Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  It was the High Chief who had to cajole, inspire, or force the clan chiefs to cooperate to do what the Heavens decreed if the Sky Priests couldn't help them agree, with him or each other. That was one of the reasons he generally declined the pomp of his exalted office, at least in everyday life. He didn't demand the near deification some High Chiefs of other Homes enjoyed, through constant ritual and an untouchable attitude, but he enjoyed a higher, more genuine status than many of his peers through respect for his abilities and wisdom. There was always contention, but his Home suffered less from the incessant squabbling that sometimes plagued other Homes because he led by example and was followed by the willing.

  That didn't mean he didn't enjoy his status. He believed he was a good High Chief, and the People of Salissa Home prospered under his rule. What it did mean was he felt more comfortable eating at a small table, with his Sky Priest, whenever important rituals didn't interfere.

  "So tell me, my lord," spoke Adar, delicately dabbing at his whiskers with an intricately woven kerchief, "have you given more thought to our visitors on the quick, smoky vessel?"

  "No," grunted Keje around a mouthful of baked akka egg. "None at all since we last discussed them before we parted last night, to sleep." He was mildly annoyed with his friend's preoccupation with the strange tail-less beings. Deep down, he was just as curious as Adar, but he had other things to concern him, and their meeting had been so brief that it was pointless to speculate and rehash questions for which they'd likely never have answers.

  Adar blinked rapidly with constrained amusement. "Surely, lord, you have thought of them a little." He paused and grew more serious. "I certainly have." His lips moved into a full grin. "As you know." Keje's eyelids fluttered questioningly.

  "My lord, consider again how momentous it was. We encountered an entirely different species, which, at the very least, possess knowledge of sea vessels far surpassing our own—or the Grik." Adar looked intently into Keje's eyes. "And I repeat: they did not attack us! When has that ever been? Only once before, by the Prophet, and they were tail-less beings as well! The Grik are our Ancient Enemy. That much is clear from the Scrolls. They drove us from our ancestral home—on land!—so long ago that the Scrolls cannot even tell us what that life was like. But it was the Grik who forced our people to build the great Homes to travel the world in safety, across the hostile sea. But the Grik have learned to travel the sea as well. Not as well, or as safely, thank the Heavens, but nothing has changed in all that time. Yet again they seek to drive us, whenever we meet. The war that began so many ages ago is not over for them." He stopped, and looking down, he shuddered. "I believe they are truly evil, just as it is written, and I fear for our people. Our race."

  Keje blinked agreement, although he still couldn't divine the Sky Priest's point. What did the Tail-less Ones have to do with any of that—or was that his point?

  "My lord, you know the sea and what manner of vessel best swims upon it, but something is changing. The Grik have found us, their ancient prey, but until recently they could do little about it." He held up a dark, furless palm. "They do invariably attack, and People are sometimes slain, but their vessels are as nothing compared to the walls of Home. Yet in our lifetimes we've seen the size of their vessels increase, as well as the number of attacks. When last I spoke to other High Sky Priests, at the Gathering of Homes, I heard the same from them. Their frail vessels cannot protect them all, and many are probably lost, yet they keep coming, senselessly. From what I can tell, there is no motive other than to attack us, and the Western Ocean is no longer the barrier it was."

  Keje was silent as he contemplated the words. Beneath the stool, his tail swished. One of the youngling servants carried away their platters. When she was gone, Keje spoke.

  "I know what you are saying. The Grik make advances and we do nothing but repel them when they strike. What else can we do?"

  "They advance and we repel them," agreed Adar, "but what if they strike colonies, or trade lands, where people don't have the walls of Home to defend them? What if they attack in some new way that cannot be defended against? They already use fire, and that's bad enough. What will become of us? It would be like the exodus in the Scrolls once more, only this time with nowhere to flee."

  "Well, but what does this have to do with the Tail-less Ones? We've discussed all this before!" questioned Keje. He was exasperated, but he felt a gnawing agreement with Adar's words. "Do you believe these new Tailless Ones are somehow related to the old? Is that what you're saying?" Keje huffed. "It is coincidence, nothing more. Their ways are as different from the others as ours are from theirs."

