"We have to find out what's going on out here," she continued in a marginally calmer, icy voice. "We have to find out now, before things get any further out of hand. If we can't do that-and do it before it all goes totally out of control-then I'm not going to be the only one at risk. And I warn you, Fifty Garlath. If anything happens to Magister Halathyn because of your fuck-ups, I will come after you for blood debt. And I'll keep coming, through as many godsdamned universes as it takes to track you down and feed your miserable excuse for a soul to the crows!"

Naked shock flared behind Garlath's eyes, and Jasak stepped in quickly.

"Magister Kelbryan, I fully appreciate your concern for Magister Halathyn's safety. Believe me, I want to protect him as much as you do. As for getting a message back to our superiors," he swung his gaze to Garlath, who flushed dark red under its withering contempt, "that's why we carry hummers. Chief Sword, see to it. Send a priority message to Javelin Kranark at the forward base, and another to Commander of Five Hundred Klian, at the coast. Given the urgency of the situation, I want Fifty Ulthar and his platoon recalled immediately. And I'm sure Five Hundred Klian will also want to get a message off to Five Hundred Grantyl at the Chalar base. Record and release immediately with my chop on the header."

"Yes, Sir!" Threbuch saluted crisply and darted one disgusted glance at Garlath before heading for Javelin Iggar Shulthan, Charlie Company's senior hummer specialist. Jasak watched him go, then turned back to the infuriated woman still glaring at Garlath.

"Magister Kelbryan," he said quietly and formally, breaking her concentration and drawing her carefully away from the object of her rage, "I would consider it a great personal favor if you would add your own message. Your Gifts are far superior to mine, and I want Five Hundred Klian to have as much information as possible."

"Of course," she said stiffly. "I would be delighted to help in any way I can."

She flicked one final, fiery glance at Garlath, then strode vigorously across the camp to join the chief sword and their hummer handler. Jasak watched her for a moment, then took a firm grip on his own temper and returned his attention to Fifty Garlath.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't follow Gadrial's explosive example and call the man a sniveling coward. She was dead-on accurate, but that didn't matter. Garlath had given too many plausible, outwardly militarily sound reasons to retreat. He knew how to play the game, all right. Jasak had to give him that. That skill-playing the nasty little game of power politics which was the worst curse of the patronage system within the Arcanan military-was the one thing Shevan Garlath was actually good at.

A deep and abiding hatred crystallized in Jasak's blood, turning him cold as ice, and Garlath backed up another involuntary step before his expression.

"Your tactical concerns are noted, Fifty Garlath." Jasak's eye was granite-hard as he bit his words out of solid ice and spat them at the older man like hailstones. "Your assessment of the situation does not tally with mine, however. It's imperative that we stop these people before they reach the portal. I don't want a damned battle, Garlath. I want answers. And I want to control the situation. Until we get those answers, until we get to the bottom of what happened out here, we don't know anything. But if these people are as confused as we are, and if they get back to their superiors and tell them we started it, it's going to change from a disaster to a godsdamned catastrophe.

"We won't get any answers if they reach the portal-and whatever base may lie beyond-before we've caught up. And we won't be able to put the brakes on this, either. Shartahk seize it, we don't even have any idea how to communicate with them if we do catch up with them! So the only option I see is to find them, stop them, and try to make some sort of controlled contact with them, just like the first contact protocols require. And, failing that, we at least need to take them into custody and return them to base where someone else, with the kind of diplomatic experience none of us has, can try to figure out how to talk to them and, gods willing, straighten this fucking mess back out. Do you read me on this, Fifty Garlath?"

Garlath's jaw worked as he glared back at Jasak. The fusion of fear, resentment, and hatred bubbling away inside the man must be like basilisk venom, Jasak thought. He doubted that explaining his own analysis had done a bit of good, but he'd had to at least try to get through to this excuse for an Andaran officer.

"Do you read me?" he repeated very softly, and Garlath jerked his head in a spastic nod.

