Vanquished

by Allyson Young

  She danced away, taking care not to slip on the blood or trip on the bodies, because she needed to finish this before the emptiness in her chest and the barely contained screaming in her brain incapacitated her. Baraith could conceivably take over the ship with his experience and resourcefulness if he got away, to wreak havoc. He might even get to Nibiru, because he didn’t even look like himself anymore, hiding in plain sight. But she knew.

  Someone moaned and she shot a look toward the man Vayne had been helping. Leric. Oh God. Victoria. The distraction almost cost her, but Baraith couldn’t have known how much a ruined kneecap hurt and his hiss of pain as he attempted to stealthily rise and step to her was enough of an alert to keep her distance. She watched for another opportunity, and when he reached behind him to free another blade, snatched out her own and lunged. His upper body was covered in light armor, negating a killing strike, so she buried the point deep in Baraith’s upper thigh.

  He howled, then made a guttural sound as she dragged her knife back out, slicing along the length of his leg. The outpouring of blood gave her hope—she might have slashed an artery, and if so he would bleed out. But she’d entered his space, and his injured hand swung hard and caught her face, thudding against the cheekbone. She rolled away from the impact, losing the knife in the process. Her retreat helped to mitigate the damage, but the vision in that eye immediately clouded. Orbital floor fracture. Neira choked back a pained groan as she catalogued the injury and scrambled another few feet. Baraith wobbled on his injured legs, unable to put any real weight on his knee, and clearly in pain as a result of the stab wound to his right thigh.

  But he was still dangerous. “You’re running out of maneuvering room, pet. The Juxtant heal quickly, even from injuries such as these.” He was using that mesmerizing voice on her, the one he’d employed when he soothed Alexi, tricking him into believing it was all over, building cruel hope before inflicting more creative torture. But the damage she’d exacted interfered with his tone, adding another layer, and she was able to resist him.

  “You won’t come back from the dead.” She barely recognized her voice, flat and barren of any inflection. It didn’t matter what happened to her but she had to stop him.

  He leered at her, one now black soulless eye as hypnotic as a snake, only far more dangerous—what had to be a contact lens still shrouded the other in that vibrant blue. He threw his blade in a sweeping underhand. She caught the movement and lurched sideways, hampered by the nausea and dizziness resulting from the head injury, and the knife, meant for her gut, pierced her side. It hurt like the furies of hell, an almost welcome reprieve from the crippling sense of loss she could no longer hold at bay. Vayne.

  Blinking, trying to find a way to exacerbate his collapse before her own, Neira feinted with the palka, ignoring the agony in her ribs. When her foe lowered his fists to block her, she whipped her cherished weapon upward, at his face. The polished wood made a resounding whack as it cracked Baraith’s forehead, and the impact shuddered the palka from her hand. It fell to his feet. Neira desperately reached for it, grunting at the effort, and the polished piece of wood slipped into her grasp. The room stank of coppery death and freshly spilled blood, and warm liquid ran down her side to saturate her leggings. She had to get this done before he outlasted her and concocted some story to explain the slaughter.

  His uninjured hand rose to strip away the bandages and despite her flawed vision, Neira took the sight in, unable to swallow back her reaction. Baraith smiled, his huge body weaving in front of her as he balanced on one foot.

  “We’re cousins, pet.” He suddenly flinched and she wondered if it hurt him to speak, if she’d managed more than a concussion. She wouldn’t let herself accept his appearance. How like Vayne he appeared. Her belly knotted in on itself and forced bile up her throat as he continued, “And the Home World has remarkable reconstructive surgeons when one has the right connections.”

  “No.” She couldn’t voice anything else and dropped into the fighting mode she’d trained in for years and years, the pain of her injuries fading away. She had the impression of taking Baraith by surprise once again as she drove herself forward, using her strong legs, wielding the weapon of her native land with precision and accuracy.

  As she drove him back, she knew she did more damage to that travesty of a face, his nose crunching beneath her fevered blows, and thought she might have landed a telling one on his temple before he had her by the throat. His huge hand wrapped around her neck, a brutal parody of the way her lifemate had gripped her with possession and love. Vertebrae creaked and she had a sense of flying before everything went black.

