The Road to Hell

Chapter Thirty-Six

February 24

“Well, another day, another portal.”

Therman Ulthar looked up from his steaming mug of bitterblack as Jaralt Sarma sat on the large rock beside him. It was a gray, cold evening, moving steadily towards full dark, with a miserable drizzle dusting downward, and the vista through the portal before them was less than welcoming, to say the very least. Especially for Ulthar.

“The last time I was this way,” he said, “there were trees on the other side of this one. Mind you, I wasn’t paying them a lot of attention at the time. Getting shot with one of those damned rifles puts a damper on your sightseeing. But this…”

He shook his head, and Sarma grunted in agreement, although the last time he’d crossed that portal the land on the other side had been blackened and still smoking while hooves and dragon wings stirred up torrents of bitter, clinging ash. It had been like a foretaste of Shartahk’s own hell, but he had to admit that even that had looked more welcoming than this.

It was winter on both sides of the portal, but the other side wasn’t just much colder, with snow falling heavily on a steady wind from the northwest. It was also far bleaker, with snags of burned stumps sticking up through the snow. Some of the bigger forest giants seemed to have survived the torrent of fire which had burned out a thousand square miles of woodland, but if they had, they were clearly in the minority. Either way, it would be impossible to be certain until spring, when they’d either leaf once more…or not. For now, the universe both Arcana and Sharona had agreed to call Hell’s Gate looked very much like its name: a barren, blackened drift of dead trees, burned snags, and blowing snow where the current temperature hovered far, far below freezing.

“It’s not too late to change our minds and head for Fort Rycharn,” Sarma said after a moment. Ulthar looked at him sharply, and the short, stocky fifty shrugged. “I’m not saying I think it’s a wonderful idea, but at least it’d be warmer. And once we cross over into that”-he twitched his head at the uninviting terrain beyond the portal-“we’re going to be moving hell for leather and any air patrol that spots us is going to wonder what the hells we’re doing. If we made for the Mahritha portal we’d at least be heading towards our people instead of obviously avoiding them! And I’m pretty sure Five Hundred Klian would at least listen to us before he slapped us into the brig.”

“Something to be said for that, I guess,” Ulthar replied after a moment. “Personally, though, I think the idea really sucks.”

“That’s one of the things I like about you, Therman. That tact and exquisite sensitivity to the sensibilities of others.”

“Screw tact. Are you seriously suggesting we do that?”

“No.” Sarma sipped his own bitterblack. “The notion does possess a certain comfort quotient, though. We’ve been completely off the grid ever since the mutiny, in more ways than one. Don’t you find it at least a little tempting to consider getting back into a world we know about?”

“No, not at the moment.” Ulthar leaned forward to lift the bitterblack pot from the heating crystal and refresh his mug. “And not just because I don’t think for a minute that the Five Hundred could keep us alive long enough for anyone else to listen to us. We still owe Regiment-Captain Velvelig and his people for the way they were treated, Jaralt. We both gave the Regiment-Captain our word to accept his orders, too, and all the Sharonians have more than pulled their weight getting us this far. Besides, I’ve come to the conclusion the Regiment-Captain’s probably smarter than both of us put together.”

“And trying to change plans at this point would be a really good way to touch off a firefight we might not survive. You forgot that bit,” Sarma said dryly.

“I’m damned sure it would touch off a firefight.” Ulthar snorted. “For that matter, at least some of our boys would side with the Sharonians. They’ve done the math on what’s likely to happen if whoever’s behind all this gets his hands on us before we hear back from Duke Garth Showma.”

“You’re probably right. But I didn’t broach the idea to suggest we should do it, Therman. I’m bringing it up because it’s occurred to me that it’s entirely possible one or two of our people might be thinking that making a run for Fort Rycharn and turning the rest of us in would be a way to get their own arses out of the dragon’s reach.”

“I don’t think I like that thought very much,” Ulthar said after a long pause.

“I don’t either, but we need to be thinking about it. And as you just pointed out, Regiment-Captain Velvelig’s smart enough to be thinking the same sort of thoughts. I think it would be a really good idea for the two of us-and Sahrimahn-to make sure we’re on the same page he is.”

“You’re probably right.” Ulthar’s scowled down into his mug and grimaced. “Damn, I don’t like that thought. I really don’t.”

“The good news is that I’m probably worrying more than I ought to,” Sarma said. “I mean, if anyone really wanted to desert, he could’ve done it when we crossed into New Uromath.”

