Valor's Trial (44 page)

“Gunnery Sergeant, Durlave Kan. We will meet you at the landing site.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gunny . . . !”

Kyster wasn't worried about riding, but she could see the panic rising at the thought of being away from her. “It's just like climbing the pipe, Kyster. Ressk and Werst are right there, and I'll see you at the other end. You'll be fine.”

“But . . .”

“I said you'll be fine.”

He'd nodded then, holding so tightly to the straps on the durlin's harness, his knuckles were white.

When they ran full out, the Polina moved a lot like big cats. It didn't look comfortable for the riders, but then, Torin had never actually ridden a big cat, so she could be wrong.

It took little discussion to put Kichar out on point with Torin and Everim back on their six with Freenim.

“If this was a vid,” Torin muttered, “one of them would begin to fall into a lava pit and the other would save their ass and they'd become best friends forever.”

Freenim snorted. “We have those stories, too. In real life, one of them will no doubt shove the other into a lava pit given the opportunity. Best to keep them separate.”

The first part of the skimmer path—about a hundred meters out from the platform—could almost be called crushed gravel. The skimmers were at their lowest there, weight and backwash grinding the path to conform to the drive requirements. There'd be a similar hundred meters at the other end. Ten kilometers away.

“Well, at least it's a dry heat,” Watura sighed wearily.

No one laughed.

Torin fell into an easy lope, glad to have Kichar beside her because it forced her to shorten her stride to where the four Druin—roughly the private's height—could keep up. Air sucked through the filter tasted of sulfur and ash, but it didn't burn either her eyes or her soft pallet, so the odds were good any taste at all came from her expectations. The air
looked like
it should taste of sulfur and ash and so it did, filter be damned. Some Marines never really got used to working in the smaller filters that sealed tightly over mouth and nose, but Torin preferred them to the full-face versions. It always took her a while to begin ignoring the shimmer just at the edge of her eyelashes, and this time out she didn't have the luxury of
a while
.

The air emerging from skylights over lava tubes would be hot enough to singe hair and bake eyebrows off but easy enough to avoid as the column shimmered—provided Torin could tell the difference between the filter's shimmer and the air shimmering. There'd be no skylights on the skimmer path—unless some had broken through since the last time it was used—but if the wind shifted while they were passing one, there'd be close to the same amount of damage done.

At the end of the first hundred meters, the path got rougher. Loose rock and small fissures forced a certain amount of caution.

“You turn an ankle and we will drag you the rest of the way.” Loud enough all nine runners could hear her. “It won't be fun, so stay on your feet!”

Half a hundred strides later, they passed a skylight about three meters to the right. In the absence of any wind, the temperature may have risen a degree or two. Maybe not. It was hot enough a degree or two made little difference.

Torin could already feel the heat on her hands and the back of her neck, skin beginning to prickle and pull tight. Watura may have been joking, but it
was
a dry heat—similar to that generally found in industrial-sized ovens.

“Watura, Darlys—you tell me if the heat is too much. Mashona, Sergeant Gucciard—keep an eye on the di'Taykan.”

“You don't think we'd say something, Gunny?” Watura asked.

Darlys wouldn't; not and risk her disappointment. She'd like to think that, now Jiyuu was out of the picture, Watura'd have more sense. She'd like to think so, but she wasn't banking on it. “At these temperatures, you could go down before you're aware you're being overcome.”

“If I'm going down, Gunny, I'm aware of it.”

The opportunity for innuendo had perked them both up. “Good for you.”

When they reached the first large, triangular fissure and the skimmer path swooped right to go around, Torin realized 10K was a low estimate. Ten kilometers as the 740 flew—not that any Marine would want to take a bird out in the abrasive soup that passed for atmosphere—but probably closer to twelve or fifteen at ground level. Still easily doable but that much again more dangerous.

“Stay all the way to the right,” Torin barked as they began the bypass. “We don't know how stable the edges are.” The fissure was deep and about six meters across at the widest end, the lava in it deep red and already beginning to develop an insulating skin.

They were warmed up now—and considering they'd be cooked in a little under an hour, that was almost funny—so she picked up the pace. Both the Artek and the Polina were out of sight, but that was more the terrain than the speed the nonbipeds were making.

The Gunny'd said he'd be fine, so he was, but Kyster had grown up in the city, he'd joined the Corps as soon as he was legally able, and neither in the city nor in the Corps had he been expected to ride large animals. Or the enemy. Or an officer.

It wasn't that it was hard; it was just weird. The motion reminded him of the upper walkways in the wind—the ones so high only the Krai ever took them. He hung on to the straps on the vest and the bellyband with his good foot and kept his weight high up on the durlin's withers, centered on her spine, and tried not to think about how it was the durlin's spine. The di'Taykan would be good at this, they liked touching, except their feet would be dangling on the rock and that would kind of defeat the whole purpose.

For the first time ever, he wished he had his boots. If he'd had his boots, he'd be running with the gunny.

They crested a ridge and the durlin didn't slow, bounding down the far side, rear legs sliding sideways in the loose rock as she reached the bottom. She dug in her claws, let momentum center her, and crossed under the first of the massive stone arches without having lost any speed. As they passed, the heat from the wide fissure slapping against his left side like an open palm, Kyster saw scorch marks high on the rock. Not the place to be in a firestorm obviously. He tightened his grip . . .

. . . and nearly lost his seat when the durlin's arm reached back, her hand closed around his wrist, and she shoved down.

Down?

There were a set of straps lower on the vest as well. He transferred the hand she wasn't holding and she released him, slapping him on the thigh as he dropped that hand down as well.

The slap seemed like a good thing. Like approval.

He realized why she wanted him to change his grip a moment later as they reached a steeper ridge and she threw her body forward, using her hands and arms to help claw her—their—way upward.

