“Maker!” cried one of the ’Cat gunners in the waist. “The Maker-daamned lizaards get the Two plane!” Leedom saw it—almost hit it—as its ravaged, folding, burning wreckage plummeted past the nose. “They get the Three plane too!” shouted the other gunner. “Is pullin’ awaay, two engines smokin!”
“Shit!” Leedom roared.
Pulling up at about eight hundred feet, he banked back to the left. The plane responded slowly, the controls mushy, and the yoke rattled in his hands. Now he could see what was happening, at least. Most of the 8th Bomb Squadron had gotten through and only globes of fire and smoke marked where a couple of Grik cruisers had been. Probably hit before they launched their rockets, Leedom thought grimly. Two more cruisers were burning fiercely and the rest were in disarray. The big BB he’d first seen smoking was getting underway, trying to turn west. “I bet that one shot its wad and is tryin’ to scram,” he growled. That wouldn’t do. It might reload. He spoke into his mic.
“Captain Araa, I want you and your remaining bombers with anything left to throw at the bastards to go after the missile ship trying to retire. Go with ’em, Black Cat Four. Looks like the damn thing’s open on both ends. You ought to be able to get something inside. Fourth Pursuit? You’re with me—or I’m with you—and we’re going after the one still launching missiles. Get in low and fast and shoot ’em up. Maybe they’ll waste their antiair mortars on your faster planes. I’ll come in behind you.”
The six swift little Mosquito Hawk “Fleashooters” did as directed, running interference for the PB-5D, but it seemed all the Grik mortars were waiting for Leedom. Shells burst all around his big, slow target, buffeting, tearing, stripping its lift and power, particularly when the number one engine was torn off its mount and tumbled into the lake. Still Leedom bored in, going lower, lower, and the missile ship grew in front of him. It started lofting its own mortars then, from the peak of the casemate, and they cracked in front of Leedom, sleeting metal through his plane. Good shooting, he grudged through gritted teeth, wincing as the windscreen disintegrated, spraying his face with shattered glass.
At five hundred yards, he pulled briskly back on two brass levers with red-painted knobs, and—probably miraculously, considering how battered his plane now was—both torpedoes dropped in the water less than thirty feet below.
“They runnin’ hot, straight, an’ normaal!” came the cry from aft. At least one of my gunners is still alive, Leedom thought bitterly as he pulled back on the yoke. “C’mon, you fat whale!” he urged. “Get up!”
Even with the weight of the torpedoes gone, the three remaining engines, battered and spewing oil, barely had the power to drag the plane over the looming funnels ahead. They managed it, somehow, and Leedom let out a breath he’d been holding—just as more exploding shells burst in front of him. He had no idea if they came from the missile ship or a cruiser, but he felt a savage pounding in the right wing. Then there was a terrible ripping, cracking sound, and the plane started going over. It all happened so fast, Leedom was still fighting to level out—impossible, of course, since the wing had torn away entirely in a smear of burning fuel—when the rest of the plane struck the water and exploded in a splash of spume and roiling black smoke.
An instant later, two torpedoes slammed the side of the missile ship, their blasts communicating to the three remaining weapons, waiting to be fired. A massive thunderclap jolted Lake Galk for miles around and the nearby cruisers were swamped when not only the flying warheads but the huge gunpowder engines that propelled them all detonated at once.
* * *
* * *
Supreme Regent Esshk watched the destruction of his yanone carriers from the arched timber loggia on the second level of what had been the local regent’s villa. The regent had grown increasingly anxious, even querulous, as the prospect of this confrontation neared. Tiring of the distraction, Esshk had him destroyed, along with all his guards and half his collection of females. The guards had been necessary, of course, but the females—charming as they were at appropriate times—had been indulged to a dangerous and unprecedented degree. Always allowed free reign of the villa, and even to speak, they’d made a nuisance of themselves as the great battle loomed. The five he’d preserved (properly sequestered) were all of The Blood, however, and would be essential to establishing Esshk’s own dynasty. Particularly now that it seemed he had no choice but to wipe the slate entirely clean.
