The firing was getting closer, even as more troops gathered, adding their pleas to Mayta’s command. Somewhat to Mayta’s surprise, the gate finally did open a crack, and men started squirting through. Soon the doors were wrenched wide and the trickle became a flood. Hanging back, Mayta dismounted and glared at some NUS soldiers stopping behind the low rock wall. Taking cover, they started killing his men with more careful aim and deliberation. A bullet whizzed by his face and a man fell in front of him, clawing his neck as blood spurted on the ground.
“My General, please!” Colonel Hereda urged. “Step inside! The enemy will soon rush the gate.” Mayta turned and saw the mob clambering to get in the city had already thinned considerably. His horse screamed and collapsed, rolling on its side and kicking. Somehow, that affected him as much as everything else and he reluctantly drew the ornate, brass-barreled pistol from the sash around his waist.
“My General!” Hereda insisted.
Mayta cocked the pistol and shot the horse in the head. Turning abruptly, he paced into the city, oblivious to bullets striking the stone arches around him. With a heavy, creaking moan, the gate slammed shut.
Almost immediately, Mayta was confronted by Capitan General Maduro in his gaudy, red-faced Blood Drinker uniform, who positioned his broad form in front of him. “You’re becoming quite good at losing battles, General Mayta.” His normally deep voice was pitched higher with strain, or something else. “I never understood what His Holiness Don Hernan saw in you.”
Mayta waved at the gate. “By all means, Capitan General, feel free to step outside and win it for us now. No? In that case, forgive me for a moment. Get up on the wall!” he bellowed at frightened troops. “I don’t care if you’re armed or not, just show yourselves ready to defend the city! We must hold them back from the gate until reinforcements arrive!”
A few wide-eyed men hesitated, but most hurried up the steps and began spreading out. The pop of musketry started to build. Mayta looked back at Maduro. “There. Now you may arrest me.”
“In good time,” Maduro snapped. “First, you must tell me.”
Mayta was taken aback. “Tell you what?”
“How did they do it? How did they destroy the army entrusted to you?” He gestured at the city around him. “We performed all the sacrifices, called upon God to save you. To save us. How did you squander that power?” Even through his mounting fear, he sounded genuinely puzzled. “Are you in league with them somehow? Have they possessed you?”
Mayta sighed, all the exhaustion of the previous days washing over him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Capitan General. They beat us because they’re better, they deserved to, and God is probably on their side.”
CHAPTER 53
////// Ramb V
Lago de Vida
Holy Dominion
Are you entirely mad?” Victor Gravois roared at Don Hernan DeDivino Dicha, stalking into Ramb V’s wardroom. Capitano Ciano and a half dozen of Leopardo’s sailors—armed with rifles—were close behind. Ciano brought the guards because Ramb V still didn’t respond to signals, there was clearly a major battle underway on shore, and even after Leopardo and Canet came alongside the big auxiliary, the sailors that helped secure them were unrecognizable by their defeated, subdued manner. Now Gravois barely recognized Don Hernan. The Blood Cardinal was attired as garishly as always, but his robes sagged and he seemed to have lost twenty pounds. His angular face was now quite gaunt, making the benign smile he attempted look like a grinning skull with gray whiskers around desiccated lips.
Gravois missed a step and paused, aware he didn’t recognize Ramb V’s wardroom either. Don Hernan had clearly moved in, and drugged, naked children lounged all around on plush red cushions arranged on the deck. All bulkheads, the deck, even the overhead, were covered with deep red cloth embroidered with the gold lightning-bolt crosses of the Holy Dominion, identical to the sails on its warships. The cloth might’ve even been sails. It was also the same as the flags they flew—like the one now fluttering from Ramb V’s stern.
Gravois glared at the ship’s captain, standing in his best uniform near Don Hernan’s throne-like chair. “And you! You allowed this . . . this”—he gestured helplessly around—“after I ordered you to return to Puerto del Cielo with the oiler as soon as you delivered Don Hernan here! We needed the fuel in that oiler, damn you!” Ramb V’s captain said nothing; he didn’t even move. That’s when Gravois finally did recognize the same vacant stare he’d seen on Oriani’s face. Despair clutched his heart and he looked at Don Hernan. “You are insane. You’ve pirated a warship of the League of Tripoli!”
