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Chapter Thirty

“All clear, sir!” Craig Girten called up from the base of the stairs. “And Eku is right where they said he’d be.”

Riordan gestured for the female kajh to precede him, which she did without any surprise or resistance. He followed her down, Pandora Veriden right behind him, a shortsword in one hand, her Ruger in the other.

Instead of the single large subterranean chamber that Caine had envisioned, the hovel’s underground turned out to be a narrow tunnel with small chambers sprouting off to either side.

The second one they passed had several female trogs within, weeping. The HUD showed smaller bodies among them, some bright with life, others cooling into death. Riordan forced himself to continue on: Eku first, then we find out whatever happened in there.

Girten was standing guard outside the next chamber. “He’s ready to go, sir!”

Riordan rounded the rough opening and decided that Girten’s reports truly did tend to err to the side of optimism; Eku was barely standing and might not have been without the nearest wall’s support.

“Caine,” the factotum mumbled through a smile. One eye was almost swollen shut, he had numerous cuts and scrapes, and his widening smile revealed that he was missing a tooth.

Riordan turned to the female kajh, who shook her head. “It was unavoidable,” she muttered, nodding toward Eku’s injuries.

“You did this?”

She stared at Caine as if he’d slapped her across the face. “Me? Who do you think—?” She stopped herself abruptly, forced the indignance out of her suddenly very careful voice. “Your scythe was very crafty, lord. Some of what you see was inflicted before he came to us. Some is very recent.”

“Jzhadakh is very violent,” Eku mumbled through his daze.

Riordan glanced at him. “Who is Jzhadakh?”

But the factotum’s attention had wandered, was now fixed on his entwined index fingers.

It was the female who answered. “Jzhadakh is—was—our leader. He is above us, among the dead.”

Her tone was serious, but if there was any regret in it, Riordan could not detect it. So: you disapproved of his methods. And maybe more. “My friend appears to be drugged.”

She nodded. “I instructed that his food be prepared with a fungus that distracts the mind. At first, it was to dull the pain of both his prior wounds and the ones inflicted shortly after he arrived.”

“And now?”

She shrugged. “They keep his wits slow. He was very clever. The fungus made him much less so.”

“Where is his equipment?”

She gestured toward what looked like a hide-swaddled mummy against the far wall. Riordan nodded toward Girten. As the sergeant moved to examine it, Dora moved very close to the kajh, the point of her new iron knife barely two inches from the other’s kidney.

Without turning, the leader muttered, “I surrendered freely. I will not break the parole you have given me. Also, I am not eager to die.”

Caine managed not to nod at her wisdom and, possibly, her honesty. “Craig?”

“Except for the ’chute, it’s all here, sir. Suit, helmet, weapon, pack. Some of it’s in pretty rough shape, though.”

Riordan nodded. “Secure it and give Eku a shoulder to lean on. Join us down the corridor.”

His buoyant “Yes, sir!” followed Riordan into the passage, where, puzzled, he paused to take his bearings before turning to the kajh. “This tunnel: it seems to head toward the h’achgai hovel just across from your own.”

She nodded as they returned to the chamber where he’d heard the weeping. “It does. It was part of Jzhadakh’s plan to become the leader of a great gang. Once the trade for your comrade was complete, he would have used those additional forces to strike it from both underneath and across the ground. Within days, the digging would have brought this tunnel to within an arm’s length of a chamber we know to be beneath it.”

Riordan glanced at the debris-cluttered floor underfoot. “That sounds optimistic.”

“Before today’s shaking of the ground, it was quite reasonable. Since then, we were busy removing and repairing the areas that collapsed. In consequence, many of us remained down here to work overnight. Many more were already weary from the day’s labors.”

They came to the threshold of the room where the weeping continued, although it was softer, more resigned. When Riordan made to enter, she held up a hand . . . and he noticed that her fingers were comparatively long and slender: far more like a human hand than a trog’s. She nodded back toward Girten. “Your scythe has checked this room. Let the mothers grieve, I ask you.”

Riordan frowned. “Who killed their children? It was certainly not any of us.”

She looked at him as if his words might be some kind of test. “We know this. But it was done because of you.”

Riordan heard echoes of his own warnings against questions that reveal ignorance, but his instinct told him that he needed to understand this. “Explain.”

She raised an eyebrow, but complied. “It is merely as it seems. Five of the eight young were killed by their mothers. Or their mothers’ rivals.” Her shrug was sad, but without any particular surprise.

