Karl couldn't see what had happened to most of the others; all except Tennetty and Aveneer had been carried away from him.
"This way," he shouted, as the three of them worked their way farther into the camp, Aveneer using his axe like a scythe to clear the way, Karl and Tennetty lighting and throwing grenades one-handed, their swords weaving like snakes.
The flat of his sword parallel to the ground, Karl speared a Holt through the chest, then kicked the body off his wet blade before turning to cut down one on Tennetty's back.
Less than a hundred yards in front of him, the Holts' wizard stood within the inner camp, halfway between the magazine shed and the cannon.
Lightning issued from the wizard's fingertips, crackling off into the night.
Andy— "No!" He fought his way toward the wizard, but a heavy blow hit him on the right side, just above the waist, knocking him down before he heard the rifle's crack. As he tried to get to his feet, a booted foot caught him in the chest, knocking him back, half out of breath.
Instinct brought his sword up, slipping the saber's tip up the other's thigh and into his groin. Karl lurched away, giving his saber a savage twist before he leaped to his feet. Another Holt was bringing a rifle to bear on Tennetty; Karl booted the weapon out of the man's hands, then caught him by the hair, the Holt's body spasming twice as he absorbed two shots meant for Karl.
He drew his saber across the Holt's throat before sending him on his way, then decided that it had been too long since he'd set off a grenade, and quickly lit off two.
Thunder echoed the grenades' explosion.
Now I'll get the wiz—
Where was the Holts' wizard? Where he had stood but moments before, there was nothing, nothing but a small crater.
He felt Tennetty pulling at his arm. Momentarily, the screaming and the shooting rushed around them like a stream around an outthrust rock.
"I took out the wizard," she shouted. "Hope you don't mind."
There wasn't time to thank her. "I'm going for the cannon. Cover me."
She fended off two attackers as he dashed toward the cannon, dropping his sword and drawing the spike and hammer from his pouch.
A heavy weight landed on his back; he thrust back an elbow, then swung the smith's hammer around, feeling the Holt's skull cave in like an eggshell.
Spiking the cannon took only a second, but as he dropped his hammer and stooped to retrieve his sword, a sharp blow to his back knocked him down to the ground. He clawed inside his tunic for another grenade, but they had all bounced away in the dark, and the weakness in his side and back was spreading.
There was another explosion somewhere off to the rear, but that wouldn't do any good. The magazine was ahead, not behind.
He started to crawl toward it as thunder shattered the sky into rain.
A dark mass crashed into him from the side; blindly, his hand clawed at the other's face, only to encounter an eyepatch. "Tennetty!"
She smiled weakly at him, her mouth working, but no sound issuing from between her bloody lips as her eye sagged shut.
I'm sorry, Tennetty, Rahff, Fialt, Erek, Aveneer, Chak—all of you—
But rain? It wasn't rainy season—
Andy. It was a goodbye from Andy, her way of telling him that she had survived. The Holts' wizard wouldn't have started a rainstorm, even if he could have; you couldn't reload in the rain, because the powder would get wet. And the Holts were under attack; they would want to reload. Now, they couldn't—
No, they couldn't, could they? Real gunpowder would become wet and useless in the rain.
But slaver gunpowder had to stay safely under cover, or it would turn back into superheated steam.
The powder would get wet. His rumbling fingers tore at Tennetty's tunic until he found a grenade. He struck the fuse against his thumbnail and flicked it toward the magazine shack.
The powder would get wet. The explosion tore off one wall of the shack, sending the barrels inside clattering.
He gathered Tennetty against his chest as he heard the crack of splitting wood . . .
. . . and the largest explosion of all, that shattered the world into white-hot sparks of pain that quickly went black.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Arta Myrdhyn
What though the field be lost? All is not lost; th' unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.
—John Milton
For a long time, there was nothing. Nobody was there . . . and no body was there.
And then there was a spark, and the spark thought: So this is what being dead feels like.
