Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “I sure hope so,” Kari agreed, blinking fervently.

  By midafternoon, the Battle of El Palo was over. Even on the west side of the city where the fighting had been comparatively light, it took considerable time to check and organize prisoners and round up their animals. Fred and Kari could contribute little, so bidding farewell to Captain Meder, they rejoined Captain Anson and his Rangers. Anson was very busy too, sending and receiving scouts, and quickly questioning Dom officers before they had time to recover themselves. Dashing through the shell-torn town at the head of his company (the Dom bombardment had been haphazard but heavy), they quickly toured the eastern defenses and spoke to the commanders there. Other Rangers galloped up or charged away, bearing reports the entire time. Couriers came from General Cox as well, or from the telegraphers still atop the battered tower. Sometimes Anson issued curt instructions, but usually merely nodded and sent the messengers on their way.

  Fred and Kari were two of very few who knew, “captain” or not, Anson acted under the express authority of the NUS president in various matters. General Cox obviously knew as well, which was why he kept him so meticulously informed, but this was the first time Fred or Kari ever watched Anson speak to majors and colonels like they were lieutenants—and saw them jump when he did so. They’d probably suspected he was more than he appeared all along.

  “I always knew our pal was a big wheel,” Fred muttered aside to his Lemurian friend, “but damn.”

  They finally ended their inspection of the battlefield at the south-central breastworks as the sun sank below the treetops. That’s where they found General Cox. He and his staff were mounted, clustered together, rooted in place, surveying the ghastly scene. The bright green maize field had been trampled and scorched to the ground, and blackened bodies covered it all the way to the distant, blasted forest. Huge carcasses of super lizards and armabueys were everywhere (the Dom commander had sent more), and swirling scavengers, including feral Grikbirds, were feasting on their exploded remains. Smaller scavengers, frighteningly indistinct in the gathering gloom, darted through the stubble, tearing flesh from dead Doms. Occasional shrieks proclaimed that some weren’t entirely dead, and Fred was glad to see armed parties bringing wounded in while dragoons scouted the tree line, screening their efforts. Occasionally, he watched a quick bayonet thrust, but supposed that was mercy of another sort.

  As was apparent even before they took their position on the right, the fighting along the southern breastworks had been the most intense, where most of the NUS casualties were sustained. While clearly hoping his lancers would break through and wreak havoc in the city, it was here the Dom commander shattered his army, sending wave after wave against what he must’ve been certain were weakening defenses. Yet, Anson hadn’t taken all the reserves and others had stopped serious breakthroughs here as well. On top of that, not only had the attack up the Camino Militar from the east been bloodily repulsed, it had been more a demonstration than a serious effort. Cox increasingly shifted troops from there as the battle progressed. Now, though obviously aware he’d won a major victory, it was equally clear Cox never dreamed how horrible it would be and he had no idea what to do next.

  “Have we an estimate of the butcher’s bill?” Anson asked quietly.

  Cox seemed to rouse himself and shook his head. “Preliminary returns indicate as many as four thousand dead. Twice as many wounded.” He sighed. “One-fifth of my army.”

  Anson waved at the field. “And the enemy?”

  Cox glared at him. “I’ve no idea. More, I’m sure, if that’s any consolation.”

  “It is,” Anson stressed, voice still low. He paused before continuing. “General, I understand we took more than three thousand prisoners. They confirm the enemy general—Julio Quonik de Quito—attacked with almost seventy thousand men. My scouts, and other men they’ve captured, confirm that less than a third of that force left the field today”—he pointed east—“and the only ones to do so in reasonably good order were part of the force dedicated to the feint. Not the enemy’s best troops. The rest are scattered, disorganized. And thanks to Colonel Hara’s artillery on the right”—he nodded at Fred and Kari—“and some timely support from the air, almost all de Quito’s lancers are destroyed or captured.”

  “What’re you saying, Captain?” a colonel sitting astride his horse next to Cox inquired.

  Anson took a breath. “We must, of course, reorganize and regroup, see to our wounded, and replace lost mounts and draft animals. Fortunately, we captured more than enough horses to accomplish the latter. But then we should immediately press the enemy, push them aside from our line of march, and prevent them from reconsolidating behind hasty fortifications in our path.”

