“So you broke at last, old one,” snarled a Dorrighsti with a white claw painted over his slashmarks. He spun from Jash, now heedless of his opponent. “My Lord Esshk always thought you might.”
A half instant before Jash’s slashing blade swept deep across the back of the Dorrighsti’s neck, knocking its helmet away and severing the spine, the guard turned assassin thrust its sword between Ign’s ribs. The general gasped, recoiling from the blow, but then straightened and looked down at the protruding sword.
Naxa and the nearby troops swept across the last few Dorrighsti and literally tore them apart. But in the bloody space in front of the battered marquee where only Jash and Ign stood, time seemed to slow within an incredibly fragile, soundless bubble, and the two regarded each other as they always had, with deep respect and a bond neither could describe, but Jash had heard called “friendship.”
“I apologize,” Ign said, his voice still strong and gruff. “I knew the terms offered by the Giver of Life, and the Dorrighsti were here to ensure I didn’t join her—and you. They would’ve destroyed me and taken my army straight to Esshk. Not that it would’ve survived bashing through the enemy that blocks it. None of that mattered, you see. Lives never mattered to Esshk, or the Celestial Mothers of the past.” He coughed blood and swayed slightly, but managed to straighten. Still, the bubble around them seemed to burst and the tumult surrounded them once more.
“Silence!” Ign roared, orange froth spraying from his teeth. “First Ker-noll Jash has brought the truth. Esshk did betray the Giver of Life. The old enemy is our enemy no more.” He looked back at Jash. “I sacrificed one army in front of General Alden. I . . . I couldn’t do it again. Not for Esshk. So I’ve dawdled about in the wilderness, fighting only to keep from being destroyed, while ever seeming to move toward Esshk to satisfy my masters.” He said the last with contempt and hawked a gobbet of blood on a Dorrighsti corpse. “You would’ve seen it in an instant, had you been with me. I’m sure Naxa suspected as well. But these . . . krikau had no idea.” He looked back at Jash and when he spoke again, his voice gurgled, blood ran down the white fur on his throat, and his breathing was quick and ragged. “I did it all to save as much of this army as I could. I even denounced you to gain more time.” He shook his head and looked down, blood drooling from his jaws. “Foolish of me. I should’ve known, together, we’d overcome Esshk’s assassins, but . . . perhaps I still wonder if this new Giver of Life—little more than a hatchling—and her enemy supporters we’ve fought so hard, are really any better. Worth further sacrifice by those I lead.”
“She is. They are,” Jash assured gently.
Ign coughed rackingly, spewing blood, and finally sank down on his haunches. Jash and Naxa knelt beside him, as did many others, amazingly moved for Gharrichk’k. Of course, none were ordinary Gharrichk’k anymore. “Very well, First Ker-noll Jash,” Ign finally managed, as formally as he was able. “You command this army now—such as it is. Take it to join our old enemies and destroy our old world.” He coughed again, long and hard, then gagged, blood going everywhere. When he tried to talk again, his voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’m rather glad the responsibility is lifted from me. I’d like to see the new world you’ll make, but there’d be no place for me. I’m as blameworthy as Esshk.”
“No, Lord General,” Naxa denied.
“He is,” Jash disagreed softly. “Not for the attempt on the Celestial Mother, but he knew all else that Esshk was doing. ‘Truth in all things’ is the new motto of the empire—and perhaps the harshest commandment our Giver of Life has made.”
Ign looked at him in wonder. “Indeed?” he croaked. “Good. It’s unattainable, of course, but a commendable ambition. The worthiest aspirations can never be fully achieved, but knowing that and trying anyway is perhaps the very purpose of life.” He suddenly grasped Naxa’s arm. “You’ll support Jash?” he gasped.
“I failed to once,” he confessed, “and Esshk was the cause of that too. Never again.”
Ign squeezed his arm, then panted, “In that case . . . I’ll say no more.” It was as close as he’d come to a plea to end his suffering while he still controlled it.
Nodding solemnly, Naxa grasped the sticky, red-washed sword hilt protruding from Ign’s chest. “Farewell, Lord General,” he whispered, and drew the long, curved blade out. Blood gushed after it and Ign shuddered, eyes clenched shut. Then, with a rasping sigh, he lay down on his side and died.
