The Chosen

Chapter Sixteen

When the mist parted, the echoes of a thousand feet reverberating through the ground resolved itself into a dreaded truth. From her post in one of the trees, Teyla bit back a gasp. Never before had she seen such a vast horde of Wraith.

The sense of loathing and terror that rippled through those perched with her in the branches was as tangible as the chill bite of the morning air. And yet, the mere fact that the Wraith had been forced to march on the Citadel gave Teyla a measure of satisfaction that she had never before known.

Many stories from her childhood, and the drawings in the caves where her people had taken refuge, all spoke of the same thing. The Wraith came in their great ships, shredded the lives of generation after generation, and there was little anyone could do but run and hope that enough would survive to go on. But in her heart, Teyla had never accepted that this was truly the destiny of her people. Somewhere, somehow, the Wraith could be defeated.

The rebirth of Atlantis had kindled that hope until it had become something more. Now, it was a belief. True, the people of Earth were not the Ancestors. Her confidence had been tarnished by moments of disillusionment, even anger, at the newcomers’ arrogance. Nevertheless, that arrogance also gave them something that had been driven from her people when the Ancestors had departed — the will to stand and fight, and not to run and hide in the face of overwhelming odds.

Now, on Dalera, the Wraith had been brought to ground. Now, she too would stand and fight.

Gasps of fear quickly turned into shrill cries to abandon their position.

“No!” Teyla shouted. “Alone, you cannot hope to flee the scourge of the Wraith. Do not let their numbers daunt you. This plan will work, but only if we stand together!”

“And if the blackwater fails to burn as you say?” shouted one.

“Then the Wraith will not come our way. You may choose to tremble among the leaves while I will return to the Citadel to fight for the lives of your loved ones.”

On the ground, people paused in their preparations of the nets, and began to climb the trees to better see for themselves. “You have but a few hours to complete the traps,” she called down to them. “And you will see more when they approach closer.”

There was little response. Teyla grabbed the thick rope attached to the branch and swiftly lowered herself to the forest floor. “Here.” She grasped one end of a large net. “I will take this.” Several tense seconds passed until a boy of about thirteen clasped the other end and began hauling it up a nearby tree. His movements galvanized everyone back into action.

Climbing to a low branch, Teyla loosely fastened her corner of the net with a slipknot, then looked around. Throughout the forest, large nets were being lifted to the lower boughs, while others were buried beneath fallen leaves, and spring-loaded traps set in place.

Movement and a glint of steel told her that Ushat and his men were returning from checking the ambush line. Good. The warrior had been gone for some time and the only other Gene was some distance away. The sight of the glowing Shield around Ushat’s neck brought more mutters of relief from those working on the ground.

Teyla swung down from the branch to land lightly on her feet. “You have seen?”

Ushat smiled grimly. “Many hundreds of our people are returning to the villages on the far side of Quickweed Lake. When the Genes with them hand their Shields to those who are not Genes, the Wraith will see a great feast awaiting them.” He looked around and nodded his approval. “Once the Wraith learn that their passage through this forest is fraught with danger, crossing the Lake will appear their best course.”

“That is what we hope,” Teyla replied.

From above them, a cry went up. “It burns. The river burns — and the Wraith with them!”

This time, Teyla made no move to stop the Dalerans climbing the trees to witness for themselves. Indeed, she immediately pulled herself aloft and stared across the eastern fields. The sight was mesmerizing and more than satisfying. The entire eastern portion of South Channel was a blazing inferno. Lines of fiery serpents began to appear through the far fields, where the oil had flowed along irrigation channels. From this distance it was not possible to make out individuals, but she could see many smaller flames moving about, like the wicks of a hundred candles. Having stumbled into the oil, some of the Wraith had been set ablaze. The gruesome creatures had extraordinary regenerative properties, but it was doubtful if those caught in the fields of oil could survive such a sustained conflagration. The three vast columns of Wraith began to fall back.

Cries of joy traveled across the treetops, and Teyla felt a measure of relief. The battle to come would not be easy, but the people of Dalera were now empowered by the sight before them.

Ushat touched her arm. She took his Shield from him, and he signaled the warrior below to blow the trumpet. Reply calls from the Citadel told them that the EM fields close to North Bridge and the western end of the wall had also been disabled. Just before the roiling black smoke obscured her vision, she noticed the nearest column of Wraith headed in their direction.

