“Torpedoes, Captain?” Bernard Sandison asked hopefully from the port bridgewing. After all this time, Bernie still sounded like a kid when there was a prospect of firing his beloved fish.
“Not yet. With this crummy visibility, I’d want to be closer than I really want to get, if you know what I mean. And we might need ’em later.” He raised his voice. “Have Mr. Campeti commence firing at the Grik BB that shot at us. All other ships’ll commence firing at targets they identify as their guns bear!”
Matt spent a final glance on the battle ashore. It looked terrible. He could only hope it was terrible enough to entirely focus the attention of whoever commanded over there. Was it Second General Ign, as Muriname predicted? Or Esshk himself? Whoever it was, Operation Whipsaw ought to be giving him an awful lot to think about just now, and one of the biggest surprises was yet to come.
Sonny Campeti had already been tracking his target. As soon as he got the order to open fire, the salvo buzzer rang and Matt’s own focus contracted back down to fighting his task force and his ship.
* * *
* * *
Gasping, Second General Ign practically collapsed and fell into the third trench line. There were already bodies heaped at the bottom, from the bombing and shelling, and he struggled to rise amid the yielding corpses and soupy slurry of bloody mud beginning to run. He was still strong despite his nearly thirty years, but hadn’t actually had to run anywhere in more than twenty. It nearly killed him. Of course, he’d already be dead if he hadn’t fled the secondary trench and his primary HQ. And he wasn’t alone. When the first trench fell, the second quickly filled with those escaping. Somewhat to his surprise, especially considering the speed and ferocity of the enemy attack—on the heels of the terrible bombardment—very few warriors actually turned prey and kept on running. But he’d felt something rising, something similar to mindless panic building among his troops. Still, given time and the aid of unflustered underlings, he thought he could’ve held his second line together. But there hadn’t been time. To his shock—though he didn’t know why he was shocked—the enemy just kept coming! Of course they did. His troops may not’ve been prey yet, but they’d fled like it in front of an enemy just as much the predator as they were, now. And any predator will chase when its enemy shows its back.
What made things incalculably worse was that the enemy hit the second disorganized and reeling trench just as hard as the first. More of Ign’s troops ran immediately, not even waiting for the blow to fall, not even trying to fight. He had no choice but to order a second withdrawal, hoping distance would give him time to stabilize the situation. He hadn’t counted on it taking him, personally, so long to reach the third trench, however. Any time he might’ve gained was lost. I should’ve had warriors carry me, he fumed, peering back the way he’d come and trying to catch his breath. He looked around.
The trench was packed to overflowing and chaos reigned. Shells and mortar bombs still exploded around him, tossing clouds of earth or gobbets of shattered flesh into the sky. “Control yourselves!” he roared. “Stand fast! They’re only prey!” He knew it was a lie. So did his troops.
“What are those things, Lord Second General?” cried a young ker-noll standing by, gasping as well. He was looking through the lashing rain across the corpse-scattered space at one of the seemingly impervious iron monsters lumbering toward them, spitting bullets from two or more fast-shooters as it came.
Ign glanced at the officer, wishing it were Jash. Young as Jash was, Ign had come to rely on him more heavily than he’d known to help him adapt to the new and unexpected. But even Jash would be at a loss now, Ign expected. I must make do. “Armored machines,” he shouted back. Lightning ripped the sky and thunder boomed heavily. “Like our greatships of battle,” he continued, “only these are smaller, of course, and move across the land. I don’t know how.” He considered. “They’re very loud, like flying-machine engines. . . . So the engines in these must spin the wheels that turn the . . . belts they ride on.” More thunder cracked, followed by the blasts of mortar bombs.
“But how do we stop them?” the ker-noll wailed.
“With resolve—and cannon,” Ign roared scornfully. “Very close. Command all cannon crews to load solid shot but do not fire until the machines are nearly upon them.” The aide only stared. “Go!” Ign bellowed. “Send runners; go yourself. We must hold this line!” Ign would never survive another retreat like the last, and his army would probably just keep on going, the Giver of Life knew where. . . .
