"Yes, Sir," Wirtha agreed. "About another ten, fifteen minutes. There's quite a bit of stuff scattered around where their fires were. Most of it's little bits and pieces of personal gear, torn uniforms, that kind of thing. And lots of soiled bandages," he added with grim satisfaction.

"Let's move along, then," chan Tesh said.

"Here it is, Sir," Wirtha told chan Tesh shortly afterward, and the company-captain drew rein once more. The area before him, a clearer space along the bank of the same stream which had flowed beside the slaughtered survey crew's day-fort, showed the rings of half a dozen big bonfires and a handful of smaller ones. Even from here, he could see that there was a lot of debris strewn around, including a stained snowdrift of gore-crusted bandages.

"Has anyone been out there yet?" he asked.

"No, Sir," Wirtha replied. "We bypassed it on the way through."

Chan Tesh glanced at Arthag, and the acting platoon-captain shrugged very slightly.

"Nolis and Soral had their hands full with the debris we'd already found at the fallen timbers and at the Chalgyn crew's day-fort, Sir. I'd left them behind to deal with that while I went ahead. By the time we actually found the campsite, we also knew we were hot on their trail, so I took the point and pressed on in hopes we might overtake them. But they got to their own entry portal at least several hours before we did. By the time Nolis and Soral were ready to follow us up, we'd received the order to hold in position and wait for your arrival. It took a while to get a runner forward to my position to recall me to meet you, and Nolis and Soral stayed put in the meantime, as per their orders from Company-Captain Halifu. By the time I got back to camp and could have ordered them forward to the bivouac area here, you were only a couple of hours out."

"I see." Chan Tesh smiled thinly. "So that old saying about order, counter-order, disorder came into play."

"More or less, I'm afraid," Arthag agreed.

"Well, it's no one's fault." Chan Tesh sighed, and looked at Parcanthi and Hilovar. "Go ahead," he said.

The two noncoms saluted, dismounted, and headed forward. Hilovar, as usual, waited while Parcanthi moved into the bivouac area, sweeping from one cold ash pit to another, following the energy residues. It took him the better part of twenty minutes, but when he returned to the waiting officers, his eyes glowed.

"I got some good, solid Whiffs, Company-Captain!" he told chan Tesh. "There's a place a bit further down the creek over there," he pointed, "where something came in during the night."

"Something?" chan Tesh repeated. "What sort of 'something'?"

"Gods alone know," Parcanthi said frankly. "It was big. Dark. I could see firelight on what looked like . . . hide, maybe. If it was hide, the creature under it was big, Sir. Really big, like nothing I've ever seen. But it was too damned dark to get a good look at it. They were loading stretchers onto it, whatever it was."

"Some kind of transport," Arthag muttered. "So, that's what they did." Chan Tesh glanced at him, and the acting platoon-captain grimaced. "We knew they were traveling a little faster when they moved on from here. Didn't notice any particular decrease in the number of their walking wounded, but they were definitely moving more quickly."

"Did they load all the stretchers onto it, whatever it was, Parcanthi?" chan Tesh asked the Whiffer.

"No, Sir. It looked to me like they might've been loading up a dozen or so, like they were taking the most critically wounded out. Whatever it was, and however big it was, I don't think it had enough carrying capacity to take all of them. All I could see was something big and dark that moved off down the creek bed. Then I lost the Whiff."

"Down the creek," Arthag murmured with a frown which drew chan Tesh's attention back to him.

"Something's bothering you," the company commander observed. "What is it?"

"Just that something the size Nolis is describing damned well ought to have left a trail. Once you get to the other side of the creek, the terrain's just like it is on this side. And the underbrush along the stream banks is awfully dense. Anything much bigger than a house cat should've left some sign of its passage when it pushed through it, and we didn't see a thing. Or, rather, we didn't see the tracks of anything but the men on foot we'd been following all along."

"Could it have headed along the streambed to avoid leaving a trail?" chan Tesh asked.

"I suppose it's possible, Sir. I just don't see any reason why it should have. If the party on foot is still headed steadily south, then their destination must lie in that direction. Why should their transport have headed in some other direction?"

