A dozen paces behind, Colmuir calmly shot the alerted officer twice in the chest, the impact throwing the Jehanan back into the doorway with a crash. Dawd grimaced, stepped over the twitching body and tried the locking wheel.
"Shut tight," he whispered. The Jehanan under his feet groaned, trying to rise. The Eagle Knight knelt, jamming his knee into the slick's throat. The master sergeant drifted up, Macana swinging back to cover the hallway. Dawd fumbled in the remains of his gunrig. "Damn – I've lost my cutting gel."
"I've some," Colmuir said, slinging his assault rifle to clear both hands. "Cover my back."
Dawd made sure the wounded Jehanan wouldn't be getting up and stood aside while the master sergeant drew a box around the locking wheel with a tube of demolition paste. Colmuir mashed a lighter tab into the orange goo, and flattened against the wall, head turned away.
The paste ignited with a sharp bang and the locking wheel crashed to the floor. Dawd tensed, the master sergeant paused a heartbeat, hearing a chorus of alarmed warbling from inside and popped one of the grenades out of his launcher. A twist of the arming ring switched the little bomb from highex to flash mode.
For a second, nothing happened. The hallway was empty, the room was silent – save for the harsh breathing of many lizardy throats – and neither man moved.
Dawd crouched down, automatics on the floor. Colmuir set the flash grenade in his hand to the shortest possible fusing.
Inside the room, a human voice bleated "Get off of – mmrph!"
The master sergeant flipped the grenade through the smoking hole. There was an immediate roar of automatic rifle fire. The doors shredded and bullets whined down the long hallway, smashing lamps, paintings and chewing up the wall at the far end.
BANG!
White smoke vomited through the perforated door, strobing with the afterimage of a brilliant flash. Dawd flung the panels open and rolled in on the floor, automatics snapping in both hands. He emptied both coils within five seconds, spraying the room with whining flechettes. Jehanan soldiers – there were easily twenty in the luxurious suite – staggered and howled, flayed by the bullets. Colmuir swung around the corner, his visor outlining the prince crawling underneath an enormous mound-shaped bed, and fired a grenade at each side of the room.
Heavy bullets slammed into his shoulder and chest. Colmuir grunted, flung back by the impact and felt something break in his shoulder. Twin blasts tore through the enemy, flinging scaled bodies in every direction. The master sergeant's medband swamped the injury with stabilizer and nopain. The Macana in his hands roared, ripping a stream of flechettes across three Jehanan soldiers blazing away at the door with their HK-45B's. They exploded in a cloud of red mist and their pulped bodies collapsed, shattering a thin-legged table.
Dawd sprang up, darting forward, smoking ammo coils ejecting from his pistols. His boot smashed into the face of a Jehanan soldier trying desperately to clear the action of his rifle. The slick went down squealing, and the sergeant smashed its eye socket with an empty pistol. Undaunted, the soldier twisted, tail lashing around to crack across Dawd's wounded arm. Gasping, the Skawtsman pitched to the side, losing the automatic.
The Jehanan staggered up, producing a dirk-style blade as long as Dawd's arm.
Colmuir slumped to the ground outside the doorway, teeth gritted, numb fingers managing to eject the emptied coil in his rifle. He caught the double-wrapped clip, swapped it end for end and jammed it back into the Macana.
The sword slashed down as Dawd rolled to the side, piercing carpet and the wooden floor beneath. Hissing in outrage, the Jehanan stamped down with a broad, leathery foot, catching the Skawtsman on the hip. Pinned, the Eagle Knight jerked up and a combat knife was in his hand. Dawd stabbed the slick in the stomach and a flood of entrails, half-digested noodles and blood spewed out, drenching him. Snout gaping wide in a dying hiss, the Jehanan toppled over.
Dawd rolled out of the mess, jammed a fresh coil into his Nambu and popped up.
A handful of Jehanan soldiers, stunned and disoriented by the grenade blast, blinked owlishly at him. The Eagle Knight, rather rattled himself, squeezed the trigger of his automatic in quick succession. Slicks jerked, strings cut, and more gore patterned the walls.
"Get the lad t' safety!" Colmuir shouted, managing to swing himself around. More Jehanan soldiers were storming up the main stairs into the third-floor hallway. Some of the other doors on the passage had banged open, surprised and wary slicks staring out. The master sergeant fired his last grenade through the nearest door as it slammed closed. There was a heavy thump and smoke leaked out from the sill.