By their own mothers? Or rival mothers? What the—? “Again, explain.”

The kajh appeared resigned to what she presumed to be a pointless exercise in obedience. “Their own mothers would wish to save them from the horrors of what might await if they fell into the hands of x’qao. Many rival mothers slay the young of others to ensure that their own offspring have less competition.”

Madre de Dios,” Dora breathed, glancing at the rough walls and stygian dark around them, “we are in hell.”

“You sound disapproving of the rival mothers,” Riordan remarked.

“Does that disturb you?” The kajh asked, with a hint of defiance in her voice.

“On the contrary, your disapproval reassures me.” Both of the trog’s heavy, straight eyebrows rose. “Tell me; what is your name?”

“I am Bey, Fearsome Harrow,” she replied formally.

Time to take a risk. “I am neither of those things, Bey. Now: I need your counsel.”

Each sentence caused a start of surprise. “Of course. I am your prisoner.”

“Let us put that aside, for the moment. I ask not as your captor but as a . . . a leader that wishes no harm to come to the children that remain.”

Her degree of surprise grew until it threatened to become a parody of itself. Until he uttered the word “children.” A shrewd look narrowed her eyes, but only for an instant. “This would be my wish, as well, Fearso— Honored One.”

“We may not leave with these children. How might we best preserve them?”

“It depends, Honored One. How far do you mean to travel?”

Shrewd. I use the word “leave” and you try to get intelligence. “Several days’ journey. At least.”

She frowned. “My best answer may also become my death sentence.”

“I shall not harm you. And particularly not if you honestly try to preserve these children.”

She shook her head as if she might have misheard Riordan or suspected herself to be hallucinating. “That is . . . is hard to believe, Honored One, but as you command it, I shall. To answer, I must ask a question which would also seal my fate, but for your assurances.”

“Ask it.”

She drew a deep breath as her decidedly human teeth came down on her lip. “Did you have the assistance of the band in the hovel toward which we were tunneling?”

Ah. Of course. If he confirmed that they’d been helped by the h’achgai, a cautious attacker would likely kill her to prevent that knowledge from spreading. “Yes,” he answered. “We had their cooperation.”

She nodded. “Then you must send word to them, with the children. They can be given a small meal with the same fungus I used on your friend. Even if some monster decides to question those too young to remember much of value, their memories will be too mingled with fungus-dreams to be useful.”

Dora’s voice was sharp. “And why would your neighbors take the children of the gang that tried to kill them?”

“In general, h’achgai are reasonable creatures. And I suspect that the ones of whom you speak are now the servitors of a vassal sworn to a great power.” She thought for a moment. “It would also be prudent, and a sign of our fair dealing, to collapse the tunnel.”

“How?”

Bey shrugged. “Jzhadakh was intemperate, but not so much that he failed to include a series of props which, when struck away, will cause that part of the roof to collapse. After all, a tunnel leading to a rival’s hovel is also a tunnel that leads from his to your own.”

Riordan’s slow nod bought him a second to think. So: Jzhadakh was “intemperate”? If so, maybe you’re the counsel, or even the architect, of his scheme to trade Eku and his equipment. “We shall do as you suggest, Bey.” He paused on her name: its phonemes and her pronunciation of it was markedly dissimilar from those of other trogs. “Are you from Forkus, Bey?”

She stared at him again; this time there was a hint of umbrage in it. “I am not. I am from what you call the Wild Tribes.”

“And what do you call them?”

“The Free Tribes.” She lifted her chin. “If I was not born of the Tribes, I could not have become a truthteller.”

A truthteller? Something like an oathkeeper? “So does one have to be from the Free Tribes to be a truthteller?”

She shrugged. “No, but females born in cities are usually forced to be an urld.” Her ending tone added, of course. “It is not my place, Honored One, but I would ask you a question, if I am permitted.”

“You are.”

“Do you mean to take me and the others with you when you leave?”

Damn: we never really considered that but—“If you prove reliable, then, yes, I suppose we might.”

Bey did a very capable job of not looking or sounding as relieved as her more relaxed shoulders suggested. “Very well, then let us go up. I shall help you prepare for our departure.”

***

Yaargraukh nodded to two of the cooperative female urldi who had just finished tying the ankles of all the surviving kajh, wounded and otherwise. Other than the three kajh who had volunteered to help the victors, he had ordered all others that remained ambulatory to be laid out in a ring, facing away from the center. Or, more to the point, away from each other. As with many species, individuals unable to see the eyes of their comrades find it almost impossible to assess the group’s mood. Among sapients, this kept planning an isolated rather than collective activity. His warrior culture had long experience and proof of that: mutinies and revolts were rarely attempted by individuals.