“Yeah, but at that point they’d’ve been in the middle of nowhere, with the rest of us wondering where they’d gone,” Ulthar pointed out. “The entire garrison at that excuse for a portal fort couldn’t’ve been more than fifty or sixty men. If we’d had to take it out instead of sneaking around it, we sure as hells had the firepower for it, and that was the only place they could’ve gone. I’m pretty sure most of them are smart enough to figure out what the rest of us-and especially the Regiment-Captain-would’ve done if we’d figured out they’d gone running to the fort to report us. No,” he shook his head, “if anybody’s really thinking about turning his coat on us, he’ll wait until he has a clear run for Mahritha.”

“Probably,” Sarma acknowledged. “If it’s any comfort, anybody who might be thinking that way’s almost certainly one of my boys or Sahrimahn’s cavalry. Your Second Andarans are about as all in on this as it’s possible for someone to be!”

“Well, of course they are!” Ulthar’s frown turned into a grin. “Unlike the rest of you, we know exactly what the Duke’s going to do. By now Arylis has to’ve delivered my report to him, and none of my boys have any doubt about what’s been heading down-chain towards us ever since. So we’re not in any hurry to be throwing ourselves into the dragon’s mouth in the meantime.”

“Faith,” Sarma observed, sipping bitterblack, “is a wonderful thing. I just hope to Hali it’s not misplaced.”

* * *

“Ready to proceed, Regiment-Captain,” Therman Ulthar said an hour later as he reined in his unicorn beside Namir Velvelig and Company-Captain Traisair Halath-Shodach, Velvelig’s senior surviving subordinate. His tone was rather more formal than the one he normally used when addressing the Sharonian he’d come to know so well over the last several weeks. Sarma and Fifty Sahrimahn Cothar came cantering up behind him, their unicorns moving with the almost feline stride to which Velvelig had finally become accustomed.

“Any cold feet on your side?” he asked now, raising one eyebrow by perhaps a thirty-second of an inch. For a moment, Ulthar looked blank, then grimaced once the spellware came up with the Andaran equivalent of the cliche.

“Not that we know of, Sir,” he replied, glancing at his fellow Arcanans. “Everyone’s present and accounted for at the moment, at any rate.” He looked back at Velvelig and shrugged. “Actually, Jaralt and I were rather hoping that particular concern wouldn’t have occurred to you. Not that we figured there was much chance it wouldn’t.”

“People are people, Therman, whether they’re Arcanan or Sharonian. Much as I didn’t think I’d ever say this while I was locked up in my own brig, your lads are about as good and solid troops as I’ve ever seen. They’d be more than human if at least some of them weren’t thinking about it, though.”

“The thought had occurred to me, too, Sir,” Halath-Shodach said, stroking his flowing mustache with a gloved finger. “But to be honest, I haven’t seen any sign of its occurring to any of Fifty Ulthar’s men.” He smiled a bit crookedly. “Maybe they’re just not as corruptible as Sharonians.”

“Oh, we’re just as corruptible,” Ulthar replied a bit more grimly. “That’s what we’re all doing out here, after all-coping with someone’s corruptibility.”

“But not your boys’ corruptibility,” Halath-Shodach said. As a Shurkhali, he’d been filled with just as much hate for all things Arcanan over Shaylar’s death as any garthan in the Arcanan Army had been infuriated by Halathyn vos Dulainah’s “murder” at Sharonian hands. And like his Arcanan trail companions, he’d had to do some profound rethinking once he learned the truth. In the process, he’d become something suspiciously close to an Arcanan sympathizer.

Where some Arcanans were concerned, at any rate.

“I don’t know if I’d go as far as Traisahr, Regiment-Captain, but I think we’re good,” Cothar said, meeting the Sharonians’ eyes levelly. Velvelig gazed back at the cavalry officer for a moment, then nodded.

“In that case, I think it’s time we were going. I trust your little navigating rock is ready?”

“It is,” Ulthar assured him, lifting his navigation unit and showing him the activated display. At the moment, it was still oriented to New Uromath; the instant they crossed back into Hell’s Gate it would shift to the stored navigational data for that universe, although only a sixty mile radius around the Mahritha portal had been mapped and loaded when Sarma and Cothar passed through on their way towards Thermyn. A broader upload was undoubtedly available by now, but what they had was enough for their present need.

