Crusade

by Taylor Anderson

  Rolak nodded. “Everyone saw it. It was like when a star falls from the sky, only that one fell upward!”

  “It’s called a ‘flare.’ When you see one today, that’s when you must come out. You’ll know why when it happens, because the opportunity should be clear. You must wait for it, though! Don’t come out before you see it, but when you do, don’t hesitate or all may be lost.”

  Lord Rolak looked steadily into Matt’s unblinking eyes and he saw the light from the nearby torches reflected there. “I tell you now,” he said, “upon my honor and my life, it will be as you say.”

  By the time the first rays of the sun fell upon the smoking remains of the Grik fleet in the bay, the Allied Expeditionary Force had fully deployed behind the barricaded breastworks that extended from the walls of the city to the harbor. Glistening bronze spearpoints rippled and swayed above the heads of the troops, shining bloodred already in the light of the morning sun. An eerie silence had settled upon the host, almost twenty-six hundred strong, as they gazed over the barrier and across the coastal plain. Matt and the Chief walked behind them, their shoes squelching in the ooze that had been churned in the damp sandy soil by the milling and marching of so many feet. Matt wished he had a horse to ride that would give him an elevated perspective not only of the events that were about to unfold but of the mood of “his” troops as well. It was hard to judge their feelings at that moment, with their inscrutably feline faces. But he’d learned to read Lemurian body language fairly well, and he’d learned to read much of the blinking they used instead of facial expressions.

  Most were nervous, of course. Hell, he was nervous. But some few were blinking uncontrollably in abject terror. Most of those were surrounded and supported by steadier hearts, however, in a Lemurian way that Matt admired. But the vast majority of the troops poised for battle showed every sign of grim determination, if not outright eagerness. He nodded to himself. They would need all the eagerness, determination, and courage they could muster because across the marshy field before them lay the right flank of the Ancient Enemy.

  The only sound was the flapping of the banners in the early-morning breeze. Each of the six regiments of infantry had its own new flag and most were emblazoned with some symbol that was important to the clan that dominated the regiment. The flags were Keje’s idea, and at his insistence each also bore the symbol of a tree. It was a sacred sign to all Lemurians and it gave them a unifying identity. It was also the symbol that the Grik themselves used to identify them and to Keje that made it even more appropriate. In the center of the line flowed a great, stainless white banner adorned with only a single stylized green and gold tree. Beside it, also borne by a Lemurian color guard, flew the Stars and Stripes. Keje told him that it was the first flag the People ever fought under, and beneath it they’d tasted victory. It was also the flag of their honored friends and allies, so of course it should be there. Matt felt a surge of pride at the sight of it and he wondered yet again at the irony that had placed it on the field that day.

  Across the expanse, the Grik had finally noticed the force assembled on their flank and had begun to react. The mob of warriors facing them swelled, as more were shifted from other parts of the line and others came slowly from across the river on barges. There was no help for it. They had known it would happen before they were ready to strike. Sneak attacks are all but impossible when armies have to assemble and move everywhere they go on foot, not to mention within plain sight of each other. Perhaps their tactics would be surprise enough. Whatever the Grik thought, though, it didn’t look like they intended to let this “diversion” take their attention from what they saw as their main objective: the city beyond the wall.

  Horns sounded a deep, harsh, vibratory hum and thousands of voices took up an eerie, hissing chant that sounded like some creature being fried alive in a skillet. Accompanying the chant, thousands of swords and spears clashed against their small round shields and the staccato beat built to a deafening crescendo.

  “It’s even more terrifying on land than sea,” admitted a voice beside him. Matt turned to see Keje standing there, resplendent in his polished copper mail. His helmet visor was low over his eyes. “At sea, the noise is muted by wind and distance.”

  “What are you doing here?” Matt demanded.

  Keje grinned. “What a question to ask! I would ask the same of you if I thought I would get a different answer. Adar commands the battle line in my stead,” Keje assured him. “He knows what to do and he will be obeyed.”

