“In war, those who remain standing are not always the victor.” Captain Sam Barker.

The rover bounced over the rough terrain, buffeted by a fierce southern wind. The western hills loomed dark and strange as Sam pushed the vehicle for speed. While sand reduced visibility, the lowering storm clouds made the terrain seem ominous. Sam switched on the floodlights and swerved suddenly to miss a large rock. At breakneck speed, the rover hit a rut and bounced into the air. They landed hard and jolted forward in a white-knuckle moment.

Raul banged his head and complained with a loud angry, “Ow!”

Beasley said, “You should buckle up.”

Raul replied as he reached for the seatbelt, “I should drive.”

Sam shot back over his shoulder, “The comment booth is closed.”

Trees danced to the left of them as Sam hugged the low hills. Sand and debris blew around the rover and quickly disappeared in the floodlights. Besh opened his eyes and peered around. Noting the Captain’s singular attention to his task, he loosened his grip on the edge of his seat. In their week together, Sam had never failed them. Besh took a breath, choosing trust over worry.

Sam switched on the wipers, smearing a mix of rain and sand across the windshield. “It’s raining mud,” said Raul in alarm.

The trees became more numerous. They were taller, but no less bent in the driving wind. Sam adjusted his course, he had not expected a forest to rise before him. It was a dark army marching wildly to a stormy trumpet call. Lightning flashed, temporarily blinding all. Sam blinked hard and instinctively veered toward the open plain. A trail appeared in the floodlights, Sam took it. The rover jolted along, the occasional tree flashed by on their right. A sandy gust raised the back of the rover and pushed it to the right as Sam fought for control.

Besh gripped his seat and asked, “Shouldn’t we slow down a bit?”

Sam responded testily, “Or I could stop and put you in back with the whiners.”

A sudden bright flash seared their eyes, but it was not lightning. The report came with the flash. The rover jolted up into the air. They fell on two wheels, skidded, slammed into a tree, and rolled over. The vehicle spun slowly on its roof. The floodlights flickered through a sandy spray and failed. The forest trail was black. Only the distant lightning illuminated the trees.

Hanging upside down, Sam yelled instinctively, “Everyone out! Hurry!”

Sam rolled out and immediately came to a wary crouch, turning in the stinging sand. He could not see through it. His back to the wind, he opened the backseat door, pulled his knife, and quickly cut the seatbelt that held Raul. He pulled his crewman free and made his way around the rover. Beasley fell free and rolled out as he came to him, so he helped Besh. They were on the far side of the vehicle with the bulk of the dark forest opposing them. A bullet struck the rover, then another.

Sam pulled Besh into the trees, calling to the younger men, “Run!”

Raul ran into the mist. The blinding wind made him cold and wet. The sand stung his skin. Raul clutched the backpack that Besh carried. He held it tight to his chest as he stumbled behind a tree to take a breath. The mines on Merlin came to mind. He followed the scared miners through a foul choking dust so thick they were forced to feel their way along the walls. This sandy fog was like the dust of the mine. He hated it. He was lost and alone.

He called into the howling tempest, “Beasley!”

Crispin knelt behind a fat bush, whipped by its branches, straining to see through the scouring sand. Buffeted, he crawled to a nearby tree. He could not hear over the screaming wind. It whipped the branches above him causing shrieks and moans. The tree swayed. He asked himself, “Why me?” Why had the King sent him away? He had seen one attempt after another on the lives of his comrades. It was an unending stream of dangers, and now there was war. Raw fear constricted his chest, and his heart beat savagely. He would not apologize for being afraid. I shouldn’t be here, was his defense.

He cried against the storm, “Raul!”

Sam yanked Besh to the ground. They were behind rocks and shrubs. It was a welcome break from the muddy maelstrom. Besh massaged the sore spot where Sam had gripped his arm. Could the situation be any worse? Lost in a storm, separated from the younger men, Sam kept him one step ahead of the unseen assailants. Besh held an arm against his face and turned from the wind.

“What now?” he called to the Captain.

Sam leaned in close and said, “They may be as blind as we are.”

“Raul. Crispin,” Besh said.

The Captain replied, “They’re on their own for now. Best we can do is hunker down, stay alert.”

The wind stalled. Sand and water droplets floated before Raul’s eyes as if defying gravity. The gale no longer screamed through the trees. Raul wiped his face and listened. The enemy could be anywhere. Any sudden noise could herald the approach of danger. He hugged the backpack for comfort, for support in his dilemma. The back pocket bulged with small round objects. Instantly curious, Raul unsnapped the cover. It seemed inconceivable that the old man would put rocks in his backpack. A sudden noise sent waves of adrenaline through his blood. He froze in place and listened hard, but no other sound followed.

Raul opened the pocket in the backpack and reached inside. He pulled out a small round grenade known as a zit. That crafty old man! A branch snapped behind him. He rolled slowly to his knees and peered around the tree. The mist and sand hung in the air like a thick fog, chillingly silent. The mist swirled and Raul momentarily caught a glimpse of someone crouching by a tree. The figure was there and gone in a heartbeat.

“Crispin,” Raul hissed into the murky silence and listened for a reply that did not come.