That’s when it finally hit him: the sheer disastrous scope of all Esshk had done, and he’d been a party to. The Giver of Life wouldn’t know, he realized, because she knows nothing. If she yet lives, she may know she’s attacked—and hopefully Jash has preserved her—but she can’t know more because Esshk denied her wisdom, kept from her the powers of Sight that come with a full, independent consciousness! He wondered briefly if Esshk somehow knew, having usurped her powers, but he thought not.
Several members of his staff found him then, possibly even hearing his bellowing over the racket. They were just as harried as he, watching as another and another of the iron monsters advanced, followed by the roaring ranks of thousands of enemy troops that had already demonstrated their murderous equality—at least—to any Gharrichk’k. Now I know how our enemies have felt all this time, when we fell upon them, Ign thought. And not just this enemy, but all we’ve conquered through time. Our new weapons are wet and will not work, our defenses are crumbling, our cannons are ineffective against a new and terrible thing, and our warriors have run away! They will continue to do so if . . . He snarled. I’ve never understood this new way of war. It’s unnatural to me, for us. Perhaps that’s the problem? he thought bleakly, gazing around at his own thousands, some frantically trying to fire soggy muskets, but most just waiting, bayonets fixed, flinching under the shells exploding overhead or debris raining down. Perhaps I must allow them to fight once more as they were shaped to, as they always have. As their instincts drive them. Is attack all that now remains?
He actually started to give the order that would send all around him into the storm of rain and lead and iron. He knew it would be a cyclone of death, but a rising thrill beguiled him with instinctive urges of his own despite his rational expectations of what would happen.
“Lord General!” cried one of his aides who’d been in this line from the start, battering his way through the press to join him. “Lord General, I bear news!” he shouted frantically.
Ign whirled to face him. Bullets struck and spattered him with mud. The mud is getting bad, he thought. The rain hurts us, but can the mud help? He doubted it. Mud would only make things equally inconvenient for both sides. “What?” he demanded.
For an instant, the aide stood transfixed, staring at the approaching horde and the iron beasts it herded. He visibly forced himself to focus. “As you commanded, troops in the south trenches are shifting here as fast as they can. Tenth General Kuaka is massing for a flank attack on the advancing prey! The attack will strike like a thunderbolt—”
“If it’s not too late,” Ign growled.
“Indeed,” the aide had to agree. He waved a hand at the foe. “Such warriors! And only prey! They fight like nothing we have seen!”
“What of our troops farther to the south, facing the Other Hunters, the Republic forces?” Ign demanded.
“I know only that the Republic hunters renewed their assault at the same time this attack came. They must be trying to keep us from shifting more troops to stop the main attack.”
Ign grunted. It made sense . . . if this was the main attack. He shook his head to clear it. It must be. The enemy could never have amassed sufficient strength to strike everywhere this hard! If only I had some means of rapid communication with Kuaka, I’d have him drive straight at the enemy line instead; it must be nearly empty now. But signal flags are useless in the dark, flashing lights indistinguishab
le from fire and storm. Horns—if they are even heard—are incapable of relaying what I want so specifically. And with Kuaka’s movement already begun . . . No, by the time runners reached him, any change would only confuse his troops as badly as mine and there’d be chaos everywhere.
“What of the enemy fleet?” Ign suddenly asked. “Its heavy guns no longer bear on us.”
The aide blinked. “It has left,” he said simply. “Gone past the nakkle leg. Even now it fights our greatships waiting there.”
Ign glared north. He was still close to the river but could see nothing but rapid orange flashes on the water. Something erupted flames and he suspected darkly that it was a greatship. “The enemy fleet makes for Sofesshk,” he stated with utter certainty, “to support whatever force they landed there. If our fleet can’t stop them, our holiest city and the Celestial Mother herself will be in their claws!”
“What can we do?” one of his staff squealed in dismay.
