"Damn them!" Anger darkened Dumarest's face. "Keep trying. I want them to head north and land to form a line ten miles ahead facing the village. If…" He broke off, listening.

"Sir?"

"Be quiet!"

It came again, the distant blast of shots, a thin screaming. The pilot of the raft said, "They've found something! Goddamnit, they've found the enemy!"

That or another outburst of hysteria which turned shadows into menacing figures; yet there was always the chance they were fighting living things. Dumarest sprang into the raft, snapping orders.

"Lieutenant, contact the other raft and have them follow us. Pilot, up and head toward that noise. The rest of you stay here and hold the village."

Lightened, the raft almost shot into the sky, leveling, the air gusting as it drove toward the sound of battle. Ahead, the darkness was broken by a dull glow, smoldering plants sending up thick columns of smoke from a base of flame. Details sprang into life as flares dropped from the sides of the vehicle, men crouching, firing, their raft lying to one side, shielded by smoke drifting beneath the impact of a gust of wind. They faced southwest, toward the village.

"They've got them," said Fran Paran. His voice was tense with eagerness. "Trapped the swine on their way back to the hills. If we land, we can catch them between us."

"And face the fire of our own troops," reminded Dumarest. He glanced to where the other raft, laden with men, moved toward them. "Have them land to the west of the action, drop half their men, then move on to the east. Open order and reserve fire until they recognize their targets."

A basic maneuver when fighting in darkness against an unknown enemy. Properly conducted, it would face them with a wide semicircle, which could move in to surround them with a ring of steel. A trap that could not fail-if the men remained cool, if they obeyed orders, if they retained their fire and didn't shoot each other down.

As the raft passed them, the lieutenant said, "And us, sir?"

"We'll stay aloft, dropping flares and maintaining observation." Dumarest thinned his lips as he recognized the other's expression. "You don't like it, lieutenant?"

"I'd rather be down there killing the swine who did that horror to the village."

"Instead of which you'll have to let others do the killing while you tell them where to shoot."

Leaning over the edge of the raft, Dumarest studied the scene below. The fire was erratic, seemingly unanswered, rifles and lasers blasting in all directions. Above the shots rose the sound of shouting, a wild screaming, a hideous cacophony of bestial noise. And then, suddenly, the raft was the target of concentrated fire.

The pilot reared, crying out, falling as bullets tore at his chest, a laser beam searing into his side. The raft tilted, the engine ruined, the anti-grav conductors ripped and inactive. Dumarest caught Fran Paran as he almost went over the side, throwing him to the floor of the raft, holding him as the vehicle crashed. The vegetation saved them, cushioning the impact, and they landed heavily, to roll on the soft dirt.

"They got us!" The lieutenant staggered to his feet. Blood trickled from a shallow gash at the side of his head. "Where's my rifle? They must be close. Where the hell is my rifle?"

"We were shot down by our own men," said Dumarest He watched as the other found his weapon, his eyes cautious. "What do you intend to do?"

"Get in there and join the fight. What else?"

"It might help to know what we're up against," said Dumarest dryly. He coughed as a gust of wind threw an eddy of smoke over the place where they stood. "We don't want to kill our own men, and we certainly don't want to be shot in error. They almost got us once. We might not be as lucky the next time."

"They wouldn't do that."

"They did. I was watching. The fire came from directly below." Dumarest coughed again, his lungs constricting, his eyes watering so that the figure of the officer blurred and took on distorted lines in the dying light of the flare. And there was something else, a sweet, sickly odor riding on the breeze, bringing an overwhelming tension, a sharp appreciation of impending danger. "We'd better get away from here."

"Run, you mean?"

"We were shot down. If the enemy are close, they would have seen us fall. They know we would carry arms and ammunition. Take the lead, lieutenant. Head for the east."

"The action is toward the north."

"And the other raft is over to the east." Anger sharpened Dumarest's voice. "This isn't a one-man operation, lieutenant. And we've no place for heroes. Just obey orders and stop arguing if you want to avoid a court-martial. Now, move!"

Fran Paran said tightly, "You can go to hell, marshal. I'm here to fight, and that's just what I intend, to do. Run if you want, but I'm no coward. Those swine are going to pay for what they've done, and I'm going to see they do it. And neither you nor anyone else is going to stop me."

He stood, very young, very defiant, breathing deeply of the smoke-laden air. And then, abruptly, he screamed.

It was a harsh sound, wordless, a noise torn from a distorted throat, powered by fear and hate and blind ferocity. Dumarest was moving as the first note cut the air. He had sensed the tension, seen the beginning of the grimace, the rifle lifting, aiming directly toward his chest. As the officer fired, he threw himself to one side, ducking low as a second bullet cut the air where his head had been. Before the muzzle could lower, he was rising beneath it, slamming his shoulder hard against the barrel, throwing it upward, to spout missiles at the sky. His right hand lifted, the fingers clenched, the hard mass of bone and sinew slamming at the unprotected jaw.

He caught the man as he fell, fighting a sudden nausea, a flashing of his vision, the sickness which filled his stomach. Dropping the limp shape, Dumarest staggered to one side, doubled, retching. Around him the plants seemed to move, to grow arms and legs and grinning faces, crimson cowls framing heads like skulls, the snarling mask of a fighter moving in for the kill, other shapes, all menacing, all horrible.

It lasted for a few moments and then passed, leaving him weak and drenched with sweat. Turning, he looked at the officer. Even though unconscious, he twitched on the ground, arms reaching, fingers scrabbling, booted feet churning the soil. Dumarest reached him, slashing at the bright uniform with his knife, cutting strips of fabric to bind the hands and feet. The rifle lay to one side, and he picked it up and moved like a shadow into the vegetation. Beneath the fronds it was totally dark; the flares had died, and the fading starlight couldn't penetrate the broad leaves and wide-spread branches. The wind had ceased, the smoke rising straight, black against the bright stars.

The air was silent; the shooting had stopped, the screams and shouts and bestial noises. There was nothing aside from the darkness, the rising smoke, the faint tang of burned explosives. Dropping flat, Dumarest rested his ear against the soil, finding no vibration of moving feet. If the enemy had been close, they had gone, or were more still and silent than any humans he had ever known.

The lieutenant was conscious when he returned. He lifted his hands. "Why this?"

"Don't you remember?"

"We were talking. You said something about finding the other raft. Then I was on the dirt tied up like a beast for slaughter. What happened?"

Dumarest said, "How do you feel?"

"Sick. My head aches and my jaw…" The bound hands lifted, rubbed. "It hurts. Did I fall or something? But, if so, why am I tied?"

"You tried to kill me. You would have done so if I hadn't knocked you out."

The lieutenant blinked. "Kill you? But, sir, that's impossible."

"I wish it were," said Dumarest. With his knife he cut the lashings. "Get up. Search the raft. If you find a communicator, try to contact the other raft. Have it come over and pick us up." He added grimly, "If you see a weapon, don't touch it. If you do, I will kill you."