“Not before tomorrow evening, and even then they will be of no use—and helpless if we must fight our way through the enemy to enter the fort. I recommend a pace that would bring us there in the night, and rested enough to join Gener-aal Shin-yaa the following dawn.”
“That may be too late,” Rebecca murmured, biting her lip.
“We can do it!” Colonel Garcia insisted, but Audry fluttered her hand at him. “Do shush, Arano,” her gentle tone softening her impatient gesture. “God knows your men serve Him now, as do we all. Let them do so to a purpose.”
There was near silence for a moment within their midst as they all considered the problem and tried to find an answer. Another paalka lumbered down the gangway, pulling a limbered battery forge. A group of wide-eyed Puerto Viejans, who’d never seen a paalka before, tried to lead the oversize, vaguely moose-shaped beast in contradictory directions as soon as it reached the pier. Losing patience, it jerked a man who refused to release his line through the air, and then slammed him into a native-born horse that was waiting to haul a cartload of barrels away from a jumbled stack. The paalka, like the rest of its kind Rebecca and Saan-Kakja had brought with them, was among the first to ever set foot in the Americas. It had met horses before, and probably wouldn’t have cared if it hadn’t, but the horse had certainly never met a paalka—or been struck by a flying man. Already nervous in the excitement and press of people, the horse reared and squealed, then bolted down the waterfront, scattering people as it went and tipping over other carts that spewed their contents on the sand. The paalka, possibly even a veteran of combat, saw no reason for all the excitement and simply plodded on, now dragging the rest of its squawking handlers.
Sergeant Koratin hacked a Lemurian chuckle while doubtless those around him were even more appalled by the expanding chaos in the city. He cleared his throat and scratched the graying mane around his face. “Actually, Col-nol Gar-ciaa may be right,” he said, grabbing everyone’s attention once more. “I doubt there is any way to reach Fort Defiance before tomorrow evening, but we may still be fit to fight when we get there.” The others leaned forward, eager to hear his idea, and he gestured around. “This is a lost cause. The rest of our force will not be ready to move in ‘days.’ It may not be ready for a week.”
Saan-Kakja reluctantly nodded, joined by the others. “What do you suggest?”
“The animals here, the horses and paalkas, only add to the problem right now. Let us solve that one as well as our own. We start right now, gathering every animal and every cart in the city, marshaling them on the road east of town. We can’t use the First Maa-ni-la or Redentores for that; they would get swallowed in that madness. They march around the city as soon as they are assembled and wait for the animals and carts to arrive. We use the locals and whatever Imperial troops have already landed to get them there.”
“Then?” Rebecca asked, already knowing.
“We pack our troops on the animals and in the carts, and ride to Fort Defiance, as fast as the animals can go!”
“Are there enough horses here, with those we brought?” Rebecca asked Garcia.
“It would take them all, perhaps three or four hundred, but… sí . . . yes, Your Majesty, I think there are. But it will take more time before we can leave.”
“Then we make them go faster than they can,” Koratin said.
“Many will die, so heavily loaded and pushed at such a pace,” Selass stated simply. It was a warning, not an argument.
“Then we leave them and load the troops on the live ones until they all die, if it comes to that, and march on from there. But I see no other way.”
Sister Audry looked unhappy, but she spoke. “You are so certain that the moment of decision draws near for General Shinya, Your Majesty?” she asked.
Rebecca looked at Koratin, his argument about reserves still fresh in her mind. “I am.”
Audry looked at Garcia. “Then we must go at once, and perhaps with the beasts gone from the city, the rest of our army can march more quickly as well.”
