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' frit."
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 leather-strip 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.
The archers kept firing as long as they could—which meant until somebody successfully reached the walltop without being cut down, then whooped and swarmed up the ladders with the rest.
The four Mantis soldiers kept to Sa'fail. It would be helpful—to the nomads—if he survived the attack. And like most barbarian leaders, he felt his place was three meters ahead of the leading wave.
There were screams, and buildings crackled into flame to the butchershop anvil chorus of clashing swords. Civilians ran noisily for safety. And found none.
The M'lan fought to the last man. Too stupid to know better or, perhaps, smart enough to realize they weren't going to be allowed much bargaining.
Jorgensen shuddered, watching as waves of nomads swept into the Q'riya harem buildings. Doc pulled at the bottom of the robe. "Just children," he purred. "Having good, healthy fun." His tendrils flickered, and Jorgensen forgot a transitory desire to put his foot on the pandalike being. It went on, and on.
Vinnettsa stared down the valley at the burning city three kilometers away. "Probably this is enough. Those nomads will take five years to put anything together."
"Maybe," Sten said. "But these machines are mostly automatic. Cut the power, and we'll make sure."
"Besides," Alex put in, "ye'll nae be denyin' me a great, soul-satisfyin' explosion, widya?"