Tomatsu Shinya had been watching a pair of “greater dragons” kiting overhead, spying on the army’s progress. They never attacked or came close to rifle range and he suspected that meant there weren’t many nearby. He looked at the city again as well. This was a comparatively highly populated, affluent region, with scenic villas and estates on the slopes below a vast tabletop mountain, or tepui, overlooking the capital city of the Holy Dominion roughly eleven miles away. The Lago de Vida, or “Lake of Life,” shimmered beyond it, bordered by forest, its far shores beyond his view. A great stepped pyramid, larger than the one at El Corazon, rose from the center of the city, and he got the impression numerous smaller pyramids were arranged geometrically around it at different points. And it was a city, much like descriptions he’d heard of Alex-aandra in the Republic, which was the biggest, oldest, and most . . . interesting city—from a somewhat classical architectural standpoint—in the Grand Alliance. From a distance, Nuevo Granada gave the distinct impression of civilization, yet that sense warred with what Shinya knew of its inhabitants and he realized he had to adjust his preconceptions. The Grik had a civilization of a sort as well, but that didn’t mean they were “civilized” as he defined the term. The same applied here.
The environs were deserted now, the great estates empty and stripped of valuables. Likely the only reason they hadn’t been destroyed as the Allied army approached, as happened around El Corazon, was that their owners were richer and more influential—and there’d probably been a general disbelief the “heretic horde” would ever really reach this far. But the crops hadn’t been burned and there was a lot of livestock running loose, easy to catch. This will do, Shinya decided.
Looking at Cox, he reappraised the man. He was even thinner than when they met and his red whiskers had bloomed into a full beard. His dark blue frock coat had faded to a kind of sickly light purple, and the once immaculately white sword belt had turned a grubby gray. He smiled slightly. “I never doubted Tenth Corps would get here, but after we met and I took the measure of your men, any reservations I had about them—or you—quickly vanished.” Cox nodded appreciation and Shinya wearily slid from his saddle, performing a couple of deep knee bends while Cox and their respective staffs dismounted and handed off their horses.
The big HQ tent was swiftly rising amid a cacophony of tent stakes being pounded in the ground. The ’Cat Marines assigned the detail had done it so often that it only took a few minutes and even fewer words. Looking around, Shinya watched as row after row of wedge tents sprouted as quickly, like dingy brown mushrooms under an overcast sky, while columns of troops snaked up out of a wooded ravine to the north and marched to join those already present. Sheer, jagged cliffs jutted from the carefully terraced and cultivated detritus of eons of erosion and stood high above several nearby villas and the encampment growing around them.
Shinya had considered using one of the lavish homes for his HQ, but after everything he’d been through with X Corps he finally had a sense his troops considered him “one of them” and he wouldn’t undermine that. Just as important, the NUS soldiers and most of their officers had quickly accepted his authority and combined with the already blended army as seamlessly as anyone could’ve hoped. There was some friction, and even the occasional altercation, but the various peoples and species of the allied force had more similarities than differences, in addition to their common cause.
Still, as Cox implied, just getting here had been an achievement, and if the Nussies hadn’t come quite as far, they’d all endured endless miles of hostile wilderness, privation, exhaustion, terrifying monsters, and occasional combat of varying intensity. They hadn’t faced a serious engagement since the armies met, but their supplies had abruptly ceased when a force out of El Henal cut the line and commenced a half-hearted pursuit. That alone made Shinya doubt General Mayta still commanded the Dom force. When the enemy was, in turn, cut off and destroyed by General Blair and leading elements of XI Corps, his suspicion was confirmed. Prisoners told them Mayta had been recalled some time ago, and might even be waiting for them here.
“Now we only have to decide what to do next,” Shinya said, looking at the tepui. It was called something like the “Footstool of God” in the local tongue, and was one of the northernmost of what he believed were the “Guiana Highlands.” Imposing as it seemed, it wasn’t the most impressive example by any means, if some of the cooperative locals were to be believed. And Shinya did believe them. Not only was that consistent with what he remembered of “old world” geography, they’d been right when other things weren’t even close.