"I agree it doesn't make a lot of sense," chan Tesh said. "By the same token, it has to've gone somewhere. Parcanthi Saw it, so we know it was here. Unless you want to suggest that it just flew away, it had to leave tracks somewhere, too, and I know your men's reputation. They wouldn't have missed the sign something that size had to leave behind."

"I don't-" Arthag began, but Parcanthi interrupted, his voice a bit edged.

"I'm sorry, Sir. And I apologize for interrupting, but I hadn't finished my report."

Arthag and chan Tesh both turned back to him, and he waved back in the direction he'd already pointed.

"It was dark, like I said, but I might-I just might-have Seen one of our people among them." Both officers-and Kinlafia-jerked upright in the saddle, eyes narrowing, as he continued. "I could see someone's back, climbing up onto whatever it was. I couldn't see the face, or even get a good look at the hair, because whoever it was, they were wearing some kind of leather hat, or helmet. And they were out beyond the range of the firelight. But I'm positive that they weren't in uniform."

Darcel Kinlafia sucked down air in the sudden silence.

"Could it have been the woman you Saw, Soral?" Arthag asked quietly. "The one you said looked Uromathian. Was she in uniform when you Saw her?"

"She wasn't," Parcanthi said, before Hilovar could speak. "In uniform, I mean. But this wasn't her. I could See her clearly, standing on the bank. She couldn't have been anyone else, not from Soral's description earlier. It looked like she was waiting her own turn to climb up onto whatever it was."

"How . . . how big a person did you See?" Kinlafia whispered harshly.

"Small. Very small. Maybe this high," Parcanthi said, measuring with his hand.

"Oh, gods!" Kinlafia's voice was barely audible, and his throat worked convulsively. The others stared at him as he bowed his head over his saddle bow, eyes tight shut.

"Darcel?" Arthag said, very quietly, after a moment, and the Arpathian's eyes widened as he saw the Voice's face.

"It's her-Shaylar!" Kinlafia said hoarsely. "It's got to be her! Nobody else in the crew was remotely close to that small!"

"I didn't get a very good look at whoever it was," Parcanthi cautioned. "It was dark as sin out there in the brush, and they were climbing up whatever that thing was, which means I couldn't get a good contrast reading. All I could really see were dark shapes against the dark, black wall of hide, or whatever it was. It was a small person, slightly built, in civilian clothing. That much I could See. But I don't know that it was Sharonian clothing. And," he added in the tone of someone desperately trying not to step on the flaming hope in Kinlafia's eyes, "we already know they had at least one other woman-in civilian clothing-with them. If they had one, they might have had two."

All eyes turned to Hilovar, and the Tracer cleared his throat.

"If we can find anything Shaylar was holding, I'll know," he said. "But that's a big if, Darcel. A damned big if."

"I know." Kinlafia's voice was full of grit and gravel. "But I've got reason to hope, now. That's more than I've had ever since I lost contact with her."

"I agree," chan Tesh said, but his own voice was heavy. "If it was Shaylar, though, and she was conscious, up and moving, why didn't she contact you, Darcel? She had to know you'd be waiting, that you were well within her range. For that matter, I happen to know you've been trying to contact her every hour on the hour since you crossed to this side of our own portal."

Kinlafia looked at him, then cleared his own throat.

"She struck her head on something, remember? Hit hard enough to knock her unconscious, at least. And Soral's already said there was damage inside her head, serious damage. She could have been injured badly enough to be rendered Voiceless."

"But if she's hurt that badly, would she have been on her feet and climbing up whatever it was Parcanthi glimpsed out there?" chan Tesh asked.

"I don't know." It came out practically in a groan, and Kinlafia ground his teeth. "Mother Marthea, these monsters are capable of anything! If they're willing to force an injured girl to walk, to climb up this thing, when we know she's suffered a critical head injury, then what in the gods' names else are they willing to do? They could-"

"Stop it!" Chan Tesh's voice rapped out harshly, jerking Kinlafia back around to face him.

"There's no point to this," the company-captain growled, albeit more gently. "You're torturing yourself with visions we have no way to prove or disprove. The people who did this may be a complete unknown, Voice Kinlafia, but one thing we do know; if they have got surviving Sharonians, they're going to want them as healthy as possible."

