aransen knew as well as I did that in an isolated room, the impropriety would be impossible to police. Momentarily overcome with long-dormant desire and wanting my warriors to be pleased, I called for a volunteer to disarm her.

An eager recruit stepped forward, inciting a ripple of smirks and lurid remarks from the other men. Seeing her smirk, however, I asked for my gun, just in case . . .

The young Lith remained motionless until the hapless soldier reached for her. In a blur, she crushed his private parts with a swift kick and swirled to the right, launching an arrow that followed deGaspar's erupting gun barrel all the way up to his eye. As the volunteer crumpled to the floor in agony, she fired another shot that clanged against my helmet so hard it twisted my neck and slammed my head against the door frame. My ears rang fiercely, but I maintained the presence of mind to withhold my shot.

Once deGaspar's musket went off, the rest let their rounds go, in spite of my pleading to the contrary. Smoke clouded the room, but the ensuing screams of dying soldiers made it clear to me that my men were trying to load their guns in a confined area with a bloodthirsty Lithian maiden who hadn't been touched by a bullet.

As the air cleared, I saw that she had squatted down with her left knee forward and right leg back, so low that her face was but a handbreadth from the floor. Every round we'd fired had arced harmlessly over her head, and now, with her lean legs tense as a tigress ready to pounce, she pushed her left arm forward again. The bowstring stretched. She had another arrow ready for me . . .

That moment lasted longer than any other I can remember. Her eyes never left mine, and I knew that she could have killed me before I had her in my sights. Suddenly, I realized that she was waiting for me to pull the trigger first.

I found myself unable to do it.

At that instant, the thought of holding this girl down and letting my men have their way with her simply repulsed me. Slowly, I turned my gun to the side and fired, well to her right.

She gave me a knowing look, slung the bow over her shoulder, then raced for an open window and slithered outside. I followed a moment later but she'd slid down a drainage pipe and raced across the garden. My heart beat fast as I heard the light sound of her rapidly retreating footfalls pattering through the forest below.

Sergeant Aransen patted me on the shoulder. "Outwitted by a Lith-cow," he muttered. "I don't know how you're going to live that one down, lieutenant . . ."

The deceit didn't come easy at first. With time, I've been able to lie about that scene as if I were really telling the truth. I suspect that my sergeant sensed the falsehood in my words, but he said nothing when I replied with incredulity: "I can't believe I missed!"

A thorough search of the house revealed nothing more than unintelligible holy books, some thin clothing and abandoned food. My depleted troops, roughly ten percent of our original strength, gathered our dead as we began to smell wood smoke. Cautiously, we ventured back into the street to get a better look, but the tree canopy concealed the fire. Its heat, however, penetrated armor, coming from the area south of our current position.

"Maybe we should keep moving," Aransen suggested.

I thought about that for a moment, but could only picture a hungry predator lurking along a fire line, waiting to pounce upon prey flushed out by the inferno.

"It may be another trap," I warned. "We'll double back and cross over an area that's already been burned. They won't expect us, and maybe we can find our bearings."

Sergeant Aransen raised his brow, as this was technically a violation of orders. But the sergeant knew our losses had rendered us combat ineffective and didn't object.

In retrospect, that order proved to be the only independent decision I'd made all day. It was also the first of many choices that led to the demise of my career.

Heat intensified as we retreated. I noticed a wind picking up at my back and watched airborne debris funneling toward the flames. A howling soon assailed my ears, a sound like that of an angry wind or a deathwolf in the distance. Flakes of ash fluttered past. Wisps of steam rose from the damp ground, flushed away by a rushing tide of hot air.

The howling turned into a furious roar. A massive, flaming pillar writhed in ecstatic annihilation, consuming tons of ancient forest moment by moment. The fire danced and swayed in the growing wind, leaping through the tree canopy in an insatiable lust for destruction. Nothing remained in its wake but grey ash and hot embers.

This fire raged for eight days. When it finally burned out, no trace remained of Shirak, save for a huge plot of black blight amid the deep green forest. Although we had done our best to extinguish the blaze, it simply would not die until the flames consumed even the city walls. Then, mysteriously as it had begun, the fire halted.

Lord General Balinor, our high commander, withdrew from the desolation and turned the fury of our forces against every vestige of Lithian culture. We seized control of the surrounding lands and obliterated all traces of their society by killing every survivor we could find, tearing down their secret temples and burning their sacred writings. At the end of our genocidal spree, we believed that no Lithian remained alive on the eastern side of the mountains.

At the time, I rationalized our actions as moral, legal and justifiable. I believed my commanders were acting in the best interest of our nation. I believed that my destiny was linked to the success of our forces as we turned northward and began systematically subjugating the technically primitive peoples in our path, taking control over land and resources that had never belonged to us. I never thought twice about the people we displaced.

In retrospect, I've come to understand that I was wrong. Every story has two truths to tell, and it's only right for me to recount this one from both sides. I will write honestly about my experience and what my army put others through, for I have learned something vital about justice in the months and weeks following the day my army marched northward from the city of fire.

Warrior's Soul

A cold northwest wind blew down from the Tamarian highlands, through the foothill canyons that lay at the western border of the vast Saradon plateau. A verdant grove of pine and cedar swayed, the breeze whispering through their branches. Ancient oak and sycamore bared lofty limbs to the late autumn sky, their fallen, yellow leaves swirling and dancing in the cobbled gardens of the Ice Dragon Inn. Snow patches lay in the shadows of the inn's grey stone walls, warning of the oncoming winter.

Junior Scout Garrick Ravenwood, dressed in a thick, armored vest made of steel thread, ceramic plates and layered leather padding, sat on his bedroll, with his back to the wind. Methodically, the young man stripped and cleaned his seventy caliber rifle, making sure the bolt action mechanism for its six-round chamber slid smoothly after assembly.

It worked perfectly.

Turning his attention to its close-quarters function, the cadet took out his bayonet, shaving the blade with a whetstone to a satisfactory sharpness. Garrick paused only to shift the weapon, pull his heavy, fur-lined overcoat a bit closer, or brush away a stray lock of blonde hair that the wind tossed carelessly into his eyes.

Twenty-four other junior scouts, arrayed in a semicircle near the inn's outer gate, also readied their equipment. Sergeant Streckert's list, posted on the announcement board that afternoon, detailed every item each recruit had to carry. He'd warned of serious consequences to those who did not follow its guidelines to the letter. Every cadet would bring one change of warm clothing, his bedroll, a canteen, one flint pack, his personal weapon, armor and ammunition.

Traveling light meant traveling fast. This exercise, the final chapter of a six-month training course, would test the endurance and survival skills of each recruit on a two-night and two-day expedition into the wildland near Tamaria's southern border. Some of the cadets would have packed a bigger bag, but none dared disobey an order. Good soldiers, they were told, followed orders to the death, and every one of them believed this.

In the southwest, the Daystar began falling behind the majestic ridge lines of the Angelgate mountains. These towering, forbidding peaks remained forever shrouded in snow, and the melt from their heights cascaded to the lowlands with an awesome roar that echoed through the alpine valleys like thunder in a storm. The waxing wind from the northwest warned that this night would be cold enough to silence even the greatest of these.

Junior Scout Jan Bordmann glanced furtively at each of his comrades. Moving stealthily, he reached for a handful of dirty snow, carefully positioned himself into the blind spot behind his intended victim, and then hurled the snowball at his best friend.

Garrick felt something cold splatter against the back of his head. The young man swirled around just in time to catch Jan in the act of compressing more snow for his next round. Garrick dropped his bayonet and batted away the incoming snowball with a gloved hand.

"I'll fix you!" he threatened, scrambling to pursue his smaller, more agile friend around the courtyard. The Tamarian cadet scraped up a bit of snow on the run and flung a wild shot that missed his friend badly and struck someone else instead.

No junior scout could long resist the temptation to join the fray. Neglecting their sergeant's orders, exuberance replaced quiet concentration as twenty-five young men quickly created their own blizzard.

Garrick cornered Jan near a watchtower. Here, his size and stamina prevailed over his friend's stealth and agility, although Jan continued scoring direct hits at close range. Eventually the friends paused, out of breath, watching others continue the mischief they'd begun.

"The sergeant's gonna skin us alive for starting this," Jan remarked in a manner indicating he'd not thought seriously about the impending consequences.

"What do you mean us?" Garrick replied. "It was your snowball that got this going, and I'm not gonna take any heat for you!"

"Some friend you are!" sneered Jan, glancing across the courtyard, noting that something didn't seem right.

Freddy Olsen, another cadet, had begun stuffing snow into Jan's backpack. Witnessing the nefarious deed, Jan was not at all amused. Spouting curses that linked Freddy's family to many microscopic creatures maligned, Jan hustled over to chase Freddy off.

At that moment, Garrick experienced the uneasy sensation of being watched. He scanned every window and door frame, fearing the disapproving stare of Sergeant Streckert, but the drill master's hawkish face did not appear in any portal.

"You there!" a strong male voice called. "Yes, you. Can you help me?"

Startled, the cadet heard footsteps crunching in the snow from behind and turned, his heart racing fearfully, his grey eyes widened.

The man spoke Southern Vulgate, the tongue of the Azgar, the most common language among nations. Its cultural dominance and power of literary expression made it a popular elective course in many Tamarian classrooms. With rumors of a huge Azgar army marching northward, Garrick felt nervous to hear their language spoken and wished secretly that his rifle lay within reach.

The stranger's sudden, nearly soundless appearance, coupled with his speech and confident demeanor, inspired suspicion. By virtue of his dress and accent, Garrick deduced he might be from Kameron, Tamaria's large and powerful ally, but couldn't be sure. The man approached fearlessly, his robust features deeply tanned, his expensive clothing spattered with dark stains. He wore a vest of exquisite, azure-colored chainmail over a filmy silk shirt, with a finely-crafted, two-handed longsword at his left hip. Contrasting his wind-weathered, bearded face, pale blue eyes appraised the young Tamarian, then shifted quickly to scan the inn's windows and watchtowers. Laden with supplies a few yards downhill, a beautiful black gelding nosed the cold ground for grass.

"Sorry to bother you," said the stranger, rubbing his bare arms. "Have I arrived in Tamaria?"

Garrick, noting that the southerner's clothing stains looked suspiciously like blood, replied simply, "Yes."

"How can you stand this God-awful cold?" the man inquired, trying to ease the building tension. "My face hurts. In fact, it hurts to breathe! Can I find a room here before I freeze to death?"

A single word response could have answered the question, but Garrick felt mildly indignant at the disdainful remark. "If my land has so offended your god, then go back home!" the cadet countered, nationalistic bravado hiding his apprehension. "This is an army training compound and there's no room for you here. If you've come peacefully, you'll find lodging in a town about thirty minutes northward along that road." Garrick pointed to the trade route that ran north-south along the western edge of the Saradon, and fully expected the southerner to move on.

Since the man was armed, he added: "If you've come to fight, we will defeat you, and in that case, you'd best head home in a hurry."

But the stranger merely scoffed. Overlooking Garrick's spiteful reply, the man reached into his shirt pocket and produced a small item that glimmered prettily in the twilight.

Seeing this Garrick stepped back. "What do you want now? Look, I have work to do. Don't waste my time. Go away! Or better yet, go back to wherever you belong!"

The stranger, glancing at the continuing snow fight, almost turned to leave without another word, but reconsidered. His tone of voice changed into something very close to menacing as he continued. "I've come from Illithia my young friend, and I've traveled too far to tolerate bad manners. If I'd intended harm, I could hurt you, but that's not why I'm here."

In one smooth motion, the southerner unstrapped the magnificent, straight-edged blade from his hip. "Given your obvious youth, and the fact that we will soon be united in a common cause," he continued, "I understand your insolence." He gently set his sword on the ground. "But to you and your people, I come peacefully."

Garrick remained suspicious, wary that he might be conversing with a spy. "Who are you, and where do you come from? Your language is uncommon around here."

A smile spread across the stranger's face. "It's no more my language than yours, but we're conversing, and for blessings like this I thank Allfather!" The man stepped forward, raising his right hand in the universal gesture of peace. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Woodwind. I'm a captain in the service of Lynden Velez."

Garrick, trying to let go of his distrust, accepted the greeting. The stranger's hand felt strong, and its lingering vigor, synergized with the southerner's intimidating self-confidence, made the young Tamarian think it wiser to have this man as a friend than an adversary. "I've never heard of Lynden Velez," Garrick said at length.

Woodwind smiled. "That's a shame," he replied. "If you knew him, you would have no fear of me. He's a good man, but that's not important right now. I'm looking for a young woman – his daughter – and I wonder if you might have seen her."

"I doubt it," said Garrick. "Since this is your first visit to my country it's unlikely I'd have met anyone you know."

Woodwind shivered, hoping that he'd never again need to set foot in the north and tolerate such a bitter wind. "Trust me. Once you've set eyes on her, you'll not forget as long as you live." The southerner opened his intricately engraved locket, exposing the cameo inside. He handed the trinket to Garrick. "This does her beauty no justice, but it will give you a general idea."

Garrick studied the three-dimensional image that portrayed a dark-eyed, black-haired woman. It stirred a deep longing in his soul. "No sir. I've never seen her before."

Woodwind's eyes dropped and the tone of his voice changed, as if he were speaking to himself rather than someone he'd just met. "She's around here somewhere. I just know it!" For a moment, memories flooded the southerner's consciousness, then vanished as he willed them and the smile they inspired away. "Her name is Brenna. She's twenty-seven and rather tall and strong for a Lithian, yet she looks no older than you. She's quite shy and not inclined to trust a stranger, but you may hear word of her soon."

Garrick couldn't stop staring at the feminine image. "There are no Lithians here and I've never met one. And honestly, sir, no girl I've seen has dark hair." Then, holding the locket at a slightly different angle, the image turned. He gazed at her sculpted shoulders and arms, admiring her fitness. Then he held his breath in quiet appreciation as her beautiful bosom caught his attention. "Aside from that, she looks like an ordinary girl to me."

Woodwind stifled a laugh. "Oh, she's far from ordinary!" he began. "Though Lithians resemble us in many ways, the differences are profound. Unlike us, they're universally beautiful, they're smart and many are devout, God-fearing people. But the Azgar call them 'Lith-kine', as if they were some breed of animal." Woodwind shook his head as he considered that last thought.

"Brenna's paternal great grandfather was a man like you and me," the southerner continued, "but she retains many Lithian features. You see it mostly in her eyes. They're dark as midnight during the day, but at night they shine like the twin moons . . ." He thought of her fondly, then added, "They do that when she's angry, too."

Though Garrick had never met a Lithian, he'd read and heard about the people Woodwind depicted. The formal term Illithian described them in textbooks, yet in the Tamarian language, the prefix "Ill" sounded very much like the word for "sick." Therefore, Lithians were often disparagingly referred to as "sicklians," or "sicklies." Further, their reputation among his own people had nothing to do with superstitious talk of eyes like fire and godliness, so he couldn't help remarking in amusement, "Sounds like a witch to me!"

"She's not a witch!" Woodwind snatched the locket out of the young man's hand. "Your ignorance is great and your tongue betrays it quickly!" The traveler's eyes narrowed, displaying a menacing demeanor that appeared with frightening suddenness. "Don't mock me, boy!"

"I'm sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect."

The stranger picked up his longsword and sheathed it again. "I've come here on serious business," he said tersely. Then, as he observed genuine remorse in the expression of the young man, his heart and tone softened again. "I could use your help, and I'd be in your debt if you'd do me a simple favor."

Garrick accepted the scolding without protest. "I'm leaving here soon. We're shutting down for the winter, but tell me what you need, and I'll do what I can."

Woodwind scanned the darkening ride lines to the west. "I'll ride north to the town you spoke of and stay there for three days before I move on. If you see or hear about the woman in that time, will you send word for me at once?"

Garrick nodded.

"Excellent," Woodwind replied. "I am pleased."

Without another word, the stranger returned to his mount and trotted off into the northern shadows. Garrick watched the darkness overtake his fleeting form, then looked west, toward the mountains, where the twin moons rose above the horizon as slender, barely visible crescents. Eyes like that would truly look strange!

Suddenly, the shrill shriek of the sergeant's whistle snapped Garrick out of his reverie.

"Fall in!" the sergeant bellowed.

Immediately, the junior scouts ceased their scuffling and scrambled to line up in order. Swiftly, they brushed themselves off, straightened their armor, then stared directly ahead while the sergeant lambasted the lot of them for their misbehavior.

"I have never seen such a pathetic collection of undisciplined, pit-brained, hairless no-wits in my entire military career! Who, may I ask, gave you the order to act like pant-wetting pansies tonight? Did I give that order?"

"No sergeant!" they chorused.

"Did some divine being appear to you and demand that you squander what precious little preparation time you have in prancing around like a pack of hyperactive, juvenile baboons in heat?"

"No sergeant!"

"Then what was this lobotomized display of simian depravity all about?"

Silently, Sergeant Streckert paced among the five rows of his class, resting his fierce-featured countenance upon every cadet. He stopped at Jan Bordmann and tersely asked, "Did you start this?"

"Yes sergeant! I started it!"

"Ravenwood! You were in on this too. Is that right?"

Garrick, trembling, replied. "Yes sergeant!"

"Very well," the sergeant continued. "Bordmann, Ravenwood, Vortlund and Olsen, fall out!"

The four cadets stepped to the front. Sergeant Streckert scowled as he scanned the other junior scouts, untouched, it seemed, by the cold afflicting his shivering class. He turned his attention back to the four cadets he had singled out and spoke in a low, threatening tone. "I want you hairless bipeds to sweep down every inch of this courtyard. I don't want to see so much as a single snowflake left on the ground when you're done. You will do it now, and you will do it as if the great baboon in the sky was personally supervising every stroke your broom lays on this pavement! Is that understood?"

"Yes sergeant!" they replied.

"Now, the rest of you! Since you think so little of the high honor of being called Tamarian soldiers and the incumbent responsibility thereof, you will remain at attention while your primate playmates preen the grounds you have defiled with your despicable display of dissipation. You will not move. You will not laugh. You will not talk. You will not scratch the itch in your behind. You will learn that wearing your uniform is a privilege, or you will not be deemed worthy of being seen in it!"

The sergeant stalked back into the inn without another word, leaving twenty cadets to ponder their predicament in the rapidly descending bitterness of oncoming night. The four who'd been singled out hustled to the back entrance of the inn's kitchen to find brooms for their duty outside. Once beyond the sergeant's earshot, Freddy Olson and Harold Vortlund raged against their companions for getting them into trouble.

"It's your fault, Bordmann!" complained Freddy. "I did nothing to deserve this!"

Jan, full of resentment, replied sarcastically, "Cramming my backpack full of snow is nothing?"

"Yeah, maybe. But you started it, Bordmann," said Harold with a shove. "If it wasn't for you, none of us would be here . . . "

Garrick, who'd defended his little brother for as long as he could remember, immediately stepped in front of Harold. "Back off!" he snapped. "You're as innocent as a naked priest in a whorehouse!"

Harold's anger flared, inspiring an impulse to take a good swing at Garrick, whose size exceeded Harold's by a fair margin. Hoping to hurt and yet avoid a fight, Harold opted for an insult. "Farm boys!" he spat. "Go back to the dung heap where you came from!"

Unwilling to back down, Garrick glared at the smaller cadet. For personal reasons, he overlooked the affront rather than raising the stakes further. Deeply wounded by painful memories of his childhood experience, Garrick remained silent until the other cadet looked away.

The inn's kitchen, built along the south side of its main building, lay within a few strides of a twenty-foot stone wall that encircled the complex. A quirk in the inn's layout allowed swirling wind to whisk between the outer wall and the kitchen's back entrance. Buffeted by the icy breeze, the cadets put their differences aside for the moment and huddled together for warmth.

Just then, Garrick heard a faint sound rising from the south. He peered into the gloom, but could see nothing unusual. Garrick nudged his friend Jan. "Hear that?"

"Hear what?" Jan replied.

"Shh . . . listen! There it is again! Did you hear it?"

An eerie call aspired above the rushing of the gelid windstorm, stirring fear into every beat of Garrick's young heart. He could tell the sound was getting closer by the moment, but dared not speak of the foreboding he felt.

"Great and good spirits!" Jan wondered aloud, spooked by the sound. "What unholy thing is that?"

"Something evil," Garrick replied.

"Nah," sneered Harold. "It's probably just a wolf."

Freddy smirked, his mind forever focused on sex. "Or a tight witch on her wedding night!"

"Hmm . . ." Garrick mused, "If that's so I'd hate to meet her husband."

***

In the wildland, several miles southwest of the inn, Brenna Velez watched the twin moons in the west. From her vantage point, high on a windswept foothill ridge line, her bright blue eyes could see an array of dark hues that painted the magnificent landscape deep into the indigo horizon. As a tetrachromat, sensitive to ultraviolet wavelengths, she would see very well tonight. With the moons shedding little light, and not a single cloud marring the evening sky, its familiar, violet glow brought a hidden world to her sight. Every star overhead looked brilliant and beautiful in the cold air, arranged in patterns she'd recognized on the northern horizon from her treetop lookout at home, far away.

From the ridge line, Brenna studied the natural fortress that made up the backbone of Tamaria. High mountains loomed to the west and northwest – a massive uplift creating the loftiest cordillera on the continent. Their perpetually snow-covered peaks glistened prettily in the purple light – steep, defiant and intimidating.

She'd read that cruel giant kings once ruled from within them, and that in her grandfather's lifetime, an ageless warrior queen named Tamar – who'd suddenly appeared to lead her people to freedom – shattered the giants' centuries-old reign. The history of this place fascinated her, and for years she'd secretly dreamed of seeing Tamaria for herself.

Now these ancient heights stood before her eyes. A waxing wind that grew steadily colder with nightfall blew into her face, swept through the fine, maiden blouse and pleated skirt she wore, teased through her hair and then raced stiffly out over the immense, semi-arid Saradon.

Although nearly nine hundred miles from home, Brenna walked in faith and in harmony with the lands she crossed. For over sixty days, Allfather preserved her life as she averted large-scale battles, enemy patrols, predators and starvation. Brenna thanked him for his providence.

Her faith inspired a sense of peace within her soul, a repose tempered in genuine fear. As Azgar legions who'd destroyed her home advanced, no nation had been able to stop them. Brenna didn't know whether she was in front of, or behind their northernmost line of control, so she pressed northward relentlessly. The young woman had good reason to fear, for the Azgaril did not tolerate Lithians, and her family had been prominent among them.

Whenever possible, she avoided roads and traveled alone through desolate stretches of wilderness, subsisting on an extensive knowledge of edible plants, occasional hunting and a lot of fishing. The relentless exercise hardened her athletic body, but she'd lost weight.

Her exhausting flight also inspired fatigue. Under these extreme circumstances, she'd survive on as little as two or three hours' rest just before dawn, a time when the deathwolves returned from their ravaging and the Azgaril army still lay encamped.

Most active during the early evening, deathwolves served the enemy by spreading terror, killing any living thing unable to outwit or outrun them. Taking no chances, Brenna found a large creek before twilight fell and followed it upstream for nearly an hour before climbing to the ridge line, leaving a long gap in any trace of scent that might be detected by the deadly canine predators.

Brenna's youth endowed her with great stamina, but the cold water had cramped her legs, and the chilling wind sapped strength from her aching body. Longing for relief from unremitting danger, weary of constant travel and desperately needing warmth, she feared that she'd not longer endure the bitter wind without finding shelter soon.

On a hilltop not more than half a mile to the south, a deathwolf raised its wicked voice to the setting moons. The howl of the beast sounded much like a woman's scream: high-pitched, powerfully intoned, but dreadfully long in duration. A second deathwolf called out, then another, and a fourth. The screeching voices of the gathering pack created overtones of an unholy chorus that crashed against one another, dissonant, twisted, and altogether horrible.

Terrified, Brenna scampered down a deer path that wound its way along the hillside. Deftly, she stepped over rocks, roots and slippery places, pausing only to renegotiate thirty foot leaps that a deer, not a half-breed Lithian woman, could easily make.

Although she'd never seen one up close, Brenna estimated the average size of a deathwolf from the pug marks they left behind, their speed from the length of their stride, and believed that a single wolf could bring her down without trouble. She'd often seen the remains of both wild and domesticated animals, their viscera alone consumed, their mangled carcasses left to rot on the ground, and it stirred in her an anger altogether human.

She was, after all, more than a little human.

To the west lay a parallel ridge line. Brenna threaded her way through thick brush, careful to move quietly, nervous that a nearby deathwolf might catch wind of her. But a whiff of wicked scent warned her to slow as she neared the crest of the westerly ridge. Her heart began to pound. Adrenaline pulsed through her body. Noiselessly, the young maiden crept through a juniper thicket that grew on the lee side of the hill and peered into a clearing. Her eyes widened . . . deathwolves!

There were eight of them.

The huge, hunchbacked, slavering creatures stood nearly five feet tall at the withers, roughly as high as Brenna's nose. A mane of thick, coarse fur extended from their necks down to the midpoint of their backs, while the rest of their bodies grew short, spiny hair. They varied in color from silvery-red to black, with eyes of yellow or scarlet. Snapping and snarling, they bared canine fangs as long as Brenna's little finger, flexing powerful claws rivaling those of a large grizzly bear. Scariest of all, they spoke in a guttural tongue she understood. Their talk overflowed with hate, profanity and expressed the full extent of their malicious ill-intent . . .

One male, bigger than the others and more aggressive in his posture, reigned as their undisputed leader. The speech of this wolf roused the others into a blood-lusting frenzy. He paced among his pack, biting and cursing them, forcing each one to submit to his dominance and humiliating any who dared challenge him.

Suddenly, he stopped, as if told by some creature unseen that he was being watched. He raised his evil head to inspect the surrounding foliage, where he could see a mass of warmth, the outline of a trembling, blue-eyed maiden in the shadows.

"Lith cow!" he spat.

Brenna turned to run, and the chase began.

***

Methane lamps poured blue light into the Ice Dragon Inn's cobbled gardens. Working swiftly, dreading any further reprimand from Sergeant Streckert, Garrick and his comrades swept every bit of snow in the courtyard into neat piles near the old stone walls. This operation consumed twenty minutes.

Meanwhile, the sergeant reappeared, directing a detail of men to unload extra supplies they'd brought from a storeroom. These included dried food, first aid materials such as bandages, antiseptic, chemical warmers, a few pots, axes and other tools, and a box covered with canvas.

The sergeant pried open this box and produced a pair of chemical light sticks for each cadet. These were activated by twisting each end in opposite directions. If the outside temperature remained above freezing, the chemical reaction inside produced white light for several hours at a range of forty feet. Each cadet selected a partner by lot, with whom he would alternate in using the light sticks so that the supply would last two nights.

After this, the sergeant distributed the extra gear evenly among the cadets, gave final instructions for the exercise, and Garrick's junior scout class marched past the inn's sheltering gate and out into the darkness of a harsh, blustery night.

Far away the evil howling continued. Whatever fear it inspired within the young cadets went unmentioned, for they remained more afraid of appearing frightened in front of their peers than of the intangible threat that lay ahead. Their military training instilled a naive confidence in their combat ability. With cooperation and discipline, they believed, any foe could be defeated.

Even Garrick, who hated to harm living things, succumbed to this influence. He wrestled with silent fear as he marched southward in the autumn darkness, but the young man could not escape the influence of his culture, which glorified death in defense of the nation as honorable. He believed in freedom and would fight for his people's autonomy with all his strength, even if such liberty could only be bought in his own blood.

Many miles down the road, Sergeant Streckert called the column to a halt. Four corpses lay at the side of the path, near a towering oak tree. The sergeant inspected the carnage thoroughly before speaking.

"I want all of you to take a good look at this!" he shouted. "This is what one skilled warrior can do with a weapon." Sergeant Streckert then created a plausible story based on the evidence at the scene.

"Note, one set of horse tracks leading from the south, no doubt a lone traveler who looked like he might have some money. These footprints here lead from behind the tree, and the broken twigs are an indication that someone fell from the branches above.

"There was at least one shot fired by the first victim. You can plainly see the powder burn on this old trapdoor musket." The sergeant held the weapon out for his cadets to examine. "He was probably cut down while the traveler was still in the saddle. Observe that there is only a single wound, high up on the throat of this body. It was a powerful, well-executed and lethal cut."

Sergeant Streckert picked up the shattered barrel of a different musket and held it aloft. "This is evidence of a cross-body block. It might have been done from the back of the horse, but more likely, our swordsman hacked through this weapon while he was standing on the ground.

Garrick edged closer, his eyes widening in disbelief. What kind of sword could cut through a musket barrel?

You can see that the body of this victim is missing its right hand, and that his finger guard shows a bloody slash mark from a swallow-cut where our horseman knocked the weapon away. Pay attention to the fact that there is just one thrust-wound in the chest of this man. It looks like a very sharp sword did all this damage . . . "

Garrick stared at the carnage, his mind filling with a queasy mixture of dread and fascination. Dark stains drenched the ground wherever the bodies lay, the pain of their demise still evident on unshaven faces. He remembered the stranger at the Ice Dragon's gate – the lone traveler with similarly-stained clothing and a longsword, and shuddered . . .

Sergeant Streckert continued to extol the swordsman's combat virtues, but Garrick no longer paid attention. He remembered Woodwind's words, his intimidating manner, his penetrating stare wisely tempered by restraint. Garrick regretted his insolence and wished he'd have treated the southerner with greater deference.

The sergeant concluded with an object lesson. "I want every one of you to be just like this. When you're in a fight, you don't cut your enemy any slack. You don't let him breathe, and you don't stop when he hits the ground. You go all the way. You take his life before he takes yours. Are you juvenile baboons gonna cry when we face the enemy?"

"No sergeant!" the cadets chorused.

"That's right lads. You kill them before they kill you. If they get you first, you've done nothing for your country!"

"Yes sergeant!"

Sergeant Streckert nodded approvingly and hoisted his backpack. "All right lads, move along!"

Garrick stared at the black-uniformed bodies until Jan urged him onward. Fighting back a rush of nausea, Garrick whispered to his friend: "Trapdoor muskets," thinking that this alone should arouse Jan's curiosity.

"I noticed," Jan replied. "And did you see how small the bores were?"

The two friends shared the same thought as they exchanged a glance. Tamaria, a small nation beset by ongoing conflict, stayed on the forefront of infantry technology by investing in expensive rockets, excellent breech-loading rifles, smokeless powder and center-firing cartridges. Lavishly equipping her soldiers limited Tamaria's army to a small, professional fighting force.

Furthermore, because of their history of conflict against giants, Tamarian rifle bores normally exceeded fifty caliber and their ammunition carried a small explosive charge designed to penetrate plate armor. Small bore muskets simply could not provide the necessary stopping power for Tamarian soldiers.

Both cadets reached an obvious conclusion. Inexpensive trapdoor muskets came from somewhere far away. No native northerner wore lightweight clothing at this time of year, and nor army either one knew of wore black uniforms. These factors suggested that a foreign army had moved within striking range of Tamarian territory.

Rumors about advancing Azgar legions had been circulating for weeks, but no one believed a large force could make it to the Tamarian frontier before winter arrived without marching its soldiers to death. "Do you think the sergeant didn't notice?" Jan inquired, disbelieving that his vaunted sergeant would miss such conspicuous clues.

Garrick shrugged. "I don't know, but I doubt it."

"I wonder why he didn't say anything," Jan mused, knowing his friend's mind. "Everyone knows we're nowhere near ready for an invasion."

Garrick nodded but didn't reply, listening to the crescendo of the windstorm, mingled with the steady crunching of leathered feet along the graveled road. The frigid fingers of the freezing wind crept beneath his clothing, grasping his body in its cold embrace. As the swelling storm stilled for a moment, he heard the chilling howls drawing closer and closer. Nervously, he pulled his overcoat tighter and held his rifle closely against his shoulder. The young man didn't want to be scared, he just couldn't help it.

***

Brenna ran faster than she had ever run before, fleeing north near the ridge line, followed closely by the pursuing wolf pack. She darted through openings that her eyes, and not those of the wolves, could easily see. Slender and athletic, her young body responded with a long sustained burst of speed, her strong heart quickening, her mind overwhelmed with fear. Steadily, she raced to the top of the ridge, and there – as she dashed across a stretch of open ground – the pack leader drew close enough to strike.

Abruptly, Brenna changed course. Swiftly and gracefully down the west-facing slope of the hillside she descended, leaping over the rocky bed of a south-flowing stream, and then briskly up the opposite side of the canyon she climbed.

Her maneuver had been lightning quick and so sudden, it took the leading wolves by surprise and none of them could duplicate the turn at top speed. The steep hillside, laden with fallen leaves, proved treacherous. Heavy deathwolves tumbled down the arroyo at the ragged edge of control, their descent frequently and painfully slowed by contact with underbrush and hidden rock.

One of them lost its footing in a thick leaf bed and plowed into an oak tree with such force, Brenna heard its shoulder bones break as she dashed up the opposite bank. The beast yelped pitifully, limping in pain as it dropped out of the chase.

The deer paths crossed in many places. Brenna switched her trail at random, cutting sharp, sudden turns that led her adversaries and on winding, twisting, up and down, desperate race through the wildland. Cold wind combed the maiden's raven mantle, tossing her long black locks into a shimmering shadow that followed, whither her fleet footsteps fled.

Breathing hard now, the chill air soon began to hurt. Her ankles, stiff and sore from cold water, protested every turn. An occasional pang in her lean leg muscle warned that sprinting like this could not long be sustained, but the deathwolves drew nearer with every stride. For the first time since escaping from Shirak, Brenna worried that she was going to die.

And the singular desire of every deathwolf in pursuit was to be the one who killed her. Centuries of careful breeding produced competitive temperaments, driving each creature to the extremes of its endurance in a chase. In addition to formidable strength and stamina, the evil creatures could see heat as a red glow in the darkness. Once pursued by a pack like this, very few living creatures could escape them.

But on this night, the roaring wind howled in their ears, its cold breath numbed any scent they tried to follow, and its chill touch quickly faded warm images left behind by the fleeing feet of their prey. Only moments after her passage, no trace of Brenna remained.

Intelligent and experienced, the pack leader realized that he had to kill quickly and pressed the chase harder, bounding across the stream bed, past the oak grove that flourished at the bottom of the canyon, through the thorn brush and juniper, faithfully following the fading footfalls of the lithe, Lithian woman. He could see her warm body as she dashed along the deer path. Instinct urged him onward, faster, stretching his stride to close for the kill.

He could smell her sweat. He could sense her fear. The longer she eluded him, the more he hated her for it. Lunging forward, he nipped at her heel once, then twice; the second time drawing blood.

Something painful stabbed at Brenna's heel, she lost her balance, and tumbled uncontrollably into the canyon. "Help me!" she screamed. "Allfather, help me!"

Moments before these words left her lips, a mighty gust of wind loosened a huge, dead sycamore tree near the top of the ridge. As if moved by an unseen hand, the ancient tree turned and tumbled sideways into the canyon, the sound of its crashing branches smothered by the screaming wind as it careened downhill.

The deathwolf heard nothing as it turned to complete its pursuit. Pausing on a protruding rock to survey the creek bed for its prey, a loud snap from behind turned the wicked creature around. Invisible against the cold night sky, the derelict tree bounced high, then slammed onto the deathwolf's head like the hammer of God's vengeance. Crushed against unyielding stone, the ruthless predator let out a single, pained yelp.

Brenna had tumbled over that very rock and landed in a deep layer of dead leaves below, suffering bruises and scratches from her fall. She heard the impact directly above and saw the tree careen overhead, still bearing the deathwolf's impaled body. Then, its work done, the sycamore crashed to the ground, rolled downhill and settled peacefully in the stream bed.

Terrified, she scrambled to her feet again. With her adrenaline up and her flight instincts screaming for action, the young woman raced onward.

Approaching the scene, the six remaining wolves could not find Brenna's trail. A familiar scent led them to their leader's broken body, and once they'd each confirmed his death, a ritual fight for leadership began immediately.

Brenna fled northward on the far hillside for a long time. The landscape climbed gradually, its oak and sycamore yielding to groves of pine as the soil became sandier and less well-watered. She switched back to the east-facing side of the ridge and moved down into the steep canyon to escape the frigid force of the windstorm. The air seemed warmer within the tree canopy. In the midst of the arroyo, a small stream still trickled south beneath a thickening veneer of ice. Brenna slackened her pace and breathed easier, sensing that the wolves had fallen behind. She whispered a grateful prayer for her deliverance.

Soon, the wound in her left heel began to impede progress to the point of a limping trot. A burning sensation crept slowly into the lean muscle of her lower left leg. Brenna slowed to a brisk walk, forgetting about the cold. Every time her left heel touched the ground, pain twisted her step until she stopped to inspect the injury.

Her left boot had been torn just above the heel. Sticky gore spattered the leather, and bits of blood-drenched stocking trailed behind. Clumps of dirt and crushed bits of dead leaf clung to the strings, the boot, and open flesh.

Brenna breathed deeply to control the pain. She sat on the cold, wet ground and pulled on the boot to free her injured foot. In four afflictive moves it emerged. With her boot knife, she cut the unraveled stocking, broke through the ice and plunged her bleeding foot into the water. Cold numbed her toes. Slowly, the pain ebbed.

In the quiet of that moment, Brenna calmed her racing pulse in a heartfelt, whispered petition.

A few moments later, she reached for her boot and examined it closely. Tooth marks marred its soft sole. Most of the heel piece had been bitten off, and the reinforced section protecting her heel tendon had been shredded beyond repair.

Her injured foot suffered a like fate. The back of her left heel had been bitten badly – she was missing a lot of flesh and noticed that small shards of shattered bone littered the torn tissue remaining.

Brenna cleaned the wound thoroughly, dried it, and with adroit grace, bent her left leg to her lips and kissed the lesion. She bathed the injury in saliva and _believed_ that it would heal. Using her knife, she cut two cloth strips of unequal length from the hem of her skirt. The shorter of these she folded into a square. This bandage she drenched with saliva, applied directly to the site, and held it in place using the longer cloth strip to secure it to her foot. Experience informed her care to avoid tightening the knot so much that it restricted blood flow to her toes.

Brenna strung her bow and set out an arrow, then paused to pray again.

Far downstream, the deathwolves resumed their effort to locate their fleeing quarry's trail. The new pack leader ordered his followers to fan out and sniff for "Lith-scent" while he followed the stream. Instinct informed his hunting. Cursing the cold, he let out a frenzied, evil howl. The pack replied wickedly, hoping to frighten their prey into moving again.

It worked. The morbid screaming from the wolves filled Brenna's heart with fear. Carefully and slowly she arose, gingerly resting her left toe on a rock as she held open the torn boot. In one move she pushed her throbbing foot into place, biting hard on her lower lip to avoid crying out in pain. She wiggled her toes to make sure they were getting enough blood, and began limping upstream, toward the last north-facing hill. "Allfather, help me," she whispered. "Please, God help me."

***

Sergeant Streckert led his junior scouts down the Saradon road for a long time before turning westward, into an island of foothills. Howling, freezing wind amplified the danger of hypothermia, and this, coupled with the combat scene he'd witnessed, gave the sergeant ample cause to worry for the safety of his cadets. He needed to get them sheltered soon.

Gerhardt Streckert did not speak of his concern. After witnessing the oak tree carnage, he'd changed his plans about camping on the Saradon and instead, marched his class toward a certain hill that commanded an outstanding view of the river valley forming Tamaria's southern border. Protected on its northern flank by a stand of bristle pines, the potential campsite provided access to firewood, shelter from the brutal wind, and he hoped, safety from enemy attack.

This hill ranked among the most defensible positions in the region. Stretching southward from a higher peak, no direct approaches existed to its north. Sheer rock faces sloped to its western and southern sides, but a steep, alluvial fan on its southeastern flank provided a way to the top that any active young soldier could climb.

Sergeant Streckert briefly outlined the traditional principles for selecting a campsite to his shivering class: its suitability for observation, how it might be defended and its access to critical survival resources, like a reliable water supply. He then selected a small party to secure the hilltop before the main company ascended the slope.

The sergeant assigned Garrick, Jan, Freddy and another cadet named Karl to this initial group. Jan carried a coil of rope on his back and led the way. Struggling to find a stable path among the sharp rocks, he ambled steadily higher, occasionally loosening a minor rock slide that tumbled downhill and made the climb a miserable chore for his comrades who followed.

Garrick cursed under his breath, reasoning that inflicting misery had been the real motivation behind the sergeant's selection of this particular hill. Fingers frozen in the frigid night, his nose running, cheeks and toes utterly numb, Garrick struggled behind his friend Jan, followed by Freddy and Karl.

The unrelenting gale bustled through the bristle pine at the crest of the hill, breaking branches and bending boughs, showering the summit steadily with dry seed cones and conifer needles. Jan secured his rope to a stout tree, then flung the remainder of its length downhill.

Garrick beamed his light stick around a clearing just beyond a thin stand of trees, searching nervously for any sign that might betray an unfriendly presence. He could have sworn he heard the sound of metal striking metal.

Freddy had his back turned, and Karl was telling a lurid story to Jan about a certain village girl. The conversation ended abruptly with a gunshot.

Garrick heard a whistling sound and dove for the dirt. "Get down!" he screamed, tossing his light stick into the clearing. "Ambush! Ambush!"

A bullet slammed into Freddy's back, directly between his shoulder blades. The force of the blow knocked him to the ground, where he discovered, to his dismay, that he couldn't breathe. Panic-stricken, the cadet clawed at Karl for help, but his terror-stricken friend wouldn't move.

In the shelter of shadows behind trees on the north side of the clearing, a furtive footfall caught Garrick's frightened eye. Suddenly, he saw many more of them . . .

Jan had a better view and began counting feet. "I'd guess fifteen or less," he rasped.

Garrick brought his rifle around. "Get behind a tree. I'll cover you." He didn't tell Jan that his cold hands were shaking too badly to aim. All movement ceased on the opposite side of the clearing as the enemy waited.

Jan Bordmann crouched behind a tree and leveled his weapon, motioning for his friend to find cover to the left. Garrick rolled slowly toward a thick bristle pine, slithered behind it, then stood up and peeked around the trunk. He watched a shadowy pair of figures alternating a stealthy advance through the woods. "They're coming!".

"Don't fire unless you have a good shot," Jan replied.

Garrick nodded, wincing as he heard Freddy cough repeatedly. "Karl, get over here!" he ordered.

Somewhat reluctantly, the other cadet obeyed, his movement drawing a pair of shots from across the hill. Both Garrick and Jan let off a round, even though neither had a clear target, but the fireworks momentarily forced the enemy down. Their brittle, ceramic bullets shattered in the branches of a bristle pine some thirty paces distant, showering the immediate area with sharp, porcelain shrapnel. A male voice cursed in the darkness.

A volley of well-aimed musket rounds fired back in return, forcing Garrick and his friend behind the trees for cover. The clinking of trapdoor mechanisms filtered through the bending branches as the shooting paused.

Freddy, whom his companions were certain was dying, rolled onto his belly and fired five of his six rounds, screaming curses with angry vindictive. While the bullets raced toward nothing in particular, Garrick saw two men appear in front of the tree line. As the cadet aimed to fire another round, one opponent dropped to his knee and leveled his musket right at Garrick. A bullet splintered a fist-sized piece of bark from Garrick's shielding tree just as his own shot sailed high and wide to the left. The second man raised his gun and began to squeeze his trigger.

Jan fired, but he hadn't lined the target up in his sights, and succeeded only in raising a cloud of dust well in front of his target. But the bad shooting forced the enemy soldier to discharge his weapon prematurely.

Stricken by panic, Jan shouted for the sergeant. "Get up here! We need help! They're gonna kill us!"

Sergeant Streckert urged his cadets onward. "Move! Up the hill! Double time!"

An ambush of this kind might have quickly turned into a rout, but six months of intensive drill provided a rowdy group of young men with the skills necessary to survive just such an encounter. As long as they followed their training and kept their heads cool, they had a chance of living to see another day. In spite of this, their pre-combat bravado vanished as the teenagers faced a real threat for the first time.

Garrick noticed that after firing a single shot, the enemy troops had to pull back on their rifle hammers until they clicked three times, lift the trapdoor breech loading mechanism to eject spent shell casings, insert a replacement bullet, close the trapdoor, then aim and fire their weapons. This process took several seconds, during which time the enemy had to pay attention to their guns, rather than focusing on their targets. Tamarian bolt action rifles loaded faster, using a munitions magazine, and the Tamarian cadets could keep their eyes on the enemy while chambering new rounds.

It didn't seem like much of an advantage at the time, but it gave Garrick enough of an edge to overcome the racing of his heart and inspire courage to stand his ground. He reached for his spare magazine, setting it down near his left knee. Ahead, at very close range, two lines of men stepped out from behind the trees. The first group crouched to fire.

Karl – who'd moved farther to Garrick's left – shouted, "What do we do?"

Garrick saw sheer terror in his comrade's expression, and strangely, it calmed him. "Fire on the first line on three!" The young man shouted the numbers down.

Tamarian bullets covered the gap between opposing forces in the blink of an eye. Two impacts tore into enemy soldiers, spewing hot shards of baked enamel through armor and exposed flesh. A chorus of trapdoor carbine rounds sang through the cold air in response, screaming over the Saradon to drop harmlessly into rocky soil.

"Second line, on three!" Garrick shouted, working the bolt of his rifle to engage another round.

Again, the two cadets fired in concert. This time, Jan joined the fray a moment later, and one enemy warrior took the full force of all three shots in his upper body. The impact killed him instantly, and drove his lifeless form into a tree.

Garrick struggled to find and exchange his spare magazine. Being nervous and wearing gloves complicated the task. During these idle moments, the surviving enemy loaded their rifles and regrouped to attack again.

A flurry of shots rang out, two of which found their mark in Garrick's chest. The sharp blows hurt like fury! Garrick felt like he'd been pummeled by a giant. His feet skidded out from beneath him. The young man landed hard on his back, unable to draw breath or move. To his horror, the enemy soldiers charged forward, with their bayonets gleaming in the chemical light.

***

Brenna crept quietly along a path that wound through clumps of ragweed and honey locust. Juniper shrubs screened her from sight as she climbed the east-facing escarpment of the narrow canyon again. Her pulse quickened with every sickening screech uttered by the rapidly approaching deathwolf pack, but she could not increase the tempo of her ascent without losing balance and risking a fall.

Her left foot throbbed with every step, but the pain had lessened somewhat. She knew it would, for many times before, her faith in an immaterial idea had been manifest in a physical manner. The injury meant she could no longer run if the deathwolves drew close, and her bow could kill only one beast a a time, if she hit its heart.

Strong wind and plummeting temperatures made her fingers, nose, ear tips and toes completely numb with cold. Although she knew nothing of frostbite or hypothermia, the young woman sensed that if she couldn't build a fire soon, the cold would certainly kill her.

Brenna's wounded foot needed rest, but the deathwolves weren't likely to give up the chase. Finding a place to hide might work, if she could protect her back and build a big enough fire to keep the evil creatures at bay. Frustrated and afraid, she prayed in a whisper and listened for a reply.

The northwest wind howled. The mass of moving air served as both an ally and an enemy. Its icy breath chilled her footprints and numbed the noses of the wolves in pursuit, robbing both predator and prey of warmth. And though the cold current created a myriad of moving sounds as it swept swiftly across the landscape, every turning leaf, every sighing pine and falling seed cone that muffled her passage also covered the telltale patter of advancing predator feet.

She heard no answer in the wind.

Brenna climbed toward an overhanging rock, high above the area where she had dressed her wound in the water below. Arriving there, she watched the deathwolves appear, circling around the place where she had been only minutes before, searching in vain for a lead on her trail. Had she been more confident in her safety, and had she been warm, the young woman would have found the scene amusing. The deathwolves had lost her!

Then, faint sounds caught her ear and a flash of light found her eye. She could see a natural break in the pattern of hills from her vantage point, looking north. A river ran rapidly to her left, carving a steep canyon through a mountain pass many miles to the west. Below her, however, it looked shallow enough to ford. The light came from a hilltop overlooking the same river on its northern shore. At a walking pace, she believed she could make it there in about an hour.

"Thank-you for hearing me," she prayed, knowing the Azgar had no magic light. The radiance on the next hill had to be local, and if Tamarian, would likely be friendly. At least, she hoped so . . .

Climbing down through a sheltered fold along the northeast slope proved a tiresome and slippery task. Once beyond the relative shelter of the ridge, the malevolent might of the maelstrom made its awesome power an intimate and cold companion. Brenna felt weak. Her steps faltered, and several times, she wanted to simply fall down and die. The shrieking wind swept across the wildland like a cold broom of destruction, sapping life from all who dared to face its frozen force. What drove her on cannot be easily explained in words. Brenna's motivation stemmed from an inner strength produced by years of faith that must be lived to be understood. Pressing onward, she plunged into the shallow water.

Because of the season, the Tualitin River ran only several inches deep in most places. Brenna braved the icy stream, shocked at the strength of its flow. A great gust of wind pushed the maiden into a deeper channel cut by the current, and she gasped as cold water swept over her shoulders. Instantly weakened by the sudden loss of body heat, Brenna dragged herself across the the river and collapsed – shivering uncontrollably – on its northern bank. She'd finally arrived in the Republic of Tamaria.

***

Jan Bordmann raced ahead and shoved his bayonet-tipped rifle forward with a mighty grunt. "Die!" he shouted. "Die now!"

Acting hastily, giving less credibility to the threat than he should have, an enemy soldier tried to parry Jan's weapon aside. The young Tamarian remained focused, easily countered the move, then aggressively pressed his attack. Sharp steel parted flesh repeatedly as a young man from the northern hill country savagely slew a stranger from a distant southern coast.

Karl charged ahead to Garrick's left, slashing upward to deflect another bayonet aimed at his stricken comrade. Larger and stronger than Jan, Karl's weight, multiplied by his forward momentum, drove a doomed Azgar warrior back on his heels. Overwhelmed by agonizing pain and irresistible weakness that intensified with each successive thrust, the soldier fell and his foreign blood cooled as it spread across the frozen ground.

Close combat proved to be an intense and brutal business. Fortunately for Garrick, the Junior Scouts learned well from their training and had become quite proficient at the ruthless act of taking life. Their quick, instinctive action prevented any further attack upon him, and as the moments advanced, his ability to breathe and move returned. Though Garrick felt sore and badly bruised, tough armor prevented the direct hits he'd suffered from killing him.

Freddy Olsen, recovering nicely from being hit in the back, refreshed his magazine as three more cadets arrived. In near unison, their large-bore rifles erupted, and the devastating effect of their close-range fire quickly turned the tide of battle.

Stopped by the force of impact, a metal pin, located at the ceramic tip of each Tamarian bullet, created a spark as it jammed rearward into a small powder chamber. Ignited and exposed to air, the exploding powder drove shards of sharp, shattered enamel outward. In this manner, seventy-caliber bullets punched fist-sized holes through Azgar armor, savagely obliterating flesh.

Two enemy soldiers shuddered, their torsos torn open like ripe fruit. Experiencing the brutal force of point-blank firepower, the surviving enemy infantry retreated into the trees. From the woods, they used darkness as cover and selected their targets carefully.

Their firing tactics changed as well. Realizing that Tamarian armor stopped their bullets, the battle-hardened Azgar scouts aimed for knees and faces. This altered the battle dynamic immediately.

Karl screamed. Searing pain ravaged his right leg, forcing him to drop his rifle and fall, clutching his shattered thigh. Another cadet took a bullet full in the face, while the companion to his left fell victim to a glancing blow that tore his steel helmet from his head.

Sergeant Streckert pulled himself to the top of the hill and spat a stream of vulgarity virulent enough to embarrass a slum-district madame. "Get down boys!" he yelled. "Keep firing and don't let 'em reload!"

Garrick watched Karl's agony in sheer horror. As his comrades fell, the young soldier nervously jammed his spare magazine into his rifle. The tree line that sheltered the enemy seemed a long way off, but he began crawling forward, acting as his training had taught him, rather than yielding to the intense urge to run away.

Jan and Freddy dropped down to follow. The Tamarians returned fire when bright flashes illuminated the dark, smoky forest ahead, but their shooting found no mark among the enemy.

Sergeant Streckert formed two squads of eight junior scouts, ordering each to advance on either flank in a spread V formation. Crouching down, steadily and methodically firing, the sergeant kept pressure on the invaders, allowing his leading troops to reach the tree line.

Jan arrived near Garrick's right side as Freddy paused behind a skiff of snow to refresh a magazine with his third set of bullets. The two friends knew they should continue forward, but neither felt certain of how to do so without dying in the process.

"Open a light stick and toss it in," Garrick ordered, feeling more comfortable now.

Jan wriggled out of his back pack, removed two chemical lights, activated one and hurled it mightily into the trees. The light stick flipped end-over-end, hit several low-hanging branches and fell in front of a tree trunk less than ten feet ahead.

But the tactic worked. With the familiar routine of training taking over, Garrick brought his rifle around, lined an enemy warrior up in his sights and carefully squeezed his trigger. The cadet worked his bolt action and quickly killed a second enemy soldier.

The enemy retreated again, returning fire while falling back. By now, however, many more Tamarian rifles responded. The air thickened with blue smoke and bullets. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of ordnance directed against them, the Azgar soldiers began to run.

Sensing victory, the leading Tamarian flank troops dove into the woods, their shouts mingled with an occasional gunshot and cry of pain. Jan dashed forward to retrieve his light stick, then joined in the chase.

Garrick, feeling drained, rose to his haunches as soon as the firing stopped. He examined the spot on his chest where he'd been struck by Azgar rounds, noticing that the lead projectiles had splattered on impact, unable to penetrate his armor. Although the outer layers of fiber had been singed, cross-woven steel thread, ceramic plates and a thick under pad had spread the shock over an area roughly ten times the diameter of the enemy's forty caliber bullets. Garrick would be left with a pair of nasty bruises, but little else.

Twenty-yards into the woods, however, three shots resounded over the Saradon, followed by two agonized screams. The Azgaril remained dangerous and had not yet finished killing Tamarians.

***

Brenna felt the ground growing warm around her. A pleasant feeling tingled in her fingers and toes. She imagined herself beneath the towering tree canopy at home, watching warm daylight filter down through leaves a thousand shades of green. Her mother, whom Brenna called Umma with reverent respect, hummed a hymn in the kitchen while her servant prepared a spicy, heart-of-palm pie. Camille, the youngest of her three sisters, danced a spirited step with her cousins in the courtyard as Acacia, their lovely, dark-eyed sibling, played a lively tune on her lute. Father and Cynthia matched wits in a board game, while Jawara, son of Tegene – a close friend whose family lived in the Velez villa – discussed the unfolding strategy in the Abelscinnian language with his brother, Kimoni.

Close by lingered her friend, Woodwind. The Kamerese warrior exchanged stories and laughter with his dark-skinned companions, many of whom Brenna had known all her life and regarded with deep affection. Members of Tegene's huge family strolled through the gardens, admiring mother's paintings while small children from both families scampered through grounds in a lively game of tag.

The Lithian woman would have perished on the northern bank of the Tualitin had it not been for an inexplicable event. Her pleasant dream filled with unapproachable light, and the very wind that seemed to seek her life soothed words of comfort into her soul. "Awake, little one. I am with you."

A gunshot startled Brenna from her slumber. Gone were the green leaves and the melodious tones of Acacia's lute. Instead, the merciless wind screamed from the far northwest, tugging at her tangled raven tresses in its terrifying fury. She came to her senses while dangerously cold and alone in a vast, empty land.

Summoning a deep strength from within, Brenna staggered to her feet and stumbled northward determinedly, clutching her arms to her breast to preserve warmth. Soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably, the Lithian woman felt her strong legs cramp under the strain of her own weight. Her soul screamed for shelter and sleep as she resolutely headed for the hill that loomed high against the silver-swathed canopy of darkness overhead.

Alluvial fans curtained the foundation of the foothill, masking its ancient core of granite in deep drifts of rocky debris. She found no easy approaches to its flanks, but as Brenna moved to the eastern side, seeking shelter from the wind, her eyes discerned a slender shape swaying gently in the backwash of the windstorm. What a blessing!

The rope felt new and sturdy, but her fingers were so cold, she could neither feel nor apply the appropriate grip. Brenna had climbed quite a distance when the loose rock beneath her feet gave way and she fell, sliding downhill until she tumbled onto a ledge, several feet beneath the dangling rope.

With nearly no strength left, her stamina totally taxed and her will depleted, she screamed in desperate frustration, "Help me!"

***

Sergeant Streckert ordered twelve junior scouts to form up into three squads. He instructed these cadets to move into the woods and clear the hilltop of any remaining enemy soldiers, holding no quarter for any invader they found. "Be sharp!" he warned. "Remember, your friends are out there. Don't fire in the trees without a positive I.D. on your target."

Combat shock, and its accompanying adrenaline rush, faded quickly as the young men who remained at the clearing assessed the aftermath of their first battle. A few cadets felt elated as they collected firewood, set up camp and began caring for their injured comrades. Garrick, however, struggled to calm a vivid awareness of how near he'd come to death. Suppressing an urge vomit, the young Tamarian looked away as Sergeant Streckert completed the grim task of killing wounded enemy warriors.

After recovering all casualties, the sergeant recorded eleven Azgaril soldiers dead, three slain Tamarians and another four who'd been wounded, one of them seriously. An aromatic morphine inhalant dulled the pain of each injured junior scout while their comrades cleaned and bandaged wounds.

Sergeant Streckert turned his attention to the lifeless cadets, shaking his head in deep thought, but saying nothing while he covered the bodies with blankets taken from their backpacks. "Ravenwood," the sergeant called, noting that Garrick was crouching idly near a tree. "Go get the rope. We don't need any more surprises like this."

Garrick obeyed, retrieving his light stick. As he approached the tree where the rope had been secured, he noticed tension on the line. It suddenly slackened, and then he could have sworn he heard a scream.

The young soldier crept toward the edge and peered over. Unable to see in the darkness, he shone his light stick downhill. There, at the top of a debris fan where he had begun his ascent, he saw a feminine, humanoid shape. She looked desperately cold as she sat with her knees drawn tight against her body, shivering.

"Jan!" he called over his shoulder. "Get over here! I need help!"

Garrick's friend approached quickly, a puzzled expression on his face. "What for?"

"Cover me," Garrick replied, setting his weapon down. "There's someone down there."

Jan expressed incredulity. "Are you crazy? Just pull up the rope. There may be more Azgar running around."

"I don't think so. This one's a girl." Garrick took hold of the rope with his gloved hands, turned around and began working his way down slope.

Jan worried about him and continued to protest. "What if she's the bait to some kind of trap?" he inquired.

"That's why I need you to cover me," Garrick responded, shouting. He descended carefully to avoid sending rocks downhill.

Jan held Garrick's light stick. When he saw the maiden pull something that gleamed out of her boot as Garrick approached, he lined her up in his gun sights and called for the sergeant.

As Garrick arrived at the end of the rope, the shivering woman lowered the dagger in her hand. Glimpsing her lovely, trembling form in the gloom, Garrick felt his heart racing, but he exerted self-control and quickly turned his eyes to hers. The young woman's heart-shaped face reflected hope, and in the darkness her eyes sparkled like sapphires. "You must be very cold," he said, speaking the language of the Azgaril.

She nodded, backing away.

"Please don't be afraid of me. I won't hurt you." Wishing he could remember her name, Garrick held out his hands to show he held no weapon.

Brenna had always feared meeting strangers. She'd expected to encounter a language barrier and felt startled that this young man spoke flawless vulgate. Part of her wanted to trust him, but profound shyness made her wary. The young woman shivered, barely able to speak. "Are you T'arian?" she inquired.

The cadet smiled. "Tamarian," he corrected. "Yes. My name is Garrick."

Too cold to respond, Brenna felt favorably impressed that this young man did not leer at her. For that reason, she believed she could trust him and quietly accepted the offer of his heavy overcoat.

"If you're strong enough to hold on, climb onto my back and I'll carry you up."

Although Brenna needed shelter, she didn't want to meet any more strangers. "Are there more of you up there?" she asked, fear evident in her trembling tone.

The blonde soldier nodded. "Yes. About twenty of my friends, plus my sergeant."

She didn't like the sound of that at all. "Can you bring me a blanket? I'm cold, but I can take care of myself."

"You need more than a blanket," he replied. "You need a long sit by the fire and some warm, dry clothes. The night will be long and colder still. If you don't come with me, you'll freeze to death down here all alone."

Brenna didn't like the sound of that either, but reluctantly agreed to let him carry her. She returned her dagger to its sheath before climbing onto his back, resting her head on his right shoulder. The young man felt warm and strong. He struggled uphill with some difficulty but without complaint, toward a menagerie of strange-sounding voices and bright lights.

Sergeant Streckert appraised the Lithian woman's condition, ordered every else to keep their distance and told Garrick to carry her to one of the newly built fires. "Get a blanket on her now!" he commanded.

The petite maiden slipped from Garrick's back, too weak to protest as he maneuvered her into the camp. He took back his overcoat and draped a blanket around her shoulders, noting a blue tinge on her face and fingers. Her skin felt quite cold to the touch. Fearing that she might already suffer from frostbite, he handled her gently.

Her eyes darkened in the firelight. Garrick matched her features with those he'd seen in the locket Woodwind, the swordsman from the south, had shown him. Since he'd never seen a Lithian, he could not say with certainty that she was tall and strong for one of her kind. In his eyes she looked petite, no older than fifteen, and was dressed in a way that no self-respecting Tamarian girl would consider appropriate in public.

Although he found her lovely and felt tempted to let his gaze wander, Garrick willed his eyes to look only at hers. He fumbled through his pack to find a chemical hand warmer, which he activated and offered to her.

Struggling against exhaustion, Brenna wavered between appreciation for Garrick's care and fear of the others, who stared at her and whispered among themselves. After her long sojourn in the bitter cold, the little fire – contained in a tin can burner – felt very hot. Discomfort with strangers stirred the temptation to escape as soon as she felt better, but Brenna liked the kindly manner of this gentle soldier. Sensing something simultaneously endearing, vulnerable and trustworthy in him, she chose to linger in his company.

An older man draped another blanket around her shoulders and tried to pull off her boots. Brenna objected stridently. He spoke gently, but she didn't understand him.

"The sergeant says you need to put on wool socks," Garrick told her. "We have chemical foot warmers you can put around your feet that will prevent frostbite. He says you might lose your toes if you don't follow his advice."

Brenna complied, hiding her injured foot from scrutiny. The foot warmer – a thin sock containing the same reactive compound as the hand warmer – provided blissful relief from the cold. Garrick activated it after she'd slipped the woolen socks on. His respectful manner eased her anxiety, and for the first time, the Lithian woman gazed appreciatively into his grey eyes and smiled.

Sergeant Streckert questioned his returning junior scouts about their contact with the enemy. Harold Vortlund reluctantly reported that at least two had escaped on horseback. Several pack animals had been tied up a few hundred yards away, and upon arrival, the Azgar soldiers mounted up and fled north, leading the other horses. The Tamarians did not pursue. Harold testified that all approaches to the campsite had been thoroughly checked, and felt certain that the hilltop was now secure.

"Set up a perimeter guard and cast lots for the night watch," the sergeant ordered. "I want someone taking care of the wounded at all times. Anyone not on duty should sleep. It'll be a long night and I don't want anyone dozing off on watch. And Ravenwood, get that girl a bedroll."

Garrick heard the other junior scouts joking lewdly at his expense, encouraging him to share his bed with the foreign woman. Blissfully unaware of their intentions Brenna continued to smile at her handsome acquaintance, her behavior inadvertently encouraging their teasing.

Later, when Garrick's turn on watch arrived, another cadet tried to join her. Brenna pushed the boy away with her foot and huddled by the little stove alone. Comments made in response to her rejection went mercifully untranslated, and no one bothered her after that.

Brenna watched Garrick pacing back and forth, taking on a man's job with sober resolve. She drank hot tea that the older man offered, then snuggled into the sleeping bag, gradually feeling warm again. Brenna found her heart pounding whenever the young Tamarian soldier looked her way. At the sound of a deathwolf's howl, he tensed and turned nervously toward the south, listening to the wicked winter wind rushing through the trees.

Garrick stayed on the perimeter of the camp until he could endure the harsh cold no longer. He came near the fire for a few minutes for warmth before returning, always keeping his head up, only glancing at his pretty companion for a moment before scanning the trees again.

Though she wished otherwise, the cadet never stayed with her very long. He joked about how she might be better at keeping alert on watch, but he remained vigilant until his duty expired. Two hours later by lunar reckoning, another cadet arose to take his place. Garrick crawled into his bedroll near Brenna, finding her still awake, waiting.

They talked in whispers for a long time. She spoke about her family and the people she loved. He told her everything she wanted to know about his nation, its ideas and his desire to be a good soldier. They shared their hopes and dreams – she of Allfather's goodness, and he of human kindness – finding their paths of thought crossing in many places before exhaustion overtook him. Garrick drifted to sleep with the sound of her voice on his mind.

Brenna, feeling stronger, inched closer when she noticed his slumber deepen. She smirked at the way he kept his rifle tucked under his left arm, as if ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. Then shyly, tentatively, the Lithian woman touched the cadet's right hand. "You have a warrior's soul," she mused.

And she was right.

Destiny

I stirred from sleep feeling exhausted, as though I'd only shut my eyes minutes before. Thin blankets failed to keep me warm, and I'd spent most of the night shivering, pursuing slumber like a hunter stalking a creature more clever than himself. Under a clear, autumn sky, cold air swept across the steppe, pounding into my tent until the water in my washbasin condensed into a useless lump of ice. I cursed, but considered myself more fortunate than the men camped outside, without shelter. At the very least, my canvas tent slightly slowed the thrice-damned wind.

Our camp normally stirred at daybreak. On this morning, however, I heard nothing more than the infernal gale howling from the northwest, tugging at tent stakes, casting the flotsam from nearby hills noisily into the camp. It rippled wickedly past our proud battle banners on its way to a distant, unknown destination.

The moment I stepped outside my tent, the full, naked fury of the freezing storm forced me to bow my head and shield my face in subservience. The rushing torrent sapped moisture from my eyes, cutting through my centurion's uniform, chilling my face and body to its core. I felt instantly colder than I'd ever imagined I could be. Eastward, the Daystar limped into the heavens, feeble in its power to warm this bitter, godforsaken land.

Sergeant Aransen, embracing his own body for warmth, joined me. "The news isn't good," he began, shouting over the shrieking, frozen wind.

I had learned since my promotion that first-thing-in-the-morning news is seldom good, so I wasn't surprised. "Tell me."

"We have about two dozen cases of frostbite in the unit. Some of the men can't even stand. Between me and Sergeant Vitus, we lost five who froze to death last night."

I felt my own morale sink at his report. Our situation deteriorated further with every mile north we marched. Our misery magnified with every moment approaching the onset of winter. "Let's get something to eat. I hate hearing bad news on an empty stomach."

Our breakfast consisted of teeth-shattering bread and hard cheese. The beleaguered mess commander complained that not only was it too windy to light fires for cooking, but that all our water had frozen during the night. The storage kegs burst open, so we had no water available and no way of collecting any more.

Problems related to the weather had moved far beyond the normal wretchedness I expected my soldiers to endure. As the summer campaign extended, someone in the senior officer's corps should have foreseen the need for warm clothing and hot food. Wasn't that reasonable? Yet with every passing day I felt an increasing sense of powerlessness, watching my men shiver in their fatigues, listening to their bickering while we waited in a long line for frozen rations.

Biting back my frustration, I remained outwardly calm. "Make sure Sivestri has whatever he needs to get those frostbite cases on their feet again. I'll need a list of the dead men's names for family letters. Anything else?"