I doubt it, Rebecca thought, but it’s possible. She mentally pulled her hair. Too much is possible, good and bad, and I’ve already made one terrible mistake. How can I be so sure this is not another? I split my force again? How can that be good? But Shinya is already “split” from us, like Task Force Eleven was, and none of its ships would’ve survived at all if we had not acted. She closed her eyes. I am not a general. I am a child playing at war, playing at ruling a nation. A child who has made dreadful mistakes that have cost lives—and now I endanger the lives of those few left who remain most dear! She shook her head. High Admiral Jenks remains CINCEAST in name, but child or not, this is “my” theater, “my” war, and I must lead—just as Captain Reddy must lead in the West just now. Oh, how I wish he were here, and Dennis Silva, and Chack… and Abel Cook. Do they ever feel as I do? How could they, and accomplish what they have so often? Perhaps it grows easier with use, but I so wish they were here! I know I could lead better with any of them at my side. She finally took a deep breath and sighed. I doubt the rest of my troops will march much sooner, but the unloading probably will grow easier with less congestion at the waterfront. Enough that the planes might then be assembled and ready when the pilots from Maaka-Kakja arrive. That will be a help. But either way, I’m as certain as I’ve ever been that the time to move is now, and if we move, we must do so decisively.
She looked at Saan-Kakja and took her friend’s hand. “Let us pass the word, Sister, without further delay.”
Camino Chimborazo
The Blood Drinkers had come, more than seven thousand of them, which was more than even Don Hernan had hoped for. They were still streaming in, down the mountain pass, but the vanguard was already deploying inside the edge of the forest, taking positions laid out behind the forward works. Don Hernan, General Nerino, and about a hundred of Don Hernan’s priests had found a rocky promontory overlooking a ragged clearing the host must cross, to observe as best they could. There could be no lights and visibility was poor, but they saw the dark columns marching past under the hazy glimmer of a shrouded quarter moon.
“I am so pleased! Now you can make your night assault with the decisive weight of the cream of the Holy Dominion, General Nerino!” Don Hernan practically bubbled. He’d grown increasingly impatient with Nerino’s probing attacks, and sensed that had they been more focused, one or more might’ve broken through on its own.
“I am pleased—and relieved—myself, Your Holiness,” Nerino temporized. He still—gently—insisted that, with their internal lines, the heretics could quickly reinforce any point so threatened, but realized during the previous long, bitter day of indecisive fighting that he was no longer really sure about anything anymore. He’d been a soldier all his life and had considered himself a professional. He was regarded as a master of the board game ajedrez, brought to this world by the Spanish, and played it with anyone he met who could learn the rules. When no one was available, he played against himself. He’d drilled his old Army of the South to perfection and orchestrated mock battles for the amusement of priests and visiting nobles. He’d engaged in games of strategy with his senior officers or colleagues in other provinces when he traveled and thought he was quite good. Based on this, he’d been so sure he already knew what a battle would be like if he was ever privileged enough to fight one that his greater interest, his hobby, became the forms and ceremonies that surrounded them. That had been his focus at Guayak; to enjoy the pageantry of it all, because he’d considered the outcome preordained. The irony of that still stung. But with his defeat, he’d learned the greatest lesson of all: war was not a game with fixed rules for moves and countermoves that resulted in utterly predictable outcomes to the master. And it was most certainly nothing like ajedrez.
What that meant then was that even as he tried to project continued confidence to Don Hernan, the only thing he was really certain of was that he was the farthest thing from a “master” of battles, and he doubted such a general c
ould exist. A better general might have been more confident with what he had, but Nerino knew his limitations now and believed the only thing that would absolutely ensure success was the utterly overwhelming power the Blood Drinkers and the gift had brought him. Now, of course, he had to make sure even that power was not frittered away by Don Hernan’s impatience.
“Perhaps we should… delay the attack a short while longer, until just before dawn,” he said tentatively. “Heroic as they are, the Blood Drinkers have marched all day and must still get into position. They are tired, Your Holiness, as will be the gift, no doubt. Let them rest awhile; refresh themselves.” He paused, waiting for Don Hernan’s displeasure, but the Blood Cardinal was silent and Nerino couldn’t judge his expression in the darkness. “And honestly,” he continued, “I fear the difficulty of coordinating so many men in the darkness, not to mention managing the gift. I’ve never even seen that done. But given the greater part of the night, I’m confident we can have all in readiness for the final great assault before the morning comes.”
“Yet another delay,” Don Hernan said broodingly, but he seemed to see the sense.
