The lucky ones were already dead.

Everywhere he looked, it seemed, there were bodies. Twisted, contorted, charred dead men, smoldering with an intolerable stench of burning flesh. Here and there among the corpses were the screaming, writhing bodies of hideously maimed troopers who were still alive. He knew those men, knew most of them by their first names, and he couldn't even recognize them.

He advanced onto the parade ground, and half the fort's buildings were on fire around him. The observation tower blazed like a huge torch, soaked in oil, and a seared scarecrow of a human figure hung over the platform rail like a shriveled, blazing mummy. His mind refused to absorb the reality, couldn't find a way to process the information. He needed time for that, and there wasn't any time.

Something made him look up at the sky just in time to see a final pair of huge, impossible creatures hurtling suddenly out of the clouds. They streaked down towards the flame-wracked abattoir which had once been Fort Shaylar, and Grafin Halifu found his H&W in his hand.

The heavy, long-barreled revolver rose, his thumb cocked the hammer, and he began to fire.

He was still firing when the gas cloud enveloped what was left of his command.

Commander of One Hundred Sylair Worka looked at his chronometer and grimaced in disgust.

It wasn't his fault, but that didn't make him any happier to be running well over two hours behind schedule. Those damned Sharonian booby traps had imposed a delay out of all proportion to their actual effectiveness, and he wished Fifty Narshu had at least been assigned a hummer handler.

But, no, Worka thought sourly. We couldn't risk the Sharonians finding out about the hummers, could we? Of course not! So what if it makes it impossible to communicate when it all hits the fan?

His expression grew briefly even more disgusted, then he shook his head. Part of the problem was that neither side knew what it ought to be concealing from the other, he reflected. So Arcana had wound up hiding just about everything ... even when it was an operational pain in the arse.

He supposed it all made sense, but it would have been far more convenient—and, undoubtedly, more reassuring to Narshu—if Worka had been able to send him a message to explain the delay.

Well, we're only thirty minutes or so out now. In fact, the point ought to be—

"Sir!"

Worka looked up from his chronometer as one of his troopers came towards him at a stiff canter. A light cavalry unicorn could manage speeds of up to forty miles an hour and maintain a gallop for ninety minutes at a time in decent terrain ... which, of course, this mass of trees most definitely was not. Still, Lance Ranlak was moving at a good clip.

The trooper drew up beside his company commander and saluted.

"What is it, Yurain?" Worka asked.

"Sir, Sword Kalcyr's respects, and he thinks we've got a problem."

"Problem?" Worka stiffened in the saddle. Senior Sword Barcan Kalcyr was the company's senior noncom. He'd been everywhere and done everything, and he didn't use the word "problem" lightly.

"Yes, Sir. He said to tell you he smells smoke. Lots of smoke."

Worka gazed at the trooper for a few moments, then pressed with his heels, and sent his mount galloping forward.

The constant coming and going of the diplomats who'd been negotiating with the Sharonians—not to mention all of the Sharonian traffic between the swamp portal and the Class Eight—had produced a wellworn, surprisingly broad trail, and Worka's troopers crowded aside to let him pass. He made good time, and well before he reached Kalcyr's position, he'd come to the conclusion that the senior sword had, if anything, understated the situation. The hundred's unicorn snorted uneasily, tossing its horned head, as the first sharp-smelling banners of smoke came flowing through the woods.

"What do we have, Barcan?" Worka asked as he drew up beside the noncom.

"According to my nav unit, we're only about five miles out, Sir," Kalcyr replied. "I don't think we're getting through that, though."

He pointed, and Worka's jaw tightened as he looked in the indicated direction. The stiff breeze was blowing across the trail at the next best thing to right angles. Now, as he gazed ahead, he realized that the smoke he'd smelled on his way forward had been only outriders, only the stray tendrils of the massive wall of smoke rolling steadily westward ahead of them.

"Where there's smoke, there's fire, Sir," Kalcyr observed in a tone which sounded as disgusted as Worka felt.

"Yes, there is, Senior Sword," Worka agreed. "In fact—"

He broke off, gesturing, and Kalcyr grunted as they both saw the first, abrupt crackle of flames coming towards them through the smoke. One of the towering forest giants went up like torch in a glare of crownfire, little more than two hundred yards further along the trail.

Worka's unicorn flattened its lynx-like ears, and he felt the sudden tension quivering in its augmented muscles.

"Time to go, Senior Sword," the hundred said.

"You've got that right, Sir," Kalcyr agreed feelingly as a second tree flared up, and he blew his whistle.

The point men responded instantly—after all, they were even closer to that oncoming inferno than Kalcyr or Worka. The hundred and the senior sword waited until they were sure everyone had heard the signal, then turned their own unicorns and headed back the way they'd come—rapidly.

Worka knew he'd made the right decision, but he didn't like the implications one bit. He supposed it was remotely possible a random lightning strike out of the cloudless sky might have just happened to start a forest fire in this particular place at this particular time. It wasn't very likely, though. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of any good reason for Fifty Narshu to have been starting any fires. Which meant that if it wasn't the result of some sort of accident—which Worka strongly doubted was the case—someone else must be responsible.

Which probably meant things hadn't gone quite as well as everyone had been assuming, after all.