"Good," Jasak said, still softly. "Because we're facing a fast, hard march, and I expect you to pull your weight. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Sir." Garlath's tone was so brittle Jasak wondered why his tongue hadn't shattered.

"Then get the men ready to march within the next three minutes. May I assume you're capable of carrying out that order, Fifty?"

"Yes, Sir." Hatred seethed in Garlath's dark eyes. For a moment they met Jasak's. Then they skittered away, and the fifty jerked out a salute and turned on a bootheel, snarling orders at his men.

But they were, by the gods, ready to march in three minutes.

Chapter Seven.

Jathmar frowned as Ghartoun chan Hagrahyl and Barris Kasell exchanged grim looks for the fifth time in ten minutes. He glanced at Shaylar for a moment, then moved closer to them.

"Trouble?" he asked quietly, and chan Hagrahyl nodded choppily.

"We're being followed."

Jathmar's stomach did a creative dip and dive. His eyes went instantly to Shaylar, then he wrenched them back to the other two.

"You're sure?" he asked, and Barris nodded.

"For the last two miles, at least. They're still behind us a good ways. Probably haven't spotted us yet. But it's only a matter of time."

"Then how can you be sure anyone's there?"

"Look," Ghartoun grunted, and jerked his head sideways.

Jathmar frowned again. Then his eyes followed the gesture, and it was his turn to grunt as if someone had just slugged him in the belly.

A rabbit bounded past, not loping from place to place but moving at a determined run. Moments later he saw another, then a third. Chipmunks, too, were running through the sparse undergrowth, and a quick glance at the trees revealed agitated squirrels bounding from branch to branch, streaking along in the same direction their survey crew was traveling.

His jaw clenched in instant understanding, mingled with chagrin. He'd grown up in these woods, damn it. He should have seen it for himself, even sooner than chan Hagrahyl and Kasell.

And you probably would have, if you weren't so worried about Shaylar, a little voice told him.

"Something's spooked them," he said, knowing it was unnecessary even as he spoke, and both the others nodded.

"My guess is," Barris said as they continued to move steadily forward themselves, "that they've hit our trail and fanned out into a line. They're trying to circle around and cut off any escape attempt. If I'm right, we're going to see animals cutting across our path from the sides any moment now."

Jathmar grimaced. He drew breath to ask what he could do . . . just as a good-sized rabbit shot past, running on a diagonal path that slashed from their right to their left. His eyes tracked it, and he swore with quiet, heartfelt passion.

"We're not going to make the portal, are we?" he said quietly.

"No." Barris Kasell was watching the trees, not the rabbit, but he answered anyway. "We aren't."

Jathmar worried his lower lip with his teeth.

"I'm no soldier, but there's got to be something we can do. Something I can do. What do you suggest?"

Chan Hagrahyl was also watching the forest. Now he looked back at Jathmar, his gaze like sharpened steel.

"There's not much we can do, except try to find a place to make a stand of some kind, and out here, that isn't likely. There's nothing here but forest. No high ground, no streambeds or gullies, not even a mountain pass to defend-just open trees. Gods know how many of them are out there, let alone what they intend to do once they overtake us."

"We've only got four real choices," Barris Kassell added in a low tone, flipping his eyes back to the trees. "We can keep going, even try to pick up the pace. We might outrun them over a short distance, especially since we have the advantage of already knowing where we're going. But we can't run all the way to the portal; we're a long, hard day's march away. Or, we could pick a spot to make a stand, but Ghartoun's right. There's not much out here that lends itself to digging in against a siege. We certainly can't hide, not from trained trackers, and given how quickly they've overtaken us, we're up against men who know their business."

"So we can run, make a stand, or hide. What's the fourth option?" Jathmar asked, not liking any of the others.

"We can turn and carry the fight to them," Kasell said. "I doubt they'd expect us to do that, which would give us the advantage of surprise, initially at least."