Jash stood, staring at the body that was somehow no longer Ign. “Don’t eat him. Our former enemies memorialize their notable slain in various ways. We should as well. Perhaps mount his skull in the Palace of Vanished Gods?” He shook his head. “Ign always wanted to be remembered,” he explained. “Let’s see that he is, for the right reasons.”
The sky was very dark and raindrops had begun to fall. “I must return to the airship,” he said, raising his voice to carry. “Ker-noll Naxa will command, for now. He’ll wait two days for me to ensure all is arranged, then gather the army and march to meet our allies, designated ‘Fifth Corps’ in this area. Part of the Army of the Republic. I’ll try to meet you there. Even if I can’t, they won’t shoot. Flying machines may watch your movements, but they won’t attack. Do not fire at them!”
“It’ll be . . . difficult to just stop fighting the prey,” Naxa reflected, then he had a thought. “What’ll we call our army now, Lord General? If this prey . . . ‘allied’ army has a name, so should we.”
“I’m no general,” Jash retorted, “but I’m the only ‘First Ker-noll.’ That should suffice. As to a name . . .” He considered. “You were a Slasher once. So was I. So is the force I still command. We’re all Slashers now, the ‘Slasher Corps.’ Number the divisions in . . . the ‘Army of the Mother’ accordingly.” He looked around at the gathered troops, the bloody bodies, and the dead general. “We have much to prove to our new allies—other hunters who defeated us—and there’ll be hard fighting ahead. Perhaps hardest of all for us, since I mean to reach Esshk first . . . and rip him apart.”
CHAPTER 24
////// USS Savoie
Scapa Flow, New Scotland
Empire of the New Britain Isles
June 29, 1945
The Union fleet anchored off the Imperial naval base at Scapa Flow was more impressive than anything these waters had ever seen. From his vantage point in Savoie’s pilothouse, Matt reflected it was even fairly “modern-looking” at a glance, and wouldn’t have seemed particularly out of place in the nearby Pearl Harbor on the world he came from. Savoie vaguely resembled New York or Texas, and Gray looked just as much like an Omaha Class CL. Then there was Gray’s Filpin Lands–built sister, USS Maa-ni-la (the only one like her that would ever be built there either), and the growing shoal of “4-stacker” destroyers accompanying them. These included Walker, Mahan, Ellie, McDonald, Tassat, and Adar, of course, joined by the Maa-ni-la-built USS Daanis and USS Steele. USS Sular was anchored near Savoie among a pack of the fast oilers and freighters, with II Corps’ 6th Division and Chack’s Brigade embarked.
They’d had a pleasant cruise out of Baalkpan, just what they needed after a whirlwind stay marked by herculean effort in the yard, unrestrained revelry ashore by some who’d kept the cork in too long, and the tragedy and grief resulting from treachery, of course. And to Matt’s surprise (with the exception of a single episode he’d caught lurid rumors of), Silva conscientiously behaved himself the entire time they were there. He and Lawrence, or a detail of their minions (representing every ship in the fleet), shadowed Matt and Sandra wherever they went. Chack stuck with Safir, of course. Her performance the night of the disaster had been masterful, if exhausting, and she still needed rest before fully assuming her new duties. At least she was “herself” again. So was Chack. With his heart secure, and half of II Corps’ veterans—including the remnants of Safir’s own “600”—remaining at Baalkpan to protect everything he left behind, he was ready to fight
again.
Matt and Sandra had been at a loss as to what to do with their son. Matt hadn’t even tried to suggest that Sandra remain behind, but they were agreed young Fitzhugh must stay at Baalkpan. Karen Letts provided a solution by insisting she and her children would care for the infant on the very day they buried her husband. Matt hadn’t been keen on that, worried her offer had been impulsive and inspired by grief still fresh and sharp, but Sandra believed her friend and their son would benefit from the arrangement. She was probably right. And ultimately, if something happened to them, Karen was the obvious choice to raise the boy, anyway.
First Fleet found just as many ships under construction at Maa-ni-la as Baalkpan, but in addition to many planes and MTBs (all their MTBs were made in the Filpin Lands), time had only allowed the completion of the one CL and four “modern” DDs. Two destroyers, USS Araina and USS Sineaa, had already proceeded west toward the Pass of Fire, screening the carriers USNRS Salissa and USS Madraas (loaded with new planes); self-propelled dry dock USS Tarakaan Island (packed with MTBs); the other two ex-Grik APDs, Saa-Leebs, and La-Laanti, as well as another herd of replenishment ships. All were under Keje’s command, though the APDs had veered off toward the shipyards at the Enchanted Isles for modifications Matt requested.