  Cox seemed stunned. “You’re mad. We can’t advance! What of our wounded? Our supplies?”

  Kari snorted. “Whaat supplies, aafter this? Don Hernaan’ll squall like a stuck rhino pig an’ Leopaardo’ll haave to get off her ass an’ do somethin’. Only supplies you’ll get now’re comin’ behind Gener-aal Shinyaa—an’ he ain’t comin’ here, is he?”

  Cox looked at her and shook his head. “How do you know that? They just told us.”

  Kari flipped her tail. “’Cause Shinyaa goes for the throat—like you gotta do.”

  After a moment, Cox shook his head. “Impossible. Didn’t you hear? We’ve lost twenty percent of our effective strength and used a quarter of our ammunition. We’d have to leave our wounded behind, and even if this was the biggest army the Doms could muster against us, General Mayta will follow. Anyone we left would be at his mercy and we might get caught out on the march. And what if our prisoners rise up?” he added, shaking his head. “We dare not abandon El Palo.”

  Unlike Fred or Kari, Anson had seen reports of what Shinya intended to do. “Two regiments will be sufficient to guard our wounded and prisoners from efforts to harass—or liberate them. And since there were no Blood Drinkers on the field today, I doubt many of our prisoners would much welcome ‘liberation’ in any event. They did lose, you know, and the enemy frowns on that. If it came to it, they’d probably defend this place from our enemies as desperately as we would.

  “Otherwise, I suspect General Shinya’s right. Mayta will have little choice but to pursue him or be evacuated to raise a new force to stop him, us, and the two corps that’ll join us before we reach their Temple City.”

  Cox hesitated. Anson had obviously made his decision and might even relieve him if he objected too strenuously. Cox didn’t know if his authority was quite that broad, but wasn’t willing to press it. Just as important, he really was good at what he did and saw the sense in Anson’s proposal. It was just so very risky! “How far must Shinya come?” he equivocated. “Perhaps we could wait for him here. March on the temple together.”

  Fred caught himself rolling his eyes, then studiously avoided Cox’s gaze.

  “With respect, General,” Anson said mildly, “not only would that leave the enemy you broke here today too much time to recover, but General Shinya’s already heading southeast. Such a change would require that he march all the way around Mayta at El Henal and back up here, adding weeks to his advance, to no purpose.” His voice hardened. “We must join him, and do it quickly. The most important thing I learned while conferring with our allies,” he said, referencing the time he spent with Shinya, Jenks, and Blair when Fred and Kari flew him across to do so, “is the Doms have learned how to fight. More than we did in this one battle.” He looked south. “General de Quito’s initial plan and maneuvers showed talent. He could’ve kept us pinned here indefinitely.” He looked back at Cox. “Fortunate for us he was a little too aggressive, and just as inexperienced as we. We can’t expect that again, and the longer we give the enemy to regroup, the harder and bloodier our advance will be.”

  “So you’d have us be ‘too aggressive’ in response,” Cox suggested darkly. He held up his hand, conceding that pursuing a broken force
was different from assaulting a fortified position. “But what of General Mayta?” Cox objected once more.

  “Let General Shinya worry about him.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ////// El Henal

  Holy Dominion

  May 9, 1945

  Despite all his rationalizations, General Anselmo Mayta remained surprised he was still alive. He’d been appointed Supreme Commander of All the Armies of God by His Supreme Holiness Himself, but never personally enjoyed the presence of the Emperor of the World, and rather doubted the “Messiah of Mexico” had ever even heard of him. The appointment was based entirely on the good opinion of Don Hernan. And what had Mayta done to keep it? He’d lost El Corazon, the literal heart of the Holy Dominion in the northwest, and the enemy had complete control of the vitally strategic El Paso del Fuego. Without the aid of the League of Tripoli, the heretics could pounce at will upon any part of the Dominion. Have pounced already, Mayta grimly reminded himself, at El Palo and now Monsu, and there’s nothing I can do about it. So, stuck between two enemy forces, with mere militia and conscripts to command, I doubt Don Hernan has spared me sufficient thought to order my execution.