Velvelig glanced at the glowing display and nodded. He wasn’t fully enamored of trusting his navigation to someone who was technically the enemy, but the Arcanan device was clearly better than anything he had. And at least he knew the rough compass bearing to their destination, which should tip him off if they started steering him in the wrong direction for some reason. Of course, seeing his compass was going to be just a bit difficult under the circumstances, he reflected, unable to suppress a stab of envy as he looked at that lighted display.

Oh, come on, Namir! he told himself. What kind of sorry excuse for a septman needs a compass to find his way around even on the darkest night? And in the snow? When he can’t see a damned thing? Anyway, the damned glow’s probably visible a thousand yards away in the dark! Not exactly the best thing in the world when you’re sneaking around in the shrubbery. Assuming the damned forest fire’d left any shrubbery, anyway.

His lip twitched in the fractional lift that served him for a smile and he raised one hand, waving at the darkness before them.

“After you, then,” he said.

* * *

The snowfall thickened as full night fell. It didn’t quite qualify for the term “blizzard,” but it was clearly headed that way. In fact, it ought to reach it in the next few hours, which pleased the fugitives no end. Dragons didn’t mind snow, but few of their riders were particularly fond of it. And even if the inclement weather didn’t ground any potential overflights, not even a dragon would see much on a night like this. The snow which already blanketed the burned out forest was more than a little treacherous underfoot, and it was deep enough to hide the kind of obstacles which could break a horse’s-or even a unicorn’s-leg entirely too easily, but it also made the night seem less dark.

They produced what seemed like an incredible racket slogging through the snow. In fact, Velvelig knew, there was actually very little noise, considering the number of men and vehicles moving through the dark. It was only tight nerves and adrenaline that made it seem so loud. And even if it had been just as loud as it seemed, the Hell’s Gate portal was what the Arcanans called a Class Eight, just over thirty-six miles across. There was no way in all the Arpathian hells the Arcanans at what had been Fort Shaylar could hope to cover that kind of frontage on a night like this-and he didn’t care if they did have magic to do it with!

He’d never heard of portals as close together as the Hell’s Gate cluster, but he thanked his ancestors’ ghosts for it. The swamp portal to the universe the Arcanans had dubbed Mahritha was thirty miles from the Hell’s Gate itself, but one of the other portals was barely half that far away. In fact, it was close enough that they ought to reach it easily before what ought to have been sunrise, assuming the cloud cover broke enough for there to be a sunrise.

Namir Velvelig was Arpathian, born and bred to the steppes, and he hated close country. He especially hated jungle, if he was going to be honest, but under some circumstances, jungles had a great deal to recommend them. For one thing, they offered lots of hiding places. And, for another, as hard as rain forests could be on equipment and clothing, they never got cold enough for hypothermia to kill his men.

* * *

“Marshan’s mercies, but that feels good,” one of the Arcanans said, and Master-Armsman Hordal Karuk nodded in profound agreement.

He had no idea at all who “Marshan” was. As an Arpathian, he had too many demons of his own to keep track of to worry about all the other Sharonian deities be, much less about heathen Arcanan pantheons! But he was heartily in favor of staying on the good side of any divine being who specialized in mercies, and the blessed warmth blowing into their faces constituted the greatest mercy he’d encountered since leaving Fort Ghartoun.

“Does feel nice,” he agreed. “But let’s hold up for a minute till the rest catch up a bit.”

“Right, Master-Armsman,” the Arcanan replied. Or, rather, his crystal replied for him. What he’d actually said was probably something like “Sure, Master Sword,” but by now Karuk was almost accustomed to the damned twinkly rocks.

He chuckled mentally at the thought and eased himself in the unicorn’s saddle. Unlike his regiment-captain, he’d decided early on that the horned beasties were vastly superior to horses. As an Arpathian, he wasn’t supposed to admit anything of the sort. As someone whose arse had spent entirely too many hours making the acquaintance of entirely too many saddles, however, he approved enthusiastically of unicorns. It might be a tad inconvenient to have a mount who might nip off your arm if it got hungry, but that was a small price to pay for all of the other good points.

He’d also decided, much to his own astonishment, that he rather liked most of the Arcanans in their…diverse party. He hadn’t expected that, even after they’d broken him and the other POWs out of their own brig, yet it was true. He’d spent too many years in uniform not to recognize the Arcanans’ hard core of professionalism, and those same years told him how hard it must have been for them to turn against their own superiors, whatever the provocation, over what amounted to a matter of principle and conscience. He wasn’t sure he bought into the notion that someone with motives of his own had deliberately fanned the flames for the current war, but he’d found he had no choice but to believe these men were simply doing their duty the best way they could in one hell of a messy situation. And the fact that they were said some things which were at least hopeful about the society and military which had produced men willing to run such risks in the name of their army’s honor.

