Chapter Twenty-Nine
In Riordan’s HUD, the view relayed from Bannor’s helmet showed the approaching cluster of figures begin to separate. The two that were almost invisible—Tagawa and Wu in Dornaani suits—angled away from the three that still showed up faintly on thermal imaging: Duncan, Dora, and especially Yaargraukh.
“Ronin prime, this is Knife One,” Ayana’s voice murmured. “Will advise when we are in position.”
“Acknowledged,” Riordan answered. “Ronin prime, standing by.”
Just ahead, Bannor snugged down over the same heavy crossbow that had been fired from the same position two days earlier. Speaking off comms, he reported, “No sign that the OPFOR has posted anyone to watch the approaches.”
“Not on these streets,” O’Garran grumbled, bringing up his own smaller, crossbow. “Anyone outside at night is a Judas goat. Or might as well be.”
“Probably spooked by the earthquake this afternoon,” Girten offered from behind Caine. “That’s what? The third since we landed?”
Riordan nodded. “That outsized moon makes Bactradgaria pretty lively.” He glanced up at the mottled satellite. Despite its distance, it was still quite bright. Hardly ideal for a stealthy nighttime approach.
The feed from Bannor’s helmet changed slightly as he opened the visor and peered along the length of the big crossbow’s tiller. He’d shown the best ability with the weapon, in part because Special Forces teams still taught and employed unconventional weapons and tactics. “Duncan’s team is almost at jump-off.”
Riordan glanced up the street. The three thermal outlines were now less than twenty meters from the rear flank of the target hovel. Along with Peter and Ayana, they’d deployed early, moving into the lichen tracts to silence the ubiquitous crop watchman. Lacking nonlethal means sure enough to prevent him from raising an alarm, they’d resorted to the only sure solution: one low-power, subsonic projectile from the Dornaani hand cannon. With the perimeter cleared of roving eyes, Ulchakh and his Legate escorts had swept past and were now hidden in a wadi several kilometers north of Forkus’ fringe.
The other concern, that the five of them might be challenged as they reentered the city, proved unfounded. Whether it was their casual advance or the fully robed Yaargraukh’s hulking outline, the guards of the few hovels they passed remained still or retreated into the imagined safety of their dark entrances.
“Ronin prime,” Ayana murmured, “Knife is in position.”
“Ronin prime,” Duncan’s voice added, “Hammer is in position.”
“Time to start the music, sir?” O’Garran’s question was eager.
Riordan shifted his HUD to targeting. He lifted his survival rifle to cover the two guards flanking the entrance of the target hovel, drifted the cross hairs across the bigger one, blinked to confirm that was the target. The crosshairs were instantly surrounded by guidons that would keep him on target. Just in case. “Unit check.”
“Knife, standing by.”
“Hammer, standing by.”
“Splint, standing by,” Newton added from behind.
“Bolt, standing by,” Bannor muttered.
“Ronin Prime, counting down to zero. Three, two, one—”
On “zero,” four crossbow strings—one much louder than the others—slapped forward against their prods. The guard hit by Bannor’s bolt staggered heavily, then fell when hit again from the side: either Wu or Tagawa had found the mark. One of the other two bolts hit the second watchman high in the shoulder; the other missed narrowly.
Bannor and Miles dropped their bows, took a moment to unsling their survival rifles. By the time they—Bolt Team—were charging across toward the hovel, Knife had appeared from the right, Peter slightly ahead of Ayana, shortsword in his right hand, stun grenade in the other.
Further in that direction, the three figures of Hammer had arrived at the appointed, and weakest, section of the hovel’s wall and were already at work. Duncan and Dora, both holding grapple guns, flanked the section. Making sure their weapons were at the same height, they fired fully charged blunt-head bolts directly into the adobe: two soil-and-gravel grunts answered. As Duncan passed his grapple gun to Dora and unlimbered the Dornaani hand cannon, Yaargraukh swept a two-handed maul from under his cloak. In one smooth motion, he had it raised over his shoulder and swung it around to slam into the wall just a meter above where Solsohn’s grapple had punched into it.
Survival rifles at the ready, Bannor and Miles charged for the entry, leaving a wide space between them.
Riordan jogged his crosshairs into that gap, stopped when it touched the remaining guard. He blinked on the target outline as soon as the HUD painted one on the wounded kajh, double-checked that the vector was clear, and squeezed the trigger.
The already-struggling guard clutched a sudden thermal bloom on his diaphragm and tumbled to the side, still moving feebly.