The mist swirled again, thinning. The figure was no longer by the tree. He caught motion in the corner of his eye. A ghostly figure crept stealthily through the trees making to his left. The enemy, he thought, heart beating painfully. He heard the whine of a pig blaster charging. The hair on his neck stood up. Without thinking, Raul pulled the pin from the zit he held and threw it at the sound. There was a double report. As the grenade detonated, the tree he hid behind exploded in white-hot searing pain.

Raul felt the blast. Splinters scraped his face as the shock wave lifted him into the mist. The force of the blast threw him painfully back. His head and neck made brutal contact with a tree. He spun, rolled, and lay on his back, fighting off the dark clouds of unconsciousness. The mist rolled in around him, and silence was a weight on his chest. The dark clouds roiled at the periphery of his vision, his ears rang. He took a breath and gasped in pain. This is the end, he thought. He felt a tear roll down his face. This is real!

Voices, soft at first, came from the direction of the stealthy foe. He hurt badly and could not move. Raul had never known such abject fear. The voices stopped. Where are they? They could be anywhere. He tried again. This time, he lifted himself up and dragged his body upright against the tree. His vision swung wildly as if turning in dizzy circles. His head throbbed.

He called loudly! “Ayudame! Crispin!”

A hooded figure suddenly loomed above him. A knee-length coat flapped in the wind. Beneath the hood, Raul saw a mask with goggles. A gloved hand came up. It held a pistol. This is it, thought Raul. Padre Nuestro . . . he began to pray and stopped when a howl came through the mist. The interloper turned, but not in time. Beasley barreled into the hooded figure. As they toppled out of sight, the dark clouds met in the middle.

The concussive report moved water droplets in the air between Besh and the Captain. Immediately, Sam turned to the direction from which it came. Besh, crouching uncomfortably, wiped the moisture from his face. He remembered the zits he had found in the cellar of the lost farm and realized the absence of his backpack.

Sam spoke into the sudden silence. “Grenade.”

A moment later, Besh heard a pitched howl. The Captain turned and grabbed Besh by an arm. “It’s the boys,” he said. “Follow me.”

Sam lurched forward and ran into the mist. Besh came slowly to his feet and followed. The mist had already swallowed the Captain, but Besh could hear the noise of his running. He ran after him, wiping the water from his eyes. There was a dim light ahead, a flurry of noises. Besh ran into the light and skidded to a halt. It took but a heartbeat to assess the situation. Raul and Beasley were on the ground, and Sam buckled under the butt of a long gun. Besh turned with the instinct to flee, torn by his desire to help his friends. Then, the lights went out.

Besh awoke with a pain in the back of his skull. He opened his eyes but could not see as a hood covered his head. He tested his hands and feet, they were bound. He sat tied to a chair, and from the noises he heard, Besh understood he was alone in a tent, with a din of voices outside. He was in the camp of the enemy. Realization of his capture made his heart drop, and he wondered how the Captain, Raul, and Beasley fared.

Prince Albert rolled the map tightly and tied a ribbon around the center. With a sigh, he switched off the small table lamp and pushed back his chair to stand. He was tired. The last few days had been hectic. Pushing his unkempt hair away from his eyes, he stretched. He could sleep later. The attack on Jara was an important first strike in their campaign against the Consortium. He stepped from his tent into the frenetic energy of Woolly Swamp.

He caught the arm of Xander Stone as he passed. Xander, an amiable soul, stood somewhat taller than Albert’s six-foot stature. With a cap fashioned from animal skin and no shirt to hide his muscular torso, Xander turned with a turkey drumstick in his hand and took a bite.

Albert made his demand over the din of the crowded camp. “Sasha.”

Xander, chewing and smiling at the same time, used the drumstick to point back over his shoulder before moving on. Sasha was in the common, the large center of the camp. Already, Albert could hear the cheering of the mob. No doubt, Sasha was bending them to her will, as she had done with a certain naive Prince. Albert once thought she loved him. Now, he suspected she only used him. Albert once believed her rhetoric but was now uncertain whether the war belonged to anyone other than Sasha.

As Albert pushed his way through the tight crowd, he could hear the common swell with the cheering of vagabond soldiers. Their voices filled the night with a guttural chant. “Kill’em in Jara! Kill’em in Jara!”

Sasha pulled her long black hair away from her sweating face. She panted from her exertions, permitting a rare smile to escape her lips. Her men were ready. With the dawn, Jara would be in her hands. She held both the Prince and the Overlord in her back pocket. As she reveled in her meticulous plan, Strom, a large leather-bound lackey, pulled her around to whisper in her ear. She followed him between two tents to hear his report.

“We have a big one in the cage,” said Strom. “He’s the one that shot your father.”

At last, she thought, relishing the news. Revenge! Not so much for the death of the professor, but for the affront. Who the man was made no difference, neither why he shot the old man. She would enjoy crushing him. She would make an example of him. She pushed Strom aside and strode toward the cage with lackey in tow.

Sam lifted his throbbing head to look around. He was suspended by chains that held his wrists. His feet were off the ground. Four masked guards stood outside the cage he was in. On a table to the side, Sam noticed his gun and knife. Suddenly, the tent flap was thrown back, and a young black-haired woman strode in. She stood between two guards, arms akimbo. Her eyes narrowed in an appraisal that was ice and iron.

Sasha looked at the stranger. Muscular, rugged, he would have made a fine soldier. The scars, the glint in his hardened eyes, told a story few others could read. So little in life surprised her, but when she turned to view the weapons on the table, she was truly impressed.