"I doubt that you have nearly enough information to decide that yet, Karl," an airy tenor voice out of his past said. "Although if you ever do find out for certain, I would be most grateful if you would let me know. If you can let me know, that is. It's something I have wondered about for . . . for a long time." Deighton chuckled thinly, a hollow sound.
There was no question; the voice was Deighton's. Professor Arthur Simpson Deighton, Ph.D. Lecturer in, though not practitioner of, ethics; gamemaster, wizard.
The bastard who sent us all across.
"My parentage is not at issue here. And I won't accept the blame for the second time, Karl. As I recall, you had a knife to my throat." A thin chuckle echoed through the empty universe. "Although I would gladly have done it simply for the asking . . . as you may have surmised by now."
Where are you, Deighton? Hell, where am I, for that matter?
"Matter, Karl, has rather little to do with it. Would you settle for illusion? It will be quite persuasive, I can promise you that."
What the—
"I'll take that as an assent."
There were no loud sounds or bright lights. The universe simply came back, until Karl Cullinane was sitting in a wooden chair at the battered mahogany table in Room 109 of the Student Union.
The room was as they'd left it on that long-ago night: books and coats piled against the wall and on the extra chairs; pens, pencils, paper, and dice scattered around the battered surface of the old mahogany table. He looked up at the overhead lights. Strange, so strange to see fluorescent lights again. No flicker, just a steady light.
Slowly, gingerly, he got to his feet, waiting for his wounds to start hurting.
But they didn't. He felt fine, except that he wasn't himself, not the self he should have been, not here. While he was wearing jeans and a slightly tight plaid shirt—just as he had way back then—he was still himself from the Other Side, not the skinny Karl Cullinane of This Side.
He flexed his right biceps in the sleeve; the fabric split along the seam.
"And yes, if you prick yourself, you will bleed," the directionless voice said. "But it is all illusion. Have an illusionary cup of coffee, and perhaps a phantom cigarette. You may feel better."
He looked down at the table. A white porcelain mug of coffee sat steaming next to a battered half-empty pack of Camel Filters.
"Drink up, Karl."
He shrugged and picked up the coffee cup, then took a cautious sip.
Good Colombian beans, gently roasted, well laced with rich cream and sugar. Karl had once thought coffee an acquired addiction, but one that could be broken with a bit of abstinence. He now knew he was wrong: This was absolutely delicious. He picked up the cellophane-wrapped pack of cigarettes and extracted one, snickering at the Surgeon General's warning.
I don't suppose us dead folks have to worry about whether something is hazardous to our health. He stuck the filter between his lips. "Light?"
"As I told you, you are not dead. Still, an illusory cigarette is harmless. Enjoy." The end of the cigarette flared into flame.
Karl inhaled the rich smoke . . .
. . . and doubled over in a spasm of coughing. He threw the cigarette away.
"I said it was harmless, not unirritating."
"Fine." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Deighton—or should I call you Arta Myrdhyn?"
"Why don't you show yourself?"
"If you'd like." Across the table from him, the air shimmered momentarily, and there he sat, just as Karl had seen him on a night more than seven years before. A thin, stoop-shouldered man in a tan wool suit, puffing on the bulldog briar pipe that was responsible for the burns that marked the pockets and arms of the suit.
Deighton removed the pipe from his mouth and touched it to his lined forehead in a brief, mocking salute.
"How have you been, Karl?" He puffed a cloud of smoke into the air.
Karl considered lunging across the table for Deighton, but decided against it. This was either some sort of very real dream or it was Deighton's turf. Either way, jumping Deighton was unlikely to get any results.
"I've had friends die because of you, Arta Myrdhyn," he said.
"True." Deighton nodded slowly, gravely. "True enough. And I assure you that I'm as aware of that as you are. Including Jason Parker, by the way. It was rather nice of Andrea to name your son after him." His face grew pensive for a moment. "I . . . truly didn't mean any of you any harm. And I truly would tell you everything, Karl, if there weren't sufficient reasons not to."
