It was the scavengers he hoped to see. Queen Maraan—a delightful creature, he thought—had told him about skuggiks, which she described as vile little predators about the size of a turkey. They invariably appeared to feast upon the carrion after a battle. They walked on two legs and actually looked a lot like Grik, she said, except they were considerably smaller and had no upper limbs at all. They were walking mouths, for all intents and purposes, with quick, powerful legs and a long, whiplike tail. Bradford couldn’t wait to see one.
Perhaps there? he thought, as something seemed to move. He was having trouble holding the binoculars with one hand since his other arm was still in a sling. “Blast!” he exclaimed, lowering his good arm to rest for a moment. He would just have to wait until there was enough light to see. He glanced to his right and was surprised to find a number of Lemurian warriors, on guard against a renewed Grik assault, staring at him with open curiosity. He looked to the left, saw much the same, and felt a twinge of unaccustomed self-consciousness. “I’m a scientist, not a ghoul!” he announced harshly, brandishing the binoculars. They continued to regard him with their inscrutable stares. He sighed and stepped away from the barricade. Most of these wouldn’t understand English, he realized, since the majority were Rolak’s or Maraan’s people. They had made every effort to retrieve all of their own few wounded and many dead throughout the night, but some would undoubtedly remain. The idea of him watching in fascination while some scavenger chewed upon anyone besides Grik—and maybe them too—might be a less than popular morning activity.
With as much dignity as he could muster, he stuffed the binoculars into his sling and strode away from the breastworks toward the guttering torches that surrounded the hospital tent. Marine guards ringed the area, nearly dead on their feet. After the treachery of the day before, they’d been reluctant to allow the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans to take their place on the barricade, but they were exhausted and Adar ordered them to rest. They weren’t about to trust undependable allies with the security of their wounded comrades and leaders, however. Battle-weary Marines rotated the duty throughout the night. Bradford knew now what had happened, and he personally felt nothing but gratitude for the warriors that came to their aid, but he could sympathize with how the Marines felt.
There were many, many wounded lying on the ground in the vicinity and he carefully picked his way through the sleeping forms. Many, he suspected, would never awake. Most would, however, and that was largely due to the efforts of Lieutenant Tucker, who he now saw step tiredly from under the awning into the gray morning light. He realized she’d probably brought little in the way of medical science to the Lemurian people. In many ways their medicines were more effective than those she knew—the strange antiseptic paste for one—but she had introduced the idea of battlefield triage and the associated patch-and-splice that went with it. That was something the local healers had never considered. The sea folk didn’t need it because they so rarely fought anything like a major battle, and the locals, who fought all the time, had just never thought of it. Perhaps it was because even they had never fought a battle such as this, in which the sheer numbers of casualties were so high. Unlike anyone they’d met so far, the B’mbaadans and Aryaalans understood the concept of surrender, at least among themselves. Maybe they had never let things go this far before one side or the other just quit. Whatever the case, the exhausted young nurse had done heroic work that night. He picked his way toward her.
“You should rest, my dear. You are destroyed.” He spoke quietly so as not to disturb those nearby whose sleep was only temporary. She nodded at him and smiled weakly. “But you know that, of course.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “The healers we brought are a wonder. I couldn’t have managed without them.” Her face brightened somewhat. “Pam Cross and Kathy McCoy came from Mahan to lend a hand. God, I’m so glad they’re safe!” She gestured under the tent and shook her head. “They’re in there now. Last night was bad, but they sure had a rough time on Mahan. Everything from constant fear for their lives to attempted rape. With Kaufman in charge”—she snorted—“pretending to be in charge—there was chaos. They told me things . . .” She didn’t finish, but instead looked in the direction of the barricade and what lay beyond. “Beth Grizzel went ashore with Kaufman. Did you know that?”
Bradford nodded and gently patted her arm. “Mr. Ellis told me last night.”
Sandra shivered, but continued to glare at the barricade. “Damn Kaufman!” she muttered fiercely. “So much misery because of him. I hope he roasts in hell!”
Bradford felt his eyebrow arch, but decided now wasn’t an appropriate time for the response that leaped to mind. Pity. “I’m quite certain he did, my dear.” He guided her to a bench and hovered near her as she sat down at last. “And how then are the captain and his extremely lucky companions? I still can hardly believe they survived, from what I hear.”
