In war more than anywhere else in the world things happen differently from what we had expected. . . .
—Karl von Clausewitz
Karl Cullinane walked the ramparts, looking off to where the Holts waited. His eyes teared, partly from the glare of the setting sun, partly from the acrid smoke that the light breeze wafted his way.
"Belay firing," he called out, his word picked up and echoed down the line of two hundred riflemen. Slowly, the ragged volley died out. "Clean and reload; oil patches, only," he said. "Aveneer, take over. Fire only at reasonable targets."
He turned and climbed down the ladder to the courtyard below, then walked over to where Ellegon lay sprawled on the dirt. The dragon's eyes were almost impossibly bleary, but they still glowed with life.
*What is going on, Karl?* Ellegon's mental voice was still weak, but growing firmer as every day brought the dragon more strength. Just today, he had been able to lift his head from the ground for the first time.
"Damned if I know," he said, reaching out and rubbing his fingers against the hard scales of the dragon's jaw. "They're redeploying a bit, but nothing much." Just the sort of idle shuffling of positions that would keep the defenders worried, but it didn't look as if the Holts were really getting ready for an assault, not yet.
It just didn't make any sense. After Tennetty's last recon, she had reported that the Holts were doing absolutely nothing, other than holding position. No building at all—no ladders, no siege engines, no beams being cut for shoring the walls of tunnels—nothing. Somewhere between thirty-two hundred and four thousand Holtish troops were sitting there, the nearest just out of rifleshot, all of them waiting.
Now I know how a candle on a birthday cake feels. But even so, even if Ahrmin is on his way, why the wait?
Why would the top Holtish commander be willing to let line troops stand idle, when they could undoubtedly be put to good use in the north after polishing off Furnael Keep?
What were they waiting for?
*I don't know. Maybe Tennetty would have some ideas?*
Speaking of Tennetty . . . where is she?
*On the northern . . . rampart. I've sent for her; she's on her way.*
"Shh," Karl whispered. "Save your strength. Sleep, if you can."
*Young dragons don't need much sleep.*
"You don't look all that young right now."
*Good point.* The plate-sized eyes sagged shut.
Tennetty's slim form appeared atop the rampart; she bounded down the rungs to the bottom.
"You sent for me?" she asked, her index finger working its way under her eyepatch as if of its own volition.
"I was considering it—but Ellegon decided for me," he said, as he beckoned her over to the well in the center of the courtyard. He worked the crank and raised the bucket, scooping out a dipperful for Tennetty first, and then for himself.
The water was cool and wonderful as he tilted his head back, pouring it in his mouth, relishing the way the icy overflow ran down his beard and onto his chest.
That was the nice thing about now: Every sense was sharp, every sensation special, even the slightly metallic taste of Furnael Keep well water. Karl nodded softly to himself. It was easy to forgive your friends, at the end of it all.
"Move it, you," a merry basso sounded from the ramparts, as Aveneer brought the two hundred riflemen down from their full alert, passing out watch assignments for the night.
Karl nodded in approval. The Holts almost certainly weren't going to try for some sort of tricky night assault, but there was no sense in taking chances.
He turned to Tennetty. "You think we're going to get any visitors tonight?"
She shook her head. "No. And I don't understand it. I haven't seen any evidence of their building siege towers or engines—or even ladders."
He nodded. "Me neither. It's like we're all waiting for someone, or something. But I don't understand why."
"Ahrmin, of course . . . I can see that he'd want to be in on the end." She fingered the amulet around her neck. "But why would the Holts want to wait for him?"
"I don't know."
Tennetty cocked her head to one side. "Want me to find out, Karl?"
"What say we find out?"
She shook her head. "I don't think you can sneak well enough. Maybe Peill and me?"
"I've got a better idea; let's go talk to Andy." He walked toward the nearest door into the keep proper and headed for the suite that he and Andy-Andy were using.
She was seated in front of a flickering lamp that stood on a wide wooden table; a huge leather book was open in front of her as she carefully studied the words that Karl couldn't even see.
He knew better than to interfere while she was studying, so he waited until she lifted her head before he cleared his throat.
"Karl." She smiled as she turned in the chair and rose to her feet, stretching catlike in her gray robes. "Are they still out of range?"
"Yeah. Funniest damn siege I've ever seen. How's your invisibility spell these days?"
