Even in his terror, the steersman knew his business. One of the “oldest” airship pilots, he’d been elevated and trained by Muriname himself and remembered the heady days when Grik airships filled the sky. For all he knew, this was the last one left, but he wouldn’t’ve been Esshk’s personal pilot if he wasn’t the best and didn’t know how to get the most from his machine. A machine he knew was dying. “Hold this, just so!” he cried to the last guard, lurching from the tiller without even waiting for the wounded Dorrighsti to take it. Scampering around the gondola, he pulled vigorously on tight, colored chords. Esshk noticed, through his growing pain, that many already hung limp. “What’re you doing?” he demanded.
“Dropping weight, Lord Supreme Regent,” the steersman replied. “We’re losing lifting air.” Esshk understood “lifting air” was hydrogen, though he only had a vague idea what that was, or how it was made. He knew all the large works that manufactured it had been bombed and destroyed long ago, however, and only small, tediously operated field facilities—such as the one in the clearing they just left—remained. Perhaps the steersman knew where others were? That creature, after pulling all the colored cords, dashed to a speaking tube and shouted into it. There was no response. “No one answers in the aft gondola,” he reported, crest lying flat again. “I was going to have them throw the bodies out.”
“Return to your post,” Esshk commanded, limping forward. “My guard and I will do it. Tell us what else must be done.” Despite the now searing pain in his foot, Esshk was still strong. He lifted General Stragh over the rail and dropped him by himself while the guard started tossing the others. Looking down, watching Stragh fall, Esshk estimated they’d reached about a thousand feet, but even with the engines running full out, they weren’t climbing anymore. “Empty the other gondola,” he ordered the Dorrighsti, who, without a word, climbed the ladder to the envelope above, where he could work his way aft. Esshk turned to the steersman. “The truth,” he rasped. “If we turn west, even avoiding further damage, we can never reach the Engunu Regency.” It wasn’t a question.
The steersman lowered his snout. “No, Lord.”
“Are there places we might seek repairs along the way?
“Yes, Lord . . . but they’re too far. I doubt we can make ten miles before we strike. We’re already beginning to fall.”
Esshk considered that, looking back, stomach roiling and blood roaring in his earholes. Turning west, they’d probably fall into the trees within sight of the force that fired on them, and they’d be quickly killed or taken. Esshk snarled loudly. He’d never spend his final hours running crippled through the woods like wounded prey. Spinning back swiftly—painfully—to the front, he fixed his gaze on the battle raging on the heights east of Lake Galk’s gushing wound. “We can reach there,” he snapped, “can we not? Set me down in the broken heart of my army. I’ll die with it.” He tilted his head back at an angle, one of several Grik gestures comparable to a shrug. “And perhaps if I rally those troops, we might yet win.”
CHAPTER 37
////// South shore of Lake Galk
Grik Africa
A bit to the northeast, beyond the desperate, bloody, seething line, Legate Bekiaa-Sab-At caught a glimpse of a descending zeppelin—actually, it looked to be crashing—and witnessed the enormous fireball climbing in the sky a short while later, near where it must’ve come down. But she and those around her were too busy to do more than notice, and it was soon forgotten. Despite the horrific mauling they gave it, the sheer weight of the Grik charge had severely cracked the reeling Allied left. It was holding—barely—but it was clear to Bekiaa that both armies, probably for the very first time, were equally conscious of the battle’s significance as they stubbornly spent themselves to end the other. And the balance was teetering in favor of the Grik.
Machine guns had been overrun or pulled behind the line. A few Blitzers still stuttered but they couldn’t be easily reloaded in the desperate press, so rapid fire lost its advantage and brute strength and steel—and teeth and claws, of course—became the dominant weapons. Grik were bigger than ’Cats, as heavy as a man, and though not really stronger than Bekiaa’s seagoing brethren, could often overpower Republic ’Cats. Theirs had been a longer-settled land, affording them a more civilized, somewhat easier existence. And if Repub ’Cats weren’t “softer” anymore, they were still generally smaller. So her human troops, and recently—surprisingly—self-integrated Gentaa, were forced to the forefront to blunt the tide of death. They were tiring and dying fast. Battered ’Cats supported them as best they could, shooting and stabbing past them with bayonets, but the Grik didn’t seem to tire and they just couldn’t kill enough.
