By the time he was ready to leave, an outpost had reported an enemy patrol scouring the encampment. Tsulgax ordered the hithik General Gruismak to prepare a defense. He had no illusion that there'd actually be a defense, once he was gone, but the order was expected, so he gave it.

He himself did nothing till dusk. Then, still wearing his rakutik jacket and cap, he rode back westward. But not on the road. When he'd passed the last outpost and entered the forest, he changed into the farmer coat and cap, stowing his rakutik gear in a bag on his packhorse.

Mostly he stayed on or near Road B. Thus on the third morning, he knew when large columns passed going eastward. Columns that could only be from the Deep River Line. From the shelter of a tamarack fringe, he watched across open bog as they passed: units of armed ylver, followed by thousands of hithik prisoners, their hands tied in front of them.

Late that afternoon he reached the clearing. For the first time in his memory, Tsulgax was astonished. There weren't even rubble piles, only broken stones, without one on top of another. There were, however, dead horses and dead men, covered by new snow. He brushed one off. A rakutu. A saber had struck him across the back of the neck, above his cuirass, severing the spine.

Tsulgax rode across the middle of the clearing. There were many bodies toward the center, mostly rakutur. But he felt no grief. Even among the rakutur he'd been a loner.

And now he knew, really knew the situation. There was not the smallest doubt that his father was dead, and that only the hithar remained of his army. Tsulgax spat in the snow.

He also knew, or thought he did, what had happened. The great sorcery his father had planned had backfired, and Kurt Montag was the cause. He'd aborted it the first night, had actually stolen the Crystal of Power. On the second night he'd done… Tsulgax expected never to know what. But even as a prisoner, Montag had done something to cause this. Tsulgax had suspected it when he'd encountered the second wagon train with its voitik commander dead. Twice was no accident. He'd known it at Camp Merrawin, when he learned that everyone there, connected with the hive mind, had died the same way.

Montag!

He didn't wonder how a physically and mentally handicapped German had come to Vismearc. How an inept psychic could block the sorcery of one whom the hive mind had chosen the next Crystal Lord. Montag had come, and done whatever it was he'd done.

Nor did he wonder if Montag had died in the cataclysm. It was logical to assume it, but Tsulgax felt sure the German was alive. The question was where, and how to get at him.

The rakutu followed the enemy forces to Colroi. Their hithik prisoners far outnumbered them, but the prisoners had been disarmed, of course, and their officers segregated into separate encampments. Not that it made any difference; there was no fight left in any of them. Like most of the victors, they camped not in the ruins, but in the snowblown fields nearby, in squad tents. More snow had fallen, and when the wind blew, the snow blew, along the surface in a ground blizzard. It sifted into everything, including their tents. They were defeated and demoralized, and many were sick. They were fed twice a day: cornmeal mush with hard bread and lard for breakfast, and for supper, boiled potatoes with hard bread and lard. As bread was abundant, the prisoners would stash chunks of it in their jackets, to gnaw between meals with teeth that were loosening in their gums.

Tsulgax had no sympathy for them. They were hithar, no better than dogs.

Most of the ylvin army was camped in the open too. But their mood was grim, not demoralized. They were given more wood for their warming fires, and three meals a day, with meat or cheese, and beans.

Tsulgax knew, because he ate army meals, insinuating himself into raider mess lines. Always taking extra, and squirreling away what he didn't eat, to replenish the rations he'd taken with him from Camp Merrawin and used on the road.

Many of the raider forces wore uniforms of various sorts, but some, mostly ylver, were dressed in farmer clothes, with odds and ends of hithik uniforms. And single large mess crews served several units.

There were raiders with uniforms resembling the rakutur's. Some were dressed so much like rakutur, at first sight he thought they were. Turncoats! But listening at their fringe, he discovered they spoke Vismearcisc among themselves. They were, he supposed, some ylvin strain.

He did not live with any of them; he wanted no friendly approaches. His Vismearcisc was notably accented, and if they ever saw his ears… When speaking was unavoidable, he feigned a speech impediment, and impaired hearing. The surly personality was genuine. On his first night there, he'd snooped the ruins of Colroi, and selected a roofless, burnt-out brick shed to protect himself from wind. Then he set up his shelter tent in it, to protect himself from snowfall.

Between times he circulated on the fringe of things, watching for a glimpse either of Montag, his father's woman, or a giant boar. And seeing nothing. After several days he began to wonder if they were actually there, or if he'd assumed wrongly. But he continued as he was. From what he overheard, the purpose of this long cold wait was to decide on peace terms. So far as Tsulgax could tell, some general called the Lion was in charge. Why it should take so long, he had no idea. The enemy were the winners, after all. Tsulgax had no experience of government except the voitik imperial autocracy. He was not familiar with politics beyond differences of opinion. The voitik hive mind was not compatible with factionalism.

Another week passed, and several days more. It was Vulkan who gave Macurdy away. Tsulgax spotted the boar from a distance, beside a large man on horseback. Trotting through clots of soldiers, Tsulgax got nearer, improving his view. On the other side of the tall man was a woman bundled in furs. The man was in a uniform Tsulgax couldn't identify. And they were followed by packhorses and remounts; they were leaving Colroi. Along the road, men called and waved: "The Lion! The Lion!" It was the man with the woman and boar they were waving at.

Tsulgax couldn't see their faces. He speeded up, dodging among soldiers, trying to get a better angle. Finally he took a chance, crossing the road behind the threesome, guessing they'd turn south at the crossroads. They did, and he saw both of them from little more than a hundred feet.

There was no doubt. The man was Montag, and the woman was his father's woman, the one called Varia.

From there, with his speed, he might have-might have-taken them by surprise. Cut them off, and attacked with his saber. But there was the beast, the giant boar with its tusks. And soldiers on and along the road.

And this was the real Montag, formidable and dangerous. The lame German, slow, dull-witted and obsequious, had been a sham, a clever act.

He needed a horse again. He'd been required to turn his in to one of the horse herds, where they were fed and guarded. So he went to the sergeant in charge, and asked for one back.

"You need a note from your commanding officer," the sergeant said.

Tsulgax had no notion of how to write Vismearcisc, but he didn't argue. It would get him nowhere. Nor did he attack the sergeant, for there were other herd guards nearby. He simply nodded, stammered his thanks, and left.