Kodiak Chained

by Doranna Durgin

“Yes,” Tarras said. “You’re no different than the rest of us. We’re all expendable. And you’re nothing but his biggest experiment, saved for last.”

  “Naht.”

  “Are you interrupting for a reason?” Ehwoord didn’t lift his head from his gruesome work, a clinking shuffle of amulets punctuating his words.

  Tarras sent Ciobaka a warning glare. “Someone’s made it in past the dispersal workings,” he said. “I thought you’d want to see.”

  Ehwoord sat straight up, regarding Tarras with an unpleasant expression. “You fool. Of course I want to see. Immediately!”

  You’ll be next. Maybe after Tarras?

  Ciobaka looked down at his new weapon. It had hurt when Ehwoord put it there. It had hurt a lot.

  But Ehwoord had fed him. Ehwoord had made him special. The new claw made him even more special...more important.

  Tarras moved briskly to the computer desk at the end of the worktable and tapped out a quick combination of keystrokes, swiveling the large monitor so Ehwoord could see it.

  A lone man, standing among the trees. Shirtless, bigger than any of Ehwoord’s pack, at ease with himself in the forest. Just standing.

  Ehwoord cursed. “I warned you not to take them for granted! Where is Yovan?”

  “Gearing up,” Tarras said. “There’s only one of him. Assuming he’s Sentinel, he still won’t be hard to take out.”

  “No!” Ehwoord snapped. “He is most certainly Sentinel, and I want him alive! He can take Ciobaka’s cage. I must have him, do you hear me? Failure is not an option!”

  His cage! Ciobaka whined under his breath. “Nahhht.”

  Tarras’ mouth turned into a grim little line. He understood, all right. His hand dipped into one of the many pockets of the blotchy green pants he wore. “We may need to damage him.”

  “That is of no consequence, as long as he lives.” Ehwoord swept the dead salamander from the table and into the trash and his notes on the creature along with it; he swept his amulets aside and yanked open a drawer, plucking out a series of amulet blanks and a few select, primed amulets; he seemed to have already forgotten Tarras’ presence.

  Tarras strode for the exit, turning beside Ciobaka’s cage—well within reach of that new claw. “We’ll turn all our resources on him,” he said, glancing oddly at Ciobaka, his words distinctly formed. Ciobaka gave him lips and teeth in return. “I’m afraid it will result in some temporary confusion here below.”

  Ehwoord graced him with disdainful frown. “I may have overestimated you, Tarras. At times you seem quite simple. Go get that man!”

  Tarras turned on his heel. On his way past Ciobaka’s cage, his hand flicked out.

  A metal key landed silently in the bedding.

  Chapter 19

  Mariska shifted on her perch of an arching pine bough, staying close to the trunk so the resulting tremble of the branch wouldn’t give her away.

  ::This is a bad, bad idea,:: she sent to Ruger, letting her scowl color her thoughts and pretty certain that her worry leaked through, as well.

  And there he stood, out in the open—out where they were so certain Forakkes would have surveillance in place. Just because after an hour of lurking less obviously—as if they didn’t know they were so close—Mariska had run off into the woods to retch off the growing effects of the amulet working in her system.

  “We can’t wait,” Ruger had said. “It could be days before they come back out. We don’t have the time. Ian doesn’t have the time, or Sandy.”

  “Maybe Jet—” Mariska had started, but it wasn’t an argument she pursued. He was right. Maybe Jet would come to check on them; maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe Maks would wonder; maybe he wouldn’t. But by then it would be far too late for all of them.

  It would clearly be too late for Mariska. And it would leave Ruger out here on his own.

  And so he stood out there, exposed, tall and relaxed and shirtless. Easygoing and primal at the same time. Bait.

  Mariska suddenly thought it was such a very, very bad idea.

  They appeared without warning—two men toting guns, one with a rifle also slung over his shoulder. Gangsters at heart—just as they’d always been, all the way back to the start of it all, when the Roman-born son had persecuted his druidic brother. Mariska gave them a mental sneer.