“Have we lost anybody, Master-Armsman?” a voice asked quietly from beside him, and he snorted.

“Now why should we be losing anybody, Evarl?”

“Are telling me Regiment-Captain Velvelig didn’t discuss that possibility with you?” Thermyn Ulthar’s senior surviving noncom replied. “Fifty Ulthar and Fifty Sarma sure as hells both discussed it with me!”

“Ah, well, that’s the sort of thing officers’re paid to worry about, isn’t it?” Karuk turned to glance at the Arcanan, whose face was faintly visible in the backwash from his navigating crystal. “You and me, we’re a bit closer to the lads than that.”

“Have to admit that once they brought it up I was a little nervous,” Evarl Harnak acknowledged. “Couldn’t think of anyone who was likely to hightail it, though, once I put my mind to it.”

“Me neither,” Karuk told him. “Seems to me your boys are pretty solid.”

“Yours, too. ’Course for mine there’s the problem that if that bastard Thalmayr’s story’s gotten out, anybody we go running to might just shoot first and wonder whether we were innocent bystanders second. That’s got to weigh on the mind of any bastard who’d turn on his squad mates in the first place.”

“That kind does like to keep his skin in one piece, doesn’t he?” Karuk chuckled harshly. “Nice to know some things don’t change from universe to universe, isn’t it?”

“Kind of wish some of them did, just between you and me,” Harnak said.

“You think this Duke of yours really has the reach to straighten this mess out?” It was the first time Karuk had actually asked any of the Arcanans that question, and Harnak cocked his head, green eyes glinting in the light from his crystal.

“I’m not saying I don’t think he’ll try, understand,” Karuk continued. “I’ve got a pretty good idea about you Second Andarans by now, and I reckon your Duke’s probably about as stubborn as the Regiment-Captain. I know damned well what Regiment-Captain Velvelig’d do in a situation like this, and I expect your Duke’ll do the same. But seems to me that whoever’s pushing this thing probably has a line or two in his plans for dealing with the Duke, too. And even if he doesn’t, won’t having his own son right in the middle of this make it harder for him to get a hearing?”

“Trust me, the Fifty’s thought about that, too, whether he wants to admit it or not,” Harnak said after a moment. “On the other hand, I sure as hells wouldn’t want to be the poor sod who got in the Duke’s way when he thinks the Second Andarans’ honor is on the line. Sure, having Sir Jasak ‘in the middle of it’ may…complicate things for him, but not Shartahk himself could stop him in a case like this. And if there’s one Andaran duke in all the multiverse you don’t want pissed off at you, it’s Duke Garth Showma.”

Karuk nodded with immense satisfaction. It wasn’t as if Harnak had just said anything he hadn’t already heard before from Thermyn Ulthar and Jaralt Sarma, but over the years Hordal Karuk had seen quite a few officers with touching faith in fables, magic charms, moonshine, and the honesty of their superiors. Some of them seemed to feel there was some kind of code that required them to believe the official truth even when they knew better. He hadn’t thought Ulthar or Sarma fell into that category, but it was always a relief when a good levelheaded noncom who’d seen the bison confirmed their judgment.

“Well, in that case-” he began, only to stop in midsentence as Regiment-Captain Velvelig and Fifty Ulthar appeared out of the snowy darkness.

“Chelgayr, that feels good!” the regiment-captain said, and Karuk heard something suspiciously like a smothered laugh from Evarl Harnak’s direction.

“Yes, Sir, it does,” the master-armsman agreed, pointedly not looking at his Arcanan colleague. And it was true. The portal’s vestibule was a bubble of blessed warmth. The steady portal wind wasn’t especially strong-or, rather, most of it was going straight up instead of blowing outward at ground level-but there was at least a ninety-degree difference between its starting temperature and snowy northern New Ternathia. That heat bled off quickly, but not before it had produced a zone perhaps three hundred yards deep in which there wasn’t a trace of snow, and the sky on the other side-actually visible, thanks to the clearing that abutted the portal-was a deep, moonlit sapphire sprinkled with the stars of another hemisphere.

“I suppose we should get our arses over where it’s warmer, then,” Velvelig continued and glanced at the two senior noncoms. “Should I assume in your customary efficient manner the two of you have confirmed our nose count?”

