The cliff, however, was not really that bad at all; he had investigated it himself a few days earlier. It was steep, true, far too steep for horses or vehicles, but by no means sheer, with plenty of handholds and ledges, not a very difficult climb for a healthy man.

Of course, John had not climbed it in the dark, in pouring rain. His companions balked at first when they reached its base.

“Come on!” he said. “It's easy!” He snatched a rifle from its owner. “I'll show you myself!” He began marching up the slope, using one hand to steady himself, the rifle clutched in the other.

When he was twenty feet up he heard the scrape of boots on stone and knew that his men were following him. He kept moving, and only when he was almost halfway up the hundred and fifty foot climb did he glance back to be sure they were all there.

They were. “Safe-in-God's-Hands, come get your rifle,” he called.

The Chosen soldier scurried up to where John was waiting and accepted the return of his weapon. The rest of the climb was made in silence.

The slope levelled off as they climbed, and they soon found themselves standing on a gently-rising hilltop below the fortress wall.

The fortress loomed above them, its windows glowing golden through the gloom; the lowest were a few feet above John's head.

“All right, Safe,” he said. “Let's see what you can do with that gun of yours.” He gestured at the windows.

Silas Safe-in-God's-Hands lifted his rifle, selected his target-they had hoped to find a Heavener to snipe at, but he saw no sign of anyone in the windows-took careful aim, and fired.

Instead of the sound of breaking glass, however, his shot was followed by the whine of a ricochet. Embarrassed, he lowered his weapon. “I must've missed, sir,” he called. “But I don't see how. Must've been the rain."

John had been watching the window, and thought he had seen it shiver as if something had hit it. “You were close, anyway. Here, move right up next to one and try again."

The range had already been short, but Silas obediently took a few steps forward and aimed at one of the lowest tier. He was so close that he was thrusting the rifle up more than forward. It was absolutely not possible for him to miss at this distance; he squeezed the trigger.

Again, the bullet whimpered away as a ricochet, and the window remained intact. John stared up at it for a moment, then stepped up as close as he could and studied it intently.

There was a narrow scratch on the glass, dead center. He motioned for the men to move in.

“Here,” he said, “someone lift me up and let me take a look at this."

Two men crossed arms to form a seat, and John was lifted up until his eyes were level with the bottom of the window. The scratch was definitely there. Peering in, he could see that the room was full of machinery quietly whirring about its business; he saw no sign of any human inhabitants.

He reached up and tapped the pane with one finger, then closed his fist and rapped on it with his knuckles.

“Darn!” he said. “It's not glass!"

“What is it, then?” someone called.

“I don't know-but whatever it is, it's bulletproof. Let me down."

He was lowered to the ground, where he stood staring resentfully up at the warm glow of the window.

“What do we do now?” someone whispered.

“Well,” John said, “maybe we can't shoot out the windows the way we planned, or pick anyone off, but we've still got ourselves enough explosives to blow a hole in their wall, I'd say.” He looked around for the Truechurcher blacksmith.

The smith's name was Thomas Across-the-Jordan. “Jordan,” John called, “let's see what you can do with that stuff."

“All right, Captain, but I'm not too sure about the fuses in this rain."

“Do your best."

The smith set to work. While he unpacked his knapsack, John announced, “If any of you have any ideas or suggestions, I'd be glad to hear them; I was figuring half of us would be inside by now, not still out here in the rain."

After a moment of uneasy silence, someone suggested, “We could work our way around the walls and go in the front, couldn't we?"

“We'd have to go over the old town wall,” someone else answered.

“We could head out to the airship port,” a third voice said.

“Could we?” John asked. He turned to look at the building's corner and consider the possibilities.

“Sure! If we stay right under the walls, no one will see us coming; we can slip right in and wreck the place, maybe cut the Citadel off."

John nodded. “I wasn't planning to do that tonight,” he said, “and I'm not sure we can get past the guards without a fight, but it's as good an idea as we're going to get. Soon as Tom here blows out that wall, we'll make a run for it; the mess here should keep the Heaveners too busy to stop us.” He glanced back at Across-the-Jordan, then at the corner. “In fact, why wait? Tom, you can handle this by yourself, can't you?"

Across-the-Jordan looked up. “I reckon I can, Captain,” he said.

“Well, I'll leave two men here just in case you need them, and the rest of us will head for the airport. Silas, you've used up your bullets; you stay here and help out if you can. Simon,” he said, indicating another man, “you stay here as their lookout. Soon as that wall blows, the three of you come along after us; we shouldn't be too hard to find."

The three men selected all nodded acknowledgement, and John led the others around the corner and onward toward the airport.

They had just reached the juncture of the Corporate Headquarters and the old town wall when the explosion roared out behind them.

“Sooner than I expected,” someone remarked.

John said nothing, but he was suddenly worried. The explosion had, indeed, come sooner than expected, much sooner; he hoped nothing had gone wrong. He heard nothing after the initial blast, no sound of settling rubble; that was bad.

Then the sky lit up, greenish-gold, turning the rain into a shower of glowing sparks. John looked up.

The light was coming from an airship hovering over the headquarters building; it was roughly triangular, barbed and evil-looking, and a dozen sections around its edges were ablaze with light. John estimated it to be thirty or forty feet long.

“What's that?” one of his men hissed. John shushed him. “I think we better get out of here,” he said.

“Back the way we came?"

“No,” John said, looking appraisingly about him. “That's where the airship will be looking for us. Down the slope right here and head for home."

“What about Silas? And Simon and that Jordan?"

“Hope for the best,” John said. “I think the explosion got them; it came too soon. We can't afford to wait and see if I'm wrong.” He headed straight out away from the town wall, moving at a fast walk, half-crouched.

“Hey!” An unfamiliar voice shouted; John glanced back and saw someone standing on the wall, holding a gun.

“Run!” he called, suiting his own actions to his command.

Five of the others obeyed; one had frozen, one was running back toward the site of the explosion instead, and the last raised his rifle.

The man on the wall fired first, with the rattle of a machine gun; the man with the raised rifle fell.

A guerrilla commander could not leave wounded on the battlefield; John knew that. “Get that sentry!” he called, as he turned and ran back for the injured man.

Three men raised their rifles; two of them fired, the third went down in a spray of bullets. Another went down after squeezing off a shot; the third fired his second shot, then turned and ran for cover.

Someone had scored; the man on the wall also fell, and did not reappear. John thanked God for that small favor as he scooped up the man who had been first to fall.

He was unconscious, with red oozing from his scalp and running from his side. John dragged him down toward the cliff.