"What do you want?"
"We had an agreement, Karl Cullinane." The pleasant demeanor vanished, as Deighton's eyes turned icy. "You agreed to keep my sword for your son, hold it for him until he was ready to use it. In return for that promise, you were allowed to use it against that young fool Thyren. But you didn't keep your promise, Karl."
Karl pushed himself to his feet. "Not my son, bastard. You keep your filthy hands off of him."
"Sit down."
Karl gathered himself for a leap—
—but found himself sitting in the chair.
"Illusion, remember? My illusion, not yours." Deighton puffed at the pipe for several seconds. "I'll offer you another deal: Fetch the sword for Jason, hold it for him until he's ready for it, and I'll send you back."
Karl dialed for a calm voice. "I thought you said this was an illusion," he said, pleased to find that he could talk calmly. "How can you send me back?"
"Right . . . now, I guess you would call it?—right now, Karl, your body is lying on the battlefield, a knife's edge from death. Normally, I couldn't communicate with you across the barrier between This Side and the Other Side, but this is . . . a special circumstance. While you're not on This Side at all, you're not fully on the Other Side. Does that make sense to you?"
Deighton cocked his head to one side as he steepled his fingers in front of his chin. "I couldn't bring you back from the dead, and I wouldn't push you over the precipice, but I will . . . use my best efforts to hold you on the side of life, for the time being. If, that is, we have an agreement."
"No deals." Karl shook his head. "No deals, Art. You're not going to play around with my son's life the way you have with mine," he said, instantly resolute. He was surprised at himself. There had been a time when he had had difficulty with commitment, even when it was only a matter of committing himself to a course of study.
But that had been long, long ago.
"Yes," Deighton said, studying him closely, "there have been some changes. It is clear nothing I would be willing to do would make you change your mind." He rose to his feet. "Well, I suppose that is that," he said matter-of-factly, tossing his pipe aside. It vanished.
The room started to melt away, the colors running together. Karl braced himself for the final darkness. Goodbye, Andy . . .
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic." The room solidified again. "You may dispense with the heroics for now. Save them for when they're appropriate. As they will be. I still have to send you back," Deighton said, shaking a finger at him, "although you really ought to be more careful. It's unlikely I'll be able to do even this little for you next time we meet."
"Next time?"
Deighton nodded. "Once more, Karl Cullinane. Once more."
Suddenly, Deighton stood at his side. The old man stuck out a hand. "Be well, Karl Cullinane. Take good care of that son of yours. He's awfully important, as you've suspected."
Karl didn't take the hand. "I will take care of my son, Deighton, whether you want me to or not."
"I'd expect no less."
"Just tell me one thing, please—why?"
"I can't tell you. Not now."
"Will you ever?"
"No." Deighton caught his lip between his teeth. "I'm sorry, Karl. I can't explain it to you right now, and I doubt I'll have the opportunity the next time we meet." He clapped his hand to Karl's shoulder. "Be well, my friend."
"You're no friend of mine!"
Deighton looked surprised. "Of course not. But you are one of mine. It is my fond hope that you will do me a great favor, the next time we meet. Until then, be well."
"Wait—"
"One more thing: Ahrmin isn't dead. He got away again. While I can't blame you for this one, you really ought to have been more thorough in Melawei, Karl."
Deighton smiled genially. "Be well."
The room melted away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Silver Crown
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
—William Shakespeare
"Karl," Andy-Andy's voice called to him, sweeter in his ears than anything he had ever heard. It occurred to him that she had been calling his name over and over again—for minutes, or was it hours?
She sounds worried. His eyelids weren't heavier than twin Volkswagens, so he opened them. It didn't make much of a difference: The room was dark, and it was far too much effort to focus. He was stretched out on a down mattress, the heavy blankets piled on his chest threatening to interfere with his breathing.
"Karl," she said urgently, "can you hear me?"
"Of course I can hear you," he tried to say, but the words came out as glmph.