“Yes, Sir,” Karuk replied. “Evarl and I’ve been the sort of keeping an eye on that all the way here.”

“I thought you had.” Velvelig produced another of his infinitesimal smiles. “Good noncoms are an officer’s greatest treasure, Hordal. Now we just have to find me one.”

“You go right on looking, Sir,” the master-sword said easily. “Be a comfort to retire and put my feet up in front of the fire when you finally find one.”

Velvelig snorted, conceding the exchange, and twitched his head at the portal.

“Take us through, Hordal.”

“Yes, Sir! Chan Byral!”

“Here, Master-Armsman!”

The tall but slightly built-and very young-Distance Viewer appeared out of the darkness.

“I apologize for disturbing your beauty rest, young Hanyl,” Karuk said in his most fatherly tone, “but if it would be possible for you to spare the Portal Authority a moment of your time, I’d appreciate your taking yourself to the other side of that portal and Looking around. I’m sure Sword Harnak would be happy to ride along and keep you out of mischief.”

“Yes, Master-Armsman.” The youthful Distance Viewer glanced at Evarl Harnak, and the Arcanan shook his head with a smile.

“No rest for the weary,” he observed. “Oh well, Hanyl, I guess we’d best be about it before the Master-Armsman thinks of something else for us to do.”

Chan Byral smiled and sent his unicorn pacing forward.

Behind him, the rest of the column was closing up with remarkable speed, given the weather conditions and terrain. The Portal Authority wagons, floating on the dwindling Arcanan levitation spells, had moved through the treacherous, burned out, snow-covered forest with an ease the Sharonians still found profoundly unnatural. Welcome, yes, but definitely unnatural.

From Namir Velvelig’s perspective, those levitation spells had offered another advantage. The passage of so many unicorns had churned the snow badly enough, but not to the same extent wagons would have under normal circumstances. Given the current heavy snowfall, the traces of their journey between portals should be completely obscured by dawn. He hoped so, anyway. He had a suspicion that tracks in the snow would be glaringly visible to an aerial observer once the clouds broke, and the last thing he wanted were any arrows pointing in the direction of their flight.

Platoon-Captain Sedryk Tobar and Platoon-Captain chan Brano, the most junior of his four surviving line officers, brought up the rear. None of the Arcanans had commented on the fact that their column’s rearguard was solidly Sharonian, or on the fact that Company-Captain Halath-Shodach and Platoon-Captain Larkal just happened to be commanding the scout parties on either flank for tonight’s march. To be honest, he wouldn’t have expected them to complain about it, but he’d seen no sign of silent resentment on their part, either. He doubted very many of them could have failed to understand why Tobar and chan Brano were keeping an eye on things, but rather than resenting it, what he’d seen the most evidence of was satisfaction. They knew what would happen to them if they fell into the wrong hands, and they were strongly in favor of anything likely to prevent that from happening.

Now the regiment-captain watched through the portal as Harnak and chan Byral rode into the humid, blessedly warm rain forest and paused. Not for the first time he wished they had at least one Plotter, although a rain forest was probably so stuffed with living critters as to knock any Plotter’s reach back to little more than range of sight. He also would have liked to send chan Byral through the portal’s other aspect, as well, to let him get a good Look around the huge blind spot it created, but they didn’t have enough time for that.

Several minutes passed. Then chan Byral’s unicorn came trotting back across into Hell’s Gate.

“I don’t See anything I shouldn’t, Sir,” he told Velvelig with a salute. “I’m not saying there isn’t anything out there-just that if there is, it’s well enough hidden I’m not going to pick it up in the dark. There’s no sign of any Arcanan pickets, anyway.”

“I suppose that’s the best we’re going to get,” the regiment-captain said simply. “Let’s go.”

He touched his unicorn with his heel and started across the interface between universes. The air grew steadily warmer as he approached the actual portal; by the time he crossed it, he was shedding his gloves, unbuttoning his heavy coat, and already sweating heavily. Not that he had any intention of complaining.

The damp, powerful, earthy smells of riotous vegetation enveloped him, and the sound of night birds and gods only knew what other night-roaming creatures filled the darkness with a welcome chorus of living things. After the cold winter weather of their journey, the sudden flood of noise was as welcome as the gentle breeze stirring the night and he drew rein to remove his coat completely and hang it on the pommel of his saddle while he turned and watched the rest of the column follow him into the nameless universe.

