He made a fist around Abby’s present. The chain made a taut line across the back of his neck.

Bokuto… guarding his commander even when he disapproved… doing Gordon’s dirty work for him under the falling snow… serving with all his heart for the sake of a myth… for a nation that had died and would never, ever rise again.

Bokuto …

For the second time that night Gordon found himself on his feet without remembering how it had happened. There was no volition at all, only a shrill screech that pierced the night as he blew hard on Abby’s whistle, then his own voice, screaming through cupped hands.

“Philip! Watch out!”

… out!… out!… out!… The echo rolled forth, seeming to stun the forest.

For a long second the stillness held, then six sharp concussions shook the air in rapid succession, and suddenly, shouting filled the night.

Gordon blinked. Whatever had come over him, it was too late to turn back now. He had to play it out. “They walked right into our trap!” he shouted as loud as he could. “George says he’ll take them on the river side! Phil, cover the right!”

What an ad lib performance! Even though his words were probably lost amid the outcries and gunfire and yelped survivalist battle calls, the commotion had to be setting their plans off. Gordon kept shouting and blowing the whistle to try to confuse the ambushers.

Men screamed and dark shapes rolled through the undergrowth in desperate struggle. Flames rose high from the stirred campfire, casting grappling silhouettes through the trees.

If the fight was still going on after two full minutes, Gordon knew it meant there was a chance after all. He shouted as if he were directing a whole company of reinforcements.

“Don’t let the bastards get back across the river!” he cried. And indeed, there did seem to be some hurried motion off that way. He ducked from tree to tree toward the fighting — even though he had no weapon. “Keep them bottled in! Don’t let ‘em—”

That was when a shape emerged suddenly from around the very next tree. Gordon stopped only ten feet from the jagged patterns of black and white that made the painted face so hard to focus on. A slashlike mouth split into a broad, gap-toothed grin. The body below the unfriendly smile was immense.

“Pretty noisy feller,” the survivalist commented.

“Oughta quiet up for a bit, right, Nate?” The dark eyes flickered over Gordon’s shoulder.

For the briefest instant Gordon started to turn, even as he told himself that it was all a trick — that the Holnist was probably alone.

His attention only wavered for a moment, but it was long enough. The camouflaged figure moved like a blur. One blow from a ham-sized, rock-hard fist sent Gordon spinning to the ground.

The world was a whirl of stars and pain. How could anyone move so fast? he wondered with unravelling shreds of consciousness.

It was Gordon’s last clear thought.

A frigid, misty rain turned the slushy trail into a quagmire that sucked at the prisoners’ shuffling feet. With hanging heads they fought the mud, struggling to keep up with the horses and riders. After three days, all that mattered in the captives’ narrow world was keeping up, and avoiding any more beatings.

The victors looked hardly less fearsome now, without their war paint. In winter camouflage parkas they rode imperiously on their seized Camas Valley mounts. The rearmost and youngest Holnist — with only one gold ring hanging from his ear — occasionally turned back to snarl at the prisoners and tug the tether around the lead man’s wrist, causing the whole line to stumble ahead faster for a time.

Everywhere along the trail lay trash left by successive waves of refugees. After countless small battles and massacres, the strongest held the high ground in this territory. This was the paradise of Nathan Holn.

Several times the caravan passed through small clusters of hovels, filthy warrens made from bits and scraps of prewar salvage. At every ragged hamlet a population of wretched creatures stumbled out to pay their respects, eyes downcast. Now and then an unlucky one cowered under a few lazy blows meted out for no apparent reason by those on horseback.

Only after the warriors had passed did the villagers look up again. Their tired eyes held no hatred, only a glittering hunger as they watched the receding rumps of the well-fed horses.

The serfs hardly glanced at the new prisoners. Their lack of attention was returned.

Walking filled the daylight hours with few breaks. At night the captives were separated to prevent talking. Each was tied to a hobbled horse for warmth without a fire. Then, with dawn and a meal of weak gruel, the long walk began anew.

By the fourth day two of the prisoners had died. Two more who were too weak to continue were left with the Holnist baron of a tiny, scrabble-backed manor — replacements for serfs whose crucified corpses still hung over the trail as object lessons to anyone contemplating disobedience.

All this time, Gordon saw little more than the back of the man in front of him. He grew to hate the prisoner tethered behind his waist. Each time that one stumbled, the sudden jerk tore into the tortured muscles of his arms and sides. Still, he scarcely noticed by the time that man also disappeared, leaving only two captives to follow the plodding horses. He envied the one who had been left behind, not even knowing if the fellow had died.

The journey seemed interminable. He had awakened into it days ago and had hardly risen to complete awareness since. In spite of the agony, a small part of him welcomed the stupor and monotony. No ghosts bothered him here. No complexities and no guilt. It was all quite straightforward actually. One put a foot in front of the other, ate what little one was given, and kept one’s head down.

At some point he noticed that his fellow prisoner was helping him, taking part of his weight on his shoulders as they fought the mud. Semiconsciously, he wondered why anyone would do such a thing.

At last there came a time when he blinked and saw that his hands had been untied. They stood next to a wood-sided structure, offset some distance from a maze of teetering, noisome shanties. From not far away came the roar of rushing water.

“Welcome to Agness Town,” one of the harsh-voiced men said. Someone planted a hand in his back and pushed. There was laughter as the prisoners tumbled inside to collapse on a filthy straw tick.

Neither bothered to move from the exact spot where he rolled to a stop. It was a chance to sleep. For the moment, that was all that mattered. Again, there were no dreams — only occasional twitching as abused muscles misfired through the rest of the day, the night, and all the following morning.

Gordon awakened only when bright sunlight rose high enough to shine painfully through his eyelids. He rolled aside, groaning. A shadow passed over him, and his eyelids fluttered like rusty shutters.

It took a few seconds to focus. Recognition came some time after that. The first thing that occurred to him was that there was a tooth missing from the familiar smile.

“Johnny,” he croaked.

The young man’s face was blistered and bruised. Still, John Stevens grinned cheerfully, gap and all “Hullo, Gordon. Welcome back among the unlucky — the living.”

He helped Gordon sit up and steadied a ladle of cool river water for him to sip. Meanwhile, Johnny talked. “There’s food over in the corner. And I overheard a guard say something about gettin’ us cleaned up sometime soon. So maybe there’s a reason our balls aren’t already hanging from some asshole’s trophy belt. I guess they brought us all this way to meet some bigshot.”

Johnny laughed, dryly. “Just you wait, Gordon. We’ll talk rings around the guy, whoever it is. Maybe we can offer to make him a postmaster, or something. Is that what you meant when you lectured me about the importance of learning practical politics?”