She stared bleakly at her hands on her lap. “As you say. Lucky to be alive. Keje has a concussion, I think, but other than that he didn’t get a scratch. The Chief had an arrow in his hip, but it struck the very edge of his pelvis and went down instead of up. Lucky. If it went up, it would have perforated his bowel. God knows if that Lemurian paste would have any effect on peritonitis. It’ll hurt when he walks for a while, but he should be fine. Matt?” She closed her eyes tightly and tried to control the relief in her voice. “His cheekbone is cracked, at least, and he has a deep gash in his side, down to the ribs. Besides that, he was stabbed in the back, through his shoulder blade and out his chest with a spear.” She laughed bitterly. “At least it was a ‘clean’ wound. Not many bone fragments or other debris. Those Grik spears are sharp!” The tears came then, in spite of all she could do.
Bradford sat beside her and put his good arm around her shoulders. “You care a lot for him, don’t you, my dear?” He spoke in a kindly voice.
“Of course I do,” Sandra whispered, answering his question before he could himself, for once.
“Of course you do,” Bradford repeated, oblivious to her response. “As do we all.”
The sun finally rose and showed for all to see the results of the Battle of Aryaal. By late morning, the skuggiks had arrived in force, and soon there were so many even Bradford couldn’t watch them anymore, so sickened did he become. Beyond the barricade and across the plain, all the way up to the base of the wall that surrounded Aryaal, a seething mass of raucous scavengers feasted on the thousands of Grik corpses underneath the brilliant sun and cloudless sky. The ground itself came to look like one huge corpse, working with maggots as the light gray skuggiks capered and hopped among the bodies, gorging themselves on the remains. The smell was overpowering, but the sounds the creatures made while they ate were even worse.
Jim Ellis walked, still limping a little from the wound Kaufman had given him, up to the awning that served as a hospital tent. There he found Rolak, pacing anxiously back and forth while Chack stood in one place and spoke quietly to him. Jim had met the Lemurian bosun’s mate only the night before, but he didn’t feel the least bit ridiculous returning the sharp salute Chack gave him when he joined them.
“Good morning, sir,” Chack said. There was a blood-soaked bandage on his shoulder, and he wore his battered doughboy helmet with a jaunty air. Over his other shoulder was slung a long-barreled Krag-Jorgensen and a Navy cutlass was belted around his blood-spattered kilt.
“Good morning, ah, Mr. Chack.” Ellis gestured at Rolak, who had stopped his pacing and was now looking at him. “What’s with him?”
“He is anxious to see the captain.”
“Me too,” Jim said with feeling. He glanced at his watch. “I guess we’ll get to in about fifteen minutes. I got word there’s an officers’ call at twelve hundred hours.”
Chack nodded. “Yes, sir, but not in the tent. It’s down at the left flank of the breastworks, close to the water. I’m directing everyone there as they arrive.”
Jim Ellis looked at him in surprise. “You mean they car
ried the captain over there in the shape he’s in?” he demanded.
Chack blinked. “He walked.”
Matt was seated stiffly on a stool near where Ellis had placed the .30-cals the day before. His left arm was bound tightly to his side so he couldn’t move it, even accidentally, and risk opening his wounds. His sunken eyes and the purplish-yellow bruise that covered the left side of his face made his pain clearly evident in spite of the clean uniform and fresh shave. Behind him stood Lieutenant Tucker, wearing a disapproving frown, and Chief Gray, supporting himself with a pair of crutches from Walker’s medical locker. His hat was back on his head. Someone had found it while retrieving the wounded and dead and had returned it to him. Lieutenant Shinya stood beside him, wearing a slightly bewildered expression. Somehow, throughout the battle, he’d received only a few superficial wounds, even though he’d been in the thick of it from the start. Often his gaze drifted to the field beyond the barricade, where the scavengers now reigned, and his hand strayed to the hilt of the modified cutlass at his belt as if he wanted to reassure himself it was still there.