He couldn’t see much, and all he really knew about this particular universe was that the portal probably opened somewhere in the Dalazan Rain Forest. There’d been no time for any further exploration before everything went to hell, which meant that probability had never been definitively confirmed. They’d probably get a chance to do something about that, assuming they could find another break in the overhead canopy and establish exactly when local noon occurred. The PAAF was as accustomed to taking noon sights to establish latitude and longitude as any mariner, for obvious reasons. The problem would be finding the aforesaid break. The area immediately around the portal was choked with thick, luxuriant herbaceous varieties: vines, leafy ferns, low-growing shrubbery. Clearly something-possibly the formation of the portal itself-had killed back the towering hundred-foot high trees beyond that tangle and let in the sunlight which had created such an explosion of growth. He had no intention of hanging about this close to the portal, however, and once they’d gotten a few hundred yards further in-universe, they’d be back in typical triple-canopy jungle, where undergrowth was blessedly uncommon and the sun and stars were seldom seen.

The column flowed past him, not without difficulty given the thickness of the ground cover. Even the floating wagons found the going difficult. The vegetation was dense enough-and tall enough-to catch at their wheels as they floated over it, and even if it hadn’t been, the draft animals had to work hard to force their own way forward, far less haul the wagons with them. Velvelig was trying very hard not to glower at the column’s glacial progress when one of Platoon-Captain Zynach Larkal’s men trotted up to him.

“There’s some sort of game trail to the east, Sir,” Armsman 1/c Shalsan Thykyl reported, and Velvelig wasn’t even tempted to ask how he could be so sure of that in the dark. Thykyl was the best of the 127th Regiment’s scouts and the finest hunter Namir Velvelig had ever seen anywhere. If he said there was a game trail, there was a game trail.

“Is it wide enough for these damned wagons?”

“’Pears to be, Sir.” Thykyl turned in the saddle to point back the way he’d come. “Wouldn’t be if they had to run on their wheels, but on the Arcanans’ crystals the unicorns should be able to get ’em through. There’s a nasty steep ridge up there ahead of us, too. Trail looks like our best way up it.” He turned back with a smile. “Always trust animals to find the easy way, I say, Sir.”

“Or the easiest way, at least,” Velvelig agreed. “All right. Go find Master-Armsman Karuk and tell him we’re changing course. Then show him this trail of yours.”

“Yes, Sir.” Thykyl saluted and sent his unicorn in search of the master-armsman singular while Velvelig moved back to the very edge of the portal to halt the rest of the column until they got its head straightened out.

* * *

“Well thank Hali Thykyl found that trail,” Therman Ulthar said with profound gratitude.

He rode once again at Regiment-Captain Velvelig’s side, as the weary column reassembled itself back into a semblance of order behind them. There’d been times while they wrestled the wagons through the undergrowth-even with the game trail, that had been no picnic-when Ulthar had entertained serious doubts about the practicality of using this universe as their refuge. Dense jungle might be as ideal for evading pursuers as Velvelig said it was, but one had to get to it first and it had seemed unlikely the wagons would let them do that.

The game trail had made it possible, but no one in his right mind would have called the task easy. Once or twice, he’d been tempted to suggest simply abandoning their vehicles. The thought of leaving behind all of the Sharonian weapons and ammunition they’d hauled with them-especially the mortars and machine guns-had been unpalatable, but they probably could have packed the truly essential supplies on unicornback. Of course, leaving the wagons just inside the portal would also have been a dead giveaway to anyone looking for them who happened to glance this way, and there were plenty of things in those wagons which might not be truly essential but were certainly very good to have along. So it was fortunate they hadn’t had to abandon anything after all.

“Agreed,” Velvelig said now. “Of course, it’s fairly obvious which way we went, for now, at least. The one good thing about jungle like that, though, is how quickly it grows back. Give us a few days-a couple of weeks at the outside-and somebody would have to look really, really closely to see that anyone had passed through.”

He sounded, Ulthar thought, like a man trying to convince himself he was being clever rather than a man who didn’t care to admit how much he hated this kind of terrain.

“You’re right about that, Sir,” he said helpfully, then shook his head. “I never would’ve thought of heading this way on my own, but Jaralt was right. If you’re looking for a place to hide from dragons and recon gryphons, this kind of jungle takes some beating.”

“I know.” Velvelig’s tone was undeniably sour. “I know, but the rain and the humidity are going to play hell with our equipment.”

