Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  “The Maker is good, indeed,” Chack agreed, peering around Matt’s arm at the page. Now he could start to plan.

  Matt was looking at the map and nodding. The positions of the features Saansa had described made sense, and he immediately saw potential opportunities. He’d discuss those with Pete, Rolak, and particularly Chack. The land assault would be his baby, after all. No doubt Chack would confer with Silva. “Just one thing missing here,” he said sadly. “You think she went down southeast of this Head Point?” He put his finger on the bottom of the island.

  “Yes, sir,” Ben agreed.

  “No chance she set down somewhere, that she’s afloat?” Unspoken was the question of whether she might’ve been captured.

  Ben tightened his lips and shook his head. “The last thing they heard was that she’d lost a float and probably damaged another. She was taking hits, then . . . nothing.”

  Matt nodded again, stung by mixed emotions. The loss of Saansa and the plane was tragic, but he was also relieved that the intelligence she’d gained was probably safe—and Kurokawa didn’t have yet another hostage. He took a Lemurian-made lead pencil from his pocket and roughly scratched out “Head,” and wrote “Saansa” next to it. “Kind of a crummy thank-you for somebody who died giving us so much. More than she’ll ever know,” he said, his voice tight with regret, “but it’ll have to do for now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  ////// Sofesshk

  The Palace of Vanished Gods

  Grik Africa

  “We should have attacked immediately, while the enemy prey was indisposed,” the Chooser, now Lord Chooser of all the Ghaarrichk’k, lamented again as he paced behind Lord Regent Champion Esshk, Guardian of the Celestial Bloodline and First General of all the Grik. The Chooser was still ridiculously plump compared to other males of his race, but his garish dress already fit looser than before they’d begun their ritual evening strolls. He hadn’t dispensed with any of the odd adornments he’d decided befitted his exalted status, however, such as the short cape interwoven with tiny gilded bones that glittered as it swayed behind him, or the macabre “jewelry” suspended about his person. Nor had he stopped weaving his crest into a rigid fan atop his head, coloring his claws, and even staining the downy fur around his eyes and snout, in a blatant display of age-defying vanity.

  Esshk was powerfully built and taller by far, standing nearly six feet—impressive for a male, even of the Blood. He was darker as well, yet with a lustrous, coppery hint to his otherwise dun and dark brown plumage. Also a legacy of Celestial Blood. He still wore the fine, brightly burnished breastplate of a first general, but had added a longer, floor-sweeping version of the Imperial Red cape he’d always worn—his only outward concession to his new station.

  Both were walking back and forth on the time-worn, slab-paved walkway before the high-arched, ground-level entrance to the Palace of Vanished Gods. The sky, struggling to release the final moisture of the rainy season, was gray and dull, edging toward night. A wall of lush green trees separated the palace from the rest of Old Sofesshk, and the grounds were bordered on the south by the mighty Zambezi, still often called Uuk-Arrg in the ancient Ghaarrichk’k speech. The “scientific tongue” has claimed so many things, even our greatest river, Esshk reflected, not yet replying to the Chooser’s almost daily complaint. The Palace itself was a smaller, prehistoric version of the one in the Celestial City on Madagascar. It was old beyond imagining and time had eroded the dark granite smooth. Still, it remained an extraordinary edifice, second in size only to the palace in the Celestial City—and the Wall of Trees there, of course—of all known Ghaarrichk’k structures.

  The walkway wasn’t large or long, but Esshk and the Chooser briskly paced it many times for their daily exercise, weather permitting, surrounded at a discreet distance by Second General Ign’s most slavishly loyal troops. And they needed the exercise. Both spent too much time cloistered in the Palace, dealing with all the multitudinous things required not only to rule the Ghaarrichk’k Empire, but also to maintain and continue assembling the impossibly vast land, sea, and air swarm they’d soon unleash to devour the enemies of their race. The troops weren’t there to protect them from attack as much as ensure their privacy from interruption by the influential, pampered, even aristocratic Hij that dwelled on this side of the great Zambezi. This was Old Sofesshk, after all, where the illusion of some incomprehensible ancient empire, seemingly given more to other, forgotten priorities, besides expansion for expansion’s sake, still remained. No one knew what truly constituted that forgotten society, how large it was, how governed, or even by whom. The most elemental, mystical remembrances suggested only that gods of some sort had ruled there in a time of prosperity, plentiful prey, and general contentment, and then went away.

