The once-king's man, now Myghtern in his place, raised his chin and laughed, his laughter echoing eerily in that place of death.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Death Ground.

IN THE SILENT darkness of his room, Ben sat watching the half-tracks rumble through the Clay, their searchlights sweeping across a scene of devastation.

It was an eerie sight, especially the ruined villages, and when Meg came into the room to bring him a snack, she stopped to watch, kneeling beside his chair.

"I can't imagine how they lived," she said. "There's nothing there!"

"It's a desert, true, but even deserts have their own ecologies. You know, there are insects in there, Meg, the size of your thumb. Long, white things with hard chitinous cases. Blind things that hunt by smell alone."

"And Haavikko's going to clear it all out?"

"That's what he says. This part of it, anyway. His engineers are sealing it off to the east of here even now."

She was silent, then. "It's horrible. I keep trying to imagine what it would be like, being a child down there. Never knowing safety or happiness. Never knowing what it's like to see the sunlight."

He looked to her. "The City's little better."

"No, Ben. The City's awful, but that"-she shuddered-"That's hell, surely?"

"Pi Yu, the Han call it. The earth prison. Long before the City existed they believed in it. It was their underworld, their version of our Hell. The City . . . that was to be a Confucian Utopia-a place where every man could find his proper level. What they didn't realize was that in trying to create their ideal of Heaven, they also brought into existence-into literal existence, mind-their ideal of Hell. So it is, I guess. So it always must be. The farther we reach up, the farther down we go."

She stared at him a moment, wondering if that were true, then looked back. Ben had switched the imageand was watching one of the half-tracks from close up.

"Is that Haavikko?"

"Yes."

She studied the screen, smiling. "I thought he was okay."

"For a military type."

"You didn't like him, then?"

"He was a decent enough fellow. No imagination, but honest. And that's a rarity among them!"

"I thought he was nice."

He raised an eyebrow. "Like that other fellow, Neville?"

She laughed. "What are you suggesting, Ben Shepherd? It's just that I've few opportunities to meet nice men."

He reached down and pulled her up onto his lap. "Then maybe I should arrange a few more military campaigns? You could play Florence Nightingale to the wounded, perhaps?"

She drew her head back slightly, as if hurt, but his hand was curled about her back and she was in his spell.

"You know it means nothing."

"I know," he answered, drawing her face down to his and kissing her, while behind him, on the screen, Major Axel Haavikko turned in the command turret of his half-track and urged his foot soldiers on, moving west through the Clay.

HAAVIKKO TURNED, urging his soldiers on. They had met little opposition as yet, but that was hardly surprising. He had the latest weaponry and ten thousand crack troops, while they were a rabble armed with stones and rusty metal bars. He sighed, thinking back to what Ben had said about the daymen. It was true. He hadn't really thought about it before now; hadn't conceived them as people like himself. It was too easy not to. Moreover he had a duty to the Enclave. If he didn't do this, then sooner or later someone else would have to, and by then it might prove difficult. Even so, the situation had begun to nag at his conscience.

Let's get this over with, he thought wearily, staring into the darkness up ahead through the infrared visor of his helmet. Let's get it done and get out of here.

Nor did it help that he'd been proved right about the operative. It might silence Rheinhardt's objections, but it didn't silence the tiny voice inside.

The distress signal had come in half an hour back. At once he'd sent an advance team out after it, but ten minutes later the signal had died abruptly.

Too late, he thought sadly. We're always too fucking late.

TAK FACED THE SCREEN UNEASILY; DeVore's face-four times its normal size-stared back at him impatiently. "What is it, Tak?"Tak tried to keep the fear from his voice, but it was impossible. "They've come!"

"Who?"

"Soldiers. The Clay is crawling with them!"

DeVore's face blanched. "Where are they now?"

"In the east. Near Tavistock."

"Shit!" DeVore considered a moment. "Are there many of tlaem?"

Tak swallowed, then nodded.

The news sobered DeVore. "Are they on foot?"

"Not all of them. They have their machines. Their half-tracks."

DeVore let out a breath. "You did well, Tak. But listen. You must save yourself. Withdraw to the west and take refuge. This storm will pass, but until it does . . ."

