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There were straight, sturdy saplings within stumbling distance, and his knife
cut through one easily enough with three light chops. He trimmed it to a good
length, with a side branch to use as support. It would work as a crutch. Now
he'd have to lose some of the mass he carried, however.
He'd keep two grenades, one power pack for the punch gun and his knife as
weapons. The rest could be buried. The tracker he'd keep, of course. Two rat
packs would supplement the marginal crap he'd be able to get out of the food
converter. He wouldn't need rope, gloves or most of what was in his larger
ruck. He could just use the patrol pack, if he detached it.
Thus unburdened, he could limp more steadily. And his nerves were hurting
less. Either the painkillers and nanos were having some effect, or the nerves
were dying. For now, either was acceptable.
Learning to use his feet as mere appendages rather than as limbs, he headed
downhill, very slowly and cautiously, probing ahead with the crutch and
hopping down to meet it, every jolt another brand into his legs. He wasn't
going to try for anything in the camp. It was an easy threat zone, and likely
booby trapped. He'd just have to rely on his wits and his gun.
* * *
Dagger settled down in his next hide and checked his bearings. The point was a
slight rise overlooking a clearing along the river. His hide was a circle of
trees, open above but thickly interlaced from about forty centimeters off the
ground to a couple of meters up. It was peaceful in a way, like the practice
range.
And as with the range, there would be a target. He had a good view from
underneath out across the river valley.
The Darhel would have to go well out of his way to not cross the clearing and
the last time Dagger checked the Elf had been moving slowly. There had also
been traces of violet blood; the hornet must
have scored even if it didn't kill the little creep.
He idly glanced at the tracker on the box and frowned. It was well to the
north, nowhere near a line to the pod. What in the hell did the damned Elf
think it was doing? Then it hit him. The Elf wanted to play games. Okay. No
problem. The only game in town was "Dagger wins." But he'd have to pay more
attention to the tracker. Eventually he'd get the Elf to rights.
Later, though. He was faster than the Elf and could easily catch up. Time for
some lunch. He pulled some leaves off the nearest tree and root stems from the
ground and put them in his converter. Maybe the processor could imitate
something unusual. He scrolled through the list of delicacies on the menu. Ah,
calf brains. That sounded interesting.
Chapter 11
Tirdal crouched down and took a drink of water. The trickling stream here
probably meandered down to reach the large river to the south, but in this
area it ran between clay banks. There were plenty of hiding places and it
would have been a fair place to rest for a bit, if he had any idea how far he
was from the sniper. The problem was that he was the hunted. Dagger could hit
him at any time so he had no time to slow down and rest.
Turning that around would be tough. Unlike the sniper he couldn't track
people, didn't have the slightest idea how. He had vague memories of stories
about broken twigs, footprints in weeds and similar signs, but he had no
realistic hope of doing anything. He'd observed Ferret enough to know that it
was part training, part talent and part philosophy. Even if he had talent and
developed the thinking, he had no way to get the training, and a mistake while
learning would be lethal. His Sense would spot such unusual signs . . . from
less than a meter away. Only if he stumbled across Dagger's trail would it
help. And he was trying to stay away from Dagger. Until the sniper fired he
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only had a vague sense that he was near or far.
When Dagger fired he would have to use the tal hormones. But using them had a
high degree of danger.
He was still bemused at his luck back at the camp; that use far exceeded
anything he had tried in the past. He looked at the box and flicked an ear.
Damn the Aldenata, as humans would say. It was similar to an ancient Darhel
curse. For now, it was needful to seek higher ground, and that took him back
the way they had come. He could move all day, must move all night, and try to
lure Dagger close.
* * *
That had been interesting, Dagger thought. He should definitely try some of
the more esoteric foods when he had the money. And when he bagged the Elf,
he'd see what Darhel tasted like. Chicken, most likely, but who could say?
There was so little known about the damned things. In fact, if he got a handy
kill, he should drag the corpse with him. An in-depth analysis of a Darhel
corpse would be useful to humans, and likely some lab would pay a few credits
for the body. It couldn't match the billion or more he'd negotiate for the
box, but it could account for the pain in the ass factor the goddammed thing
was causing him.
Also, it was evidence to support his position.
Anyway, he had an Elf to stalk. He looped the tracker around his neck to keep
it readily accessible, raised his rifle into low port and felt its comforting
heft, then checked the surroundings and moved out.
How the hell had the little bastard crossed the river? Dagger wondered,
amazed. Well, shit, he needed to get moving. He'd underestimated the Darhel,
and that was not good. He took a route directly toward
the stream, pushing his way through the brush and not worrying about a trail.
Ferret might follow, but
Dagger was sure he'd have the upper hand. Sneaking was Ferret's thing.
Shooting was not. Not that he couldn't shoot, but he needed a reason. All
Dagger needed was a target.
Once he reached the stream, he realized that crossing it would be a bitch. He
looped his rifle into a diagonal position, waded out and angled against the
current. He'd have to swim, and that was going to be harder than hell. As the
depth reached his chest, which put him further out than Tirdal had been, being
taller, he pushed off and began stroking.
It wasn't that the water was cold, though it was. It wasn't that drag of all
his gear and the suit slowed his strokes and caused muscle strain, though it
did. It wasn't even the intermittent cracking of his helmeted head against the
rifle barrel and the neck strain caused by tense muscles and all that mass on
his head.
The combination, however, sucked. He was being dragged downstream, and was
soon tired. Yes, he was making progress, but it was slow. Then he inhaled in
between strokes and caught a lungful of water that made his lungs spasm. He
coughed and cringed, choking and gagging. How had that little freak made it
across? And he hadn't even drifted far downstream. No matter. He was nearly
across now, and was able to snag an overhanging branch. It kept him from
losing more distance he'd lost at least five hundred meters so far as he
recovered his breathing. Panting, wincing, he got it under control and swam
in, dragging the branch with him until it became more liability against his
lateral progress than anchor against being swept downstream. A few hard,
urgent kicks and he reached shallow water.
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