Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “I don’t ‘suppose’ anything,” Matt said. “All we know is Gravois went upriver. Maybe he wasn’t invited and shot it out with the Doms. It took this long for the fires to run wild.”

  Courtney scratched his chin under the white whiskers covering it. “Or perhaps the population got wind of his defeat. I’m new here, as I said, but not to the bloody Doms. I remember Don Hernan and the twisted Dominion mentality better than I’d like. I’ve also read reports of the various actions against them in the Americas, and tales of what befell towns and villages on the cusp of being overrun by the enemy. Us.”

  Matt blinked surprise in the Lemurian way. “You think their army and Blood Priests are wiping the people out, figuring they’ve lost the war?”

  “I can imagine no other alternative,” Courtney said grimly. “Though in a city that size, there’s bound to be . . . opposition to such a measure. We could be witnessing civil war.”

  “Grikbirds, Grikbirds—an’ draagons too! Sout’-sout’west!” The crow’s nest lookout’s voice reached them without aid.

  “All ships make smoke! Stand by for air action starboard!” Matt ordered, raising his binoculars. Twenty or thirty of the Grik-like flyers were winging in at about a thousand feet. None seemed to be carrying anything and he wondered what they hoped to accomplish—other than saturating their defenses while the twenty-odd dragons behind them, all bearing bombs and riders, attacked. He was about to order the destroyers and Gray to close around Sular so they could augment her air defenses when he heard a rising roar. A small cloud of Bull-Bat fighters barreled overhead on a course to intercept the enemy creatures.

  “That’s the style!” came Silva’s distinctive, gleeful bellow down on the fo’c’sle. “Tear those flappy bastards up!”

  The Bull-Bats did. Smoky tracers drew arcing lines through the sky and Grikbirds exploded busy puffs of feathers as their bodies shattered and tumbled to the sea. To those watching down below, it was stunning how quickly and decisively the Grikbird attack dissolved. Most of the survivors veered radically away from the merciless assault, but except for their initial fire, the Bull-Bats ignored them, going for the dragons. Dragons were smarter than their smaller cousins and wanted no part of the fighters. Most dropped their bombs harmlessly in the sea and dove, flapping furiously back toward land. Matt was watching one that didn’t flee through his binoculars and saw it snatch the rider off its back with wicked jaws and hurl the man away. That didn’t save it. The Bull-Bats converged and quickly shot the half dozen more persistent dragons out of the sky.

  “I’ll be damned,” Spanky hooted, grumbling no more, “I bet that was the fastest dogfight there ever was.” He looked at the burning city. “Even the dragons an’ Grikbirds know they’re licked.”

  “We’ll see,” Matt temporized. “I think it’s time to go upriver.”

  “Ellie should lead,” Keje instantly suggested. “She’s fresher, and Cap-i-taan Brister haas just as much experience in a river.” He grinned, showing his long canines. “Besides, he’s still unhaappy thaat he missed the great aaction off St. Vincent!”

  Matt sighed, exasperated. “Very well. We’ll follow, then Sular. Mahan’ll bring up the rear.”

  Courtney gazed sourly at Puerto del Cielo while orders flew, signal flags whipped up the halyards, and TF-Centipede Stomp steamed toward the mouth of the River of Heaven at ten knots. Matt suspected the Australian was contemplating the horrors taking place within those high, bright walls. “Don’t you think we might land some of Chack’s troops to . . . I don’t know . . .” Courtney finally said.

  “No way,” Matt replied. “We don’t know what the hell’s going on over there. Even if it’s a civil war, especially then, how would our people know who the good guys are?” He shook his head. “Shinya and Cox need Chack, and I won’t drop him in a situation where he doesn’t even know who to shoot at.” He walked out on the starboard bridgewing and stared at the Dom city himself. Courtney, Spanky, and Keje joined him, edging the ’Cats at the torpedo director aside. It was obvious now that the city was convulsed by battle, though why remained impossible to tell. White smoke, possibly from cannon, blossomed out of the streets, and men were even seen firing muskets at one another on top of the walls. A ridiculously ornate bireme galley, drawn halfway up on shore, was burning fiercely. By the scars in their masonry, it looked like the forts on each side of the river mouth had been firing at each other. That presented another mystery since they definitely would’ve seen the flashes of big shore batteries like that in the dark. Maybe this fight started right after Leopardo passed the previous day and only got out of hand that morning?

