Kodiak Chained Page 13

  “Those who work against me,” Ehwoord said, not so much as cracking his eyes open, “eventually die. Our Sentinel friends have just learned this lesson.” Then he did look at Ciobaka, one of those direct looks that set Ciobaka’s hackles on end no matter how unwise.

  This time, Ehwoord merely laughed. “You still have use,” he said, and Ciobaka narrowed his eyes to a canine squint. “But the Sentinels...if I don’t have access to my work, then neither will they. I eliminated their opportunity to study the living animals. Among other things.” Ehwoord said it so matter-of-factly it took Ciobaka a moment to understand.

  “Deah?” he asked, startled.

  “Yes, dead.” Ehwoord tipped his head, pushing the headphone disk with one finger and squeezing the button that meant the mike curving to his mouth would let him talk to others. “Deploy the veil working, and then fall back. Once you return, monitor their wards. When the woman who set them dies, they’ll fall—then you may use the remaining workings to fully obliterate any remaining evidence of our presence there.”

  The corners of Ciobaka’s mouth pulled back. Months ago, he wouldn’t have understood the significance of this conversation—not any of it. But now, as Ehwoord left his desk to toss a limp quail into Ciobaka’s cage, he understood it all.

  But as he glanced at Ehwoord from the corner of his eyes, chewing vigorously at a feathered wing, he knew one other thing, one very important thing.

  Ehwoord didn’t know that he knew.

  * * *

  The noise went on forever, and Mariska saw none of it. She buried her face in Ruger’s shoulder—she had no choice. She couldn’t even see the table above them. She could only hear the groan of earth and metal, the crash of things falling from the ceiling, tipping over from the walls. Falling dirt made a softer noise, an uneven patter of earth rain that finally...finally...faded to a trickle.

  “Get off,” she said when he didn’t move. His uneven breathing gusted near her ear, his body so tense it trembled—still waiting for a final blow.

  But the table had held. And if she couldn’t yet make sense of the visual chaos around them, she could at least tell they’d have dim light to work with—the ceiling ripped through to the sky and daylight filtered dully through the dust of the cave-in.

  “Ruger,” she said more gently, another nudge.

  He released a long breath and raised himself to hands and knees, his back bumping the table, his body still caging hers. “Hell,” he said, his expression heavily dazed. “They fucking blew us up.”

  “Ruger,” she said, “get off.”

  He looked down at her with dawning comprehension—and still he didn’t move. Still protecting her. She showed her teeth at him and shoved.

  “No,” he said, unmoved—still not sounding completely with it, and she wondered how hard the shelves had hit him. The sting of her own injuries made themselves known—nothing more than bumps and cuts and a few deep bruises. He added, “Not quite yet,” and sounded a little more sensible about it—especially given the belated crash of something not far away.

  So for the moment they huddled together, breathing, waiting for the world to settle. Ruger eased back down over her, propped on his elbows; she searched his face, trying to understand what she saw there—wondering if he could feel her heart pounding just as she felt his. Another nearby crash and the table shifted; he stiffened, hunching slightly as if to protect her.

  “Shh,” she said, and reached up to touch the side of his face—sweaty and dirt-streaked and just a little wild. It startled her—she hadn’t realized she had that kind of gentle reassurance in her. And she hadn’t realized that he needed it.

  But he dropped his forehead to hers, his voice broken. “Mariska,” he said. “God, Mariska—if you’d—”

  “Shh,” she said again, and stroked his hair, short and wiry and the hint of curl against her fingers.

  She wasn’t surprised when he kissed her.

  She was surprised by its gentleness, by its care—a kiss imbued with a tender, thorough care. His hands framed her face, capturing her without imprisoning her, and he kissed her mouth, he kissed her cheek, he kissed her brow—and her mouth again, while she felt a hot trickle of tears escape to run into her hair simply from the purity of what he offered.

  He pulled back without releasing her—watching her with concern, trying to read her. With her thumb, she wiped away the moisture from beneath his eye and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you suppose,” he told her, “I would ever be happy with someone who didn’t have the strength to do what she believed in?”

