Halfway between the dragoons and exactly two hundred Dom lancers arrayed at the foot of the wall was a large, parti-colored pavilion with fluttering scalloped edges. Two forms could just be seen in the gloom underneath.
“The point, Major Blas,” Blair began with exaggerated patience, “is the same as when we agreed to a similar meeting with General Nerino before the battle at Guayak. We learned quite a bit about our enemy that day.”
Blas snorted and her gaze returned to the lancers. They were Blood Drinkers, members of an elite, fanatical military order directly serving “His Supreme Holiness, Messiah of Mexico, and, by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World.” The pretentious title would’ve made Blas laugh, but there was nothing funny about Blood Drinkers at all. They looked fraudulently festive in their yellow coats with red facings. (Blas was darkly amused that Impie Marines had traditionally worn uniforms of the same, but opposite, base colors, and wondered if that was deliberate.) Riotously feathered helmets and the brilliant brass cuirasses of the officers still glowed under the setting sun, and long, intimidating lances stood erect from saddle boots. Bloodred ribbons fluttered near razor-sharp tips.
Impressive, Blas conceded to herself, an’ very pretty in their evil way. Make our draa-goons look downright dingy in compaar-ison.
Imperial Dragoons had been lancers themselves, earlier in the war, and once looked just as fine. The problem was they hadn’t been as good as the Doms. Against considerable opposition, General Shinya sacked a lot of officers, issued the troopers the same combat dress as everyone else, and took away their lances. Now they carried Allin-Silva carbines, fought on foot more often than not, and were infinitely deadlier than their Dom counterparts. Even so, Blas imagined irreverently, I bet a few draa-goon officers wish they still haad helmets with faancy feathers stickin’ out. “Nerino learned about us, too,” she pointed out, returning to the argument.
“Sadly for him, less than he might have.” Blair smiled ironically. “More specifically, that he should’ve left us alone. Perhaps this new General Mayta has taken a lesson from that and will be easier to reason with.”
Blas snorted again. “Reason? With a Dom? Whaat war you been fightin’, Gener-aal? Not the same one I been in. You fought Griks at Sinaa-pore, right? Doms’re just as crazy. Maybe worse. I hear some Griks’ll surrender now.”
“As will Doms, as you know. You command some who have.”
“Regu-laars an’ conscripts, maybe, given a chaance,” Blas conceded, but her tone darkened. “Not them goddaamn Blood Drinkers.” She flicked her ears at the pavilion ahead, though her helmet hid the gesture. “I’m sure May-taa learned a lot from Nerino an’ Don Her-naan. Baad thing is, I figure it was stuff not to do. He already knew, or picked up enough, to lead me all through the mountains by the nose an’ then haammer you on the maarch. He ain’t nothin’ like Nerino. An’ our roles are baackwards this time. Nerino had to come to us—twice—an’ we broke him both times. May-taa knows how we did it, an’ now we haave to go to him in a position he’s had all kinds o’ time to prepare. I think taalkin’ to him’s stupid.”
Blair coughed. “It was General Shinya’s and High Admiral Jenks’s orders that we should.” He tensed, wondering how Blas would react. There’d been bad blood between her and Shinya ever since the hellish battles around Fort Defiance, far to the south, but they seemed to have gotten over it.
“Yeah,” Blas grumped, tail flipping noncommittally. “They’re both great men, smaart men. Don’t mean they caan’t be stupid too. Least neither of ’em came. Thaat would’a been real stupid. Shin-yaa went with us to meet Nerino, remember? Whaat if he’d just rubbed us all out? We might’ve lost the baattle—not thaat we would’a cared.”
“We’ve all . . . become better soldiers,” Blair agreed tightly, as close as he’d come to criticizing their commanders, then darted a glance at Blas. She’d certainly become the most formidable combat leader in his X Corps, and he knew what that had cost her. There were rumors. . . . He shook his head. “And General Shinya’s now fully aware that he’s not expendable.”
“Like us?”
Blair laughed. “Nonsense. Mayta can have no motive for treachery here. He seeks intelligence, as do we. We’ll all be trying to kill one another soon enough.” He stopped and considered. “Though Mayta did request General Shinya by name”—he glanced at Blas—“as well as you, my dear. Perhaps he would’ve set his lancers on us if Shinya came, but he has to know our dragoons would slaughter them—and him—in that event. Honestly, I expect we’re safe enough.”
