“You must leave this place at once, Your Highness,” I’joorka snapped without preamble, more harshly than intended.
Here, the Celestial Mother lounged on a larger, more “appropriate” saddlelike throne, attended by her new “Sister Guards.” All but one of these was Khonashi, sent from I’joorka’s own village in North Borno by King Tony Scott. Khonashi females, though never truly warriors, could at least fight. A single Sa’aaran female, from Lawrence’s tribe, had joined them not long ago. Thus the Celestial Mother had her proper guards and the Allies could keep an eye on her at all times. As it happened, that appeared increasingly unnecessary, and she treated her new “Sisters” more like advisors and friends than guards. It seemed she fully appreciated—and embraced—her new role in the world and the Grand Alliance, and her insistence on truth and transparency was sincere. By all accounts her guards even liked her. Very interesting, since one had been I’joorka’s own mate twice, and he respected her opinion. Still, he realized, catching his breath, none of that will matter if we don’t move quickly!
New attitude aside, the Celestial Mother was clearly annoyed by I’joorka’s brusque manner and Ione’s intrusion. “What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Leave? Whatever for?”
“My humblest apologies for barging in unannounced and uninvit—” I’joorka began, but the Celestial Mother waved that away.
“Never mind. I’ve already learned you wouldn’t do so without good reason. What has transpired?”
There was nothing for it. No way to soften the blow. Nor should I, I’joorka realized. “Esshk has destroyed the inner lock holding back Lake Galk. We tried so hard to avoid damaging it ourselves. . . . With the vast majority of the population endangered by its loss being Gharrichk’k, it never occurred to us Esshk would destroy it deliberately. He has.”
The Celestial Mother was stunned. “So,” she murmured sadly. “I fear our campaign has been too successful. Finally realizing he can’t reconquer the empire and rule it himself, Esshk has chosen to ruin it. How?” she asked, very quietly.
I’joorka waved his clawed hands. “A mine, probably. A very big bomb. Reports from Generals Rolak and Alden were brief, and in Alden’s case, cut off.”
“First General Alden was on the river, with parts of First and Fourth Corps,” the CM guessed. Clearly she’d been keeping up and knew who was where.
“I’m afraid so. Fortunately, we’ve had further reports from aircraft so we know the battle on the heights still rages—if less . . . coherently than before. But much of the force we had on the water”—he sighed—“and likely First General Alden and Second General Kim, have all been lost. Along with virtually every remaining warship we had.”
“The battle . . . ?”
“Remains in the best possible, um, ‘claws.’” Grikish was similar to I’joorka’s native tongue and came easily to him, but he struggled with many expressions. “Third General Rolak, General Halik, and First Ker-noll Jash were pushing Esshk hard. Probably, as you say, why he did what he did. Now?” His tone became urgent once more. “The battle can no longer concern us, nor can we even influence it from the air. All planes here, or at our forward base farther upriver, must fly to Arracca Field on the coast. Hopefully planes now engaged can make it here”—he waved in the direction of Saansa Field across the river—“and refuel before the flood.”
“The flood will come so far?” asked the Giver of Life, rather weakly.
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
I’joorka hesitated. “I’ve no idea how fast or high the water will rise, but Saansa Field and everything we’ve built where New Sofesshk once stood will surely be swept away. The river now runs at its seasonal peak and the airfield is barely six or seven feet higher. On this side of the river . . . You must expect Old Sofesshk to flood as well. Rather deeply, in fact.”
The ramifications of that were obvious. Hundreds of thousands of Grik Uul had filtered back, commanded to come swell the ranks of Jash’s army, clear rubble from the battle, or work on the airstrip across the river. There was little shelter for them, but hunters and fishers kept them fed. They were helpless in the face of what was coming, however. “And there are no ships to save my subjects—or all your people here?”
