Nearing the end of their arcs, the two brothers came to a skidding halt. Sorkabi was hiding behind what was left of a cat walk covered in rubble. He had good cover from both sides with a decent view of Marco going savage feline through the grate of the scaffolding. The warlord flashed a Cheshire grin to both as he keyed something to the cell-com on his wrist.
The two D-RAMs came running down the street, heading straight for the giant gashes in the hangar. Twin blaster cannons coughed out a double shot to the other side of Sorkabi's debris field. The bolts tore up part of the deck, blowing stone chunks into a concussive gale. Ajax lost his footing under the heavy pelting, sliding across the floor away from the warlord.
Ares dodged the fusillade of bolts dancing around him, finding solace against a support column minus its roof to support. “Oh, this is nice. Are we sure Marco wants this guy above ground?”
Ajax rolled behind the stack of girders tangled in part of the fallen roof. “Unfortunately, but he said nothing about him missing a limb.”
“Does his head count as a limb?”
“It should!”
The firing from the second D-RAM stopped, granting passage for the first to seek cover of one of the remaining walls. Sorkabi was beneath his impromptu shelter, furiously tapping at his cell-com, trying to ascertain what had happened to the other mech. Titanic drag marks occupied the empty space where the first vehicle was only moments ago.
The remaining vehicle slapped into the ground, kicking its feet in an attempt to free itself from whatever had tangled it. It moved backwards a bit, something beyond the wall tightening its grip around the captured legs. A violent jerk heaved the walker from the ground to send it flying dozens of meters into a building where it was buried under tons of falling rock.
The Drodassa Kahn bayed at the mech's grave, daring it to rise for another chance to pound it flat. When it was certain that it wasn't coming back, the creature sat down outside the hangar, taking the time to lick its wounds from scores of blaster hits.
Behind them, Marco had Yorikado's head and arm trapped between his thighs like a vice. The triangle choke was an age-old practice in many martial arts for controlling an opponent's upper body from the ground. Armor made it more effective as straps and plates would protect the groin and lower body of the exponent while maximizing the pressure on the opponent. Yorikado was meekly slapping at his assailant, finally falling limp in Marco's hold.
The marshal let the body roll to the floor, freeing himself to his knees. He remained there, panting to catch his breath after the struggle with the powerful alien. Marco looked through the grating at Sorkabi, taking a moment to lock eyes with the pitiful general. “Get up.”
Sorkabi struggled against the powerful suggestion forged in the Crucible.
“Come here.”
The warlord stutter-stepped across the hangar floor, fighting to control his feet, to move anywhere but toward this demon marshal. Marco rose. The fire in his soul was burning away the fatigue, giving him all the strength he needed to become the executioner for the pathetic little criminal. He stretched out his hand. Sorkabi floated into the air, grasping at his neck as though Marco caught him in a noose. His toes tapped the floor on his mad rush into Marco's outstretched grip. After a moment of futile struggle, Marco let him go.
“You fools! Do you know what happens when you turn me over to the court in Elysium? I'll buy my way out! I'll come back to start over. These people are weak! They are easy to dominate! I will come back and take control again. Do you think...”
Marco's fist shattered the man's nose, sending him into the floor, a gurgling mess choking on gobs of blood running down the back of his throat. He leaned forward, holding Sorkabi by the front of his armor. Looking at the ruined face, he remembered the lioness struggling to protect her cub from the net the poachers cast over her. They were using large bore blasters and charged slugs to get around their ability to use the Crucible. One of them had found a plasma spear, which took multiple painful hits to puncture her hide. She died covering her cub from the monsters that had invaded their home. Marco kneed the man in his groin, letting him hit the floor again.
His memory shifted as he walked around the fallen general. The lion's king, bounded forward. He roared in the Crucible, killing two of the poachers with the power of his mind. Their blasters were ineffective and the shock rounds seemed to have no effect. He was the lord of the pride who would serve justice for his fallen mate. A poacher on top of an armored truck shot him with a sniper blaster. The rifle fired a large bore ultra focused bolt that could pierce light tank armor. It took four shots to bring down the king, who died staring into the eyes of his family.
Marco dropped his helmet, reaching across the room with his hand. His Xiphos styled sword flew from its place in his shield. He caught it, igniting the arc-plasma blade into a golden fire. The cold-faced marshal hoisted the bloodsoaked general, holding the electrified golden glow to his throat.
“If you kill me, someone will take my place,” Sorkabi warned. “There will always be someone to take my place. If I die, I will haunt you until the end of time.”
Marco dropped the sword to clatter at his feet. Two pops of the securing latches on his gauntlet freed his hand, the armor tumbling to meet the blade. He pressed his palm to Sorkabi's head. “I have something for you, esteemed general. This is the fear and pain your men felt as I hunted them down. I didn't use any weapons. I killed them slowly with my bare hands and in some cases, my teeth. Let me show you how to haunt someone.”
The screeching that followed turned the warlord into a man drowning in fire. Each moment that passed renewed the horror in his skull. Each wave of agony through the Crucible became a sonnet to justice in Marco's ears.
