THE TRUEL
When Skink reached the other side of the mountain storm clouds were knuckling under the sky. A brisk wind blew in from the snow-capped peaks in the north, biting his nostrils and bringing tears to his yellow eyes.
Behind him, Gurnsey was saying, “Better find a place to hole up, boss. Storm looks like a nasty one.”
Indeed it did. Already, they could see lightning crackling from sky to ground The wind bore the heavy scent of rain as it drove the storm clouds toward them.
He hated to stop. Except for a few hours, he’d driven his people mercilessly all through the night. He’d called a halt once and everyone dropped to the ground, exhausted. But the howling of wolves kept anyone from sleeping and put them further on edge, wondering what Demeter had in store for them next.
So they’d marched on, their way lit by lanterns, constantly on the alert for the wolves. They never caught sight of them, but fearful yellow eyes glaring from the underbrush, and the sound of low growls and padded feet had everyone’s nerves stretched to the breaking point.
When dawn arrived, Skink let them pause long enough to snatch a bite to eat and then they were on the move again, laying down kilometers at a furious pace.
Now they were coming into a rocky area cut by canyons and creeks. The road snaked past two high bluffs that would be perfect for an ambush. But Skink no longer had the feeling that he was being followed and decided that it would be a waste of time to set one up of his own and wait to see if anyone was following.
He stopped to sweep the terrain with his binocs, looking for a likely place to camp. As he did so, Anthofelia came up with Nalene and Yatola.
Without preamble she said, “We need to find shelter right away. That storm will be on us at any moment.”
Anthofelia’s voice was tight and she had a harried, nervous look about her. A quick glance at her bodyguards told the tale of a leader who was falling out of favor with her troops. When Anthofelia spoke they observed her with narrowed eyes.
Emboldened, Gregor spoke up. “I’m dead on my feet, Captain,” he whined. “I don’t know how much longer any of can continue without a little rest.”
But as he spoke he was braced, as if expecting a blow and his eyes were blinking like crazy. Next to him, Mitzi was stroking his back, soothing him.
Skink almost gave them all hell for stating the obvious, but thought better of it. He needed calmness now. And he sure as clot didn’t need a revolt of Anthofelia’s troops.
He draped an arm over Gurnsey’s shoulder, startling him. “Me and Gurnsey were thinking the exact same thing,” he said with a companionable smile. He pointed at a tree-lined canyon just ahead. “That looks like a good place. Out of the wind with a nice overhang to keep the rain off.”
Anthofelia blinked. She’d been expecting an argument. “Oh,” she said, the wind spilling from her sails. Then she pulled herself together. “I’ll get my people organized,” she said, then turned on her heels and headed back to her column.
Gregor opened his mouth to speak and Skink was immediately sorry that he’d acted approachable for even a minute. The little piece of drakh would start blabbing his ear off now.
“Captain,” Gregor began. “I’ve been meaning to—” But before he could utter another word lighting crashed down on the bluffs above them and Gregor squeaked in terror, practically wetting himself.
“Let’s get moving, Gurnsey,” Skink said, and started toward the mouth of the canyon.”
Mitzi held Gregor back and let Gurnsey and a few others move past them. She had a feeling that things were about to come to a head.
Her comm buzzed in her ear and she stopped, stooping down as if to adjust a boot seal.
“GA,” she whispered.
“To your right,” Sten said. “Hill. Red blossomed tree.”
She looked. Spotted the hill with the distinctive tree.
“Rendezvous there when you are done.”
He clicked off. She got to her feet and raced after Gregor, who was so frightened he didn’t realize Mitzi wasn’t with him.
The realization hit just as she caught up to him. He turned, eyes in a panic, then he saw her and grabbed her arm.
“Don’t leave me like that, Mitzi,” he whined.
“Not to worry, sweetie pie,” she soothed. “Mitzi’s here.”
* * * *
Venatora was slammed onto her back, the rocket launcher clipping her forehead. Thirty meters away the ground was smoking from where the lightning had hit.
“Clotting hell!” she snarled, dabbing at blood trickling down from a cut in her head. “I had that filthy drakh head right in my sights.”
Marta rushed to her side, whipping out a cloth treated with a clotting agent from her medpack and applying it to the wound. Venatora made to push her aside, but Marta persisted.
“Hold still, Highness,” she said. “In order to fight you have to see and to see you have to keep the blood out of your eyes.”
Sighing, she let Marta dab at the wound. But when she was done Venatora pushed her aside and came to her knees. She was in time to see the last of the enemy disappear into the canyon.
Spatters of rain fell and she was about to order her own people to find shelter when the dark skies suddenly brightened. She looked up and to her amazement the storm clouds were dissipating as fast as they’d formed.
Clew scrambled over to her side. “Looks to me as if we have two choices,” she said. “We can wait until they come out and kill them. Or, we can seal them off with a few well-placed rocket and mortar rounds and head for the Command Center lickety-split and take control.”
“I suggest we kill them now,” Palsonia said. “We’re going to have to do it eventually.”
