Sergeant Dawd eased through a servant's doorway and found himself in a long, low hallway running behind the suite. The passage was very dimly lit – there were some small bluish lights spaced along the roof – but he could hear the prince snif-fling somewhere ahead. A massive whoomp! boomed behind him, followed by the rattle of gunfire and faint screams.
The master sergeant is hard at work…I'd best be quick! He'll need my help…
Combat knife in one hand and his remaining Nambu in the other, the Eagle Knight crept forward, keeping his wounded shoulder to the wall. He could hear someone walking quickly, accompanied by the sound of dragging feet.
A door-wheel rattled open and light spilled into the hallway. A human silhouetted against the light pushed the hunched-over shape of Tezozуmoc through the opening with a warning growl. The prince cried out, hitting his shin, and there was a cold laugh.
"You're a pitiful specimen," the creature wearing Timonen's shape declared in a heavy Finnish accent as he stepped through the door.
Dawd lunged out of the darkness, slashing his combat-knife at the man's neck.
The Finn blurred aside, reacting with incredible speed. The Eagle Knight's gray-green eyes widened as his blade clove thin air. Timonen spun, face peculiarly empty of expression and smashed a fist into Dawd's chest. The Skawtsman coughed blood, flew across the hallway and bounced from the wall. He staggered, finger clenching on the trigger of the Nambu. A double-flare of propellant blazed in the darkness, sketching the outline of the Finn lunging low, head twisted to one side at an impossible angle, one arm stiff to stab elongated needlelike fingers into the Eagle Knight's unarmored armpit. Dawd felt a rushing cold chill leach the strength from his arm.
Gasping, he looked down and saw razor-sharp fingers dripping with blood withdraw from his side. Ice flooded his chest and he slid down the wall, leaving a crimson smear. The Lengian loomed over him, cold blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. Dawd gaped, paralyzed, watching the man's head shift gelatinously, sliding back onto his neck. Unnaturally long arms coiled back into shoulder sockets and the creature flicked droplets of blood from his fingers, once more in their proper shape.
The Lengian leaned close, seizing the Eagle Knight's head with his hands, thumbs pressing into the corners of Dawd's eyes. The Skawtsman cried out in horrible pain once, and then he choked into silence. The creature crouched over his body and there was a slithering, sticky sound in the half-light.
Panting, his stomach clenching angrily, Tezozуmoc managed to get to his feet. He was in some kind of dimly-lit stairwell. The smell of urine, rotten bread and ancient candle wax permeated the air.
"Hello?" The prince groped about, finding a railing and stepped back to the door he'd been so roughly pushed through. "Is…is anyone there?"
"Here, mi'lord," a half-familiar voice issued from the darkness, followed by the flare of a hand-lamp. Tezozуmoc blinked, blinded, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. "Ah, sorry. There's a bit of a mess to clean up – just wait a moment."
The prince shuddered with relief, glad beyond measure to hear the Skawtsman's voice. "You've killed the…the Swede then?"
There was an affirmative grunt. "He was a Finn, I think," Dawd said, his voice hoarse and dull. "Facial structure is a little different…" A hissing sound cut the air and Tezozуmoc flinched, his nostrils assailed by a sharp acidic smell. "But he's done for now."
The Eagle Knight turned back, lamp shining on the floor. The prince saw the young Skawtsman was drenched with blood, his gunrig in disarray, armor pocked by bullet impacts, hair haggard and awry. Dawd tucked his Nambu away and held out a hand to Tezozуmoc.
"Step carefully, mi'lord, the floor is a bit…slippery."
The prince swallowed, nodded and hurried past the body dissolving on the ground. Dawd gestured for him to go ahead.
"Where's Master Sergeant Colmuir?" Tezozуmoc asked, starting to feel ill again. He hadn't had a drink in hours and hours and he was feeling very poorly. "How will we get out of here?"
Dawd coughed wetly, but patted the young man on the shoulder. "Not to worry, I'm sure the master sergeant and I can figure something out…Yes, just through that door there."
Tezozуmoc crept through the entry to the bathroom, tense as a rabbit on a full moon night, but was surprised at the silence pervading the wrecked suite of rooms.
His head held high, kujen Bhrigu stamped up a flight of grand, red-carpeted stairs and onto the third floor landing. A wall of soldiers preceded him, rifles at the ready. A young sirdar from the 111th Assault Brigade checked the passage, eyeing the scattered corpses with a disdainful eye and waved his king forward. Smoke clogged the air and several sections of wall were burning.
"Clear the way!" The officer barked. Two of his troopers stepped aside.
Bhrigu stepped over a drift of bodies and into a mangled, bullet-riddled doorway. Mrs. Petrel had hung back a bit as the royal presence entered the hotel – a large number of dazed mutineers were being rounded up and herded out of the building, but she was careful to keep out of the line of fire if some zealot jumped out of a closet with a gun – but now she stepped up to the kujen's shoulder and took in the scene before him.
Prince Tezozуmoc stood near the middle of the room, a heavy Imperial assault rifle slung over his shoulder, the muzzle – still glowing cherry red and steaming softly – covering a pack of haggard, bloody Jehanan officers kneeling against the wall. The young man was watching his captives with a fixed, grim expression, teeth clenched tight. His hands were very steady on the handgrips of the weapon. His black skinsuit did not show any smudges, gore or dust.
"Ah, superbly done!" Bhazuradeha exclaimed, stepping past the kujen, who was staring very suspiciously at the wreckage, bodies and debris scattered around the room. "The prince of the air has swooped down on pinioned wings, seizing the conspirators in their very lair! Look, mi'lord, see who he has taken captive for you: the king of land and sea, the conqueror of the four quarters!"
The kujen tore his eyes away from the sight of two battered, exhausted Imperial Eagle Knights sitting with their backs to the wall, cleaning their weapons and reloading with numbed, trembling fingers. The younger one had a pair of darkened goggles over his eyes and half his face swathed in quickheal gel. Bhrigu glanced at Mrs. Petrel, gave her a lingering, suspicious stare and then turned back to the poetess, who had stepped to the largest of the captive officers and twisted his head around, her tiny rose-colored hand tight on his snout.
"Kurbardar Humara," Bhrigu said solemnly, looking down on the battered-looking officer. The scar along the Jehanan's snout twisted, but with the girl holding his mouth shut, he could say nothing. "Your treachery has cost many lives, but by the quick thinking of many loyal men…and women" – he nodded to Bhazuradeha – "your foul and treasonous rebellion has been crushed."
The kujen made a slashing motion with his hand. "Take him away!"
The troopers from the 111th swarmed forward, binding the captured officers and dragging them roughly away. Humara was the last to disappear through the door, his eyes filled with rage.
"That one," Mrs. Petrel said quietly to the kujen, "will have to be killed."
"They will all be executed before nightfall," Bhrigu said, tongue flicking between his teeth. "All these traitors will be rounded up and shot. Their families will be exiled, their estates and properties confiscated."
Mrs. Petrel nodded, beginning to relax. She felt terribly, terribly tired. "What about the rebellious elements in the countryside, in Takshila and Gandaris?"