They were nearing the pavilion now and the two men standing, waiting for them, were resplendent in the ornate finery of Dom general officers. The most highly decorated was surprisingly tall for a Dom, probably as tall as Blair, though his skin was very dark. He was dressed as a “regular,” in bright yellow coat with perfect white facings. Gold lace practically dripped from the uniform, and he clutched a large, equally ornate black hat under his arm. A gorgeous sword with an elaborate golden guard and scabbard, with a hilt of carved ivory or bone, hung at his side, glittering against the silver-white knee breeches, stockings, and black shoes with big gold buckles.
Blas recognized the other man as a Blood Drinker. Like the lancers, the primary difference in his dress was that his coat facings and knee breeches were a dark bloodred, of course. Which is May-taa? Blas suddenly, fervently wanted to know.
“Maybe we’re safe,” Blas whispered as they stopped their horses, stepped down, and tied the reins to a picket line where two other horses already stood. It had been agreed there wouldn’t even be servants at the meeting. “But if one o’ those ass-holes really is May-taa, we should’a bombed ’em or shelled ’em.”
“Please refrain from such comments,” Blair murmured through clenched teeth. “General Mayta is reputed to speak excellent English.”
“I have sufficient English for our purposes today,” said the tall officer in the regular uniform, “and quite good hearing, considering my somewhat . . . raucous profession.” He smiled, and Blas suddenly realized he was young. So was the Blood Drinker, though he didn’t smile. He was glaring at her with an expression of utter loathing. Fair enough, she thought. I feel the same about you!
Blair stepped forward and saluted; he’d discussed this with Shinya beforehand. “General James Blair, at your service,” he said. “I’m honored to command Tenth Corps, the initial”—he stressed the word—“force investing your city—for Her Majesty Rebecca Ann McDonald and the Grand Alliance. Do I have the privilege of addressing General Mayta?”
“You do,” Mayta replied, returning the salute and ignoring—as Blair did—that neither Blas nor the Blood Drinker saluted. “General Anselmo Mayta, at your service, and the privilege is mine entirely. Until the current conflict, only once before in history had the armies of His Supreme Holiness met another upon our own sacred soil—a terrible thing, to be sure,” he added with a glance at his seething companion, “but also a fascinating opportunity for those, like myself, who make the study of war their life’s pursuit.”
Blas was blinking something at the Blood Drinker that Blair couldn’t see, but her tail was whipping like a snake preparing to strike. The Blood Drinker couldn’t know what the blinking meant, but the hostility of her posture was clear. His hand snapped to his sword and he took a step toward her. Almost gleefully, Blas reached for her cutlass. Blair quickly put a hand on her shoulder just as Mayta restrained his man.
“General Allegria! Control yourself!” Mayta said forcefully, glancing at Blair to ensure he’d stopped Blas. He sighed. “Here, I think, lies the root of our conflict on display. Hatred can be so distracting to the professional! Please forgive General Allegria—for that is his name. I had not even introduced you yet!” he scolded the man lightly, and looked back at Blair. “General Allegria is one of many . . . supplementary sons showered upon my lord, His Holiness, Don Hernan de Divina Dicha. As such, he has only the one name un
til he distinguishes himself sufficiently for God to bless him with another. One of many reasons, as you might imagine, he’s quite as passionate as his father about protecting our home from spiritual—and physical—corruption.”
“I’d aar-gue, Gener-aal, thaat your murderin’ faith is whaat corrupts this laand!” Blas seethed.
Mayta looked at Blas with delight. “Ah! And you’re undoubtedly Major Blas-Ma-Ar! I can hear you speak! I’d heard it was so but am astounded nonetheless.” He looked at Blair. “The truly faithful can’t be induced by a demon. They can’t even hear the demon’s attempts. But it became apparent that some demons—some Lemurian prisoners we secured—could be heard by the faithful.” He laughed. “You might be amused to learn how many guards were . . . inadvertently crucified as heretics when they reported this.” He cocked his head to observe Blair’s reaction but saw none. “And the truth was difficult to determine, since the captives refused to speak in front of a Blood Priest, regardless of the . . . incentives. I think it entertained them that we were slaughtering our own! But truth always rises and was eventually recognized—grace be upon those who were not believed,” he added piously.