"I thought about that," chan Hagrahyl agreed, "but there are several major drawbacks. Among other things, we don't have any idea how badly outnumbered we might be, and we don't have all the ammunition in the world, either. Judging by the number of animals they've spooked into running, I'd say there's a fair sized group out there, so we'd probably need all the ammo we've got and then some."

"I could take Fanthi," Kasell said very quietly. "Maybe Rilthan and Elevu. Load up with all our spare ammo. This kind of terrain-" he jerked his head at the trees "-three or four experienced grunts could do a hell of a lot of damage to somebody armed with crossbows."

"But Ghartoun just said-" Jathmar began, only to be cut off by chan Hagrahyl.

"He's not talking about a stand, Jathmar. He's talking about slowing them down, forcing them to deploy and waste time. And he's right, the four of them could do a lot of damage. But," he moved his eyes from Jathmar to Kasell, "I don't think you could do enough. Not to buy us long enough to get all the way to the portal. Besides, I'm kind of fond of all four of you."

"Four of us against all these civilians," Kasell replied quietly, and Jathmar swallowed as he realized Barris was arguing in favor of a virtual suicide mission.

"I know."

For just a moment, Ghartoun chan Hagrahyl's face was simultaneously hard and haggard, but then he shook his head again.

"No," he said. "And not just to keep you from getting your stubborn Arpathian self killed, Barris. We still don't know what happened out there, and I'm beginning to wonder if they know for certain, either. Judging from how long it took these people to catch up with us, fast as its been. They certainly weren't hard on Falsan's heels. And Falsan couldn't have moved very quickly with that damned crossbow bolt in his chest before somebody who wasn't wounded could have caught up with him. I'm starting to think he really did run into just one of them, initially, at least. Maybe their man is wounded-maybe even dead-too. They may have been delayed giving him first aid. Hell, they may even have needed time just to find him after they heard the shot! That might just explain why it could have taken them so long to backtrack Falsan."

"You're saying this is all some kind of misunderstanding?" Kasell demanded incredulously.

"I'm saying it might be. And even if it isn't, so far we've only lost one man and, as far as we know, they haven't lost any of theirs. At the moment, it's still at least remotely possible we could settle this whole thing without anybody else getting killed. But to be effective at slowing them down, you'd have to open fire from ambush. That's definitely a hostile act-the kind that ups the stakes all around."

Kasell looked for a moment as if he were prepared to continue arguing. But then he grunted unhappily and nodded in acquiescence.

"So what do we do?" Jathmar asked.

"A variant of forting up." Chan Hagrahyl sounded like a man who'd made his mind up. "Can you See anything we might use for shelter, Jathmar? Anything at all?"

"I can't guarantee what I'll find, but I'll Look."

"That's all I ask."

Jathmar had already crossed this ground once, on their outbound leg, which helped. The dips and low undulating hills, masked from ordinary eyesight by the dense covering of the forest, stretched for long, unchanging miles. The land revealed to his inner eye was stark and easy to read. Unfortunately, there wasn't a single spot in any of that rolling terrain that would shelter them, or at least give them a fighting chance to defend themselves.

He blinked, returning his awareness fully to his body, and met chan Hagrahyl's worried eyes.

"Did you-" the expedition's leader began, only to break off as a magnificent ten-point buck came crashing through the trees at an oblique. Only this time, the animal crossed their path from left to right.

"Nothing, Ghartoun." Jathmar shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Ahead of them, Fanthi chan Himidi broke abruptly left, signaling for the others to remain where they were. He moved swiftly and silently, vanishing between the thick tree trunks like a ghost.

Jathmar halted, heart pounding, breathing heavily, and gripped Shaylar's hand. Her slim fingers trembled against his, but they both drew comfort from the contact. She peered worriedly up into his face, and he tried to summon a smile, but she could read his agitation too easily through the marriage bond.

A moment later, Fanthi returned, jogging straight up to chan Hagrahyl.

"There's a clearing we can use. Looks like a twister touched down at some point in the past year or so. Lots of trees down. Tangled brush, tree trunks the size of temple pillars. Good cover, as well as plenty of concealment. We won't find a better spot."

