“Not want the rest?” Viss inquired hopefully, just as a muffled sound brought Gareth alert.
Gareth’s hand shot out, unconsciously commanding silence. Holding his breath, he slipped out his one weapon, the boot knife. The sound came again, so faint that if he had not already been keyed-up from watching for Rahelle, he would surely have missed it.
His laran senses came fully alert, even though the amulet insulated his starstone. As if a veil had been ripped from his eyes, he saw through walls and around corners—
Hayat’s men crouched in battle readiness. Idriel’s light glinted on their drawn swords. They carried shorter blades thrust beneath their sashes as well. Merach gestured silently toward the headquarters building—
Dry Towners rushed into the center of the camp, Hayat in the lead. Their war cries sounded like the howling of demented wolves. Even sprinting as fast as he could, Gareth was too far to intercept them. Behind him, Taz shouted curses.
Hayat and the man at his heels reached the door. One of the others, in rear guard position, spun around to face Gareth. Gareth dodged and swerved out of reach of the Dry Towner’s sword. By luck, he caught the oncoming blade on the edge of his knife. Steel whined as it slid over steel. The impact rattled his teeth.
Gareth disengaged with a sideways lunge. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the door swing open. Hayat rushed inside.
The Dry Towner redoubled his attack on Gareth. Training and instinct fired Gareth’s response. He swerved without thinking. His opponent lunged forward, sweeping his curved sword in a diagonal arc.
This time, Gareth misjudged the angle. The slashing edge came within a hair’s breadth of his unguarded side. He twisted sideways and almost lost his footing.
From inside the building came more shouting and the sounds of fighting. Someone shrieked, an inarticulate scream. Agony resonated through Gareth’s laran. His mind reeled with it.
The momentary lapse was enough for the swordsman to close with him. Gareth tried to deflect the attack with his knife, but his defense was too slow, too late. He felt the prick of the sword tip at his throat.
Glowering, the Dry Towner raised his arm so that the slightest pressure would drive the point into the soft tissue between Gareth’s collarbones.
Gareth forced himself to stand still. He held his arms well away from his body, although he did not drop his knife.
The base fell suddenly, sickeningly quiet, except for Merach’s voice, shouting out orders, and someone moaning in pain.
Gareth kept his gaze fixed on his captor’s eyes. He caught the momentary flicker as the man’s attention was distracted.
In one movement, Gareth stepped sideways, brought up his knife to the level of his throat, and pivoted. He threw all the strength of his legs into the movement. The sword tip left a trail of fire across the front of his neck, but the sharp pressure vanished.
Gareth’s knife clanged against the flat of the sword. Momentum carried the two blades around in a circular sweep. Gareth managed to keep control for a critical instant before tenuous contact gave way and the two weapons flew apart. He clenched the knife hilt through the jarring impact and release. The sword, propelled by Gareth’s blow, swung wildly to the side.
Darting inside the arc of the sword, Gareth took a long step and brought his knee up. His roundhouse kick caught the Dry Towner on the side of the thigh. It wasn’t a disabling blow, but the pain caused the man to bend over. His knee buckled. His grip momentarily relaxed. Gareth came down on the foot he’d used for the kick, stepping even deeper through his opponent’s defenses. A hard punch to the solar plexus sent the man to the ground, gasping and coughing.
Gareth snatched the hilt of the sword from the man’s inert fingers. It was different in both length and balance from the ones he’d trained with, but it settled into his hand as if it belonged to him.
The Dry Towner was fighting for air and holding his thigh. He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon. Gareth rushed past him toward the headquarters building.
Before he reached the door, an ear-splitting crackle lanced through the air. A blotch the color of charred ashes appeared on the outer wall. More shouting followed, the words indistinguishable.
Reaching the door, Gareth spotted Merach standing just out of sword’s reach. Jory was on his knees by a pile of crates. Bright blood drenched the front of one pants leg. He held a blaster in both hands, aimed at the struggling pair a little farther inside.
