SGA-13 Hunt and Run (5 page)

But not unscathed.

He rolled over, gritting his teeth at the pain as the rocks and dirt rubbed against the raw skin of his lower back. The Wraith who had tormented him had done something there, something that had pierced Ronon with a sharp agony beyond any he’d previously experienced. It was a purely physical pain, however, and so he had tightened his jaw and endured. That was what Satedans did. That was what Ronon Dex did.

Not that the Wraith had been fooled. “It hurts, does it not?” it had inquired, leaning in close and leering, showing all its sharp teeth. Ronon had struggled against the bonds that clamped him to the table, but of course they had been fastened tight. No one could say the Wraith were stupid.

“The pain must be extreme,” it had continued. “Good.” Its grin widened even as its eyes narrowed. “Shall I tell you what I have done?” And then it did.

The incision point was still raw now, a day or so later, but most of the pain had fallen to a dull throb. It was a pain Ronon could live with. Not that he expected to live much longer.

After all, he was now the object of a Wraith hunt. The tracking device imbedded in his spine would reveal his precise location to any Wraith equipped with the appropriate frequency. They would be coming for him even now.

So be it. Ronon bit back a scream as he pushed himself onto his stomach, got his hands under his chest, and heaved himself back to his feet. He swayed there a second, almost falling again, before straightening into a half-crouch. He would die on his feet, like a man. Like a warrior. Like a Satedan. And then he would be with Melena again.

But that didn’t mean he was planning to go without a fight. No, the Wraith that came for him would know they had fought Ronon Dex. And the ones who survived would remember his name.

He glanced around. They had stripped away his Specialist armor when he had been captured, and his weapons, his sword and his pistol, were likewise gone. All he had were his fists, and they would not be enough. Not against the Wraith.

They had dropped him on some planet, he had no idea which one, but there was dirt beneath his feet and trees and bushes nearby. No rocks big enough to function as weapons, nor any flint or slate he could chip into a spearhead — not that he would necessarily have time for such a venture anyway. No doubt the Wraith were already on their way. He would need to find a weapon quickly.

Ronon’s eyes wandered to the trees again. They were deciduous, with wide trunks and curving branches and thick clusters of broad leaves. The branches began perhaps ten feet above his head, and he studied the possibilities before selecting one that looked sturdy. Then he leaped for it.

He missed, and fell to the ground again, cursing under his breath as the impact jarred his bones and sent fresh lancets of pain radiating from his back. But after a few seconds he picked himself up, took a deep breath, and tried again.

This time his fingers brushed the branch before he dropped back to earth.

A third time. Ronon was gasping for breath, his chest heaving, sweat dripping into his eyes, pain coursing up and down his spine. He doubted he would be able to make a fourth attempt. He shook his head, flinging the sweat from him, and snarled. He would not fail! He was Satedan! Using all his remaining strength he crouched and then uncoiled, hurling himself upward. His hands, fully extended, wrapped around the branch and clamped on, digging into the rough bark. Yes!

Now he was hanging from a tree, his feet dangling several feet above the ground. If a Wraith came upon him now, he would be helpless.

But Ronon did not intend to stay this way for long. Instead he tightened his grip and then swiveled his body sideways, legs scissoring in the air. He had judged the distance well, and his feet slammed into the tree’s trunk, almost jolting him from his precarious perch. But the branch shook as well.

Again. His feet hit the trunk hard, his fingers clung to the branch, and everything shook. But through the pain and the fatigue Ronon thought he heard a faint creak above him and to the side.

He hung for a second, catching his breath, and then kicked the tree a third time. Yes, this time he heard a definite sound. It came from the juncture of the trunk and the branch. And it was growing louder.

A fourth kick, and the creak became a groan and then something akin to a scream. The branch, unable to withstand the constant abuse of both Ronon’s weight and his attacks on the trunk, shrieked and tore loose, the wood at its base splintering away from the tree and showering the area with a flurry of small splinters. Ronon dropped to the ground, the branch plummeting with him. Only his tight grip on it, and his flinging his arms over his head as he fell, kept it from smashing in his skull.