“Nothing!” Ign snapped. “Except stop them here.” He glanced back at the river. “Ships can savage Ker-noll Jash and whatever force he assembles to secure Sofesshk, but they can’t take the city.” He expelled a decisive breath. “Nor can the enemy think so! Captain Reddy pushes here while trying to pull us there!” He waved at the tortured sky. “Yet without his flying machines, he can’t know Kuaka marches to our aid.” He nodded at the closest tank, now taking hits from roundshot almost continually. The enemy infantry was loading and firing as they came, rifles, Blitzers, and machine guns stitching the berm in front of the trench and pitching Grik back. A heavy shot hit the front of the foremost iron monster hard but still didn’t penetrate. The ball caromed up, tearing away the barrel of the forward-firing fast shooter. The rest of its weapons seemed out of action as well, but after a short pause, the machine kept coming.
“We won’t oblige him by doing what he wants,” Ign shouted loudly, his crest rising. “We will relieve Sofesshk—after we smash the enemy here.”
“If Kuaka attacks in time,” the aide qualified, just before a bullet punched through the iron scales on his leather helmet. His eyes bulged and pulpy, bloody brains spewed from his snout as he dropped to the bottom of the trench.
“Indeed,” Ign said distractedly, unconsciously echoing the dead aide.
The enemy infantry was closing now, not as quickly as before, but fast enough. They have to be tiring, Ign thought, but the volleys will soon come, then the grenades. He looked at the warriors lining the trench, eyes flashing in lightning and fire. Some stood, teeth clenched in determination, claws tight around their muskets. Many more stood with tongues lolling, eyes wide, glancing to the rear. They were choosing their path, looking for safety, for life. My warriors will break with the volleys, Ign knew. My whole army, prey or not, will run.
Attack really was all he had left. He had to hold until Kuaka struck, and there was only one way.
“Sound the horns!” he bellowed harshly at the aides and officers gathered round. “Sound them at once! Blow the single ancient note of doom!” Several just stood and stared at him, but the rest rushed to comply. Moments later, the first horn blared, deep and rumbling, the tone carrying like the thunder. Other horns joined the rising drone that stirred the instincts of the Grik and almost stalled the charging Lemurians with equally strong feelings of dread.
“Up, my warriors!” Ign roared. “I am your Lord General Ign! Hear the horns of death and fight as your ancestors did!” He drew his long, sickle-shaped sword and brandished it overhead. “Out of the trench and charge them! Attack and save the Giver of Life! Kill them all; feast on their flesh. They are only prey!”
CHAPTER 34
////// Tassanna’s Toehold—South
South bank of the Zambezi River
General Faan-Ma-Mar normally had light tan fur, fading to white on his face, and was short even for a Lemurian, standing barely four and a half feet tall. He was also somewhat plump, equally unusual in a lean, hard-fighting army. And unlike his longtime fellow corps commanders from the traditionally warlike land Homes of Aryaal and B’mbaado, Faan had been a Baalkpan fisherman before the war. He’d made a good living with a large, swift felucca capable of catching and rendering the biggest gri-kakka farther out than most of his peers would go. As was customary, his crew had been his family. Most were dead now.
Like nearly everyone from Baalkpan in his trade, he’d been active fishing, scouting, and carrying freight and provisions for the fledgling Alliance when it first opposed the Grik. A terrible strakka had slammed the Allies’ first expeditionary force to Aryaal, however, and he’d lost his ship and all but a niece and his mate’s brother when they were driven aground on the north coast of B’mbaado. He probably should’ve joined the new navy that was building, but it was a chaotic time, and he’d defended Baalkpan as a common soldier when the Grik came there.
To no one’s surprise who knew him, he’d distinguished himself, exhibiting quiet courage and leadership in some of the harshest fighting along the Baalkpan waterfront. He’d become a disciple of Pete Alden’s and then Billy Flynn’s, and quickly risen to command a regiment. He was given a division after the Battle of Sinaa-Pore, and finally III Corps for the Allied invasion of Indiaa. Ever so slowly, III Corps had filled some of the void in his heart left by the loss of his family, and he thought of it like a huge, extended family, to a large degree. That didn’t keep him from using it for the greater purpose of winning the war, however—the war that indirectly cost him those he’d loved the most.
