“Indeed,” agreed the man, unperturbed, “but more enemies approach, and judging by your current inconvenience and the lurid dents in your side, it might be said I’ve failed my mission in one respect, if not all. Together, we’ve accomplished our primary task-to disrupt the enemy invasion.” The man paused. “I’m honored to have assisted you in that. This was not your battle, and yet you’ve suffered on our behalf. That will not be forgotten, and thankfully I remain in a position to at least attempt the next most pressing instruction of my sovereign.”
“So? What’s that?” Spanky yelled.
“To prevent the sinking-or worse, capture-of your ship by the enemy. To that end, Euripides and Tacitus will protect her with their very bodies, and the bodies of their crews-so please forgive me if I entreat you to ‘sort out’ your engineering problems as quickly as you possibly can!”
CHAPTER 28
West Eastern Sea
T he flotilla of formerly Tagranesi proas skimmed along in a westerly direction with a favorable wind at a much faster clip than Ajax ’s longboat ever could have managed. The moon was high and cast plenty of light upon the dappled sea to spot any looming leviathans, or mountain fish, that might lie in their path. Silva had the tiller of the “command” proa, enjoying the feel of the water sliding past, and his conversation with Chinakru-through Lawrence-in the stern sheets. “Petey” sat carefully, inconspicuously, perched near him, barely moving and without a peep, as he watched Lawrence and the former “Tagranesi” with profound suspicion. Nearly everyone else aboard, and on the other proas nearby, was asleep, except for their helmsmen and a pair of keen lookouts.
Captain Lelaa had calculated, by the moon and stars, and longitudinal observations she’d made at Talaud, that they had just enough food and water to complete their voyage in the swifter vessels-weather permitting. The ex-Tagranesi, soon to be “Sa’aarans”-hopefully-had been excited and friendly to their human and Lemurian guests, but, with the exception of Silva, Sandra, and, to a lesser degree, Abel Cook, the rest of the former castaways kept to themselves. Lawrence was happy to be back among his people, and while his “homecoming” hadn’t been what he’d expected, he was warmly welcomed. He was sympathetic to the… mild discomfort of his friends, however. When he’d been alone among them, they hardly thought about his resemblance to their mortal foes, but now, surrounded by so many, some seemed reserved, pensive. Even his dear ’Ecky was affected.
Sandra and Silva didn’t care at all. They’d used Lawrence shamelessly as a portable translator, to talk to anyone who grabbed their attention. Lawrence’s “Tagran” was rusty at first, but soon he was fluent again. Silva was most interested in the surprisingly fast, stable, and forgiving sailing qualities of the proas. Almost sixty feet long and nearly ten feet wide, their hulls were shaped from a single massive tree. The outriggers were big too-sharp, hollow, and relatively airtight. (They were raised from the water once a day or so, by counterbalancing, then drained and replugged.) At some time in the past, their designers had even added a long, submerged keel that reduced their leeway amazingly. Silva pronounced them “neat little boats.” He also pestered Chinakru incessantly about how his people killed shiksaks, and how they made war if other groups-usually refugees like themselves, it now seemed-came to call.
Sandra wanted to learn everything about their medical practices, but she’d been particularly interested in talking with the females. No human or Lemurian had ever seen a female Grik. Lawrence’s people were clearly just a different race of the same species, and she’d hoped to learn some elemental truths. The Tagranesi “Noble Queen” concept seemed strikingly similar to the “Celestial Mother” of the Grik, but among Lawrence’s folk, there were no Hij or Uul. There were just people. The only “lower class” was hatchlings. There were few females in the little fleet, and only half a dozen hatchlings. Chinakru had left “those not ready” on the island, probably to die. It seemed incredibly harsh… and yet the few hatchlings among them, too young to begin their “training,” acted more like vicious, annoying pets than children. None of the females paid them any heed except to catch them and feed them from time to time. It was shocking and bizarre, but without knowing more, Sandra was at a loss as to how the system might be improved. In the meantime, as the days passed, the former castaways had learned to protect their belongings from pillage-and protect themselves from droppings whenever one of the little vermin leaped across to their boat from another and skylarked in the rigging.
