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Chapter Forty-Six

An enemy assault on the wadi had been baked into the battle plan from the start. But what Bannor and the other leaders had not foreseen was that the attack might come from both ends of the column, rather than the middle. Because who would have guessed that it would be carried out by s’rillor-ravaged trog porters?

“Leaders,” Rulaine called over the command channel, “can you sustain rate of fire?” He received unanimous confirmations, but saw that the survival rifles on the line were not hitting as hard. Crewe was cutting back on charges since they still had to lay down fire but no longer had the time to swap in an Eku-created external power supply. And the crossbows were slowing as the urldi reloaders increasingly measured the distance from the approaching attackers to the relative safety of the slope at the rear of the wadi.

No, Bannor decided, we can’t hold under these conditions. “Newton,” he said without bothering to turn around, “I want you to back off the lip twenty meters. No argument. You don’t have a rifle and you can’t defend and treat casualties at the same time. Besides, if it all goes to shit, we need someone who can make a report that informs either a counterattack or withdrawal.”

“As you wish, Colonel.”

“Leaders, take your final shots at the x’qao herding the attackers.”

“Wish we knew how they were doing it,” Katie muttered.

“Me, too. But right now, last shots. Then everyone out of the wadi. Shooters shift to secondary weapons. Loaders are to carry the crossbows. Crewe, make sure the locals understand what’s happening. Use external speakers if you have to. But keep your visors closed.”

One of the x’qao in the center was hit near the eye; distracted, it fell back. A few last bowshots took down the one ’qo who’d shown up among the deadskins, and then the troops started pulling out of the wadi.

Most followed the so-called ramps that the locals had found the day before. They were nothing more than narrow veins of rock-muddled clay; however, that firmness was vastly better than the soft, crumbling sides of the wadi. The warriors and missile troops remembered their instructions and headed directly for those higher-traction parts of the back slope; their boots got them up the side easily enough.

The urldi quickly proved to be a very different story, however.

Already rattled by the approaching enemies, their incipient panic kept them from remembering the same simple instructions. So they turned and tried to get up the closest part of the wadi, wearing the equivalent of crude, soft-soled brogans. The typical result: sliding back down, even as their hands-and-feet scrambling dug more sand and dust out of the side.

Rulaine saw all the ingredients for a massacre beginning to coalesce. “Leaders! Grenades out to twenty meters! Buy ’em time!”

But it wasn’t clear that the time bought by the grenades would be enough. Most of the urldi had already made two attempts. Now knee-deep in the dust and sand they’d clawed from the wadi, they were so terrified that they couldn’t hear the instructions being shouted down by those who had already made it over the lip.

Five grenades arced out over the wadi. Bannor adding a sixth to the spot where the coverage seemed weakest. The ear-and-eye-gouging strobing, howling, and cross-frequency warbling forced two of the remaining x’qao to shy back. So too did the pawns, but the deadskins kept pressing forward like cadaverous automatons.

As if shamed by their effortless advance through the grenades, the x’qao forced themselves to advance again. And, seeing one of the deadskins bump into a grenade that went rolling away, they began to compel the pawns to do the same. Well, that’s a nasty surprise.

Newton’s voice came in on a private channel. “Sir, I am following the feeds. I will likely need another pair of capable hands.”

What? “Can’t spare any.”

“Not from the line, sir.”

“Then whose?” The first of the local h’achgai archers had sorted himself out atop the slope and was firing at the approaching deadskins, the pawns surging behind them now that the grenades were out of the way.

“I need Ne’sar for casualty management,” Newton explained. “I have observed her. She is adequate. Without her to stabilize the wounded, I will lose many.”

Bannor watched the urldi screaming as they ran up and down the wadi, unable to see and too panicked to remember where the ramps were, because they were almost buried under the dirt they themselves had torn from the back wall. “Ne’sar wasn’t out here yesterday. She’ll likely eat an arrow if she’s not shown the way.”

Zaatkhur’s voice startled him: “Leader Bannor.” He’d forgotten the trog was guarding him, who now suggested, “I will go fetch Ne’sar. If you wish.”

Bannor nodded. “Go. And thanks for thinking of it.”

The older trog looked pleasantly surprised at the human’s response and then ran off on his errand.

***

The x’qao who was still in the howdah spent almost half a minute observing the battlefield before turning to the caravan’s two humans and ordering them down the ropes he cast over the dustkine’s side.

“What the hell is he doing?” O’Garran muttered.