“They won’t do ours any favors, either,” Ulthar admitted. “We don’t have as many moving parts to rust solid as you do, but sarkolis doesn’t really like this kind of sustained heat and humidity, either. The crystals issued to the Army are as climate-proofed as anybody can make them, but we still have to take Graholis’ own extra precautions. And you don’t want to see what the gearing on an arbalest looks like after a couple of weeks of this kind of weather. As for sword blades-!”

He rolled his eyes, and Velvelig chuckled.

“Probably not any worse than what it does to our bayonets,” he suggested. “Axe blades and machetes, too, for that matter. But at least it gives the noncoms something else to keep the men busy with!”

“I think that’s what they call finding a bright side to look on, Sir,” Ulthar said dryly, and Velvelig chuckled again, harder.

“Oh, I don’t know. When you come to it-”

CRRAAAACK!

Namir Velvelig froze, his head jerking around in astonishment, as the single rifleshot set twice a hundred birds into raucous, terrified flight. The racket was deafening, but that wasn’t what froze him in place. No, what stopped him dead in his tracks was the fact that the shot had come not from any of his men but from somewhere in the jungle ahead of them.

“Column, halt!”

Halath-Shodach headed their column at the moment. His bellowed command stopped their entire party as effectively as the gunshot had already stopped Velvelig, and the regiment-captain nodded in approval. Then he sent his own unicorn cantering-except, of course, that unicorns didn’t “canter;” they loped-to the front, Ulthar at his side. By the time they reached the column’s point, Halath-Shodach had dismounted and was peering through his binoculars.

“Can’t see a damned thing, Sir,” he confessed, looking up as Velvelig halted beside him. “Has to be out there somewhere, though. And whoever it is, it’s sure as hell not an Arcanan, unless he’s acquired a Model 10 somewhere.”

“What it sounded like to me, too,” Velvelig agreed. He was staring intently into the dim, shadowed depths of the jungle while his mind raced. Was it possible someone had survived the destruction of Balkar chan Tesh’s Copper Company after all? But if they had, how in Kreegair’s name had they gotten here? They were the better part of fifty miles from the swamp portal! Besides-

“Regiment-Captain Velvelig! I certainly didn’t expect to see you here!”

The voice-raised to carry but almost conversational in tone-floated out of the jungle. It was a voice, Velvelig realized incredulously, that he recognized…and speaking Arpathian.

“It seems you’re an even harder man to kill than I thought, Platoon-Captain Arthag!” he shouted back after a moment in the same language, and it was difficult to maintain a proper Arpathian imperturbability. “Would you care to come out and talk to me, or should I come in and talk to you…wherever the hells you are?”

“Oh, I imagine I can come out. And I hope you won’t take this wrongly, Sir, but until we’re sure you’re in charge, the rest of us will just stay out here with our rifles and keep an eye on things.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, Platoon-Captain,” Velvelig replied with a faint smile.

* * *

“So when we spotted you and saw the unicorns and the wagons floating a foot off the ground, then saw all those fellows in Arcanan uniform, we were pretty sure the bastards had finally gotten around to hunting us down. Fortunately, our lookouts spotted quite a few PAAF uniforms, too, and the people wearing them didn’t seem to be prisoners. Then Hulmok got a good look at you through his binoculars, Sir. After that, it seemed like a good idea to at least give you a chance to explain what in Saramash’s name was going on instead of just shooting you.”

“I’m glad it did, Platoon-Captain chan Baskay,” Velvelig said dryly. “I’ve discovered I have a constitutional objection to being shot. And you can’t have been any more surprised to see us than we are to see you. We didn’t think anyone had gotten away.”

“Not many did, Sir,” Dorzon chan Baskay, Viscount Simrath, said grimly, and his expression as he looked at the three Arcanan fifties seated behind the regiment-captain could have been carved out of flint. “If not for Hulmok’s Talent, they’d have caught us as flat-footed as they must’ve caught Company-Captain chan Tesh. As it was, sixteen of his boys didn’t make it.”

“I can imagine.” Unlike chan Baskay’s face, Velvelig’s was expressionless-he was an Arpathian septman, after all-but his voice was equally harsh. “Most of my men at Fort Ghartoun didn’t have any more chance than yours did. And I’m fairly certain what you’re thinking. But Fifty Ulthar was already a prisoner in my custody at the time of the attack. He didn’t have anything to do with it, and Fifty Sarma and Fifty Cothar-and all their men, for that matter-put their necks right into the noose to get what was left of my people out alive. For that matter, my own Sifter’s confirmed that everything they’ve told me is the truth. And none of my people would be here now if not for them and their assistance.”

