Matt glanced behind them and smiled. “But you didn’t come much farther than the length of Big Sal. Hell, I doubt it was as far.”
“Perhaps, but Salissa does not clutch at your feet as you run, and her decks are flat and you do not sink into them.”
“Batteries, forward!” came the command. “Archers, prepare!” Gaps opened in the shield wall to allow the guns to be pushed through. Their crews immediately raced to load them with fixed charges consisting of thin tin canisters filled with two hundred three-quarter-inch balls on top of a wooden sabot to which was attached a fabric bag of powder. In carefully choreographed, highly rehearsed drills, rammers whirled and shoved the charges down the barrels. Pricks pierced the powder bags through the vents and priming powder was pooled atop them. Other members of the gun’s crews stood nearby, blowing on lengths of smoldering slow match in their linstocks.
Around them, bows came off shoulders and arrows were nocked and poised at the ready. Crossbows were cocked and bolts placed in grooves. Before them, the Grik horns had fallen silent. They were close enough to hear the fighting for the walls, but from the Grik that stood refusing the enemy flank, there was no sound at all for the moment. Perhaps it was fear that quieted them? There was no way to know. More likely, it was simple curiosity as to why the machine-like formation that had been coming on so quickly had stopped. They were about to find out.
“Fire!”
Roughly two thousand arrows and crossbow bolts soared into the sky with a whickering crash of bowstrings. An instant later, the deafening, almost simultaneous thundering crack of eight light guns snapped out, belching fire and choking white smoke that entirely obscured the enemy until the wind dissipated the cloud. Sixteen hundred one-ounce balls scythed downrange. Many struck the ground far in front of the enemy, and some of those were absorbed by the damp earth. Many more flew high, missing the target completely and eventually falling, mostly harmless, among the enemy forces hundreds of yards away. Hundreds more went screaming right in among the densely packed, unsuspecting foe and struck like a cyclone of death. Grik were shredded and hurled bleeding to the ground, felled by one or a score of projectiles. Many were hit by shattered pieces of others who were hit. In an instant, fully one-quarter of the blocking force lay still or writhing on the ground. Then, before even their initial shock could begin to register, the arrows that had been fired at a high trajectory began to fall upon them. A high-pitched, wrenching wail built across the field as the plunging arrows pierced armor and flesh.
Already, the second flight of arrows was in the air and Matt saw dozens of shapes collapse to the ground as the deadly rain descended. Fully half the enemy flank was down and some that remained simply fled. Most did not. They charged. With wild, whooping screams, they bolted from their positions and sprinted across the marshy plain, trying to come to grips with this unusual and deadly threat. With staccato thunderclaps, the guns fired again, independently, and were quickly drawn back behind the shield wall, which re-formed where the guns had been. There, the first ranks waited expectantly for the charge to drive home. Less than a hundred wounded, disoriented Grik ran or staggered out of the smoke and slammed against the shields. Their deaths were almost anticlimactic.
As the smoke drifted away, the full impact of the blow they’d dealt began to settle in. The Allied Expeditionary Force had utterly annihilated a force almost as large as its own and had lost less than a dozen to do it. A cheer began to build and soon it became a roar. Flags waved jubilantly back and forth and Matt could see that discipline had begun to fail.
“Silence!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. Keje joined his shout in his own tongue. Matt beckoned to one of his runners that stood nearby. “Tell Lieutenant Shinya we must push on! We’ve got to keep up the pressure! This has only just begun.” Shinya was already giving those very directions. Runners and NCOs paced the line, outward from the center, yelling for silence and telling the troops to prepare to advance. Matt scanned the wall ahead to see how the defenders fared. It was difficult to be sure, but it seemed like fewer ladders were going up. Either the steam was going out of the attack or a new, more pressing threat had been recognized. The thrumming horns were sounding again, and the notes were clearly different than before.