Aransen nodded. "Scuttlebutt has it that one of our scout units ran into a barbarian mob last night. They were badly outnumbered and suffered heavy casualties. Apparently, the locals have decent guns. I also heard their body armor is tough enough to stop our bullets."

Although the story sounded ridiculous, Aransen's expression remained dead serious. "That sounds like crap," I muttered. "We're in the middle of nowhere. There's no advanced civilization up here."

Aransen shrugged. "I couldn't tell you either way, but I thought you should know."

I attended an officer's meeting after breakfast. Our forces, equipped with updated versions of inexpensive, older weapons, benefitted from a modern organization system that configured various combat disciplines into Combined Arms Units. Each of these self-contained groups assembled in large tents with central fire pits. Holes in the tent roofs should have provided an outlet for smoke, but the wind made these ineffective. Thus, we endured a choking, eye-stinging session with Lord Balinor and his cadre of vice-generals.

At least the air felt warmer inside.

In deference to historical religious observances, we followed an inflexible routine. One of our priests examined the victuals of a freshly slaughtered animal to determine whether our course of action offended any of the hundred-odd deities in the ancient pantheon. Although few of us believed in this kind of thing anymore, we found the ritual comforting, and no one ever complained.

Standing with both arms raised as if swearing an oath, a grey-haired, fiery-eyed priest lead us in adoration of the emperor, whose exalted name was to be glorified above all others. It seemed silly that we made such grandiose efforts to appease gods who were actually less important to us than our supreme leader, but I hadn't broached the subject with those learned in spiritual affairs because we weren't supposed to question the authority of our priests. Liturgy seemed an end in and of itself to them.

Though laughter during such a service would earn the wrath of the priesthood, some of whom served as advisors to the vice-generals, I found this worship session amusing. I did not laugh out loud, yet I appreciated having something to smile about. While the rest of us stifled coughing fits during the invocation, the row of black-robed priests standing on the dias remained sublime in their ecstatic utterances. They seemed impervious to the smoke pressing down from above, a hint, perhaps, that the Place of Burning they threatened was friendly to, and frequented by, their own kind.

Next, a staff centurion read through a list of unit troop strengths. Our sergeants compiled this information before breakfast while many of us remained in bed. On this morning, the centurion announced that we'd suffered attrition and desertions that he attributed to the cold, so the requisition officers were duly informed of the need for warm clothing and heavier blankets.

I shook my head, in disbelief, shame, and anger. The senior officers had promised that our campaign would end once we'd subjugated the city of Shirak and gained control over its surrounding resources. We'd begun a long push northward because of genuine and perceived hostility from petty kingdoms, primitive tribes and small clans whose armed alliances quickly succumbed to our cavalry, infantry and artillery. One after another they'd fallen, yet ongoing calls for the subjugation of new threats continued until we found ourselves standing on this frozen wasteland, over a thousand miles from home. We didn't have heavy blankets because no one had seen the need to bring any along.

Our logisticians had to provide material unforeseen when the campaign began, as if merely being told to give the men warmer clothes would enable them to conjure winter vestments out of thin air. Our supply train, at this point well over a thousand miles long, made it unlikely that we'd get our blankets any time soon.

My deepening cynicism grew out of a pattern I'd seen repeated many times. Complex, intricately machined weapons worked best in hot, low-humidity climates. The breech loading kits for our trapdoor carbines did not tolerate dirt or moisture very well, and the big guns required constant maintenance because of similar breech problems, rifle wear or sight-control system failure. Spare parts became scarce as we marched northward, so our engineers fabricated and machined replacements in portable smith shops. Artillery units suffered chronic supply deficiencies, forcing their commanders to conserve ammunition on fire-support missions.

We'd succeeded because we'd simply outclassed our enemies. Our destiny, it seemed, involved conquering every inch of land in sight, so long as it was poorly defended and blessed with material resources.

After this, a field commander from the eastern province of Abelscinnia, an outrageously tall man with very dark skin and a curious accent, explained the need for a northern headquarters. He told us that influential senators back home were demanding justification for our operations. In order to establish a lawful presence among the northern nations we needed a legitimate claim to territory.

Fortunately, our embassy had been contacted by the heir of a former king – a giant whose easily-forgotten name I could not pronounce – in the hope that we would be able to assist him in regaining control of the area captured by local barbarian tribes. The town of Burning Tree, now an important industrial port, had long ago been his father's regional capital.

Conquering this city and holding it against the enemy would give us access to the raw materials of the far north. Further, we would stand in history as the brilliant army that finally isolated the Kingdom of Kameron, an ancient rival on our eastern border. Since the giant king's contact had come through diplomatic channels, only a two-thirds majority vote in the senate could override the emperor's executive order for Lord Balinor to take the city. This was unlikely, no matter how unpopular his policy.

Cynically, I wondered how much of this plan glorified the emperor, and how much served to consolidate Lord Balinor's power, while securing access to new resources on behalf of influential industrialists at home. They'd financed the entire campaign in the hope that conquering new land would prove profitable.

Our first task involved establishing a permanent military presence. Scouting reports described small fire keeps scattered through the hills to our northwest that likely housed no more than a few hundred soldiers each. Almost directly north of our position lay an island of foothills, behind which we could camp to get out of the accursed wind. Fruit orchards in the hills to the west could provide firewood. We would compel a small population of locals to relinquish stored food to sustain us during the winter months. A four-day march to the northwest of this region would bring us to Burning Tree, after we'd passed though a heavily populated valley bristling with defenses.

The giants, who had provided us with additional intelligence, expressed a healthy respect for barbarian firepower. They warned us about excellent rifles, repeating cannon, artillery and rockets that carried explosive shells over vast distances. Their report stated that local warriors were well-trained and tough, supported by flying machines, underground tunnels and steam trains.

I dismissed all of this as fantasy. After all, how could primitive people possess such technology?

Our meeting concluded with unit assignment sessions. Every field commander and his subordinate officers met with their respective vice-generals. In theory, every legion could operate as a self-contained army, complete with infantry, cavalry, artillery, medical and supply units. In actual practice, however, these arrangements were never so tidy.

My unit drew the luxury of standing near the fire. After languishing in this indulgence for a few minutes I felt warmer than I'd been in recent memory, and fortunately for me, the hot smoke spiraled upward, away from my eyes and out of my lungs. The pall of pollution cooled at the top of the tent and settled along its cold, canvas sides where less lucky officers huddled, hacked, and cast longing glances toward the billowing tent flaps.

Our commander, Vice-General Diabilos, wasted no time in outlining his plan. He said we needed to secure a command center. Since the barbarians had an army in the area, we could ill-afford to leave our highest-ranking officers camped in the open where they'd be exposed to enemy action. The vice-general mulled over our scouting reports and selected an old inn that he believed would serve well for such a purpose. The lot fell on my century to wrest control of the compound from the locals. I had only three days to plan and carry out the attack.

Characteristically, the senior officers needed a building for shelter, rather than a lowly bivouac on the cold ground with the rest of us. As I listened, I knew my men would curse and complain that special treatment for the senior officers violated the egalitarian principles of citizenship we'd been fighting to maintain. Sighing in impotent resignation, I figured we'd suffer many more desertions and deaths from freezing before this campaign came to its bitter, exhausted end.

After the meeting dismissed, I stepped back into the swelling windstorm, having momentarily forgotten how dreadfully cold it had been outside. A grim-countenanced crew leading an ox-drawn cart piled high with dead men performed their somber duty, the squeaking of un-oiled axles overwhelmed by the horrific howling from the heavens. My eyes lingered distractedly on that scene.

I heard one soldier shouting to another that only a few deathwolves had returned from their rampage last night. In truth, I felt inwardly amazed that anything alive could survive without shelter through an entire night on the high altitude steppe at this latitude.

Back at my tent, I swaddled my body in three layers of clothing. I'd have put on more if I'd had more to wear. Although a senior officer might disapprove of my ridiculous appearance, as long as I had to brave the bitter weather, I wanted to feel as warm as possible. When Sergeant Aransen reported, I told him to make certain that the men we'd take north today were similarly attired.

As soon as Aransen stepped outside I could have sworn I'd heard him laugh. But when he returned, about ten minutes later, he and eight other warriors looked no less ludicrous than I. No one in my scouting party expressed dismay concerning his appearance, but as we went to the quartermaster for horses, I sensed that each man shared my desire to vanish before too many eyes caught sight of us.

We settled into a steady march, our faces bowed and eyes squinting, walking beside our steeds to stay out of the relentless wind. A primordial fear of the gusting breeze made our horses nervous and difficult to control, especially from the ground. They needed water too. I wondered how much of their skittishness resulted from thirst.

At this latitude, the sheer immensity of the Saradon inspired awe. Its extreme horizontality, its utter lack of terrain features and any sign of life wearied my eyes with monotony in minutes. Pure sky, an intense blue made hard by the bitter cold, rose from three horizons, its bleakness broken only by the glacier-crowned ridges stabbing into its indigo domain some distance west. What a worthless place! Why were we starting a war over it on behalf of the giants?

We moved north at about 90 paces per minute, following a minor trade route that skirted the western fringe of the Saradon. Silently, we marched through a sea of tall, swaying prairie grass that rippled in random, golden ranks, bowing subserviently to the breeze. Hours later, we closed in on an outcropping of steep, tree-covered hills, and finding much less wind on its eastern flanks, stopped to rest our weary horses. There, beneath an oak tree, we found the remains of a scouting party.

"Looks like an ambush," Aransen remarked. "Maybe someone jumped them from the tall grass."

The bodies lay stiff, their flesh and faces blue. A long line of boot prints obliterated all clues that might have shown how the butchering began and ended. Clearly, however, blades, rather than bullets, had been responsible for the carnage. Given our recent intelligence assessment, that detail seemed enigmatic to me.

As a precaution, I ordered loaded rifles in case any trouble headed our way. My men collected I.D. tags and wordlessly buried the bodies. In their silence I sensed a seething and irrational rage, a thirst for revenge that I knew could inspire stupidity and cost lives. I said nothing, though, my senses numbed by the cold and my spirit dulled by the solemn duty to follow pointless orders. Carefully avoiding the road, we continued north.

About two hours later, the hills hooked eastward for several miles. On a low rise overlooking the steppe an old stone inn stood guard. Encircled by an ancient, lichen-encrusted wall of bleached granite blocks nearly twenty feet in height, the site looked more like an ancient temple than a place of lodging.

Above its gate a sign swayed in the wind. Written in four languages, one of them the common form of ours, it read, "The Ice Dragon Inn, established 2377." That meant the building had been standing for over 900 years.

From a distance of about 300 yards, I saw my first barbarian soldier. Peering through a field lens, I could see a male figure in mottled brown fatigues who didn't look old enough to shave. "A virgin with a long rifle!" I smirked, mentally questioning the courage of any giant who'd be afraid of a mere boy like this.

Another soldier approached as I watched. Absorbing as much detail as possible, I noticed no obvious armor, but their clothing looked quite bulky and seemed to restrict movement somewhat. Whether they wore some kind of armored vest or just many layers of winter clothing couldn't be ascertained from my position, but they didn't appear to be bothered by the cold. I wished I could have said the same for myself.

"Let's move up a hill for a look at the compound," I said, tired from the long walk and lack of sleep, but already imagining how I might lead an attack on this place.

The complex contained four buildings. Two of these, probably living quarters, were tall and dotted with windows. Another structure, this one low to the ground with few windows, had a capped stack on its roof and at least five doors, with a maze of pipe extending from its southern wall directly into the ground. The fourth appeared to be a large livery, located ten yards west of the small building with its tangle of pipes, behind which lay a swine pen. A strange-looking, circular-shaped tank with a low, domed roof had been built to the south of the pig sty. Some kind of pipe rose from the ground and turned into the top of it, but I had no clue of its function.

Along the perimeter of the complex lay an extensive garden of trimmed shrubbery and hand-groomed hardwood forest. Late autumn wind had swept nearly all the leaves from the trees, giving gunners an unobstructed view over the walls at this height – perfect for eight pound mortars.

It would be a shame, I thought, to damage the main buildings. Majestic and old, built with flying buttresses, towering, steep-pitched roofs and stained glass windows more reminiscent of a cathedral than a traveler's tavern, the living quarters must have been some long-dead architect's finest work. Even the other structures, more modern in appearance and modest in size, seemed artfully designed. I could see no mortar between the tight-fitting stone courses, and such precise fitting between individual blocks impressed me, given that these were supposed to be primitive people.

Further, I noted that several paths, paved in grey cobblestones and swept clean by diligent hands, meandered through lovingly tended gardens. Arranged throughout the courtyard were devices that looked like lamps, but they didn't resemble the oil burners I remembered from home. For a moment I pondered the possibility that this civilization aspired to a higher level of technical expertise than I'd initially believed, but I quickly dismissed the thought.

On a fifty-foot tower near the back wall a multi bladed aeropump spun rapidly in the wind, no doubt lifting water from a well deep beneath the frozen soil. While I was pleased to see a secure water supply, I wondered how the barbarians prevented it from freezing.

Further observations fueled additional speculation. A steady, bluish glow radiated from several north-facing windows on the back side of one building. Given the season and the hour of day, these rooms simply had to be illuminated from the inside, and I knew of no lamp that emitted blue light. Also, exhaust stack on the small building remained smokeless during my examination, nor could I see any soot on its weather cap. How did they keep the buildings warm in such a cold climate?

I ordered a preliminary artillery survey from two key hilltop positions located north and west of the inn, then discussed lines of infantry attack with Sergeant Aransen. We'd have to bring in a lot of munitions and manpower for this operation, so we mapped supply routes that could not be directly observed or attacked from the inn itself. Then, we planned a staging area, sufficiently distant to ensure surprise during our advance on the compound.

Before leaving, I ordered Aransen to remain behind with four men. "Watch everything that comes in and goes out," I said. "Give me an indication of how many soldiers are quartered there and what kinds of weapons they have. I'll expect your report by noon tomorrow."

"I'll get right on it, sir," he replied, apparently pleased that I had turned out to be a half-decent officer after all.

If I rode back to camp and set to work, believing we could take the inn within two days. Although that timetable made my schedule very tight, it fit into the senior officers' outline and I felt confident that my soldiers would work as hard as necessary to turn my attack plan into reality. A bold and successful territorial seizure would certainly boost their waning morale after twenty-four days of hard marching through the deepening cold. Fresh food and warm clothes would surely lift spirits long wearied by misery and monotony.

I hoped that our strike to secure this place as a headquarters would serve to fulfill many of our needs, but I didn't understand until later just how my plans for the Ice Dragon Inn would affect the loyalty I felt for my nation and utterly, irrevocably change my destiny.

Serenade

Braving the bitter cold before dawn, Brenna slipped out from beneath a warm bedroll and glanced furtively around the camp where her newly found friend and his companions lay sleeping. She noticed a neat stack of heavy clothing at her feet, consisting of a woolen sweater, fur leggings, a thick, hooded overcoat and a large pair of leather gloves. Hurriedly, the young woman slipped into the garments, aware that they had once belonged to some dead Tamarian cadet, but too cold for a response more meditative than gratitude.

Anxious to avoid being seen, Brenna tiptoed past the sleeping Junior Scout on watch. The temptation to slip away unnoticed nagged from deep in her soul, but the distasteful thought of continuing her long, lonely trek mingled with a pang of conscience and made her pause. Turning back toward the camp, Brenna glimpsed a bloodstained bandage wrapped around a slumbering cadet's right leg. She let out a sigh and trudged over to where he lay.

Someone had applied a tourniquet to control bleeding from what looked like a bayonet puncture, but had not loosened it afterward. Brenna noticed discoloration and swelling of the cadet's flesh, frowned, then tried to remove the bandage in order to examine his wound. Drainage from the puncture had freeze-dried during the night, causing a crust of pus to stick to the bandage. As she pulled it apart, he flinched and began to waken.

"Sleep!" she commanded, believing he would.

The cadet settled back into his dreams, allowing her to continue without further incident. She pulled out her boot knife, cut off the tourniquet and gently pressed on his leg to restore circulation. Brenna cleaned his injury, then made another bandage from the hem of her skirt, bathed it in saliva and applied it to his wound. This done, she prayed for him and moved on to the next cadet.

Rugged body armor and sheer luck prevented many serious injuries. Brenna performed her ministrations on cuts, sprains and scratches that healed easily. The Lithian woman spent several minutes methodically cleaning wounds, changing bandages and praying for restoration, so absorbed in her task that all the fear she felt slowly melted from her mind altogether.

Near one of the dying campfires she found a cadet with a head injury. Several broken ampules lay scattered about, the contents of which she verified as morphine by taste and smell. If he'd lost a lot of blood administering the drug could be fatal, as she knew morphine suppressed the cardiovascular system. But when she checked his pulse she found his heart beat steadily. Carefully, Brenna cut and unwrapped his bandage.

The injury looked awful. A razor would have been useful in shaving away the boy's blood-matted hair, but since she didn't have one, Brenna held her blade over the hot coals, melted a bit of snow on its crystalline edge, then very gently feathered back the young man's hair line. She washed away all traces of dirt and blood from the wound, noting that a bullet had grazed, but probably not penetrated this cadet's skull.

"Sleep in God's hands," she whispered, kissing her forefinger and laying it on the injury. Brenna interceded for the young soldier, then turned her face into the force of the freezing windstorm, seeking a sheltered place below the bristle pines for her morning prayer.

No longer limping, she climbed down into a ravine to the west, emptied her bladder where she could not be seen, then hiked back up to a circle of black oak and juvenile bristle pine that formed a hidden sanctum.

Beneath the naked oak branches lay a thin carpet of sparkling snow, untrodden by the foot of neither man nor beast. Luminescent in the purple light only Lithian eyes could see, the frozen veil glistened like an aurora borealis. Scattered across its gleaming surface, random patterns of dark shapes and lines crisscrossed where the radiant snow lay speckled with the fallen leaves of oak, cottonwood and slender needles of bristle and ponderosa pine.

Enchanted by this natural magic, hearing nothing more than the surging sound of restless wind within the trees, the Lithian woman carefully balanced her bow against the rugged trunk of an old cottonwood, kneeling in the midst of the icy blanket to pray.

She began every morning this way. But now, tired of running and afraid that she could never again return home, Brenna grew increasingly desperate. Lacking the love and companionship of her family, she felt vulnerable and lonely in this cold, windy land. "I didn't want to marry," she lamented, "so I fled north instead of going west, across the mountains into Kameron. I promised Umma I would do whatever father asked me to do, though I knew in my heart I would not."

Brenna paused for a long time, remembering words recklessly spoken, thinking about things that should have been said. Pondering her own motives, she understood that what she'd rationalized as a split-second decision at the last, critical moment had really been long premeditated. The young woman gazed into the dark heavens, marveling at the breathtaking beauty of the early morning stars, only to return her misty eyes to the sparkling snow beneath her knees. Defiance, not fate, had set her on the path that led to this foreign land.

Brenna valued freedom of choice as a virtue, but exercising it at the expense of honesty – especially toward her parents – had been a compromise that was, no doubt, causing her family much grief at this moment. Certainly, she had a right to disagree with her father's plans, but as one who believed in and exercised the power of Allfather, she had no right to lie, and she knew it.

This issue stained the fabric of her soul. In spite of her intelligence and outstanding physical condition, she could not dictate the outcome of her choices and resolve every detail to her own satisfaction. When she meditated on this, in light of the previous evening's events, she realized that her profoundly fragile life depended upon the magnanimous grace of Allfather. Brenna also depended on him for healing power and sustenance when she was, in fact, less than deserving.

This contrary part of her nature always contended against the ideal relationship with God that she aspired to achieve. Years ago, she had learned to accept the reality of this conflict, the doubt it wrought, and the difficulty brought about by believing in ideas that could not be seen, heard, nor touched when existential matters muddled her mind. Seen through the perfect lens of hindsight, Brenna wished she had applied the principles of love and honesty to a higher degree and depended less on her own wisdom, as she had so regrettably done in the recent past.

And so, the Lithian woman poured out her heart. She asked for mercy and forgiveness, believing that loving, compassionate Allfather would listen to her plea. "Give me courage to live with consequences I can't choose," she prayed. "Lavish on me the wisdom to remain your faithful servant here, that I may live to your glory among the people of the High Land."

The chill of the windy morning began to affect her concentration. Brenna shivered in the snow, her eyelashes frozen shut, distracted by a desire to return to a warm place near the fire. She recited a list of things for which she felt grateful, including the attractive soldier she'd met the night before, and concluded her petition nearly twenty minutes after embarking upon it, with a litany of praise and exultation.

After this Brenna felt strong in spirit again, ready to greet the new day with a smile. Humming a favorite hymn, she rubbed her eyes until the lids unstuck, watching in awe as the scenery about her undertook its daily metamorphosis. The soft, phosphorescent, ultraviolet colors of night yielded gradually to longer, brighter wavelengths that heralded the imminent rising of the Daystar. White light soon overpowered the bluish, nocturnal glow that had so drawn the Lithian woman to this place. Within minutes, the human spectrum of colors became visible to the indigo-eyed maiden.

But the freezing wind belied the promise of warmth borne by the ascending star. Brenna picked up her bow and scurried uphill with fleet-footed grace, pausing to catch her breath before returning to the camp.

***

"I'm telling you, he's a spy!"

Heinz Neergard, the local militia chairman for Dieter, a small town on the Tamarian frontier, had only two weeks of tenure left at this position and longed for it to end. His job involved coordinating the town's response to potential threats against its citizens and property. As daylight hours shortened and autumn drew to a close, the level of paranoia in this sleepy, agricultural hamlet had risen dramatically. More often than he cared to remember, some concerned citizen had pounded on his door at daybreak with news that couldn't wait until after breakfast.

Standing unshaven in his nightclothes and bare feet, growing colder in direct proportion to the time he spent with his front door open, the tall, gray-haired gentleman listened patiently to the frantic tale of Winnie Mikkels, the elderly proprietress of a bed and breakfast establishment on the south end of town.

"He came in last night after dark. Franz would never have let him in the door because he looked an absolute mess, but he was cold and I felt sorry for him. Then I got to thinking straight," the old woman explained, gesticulating pointedly as if her skinny, vein and sinew shrouded hands could paint a picture where words failed. "He's got this huge sword and looks around at everything like he wanted to steal it all. Spoke the vulgate, he did, then gives me this worthless foreign coin for his room!"

The old woman produced a heavy golden disc from a pocket in her musty, moth-eaten, knee-length coat, waving it in the kindly man's face. He backed away from her wrinkled, liver-spot covered hand, which, despite the cold, reeked of menthol.

"Is it real?" Heinz queried.

"Well, the old dwarf says so, but his eyes aren't so good anymore and I'm not sure he's not in cahoots with them anyway."

The old dwarf wasn't really a dwarf. A life-long resident, the goldsmith had been stricken by a congenital spinal condition that left him deformed. Heinz recognized the prejudice, but didn't comment on it. "If the dwarf says it's good, then it's good," the shivering man replied. "If it will set your mind at ease, my boy and I will stop in and see this man after breakfast."

"You'd better hurry," she warned, sensing that he wasn't taking her as seriously as she thought he should. "If he leaves before you get there, I'll hold you responsible!"

Heinz smiled, sensing an opening. "Why don't you delay him until we arrive? Give him an extra-large breakfast and draw him a hot bath. If you treat him well, he won't suspect you've spoken to me this morning."

Mrs. Mikkels' thick glasses nearly bounced off her face as she nodded. "You know, that's exactly what I'll do. He won't suspect. No sir! We'll stop these foreigners yet!" The old woman began to waddle home, continuing the conversation all by herself.

"Thank-you for stopping by," Heinz called, closing the door with relief tempered only by the grim realization that he'd have to see and smell her again after breakfast.

Rheanne, his ebullient, sixteen-year-old daughter, bounded out of her room. Like her mother, Rheanne always overflowed with energy in the early morning. "Daddy, what was that all about?"

Heinz drew his arm around the girl and kissed her forehead affectionately. "Mrs. Mikkels has another spy," he replied. "Tell Wolfie to get up and eat. We have to pay a visit to her guest and save the Republic from tyranny."

Rheanne smiled mischievously, skipped over to her brother's room, opened the door, and shouted, "Get out of bed! Half the day has already gone by, mother's been at work in the kitchen since daybreak and daddy mistakenly thinks he needs your good-for-nothing help defending the country against un-bathed, lice-infested foreign spies, of which you, by virtue of extreme laziness, are probably in treasonous collaboration!"

The girl quickly pulled shut the door to avoid being hit by an empty, wooden urinal hurled from the bed. "He's coming, daddy," she said with a smile.

***

Woodwind awakened before dawn. Although not normally inclined to stir at such an hour, the combination of cold air seeping through poorly sealed window frames, incessantly rattling glass and the rasping rake of tree limbs against his room's outer wall prevented needed sleep.

Like Brenna, Woodwind _believed_ in Allfather, but with far less fervent faith. He rarely spent more than a few moments in formal meditation. Days often passed between his prayers, but his conscience remained clear because he believed that integrity of mind and sound, moral conduct evidenced Allfather's continuing influence. Therefore, he focused his spiritual effort on what he considered issues of practical concern.

Woodwind remained a servant by his own choice. His master, Lord Velez, treated him like a son, paid for his martial training and formal education in life sciences. Lithian scriptures stated that Allfather endowed every intelligent race with a mandate to preserve and manage his creation for the benefit of living things. Applying his pragmatic insight to this spiritual paradigm convinced Woodwind that exploiting resources for profit as the Azgar typically did – especially at the expense of the poor and the weak – opened the floodgates for many kinds of evil.

Woodwind loved nature, and though his heart grieved at its destruction, he often made observations that softened this pain with humor. "We're born between organs of excrement," he said. "No wonder our behavior stinks!"

Brenna did not find his talk amusing in the slightest, he realized, but she acted altogether too serious and would benefit from a good distraction. Woodwind longed to be that distraction, but they had grown up together and she would have nothing to do with that idea. Thus, he settled for friendship, though secretly, he longed to fill her life with passion and loyal companionship.

Their tempestuous relationship had long inspired much whispering and speculation. Many people did not understand why Brenna – who remained fascinated with the realm of ideas and preferred the company of younger, more imaginative minds like his, yet struggled to find a suitable partner – refused to commit herself to him.

Woodwind set aside all emotional and physical frustration for her sake without overt complaint. He understood that every experience had a deep, spiritual significance to her. Brenna read the Lithian scriptures voraciously, always striving to apply principles of moral conduct to her own behavior. She harmonized her attitude with Allfather's will, expecting divine influence over the most personal aspects of her life. Woodwind knew he could never aspire to the intensity she sustained in that domain.

He'd been thinking about her and found himself in prayer, quite by accident. "I've exhausted every option. I'm afraid I'll never find her, never see her lovely face, never hear the music of her voice again. I am lost as long as she is lost, and I can't protect her when she's not in my company. Please keep her safe."

Unaccustomed to long, prayerful discourses, his request trailed off into a path of more practical thoughts, as it usually did. In moments of self-reflection, Woodwind habitually blamed his lack of spiritual discipline for Brenna's disinterest. He could discern no other reasonable explanation for her rejection of his devotion.

Then he felt foolish for his personal, emotional outburst. If anyone can survive out there, Brenna can! She can outrun a horse, no one can match her with a bow, and Allfather always takes care of her. This silent reasoning wrought comfort, and as the minutes passed, he sensed Allfather's spirit assuring that Brenna remained alive. Soon, his fear for her safety faded like a forgotten dream.

Woodwind's reverie ended, interrupted by the steady, clomping sound of shoed feet on the wooden stair beyond his room. The sound of running water followed for several minutes, then suddenly stopped. Footsteps shuffled toward his room. Knocking, for a reason the southerner did not understand, the old woman remained behind the door and announced, "Your morning bath is ready, sir!"

Woodwind opened the door. The elderly proprietress smiled. Her manner seemed strangely pleasant, in sharp contrast with the abrupt, almost rude reception he'd received the previous evening. Of the two Tamarians he'd met thus far, she had regarded him with greater suspicion, making him wonder if another foreigner had come under her roof the night before and wet the bed . . .

Perhaps the Kamerese kroner he'd given her brought out better manners, though she'd taken it reluctantly. That memory inspired worry that matters were amiss and his life was in danger.

"Thank-you, ma'am. I appreciate the trouble you've gone to for me this morning," Woodwind replied. "However, it would be a waste of your hot water for me to wash up if I have to return to my dirty clothing."

The old woman pushed past him, into the room, her arms laden with clean linen for the bed and a fresh towel. "The best you can do with that ratty outfit is throw it in the fire! You smell like a billy goat with the pox!"

Woodwind accepted the insult without protest. "Don't you think it's a bit cold to go running about naked?" he replied, hoping the woman might find that remark funny, then uncertain how to respond when she didn't.

Stripping the sheets from Woodwind's bed, she muttered something about how much work she had to do before breakfast. "My youngest son was about your size," she said. "You can take anything of his you like."

Woodwind appreciated charity, but disapproved of people who sought advantage from other's generosity, and certainly didn't consider himself needy. Although the old woman kept a fairly nice place, her apparel suggested that frugality sustained her lifestyle. "I would gladly pay for warm clothing," he offered politely.

"Take it all! He ain't needing a thing no more," she scowled. The silence that followed felt protracted and socially unnerving. Several awkward moments later, Woodwind noticed tears in the old woman's eyes. She turned her back to him and began sobbing, mumbling in the consonantal gibberish of the Tamarian language.

When he asked why she'd become upset, the old woman raged like a pent-up flood. "If it ain't the giants coming to take what we got, then it's you foreigners! It's always war after war. The army needs our children. They fight, they die, but that's never enough because the killing never stops! I lost my husband, my daughter and both my boys fighting foreigners like you!" She threw a wadded up pillowcase at Woodwind for emphasis, missing him badly.

"I'm sorry you're upset," he responded. "I didn't come here to fight anyone, most certainly not the people who have shown me kindness and hospitality." The southerner retrieved the pillow case and began folding it.

"Go take your bath!" she commanded. "Let an old woman cry in peace! I'll set a change of clothes outside the doorway for you."

Woodwind obeyed, a little bit puzzled why she would leave the promised clothing on the other side of the door. This inspired even more worry personal safety. He reached for his blade, but left his chain mail behind. The woman didn't seem to notice, and he slipped out of the room without another word.

***

Ghosts from days gone by mingled with terror from the previous evening. Fear invaded Garrick's final dream, sometime in the early morning hours. After he'd fought and killed his first enemy soldier, Garrick's adversary regained his feet and pressed the battle further. No combat skill countered the enemy advance, and no weapon stopped him. Garrick called for help, yet he stood alone among dead comrades whose skulls had been blown apart by Azgar bullets, and whose intestines shone wetly in the light.

Having no recourse he tried to run, but found that his legs completely betrayed him. A sensation of lightness, of floating higher by leaping, allowed him to escape. Garrick watched the ground grow distant as the terror of falling gripped his belly. From within the clouds, he heard his father's drunken voice slurring obscenities, along with the whimper of his sobbing mother as she cowered from her husband's explosive rage.

"Kira!" he cried out, fearing for the safety of his younger siblings."Algernon!"

Then Garrick fell from the sky fast and hard. As the grass-carpeted Saradon rose to meet him, the young Tamarian lurched awake.

Cold morning air embraced him. Trembling as terror raced through his veins, Garrick experienced a momentary disorientation that heightened his apprehension. Sharp daylight assaulted his eyes as they surveyed a completely unfamiliar scene. Several seconds later, as events remembered from the night before fell into place, Garrick regained control over his racing heart.

Huddled around the fire, sleeping peacefully, lay his blonde-haired comrades. Even the wounded seemed comfortable in their slumber. A cadet heated water for tea.

Sergeant Streckert returned from the trees on the eastern edge of the hill, tightening his belt. When he saw that Garrick was awake, he queried, "Ravenwood, last night the way you cozied up with that foreign girl seemed a bit too friendly for my comfort. How do you know each other?"

"It's not what you're thinking, sergeant," Garrick replied, glancing around, wondering where she had gone. "A traveler showed me her portrait in a locket yesterday afternoon and I recognized her face. The two of us had never met before last night."

The sergeant began nudging sleeping cadets with his boot, not quite as gently as each would have liked. "What do you know about this traveler?" the sergeant queried. "Tell me everything."

Garrick repeated the incident in detail, including his idea that the ambush of Azgar soldiers beneath the oak tree had been Woodwind's work.

Sergeant Streckert stalked closer with his arms akimbo, glaring at Garrick in such a way that the cadet felt certain that he'd done something else wrong. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"You were mad at me because of the snowball fight, and I didn't want any more trouble," the young man stated, a little bit fearfully. "I knew we'd be out here for two days, so I didn't expect to actually meet her. The man told me she was shy, and truthfully, I didn't really believe his wild story, anyway."

The middle-aged man tightened his lips, shook his head and looked into the pale heavens. He thought for a moment before returning his hawk-eyed gaze to the cadet at his feet. "You find that swordsman," the sergeant ordered. "As soon as we return, take the girl with you and bring him back to the inn."

"You saw what he did to those Azgar soldiers," Garrick replied. "I mean no disrespect, sergeant, but if he decides to run off with the Lithian woman, I won't be able to stop him. Besides, how do we know he's not a bounty hunter hired to track her down?"

Remembering the carnage he'd seen at the oak tree last evening, the sergeant didn't think so. "Ask her about him and see what she says. I don't think your swordsman is going anywhere. He's out of his mind trying to track down a half-frozen sicklian through the countryside, but if he's stayed ahead of that invading army this long, his brand of lunacy might benefit us.

"Winter's coming and he has nowhere else to go. You tell him we'll protect both him and the girl, and I'm sure he'll cooperate."

Garrick let his sergeant's words sink in before responding, feeling disbelief, excitement and tension, all at the same time. The sergeant had actually ordered him to spend more time in Brenna's company. That fact made his heart pound, even if she did belong to someone else. Conversely, his sense of duty compelled a response that focused on the safety of his people. "What if the Azgar attack before I return?" he inquired.

"Then take them both up to Burning Tree. At the regional army headquarters, tell General Ziegler everything you know about what happened here. We won't get a resupply train until next month, and if we face a large scale invasion, we're going to need help in a hurry."

Garrick promised he would follow the orders.

"Don't waste any time," the sergeant warned.

***

The old woman had shown Woodwind the washroom after he'd paid his money the night before, but his curiosity about its features had been overcome by fatigue at that time. When she discussed indoor, running water Woodwind didn't consider her statement strange, for households in Shirak also featured plumbing and multrum septic systems. Any moderately advanced civilization could boast of such amenities.

However, as he twisted a polished brass knob and pushed open the door, Woodwind walked into wonderland. In the center of a clean, windowless, white-tiled room stood a porcelain tub filled to three-quarters of its depth with steaming water. A spout and shiny steel levers extended above its lip on one end, with words inscribed in the metal that must have been in the lettering of the local language. When he touched the water, its warmth compelled him to luxuriate in its sultry embrace.

Woodwind shut the door, not to be modest, for he was unmarried and inculcated in Lithian ways, but rather, out of concern for his personal safety. He clicked the lock into position, then turned to examine other fascinating features of Tamarian technology.

A gilded mirror on the east-facing wall reflected light from four white, porcelain lamps firmly anchored to the tile floor. Just above eye-level, glass enclosures that felt dangerously warm surrounded a pair of glowing metal crosses with many holes bored through them. A blue flame danced above the metal, swirling in beautiful, random motions. A knob, located about half-way up the lamp stem, could be turned to adjust the quantity of gas being burned, and subsequently, the level of light given off by the burner. Above the glass enclosure, a thin pipe, also hot to Woodwind's fingers, extended through the tiled ceiling.

A smooth, white quartz pedestal basin rose from the floor beneath the mirror. It also sported a spout and a pair of levers. Woodwind turned them, and as expected, water flowed out. One of the levers controlled cold water, and to his astonishment, hot water gushed from the other. The old woman had said nothing about hot running water.

"Clever people!" he mused, realizing that the tub must have been filled from its similar arrangement. Woodwind found, to his delight, that he could adjust the temperature of his bath by adding either hot or cold, so he fiddled with the levers until satisfied that the bath temperature suited his comfort.

Warm water soothed every ache in Woodwind's weary body. After scrubbing himself thoroughly with soap, he reclined in the tub and drifted into a shallow sleep. For the first time in many days he felt calm and relaxed.

Suddenly, he heard heavy footfalls on the stairs and an angry-sounding male voice. Awakening from his nap, Woodwind nearly leaped out of the tub, and in doing so, slipped on the slick tile and landed unceremoniously in a wet heap on the hard floor. Certain that he'd be bruised for the rest of what promised to be a brief life, the Kamerese swordsman retrieved his weapon and retreated to the wall next to the door. His left elbow throbbed from its contact with the floor, but he did not curse.

The woman's voice came from somewhere down the hall, followed by more footsteps, each one getting closer. He could tell from the sound that there was probably only one person moving toward him on the other side of the wall. The doorknob rattled noisily, but its lock held. Woodwind pressed the back of his body against the washroom wall, directly to the left of the door, holding his sword at the ready. He clicked open the latch just before the man on the other side hit the portal with his shoulder.

The door flew open, and right behind it, a light-haired young man charged in wielding an old revolver pistol. Woodwind gave him a hard shove on the back of the neck as he passed, forcing the aggressor to stumble on the slippery tile and slide face-first toward the tub.

Bracing for what promised to be a knee-shattering encounter with unyielding enamel; the boy dropped his weapon into the water and tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid tumbling in. A tremendous splash displaced most of the bath water, giving Woodwind a moment to check down the hall. Seeing no one, he slammed the door shut, then turned his attention toward the youth in the tub.

An expression of sheer terror filled the teenager's eyes as he turned and stared into the shimmering point of Woodwind's weapon, held with a steady hand only inches from his face. The southerner pressed closer, and the boy began to babble in his own tongue.

"Enough of your whimpering!" Woodwind ordered in vulgate, with uncharacteristic brusqueness.

"Please don't hurt me," the younger man stammered. "It was my father's idea to come here."

No sooner had the words left his lips, than the proprietress appeared in the doorway. She took one look at Woodwind's naked backside and let out a scream worthy of a woman many years younger. "No killing!" she cried. "Please, no killing!"

"It's okay," Woodwind reassured. "I won't hurt him."

When this tactic didn't work, the southerner ordered the young Tamarian out of the tub and over to the mirror. "Don't even flinch!" he warned. After retrieving the boy's soaked and useless pistol, he placed the gun onto the tile and slid it across the floor toward the far wall. Then, gently putting his own weapon down, he held out his hands to the woman."See?"

An older man, utterly out of breath, arrived on the scene at that moment. He turned the woman around and said something soothing to her, then looked at Woodwind. "For goodness sakes!" he exclaimed between breaths, "Get some clothes on!" Then to the boy, he said in a despairing tone, "And you, son, how disgraceful that you don't listen to your father! Look at you!"

The boy began to argue in the Tamarian language, but was overruled and ordered out of the bathroom.

Woodwind found a towel with which to gird himself, all the while enduring the harangue of the proprietress, who knew that "foreigners couldn't be trusted."

Heinz Neergard handled the situation with grace and patience. After several minutes, he'd calmed the old woman's frantic vituperation, sent his son downstairs to dry off by the fire, and managed to allow Woodwind the privacy in which to dress without further offending the more modest sensibilities of his Tamarian town folk.

After Woodwind finished mopping up the mess around the washtub, he clothed himself in cotton under and woolen over shirts, his chain mail, a pair of leggings and loose pants and two pairs of socks. After opening the door again, he found the old man leaning against the rail.

"I suppose I'm in trouble now," Woodwind began.

The old man shrugged. "Mrs. Mikkels wants to press charges against you as a spy. It's my duty to arrest you."

"And then what will happen?"

"That depends on how good you are at explaining your business here in the north," Heinz replied. "Everyone is whispering about a southern army on the march, which is why I must act. Spies are the army's jurisdiction. I can't say for certain what will happen, but I believe you'll find Colonel Brandt a fair man."

"Do you think the colonel can he hear my case today?" asked Woodwind, worried about losing Brenna's trail while imagining that he'd waste away in some barbarian dungeon for the rest of his life.

"I don't know. I've explained that you spared my son's life when you had the power to kill him. We value our young folk here in the High Land."

"And if I resist arrest?"

The old man's eyes twinkled and a broad smile crept across his face. "You are free to do that, of course, but I recommend that you come along willingly. Hostility only deepens suspicion."

Woodwind nodded. "I understand." Without another word, he handed his prized longsword to the elder gentleman, hilt first, then followed him downstairs. In the entrance doorway stood two military policemen, identifiable in their black boots, berets, gloves and tan fatigues. They wore the same, bulky armor Woodwind had seen on the young cadet back at the Ice Dragon Inn, but they carried small caliber carbines and sidearms.

Heinz spoke to one of the men at length, apparently explaining the circumstances of Woodwind's detainment, then handed over the longsword that had been the southerner's most cherished possession for seven years.

"I understand you have a horse," the senior policeman said as he led the way to a pair of mules waiting outside, speaking the impeccable vulgate Woodwind had come to expect from the natives in this cold land.

"Yes," he replied. "I left my gelding at the livery down the road."

"Get it. We've got a long ride ahead in the cold. You'll need it."

Once Woodwind retrieved his horse, the three men rode northwest, with the teeth of a gradually strengthening wind gnawing at them from the front flank the entire way. They had not been on the road more than five minutes before Woodwind felt utterly cold all over again. He felt certain that if he didn't freeze to death before he actually arrived at his destination, then nothing would ever be able to kill him.

***

Before Brenna returned to the camp, she gathered courage for several minutes while watching the young cadets through the trees. They hassled and harassed each other as they prepared food, packed up their camp, cleaned their weapons and performed additional duties intended to keep them too busy for all-out hostility. The ugly, middle-aged man in charge circulated among them, bringing their conflicts to a halt, and making certain they continued to do as they were told. His language lacked words with more than two syllables, and he spoke to them in sentences no more than three words in length. The sergeant treated them like animals, she thought.

Brenna's heart fluttered. Her breathing rate increased as she nervously faced the prospect of confronting so many unknown people, and she struggled against the urge to run away without being seen again. What would she say if one of the braggarts wanted to talk to her? The fear of engaging in conversation with a stranger inspired anxiety, but courage vanquished apprehension when her eyes fell upon Garrick.

The Tamarian cadet worked alone, chopping then splitting dead fall. He'd peeled off his armor, revealing thick forearms and a shirt slightly damp with sweat. Broad shoulders moved with powerful grace whenever he swung the axe, flexing rhythmically in lean, youthful vigor.

Although not yet fully grown, his body showed the hardening impact of labor in his father's orchard, where pruning, chopping wood and fruit-picking, combined with shoveling snow in winter and a healthy diet, produced a fit and trim physique that Brenna found irresistible.

But the root of her attraction reached deeper than the visceral impact of his youth, strength and handsome features. The other young men behaved with brash immaturity, where intelligent, well-spoken Garrick exuded gentleness and self-control, characteristics that gave the shy woman a feeling of safety in his company. Remembering the insensitivity and need for domination typical of other men she'd known, Brenna found his quiet self-confidence refreshing. An innocent longing for his company filled her soul until the fear she'd felt softened.

Sensing her presence, the young Tamarian turned in Brenna's direction, blushed like an embarrassed school boy when he saw her, then smiled and pretended that it didn't matter if he'd caught her watching him. His tangled locks of wavy blonde hair blew hither and thither in the strong wind, occasionally, and probably irritatingly, sweeping into eyes as grey as an overcast winter morning.

Brenna mused over the fact that this young warrior likely didn't need to shave, and wondered why this group of new combat veterans seemed so young. She didn't know that all Tamarians were required to perform two years of national service in some form. Every one of these cadets would be eligible for transfer into the Tamarian Defense Force after completing this training exercise.

Hesitantly, the Lithian maiden stepped toward Garrick, trying not to be noticed. Brenna felt the weight of many eyes on her shoulders as she appeared from the trees, their reflexive response to a potential threat melding into either appreciation, or desire, as she approached.

Garrick paused to watch her, enchanted with her every movement. His heart quickened. A compelling force beyond beauty, one he couldn't explain, drew his soul to hers. Grime, chapped lips and a wind-burned face did not detract from her attractiveness. The windstorm seemed less bitter as it billowed through her lustrous tresses, black as a moonless, midwinter night. Although she was dressed in an ungainly assortment of impossibly large clothing that mantled her form – the details of which had been so breathtakingly visible the night before – that didn't matter. Her words had moved him. Her mind inspired him. In truth, he would have wanted her even if he'd been blind.

"Can I help you?" she inquired.

Garrick's face flushed hot under the fire of her attention, but at the same time, he felt grateful that she was talking to him instead of someone else. "I'm almost done, but I'd be happy with your company," he replied, wondering how he was going to broach the subject of the Kamerese swordsman and Sergeant Streckert's orders.

The Lithian woman sat upon a nearby stump, wishing to initiate a conversation, but finding no words to express her cluttered thinking. A flurry of frenzied discussion caught her attention a few moments later. The cadet who'd had the leg wound removed his bandage. Several of his friends crowded around, and upon examining the green cloth, one of them pointed in Brenna's direction.

Garrick heard, "It's from her skirt," and paused from his work. Harold Vortman repeated something crazy about witchcraft while half-a-dozen other cadets milled about in confusion. A wounded cadet lifted his leg, showing the others how his injury had completely healed. Another followed his example, stripped off his armor and pulled back the sleeve of his shirt to discover that he didn't have a scar from what had been a nasty laceration. Even the young man with the head wound, whom everyone believed would die, was now sitting up, asking for tea. All of these wounded cadets shared a bandage of fine, green fabric, the same material that made up Brenna's skirt.
Garrick read apprehension in her expression. She glanced quickly from face to face, stood up and backed away from the stump and all the attention directed her way. His was the last pair of eyes she sought, and in a single glance, she communicated more about her feelings than she had done with all her words thus far.

"It's okay," he reassured in a calm voice. "No one's going to hurt you."

Sergeant Streckert began sorting out fact from fantasy. He too, noticed the maiden's anxiety and ordered his cadets to keep their distance. The sergeant spoke in the calmest tone Garrick had ever heard from the man's lips. "Did you bind their wounds this morning?" he inquired.

Brenna retreated until her back met Garrick's upheld hand. He rested his fingers lightly on her shoulder, the sensation of which sent a shiver up her spine. She turned to listen to his translation, as Sergeant Streckert didn't speak vulgate.

"Yes," she replied. "I tended to their wounds while everyone else was still asleep."

The sergeant expressed skepticism. "Their injuries have improved remarkably. How can this be?"

Brenna had utilized the power of Allfather many times before, and while she understood the healing was not actually her doing, she didn't quite know how to explain this to the fierce-featured man standing in front of her. She leaned into Garrick's touch, hoping to draw out some of his confidence. At the very least, she felt stronger knowing that he stood behind her.

"Every good work is done in faith," she said, choosing her words carefully.

Her cryptic expression puzzled the Tamarians for very different reasons. Gerhardt Streckert believed that natural forces remained under the control of deity-like spirits, each with its own sphere of influence, whereas Garrick maintained that the spirit realm did not actually exist. Thus, the sergeant assumed she referred to a healing spirit, while Garrick concluded that the young woman was trying to explain a natural phenomenon in words she thought the sergeant would understand.

Although he didn't scoff, Garrick struggled to accommodate the idea of spiritual manifestations in the material realm. He believed in a natural order of the universe that did not personify forces, as faith in magic, spirits and gods could not be supported by verifiable facts. Had he been alone with her, he'd have questioned how an idea – a semantic label, a conceptual abstraction – could directly impact matter, but in the presence of Sergeant Streckert, he restricted himself to translating.

"Forgive my nescience," the sergeant said graciously. "There is much, perhaps, that we can learn from you."

Hearing this, the young woman stood upright, her confidence restored. Garrick felt a small, irrational sting of rejection when she did this, acutely aware that the way she treated him mattered more than he cared to admit.

He'd never heard his sergeant talk in such a polite manner, didn't know the old man had a word like nescience in his vocabulary, and realized with painful clarity that even though she looked like a teenager, Brenna might be closer to the sergeant's age than she was to his. Maybe she likes the old man. But she's supposed to belong to Woodwind. Why then has she been paying so much attention to me?

The breakfast call interrupted Garrick's insecure thinking. When Sergeant Streckert invited Brenna to eat, she did turned her gaze back to Garrick and his heart pounded for a different reason. Their eyes met and languished in a gaze of mutual attraction. Mysteriously, the appearance of her retina had changed with daybreak. Last evening they had been bright as a glacial lake at noon, but now they appeared dark as the twilight sky. He had never seen a pair of eyes as pretty, nor lips as shapely and alluring as hers. Garrick felt compelled to draw near and kiss them, but he did not.

Brenna had seen the same expression of longing in Woodwind's eyes many times before. This young man, however, inspired a different reaction within her. She felt an inner warmth. A tingle raced through her fingertips. She wanted to hold him and be held by him, but her attraction had developed faster than her mind could rationalize and she felt afraid of losing control. The Lithian woman held her tongue, stifling hasty words that might later require hasty and unpleasant action.

And thus, two hearts beat faster than before, quietly longing for one another. Without another word spoken, they turned away from each other, walked toward the breakfast line, and made no move to move closer. The Tamarian cadet and the Lithian refugee ate in profound silence, with only the northwest wind to serenade the start of deep affection stirring between them.

A Song of Victory

Nestled among massive granite boulders, high upon the barren height of a windswept hill called Dead Hand Ridge, a stout Tamarian firebase stood guard over the valley floor. Invisible from below, with an overgrown and unmarked trail winding up to its gate, only local residents and army personnel knew its exact location.

Hidden among hills and clustered around strategic passes accessing Tamaria's heartland, many structures like this one provided defense for a thinly populated frontier. Each firebase shared a common plan: a sprawling, polyhedronal shape with thick, iron-reinforced concrete walls, measuring three hundred feet across on its first level, crowned by three additional odd-shaped floors. Several outposts and connecting conduits completed the design. The base, covered with native material, preserved the ridge line's natural contour, making these fortifications difficult to detect without coming very close.

Spaced within several thousand yards of each other, every shell keep lay within range of at least two other bases, so that the heaviest Tamarian rockets could be fired in defensive support of any one of them. In the event of an overwhelming assault, each base contained provision for quick evacuation through an underground rail network that also served as a resupply and transport system.

Soldiers and material, moved rapidly from one base to the next, allowed the Tamarian Defense Force to strike unpredictably from the flank or rear of an enemy. Any shell keep in danger of being overrun could be sealed to prevent entrance into the tunnel array, then attacked from within when the enemy was least expecting such action. In fact, however, not a single firebase had ever been successfully conquered in the nation's history.

A shout went up from one of the soldiers on watch, hidden among a series of firing ports built into the concrete at oblique angles. Three riders, including two military policemen, approached from the northeast. A small, green flare arced into the windy sky, high above the open center of the base.

Woodwind – uncomfortable in his itchy, ill-fitting attire, hungry and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep – sat slumped in his saddle, following the lead of a black-bereted, junior military policeman. Woodwind's horse struggled uphill, following the lead policeman's mule. A few strides behind, the policeman's senior partner maintained a watchful eye on the flanks of Shadow – Woodwind's ebon gelding – to ensure that his prisoner did not suddenly decide to change course.

But the weary traveler thought nothing of escape. His belief in submission to authority made him quietly compliant with whatever reasonable request these Tamarians made of him. Besides, he'd become curious about the firebase after first seeing it. Having never before encountered a fort of such unusual design, Woodwind wanted to have a closer look at it.

Even so, as he shivered in his saddle, the southerner longed for a good smoke to warm his insides. In thinking this he again remembered Brenna, who had asserted more than once that this particular habit – a most disgusting one in her view – had been acquired in response to Woodwind being deprived of his mother's breast as an infant. "It gives you something warm to stick in your mouth," she would say in jest. The memory of her inspired a smile, as it usually did. He missed her.

All across the landscape the windstorm shrieked, howling through stately conifers, stripping away the remaining leaves from ancient oaks with unceasing fury. As his horse ascended the narrow, leaf-littered, twig-strewn track, Woodwind felt grateful that the cold kept him alert, for while he needed sleep, a sense of perilous uncertainty required vigilance on his part. Rest would come, he assured himself, but whether in cozy bed or cold grave he could not be certain.

The stark, hilltop fortress embraced the gelid ground. Its brooding, angular walls appeared even uglier as the riders approached. Black and orange stains from runoff and rust mingled with many bullet holes that marred its surface. Newer, whiter patches of concrete covered major battle scars from conflicts fought many years earlier.

Once the road turned left for its final approach, Woodwind encountered an almost unbearable blast of unhindered wind. No longer protected by the bulk of the hill itself, the last few hundred yards of trail lacked trees and covering shrubs, allowing the unbridled breeze to rush swiftly through a lush stand of knee-high grasses in uninhibited fury. Waves of wind rippled across a swaying sea of wild grain, their dry stalks clothed in golden glory by the waxing light of the distant Daystar.

This terraced foothill summit provided the base with a clear field of fire. Every approach angle faced at least two machine cannon, swivel-mounted rocket launchers and several individual firing ports enclosed in steel or concrete. The odd angularity of its perimeter created overlapping kill zones, where multiple gun emplacements from different walls and levels could concentrate a rain of death upon any advancing troops.

As an added protection, the pitch of these Tamarian battlements would deflect, rather than directly absorb, the impact of artillery. Mortar shells, with their higher angle of attack, would be more effective, but only if they were capable of penetrating what looked like massive concrete walls. Although this base had been designed to withstand a terrible pounding, Woodwind remembered the terror of heavy Azgar guns and whispered a silent prayer for all the soldiers who would soon be – without doubt – defending against them.

Standing at the end of the approaching road where a wide band of gravel encircled the outer wall, a narrow arch of weathered limestone held its aquiline arms against the bitter sky. An aphorism, etched upon its eroding face, had been written in the local language. A translation of these words in Southern Vulgate, which Woodwind knew how to read, followed beneath. The inscription read, "Peace to all who come in peace, but death to those who destroy!" Above this solemn warning, a date testified to the age of the firebase. Woodwind calculated that the structure had been standing for two-hundred and seventeen years.

Just before passing under the crumbling semi-circle, the leading Tamarian escort dismounted, as did his partner. The men urged Woodwind to do the same, as the keystone had been set at a symbolic height of seven feet. This was too short for the average giant to walk under without stooping, and too limited a clearance for a man on horseback. But Woodwind soon learned about a more practical reason.

"You'll have to lead your horse down the ramp," the leading police officer stated. "And be careful. It's slick with ice and steeper than it looks. Take small steps."

Woodwind obeyed, leading Shadow by the bridle. A slippery path of polished flagstones began directly beneath the arch, descending toward the gate. Recalling his earlier encounter with the bathroom floor, Woodwind carefully made his way downhill.

The fort's main entrance amalgamated features unique to the Tamarian fire keeps with more traditional, if considerably updated, defenses. These included a sunken barbican that held a pair of heavy iron doors, an outer curtain wall with embrasured inner walls, along with many steel encased firing ports set into steeply angled bulkheads. Its narrow, angular ramp prevented traditional siege engines from nearing the barbican and exposed any would-be attackers to a murderous, even predatory, approach.

Yet this base flaunted form along with function, for in Tamaria, the art of architecture permeated even the most practical of structures. This shell keep, and the others of its kind, were steeped in the tradition of more beautiful buildings found everywhere in the High Land.

Upon closer inspection this mind set revealed itself in startling clarity. Cast into austere concrete on the walls at its entrance Woodwind saw lovely figures representing the feminine incarnations of liberty and justice, themes endeared to the heart of every Tamarian. The art unsettled the southerner, whose religion prohibited the worship of images and icons, but he said nothing.

Upon a set of iron double doors, held in place by huge, well-oiled hydraulic hinges, twelve different scenes had been fashioned into the metal, and strangely, none were of a military nature. The reliefs dealt with themes of civil government, the administration of justice and progressive agriculture, or portrayed pastoral landscapes and natural wonders like high waterfalls and mountains.

When Woodwind asked about the motive behind such artwork, his escorts met the query with a pair of puzzled expressions. Apparently, the locals considered renderings of this nature so commonplace they hadn't given it much thought.

Soundlessly, the massive pair of black doors swung open and four very bored soldiers approached from behind the iron gate. Three of these men led the animals up a broad, straw-covered passageway that ascended into the light of an open courtyard at the center of the base, while the military policemen chatted briefly in Tamarian with the duty officer.

Woodwind watched for some indication of his disposition, but noted only a brief, somewhat disdainful glance that seemed to exemplify the officer's low opinion of all things foreign. That didn't bode well.

"Follow me," said the senior policeman at length. He waited for Woodwind to comply, then strode down a corridor parallel to the outside wall without looking back.

As Woodwind walked away, he heard another Tamarian soldier spit on the tiled floor. Some apparently rude remark followed, inspiring laughter and additional commentary. The southerner did not appreciate this disrespectful treatment, but when a twinge of resentment began to surface in Woodwind's mind, he dismissed the fantasy it would have inspired in a man of less self-control. Contrasting markedly with the climate outside, Woodwind found the fire keep's temperature quite moderate. The Tamarians accomplished this feat using the same technological prowess that lighted what seemed like an endless maze of passages intersecting at oblique angles. Scrubbed scrupulously clean, the glistening floor reflected the characteristically bluish glow of methane lamps, different only in design to those Woodwind had studied in the bathroom earlier that morning by a wire cage, which lent eerie shadows to the wall behind each fixture.

Soldiers in mottled, autumn-colored fatigues and berets marched purposefully toward destinations unknown, most paying only fleeting, cursory attention to the tall, unshaven southerner who trudged quietly behind his escort. The halls echoed with the consonantal chatter of men, and even a few women – to Woodwind's surprise – as well as the curious clicking of hobnail boots upon the smooth tile underfoot.

Finally, a series of painted steel doors lay at the end of the corridor. As soon as the policeman opened one of them, Woodwind's nose felt assaulted by a mildewy odor that diminished his heretofore developed respect for Tamarian cleanliness. The room behind the door, both windowless and bleak, contained only a sliver of cold light descending from a shaft high above.

"It's in here for now," the policeman said, somewhat apologetically. "As soon as Colonel Brandt has an opening in his schedule, we'll get you in to see him."

Woodwind's unease deepened as he entered the stale environs of the cool, concrete room. "When will that be?" he queried, grasping at any hope that might be offered him.

The policeman offered no reassurance. "Couldn't tell you. Rumor has it an army's on its way, and somebody thinks you're a spy. We don't take kindly to foreigners snooping around, but we'll see to it you don't starve down here." Without speaking another word, the policeman shut and locked the steel door.

As the footfalls faded down the hall from whence they'd come, Woodwind felt alone and afraid.

***

Windstorms occurred frequently in Tamaria's southeastern quarter. Their prevailing direction could be reckoned at a glance in some places, where tree branches survived only on one side of the trunk. Many thick-stemmed species grew so disfiguredly, they appeared ready to topple at the slightest provocation.

This microclimate existed because of an extensive glacier to the northwest of a verdant, lake-filled valley called Broken Wing. Most of the people who lived in this region had settled there. Descending air, cooled by its contact with a thick blanket of ice and snow, funneled through a glacially-gouged trough between a pair of high mountain ranges in order to replace thermal convection currents rising over the hotter Saradon.

Thus, powerful winds shrieked across the steppe with impressive ferocity, waxing stronger as the Daystar climbed into the sky. Although adiabatic heating occurred as the freezing air compressed in its descent, the difference in elevation between the glacier and the Saradon warmed the wind insignificantly, at least from a human perspective.

As Sergeant Streckert appraised the situation, he understood from experience that conditions of this kind created severe windstorms. Also, his unexpected encounter with Azgar troops the previous night created additional and grave concern.

The sergeant considered two options. In the first, he could send a reliable cadet back to the inn with a warning message that would be relayed to the appropriate military command authorities in a day or so, allowing him and his young troops to remain in the field and gather intelligence about the enemy.

The problem with this idea was that it exposed his Junior Scouts to unnecessary risk from both the enemy and the weather. These young men were not adults yet. Even though they'd fought well against a surprised and outnumbered foe, the sergeant did not posses their naive bravado, and he believed it wiser to refrain from fighting until the full extent of the enemy's strengths and weaknesses were known. The sergeant considered himself a prudent man. Knowing when to fight and when to retreat kept soldiers alive, and the Republic of Tamaria needed every warrior she could muster.

The second option involved returning to the inn immediately, and by doing so, the sergeant could expect to arrive by mid-afternoon. This would leave the whereabouts of Azgar forces unknown, possibly exposing some frontier units to attack without warning. Neither decision solved every issue satisfactorily, but there had to be a better choice between the two.

Hoping to clarify his options, Sergeant Streckert approached Brenna to hear what she had to say.

"I don't know much," she began, her eyes reluctant to meet his, her voice so obscured by reticence that it was barely audible above the wind. "My father once said their army had more soldiers than there were people living in Shirak. I've known them to march as far as thirty miles in a single day, with cavalry troops screening their movement, but I'm not sure where they are right now.

"The Azgar think themselves righteous, but they're cold-hearted and incredibly cruel. They destroy weaker nations to take land, resources and plunder. They will do to your people exactly what they did to mine if you are unable to defeat them. That's all I know. I really wish I could help you further." Garrick reported that she seemed genuinely apologetic.

Sergeant Streckert then turned to Garrick, reiterating his earlier order. "Find her friend, and find him fast." With that, the sergeant turned on his heels and began shouting commands to the rest of his cadets.

"What did he say?" the maiden inquired, meekly.

Garrick dreaded telling her the truth. He had to relate the story about Woodwind eventually, but he'd wanted to put it off until their relationship had become better established. Although tempted to lie in order to buy more time, he knew from experience that any advantage gained from being dishonest would not endure. Garrick's integrity prevailed. He told Brenna every detail of his chance encounter with Woodwind the day before.

"He spoke highly of you," Garrick explained, "showed me your likeness in a locket, and made me promise that I would notify him if I learned anything about you. I gave him my word. As long as you're not threatened by him, I'm compelled to honor my promise." He watched carefully to gauge her reaction, hoping that it might not be favorable.

Brenna didn't know what to say. She stared out over the windswept landscape and in complete shock, whispered "Merciful God" in her own tongue, while fighting back a flood of pent-up emotion that brimmed in her eyes. Woodwind had come all this way to find her, and of all people she could have met, this particular cadet had spoken to him. Was that not evidence of Allfather's favor?

Her thoughts drifted toward her loving friend, whose longing for lifelong companionship he'd uttered only once, on a starlit evening when the Great Eye Nebula – the ghost of a dead star that rose during the spring and lingered into late summer – graced the night sky. That memory seemed long ago now.

Presently, however, she became aware of how near the young Tamarian's body was to hers, and his proximity drew her out of her reverie. She gazed at him. Garrick's behavior toward her had been above reproach when she was vulnerable. A man of lesser principle might have tried to take advantage of her weakness, yet he'd proven himself trustworthy. He was intelligent and articulate. In the bright light of morning she found him both beautiful and strong. Uncontrollably, Brenna's heart began to pound . . .

The Lithian woman stepped back, afraid she would lose control, unaware of the sting she inspired in Garrick's heart by doing so. She looked at the ground to avoid looking at him again, drawing a pattern in the dirt with her right toe.

Garrick shielded his eyes from the wind, pretending not to be bothered by her withdrawal. "And so my sergeant," he continued, "wants me to bring him back to the inn for questioning."

Brenna, eyes still averted, responded dispassionately. "I know he'll want to help you."

"Woodwind said he was the captain of your father's personal guard. Is that true?"

"Yes," she replied. "He is also my friend."

Garrick turned away, a curse retreating from his lips. She really is a rich girl. And worse, she belongs to a mercenary! Covering his disappointment rather poorly, he stated, "Then I'll arrange for you to be reunited."

Acting partly out of sheer self-preservation, Garrick judged her actions, words and appearance incorrectly, and the shift in his attitude toward her – however well-intended it might have been – wrought confusion in the Lithian woman's heart. She didn't understand why he'd suddenly grown brusque, and felt a twinge of hurt inside that he'd begun treating her this way. Then, as quickly as the conversation had begun, it ended, and the two did not speak again for hours.

Jan Bordmann, who'd been discretely watching from a distance, sensed a change in Garrick's expression and approached his friend with concern after Brenna turned away. "Girl trouble?" he inquired.

Garrick shook his head. "My rotten luck," he responded, trying to stifle the envy he felt. "I should have known she'd never be interested in someone like me."

Jan glanced over his shoulder casually. "That's not what I'm seeing. I think she likes you. Is she married?"

"I don't know. She's got some other guy."

"Well if she ain't married, I wouldn't let the boyfriend get in my way if I were you."

Garrick straightened, looking directly into his friend's eyes. "I'd really rather not talk about it," he warned.

Jan backed away from the subject immediately, knowing that Garrick extended impatience toward anyone who did not respect his privacy. Whenever his comrades talked about their families, Garrick remained quiet. If questioned directly, he spoke in generalities. His parents lived on a small farm above Deception Creek, and he had a younger sister and brother who were fraternal twins.

He didn't engage in lurid talk about the local girls either. Garrick expressed disgust whenever anyone openly discussed the unveiled physical attributes of a young woman, and refused to do so himself. Harold Vortlund teased him about this once – questioning the disposition of Garrick's sexuality – but the husky farm kid from Deception Creek ended that nonsense with a single, left-handed blow to Harold's face. Sergeant Streckert had given Garrick a serious chewing out, and put him on dish duty for a month, but nobody else in the Junior Scouts dared challenge him after that incident.

Wishing to avoid conflict, Jan shifted the conversation to the previous evening's battle. Quiet words replaced the swagger recklessly expressed before their shared combat experience. As other cadets joined in with their own stories, a bond grew between them.

Sergeant Streckert organized his troop near the summit's edge. From this vantage point the landscape appeared vast, primeval, untouched by human hands and impervious to the destructive fist of international conflict. A brilliantly-hued autumnal blanket of swaying grasses stretched endlessly, it seemed, into the eastern horizon. The Saradon and nearby hills looked as they had since the great glaciers retreated thousands of years earlier.

When the sergeant addressed the cadets, he spoke to them about honor and duty, warning each one to carefully consider the danger their nation faced. "Find the man inside you," he encouraged. "We need your courage now. It's time to leave boyhood behind."

The impact of the night's battle and the moment of reflection wrought a profound change. A sober maturity replaced lost innocence as the young Tamarian warriors climbed down the hill. No one complained. No one goofed off. Combat forged them into a veteran team that marched with sobriety.

Upon their arrival at the oak tree, Sergeant Streckert called the column to a halt. The bodies that had lain there the night before had vanished, apparently dragged into the tall grass and buried. Several sets of fresh horse tracks told a tale to the sergeant that a party of Azgar had recently left the area. The proximity of this position to the grounds of the ill-defended inn troubled him. He ordered the cadets to march in battle defile – three abreast with loaded rifles at the ready – pointed into the tall-grass prairie on either side of the road.

Brenna walked between Garrick and his friend, a slim, brown-haired, brown-eyed kid with a mild case of acne, near the head of the marching column. The two cadets carried on a conversation as if she wasn't even there, which would have been fine if she had not felt badly about Garrick's sudden change in attitude toward her. Although she didn't understand the words of the ugly sergeant's orders, she grasped the meaning when she saw everyone chamber rounds. Taking their lead, she strung her recurve bow and carried three arrows in her right hand.