  ::Steady,:: Ruger said. ::I see them.::

  ::I’m not sure where they came out.:: She let her frustration slip through that, too.

  ::They obscured it. It doesn’t matter. I’ll see it when I get close enough.::

  ::I don’t want you to get close enough!::

  ::I know,:: he said, and that was all.

  Dammit.

  The Core minions stopped not far from Ruger—definitely out of reach, watching him with overalert wariness.

  When Ruger spoke, he did it without moving—without threatening any further. “Take it easy—we’re not at war here. At least, that’s what your Septs Prince says.”

  From their expressions, they knew as well as Ruger and Mariska that their international prince was growing short in temper when it came to the trouble the Southwest regional drozhars had generated these past several years. But they were well-trained minions, decked out in matching black shirts and camo pants, similar features and black hair pulled back into tight ponytails—and similar implacable expressions. The tallest of them said only, “Come with us.”

  Ruger didn’t move; he didn’t show any signs of concern. “Of course, you’re all officially disavowed now, but I’m sure you’ll be welcomed back if Forakkes gets his big working finished and tested out.”

  “We’re not asking again,” the man said, and shifted the rifle across his back.

  “You never asked in the first place. You told.” Ruger’s congeniality shifted, making way for a hint of the bear—an imperceptible shift in bearing as his voice hardened and his expression hardened, and Mariska felt her bear rise right along with his. “So now I’m telling you. This is your chance to get out of this mess. Go turn yourselves in to the new drozhar, and see if he lets you live. Because Forakkes is going down, and if you stay with him, you’ll go down, too.”

  One of the men lifted his gun—or started to. He’d made his biggest mistake coming out here with the weapon still down at his side. Because for all his size, Ruger carried little bulk—and he was faster than either of them. Stronger than either of them. Buoyed by the bear, tempered by the human—the best of the best, working in concert.

  When Ruger straightened, he pulled his strength in, calling on the bear. He said, so softly that Mariska wouldn’t have heard it but for their connection, “Leave the gun out of this.”

  At the man’s hesitation, Ruger added, “This isn’t about whether I go back into the bunker with you. It’s about whether you leave this place in one piece, or whether you never leave this place at all.”

  Neither man moved. Not for a long, long moment. Then the taller of them took a step back, not raising his hands so much as spreading them from his sides with open fingers, the gun barely held to his palm with his thumb.

  Mariska sent Ruger her skepticism. ::Don’t trust—::

  ::No,:: he agreed, and then jerked slightly, his expression grim with alarm. ::Mariska!::

  It was the only warning she got, and she understood it well enough. The man’s very acquiescence had been a signal to someone within, someone with an attack amulet to spare. Mariska threw energy to her shields, tightening her grip on the branch beside her, bracing herself—

  Not enough. Even as Ruger faltered in the clearing, it hit her—a working of cruel, sweeping pain and sucking darkness. It slammed through her shields; it tangled in the wards. They shuddered, warping; Mariska gasped, suddenly bereft of air. The world swooped around her and she closed her eyes and clung—to the tree, to consciousness, to herself. And it lasted forever...

  With a final reverberation of agonized, whiplashing energy, the wards snapped. Mariska moaned, her face pressed against rough bark, her hair catching in it.


  But the working ebbed away, and she was still there. It faded into nothing more than a lingering stench. She scrabbled for her defenses, eyes squeezed shut against tears and unable to suppress a small sob of effort. No more wards, no more shields...

  She had no defense against the next working. And Ruger was still out there—

  Ruger! She forced her eyes open, hastily scrubbing them against her forearm—not daring to release her grip on the tree. He’d been stronger than she from the start, better protected than she. Surely he—

  Yes. She found him there, still standing. He’d staggered but not gone down, and the overconfident Core minions hadn’t yet realized he wasn’t going to. They stood waiting—one smirking, one grim—and only belatedly responded when he lifted his head, baring his teeth in a ferocity they should never have roused.

  They scrambled back, guns rising, and Ruger moved on them—slapping aside one weapon with preternatural quickness, whirling to ram his elbow into the man’s chest. The minion dropped in his tracks, astonishment etched on his features.