Blas blinked confusion through her anger. “So whaat’s your point?”
Mayta regarded her with surprise. “Why, only that we now know, whatever you are, Major Blas, you’re no demon! Not human, of course, and therefore unsuited to receive God’s Grace,” he qualified, “but a mere animal, without corruptive, otherworldly powers. Clearly, you’re the most intelligent animals yet encountered, but animals nevertheless.”
He looked at Blair. “Imagine my distress for the souls of your people. As far from God as they are, many do at least know him—which made me wonder how demons could control them in battle unless they possessed them utterly. I’m tremendously relieved for you, General Blair. You and your people can still know God’s grace—and I’ll endeavor mightily to deliver it to you.” He beamed.
“Then I’m sure you’ll take it as a favor if I try as hard to do the same for you, General Mayta,” Blair said dryly.
“Of course,” Mayta agreed. Then he turned back to Blas. “Forgive my digression. You fascinate me, and I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance at last.” He spoke aside to General Allegria. “Is it not amazing to be able to converse with animals? Perhaps they might make suitable slaves. Even pets!”
Blair cleared his throat irritably. “So I gather you asked us here to exchange insults?” he snapped. “If so, I have to wonder why you didn’t wait for our great guns to speak for us.”
“No, no, not at all,” Mayta denied. “On the contrary! You know of our tradition of exchanging . . . pleasantries before battle, and I’d also like to compliment you on all you’ve achieved so far!” He smiled at Blas. “And you! Your skillful chase through the mountains had me quite convinced your entire army was on my heels.” He frowned, but his expression quickly brightened again. “I confess, based on your uncanny deception, accounts of your unnatural prowess in battle, and that you utterly destroyed General Allegria’s entire division of Blood Drinkers with the meager force I now know you had, I believed you must be a demon.” He smiled even more broadly. “I’m so glad that’s not the case.”
Blas looked at Allegria and conjured an evil grin that displayed sharp canines to best effect. “Your Blood Drinkers? How nice. I wonder why you weren’t with ’em when they got their ‘grace’?” She faced Mayta. “But I don’t get how, just because you caan hear me, I ain’t a demon. Your dopey, cracked-up, religion says so? Thaat’s a laugh.” Her grin turned predatory. “I gaar-aan-tee your faith’s gonna take a beatin’ under the hell we throw at you!” She laughed. “An’ you won’t be able to hear me then, ’cause your ears’ll be blown out!”
Mayta’s smile only broadened. “Que detalle!”
Blair sighed. “Enough of this. You asked for this meeting, General Mayta,” he reminded, “and it’s just as well, since I’ve been empowered to offer honorable and generous terms under which any commander in your isolated position would have to consider surrendering his army and the city he defends. Your situation is hopeless; you’re outnumbered, cut off from supply by land and sea, utterly at the mercy of bombardment by air and our artillery placed advantageously on the heights. If you force us to reduce the city, we can’t possibly discriminate between your troops and the civilian population. The effusion of their blood will be entirely on your hands. In the name of humanity, I beg you to yield.”
Mayta glanced down as if considering the offer, but when he looked back at Blair, his smile was gone—as was all pretense at geniality, however bizarre. “I did ask you here,” he agreed, “though I’m not as anxious as you to avoid effusion of blood.” He shook his head sadly. “You really don’t understand the One God and his requirements at all. Let me speak plainly: blood and suffering are the price of grace. They’re the toll for salvation and paradise! All who suffer in God’s name, or bring the suffering of heretics in His holy cause, will join Him in His glorious realm below! What possible inducement could you offer me to surrender that? Something else you might consider: I’m not General Nerino. You fooled me once and it won’t happen again. Also, unlike the unfortunate Nerino, I won’t be surprised by your new and wondrous weapons. I’ve seen them, appreciate them, and can respond with certain . . . curiosities of my own. Additionally, in spite of your amazing flying machines and superior communications, I probably have a stronger grasp of the situation than you—here and elsewhere. I’m not outnumbered, I have sufficient supplies to last a great while, and there are no civilians, as you imagine the term, in El Corazon. All who were are now part of my army, and every man, woman, even the smallest child able to bear arms, is anxious to crush the heretic invaders.” He glanced at Blas. “And their Godless . . . familiars.
