Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17

Gemma's thoughts circled to the searing burn of the slowly healing holes that had been torn in her head. Pack killed. Her throat was tight, sore, thoughts drifting back through memories, gently touching the remaining knots, praying. Slowly, slowly, her mind stopped trying to pound out of her skull. The wereem lay awake, looking out at the snowflakes drifting down, her shivering increasing as she lay waiting, waiting, for the next call. Dreading. Hoping. The night was interminable.

Tentatively she reached, carefully stretching her pounding mind like a fiery band of overstrained muscle longing to collapse, but held by her will.

Mac's focus was entirely on the battle. She could easily feel her mate, the deep, steady anger balanced by grief and wolf stoicism. But if she tried to focus on what was actually happening, around him, it was like trying to decipher a DVD forward wound at maximum speed. No, make that a bank of dozens of DVDs, hundreds, the focus of thousands of eyes and minds careering higgledy-piggledy past her, making no sense whatsoever. And she already had a blinding headache.

She winced as Alan's voice sounded in her head. Try Walter, he advised brusquely. Her second and Alpha-mentor was sprinting somewhere across the inside of the Faulk grounds, three other wolves at his side, a cold wound pulling painfully in left front leg. He's just gone to the phys station. Then Alan was gone.

It was excruciating, diverting her already overstrained mind. But she had to know.

Alfamme! cried Walter, gratified and welcoming. Hearing what she wanted, he leaned back against the parapet behind him while Mini cleaned his wound, and carefully focussed on each element of the battle in turn.

The young wolf could see both ways along the wall from this point, the corner above the lake was safe from the Tzo ladders, and so Mac had set the field hospital here. Mini was the only wolf on phys duty at the moment, the other volunteers were helping the Zaban pack in the struggle to hold back the current wave of Tzo cresting the wall beside the gatehouse.

Despite the pitch-black night, he could see the outlines of the invaders pouring over the battlement, ladder tops and furry figures silhouetted by the smouldering orange glow lining the edge of the forest. Walter half smiled. When he had changed sides, the Zaban had left a troop of warriors outside to disable the war machines. While his koiru had been unable to reach the remaining barrels of silver rain to destroy them, they had found the oil that the Tzo had had brought for the gate, and had used that to torch the trebuchets. Now they had retreated into the forest and joined forces with Ulf Mackeld and his fighters, harrying the enemy warriors working to fashion new catapults from damp timber.

In retaliation the Tzo allies outside had doused the remaining oil over the Faulk gate and set it alight. It was blazing like a beacon into the night, lighting the Faulk warriors defending the smouldering gap from the Tzo fighting to break through.

Walter's attention flickered back to the wall. A surge of movement crashed into and halted the wave of invading Tzo up by the western gatehouse turret, and the young wolf's heart pulsed on a blinding surge of pride. The Mackeld! He could not see his Alpha, but he knew - Walter was proud to be one of the Little Gems, who fought alongside the Warlord himself. The Gems were the relief force, Mac led them around the compound to wherever the defence was weakening, to shore up their allies: the Zaban on the wall, the Faulk at the gates, or the human-and-wolf crew down at the lagoon, guarding the pump and sprinkler fence which was holding the rest of the Tzo captive.

Holding all but the Tzo himself, and his koiru. The Tzo moved almost as swiftly as the Mackeld.

A warning shout sounded from down by the hospital corner of the sprinkler fence. Walter swung his head that way and peered into the darkness, unable to see more than a glimmer of movement, his night vision distorted by the faint sheen of the lagoon away to the right. But yes - the line of the jets was broken, a gap several feet wide showing faintly, where the gleaming lines of liquid no longer leapt into the night. A horde of trapped Tzo were already running through the breach, but they flinched backwards as he watched, as though running into something. Some cried out.

Walter shivered. Many humans were fighting for the Mackeld. Some were friends of the Alfamme, more were enemies of his enemies, but all were immune to silver. Sets of humans circled the jet fence with portable carwash units, taken from the garage store, and held the trapped Tzo back from sabotaging the line. Through Jorgen, he could see two of the humans pumping their lagoon-water spray onto the escapees, while others were hurriedly clearing the sprinkler hose of the earth the Tzo wolves had thrown to block the nozzles. Mac had allocated a wolf with each human group, to guard their backs them from physical attack and keep him informed. Whenever the Tzo packs tried to attack them or break out, they used the spray as defence. The pair guarding the pump had an even more formidable weapon: a water cannon, the force of which could knock a wolf off his feet. A silver cannon.

