And then, beautiful, we can get you out of here. You, Thomen Furnael, perhaps Erek and Ranella. I'll give the orders, and see that it's done.
And then, he thought, lifting her from the chair, gathering her in his arms, we'll give Ahrmin and the rest of those bastards a last run that'll make them wake up screaming for the rest of their lives.
Tennetty cleared her throat. "You want me to put together a couple of kits? Crossbows, I suppose—can't use guns . . . . Andrea? Can you include the bows and everything in the spell?"
"Yes, but . . ." Andy-Andy pushed away from him. "I . . . can't keep you invisible for much time at all." She wrinkled her brow as she looked up at Karl. "Just a few minutes, if it's going to be both of you. Enough time to get out—"
"But not enough to get back in, eh?" He smiled. "Shouldn't be a problem. We'll leave just after dark, and coordinate our return with Aveneer. Tennetty, include a signal rocket in our kit, and two grenades each, plus fuses." He smiled at Andy-Andy as he jerked his thumb toward their sleeping quarters. "I'll be with you in a minute."
Andy-Andy smiled gently back at him and walked away, her spell book tucked carefully under her arm.
He turned to Tennetty. "There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about—"
"I know; consider it said." She eyed him levelly. "I'd better get us packed up for tonight." She started to walk away, then turned back. "It's all been worth it . . . hasn't it, Karl?"
You know, Tennetty, I've never heard you sound unsure of yourself before. I'm not sure I like it.
He forced a smile. "Count on it. Now get lost for a while."
* * *
Aveneer was waiting for them near the front gate. His eyes sparkled in the light of the torches as he shook his massive head. "It's not been my experience that generals do their own scouting, Karl," he said, "and I don't like the idea."
Frandred nodded, then shook his head. "Bad idea, Karl, bad."
Karl had never liked the way that Aveneer's second-in-command always had to say something twice. It reminded him of a retarded boy who had been his neighbor, long ago. Long, long ago . . .
"You think that man of yours is a better scout than I am?"
Aveneer nodded. "Possibly."
"He is, of course he is."
Karl nodded a false agreement. "Then fine, bring him up. One thing, though: Would he be able to tell a mobile gunshop from a mobile smithy?"
"No, but that's not relevant." Aveneer shook his head. "It wouldn't be his responsibility to decide, but to report."
"Right." He crooked a finger and beckoned Aveneer close. "And it isn't your responsibility," he whispered, "to tell me what my job is; it's your responsibility to carry out my orders. Understood?"
Aveneer pulled back and snorted. "True. But I'd be a bit careful, were I you. Eh?" He clapped his hand to Karl's shoulder. "You wouldn't want to get killed prematurely." He clasped Karl's hand in his. "Just in case you don't return, any advice?"
"Nothing much." Karl shrugged. "Except the obvious. Hold off using the grenades until the very last. You've got to get them bunched in order to get the right payoff. When they rush, I'd try for volley fire, instead of fire-at-will—you might be able to break the rush." He walked to the portcullis and looked out.
Perhaps five hundred yards down the road leading from the keep, the nearest of the Holtish encampments waited, campfires blazing away into the night. He slipped the heavy bolts on the man-high door that formed part of the base of the portcullis and then walked back to where Andy-Andy and Tennetty stood waiting.
He quickly stripped off his jerkin and leggings, then pulled a loose pair of shorts on over his shoes, belting the shorts tightly around his waist. That was a trick that Walter Slovotsky had taught him, long ago: On a recon, it was best to keep as little as possible between your skin and the air. It was almost as though he grew extra nerves; it was certain that he felt more vulnerable when creeping almost naked through the night.
Tennetty smeared the greasepaint over his skin, then strapped a crossbow across his back and handed him a drawstring-topped leather quiver, which he tied to his right thigh.
He looked at his swordbelt, debating whether or not it was right to take it. No, he decided; the crossbow and quiver were already going to be enough trouble to handle, and if this recon came down to swordplay, he was already in too deep.