  A thought struck him. “Hoist the battle flag so they’ll know we’re not the damned League,” he called aft to the signal bridge. “I don’t know if that’ll help,” he said aside to Keje, “but I guess it can’t hurt.” He raised his voice so Spanky and Courtney could hear. “Whatever’s happening over there, the Doms’ll have to sort it out themselves, but if they don’t shoot at us when we steam past those forts, we won’t shoot at them.” Turning his attention to the broad river ahead, he imagined the roughly two hundred miles they must navigate to their objective and lowered his voice. “We have bigger business.”

  CHAPTER 52

  HOLY HELL

  ////// West of Nuevo Granada City

  Holy Dominion

  August 8, 1945

  General Shinya is a devil, General Mayta decided almost calmly. This realization came as he watched the entire center of the Army of God collapse under fiery forge-hammer blows delivered by suddenly, impossibly massed artillery. A silent, foggy dawn had been shattered by the roar of hundreds of guns (now including many captured pieces, no doubt), and seemingly thousands of exploding shells smote the breastworks protecting the middle of the “final” defensive line west of Nuevo Granada within minutes of one another. The result was as awe-inspiring as it was cataclysmic. Earth, stone, and heavy timbers were hurled into the sky, joined by parts of bodies and splintered gun carriages. Mayta had never seen anything like it, even at El Corazon, and he and his mounted staff watched with a kind of fascinated horror less than three hundred yards to the rear. A few shells exploded nearby and some lancers detailed to protect them went down with their squealing horses, but considering the sheer weight of ordnance expended and their proximity to its target, they remained amazingly unscathed. The professionalism of the enemy artillery had cost them dearly throughout the campaign, but this required a precision they’d never imagined possible.

  The near-surgical bombardment was immediately followed by a surging tide of white smoke, pulsing with stabbing muzzle flashes. Demonically squalling men and animals in mottled green and brown, and troops in grimy gray-blue uniforms erupted from the smoke, vaulting over the broken, steaming breastworks and collapsed trench line. What remained of the defense, actually relatively thin in the “secure” center to begin with, simply dissolved. Men in grungy, bloody, yellow and white uniforms fled before the onslaught, not even pausing to fire. Many couldn’t, since they’d discarded weapons and anything else that might slow their flight.

  “General Mayta,” came the calming voice of Colonel Hereda, intruding on the incapacitating nightmare maelstrom of dread crowding Mayta’s mind. “We must pull back and save what we can.”

  Mayta laughed and the shrillness of the sound surprised him enough to crack the numbing shell of shock hardening around him. “Save what?” he demanded. “The Army of God is destroyed, erased, and nothing remains to even slow the enemy before they reach the walls of the Holy City!” The statement was a hysterical exaggeration, but also more than likely true from a practical standpoint. There were still large forces on the flanks, but now Shinya could roll them up from the center and the survivors would scatter to the north and south. Few would be able to fight their way back even if they took the initiative to try, and Mayta knew initiative wasn’t usually rewarded in the armies of the Holy Dominion. Perh
aps a few thousand would make it to El Lago de Vida and be carried back to the city in boats. It was the best he could hope for.

  “Then we must save you, My General,” Hereda insisted, “for no one else can save the city. Certainly not Capitan General Maduro!”

  “I can’t save anything, Colonel,” Mayta replied disgustedly, but he did at least turn his horse and urge it to a canter, pursued by the thunder of disaster. His staff, increasingly nervous, was happy to follow. “I marched out of Nuevo Granada City at the head of a hundred and sixty thousand men,” Mayta seethed at Hereda, “assured by the Patriarca that I, by name, bore the divine guidance and protection of His Supreme Holiness Himself, a living God.”