  Hints of that lost time endured in the carefully patched surviving architecture, mimicked by new construction. It was ageless, well considered, even vaguely ascetic, as if some half-imagined “flavor” of another era still manifested itself in the minds of the Hij who dwelled there. And many were like sub-regents in their own right, all supposedly of the Blood to varying degrees, so their views had to be considered. The Chooser, and even Esshk, had figuratively risen from their ranks, after all, even if Esshk and the previous Celestial Mother sprang from the same clutch of eggs laid by a long-dead Giver of Life. Esshk may have had a slight advantage as a result, with better teachers, but only ability brought him to achieve what he had.

  In general, however, both were the result of one of the most singular privileges enjoyed by high-ranking Hij, and those of Old Sofesshk in particular: they could pick a hatchling from a crèche of offspring resulting from their union with a female of the blood, which was exempt from evaluation by the choosers—though choosers were often employed to make the selection. The only other examples of similar, if less official, accommodations were those afforded the houses of successful seafarers, artisans, and generals, so they might hone blood instincts among more likely pupils from the earliest practical age. But because of this, some Old Sofesshk Hij retained ancestral-blood claims to large tracts of land (and the Uul living upon them) within a broader regency. Few of those Uul came to the new army and navy Esshk was building, but they constituted the largest percentage of the workforce engaged in making advanced tools of war. Therefore, the support of the Hij of Old Sofesshk was necessary to Esshk’s and the Chooser’s plans and couldn’t be ignored, but they mustn’t be allowed to abuse their privileges either.

  The other side of the river was like any other Grik city; a chaotic warren of mud and wood structures, congested beyond belief with more of their race than any cared to count, feeding as much on themselves as otherwise—at least before the military expansions of the last few years curtailed the cullings of the choosers. The riverfront was more orderly now, having been cleared to make room for great docks, warehouses, foundries, mills, factories, and the thousand other things required to end the threat of the prey they faced. Kurokawa had been largely responsible for that, Esshk confessed to himself as he walked. It would have been better if that . . . ridiculously disagreeable creature had not allowed his ambition to run amok in India. Had I not allowed him the freedom to plot and scheme . . .

  Esshk glanced back at the Chooser. And he had not been particularly helpful in regard to Kurokawa, he thought with a trace of resentment. Of course, that was before they’d come to their own understanding. Now Esshk needed the Chooser’s support, as much as his cunning; something he hadn’t even known the creature possessed when he’d been a member of the old Celestial Mother’s court. Further proof of its depth and breadth, he supposed. The Chooser had become his most senior advisor—and only confidant. That was the main reason for their walks, in fact. It was the only time they could reveal their truest thoughts, away from even servants who might be in the employ of rival regents.

  “The enemy was not as indisposed as Kurokawa led us to believe,” Esshk reminded through long, clenched
fangs. “I am not even positive he achieved a victory at all, as he claimed.”

  “Such is difficult to gauge,” the Chooser huffed, reluctantly conceding Esshk’s point as he tried to match his lord’s longer strides, “particularly considering how long it took us to even learn of the battle. Time during which the forces around Lake Nalak were bombed, not once, but twice! If the enemy was as devastated as Kurokawa claims, could they have accomplished that? Would they still patrol the Go Away Strait, making it difficult to supply our secret”—he snorted—“forces sent to assail the Celestial City from the south? I think not. And it’s only a matter of time before the prey bombs Sofesshk itself. I already warned what might happen then.”