Ta’rel confirmed Caine’s guess. “They will rally the praa—trogs still sheltering around the dustkine. The kajh are in threes, a bowman in each. The humans will reorganize them to help attack the wadi.”

Riordan nodded. “They’ll combine the archers for supporting fire. Then have the warriors form up the remaining handlers and drivers. Use that force to follow up and exploit any breach in the line.”

“That won’t win the battle,” O’Garran pointed out.

“Not on its own, no. But while that’s going on, the bastard in the howdah could pull the other x’qao back and kick some of the ’qo loose to join them. That might carry the assault.” He shook his head. “Our people’s suits should keep them safe long enough to be rescued, but—” He stopped himself.

Ta’rel completed his sentence. “—but the h’achgai and the praakht shall not survive.”

Riordan nodded as the x’qai commander leaned toward two of the ’qo that had eaten their fill from the dustkine. If it spoke, Caine didn’t see it, but at a gesture, the ’qo began trotting lazily to the rear.

To the spot where Duncan had emerged.

“Company coming,” Miles muttered.

Yaargraukh hefted his weapons and stretched his arms.

But instead of watching the ’qo, Riordan kept his focus on the x’qai. He wasn’t even bothering to watch them. Because they’re just a pinning attack, a sideshow to keep us busy.

The x’qai’s next actions made his intent clear. Alternately rallying and threatening the remaining handlers, he ordered them to drive the dustkine into a trot. Surprisingly, the remaining two in the first rank began moving similarly.

Riordan nodded. Sure: he knows he’s in a box. It’s what we planned on: that they’d realize their formation is too slow and stiff to reverse or turn out of. So they’d have to charge through to the south. But now, if he gets free, he’ll be able to double back, gather enough of the ’qo and routed x’qai, and overrun the eastern wadi.

The leading dustkine began running toward Sharat’s line. The Legate captain had done a fine job. His skirmishers had slain or run off all the ’qo while keeping the leading forces of the caravan under constant fire. They hadn’t inflicted many casualties, but that hadn’t been the mission; the enemy had been suppressed and unable to reorganize. But now, the delaying force couldn’t just withdraw, it had to—“Eku, Sharat has to pull out! Immediately! They mean to destroy him with a stampede.”

“Yes, sir!” Eku replied. In the background, Riordan heard the factotum anxiously speaking to whoever was listening through one of the Terran duty-suit helmets down near the rad.

Within seconds, the vehicle belched smoke and raced toward the near markers. As the two lines collapsed back upon it, only one figure remained behind: the large, ogrish tunnel creature.

“What’s happening, Eku?”

“I am uncertain, but two of the dustkine bellowed at the tunnel thing. It sounded like a challenge.”

Goddammit. And Sharat was still trying to get the immense humanoid to withdraw. His rad couldn’t carry it, but those hanging on the running boards were yelling at it to follow them. Riordan counted to three, then said: “Eku, my orders: Sharat has to leave it there. If he doesn’t, his entire force is going to be crushed.”

***

Bannor gave the order he had prayed he would not have to give. “Skirmish teams one and two: deploy to cover the urldi.”

Two responses came back: neither were simple acknowledgements.

“Bannor,” shouted Dora, “where are the two kajhs? They’re not here on the left.”

And:

“Colonel,” Girten said, “right flank is no longer a threat. The x’qao at the rear is down and its pawns are wandering off. The deadskins are just standing around.”

Katie cut in. “Craig’s becoming a reasonable shot with his Dornaani popgun.”

Bannor used the good news to offset the bad news. “Skirmish team two: leave Bey behind as security for our two sharpshooters, then follow Skirmish Team One to the left flank.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Nice to have more help,” Dora shouted between breaths. She was clearly running, but when Bannor looked up and spotted her, he started: she wasn’t heading to engage the haggard, oncoming trogs but had jumped down into the wadi itself, calling the urldi over toward her at the base of the northernmost ramp.

But urldi, seeing the half dozen warriors of Skirmish Teams One and Two running down into the wadi to the south, stumbled that way in desperation . . . only to cry out when their six presumed saviors charged up the other, lower side to close with the enemy.

Bannor forced himself not to watch the small form leading that charge: Ayana. She brought the others in close, and instead of engaging the dozens of slow-moving pawns immediately in front of them, formed a wedge to cut a path toward the x’qao controlling their movements.