Tak made to speak, but it was too late. DeVore had gone. He looked down, trembling. They had gambled and failed. DeVore was right. There was nothing to do now but take refuge.

ben's remotes flew on ahead of the invasion force, following the old road through the ruins of Indian Queens and Summercourt toward the Myghtern's capital.

The Clay was in turmoil, like an ant's nest opened suddenly to the air. The roads were packed with people, hurrying west with what little they owned, their eyes filled with a blind panic.

Where have they all come from? Ben wondered, amazed by their num- bers; staggered, above all, that such a wasteland could maintain so huge a population. Like insects beneath a stone.

The gates to the town were open and unguarded. Again the crowd streamed through, unheeding, it seemed, of the strangeness of the place. That, more than anything, confirmed it. There had been rumors on the road, but now he knew for certain. The Myghtern was dead.

He found the body almost at once, lying at the foot of the steps beneath the great chair, headless, the handle of a broadsword poking from his back. Watching from afar, Ben sighed, remembering what a magnificent sight the man had been. It must have taken great strength to kill him. Great strength or greater cunning.

And even as he watched, he saw the small man-the Myghtern's lieutenant; the one who'd taken them and tortured his daymen- come into the hall and, standing above the Mghtern's headless corpse, shake his head.

"Who's that?" Meg asked.

Ben turned. He had forgotten Meg was there. "The Myghtern's lieutenant."

"And the dead man? The giant?"

But Ben wasn't listening. Ben had turned back and was keying in instructions frantically, sending hisremotes out hunting once more.

"Something's been happening," he said. "Something big . . . something really big. And I missed it. I bloody well missed it!"

THE TWO HALF-TRACKS raced across the bridge into the dark. Behind them, at the center of the valley, the building was on fire, flames blackening the translucent polymer of its walls and making it slowly buckle. From the six great ventilation vents black smoke billowed out, rolling like twisting dragon's heads along the ceiling overhead.

DeVore glanced back, experiencing a moment's regret, a moment's exasperation at all the wasted effort, then he let it go. After all, nothing was permanent. And he had taken all that was really important. To get away, that was the only thing that mattered now.

He looked ahead, at the road stretching out in front of them, lit up by the powerful headlights of the half-track, then ducked inside, giving new instructions. At once the half-track slowed and slewed to the left, trundling down the embankment. The second vehicle followed at once, picking its way out across the open fields.

The cruiser station was almost directly south, some eight li southeast of the Myghtern's capital, tucked away in one of the dried-up bays of the old River Fal. If what Tak had said were true, the invasion force was somewhere near Lostwithiel by now, twenty minutes off. It gave him plenty of time.

It was getting hot, the air thin and tainted. He reached down and took a breathing mask from the rack, then, after slipping it on, used the lip mike to order his men to do the same. At his back the Clay was lit up brightly now as the chemical fires he'd set took hold. Ahead the darkness seemed to rush toward him, the ceiling coming down toward them, reflecting back their lights as they bounced over the uneven incline then falling away as they went down the steep hill on the other side. Six miles. It wasn't far now.

He could see the approach lights of the station as they came down the hill above the bay. He had radioed ahead to have them prepare one of the craft for immediate use. The others would be booby-trapped.

They followed the coast road down, the half-track bucking on the steep gradient as the driver tried to brake without losing all his momentum. DeVore barked orders into the mike. There was no time for sophisticated planning. Five minutes, that was all they had. Five minutes to transfer the load onto the cruiser and get out of here. Whatever-and whoever-wasn't ready would be left behind.

As they came out onto the level, the compound's gates swung back and they sped inside, screeching to a halt beside the open hold of the biggest of the three cruisers.

DeVore smiled, pleased to see that the craft had been fueled and readied as he'd requested. Pulling himself up over the hood of the halftrack he jumped down onto the metal-grid surface. He was about to turn back, to begin supervising the unloading, when two figures came out of the darkness by the control hut and walked toward them.

He felt anger well up in himself. What the fuck are they doing here?

"Ah . . . Jackson. Now that you're back, maybe you can tell your man to get one of the other craft ready. The bastard seems to think-"

"Nolen? Franke?"

