River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  We made it, he thought. Gauging the distance to the near shore below and conscious that other galleys might soon start stacking up behind his, he scrambled back down the trail. “We are almost there,” he said loudly, voice carrying easily to his entire command, “just over the rise and hardly five more lengths of our burden. As soon as it is righted, set in the water, and the way cleared for those behind, all may rest!”

  Seech looked at him with widened eyes. “Truly?” he asked.

  Suppressing irritation that his subordinate might question him, Jash jerked a diagonal nod. “Just so. We will step the mast and emplace the oars, but the galley is liable to sink in the shallows as soon as it is launched. Our warriors can take a short rest then, and refresh themselves in the water by bailing it out. Detail a few to watch for lake monsters while the others frolic.” He considered. “And to guard their weapons, of course.” Not all New Warriors had garraks yet, and the leaders of those who didn’t weren’t above raiding other units for them. “Choose those who have endured the best for this task and give them names,” Jash decided. “That should inspire others to greater effort in the future.”

  “How long will we let the boards soak—and our warriors rest?” Seech asked.

  “Two hand-spans of the sun, perhaps slightly more. Less if we must make way for another vessel, of course. The planks should quickly tighten and we will get underway as soon as they do.”

  As it turned out, it took almost four hand-spans before the galley was upright on the beach, its mast stepped and the great sail-bearing spar raised to its peak. The whole thing was then pushed down across the sand to the water. As Jash predicted, it rapidly filled and settled to the bulwarks in the murky water, the dry seams open a quarter inch in places. But just as quickly, the porous timbers swelled, and before the next galley crested the rise and began its descent, his slightly rested warriors were already tossing buckets and helmets full of water over the side. Quicker than Jash really expected, “his” galley was afloat, though bailing still, and ready to shove off.

  None of his warriors had ever operated a galley, but they’d trained intensively on benches arranged for the purpose, practicing with weighted oars. What’s more, none displayed the terror of the water that came instinctively to others of their kind. There were monsters in Lake Nalak and the Zambezi, but nothing like what lurked in the salty sea, and they’d trained in water since they could walk, moving in the shallows and even learning to swim, after a fashion. Mere rivers would not stop the advance of Esshk’s New Army. In any event, the dangers of the water were well-known, even avoidable to an extent, and the warriors quickly adjusted to their new environment as Jash tried to remember the commands regulating their labor. (He’d once crossed the lake in a galley, learning to steer, but never commanded one.) Seech was invaluable in this instance. He may not’ve been considered as smart as Jash, but he apparently had a better memory. Soon, as the day progressed, the galley was flashing across the water at an astonishing speed as its crew got the hang of working together and Jash relearned the steering commands. He rested the rowers often; they’d already had a long night and day. But they seemed invigorated by their new experience, and he made the most of their enthusiasm.

  Other galleys darted around them with sometimes more, often less, skill. A few occasionally collided, filling the boats and spilling their crews farther from shore than was likely for them to survive. Jash collected forty or so stranded warriors that kept hold of their garraks. He had no use for the rest. If he hadn’t retained ship-handling commands very well, he could spew other mantras in his sleep, first and foremost being that firepower dominated this New Way of war, and he wouldn’t feed anyone who’d drop his weapon to save himself. Some were saved by other Ka’tans who valued quantity over quality, and when one of these almost crashed his galley into Jash’s, he gave the order to back oars and pull away. The soggy survivors herded below as ballast belonged to him now, and he’d see what they were made of later.

  Finally, with no orders to proceed toward the city yet, Jash decided to take his galley ashore and let his warriors get some much-needed sleep. They were heading toward the beach not far from where they’d launched their ship when First of Fifty Naxa, stationed near the bow, cried out and pointed. Jash rushed forward on the walkway between the rowers and stared at the sky. A distant speck was growing, coming their way. Even as he watched, the first became two, then five. Six! Dozens of smoky white streamers lanced into the air, pushing rockets intended to stop the enemy flying machines. They exploded with dull thumps and dirty gray puffs, mostly above and considerably behind the enemy. Jash considered the rockets worse than useless. They occasionally got an enemy machine and probably wounded more, but they did as much damage on the ground as enemy bombs. Still, they couldn’t just let them come and go as they pleased, could they? He snorted.