Because that was what had to be occurring. Even as Ayana’s warriors closed on their target, it gestured and half a dozen pawns flocked to it in a protective cluster, with more on the way. Swords and axes flashed as Arashk, Peter, Yidreg and two other h’achgai struggled to cut the enemies down faster than they could accumulate. One of the h’achgai fell . . . 

“Bannor!” Dora cried. “Support the wadi!”

Rulaine cursed because he’d done exactly what he had told himself he mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t do: let his eyes linger on Ayana. Let himself get distracted. And get someone dead because of it. He stood straight, scanned the wadi.

Well south of Dora, a handful of deadskins had clambered down into the wadi. Undeterred by fear, they kept stumbling and shambling forward until they were among the urldi. Screams arose. Veriden seemed to be shouting back in enraged frustration as she struggled through knee-topping pools of sand and dust. Which is why she did not see the three deadskins crawling down into the wadi just behind her—

Bannor snapped up his still-loaded crossbow, yelled, “Dora! Down!” and fired at the closest of the wraithlike trogs.

It toppled slowly backward, club still raised as it stared at the quarrel protruding from its chest. Screaming in rage, Veriden spun about. Her shortswords made quick work of the other two. She turned back toward the urldi—

But was too late. Although they had brought down half of the deadskins, none of the trog loaders were moving.

***

Riordan swallowed sharply as one of Sharat’s men jumped down from the idling rad’s running board and shouted toward his charge, the immense tunnel-bred being, as it took a step forward. The creature either ignored or missed the desperate entreaty; it began trotting toward the oncoming dustkine.

“Eku! Sharat has got to—!”

“Sir, they are not responding. I cannot tell if—”

Shit. Caine glanced at the hand cannon in Duncan’s loose grip. No time to line up a remote shot. But I could take down the x’qao’s mount. Or one near it. Anything to break up the charge, give Sharat another half minute to pull his people out.

He edged toward the weapon.

If Sharat gets clear, we can reform in time to repel the x’qao, keep him from getting the ’qo back into the fight. Just one, quick pop-up shot, and we’ll be—

Miles’ voice was as flat and hard as an anvil. “What are you doing, sir?”

Riordan ignored it. “Chief, prepare to cover me while—”

Yaargraukh came forward, hunched over to stay beneath the upper edge of the wadi. “Please, Caine Riordan, I do not wish my only conflict this day to be with you.”

Riordan shook his head. “In a second, I can—”

In the main view, snugged into the upper-right corner of the HUD, a figure detached itself from Sharat’s rad: Tirolane.

No!

The big swordsman took two steps toward the now-charging dustkine and raised his hand as if he was ordering them to stop—

In his own monoscope’s feed, Caine saw the x’qao commander collapse nervelessly over the front rim of its howdah, bounce off the kine’s head, and fall to the ground.

The thundering charge of the dustkine dispersed into a wild stampede of animals that were no longer attacking, but fleeing.

O’Garran’s voice was hushed. “What the hell did he—?”

“Doesn’t matter!” Caine cried as the x’qao swayed to its feet. My God, they’re tough! “Target is up! All available: fire!”

Miles jumped erect, just able to aim over the edge of the wadi. As he squeezed his weapon’s trigger, Bannor’s voice was loud on the tactical channel: “Craig! Take the shot!”

The x’qao convulsed as if hit by two invisible fists in a fast combination. It fell again.

Riordan snatched up the hand cannon, rose, but discovered he no longer had a target. The HUD showed the x’qao’s body heat fading. The lead rank of dustkine were avoiding Sharat’s force, which was finally back on the rad and speeding out of their path.

Riordan peered through the haze swirling between him and the other side of the battlefield, but the second rank of dustkine stormed across his field of vision, raising a sandy smokescreen in their wake.

“No shot,” Riordan muttered bitterly. He handed the hand cannon back to the silent Solsohn, ducked back down into the small wadi, and waved for O’Garran to do the same.

***

As Arashk went down under a storm of clubs and emaciated fists, Ayana leaped into the gap he’d opened in front of the x’qao. She blended her motion into her attack: a long, body-powered slice down at the creature’s neck.

Its head moved so quickly that Ayana thought she had blinked—and the instant before her katana made contact, a hapless pawn stumbled against her.

The shining arc of Ayana’s blade did not slice into the x’qao’s neck, but cut a deep groove into its shoulder. The monster howled, stumbled back a step, but recovered—just as Yidreg charged in, both sturdy arms driving his bastard sword straight at it.

