"If you could truly kill us all, you would!" the chief retorted. "We are the Kranolta! Even Voitan could not stand before us! We will wipe your pissant little tribe from these lands!"
Roger inhaled sharply through his nostrils. The stench of dead Mardukans barely affected him at this point; he was far too deep into that dark world of battle.
"Watch carefully, old fool," he hissed.
The impromptu challenge matches had occurred on an open spot on the southern edge of the main battle zone. The Mardukans, for the most part, had been appearing from the northern woodline, so the southern one would make a better neutral target zone.
"Sergeant Julian." The prince gestured to the south. "Demonstration, please."
"Yes, Your Highness," the squad leader replied over his external speakers. He'd directed the response at the Kranolta, and his toot automatically translated it into the local dialect. "Gronningen, make these fine people a clearing to bury their dead in."
"Aye," Gronningen acknowledged, and turned to the south. "Shaman Cord, you might want to cover your ears."
The M-105 was a much heavier system than the M-98. That meant that, despite the all-pervasive, humid dampness of the jungle, the first shot from the plasma cannon left a trail of flickering fires on a ruler-straight line from the big Asgardian to the plasma bolt's impact on a tree in the middle of the area Roger had indicated. Where it shattered a divot into the woods.
The cannon's "CRAAACK!" was the loudest sound any of the Mardukans, even the survivors of the first brush with the company, had ever heard. It set their ears ringing, and the thermal pulse dried the surface of their mucus-covered skin, burning several of them painfully. And that was just from the secondary effects.
Twenty meters of the jungle giant which had been the gunner's target simply vanished as a lightning bolt carved from the heart of a star devoured it. The massive trunk shredded explosively for another five to ten meters above the impact point, and splinters longer than Roger was tall shrieked through the air far more lethally than any Kranolta javelin. The top of the tree flipped away into the burning jungle beyond, and the vegetation around it was turned into a finely divided, drifting ash surrounded by a dozen other burning, fallen trees.
And then Gronningen fired another round. And a third.
With those three rounds, he'd cleared a section of jungle fifty meters on a side and ringed with smoldering vegetation. Within that semicircle of hellfire, the ground steamed and smoked.
After a moment's stunned reflection, the chieftain turned from the destruction and asked the question.
"Why?"
"Because I don't intend to fight my way into Voitan. We walk into the city unmolested, or we kill every scummy in sight. Your choice."
"And on the morrow?" Molay was beginning to understand Puvin Eske's objections to this attack.
"On the morrow, you do your damnedest to kill all of us. Good luck. You had your chance to kill me as an individual... and couldn't. I suggest that you go home. If you do, we... I, Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock, will let you live."
The Kranolta chieftain laughed, although, even to himself, the sound was hollow. Or perhaps it was only the ringing in his ears.
"You think much of yourselves, humans. We are the Kranolta! I myself was one of the first over the walls of Voitan! Don't think to impress me with your threats!"
"We are The Empress' Own," Roger replied in a voice of iron, "and The Empress' Own does not know the meaning of failure." He smiled grimly, baring his teeth in that way which bothered most species except humans. "We rarely know the meaning of mercy, either, so count your blessings that I'm willing to show it to you this once."
The Mardukan glanced again at the flaming clearing and clapped his true-hands.
"Very well. We will let you go."
"Unmolested," Roger said. "To the city."
"Yes," the old Mardukan said. "And on the morrow, we will come, Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock. And the Kranolta will kill you all!"
"Then you'd better bring a bigger army!" Roger snarled, turning his back, and switched on his radio. "Julian, take the back door."
"Oh, yeah," the squad leader said. "Bet on it."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Most of the company was already gone when Roger walked through the gates. The hill ascended through the ruined city to a citadel on the upper slope, and it was obviously there that Captain Pahner had decided to make his stand.
Not everyone had been sent on to the citadel, however. A security detachment consisting of most of Second Platoon covered the gates, and Pahner sat waiting on his mound of rubble.
Roger walked up and saluted the captain.
"I'm back," he said, and Pahner shook his head slowly and spat out his gum at the prince's feet.
"First of all, Your Highness, as you've pointed out to me time and again, you don't salute me, I salute you."
"Captain—"
"I won't ask what you were thinking," the Marine continued. "I know what you were thinking. And I will admit here and now that it has a certain romantic attraction. It will certainly play well to the newsfeeds when we get home."
"Captain—"
"But it doesn't play well to me," Pahner snarled. "I've spent Marines like water to keep you alive, and having you throw that away on a stupid little gesture really pissed me off, Your Highness."
"Captain Pahner—" Roger tried again, beginning to get angry.
"You wanna play games, Your Highness?" the officer demanded, finally standing up. The two were of a height, both of them nearly two meters, but Pahner was by far the more imposing, a modern Hercules in bulk and build.
"You wanna play games?" he repeated in a deadly quiet voice. "Fine. I'm a master of playing games. I resign. You're the fucking company commander." He tapped the prince on the forehead with one finger. "You figure out how to make it across this goddamned planet without running completely out of ammunition and troops."
"Captain—" Roger was beginning to sound desperate.
"Yes, Sir, I'll just toddle along behind. What the hell, there's not a damn thing I can do anyway!" Pahner's face was turning a truly alarming shade of red. "I am really, really pissed at Bilali, Your Highness. You know why?"
"Huh?" Roger was confused by the sudden non sequitur. "No, why? But—"
"Because he can't forget he's a goddamned Marine!" Pahner barked. "I was a Marine before his mother was born, but when I came to the Regiment the first time, do you know what they told me?"
"No. But, Captain—"
"They told me to forget about being a Marine. Because Marines have all sorts of great traditions. Marines always bring back their dead. Marines never disobey an order. Marines always recover the flag. But in The Empress' Own, there's only one tradition. And do you know what the tradition of your regiment is, Colonel?"
"No, I guess not, but, Captain—"
"The tradition is that there is only one task. Only one mission. And we've never failed at it. Do you know what it is?"
"To protect the Imperial Family," Roger said, trying to get a word in edgewise. "But, Captain—"
"Do you think I liked leaving Gelert behind?!" the captain shouted.
"No, but—"
"Or Bilali, or Hooker, or, for God's sake, Dobrescu? Do you think I liked leaving our only medic behind?"