Chan Baskay glared at the three Arcanans for another few seconds. Then his nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply.

“Point taken, Sir,” he said quietly. “And, to be honest, we’ve had confirmation of our own that something about this whole attack stinks to high heaven. Besides the fact that it was a treacherous, cold-blooded ploy from the very beginning, I mean.”

Sarma and Ulthar winced slightly at his last sentence, but they met his hard eyes levelly, and something like a tinge of approval flickered in the depths of those eyes.

“We took three of the Arcanan ‘honor guard’ alive, and all three of them were regular troopers, without any idea what Fifty Narshu and his ‘Special Operations’ assassins had in mind. I didn’t want to believe that, but Trekar”-he twitched his head at Under-Captain Trekar Rothag, sitting beside him-“Sifted them the same way your Sifter did for the fifties.” He shrugged. “So I’m at least open to the possibility that the Arcanan command systematically lied to its own men. In fact, I’m godsdamned certain it did.”

“Excuse me?”

Velvelig cocked his head. The man in front of him looked very little like the immaculately groomed Ternathian cavalry officer who’d passed through Fort Ghartoun on his way to Fallen Timbers as Zindel Calirath’s diplomatic representative. It wasn’t just the inevitable weathered raggedness, either. Unlike his own people, chan Baskay and the survivors of Hulmok Arthag’s guard detail hadn’t been given the opportunity to pick through Fort Ghartoun’s supply rooms before heading off cross-universe, and the jungle had been less than kind to their clothing and uniforms. Their weapons and equipment, however, were spotless, meticulously cleaned and cared for. But the endless weeks he’d spent keeping his tiny command of fugitives together in this jungle, never knowing if-or when-an Arcanan pursuit would come through the portal after them, had toughened more than just his exterior. There was good, solid metal inside Platoon-Captain chan Baskay, and that metal had been hammered into something hard and lethal.

“It happens that one of the Arcanan ‘diplomats’ also survived the ambush attempt,” the platoon-captain said now. “He almost didn’t, but Master Skirvon’s been remarkably…forthcoming, and he’s had ample proof Trekar knows when he’s lying. And that he really, really doesn’t want to lie to me ever again.”

Namir Velvelig was an Arpathian, yet something in the younger man’s tone sent a shiver through him. Somehow he didn’t think he’d want to lie to Dorzon chan Baskay, either.

“Forthcoming, is he?” The regiment-captain’s tone was no more than mildly interested, and Hulmok Arthag, standing behind the seated chan Baskay, grunted.

“Told you you wouldn’t put him off stride, Dorzon,” he said, and chan Baskay snorted a brief laugh.

“Yes. Yes, you did, Hulmok,” he acknowledged, then looked back at Velvelig.

“Yes, ‘forthcoming’ is about the best word for it, Sir. As a matter of fact, he’s tried very hard to come up with something new I’d like to know every day. He seems to be under the impression that his ability to do that has a direct bearing on his longevity.”

“I see. And while he’s been so ‘forthcoming,’ what exactly has he told you?”

“Well, besides the fact that Shaylar and her husband survived the massacre-” He broke off and arched an eyebrow. “You already knew about that, too, Sir?”

“I told you Fifty Ulthar and Fifty Sarma have been as honest with us as they could. For that matter, they didn’t know we didn’t already know they were alive. Would it happen that your ‘forthcoming’ diplomat’s told you why they were so idiotic as to lie about it in the first place?”

“For several reasons, apparently, Sir. The most immediately pressing one was that they didn’t want us to realize how much they’d already learned about the Voices. Not until they were ready to attack and start shooting them out of hand, anyway. But Skirvon’s pretty sure there was more to it than that. In fact, what he’s said dovetails very neatly with what Fifty Ulthar and Fifty Sarma have told you. According to what he’s had to say, they’re absolutely right that someone is deliberately manipulating the situation. Skirvon doesn’t know for certain why, although he’s fairly sure it has to do with politics back home, but he’s pretty damned positive his own government would be really, really pissed off by the way things are being handled out here…assuming it knew the truth, that is. According to him, it’s probably about a confrontation between what he calls the Mythalans and the Andarans-I’m guessing your friends here can give us a better idea of what the hells he’s talking about in that regard-even if he doesn’t have a clue what the end game is supposed to be. But if he’s not sure exactly what the ‘why’ is, he’s pretty damned sure about the ‘who’ who’s behind it. According to him, it’s someone named Nith mul Gurthak, the local governor.”