“They come, Lord Steetsin!”
Steetsin nodded, eyes on the plume of dust that rose from the roadway below. They were perched on a slope, hidden among trees and scrub. Off to his left, a group of ants came around a curve. Ants, he thought, and noted the metaphor’s aptness with wry appreciation. So were the Fleet, at least in moral stature. They knew nothing of honor, of nobility. “Be ready, Cartwright.”
“I shall follow you as I always have, Steetsin.”
The Chieftain nodded, satisfied. “The shield on my shoulder, yes. Be alert—they come.”
The slow-moving column wound along the road opposite them. When its rear was just past toe Wedge Sept’s hidden flank, Steetsin squealed in sudden rage and leaped from cover, bounding down the slope toward the soldiers of the Fleet, knowing that his warriors would follow, would fall upon the column all along its length, and that Cartwright would follow them, alert to protect any stragglers.
There they were, the smooth-skinned, flat-faced fools! Steetsin raised his sidearm to give the first shot, sword gleaming in his other hand . . .
Khalians rose up in the midst of the Fleet soldiers.
Khalians rose up, and Steetsin stopped.
Khalians rose up in such a fashion as to be so thoroughly intermingled with the humans that Steetsin could not be sure he would not hit one of his own kind. He stilled, trembling with frustration, and all his warriors froze, as he did.
But through the stalled throng, Cartwright churned and elbowed, coming up behind Steetsin to hiss in his ear, “These Khalians are traitors!”
The words freed Steetsin; as always, he felt a gush of gratitude toward his Syndicate ally, even as he screamed, “Traitors!” and fell on the Khalians before him, sword raised to slash, sidearm leveling . . .
Another Khalian rose up, head and neck above the others, taller, with russet highlights in his fur.
Steetsin froze again, staring, appalled. “Chieftain of my Clan!”
“Even so,” Ernsate returned. “Put up your arms, Steetsin. The men of the Fleet are worthy warriors. We have both buried our dead; they are our allies now.”
Steetsin stood trembling, paralyzed by conflicting emotions, loyalty warring against hatred . . .
“No real Clan Chief would command such dishonorable action,” Cartwright snapped.
“Be still, worm!” Ernsate commanded. As the humans of the Fleet stepped forward, hands reaching for Cartwright, the Clan Chief lifted his gaze to the warriors of the Wedge Sept and cried, “Lay down your weapons! Declare your peace with these worthy warriors! They shall now be your arms and shield!”
“He has betrayed you!” Cartwright fairly screamed. “Your own Chieftain has betrayed you!”
The words kicked Steetsin into action. He hurled himself at Ernsate, sword lashing, sidearm corning up, shrieking, “Traitor! Seller of honor! Die!”
Khalians howled and leaped to block him, but they were too late—Steetsin was already on the Clan Leader, sword slashing.
And cracking against Ernsate’s steel armguard, as his other hand sprouted claws, ripping open Steetsin’s chest, and the first hand closed around his neck, probing, slashing . . .
Then the sky reeled about him, faces streaked, the earth slammed up into Steetsin’s back, and red haze overlaid all, the haze of his own blood pumping from his throat, dimming the faces, the sky, dimming all into darkness.
Ernsate stood, chest heaving, filled with the elation of battle and triumph but already beginning to feel the sadness, the grief that must have its vent in screaming, sooner or later, at the death of a valiant vassal and a gallant clansman.
He looked up, eyes narrowing. “Have you the corrupter, then?”
“We have,” said the Marine officer, and two of his men yanked Cartwright before Ernsate, hurling him down at the Khalian’s foot . . .
Hurling him down, but he came up screaming, a slender blade in his hand, hidden somewhere within his clothing, and Ernsate slashed at him—but already, the man was crumpling from a kick in the kidneys, driven by a Fleet man.
They stood, chests heaving, glaring at the Syndic who writhed before them in agony.
“This was the true enemy,” Ernsate told the Marine captain. “Not a traitor to your kind, no, for he is not one of yours—but a traitor to me and mine, for he abused Steetsin’s trust.”
The captain nodded, his face flint. “You take him, then. He is yours.”
The men of the Fleet cried out in involuntary protest, but as quickly silenced, glaring at the shuddering Syndic, hatred of enemy overcoming loyalty to kind.
“It is justice!” the captain snapped. “What will you do with him, Lord Ernsate?”
“We will suck his knowledge from him,” Ernsate stated. “Then he will die, for his crime against my Clan.” He beckoned to his own men, crying, “Come, take up the body of Lord Steetsin—for surely, he has died bravely and with honor! Let him be interred in the Hold of the Wedge with his ancestors, and let his funeral be sung with all pomp and ceremony, his weapons ranked beside him—for, though misguided, he strove with all his might for Khalia, and the glory of his Clan!”
All the Khalians rumbled agreement, and Steetsin’s warriors took up the body, turning their faces toward the Hold.
“And what of this scum?” demanded Raznor, with a hiss. Ernsate’s face hardened. “He shall be buried below Lord Steetsin, naked and bereft of weapons, that he may serve Steetsin’s ghost for a footstool, and be his servant in the Everlife.”
The ranks of human soldiers stirred with disquiet, but the captain called out, “It is just! Let him who has betrayed the spirit now serve that spirit! And let this deed be sung!”
“Let it be sung,” Ernsate echoed, “for today died a valiant warrior, and tomorrow shall die his evil shield. Warriors, bear him solemnly! All clansmen, chant his glory!”
Thus the column moved away toward the dark mass of the Hold, stark against the sky, and the keening lament rose to mark its way.