  "We cannot know, my lord, if they're the same or not. It may not even matter. I say only this: they did not attack us."

  "Yes, yes, you've said that before!"

  "They did not attack us, and they're clearly unafraid of the Grik. With such a speedy vessel, they would have no reason to fear."

  With dawning comprehension, Keje regarded the Sky Priest. "You believe we have squandered an opportunity," he stated flatly.

  "Yes, my lord, I do."

  As if on cue, the sound of running feet and a rising tide of alarmed voices reached them through the open windows of the hall. The coincidence wasn't lost on either of them, and they stared at one another. Keje's personal Guard detachment raced in and stood before him. Some were adjusting their armor. Kas-Ra-Ar, Keje's cousin and captain of the Guard, bowed his dark-furred head. "My lord," he said simply, "the Grik come."

  Keje blinked acknowledgment, and turning, he bellowed for his armor. "From which direction, cousin?" he asked.

  "West-southwest, and south, my lord." Neither Kas's expression nor the tone of his voice changed when Keje's eyes pierced his. "Yes, lord, there are six. All larger than we've ever seen."

  Keje paced the battlement spanning the great floating island that was Home. It was an open deck extending beam to beam and formed the ceiling to the forward part of the Great Hall. Since the hall was so large, Keje's vantage point was several dozen tails above the main deck. On the other two towers, the level wasn't as prominent, and merely served as the foundation for the towers of apartments between the wing tripods. The platform on the central tower was larger so the High Chief could direct his people in storms—and battle.

  The turnout of the Guard was more disciplined than just a few days before. Every male, female, and youngling on Salissa Home that was old enough, fit enough, or large enough to bear arms was technically a member of the Guard, but the "active" Guard consisted of the strongest and most fit from each clan. Its members spent time each week engaged in martial exercises. These consisted of athletic training and practice with weapons, but since they were so rarely called to fight, the training was geared more toward preparation for the frequent competitions between the various clans.

  Rivalry was fierce and provided entertainment for the People. But the rivalries sometimes became bitter, so the active Guards of the various clans, even while preparing for the common defense, almost never practiced together. The combined active Guard of Salissa numbered nearly four hundred and, when the reserves swelled their ranks, Home could boast almost sixteen hundred defenders. But many had never fought, and fewer had fought together. Standing together clan by clan, they didn't even know how. And none of them—none of Keje's people in all the world—had ever faced more than one Grik ship at a time.

  As he paced, Keje stared aft and to the left, toward the distant haze of land. He confirmed with his own eyes no fewer than six ships of the Ancient Enemy stalking his people. His insides twisted. He wasn't afraid to fight, and he didn't think he was afraid to die, but he'd fought the Grik before. One-sided and seemingly senseless as those fights had been, he'd seen a glimpse of what they were capable of. Their appalling savagery and apparent disdain for their own lives was so utterly alien that he'd always harbored a secret terror of what might happen if they ever attacked in sufficient force to gain the decks of Home. Now it seemed that the nightmare was upon them. He
would see what it was like at last.

  The Grik were closing fast, and their speed made it seem that Salissa really was an island, incapable of independent movement, even though the great wings were taut and straining against the freshening breeze. He watched as weapons were issued to females and younglings who'd never held them in their lives, other than to prepare food. His eyes blinked furiously in impotent realization. It was all his fault. He'd lived with the nightmare for many years and he should have prepared his people better.

  The festive tarpaulins and awnings came down. Perhaps the most evil and insidious thing about the Grik was they seemed to delight in using fire as a weapon. The Homes of the People were built to last virtually forever, and his Home was barely a generation old. But it was made of wood, and the woods that served best were hardwoods steeped in resin. Resin that took fire with an obdurate flame. Barrels of sea water were always kept at hand, but now more barrels and buckets of water were hauled up by ropes as quickly as possible while they prepared for the unprecedented deluge of fire that they knew would come. Water droplets misted down as the fabric wings were doused. More water sloshed on the decks, making them slippery, but it couldn't be helped. He hoped they wouldn't soon be slick with blood.