The point bit and the blade followed, sinking two hand-widths into the x’qao’s lower chest. It raked its claws at Yidreg as it fell; they sliced through his cured hide armor and found flesh underneath. The power of the blow flung the wounded h’achga sideways.

But before Yidreg could even begin to rise, the x’qao was already up, wobbling but wild with rage. As Ayana regained her feet, Peter on one side, a h’achgan axeman on the other, it started forward, claws outstretched—

—just as Dora’s voice screamed from behind them: “Down!”

They ducked.

Dora’s nine-millimeter cracked four times, just behind and above their heads.

Two rounds hit the onrushing x’qao in its face, one in its throat. Gargling ichor, the creature almost fell, but began righting itself.

Ayana was beside it in two long leaps, the second concluding in a coup de grace into its neck. As it fell, Yidreg rushed past her, the point of his bastard sword driving through its left eye and emerging from the back of its vaguely ursine head. A pool of its thick blood began widening and caking the dust beneath it.

“Bastard,” Dora panted, blowing dark bangs away from her face, “eating four of my rounds.”

“Three,” Ayana gasped. “You only hit with three.”

“Shut up,” Dora smiled.

***

As Riordan surveyed the field, he discovered that, despite the extraordinary climate control of the Dornaani suit, he could feel still feel individual beads of sweat running the length of his torso. He had grown used to the seesaw uncertainty of battle, but nothing had prepared him for the wild swings of this one. But maybe, if I’d listened to Tasvar about inexplicable phenomena, they might have been less extreme.

Craig Girten’s voice was eager on the open channel. “Guys, the trogs at the center are moving in pretty good order. I’ve got a clear shot at—”

“Negative, Sergeant. They are no longer an operational threat.”

“But, Commodore, they’re uh, kinda headed your way.”

Riordan checked his feeds. So they are. Hmmm . . . “Keep them in your sights, Sergeant, but do not engage until and unless I instruct. Which I am not inclined to do: they’re being led by the two humans. Hardly makes sense shooting toward the people we’re here to rescue. Colonel Rulaine will set any further target priorities and call your shots.”

“I don’t foresee either, CO,” Bannor chimed in. “The only s’rillor cases we’ve had to kill are the deadskins that were, well, eating the dead. No real preference for ours or theirs. The rest of them are just standing around. The pawns are wandering back out to the field on their own. Got a lot of trog drivers and handlers that are waiting out there, too, faces in the dust. Bey tells me it’s not just a surrender gesture; it’s a request for protection. As in, they’re volunteering to switch to our side.”

Riordan nodded absently, exhaled into a moment of relaxation as he scanned the feeds, committing the end of the battle to memory. The last of the dustkine were scattering south as if released from an invisible yoke, their travois upending and littering the battlefield with the cargo they’d dragged all the way from Fragkork. The last two wounded x’qai were racing after them with the same insane speed the Crewe had noted in the ’qo. Riordan wondered at that, switched the main monoscope view to thermal imaging, set his HUD to process it at the highest level of discrimination. The fleeing x’qai stood out like neon signs on a dark night, body temperatures at almost two times human norm. More mysteries to solve . . . eventually.

“Sir,” Miles muttered, “we’ve got visitors.”

Riordan switched to his own monoscope; a pair of trogs dropped out of the right hand of the frame. They’d hopped down into the wadi, probably just around the little bend to the south. “Calm, now,” he said on his group’s command channel.

A moment later, one of the kajh from the central reaction force came rolling around the corner—and froze when he found himself staring down two strange-looking barrels, backed by the largest, best armored grat’r he’d ever seen.

“Have your leader come forward,” Riordan instructed, using the external speakers at nearly full volume.

Still not daring to move, the trog made nervous waving-forward gestures behind him.

A human in well-made armor and a metal helmet came around the corner, one of the trog archers at his side. His eyes widened. “Harrows!” he cried.

Mistaking it as a command to attack, the archer drew—

Riordan jogged the survival rifle to the side and fired three fast rounds. Three geysers of dust erupted sideways from the wall of the wadi. The archer had frozen even before his commander waved for him to desist.

“Don’t do that again,” said Riordan, triggering the visor release. As it sighed open, he met the human’s eyes. “We are not harrows. Or scythes.”

The human gaped. “Then what . . . what are you?”

“That,” Riordan said, allowing his rifle’s muzzle to dip slightly, “is a longer conversation. But first, put down your weapons. Slowly.”


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