"Good enough," she said, then paused for a moment as she sucked air in through her teeth. "You're planning on taking a walk tonight?"
"Tennetty and I are, if you can manage it."
Tennetty raised her eyebrow. "Be still, my heart."
The tension between the two of them had evaporated in the past days. A small part of it was that he needed somebody who he was used to working with; with Chak dead, Peill occupied with his longbow squad, and Walter and Ahira gone, Tennetty was about the only one remaining from his original team he was really used to.
The big reason, of course, was simpler.
I'm not going to make it alive out of this one, he thought. There was no sense in taking hard feelings to the grave, not when the object of the anger was really a friend. Tennetty had had a horrible breach of judgment back in Enkiar, true, but she was a friend.
And death was a time to forgive one's friends, a time for gentle goodbyes.
"When are the two of you planning on leaving?" Andy-Andy asked.
He reached out and rubbed his thumb gently against her jaw. "About midnight, I thought. Give us some time to ourselves, before."
"Good." She smiled up at him. "I guess I didn't wear you out last night."
"Apparently not."
The conviction that his own end was near had brought a fierce passion to their lovemaking, and he didn't feel like stinting himself. Not when the end approached so quickly.
Maybe, if Walter and Furnael were successful in Biemestren, relief would be on its way, eventually. Hell, if they had actually gotten to Biemestren, and in the unlikely event that (a) they had put Furnael on the throne quickly, and (b) Furnael had ordered the House Guard to ride immediately, and (c) the House Guard had obeyed, and with alacrity, and (d) they came in enough force to break through the Holtish roadblock on the west road, then relief could arrive in another week or so.
But that wasn't about to happen.
It probably wouldn't make a difference, or not enough of one. Since the Holts weren't building catapults and onagers, it was likely that already-built ones were on their way down the road.
Maybe that was it. But certainly Karl and the defenders didn't have forever. The Holts either knew or had to assume that the dragon was recovering within the walls; they and the slavers among them would have no desire to stall the assault until the dragon was recovered enough to fight.
He shook his head. Hell, they could take the keep by rushing it with siege ladders, if they didn't have a more elegant, a less costly way.
But maybe, just perhaps, the Holts would hold off until Ellegon got well enough to flee, if not to fight.
And then, beautiful, we can get you out of here. You, Thomen Furnael, perhaps Erek and Ranella. I'll give the orders, and see that it's done.
And then, he thought, lifting her from the chair, gathering her in his arms, we'll give Ahrmin and the rest of those bastards a last run that'll make them wake up screaming for the rest of their lives.
Tennetty cleared her throat. "You want me to put together a couple of kits? Crossbows, I suppose—can't use guns . . . . Andrea? Can you include the bows and everything in the spell?"
"Yes, but . . ." Andy-Andy pushed away from him. "I . . . can't keep you invisible for much time at all." She wrinkled her brow as she looked up at Karl. "Just a few minutes, if it's going to be both of you. Enough time to get out—"
"But not enough to get back in, eh?" He smiled. "Shouldn't be a problem. We'll leave just after dark, and coordinate our return with Aveneer. Tennetty, include a signal rocket in our kit, and two grenades each, plus fuses." He smiled at Andy-Andy as he jerked his thumb toward their sleeping quarters. "I'll be with you in a minute."
Andy-Andy smiled gently back at him and walked away, her spell book tucked carefully under her arm.
He turned to Tennetty. "There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about—"
"I know; consider it said." She eyed him levelly. "I'd better get us packed up for tonight." She started to walk away, then turned back. "It's all been worth it . . . hasn't it, Karl?"
You know, Tennetty, I've never heard you sound unsure of yourself before. I'm not sure I like it.
He forced a smile. "Count on it. Now get lost for a while."
Aveneer was waiting for them near the front gate. His eyes sparkled in the light of the torches as he shook his massive head. "It's not been my experience that generals do their own scouting, Karl," he said, "and I don't like the idea."
Frandred nodded, then shook his head. "Bad idea, Karl, bad."
Karl had never liked the way that Aveneer's second-in-command always had to say something twice. It reminded him of a retarded boy who had been his neighbor, long ago. Long, long ago . . .
"You think that man of yours is a better scout than I am?"
Aveneer nodded. "Possibly."
"He is, of course he is."
Karl nodded a false agreement. "Then fine, bring him up. One thing, though: Would he be able to tell a mobile gunshop from a mobile smithy?"