The grat’r was only able to understand a limited number of one-word commands, but had already collected its belongings and laid them before its new “lord.” The pitiable creature probably presumed Yaargraukh intended to take all or most of them, but his inspection of them was to better assess the grat’r’s mind by discovering what possessions it deemed valuable.

What he saw was sobering. The limits of its worldly possessions were a crude flint knife, a skull bowl, and leather wrappings for wounds or protection: he could not tell. However, the grat’r had kept a small hide pouch in its palm; checking to see if they were being observed, it furtively held it out toward the Hkh’Rkh.

Yaargraukh’s neck retracted, signaling wary uncertainty.

The grat’r’s own neck bowed lower. “I follow. Lord.” It proffered the pouch.

Yaargraukh stared at it, relatively certain that if he took it, he was also acknowledging some kind of formal supplication. In essence, he would be accepting tribute from a servitor . . . and all the responsibilities that came with it.

He opened the pouch: a length of bone, probably varnished, and tarred shut at both ends. A single sigil was carved into it.

He looked up at the grat’r, his eyes describing the small, slow circles with which his species signaled an invitation to explain or display.

Despite being the Hkh’Rkh equivalent of Australopithecus, the grat’r understood and pony-nodded. It pointed at the right side of Yaargraukh’s torso.

Who felt a pulse of concern; the grat’r had seen the wound he meant to conceal. It was not serious: a graze from a dagger thrown as he emerged from the dust of the breach. Still, it was an inconvenient location, located along a muscle that flexed during most movement. Even if it did not open further, it would leave a clear trail for any that might try to follow.

The grat’r waited a moment, then mimicked breaking off one tarred end of the bone and rubbing it against the wounded area. With difficulty, it uttered a word so badly garbled that Yaargraukh gestured for him to repeat it. On the third attempt, he realized what the grat’r was trying to say: “physick.”

The Hkh’Rkh fluted a sigh through his primary nostril. Still more shamanic nonsense. But the creature believed in it and was willing to give his intended lord his greatest treasure: the only way he could communicate both his respect and his request. Which, if accepted, made his welfare Yaargraukh’s concern. But if rejected, he would not only be lordless, but quite likely to help those who might try to follow. Meaning he could not be left behind: not alive, at any rate.

Wondering if the grat’r would understand the meaning of a fealty gesture inherited from the times before history, from Rkh’yaa’s first mythic Ghostsires, Yaargraukh held out the longsword, edges horizontal.

Without hesitation, the grat’r moved so that the flat of the blade lay along the top of its smooth head-neck combination.

Yaargraukh warble-sighed again. Just what we needed: another complication.

***

No sooner had Riordan’s head cleared the top of the stairs than Solsohn was jogging over to make his report. With the combat operations concluded, the radios were off; it was back to personal reports. “How’s it coming, Major?”

Although Duncan sometimes groused about becoming the group’s de facto quartermaster, he seemed quite comfortable in the role. “Almost done sorting it out, sir. We’ve finished policing Dora’s brass.”

“And the Dornaani projectiles and cannisters?”

“Already dug most of the projectiles out of the walls, but some of my misses went straight through. The cannisters you popped off were the easiest, actually.” Duncan stopped as Bey came to stand alongside Riordan, looking very much like an adjutant.

Caine nodded for Solsohn to continue.

“So it seems the cannisters are made of a material that emits a faint signal; they show up in the HUD clear as day.”

From where he was kneeling on the triage line, Baruch lifted his head. “Is it truly worth our time to find the projectiles?”

Duncan nodded vigorously. “They’re optimized for magnetic acceleration, and nothing they hit in here would deform them. So a little dusting off and they’re good to go.” He turned back to Riordan. “I also have rough totals for the, er, forcibly arrogated equipment, sir.”

Despite the grim surroundings, Caine couldn’t stop a chuckle before it escaped. “‘Forcibly arrogated equipment’? Is that what they call seized enemy gear at Langley?”

“They did, sir. But I haven’t been an analyst for years now, sir, and you know how fast the jargon changes inside the Beltway.”

“Indeed I do.” Riordan pushed back against a rueful grin. “But we don’t have the time or need for a tally right now. Just get everything worthwhile ready to move. And Duncan?”

“Sir?”

“Find the least useful ten percent of that gear by weight. Pack that separately.”