  Esshk had to agree. For the moment, his and the Chooser’s power was absolute—in the name of the newly elevated Celestial Mother, whom all knew wouldn’t be fit to actually lead for a considerable time. Several years, at least. Both had decided that would never happen. Their lines, comingled with the Giver of Life, would hold supreme authority as Champions and Choosers behind the Celestial throne forever. Such “reform” was essential if their race, and any semblance of normalcy, was to survive the war—and all the other reforms they’d been forced to institute. Again, largely due to Kurokawa, Esshk had discovered what the Chooser’s order had always known: there was no observable qualitative difference between hatchings, and his order had existed primarily as a means of population and thought control. They’d need that again, when the emergency passed.

  But for a time, for the first time, rule of the Ghaarrichk’k Empire depended to some degree on the consent of its subjects. The regents, and even the Hij of Old Sofesshk to a lesser extent, might still combine against Esshk and the Chooser. And though the new army had been thoroughly conditioned for absolute loyalty to Esshk above all, even the Celestial Mother herself, it was more . . . perceptive than any similar number of the race had ever been allowed to become. That would be valuable on the battlefield, but afterward? Esshk firmly believed only he—and the Chooser—could deal with what came next. But the Chooser was most concerned about dissatisfaction among the Hij, perhaps to the degree Regent Ragak had displayed, if bombs fell on Sofesshk City. Particularly Old Sofesshk.

  “We have already moved part of the army into the city,” Esshk reassured patiently. “It is steadfastly devoted to me, and will tolerate none of the dissatisfaction that causes you such distress. And we have dispersed the transports as well. It is fortunate they can be dragged up upon the land.”

  “It is fortunate we moved them when we did, because the prey focused its bombs on the covered docks protecting them during their second attack.”

  “And accomplished nothing.”

  “True, but they knew something important must have been in them. Now they doubtless know whatever it was, it is gone! And the transports, made of green wood, cannot stay long upon the shore. They will not float when we need them to.”

  “It won’t be long,” Esshk stated more firmly.

  “We should use them now,” the Chooser urged forcefully, glad he’d spiked his crest. It would’ve fluttered with irresolution otherwise, and he’d made the same recommendation each time they spoke. He knew Esshk found it tiresome.

  Esshk stopped pacing and turned with a deep sigh. “Must I explain again?” he demanded. “Must I constantly remind you which of us is the general? Very well.” He held up a finger, the long talon like a shiny black sickle. “As you know, our advance force in the south of Madagascar was discovered and has . . . suffered setbacks. The local prey fights them, supported by weapons and advisors from the Celestial City. At the same time, as you say, that force grows more difficult to reinforce and supply. The enemy may have few ships in the strait, but they are sufficient to interdict our barge traffic and their lumbering tugs. There are now also flying machines patrolling for them as well. The advance force may never even survive to accomplish its mission. Certainly not with surprise, as planned. I think”—Esshk gently caressed his throat with his claws—“we may have to abandon that endeavor. It is pointless to keep wasting New Army troops and their precious equipment, most often destroyed before they even complete the crossing, on what increasingly appears a forlorn hope.”

  “All the more reason to launch the Final Swarm now, while some of that force remains to distract the prey!” the Chooser persisted.

  “The enemy is distracted!” Esshk countered. “Not only by Kurokawa, but this other prey, the Dominion he told us of”—he sniffed—“at last.” He considered. “But that does bring us back to communication. Since we can no longer dispatch ships from here to carry messages, we have relied on runners up the coast to take passage across the water between the mainland and Kurokawa’s sovereign nest. That takes too long. I know he has a quicker way, but has never shared it,” Esshk brooded. “I will not forget that,” he added darkly. “I will quicken the process, however. Our swarm of airships is dwindling,” he conceded, “and our raids on the Celestial City show little result. Perhaps . . . perhaps it is time we ceased those as well? I must consider that. But in the meantime, we will establish a relay between here and the main airship nest up the coast that the enemy has never found. Airships will, in turn, carry messages from there to Kurokawa’s nest, shortening the time it takes to send and receive them to a mere two days! No longer will the General of the Sea be able to plead ignorance of our desires and intentions, or use that as an excuse for ignoring our commands. At least not if he wants to keep the oil and other material support he so desperately needs flowing from the mainland. And I will demand a further distraction from him soon,” Esshk added. “That will be the time to act! When we can properly coordinate our actions.”