  Her eyes widened as the impact of his words rolled through her—unfolding in her body as a fluttering lightness of spirit, the intense relief of an underlying tension she didn’t know she’d been holding. And still— “But the things I did—”

  “Shh,” he said, and bent to kiss her again. This time neither of them startled when something crashed nearby, and though her body warmed to him—and she felt his response just as clearly—neither of them rose to that, either, instead reveling in the tenderness.

  It couldn’t last forever—it couldn’t last for more than a moment, with the world still trickling down around them. When he eased back, she said, “I’m going to make you mad again.”

  He grinned down at her, and it, too, held something of teeth. “I’m going to make you mad again, too.”

  ::Ruger? Harrison?:: Ian’s communication came filtered through a certain amount of confusion, a distinct stab of pain. Ruger winced—feeling it more than she did, Mariska realized.

  ::We’re here!:: Mariska replied for them. ::Under a table. We can’t see anything yet.::

  ::Too dark in here even for Sentinel eyes,:: Ian said. ::We’re under...:: His mind-voice trailed off, as though he was only then making assessment—or as though he’d become disoriented. Ruger tensed above her, his head tilted with a fierce concentration that told Mariska he was gleaning everything he could through his diminished healer’s skills. Finally Ian said, sounding more true to his dry nature, ::...a helluva lot of crap, that’s what. Smack in the middle of the tunnel.::

  ::Sandy?:: Mariska asked, so Ruger didn’t have to.

  ::She’s out cold—half-buried. I can feel her breathing.::

  She thought of broad, clawed paws working against the dirt and debris of the tunnel. ::Can you take your leopard?::

  He responded with a short, sharp snapshot of what he saw, what he felt, bypassing words for the immediacy of choking dust, utter darkness, shifting rubble, Sandy’s back warm and her breath hitching, the profound pressure of dirt, the stabbing pain of something sharp and invasive, the gouge of crumpled wire.

  Ruger breathed a curse, his head dropping as he absorbed all, including Mariska’s gasp of dismay.

  ::Got it,:: Mariska said faintly. Shifting under such circumstances would only incorporate the fallen materials into his body. She looked out from beneath the table to the shaft of filtered sunlight, picking out the far edge of the structure, the crumpled shelves that had slammed down against Ruger, the jumbled mess that comprised the rest of the installation; she sent it to Ian and felt his faint curse in reply. ::I don’t get it,:: she said. ::What the hell happened?::

  ::You tell us.:: The reply came from Heckle. ::You’re the one who checked out this area.::

  Mariska’s glad response at his mind-voice—dazed as all of them, but laced with anger rather than pain—faded instantly. ::I did check this area,:: she said, and rather than going defensive, she felt her own slow burn of anger—and to her surprise, she felt a trickle of the same from Ruger. Not blaming anger—not at all. But on her behalf, his hand squeezing slightly against her arm as he remained propped on his elbows above her.

  ::You obviously missed something!::

  ::That’s enough,:: Ian said, and it was the weariness in his voice that stopped Mariska short. ::Start thinking in terms of ordinance.::

  ::Ordinance...:: Mariska repeated, not quite able to wrap her head around it.

>   ::Hand ordinance,:: Ruger said, withdrawing from his healer’s mode to join the conversation for the first time. ::Or RPGs.:: Rocket-propelled grenades...

  ::Makes sense,:: Ian said, sounding more distant. ::Once we were all underground, they had a clear field, right through the wards.:: He hesitated for so long that Mariska was about to ask if he was okay—and didn’t, because how stupid was that? None of them were okay. When he spoke again, she felt the effort of it. ::Harrison, are you injured?::

  ::No.:: Heckle’s prompt reply was as convincing as his words. ::But there’s no way I’m getting out of here without help.::

  Another long hesitation—way too long—and Ian said, ::They’re here, and they’re hunting...and we’re the only ones who know what they’re up to. Brevis needs to know. We don’t know how much time we have before Forakkes...his working...::

  Ruger’s thought filled the silence. ::Ian?::

  ::Here,:: Ian said, if barely so. ::Reach Annorah. Let brevis know. And Ruger...::

  Ruger waited, shifting above Mariska as patience snapped to concern. ::Ian!::

  ::Don’t take that tone with me, bear. Just got to...rest awhile. Now go...find...them.::

  “Dammit!” Ruger pushed away from her, removing the table from overhead by the simple act of hunching his shoulders, planting his feet on either side of her, and rising up beneath it. It crashed down a few feet away, upended and in pieces among the debris from which it had sheltered them.

