Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  The Chooser bowed his head, but the artificially stiffened crest couldn’t lie flat in submission. “His unruliness and disrespect—in your presence—renders my fury near uncontrollable,” he said, “but I’ll do my best.”

  Lawrence was already laughing. It came out as a snorting, kakking sound, and the Chooser and Celestial Mother had never heard anything exactly like it, but recognized it as amusement at their expense. “Unruliness!” Lawrence managed. “I’ll tell you a story of unruliness, Your Highness, as it was told to me by your former General of the Sky Hideki Muriname, and confirmed by our observations and prisoners we’ve taken. Yes,” he added swiftly, “we take prisoners, and they’re well treated. Especially when they tell us so much about what General Esshk and the Chooser”—he glared at the Grik—“have been up to.” Returning his gaze to the Celestial Mother, he continued. “It’s a long story, but”—he gestured at the shuddering ivies—“since we can’t stop the battle, we have plenty of time. I doubt you’ll be bored, but you may be amazed to what extent Esshk and the Chooser have undermined your authority, squandered your armies and the treasure of your empire, and provoked the destruction of your cities and countless numbers of your subjects. All for their own aggrandizement and acquisition of power. I doubt you care how much destruction they heaped on us, but they left us no choice but to come and destroy them and all they have made.”

  Lawrence waved his pistol almost negligently at the Chooser, who appeared to be coiling to strike once more. “Your fate’s incidental to that now, Your Highness, but you do control it. Probably an unusual experience. Have you ever made a single decision regarding the war or even the conduct of your empire?”

  “Yes,” the Celestial Mother affirmed with certainty. “I commanded First General Esshk to finish the war!”

  Lawrence laughed again. “And he obeyed?”

  The Celestial Mother’s jaws clamped shut. Then she spoke again, looking at the Chooser. “I wondered about that,” she confessed, “and even . . . implied I no longer needed his protection. That I’d henceforth be Giver of Life in all respects!”

  “How did that work out?”

  She looked uncertain. “He . . . I . . . But First General Esshk and the Chooser saved me! They elevated me!” she defended.

  “They used you,” Lawrence spat bitterly, “to seize power. We’ve long suspected they kept you in the dark about how astonishingly unruly they’ve been, and how that finally brought us to this point.”

  The Chooser appeared on the verge of lunging then, eyes darting back and forth, but to Lawrence’s surprise, he suddenly hurled himself to the floor, snout pushing the ivies aside as he groveled. “No! No! Not I. Never I! I only ever had your protection in sight! I cooperated with Esshk at first—he was the rightful Regent Champion of your choosing—but . . . the more power he tasted, the deeper he drank from the spring.” His eyes rolled up at Lawrence. “It has ever been our way to crush our prey, but Esshk grew reckless, more desperate, more reliant on his New Army generals to design his battles so he could disavow their failures. Yet more than one failure was his alone!” he quickly blurted at the Celestial Mother, casting all cautionary allegiance to Esshk aside. “I hinted as much to you as often as I dared. Suspicious, Esshk sent me from you!”

  Lawrence could tell by the Celestial Mother’s reaction that the last, at least, was true, but even she had to doubt he’d done it solely for her benefit. “That led to this,” the Chooser almost wailed. “My counsel went unheeded, the distant regents delayed their full support for the Great Hunt—seeking their own advantage, no doubt—and protection was stripped from the palace. Everything”—he hesitated—“even the Hij of Old Sofesshk, went to feed the armies!”

  So that’s where everyone went, Lawrence thought dispassionately, even as the Celestial Mother’s eyes went wide. “Truth, of a sort, at last.” Lawrence sneered at the Chooser, then looked at the monarch of all the Grik. “It seems Esshk misbehaved even worse than we thought.”

  “The hatchlings of the Ancient Ones! Even they?” The Celestial Mother seemed stunned, more at a loss than at any time before. “The Hij of Old Sofesshk have always been the constant of our race!” She looked at Lawrence. “The foundation of our culture. If any ruled from the shadow of the palace before my mother’s time, it was they. How can I rule without the wisdom of their moods?”