“No. And ships may be of no use in any case. Thousands, perhaps many thousands will drown, and I must get you away.” I’joorka was surprised, but heartened as well, to witness something like anguish displayed in the Celestial Mother’s expression and posture. “There should be time for you to sound the attention horns and instruct the few thousand Ancient Hij still living in Old Sofesshk to rush for high ground or climb atop the tallest buildings. Across the river, our people are already sending yours southwest, into the hills. Most should reach safety. But you must go, and there’s little time.” He motioned for the Sister Guards to prepare the Celestial Mother to move.
“Will merely climbing buildings save them? There are no heights within several miles of Old Sofesshk,” the Celestial Mother insisted, “and no means of quickly crossing the river. The last of the Ancient Hij will perish.”
Despite the damage sustained elsewhere on his body, I’joorka’s crest had grown back fairly full. It rose now. “That can’t concern me, I’m afraid. My primary duty is ensuring your safety—”
“And cooperation,” the Celestial Mother hissed.
“Of course,” I’joorka agreed reasonably, “which I can’t secure without your safety.” His tone turned hard. “You will come away from here. There’s a Clipper waiting in the water by the dock. So summon your Hij and send them on their way. Some may be saved. And every moment you argue might cost many lives.”
There came a gasping sound from the stairway behind I’joorka and Ione, and Hij Geerki finally tottered into view. He was trying to speak but it took the somewhat feeble old Grik a moment to catch his breath. “Bring,” he wheezed, “bring them in the Palace,” he managed at last.
“Of course,” the Celestial Mother said at once. “Why didn’t I think of that?” She looked at I’joorka. “Will they be safe here, in the upper levels?”
I’joorka held his hands out again, calculating. He knew a little more than he’d let on, but not much, and that was based on guesses. Lake Galk covered roughly five to seven thousand square miles, but without knowing its depth, they couldn’t estimate its volume. And at least the lock gorge ensured its drainage would be relatively slow. The whole lake wouldn’t just dump out in a single massive gulp, and it would spread out as it came. So . . . the initial surge, here, might be anywhere from ten to thirty feet, depending on too much I’joorka didn’t know. But a respectable percentage of that first gust might be sustained for a while. I’joorka desperately wished Courtney Bradford was here to help sort this out! “In the upper levels, perhaps,” he conceded. “This one and above. I really can’t say. . . .”
The Celestial Mother turned to Geerki, gesturing around. “Then that’s what we’ll do. You could . . . tightly pack a thousand Gharrichk’k in this chamber alone. There are five more above it—considerably smaller, granted. . . .” She paused.
“We could quickly rig platforms outside,” Centurion Ione suggested, startling I’joorka with her enthusiasm. “Drag the temporary floating docks up the sides of the Cowflop—I mean, the Palace—and support them with cables. There’s plenty of cable.”
“But is there sufficient labor?” one of the Celestial Mother’s Khonashi “Sisters” questioned. “With enough Uul it would be a certainty, but—with respect”—she glanced at the Celestial Mother—“smarter or not, most ‘Ancient Hij’ don’t even know how to hold a rope.”
The Celestial Mother stood abruptly, decisive. “They will after today, if they want to live. Hij Geerki! Sound the Great Attention horns—no, no, send someone else. You’ll die if you take those stairs again so quickly.” Geerki bowed, then briskly tugged a colored cord that would ring a bell to summon messengers.
The Celestial Mother turned a defiant gaze on I’joorka. “I’ll call all our people close enough to come, and allow them the choice to flee, or join us in—or on—the Palace.” She surprised him even further by blinking determination in the Lemurian way. “And we’ll stay with them, you and I,” she decreed. I’joorka’s eyes bulged and he opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Your ‘Captain Reddy’ wants me to be a new kind of leader for my people, so I shall rule as he does: by example, and by sharing the peril of those I lead. How can I be what he—and you—want me to be, if I flee in the face of risk to my people and my Allies?”
I’joorka just stared. The centurion at his side started to speak, but he shushed her. “No,” he said, “she’s right.” Then he surprised everyone by rasping a toothy chuckle. “But by all the Gods of the Alliance, if we don’t all drown, Chairman Safir, Captain Reddy, and King Scott will fight over who gets my crest for a flyswatter.”
