Even more memories were aroused by the scar bisecting the left side of Miraborg's face from eyebrow to beard. Phelan remembered how the people of Rasalhague had hated mercenaries after Vinson's Vigilantes caused Miraborg's crippling and scarring. An identical scar marring the face of Miraborg's tall blond aide reminded Phelan of how fanatical had become the devotion of Gunzburg's citizens, many of whom disfigured themselves voluntarily. The scar also reminded him again of Vlad and the Clansman's hatred for him.

The official who opened the door and ushered Phelan in began the introductions, but Miraborg waved her off. "I think the ilKhan's envoy knows who I am. My aide is Hanson Kuusik, a Kapten with the Gunzburg Eagles Aerospace Regiment."

Kuusik took a step forward and started to offer his hand, but Phelan's silent disregard for the gesture stopped him. The other man's face flushed as he dropped his hand and resumed his position. Miraborg's restless eyes drank it all in, and a curious look of respect settled over his face.

The official retreated from the room, leaving the trio of warriors alone. Behind Miraborg, a glass wall gave Phelan a good view of Stortalar City. It looked far different in midsummer than when he'd last seen it, and Phelan decided he preferred the flourishing green of trees and flowers to the white blanket of winter snow. From what he could see as dusk came on below, life continued normally in the city.

Miraborg interlaced his fingers as he rested his forearms on the leather blotter of his desk. "You surprise me by coming here. I thought all negotiations would be conducted via radio transmission. I had not heard that the Wolves negotiate in person."

"I am not here to negotiate." The mask's hollow muzzle let Phelan's voice echo back on itself, giving it a disembodied quality. "I have come to accept your surrender."

Kuusik's eyes narrowed and his urge to fight rode plainly on his face. Miraborg only stared at Phelan, as though his gaze could peel away the mask to reveal the man beneath it. "Our surrender?" He said the word not as though it were a ridiculous idea, but as though it were an option he had long ago dismissed. "Are your terms open to negotiation?"

"As I said before, I am not here to negotiate. Surrender, unconditionally, or your world dies."

The Varldherre sat back and stroked his chin. Kuusik, too, tried to hide the expression on his, face, but he failed. As he spoke, his nostrils flared and contempt edged his voice. "Perhaps we should be the ones offering terms for surrender. We have a formidable force on this world, and we know how to fight you. We almost beat you at Memmingen."

Phelan waited a moment to be certain Kuusik had finished speaking his threat, then he shook his head. "You are not dealing with the same commander who led the forces on Memmingen. As formidable as your force is, we have the equipment and personnel to destroy it. We know, for example, that half the fighters from the Third Drak0ns may have made it to Gunzburg, but less than forty percent of them are operational. We also know that air strikes at Danzig, Felskinka, and Kosparris will destroy your ability to resup-ply and maintain your aircraft. Perhaps you will have air superiority for an hour or two, but destroying those three bases will cost us nothing because we can accomplish it through planetary bombardment."

"You are bluffing!"

Phelan ignored Kuusik and looked at Miraborg. "You are a warrior with a long and glorious history. You have fought against great odds in your time, but none have ever been so stacked against you. What I say about your forces should tell you how much more other information I have. If you choose to fight, many, many people will die."

The Iron Jarl frowned. "I can acknowledge the truth of your information, but that still does not answer the Kapten's charge that you are bluffing."

"Yes," Kuusik chimed in. "We hurt you at Memmingen. You do not have the resources necessary to fight us. We won't roll over and die for you."

"Remember, Kapten, war is not all glory and afterglow." Phelan's menacing tone took some of the sneer from Kuusik's face. "You may be prepared to die for your world, but is your family? Are your friends?"

He fixed Miraborg with a harsh stare. "You know I am not bluffing."

"Do I?"

The Clansman nodded slowly. "You do. What we ask is simple, and in return, we will leave you and your people in power. ComStar will act as liaison to keep us informed of what your government is doing. They will also advise us on your transportation needs for import and export trade with your usual trading partners. Your troops will be disarmed, of course, but they will not be Dispossessed."

"What good is it to have a neutered 'Mech?" Kuusik snarled bitterly.

"Is dying in the husk of an armed 'Mech somehow preferable?" Phelan brought his gloved hands out from beneath the cloak, forcing it behind his shoulders. "I offer you your lives and to spare your world the certain destruction that war would bring. It is your choice, Varldherre. The people will follow your lead. We do not ask that you embrace us as allies or friends, but only that you acknowledge us as master. Is not some loss of pride worth all the suffering it will buy?"

Kuusik dropped to his knees and took hold of Miraborg's right hand where it rested on the arm of his wheelchair. "Send this animal packing. You are the Iron Jarl. You are the champion of Rasalhague's freedom. If you give in to his demands, everything will have been wasted. Your daughter's death will have meant nothing!"

"What!" Phelan's surprise exploded through his mask. 'Tyra is dead?"

He and Tyra had shared three months of passion, then been torn apart when the Kell Hounds left for the Periphery. Though they had said their goodbyes and made a formal end to their relationship, all that had happened to Phelan since his capture by the Clans had not left him the space to put his feelings to rest. No matter how much he loved Ranna, he had hoped to see Tyra again if only to learn how she had fared since their last meeting.

Tor Miraborg yanked his hand free of Kuusik's grip. "Do not tell me what to do, Kapten." A tear trickled down the scarred side of his face. He looked up at Phelan, his eyes lifeless. "Yes, my daughter is dead. It was she who drove her fighter into your flagship. Jaime Wolf said her action killed your warlord and bought us a year's respite from your attacks. Even if that were true, it was not worth my daughter's life."

Kuusik sank back on his haunches, his face utterly drained of color. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that I have finally learned the lesson that might have saved my daughter. A jeader must be more than simply a focus for his people's ambitions and desires. I am a military man, but my responsibilities extend far beyond soldiery on this world. Before, I could assure our people that their safety was inviolate because the Eagles could and would destroy all our foes. I cannot give them that assurance now.

"The time has come to truly act as a leader. Perhaps Tyra would not have left and joined the Rasalhague Drak0ns had I done so before. I blame myself for her death."

The Kapten sprang to his feet. "You were not to blame for her defection! That mercenary seduced her. He wormed his way into her heart and confused her with stories of glory to be won on distant worlds." Kuusik drove his right fist into his left palm with a loud smack. "I only wish I had killed him when we fought."

"It was enough that you bested him in single combat..."