A high-pitched cry, like a hawk with its mouth full, echoed off the vertical, rocky cliffs and Shinya looked back up at the dragons. Following his gaze, Cox frowned. “Are you sure this plateau is the best place to establish our base? It’s exposed to observation, and might be isolated by the enemy.”
“The same is true for anywhere in this unfamiliar land,” Shinya agreed, “and if we do become isolated, better that it’s on high, defensible ground. Besides”—he waved at Nuevo Granada—“not only do we have a fine view of the enemy capital, they can clearly see us firmly established here. I want to be ‘observed.’”
“That seems counterintuitive,” Colonel Prine objected. “It limits our movement options and might further anger the enemy.”
“I certainly hope so,” Shinya snorted. “I hope it drives Don Hernan, or whoever commands over there, even crazier than he already is and makes him come to us. Let’s be clear; we will probably have to assail the walls of Nuevo Granada at some point, but our similar experience at El Corazon was a bloodbath. I expect if General Mayta’s here, he’s learned to make such an assault even costlier. I’d rather he came out after us so we can meet him in the open and bleed him first.”
His words were punctuated by popping sounds a half mile down the slope where Rangers probed a wooded creek bed and the Sister’s Own were digging into a protective line. The thump of muskets was answered by the crackle of rifles.
“How long will we wait?” Prine asked, apparently oblivious. “While it’s true the army is well fed, and reasonably well-armed and supplied with ammunition, our tents are threadbare shreds and our uniforms are disintegrating rags.” He looked back the way they’d come. “And we’ve picked up so many camp followers . . . We aren’t a very formidable-looking force.”
Shinya took a calming breath. “Our logistics train is almost a thousand miles long, stretching all the way to Manizales. It has focused on the essentials, for obvious reasons. And the ‘camp followers’ aren’t only refugees that our presence here created, they’re the source of most of the supplies that keep us so well fed. Their men—and not a few women,” he reminded sharply, “have become soldiers and scouts, risking worse treatment than our own people, if caught. They have a vested interest in our success and we couldn’t have more important support.”
“Perhaps . . . for the most part,” Prine conceded sourly.
“For the most part,” Shinya allowed, sure there were spies mixed in. Some had even been identified and might be used. “But how our troops look won’t affect how they fight, and we’ll wait as long as it takes. An assault on the city without General Blair and Eleventh and Fifteenth Corps would be pointless.”
“Skirmishers,” Cox finally observed as the firing down below increased.
It suddenly struck Shinya as very odd that he was standing here arguing about clothes, and his orderlies and the ’Cats erecting his tent were calmly carrying tables, chairs, and his personal effects inside—while men and ’Cats were shooting at one another, being wounded and killed, just a short distance away. Two clouds of gray-white smoke blossomed out of the forward line and moments later they heard the Poom! Poom! of field pieces.
“That’s Captain Meder’s battery supporting your Lemurian Marines and Sister Audrey’s Vengadores,” Cox remarked. “Good man. He wouldn’t waste ammunition without a good target.” He glanced at Pr
ine. “The combination of all our artillery using common ammunition into mixed battalions attached to divisions instead of infantry brigades has eased their supply and administration, while allowing them to be deployed more efficiently. And the creation of a common reserve that can be quickly massed where necessary was a master stroke.”
“Not my idea,” Shinya demurred. “Captain Reddy’s. And you already had fine artillery.”
“For a naval man, your ‘Captain Reddy’ has a strong understanding of land warfare.”
“Better than he thinks,” Shinya agreed, “and it’s informed by his interest in history. He had the benefit of hindsight to preserve us from the problems you had with your previous system.”
“He sounds like a remarkable man. I hope I meet him someday.”
“So do I,” Shinya said.
The firing down by the creek bed was almost constant now, more than a few skirmishers would justify, and a couple of cannon had joined the action on the other side, drawing a response from Meder’s entire battery.
“Perhaps we’ve made Don Hernan angrier, more quickly, than we were prepared to,” Colonel Prine observed wryly.