  “You can’t,” Lawrence replied simply. He looked thoughtful. “Or maybe you can still rule, as implied earlier, but in a different way. There are other ways.” He took a long breath. “That choice lies with you, Your Highness. Maybe the biggest choice any Giver of Life has ever made. Your culture will end; it must. But there can be peace, and you might even truly lead what’s left of your empire for the first time.”

  “This is madness!” the Chooser practically stuttered. “You can’t seriously consider joining their hunt—for that’s what is proposed! Not on the meager basis of what they’ve attacked with here. I don’t know how they came, but they couldn’t be many! Second General Ign still blocks the bulk of their might beyond the nakkle leg, and in the south, First General Esshk might still win. . . .”

  “Silence!” the Celestial Mother snapped, her gaze never leaving Lawrence. “And in the event of war between the reluctant regents, Esshk might lose, so you strive to remain tolerable to them, Esshk, and me as well!” She narrowed her eyes. “Much has not been right. Nothing has been as my tutors—who were taken from me,” she inserted with a quick glare at the Chooser, “gave me to expect regarding my position and those who serve me.”

  “I didn’t take them,” the Chooser appealed obsequiously.

  “No,” the Celestial Mother agreed, “but they were taken, even as what they taught tasted more . . . genuine than anything I’ve heard from you or First General Esshk. I will learn the truth,” she declared. “I’m sure our enemies have their own version,” she allowed, “but perhaps it is a truth, and much is borne out by what you revealed about the Hij of Old Sofesshk.” She still looked stunned by that. “Without the hatchlings of the Ancient Ones, what’s left of our culture to preserve?” she asked rhetorically. “I would hear more of how unruly my closest advisors and protectors have been.” She glowered down at the Chooser. “One, at least, may speak in his defense, but I will decide which truth to believe.”

  CHAPTER 37

  ////// Southwest of Tassanna’s Toehold

  To General Faan-Ma-Mar’s surprise, General Mu-Tai not only whipped XII Corps back into marching order, but he did it fairly quickly. The junior officers and NCOs did the gri-maax’s share of the job, of course, but that still reflected well on Mu-Tai’s leadership and the training and example he’d provided. Both of them rode me-naaks now, one of their scout’s remounts provided to Mu-Tai. The Austraalan hadn’t ridden one of the fearsome beasts before and approached the prospect with caution. There were similar creatures on the Great South Isle, but they were even larger, equally vicious, and no one had ever been ridiculous enough to try to train one. They had other animals, though, like paalkas, so at least he knew vaguely how to ride. In the end, he got to know his me-naak on the move and had few problems, since neither had much time to think about it.

  The long, fat column snaked southwest toward the flashing guns, splashing through deepening, watery mud among hills remarkably vacant of Grik. Apparently incapable of imagining such a breakout behind them, the Grik facing the Republic advance left no pickets in their rear. Maps compiled from aerial photos would’ve kept XII Corps on course in any event, but the lightning of cannon reflected against the storm clouds left General Faan no doubt about their heading. Then, suddenly, they could hear the guns over the booming thunder and raging wind and knew they were getting close. A stutter of shots flared in a gap ahead, shapes backlit by heavy gun flashes and jetting vents. Faan and Mu-Tai galloped to the front of the column, mud splattering hurrying troops, and a pair of scouts on huffing me-naaks quickly met them.

 
“The Grik aartillery is there!” cried an excited ’Cat, pointing behind him.

  “You were seen,” Mu-Tai observed. It wasn’t a criticism; merely a statement of fact.

  “Aammunition haandlers,” the scout agreed. “Waarning will spread, but in the noise of the guns, few likely noticed the shots.”

  “We must attaack at once,” Faan shouted. “Make our signaal to the Repubs to cease firing their aartillery!”

  Mu-Tai blinked full acceptance and whirled to one of the division commanders close behind.

  This may have been XII Corps’ first battle, but lacking arms to train with for so long, it had spent a great deal of time rehearsing maneuvers and evolutions on the drill field. Faan watched with approval as soggy, tired troops responded to the shrill eruption of whistles and swiftly shifted from the column into three division lines with the fluidity of the rain-swollen streams coursing down the hills. Troops spilled into their ranks, four deep and tighter than was now the norm, but perfect for the relatively narrow gap ahead. Especially with no one shooting back—yet. Me-naak-mounted couriers splashed back to the center of the line from the wings, reporting they’d shaken out in good order.