  “All ahead full,” he shouted, and the drum regulating the stroke of the oars picked up the pace. “A quarter left!” he shouted at Seech, standing by the tiller. A “quarter” corresponded to a mark on the deck, as did “half” and “full.” More nuance was required under sail, but under oars, particularly in battle, such increments were considered sufficient. “We will land near those trees,” Jash told Naxa, pointing at the beach. “Have line handlers stand by to go over the side and secure the ship.”

  “As you command,” Naxa agreed. Jash trotted back toward the stern, watching the flying machines roar past. If anything could strike terror into his warriors (and him), it was the enemy planes. These six were of the medium size with a single engine, blue on top and white on bottom, marked with a red dot in a white star, surrounded by a darker blue circle. Red and white stripes festooned their tails like colorful plumage. Shaped like a small boat with wings, they were obviously designed to land on water. Rockets no longer pursued them, though they still rose and flashed over the south side of the distant city, above New Sofesshk, where much of their war industry was. About the time he reached Seech’s side, he knew with relief that the warplanes had no interest in his lone galley, but were making for one of the monstrous iron-plated greatships of battle, with four tall smoking pipes rising high in the air. Their target was anchored and seemed helpless—but Jash had seen some of the new things they could do. . . .

  Three planes went for the greatship, beginning steep dives, while more peeled off after other targets. Dozens of antiair mortars fired amid a great swirl of smoke, but instead of a short-range cloud of small projectiles, each mortar threw a bomb, or “case,” packed with powder and balls. These all exploded nearly simultaneously about half the distance to the diving planes—just as two dark objects dropped from each. To Jash’s satisfaction, the cones of projectiles the mortar shells discharged intersected the paths of two of the planes pulling out of their dive and literally swatted them from the sky. Both fell in the wakes of their bombs, trailing shattered fragments and streamers of ragged fabric. All six bombs hit the sloped iron armor of the greatship, exploding and sending jagged plates spinning into the lake. One plane’s remains clattered against the armor, while the other dropped into the water. The third plane, which Jash thought was uninjured, began to trail smoke as it turned away to the southeast. Except for one toppled funnel, the ship seemed little hurt.

  “Well,” Jash said, eyes slitted with pleasure as he searched for the other three planes. A column of smoke towered over an armored cruiser about a mile away, but the planes were nowhere in sight. Either they’d all been destroyed or they’d beat a hasty retreat. Not seeing any more smoky tendrils, he suspected the latter. Still . . . “That worked better than I expected,” he finished.

  “Yes,” Seech agreed, troubled. “But some almost certainly flew away from here”—he waved at the sky over the distant city—“and there. I don’t think the enemy was supposed to see us assembling like this,” he added darkly. “Why else did we do all we did, hiding the galleys and carrying them back and forth, if not to trick the prey? Now they have see
n. They will know.” He paused. “They will be ready.”

  Jash shook his head, staring at the vast numbers of ships and galleys spread across the lake. There were at least ten of the greatships here alone, and they’d demonstrated only what they could do to planes. Their new ship-to-ship batteries were even more impressive. More greatships would be nearer the city and there were probably three tens of cruisers and at least four hundreds of galleys in view. He knew many more had been gathered and hidden at Old Sofesshk because the enemy, for whatever reason, didn’t bomb there. There was no question he was very young and had little experience with such things, but he didn’t think there could’ve ever been so much power assembled in one place.