“Possibly,” Shinya agreed. “General Cox, would you be kind enough to send some of your men to support the Sister’s Own?” The closest arriving troops were Nussies.
“My pleasure, General Shinya.” He spoke to a rider and the man galloped to a nearby column. Their once-sky-blue uniforms were now a dingy gray, but their weapons were clean and bright. They’d had a long march, like everyone, but were still in formation. Officers and NCOs shouted and the troops double-timed down the slope behind their regimental flag and deployed into line behind Blas and Sister Audrey’s division. Almost immediately, the firing reached a crescendo and then began to wane.
“The enemy’s not quite ready for a meeting engagement, it seems,” Cox said, sounding a little disappointed.
“Apparently not,” said Shinya, “but I expect they’ll reinforce and attempt to contest the creek crossing—maybe every mile, all the way to the city. That’s good.”
Cox looked at him strangely. “Good?”
“Of course,” Shinya assured.
Captain Anson and a squad of Rangers thundered up, throwing clumps of grass and divots of earth in all directions. When they halted near the command tent, Shinya saw Blas and Captain Bustos had accompanied them with a prisoner.
“Get down, you,” Blas said sharply and Bustos translated. The prisoner complied, quickly taken in hand by a couple of Rangers while everyone else dismounted. The Dom was young, a junior officer, and though his face was dark, his hair was almost as yellow as his uniform. The coat was remarkably clean and bright except for a smudge of dirt on the shoulder and a bloodstain where his sword belt had been. Shinya was surprised by how obedient he was, despite a defiant air.
“What have we here?” he asked.
“A goddaamn hu-maan Grik!” Blas raged, yanking on a line she still held, securing the man’s hands behind him. The Dom apparently understood what Shinya expected of him and calmly proclaimed himself to be “Teniente Paolo Chavez, a su servicio.”
“Murderin’ baastard!” Blas seethed.
Shinya looked at her. “What did he do?”
“Some o’ my guys were down in the creek, haulin’ out brush an’ limbs to throw on the trench we’re diggin’ when he an’ his buddies showed up. Shot two o’ my guys down. One was still alive an’ I saaw him shooteem in the head an’ cut off his tail!” Blas gestured at the bloodstain on the man’s coat. “Tucked it in his belt.” She nodded appreciatively at Anson. “Him an’ his Raangers scooped him up with haaff a dozen others when the Nussies baacked our line an’ the Doms across the creek—prob’ly brigade strength—skee-daaddled.”
Bustos’s tone was as hostile as Blas’s when he translated Chavez’s reply. “He said he did it, and doesn’t understand our reaction.” He nodded at the bloodstain. “Says it was a trophy taken from an animal, nothing more.”
Cox and some of his officers were visibly shaken by that, not only the act, but the casual confession. “I begin to see the . . . different dimension to your conflict with the Doms,” Cox told Blas. “None of my men expect mercy if captured, but this—”
“Doesn’t make any difference,” Shinya interrupted coldly, still looking at the prisoner. “Ask him how many men defend Nuevo Granada City,” he instructed Bustos, and to their growing amazement the young man apparently unreservedly told them everything he knew. According to him, there were roughly 140 thousand troops in and around the city, but the militia was training and could probably supply forty or fifty thousand more. They wouldn’t stay there either; they’d advance and drive “all the invaders from this holy soil, given by God to the Emperor of the World.”
“Disconcertingly confident, don’t you think?” Colonel Prine murmured uncomfortably.
Clearly disgusted with Prine, Blas rounded on Bustos. “Aask him why he’s so sure—an’ why he don’t lie.”
After a rather lengthy exchange, Bustos summarized it. “He says it’s a sin to lie, and why should he? Everyone breaks under torture, and he’d just as soon avoid the discomfort. Besides, this conflict, even our presence here, was foretold by God long ago—convenient that the Blood Priests of Nuevo Granada only recently revealed that,” he said aside. “But it was also foretold that the ‘heretics’ would be entirely destroyed and ‘cleansed from the earth, root and branch.’ They can’t lose, we can’t win. All is preordained by God, so nothing he reveals is of any consequence.” He shook his head.