  Thus the corps waited, poised in the rain, expectant, tense. A rocket soared into the sky a short distance behind, riding a glare of fire and a pillar of smoke. It burst high overhead, glowing bright red even through the rain, and was quickly swept away downwind under its tiny parachute. Another rocket rose. Then another.

  “I hope our friends caan see them,” Laan shouted to Mu-Tai, “but regaardless, we caan’t wait.” He raised his voice as loud as he could. Even his peculiar Lemurian volume wouldn’t carry far in the storm, but his words would be repeated. And somehow it seemed appropriate, at this moment, to roar. “Twelfth Corps! At the double time! Forwaard!”

  * * *

  * * *

  Legate Bekiaa-Sab-At was so numbed by exhaustion, eyes so thick with the bloody goo of fatigue and another scalp wound, and so desensitized to the continuous orange flashes of Grik guns that she hardly noticed the first dim glare to the north. Only the color and the fact it lingered so long as it darted west on the wind, like a meteor under the clouds, finally registered. Then a second and third meteor chased the first, and she knew she’d finally seen the signal rockets she’d been praying for.

  Her first reaction was surprise they’d actually come, since nothing else had gone as they’d hoped. Her life had become as much a battle against fatigue, chaos, the elements, and despair as it had against the enemy. Despite its horrendous losses, Bekiaa’s 5th Division—including the 1st, 14th, and 23rd Legions—was actually somewhat over strength, having absorbed the shattered remnants of two other legions she couldn’t even name. More battered but intact legions had coalesced into another division and—surprisingly—Courtney Bradford was given responsibility for this Provisional Corps. Still reeling from its breakout battle, the Corps had been technically in reserve, refitting and reorganizing on the march, but when the 4th Legion made first contact with the blocking Grik and was virtually annihilated, General Kim threw the Provisional out to his right, with every gun he could spare, to face a new Grik line.

  All they were supposed to do was hold, fixing these Grik in place while a quarter of the army guarded the rear from those they already smashed aside, and the rest, under Kim himself, kept marching northwest. But Kim was stalled now as well, just as exhausted and depleted, grinding against a heavier force while his energy and ammunition dwindled. Recognizing the importance of Bradford’s position on the flank, however, and still hoping their allies could break through, Kim kept sending bedraggled fragments of other shattered legions until Bradford’s Provisional Corps became the second-biggest chunk of the army.

  To Prefect Bele’s surprise in particular, almost all the Gentaa had armed themselves once again and joined the ranks. There’d been no request that they do so, or permission asked. They just did. When Bele, grateful but just as mystified as when they’d done it before, finally requested an explanation for this previously unprecedented behavior, the Dominus—the Gentaa supervisor of all the engineers and teamsters with the pack train—merely blinked at him. “My people have supported yours throughout your history on this world. Supported,” the Dominus stressed, “not led, not served, though at times it may have seemed we did both. Yet always we remained apart.” He shook his head, his hard leather hat slinging droplets from the lighter, earlier rain. “Many of us believe that must end. This war will either define us as a people or end us all.” For the first time in his life, Bele actually saw a Gentaa grin. “What better time for the Gentaa to fully join the Republic than when you need us most?”

  General Kim told them he didn’t expect the Provisional Corps to advance anywhere, but with all the additional troops—and Gentaa, of course—it should be able to hold. Little else mattered. If General Alden’s plan failed, the Army of the Republic was doomed. Bekiaa knew Alden’s assault had begun; she’d seen the distant strobing lightning of battle to the north before the heavy rains came, but remained darkly skeptical of Alden’s overall strategy and its reliance on two isolated and vastly outnumbered forces rescuing each other. She knew Pete had “pulled mir-aacles out of his aass” before, and though she hadn’t been there at the end when he did it around Lake Flynn, she’d seen what little he had to work with. But this was so different. . . . Wasn’t it?

  The last inkling that her—or Courtney’s—force remained part of a bigger scheme came with a series of airstrikes against the Grik in front of her, though she didn’t know if the planes had been Nancys or Cantets. It was too dark by then to tell. And then came the full fury of the storm and she knew nothing more of what transpired elsewhere—until the signal rockets popped.

  “Did ye see?” asked Optio Meek. He hadn’t left her side since her injury and had grown more protective than ever.

