Rift in the Sky полностью

The remainder were not. Aryl counted five, then a final two came out of the shadowed top, each holding a tether to a platform that floated in midair.

No faces at this distance, but the figure who led the rest wore Om’ray clothing, but wasn’t.

Marcus.

Was this rescue?

Something kept her close to stone, held her still, uncertain.

He’d gone to Site Three. Maybe that was a bigger place, with more resources. Maybe this was help coming.

Or it was something else. Her Chosen’s sending burned through her mind, left a foul taste.

Aryl eased around for another quick glance.

On the dirt now. Walking as if they didn’t know or need care what lay beneath. Coming this way.

To the buildings. Where the artifacts would have been waiting, except for the ever-unpredictable Oud.

They could know she was here. Marcus had had devices to sense the presence of others. But none looked her way. A pair continued to talk in their incomprehensible words to one another, their tones easy. Triumphant.

Enris. Haxel. Aryl sent the image of the Strangers, then of the buildings. Received instant assent, before all the Om’ray tightened their shields. They would be ready, out of sight.

She smoothed her rumpled, sorry dress and moved to where she could be seen.

Instant chaos. The four pushed the others aside, aimed what must be weapons at her. They were tall and thin, skin scaled like a Tikitik but with heavy fanged jaws that were likely their preferred armament in a fight. Crests rose over their heads and behind where ears might have been.

Aryl kept her hand from her longknife and waited.

A sharp command stopped their rush forward, lowered weapons, produced what sounded like a laugh. Naryn’s new knowledge would have been useful, but not essential. This, Aryl understood perfectly.

Someone didn’t think she was dangerous.

Fools came, she mused, in every shape.

Not in a hurry; not tarrying either. They reached the long shadow of the cliff and kept moving toward her. Toward the stairs, Aryl corrected to herself. Marcus was still in front. She couldn’t explain to herself why she waited without a smile. Why she didn’t call out a greeting or expect one.

Then Marcus stepped onto the first rise of stone and sunlight washed across his face.

Across bruises and blood.

Aryl whirled and ran, abandoning the stairs for the wall, dropping to the uneven ground to hit that in full stride. She ran for the grove, her heart hammering in her ears and shouts behind.

Marcus led the way because a terrible thread cut deep into the flesh of his neck, a thread held by the Stranger behind him. He led the way—Aryl dodged by instinct and a stone burst where she’d been, shards stinging her side—he led because a weapon pressed into his spine hard enough to bow his body.

He led—she was in the grove and threw herself forward as nekis flamed behind her—because there was nothing alive in his eyes.

Aryl drew her longknife, knew where she had to be . . .

... and was there.

The brush of fingertips. The shift of hand and blade. They moved no more than this. They had no need.

The Strangers had the technology to save themselves. There was no need to walk noisily into a trap even a stitler would have suspected. But that technology, Aryl judged coldly, was their weakness here. Having beaten their own kind, they felt themselves superior to the “vestigial populations” left on this world . . .

NOW.

... and they died for it.

Enris caught Marcus as he crumpled forward, Aryl’s first cut having been through the thread that bound him.

Her second severed the head of the creature at the other end.

It was over, of course, in paired heartbeats. The Tuana held unused knives, giving the Yena startled looks. Being traders, Aryl thought curiously, had they planned to offer a warning?

You didn’t warn what could kill you.

Haxel wiped her blade on the nearest husk. “Enris, take the Human to Oran.” Declaring Marcus one of them without hesitation. “We’ll deal with what’s left in the air machine.” She picked up one of the dropped weapons. Nothing happened when she pointed it. She gave it an irritated shake.

“Only wor—” They turned at the faint, pained rasp of a voice. Marcus didn’t try to smile. Aryl doubted his mashed lips could have formed one. “Only—works—for owner,” he managed.

The First Scout shrugged and dropped the weapon on that body. “Shame.”

“Can—can’t—”

“Hush,” Enris said kindly. He cradled the Human in his arms with no obvious effort. “Haxel can manage.”

“That’s not what he means.” Aryl stepped closer. “What is it, Marcus?”

A gleam in the open eye. Gratitude or tears? “Think five more—in ship. Seven, most. Can’t let—any go,” he struggled. A finger scratched at Enris’ arm, lifted to point at the headless husk in its spreading orange-yellow pool. “Mind—mind—crawler—” He turned to press his face against Enris, his body convulsed in quiet sobs.

Pity later.