  The second man pulled off a shot before his weapon even came to aim; dirt puffed up from the ground and Ruger was on him, ripping the rifle sling off his shoulder and coming around to meet him with the butt of it. A blow to the arm cracked audible bone; a reversed follow-up to the side of the man’s head and he went down hard.

  Silence.

  Ruger stood on braced legs, for that instant still in the fight. Then he straightened and stood quiescent, his gaze aimed at the place where the men had first become evident—the doorway still masked, but clearly not far.

  Mariska couldn’t see his face from this angle; she didn’t have to. She saw the message clearly enough—the direct challenge in the set of his shoulders, the threat in the power of his stance.

  Then he turned and walked away—heading not for Mariska, but lateral to her position, not giving her away. ::Two down,:: he told her, his background thoughts full of intent. ::We’ll come back after dark and circle in the other way if the others don’t come out for us. If not, we’ll go looking for those air vents.::

  She didn’t respond at first, too full of dismay—too full of her own truth. By evening, she’d be no good to him. The hit she’d taken had undone his painstaking trickle of healing, and there was little he could do to stop the effect of the working now.

  She dropped the gear bag; it landed on pine needles with a solid thump, and after a moment, so did she. She brushed herself off, hoisted the bag over her shoulder, and angled off to meet up with Ruger.

  “Okay?” he asked, watching her with narrowed gaze. He still held something of the wild about him—a quality of movement, a look in brown eyes gone pale.

  “You?” she asked, as if she’d answered.

  He noticed, of course. He might even have asked again, had not someone from behind them snapped off a rifle shot that thunked hard into a tree to their right. Ruger grabbed her hand and tugged her onward—completely unnecessary, at that. She stumbled over nothing and caught up with him, even as another shot flaked bark to their left; together, they flinched away.

  She might have called it coincidence, had it not happened again. Right, left. ::Don’t like this,:: she told Ruger, not wasting her breath on spoken words.

  Right, left.

  Without warning, Ruger ducked behind a tree, yanking her around to do the same. She thumped up against him and they struggled to quiet their breathing, still gulping for air—listening behind, and belatedly understanding. ::They’re herding us!::

  ::Yes,:: he agreed, a snarl still lingering in his thoughts. ::We’re not supposed to figure that out. We’re supposed to run straight out.::

  ::Let’s not.::

  “No,” he muttered out loud, “let’s not.” He crouched low, one knee on the ground—drawing her down with him, albeit less abruptly than before. He nodded to their right—the direction that would allow them to circle out behind the Core—and pushed off, staying low.

  White-hot slamming noise—

  The forest exploded in front of them—sound and fury and shredding trees, flashing the world into chaos. Ruger pushed Mariska to the ground, landing on top of her—shielding her. ::Watch yourself!:: she cried, terrified for him—understanding now why they’d been herded. ::Watch—!::

  Another explosion, closer—close enough to wash her mind with a concussion of sound, to slam the breath out of her lungs. Her ear stabbed with pain; Ruger jerked against her with a grunt she felt rather than heard.

  ::If we’d kept running...:: she said, dazed enough to let the thought trickle out.

  ::Then that would be us.:: His weight lifted from her, his hand lingering on her arm to give her a tug—not bodily lifting her, as he’d done before, but suggesting this time. ::Double back. They had this corridor set up. They’ll be out to look for us.::

  ::Double back,:: she agreed, her gaze caught on the wreckage ahead of them. Only with effort could she resolve the jumble to perceive the shattered remains of a once-massive pine. ::Come up on them from behind.:: She pushed to her feet, staying low—staggering a step or two with the noises of her movement coming muffled through ears still ringing with shock. She cursed at herself—that, too, came strangely filtered.

