Straits of Hell

by Taylor Anderson

  Rebecca nodded, recognizing one of Koratin’s introspective moods and respecting it, as well as the wise counsel they often inspired. Thinking of wisdom and guidance, she caught herself desperately missing her one-armed Prime Factor, Sean Bates, who’d very reluctantly stayed behind to preside over her government in her absence. Bates was wise, but she also knew he couldn’t trust Garcia as much as Sister Audry and Koratin did—as much as she suddenly realized she did, based on Koratin’s assessment. Much as she missed him, Bates’s absence most likely prevented a momentous argument over the decision that was forming in her mind. She couldn’t help but fear she was making yet another terrible mistake, but she no longer doubted Garcia. Only herself.

  “Then send for Sister Audry and Colonel Garcia at once, if you please,” she said at last. Then turning, she bowed to Saan-Kakja. “You directly command the First Maa-ni-la, of course, but would you care to send for other of your officers?”

  A short while later, with the shoreside tumult undiminished, all those summoned had gathered far enough away that they could speak in near normal tones. Sister Audry had dispensed with her habit at Rebecca’s insistence, but there was a simple white cross painted on her helmet—just like all her troops—and her small golden cross hung as always between her breasts upon the tie-dyed fabric of her frock. Knowing the woman well, Rebecca found it amusing that Audry was also armed. Around her waist was belted a Maa-ni-la Arsenal copy of a 1911 Colt.45, and a pattern of 1917 cutlass. Rebecca couldn’t imagine the young, straw-haired woman ever drawing either weapon, but understood her own troops had insisted she have them. The rest of her regiment, nearly eight hundred strong, carried Imperial flintlock muskets, just like those given to the locals, but the nearly one thousand Lemurians in Saan-Kakja’s 1st Maa-ni-laa had Allin-Silva breechloaders, and every platoon had at least a pair of Blitzerbug SMGs.

  Rebecca looked searchingly at Sister Audry who stood stiffly, as close to the position of attention as she’d ever attempted. Sister Audry had been in charge of gathering local maps and intelligence since being flown ashore with Colonel Garcia two days before. The plane had gone to the lake.

  “I fear that General Shinya is in distress,” Rebecca declared abruptly, “and as you can see, this force as a whole is in no condition to assist him. The First Ma-ni-laa and the Redentores can, however, and I must know how quickly they can march to the relief of Fort Defiance, and how long the march will take.” She already knew what Saan-Kakja thought. Without hesitation, Audry turned to Colonel Garcia.

  “Arano?” she asked, using his first name as always, which clearly made him uncomfortable.

  Garcia wore an anxious expression on his dark, handsome face, little different from the one he’d worn every time Rebecca saw him. His face itself had changed, however, as had most of his men’s. Nearly all now wore impressive “Imperial” mustaches, and Garcia’s was long enough that he’d started modestly braiding the ends, like Admiral Jenks. “As did the First Maa-ni-la, the Redentores landed with rations for three days and a combat load of eighty rounds per man,” he said. “We’re somewhat scattered at the moment, as you can see, but I can assemble my regiment and be ready to march in one hour.” Rebecca thought he was boasting, but when he bowed to Saan-Kakja, his expression grew more confident. “I am sure the First Maa-ni-laa can do likewise,” he said, then looked back at Rebecca. “Fort Defiance is nearly fifteen leguas—” He paused, mentally calculating. Distances were reckoned by the “legua de por grado” in the Dominion, which equated to roughly four sea miles by Imperial measurement. The sea mile equated well enough to the nautical mile the Americans had brought to the Lemurians, who measured everything in “tails,” close enough to a yard. Therefore, a thousand tails was half an Imperial sea mile of a thousand fathoms, and Fort Defiance was sixty miles away, as Garcia translated in a way all the others would understand. “The road rises, but is good enough that a man may easily walk, ah, four miles in an hour. Mathematically, that means we could reach Fort Defiance by noon tomorrow.”

  “With half our troops dead from exhaustion, and the rest unfit to fight,” Sister Audry scolded him. “You have nothing to prove, Arano!”

  “With my dearest respect, we do,” Garcia objected.

  “I must agree with Sister Audry,” Selass said. “The march alone would destroy all eighteen hundred troops before they ever met the enemy.”

  “Sergeant Koratin?” Rebecca asked.

  Koratin blinked speculation. “The Redentores could have done it during their training on New Ireland. Their instructors were Maa-reens, after all,” he added without modesty. “But they have been at sea for months.” He looked at Saan-Kakja. “And the First Maa-ni-la, good as they are, could never have done it.” Strong as they were, Lemurians generally had less endurance than humans and shorter strides. And, of course, the First Maa-ni-la wasn’t a Marine regiment, with the more intensive training they received. Koratin was simply stating what he considered a fact.

  “With rest stops, then,” Rebecca demanded of Koratin, expecting him to give the most realistic assessment. “How long?”

  “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.”

&n
bsp; “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 could 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 m
ade 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?”