A moment later, Peter plunged into the entry, heaving the grenade as he did. Ayana was right behind him, her katana a cold sheen in the moonlight.
Behind Riordan, Craig asked anxiously, “Our turn, sir?”
“Not yet,” Caine muttered, legs tensed to sprint behind Bolt Team, “not yet.”
***
The image in Peter Wu’s HUD, dominated by an axe-wielding trog, flickered for a moment as the stun grenade activated. When the image returned, the kajh was covering his eyes and swinging his weapon wildly.
There was something almost dishonorable about their attack, Peter reflected as he slipped outside the cut of the axe. With the grenade’s flash pattern synced to the HUD’s filter, his view was unobstructed. Similarly, the helmet’s noise-canceling program was matching the screeching and cross-frequency warble shrieks, leaving Wu in a world of intermittent silence as he slid a meter along the wall of the dogleg. He plunged his shortsword—twice, in rapid succession—into the blind and deaf trog’s right lung.
The kajh’s howls of pain were not, however, removed by the Dornaani sound processing.
“Dogleg clear,” Peter called. “Knife Two going in.”
He felt, more than saw, Ayana flit past him and over the fallen trog like a spectre responding to his summons.
***
Duncan Solsohn made sure the cables from the salvaged proxrov’s battery were handy and stepped back toward the target section of the wall as Dora punched her second grapple into, but hopefully not through, it. Hammer Team’s objective, and the entire plan, depended on minimizing penetration, thereby ensuring that each projectile and blow deposited maximum energy at each of the five points they’d selected.
As Solsohn brought the hand cannon up to his hip and braced it, Yaargraukh swung the maul into the second of his two target points; a bit of the adobe sagged inward.
Perfect! “Hammer Team: clear!” Duncan shouted, confirming that all the weapon’s operating lights were teal: the Dornaani equivalent of “green is go.”
***
Ayana Tagawa reversed her katana in mid-strike, avoiding the second trog’s clumsy parry and slashing the blade across its face. Its lower nose wholly separated from the upper, it howled . . . but gurgled to silence when the katana reversed yet again and swept through its windpipe.
Peter arrived alongside her, glancing at the two trogs she’d cut down before noticing the half dozen approaching from the further reaches of the smaller lobe of the hovel. Over a dozen more were fastening their armor while readying to advance from the larger chamber beyond. And behind them were the sounds of others either approaching or scrambling to their feet.
“I think,” Wu muttered, “that there are more than we thought.”
“I think,” Ayana answered, slipping into a rear-balanced defensive stance as three charged at them with either war cries or yowls of inarticulate rage, “that you should throw another grenade.”
***
Miles was first in behind Peter, confirmed that both members of Knife were unharmed, then saw the pack of kajh streaming toward them.
“Shit!” He swept up his survival rifle and put a pair of snap shots into the sniper’s triangle of the two closest trogs. Without waiting to see the results, he let the survival rifle swing on its lanyard and cross-drew his melee weapons: his proven molecular machete for his right, and a new iron shortsword for his left. “Boss?” he almost shouted into the helmet mic.
“Yes?” Bannor and Caine chorused.
“Can’t wait to call ‘clear.’ Ronin is needed. Right now!”
Riordan’s voice: “Say again, Bolt Two?”
Bannor answered as Miles jumped to cover Peter’s flank. “He’s busy, sir.” A sharp snap from the Green Beret’s survival rifle punctuated each word.
O’Garran parried a trog club and shouted, “Time to join the party, Commodore!”
***
“Ronin moving,” Caine replied, already running and sweating.
“Sir? I didn’t hear—”
“Girten, we’re not waiting for the ‘clear.’” Riordan checked his rifle’s battery, turned.
Craig was wide-eyed but ready behind him. Over his shoulder, Newton and Katie were already in an assault file. “Craig, you stay on me like glue. Splint Team, you are going to the entry. Somers, you have rear security; Baruch, you support Bolt. We move. Now.”
***
Duncan took a wide stance, braced himself, and squeezed the hand cannon’s trigger.
The device spasmed like a bottled earthquake; Solsohn’s HUD fuzzed and the direction finder had the electronic equivalent of a grand mal seizure.
The perforated section of the hovel’s wall flew inward, the connecting edges disintegrating as if being sucked in the same direction. At the center of that cyclone, a cone of widening visibility trailed behind the expanding warhead—now the size of a large plate—as the remainder of its thirty thousand joules carved a path of ruin into the room beyond.