Even Jathmar knew the difference between "cover" and "concealment." The former was a physical barrier between you and enemy bullets, like a shield. The latter merely hid you from view. A screen of leaves concealed, but did nothing to stop incoming fire; a solid tree trunk did both.

Chan Hagrahyl looked at chan Himidi for a moment, then nodded.

"Take point." He raised his voice. "Listen up, people. We're following Fanthi. Move it!"

Chan Himidi had, indeed, found a good spot. Little more than an acre across, the clearing overflowed with raw distraction. A spinning funnel of wind from some long-ago storm had ripped trees out of the earth, snapped them like kindling, and twisted them apart, leaving jagged knife blades of wood stabbing the sky. Small splinters had been driven into other, still standing trees with such force that they were embedded like nails. Tree trunks had crashed to earth in a jumbled pile, digging broken branches into the ground.

"We know they're coming at us from three sides," chan Hagrahyl said quietly. "We'll take position there." He pointed to a confusion of tangled wood on the far side of the clearing. "I want clear firing lanes, and someone to watch our backs, in case the bastards succeed in circling all the way around us."

"I'll cover our rear until you're all in position," chan Himidi volunteered through clenched teeth.

"Good." Chan Hagrahyl nodded. "But listen to me, everyone! No one shoots unless I say so. Got that? Nobody shoots. I know we all want revenge for Falsan, but there are men out there with weapons. If we have to fight, we fight all out, but first we try and work things out so that nobody else gets killed. Is that understood?"

Heads nodded all around, one or two of them a bit unwillingly, and he grinned tightly at them all.

"Good," he said again. "In that case, let's get under cover and dig in."

They took their positions in utter silence, facing south, the direction from which the bulk of their pursuers would approach, and fanning out slightly. Jathmar stationed himself and Shaylar in a sheltered pocket where a massive black walnut trunk, nearly five feet in diameter, formed a solid barricade. It was the best protection he could find, and branches thicker than his own torso jutted up and out from the main trunk, forming angled braces he could use to steady the rifle if it came to that.

Tymo Scleppis took up a position to Jathmar's left, near the center of their all-too-ragged line. The Healer was opening his pack, trying to ready himself for casualties if it came to open fighting. Rilthan-their best marksman, by a wide margin-crawled in just to Shaylar's right. The gunsmith was the only member of their party armed with the new Ternathian Model 10 bolt-action rifle, with its twelve-round box magazine. He said nothing as he settled into position, but he flicked one glance briefly in Shaylar's direction before meeting Jathmar's gaze. It was only a fleeting look, but it told Jathmar that Rilthan had chosen his spot deliberately, and Jathmar's throat was tight as he nodded, acknowledging Rilthan's intention to protect her.

Beyond Rilthan was chan Hagrahyl's clerk, a dark-skinned Ricathian who'd joined straight out of high school. Not yet nineteen, Divis' color was closer to last week's ashes than its normal warm chocolate hue, and his hands shook as he tried to load his own rifle. The drovers formed their flank guards, such as they were, but they had barely five men on either side.

Jathmar crawled up onto one of the immense branches, using it as a firing step to get just high enough to shoot over the top of the trunk. It was too tall for him to shoot across standing on the ground, but thanks to other branches that had slammed into the earth, the fallen tree bole didn't quite reach the forest floor. There was a gap, about fourteen inches high, which allowed Shaylar to lie prone behind one of the big branches, protected from incoming fire, yet able to shoot through the gap if need be.

Everyone was checking weapons, including Shaylar, and Jathmar's hands felt clumsy as he pulled cartridge boxes out of his pack. He'd fired hundreds of rounds through the Model 70, and thousands of rounds through other rifles he'd owned, over the years. He'd hunted for food and for sport, and he'd run into bandits more than once, trading shots with desperate, lawless men. But he'd never seen real combat, and his hands refused to hold steady as the reality of what they faced hit home.