"You're right," Kinlafia whispered. He sounded unsteady, but he drew another deep breath and slowly nodded. "You're right," he repeated. "I'm sorry. I'm just about out of my mind, worrying and wondering and feeling so gods-cursed helpless. . . ."

"I understand," chan Tesh told him. "But none of us can afford to let anger swamp our thinking."

"Yes, Sir," Kinlafia said quietly. "I'll bear that in mind. The last thing in this universe-or any other-I want to do is something rash that jeopardizes any Sharonian lives. Ours-" he nodded to the column of mounted men "-or that of anyone they've taken with them."

"That's good," chan Tesh said quietly, and smacked him lightly on the shoulder before turning back to his two Talented specialists. "Soral, I think it's your turn in the barrel. See what you can find out."

A half-hour later, the Whiffer and Tracer had completed their reports. They'd managed to pick up quite a lot of additional detail about the individuals who had bivouacked here; very little of it did much good, unfortunately.

"So what do we really know?" chan Tesh asked, looking around the circle of faces around him. He and Arthag had been joined by the Marine officers in command of the two platoons he'd brought along. Hilovar and Parcanthi were both there, too, despite their noncommissioned ranks, available for consultation at need. And, of course, there was also Darcel Kinlafia.

"We know their wounded were hurt even more badly than we thought, Sir," Arthag said. "We know they sent at least ten or twelve of their people out aboard whatever the hells it was Nolis Saw down by the creek, and we know it was godsdamned big."

He grimaced. Guided by the Whiffer, some of his scouts had finally found a few footprints, in among the rocks, gravel, and water-washed sand. Whatever the enemy's transport animal had been, it had been huge. And its feet had been unlike anything Hulmok Arthag had ever seen-or imagined-in his life. It must have been actually standing in the stream itself, which explained the dearth of footprints, but the partial ones they'd found in the end had been frightening to behold. Long-toed, with huge claws, and damned near as long as Arthag was tall. Most maddening of all, they couldn't find a single track heading toward the bivouac . . . or heading away from it, for that matter! It was as if the creature had simply materialized where it was, stood around for a while, and then dematerialized!

"I think Nolis is right that they were getting their most seriously wounded out of here," chan Tesh observed. "Makes sense. But they also sent out the one woman we know was with them, and at least one more civilian, at the same time, and both of them were at least mobile enough to climb up by themselves. So I'd say they were pulling out the people they thought were most valuable, as well as those who were worst hurt. That obviously would have included any of our people who were still alive."

"So what we've really got is just more puzzles," Kinlafia said a bit harshly.

"Any information is always valuable, Voice Kinlafia." An edge of formality frosted chan Tesh's measured reply. Kinlafia looked at him, and the company-captain looked back levelly.

"We know where their encampment is, Darcel," he continued, "and we have it under observation until we can get there and deal with it. In the meantime, any evidence we can get, any information we can cull, may be the one critical piece we need to tell us what to do when we do get there."

Kinlafia looked rebellious for a moment. Then his nostrils flared, and he nodded in unhappy agreement. But it was agreement, chan Tesh noted.

"All right," he said decisively. "I'm going to assume they do have at least one Sharonian prisoner. I may be wrong about that, but they were obviously pulling out someone besides their own wounded. We also know where their entry portal is, and we've got a good notion of how they've dug in on their side of it. I think it's time we took this the rest of the way to them."

Hunger sparkled in Kinlafia's eyes, and chan Tesh felt more than a small flicker of it deep within himself, as well. But he continued in that same, decisive voice.

"Given the size of the only other civilian Parcanthi Saw, I'm also going to operate on the assumption that Voice Nargra-Kolmayr may still be alive. If that's true, then getting her back is our number one priority. Our number two priority, however, is to try to put some sort of lid on this situation before it gets even worse. Much as I'd prefer otherwise, this isn't a punitive expedition. These aren't portal pirates, they aren't claim-jumpers-they aren't anything we've ever encountered before. But they are, clearly, representatives of another trans-universal civilization. So unless they start it, or unless we have convincing evidence that they're holding our people and won't give them up without a fight, I don't want any shooting."

