Crusade d-2

by Тейлор Андерсон

  He stormed the gate with Queen Maraan at his side. The fight for the towers that housed the gate windlasses was difficult and costly — he himself had overseen their construction years before with that very purposked their way to the machinery that opened the massive doors, leaving scores of white-clad bodies behind them. When the gate swung wide, Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred and a slightly larger number of Aryaalan warriors — rebels now — swarmed down into the waterfront shantytown where fisherfolk and boat people dwelt. Through the squalid alleys filled with muck they raced, until finally they emerged behind the breastworks to see the disaster their king’s treachery had wrought. Tears of guilt and humiliation stung Rolak’s eyes as he beheld, at last, the extent of Aryaal’s dishonor. The fact that any of those they had betrayed still lived — let alone fought — was proof that if only they’d followed the plan, a great victory could have been achieved. Now all that remained was to save what he could of this valiant army as well as his own people’s soul.

  «Straight through the barricade!» he urged hoarsely once more as another cluster of soldiers passed. He noticed a group of warriors standing nearby, leaning on their spears and watching the battle beyond the breastworks as the last of his own troops clawed through the gap and slashed into the milling Grik. «What are you doing?» he demanded. One of them looked at him and blinked confusion.

  «We are the guard here. This is our station. We have no orders but to defend this position.»

  Furious, Lord Rolak struck the hapless Aryaalan with the flat of his sword. «You do now!» he bellowed. «Through, now, the lot of you! Or I’ll have your tails for baldrics!» More terrified of the raging Protector than of the Grik, the entire barricade garrison hurried to obey. Rolak stood waiting, catching his breath and cursing his age and frailty until the absolute last of the defensive force hurried through to join the battle. He felt a hand on his arm.

  «Rest here a moment,» spoke the queen of B’mbaado. Her eyelids flickered with concern.

  «Never,» he said, «will I rest again until the honor that was stolen from me is restored.»

  She turned her gaze to the battle that raged a short distance away. B’mbaadans and Aryaalans didn’t fight in the strange, ordered way she’d seen the sea folk begin the battle, but their tightly massed attack of screaming and slashing reinforcements led by an almost berserk Haakar-Faask had taken the Grik unawares. In moments they had battered a deep wedge through the enemy and were on the verge of linking with the exhausted Marines.

  «In that case, Lord Rolak, let us salvage what we may of it while we can!» She flashed him a predatory grin and drew her sword. He nodded and smiled back at her. Aryaalan females never became warriors; it was forbidden. B’mbaadans almost never did, but there were a few exceptions — a noted one stood before him now. Sea folk females fought right alongside the males, and hundreds of them had died that day defending all the people of Aryaal, including its proud male warriors who had done nothing. He knew it was no use trying to make Queen Maraan stay out of the fight. She’d already been in the thick of it at the gate.

  «Of course, dear queen, just promise not to outrun me. What little honor I have left would not survive.» She clasped his arm tightly this time, and together they charged into battle.

  Matt’s eyes focused slowly on the battle lantern swaying above him. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at it, but it seemed like quite a while. It was only now, however, that he real sizld do was look at her in wonder and confusion. «The only ones to know defeat today were the Grik!»

  A ragged cheer broke out and quickly spread to the area beyond the tent. It didn’t last long, because the voices that made it were exhausted and hurt, but it was real and it was sincere and he knew somehow that her words were true. He closed his eyes in confusion and saw it all again, those last terrible moments when he knew all was lost. He couldn’t imagine how they’d escaped disaster, but they must have. Sandra said so. He was alive, so it must be true.

  Victory, he thought. «My God.» He squeezed her fingers gently.

  Long after she felt his hand relax in hers, Sandra sat beside Matt on the cot, looking down at him, wiping away her tears of relief while he slept.

