He stared, mesmerized, at the jumble of timber a tornado must have toppled in some relatively recent storm. The entire clearing was a twisted mass of jagged, broken wood, tree trunks, and branches that jutted out like the sharp stakes of a basilisk trap.

And he had to search it.

Had to go out there, into that deadly maze, and search it.

There was no question that their quarry had gone into it. The trail was clear to see?even he could follow it without difficulty?and the birdcall signals from the Scouts who'd worked their way around to the other side indicated that they hadn't come back out again. But the question was why they'd stopped here … and what they intended to do next.

And of all the thousands of soldiers spread out through this multi-universe, godsforsaken transit chain it had to be him that drew the job of finding out. Finding out if the murdering whoresons who'd killed Osmuna?that lazy-assed, sleep-on-duty, worthless piece of dragon-bait?planned on killing anybody else today. Garlath cursed the dead man, wishing desperately that there was a way to weasel out of this particular duty. If he'd dared, he would have sent his point men in alone. Would have stayed back here in the trees, where it was safe.

But Hundred fucking Olderhan?the name and rank stuck in his craw like a fishbone?was watching him. Watching, waiting with bated breath for Garlath to screw up. Regs?and tradition?were clear: a commander of fifty went out with his platoon. He had to be right on top of the action, especially in close terrain like this, to coordinate his troopers' movements and respond instantly to any change in the situation.

Garlath cursed the Regs, cursed the officers who'd written them, cursed the "follow-me" junior officer tradition of the Andaran military, cursed the judge advocates who'd established the punishments for failing to follow Regs … and, with a passion and a fervor which surprised even him, cursed Sir Jasak Olderhan for ever having been born to make Garlath look so bad in comparison.

The Duke's Golden Brat could do no wrong, he thought viciously. Fine, then. Garlath would just have to do such an outstanding job on this operation that he'd make Olderhan look sorry-assed inadequate for a change.

He ground his teeth together, bitterly aware that it would take a miracle to do that, given Olderhan's infernally good luck?not to mention his fucking birthright. But there was nothing he could do about that, either, and so he forced himself to stand there and listen to the bastard's voice.

"Remember," Jasak said, making his voice as calm and matter-of-fact as he could. "We want this situation contained. We know they're in there somewhere, and we need to make certain we don't lose any of them. But I want this settled without shooting, if it's at all possible."

He looked at Garlath, trying to will him to comprehend.

"Understand me, Fifty. We're responsible for the lives of our own people, but our overriding responsibility is to the Union. To preventing this from getting any further out of hand. You and your men will not fire unless and until you are attacked."

Garlath stared at him, face sweaty and eyes wide. Jasak could almost literally feel the protest just barely locked behind the other man's teeth.

"I understand your concern for your men's safety," he said, his voice as soft and reasonable as he could make it even as both of them knew whose safety Garlath was truly concerned about, "and no officer likes giving an order like that. But it's a direct order, and it will be obeyed, Fifty Garlath. On the other hand, I'll understand if you feel unable to order your men to obey my instructions under these circumstances. If you do, I will relieve you without prejudice and assume command of your platoon and responsibility for any casualties it may suffer."

He felt Gadrial stiffen where she stood beside Chief Sword Threbuch, but he kept his own gaze on Garlath's, staring deep into the fifty's eyes, almost begging the man to accept his offer. Jasak didn't feel any more eager than the next man to wade out into that tangled, torn mass of timber, but he was completely willing to offer Garlath a way out of the duty which obviously terrified him.

Shevan Garlath managed?somehow?not to glare back at the officious, sanctimonious bastard in front of him. Relieve him "without prejudice"! Oh, yes. Garlath believed that, didn't he? If he declined the "honor" of walking out into that maze, his career would be over. Whatever he might say now, Olderhan's official report would slam him for "cowardice in the face of the enemy," and his own request for relief would "prove" the charge.

Which was a capital offense, if a court-martial convicted.

Besides, he told himself, searching frantically for something to bolster his own courage, he knows perfectly well that whoever's actually in command when we finally make contact with these bastards?however it comes out?is going to be made for life. And if he has to relieve me for "cowardice" to take over command, it'll only make him look better!

"No, Sir," he grated. "It's my platoon, my job. I'll do it."

Jasak swallowed a vicious, silent curse as Garlath spurned the offer. But there was nothing he could do about it. Whatever he might suspect, or even know, about Garlath's terror, he had no overt evidence of cowardice, and Garlath was right. It was his platoon, and under both Union military law and the Andaran code of honor, Jasak had to leave him in command unless he requested relief or openly violated regulations or the articles of war.

"Very well, Fifty Garlath," he said frostily. "You have your orders. Good luck."

Garlath clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt all the way down his neck as he nodded to Gaythar Harklan. The Second Squad shield nodded back, and started forward, slowly and gingerly, with the squad's arbalestiers deployed in a skirmish line.

Garlath followed behind them, hands wet with sweat as he gripped his loaded arbalest. The squad advanced slowly, painstakingly searching every twisted pile of branches that offered a hiding place, and the fifty felt his heart battering against his rib cage like a hammer.

Whoever these bastards were, wherever they'd come from, they were not going to get the drop on Shevan Garlath.

Shaylar watched the advancing men from her hiding place through a screen of barren branches, long since deprived of their leaves.

These men meant trouble. Big trouble. They were dressed in military style uniforms, practical and suited to an active life in rough country. Yet their appearance was so incongruous, so odd, that it took a concentrated effort to focus on them and what they were doing, rather than what they wore and the anachronisms they carried.

Their bizarre, medieval weapons made them look like play actors … until you got a good look at their faces. Even at a distance of fifty yards, it was clear the men behind those grim expressions were capable of carrying out any kind of violence to which they might set their hand. Shaylar hadn't grown up around soldiers, but she'd seen a lot of them since joining the survey crews, and the tough air of dangerous competence which surrounded these men left her trembling.

Not even a rabbit could have evaded their meticulous search. In fact, several didn't. Rabbits and chipmunks darted into the open several times, running in panic as men with swords?honest-to-goodness swords?poked them into hiding places into which no human being above the age of six months could possibly have shoehorned himself.

Each animal that exploded out of hiding tightened the thumbscrews on Shaylar's ragged nerves. From the reactions of the soldiers, particularly the man behind their advancing line, who seemed to be in charge, the strain was no less acute on their side. On an immature, emotional level Shaylar wanted to be glad these killers were afraid of them, but common sense and a chilling voice at the base of her skull told her how dangerous their fear could be.