“They come!” cried a lookout. At the speed the Wraith were moving, the first waves would soon be upon them — far sooner than Teyla had planned.

Awareness came in the form of a pounding headache, and hands grabbing at his shoulder, dragging him along. Then someone else was lifting his legs. A low moan sounded, and it took him a moment to realize that it had originated from him. He wasn’t sure what felt worse: the throbbing pain behind his eyes, or the gelatinous sensation of nausea. The explosive noise of a P-90 was like a dagger through his brain. Before he could stop himself, he threw up.

Someone, or more specifically someone who sounded like Ford, cursed and unceremoniously dropped him. Another report from the P-90, and then everything abruptly went quiet.

“Damn it, Rodney, rise and shine.”

“Careful, sir. He’s probably gonna throw up again.”

“Only if you keep making such blindingly astute observations, Lieutenant.” Rodney slowly sat up, but Sheppard wasted no time in dragging him further into the inn. “Whoa, whoa! Could I have half a second to get oriented here?”

“Not until I’m sure that Wraith is dead,” Sheppard replied with a distinct absence of sympathy.

Rodney looked around. What were they doing inside the inn? The last thing he remembered was being shoved off the path and headfirst into the outside wall by—“Artos?”

The two officers exchanged a glance. Ford explained. “All we saw was you on the ground outside the entrance of the inn, and a Wraith heading straight for you. There was nobody else around.”

A sharp pang of remorse caught Rodney unprepared. He wasn’t even completely sure of the man’s name, but he knew with wrenching clarity that Artos had saved his life — again.

The events of this unending night and of the days that had come before it crashed down on him in full force, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He’d had occasions to fear for his life before, but coming to Atlantis had forced him to contemplate his own mortality in a way that he’d never even considered back on Earth. Out here they’d faced death head-on and repeatedly. By now he should have become habituated to it, but he hadn’t. He doubted that he ever would.

When he opened his eyes again, Sheppard was watching him with something that Rodney was surprised to see involved a measure of concern. “Take it easy,” warned the Major. “If hitting the wall of the inn was what knocked you out, you might have a concussion.” He crouched and activated the light on his P-90 to examine Rodney’s pupils.

With a hiss of pain, Rodney batted away the torch. “The nausea’s more likely related to my having ingested several barrels of not-so light crude oil than a concussion,” he informed them snappishly. “Quit hovering. I’ll be fine.” May be if he repeated it it a few more times, he’d start to believe it himself. I’ll be fine. No problems here. Certainly not traumatized in the slightest.

The door to the inn banged open and two of Ushat’s warriors walked in. Rodney winced when he noticed their dripping axes. “The creature is dead — of that we made certain,” announced one of the men.

Standing up hadn’t been the most intelligent move, but it was a far cry from being dragged around the place. “What’s happening?” Rodney demanded.

“I think he was the pilot of a Dart that crashed when we turned up,” Ford supplied. “He didn’t look too good even before we shot him.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I meant the situation with the oil.” Now that he was on his feet, he actually felt considerably better. Squinting against the daylight filtering in through the windows, Rodney stared at Sheppard, waiting for a reply.

The Major changed the clip of his weapon and then slapped his hand against the panel by the transport doors. “Worked just fine. Ford, take McKay back to the Command Center.”

“Hey! Hang on a minute. What’s the big hurry?”

The doors opened, and the Major stepped in, turned around and smiled at him. “I have an ambush to attend. Ford will bring you up to speed.”

“Wait!” Rodney took a step toward him. “What about the oil? Has anyone checked it now that it’s daylight? If the rate of flow diminishes significantly, we may have to consider blowing out the lower section of the cliff face.”

“Take Ford, the bugler, and warriors with you.” Sheppard pulled a spare Shield out of his pack and tossed it to Rodney. “I understand you lost the last one.”

“Sir?” Ford called, moving to stop him. “Wouldn’t it be better if I—”

Reaching to the panel on the inside of the transport, Sheppard replied, “What is it with this place? Can’t anyone accept orders without a philosophical debate?”

“After your good influence, can you possibly be surprised?” Rodney quipped, but the doors had already closed.