  It had been like a terrible nightmare. They’d all been so confident, God knows why. Maybe the string of small victories Matt led them to had made them think they could accomplish anything. After the battle in the bay, that confidence was reinforced. Sandra had watched with the rest as the proud army marched across the field, banners flying, and opened the battle with a terrible, one-sided blow. Even from her vantage point, where she had a better perspective of the horde they faced, she’d still been confident. The battle was unfolding precisely as planned. The Grik reserve was distracted on the far side of the river and the entire force attacking the city had been diverted down upon the Allied Expeditionary Force. And then, like a puff of smoke in a high wind, the grand plan that would have led them to victory, perhaps even with relatively light casualties, was just. gone.

  The whole thing depended on the Aryaalans coming out and striking hard into the enemy rear, which might not only have sent the Grik into a panic, but would also have cut them off from reinforcements at the ferry landing. She ran her fingers through her hair, scooping the loose locks out of her eyes, and glanced around at the countless wounded around her.

  They’d been so stupid! Even in their own world people so rarely did the things they ought to do — had to do! — when the need was so clear! Look at how long Europe had appeased Hitler. How long the United States had tried to accommodate Japan’s unspeakably brutal expansionism in Asia. Treachery wasn’t a unique and alien Aryaalan trait. Nakja-Mur had warned them, and Keje had too, not to count too heavily on the people of Surabaya. But under the circumstances, surely they had to see the logic? She snorted quietly. They’d applied their own concept of self-interest to others, she realized, and that was always a dangerous thing to do. It had been the greatest flaw in their plan.

  She’d known something was wrong when the second flare went up. The battle line held and held for what seemed an eternity — surely longer than they’d expected to feel the full crush of the enemy assault. All the while, the booming of guns and the drifting white smoke made it impossible to see much detail. The first steady stream of wounded began to arrive, however. Up to that point there’d been a trickle, a few at a time, and most of those had made it to the rear under their own power or assisted by a comrade. Those that came as the battle raged on were carried, and their wounds were almost always desperate. She flew into the fray of spurting blood and severed limbs and directed the surgery with an energy and steady detachment that helped instill calm and confidence into the overworked staff of healers under her command. She was overjoyed when Kathy McCoy and Pam Cross arrived from Mahan, but there was no time for a psteastood. But they hadn’t been part of the «team» Sandra had trained for just this situation. It took a while for Pam and Kathy to integrate themselves and find their most effective roles.

  And still the battle raged. The wounded that returned from the fighting were no longer excited and boastful. An atmosphere of exhausted desperation began to prevail. They were fighting like fiends and the field was choked with Grik dead, but something was wrong. The Aryaalans hadn’t come. Then came Shinya’s runner, horribly wounded but able to tell her the order Captain Reddy sent. By then she half expected it, but it still struck her like a slap. She quickly instructed her orderlies to prepare to move the wounded and raced to the barricade to see for herself. The horror was beyond anything she’d ever expected, or could possibly have imagined.

  The battle was much closer now, close enough to see individuals, and she quickly picked out the white and coffee-khaki dress of the captain and the Bosun near the center of the line. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of other destroyermen here and there and she heard the sound of their weapons when they fired. Beyond the diminishing, wavering line was an endless sea of menacing shapes surging forward with a single-minded, palpable fer
ocity. She still heard the thunderclap of cannon, but the surflike roar of the Grik and the clash of weapons absorbed the sound of all else except thought.

  Abstractly, the struggle before her brought to mind a scene from her childhood. A small green grasshopper had inadvertently landed upon an ant bed. Before it could recover and launch itself again, dozens of ants swarmed upon it, biting and stinging as fast as they could. Within moments, the insect had been completely obscured by a writhing mass of attackers as they continued to sting and sting and slash at their victim with their cruel jaws. Occasionally, she saw one of the grasshopper’s legs twitch feebly, hopelessly, but it was doomed. As she watched the battle, to her horror, that mental image was re-created before her very eyes. Like a plank stretched across two points, bowing ever lower beneath a remorselessly increasing burden of stones heaped upon it beyond all sense or reason, the shield wall broke completely with the suddenness of a lightning bolt. She knew she had to leave, to get the wounded out, but she couldn’t move — so deep was her shock and terror, not only for herself but for the trio of distant forms that suddenly stood entirely alone in the face of the relentless onslaught. A trio that included the tall, white-uniformed figure of Captain Matthew Reddy. Her heart leaped into her throat and she cried out in anguish — just as a gun exploded and a blanket of smoke billowed outward and mercifully obscured the last moments from her view. She could only stand, stunned and lost, with tears streaming down her face and her soul locked in a maelstrom of grief. All around her, battered, blood-matted troops streamed through the barricade and ran to the rear as fast as they could, but she could think only of what lay within that dissipating cloud of smoke.