And yet the Gentaa were magnificent, Bekiaa thought. Nearly as big as a man, with all the agility of a ’Cat—both of which they resembled so closely—they fought like absolute furies. That had surprised Bekiaa the first time she’d seen it, but had utterly astounded her Repub troops who’d wondered anew about the large population of prideful but standoffish, outwardly pacifistic people they’d harbored in their midst so long. However this battle, this war, turned out, and whether they wanted to or not, the Gentaa had thrown off their aloof detachment and would have to assume the full responsibility of citizens of the Republic. First they had to win, though, and things were looking grim.
Not for the first time, Bekiaa nostalgically wished her troops had shields—anything to push Grik back while riflemen shot them to pieces. But shields were heavy, and lugging them in addition to the rest of their equipment, solely for their rare utility in situations like this, was ridiculous. And daamn it, Bekiaa raged, we weren’t supposed to be fighting like this anymore! “Supposed to” had no meaning in war.
“There!” she cried, seeing a pack of Grik slam through between the 14th and 23rd Legions and start sleeting in behind them. “Follow me!” Optio Meek and half a dozen runners, as well as a clot of Gentaa apparently devoted to protecting her, rushed at the growing mob. It appeared momentarily disoriented, as if surprised it made it through and didn’t know what to do next. General Rolak himself, and his dwindling company of the Triple I, raced to support her.
Bekiaa shot a Grik with her Springfield, quickly worked the bolt, and slammed her bayonet in the side of another that never saw her. Like the rest, it was turning to take the defenders it just broke through from behind. Its squeal alerted others.
“Fill thaat gaap!” Rolak roared, physically shoving his Marines, then launching himself after Bekiaa and her Gentaa again—even as humans and ’Cats fell back from another Grik surge that hammered a bloody breach through the 23rd. Bekiaa watched Optio Meek go down under the ravening crush, and in an instant she was surrounded. Stabbing and slashing, shooting when she could, she fought like she never had. Part was desperation, part for Jack Meek, yet another friend this terrible war had taken. All thought of anything but survival vanished, however, as the mass of Grik around her only grew and her breath turned to gasps and her rifle got heavy and slow. Sickly, she thought the entire line must’ve collapsed. Discipline and couraage are all thaat’s saved us this long, she realized bitterly, and they caan’t laast forever.
A Grik, very close, just a musket barrel away, lunged and missed her with its bayonet. Without thinking, Bekiaa leaned against the blade to roll inside and smash the butt of her Springfield in the thing’s face. The muzzle of the musket spat a jet of fire, snatching her left arm away from her rifle. Her right hand still held the weapon by the wrist and she slammed the whole thing forward like a poorly balanced spear. Sheer luck guided her bayonet, gouging along the Grik’s snout, into its eye, and out the back of its head.
It stuck. Her left arm wouldn’t work at all, and still holding her precious rifle with her right, the falling Grik pulled her over. Others raised their weapons, jaws agape . . . and that’s when Bekiaa saw something amazing. Without question, General Lord Protector Muln-Rolak was one of the finest leaders in the Grand Alliance. And des
pite his age, he’d still been reckoned the greatest warrior in Aryaal, possibly all of Jaava: an unusual land of Lemurian warriors even before this war began. The funny thing was, Bekiaa suddenly realized, no one she knew had ever actually seen him fight.
Rolak had discarded his rifle. He still had his pistol in its holster but never touched it. His hand held only a cutlass like the one Bekiaa wore, but he started doing things with it that she’d never seen. And he didn’t attack the Grik as much as he seemed to dance among them, with all the fluid, predatory grace of a flasher fish, or a lizardbird snatching insects from the sky. The cutlass darted and slashed as he leaped and twisted and rolled, tail high and tucked tight to his back, never parrying blows, only avoiding, redirecting, smoothly slicing throats and piercing ribs in such a way that he never broke his lethal rhythm, not once. And in no way did his deadly strokes undermine the elegance of the dance. The blood that fountained all around only painted the art with color; the screams and squeals were music.
