Malakar nodded solemnly, rising to her full height. "Without doubt. How can this be? Did you tarry upon Mokuil in your vision long enough to learn venerable songs, to sit at the feet of the eldest as they sang of the ancient heroes?"
"No." Gretchen closed her eyes again, feeling dizzy. "The music in the village affected me, the dancing, the light and shadow – I felt strange, uncoupled from my body. Ah, the old crow warned me this might happen!" She clenched her fists. "Damn him and his helpful powders…"
"What do you mean?" Malakar knelt, craning her head to look at Anderssen's face. She hooted, worried. "What yi bird spoke to you?"
"A…a trollkarl, they are called in my grandmother's tales. A sorcerer we would say today, if anyone believed such things existed." She spread her hands, groping for the proper words. "He gave me…drugs which opened my mind to the unseen. He hoped I could aid him, but I think – no, I know – they only made things far more dangerous. I was nearly consumed, destroyed, replaced."
Gretchen managed a grim smile. "He tried to make me forget, but I cannot. I thought these visions and phantasms would fade with time, but they have not." She turned her hand over, remembering the blaze of light which had haloed them in the vault. "When the kalpataru revealed itself to me, something changed again in my mind. I am waking up again."
"You are afraid." The old Jehanan stared at her curiously. "What will happen to you?"
"I don't know." Anderssen started to sweat and her breath hurried with incipient panic. "I don't really want to find out – he said, Green Hummingbird said, a woman isn't supposed to follow this path… He implied it was very dangerous." She laughed harshly. "I don't think he meant it was dangerous for anyone but me."
Malakar reached out a claw to grip the human's shoulder, but a wash of yellow light spilled over both of them and they heard the sound of a rumbling engine.
"The tikikit bus comes," the gardener said, helping an unsteady Gretchen to her feet. "Now we can be upon our way."
The blaze of light resolved into six headlights. The conveyance purred to a halt at the lamp-post. Malakar guided Anderssen forward and once they were out of the direct glare, she could see the smooth curve of a long, high machine with many wheels. A door opened in front of her with a hnnnnnng! sound and steps led up into a dim, quiet interior. Gretchen froze, staring at the driver of the bus, sitting in a low, round control compartment directly in front of her.
Glittering, multifaceted eyes returned her gaze. A sleek, chitinous thorax lay low over the controls, which were manipulated by too many forearms. The insectile Hikkikit shimmered and glowed in the reflected light of the lamp, gleaming with cool blues and greens.
Malakar prodded her gently and Anderssen climbed up into the bus, hands gripping smooth, slippery-feeling guide-rails. The Jehanan fluted a greeting to the driver, produced something from a pouch on her harness and then they moved down an aisle of low seats. Gretchen did not notice any other passengers. The seats were too low for a human to sit normally, so she sat cross-legged beside the bulbous window. Malakar sighed, twitching tail behind and raised her knees, arms folded across the join-scales.
The tikikit bus hummed into motion, raised up a little and then raced off down the road.
Trees blurred past, then fields opened out on either side and the bus sped south under a brilliant, clear night. The queer lights distorting the daylight sky were gone, though the northern horizon leapt with enormous aurorae, casting shimmering curtains of jewels to blind the stars. Gretchen leaned her head against the window, marveling at the smooth, effortless ride.
Unbidden, her eyes closed and she fell sound asleep, cradled in the arms of a seat curling slowly around her. Malakar watched her for a little while, concerned, then laid a bony forehead on her own arms and fell asleep as well.
The tikikit raced south, six yellow spotlights illuminating the road and washing across hedges, slumbering farm houses and the streets of little night-shrouded towns. From time to time the bus turned onto larger roads, following them for a time, slowing to pass vehicles parked beside the thoroughfare. The headlights briefly lit columns of Jehanan troops dozing beside the highway, rucksacks piled at their feet, rifles and machineguns clutched to their shoulders, glossy scales gleaming in the light of the sodium lamps.
Then the tikikit passed on into the dark, turning down forgotten byways, crossing rivers and canals on crumbling bridges, following no straight path, yet still making excellent time. Occasionally, when an isolated lamp-post appeared in the distance, the bus would slow. If someone waited in the circle of light, the driver would quiet the engine, gliding to a halt, and another jeweled insect or sleepy Jehanan would climb aboard.
