"By the beard of my mother," Cind said absently, "but that's the first good thing that's happened since the party started."
She was right—the opposition had just given them an adequate breastwork to fight behind. But Sten was chortling. "Your mother's what?"
"Clot off," Cind said. "You see what happens when you run away and get raised by Bhor?''
"Speakin't ae which," Kilgour said, "Ah could but wish f'r a few ae thae gorillers ae th' moment, aye?"
"Yeah. Right. You wish for Bhor, and I'll wish for a back door. Guess which one we'll get," Sten said.
They were up and sliding toward the back of the building, barely able to see in the gloom, stumbling through overturned refuse.
"Any idea who doesn't like the way we comb our hair?" Cind asked. Neither man had an answer. The way this Cluster thought, it might be almost anyone.
At the rear of the shop, Sten found the back door. It had been closed off with heavy timber X-ed over the door and spiked down. Not a problem, Sten thought, with Kilgour's proven grunt-and-groan talent.
About one second later, their enemies also found the back door, and a grenade shattered against it, punching holes in the panel. Sten saw movement outside through the blast holes and sent a burst and then a bester grenade after it. There were screams, which were chopped off as the grenade exploded. The bester grenade blanked time for anyone caught in its radius—two hours worth of unconsciousness, and the victim had no knowledge that even a second had passed.
"Y're bein't merciful, skip."
"Like hell," Sten snarled. "I got the wrong clottin' bomb. You just rip and tear, since you got us in this sorry mess in the first place."
"Ah," Kilgour said. "Thae's days—an' nights—th' magic dinnae seem to work."
He grabbed, one-handed, one of the X-braces and pulled. The heavy plank—and the rest of the door—came away.
"You can leave the rest of the building," Sten said.
The three edged out through the hole. Sten looked at the four men scattered around the door. Human—which meant Tork or Jochian. Duow's faction? Or maybe that other group of Jochians whose goals and leaders Sten was still to hear from? Insufficient data. All four of them wore coveralls without insignia.
"Noo. Le's roll this up. Thae's no more pleasure or sport t'be gain't, an' thae's still baddies left."
Sten took point, and they doubled away, down the alley, moving as fast as they could and still keep complete silence.
Their luck ran out in two separate catastrophes. The storm quite suddenly stopped, just as suddenly as it had broken. Worse, the sky cleared, and two of Jochi's moons three-quartered at them.
"Cind, do the Bhor have a weather god?" Sten wondered.
"Schind. He rules ice storms."
"Drakh."
Then their second ruin struck. A searchlight beam pinned the team like insects. Sten imagined the three of them silhouetted like an old photo negative, then all three of their weapons chattered and the light blew, hissed, died, and was dark, and they were flat behind the stripped, torched, and abandoned wreck of a gravsled.
"I saw 'um," came a surprised shout. "Thet bit one. Hez that Imperial we'b seed in livie!"
Sten swore. This would take some explaining.
First to these provisional power-grabbers on Jochi. Sten also thought his Eternal Emperor might hear of the incident and have some questions as to why his ambassador plenipotentiary had been out farting around on a completely unnecessary bit of cowboyed intelligence.
Oh well. At least they wouldn't get killed now. And maybe Sten could figure a way out of the Imperial flaying.
Then: "Th' gamclotting ambassador?"
"Yah."
"Kill the scrote! Now!"
"Ah dinnae ken who's daft enow t' wan' to ice th' Emp's lad," Alex said, "but w' kin sort th' villain out later. Back. Th' way we came."
A small infantry rocket round crashed against the wall above them—and that way too was sealed.
"We're sandwiched," Cind announced. "Anybody know how to levitate?"
"Be serious. Ah dinnae hae e'en a wee chuckle noo, let alone lev'ty."
They were well and truly trapped.
Solid rounds chewed up the gravsled above them.
"How come," Sten wondered, "when you see the livies, and the hero ducks behind a stupid gravsled, all the slugs ricochet instead of punching right on through like in real life?"
Nobody answered.
The return fire stopped. They heard the shuffle of feet coming in.
Cind lifted her gun. Sten shook his head, and she saw the kukri blade gleaming in the moonlight.
Cind's combat knife slid out of its sheath.
There were four attackers.
Number One saw nothing—Cind's knife was anodized flatblack, and there was no reflection as the blade went home under his rib cage, into his heart, and the man's momentum sagged him forward.
Number Two heard nothing as the two minikegs Kilgour called fists slammed against the side of his head, and his skull egg-shelled.
Number Three had a moment to blink, then that curved short-sword of the Gurkhas clove him, slashing his shoulder blade apart, snapping ribs, and burying itself in his stomach.
Number Four had too much time. He had time to shove his rifle sideways, into Sten, sending him stumbling back, hand coming off the gore-slick kukri handle, and then the gun's barrel was aiming.
Sten let himself fall back into a crouch, right hand dropping, fingers curled, death sliver coming out of his armsheath.
Left hand braced, he slashed near-blindly—in a knife fight do anything but think about things.
Too much time... and Four saw his gun barrel cut in half.
Too much time... and Sten recovered, blade coming down and then flashing up into Four's solar plexus, flashing up, intestines spilling as he gutted the man like a fish.
Sten's knife was reflexively bravo-wiped on the corpse's coveralls, then went back into his arm.
He ripped the kukri free from Three's body, avoiding looking at the man he had so neatly eviscerated. Another one, Sten. Another one on the long list.
Cind and Alex were awaiting orders.
Sten picked up his gun and tapped its stock. The other two nodded. It took ten minutes for the enemy to realize that even though there had been no shrieks or gunfire, the four they had sent in would not be coming back.
They sent seven men in next.
Sten let them get within four meters of the gravsled before he signaled. Fire spat—and seven bodies were shattered on the paving.
The third wave came less than two minutes later.
Grenades paved their way, blasts crashing against the alley walls.
"Thae're no playin' fair," Alex said.
"I'm not planning to let them take me," Cind said.
"Nor I," Sten said. "But there's no gain in suicide."
"We're waitin', lad. F'r a wee idea."
Sten considered... and as he did, thunder drumrolled and the storm smashed in again. He swore. Five minutes earlier and...
Very well, he thought. Use what you have. Add some confusion. "Kilgour. Can you get a grenade among 'em?"
Alex considered. ''Close.''
"When it blasts... we go. Fifteen meters, go flat, grenade again, and we'll go in on them."
Cind and Alex looked at him. There was no expression on either of their faces.
"With no one to drink our souls to hell," Cind sighed, unclipping a grenade from her harness and coming to a crouch.
"Ah well, Ah well," Alex sighed. "A' least we're noo dyin't in bed."
He set his gun down, readied a grenade, and came half-up, into classic throw position. A braw cast, he thought, thumbed the button, and threw.
The grenade hit, bounced, and exploded, barely a meter short of the enemy position, and the three were up, as lightning opened hell's gates for them and thunder tympanied and Cind ululated a Bhor war cry and they were charging, three against—against who knew how many.