There was a pause before Cruzah responded. “I heard your conversation. You have my full permission, Bladejaw. There’s chatter on the enemy frequencies though. Some of the Khajal are speaking of a beast, a living tank of rage and metal that cannot be stopped, guarding a cargo of prey it took from them...” said the Dhimion, trailing off.
Brokehorn knew his last Khajali kills had been as much luck as his own skill. He knew he had likely been fighting lower-caste Khajal, not the elder soldiers of that frightful race. If he was being marked as a trophy that would change in short order.
“Dhimion, I’m attaching a Xeno Medical Squad to accompany me,” said Ripper, his voice a low rumble interspersed with snorts – the Bladejaw was running now.
Cruzah did not comment on the breach of protocol, only telling Ripper, “Make sure you keep them close by. For all we know the Khajal might think you’re the beast,” said Cruzah.
“Acknowledged,” growled Ripper. There was none of his easy wit from earlier. “Lancer, I’m a few clicks from your position. Stay tight and rampart yourself.”
“Madness. They know I’m here. They’ll come to claim the thrombium off their dead no matter what. I’ll meet you,” he managed to get out before he felt a sudden weight on his back and a piercing agony to the left of his spine. He squealed in pain and surprise. His body knew what had happened before understanding hit home, and it responded as if a utahraptor had done the deed instead of the Khajali knight that had mounted him.
Brokehorn rolled, his bulk coming off the ground for a second to body slam the offending alien into the road. The Khajal attempted to throw himself clear, but there was nowhere to go. Trapped between the building and the Triceratops, the only thing that saved the Khajal was that the structure wasn’t able to take thirty tons of dinosaur smashing into it. The entire edifice crumbled on top of the Khajal, stone and mortar bouncing off Brokehorn.
Fueled by pain and adrenaline, Brokehorn staggered to his feet, the wild swinging of the Khajali’s rai’lith scoring him across his flank. As the alien pushed itself free of the rubble, the Lancer was there. Brokehorn didn’t have room for a charge or to use his bulk, but the weapon he chose was just as effective.
The parrot-like bill of the Triceratops was surprisingly strong, needing to be in order to rend the tough plants that made up the typical meal of the herbivore. Brokehorn clamped it around the Khajali’s waist, holding his foe in place.
The glowing in the Old Blood’s eye as the rai’lith charged only spurred Brokehorn to action, and the Triceratops reached the Khajali’s arm with his claw before he gave a savage jerk of his head. The arm ripped free easily, and the warrior roared in pain as Brokehorn repeated the process on the other side, again flinging the useless limb into a pile of rubble. The Khajali’s last act was to gnaw ineffectually at Brokehorn’s nasal horn.
The Lancer’s balance was off, so he shook himself and the wreckage of his lightning fork fell to the ground with a clang. “Are you… are you all right?” shouted one of the humans from the truck. Brokehorn looked over, and saw the faces were pale and wide-eyed, gawking between the Triceratops and the dismembered body of the Khajali knight.
“I’ll be fine,” said Brokehorn with a low grunt, smelling the hot copper scent of his blood mingling with the odor from the musky Khajalian blood. He could not see the wounds, but knew that he was bleeding quite badly from the smell alone.
“Forward! Forward,” he demanded of Anna, ignoring the pain that radiated all over. He had made it this far with them, and right now he didn’t care if he died – his only concern was that the Khajali were denied and the humans made it to safety.
“You’re bleeding!” she shouted over to him as she punched the truck into a higher gear.
Brokehorn stumbled but managed to keep his feet. “I’ve had worse,” he lied, forcing air into his lungs but failing to catch his breath. There was a ringing in his ears, and for a moment he thought the screams were a hallucination. Brokehorn turned his head and spied one of the Khajal on top of the truck, rai’lith charging for a calamitous burst into the passenger compartment of the vehicle. Another Khajali appeared in a shower of sparks, its mirror cloak no longer.
With a roar, Brokehorn swung his head against the truck. It rolled, throwing the Khajali off balance and the shot went wide, opening a charred hole in the road several meters deep. The Khajali atop the truck had leapt clear as the vehicle rolled on its side, and shouted something at Brokehorn in its own language.
It was far too close to the humans to risk the flamethrowers, and the machine guns wouldn’t puncture the thrombium or get through the shields in time. Brokehorn ignited his booster rockets, and swore he saw the Khajali’s eyes widen in shock as the Triceratops’ massive bulk went from stationary to hurtling.
They collided, and the enemy warrior ended up under the Lancer. A deep, twisting pain skewered through Brokehorn’s belly. The Khajali’s blade. It was no matter. Brokehorn pulled himself back as quick as he could, leaving the Khajali smeared with the Lancer’s blood. Both of the alien’s arms were pinned, and it snapped at Brokehorn with its jaws. Small pricks peppered Brokehorn as the Khajal attempted to bring his rai’lith to bear. Brokehorn drove his massive claws into the unarmored space in what little neck the Khajali had. There was a sudden, shocked croak. The alien went still beneath him, his neck so many ribbons of meat.
The world throbbed in the Lancer’s vision; he was dying. The sound of footsteps. The second Khajali. He couldn’t make out the alien’s language, but the tone was not the taunting he expected. It was that of one professional saluting the dedication of another; the Khajali seemed almost sorrowful as it placed the blade of its rai’lith between Brokehorn’s eyes and began charging the cannon.
Brokehorn fired first. The attachment over the stump of his horn came to life in a scintillating beam of white light, melting the flesh of the Khajali and leaving only singed and slightly warped thrombium among a pile of ashes as the self-contained energy weapon fired.
“One last... act of defiance,” murmured Brokehorn, laying his head down and wondering why he felt so cold. There were many hands on him now, telling him not to die, but he didn’t wish to hear that.
He swore that he could feel grass on his cheek, and the scent of blood that annoyed him so was replaced by that of freshly cut hay. He didn’t have the strength to ask the humans if they knew which star was Sol System, so he could die gazing at blessed Kah.
Screams startled him, and he opened one eye to see another duo of Khajali walking towards them, claws pointing at the humans. Brokehorn attempted to stand, but it only precipitated his fall into darkness. The smell of grass became overpowering, and there was gold at the edge of his vision. The last thing he heard before he died was a monstrous roar, and the thought that accompanied it: that sounds like a Bladejaw...
White was the first color that greeted the Lancer, and even then it was fuzzy. He opened his jaws once, twice, trying to dislodge his tongue from the bottom of his mouth.
“He’s awake!” exclaimed a familiar voice, and Brokehorn felt more than saw the shifting of great mass.
“I can see that,” said a female voice, somewhat annoyed. “He’s going to want water, and you standing up like that will likely get someone trampled and give me more work.”