In spite of everything, Bekiaa was mesmerized, and any Grik could’ve killed her then, but with a thundering roar, another of IV Corps’ reserve legions swarmed around her, slamming the Grik back and reinforcing the staggering 23rd. It hadn’t broken, she saw with pride, even holding in place with fighting behind it! Heavy firing and the bark of cannon had never faltered elsewhere, but now it resumed here once more.
Rolak, huffing now, and a pair of surviving Gentaa were at her side at once, dragging her away from the dead Grik. There were bodies everywhere, of all kinds, but that had seemed important to them. Now they ripped battle dressings from pouches, doing things with her arm. She noticed how limply it flopped beside her, had seen similar wounds a hundred times. The Grik musket ball would’ve pulverized the bone to salt and only torn flesh was holding it on. It didn’t hurt.
“I never knew,” she told Rolak loudly, over the renewed roar of battle. His face was very close, eyes sheened with tears, rapidly blinking sorrow, rage—too many things at once.
“Medicus! Corps-’Caat!” he shouted desperately aside.
“Don’t worry, Gener-aal, I ain’t gonna die,” Bekiaa assured him, “but you’ll haave to teach me whaat you did.” She flicked her eyes at her arm. “Haave to fight one-handed now.”
“An outdated style, from a time when waar was . . . fun,” Rolak lamented. “It takes too long for aarmies to learn and is really only suited to single combaat. Doesn’t fit our current taactics,” he added ruefully, voice now the same as always: stoic, urbane, unflustered, but the tears were starting to spill.
“Still useful,” Bekiaa countered. “It saved me. You did.”
“No,” Rolak denied. His tone hadn’t changed but he was blinking bitter regret. “I used you up, at laast.”
“Lizaardshit, Gener-aal,” Bekiaa snapped, angry now. “Nobody used me up but me, an’ I ain’t done yet!”
Miraculously, Meek was suddenly by her. He’d retrieved her Springfield and it was absolutely washed in sticky blood. So was Meek, for that matter, and a long gash split the center of his face from forehead to chin. It had to have been a claw that did it, and his right nostril was nearly gone. Somehow, it skipped his lips and he didn’t seem otherwise hurt. “I got her, Gen’ral,” he said. “They’re callin’ for ye.” He nodded to the right, toward the comm-cart, then cocked his head. “Battle sounds different. Somethin’s goin’ on.”
Rolak gently touched the blood-caked fur on Bekiaa’s cheek, then considered the battle line while half a dozen of his guards from the Triple I filtered back to join him. Most were wounded and gasping with exhaustion and pain, but their tails were high and they blinked satisfaction. Volleys by ranks were starting to sound again as the relentless pressure eased, and a section of 12 pdrs poked blackened snouts through the press and spewed screaming canister. An endless stream of stretcher-bearers had been carrying crates of ammunition forward and wounded to the rear. A tired-looking pair, hardly more than younglings, laid their blood-soaked stretcher by Bekiaa. Aided by the two Gentaa and a harried-looking Repub medicus, they gently lifted her on it. “Take care of her, Optio Meek,” Rolak said. “Legate Bekiaa haas done more thaan her paart and Prefect Bele haas our left flaank firmly baack in haand.” With that, he turned abruptly and jogged away to the right, followed by the remnant of his guards.
“Did you see whaat he did?” Bekiaa asked Meek, sitting up before the stretcher-bearers could raise her. She winced. The pain was starting to come.
“Lay back!” Meek scolded. “See what? I got trampled!” He pointed at his face. “A toe claw did that, for the love of God! Me looks an’ marriage prospects ruined forever in the biggest battle against the Grik—by the flick of a bloody toe!”
“Help me up,” Bekiaa demanded.
Meek sighed, unsurprised. “Ye’ll bleed ta death.”
Bekiaa glared at the medicus. “Then bind me up. Or cut the daamn arm off and then bind me up. I’m not leaving now! Not aafter . . . so much.”
A musket ball whizzed over Meek’s head. He barely twitched. Originally set to essentially spy on Bekiaa, she’d inspired greater loyalty in him than anything or anyone else in the world. He desperately wanted her safe. But she was right. If this was the end, whichever way it went, she of all people deserved to be there.