As night wore on, the seats slowly filled, though none of the passengers ventured to speak to one another, and all save the insectile Hikkikit soon fell asleep. Parus grew closer, hour by hour, though there was still a considerable distance to go.
The Southbound Express Approaching Parus From the North
A delicate hand jogged sergeant Dawd's knee and he came instantly awake. Mei leaned towards him in the dim compartment, palms on his thighs. The swaying of the train surrounded them with a musty, rattling blanket. The air was hot and close.
"I heard something," she whispered, lifting her chin towards the roof. "Someone is on top of the train."
"Have we just left a station?" Dawd licked his lips, horrified to realize he'd actually fallen asleep. He clutched the Whipsaw, just to make sure the weapon was still in his hands, and carefully cleared the safety.
Mei shook her head, dark eyes wide. Dawd swallowed and looked to Colmuir for guidance.
The master sergeant was eyeballing the corridor and shook his head, signing no one outside.
Dawd unclipped a longeye of his own and gently slipped it under the velvet curtain covering the window. Almost immediately his visor displayed an image of the outside world: a bakingly hot morning glared down on endless flat plains of fields, canals and scattered copses of trees. The sky was spotted with fluffy white clouds, each majestically solitary against an azure background. The shadow of the train rushed along an elevated road running beside the railroad tracks. And on the road, racing to catch the train, he saw three Imperial-style trucks. Jehanan soldiers crowded the cargo beds, hanging on for dear life as the vehicles bounced over potholes and washboarding in the road.
"They're on to us," Dawd hissed, pulling the spyeye back. "Three trucks, each with a platoon, and if Mei-sana heard someone on the roof, they're already aboard the train."
"Everyone up," Colmuir said, voice harsh. Mrs. Petrel and Cecily were already awake, faces tight and composed. The master sergeant jogged Tezozуmoc's shoulder, drew a snore and then a grumbling complaint. The older Skawtsman pinched the boy's ear, which caused the prince's eyes to fly open. "All quiet now," the master sergeant said, rising from his seat, assault rifle slung behind his shoulder.
Dawd rose as well, swinging the Whipsaw onto his hip and struggling to shed the bulky, confining poncho. Immediately the two girls took hold of the fabric, ran a fingernail down the sealer strips and pulled it away. The sergeant nodded thanks, patted his Nambu, knife, cutting bar, backup pistol and the strip of grenades down the left side of his gunrig. Then he tapped each earbug, making sure they were firmly seated.
"You've a gun?" Colmuir offered his spare Nambu to Mrs. Petrel, but the lady declined, producing a Webley AfriqaExpress from her handbag. "Good…Now, here's what we'll do – our sole duty is t' the prince – he canna' fall into their hands. So, we move t' the train engine with all speed and separate it from the rest of the cars, leaving the heathen savages behind. Then we run into Parus and make for either the Legation or the cantonment, as circumstances allow."
The Anglish girl folded the rain poncho expertly and tucked it away in her bag. Mei, meanwhile, had produced a tiny black Moisin-Nagant Mini and held the pistol clasped in both hands. Dawd put a hand on the edge of the curtains, waiting for Colmuir to give the word.
"Ma'am," the ma
ster sergeant said, checking the corridor one last time. "You lead, then the prince, then the girls, then me. Dawd will…ah, he will reduce the number of the enemy. You understand me, Sergeant?"
Dawd nodded, licked his lips and thumbed the fire control selector on the Whipsaw to high-explosive full-automatic.
"Go!" Colmuir slammed the door open and rolled out, facing the rear of the train. Petrel ducked past him, the Webley in both hands and took off down the corridor. Tezozуmoc, pale as a ghost stumbled after her, forcing Mei and Cecily to seize his arms and push him along. Dawd threw back the curtains, paused a half-second to let his combat visor adjust to the blaze of morning sunlight as he braced himself and squeezed the trigger on the Whipsaw.