A pair of Repub soldiers topped the stairs. “Go!” I’joorka cried in English. “Sound the Attention Horn. ’Ut do not stray,” he cautioned. “There’s a great deal else to do.”
“How long, do you think?” Centurion Ione asked, her voice slightly nervous.
I’joorka replied in Grikish for the Celestial Mother’s benefit. Working in the Palace so long, Ione had learned it fairly well. “Based on reports by some of our flyers”—he paused—“two hours. A bit more, perhaps, but we must act as if it’s less.”
CHAPTER 36
////// Southwest shore of Lake Galk
Grik Africa
It had been necessary for Esshk’s airship to take off into the stiffening breeze, heading east, or the wind would’ve raked it across the jagged treetops on the other end of the clearing. And heavily loaded with extra fuel, a full crew, six fat females, a dozen Dorrighsti guards—most in the aft gondola with far too much baggage—as well as Esshk and General Stragh, of course, the airship’s five little engines roared and strained just to get the thing aloft, nose angled frighteningly high. After its initial reluctance, however, the zeppelin rose fairly quickly and Esshk was astonished by what he saw.
The plume of dust thrown up by the great bomb still stood over them like a malignant reddish-brown cloud. It was finally beginning to disperse, it seemed, but other clouds were darkening the sky. Typical of the season or not, these afternoon thunderheads touched Esshk with superstitious dread. He imagined they were the moods of the Vanished Gods, gathering to view the desecration he’d committed against them.
Looking at the dying lake itself, it seemed as if it had already noticeably dropped. Just a few feet, perhaps, but enough that small boats dragged up on shore leaned higher and drier than before. Esshk shaded his eyes and tried to see the battle on the rocky summit east of the gouged and frantic gorge. Dust obscured much, but smoke still rose amid a horribly congested, miles-long melee, with banners—his, and various enemy emblems—chaotically intermingled.
It had been so long since he’d dared fly in daylight he couldn’t help but absorb the view, and for several long moments he gave no orders for the steersman to turn away. Sickly fascinated, he saw dull columns of enemy troops on the long slope to the south, rushing to join the ferocious fighting near the crest. Worse, the lead elements of Halik’s army, only lightly opposed, were scaling the craggy rise behind his own forces. To his surprise, his unique vantage point left him no doubt his army still outnumbered its attackers. And it was a good army, probably the best he ever made, if slightly less experienced and well-equipped than he would’ve preferred. But it couldn’t see what he did. All it would know, very shortly, was that it was locked in a battle more savage than anything it ever imagined—before it was suddenly assailed from the rear! He was virtually certain that would break it.
Nothing I hadn’t already known, he reflected with a terrible sense of gloom, but to actually see it, to witness the end of all my efforts with my very own eyes . . . Oh, Halik! he almost wailed to himself. How could you do this? Together, we could’ve had all the world in our claws!
“Supreme Regent!” General Stragh cried out, pointing down. Esshk tore his gaze from the battle on the heights just a few miles away, and peered over the rail of the forward gondola. A few hundred feet above the trees they’d found a capricious void in the surface winds. During his distraction, the airship rumbled out in the clear over Ando’s airfield—and the ground below practically seethed with warriors. Esshk squinted. Most were obviously Gharrichk’k—but their banners weren’t his. And look! Mingled with them, in somewhat better order, were clusters of humans and Lemurians in yellow-brown uniforms. Most horrifying of all, none were fighting, and all were looking at him.
* * *
* * *
“It’s Esshk! It must be Esshk!” First Ker-noll Jash roared at the top of his lungs. Jash’s Slashers and the Repub V Corps had fought together amazingly well, considering they’d been bitter enemies such a short while before. But General Kim, possibly even Rolak, would’ve been surprised by the depth of Pete Alden’s cunning, in maneuvering it so only Repubs directly supported their new Grik allies on the left—and Bekiaa in particular, especially commanding Repubs herself, would be nowhere near them. Repubs had fought the enemy as hard as anyone, but even sharing a continent, they’d remained historically isolated from the Grik and hadn’t fought them nearly as long. And it was the duration of the struggle that had scarred those like Bekiaa so deeply, perhaps too deeply to even contemplate cooperation in the heat of battle. Pete hadn’t been concerned that she—or anyone in his AEF—would disobey orders, but with timing so critical, they might’ve enjoyed the spectacle of Jash’s spearhead assault, with Grik killing Grik right in front of them, just a little longer than was wise.
