Blueshell's fidgety nervousness — furtiveness, it seemed to Pham -had disappeared as he got into piloting the craft. His voder voice became terse and preoccupied, and the edges of his fronds writhed across the controls, an exercise that would have been impossible to Pham even if he had a lifetime of experience with the gear. "Thank you, Sir Pham… I'll prove you can trust…" The nose lurched downwards and they were staring almost straight into the fjord-carven coastline twenty kilometers below. They fell free for half a minute while the rider's fronds writhed on their supports. Hot piloting? No: "Sorry, sorry." Acceleration, and Pham sank into his restraints under a grav load that wobbled between a tenth gee and an intolerable crush. The landscape rotated and they had a brief glimpse of OOB, now like a tiny moth above them.

"Is it necessary to kill, Sir Pham? Perhaps simply our appearance over the battle…"

Nuwen gritted his teeth. "Just get us down." The Steel creature had been adamant that they fry the entire hillside. Despite all Pham's suspicions, the pack might be right on that. They were up against a crew of murderers that had not hesitated to ambush a starship; the Woodcarvers needed a real demonstration.

Their boat fluttered down the kilometers. Steel's fortifications were clearly visible even in the natural view: the rough polygon that guarded the refugee ship, the much larger structure that rambled across an island several kilometers westward. I wonder if this is how my Father's castle looked to the Qeng Ho landers? Those walls were high and unsloping. Clearly the Tines had had no idea of gunpowder till Ravna had clued them to it.

The valley south of the castle was a blot of dark smoke smoothly streaming toward the sea. Even without data enhancement, he could see hot spots, fringes of orange edging the black.

"You're at two thousand meters," came Ravna's voice. "Jefri says he can see you."

"Patch me through to them."

"I will try, Sir Pham." Blueshell fiddled, his lack of attention spinning the boat through a complete loop. Pham had seen falling leaves with more control.

A child's piping voice: "A-are you okay? Don't crash!"

And then the Steel pack's hybrid of Ravna and the kid: "South to go! South to go! Use fire gun. Burn them quick."

Blueshell was entirely too cooperative to this direction. He had them down in the smoke already. For seconds they were flying blind. A break in the smoke showed the hillside less than two hundred meters off, coming up fast. Before Pham could curse at Blueshell, the Rider had turned them around and floated the boat into clearer air. Then he pitched over so they might see directly down.

After thirty weeks of talk and planning, Pham had his first glimpse of the Tines. Even from here, it was obvious they were different from any sophonts Pham had encountered: Clusters of four or five or six members hung together so close they seemed a single spiderlike being. And each pack stood separated from the others by ten or fifteen meters.

A cannon flashed in the murk. The pack crewing it moved like a single, coordinated hand to rock the barrel back and ram another charge down the muzzle.

"But if these are the enemy, Sir Pham, where did they get the guns?"

"They stole 'em." But muzzle loaders? He didn't have time to pursue the thought.

"You're right over them, Pham! I can see you in and out of the smoke. You're drifting south at fifteen meters per second, losing altitude." It was the kid, speaking with his usual incredible precision.

"Kill them! Kill them!"

Pham wriggled out of his restraints and crawled back to the hatch where they had mounted his beam gun. It was about the only thing salvaged from the workshop fire, but by God this was something he could operate.

"Keep us steady, Blueshell. Bounce me around and I'll fry you as likely as anything!" He pushed open the hatch, and gagged on spicy smoke. Then Blueshell's agravs wafted them into a clear space and Pham lined the beamer down the ranks of packfolk.

Originally Woodcarver had demanded Johanna stay at the base camp. Johanna's response had been explosive. Even now the girl was a little surprised at herself. Not since the first days on Tines world had she come so close to attacking a pack. No way was anyone going to keep her from finding out about Jefri. In the end they had compromised: Johanna would accept Pilgrim as her guard. She could follow the army into the field, as long as she obeyed his direction.

Johanna looked up through the drifting smoke. Damn. Pilgrim was always such a carefree joker. By his own telling, he had gotten himself killed over and over again through the years. And now he wouldn't even let her up to Scrupilo's cannons. The two of them paced across a terrace in the hillside. The brush fire had swept through here hours before, and the spicy smell of moss ash was thick around them. And with that smell came the bright memory of horror, of a year ago, right here…

Trusted guard packs paced their course twenty meters on either side. This area was supposedly safe from infiltration, and there had been no artillery fire from the Flenserists for hours. But Peregrine absolutely refused to let her get any closer.

It's nothing like last year. Then all had been sunny blue skies and clean air — and her parents' murder. Now she and Pilgrim had returned, and the blue sky was yellow-gray and the sweeps of mossy hillside were black. And now the packs around her were fighting with her. And now there was a chance…

"Lemme closer, damn it! Woodcarver will have the Oliphaunt no matter what happens to me."

Peregrine shook himself, a Tinish negative. One of his puppies reached out from a jacket pouch to catch at her sleeve. "A little longer," Pilgrim said for the tenth time. "Wait for Woodcarver's messenger. Then we can — "

"I want to be up there! I'm the only one who knows the ship!" Jefri, Jefri. If only Vendacious was right about you…

She was twisting about to slap at Scarbutt when it happened: A glare of heat on her back, and the smoke flashed bright. Again. Again. And then the impact of rapid thunder.

Pilgrim shuddered against her. "That's not gunfire!" he shouted. "Two of me are almost blinded. C'mon." He surrounded her, almost knocking her off her feet as he pushed/dragged her down the hill.

For a second Johanna went along, more dazed than cooperative. Somehow they had lost their escort.

From up the hill the shouts of battle had stopped. The sharp thunder had silenced all. Where the smoke thinned she could see one of Scrupilo's cannons, the barrel extending from a puddle of melted steel. The cannoneer had been blown to bits. Not gunfire. Johanna spasmed out of Pilgrim's grip. Not gunfire.

"Spacers! Pilgrim, that must be a drive torch."

Peregrine grabbed her, continuing down the hill. "Not a drive torch! That I've heard. This is quieter — and somebody's aiming it."

There had been a long stutter of separate blasts. How many of Woodcarver's people had just died? "They must think we're attacking the ship, Pilgrim. If we don't do something, they'll wipe out everyone."

His jaws eased their grip on her sleeves and pants. "What can we do? Hanging around here will just get us killed."

Johanna stared into the sky. No sign of fliers, but there was so much smoke. The sun was a dull bloody ball. If only the rescuers knew they were killing her friends. If only they could see. She dug her feet into the ground. "Let go of me, Pilgrim! I'm going uphill, out of the smoke."

He'd stopped moving but his grip was fiercely tight. Four adult faces and two puppy ones looked up at her, and indecision was in every look. "Please, Pilgrim. It's the only way." Packs were straggling down, some bleeding, some in fragments.

His frightened eyes stared at her an instant longer. Then he let go and touched her hand with a nose. "I guess this hill will always be the death of me. First Scriber, now you — you're all crazy." The old Pilgrim smile flickered across his members. "Okay. Let's try it!" The two without puppies went up the hillside, scouting for the safest route.