“She needs more treatment than I can give her here. I won’t be responsible,” the medicus stated flatly.
“Aye, ye will!” Meek snarled. “Give her some seep an’ do what ye must, an’ be quick about it too. I’ll take care o’ her after that.”
* * *
* * *
A comm-’Cat captain from the 8th Baalkpan quickly summarized the situation for Rolak, who was beginning to feel increasingly awkward for having neglected his primary command responsibility. Especially with Pete Alden almost certainly lost. Another long-suppressed relic from my past life, he admitted contritely to himself. Once aactually in the battle . . . it’s difficult to stop killing when there’s so much killing still to do. He was sure Dennis Silva would understand. And he—and Bekiaa—had been needed on the left. He’d somehow recognized that would be where the most critical moment would come. He’d never foreseen the great blast that shook it so terribly, but like Pete Alden during the breakout from Tassanna’s Toehold, he’d known where he had to be.
But things were changing. The captain quickly briefed him on reports he’d compiled from runners, field telephones wired in up and down the line, and all the way back to their starting point. There were radio reports from a Clipper still orbiting above, Colonel Enaak’s cavalry, screening Halik, and as far back as the Palace at Sofesshk.
Everything downriver was being engulfed by the flood, now fanning out beyond the river. Saansa Field was being evacuated and all the Grik workers sent into the hills. The Celestial Mother had summoned those on the north side of the river into her palace. Rolak didn’t know if that was brave or stupid. He hadn’t spent much time around the chief of their allied Grik and didn’t know her well, but now he respected her. Stupid or not, she’d made a decision to safeguard as many of her people as she could, and was sticking with them. If any survived, they’d remember.
But the most critical news had been that General Faan was dead. That hit Rolak almost as hard as Bekiaa’s injury. Faan—and his III Corps—had always been a rock. The only consolation was that his subordinates were just as steady and III Corps was in good hands. XII Corps’ General Mu-Tai on the far right seemed just as steady, but his Austraalans were still relatively inexperienced. They’d fought well during the breakout but they’d never been pushed. They weren’t now. The Grik seemed most concerned with holding them in place. That left VI Corps in the center, which despite also performing well before, had spent most of the war on garrison duty in Indiaa. Composed largely of Lemurians from Saa-Leebs, and Sular in particular, the troops themselves were fine. Especially after Matt Reddy and Pete Alden relieved some of its more . . . political officers and
put General Grisa in command. But Grisa was killed in the breakout, and General Ra-Naan, from Maa-ni-la, had taken his place. Now Ra-Naan was dead. That left what Rolak considered his shakiest corps right where the Grik seemed to be concentrating, near where Rolak saw that black zeppelin go down. Esshk haad to be in it, he thought, and I bet he got out before it burned.
There were only two pieces of really good news. First, General Halik, combined with a lot of Enaak’s cavalry, had finally smashed into the Grik rear on their center left, across from Mu-Tai. Probaably whaat’s taking the pressure off III Corps on our left, and why the Grik are flocking to the center, Rolak mused. And all the more reason to believe Esshk himself was in thaat airship. Whyever he came here, he’ll waant protection now. The second bit of good news was that a little over half of I Corps had survived the deluge that shattered Liberator, and General Taa-Leen had linked up with Colonel Saachic’s 1st Cavalry Brigade, which had squirmed around and worked its way up on the heights from the east. Riding double, sometimes triple (very awkward on a me-naak), Saachic was bringing Taa-Leen and most of his 1st Division forward. They’d arrive ready to fight instead of utterly exhausted.
“Very well,” Rolak said. “Send to all commaands: Mu-Tai’s Twelfth Corps will stop sitting on its aass and attaack. We didn’t come all this way to stop and hold our ground. Mu-Tai will link up with Haalik, then sweep the Grik to the center. All of Fourth Corps will join Third Corps and push the Grik on the left. I expect they’ll eventually peel to the center as well.” He blinked grim decisiveness. “Thaat’s where I’ll be, with Sixth Corps, and thaat’s where I waant Gener-aal Taa-Leen and Col-nol Saachic to join me.” He looked at the communications officer. “I mean to roll the Grik into a big, faat baall, then smaash it like an egg.”
Winds of Wrath Page 44