"No, but that's not relevant." Aveneer shook his head. "It wouldn't be his responsibility to decide, but to report."
"Right." He crooked a finger and beckoned Aveneer close. "And it isn't your responsibility," he whispered, "to tell me what my job is; it's your responsibility to carry out my orders. Understood?"
Aveneer pulled back and snorted. "True. But I'd be a bit careful, were I you. Eh?" He clapped his hand to Karl's shoulder. "You wouldn't want to get killed prematurely." He clasped Karl's hand in his. "Just in case you don't return, any advice?"
"Nothing much." Karl shrugged. "Except the obvious. Hold off using the grenades until the very last. You've got to get them bunched in order to get the right payoff. When they rush, I'd try for volley fire, instead of fire-at-will—you might be able to break the rush." He walked to the portcullis and looked out.
Perhaps five hundred yards down the road leading from the keep, the nearest of the Holtish encampments waited, campfires blazing away into the night. He slipped the heavy bolts on the man-high door that formed part of the base of the portcullis and then walked back to where Andy-Andy and Tennetty stood waiting.
He quickly stripped off his jerkin and leggings, then pulled a loose pair of shorts on over his shoes, belting the shorts tightly around his waist. That was a trick that Walter Slovotsky had taught him, long ago: On a recon, it was best to keep as little as possible between your skin and the air. It was almost as though he grew extra nerves; it was certain that he felt more vulnerable when creeping almost naked through the night.
Tennetty smeared the greasepaint over his skin, then strapped a crossbow across his back and handed him a drawstring-topped leather quiver, which he tied to his right thigh.
He looked at his swordbelt, debating whether or not it was right to take it. No, he decided; the crossbow and quiver were already going to be enough trouble to handle, and if this recon came down to swordplay, he was already in too deep.
He nodded to himself. Best to go as lightly armed as possible. He selected a Nehera-made bowie and belted its scabbard around his waist, thonging the knife into the scabbard. Logical; he wouldn't need the saber, but a knife could be handy.
To hell with logic. He belted on the saber, too.
Tennetty had already armed herself and stood ready, her fists clenching and unclenching.
Karl turned to his wife. "Do it," he said.
Andy-Andy began to murmur the words of the spell, the harsh, flat sounds that could only be forgotten, never saved in the mind.
The world slowly went gray around him, until it settled into a total black. That was the trouble with a simple invisibility spell: It made its subject totally transparent to light, and that included his retinas. Transparent retinas couldn't react to light.
But this wasn't a simple invisibility spell; Andy wasn't done. Her hand reached out and touched his forehead, the fingertips sliding down until she touched his eyelids.
The pressure of her fingers increased as the words of the spell finished.
She released his lids; he opened his eyes. Two feet away and a foot below his eye level, he could see the dark discontinuity that marked where Tennetty's eye was.
Karl looked down. He could see right through himself, all the way down to the outline of his bootprints in the dirt.
He reached out and took Tennetty's hand.
"Let's go," he whispered. They would have to touch each other; in the darkness outside the keep, he wouldn't be able to see her any more than the Holts could see him.
They stepped out through the door and into the night. Down the road, eager-eyed sentries had perhaps already noted the open door, and were probably waiting to see if this time it meant that somebody was leaving the keep, trying to slip away.
But they had been keeping watch for five nights now, and every night Karl had ordered the small door opened, then closed, several times, both when Tennetty was trying to sneak away for a quiet recon and not. By now, the watchers were probably persuaded that this was simply intended to spook them.
Karl and Tennetty walked swiftly down the road.
By the time they had faded back into visibility, they were far down the road, well concealed in the trees.
The main Holtish camp spread out in front of them. Despite the greater size of his force, the leader of this expedition had followed the same general plan as the leader of the last one. He had split off three cavalry units to camp separately opposite the keep's other walls, and even put his main camp on the same ground his predecessor had chosen.
But that was where the similarity ended. This Holtish general was much more security-conscious. There were twelve watchfires spread around the camp's perimeter, each manned by at least twenty guards. And even within the camp there was added security. The inner portion of his main camp was a corral-like compound, perhaps forty yards across, containing what Karl was sure was the powder magazine, as well as several boxy travel wagons—one of them a wizard's wagon, no doubt.