  ****

  Vayne nearly screamed with pain when hands lifted him and moved him to a flat surface. He knew it was urgent that he attend to something but the agony was crippling, like a burning steel rod was stuck in his back. Drawing a full breath was difficult, but if he concentrated, it became a little more orchestrated, as though his brain was short-circuiting commands if he rushed. He hadn’t felt like this since—

  Someone moaned—a male, and that someone was placed beside him. Vayne peered at him, barely turning his head, unable to lift it for a better look.

  “…survivors. Thought we had another but his brain must have been scrambled because he seized and then expired. Massive blows to the head and a knee. Stab wounds. Nothing to be done.”

  The sovereign recognized that voice above him. Stenlor. He tried to clear his throat but managed only a cough of sound.

  “Sovereign?” Stenlor crouched beside him to make eye contact. Although with the way Vayne was lying he could only see the man out of one eye. It was disconcerting and his beast railed against the weakness. He coughed again in acknowledgment and pain lanced through his chest.

  “You must remain completely still. You took a blade to a heart. No exit wound. We don’t want the bleeding to start again.”

  Decades of war, fighting, and the only injury he’d sustained during that time was the stab wound that badly injured one of his hearts. And now, a second such injury. He blinked his eye in agreement and Stenlor apparently understood.

  “Whoever applied the tourniquet saved your exec, sir. We’ll take you both to sick bay shortly.”

  “Anyone else?” He managed to whisper the question, because there was a traitor on his ship, the injured hunter.

  His medic hesitated and Vayne cursed his enforced immobility. “Stenlor.”

  “There is a dead human and three dead hunters, and the landing bay crew member responsible for the area has also faded, sir. It’s a bloodbath. I’ve never seen the like aside from hand-to-hand on the field.”

  He felt surprisingly better, knowing the traitor was accounted for—dead—and elated that he’d saved Leric. He knew he’d deal with the loss of his crew member and the loyal hunters later and want to unravel the mystery of the traitor, but for now he was focused on the living. Something chewed at the edge of memory, something about the attack, but he couldn’t recall… “Don’t tell my chosen. Not until I’ve been stitched, whatever, and ready for release.” His order came out in bits and pieces of gravelly monologue.

  “No, sir. I won’t tell her.” Stenlor’s voice was hoarse to Vayne’s ears, hardly the cool scientist. Perhaps he was worse off than he thought, and he prepared himself. No, he couldn’t die, couldn’t be that gravely injured. He’d only just found her…Neira.

  Stenlor’s orders precluded any further conversing. The transfer to medical was excruciating, the lift being so narrow he was propped upright, and also because the medic was reluctant to administer pain medication until his heart issue could be better assessed. Vayne thought it might well burst from his chest when the pain made it thunder in his ears, despite Stenlor’s continual reassurances.

  The cool, antiseptic air of the medical bay soothed his senses and, now on a medical cot, still on his belly, Vayne suffered the prodding and poking of Stenlor’s trade. Physicians. They administered pain without apology for the greater good. His
medic stepped away with a satisfied grunt. Leric’s pale face came into Vayne’s narrow viewpoint, his exec stretched out on the next cot. He was to have been moved first at Vayne’s insistence but apparently Stenlor outranked his sovereign. Leric looked well under the blanket of a dose of numbing drugs, and while he was glad the male wasn’t in pain, Vayne was envious.

  A static sound filled the air around him as Stenlor oversaw the test to determine Vayne’s heart damage, and after an eternity the medic crouched to face his sovereign.

  “Your heart is destroyed—the one that suffered the previous damage. It pumped out considerable blood volume before your other heart asserted itself. Prevented total exsanguination. I’m going to remove the affected organ and seal the wound and you’ll receive a sedative for the process.”

  Impatient and in discomfort, Vayne grunted. “Get on with it, then.”

  “Is the pain diminishing? You are quite coherent.”