Petey actually helped in that respect. He’d evidently sensed from the start that he was among predators that would eat him if they could, and he stayed very close to the humans, Rebecca in particular. Somehow he must have gathered that she was a cherished and protected member of this new “pack” of his, and he screeched, gobbled, and generally raised hell whenever a hatchling ventured near. He stayed away from Lelaa now too. Life was boring on a boat and once, whatever he used for a mind had decided that her twitching tail might taste good, or at least be fun to catch. He’d barely escaped being hacked apart by her sword. After that, he gave both Lawrence and Lelaa a wide berth. His only concession to the lure of adventure now was to occasionally-carefully-hop or coast after Silva when the big man moved about the boat. He usually indiscriminately screeched one of the few words he knew and glided back to Rebecca if the man came close to someone he feared, but Silva paid no apparent heed to Petey whatsoever.
“Chinakru ’ould like to know ’ore a’out the Grik,” Lawrence said.
Silva sighed. He could usually understand Lawrence pretty well, but the lizardy guy still talked like his mouth was full of rocks. A lot of what he said was pronounced almost perfectly, but there were some sounds he still just couldn’t do. “Well, tell him,” Silva said. “You know as much about ’em as I do. Maybe more.”
“He grows… exercised. He hates the idea o’ the Grik; the things I ha’ told… I think he wants to kill them.”
Silva snorted and dug in his shooting pouch for the last dry yellow tobacco leaves he’d been conserving. He upended the little pouch over his mouth, forming the loose leaf fragments into a dry wad. “That’s fine. Won’t hurt his standing with Saan-Kakja,” he said. “Have you explained the kind of war we’re fightin’? It’s gone way beyond spears an’ claws.”
“That is the issue that concerns… I. He cannot understand, not yet. Still, he desires to assist.”
“Hmm.”
Petey had seen Dennis put something in his mouth and tentatively squeaked, “Eat?” trying not to draw attention to himself. Silva plucked a leaf fragment from his mouth and tossed it at the little creature. Greedily, Petey snatched it and gulped it down. Almost instantly, he was making kack, kack sounds, but Silva ignored him. He looked at the lanterns glowing, swaying at the mastheads of the proas around them. “How many of his folks-your folks-will feel the same?” he wondered aloud.
“A lot,” Lawrence said, and Silva caught the concern. He understood it. Lawrence’s “new” people didn’t have a clue about this war. They were kind of like the Americans that wound up on the western front in the Great War, Silva suspected.
“Well, he needs to talk to Sandra, first off. Maybe Saan-Kakja or whoever’s in Manila. Maybe Shinya’s still there. Thankfully, I’m just a peon, who don’t have to sort things like that out.” He paused, looking around again. “Say,” he said, focusing on the lanterns. “The swells have laid down.” Immediately, he glanced to the south. The sky down there had been dark all day, almost like a Strakka, but he knew it wasn’t one. It was the spreading ash cloud of Talaud. Right now, he couldn’t see anything, except an absence of stars on the horizon. He reached over, and after a brief consideration of sea monsters, stuck his hand in the sea. There was a strange vibration. “What the devil?” he said. “That’s weird. Larry, scamper over there and wake Captain Lelaa. She needs to check this out.”
“She just go to slee’,” Lawrence said reluctantly.
“Blame me. Tell her I made you wake her up. You’ll be amazed what
you can get away with when you do that. She can’t eat me, an’ I don’t care what rank they scrape off. They’ll just make me keep doin’ the same stuff anyway. I will eat you if you don’t get her over here chop-chop!”
“Eat!” Petey chirped happily. Lawrence snarled at him and moved off into the gloom where Lelaa slept. Fairly quickly, he returned with the’Cat in tow. She seemed alert, but still exhausted.
“What is it, Mr. Silva?” She was glancing at the moon and stars to make sure they were still on course.
“Feel the water.” Dennis paused. “Hell. You can hear somethin’ now. Kinda like a freight train a long way off. And the wind’s picking up, but the waves ain’t.”
Lelaa had never seen a freight train, but the reference wasn’t lost on her. She knew it was some kind of land steamer, and she cocked her head, ears questing. Her large, bright eyes widened. “Heavens above!” she gasped. “Wake everyone this instant! Rig lifelines-long ones-on everyone! The proas should float; the wood is naturally buoyant, but many may be swept away!”
