“They’re gone,” he muttered in wonder.
“Maybe not,” Garrett warned. “Maybe their ships are gone, but they might still have an army here, waiting to pounce on us as we disembark.”
Matt grunted. He wouldn’t put it past them. Still, unless they’d known they were coming—and he couldn’t imagine how they would—there would have been something here. Supply ships if nothing else.
“May I?” asked Sean O’Casey. The big, one-armed man had joined them by the rail. He’d been bored throughout the voyage and had asked to be used as an engineer on one of the steamers, but Matt wanted him close for his insights regarding Jenks. The Imperial commodore had come aboard to dine a couple of times and Matt always wanted to know what O’Casey had to say about what they discussed. O’Casey remained hidden whenever Jenks was aboard, but his insights regarding Jenks were confusing. He was clearly wary of the man, but there was a subliminal thread of respect intertwined with a deep-seated resentment that remained imperfectly explained. Matt was never sure how much of what O’Casey had to say about Jenks was colored by whatever had apparently passed between the two men. In any event, according to O’Casey, Jenks hadn’t avoided any real questions except Matt’s occasional attempt to get him to confirm his suspicions regarding the location of the Imperial capital. Even O’Casey still wouldn’t divulge that, as a matter of principle, but he knew Matt’s guess was essentially correct. Matt didn’t ask O’Casey anymore and O’Casey didn’t disseminate. It was understood.
Garrett handed O’Casey his binoculars and the big man steadied them against a stay. “Impressive fortifications,” he admitted. “ ’Twould be a costly chore ta storm. There’s little ta see beyond the walls, however. Naught but that one fancy structure.”
“That was the king’s palace,” Rolak confirmed. He was old, but his eyes were still far sharper than the average human’s. “We burned the rest in the face of the Grik advance,” he added sadly. “We left them nothing upon which to sustain themselves.” He shook his head and his eyes were moist. “Aryaal was once a mighty, beautiful kingdom.”
“It will be again,” Matt assured him.
More officers and important passengers began gathering by the rail for their first glimpse of Aryaal or B’mbaado City. Safir’s city across the strait had been undamaged by the fighting, but they’d burned it too. Now all they could see were the sad ruins atop the cliff. The fleet continued its advance, the heavily loaded corvettes angling toward the front when Matt ordered the signal aloft. Smoke coiled from the steamer’s funnels as their boilers were lit. When they had steam, they’d maneuver inshore with their troops as well.
It was almost surreal. They’d come expecting a savage fight, but as best they could tell, there was nothing to face them. The entire environ seemed too quiet, almost devoid of life. Everything had the look of recent abandonment, and the closer they drew, the more apparent it became. The docks were strewn with debris and every small boat had been dragged ashore and shattered. Nothing at all remained of the dockside shantytown that had once served the cities’ modest fisheries. Nothing but bare, scorched ground.
Then they smelled it. It began as a hint, a tantalizing ghost, but as they continued to approach and the wind came more from the shore, they caught the stench of death. Matt had smelled death many times now, in all its ghastly varieties. He’d smelled the decomposing Grik carrion at Baalkpan and on the plain below the very walls he looked upon. He knew what human dead smelled like: burnt, drowned, festering in the sun. This was different. It was something like what he’d smelled in the belly of Revenge after they’d taken that ship from the Grik, although there, there’d been a slimy, humid, mildewed edge. Regardless, he now recognized the growing, all-pervading stench of putrefying Lemurians.
“Left them naught ta sustain themselves, ye say?” O’Casey whispered, and tried to hold the glasses still. Matt redirected his binoculars. There’d been a disconnect, he supposed. He’d noticed the thousands of stakes driven in the ground surrounding Aryaal’s walls, but must have assumed they’d been some new entanglement or defensive measure constructed by the Grik. Now he saw that atop each stake was a severed Lemurian head. Some were mere skulls by now, and they were still too distant for details, but many hung, slack-jawed, with tissue still attached. Some were quite fresh. Safir Maraan, bold warrior that she was, nearly lost the binoculars she’d borrowed when she lurched to the rail and vomited into the sea. Chack went to her and murmured soft words.
