The second sentry whirled as Blade came at him, thrusting with his bayonet. Blade sidestepped the thrust, gripped the rifle barrel with both hands, and jerked. The rifle came out of the soldier's hands like a cork out of a bottle. Blade smashed the butt into the sentry's throat, splintering the larynx into a hundred pieces. The man went over backward and writhed on the ground, hands clawing at his throat for the air it would no longer take in.
Blade threw himself on the ground almost at the foot of the dying man. He flipped off the rifle's safety and raised the muzzle, aiming well above the woman on the ground. At this range he could hardly miss such a fat target, even with an unfamiliar weapon.
He squeezed the trigger and the rifle bucked and quivered, spewing rounds with a hammering metallic roar. The only soldier who reacted fast enough was the officer.
He threw himself on the ground as the burst slashed through the men around him. They went down in a heap, screaming and writhing, blood and torn flesh and chopped-off arms and legs flying into the air from the impact of the bullets. By the time Blade stopped firing, the only soldiers left in shape to fight were the officer and the man on top of the woman.
The officer jumped up, drawing his laser. Blade swung the rifle toward him, squeezing the trigger again. The rifle hammered in a quick burst, then clicked empty. The officer fell but was still alive. He raised his laser as Blade reached into his pouch for another stone and threw. The stone cracked into the officer's cheek as he fired. The laser beam passed close enough to Blade to singe hair and one ear, then went on to crisp leaves and blacken bark on the trees behind him. Blade jumped up, moving faster than the dying officer could follow him with the laser's muzzle, closed, and rammed his bayonet into the man's throat.
By this time the soldier on top of the woman, in spite of his lust, had realized something was badly wrong. He was raising himself on his arms as Blade loomed over him. He looked up, lust and ox-like stupidity giving way to fear on his broad face, as Blade raised his rifle. At the last moment Blade remembered a bayonet thrust might go right through the soldier and hit the woman, so he reversed the rifle and struck with the butt. It crashed into the base of the soldier's skull, breaking his neck and slamming him forward onto the woman so hard she screamed again.
Blade put down the rifle, heaved the dead body off the woman, and bent over her. She was barely conscious, with bruises between her thighs, a cut lip, and a long shallow gouge across one shoulder. Her eyes were glazed and her breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps.
Blade unhooked his last victim's canteen and put it on the ground within the woman's reach. Then he picked up the man's rifle and switched its magazine to his own. Finally he began pulling off the soldier's clothes and putting them on.
The dead soldier was shorter than Blade but nearly as heavy-framed, so his clothes more or less fit. Even the helmet went on comfortably enough. When he'd finished, Blade wouldn't have won any Best-Dressed Man awards, but he did look much less like a caveman.
By the time Blade was dressed, the woman was sitting up and holding the canteen to her lips with one hand. With the other hand she was feeling her body for serious injuries. While the woman examined herself, Blade walked over to the sentry he'd killed with the sling. His uniform seemed to be the only other one still wearable. All the rest were blood-drenched or dismembered along with the soldiers who'd been wearing them. Blade stripped off the man's clothes and brought them back to the woman.
By then she was washing her face in the last of the water from the canteen. She looked up at Blade, the glazed look gone but her face still showing doubt and confusion. Blade didn't blame her. She was as much at his mercy as she'd been at the soldiers', and he looked far more like them than like her.
Blade smiled. «Don't worry. I'm a friend, or at least no friend to those-!» He jerked a thumb at the corpses of the soldiers. «My name is Blade. Who are you and where-?»
He broke off as he noticed the woman was staring at him blank-faced, as if she didn't understand a word he was saying. The moment he stopped she began speaking a stream of quick, high-pitched one and two-syllable words. At least they sounded like words-Blade couldn't be sure. He suspected from the woman's tone that she was nervous, frightened, and trying to get an urgent message across to him. He might have guessed most of that if she'd never opened her mouth!
Again Blade asked, «Who are you?» and again the woman might as well have replied in Mandarin Chinese for all Blade could understand her. They went through this exchange twice more, as an unpleasant fact slowly dawned on Blade.
The strange twisting of his brain which made him understand and speak the language in each new Dimension wasn't working here. He could understand the soldiers, and no doubt they'd understand him if he ever had to talk to them. It was different with the woman. His own words were coming out in English, and the woman's in her own language, whatever that was.
Blade laughed-briefly. The situation was ludicrous, and it wasn't entirely surprising. This woman was of another race than the soldiers, a race not entirely human.
Why should she necessarily speak the soldiers' language merely because Blade's brain could now handle it?
The situation was also dangerous. He and the woman were facing a desperate flight for their lives without being able to understand a single word from each other. This wouldn't be completely impossible, but there were easier ways to manage it.
Well, let's start somewhere, he thought. Sign language certainly wouldn't do any harm. He pointed at himself and said very slowly, «Richard Blade.»
The woman nodded, managed a faint smile, and pointed at herself. «Riyannah.»
Blade smiled, then pointed at the forest around them with what he hoped would be an inquiring look on his face. They had to get out of here as fast as they could, and he wanted her advice on the best route.
He had to repeat the gesture three times. Then Riyannah nodded and pointed at the bushes behind her. Blade matched her gesture and her smile broadened. So they were to retrace the path she and her dead comrades had followed? Well, the bushes would certainly hide them from any more soldiers.
Riyannah didn't need Blade's gesture to start pulling on the clothes he'd brought for her. She winced at nearly every movement and couldn't always hold back a gasp of pain. Blade decided he'd do some first aid on her as soon as they could risk stopping. Riyannah might not have any serious injuries, but she was certainly bruised, battered, and probably on the edge of shock. He found another canteen with water in it and handed it to Riyannah, then started scavenging the battlefield for useful gear.
He collected as much as he thought he could carry, then pulled on the loaded pack. By the time he'd finished getting ready to move out, Riyannah was nearly dressed. She'd managed to salvage her own boots, and was slinging on a rifle, ammunition pouches, and a small rucksack of her own.
Blade touched a bruise on her cheek just below one ear, then tapped the rifle and shook his head. Riyannah shook her head even more violently, pantomimed raising a rifle and firing it, then held up two fingers. The message was clear: I can handle the load, and two rifles will be better than one.