Lawrence was translating rapidly to Chinakru, and the ex-Tagranesi raised his voice in alarm, spreading the word from boat to boat. Silva was impressed by how quickly the Lemurian sea captain took unquestioned command, mere moments after being awakened.
“Keep the lanterns lit. Some may survive and we’ll be widely scattered. Take in all sail! Out paddles! Steer north… for that star!” she instructed.
“Is it a wave?” Sandra asked, drawing near with a sleepy Rebecca in tow.
Lelaa blinked rapidly. “I fear so.” She looked at Dennis. “Your primary duty is the protection of these females, is it not?”
“Ah… yeah.”
“Then get them secured! As I said, use a long line. They may become separated from the boat-or it may overturn. They must remain secured, but not lashed, do you understand?”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Lelaa looked around. The flotilla was disintegrating into confusion. Some were steering north already, but others continued on, seemingly unaware. “Mr. Silva, fire that monstrous gun of yours! Get everyone’s attention! Lives are at stake!” She faced forward. “Cap-i-taan Rajendra to the tiller!”
Nodding, Silva snatched up his beloved Doom Whomper and discharged it in the air. The growing, rushing rumble didn’t exactly mute it, but it did seem less loud than usual. Chinakru was startled by the shot, but quickly resumed his loud harangue. More boats turned. Silva slung the big musket and pouch tightly around his body, then tied lines around Sandra, Rebecca, and a just-arrived, confused Sister Audry. “Abel,” Dennis shouted, hoping the boy heard him, “you and Brassey strap in tight, but with a leader, see? Take a turn around the stoutest thing you can find!”
Finishing with Sandra and Rebecca, Silva interrupted Lelaa’s pacing and tied her down as well. She didn’t seem to notice. She was staring aft now, into the south. A groggy but almost panicky Rajendra lunged past them to the tiller, yelling for his other surviving Imperials to secure themselves as best they could, and Silva tried to make it to him with yet another line. The stern of the proa began to rise noticeably. A bewildered, terrified Petey cried out and launched himself at Rebecca, who caught him and clutched him close. Dennis couldn’t really see the wave; it was black as night, and no discernible crest rode atop it, but the angle of the sea was growing more “wrong” by the moment.
“Damn you, Rajendra,” Dennis shouted, flinging the line at the man now struggling mightily with the tiller. “Secure yourself!”
“Damn you, Mr. Silva!” Rajendra bellowed back. “Save the princess! We will resume our dispute in hell!” The stern continued its inexorable upward rise and Silva fell roughly atop Sandra and Sister Audry, who lay covering Rebecca with their bodies.
Sister Audry gasped under the weight of the impact. “Have you a line, Mr. Silva?” she demanded weakly as the proa passed thirty degrees-and kept going.
“I’ll manage!”
“Then… you may cling to me-this once-for the sake of the child! She may need you yet!”
The roar was all-consuming now, and the proa flipped onto its back. After that, there were only the terrified screams.
CHAPTER 29
New Scotland Dueling Ground
“ C ease independent fire!” Lieutenant Blair bellowed hoarsely at the top of his lungs. “Load and hold!”
All Dominion reserves had to be present now. The battle, since the despicable opening cannon fire against the Imperial bleachers, had raged for more than three hours, and attrition had taken a terrible toll on both sides. The troops were evenly matched in discipline and roughly so in equipment, but largely due to the Lemurian shields, now practically useless, the exchange had so far been in favor of the Imperials. Another mixed company of Marines had marched to join “Chack’s” line, delaying his plan but giving it twice the weight. No such reinforcements seemed available to the Dominion troops. Their infantry still had the advantage in numbers, but by only about two hundred men. That advantage was growing, however, because even as the Doms kept firing, the Imperial line had suddenly ceased. All became quiet there, except for the screams and the sounds of balls striking flesh.
“Battalion,” Chack yelled, his voice cracking, “prepare to charge bayonets!” He was answered by a bloodthirsty roar as nearly four hundred bayonet-tipped muskets were leveled at the enemy.
Seeing this, the fire from the Dominion line immediately slacked, and bloodied troops in now stained and dingy uniforms heard commands from their own officers. Some dumped powder charges on the ground.
