Battlecry: Sten: Omnibus One (Sten Omnibus) (18 page)

The guards neatly lofted Sten into the cell’s blackness. He thunked down on an uncomplaining body. Sten rolled off and started to apologize, then sniffed the air. About three days beyond listening, he estimated.

He got to his feet. The cavernous cell was very dark. Sten kept his eyes moving, hyperventilating. His irises widened. The view wasn’t worth even one candle, he decided.

The prison was well within the anthro profile that fit Saxon. Build an unbreakable cell, and throw everybody into it you don’t like. Feed them enough so they don’t starve noisily, and then forget them. What happens in the cell is no one’s concern.

He just hoped that Sa’fail was still alive.

Sten found a wall and put his back to it. Waiting. Lousy, he decided. It took about ten minutes for the bully-boy and his thugs to loom up in the blackness.

Sten didn’t bother asking. The heel of his hand snapped the head villain’s neck back, a sideslash dropped him while he gargled the ruins of his larynx. The second received a fist behind the ear as Sten bounced off the man’s dead leader.

He threw the second corpse into the third man’s incoming fists, then half turned, foot poised. The third man decided to stay down.

‘Sa’fail. Of the Black Tents. Where is he?’

The toady grimaced. Thought was obviously not one of his major operational abilities. Sten was patient.

The toady looked at Sten’s ready strike, grunted. ‘In that corner. The dreadful ones keep their own.’

Sten grinned his thanks and snapped his foot out. Cartilage smashed, the man howled and went down. Sten bent over the man.
He decided he wouldn’t have to kill him. The toady would be too busy bleeding for an hour or so to backjump Sten – and that, he hoped sincerely, was all it would take.

He worked his way through the bodies, softly calling the nomad’s name. And found him. Sa’fail had an entourage. Sten looked them up and down. Surprisingly healthy for prisoners. He wondered if they’d gotten to recycling their fellow prisoners to stay healthy yet.

The nomad sat up and stroked his beard.

‘You are not of the People,’ the one who must have been Sa’fail’s lieutenant said.

‘I am not that, O Hero of the Desert and Man Who Makes the Slime Q’riya Tremble,’ Sten said fluently in the desert dialect. ‘But I have long admired you from afar.’

The nomad chuckled. ‘I am honored that you found your admiration so overwhelming you must join me here in my palace.’

‘Much as I would like to exchange compliments, O He Who Makes the Wadihs Tremble,’ Sten said, ‘I would suggest that you and your men get very close to that wall over there. You have’ – Sten thought a moment – ‘not very long.’

‘What will happen?’ the lieutenant asked.

‘Very shortly most of this prison will cease to exist.’

The nomads buzzed then snapped silent as Sa’fail motioned.

‘This is not a jest, I assume?’

‘If it were, I would find it less funny than even you.’

‘Even so, although your consideration might be for a brief time.’

Sa’fail considered. Then lithely came to his feet.

‘We shall do what the outlander wishes. No matter what happens, boredom shall be relieved.’

The drom spat at Alex. He ducked and thumped four fingers against the beast’s sides. It whuffed air and wobbled on its feet. The other members of the Mantis team hated droms, the stinking, recalcitrant transport beast of Saxon. They didn’t bother Alex. He’d once been unlucky enough to serve with a Guard ceremonial attachment on Earth and had encountered camels.

But he didn’t regret what was about to happen to his particular drom. The animal belched.

‘Ye’ll naught be forgettin’ yer last meal,’ he thought, and strolled away from the tethered beast. In trader’s robes, carrying a forged day-pass plate, he’d been shaken down by the security guards surrounding the prison.

Search aboot as ye will, he thought. It’s nae easy to find a bomb
when it’s digestin’ in a beastie’s guts. An’ ye no saw the guns in that garbage in the wee cart.

He squatted by the wall and let the last few seconds tick away.

Frick banked closer to Frack. Half-verbal, half-instinct communication, nonwords: Nothing unusual. The other team members were in place. Frick’s prehensile wing finger triggered the transceiver.

‘Nothing. Nothing.’ Flipped the com off and he and his mate banked for the city walls.

If there were any team members to link up with, they’d meet outside. In a few seconds.

Possibly when the charge goes, the assassin thought. Thought discarded. We will need every gun we have.

Jorgensen nervously fondled the S-charge looped around his neck. If life signs weren’t continuously picked up by the internal monitors the ensuing blast would leave nothing to ID a Mantis trooper or his equipment.