He nodded to himself. Best to go as lightly armed as possible. He selected a Nehera-made bowie and belted its scabbard around his waist, thonging the knife into the scabbard. Logical; he wouldn't need the saber, but a knife could be handy.
To hell with logic. He belted on the saber, too.
Tennetty had already armed herself and stood ready, her fists clenching and unclenching.
Karl turned to his wife. "Do it," he said.
* * *
Andy-Andy began to murmur the words of the spell, the harsh, flat sounds that could only be forgotten, never saved in the mind.
The world slowly went gray around him, until it settled into a total black. That was the trouble with a simple invisibility spell: It made its subject totally transparent to light, and that included his retinas. Transparent retinas couldn't react to light.
But this wasn't a simple invisibility spell; Andy wasn't done. Her hand reached out and touched his forehead, the fingertips sliding down until she touched his eyelids.
The pressure of her fingers increased as the words of the spell finished.
She released his lids; he opened his eyes. Two feet away and a foot below his eye level, he could see the dark discontinuity that marked where Tennetty's eye was.
Karl looked down. He could see right through himself, all the way down to the outline of his bootprints in the dirt.
He reached out and took Tennetty's hand.
"Let's go," he whispered. They would have to touch each other; in the darkness outside the keep, he wouldn't be able to see her any more than the Holts could see him.
They stepped out through the door and into the night. Down the road, eager-eyed sentries had perhaps already noted the open door, and were probably waiting to see if this time it meant that somebody was leaving the keep, trying to slip away.
But they had been keeping watch for five nights now, and every night Karl had ordered the small door opened, then closed, several times, both when Tennetty was trying to sneak away for a quiet recon and not. By now, the watchers were probably persuaded that this was simply intended to spook them.
Karl and Tennetty walked swiftly down the road.
* * *
By the time they had faded back into visibility, they were far down the road, well concealed in the trees.
The main Holtish camp spread out in front of them. Despite the greater size of his force, the leader of this expedition had followed the same general plan as the leader of the last one. He had split off three cavalry units to camp separately opposite the keep's other walls, and even put his main camp on the same ground his predecessor had chosen.
But that was where the similarity ended. This Holtish general was much more security-conscious. There were twelve watchfires spread around the camp's perimeter, each manned by at least twenty guards. And even within the camp there was added security. The inner portion of his main camp was a corral-like compound, perhaps forty yards across, containing what Karl was sure was the powder magazine, as well as several boxy travel wagons—one of them a wizard's wagon, no doubt.
There was something else in that corral as well, something that scouts hadn't reported seeing. But it was almost hidden between the wagons and covered by a tarpaulin, and all he could tell was that it was longer than it was wide, which didn't do a damn bit of good.
"That . . . thing in the compound wasn't there last night." Tennetty looked at him. "Do you think we could get in there?" she whispered, her words barely carrying the few inches to his ear.
"Not and get out, that's for sure."
"I wasn't talking about getting out. If we could blow up their magazine, scatter
the powder, the morning dew would finish the job for us."
A nice idea in principle, but it just wouldn't work. The interior of the camp was clearly too well guarded—he wouldn't even be able to get within throwing range. Besides, unless it was very well thrown, a grenade probably wouldn't break open the barrels containing the Holts' reserve supply of slaver powder.
He shook his head. "I don't think even Walter could get in there." Damn. He lifted his amulet. It was flashing red, though; clearly, the Holts had added a wizard in the past few days, as well as whatever that thing under the tarp was.
He looked up at the overhanging branches of the dying oak. It might be possible to get about twenty, maybe twenty-five feet up, and that might give a decent view of whatever was going on in the camp, "How's your tree-climbing?"
"Better than yours. And quieter. Give me a hand up." She quickly stripped off her weapons and boots. Karl cocked and loaded both crossbows, then set them carefully on the ground before boosting Tennetty up to an overhanging branch.
Silently, she climbed, while Karl kept watch. She would be almost invisible to anyone looking, but only almost. Off in the distance, Karl could hear something moving through the field. He hoped that Tennetty could hear it, too, but loosed his sword in its scabbard in case she couldn't.