A deafening howl ripped at his ears, defeating even the protection afforded by the earbugs. The window shattered outwards, spraying glass into the air, and a licking tongue of flame slashed across the front of a cargo truck racing alongside. Jehanan soldiers, preparing to leap onto the roof of the train, were sawn in half in a rippling line of explosions as the highex rounds punctured scale, flesh and bone. The roof of the truck vanished in a convulsion of flame. The driver, decapitated, was flung across the cab. The vehicle swerved violently at full acceleration, bounced into the side of the speeding train and was smashed aside.
Dawd leaned out the window, hip grinding into splintered glass, and traversed the Whipsaw across the front of the second truck. Recoil slammed him back against the window-frame. The entire vehicle was immediately obscured by a gout of flame and steam. The engine block stopped sixteen of the flechettes and shattered into a cloud of superheated metal. The front axle sheared off and the truck pitched forward, back end flying up. A dozen Jehanan soldiers flew out, some already smashed into bloody ruin, and then the whole assemblage was cartwheeling violently down the road, engulfed in flying dust and smoke.
The first truck, meantime, spun off the elevated road, plunged nose-first into a nearby field and burst into flame. Dawd ducked back inside. Machine-gun fire from the third pursuer, which had deftly swerved past the first two wrecks, marched along the side of the train, shattering windows. Heavy, thumb-sized rounds tore through the wood beside the sergeant's head. Splinters stippled his armor and spanged away from his visor.
"Damn!" Dawd leapt to the side, blood streaking the side of his jaw. The curtains disappeared, snatched away by the hail of gunfire tearing into the siding. The sergeant switched the Whipsaw to armor-piercing, braced his legs and squeezed the trigger again.
This time the jolt of flame sheared through the side of the compartment, blowing out a huge cloud of metal, wood and fabric. The third truck, hanging back a bit, suddenly came into view as the wall of the train vanished in a rain of depleted uranium needles. Dawd grinned, face blackening with propellant gasses, and walked the stuttering, sun-bright line of explosions across the engine, cab and cargo bay.
The entire vehicle convulsed, perforated by thousands of tiny punctures. The driver vanished in a red haze, the soldiers with their assault rifles staggered, cut in half, and then tumbled out onto the road in a welter of arms and legs and bloody tails. The truck staggered, swerved wildly, the roof of the cab sliding back with a crash into the truck bed, bounced over the margin of the road and rolled, spewing chunks of metal, spraying liters of blood and vanished into a stand of stumpy-looking trees in a plume of dust.
The train raced onward and Dawd swung round, suddenly thinking of the other side of the passenger car, in time to have the butt of a HK-45B smash into his face. The combat visor held, deflecting some of the blow, but his head flew back, slamming into the wall. A Jehanan in the uniform of the kujen of Takshila loomed in the doorway, reversing his assault rifle.
Dawd's hand clenched on the Whipsaw's trigger. Flame flooded the cabin, setting the seats, walls and remains of the ceiling alight. The Jehanan vanished, torn apart by a buzzsaw burst of armor-piercing, and the doorway and the far wall of the passageway disintegrated. A clear view of a field of waving grain was revealed through the ragged opening. The sergeant staggered up, switched the targeting selector to semi-automatic, and swung groggily out into the remains of the corridor.
Smoke whipped away into the slipstream of the train. Dawd caught sight of another truck racing past on the roadway, and then tried to twist left as another Jehanan charged up the corridor. This one had a bayonet affixed to his rifle and the muzzle of the HK-45B was spitting flame. The ripping sound drowned out the rattling roar of the train wheels. Dawd staggered backwards as the burst ripped across combatskin covering his left thigh and chest, but most of the heavy 8mm bullets smashed into the Whipsaw, reducing the squad support weapon to tangled, smoking-hot wreckage and tearing the remains from his hands.
The Jehanan lunged, bayonet gleaming wickedly, and Dawd caught the blow on his right forearm. Metal pierced the ablative armor, tore through his combat-skin and washed his arm with a rushing cold feeling. The slick bore down, jaws gaping, and the sergeant groped with his left hand, seized the Nambu and emptied the clip directly into the creature's snout.
A spray of blood painted the ceiling, blinding the next soldier swarming up the corridor. Dawd kicked the body of the first aside, forced himself up with one hand and thumbed the second magazine coil into the automatic. There was a burst of full-auto fire, he ducked and shot back into the smoke-choked corridor. His visor compensated for the haze and two more Jehanan staggered, pitching backwards. But there were more in the corridor behind them.