Two tense hours passed uneventfully. An old stone wall, situated on an incline to the west of the Saradon road, encircled a compound of magnificent buildings whose slender, arched windows reflected many colors in the strong daylight. The cadets dared not display any overt emotion as they marched, but a collective sense of relief swelled among them after they passed under the gate.

Brenna felt her eyes drawn to the tangled mass of limbs arising from dark, deeply textured oak trunks. She noticed carefully trimmed juniper hedges and planting beds covered in deep blankets of fallen leaves. The Lithian woman listened to a pair of scrub jays screeching in the trees, and watched as one flew up to a rain gutter five floors above the cobbled courtyard. She'd not seen a place as lovely since fleeing from Shirak.

The inn conveyed an aura of old comfort inside the shelter its walls, as if, within its stone embrace, safety from the crescendoing storm might be found for awhile. Delicious food scents wafted from an unseen kitchen, wistfully reminding Brenna of home, where diligent servants filled mother's oven with the wonderful aromas of baking bread and sweet treats.

The cadets entered a large, rectangular building, whose slate roof reached for the ground through a series of flying buttresses. Garrick put his hand on Brenna's arm to get her attention, but was interrupted by the sergeant. The man said something the woman didn't understand, and in response, Garrick gave her a helpless glance, then ascended a mahogany staircase with his increasingly boisterous comrades.

As her eyes wandered around the building's interior, Brenna saw boxes and supplies stacked near the walls. Adult warriors and cadets carried material down the stairs and hallways in preparation for their imminent winter evacuation. She also noticed a pipe organ at the far end of the main hall and secretly dreamed of playing it. Her slender fingers twittered unconsciously, as if dancing across its keys in practiced patterns long since committed to memory. She'd not played an organ in months, and though she longed to fill the rafters with magnificent sound, Brenna felt too shy to inquire about the instrument.

A tall, blonde-haired woman appeared from behind a desk in the main hall as the young men retreated. She spoke briefly to the sergeant, glanced at Brenna, nodded, then approached as the sergeant turned away.

The woman introduced herself as Warrant Officer Rand. "Please come with me," she said in a voice that carried the husky quality of Woodwind's after he'd been sucking on that filthy pipe of his. "I'll get you geared up for the weather."

Brenna followed her escort obediently and entered the women's quarters, where the female soldier offered her a warm shower. The tall woman appraised the petite foreigner's size, left her a towel and returned a few minutes later, carrying a parade uniform. This outfit consisted of wool stockings and flannel underwear, a collared, long-sleeved blouse of reddish-brown wool with a trim, knee-length wool skirt and black, knee-high steel-toed boots. Brenna's new ensemble also featured a bulky, fur-trimmed, goose down overcoat that hung to her thigh, and a fitted pair of lined cowhide gloves with a strap at the wrist. A dark green scarf completed the outfit.

After showering, Brenna wrapped her wet hair in the towel and squeezed water out of her freshly washed blouse and skirt. She smiled in gratitude when the Tamarian woman returned, offering a gold coin in payment for the warmer clothing.

Warrant Officer Rand refused, gently pushing Brenna into a curtained stall for changing, surprised that the Lithian woman had neither body hair nor felt any shame about standing bare naked in the open. "Sergeant Streckert told me you saved the lives of three cadets this morning. The cold weather kit is our way of showing thanks to you."

Brenna accepted the gift, but stopped the warrant officer as the woman turned away. "I come from a warm place," she explained. "I've never worn this much in my life. What do I put on first?"

The Tamarian soldier patiently described the order in which the young woman should dress. She promised assistance if necessary, while closing a curtain that provided the privacy she believed her guest should have naturally desired.

After Brenna dressed and stepped out from behind the curtain, Warrant Officer smiled wistfully. "You look great!" she remarked. "How do you keep the boys away?"

That sensitive topic, fraught with memories of less than respectful masculine treatment, required a delicate response. Not wishing to discuss the matter with a stranger, Brenna replied, "I merely reflect my mother's beauty. You would find her quite lovely, I think."

The Lithian woman combed and braided her hair in silence; afraid she might inadvertently do or say something offensive. When the two women returned to the main desk, they found Garrick waiting. He'd also taken a shower and changed into a fresh set of autumn-colored fatigues, clean boots, mittens, a scarf and overcoat. A fur-lined leather hat completed his ensemble, but he also carried a small provisions pack hooked to his belt, and his big infantry rifle lay in a long holster strapped to his back.

Garrick toyed with a note he'd folded up in his right hand. He smiled briefly when Brenna's bright eyes met his, but the expression faded as soon as she turned to thank the warrant officer at her side. He felt an uncontrolled shiver race up his spine and his throat drained dry. Brenna looked stunning in a parade uniform. His heart pounded and his eyes longed to linger upon her.

But he willed himself to avoid staring, a feat made far more difficult by her apparent, reciprocal interest. "Are you ready?" he inquired when she turned toward him again.

She nodded, glad to hear his voice again, wondering why he suddenly seemed so unsure of himself. "The place where we're going, is it far?"

"No," he replied, finding her attention a relief. "But it's better to ride than walk. Spent much time on a mule?"

"I've only ridden horses," she replied. "I hear mules are stubborn."

Garrick led her into the cold outside, walking briskly toward the livery, noting that she had no trouble keeping up."They can be, but they don't spook easily, and in rough country, they're sure-footed and not afraid of heights."

Brenna waited as he vanished into the dark stable. She felt a little uncomfortable when he reappeared with only a single animal, not knowing whether he would condescendingly offer her a ride while he walked, or insist that she walk while he rode.

Garrick interpreted her uncertain posture and facial expression as disgust. Worried that she wouldn't want to be close to him, the cadet shuffled his feet nervously. "The quartermaster told me that one will have to do. I hope you don't mind riding with me."

The Lithian woman smiled. "Actually, I'd like that."

Garrick's heart raced. He began to feel weak inside. "Let me help you up," he said, offering an unsteady hand.

Brenna, however, did not like to be patronized. "I'm not an invalid. I can do that all by myself, thank-you." She refused his hand as she stepped into the stirrup and swung her leg over the saddle, not helping him while he climbed up either. He said nothing, though he felt nervous as he sat behind her and reached for the reins.

The two rode past the inn's proud gate and turned northward along the windswept Saradon road, neither speaking a word for quite some time. She wondered if he would try to hold her, or let his hands wander to her breast once they were alone. Other men she'd known could barely wait for an opportunity like this, but Garrick remained respectful. Favorably impressed by his conduct, the young woman savored the passing moments in silence, quietly grateful for his self-control.

As they settled into the steady rhythm of the mule's stride, Brenna leaned back into Garrick's chest and shoulders, turned her head to look at him and broke the silence again. "Are you upset at me?" she inquired.

"No," he replied, his body responding with disconcertingly obvious arousal to her nearness. "Why do you ask?"

The Lithian woman felt his physical reaction against her lower back and hoped he'd control his desire. Watching his trembling hands remain in place and smiling at his ongoing restraint, Brenna's concern about their mysterious communication breakdown required immediate attention. She wanted to resolve whatever problem existed and continue on friendlier terms. "Because you're acting like I've done something wrong. You were really nice to me at first, but you changed this morning after breakfast."

Garrick wanted to be completely forthright, even at the risk of being rejected. Because he found Brenna so alluring, something insecure in his soul urged a lie in order to protect his vulnerable sense of self-esteem; but he yielded to a stronger instinct and chose his words carefully. "You're beautiful and I can't stop thinking about you. I see your image in my mind whenever I shut my eyes."

Brenna felt disappointed when he made that remark, evidenced by an uncontrolled expression of dissatisfaction that crossed her wind-burned face. She wanted the obvious attraction he felt toward her to be based on more than her appearance. Among her people beauty flourished in every face and form, resulting in an egalitarian ethic shared broadly among all Lithians. Other cultures, including the Tamarians apparently, ranked the value of a person according to attractiveness. Brenna had spent enough time among the Kamerese and Abelscinnians to grasp the price she paid for prettiness in human company, and felt discouraged to hear Garrick state this overtly.

He, seeing the change in her countenance and correctly interpreting what it meant, summoned his eloquence and continued the discourse. "I'm sure you've heard that kind of thing before, but I'd be lying if I denied it. I'm no different that way, but the more time I spend in your company, the more I understand that you're not like other young women I've known. This isn't easy to explain.

"We hardly know each other, yet you're consistently courteous. You've treated me as an equal, even though I'm a nobody and you come from a rich family. There's never conceit in your voice when you speak. Everything I've seen you do is steeped in kindness. You always listen, even when you don't agree. You're refreshingly smart, well-read and the way you look at the world reflects noble character. I've known enough people in my life to understand that these qualities are rare."

Garrick paused, letting his words sink into Brenna's heart. "I've listened to you explain your faith in God. It resonates within you in a way that shows you've tested every precept, and live by those that have proven right. No one can honestly claim true faith, as you'd put it, by following a thoughtless path where others lead. Listening to you, I can tell that you think for yourself. Your attitude proves that you live what you _believe_. Integrity like that impresses me far more than your pretty face."

Brenna felt better about his explanation, but it didn't answer her initial question satisfactorily. "Then why did you become so short with me this morning? What did I do?"

"Nothing," he replied a little bit sadly, hoping that he could trust her. "It's just that you belong to someone else, and I shouldn't want you like I do. I shouldn't want to be close. I wish I'd never touched you because now I know what it's like and no one else will ever do." Once he'd spoken this sensitive thing, his soul winced for the hurt that had always come when he'd uttered something vulnerable in the past.

Brenna sat up, completely unaware that her actions reinforced Garrick's worst expectations, nearly causing him to retreat from her and the conversation altogether. "Who told you I'd been promised to someone else?" she queried.

"It's not important," the young man muttered.

"It is important. You don't know the whole story."

"What else is there to know?" he remarked. "Woodwind came all the way up here looking for you, and the moment I mentioned his name you backed away from me and got all misty-eyed. It's my honor as a gentleman to respect your love for him."

Brenna laughed spontaneously, prompting the mule to speed up as her heels dug into its side. "I love Woodwind like a brother!" she replied. "He's been my friend since we were both children, but I don't belong to him any more than you do . . ."

Garrick let her words wash over his soul, his heart racing with hope, his tongue held, lest he spoil the moment. Quelling another nervous rush, the young man took in a deep breath and again chose his words carefully. "If you're not his girl, then why did he come all the way up here looking for you?"

Brenna began a lengthy account, explaining how her people endured a long conflict with the Azgar concerning silviculture and land ownership. Over the centuries, the Azgaril had turned their own forests into deserts and had begun falling trees in the Valley of Shirak to fuel their steam-powered industries. When an alliance of Lithian armies marched to end the cutting, war broke out.

But the real reason for the invasion, according to Brenna, involved religious apathy and a corrupt priesthood that abandoned true worship for the idolatry of material possessions, resulting in declining concern for the needy. She claimed that Allfather withdrew his protection, allowing the evil of the Lithian people to bear its fruit.

Brenna's father – though an effective commander with his own army – couldn't stop Azgar legions from over-running his territory. By midsummer, Lord Velez concluded that the Lithian cause was lost. Hoping to save his family, he struck a deal with another warlord named Nemesio Fang, who owned land in Kameron, far to the west.

According to Brenna, Lord Fang forced her father into a bad contract that exchanged her in marriage for a large tract of fertile land where her family could resettle.

"My father didn't understand the laws of Kameron," she said. "I don't believe he intended to give me away like a slave. My mother didn't want to leave me behind, but I convinced her that I should leave last so I could make sure everyone else got out. I stayed to guard the portals with my bow, but the enemy trapped me during their attack. By Allfather's grace, I escaped when the city caught fire.

"At first, I just wanted to avoid the soldiers. After running for a long time, I looked for a low-elevation pass that I could cross into Kameron, figuring the Azgaril would be content to conquer Illithia. But the mountains are too high, and early snow closed all the passes. Worse, the Azgaril invaded every nation's territory that I entered and kept marching north. I had to keep going in order to stay ahead of them. Eventually, I decided to come here. However, I didn't realize how cold it is in the north country, and if I hadn't met you, I'm sure I'd have frozen to death."

Garrick listened with a growing sense of relief. Brenna was not only uncommitted, she hadn't subjected his feelings to ridicule. The latter fact significantly deepened his favorable impression of her, but at the moment, her softness, nearness and warmth proved more influential. While he didn't agree with her fanciful, spiritual explanation for the aggressive Azgar expansion, that seemed inconsequential compared to her visceral impact.

Dieter, the tiny town at the fringe of Tamaria's southeastern frontier, arose from among the golden grasses like an island of civilization amid a nearly treeless ocean of empty, almost-arid, flat land. Most of its buildings – pine-framed pole structures – huddled close to the ground, partially or completely covered in sod to protect against the winter cold and prevailing wind.

The necessity of such construction became obvious as soon as Garrick and Brenna moved beyond the shadow of hills to the west of the Ice Dragon Inn, where the tremendous ferocity of rushing air blasted their backs with a brutality Brenna had never experienced before. Even in her new attire she found it necessary, or at least desirable, to snuggle a bit closer to her Tamarian friend for warmth. Garrick felt pleased by the close contact, but said nothing, afraid that spoken words would ruin the moment and drain away the happiness filling his heart.

The streets remained empty, save for an orange cat that scurried for shelter behind an oak barrel as their mule strode past a cluttered alley. A few faces appeared in windows, mostly small children whose curiosity faded as the two travelers moved out of sight. The rest of the villagers sought sanctuary from the storm behind their insulated walls. Garrick and Brenna dismounted in front of Dieter's only inn, tied up the mule and walked into the establishment. No sooner had they closed the door, however, when an elderly woman appeared and yelled at them to leave.

"What the devil kind of creature are you bringing in here?" she cried, her arms flailing wildly. "Take that slanty-eyed, slut foreigner back where she came from and close the door behind you!"

Garrick didn't know what to do. Although he thought it rude of the woman to speak about Brenna that way, attitudes like hers were common in Tamaria. Though he tried reasoning with the woman, she wasn't listening, so he grabbed her by the shoulders, gave her a powerful shake and in a stern tone of voice said, "Listen to me!"

Terror silenced the matron for the moment, for Garrick was very strong and she feared, quite irrationally, for her life. Once she stopped talking, he let her go and explained the reason for his visit as calmly as possible.

His ensuing description of Woodwind agitated her greatly, and she ran out of the room screaming! Garrick was in the midst of interpreting her actions to Brenna when the old woman reappeared with a straw broom, which she wielded recklessly with both hands at the young couple in her foyer.

"They arrested that louse this morning!" she screamed, "which is what they ought to do with all these foreigners! Get her out of here, I say! Get her out!"

Brenna didn't want any confrontation and would have preferred to slink out of the inn without another word. "Let's just go," she pleaded, tugging at his sleeve, protecting her face with her free hand. "We'll find him on our own."

He, however, resented being attacked. Ignoring Brenna for the moment, he tore the broom out of the woman's hands, pressed it against his left knee and snapped its handle into a pair of useless splinters. With an authority neither female suspected of him, the young soldier flung the door open and tossed the broken pieces into the street. When the wind slammed the portal shut, Garrick had the old woman's undivided attention. Anger swelled in his voice. "We're not leaving until you settle down and tell us where he was taken! I have a good mind to report you to my commanding officer for obstructing orders. Tell me, where was he taken?"

The old woman's eyes clouded over and she began to weep, muttering unintelligible phrases between loud sobs, her whole body shaking as if mourning the loss of a cherished heirloom.

Brenna, whose high regard for Garrick diminished after witnessing his handling of the matter, didn't disguise the disdain in her voice for his brutish behavior."That was intelligent," she said, her sarcasm sharp enough to further wound his suffering sense of self-esteem. "Breaking her broom really mollified the old woman, didn't it?"

Surprisingly, Garrick accepted the rebuke without protest. He looked Brenna right in the eye, where his true feelings were unveiled in an expression of remorse that lingered on his face. "You're right. I handled that badly."

As the young man turned his attention back toward the old woman, Brenna's disgust cooled and she watched him with a renewing sense of appreciation. He was the first human male she'd ever met who was brave enough to admit that he'd made a mistake.

Garrick, feeling certain that Brenna would never be nice to him again, kept his attention focused on the sobbing innkeeper. "Forgive me, ma'am," he said soothingly. "It was wrong of me to wreck your broom, and I'll make it right. While I shouldn't have been angry and disrespectful, I want you to understand that this is a serious matter." Then, seeing that she was also reasserting control, the cadet explained his encounter with the Azgaril and how he felt Woodwind could help the Tamarian army.

Still, the woman remained suspicious. "What could you possibly learn from a good-for-nothing, flea-infested street dog like him? Why, I dare say he'd only teach you worse manners than you already have!" She remained unwilling to provide any real information.

When Brenna realized that Garrick was getting nowhere, she finally lost her patience. After a short, silent prayer the Lithian woman interrupted the conversation, believing that Allfather would intervene on her behalf.

"Tell me the truth," she commanded in vulgate. "Where was the southern man taken this morning?"

Mrs. Mikkels stopped in mid-sentence, as if shocked back into mental clarity by the abrupt switch in languages. "The military police said something about Dead Hand Ridge, but I don't remember anything more."

Brenna turned to Garrick. "Do you know the place she's talking about?"

Astonished, the young man nodded.

"Well," she replied. "What are we waiting for?"

Garrick promised again to replace the broom and thanked the old woman for her cooperation, then held the door for Brenna, who nearly snarled at these ostensibly polite, yet nonetheless condescending habits of his. Turning his back to the merciless wind, he inquired, "How did you do that?"

Brenna, still a bit miffed at him for his bullying the old woman, would not explain. "You wouldn't understand," she responded. "Let's go back. I'm cold already."

***

Long hours of cold boredom inspired Woodwind to entertain himself with geometry. Because the Tamarians hadn't checked him for hidden weapons they had neither found nor confiscated his boot knife, so he used it to make scratches in the concrete where a shaft of daylight from a south-facing skylight inched across its rugged surface.

After an hour or two of this, he took off his belt, held it parallel to the floor and bored a conical depression in the concrete at its end. Then, he drew an arc connecting all the scratches, extending it into a circle. Selecting a point on its outside edge, he drew another circle, then another on the opposite side. Connecting diagonal points across the diameter of his creation created new points at equal distances from which to draw additional circles. Once six of these were complete, he had created a twelve-hour clock.

Bisecting these wedges into half-hour, and then quarter hour segments allowed him to keep track of how long he remained locked up in solitary confinement.

The time piece was useless at night and would soon have to be moved in order to compensate for seasonal variations in the Daystar's latitude, but it provided enough diversion for Woodwind to endure his isolation. In addition to imagined conversations with real people who were not present, something else began to distract his attention by late in the second day of his captivity.

By this time, the skylight high above rattled intensely against strong surges of howling wind. Worried that it might fall, the southerner became fixated on its staccato trembling and didn't hear the clicking of footsteps in the hall outside. The sound of a key sliding into the lock startled him, and he realized, a bit late, that he hadn't returned the boot knife to its sheath. Reacting in partial panic, he jabbed the weapon into his right boot in order to conceal it, but missed his mark and cut his flesh on its sharp, crystalline edge.

A single Tamarian soldier, clad in a dress uniform and a brown beret, appeared from behind the door. "Master Woodwind?" he called. "You've been summoned."

The southerner left his cell with relief tempered by the discomfort from the cut on his right ankle. Trying hard not to limp, Woodwind walked behind his escort, up a spiraling stairwell that seemed strangely devoid of humanity. One floor from the top, they entered another hallway, this one paneled in red cedar and carpeted by a strip of worn rug, covered in faded mosaic patterns now blended together from the friction of many feet. The walls, though lacquered and polished, scented the air with the earthy, aromatic fragrance of a craftsman's workshop.

At length, Woodwind's escort stopped at a door and let his charge into a small room with a narrow, north-facing window. Three chairs stood near another door facing the opposite wall, two of which were occupied. Woodwind recognized the young Tamarian he'd met at the Ice Dragon Inn, and his heart skipped a beat when he realized who was sitting next to him . . .

"Brenna!" he exclaimed, half-disbelieving his eyes.

She smiled and rushed toward him with open arms, leaping into his embrace. She kissed him three times, the third time on the lips, then held him in a lingering embrace. Woodwind felt the familiar softness of her breast against his body and whispered thanks to Allfather for helping him find her again.

Garrick watched the reunion in silence, trying hard to restrain his jealousy. He seethed silently when Brenna kissed the Kamerese swordsman, looking away in order to conceal his disappointment. Had she been disingenuous about her relationship with this man?

Brenna and Woodwind, however, did not remain long in each other's arms. After expressing her gratitude, Brenna moved away and a palpable tension emerged.

Woodwind approached the narrow window where Garrick stood, joining the young Tamarian in admiring the stormy scenery outside. "I must thank you," the southerner said. "You were a great help."

Brenna moved between them, but when Garrick backed off, unsure of his standing with her, she moved closer and grasped his hand. Garrick felt a shiver run up his spine and tried not to smile, barely managing to keep a straight face. "I gave my word, and my word is my honor," he replied. "But now I have to ask you to return the favor."

Woodwind glanced at Brenna, then at Garrick, recognizing the chemistry brewing between the two of them. Hesitantly, he asked, "What can I do for you?"

The young Tamarian related his encounter with Azgar troops on the hilltop, speaking factually of his experience. After this, he explained his nation's need for intelligence about the enemy and the hope that Woodwind would be willing to assist. "My sergeant sent me to find you for this reason. Colonel Brandt directed your release after he read the orders my sergeant gave me. The colonel wants your help. That's why you're here."

"Does your Colonel Brandt know why I was being detained?" Woodwind asked.

"I don't know," Garrick replied with a shrug. "I don't need to know."

Woodwind scowled. "It may cast some doubt on my credibility, and I'm under orders to return with the young lady as soon as I find her."

Brenna interrupted. "You may return, but you will do so without me."

The two of them began arguing in the Lithian language, a tongue apparently devoid of consonant sounds to Garrick's ears, as much so as Tamarian lacked vowels to hers. Garrick, who'd already experienced Brenna's rather willful personality, listened to her spar with Woodwind in a manner so assertive, it seemed incredible that this woman could be afraid of anyone she'd never met before. Their argument ended abruptly when Woodwind could not endure the pain stabbing at his ankle any further.

"Stop fighting me!" he demanded. "I've come to help you, not hurt you! Besides, I cut myself a few minutes ago and I can't think straight enough to contend with you while I'm in pain!"

Brenna responded with a curt comment about his inability to think under any circumstances, but agreed to examine the wound. She went through her procedure to stop the flow of blood, then bowed her head over the cut and kissed it.

Garrick, who knew something of asepsis from his training, shuddered. He'd seen the end result of her healing skill, but had never witnessed what she actually did when healing wounds. He suspected that her technique would spread – rather than stop – infection, but said nothing.

At that moment the colonel's secretary, a thin warrant officer who looked ill-fed in his oversized uniform, entered from the next room. He paused, puzzled, watching until the long-haired foreign woman arose from her kneeling position.

"Colonel Brandt will see you now," he announced flatly, holding the door open for Woodwind. The lanky soldier, obviously interested in an explanation, remained outside as Woodwind entered the office.

Colonel Brandt sat behind an oak desk that looked brand new. In reality, all the furnishings were original and old as the base itself. Yet, neither scrape nor scar from years of service showed on any surface.

The middle-aged officer, grey haired and bearded, peered at his guest from behind a pair of circular spectacles. A smile spread across his ruddy face. He snickered to himself – the sound barely audible – but the action betrayed by small, rapid bounces of body fat across his chest and shoulders. He seemed curious, friendly and dangerous at the same time.

Woodwind stepped into his boot, giving a short bow as he entered the room. The tiny office, also paneled in cedar, had an eight-foot wide plaque of green and grey marble on the western wall, behind the desk. In the center of this stone display, flanked by the national flag and a regimental banner, a portrait of Tamar, the Queen of the High Land, graced the gold-trimmed tile.

"So you are the bloodthirsty miscreant from the deep south," the colonel remarked, still amused.

Woodwind extended his hand in the universal gesture of peace. "Guilty by birth, but not in deed," he responded, introducing himself by name. The Tamarian commander's hand felt surprisingly firm and calloused.

Picking up a sheaf of paper, the colonel commented: "I have been told that you served a Lithian warlord by the name of Velez, from the city of Shirak. You were his personal captain?"

"As long as my lord lives," Woodwind replied.

The colonel discarded the paper in his hand, sat back in his leather seat, and sized up the man across his desk with an intuitive eye. "And you have had contact with Azgaril of the so-called Northern Liberation Army as well?"

"Yes. Their blood is on my hands."

"Hmm," the colonel mused. "I have to say that it seems irregular for the servant of a Lithian lord to wander far away from his master, having made what you admit to be lethal contact with an enemy whose forces defeated your people. Is this your personal vendetta, or are you acting under orders?"

"I've not come to wage a private war," Woodwind replied, shaking his head. "I do nothing on my own. I'm sworn to protect my lord's interests, and will continue to do so until I'm unable."

"Noble," the colonel replied, "but insufficient to account for your presence here." Then, softening his tone to assuage the uncertainty of his guest, he continued. "Captain Woodwind, I regret that my questioning may pry into your private affairs, but I am accountable to my command, and ultimately, the Tamarian people. Therefore, I must know why you've come to my country. I want to know the scope of your business here."

Woodwind nodded and disclosed his story, most of it, anyway. He began with the enemy invasion of Illithia, describing the cruelty of the Azgar. He spoke of Lord Velez, whose desperate attempts to evacuate his family from the doomed city of Shirak sounded both harrowing and heroic.

When the Lithian lord realized that his eldest daughter, who'd been left behind to guard the exit portals against unauthorized access, had not arrived at her scheduled rescue appointment, he felt grieved and feared for her life. Lady Velez, believing that her eldest daughter might yet be alive, sent someone she thought Brenna would trust. She sent a friend.

When Woodwind found his way back to the Velez estate, a fierce fire raged in the city, distracting enemy troops. The house had been riddled with gunfire and in it, he found several bodies strewn about, all slain with white-feathered arrows and a precision that suggested the carnage had been Brenna's doing. Following what he believed to be her escape route through the back of the property, Woodwind tracked the young woman across town, through a subterranean cistern passage that surfaced on a hill about a mile beyond the city walls.

"The first few days were dreadful," he recalled. "Enemy patrols were actively searching for escapees along their perimeter, killing everyone they found fleeing from the city. Sometimes I crawled through the bush on my belly and hid, always afraid that I'd find Brenna among the piles of dead I encountered. My progress was so slow it took me almost two days to reach my horse.

"When I grew tired, I couldn't risk sleep. They released their deathwolves every evening, and I had to circle back behind the advancing enemy position in order to avoid them. For the first week, I don't think I had more than twenty-five hours of rest.

"I lost Brenna's trail after I'd doubled back, only to find one a few days later that I followed in the hope it might be hers. Trusting my instinct and knowing of her interest in your country, I moved north at a pace I could only sustain on horseback.

"After awhile, it became obvious she wasn't fleeing to the west, and I felt increasingly confident she might seek refuge here, in Tamaria. I began finding her campsites in the hill country, each one further north, until I lost all trace of her passage a few days ago. Eventually, I crossed the Tualitin and began to inquire concerning the young woman's whereabouts among your people. The cadet outside found her for me, and that's why I'm here."

Colonel Brandt found the story plausible. The military policeman's report included statements that Woodwind had been cooperative with him, as well as with the local authorities, and didn't pose a specific threat against the local citizenry. The complaint filed against Woodwind had been lodged by a woman who'd made many such claims, and wouldn't have been taken seriously if had weapons not been involved.

This prompted the next question. "Alright then. Why did you defend yourself against Azgar scouts who threatened you on the road, but not against the armed Tamarian boy who attacked you at the inn? You carried your weapon into that bathroom, which implies that you perceived some kind of threat, and it's clear you possess the capability to inflict harm when you see fit. Why the sudden prudence?"

Woodwind suspected the colonel was trying to catch him telling a lie. He framed his response in terms of social context. The boy at the inn did not belong to an army bent on conquest, an army that had killed Woodwind's friends and members of the Velez family, whom he counted as his own. The teenager possessed inferior fighting skills, and it seemed reasonable to handle the situation with restraint.

"Allfather is just," he concluded. "Because I must account for my deeds, I am careful not to take life wantonly. The boy at the inn posed no real threat to me."

Colonel Brandt remained skeptical. "And what of the life of your Lithian friend? Would your master be pleased to learn that your conduct landed you in jail, and that by being imprisoned, you could not carry out his orders?"

"I am obligated to serve my lord in this realm with all my energy," Woodwind continued. "However, it's also true – and Lord Velez fully understands – that I must remain faithful to Allfather above all else. To dishonor the higher commission disgraces the lower one.

"I looked for lodging at the inn that night to avoid the cold and wind, not to indulge in luxury and create trouble for your people. The circumstances of my appearing before you are the result of misunderstanding and suspicion. These are factors beyond my personal control. I have faith that you are Allfather's servant here. You maintain law and order in a law-abiding land, and because of this, I'm confident you will treat me fairly. Violence makes matters worse. Besides, I'd given my word to the young soldier that I would be staying there."

Colonel Brandt scratched his forehead. "Yours is a strange manner of thinking," he stated. "I admit that I find it difficult to fully appreciate."

"If you knew Allfather, whom I serve, you would not think so."

"So you make decisions about killing or sparing people based on a moral code?" queried the colonel.

"It's not as formulaic as you make it sound," Woodwind replied. "Moral conduct demands a disciplined mind, but it becomes habitual with practice."

The Tamarian colonel smiled, but whether his amusement stemmed from ridicule of Woodwind's personal philosophy or some other cause the southerner could not be certain. "Perhaps then, we have reached a point upon which we can both agree, although from contrasting perspectives. Do I understand correctly that you feel antipathy toward the Azgaril?"

"I do."

"Then, if you will provide me with specific information on our mutual enemy, you will serve your higher commission, and I in turn will be better equipped to carry out mine."

"What about my obligation to take the maiden home?" Woodwind asked. "If I assist you, will you let me carry out my orders?"

Colonel Brandt laughed, exposing the motive for his humor. "I'm afraid that will have to wait," he replied. "Your release will be contingent on your cooperation. The more accurate and valuable I find your Intel, the sooner I'll let you go."

"You're asking me to offer my help on the basis of your word alone?" asked Woodwind. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't," the colonel replied. "But you will learn that I am an honorable man." Integrity resonated in the colonel's voice and radiated from his ruddy cheeks like warmth from a wood-burning stove on a cold day in winter.

"Very well," Woodwind sighed. "I'll tell you what I know. The Northern Liberation Army boasts over three hundred thousand well-equipped, disciplined soldiers who are camped within a days' ride of this place. They have excellent cannon to level your walls, cavalry to flank your maneuvers and a history of battlefield success against forces much larger than your nation can muster."

"You make them sound invincible."

Woodwind smiled. "Allfather alone is invincible."

Colonel Brandt prompted him for specific information concerning tactics, logistics, equipment and armaments, as well as morale. Woodwind answered in surprising detail, but the Tamarian colonel concluded that he needed confirmation only trusted scouts could provide.

"If you fail to defeat them," the southerner concluded, "they will take your land, steal your resources and enslave your entire nation."

"We'll not bend our necks to their yoke," Colonel Brandt replied. "There's more to the day of battle than the mere meeting of armies on the field. I have no doubt that their conquest will end here."

Woodwind scrunched his brow. "I don't understand why you can say that with such confidence."

The commander arose, beckoning Woodwind to follow him to the north-facing window. There, he lifted the sash, allowing a swirl of cold air to sweep into the room from the howling storm in the darkness outside. "Do you hear that?" the colonel inquired.

"I can hear nothing more than the wind," replied Woodwind, shaking his head.

Colonel Brandt smiled, patting Woodwind on the back as if he'd known him a long time. "That, my new friend, is a song of victory!"

The Red Flare

Nothing in my life, much less my brief military career, could have possibly prepared me for the savage ferocity of a violent gale we experienced while camped on the Saradon, just south of the Tamarian border. Dust, propelled to bullet-like velocity within the screaming stream of frozen air, stung at any exposed skin like the fangs of many unseen serpents. Any object less than half the weight of a man subjected to this relentless fury was picked up and flung for hundreds, even thousands of yards.

Struggling through the canvas canyons we'd erected only days before, I did not find a single tent undamaged. Those along the fringes fared far worse than the ones near the center of our makeshift city, for in the former case, thousands of small projectiles pelted their fabric sides until seams began splitting open, rent – it seemed – by the irresistible force of unseen hands. Other tents were torn from their tethers and tossed like cotton sheets ripped carelessly from a clothesline, leaving their exhausted inhabitants homeless for another freezing night.

Toward the center of the camp, piles of debris, dumped as the blunted wind slowed in its battering attack against our frail dwellings, swirled into fluttering entry flaps. Shivering soldiers repeatedly pounded new tent stakes into the rock-hard ground and repaired weary, sagging lines whose fibers, stretched and strained into fraying strings, snapped whenever they finally lost their war with the wind. Steel spires, which had earlier held our battle banners proudly aloft, fell like dying soldiers into the fragile, undulating embrace of tent tops.

In the months since our campaign began we'd laid waste many nations. Now, we survived at the mercy of a force beyond our control, an emotionless, inhuman power that even the gods our priests so fervently entreated seemed unable to influence. We had marched northward as invincible conquerors for many weeks, only to encounter an enemy whose legions did not tremble at the sound of our cannon, nor fall against the force of bullets and bayonets.

As I staggered into my tent, I realized we faced tenuous survival odds in this climate. My men had never tasted defeat, but we could be beaten by the wind and cold as surely as we had routed every army that dared stand against us. Thus, the confidence I'd felt the day before vanished, and again, the fears of my inner soul came alive. Distracted by the savage sounds surrounding my tent, my imagination drifted and I found concentration as elusive as sleep had been the night before.

Strangely, the memory of that Lithian girl from Shirak haunted me. When I closed my eyes to picture the Ice Dragon Inn, I saw her instead, crouched before me with her bow drawn tight, the passionate stare of her blue eyes fixed into mine. Had she let her slender fingers slide across the tense twine, my life would have ended there, before I'd experienced the misery of extreme cold, before I learned to fear a winter windstorm.

As thoughts of that lovely girl blended into the sound of shrieking wind I realized how little control I had over my own life. Although I had long believed in a fortune of my own making, my current situation left me feeling helpless.

Maybe I just wanted to be warm again. Whatever the reason, my work seemed meaningless. Though I had a hard time settling down, I managed to accomplish a task set out for me by a senior officer who didn't care that I secretly wept over the loss of my beloved woman to suicide, or that I missed home, where I never worried about freezing to death in the middle of the night. In fact, the senior officers didn't care about anything other than continual conquest. Would they ever feel satisfied with our success? Or did we have to face defeat before they came to their senses?

Ah . . . there it was again! I'd been drafted. I had no choice when it came to serving in this army. I carried out the orders of others, performing my duty without doubting in the rightness of our cause. Now, however, sinister, desperate sentiments filled my head. I toyed silently with the perilous premise of deserting all I'd claimed to believe in, for if the things I cherished had their roots in the imaginings of another mind, whether of mother, minister or military man, what right had I to claim them as my own?

This line of thinking brought my attention back to the furious sound of wind flapping against my tent. For a moment, I entertained the thought of running away. Others had done it. Others had found no comfort in carrying out the will of an ambitious general, but these thoughts were not my own either . . .

The opportunity vanished as a messenger arrived. He brought me Sergeant Aransen's report and told me that Legate Braegan expected a full briefing on the progress of our planned attack immediately. I wasn't ready for any detailed questioning, nor was I prepared to face a superior officer so soon after secretly committing treason. A familiar dread welled up within me, for this particular legate had a reputation for expecting miracles, and I was no priest.

Yet I obliged the duty of my rank, steeled my nerves, braved the cold and approached the legate's tent, shivering nervously as I waited to be called inside. I heard the sounds of clinking glass and cursing wafting from his shelter. He'd been drinking again. That always made everything worse. Moments later, I entered and saluted.

"Centurion Herulus reporting as ordered, sir!"

Braegan stood several inches shorter than I, but displayed a severe manner so intimidating, his persona more than made up for his lack of stature. At this moment, however, he sat at a table, conducting himself in a manner more worthy of my contempt than respect.

Muttering expletives that exceeded the brute vulgarity of an illiterate line soldier, he slurred his words like a slum-dwelling drunkard. I noticed a half-drained glass at his hand and an empty whiskey bottle on the stained, canvas floor near the table. He overflowed with explosive invective, the words lashing like a recklessly wielded saber. Volatile moods of this kind always accompanied drunkenness, and whenever he descended to this condition, I feared for my life.

A desk, deeply scarred from transport, lay awash in a sea of documents awaiting his perusal. Yet he sat idle, running rough hands through thinning hair, pausing to scratch a thickening beard. In mockery of the cold, he remained dressed in the same, lightweight battle fatigues we'd worn in Shirak.

With bloodshot eyes he inspected me from head to foot, smirked to himself, then set his bottle aside to proceeded with business. "I presume you've completed your attack plans," he said in a controlled tone that belied intoxication and warned of his potential rage. This man did not like to be disappointed.

"Of course," I replied, lying, spreading my papers across his desk in order to appear as impressive as possible. "In conjunction with the artillery liaison officer, a mortar and cannon survey has been plotted. The structure is lightly defended with what we believe are inexperienced troops. We have supply routes planned and an estimate of the manpower required. I believe . . ."

"I don't give a rat's rear-end what you believe, soldier," he glowered. "I want you to give me results." The legate brushed my papers off his desk with no more ceremony than he'd give to flicking lint from his uniform.

Relieved that he hadn't actually looked through them, but dreading that he trusted me I picked up the pile and stood at attention again. "You will have results, sir!"

"Good," he responded. "You'll attack at dawn, tomorrow. If we have to spend another night out here in this thrice-damned wind, I'll see to it that you take on these nose-picking barbarians with a wicker shield and a sharp stick! Understand?"

"Absolutely, sir!"

Without looking at me again, he said, "Dismissed!"

I left quickly, relieved that my career survived that encounter. I had a lot of work to do!

Before noon arrived, I'd roughed out my actual battle plan, requisitioned supplies, coordinated my attack timetable with the mess crew and deathwolf handlers, briefed my junior officers, and assembled the enlisted men. With help from Lieutenant Hicks, I distributed equipment and food among the hundred-odd soldiers who would participate in the operation. Each man carried an equal share of artillery munitions and personal gear.

Four horses, yoked in pairs, pulled two field cannon. These lightweight, bronze castings fired four-pound shot or canister. The mortar crew required two more horses to transport cast-iron mortar tubes that weighed nearly six hundred pounds each. We also brought along a seventh animal so that I could send messages quickly in battle.

I didn't feel good about this. As we marched northward, I brooded over my plans. My timetable made no allowances for setbacks. I worried that separating my forces would create trouble coordinating firepower between the mortars and cannon. These things bothered me, but not nearly as much as an intuitive sense of foreboding. I said nothing to the men about this. The only thing I heard from any of them were muttered curses about the cold.

The barbarians did not detect our approach. Several miles south of our objective, we split into small groups spaced three hundred yards apart, and moved parallel to the Saradon road, well east of the Ice Dragon Inn.

According to plan, we hunkered down in the tall grass until darkness fell, at which time my century took up three positions: one on the hilltop behind the inn for our mortar battery, the main assault force to the east of the inn, and another – out of visual range to the north along the road – that I intended to use as a screen against any possible reinforcement. This last group also provided a reserve for my frontal assault against the gate at first light.

An hour after nightfall, the wind finally began to slacken. Although protected from its fury by the hills to our west, I worried that being camped out in the open again would result in more frostbite and desertions. On the second watch, I sent the men to their respective positions, strictly prohibiting campfires because visibility on the Saradon, especially from a high point along the wall where the barbarians were sure to be watching, extended for miles. Hiding over a hundred men in the tall grass at twilight had been difficult enough, but at night, a campfire, however helpful it would have been to ward off the accursed cold, would surely clue the enemy in to our presence on the plain.

Strangely, I slept well. No premonitions of doom haunted my dreams, no deathwolf howl startled me from my slumber. Sergeant Aransen woke me up about half way through the last watch, and I felt refreshed, alert, even anxious to begin the battle. "Let's move," I ordered. "With luck, we'll take this place before the rest of the world gets out of bed."

Purpose pulsed through my veins. I supervised battle lines drawn to put the rising Daystar at out backs. When our cannon fired, the barbarians would have to stare into its brilliant light to respond. I surveyed the inn's gate, seeing no movement there. Sentries on the wall remained in shelter. A scouting report from my screening force uncovered nothing unusual. We'd achieved total surprise.

My sense of hearing faded as an ear-shattering eruption of exploding gunpowder reverberated across the empty plateau, followed a moment later by the dull concussion of a four pound shell impacting against the ancient stone wall, some three-hundred yards distant. Shrouded momentarily by a stinging, sulfurous smoke cloud issuing from the cannon, I watched the methodical grace of well-trained men adjusting the angle of their gun and loading a new shell into the breech.

For several minutes the barbarians did not return fire. Through my field glasses, I watched a sentry running from his post on the wall, disappearing from sight as a follow-up round from our second gun smashed into the creaky, wooden sign above the gate. Immediately after this, a mortar explosion arose from within the compound, though I was unable to hear its distinctive whistle coming in, having been deafened by the roar of bigger guns nearby.

My gunners bracketed the bronze gate on their third shot, but it proved tougher than I'd anticipated. Since we were not receiving any return fire, I ordered infantry, arrayed line abreast, three-rows deep, to advance to the two hundred and fifty yard mark and set sights on the wall.

"Fire on my command!" I directed, subsequently directing the cannon crew to move forward as well. There was no point in wasting any more ammunition if we couldn't knock the gate down from this distance.

Our mortar crew had trouble dropping their rounds accurately. The trajectory of their shells arced into the influence of strong, gusty wind high above the hills, pushing some of their shells further eastward. In dismay, I watched an errant round fall well beyond its target, coming dangerously close to the infantry line I'd just moved into range. The next shot went wide, and I cursed myself for placing that mortar crew in a position where they could so easily miss and kill friendly troops.

Our four pound cannon was a magnificent gun, accurate and fairly powerful for a weapon of its size. Although considered a light field piece in our arsenal, moving it with men instead of horses in battle wasted valuable time. Every moment our guns were silent gave the barbarians time to assemble their defenders. We lost the element of surprise because we'd begun firing too far away.

Of course, if I'd kept the horses in place, we would have had to harness them, and that might have taken even longer. What I learned from this, was that hammering the enemy quickly was critical to success. Before my troops could fire again, an organized response poured over the old walls like a waterfall of death.

Instantly, I learned to hate their rockets. Steamy contrails poured from the inn, obscuring our vision and filling the air with a terrifying sound. The sheer volume of fire astonished me, for we had considered this a lightly defended structure. These barbarian anti-personnel rockets were small, fast-flying devices with canister-type warheads that instantly turned the placid plateau into a graveyard.

"Return fire!" I screamed.

The flash of individual rifles created a fleeting screen of grey rippling down our line in its wake, followed by dozens of white smoke puffs along the crenelated stone crest some seventy-odd yards distant. As my front row of men knelt to reload, the second raised their weapons to fire, exposing themselves to massed rocket attack. Five men fell, their bodies obliterated, while many others suffered horrible wounds from shrapnel and burning gas.

Once our cannon finally arrived in its new position, the gunners adjusted their angle and began hammering the gate again. Three shots later, the impact of a four pound shell ripped the heavy portal from its hinges and sent it spinning into the cobbled courtyard beyond, where it crashed amid a cloud of dust and leaves.

Reacting rapidly, before my cannon crew had a chance to respond, barbarian soldiers rushed out from behind the wall with rifles blazing. Crouching for my own safety as large caliber bullets zipped overhead, I watched the young warriors form four groups on either side of the breach. With coordination that comes only from extensive training, one group fired a blistering volley while another raced forward, dropped to their bellies and discharged their weapons in turn. The third group then advanced, followed by the fourth and the process was repeated, with devastating effect.

We huddled close to the ground in disarray, near panic spreading like a brush fire among my men. Barbarian rifle shots outnumbered ours by a wide margin, while unceasing volleys from the walls showered us with hot, razor-edged shrapnel. Bullets designed to kill giants ripped through our ranks. Stricken men screamed in agony as their bodies yielded to the penetrating power of high-velocity enamel. Pinned to the cold ground, twenty of my soldiers perished within moments of the counterattack.

Worse yet, whenever we knocked one of the advancing soldiers down, he seemed to get back on his feet, fully capable of pressing onward. Their body armor, whatever it was, stopped our bullets, but both types of their ammunition tore through our breastplates and unprotected extremities, killing and maiming men who fell as helplessly as dry wheat stalks before a sharp harvest sickle.

I sent a messenger on horseback ordering our screening force forward. We needed help in a hurry, and I hoped they'd arrive in time. With the battle hanging in a delicate balance, I rallied my men with words that burst from my soul like a geyser venting from the ground, calling for fixed bayonets before the fighting denigrated into the ancient, brutal custom of men killing men en-masse at close range.

We closed ranks to concentrate our firepower. The four enemy squads melded into a pair of separate groups, one of which continued to advance directly for us, while the other moved left to flank our position. We could soon see the details of their faces. I stared in wide-eyed astonishment when I realized how young they were!

What I did next came from sheer necessity. I simply had to save my men. At a critical moment, I ordered my infantry to drop down, allowing the readied cannon crew to fire grape shot at point blank range into the advancing formations of young barbarian soldiers.

An explosion of blood and flesh erupted from within their ranks. Into the grey confusion of smoke and death I sent veteran soldiers who knew well the wicked work of bayonet and bludgeoning. Human rage mingled with the random sounds of steel on steel, the crunch of breaking bones and the cries of overwhelming affliction experienced on both sides.

In the haze I noticed an older man, an ugly commander whose presence seemed to inspire the young soldiers. Within seconds of our devastating cannon attack, his leadership reasserted control and the boys under his command renewed their courage to continue fighting. With the momentum of morale shifting in his favor, I raised my rifle and with a single shot, burst his brain like a melon dropped on concrete.

Instant panic rippled through his leaderless troops. My men seized control of the moment, their combat rage swelling until the battleground softened, soaked in the blood of its defenders.

When my reinforcements arrived, the remnant realized their battle was lost and turned to run. We shot them in the legs to prevent them from getting away, then dispatched them with the bayonet to ensure there were no survivors. Only then did I redirect my attention to the inn.

An eerie silence settled upon the scene. No further counter fire came from the battlements upon the wall. I'd lost almost forty percent of my men before even reaching the gate, and knowing we'd been rendered combat ineffective in just a few minutes of intense fighting, realized that a concerted defense would easily beat us back. Worried about walking into a trap, I proceeded with caution. After ordering my men line abreast with a ten yard gap between each soldier, we advanced.

Our cannon fired a pair of smoke rounds to the north, signaling the mortar crew to stop shelling. Disquieted by the lack of further resistance, my soldiers entered the compound in a state of hair-trigger tension, but our suspicions of ambush proved unfounded. No further conflict ensued.

A complete inspection required several hours. During this time we came to understand that the barbarians had abandoned the inn with remarkable speed, leaving little behind but a group of empty buildings. Our search yielded only meager food supplies and a few bundles of personal effects from which we scrounged some blankets and boots. I worried that we'd be asked to account for more plunder than this.

Worse yet, when we checked the water tower we found its tank empty. An open valve at ground level allowed water to rush back into the well while our hosts had successfully disabled the wind pump atop its tower. I wanted to be furious, but I'd been shocked by the brutality of the barbarian resistance and stunned by its sudden cessation. The boys we'd battled against beyond the walls were sent out to cover the retreat of others, but where had the others gone? Would they return and attack again with reinforcements?

Immediately, I posted men at the lookout points along the walls and prepared to defend our newly conquered headquarters. Several hours after we secured our position, I sent a squad of men to the little town north of the inn to obtain more food.

The distinctive hissing of a solid-fueled rocket startled me during my inspection of our firing positions. Launched by a hidden hand near the back wall, a single, red flare arced high into the cold, windy heavens.

Trouble

The warm, sweet taste of honey-flavored oatmeal lingered upon Garrick's tongue, inspiring daydreams of languid kisses and whispered conversations in a quiet place. While he'd not exchanged so much as a single touch while talking to Brenna the night before, he'd wanted to, and fantasy extended his memories of her into a surreal world of willingness and wonder, derived in part from the recent fumbling, adolescent encounters he'd shared with an equally naive, inquisitive cousin in the hay loft of his great uncle's ranch.

But Brenna's character and intelligence moderated his passion, inspiring patience. For the first time in memory, Garrick didn't pursue the dream to its usual conclusion. The amorous images of soft, scented flesh fled from his mind, replaced by recollections of endearing childhood stories exchanged in accented vulgate, of laughter shared, and of the intelligence behind Brenna's beautiful, sparkling eyes. Certainly her lovely features piqued his interest. He desired her, but he also wanted the young woman to experience safety and contentment. This feeling persisted as his ardor faded, leaving a far-away sort of smile etched upon his face.

Woodwind interrupted the young Tamarian's reverie with a barrage of social pleasantries uttered in a tone of voice that betrayed his distaste for early mornings. Careful not to spill a drop of steaming tea, the southerner set his tray down on the battered table deck long used for feeding soldiers and pulled up a chair. "Are you heading back to the inn this morning?" he inquired.

Garrick nodded. "I'm leaving at dawn. The sergeant wouldn't think twice about having me on dung patrol for a month if I don't show up soon."

"Dung patrol?" Woodwind inquired. "You march behind the cavalry with a shovel?"

"No," Garrick explained, finding Woodwind's attempt at humor an unwelcome interruption of an arguably more pleasant meditation. "It's part of how we keep warm. Each firebase has a gas-driven system that takes heat from the ground and amplifies it using a fluid pump. We use the same gas for indoor light and hot water.

"We make the gas in a digester. By mixing plant, animal and human waste in a warm tank, we feed tiny creatures that produce a flammable gas drawn off the top, similar to what happens inside your own body. Afterward, we compost the slurry and use it to fertilize our gardens.

"During the summer, when gas production is at its peak, we store extra output in a big, low-pressure tank for cooking fuel and light the rest of the year. In order to make the system work properly, someone has to shovel waste into the digester. We call it dung patrol, and it's an unpleasant job."

Woodwind's face wrinkled. "And people do this here?"

Garrick capitalized on his companion's queasiness, since he would have preferred eating alone anyway. "Modern forts like this one have built-in drain pipes for human waste, so unless there's a clog, we let gravity do its work. Animal dung and plant clippings still have to be shoveled into a hopper, which you might find disgusting, but it's more pleasant than freezing in the winter

"No one really knows who built the Ice Dragon Inn, or even when it was started, but it's a lot older than this place, so the gas system there is a retrofit. The army brought in pigs because we didn't have enough people and animals to feed the digester. Someone has to shovel pig dung into a cart and wheel it over to the hopper; that's a chore usually saved for junior scouts who slack off or don't show up for training on time."

Garrick's lecture on Tamarian technology might have interested Woodwind in a different situation, but as he listened to further explanations regarding the correct consistency and composition of feedstock, the southerner's appetite waned. He slurped hot coffee, eyeing the potatoes and green beans on his plate with suspicion. "So this food was fed digester slurry?" he inquired.

"Composted digester slurry," Garrick corrected. "Everything you've eaten here came from local gardens. All the old-time farmers know that yields decline without fertilization and crop rotation; it makes good sense to close the nutrient cycle by reusing waste. Otherwise we can't sustain food production."

Woodwind understood how this principle worked in the natural world, but the fact that the Tamarians used human waste to fertilize their plants repulsed him. His face reflected disgust, and the tone of his voice hardened as he responded. "That's all very progressive," he began, shoving his breakfast aside. "But I have something more important than pig poop to discuss with you right now."

Garrick accepted the change in topic with a nod.

"The police told me that Colonel Brandt was a reasonable man," Woodwind continued. "Maybe he is, but he's rather suspicious of my presence in your country. So, in order for me to walk out of here with my freedom, I've been invited to escort a scout patrol of the Azgar camp so they can file a full report. He won't let me take Brenna home until it's done.

"Now, I don't know the area. I know nothing about survival in a climate like this, and if the worst of the weather is yet to come, I won't last long on my own. I can also imagine running into a friendly patrol that thinks I'm hostile, and wind up either dead, or back in the brig. Since I don't speak your language either, I need help. I'd like you and Brenna to come with me."

Garrick had suspected that Woodwind would make such a request, but he considered Woodwind a competitor for Brenna's affection and shook his head. "Your story wouldn't be any more credible to Colonel Brandt if it came from me. I'm just a rookie recruit, and around here, that makes me lower than the scum on a slug's belly. You're better off traveling with a regular patrol.

"And, even if I could go with you, what's to stop you from riding away with Brenna once we hit the border? You told me that your master sent you on a quest to find her, and now, with my help, you've been reunited. Why would helping me and my people take precedence over your master's orders? It doesn't make sense!

"Besides, last night Brenna told me that she resents how you're acting like a hero rescuing a helpless damsel when you intend to drag her off to a place she doesn't want to go. She neither wants nor needs rescuing. It sounds to me like she's in no frame of mind to go anywhere with you!"

Woodwind bristled. "What makes you think that I have to answer to a baby-faced adolescent with a phallic infatuation for a pretty girl? My business with the young lady is none of your concern, and I resent your intrusion into my affairs!"

The southerner's hostile response stung Garrick into momentary silence. He fought back an irrational surge of terror, induced by bitter memories of brutal beatings every time he inspired his father's anger. At home, confrontations of this kind routinely resulted in merciless violence, and there, the best defense involved avoiding parental wrath at all costs. While Garrick didn't actually expect Woodwind to lash out at him, the power of deep and invisible wounds prevailed against his present experience. Garrick felt guilty for inspiring Woodwind's wrath, and his face flushed with shame. Unable to maintain eye contact, Garrick muttered, "Forgive me, sir. I meant no offense."

Having seen this behavior from the young Tamarian for the second time, and sensing that a dark story lay beneath this response, Woodwind reconsidered his reaction. Remembering the impulsivity of his own youth, the older man regretted allowing his anger to surface. Brenna's acceptance or rejection of Woodwind's most devoted affection remained a sensitive issue, and he'd been unwise to so readily expose the vulnerability. "No need," he replied. "I should not have been offended."

An awkward silence ensued as the two men searched their souls for words to continue. They stared absently across the mess hall, distracted by the sounds of soldiers milling in line, exchanging tidbits of personal news, their plates, cups and cutlery clinking as food service continued.

"I have to get back to my unit," Garrick said at length. Without another word, the cadet picked up his tray and headed for the dish room, leaving Woodwind alone with his thoughts.

***

Brenna leaned up against the gelid glass of a southwest-facing window, watching deep shadows retreat from between the crags of snow-crowned mountain ridges in the distance. The base commander graciously arranged for private quarters on the top floor of this unusual fortress, but after sleeping soundly, Brenna felt hemmed in by the cool, concrete walls protecting her from the dying wind outside.

A dull, dissatisfied ache crept into her soul, a feeling inspired partly by the culmination of her intense effort to reach the High Land, and having done so, of not knowing what to do next. By Allfather's grace she stood on Tamarian soil, but it had been her will, not his, to come here, and she feared that she'd made a grievous mistake.

Woodwind's post-prayer session scolding echoed in her memory. "You've run away from your problems like an irresponsible child, and to claim, by virtue of your survival, that the blessing of Allfather has condoned such reprehensible behavior is little more than a rationalization to conceal the betrayal of your family! You're pursuing some demented fantasy about living in the far north at the emotional expense of people who love you! How could you treat your own family this way?"

"You can be such a horse's hind-end!" she thought angrily, glaring at a puff of snow driven by the wind from a distant, prominent peak. The wound inspired by her friend's accusation stung within her heart, inspiring dismal feelings worse than the guilt she already felt about lying to her parents.

Brenna didn't want to follow Woodwind to Kameron, but she reconsidered the idea because he was her friend, and even if she disagreed with him, the importance of their relationship required that she honor his devotion with at least a tacit attempt at conciliation. She felt she owed him that much for his trouble.

The first thing she didn't like about this idea centered upon the undeniable authority he would suddenly hold over her. As her father's servant Woodwind's social status fell beneath hers, and additionally, she'd lived three years longer than he. Their friendship, already suffering because he'd successfully tracked her down, would certainly deteriorate further if she returned to Kameron in his company. He would never let her hear the end of his achievement, and she hated his continual attempts to prove his worth as a suitor.

Worse yet, she'd have to face her parents and admit that she'd deliberately defied their wishes. Because Brenna sincerely loved her family, the defiant act of running away rather than returning as promised filled her heart with ineffable remorse. She could not bear the fact that she'd disappointed her father, especially since nothing had changed in her unwillingness to marry Lord Fang.

"Ugh!" she muttered. The thought of breathing air in proximity to that immaculately-groomed but ill-moraled excuse for a man disgusted her to the core. Although a powerful leader with an army of his own, wealthy and influential in the affairs of Kameron, the root of his success lay seeded in slavery and opium trade. The Lithian woman loathed his greed for power and detested his character.

She simply could not return to Kameron with Woodwind. "I'd rather die!" she muttered to herself.

The romantic land of Tamaria had proven colder than she expected. Brenna realized she could not survive out in the wildland by herself, at least during the winter. Living off the land had become progressively more difficult with each step northward, as her memory of hunger and dwindling figure testified; but according to Garrick, colder, darker days lay in the near future.

"Garrick . . ." she whispered, turning from the window. Leaning her back against the cool concrete wall, she pictured his face in her mind, imagining the strong warmth of his embrace. Brenna closed her eyes as her heart quickened, wishing that the circumstances drawing them together didn't also present obstacles to drive them apart. Her eyes opened and her lips drew into a tighter line. During their conversation the previous evening she'd confirmed, to her dismay, that although Garrick did not repudiate her faith in Allfather, he could not accept divine immanence and influence in human affairs. He believed in a chaotic universe existing by chance and driven by natural forces, dismissing Allfather as a semantic label for things not well understood. Brenna concealed her disappointment from him, but it had overflowed from her eyes and onto her pillow in the solitude and darkness after midnight.

Talking to Allfather brought some comfort, and she'd fallen into a dreamless sleep soon afterward. Most of her early morning prayer centered on the gentle-spirited young man who inspired the smile on her face. Brenna craved his company, but the prospect of their friendship blossoming further seemed improbable or distasteful to people for reasons she didn't fully understand.

She'd noticed they were already raising eyebrows by standing close, holding hands or speaking to one another in the enemy's language. Brenna had never experienced social disapproval before. In the past, her musical talent, beauty and the importance of her family ensured a measure of deference from nearly everyone.

Tamarians, who knew nothing about her, judged the young woman based only on her physical appearance and language – men with leering, and women with either envy or disgust. She suspected that local people disapproved of racially integrated relationships, concluding that any serious affiliation with Garrick would not long be tolerated by those in authority. Nonetheless, Brenna prayed for Allfather's blessing, wistfully aware that neither the Tamarians, nor Woodwind, nor Garrick, would approve.

In the darkness before daybreak, she'd thought about staying at the base to help her Tamarian hosts in their fight against the Azgaril. Brenna had seen women who served in the Tamarian army, but felt too shy to inquire about their duties. After all, why would the Tamarians want to hire a half-breed Lithian whose best friend had landed himself in the brig for fighting with the locals?

Woodwind had seen no future for her up here, but he either couldn't comprehend what she was feeling, or didn't want to understand. Loyalty and selfless dedication to service, the very traits she so admired in him, clouded his judgment. In her mind, there simply had to be a spiritual reason at least partially responsible for her survival.

By extension, if Allfather had permitted her flight to the High Land, then there must be some purpose for her presence here. Brenna, whose faith moved her soul to compassion, understood why she'd been gifted with a healing touch . . .

"I'm not going with you!" she told Woodwind in her mind, rehearsing for a potential verbal fray unprecedented in their friendship. The Lithian woman muttered an angry monologue while dressing to avoid both the cold and the disapproving stares of her Tamarian hosts. Then, retrieving her bow and quiver, she raced downstairs in the hope of finding Garrick before he departed.

***

Appetite prevailed over his concern for what had once fertilized the vegetables on his plate, and less than fifteen minutes after finishing the food, Woodwind retrieved his longsword and departed, accompanied by two fully-armed Tamarian soldiers.

Corporal Albrecht Fanselars had a neck the size of Woodwind's thigh, and a booming voice that seemed boundless in its ability to harass and harangue warriors of lesser rank. Exuding an arrogance surpassed only by his mass, the soldier bullied his mule into a scamper up the steep ramp, setting a pace for the morning scout patrol that even Woodwind's gelding would sweat to maintain.

Albrecht spoke no vulgate. While this might have seemed a disadvantage to Woodwind, who could not understand him, Darrold Müller, a private soldier selected for this operation, translated calmly. "He likens you to the sticky mass of hair, mucus and semen normally found in the shower drains on base," the light-haired highlander explained. "This might not sound complimentary, but it's actually rather mild for our corporal."

"Why is he upset?" Woodwind inquired.

Darrold shrugged. "He said something about having real work to do, and compares accompanying you on this patrol to cleaning vomit and sickroom bedpans on a sweaty summer day. He's really not that upset."

It seemed a disconcerting statement, but Woodwind, who'd had no choice in his escort after Garrick turned him down, ignored the affront. He explained to the vulgate-speaking Tamarian where he'd last seen the Azgar camp, suggesting that they observe the enemy from the foothills west of the Saradon. Corporal Fanselars merely grunted his approval of the translation, shifting his rifle across his back for greater comfort and sliding a compact, shoulder-fired rocket launcher into a saddlebag.

A few hours before nightfall, after crossing the shallow, ice-jammed waters of the Tualitin and ascending steep, rocky hillsides where a path had to be made rather than followed, Woodwind began to understand why the Tamarians rode mules instead of horses. Within the first few hundred yards of an especially severe and slippery climb, he'd fallen far behind his escorting hosts.

Corporal Fanselars sneered smugly at the summit, waiting, commenting in a tone of voice that made his contempt easy enough to comprehend, even if Woodwind couldn't understand his words. When the southerner arrived at the top, Shadow, his mount, was deeply lathered and breathing hard. The corporal shook his head, turned his mule southward and continued.

At the end of a long, hard ride, the trio arrived at an east-facing bluff. Even with the naked eye at this distance, a huge horde, armed with a vast array of artillery, appeared on the steppe below. Closer examination with a field lens brought about a sudden and serious conversation between the two Tamarians.

"What's wrong?" Woodwind inquired.

Private Müller stared into the lens for quite some time before offering a response. "They're moving," he said. "It looks like they're going north."

Woodwind nodded. "Odds are good that they've scouted your frontier and found a suitable place to set up for a full-scale attack. I hope you can field a big enough force to hold them off."

"What idiot marches his army so close to winter?" the Tamarian inquired rhetorically. Then, changing the subject and addressing Woodwind directly he inquired, "How many would you say they have out there?"

Woodwind beckoned for the field lens, surprised at the visual clarity afforded by Tamarian optics. Azgar banners, frayed in their struggle against the wind, flew ahead of long columns of black-uniformed soldiers. Cavalry units escorted the infantry, their horses laden with the accouterments of war. "I couldn't tell you with any certainty, but this same army took Shirak with about three-hundred thousand combat troops. I imagine there are fewer of them now."

Darrold grunted. "How fast can that group move?"

"It depends on whether they set up a full camp or just bivouac out in the open. On average, they march about twenty miles a day over this kind of terrain in clear weather," Woodwind stated. "Their field camps can be dismantled in less than two hours, and they never move without first securing a good place to bivouac."

"Incredible," the Tamarian replied, his disbelief already suspended. "That's a grueling rate of march."

Woodwind nodded in response. "Speed of maneuver is one of their greatest assets."

When Corporal Fanselars heard the translation he spat on the frosty ground. If the Azgar could move that fast without trains, then their men would be exhausted if engaged before they could rest. Colonel Brandt needed time to coordinate a civilian evacuation in the immediate area, but attacking an army of this size with the forces available to him at present would be foolhardy.

Wasting no further time, the men moved northward, riding several yards below the west-facing ridge line to avoid detection from the Saradon. When they arrived at a spot overlooking the westward bend of the Tualitin River Valley, the corporal scanned the terrain ahead with his field lens, first north, then west, then east, speaking to the other Tamarian in low tones.

The private took his turn at the field lens. "We have a problem," he told Woodwind. "We see an Azgar scout party watering their horses at the river up ahead."

"Can we go further west?" Woodwind inquired.

"That'll take too long. The mountains to our northwest would be difficult to cross this time of year. We think we should to wait until they move on."

"That's not a bad idea," Woodwind replied. "But I warn you that very soon there will be more coming."

***

A series of cat-calls, rude remarks and wolf-whistles alerted Garrick to Brenna's approach before he actually saw her. The young woman scurried into the livery with her head down, rapidly descending stairs as if pursued by embarrassment, her rapid movement amplifying the subtle swaying of feminine flesh that had draw leering eyes to her.

Garrick stepped out to confront the culprits, despite the likelihood of getting into serious trouble for doing so. He swore at three private soldiers at the livery entrance. "What is wrong with you?" he demanded.

"Oh, are you a tough boy?" one of them teased. "You gonna protect your slutty foreign girlfriend from us?"

"You don't talk about women like that!" Garrick spat.

One of the men shoved him. Garrick, who'd taken on many bullies on behalf of his younger brother, shoved back with a fearlessness that came from long experience.

But he didn't get a chance to land a blow. An arrow whispered between two of the privates, lodging itself in a post not far behind him. "Leave him alone!" a woman's voice warned in vulgate.

A smart remark, ready on a soldier's lips, stopped cold as the attractive little foreigner pointed her readied bow right at him. Two more arrows awaited flight in the fingers of her right hand. She didn't look like the sensual object of his fantasies at the moment. Rather, she revealed the martial demeanor of a wealthy warlord's daughter who could defend herself and deserved deference. He backed away with his hands up. "Easy there, girlie . . ."

At that moment, a sergeant major rounded the corner. "What's going on here?" she demanded sternly.

Brenna lowered her bow as Garrick tried to explain. "These men were catcalling and making rude remarks to my friend. She's a refugee, and . . ."

"You got somewhere more important to be, son?" the woman demanded.

"Yes, sergeant," he replied.

"Then get out of here!" She dislodged Brenna's arrow, snapped it in half, tossed it on the ground and pointed at the Lithian woman. "Threaten my men again, and you'll rot in the brig," she spat in vulgate. "Now, get lost!"

When the trio of guilty soldiers tried to explain their version of the events, she interrupted them. "I have ears, and I wasn't born yesterday," she began. "Just because you're too ugly to get a date gives you no right to a hard-on whenever a woman walks by.

"Now, since you three have time to ogle pretty little foreigners, you've earned yourselves the honor of mucking out the barn. Get busy, or you'll do it bare handed . . ."

Garrick waited for Brenna outside, annoyed that other soldiers had so little regard for her dignity, but secretly pleased at sergeant's handling of the matter. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wish they hadn't done that."

Her lips thinned and whitened. She glanced at Garrick for sympathy, her pale eyes alive and bright in the dim light, then looked down at the floor again. "Are we in trouble now?" she asked.

He shook his head. "The sergeant handled it."

"Good," she replied. "Can we please leave?"

Garrick didn't pause. "Of course," he replied.

Brenna leaped into the saddle with easy grace, a look of loathing slathered across her countenance that hardened into a glare as she glanced backward. Garrick climbed up behind her. She took hold of the reins and quickly urged the mule forward, traveling in silence for a few minutes until anger flared in her voice. "You know, sometimes men disgust me!" she exclaimed. "May those three suffer running sores and incurable hemorrhoids!"