The sound grew closer; a whisk of leather on grass.
Great. Patrolling Holts weren't what he needed right now, but it looked as if he was going to get them anyway. If he was lucky, as they passed by his position they'd be discussing whatever strategy the Holtish general was planning for the morning.
He wasn't lucky. Two Holtish soldiers, each armed with a slaver rifle, walked by, only yards from where Karl huddled in the shadow of the old oak's projecting roots. It seemed for a moment as though one of them looked directly at him before the Holt's gaze swung by, but perhaps he was mistaken.
In a few minutes, they were gone.
Tennetty dropped lightly from an overhanging branch. "Unless they've got another cripple with them, he's there. I saw him coming out of the magazine with a wizard."
"Ahrmin?"
"Who else? He was showing the wizard that ram."
"Ram?"
"The . . . thing near the powder magazine. Ahrmin had the covering off for a moment. It's a ram, a damn large one."
That was strange. A ram attack, intended to breach the keep's walls, ought to be accompanied by some other sort of attack elsewhere; by itself, the ram and its crew would be too vulnerable to concentrated fire from the defenders. So where were the onagers and catapults or the siege ladders?
A chill washed across him. "Describe this ram."
"Strange-looking thing. Like a long metal sausage, about twice as long as you're tall. It's mounted on a cart. I guess they're going to have some sort of rigging for horses to propel the thing, but the wagon it's on is rigged for pulling, not pushing." She shrugged. "And why it has a hole in one end . . ."
A hole?
Omigod. "That's not a ram. It's a cannon." Which explained what the Holts had been waiting for. A cannon could shatter the walls, or, firing chainshot or grapeshot, quickly reduce the defenders on the walls to bloody hunks of flesh. The Holts had been holding up the attack, waiting for this to arrive.
His heart thudding in his chest, he forced himself to breathe slowly. He would have to see that Andy-Andy was smuggled out, and not tomorrow, but tonight. The cannon that they had waited for had arrived; the Holts would attack in the morning.
But would she go? And who could he trust to smuggle her out of here? Damn Walter Slovotsky for taking Ahira.
Tennetty. It would have to be Tennetty.
"What is a cannon?" Tennetty whispered.
"Like a big rifle. Except that it can knock down walls."
"Knock down—I see." She nodded sagely. "How do you counter a cannon?"
"You spike it—" He caught himself. Maybe? No. There were ample guards around, and a wizard within the compound, likely there either to assist in the attack or to keep the slaver powder from picking up water from the air and self-detonating. "Or you do what Chak did, except on a large scale. Without enough powder, a cannon is useless."
She nodded wisely. "Then we'd better get to it, no?"
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. There wasn't a chance in a billion that the two of them could get through the Holts and into the magazine, and there wasn't a chance in a million that a large group could.
But a group didn't have to. Only one had to, if that one knew what to do. If in the noise and confusion, one man could break through to the magazine or have just enough time to spike the cannon, that might buy some time for Slovotsky to put Furnael on the throne and bring relief to the keep.
At the very least, it would force the Holts to switch strategies, and spend some time building ladders or siege engines.
"Karl, we may never get another chance at him. We've got to—"
"Don't tell me what we have to do. Ahrmin is secondary, dammit. The cannon's the first priority. Listen," he said. "Get back to the keep—"
"No. You can't do it yourself."
"Damn right, Tennetty. Bring back as many people as you're sure you can smuggle out without being seen. No guns; we're not going to have time to reload, and even if we pull this off, they're going to need them in the keep. But load up with grenades. And all of the smith's hammers and a dozen spikes."
"And if we can do that . . . ?"
"The magazine and the cannon first. Then we kill the little bastard."
"Fine." She smiled, and turned to leave.
He caught her arm. "One more thing: Bring my clothes. I don't want to die half-naked."
* * *
It felt as if it took forever for Tennetty to get back. By the time she arrived, seven others in tow, Karl had made and rejected a thousand different, useless plans for getting in and out of the Holts' camp all by himself.