Walter's eyes clashed on the shimmer of light on racing furry bodies speeding towards the gap in sprinkler teeth from outside the jet circle. Mac! he shouted, instantly aware that the attackers were not theirs, not in the meld. Then the young wolf subsided, sheepish and ashamed, as the Gem Second appeared at Jorgen's side to help him guard the humans, demanding caustically, What the hell do you think he sent us here for?

Walter squirmed.

Never mind, Gemma consoled him. Alan's that polite to everyone.

So long as that's not the Tzo himself attacking, the young wolf thought defensively. Then: where is the Tzo? His heart leapt. Two powerful figures were clashing on the gravel circle behind the burning gate, visible in the flickering orange light. The Tzo had finally been cornered by the Mackeld. Their wolves were engaging around them, Gems facing the small number of Tzo who were currently with their Alpha, but it was the centre two who held the watchers' rapt attention.

Impossibly swiftly, Mac was running straight across the gravel to his enemy. On the last bound he dove to his right, somersaulting over a twisting back kick from the Tzo. The Aster Warlord's left forearm lifted to deflect a rake of claws aimed for his stomach, while his right fist looped to jab in under the collarbone, extended claws puncturing deep.

The Chinese warlord grunted, continuing his spin. Mac felt a sharp pain carving into his neck from behind and twisted on out of reach as the claws of Tzo's other hand scored his flesh a hair's breadth from his jugular.

For a second the pair were still, facing each other across the short expanse of gravel, panting heavily. Tzo was pinching his spurting wound closed with two fingers. Blood was darkening the fur at Mac's neck. Then Tzo leapt, a chillingly fast rake of claws to the face to blind his opponent, but Mac ducked his head back out of reach. The Mackeld swung at ninety degrees, his right claws biting into his enemy's wrist, yanking him off balance, left clawing into the elbow joint and he slammed his foot down on the Chinese Warlord's overextended right thigh, breaking the knee backwards.

A heavy grunt burst from the older warrior's lips, but he completed his own kick up into the air using the grip on his disabled right arm as leverage, and twisted and kicked his left foot into the Mackeld's stomach, winding him while puncturing deep. The claws raked down towards the tawny Alpha's groin before the pair of them rolled apart and uncoiled rapidly back to their feet again.

Mac grabbed his stomach to hold the wound closed as he dove straight back to the attack, leaving his enemy no time to recover. Off-balance, the Tzo lurched a series of unsteady steps backward, delivering stab after stab past the flurry of one-handed punches and blocks from the advancing Mackeld, piercing the younger Alpha's shoulders and stomach like a pincushion but never hitting a vital spot, until the damn Aster finally stopped his headlong assault, pausing to heave a breath while the series of holes dappling him stopped flowing and slowly closed over.

The Tzo snarled, well aware that during the Mackeld's reckless onslaught, his own leg had set at a skew, and would unbalance him to serious disadvantage unless he could find a moment to re-break and reset it.

"Hypocrite," Tzo panted. "All this you do for your wereem pet, not wolves." He leapt over a sweep from the Mackeld, slashing but missing anywhere vital.

Mac snorted, not bothering to answer. He pressed in to attack with both foreclaws again, speeding through his enemy's blocks and counters, causing the Tzo to heave for breath while their arms blurred in the air, blood drops from each new cut in the flying limbs arching at a slower pace through the gathering dusk.

The Chinese Warlord stumbled slightly on his skewed leg, and Mac was in the air, running lightly up the front of his enemy, pushing off holds kicked deep into thigh, stomach, chest, head, although the Tzo managed to deflect the kicks away from his heart and throat. The Mackeld's weight on his face slammed the off-balance Chinese warlord onto his back in the gravel, fresh blood running from each puncture. However, as Mac was pushing off from his face, Tzo snapped his head sideways and bit down hard on his attacker's foot. The tawny Alpha snarled and yanked his bleeding limb free, but the fraction of a second delay enabled Tzo to slash a claw through the Achilles tendon at the back of the Aster's heel.