“A glorious beginning!” said Keje with a tone of satisfaction and clapped him on the shoulder. Matt nodded absently, still staring through the binoculars. He was certain now. The attack on the city was withdrawing as he watched, and a redeployment had begun. There was no order to it, no organization, just a general surge as the Grik army reevaluated its priority objective and moved in that direction. Toward him. “Sure was,” he said, confirming Keje’s enthusiastic evaluation. “But it’s about to get a little tougher.”
Lord Rolak impatiently paced the open bastion above the wall near the southeast corner. Risking a bolt from below, he leaned far out over the wall and stared to the north. Past the southeast bastion of the old castle to which this wall was added, great clouds of smoke arose on the right flank of the enemy. He’d known that the sea folk and their Amer-i-caan allies had small . . . gonnes—he thought they called them—like those upon their ships, that they could bring with them to battle on the land. Even so, he’d still been stunned by the sound and effect those weapons had wrought. He had stripped the defenses as much as he dared, just like the green-eyed Amer-i-caan had asked, and then gathered the resultant force in the open marketplace near the south gate. There they waited, nearly sixteen hundreds of them, for him to give the command to sally. He had begun to feel concern when the Grik attack came, and wondered if perhaps he had thinned his defenses too far.
The Grik attacked like the night demons they were—enraged by the defeat they’d suffered the night before and slathering to wreak vengeance upon his city. As the fight raged, he even began to fear the sea folk wouldn’t come. They would seize a moment of treachery and allow Aryaal—a city they couldn’t love—to fall. All they would have to do then would be to file back upon their great ships and sail away, having accomplished effortlessly what they would never have been able to achieve by arms. He shook his head. But that was pointless. What possible motive would they have for that? Would they really have broken the siege simply to rescue their damaged iron ship? Possibly. He believed the Amer-i-caan, Reddy, would have. But he was sure they’d been surprised by the ship’s presence here. He knew nothing of the strange face-moving of the Amer-i-caans, but the sea folk weren’t so different that he could miss the genuine shock they betrayed at the sight of the other Amer-i-caans he carried out to them.
Besides, there was just . . . something about them, and the Amer-i-caan leader in particular, that convinced him they were here to help. He cherished no illusion that was the only reason they came, and in fact they’d told him as much. They needed Aryaal’s help as much as Aryaal needed theirs. To them, this wasn’t just a battle. It was a war. A war of a scope beyond any Rolak had ever heard of. A war in which victory wasn’t determined by how much territory or tribute was gained, or by how many trade concessions were wrung from the enemy, or even simply by how entertaining it had been. The sea folk, who almost never fought, had come to save Aryaal so his people could join them in a war to annihilate their enemy. It was unreal. But these Grik . . . they did not fight the old way. They came to destroy his people, not just drive them to their knees. And the things they did to those they took alive . . . He shuddered. No, the sea folk and their strange friends were sincere, and so was he when he gave his own word to help. He had just hoped the Amer-i-caan leader’s plan would begin to unfold before it was too late.
Then he had begun to sense a stirring on the far left and had seen the strange banners, which the sea folk had never used before, begin to advance. The fighting for the walls continued unabated, and he began to fear their “allies’” force was too puny to gather the enemy’s attention as Reddy’s plan hoped. Then he had heard the thunder. Not just the thunder from the ships, which he’d begun to hear already, but the thunder that came from
the sea folk land force. That was when he had known it wouldn’t be long before they called him, and he stood ready to dash down to the south gate as soon as he saw the flare.
“The wait is . . . distracting,” came a soft voice beside him. Lord Rolak turned and looked at Safir Maraan, Queen Protector of B’mbaado. She was dressed all in black, from the leather that backed her armor to the long, flowing cape that fell from her shoulders and fluttered fitfully in the breeze. Her fur was black as well—entirely, without the slightest hint of a past mixture that would attest to any dilution of the royal blood. Her bright gray eyes shone like silver in her ebon face and artistically justified her only concession to the dark raiment, which was a form-fitted breastplate made of silver-washed bronze.