Even the Dornaani suit couldn’t fully disperse the weapon’s heat pulse; the thermionic rims on the acceleration rings could only convert half of it into electricity. But even though he was half afraid to look down for fear of seeing a hole burned through both the suit and him, that didn’t stop Duncan from shouting, “Hammer One, here. The door is open!”
***
Halfway across the street, Riordan saw the side of the hovel rush inward even before he heard Solsohn’s shout. He swerved in that direction.
“Sir—?”
“Girten on me. Splint to the entry.”
Miles jumped on the channel. “Ronin? What are you—?”
“Exploiting the new doorway, Knife Two. Watch for our flanking fire.”
***
As the hand cannon started cooling, Duncan plugged the leads from the proxrov battery into its auxiliary power jack. “Dora, cover the breach! Yaargraukh—”
But the Hkh’Rkh was already moving. Cloak gone, he swung the tower shield off his back, and, facing Solsohn, drew the iron longsword they’d bought at the vansary. “We should attack. Now.”
Solsohn nodded, remembered to say, “Go! Dora, cover him.”
Close to the Hkh’Rkh’s side and already muttering something impatient, Veriden followed him into the screen of swirling dust: she low and careful, he striding like a grim colossus.
***
Bannor swore; another spoiled shot.
Not that it was Ayana’s fault. Hell, she was the one really holding the line; she had four bodies in front of her already. But her sudden movements were, by intent, unpredictable. If it hadn’t been for warnings as the HUDs analyzed her momentum and center of balance, Rulaine might have shot her twice by now.
But it also prevented him from using his survival rifle to best effect. Gritting his teeth, he exercised an option he’d wanted to avoid. “Splint Two in. Support Knife One.”
“Sir?” Katie answered. “The commodore said—”
“Enter and support Knife One. Now!”
Katie Somers sprinted out of the dogleg, weapon ready. Her visor was down like the rest of them, but her momentary pause left Bannor with little doubt about her expression: wide-eyed horror at the mass of trogs pressing forward.
“Supporting fire,” Rulaine ordered, taking two steps to the left. No longer forced to cover both ends of the rough skirmish line, he’d now be able to angle fire at trogs which tried to turn Miles’ flank. Katie saw his movement and rolled out to the other end of the line, giving the same protection to Peter. More trogs started going down.
But not enough.
***
Yaargraukh stepped out of the swirling dust into the hovel—and immediately blocked a battle-ax with his tall shield.
It had been a respectable blow; the trog confronting him was heavily built and wielding the obsidian weapon with both hands. But the momentum made it impossible to bring around rapidly, either to parry or strike again. Yaargraukh stepped forward, cut down with the longsword.
And almost missed. Sized for humans, the sword was slightly shorter than the practice weapons the Hkh’Rkh had used both on the ship and in the Legate’s fortress. But the force of the blow compensated for striking with only four inches at the tip of the blade: the trog’s straining right deltoid was severed to the bone. He staggered back with a howl, barely hanging on to the axe.
Yaargraukh took a moment to survey the area. Another trog, apparently close to the section of wall when it blew inward, lay either dead or senseless. In the smaller lobe of the hovel, the humans of both Knife and Bolt teams were holding back over a dozen trogs, some of which were surprisingly well armed and well armored. Lieutenant Wu, attempting to fend off three with his shortswords, was unable to fully evade a cut with a hatchet. The Dornaani vacc suit resisted the partially deflected blow, but Wu stumbled back from the impact. One of the other trogs tried moving in to follow with another attack, but Sergeant Somers fired her lighter survival rifle. The trog tilted but did not go down. She fired again and her target fell, but that flank of the Crewe’s skirmish line had been pushed two steps further back. Two more times and the humans would have their backs to the wall. Not acceptable.
Turning his eyes toward the larger space at the rear of the hovel, he saw why the entry teams were barely holding their line; a dozen trogs were rushing forward from there. Most of them were kajh, several of whom were female. And unless his eyes deceived him, both warriors and urldi were emerging from the very floor. No: from a hole near its center.
So: a subterranean complex which the Dornaani sensors could not have detected. From which two larger shapes were now looming upward to join the battle. They were hulking, brutish, and almost as tall as himself. Which, on second glance, made complete and horrifying sense:
Both bodies were shaped just like his.
***
Riordan knew, just hearing Yaargraukh’s grim tone, that his plan of attack had just gone sideways. “Two grat’r,” the Hkh’Rkh announced on the open channel, “coming up from an underground area in the larger part of the hovel.”
