“I saw him fall from his perch,” Snofrid told Hadrian. “I don’t think he landed well. He might need help.”
“That sounds like Nethers,” Rhode snorted. “He’s always checking out before everyone else.”
“Kuzmic.” Hadrian waved a claw. “Find him. Darling, too.”
As Kuzmic ran off, Rhode set his hands on his hips. “So. How should we kill it?”
“Slowly and painfully,” Hadrian decreed. He aimed his khopesh at the welx. “Nox Wolba, you’ve been sentenced to death for treason by the five Lords.”
The welx cocked its head up and its snout curled back. Snofrid swore it was smiling. Choking and gurgling, it wheezed out a sequence of throaty sounds.
Rhode kicked its hide. “Sorry, Wolba. Didn’t catch that. I don’t speak dying welx.”
Hadrian held eye contact with the beast, the creases on his face deepening. He concentrated intently, as if party to some kind of unheard communication. “He said we should run.”
“Commander,” Kuzmic alerted through the bug dials. “Nethers was shot. Darling too.”
Rhode’s head snapped up. “Dragonshit! Nethers wasn’t shot!”
“Verify that it was unfriendly fire,” Hadrian ordered.
A dark feeling slunk through Snofrid, and she swept the trees for hostile snipers. “I think we should kill it,” she advised. “Right now.”
“Good plan,” Coyote agreed.
Rhode darted into the trees, panting and whipping back branches with both hands. Snofrid heard his thoughts, as if they were her own. “Nethers, you bastard! You’re not allowed to die! What the hell am I going to tell Fern?”
“Unfriendly,” Kuzmic finally reported. “Both were hit at point-blank range.”
Hadrian tapped a point on his tailbone armor, activating his Swoegar. “We’re going to be taken out by All-Steam Hunters,” he announced. “Before I give any of you permission to die, we finish this job.”
Daringly Dared
Fear incapacitated Snofrid at the thought that she was going to be shot. It brought on the ripest, hottest panic she’d ever experienced. The wind seemed to die, languidly batting at the leaves; the frozen blood stains were more brilliant looking; and her muffled breathing buzzed loudly in her ears. Her emotions surged, high on a thrilling terror that focused each of her bug dial perspectives with crystal-clear resolution.
“It’s a pincher ambush,” a Dracuslayer burst out. “Everybody take cover!”
Snofrid saw three Dracuslayers scatter as shells peppered the air, Hessia dove behind a tree, Hadrian charged the welx, and the remaining Dracuslayers flopped onto their stomachs.
Snofrid threw herself into the snow, instinctively cradling her head. One soldier’s perspective faded, then another’s, before she’d even begun to clamber for cover. A well-aimed bullet grazed Hadrian’s neck; he cupped the spurting wound and went down in a burst of shrapnel as a tree disintegrated beside him.
“Black Tree down!” a Dracuslayer shouted, high-crawling into the dome. “All units respond to Bourkan!”
Coyote, cracking his lightning whips, sent webs of anvil-crawler lightning scuttling across the glade, fracturing the Fail Floor. “Out!” he roared. “Everyone get out!”
Grenades exploded on the tree line, spitting clouds of black smoke. Snofrid screamed. She rolled away from the discharge and struck her back on the boulder. A grunt tore from her throat as she slumped onto her back with pain swelling in her shoulder. Shells zoomed above her; branches shattered and cries rang out all across the glade.
“Who got hit?” a Dracuslayer demanded. “Who the hell is in command?”
“Grypher is down!”
“Leave him! We have to move, now! Go. Go. Go.” A Dracuslayer skidded behind a tree, his mind a blur of adrenaline. Turning around, he took aim at the welx with steady hands. “I’ve got a clear shot. Taking him out.” A bullet sped at his face, puncturing his gasmask, and he checked out of the bug dial pool.
Still scrambling across the glade, Snofrid’s mind ground out thoughts: Who’s still alive? What do we do? Is the welx dead? She spotted a rifle through the smoke and leopard-crawled toward it. “Where is everyone?” she screamed. “Is the welx alive?”
Shrapnel blasted from the tree trunks. Something fiery slashed through her cheek, lodging in the roof of her mouth. There was no pain, only numbness. But then it came—as if her jawbone had been steeped in sulphuric acid. She collapsed with a shriek. Clutching her face, she choked on pieces of bark and bone. Dark spots blurred her vision. Blood poured over her tongue, warm, thick and creeping from the corners of her mouth. That she could still move her head gave her a second of relief.