Her sides were heaving by the time the ground leveled out, the short golden fur darkened with sweat, but instead of slowing, she lengthened her stride. Kyster could feel long muscles moving under his legs. It was comforting in a way. Like being a part of something, something that meant not being alone. The rise and fall of her spine threw him forward and back, reinforcing the similarities to the upper walkways. He found himself suddenly remembering home and wondered if there was less oxygen in the air than Technical Sergeant Gucciard thought.

It hurt to think of home. He'd learned that on his own in the tunnels, so he never did it; except now, he couldn't seem to stop. The light at home was green, not orange, and the breeze in his face would smell of food, not alien body odor. For the first time since Harnett's men had abandoned him, he let himself believe he might be able to go back someday. Gunnery Sergeant Kerr had gotten him this far, he just had to believe she could get him the rest of the way

She believed she could do it; that had to be good enough for him.

It wasn't quite as much of a surprise when the durlin reached back the second time. Both her hands gripped his wrists hard for a second and then let go.

He got that he was supposed to do something, but he didn't know what.

Then he saw the fissure directly ahead of them. The path followed the edge of the fissure half a kilometer, maybe more to the left, over a small arch of the harder, smoother stone then looped back to turn away from the channel almost directly across from where they were.

Helic'tin charged past, yelling a challenge. Then Bertecnic. It didn't look as though either of the males were going to turn.

It didn't feel as though the durlin were going to turn.

Leaping over the fissure would definitely be faster than going to the bridge.

Muscles bunched as she planted her rear feet.

Nope. Not going to turn.

Kyster hurriedly stuffed his bad foot under the bellyband. Helic'tin launched himself. Landed. A moment later, Bertecnic landed on his heels. Ressk and Werst might have yelled something, but it got lost in all the whooping.

He clamped his nose ridges shut and closed his eyes as the durlin launched herself over the fissure. The blast of heat as they crossed suggested the lava flow wasn't very far down, but he had no intention of opening his eyes to find out for sure. The last thing he needed was to have the fluid in his eyeballs cooked away. He'd heard that kind of thing could happen.

The landing slammed his teeth together, and if he hadn't been Krai, he was sure they'd have shattered. He sucked in a scorching lungful of air with the impact. He could feel the durlin readying her next stride when she began to fall back.

With a crack like breaking bone, the edge of the rock split away, splashing down into the lava flow.

The durlin screamed. Kyster smelled burning hair. Cooking meat. Her hindquarters bucked up. He let the movement throw him forward, over her shoulder. His bad foot caught on the bellyband, but he kicked free. When he hit the ground, he rolled, slammed up against the rough curve of a boulder, and bounced back. Didn't matter. At least the durlin wouldn't have his weight forcing her down.

Another crack.

He looked up in time to see the durlin silhouetted in front of a fountain of red.

She screamed again.

Helic'tin and Bertecnic surged forward and grabbed her arms. Werst and Ressk were both standing, toes clutching the lower straps, reaching out for fistfuls of her uniform.

Another crack.

The two males leaped back, dragging the durlin with them.

And then they were all standing, breathing heavily, a good two meters in from the new edge.

“Kyster, are you hurt?”

“Why?” Kyster grunted, rolling up onto his feet. The rock was hot. Almost too hot against the scar tissue.

“Why? You fell off!”

“I jumped.”

“You jumped?” The older Krai exchanged a glance that pulled Kyster's lips up off his teeth.

“She was falling. I didn't want to be too heavy for her.” He limped back to the durlin's side, ignoring the conversation going on over his head. The language seemed to include a lot of growling and snarling—he didn't think they were fighting, but they might have been. “She's hurt.” There were two ugly burns on Durlin Vertic's right haunch, both deep enough to show charred muscle, both seeping blood, the larger trailing rising lines of white blisters all the way down her leg.

“Even through the filter, she smells
chrick,
” Ressk murmured.

Kyster's mouth was watering. He couldn't remember when he'd last had cooked meat. “I don't think they have sealant.”

“Good thing Gunny had me carry the one we found, then.” Still standing, Werst pulled a tube from his vest. “Already works on three species, and she's bleeding red, so here's hoping we've got enough body chem in common.”

Kyster caught the tube, then held it up high enough to get the durlin's attention and mimed spraying it on the burn.

Bertecnic growled a protest. It sounded like a protest. Durlin Vertic growled something back that shut him up and gestured for Kyster to get on with it.

“This shouldn't sting and it should keep the blisters from breaking and it should block the scent a bit, I hope.” He kept his voice soft, nonthreatening, the words slurring into each other in a soothing rise and fall of sound.

“She can't understand you,” Ressk pointed out.

“Yeah, but she knows where I am.” He thought that the bits of burn he'd covered looked less painful. The hair on the lower part of her short tail had curled and turned brittle in the heat. “I don't want to be on the wrong end of those
serley
claws.”

She kicked out when the spray hit the deepest burn, but she didn't aim the kick at him, so Kyster figured the talking worked.

“Is it helping?”

“How should I know?” But it looked as though some of the lines of pain had eased in her face.

Ressk said, “Kyster, your feet . . .”

“I'm fine.” Most of his weight was on his good foot, keeping the scars off the ground, but he was used to that. He tipped a little sideways, laid one hand against a sweat-damp wither, unsure if he'd be riding from here on in.

The thought barely finished, the durlin reached down, grabbed the front of his uniform and swung him up onto her back. He shifted forward quickly, well up from the burns.

One big hand closed around his ankle and lifted his bad foot. He could only see the side of her face and he had no idea what she was saying, but it looked like she was asking him something.

“I'm fine.” His scars hurt, but he was used to that.

She shook his foot gently, patted his leg, and took a careful step forward.