“I wasn’t finished with it,” Don Hernan countered reasonably. “And you arrived safely enough, after all. As was my intent.” An unpleasant thought seemed to occur to him. “After the defeat of your ‘invincible’ fleet, you wouldn’t have abandoned me, would you? We have so much more to do. Together.” He beamed.
Gravois erupted in fury. “How? My fleet’s destroyed, as you apparently know.” He gestured vaguely toward Nuevo Granada, under fire by field artillery from the west. “Your capital city’s in peril, and the enemy will come up the river behind me! I had a perfect plan to salvage the situation . . . and rescue you,” he added carefully, “but now you’ve trapped me here!”
Don Hernan shook his head, gesturing at his reduced form. “I’ve given this great consideration, fasting in prayer, and unless your plan was simple—likely brief—survival, it couldn’t have worked without me. Nor will you and I be ‘trapped,’” he added cryptically, waving his hand and assuming a pained expression. “The City of God may well fall, but we’ll build another together. Stronger and better fortified against His enemies. How do you imagine your mighty fleet was lost? The answer isn’t complicated: God wasn’t with it! He must always be with your next fleet, as He will directly rule His next city!”
Gravois was growing impatient and started to ask how Nuevo Granada could fall if it was, indeed, God’s city, but realized Don Hernan had left himself an out with the word “directly.” He didn’t have time to debate the man’s twisted religion in any case. “So what do we do, and how are we not trapped?”
“Trust me,” Don Hernan said gently, “the River of Heaven isn’t El Lago de Vida’s only access to the sea.” He frowned. “But we can’t leave His Supreme Holiness. His realm is vast, much larger and more important to your League than you know.” Unnervingly as always, his frown turned to a smile as abruptly as if someone flipped a switch. “It’s also quite suddenly in need of direct secular, as well as spiritual protection, and I believe your League prefers ‘protectorates’ to ‘alliances’ in any event?” He laughed at Gravois’s expression. “Did you think Nuevo Granada was on a frontier? The Holy Dominion will one day rule the world,” he recited dogmatically, “but even now it encompasses this entire continent. The heretics defile only the west coast, and have tendrils reaching here, but there’s still the east! Imagine how grateful the Triumvirate will be when you deliver them possession of His Supreme Holiness, and through him, a direct claim to this continent!”
The frown returned. Snap! “But we can only control the people and priests, and ultimately the land, through His Supreme Holiness—the properly consecrated, direct messenger of God. If heretics lay their filthy hands on him, God will turn His face from the world and the people will know! They’ll lose their fear of God and become unmanageable, turning to the False God of the heretics. It’s happened before,” he added darkly. “This time, with no bastion of the True Faith remaining, all will be lost.” He narrowed his eyes at Gravois. “I know you don’t believe, but from your perspective, your League—and you—will have achieved nothing here but the loss of thousands of men and a great deal of precious equipment. You’ll find that difficult to justify without my help. With it”—snap! he beamed again—“you will still triumph!”
Gravois looked at Ciano, who blurted, “So, you need to fetch your master? Then we can go?”
He appeared somewhat horrified and entirely at a loss, having had limited personal contact with the Blood Cardinal when he spoke this way.
“In a manner of speaking,” Don Hernan replied evasively, “but with a battle raging around the city and all the soldiers of God engaged, I’ll require an escort.”
“An ‘escort.’ You mean us?”
“Some of you. Not many,” Don Hernan assured. “I couldn’t do it without you, my dear Gravois, and perhaps a dozen of your sailors? Your ships must be able to fight while we’re gone, after all.”
“Me,” Gravois murmured flatly. “Go ashore here. I thought . . .”
“You’ll have to be cleansed, of course,” said Don Hernan as if it were a triviality hardly worth mentioning. Gravois’s face turned to slate as he calmly unsnapped the flap on the holster securing his pistol to his belt. Don Hernan must’ve realized he’d finally pushed Gravois too far because his eyes went wide and he forced a companionable laugh. “You’ve grown so dreadfully serious! I was teasing about that, merely trying to lighten the gloom the heretics have laid upon us. I possess the authority to grant certain . . . indulgences from time to time, under extraordinary circumstances, of course.” He became somber. “And this is such a time. If you believe nothing else, my dear Gravois, you must believe this: If we’re to save anything from this disaster”—he glanced speculatively at Ciano—“and particularly our great mutual purpose, I need your mind, and we must work together in perfect concert.”
