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.
Flenser with Steel sprawled as though unconscious, his convulsions subsiding. Let Steel think him incapacitated. It would give him time to think of the most advantageous explanation.
Flenser with Rangolith came slowly to his feet, though the two members were still in a posture of confusion. Flenser pulled them together. No explanations were due here, but it would be best if Farscout didn’t suspect soulstrife. “The cloaks are powerful tools, dear Rangolith; sometimes a bit too powerful.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Flenser let a smile spread across his features. For a moment he was silent, savoring what he would say next. No, there was no sign of the weak-willed one. This had been her last, best try at domination—her last and biggest mistake. Flenser’s smile spread further, all the way to the two with Amdijefri. It suddenly occurred to him that Johanna Olsndot would be the first person he had ordered killed since his return to Hidden Island. Johanna Olsndot would therefore be the first blood on three of his muzzles.
“There’s one more item for Craddleheads, Farscout. An execution…” As he spoke the details, the warmth of a decision well-made spread through his members.
CHAPTER 35
The only good thing about all the waiting had been the chance it gave the wounded. Now that Vendacious had found a way past the Flenserist defenses, everyone was anxious to break camp, but…
Johanna spent the last afternoon at the field hospital. The hospital was laid off in rough rectangles, each about six meters across. Some of the plots had ragged tents—those belonging to wounded who were still smart enough to care for themselves. Others were surrounded by stranded fencing; inside each of those was a single member, the survivor of what had once been an entire pack. The singletons could easily have jumped the fences, but most seemed to recognize their purpose, and stayed within.
Johanna pulled the food cart through the area, stopping at first one patient and then another. The cart was a bit too large for her, and sometimes it got caught in the roots that grew across the the forest floor. Yet this was a job that she could do better than any pack, and it was nice to find a way she could help.
In the forest around the hospital there was the sound of kherhogs being coaxed up to wagon ties, the shouts of crews securing the cannons and getting the camp gear stowed. From the maps Vendacious had shown at the meeting, it was clear the next two days would be an exhausting time—but at the end of it they would have the high ground behind unsuspecting Flenserists.
She stopped at the first little tent. The threesome inside had heard her coming and was outside now, running little circles around her cart. “Johanna! Johanna!” it said in her own voice. This was all that was left of one of Woodcarver’s minor strategists; once upon a time, it had known some Samnorsk. The pack had originally been six; three had been killed by the wolves. What was left was the “talker” part—about as bright as a five year old,