“A true believer,” Shinya concluded, “and not even a Blood Drinker, but just as bad. I’m afraid we’ll see more like him, at least among their officers.” He gestured at the city. “This is the very heart of their twisted faith, after all.” He rubbed the scant stubble on his chin. “Ask him who commands here.”
Chavez replied, and Bustos reported, “Technically, a ‘Capitan General Maduro’ commands all the forces in this part of Nuevo Granada Province, including in and around the Temple City, but he takes orders from a new man named Mayta, the ‘Supreme Commander of All the Armies of God,’ recently delivered by His Holiness, Don Hernan.” Bustos sighed sarcastically. “He gushed on about what a ‘hero’ Mayta is, and how he ‘slaughtered demons and heretics up and down the west coast of the continent.’”
Shinya was nodding, unsurprised. “Thank you, Captain Bustos. Please join Captain Anson in choosing one of the prisoners to carry a message to Mayta for me.”
That startled everyone, but nobody spoke except Blas. “Whaat about the rest?”
“They’ll be sent back to Neri to join the other prisoners guarded by our local allies.”
“An’ him?” Blas demanded hotly, yanking the line again.
“Please translate once more, Captain Bustos,” Shinya requested, eyes narrowing at the prisoner. “You may be surprised to learn, Lieutenant Chavez, that we are the ‘demons and heretics’ General Mayta ‘slaughtered’ in the west. Perhaps you’ll reflect on that and other inconsistencies the Blood Priests have fed you—while you choke on the end of a rope.” He turned to the others when Chavez’s eyes went wide and he began to struggle. “Any Doms who mistreat our people in their hands will be hanged. The messenger will witness the punishment before he departs.”
“Good. Give ’em a taste of their own,” Blas smoldered.
Cox gave her a cautious glance. “What will your message to Mayta say?” he asked Shinya.
“Only what our new policy will be,” Shinya stated. “No quarter for Blood Drinkers or those who commit atrocities. And civilian ‘militia’ caught under arms and out of uniform will be summarily executed. Those were the rules where Captain Reddy and I came from,” he added. “That might only strain their supply of uniforms when word gets out”—he flicked a glance at Colonel Prine—“but it will get out. We’ll ask our ‘camp followers’ for volunteers to inf
iltrate the city and spread the word.” Incongruous with his expression, he chuckled then. “Oh, and my message will also decline in advance any request Mayta makes to meet before battle. As far as I’m concerned, the battle has already begun.”
“Very good,” Cox approved cautiously, “but if everything else that man said is true”—his eyes settled meaningfully on Chavez, now being dragged away—“the enemy has nearly two hundred thousand men. Our combined forces, after casualties, sickness, and all the outposts we’ve established to protect our supply line, have been winnowed to less than fifty thousand over the course of the campaign.”
“Eleventh and Fifteenth Corps will double that, and we have over fifteen thousand local troops under arms or in training,” Shinya countered.
“Excellent,” Prine inserted, “so we’re only outnumbered two to one.”
Blas blinked impatiently. “So whaat do you wanna do? Quit? Go home? We’ve haardly ever not been outnumbered, so whaat’s the big deal?” Prine bristled but Blas ignored him, blinking anxiously at Shinya instead. “Unless we’re gonna baang our heads against the city waalls again . . .”
“No,” Shinya denied. “At least not until it’s time,” he added vaguely. “As I said, I expect Mayta to come to us. He has to try something different. Not only will he be reluctant to risk a repeat of El Corazon, we’re encamped in full view of the city. Regardless of what the Blood Priests tell them, the people will be afraid. Perhaps more afraid of us than the Blood Priests, for the very first time.” He shook his head. “Mayta has the numbers and he’ll be under pressure to keep us at a distance and destroy us at once.”
He looked around at the gathered officers. “Don’t underestimate Mayta,” he warned. “He’s capable and audacious. He showed us that already. So we’ll continue to improve our position here, for now. I believe we have the strength and the ground to hold.” He smiled. “We also have more experience, and far more historical guidance to borrow from.”
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