There was something else in that corral as well, something that scouts hadn't reported seeing. But it was almost hidden between the wagons and covered by a tarpaulin, and all he could tell was that it was longer than it was wide, which didn't do a damn bit of good.
"That . . . thing in the compound wasn't there last night." Tennetty looked at him. "Do you think we could get in there?" she whispered, her words barely carrying the few inches to his ear.
"Not and get out, that's for sure."
"I wasn't talking about getting out. If we could blow up their magazine, scatter the powder, the morning dew would finish the job for us."
A nice idea in principle, but it just wouldn't work. The interior of the camp was clearly too well guarded—he wouldn't even be able to get within throwing range. Besides, unless it was very well thrown, a grenade probably wouldn't break open the barrels containing the Holts' reserve supply of slaver powder.
He shook his head. "I don't think even Walter could get in there." Damn. He lifted his amulet. It was flashing red, though; clearly, the Holts had added a wizard in the past few days, as well as whatever that thing under the tarp was.
He looked up at the overhanging branches of the dying oak. It might be possible to get about twenty, maybe twenty-five feet up, and that might give a decent view of whatever was going on in the camp, "How's your tree-climbing?"
"Better than yours. And quieter. Give me a hand up." She quickly stripped off her weapons and boots. Karl cocked and loaded both crossbows, then set them carefully on the ground before boosting Tennetty up to an overhanging branch.
Silently, she climbed, while Karl kept watch. She would be almost invisible to anyone looking, but only almost. Off in the distance, Karl could hear something moving through the field. He hoped that Tennetty could hear it, too, but loosed his sword in its scabbard in case she couldn't.
The sound grew closer; a whisk of leather on grass.
Great. Patrolling Holts weren't what he needed right now, but it looked as if he was going to get them anyway. If he was lucky, as they passed by his position they'd be discussing whatever strategy the Holtish general was planning for the morning.
He wasn't lucky. Two Holtish soldiers, each armed with a slaver rifle, walked by, only yards from where Karl huddled in the shadow of the old oak's projecting roots. It seemed for a moment as though one of them looked directly at him before the Holt's gaze swung by, but perhaps he was mistaken.
In a few minutes, they were gone.
Tennetty dropped lightly from an overhanging branch. "Unless they've got another cripple with them, he's there. I saw him coming out of the magazine with a wizard."
"Ahrmin?"
"Who else? He was showing the wizard that ram."
"Ram?"
"The . . . thing near the powder magazine. Ahrmin had the covering off for a moment. It's a ram, a damn large one."
That was strange. A ram attack, intended to breach the keep's walls, ought to be accompanied by some other sort of attack elsewhere; by itself, the ram and its crew would be too vulnerable to concentrated fire from the defenders. So where were the onagers and catapults or the siege ladders?
A chill washed across him. "Describe this ram."
"Strange-looking thing. Like a long metal sausage, about twice as long as you're tall. It's mounted on a cart. I guess they're going to have some sort of rigging for horses to propel the thing, but the wagon it's on is rigged for pulling, not pushing." She shrugged. "And why it has a hole in one end . . ."
A hole?
Omigod. "That's not a ram. It's a cannon." Which explained what the Holts had been waiting for. A cannon could shatter the walls, or, firing chainshot or grapeshot, quickly reduce the defenders on the walls to bloody hunks of flesh. The Holts had been holding up the attack, waiting for this to arrive.
His heart thudding in his chest, he forced himself to breathe slowly. He would have to see that Andy-Andy was smuggled out, and not tomorrow, but tonight. The cannon that they had waited for had arrived; the Holts would attack in the morning.
But would she go? And who could he trust to smuggle her out of here? Damn Walter Slovotsky for taking Ahira.
Tennetty. It would have to be Tennetty.
"What is a cannon?" Tennetty whispered.
"Like a big rifle. Except that it can knock down walls."
"Knock down—I see." She nodded sagely. "How do you counter a cannon?"
"You spike it—" He caught himself. Maybe? No. There were ample guards around, and a wizard within the compound, likely there either to assist in the attack or to keep the slaver powder from picking up water from the air and self-detonating. "Or you do what Chak did, except on a large scale. Without enough powder, a cannon is useless."
She nodded wisely. "Then we'd better get to it, no?"
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. There wasn't a chance in a billion that the two of them could get through the Holts and into the magazine, and there wasn't a chance in a million that a large group could.