  Mariska scrambled to her feet, but not before snagging the water bottle she’d been after in the first place—just barely accessible in the shadow of the table’s protection. To her relief, the initial intense, cramping response she’d had to her first few swallows had completely eased; the herbs may even have done some good in the wake of them, for her fatigue had lifted, her generalized aches receded.

  Or it could simply have been the adrenaline still pounding through her body—adrenaline released anew as she looked around at the destruction of the installation. Dirt and metal piled between this end and the area where Harrison now waited; the exit was crumpled and buried. Lighting hung from the ceiling from stretched wiring; metal struts still popped and snapped, groaning under the stress. “It’s not stable,” she said, words absently spoken out loud.

  “Not in the least.” He turned a circle, inspecting the area. “We’ve got to get help up here.”

  “Annorah?” Mariska suggested. And then, “Ruger—your back!”

  He twisted as if he could look over his own shoulder. “Thought I felt something sharp.”

  “You think?” She dropped the hard-won bottle, stepping up to hold him still with a hand at his side, the other tugging at the blood-dotted shirt over his broad shoulders. “This needs to come off.”

  “Leave it,” Ruger said, pulling away to turn around. “It’s not that bad.”

  She grabbed the belt loop at his hip to jerk him back where he’d been, still trying to assess the depth of the slashing wound and growling a warning as she did it.

  He subsided, but barely, impatience radiating through him so palpably that she abruptly understood it was only for her that he stood still at all. “Mari,” he said, “there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  She followed his gaze around the wreckage of the facility—looking to that central spot where they’d piled their gear upon arrival. Buried. Including the medic’s field kit. His herb kit, too, was beneath the rubble—closer by, not as deep, but nonetheless buried.

  She released a frustrated breath and snatched the bottle up. “Here,” she said. “Drink what’s left of this, at least.” She glanced at the location of their erstwhile gear. “It may even be the last water we have for a while. I’d suggest we split it, but...”

  “But,” he agreed, and took the bottle, tipping his head back to take the contents in deep, long swallows. When he was done and wiping the liquid from his chin, he gave the bottle an uncertain look, glancing at the rubble around them.

  Mariska took it from him and set it firmly on the floor rather than tossing it aside. “We might need it.”

  He snorted, and surprised her by wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her off balance for a rough, half hug and kissing the top of her head while he was at it. “All right, little bear. What first?”

  “Adveho,” she said without hesitation, referring to the Sentinel Mayday call. “If any situation ever justified its use... Then we can work on getting Heckl—I mean, we can see about getting Harrison out of there. And he can help us with Sandy and Ian.”

  “It may take more than we have,” Ruger said, giving the collapsed tunnel a worried glance.

  “It might,” she agreed. “We’re not going to not try, though.”

  He closed his arm around her for a quick squeeze. “Go ahead and assess this place,” he said. “I’ll send the adveho.”

  She agreed, leaving him to sit in the place where they’d once lain together, his expression already heading inward as he went deep for the necessary focus. She turned to pick her way through the mess, flinching at another rain of pebbles and setting herself to task.

  Not for long. Ruger made a surprised sound—a pained sound. She jerked back around to find him frowning, his face tight and his palm pushing between dark brows. He looked up before she could ask. “I can’t get out. There’s some kind of wall...it stinks of the Core.”

  Can’t get out... “We can’t reach Annorah. We can’t get help...and we can’t warn brevis.” Mariska frowned, flexing her fingers in a barely conscious claw-threat at Forakkes. “Are you all right?”