  Someone bumped against her and she almost fell, catching herself by grabbing the barricade and drawing to the side. It had been a warrior who bumped her, accidentally, of course, but she suddenly realized that this warrior, unlike the others, was racing through the barricade toward the enemy. And then another passed, and another. Within seconds, the trickle became a flood and she watched, amazed, as hundreds more went surging past to join the fight.

  The Aryaalans had come at last. She knew it was true when she saw Lord Rolak trot up behind them, bellowing furiously. She could send ghastly shadows upon it. He’s suffered so much for us all, she thought, ever since the very beginning. Most of that suffering was inside, where no one else could see. But she had glimpsed the inner turmoil, even though he kept it hidden. He fought it alone because that’s what he had to do. If he’d ever shown an inkling of his concern and doubt to the crew — or their Lemurian allies — they certainly wouldn’t be here now, in the aftermath of a miraculous victory. More than likely they’d have been dead long ago, like Kaufman. With indecision, everything would have fallen apart.

  She gently touched his lips, reassured by the warm breath she felt. He was getting old beyond his years, with the burden placed upon him, and she noticed for the first time that a few white whiskers had appeared in the stubble on his chin. Maybe he had been wrong to trust the Aryaalans, although she would never, ever, tell him so. Maybe even his whole grand strategy to roll back the Grik and create a world where all of them, destroyermen and Lemurians, could live in safety, was hopeless and doomed from the start. She slowly stood so as not to wake him, and stretched her painful muscles. That may very well be, she thought grimly, but it’s something that needs doing, and we have to try. If Walker and Mahan had been saved from the Japanese only so they could linger in some sort of purgatory of endless strife, so be it. At least she would be there to support Matthew Reddy however he would let her, and patch him up when the need arose as well. And if he believed they could make a difference, then somehow she would believe it too.

  CHAPTER 2

  Prince Rasik-Alcas sprawled on the heap of cushions opposite his father’s massive throne in the Royal Chamber of the high, sprawling palace. Blood matted his fur — none of it his — and he idly reflected that the opulent pillows would be ruined, but he didn’t care. He was exhausted by the fighting that Phad convulsed the city, even while the titanic struggle raged beyond the walls. He had, of course, never intended to get as caught up in it as he had, but when some of the palace guard, spurred by rage and shame, actually rose against the king, Rasik had been forced to fight. It was something he didn’t much enjoy, strangely enough — at least the physical aspects of it. He was keenly interested in war and strategy and politics and all the heady matters a future king should be interested in, but the actual fighting was something he’d just as soon leave to others. That didn’t mean he wasn’t any good at it.

  And a good thing too, he mused, watching his bloated father nervously stuffing food into his jowly face. The king certainly wasn’t much good in a fight. He’d literally squeaked in surprised terror when the guard’s sword flashed down from behind. It missed him by the very thickness of the royal cloak it slashed, and Rasik was still amazed that anyone could miss something so fat and awkward. It just goes to show, he thought philosophically, if you’re going to retain a palace guard, always choose them from the nobility. Then, if they are treacherous, they will probably be incompetent as well.