“A final delay, Your Holiness,” Nerino stressed, “just one more, before the great… cleansing battle you have dreamed of, and after tomorrow the heretic’s fort will be yours—as will all that lies beyond.”
Don Hernan sighed. “Very well. A final delay.” His voice turned wistful. “I had so looked forward to the night attack. The fire of the great guns is beautiful in the night, is it not? A night battle on the scale we will launch would rival the fires of El Paso del Fuego. Surely that would draw the attention of God Himself!”
“We should begin the battle before dawn,” Nerino consoled, “and I suspect it will be sufficient to draw His notice in the night or day.”
A low-frequency gurgling moan rumbled in the darkness, echoed by others, and Nerino peered eastward. Massive shapes were moving down the Camino Chimborazo, emerging from the gloom. Some seemed as tall as the mighty trees flanking the road, while others, smaller, moved on either side.
“The gift!” Don Hernan crooned, spreading his arms as if to embrace the monstrous shapes. “The gift is here! Oh, look at them, General Nerino! Are they not magnificent?”
Nerino gulped. He was terrified. In the dark, he couldn’t see what controlled the things, though he suspected it had something to do with the smaller shapes on either side. Those he recognized as armabueyes; giant armadillo-like beasts with long, spiked tails just like the army used to draw its heaviest guns. There were hundreds of the things, pacing the dozen or so larger monsters that had resolved themselves on the road, and despite his growing awe, he felt an instant of resentment considering how many great guns could’ve been brought to the battle if so many armabueyes had been made available earlier. He shook his head. The gift should certainly offset that. Surrounding the lumbering draft animals were as many as a thousand much smaller shapes, he realized. Men.
“Dragon monks,” Don Hernan proclaimed grandly, guessing the object of his attention. “A very exclusive order, as you might imagine.” He chuckled. “Did you know they will not speak a human tongue? Though it is said they speak directly to the armabueyes.” He actually snorted. “I do not believe it. Speaking to animals is impossible, of course. But they do control them.” Ghanan Nerino frowned, troubled. He’d spoken to an “animal” himself, one named Captain Blas. So either that was not true, or she was not an animal. But he was not about to make that observation aloud to Don Hernan. “And the armabueyes control the gift by keeping tension on the chains you will soon see,” Don Hernan continued. “All you must do is tell the dragon monks where to go. Ah! The escort commander!”
Several Blood Drinkers scrambled up the rocks and went to their knees before Don Hernan, kissing his hand as he passed it before them. Now closer, Nerino could see the dark red facings on their yellow coats, where ordinary uniforms were faced in white. “My sons,” Don Hernan greeted them, as he did all the soldiers of his order, “stand and salute your general, His Excellency Ghanan Nerino!”
“General!” they chorused, covering their hearts with their right hands. “Your orders?” the one with a captain’s braid asked harshly. Nerino tried to look stern. Though undeniably the most elite troops in the Holy Dominion, Blood Drinkers were also the most privileged and arrogant, and somewhat notorious for ignoring commands from regular officers outside their order whom they didn’t respect. That shouldn’t be a problem with Don Hernan present, but they knew Nerino had lost a battle to animals and heretics, after all.
“Captain, you will lead your charges down the road a quarter legua farther, where my officers will direct you to the staging area we have set aside. There you will find provisions for your men.” He paused, then added, “And the gift you bring from His Supreme Holiness. Rest yourselves, but the entire Army of God shall begin its general assault in the hour before dawn. The gift will follow, aiming at specific points at which you will be directed. The rest of the Blood Drinkers will exploit the breakthrough I expect of you. Is that understood?”
Don Hernan de Devina Dicha beamed, his happiness seeming to cast more light than the frail moon above.