There’d been a near riot on their last night in Maa-ni-la, after the final game in a series in which the new light cruiser’s baseball team humiliated all comers. Baseball had become an obsession in the Filpin Lands, and USS Maa-ni-la’s team was good. Fights broke out near the navy yard bars and radiated through the city. The resulting damage was shocking, and the Lord High Sky Priest Meksnaak, still reluctantly in charge during Saan-Kakja’s absence, had been enraged. Matt was unconvinced all, or even most, of the damage was caused by “his” people, but Meksnaak didn’t care. He’d finally become a convert to the necessity of their cause, but still—understandably—hated what it was doing to his city and its culture. He’d been ready to make an example of every Navy Clan member the SPs rounded up. Only the fact they were steaming away to a real battle where “maany of the miscreaants might earn proper punishment” allowed them to sail with full complements.
The wind built to near strakka force and the sea kicked up from there. The DDs rolled their guts out and couldn’t refuel underway. Even Savoie took a beating and heavy water coursed over her fo’c’sle. By the time they made Respite Island, the Empire’s westernmost outpost, the DDs were gasping on fumes. The fleet spent two days recovering and making repairs and some of the hardier souls even went swimming in the island’s crystalline lagoon. As far as Matt knew, Respite was the only place on earth you could swim in seawater in relative safety. Watching hundreds of Lemurians splash in the shallows, nervously at first, then with growing excitement and hilarity, was quite a sight.
Matt and Sandra spent their days with the charming Governor and Emelia Radcliff, touring the vivid, rocky island in a comfortable coach drawn by a four-up team of burros. They rarely discussed the war, but Emelia gave them her impressions of how High Chief Saan-Kakja and Governor-Empress Rebecca McDonald had been changed by it. The two leaders had made a visit before backtracking to the main Impie Isles. Matt and Sandra spent their very pleasant nights in the same beach bungalow where they’d enjoyed their brief honeymoon. Though they missed their new son even more than they’d expected, it was their first opportunity to really relax, entirely alone, and fully enjoy each other almost since they were married on that very island. After all they’d both been through since, it did them a world of good.
They steamed out of Respite, rested and healed. And though the air turned hot and sultry and the ship’s crews took to sleeping on deck again, they enjoyed unchallenging seas the rest of the way to the main Impie Isles. Matt took the opportunity to practice maneuvers again, and the destroyers rehearsed dashing out of line to make torpedo runs in the blink of an eye. The sea rumbled with the thunder of gunnery exercises on alternating days and nights, shredding targets towed behind racing DDs on the horizon. Savoie’s new fire control computer might not be as good as the one taken from her, but it worked well enough. More important, her people were getting very good indeed. All the crews were, and the fleet that put in at Scapa Flow was small, but confident.
“Motor launch comin’ over from thaat dopey-lookin’ Impie crooser by the dock,” called a Lemurian lookout. Matt and Captain Russ Chappelle raised their binoculars. Scapa Flow was a wonderfully broad harbor on the south of a larger, craggier, single island where Molokai and Maui should’ve been. And like Baalkpan and the Filpin Lands, it had been transformed by war. Already the main naval base of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, it still possessed a restrained, picturesque atmosphere the last time Matt was there. No more. If anything, it looked like “progress” and the industrial requirements of a near-global war had corrupted the beauty of Scapa Flow even more profoundly than Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la. The haze doesn’t help, Matt supposed gloomily. Impies are just now shifting to oil for their ships, now they’ve got it coming from their colonies, but their industry’s still coal-fired. Even the brisk sea breeze couldn’t sweep the brown haze away. And though plenty of lizardbirds swooped and crapped all over the ships in harbor, few fluttered over the city.
There weren’t many large, dedicated sailing ships left in Scapa Flow either. They were principally employed hauling crucial cargoes from Maa-ni-la and raw materials from the Empire’s colonies in North America, and never lingered long in port. A few remained for interisland commerce, but the forest of tall masts once inhabiting the place was gone. There were still plenty of sailing fishermen, and swift Imperial couriers came and went, their extreme hulls slashing through swells and spray under clouds of sails, but almost every other ship in view, of any sort, was a dedicated steamer, boasting the same “dazzle” paint scheme the rest of the Allies had adopted.
