"It is T'an K'tass!" Banty Kar cried. The Kranolta second in command gestured at the flag that had just been unfurled atop one of the armored flar-ta. "That's the Spreading Tree!"
"Impossible!" Far shouted, refusing to believe his eyes. "We killed them all! We destroyed their warriors, and scattered their people to the winds."
"But we didn't kill their sons," his second grated in a voice of bleached, old bone, and a groan of despair went up from the Kranolta host as another banner was unfurled and the long-lost symbol of the Fire and the Iron soared over the battlefield.
"Nor all the sons of Voitan."
"Captain," Julian called, "you might want to hold up. Something just happened with the two forces. The new one just raised some flags. I don't know scummies real well, but I don't think the Kranolta are all that happy to see these new guys after all."
"Understood," Pahner replied. "Keep me advised," he finished just as the Kranolta broke into a chant.
"Do you hear that?!" T'Leen Targ demanded. "That's the sound I've waited to hear most of my life: the sound of the Kranolta Death Chant!" The big, old Mardukan hefted the battle ax attached to his stump and waved it high. "Suck on this, you barbarian bastards! Voitan is back!"
"Aye!" T'Kal Vlan shouted back. The last of the princes of T'an K'tass grunted in laughter as he listened to the mournful dirge. "It's time for T'an K'tass to collect a debt!"
Much of the force consisted of mercenaries, gathered from all over the lower city-states. But the core of the army were the sons and grandsons of the cities fallen before the Kranolta. Both Voitan and T'an K'tass had managed to evacuate not only noncombatants, but also funds. Those funds had been scattered in businesses ventures in multiple city-states, awaiting the day when Voitan could rise again.
And this day, the humans had cleared the way.
"Oh, the demons are feasting well this day!" Targ clapped his remaining true-hand to the ax in delight as he surveyed the mountainous piles of corpses. "Look at the souls these humans have sent on!"
"And it looks as if they're still holding out." Vlan gestured at the smoking citadel. "I think we should hurry." He turned to the force at his back. "Forward the Tree! Time to take back our own!"
"Forward the Tree!" the roar came back to him. "Forward the Flame!"
"Hammer those Kranolta bastards into atul food!" T'Leen Targ howled, waving his ax overhead.
"Forward the Tree! Forward the Flame!"
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Despreaux knelt beside the prince in the dim light.
The wounded had been gathered in a line on the ledge on the north side of the cavernous keep, and the bandaged and burnt Marines were mostly asleep, courtesy of Doc Dobrescu. Their wounds were horrible, even by modern standards. Most of the wounded seemed to be from First and Second platoon; despite the protection of their flame resistant chameleon suits, most of them looked like so many pieces of barbecued chicken, and she shook her head and turned away when she realized that the white thing sticking out of Kileti's uniform was his ulna.
Horrible though it was, the damage would heal. Even the severed limbs would regrow over time, and the nanites and regenerative retroviruses the Marines were pumped full of were already hard at work repairing the gross wounds. As skin grew over burns and muscles mended at impossible speeds, the limbs would start regrowing, as well.
There was a metabolic penalty, of course. For the next several days, the wounded would be able to do nothing but eat and sleep as the nanites worked feverishly to repair the wounds and combat infections. But in time—short or long, depending mostly on the amount of damage rather than its severity—the terrible wounds would reduce themselves to nothing but scars. In time, even those scars would fade. To be replaced by new ones, undoubtedly.
She touched the prince's face and picked up the diagnostic tag attached to his uniform. There were only a few of those, and she was surprised Dobrescu had used it on him. Or maybe she wasn't. There were more seriously wounded—the tag told her that immediately with its readout of his alpha rhythms, blood pressure, pulse, and oxygen—but there were none so precious.
She touched his face again, gently.
"He gets to you, doesn't he?" a gravelly voice asked.
She froze and looked up at the sergeant major.
"You look like a rabbit in a spotlight," Kosutic told her with a quiet chuckle. The senior NCO had propped herself up on her uninjured right arm to contemplate the squad leader with a quizzical smile.
"I was just checking on Third Platoon's wounded, Sergeant Major," Despreaux said guiltily... and almost truthfully. That had been her rationale for the visit, but she'd realized almost immediately what she was really after.
"Try to tell the Old Man that, girl—not me!" the sergeant major snapped, shifting her burnt and mangled left arm into a better position. Or, at least, one that was marginally less uncomfortable. "You haven't so much as looked at any of the other wounded. You've just been making cow eyes at Roger."
"Sergeant Major—" Despreaux began.
"Can it, I said! I know exactly what's going on. It was obvious even back on the ship, if you had eyes. And I do."
"But... I hated him back on the ship," the sergeant protested. "He was so... so... ."
"Snotty?" Kosutic suggested with a chuckle that cut off abruptly. "Shit, don't make me laugh, girl! Yeah. And you were making cow eyes at him, snotty attitude and all."
"I was not making cow eyes," Despreaux insisted firmly.
"Call it what you want, girl," the older woman said with a grin. "I call it cow eyes."
Despreaux looked around almost desperately, but all the other wounded seemed to be asleep. If they weren't, they were being incredibly disciplined in not laughing at her. Then she looked back at Kosutic.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," the sergeant major said, and chuckled again at her look of surprise. "We've got bigger things to worry about, Sergeant. And so far he seems to be either oblivious or beating you off with a club. I'm not sure which."
"Neither am I," the squad leader admitted sadly.
"Look," Kosutic said, "when I'm not feeling like a pounded piece of liver, come talk to me about this. I don't know if I can do anything, but we can talk. No reports, no notes, no counseling. Just... girl talk. About boy problems."
"Girl talk," Despreaux repeated incredulously. She looked at the sergeant major, then down at the line of combat ribbons and the burnt and mangled arm. "You realize that that sounds... odd."
"Hey, you've got boy problems," the senior NCO said, pointing at the sleeping prince with her chin. "Think of me as your older sister."
"Okay," Despreaux said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. "If you say so. Girl talk."
"Later," the sergeant major agreed, lying back down. "When I don't feel like pounded liver."
The first thing Roger noticed was a raging thirst. Hard on the heels of the thirst, though, was a headache that put it to shame.
He groaned and tried moving his fingers and toes. Something seemed to happen, so next he tried opening his eyes.
Well, he thought, cataloging his sensory impressions, it was hot and close, and there was a rock roof overhead. There was also a distinct stench of flar-ta droppings, and he swore, as he gagged on the dreadful smell, that he would never complain about grumbly oil again. He'd found so many, many smells that were worse.