CHAPTER 29
////// The Battle of the Crossroads
Fort Defiance
September 15, 1944
Captain Blas-Ma-Ar had fallen asleep, scrunched down on her haunches against the wall at the top of the earthwork. She’d been exhausted by the previous day and then the confused, nighttime redeployment that followed. Most of her 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines had found some rest, but she’d felt compelled to help her friends, the newly brevetted Captain “Finny” Staas-Fin and Lieutenant “Stumpy” Faal-Pel, shift their 8th Maa-ni-la as well. Then there’d been the even more confusing job getting the 3rd Saint Francis “Frontier” troops plugged into the line. They hadn’t liked being split up and she didn’t blame them. However, their long rifles wouldn’t accommodate bayonets, and she didn’t dare allow them to man even a company-size section of the wall, so she stuck them in by squads so they could at least “fight alongside their mates.” The 4th Guayak was gone now, reassembling behind the high inner wall behind her position that protected the compound beyond. Much of this had been done under a galling bombardment that, while largely ineffective, had been a nerve-racking distraction. But the guns on both sides fell silent sometime after 0100, and without even realizing it, she’d slumped down and slept.
“Cap’n Blas,” came a soft voice, and a hand gently squeezed her shoulder.
“Yes, First Sergeant,” she said, her voice amazingly clear, though her mind was still fuzzy. Her eyes opened, but it made little difference. The overcast was heavier now and the moon had set, leaving the world beyond the works in utter darkness. She could see around her to a degree because the fires in the fort reflected light against the smoke and haze above.
“Sump’ins goin’ on,” First Sergeant Spon-Ar-Aak “Spook” told her quietly. He nodded over the dirt wall. “Doms’ve put out all their fires an’ our observation posts say they’s a lotta noise out there, some pretty screwy noises too. But they figger the Doms is on the move.”
Blas rubbed her eyes and stared hard, then shook her head. “I’m sure they’re right. First smart thing they’ve done too. Try to move closer to us in the dark. How long until daylight?”
“About a hour.”
“No order to stand to?”
“Just verbal. Word’s passin’ along to be ready for… loom-inaton.”
Blas realized then that all the Marines and colonial men around her were beginning to stir as sergeants moved down the line, waking them and telling them to be ready.
“Stinks here,” she observed absently. “I didn’t notice before.”
“Them Guayakans,” Spook snorted. “Filthy buggers. Couldn’t be bothered to run fifty tails to the latrine, an’ crapped right here.” He shrugged philosophically. “Course, they been a little pressed these last few days, an’ at least they buried their turds. Mos
tly.”
“How’s ever’body holding up?”
“Swell,” Spook said, but his tone was less sure. “To say honest, a buncha’ the fellas ain’t happy about leavin’ our flag over the Eighth, an’ us fightin’ under that Guayaak raag. What is it, anyway? Looks like one o’ them flyin’ squid critters First Fleet seen, standin’ on the moon.”
Blas shrugged. “I don’t know. Haven’t even looked at it before. But orders are orders, and they kinda make sense.”
Blas grabbed the water bottle hanging from a strap over Spook’s shoulder and took a long gulp before returning it. All the water bottles of the wounded and dead had been filled and spaced along the defensive line, but she couldn’t see one right then, or even where she’d dropped her own when she fell asleep. “Got anything to eat?”
“Just crackers. Hot chow’s on the way—if we get time,” he added ominously.
Blas thought about it. “Hand me a cracker, wilya?”
She heard a dull shriek, then another, as rockets soared into the sky trailing tails of sparks. A dozen more quickly followed, all popping high in the air and making bright orange glares that were usually hard to look at as they drifted downward. The clouds were quite low, she realized, and there was fog as well that dulled the eye-searing lights, but they cast sufficient illumination to reveal long, thick ranks of massed Dom infantry, less than five hundred tails out, rolling toward them as relentlessly as the surf.
“Shit!” Spook growled.
“Yeah,” Blas agreed.
Muskets popped and flashed out across the killing ground as the men and ’Cats in the forward OPs opened up, then scrambled back toward the fort.
Drums thundered and Imperial horns sounded their calls to “stand to,” but there was little point by then. Those not already alerted had seen the rockets or heard the mounting shouts of alarm.
“There’s a lot of ’em this time,” Spook said without inflection.
Straits of Hell: Destroyermen Page 35