Ronon lay on the ground for a good minute after that. He could barely breathe, choked by sweat and tears and possibly blood and flecks of tree bark. He could barely see, his thick braids matted and covering his face like a shroud. His entire body ached, the aches turning to twinges of pain as he moved.

But he had a weapon.

Groaning, he forced himself to his feet and hefted the branch. It was good solid length of wood, heavy enough to do real damage, rough enough for a secure grip. An excellent club. He swung it a few times, getting its weight and balance. Not perfect, but it would cave in a head or shatter a limb nicely. He couldn’t bite back the grin that tugged at his lips. Now let them come for him. He would take at least one of them with him before he fell.

“Nice club.” The voice startled Ronon and he dropped into a crouch, raising his new weapon and gripping it tightly with both hands. “Won’t do you much good, though.”

A figure stepped from the trees. Ronon stared — he had not heard anyone, had not seen anyone, yet the man moved casually, comfortably, as if he were in no hurry and at no risk. He did keep well enough back that Ronon would not be able to reach him, however. Not a fool, then.

And not a Wraith, either. The man was human, shorter and more solidly built than Ronon, with skin of a redder hue and short hair the color of a deepening sunset. He wore clothes rather than armor, though the way he moved suggested they were reinforced in strategic locations. At his side were a long knife and a pistol, but his hands were empty.

“It’ll crush the first Wraith foolish enough to charge me!” Ronon snapped in reply, his words fading to a growl as he thought about the joy he would take in breaking at least one Wraith before they got him. But the stranger shook his head.

“They’re not stupid enough to get that close,” he answered. “Not right away. They’ll shoot you first, most likely in the leg — bring you to your knees, both so you can’t run and because it amuses them to break their victims first. Then the shoulder — no way you can wield that branch with only one arm, so you’ll drop it. That’ll leave you defenseless.” He shrugged. “Then they can pick you off at their leisure.”

“You have a gun — give it to me!” Ronon demanded. “With that I can kill several before they can close! Or I’ll wait, lure them in, and then shoot them!”

The man shook his head again. “They’d still kill you, in the end,” he pointed out. “You might get a few of them, but not enough. Not enough to make a difference.”

“It would make a difference to me!” Ronon roared back. “They killed my world! They killed my wife! I have nothing left to live for!”

“I can give you something to live for.”

Ronon turned his back on him. He was almost out of time, he knew. The Wraith would be here soon. He refused to let himself be distracted.

“Will you listen?” the stranger called from behind him. “Please?”

“Go away,” Ronon growled over his shoulder. He hefted his club again. “I have matters to attend to.”

He heard the stranger sigh. “Fine. We’ll do it the hard way.”

Before Ronon could wonder what the man had meant, he heard an unmistakable sound. The sound of an energy pistol being fired. Even as the noise registered, his body convulsed, the club flying from his grip as his entire frame shook with pain.

Then the darkness swarmed in, enveloping Ronon. He tried to fight against it, but it was everywhere, and his world went black. He didn’t even feel the impact when he hit the ground.

“Drink this.”

The words shattered the silence, and Ronon blinked reflexively, turning toward the voice. His motion became a wince, however, as flickers of light stabbed beneath his eyelids , and the act of shifting his head sent jolts of pain arcing up from his neck to his temples and back.

“Easy, easy,” the voice continued. “Just relax. Cup’s right by your mouth. I’ll hold it, you drink.” He recognized the voice now — the man in the forest, the one who had mocked his plans for vengeance.

The man who had shot him.