“Battalion,” Chack roared again, “without cheering, without a sound- listen for The drums -charge bayonets!”
The block of Imperials and scattered Lemurians surged forward. Some did cheer, caught up in the moment, but not many. Sword in hand, Lieutenant Blair raced forward, pacing his men, slightly ahead. A flurry of Dominion musket shots staggered the front rank, and Blair himself spun to the ground, but somehow rose and continued on. The gap between the enemies narrowed quickly from an initial seventy yards to sixty, to fifty. Chack trotted behind the troops, surrounded by his own surviving Marines. Blas-Mar was there, bleeding from a neck wound, and Koratin was helping support her, his wild face stained with blood and gunpowder. O’Casey was beside him, a pistol in his hand and a gleam in his eye. When the loud Dom command of “Armen la bayoneta!” came, Chack didn’t even need it repeated. Just a little farther now.
“Drummers!” he shouted, when less than twenty yards separated the opposing forces, and a thunderous roll sounded around him. The block of infantry ground to a halt, spreading out quickly on the flanks. Ahead, he barely saw beyond the taller men that Blair had stopped, swaying, sword raised high.
“Take aim!” someone screamed. It might have been Blair.
“Fire!” Chack shrieked with everything he had. A single, tremendous, rippling volley slashed directly into the helpless Dominion troops, mowing them down like wave tops scattered by a Strakka wind. “Charge bayonets!” he bellowed again, and this time, the cheer was overwhelming. They slammed into the teetering Dominion troops like a spikebristling sledgehammer. Out of the corner of Chack’s eye, he saw one of his Marines advancing the Stars and Stripes, trilling like a defiant demon. The oddly similar Imperial flag went down, but was immediately snatched up by another man who seemed utterly oblivious to anything other than driving forward, flag held high. Ahead, through the slashing, stabbing bayonets, Chack saw the red banner of the enemy go down. It too rose again, but then went down to stay. A renewed roar swept through the Marines, and they drove forward even more fiercely than before.
They were among the enemy now, even Chack. He realized sickly that this fight had devolved into an “open field melee” such as General Alden had always warned him against-but the American Marine had also told him that any sane enemy would break in the face of a charge like the one they’d delivered. Even the Grik would have broken; he’d seen it before. The Doms were being slaughtered, and they’d recoiled, stunned by the su
rprise volley and the ferocity of the attack, but they didn’T break-and now the fighting filled the dueling ground with desperate individual combats, like hundreds of duels themselves. Alone on the field, Chack didn’t have a muzzle-loading musket. As always, he carried his trusty Model 1898 (dated 1901) Krag, but with the fighting so close, he was afraid to fire it. He’d foolishly drawn a load-out of precious smokeless, high-velocity, jacketed rounds, seeing himself as standing back and knocking off enemy officers. Silva had always told him that velocity didn’t necessarily equal penetration, but he just didn’t know if the jacketed bullets changed all that. Better safe than accidentally shooting through an enemy and hitting one of the “good” guys. The heavy musket balls were already doing enough of that, he feared. The ’03 bayonet on the end of his rifle worked just fine, however, and it was black with drying blood all the way to the guard and dripping with fresh. Melees like this were a last resort-a failure, Pete had inferred-but at least they’d practiced for them, and the Imperial Marines seemed to know their business too.
Corporal Koratin went down, taking Sergeant Blas-Mar with him. Chack fought his way to them, but O’Casey beat him there, firing pistols as fast as he could grasp them and pull the triggers. His last one misfired and he threw the whole tangled bundle of pistols into the face of a man while he went for his cutlass. Chack saw Blair dragging himself along the ground. He did shoot a man preparing to bayonet the Imperial in the back. Then the fighting carried him along and he saw Blair no more.
A towering man, evidently an officer, with dark skin and flowing black mustaches loomed before Chack. Even as he brought his bayonet up, the man slashed down with a heavy sword, cutting through the top handguard of the Krag and slicing into the steel of the barrel between the rear sight and the barrel band. The hard steel proved too much for the sword, however, and more than half the blade broke off and stuck into the ground. Chack almost dropped the rifle and his hands stung with the force of the blow, but he brought it back up and drove his bayonet into the man’s belly.
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