“So we can drop it if we have to run like hell?”

Riordan smiled. “Or in case your scrounging instincts have us hauling more than we can carry. I want to be able to cut our load without any debates over what needs to go.”

Solsohn replied with a histrionic sigh. “I hate being so obvious.”

“I’m sure you do. You have twenty minutes to finish the sorting and packing. Get the urldi to help you.”

“Sir, that will mean having them strip the bodies of their own gang.”

“Get it done, Mr. Solsohn, whatever it takes.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Bey put out a hand. “If you wish it, Honored One, I can assist.”

Duncan turned an expression toward Caine that asked half a dozen questions all at once.

Riordan simply nodded. “Yes, that would help. Major Solsohn, tell, uh, Bey what you’re trying to accomplish. Including sorting out the survivors we can trust as bearers.” Bey nodded and walked into the array of corpses, moaning wounded, and bound individuals that covered most of the composite hovel’s floor.

Duncan held back for a moment. “Sir . . . do we trust her?”

“I don’t know if we trust her, Major, but right now, I have to. Besides, I think she could single-handedly correct the worst of our ignorance. And I suspect she’s done this kind of sorting and salvage”—Riordan nodded at the bloody aftermath around them—“quite a few times. Tell me what you learn from working with her.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Solsohn arrested a half-raised salute and turned to follow Bey.

“Commodore,” Newton’s voice called quietly, “a word, please.”

Riordan started to approach him, but Baruch rose from the end of the triage line and intercepted him in an open space. “I did not mean to eavesdrop, sir—”

“No secrets, here, Lieutenant.” Then noting the tall man’s solemn look back at the wounded, he shifted to what was probably the more immediately pertinent title. “You seem troubled, Doctor.”

Baruch nodded. “I heard you mention using some of the captives as porters.”

Riordan nodded.

“There are . . . potential complications, sir.”

“Go on.”

“There are fourteen nonambulatory wounded. A third of those will not survive until dawn. Another third are almost sure to die within five days, given the severity of their injuries and the lack of sterile facilities. And the last third, while in no imminent danger, will collapse if they attempt to move within the next few days.” He paused. “You see the problem, I’m sure, sir.”

Riordan did, with a suddenness and horror that sent a hot flash down his spine and along every extremity. With all the focus on surviving this rescue—on getting all our people out—I never once thought about enemy prisoners. And now, if we take some . . . 

Bannor was already crossing toward them, hazel eyes somber: he probably knew the topic just from the looks on their faces.

His first words confirmed it. “Yes, we’ve got a problem, sir. My apologies.”

Your apologies?”

“Commodore, you’re the CO. You’re responsible for the big plan and making the big choices. Which you did. Managing captives is part of an XO’s remit. Sorry I’ve created this steaming mess, sir.”

Caine shook his head: not only to dismiss Rulaine’s apologies, but because rules of engagement, including prisoners, were the CO’s call. But that debate would only matter if they lived to have it.

Riordan looked around the combined hovels, not seeing any of it. Where to start? What happens to prisoners on Bactradgaria? Are there traditions? And can we even afford to—? Wait! “Bey!”

She cleared the distance in three, long steps: longer than most trogs could take. Just as he was realizing that she was also taller and less compact than the others, she called, “Honored One, how may I help?”

Newton and Bannor both raised their eyebrows at the salutation “honored one.” Gotta fix that: but again, later. “Bey, we have much experience with combat.” True. “But we are rarely present when a battlefield is . . . is cleared.” Also true. “And I suspect that our traditions may be different.” So very true.

Bey nodded. “I have the experience you require. A great deal of it. What do you wish done?”

Everything, damn it. But Caine said, “Start by telling us what you would do, in this situation?”

She nodded, glanced at Baruch. “Great Healer, I have not made a count of the living, yet. It seems you have. With respect, in order to make a reply to the Honored One, I must know the numbers and conditions of the survivors.”

Newton raised an eyebrow at her address and repeated the casualty report he had just shared with Caine. He concluded with a summary of those who remained fit or were likely to survive. “Excepting yourself, there are fourteen wounded who cannot be moved. There are two wounded kajh who can move and should recover. There are eleven other kajh and seven urldi that are unharmed.”

Bey nodded, thought, then shrugged. “The nineteen who can still move must be reliable. I shall assess them.”

“And the badly wounded?” Bannor asked.

Bey blinked. “If we must move as the Honored One says, there is no alternative: the mercy knife.”


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