He mildly regretted destroying the regent for one reason: he had no one left to talk to. General Stragh was competent enough; he’d designed the defense on the eastern heights above the inner lock and that, at least, seemed to be going as planned. The enemy army—under their Lemurian General Rolak, Dorrighsti spies reported—had fought its way past credibly stiff resistance, lured by success, into the combined waiting strength of three-quarters of Esshk’s remaining force. Opposition to Halik had been all but abandoned so Stragh’s deputy could beat Rolak before turning on Halik from the heights. It was a fine, straightforward battle design, and Rolak’s advance had been slammed to a bloody halt. Unfortunately, Stragh didn’t know Halik. Nor do I, it seems, mused Esshk, still watching dense smoke tower up in the midmorning sky from the final ruin of his once mighty fleet. Instead of marching his army cautiously down the east shore of the lake, Halik—guided by his perverse alliance with the thrice-cursed enemy cavalry—was practically sprinting south. General Stragh had just admitted it was “possible” Halik might strike his army in the rear before it finished with Rolak. Of course, Stragh wasn’t at the battle, he was here—where any proper general would be—saying nothing to Esshk but what he must. He was saying little enough to anyone, in fact, except the signalers communicating with his army by pennants. Exciting as that innovation was, pennants could still be tedious, and in rapidly developing situations, reports were often obsolete before they were received. Doubly so before responses or orders returned. Esshk only now fully appreciated General Ign’s insistence that he command his army with the army.
And what of General Ign now? Esshk thought sourly. He—or whoever commanded his army—had attacked the forces protecting Esshk himself, just a few miles away. With the enemy concentrated on the east side of the river to the south and the lake to the north, Esshk thought he’d be perfectly safe in the regent’s villa on the southwest shore no matter what occurred. It was even difficult to see from the air, protected by a great, overhanging slab of stone. The enemy had destroyed the airship mooring mast a quarter of a mile away, and all the nearby buildings, down to the smallest hut. But the villa had remained unmolested. That would change when Ign’s troops came. And they would.
Glaring at the smoke billowing from his shattered fleet, and beyond at all the distant docks, warehouses, and industrial capacity he’d so carefully hoarded, he could actually gauge Halik’s advance by the fires of what he destroyed. General Stragh’s “possible” was almost a certainty now. All that remained, at last, was to enact his “restoration contingency” after all.
He made a small sound that would’ve betrayed a mix of amusement with despair if anyone heard him. And “betrayal” was a word much on his mind. Though it was unclear how, he felt that Regent Consort Tsalka had somehow betrayed him long ago, when the war first began. Of course, Kurokawa had betrayed him repeatedly. That was the nature of the creature, and Esshk had expected it. But he felt betrayed by the old Celestial Mother as well, primarily because she’d never taken the threat of “prey” seriously, then allowed herself to be killed by them, leaving Esshk to be betrayed again by her daughter. But that wasn’t all. Even the Chooser—dead now, by all accounts—who’d essentially started Esshk down his present course in the first place, had turned on him in the end. Now even Ign had betrayed him, either directly, or by allowing another to take his place. Halik’s betrayal . . . moved him the most because he’d been his first creation, and lavished so much hopeful trust upon him. He’d always thought of Halik as the spearpoint of the New Way he wanted
to make, and it never dawned on him Halik would find a Way of his own.
Still, ironically, Esshk probably felt most disconcerted by the betrayal of General of the Sky Ando. He didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because he knew the “Jaaph” hated and feared him, yet gave excellent service and advice regardless. Perhaps Ando and his men might’ve been treated better, he grudged, at least as well as other generals in my service—Stragh has missed no meals!—but after Kurokawa, I believed it best that Ando never presume to consider himself an equal. A mistake, it seems—but must I think of everything? Regardless, the simple rare honesty of their association left Esshk entirely surprised when Ando’s five little flying machines did not swoop in to sacrifice themselves in defense of the yanone carriers.