  “I thought someone was standing on my chest and driving their heel and their sword into my sternum. That feeling isn’t so prominent now.” Thank the gods of Isord.

  “That would be your other heart assuming the total responsibility for maintaining circulation, Sovereign. Powering your body. I’ve read studies that cite such a process and it is recorded as being excruciating.”

  “Then perhaps it’s a good thing I was out for a while,” Vayne gritted out. Scientists and their case studies. Physicians and pain. And Stenlor was all in one, something the sovereign was extremely grateful for.

  The laparoscopic removal of the destroyed heart went quickly, utilizing the stab wound, with Stenlor giving him a synthetic blood transfusion during the process. The medic detailed his every move but Vayne felt nothing, despite being wide awake, his Shadalla abilities already promoting fast healing. Stenlor cautioned him and insisted that he rest for more stints than he cared for. But he didn’t want to upset Neira any more than he had to, so grudgingly obeyed. She would be wondering where he’d gotten to, and that too was bothersome. Stenlor agreed to relay an excuse, busy with his tasks.

  Eltrast was summoned to make a full report and fill in the holes. Vayne was grateful that his medic had insisted he rest and allow both his own physiology and modern medicine to heal him. He knew Rush had been murdered, had seen two of his hunters and a crew dead or dying and his exec fighting for his life. He even had a dim memory of subduing the bandaged hunter with a blow before administering to Leric. It was the information Eltrast shared about the traitor that sucker punched him.

  “Juxtant? You’re certain?”

  “The facial reconstruction would have misled anyone, sir. The Shadalla and the Juxtant are closely related, as you know. It was his eyes that gave him away. A contact had been dislodged in the fight and his identity was obvious. Juxtant. Stenlor advises we should have his identity from his RNA shortly.” Eltrast shuffled and looked away.

  “I’m thoroughly sick of having my crew crouch and talk to me as I lie on my belly, Eltrast. Do me the courtesy of a complete report rather than me dragging the details from you. What aren’t you saying?”

  Three beats. “He looks like you, sir. With additional surgery and the right color of ocular implants he would be you. Same size and weight. Identical in appearance.”

  He’d delay his conclusion until the RNA results were in, Vayne decided, despite the fact he’d already made the leap with certainty in his gut. The imposter had been Baraith. But if the Juxtant Monarch had been on the Home World all this time, surrounding himself with allies, calling in his favors…the treaty be damned. Heads would roll. His brain ticked over and wondered how the other hunters had been persuaded to accept him as one of their own, because Baraith was on that vessel that brought Rush to the Tomodr. Rush. The ambassador was responsible for more than he thought. It was highly unfortunate the man was dead. He considered how things had likely unfolded.

  Hunters were solitary and though communicated regularly, they came together as necessary, so Baraith could have dispatched one and assumed his identity. Hence the bandages for the trip to the Tomodr. The monarch would have been privy to all of Vayne’s dispatches. That Annis had met his premature fate at Baraith’s machinations if not his own hand was a foregone conclusion. The councilman couldn’t spill secrets from a dead mouth. Then the Juxtant Monarch had come here. Was he the one who’d fired on the Outriders? To precipitate another incident? As Vayne worked it through, the machines monitoring his recovery beeped an alarm and Stenlor hustled over.

  “Sovereign, you need to calm yourself. Your system is adapting but stress will impede the process.”

  “Do you have the results yet?” Vayne drew in deep breaths, ignoring the tiny tearing sensations in his chest. He didn’t need results, but the others would. He’d reached his own conclusions and didn’t expect any surprises.

  “No. But soon.” Stenlor would know what he was asking. He’d have had more time to put the pieces together. Because he hadn’t been out of commission, bleeding out on the deck of the landing bay, stabbed in the back—

  “Who stabbed me?” His voice was powerful again and brooked no subterfuge.

  Stenlor didn’t flinch. “I had time only to do a cursory assessment based on rudimentary forensics. I’ve been…busy.”

  Vayne closed his eyes, waiting.

  “I believe it was the Juxtant. He was the last to fade.”

