of a spear.
These Grik were better trained than any they’d faced before, and they fought with greater skill. But if they’d largely learned not to wildly break, to “turn prey” in what Bradford had once coined “Grik Rout,” that ability was achieved only through greater awareness-an awareness that permitted a variety of somewhat normal, genuine fear. They didn’t break in the face of the sudden, ferocious countercharge, but they did recoil from it just enough to allow it to gain some momentum.
Other Grik regiments pressing forward on the flanks also paused, bewildered and frightened as their comrades gave ground. That allowed other Ranger companies, Marines, and Sularans, to push back as well, and soon the Grik were falling back, still fighting savagely, all around the hill. The last few dozen grenades exploded among them, and cannon sent hoarded canister sleeting through the disconcerted ranks.
“At ’em!” Flynn kept screaming, over and over, stabbing with his long bayonet as he’d been taught so long ago. Bekiaa appeared beside him. She’d lost her musket, but she plied her cutlass with practiced, savage ease, hewing heads and grasping, slashing arms. The Baalkpan Armory copies of the 1917 Navy cutlass were outstanding weapons. Just like those that inspired them, they were the culmination of thousands of years of human experience. Fairly short, they were handy in close quarters, but their sharp, heavy-spined blades were ideal for slashing and chopping flesh and bone. Grik swords were great for hacking or slashing too, Flynn had seen, but generally lighter and even shorter, and shaped more like a sickle or claw, so they tended to turn in the attacker’s hand if they struck another sword, shield, or even musket barrel. Bekiaa and many other veterans were well aware of this and exploited it mercilessly.
Flynn took a clawed slash across his chest, unable to block it in time, then had the wooden forearm gnawed off his rifle while he tried to wrench it from clinging jaws. He finally yanked it free in a shower of splinters and shattered teeth and drove his bayonet through the eye of the Grik that tried to eat his gun. He thought he heard a squeal. Another lunged for him, batting at his rifle with its small shield, but Leedom drove it back against those behind it with a roar and sixteen inches of Springfield Armory steel.
Bekiaa was down! A Grik stood over her, sword raised for the killing blow. Flynn flung his rifle at the beast and chased after it, drawing his own cutlass. He hadn’t practiced with it much, but great skill would’ve been wasted just then. The Grik deflected the thrown musket, but screeched when the cutlass tore into its chest. A blow on his helmet hammered Flynn to the ground as well, but somebody must have killed or distracted his assailant, because there was no second strike. For a moment, he was knocked back and forth on his hands and knees by the legs and feet of friend and foe alike, and couldn’t get up. Grik hind claws slashed his thigh, and he gasped. Finally, a harried ’Cat hauled him up and pushed him out of the way. He saw Leedom then, Springfield on his shoulder, dragging Bekiaa back out of the fight while firing his pistol in the crush.
Flynn could sense the enemy was still afraid-he saw it in their wide eyes-but they just wouldn’t break. There were too many, and he was so tired! His wonderful Rangers-and all the others, of course-had done all they could. The Grik were firming up now, and his countercharge had stalled. There was nothing for it. He started to yell an order for his troops to fall back to their trenches when he suddenly heard the dull, thrumming roar of Grik horns in the distance. Obediently, but almost reluctantly, it seemed, as if the warriors themselves had known how close they were to finishing it, the Grik started backing away.
“Don’t chase ’em, for God’s sake,” Flynn croaked. “They wanna retreat, let ’em!”
He didn’t give the order to cease firing, however, and able to reload at last, the horribly diminished troops around him sent a patter of musketry after the Grik until they were beyond crossbow range. Few fired after that. They couldn’t have had much left to fire with.
“All right,” he said at last, his knees turning rubbery. “Form details to get our wounded out of this mess.” He waved at the carpet of corpses strewn around. “And pick up any weapons and ammunition you can find.” He stopped a furiously blinking Sularan lieutenant who was pulling cartridge boxes off the dead. “You take charge here, son. Get somebody else to do that.” He lowered his voice. “The guys and gals love to see their officers fight, but they’d rather we tell them to do stuff like this, while we pretend to think about what’s next.”