The new Impie warships, all eight of them, had been started at the same time, following the same lines. Finishing up just as news of the Battle of the Pass came in, they were christened Mars, Centurion, Mithra, Hermes, Diana, Ananke, Feronia, and Nesoi, in honor of ships lost there. Matt finally knew their proper particulars now, as he did the details of the “battlecruisers” the Repubs were contributing.
“I guess we ought to be impressed, considering where they started from,” Matt told Chappelle after scrutinizing one of the “protected cruisers.” He redirected his binoculars at the approaching launch and felt a thrill to recognize familiar faces. “Stand by to receive dignitaries,” he said. “Assemble an appropriate side party.”
“Aye, sir. The accommodation ladder’s already rigged.” Chappelle hesitated, motioning back at the ships they’d been looking at. “They look kinda like the old Olympia,” he said encouragingly, “except without that ram, or whatever it was, poking out forward. And she did pretty good.”
Matt frowned. “Sure, against inferior ships. That’s not what we’re up against. And they’re almost exactly like her: about six thousand tons and three hundred and forty feet long. Four eight-inch guns in twin turrets, and ten five-fives like we put in Gray. The five and a half inchers are okay, but I wouldn’t count too much on the eights. Strictly close-range jobs, like on Repub monitors.” He considered. “I don’t mean to sound so critical,” he confessed. “They’re a hell of an achievement. I’m just trying to figure out how to plug them into the ‘Big Plan.’” Russ had been added to the carefully growing list of those who knew how Matt hoped to face the League. “So, on the plus side,” he continued, “they have five inches of case-hardened armor, so they might hold up under light fire. And they can make twenty-five knots, flat out, so they can keep up with Savoie. They’ve even got four twin 25mm mounts, like all our new DDs, so they might help brush off some planes. Probably should’ve given ’em more of those instead of that quad torpedo mount between the stacks.”
“Maybe, but we’re getting a lot of fish,” countered Russ, the former torpedoman. “Might as well use ’em. And if the
Leaguers are expecting the ones we used to have, they’re gonna be in for a nasty surprise. One good thing came of not hangin’ all the Japs we caught,” he added philosophically. “They make good torpedoes.”
Matt nodded. “Yeah. C’mon. Let’s go meet our guests.”
The launch was just hooking on when Matt and Russ joined the others gathered around the side party. Matt wasn’t surprised to see Sandra, Diania, Juan, and Gunny Horn already there, or Silva and Lawrence either. He hadn’t realized how many had already come over from other ships, however, like Spanky and Tabby from Walker, and Chack, Abel Cook, and Major McIntire from Sular. Others were there as well, all anxious to greet their guests.
The first up the steps, looking a lot older than the last time Matt saw him, was Sir Sean Bates, the one-armed Prime Factor to Her Majesty. He was grinning hugely through his monstrous, graying mustache, and crisply saluted the colors aft, the young ’Cat CPO of the deck who greeted him, then the rest of the waiting party. With a wink at Silva and an anxious-looking Abel Cook, he stepped quickly aside. Bosun’s whistles trilled and Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald and Saan-Kakja, High Chief of Maa-ni-la and all the Filpin Lands, ascended the stairs together. Rebecca wore an unadorned dark blue uniform of the Imperial Navy, long blonde hair uncovered and tightly braided down her back. Saan-Kakja was dressed in traditional black leather armor with gold trim that reflected her mesmerizing eyes so well. They were small enough to take the steps side by side, arm in arm, and when they reached the deck, all reserve fled and a spontaneous cheer erupted. Casting decorum aside, both young females dashed forward and embraced Sandra in a shower of happy tears, then started hugging all the men and ’Cats, who tried in vain to stand stoically straight.
Matt endured his own crushing embrace while Rebecca’s elfin face looked into his with pleasure and satisfaction. “You’ve returned at last,” she proclaimed. “At long, long last.” She pulled back and gestured exuberantly around. “With a mighty fleet! Together with what we’ve made to join you, we’ll end this dreadful war!”
Winds of Wrath Page 32