  Ruger’s expression echoed her own—annoyed, a little off balance. He nodded at a nearby cluster of bushes. ::Can’t hear a thing—watch behind, and I’ll get us there.::

  ::Go!:: she said by way of agreement—checking over her shoulder as he slipped his hand in hers and drew her along. He stumbled, righted himself and threaded them between a tree and the bushes—solid wood at their backs, sheltering leaves before them. Ruger leaned against the tree. ::See anything?::

  ::A glimpse,:: she said, spotting black and camo movement along that same corridor—a single man, easing forward with unconvincing stealth. ::He’s moving onward...didn’t even look this way.::

  ::Hold on. They could be flanking us.:: He scowled as he straightened, and said as though for the first time, ::Can’t hear a damned thing.::

  Something in his mind-voice made her look twice. ::You okay?::

  Puzzlement surfaced in his eyes—a part of him clearly still dazed. He shuttered it away. ::Still blasted into stupid.::

  ::How long until my ears stop ringing, that’s what I want to know,:: Mariska grumbled. She returned her attention to the forest, raking it for movement—seeing only the retreating glimpses of the first man. ::Anything?::

  ::Either I missed him or they didn’t send someone. Not many posse members want to defy their drozhar, never mind the Septs Prince. They were probably leftovers from Gausto’s inner circle,:: Ruger said, his voice distant. ::Already in the same situation as Forakkes.::

  ::Disgraced and hunting redemption,:: Mariska agreed. ::The end justifies the means.:: Then she murmured, “It’s all clear here.”

  “And here.”

  “I heard that,” she said, with some relief, rubbing the ear that had stabbed with pain at the explosion. “At least, I think—”

  He gave her a sharp look. “It’s probably perforated. We generally heal fast from that injury, but don’t count on hearing from that ear.”

  “Don’t assume there’s not something out there to hear, you mean.” She made a face. “You’ll have to be the ears, I guess.”

  “I can—” Why he stopped, she didn’t know—just caught another glimpse of that earlier puzzlement. He shook his head slightly and completed the thought. “I can do that. Ready to move?”

  “Before they come back.” A distant sound caught her attention; she tipped her head at it, wondering if she’d really heard it.

  Ruger sent her a darkly amused look. “They’re frustrated because they haven’t found us.”

  “Good,” she said. “Let’s frustrate them some more.”

  But when he turned from her to lead the way to the next cluster of trees and stiff, prickly bushes, her satisfaction dissolved to horror, her chest clenching strangely around her lungs so for a startling moment, she couldn’t eve
n draw breath. “Ruger!”

  He paused with one hand on the tree for support to look back at her, and for the first time she saw the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the rough Ponderosa bark. For the first time she knew to look.

  For the first time, she understood what she thought he still did not—that while his back was peppered with small chunks of wood shrapnel around the now healed cut from the facility attack, one of those missiles had struck deep.

  It still struck deep, leaving room for a mere trickle of escaping blood, the skin closing around the small protruding shard that remained.

  Mariska felt the blood drain from her cheeks in a tingling flush and breathed deeply, forcing herself to think. They were too close to their original path to stop here, and he was still on his feet. He needed to stay on his feet until they reached a safer spot. “Never mind,” she said. “Let’s get away from here.”

  “You’re okay?” he asked sharply, though his voice bottomed out a little with strain.

  She laughed; she couldn’t help it. “As okay as I was before.”

  It wasn’t saying much. Two wounded Sentinels, trying to save the world. Or at least to save their friends. I’m sorry, Ian. And Sandy. And Heckle, too. We made the wrong choice. We should have hiked out for help.

  Chapter 20

  Ruger didn’t believe her.

  Not even as she continued to watch their backs while he led them onward. She’d hidden things from him before, when she’d thought it was best—she’d hidden them with purpose.

  The difference was, this time he knew she was doing it.

  But he knew, too, that arguing about it wasn’t the best course. And maybe it was only fair. He was hiding things, too.

  Not that he could have articulated those things. Just that he was still reeling from the concussive effects of the grenades, when he didn’t expect to be. That he ached strangely, that his legs grew more rubbery and not less, and he’d broken out into a clammy sweat in the afternoon heat.

  “Ruger,” she said, tugging back gently as they reached the best of shelters, the angled root disk of a pine torn from the earth and resting cocked against another tree. Her expression gentled. “You’re hurt, Ruger. We need to take care of you. Right here.”