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Chapter Forty-Five

Riordan lifted his visor. The others with him in the small wadi—Ta’rel, Solsohn, O’Garran, and Yaargraukh—were waiting expectantly. “All observers have confirmed what the pole-cam shows: the last of the ’qo stragglers are at least twenty meters past us and continuing south.”

“Did Bannor see any of those damned kiktzo?” Miles had run a full scan himself, but he admitted that Rulaine had better recon skills—even if he wasn’t a SEAL.

Riordan shook his head. “None. So we can shake off most of this dust now.”

“And careful of your gear as you do it,” O’Garran reminded. “This isn’t the time for malfunctions.”

Riordan lowered his visor again and skipped quickly through the visual feeds. The master view was from the monoscope that was still mounted on the windrad, left where they’d hidden it behind the stony teeth that ringed the lip of the rise. Positioned so that it just barely peeped up into a notch between two of the screening rocks, it looked out over the length of the caravan, from the front left flank all the way back to the right rear.

The formation was, as Sharat had predicted, unchanged from the day before. Small clusters of trogs—lightly armed skirmishers who were just more aggressive urldi—were set about forty meters away from each of the caravan’s four compass points. Behind the one at the front was the first mass of pawns and deadskins, either dragging travois or fitted with bone-framed portage sacks. After them was the first rank of three dustkine, the middle one fitted with a howdah and lagging purposely behind the other two.

Everything beyond them was hazy, owing to the dust raised by their broad, half-hoofed feet. It was also more difficult to get a fix on any individual creatures in the central group, since they had far greater freedom. Small teams of trogs, or possibly trogans, were in constant movement as they made sure the four flanking patrols were doing their job, that the drivers of the pawns and deadskins were keeping up the pace, and that the ’qo were not roving too far from the van.

The latter was the greatest challenge. The two dozen ’qo didn’t so much move with the column as they flitted around its approximate center like a loose swarm of hyperactive gnats. Most of the actual x’qai remained close to the center, a constant reminder of its actual purpose: a flexible pool of the caravan’s most effective combat power.

What followed after the center was essentially the reverse of what had come before: another rank of three dustkine, then more pawns and deadskins, and finally a trog rearguard. The only difference was that the second howdah held two humans, busily directing the actions of the central kajh as a single x’qai looked on indifferently.

The two other views of the caravan were closer views from sand-concealed monoscopes. Bannor’s showed the left side of the long, ragged parade as seen from the slope behind the eastern wadi, while Riordan’s own viewed it from the right rear, where they had discovered that the column trailed a stench even thicker than the dust it raised in passing.

Riordan toggled the open channel. “All units: report status.” He waited through the various “go’s” and dropped into the command channel. “Eku, tell Sharat we’re ready. Report his movement on this channel.”

“Commodore, he heard and is moving already.”

“All units: stick to the plan if you can. Report if you go off-script. Unit leaders: set and send your priority target lists. Hold fire until Bannor’s signal.”

***

Bannor, Newton, and their combination bodyguard and runner Zaatkhur, rose just enough to peek over the lip of the rise that backed the eastern wadi. The three largest fighters in Sharat’s band—the two prakhbra and the tunnel-being—raced down the slope and arrived at the far set of range marks. As they did, and as the caravan’s lead scouts drew up short in surprise, a loud metal roaring announced the downhill sprint of Sharat’s realrad, packed with almost every other member of his team.

It swerved to the left as it reached the near range marks, located twenty meters behind the other set. It slowed and rolled along an east-to-west line as the troops on its running boards hopped off at assigned intervals. In thirty seconds it had deployed the Legate-trained missile troops behind the skirmish line at the far range marks. Sharat’s base of fire across the caravan’s route of advance was in place.

Bannor checked his buried monoscope for the caravan’s reaction. It slowed as the report from the point element made its way back to the first howdah. Bannor watched the shouted exchange carefully. The larger of the two x’qai riders was the one who received the report and roared back a terse set of orders, but only after listening attentively to a few words from the comparatively motionless and smaller x’qao beside him.

Bannor nodded to himself. “That’s our boy,” he muttered. “Leaders on this channel, pass the word: prepare to fire. Craig, you ready to make history?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Stand by for number two target on the priority list. Dora, tell me what you’re seeing: who else do we want to take out of the command chain?”

“Checking the feeds. Pretty much what we expected; the x’qao, whether on the ground or in the howdahs, are calling the shots.”