Seven others. That was all she had brought back. Karl didn't admonish her; she knew better than he did how many she could sneak out of the castle.
But she could easily have picked a worse seven: Peill, Firkh, Hervean, Rahnidge, Thermen, Erek . . . and Aveneer.
"I thought I left you in command," Karl said to the red-bearded Nyph, as he handed Aveneer his share of the grenades. It worked out to nine each, with two extras, both of which Karl appropriated for himself.
"You did. And I left Valeran in command." Aveneer shrugged. "I've spent far too much of my life away from the center of things. Figured that this one time I'd make absolutely sure I don't die of old age."
Karl shrugged. There was nothing that could be done about that now, even if he didn't want Aveneer and his battleaxe around.
Which he very much did. "Fine," Karl said. "First thing, we've got to be sure that we take out the wizard." He lifted his amulet. "This won't provide much protection, but it's all that we've got—"
"No." Tennetty looked over at him soberly. "Andrea sends a message: The wizard is hers. When she hears the sound of the first grenade going off, she will—how did she put it—'brighten her fire.' The Holts' wizard will see that as a challenge."
Ellegon, relay— He caught himself. He was out of range, and there wasn't a damn thing that he could do. Except— "My orders stand. If you see the wizard, take him out. Understood?"
Tennetty looked him square in the face. "Even if that means missing the magazine? Or the cannon?"
He grabbed her by the tunic. "You challenging my orders, Tennetty?"
She raised her palms. "No. I'm asking what they are. Think about it."
Andy . . . He forced himself to keep his harsh whisper under control. "Get the magazine and the cannon. No matter what."
* * *
Accepting his tunic from Tennetty, Karl drew it on and belted it tightly around his hips with a length of rope. After inserting the fuses in the detonators and the detonators in the grenades, he carefully tucked them into his tunic, their iron sides cold against his belly, then buckled on his swordbelt, with the pouch tie
d tightly to its right side.
"Keep an even spacing," he said. "Not too close—if a shot hits you in the wrong place, you're going up, complete with grenades."
Tennetty smiled. "Right, right. Do we get to it or not?"
There had been a time, long, long ago, when a younger Karl Cullinane wouldn't have been able to face the idea of walking into the lion's mouth.
But that was long, long ago. He looked from face to face, trying to come up with the right words.
He couldn't find any.
"Follow me," he said.
* * *
On hands and knees, they crept through the waist-high grasses in the dark, Tennetty and Peill armed with crossbows in addition to their grenades. With a bit of luck, perhaps all nine of them could get to the Holts' outer perimeter before they were spotted.
Their luck was not in; when they were still a good fifty yards from the outer edge of the cleared area that marked the Holtish camp, a harsh voice called out a warning; a shot rang out, a bullet hissed overhead.
Peill rose, his crossbow discharging. The bolt caught the watchman in the chest; he screamed hideously. Hervean rose to his feet, a sizzling grenade in his hand.
But the Holtish guards reacted quickly; Peill and Hervean were cut down by a flurry of gunfire, Hervean's grenade exploding while still in his hands, miraculously not triggering any of his or Peill's remaining grenades.
Already on his feet and on the run, Karl struck the tip of a fuse on his swordbelt buckle and sent a grenade hissing toward the Holts. It landed in between three of them and exploded, sending bodies and pieces of bodies flying into the night.
An explosion on his right shook him from his feet. As he rose, he pulled out another grenade, struck it, threw it, then another.
Three Holtish swordsmen came at him. Karl drew his saber and parried the first's lunge, letting the rush carry the man past, while he speared the next one through the throat.
The third one smiled as he lunged for Karl.
The smile vanished as he went down, a crossbow bolt transfixing his neck. Tennetty laughed as she sent another grenade hissing off into the Holts. Karl drew one from his tunic and threw it into the watchfire, not bothering to strike it. It blew almost immediately, turning the fire into a shower of sparks and embers.
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