A crowd of soldiers burst from the staircase. Colmuir switched his Macana to full automatic and sprayed the lot of them as they boiled up. Bodies staggered, shredded by the cloud of flechettes, and there was a cacophony of screams. The wall behind them exploded in a cloud of plaster dust and splintered wood. The flash-suppressor on the assault rifle began to glow red.
Dawd kicked the prince's foot, still exposed under the edge of the bed. "Mi'lord, come on! We've got t -"
The sound of the bathroom door opening had been drowned by the wailing of crippled and dying Jehanan soldiers. The sergeant caught a glimpse of something leaping towards him and then his head slammed around, combat visor flying askew, and he went down like a sack of meal.
Half-blinded by sparks flooding across his vision, Dawd tried to heave himself up. His medband squeaked angrily. Someone was dragging the prince out from under the bed by the foot. A horrified squealing sound penetrated the Eagle Knight's groggy daze as Tezozуmoc clutched the bedlegs for dear life. Heartsick at the sound, the Skawtsman staggered up.
In the doorway, Colmuir had switched back to semi-automatic. A reckless Jehanan popped out of one of the hallway doors, automatic rifle stuttering bright yellow flashes. The master sergeant potted him with one burst, sending the creature sprawling.
With a second's breathing room, the master sergeant rolled back into the room and whistled with delight to see the nearest Jehanan corpse was festooned with old-style Pakrit fragmentation grenades. He snatched up the bandolier and parked himself against the wall.
Then he realized neither Dawd nor the prince was in the room.
A fresh burst of gunfire tore across the wall above his head, spilling dust into his hair. Colmuir grimaced, plucked four of the grenades from the belt and slapped them together with stickytape. More rounds whined across the room, shattering the rest of the glassware which had so far escaped the fighting.
"Good morning," he mumbled, waiting for the trample of rushing feet in the hallway, packet of grenades at the ready. He started to hum to himself. "It's a fine, fine day on the banks o' the Clyde an' I'm waiting for a bonny lass to come singing in th' sun…singing with her hair in braids an' bonnets, waiting for me lass t' come singing…" He flexed his trigger finger, poised, hearing the rustle of many native feet on the carpeted floor outside. "She's coming for me, an' I'm waiting, sun on my face, breezes in my hair, waiting by th' freshet Clyde, waiting…"
An armored personnel carrier rumbled past on the street, rubberized tracks grinding ancient concrete to gravel. A squad of Jehanan soldiers clung to the metal roof, peaked caps tight under their long jaws, legs hanging over the side. Mrs. Petrel shrank back into the shadow of a ruined shop front, one hand behind her to press the Hesht into the wall.
Now, the insect chittered in her hair, step out and wave cheerfully, dear.
"Here we go," Mrs. Petrel muttered and marched out into the thin sunlight, both hands raised. A cloud of diesel smoke drifted over her, eliciting a cough and then a short Jehanan riding in the commander's cupola of a truly enormous tank spotted her.
"Halt!" Bhrigu shouted into the driver's compartment of the Gorond-class heavy tank. There was a grinding sound of clashing gears and the engine belched dirty gray smoke as the machine ground to a halt. The kujen leaned down, taking in the unexpected sight of the Imperial Resident's wife in a tattered festival gown standing beside the
street, broken shoes in her hand. He rubbed the tip of his snout. "You look lost, human."
Behind the prince, a column of tanks, armored cars, and trucks rolled to a halt amid a thick cloud of exhaust. Two columns of infantry jogged up, their sergeants bawling commands, deploying a screen of Jehanan riflemen to watch the buildings and the road ahead.
"I've come looking for you, mi'lord," Greta replied, straightening herself to stare icily up at the little Jehanan in a helmet adorned with golden horns perched on the massive turret. "It's time to put an end to this insurrection, I think."
"Do you?" Bhrigu hooted wryly. He felt itchy, sitting atop the rumbling bulk of the tank, his back exposed to so many relatives carrying guns. "Our mutual friend" – he tapped an Imperial comm tucked into the front pocket of his armored vest – "suggested I make haste to a building nearby – I understand the conspirators behind all this…" He waved a claw at the sky crisscrossed with gleaming contrails. "…are gathered to plot my overthrow."