He dropped the ruined shell of a man onto the deck, then went to recover his things.
“Nice of you to join us,” Marco said.
Athena walked forward with a contingent of Dreadmarr. “Someone had to corral his officers so that we only had to have this fight once.”
The two clasped wrists. Marco nodded his approval. “Fair enough. If you would be so kind, have two of your men take this sack of skin to the pride lands. I've sent the coordinates to your cell-com. Just dump him at the base of the mountain with a drone so we can record everything that happens. The king is waiting for him.”
Athena's voice cooed through her helmet, despite the digital timbre through the speakers, “You're not delivering him yourself? Is the drone so you can see him be punished?”
“No, we're going to broadcast it to everyone in the sector as a warning. If you try acting like this guy, a real predator is going to come along to eat you.”
Athena pointed to her contingent, separating two of her warriors to this new task. They hoisted Sorkabi, letting his feet drag across the rubble as they led him out.
The heavy-footed Ajax clomped behind his brother. “What are we going to do about that?”
“The Drodassa Khan? She's earned her rest.”
“That's a she?” Ares said in amazement.
The marshal patted his brother on the shoulder, “Surprised you couldn't tell with how beautiful she is. I didn't think I would have to deal with two poachers today but here we are. Let her sleep there a bit. Have our new friend Nakabwe notify the Rhusk government on Doma that she's here. They'll probably dispatch a ship to recover her.”
“And if they don't?” Athena asked.
“Dagoshu will be a much more interesting place.”
Fourteen
“Last one out, ma'am,” the trooper said to Captain Morreau standing outside the TOC.
“Thank you, private.”
“Ma'am? Are they taking over the compound?”
“Negative.” The captain answered confidently. “They just need somewhere to have a chat, is all. How's about you hustle over to your section leader and get something to eat. I'll hold the fort.”
“Want me to bring something back for you, ma'am?”
The Captain was taken back by t
he young trooper's thoughtfulness. As an officer, she ate after the rest of the troops. As the commander, she ate last. Wasn't often a hungry young private thought of her wishes before his own. “Don't you worry about me, I'll find my way into something after you guys kick these visitors out of our room.”
“Ma'am, looking at that armor and they way they fought, I don't think we could if we tried.”
“Would that stop you from trying?” Morreau asked.
“Hells no ma'am, just let me get a bite of something first and you can call me the bouncer!”
Laughter slipped by her normally stony facade, warming her insides and perking her up from her weariness. “All right, Bouncer, get it.”
She turned away from the cheery trooper, straight into the face of a Dreadmarr warrior. She was covered in blood and blaster burns, her armor still smoking in places from the hits. She carried two spears with a shield over her shoulder. In her free hand, she held a black box with a handle.
Setting it on the runner of the building, she motioned the captain over. The box's latch fell away, folding open into three distinct parts. Inside were small bowls and trays, covered in a plastic seal. The woman gestured to the confused commander.
“I don't understand.”
The voice from the helmet had an odd speech pattern flavored by the deep digital rumble of their external speakers. If nothing else, the Dreadmarr were good at playing the part of being carved out of the hardest parts of the universe.
“In days past, it was the Owl Mother who named me after the patron of warriors. While you wait for us to go about our business, you do right by feeding your men. You honor my namesake in your concern for them. It would bless my ember in the Crucible if you would accept this gift, one soldier to another.”
“This is a meal,” Morreau said, more question than statement.
“Enough for two. Operations of this kind call for the Dreadmarr to work in numbers. The pack is meant to feed two warriors, three if things are scarce. Call to your First Sergeant. Sit and share your meal. You have our word no one will harm or steal your equipment or the information inside your command post. A promise made is a promise honored.”
“Thank you. This is very kind, but I couldn't take this from you and leave you nothing.”
“We've had our fill of blood and honor. This is for you.” the Dreadmarr offered.
“Thank you. My name is Hilary. May I know yours?”.
“This is my honor to give my name to you. I am Athena. My rook is Noguera, the Manticore. This is my Path. I know the Way.”
She bowed, making way for Marshal Sorrin and his brothers walking through the gate. Blood soaked debris coated their armor. Blast marks painted the plates in parts that would have meant death to normal troops. He bowed to the captain. “Thank you for making your TOC available to us, Captain Morreau. We'll try to conclude our business quickly.”
“It's yours as long as you need it, sir.”
“Thank you. Dreadmarr assets are controlling the city side by side with the Citizen Guard. You can take a rest after your meal, ma'am. Unless you want to be knee deep in some messy galactic politics, in which case, you are welcome to join us.”
The captain seemed to brighten at being included in whatever he was planning. Marco could see a remnant of her grandfather's aura hovering around her. Wherever old Frank was, he'd helped raise a fighter. It would probably take a herd of stampeding rhinosaurs to keep her out.
“And then there's the matter of involving Marco Sorrin in your little coup, Marshal Brand. You interfering in this fight was already going to strain the temple's relationship with Parliament. Bringing in a marshal everyone thought was dead, who just so happened to lead a battalion-plus of Dreadmarr soldiers is beyond complicated. What were you thinking?”