Venatora was about to speak—she favored the killing them now choice—when there was a tremendous explosion.
Instinctively, she crouched down. There was another explosion, this one even bigger. She looked around, but there was no sign of any damage to their little fortress.
Cautiously, she peered over the boulder and caught a glimpse of a smoking crater at the mouth of Skink’s canyon.
“What the clot?” she said, starting to raise her head higher.
But then Marta was shouting, “Down! Down!” and a mortar round exploded in the center of their camp. Rocks and debris crashed over them. Through ringing ears she heard screams of pain.
Another round found them, debris shrapneling everywhere. Marta and Palsonia threw themselves on Venatora, trying to shield her from the worst.
Where the clot had those mortar rounds come from? Had Skink spotted their ambush and prepared one of his own?
Frantically, Venatora pushed Marta and Palsonia aside, shouting, “Hit them back! Now! Now!”
Somehow she found her launcher and was on her feet, firing at Skink’s redoubt.
All around her, women were opening up with battlerifles, rockets and grenade-launchers. Pouring fire on the enemy.
* * * *
Skink didn’t know what had happened. There were two explosions. The first at the mouth of the canyon, which did little more than collapse part of the canyon’s side and send debris flying everywhere.
The next hit the center of the camp, falling on the cooking detail and leaving a smoking crater where a large pot had just begun to boil. The cooking crew was sprawled on the ground, dead or groaning.
What kind of craziness was this? Those were definitely rocket rounds. Was Demeter armed with rockets? How could that be?
Then he heard battlerifle fire. And the distinctive sound of mortar rounds being launched.
More explosions ripped his camp. AM2 rounds were pinging everywhere. And he realized—This was not Demeter’s doing.
Swiftly he clambered to the top of a jumble of boulders and peered out. The attack appeared to be coming from the bluffs he’d earlier marked as a good ambush site. Apparently someone else had the same idea.
As he looked he saw a tall, distinctive figure standing on top of a boulder, a rocket launcher in her hand.
It was Venatora!
How in clot did she get here?
Somehow he found his battlerifle. Pressing the stock to his shoulder he took careful aim. Slowly squeezed the trigger.
But a split second before he fired another woman rose up and swept Venatora away and his bullet pinged harmlessly on the spot where she’d stood.
Clot!
He slid back down to the canyon’s floor.
“It’s Venatora,” he shouted.
But no one heard him, except Gregor and Mitzi.
“Oh, she caught us, she caught us,” Gregor moaned in terror. He looked wildly about. “Sten!” he shouted. “Sten must be here someplace!”
Skink wanted to kick him. Take his frustration out on this whimpering coward with several well-placed boot tips.
Mitzi stepped in just in time, pulling Gregor aside, an odd smile on her face.
For a split second Skink wondered why she was smiling. And what was all this Sten business? But then there were more explosions and the AM2 fire increased.
He grabbed Gurnsey and Hasana and started issuing orders. He’d show that bitch. He’d get his people organized and clotting fight back.
He’d make her sorry she’d ever met him.
Across the way Anthofelia stood in the middle of her women, frozen in terror.
All around her women were scrambling to get into fighting position. But it was no thanks to their boss. Vaguely, she recalled Nalene shouting at her to do something. Anything! But she was so terrified, she couldn’t speak.
Desperate, Nalene and Yatola took charge, working like smooth machines and barking orders.
Anthofelia knew that when this was over, no matter the outcome, they would kill her if they could.
But she couldn’t help herself. Venatora, her most hated enemy, had somehow followed her to this place, appearing from nowhere to rain death and destruction upon her.
An explosion erupted nearby, jamming her against a boulder. Her ears rang from the explosion and her mind descended to a chaotic ground zero. She fought against it, grasping for sanity. For reason.
Gradually she recovered. And with recovery, came a gut-wrenching resolve. She would live, dammit. She would live and personally shoot Venatora between the eyes.
Confidence restored, she took charge of the fight. Directing her women. Joining in on the defense. But all the while she stayed carefully out of the line of fire.
On the other side of the canyon, Mitzi guided Gregor to a spot that was out of sight of the others.
All the months of coddling the little drakh for brains, tending to his every infantile need, were piling up on her. For days now it was all she could do to keep from cutting his throat.
Now, with the battle raging while he wined and hid behind her, she had reached the end of her patience. Every time there was an explosion—be it near or far—he’d squeal and jump and blubber for somebody or other. Mitzi supposed it was his mother.
Disgusted as she was at this poor excuse for a sentient being, a small part of her felt sorry for him.
Yes, he was not only a coward and a greedy manipulator of anyone in his charge, but a frightful human being who took delight in the torment of others.
When he was in his cups, which was more often than not, he’d boast of scams he had pulled on people, some of which led to their maiming, or even death. He acted like a giggling bad seed of a child pulling wings from flies.
On the other hand the months of drugged isolation ordered by his father had made him infantile. The condition was further worsened by Mitzi herself, who had added her own brew to the narcotic stewpot to keep him firmly in control.
She’d wrapped him in an imaginary world of eroticism where his every word or thought became commands that Mitzi’s mental avatars followed.