The lieutenant looked at him, his tail still swishing erratically from side to side, but the blinking stopped. “Yes, Col-nol,” he whispered.
“Lord General Halik!” the warrior cried as he flung himself into the grass at Halik’s feet. “I beg to report!”
“Rise, General Ugla,” Halik said almost mildly.
Ugla instantly rose to his feet, perhaps surprised he still lived. “Yes, Lord General!”
Halik looked at him, eyes steady. Ugla had reason for concern. Halik had not always been kind to those who brought ill tidings. But that was before. General Niwa had taught him a great deal. “Your assessment, General. Withhold nothing you perceive as truth.”
“Yes, Lord General.” Ugla still paused.
“Only your silence will anger me at this point,” Halik warned.
Ugla removed his helmet and shook out his crest. Halik noted that it was stiff with… anger?
“Lord General, we had them in our grasp. The prey was at bay and could not escape. It had gone to earth! It fought hard, still, and many Uul were slain. Many more would still have been lost… but we had them! Only you… Forgive me! Only the horns called us back before we gained all the prey atop that hill to feed upon!”
Halik said nothing for a moment, but only gazed into the west. Then he looked back at Ugla and pointed his sword at the smoldering hill.
“You are right, General. You would have had them. I know that as well, and I am… unhappy that I was forced to stop you.” He took a deep, rasping breath. “Not long ago, I wouldn’t have, no matter the cost, but the price of that stinking hill has grown too great to bear at present.” His own crest flared. “I like to believe I have grown wiser in the ways of war and I need your seasoned warriors, those that remain, for a far more important task we must set them to immediately.” He pointed back to the west. “We are out of time to pursue this sport. As you can see, the hatchling host draws near,” he said, using the somewhat derisive term he’d heard his generals use to describe the barely mature army of culls-some said-that had been bred to defend. “There are their banners now.”
It was true. Cresting a nearby rise, hundreds of bloodred pennants streamed in the afternoon sun, each signifying a hundred Uul warriors.
“We cannot linger here,” Halik stated. “As you say, the enemy on the hill is crushed, cut off from resupply or reinforcement. They can no longer threaten us. Leave a few thousands of your warriors to ensure they do not escape, but we must rejoin the bulk of our army and push the greater force of the enemy back, deeper into the gap. There we will hold him while the hatchlings deploy.” He paused. “You have shown great promise, General Ugla, and I need you and your warriors there.” Hesitantly, he patted Ugla’s shoulder as Niwa had often done to him. It wasn’t his people’s way to touch each other at all, other than while killing or mating, but Niwa’s touch had become oddly… comforting. Ugla recoiled, as Halik expected, but then let him pat him again. “Once that is done,” he continued, “we can finish our business here.”
He stared hard, thoughtfully, at the smoking hill, imagining the scene on it. “We know you had them, General,” he repeated, “but perhaps more important, and far more interesting, is the fact that the prey-the very worthy prey-you faced must know it as well. I wonder what they will think of that.”
Colonel Flynn stared at the withdrawing Grik a moment longer. They’d mauled them badly and they didn’t seem as numberless as they had, but he knew his guys were done. They’d never hold off another assault half as big as this one. They just didn’t have the numbers, ammunition, or strength left to do it. They should have had us, he thought. Hell, even the common Grik warriors probably knew it. I wonder why they pulled back. Suddenly, over the throbbing of his wounds, he felt a chill, and there wasn’t enough of a breeze to blame it on his sweat-soaked shirt. “ How in the hell did they pull them back?” he muttered. He’d been amazed to see the growing discipline the Grik displayed ever since Ceylon, but pulling the Grik off the shattered remnant of his division must have been like pulling a pack of dogs off a tree full of raccoons. Wearily, he shook his head and turned back to the trench to check on Bekiaa-and what was left of his troops. He was perplexed and uneasy, but he wouldn’t complain.
“Col-nol!” cried a filthy, blood-spattered Marine corporal.
“Yeah?”
