This got him no answer save eyes wide enough to show the whites.
"Whose ship is this?" Lisinthir asked. "Whose?"
"I tell you nothing, freak!"
The claw-knives flicked free of their sheaths. Lisinthir ran one of them down a trembling wing vane, the light gleaming off the metal edge. "I think it's time... for negotiation."
The struggle began then, and though he'd promised his Fleet people he'd be along quickly he became unaware of time passing, and cared nothing for it. His victim fought him, and he was glad, so glad, when the dragon didn't give in immediately. It left Lisinthir the luxury of sinking into the threats, the relief of action after holding back too long, so long, and oh, God, how he missed his lovers.
The information came at last, and he hadn't had to do more than part the wing vane halfway up the finger. And it was everything he needed, and yet he could barely grasp it around his desire to utterly destroy the enemy under him. It was an almost orgasmic need, one that pressed him close over the Chatcaavan. Dying Air, how good it would be to humiliate him....
He swiped the claw knives through the male's throat and shoved the body away, rising so quickly he nearly stumbled. He drew in a shuddering breath and back-pedaled, turned and found the Glaseah keeping an agitated watch at the corridor, hunched low with wings tight to his back.
His cousin was facing him, face grave—had been watching the entire time, no doubt. Before Lisinthir could react, Jahir held out an arm, and with a muffled noise he went into that embrace, bringing his nausea and horror with him, and oh, God, oh, Air around him, his arousal and his rapture as well. He pressed his nose into Jahir's jaw and shook, just for a moment.
Jahir clasped him close, pressing his free hand to Lisinthir's shoulder and holding the staff to one side. Conflicting needs and desires surged through him, flushing his skin with exhilaration and leaving it clammy with Lisinthir's revulsion... but none of it was strange to him, or unexpected, and he breathed through the flood, spoke. "Do not doubt yourself, Ambassador," he murmured into Lisinthir's ear in their tongue, painting the words in shadows and gold. "For your cousin still loves you."
"Even now?"
"Think you I didn't know this about you already?" Jahir kissed his temple. "Straight now, Imthereli. Have we what we needed?"
Lisinthir drew in a breath to answer, and then the dragons dropped onto them from above, and the first Jahir knew of it was Lisinthir's shove, so tremendous he smacked into Vasiht'h's side and almost toppled over it into the corridor. He grabbed the edge of the hatch and used it to push off, back onto his feet. The fight was a blur of steel and wings blocking his view—God and Lady, but the Chatcaava were so small but so fast! Like vipers, complete with mazing reflections off their gleaming hides. He tripped one of them with the staff point and got a wing in his face, a blow so hard it staggered and briefly blinded him, sending a flood of hot liquid down his lip.
...and then the newcomers were dead, all three, and Lisinthir was panting, his sword drooling crimson and the claw-knives slick.
"Jahir!" Vasiht'h cried.
Jahir held out a hand. "A nosebleed, nothing worse. Messy but not deadly. Cousin—"
Lisinthir shook his head, turning from them with a hand held out. "It's nothing."
Jahir reached past his arm, grabbed his face and tilted it down. Someone had taken a swipe at it, bisecting the brow near the eye, and there was blood down the temple—had the temple been compromised? No, just scratches, but deep ones. "That's going to scar. Your eye is fine, though. What did you do, offer him your face?"
"It was that or my throat. I chose to duck."
Vasiht'h was dancing on his paws in agitation. "We need to get out of here!"
"Are there more in the corridor?" Jahir asked, infected by the Glaseah's urgency.
"No, but those three came from the ceiling... how did they know? They can't be the only ones up there. Maybe there are reinforcements—"
"Doubtful, but possible," Lisinthir said, wiping his brow.
"But we should go," Jahir said, resisting the urge to do the same with his nose. But as he turned, his cousin didn't move in his peripheral vision. He stopped. "Cousin?" Lisinthir had gone gray and Jahir dove for him. "You're hurt? Where!"
"No—" Lisinthir managed. "But I am... Dying Air... not now—" And crumpled, his body falling into Jahir's, the mind losing cohesion.
"Vasiht'h!" Jahir cried.