The company-captain could literally taste Kinlafia's disappointment. Arthag and both of the Marine officers seemed just as unhappy, although they were too disciplined to let it show, and chan Tesh allowed himself a small, thin smile.

"I don't want any shooting from our side," he reiterated. "But if it should happen that they start the shooting-for a second time-I intend to be very certain that we end it. Is all of that clearly understood?"

Heads nodded all around, and he nodded back.

"In that case, gentlemen, let's get moving again. I want to be in position to . . . speak to these people before sundown."

Chapter Eighteen.

Chief Sword Otwal Threbuch hated the taste of defeat.

He couldn't begin to count of the number of missions he'd carried out successfully over the course of his career. He'd cheated death ten ways from hell, dragged back commanding officers held together by little more than bandages and stitches, and somehow-some way-always gotten the job done.

But as he lay stretched out flat on his belly along the tree limb, staring at the tantalizingly close disk of the swamp portal, he tasted the most bitter failure of his life. His worst nightmare was right under his nose, and there was literally no way for him to warn Hundred Olderhan it was coming.

He'd done exactly what the hundred had instructed him to do. Neither he nor Emiyet Borkaz, the First Platoon trooper with him, had found any sign of a messenger as they left the site of the fight at the toppled timber behind and headed for what they hoped was the other side's entry portal.

That entry portal had turned out to be a monster when they finally found it. Threbuch had never seen-never imagined-one that size. It had to be at least thirty miles across, and as he'd gazed through it at the rain-soaked forest on the far side, he'd mentally apologized to Magister Halathyn and Magister Kelbryan for every doubt he'd cherished about their newfangled portal-finding gadget. If this wasn't a class eight portal, it could only be because it was a class nine.

Its size had been part of the problem. Threbuch had never before been assigned to scout anything that size with only two men. Finding the fort from which the survey party must have come had taken far longer than he'd liked, but the fall of night had prevented them from following the back trail all the way that first day. They'd been forced to bivouac overnight, and a cold and cheerless night it had been without so much as a palm-sized campfire.

The next day, they'd come within a hair's breadth of being snapped up themselves by a party of what were obviously mounted scouts. Threbuch and Borkaz had been crossing an open space left by some long-ago fire, and they'd been damned lucky to realize what was happening in time to disappear into a handy thicket of brambles. Threbuch had taken the opportunity to study the horsemen carefully, and he hadn't liked what he'd seen one bit.

Their horses weren't much to talk about, at least. They didn't look as if they'd been enhanced at all, although they appeared well cared for and were clearly well trained. The men on their backs had been another matter entirely. These men were obviously soldiers. They wore distinctive uniforms, with dark gray tunics and green breeches tucked into high cavalry boots, which blended into the forest surprisingly well . . . and made it totally clear that the people the Andaran Scouts had fought and defeated-slaughtered, he'd thought, forcing himself to face the truth-had, indeed, been civilians.

He'd made himself put that thought aside, concentrating on the job in hand, and his jaw had set hard. There were three men, clearly the point of a larger column, moving with an alert, competent professionalism Threbuch had never seen bettered. He hadn't been able to see their faces, but the set of their shoulders and their overall body language had shouted both their focus and their fury, which had pretty much answered the question about whether or not they knew something had happened to the survey party. He still didn't have a clue how they'd found out, but if that wasn't a rescue party with blood in its eye, he'd never seen one.

They'd carried shoulder weapons like those of the civilians the Scouts had already encountered, although these were sheathed in saddle scabbards. They also carried more of the smaller, belt-sized version, and the first swords Threbuch had seen from the other side. Cavalry sabers, of course, but the swords-like the shoulder weapons-were saddle-carried. And unlike the shoulder weapons, it didn't look as if they were intended to be gotten at quickly. Small wonder. If he'd had ranged weapons as good as theirs, he'd have sold his own sword for beer money!

