The damn trees were interminable and so was the night. Ben felt through his tired haze as if his previous life was nothing but a fanciful construction. At least that's how it appeared, walking in the near dark, guiding himself by Pritchett's angry hisses that passed for breathing.

Besides the hunger and the constant blue animal eyes following them, the worst part was the feeling of isolation. Although they were all quite in the same metaphorical pot, being slowly boiled alive, Ben felt that his survival was contingent on one of them not realizing that throwing him to the dogs would slow the beasts down. And it wasn't as like he was one of them. Throwing on a funny-colored jacket did not fill one with soldierly loyalty.

The silver lining, if Ben found enough energy to even look for such a thing, was that he had learned some more about the bloodline curse he had taken on. The curse was related or at least drew power from the same kind of magic that had turned the dogs into twisted murder machines.

All Ben had to do now was follow that thread and hope it didn't strangle him to death in the process. He had asked Tillby, as he was the most amenable one, about magic, but the man's answers were mostly farming similies or just hearsay. From what Ben gathered, not many people knew how magic worked, although they took it as a simple hazard of daily life. Ben wasn't sure he could live like that and thought that line of thinking was quite stupid. Although guns would upend the entire planet's order back on Ben's world, so what did he really know.

Suddenly, he had the thought that the Witch's test included him being responsible for the introduction of this technology back home. Shivers ran down Ben's back, independent of the cold rain beating down on him through the canopy. It felt impossible and a mind-breaking task, as he would feel responsible for any hurt it would cause. Slowly and with effort, although worry ate at his guts, he convinced himself it would not happen.

Ben missed the detached feeling he had when he first arrived. His own life being tossed asunder, that would be okay. He didn't consider himself to be very good, or very happy, so no big loss to himself or to the world. As for everybody else, he couldn't imagine the torment he would feel, disappointing and hurting an entire planet. Maybe two, if the world he was currently in was also a planet. For all he knew, they were in a glass box somewhere in the Witch's breakfast table, with her laughing down at him. On second thought, Ben decided that was a childhood tale that was once read to him by his uncle.

"What's wrong with you?" Pritchett hissed back at him from the shadow. Ben had pressed his palms against the nearest tree, head down between his shoulders, nearly heaving in panic. "Don't tell me the dogs have gotten you so bent over?"

"No," said Ben, with some difficulty, as the feeling that something terrible would happen to him nearly choked him. "I mean, I like dogs and I think it's terrible that we had to fight them, but it was self-defense and all that. I just... Ah, shit, I don't know. I'll be fine."

Just then the Sergeant came down from the line and screeched at them for making noise. "Anybody dying? No? So why are you chatting up like a couple of grandmothers? Keep your mouths firmly shut, you damn fools."

The rain kept on through the night, and Ben realized it wouldn't be so difficult for the hounds to follow them, canine instincts aside. The dogs could just follow the sounds of squelching boots.

It was hard to keep time in the near-complete dark. It was also hard to distract yourself from the grueling walk, but Ben kept busy by measuring the degree of pain in his heels and how it increased with the changes in the trail and the ferocity of rainfall.

When daylight finally broke, it came reddish grey, filtered through the clouds and the trees. Ben tried to find the nugget of field training that dealt with weather, and he remembered that a red sunrise meant a storm was coming. This brought his spirits quite low, but he imagined lighting might be pretty to look at.

He couldn't see the hounds anymore but felt as if they were still trailing. They had come to a certain understanding that neither wanted to deal with the other and as such, with Ben and his squadmates leaving, the hounds might keep to their own territory. Although Ben imagined the Admiral and his cannons might have something different to say about it. Whatever it was that Admiral Van Bahn wanted, it clashed with whoever was playing mad scientist with the dogs. Ben hoped the two would just collide and break each other apart.

They made it back to the beach eventually, all of them struck by how damn useless the entire operation had been. Grimby, although up to the gills in pain potions, had passed out somewhere in the night, with Pritchett checking on him periodically to make sure he was still breathing. The enemy captive had to be tied to the horse, and although had not woken through the night, he had groaned pitifully the entire ride. Ben hoped the cold rain had at least soothed his burns.

Even the horse looked miserable by the time they stepped off the ridge and onto the beach.

Ben bumped into Pritchett who stood watching the land, mouth agape. The man was muttering something, but being exhausted, Ben was half-dozing and didn't pay much attention. When he didn't move, Ben willing himself back to reality.

"This isn't happening," mumbled Pritchett. "They wouldn't just leave us."

The encampment had a hole in its front-facing wall, and the little spike wall was broken. No sign of the fishing ship or any of the troops that had disembarked earlier.

"Attacked?" asked Tillby. "Are they dead?"

"There are no bodies, on the beach or in the river," said Aetna, her pistols already in her hands. "Signs of a quick battle though, there are musket balls in the palisades and I see blood on that patch of rocks." She pointed to a spot near the trench.

"The river has risen a lot because of the rains. Maybe they did get tossed in the water," said Ben.

