by John Ringo
There was nothing for it but to recover position and shoot again. This was where it ended. He shifted his grip, took a good stance and resumed firing, this time the dumb rounds. He’d march them along that line and hit something, he was sure.
Then the branch less than a meter above his head exploded. A chunk of it slammed into his helmet, dizzying him, and another jarred his rifle. Before he could recover, he was being whipped by tendrils and the tree was shaking as one off to his right fell across it. He shifted his balance, trying to recover position, as the tree shook convulsively. Then again. He figured out what was happening and quickly jumped out his escape route, wanting to be clear of the tree in a hurry.
His fall took him through the branches of the downed tree, and he scrambled through the obstacle, rifle held high to avoid tangling it. Branches caught at his feet and thighs as he fought to free himself. Already, he could hear his tree cracking angrily, and it just might fall backwards and crush him if he wasn’t clear.
Off to his right, another tree was spewing splinters.
Dagger ran. He’d find cover some distance away and wait for Tirdal to follow. But this area was not safe. He tried to force his breathing back into control, but was scared. And admitting he was scared frightened him even more. He could hear trees crashing behind him, and wondered where the hell he could get a good shot and not be exposed? The farther away he was, the easier the Darhel could dodge his fire. Up close, he was in range of the punch gun, and it had been proven twice now that an inability to kill wasn’t entirely a hindrance to the little turd. He needed to stalk better, wait for him to pick a route, then move to intercept. He batted at tendrils of stems, sacrificing stealth for speed.
Wasn’t that little bastard ever going to sleep? That five-hour nap seemed a long time ago, and had barely taken the edge off his fatigue. But if the Darhel wouldn’t rest, he couldn’t. What would happen if it shot him while he slept? Or just buried him? Because Dagger knew he couldn’t stay awake another three days until the pod left for its second point putting him between it and the Darhel.
Then he realized it was all moot. The Darhel was now tracking him. He’d have to move fast and switch roles again.
Ahead was clear grass and a slight rise. If he backed up that hill, he could keep the copse in view and shoot the damned Darhel if he came through. Or, he’d be in a good position for a long shot, and there was nothing to collapse around him. Breath tearing at his parched throat as he tried to moderate it, he dropped to a sitting position and scrabbled backwards, rifle pointed out and ready to swing to any threat.
* * *
Tirdal wasn’t about to follow Dagger into, through or around that copse. It was too likely he’d be targeted. The sniper was definitely still alive, though there was a hint of injury or pain in what Tirdal could Sense. All good, but not enough.
However, Tirdal was now confident he could ambush Dagger, on terrain of his choosing, pin him down and inflict injury by proxy or directly. Whether or not he could kill directly was another question, but a crippled Dagger put Tirdal in a much better bargaining position.
With Dagger confused, Tirdal beat a retreat for the stream, careless of the path he left. His plan was to reach a scrubby area he’d passed through not long before, all tangled and thick though not qualifying as “forest,” merely brush. It was strewn with rocks and would provide several good places to dodge and shoot from. As Dagger’s thoughts seemed to become coherent, again he began a series of zigzags to make himself somewhat less obvious.
He took long lopes down the slight slope to the stream’s bluffs, then dropped over them. Dagger was alert now, and was starting to move. He was “far” and approaching “middle” in Tirdal’s mind. Good. That gave Tirdal enough lead to get where he wanted to be.
He splashed across the stream, following a game trail southward that more or less paralleled the stream. He knew that he was leaving a trail but didn’t know what to do about it. The terrain was karstic and there was a large chunk of limestone, a low bluff really, on this side. He looked at that, looked at the surrounding trees and his clear boot tracks in the mud and smiled.
Chapter 19
Dagger had moved off to the east, trying to keep calm and think of nothing. But it was hard, very hard. The Darhel would be out there somewhere, and now the tracking was on the other foot; for the first time the Darhel was the hunter instead of the prey. Of course, that meant that he was closing. When Dagger saw him he would be too close to dodge a round. If Dagger saw him first.