The gathering, or “officers’ call,” was quite large. All the battle line “captains” were there, including Rick Tolson from Revenge. Matt had already praised him and his brave crew, and he and Kas were about to burst with pride. So were some of the “Revenges” that accompanied them. Chack was now the de facto commander of the Second Marines, since the CO of that regiment had been killed the day before. In fact, almost all of the original regimental commanders had fallen and been replaced by their second or third in line. The Fifth Guards had a sergeant in command. There was no representative present for the Fourth, since it no longer existed.
Keje was there, also on a stool, with his head bound in a bandage that resembled a turban. Nearby stood his daughter, who stared at the striking, black-furred queen of B’mbaado with expressionless eyes. If Safir Maraan noticed the scrutiny, she gave no sign. She was immaculately groomed, which alone was enough to set her apart from most of those present. Her black cape and brilliant armor had been just as muddy and bloodstained as anyone’s the day before, but since then it had been either cleaned or replaced. Now she cut a most imposing figure as she stood, slightly aside, with Haakar-Faask and four of her elite personal guards in attendance. They were not quite as resplendent as she, but they had groomed themselves. Adar was speaking softly to Keje, who nodded without thinking and winced at the pain from the sudden movement.
Larry Dowden and Lieutenant Garrett were the only officers from Walker that weren’t there and Matt watched nervously as they slowly, carefully, backed his ship from the mouth of the river just a few hundred yards away. Slow maneuvers in any kind of current were difficult for the old four-stacker, but going backward on one engine in a confined space . . . It was positively nerve-racking for him to watch. Jim Ellis shouldered through the crowd to stand next to him and Matt glanced at his watch. It was on his right wrist for now.
“I guess everybody’s here that’s coming,” he said.
“Sorry I’m late, Captain,” Ellis apologized, although it was only just now 1200. “I went over to check how repairs to my shi—” He grimaced guiltily. “I mean Mahan—are progressing. I was only told the meeting had moved when I came ashore.”
Matt made a dismissive gesture with his good hand. “You’re not late, Jim, and Mahan is your ship. No apology necessary.”
“Thanks, Skipper,” Jim said in a tone of relief. He wouldn’t have been surprised to be relieved. After all, he deserved it. He cocked his head toward Walker and made a wry face. “She’s still my ship too. You don’t think maybe I . . . ?”
Matt shook his head with an assurance he didn’t feel. “Nonsense. Lieutenant Dowden’s a fine officer. He’ll have no trouble. Now then . . .” He turned his attention to the gathered officers, who had silently watched the short exchange. There was a sudden commotion in the ring of onlookers and Matt vaguely recognized Lord Rolak as he pushed his way through to stand before him. His fine helmet was dented and the feather plume was gone. Unlike Queen Maraan, he hadn’t refreshed himself in any way since the battle the day before. He stood squarely before Captain Reddy and his eyes blazed with inner torment. He drew his battered sword.
In an instant Gray had his pistol pointed at the Protector’s face. In the shocked silence, there were several metallic rasps of bolts slamming home as other destroyermen reacted to the threat. Matt raised his hand. Slowly, never taking his eyes from Matt’s, Lord Rolak went to his knees and laid his sword on the ground at Matt’s feet.
“My sword, my life, my honor—which is all that I am—is yours,” he said in a keening monotone.
Astonished, Adar hurried to him and knelt at his side. “I am Adar, Sky Priest to Salissa Home and councillor to Keje-Fris-Ar,” he whispered urgently. “I know little of your customs, but of this I have heard. Must you do this? I know the Amer-i-caans well and I assure you this gesture is not required.”
“It is not a gesture, Priest!” Rolak growled harshly. “If you know what I have done, then tell him. I gave my word and it was broken.”
“It was not your doing. We all know that!” Adar hissed.
“Nevertheless. The word of Muln-Rolak will have meaning!”
Adar stood, blinking in consternation. He turned to Matt, who was looking at him with a puzzled expression. “I am sorry, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” he said. “But if I am not mistaken, Lord Rolak wishes to make a”—he quickly sought a word besides “gesture”—“representation, regarding his remorse over yesterday’s, ah, change of plans.”
“Unnecessary,” Matt promptly replied. “We’re indebted to Lord Rolak and all who fought with him for coming in spite of his leader’s orders to the contrary.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “He saved my life and many, many others by doing so.”