Dawd cursed; his right arm felt cold and weak and his left hip was throbbing ferociously. He ducked into the next compartment and found it choked with wounded civilians. The window was gone, ripped away by the machine-gun fire from the trucks, and the passengers were crying piteously, snouts smeared with blood, clutching their wounded to scaly chests. Broken glass was everywhere.
"Shit!" The sergeant popped back out into the corridor and pitched a handful of grenades at the muzzle-flashes. More 8mm slapped past him and he ran, bouncing from side to side. The whoomp-whoomp-whoomp of explosions propelled him down the passage. The rear half of the train car blew apart, sending a gout of smoke, wood and bodies cascading onto the tracks. The roof buckled, sending a rush of flame into the morning air. A long plume of black smoke spilled out behind the ruined car.
Still the train rushed on, heedless, clattering down the long straightaway into the outskirts of Parus.
The roar of an assault rifle in the passageway snapped Parker awake and sent his blood racing with horror. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. His mind started to question its identification of the violent sound, but his skin was flushed and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.
Magdalena had jerked awake as well, and her head darted from side to side. "I smell -" she started to declare, and was immediately drowned out by a second burst of machine-gun fire. The little window looking out into the passage shattered, and something zzzzinged into the wooden wall above Parker's head.
"Blessed Mother Mary!" the pilot gasped, throwing himself onto the floor, hands over his head. "Get down, Mags!"
The Hesht plastered herself to the floor, mostly on top of Parker, which made him cry out in a muffled voice. Desperate to breathe, he twisted aside, head coming up slightly. Peering over the Hesht's furry shoulder, he caught sight of a human walking backwards, silhouetted against the windows lining the passageway. A Macana assault rifle bucked in his hands, fouling the air with propellant smoke.
"Oh, good and gracious lord," Parker whined into Maggie's ear. "Some stupid-ass Imperial Eagle Knight is shooting up the train!"
Colmuir reached the end of the third passenger car and ducked around the corner into a tiny space reserved for the washroom. The wooden sliding doors connecting the cars were banging open, letting a harsh, dusty wind tug at his hair. Gunfire stabbed up the corridor behind him and the facing wall splintered, torn by a handful of bullets. The master sergeant plucked a grenade out of his gunrig, twisted the arming knob and skated it back down the corridor.
Then he jumped through the connecting doors and into the next car.
He was met by a wild burst of machine-gun fire and shattering glass. Colmuir plastered himself against the wall, cursing violently. Two Jehanan soldiers rushed down the corridor at him. The master sergeant swung his Macana underarm, ripped off a burst – punching the lead slick back, chest pulping red – and threw himself into the shadow of the falling soldier. The second Jehanan hoisted up his gun, cut loose a burst over the body of his falling comrade, and then the long, scaled head pitched back, punched through by a single shot from Colmuir's rifle.
As he dashed forward the length of the car, there was a sharp boom! as the grenade went off, shattering all of the windows in the second car and flinging a screaming Jehanan out to bounce along the side of the tracks, limbs flailing. Heart thudding with fear, the Skawtsman's hands were busy dumping one spent ammunition coil and loading up another.
He reached another set of connecting doors, stepped sideways into cover, heard the bang-bang of the Webley discharging and seized the opening lever for the sliding door. Two bursts of assault rifle fire smote his ears, there were screams – human screams – and Colmuir threw the lever, bursting into the compartment beyond with a single leap.
The swaying contents of a baggage car appeared before him. He saw three Jehanan in black body armor, modern combat goggles on their heads and cut loose with the Macana. The tiny space erupted with sound – bullets flayed the Takshilan commandos – and one of them, spinning at the sound of the door, rushed in low, his rifle blossoming with flame.
Colmuir felt a huge kick in his chest and shoulder and flew back into the wall. He bounced off, twitched the Macana aside, fired a burst into the Jehanan and saw the commando's head burst like a ripe melon. One of the others was down and there were bodies scattered on the floor. Colmuir dragged the rifle back towards the last Jehanan, but that one had sprung across the compartment and smashed the gun aside with a blow from his own rifle.
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