  Signal flags were breaking out now, punctuated by attention horns repeating the commands of other flags beyond his view. They were probably spaced all the way back to the Palace of Vanished Gods itself. The order had been given, directing the entire Swarm to begin moving eastward, toward the city. “They may soon know,” Jash replied, “and they may prepare. But I doubt they will ever be ready for this.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Surprise is lost,” the Chooser lamented, crest lying flat. He hadn’t had time to have it stiffened or brush the age-defying tints into his facial fur before his attendants warned him of the air raid. Flinging on his macabre vestments, breaking several fringes and scattering tiny bones across the floor in his chamber, he added the belted short sword—not that it would do him any good if the already restless Hij population of Old Sofesshk chose to riot—and hurried out to watch. By then the raid was already past. They come and go so fast! he thought. What prompted his thought wasn’t the expected result of the attack—more dark columns of dirty smoke and hundreds of wispy tendrils of rocket exhaust, already dissipating downwind—but how densely choked the river was with warships and galleys. The galleys are moving now, in daylight. That was not the plan, he inwardly wailed, dumbfounded.

  They’d determined it was time to launch the Final Swarm mere days before, but Esshk had said nothing, nothing about doing so now, under the sun—and the direct observation of the enemy! And what might be incalculably worse: a few bombs had actually fallen on the north shore of the Zambezi, on Old Sofesshk, for the very first time, obviously targeting clusters of galleys being carried from their hiding places in the sacred city to the water. So far, for some reason, the ancient city, with its high density of pampered Grik elites, had been spared the attention of their enemy. And the Chooser had long dreaded the loss of support they might suffer when that changed.

  Esshk, First General and Regent Champion of all the Ghaarrichk’k, was already outside the Palace of Vanished Gods, standing on the smooth stone approach to the arched entrance and staring at the smoke piling across the river above New Sofesshk. The handful of wrecked, burning galleys on the near shore hardly seemed to register. The Chooser relaxed slightly when he realized Esshk was prepared for any reaction by the mob because he wasn’t alone. Second General Ign, Supreme Commander—after Esshk—of all the Grik armies, stood beside him, and several hundred of his Guard troops were deploying around the palace. Esshk looked grim, his jaws clenched tight, but his crest stood high on his head and his tail plumage flared beneath his long red cape. His—and Ign’s—were stances of defiance, almost eagerness to join the fray, usually shown only by mid-level Hij commanders. Grik Generals were supposed to suppress such urges, keeping themselves apart from the joy of battle, and the Chooser didn’t know whether to be encouraged or panic over that.

  Esshk turned to him, eyes flashing, but his voice was unusually mild. “Complete surprise may be lost, but not its scope or timing. And I do not think it will matter now,” he added cryptically.

  “How can that be, Lord?” the Chooser asked.

  “There has been a great battle at . . . Zanzi’ar, the Sovereign Nest of Japh Hunters. Our ally, the General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa, was utterly defeated and slain.” Esshk said the last with what might almost have been satisfaction.

  “How? When? Are we sure? The enemy has been destroying our airships practically at will, and they were our only means of rapid communication with the Japhs.”

  “Their General of the Sky escaped with some of his flying machines and landed in the Central Regency, near Kakag.” Esshk waved his clawed hand. “It is such a tiny little outpost, I doubt you have heard of it. All it does is make Uul for the shipbuilders on the coast. In any event, the Japhs had a small airfield there, and Regent Consort Agatch’k discovered their presence. He sent the report by airship, flying far inland. It arrived last night.”

  “What did the General of the Sky say?”

  “What I told you. Zanzi’ar has fallen and Kurokawa is dead—but the enemy required virtually all its fleet to accomplish that and suffered sorely in the battle. Little, if any, of its fleet will be available to oppose us.”

  “That leaves . . .”