  “I put him on the deck with a blow to the head while I attended Leric.” The least he could do after distracting his exec in the struggle, and he was elated Baraith was dead at last—even if he’d have preferred to have dealt the final blow. “He must have revived enough to take advantage of my back to him.” The Juxtant always were cowardly fighters and Baraith was no exception.

  “That would explain it, sir.” Eltrast had fine beads of sweat on his upper lip and still couldn’t meet Vayne’s stare.

  “Roll me over.”

  Stenlor grimaced but stood, and between him and Eltrast got Vayne turned over onto his back. A number of pillows helped him sit and once he powered past the ache just above his sternum, he could breathe again. He pinned the medic with a look that usually had grown males bowing and scraping. “Who do I have to thank for killing him, then?” he rasped.

  The way Stenlor’s face paled actually sent a frisson of dread up Vayne’s spine. The other male’s eyes slammed shut, then opened. “Your chosen.”

  So one heart wasn’t up to the task of supporting his body, just as he had thought earlier, after bonding with Neira. He clung to consciousness with a tenacity that surprised even him, resisting the swirling dark that threatened to swallow up his struggling brain. His little warrior had faced Baraith, alone. There were other scenarios available to him as his memory returned—the bodies strewn about as he lay incapacitated, unable to defend her. The com smashed and no hope of rescue as she threw down with a male double her body weight and with a reach that—

  “Sovereign. Calm yourself and heal.” The alarms cut through his stupor and he blinked at Stenlor.

  “Where is she?” The question forced itself past his throat, slicing like razor blades with a garnish of terror.

  Stenlor moved sideways and gestured. Vayne followed the motion and his eyes took in the sight of his little warrior, lying still and silent, just beyond his reach. All that was visible was her pale face and ebony hair, both blending in and a stark contrast to the white of the pillow. The medic and Eltrast foiled his attempt to leap from the cot and go to her, and Vayne thought of public whippings and beheadings before turning to Stenlor.

  Anticipating his questions, the other male said, “Your chosen has sustained multiple injuries. Broken bones, specifically her right ulna and a cracked shoulder blade—a fracture of the orbital floor and a stab wound to the side of her abdomen. The blade struck her ribs and deflected, missing any major organs, but she lost a great deal of blood. She was also choked and two vertebrae in her neck showed twisting fractures.”

  “Prognosis?” There was no inflection in his ton
e, matching Stenlor’s matter-of-fact report. Because if Vayne allowed his emotions to color his voice the chances were he’d be in lockdown to protect the crew. The need to reincarnate Baraith and tear him apart and into tiny, unrecognizable pieces made him tremble, and the ache in his chest expanded to dizzying proportions.

  “I repaired the fractures and I detected no brain damage from the blow to the face. But the blood loss…” Stenlor straightened and squared his shoulders. “I gave her a blood substitute, sparingly. Shadalla and humans are compatible but there are some differences in platelets. I was worried about her throwing a clot. However, there have been no adverse effects.”

  When the male hesitated, Vayne narrowed his eyes and waited, certain the worst was yet to come.

  “She will not wake up! And is fading. I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand it. At first I thought it was because of your injury. For all intents and purposes it should have been fatal and was incapacitating in that moment. But she clearly fought the Juxtant to the death, and I can’t believe she would have had the strength if her life was tied to yours. And you didn’t fade!”

  Looking longingly over at Neira, who breathed so shallowly the sheet covering her barely moved, Vayne had a thought. “Is she…with child? Did the fight…”

  “No. Not pregnant. That was something I checked immediately before I healed her.” Stenlor laughed, a sound empty of mirth. “I healed her but she won’t wake up. Sovereign, we treated her first, before even you—our ruler. Committed treason.”

  “Because you knew of my wishes had I been able to command.” Truly, Vayne had surrounded himself with remarkable males on this voyage.

  “She is your future, sir.”

  Ignoring how that fact hurt him worse that his adapting heart, and cursing his weakness, Vayne used his right to command. “Move her closer. Beside me.”

  Her cot tucked beside his, he scrutinized her features. “She is a true warrior.”