Terror of the Shadow

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The War'acks—as many as were left—scattered, running frantically in every direction like ants who had lost the scent of their trail. Many of them, Laban noticed, began running back towards the cave. It was the only place that they could find cover. That is, Laban thought, if he didn't bring it down on their heads first.

He armed another set of bombs and let them fly. They did not hit the cave directly like last time, but it was close enough. Another set of bodies lay in its wake. Laban watched as another group of War'acks ducked away from the explosion, turning away from the burning mouth of the cave and sprinting into the desert. More War'acks began to emerge from the smoke.

Laban tried to imagine how Ithtar must be feeling. It was his turn to be afraid. He had threatened Ura-chan with war. Now it would be over before it could begin. For all their armies and power, it would all be defeated by one man in a single afternoon.

Laban smiled softly under his oxygen mask, though he wouldn't have realized it. All his life, he had been pushed around, having no more say over his own destiny than a grain of sand in the wind. But now he had power.

And that power felt good.

Laban swung the craft around for another pass. The soldiers were more spread out now and harder to hit. Laban held the trigger down this time for a few seconds, digging a long trench in the sand with his bullets.

Laban's insides jumped upward as the engine coughed again, this time staying off for what felt like a minute, but was in reality probably only several seconds. The craft's nose tipped earthward and the ground rushed up to meet him. The stick did nothing to change its trajectory. With his other arm, he pounded the ignition, hoping to get it running again.

He thought he could see the faces of the dead War'acks on the ground before the engine sputtered to life again. He yanked back on the stick and pushed the throttle to its maximum. Even the inertial dampeners in the craft weren't enough to keep Laban from being shoved down into his seat. The edge of his vision went black and blurry and his head began to swim.

He leveled out his ascent. His vision returned to normal, but he still felt very lightheaded. He took a few shaky breaths to try to slow the heart that pounded in his chest.

Laban was suddenly blinded by a flash of light, flying upward, narrowly missing the glass dome of his craft.

Looking through the bright spots burned into his eyes, Laban looked down to see a flash of flame suddenly rushing up to meet him, trailed by a plume of black smoke. He banked hard to the right, and the rocket flew past. It burst in the air just above him, shaking the whole craft and peppering it with bits of shrapnel.

Laban let loose another bomb. It landed somewhere below him, hopefully eliminating the threat. He loosened the throttle again and let his altitude drop. He would finish off whatever was left.

Another light flashed red on the control panel, followed by another. Alarms blared that echoed noisily in the cramped fishbowl of the cockpit. A mechanized, artificial voice came over the speakers warning him that the engine was overheating and that he needed to land immediately. The ship shuddered and shook, completely ignoring Laban's attempts to stabilize it. Even the gyroscopic servos of the cockpit struggled to hold him steady. He felt some piece of the ship tear off and fall to the ground.

Finally finding the switch that muted the repetitive warnings from the computer, Laban pushed the nose down towards the ground, aiming for a spot that he hoped was a safe distance from any War'acks. The moment before the polished glass nose collided with sand, he jerked back on the stick, leveling out his trajectory, hoping the fine sand might pad his fall.

But the craft hit the desert floor so hard it may as well have been made of concrete. The straps of the restraining belts dug into his shoulders and stomach. A horrible grating noise filled his ears as the hull was ground away under the abrasive sands of the Outland. Metal moaned and snapped until it all finally came to a stop at the end of a newly dug trench.

Ignoring the thousand blinking lights flashing in his eyes, Laban wrestled the cockpit dome open just enough for him to squeeze himself through. He collapsed onto the burning sand, drawing deep breaths into his panting lungs. His mouth was dry, but the rest of his body was soaked with sweat.

When enough oxygen had finally been pulled into his brain to start thinking clearly again, Laban looked up to get a view of his surroundings. The bullet craft had come to rest in the narrow valley between two tall sand dunes. A large, bite-shaped divot had been carved into one of them by the craft barreling through it. The thing's engine was still running, but barely. The force of it began to kick up a dark fog of sand mixed with smoke and burning oil. Soon it was enough to completely obscure his vision, making Laban doubly thankful for the mask over his face. Soot and grime began to build up over the lenses of his goggles.

Laban stumbled through the blurry darkness and up the slope of one of the dunes, crawling his way on all fours until he had lifted himself out of the fog and onto the peak of the sandy ridge.

Plumes of smoke in the distance, evidence of what he had done to the War'acks, had already begun to dissipate. They couldn't have been more than a mile away—two at the very most, by Laban's estimate. They would have seen where the ship crashed. It wouldn't take them more than a few minutes to make their way over here.

Which meant the clock was ticking.