“So, I’ll make you this offer,” he said with a shrug. “Go away while you can. Run away. We’ll pursue, of course, and one day—one generation, perhaps—we’ll run you to ground and destroy you. It’s preordained.” He motioned to General Allegria. “We’d prefer that you stay, of course, so we may have our battle. I’ve yearned for it all my life and nothing pleases God like the effusion of heretic blood!”
* * *
* * *
The sun had set and it was darkening quickly as Blair and Blas rode back toward the safety of their dragoons. Blas was actually surprised Allegria didn’t send his Lancers after them, regardless. He had little to lose besides a few horse soldiers that would be of small use in the fight to come. “What a daamn waste o’ time,” she simmered, then shook herself like she felt fleas or lice in her pelt. “An’ now, after just bein’ around ’em, I waant a baath!”
“Why, Major Blas!” Blair mocked jokingly, “I know for a fact you bathed just two days ago, when we crossed that stream to the south!”
Blas chuckled, letting some of her tension flow away. “Yeah. Gettin’ downright spoiled.” She paused. “But whaat the hell did we learn?”
Blair’s smile disappeared. She could hear it in his voice. “We learned that, unlike Nerino, Mayta isn’t only slavishly loyal to Don Hernan, he’s also a believer who doesn’t care how many die. That . . . will be a problem. The most important thing we confirmed, however, is that he’s smart.” He waved a hand in the gloom. “I’m not talking about his blatant attempt to anger us, to make us do something rash—like launch our attack before Eleventh Corps arrives.”
Eleventh Corps was only one of the missing pieces, still approaching from the southeast, but this time they had time to gather them all together. Hopefully, we’ll do it right, Blas thought.
“I doubt he even thought it would work,” Blair added.
It aalmost did, on me, Blas realized a little guiltily, but Blair’s right. It was pretty obvious. Oh, well. Who cares? I’m already maad.
“And it may’ve actually backfired,” Blair speculated thoughtfully. “At least with that bastard pup of Don Hernan’s. If he retains
a field command, it might be useful to discover his position in Mayta’s defense. As for Mayta himself, we already suspected he was no fool, based on how he handled our respective commands and prepared for us here. But now we’ve met him. . . . Blast it, I’m convinced he really thinks he’ll beat us. General Shinya and High Admiral Jenks need to know that, and they must discover why. In the meantime, we’d best be very careful.”
“We learned somethin’ else,” Blas added, her mood already submerging beneath the lake of blood she knew would come, as she contemplated the implications of something else Mayta said. How will the Vengadores—how will Sister Audry—react to fighting civilians, even younglings, when it haappens? “I think . . .” She paused. “I think we’re gonna haafta kill ’em all.”
Blair looked sharply at her. He couldn’t see what she was blinking, of course, but her tone unsettled him a great deal.
CHAPTER 2
////// USS Fitzhugh Gray (CL-1)
At the mouth of the Zambezi River
Grik Africa
January 14, 1945
Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of the American Navy (and Marine) Clan, and Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces (CINCAF), collapsed exhausted on a chair in the wardroom of USS Fitzhugh Gray (CL-1), the first all-steel light cruiser and currently most powerful warship in the Allied fleets. Hopefully, the captured League superdreadnought USS Savoie would usurp that status when her repairs were complete, a crew worked up, and her fire-control issues sorted out, but that could take a while. There’d soon be two more four-stacker destroyers as well, joining USS James Ellis (DD-21) and Matt’s two surviving DDs from another world, USS Walker (DD-163) and USS Mahan (DD-102). Other “modern” warships were under construction at Baalkpan, the capital of the Grand Alliance, as well as Maa-ni-la, where more DDs and another (hopefully improved) Gray Class cruiser were rising. The Empire of the New Britain Isles was finishing their first steel-hulled warships, and even the Republic of Real People was making powerful “protected cruisers,” as they called them.
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