That meant the hummocky terrain to the south. If he could bypass the Darhel, who was sure to be coming east, and get to the hills, especially to the southeast, he would have a good chance of getting the first shot in. If he moved by bounds, found an open area, set up, waited, then moved again, he had a good chance of getting the first shot in anyway. The Darhel didn’t appear to be able to zero in on his position, just get a vague feel for his general locale. That would work. And keep calm.
Tirdal sensed the change in Dagger’s demeanor. He was somewhere to the northeast, and even as a strong feeling of gloating came through the contact began to fade until it was almost impossible to discern. Apparently Dagger had taken his comments to heart about masking his feelings.
He let a little of his anger slip and felt the trickle of tal hormone fill his being with a feeling of lightness. But even with his enhancement he was back to “near/far” and the sniper was… somewhere in the middle.
Obviously Dagger was doing one of two things. Waiting, or swinging around to get on Tirdal’s backtrail. Since the plan was to lead the sniper into another trap, it was important to make and then break contact. But with the feel of location fading it was going to be difficult. He or Dagger could walk right up to each other without even realizing it.
He marched into the scrub, and it was as bad as he’d hoped. Tendrils caught at his boots, coarse grass dragged at his suit, rocks of every size protruded into his path. Small flyers lofted past him, and once a boot-sized insect jumped from in front of him, digging frantically under the matted grass to find shelter. Then there were the choking vines, stiff plants and gnarled, low trees. It was sere and desolate and perfect.
Edging a little closer to the savanna, he headed due south, every sense alive for the slightest sign of Dagger.
Which was why he didn’t notice the tiger beetles.
The creatures were not tigers, of course, and not beetles. But they were two meter long predators, albeit with short legs, and their mandibles were adapted to cut through the tough shells of the local herbivores like can openers; they were more than capable of taking apart a lone Darhel. Their evolution had taught them to be stealthy, lest the large prey crush them underfoot with their knife-edge hooves, or bite with their own jaws. Such a bite wasn’t likely to be fatal at once, but would cripple the predator. That led to death from starvation, and improved the stealth and reactions of the surviving lines. The tiger beetles moved stealthily toward this strange little snack, darting and freezing.
Tirdal sensed the attack before the first rustle of underbrush and the things were on him. He dodged the first, but his Sense said “seven” and he knew he’d have to fire.
* * *
Dagger heard the hollow slap of the punch gun to the east and grinned. The Elf had run into something he couldn’t run away from and it was going to cost him. The sniper cut immediately to the southeast where he knew the Darhel’s trail would be. He listened to the shots, gauging direction and distance. He must be in that patch of crud across the stream. The Elf had been stupid not to press the attack when he could, and now Dagger would exploit it. At a run, weapon high, he bounded down the bluff, keeping ears open for the punch gun, eyes open for the Darhel and feet alert for tripping hazards.
It was a good kilometer, which was a long run on this terrain with this much crap. Add in lack of sleep and water, fatigue and a bad ankle plus a few new dings and Dagger was worn out and panting for breath by the time he neared the stream.
&n
bsp; * * *
Tirdal wasn’t sure how he had dodged the first rush but now it was a furball. Two of the predators were down, one of them twitching, one broken, but those were lucky shots. Two more had been hit but it wasn’t stopping them; he had to hit a nerve center to kill the creatures. Neck or belly were the targets. Neck or belly, he reminded himself as he dodged another leap. They were pack hunters, and waited for cues from each other. They circled around at a run and dove in a tight sequence, one to distract, one from behind, the rest from the sides. He Sensed their leaps only instants before, but it had been enough so far. He knew their pattern, now, but could he maintain his luck and speed? His first evasion had sent pain shrieking through his lower chestplate. The second one had almost caused him unconsciousness. There was another danger; that of a reaction equivalent to human endorphin response. Part of his brain was Sensing his enemy, part clamping down tightly on agony, part controlling tal and preventing the cloying sweetness and urgency of lintatai, leaving badly eroded mental processes for wielding the punch gun, twisting through the blades of their jaws and staying mobile.