"They should have known better," Garrick replied carefully. "But they probably figured it was okay to act like that because you're Lithian. It's wrong and there's no excuse for their behavior, but not all of us are like that."

"I wasn't talking about you," she replied, cooling down. "I know you get aroused, but you don't act like a tomcat about it."

Embarrassed that his physical response to her was both so obvious and worthy of such an overt comment, Garrick fell silent.

Ahead, looming endlessly into a distant horizon, the placid Saradon seemed almost pleasant now that the wind had finally slackened. With conditioned purpose the mule plodded toward the southeast, its breath steaming quietly into the late-autumn air, its hooves falling heavily on the stony trail leading toward Dieter and the Ice Dragon Inn.

"What are you going to do?" Garrick asked at length.

Brenna turned and smiled at him. "About you, or your libido-crazed countrymen?"

"Neither," he replied. "What are you going to do now that your friend Woodwind has found you? Why are you coming with me instead of going south with him today?"

The young woman faced forward again and leaned back into Garrick's body, vaguely aware of a low-pitched, concussive thunder coming from far away. She said nothing about the sound. "You realize the Azgar will attack your people and take your land . . ."

"They may try," he said, "but we will stop them."

"May Allfather grant your wish," she replied. "But they won't retreat without a fight, and I'd like to help your unit with its wounded when the time comes. Can you arrange that for me?" She paused thoughtfully, then added, "If Woodwind leaves I'll be alone up here, and you're the only person I can trust."

Garrick overlooked her spiritualizing, his growing affection for the young woman quickening his heartbeat. The weight and warmth of her body – underscored by an inner delight that she desired his company – nearly deprived him of the ability to respond.

"I'm sure my sergeant can make arrangements with the unit commander." Although he didn't say it, Garrick longed to tell her how happy she'd just made him. Instead, he gently stroked her face with the top side of an ungloved finger, barely able to contain the urge to hold her closer. Brenna sat upright. It wasn't fair of her to lead him on like this, and though she couldn't deny that she really liked this young man – that she actually wanted his attention and affection – Woodwind had been right. There could be no future with a godless foreigner.

"Please don't do that," she said, turning her head, only momentarily making eye contact before looking away.

"Okay," he replied, hurt and confused by her rejection, however mild it had been. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to impose myself on you."

The Lithian woman sighed and prayed silently. "I'm not asking to be the arbiter of right and wrong," her spirit told Allfather. "But what harm comes from the sense of need and desire to please that I'm feeling for this young man? You created love and you created logic. Why then are these good gifts so often unable to reconcile?"

Her prayer was interrupted by the swift, smoky arc of a bright red flare ascending high into the blue heaven from a cluster of hills, several miles distant. "What is that?" she inquired, pointing.

Garrick stiffened, abruptly pulling back on the reins. "Trouble," he replied nervously. "Big trouble!"

***

The list of options available to Woodwind and his companions narrowed with each passing moment as they huddled on the hilltop. "This is a common deployment," the southerner explained. "Small, fast cavalry units move into an area seeking contact with hostile forces. These scouting groups usually skirmish long enough to get a feel for their enemy, then retreat toward a supporting maniple.

"Any hostiles in pursuit will be drawn into battle with progressively larger units, following some distance behind, until the main army can move in."

Private Müller nodded. He felt inclined to trust Woodwind's explanation, but that meant they'd encounter a more numerous force very soon, making escape even less likely. He discussed the situation with Corporal Fanselars, then returned to Woodwind. "Then we think we should engage them directly," he stated. "Our odds will worsen if we wait longer."

Woodwind explained the range and power of their guns. "If we move east, we'll have taller grass to hide in. We can walk the animals around and avoid them."

Darrold didn't like the sound of this idea."You say they can shoot accurately to eighty yards, but our rockets have more than twice that range. If we move downhill, we can hit them first and it doesn't matter if they can see us."

Woodwind, who had never seen Tamarian firepower in action, remained skeptical. "I'll ride down to the river and distract them," he suggested, believing in his heart that his idea represented a more prudent course of action than calling attention to their presence with fireworks that might be seen thousands of yards away. "Maybe I can draw a few of them off, or at least, get their backs turned away from you. My horse is fast, and he's outrun them before." The southerner pointed to a prominent rock formation well to the west, across the river. "I'll meet you over there."

Albrecht Fanselars wasn't sure whether Woodwind was a coward or crazy and preferred a fight to evasion. "Let the brown-nose run off," he said. "We don't need him anymore anyway."

As Woodwind began his descent to the valley floor, Darrold looked through his field lens, scanning the area beyond the eastern edge of the Tualitin. At a distance somewhat greater than two miles, he noticed a century-strength battle group moving northwest.

"I'm afraid the sicklian's loverboy is right," he observed. "There are more coming."

Although Woodwind didn't want to be seen descending the hill, Shadow, his horse, kicked up dust and protested loudly at being urged down so steep a slope. The southerner could not believe how close he was able to approach before any of the enemy soldiers noted his presence, but whether this was due to arrogance or carelessness on their part he could not say.

A horse, whose senses proved keener than those of the shivering men standing on the north bank of the Tualitin, raised its head and whinnied when it noticed the tall, drab-clothed civilian rider on his ebon-skinned beast. The enemy soldiers, alerted after several animals stirred, seemed confused. Their initial response remained limited to some pointing and shouting. After conferring with an officer, three men mounted up and rode out to investigate while the others watched from the far side of the river.

Woodwind halted as the enemy soldiers approached, his horse pacing, snorting and stomping the ground, anticipating a fight. The southerner did not feel so inclined and remained beyond range, waiting. "Allfather God," he prayed without closing his eyes. "If it is your will, deliver them into my hand . . ." He felt a nerve-sharpening rush of noradrenaline surging like a spring tide into his veins.

The Azgar soldiers behaved cautiously at first. Two enlisted men, visibly uncomfortable in the cold, stopped their ponies some ten yards away and remained with muskets ready, while the third, a mackerel-faced lieutenant, approached with a drawn saber. "Clear the area!" he called in vulgate, arrogantly, however accurately, assuming that Woodwind understood the command.

Woodwind backed his straining horse away slowly, patting its front flank with his left hand, controlling the animal with subtle pressure on its belly with his heels. Always maintaining eye contact, he gripped the pommel of his longsword, ready to draw the blade from its sheath upon his back. Experience had taught him patience. The southerner waited.

"Move off!" the lieutenant shouted, gesticulating with his weapon the direction in which he wanted Woodwind to depart. "This is a war zone you idiot! Get out of here!" The officer charged forward as if to attack, then halted, reluctant in a civilized way to needlessly shed blood.

When the lieutenant moved forward, Woodwind moved back, and when the lieutenant retreated, the southerner advanced, all the while pretending not to understand the warnings, insults and invective hurled in his direction.

Tiring of this after a minute or two, his companions shouting for some kind of action, the officer recklessly ordered one of the men to fire a warning shot.

Feigning terror at the sound of the gun, Woodwind wheeled his horse as if struggling to control a frightened animal. This performance inspired a guffaw from the other musket-bearing soldier, who fired in fun, hoping to see the southerner thrown from his mount.

That careless action quickly proved fatal. With the moment of theater accomplishing its intended purpose, Woodwind drove Shadow forward, drawing his blade in a perfectly-timed, light speed attack that caught the unsuspecting lieutenant in the throat. Bright, Lithian steel shattered sinew and bone, severing every spinal nerve with such finality, the dying officers lips were frozen in a curse as his body slumped from the saddle and onto the unforgiving ground.

The southerner turned his eager mount toward the two remaining soldiers, swinging his reddened blade forward with its flat edge parallel to the ground. Holding the weapon steadily, he aimed for an enemy heart as Shadow raced toward the smaller ponies.

Panic stricken, one of the Azgar tried desperately to reload, jamming his cartridge into his weapon, only to sacrifice his right forearm, trying to ward off Woodwind's thrust. The invader attempted to pull his pony away, instantly learning that his enemy was an extremely competent horseman who'd anticipated the move.

Reigning into his adversary, Woodwind withdrew his weapon, kicked his horse forward and thrust again, this time behind his opponent's bloodstained elbow. The combined mass of horse and rider forced crystal-edged steel deep into the soldier's exposed side, ending the young man's life before he could utter a scream.

Fighting in a righteous rage, venting months of pent-up antipathy, Woodwind shoved the body away and pulled back his sword just in time to execute an overhead block, deflecting a musket butt aimed at his head by the surviving soldier. Cracking loudly in desperate, repeated attacks, the wooden stock splintered in its struggle against the Lithian blade, unable to prevail.

The Azgar warrior proved very strong and persistent. Woodwind tried using both hands on the hilt to push the offending musket away and attack on an angle, but the enemy fought fiercely and the swordsman's tactics weren't working. The southerner groaned, distracted from his focus on the enemy's musket, as his left leg was compressed between the straining flanks of two horses.

Releasing his left hand, Woodwind pulled Shadow back and turned him to the left, relieving the pressure on his leg. Then he stood in his stirrups, overcoming his adversary's arm strength with thigh muscle. Pushing the musket overhead, Woodwind rotated his wrist to the right, forcing his blade down the side of the musket stock, aiming its razor-honed tip toward the enemy's throat.

With a kick and a grunt he sprang Shadow forward, plunging the sharp longsword through the soft spot at the base of his opponent's neck, deep into his chest where damage could never be healed. His withdrawal extended into a swift, overhead circular slash, with which Woodwind decapitated his foe from the back of the neck as he rode by.

Before the falling head hit the ground, Woodwind unleashed his frenzied horse into a full westward gallop, their flight made urgent by the sound of musket fire from across the river.

***

From a distance, the only visible change at the inn consisted of two black and red battle banners wavering lazily from flag staves set in the courtyard. These alien colors reinforced the dreadful news already weighing heavily on Garrick's mind, but at this point, he worried more about his unit rather than which nation controlled the venerable inn. Old stone buildings could be recaptured. Friends fallen in battle were lost forever.

"What does the red flare mean?" Brenna inquired at length, reluctant to break the moody silence that had fallen upon her Tamarian friend since they'd first seen the crimson streak etched across the indigo sky.

Garrick sighed, afraid of saying too much on one hand, but sensing that risking a bit of vulnerability might strengthen the developing relationship with his lovely companion. "We have a code," he explained. "A green flare is a warning. A red flare indicates that a unit is desperate, or has been overpowered. Sometimes a red flare warns friendly forces that a base or camp has been abandoned to an attacker. In this case, it means we arrived too late."

Brenna caught her breath, knowing from experience that Garrick might find terrible evidence of personal loss. Secretly, she wished that she could hold and comfort him, but she neither expressed, nor acted upon that desire. Instead she sent a silent prayer aloft. "Allfather, have mercy on Garrick and bring him peace."

But he felt no serenity from her intercession. Drawing near, he could almost feel malevolent violence lingering in the air. Initially, he noticed the tracks of something on wheels and the trampling of dry grasses trodden down by many feet. Burn marks and blackened craters marred the rock-hard, frozen ground wherever incendiary and explosive warheads had fallen.

Soon, the stench of sulfur and burnt bodies assailed the cadet's senses. Scavenging crows noisily took flight. Bits of tattered uniform and roasted flecks of flesh clung to bent, broken stalks of prairie grass, testifying to a fierce fight at this now silent place not long beforehand.

Garrick dismounted, overwhelmed by the scene unfolding before his eyes. Moving forward, he stepped into a nightmare and found the place where his own unit had been torn apart by the savagery of Azgar cannon, recognizing what remained of Freddy Olsen, whose chest had been ripped open by grape shot. Glistening lung tissue, bright pink in the morning light, mingled with hard shards of shattered bone. The wide-eyed expression of terror remained forever frozen on Freddy's blackened face.

Cold revulsion and an impotent sense of seething rage surged within Garrick's soul, his helplessness worsened by guilt for not having stood with his comrades in battle, even if that would have meant the loss of his own life. His entire unit lay here, some torn apart beyond recognition. Yet when he found Jan Bordmann's lifeless body, badly beaten and stabbed far more times than had been necessary to kill him, the young man gasped, fell to his knees and burst into bitter tears.

Brenna felt awful. Having personally experienced battlefield terror and knowing the heartbreak it wrought, she understood Garrick's outpouring of grief. Memories of fallen loved ones flashed through her mind. She recognized the cadet she'd walked beside, having listened to his voice, having caught his smile out of the corner of her eye.

Brenna knelt near Garrick, sliding her right arm around his broad shoulders, praying silently that Allfather would strengthen him, and give her words to encourage him. "Your friends died bravely," she said in a soft voice, her lips nearly kissing his ear. "Honor them by stopping the ones who did this."

Garrick turned to embrace her, but did not look into her eyes. His strong arms wrapped tightly around her as she held him close. He emptied his soul of the feeling, then, afraid that she would think him weak, rubbed away his tears and raised his head, anticipating a sneer of scorn on her lips.

But she would not meet his gaze. Brenna turned her head away and shuddered. She held Garrick tightly and only after he gently turned her face toward him did the young man realize that she'd been weeping in sympathy. Seeing this strengthened him, not because he needed to be strong to offer comfort to her, but because she'd not ridiculed his sincere expression of grief. As he looked into her eyes, noting the way her brow parted, her lower lip trembled and seeing the tension in her countenance, he began to love her. This desire had nothing to do with her attractive appearance, nor was it fueled by his appreciation of her wit. Recognizing the deep goodness of her character in that moment sealed Garrick's heart to hers.

The Lithian woman squeezed his hand affectionately, then turned away again, her reticence returning. She wiped her frozen eyelids apart, noticing movement at the inn's gate. "They're coming," she stated, identifying a dozen uniformed soldiers on foot, leading a horse by its bridle. "We'd better get out of here."

***

Driven like an antelope fleeing from a lioness, the strong flanks of Woodwind's war horse stretched and retracted in a furious rhythm. Shadow's mane rippled in the skin-numbing wind created by his tireless stride; the labored, rushing sound of his breathing punctuated by the drum-riff clatter of swift hooves and scattering stones that sprayed upon the frozen ground.

Woodwind glanced over his right shoulder, praying that the Azgar soldiers would try to cross the shallow river. He maintained his westerly course in the hope that their pursuit would draw them across the stream. Fording the river would slow them down. But because he intended to flee north, the southern swordsman hoped they would have to traverse the water twice.

Initially, he'd been about a hundred and fifty yards south of the river and about seventy yards downstream from the enemy position. Intuitively estimating the minimum interval Shadow would need to flee in order to move beyond musket range, Woodwind aimed for a point about two-hundred and eighty yards distant.

As Shadow raced forward, Woodwind realized that this course would soon put him well into their range, knowing the Azgar muskets fired accurately to about eighty yards. Picturing the problem in his mind and letting the math work itself out subconsciously, he figured he needed to go westward about eleven hundred yards in order to outrun their ponies and effectively avoid enemy fire. At nearly two-thirds of a mile, this interval would tax Shadow's sprinting ability to its limits, and for the last hundred and eighty yards or so he'd be at the fringe of enemy range anyway.

His only alternative involved crossing the river at a steeper angle, thereby covering less ground and leaving himself exposed to musket rounds for a longer period of time. The enemy was certain to hold no quarter for anyone who had, in their view, slain three soldiers in an unprovoked attack. Any option involving surrender seemed even more foolish than what he'd already done.

So he pushed Shadow onward, crouching as low as possible behind the undulating head of his sprinting horse, riding in tandem with the powerful, rhythmic stretch and contraction of sweating, equine muscle.

About eight-hundred yards into the chase, Woodwind heard a sharp crack and glanced backward to witness a single puff of smoke falling behind one of the seven riders in pursuit. At this point, their respective lines of travel approached parallel, but the round fell about twenty yards short of its mark.

Two more shots followed as the distance between Woodwind and the enemy narrowed. At nine-hundred yards, the southerner heard a bullet whistle off to his left, but he dared not look back. Several seconds later the enemy fired two more rounds, and this time, the sound of racing bullets assailed Woodwind's frostbitten ears like the scream of a diving falcon.

Like a giant's fist, a fifty-caliber musket ball slapped into his back at the base of his shoulder blade, shattering bone, bursting blood vessels, destroying connective tissue and compressing his left lung with such force that it instantly deflated.

Woodwind dropped his sword and coughed, feeling shock flood into his body, an instant weakness, an opaque shroud of yellow dots swirling through his field of vision. He struggled to hold on, but the trauma inflicted on his body by a bullet of this size sapped his youthful vigor and he began to slide from the saddle.

Shadow slowed as he crossed the river, but his master tumbled headlong into the icy water. The southerner landed first on his wounded shoulder, tearing its rotator cuff and assorted ligaments, then onto his face where the smooth stones in midstream crushed his nose, cheek and brow, leaving his lips badly bruised.

There, his blood ebbing gently into the frigid water, Woodwind felt his life slipping away. He turned his head for air, seeing the splash of approaching hooves, but couldn't find the strength to move again. "Merciful Allfather," he gasped. "Please, save . . . Brenna!"

Woodwind's consciousness faded until the brute pain of a cruel boot rolled him onto his back. The southerner opened his eyes and looked into the frostbitten face of an Azgar warrior, who aimed his bayonet at the southerner's heart. Too weak to resist, Woodwind anticipated a quick end to the suffering he endured.

Just as the enemy warrior raised his musket barrel, another shriek met Woodwind's throbbing ear. He saw the blur of something moving very fast, and as if struck from heaven, the soldier standing above him exploded into a roiling mass of burning flesh.

Woodwind blinked at the blinding light, felt the sharp sting of hot shrapnel nick his face, and remembered nothing more.

***

Rheanne Neergard, who couldn't resist giggling whenever she met a young man as attractive as the one standing in her doorway, instantly understood from the expression on his face that something terrible had happened. Nonetheless, she felt too excited about seeing him to concern herself with the details of his appearing, and it was all she could do to avoid jumping with glee.

"Daddy!" she called, holding the door open, allowing icy air to rush into the warm interior of her home. "A handsome soldier needs to see you!"

The teenager smiled without showing her teeth, inviting Garrick indoors with a measure of delight that washed across her face in excited, pink tones. She hardly noticed the shy, raven-haired Lithian woman hiding behind him, ignoring her completely. In her effervescent glee to appear accommodating, Rheanne prattled like a small child on a holiday morning, her seamless monologue allowing Garrick no time to respond.

Laid out in the traditional manner for a Tamarian home, the kitchen occupied a central location, surrounding a large, gas-fired oven kept warm continually during the autumn and winter. Fronted by a great room with an eight foot post and beam ceiling hewn from ponderosa pine timbers, the house had an imposing look inside that belied its ground-hunkering appearance from the street.

Large, south facing windows bordered by thick, woolen curtains – pulled across the panes to prevent heat loss at nightfall – flooded even the back reaches of the poured mud structure with bright daylight. Inside stood an oak table, several chairs and a well-worn leather couch arranged in a semi-circle upon the tiled floor. On the far wall, doors led to additional rooms whose light entered through overhead clerestory windows.

Heinz appeared through a back door, stamping his boots to clean them of the dirty snow still lingering on the north side of his dirt-bermed home. He shooed his starry-eyed daughter out of the great room and greeted Garrick with a mixture of patronizing patience and suspicion. Many cadets had ventured under his roof in recent years, all of them interested in an evening with Rheanne.

This one, however, seemed more annoyed with her than captivated. He also had a very attractive foreigner in tow. She held a new broom in her hands, fruitlessly trying to avoid attention by saying nothing and standing behind her broad-shouldered companion.

Before the young soldier had fully explained the purpose of his visit, the older man dismissed the account with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. "I've heard stories like this for months! Nothing has come of it. Winter is on its way, and no army moves north in the cold." Heinz moved closer to the kitchen stove for warmth, weary of the war rumors, wishing he'd never agreed to accept the office of civil defense liaison in the first place.

Garrick stood in disbelief. "Why would I lie about such a thing?" he said, defending his personal integrity as much as the truth of his story. "The man at the general store told me that only you are authorized to call up the militia and evacuate the town. For the sake of the people, you must do so immediately."

Heinz turned toward him, irritated by his impudence. "You're nothing more than a boy, and you don't give orders to me. Now, take your little sicklian back to wherever she came from and be on your way, or I'll throw you out and write a formal complaint to your sergeant!"

Garrick felt stunned by the reprimand and thought for a moment to retreat, but the rage he'd felt earlier returned with sudden fervor. He stood his ground. "What is left of my sergeant is laying in a field while ravens pick at his carcass! He died defending people like you, and at least ten of the soldiers who killed him are marching this direction as we speak.

"I'll gladly put my life on the line for you, even if you are a tired, arrogant old man without a care for anyone or anything else! That's my duty. You were elected to oversee civil defense, not to argue against doing your job!"

In all his fifty-four years, Heinz Neergard had never experienced such an outburst from a younger man, and even though he was generally quite patient, Garrick's retort aroused the elder gentleman's indignation. "You flatter yourself with impudent talk! How dare you vilify me!"

Correcting his impropriety and changing his tone of voice, Garrick continued. "I'm not intending to insult you, sir, but I must stress the urgency of the situation. Bring a field lens and I'll show you the advancing troops from a nearby rooftop."

Heinz controlled his rage, but spoke through gritted teeth to show his displeasure. "This had better not be a joke," he warned.

Mrs. Mikkels' inn happened to be the highest building on Dieter's one and only street. The old woman was talking to herself while collecting firewood at the side of her establishment when Garrick, Brenna and Heinz Neergard arrived. She snatched the broom out of Brenna's hand as if taking something precious away from a thief, and returned to lamenting her loss of the original item, as if it had been a priceless heirloom handed from mother to daughter for many generations.

Heinz held up his hand as a signal for her silence, which she ignored, forcing him to shout until he could be heard above her litany of laments. "Winnie, you were right!" he exclaimed. "The Azgaril are coming! This boy says we'll be able to see them from your roof!"

Winnie Mikkels eyed Garrick with a scowl. "I knew it!" she replied. "But you can't trust this one, or his slanty-eyed, slut girlfriend. You'll have to see for yourself."

"Yes ma'am," Garrick responded, trying to sound patient and not really succeeding. "That's why we're here."

The old woman rummaged through her shed for a ladder that Franz, her late husband, had used to maintain the inn's roof. Years of neglect flaked its white paint, but it allowed Garrick, Heinz, and finally Brenna, to ascend its length and stand on the roof.

Brenna couldn't see individual soldiers with her naked eye, yet the movement of their black fatigues contrasted sufficiently with the golden stalks of prairie grasses to catch her attention at a distance.

Heinz peered through an old field lens, cautiously waiting for several minutes until his view of the enemy muskets was clear enough to convince him that the advancing men represented a threat. He put his left hand on Garrick's shoulder and apologized for not believing the young man. "I should have listened to you," he said, "but I felt insulted instead. I ask your forgiveness."

Garrick appreciated how socially difficult it was for an older man to say this, and sincerely tried to sound gracious. "I understand, sir. Perhaps I should have been less forceful."

"Apology accepted," Heinz replied, nodding. "Come, we must rouse the militia."

***

Steamy vapor trails coalesced in the cold air, marking the paths flown by four inch, shoulder-fired rockets. Armed with a two-pound warhead encased in steel pellets surrounded by an enamel cap, this weapon could kill armored giants at a range that exceeded any projectile the large humanoids maintained in their arsenals. The accuracy of the Tamarian missile depended to a great degree on the visual-spatial ability of its operator, who had but a single chance to aim the weapon carefully through an elevated rear sight, a feature lacking on Azgar muskets.

Propelled to a safe distance by a small kicker engine, the rocket's main thrust lit up well forward of its launcher, avoiding any major recoil. The resulting acceleration looked very impressive because the warhead appeared to reach its target immediately after its main engine fired. Tamarian soldiers loved this weapon because it gave an infantry team devastating firepower without the aching shoulders associated with their large caliber rifles.

Even though the rocket contrails pointed back to his position, Private Müller, well beyond the range of Azgar muskets, fired with impunity. Cavalry made an especially easy target. Horses, like giants, were large enough to compensate for the inherent inaccuracy of a single rocket, and warheads designed to penetrate the hardened, steel plate armor of mountain giants easily killed the horse and obliterated its rider.

Methodically, the Tamarian soldier rammed another weapon pack into the back of the launch tube and asked for another target. Corporal Fanselars double-checked the eastern horizon, first with his bare eyes, then with the field lens. The only movement in evidence was a slight swaying of grasses nudged into motion by an occasional gust of gentle wind. "That's the last of them."

Woodwind's horse whinnied in the distance, pawing the ground and shaking its great head with snorts audible from over a hundred yards away.

Albrecht packed the "giant-killer" and its three remaining rockets back into a saddle bag. "Let's recover loverboy's body. The sicklian girl will want to cry over it."

The Tamarians found Woodwind's longsword among the rocks and weeds at the ice-hedged, southern bank of the Tualitin. Knowing Colonel Brandt needed hard intelligence, they casually stopped to collect a pair of Azgar muskets before approaching the unconscious figure lying in the midst of the shallow river. Having heard the volume of gunfire directed at him, both men assumed Woodwind had been killed in the fusillade, and were quite surprised to find him still breathing, albeit weakly.

"Well, the little long-haired maiden may lose her virginity yet," the corporal commented. "Let's get him cleaned up. A swordsman of his caliber doesn't deserve to die like a sick dog on the ground."

Darrold raised his eyebrows. This remark stood as the first positive comment concerning the southerner he'd heard from his countryman's lips.

The extremely cold water significantly reduced the volume of blood lost from Woodwind's wound, a factor instrumental in preserving his life. The Tamarians alternated between watching for the enemy and working to save him. They cut strips of cloth from Azgar uniforms to use as compression dressings and applied these to the oozing, discolored flesh beneath Woodwind's left shoulder. Then, they wrapped him in a spare saddle blanket to keep him warm and set him into a litter they'd fashioned by lashing muskets together.

The Tamarian soldiers lifted the litter carrying Woodwind's languid body sideways onto Shadow's back, securing it to the saddle straps with rope. Darrold Müller led the animal by the bridle as he rode his own mount.

Knowing that he had to make it back to Dead Hand Ridge in a hurry, Albrecht Fanselars urged his mule northward at a canter, leaving behind a scene of slaughter that would give pause to a shivering Azgar officer arriving less than thirty minutes later.

***

Much to Brenna's surprise, the residents of Dieter responded quickly to the warning toll of their temple bell. When announcing the hour or calling the faithful to scheduled worship times, two bells, tuned a third and a fifth above the primary tone, accompanied the main bell in a continuous chorus for two or three minutes.

In an emergency, however, the primary bell tolled thrice three times, a total of nine altogether, all by itself. Men spreading frozen straw between their harvested corn rows, working forges or shoveling mash for their livestock put down their tools. Women scrubbing laundry, baking bread and repairing winter clothing stopped their chores. Old folk, whose activities centered on the care of young children, moved their small charges into cellars for safety. Teenage girls who had not yet signed up for national service, diligently stocking the same cellars for their families, or repairing damage from the recent windstorm, ceased their work immediately. Their well rehearsed roles in civil defense made the transition quick and seamless.

Two military policemen stationed in town coordinated their efforts. Many people brought their own guns. Those who didn't own one were issued weapons from a cache stocked with rifles and ammunition. Every able-bodied resident, whether man or woman, received a weapon. Well before the Azgaril arrived, each citizen took up a position in key areas around the town.

Nine men, all of them army veterans beyond the required age for military service, formed a line across the road some ten paces back from the blacksmith's workshop, their long rifles held with bayonets fixed, at parade rest. The old polish of relentless drill evidenced itself in an effortless conversion from citizen to soldier.

Other citizens, facing the street along the roof tops, arranged in clusters of three and four upon the dirt berms behind key buildings and homes, kept their rifles at the ready. Among them, Brenna Velez strung her bow and readied arrows for the fray.

She watched as Garrick moved among the lean-muscled, pale-skinned men who'd set up a barrier of desks and tables on the street below, her heart struggling with a desire to protect him, while understanding that this was really his battle to fight. Silently, Brenna prayed.

If any absolution for her conflicting feelings existed, Brenna felt too distracted to perceive it. As her body tensed, a fearful shiver raced up her spine and trembled through her strong shoulders. Years of dedicated training under the watchful eye of her Relict great aunt endowed her with great skill in the art of killing. The Relicts – an order of women whom the Azgar had disparagingly dubbed, Black Widows – devoted themselves to dispensing justice. They did not kill wantonly, but trained to act in defense of the defenseless. Brenna could hold her own while training with her great aunt, but struggled reconciling the older woman's belief that violence harmonized with Allfather's will.

Lithian warlords, like her father, maintained armies to protect their land holdings from conquest. The godly did not attack others unless seriously threatened, but they maintained constant readiness for combat and taught their children how to use weapons at an early age.

Brenna remembered those lessons well. However, Lord Velez did not neglect to teach his daughter the virtue of forbearance. As a young girl she'd witnessed his restraint much more often than his wrath, and for a long time felt frustrated with her father's patience whenever he endured insult from less powerful enemies.

As her perception matured, Brenna realized that Allfather possessed unquestionable power and authority to eradicate evil, but that God also showed restraint in order to demonstrate mercy. While this satisfied her _belief_ in a loving deity, ascribing such leniency to mere benevolence didn't answer the difficult moral issue of why the Supreme Judge permitted wickedness in the first place, and why he personally refrained from calling evildoers into account.

Lynden Velez, Brenna's father, argued that all _believers_ functioned in some way as agents of God's wrath. He explained that accountability did not necessarily require coercion, for there are many ways in which people are held responsible for their deeds. But when given no other option, force functioned as a necessary check to the power of evil in the world.

Brenna found it hard to think of herself as an agent in this manner. She wanted to build, not destroy, to heal and not hurt, but the purest form of this thinking created tension with her belief in social justice. Ultimately, Allfather had to destroy evil in defense of the defenseless – as the Relicts did – and he'd given her the means to do so. Nonetheless, she took neither pride, nor comfort in being called upon to perform this function. It always seemed presumptuous and a power easily abused.

Her philosophy strained Garrick's rationality to its limit. He too, believed in justice, but he defined the concept as a human construct, not a divine standard. In his view, the origin of morality lay in human psycho-biology. The need to determine right from wrong developed as a cultural construct honed by social experience. Exercising it required maturity many people never attained, few fully appreciated, and most could not recognize in him.

The ability to believe and live freely, provided that one's rights did not unreasonably encroach upon another, demanded what Garrick considered healthy respect for the diversity of thought among people. To balance the competing extremes of law and liberty, a high degree of personal accountability and diligence in protecting the weak functioned as guiding principles for every action. This concept informed Garrick's idea of integrity.

He tolerated what many considered superstitious spirituality in other people without the desire to ridicule because he could hear threads of truth in different voices. Garrick had already read many books on philosophy and found his own beliefs reinforced in slightly different forms within their pages. He also loved to listen to other people explain their views. This was, in fact, an important reason why he found Brenna so intriguing.

However, difficult moral questions arose whenever Garrick extended his perspective to its absolute conclusion. What right did the invading army have in trampling upon his nation's sovereignty? Young Tamarian soldiers – some of them closer to his heart than his own family – had been slain without mercy, and the results of this unprovoked aggression inspired anger. The sight of Jan Bordman's broken body proved that Azgaril had to be halted. While he understood that this reaction seemed irrational and tangential to pure conviction, he couldn't staunch this emotional response.

Among the many concepts presented during Junior Scout training, Garrick had learned that self-defense was an appropriate reason for nations to maintain armies. He rationalized that the need for national legitimacy superseded the rights of other states to pursue their policies by aggression, and by extension, that states had a right to impose their sovereignty by force of arms within their own borders. Although he knew that this nationalistic attitude contravened his philosophy, something deep within his heart, an emotion too primitive for words, prevailed when he thought about the battle to come.

As the Tamarian cadet studied the assembled citizens of Dieter, his resolve to defend them hardened. One nation could not simply be allowed to sweep over another without regard for those who would be forced to endure its cruelty. His training, intelligence, strength and even his life might make a difference in his nation's ability to pursue its own destiny and make free choices.

Thus, two minds normally inclined against violence arrived at the same point, if from different directions along differing paths.

Garrick's heart beat faster as he glanced toward the blacksmith's roof and saw Brenna kneeling there, her bow in hand. From this distance, he let his eyes linger on the trim-fitting Tamarian uniform that strained against every alluring curve from her shoulders to her hips. He watched her as she finished her prayer and stood to her feet. When their eyes met and lingered, he smiled.

But the happiness didn't last very long.

An enemy sergeant, his face unshaven and badly windburned, halted his twenty-five man squadron about fifty yards away and ordered them to load their weapons. The regimen of preparing muskets for battle had an intimidating effect; many of the Tamarians grew uneasy as the ritual unfolded.

One of the local military policemen rested his right hand on the young man's shoulder. "Son, you don't have to do this," he said solemnly. "There's no shame in taking cover. I'd be happy to stand in your place."

Garrick heard the unison chorus of rifles chambering rounds in readiness behind him, but he didn't look back. "Thank-you, sir," he responded. "This is something that I believe I must do!" The cadet stepped forward, summoning courage to counter the uncontrolled pounding of his heart and trembling of his hands.

Behind him, the Tamarian veterans crouched behind their barrier in preparation for battle. Rifle bearing civilians on the rooftops set their sights on the enemy and waited.

The Azgar confidently kept their muskets at parade rest, the taut, muscular response to extreme cold etched across every face. Their collective breathing steamed out into little vapor clouds, which crystallized into an iridescent haze that swirled like pipe smoke and vanished as quickly as each had formed.

A dark-eyed enemy soldier, whose physical distress in the freezing air seemed only marginally overcome by the sheer force of will and discipline, marched forward in response to his sergeant's order. In a voice loud enough for all within thirty yards to hear, he read with numb lips from a proclamation written in vulgate.

"By the authority of Lord Balinor, supreme commander of the Azgaril Northern Liberation Army – for the emancipation of free races in the north land – I hereby order you to stand down and submit to the benevolent throne of our divine emperor and his humble servant, my lord commander!"

Garrick's soul overflowed with rage. "If you limaceous vermin don't slither back into the septic pit you crawled out of, we'll blow off your witling heads and feed the fruit of your decay to swine for years to come!

"You have no authority here. We will never submit to you. Leave now, or die!"

Shocked at both Garrick's mastery of the language and the insult his words conveyed, the outraged foreigner lifted his musket to his hip. "Brave words, boy!" The soldier spat a hailstorm of profanity that linked Garrick's lineage to many common detritus organisms.

Brenna watched the unfolding scene with a growing sense of panic. What was Garrick doing out there all by himself? The Azgar sergeant ordered his troops to bring their guns up to firing position and take aim, the hammers of their muskets pulled back like shovels readied for digging graves.

"Garrick!" she screamed. "Get down!"

Brenna's bow flexed in facile grace as she sighted, fired, nocked another, found a different target and fired again. Her first arrow pierced the left eye of the enemy messenger just before he pulled the trigger of his musket. Its sharp tip wedged its way into his brain, slicing through soft tissue until the hard arrowhead shattered the back of his skull. Death ravaged his soul before the impulse to fire reached the soldier's finger.

The second arrow found its mark in the exposed throat of the Azgar sergeant. He staggered backward, coughing, gasping for breath, his life ebbing with every weakening effort to draw air into his lungs. With a curse on his lips, the foreigner slumped to the pavement, his dream of conquest ended.

Garrick heard his name, as well as the disconcerting swish of an arrow in flight, coming far closer to his own head than he would have liked. He immediately dropped to the ground as he had been trained to do – an action that saved his life – as only a moment later, five of the Azgar gunners fired their rounds, and the Tamarian riflemen discharged in unison.

The first fusillade of enemy musket rounds blasted through the pitiful furniture barrier erected as cover for the Tamarian veterans. Several found their targets, tearing through the unarmored torsos of four Tamarian veterans, killing three quickly, leaving the last to die a lingering, agonizing death upon the cold cobblestones of Dieter's single street.

Tamarian bullets flashed toward their intended victims in response. Rifle rounds ripped through armor. Eight soldiers twitched and tumbled backward. Screams aspired above the din of battle where the wounded lay, while fifteen of their unscathed countrymen bravely stood their ground in the open and once again took aim at the native defenders.

Brenna had only three arrows left. Assessing the overwhelming firepower advantage enjoyed by the Tamarians, she turned her full attention to preserving Garrick's life. Noticing an Azgar warrior taking aim at the Tamarian cadet, Brenna sighted at the prone soldier and proved quicker in her release than the would-be killer did in pulling his trigger. Her arrow slammed between his neck and right shoulder, beneath the scapula where its razor-sharp head ripped muscle until it splintered on his shoulder blade. Jerking reflexively, the soldier screamed in pain, dropped his musket, and the gun discharged harmlessly into the grass nearby.

Several more Azgar bullets pounded into the Tamarian defensive line, killing two prosperous farmers, a recently retired engineering officer, and paralyzing a father of five children, who would never walk or work again after this day.

Garrick, noting a brief pause in the firing, arose and couldn't understand why the veteran Tamarians remained crouched behind their barricade while the enemy reloaded their weapons. Why weren't they firing back?

Picking up his rifle, the cadet took aim and pulled the trigger, realizing a little too late that he'd neglected to load the weapon. Garrick's cold fingers nervously fumbled with his munitions magazine and dropped it. He cursed, reaching for the ground while keeping an eye on the enemy.

The surviving Azgaril, refused to die without a fight and did not retreat. A pair of men halted their reloading and converged upon the young Tamarian with bayonets at the ready, expecting to dispatch him as quickly as they had done to others earlier that morning.

Garrick couldn't insert his magazine in time. He stood to defend himself with his rifle and bayonet held in the guard position. He picked his target, stepped forward with his left foot and leaned into a lunge.

It should have worked, but it didn't. The enemy soldier was a well-trained veteran whose experience prevailed. Using his musket to deflect the thrust and push the Tamarian weapon away, the Azgar warrior nearly shoved Garrick off his feet.

Instinctively, Garrick twisted away from a musket butt ram that skimmed his left shoulder. Because he was left-handed, the cadet easily backed his rifle into the enemy's gut, but his opponent slid to the right and Garrick's blow impotently glanced against Azgar armor.

Terrified now at his lack of success, the young man lashed out with a wild forehand slash that passed beneath the enemy guns, cutting nothing more than air.

"Virgin boy!" the invader on his right taunted. The enemy soldier smacked Garrick's steel helm solidly with the butt of his musket, pulled back hit him again.

The consecutive, concussive impacts disoriented Garrick, hurt horribly, and he began to go down. A powerful urge to give up and die flooded the cadet's mind, but he fought the impulse and forced himself to roll with the blows.

Endless hours of footwork training controlled all movement at a moment when survival meant doing without thinking. Garrick's right foot circled behind the left and his crouched body rotated to the right, bringing his rifle tip and its bayonet into a swift arc that slammed into his adversary's ribs like a thick iron rod.

Garrick heard the enemy gasp from his blow. Dizzy, but struggling valiantly to stay on his feet, the young Tamarian retracted his weapon, then thrust violently at a steep angle into the enemy's abdomen, pushing the bayonet blade forward with all the strength his arms, shoulders and legs could muster until he'd completely lifted the stricken man off his feet.

Brenna witnessed his struggle in horror. Garrick fought like an absolute savage, with little apparent skill, only brute force and bravery sustaining him in the engagement. Woodwind would have been appalled to see this. "Merciful God!" she exclaimed. "Save him!"

The two remaining Tamarian veterans remained crouched behind their barricade, holding their fire because Garrick screened a clear shot. When Brenna saw the second Azgar warrior turn to thrust his bayonet into Garrick's back, she released her final arrow to fly on its swift and fatal course.

For a brief moment, the southern soldier felt that he'd been hit hard by something in the back of his head. Hot, searing pain ravaged the man's consciousness as momentum carried his thrust forward. He felt an intense ache with each heartbeat as eternal blackness enveloped his awareness.

Then, with no intelligence and force of will behind it, the enemy's bayonet pricked the Tamarian cadet's armor, but could not cut through it. The Azgar musket clattered uselessly upon the hard cobblestones, followed quickly by the hands that had once held it.

Like a sudden, crushing tide, gunfire from the roof converged upon the remaining enemy, mercilessly killing men who had been victors of an earlier hour. From Brenna's opening shot until its conclusion, this entire battle lasted less than a minute.

Garrick, breathing hard from fear and exertion, knelt on the ground and leaned against his rifle. Although startled by the sensation of Brenna's hand upon his shoulder, he felt relieved to see her lovely face. She didn't seem to know what to say, but the expression in her eyes spoke eloquently of her concern.

He slumped into a sitting position. Unaware that she'd saved his life, he unstrapped his helmet without expressing gratitude. "My head hurts," he complained, the waning effects of fear trembling through his fingers as they rubbed across the afflicted place.

Brenna kissed the top of Garrick's head, keenly aware of why she'd done so. Her lips touched his skin for more than simple healing; she'd kissed him with far greater intent in mind. Realizing this made her a little afraid.

The Lithian woman sensed a growing loss of control over her life. She knew this meant trouble, first with Woodwind, her trusted friend whose words wounded her soul as surely as any blade could cut her flesh. She regretted her argument with him, wishing she could relive that moment and restrain words uttered in anger that now could never be recalled.

Worse yet, the Azgar, having advanced so far north, removed any hope of returning to Kameron and reconciling with her family. With winter on its way and the enemy army in control of all routes south, Brenna stood no chance of trying to slip through their lines.

And as she turned her attention to caring for battle casualties, Brenna realized that despite wiser thoughts to the contrary, she'd fallen in love with a Tamarian soldier.

Victim of Success

"Sir!" Lieutenant Rangell, my best engineer reported. "I've traced the chimneys as ordered, but my crew has found no provisions for heat in the compound, other than two cook top burners in the kitchen and a larger system in one of the out buildings."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I felt a headache developing. As the day progressed, we realized that the Ice Dragon Inn began cooling rapidly, and we had no way of warming up its buildings. Since the primary task of my mission had been to provide a comfortable environment for the senior officer corps – a place where they could plan the systematic destruction of northern nations without freezing to death in the process – heat loss became my obsession. "Tell me about the burners in the out building," I demanded, a depressing lack of confidence that we'd find a workable solution to this vexing dilemma any time soon hidden behind assertive words.

"I can't say much at the moment, sir. We've studied a burner located underneath something that looks like a boiler attached to a pipe. It might be some kind of heating system, but if that's so, it's like nothing we've ever seen, I don't know what they're using for fuel, and I can't figure out how it works.

"We're investigating a network of pipes that extend from that structure into the ground outside, but the soil is frozen solid, the cobblestones are difficult to remove and we don't have proper equipment for digging."

I scanned the upper floors of the old, fitted stone buildings, no longer interested in the buttresses and colored glass, noticing open windows I'd not seen before. "Get a crew to shut every outside door and window in the complex. I don't want any portal opened unnecessarily."

Lieutenant Rangell nodded. "Right away, sir."

Judging from his posture and eye contact, he seemed confident that we'd find a technical resolution to this predicament. Of course, he didn't have to face a hostile legate and answer the questions I knew were forthcoming.

First, I would be interrogated concerning the heavy casualties we'd sustained. Although I'd been briefed on barbarian weapons systems, I'd never before faced an enemy with rifles and rockets that compared favorably with our equipment, nor could I have anticipated the incredible, aggressive resistance they'd mounted against us.

I'd underestimated the manpower necessary to take the inn because I'd grown accustomed to intelligence reports that consistently exaggerated the strength of enemy armies. Our briefings always contained a certain degree of padding, to ensure battlefield success without jeopardizing important command careers.

In actuality, the giants had been accurate when assessing and reporting on the barbarians, a fact that would unequivocally deepen all doubt about my leadership ability in any upcoming combat evaluation. Worse yet, the soldiers who'd inflicted unprecedented losses to my unit were, by and large, teenage boys.

My eagerness to escape the inebriated wrath of Legate Braegan and a desire to do something apart from freezing to death inspired overconfidence. I should have been more careful in scouting and planning. I would not repeat mistakes like that. I would not again be cowed into planning an assault like this in haste.

To my credit, due mostly to the bravery and skill of the soldiers under my command, I had gained control of a suitable local headquarters building, but it seemed that the locals managed to hide or destroy virtually everything else. As my men completed their search of the premises, I began to worry.

Where had they taken their horses and swine? Why had we found so little food? What happened to the warriors who'd been manning the accursed rocket launchers along the walls? How did they abandon this place so quickly?

I rubbed my forehead and stared at the gnarled branches of leafless oak, squinted at the Daystar arcing restlessly overhead, then cursed the useless wind pump on its tower. My mind searched for answers as I kicked a shattered piece of grey cobblestone, rent from its ancient position by a mortar round . . .

"Lieutenant Hicks!" I shouted. "I want to talk to the mortar crew. Now!"

The lieutenant, a waif who looked as unimpressive in a uniform to me as I must have seemed to my own superiors, saluted with his right hand while holding his left arm across his belly for warmth.

"Right away, sir!" he replied, scurrying off in unfounded terror to do my bidding.

I'd sent Sergeant Aransen's squad to retrieve our dead from the battlefield, then ordered him to secure supplies from the small town a short distance northward. He hadn't returned, and this additional worry plagued me. I tried to placate my soul with the idea that he'd found abundant food and supplies, and that his team was having trouble getting everything moved out. Knowing the sergeant well, his long absence seemed out of character.

At that moment, I heard screams from one of the upstairs windows. The memory of Shirak and hidden snipers sent a chill up my spine, the gnawing, foreboding sensation I experienced the day before deepening when I realized the voice belonged to a woman.

As I glanced upward, I noticed one of my soldiers reaching for an open window. I heard men's voices shouting vulgarities and salacious comments among themselves that mingled with unintelligible, but clearly female cries. The sounds stopped abruptly when the window slammed shut.

Visions of filtered, yellow-green light invaded my mind like a forgotten dream suddenly remembered. An image of that beautiful Lith girl and the intelligent glare of her bright blue eyes flashed through my memory. The sound of gunfire, the sting of smoke, the terrifying sight of her drawn bow aimed at my heart inspired a strange, but powerful feeling that had haunted me during the dark hours of night when I lay alone with my thoughts. Remembering her was like seeing a vision of some avenging goddess meting judgment upon the guilty.

I had been far from innocent that day. Why had she spared me?

Suddenly, I understood and felt ashamed of what I knew my men were doing.

I don't remember charging up the polished marble steps and into the building. Vaguely can I now recall ascending three flights of mahogany stairs, my legs still stiff from the cold, my lungs on fire from the exertion. I raced across parquet floors, down darkened hallways, through doors with bright brass hardware that swung open in well-oiled silence, only to slam against their stops, shudder back into their jambs and click shut as if invisible servants performed the reluctant task behind me.

Driven by the afflicted screams of a brutalized woman, not having given thought to what I'd do once I arrived, the last door burst open and I staggered into the hot, stifling atmosphere of a crowded room permeated with the stench of sweat and sex, utterly out of breath. My men's, distorted with rage, turned toward me. Their voices fell silent as their eyes met mine, then averted my gaze to stare at the floor, like children caught in wrongdoing.

The woman recoiled toward the wall like a discarded rag, her blonde hair draped across her body as if to hide her shame. I couldn't see the woman's face because there were several men standing in the way, but her sobs cut my soul. I felt shocked and outraged. Breathing deeply, my side aching, the vision of the Lith maiden still etched upon my consciousness, I let condemnation erupt from deep within my soul. "You disgust me!" I spat. "You don't deserve the honor of your uniform!"

"But sir," Sergeant Vitus objected. "You must realize that the men haven't had a woman in weeks. She's just some local whore. What does it matter? They need release!"

"What you need, sergeant," I interrupted, still breathing hard, "is castration, and that can be arranged!" I drew out my saber, pointing toward his groin to illustrate the point.

They all trembled, afraid that I might actually emasculate them on the spot, and I might have, if I'd been more certain of support from the senior officers. Silent in their fear, I let them listen to their victim weep while I pondered what to do next.

Lieutenant Hicks stomped up the stairs and clomped into the room, breaking the tension and giving me something else to think about for a moment. "The mortar crew is waiting for you in the lobby, sir!" he reported.

I glared at him, entirely unnecessarily, for he looked even more mortified than I'd ever seen before. "You get this woman dressed and out of here," I ordered. "If anyone so much as breathes on her, I'll have your private parts sent back to Marioch in a pine box! Got it?"

"Yes, sir," he replied. Then, staring for a moment at the bruised and bleeding female on the floor, he glanced back at me, clearly uncomfortable with the assignment. "What do you want me to do with her? Where do you want me to take her?"

Irritated, I pressed the point of my saber into his chest. "She's your problem now, soldier! Deal with it!"
Directing my attention to the other men sulking in front of me, I vented the rage within me in an unbridled tide of expletive derision. "As of this moment," I concluded, "every one of you is on report. Wait for me at attention in the courtyard until I'm ready to deal with you. Dismissed!"

As the men filed out of the room, I noticed the Tamarian woman had curled up against the paneled wall, clutching her uniform. To my great relief, she'd stopped her weeping. Something in her face inspired my pity, though she was my enemy and should not have expected clemency from us. I couldn't read what she was feeling by the blank expression, and since she didn't respond when I spoke to her, I figured she didn't know my language.

"Get her a bath with warm water," I ordered the trembling lieutenant at my side. "I don't care if you have to cut down every tree in the compound to do it, but I want it done right away."

"Yes, sir," he replied, meekly.

Angrily, I stormed off to meet the mortar crew, almost forgetting what I'd wanted to ask them. Clearing my mind proved impossible, as an intoxicating adrenaline rush still pumped through every cell in my body. My rage had not cooled even after I'd recovered my breath through long, unlit halls and three flights of stairs. I descended into the vaulted chamber that served as the lobby, my scowl inspiring fear among members of the mortar crew.

"Tell me what happened when the barbarians evacuated this place," I ordered no one in particular.

A brave recruit responded without lifting his eyes from the well-waxed floor. "They were already loading mules when you gave the signal to attack. We thought they were gonna leave, because we saw them drive the mules pulling carts filled with swine toward the back wall. They got out just before you came through the main gate, but we couldn't tell where they went because of the angle."

"How many were there?" I queried, already moving for the door, expecting to be followed, if not ordering it directly.

"Probably two dozen soldiers," he replied over my shoulder. "They came down from the rocket launchers on the walls and from inside the main building. It looked like most of them were young boys and women. We didn't have the heart to fire on them, sir."

Cold air slapped my face, froze my sweat and clawed through my clothing as if it were a thing alive, trying rend my flesh with its chill. The men in my artillery detachment had only recently rotated into my century. I didn't know their names and they obviously didn't know me. "We're not here to kill women and children," I responded, trying to hide my own sense of guilt and make the men feel at ease. "Take me to the place where you saw them go."

"Right this way, sir," the young recruit motioned.

Along the western wall of the compound, hidden behind a screen of sumac and juniper, a cobbled path descended into a gated rock garden, sprinkled in a remnant robe of snow. A white gazebo stood between the overhanging branches of two huge oak trees. Behind it loomed fitted, bleached stones ascending to nearly treetop level, effectively concealing this bowl-shaped sanctum from any eyes viewing it from the hill ridges to the west.

A huge, black eagle stared from the cupola atop the gazebo, pecking at what looked like a human hand beneath its claw. It turned its attention to me as I approached, then flapped away noisily as I stepped up and under the slate-shingled roof.

"They came down the same path, and from there we couldn't see anything else," the artilleryman claimed.

His assertion made sense, given that I had not seen this area from the hilltop myself. A hollow sound reverberated beneath my feet as I walked across the gazebo platform. Was this a secret escape portal?

"Check this area thoroughly," I ordered, stamping on the floor. "Find out where the barbarians went and report back to me immediately."

I didn't bother responding to the "Yes, sir!" Moodily, I stalked back to the courtyard, trying to figure out what I was going to do with the men involved in raping the blonde-haired woman, what I was going to do with her, and how I was going to explain the whole situation to the legate when he arrived.

I didn't have to wait long.

Judging from the commotion at the gate as I approached, I sensed that someone important had just entered. Several escorting cavalry troops, their faces fixed forward in rigid attention, carbines held from the outside hip at forty-five degree angles, formed a screen to protect the officer traveling in their midst. A mottled mare tossed her head and whinnied as her fully armored and helmeted rider dismounted.

Legate Braegan removed his crested helm and self-consciously combed his left hand through a stringy mass of matted hair. He'd shaven earlier, but facial hair that had grown since daybreak already darkened his complexion. Every warrior in the courtyard immediately snapped to attention, including me.

Although I didn't really want to greet him, my will didn't amount to much in the presence of a senior officer. I saluted with a vigor enhanced by the extreme cold. "Sir! I present to you the Ice Dragon Inn. Welcome!"

Braegan passed his helmet to an aide, rubbed his scruffy chin and admired the architecture, muttering profanity in astonishment at the soaring buttresses and stained glass that graced the main buildings. "Well, gods be blessed!" he exclaimed, though I'm sure spiritual matters were the least of his actual concerns. "Our little centurion found us a church!"

My spine tensed at the insult, but I didn't dare respond. "Lieutenant Hicks!" I roared, amazed at the speed with which he appeared at my side. "See that our legate is given a complete tour of the facility and that his every need is met."

"Yes sir!"

I could not believe how good it felt to give that order!

Braegan made some off-hand remark about how I had other duties demanding my attention and strutted up the marble staircase, muttering other obscenities as he vanished behind the massive, double hung doors and into the main building. Lieutenant Hicks followed in haste, looking like he was trying to control an imminent bowel movement with only marginal success.

Sighs among the men standing in the courtyard were audible after the latch clicked shut and the legate moved beyond earshot. I made a mental note of this reaction, then turned to face the eight soldiers I'd placed on report. Their moment of relaxation ended the instant my eyes fixed upon them, and they jerked to attention as if every spine had been pulled by a single string.

"Sergeant Vitus . . ." I called sternly, my command punctuated by the sharp crack of a single rifle firing from the wall behind me.

"Sir!" he responded, ignoring the sound.

"You and these men will report for excavation duty at the powerhouse building with Lieutenant Rangell immediately. Afterward, you will be confined to quarters until further notice."

He offered no verbal objection, but I could see contempt welling in his eyes. I ignored the insubordinate expression and dismissed them to dig up cold cobblestones and bicker about me behind my back, as I knew most of them would. At that moment I didn't care that their laments might be heard by sympathetic ears.

Private Willancus, a moderately corpulent man with black, almond-shaped eyes and severely chapped lips, approached at a trot from his post at the main gate. "Centurion Herulus!" he called, out of breath and sweating slightly from the moderate exertion expended in three dozen strides. "Sir, it's terrible! You won't be happy, but you gotta know. Come. I'll show you."

My headache exploded with fury as the private escorted me across the cratered courtyard to the battered portal. As we approached, I could see a horse through the aperture, chewing on a mouthful of tough, Saradon grass several yards away. Behind the beast, a primitive sort of litter had been rigged, but I couldn't make out any more detail at this distance.

"Just after the legate got here, we sees this wagon come from up the road," the ill-schooled private explained between breaths. "We think it's Sergeant Aransen and his boys at first, but the wagon stops out yonder and these people begin to packing up the enemy dead that we left on the battlefield.

"We all loaded up just in case they come closer, but after they get the bodies, they go back where they come from. Then one of their men whips up that horse there, and it come towards us like a mad djinni dragging that contraption behind 'til we scared it from running more with a shot."

I began to move ahead, but the private, to my amazement, held on to my left arm. "I'm real sorry, sir," he apologized. "But I know you had lots of respect for Sergeant Aransen. What you'll be seeing out there ain't pretty."

I said nothing, insisting with my eyes that the soldier let go of my arm. Turning away from the younger man at my sleeve, I approached the horse and litter alone. With my thoughts already drifting toward the morbid, my soul prepared for the ache that comes when good men die.

Behind the skittish horse, four poles had been lashed together with hemp twine, forming a rude fan that extended like a rake from the creature's saddle. Three men had been tied to each pole, the rope looped under their arms so that their bodies dragged along the ground as the horse moved forward. Every man's arms ended in bloody, dirt-encrusted stumps at each wrist, a barbaric mutilation that showed an animalistic disregard for the dead.

I retched, my stomach responding to the macabre memory of the eagle picking at the soft parts of an amputated hand upon the gazebo rooftop. Something primitive inside me wanted to retrieve the severed appendage and return it to its rightful owner, but I was too shaken by the sight to act upon the impulse.

I wanted to weep, swept up in a tide of strong emotions that threatened to overwhelm the levees of stoicism I'd erected in my soul. Tears would not come, however, and neither would the words to childhood prayers that, like the gods they intended to appease, had long since vanished from my memory. Instead, I stared, cursing in whispers, letting the permanence of my separation from the finest sergeant I'd ever known fester in my consciousness.

My grief experience lingered until the extreme cold soaked through every layer of clothing I'd piled on and my body shivered involuntarily for warmth. Then, quite unexpectedly, my sorrow evolved into an altogether different feeling, one of loathing and anger, but not for the barbarians. Instead, betrayal gripped my soul, hardening into contempt for the orders that had brought us to this barren wasteland in the first place. I turned back toward the inn and spat on the ground.

I hated Lord Balinor. His leadership looked much more like lust of power and hunger for fame in my eyes. All the frustrations of rank that plagued me – the men bickering about harsh conditions, their hard work and low pay; the humiliation of taking orders from a drunkard; the unfairness of being held accountable for matters beyond my realm of control; the loneliness of sleeping on a hard, narrow cot four months' march from home – welled to the surface of my thinking like a cold spring fed from the abyss of the unconscious.

I savored wicked thoughts. I cultivated a heady sense of sanctominity over injustices done, and it thrived in the daylight of my conscious mind. This inner betrayal of my commander made me feel alive for the first time in months, and the euphoric sensation of regaining control over my own life gave me the strength I needed to analyze the dead with a clinical eye.

Blood seeped slowly from grisly bullet wounds. Bayonet slashes, punctures and bruises from rifle butts testified to a brutal close-quarters battle, but some of these men had been slain in a far more ancient manner. Sergeant Aransen's body featured a single wound in the exact center of his throat, where a brittle, hardwood arrow extended. I'd seen arrows like this in Shirak.

Three other men had been similarly afflicted. One man had been shot in the eye, another in the back of the head, and the third through his right shoulder, lung, and out his back. The precision of each wound led me to conclude that at least one archer was using primitive technology with great skill. Was a Black Widow from Shirak fighting alongside the barbarians? Lord General Balinor, who'd sworn to kill every living Lith, would want to know, but I had no intention of telling him . . .

After this morning's battle, I knew that the barbarians wielded good rifles and used military rocket technology for defense. My near disaster in attacking the inn, coupled with the resounding defeat of Sergeant Aransen's squad, hinted that the advantage we'd enjoyed in firepower could be matched or even countered.

Prior to this experience, I'd presumed that our technological prowess stood above all other nations. We Azgaril led our world in social, economic and military affairs. Thus, I felt shocked that these northern barbarians defied my expectations. Their modern weapons used powerful, smokeless powder cartridges and featured magazines that enabled sustained, rapid fire. If they had small rockets, did they also have bigger ones? Did they have artillery, too? Who were these people?

For the Northern Liberation Campaign, our infantry rifles had been upgraded from antiquated muzzle-loading muskets. This was how the industrialist consortiums who funded Lord Balinor's venture supplied our large, expeditionary force with cheap guns. The black powder cartridges we used left smoke trails that revealed the shooter to the enemy. Also, the ensuing smoke cloud of our rifle discharge meant that our soldiers had to wait until the smoke cleared in order to see clearly, aim and fire again.

These factors should have caused our commanders to reconsider further conquest, at least until we could be re-supplied with updated guns. I didn't think they'd believe my analysis, so I made a crucial decision to keep silent. I vowed to withhold information I believed might be critical to the success of Balinor's army in its campaign. While I fully intended to use such knowledge for my own survival and to preserve the lives of the men under my command, I would limit my role in assisting the senior officer corps with their insane drive northward would to carrying out direct orders.

The sound of horse hooves, clinking metal and men's voices stirred me from my secrets. From the south, long trains of marching men began arriving, and with them rode their lieutenants, centurions, centurion commanders, legates, the vice-generals and somewhere, escorted by his elite guard, Lord General Balinor himself.

I felt self-conscious about the slain men tied behind the horse and yelled toward the gate for some assistance. Private Willancus and his team brought out a broken-down wagon they'd found somewhere within the walls. I didn't stay to oversee the recovery of our dead, but walked back toward the inn with a glare on my face that reflected the pain throbbing from behind my temples.

Lieutenant Rangell seemed agitated. "I can't figure it out, sir. It's unlike any system I've seen before. There are no moving parts that we can find anywhere.

"It's got components from a gas-burning system, but it must operate on principles that we don't understand."

"Forget it then," I ordered, annoyed that a well-schooled engineer could be so baffled by technology developed by an inferior society. "Get some heat into that main building. I don't care if you have to forge iron stoves and knock holes in the roof for smoke vents, just get it done, and get started now!"

The look in Rangell's eye betrayed his anger at being ordered to perform a herculean task with little in the way of resources, but he couldn't understand the hot water I'd be in if he didn't carry out my command in a hurry.

A messenger arrived, informing me that I'd been summoned to Legate Braegan in the main building. I wished I'd been able at that moment to take a long swig of something distilled to stir my courage, but sobriety prevailed and my feet moved involuntarily to meet the man.

"Well, here's our hero, Herulus!" he exclaimed, mispronouncing my name as if he was actually describing a bald head. "Hicks! Get your crew to stop fondling themselves long enough to throw these windows open! It looks like a crypt in here without daylight, and we're expecting Lord Balinor any minute now. Come on soldier! Stop scratching your anus and move!" Profanity trailed off his tongue like raw sewage dripping from a rusty culvert.

I could have explained the heat loss problem, but said nothing. The senior officers would, no doubt, make the men camp outside in the cold, so I decided it was about time they shared in the misery of the common soldiers and junior officers.

Turning to me and pointing a dirty fingernail, Braegan continued his discourse with barely a breath between phrases. "We're gonna have a festival to remember tonight, soldier. Arrange with the mess crew to pull out all the stops. We'll feast on mutton, ham, beef, good wine and anything else you can find. Put a smile on Lord Balinor's face and I'll see to it that your next review is a good one."

Initially, I felt too shocked to fully comprehend that he was offering to promote me for simply throwing a party. The reality that we'd found very little food after taking the inn stymied my response. I didn't have the courage to admit this, so I fudged a bit. "I'll need orders for more men," I stated, trying not to cringe beneath the weight of derision I expected.

"Write it up and it's done," he replied with the sweep of his left hand, his eyes wandering up to the frescoed vaulting illuminated high above.

"Yes sir." I replied, turning on my heel, not waiting to be dismissed. The only words I heard as I departed were expletives muttered in admiration of the ceiling art.

Although the inn had been cooling down for hours, it still felt warmer within its walls than beyond them, and as soon as I returned to the courtyard, the cold assaulted me again. I cursed the name of some minor god for the discomfort I endured, and as soon as the words departed from my lips, a flash of light momentarily blinded me. Then I heard a concussive sound, much like a mortar shell impact, followed by a tremendous explosion.

Instinctively, I dropped to the frozen ground and covered my ears, a little too late.

Off to my left, in the direction of the hidden gazebo, a roiling cloud of black smoke billowed above the trees, showering the surroundings with splintered shards of flaming lumber. Brave men fled, shouting in confusion, but I stood and raced toward the scene, horrified that a repeat of the Shirak fire might ensue.

Residual heat lingered from the blast, covering an area roughly thirty yards in circumference. The warmth radiated from the ground and parts of the old stone wall, melting the thin veil of snow into wispy streams of steam that rose like resurrected ghosts and vanished into the cold, clear heavens. Directly ahead, the scattered stones of what had been a ten-foot section of wall lay in random heaps upon the ground. I stopped a lieutenant from the mortar unit to inquire what had happened.

"It was a trap, sir," he shouted nervously. "We found a hinge in the gazebo floor. Beneath it, we uncovered an iron lid the enemy locked over the entrance to a large portal. We spent an hour trying to pry the thing open, but it had been well secured from below.

"I talked to Lieutenant Rangell about it, and he suggested we blow the lid off with a small explosive. We backed everyone away, rigged it up and fired it off, but we didn't expect the whole thing to erupt like a volcano. We're lucky no one got hurt."

Sporadic flames licked at the splintered remains of the gazebo foundation. Four men with shovels battled the fire, dousing it with dirt, and between them, a wide trench, fifteen feet deep, extended through the gap in the wall.

"Now that we know how they got out of here," I said, surveying the damage, "find out where they went. I'll expect a report from you before nightfall. Also, post a guard to secure that gap."

"Yes sir," the lieutenant replied, apparently relieved that I hadn't blamed him for the disaster.

In order to investigate the defensive needs of our northern front, I decided to scout the small town where Sergeant Aransen's men had been so decisively defeated earlier in the day. I wanted to be alone anyway, so I borrowed a horse and carefully circled the settlement from the east, staying in the tall grass, beyond unaided visual range. I found a low ridge to the north suitable for observation and spent some time examining the town with my field lens.

I saw no fortifications. The inhabitants seemed relatively benign, consisting mostly of unarmed old men, women, and quite a few children. The locals busily packed their worldly belongings into sturdy, four-wheeled, mule-drawn wagons. I saw no soldiers, but civilian sentries maintained watch over the evacuation from the rooftops.

Moving southwest, I passed by large grain fields furrowed at right angles to the prevailing wind, the stubble and roots of corn left behind after harvest to hold the soil. On the northern and western sides, these fields were sheltered by a great swath of leafless poplar and silver aspen. Following the northern edge of this windbreak, leading my horse through the trees to lessen the possibility of being seen, I noticed movement where the ranks of trees met. There I found a family of coyotes gnawing on the remains of two dead horses. My approach frightened the creatures away.

The carcasses, frozen stiff in the cold, showed signs of a deathwolf kill. Their intestine and internal organs had been eaten right through the belly, while the muscle and bone were left to scavengers. In my solitude, the traitorous thoughts I'd earlier entertained found fruition in a scheme that would solve my banquet dilemma.

I butchered the beasts using a hatchet from my pack, hacking away at the cold flesh to separate meat from bone. The hard work drew sweat from my pores.

After this, I fashioned a litter from poplar branches similar to the ones I'd seen earlier that day, then dragged the meat behind my horse as I headed back to the Ice Dragon Inn. No one else would know the origin of the evening's main course . . .

Lieutenant Rangell modified the inn's blacksmith forge to burn wood, and managed to fashion a massive barrel stove out of the iron pipe his crew dug from beneath the gazebo. Two-dozen men carried this creation on a litter hewn from oak, setting it directly on a makeshift, cobblestone foundation laid over the parquet floor of the inn's main hall. He fitted a chimney above the stove that extended about six feet overhead, allowing thick, creosote-laden smoke to smother the frescoed vaulting aloft.

The lieutenant, on his own initiative, ordered several of the upper-most stained-glass windows smashed, providing an exit for the stove exhaust, making the entire building appear as if it were ablaze when viewed from a distance. When I arrived, he assured me that the inn would be warm for the festivities that night. I thought the priests would feel at home . . .

An ever-increasing tide of soldiers and equipment surrounded the aged stone walls like a seething black sea. Islands of white canvas appeared as the infantry divisions struck camp. The immensity of three hundred thousand assembled warriors drowned the landscape encircling the ancient inn.