The older Alpha rolled one way, heaving for breath, a hand over one eye.

Mac landed staggering on one leg, the knee of his disabled foot bent to his chest, toes pointing down. Without pause he speared the very tips of his almost fully retracted claws into both shortening ends of tendon behind his calf and heel, pinched the caught ends between his finger tips and sliced through his own skin to draw them carefully back together, holding them while they knitted.

A Tzo koiru leapt towards the disabled Alpha, snarling triumphantly. Mac jumped off his standing leg and kicked the cocky puppy in the groin with that same foot before landing wavering back in the same pose as he had started, without letting go of his swiftly knitting tendon. A hand reached to steady him, and he snarled after the retreating form of the Tzo, who was loping swiftly away into the darkness with his warriors, a limp to his gait.

Mac's head snapped around, to the defenders on the wall, just as a cry for succour echoed from the Zaban warriors fighting near the western corner. Walter's head also pulled around to the cry, and he was on his feet, brushing away the fingers rubbing antiseptic along his closing wound, surging into motion with the call in his head. I have to go! Walter conveyed unnecessarily, he and Mini dropping into loup to sprint together along the wall.

Gemma pulled her pounding, grated mind back, quivering, and blinked at the snowflakes melting on her nose.

*

The afternoon of the second day was wearing to a close. It was a good job the Louse had run out of scent mask, Gemma would not have been able to lead the hunt, unable to focus with the pain in her head and worry in her heart. The increasing potency of the Faulk's trail, despite the light drizzle here in the lowlands, indicated that the determined hunters were gradually gaining on their quarry.

Alfamme! Alan called. His body was screaming in agony, plummeting into shutdown, and he flung his conveyance at her urgently just before blacking out.

He had flung her the battle meld of remaining Little Gems and Faulk. Everything whirled in Gemma's head: her wolves were scattered, some in little pockets running from Tzo pursuers through the grounds, others fighting, both outside in the grounds and inside cramped corridors, defending the entryways to the underground lair. Some few she just experienced, writhing in pain, waiting for shiatz or death to take them.

Shit. Where was Mac? Gemma skidded to a halt. Her heart jumped to him as she realised the truth of what he had told her long ago: silver could not block their bond. But it had shut him off from everyone else. Mac was fighting furiously to free himself of an Argen net the Tzo warriors had ambushed him with, where he and a small group of Gems were guarding the main stairwell down toward the lair.

Mac! Gemma shouted, exasperated, and held the links for him. Her mate did a double-take, realisation hitting him, and grabbed up the meld through her, sinking instantly back into that blurring stream of imagery and orders careering in all directions. The Tzo warriors he was facing himself staggered back, confusion flashing on their faces as the Aster Warlord punched his trapped arm through the mesh and dove back into attack, oblivious to the silvery net streaming from his shoulders like a lopsided cloak.

Gemma's mind was screaming in pain. She was clinging on with everything in her, feeling the thoughts surging through her like molten lava. But the agony in her mind was nothing to the ache in her heart as she absorbed all that Alan had conveyed to her in that short call.

They were losing. The lagoon was drained down, shrunk to a hollow of water framed by slimy grey mud, and the trapped Tzo warriors had finally broken free of the jet-fence, all but the seated Su, overwhelming the small force of guard wolves and humans when the intakes to pump and water cannon had blocked simultaneously.

Alan had been cornered on the shore, defending the retreat of the last three humans as they had run to their refuge within the lagoon. One of the Tzo packs had caught him there, and had flung him out into the silver-rich slime, their Alpha cursing him for a human-lover as her second had struggled to escape the clagging poison. Gemma cried out in pain, staggering to a halt as the fiery knot of his bond tore from her head.

So many dead.

The gate had long since burned to bones of blackened timber, the Faulk defenders driven back when the Mackeld Alpha had called a retreat, shifting his forces to guard the entrances to the underground complex. Only a pocket of Zaban remained trapped on the wall and had withdrawn to the corner above the river, fighting to hold back the tide of their former allies.

Mac suddenly pulled a blow and stepped back, calling his warriors across the complex to a halt as the kutich, the truce call, sounded above him. The Tzo warriors they had been fighting slowly retreated back up the steps to the ground floor, their eyes never leaving their enemies, until they had backed behind the newly arrived Tzo Warlord. The Tzo limped heavily to the top of the steps, and glared down at the Mackeld.

