But once he fell, there’d been no one to save Wei. The documentarian had been cut nearly in two. “Looks like whoever killed Peter took Wei out with the reverse stroke.” Alerio pointed out the sweeping pattern of blood splatter that connected the two bodies. His voice dropped to a mutter. “Poor bastard didn’t get to tell his story.”
Dona studied the dead men with brooding pity, wiping the sweat from her eyes. The Arizona sun beat down like assaulting fists as flies buzzed around the bodies. “At least it was quick.”
“But completely unnecessary.” A muscle jerked in the Warlord’s jaw. “If Colonel Ceres had let me pull those temporal visas the way I’d wanted, these people wouldn’t be dead, and Galar wouldn’t have been kidnapped by the fucking Xerans. I should have . . .”
“Disobeyed orders? Committed career suicide?”
He glared at her. “Better that than bury innocent civilians and good agents.”
“And the end result would have been more dead, innocent and otherwise.” Nick moved to join them. His green eyes appeared out of focus, as if he was looking at something other than the scene around him. A chill brushed Dona’s spine as she realized he was having a vision. “The Victor would have declared war on Terran time travel. The deaths . . .”
Riane moved up behind him and touched his shoulder. He broke off so abruptly, his teeth snapped together.
“What do you see?” Dona studied his pale, set face and the green glow of his eyes.
“The dying.” He turned away. “Far too many dying innocents.”
“Chief!” Chogan called from beyond the wrecked coach. “I’ve got Pendragon stabilized. I believe he’ll be able to talk to you if you get over here before I Jump him back to the Outpost. He needs regen for this wound.”
Alerio headed toward them, his boots sinking into the sand. He was conscious of Dona at his heels, her face grim.
The coach lay on its side, surrounded by broken wood that had exploded from it when it hit the horses. Wei’s equipment lay among the wreckage, camerabots spilled from broken cases. The chief noticed the vehicle fell on the side with the door. Peter had kicked a hole in the topmost side so the two men could escape.
He hadn’t been the only one determined to survive. Pendragon had likewise torn free of his harness and leaped free, avoiding injury when the coach slammed into the rest of the team. The Xerans had managed to wound the great beast anyway. Blood flecked his white coat, much of it from a gash that ran the length of his heaving ribs. Still, judging by his bloody front hooves, he’d gotten in some shots of his own. Apparently he’d tried to stomp a hole in the Xeran who lay on his back nearby, being treated by one of the medtechs.
Frieka sat by the stallion’s head, licking the horse’s long, elegant muzzle. That bit of uncharacteristically canine behavior told Alerio just how upset the wolf was.
Pendragon raised his head at their approach. His eyes were glazed with pain. “They killed the mares. Why the hell did the bastards kill the mares? They weren’t cyborgs. They were just horses.” The grief in his voice made Alerio’s chest ache.
“They didn’t care, Pen,” Frieka told him gruffly. “But I’m going to pay the fuckers back for you. They will regret this.” His lips rippled, pulling off sharp white fangs. “I’m going to make them bleed.”
“And he will, too.” Alerio sank to one knee. “What can you tell me, Pendragon? What happened?”
“They were heavily shielded when they hit us. Hell, I was scanning for them, and I didn’t have a fucking clue we’d been surrounded. There wasn’t even a sensor trace.” He dropped his head back to the sand and stared toward the bloody bodies of his team. “Until they shot the mares. Me, they missed. When the girls went down, my neurocomp projected the coach would hit us, and I tore out of my harness.” He subsided, his massive barrel rising and falling. “The coach overturned. Galar was in the driver’s box—he was thrown. Probably only survived because he was wearing his armor under his civilian clothes. Sensors said he had a severe concussion.”
“How many Xerans were there?” Alerio asked.
“Two cohorts of warrior priests, judging by the number and length of the horns. Twenty more monks, varying ranks.”
A cohort was made up of five of the most elite, most senior members of the caste. Thirty Xerans against three Enforcers, one of whom didn’t even have hands. Alerio dropped his head and cursed.
“How did they bring in that many Jumpers without us knowing it?” Dona sounded appalled. “Thirty Jumpers should have created a temporal warp detectable all the way to the Outpost.”
“Probably Jumped them in a few at a time,” he explained absently. “Dammit, I thought they’d go after the historians, since there were a lot more of them. That’s why I assigned Wulf and his three as escorts. Toughest team we have.”
“Maybe they wanted to make sure they took one of the Enforcers alive.” Dona looked up at him, having dropped to her knees to stroke Pendragon’s neck. “They sent an overwhelming force to make sure somebody would survive.”
“And that means they won’t let him die, Jess,” Riane told the human as the pair moved to join them. “They’ll make sure he gets any treatment he needs.”
“And if he can survive, I can fix anything they do to him.” Chogan looked up from her patient to give Jessica a reassuring smile. “He’ll be fine.”
“I know.” Jess forced a smile, but the effort it cost her was obvious. “You’ve never let us down, Sakari. I know Galar . . .”
“Hey, Chief!” one of the medtechs interrupted. “I’ve got the captive conscious.”
Alerio flashed Pendragon a smile he suspected was savage. “Thanks for leaving me one to question.”
“Wasn’t my idea. I just couldn’t pound through his fucking armor with my hooves.”
The survivor was a low-level monk; he had only two horns.
“Well,” Alerio purred, looking down at the captive with a stare so predatory, even Dona felt a chill. “I wonder what we can get out of you?”
The Xeran stared up at him in wide-eyed fear. “Don’t . . .”
“Let me deal with him, Chief.” Dona gave the monk a deliberately menacing smile. “I can get him to talk.”
The man shrank against the sand as if he wished it would open up and swallow him. “That’s . . . that’s not necessary. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Dona curled her lip. “You mean you’ll lie and hope we’re gullible enough to swallow your shit.”
To her surprise, the monk’s gaze hardened. “I’ll not stoop to lying for that bastard. Believe me or don’t.”
“What bastard?” Alerio asked, as if not particularly interested. “Ivar?”
“That puppet?” The monk snorted. “Hardly. The Victor.”
Dona glared at him in offended outrage. “What kind of fools do you think we are? I fought you fuckers at Arania. I know you.”
The captive sneered. “You don’t know us now. Not since the rebellion.”
“What rebellion?” Alerio demanded.
“The one that abomination caused.” He jerked his chin at Nick. The big, dark-haired Guardian had moved silently to join them, standing with powerful arms folded. The T’Lir on his arm glinted dully in the desert sun. “After that one broke the Victor, fifty cohorts rebelled, taking half the monks on Xer with them.”
“Fifty cohorts?” Dona snorted. “Beefershit. Those bastards are the most fanatical members of the priesthood. Hells, fanaticism is why the Victor picks them to be the elite.”
“Not after the Victor used Ivar as his refuge following his fight with the abomination. Especially not when the last two cohorts refused to surrender what they held of him.” The monk sneered, his expression bitter. “We all knew that ’borg would pollute the Most High, and that’s exactly what he did.”