Artillery troops arranged cannon around the camp's perimeter, stacking munitions behind open barrels that gaped like thousands of graves. Beyond these swarmed our patrols with gleaming bayonets and loaded rifles, hunting for barbarian blood. Our deathwolves would run free this evening, killing any living thing they found. My nation's expeditionary army exuded violence, and I felt like a traitorous minnow amidst a gathering of frenzied sharks.

Near the western fringe of camp I found the reserve corps. These soldiers consisted of new recruits and veteran warriors who belonged to units below battle strength. With the signed orders from Legate Braegan in hand, I requested additional manpower from the officer in charge, receiving the command of sixty men and a sergeant to replace the casualties in my own century.

My newest sergeant, a veteran soldier stricken with frostbite, did not appear physically imposing. Sergeant Hanibal hailed from a crime-ridden, prostitute-infested town called Arama, a place name meaning "cursed" in our language. The effect of growing up in such an environment became apparent within moments of meeting him, for he reduced every aspect of life to some depraved sexual act with disease-ridden strumpets barely old enough to have breasts and body hair.

I detested him immediately.

Like a slave auctioneer, the officer in charge of the reserve corps assured me that this man was fearless in battle, slapping Hanibal's service record into my frozen hand with conviction in order to prove his point. Compliments of this nature were seldom deserved, and I sneered to display a cynical, if not realistic, disbelief. Glancing through the document, however, confirmed the claim, and with him I received a squadron from the same town who seemed all too eager for another fight.

In the waning late-afternoon light, I led my unit up to the north ridge overlooking our objective. After seating the enlisted men by squadrons, I sent out a scouting team and ordered the rest to clean their weapons.

To my relief, our scouts reported the town completely deserted. One of my privates explained, "The houses are still warm and there's a stray cat roaming around. Other than that, there's no evidence that this place had been recently inhabited."

I led the men into town, sending four-man crews into every building just to make certain my scouts were right. We found several cases of dried apples, pears and raisins; many pickled vegetable jars, a dozen casks of watered-down wine, twenty sacks of moldy corn flour and fifty-odd pounds of sprouted potatoes.

The houses, an odd blend of the primitive and advanced, consisted of hardened mud walls, tiled floors and pole-framed roof supports. Each home contained gas lighting and massive kitchen stoves that made them feel oppressively hot after we'd suffered so long in the cold. I ordered my men to quarter inside, giving them strict orders not to breathe a word about these improved living accommodations to anyone else. We were within a thirty minute march of the Ice Dragon Inn, allowing for a speedy regrouping with the main army whenever it moved. No one would know that my men were receiving special treatment, a thought that further fed my personal pride in carrying out a secret reprisal against senior officers who cared nothing for the average soldier.

Although Lieutenant Hicks actually did most of the planning and preparation for the evening's festivities, I took special satisfaction in watching the senior officers line up for generous cuts of "roast" at the main serving table. Lieutenant Rangell, whose ingenuity far exceeded his rank, rigged a distillation column from the back of his wood-burning stove. From this, he served hot, spiced wine distilled from the watered-down casks I'd supplied him. This wicked brew possessed as much kick as cheap whiskey, dulling the senses of the elite officer corps so that they did not realize how bad the food tasted, nor how poorly the discordant band played.

Sometime close to midnight, the mortar team leader, a capable officer, I'd discovered to my delight, arrived with a map. Although he looked exhausted, it was refreshing to see a sober face, and I excused myself from the table in order to talk to him.

"I scouted this personally, sir," he began, as if trying to impress me with his initiative. "After the natives went through that portal in the gazebo floor, they entered a tunnel that joins up with a mine shaft. It breaks out along the western side of the hill my crew was on, and there we found tracks in the snow showing they marched straight across the valley to this hill."

He pointed to a place on the map named Dead Hand, a prominent peak on a long, north-easterly ridge line. "You scouted that also, I presume?"

The lieutenant nodded.

"What did you see?"

"Not much. It looks like an old star fort made out of concrete. When I brought the men close, someone shot off a green rocket. After what happened this morning, I decided it was best to back off until we could get some firepower of our own up there."

"Prudent," I replied. "Get a patrol on that hill 'round the clock. I want to know everything that goes in and out. I want an artillery survey done right away, then put every mortar, cannon and rifle you have on that fort. Be ready to engage if I so much as breathe a word to you about it."

The lieutenant saluted, promising to fulfill my command and notify me by messenger the following day.

As I turned back toward the party, Legate Braegan caught my attention. Lord General Balinor, dressed in a clean and starched uniform, stood at his side with a drink in hand. Balinor's personal body guard – twelve husky men who were portraits of sobriety painted over a broadly inebriated landscape – watched everything and everyone with suspicion.

The general lifted his glass in my direction, pursing his thin lips into a smile that sent a chill down my spine. Legate Braegan nodded, a wide grin splayed across his face that reiterated the promised promotion. In a single day I'd become an officer with a real chance to advance rapidly through the ranks. He would see to that. He was a man of his word.

Suddenly I felt hot and the headache festering within my skull pounded with terrible fury. I stepped outside, welcoming the cold, welcoming the pain within my head, for I realized at that moment that I had become a victim of my own success.

Grey Clouds

An uncharacteristic look of worry flashed across Colonel Brandt's normally jovial countenance. He examined the polished, engraved metal fittings of an Azgar trapdoor carbine, admiring its fine craftsmanship, noting many scars on its mahogany stock and a burnish on its iron butt that testified to contact with its former owner's shoulder.

While this weapon had seen extensive use on the battlefield, its clean condition affirmed that a well-trained soldier had wielded this gun before it came into the colonel's possession. Black powder weapons become filthy after repeated use, requiring diligence to keep them in good condition. Rigorous maintenance usually indicates a high level of morale among soldiers, and this fact, coupled with the huge numerical advantage his enemy enjoyed, gave Colonel Brandt good reason for concern.

The Tamarian officer leaned the musket against his desk. Although a full, rapid mobilization in response to the invasion would likely buy time to move civilians out of the combat zone, the colonel did not really have enough hard evidence to justify such an extreme measure. Risking his career on a single scouting report, the testimony of two foreigners and the combat experience of a lowly junior scout, the colonel transcribed alert orders for distribution throughout the Lower Angelgate Quarter of the Southeastern Tamarian Defense Force.

He encoded and duplicated his directives on a hand-cranked machine that assigned random number values to a code representing each letter of the Tamarian alphabet. A key, punched in along the top of every page, set the code-reader on the receiving end to the correct grapheme-integer relationship, allowing communication between bases that could not be decoded by the enemy.

Opposing three-hundred thousand Azgaril troops, the Tamarian Defense Force could muster only thirty-thousand, and these were scattered across a roughly rectangular zone measuring exactly one hundred and thirty-two miles long and sixty-six miles deep. Calling that many soldiers away from their posts to do battle against a vastly superior force would leave much of Tamaria's southeastern quarter vulnerable to attack. Colonel Brandt, grateful that such concerns were beyond the scope of his responsibility, left this larger decision in the capable hands of General Ziegler, his commanding officer.

Fortunately, geography prevented a random invasion of Tamaria. High, snow-capped mountains provided a natural barrier difficult for an army to cross, especially in winter. The enemy would most likely attack through a single, low elevation pass in an attempt to overwhelm local defenses. The most likely objective of any such strike would be the regional capital of Burning Tree, an important industrial city of 200 000 inhabitants on the western shore of Broken Wing Lake.

A successful campaign to control Burning Tree and the Broken Wing Valley would split Tamaria in half, put the enemy within a two-week march of Marvic, the nation's capital, and allow the Azgaril unrestrained movement through the maze of north-south valleys where most of the Tamarian population lived.

Dead Hand Ridge commanded the best access to the Broken Wing Valley from the enemy's position on the Saradon Plateau. Ultimately, Tamaria's fate lay in Colonel Brandt's ability to blunt the invasion long enough for Central Interior Command to mass its troops and counterattack. Stripping every regional defensive position of its combat soldiers would provide 120 000 warriors, a force representing roughly seventy-five percent of all Tamarian forces.

Given perfect communication, the absence of enemy attacks on the tracks or trestles, no equipment breakdowns and good weather, such a muster would require about three weeks to complete.

Getting the news of the invasion to General Ziegler posed a vexing problem. During the spring and summer, regular rail service between Dead Hand Ridge and Burning Tree occurred weekly. Once the weather turned cold and unpredictable, the above ground portions of the electric rail network were subject to the vagaries of heavy snowfall, avalanche and frost damage. Thus, during the autumn and winter, supply trains arrived monthly at best, and the last train to Burning Tree had pulled out three days earlier.

The distance to the regional capital and the importance of the news required a human messenger. The colonel saw no alternative.

Colonel Brandt handed the stack of orders to his aide, then stared out his north-facing window where he studied his reflection against the darkness, contemplating an impending nightmare. No commander in Tamarian history had faced such an overwhelming force. No invading army had ever been equipped with heavy artillery, either. Although his outward expression remained confident, the colonel worried that his supply stocks could not sustain prolonged combat.

The colonel's aide rushed the urgent orders to a communication center, located on the windswept roof of the base. There, a corporal rolled the encoded pages into lightweight scroll cases that she clamped to the right legs of several dozen Kitsim doves, a large, fast-flying species trained to carry military messages between nearby fire support bases in an emergency.

Within hours, combat readiness increased across the dry, southeastern region of the High Land. Local base commanders alerted military police units, who in turn, began large-scale civil evacuation procedures and reserve unit duty recall. Citizens, awakened in alarm, started moving their stockpiled food from local farming cooperative storehouses into the fire keeps to sustain the soldiers who would be defending their exodus northwest.

A staged, troop reallocation commenced according to an extensively rehearsed, pre-operational plan. Soldiers based in rear areas and at other locations further away from the impending conflict mustered and marched in the frozen darkness toward the battle zone. Their positions would be filled by reserves, usually veteran soldiers beyond the prime age for active service. Young women also responded to the call, replacing their brothers, cousins and husbands in supporting roles wherever possible.

Tamarian patrols carried heavier weaponry, departed with greater frequency, and were given more individual discretion for weapon discharge. Thus, the likelihood of a lethal engagement between the opposing sides increased with each passing moment.

***

As dawn encroached upon the stark, angular foothill ridges east of the Angelgate mountains, the refugee caravan from Dieter struggled uphill toward Dead Hand Ridge. The rhythm of plodding hooves and squeaking axles, the steady tug of straining mules and a gentle, side-to-side swaying had long since lulled most people to sleep. Steadily, the wagons carried the civilians to safer confines, protected by soldiers and strong walls.

Garrick, who had slept fitfully in the wagon as it traveled, huddled quietly with Brenna in the freezing gloom at the rear of the caravan. Images of yesterday's events haunted his private thoughts, modified by fantasy as he willed a heroic role for himself in the unfolding drama.

The reality of his best friend's death struck the cadet repeatedly, leaving him with an impotent feeling of frustration that he could not contain. He blamed himself for the demise of his unit, even though, in an intellectual way, Garrick realized that his presence alone would not have changed the outcome of battle, especially in light of his performance at the Dieter skirmish. But this only underscored the helplessness and sorrow he felt.

Brenna noticed the tension in his hands, the listlessness manifest in Garrick's grey eyes that made him unable to look in any particular direction for longer than a moment or two. Words would just begin to form on his lips, only to vanish as he pushed them deep into the silent realm of his subconscious.

She wanted to comfort him in some way, to hold him close in order to drive away the anguish, but he seemed so distant, occupied with his thoughts, that she wasn't sure touching him would help. At a time when she wanted to be a good friend, willing to hear him express his true feelings, when she would have gladly let him hold her close in order to free him from the pain stabbing at his soul, he'd retreated into self-imposed solitude.

Compassion stirred in Brenna's heart. Braving the cold, she took off her right glove and slid her hand into his. Garrick's fingers enclosed hers, but not with the lighter touch he'd been careful to employ before. Without really thinking about what he was doing, the young man flexed his forearm muscle and squeezed her hand a bit harder than he should have.

She winced. "You're hurting me," Brenna warned, not wanting to offend him and trying to keep her tone matter-of-fact.

Garrick relinquished his grip without a word, as if he'd rejected a piece of fruit at the market, and stared straight ahead.

Brenna put her glove back on, suppressing a pout, feeling hurt inside by his casual rejection of her affection. The lingering doubts about becoming emotionally involved with a godless foreigner surfaced again. Then, she chided herself for being so forward, for presuming that she could provide what he needed at the moment, when in truth, she didn't know him well enough to sense what would make him feel better anyway. She crossed her arms and wordlessly leaned back against the hard, wooden bench.

The change in Brenna's behavior brought Garrick out of his reverie, and a quick evaluation of her posture inspired concern that he'd done something irrevocably wrong. At first, he felt mildly annoyed that she'd be so selfish to ignore his obvious emotional pain and demand attention, but when he thought further, he realized that she might have been innocently trying to help. In that case, he would be the one guilty of insensitivity, and her friendship was more valuable to him than the small bit of pride expended in the minor humiliation of an apology.

"I wasn't thinking, Brenna," he admitted. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She shook her head, refusing to look at him. "It's not fair of you to treat me so coldly. I'm only trying to help." Her voice sounded sharp, brimming with emotion.

Garrick realized he'd made a serious blunder and regretted his bad manners. "Okay, I'm sorry! I know I should be gentle."

Brenna remained aloof and silent, refusing to dignify his apology with a response. An ache in her soul warned that she shouldn't play this game for long, but she intended to prove a point and didn't back down.

After waiting for what seemed like a very long time, Garrick timidly tapped her shoulder. "Brenna, please look at me. I have a lot on my mind and didn't mean to upset you. It was wrong for me to respond like that."

The Lithian woman finally complied, reading genuine repentance in his expression. She didn't understand why he was so distant at times, but she wanted to understand. "Why are you acting this way, Garrick? I can't read your mind. You have to tell me plainly what I can do to help because what we're doing isn't working."

The words came easier than he'd imagined they would, and once spoken, could not be recalled. "I want to hold you," he replied, nervously.

Slowly, a smile spread across Brenna's heart-shaped face. "Why didn't you ask?" she queried, opening her arms to embrace him.

Garrick pulled her close, feeling the silky texture of her fine hair brush against his face, the strength of her shoulders, the caress of her fingers and the yielding softness he desired so willingly pressed against him. "You don't make it easy on me," he said. "One minute, it seems that you want me to be near and the next, you're asking me to back away. I'm afraid to need you because I never know whether I'm going to be accepted or rejected."

Brenna held him tighter, biting on her lower lip, wishing she could set herself free from the restrictions imposed by her own sense of virtue. Finally, she let him go, dropping her hands into her lap. "I don't know how else to put this," she began. "I'm afraid when I'm touching you. I'm afraid of losing control.

"All my life I've prized my chastity. It's been a sign of my commitment to Allfather, and everyone who knows me will tell you that nothing is more important to me. Now, all of a sudden I can hardly contain this physical hunger for you. It defies the conviction that's given meaning to my life for as long as I can remember."

Garrick understood this reasoning far better than she believed he would. "There's no shame in that," he replied. "Nothing that's worth believing in goes without a serious challenge in an honest life experience. The trial itself doesn't make your ethics invalid. The trial proves their worth. Anyone can claim to be principled when it's easy to stand firm on their convictions. The real test comes when acting morally is the harder thing to do."

"That's why I'm afraid," she replied, letting her gaze wander from his. "I don't know if I can."

The young man left her words unanswered for a moment, watching the sense of anticipation rising in the Lithian woman's beautiful face. "That may be true, but there are two of us involved, Brenna. You're not the only one with a conscience here. I have to live with myself too, and I'm willing to set aside the desire I feel for you in order to prove my sincerity. Judging from what I know of you, I think you're worth the wait."

Brenna lifted her eyes to meet his. "That sounds great, Garrick, but how long can you resist?" she inquired. "A few days? A few weeks? Maybe a few months? How can I promise to trust you in the long term when you don't trust me right now?"

This was a fair critique and Garrick knew it. He thought for a moment, searching for a principle that Brenna might use, if she was honestly willing, to guide her actions toward him. "I need to feel more confident of my standing with you. That would be helpful."

Brenna faced forward, examining the looming outline of the Tamarian firebase, situated beyond a fire glacis a few hundred yards distant. A cool, light breeze from the south played with her hair. "Would it matter if I told you that I loved you?"

"Do you love Woodwind?"

"Yes."

"Then no, that would make no difference."

Brenna sighed wearily. "It's not the same. I wish you could understand that."

"What is the difference, Brenna? You hug him, you kiss him on the lips and then tell me that he's like a brother to you. Well, I have a real little sister, but we don't go around kissing one another like you do with Woodwind."

The Lithian woman prayed silently, rubbing her cold, unfeeling nose, wishing that Garrick would make this easier on her, but suspecting he wouldn't. Finally, she said, "Okay. I don't know how to make this reflect what I'm feeling, but I'll try. I want you near me. I want you in a way that's different from what I feel for Woodwind. Just don't ask me to compromise my values for you."

Garrick agreed. "I'll respect whatever you _believe_ in, gods and all, as long as you don't insist that I think the same way."

"Then what exactly do you want from me?" she asked, afraid she might find his demands unreasonable.

Garrick's answer surprised her. "Just be consistent. If it's okay to hold me one minute, don't pull away the next. I need to know that your affection is an honest reflection of your feelings. I think that's fair."

"Very well," she acquiesced. "And in return, promise you'll uphold my virtue and trust that I care. When you give me the silent treatment I feel I'm not important to you."

The Tamarian cadet shook his head. "You've become very important to me, Brenna. I care about you in a way I've never cared before, but I've been betrayed by people I trusted, people in my own family, and it takes time for the hurt to heal."

Brenna reached for him, holding his face in her hands, her gaze sincere and caring. "You don't ever have to be afraid of me," she said softly.

Garrick fell silent, his pounding heart quickened by Brenna's nearness, her sensuality, her intelligence, her trust. Her lovely, alluring eyes drew him closer until breathlessly, their lips met.

***

A subtle shift in the wind before dawn brought in banks of fog, obscuring the stars overhead. On early morning walks with his wife, Lord Lynden Velez liked to look into the heavens, thinking of his place in the grander scheme of God's universe. All his wealth, power, prestige and the problems wrought by his position seemed insignificant in contrast to the incomprehensible vastness of Allfather's domain.

Lynden's faith inspired a perspective on leadership that contrasted with the attitudes held by most wealthy landowners in Kameron, who believed that their ancestral right to profit from agricultural and industrial production superseded all other concerns. Lord Velez took genuine interest in the welfare of his people, devoting his personal resources to improving the quality of the peasants' lives.

The dirt-poor grape farmers now under his rule had scraped a living from heavily eroded hillsides in northeastern Kameron for many generations. Initially, they projected suspicion and cynicism because previous landlords demanded exorbitant rents, and visited the region only when these yearly payments were due.

However, throughout the long, hot summer, Lynden worked tirelessly to win the confidence of his new constituency. He did not live an extravagant, isolated lifestyle. Instead, the Lithian landlord met with local people, asked what he could do to help, then afterward, toiled alongside them. Additionally, Lynden subdivided his property and sold the best parcels – the well-watered land along the Virgin River – to the peasants with no down payment and no interest. Lynden devoted the profit from these land sales to improving local infrastructure. No landlord had ever behaved this way before.

Lady Alexina, his beautiful and exceptionally intelligent wife, traveled to Kameron City and hired a soil conservation scientist to consult on local erosion problems. When she returned with his report, the warlord, with his two-thousand soldiers, bent his own back in hard labor under the late summer sky, planting native vegetation to hold the worsening gully erosion in check. He built terraces on the hillsides, dug debris dams to slow runoff, created catchment basins to store water for irrigation, excavated alluvium and hauled it back uphill so that the people he ruled would have better crops in the years to come.

After investing nearly all his wealth buying and improving land that often could not sustain its own population, Lord Velez now had little money left to pay the soldiers under his command. This put his family in an extremely precarious position, given that his armed force protected his fragile holdings from roaming bandit gangs that had terrorized the local population before his arrival.

Xina held her husband's hand with a tenderness borne of long affection. She felt proud of him. Even though their present home consisted of a run-down compound with crumbling walls, leaky roofs and gardens grown wild with weeds, she believed in the integrity of her husband's mission, never uttering a complaint. There would be time enough in the future for rebuilding their estate. They both understood that the people had to come first.

No one in the Velez household thought well of Kameron. The ancient, apathetic society bred unprincipled leadership. A thriving slave trade, though illegal, existed because desperate peasants, living on marginal land in the foothills or high in the mountains, sent their sons and daughters away with corrupt brokers who promised work in the big coastal cities, but later sold the young people in clandestine prostitution and slave labor markets. No one seemed able to stop this practice.

A small group of wealthy, land and factory-owning families consistently exploited the poor, burdening them with exorbitant interest, permitting huge debt that transferred from one generation to the next. Children born into this society often worked for very low wages to pay debts incurred by their grandparents, while incurring new financial liabilities that they, in turn, passed on to their own offspring. Thus, the stratification of society continued long after surrounding nations abandoned feudalism and adopted more progressive forms of economics, social structure and governance.

Nonetheless, in the weeks following the enemy invasion of Illithia, Lord Velez, Brenna and Woodwind had secretly undertaken the perilous path through Azgar picket lines into Kameron, hoping to find a place to escape from the doom prophesied against their own civilization. Wild rumors of fertile land for sale in a warm climate enticed many of their people to flee before the enemy surrounded their city. Lynden Velez contacted a landlord named Nemesio Fang, who offered his northern holdings for sale.

The Fang family ranked among the wealthiest and most powerful in Southern Kameron, but Lord Fang's boasting and lies quickly convinced Woodwind that the man possessed the personal integrity of a rattlesnake. "He's appropriately named," the young swordsman stated, sensing that Fang would not surrender any of his land without a fight. Woodwind, translating from Kamerese into Lithian, warned his master to break off contact and make an offer elsewhere.

As the Azgaril steadily conquered Lithian cities, Lord Velez ran out of time. Lithian armies fought bravely, but could not halt the enemy's advance. Many families who fled to Kameron found themselves at the mercy of corrupt officials, who offered property for sale at inflated prices. Refugees who bought real estate under these arrangements soon found themselves displaced by powerful armies of Kamerese warlords, who still held legal title to these lands.

A royal commission, established under orders from King Alejo, intervened to stop the fraudulence, recommending that the destitute refugees be relocated into the northern frontier, a sparsely populated area along the Tamarian border known for unpredictable weather, crop failures and banditry. Kameron's national army gleefully imposed this directive.

Lord Velez did not want to subject his family and the soldiers under his command to an unstable situation. Despite Woodwind's protest he negotiated with Lord Fang, who had proof of clear title to his holdings. The two men struck an expensive deal that included an oath of fealty.

However, when Nemesio Fang first encountered Brenna, nothing short of taking her as a wife would satisfy him. Lord Velez refused to comply, even though Brenna would long outlive the man, had the two married. The dispute between Fang and Velez dragged on as the Azgaril army drove further into beautiful, deep valley where the Sea of Tranquility lay, and the Lithian city of Shirak stood.

Somehow, stress and lack of sleep combined to create a terrible misunderstanding. One evening, while talking to Brenna and Woodwind, Lord Velez revealed Fang's insistence that he take Brenna as his wife. An obscure clause in Kamerese law required that contract disputes go to a court arbitrator, whose decision was then binding on both parties.

Linking this development with the knowledge of how other Lithians had been deceived, both Brenna and Woodwind understood Lynden to mean that an additional clause in the contract, enforced by the arbitrator, obligated her to marry Lord Fang. The two friends returned to Shirak with this idea, explaining it to the horror of Lady Alexina and her other daughters.

The siege of their beloved city, compounded by the continued absence of Lord Velez and slow communication with him in Kameron perpetuated this notion among immediate family members. Xina did not tell her husband that she'd deliberately left Brenna in charge of defending the exit portal so that the young woman could flee, should she choose to exercise that option before the enemy arrived.

At the last minute, Brenna pushed her maid, Tirra, through the magic portal, then promptly shut it down, trapping herself alone with an unknown number of Azgar warriors inside the Velez compound. The finality of her departure shocked the entire family.

Xina feared for her daughter's life and risked opening the portal again, just long enough to send Woodwind through. She put Shadow, his horse, at a little-known watering hole north of town, then prayed he would be able to find the young woman and save her.

Two months of anxious waiting and much prayer had transpired without any news.

In retrospect, Allfather's hand prevented the completion of the contract with Lord Fang. Lynden bought a large tract of remote land near the Tamarian border from a warlord named Navarro, then relocated his family there. Everything came together at the last minute, convincing Lynden and Alexina that their move had been God's will and served a spiritual purpose.

Nonetheless, every passing day painfully reminded them of their eldest daughter's disappearance. Lord Velez let his imagination drift to the day of her birth as he walked along a misty path. He imagined Brenna's tiny body in his arms, and well remembered the wonder he'd felt watching his little one nurse at her exhausted mother's breast.

Visions of Brenna laughing and running as a child, learning the piano so well that she'd dominated every competition she entered, and tirelessly working with Malleah Shevonne, his Relict aunt, to hone her martial skills threaded through his mind. He'd listen as she recalled long passages of Lithian scripture from memory, and sang hymns with the family. He'd watched her develop into a beautiful and talented young woman. These disparate events wove into the singular experience of loving a strong-willed, intelligent soul who'd left her indelible mark upon his heart.

Xina also loved and missed her daughter dearly, but long hours of prayer and meditation had imbued her soul with peace. The comfort had come with strange quickness. She became quietly confident in her eldest daughter's survival and prosperity, no matter how grim the news of conquest from across the mountains.

Now, on a cool southwesterly wind, the winter rains finally arrived. A fine, misty drizzle settled down from the grey clouds, washing many months of dust from rust-stained, decaying plaster and rotting timber. Along the eaves of every building, droplets formed and fell upon the pavement below, filling tiny troughs carved by centuries of dripping, creating a peaceful, soothing patter with a romance unique to west-coast precipitation.

Alexina shut her eyes and let the moisture caress her face, acutely aware of how she'd missed rain during the long, dry weeks of summer. Far to the southeast, in the land she'd left behind, convectional storms occurred nearly every afternoon, drenching the landscape in torrents of precipitation that fell like a waterfall from the sky. Here, the drizzle felt cold, but she savored the sensation, almost willing its cool touch to settle upon her skin.

Lynden stopped walking, watching tiny droplets adhere to his wife's fair and flawless complexion. He enjoyed the moment, admiring her, savoring the sweet scent of the grape crush, borne upon the gentle breeze, mingling with the aroma of Alexina's perfumed ebon hair.

Camille, their youngest and most fleet-footed daughter, dashed through the mist down a slippery stairwell. The maiden had raced for a very long way, down the path leading to a derelict observatory, high on an eastern hill. After much searching, she finally found her parents. Drenched and shivering, her skirt hung heavily from her hips, and the pale, green blouse she wore clung to her soft shoulders like a second skin. "Daddy," she panted. "Aril sent me to find you. There's been heavy rain in the mountains. The runoff is washing fast through Maidenhair Canyon and it's brought down some trees that are clogging the culverts.

"We tried to move them out of the way, but the current is too strong for us. The upper debris dam is about to overflow and ruin all the work we did this summer."

"Is Aril okay?" Lynden queried, concerned for the safety of his adult nephew.

Camille nodded, wiping her wet face, pushing a dangling strand of dark hair out of her glimmering green eyes. "He's opening the gates halfway on the next three dams to let the water run through." The maiden, in Lithian fashion, had already regained her breath.

"Don't go back into the water," Lord Velez warned. "Put on something dry, find Mason and tell him what happened. Then, tell Tegene to muster the men. After that, bring your sisters and meet me at the upper culvert."

"Right away," she replied with a smile. Camille squeezed her father's hand, gave her mother a kiss on the lips and darted off along a well-worn flagstone path to do her father's bidding.

Alexina's eyes, bright as an azure blossom in the darkness, met her husband's gaze. She sighed, her lovely lips wrinkled into a tiny frown. "All that work!" Xina thought of her husband, knowing that he needed rest. "Go up to the hot spring and let me do this for you."

Lynden Velez understood that his bride of thirty-four years could handle the problem without him. Nonetheless, he wanted to personally assess the damage done to his handiwork before requesting her aid. "How can I ask you and my men to work while I relax in a hot bath?" he queried, gently holding her chin in his hands. He kissed her lightly. "What I've done to deserve a woman like you I'll never know, but if there are sandbags that need filling, I'll take my turn at the shovel."

Alexina smiled. "Whatever you wish, love."

***

Silently, the hydraulic hinges controlling the iron gate at Dead Hand Ridge opened to admit the refugees from Dieter, and a tall lieutenant named Magruder appeared with a note pad in hand. Systematically, he organized the confused, travel-weary and often uncooperative townsfolk into groups. He ordered able-bodied men and women to separate areas for work assignments, while mothers with small children, along with the elderly, went to a holding center while they waited for evacuation plans to commence.

When he saw Brenna in a woman's parade uniform, the lieutenant wheeled her around by the shoulder thinking she was just another private in need of something to do. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

Brenna's look of silent terror brought Garrick to her rescue. "She's with me, sir. She's a refugee and doesn't speak our language."

Lieutenant Magruder appraised her lovely form with a lingering eye before turning his attention to Garrick. "What's a foreigner doing in a parade uniform?"

"The commanding officer at the Ice Dragon Inn gave it to her because she's been caring for our wounded." That was only a partial truth, but Garrick hoped it would work.

"Where's your unit, son?" he inquired, still holding on to Brenna's down parka as if she were a sack of potatoes needing to be peeled.

Garrick pulled back on the tarpaulin covering the bed of his wagon, exposing the remains of his comrades. Choking back an outburst of emotion, he replied, "They're right here, sir."

The lieutenant's eyes widened as he let go of Brenna's coat. He drew in a slow breath, tightened his lips, and softened his tone."Cover them," he ordered, "and take them to the morgue."

"Yes sir," Garrick responded.

At that moment Corporal Fanselars, who'd ridden all night in order to get medical help for Woodwind, appeared. He totally ignored Lieutenant Magruder. "You! Scout boy!" he spat.

Garrick turned but did not reply.

"While you were out fondling long-locks here, her real lover took a bullet in the back. The doc thinks he'll be dead by morning. You tell her."

Every apprehension about his fragile friendship with Brenna screamed inside Garrick's mind as the corporal's harsh message stung his ears."What happened? Where is he?" Garrick inquired.

Fanselars ignored the first question. "The infirmary. One of your playmates is there as well. You tell her now!" The corporal's tone, size and rank intimidated Garrick into immediate obedience.

Brenna's heart sank when she heard the news, inspiring a flood of involuntary tears that welled from within her darkening eyes. Casting her glance downward, she sighed quietly, saying nothing. Eventually, Garrick appeased the brawny corporal, who pushed his way through the crowd and trotted back upstairs without even the most cursory acknowledgment of Lieutenant Magruder.

The young Tamarian covered up his fallen comrades again, then quietly asked Brenna if she wanted to be alone for awhile. "I need to take care of identifying the remains of my unit," he stated. "We have to get permission for you to visit the infirmary before they'll let you in. If you don't want to wait around for me, you can head to your room. I'll meet you there as soon as I'm done."

Her response pained him. "I'll do that." Then, as if sensing that he really wished she wouldn't go, Brenna held his hand with both her own, guiding it to her lips. "But I'll be waiting for you," she said, kissing his fingers.

Though he shouldn't have embraced her while she was wearing a uniform, Garrick couldn't resist. "I won't be long," he promised. Their public affection drew many dismayed, disapproving eyes. He turned away as if unconcerned, leaving the Lithian woman to cope with the social scorn alone, then moved through the crowed without looking back.

Brenna retreated to the dark solitude of her quarters where she fell onto the bed, wept and prayed for a long time. "I've been angry at Woodwind because he confronted me with the truth of my motive for coming up here," she admitted. "This is my fault!"

Words began to fail, superseded by an ache in her soul that found expression only in heartbroken wailing. Woodwind had long been Brenna's best friend. He was more selfless and courageous than any man she'd known. True friends told the truth, even if it hurt, and the honesty of his words cut a wound in her spirit. She'd been defensive because he'd been right.

In the light of this personal admission, Brenna felt that she'd betrayed him and regretted her refusal to return to Kameron. Confusing emotions swirled within her mind. An emotional storm that ranged from rage to regret, from loss to love, overwhelmed her soul.

Then, a strange thing happened. Occasionally in prayer, when her concentration was fully focused, she could sense the exalted influence of Allfather's spirit within her. Most often, it comforted, but at times pointed out the blindness of her spiritual perception, cutting to the very core of soul until she fully understood that she was not entirely blameless in her troubles.

This time, however, Brenna experienced an instantaneous peace and felt an overwhelming desire to pray for her mother. Without knowing why, she did so, and words returned with an eloquence that vanquished her earlier speechlessness.

***

Torrents of silt-laden water crashed through a steep, rocky canyon with a mightier roar than the rushing of many horses into battle. Thundering over massive boulders, the surging stream leaped into the misty air in thousands of random fountains, falling back to its roiling course, pushing rocks, broken limbs and even entire trees along its frantic path.

As Lynden and Alexina Velez watched, the rapid current undercut unstable banks – which melted into raging water like metal in a forge – exposing the tangled roots of conifer and oak that now hung tenuously from newly eroded cliffs. The debris dam, clogged with flotsam, no longer slowed the raging current. Turgid water swept over the dam's rock and rammed-dirt crest with the same devastating ferocity it wielded against the stream banks.

Cynthia, whose lovely voice preceded her actual arrival, brought Mason, the chief engineer and three of Tegene's adult grandsons. "Cassie's bringing shovels and sandbags with a mule train," the dark-eyed maiden explained to her father. "Camille is still looking for Tegene."

Sixty-two-year-old Sherman Mason, a stout man whose fine physical condition probably had more to do with his profession than the minor contribution of Lithian blood in his lineage, surveyed the rapidly eroding embankment, assessing damage. "This is a great deal more water than we'd designed for," he worriedly informed Lord Velez on his return. "We stand a good chance of losing the entire system if we don't act soon."

After consulting with his crew, the bearded engineer decided to excavate a channel in order to relieve pressure on the upper dam. Soon, several hundred warriors, armed with pick axes and shovels, busily dug through muck and rock these same men had painstakingly built up only weeks before.

When Aril arrived, shirtless, dirty and out of breath, Mason sent him back downstream with instructions to close the spillway gates. As soon as the water reached two-thirds the height of the dam, he was to open the gate slowly until the volume of water entering equaled the volume going out.

Alexina formed a plan with her two daughters. After she'd worked out the algorithmic sequence, Lady Velez approached her husband to explain how her plan would work. She kissed him gently, then pursed her lips. "If Allfather is willing, I will tame the waters for you."

Camille came uphill with Tegene and his youngest adult son, Jawara in tow. The tall, dark-skinned warrior, who'd fought at Lynden's side and earned his deepest trust decades earlier, took hold of a Lithian axe and scanned the grey clouds. "You are doubly blessed, my friend," he told Lynden."The Holy One sends you rain and firewood at the same time!"

Tegene always found something positive to say, and Lynden had long appreciated the good humor of his 'Scinnian friend. The warlord glanced at the long line of men standing behind him, waiting for their role in the drama, then accepted an axe and a coil of rope from Mason. Turning back to his wife, Lynden said,"We're ready now. My prayers and blessings go with you."

Alexina retreated to a quiet spot several dozen yards away from the excavation, where she and her daughters would not disturb the work progressing behind them. Standing close together, the three sisters joined hands, taking turns in asking for Allfather's favor on behalf of their mother, for all power that she exerted derived from him.

Having learned water polymerization as a child, Alexina knew the procedure by heart. While most of her experience with molecular manipulation occurred among quiet pools containing limited volumes of water, the Lithian woman approached her current task in faith that Allfather would reveal his power through her. Never before had she attempted anything on such a massive scale, and complicating her effort, controlling the rapid rise of runoff required continuous growth in the polymer chain equal to the cube of speed times volume in the water stream.

Lady Alexina breathed deeply, put her faith in Allfather, concentrated on her complex task, and subsequently took command of the raging waters in Maidenhair Creek.

Subtle shifts in subatomic material relationships controlled the transfer of minute bits of matter into energy, providing the force by which hydrogen bonds came apart. With its molecular structure disrupted, new bonds formed, linking modified water molecules together into rapidly evolving, continuous chains.

This change in form thickened the volatile semi-liquid like gelatin, squeezing out silt that dropped, dry as desert sand, into the rocky stream bed. Once the water achieved this state, Alexina Velez lifted her hands and _believed_ that the stream would obey her command to rise.

A strange quiet descended. Like a great, liquid serpent, the water polymer reared silently out of its course, arced over the disintegrating debris dam, then returned on the far end to its natural state where it cascaded loudly into the rising lake below.

Racing onto the dry ground created by Allfather's power, Lynden and Tegene scrambled toward the knot of trunks and debris clogging the spillway culvert. Reaching the topmost tree, the Lithian warlord wrapped the rope around its bulk, secured a slipknot, then gave a shout to the line of warriors waiting up on the bank.

Groaning, the men strained against the weight of the tree, whose entangled branches embraced other derelict companions in a mass of twisted limbs. Tegene attacked the snarled boughs from one side while Lynden hacked through thick stems of green wood on the other. Their Lithian axes, boasting extremely sharp and durable crystalloid polymer edges, enabled the men to cut through thick timber with minimal effort, until the tree trunk slipped from the grasp of its fellows and slid uphill.

Sherman Mason flung another coil of rope from the south bank that landed in the warlord's outstretched left hand. Lynden wrapped another tree trunk and set to work on cutting it free. Tegene soon dripped with sweat, but he sang while working, the other men joined him, and the regular rhythm of two axes chopping steadily through snarled branches provided a percussion accompaniment to their raised voices. With tireless tugging from the men on the bank above, the fallen fir finally dislodged from its resting place.

Five jammed logs came out this way, clearing the concrete culvert of blocking debris. The two men bolted uphill after nearly forty minutes of hard labor, aching from the strain, but pleased to find the additional spillway engineered by Sherman Mason ready to fulfill its purpose.

With a weary word of thanks to Allfather, Alexina let go of control. A mighty crash reverberated through the canyon as water, reverting to its rightful state, collapsed back into the stream bed, sending up showers of muddy froth, returning to the untamed snarl of swirls, eddies and rapids preceding her work.

As the water level rose, it coursed into the newly dug spillway instead of wearing down the dam, allowing the soldiers to repair damage to the structure with sandbags.

Cynthia Velez arose and grasped her exhausted mother's arms in wide-eyed astonishment. "Umma!" she exclaimed. "I saw Brenna, and she's married!"

***

Garrick bade final farewells to the silent members of his junior scout class in the cold light of the morgue as he identified their remains. This experience left him feeling numb disbelief, as if he expected cadets that had been blown apart by Azgar canister, bludgeoned by rifle butts, bullet-ridden or bayoneted, to meet him at the barracks later in the evening. Their demise seemed so permanent, so unreal, that he could not yet comprehend the finality of their departure.

"That's Jan Bordmann," the young man concluded. "He was my best friend."

Captain Mullenhardt, the officer responsible for burial preparations at Dead Hand Ridge, peered over his spectacles. "I appreciate that this must be difficult for you," he replied, pulling a blanket over the dead teenager's face, "but you must take comfort in the fact that he and the others died bravely in defense of our people. Thank-you for your help."

Garrick saluted and left, a sense of uselessness deepening the depression already haunting his soul. As a warrior with no unit, no mission and no purpose in the midst of an impending invasion, his loss felt overwhelming.

Walking listlessly through the hallway, Garrick's mind meandered toward musings of Brenna. As he thought about how much he wanted her comfort at that moment, his pace quickened. Brenna would understand. She would listen and her soothing hands would make him forget the ache he felt inside. She would be the friend he needed.

Pulled abruptly out of his private world by the appearance of the base commander, Garrick stepped to the side of the hallway and snapped to attention.

Colonel Brandt and a cluster of other officers were returning from a trip to the officer's mess. Having heard how the enemy wiped out Garrick's unit, the colonel returned the junior scout's salute, then paused.

"Yesterday morning I ordered you to alert your immediate commander and the civilians in Dieter concerning the Azgar invasion," Colonel Brandt stated.

"That's correct, sir."

"And you were unable to contact your unit in time?"

"No sir, I was not. I went to the Ice Dragon Inn first, but arrived there too late."

Colonel Brandt nodded, knowing from personal experience that nothing hurts as badly as losing friends in combat. This young man needed something to do, and Colonel Brandt needed something done. "I have new orders for you, Junior Scout Ravenwood. If you complete this task for me, I'll assign you to a regular unit with full pay."

"That would be an honor, sir." Garrick did his best to stifle a nervousness rising beneath his calm demeanor.

"Come to my office. I'll fill you in on the details."

A long time later, from a window overlooking the hexagonal, inner courtyard, Brenna watched several soldiers deploy something that looked like a well-drilling rig. The men set up a metal truss that gleamed in the afternoon light, directly in the midst of a circle painted on the cobblestones. The circle seemed to be the focal point of all activity in the courtyard.

An officer checked everything assembled by his men, and when satisfied, motioned toward a set of double-hung doors that opened at his bidding. The soldiers removed sections of steel plate, uncovering a single track, set beneath the cobblestones. A rail cart emerged, gliding forward as four men strained behind its mass. The cart stopped just as Brenna heard a knock and the sound of Garrick's voice from behind the door.

The young man found the room very dark. "Do you know how to light the gas lamps?" he queried.

"I don't need a lamp as long as there's an open window," she replied, explaining that she could see into the blue spectrum where humans are naturally blind. Her eyes appeared bright in the gloom for this reason. Garrick didn't question her explanation.

"What are those men in the courtyard putting together?" she inquired, beckoning Garrick to the window.

As he reached for her, the warm sensation of her touch gave the young soldier an assurance he needed more desperately than he had the courage to admit. "Oh, that's a launch tower for one of our liquid fueled rockets," Garrick explained. "They have longer range than the smaller, solid-fueled ones and carry a hefty payload. I hear they're really expensive, so we don't use them unless we want to hit something big and important."

"How far can they go?" Brenna asked, innocently.

"From what I understand, if we have reliable spotters in the field and the math is done right, they can hit a base camp on the Saradon from here. They're gyro-stabilized and accurate to at least fifty miles."

Brenna raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. "Really? That seems awfully far for a rocket."

Garrick shrugged, trying to sound nonchalant about very exciting technology. "They're huge, Brenna. That crew will spend two hours just getting one of the pair ready to launch, and when something that big lands, even the giants wet their pants."

The Lithian woman remembered the endless, unbearable pounding of Azgar artillery deployed against Shirak and wondered how the weapons being assembled beneath her would compare. Uncomfortable with the memory, she changed the subject. "I need to see Woodwind," she said.

Garrick complied, leading her downstairs through a maze of passageways and portals, the echoes of many other footfalls mingling with their own. Holding hands, drawing snickers from other soldiers, the young couple scurried past pairs of leering eyes until they arrived at a door guarded by a husky soldier who wouldn't take his eyes off Brenna. After exchanging a few words with the guard, Garrick took her inside.

The pungency of pus, urine and dried sweat mingled with an antiseptic odor faintly reminiscent of rubbing alcohol and bleach inside the infirmary. Clean cots, covered in stiff, white linen sheets with wool blankets folded neatly at the near end, awaited occupancy in silent rows arranged at right angles, with precisely the same space between each rail frame.

In Tamaria, as in most cultures, care of the sick and wounded fell primarily to females. Nurses and young volunteers clad in block-cut uniforms, rolled bandages, recounted medicines and prepared polished trays of ghastly cutting instruments. They paced their work amid a stream of consonantal chatter that ceased quickly when Garrick led Brenna into their domain. She felt their disapproving gazes rest on her, realizing their conversational disruption had been caused by her entrance into their domain.

The young soldier acted unconcerned, though the sudden quiet bothered him. His confident demeanor didn't mask the tension hanging in the air. Most Tamarians regarded foreigners with suspicion, and he'd always known that interracial relationships crossed an unspoken social boundary. Garrick and Brenna were stirring indignation and disgust by acting so visibly cozy with one another.

The Lithian woman realized this problem had grown steadily worse as she and Garrick spent more time together. Not knowing what to say to the infirmary workers, she endured their disapproval in silence.

Behind the empty cots, several women attending patients returned to their work as the young couple approached. Among a row occupied by sick and wounded soldiers lay the civilian casualties of battle from Dieter, a sleeping Klaus Erickson – the head injury from Garrick's junior scout class – and Woodwind.

The southerner lay on his belly, his skin pallid as light from the twin moons, his shoulder swathed in a blood-drenched dressing that needed immediate attention. Sweat gleamed on his bare back and forehead. Brenna interpreted these symptoms as indicators of infection.

A worried look spread rapidly across her face. "Who's in charge here?" she queried.

Garrick pointed to a tall, slender woman whose attention was drawn by his gesticulation. She approached, her stride exuding self-confidence, her countenance appraising Brenna with clear condescension. This doctor felt certain that all Lithians lacked intelligence, and one glance at Brenna's shapely form confirmed the prejudice completely. Dr. Meine scoffed and didn't even bother to introduce herself.

Brenna ignored her, letting Garrick deflect the doctor's disapproval. Instead, she began her own diagnosis, listening to Woodwind's labored breathing, examining the bruises and lacerations on his face and shoulders. Silently, Brenna bowed her head to pray.

"This is no place for mindless superstition," the doctor spat. "I simply will not have this bathycolpian wood nymph witch disrupting the care of my patients!"

Garrick defended Brenna with confidence that belied his youth. "How can you say that if you've never seen what she can do? Besides, if you think your mercenary patient is going to die anyway, what does it hurt if she takes care of him?"

One of Woodwind's lungs had collapsed. Brenna suspected that his blood volume had declined dangerously and worried that her friend had suffered massive internal bleeding. The fever – a natural, physical response to infection – seemed out of control, and if Woodwind's body didn't cool down soon, he'd likely develop brain damage.

Dr. Meine, strongly suspecting that sheer lust impaired Garrick's judgment, demanded that he leave with the young woman immediately. She threatened to call the guard if they didn't comply.

Brenna's worry for Woodwind soon overwhelmed her fear of conflict with strangers. Angrily, she stopped the escalating argument. "My friend is dying! I need a basin, new dressings and cold, wet towels right now!" she commanded, believing she would be obeyed.

Dr. Meine stopped in mid-sentence, called a nurse and ordered the requested supplies. Strangely unable to control her own will at that moment, the doctor watched as the raven-haired foreigner cut Woodwind's bandages with her boot knife.

"Did you remove the bullet?" Brenna inquired, examining the crusted, blackened entry hole.

"Yes. It had flattened, but didn't fragment and came out easily. I cauterized the wound to prevent infection and blood loss."

Brenna frowned. "Most of the time it'll heal better if you stick to pressure dressings and ice. Cauterizing bullet wounds only increases tissue trauma." She continued discussing battlefield medicine with Dr. Meine as if the Tamarian woman had treated her as a kindly colleague with whom she might casually debate the proper care regimen for a hypothetical patient. Without a sideways glance, Brenna pulled her hair back and bent down to kiss Woodwind's injured shoulder.

The cadet watched an astonished expression form on Dr. Meine's face. Wherever her lips touched Woodwind's injuries, inflamed flesh lost its swollen redness. Small cuts vanished as she kissed damaged skin. His swollen, misshapen shoulder melded into place at her touch. Woodwind's torn rotator cuff would take more time to heal, but the instant change in his external wounds astounded the Tamarian care givers. Nurses exchanged fearful glances among themselves as a wide-eyed Dr. Meine shook her disbelieving head.

"You need to hold him down for me," Brenna stated, the demure tone returning to her voice. "He will cough violently when I expel the fluid from his lung, and he'll keep coughing until he gets everything out."

Garrick, Dr. Meine and a nurse positioned themselves around the prone southerner. Brenna held a metal basin in her left hand, healed the damage to Woodwind's face, then closed his nostrils and gently placed her lips over his mouth.

Garrick tensed insecurely. Something inside him did not want the young woman to kiss any lips aside from his own, even though he realized that this was not the same kind of kiss she had given him while they rode on the wagon. He watched nervously, trying hard to control the involuntary feeling inside as Brenna took in a deep breath and slowly blew it into Woodwind's mouth.

The southerner jolted as if struck by lightning, his youthful strength rippling through every muscle. Brenna backed away, holding the basin up to Woodwind's lips as he coughed and spat out a bloody, yellowish, foul-smelling fluid. The sticky liquid splashed all over Brenna's hands, arms and woolen blouse, inspiring the nearest thing to a curse Garrick had ever heard from her.

"'Possum slop!" she moaned, appraising herself.

Woodwind cleared his throat, quieted and began breathing normally again. The Lithian woman mopped his mouth with a wet towel, her hands moving gently, even lovingly as she worked.

"As the spirits live, you're a witch and I've just seen a wonder of demons!" the astonished physician exclaimed.

Brenna stiffened and glared at the doctor. "Don't call the light darkness," she replied sternly. "I'm not a witch, and Allfather is not evil."

Dr. Meine fell silent. She'd never witnessed healing power, and the impact of the scene would remain etched in her memory, shaking her entire belief system to its core. The effect, though not immediately apparent, left a profound impact.

Garrick, witnessing the same event, tried to imagine some natural process that might explain Brenna's ineffable healing ability. He knew she _believed_ in a powerful god, but couldn't understand how this deity of her imagination impacted the physical realm. Distressed by the mysterious force at work within her, Garrick reflected upon his unease. Knowing her quelled any fear he felt, but he couldn't deny the visceral impact of power flowing through the young woman. Of all the experiences in life he didn't fully understand, this ranked as the most unsettling example.

Distressed by the mess on her garments, Brenna asked the nurse to keep Woodwind's skin cool with damp towels until she could clean her clothing and return.

"See to it that you give him plenty of water," the Lithian woman explained, wiping her hands with a towel.

Dr. Meine held on to Brenna's arm before she left. "When I first saw you," she began awkwardly, "I thought you were a stupid little tart with an itch between your legs who ran half-naked through the forest looking to lift her skirts. I was wrong, and I'm sorry for misjudging you."

"I forgive you," Brenna replied, trying to sound gracious. Why would this woman think such a thing?

When Dr. Meine returned to her other patients, Brenna finished cleaning herself, whispered something in Woodwind's ear, and afterward let Garrick lead her out of the infirmary. "I really need to wash these clothes," she reminded him.

"Let's get you something baggier to wear," he replied, somewhat nervously. "The way you look works for me, but other people get the wrong idea when they see you in a parade uniform."

The cadet asked the infirmary guard for directions, then took Brenna upstairs. He wanted to talk, but didn't know how to broach the subject.

Brenna sensed his restlessness. "Are you upset at me for what happened in there?"

The young man shook his head. "No. There's just something I have to tell you that I don't want to say."

Brenna tensed, expecting an argument. "And it's not about Woodwind?"

"No," Garrick affirmed. "I'm happy you saved him. That was impressive . . . Honestly . . ." He paused, struggling to prevent himself from blurting out anything he shouldn't say. "The truth is, I have to leave, Brenna. Colonel Brandt gave me new orders."

The young woman stopped in shock. As she paused in the midst of the hall, the outstretched fingers of a passing soldier found a soft spot on her backside where his hand wasn't welcome. She slapped it away with a speed, strength and dexterity that drew mocking laughter from one of his companions.

Garrick exchanged harsh words with the soldier, who eventually shrugged and replied, "Yeah, alright. I'm sorry. I can't resist . . ."

Brenna's irritation at this rude behavior quickly faded as worry washed across her face, widening her dark eyes and draining the color from her countenance. "Where are you going?"

Garrick urged her onward to avoid more unwelcome attention. "I can't say," he replied quietly. "If I could tell anyone, you'd be the first to know."

"Then don't tell me, just take me with you."

He glanced at her, briefly admiring her with a sweep of his eyes, desire making its urgency known in the automatic fashion peculiar to males. He dismissed the daydream that sprung to mind with a shake of his head. "I'd love to, but I can't. I have to do this alone."

"Garrick," she responded, a sense of desperation in her voice. "Don't leave me here by myself. I can't even walk down a hallway smothered to my neck like a widow without some lewd soldier trying to fondle me. I don't feel safe."

The Tamarian cadet sighed in frustration. "Are we speaking the same language? You told me not three hours ago that you're afraid to be alone with me, but now you want me to sneak you out into the wild land where we won't meet another soul for days! I don't get it! Besides, wouldn't you be better off staying here with Woodwind? Isn't he supposed to be protecting you?"

"I don't need protection," she replied, annoyed. "And you're oversimplifying everything. I don't understand your culture. I don't speak your language. I don't know why people stare at me. I don't know anyone but you, and no one else cares enough to respect my virtue.

"I know you love me, and I'm more afraid of being left behind than I am of being alone with you. Besides, what if you get hurt out there? Who's going to help you?"

Garrick, a little bit stunned by Brenna's testimony, noted that she appeared both worried for him and angry. "I can't deny how you feel about this, but do you honestly think that I want you less than anyone else around here?"

The Lithian woman dropped his hand. "No, but love is a decision, not a knee-jerk reaction to what you desire. I know what you're thinking when you look at me, but you don't salivate and try to paw my soft parts like I'm some cheap whore." Brenna pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and tightened her lips.

"So you want me to risk a court martial over this?"

"No," she responded without looking at him. "I understand what you have to do. I can't pretend I like it."

Garrick wanted nothing better than to take Brenna with him, and though he actually toyed with the idea in his mind while they walked, his sense of duty prevailed. "There's no getting around this," he said, weakly. "I'm a soldier. I have orders. I obey them. The future of my nation is at stake."

Brenna took his hand again and held it tighter than before. "You really are a warrior, Garrick. Your people should be proud of you." She looked down, suppressing the anxiety that had ripped a ragged edge across her voice and continued walking with him in moody silence.

They arrived at the commissary, a cavernous room where stored supplies stacked upon metal shelves reached for the ceiling. There, an attractive, blonde-haired female clerk in a red beret seemed far more eager to assist Garrick than Brenna found appropriate in the circumstances. The other woman smiled as Brenna glared at her, then sauntered seductively toward a filing cabinet in an adjoining room with his papers in hand.

"How soon before Woodwind can travel?" Garrick asked, apparently changing the subject.

"That depends on how fast he can fight the fever," Brenna replied. "It might be as early as tomorrow, it might be a month from now. The timing is in Allfather's hands. Why do you ask?"

"I've made arrangements to evacuate the two of you with the civilians when they go north. You'll be safer there than here."

Brenna felt helpless. "Evacuate? Are you out of your mind? What if Woodwind hasn't recovered? Will they force me to go without him, or would they let me stay here to take care of him?"

Garrick shrugged. "In Tamaria, we generally don't compel people to do anything against their will, but the army doesn't want to worry about protecting civilians while it's fighting."

"Where will they send us?" Brenna inquired, further annoyed by the thought that a swordsman of Woodwind's caliber and she, a warlord's daughter who'd fought against the Azgar in full view of the locals, would be considered mere civilians needing protection.

"Marvic," he replied. "It's our capital city. They'll probably send you to Burning Tree first, then further north by train."

Brenna turned away when the clerk returned with Garrick's papers, her mild aggravation blending with envy as the other woman continued her flirting. Stricken by uncertainty and her desperate fear of strangers, Brenna smouldered with many frustrations.

Garrick's grey eyes expressed sympathy. He communicated affection with a slight tightening of his fingers around her hand. Brenna's appearance disclosed enough distress to inspire his empathy, but in the presence of the clerk, who smiled coquettishly, he said nothing.

Several socially uncomfortable minutes and a few silver coins later, the flirting commissary clerk stacked two packages labeled: "Winter / Female / Petite" on the counter, along with a woman's armored vest. To these, she added target range arrows measured to Brenna's draw length and several items Garrick requested for himself, including a compass, field lens, light sticks and a small, tin cookstove for preparing food.

Garrick and Brenna left the commissary, both feeling relieved – though for different reasons – and returned to her upstairs room. Unable to see anything in the dark, he lit the methane lamp, then pulled a chair up to the single window on the southwestern wall to watch the impending rocket launch. Brenna opened the garment packages with the ordinary interest of a young maiden who'd bought a new outfit, and quite innocently began to change, not intending to test Garrick's honor, but doing so anyway.

"When do you have to leave?" she asked, drawing his attention as she slipped out of her skirt.

For a moment, he watched her unbutton and shed the soiled parade uniform in silent disbelief. She paused, standing in her translucent Lithian halter, waiting for him to respond. Garrick could hardly believe that she trusted him so much at a moment when he wanted her badly and didn't feel particularly trustworthy.

The young soldier vividly remembered what she'd looked like in that outfit when they first met. He'd done his best not to stare at the time, but now the task proved more difficult, even though its fabric revealed far less of her when dry than it did when damp. Garrick held his breath, willfully tempering the passion that surged within his veins. In a very short time, Brenna had risen to a significant place in his consciousness, and his longing for her intensified as his gaze lingered for a moment on her beautiful form.

But remembering what she'd told him about her own desire, he esteemed her virtue, loved her, and restrained his longing for her sake. That was how, in a moment where a less worthy suitor would have proven weak, Garrick showed the true mettle of his integrity.

Brenna remembered Warrant Officer Rand's reaction when she'd stood outside the shower, and realized she'd just committed another social blunder. Like Woodwind, the Lithian maiden did not consider the ordinary act of discarding apparel concupiscent, but she felt embarrassed, realizing that Garrick and the other Tamarians thought it so. Not knowing what to say, she continued dressing as if she'd not done anything wrong.

Below, the launch tower now sported a pair of large rockets, their sleek, dark forms already aimed into the heart of the sky. Two more awaited final assembly and fueling on a cart several paces away. "I'll be leaving at first light," he responded, finally answering her question.

Brenna wrestled the bulky armor onto her shoulders as she approached. "You should get some rest," she exhorted, pulling her hair around to tie a braid, meekly asking for help in adjusting the straps behind her back.

Working the belts with practiced economy, Garrick arranged them to her comfort, then pulled down on the sides of the vest before fastening its fittings, carefully controlling where he put his hands while he cinched the armor tight. Although she looked like she'd been stuffed into a whiskey barrel – and he far preferred her appearance without the armor – he held his tongue.

"I'd like to see them launch the rocket before I go," he said. "Do you mind?"

Brenna thanked him with the brush of her hand across his cheek as she retreated to finish dressing. "Not at all. You won't be leaving me soon, will you?" her vocal tone hinting that she wished he would linger.

Garrick watched a soldier secure battery cables to the breakoff leads and flip a switch, activating motors that spun the rockets' nitrogen tetroxide and ethanol fuel pumps. A high-pitched whine aspired from the courtyard, the final warning for all personnel to take cover. "Better get over here quickly!" he warned.

The young woman scurried to the window. She leaned across Garrick's back, her slender arms encircling his broad shoulders, her thick hair braid draped like a silken scarf over his neck. Her body felt solid, rather than soft, in the armor. That seemed wrong on many levels.

Sounds of fury resonated throughout the courtyard as the nitrogen tetroxide reacted with the ethanol / water mix in the rocket engines, producing a progressively brighter blue flame at their bases. With an intense burst of white-hot light and an ear-numbing scream, one of the rockets leaped into the overcast heavens, rattling windows in its fleet, ecstatic flight.

Before human senses could recover, the second missile joined its mate in shrieking toward the distant Saradon, etching forever upon the mind of an awe-stuck Lithian woman the sensational memory of its brief and brilliant birth, and leaving behind a lingering, pillared pair of grey clouds in the sky.

Sudden Death

Struggling to stay alert in the overcast darkness before dawn, Lieutenant Hicks and I watched the bright torches of deathwolf handlers approaching from the east. We shivered within the shattered remains of a Tamarian watchtower, comparing predictions of our next assignment against the staccato, background clatter of awakened soldiers coughing. Living in close quarters spread tuberculosis and pneumonia rapidly among those of us not previously exposed to illness, and this, coupled with the extreme cold we'd experienced in the high altitude this far north, heightened our susceptibility to sickness.

The lieutenant yawned, rubbing frostbitten fingers that our gauntlets could not protect from the cold, complaining more effectively about his discomfort with body language than any words he expressed. Our half-hour march from Dieter managed to draw sweat from our frozen pores, but the warmth didn't last long.

"How can we be sure the giants will muster as promised?" he inquired. "We'll have to retreat if the barbarians put up much of a fight. The men are grousing that we've gone too far."

I shrugged, struggling to contain my true feelings. "I'd rather die in battle than freeze to death!"

A distant, high-pitched whistle pierced the frigid sky from the west, descending rapidly in tone and growing in volume as the seconds passed. It sounded like an incoming mortar shell, only much more intense.

Suddenly, we realized our lives were in danger and we dove to the floor. I heard a shrieking overhead that chilled my soul, drawing agonizingly nearer as the moments passed. My face contacted cold stone and I laced my hands over the back of my head for protection.

A bright explosion shattered the early morning air, followed by a tremendous concussion that shook the ground, jolting rafters already weakened by mortar impacts. Debris rained painfully on my shoulders. Silence washed mercifully over my deafened ears and I heard nothing more for a long time. Choking in the suffocating dust, my back throbbing from welts and bruises, I called for Lieutenant Hicks.

One of the massive, pine joists lay across his back while his legs had been buried in debris from the roof. I tried to move the timber, but slipped on a dark slick near the young lieutenant's head, falling to my hands and knees amid a spreading pool of blood. Then I noticed the unnatural twist to his neck and his flattened skull, crushed by the very beam I'd been trying to relocate. Lieutenant Hicks would never draw breath again.

Overcome with nausea, I retched violently. With bile stinging my throat and my teeth etched with stomach acid, I scrambled down the ladder in disoriented haste, not knowing what to do.

Other men ran hither and thither. I witnessed wide-eyed terror in their expressions, saw their lips moving, but I could hear nothing other than a strange, hollow echo in my ears. The moment seemed surreal, filled with images and sensations so removed from the normal reality of my military experience, it felt like a nightmare.

My perceptions, heightened by strong emotion, absorbed every detail. I watched as another fiery, cylindrical shape plunged soundlessly into the upper floor of the Ice Dragon Inn. A brilliant burst of light flashed through every portal, followed by a multi-hued shower of erupting glass and belches of black smoke. Graceful stone buttresses toppled in tandem, and with them whole sections of slate-shingled roof collapsed.

The destruction astounded me!

Dead men littered the courtyard. Others, maimed by the blast and its fiery aftermath lay in pathetic, twisted heaps, their burned faces distorted in agony. I began moving them away from the wall and building, mercifully unable to hear their cries of pain.

A long delay ensued before our medics arrived. During that interval, several men helped me gather up the bodies of our dead in preparation for burial. Working together, we dislodged the remains of Lieutenant Hicks by dismantling the ruined watchtower.

Untrained in medical care, the only thing I could do was to make the injured as comfortable as possible. A nameless centurion died as I watched. He'd been muttering for a woman repeatedly, and though I could not hear his words, the motion of his lips and tongue formed the name "Bella" as clearly to my mind as if he'd shouted the syllables in my ear.

Two or three hours passed before I could hear anything clearly. At an emergency officer's meeting, held in the cramped confines of what we called the powerhouse building – the only one that remained undamaged – I learned that similar rocket attacks had been hurled against our sprawling camp for most of the night. This explained why the medical staff had been so slow to respond to the strike on the inn. My ignorance of this development, along with the losses we incurred went unnoticed, for when queried, my account of the most recent attack proved sufficiently vivid to deflect any suspicion regarding my whereabouts during the evening.

We argued while waiting for the senior commanders to arrive. One group wanted to withdraw until we could fully consolidate our supply lines and rearm. These men did not speak as cowards. Their counsel seemed prudent, yet the persistent, majority belief in our cultural superiority defied their better judgment.

Others argued for immediate retaliation in the hope that our guns could silence the enemy's terror from the sky. Many officers insisted we would enjoy better odds of success if we acted immediately and attacked with overwhelming force before the barbarians could mobilize and reinforce their defenses. I stood among them.

Confusion reigned within the officer corps. We'd been surprised and frightened by the firepower hurled against us. Fear fueled outbursts of insult and invective usually reserved for the ears of the enlisted.

All clamor ceased, however, the moment Lord Balinor entered the room. His presence commanded our attention. Every eye fixated on a man who appraised us with a mixture of pride and patronage, much like a doting uncle might lavish on a favored nephew. Lord Balinor strode to a table, motioned for a map and spread it out for us to see.

"We will respond to these attacks in kind," he began. "Combined Arms Units numbered seventeen to thirty will march northwest before turning south at Kicking Horse Gap, the nexus of the Saradon and Broken Wing Valley. These units will crush all enemy opposition in the northern Dead Hand and Copperhead Ridge formations.

Combined Arms Units numbered one through sixteen will prepare fortified positions on reverse slopes in the Dead Hand formation as directed by vice-general commanders.

"Units thirty-one to eighty will constitute the main assault body at the appropriate time. These units will bivouac on the steppe as a reserve force until battle preparations are complete. From there, we will drive westward, overwhelm the enemy army and secure our objective at Burning Tree.

"Your vice-generals will explain the details. That is all, gentlemen." Lord General Balinor arose to a unison chorus of salutes, then strode through the door without looking back.

My century belonged to Combined Arms Unit Seventeen, part of the group charged with an encirclement maneuver in the hills to the northwest. When Vice-general Diabilos outlined the orders, I objected, explaining that my mortar crew could begin pounding the enemy right away. "Can't we be reassigned? My men have completed short range artillery surveys for Dead Hand Ridge and I can have shells falling on that fortification before nightfall."

What I didn't say, was that the rest of my century was quite comfortably quartered, apparently beyond rocket range, and I had no interest in moving them. Furthermore, Lieutenant Hicks had been hiding our Tamarian prisoner in a small, basement room, and if she was discovered there, I believed she'd suffer more of the same brutality that had so enraged me after we had captured the inn. At some point – after we'd interrogated her – I thought she'd serve as a hostage to exchange with the enemy, but I couldn't protect her while marching around in the deplorable cold.

Vocalizing a desire to attack right away screened all suspicion about my motives. Nonetheless, I felt impotent, and it made me angry enough to take the vice-general to task over the issue of delaying immediate retaliation by moving north.

Legate Braegan, visibly fighting off the effects of another hangover, dismissed my argument without considering its merit. "You'd better learn how to shut your mouth, Herulus," he spat, making an example of me in front of the nine other centurions he commanded. "You're running on the ragged edge of a court-martial with that kind of talk. Take your orders and do what you're told."

Outside, I cursed the cold smudge outlining the fleeing form of the feeble Daystar, hidden shamefully behind a thick veil of clouds. I cursed the accursed rockets, then, once beyond earshot of the powerhouse building, savored several linguistically complex expletives for two particular members of the senior officers' corps, whose callous unwillingness to listen would undoubtedly result in casualties they cared nothing to prevent.

Knowing that my men could have pounded that Tamarian fortress with mortar fire until our bigger guns came forward made me even angrier. This, coupled with a sense of social humiliation, hardened my resolve to somehow regain control over my own destiny.

The half-hour walk to Dieter took me five minutes less than it should have. Once there, I sent a messenger on horseback to the mortar unit, ordering them to pack up immediately and move north to a rendezvous point at the north end of Dead Hand Ridge, roughly forty-five miles from their present location.

Lieutenant Rangell did not express any dismay when I ordered him to replace Hicks as squad commander, overseeing Sergeants Hanibal and Vitus, in addition to the burden of combat engineering he was currently and so capably fulfilling.