“My God!” exploded Garrett. “We can’t have left that many behind! We got them all, Captain! Mr. Ellis and I.” His tone became pleading. “We took everyone we could—everyone who came to the rendezvous! Maybe some didn’t make it, but . . . my God!”
“I’m sure you got all you could, Greg,” Matt said, his voice wooden. “But they were here a long time. Long enough to scour Java clean of all the ‘prey’ we never had a chance to save. The people of Bataava, the other cities . . .”
Rolak jerked his sword free of his belt and desperately cast his eyes about for something to cleave. With a wail of anguish, he finally buried the point in the deck. Even Garrett didn’t scold him.
“Do you think they’re gone then?” Safir asked, stepping to face him. Her eyes were pools of horror and Chack supported her as though she might faint. Her usually immaculate silver-washed breastplate had been splashed with the contents of her stomach.
“Yeah. I think so.” His lips curled in a snarl. “Why else do that?”
“What do you mean?” asked Chack. “We know they collect skulls . . . ‘trophies’ of their prey.”
“But they didn’t collect them!” Matt insisted. “They left them here like that! Maybe not all of them are gone, and keep that in mind when you go ashore, but I bet most are. For some reason, they’ve abandoned this place and they knew, eventually, we’d return.” He gestured at the city and the literally thousands of stakes. “And they wanted to make sure, when we did, we’d see that!”
“Skipper,” Garrett said quietly, “I think if Mr. Bradford were here, he’d say something profound, about the lizards being more sophisticated than we thought, or something like that. I bet they did this as a warning. To scare us. Make us stay away.”
“You’re probably right. Maybe they are more sophisticated, or maybe Kurokawa put them up to it. Doesn’t matter.” He looked at those around him, then forced himself to look at the city again. “I think they’ll find it has an opposite effect than they intended. Just like Pearl Harbor.” By now, most of the ’Cats knew the significance of that reference. “I want to exterminate them like the vermin they are.” He paused, then spoke to Garrett. “Signal the corvettes to disembark their troops as planned. Form a perimeter around the landing area. The steamers will cover the landing with their heavy guns. Once we have a beachhead, we’ll put the rest of the troops ashore, again, just like we planned. Whether the landing is contested or not, I want everybody acting like it is. Good practice. Finally, send a signal to Achilles, with my compliments, and ask Commodore Jenks if he’d care to accompany me ashore.” Matt’s face hardened. “I think it’s high time our reluctant British friends saw the true face of our enemy.”
Captain Reddy met Jenks’s boat at the dock. Rolak was with him, along with the old warrior’s staff. The only other human was Chief Gray, looming behind his captain with a Thompson submachine gun. The gun had once been Tony Scott’s personal weapon and it hadn’t saved him in the end—but he hadn’t had it with him, had he? Gray was determined that Captain Reddy would always have him and the weapon at his back whenever he was at risk. Jenks stepped out of the boat with another white-coated figure. Both held perfumed cloths over their faces. Four of the red-coated, bare-legged Imperial Marines stepped ashore as well, bright muskets on their shoulders.
Jenks was watching the rapid, professional deployment of the Marines the 600, and the slightly less practiced arrival of the Army regiments. Once ashore however, the Army seemed as competent as the others. Matt sensed that Jenks was a
little surprised and perhaps slightly daunted by what he saw. The Marines established a perimeter near where the old breastworks once had been, and Safir’s 600—who trained with the Marines to the same rigorous standards—deployed across the road leading to the main gate. The Army regiments, in their multicolored leather armor and kilts, took supporting positions as the Marines broadened the beachhead. Four light guns were off-loaded and placed, by sections, in the center and on the right flank. Nothing stirred across the vast plain on the left.