It took three quarters of a second for the punch gun to cycle and the pauses between shots were the most incredibly long three-quarters of a second he could imagine. He had accepted that he would have to fill each of the beasts full of holes until he hit a nerve junction, but the question was who would be dismembered first. He ducked a leap, rolled to the left through thick weeds, untangled from them and the matted grass beneath, skipped back a step and fired. The gun went poounk, his chosen target staggered, lintatai surged toward the center of his brain and his training locked it back down. The contortions and battle outside were a mere shadow of the war within, of hormones versus self-control. It was literally as hard as controlling an orgasm in progress, that threatened to spill over at the slightest opening. Except that this orgasm would kill him.
The insects scurried back into a circle around him. He backed away through a gap, delaying the inevitable, almost stumbling in the thick, close-spaced stalks, until the punch gun recycled. He pointed and snap-shot just as he’d been taught on the training range, pointing for the head of the nearest beast, hoping for a stun, blunt trauma or perhaps something better. The creature was stretched out at the run, and the shot caught it on the short but exposed neck. It wasn’t dead-on, as the head rolled between the forelegs but remained attached by a sinewy string inside the articulated plates. Still, the insect tumbled and began to twitch. It was a kill. A surge of tal brought bright halos to everything in Tirdal’s vision, and he took another breath, laden with the coppery stench of blood, the earthy smell of insect guts and the ozone tang of the shots. He focused on the sensations, through them. See the calmness of the lake. The currents run underneath. Only the ripples wash the shore…
Pain lanced again, this time through his right thigh. His Sense had been distracted and missed this one. He drove the butt of the weapon down, tearing the mandibles free, fabric and flesh following them with an animated trail of blood droplets. The blow might have damaged the creature’s jaw, as it seemed askew. A twist, point, shoot. Point-blank through the open mouth would also kill one, it seemed, and another surge swept through him. Forcing the searing pain in his chest and leg aside, he leapt over the horse-sized carcass, its legs thrumming the ground in death, and turned to face the remaining three as the tortured nerves in his shoulder, chestplate and thigh caused a cramp the entire length of his right side, from shoulder to ankle. The tiger beetles seemed to lack the rational sense to leave a losing battle. Or maybe they were starving. Or maybe Darhel smelled like chicken. They were going to leap now, and Tirdal dropped. It wasn’t hard to let gravity do the work.
As they jumped, he fell behind the last corpse, its legs still twitching, brushing him in a macabre caress. But he was pointing straight up as they went overhead, and his shot caught one of them at the rear of the underside. That one split, its rear legs and joint tumbling free with a gout of entrails and yellow goo to land in a twitching heap. Tirdal dragged his feet painfully under himself in a squat, then shoved as hard as he could, rising up the curve of the carcass and over to the other side of the corpse, twisting as he went. The ankle on his already injured leg responded too slowly to the landing, and he felt it crunch, trauma inflaming the soft tissue into an instant sprain. He shot again and nothing happened. It had not been three-quarters of a second. The remaining pair spread wide, and he fired as the weapon recharged, getting one obliquely underneath as it left the ground. He dropped and rolled in close to the corpse behind him and waited for recharge and another attack.
The final tiger beetle continued its leap into a run and disappeared.
Tirdal did what any human martial artist would. He went into recovery breathing, slow and controlled, forcing his chestplate to obey. That alone reduced the pain somewhat, and he curled into a comfortable position. Sitting folded was preferred, but any position that helped an injury was the choice in the field. He grounded his thoughts and drifted for just a moment, pulling himself from the edge of unconsciousness. The cliff marks the edge. The edge can be walked. From the edge one can see into the distance. Behind is safety. Look not behind, but over the edge to the fear… He came back enough to feel the lintatai, and split his mind to deal with it. The wind stirs ripples through the leaves. The leaves sway the tree. The tree bends and flexes but does not yield. Supple is the tree. Supple is the mind. Emotions are but leaves in the wind of existence…
It took only a minute, but it was a minute well spent. Control returned, his mind aglow with the thudding of his heart and the warmth of emotion. All fell away into a cool, refreshed focus on a stalk in front of his eyes, its dun length covered in fuzzy white hairs.