But a group didn't have to. Only one had to, if that one knew what to do. If in the noise and confusion, one man could break through to the magazine or have just enough time to spike the cannon, that might buy some time for Slovotsky to put Furnael on the throne and bring relief to the keep.
At the very least, it would force the Holts to switch strategies, and spend some time building ladders or siege engines.
"Karl, we may never get another chance at him. We've got to—"
"Don't tell me what we have to do. Ahrmin is secondary, dammit. The cannon's the first priority. Listen," he said. "Get back to the keep—"
"No. You can't do it yourself."
"Damn right, Tennetty. Bring back as many people as you're sure you can smuggle out without being seen. No guns; we're not going to have time to reload, and even if we pull this off, they're going to need them in the keep. But load up with grenades. And all of the smith's hammers and a dozen spikes."
"And if we can do that . . . ?"
"The magazine and the cannon first. Then we kill the little bastard."
"Fine." She smiled, and turned to leave.
He caught her arm. "One more thing: Bring my clothes. I don't want to die half-naked."
It felt as if it took forever for Tennetty to get back. By the time she arrived, seven others in tow, Karl had made and rejected a thousand different, useless plans for getting in and out of the Holts' camp all by himself.
Seven others. That was all she had brought back. Karl didn't admonish her; she knew better than he did how many she could sneak out of the castle.
But she could easily have picked a worse seven: Peill, Firkh, Hervean, Rahnidge, Thermen, Erek . . . and Aveneer.
"I thought I left you in command," Karl said to the red-bearded Nyph, as he handed Aveneer his share of the grenades. It worked out to nine each, with two extras, both of which Karl appropriated for himself.
"You did. And I left Valeran in command." Aveneer shrugged. "I've spent far too much of my life away from the center of things. Figured that this one time I'd make absolutely sure I don't die of old age."
Karl shrugged. There was nothing that could be done about that now, even if he didn't want Aveneer and his battleaxe around.
Which he very much did. "Fine," Karl said. "First thing, we've got to be sure that we take out the wizard." He lifted his amulet. "This won't provide much protection, but it's all that we've got—"
"No." Tennetty looked over at him soberly. "Andrea sends a message: The wizard is hers. When she hears the sound of the first grenade going off, she will—how did she put it—'brighten her fire.' The Holts' wizard will see that as a challenge."
Ellegon, relay— He caught himself. He was out of range, and there wasn't a damn thing that he could do. Except— "My orders stand. If you see the wizard, take him out. Understood?"
Tennetty looked him square in the face. "Even if that means missing the magazine? Or the cannon?"
He grabbed her by the tunic. "You challenging my orders, Tennetty?"
She raised her palms. "No. I'm asking what they are. Think about it."
Andy . . . He forced himself to keep his harsh whisper under control. "Get the magazine and the cannon. No matter what."
Accepting his tunic from Tennetty, Karl drew it on and belted it tightly around his hips with a length of rope. After inserting the fuses in the detonators and the detonators in the grenades, he carefully tucked them into his tunic, their iron sides cold against his belly, then buckled on his swordbelt, with the pouch tied tightly to its right side.
"Keep an even spacing," he said. "Not too close—if a shot hits you in the wrong place, you're going up, complete with grenades."
Tennetty smiled. "Right, right. Do we get to it or not?"
There had been a time, long, long ago, when a younger Karl Cullinane wouldn't have been able to face the idea of walking into the lion's mouth.
But that was long, long ago. He looked from face to face, trying to come up with the right words.
He couldn't find any.
"Follow me," he said.
On hands and knees, they crept through the waist-high grasses in the dark, Tennetty and Peill armed with crossbows in addition to their grenades. With a bit of luck, perhaps all nine of them could get to the Holts' outer perimeter before they were spotted.
Their luck was not in; when they were still a good fifty yards from the outer edge of the cleared area that marked the Holtish camp, a harsh voice called out a warning; a shot rang out, a bullet hissed overhead.
Peill rose, his crossbow discharging. The bolt caught the watchman in the chest; he screamed hideously. Hervean rose to his feet, a sizzling grenade in his hand.
But the Holtish guards reacted quickly; Peill and Hervean were cut down by a flurry of gunfire, Hervean's grenade exploding while still in his hands, miraculously not triggering any of his or Peill's remaining grenades.
Already on his feet and on the run, Karl struck the tip of a fuse on his swordbelt buckle and sent a grenade hissing toward the Holts. It landed in between three of them and exploded, sending bodies and pieces of bodies flying into the night.