Slowly, the steamers nudged their way closer to the dock. General Alden led the rest of the forces ashore and soon the area within the perimeter teemed with troops. In two hours, they had four thousand battle-tested, well-trained soldiers from every Allied power probing slowly forward and automatically preparing defensive positions around the perimeter. The steamers moved away and joined the frigates, where they could defend against any attack from the sea, while covering the ground force with their guns. It struck Matt how differently this landing was going from the first one they’d made on these very shores. Then, it had been dark and chaotic, and the Army was largely untested. It wasn’t quite as big either. He was confident that if he’d brought these troops ashore back then, they could easily have defeated the nearly twenty thousand Grik despite Rasic’s treachery, without any help from Aryaal at all. The weapons were the same as before, even though there’d been some familiarization training with the new prototypes. Full-scale production was just beginning when they left, and there was no sense “trickling” the new weapons in. The main difference between this Army and the old was, literally, a level of professionalism that came only with experience and confidence.
Alden and Chack approached and saluted. Alden was the overall field commander and the various regimental commanders would have already reported to him. “Skipper,” he said, “we’ve pushed nearly to the gates.” He scowled. “Close enough to get a good look at all the heads.” He glanced at Jenks appraisingly. “Lord Rolak’s supporting the Second Marines and the Six Hundred with the First and Third Aryaal. He begs the . . . ah . . . privilege of being the first to enter his city.”
Matt nodded. “Very well. Chack, you and Queen Maraan let him through, but I want you both to support him closely. No telling what surprises the enemy may have left. Form a perimeter inside the gate, in that open area around the big fountain like we did last time. Use other supporting regiments. After the plaza’s secure, proceed to secure the rest of the city. Once we’re sure the enemy’s gone, we’ll form details to take those damn heads down.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Alden and Chack chorused, and trotted off. Matt turned to Jenks, who’d remained mostly silent since coming ashore.
“A most impressive display, Captain Reddy,” Jenks said. His tone held no irony.
“I guess you could do it better, though,” muttered Gray sarcastically. Despite the slightly more cordial relations between Jenks and his captain, the Bosun hadn’t thawed.
Jenks rounded on Gray, snatching the kerchief from his face. “It was a genuine compliment, Mr. Gray. I do grow weary of your attitude, however. You have harbored a grudge for long months now and perhaps I provoked it. If so, I sincerely apologize in the presence of”—he waved toward the countless pikes—“these tragic dead. That said, and the apology made, I will gladly oblige you if you insist on a confrontation.” Jenks took a breath and suddenly gagged violently. “Excuse me,” he muttered, and, stepping a short distance away, he retched. His companion, kerchief still in place, joined the commodore while he continued to heave and gasp.
Gray was stunned. “I’ll be damned,” he managed. “That Bakelite Brit can bend a little after all.” He lowered his voice. “Even if it did break him to do it.”
“Leave him be, Boats. He’s been ‘bending’ quite a bit lately. More than you know. And seeing that”—he nodded at the city—“could break anybody. We’ve kind of gotten used to it,” he said bitterly, “and it still makes me want to puke.”
Jenks finally composed himself and returned to face them. His color was ashen. “My apologies again, gentlemen.” His voice was rough.
“No need,” said Matt, almost gently.
“I . . . guess I’m sorry too,” said Gray. “I didn’t mean to make you move your hanky . . . and . . . blow.”
It was all Matt could do, even under the circumstances, to keep from cracking up. The Bosun had always had a talent for the backhanded compliment, apology, or . . . anything. Jenks looked at the big man intently for a moment before deciding to accept Gray’s . . . statement.
“Actually, as I was saying,” continued Jenks, forcing himself to keep the kerchief from his face, “your landing was most impressive. Very businesslike and coordinated. And somewhat ominous to a”—he glanced again at the heads—“a neutral observer such as myself.”
“Surely you practice such things? Your Marines, for example.”
“Certainly, but you have clearly had much more practice, on a considerably larger scale of late. My nation relies as heavily on naval power as does yours. Even more so, I’d wager, but we rarely engage in major land actions. The most recent of those was several years past. As you know, there are just under a hundred Marines aboard my ship, and I’m sure they could have come ashore just as creditably. But even their modern weapons might not have added much punch to your force.”
Matt avoided commenting on Jenks’s definition of “modern weapons” and the dubious advantage Matt considered muskets to be over the Lemurian’s powerful longbows, but he knew his troops had won Jenks’s respect. It remained to be seen whether that was a good thing or not.
