Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  “I have no doubt,” one of the warriors wearing the slash device agreed, lingering after the rest scattered to perform the tasks Jash assigned.

  “Who are you?” Jash asked, and pointed his snout at the slashes. “What is that? It’s nonstandard. A new device?”

  There’d been no standard badges of rank, or even official flags, in all the Gharrichk’k Empire until recently. Still, Jash thought he’d learned all the accepted emblems.

  “‘First Ker-noll’ is also new,” the warrior replied. “I’m First of One Hundred Sagat, in service to Lord Regent Champion First General Esshk.” His tone was touched with the slightest hint of insolence and he drew a claw across the painted slashes. “These mean I’m Dorrighsti, and belong directly to Esshk.”

  “As do we all,” Jash snapped, “and through him, the Giver of Life.” He paused. “Ah, I see. You’re in the garrison across the river, part of Esshk’s personal guard.”

  “I am, and I brought word of the invasion.” Much older than Jash, with a tall, broad crest, Sagat looked appraisingly at the younger warrior. “You’ve taken much upon yourself, First Ker-noll.”

  “That may be,” Jash agreed coldly, “but you already failed your duty.”

  Sagat seemed to accept that and the insolence vanished. He spoke earnestly instead. “The Giver of Life must not fall into the claws of the prey!”

  “I’ve sworn to protect her.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll do your best. But what if she’s taken?”

  Jash looked at Sagat and blinked, bewildered. “Then I’ll take her back.” His eyes narrowed, suspicion forming. “I will do my duty,” he snapped, then turned and stalked away, shouting for runners.

  “As will I,” Sagat murmured, and went to join his two comrades waiting for him by the trees.

  CHAPTER 28

  ////// Palace of Vanished Gods

  During the hour after all Chack’s officers and Silva returned to the HQ, some went on to their units and discreetly started pulling them back from their covering positions around the palace. Only snipers remained to keep Grik heads down and cover the movement. This was aided by a methodical but frugal mortar barrage. Chack had hoped to capture a few Grik cannon, but there weren’t any in Old Sofesshk. If there ever had been, they must’ve been moved to the front. And the only cannon of any sort they’d brought with them was a pair of mountain howitzers, their main parts—tube, carriage, and wheels—disassembled and dropped separately. All had been found, as well as most of their ammunition, but they had another, specific purpose.

  As soon as it was confirmed that the fallback had begun, Chack merely nodded and turned to the comm-’Cat. “Send ‘Execute Claam Bake,’” he said. Then he, Silva, Lawrence, and several others—Moe and Silva’s “platoon” was gone now, reabsorbed by their units—went outside to watch the show.

  It took almost another hour. The storm building off the east coast had remained stationary—fine for now, but slow storms often become strong ones—and the sky in that direction had taken a dark, purplish tinge. The sky overhead remained a bright, hot yellow blue, however, and eventually dark little dots began to fleck it, coming from the southeast. Lots of dots.

  “Must be every Nancy we have,” Silva observed, squinting his one eye.

  “Almost,” Chack confirmed. “And a few Fleashooters. The rest stay on alert. We know the Grik still haave a few of Muri-naame’s planes.”

  “I guess,” Silva reflected, “but what about fuel? They can’t burn the same shit Grik zeps do. Not good, anyway. An’ they can’t have many bullets left. Prob’ly savin’ ’em up for some surprise o’ their own. Hopefully, we’ll make ’em use ’em stupid.”

  “Hopefully.”

  Silva grunted, looking at Lawrence. The Sa’aaran’s left arm remained in a sling but he held a Baalkpan Arsenal copy of a 1911 Colt in his right hand. He could move his injured arm enough to reload it. “I sure wish ol’ Gunny Horn was here,” Silva muttered wistfully. Unspoken was a collective wish that Risa, Simy Gutfeld, I’joorka—too many to list—were along as well. “He’ll be sorry he missed this.”

  “No he ’on’t,” Lawrence denied adamantly. “He’s not a dun-ass. And he’s doing a crucial task in Sa’oie, training crews to her great guns.” He eyed Silva. “As you should too. Lots greater things you should do than this.”

  Silva rolled a layer of sweaty grime off his wrists and frowned. “Nah,” he said. “Maybe you’re right about Arnie, but I reckon I’m doin’ what I’m best at. An’ killin’ Griks is about the most important thing I can do—for me.”

  “Whaat’ll you do if you ever haave to stop?” Chack asked, genuinely curious.

  Silva looked skeptical and waved that away. “There’ll always be Griks that need killin’,” he predicted, “but even if there ain’t, I can kill Doms. That’s pretty fun too, if you recall.”

  Chack blinked distaste. “I didn’t enjoy thaat. Some Doms are baad as Grik, maybe worse, but some are just people. I don’t enjoy killing people.”

  “An’ then there’s them damn Leaguers,” Silva continued, ignoring Chack and warming to his subject. “Lots o’ them need killin’.” He shrugged. “Look, maybe I’d be useful in Savoie, or trainin’ gunners for Walker’s new sisters.” He nodded at the Allin-Silva rifles held by some of the troops around them. “Hell, I’m pretty good at comin’ up with stuff to kill things with. But I’m at my very best”—he hesitated uncertainly—“my . . . safest, when I’m killin’ whoever Captain Reddy points me at. Let him figger out if they need it or not.” He looked at Chack. “Ever’body hates this war, an’ I get it. I hate like hell what it does to people I care about. But . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s kinda like Mr. Cook said about jumpin’ out o’ the plane. It’s like that fer me ever’ time I go in a fight, an’ honest to God, I never had so much fun in my life.” He looked down. “Never been on the right side so much or done so much good . . . Just by doin’ what comes natural,” he added more softly, then took a long breath. “I ain’t a good guy, Chackie. Not by nature. But as long as there’s this here war, an’ the skipper shows me the way, I can be, see?”

