“Stop!” Tabitha yelled, but he was already stooping.

She cursed the awkwardness of gravbelts, set controls and flung herself after him. Behind came the other Ythrians, blasters clutched to breasts while wings hastened their bodies. Draun had left his gun sheathed, had taken out instead the half-meter-long, heavy, crooked Fao knife.

“Stop!” Tabitha screamed into the whistle of split air. “Give them a chance to surrender!”

The humans, standing by a patch of freshly turned earth, heard. Their glances lifted. Draun howled his battle cry. One man yanked at a holstered sidearm. Then the hurricane was on him. Wings snapped around so it roared in the pinions. Two meters from ground, Draun turned his fall into an upward rush. His right arm swept the blade in a short arc; his left hand, on the back of it, urged it along. The Terran’s head flew off the neck, hit the susin and horribly bounced. The body stood an instant, geysering blood, before it collapsed like a puppet on which the strings have been slashed.

“Hya-a-a-a-ah!” Draun shrieked. “Hell-winds blow you before my chothmates! Tell Illarian they are coming!”

The other Terran stumbled back. His own sidearm was out. He fired, a flash and boom in blackness.

Before they kill him too — Tabitha had no time for planning. She was in the van of her squad. The man’s crazed gaze and snap shot were aimed at Draun, whose broad-winged shadow had not yet come about for a second pass. She dived from the rear, tackled him low, and rolled over, gripping fast. They tumbled; the belt wasn’t able to lift both of them. She felt her brow slammed against a root, her cheek dragged abradingly over the susin.

His threshings stopped. She turned off her unit and crouched beside him. Pain and dizziness and the laboring of her lungs were remote. He wasn’t dead, she saw, merely half stunned from his temple striking a rock. Blood oozed in the kinky black hair, but he stirred and his eyeballs were filled with starlight. He was tall, swarthy by Avalonian measure… people with such chromosomes generally settled beneath stronger suns than Laura…

The Ythrians swooped near. Wind rushed in their quills.

Tabitha scrambled to her feet. She bestrode the Terran. Gun in hand, she gasped, “No. Hold back. No more killing. He’s mine.”

Ferune of Mistwood reported in at Gray, arranged his affairs and said his goodbyes within a few days.

To Daniel Holm: “Luck be your friend, First March-warden.”

The man’s mouth was stretched and unsteady. “You must have more time than — than—”

Ferune shook his head. The crest drooped ragged; most feathers that remained to him were lusteriess white; he spoke in a mutter. His grin had not changed. “No, I’m afraid the medics can’t stimulate regeneration in this case. Not when every last cell got blasted. Pity the Imperials didn’t try shooting us full of mercury vapor. But you’d find that inconvenient.”

Yes, you’ve more tolerance for heavy metals than humans do, went uselessly through Holm, but less for hard radiation. The voice trudged on: “As is, I am held together by drugs and baling wire. Most of those who were with me are already dead, I hear. But I had to get my powers and knowledge transferred to you, didn’t I, before I rest?”

“To me?” the man suddenly couldn’t hold back. “Me who killed you?”

Ferune stiffened. “Come off that perch, Daniel Holm. If I thought you really blame yourself, I would not have left you in office — probably not alive; anyone that stupid would be dangerous. You were executing my plan, and bloody-gut well it worked too, kh’hng?”

Holm knelt and laid his head on the keelbone. It was sharp, when flesh had melted from above, and the skin was fever-hot and he could feel how the heart stammered. Ferune shifted to handstance. Wings enfolded the man and lips kissed him. “I flew higher because of you,” Ferune said. “If war allows, honor us by coming to my rite. Fair winds forever.”

He left. An adjutant helped him into a car and took him northward, to the woodlands of his choth and to Wharr who awaited him.

“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Juan de Jesus Cajal y Palomares of Nuevo Mexico, commanding His Imperial Majesty’s naval forces in the present campaign. You have my word as a Terran officer that the beam is tight, the relays are automatic, this conversation will be recorded but not monitored, and the tape will be classified secret.”

The two who looked out of the screens were silent, until Cajal grew overaware of the metal which enclosed him, background pulse of machinery and slight chemical taint in the air blown from ventilators. He wondered what impression he was making on them. There was no way to tell from the old Ythrian — Liaw? Yes, Liaw — who evidently represented civil authority. That being sat like a statue of grimness, except for the smoldering yellow eyes. Daniel Holm kept moving, cigar in and out of his mouth, fingers drumming desktop, tic in the left cheek. He was haggard, unkempt, stubbly, grimy, no hint of Imperial neatness about him. But he scarcely seemed humble.

He it was who asked at length: “Why?”

“¿Por que?” responded Cajal in surprise. “Why I had a signal shot down to you proposing a conference? To discuss terms, of course.”

“No, this secrecy. Not that I believe you about it, or anything else.”

Cajal felt his cheeks redden. I must not grow angry. “As you wish, Admiral Holm. However, please credit me with some common sense. Quite apart from the morality of letting the slaughter and waste of wealth proceed, you must see that I would prefer to avoid further losses. That is why we’re orbiting Avalon and Morgana at a distance and have made no aggressive move since battle tapered off last week. Now that we’ve evaluated our options, I am ready to talk; and I hope you’ve likewise done some hard thinking. I am not interested in pomp or publicity. Such things only get in the way of reaching practical solutions. Therefore the confidential nature of our parley. I hope you’ll take the chance to speak as frankly as I mean to, knowing your words need not commit you.”

“Our word does,” Holm said;

“Please,” Cajal urged. “You’re angry, you’d kill me were you able, nevertheless you’re a fellow professional. We both have our duties, however distasteful certain of them may be.”

“Well, get on with it, then. What d’you want?”

“To discuss terms, I said. I realize we three alone can’t authorize or arrange the surrender, but—”

“I think you can,” Liaw interrupted: a low, dry, harshly accented Anglic. “If you fear court-martial afterward, we will grant you asylum.”

Cajal’s mouth fell open. “What are you saying?”

“We must be sure this is no ruse. I suggest you bring your ships one at a time into close orbit, for boarding. Transportation home for the crews will be made available later.”

“Do you… do you—” Cajal swallowed. “Sir, I’m told your proper title translates more or less into ‘Judge’ or ‘Lawspeaker.’ Judge, this is no time for humor.”

“If you don’t want to give in,” Holm said, “what’s to discuss?”

“Your capitulation, por Dios!” Cajal’s fist smote the arm of his chair. “I’m not going to play word games. You’ve delayed us too long already. But your fleet has been smashed. Its fragments are scattered. A minor detachment from our force can hunt them down at leisure. We control all space around you. You’ve no possibility of outside help. Whatever might recklessly be sent from other systems would be annihilated in detail; and the admiralties there know it. If they go anywhere with what pitiful strength they have, it’ll be to Quetlan.” He leaned forward. “We’d hate to bombard your planet. Please don’t compel us to.”

“Go right ahead,” Holm answered. “Our interceptor crews would enjoy the practice.”