An explosion on his right shook him from his feet. As he rose, he pulled out another grenade, struck it, threw it, then another.
Three Holtish swordsmen came at him. Karl drew his saber and parried the first's lunge, letting the rush carry the man past, while he speared the next one through the throat.
The third one smiled as he lunged for Karl.
The smile vanished as he went down, a crossbow bolt transfixing his neck. Tennetty laughed as she sent another grenade hissing off into the Holts. Karl drew one from his tunic and threw it into the watchfire, not bothering to strike it. It blew almost immediately, turning the fire into a shower of sparks and embers.
Karl couldn't see what had happened to most of the others; all except Tennetty and Aveneer had been carried away from him.
"This way," he shouted, as the three of them worked their way farther into the camp, Aveneer using his axe like a scythe to clear the way, Karl and Tennetty lighting and throwing grenades one-handed, their swords weaving like snakes.
The flat of his sword parallel to the ground, Karl speared a Holt through the chest, then kicked the body off his wet blade before turning to cut down one on Tennetty's back.
Less than a hundred yards in front of him, the Holts' wizard stood within the inner camp, halfway between the magazine shed and the cannon.
Lightning issued from the wizard's fingertips, crackling off into the night.
Andy— "No!" He fought his way toward the wizard, but a heavy blow hit him on the right side, just above the waist, knocking him down before he heard the rifle's crack. As he tried to get to his feet, a booted foot caught him in the chest, knocking him back, half out of breath.
Instinct brought his sword up, slipping the saber's tip up the other's thigh and into his groin. Karl lurched away, giving his saber a savage twist before he leaped to his feet. Another Holt was bringing a rifle to bear on Tennetty; Karl booted the weapon out of the man's hands, then caught him by the hair, the Holt's body spasming twice as he absorbed two shots meant for Karl.
He drew his saber across the Holt's throat before sending him on his way, then decided that it had been too long since he'd set off a grenade, and quickly lit off two.
Thunder echoed the grenades' explosion.
Now I'll get the wiz—
Where was the Holts' wizard? Where he had stood but moments before, there was nothing, nothing but a small crater.
He felt Tennetty pulling at his arm. Momentarily, the screaming and the shooting rushed around them like a stream around an outthrust rock.
"I took out the wizard," she shouted. "Hope you don't mind."
There wasn't time to thank her. "I'm going for the cannon. Cover me."
She fended off two attackers as he dashed toward the cannon, dropping his sword and drawing the spike and hammer from his pouch.
A heavy weight landed on his back; he thrust back an elbow, then swung the smith's hammer around, feeling the Holt's skull cave in like an eggshell.
Spiking the cannon took only a second, but as he dropped his hammer and stooped to retrieve his sword, a sharp blow to his back knocked him down to the ground. He clawed inside his tunic for another grenade, but they had all bounced away in the dark, and the weakness in his side and back was spreading.
There was another explosion somewhere off to the rear, but that wouldn't do any good. The magazine was ahead, not behind.
He started to crawl toward it as thunder shattered the sky into rain.
A dark mass crashed into him from the side; blindly, his hand clawed at the other's face, only to encounter an eyepatch. "Tennetty!"
She smiled weakly at him, her mouth working, but no sound issuing from between her bloody lips as her eye sagged shut.
I'm sorry, Tennetty, Rahff, Fialt, Erek, Aveneer, Chak—all of you—
But rain? It wasn't rainy season—
Andy. It was a goodbye from Andy, her way of telling him that she had survived. The Holts' wizard wouldn't have started a rainstorm, even if he could have; you couldn't reload in the rain, because the powder would get wet. And the Holts were under attack; they would want to reload. Now, they couldn't—
No, they couldn't, could they? Real gunpowder would become wet and useless in the rain.
But slaver gunpowder had to stay safely under cover, or it would turn back into superheated steam.
The powder would get wet. His rumbling fingers tore at Tennetty's tunic until he found a grenade. He struck the fuse against his thumbnail and flicked it toward the magazine shack.
The powder would get wet. The explosion tore off one wall of the shack, sending the barrels inside clattering.
He gathered Tennetty against his chest as he heard the crack of splitting wood . . .
. . . and the largest explosion of all, that shattered the world into white-hot sparks of pain that quickly went black.