One day closer to the farm, Jorgensen thought morosely. That’s the only way to look at it. He unrolled the rug and lifted out the willygun.

‘I realize you did this deliberately,’ Doc purred. ‘You know the antipathy we of Altair have toward death.’

‘Nope,’ Vinnettsa said. ‘I didn’t. But if I had, it’s a clottin’ good idea.’

Doc sat just in the entrance to a mausoleum, pistol clutched in his fat little paws. Vinnettsa made her final checks on the launcher and willygun, then let the elastic sling snap the willygun back under her arm.

‘Revenge. A typical, unpleasant human trait,’ Doc said.

‘Your people never get even?’

‘Of course not. Anthropomorphism. Occasionally we are forced personally to readjust the measure the – your word is fates – have made.’

Vinnettsa started to answer, and then the first blast whiplashed across the cemetery.

And the two of them were running from the tomb toward the guard quarters that ran inside a tunnel ahead of them.

A week before, bribed guardsmen had cemented the charge into the guardshack on the main gates.

The first explosion was minor. Alex had built it up of explosive, a clay shaping and, bedded into the clay, as many glass marbles as he could buy in the bazaar. Now the marbles cannoned out, quite thoroughly incapacitating the ten guards lounging around the gates.

Alex had set the charge below waist level. ‘The more howlin’ an’ fa’in’ an’ carrin’ on wi’ wounded, the greater they’ll be distracted.’

Vinnettsa set the range-and-charge fuse on the launcher’s handle, brought it up. Aimed. As she counted ten, she heard the shouting of the officers who were mustering their riot squads to run them down the tunnel into the prison …

She touched the stud. The rocket chuffed out, cleared its throat experimentally, then the solid charge caught.

Vinnettsa flattened as the shaped charge blasted through the solid brick and exploded in the tunnel.

She picked herself up and watched the roof drop in. An added dividend, she thought. She headed for Alex’s position.

‘If Ah hadna been stupid, Ah wouldna been here. Second and third charges.’ Alex hit the det panel under his robes. Two more diversionary charges blew on different sides of the prison.

‘The Guard is mah home, Ah nae want for more. Fourth and fifth charges.’ He blew those.

‘An’ noo ’tis time for us a’ to be gone.’ He fingered the main charge switch. And turned. Interested.

The drom ceased to exist. As did the wall.

The shock wave blew the main wall out, huge bricks hurtling across the brief space to shatter the inner wall of the prison. It crashed down. Prisoners howled in fear and agony.

Alex grabbed the willygun from the ground. Held it ready.

Dazed, blinking prisoners stumbled out.

‘Go! Go!’ he bellowed. They didn’t need much encouragement. ‘C’mon, Sten, m’lad. Time’s a-draggin’. Ma mither’s nae raised awkward bairns.’

Sten, an older, bearded man, and several men wearing the tatters of nomad gear ran into the street.

Alex saw a platoon of guards double around the corner toward him. ‘Ye’ll nae credit I thought a’ that,’ he grumbled, and hit the last switch. A snake charge positioned on the pavement moments before blew straight up, into the oncoming guards.

He flipped Sten a gun as he ran up. ‘C’n we be goin’?’ he said. ‘’M gettin’ bored lurkin’ aroun’ wi’ nothin’ much to do.’

Sten laughed, dropped on one knee and sprayed bullets down the street. Then the nomads, still bewildered, followed the two soldiers at a dead run.

Doc waved his paw idly. Two willyguns crackled. The four guards at the gate dropped as the bullets exploded in their chests.

Jorgensen and Vinnettsa went down, guns ready, as Sten, Alex, and the nomads ran up. Alex continued on, up to the gates, unslinging a satchel charge. He bent over with it, and touched the timer. Turned and walked back. ‘Ah suggest we be layin’ doon, or we’ll be starin’ at all our own knackers.’

The nomads looked uncomprehending. Sten motioned furiously, and they chewed brick pavement along with the team.

Another blast, and the gates pinwheeled away. Bits of iron and timber crashed around the crouched soldiers.

‘Miscalculated a wee on that one,’ Alex muttered. ‘Y’kn keek m f’rit.’

They were on their feet, running out into the desert.

‘We wait here,’ Sa’fail ordered. ‘My men watch the city. They will be coming down to see who is stupid enough to come out of Atlan without soldiers to keep them safe.’

The team automatically set up a perimeter, then slumped behind rocks. Vinnettsa pulled a canteen from her belt and passed it around.