*He can hear you perfectly well.* Ellegon's mental voice was firm. *Karl, don't talk. Just use your mind—assuming you have one. I'll relay.*
Fine. Got to tell her about Deighton—
*Save that for later.*
But—
*But nothing; you've been dreaming about nothing else since they brought you within range. I know it all.*
Ellegon—
*Shut up and listen. You're the luckiest human that ever there was. As far as blood goes, Andrea thinks you're down more than a quart, so you have to take it easy. We pulled five bullets out of your hide; none of them hit anything vital. And not only did you fall into the cannon's blast shadow—that's what saved your life—but Andrea got to you with the healing draughts quickly enough to save everything except most of three fingers on your left hand. You've been hovering on the edge for eleven days now, and we've all been worrying about whether or not you were ever coming out. Happy?*
His eyelids had increased in mass until they were much heavier than Buicks, so he let them sag shut.
Tennetty, Aveneer, Erek—did they—
*Tennetty's fine, Karl. She cracked some ribs, that's all. Although once we figured out that you were going to be okay, she did have some words about you pawing around inside her tunic. Says if you want to do that again you should ask really prettily.*
Ellegon, you're not telling me about the others. Did any of them—
*No. None of them made it.*
His fists started to clench, but he didn't even have the strength to do that. The Holts and the slavers—
*Chased all to hell and gone. After the explosion, Valeran led a rifle company out after them. The Holts couldn't use their own guns, not with Andrea keeping up a light drizzle; Valeran captured about two hundred, killed more than three times that number, and sent the rest running. Now go back to sleep.*
* * *
The next time he woke, light was streaming in through the mottled glass window, splashing warmly, brightly on the bed.
Andy-Andy was next to him, sitting on a low stool, her face only a couple of feet from his. She smiled at him as she reached out and took
his hand.
"Hello there," she said, her calm, level voice belying the exhaustion written in her face. The dark shadows under her red-rimmed eyes showed that she clearly needed a night's sleep.
"Hi." Lifting and dropping his hand to pat the mattress next to him wasn't quite impossible. "Get . . . in."
"Really?" She brightened. "You're getting better quickly, but not that quickly."
"No. Sleep."
"Maybe later. Would you like some broth?"
*I've already sent down to the kitchen for the food. Andrea, I've got to tell him.*
"It can wait!" she hissed.
*That is a matter of opinion. Mine differs from yours. Karl, Walter wants you to know that Pirondael did abdicate, just as you wanted, but Furnael didn't survive through Biemestren.*
Furnael was dead. That meant that Thomen was now the prince? A bit young, but Beralyn might be a decent regent.
*Guess again. Thomen is Baron Furnael; his mother will be regent, but only of barony Furnael.*
Wait. If Pirondael abdicated in Zherr Furnael's favor, then—
*But he didn't. What Prince Pirondael agreed to do was to abdicate in favor of Captain Garavar's selection. As far as Garavar and the rest of the House Guard are concerned, that pretty much settles it: Garavar picks the next prince, and if the rest of the barons don't like it, they can try to revolt.*
Who's this Garavar person?
*Officially, he's a guard captain in the House Guard. Unofficially, he's the Biemish commander-in-chief, although that'll have to be ratified by the new prince.*
Great. So who is the prince? Some—
*You.*
Very funny.
*I thought so, too. But Captain Garavar of the House Guard is here along with all of the House Guard except for a skeleton force that's waiting at Biemestren castle, and Garavar and the two thousand House Guardsmen don't think it funny at all. Matter of fact, he's pretty damn impressed with the firepower your majesty is bringing to the throne, including one spiked slaver cannon, a few hundred real gunpowder guns, a dozen hand grenades, and—ahem!—one slightly damaged dragon. Dowager Baroness Beralyn has dispatched messengers to the remaining barons, pledging barony Furnael's loyalty to your majesty, and explaining that you and five hundred men just scattered two regiments of Holts and slavers all to hell—which ought to impress them.*
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