  Striding across the damp cobbles in the center of El Henal, he tried not to step in anything too unpleasant while avoiding the smelly mass of people—and all the beasts to feed them—they’d gathered from the countryside to bolster the defenses. His immaculate uniform coat and shiny, expensive shoes were the only things he’d brought from El Corazon, flying out on one of the greater dragons. He’d commandeered hose, trousers, and numerous shirts, even a replacement hat, but no one in the backwater city of El Henal could replace his shoes and coat.

  With three greater dragons and two riders still at his disposal, he had managed a couple of worthwhile things. He’d dutifully sent a detailed report of the fall of El Corazon to Don Hernan, remaining as objective as he could. He’d accepted blame, of course, but bluntly hinted most should rest on the shoulders of the Blood Drinker General Allegria (one of Don Hernan’s many sons). It had been his actions at the height of the battle that turned the city populace against them, and victory became impossible. He’d supposed that if he was to be impaled, he may as well tell the truth. To his astonishment, the dragon actually returned, its rider bearing a hand-scrawled note from Don Hernan that said, “See to the defenses at El Henal. General de Quito will deal with the heretics at El Palo.” There’d been nothing about hanging himself or surrendering to the local Blood Priests to be burned alive. Nothing else at all. He’ll get around to it sooner or later, Mayta had decided.

  That was before Shinya landed at Monsu, however. He’d sent word of that as well, but there’d been no reply. He’d used his other rider and two greater dragons to scout the enemy as often as they were able. He knew from his own single, terrifying flight that dragons tired quickly and just hanging on and forcefully directing the recalcitrant beasts was exhausting for a rider. But he’d discovered the approximate size of Shinya’s force—surely his veteran X Corps—and determined El Henal was his only possible objective. That was just as well. He’d begun improving the city’s defenses the day he arrived and actually had more troops under arms than Shinya. That was small consolation, since he knew X Corps’ quality (man and . . . beast) and had no doubt it could take El Henal with relative ease. But Anselmo Mayta could bleed X Corps and take comfort from that before he died like a soldier. Far better than shrieking and writhing on an impaling pole for hours, maybe days . . .

  “My General!” came a wispy, breathless call behind him.

  Mayta drew himself to an impatient stop and turned. “What is it, Colonel Yanaz?” he asked, harsher than intended. Yanaz was the startlingly corpulent alcalde of El Henal and fancied himself a military man. So much so that in the current emergency, he’d asked to be addressed by the traditional militia rank all alcaldes held. Mayta had to admit he’d done good work stockpiling supplies, and been as accommodating as possible when it came to defensive modifications to the city despite the cloud over Mayta’s head. But he simply looked ridiculous. His tailored uniform fit well enough, even if it made him look like a yellow gourd, but the tails were too long, almost dragging the ground, probably intended to make him look thinner and more dashing. His sword did drag.

  “General Mayta,” Yanaz wheezed, trying to catch his breath. His voice was so quiet there was no telling how long he’d been chasing him, calling out. “Colonel Fuerte insists you make time to dine with him, and now I’ve been called upon by the Patriarca of the Blood Priests to intervene with you on Fuerte’s behalf!” Yanaz sounded afraid, as well he might, but Mayta’s expression turned to stone. Fuerte was a Blood Drinker. Anselmo Mayta remained devout in his belief that suffering was the price of entry to the afterlife, but he’d had an epiphany after El Corazon. If God truly required as much wanton suffering as the Blood Priests and their elite warriors claimed, and if He was truly on their side (a recurring, unbidden doubt he could never share), then He should’ve had His fill of blood at El Corazon—and Mayta would’ve won. He’d begun to suspect instead that God’s true servants in this life, those most often called upon for sacrifice, probably earned sufficient cumulative Grace in their short, harsh existence without any help from the Church.

  “I regret you’ve been disturbed, Colonel Yanaz. Please explain to the Patriarca, however, that it was a Blood Drinker—and his troops—who lost El Corazon, so I have little regard for them as soldiers. Moreover, since Fuerte has only a single company of Blood Drinkers here, he’s of little utility and has no place in the command structure. I’m far too busy and poorly inclined to waste time staring at any man while he sips wine and chews his food just now.”