  “Hurts like hell, actually,” Ruger said, with no particular heat to his voice. “But I don’t think any of us are all right at the moment. It’ll fade.” He climbed to his feet, looking up at the bright tear in the roof. “What do you think?”

  Mariska gestured at the debris around them. “If we can get to Harrison, we’ll have more manpower—but he’s not injured and doesn’t need immediate help. If we try to reach Ian and Sandy, it’ll be trickier—tighter space, more chance of triggering dirt fall. But Ian has the sat phone, and both of them are in critical need of rescue.”

  “One we might not be able to give them even if we free them.” Ruger’s words fell more heavily than hers. “And if we don’t stop Forakkes, we could all die.”

  Mariska’s gaze locked onto his, finding a steady pale brown full of regret and full of awareness. If we leave, our friends might die. If we don’t leave, our friends will die. And so will we.

  She nodded, and that was it. Decision made. “Let’s see if we can find anything useful before we go.”

  Ruger made a sound of agreement in his chest, but looked overhead again to their only exit—the distant gap in the ceiling, surrounded by sharp, torn metal. “Going,” he said, “may not be as simple as that.”

  Chapter 14

  Ruger prowled the cluttered remains of the structure, ducking against yet another trickle of shifting earth.

  We can’t reach Annorah. We can’t warn brevis. And we can’t take the chance that Forakkes will do what he means to do to us.

  The fact that Forakkes had escalated so significantly, so suddenly...

  Not a good sign.

  Mariska didn’t think so, either. She’d tugged a gear bag from the debris—lunch, MREs and some personal items, as it happened, including the gloves she quickly appropriated. She’d dumped all but two of those meals, filling the bag with several shards of metal she’d partially wrapped with cloth torn from another, less fortunate bag—makeshift weapons. She included the empty water bottle, the jacket Ian had so carelessly discarded upon their arrival, and tucked her own cell phone away in a side pocket.

  They weren’t likely to find a signal out here. But just in case...

  Ruger spent his time nudging at Ian to no avail, unable to absorb any information about his injuries—or Sandy’s—while they were unconscious. Harrison offered the occasional short comment, his out-of-breath thoughts reflective of his own efforts as he targeted an e
scape route and began removing debris.

  In fairly short order, Ruger and Mariska stood together looking up at their single exit: a small hole in the metal roof two-thirds of the way up its arc, a pile of shifting rubble their only access.

  “It’s going to take bear to widen that hole,” Ruger observed.

  “I don’t think that mess is stable enough for bear,” Mariska said, the stubborn note in her voice. “We might be able to slip through as human.”

  “You might be able to slip through as human.” But even as Ruger spoke, the pile shifted slightly.

  Mariska gave him a wary look. “I’ll go first. I’m least likely to disturb that crap, and most likely to get through. If it seems stable enough, you can follow as bear and make yourself as much of a hole as you need.” She visibly braced herself for his response, her mouth tight and her chin lifted.

  “Good plan,” he said, shrugging out of his shirt.

  She tipped her head, examining him for signs of hidden resistance; he only grinned back and gave in to impulse, gently rubbing a thumb over her smudged cheek and tucking back hair that had tugged loose from her braid. “Hey,” he said. “If it’s good, it’s good.”

  She relaxed, and stole a glance at his back—but didn’t ask if he was okay. There wasn’t any point, and he was right—the wound was long and slicing, but shallow enough. And they still had to get out of here; they still had to find Forakkes.

  And if they couldn’t reach brevis along the way, they still had to stop him themselves.

  * * *

  Mariska put her hand out for the shirt, waiting—guessing that it wasn’t one that would take the change with him, as seemed to be his habit.

  Ruger handed over the shirt and she tucked it away in the gear bag, unable to interpret the look he sent her. Thoughtful, for sure. She twirled her finger in a helicopter motion, a silent imperative. With some resignation, he turned around, showing her that which he’d been hiding. “Healer, heal thyself,” he said, bitterness lacing his voice. “Or not.”