Gravois hesitated, hand still near his pistol. He was so tempted just to shoot Don Hernan, Ramb V’s captain, perhaps even himself. Or he might surrender and take his chances with Captain Reddy. Despite his assurances to Ciano, he doubted the Triumvirate would ever see things his way . . . unless Don Hernan was right. If he brought the League outright ownership of eastern South America, the loss of Gherzi’s fleet might be overlooked, even presented as part of his strategy to manipulate Don Hernan into this concession. . . .
“Very well,” he told the Blood Cardinal, “I’ll take you ashore to collect your high priest as soon as our ships refuel from the oiler and a suitable landing force is assembled. But before we go, I must insist you describe in detail how we’ll escape this place. I assume you mean there’s another river outlet?”
“Lago de Vida is filled and drained by many rivers,” Don Hernan pleasantly confirmed.
“Show Ciano,” Gravois commanded, then pointed at Ramb V’s insensate captain. “And there’ll be no more . . . subversion of my people or I will shoot you myself.” He looked at Ciano. “Replace that . . . unfortunate creature, and develop a plan to use Leopardo, Canet, and . . .” He pondered what use Ramb V’s shattered crew might still be. “And this ship to defend the lake against Captain Reddy and his Allies, at least long enough for us to complete our errand ashore.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I imagine Reddy himself will lead this pursuit, so you’ll finally have your chance to destroy him. But fight only to delay, and block the channel if you can. Our only objective now is escape, is that understood?”
Ciano arched an eyebrow and nodded.
USS Walker
River of Heaven
Halfway through their second day on the river, tensions were rising on Walker’s bridge as they neared Lago de Vida, and whatever awaited there. The steaming chocolate river around them was oddly similar to the Zambezi in terms of color, massive crocodiles, and the dense bordering forest, but quite different in other ways. It stank, of course, like all rivers do, of dead fish and wet decay, but unlike the Zambezi, it didn’t reek of Grik feces and larger rotting animals. And the density and variety of shrieking lizardbirds swooping overhead, crapping all over the decks, snatching morsels from the ships’ wakes, and occasional painful nips from exposed ’Cats at their stations were unprecedented in their experience. So were the snakes in the water, enormous ones, half as long as Walker. Little more of the fauna exposed itself to an enraptured Courtney Bradford, who, for the time at least, with nothing else to do, had reverted to a devoted observer of nature. Matt was actually glad to see him scurry from bridgewing to bridgewing, binoculars ready, whenever a lookout reported “something screwy” moving in the trees, disturbing more lizardbirds off their roosts.
More often than not, Courtney exclaimed in exasperation that he always seemed to be on the wrong side of the ship. Matt suspected the ’Cats were doing it to him on purpose, to keep their own spirits up, since—despite the tumult of nature—the biggest difference between the Zambezi and the River of Heaven had been how eerily, almost dreadfully quiet their passage had been.
Steaming upriver as fast as they dared to arrive as close on Gravois’s heels as they could, they passed a large number of forts, well-placed at narrows, or where the unusually straight river made a slight turn. None opened fire and by all indications they were abandoned. Matt suspected their garrisons had been pulled back to defend New Granada from Shinya, but they passed no boats and saw no people and that was almost more unnerving than the long, brutal slog up the Zambezi had been.
A tired Nancy clattered by, low overhead, heading north, and Ed Palmer brought Fred and Kari’s radio observations to the bridge. “They spotted Leopardo, Ramb V, and the oiler. Canet wasn’t seen, but she’s got to be there. Kari also said Shinya’s beating pretty hard on New Granada’s front door, but the whole Dom army looks to be on their western wall.” He smiled. “The wall behind the eastern docks is practically undefended.”
Matt heaved a sigh of relief. “Good. If Sular gets our troops ashore, the whole Dom egg might crack.”