The wind veered slightly and a gentle, merciful breeze diverted most of the stench northeast, toward B’mbaado. That or their noses were growing desensitized. Flags flapped and popped within the perimeter where the command staff awaited the first reports from the city. They’d heard no shots, but it was possible they might not have. The few rifle-armed scouts might have penetrated far enough by now that the ruins and the breeze could swallow the reports of their Krags. Eventually however, a runner appeared in the gateway and raced down through the ranks until he stood before Matt.
“General Rolak’s compliments, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” announced the ’Cat with surprisingly little accent. “The city is secure from the north gate, halfway to the south. There is no sign of the enemy other than a few . . . curious corpses. The Royal Palace has also been secured, and General Rolak begs you to come to him.”
Matt arched an eyebrow. “Any resistance? Casualties?”
“No casualties, sir . . . but there is resistance—of a sort. Nothing to be concerned with,” the ’Cat added with a snort, “but something my general prefers you see for yourself.”
Matt shrugged and looked at Gray. “Very well. Tell him we’ll be along.”
Gray hitched his pistol belt and shouted for an orderly to assemble the rest of the Captain’s Guard, some of whom were still aboard ship. Matt rolled his eyes, but knew it was pointless to complain. He looked at Jenks.
“Care to join us?”
They entered the city and the entourage was joined by an even larger security force that escorted them to the Royal Palace. Pete Alden met them there, reporting that Rolak and Queen Maraan were inside. Chack was leading his troops on a deeper penetration of the city. As the runner had told them, Alden confirmed that the only signs of the enemy were some “strange” corpses, but cryptically added that they had discovered a few Grik. Matt was curious, but knew if there was a threat, they’d have told him. They probably just wanted him to see whatever it was in the same context they’d first viewed it. Sometimes, context was important, and maybe they didn’t want to prejudice his perceptions. The palace was filthy and full of reeking droppings. Matt wondered whether the enemy had done that deliberately. Surely even the Grik couldn’t live amid such filth? The ships they’d captured hadn’t been clean, but they hadn’t been defiled to this extent.
Alden paused before a macabre scene. A Grik—or was it?—was s
taked to heavy beams resembling an inverted cross. It flashed through Matt’s mind that the thing had been crucified right here in the palace! Its tail had been hacked off and was nowhere in sight. All the claws were torn away, leaving mere jagged stumps of fingers and toes. It looked like even some of the creature’s teeth had been knocked out. Both eyes were missing from the desiccated corpse but whether they’d been gouged out by scavengers or during the evident “entertainment” was impossible to guess. By the amount of dark, dried blood spattered all around, it had clearly been alive for at least part of the process.
“That’s not an ordinary Grik,” Gray said.
“Yeah,” agreed Matt. “The fur color’s wrong. It looks more like one of those aborigine Griks we saw on Bali.”
“Wow,” muttered Gray. “Bastards must not get along. Wonder why they didn’t just eat him?”
“He’s not the only one,” Alden said. “And there’s something else you need to see.”
They followed the Marine up a long, winding stair that landed upon another wide chamber, not quite as filthy as the one below. Pete then advanced to a high-arched, guarded doorway. “Open it,” he said to one of the guards, and the ’Cat pushed the heavy door inward. Pete glanced back, his face grim, and made a “follow me” motion with his head.
Rasik-Alcas, king of Aryaal, sat upon what had so briefly been his ornate golden throne. The throne had suffered the ravages of the Grik and was now somewhat the worse for wear—but so was Rasik-Alcas. His once elaborate robes were dingy and weather-beaten, faded and stained. His pelt was a loose shroud draped over what had been a powerful frame. His cheeks were hollow and his whiskers were long and shaggy. Within the well-defined skull, however, large eyes still shone bright with hatred and madness. Currently they were locked upon those of Lord Muln-Rolak, standing just a few feet away, his sword point held casually—and unwaveringly—less than an inch from Rasik’s nose.
Distant Thunders Page 20