  “He is unfit to hold our trust!” the Chooser declared. “He has proven it time and again. Why do you persist in giving it to him?”

  “That is very simple, Lord Chooser,” Esshk explained resignedly. “Because we need him. I do not trust him, however. He is motivated only by survival and ambition—in equal parts, no doubt.” He brightened. “He has been rewarded for returning to the Hunt, which will sate his ambition for a time, and even he must know at last that his fate is inextricably linked to our success. That cannot be more obvious, even to such as he. If we prevail without his aid, we will certainly destroy him next. If we do not prevail, the enemy can then focus all its might on him.” He hissed appreciatively at the Chooser’s expression.

  “In the meantime, we have time. The weather will soon moderate—never have I seen such a lengthy rainy season!—and we have the luxury of completing all our preparations. We will continue to build our Swarm by drawing new army forces from across the empire. We already pulled much from the south, but can take more. It is still cold down there, and likely even wetter than here. The Other Hunters—the Republic, Kurokawa calls them—could not move against us even if they dared.” He hissed again. “And no, I have not forgotten them. Their refusal to join the hunt will be repaid one day. In any event, we will soon have six hundreds of ten hundreds of warriors at our disposal, old and new, and the transports to carry them.”

  “Six hundred thousand!” the Chooser almost wailed, using the new way of numbers Kurokawa taught him. “We cannot feed them! Why do we need so many?”

  “Because we will not stop at the Celestial City, Lord Chooser,” Esshk replied coldly. “We must be prepared to move immediately on India and beyond. We have a new army and fleet, but they must be invincible. They will both fight better than ever before, but only numbers can ensure success. Much has changed, but that has always been the Way, and numbers add the greatest measure of quality of all, beyond any training or weapons we can supply. That, at least, will never change. Do you doubt for an instant that even armed and trained as they always were, so many committed to any previous swarm would have prevailed?” He paused. “Of course not. And in the meantime, we will feed them what we must; keep the majority dispersed as long as necessary.” He gurgled a laugh and jerked a diagonal nod.
“Feed them Uul from across the river—or even here, if they become too‘dissatisfied.’ One way or another, when the Final Swarm begins its hunt, it will not be stopped!” He glared at the Chooser. “I told you before, when we move, I want no ‘perhaps,’ no ‘possibly.’ Absolute certainty is all I will accept.”

  The Chooser hesitated a long time before speaking. “Lord, not all the mysteries of my order are . . . unfounded. You alone outside the circle know the truth. But you also know we actually can, on occasion, see certain potentialities. We can often even feel fairly certain about various traits—that a particular hatchling will make a fine warrior general, for example . . . such as yourself. But if any of us were commanded on pain of death to choose one hatchling based on certainty of any kind, we would condemn them all to the cookpots.”

  “What are you saying?” Esshk demanded. “You are the one who counsels haste above all.”

  “True, Lord, but only because I . . . I dread the word ‘perhaps’ as much as you. How can I not? And it is a word we cannot ignore, associated with any endeavor, regardless how much we would wish. That, above all, this particularly worthy prey has taught me. And no matter how diligently we prepare, the longer it takes, the larger ‘perhaps’ must loom. It is always thus with this prey, Lord,” he stressed urgently. For just a moment, Esshk considered, and the Chooser thought he might have won his point at last. But Esshk’s crest suddenly flared and he snorted with derision.

  “No, Lord Chooser, even something as dreadful”—he used the word almost mockingly—“as ‘perhaps’ can be overwhelmed by the purity of the Way, when sufficiently beleaguered by the sheer numbers with which we will assail it.”

  The Chooser bowed, hiding the fear that flashed in his eyes. True fear, not just the ultimate outcome of “turning prey,” was something he understood like few Grik did. He’d somehow learned to master it, however, and must never let it show. “Yes, Lord,” he simply said.