Even though my unit had been designated a century, it did not consist of 100 men. With the development of cannon and mortars, most Azgar infantry units in private armies like ours incorporated specialists trained in the use of such weapons, as well as the traditional number of foot soldiers, medics and a small contingent of engineers.

At full strength my command included 100 infantry, five sergeants, four lieutenants, twenty gunners, two engineers and three medics, a total of 135 soldiers. The unit designation preserved a traditional organization dating back several hundred years, long before the widespread use of gunpowder.

In the months since my promotion, I'd never had a complete century to command. Of the three combat disciplines allocated to me, the gunners were most frequently reassigned. During the infrequent periods when my personnel requests were approved, I never received more than ten of the twenty artillery soldiers typically assigned to a unit like mine.

Until now, this had not mattered. Our rifles and steel armor were more than a match for flintlocks and muskets fired by teeming masses of undisciplined warriors. The experience of fighting against these northern barbarians revealed that our current threat differed significantly. I'd become convinced that we needed to engage with our heaviest weapons and fight bravely in order to defeat them.

My unit left Dieter with a full complement of infantry, thanks to the addition of the detestable Sergeant Hanibal and his rabble from Arama, but we remained short one lieutenant and twelve gunners. Each of us carried sixty-five pounds of equipment, including food, ammunition, and camping gear, a burden that soon had us sweating in spite of the extreme cold. We marched through the stiff, frozen grassland for two days, skirting the rugged, eastern edge of the tree-crowned Dead Hand Ridge formation, camping in the open beneath the grey sky.

In the distance, I could see heavy snow beneath the lingering cloud mantle that enveloped mountainous ridge lines known locally as the Copperhead Range. Hoar frost coated evergreens and the leafless branches of oak and poplar on the rock-strewn hillsides, marking a distinct line between the elevation where winter already held sway, and the region beneath, still influenced by the less severe authority of autumn.

Signs of civilization appeared as we advanced in the early morning hours of the second day. Abandoned farmhouses dotted the landscape between intersecting dirt roads every few miles. We tramped through hay stubble as we turned westward, directly toward the foothills near a town called Sutherlind, a place famous for its annual apple festival as far south as my own home town.

My unit reached the rendezvous point by noon, well before the cavalry arrived. The men felt tired and sullen from the long march. Their constant complaining about hardships we endured irritated me. Disquieted by our surroundings, I sensed that the barbarians were watching us from the hills as we set up a temporary field camp in the shadows of the ridge line.

Later that afternoon, Centurion Cavelli, the scout troop commander, approached with three hundred mounted soldiers and wanted to know where Legate Braegan had set up his command center. Knowing Braegan's penchant for arriving after hostilities had commenced, I informed Cavelli, within earshot of the other centurions under his command, that I was willing to assume leadership of the maniple and coordinate infantry support until the legate arrived. I also made it clear, however, that I intended to wait until my mortar crew and additional infantry units reached our present position before moving forward.

"We passed half a dozen centuries about a mile back," the deep-voiced centurion said. "The rest of your infantry maniple is two or three miles behind them. Since you're senior centurion, I'll report to you as soon as we make contact with the enemy."

Generally speaking, relations between infantry and cavalry remained cordial enough to effectively coordinate operations. Cavelli seemed eager to engage the barbarian forces, probably thinking – as I had previously – that his troops would easily overrun any resistance.

Evidence of evacuated civilians indicated to me that the enemy knew of our operations in advance. My combat experience prevailed against bravado and I remained cautious. "It will take less than an hour for the ground troops to arrive. You should wait until they get here before moving off."

Cavelli paid no attention to my advice. In fact, he treated me as though I'd actually agreed with him. "Very well," he replied. "I'll contact you as soon as we encounter the barbarians."

My subsequent protests were directed at the hind-end of a horse. I heard the Arama boys snicker at my inability to prevent Cavelli and his equestrian troops from trotting westward in double file, their carbines held outward from their hips, a pair of black and red battle banners snapping smartly northward at the head of their advancing columns.

The wind had just begun to pick up again, and with it came tiny flakes of snow. I'd never seen falling snow before and wanted to savor the moment, but command responsibilities distracted me.

As the additional infantry troops arrived, I could not let them rest. To cover Cavelli's premature advance, I ordered their units to form up in standard maniple configuration: a checkerboard arrangement two rows deep and twenty-five men wide, with light cannon and mortars set in every other square. I placed five gunnery crews on each flank, with two centuries of infantry held in reserve to reinforce where necessary.

Before we'd finished setting up our field deployment, the sound of gunfire and small explosions echoed through a narrow canyon to our southwest. I told the men to leave their camp gear, load their weapons and prepare to move out in support of the cavalry. As was standard practice in this kind of deployment, I ordered a modest contingent to guard our equipment and prevent theft, hoping that any engagement we encountered would be on small enough scale for a single maniple to handle.

Suddenly, the surrounding hilltops erupted with rifle and rocket fire. Bright flashes of light peppered the ridge line and steamy contrails crisscrossed through the cold sky until the collective fog of their vapor trails obscured the enemy positions. Whenever the wind momentarily swept the air clear, hundreds of additional rounds screamed from the ridge line, their exhaust blotting out my view.

An endless succession of bullet impacts and explosions rippled through our startled ranks. Arrayed on the fringe of the Saradon, we stood without cover, barely within range of our guns, could not see the enemy and did not know where our cavalry troops were located. For most of these men, this was their first exposure to such an incredible volume of fire. The coordination between enemy units spread for several hundred yards along the hills shocked our soldiers and astounded proud officers under my command who had never before encountered these angry barbarians.

The air thickened with lead, hot shards of razor-sharp shrapnel, the blinding radiance of detonating artillery shells, the stench of burning flesh and the terrified cries of afflicted men. Though the roar of their cannon tubes echoed across the plain, their rockets inspired sheer terror. These were larger than those my unit faced at the Ice Dragon Inn, and their noise was nothing like we'd ever heard. Every launch sounded like ripping glass, and as waves of their warheads burst through our formations, entire squadrons vanished in roiling vapor. Fearing for my life, yet feeling strangely in control of the moment, I screamed orders above the din.

Thankfully, my centurions kept their heads cool and prevented the infantry from discharging weapons prematurely. Our cannon and mortars erupted in response, pounding the hillsides with the same fury their high-explosive shells had once wielded against the stone walls of Shirak. Tall conifers trembled and shattered beneath their thunder, a foretaste of the punishment wrought by bigger guns yet to be brought into battle.

I ordered the men forward at quick pace, trying to get them on the hill and among the trees where they could return fire and suffer less from the weight of enemy attack. That aggressive move likely prevented disaster. I believed that once we wrested control of the hilltop from the barbarians, we'd command a prominent piece of high ground, allowing us to protect the additional troops scheduled to arrive by nightfall. This was my first attempt at large scale leadership, and the last fully coordinated movement my maniple made before the battle disintegrated into confusion.

We advanced despite heavy losses. Many brave men fell, their blood staining white snow like spilled wine on a wedding dress. I spread out my troops to reduce the effectiveness of enemy fire, but the smoke and noise prevented many other centurions from following my lead. Some unit commanders sent reports claiming thirty to forty percent casualties before we covered the hundred-odd yards to the base of the foothills.

By the time we were in range to return fire, my front ranks looked ragged. They released their first volley and stopped to reload while the second line moved ahead, but our trapdoor rifles seemed pitiful once their machine cannon opened up and we faced an endless, deadly rain of death dumped on our heads from above.

A messenger from Centurion Vivanus, operating on my right flank, found me when my unit reached the snow-skirted base of the foothill ridge. "Our cannon is breaking them, sir. The centurion says the enemy troops above our position are moving their artillery south," he shouted. "They're shooting at us with only rifles and machine cannon now."

"Pass the word down the line," I ordered. "Tell the others to push straight ahead. My boys will join up with your unit and we'll push the enemy off the top of this hill."

"Yes sir!"

The young soldier dashed off to my left while I grabbed a private from the last rank of my own century. "Go back and tell the mortar and cannon teams to hit this northern section hard for five minutes."

I ordered Lieutenants Rangell and Pellas, the officers in my own century, to start moving their men uphill as soon as the artillery bombardment ceased. "Once you get into the trees, file the soldiers to the right until you meet up with Vivanus and his troops, then wheel left. Make it work and we'll make them run!"

My idea was to wrap around the retreating enemy from the flank while pressuring them head on with the remains of my maniple on the left. If successful, the barbarians would be caught in a cross-fire with only further retreat south as a means of escape.

Smoke shells from the mortar teams signaled the end of the artillery attack. Racing uphill against a torrent of machine cannon and rifle fire, fighting deep mounds of loose gravel covered in slippery snow, we met up with men from Lieutenant Mariden's unit and pushed forward with them. I never saw Vivanus, but Lieutenant Mariden told me that he was making progress on the far, right flank.

Resistance stiffened. We encountered prepared kill zones featuring their infernal machine cannon. Their soldiers, protected behind massive barricades of fallen timber set at right angles to our advance, fired at us with impunity. Only extreme courage, well-thrown grenades and the sheer weight of our superior numbers kept the battle moving forward.

I watched Sergeant Hanibal live up to his reputation for fearlessness as he dashed through a hailstorm of rifle rounds and crouched at the base of a derelict, ponderosa pine. The boys from Arama followed him, though nearly half of their number didn't survive the merciless fire.

As soon as a sufficient number of my men had moved into position, I gave the order for them to join Sergeant Hanibal and charge across open ground. My words sent many fine men to their deaths as a swarm of black uniformed, steel helmeted soldiers surged uphill, their voices raised in an angry chorus.

The barbarians refused retreat and would not surrender. I saw glistening bayonets arc forward, resting upon the barricades in deadly, defensive bristles, their steel tips reddened as brave, Azgar warriors tried unsuccessfully to climb over the obstacles. The bodies of fallen soldiers soon piled up so high, the men who followed climbed on the dead, stood and fired their guns into the enemy at point blank range.

This horrible scene inspired nightmares for months afterward. The fighting denigrated into a wild fray of hand-to-hand combat. Brutal, violent deeds were exchanged between men who'd never before met, between men who might have shared a beer and traded dirty jokes, had their encounters occurred under different circumstances.

Of course, I'd been in combat before. The difference this time was that I felt struck by the senselessness of our attack. These barbarians defended their homeland against our intrusion with tenacity, while we aggressively fought against them, trying to deny these men sovereignty over their own land.

Why?

I was only following orders, but what man had the right to decide that other men should die this way? By whose authority had death in a foreign land on this scale been decreed? In the midst of battle thought about this and realized that our men were following my orders . . .

The cold fact of my responsibility for the carnage occurring on this isolated hilltop hit me hard and made me pause in my steps. Could I have somehow prevented this from happening? What recourse did I have? Disobeying a direct order from a senior officer would earn me a court martial and certain death, but my refusal to disobey what now appeared to be an immoral command was responsible for an even greater loss of life.

I pondered this in stunned amazement as my men successfully breached the barbarian barricade and swarmed forward, their shouts of triumph aspiring above the crackling din of carbine fire.

Just then, Private Willancus knocked me to the cold, hard ground. "Get down, sir!" he screamed.

A volley of enemy rocket warheads slammed into my immediate vicinity, cutting down three of my men, wounding four others. I felt hot shrapnel pelt my neck and heard it ping off my helmet. The unschooled private shuddered, then moaned as he fell across my chest. Willancus had bravely and willingly sustained the damage intended for me.

I squirmed from beneath his body, shocked by the grisly mass of bloody flesh that had once been his back. His eyes were frozen in terror, and despite my best effort, I could not find a pulse in his neck. I screamed for a medic, partly in rage and partly in fear for having so narrowly escaped sudden death.

Unspoken Secrets

Sullen masses of thick, dark cloud settled oppressively between the steep, parallel ridge lines that bordered the Broken Wing Valley. Harsh wind screamed beneath the overcast canopy, painfully driving dry lumps of snow into Garrick's squinting eyes. With measured, determined strides he battled forward against the storm, his strength and stamina taxed, but not overcome.

Filled with a hopeful perception of purpose, and a comforting sense of belonging satiating old insecurities that had long held sway over his soul, Garrick set his mind on completing the task assigned to him. He believed that the fate of his nation lay partly upon his ability to reach the city of Burning Tree before the Azgaril advanced too far to be stopped.

Crossing windswept pasture land on the valley floor, reckoning his path from memory to make the distance as short as possible, Garrick skirted Sharp Talon Ridge. This formation – the remnant of a huge, ancient moraine – had blocked a more recent lava flow. Over the centuries, volcanic ash and windblown loess built up to form a thick bed of fertile soil in which apple, pear and cherry trees flourished. Hot, dry summers that featured long daylight hours encouraged the trees to yield abundant harvests that enriched the fortunate families owning property here.

Farmers who lived further north dealt with thinner soil and colder temperatures at higher elevations, which shortened the growing season. Cyrus Ravenwood, Garrick's father, cursed Sharp Talon Ridge on his annual, autumn journey to a massive apple festival held in a town called Sutherlind on the Saradon. There, farmers from all over Tamaria, Vathera, and the Peran Confederation marketed produce to buyers from as far south as Azgar Marioch.

Ravenwood's fruit fared poorly against the lovely, delicious varieties from Sharp Talon Ridge because his trees were not as strong and his trip to sell them took longer, resulting in poorer quality fruit from early picking and bruises from a rough ride south. Thus, even in a good year, the Ravenwood produce barely earned enough for the family to survive a single season.

Soon after Garrick turned ten, his father decided to juice and ferment part of his crop. This, he reasoned, would make it easier to transport. The cider sold well, earning Cyrus Ravenwood more money than he'd made in the previous three years, but he didn't manage his sudden prosperity well, and the wealth didn't last through the ensuing winter.

Facing marital problems and determined to get rich quickly, Cyrus fermented his entire harvest the following season. But other farmers, including those from Sharp Talon Ridge, brought their own cider to the apple festival that autumn, significantly reducing its price.

Cyrus Ravenwood returned home with barely enough money to survive the winter. Depressed, he began drinking too much and soon became a stranger to the children who loved him. In that year, an affectionate father fell into the abyss of violence and a reign of terror prevailed in his household. In that year, his wife and three children learned the meaning of fear.

Sylvia Ravenwood shielded her daughter and eldest son from the rage erupting more frequently from her husband, but their relationship had been precarious from its outset, and her marital indiscretions worsened the situation. Cyrus despised her pleading, and her shed tears increased his anger. Rejected by her lovers and unable to change a domestic dynamic that already suffered many strains, Sylvia wore disgrace like a fading garment and retreated into the traditional Tamarian religion for comfort.

Household management declined. Floors and windows went unwashed. Garments remained un-mended and flower beds that had once graced the vegetable garden grew wild with weeds. Neighbors discussed the Ravenwoods in whispers, with heads shaking.

Garrick assumed increasing responsibility in the orchard. He pruned his father's trees, chased away birds, thinned every heavily laden branch to avoid breakage and carried water upon his own broad shoulders to keep the trees alive in the heat of summer. In payment for his labor, he received scorn, ridicule and a collection of bruises and black eyes that inspired so much shame, he created elaborate lies to cover up the truth.

Garrick's younger brother, Algernon, resented the behavior of both parents. Sylvia openly favored Kira, his twin sister, while she loathed Algernon. The boy grew angry, often provoked his father and deplored his mother's many weaknesses. The year before Garrick joined the Junior Scouts, Algernon and Kira conspired to set the alcohol still on fire. In order to protect his younger siblings from their father's wrath, Garrick smuggled the twins onto a northbound train.

When the young Ravenwoods arrived in Marvic, Tamaria's capital city, Garrick pleaded with the leadership at the sacred Temple Elsbireth to adopt and educate his younger siblings. Believing he'd placed them where they would be safe from harm, Garrick returned home to help his father manage the orchard.

When Cyrus learned of his eldest son's deed, he beat Garrick so severely, the young man nearly died and spent more than a month recovering from his injuries. Fearing for her eldest son's life, Sylvia made arrangements with her mother and sent Garrick on a journey to his Great Uncle Werner's ranch on the Saradon, north of Sutherlind, warning him to never return home again.

Life at the ranch, though filled with hard work, had been graced by the presence of Gudrun, a lovely, nubile second cousin whose curiosity about the opposite sex found an object of study in Garrick. The two of them spent a lot of time alone in the hayloft after his recovery, but her interest faded when he grew to expect more from her than she cared to offer.

Garrick wanted, more than anything else, to love unselfishly and be loved in return. In his mind, he associated the physical contact exchanged between he and his cousin with a true, committed love. The young man expected that his love be requited in kind, but Gudrun wanted only to experience pleasure, and Garrick was nothing more than a means to an end for her. She began to increasingly despise his affection and sought other lovers, but this only made him want her more fervently.

Annoyed, Gudrun told him that she hated him.

Several months later, however, the teenaged girl became pregnant. When she approached her cousin and begged that he marry her and take responsibility for the child, Garrick found himself torn between love for the girl who'd awakened his sexuality, and lack of confidence in her sincerity. If she couldn't be trusted outside of marriage, how could he believe in her fidelity as a wife?

Knowing of his mother's indiscretions, Garrick refused to comply with her wish. Gudrun told Uncle Werner that Garrick was the father of her unborn child, and enraged by this news – feeling betrayed after he'd trustingly opened his home to relative in need – Uncle Werner sent Garrick off to join the Junior Scouts. "They'll make a man out of you," he'd said.

Those memories and the heartache Garrick felt when he thought about them blurred into the stormy landscape. He didn't like to cry, but there was no one around to laugh at him now and he felt better afterward.

Becoming a Junior Scout solved many problems. The rigorous regimen kept Garrick so busy he seldom found time to think about the circumstances that had sent him to the enlistment center. Training hard gave him a goal to strive toward, his comrades had become a second family, and the honor of defending his country filled the young man with healthy self-respect. Also, the life of a junior scout had a comforting, predictable rhythm.

But the Azgar invasion destroyed everything. Stung by the harsh reality of combat, where death shattered the bonds of friendship and failure to defeat the enemy meant slavery for his people, Garrick's idealistic mind wrestled with its belief that justice, in its purest form, should always prevail against evil. His philosophical view raged against an unyielding problem: Who decided what was right and wrong? On whose authority did the definition of justice come into being? If these words existed merely as labels for abstract concepts, then the concepts themselves were subject to the interpretation of human minds and could not be absolute.

This line of reasoning led him to understand that the Azgaril probably considered their invasion justifiable, while he and his countrymen viewed the incursion as evil. Garrick had listened to Brenna explain that without an external, universal standard of right and wrong, confrontation between opposing national wills invariably occurred on the business end of a bullet, at the tip of a bayonet or the edge of a sword.

Although he accepted the logic of her claim, realizing that her faith explained the conflict persuasively, Garrick could not bring himself to embrace the existence of God, finding materialist explanations more compelling. Brenna's intelligence pleased him, he found that her mind sharpened his, but he couldn't abandon his philosophy just because it didn't answer every question, especially moral ones.

Sharp Talon Ridge loomed to his left. Garrick stopped to regain his breath in its wind shadow before climbing uphill, taking advantage of the break to mentally trace a path through the wild sumac and juniper growing on its flanks. He didn't realize he was being watched, nor did he think about the faithful trail of footprints he'd left behind in the falling snow.

***

Brenna shaved Woodwind's face with a straight-edged razor. "You didn't have to be brave to impress me," she said in her native tongue, smiling at her friend, enjoying the alliterative quality of sounds unique to the Lithian language they shared.

Woodwind glanced at Brenna's blood-smeared smock. All the nurses wore the same outfit: a long-sleeved, block-cut gown of white cotton with a waterproof front that hung from the shoulders to the knees and buttoned at the back. While he didn't care about what the other women looked like, he found its opacity distressing on Brenna. As long as she wore her maiden garments, he held some hope that they might reconcile their differences. Looking at her in this outfit, he felt as though she had suddenly married when their relationship had not been given the proper time for closure. That thought saddened him.

Woodwind let his eyes wander across the room, noting that many beds were now occupied. Half a dozen overworked nurses scurried from patient to patient, attending to their comfort, checking and changing bandages on soldiers who'd stood bravely against their enemy, only to find courage insufficient to blunt the overwhelming Azgar advance. New casualties arrived through the open doors on the far wall, creating a sudden increase in noise and activity.

Brenna turned when she heard her name called by a nurse across the room. Understanding nothing more the Tamarian woman said to her, Brenna nodded in acknowledgment, knowing she was needed. While most of the native care givers continued to shun the Lithian woman and treat her no better than they would a slave, Brenna tried to remain patient and benevolent. She suppressed her frustration with prayer that enabled her to serve these ungrateful people with grace. Woodwind had long recognized and appreciated the goodness of her soul. Brenna was his dream, his ideal woman.

He longed for her now, partly afraid that the morphine he'd been given for pain would allow the secret words to tumble from his lips. Believing that she would never requite his clandestine admiration, Woodwind controlled his yearning, dreaming privately that she might change her mind. "Allfather will bless you for every soul you snatch from the grave in this place."

Brenna raised her eyebrows, finishing her work with quick, sure strokes. "I'm convinced that Allfather brought me here for this reason," she replied. She cleaned the blade and reached for a wet towel to wipe leftover lather from his face. "I'm sorry," she continued, "but they need me right now. I'll come back as soon as I can. Meanwhile, get some rest." Brenna squeezed his hand as she stood.

Woodwind nodded, thinking wistfully about her as she walked away. Brenna endured contempt from the women around her, in spite of two solid days of skilled volunteer work in the infirmary. Sliding his fingers across his smooth cheek, he realized that Brenna had shaven him for many years without ever letting the razor cut his flesh.

Others, who'd not respected her skill with a sword, had not been as fortunate.

The Lithian woman breathed deeply to quell her fear of the curious, staring Tamarian officers who'd brought in their wounded and lingered to watch after hearing accounts of her healing skill. She'd resorted to hiding, or keeping busy until after Dr. Meine finished triage, attending wounds behind a thick surgical screen where none of the healthy warriors could see what she was doing.

Brenna felt no fear of the wounded. These men often lay unconscious or experienced morphine-induced apathy when she ministered to them. Not a single soldier perished under Brenna's watch, though many who might have been saved never survived the journey from the battlefield to benefit from her prayers. To the great astonishment of the Tamarian medical crew, some of the most critical cases improved dramatically within hours of her intervention. Allfather blessed Brenna and saved many lives through her as the day blended into evening, and evening into night.

The constant arrival of new casualties kept the Lithian woman too busy to worry about anything other than the soldiers under her care. Their agony remained evident in labored breathing, across dirt-blackened faces, and in glassy eyes that might never again see full use of their extremities. As the night wore on, the infirmary filled up and a long line of wounded men wound into the hallway, around corners and into other rooms.

Brenna lost track of time. Many hours later, long after Woodwind had fallen asleep, a private who introduced himself as Darrold Müller found Brenna attending to a dying soldier in the hallway and ordered her to collect her belongings. "The Azgar have taken a lot of ground in battle just north of here. Colonel Brandt wants all civilians evacuated at daybreak, before the enemy gets into artillery range and prevents your escape."

The Lithian woman wiped her sweating forehead on the back of her sleeve. "When will that be?" she inquired, imagining she'd have time to clean up.

"Within the hour," the Tamarian replied.

Brenna shuddered. "Is there no way I can stay here to help?"

Darrold shrugged, his bloodshot eyes attesting to a serious lack of sleep. "I'm sorry, miss. The colonel sent me to find you in particular. I'm responsible for seeing that you're in that caravan, and I intend to follow through on his order." The soldier's tone of voice demonstrated unyielding resolve.

The anticipated terror of seeing unfamiliar people in strange surroundings flooded Brenna's heart, as it had when Garrick warned her that this would happen. "Your nurses are overworked already," she responded. "I can help. Besides, my friend is too weak to travel and I'll worry myself sick if I can't stay to care for him."

Private Müller shook his head. "I'm sorry, miss."

Flustered, but understanding that she could not persuade the soldier to disobey an order, Brenna meekly slid past him and returned to Woodwind's bedside. She awakened her friend with a kiss, then explained the predicament in her native tongue.

Woodwind glanced at Darrold Müller, then returned his attention to Brenna. "He's a good man," the southerner replied, clasping her fingers with genuine affection. "Take my sword and the gold in my pouch with you when you go. I'll look for you at Burning Tree, or wherever it is they send you, when this is all over."

Brenna bit her lower lip, feeling remorseful as she realized that she might never see him again. "I feel like I'm deserting you. If you die here I'll mourn you to my grave!"

Woodwind blinked back a tear, knowing she meant to comfort, not realizing her words had the opposite effect. "I swore that I'd find and look after you, but in truth, you've always been in Allfather's care. Honor me and your loved ones by staying alive. The Tamarians will protect you. Go with them."

Brenna sensed that Woodwind had already resigned himself to being left behind, as though he'd expected all along that she would leave him. Trying to assuage her own guilt, Brenna held his hand like she would never let go and prayed until Private Müller urged her to say farewell. The Lithian woman took Woodwind's prized longsword, but left all the money in his pouch, tearfully kissed her friend, then turned away without looking back.

Woodwind sadly watched her go, realizing with great clarity, in spite of the morphine, that their lips would never meet again.

***

Windfall apples, partially hidden beneath snowdrifts and frozen solid until spring, lay in neat piles around the smooth trunks of dormant trees. Most farmers in the Broken Wing Valley fermented and distilled bruised or fallen apples into ethanol to fuel their machines, lights or heat their homes during winter. But this orchard owner, unwilling to collect and store the damaged fruit on the fringes of his land, decided to let it rot on the ground rather than give it away.

Garrick caught his breath on the summit of Sharp Talon Ridge after a long, slippery climb. He spat into the snow out of disgust for the wasted fruit, then turned southeast to check his progress with his field lens. Dead Hand Ridge lay beyond sight, obscured by many miles of atmospheric haze and falling snow.

A gravel road connected each of the Sharp Talon farms with the city of Burning Tree, far to the north. This route, the most direct way of reaching the regional capital, would allow Garrick to reach the city after three more full days of walking. It seemed like a long time to deliver such an important message.

But as Garrick set down his pack, removed his rifle and short sword to adjust the air vents on the inside of his parka, the horrifying hiss of a slavering monster sent an altogether different kind of chill through every muscle in his body. Cresting the ridge in an effortless stride, the massive, crimson-eyed beast paused, as if startled to find its prey so close, so alone, so vulnerable.

With its black mane bristling, spotted with pure white, dry snow, the predator's powerful shoulder muscles twitched in anticipation of an easy kill. Garrick's mind matched Brenna's detailed description of an Azgar deathwolf with the creature standing before him, and the horror that he could not outrun it seized him like the embrace of an angry bear. Frozen in terror for a critical moment, the Tamarian cadet did not react fast enough to reach for his weapon.

The deathwolf screamed and lunged forward, its huge body airborne in a singular contraction of muscle that bent its flexible spine like a massive spring. As the beast crashed into the young soldier, sharp, powerful claws ripped through his parka and its massive jaw clamped onto his left shoulder.

Garrick's feet slid from beneath him. He slammed into the ground as if he'd been pummeled by a giant, landing hard on his right shoulder. The deathwolf's powerful neck muscles effortlessly jerked his body to the left. Garrick's helmet clanged into a tree trunk, and as pain, shock and disorientation flooded his mind, the deathwolf planted itself firmly over his midsection.

The sheer mass of the creature threatened to crush Garrick's bones. The cadet pushed, thrashed and kicked in a vain attempt to force the monster away. Struggling with panic, unable to breathe, terrified by the crunching sound of canine teeth chewing into his armor, screaming as sharp pain stabbed his gut, he felt like he was being eaten alive.

Struggling against the incredible strength of a creature five times his own weight, Garrick wiggled his left arm free and repeatedly slammed his gloved fist on the deathwolf's head. These ineffective blows only further enraged the slavering beast. The monster turned its hideous head, snapped at Garrick's hand, caught leather in its teeth, then twisted its great neck and began to gnaw, pinching flesh in an excruciating vise.

Garrick gasped for air. He smelled decay in its hot breath and felt sickly, warm saliva dripping all over his face and sliding down his neck. The petrified cadet held his hand in a tight fist, grunting as he pushed the deathwolf's jaws away, valiantly fighting to preserve his life while he struggled to reach the survival knife on his belt with his right hand. His sense of duty and desperate longing to survive quickened his will to live, and thus, he did not give in to the natural urge to let the deathwolf prevail, and he refused to stop struggling.

The padded glove limited his ability to feel, but Garrick soon wrapped his fingers around the knife hilt. With herculean effort, he pulled the weapon from its sheath, and with a clumsy, right-handed stab, shoved the blade sideways, into the back of the deathwolf's jaw, where he twisted the knife deeply into the creature's throat.

The monster bit down on the steel, reared back and thrashed at Garrick's right arm with its powerful left claw. Garrick extracted his left hand and held on to the knife hilt with every bit of strength he could muster.

Infuriated with its inability to kill quickly, the deathwolf fruitlessly tore at its victim's right shoulder. The beast retreated and lunged repeatedly, only to meet the sharp sting of the young warrior's knife blade in response. Its rage intensified, but its anger could not prevail against the determined young Tamarian's strength, stamina and fighting instinct.

Desperate hope flooded Garrick's mind. He would not let the monster triumph! However, neither could he get away, as wielding the knife required him to engage at close range. Garrick tried reaching for his sword – which lay closer to him than his rifle – but the weapon remained beyond his grasp. In frustration, he slammed his elbow into the deathwolf's nose, hoping that it would back off, but so much pain rippled through his left shoulder he couldn't bring himself to do it again.

Suddenly, he remembered the apples. In their current state, they were hard as granite, less brittle than ice, and better yet, within reach! Garrick grabbed a large specimen and whacked the deathwolf's sensitive nose with all his strength.

The creature hissed and snarled, opened wide its blooded jaw, then lunged for Garrick's throat. But instead of finding soft flesh, the beast encountered something cold, hard and unyielding. Screaming in a morbid rage, it bit down forcefully, breaking back teeth until the apple eventually softened and shattered.

Garrick jabbed his blade deep into the deathwolf's neck and quickly crammed another apple into its mouth. Grasping its thick, spiny mane with his torn and bleeding left hand, he slammed his head forward and hammered the deathwolf's nose with his helmet for all he was worth until the creature battered him aside and began thrashing its head back and forth to rid its mouth of cold, hard fruit.

Garrick groaned from the punishing blow. With coordination inspired by fear and fueled by sheer adrenaline, the Tamarian cadet rolled through the snow, jumped to his feet and reached for the nearby short sword.

The deathwolf swiped its mouth with a claw, clearing the apple from its teeth. Incensed, the monster snarled and charged at its prey, blood-lust overflowing from its crimson eyes, its terrifying voice shaking snow from tree limbs.

Garrick unsheathed the blade and dug his feet into the ground. Determination replaced terror as his eyes locked upon the predator's gaze. The deathwolf would not knock him down again!

With its jaw open wide, the massive creature lunged forward. This time, however, the monster encountered the deadly, readied point of Tamarian steel. At impact, Garrick slid his right foot in a backward arc, allowing his attacker's inertia to whisk almost harmlessly in front of him while his blade slithered through the soft flesh behind its front leg. Executing a well-timed, shuffle-step forward pushed his weapon deeply into the creature's chest cavity.

But the monster managed to reach for Garrick's left shoulder with its right-front paw, snagging his overcoat and dragging his arm toward the ground. Instinctively, the brute backed away from the searing pain that ravaged its heart, and in doing so, ripped Garrick's sleeve all the way down to his elbow. Its claws shredded fabric and flesh, leaving torn tissue to bleed in the wake of their passage.

Forcing his body to move despite intense pain, Garrick pivoted completely around, planting his left foot firmly while his weapon whistled through the cold air in a clumsy manner better suited for chopping wood with an axe than wielding a sword. He slammed his blade onto the deathwolf's back with such ferocity, the steel broke in twain, the monster's spine shattered and it lost control over its hind quarters.

Still snarling and snapping at cold air, the deathwolf struggled forward on its powerful front legs. Garrick, trembling in renewed fear and pain, retreated. He grabbed his rifle and fired four afflicted shots at point blank range into the creature's chest before it slumped into the snow and its breathing became too labored for further resistance. Garrick's shoulder hurt like fury and his hearing dulled from the roar of his rifle.

Inserting his replacement magazine and chambering another round just in case it might be necessary, the young Tamarian retrieved his knife with a wary eye on the still heaving mane of his adversary before standing back to regain his breath.

Not even a giant could take that kind of punishment! Garrick shuddered. Brenna had faced eight of them . . .

Checking the extent of his wounds, Garrick felt grateful that strong armor had preserved his life. While the monster's teeth and claws mangled his parka and uniform, the deathwolf's bite could not penetrate his armored vest. Beneath it, Garrick's undershirt had not been damaged. Nonetheless, his body felt like he'd been mercilessly beaten with a stout stick.

Garrick struggled to calm his intense, labored breathing. Serious pain ravaged his entire left arm from the shoulder to the fingertips he used for eating and writing. Weakness and shock motivated him to find a place to care for his wounds in a hurry.

Just then, the horrific screaming of a wolf-pack in the valley below alerted Garrick to an even greater danger. He could see at least four dark shapes running at top speed across the hay fields he'd crossed before climbing onto the ridge, and he knew intuitively that they were after him.

Garrick's heart sank. If his seventy caliber rifle couldn't finish off a wounded deathwolf, there was no way he could take on four healthy ones by himself. He shouldered his backpack with a painful grunt, then staggered into the orchard toward a steep, rocky hillside several hundred yards to the west.

***

Colonel Brandt mulled over the latest battle reports, distracted by his loathing of commanding of a retreating army. The hastily prepared defenses set up to defend Kicking Horse Gap could not stem the black tide of enemy warriors, and the casualties the Azgar inflicted upon the Tamarians were rapidly swamping medical facilities at every operating firebase within a sixty mile radius.

Scout troops observed the Azgar moving heavy artillery and many wagon loads of ammunition into the hill country just east of Dead Hand Ridge, a sure sign that the invaders were not cowed by the long range rocket attacks Colonel Brandt had ordered against them three days earlier. Infantry units previously camped on the Saradon had been spotted marching west and spreading out in preparation for their invasion of the Broken Wing Valley.

Based on scouting reports, Colonel Brandt believed the enemy fighting its way down from Kicking Horse Gap would hit Dead Hand Ridge on the flank while a larger force made a simultaneous frontal assault from the east. Although he could expect fire support from base commanders in the Copperhead Hills to his west, he had not expected the Azgaril to deploy and attack so quickly.

Woodwind, that lovesick southerner, had been right. The astonishing speed of the Northern Liberation Army's deployment seized the tactical initiative, forcing the colonel to react to whatever move they made. This fact, coupled with their numerical superiority, explained how they'd conquered so much territory in so little time.

The colonel believed he had neither the necessary manpower, nor sufficient munitions to hold back the Azgar horde for long. Complicating his command situation, under standing orders his forces had to protect civilians, but the evacuation of women and children necessarily delayed full-scale military action.

The citizens of Sutherlind, a town to the north of Kicking Horse Gap, should have been evacuated through the Copperhead Hills in time to avoid any conflict with operations against the enemy. The Azgaril offensive in that region, however, occurred before the local people could be moved out of the way, forcing friendly units to restrain counter force attacks while the civilians moved further south to find safety.

The firebase at Dead Hand Ridge accepted an exhausted group of refugees from Sutherlind sometime after midnight on their second day of travel, but because the Azgar were so decisively overwhelming all Tamarian opposition, Colonel Brandt had to order them, as well as the citizens from Dieter, to evacuate westward at daybreak. Despite their fatigue, they had to flee before the enemy arrived. Furthermore, he could not accept their request for the customary military escort. He had no soldiers to spare.

Polishing off his second cup of tea in a single hour, the colonel appraised his empty briefing room and cursed himself, torn between his instinct to command aggressively and his need to delay the invaders until reinforcements arrived. Colonel Brandt ordered his subordinate commanders to withdraw from their positions as soon as unit losses exceeded fifteen percent, hoping to maintain a credible force in the face of overwhelming odds.

Studying a local map with the most current unit positions on both sides indicated with colored pins, Colonel Brandt cursed for a different reason. However fierce and quick the enemy might be, their ability to maneuver would soon be limited by rough terrain. Their big guns might be terrible, but they would be difficult to move before being triangulated by heavy rocket fire from small, strategically located bases. Their troops might be numerous and well trained, but none had experienced a Tamarian winter. Colonel Brandt imagined what their morale would be like after freezing under the windswept heavens for many bitter days and long, northern nights. It was the first pleasant thought he'd had since hearing from Woodwind.

The humiliating Tamarian retreat – a temporary necessity for the sake of protecting civilians – would end. At a time of his own choosing, the colonel would send thousands of brave men to meet the enemy with a ruthlessness characteristic of Tamarian commanders for many generations. He believed that each warrior under his command possessed the skill, courage and tenacity to stand fast against the oncoming horde, in spite of their dreadful weapons and fearsome reputation. He would not cower from fighting the Azgar, for they could not choose their ground and had yet to face the unrestrained might of Tamarian fury.

But could his army hold out long enough to be reinforced?

Calling his aide from beyond the portal, Colonel Brandt began to collect his papers. When the skinny warrant officer appeared, the colonel paused. "I want a report on the progress of the civilian evacuation. Tell the officers in charge that I want those people out of here within the hour."

***

Private Darrold Müller lingered casually at Brenna's side while Lieutenant Magruder organized an irritable swarm of tired civilians assembled in the slush-covered, central courtyard of the firebase. The dark-eyed soldier, wrongly believing that his charge found these proceedings remotely interesting, dutifully translated the lieutenant's shouted instructions. "He's calling for able-bodied men to serve as caravan defenders, since there will be no military escort on the trip to Burning Tree."

Brenna scanned the crowd nervously, her tension heightened by the sheer number of strange faces. They spoke a nonsensical clatter of consonant sounds, formed by lips cracked with cold and edged with fatigue. The veterans, she noticed, listened the most carefully, while a small knot of teenaged toughs too young for military service and too proud to join the Junior Scouts postured boorishly among themselves and broke into hysterical laughter for reasons the apprehensive maiden didn't understand.

Runny-nosed little children in rumpled clothing chased one another in unending games of tag, or clung to the tattered skirts of their mothers, while older siblings inched heavy packs forward in the line designated for wagon loading. Baby screams mingled with shouted commands, laughter and hundreds of other voices engaged in incomprehensible conversation. Diluted by human sounds, the impatient neighing, snorting and hoof-stomping of mule teams echoed off the inner concrete walls, thickening the freezing air of early morning into a kind of mad roar above which Brenna felt, rather than heard, the uncontrolled quickening of her heartbeat.

"Where do I go?" she asked, anxious to get away from the clamor, wishing she could just run away, find Garrick, hold him close and be held close in return. "Where did all these people come from?" Then, thinking out loud, she muttered, "I'd be safer traveling by myself."

Darrold let his eyes wander slowly over the beautiful maiden, glancing at the bow strung over her backpack, noting that Woodwind's sword seemed entirely too large for her to handle. "You look like you can hardly move in all that gear," he remarked. "How do you expect to stay out of harm's way?"

"Allfather protects me," she replied. "Please, just let me go. Tell your commanding officer I wouldn't cooperate. Tell him whatever you like!"

The Tamarian private shook his head, insisting that it wasn't a good idea for Brenna to travel alone in a war zone, even though he'd heard that she'd eluded the Azgar for weeks on her long journey north. Her attractiveness, however, soon softened his resolve and he agreed to check with a superior first. "Wait for me here," he said, anxious to do something that might please her.

Pfc. Müller had not been away long when Brenna felt a strong, persistent tug on her hair braid. She nearly fell backwards as a burly, good-looking boy pulled her close. Encouraged by his companions, the teenager grabbed her breast in a mock effort to prevent her from falling, then shoved her into an elderly man standing nearby. The Lithian woman fell into the old man's arms, an expression of shock and pain washing over her astonished face.

Quicker than her attacker and his friends expected, Brenna spun around while unsheathing her sword, and swung Woodwind's blade in a graceful, overhead arc, stopping its sharp, crystalline point dangerously near her attacker's throat. "You'd better mind your manners!" she warned in vulgate.

A collective gasp and excited whispers spread through the crowd in the immediate area. The young man, who'd not thought Brenna knew how to use the weapon, didn't want to risk losing face in front of his friends, and refused to back down. "Go on, you little woodland slut!" he taunted. "Finish the job and see what these people do to you when you're done!"

Brenna stepped forward, keeping the blade perfectly straight and level, knowing that a simple thrust would create a far bigger problem than the one it solved, but also afraid that her more powerful adversary would hurt her again if given the chance. "I've no quarrel with you," she said, nervously. "Just leave me alone and I won't hurt you."

The young athlete strutted in a circle. "A tiny thing like you, threatening me? Come on, little girl," he said, clutching between his legs. "Let me pull out my sword and I'll make you howl like a she-wolf in heat!"

That wasn't funny. Men began shouldering through the crowd, waiting to intervene if the woman needed help.

"I'm sure you spend many hours all alone polishing that weapon," she retorted. "But if you're fool enough to fondle yourself in front of me, I'll quickly make you fit to defend virgins for the rest of your miserable life! Now back off, or you'll find that this blade is sharper than your wit!"

Laughter erupted among those in the crowd who understood vulgate, but before her adversary could respond, the brawny form of Corporal Fanselars burst through the assembled ranks, preceded by a storm of angry words. The corporal ignored Brenna and her drawn sword, shoving the swaggering antagonist away from the young woman with such force that he landed among his terrified friends, and three of them tumbled wetly into the slush.

A hacking tirade of profane invective, punctuated by an occasional kick, effectively distracted the crowd, who watched the ensuing humiliation with a mixture of fear and amusement. Once satisfied that he'd sufficiently terrorized the impudent assailant, Corporal Fanselars calmed himself and turned to address Brenna. She, however, had vanished into the ranks of assembled civilians, and no one knew where she'd gone.

Darrold Müller found her near the livery, where the renewed cat-calling of the teamster crew betrayed her presence. She returned with him to escape their harassment, wishing more than ever that she could just run off into the wildland and escape all the attention. "I'm sorry about all the trouble," he began. "I shouldn't have left you alone. The kid who bugged you comes from a rich family. He's a troublemaker and everyone appreciates your restraint. He deserved much more than he got."

"I shouldn't have to draw a weapon in my defense among your people," Brenna remarked acidly, afraid that she'd have to face someone's wrath for threatening the boy.

"He won't bother you anymore," Darrold assured. "Corporal Fanselars promised to let you ride with the nursing mothers. They like their privacy, so the young men will stay away, and since you're handy with a weapon, they'll be safer in your company."

Brenna considered the widespread prejudice she'd experienced thus far, wrinkled her brow. "I don't think they'll want to ride with me," she warned. "They'll call me a whore."

Darrold laughed and shook his head. "I don't think so. These girls are all . . . young and unmarried. You're a saint compared to them."

Cynically, Brenna realized that she was being placed among the socially unacceptable because the Tamarians considered her a kind of sub-human species with whom the respectable did not associate. She'd found this attitude pervasive among Garrick's people, and she felt hurt to be despised without cause.

Private Müller led the way to the back of the caravan. Three blonde-haired women with infants sat upon their baggage, cuddling their swaddled, sleeping children against the cold, while a fourth fiddled with a cushion, trying to find a comfortable sitting position in her seventh month of pregnancy. The women seemed far too young for motherhood, and the social ostracism experienced by unwed teenagers with babies traced its shadow across faces that should have been lit with the first flushing of real, committed love.

The Lithian maiden felt sorry for them, but at the same time, sensed that they instantly regarded her with the same kind of disdain and patronage commonly projected upon women of questionable moral standing. Subtle expressions of contempt flashed across their chapped lips, knowing glances flickered between their tired eyes, and a smirk conveyed near unanimous conviction.

Brenna, the only virgin among them, resented the judgment but said nothing to defend herself.

Several socially uncomfortable minutes later, overworked soldiers began loading the last wagon. Heinz Neergard, whom Brenna recognized as the civil defense liaison from Dieter, approached their wagon and took his place on the driver's seat. He greeted Brenna warmly in vulgate, much to the surprise of the other women, and asked her about Garrick as the women climbed aboard.

"There's a war going on and he has a job to do," she replied with a matter-of-fact but ambiguous shrug.

At the mention of Garrick's name, one of the mothers burst, rather rudely, into the conversation. "You know Garrick Ravenwood?" she asked in astonishment, nearly allowing her abruptly awakened infant son to tumble from her quivering grasp.

Brenna, leery of the sudden inquiry responded, "I do. Why do you ask?"

The young mother moved forward in haste, discarding her haughty attitude in less time than it took her to sit comfortably at the front of the wagon. This disruption further upset her son, who began fussing until his mother bounced him on her knee and patted his back in an effort to settle him down. "Have you seen him lately?" she asked.

Brenna smiled at the baby, a strong, healthy lad whom she guessed was between six and seven months old, judging from his size and behavior. In the infant's face Brenna could see a similar rugged handsomeness that she found irresistible in Garrick. "You have a beautiful child," she replied. Since the young mother had ignored her question, Brenna did the same.

The young Tamarian woman, who looked like she could have been Garrick's sister, shrugged. "I can't take credit for that," she stated. "He looks like his father."

Brenna studied the woman, noting her attractive, rounded nose and fawn-shaped, gray-green eyes. The child shared those features most strikingly, though his mouth and chin seem to have come from another family. "And I'm sure he'll grow up to be a fine son. You have every right to be proud."

Brushing a stray lock of curly blonde hair out of her eyes, the young mother turned her wind-burned face toward Brenna. She noted that the perfectly-featured foreigner was too slender to warrant riding in this particular wagon on account of an obvious pregnancy. Having heard whispered rumors that Lithians were insatiable lovers, she wondered if this shapely little thing had been caught in an act of intimacy with the young man. "Tell me about Garrick," she said, her inflection suggesting she expected a moist morsel of explicit gossip.

Brenna kept her eyes on the child, letting him hold her finger with his tiny hand, watching vaguely familiar expressions flash across his face. "Garrick is gentle, intelligent and brave from what I have seen, but I haven't known him long," she replied. The Lithian maiden pulled her finger away from the baby's grasp, put her glove back on and reiterated her question. "Why do you ask?"

"Hasn't he told you about me?" the young mother inquired, trying to soothe her child as he renewed and amplified his fussing.

Brenna scrunched her brow, puzzled. "No, but I haven't asked, either. Who are you to him?"

"Just a minute," the Tamarian mother interrupted, unbuttoning her blouse to nurse. In Illithia, this wouldn't have merited a second glance, but when an older woman scolded her for failing to seek privacy, the young mother snapped at her with shocking venom. Though Brenna couldn't understand the angry words, she found the tone of this response disrespectful and rude.

The young mother scowled at the attention she'd drawn. Her little one had stopped his squalling and nuzzled into his mother contentedly, gazing at her in innocent, wide-eyed gratitude. Only then did she drape a blanket over her shoulder for warmth. When she turned toward Brenna, she finally answered the question in a sad whisper.

"Last year Garrick came to stay at my father's ranch and I fell in love with him. He cornered me and had his way. I got pregnant and begged him to marry me, but he refused and won't admit what he did. My name's Gudrun, and this is Harold, Garrick's baby."

***

Running in terror through the windswept orchard, Garrick raced toward a steep escarpment he knew arose on its western edge. His lead on the dreadful, pursuing deathwolves narrowed until their frenzied voices closed on his heels and he could hear their breath heaving rhythmically in the cold air. Garrick, who'd never been a strong runner, dashed through the last row of dormant apple trees and scrambled uphill.

Cold, slippery snow coated a deep bed of sharp rocks, whose angular shapes blended in the darkness like an arsenal of giant arrowheads strewn across an ancient battlefield. Although his rubber-soled military boots were far better suited for climbing than the soft pads of deathwolf feet, Garrick lost his footing, slammed his knee against a stone and slid several disconcerting feet before reaching in desperation for a lightstick.

Sharp pain stabbed his wounded left hand as Garrick twisted the chemical lamp, activating its luminescence. The cadet squinted as his eyes adjusted to the bright radiance, climbing clumsily until he could see clearly in the artificial light. In his urgency to escape, Garrick did not realize for several minutes that the deathwolves were falling behind. As his endurance waned and muscles began to ache from lack of oxygen, the young Tamarian grimly readied himself to stand his ground and fight for his life.

But the deathwolves, bred to run over open ground, could not climb the rocks very well. As they laboriously ascended the steep slope, Garrick waited nervously, his rifle loaded, aimed and ready. Just as they came into the influence of his light, the creatures stopped in their tracks. They screamed, howled and pawed the ground in frustration, but would not step any closer.

"Ha!" the Tamarian soldier taunted, stepping down slope, watching the fearsome beasts retreat. He remembered Brenna telling him that deathwolves were not active during the day, and he'd wondered how the Azgaril managed to get such bloodthirsty creatures into pens without risking attack.

Now, seeing firsthand their terrified reaction to light, Garrick theorized that the enemy used bright torches to make the deathwolves docile. The idea made perfect sense, and Garrick felt wise for having solved the mystery.

Rather than forcing the deathwolves further downhill, where they might abandon their pursuit of him in order to hunt easier prey, Garrick turned westward, ascending very rough terrain in the hope that the evil beasts would follow. Ever faithful to his calling as a solider, he believed that leading them away from Sharp Talon Ridge might preserve civilian lives and property, while also preventing the wolves from encircling him. Garrick, still afraid and prudently cautious, didn't want to risk another confrontation.

As Garrick climbed higher, the snowfall intensified, his footing felt less certain, the air even colder and the wind more swift and fierce. Low temperatures dimmed his lightstick until he was certain that its output would no longer keep the pursuing creatures at bay.

Determined to survive, Garrick battled fatigue, fear and hypothermia, as debilitating pain wracked his left arm with every movement. He set small goals for himself, rewarding his aching body with rest when he reached a certain outcropping, or the low, deformed shape of an isolated tree struggling for survival in the bitter niche where its hapless seed had long ago fallen.

Weary and winded, Garrick crawled over the top of the slope, collapsing into a snow drift, desperately desiring either sleep or death. As he lay there, Brenna's beautiful face appeared in his imagination, and he heard her soft, soprano voice calling his name. The exhausted cadet dragged his body upright, checked his compass, and struggled northward.

Keeping his head down against the brutal wind and heavy clumps of swirling snow, Garrick followed the natural contour of a narrow terrace that guided him toward a steep gorge several miles away. Although nearly blinded by white out conditions, this strip of relatively flat, treeless land served as a pathway leading toward the canyon where Garrick knew he could find shelter. He figured that he would arrive there at about the same time his lightstick went out, if the deathwolves didn't catch and kill him first.

Several times he heard their petrifying voices screaming at him from behind, but each time he stopped, they did not enter the dying circle of light surrounding him. For hours he plodded along in knee-deep snow until his legs felt like iron rods, his nose and lips lost all sensation in spite of the protection of a woolen scarf, and his lungs ached from breathing cold air that would have damaged exposed flesh in minutes.

Some time well after midnight, the landscape narrowed and slid into a steep canyon. Conifer trees reappeared, offering shelter from the wind, and to his left, the mountainside encroached in an abrupt slope, covered with deep snow. Huge boulders lay covered beneath the white blanket, forming fearsome and grotesque shapes against the dark terrain.

In the waning luminescence of his lightstick, Garrick stumbled across a path cut into an otherwise seamless drift of dry snow. Deep, steep-sided boot prints remained where many heavy feet had trodden, creating a trail leading out of the canyon and up the mountainside. Far too large and deep for human feet, these tracks testified that several giants had passed this way within the past hour.

Garrick shuddered.

Suddenly, his lightstick dimmed to a single candle's output, and he heard one of the deathwolves bounding toward him through the deep snow, her labored breathing audible over a lull in the sound of the wind. Garrick turned eastward, descending into the canyon, dashing madly for the relative safety of its rocky walls. Climbing down among slippery boulders, he reached a wall of solid granite, rising some thirty feet above the frozen current of Hecate Creek.

The deathwolf, having long pursued her prey, saw his warm mass disappear into an image-less background of cold and darkness, and she became enraged. Screaming angrily, she leaped toward the place she'd last seen him, diving gracefully over his head and into the icy abyss, where the sounds of her dying yelp and crushing bones were attenuated by a deep drift of snow.

Shaking in terror, Garrick crept slowly along a narrow ledge, hardly breathing for fear that the slightest unplanned movement might cause him to slip and fall. He'd climbed many rock formations in his life, but never in the snow, and never in severe pain. Measuring his progress a single step at a time, the young Tamarian carefully cleared a conservative path with his boot before stepping forward, hoping that the deathwolves couldn't follow, and hoping his feet remained on solid ground.

Several feet above his head, the three remaining creatures arrived, snarling in frustration. For a long time they raced back and forth at the summit, screeching in demonesque harmony, pushing over piles of snow that often rained dangerously upon Garrick's head while they searched for a trail that might let them pursue their prey and close for a kill.

The ledge to which Garrick clung was wide enough for him alone, but during the dreadful time that the deathwolves lingered, he worried that they might find some hidden way down and force him to fall. Although the evil beasts inspected every possible path, no four-footed creature could wedge itself between the rocks without falling victim to the precipice. Screaming hideously when they realized their quarry had eluded them, the deathwolves retreated into the darkness, the memory of their pursuit lingering with the young Tamarian like a long remembered nightmare.

Forty exhausting minutes later, Garrick reached a two level log structure set upon a rocky outcropping overlooking both the creek and the Broken Wing Valley to the east. In the feeble glow of his lightstick, Garrick found its door unlocked. As it creaked open, he shuffled into a small room containing a cot with a moth-eaten blanket, a multrum toilet and a wood burning stove. An old pair of skis and a rusty spear stood like tired sentries in a corner, guarding a dozen pieces of split birch and a pile of hardwood shavings.

Garrick shut the door and pulled down its latch. Gathering up the birch and kindling, he built a fire, stripped to his waist once he felt warm, cleaned his wounds with a bit of melted snow and bandaged them with strips cut from the blanket. Exhausted, he collapsed on the cot and fell into a troubled sleep.

***

Copperhead Ridge loomed as an impregnable, granite stronghold; its steep and stony flanks lay veiled in a thin coat of snow that reflected a silvery sheen. Jagged, deeply eroded cliffs crowned heights swathed in the mysterious, metallic gleam of snowy rock rising above long skirts of accumulated alluvium. A brooding cloud canopy brushed the rugged peaks, shrinking, it seemed, from the prick of sharp stone.

A huge terminal moraine marked the southernmost advance of an ancient glacier, and beyond it, the Broken Wing Valley slung from the overcast heaven in a classic U-shape, its mountainous walls scoured smooth by the agency of ice long since returned to the sea. The glacial washout field showed the scars of dead riverbanks, while the land beyond the moraine lay littered in drumlins and kettle lakes, its rich soil supporting lush stands of wild grasses and cultivated hay now dormant beneath drifts of blowing snow.

This land supported large herds of cattle and horses with abundant food and water, but every tree that dared raise its limbs more than twenty feet above the valley floor suffered in an incessant wind that severely deformed foliage as it swept southeast from its birthplace, a little over two hundred miles to the north.

Brenna sat silently on the hard bench behind Heinz Neergard, alone with her thoughts. Looking at the snow hurt her eyes, so she focused on the thin, transparent edge of Woodwind's longsword. Like other priceless Lithian weapons, this one blended the extreme sharpness of advanced crystalline technology in its self-repairing blade with a hammered, lightweight alloy body. The microscopic spaces between metal layers in this weapon contained a shock-absorbing fluid that constantly exerted hydraulic pressure on the edge, filling any defects created in combat with a crystalloid polymer that hardened instantly in air, repairing damage to its brittle cutting surface. Balanced to perfection, the weapon seemed nearly weightless in battle, and in Woodwind's hands, could sever limbs as thick as a human thigh.

This blade – created in a specialized factory called a light forge – transformed, over a period of seven months, from a lump of alloy and a pile of assorted materials into the deadly, killing tool in Brenna's hands. A flourish of craftsmanship, manifest in elaborate engraving upon the bluish, alloy blade and intricate, geometric settings for silver-framed turquoise and blood quartz tiles on its tapered blade brace, displayed an attention to detail that transcended mere function. Fine leather, wrapped over a gel pack that covered its strong, carbon core, allowed the handle to conform to the grip of its user. Lithian blades blended fine art with a technology few humans understood, or appreciated.

Brenna, however, knew the worth of the weapon in her hands, and as she reflected on its value, Woodwind's generosity in offering it to her inspired lengthy moments of moody contemplation. She had long known of Woodwind's love for her. He was a decent and moral man, whose virtue and integrity had won her father's trust. Few could challenge his wisdom, or boast beyond his skill as a warrior. These characteristics inspired many to think that he and Brenna were the perfect couple.

But every time Brenna let such a thought creep into her mind, it filled her with a kind of dread she struggled to explain. Courteous, well-mannered Woodwind could be quite condescending. While unquestionably loyal, a personal agenda often lay at the foundation of his actions. Further, his mind analyzed every situation and relationship with a kind of logic that constantly sought an advantage.

This hyper-awareness made him a dangerous adversary, and even though Brenna loved him as a friend and trusted him with her life and chastity, their relationship always teetered on the edge of outright competition. The constant tension wearied her.

Garrick, whose behavior favorably impressed Brenna, always listened for understanding. Without losing his comforting sensitivity, the Tamarian soldier could speak eloquently to explain his view on an issue, and he did this in such a way that Brenna never felt uncomfortable if she disagreed with what he said, even though he was godless. He remained content to appreciate her intellect without insisting that she accommodate his view, and his consistent lack of need to dominate their relationship made Brenna feel free to be herself.

It had also stirred her innocent sexuality. Whenever thoughts of Garrick breezed into her consciousness, her body reacted in ways she'd never before experienced, and most distressing for a woman of her spiritual caliber, she wanted him to overwhelm her with these novel and wonderful feelings.
But after hearing Gudrun's story, Brenna felt heartbroken. She'd wanted to believe in Garrick's sexual innocence. She wanted their eventual nuptial bliss to be a secret shared only between the two of them. It frightened her to realize that this fantasy already existed in her mind after knowing him for so short a time. The impact of Gudrun's revelation deflated that dream so rapidly, the realization that Garrick might not be a decent young man after all nearly brought tears to Brenna's eyes.

She'd refused to cry. The Lithian woman let anger take root in her heart, not because she wanted to hurt Garrick, but because she felt she never should have let him draw out the feelings of desire that so willingly flowed toward him from within her soul.

Brenna sheathed the sword, struggling with the concept of loving someone whose fidelity could be questioned. She then reasoned that trustworthiness in the ultimate sense belonged only to Allfather. Garrick was just a human after all.

Nonetheless, would he really abuse Gudrun in the manner she claimed? Brenna remembered moments alone with him, times when Garrick had been perfectly willing to restrain his desire for her sake. Long experience with amorous young men fueled her gratitude of his self-control. No one had ever treated her so carefully. Why then would Garrick behave with such temper toward her, when he'd supposedly overpowered and discarded his cousin only months before?

Brenna could not attribute a change of heart to some deep, spiritual awakening, for Garrick certainly could not be accused of even a remote _belief_ in the spirit realm. Also, he suffered from the Tamarian cultural stigma regarding modesty to such an extent, she found it difficult to believe that a common brute who'd recently forced himself on a helpless girl could blush to see another one standing before him wearing her underwear.

The situation made no sense, and the flood of contradictory feelings raging within her soul stopped cold in the chilling reality of a baby boy who looked remarkably similar to Garrick. Did he gain Gudrun's trust, only to break it when she was at his mercy? If so, could Brenna believe in his gentle manner and comforting words? Or was Gudrun distorting the truth?

Brenna's thoughts were interrupted by an abrupt halt in the caravan's progress. Heinz Neergard stood up to see over the preceding wagon, noting that the head of the train had stopped at some kind of a roadblock, just in front of the mound that marked the terminal moraine. Confusion and anxiety began spreading among the civilians.

His vision had been much better in his youth, and now, even with glasses on he could not tell what the problem was from this distance. Worried that some kind of conflict might begin, he turned to Brenna and spoke in a calm tone. "I'll find out what the trouble is. Can you please take the reins?"

Brenna put the longsword underneath the driver's bench and complied with his request as he departed. When the mules began to paw the ground and whinny nervously, the Lithian woman scanned her surroundings for danger. Squinting from the uncomfortable glimmer of falling snow, which reflected light like many little mirrors, she couldn't see the head of the caravan clearly.

But turning around, Brenna froze in fear. Black uniformed cavalry troops advanced up the road, their carbines held from the hip at a forty-five degree angle. The last of their number joined ranks from behind a boulder-strewn mound several dozen yards distant from where they had quietly watched the caravan pass.

Swiftly, Brenna climbed over the bench, brusquely shooing the young mothers into the covered part of the wagon. "Take cover!" she warned. "We're being attacked!"

Sensing fear in his mother's heart, Harold, Gudrun's baby, began to scream. His cry awakened the other infants, who followed suit as their mothers labored through the narrow center aisle and into the covered section at the rear of the wagon.

Brenna reached for her quiver and in a single move, strung her bow. "Merciful God," she prayed aloud. "I can barely see! Deliver your enemy into my hands!"

Gunfire erupted near the front of the caravan. Screams and shouts radiated from the confused scene. Glancing backward, she noticed the front rank of mounted enemy soldiers raising their rifles to return fire, so she kept her head low and screamed at the mothers to do the same.

Brenna slapped the reins, urging the mule team forward as a bullet splintered a side board of her wagon. She heard another round whistle off to her left and prayed desperately for her life, knowing that the enemy would soon catch the slower mule team and she'd very soon have to fight in earnest.

Heinz Neergard waved frantically from the side of the road. Brenna slowed the mules to a near stop in order to let him climb aboard. The old man took her hand and pulled himself into the driver's seat once more, wasting no further time in urging the mules into a dead run.

The first Azgar warrior who dared close on the last wagon felt the hot kiss of a steel-tipped arrow slam into his lips. His partner, who approached on the opposite side, faced a similar fate through the center of his neck a moment later. He tumbled backward from the saddle and bounced into the legs of a trailing horse. The hapless beast crumpled forward and shed its rider, who slammed into the ground head first, breaking his neck.

Six cavalry soldiers dashed past Brenna's wagon, attempting to drive the slower mules off the road and subdue several wagons at once. Tamarians with rifles fired back, demanding that the Azgar calvalry honor their threat, permitting the Lithian woman to wield her bow.

Brenna fired twice to her right, crouched behind a bench to grab more arrows without looking, then turned the other way and sent two more on their terminal flight. She hit the two riders on her right in the back, one through the right kidney and the other just left of his spine, through the lung and out his chest. On the opposite side, she fired as the enemy soldiers turned their mounts toward her. The first felt sharp steel slice through his belly, while his companion, who presented a better target at the moment of delivery, fell from his horse clutching an arrow shaft that extended from the base of his neck.

Two more arrows slipped into the southern woman's cold fingers as a rifle round shattered the back of the bench in front of her. Once again she pushed forward on her bow, her arms aching from the intense exertion, and found a target in the heart of a cavalry officer charging his mount toward her from the right. Swift and true, her arrow found its mark, but as his body crashed to the ground, it rolled beneath the wagon's back wheels.

A great bump lifted Brenna from her crouch, forcing her next shot high. Four screams and the intense wailing of young children emanated from the covered section just as another pursuing enemy soldier fired his gun. Brenna heard the bullet whistle as it closed, felt a strong force spin her right shoulder around and landed on her hands and knees upon the wagon floor. She felt like she'd been kicked hard, her shoulder hurt, but she saw no blood and could still move her right arm. Searching frantically for her quiver as gunfire erupted all around her, the young woman scrambled beneath the front passenger bench, found her arrows and grabbed another handful.

Her momentary lull in firing gave the Azgar warrior an opportunity to turn his horse, ride alongside the wagon and attempt to board. If he could neutralize the archer, his companions could move ahead and seize the caravan for its food. His unit, cut off from the main army by Tamarian infantry, had not eaten a full meal in four days. All of them were very hungry.

Stepping into the wagon proved more difficult than he'd thought it would be, for the road surface, though frozen hard in the cold, had grown slick with ice. Heinz deliberately moved the wagon slid side to side and it bounced with a random frequency the enemy warrior found impossible to anticipate. Just as he stepped in, reaching for a bench to stabilize his balance and clearing his back leg over his horse, the archer reappeared.

Brenna popped up from behind the second passenger bench and let an arrow fly at point-blank range. This time, she didn't miss.

At that instant, Serena, the pregnant teenager, appeared from the covered section. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and a look of sheer terror evolving into dozens of horrified expressions stung Brenna's compassionate heart. An Azgar soldier stood behind her, his left hand clutching her quivering jaw, his right hand holding a bayonet to the young woman's swollen belly. "Drop the bow, little Lith cow!" he demanded angrily. "No god in heaven can save this whoring wench from my hand!"

In one fast, fluid motion – before his reflexes could respond to her movement – Brenna raised her bow and fired an arrow through the blasphemer's left eye.

"Say that to Allfather's face!" she snapped as his lifeless form fell backward.

Brenna retrieved Woodwind's sword from its hiding place. Guiding Serena, who was sobbing in terror, to a safer place on the floor, the Lithian woman stepped over the dead warrior and plunged into the canvas canopy where the other women were screaming for help.

"Light!" she commanded, her _belief_ manifest in an instant, ultraviolet radiance that flooded the canopy and made her white and grey uniform glow like a star on a clear, winter night. Brenna could see perfectly in bright light too blue for human eyes, and in here, there was no glare from the snow. She noticed two enemy soldiers trying to subdue the women, while a third was just climbing into the back of the wagon.

Placing her booted foot on the shoulder of one enemy warrior, Brenna shoved hard, the force of her muscular leg turning him toward her while his back slammed against a bench. Before he could react, she'd thrust the sword into his chest and rotated her entire body to the left, leaning forward so heavily on her left leg that her extended right knee nearly touched the floor. This motion twisted the blade quickly, snapping her victim's ribs as the retreating steel wedged them apart.

In the confined space within the canopy, Brenna's tiger stance allowed her to withdraw the weapon and arc it overhead to attack again in a single, smooth motion. Woodwind's blade encountered the neck of the second soldier and sliced a deep gash through his flesh until Brenna stopped her downward stroke and lunged forward, driving the blade up, into her adversary's lower abdomen.

Gasping in the horrible realization that his life had suddenly ended, the invader fell backward while Brenna twisted in a reversal to the right. He knocked his head against Gudrun's soft thigh when Brenna stepped forward and the blade slithered away, leaving him to die with a huge hole in his belly as she turned her attention to the back of the wagon.

The Lithian blade swept high to Brenna's right, its tip just touching the canopy roof as she danced forward. Many years of intensive sword training endowed her with strength that belied her petite size. She attacked with great force, executing a cross-cut on the third Azgar warrior that severed his left arm at the shoulder. One quick step forward put her in the perfect position for a two-fisted thrust through the soft flesh in the middle of his mandible. When the sword tip stopped on the hard surface of his inner skull, Brenna used momentum to push him out of the back flap through which he'd entered moments before.

Other Azgar horsemen declined to board the back of the wagon after seeing their dead comrade ejected in such a quick and gruesome way. One of them fired a shot through the canopy out of sheer frustration, but the bullet sailed high, shattered the tip of Woodwind's sword, then ricocheted through the floor without touching a living soul.

Instantly, the blade repaired itself. Its internal, crystalloid polymer hardened into a perfect point as if by magic. Before Brenna had taken a single step, its deadly edge had been flawlessly restored.