As it was, V Corps swept into the gap the Slashers blew through Esshk’s lighter defenses on the west side of the gorge at precisely the right moment, adding needed weight and inertia to the attack. Still, the Slashers and V Corps had been wildly disorganized by their lightning crash through the Grik positions and a lot of them were still fighting there, widening the breach and rolling up the lines. They were even calling for and accepting surrender from large contingents in ways Halik told Jash had worked for him. Bekiaa, for one, wouldn’t have even considered that. But Jash and Naxa, and two legions of V Corps, had stormed onward into the enemy rear, falling on what had to have been Esshk’s primary HQ on this side of the lake. The sacrificial defenders, all Dorrighsti, put up a furious fight, but they’d had no chance and hadn’t much slowed Jash’s vengeful rampage.
Now they all saw the distinctive black airship, already five or six hundred feet above, clawing for the sky. Not quite three hundred feet long, its dark shape still looked huge against a remaining patch of bright blue sky. Almost frantically, Jash looked around, hoping to spot an Allied plane, swooping to shred the monster with its guns, but there was nothing.
“There might be one of those big four-engine beasts up there,” gasped the Lemurian Repub Legate named Pol-Heena, trotting up to join him. He obviously knew what Jash was thinking. Pol had traveled farther than Jash could imagine, and knew the wider war. And though new to the fighting here, he was a competent commander and had diplomatic experience. It hadn’t surprised Jash at all when Pol brought two Repub legions to join his push. “But all the other aircraft have been pulled back, to get ahead of the flood,” Pol reasoned, just as frustrated as Jash. His big eyes suddenly went wide. “That thing is held up by hydrogen!” he exclaimed. “I don’t think we can light it, but we can let it out!” He spun to his troops. “Shoot it!” he roared. “Open fire at the airship!”
The thing was seven hundred feet up now, but still less than the three hundred meters from which any Repub rifleman was expected to hit a stationary target the size of a Grik. None of Pol’s roughly eighteen hundred troops could possibly miss—nor could many of Jash’s three thousand Grik, armed with Allied rifle-muskets.
* * *
* * *
The ground fire began sporadically but quickly intensified, a startlingly high percentage of projectiles crashing through the thin planking of the deck under the forward gondola where Esshk stood. Almost at once, General Stragh squealed and fell amid a blizzard of splinters, as did—very quickly—two of the throttlemen on the starboard side. Instinctively, the steersman, crest low and eyes narrowed to slits, leaned on the big tiller to bring them around, back over the forest. “No!” Esshk screamed. “You’ll take us right back over them! Fly over the water and outdistance their weapons before we turn.” Even in the time it took to speak, dozens more holes appeared in the deck; a Dorrighsti screeched and flopped, drumming his feet; and splinters swirled. Esshk could only imagine what it must be like in the aft gondola—or up in the envelope where the rubberized skin bladders enclosed the lifting gas. . . . An engine, a cylinder probably dented by a bullet, seized and died. “To the throttles, you fools!” Esshk roared at his two remaining guards, both bleeding. “Open them all the way!” All the regular throttlemen were down, and only the extra layers of wood and bracing supporting the tiller had preserved the steersman. The Dorrighsti rushed to comply, and the engines roared louder. Slowly, slowly, the thundering impacts dwindled as the airship climbed over the lake. By the time they stopped completely, all lay dead except one Dorrighsti, the steersman, and Esshk himself.
Esshk had no idea how he’d been spared. Actually, he hadn’t, entirely. Noting a throbbing ache in his foot, he looked down, expecting to see splinters in his feet. For a moment he could only stare while blood oozed and dripped through a hole where his right middle toe had been.
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