“Where the hell are they?” a Dracuslayer coughed. “I can’t see through the smoke.”
“We’re taking mad return fire, over here. We need cover!”
A third Dracuslayer jumped to his feet and stumbled into the glade. “They have us pinned down! We have to take out Wolba now.” He raced through the smoke, gun blazing.
Snofrid convulsed as her face healed. A cold death wind ripped through her body, from her brain to her lungs, all the way down to her floppy legs. Under the few remaining perspectives, she saw an army of All-Steam Hunters in white flak jackets converging upon the glade; some broke out of snowdrifts with rifles; others climbed out of the Fail Floor, spraying fire from flame throwers; and still more dropped from the trees, shedding Concealing Spells. They opened fire with machine pistols. Dracuslayers dove for cover, their bodies jolting as they were pelted with bullets.
“I’m h-hit,” a Dracuslayer wheezed, cupping his stomach with bloody hands.
Another Dracuslayer’s armor was enrobed with fire. He dragged himself toward the welx, leaving a flaming trail of charred flesh behind him. Just as he propped up his rifle, a bullet ripped through his neck and his head smacked against the snow.
One by one, Snofrid watched the viewpoints fade. Flames were everywhere, fanning through the pandemonium like a hurricane wind. She could see nothing in the smoke but blue whips slashing through the air, shooting bolts of positive electricity in deafening cracks.
Slowly, the pain in her face vanished, leaving her throat more parched than cracked mud. Through flare-ups and flying shells, she dragged herself behind the boulder, heaving and choking on smoke. Her eyepieces had fogged over, but she was able to discern that Hessia had run off. She blinked, using all her strength to tap into the Seer’s vision stream; an iron wall had been erected around her mind. “Rhode,” she panted. “Rhode, where are you? Are you alive?”
No reply.
Snofrid scooted her back to the boulder, shaking violently. Still coughing, she tapped on Coyote’s perspective. He resisted at first, but then allowed her to enter. “Coyote,” she cried. “Did you get the welx?”
He replied, but not to her. “Go get the healer. She’s behind the rock.”
Snofrid panicked at the sound of approaching footsteps. She made a move to run, but two Hunters grabbed her by the arms and yanked her to her feet. Bucking wildly, she tried to twist out of their grip. “Is someone alive?” she screamed. “Is anyone alive!”
One of the soldiers rammed his rifle into her spine. Snofrid arched her back at a bolt of pain.
“Struggle, and I’ll shoot you as many times as you can heal,” he warned.
Her knees buckled and she sagged like a leaf in the Hunter’s arms. “Is anyone alive?” she wheezed.
“Over here,” Hadrian panted.
“Hadrian?” Hope bubbled inside her, giving her thoughts clarity. “Where are you?”
“Close.”
She went limp and allowed the Hunters to haul her into the middle of the glade. The plowed snow was scattered with shells and adorned with dead Dracuslayers.
Near the tree line, Hessia stood behind Hadrian, her hands clamped around his neck. Blood seeped through her fingers; he stood tall, as if the scorching paralysis of her magic didn’t hurt him. Hessia’s collar lay at her feet and her mutilated face beamed
with a victorious smile.
Approximately thirty All-Steam Hunters enclosed the site, their rifles trained on Hadrian; some cheered, shooting dragon-ale fire from their masks, while others pumped the dead with extra bullets. Their grey helmets were shaped like hyena heads, but they were crested with six horns—three on each side. The welx lay in a pond of bloody slush, laughing amid the slaughter; Nethers, Darling and Kuzmic were combing the glade, checking the bodies of the fallen Dracuslayers.
Snofrid did a double-take, her mouth trembling. Nethers and Darling were supposed to be dead. She had no idea what was going on. But then a realization hit her, fast and brutal, like an uppercut to the stomach. “They’re All-Steam Hunters.”
“This is what happens when little men drink too much poison.” Hadrian’s bloodshot gaze teetered toward her face. “They start to hallucinate power.”
Snofrid choked out a reply. “It doesn’t look like a hallucination to me. We’re outnumbered and you can’t even move.”