He found dark amusement in the content of their final conversation. He’d been entirely truthful when he told the aviator he had other uses for the antiair rockets, one of which actually had nearly saved his carriers. But revealing that to Ando might’ve made him hesitant to defend them closely. Moot now, of course. He’d also been truthful, if again vague, when he’d said the explosive fuel and components of hundreds of rockets would be used for other purposes, this plan born of a growing certainty he’d ultimately been betrayed by the moods of the Vanished Gods themselves. How else could things have come to this? he silently protested. I’ve waited as long as I possibly can, to feel the slightest contrary stirring, taste the feeblest mood of denial. I don’t want to do this! he practically wailed inside. The only response was a rumble of bombs falling on his troops on the heights. With nothing else to distract them now, the enemy flying machines were free to concentrate on Esshk’s warriors once more.
“Lord Supreme Regent!” General Stragh cried urgently, striding closer as a messenger darted away. “General Halik’s advance forces are near the bluff behind your main army on the left. He’ll soon be up in force. General Ign has driven a wedge through your lighter forces on the right”—he gestured up the very slope the villa was built into—“and prey warriors stream through after him, rolling up our defense from the center!”
“No matter, General Stragh,” Esshk murmured. “I’ll have my satisfaction. Even at the expense of the Vanished Gods themselves,” he added darkly, glaring at one of his Dorrighsti guards, a First of Fifty, standing attentively nearby. “Have the coaches prepared,” he commanded. “One for the females, and—” Turning his head to General Stragh, he almost drew his sword and hacked him down. But Stragh was competent. Esshk might need him to build another army. “The other for us. And my closest guards, of course. We go to the forest beyond the Jaaph airfield where an airship lies concealed. We’ll wait for the end of this terrible day, then—if we still must,” he inserted cryptically, “we’ll fly in darkness to the western regency of Engunu. We’re not . . . unsupported there.” He faced another Dorrighsti, the leader of the detachment protecting him. “It’s time,” he hissed. “To the pennants! Signal the pack with special instructions to perform the task assigned.” He considered, then added, “All will be given names, and I’ll commit them to memory, reciting them to myself each morning when I wake! One day, all our race will chant their names before undertaking any task!”
This Dorrighsti, a nameless First of One Hundred himself, stared at him in awe. Earning a name was the first ambition of any Grik warrior, unusual for a First of Fifty, even One Hundred, untested in battle. There’d been exceptions for New Army troops, recognized for excellence in learning new weapons and tactics, but most of those had died under Ign in the horrific battles around the Nakkle leg. Warriors here, even New Army troops, had generally not conspicuously distinguished themselves in training, nor had many seen combat before the final enemy push up the Galk River from the Zambezi. Many Gharrichk’k would earn names today or in the days to come. The Dorrighsti hoped he might. But having one chosen by such as Esshk was beyond any expectation. What he promised now . . . !
“Yes, Lord Supreme Regent! At once!”
“Come, General Stragh,” Esshk said, whirling toward the stairwell, tail plumage and long, red cape sweeping a cloud of dust in the air. “We must go. It may not be safe, even here.”
“Indeed. The enemy could arrive at any moment,” Stragh agreed.
Esshk glanced at him. “I’m not concerned about the enemy.”
CHAPTER 34
////// Lake Galk—Inner Lock
Grik Africa
The great gates of the ancient locks that made Lake Galk and allowed ships to pass between the high lake and lower river seemed to open and close by magic. Externally, nothing was visible save the tremendous eroded gates themselves, and that’s all anyone ever saw move. Yet a great deal did move, deep inside the cliffs of the gorge on either side. Down long passageways, cunningly cut in the living rock and accessed by steps rounded by eons of trampling feet, huge underground chambers enclosed monstrous mechanisms made by the Vanished Gods themselves. Whoever or whatever they’d been.