"Keep on your toes, they might still be prowling." said the Sergeant, the first words he had said since getting out of the forest. He did not seem overly surprised at finding they had been left behind. It looked like nothing much could surprise him. He did however gritted his teeth, barely containing his rage. "Look around, keep your weapons close, and yell out before you get murdered so the rest of us can get the hells out of here."

"That's funny," said Pritchett, suddenly sitting down.

"Something wrong with your legs, Pritchett?"

"No, Sergeant. I just don't think it will make much of a difference. After all we've been through, what kind of fight can we put on?" He sighed and scratched at his unshaven chin. "We never should have left Newfound. Should have just taken our chances with what we had, instead of going on a wild goose chase, on the other side of the Thibault. Thrown our lives away for bullshit promises."

"You got your orders, and I got mine." said the Sergeant. "You wanna whine about it, do it to the Admiral when he comes back."

Pritchett laughed. "He's not coming back, but alright. No more arguments from me."

Aetna walked around the beach, not finding much but the desolated sight of the encampment. Taking a look inside, she found the small number of alcohol and field rations they had been assigned to use during their stay. She knew the Admiral wouldn't just ditch resources, not when they were already hurting for supplies, not when it was the whole point of the mission they were on. She found the rations but not the gunpowder barrels or the guns.

There were signs of struggle on the inside, but no weapons and no corpses remained there either. Back on the beach, on the spots where the few areas of sand that were present covered the rocks, she saw wheel tracks going further down along the Red River.

"See anything?" asked the Sergeant.

"Cart tracks heading off southward. Used it to load up the supplies after our people left. Maybe it is our people they carted off after they killed them and the little fishing boat just ran when they saw trouble." said Aetna.

Ben and Tillby were busy carrying the prisoner into the fort while Pritchett watched from the sidelines. Thankfully, the rain had stopped, although grey clouds still swirled in the sky above.

They set down the man near the part of the fort that did not have a gaping hole in it. Grimby was nearby, still clinging to life against all hope, somehow looking even more miserable than before. His eyes were cloudy and he had a fever sheen covering his forehead. He just stared into a corner and made as if to speak with nothing coming out. Ben gave him a sip of water and put a wet rag over his forehead. He patted Grimby on the shoulder in sympathy.

"Get busy following those tracks. See where they lead and come right back, I won't lose anybody else. Take Pritchett, if you can get him standing." said the Sergeant over his shoulder as he entered the fort.

Aetna nodded, looked questioningly at Pritchett, who shook his head and cast his eyes downwards. She shrugged and made off on her own.

The Sergeant ran his eyes over the room, eyes flashing with pity when he noticed Grimby and something evidently less kind as he landed on the captive. Davies unhooked his canteen and poured it over the mercenary. When this failed, he began kicking him.

Ben tensed up and made to move against the Sergeant, but was stopped by Tillby grabbing his arm.

The mercenary groaned and opened his eyes, looking confused at the Sergeant as if he saw him through a fog.

"You!" the man growled as he saw Ben, and tried to stand but could not muster the energy to try more than a few seconds.

The Sergeant slapped him and then grabbed the mercenary's hair, forcing the man to look at him.

"Why are you here?" he asked. The mercenary laughed, the pain of the burns making him half-crazed.

"Why are you here? You don't look like peacekeepers. We're here for the pay. That's all. Man paid us to hurt who he wants us to hurt. Protect what he wants us to protect."

"What man?" asked the Sergeant.

"Darby is his name. Big man in a white coat, fiddles with gunpowder and foundries to make all the little parts for the guns. Somebody with enough coin to hire the Tell Brothers Company."

"Heard of the Tell. Nasty buggers aren't you. Going around doing whatever noble asshole needs doing as long as it shits out gold, eh, boy?" asked the Sergeant.

"I dunno. I joined not long ago." The mercenary's hostility was now forgotten, and he nearly fell into the haze of pain, eyes rolling up in his skull. This earned him another slap.

"Fighting farmers and their children, no? That's you, kicking down the innocent and the weak. Not enough grain to feed their own, but enough for you to take back to your masters who have never known hunger." The Sergeant went on undeterred, face reddening with effort and he raged. "Why does Darby need a bloody mercenary company at his beck and call?"

"I dunno. I swear. I was sent out days ago to go and buy dogs off the villagers down in the Pall Vale. Darby's been having us get him different animals. Heard he takes them into the quarry, but I was never allowed that far. I swear that's all I know." the man cowered, hands covering his face. Eyes stinging from the blows kept tearing up, falling down his cheeks.

The Sergeant stared at him like a mad bull, brow furrowed and teeth gritted in scorn. Ben shook off Tillby and wondered if he would have to fight to stop the Sergeant from killing the prisoner. Killing an unarmed, burned man was something Ben could not live with. The Sergeant sensed something and turned to Ben.

Before anything could happen, Pritchett screamed from outside, voice strangely empty of emotion. Ben, curious as to what fresh nightmare awaited, stepped outside.

The monstrous hounds were back, lined up on the small ridge, and they were not alone. Quite a large man stood amongst them, as the dogs ran around his feet, holding a comically huge umbrella, even though the rain had stopped earlier. He waved cheerfully in Ben's direction, and shouted, "Howdy, everybody. I was wondering if we could have a quick chat."