He opened them again, peering.

The entire side of the tent was gone in a great, gaping circle, the canvas charred to fine ash, cut as neatly as with shears. The ground all around the blast area was several inches lower than it had been a moment before and smoothed to glowing glass.

Except for one small circle around the vord Queen. She stood up slowly, uncrossing her arms, and that gleeful smile spread over her face again as she stood over Tavi. Though her tattered old gown was singed black over most of its surface, she was apparently unharmed.

He let out a panting snarl and fought his way up to one knee, sword in hand.

“I came here only to weaken you, Father,” the Queen said in a purring voice. “This was more than I dared to hope for. Perhaps there is such a thing as good fortune, after all.”

A movement sent a fire-sphere toward Tavi. He caught it on his sword, willing the weapon to absorb the heat, to make it burn all the more brightly—but the effort made his vision tighten down to a narrow tunnel. His heart was racing, faster than he’d ever felt it. He couldn’t breathe. She was coming, so fast, faster than he could see, even clawing for the speed of windcrafting, and he couldn’t get his sword to move—

Maximus slammed into the vord Queen with a roar of pure rage, his armored body hurtling into her, a self-contained avalanche of steel. He carried her past Tavi and through a second upright, shattering it to kindling, and bringing two-thirds of the remaining canvas of the large tent down upon them all like an enormous, smothering blanket.

Tavi lifted his sword and cut an opening almost before the canvas could settle. He stumbled upright, through the opening, only to see the vord Queen neatly duplicate his maneuver using her talons, drag a metal tub out with her, and slam it with savage force onto a thrashing lump beneath the canvas—one that sagged and abruptly went still.

The vord turned toward Tavi, a wild grin twisting her lips, showing him teeth that were very white, with threads of green-black running in crazed lines over their surfaces.

Tavi lifted his sword, calling more heat to it, more light furiously shining forth. He couldn’t move. His body was shaking, too weak. He knew that he now stood nearer death’s door than he ever had before, though his furycraft allowed him to stay on his feet.

“Your grandfather,” the vord Queen said, “died just that way. Defiant to the last, his sword in hand.”

Tavi showed her his teeth, and said, “This isn’t a guard position. It’s a signal fire.”