The mechanisms would’ve resembled titanic clocks, for the most part, if viewed by anyone familiar with such things. Huge, toothy cogs of age-crusted bronze turned other great gears, smaller to larger, extending or retracting fat rods the size of battleship rifles connected to levers even longer and more immense. An ancient order of Holy Hij claimed the Vanished Gods had commanded them to provide constant ceremonial maintenance, such as they could. None understood how the mechanisms worked, and they were religiously forbidden to try to learn (no one can know the minds of the Vanished Gods), so their ritualistic duties consisted almost entirely of frequent lubrication, or wiping white powder off tarnished green surfaces as tin slowly leeched from the bronze. Yet despite their unknowable age, the workings were so robust they didn’t need much more than that, and unlike the gates themselves, might’ve lasted another millennium. Unfortunately, the cavernous chamber in which the mechanism controlling the east gate of the main inner lock tirelessly labored was much more crowded than usual.
There were the bones, of course, of the Holy Hij that tried to bar entrance to Esshk’s Dorrighsti. They were scattered all over the place, gnawed and tossed aside weeks ago. Then there were the Dorrighsti themselves, that had endured boredom and hunger just as long, but now stirred from their excruciating wait into frantic motion by a runner bearing word of the signal pennants. Inflamed to an anxious eagerness beyond words by Esshk’s astonishing promise, they raced to recheck preparations and rushed to assume their places among the eleven hundred tin-lined wooden crates, stacked everywhere they wouldn’t interfere with access.
Few of the crates contained a precise weight of gunpowder. They’d been built to transport bagged artillery charges but now were filled with rough, dusty chunks, broken and crumbled out of its solid form in the rocket engines so the crates might weigh anywhere from a hundred and ten to a hundred and thirty pounds apiece. So roughly sixty tons, all told.
A single device should’ve been enough and the Dorrighsti First of Fifty in charge would’ve gladly killed all his warriors for the privilege of performing the act himself—if the Supreme Regent’s promise hadn’t included them all. As it was, each hefted their heavy packs, carefully opened leather flaps, and unrolled short lanyards hooked to friction primers inside. One by one, they signaled their readiness. The First of Fifty was just as excited as the rest—they were all about to live forever, after all. He had no idea how that could be, after their bodies ceased to exist, but young as he was, he already knew he didn’t know very much. Nodding benevolently at each companion, and with profound anticipation, he wondered by what name he would be remembered and gently tightened his lanyard.
* * *
* * *
“Rear rank, fire!” roared Prefect Bele. Two hundred rifles cracked as one, though it was hard to distinguish the report from the continuous firing along the miles-wide front. Bekiaa and Meek had drifted to the right, more to the center of her division, directly behind the 14th Legion. Colonel Naaris had the 1st again, and though Be
kiaa still considered the 23rd “hers,” Major Khun was in direct command. “Three steps forward!” Bele cried, his order reinforced by a bugle sounding the 14th’s prefix, then the command. The 1st and 23rd had already moved. The whole line was rippling like an enormous snake slowly rolling itself uphill. “First rank, fire!”
Bekiaa had never seen anything like it. The closest was the open field battle on the plain of Gaughala, but that was a terribly disorganized affair, the Republic Legions meeting the Grik for the very first time. Here on the heights above the south end of Lake Galk, the ground was rougher, more broken, but the lines never lost contact as they faced the Grik just as openly. They had to, to advance—which both sides were—and the space between the roughly forty thousand men and ’Cats of III, VI, and XII Corps deployed in the great Allied line, and the probably seventy thousand Grik opposing them, had dwindled to less than four hundred yards.
Cannon snapped and recoiled back, spraying canister, while mortars tunked incessantly, throwing gouts of pink dust and body parts in the sky. Nancys and Repub Cantets swooped, braving the little antiair mortars Grik troops carried, to drop load after load of incendiaries. Great whooshing, roaring toadstools of flame engulfed the Grik, accompanied by horrible squalling shrieks. Few cannon returned their fire. Bekiaa supposed the Grik were finally getting low on powder, or they’d abandoned most of their guns back at the top of the cliffs. She wondered at that. If Bele was right and the plan had been to suck them here all along, why waste their cannon, short of powder or not? Maybe they thought maassing their guns would point our air at their trap? She preferred to hope Esshk was an idiot and never expected they’d get this far. An’ they do haave a buncha’ firebomb throwers, she added darkly to herself.
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