  He looked around. Adar was there, surrounded by his acolytes. All were armed, but they blinked nervously, since none had ever trained for war. The Sky Priests trained only in the mysteries of the Heavens. It never occurred to them to study the mysteries of one race intent on destroying another. They couldn't be risked on the walls, but if the enemy reached this place there would be no noncombatants. There would be only fight or die.

  Keje's immediate family was with him on the battlement as well, but that was ancient tradition, not favoritism. In battle, the High Chief had enough to worry about without adding concern for his family. That family held no official power simply by familial association. In theory, their status was no higher than that of any fish cleaner or wing runner of the People. They often held status of their own, through merit, but the idea of a fixed aristocracy—at least for the High Chief—was repellent to the fiercely, if inconsistently, egalitarian People. In practice, it was more complicated. The office that Keje held was hereditary—subject to ratification by the Clan Assembly, of course—but no one remembered when a succession had been blocked. Therefore, a certain "royal family" atmosphere and collective protectiveness existed toward the heirs of any High Chief.

  Unlike the wings, whose chiefs passed their position to the elder heirs, the elder, or "senior," of the High Chief 's heirs were expected to move on in Homes of their own when the time came. When the final heirs came of age and the High Chief died or stepped down, they would succeed him. All could have Homes, if they chose, peopled by the younger heirs of the "parent" Home. This ensured continuity on the parent Home through the experience of the wing clans, as well as the Homes newly founded and led by the High Chief 's elder heirs. "Wars of succession" did not occur, populations were controlled, and all the Homes of the People were distantly related to some degree. That more and more of the "elder heirs" were choosing to establish "Land Colonies" with the resources granted them concerned some, who feared dissolution of the old, traditional ways, but practically, the burgeoning Land Colonies provided support for the still-growing number of Homes. In any event, because of this arrangement, there really was no "crown prince."

  In theory at least. In Keje's case, his only mate died young, leaving him a single heir, Selass. Keje wasn't old and would certainly mate again, perhaps many times, but for now, Selass was it. She therefore constituted the only "immediate" family to stand with him on the battlement that day.

  Her new mate, Saak-Fas, was another matter. Keje didn't like him and his daughter knew it, but he couldn't describe his dislike beyond a general discomfort over a supremely self-centered attitude. His dislike intensified considerably today when Saak-Fas appeared on the battlement with Selass instead of on the wall where he belonged. The only fighters posted to the battlement were the High Chief 's personal armsmen, and just a few of those. Everyone else, besides the Sky Priests, were bearers of commands, or runners, who would race down the catwalks and carry his orders where directed. Keje decided he would send Saak-Fas on such an errand when the time came, and he had no regard for what his daughter would think of that. He did notice that Selass appeared uncomfortable, and he wondered if it was shame, or simply the fact that death was so near.

  He studied the Grik ships as they approached in three pairs. They looked identical to others he'd seen, but they did seem somewhat larger. Possibly sixty or eighty tails long. Even at a distance, he saw their decks teeming with the loathsome creatures, their mail and weapons glittering in the bright sunlight of the otherwise perfect day. Keje summoned the first of many runners he expected to send before the battle was done. One way or another.

  "Instruct the lance throwers not to shoot beyond one hundred tails, and to shoot only where their hulls meet the water." The runner blinked acknowledgment and raced away. The lance throwers had the only standoff weapons Salissa Home possessed. They were like the crossbows of the Guard except they were much, much larger. Intended for defense against mountain fish, or to slay their smaller cousins, four of the lance throwers were mounted on pivots along each side. It took six people considerable effort to crank the wrist-thick bowstring into the firing position, but they could hurl a spade-headed lance three tails long and a hand-span in diameter a distance of three hundred tails with accuracy enough to hit a mountain fish in the eye. That was a target only slightly larger than Keje's breakfast table. Such accuracy was essential because the eye was the creature's only vulnerable spot.

  That was Keje's only preparatory command. Maneuver was pointless; the far more agile Grik could easily counter anything he tried. All that remained was to wait and see how the blow would fall.