  “Only the single carrier of flying machines, their Arracca, and the one heavy warship, Santa Catalina, which have plagued our coast for weeks and launch the swarms of smaller flying machines that come during the day. That also might explain why the larger flying machines that drop their bombs at night have not been here for several such; they were busy elsewhere. Perhaps they were all destroyed,” Esshk hoped aloud. “But, again, that will hardly matter. By launching the Final Swarm now, much of it will be loose in the strait and scattering far and wide, as planned, by dawn tomorrow. There will be no concentrations for the big planes to harvest. As for the two ships and their inconsequential escorts, they can try to oppose the Swarm and be overwhelmed or destroyed, or they can flee. There is no other option for them.”

  “Brilliant,” the Chooser conceded. “But why did you not consult me? It was your decision, of course, but . . .” He didn’t continue. It was Esshk’s decision, but they’d been a team ever since the evacuation of the Celestial City. He felt . . . disappointed.

  “You slept,” Esshk replied gently. “And might have counseled caution,” he continued more firmly. “Of that we have had enough. And air attacks aside, the Swarm will gather itself and proceed more easily in daylight.”

  “I appreciate the sleep, Lord.” The Chooser bowed. “The Giver of Life knows I needed it. And I understand your reason for setting the Swarm in motion with light to see. But I would have counseled caution once more, that we wait for darkness regardless. We remain vulnerable.”

  “In what way, besides a few nuisance attacks and the loss of a few ships and Uul?”

  The Chooser pointed at a massive iron-plated battleship chuffing past the palace, red flags streaming proudly from its mastheads. “There are places on the river where the enemy need only sink one or two of those, and the entire Swarm will be caught as if behind a cork in a jug. With daylight, a few ‘nuisance attacks’ might result in disaster.”

  Esshk’s crest twitched. “They cannot sink such a thing with the puny bombs the smaller planes carry. All will be well. And it will do the coddled Hij of Old Sofesshk good to see the unleashing of the Final Swarm. Perhaps now they will cease their mewling. A night sortie would have had less effect.”

  “But bombs have fallen on Old Sofesshk,” the Chooser reminded. “What if that encourages their mewling—and more?”

  Esshk glanced at Ign. “Then, as we have discussed, we will begin the long-planned ‘final transformation’ slightly early. No interference of any sort will be tolerated now. From the Hij of Old Sofesshk . . . or even the Celestial Mother herself.” Esshk’s eyes narrowed. “Such a strong-willed one, for her age. I never would have imagined it. Given time, she might have been a great Mother of the traditional sort.” He clacked his jaws. “She still might be great, under our guidance, but she must learn her new place.”

  The Chooser considered that for a moment, torn inwardly, instinctively, as he always was when they discussed such things. It had been his idea, after all, but it remained difficult to toss asid
e perhaps thousands of years of tradition and conditioning. And there was no going back now. They were committed. Another thought struck him. “What of the General of the Sky and his planes? I understand some can even be flown by our kind. Can we use him? Them?”

  “Possibly,” General Ign answered for Esshk, who looked doubtful. “There is fuel for the machines where they landed, but they are few in number and I do not think we could make more like them before the war is decided. All the things to make them fell with Zanzi’ar, and there are none of the bombs or other special ammunition they require, other than what they may carry. Our allies”—he snarled the word—“always made their own and never trusted us with the new types they worked on. We might remedy that with time, but like my lord”—he bowed to Esshk—“I remain . . . unconvinced the General of the Sky will serve us well. He is not as craven or despicable as Kurokawa, and by all accounts gave freely of his knowledge while developing the airships, rockets, and bombs we have. But despite that aid, and other sorts”—he nodded at the passing ships—“all his kind are remarkably refractory at times. I am unsure he will help more than hinder.”

  “He has little choice now,” Esshk pronounced. “And he may be of some use establishing ties to the curious League hunters who aided Kurokawa. We know so little of them. If they joined Kurokawa’s hunt, might they not join ours? In any event, General of the Sky . . . Hideki ’urina’e has no nest, no support, and few of his own kind remain. He will return to our hunt as General of the Sky, for none can match his knowledge, but no other ambitions will be encouraged. He will do that or die.”