“Watch me.” He wiggled his claw.
She didn’t find the jest humorous. “If they find the portal, it’s over.”
“They won’t find it.”
“You can’t promise that.” Her tone was bitter, but his bitterness was more potent. She could sense his mounting rage. He hadn’t even suspected that there had been traitors in his ranks; for someone who claimed to never trust anyone on their word, he’d trusted these Dracuslayers on exactly that.
The Hunters stopped at a distance from the welx and began shackling her wrists over her stomach. Breathing hard, her eyes combed the bodies, desperate to find one of the Dracuslayers still alive. Most had been hit in the head; the others had been decapitated by Coyote’s lightning whips. There was no one—no one left but her and Hadrian.
Hadrian’s mind flinched. “Feeling sorry for yourself is the first mark of failure. Don’t stain my mind with it.”
“They were YOUR men!” she shouted. “You should’ve seen this coming!”
“Instead of casting blame, think about how you’re going to survive.”
She felt a prick of shame. “I’m not wearing bug dials, but you are, so you can get help. Call Lycidius.”
Hadrian refused. “The welx will be dead in a few minutes and it would take my brother an hour to get here.”
“Not on his Steelrunner.”
“Twenty minutes, then.” Hadrian’s mind aura was obstinate. “But it’s still too long.”
“It might be,” she granted, wrestling her shackles in frustration. “But for ONCE, admit that you need help.” Even as she spoke, she scarcely expected him to comply. Dracuslayers were trained to complete missions without reinforcements, so calling his brother for help would indirectly be admitting failure. But she had to try. “Please call him.”
Hadrian settled his sights on the welx, muttering a curse. “Send me an image of his location.”
Snofrid concentrated on their designated corner in the Alley, then channeled the image into Hadrian’s thought stream. “He should be in that corner.”
“He’s not in the corner,” Hadrian reported.
“He’s not—” She paused in confusion. “Then where is he?”
Coyote had just finished reconnoitering the site and soaked his sweaty hair with a water canteen. Dirt and blood sullied his pallid robes and streaked his cheeks and gloves. The way he carried himself, with his shoulders thrown back and his torso tall, radiated pride. Wrenching up his mask, he spit into the snow and waved his rifle at Hadrian. “Nethers. Relieve the Commander of his bug dials.”
Nethers jogged to Hadrian’s side and stripped the electrodes off his temples. As Nethers stuffed the bug dials into his harness, Hadrian bared his teeth at him. Nethers gave him a middle-finger salute and the other Hunters busted into whistles and laughter.
“How does it feel to be dominated, Commander?” a Hunter goaded.
“I bet you’re wishing you didn’t butcher your father about now,” another called, lobbing a snowball at Hadrian’s back. “He would’ve ended your complete failure with a headshot by now.”
Coyote picked up Hadrian’s khopesh from the snow. He strode toward the welx, spinning the blade around in his hand. “Keep Hadrian restrained,” he told Hessia.
“He won’t take one step,” she promised.
Hadrian craned his head toward the Seer. “I’m going to drag you all the way down to the twenty-third level of the Under Dungeons,” he growled.
She hissed a laugh. “That’s exactly where you’ll be, master, when we frame you for being an All-Steam Hunter.”
“No one will choose the word of a slave over a Commander.”
She squeezed his neck until his claws twitched. “I’m no slave. Not anymore.” Her voice morphed into a terrible yelp. “I think it’s time you kneel! It’s time you see what it’s like to be shamed.”
“Wrong!” he roared. “Only slaves kneel!” Hadrian rocked back, ramming his tailbone armor into Hessia’s chest. She let out a shocked screech; blood squirted from her chest as he ripped his tailbone armor from her sternum. Sinking to her knees, she clawed at her chest with a gurgle.
Snofrid watched Hadrian charge the welx with thundering anticipation. Shots zoomed through the glade, rebounding off his Swoegar. He was going to make it. “Go!” she yelled. “Go. You’re almost there.”
“Bring him down,” Coyote shouted, racing toward Hadrian. “Bring him down!”
A dozen Hunters tackled Hadrian. Hadrian stumbled but held, continuing with the Hunters hanging off him, his back bowing under the weight of nine men. He took five steps, before he went down roaring in a pile of rolling, wrestling bodies. Arms and legs tangled together; boots struck gasmasks; grunts, shouts and curses filled the clearing.