He slid his H&W out of its holster and curled his fingers around the reassuring solidity of its walnut grips. The big .44 caliber, seven-shot revolver was single-action. The hammer had to be pulled back for each shot, but the six-and-a-half-inch-barreled pistol was deadly accurate, and it had immense stopping power.

It was also too big and heavy for Shaylar to shoot accurately. She carried a Polshana-a much smaller and lighter .35 caliber weapon, with a four-inch barrel and smaller grip. Unlike the H&W, the Polshana was double-action, and Rilthan had worked long and hard to tune its action for her until it was glass-smooth. It held only six shots to the H&W's seven, but unlike Jathmar, Shaylar had four speedloaders, and he watched her tuck them into the right hand pocket of her jacket.

He swung out the H&W's cylinder and loaded the chamber he normally left empty for the hammer to rest on. Then he slipped it back into its holster and finished arranging his ammunition boxes around him. At his feet, Shaylar was doing the same thing with the ammo boxes from her pack. From his slightly elevated vantage point, Jathmar could see others settling into equally favorable spots amongst the fallen trees.

Fanthi chan Himidi had abandoned his post, watching for pursuers from the south, now that everyone else had gotten into position. He settled into a new spot of his own, behind everyone else, facing north into the forest behind them and scanning restlessly for any sign of the men trying to circle around to close the trap. Jathmar spotted chan Hagrahyl at the center of their little group, hunkered down in an angle where two tree trunks had fallen against one another as they crashed down.

Braiheri Futhai had crawled as far as possible from the expected line of fire, hiding in visible terror and doing nothing to prepare for self-defense. Elevu Gitel had hunkered down between Jathmar and chan Hagrahyl. The geologist was loading his rifle in grim silence, and glancing in the other direction, Jathmar found Barris Kasell less than a yard beyond Rilthan.

Try as he might, he couldn't see the others, which he took as a good sign. They settled in, uneasy, on edge-waiting in a classic ambush position to see what their pursuers would do.

Shevan Garlath had never seen a likelier spot for an ambush.

He stared, mesmerized, at the jumble of timber a tornado must have toppled in some relatively recent storm. The entire clearing was a twisted mass of jagged, broken wood, tree trunks, and branches that jutted out like the sharp stakes of a basilisk trap.

And he had to search it.

Had to go out there, into that deadly maze, and search it.

There was no question that their quarry had gone into it. The trail was clear to see-even he could follow it without difficulty-and the birdcall signals from the Scouts who'd worked their way around to the other side indicated that they hadn't come back out again. But the question was why they'd stopped here . . . and what they intended to do next.

And of all the thousands of soldiers spread out through this multi-universe, godsforsaken transit chain it had to be him that drew the job of finding out. Finding out if the murdering whoresons who'd killed Osmuna-that lazy-assed, sleep-on-duty, worthless piece of dragon-bait-planned on killing anybody else today. Garlath cursed the dead man, wishing desperately that there was a way to weasel out of this particular duty. If he'd dared, he would have sent his point men in alone. Would have stayed back here in the trees, where it was safe.

But Hundred fucking Olderhan-the name and rank stuck in his craw like a fishbone-was watching him. Watching, waiting with bated breath for Garlath to screw up. Regs-and tradition-were clear: a commander of fifty went out with his platoon. He had to be right on top of the action, especially in close terrain like this, to coordinate his troopers' movements and respond instantly to any change in the situation.

Garlath cursed the Regs, cursed the officers who'd written them, cursed the "follow-me" junior officer tradition of the Andaran military, cursed the judge advocates who'd established the punishments for failing to follow Regs . . . and, with a passion and a fervor which surprised even him, cursed Sir Jasak Olderhan for ever having been born to make Garlath look so bad in comparison.

The Duke's Golden Brat could do no wrong, he thought viciously. Fine, then. Garlath would just have to do such an outstanding job on this operation that he'd make Olderhan look sorry-assed inadequate for a change.