Offenbach was on his knees as well, with Hayat standing behind him. With a grip on the off-worlder’s hair, the Shainsa lord bent Offenbach’s head to expose his neck. Hayat held his sword precisely across the big blood vessels.
Poulos? Where was the captain? And Deeseter?
“Let him go!” Jory bellowed, his voice hoarse. “Or I’ll fry you all! I swear it!”
Jory might well have just sealed the mate’s death, Gareth thought. He’d spoken in Terran Standard, which none of the Dry Towners understood. Aldones knew what Hayat thought he’d said. By the amount of blood and the speed at which he was losing more, Jory had only a short time before he passed out. The Dry Towners were only waiting for a signal from Hayat to rush him.
Gareth still had a moment’s grace before anyone noticed him. He could rush in and probably get himself killed, along with Offenbach and Jory, who wasn’t going to survive without care. It would be a glorious ending, but he didn’t want glory. He wanted a way out of this impasse, and he couldn’t see one.
Where in the seven frozen hells was Poulos?
Gareth closed the distance to fighting reach with Merach. Merach reacted, blade at ready, but as Gareth had anticipated, he did not make the first offensive move.
“Hear the off-worlder!” Gareth held his own position and called out in Dry Towns dialect. “He vows on his honor to kill you all unless you release his comrade!”
Merach’s response was to settle deeper into his fighting stance. Gareth felt the Dry Towner gathering his energy into a still center, a center from which he would explode into a lightning-quick attack. Hayat had but to give the word.
Hayat smiled, a smile that sent a chill up Gareth’s spine. “Say this in the tongue of the barbarians! Say that he will watch his man die before him. Say that the kyorebni of the sands will scatter their bones, and it will be as if neither of them had ever walked the earth.”
Jory wavered on his knees. Although laced together for support, his hands shook visibly. His face had gone the color of chalk. He blinked hard, fighting to keep his eyes in focus.
“It’s no good,” Offenbach said in a choked voice, forcing the words through the twisted angle of his neck. “I’ve sent the message. The shuttle’s been warned off. They’ll blast the whole camp from space. Garrin—tell them—”
No, Gareth thought, that’s a lie. Even if the ship has such weapons, Poulos will try to rescue his crew first. He values his men. That’s why he burned the village in retaliation.
Gareth wanted to tell both parties exactly which of Zandru’s hells awaited them. Instead he said, using Terran Standard, “It’s no use bluffing. Hayat doesn’t care about the shuttle. And if we don’t end this stalemate, Jory’s going to bleed to death.”
“Jory . . . stand down . . .” Offenbach said, just as the blaster tumbled from Jory’s limp fingers and Jory himself slumped to the floor.
“There is your answer,” Gareth said to Hayat. He knelt to place his sword on the floor in the respectful manner of surrendering a weapon of honor. “You have won, great lord. Surely this man’s death adds nothing to your glory,” meaning Jory. “Will you allow one of his comrades to tend him?”
Hayat propelled Offenbach forward with a thrust of one knee. The off-worlder sprawled face down on the floor. “Go, then. He fought bravely. As for you . . .”
The air between Hayat and Merach shimmered like a heat mirage. Without warning, Merach crumpled to his knees, his muscles la
x.
Two translucent figures took shape. Each lifted an arm to aim at the Dry Towner lords. A hissing sound accompanied a flare of pale light as the visual distortion faded, revealing Poulos and Deeseter.
Hayat turned toward Poulos, sword raised. Deeseter pivoted, training his weapon on Hayat. Hayat froze.
Offenbach scrambled to his feet and to the desk. Wrenching open a drawer, he removed a flat box with the snake and staff emblem of Terranan medicine. He knelt beside Jory and wrapped the oozing wound in a wide elastic belt. Gareth would have liked to see more of the healing technology, but the confrontation before him was not yet ended.
“This is a neural disrupter on its lowest setting,” Poulos said to Hayat. “It’s not lethal. Your man will come around in a few minutes . . . as long as you cooperate.”
“I am the son of the Lord of Shainsa!” Hayat snarled. “I do not bend to the whims of thieves!”