"Yes," Mrs. Petrel said, climbing up onto the track housing. "They are only a few streets over. Kurbardar Humara has betrayed you, you know."
"Has he?" Bhrigu expressed great surprise. Swaying a little, Petrel laid her hand on the enormous barrel of the main gun. From the higher vantage, she was suddenly aware of many attentive ear-holes turned towards her and the prince. Quite a number of Jehanan officers had gathered unobtrusively near the tank. They were all very well armed.
"Yes," she said. "He plans to use the civil disturbance – unrest fomented, I must say, by enemies of the Empire who seek to dupe the more radical elements among your people into destroying themselves and weakening Venadan – to murder you, your loyal officers and to seize the kujenate himself."
Bhrigu hissed in alarm and outrage. He struck a commanding pose – slightly diminished by the nervous flutter of his right claw. "Then we will crush this nest of vipers with a swift, sure heel! All units prepare to advance!"
Mrs. Petrel hooted softly at him, trying to recapture his attention, wishing she'd hadn't lost her resonators in all the fuss. She was looking back down the road, past the columns of vehicles. A truck was barreling along the sidewalk at a dangerous speed. "Wait just a moment, mi'lord. There is someone approaching who should accompany you in this moment of victory."
"There is?" Bhrigu turned, unsettled, and bleated in outrage as the Scandia two-ton swerved, scattering his soldiers and screeched to a halt only inches from the side of the tank, dust and gravel spattering against dull gray armor. "What is this? Who are -"
The door of the truck banged open and a pale rose-colored female climbed out, stepping daintily onto the rear deck. She was immediately followed by a Jehanan of impressive size, all cloaked and cowled in the manner of the highland tribesmen. One hand, scarred and chipped, rested on the female's slim shoulder with a proprietary air. The other rested on the silver-chased hilt of a cruel-looking sword.
"You are Bhrigu," the chieftain growled, raising the hackles on back of Petrel's neck. The creature radiated undiluted menace. "I've something for you." Roughly, he shoved the female forward, drawing an outraged squeak as she fell against the turret.
Mrs. Petrel became aware of every single Jehanan within sight growing completely still. Bhrigu stared down upon the girl at his feet and turned a queer, pasty-yellow color.
"Bhazuradeha? What -"
"The spoils of war," boomed the highland chieftain, gesturing dismissively at the poetess. "The traitor Humara is doomed, unable to even keep his choicest prize in safety. See how she cowers before you? She knows well who the victor will be…"
Bhrigu was struck speechless for a moment, but then he turned, snout wrinkling in furious suspicion, to Mrs. Petrel, who had been glad to catch a breath or two.
"You…" The kujen started to sputter in outrage. "You had her stolen!"
"Fairly captured, mi'lord," the girl proclaimed in a clear, carrying voice, taking the opportunity to stand up, brush herself off and kneel – as best she was able – before him on the turret ring. The crowd of Jehanan soldiers in the street had now grown quite large and every long reptilian face was turned towards the tableau atop the tank. "Taken in a sudden, daring raid by you r…loyal vassals." She turned, inclining her slim head towards the Arachosian. "Oh, there was a terrible struggle, but they overthrew nearly a brigade of Humara's finest troops to pluck me from a perfumed, flowered garden where I languished, a cruelly kept captive!"
Gher Shahr twitched at the words loyal vassal but managed to keep hold of his temper.
Mrs. Petrel, gently reminded by the locust in her ear, climbed painfully down from the tank and picked her way through the rubble back into the burned out shop front. Parker was lying on the ground, a roll of cloth under his head, breathing irregularly.
Outside, Bhazuradeha gazed adoringly up at the stunned kujen, hands crossed at his feet, her voice rising in a plaintive song describing her captivity and long adoration of the distant, noble prince, the only person who could possibly rescue her from such a powerful master. The entire street was perfectly silent, nearly five thousand soldiers listening keenly to her crystal-clear voice.
"Let's lift him up," Mrs. Petrel said, leaning down beside Magdalena and taking hold of Parker's hands. The Hesht blinked her eyes open, stirring from exhaustion. "There is a truck outside with medical equipment. A doctor is coming, too, but he won't be here for a bit. There's a bit of a traffic jam…"
Sergeant Dawd eased through a servant's doorway and found himself in a long, low hallway running behind the suite. The passage was very dimly lit – there were some small bluish lights spaced along the roof – but he could hear the prince snif-fling somewhere ahead. A massive whoomp! boomed behind him, followed by the rattle of gunfire and faint screams.