"Will you damn well surrender, whelp?" he cursed.

Mac growled.

The noise of something heavy rolled across the stone flags above, and the Chinese Alpha stopped it with his foot at the top of the steps.

"Surrender or die," he ordered. His foot was resting on a small barrel.

Mac felt panic stab through the warriors trapped with him in the stairwell. Even if it was the fake rain, there was no way the Tzo would leave them to heal out of shiatz this time.

Without a second thought, Mac dove to the attack, rocketing up the stairs. The Tzo swore, thrusting the barrel over the top step as he leapt backwards, but the Mackeld caught it on the second bounce and slammed it down on end before bounding on up into the hallway.

Mac was heartened by the fierce cheer that ran through his remaining warriors as they surged back in to fight with him. They were surrounded by Tzo koiru in the open space, fighting back to back, but they were going to die their way.

Gemma's head snapped up, and Mac blinked: outside, a second cheer was echoing in the ears of their wolves, a hoarse shout of triumph from the Zaban on the walls.

They were answered by a roar of howling from outside the Faulk perimeter.

Ulf Mackeld charged in through the broken gate at the head of Mackeld pack.

The Tzo's furious eyes suddenly met Tor Mackeld's, and he leapt backwards, calling a retreat as he absorbed what his allies on the wall were seeing. He realised that Ulf Mackeld had killed any Tzo warriors out in the forest not only to prevent them from rebuilding the trebuchets, but to ensure that their Warlord had no forewarning of this.

The Chinese Warlord had presumed that he had at least another day before any major relief force could reach the Faulk centre, knowing that the Fealden had only one air transport. Yet the Mackeld pack was followed by the Marsh, the Whites, the O'Connell, and the Vanilchov, thousands of warriors streaming out of the forest.

Mac ripped the Argen net off his right shoulder. His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to straighten, stars stretching through his deepening eyes, the power exuding from him multiplying thousandfold. The Tzo warriors facing him shuddered convulsively. Including their Alpha.

Mackeld Wolflord.

High in a green valley, Gemma fainted in the recoil from releasing the meld.

*

The following day, Gemma's hunters were closing on their quarry.

Gemma smiled around at her companions. She smiled at the sun. She smiled at the patchwork of fields. Mac had killed the Tzo. She had woken from the healing coma with the knowledge singing in her head. Her wolf companions smiled back at the exuberant Alfamme in their midst, Ada and Penny also looking as though they might burst with pride. Adam rolled his eyes.

The chase had led them to the edge of cultivated lands, the foothills of the mountains. Gemma's sore feet were thankful to race across soft meadow grass in the deep, narrow folds of pasture between rock buttresses clinging to the edges of the high peaks. Her scent disturbed the grazing ruminants, cows and sheep crying fearfully as they lumbered away, sparking a flicker of hunger within her.

But she was already hunting.

Besides, she had heard the names for a wolf so pathetic as to hunt domestics. Her smile widened. She flickered an ear, and her companions dropped back. They had already masked their scent, Lee reluctant with revulsion until she had explained that this scent-mask was barbiturates, and held no silver. The Alpha had accepted the small phial, then left on his own trail, cutting away to the right.

Back in the trees, Gemma climbed a steep slope at a steady lope, her enemy's scent thick in her nostrils. The sun blasted into her eyes as the trees cleared at the edge of a plateau atop the hill. Boulders were littering the ground at the foot of an old rock face, an overgrown trail disappearing among the trees to her right - the signs of an old quarry.

On the edge between sense and sight, at the corner of her vision, a darkness flickered, and her mate shouted, alert in her head, already rolling Gemma away. Teeth tore the loose fur of her upper arm, but failed to get a grip in her flesh, and her brown eyes were flashing as she rolled back to her feet, surging lycan, facing her opponent.

Louise Faulk's eyes were mocking as they looked her over. "What are you, six months old at the most, little were?" crooned the voluptuous wolf, "Do you really think you are going to win this fight?"

Gemma didn't deign to answer, leaping to avoid a second attack.

"Slow," sneered the former Faulk Alfamme. "The meld is not enough, pet, even with the Mackeld. Limbs also need training. In light of your disability, I will make this death as slow as you."