“Roger that.” Rulaine switched to the open channel. “Bowmen, your targets are any x’qao on the ground. Riflemen, I am relaying the target list. Charge your shots to kill. Trust the HUD targeting if it tells you to wait a moment; it’s usually right. Stand by.”

Yelling arose at the head of the column. A flight of arrows and bolts from Sharat’s team cut down almost half of the lead patrol element and sent them scurrying back toward the van. As they did, the pawns were slowly shrugging off their packs and harnesses as the trog handlers pulled the loads from the barely responsive deadskins. Yep, forming them up to engage, just like Sharat said.

The junior x’qao in the lead howdah was roaring at the kine handlers to further close ranks. In the middle of a particularly detailed rant, it grabbed at its left arm and the dustkine reared as a bloody splotch appeared on its flank. An instant later, the report of several flintlocks came rolling down the column; Sharat’s riflemen had joined the fight.

One unforeseen problem, though: the rearing dustkine made anything in its howdah an erratically moving object. And if they don’t get it under control, I can’t engage our priority targets on its back.

It was the senior x’qao who provided a mysterious solution to the problem; it extended a clawed hand toward the dustkine’s tossing head—and the creature’s motions became less sudden, less violent. Bannor almost toggled the Crewe’s private channel to say, “Are you seeing what I see?” but there wasn’t a second to spare: the dustkine had calmed. A moment later, the howdah stopped gyrating. Both x’qao had crouched low against the gunfire from the front, but were still amply large targets from the flank.

Bannor rose up from behind the lip of the slope, swung his survival rifle toward the howdah, toggled the open channel, and yelled, “Fire all!” As he did, the HUD’s targeting guidons showed a target lock on the smaller x’qao and he fired twice, draining the rifle’s battery.

***

Riordan had ambushed more than a few Hkh’Rkh units while leading insurgents in Indonesia, but he still had not grown accustomed to the speed with which relative order descended into utter chaos. Often on both sides.

In the first instant, the caravan went through the equivalent of a spasm. As the central dustkine in the first rank suddenly became calm, the one immediately to its left almost leaped into the air. Halted with its left flank facing the eastern wadi, only one of the ten arrows and bolts fired by the troops who rose up failed to hit. Mortally wounded but far too large to be killed outright, the dustkine’s panic caused it to wheel away from the source of pain—which brought it into contact with the recently calmed one. Its travois tilted as it turned sharply to the right and ran directly away from the source of fire—in front of the one with the howdah and directly into the pawns and deadskins massed there.

It was impossible to track everything that happened in the next second: the smaller x’qao slumped limply over the left side of the howdah; the larger one flinched a second time as it leaped clear to the right; the fleeing dustkine’s travois seemed to explode as it heeled over and became a cartwheeling shower of drag poles, lashings, and cargo. As it fled, haggard, dust-covered deadskins and pawns were tossed about or crushed in its wake like bloodied toothpick dolls.

But the caravan was far from finished: only one of the x’qao among the central reaction force had gone down. Another was wounded but that only seemed to make it more fixated and ferocious as it waved a few ’qo forward toward Sharat’s delaying force . . . only to see half of them chase after the blood-streaming dustkine instead. The kajhs at the center held their ground, crouching, waiting for orders—and only then saw what had happened to the two x’qai they expected to issue them. One was lolling dead over the side of the howdah; the other one had jumped out and was fleeing.

Riordan scanned all the views and detected the greatest immediate threat in his own camera: the ’qo from the rear half of the caravan were already starting to move forward, sensing battle. However, they were torn between heading east toward sounds they associated with plentiful corpses, or racing after the scent of a dying dustkine heading west. But as he watched, their indecision began to fade; the kill scent was becoming too faint and the lively sights and sounds of trogs being marshaled toward the wadi was exciting them. Most began trotting east, their strides extending—

“Duncan,” Riordan muttered behind him. “You see that?”

“Affirmative. Take out priority target?”

“Immediately.”

***

Bannor had just revised the target list: there were only two x’qai left at the center of the column and one at either end. But instead of engaging the closest enemy, the enemy had begun to shepherd their pawns and deadskins toward the wadi. At the same time, the dustkine were beginning to move again, ranks tightening as they started forward briskly.

“Are the kine going to charge, sir?” Girten wondered aloud.