  Chack nervously clutched one of the massive shrouds supporting the forward tripod and watched the enemy approach. His stomach was knotted with fear, and the reason his hands were clamped so firmly on the shroud was so none would see how badly they shook. He and half his clan were on the forward platform, near enough to the fighters below to act as a reserve but also free to race aloft and adjust or repair the wing. His weapon, a large, long-bladed axe, leaned against the railing nearby and he devoutly hoped he wouldn't have to wield it. He was strong and athletic, but his fighting skills were poor.

  He'd never done well in the frequent competitions. His form was good, but his timing was sloppy. Risa was much better with weapons than he, and she often tried to coach him, but it did little good. He knew no amount of practice could force martial competence upon his fundamentally unaggressive character. He'd been in fights—everyone had. No matter that Salissa was very large—it was still too small to avoid conflict. He never won those fights, but he was rarely injured. He was very good at avoiding blows, through speed and deft responses, but he'd always had an abiding reluctance to deliver them. His fights ended inconclusively when his adversary tired of trying to hit him. It was clear that he was no coward, because he was willing to stand and take it if they could dish it out. He just didn't dish it out in return. Chack considered that a victory in itself, even if it never settled anything. The problem today, however, was that if he raised that axe, it meant all was lost unless the last wing runners fought. Simply avoiding blows wasn't an option. The only way to stop the Grik was to kill them.

  In all previous encounters, the Grik had never attempted to talk. Whenever they sighted the People, there was only one response. Attack. No matter how small the ship or how ridiculous the odds, they always attacked. And when they fought, if they ever actually came to personal blows, there was only mindless, berserk savagery without any concept of giving or receiving quarter. They fought until they were killed, even if they'd lost limbs or been disarmed. Always. It was madness.

  It wouldn't be long now, Chack thought. They were close. A pair of ships closed within two hundred tails on the left, abreast of the forewing tower
. Another pair ranged up on the right. The final pair was closing aft, as if they meant to strike three, or perhaps six, places at once. It was strange, Chack thought absently, that they should attack thus. But then, they'd never seen more than one Grik ship at a time, and the way they fought—Chack shuddered—they seemed incapable of cooperation. Yet this attack would be coordinated.

  The ships themselves were huge by Grik standards, half again larger than any ever seen. Every detail seemed the same, only on a larger scale. Probably to hold more warriors, he thought. Each had three of the ridiculously puny masts that the Grik favored, with three billowing sails instead of wings on the first two and a triangular sail on the aft. Another stubby mast protruded from the front of their ships, but there was no sail upon it. It seemed to serve more as a countersupport for the stays that held the others.

  The hulls were low and sleek, except for separate elevated decks at the front and back. The sides were painted a uniform red, the bulwarks black—what could be seen of them. From front to back, over the bulwarks, were hundreds of garishly painted oval shields. Some were one color, others were many, and most bore some design, but each belonged to a Grik warrior, and those masses of warriors packed the decks and stared at the People with an unnatural, cold-blooded quiet. Wisps of smoke swirled from their midst and vanished to leeward, and Chack swallowed hard when he realized their fire weapons were ready for use.

  There was almost no sound from those around him either, only low murmurs of soft conversation. Risa had been spinning a ribald tale, but now even she was silent. They were as ready as they'd ever be, and yet there was no way to be ready to face the death—and the kind of death!— that they all, deep down, knew had come. Risa was at his side and she put a hand on his arm and looked deeply into his eyes. She bared her teeth in a feral grin.

  "I know you will fight well, my Brother," she said, guessing his concern. "It's not as if they are People, after all." Then her grin faded and she looked away from him, toward the approaching ships. Very calculatingly, she spoke again. "I do not want you to die, but this time if you won't fight, you won't be the only one they kill." He looked at her and blinked a quick flash of betrayal, but then just as quickly, he knew she was right. A vague sense of shame and a fierce determination welled within him and, leaning over, he picked up his axe and laid it heavily on the rail before them. She saw it and recognized the promise it represented, but said nothing. Together, they watched and waited.