"Earl."

"I'm here, Clar." Dumarest tightened his hand. "My fingers, can you feel them?"

"Yes, but I can't see you. Everything's gone dark." In the light of the flare the eyes rolled, wide, the balls mottled with red. "You're a good man, Earl. The kind a man needs at his side when he goes into battle. But the life of a mercenary isn't for you. You're too smart. Too clever. Take my advice, Earl. Get out while you can. Don't waste your life. Don't- God, Earl! The pain! The pain!"

More drugs would do nothing but stave off the inevitable and the toxins flooding the man's bloodstream diminished their effectiveness. But it was all he had. Dumarest used three more of the ampules then snarled as Clar heaved beneath his hand. Old stock or diluted contents; someone, somewhere, had made an easy profit and because of it a man would die in screaming agony.

"Earl!"

Dumarest moved his hand, the fingers searching for the carotids, finding them, pressing deep to cut off the blood supply to the brain. Unconsciousness came almost at once but, as Clar relaxed, he maintained his grip. To allow the man to wake required a sadistic bent he did not possess. It was kinder to be merciful. More gentle to kill.

* * * * *

The tide of battle had moved to the south, gunfire echoing from the area of warehouses huddled close to the field, flames rising from burning houses, some lurid with the writhing colors of fuming chemicals. Swathes of green and orange, darts of blue and amber, a golden haze shot with the searing brilliance of burning magnesium which obliviated the need of flares and sent shadows dancing over the torn street and shattered buildings. An eruption of violence wasteful in its extravagance for, as he knew, the battle was over, the victory assured to the other side. But war did not have a tidy ending and armed men, fearful of their lives, would take no chances.