Rulaine didn’t have time to answer. If all the remaining pawns and deadskins and ’qo attacked the wadi, he might not have enough skirmishers to hold that position. In which case—

A sharp crack of familiar thunder leaped from the smaller wadi at the caravan’s rear right flank, its source marked by a flittering tail of flame. Duncan Solsohn had stood and fired the Dornaani hand cannon at the right-hand dustkine in the rear rank.

Bannor wasn’t sure if it had been the sniper’s intent, but the frangible warhead entered the creature just forward of its right haunches and exited directly underneath its lower jaw. With the weapon charged at what Duncan liked to call “light antitank setting,” the round had started to come apart about a meter along its shallow trajectory inside the animal. The entirety of its higher digestive track erupted outward an instant before its right lung literally exploded.

The creature ceased moving, swayed to the opposite side, and fell, presenting a ragged bloody trough that ran two thirds the length of its body.

Without exception, every ’qo at the rear of the caravan suddenly stopped, stared . . . and then caught the scent. With a ghastly mix of ecstatic shrieks and eager chitterings, they swarmed over the carcass like a school of frenzied piranha.

Bannor exhaled: the most dangerous part of the gathering counterattack had been effectively eliminated. Just as planned. So I guess I should say—

“You’re welcome,” said Duncan.

***

Riordan immediately checked the feeds for the caravan’s reactions to the rear attack. Much of the column hardly seemed aware. The ’qo that had been sent forward were entirely focused on their maniacal attempts to kill at least one of the troops on Sharat’s skirmish line: about a half dozen trogs supported by the two prakhbrai and the tunnel creature. They were becoming quite frustrated.

The remaining x’qao on the ground were gathering the trog handlers and drivers to assist in massing the remaining pawns and deadskins to assault the wadi. If any registered the attack, they were not distracted by it.

Or, Riordan realized, it might be because they still had a more capable x’qao nearby: the one in the second howdah with the humans. Who had turned to the rear and was looking almost directly at Caine’s buried monoscope.

“Next target, Commodore?” Solsohn said almost cheerfully. “I’ve got a clear shot at—”

The x’qao raised its hand, eyes almost looking directly into the lens.

Which was right beside Solsohn.

“Duncan! Get dow—!”

But the IRIS sniper slumped down heavily in the small wadi.

Miles started to pop up, weapon ready.

“Get down!” Riordan barked. “Duncan, are you—?”

Newton’s voice came in on the command channel. “Commodore, is Duncan wounded? Some of his biosigns spiked.”

Duncan cleared his throat; it sounded dry as leather. “I . . . I can’t see.”

“What?” Miles almost shouted.

“Maybe I’m having a stroke?” Duncan wondered, starting to chortle.

“Negative,” Newton snapped. Even though he was on the other side of the battlefield, his sharp tone cut through Solsohn’s distraction. “There are no major changes in brain baselines. The physical spikes are fading, consistent with a brief pulse of panic.”

O’Garran sounded angry at the whole world. “What the hell just happ—?”

“Chief,” Riordan said sharply, “swap weapons. You take the hand cannon.”

“Sir, you asked me to watch your back. I can’t do that and be the gunner. Sir.”

Before Riordan could think of an alternative, Miles continued with one of his own. “But I can still guard you if you equip the cannon, sir. You’ve drilled on it, and the HUD will make you a perfect marksman.”

Riordan considered a flurry of options; he chose the simplest and fastest. “Negative. Duncan, you’re keeping the weapon. Stay down. The rest of you as well. Eku?”

“Sir?”

“I need you to stream the targeting feed from Duncan’s helmet to the chief’s. Just in case.”

“Sir, I—”

“Just do it, Eku. Chief, I may hold the weapon up and have you talk me onto the target so you can fire by remote.”

“But sir, why—?”

“That’s an order, O’Garran; no questions.” Because how do I explain that it’s a little too strange that the moment after the x’qao gestured, Duncan went blind. And if any of us take his place, we might be next. Which would be an especially bad choice for a CO. “Dr. Baruch, you heard?”

“Yes, sir. I do not—”

“Not now. You are Chief O’Garran’s backup for remote fire. Do you copy?”

“Sir, I acknowledge, but I may not be able to carry out your order.”

“Why the hell not?” Miles yelled.

“Because, Chief O’Garran, I might be dead or unconscious. The enemy is about to charge the wadi.”


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