  With a great seething roar, the Grik horde surged toward Aryaal, waving their weapons over their heads and jostling one another to be in the vanguard. The beginning of the attack must have been plainly visible to the lookouts high above the decks of the Homes in the bay. Most of the Grik directly across the quarter mile of soft ground from the AEF didn’t join in the charge, but continued to face them, securing the flank. Even at the distance, it was clear they were unhappy with the task and a steady trickle was bleeding away to join the assault.

  “Now would be about right for him to give the order,” Matt said of Adar. As if somehow the Sky Priest heard his quiet words, a bright flash and a white cloud of smoke erupted from Big Sal’s side, followed immediately by four more. The heavy, booming report of the big guns reached them a moment later, and by then the sides of all the ships of the battle line were enveloped in fire and smoke. The canvas-tearing shriek of the heavy shot reached their ears, and seconds later huge geysers of mud and debris rocketed upward from the midst of the Grik reserve across the river. Matt watched through his binoculars as troops swarmed over the bulwarks of the big ships and crowded into boats alongside. The guns continued to hammer away, each one sending a thirty-two-pound solid copper ball into the enemy camp. The balls shredded the densely packed bodies and destroyed the tents and makeshift dwellings as they struck and bounded and skated through, unstoppable, to kill again and again.

  One of Lord Rolak’s aides, left as a liaison, vaulted to the top of one of the brontosaurus-like creatures that had been on the waterfront when they arrived. This particular specimen had bronze greaves on its legs and wore polished bronze plates over its vitals. Besides being beasts of burden, the ridiculous brutes apparently served as Aryaalan warhorses. Matt had noticed the thing when he came ashore, but it never even occurred to him that anyone would try to ride one of the amazingly stupid animals into battle. Now he self-consciously reached up and grabbed the aide’s outstretched hand and allowed the powerful Aryaalan to help him swing onto the dinosaur’s back. He took a moment to secure himself to the rock-steady platform and then quickly raised the binoculars again.

  The camp across the river looked like an ant bed stirred with a stick. Shot gouged through them, but the Grik had begun to assemble on the beach, preparing to attack what seemed to be an imminent amphibious assault. He turned to look at the river. The barges carrying reinforcements into the assault had stopped halfway across and were beginning to return to the far bank with their teeming cargoes. The assault itself had reached the obstacles and entanglements at the base of the wall, and rocks, arrows, and other projectiles rained down upon the enemy. Ladders rose out of the mass and fell against the wall, only to be pushed back upon the attackers. For now. The attack had weight behind it, however, and regardless of the terrible losses they were inflicting, the defenders were too thin on the walls to hold for long. Matt leaned over and looked down at Shinya, Gray, and Keje, who were staring up at him expectantly.

  “The army will advance!” he said in a loud, firm voice. He smiled briefly at the irony. It wasn’t an order he, a naval officer, had ever expected to give.

  The barricade parted before them, and at the shouted commands of their officers, the Marines and Guards from Baalkpan and Big Sal and all the other Homes and places that had come to Aryaal’s aid stepped through the gaps with a precision that would have warmed Tacitus’s heart. For several minutes, they passed through the breastworks until the final ranks had joined the others on the exposed si
de, with nothing between them and the enemy but a gently swaying sea of marsh grass and flowers. There the army paused for a moment, flags fluttering overhead, as it dressed ranks and waited for the guns to make their more difficult way through the obstacles. Matt patted the Aryaalan aide on the arm and motioned for him to follow. The dinosaur bellowed a complaint when the aide pushed forward on a pair of levers that caused two sharpened stakes at the back of the platform-saddle they rode to jab down hard into the animal’s hips. With a sickening pitching motion, the beast began to move and the aide released the pressure on the stakes. Two long cables, like reins, snaked back along the beast’s serpentine neck and the aide pulled savagely on one of them, physically pointing the creature’s head in the direction he wanted it to go. Slowly, they trudged through the barricade and joined the army on the other side.