"Not here!" Vasiht'h exclaimed. "Goddess, where we could be beset, and I'll be the only one conscious—"
"Then you'll have to make do!" Jahir said, and fell to his knees, and into the disorder shattering his cousin's mind. This was it: the disastrous seizure, the monster in the dark, the killing event that all the others had been working toward. He felt Vasiht'h catch him, trusted the golden tether to hold him fast, and dove, heedless of the danger, and the stench of blood and the alien lighting and the despair and adrenaline followed him in. Had Lisinthir said he sang while he worked? He called up anthems and strung them like banners to snap behind him as he plunged to the very center of the chaos. How many blood-streaked memories had Lisinthir given him by now? And yet most of them had been bled in love. They were all that made meaning out of violence. Jahir held up his arms, drew in a breath, and called those memories to heel. Come now, he cried into that unsense. Come and become my cousin. Come and make him anew. Come, Dragon King! Come Queen of Martyrs! Come, Death and Suffering, Conquered! Come Sweetness and Exile, Grief and Beauty!
Come now!
Thoughts and words, languages and memories, they all flew to him as if summoned, grew dense and twirled around him, storms of color and light and burgeoning elation. His cry then was triumph—
Someone grabbed him, yanked him back with a pain that pierced him so deeply he let out a shocked yell as his assailant flung him around, blood arcing from the lacerations along his ribs. He found himself face to face with a Chatcaavan, saw over his shoulder Vasiht'h struggling toward him, beset on all sides: two, three, four....
No—no, this was not how it ended. It was not! Instead of pulling back he lunged into the male—there is no safety in distance—and smashed a fist into that narrow face, connecting with an eye. He ducked the dragon's swipe, feeling it graze the side of his head, and almost fell backward—
A hand grasped his shoulder, shoved him down. Lisinthir lunged past him, took the head off his assailant, and redoubled into the group circling Vasiht'h. God, but how the Chatcaava moved, and how his cousin did to best them! Three he slew, so fast, in a dance of steel and blood-drenched coat; the next two crowded him and the claw-knives flickered, wet sounds, ugly. Lisinthir erupted from between them and grabbed the last drake by the wing before he could reach Vasiht'h. Another too-quick flicker, a lace of blood sprayed against air and the velvet flank of the coat as Lisinthir rocked back.
The bodies hit the floor with ugly wet noises, and then there was nothing but the sound of their ragged gasps.
/Arii!/ Jahir cried as Vasiht'h turned to him with fear and concern. /You're bleeding!/
/Lots of scrapes,/ Vasiht'h said, his voice trembling in the mindline. /But I'm all right. Lisinthir--/
"Cousin," Jahir said, and stopped. Lisinthir was leaning against the wall with an arm around his midriff, and he was shaking on every outbreath. Jahir jumped for him. "Kit, bring the kit!"
The kit's scanner showed more wounds than Jahir had realized his cousin had been taking, so many he felt faint at the report... and the one Lisinthir was protecting was deep. Not deep enough to involve the organs, but so much blood...! Worse, to seal that slice he'd have to get Lisinthir prone for a good ten minutes.
"No time," Lisinthir said, as if reading his mind. "Telegem... find out if they took the bridge."
/I've got it, arii./
With Vasiht'h talking to the Pelted, Jahir fumbled the AAP from the kit and found a clotting agent, loading it with fingers gone slippery with sweat and blood. "You need a halo-arch."
"Then I'm in trouble, as we're se
veral days away from the nearest." The ghost of dry humor made Jahir look up, see the unexpected smile, the gravity in dark eyes. "You brought me back, Healer."
"And I will do it again," Jahir said. "Your physical state is nowhere near so difficult a thing to hold together as your complicated heart."
"Don't worry," Lisinthir said, voice gone low with pain and fatigue. "I'm not planning on leaving this life until I've seen my lovers."
"And made me one of them," Jahir said, moving Lisinthir's arm aside to get at the wound. He tried not to flinch at the sight of it, so raw and dark a mouth.
"And made you one of them," Lisinthir murmured, wincing as the AAP hissed against his exposed skin. "But only to deflower you properly so you won't disappoint that woman of yours."