“My apologies, Grand Marshal. Force Commander Hylaeus tasked me to use whatever means necessary to recover the mongrel, Orin Lashra. I discovered the location of Marshal Sorrin and sought his council on the matter. After he declined to help us, we got the call that a Force Majeure unit was in trouble. I could feel the Crucible guiding me to render aid. Since I was going to have to start my mission from scratch anyway, I reasoned...”
The grand marshal whirled in the hologram. Her gold-embroidered, fur-lined cloak spun dramatically as she did, coming to rest on armor that was more form than function. “You didn't reason at all! And to make matters worse, you brought a child into a war zone with no clear way to protect your apprentice if things got worse.”
Brand took a breath to vent the heat rising in his belly. This woman had seen little time in the field, much less knew how marshal deputies were forged. He was ready to accept his fate for disobeying a direct order, but he didn't want that weight to fall on his apprentice.
“Ma'am, if I could...”
“No. You cannot.” She cut him off. “Marshal Brand, due to your impatience, you defied orders and entered an active war zone, defied the orders of Parliament, and those of this body. In this matter, I judge you...”
“A leader. A hero. A Marshals Templar, who carved his name into the planet so deep, they might as well change its name on every galactic record.” Marco Sorrin walked into the command center, the click of his boots rattled the armor he wore, like the Drodassa Khan shook the street when it walked. He strode straight into the viewing lens of the holo-projector, taking in the full measure of the woman standing before a table of nine sitting marshals. Ares and Ajax followed, taking positions behind each shoulder.
Brand couldn't help but smile as grim-faced helmets filled the room with the presence of the Dreadmarr commanders. Athena walked by Beth and Brand, taking their wrist and bringing them in an embrace that ended with her slapping their pauldrons. It was a warrior's hug. The kind of physical acknowledgment that said, “I'm glad you're alive,” and “I was proud to cut down the enemy beside you.” Whatever tongue-lashing the deputy and marshal had received prior to them walking in the door was washed away by so simple a gesture. If Marco had been Father Lion, this woman was surely the lioness looking to take his place.
“Ah, the man of the hour.” the Grand Marshal announced. “Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Grand Marshal Coliope Peletier. As leader of the Athalon and the Shielded Circle, it is my responsibility to figure out what the fighting there means to the Athalon and the government of Elysium. Marshal Sorrin, would you be so kind as to explain the reason for your involvement as well as why there is a Dreadmarr fighting force with you, larger than anyone thought existed?”
Marco didn't answer. He scanned the faces of those seated at the table. It was tradition to have experienced marshals sit on the Athalon Temple's ruling body. Seven seasoned marshals presided alongside two newly minted Templars who showed extraordinary promise so as to link warriors set in their ways with fresh lines of thought. He stopped his view at two marshals standing against the wall. He continued his track, resting his gaze on a grizzled old marshal that looked more ornamental than functional, much like Peletier's armor. “Marshal Greggor Vanyachenko.”
The man's face brightened in the holo; Marco's voice floating across the void seemed to straighten him. “I could not believe it was you. You look as though you stepped off the ship on Nasdra Yon all those years ago.”
“Ahem!” Pelatier's cough interrupting the old marshal's musing. “Marshal Sorrin, while I am told that you were a highly respected member of this body in your day, you've been away for some time. Those seated at the Shield Table are to be referred to as High Marshal. Seeing as you were declared missing after the last Exodus War, and apparently someone knew how to find you, I demand you explain...”
“Enough!” the Lion roared into the Crucible, stopping Pelatier's tirade cold. The force of his shout blew through the chamber, cracking the table as it pushed the marshals into their chairs. Marshal Vanyachenko blasted into the wall behind him, his wheelchair almost toppling to the floor. The two standing marshals jumped aside, both quick to catch him before his wheels flipped over.
&nb
sp; It swept the grand marshal from her feet, the woman clutching at her neck for a noose she couldn't touch. The power of the Crucible whipped her forward toward the projector, forcing her to her knees, choking for every breath.
“Marshal Sorrin! Release her at once!” came a call from a Saedorin rising to his feet.
Marco slammed his helmet onto the desk. “Declare yourself, Marshal!”
“High Marshal Tabor and I demand...”
There was that word again. Marco growled, a magnificent precipice for the lofty mountain that was his anger. It wasn't hard to guess that he'd been waiting all day to hear the word demand, so he could throw whoever used it off the edge. Tabor's head whipped into the broken table, slapping the alien's elongated nose off the stone surface. Once free of the invisible force that had assaulted him, the blood-soaked fountain that was his face rebounded in an arc that laid him out on the floor.
“Excuse me, Marshal Sorrin?”
Marco's rage focused on the man standing at the back wall. “Declare yourself, Marshal!”
“Marshal Gideon Brand, sir. I would request that you release her before she chokes to death. It's awfully hard to make a corpse pay for anything it did while it drew breath.”
“Brand?”
Marshal Brand stepped to whisper to the furious lion. “He's my brother, sir.”
The Sentinel: A Military Sci-Fi Series (Hunter's Moon Book 3) Page 17