For about the tenth time in as many seconds, Caine bitterly regretted that not all the team had Dornaani suits so he could see what they did. But in this case, Yaargraukh’s report was all he needed.
Arriving at the breach, he gave orders that owed more to instinct and training than thought. “Duncan, hit the back of the trogs pushing up against the entry teams. Dora, cover Yaargraukh’s flanks.”
She was already doing so; her Ruger barked and a charging trog fell and slid to a halt at the Hkh’Rkh’s feet. “And what are you doing, boss?” she asked, almost annoyed.
“This.” Riordan straddled the breach on Yaargraukh’s other flank and began firing into the mass of trogs rushing through the opening between the two parts of the hovel.
Glancing at the battery gauge: about seven more shots at the current power level. Beside him, Duncan raised the battery-linked hand cannon and engaged the trogs that were trying to squeeze forward from the back of the skirmish line. Two went down before others realized what was happening. A third was turning to shout a warning as Solsohn’s third shot struck just above the base of its neck: immediately lethal, inasmuch as the muzzle energy—well, “exit force”—was twenty-seven hundred joules.
Riordan brought his HUD’s cross hairs in line with another trog moving through the opening and squeezed the trigger. It clutched at its abdomen; probably a mortal wound, but at three hundred fifty joules, it only slowed the kajh. But in order to keep firing, Caine couldn’t increase the charge, even if his shots were dangerously anemic.
Caine lined up another charging trog . . .
***
Bannor was the first to spot that, between the dwindling number of new kajh and the clutter of bodies in front of the Crewe, their skirmish line stopped retracting. A few more shots from Solsohn could fully turn the tide. “Keep it up, Hammer One!”
“Gonna be harder, now,” Duncan muttered over the channel. “’Cause the kajh are starting to peel off the back of the line.”
“Where are they headed?”
“Straight at me.”
Which, if it put a stop to Solsohn’s decisive flanking fire, might allow the mass of kajh enough time to hold back Hammer, resume pushing back Knife, or maybe both. If they could buy Duncan just a few more seconds . . . “Katie: grenade behind enemy in contact! Miles—”
“Ah, shit,” spat the chief. He stepped back, parrying with the shortsword in his left hand, his right ready to cover the visor of his Terran vacc helmet.
Which couldn’t sync with the grenades, only dim or black them out.
***
The first grat’r had finally pushed aside enough trogs to close with Yaargraukh. This, he thought, will be interesting.
Instead, it was disappointing and a bit depressing, given that the grat’r was a modified example of a primordial ancestor of his own race. It demonstrated shockingly low intelligence, rushing in without even an attempt at feinting or working toward a flank. Its immense two-handed cudgel landed solidly on Yaargraukh’s shield but rebounded, surprising the attacker. It had not anticipated, or possibly hadn’t encountered, so much resistance to its attacks.
That moment of disorientation was far more than Yaargraukh required. With an almost leisurely step forward, he ran the longsword through his attacker’s forward thigh, tore the blade out sideways through the muscle, then arrested its momentum to thrust the point into the unprotected abdomen.
The grat’r emitted a piteous hooting—Fathers of my Fathers, it sounds like us, though!—before it toppled backward. The oncoming trogs broke stride. So did the second grat’r, which stared at the blood-spattered Yaargraukh as if discovering an apparition.
For a long moment, neither side moved . . . until Dora, seeing a golden opportunity in all those motionless targets, unleashed a lethal barrage into the clustered trogs.
***
Duncan’s HUD winked as Katie’s flash-bang went off. The image was only gone for an instant, but it returned showing an entirely different scene.
The waiting rank of kajh skirmishers were trying to cover their eyes and ears at the same time. And because most wore shields on one arm and wielded weapons with the other, they were doing a very poor job.
The front rank of trogs had turned to discover the source of the sound and were instantly blinded by the flashing that the HUD filtered out. They began an even more desperate dance of dismay, realizing that if they remained in contact with their foes, they might be cut down.
Their attempt to stumble away came a moment too late. Tagawa and Wu, both in Dornaani suits, were now one-eyed kings in the land of the blind. They rushed out into the midst of the closest kajh. Where Peter’s shortsword made swift, abrupt stabs, Ayana’s attacks were one, long dance macabre: every movement sent the katana’s edge through another hapless trog’s flesh.
Dora and Miles cursed as they covered their visors; not wanting to be completely blind, they’d apparently only dimmed the incoming light. But at least their Terran helmets were able to block the grenade’s explosive screams and roars.