The chief sword had lain beside Borkaz, watching as the sweep men rode past. The horsemen rode with alert eyes, obviously taking little for granted, but it was apparent that they were far more focused on where they were going than upon where they were. They moved steadily on, without ever approaching the thicket in which Threbuch and Borkaz hid.

Threbuch had stayed exactly where he was, despite the impatience he had sensed from Borkaz, after the trio had disappeared along the same trail he'd been following in the other direction. Borkaz was too disciplined to actually complain, but he'd obviously hovered on the point of doing so when, several minutes later, the rest of the column had come into view.

Forty men, Threbuch had estimated, all of them with those same deadly shoulder weapons. They'd outnumbered Hundred Olderhan's remaining combat effectives by four-to-one, and they'd been accompanied by pack mules. Threbuch had no idea what had been on those mules. Rations, undoubtedly, some of it, but was that all? Or did they have yet more of their demonic weapons-weapons a mere civilian survey crew couldn't have matched-hidden away in those innocent looking packs?

There'd been no way to know, just as there'd been no possible way Threbuch and Borkaz could have beaten those mounted men back to Hundred Olderhan. The thought had been gall-bitter, but Sir Jasak was as coolheaded-and smart-as any junior officer Threbuch had ever served. He'd already be pushing to get back to their base camp at the swamp portal as quickly as possible. The only thing Threbuch could do was hope he made it before the pursuing cavalry force came right up his backside.

Well, that and continue with the mission the hundred had given him in the first place.

Once the patrol had passed, he and Borkaz had eased back from the immediate trail and continued far more cautiously to the north. They'd become aware of the huge portal shortly after dawn on the second day, although it had been mid-morning by the time they'd finally spotted the fort on the portal's far side.

That had been an unpleasant discovery, too.

The fort was little more than a rough, three-quarters-finished wooden palisade around a central courtyard. Threbuch must have seen hundreds of similar forts in his career. But this fort was a hornet's nest of activity, despite the rain falling steadily across it. There weren't as many men as he might have expected in the uniformed fatigue parties laboring on its construction, but peering through the unfinished, open gate from the dry side of the portal, Threbuch had seen additional buildings-barracks, obviously-going up. No doubt the prospect of getting watertight roofs over their own heads could have explained the workers' industry, but there'd been far too few troops in sight for the amount of bunk space Otwal saw going up.

"Graholis, Chief Sword!" Borkaz had muttered beside him. "Are they expecting a godsdamned regiment?"

"It's not that bad," Threbuch had replied. "It looks bigger to us because we're both scared shitless at the moment. Actually, it's probably not much bigger than one of our battalion forts."

"Whatever you say, Chief," Borkaz had said doubtfully.

They'd spent a while studying the fort. The bad news was all that barracks space; the good news was that, at the moment, they didn't seem to have the troops to put into those barracks. The more they'd looked at it, the more Threbuch had come to the conclusion that the column which had almost snapped up him and Borkaz must have represented virtually all the combat strength immediately available to the other side. If that were true, and if the hundred did beat that cavalry column through the portal, he should be in pretty good shape.

"All right," he'd said finally to Borkaz, turning his back-not without difficulty-on the fort and its work parties. "We've found their fort, and we already know their cavalry is past us. Not much we can do about that. So the next priority is figuring out just how godsdamned big this thing-" he'd waved an arm at the rainy half-disk of another universe looming over them "-really is. And if it comes to it, we're going to need a better idea of the terrain on both sides."

Borkaz had nodded, although he hadn't looked particularly happy. Threbuch hadn't blamed him, either. Neither of them had really anticipated a portal this size. Doing even a cursory tactical sweep was going to take the two of them at least a couple of days, and probably longer.

"I don't like it," Threbuch had continued, "but I think we're going to have to split up. We'll each take half the rations, then you'll sweep that way-" he'd pointed southeast; this portal's axis was aligned in a generally southeast-northwest direction "-and I'll go the other. How's the charge on your RC?"

Borkaz had reached into his pack and pulled out his reconnaissance crystal, which looked pretty much like any other PC, except for the bracket designed to allow him to affix it to the front of his helmet. He'd pressed a button on the side of the glassy cube and studied the readout for a moment.

"I've got ninety-six hours, Chief," he'd reported.