“Get up,” Snofrid urged, leaning forward. “Get up. Just ten feet!”
Coyote staggered from the heap of bodies, cradling his shoulder. “Darling, put him down! Use the tranquilizer.”
Snofrid finally spied Hadrian in the commotion. Her shackles rattled as she screamed for him to hurry. Bowing his head, he butted a Hunter in the back with his bull horns, spearing his shoulder blades. The man crumpled onto a mud-tusque nest. Hadrian powered to his feet. He seized a second Hunter by the arm and leg and heaved him upward. With a howl, he brought the man down over his knee, snapping his spine, and tore the rifle from his dying hands.
“Shoot the welx,” Snofrid cried. “Do it now!”
“Hit him,” Coyote roared, moving to shield the welx. “Put him down NOW.”
Hadrian shot down a row of hunters, clearing a path to the welx. From cover, Darling fired a tranquilizer dart into his neck. Hadrian slapped a claw to his neck, ripped out the dart, and then stumbled sideways. With a grimace, he swung into a tree, careened, and then collapsed onto his side.
“Damn it,” Snofrid panted, struggling against her restraints. “Damn it!”
Coyote looked at the bodies of the dead Hunters with fisted hands. Frenzy danced in his eyes. “Bastard!” Running to Hadrian, he kicked his head again and again, shouting, “Bastard!”
Nethers joined him, using the butt of his rifle. “You’re fortunate so many Governors want to kill you!” he spat. “Otherwise, every man here would gladly do it.”
“And every woman,” a cool voice asserted. “But he’s not down: a tranquilizer won’t subdue his dunespike for long.”
Snofrid’s arm hairs stuck up at the austerity of the voice. She cautiously turned around. At the edge of the glade, the Hunters had taken a knee, heads bowed before the mightiest woman Snofrid had ever beheld.
She emerged from their ranks with a strong, mechanical stride befitting a warrior. A flock of beautiful Necromancers traced her steps like a pair of living wings; no men were among the party. Grotesque feather headdresses strung with beads of bone crested the women’s heads—they were Vanquishers, rare female warriors who subdued enemies with their bare hands.
Snofrid noted that the chief woman flaunted a mask-less face, one that held eve
ry gaze; Silver beast scales overlapped the flesh from the left side of her face, all the way down to her left foot. Her lips were painted red, so vibrantly that they gave Snofrid the thought that she’d drunk from a trough of blood. Spiraled goat horns straddled the sides of her head and coal black hair fell to her thighs, tangled in the protractile claws on her left hand.
For a moment, the woman’s eyes found Snofrid. It was startling, because the woman didn’t move her head—her eyes simply slid toward Snofrid, their whites glinting in the sunlight. As Snofrid endured her stare, she grew increasingly afraid. A cold shadow stretched over her mind, seemingly reaching down and touching her very soul. Trembling, she took a small step back. “Who is she?”
“Jekel Necrosis,” one of the Hunters replied. “She was Invidia’s Chief Adviser on Armador. Which means you bow to her.” He pulled Snofrid to her knees.
Jekel continued on her path toward Hadrian, as if it were the most important one she’d ever walked. She deactivated his Swoegar suit and then drew a curved Shotel sword from her back holster.
“A man without pride is not a man,” she announced. “So what will this man be when I take his Halo?” Letting out a shrill war cry, she hacked off his arm from the elbow down, severing his Halo from the rest of his body.
Snofrid winced as blood oozed from his bicep. He didn’t move, didn’t even know that he’d been ruined; and he probably wouldn’t know until the Hunters had escaped. For the first time, she feared for him. Not only for losing his Halo, but for the shame he would receive when he reported the failed mission to his Lord.
“Remove the Halo, Dracuslayer Bourkan,” Jekel said, handing him the severed arm.
Coyote whipped a bowie knife from his harness. Taking Hadrian’s bloody arm, he ripped the raptor claw from its palm; the sparkling silver power-source was fading. Coyote scalped off the Halo and then handed it to Jekel. Snofrid’s stomach lurched. She looked away, thinking that she was going to empty her stomach.
Jekel dangled the Halo over the welx’s jaws and said, “Show me the portal, Wolba, or I’ll make you suffer as no man has ever suffered.”
Hatred Day Page 34