It was almost humorous. Gregor believed he’d participated in wild orgies with Mitzi. That he’d done everything imaginable to her and her drug-induced avatars.
And yet, other than kisses and caresses, he’d never done a thing. Never consummated their joygirl and john pairing.
So, when she pushed him behind a boulder out of sight of the others and shot him with her little hideout gun, she only felt the smallest amount of guilt.
Just a twinge.
Then she stepped through the narrow opening that led to the trail beyond.
And was gone.
* * * *
Sten rested against a tree that grew out of the rocky surface of the peak that overlooked the gory chaos below.
He looked up at the fabulous red blossoms and wondered for a moment how the tree could even exist here.
There wasn’t speck of soil to be seen, or a drop of moisture to be found and yet it had grown to a tremendous height. Its branches were thick with scarlet blossoms, which produced large, bulbous fruit. The fruit was red on the outside and black on the inside—witness the examples on the ground that had fallen, spilling black seeds across presumably barren rock.
Sten shook himself out of the brief reverie to watch the battle unfold beneath him. They’d been at it for nearly an hour. Every once in awhile there’d be a lull and then he, or Alex, would loft a rocket round into one side of the battle, or the other.
“It’s loch stirrin’ up a wee ant’s barnie,” Kilgour said as he fired yet another round.
Mk’wolf chuckled, as he handed Alex a fresh launcher.
“What did Gen. Mahoney, call it?” he asked no one in particular.
“A truel,” Sten said. “A three-way duel.”
Laughing at the odd word, he leaned back against the tree. He heard a cracking sound overhead and looked up to see a fruit falling from a high branch. It crashed through several other branches, and then Sten reached up and caught the fruit in midair.
He stared at it for a second. The surface was so polished he could almost see his face.
The fruit began to throb, as if it were a little animal. It was so sudden, he almost dropped it. Before his eyes it began pulsing like a beating heart.
Then he heard whispering voices and he looked around but couldn’t find the source. He noticed Alex and Mk’wolf doing the same thing.
In a low voice, Kilgour said, “It’s th’ tree, lad. Th’ bludy tree.”
Sten tilted his head. Alex was right. The whispers seemed to be coming from the tree.
How could that be?
“I can’t make out a clotting word they’re saying,” Mk’wolf said.
“Shh!” Ripley said.
Sten looked up. He hadn’t realized the Suzdals were nearby. Lancer squatted on his haunches next to her. Head tilted, eyes closed in intense concentration.
“What it is?” Sten asked.
Ripley held up a paw, shushing him.
Sten shushed.
She might be a lowly corporal, but she and Lancer had proven themselves many times over in the past few days. Besides, it was de rigueur that rank on a Mantis team counted for nothing. Whoever knew best took the lead.
Still, he was getting impatient and about to prod her when Ripley said, “It’s Demeter. And she’s telling us—no ordering us—to leave.”
Sten frowned. “Leave? Leave where?”
Lancer broke in. “Here, Captain,” he said. “We have to leave here.”
“Demeter can spik?” Kilgour said in awed tones. “Ah didne ken tress coods spick.”
“This one can,” Ripley pointed out.
Lancer said, “Makes me sorry for all the times I lifted my leg and—well, you know.”
Sten had a flash along similar lines and almost laughed.
Instead, he said, “Tell Demet…” but he stopped when Ripley once again raised her paw.
“You don’t need me to talk, Captain,” she said. “Tell her yourself.”
“Okay,” Sten said. Then, feeling a little foolish, he raised his head and addressed the empty sky.
“Demeter,” he said. “We only need a little longer. Then we’ll get out of here. Two, no three days max. Then we’ll all be gone.”
Silence.
The whispering had stopped.
A cold finger traced his spine, and he shivered.
“Demeter,” he called out again. “Can you hear me, Demeter?”
More silence.
“Just three days,” Sten said. “I promise we’ll only be here three more days. To be honest, there will be some damage. But we’ll do our best to keep it at a minimum. Nothing you can’t heal naturally.”
He waited. Then waited some more.
“Maybe she can’t hear me,” Sten said, getting to his feet. “Maybe if I stand up she can hear me better.”
“Oh, she heard you, Captain,” Lancer said.
“What? How do you know?”
“Can’t you feel it,” Ripley said.
Soon as she said those words, Sten felt a strange sensation. It felt like little creatures were crawling up his skin.
He shuddered and shook his shoulders, as if to throw them off.
“Ah think our Truel jist turned intoae somethin’ else,” Alex said.
Sten was about to ask if anyone knew what to call a four-way duel when he heard someone call his name.
He whirled to see Mitzi bursting out of the underbrush and come running toward him.
“Damn, am I glad to see you,” she cried as she closed on him, arms spreading wide for an embrace.
Then the ground opened up, and Sten plunged into a dark abyss.
Above him he could see Mitzi, arms outstretched, shouting, “Sten! Sten! Sten!”
But he kept falling and falling.
A hard blow.
Then another.
Pain.
Then blackness.