Jahir said, "Live to embarrass me, Imthereli. Promise me."
Lisinthir managed a chuckle. "Will take more than this to kill me, Galare, I pledge you."
Vasiht'h said, "They've got the bridge! But another three people died...." A surge of nausea through the mindline that Jahir forced himself to ignore as the Glaseah glanced at the bodies. "I told them we took care of eight. We've got to get up there, though… there are still too many of them running around. Only fourteen of the twenty-five are accounted for. Can you move?"
"I can move. I can even run—" Lisinthir paused, then smiled faintly. "With some assistance."
Jahir put his arm under his cousin's shoulder. "Let's go."
As they staggered into the corridor, Vasiht'h said, /You were right...!/
/About what?/
/About everything...!/
Too much, too confusing, and he was too exhausted and afraid. He would have to ask later. He would have to pray there would be a later. /Did they say where the stragglers are?/
/Heading aft,/ Vasiht'h said. /Hopefully already past where we are./
/Hopefully./
Which left him abruptly aware that he had no idea where they were going. "Cousin? Where now?"
Lisinthir chuckled, a faint sound in his throat. "You would manufacture a reason for me to stay conscious and focused."
"It is very much not manufactured," Jahir said. He didn't like how heavily Lisinthir was leaning on him. "Point the way."
/Arii?/
/I'm worried. His coat is sticking to me--/ Jahir tried not to tremble. /It's hot. Something's bleeding freely./
/We could stop?/
/We can't. We need Triona, and a place we can set him down and not let him up./ Jahir paused so Vasiht'h could check the next cross-section for Chatcaava. Thank God and Lady his partner was handling his self-appointed role so well.
/On the bright side--/
/There is one?/ Jahir asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
/The ship is humming under my paws. Can you feel it? The engines have changed pitch./
Jahir started. /They have!/
/Maybe Cory's gotten this thing moving in the right direction..../
/Oh, arii... Goddess and God hear you./
A smile through the mindline, strained but grateful.
They hobbled through an interminable series of halls, all too cramped despite their high ceilings. The color of the light oppressed him, too yellow, too red, too something. And in his nostrils, blotting out everything else, the reek of blood. He was aware, distantly, that moving too quickly dizzied him, and that it hurt to breathe... the crust from his nosebleed had dried so stiff his face felt like a mask.
"Almost there," Lisinthir murmured. "Breathe, cousin."
"You are giving me the exhortations?" Jahir shifted his burden, torn between distress that Lisinthir seemed to be weakening and gratitude that his cousin's stay in the Empire had stripped him to bare flesh, sparing him any added weight.
"You need them. Look, last stretch."
Vasiht'h had stopped, shoulders falling. "You didn't say it would involve climbing!"
"You didn't ask," Lisinthir said.
Vasiht'h sighed and reached for the ladder. Jahir was so numb by then that he came to a halt, watching his partner's black and white fingers as they opened...
...saw the talons inch into view on one of the rungs.
/VASIHT'H!/
Vasiht'h backpedaled as the dragon fell out of the lift tube and lunged for them. Those claws filled Jahir's vision, clouded it with a phantasmagorical pastiche: his partner's throat torn out, Lisinthir with entrails dragged over the deck. His staff—he'd dropped it—but he'd been bruised by the scabbard trapped between him and his cousin. Imthereli had two swords, one of which had slept while Lisinthir used the claw-knives. Jahir grabbed the hilt and drew it, his wrist howling protest at the angle.
He knew... knew... that Vasiht'h would break to the right. He dodged to the left, and when the Glaseah twisted and rammed the Chatcaavan from behind, Jahir had the sword raised. The drake impaled himself on it, gliding up the steel as if being cut by a holoblade. The sight of it stunned him: Galare's swords were not so sharp. He backed away before the enemy could reach his face with a dying blow and the body collapsed to the deck.
"Nicely done," Lisinthir said from the wall he was leaning against.
Jahir was staring at the sword. His hand was trembling... was it fatigue? Shock? Horror?
"Arii," Vasiht'h said, grabbing him by the free wrist. "Come on, we've got to go!"