  That had been a . . . disturbing experience in certain ways, particularly coming from the Patriarca of the Blood Priests of Nuevo Granada, but a singular honor nevertheless. And it was a glorious time: blessed by El Papa, and riding at the head of the mightiest host ever assembled by the Holy Dominion. The shadow of his defeat at El Corazon was behind him and he had the opportunity to crush its author once and for all. Victory and glory were assured—or so he thought.

  He’d been admonished by the Patriarca not to engage the enemy too close to the city lest the inhabitants glimpse them as individuals, even something like people, instead of the demons and Los Diablos they were. That was fine. Mayta believed he understood Shinya and expected him to defend the high ground around the Footstool of God. He’d anticipated a spirited, skillful defense, but the Army of God was irresistible. Particularly since Shinya didn’t have any of the dreadfully destructive flying machines at his disposal. Distance and events in the Caribbean had seen to that.

  Mayta had no lesser dragons, what the enemy called “Grikbirds,” and only a handful of greater dragons. The war had sadly diminished the Dominion’s “airpower,” and most of its remnants were kept in places vulnerable to enemy planes. But the Patriarca of Nuevo Granada (there was no alcalde in the Holy City) had six greater dragons dedicated to carrying messages. Mayta was allowed two at a time for reconnaissance purposes, and to toss the occasional bomb at the enemy when the Patriarca was in the mood. Not understanding how easily amateur aerial observers could be misdirected, especially over land, Mayta thought he knew exactly what Shinya was up to, and that he’d played right into his hands, waiting behind impressive trenches and breastworks festooned with heavy cannon.

  Mayta’s first assault went in, suffering heavy losses, but it seemed only a matter of time before Shinya’s position broke. Mayta sent more men into the meat grinder and positioned a third line to press the attack. That’s when hundreds of mounted troops flooded out of the ravines to the north and slammed into his right flank. His screening lancers—that had just explored those ravines—were decimated by point-blank fire. Even as Mayta sent orders for his fourth line to sweep right and destroy the enemy horsemen, a furious cannonade targeted his left, and thousands of troops pounded into that flank out of the forest! Chaos reigned, the assault on the breastworks wavered, and Mayta had no choice but to pull back and reconsolidate his lines.

  And so it went, day after day. He’d witnessed the amazing agility of the enemy artillery, limbering up and galloping across the battlefield to mass at decisive points, and been envious to see how swiftly regiments, even entire divisions, could pull out of one point in the line and add their weight to another. But as far as he could tell, he still only faced about fifty thousand troops and couldn’t imagine how Shinya moved them and their guns so rapidly, quietly, in the dead of night—every night—only to fall on him from utterly unexpected directions. And each time it happened, Mayta had to give more ground.

  Prisoners were taken, even some of the dreaded “Rangers.” Most confirmed under torture what he’d seen and suspected—that the enemy had been making very detailed maps—but none ever had any idea what Shinya would do next. Some babbled that they had more troops than Mayta thought, but that was only to be expected and his aerial observers would’ve seen them if it was true. It was infuriating, and as his reverses accelerated, he caught himself prohibiting the mistreatment of prisoners (after their initial interviews of course), and found himself making up rationalizations to placate representatives of the Patriarca.

  He also got into the habit of reacting to what he thought Shinya would do instead of planning his own attacks, and started moving exhausted troops to his flanks at night so they’d be ready when the fight resumed at dawn. Shinya surprised him again by striking at night, on both flanks at once, and even in the rear with mounted troops. That caught the Army of God in the middle of repositioning, in disarray, and almost wrecked it entirely. Thousands were lost, nearly half the army’s guns were overrun, and the raiders behind them burned hundreds of supply wagons. Another retreat was necessary.

  Mayta thought the Blanco River would stop Shinya and give him and his army a chance to catch their breath, so despite threats from the Patriarca, he moved back across the river, destroyed the bridges, and fortified the fords. This time his lancers got wind that the enemy was using other fords, farther to the south than he’d have expected, and he shifted troops to counter the movement—only to have another force attack from the north, a force that had to have crossed days before to lie in wait for him! The most maddening thing about that had been, if he hadn’t destroyed the bridges, he might’ve attacked back across the river and shattered the modest force Shinya left in the center. He had to pull back instead, rushing to reach the final, best defensive line remaining—in clear view of Nuevo Granada once more.