  Yanaz looked horrified. “I can’t tell him that!” he blurted. Even an alcalde wasn’t safe from charges of heresy by the lowliest Blood Drinker, and the Patriarca of a city could have virtually anyone “sacrificed” at whim. Anyone except Anselmo Mayta, it seemed, as long as he held His Supreme Holiness’s commission. Mayta had developed an abiding hatred for Blood Drinkers and was perversely enjoying tweaking Colonel Fuerte. Particularly since it was understood that “dine with him” really meant Mayta should present himself. He’d never do that.

  Mayta waved it away. “Of course not. Don’t worry. If they press you again, tell them you passed the request,” he smiled, “but even you had to chase me down to do it. I’m quite engaged in attempting to defend them, after all.” He clenched his teeth. “I’ll be happy to speak with Fuerte as well, if he can catch me as ably as you.” He took a breath. “Come, I’ll show you what we’re working on today: a lovely entanglement that should funnel the enemy directly into our guns.”

  Walking slower so Yanaz could keep up, Mayta led him through the (apologetically when they passed) bustling crowd in the center of the city to an open courtyard behind one of the walls that was being strengthened on both sides to protect it from artillery fire. Men not working were training with shiny new muskets (of the older style) in the courtyard, learning to load them and clear misfires. They were peasants mostly, even a few slaves, donated by their masters. Mayta wouldn’t trust any of them in isolated positions, but he’d made it clear what fate awaited if they didn’t do their duty. He paused at the base of a sloping earthen berm, checking to see if it was packed hard enough that his precious shoes wouldn’t sink before climbing to the top. There was a wide fighting position there, and masons were shaping stone-framed firing slits on the outer edge. He pretended not to notice Yanaz’s huffing as the man labored up behind him.

  “Excellent protection here for marksmen,” he said, pointing, “and troops can move quickly from one point on the wall to another.”

  “But their flying machines drop bombs,” Yanaz gasped.

  “There’ll be overhead protection, sloping away. Most of their bombs should be directed outside the walls.” He tried to sound confident but both men knew there’d be no overhead protection for the city itself, and bombs dropping
behind the walls would slaughter anyone near. All the more reason for people to defend the walls, Mayta supposed. They might be the safest places. “That said,” he assured, “only a very few enemy flying machines have been seen at Monsu, and those must’ve flown across from Manizales. They probably positioned a little fuel and ordnance during their landing, but can’t have a large reserve. Nor do they have many flying machines left,” he added confidently. “They may prove a nuisance, but I wouldn’t worry overmuch about them if I were . . .” His voice trailed off and he peered behind them to the east. At first he thought he’d cursed them with his assurances and two of the smaller enemy planes were swooping toward them. Then one briefly flapped its wings and he realized the shapes were greater dragons. “Clear the courtyard at once!” he bellowed below. “Dragons coming in!”

  He didn’t have to say it twice. All dragons were hungry when they landed, but those large enough to carry a man were even less patient than their smaller cousins and wouldn’t hesitate to snatch the first thing to appear in front of their toothy snouts. Even so, Mayta considered with disapproval, viewing the panic with which the courtyard emptied, a most unseemly display.

  The dragons flared out over the courtyard and descended with considerable commotion, stirring dusty gusts with their flapping wings. Handlers rushed in before they could light, each towing a pair of protesting goats. Swiftly slashing the animal’s throats, they retreated to a safe distance. Immediately upon landing, even before folding their rather spindly-looking forty-foot wings, each beast seized a still thrashing goat and began chewing ravenously. The offering wouldn’t sate their hunger but would put them in a more manageable frame of mind. It would also distract them while their riders dropped to the ground and hurried, wobble-legged, toward General Mayta and Colonel Yanaz. Gaining the fighting position, the flyers bowed, and one Mayta didn’t recognize opened a leather tube hanging from a strap and handed him a scroll. He noted with familiar distaste that it was made of human skin, tightly rolled, and closed with Don Hernan’s own elaborate seal. Trying to touch the macabre parchment as lightly as he could, he took the scroll but didn’t open it. Instead, he turned to the flyer he’d sent to observe Shinya at Monsu.