Tirdal wasn’t about to follow Dagger into, through or around that copse. It was too likely he’d be targeted. The sniper was definitely still alive, though there was a hint of injury or pain in what Tirdal could Sense. All good, but not enough.
However, Tirdal was now confident he could ambush Dagger, on terrain of his choosing, pin him down and inflict injury by proxy or directly. Whether or not he could kill directly was another question, but a crippled Dagger put Tirdal in a much better bargaining position.
With Dagger confused, Tirdal beat a retreat for the stream, careless of the path he left. His plan was to reach a scrubby area he’d passed through not long before, all tangled and thick though not qualifying as “forest,” merely brush. It was strewn with rocks and would provide several good places to dodge and shoot from. As Dagger’s thoughts seemed to become coherent, again he began a series of zigzags to make himself somewhat less obvious.
He took long lopes down the slight slope to the stream’s bluffs, then dropped over them. Dagger was alert now, and was starting to move. He was “far” and approaching “middle” in Tirdal’s mind. Good. That gave Tirdal enough lead to get where he wanted to be.
He splashed across the stream, following a game trail southward that more or less paralleled the stream. He knew that he was leaving a trail but didn’t know what to do about it. The terrain was karstic and there was a large chunk of limestone, a low bluff really, on this side. He looked at that, looked at the surrounding trees and his clear boot tracks in the mud and smiled.
Chapter 19
Dagger had moved off to the east, trying to keep calm and think of nothing. But it was hard, very hard. The Darhel would be out there somewhere, and now the tracking was on the other foot; for the first time the Darhel was the hunter instead of the prey. Of course, that meant that he was closing. When Dagger saw him he would be too close to dodge a round. If Dagger saw him first.
That meant the hummocky terrain to the south. If he could bypass the Darhel, who was sure to be coming east, and get to the hills, especially to the southeast, he would have a good chance of getting the first shot in. If he moved by bounds, found an open area, set up, waited, then moved again, he had a good chance of getting the first shot in anyway. The Darhel didn’t appear to be able to zero in on his position, just get a vague feel for his general locale. That would work. And keep calm.
Tirdal sensed the change in Dagger’s demeanor. He was somewhere to the northeast, and even as a strong feeling of gloating came through the contact began to fade until it was almost impossible to discern. Apparently Dagger had taken his comments to heart about masking his feelings.
He let a little of his anger slip and felt the trickle of tal hormone fill his being with a feeling of lightness. But even with his enhancement he was back to “near/far” and the sniper was… somewhere in the middle.
Obviously Dagger was doing one of two things. Waiting, or swinging around to get on Tirdal’s backtrail. Since the plan was to lead the sniper into another trap, it was important to make and then break contact. But with the feel of location fading it was going to be difficult. He or Dagger could walk right up to each other without even realizing it.
He marched into the scrub, and it was as bad as he’d hoped. Tendrils caught at his boots, coarse grass dragged at his suit, rocks of every size protruded into his path. Small flyers lofted past him, and once a boot-sized insect jumped from in front of him, digging frantically under the matted grass to find shelter. Then there were the choking vines, stiff plants and gnarled, low trees. It was sere and desolate and perfect.
Edging a little closer to the savanna, he headed due south, every sense alive for the slightest sign of Dagger.
Which was why he didn’t notice the tiger beetles.
The creatures were not tigers, of course, and not beetles. But they were two meter long predators, albeit with short legs, and their mandibles were adapted to cut through the tough shells of the local herbivores like can openers; they were more than capable of taking apart a lone Darhel. Their evolution had taught them to be stealthy, lest the large prey crush them underfoot with their knife-edge hooves, or bite with their own jaws. Such a bite wasn’t likely to be fatal at once, but would cripple the predator. That led to death from starvation, and improved the stealth and reactions of the surviving lines. The tiger beetles moved stealthily toward this strange little snack, darting and freezing.
Tirdal sensed the attack before the first rustle of underbrush and the things were on him. He dodged the first, but his Sense said “seven” and he knew he’d have to fire.
Dagger heard the hollow slap of the punch gun to the east and grinned. The Elf had run into something he couldn’t run away from and it was going to cost him. The sniper cut immediately to the southeast where he knew the Darhel’s trail would be. He listened to the shots, gauging direction and distance. He must be in that patch of crud across the stream. The Elf had been stupid not to press the attack when he could, and now Dagger would exploit it. At a run, weapon high, he bounded down the bluff, keeping ears open for the punch gun, eyes open for the Darhel and feet alert for tripping hazards.
It was a good kilometer, which was a long run on this terrain with this much crap. Add in lack of sleep and water, fatigue and a bad ankle plus a few new dings and Dagger was worn out and panting for breath by the time he neared the stream.
Tirdal wasn’t sure how he had dodged the first rush but now it was a furball. Two of the predators were down, one of them twitching, one broken, but those were lucky shots. Two more had been hit but it wasn’t stopping them; he had to hit a nerve center to kill the creatures. Neck or belly were the targets. Neck or belly, he reminded himself as he dodged another leap. They were pack hunters, and waited for cues from each other. They circled around at a run and dove in a tight sequence, one to distract, one from behind, the rest from the sides. He Sensed their leaps only instants before, but it had been enough so far. He knew their pattern, now, but could he maintain his luck and speed? His first evasion had sent pain shrieking through his lower chestplate. The second one had almost caused him unconsciousness. There was another danger; that of a reaction equivalent to human endorphin response. Part of his brain was Sensing his enemy, part clamping down tightly on agony, part controlling tal and preventing the cloying sweetness and urgency of lintatai, leaving badly eroded mental processes for wielding the punch gun, twisting through the blades of their jaws and staying mobile.
It took three quarters of a second for the punch gun to cycle and the pauses between shots were the most incredibly long three-quarters of a second he could imagine. He had accepted that he would have to fill each of the beasts full of holes until he hit a nerve junction, but the question was who would be dismembered first. He ducked a leap, rolled to the left through thick weeds, untangled from them and the matted grass beneath, skipped back a step and fired. The gun went poounk, his chosen target staggered, lintatai surged toward the center of his brain and his training locked it back down. The contortions and battle outside were a mere shadow of the war within, of hormones versus self-control. It was literally as hard as controlling an orgasm in progress, that threatened to spill over at the slightest opening. Except that this orgasm would kill him.