  Only then, when the two armies stood opposite each other on the nearly open plain in sight of God and everyone in the city, did Mayta finally discover that Shinya had been reinforced at some point. None of the dragon flyers ever noticed, too intent on reporting movements they expected to see, but the forests on either flank of Mayta’s army—and particularly at the Blanco River crossing, he suspected darkly—had teemed with enemies all along. That the lancers only reported what the enemy wanted them to, and the few “locals” they encountered still outside the city reported nothing at all, became more significant in General Mayta’s mind.

  And there the armies waited, probably equally exhausted and roughly even in numbers now, for three entire days. Constant messengers came from the Temple urging him to attack, to destroy the heretics and their demon friends, but nobody told him how. He was even presented with a bright red feather edged in gold and told it symbolized the desire of His Supreme Holiness Himself that he press an attack at once.

  In the morning shadows of dark, fatty smoke rising from sacrificial fires all over the city, in earshot of the keening chants and sudden roars of triumph when severed heads tumbled down the rough, bloody steps of the temples, Mayta did as he was told. How could he not? With fluttering flags, thundering drums, blaring horns, and all the pageantry he’d been instructed to display for the benefit of his vast audience, the Army of God lurched forward into the teeth of a solid wall of sheeting rifle fire and a devastating bombardment by artillery that gathered in, unlimbered in massed batteries, and sprayed his men with screaming canister. No matter how fervent the soul, flesh can only endure so much. Again, in front of God—and everyone else this time—the assault was bloodily repulsed. And it was seen that only the forbearance of the enemy allowed thousands of men to stream back to their initial position.

  A kind of collective ongoing moan reached General Mayta from the city, like a tide of despair washing at the sand of his faith, and he finally knew God couldn’t be appeased, even by the sacrifice of His entire army, because He wasn’t on their side at all. But Mayta was a soldier and he made every preparation he could imagine in the night. The forest was now too distant for Shinya to use to his advantage, so Mayta reinforced and extended his flanks beyond Shinya’s ability to envelop them without fatally weakening his center.

  What Mayta didn’t know, and had in fact been conditioned to disregard, was the possibility Shinya would do the exact opposite.r />
  When the long night ended, the sky began to gray, and the first lizardbirds took flight with their raucous cries, X Corps, XI Corps, XV Corps, and the entire NUS Army smashed directly into the weakened center of the Army of God and it exploded like a collection of dry, brittle bones under an avalanche of granite.

  “I can’t save anything,” Mayta repeated heatedly, gesturing at the abandoned estates, clumps of ornamental trees, and ripening crops all around, even as panicked soldiers sprinted past, outpacing his cantering horse. Ahead lay a final line of tall mast trees and then the homes and stables of the affluent tradesmen directly backed by the wall of the city. “I’m leaving almost the entire Army of God out here, not to mention more than two hundred field pieces and countless draft animals.” He paused and shrugged. “I can’t even save myself. As soon as I enter the Great Western Gate, I won’t live out the day.”

  “We’ll see,” Hereda replied, ducking slightly in his saddle as rifle bullets cracked past. They leaped the low stone fence between the mast trees and galloped up the avenue leading to the Great Gate, hooves thunderous on flat, white stones. They found their way blocked by hundreds of terrified troops, some armed, most not, flooding in from all directions—and the ironclad gate shut fast in their faces. With a hasty look at the twelve-foot walls to remind him there were no cannon emplaced on the landward side of the city—why should there be?—Mayta raised his voice at the faces peering down.

  “Open the gate at once!”

  “The heretics will get in!” came a frightened response.

  “Yes, if we don’t get as many soldiers in as we can. Who’ll protect you if we don’t?”

  “The Blood Drinkers!” came a hopeful call. “Your rabble has already proved it can’t.”

  “And you can?” Mayta snapped. “Open the gate!”