If it was possible, Adar looked bemused. “I told him you would react this way, but it’s already too late.”
Without thinking, Matt used the Lemurian blink of surprise in response. “Too late for what?”
“He has already done it. He has proclaimed a debt of honor and has given himself to you, as a slave if you wish. Do not be angered. He does not know your ways! But regardless, his life now belongs to you.”
“But . . . !” Matt was speechless and he looked at the elderly, kneeling Lemurian before him. “Tell him no! He can’t be my slave! Tell him thanks, but no!”
Adar sadly shook his head. “I knew you would say that too. In that case, you must kill him. It is the only way his honor can be restored.” Adar held his hands out helplessly at his sides.
“What? Damn it! I don’t need this today! I’m not going to do that!” Matt clenched his eyes shut in pain from his own outburst.
“Very well. I will tell him,” Adar said. “But if I do, it’s my understanding he will immediately kill himself as being so without honor that he is not even worthy of being a slave.” Adar shrugged again. “Strange folk, as I have said.” He started to turn to Rolak.
“Wait!” Matt said sharply. “Don’t tell him that! Tell him okay!” He sighed. “Tell him to pick up his sword and stand ready to answer some questions. We’ll sort this out later!” Adar complied, and with supreme dignity Rolak retrieved his weapon and stood. He looked around at those assembled. Not really knowing what to do next himself, he stepped back.
Matt stood, and his face paled when his slashed muscles tensed. Sandra was caught by surprise and seemed unable to decide whether to support him or try to force him back down. Ignoring her, Matt spoke to the faces that watched in silence. “I guess we won.”
A spontaneous cheer erupted from those who understood his words, and the others joined in when they were told what he said. The roar of approval and relief continued for several minutes, startling the skuggiks on the other side of the barricade and echoing off the walls of Aryaal. At the tops of those walls, grim-faced defenders watched in silence. Matt waited for the cheering to subside.
“We won the battle and I’ve heard how each
of you distinguished yourselves. I’m proud of you all, and I give thanks to my God for your bravery and mourn your sacrifices as well as those of all who fell.” His face became grim.
“It was a costly victory and you have my apology for that.” There were shouted protests. He knew none of them expected him to assume responsibility for their losses—but they were his fault regardless of what had happened. It had been his plan and he was in command. In the face of that surprise and disagreement, he remorselessly tallied the casualties. “Almost four in ten of the brave soldiers, sailors, warriors, and Marines who began the battle were killed or seriously wounded. Seriously enough that most of them are out of this campaign, at least.” He looked at Safir Maraan. “Her Gracious Highness, Queen Protector Maraan of B’mbaado told me her losses were similar. I imagine the same is true for those who followed Lord Rolak. Let no one here doubt for a moment their courage and honor. It wasn’t they who betrayed us, but King Fet-Alcas, who still sits safe behind the walls we preserved for him.” There were angry growls. “But let’s put that aside for now. I think Her Highness has an announcement to make.” He nodded at Adar, who whispered something to the queen. She stepped briskly forward, her cape flowing behind her. When she was in the middle of the circle, she looked around and began to speak in her husky, self-assured voice.
“B’mbaado is proud, grateful, to have fought beside such warriors as yourselves. Never has there been such a battle, and never have warriors achieved so much against such odds.” She listened to the appreciative murmurs. “B’mbaado is a warlike nation,” she continued matter-of-factly. “We war often. With Aryaal, or the other nations up the coast, so fighting is not strange to us. But this war is unlike anything we’ve faced. The Grik are Evil. They are not even People. They do not fight for, or with, honor but only for death. Beyond that? Territory perhaps. We do not even know. We do know what happens to those they vanquish.” She took a breath. “For the first time, when the Grik came here, B’mbaado faced a war it did not want, was not prepared to fight, and knew it couldn’t win. We even tried to join forces with our most bitter rival, Aryaal, because we knew that only together might we have a chance.” She paused. “But it was to no avail. They were too many. We knew it was just a matter of time until Aryaal fell, and then B’mbaado would be next. I brought the Six Hundred, my personal guard, to help delay that day as long as possible, but in reality all hope was lost.” She turned to look directly at Matt.
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