The master sergeant is hard at work…I'd best be quick! He'll need my help…
Combat knife in one hand and his remaining Nambu in the other, the Eagle Knight crept forward, keeping his wounded shoulder to the wall. He could hear someone walking quickly, accompanied by the sound of dragging feet.
A door-wheel rattled open and light spilled into the hallway. A human silhouetted against the light pushed the hunched-over shape of Tezozуmoc through the opening with a warning growl. The prince cried out, hitting his shin, and there was a cold laugh.
"You're a pitiful specimen," the creature wearing Timonen's shape declared in a heavy Finnish accent as he stepped through the door.
Dawd lunged out of the darkness, slashing his combat-knife at the man's neck.
The Finn blurred aside, reacting with incredible speed. The Eagle Knight's gray-green eyes widened as his blade clove thin air. Timonen spun, face peculiarly empty of expression and smashed a fist into Dawd's chest. The Skawtsman coughed blood, flew across the hallway and bounced from the wall. He staggered, finger clenching on the trigger of the Nambu. A double-flare of propellant blazed in the darkness, sketching the outline of the Finn lunging low, head twisted to one side at an impossible angle, one arm stiff to stab elongated needlelike fingers into the Eagle Knight's unarmored armpit. Dawd felt a rushing cold chill leach the strength from his arm.
Gasping, he looked down and saw razor-sharp fingers dripping with blood withdraw from his side. Ice flooded his chest and he slid down the wall, leaving a crimson smear. The Lengian loomed over him, cold blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. Dawd gaped, paralyzed, watching the man's head shift gelatinously, sliding back onto his neck. Unnaturally long arms coiled back into shoulder sockets and the creature flicked droplets of blood from his fingers, once more in their proper shape.
The Lengian leaned close, seizing the Eagle Knight's head with his hands, thumbs pressing into the corners of Dawd's eyes. The Skawtsman cried out in horrible pain once, and then he choked into silence. The creature crouched over his body and there was a slithering, sticky sound in the half-light.
Panting, his stomach clenching angrily, Tezozуmoc managed to get to his feet. He was in some kind of dimly-lit stairwell. The smell of urine, rotten
bread and ancient candle wax permeated the air.
"Hello?" The prince groped about, finding a railing and stepped back to the door he'd been so roughly pushed through. "Is…is anyone there?"
"Here, mi'lord," a half-familiar voice issued from the darkness, followed by the flare of a hand-lamp. Tezozуmoc blinked, blinded, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. "Ah, sorry. There's a bit of a mess to clean up – just wait a moment."
The prince shuddered with relief, glad beyond measure to hear the Skawtsman's voice. "You've killed the…the Swede then?"
There was an affirmative grunt. "He was a Finn, I think," Dawd said, his voice hoarse and dull. "Facial structure is a little different…" A hissing sound cut the air and Tezozуmoc flinched, his nostrils assailed by a sharp acidic smell. "But he's done for now."
The Eagle Knight turned back, lamp shining on the floor. The prince saw the young Skawtsman was drenched with blood, his gunrig in disarray, armor pocked by bullet impacts, hair haggard and awry. Dawd tucked his Nambu away and held out a hand to Tezozуmoc.
"Step carefully, mi'lord, the floor is a bit…slippery."
The prince swallowed, nodded and hurried past the body dissolving on the ground. Dawd gestured for him to go ahead.
"Where's Master Sergeant Colmuir?" Tezozуmoc asked, starting to feel ill again. He hadn't had a drink in hours and hours and he was feeling very poorly. "How will we get out of here?"
Dawd coughed wetly, but patted the young man on the shoulder. "Not to worry, I'm sure the master sergeant and I can figure something out…Yes, just through that door there."
Tezozуmoc crept through the entry to the bathroom, tense as a rabbit on a full moon night, but was surprised at the silence pervading the wrecked suite of rooms.
His head held high, kujen Bhrigu stamped up a flight of grand, red-carpeted stairs and onto the third floor landing. A wall of soldiers preceded him, rifles at the ready. A young sirdar from the 111th Assault Brigade checked the passage, eyeing the scattered corpses with a disdainful eye and waved his king forward. Smoke clogged the air and several sections of wall were burning.
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