Yaargraukh, whose Hkh’Rkh duty suit offered much poorer protection of his senses, did not move. Instead, hand shielding his eyes, he stared down as the grat’r and the kajh behind it writhed and reversed away from him.
Solsohn sighed as he shifted his aim to those trogs safely distant from his friends. Killing enemies who were trying to kill you was one thing, but this was too much like his days as a sniper. More like assassination than combat. He squeezed the trigger and, before he could see that body fall, moved his aimpoint down the line to the next unfortunate victim . . .
***
Bannor followed behind Ayana and Peter as they advanced beyond what had been the skirmish line. Their focus was upon killing enemies: as many as possible before the surprise, effects, and battery of the stun grenade wore out. That meant there were stragglers, though: kajh that neither of them struck because they hadn’t enough time to coordinate their attacks.
Rulaine strode forward, survival rifle held firmly. He reached the first of the trogs they’d missed, waited until its motion brought it into the right position, and discharged his weapon directly into its head. The trog quaked and fell its length, as limp as wet rags.
Bannor gritted his teeth and stalked toward the next enemy Knife Team had bypassed.
***
From the corner of his eye, Riordan saw that Duncan was already walking his fire back from the trogs that hadn’t been able to reach the skirmish line and toward the others who had just entered the smaller chamber. Caine shifted his targeting, saving his few remaining rounds for those who tried to join them from the larger room.
Two doubled over, staggered. A third went down.
Riordan checked his weapon: one charge left, and still over a dozen trogs. Not to mention the grat’r.
Which, it seemed, was coming forward again, albeit very slowly.
Dora, still shielding her eyes, swung the Ruger in its direction.
“Hold,” Yaargraukh said, raising his longsword as if to block her aim.
Muttering oaths, she checked fire, but kept the pistol on her target.
The leader of the remaining trogs—now mostly urldi rather than warriors—had turned to watch the same strange scene. Another female kajh gestured for the remaining forces to pause.
But two other kajh shifted restlessly and raised their weapons, ready to move forward again—
Riordan glanced at the weapon-charge data in his HUD: either one full charge or four lesser ones. His choice was pure instinct.
Caine switched the magazine’s feed from solid projectile to cannister, swung it toward the restive male kajh and fired four fast rounds . . . at their feet.
The three- and four-millimeter pebbles kicked up an impressive flurry of dust just before Riordan pushed the suit’s external audio to maximum and shouted: “Ir-nek!”
The two kajh jumped back; more than half the other trogs cowered.
Riordan raised his chargeless weapon menacingly.
The two kajh lowered their weapons, glanced at the female leader. The rest of the trogs followed their gaze, began turning toward her.
Frowning, she turned to stare at Caine.
Who opened his visor and nodded. “Ir-nek,” he repeated, before adding: “Gruz’k jorgna.”
“‘Enough killing,’ indeed,” breathed Ayana, who, panting, surveyed the carnage.
The female kajh cocked her head. Without looking away from Riordan, she waved downward with the hand closest to the remaining trogs. The survivors slowly sank to their knees.
Craig came up close behind Riordan. That had been his post throughout the fight: the CO’s dedicated bodyguard. “‘Gruz’k jorgna’?” Craig repeated uncertainly.
Caine shrugged. “‘Submit,’” he translated. “It’s a combination of ‘stop’ and ‘surrender.’”
Yaargraukh’s head pitched slightly. “As always, the commodore is very tactful. The actual words are ‘be still or be meat.’”
Riordan shrugged, but without taking his eyes off the female kajh, who, in turn, had not taken her eyes off him. In all that tableau, the only source of movement was the grat’r. Unable to kneel because of the digitigrade nature of its legs, it inched toward Yaargraukh. Stopping just beyond the reach of the Hkh’Rkh’s sword, it bent lower and grunted a single word. Even that simple utterance was halting and roughly articulated.
“Eh? What’d it say?” Dora complained.
“He said, ‘Lord,’” Yaargraukh translated, lowering his sword.
Newton, still at his rearguard post within the entrance, jumped on the open comm channel. “Someone tell me what is happening! Have we won?”
“Yes,” Riordan muttered. “Katie, relieve Newton. Doctor, there are wounded for you to assess.”
“Wounded? Who?”
Riordan let his eyes travel over the bleeding trog warriors, both those on the ground and those standing.
Above the sounds of his hurried movement, Newton’s voice was increasingly anxious. “Who has been injured? Someone on the skirmish line?”
“No,” sighed Caine. “Our enemies.”