The two men came up to him, Nolen assuming an immediate air of command. "Look, Jackson, things areheating up. The Myghtern's dead and from what Tak says Security have sent in troops. Now, be a good man and do as I've asked."

DeVore stared at him, amazed. "Be a good man . . . ?" He laughed. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

Nolen's eyes widened. His mouth popped open in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

DeVore glanced at the timer inset into his wrist. There was no time for this. He looked at them, then drew his gun.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but-"

Two explosions echoed back from the cliffs nearby. DeVore holstered his gun and turned back, impatient now.

"Come on, move!"

THE CLAY was filling with smoke. Already Haavikko could see only those soldiers nearest him, their heads-encased in the bright-lit bubbles of their helmets-seeming to bob, disembodied above the swirling mist.

The order to wear breathing apparatus had gone out half an hour back, but it was only now that he understood the true nature of the problems facing them.

The darkness ... I could cope with the darkness, but this mist . . . It's like being dead. One feels like a phantom here.

If his instruments were right they were less than a li from the Myght-em's town, down a steep incline that began just a few ch'i up ahead, but their pace had slowed to a snail's crawl and more and more time was being spent checking along the line to make sure no one had gone missing.

It's like a nightmare, he thought, swallowing dryly. Their filters had not been designed for these conditions. If they did not find shelter soon . . .

A shout came down the line from his right, echoed from voice to voice. Someone was down. Haavikko called a halt, speaking into the open channel, then waited as slowly, much too slowly, two figures emerged from the mist, carrying a third.

There was another shout, a third. It's too much for them, he thought, feeling a sudden upwelling of despair. It wasn't just the darkness, nor was it the smoke-though those were bad enough-it was the sense of being trapped; the fear that they had stumbled through a door in reality and into the earth-prison itself.

"Gather round!" he ordered, knowing he must do something at once. "We'll take the wounded into the half-tracks."

Terming them "wounded" was technically inaccurate, he knew, but psychologically it would do them good. To be wounded was at least an honorable thing, whereas to fail because of the nature of the terrain- well, it was not "soldierly."

He pulled himself up onto the hood of the half-track and stood there, showing himself, watching as they grouped around the vehicle, all eyes looking up to him for their lead."Okay," he said, seeing how much easier they were now that they could see him. "We'll go down in formation. Lines of six, weapons to chest. Captain Freas, you bring up the rear. I'll lead us in."

He jumped down, to muted cheers and smiling faces. It was suddenly not so bad. The mist seemed suddenly less threatening, the dark less solid.

Below was the Myghtern's town. He would put it to the torch and then get out. The smoke would do the rest.

He moved between his men, smiling reassurance, touching an arm here, a shoulder there, then turned, watching them form up: soldiers again, with the indoctrinated pride of soldiers. He grinned, feeling his own fear melt away, then, turning to face the darkness, began to march, on and down, into the Myghtern's town.

TAK WATCHED them come down, fascinated by the sight of their brilliantly lit helmets bobbing in a regular rhythm-row after row of them-as they came through the gate and out onto the bridge.

All the rest had fled, or had choked and died where they fell. Only he remained now. He should have gone, should have taken Jackson's advice, but when it came to it he found he could not leave.

The breathing mask was tight about his nose and mouth, the tank almost empty, but they had served their purpose. He had stood and not run and now he, the Myghtem, would defend the Myghtern's town.

Tak drew his dagger, then took the old-fashioned gun he'd bought from Tynan from his belt. It felt strange and heavy in his hand. As the Above soldiers turned right into St. Mary's Street, he began to walk toward them.

He could see them clearly now. There were a hundred, maybe more of them, and at their front a single man-an officer? their General, maybe?-marched alone.

You, Tak thought, stopping, then raised his gun to take aim. I shall kill you. And then it will be over.

Then both of us can rest.

He sighted along the line of the gun, the way Tynan had shown him, and pulled back the safety. The gun was cocked.

The soldiers came on, like some strange nonhuman mechanism, the sound of their marching feet echoing now through the misted streets of the deserted capital.

He counted down. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six ...

They did not stop, did not falter. It was as if he were invisible; as if they would simply march right through him, like an army of ghosts.