Heinz Neergard drove the mule team with a skill that comes only from long experience. His ability to keep the wagon under control strained against his personal comfort while Azgar horsemen tried to board. They fired at him, but he reined back the team and kept his head low. During a lull in the fighting, he reached for an old revolver that he'd hidden in a box beneath the bench.

One enemy soldier who tried using his horse to push the mule team off the road became the elderly Mr. Neergard's first target. He fired at the left rear flank of the Azgar pony, which subsequently tumbled to the valley floor and shed its rider.

Brenna stepped out of the canopy just in time to hear Serena scream about an enemy soldier who had successfully boarded the wagon. The tall, dark-eyed warrior drew his saber and slashed in an angry, outward sweep aimed at Brenna's pretty head that she countered with an effortless, outward parry.

The Lithian woman box-stepped forward, executing a hard, downward slash that cut through his clavicle, followed by a deep thrust into his chest with another half-turn exit. Facing left with her blade at chin level, Brenna stepped into a side kick, the force of which not only freed the impaled soldier from her sword, but also sent his body tumbling toward the frozen ground, never to rise. After this, no one dared approach the trailing wagon.

Ahead, Heinz could see the other Tamarian wagons slowing down and turning off into a defensive circle. Dozens of readied rifles, wielded by veteran warriors, rose to protect their families from the enemy. Their accurate fire quickly and decisively ended the enemy's attack.

Heinz pulled the wagon in at the back of the formation and dismounted to lock the wheels. Several teenaged boys dashed over to unhitch the mule team while a few older women arrived to help the young mothers and their children move to the center of the circle for safety.

Brenna breathed a prayer of gratitude and praise to Allfather while she regained her breath. She cleaned Woodwind's sword on the uniform of the blasphemer, struck by the irony of his last utterance, then recovered her bow and quiver and climbed into the covered part of the wagon to get out of the blinding snow. She slid out of her armor to heal the wound afflicting her shoulder, praying for the pain to go away.

Tamarian armor had saved her life. Brenna breathed a prayer of gratitude as sporadic gunfire ended and the surviving Azgar retreated. Her shoulder soon felt better, but no prayer eased the heartache she felt for Garrick.

***

A mottled Kitsim Dove, speckled with dry snow and shivering from the extreme cold at high elevation, found the rooftop aviary at Dead Hand Ridge and hopped down into the sheltered warmth of a receiving pen where food and water awaited. After the bird descended through a one-way door, a spring mechanism rang a bell to alert the communications clerk that a message had finally arrived. Anticipating the bird's return, the clerk hastened to remove its report.

When Colonel Brandt read the news from the Copperhead Hills, he nodded gravely. Colonel Taylor, another commander, had written coordinate positions his scouts had fixed on Azgaril artillery positions. These Colonel Brandt gave to his aide for cross-checking with his own data, though he fully expected a close match.

In terse language the report stated that bad weather and the unexpected presence of enemy troop reserves near Kicking Horse Gap interfered with reassignments from further north, preventing a full-scale reinforcement of Dead Hand Ridge from his sector. This news made the prospect of halting the enemy advance doubtful in the near term.

Thus far, not a single Tamarian unit had been able to hold its position against the invaders. What had started out as a coordinated withdrawal was becoming, in some places, a hasty and humiliating defeat. Though the rate of effective weapons discharge remained high, the Tamarian Self-Defense Force crumbled under the weight of superior numbers, crushing artillery and effective maneuver. Judging from the combat reports littering his desk, infantry morale had been deteriorating rapidly. Some units had done a lot more running than fighting.

Colonel Brandt hoped he would see the last of his retreating troops by nightfall. At that time, he could let the fortress defenders and rocket corps deal with massed enemy concentrations while his field troops received a much-deserved rest. Several infantry companies had been fighting and falling back for well over thirty-six hours to permit the civilian evacuation, time they'd paid for dearly in spilled blood.

Though deteriorating weather would interfere with long-range rocket support, the Azgaril would face winter's fury to a greater degree because their troops and artillery were deployed outdoors, without shelter. Woodwind, the lovesick southerner, believed the Azgar couldn't cope with a bitter winter.

"Let them bask in it!" the colonel snapped, a chronic lack of sleep having worn thin his jovial disposition. "Let them eat, sleep and rot in the snow!"

***

Vivid visions, pain and night terrors startled Garrick from his sleep many times during the lonely hours before dawn. Dreams of death and dismemberment chased him into consciousness, frightening him awake for what felt like forever. When grey light finally filled his small, warm room from its tiny eastern window, the young Tamarian remained too tired to stay awake and could not motivate himself to move out of bed.

A full three hours after daybreak, feeling only marginally rested, Garrick set wood on the stove coals and began preparing himself to move on. He made oat cakes slathered with peanut butter and dried apples, drank tea with breakfast, washed his face, cleaned his wounds, then made a feeble attempt to split fresh firewood and kindling for the next cabin occupant.

After putting out the fire with snow, Garrick decided to take the cross-country skis along. Traditional Tamarian religious practice demanded that a gift of equal or greater value be left to replace the item taken, so that the spirit of the place would not be offended and wreak vengeance upon the disrespecting thief.

Garrick would have obliged the custom, but only because he believed it was wrong to steal, not because he feared the vengeful wrath of some minor deity. At this time, however, he had nothing superfluous to offer, but he knew the skis would enable him to cover ground much more rapidly than he could on foot. He left a quarter sterling coin, worth a day's wage – the extent of his money at the moment – knowing that this meager gift would not cover the cost of the skis he'd taken. Garrick reasoned that saving the Republic was more important, anyway . . .

"I wonder what Brenna would think," he mused aloud, curious that ethical questions so consistently brought thoughts of her to mind. "Would she frown on me for doing this?"

Garrick didn't want to admit how much it mattered to him that she might, or that if she didn't, that her explanation would entail some fascinating, well-thought moral precept in an unexpected light. Her opinion had risen to a kind of second standard by which Garrick judged himself, and though he still felt obligated to uphold his own idea of principled behavior, Brenna didn't have to threaten or cajole in order to wield such influence. She simply commanded that kind of respect.

This acceptance of her spiritual philosophy demonstrated conclusively that Garrick already loved Brenna, for he would not have bent his will toward hers so willingly if it hadn't been his delight to do so. As Garrick climbed out of the canyon with the stolen skis and poles strapped to his back, he made up his mind that he would tell her that he loved her when he had the chance. He hoped she wouldn't scorn his devotion as Gudrun and other girls had done, but he made the vow, confident in the Lithian woman's excellent character.

Hard climbing soon brought Garrick to the place where he'd earlier seen the giant tracks. During the intervening hours, tiny snowflakes that had fallen endlessly from the windswept, overcast heavens, substantially filled in the boot marks. Thus, to his great relief, the young soldier concluded that no giants had passed this way in recent hours.

The old skis featured an adjustable leather toe binding that Garrick snugged securely around his rubber-soled boots. After opening the vents on his shredded overcoat, the Tamarian cadet wedge-stepped uphill through the deep snow. Pain, his ever malevolent companion, protested at the slightest movement of his left shoulder.

Ascending a narrowing fold in the mountain rock, Garrick followed the trail until it crested a ridge line, turned north and broadened into an alpine valley covered with snow-laden lodgepole pine. Skiing downhill, Garrick fell into an easy, distance-eating rhythm, making gentle turns to check his speed, allowing momentum to carry him as far as possible before he began to labor across the flat valley bottom and climb up the other side.

The second ridge sapped Garrick's endurance, forcing him to rest more and more frequently as he approached its summit. Dizzy and out of breath, he paused to check his progress before completing his climb. Disappointingly, all he saw once there was yet another ridge line, and a fourth, even loftier, beyond it.

Garrick considered giving up and simply skiing north without further investigation when he noticed what appeared to be a red blanket on the trail below. Pulling out his field lens, Garrick examined the scene in greater detail. The fresh scar of a minor snow slide ripped a ragged seam across a virgin snow bank, its path obliterating part of the trail where it had swept downhill. Large boot prints covered the site in discreet track ways, suggesting a group of giants had gone down the slide and come back up. The uphill prints skirted a long, deep trough of some kind.

Garrick skied to the spot, discovering that what he'd thought was a blanket turned out to be a lightweight, human-sized cloak. The frozen body of an Azgar warrior lay half-buried in the snow with his legs grotesquely broken. His wide-eyed gaze, blue lips and eye sockets, along with ice on his beard, suggested that he'd been left to die in the cold. A feeling of horror and disgust swept through Garrick's soul, though he found it strangely hard to look away from the corpse.

The trough he'd seen ended abruptly in a chalky puff of black carbon, the circular imprint of a cannon barrel mouth clearly impressed in the deep snow. Footprints continued along the trail, indicating the gun had been hoisted upon strong shoulders and carried.

With a little imagination, the scene told a gruesome tale. Two giants traveled with the Azgar soldier in the lead, their deeper footprints eradicating any trace of the human's passage. After a snow slide knocked the cannon-bearer downhill, the other giant had broken the human soldier's legs and left him behind as a kind of marker to find the accident site. Other giants must had come back to help drag the heavy gun tube up to the trail, and in their stupidity, forgot to bury the corpse.

Giants lacked the metallurgic expertise to produce effective artillery. Realizing that they might be acquiring or capturing cannon from the Azgaril made Garrick's heart pound in rage. Had the red material not caught his eye, he would have missed the significance of the trail he'd been following and given up to continue northward.

With renewed vigor, Garrick pressed onward, anger overriding the pain in his arm. Stopping only for food and water, the junior scout crested the next ridge line about three hours later. The snowstorm slackened by late afternoon, improving visibility in the waning, grey winter light. Under these conditions, Garrick saw wood smoke rising from a palisade fort on a steep hill that overlooked the valley floor, two or three miles to his northwest.

Abandoning the trail, for it would certainly be patrolled so close to a giant stronghold, Garrick skied a gently descending path toward a rocky outcropping several hundred yards north of the palisade fort. A strange, hollow-sounding explosion gently shook snowflakes from the skinny limbs of lodgepole pine, and when Garrick turned his field lens toward the valley floor north of the stronghold, he glimpsed a sight carefully concealed from all Tamarian eyes other than his own.

Many uniformed humans mingled among several hundred giants. Thirteen of the big Azgar cannon had been mounted on skis and placed on a firing range. An elevated trestle, made from massive timbers, ran across an open field several hundred yards away, and upon this, a huge, wheeled carriage moved back and forth by the agency of a team of giants with a long rope and pulleys.

Garrick watched as the carriage began its trek across the trestle. Noiseless puffs of smoke erupted from the cannon barrels, followed by the muffled, explosive sound he'd heard earlier and a minor shower of snow from the tree limbs. The carriage survived intact until one of the cannon crews managed to score a direct hit, blowing the rig completely off the trestle, to the obvious delight of giants witnessing the scene.

The chilling truth of the sight brought a tremble to Garrick's young heart. This was worse than he'd originally thought. The Azgar had actually supplied the giants with cannon and ordnance, and some of their artillery specialists were teaching the humanoids how to knock a massive, moving object off of a trestle. The only possible application for this kind of training involved preparation for an attack on Tamarian locomotives carrying supplies to fight the invaders at the front . . .

Garrick did not linger to learn more. Inspired by a primeval dread that the Azgar would prevail and an overflowing rage that they dared consort with his nation's traditional enemy, the cadet turned northward and skied aggressively for many miles until nightfall and his aching shoulder forced him to find shelter again.

***

Four days after leaving Dead Hand Ridge, the civilian refugee caravan lumbered into the snow-blanketed city of Burning Tree. Clouds of steam rose from industrial complexes powered by geothermal vents, where the raw materials of Southern Tamaria were forged, cast, cut or spun into a bewildering variety of products that found their way to distant markets on the swift current of the Desolation River.

Sprawling on the stormy banks of Broken Wing Lake, Burning Tree looked beautiful from a distance. Its gas-lit streets bustled with business, even as winter settled over its dormant orchards and vineyards. Panting locomotives whistled into massive, vaulted stations with frescoed walls and gleaming metal roofs while graceful, steam-powered stern-wheelers found shelter in protected quays. Their cargoes of cloth, timber, processed ore and passengers vanished into vast networks of narrow roads lined with factories and finishing plants, hotels, sweat shops, casinos, whore-houses, beer halls and every other human venture and amusement imaginable.

Brenna shivered wearily, trying to ignore the excited chatter of young mothers who brimmed with wonder as the caravan passed many thousands of buildings, each venting steam as if on fire. In their enthusiasm, the mothers didn't notice urine-stained alleys heaped with rotting trash, the strong scent of burning opium and hashish, nor did they see the pimps, teenaged prostitutes and hungry street urchins lurking in the shadows. The Lithian woman saw what the others would not see, and it made her sad to realize that the fantasy of this free land included so many kinds of slavery.

Tegene's third wife, Penda, had often recited stories about Tamaria that Brenna recalled from her childhood. Those tales, the books she'd read and travelers with whom she'd spoken never mentioned the scenes she witnessed as she rode past reeking fountains of hot, factory effluent. Burning Tree revealed its dark secrets to her soul, melting away every illusion she'd long cherished as surely as its venting spouts of sulfurous mist turned bright, blinding snowflakes into dirty puddles of stagnant water.

She tried to pray, but the novel ugliness of the city distracted her thoughts. Brenna searched for something beautiful, only to find her eyes fixed on a retching drunkard, her ears assaulted by the shriek of spinning wheels and grinding metal, or the reek of cooking fish overcoming the sense-numbing cold.

It might have been possible for the young woman to accept the stark reality of a human city up close, but Brenna found that it somehow exposed and magnified the ache she felt for Garrick. Brenna honestly loved him, but the thought that he'd been hiding a terrible secret stabbed her heart with sorrow, just as the scenes unfolding before her unbelieving eyes destroyed a myth of perfection and replaced it with shame and regret.

As the caravan ascended into the military compound on the western fringe of the city, it left the squalor, passing through a large gate, and moved into an area of austere, plastered straw housing units, open fields and clusters of angular, concrete buildings. The military compound, though far cleaner than its surroundings, appeared depressingly symmetrical, as if its architects put on a good front to mask the lie beyond its borders.

Brenna thought about what she would say if she saw Garrick, but words failed to express the tension she experienced between devotion and disgust. Did she know the true Garrick, or did she love a lie? Had she blinded herself to his faults? Were her feelings for him merely the common, physical and fleeting varieties associated with passion and often mistaken for the transcendent love she longed to experience?

Like the transformation of the city from a distance, the Lithian woman wondered if her affiliation with Garrick would survive when investigated under the perfect standard of Allfather's judgment. Could she honestly claim that this relationship was true and pure in God's sight?

Brenna examined her own motives and found no fault, but she wondered silently what other unspoken secrets lay lurking within Garrick's gentle soul.

The Crucible of Honor

I'd learned to tell the distance from a rocket impact to my position by counting the elapsed time between the infernal scream of its launch and the low thunder that rumbled beneath my tired and swollen feet. This time I'd forgotten to count and I could feel the strange solace of warmth sweep across my face. Its sweet, deathly caress tantalized me as I longed for its final, cold comfort. Something struck me on the cheek, and thinking I'd been hit by a scrap of hot enamel, I wiped my wind-burned face with a numb finger and found a lump of burning flesh.

It belonged to someone else.

Shouts and the sound of a gunfight reached my ears from our left flank. Two more explosions followed, each one closer and more terrifying, and after these I heard the distinctive whir of a machine cannon firing.

The shadowy forms of running men appeared in the wind-driven snow, expressions of panic painted across their faces. Lines of dread blended with a myriad of cracks, broken blood vessels and flesh chapped raw by the cold. When the enemy bullets impacted, they riddled many bodies with seventy caliber rounds from behind, and those men unlucky enough to survive fell to the snow-swept soil and waited in agony for their lives to end.

Others fled blindly onward, some of them dropping rifles, munitions and backpacks in order to flee faster. The shock of seeing my own men retreating filled me with panic I'd not known since I'd first taken command in Shirak. I screamed curses with an eloquence that bordered on the poetic, and with the help of Sergeant Hanibal's threats, rallied twenty men to defend our position. With grim faces and determination, we loaded our weapons and waited for the barbarian attack.

This time, however, we never fired a single shot. The enemy infantry, rather than attacking us, wheeled eastward and slammed into a reserve unit protecting a munitions dump. Several minutes later, after an intense firefight, a spectacular eruption of fire and billowing smoke announced another barbarian success.

I should have ordered a supporting attack and pinned the enemy against our bigger guns, but truthfully, my feet had become so badly bloated I could barely walk and many of my men suffered misery exceeding my own. After eight days of heavy fighting, exhaustion, interminable cold and lingering hunger sapped our will to resist the enemy beyond honoring an immediate threat.

I'd not seen Sergeant Vitus in two days. Desertions began outnumbering battlefield losses, but my imagination strained to comprehend how anyone could survive the unholy cold or escape from the long arm of starvation. I figured that anyone who managed to avoid our patrol pickets and subsequent firing squads would quickly succumb to the ravages of winter, or become prey for roaming deathwolves.

Legate Braegan promised that blankets would arrive soon, but I didn't believe him. Every morning as the tally of exposure deaths climbed, my troops gathered to divide belongings from the dead among the living. Several days after our breakout at Kicking Horse Gap, this task evolved into a morbid ritual that fueled violent outbursts with increasing frequency.

Our desperate condition dulled all civilized polish, until the macabre inheritance of a dead man's possessions became disproportionally important in maintaining morale. I'd broken up three fights in as many days and worried that I could not long maintain the control to keep my warriors from killing each other. Our survival seemed so tenuous, we'd become more savage than our barbarian enemies.

Turning away from another skirmish lost, I stared at the object of my deepest loathing, memorizing its every nuance. From a distance of twelve hundred yards, the fortress at Dead Hand Ridge peered over its desolate peak with menacing angularity. The ugly thing loomed like a massive, pagan idol. Its defenders ceaselessly ministered in a fruitless effort to sate its unending thirst for blood.

Our first attack faltered against the devastating effect of well-coordinated defensive fire. Lord Balinor opened the strike with an artillery bombardment, using mostly heavy guns. He intended to sustain the shelling for twelve hours, but not long after our cannon opened up, a responding rain of counterbattery fire silenced every large weapon we'd brought to bear. Not only did the barbarians destroy some of our best gun tubes, we learned that intense cold and snow made moving in replacement cannon very difficult.

Then, lacking artillery support, my maniple, along with five thousand other troops, launched our second attack in neat columns. We marched at 108 paces per minute across the fire glacis, intending to form a double line once we moved into rifle range. A swarm of small arms, machine cannon and rocket fire, aimed in crossing patterns from inside the fortress, ripped into our infantry with such force, a collective, audible moan reached my ears from over three hundred yards away.

I witnessed incredible slaughter. Huge blocks of men collapsed in great waves, as if mown down by an invisible machine. Before we managed a retreat, nearly three thousand men lay dead or dying, with another thousand suffering non-critical wounds.

The remaining artillery that we'd brought forward for this attack, mostly small pieces that could be moved with relative ease, pounded the fortress through the night. At daybreak, after we'd regrouped, Lord Balinor ordered yet another attack.

Fifteen thousand fresh troops advanced under the cover of falling snow. This time my men were deployed in defensive positions rearward, and because of the reduced visibility, we could only listen to the shriek of rockets, the crack of gunfire and the screams of dying men as our comrades pressed forward.

We knew nothing of their fate until the enemy launched a thunderous heavy rocket and artillery barrage, followed by a sudden counterattack. Barbarian soldiers poured onto the battlefield, appearing as if by magic. Their units slammed into our flanks with such ferocity the cream of our infantry melted in the heat of their precision fire. On the cold, confused battlefield, enemy troops pursued our fleeing foot soldiers in what initially looked like a rout, but exhausted reserves stood firm and turned the enemy back.

In brief, brutal engagements with entrenched troops like mine, the barbarians fought with fanatical ferocity. They succeeded in clearing our forces from the hilltop, then melted back into the fog and snow, only to reappear with mortifying suddenness in vulnerable places where we least expected an attack.

My day had been full of violent, small-scale skirmishes that sapped all courage from my men and left me trembling at the sound of enemy artillery. I'd been ordered to hold my position until more troops came forward, and we'd waited for many hours because the tedious process of dragging heavy gun tubes uphill was compounded by human lethargy in the cold, and lengthened further by rough terrain.

Because my unit strength had fallen to below thirty-percent, I believed we could not hold out against another concerted attack and sent word to Legate Braegan to this effect. Roughly an hour later, he sent fresh troops to replace my soldiers, relieving me of my position and ordering my soldiers back to the Ice Dragon Inn to rest.

We straggled toward the southeast through rugged hill country, following a snowy road with the accursed wind at our backs. Hampered by frostbitten feet, exhaustion and hunger, our column stirred the sympathy of a passing sergeant responsible for driving empty ammo caissons back to the inn. We hobbled onto the two-wheeled carts with battle worn weariness, wordlessly grateful for the kindness, knowing it would never be repaid.

Brush fires, ignited by long-range incendiary warheads, smoldered smokily on the distant Saradon. Dull-orange flames fed on tons of dry grasses and fanned across the steppe like the fabled Place of Burning. It seemed strange that fire could survive in a place so cold, but evidence of snowfall vanished as we descended toward the plain, and I could see that beyond the hills, little, if any, moisture had reached the ground during my absence.

My conscious mind considered the scene and longed to luxuriate in a fraction of its warmth, while the betrayer deep within seemed to laugh at the fate of our many horses, whose forage, consumed by the insatiable fire, turned into heat and smoke before my tearless eyes.

I knew we would soon have meat in our stew again.

Long after nightfall, we pulled into the protection of the crumbling walls surrounding the Ice Dragon Inn. Deep shadows from oil torches flickered against the shattered remains of ancient masonry, forming ghostly shapes that danced a dirge for what had once stood as a proud and handsome complex. Bonfires burned in the courtyard, surrounded by grim-faced, shivering men struggling to stay alive in the cold.

Most of the millennial oaks that had grown in manicured groves remained only as hazy memories in my mind. The places where their gnarled branches once reached now lay open to the overcast sky. I rationalized that the lives of men were of greater importance than the existence of old trees, but when the traitor within my soul accused me of responsibility for destroying this lovely place, of belonging to the power-mad group of minds seeking glory and wealth for themselves and the nation-state, I thought of nothing in my own defense.

When I tried to find an officer in charge of the courtyard area, the responses ranged from vague to abusive. Worse, whenever we sought warmth near one of the bonfire pits, the threat of readied bayonets promptly discouraged us from coming closer. I grew angry and spouted many curses. My colleagues should have permitted us the basic human need for warmth, but they also feared freezing to death, and no one offered assistance.

I knew that the inn's main hall had been reserved for senior officers. I knew that they would take a dim view of a mere centurion commander with lowly infantrymen taking up residence in their comfortable sanctum, but I also knew that most of these officers were at the front, and my men had been cold too long.

A fallen buttress and disheveled slabs of slate from the collapsed roof lay in great heaps upon the gritty marble surrounding the inn's grand entrance. Broken bits of pottery from shattered planters and tiny shards of colored glass gleamed prettily in the harsh light of a magnesium torch. The debris offered a bit of shelter from the wind for the solitary pair of guards standing watch at the door.

Something of the fear that chained other junior officers to blind obedience melted from my mind, supplanted by a rare, personal rage that made me courageous at that moment. These men, my men, whose bravery on the battlefield could not be questioned, deserved a better bed than the dog's rest we were afforded out in the open cold. I moved my soldiers up the stair.

"Not so fast, sir," one of the two guards warned. "These premises are off limits."

I ordered my men to fix bayonets. "It seems to me that you have a choice," I responded, shifting my gaze between the pair of soldiers to give them ample time to think. "You either step aside and let us in, or we'll step over your bodies when we walk through the door."

The second guard reached for his whistle, but Sergeant Hanibal's bayonet warned against any further action. My men peacefully disarmed the guards, gagged and bound them, then brought them inside with us.

An eerie silence prevailed within the cavernous gloom of the inn's main hall. Great hunks of sooty, painted fresco and fallen tapestries littered the scarred, parquet floor. Aside from the hissing furnace, still belching black smoke, the huge hall remained quiet, filled with wonderful warmth and the pleasant smell of wood smoke. I settled my men around the iron stove and drifted into a deep sleep.

The awareness of dull pain and noise outside awakened me very early the next morning. My feet throbbed, and every bruise and aching muscle clamored for attention. A strange, muscular weakness and the constant gnaw of hunger testified that I'd gone far too long without enough food.

Hobbling toward a broken window, my face felt the familiar sting of extreme cold as I looked into the courtyard. Horse-drawn carts, piled with canvas-covered battlefield casualties, clogged the outer gate, and a shouting match between two junior officers began to escalate rapidly.

I understood something about orders to bring bodies back to the inn for identification, but the other junior officer, obviously a man with troops occupying the courtyard, refused to allow the carts inside. He screamed about disease killing the rest of his men and didn't seem to care who had given the accursed order.

In the midst of this quarrel, the crested helm of a legate moved forward among the ranks, silencing the argument immediately. My eyes widened and my throat went dry. It was Braegan . . .

"Get up!" I barked. "All of you! Now!" The terror of looming retribution lurched my aching body into action and utterly vanquished the bravery I'd felt the night before. "Out the back side and be quick!"

Sergeant Hanibal, ever anxious to shed blood, asked, "Want me to kill the guards?"

I glared at him, but he didn't flinch. "Don't do anything stupid! Find a closet to throw them into." It didn't occur to me at the moment that my option, while merciful, was equally asinine.

We scurried through a broken window on the south side of the building, assembling near the wall in the dark. Moving westward, we made our way toward the deserted gazebo ruins, enduring the penetrating blast of freezing wind rush into the courtyard from a great gap in the western wall.

I sent Sergeant Hanibal and six line soldiers off to find us some food. They returned about twenty minutes later with a cold stack of griddle cakes and a basket full of boiled eggs. This amount of food could have fed fifty men. Though this represented meager rations for a full century, it proved more than ample for the vestigial group of survivors under my command. When Hanibal boasted of how they'd swindled the quartermaster into believing he was feeding a full century, I actually felt proud of him for the first time.

While we were eating, word came by messenger that unit commanders had been ordered to assemble outside the gate to identify casualties. I told Sergeant Hanibal to take the troops north to Dieter, the town where we'd quartered before, and promised I would come as soon as I'd finished my grisly task at the gate.

I didn't realize I would never see them again.

Armed with a pen from my pack and a notepad, I followed other centurions and lieutenants in a silent procession through a ghastly maze of carts laden with bodies in various stages of dismemberment and decay. A certain level of detachment prevailed among those of us who'd seen a soldier's fair share of fighting. We moved stoically through the line, stifling emotions for the sake of our personal sanity. Even so, the incredible number of casualties seemed overwhelming.

I spent over five hours examining the carnage, jotting down notes on the warriors I recognized. Surviving families would at least hear the fate of their loved ones, however sorrowful the news. Bodies that had been too badly damaged for identification would not be pardoned by a priest – for the clerics needed names to perform extreme unction, and we'd suffered so many desertions we didn't know whether a missing man was dead or AWOL – nor would these dead be mourned back home as our customs dictated. Traditional rites of lamentation for those killed in action had not yet caught up with advances in warfare.

I'd written thirty-two names on my list by the time I found Lieutenant Rangell and his squadron. Many puncture wounds, lacerations, bruises and heavy blood stains on their stiffly frozen uniforms attested to a fierce, hand-to-hand fight, probably in the late stages of battle near the firebase when enemy resistance had been most intense. Overcome by the sudden enormity of my loss and barely able to control the flow of tears, I left the line and wandered, emotionally shaken, toward the inn.

As I neared the main steps, Legate Braegan staggered from within the building and nearly slipped on the gritty, marble surface. A gleam flashed in his eye, several days' growth of beard remained on his reddened, wind-burned face, and the strong, blended odor of alcohol and dried sweat permeated the cold air around him.

"Hairless! You devil!" he slurred with a wicked smile. "You been hidin' honey on the sly!" The inflection of his voice chilled me like the wind and died in a fit of smug, drunken laughter.

"Sir," I responded, trying not to take offense at his consistently careless pronunciation of my name. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh-ho-ho, you know!" he retorted, wide-eyed. The legate put his arm around my neck, half strangling me in an attempt to balance himself as he pushed me upstairs. His riding crop dangled near my face. "Don't give me that holy act, you sly dog! You had me thinkin' you were a homo, but now I know better . . ." His speech slumped into an ocean of obscenity, with wave after expletive wave foaming from the shore of his chapped, swollen lips.

Truthfully, I felt terrified. Although the man seemed to live in a perpetual state of inebria, his behavior on the extreme end of the drunkenness scale had always been unpredictably violent, and I had no idea what he intended to do with me.

All the courage that had served me in battle strained impotently against the iron chain of indoctrinated obedience, the whip of intimidation and welts of humiliation accumulated throughout every degrading experience in my career. With the meekness of a timid, guilt-ridden child I let the legate lead me, trying to ignore the growing cries of an afflicted woman assailing my ears.

Braegan thrust me into a banquet room on the extreme south end of the building. Many senior officers were present, their faces ablaze with drink, rage and degrading laughter. I saw the agonized countenance of the blonde-haired Tamarian woman whom I'd rescued many days before, her hair spread upon the tiled floor, her back arched painfully over a chair as two men stood on her bruised and battered arms.

Her feet had been lashed to the legs of the banquet table as Vice-General Diabilos committed rape.

"So hairless, you thought you'd keep this one all to yourself? Little secrets like this make for bad morale! You have to share your honey with the rest of us too!" Braegan tensed, gripping my neck with a single hand as if he were trying to crush my spine.

I said nothing. I felt sick and dirty just standing in the room, and when I tried to leave, Braegan grabbed me by the ear and screamed at me to stand at attention and wait my turn. I knew exactly what he meant, but nothing about the depravity I witnessed inside the banquet hall aroused me.

When Diabilos was done, he stepped over the stricken woman's legs and another man moved in to take his place. Braegan, however, had a different idea. "Get out of there," he slurred. "Give the little centurion a chance to have some fun!" With that, he shoved me into the center of all attention and many high-ranking eyes fell upon me.

I did nothing. I felt shocked, disbelieving. When Braegan urged me on, I didn't comply. "Are you proud of this?" I asked.

Braegan and the others roared with laughter. "What's the matter, hairless? Can't get it up?" The legate made motions with his riding crop that vaguely resembled a crane straining under a heavy load, much to the amusement of his fellow officers. "Or maybe you're a homo after all! Come on, soldier! Show the girl a good time, and that's an order!"

Six months earlier, I would have given in to the pressure and justified the deed with arrogant words. We were the great nation who had a right to the spoils, and this girl would have meant nothing to me. No moral authority could rightfully restrain our actions, and we were accountable to no one. I'd once thought that way.

But I had changed.

I don't know where the courage to utter the words came from, but as they left my lips I felt an overwhelming surge of peace flood through my soul. "No sir!" I replied. "I will not!"

Braegan laughed at first, but soon his expression changed dangerously. "I said that's an order, soldier. Drop your pants and do as you're told!"

"Your order is illegal, sir, and I will not obey it."

The room grew quiet, save for the sobbing of the stricken woman. Braegan approached me with narrowed eyes and a menacing tone of voice. "An order is an order, centurion commander. There is no legality involved. You either obey it, or face the consequences."

This time, I returned the glare, and barely controlling my own anger, replied, "I will do no such thing, sir!"

Naked fury brimmed in the legate's eyes. With the speed of a striking viper, he lashed out at my face, striking me hard on the cheek with his riding crop. Although I'd made a reflexive attempt to ward off the blow with my hands, I didn't move in time and felt hot pain hammer my left cheek and sting in my eye. Adrenaline poured through my body, but I controlled the urge to fight back and wordlessly stood tall.

Just as Braegan was about to hit me again, Vice-General Diabilos restrained him with an upheld hand. "Don't make a fool of yourself, Braegan," he spat. "Get this man out of here."

The vice-general called for the two guards who'd been stationed beyond the doorway. They took my rifle from its harness on my back, my saber and bayonet, then bound my wrists. Acting on the orders of Diabilos, they also cut the woman free.

Our eyes never met, but she shouted, "The spirits will bless you!" in perfect vulgate as I was led beyond the door.

Braegan, contemptuously retorted, "May you burn forever, hairless!"

His words echoed in my mind as I walked down the dark hallway. I knew I'd just condemned myself to death, and that I would not have long to consider the consequences of my deed. Braegan was wrong – I wasn't like him and he couldn't mold me into his own image. He would never have the honor of walking into the crucible I had just chosen to enter.

The Weak Link

Traditional hospitality in Kameron, even among the peasant farmers of the far northeast, called for celebration whenever a dignitary or wealthy merchant arrived in town. The timing of such visits in rural areas most often coincided with harvest season, when food stocks reached their peak, so that the rich could exploit the limited resources of the poor without having to provide rations for their servants out of their personal wealth.

Lynden Velez received a telegram from Fair Haven Fortress, informing him that a dozen heavily laden barges had departed that town, intending to dock in Helena the next morning. Although technically a river port, the tiny village of Helena, huddled on the rocky, northern bank of the rain-swollen Virgin River, never received more than a single barge in a month. Helena lay at the navigable end of the river, and no market existed eastward of the freehold over which Lord Velez presided.

Most of the river traffic in Northern Kameron ignored the Tualitin system and dutifully proceeded up and down the massive Angry Bear River, splitting east toward Burning Tree at the nexus of the Desolation, or continuing northward to the railhead at Fallen Moon Bay, beneath the famed citadel of Marvic. Tamaria, small but mighty as an industrial nation, Vathera to the far north and the Peran Confederation on Tamaria's northeastern border, made up a vast trading block over which Kameron, by virtue of her privileged geography, served as bread basket, trading partner and gateway to the western sea.

The timing of this mercantile traffic aroused Lynden's suspicion. He quietly put his warriors on alert and set out to visit to Alonso Meta, Helena's elected mayor, for advice on how to best respond to the merchant's unwelcome arrival and avoid offending local sensibilities.

Wisps of thick fog swirled up from the river, flooding the gently undulating landscape with a grey veil that concealed all background references and diffused the mid-morning light. As Lynden walked along, retreating mist revealed tangled, overgrown mustard that threatened to overwhelm neglected rows of naked vines linked by long strands of rusting wire. The cool, musty aroma of leaf mold and damp soil smelled of slow decay, augmented by the ruin of abandoned buildings leaning toward collapse upon crumbling stone foundations that had not seen repair in many decades.

Prosperity, once the hope of Helena and its surrounding vineyards, eluded the little town like a shadow on a cloudy day. Given a fair chance, the region might have known some vitality, but its previous landowners had been quick to move profits elsewhere, and the majority of peasants who worked in the vineyards never had a chance to even complete their tiny, stone and mortar homes.

Many local residents lived in dilapidated bungalows with shabby metal roofs streaked orange-brown with rust. Those who'd been able to afford glass for their windows could not prevent the vandalism wrought by bandits and jobless ruffians who considered the shattering of window panes a particularly sporting distraction.

Most young people did not stay in this place, and for that reason, the dwindling population of Helena and its surrounding area consisted mainly of grandparents who'd seen their children move far away, widows, and older bachelors whose lack of personal hygiene was at least partially responsible for their solitary lifestyle.

Lord Velez worked hard to win the confidence of his new constituency, and began to witness a restoration of hope among them. Many, whose skepticism shone brazenly on their faces when he first arrived, now regarded the warlord as an honest man.

These conservative, tradition-bound people now accepted the Velez family whole-heartedly – even though their language and customs were foreign to them – and the change in their regard for the Lithians transformed the town itself. People greeted Lynden Velez with genuine admiration, and in return, he remembered their names and spoke kindly to them while he walked the muddy streets.

Alonso Meta lived in a modest, but well-maintained home along a sheltered lane at the northern edge of town. Flanked by a boarded-up school on one side and a reputable winery on the other, the mayor's house seemed ideally suited to represent the solid respectability that should have been the hallmark of Helena's citizenry.

Lynden spoke briefly with Ricardo, the mayor's polio-stricken son, whose condition confined him to a wheelchair usually occupying a sheltered place on the front porch. Ricardo retained full control over his upper-body, but pain prevented him from spending much time at his work.

At age forty-two, the younger Meta earned his living carving wooden trinkets and toys from trees native to this region. He had an artistic gift that Lynden hoped would blossom into a more prosperous business once the little community achieved its goal of economic growth.

"My father is working on the accounts," Ricardo stated. "I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you. The front door is open."

Lord Velez thanked the woodcarver, stomped the mud off his boots and entered the Meta house. The peculiar odor of burning kerosene mingled with the lingering scents of unwashed linen and a combination of wood smoke and dust that, while not altogether unpleasant, testified that the mayor and his son did not spend much time cleaning. Alonso Meta had lost his wife to tuberculosis three years earlier, and a general clutter in the living room suggested that the rest of the house probably looked equally untidy.

Alonso, a friendly man whose white-bearded face wore the hardships he'd endured with serenity and grace, greeted Lynden warmly as the warlord removed his coat in the living room. "Please, sit down," the mayor invited. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

The local field blend possessed a pleasant flavor, just sweet enough, Lynden thought, and would likely fetch a fair price in the large cities down river. After the usual exchange of pleasantries, Lord Velez broached the subject of his current concern. "What do you know of the Maridom Trading Company?" he asked, referring to the business that owned the approaching boats.

The mayor cut a small slice of white cheese, chewed it thoughtfully, sipped his wine, then set the glass down on a serving table layered in months of dust. "Maridom Trading is a diversified textile wholesale company," he began. "Last year, they brought us a shipment of tapestries and rugs. These were well made and beautiful, but their prices were beyond our means. They know we are not wealthy, but the merchant master is a friend of our former landlord, Lord Navarro, and most of us felt pressure to spend money we really didn't have. They shouldn't have expected much from us, but they left expressing disgust and called curses upon our ancestors.

"We suffered some vandalism, and two or three young ladies were socially compromised during their visit. The merchant master offered us nothing by way of compensation for the actions of his crew, either. Like many of our problems, we were victims of poverty, and they haven't come back."

"I see," Lord Velez replied. "You say they're a textile company. Have they ever brought anything other than expensive floor coverings?"

Alonso Meta shook his head, finished his wine and poured another glass, offering his guest a refill, which Lynden politely refused. "Yes," he replied. "Navarro typically bought our work clothes from them and deducted the cost from our profit shares. Of course, he added his own mark-up . . . "The mayor smiled, shrugged and tilted his head to the side. The transaction he'd just described was one of many ways that Kamerese landlords perpetuated debt among the peasants.

That comment inspired Lynden's indignation, but he didn't elaborate. "How many boats do they usually send?"

The mayor grunted, his smile transforming into a frown. "Only one and it came in the spring. They intended to buy wine for the return trip, but since their hold remained full, they departed with only a cask or two. It's unfortunate. Our market here is small, but without the ability to sell our goods downstream, we will never grow."

Lord Velez sipped his wine, savoring the delicate flavors on the back of his tongue. He had an idea for taking care of the marketing problems and made a mental note to invite a longtime friend as a guest for dinner. "Considering their last experience here, do you find anything unusual about their return? Do other Kamerese merchants behave this way?"

The question required more thought than the Lithian warlord expected in response, but it confirmed his own suspicion. "Two things trouble me about the news," Alonso began. "The first is that they're coming back at a time of year when our winter food supply must be preserved. They know this, and custom dictates that we entertain them.

"None of us would object to a reasonable visit, but I hear they're bringing a dozen barges, which means we will be feeding well over a hundred men for as long as they stay. This I find much too insolent to be an oversight.

"Now, all the wealth in town would not empty a single boat. So why are they bringing so many? And with their unsupervised crew members wandering through town with nothing to do, there's bound to be trouble. You, my friend, had better hide those pretty girls of yours, or at least, put them in long dresses and give them a sober escort with loaded rifles the whole time those hooligans are here."

Lynden Velez scowled at the thought of his daughters being mistreated, but he put the thought out of his mind. "Is there a polite way for us to turn the merchant away?" he asked, hopefully.

"No, I'm afraid," Alonso replied. "We survive on the strength of our social reputation, and if we don't entertain the salesmen, word will get around and soon no one will call at the dock."

Lord Velez didn't like to hear this, but he'd learned what he'd needed to know, and the rest of the conversation drifted slowly into topics of a more benign nature.

***

Terrifying shell impacts rumbled through the dark halls of the fortress at Dead Hand Ridge. Faced with the genuine danger of a methane leak and possible explosion, base personnel had dutifully closed every gas valve, depriving their countrymen of whatever aid and comfort the light could afford them. Swirling concrete dust, barely visible in the gloom, created a suffocating atmosphere indoors that lined every mouth, clung to sweaty flesh and irritated the lungs of each warrior before it settled out into a gritty film over the once-polished floor tiles.

The mortars, with their high angles of attack, were the worst, Woodwind thought. Since the beginning of the artillery barrage, Woodwind noticed the fortress disintegrating from the top down. Cannon shells, initially ineffective because the base walls deflected them, now often brought down huge chunks of concrete from the upper levels weakened by previous mortar impacts.

Miraculously recovered from his injuries, the southerner chose to stand with the Tamarians in defending the base rather than trying to escape through enemy lines at night. Ordinarily, the addition of a single man might not have made much difference, but Woodwind _believed_ in Allfather, whose power and active influence the Tamarians would neither recognize nor appreciate.

For the first few days, Woodwind calculated ballistic attack solutions against known Azgar artillery positions for the rocket crews. Counter battery fire, coordinated with other Tamarian bases, initially stunned the enemy and prevented large-scale bombardment of the fortress at Dead Hand Ridge. This allowed its defenders to repel several direct assaults.

But the Azgar responded by bringing more guns forward. Their commanders, evaluating Tamarian fire tactics, spread the cannon and mortar batteries apart so that a single rocket warhead could not destroy more than one gun crew. They also began moving their guns to different positions after firing several rounds. In this way, their weapons became much more difficult to destroy. Within a few days, the Tamarian supply of heavy rockets dwindled, then depleted. Equipped with relatively small 3 inch howitzers, the fortress at Dead Hand Ridge lost the only effective response to long-range enemy artillery they could muster.

As unchallenged mortar shells screeched overhead, gradually pounding the proud concrete fortress into rubble, Woodwind feared for his life and prayed almost continually. Many combined stresses, ranging from his inability to directly understand his Tamarian hosts to lack of sleep and the horrifying reality that unless they were relieved and re-supplied soon, the base would certainly fall, made his prayers uncharacteristically desperate, and as intimate as Brenna's had ever been.

From a firing port one floor above ground level, Woodwind's view of the unfolding battle stretched eastward toward the horizon. Aided by a borrowed field lens, the southerner observed long lines of enemy infantry marching purposely toward the front. Thousands of horses, supply carts, caissons and cannon tubes converged, delivering the crushing might of the invader's army into a massive, overwhelming locus against this tiny, crumbling firebase. It seemed only a matter of time before its intrepid defenders lost their struggle to stop the enemy.

Although he could not comprehend their speech, Woodwind well understood the universal language of fear. He sensed in their nervous tension, their harsh voices and petty conflicts a genuine anxiety that all men experience whenever they anticipate an imminent, violent death. Memories of friends and acquaintances, resurrected in facial expressions that had also infected the Lithian defenders of Shirak, underscored the gravity of the circumstance every Tamarian soldier in Woodwind's vicinity faced. Surrounded – with no hope of escape – each man contemplated death in his individual manner, and though their reactions to it ranged from serenity to near-insanity and terror, each response reflected an intelligent effort to come to terms with the grim consequence of combat.

Everyone also felt exhausted. The constant rain of explosions jarred every nerve and prevented rest. This aggravated the desperation displayed by men too long confined until tempers erupted under the strain. Even experienced officers vented their frustration with vitriolic outbursts directed even toward men who'd committed relatively minor offenses.

Covered under the relentless crush of artillery fire, the next enemy charge commenced. Woodwind watched the adversary line up beyond the glacis, just out of rifle range, fix bayonets and spread out until each man stood about six feet away from his neighbor. The southerner heard his Tamarian allies prepare to repel the attack, opening ammunition crates and chambering rounds with their weapons aimed at discreet points upon the killing ground. The fortress had been designed so that all a defender had to do was fire his gun directly ahead at anything entering his limited field of vision. It had worked well in the past.

This time, however, the Azgaril did not merely mass their troops and send them headlong to their slaughter. In between the advancing ranks of infantry charged long streams of fleet-footed cavalry, dashing forward to blunt the Tamarian defense.

Woodwind set the field lens down, realizing after a few moments of watching that the daring cavalry attack would reach the fortress walls. Many thousands of hooves thundered across the glacis as the final artillery shells slammed into the concrete overhead. Then, as if announcing the demise of all resistance, a large section of the third floor, along with the exterior of the second, gave way and slid into the defensive trench that circled the stronghold, killing every soldier within ten feet on the third level and burying many more below.

Dust swirled in the incessant wind. The sudden appearance of daylight and exposure to extreme cold announced, as the rubble settled, that the troops in Woodwind's area would face the enemy unprotected. Worse yet, the debris from the stricken wall created a crude sort of ramp leading up to the second floor.

No matter how desperate their defense, the Tamarian warriors could not fire fast enough to stop the cavalry charge. Thousands upon thousands of horses flooded across the battlefield, and where many hundreds of their stricken bodies fell victim to rifle and machine cannon fire, others followed and pressed onward in an unstoppable, equine tide.

The officer who'd been standing next to Woodwind snapped backward in an explosion of blood. He'd been struck in the face by a bullet and died instantly. With his demise, genuine panic rippled through the young soldiers nearby. Woodwind witnessed an instant, deadly shift in morale, and knowing the danger this wrought, muttered the most sincere prayer of his life. "God help us!" he breathed. "We can't stop them!"

***

When Lynden returned to his villa, a subtle downcast to his gaze caught his wife's attention immediately. She noticed the evasive way that he addressed and dismissed one of their servants. He seemed distracted and unable to focus until his worried eyes found her watching from the balcony. She smiled, his expression softened, and as she strode gracefully toward the stairway, the Lithian woman reached for her husband's hand.

Lynden ascended the stairway and admired her as she approached, captivated as ever by a loveliness that transcended the physical perfection of her beauty. They shared a spiritual bond, a likeness of mind whose strength had grown in their years together. But also, undiminished by the passage of time, a powerful sensuality prevailed between them that emerged wordlessly in a glance, a slight change in posture, a glisten in their eyes and a flush across their faces.

Their daughter Acacia, whom they called Cassie, had been transposing a favorite piano composition on her lute. She stopped playing when her father entered, noticed the way he looked at her mother, and sensed that the two of them needed to be alone. Cassie put her instrument down and closed the double doors leading to her parents' wing of the house, saying "I love you" to them as the latch caught. Alexina pressed her warm lips against her husband's mouth, exchanging delicate, moist caresses with his tongue. Lynden's strong left hand pulled her body close while his right hand brushed gently through her long, black hair. She pulled away slowly, put her hands on his shoulders and whispered, "Talk to me first, my love." He nodded in assent and together, the long-married lovers entered their bedroom and shut the door.

Safely away from any listening ears, they lounged on their bed and discussed the approaching merchant convoy. Lynden expressed his worries candidly while his wife listened, and she, rubbing his shoulders while they spoke, assured him that he had good reason to be concerned.

Their conversation gradually drifted into silence, words replaced by the tender, imploring insistence of fingers caressing flesh. A gentle escalation of tension, a comforting exchange of pleasant, familiar, physical sensations and the resulting release of energies merged husband and wife into a singular, sensual experience uniquely and exclusively their own.

After regaining their breath, they remained together in a languid embrace, smiling at one another as they always did, exchanging whispered comments in praise of each other, occasionally venturing a caress that suggested they should continue. In this case, however, a knock from the door altered the mood. Alexina picked up her gown and slipped away while her husband dressed.

Lithian culture jealously respected the privacy of married couples, and it was considered discourteous to disturb the intimacy of lovers behind closed doors. A knock under these circumstances implied a serious problem in need of immediate attention.

Cynthia Velez apologized for the interruption. The maiden, who stood nearly as tall as her father, had inherited more human traits from him than her sisters. She'd developed an hourglass figure that purely Lithian women did not attain, and the physical differences that contrasted her from her prettier, more delicate sisters made the young woman unpopular with Lithian men, very sensitive and extremely shy.

Xina evaluated her daughter's facial expression, and opened her arms for a loving embrace. "Thea! What's wrong, honey?" she inquired. "Are you hurt?"

Cynthia shook her head while holding onto her mother for comfort, then stepped back as Lynden approached and threw her arms around him as well. "I was taking a nap and had a horrible dream!"

The look exchanged between husband and wife expressed genuine concern. Cynthia Velez had a long history of dreaming about events that invariably came to pass, and she seemed to know the difference between an ordinary sleep terror and a premonition, even though she couldn't explain how this was so. In every instance where she recalled frightening details, her parents had learned to take warning.

"Come and sit down," Alexina offered. "Tell us all about it."

Lynden pulled up a chair for his daughter, then called for one of the servants and requested a pot of tea. Tirra, an older woman who'd served as Brenna's maid, rushed off to do the warlord's bidding.

Thea sat with her hands folded on the translucent, white fabric of her skirt. "I don't remember how it started," she began. Her eyes, lacking much of the Lithian sparkle in low light, grew wide as she spoke. "But I saw the same army that drove us from home fighting in a snowy place. Allfather was punishing them for their cruelty toward us, and they were dying in the cold.

"Then I saw Brenna, traveling with strangers on a wagon. Her husband wasn't there. Enemy horsemen came after her." At the mention of her sister's name, Cynthia's eyes brimmed wetly and her voice grew quiet and raspy. "It was bright and blinding. They were trying to kill her. She fought them all by herself. No one came to help . . ."

Cynthia paused, struggling to control the emotion sweeping over her voice. Encouraged by her mother, Thea regained her composure and continued. "Woodwind came to my mind after this. He was hiding in a fortress. He and the men with him were completely surrounded, and he was praying for his life. They were fighting a long battle in the bitter cold, and the enemy kept attacking over and over again. I don't know why. His angel guardian told me to break the chain, but I didn't understand what that meant.

"The last part of the dream made no sense at all. I saw twelve boats coming up the river. They stopped in town and men with guns got out and forced everyone to carry huge boxes over the mountains." Cynthia stopped suddenly and turned toward her father. "Daddy, you have to stop them. If you don't, the enemy will kill both Blynn and Woodwind." Thea used the blended form of her sister's first and middle names, a common practice in the Velez family used as a term of endearment.

Lord Velez bowed his head and stared at his hands for a moment. When he looked up again, his daughter's pretty face appeared expressionless, but Alexina's eyes, illuminated by worry, pleaded for him to affirm their daughter's testimony.

"Allfather sent you this dream?" he inquired.

Cynthia nodded slowly. "I have no doubt. I prayed for them. You should too!"

"Of course," the warlord replied, solemnly. "We will do whatever Allfather wills." They held hands and prayed together. Afterward, he kissed Thea on the forehead, his wife on the lips and promised to return after retrieving a map from the library.

Cartography had been practiced in Kameron for nearly fifteen hundred years. Most of the original land surveys west of the Angelgate Mountains, while very old, were extremely accurate, and recent updates often consisted merely of surveyed improvements like irrigation channels and expanded town boundaries. Newer charts took their measurements directly from these original maps, unless natural quakes, volcanic eruption or the agency of man had altered them.

Like many other aspects of his dilapidated villa, the library, once a beautiful room, now suffered from many broken windows and a leaky roof. Much of the literary treasure once preserved here had fallen into sorrowful disintegration. Bird nests lined some of the higher book cases, whose shelves in most places had been whitewashed by their droppings. Mice and rats destroyed many leather bindings among a very old book collection written in three human languages, one of which was no longer spoken. So many small creatures lived in the library that Tika, Cassie's feline, had grown fat on the dining fare of this room alone.

Its stench normally overwhelmed the senses on a warm day, but it could be tolerated in cool weather by anyone brave enough to enter and survive by breathing through the mouth. Tika earned a gentle scratching behind her ears by greeting the father of her mistress as he opened the map case. After several minutes of searching, the warlord found the original copy of a local land survey, frayed and crumbling at the edges, but still legible.

Returning to his bed chamber, Lynden opened a curtain to let more light into the room, then spread the delicate vellum on the floor for his wife and daughter to examine while they sipped their tea. The Angelgate Mountains formed a high wall on the eastern boundary of his land, descending into the steep-sided foothills that followed the curve of the Virgin River and eventually smoothed out as the tributary emptied into the Tualitin, the river that comprised his northern boundary.

"I've been curious about the coming merchant all day," Lynden admitted. "The timing of his arrival and the size of his flotilla give me the impression that he may be trying to supply an army." Lynden smiled, his mind racing ahead as he pieced together a scenario that made sense of his daughter's dream. "From Helena, you can see that there's really nowhere for them to go, other than through Maidenhair Pass.

"Tamaria, the only sizable market in this region, lies above the Tualitin River. If they wanted to sell to the markets further east, they'd have to unload their cargo at Suicide Cataract, right on the border. You can see from the contours on this map that the Tualitin flows through a steep canyon for many miles as it falls from the Saradon. There are no roads there, only a military railway, so that's an impractical route."

"But if they're really heading for Tamaria, they should be traveling up this river," Alexina offered, pointing to the Desolation. "They're backtracking by coming here first, so Tamaria probably isn't their destination at all."

"Well, it might be," Lynden cautioned. "If they're trying to get something over to the Saradon – on the other side of the Angelgate Mountains – and they don't want the Tamarians to know about it, shipping from here makes perfect sense."

Cynthia nodded, her mind grasping her father's analysis. "Maybe their cargo is heading for the Azgaril army that fought against us." She measured the distance on the map and divided figures in her head. "They could easily be near Tamaria by now. The Saradon gets cold in the winter. Since we're closer to the sea, the seasons change there before our winter comes. This rain we're having here is likely turning to snow on the other side of the mountains."

Lord Velez agreed. "Our eastern boundary runs along the Angelgate ridge line. Maidenhair Gap is the only mountain pass within fifty miles that is low enough in elevation not to get snowed in during the winter. The shortest practical distance between the navigable part of the Virgin River and the Saradon follows Maidenhair Canyon, where we built the debris dams this summer. The only port anywhere near that canyon is Helena, so I think it's more than coincidental that these Maridom Trading barges are heading here. They're not coming to sell textiles to the locals; they're coming here to avoid the Tamarians."

"So what are they transporting?" Xina asked.

"The telegram didn't give me details of their manifest. It could be anything from guns and ammunition to some other kind of contraband. Mayor Meta says this company sells imported textiles."

"Then it's warm clothing and blankets," Cynthia concluded. "In my dream, I saw the Azgar freezing to death in the snow. I'll bet that company intends to sell them winter clothing. They've brought twelve barges here because they want to supply an entire army." The young woman's countenance darkened as she lowered her voice to utter a grim conclusion. "We can't let them get away with this," she said.

The task sounded much easier than Lord Velez knew it would be to carry out. "I agree, but I have only two thousand warriors whom I can't afford to pay, and Mayor Meta says we must entertain merchant convoy. What can we do?"

Alexina smiled mischievously. "That's simple, my love." She leaned over to kiss her husband's lips and afterward whispered, "We'll sink their boats . . ."

***

As a freezing wind swept away the stinging cloud of concrete dust, three lines of Azgar cavalry formed just beyond the defensive ditch. Their horses remained several yards apart so that the Tamarians could not effectively mass fire against them. After the first line fired, the second line moved up to discharge weapons while the first retreated to reload. By the time the third line engaged, the soldiers of the first line were ready to shoot again, creating steady pressure on the fortress defenders.

Woodwind grudgingly admired both the intelligence of his enemy, and the courage they demonstrated by exposing themselves to short-range defensive fire. Despite very heavy losses, the Azgaril kept coming. Human nature demanded dealing with the immediate threat, in this case, the steady shooting of the cavalry. Doing this, however, enabled the infantry to advance across the glacis with minimal losses.

The foot soldiers soon arrived in sufficient force to attack every breach in the walls. Crackling small arms fire, bullet impacts, whirring machine cannon and the screams of dying beasts and men merged with the merciless laughter of winter wind as the Azgaril army flexed its formidable muscle.

Strangely, inexplicably, Woodwind suddenly became more aware of the sounds around him. In this heightened sensory state, he felt a tremble race through his spine and realized that he could now understand every terrified word uttered by the Tamarian soldiers surrounding him. The sounds and structure of their language now carried meaning to his ears.

Wasting no time in thinking about the enigma of this mysterious ability, Woodwind circulated among the young warriors, laying his hand on their shoulders to give them courage. "Be strong. Allfather will fight with us, and if we have faith, we will defeat them."

Despite their distress, the young Tamarians sensed something powerful within the soul of the mercenary southerner. Woodwind's brave words and calm demeanor replaced terror with just enough confidence to enable frightened men to stand and fight. This was all Woodwind could really ask them to do, but he believed that it would be enough.

Following Woodwind's orders, the Tamarians formed two groups of six soldiers each on either side of the twenty-foot wide breach. A pair of volunteers climbed up to handle a machine cannon on the third floor. Woodwind warned them to pick their targets carefully and fire only at close range, then took the short sword from a fallen officer and moved into a position in the exact center of the breach.

In a spot where the remaining wall extended roughly three feet above the second floor, Woodwind crouched for protection against a heavy volley of enemy fire that pelted the wall behind him. Glancing to either side, he realized that the mortal fear his hosts had just overcome began to return when a swarm of black-uniformed infantry began climbing up the rubble heap toward them.

Tamarian resistance stiffened. A steady stream of rifle fire ripped through wave after wave of attacking troopers until their bloodstained bodies lay in tangled heaps on the killing field. Still, the invaders pressed relentlessly forward. The first group to survive the climb to the second level arrived, out-of-breath, to stand and face an expert swordsman.

Woodwind arose, entering a kind of altered state in which no thought prevailed against the holy warrior within. He personified God's vengeance, executing a swift outward block that deflected a bayonet aimed at his heart. Riding the carbine barrel upward on the hand guard, Woodwind pushed the gun aside, pressed down and lunged into the chest of its owner.

Kicking the impaled victim of his attack away, the southerner lashed to his right, cut the throat of another enemy warrior, then followed this lethal move with a left-side circle block that caught the gun barrel of a third soldier and rode it up toward the sky. A reptile-quick retraction and thrust found its lethal mark and departed before the dying adversary tumbled backward. Woodwind moved to his next kill without another thought.

Switching the position of his right hand to the underside of the hand grip, so that his thumb faced his chest, Woodwind followed with the other hand and drew the blade toward his left in a strong, downward arc. This move became an outward block that evolved quickly into an attack as his weapon, which had been pointing toward the ground, shifted behind Woodwind's back, slipped above a parried rifle, slashing swiftly to the right with such force, the sword cut as cleanly through his enemy's neck as an executioner's guillotine.

Effortlessly, Woodwind jabbed the blade leftward with a mighty grunt, allowing his right hand to drop free. The move brought his sword tip into the left shoulder of his next victim, whose attack contorted into a reflexive twist. At the same instant, the southern warrior grasped his weapon with the right hand again, stepped left, then leaped forward as he plunged the Tamarian sword hilt deep into his enemy's abdomen.

With merciless brutality, Woodwind dispatched any enemy soldier who dared stand against him. Aggressive, swift and utterly ruthless, the southerner inspired terror on the part of his attackers and courage among those who stood with him. The tenacity of this defense did not diminish as the afternoon wore on, and as the battle denigrated into general hand-to-hand melee around the breach, exhausted Tamarians, inspired by Woodwind's example, somehow found the strength to keep fighting.

The Azgaril infantry, having come so close to overwhelming the defenders, swarmed ahead, absorbing all the point-blank firepower the Tamarians could wield against them. Because of the steep angle and continued pressure from protected firing ports, they could not simply level their carbines at Woodwind and his allies and shoot. After discharging their weapons at the defenders, the black-uniformed soldiers had neither the room nor the time to reload, so they engaged with bayonets or sabers, if they had them, counting on the press of sheer numbers to assure their success.

Gradually, an increase in the volume of rifle and machine cannon fire being delivered from the base began blunting the enemy assault. Azgar troops waiting beyond the defensive ditch for their turn to move ahead fell like autumn leaves shaken in a great wind, with progressively fewer of them remaining alive to press the attack.

Woodwind broke the tip of his Tamarian sword executing an overhead block against an Azgar rifle. Lunging forward, he thrust the now blunt end of his blade through the lower abdomen of his opponent and withdrew with a twisting motion that brought the weapon across his body in preparation for yet another move.

This time, however, not one enemy soldier rose up to meet him. Panting in exhaustion, spattered in blood and drenched with sweat, Woodwind retreated behind the shattered wall and watched the surviving enemy infantry withdraw in disarray, leaving the glacis stained with many thousands of casualties. No army could sustain losses of this magnitude for long, and in celebration, a great shout went up among the native defenders.

Woodwind raised his right hand into a triumphant fist, but then bowed his head and quietly, in the alliterative, Lithian tongue, thanked Allfather for deliverance and strength in battle.

After this, he examined the dead enemy soldiers and noticed that most of their fingers shared a sickening, mottled blackness. Woodwind saw faces and lips chapped raw, with scabs overlaying the windburned flesh. Nearly every corpse lay swaddled in two or three layers of summer clothing, but even this could not protect them from the fury of winter in the northern hill country, or worse, out on the open Saradon.

The madness that drove the Azgar high command to continue senseless frontal attacks against Dead Hand Ridge, rather than laying siege and waiting until spring, became clear to Woodwind. The enemy could not bypass the fortress without exposing their staging areas to rocket fire, but neither could they remain in the field, enduring harsh wind and freezing temperatures. Woodwind realized that the enemy wouldn't stop until they'd prevailed.

How then, had the Tamarians managed to overcome what looked like certain defeat? Glancing around, Woodwind noticed many more friendly warriors than he remembered being present when the battle began. These men wore clean uniforms. Woodwind saw new ammunition boxes stacked along the back side of the hallway as work crews with shovels and pick axes began moving forward to clean up the mess.

Somehow, the local defenders had been reinforced. Woodwind's ignorance of Tamarian logistical resupply capabilities through their underground rail network made him believe that a friendly unit had successfully broken through enemy lines. He could not begin to appreciate the frustration of Azgaril commanders, who knew better.

Exhausted from hours of fighting, Woodwind watched a Tamarian officer approach. The man saluted and began to speak, but to Woodwind, the words once again consisted of a meaningless jumble of guttural, consonant sounds, and he understood nothing.

***

Alexina meditated alone in a private spot overlooking her estate. Far below, as the Virgin River raced northward toward the Tamarian border she thought about rocks that lay beneath its current. Cold rain, accelerated by an occasional gust of wind, matted her thick black and white hair, gradually darkening the costly indigo gown that graced her perfect shoulders.

Daytime faded into evening. The Lithian woman turned away from her place of contemplation and moved along a muddy trail toward a natural amphitheater several hundred yards northeast of her crumbling villa. An officer's meeting had been scheduled to commence as soon as light faded from the sky, and though she normally didn't concern herself with the actual conduct of her husband's small army, Alexina knew that Lynden would appreciate her presence, even if she merely stood at the back and reserved her comments until they were alone, in the privacy of their bedroom.

Voices, laughter and the sloshing sound of wet feet tramping through puddles aspired above the patter of rain on foliage. Alexina waited along the edge of an old-growth redwood grove until warriors of her husband's army finished filing to their seats. Though the officers would politely stop and allow her forward in deference to her position, Xina longed to savor her moments of solitude. This preference often caused people who didn't know Alexina to accuse her of snobbery, but reticence remained an integral part of her character, and she rarely sought the company of anyone beyond the circle of her immediate family. In addition, Xina's high intelligence intimidated less capable minds, and because she'd descended from a very wealthy family, it had been hard for her to find true friends.

Peering through a thick, thorny bramble, the Lithian mother suppressed laughter as she watched her daughters, dressed in the ugliest, least form-fitting attire available in Helena, stomping along the trail under the alert watch of Kimoni, Xola and Jawara – three of Tegene's younger adult sons – who often served as their armed escorts.

Camille, the extraverted soul among her children, lamented loudly. "I hate wearing this thing! I feel like an absolute cow!"

Thea held her younger sister's hand as they walked. "Then you'd better tell Umma to change tonight's dinner menu," she replied, smiling. "The local shrubbery is a bit tough, but if you must chew your cud, we expect you to be ladylike and not drool down your chin!"

Camille didn't find that remark very funny, but didn't retaliate beyond giving her sister a playful smack in the shoulder. Separated in age by at least five years, Alexina's daughters enjoyed a friendly camaraderie that lacked the rivalries characteristic of siblings closer in age.

Cassie followed several yards behind with her boyfriend, a young attorney named Jared who'd been lingering in Cassie's presence for close to three years. As was her custom, the maiden listened to her sisters banter back and forth without responding.

Alexina watched them pass. She really liked Jared. He came from a good family, had already completed his formal education and always treated her daughter with respect. Cassie and Jared would wait patiently for Brenna to find her partner before becoming more serious, but if Cynthia's clairvoyance could be trusted, the Velez family would be planning two weddings in the near future.

Despite feeling proud of her daughters' transitions into womanhood, Lady Velez occasionally entertained half-hearted wishes that they'd forever remain carefree children. Wistfully Alexina sighed, resigned to the reality of change

As soon as the gentle patter of raindrops prevailed on the forest floor and the rush of wind returned like a lover's whispered words through the towering treetops, Lady Alexina scurried onto the trail and soundlessly took a seat on the soft, damp sphagnum moss three rows behind Sherman Mason, the stocky engineer. An exchange of eye contact and the briefest hint of a smile across her husband's handsome face assured Xina that he realized she was present. Tegene, though he sat in the place of honor at Lynden's side, would listen to the proceedings without comment. Like Alexina, the brawny Abelscinnian gentleman preferred to voice his views in private.

Lord Velez spoke candidly to his officers, explaining the social problems expected to arise when the merchant convoy arrived the following day. When he outlined his daughter's Azgar resupply theory, murmurs swept through the assembled men. Every person present suffered personal loss at the enemy's hands, their emotional wounds remained raw, and none wished to see the Azgaril succeed.

Loran, who commanded a scout unit, arose and waited to be recognized. "We have no quarrel with the people of Kameron," he began. "But any complicity shown toward the Azgar by local residents will likely result in ongoing extortion. If you turn the convoy back by force of arms, though you risk the wrath of local people in the short term, you may prevent a larger problem later."

Lynden acknowledged the point. "I agree, but we need to be careful. We live among people who don't understand us, and though we've worked hard to demonstrate our trustworthiness, anything we do that creates hardship for them endangers us. You know that we remain in a precarious position. We can't survive here without their help, so their trust is a gift we must guard. For that reason, I prefer that we act with quick wit rather than brute force."

The discussion following these remarks gave the officers an opportunity to disagree and express their support for decisive military action, or to offer more moderate alternatives. This manner of leadership suited Lithian culture, with its high regard for individualism and free expression. Although the range of opinions on this issue varied as to the degree of coercion necessary to turn back the incoming shipment, the warriors who rose to speak made an effort to respect the view of dissenting colleagues without passing judgment on the relative merit of any proposed course of action. They remained unanimous, however, in stating their willingness to defend the Velez family to the death.

Alexina waited until every officer who chose to speak had the opportunity to do so, even though she had come to the meeting fully prepared to explain her own idea. When she arose, the impact of her beauty in the soft, blue light visible to every Lithian eye, coupled with genuine surprise on the part of the men who had not seen her arrival served to highlight the impact of her words.