She is perfect, Lord Rolak admitted frankly to himself. He was almost three times her age, but he hadn’t grown so ancient he couldn’t recognize fact. It’s no wonder that young fool of a prince would have them fight a war to have her. That war had ended inconclusively, of course, when the Grik had come. As much as she hated Rasik-Alcas, she’d brought six hundred of her finest warriors, her personal guard, to help defend against them. Lord Rolak rather doubted if Fet or Rasik-Alcas would have done the same.
One of those warriors was a massive B’mbaadan, scarred and old as he, who shadowed Queen Maraan’s every move. His name was Haakar-Faask, and Rolak respected him greatly. They had battled often and inflicted their share of scars on one another. After Safir became the Orphan Queen, it was Faask who became her mentor, chief guard, general, and, in some ways, surrogate father. Right now, Rolak wished he would exercise a little more protectiveness. He looked at the warrior and blinked with exasperation, but Faask remained inscrutable. With a growl, Rolak stepped quickly back from the bastion wall, hoping to draw the queen with him. Dressed like that, she had to be a tempting target for the enemy crossbows. Unconcerned, she continued to peer over the side at the roiling enemy below. To her left, some distance away, a great cauldron of boiling water poured down upon the enemy and agonized shrieks rose to their ears. Rolak saw a slight smile of satisfaction expose a few of her perfect white teeth. She turned and stepped from the edge just as a flurry of crossbow bolts whipped over the wall where she’d been. Rolak sighed exasperatedly, blinking accusation at Haakar-Faask. “My dear Queen Protector, you must not take such chances. You must be more careful!”
“Like your own king?” she asked with a mocking smile. Rolak didn’t respond. “Unlike the great Fet-Alcas, I am not only the leader of my people in peace, but in war. That is why I am also called ‘Protector.’ I take that duty seriously. I won’t shirk any danger I ask my warriors to face.”
“I have not seen you ask your warriors to flaunt themselves pointlessly in full view of the enemy, my dear,” Rolak observed with a wry smile as he blinked with gentle humor.
“Have you not? What then do you think they are doing here?” As before, Lord Rolak had no reply.
Shouted voices registered and he looked to the north. To his admitted surprise, the tide of Grik began to ebb, the closer to the harbor it was. The fight below them had not abated, but to the north there was a growing hesitancy. Confusion. The enemy horns brayed insistently, and he ventured nearer the parapet.
“It is working,” he breathed. Below him, the Grik were slowly, even reluctantly, backing away from the wall. Some continued to try to raise ladders in their single-minded, berserker sort of way, but the vast majority responded to whatever call the horns had made and began to move, en masse, toward the sea. Rolak turned to face the young queen with shining eyes. “Come! Quickly! If you must protect your people with your life, they will need you very soon!” He motioned to one of his staff. “Stand here!” he commanded. “If we do not see the flying fire, you must tell us when it comes!” He turned for the stairs and, together with their staffs and guards, Lord Rolak and Queen Maraan took them two at a time as they raced toward the southern gate.
Down they went until they reached the cobbled street that threaded through the homes and shops of merchants. The open market area wasn’t far and they burst upon a scene of impatiently milling warriors who had been listening to the sound of battle outside and were anxious to join it. Aryaalan warriors fought with each other to get out of Rolak’s way and he and his entourage moved through the gap forming in his path with ease. Nearer the gate stood B’mbaado’s Six Hundred in their black leather tunics and their shields with the single silver sun device of the Orphan Queen. They also parted so their leader and her chief guard could pass. Before them loomed the great gate, its huge wooden timbers hung upon hinges as thick as an Aryaalan’s leg.
Rolak glanced over his shoulder, high over the wall, and waited for the fiery signal. When it came, soaring high above the city, its amber-red trail so different from the firebombs of the Grik, he felt as though a great weight had been lifted from him. All his fears, his paranoia, had been misplaced, and now that those who had come to their aid had done their part—just as they had promised—he felt a surge of eagerness to spring forward and do his. “Open the gate!” he shouted. “All together!”
With a roar, the warriors surged forward, ready to push through the opening as quickly as they could. Lemurians in the gate towers prepared to heave on the windlasses that would cause the gate to swing wide.
