... Screaming, only dimly aware of a warm wetness about his body. The splintered shield had been lost somewhere. There was another man with a sword in front of him, slow and clumsy, far too slow for the feral speed in his own arms. He felt immune to pain, immortal. Whatever touched or even broke his flesh, Padrec knew it only from a distance, bellowing as he followed the swing of his arms and the beautiful scarlet sword, roaring at the pitiful doll figures that went down before him. Screaming at nothing, at air, at the sun, at the sudden but useless iron against his iron. Falling across the ripped belly of a dead horse, to see the shield bearers trotting up the alley, the running men between them, shields overhead, pushing farther into the fort, brawny sappers tearing the obstructions out of the way.

. . . told you to follow us . . . why did you wait, Gal-liusl

His hands shook on the sword. The arms worked beautifully, inexhaustible, but something was wrong with the rest of him. He was down on one knee. The other throbbed dully, didn't want to bend at all. And now there were more Coritani running pell-mell toward them from the south wall to mend the breach, but too late. Behind Gallius' maniple—too late, far too late— fresh foot soldiers were pouring in too fast to be checked.

Padrec giggled weakly. "Too goddamned late, all of you."

Then sanity, like a polite servant, cleared its throat in the rear of his brain. Excuse me, sir, but you're bleeding rather badly. It's your leg, sir. Do lie down.

"Yes, certainly." Padrec obeyed with idiotic reasonableness. The leg wouldn't bend because the muscles above the knee were badly lacerated. Oh, a big one. A

large rent in his trousers and a lot of blood. Where did that happen?

Above and around him the shield bearers, slingers, and spear throwers were pushing forward as more and more men trotted through the now undefended alley. And over the south wall, the first assault ladders were poking up, then helmeted heads. Lying down was an excellent idea. Should have thought of it before. Sharp in the center of his red consciousness there were red hairs stuck to his sword blade in a mess of something sticky and pale white. When he fell over on his side, his outthrust hand mucked in something wet. Padrec concentrated very hard to recognize the remains of the face. He shaped his mouth to the name, but it didn't work very well.

"Spears, spears! Follow me!"

Someone was roaring orders. It's Gallius, Bredei, he told the broken thing beside him. Listen to the hero. Late? You can damn well believe he was late. He can make his excuses to you, Bredei.

Bredei's left eye was gone in the wound that spilled his brains over the dirt, but the right eye was open and quite clear in its judgment. Must die for this, Padrec.

"Oh, yes," Padrec agreed gravely. "No question of

The walls were breached, Ambrosius throwing everything he had over them. He took the insanity of a moment and turned it to advantage, made a decision that cost him a full cohort, but once committed, he did not falter. Century after century went through the alley and over the walls, faster as the breach widened, knowing it was just a matter of time. And if the Beardless Mars sickened at the extravagance in blood, or wondered what god gave him such license, he never voiced it then or later. He was one of those private men who must be measured from the outside by those who knew him. Marchudd always spoke with cool respect of his abilities, knowing the ambition that fired them. Young Ar-

thur Pendragon adored him, and it was with Arthur that the old emperor shared what leathery heart he had: Don't ever expect them to love you, Artorius.

Running toward the walls with the rest of his reserves, his shield a pincushion for arrows, Ambrosius knew what he'd paid for what he'd won, and the prize was worth it. He hooked the shield farther up his arm, leaped at the ladder, and hauled himself up toward the rampart.

"Come on! Don't stop, don't slow down! Come on!"

At the last minute, Rhiwallon and his leaders left the fort, escaping on swift horses by a prearranged path, dashing down the unbesieged north slope. The retreat was neither despair nor cowardice. He'd led the counterattack himself when Gallius' men poured through the entrance, personally rallied his men when everything was lost, but he would not stake his last throw on that. He gave the order to surrender, to save what was left of his men, then dashed away to where a fight could still be made. His war was two thirds lost. He wouldn't depend on the last stronghold to turn the balance but would hunt these Roman bastards like a wolf, whittle them down until they had nothing left to make a stand with.

And yet it stung, such a defeat. He was not like the chess player who came against him. He left his heart in Churnet Head. From the shade of a stand of trees a mile from the fort, Rhiwallon brooded on the scene of his defeat.

"I would not think such foolhardiness of a Roman," one of his chiefs observed. "It should not have worked."