That, and a gaping wound in his thigh and a sprained ankle. For the former, a self-healing bandage was called for. He cut away more of the damaged suit, keeping the hole as small as possible for protection. He eased the bandage inside, pressed it gently around the edges to seal it, then stroked its surface to activate it. It would disinfect the wound, staunch the bleeding, and drop nanites in to effect repair. It would be healed in a day, if he could only rest and eat. But of course, that was out of the question.
Rising painfully to his knees, then his feet, using his arms and the punch gun for support, he pressed a patch to his neck, letting a mild analgesic and more nanites into his bloodstream. What he needed was the Darhel equivalent of a narcotic and a muscle relaxer, but that, too, was out of the question.
The scrapes and minor tears he’d have to ignore. It was time to move. He lurched off deeper into the brush.
* * *
Dagger squatted low. The firing had stopped as he came down the hill. That could mean dead Elf, or crippled Elf, or that he’d won his engagement. It was time to be cautious again. That thick tangle of crud was definitely where he was, and there was nothing to do but ease in slowly, rifle raised at the ready and be prepared to shoot at any disturbance. This had to end soon, and there would be no better time. The Darhel had to be disoriented and possibly injured, too. Even likely injured. That had been a lot of shooting, indicating a predator.
So watch out for predators and wounded Darhel. Shoot both, ask questions later, he thought as he brushed fronds aside with the barrel of his rifle. The undergrowth was thick and matted, and he’d have to step carefully. What he needed was a hint as to where Tirdal’s trail was. From there, he could stalk him down. And it would be damned near impossible for the little freak to dodge in this undergrowth.
Dagger was smiling faintly as he pushed forward. He raised branches carefully, stepping underneath and then lowering them to avoid swishes or snaps. Each step was thought through before the foot went down. He twisted as he walked, turning his torso to avoid growth where possible, so as to minimize his own trail. The sun was hot, flyers drifted up past him, disturbed by the movement, and pods and seeds clung to his skin and his gear. Rather than prickly like earth seeds, most here were gooey. That had to be because most life-forms had shells a
nd not fur or feathers.
Then he came across a cracked stick. Near it was a flattened patch of grass. There, a turned log. This was trail, certainly. In a few moments, Dagger had it. A drop of violet blood glistened on a tall blade of grass.
He smiled; a drunk blind man could follow this trail. There were broken stalks from clumsy footsteps, bent and torn leaves from the passage of a body. Now to get in a good position to take the Darhel down. Though from the size of the blood trail the Darhel wasn’t going to be much of a challenge anymore. More violet drops and faint greasy smears showed him to be injured.
Had Dagger seen the size of the area torn apart in the fight, resembling a tornado touchdown, and the corpses of six dead tiger beetles blown into pieces, he wouldn’t have been so confident.
It was likely that Tirdal would seek shelter, somewhere to patch himself up and rest. He might have major trauma from that fight. He might have a strain or other damage. A concussion, even, if Darhel were susceptible to them. Shock. All things that would slow him down. Dagger would exploit each one of those, find and nail him. He would be calm, methodical and professional, and afterwards he’d gloat.
The gloating would be very sweet. It had, after all, been a hell of a chase and a bastard of a fight. That made the coming victory that much more enjoyable.
* * *
Behind both combatants, the local scavengers had found the sign of the battle. Snuffling and twitching their antennae, those niche-fillers moved in to examine the area. There was protein in plenty here, with six large, well-fed predators dead, and their shells were already open. The meat would be efficiently disposed of in ever-smaller bites until the antlike legions scoured the skeletons clean. Then the insect borers would crumble those and the sun would break down the structure until it became merely crunchy soil underneath. But for now, best to feast quickly, lest some other predator dispute the rights. Most of them tore at the dead animals, but the area was crowded and blood had splashed widely. Some of that blood was interesting, different. What tasty flavor might such a wounded creature yield when dead?