“Lord Rolak, you will not open that gate!”
Even over the thunderous din, the bellowed command was heard by all. A terrible hush fell over the crowd as all eyes turned to a raised sedan, or shoulder carriage, borne by a dozen muscular guardsmen in immaculate white jerkins that forced its way nearer the gate. Atop the carriage was an ornate golden seat covered with crimson cushions and upon it lounged Fet-Alcas, king of Aryaal. Seated beside him, on the litter itself, was his son, Rasik, and his eyes gleamed with triumph as he stared at Safir Maraan.
“You will not open that gate,” Fet-Alcas repeated in a quieter, raspy tone, gesturing angrily with his brown-and-silver-furred hand. The flab that had once been muscle swayed beneath the bone of his upper arm, and the exertion the movement took made his bloated body quiver. Outside the gate, they could hear the turmoil as even the forces arrayed there rushed past, on their way to join the fighting to the north.
Lord Rolak was struck dumb. His first impression was that there had been some mistake. “What did you say, Lord King?” he asked, uncertain if age and his many wounds had finally deprived him of his mind.
Fet-Alcas blinked in consternation as if he was speaking to a stone. “I commanded you not to open that gate, Lord Rolak,” he wheezed. His earlier, unaccustomed roar had left him nearly spent. “You will obey me. We will not engage the enemy from beyond these walls.”
“But why?” Rolak asked. It was all he could manage for the moment.
“Because I command it!” coughed the king. “I need not explain my reasons to you!”
Rolak’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, Lord King, you must. I am Protector of Aryaal and it is my duty to protect this city. I explained to you the plan this morning. You had no objection then.”
“You are Protector, appointed by the king!” sneered Prince Rasik. “You will do as he says.”
In a calm, patient voice like one would use with a youngling that had just found a sharp sword and was preparing to examine its sibling’s eyes more carefully, Rolak spoke. “Great King, I have made alliance—which is my right—with the sea folk and the Amer-i-caans to defeat the enemy who threatens us. Even now they are fighting at our side as they promised. They have drawn the enemy away from our walls and upon themselves so we can attack from behind. We are moments away from victory, or days from total defeat!”
“It is your right to make alliance, Lord Rolak, but it is my right not to support that alliance if I do not think, in the interests of the people, you have acted wisely.” King Fet-Alcas could no longer bellow, but his tone was imperious. “You have not.”
“In what way have I not acted wisely, that you did not recognize before our allies committed themselves?” Rolak felt a
tension building within him, a tension bordering on rage. He had given his word to the Amer-i-caan leader and even now the sea folk were fighting and dying outside these walls based upon his word. Soon the moment to strike would pass and whatever they did would be too late. Queen Maraan stirred beside him, a small growl deep in her throat. She hadn’t been party to the agreement, but she too recognized the opportunity that was being squandered.
The king waved his hand again and glanced at his son. “That is not your concern.”
“It is my concern if my honor is at stake, Lord King. I beg you to satisfy my honor and that of your people by telling us what your plan might be.”
“That is simple. The strangers refused your offer of honor to join us within these walls and fight at our side. They chose instead to fight alone. It is my order that we let them! They came here unasked for and without my permission—”
“To save us!” Rolak interrupted.
“—with fanciful plans to continue this war far from here. They did not come here to save us, and if they did, what is their price? That we should fight for them as their slaves? No! We will let them fight the Grik and bleed them, and when they are properly and courteously dead and their unnatural smoking ships have gone, then we will destroy the Grik they have left us!”
“No!” Lord Rolak shouted. “Don’t you see? The Grik are like the sand on the beach, the water in the sea! The Amer-i-caans showed me a map they took from them. They have conquered the entire world! If we do not stop them now, and push them back, they will return with twice, three times the numbers we now face!”
Fet-Alcas glanced once more at his son. There was fear there, Rolak knew. But what was the greatest source? “You have heard my words!”
Crusade Page 12