"But it did," Rhiwallon cut him short. "Nail it in your skulls, paint the truth on your eyes. It did. And it was them that did it, those Faerie. Have you not heard all your life of them and what they are. Do you think.. ."He was as surprised as his men to hear the voice in his own throat strain so tight. "Do you think praying at such creatures makes them human? Leave me alone, all of you. Ride on."

Rhiwallon pretended to fuss with his helmet thongs to hide the tears.

It was over. The last troops and wagons filed slowly into Churnet Head. The engineers were already marking out the work to be done, agrimensors squinting along plumb lines, lumber details busy on the riverbank below. In the alley, to one side of the trudging men and creaking wagons, the remnant of Prydn waited for help that didn't come. Their signal, an upended pilum stuck in the ground, went unheeded as the surgeons plied themselves elsewhere.

Padrec dragged Bredei's body with him to the side with the rest. Malgon sat with Drust's head cradled in his lap; around them huddled the remaining Prydn, no more than eleven, all wounded.

"Surgeons here!"

"Why did a not come after?" Malgon kept wondering in a dull way. "Nae, Drust, do not try to move."

"Hurts, Mai."

"Surgeons!"

"Lie still, brother, lie still. Do nae move."

"Did nae come after," Drust croaked. "Must pay dear for that."

My God, that's Urguist. I can see the inside of his throat.

The boy from Reindeer fhain lowered his squadron leader to the ground. "Urguist be dead."

"Surgeons! For Christ's sake, help us!"

The surgeons heard, they heard well enough. Padrec hated them silently. They'll get to us last, they always do, like everything else. Only eleven left. . . no y not even that. Limping from one body to another, Padrec knew there'd be less than that to walk away from Churnet. If they could walk. Bredei was dead, that sunlit, unshadowed mind, most of it spilling out of his skull. You wouldn y t think him capable of such rage. And -what of you, Socket? You thought you'd be sick at killing; you can f t even remember what the buggers looked like.

Drust whimpered with the jagged wound in his shoulder, squeezed against Malgon's chest. "Say the magic for me, Padrec, while be time."

"Will not need it. Will live long to have more wealth with Guenloie."

Urguist dead, two boys from Reindeer dying. There was a sick color to the dying. A man learned to recognize it.

"Where was God?" Malgon burst out. "Where a's magic?"

"Surgeons!'

Drust reached up to pat his brother's hand. "Jesu knows did take this hill for Him. Be a's children." Only wound shock in Drust, wearing off into pain, but no bitterness. "Would nae let us die forgotten, would a, Padrec?"

/ can't answer you, can't even pray, I've forgotten the words. Let God do it, if He's home.

"Priest!"

Padrec looked up out of his dull hating to see Gallius Urbi standing over him, weaving with fatigue, sword bent, his armor torn and splashed with blood.

"Right then, you little bastards, we did it. You started it, we finished it, and devil if I know how. You're not soldiers, any of you. Rutting fools. Savages."

"Where were you?" Padrec peered up at him with the dull patience of exhaustion. "Why did you wait?"

"I was right behind you fools if anyone was. Jesus—"

"Too far behind," that Lazarus voice denied. "You've killed us. Why did you wait?"

"What did you expect?" Gallius exploded. "It was insane, even Ambrosius saw that. No one could go in like that."

"We did. Why did you wait?"

"Wait, is it?" Gallius still stung with shame for those too real moments of hesitation in the ditch when he found his courage, like most men's, a thing of seasons. "Wait? We went as soon as we got the order, mad as it

was. Don't put it on me, priest. It wasn't me."

Malgon considered the upended spear quite within his reach. He laid Drust's head gently on the ground.

"You waited too long," Padrec croaked. "This is what's left of us because you—"

"All right then," Gallius flung back. "Go on, run to the trib and tell him. That blood on your sword's the first you've seen since we started and probably the last."

"Gallius, please." Padrec got to his feet with difficulty, wavering on his bad leg. "Get the surgeons over here. They see us. Do that much at least."

"When it's your turn, priest. After the better men you got cut up in there." Gallius threw one last contemptuous glance at Padrec's people. "After the humans."

Gallius started away.

Malgon moved like a shadow. As the spear poised at his shoulder, Padrec wrenched it from his grip. "No!" For an instant he stood, wobbling on his injured leg, hearing the sound of their pain around him. Betrayed, all of them. The spear sent its own judgment to his hand and arm, and Padrec obeyed.