"Gentle warriors, we face serious danger, and your willingness to fight for our cause transcends courage. But I don't wish that any of you should perish. If we can do what must be done with minimal bloodshed, surely Allfather will bless all that we do."

This preamble riveted the attention of every officer present. Lord Velez listened to his wife explain the details of her plan and marveled that he'd been blessed by such a lovely and intelligent partner. Her proposal solved many problems, and even before she'd finished outlining her idea, his mind had already confirmed its wisdom in every detail.

"In this way, the destruction of their ships and cargo will appear entirely accidental, and neither they nor the peasants can hold us accountable for losses in a natural disaster," Xina concluded.

Loran stood up again, and after being acknowledged, expressed his support for Alexina's innovative concept. "Gentle lady," he remarked in closing, "I think it's wise that we evacuate your household. We can't predict the response of crew members, but if they become enraged and wish to harm you when they discover that their ships and cargo have been destroyed, it would be easier for us to assure your safety in a secure place."

Alexina appreciated his input. Lynden seemed to have something to add, but he deferred for the moment and let his wife conclude. She smiled as she spoke. "As always, we leave ourselves in your capable hands."

Once the officer corps agreed to implement Alexina's plan, Lord Velez created specific tasks and a time sequence for each event. Refined by further discussion, these duties evolved into an organized, operational strategy, in which virtually every unit in his small army played an important role. This process established a high degree of personal ownership among the officer corps, further cementing their loyalty to a commander who listened and respected their military expertise.

Lord Velez dismissed the meeting with a benediction, confident that his men would begin their work immediately. The warlord kissed and embraced each of his three daughters before sending them off to perform tasks better accomplished by charisma and wit, than muscle.

"Your intellect astounds me," Lynden told his bride when they were alone again. "If I had married you a decade earlier, my fortunes would be multiplied tenfold."

Alexina's eyes widened, feigning wonder. "If you're so easily impressed, perhaps you're right!" She drew near, laced her slender fingers behind her lover's back and snuggled her hips into his.

Her sensuality inspired him. "No doubt," he replied, kissing her lightly, "I would also have many more children!"

***

Coordinated, counterbattery attacks commenced at dusk. All three Tamarian fortresses within range of Azgar artillery positions launched fire missions in response to new orders issued by General Ziegler at Central Command Headquarters in Burning Tree, and soon, the enemy guns fell silent.

Colonel Brandt sensed a lift in morale among his troops as soon as the first group of heavy rockets began screaming from their launch rails. Ordinary line soldiers, who could do nothing other than cower in terror whenever enemy artillery exploded overhead, stood taller now that Tamarian warheads were again reciprocating.

Emergency underground resupply, the combat variable whose influence enemy commanders could not control, created problems of its own for Colonel Brandt. Tamarian fire keeps normally housed only 400 soldiers. In war time, using every bit of available space, hot bunking troops not on duty and speedily evacuating the wounded, the fortresses could accommodate as many as 1 200 men.

This, however, created serious strains on the mess crew, water supply and waste disposal systems. Long lines for food, water and the toilet tested every soldier's patience to its limits. Hallways, narrowed by stacks of war provisions ranging from ammunition to latrine paper, suddenly became extremely crowded and difficult to traverse. Furthermore, finding necessary supplies among hundreds of crates scattered throughout all five floors of the base required nothing less than inventory control bordering on the miraculous, especially in the dark.

Enemy mortars created an additional problem. Every previous emergency situation faced by the Tamarian army permitted overflow sleeping accommodations in the central courtyard, but with Azgar shells arcing over the base walls and impacting inside, this area resembled a rail yard after a boiler explosion. The fact that Tamarian engineering crews managed to erect and launch rockets from the courtyard testified to their courage and hard work.

Underground munitions magazines became new sleeping areas out of sheer necessity. The labyrinth of secret, subterranean passageways that usually served as a means for defending soldiers to unexpectedly appear on the battlefield now overflowed with warriors awaiting a command to engage the enemy.

Those orders, signed by General Ziegler, now lay in Colonel Brandt's pocket. Very soon, that slip of paper would set in motion an incredible effort to provide the men and firepower necessary to crush the enemy.

Their first task, however, involved holding out for five more days. During this time, resupply trains would arrive every six hours, worsening the overcrowding problem. Colonel Brandt surmised that this waiting period allowed infantry units to deploy in the field, where they would participate in a coordinated counterattack.

The timely resupply of his plucky little firebase and the subsequent campaign to rid Tamaria of its invader, Colonel Brandt reflected, had been assured by the arrival of the teenaged junior scout he'd sent to command headquarters at Burning Tree. The Tamarian colonel believed that no other singular deed had as much bearing on the outcome of the imminent battle.

He would never know the real truth.

***

Heavy rainfall poured from the dark grey, midmorning sky as twelve stern-wheeled river boats leased by the Maridom Trading Company labored upstream toward the tiny dock in Helena. Unable to accommodate more than a single berth at the rickety pier, Alonso Meta, who served as the local port master in addition to his duty as mayor, ordered the other eleven river boat captains to drop anchor and moor in midstream.

Standing in the dry comfort of a second-floor hotel window, Lord Velez watched Mayor Meta greet the merchant master, imagining that Alonso would probably offer effusive apologies for the rain, as if weather was behaving like some wayward child having a tantrum. Shifting his field lens to study the face of the merchant master, Lynden Velez felt his pulse quicken.

"Tirra!" he called, a sudden anxiety sharpening his voice far beyond its normal tone when addressing servants.

The Lithian woman entered from beyond the door, certain that her master would scold her severely for some oversight or negligence unintended. "Yes, lord," she replied.

Lynden didn't move to acknowledge her, but remained with his back turned, his gaze affixed to the field lens. "Get my daughters to the observatory right away."

That was only supposed to happen in the face of an immediate threat. "Why, my lord? What's the danger?"

Lord Velez turned from the window, his face flushed in anger. "Go now, woman! Save my children! And see to it that no one notices you!"

Tirra twirled for the door and dashed down the stairs, the light patter of her swift feet upon the muddy street fading as the hotel door slammed against its latch.

One of the two warriors stationed beyond the door came inside, his concern evident in both posture and tone of voice. "My lord," he began, keeping his head bowed until acknowledged. "Is your family at risk?"

"Very much so," Lynden replied, motioning the soldier toward the window and offering the field lens. "The tall man with the red cape is the merchant master."

The young warrior appraised the man, watching how his stature and bearing commanded respect from the barge crew. "Arguably a handsome fellow. You know him?"

"Yes," Lynden breathed. "His name is Nemesio Fang."

Everyone in the Velez household knew of this name and the reason for its infamy. After a moment of circumspection, Lynden chided himself for being so harsh with Tirra and made a mental note to apologize. He could have mentioned Fang's name and elicited an equally energetic response from the woman, but months of worry and frustration over Fang's role in Brenna's disappearance had emerged too quickly for control.

Lynden checked the river's water level against a small mark painted on a stick stuck into the far bank several yards upstream. This unobtrusive gauge recorded that the flow had been falling for hours, and now that the boats were in port, the time had come for the river to rise again.

He sent a message to Sherman Mason, ordering all work under the engineer's supervision to commence immediately. Every unit in Lynden's personal army went on full alert, especially those deployed near the river. Another command went to Aril at the debris dam locks, followed by a report to Alexina that her operation had begun.

Down at the dock, a problem arose. Steamship crew members started unloading cargo, much to the dismay of Alonso Meta, who argued helplessly, but couldn't stop the work. As the crates piled up on the shore, Lynden took his rifle, called for Tegene and a company of elite troops, then followed on horseback as they marched to the riverbank.

The warlord did not dismount when the merchant master approached, nor did he return the feigned delight of Fang's greeting. "What's the meaning of this nonsense?" Lynden replied tersely, speaking in vulgate, a language most of the locals did not understand. "Who gave you the authority to unload here?"

"This little venture is another of my many mercantile subsidiaries," Nemesio explained, gesturing broadly toward the heavily laden steamships in the river. "We have some business with the Tamarians over the mountains . . ."

Calling for his troops to chamber rounds in their rifles, Lynden put an immediate halt to the unloading. "The locals tell me that you must be entertained, so I'll tolerate your unwelcome arrival until your men have had their fill and rest, but not a moment longer.

"Tomorrow morning, you will go back the way you came. If you have any commerce to conduct with the Tamarians, do it on their soil, not mine!"

Fang, taken aback by the threat, needed a moment to regain his lost composure. He noticed movement on the nearest barge deck as the men on watch prepared to fire their own guns in his defense. Their actions calmed him, but he held up his hand to prevent the outbreak of a fight. This venture was too valuable to run afoul because of a minor insult from a petty warlord.

The merchant master narrowed his eyes and spoke in a menacing tone. "I've graciously overlooked your baseless attacks on my honor. I did not contest the court ruling that cheated me out of your daughter's hand! But I will conduct business if I must do so by force of arms, and I will not take orders from you!"

Lynden wheeled his horse around, glancing at the assembled villagers, who had discreetly moved away from the scene for their own safety. "My daughter's hand is neither mine to give nor yours to possess. As far as your honor is concerned, if you possessed any at all, there would have been no need to meet in court!

"You didn't come here to fight. You're outnumbered and outgunned, so don't insult the hospitality of my people. Take your food and drink, then go back from whence you came. Don't let me find you here in the morning."

Lynden turned his mottled gelding around and rode off, trusting that his armor – along with sniper teams he'd hidden along the shore and among the rooftops – would protect his back from any foolishness Fang might order. In doing so, he gave the merchant an opportunity to save face by explaining the confrontation to the mayor and the villagers in Kamerese. Any misunderstanding that might develop could be explained later. At the moment, Lynden had more important matters pressing on his mind.

Three hundred yards downstream, at a place where the river had cut through high, rocky banks, Sherman Mason and his crew labored relentlessly in the cold current. Five iron culverts, placed upright so that the water could flow around them, lay in a straight line from the near to far bank. From a temporary pontoon bridge equipped with portable cranes, squads of soldiers lowered large buckets into the culverts, then dumped the drawn water back into the river.

Sandbags, placed around the inside edge of each cylinder when the water inside was only knee deep, served to hold the pipe in place while the work crew gently placed felled timbers on the upstream side of the culvert line and sunk them to the river bottom with tied-on weights. Additional sandbags, lowered into place over every row of timber, formed a crib dam that served to hold back some of the water flowing downstream.

The water level behind the dam began slowly rising. Sherman Mason estimated that the river needed to come up no less than three feet for Alexina's plan to work. By measuring the water flow with a weir, he calculated a time interval of roughly six hours before the river would reach its recommended height – perhaps a little less, depending on rainfall. In that interval, Mason's crew had to work hard to finish their task, but he felt confident that they'd complete the dam on schedule.

"I'm still concerned about the explosives," Sherman explained. "If they get wet and don't blow, this is going to be a whole lot harder to tear apart than it was to build."

Lynden nodded, understanding. "Let's worry about one thing at a time, my friend. I think Alexina's magic will dry the charges, but if not, the river itself will work for us."

After visiting the crews on the pontoon bridge, Lynden felt satisfied that their work was progressing as planned. Riding along a narrow path across an abandoned vineyard and through the forest, the warlord checked the troops on picket duty, and confident they were alert, rode on to survey the banquet preparations.

One of the local wineries kept its seasoning casks deep inside a series of caves cut into a hillside, so that the wine ageing process might benefit from the cool, even temperatures prevailing underground. Among many connected chambers, two large rooms often served as an exclusive dinner club for the landlord.

Normally, kerosene lanterns and oil torches lit the facility, but on this occasion, Lady Alexina provided candles that cast much of their light in the ultraviolet spectrum, creating gentler shadows on the rough-hewn rock. White linen tapestries woven in subtle, shaded mosaic patterns, hung from hooks on the walls. The artwork added elegance to the cavernous area, and reflected enough candlelight to make the rooms bright.

This evening's menu consisted of curried salmon, rice pilaf, a spicy vegetable medley, green salad, bread, wine and cheese. Each dish, served in courses, would be accompanied by chamber music to keep the mood calm. Lynden also assigned selected warriors to conspicuous posts within the two rooms to ensure that the proceedings did not become rowdy.

With everything in order and meal preparations well underway, Lynden thanked everyone for their efforts.

Just before leaving the winery, Lynden received a message that Lord Kerry Halvord, an old friend who'd evacuated Illithia before the invasion, had arrived at a downstream checkpoint. Lynden ordered the messenger to send Lord Halvord to the school gymnasium immediately.

Helena's large high school lay unused and had fallen into such disrepair, the roof of one building had already collapsed. Its gymnasium, however, functioned as a town hall and storage facility, and as such, the effort to keep it in good repair showed. Throughout much of the day, the relocation of warehoused goods and diligent cleaning turned the dusty building into an emergency shelter, a role it could retain for years to come.

Lord Velez checked to make sure that cots, blankets and pillows were properly stowed, so that it didn't look like advance preparations had been made for a large number of men to billet overnight. The guests would set up their own accommodations later in the evening.

When Dr. Halvord arrived, Lynden greeted him with an affection that spoke of long friendship. Dr. Kerry Halvord now owned a steep, rocky plot of land to the west with few residents and little hope of growing good crops. During his search for an appropriate plot of land to purchase, the doctor specifically sought out inexpensive, river front property and promptly built a dock to moor his small fleet of sail and steam-powered barges. Since farming in this region yielded erratic profits, Kerry hoped to prosper transporting trade goods along the windy river canyons.

No one, other than Lord Lynden, knew why he'd been invited to the banquet. The evening's planned activities provided Lynden with a means to change the shipping habits of Helena's port authority, while simultaneously helping a friend establish his business in the northern frontier. This change would give local products access to markets that Dr. Halvord had already established.

Furthermore, Lynden could do this out of necessity, without being accused of patronage. When he explained his intentions to Lord Halvord, the Lithian merchant expressed enthusiasm for the idea and delight at the thought of helping to bring Fang to ruin.

"That man is a menace to every living female under heaven!" Kerry observed. "The virgin daughters of Kameron will honor you for ridding the world of him."

Lynden put a servant in charge of Kerry's comfort, urging his friend to relax until the time arrived for the banquet. When he returned to the hotel, Lynden apologized to Tirra and retired to the solitude of his room to wait until the river reached its appointed mark in the late afternoon.

Idle hours challenge any leader, especially when faced with the possibility that an important mission might fail for reasons beyond a commander's control. Lynden knew that worry would handicap his ability to think clearly, so he left the operational details in the hands of his subordinates, and spent time seeking Allfather's blessing in prayer and meditation.

His thoughts drifted back many years, to his first encounter with Alexina. Their respective teams had faced one another in a very rough game of lacrosse one hot afternoon. She ran with such speed and agility no one could stop her, but during a daring move to snatch a high pass, the two collided, fell, and he landed on top of her. She remained so focused on the game that she pushed him off, sprang to her feet and didn't remember the incident.

He, however, could not forget.

Lynden thereafter obtained permission to court the beautiful maiden, dreaming, though never daring to presume, she would one day become his bride. Through the years, Alexina proved to be a gracious, faithful companion despite strife, sickness, and many sorrows. She always divided disappointment and celebrated his every success. Hope tempered every setback, and Lynden thanked Allfather for blessing him with a good wife.

The warlord prayed a blessing on her, asking for strengthened faith so that she could accomplish the work she alone could do that evening. He also prayed for the safety of the soldiers serving under his command.

When thoughts of Brenna came to mind, a heartfelt ache spilled into a wordless, solitary tear that coursed down Lynden's cheek. He wanted to embrace his eldest daughter and tell her that he loved her more than words could express. The heartfelt affliction that Brenna might not feel assured of his acceptance and affection lingered like a festering wound. He prayed for her, longing to see his firstborn daughter again.

Allfather, he _believed_ , understood this pain. After praying for Brenna, Lynden asked for a blessing on Cassie, Thea and Camille, and felt a comforting peace settle upon his soul. Only then, could the warlord find the willingness and courage to pray for his enemy . . .

As daylight fled from the stormy sky, the marker on the far bank finally vanished underwater and Helena's dock lay awash in the swollen current of the Virgin River. Only a handful of sentries remained at their posts on board the river barges, struggling to keep dry under the walkways against a heavy, driving downpour. To a man, they appeared more bored than vigilant.

The time had come. Lynden dispatched Tirra to the place where Alexina had been waiting, then went back to the winery to take his seat at the banquet.

Hard rain driven by gusting winds formed thousands of tiny ripples on the turgid current, ceaselessly pattering its swirling surface in ranks that seemed to randomly retreat and advance across the muddy water. Alexina had spent the night working out the math she'd use to accomplish her task. She felt exhausted, but confident.

Once started, she could not alter the sequence without stopping and beginning again. That process would quickly exhaust her. So, the Lithian woman rehearsed her plan, then knelt at the bank of the river and began to pray for Allfather's favor. Three of her daughters and their servants were doing likewise up at the observatory.

Alexina began by polymerizing the river water into a massive chain, running from the lower flood control gate all the way to Sherman Mason's crib dam. This undertaking required intense concentration, despite the fact that the current was flowing quite slowly, because of the sheer volume of water involved and the continual addition of rain over the entire distance of the enchantment.

As the Virgin River thickened, Alexina extracted energy from the clouds overhead, creating an intense sheet of bright lightning that crashed into the river where the woman stood and spread tremendous heat to every water molecule between the dams. The subsequent thunder shook the ground, rattled windows in Helena and terrified the men on watch aboard the cargo barges. It also signaled every watching sniper to run for cover. In the darkness, not a single human eye noticed their flight.

Even though her calculations of the required energy to accomplish phase-change had been correct, Alexina brought down a little extra to account for the rain. Instantly, all the water in the Virgin River boiled into wet steam and billowed from the banks with the wind, exposing naked rock below.

Upstream, deprived of the buoyancy afforded by liquid water, each of the heavily laden barges instantly fell nearly seven feet into the empty stream bed, shattering keels, cracking hulls, and throwing neatly stacked crates of blankets into a splintering chaos of wood fiber and cloth. As the mass of the barges settled, their cargo flattened under the crushing weight overhead.

Inside the huge, idling boilers on board, the absence of cooling water vaulted temperatures beyond the capability of steel to contain a sudden, exponential increase in pressure. Tiny fissures ripped into gaping rifts as expanding, dry steam sought escape, propelling shredded steel in its path like twelve huge bombs exploding at one moment. This destruction cast hunks of boiler plate, chunks of hull and engine assembly into the sky, knocking down trees on the riverbank and flinging debris nearly eighty yards in every direction. No one on the barges survived these explosions.

Alexina commanded the mist to collect upstream, where she released its remaining energy so that the vapor condensed into liquid again. A deep rumble resonated through Maidenhair Canyon as many tons of water poured back into the riverbed, warning the Lithian woman to hasten uphill to avoid the coming flood. As the debris dams filled, Aril, her nephew, opened the culvert gates.

The Virgin River thundered in her banks, roaring downstream in a ground-shaking torrent like the rage of a vengeful, primordial beast. When the current swept upon the remains of the Maridom convoy, it churned the broken vessels into twisted scrap and rapidly thrust their derelict remains downstream.

Sherman Mason watched the operation transpire and evacuated his crew. It took several minutes for the raging torrent to reach his position, allowing plenty of time for him to detonate the explosives that destroyed the dam they had labored to build. Just as Lynden predicted, all of the charges were dry, and when they blew, the iron culverts tipped over, parallel to the river bank, as planned.

As the Virgin River struck the weakened crib dam, the flotsam at its leading edge plowed through the carefully weighted timbers like a massive battering ram, ripping the assembly apart as if it had been too fragile to stand on its own. The angry river flooded the culverts and raced downstream, unhindered.

A young messenger arrived at the banquet hall, announcing, to the stunned surprise of Lord Fang and his crew, that a flash flood had just destroyed their boats and cargo. Lord Velez raised his eyes to the ceiling and offered a silent prayer of thanks to Allfather for Cynthia's warning dream, Alexina's clever plan, and the divine mercy to use his family in breaking the weak link in the Azgaril chain of supply.

Second Thoughts

All of the earlier resolve that Brenna believed she could sustain in Garrick's presence melted away as she sat next to his cot in the infirmary. During her long vigil, while he slept, tiny snowflakes fell endlessly through the halo of a blue streetlight from the sullen, brooding clouds above Burning Tree. The young woman kissed Garrick's wounds while praying for his recovery, distracted by a desire to forgive him of anything he'd done wrong and fall asleep in his gentle embrace.

According to the nurse in charge, a slender woman with greying hair and good manners who spoke passable vulgate, the Tamarian cadet had staggered into General Ziegler's office, delivered his message from Dead Hand Ridge, then collapsed on the floor from exhaustion and blood loss. When Brenna heard this news from Heinz Neergard, she rushed to the infirmary, worried that she might never see Garrick alive again.

"He'd been muttering something about a wolf," the nurse said as she folded him a new set of clothes. "He was delirious at the time. We think he stumbled into a bear's den for shelter during a storm, aroused the creature, but managed to get away because it was groggy from hibernation. He's lucky to be alive."

When Brenna examined his overcoat, noticing a faint, foul musk lingering on its cloth, and cared for wounds very characteristic of a deathwolf attack, she knew that he'd spoken truthfully. Few people faced a deathwolf and survived to speak of the experience, let alone travel for two days before reaching help. Garrick's bravery inspired admiration on her part, overruling her muddle of conflicting emotions to the extent that she found herself on the verge of shedding tears when he finally stirred from his sleep.

His smile disarmed the anger she felt, while the strength in his grasp reassured her of his rapid recovery. His expression revealed an endearingly boyish infatuation that gradually melded into something much more serious. "Brenna," he said, summoning a different kind of courage, sitting upright and taking her right hand in both of his, "I love you."

She had known this long before he'd found the fortitude to utter the words, and sensed that saying them revealed more about the extent of his trust in her than she felt comfortable admitting to herself. For a moment, she considered saying nothing about her knowledge of his past, fighting against a more rational belief that speaking the truth now – bitter as that might be to him – would wisely end an impossible relationship before it developed into something more serious and more difficult to discontinue in the future.

Brenna held her breath, uttering a silent prayer, searching for words to explain her doubts in a way that might not hurt, if that were possible. "Did you say that to Gudrun?" she asked, regretting the question immediately.

Garrick's face froze for a moment, indicating he'd been caught off guard, but he didn't betray any guilt by quickly looking away. He let out a deep sigh, closed his eyes and muttered an expletive in his native tongue. When he opened them again, Brenna's expression had turned cold. "Yes," he replied, "I've said that to Gudrun. I've told her many, many times."

Although she didn't intend to sound harsh or condemn, Brenna had no idea how quickly her interrogation eroded the young man's confidence in her sincerity. "And how did she react?"

The young soldier dropped her hand and flopped back against his pillow. "No better than you are," he complained, successfully fighting tears and covering deep hurt by venting a bit of anger. "The only difference was that she laughed about it. I suppose a rich warlord's daughter has better manners than that."

Stung by the acid remark, never having heard such words from Garrick's lips, Brenna struggled against the urge to retaliate. She refrained, partly in shock, but mostly because she loved the young man and really didn't want to hurt him. "That's not fair, Garrick," she replied in a strong whisper. "You've said absolutely nothing about her. How do you expect me to react when she tells me her baby belongs to you, and that you forced yourself on her? The thought of anyone acting so coldly and irresponsibly is reprehensible to me!"

Garrick shook his head and crossed his strong arms. "Why should I have said anything to you about her? What happened between the two of us has nothing to do with you. No one gives me any credit for self-control. Everyone assumes that her story is the absolute truth, and that I'm some kind of rabid sex freak who foams at the mouth whenever I get a girl alone. You, of all people, know me better than that!"

The truth of his testimony clamored for recognition in her mind, but the momentum of her argument brought out the one issue that worried her the most. "Yes, you've always been careful with me. But Garrick, the little boy looks just like you, and that's very compelling evidence."

An expression of incredulity passed over Garrick's face, his grey eyes rolling in disbelief. "Did you look at her? She's my cousin, Brenna! People who don't know that often mistake us for brother and sister. Her boy looks like me because she looks like me. If you had any confidence in my integrity, the family resemblance wouldn't be an issue.

"What really hurts is that in spite of all the time you and I have spent alone together, you're quick to blame me for her promiscuity. I didn't get her pregnant!"

Brenna, not knowing Gudrun and feeling insecure about her own virtue, failed to appreciate that Garrick might have exhibited the same kind of self-control with someone else. After all, she well understood that such restraint did not come easily to most men.

But she completely misunderstood him. A bit of indignation to crept into her argument, imposing the unrealistic expectation that Garrick should never have put himself into a position where any such accusation had potential merit. While it might have been reasonable to expect that standard of behavior in her own company, Brenna – caught up in the emotion of the moment – didn't realize how irrational it was to insist he should have implemented this loftier ideal long before they met.

"How do you know that the baby isn't yours?" she retorted. "Family resemblance aside, Gudrun says it's true. Why would she lie about such a thing?"

Garrick turned, reached for a pair of socks and began putting them on his feet. "What good does it do me to defend myself when you presume that I'm guilty? I'll admit to being naive when it comes to understanding women, but give me enough credit for knowing how children come into the world! That baby is not mine!

"And what do you know about Gudrun that makes her accusation so believable? Did she somehow transcend humanity in your presence and prove herself incapable of fabricating a sad story? I don't claim to comprehend her pathology, so if you can enlighten me, I'd gladly learn the lesson. Then maybe next time I'll be wise enough to avoid anyone with soft body, a pretty face and a lying tongue!"

Angrily, Garrick laced his boots, grumbling in guttural words Brenna didn't understand. He slipped into a new shirt with his back turned so she wouldn't see the tears he restrained, not fully appreciating how his posture filled Brenna with remorse for discussing the issue at all.

Reaching for his new parka, Garrick's eyes met hers. He saw the hurt there, but chose not to comfort her in any way. "I should never have trusted you," he said, then walked away from her without uttering another word.

The young Tamarian ignored Brenna's pleading as he left the infirmary and scurried to find an exit door. Unfamiliar with his surroundings, he picked a roundabout path to the outside, emerging to face a fierce wind blowing small flakes of lake-effect snow. He trotted to the stony shore of Broken Wing Lake, gazing for a long time at its frozen shallows and the long fracture lines running in jagged patterns across the ice. Then, confident that no one could see him, Garrick wept.

***

The base at Burning Tree ranked as the largest military installation in Tamaria. Boasting several thousand acres of expensive lake-front property, its premises served as a training and administrative center for the Southern Defense Command, whose rail and dock facilities rivaled those of many large cities.

Responding to General Ziegler's orders, mustered troops had been arriving by steamship for three days. All rail traffic on the western shore of Broken Wing Lake had been re-routed to avoid the Angelgate Mountains, with most of the warriors and equipment moving across the lake by stern wheeled boats and then through the secured electric rail tunnels in the Copperhead Range.

Some ten thousand soldiers remained at Burning Tree, scheduled for a deployment yet to be announced. Among these, a second lieutenant named Oskar Kohler checked his unit register, noticing unfamiliar names. "Sergeant Krebes!" he called. "Who are these two parasites on my unit list?"

Krebes, a career master sergeant who'd been serving longer than his young lieutenant had been alive, knew exactly who the younger man was talking about and responded without looking at the paper. "Velez and Ravenwood, sir?"

When the lieutenant grunted in response, the sergeant continued. "Velez is a medical mercenary and Ravenwood is a scout graduate. Both of them were cleared through General Ziegler's office this morning."

Lieutenant Kohler cursed. With his unit heading into combat for the first time, he had no patience for green recruits who probably didn't know the difference between a rifle and the back end of a pruning hook. The lieutenant, suspicious of the senior officer corps to begin with, believed this foretold bad luck stemming from the disfavor of the spirits. "When they report, put them on latrine patrol and dish duty right away."

"I'm afraid you can't do that, sir."

Lieutenant Kohler placed his hands on his hips and glared at the older man, annoyed at the sergeant's casual impertinence. "What do you mean, sergeant?"

Krebes refused to be intimidated. "I put their files on your desk this morning for good reason. The girl is a refugee. She's been assigned to the medical corps because her dossier practically glows with the good deeds she did down at Dead Hand Ridge. She's also got a written commendation for her role in saving a refugee caravan with just a bow and sword. This is not someone you'd want cleaning toilets. Scuttlebutt has it that she's a sicklian, and quite a looker too."

Lieutenant Kohler tried unsuccessfully to hide a sudden burst of interest. "I'm busy. I had no time to read this morning." That wasn't true – and the lieutenant knew it was part of his job to familiarize himself with the soldiers under his command. "What about the other one?"

"He's fresh out of the junior scouts with some combat experience and a recommendation from the general. He's also fluent in vulgate and translates for the girl."

"Very well. Assign them quarters and notify me as soon as they report. I'll be in my office."

Sergeant Krebes saluted. "Yes sir!"

***

The rapid, polyphonic exchange of counterpointed melodies played over an ostinato bass line drifted through the military chapel, resonating across lovely, hardwood floors to mingle sweetly in the vaulted rafters. There, the notes exchanged overtones as pleasing to the ear as warm kisses delight the lips.

Gudrun Averil could tell, though she could not claim to be a musician, that the composition required a great deal of skill and practice to play. As she approached, the Tamarian mother noticed that the organist could barely reach the foot pedals and stretched rather awkwardly to ascend scales on the huge organ's second register.

As her slender fingers danced over the keys in triplet patterns, Brenna's concentration temporarily distracted her from the hurt she felt after her argument with Garrick. Brenna heard every error that went unnoticed by the sole member of her audience, grimacing whenever she played a single wrong note or faltered even slightly in her timing.

While the organ produced powerful tones that resonated majestically through its massive pipes, the Lithian woman strained to keep her toes down on the right pedals without sliding off the seat cushion. She felt annoyed because she was too small to play the full-sized instrument really well, but also, her lack of practice showed. Still, it felt good to play again after many weeks away from any kind of keyboard.

Gudrun listened for several minutes, her initial admiration of Brenna's skill fading into boredom as she grew accustomed to the complex interaction of melody and rhythm. Finding Brenna had taken more time than she expected, and the uncomfortable tingle and tight heaviness that signaled she needed to nurse made the young mother anxious to return to her apartment quickly. Her son, Harold, would likely awaken from his nap within the next thirty minutes. Although Gudrun's friend Liese had agreed to care for the boy if he cried, Gudrun wanted relief from her own discomfort soon.

Brenna's heart skipped a beat when she noticed the Tamarian teenager standing near the organ. Stopping abruptly, the Lithian woman turned toward the young mother, not really knowing what to say, and further, not realizing that her silence increased Gudrun's apprehension.

"I'm sorry to bother you," the Tamarian mother began. "But I heard that you're going to leave and I felt I had to talk to you."

Sensing the young mother's uneasiness gave Brenna a sudden feeling of dread, as if she knew in advance that what she was about to hear would crush her soul with sorrow. Careful to conceal her concern, Brenna managed a brief smile. "What for?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. I know the spirits are protecting you. No one could fight like you did on the caravan without their help. You were very brave. It made the other girls afraid because the spirits heard all their whispers about you."

Brenna remembered the disgust and disdain of the young Tamarians, letting the returning hurt she felt dissipate before responding. "Allfather has always preserved and sustained my life. He delivered the enemy into my hands because he loves me. Saving us was his work, not really mine."

"I figured you'd say something like that," Gudrun continued, leaning against the organ console. "Maybe the spirits brought you to Garrick because he lives what he believes, just like you do. I admit that when I first saw you I felt a little jealous because part of me didn't ever want him to find a woman he could love, and I didn't want him to ever find someone prettier than me."

"What gives you the idea that he loves me?" Brenna inquired, wishing she could be confident that he did.

The Tamarian mother let out a knowing smirk. "Garrick needs someone to love. He can't help it. Besides, you have a pretty face, a killer body, and when I listen to you talk, I know he couldn't resist you for long."

Barely able to control the surge of grief welling in her soul over the argument she'd had with him, Brenna bit her lower lip and shook her head. "I don't want to talk about this," she murmured.

When Gudrun noticed the difficulty Brenna was having in controlling her emotions, a blend of fear and guilt made it impossible look the Lithian woman in the eye. Avoiding Brenna's countenance, Gudrun glanced at the organ pipes and the ceiling vaults instead. "That's not really what I came to tell you anyway," she admitted, letting her guilty gaze drop to the windows and then the floor. She paused for a moment, gathering courage before continuing.

"I've been having second thoughts about something I've said that might have hurt you. My Harold's been sick, so I went to a priest and he told me that the spirits will take my son away to punish me if I don't make it right."

The remorse in Brenna's heart could no longer be restrained. She felt her eyes become misty and wished she could be alone to let the feeling wash away in a flood of tears. Gudrun didn't have to continue. Brenna knew in her heart what the treacherous teenager was going to say before she uttered another word.

"I lied to you about Garrick, and not just you, I've lied to everyone!" Once she began speaking, Gudrun bared her soul, but not in a way that expressed regret for what she'd done. Her voice remained steady and never faltered while she told the truth for the first time.

"He's a very sweet boy. He was the first person to really pay attention to me and listen. It was flattering for awhile, but then he kept saying that he loved me, over and over again. I guess I got sick of hearing about it. I wanted him for more than just words, but he was always so reluctant to touch me and love me – you know – like a man touches the woman he loves. I wanted real passion.

"So I ripped up all the poems he wrote for me and threw away every present he sent. I made fun of him behind his back and avoided him to the point of being rude, but he kept following me around like some kind of puppy dog. All of my friends started laughing because he was so obviously crazy about me.

"I felt really embarrassed. Even my mother tried talking him out of acting so foolishly, but he persisted with his little infatuation until he finally wore her down. A few months later, she actually wanted me to make things right with him, which is kind of like the kiss of death, you know?

"I played the game and started telling her that I was going somewhere with Garrick when I was really spending time with some of the boys in town.He would cover for me. He would lie for me so that I wouldn't get in trouble. In fact, one night I stayed out kind of late and when my daddy didn't find me in bed the next morning, he was furious. So I said I'd gone looking at farmland with Garrick, and father gave him the strap. Garrick took the beating and never said a word! Even after that, he said he wouldn't ever betray me.

"Everything was fine until I started missing my period, and I had to do something before it started to show. I thought daddy wouldn't be angry if he believed that Garrick and I just made a mistake and I got pregnant. It was the perfect plan because everyone else thought we were spending all this time together, and I figured he'd go along with it because he said that he loved me.

"But I never counted on him saying no. He told me he was tired of being used and gave me this big lecture about how love is supposed to be pure and work both ways. Well, what does he know about real passion? It made me mad. I wanted to hurt him, so when daddy wanted to know who was responsible for the baby, I told him it was Garrick."

Brenna, who had grown up in a family with strong personal bonds and high moral standards, seethed at the injustice of Gudrun's deception. Wiping her eyes dry, the Lithian woman erupted with contempt when she spoke. "You wicked, vain and loathsome creature! You don't know what you've done! You've not only destroyed Garrick's reputation, but you've crushed his trust in the higher virtues of love, and you did this in a cold-hearted way that transcends cruelty!

"I don't know how you can sleep at night, let alone talk about this like you're describing a family picnic! Have you no remorse at all? Didn't you imagine your story would hurt other people?"

Taken aback by Brenna's sudden boldness, fearful of her wrath, Gudrun felt flustered and held her arms across her trembling body as if trying to protect herself from attack. "I didn't mean it to go this far! I guess I got so used to telling the lie, it almost seemed like the truth to me. It sounded more real to other people after I dressed the story up a bit, they believed me, and besides, what does it matter to Garrick? He hates me anyway!"

"It's not like you didn't give him reason!" Brenna retorted. "He did nothing to deserve this from you."

"Not true!" Gudrun spat. "I told him to back off many times. I didn't love him, but he didn't get the message!"

"That doesn't justify what you've done. He was at your mercy while you systematically destroyed his honor. The least you could do is tell your family the truth and apologize to him!"

Gudrun backed away. "Look, I didn't come here to listen to this. I've said what I had to say, and I don't need you to lecture me about right and wrong." Angry, because she knew in her heart that Brenna was justified in this conclusion, Gudrun lashed out before scurrying away. "What's done is done, and at least people won't wonder why he's interested in a sicklian slut like you!"

The insult paled compared to the hurt Brenna felt inside for doubting Garrick's character. "You don't deserve him," she whispered at the fleeing figure, wondering in her own heart whether she did, herself.

***

An hour after Garrick reported for duty, Sergeant Krebes marched into the latrine, not bothering to stomp the dirty snow off his boots before entering and thus, ruining the spotless appearance of floor tile the young man had labored to achieve. "The lieutenant needs to see you," the sergeant said, inspecting Garrick's work with satisfaction but offering no word of appreciation. "Secure the scrub gear and report immediately."

"Yes, sergeant! May I have permission to wash up?"

The older man appraised the new recruit, noting his sweat-drenched undershirt, that his pants were now spattered with soap stains and smears of rust from the oxidized bolts that held neat rows of multrum toilets in place on the tile. Few soldiers bothered to get on their knees to clean the floor around the toilets, but this one had done so without being told he had to do it. Such evidence of pride in a menial job impressed the sergeant favorably.

"You have ten minutes, son," he replied. "Don't keep the lieutenant waiting."

"Yes sergeant. Thank-you."

When Garrick stepped into Lieutenant Kohler's small office, he felt grateful that he'd cleaned up first. Heated by a clanging, geothermal steam radiator, the insulating properties of its straw bale walls retained warmth that soon felt uncomfortable, even with a single, east-facing window open to the blustery chill outside.

Garrick's heart fluttered uncontrollably when his eyes rested on Brenna's lovely face, catching there a curious glimpse of expression that blended sadness with terror. He saw that some fool had dressed her in a form-fitting winter combat uniform a bit small for her size, a detail too conspicuous to have been accidental. The heat inside Kohler's office had, no doubt, motivated her to remove her parka, which she had draped over her chair, providing the young lieutenant with ample opportunity to let his eyes linger lecherously upon her bosom.

Annoyed, Garrick clicked his heels and saluted smartly. "Private Ravenwood reporting as ordered, sir!"

Lieutenant Kohler moved his gaze from its pleasant fixation and brought it to rest on a file folder whose contents Garrick could not read from where he stood. "At ease, soldier. I hear you speak Southern Vulgate."

"That's correct, sir."

Kohler appraised Garrick with a smirk. "Never bothered with it myself, seeing as I had no motivation to learn." He smiled, leering in Brenna's direction again.

"But since this pretty little thing will be staying with us for awhile, I just might change my mind. She marched in here, wrote your name down, and we've been having a real party for a good thirty minutes, waiting for you to get your backside down here, soldier. Translate for me. What does she want?"

Garrick faced Brenna, afraid to find anger in her eyes, not sure what to think when he didn't see any. "Why did you call me in here?" he asked, trying to speak without stumbling over every word and not attaining the level of success he wished to achieve.

"I need to talk to you," the young woman replied. "You were right. I should have known I could trust you and I'm sorry I questioned your honor. If you hate me, I'll understand, but please, find it in your heart to forgive."

A quick glance in the lieutenant's direction inspired a racing heart. "I can't believe you're doing this," he told her in the most straightforward, matter-of-fact tone of voice he could muster under the circumstances. "This is the first time I've ever seen my new commanding officer, and he thinks you need me to translate for him."

"Well, think of something to say!" she demanded.

Garrick paused for a moment before he came up with a suitable lie, then tried not to smile as he uttered it. "It's the uniform, sir," he began. "She says it violates every tenant of decency and modesty she learned from her saintly mother. Also, she respectfully requests that you stop staring at her soft parts, sir!"

A flush of embarrassment raced across the young lieutenant's face, and he stammered like a child caught stealing. Kohler fumbled through the papers on his desk and reached for a pen. "Get over to the commissary and set her up. Make it quick. We're moving out before nightfall!"

Garrick saluted, then motioned for Brenna to precede him out of the building. "Don't ever do that to me again," he warned. "No officer cares about my problems. I don't want to make trouble. The army is the only hope I have left."

Brenna slid into her parka, chiding herself for making matters worse, rather than narrowing the gulf between them."I'm sorry," she said meekly, falling into a silence that she felt certain would prevail forever.

He knew that she didn't need a new uniform; only her unit patches had to change. The young man seethed to learn that his lieutenant had arranged to stuff her into such tight clothing, but during their perfunctory return to the commissary, Garrick lied to cover up his commander's actions. He explained that the language barrier had interfered with Lieutenant Kohler's understanding of Brenna's actual size. That story seemed plausible enough to deflect suspicion, allowed the Lithian woman to get the proper unit patches, and enabled her to return to the less form-fitting outfit she'd worn since Dead Hand Ridge.

Brenna noticed fewer leering eyes falling upon her than she had experienced only an hour before. She felt grateful for Garrick's concern about her dignity and wished he would talk to her so that she could make things right; but she said nothing because he seemed preoccupied and perhaps, too angry to speak.

Trudging through drifts of blown snow, wishing he could find words that would make everything better with Brenna again, Garrick searched half-heartedly for Sergeant Krebes. He noticed her squinting but felt too afraid to ask why she seemed so uncomfortable outside. His nearness to the lovely woman, coupled with the knowledge that he had to serve as her translator, would have filled his heart with delight before their argument in the infirmary.

Now, however, he struggled with the conflicting issues of a real need to protect his self-esteem, and the desire he felt to forgive, the latter motivated by an irrational and powerful attraction he felt for her. Acting in harmony with his philosophical view, Garrick had believed that denying self was the essence of love, although behaving that way with Gudrun had only resulted in heartache and ruin. Stupid people, he thought, made the same mistake twice. But was it wise to discard a virtuous and beautiful woman because of a previous girl's misconduct?

Even though Brenna said that she appreciated his definition of love, her obsession with chastity – and her quick belief in Gudrun's story – fueled irrational fears about his intentions. Garrick decided it wouldn't be fair to criticize Brenna using the same standard he now applied to his pleasure-loving cousin, but the hurt he'd experienced when she believed Gudrun's story and dismissed his integrity could not be denied.

Brenna, at least, recognized her mistake and apologized. This fact distinguished her intentions as honorable, at least as far as he understood them. However human her error seemed to be, knowing this didn't soothe Garrick's pain, nor did it calm the clamoring voices of second thoughts echoing within the dark, shame-filled corridors of his young mind.

***

Huge, steel cylinders filled with ethyl alcohol stood in deep snow drifts beside the tracks of the military railway station. Distilled from tons of ammonia-processed, pressure treated straw, rotten grain and fruit considered unfit for human use, the ethanol flowed into a pair of gleaming tank cars directly behind a massive, workhorse machine. Frequent, violent bursts of wet vapor streamed from vents near its wheels, its cyclic discharge like the breath of a slumbering monster.

The Model 17 steam-electric locomotive burned ethanol in an ingenious, turbo-compounding boiler to generate steam. Hot exhaust from fuel combustion turned a hydraulic motor, providing power for its gear system, while superheated steam drove a rotary-valved, double-acting, multi-cylinder piston engine at a constant rate. Coupled to a flywheel driving a giant generator and several smaller electric motors, the Model 17 was far stingier on precious fuel than its predecessors, and with the help of auxiliary battery power, could climb grades that stalled older, less efficient engines in the midst of their ascent. The Republic of Tamaria had many miles of nightmare hills, though most of the lines through these were being converted to pure electric service as quickly as the national railway could raise capital for the project.

Complex and temperamental, the Model 17 required maintenance and tinkering that bordered on the mystical in order to perform at its peak, so the engineering crews who worked on these machines lavished meticulous attention on the fickle power train system whenever one of them paused at a station to take on fuel and water. Thus, a swarm of skilled crew members fluttered over the locomotive like pest-eating birds on a bison's back.

Brenna cut and folded compress and triangular bandages while sitting on the platform near Garrick. as he absent-mindedly sharpened first his short sword, then bayonet. He kept an ear alert for the order from Sergeant Krebes to board the train, but he and Brenna did not speak during a long delay at the station. Thousands of listless soldiers boarded train after train, departing into the winter darkness while the Fourth Platoon, Epsilon Company of the Fifth Infantry Division, the unit to which Garrick had been assigned, waited.

Their platoon boarded last. Lieutenant Kohler, overtly avoiding eye contact with Brenna to an extent Garrick found amusing, admonished his soldiers to sleep on their train ride. "We have three days of hard marching ahead of us, and I want all of you well rested before we start."

When Garrick climbed aboard the final troop car, he had to forge his way toward the back. The narrow cabin, unheated and illuminated only by station lamps outside, condensed the humid vapor of human breath on its gelid windows, enclosing a raw reek of air stained with stale sweat, bad breath and mildew. Through the dark chaos, Garrick felt Brenna's hand grasp his arm, as if seeking comfort, and though he didn't respond, the young man let her touch linger.

Several minutes after sitting on a hard, wooden bench next to Garrick, Brenna heard the low rumble of the electric motors coming to life above the dull roar of many male voices and felt the train lurch forward. The gentle tug of its acceleration continued well after the giant machine pulled past the military station and headed west along the southern bank of the Desolation River.

The decision to avoid the Angelgate mountains and move troops along commercial lines to the west had been prompted by Garrick's discovery and description of giants equipped with cannon. Rather than risk the loss of an expensive locomotive and many valuable soldiers, General Ziegler opted for a less direct deployment route for the Fifth Infantry Division. Although this move required a fifty-five mile march northwest, following their arrival at Suicide Cataract on the Tualitin, the Seventh Infantry would attack from the southwest, where they'd been ordered to "Sever supply lines and cut the head off the enemy."

General Ziegler's plan called for two divisions to move through the Copperhead Range, march south toward the enemy and attack from its north, relieving the defenders of Dead Hand Ridge. Once the Azgar had turned to face their new threat, the Fifth Infantry's assault on their southern – and if all went as scheduled, rear and lightly defended flank – would recapture the enemy command center at the Ice Dragon Inn.

The giants, waiting to ambush supply trains crossing trestles in the Angelgate Mountains, would have nothing to fight. Keeping them out of the battle permitted Tamarian commanders to focus on the invading enemy. The giants could be dealt with another time.

Garrick knew nothing about the operational details of his mission. Unable to see anything in the overcast blackness outside, boredom and the gentle, side-to-side sway of the train as it rumbled toward its destination, lulled him into sleep.

He awoke nearly five hours later, aware of the amorous sensation of Brenna laying asleep with her head on his left shoulder. An occasional gap in the cloud cover let light from the twin moons, reflected off the snow, illuminate the cabin just enough for Garrick to watch her as she slept.

Brenna _believed_ that Allfather loved beauty. In her flawless feminine form the young man caught a glimpse of her creator's handiwork, a blessing given to please the eye and reverently quiet the soul of anyone who might pause to appreciate God's goodness. Trustingly, innocently she slumbered, her face reflecting the serene peace of a saint in the arms of an angel guardian.

Garrick wanted to take hold of her lovely hands and kiss her gently. He wanted to pretend that nothing had ever happened to disrupt the love he felt for this incredible, intelligent woman and wished with wistful, personal remonstrance that he could re-live their dispute in the infirmary and handle it differently.

The fantasy, however, ended when Brenna woke up and eased away from his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to lean on you."

Something in her posture and tone of voice expressed enough regret to inspire a glimmer of courage in Garrick's heart. "I wish you wouldn't be," he replied, holding his breath and bracing for an acerbic remark he dared hope would not come.

Brenna turned toward him, noting the apprehension in his eyes and the endearing vulnerability of a soul willing to believe that she wouldn't hurt him again.

"Garrick, I've prayed a lot about this, and I feel terrible. I betrayed your trust because I've been afraid that you'd take advantage of me, and as I've thought about how I reacted, I know it was wrong to believe you would ever want to hurt me. I should never have doubted you."

Garrick wished he could see more than the magical reflection of blue light in the soft radiance of her eyes. "How can you know that in so short a time? Why do you think you can you trust me now when you couldn't before?"

Brenna took his left hand in hers, holding it firmly as if she never intended to let him go. "The truth is, I've always been able to trust you. From the moment I noticed you climbing down the hill to help me, I should have known. I'm sorry that I didn't.

"I love you, Garrick. I hope you can find room in your heart to love me more than you've ever loved anyone in your life. That's what I want from you. That's what I need."

Garrick drew her close, desperately grateful to hold her again, careful to embrace her gently. "I forgive you, Brenna. All I ask is that you trust me and love me back. I'll be good to you. I promise."

A smile spread across Brenna's pretty face. She had done the right thing and a sense of peace filled her soul as their lips met and lingered together. At that moment she quietly vowed that never again would she fail to trust his integrity, and never again would she have second thoughts about her love for him.

Justice Without Mercy

"You're an absolute idiot! What did you think you were doing defying my authority like that? When did you become so high and holy that you can pass judgment on the rest of us like some vengeful god incarnate?

"Well you're not a god, hairless! I don't even think you're really a man. You're a blithering, blundering, accidental orgasm of two morons too excited to know when to stop fondling each other for the higher good of humanity! You're the progeny of proto-brains who should have been shot for defiling the race. Fortunately you, the vaginal vomit of their unforgivable union, won't live to defile the world with more of your kind."

Legate Braegan spat on the dungeon floor and ground a bit of dry straw into the cold concrete with his boot. He ranted scornfully, flinging disgusting epithets, claiming that I'd betrayed him after he'd taken me under his care.

I didn't fear him anymore, knowing that his insults would soon fall silent, drowned out by the last crack of rifle fire I would ever hear. Braegan's ranting pattered on my ear as harmlessly as rain falls on a rooftop. Though he shouted foolishly, the absurdity of his threats were clarified by a heart beating restlessly closer to its destiny with death.

Every claim of greater glory for the empire sounded like the empty promises of corrupt priests, who for a little gold, offered to spare my soul from everlasting torment. Glory, whether made of mutable material or of the fine perfection of eternity, could not be a thing bought at the expense of the powerless and still be an asset worthy of my striving to attain.

I'd now set my sights on loftier ideals. In the fine focus of a mind contemplating its end, the grand extortions imposed by the mighty on the meek could not be justified by proud words. My new perception laid bare the avaricious motive of our conquest, exposing its cruelty as brutal and violent. Nothing I'd done in this war had been an act worthy of human pride.

I mused on the fact that nations build armies to defend themselves against the aggression of others, or to project their own to meet whatever ends are justified as worthy of the expense. While national interest is collective by definition, its impact most directly affects the individual soldier, who must deny himself and willingly carry out the orders of his commanding officer – even if those orders result in the loss of his life.

At one time I revered this kind of loyalty. It appealed to me because a willingness to die for the precepts of a nation-state seems – on the surface – a selfless and noble attribute of the soul. I'd longed for my role to harmonize with the twin paradigms of courage and honor, believing that Azgar society was both morally and intellectually advanced. I found it perfectly natural to presume that our interests were also in the best interest of other nations. I believed in the fundamental goodness of my empire and its people. In retrospect, I learned that we behaved no better than the despots we displaced.

This issue ultimately led to my insubordination. As a citizen soldier, my right to make moral choices had been taken away. I had to obey, or die at the hands of my own people, even though I found the raping repugnant and the slaughter senseless. Our culture had convinced us of our right to conquer and commit atrocities. We'd become angry little gods whose wrath, like a wildfire, couldn't be sated.

My soul searched for an impartial standard by which to judge the collective behavior and condemn the cruelties I'd witnessed, but found only my own mind at work. Do victors create moral authority whenever they triumph on the battlefield, or must everyone answer to a higher power in the end? Does the victory in war belong, as our priests so fervently proclaim, to the nation whose actions most closely approximate the ideal of godliness?

Listening to Legate Braegan bring up arguments of this nature felt like listening to an adulterer boast of great love for his forsaken wife. I realized that we could not claim the moral high ground over any of the people whose land we had taken, even though I'd once believed that the morally corrupt and technologically-backward Lithians of Shirak deserved the destruction of their city.

I thought about that Lithian maiden, recalling how her bright eyes glistened in the green-tinted light. I finally recognized that she'd not wanted to hurt anyone, even men who'd invaded her home. She hadn't killed me when given the opportunity. With profound clarity, I thought back on that day and realized that every warrior she'd slain had tried to kill her first. Now I understood why she'd been waiting for me to pull the trigger. Now I understood why she hadn't shot me.

If preserving life is moral, why does a soldier who chooses that path face condemnation? The act of defying a corrupt and senseless authority is far more noble than the mindless conformity for which he would be otherwise lauded when simply following orders. I concluded, following this line of reasoning, that the moral conduct of that breathtaking Lithian girl far exceeded my own. The comfort I'd found in justifying the cruelty of our conquest – simply because I was carrying out orders – seemed cowardly in the closer scrutiny to which I now subjected myself.

If my impending death meant anything, it served as an act of justice for not having done the right thing sooner. I determined that while the guilty would sit in judgment and condemn me for refusing to conform to their evil conduct in the recent past, the cumulative weight of responsibility for my earlier transgressions would be the real reason for my execution.

Driven relentlessly into an abysmal and severe depression by the hopelessness I felt, my slumping sense of personal esteem found a strange comfort in the cold starkness of my prison surroundings. Deprived of food and given only dirty snow for water, my mind felt unfettered of its need for nourishment. In this transcendent austerity, I contemplated my every secret with such focus, I barely noticed the legate's leaving and found cold, dark days drifting into long, wintry nights until my mind dulled and I found myself listening to the screaming wind for hours.

By the time a guard finally brought me some food, I nearly felt too weak to eat. A little while longer, and I might have expired from starvation and exposure to the extreme cold inside my lonely cell. I'm sure this method of execution would have delighted some of our more frugal logisticians.

To my dismay, eating only fueled my despair. Shortly after my second meal, the guards washed me down with water so hot it felt like I was being burned alive, ordered me to shave, then threw me a clean uniform. They told me I had to look presentable for the senior officer corps.

The senior officers conducted my court martial in the room where I had committed my act of insubordination. Vice-general Diabilos, seated at the head of a long table, presided over a panel of two other vice-generals and three legates, all of whom had been present during the rape. After hearing the case against me, these men would decide my fate by a simple, majority vote, something they could have easily done without the formality of these proceedings.

Legate Braegan acted as the prosecuting officer, looking tired and pale, but sober. His presentation of evidence, substantiated by my military record and often the testimony of my own men as witnesses, astonished me in its detail.

The legate established me as a renegade officer who resented taking orders. Beginning with my getting lost in Shirak, he portrayed every small error of my brief career as if each incident deliberately undermined his authority, squandered resources, or gave comfort to the enemy.

He reported that I'd underestimated the manpower necessary to take the Ice Dragon Inn, and further, that I'd blundered in a senseless, diversionary attack against Dieter, which resulted in the loss of Sergeant Aransen and his squadron. The inn, he claimed, did not prove satisfactory during his initial tour of the facility because it lacked a source of water and a functional heating plant. He told Diabilos that he'd pointed these problems out to me, but that I'd done nothing to correct them.

What a liar!

Excessively frequent and harsh discipline, meted without mercy upon my men, constituted the next theme of prosecution. Sergeant Vitus testified that I'd threatened to emasculate him and pressed my saber against the chest of Lieutenant Hicks for what he called "minor" offenses. The sergeant gracefully omitted what I'd caught his men doing, suggesting, as he verbally danced around the topic, that his squadron had been engaged in releasing pent-up energy, as young line soldiers are inclined to do.

My order to Lieutenant Hicks to care for the female Tamarian soldier underwent a miraculous transformation. Braegan claimed in one part of his argument, that in providing food and shelter for her, I was giving aid to the enemy. Later in the afternoon, he attested that after the woman had been heard screaming for food and water, my "callous" neglect of her constituted cruelty toward a prisoner. The death of Lieutenant Hicks, whom I had charged with her care, coupled with the fact that I had been fighting in the foothills for a week under his orders conveniently escaped the legate's recall of facts.

Similarly, my "needless" attack on Dieter became a sinister plot to reward my men with superior living accommodations in exchange for their silence regarding my renegade conduct. Because the messenger never arrived to tell them, my mortar crew didn't receive the orders to move north with the rest of us. Braegan interpreted this as favoritism toward my infantry and engineering troops, as well as a snub against his authority because my mortar unit remained in place, contrary to his orders.

Of course, several officers present at the court martial recalled the legate's anger at me when I had argued for my mortar crew to remain in their position. This incident appeared to establish Braegan's contention that he'd been too long tolerant of my personal disrespect and refusal to follow orders.

Then, he talked about the incident with Centurion Cavelli, the cavalry officer, stating categorically that I'd ordered the men under his command – who had not been seen since – to advance and engage the enemy without infantry support. Braegan suggested that I did this to gain favor as an aggressive centurion commander in the eyes of the senior officers.

When Vice-general Diabilos requested the written record of this incident, Legate Braegan's signature appeared on the bottom of the document. He had not been there, so I was not at all surprised that my own report, as senior officer present, did not make it into the court record. Further, acting as my own counsel with no advance preparation and no ability to call witnesses, I could not rebut the accusation.

Extending his argument, Braegan contended that I engaged the enemy before an adequate number of troops and artillery had come up to support the attack, resulting in heavy losses. He stated that I had no authority to initiate hostilities, which was quite true and understood by everyone present, even though I did have the right to respond in defense of an enemy attack.

My battle actions faced constant criticism, despite the fact that my men successfully forced the Tamarians out of their prepared positions and into a headlong retreat. Braegan claimed that my request for relief was a ruse to cover command incompetence because it came after my failure to support an artillery unit in a heated fire fight.

When the pair of guards I had ordered Sergeant Hanibal to lock in a closet stepped forward to offer their testimony, the smirk of triumph on Braegan's face nearly burst into open laughter. The credibility of their story, coupled with their objectivity magnified the only real mistake I'd made in my career, and after this, I gave up any hope of defending myself.

Interestingly, the deed for which I had been arrested never came up for discussion. The court's silence on this issue, the one time I had openly defied a direct order, illustrated the injustice of these proceedings.

Following a contemptuous summary of my behavior as an officer, Vice-general Diabilos read formal charges of insubordination, incompetence and treason. He had me stand and asked me if I had anything to say in my defense, as if my most eloquent words might serve to exonerate my name against overwhelming evidence.

"No," I replied, drawing knowing nods and murmurs from those in attendance.

A brief exchange of whispers among the officer's panel pronounced my sentence with greater effect than a scream. In a stately manner, Diabilos stood and cleared his throat. "This high court of the Northern Liberation Army finds Centurion Commander Dathan Herulus guilty on all counts," he stated. "We hereby impose the sanction of execution by firing squad, to be carried out at noon tomorrow. This court is dismissed."

Although the verdict seemed as predictable as daybreak, its official announcement chilled my soul and left me feeling a deeper despair than words can describe. A desperate desire to survive surged through my mind. I felt like a drowning man gasping for air at the surface of a whirlpool, fighting constant tension between every conclusion my reason had drawn and the intense despondency of a soul wanting to stay alive.

While being led back to my cell, I passed by a window and noticed that the courtyard, which had been crowded with enlisted men and junior officers, now lay deserted. I overheard talk among senior commanders about a flanking maneuver and troop redeployment, but I didn't realize the significance of this discussion.

Unable to sleep that night, I saw flashes of light against the far wall of my cell and listened to a low rumble spread across the Saradon. Hours later, the awesome, unmistakable roar of six inch artillery mingled with the fearful shriek that preceded heavy rocket impacts.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I rested fitfully. My slumber was haunted by visions of impending death, recurring throughout the lonely darkness like night terrors stalking a frightened child. My mind imagined narrow escapes from the firing squad, only to continually confront the dreadful event in its chilling finality.

A sudden, terrifying explosion jolted me from slumber in the weak light of daybreak. Somehow, I'd been aware of the artillery sounds drawing closer, but the direction of the sound had changed and I could tell that lighter guns were now firing. Mortar tubes within the compound opened up several minutes later, followed by rifles fired from within the inn's old walls.

When I heard the sound of keys beyond my door, I knew the dreaded hour had come early. The guard told me that he'd just received orders to take me upstairs without breakfast. When I asked him what was going on in the courtyard, he laughed and shook his head.

Bitter cold and harsh wind bit through my skin as I preceded my escort outside. The thought of going to a place of eternal burning and never having to suffer through another moment of winter seemed mildly comforting as I waited in line for my date with death.

Most of the men being shot had deserted, but not made it through our picket lines. The blonde-haired barbarian woman whom I'd rescued stared at me until the execution crew put a black hood over her head. She stood motionless while the firing squad readied its rifles, then she flailed wildly when the rounds impacted her body.

I stepped over her discarded corpse, disgusted by the impotent futility of my attempt to save her from harm. An expression of shock remained frozen on her face. This was the last thing I saw before the hood that had just covered her head came down over mine.

The sound like shredding glass and the screams of dying men assailed my ears. I heard the loud, rippled cracking of rifle fire and braced myself for an impact that never came. Hundreds of small explosions burst in a frenzied swarm of sound accompanied by the sharp sting of shrapnel pelting my skin. I stood, blinded, for an interminable time.

Screams of rage and agony, the clash of metal, small arms fire and the crunching of many boots filled the courtyard. Commands shouted in a tongue I could not understand became clear as the din of a brief but intense battle died down. Off to my right I heard a female voice speaking my language.

Confused, not grasping the significance of what was happening, I didn't initially comprehend the meaning of the words and didn't think to respond. Someone forcefully removed the executioner's hood, twisting my head downward with such power I thought my neck would break. For a moment, the light hurt, but as my vision cleared, astonishment overwhelmed my soul and stopped my heart for a moment.

The Lithian girl who'd spared my life in Shirak stood in front of me!

She was dressed in a barbarian uniform spattered with blood, but the lines of her face were unmistakable. Stunned to find me beneath the executioner's hood, she stood back and gasped, covering her mouth.

Next to her stood a broad-shouldered barbarian boy, young as the original defenders of the Ice Dragon Inn. His eyes glared vengefully as he dropped the mask in his right hand. He held a large caliber rifle with a blood-smeared bayonet that moved purposefully toward my heart . . .

"No!" the girl shouted, pulling the weapon away. "Garrick, please don't kill him!"

The young man shook his head. "He deserves to die."

She moved between us, holding her hands outward, like a frail shield protecting me from his wrath. "Yes," she replied. "He's your enemy. I know you'd feel justified in taking his life, but when will the killing stop?"

His eyes flashed between hers and mine. I could sense the struggle between his instinct and the restraint inspired by the girl's intercession. I could tell he felt eager to finish me off, but she didn't back down.

Are no different than your enemy?" she asked, her voice almost pleading. "Right now you have the power to either take his life or preserve it. What is more noble? Allfather alone is just in judgment, but Allfather God, who has every right to condemn, loves mercy. Justice without mercy is tyranny!"

To my great relief, he believed she was right.

**Epilogue:** _My Farewell to the Empire_

The verdicts of history depend to a large extent on the biases of whoever happens to write down the events. Tamarian military records, however, were surprisingly honest in assessing the impact of the Azgaril invasion. Written reports described the conflict in a factual manner, avoiding the self-congratulatory language employed by analysts on the opposing side.

General Ziegler's bold flanking maneuver succeeded in recapturing the Ice Dragon Inn, but the venerable complex traded sides twice again as the two armies fought each other through the deepening winter. By the time Lord General Balinor retreated across the Tualitin River, artillery and rocket barrages had reduced its proud buildings to heaps of smoldering rubble.

The Tamarians declined to boast of their eventual triumph because their senior officers realized that extreme cold, disease, starvation and desertion played significant roles in driving back the invader. As small-scale skirmishes and artillery duels continued across the Tualitin for many weeks, the Tamarian political leadership renewed its mutual defense treaty with King Alejo in Kameron.

Lord General Balinor established fortified frontier outposts within sight of the Tamarian border and consolidated his hold on lands already conquered. When an envoy from the giant king arrived, he ordered the messenger stripped of his clothes and sent north again. Diplomatic relations between the Azgar and the giants were never reestablished.

Repairs commenced on the firebase at Dead Hand Ridge before the spring break up arrived. Debates raged within the Tamarian military leadership concerning the impact of weapons, tactics and training. Many high ranking officers believed the Azgaril invasion required new thinking, with greater stress on maneuver and a complete redesign of Tamarian arms, especially the big, heavy infantry rifle. Traditionalists pointed out that while the large caliber weapons remained effective against giants, the army had done well in using them against a human army, and any move to small bore carbines would require the stocking of two separate arsenals.

Legate Braegan survived in battle against the Tamarian Seventh Infantry. He was promoted after Vice-general Diabilos was slain in a heavy rocket attack and returned to Marioch the following spring. His military experience brought notoriety, and he won an appointment as a regional governor over an area once controlled by Lord Velez, Brenna's father.

Lord Nemesio Fang lost a fortune when his fleet sank in the Virgin River, but his extensive land holdings provided a cushion against the disaster. When markets in the profitable opium caught his attention, he expanded his personal army and equipped his men with modern firearms. As Southern Kameron slid into civil war, Lord Fang used the conflict as a means to plot revenge against the Velez family.

Woodwind took the underground rail to Burning Tree shortly after the Tamarian army lifted the siege of Dead Hand Ridge. He spent much of the winter in a frustrating search for Brenna, finding her many weeks later when the Tamarian Seventh Infantry rotated out of the fight and returned to base at Burning Tree. Colonel Brandt recommended Woodwind for an Iron Star, and he became the only foreigner decorated for military service in defense of the Republic.

Brenna wrote a long letter to her family, expressing regret that she might have hurt anyone by not returning home as planned. She outlined her experience following the demise of Shirak, including, to Woodwind's surprise, an honest description of her love for Garrick. Brenna remained in Tamaria with him, serving with Fourth Platoon – despite the blinding snow – until the war ended.

Sergeant Krebes recommended Garrick as a candidate for Officer Training School after the young man proved himself a capable fighter and leader on the battlefield. Garrick never received public recognition for his perilous journey to Burning Tree. The event became a minor footnote in his dossier, but Garrick attracted the attention of important senior officers because of his relationship with Brenna, who showed outstanding courage as a medic. In early spring the army sent him to Marvic, Tamaria's capital city, where he intended to reunite with his brother, sister, and introduce them to the Lithian woman he loved.

After the spring break-up, Woodwind traveled down the Desolation River into Kameron with Brenna's letter, wandering slowly toward Helena. His wartime experience and the end of his hope for marrying Brenna left him feeling listless. Lynden granted Woodwind freedom, yet the two remained in close contact. The young man found a new mission working with elite forces operating secretly in the wilds of Northern Kameron.

Growing political unrest forced Lord Velez to take Tegene's advice and modernize his army. Though he did not wish to seek outside funding for his planned economic revitalization, the investment he sought created a web of interest that extended far beyond his own territory. Some local residents felt betrayed by this growing, foreign influence, but without these connections, increasing turmoil brewing in the south would have quickly ended their dreams of property ownership.

I, Dathan Herulus, spent the winter in a Tamarian prison camp. Four months after my court martial, I faced another trial, this one for crimes against the Tamarian people. Again, I did not contest my guilt, but thanks in part to a detailed deposition written in my defense and signed by Garrick Ravenwood, I was sentenced to thirty months of forced labor rather than death.

After this, I walked out of prison camp a completely free man. The Azgaril army lay poised to pounce upon Kameron, but I remained in Tamaria. In my own quiet way, I had bidden farewell to all ambitions of empire.

****

Thank you for reading the 15th anniversary edition of The Edge of Justice. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed the story, the first installment of the Deveran Conflict Series.

Other titles include:

The Long Journey

Crisis

Ceremonies and Celebrations

Dreams and Missions

The Inquest

Secrets and Whispers

Novellas in the same milieu include:

The Girl in the Game

The Hollow Solitude

Four Days to Freedom

More information on the Deveran milieu and characters can be found at the newadventure web site:

www.newadventure.ca