Yet despite avoiding the notoriety (and horrific casualties) endured by Muln Rolak’s and Safir Maraan’s I and II Corps, General Faan and his III Corps had fought well and reliably ever since it was formed. Their biggest test came in Indiaa, where they’d pretty much saved the rest of the army through brisk marching, hard fighting, and quiet, unassuming competence. Now Faan, with his fur dark and slick with rain under a tortured sky, his corps crouching miserably in muddy, flooding trenches, enduring the dreadful anticipation of battle—if not the hellish return fire pounding their comrades closer to the river—prepared to do it again.
“It must be almost time,” Colonel Saachic said eagerly, leaning in his saddle to shout in Faan’s ear over the roaring storm. Both were mounted on me-naaks, and though the vicious beasts seemed oblivious to the furious battle to the northwest and the silent gun flashes of artillery amid the low hills to the southwest where the Army of the Republic clashed with the Grik blocking force, they were somewhat sullen and grumpy. None of the me-naaks in Saachic’s 1st Cavalry Brigade had been fed before they were assembled, and they didn’t like rain at all.
“So it must,” Faan agreed dispassionately, with a glance at General Loi-Ta-Saa, also mounted. She commanded 9th Division, consisting of the 2nd and 3rd Maa-ni-la and 8th Baalkpan. Eleventh Division, composed of the 7th and 8th Maa-ni-la and 10th Aryaal, was under General Priaa-Ka, also female, far to the right. Fann briefly contemplated what it was about this war that advanced so many females to lead everything from infantry squads to states in the Union, even to other nations, in the case of Rebecca Anne McDonald. Though it wasn’t considered unusual if they did, relatively few females controlled ships and Homes—land or sea—before the war. Most seemed content to support their mates who did those things and raise their younglings. Perhaaps they will again, someday, Faan thought doubtfully, looking closer at Loi’s unblinking, determined face. Even if they will—or even should—they must fight this enemy, he suddenly realized, because with only males to do it, we would’ve lost long ago. And thaat the Grik threaten all younglings everywhere seems to make them fiercer, even more unwavering thaan the males. Thus, naturaally, they rise in the raanks.
Faan’s tail thumped his side as it swished like a sodden, dripping rope, and he remembered why he looked at Loi. She already knew. Her HQ and comm shack were closest, near the very center of the line. “Nothing yet, Gener-aal Faan,” she said gruffly, “though Gener-aal Mu-Tai complai
ns again about the rain.”
Faan nodded. “Understaandable, considering his entire Twelfth Corps of Austraalans is new to baattle and only aarmed with muzzle-loading rifle-muskets. He fears their wet weapons will perform poorly, and he’s right. Reports from Gener-aal Rolak confirm the enemy is similarly aafflicted.” Faan blinked uncertainty, one of the few times anyone had seen him do so. “But Mu-Tai’s Corps haas only one major chore tonight: to break whaat should be a single thin line of Grik. I’ll be pleased if they caan still press on, but surely each raank caan manaage one volley before their weapons drown—if they were loaded properly,” he added darkly. “And they haave as maany grenades as anyone. Beyond thaat, courage and their baayonets should suffice.”
“I think he worries most thaat they won’t haave the preparaa-tory bombaardment lavished on the Grik in front of First Corps,” Saachic proposed.
“Also understandable,” Faan agreed, “but the fury and sacrifice of First Corps’ assault has presented us a greater gift: surprise.” He looked at the two thousand me-naak-mounted cavalry arrayed behind the line, and lightning showed him the backs of some of 9th Division’s Maa-ni-los massed in the trench ahead. Soon they’d advance with almost thirty thousand troops against a position that should’ve been heavily robbed by now. The storm made it impossible to know how heavily, but Faan was sure his III Corps could’ve broken through even what was there before.
It would’ve wrecked my corps, however, he thought with a stab of anguish, as surely as thaat other strakka wrecked my ship and faamily. And it could never haave continued on to accomplish the rest of its mission. That’s why Twelfth Corps has to go first and has to perform. A great deal rests on the “greenest” troops in the aarmy. “But we were all ‘green’ once, were we not?” he asked aloud. Those who heard him understood.
Pass of Fire Page 38