  He lifted an eyelid and glanced idly at the only guard currently in the chamber. A loyal one, he thought with a smirk. Rasik didn’t know the guard’s name and didn’t care what it was, but he was a formidable warrior. He’d fought alongside Rasik, defending his king and prince from the very beginning of the attempt against them. He had, in fact, been the only one for a time. Now he stood, nervously vigilant, as the occasional sounds of renewed fighting wafted through the broad arched windows and all it might be a while before they managed to root out all the traitors. And, of course, there was Rolak. Rasik seethed. He could still feel the cold metal of Rolak’s blade against his neck. That one would surely die, he promised himself. And the Orphan Queen as well.

  «I told you!» proclaimed Fet-Alcas in a frail attempt at a menacing growl. «We should have let Rolak out!»

  Rasik sighed. «No, you didn’t, sire.»

  Fet-Alcas blinked. «Well, he got out anyway,» he grumped. «And then those ridiculous sea folk actually defeated the Grik!» His voice became shrill. «That. that you did tell me would not happen!» Rasik lazily blinked unconcern. «And then a rebellion!» wheezed the king, spewing food across the tiled chamber. «Never before in history has Aryaal rebelled against its rightful king!» Fet-Alcas’s rheumy eyes smoldered. «And all because you counseled me to deprive our people of their place in the battle! A battle arranged by the rightful Protector himself.» He stared out the windows at the darkness beyond. «No wonder they rebelled,» he murmured. «The greatest battle ever fought — and a victory!» He glared back at his son. «You did that!» he accused darkly, draining a cup of seep. Rasik yawned and blinked irony. «I did not want Rolak to go,» the king admitted, «but only because you said the sea folk would lose! We could fall upon the Grik remnants and have our great battle to ourselves!»

  Fet-Alcas belched then, and shifted uncomfortably on his throne. «But no!» he continued bitterly. «The miserable sea folk and their friends with the iron ships did not lose! It is we who lost!» He stared back into the darkness with a grimace. «The greatest battle ever fought!» he repeated and took a gulp from another cup of seep.

  «Do not complain, sire,» Rasik sneered. «Our people had their battle after all!»

  Fet-Alcas turned to him and began a furious shout, but all that emerged was a gout of blood. It splashed down on his white robe and pooled like vomit at his feet. Both Rasik and the guard rushed to his side and stared at the king as he looked at them in shock.

  «The king is ill!» cried the guard in alarm.

  «No,» said Rasik, as he drove his own sword into the distracted retainer’s throat. Blood spurted down the sword onto Rasik’s hand and splattered on the king’s white robe. The guard fell to the floor and thrashed, describing great crimson arcs upon the tile as his mouth opened and closed spasmodically. His tail whipped back and forth for a few seconds more, smearing the blood
still further, and then he lay still.

  Fet-Alcas, stunned, looked at the corpse that had fallen almost at his feet. He tried to speak, but yet another gush of blood poured forth and he was wracked with spasms of agony. Silently, for the most part, he continued to retch, but by now the blood had slowed to a trickle. The poison in the seep from the cup he still held was of a type that deadened all pain and sensation while it corrosively ate any flesh that it touched. At least it deadened it for a while. Fet-Alcas looked at the cup in his paw and then dropped it in horror.

  Rasik slowly sheathed his own sword and drew the one worn by the dead guard. His eyes were wide with excitement and his tail twitched nervously back and forth. «No,» he repeated with a hiss, drawing his thin lips hard across his teeth. «You are not ill, sire. You are dead. Killed by another traitorous guard!»

  With that, he slashed down repeatedly across the king’s neck and upper chest, grunting with effort as the blade bit deep. Finally,peate throne and joined the guard on the tile abattoir. Rasik stood motionless, listening, while his breathing returned to normal. Laying the bloody sword on the floor, he drew his own again and looked at it wonderingly. Then he dipped the tip into the pool of blood rapidly spreading beneath his father’s corpse.

  «A king’s blood on a king’s sword,» he whispered, and stepping toward the hallway that led to the chamber door, he began to run. «Murderers!» he screamed at the top of his lungs, flinging the door wide. «They have murdered the king!»