  Bekiaa shook her head and blinked, dispelling the random thoughts clouding her tired mind. “Yes. Send runners. Ensure thaat . . . Mr. Braadford is aware”—Courtney flatly refused to be addressed as “general”—“as well as Col-nol Naaris and Prefect Bele.” Bekiaa had direct command of the 14th and 23rd Legions, Naaris still had the 1st, and Bele had organized the “orphans” as best he could. His was actually the largest force, but also the most difficult to control. If anyone could do it, Bele was the man. “Another runner will haave the aartillery cease firing,” Bekiaa continued. They had few rounds left for their batteries of Derby guns, and they’d been focusing on the enemy artillery. If the rockets were to be believed, that position would soon be swarming with friendly troops.

  Bekiaa removed her helmet and turned her face to the pouring rain, trying to wash out her eyes and rejuvenate herself. “Sound ‘Staand To,’” she said at last, “and spread the word we may soon haave friendlies to our front.” She took a long breath. “Or running Grik.” She hacked and spat, then managed an ironic grin. “Or both! Most importaant, however, we must be ready to attaack, if Mr. Braadford commaands. With the bayonet alone, if necessaary.”

  “The bayonet’s all most of us have left,” Meek grumbled.

  Though their artillery remained active, the Grik breastworks across the muddy, rocky field had been largely quiet since the rain began, the Grik squatting miserably in flooding trenches with drowned muskets, no doubt. And there were only a few shots now as XII Corps quickly overran the enemy artillery line and surged forward to slam the Grik defenses from behind. All Bekiaa could tell, from a rain-drenched quarter mile, was that the Grik cannon in the center went abruptly silent.

  There were other noises, however. Even over the roaring wind and sluicing rain, she heard a rising turmoil. It brought back memories of when she’d fought behind a shield and thousands of shields and swords and spears had slammed together. Rising above it all was the unmistakable tenor of fury and agony mixed with terror.

  “Marvelous!” shouted Courtney Bradford, suddenly behind Bekiaa. He wore an ord
inary combat smock, his usual straw sombrero replaced by a glistening, dripping helmet. In his hands was his trusty old Krag. White teeth flashed in the white beard surrounding them, and his eyes glowed with an inner light. “Bloody marvelous. We should hit them now!”

  “Ay,” Bekiaa agreed, “but whaat’re you doin’?”

  Courtney looked at her, and his expression softened with the love he felt for her. “I told you, my dear, at Soala. I’ve as much right to fight this war as anyone, and my days as a spectator are done. Now let’s get on with it, shall we?” He chuckled ruefully at the disarray of their own defensive line. “Not much point in finesse, I suppose.” He raised a speaking trumpet hanging from the cartridge belt around his waist and roared into it.

  “We’ll attack!” he bellowed, the tinny sound carrying. “Attack them now! Our chance is now, a gift to us after all we’ve endured, to smash the filthy buggers!”

  Bekiaa could hear nothing over the new thunder of near-perfect accord that followed, nor could she do anything but shout “Gener-aal advaance!” to her orderlies as she was swept along at Courtney’s side. Whaat’s happened to this maan, once so mild and alive for . . . life? she wondered, but she already knew. Courtney’s war had become a holy crusade against the extinguisher of life, personified by the Grik. Only by destroying them could the man he’d been return, and Bekiaa knew that feeling well. She only hoped it was so. For them both.

  Roughly forty thousand Grik—crack troops of Esshk’s New Army—had fortified the stone and brush breastworks thrown up to halt the right flank of the Republic advance. They thought they’d succeeded and were content to wait, letting their artillery batter the exhausted foe. Twelfth Corps slammed into their “secure” rear somewhat haltingly at first, disorganized by the fighting for the guns and the serried obstacles they presented. But the lightning lit the Grik infantry from behind, and XII Corps saw the surprise and terror with which they reacted to the unexpected threat. The inexperienced Austraalans swept on, casting their own terror aside. The Grik buckled under the blow, rear ranks recoiling against the front—which now perceived the eighteen to twenty thousand (no one would ever know how many Gentaa and “orphans” accompanied the Provisional Corps), sprinting across a field they’d also believed secure. For the very first time, despite their breeding, training, “modern” weapons, and superior leadership, New Army Grik broke, en masse.