Flenser pointed up the hill; the timberline was only a few yards away. "Farscout Rangolith is on the other side. We will take a short cut," he said weakly.

Part of the other was already looking up the hill. "That is not good, sir." The trooper spoke slowly. Stupid damn duo, his posture said. "The bad ones will see us."

Flenser glowered at the other, a hard thing to do properly when you are just two. "Soldier, do you see the gold on my shoulders? Even one of me is worth all of you. If I say take a short cut, we do it — even if it means walking belly deep through brimstone." Actually, Flenser knew exactly where Vendacious had put lookouts. There was no risk in crossing the open ground here. And he was so tired.

The group leader still didn't know quite what Flenser was, but he saw the dark-cloaks were at least as dangerous as any full-pack lord. He backed off humbly, bellies dragging on the ground. The group turned up hill and a few minutes later were walking across open heather.

Rangolith's command post was less than a half mile away along this path — Flenser with Steel walked into the inner keep. The stone was freshly cut, the walls thrown up with the feverish speed of all this castle's construction. Thirty feet over their heads, where vault met buttresses, there were small holes set in the stonework. Those holes would soon be filled with gunpowder — as would slots in the wall surrounding the landing field. Steel called those the Jaws of Welcome. Now he turned a head back to Flenser. "So what does Rangolith say?"

"Sorry. He's been out on patrol. He should be here — I mean, he should be in camp — any minute." Flenser did his best to conceal his own trips with the scouts. Such recons were not forbidden, but Steel would have demanded explanations if he knew.

Flenser with Rangolith's troops sloshed through water-soaked heather. The air over the snowmelt was delightfully chill, and the breeze pushed cool tongues partway under his wretched cloaks.

Rangolith had chosen the site for his command post well. His tents were in a slight depression at the edge of a large summer pond. A hundred yards away, a huge patch of a snow covered the hill above them and fed the pond, and kept the air pleasantly cool. The tents were out of sight from below, yet the site was so high in the hills that from the edge of the depression there was a clear view across three points of the compass, centered on the south. Resupply could be accomplished from the north with little chance of detection, and even if the damn fires struck the forests below, this post would be untouched.

Farscout Rangolith was lounging about his signal mirrors, oiling the aiming gears. One of his subordinates lay with snouts stuck over the lip of the hill, scanning the landscape with its telescopes. He came to attention at the sight of Flenser, but his gaze wasn't full of fear. Like most long-range scouts, he wasn't completely terrorized by castle politics. Besides, Flenser had cultivated an "us against the prigs" relationship with the fellow. Now Rangolith growled at the group leader: "The next time you come prancing across the open like that, your asses go on report."

"My fault, Farscout," put in Flenser. "I have some important news." They walked away from the others, down toward Rangolith's tent.

"See something interesting, did you?" Rangolith was smiling oddly. He had long ago figured out that Flenser was not a brilliant duo, but part of a pack with members back at the castle.

"When is your next session with Craddleheads?" That was the fieldname for Vendacious.

"Just past noon. He hasn't missed in four days. The Southerners seem to be on one big squat."

"That will change." Flenser repeated Steel's orders for Vendacious. The words came hard. The traitor within him was restive; he felt the beginnings of a major attack.

"Wow! You're going to move everything over to Margrum Climb in less than two — Never mind, that's something I'd best not know."

Under his cloaks, Flenser bristled. There are limits to chumminess. Rangolith had his points, but maybe after all this was over he could be smoothed into something less… ad hoc.

"Is that all, My Lord?"

"Yes — No." Flenser shivered with uncharacteristic puzzlement. The trouble with these cloaks, sometimes they made it hard to remember things. By the Great Pack, no! It was that Tyrathect again. Steel had ordered the killing of Woodcarver's human — all things considered, a perfectly sensible move, but…

Flenser with Steel shook his head angrily, his teeth clicking together. "Something the matter?" said Lord Steel. He really seemed to love the pain that the radio cloaks caused Flenser.

"Nothing, my lord. Just a touch of the static." In fact there was no static, yet Flenser felt himself disintegrating. What had given the other such sudden power?

Flenser with Amdijefri snapped his jaws open and shut, open and shut. The children jumped back from him, eyes wide. "It's okay," he said grimly, even as his two bodies thrashed against each other. There really were lots of good reasons why they should keep Johanna Olsndot alive: In the long run, it assured Jefri's good will. And it could be Flenser's secret human. Perhaps he could fake the Two Leg's death to Steel and — No. No. No! Flenser grabbed back control, jamming the rationalizations out of mind. The very tricks he had used against Tyrathect, she thought to turn against him. It won't work on me. I am the master of lies.

And then her attack twisted again, became a massive bludgeoning that destroyed all thought.

With Flenser, with Rangolith, with Amdijefri — all of him was making little gibbering noises now. Lord Steel danced around him, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. Rangolith goggled at him in frank amazement.

The two children edged back to touch him, "Are you hurt? Are you hurt?" The human slipped those remarkable hands under the radio cloak and brushed softly at Flenser's bleeding fur. The world blurred in a surge of static. "No. Don't do that. It might hurt him more," came Amdi's voice. The puppies' tiny muzzles reached out, trying to help with the cloaks.

Flenser felt his being pushed downwards, towards oblivion. Tyrathect's final attack was a frontal assault, without rationalizations or sly infiltration, and…

… And she looked out upon herself in astonishment. After so many days, I am me. And in control. Enough butchering of innocents. If anyone is to die, it is Steel and Flenser. Her head followed Steel's prancing forms, picked out the most articulate member. She gathered her legs beneath her, and prepared to leap at its throat. Come just a little closer… and die.

Tyrathect's last moment of consciousness probably didn't last longer than five seconds. Her attack on Flenser was a desperate, all-out thing that left her without reserves or internal defense. Even as she tensed to leap upon Steel, she felt her soul being pulled back and down, and Flenser rising up from the darkness. She felt the member's legs spasm and collapse, the ground smash into its face…

… And Flenser was back in control. The weakling's attack had been astonishing. She really had cared for the ones who were to be destroyed, cared so much she was willing to sacrifice herself if it would kill Flenser. And that had been her undoing. Suicide is never something to hang pack dominance on. Her very resolve had weakened her hold on the hindmind — and given The Master his chance. He was back in control, and with a great opportunity. Tyrathect's assault had left her defenseless. The innermost mental barriers around her three members were suddenly as thin as the skin of an overripe fruit. Flenser slashed through the membrane, pawed at the flesh of her mind, spattering it across his own. The three who had been her core would still live, but never again would they have a soul separate from his.