"He's right," Lisinthir said, and pushed himself up. Staggering past, he managed a ghoulish grin. "Keep the sword. You'll be faster with it than I am right now." With that he started up the lift tube.
Vasiht'h glanced after him, then said, "He won't be able to manage long without help. We're almost there, we have to keep moving."
"I know," Jahir whispered. He shook himself and said, "Go, I'll bring up the rear."
On the next floor up, Lisinthir said, "There. Keep going down this corridor. We'll get to the entrance at its end."
"How far?" Vasiht'h asked, ears flat as he scanned the length of it.
"A third the ship's length, I think."
"A third the—!"
Lisinthir smiled, eyes closing. "I think I can trust you to manage from here, cousin. Straight line. Can hardly miss it."
"Stay awake!" Jahir growled.
"Mm."
/We're running out of time,/ Jahir said. He started down the corridor with Vasiht'h at his side, and with every pulse of his heart he expected another attacker… but none came. The relief of it made the sudden lurch of the deck beneath them all the more frightening.
/Are we under attack?/ Vasiht'h asked, the words bright with panic. /By whom?/
Another shiver, smaller this time. Jahir shook his head and redoubled his pace. They reached the bridge just as the ship threw them to one side.
"It's us!" Vasiht'h was calling through the telegem, and the door opened for them. Two gore-streaked Pelted ushered them in and sealed the hatch behind them, and no sooner had they stumbled to a halt than Triona was on them.
"He took too many wounds," Jahir said as she pried Lisinthir from him and set the Ambassador down on the floor, well away from the fore of the bridge and the frenzied activity there.
"Help me get this coat off him." Triona pushed a spare scalpel on him. "It's wet, it's making him too cold."
Had he once balked at the notion of stripping another Eldritch? How things had changed! Jahir fell to his knees alongside his cousin and began cutting it off as the Seersa made hissing noises under her breath, flipping her larger kit open and going to work as the ship shuddered beneath them. Panel by panel the wet Imthereli coat came off: no longer white now, but scarlet and gory black, the embroidery clotted with it. Perhaps Lisinthir should petition to have the color of his arms changed from white and black to crimson. Jahir could imagine him laughing over the idea, held fast to that image as he peeled the sleeve off and parted the last of the sodden garment from his cousin's body. Triona had already destroyed the blouse to get to Lisinthir's skin, and the sight of it, purpling with contusions and laced with the fretwork of deep gouges, so many claw marks....
"Dammit, he needs a blanket and the dragons don't seem to believe in them," Triona said. "He's going to go into shock if we can't get him warm—"
"Maybe I will do," Jahir said as he found himself slumping to the floor. To faint now seemed ill-advised but everything in him was crying out for him to do it now—for he would have no opportunity later? He wished he could question the source of the feeling, but fighting the exhaustion proved too difficult. He had the presence of mind to make sure he was against his cousin's side and then he let go of consciousness.
Vasiht'h lunged toward Jahir and dug his paws in before he could smash into Triona. His cry started in his throat and welled into the mindline, mingling emotional and physical realities in a way that made him realize that it was Jahir who'd made them whole in him. To lose that now! "Jahir!"
"He's fine," Triona said tersely. Amending, "Well, no, he's pretty banged up, but he'll be fine."
It was impossible to disbelieve such frank confidence. Trauma care was Triona's specialty and it shaped her voice, informed the quick precision of her movements. Vasiht'h crept closer, ignoring the constant quivers of the deck beneath his paws. "And the Ambassador?"
"Won't survive if he bleeds out. Put your hand here, push, don't stop until I tell you."
Startled, Vasiht'h did as commanded. "What am I pressing on?"
"An artery I want to stop gushing at me." The Seersa continued her labors with a sealer, bent close to the largest wound; her white-furred face was spattered in blood and smeared pink all the way down her neck, and the only reason her hands didn't look worse was that she'd gloved them. "Steady on there, alet," she murmured. "Stay strong. Give me these few minutes."
"He will," Vasiht'h said, then glanced over Lisinthir's shoulder at Jahir. His partner had fallen at Lisinthir's side, but he was breathing normally, and there was nothing in the mindline to suggest serious injury. Weakness, though…. "Are you sure about him?"
"The Ambassador? No."
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