‘The Fal’ici owe you a debt,’ Sa’fail said to Sten after drinking.

Sten looked at Doc. This was his area. The bear walked into the middle and turned through 180 degrees. Tendrils waving gently.

Sten could feel the tension ebb. Automatically, everyone – soldiers and nomads – felt the small creature to be his best friend. That was Doc’s survival mechanism. His species were actually spirited hunters who had nearly destroyed the wildlife of their homeworld. They hated everyone, including each other except during estrus and for a short space after a pup was born. But they exuded love. Trust. Pity the creature that stopped to bathe in the good feelings from the small creature.

‘Why,’ Sten had once asked, halfway through Mantis training, ‘don’t you hate us?’

‘Because,’ Doc said gloomily, ‘they conditioned me. They condition all of us. I love you because I have to love you. But that doesn’t mean I have to like you.’

Doc bowed to Sa’fail. ‘We honor you, Sa’fail, as a man of honor, just as your race is honorable.’

‘We Fal’ici of the desert are such. But those town scum …’ Sa’fail’s lieutenant spat dustily.

‘I assume,’ Sa’fail went on, ‘that you liberated me for a reason.’

‘Indeed,’ Doc purred, ‘there is a favor we wish.’

‘Yours is anything the People of the Black Tents may offer. But first we have a debt to settle with the Q’riya.’

‘You may find,’ Doc said, ‘that more than one debt may be paid at a time.’

The tent was smoky, hot, and it smelled. Why is it, Sten wondered, that a nomad is only romantic downwind? None of the princelings seemed to have any more water to spare for bathing than their tribesmen did.

He grinned as he saw Sa’fail, at the head of the table, ceremoniously bundle a handful of food into Doc’s mouth. Lucky if he pulls back all his fingers, he thought.

But it is going well.

He unobtrusively patted Vinnettsa beside him. The tribesmen had only grudgingly allowed Ida and Vinnettsa full status with the other Mantis members. It had helped that Vinnettsa had been jumped one night by three romantic tribesmen and, in front of witnesses, used four blows to kill them.

Alex tapped him. ‘Ah gie ye this as an honor, m’lad.’

Sten opened his mouth to ask what it was and Alex slipped the morsel inside. Sten bit once, and his throat told him this texture was not exactly right. He braced and swallowed. His stomach was not pleasant as it rumbled the bit of food down.

‘What was it?’

‘A wee eyeball. Frae a herdin’ animal.’

Sten decided to swallow a couple more times, just to make sure.

The tents spread out for miles. The Mantis team and their charges had arrived at Sa’fail’s home, and immediately riders had thundered off into the desert. And the tribes had filtered in. It had taken all of Sa’fail’s considerable eloquence to convince the anarchic tribesmen to follow him, and only continuous, loud judgings held the tenuous alliances together.

One more day, Sten prayed. That is all we need.

He and Vinnettsa sat companionably on a boulder, high above the black tents and the twinkling campfires. Some meters away, a sentry paced.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, thinking his way, ‘if it works – prog not clottin’ likely – what happens?’

‘We get offworld,’ Vinnettsa said, ‘and we spend a week in a bathtub. Washing each other’s … oh, backs might be a good place to start.’

He grinned, eyeballed the sentry, who was looking away, and kissed her.

‘And Atlan is a desert and the Q’riya get fed into slow fires.’

‘Will it be better, you mean?’

Sten nodded.

‘Would it be worse is better. And, Sten, my love, do you really care, either way?’

Sten considered carefully. Then got up and pulled Vinnettsa to her feet.

‘Nope. I really don’t.’

And they started down the hill toward their tent.

The assassin watched Sten descend the hill and swore quietly. It would’ve been possible – and blamable on a tribesman. But that sentry. The chance was still too long. But tomorrow, there must be an opportunity. The assassin was tired of waiting.

The team split for the assault. Doc, Jorgensen, Frick and Frack went in with the nomad assault. It wasn’t exactly Cannae.

The nomads slipped down from the hills in the predawn blackness, carrying scaling ladders. Positioned themselves in attack squads below the walls. The guards were not quite alert. The only advantage the attack had was that it had not been tried in the memory of man. Which meant, Doc told Sten, for at least ten years.

Nomad archers poised secret weapons – simple leatherstrip compound bows that the Mantis troopers had introduced to the tribesmen and helped them build over the month before the assault. Strings twanged and were muted. Guards dropped. And the ladders went into position.