Crusade

by Taylor Anderson

  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 ferocity. 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 see that he was winded and breathing hard, and he rested for a moment nearby. She wanted to shout at him, to curse him for his tardiness, but all she could do was stare. Then she saw another join him. A dark, exotic beauty she hadn’t seen before. They didn’t notice her, she thought, although the black-furred female’s eyes strayed across her. Their focus was solely on the battle. After a moment more, they hurried past her through the barricade and disappeared into the swirling chaos beyond.

  Courtney Bradford found her there, sitting in the mud and weeping like a lost soul while just a few dozen yards away the greatest battle ever fought by the Lemurian people raged. All she knew was that with Matt Reddy lost, all the suppressed loss and grief she’d felt ever since they came through the Squall had suddenly shattered her own fragile veneer of self-control. All the while, as she had tried to be his rock, he had been hers. Now she felt totally bereft. She’d lost her whole world at last.

  Bradford gently escorted her back to the hospital tent, where she was met by the shocked expressions of the other nurses and questioning blinks from the Lemurian healers. Wiping her face and forcing herself to concentrate on the grisly business at hand, she dove back into her work, stitching and cleaning the horrible wounds. Forgotten in her misery was Captain Reddy’s last command to evacuate the hospital. At some point, Courtney Bradford left her. He’d still been aboard Walker when the battle began and she never even wondered why he was here.

  She didn’t leave the hospital again. She just continued to struggle against the impossible flood of blood and death. Therefore, she hadn’t personally seen how the battle came to an end. Despite her concentration on her duty, she could still hear, and she developed a fairly clear picture of what transpired. The Aryaalan and B’mbaadan reinforcements finally managed to batter a corridor through the Grik and link up with the surrounded Marines. Even so, the situation remained grim, and the result would probably have been little more than a postponement of the inevitable had it not been for the timely arrival of the diversionary force that had been menacing the Grik reserve all day. The reserve had long since come across the ferry, and when Adar saw what was happening, he ordered all available transports to take his landing force to the Aryaalan dock. With it came the warrior crews of the battle line as well. Most of the destroyermen, led by Jim Ellis, joined them. They were armed with rifles and pistols and all the working .30-caliber machine guns from both destroyers.

  Big Sal’s sweeps came out and Adar maneuvered the huge ship as close as he could and began plying her guns upon the densely packed Grik rear. Mahan was still helpless, but Larry Dowden carefully conned Walker—on one engine!—right up the river until she virtually ran aground on the silty bottom. There, the destroyer unleashed a barrage of high-explosive shells into the raging horde on shore. It was a massacre. Ellis positioned all three .30-cals on the far left flank where the barricade met the sea, and together with the two .50-cals on Walker, they poured a solid stream of lead into the enemy flank.

  The panicking Grik fought back with renewed ferocity, but they were caught between the heavy reinforcements pouring through the barricade and the wall at the base of the city, where, miraculously, a small group of holdouts from the shattered right flank still held. Added to this was the catastrophic fire from the ships and the machine guns. The increasingly terrified Grik army began to melt away like an ice cube on Walker’s midday deck. Once again, just as in the battle for Big Sal when Walker had first truly met the Lemurians, the Grik broke. It was as though whatever cause, motivation, or collective madness made them capable of fighting with such heedless ferocity and abandon suddenly gave way to a crystal-clear understanding of the danger they faced. At the same instant, whatever it was that drove them, be it blind instinct, courage, or a combination of the two, spontaneously evaporated. Within moments, what remained of the entire Grik horde had transformed from a juggernaut of destruction into a panic-stricken mob of mindless animals consumed by an instinctual, unthinking impetus to escape.

  Once again, they trampled or slaughtered one another in their effort to flee, and whatever ability they had for cooperative effort dissolved into blind self-preservation. And once again, through their own surprise and relief, the weary and battle-worn Aryaalans, B’mbaadans, Marines, and shattered Guard regiments, Home clan Guards and destroyermen as well, all sensed the opportunity and pressed their advantage home. It was believed that as many as a thousand Grik might have escaped the butchery that followed.

  And Sandra Tucker heard it all. The crash of Walker’s guns and the deep-throated roar of Big Sal’s. The staccato yammering of the .50-cals on the water and the sharp but almost puny by comparison report of the .30-cals on the left. The triumphant roar when the Grik broke and then the screams and the shooting and the muffled throbbing thud of blades striking flesh—and then, after what seemed like hours, a strange, awkward, almost-silence.

  The wounded continued to stream in, however, and their cries broke the spell. She knew, somehow, that they’d won, but her battle wasn’t over. Then, like some massive war demon straight out of hell, Dennis Silva swept into the tent. He’d lost his helmet and he was covered with black, drying blood from the top of his stubbly head to his oversized feet. The whites of his eyes and his intermittent teeth shone like beacons through the grime and gore on his face.

  “Got a good’un here, ma’am,” he said, referring to an equally gr
imy form slung almost effortlessly over his shoulder. Stunned, Sandra led him to a bloodstained cot and, with surprising tenderness, the big gunner’s mate lowered Captain Reddy down upon it. Behind him, Chief Gray limped painfully through the press of wounded, supported by Earl Lanier, of all people. The fat, irascible cook still held a cutlass in his left hand and his expression was hard and deep. Finally, to make the miracle complete, Chack and an exhausted Marine carried Keje between them.

  “But I saw . . .” she began weakly, then stooped to feel Matt’s pulse and began tearing off his blood-sodden shirt.

  “A hell of a thing, ma’am,” Silva interrupted. “They was maniacs! The whole Grik army swoopin’ down on ’em in a rush and it was flashin’ swords and rollin’ heads!” He turned to look at the Bosun, who still stood with Lanier. His face was a mask as he watched Sandra examine the captain’s wounds. “Three rare killers, and I don’t care if you hear me say it.” He stuck his bloody hand out to Gray.

  With an effort, Gray shifted and took Silva’s hand in his. “You big idiot,” he growled, but his scowl softened slightly when he saw Sandra’s upturned face. “It was him and Chack that saved us, ma’am,” he explained. “They ran out and fought them buggers off while some Marines dragged us into the square. Tom Felts and Shinya did too.”

  Sandra began to speak, but she saw Silva’s eyes fill with tears that threatened so spill down his face.

  “Old Tom’s gone, ma’am,” he said in a husky voice. “Cut down right when we was almost back in. He was a good’un too.” Sandra briefly touched the big man’s arm and gave him a sad, thankful smile. Then she returned all her attention to Matt.

  Now she looked at his bruised and battered face. The light from the battle lantern cast strange and 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 that led to the balcony ringing this level of the palace. The coup had failed, but 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 al
l 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, with a gurgling exhalation, Fet-Alcas slid from the 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!”

  Courtney Bradford stood at the barricade staring through his “borrowed” binoculars at the scene of the previous day’s battle. The first rays of the sun were creeping above the horizon, but so far all he could see was a seemingly endless sea of indistinct shapes, alone or massed in piles, across the marshy plain. Occasionally he saw movement. Either a wounded Grik that the searchers hadn’t dispatched the night before, or possibly some scavenger darting furtively through the unprecedented smorgasbord.