  “God a’mighty, Skipper! I wish I had a camera!” came a voice from below and behind. Matt looked down. Dennis Silva and half a dozen other destroyermen were falling in on the animal’s flanks.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Matt called hotly. “We already have more men ashore than I’d like. You’re supposed to be assisting Lieutenant Ellis!”

  Silva assumed a wounded expression. “I am, Skipper! But he’s a captain now too, you know. What with his own ship and all. He plumb ordered us off of it!” He gestured at the other men. “Said he couldn’t stand the very thought of us deck-apes foulin’ his engineerin’ spaces! I think he must’a been a snipe himself once upon a time,” he added darkly. “Put us ashore, and made us take these guns”—he brandished the Browning Automatic Rifle, or BAR, in his hand—“to keep ’em out of the workers’ way!” Silva shook his head. “No way back to Walker now, so we figgered we’d come along over here and keep you comp’ny watchin’ this fight.”

  Matt tried to maintain a stern expression, but an unstoppable grin broke through. “My God, Silva, you missed your calling. Hollywood or Congress, that’s where you should be. I’ve never seen anyone tell such a ridiculous lie with such conviction.” He looked at Gray, glowering at Silva. “Chief, put these men on report. They can stay, but they’re in your custody and control. They will not fire their weapons without my orders. Is that understood?” Matt gestured at the backs of the Lemurian troops as they prepared to move forward again. “The last thing we need is for these people to start relying on our modern weapons to fight their battles. We just don’t have enough to make a difference.” He smiled sadly. “We could probably do it once, but that would be even worse.” He looked squarely at Gray. “Emergencies only. That’s an order.”

  “But, Skipper, beggin’ your pardon, haven’t we been doing that already? With the ship?” Silva asked, genuinely confused.

  Matt nodded. “Yes, we have, but there’s a difference. The ship is who we are. She’s what we are, as far as these people are concerned. She’s what’s given us the credentials to advise them and help them technologically and be believed. Of course we fight with the ship. That’s what’s allowed us to give them the confidence they’ll need to win this fight—and it’ll be their fight for the most part. It has to be.”

  “But . . . even some of the cat-monkeys have guns—”

  Matt’s voice took on an edge. “I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to gunner’s mates, Silva, but you may have noticed that Sergeant Alden’s Marine rifle company isn’t here. They’re in reserve in Baalkpan.” Matt’s face softened slightly. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get a chance to shoot somebody before the day is out. Maybe you can snipe a general or two, but the victory, if there is one, must be theirs.” He waved at the army again. “Won with their arms. Do you understand? That’s the only way they’ll ever win not just this battle but the war.”

  Matt was convinced he was right. He just hoped it would turn out that way. Being right in theory wasn’t always the same as being right in practice.

  “Does that mean we have to sling our rifles and just use these crummy cutlasses, Skipper?” asked Tom Felts from the other side of the dinosaur.

  Matt grinned. “No, just don’t shoot unless I say so. Damn, I thought I said that.”

  “Just shut up, you stupid apes,” growled the Bosun. “Can’t you see the cap’n’s got a battle to think about? One more word out of you and I’ll drag your asses back to the dock and you’ll miss the whole thing!”

  Lieutenant Shinya’s voice rose above the silence of the waiting army. “Soldiers of the Allied Expeditionary Force! People of the Sacred Tree and sons and daughters of the Heavens!” Others answered his shrill voice, up and down the line. Many didn’t hear him over the stiffening breeze, but they heard the voices of those closer to them.

  “First Guard Regiment!”

  “Second Guard Regiment!”

  “Second Marines!”

  And on and on, followed by the shouts of company commanders and squad leaders.

  “At the quick time, march!”