“I would not say that to a man who holds such a weapon aimed at me,” Gareth replied mildly.
“I challenge this leavings of a diseased scorpion-ant to a duel by kifurgh!”
Even as Hayat issued his challenge, Poulos disappeared in another near-invisible rippling of the air. An instant later, he solidified behind Hayat, one forearm slipping into the angle beneath the Dry Towner’s chin. With the other, Poulos dug the muzzle of the neural disrupter into Hayat’s temple skin.
“Drop. The. Sword.” With each word, Poulos administered a little jab, so that Hayat flinched visibly. The sword clattered to the floor. “Offen? Tell me Jory’s alive.”
“Got to him in time, Captain. He’s lost a fair amount of blood, but nothing we can’t replace. The Castor ship’s got a supply of synthetic serum.”
“Garrin, tell this dust beetle it’s his lucky day.” Poulos did not relax his grip as Gareth did so. “Now you listen to me, little man. Nobody threatens me or my people, least of all some trumped-up backwater bully like you. You wanted a deal, you got a deal. Here it is. You’ll get your weapons when and how I say you do.”
He paused while Gareth interpreted. “Understand?”
Hayat gave the slightest nod. Gareth thought he looked about as terrified as a man could be without soiling himself. On the floor, Merach groaned and began moving weakly.
“What did I tell you?” Poulos said. “Now you and my friend here,” meaning Deeseter, “are going to take a little stroll around the base. You’re going to collect your men and take them back to your camp. And you’re going to stay there until I say you can leave.”
Gareth repeated the smuggler captain’s words, thinking that as soon as Hayat recovered from his fright, he would not remain as cowed as he was now. He might not try another assault on the base, and he might well depart under the cover of night. That might be the best solution, and Poulos would not object. But Rahelle would have to go with them, unless she managed to slip away.
Gareth wrestled his thoughts back to the present moment. He had thought the smugglers unrealistically confident. Now, barring a massed attack by an army from Shainsa—unlikely, given the difficulties of so many men and beasts crossing the Sands of the Sun—the advantage rested with the off-worlders and their technology.
Poulos released Hayat to help Merach to his feet, although he still watched them closely. Offenbach went to the radio equipment, slipped on a listening device, and established communications with the ship in orbit. Gareth caught only a few phrases that indicated Offenbach was making arrangements for the Castor Sector ship to furnish medical treatment to Jory. There was a long pause while Deeseter escorted the Dry Towners out of the headquarters building.
“Should I go with them—” Gareth began, but Offenbach was signaling frantically as Poulos hurried over to the radio.
Poulos slid into the place Offenbach vacated and grabbed the listening device. His face tightened into a scowl.
“Offen?” Gareth said in a low voice. “What’s going on?”
“Shhh. Captain’s call.”
“I see,” Poulos said. “No, you’re right. Start countdown to leave orbit. We’ll dock soonest.” He touched a series of panels on the controls, then set down the listening device.
“Damn those Castor Sector idiots! They must have stirred up one big wasp hole to get themselves tracked this far.”
“Or they’ve got a spy onboard,” Offenbach murmured.
“No honor among thieves and rebels, eh?” Poulos said, sardonic. “Guess we’re the last honest men left.”
“Evacuate, Captain?”
“Evacuate and sterilize. If we get lucky, we’ll be gone before the sharks arrive, so they won’t come looking for us.”
28
Poulos issued a string of orders, getting his men onboard the shuttle, along with communications equipment and a few things Gareth didn’t recognize. The crew responded with a speed and efficiency that surprised Gareth, some racing off to the barracks, others to the headquarters building.
They’ve done this before, Gareth thought as he watched the intense, almost silent frenzy. They’ve had to leave everything behind on short notice. No wonder the crew had so little attachment to this place or its inhabitants.
“You.” Poulos gestured to Gareth. “Bring the natives here, and make it quick.”
Spurred by the undercurrent of urgency in the captain’s tone, Gareth raced out of the base. He had no difficulty finding the Dry Towner’s camp by the small fire. Where they’d found anything to burn, he didn’t know. Perhaps they’d brought it with them when they returned from their first foray.