“I’ll kill you,” Ronon managed to whisper. His lips curled in a snarl, and brushed against something smooth, wide, and curved. The cup. The parched agony of his throat betrayed him then, and he felt his lips part slightly, jaw trembling. The man said nothing as he pressed the cup closer and angled it, letting cool water trickle into Ronon’s mouth and down his throat. Ronon gulped it gratefully, and felt his senses waken again as some of the pain eased.

“I’ll kill you,” he repeated, squinting against the brightness and trying to force his eyes to focus on the man in front of him. “They were coming and you took me away from them.”

“I took you away so you wouldn’t die,” the man countered. “What good would that have done anyone?”

Now Ronon was able to open his eyes fully. “It would have ended my suffering,” he growled back. “And it might have ended one or more of them as well!”

The stranger shook his head, but his eyes narrowed in a look Ronon knew well. The man was appraising him. “Maybe it would, at that,” he admitted after a few seconds. “You’ve shaken off the stun blast faster than I expected, and snapping that tree limb took a lot of strength. So yeah, you might have taken one of them with you.” He leaned forward, gray eyes intent. “But what good would that have done, in the long run?”

Ronon glared back at him. “There is no long run,” he insisted. “Not for me. Not anymore.”

“There could be again,” the man replied.

“How?” Ronon reached for the cup, annoyed at the sight and feel of his arm shaking, but managed to take it from the stranger and raise it to his lips without splattering himself. “Even if the first one falls, they will send others. And they will always know where to find me.”

Now the man smiled. It was a cold expression, with very little humor behind it. “Maybe, maybe not.” He leaned back. “I can help you. And you can help me, too. Together, we can help each other — and make the Wraith pay.”

Draining the cup, Ronon tossed it aside and wiped his mouth on his forearm. “You want to help me? Fine. Give me your gun.”

That at least got a laugh from the stranger. “What good would it do you?”

“You already know the answer to that.” Ronon stood, warily at first but his balance was still solid and the world stopped spinning after a few seconds. He took a deep breath, then another, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he swiveled to stare down at the stranger. “Will you give me the gun or not?”

The stranger laughed. “I like you, I really do — you’ve got a lot of willpower. But that’s not going to be enough to deal with the Wraith.”

“It will if I have a gun.”

“I don’t think so. They’ll still — urk!” That last sound leaped from the stranger’s throat when Ronon turned and slammed his hand palm first into the other man’s stomach. It knocked the wind out of the stranger, propelled him several feet, and left him slumped on the ground against the back wall of what Ronon now realized must be some sort of small cabin, possibly a hunting lodge. The cramped space had three rickety chairs, a small circular table, several old sleeping pallets, and nothing else.

Right now, though, Ronon didn’t care about the cabin or its decoration scheme. He was too busy grabbing the stranger’s pistol and bolting for the door. He’d hit the man hard enough to stun him for a few minutes, but that meant he had to be well away from here — wherever “here” was — before he lost this window of opportunity. Ronon didn’t waste any time — by the time the door slammed shut he was already twenty paces away, and broadening that gap with every second.

Once he was back among the trees — it looked like the cabin had been nestled into a small clearing, and Ronon felt more comfortable with proper cover — he took stock. His head still ached but not enough to do more than slow him down. Same with the rest of him — sore but serviceable. He didn’t have any food or water, and he had no weapons beyond the stranger’s pistol.

It was a handsome-looking pistol though, Ronon thought as he studied the piece more closely. Longer and sleeker than most laser pistols he’d seen, a bit more solid and significantly better balanced. It had an indicator switch along the left side, just below a pair of tiny lights. So the gun had multiple settings! That was good to know. One of them must be the stun setting the stranger had hit him with, and one must be a standard “kill” setting. Ronon clicked the switch and the small red light lit up for an instant. Perfect.

Then he selected a clump of trees, took up a stance behind them, and waited.

As he’d suspected, it didn’t take long. Ten, perhaps twenty minutes passed and then he heard heavy footsteps approaching from the front. They weren’t the stranger’s either — he had moved through the trees without a sound.