  As a single entity, the entire army stepped off with their left feet just as they’d been taught and began to move forward with long, purposeful strides that ate up ground at a surprising rate. The guns went with them, and two dozen artillerymen per piece manhandled the weapons and ammunition right along with the infantry. It was amazing. To Matt’s knowledge, the army had never been able to train together on such a scale before, either on the parade ground or in the newly cleared zones around Baalkpan City. But for the most part, the formation held together with almost total precision. Here and there, NCOs called a cadence or shouted instructions for their squads to keep up or slow down, but the overall impression of discipline was impressive. Pete Alden, the man who, more than anyone, had built this army, would be proud. Matt was proud. Despite his inner anxiety, he felt a sudden thrill. He knew then what it must have felt like to be Caesar, or Alexander, watching his well-trained army march into battle against disorganized barbarians. The historian within him continued to whisper insidiously that the barbarians often won, but for the moment, he didn’t—wouldn’t—listen. The die was cast and the time for strategy was past.

  There would be little maneuver; there was no point. When they engaged the enemy, the army would extend from the walls of the city almost to the banks of the river and he was reminded of one of his favorite Nelson quotes: “Never mind about maneuvers. Just go straight at ’em.” That was about all they could do in this confined space. When the two forces came together, there’d just be fighting and hacking and killing. His great hope then was that the training his people had received would make the difference. Of course, they did have a few surprises for the Grik even before that happened.

  The battle raged with more intensity at the base of the distant walls, and more and more ladders fell against them. Occasionally, firebombs arced up in high trajectories and fell among the defenders beyond his view. Matt surmised the enemy must have some sort of portable machine or catapult that could hurl the apparently smaller bombs than those used aboard their ships. It was difficult to tell through his binoculars how well the Aryaalans were holding because of the odd, jouncing gait of his mount. He heard a different note from the horns of the Grik in front of them, one with a kind of strident edge. He thought, incongruously, that they really needed to come up with some means like that for the Lemurians to signal one another. Their mouths were shaped all wrong to blow on a bugle. They had some woodwind-type horns, but they just weren’t loud enough. Maybe the conch-like shells they blew as a warning? Even simple whistles would be better than nothing. He should have thought of that sooner. He wondered how the Grik managed it. The way their mouths were shaped, he couldn’t see how they could do anything with them other than tear flesh.

  At three hundred yards, a single command echoed up and down the line.

  “Shields!”

  The tall, rectangular shields made from bronze plate backed with wood that the first two ranks carried clashed together as they were locked, side to side, overlapping one another to form a mobile wall. Spears came down in unison and rested on the top
edges of the shields as the army advanced. It was an impressive display and Matt wondered what the enemy thought. He knew the sight had horrified the enemies of Rome, but he had no idea how the Grik would react. A smattering of crossbow bolts fluttered toward them. Most landed short, but a few thunked into the shield wall. A single piercing scream reached his ears from far to the left. His unlikely mount lumbered mindlessly along with a kind of quartering, rolling motion, following behind the trotting ranks but easily keeping up with its plodding, long-legged pace.

  “Halt!” came the cry at two hundred yards, and the advance ground to a stop. For a moment there was a little confusion as the ranks realigned themselves. A runner dashed up from where Shinya had stopped with his staff a short distance away. He spoke in carefully enunciated English. “Lieutenant Shinya sends his respects, sir, and asks if he may commence firing?”

  “By all means,” Matt answered. With a salute, the young runner scampered away. Matt glanced down and saw Keje standing with Chief Gray. The Chief was practically supporting him as the Lemurian wheezed and Matt felt a pang of shame. The advance from the barricade had to have been tough on his portly friend. Keje was strong as a bull, but Matt doubted he’d had many occasions to trot as far as he had. “Keje,” he called, “why don’t you join me up here? You can sure see better. There’s plenty of room.”

  Keje eyed the beast with suspicion, but gratefully nodded his head. He climbed swiftly onto the platform and settled next to Matt and Lord Rolak’s aide. He was still puffing a little. “I grow too old,” he said, “and my legs are too short for this fighting on land.” He shook his head. “It is unnatural.”