“This is why you didn’t laand Chack’s Brigade and Second Corps at El Paalo as soon as we came through the Paass of Fire!” Keje exclaimed. “You plaanned this all along.”
Matt shook his head. “‘Planned’ might be too big a word. Let’s just say an opportunity like this is what Chack and I hoped for. What else did Fred and Kari say?” he asked Ed. “How are the enemy ships oriented?”
Ed frowned. “Broadside on, just offshore of the city, several miles from where the river opens into the lake.” He nodded forward. “Ellie’s almost there now, an’ could start taking fire as soon as she rounds the final bend.”
Spanky’s brows furrowed. “Any word what the shoreline’s like around there?”
Ed shook his head. “Kari didn’t say. They’re low on gas, and since we can’t stop to fill them up, they’ve got a long way to go.” He hesitated. “Kari did say the Doms probably know we’re coming, though. They saw a couple dragons with riders flying from our direction down low, like bats outa hell. Might’ve seen us while we were . . . stuck this morning.” They’d slowed their mad dash to a crawl at night, but Mahan grounded on a sandbar just before dawn. Even their Lemurian lookouts might’ve missed the dragons while they were preoccupied watching Sular pull the old destroyer off. “But now they’ve pinpointed the Leaguers for her, Admiral Lelaa will send New Dublin’s fighters and bombers, won’t she?” Ed prompted.
“That’s the idea,” Matt agreed, considering, “but they won’t be here for an hour or more. Plenty of time for the Doms to shift troops to the docks when those dragons rat us out. They’ll damn sure do it as soon as our planes come in and stir things up over the lake. That’ll make things harder for Chack.” He took a deep breath. “We have to go in now, to shield Sular to the docks and keep the League gunners busy while Chack goes ashore.” With a final nod of his head, as if assuring himself, he called aft to the ’Cats waiting by the flag bags on the signal bridge. “Signal all ships: Stand by for action. Sound general quarters,” he told Corporal Neely.
Courtney watched him owlishly while Walker readied herself for battle and Juan Marcos clumped up from below, as he had so many times, bearing his captain’s sword and pistol belt. A ’Cat steward brought helmets, including extras for Keje and Courtney. “Are you quite sure you’re not waiting for Admiral Lelaa’s planes because you want Victor Gravois for yourself?” Courtney asked. “I would
n’t blame you, of course, but I might question your . . . detachment.”
Matt regarded his friend, noting Courtney wasn’t the only one watching him. “I’m not objective when it comes to Gravois, and that’s just as much my fault as his,” he confessed angrily. “You may remember we had the bastard once, and I let him go. If we’d hung him then and sunk Leopardo when we had the chance . . .”
“We would’ve started a war with the League long before we were ready,” Courtney reminded, “and we wouldn’t be here today.”
“Maybe,” Matt conceded, “but either way, we’re doing this for Chack and his troops, and Shinya’s and Cox’s too. The quicker Sular gets Chack in the fight, the fewer losses our troops’ll take, and the quicker this’ll be over.” He shrugged and raised his voice. “And if, incidentally, Walker, Ellie, and Mahan get a crack at Leopardo—and the man who’s been directly or indirectly behind so much of the pain and loss we’ve suffered . . . well, I think that’s only fair.”
Two hundred yards ahead, USS James Ellis accelerated to twenty knots and steered slightly left, just short of a little bend in the channel. Walker matched her speed, and Bernie called for her torpedo tubes to be rigged out, thirty degrees on either side. Sular could usually only make sixteen knots, but the old Grik dreadnaught’s massive engines labored to spin her twin screws faster than they’d ever gone. Mahan urged her on.
“Anything else, Mr. Palmer?” Matt asked as the signals officer turned to retreat down the stairs to his radio room right under the deck he stood on. Ed paused, thoughtful. “Nothing specifically for us. Mostly war news on the wrap-up north of Sofesshk, and the search for flood survivors. Nothing on General Alden, yet,” he added soberly. “But I’ve also been getting a lot of repeated traffic about some huge blast yesterday, on that Jap island west of the Shogunate of Yokohama. Not many people there, so everything’s via the Filpin Lands. They figure some big volcano must’ve cooked off.”
Winds of Wrath Page 60