Hayat got to his feet, looking as if nothing would give him greater pleasure than to disembowel Gareth on the spot. Behind him, the other men came alert. Gareth spotted Rahelle at the edge of the camp, near the horse picket lines. Her eyes gleamed in the near darkness.
“The captain of the off-worlders requests your immediate presence,” Gareth said, bowing and trying to sound as deferential as possible.
“So now he’s ready to redeem his honor?” Hayat sneered. “Tell him you found me indisposed. He can wait until morning.”
Gareth allowed his own anxiety to color his voice. “Great lord, he said to come at once. There is other news. After you left, a message came from the ship in the heavens. I think the off-worlders mean to evacuate the base as soon as they can.”
“So much the better, may they soon meet the fate of all cowards. But this may be a ruse. Why should I believe what you say? Why should I not whip the truth of you?”
Gareth had no need to dissemble his reflexive terror. “Because it would cost you nothing to find out for yourself?”
Merach spoke up. “Lord Hayat, if this off-worlder intended to cheat you of your rightful part of the bargain, would he not have departed without warning? I think this must be bad news indeed to cause him to abandon the—” he used a term like the cahuenga word for temporary fortress. “Men who are made desperate are often distracted and therefore less careful of their own advantage in other matters.”
“Very well, Merach, you’ve made your point. You and you—” Hayat gestured to his two most fit-looking men, “—come with me. And you, boy,” to Gareth, “pray to Nebran that your captain has not deceived you as well.”
As Gareth turned to follow Hayat back to the base, he searched the place where Rahelle had been standing, but she was gone. For the first time, his only desire was to go along with events as they unfolded. The smugglers would soon be gone. Even if Poulos gave Hayat another set of barely usable blasters, the charges wouldn’t last long. The Dry Towners would head back to Shainsa. Cyrillon was most likely still there and could provide cover back to Carthon . . .
A sense of relief washed over Gareth as they passed the outer perimeter of the base. Even though things had not gone the way he expected, it was going to be all right. He just had to stay calm, follow orders, and keep his head down.
Back at the base, Taz
and Viss grunted under the weight of a long rectangular box while Offenbach shouted from the crawler for them to hurry. Jory lay on a stretcher, still unconscious.
Poulos and Deeseter waited in front of the headquarters building, a few crates at their feet. They’d just finished unlocking the lids. Gareth watched them remove the topmost packing material and open the inner boxes. In the glare of the yellow overheads, Gareth made out the shapes of blasters. There must be tens upon tens of them. Poulos had lied about possessing so many.
Without preamble, Poulos pointed to the opened crates. “There they are, the blasters we agreed on. All fully functional.”
Was this the truth, and had Poulos lied about that, too?
So many working blasters in the hands of the Dry Towners!
Before Gareth could translate, Hayat approached the nearest crate, his gaze flickering between the off-worlder’s face and the tightly packed weapons.
Poulos gestured impatiently. “Take what you want. All you can carry.” He clapped Deeseter on the arm. “Give Taz a hand with the stretcher. I need Offen on the shuttle. Well,” he glared at Gareth, “what are you waiting for? Tell him!”
“Captain, it’s too much, far more than Lord Hayat expected,” Gareth said dazedly. “He’ll suspect a trick.”
“Then tell him I have no use for them where I’m going. The shuttle’s already on countdown. I can’t afford the extra weight, and I can get more, easily enough. He’s welcome to whatever he wants.”
“Should I tell him you’re leaving?” Gareth struggled to take in what he’d just heard.
“Hell’s goblins, boy! Tell him anything you want! Just make sure he knows to get as far away from here as he can. In a little less than an hour, Terran time, this whole place is going to be slag. You got that?”
Gareth stared at the smuggler chief. There was no deception in the off-worlder’s face nor in the emanations from his mind. He meant to destroy the base, rather than leave behind any trace of its presence.
Just how powerful were the ship’s weapons?