  The flight of Nancys was diving now, a long string of them aiming directly at the palace.

  “Don’t know what I’ll do if the war ever ends,” Silva continued distractedly, watching. “Go off by myself an’ kill boogers for a livin’, I guess. Won’t be fit to be around decent folk, an’ that’s a fact,” he added gloomily.

  Pairs of large bombs, the biggest Nancys could carry, dropped from each little floatplane as it pulled up and away. The first impacted on the palace itself, exploding with a bright orange ball of flame that gushed down the massive structure. The other hit in front of the entrance, washing fire across dozens of Grik. Many jumped up and danced in the flames, the macabre movements punctuated by hideous shrieks. But that was only the start. Bomb after bomb fell remorselessly to build the conflagration into a live thing that convulsed and swirled and consumed all other life beneath it. It seemed impossible anything could survive, even inside the palace, but there’d been underground tunnels and vents beneath the Celestial Palace on Madagascar. They could only hope the same applied here. It made sense. The Grik didn’t always get along with each other, and they’d always used fire in war as well. So those inside should be protected and have provisions for ventilation. At least that was the theory. If the new Celestial Mother got cooked, they’d deal with that when the time came. It might eliminate a few options, but wouldn’t materially affect their plan—in the short term.

  The last bombs fell among flames already dying. The gasoline and gimpra sap that filled them would set fire to just about anything flammable but was quickly consumed when dispersed. Within the perimeter established around the palace, there was little other than bodies to burn. Smoldering Grik rolled on the ground, wailed and reeled drunkenly, or staggered through the desolation. Small whumps were heard and
bubbles of white smoke appeared when cartridge boxes cooked off. Chack was blinking horror at the scene, as were many others, yet he waited only a short while before he stood. ’Cats, Impies, and Khonashi all tied moistened bandannas around their faces. Those enclosing the long, toothy snouts of the Grik-like Khonashi looked like feed bags for horses.

  “Attack!” Chack roared. His order carried around the perimeter, repeated by yells and whistles.

  Silva stood and helped Lawrence to his feet. “Hope you been polishin’ your Grikish!” he shouted with a grin. “Might hafta do some talkin’!”

  “Let’s go,” Chack urged them impatiently as his Raiders started vaulting the low wall and began their sprint. Silva adjusted the Doom Stomper slung across his back, glanced at his Thompson to make sure the bolt was back, then nodded. Lawrence released the slide on his .45, chambering a round. Together with the troops around them, they dashed into hell.

  Nothing could prepare them for the scene they beheld as they met the enemy breastworks, and certainly not for how many Grik, scorched and in agony, still managed to fight. Charred, smoking apparitions rose up and met the Raiders’ charge with a ragged volley and fixed bayonets. Most were almost helpless—eyes blind and streaming, chests heaving as they gasped or coughed uncontrollably—but many had somehow escaped serious injury and fought like maniacs.

  A couple dozen Raiders fell to that first, ill-aimed volley, but the Grik had no time to reload. Allin-Silvas crackled, their big slugs blowing Grik back, and Blitzerbug SMGs stuttered continuously, sweeping all before them. Across the breastworks they poured, slackening rifle fire replaced by bayonets. Blitzers, pistols, and Silva’s Thompson still clattered in short bursts, but otherwise the fighting turned to steel on steel.

  And the smell! Hot smoke scorched Silva’s lungs, even through his bandanna, but the stench of burned fuel, cooked flesh, crisped feathery fur, and voided bowels nearly made him retch. He deflected a weakly thrust bayonet with the barrel of his Thompson and fired three rounds into the Grik that aimed it. “Larry!” he croaked, “to your right!” Lawrence spun and shot at a healthy but unarmed Grik, leaping at him with teeth and claws. Its head jerked twice in midair and it collapsed at his feet. Chack was using the bayonet on his Krag, the trusty rifle already empty. Lawrence’s pistol popped twice more; then he paused to eject the empty magazine and insert the next, ready in his left hand. Two Grik went for him while he was distracted. Silva killed one, but then the Thompson was empty. He swung the heavy weapon against the side of the other Grik’s head, knocking it aside with a crunch of breaking jaw. Lawrence dropped the slide on his fresh mag and shot the reeling, smoldering Grik.

  “Goddamn!” Silva roared as razor-sharp claws raked down the back of his left shoulder. He spun to swing the Thompson like a club again, but Chack was already driving his long bayonet into the enemy’s chest. It squalled hoarsely until blood spewed from its mouth. Silva nodded thanks at his friend and reloaded his weapon. “Need my cutlass an’ pistol for this,” he shouted, but he wasn’t about to drop the Thompson. With the Doom Stomper already slung, trying do the same with the heavy SMG would leave him too clumsy to fight with anything.

  “Should’a not take that stu’id Doon Stonker to this,” Lawrence scolded, emptying his own pistol again. “Is useless!”

  “You brung that,” Silva shouted back, nodding at the long-barreled flintlock pistol bouncing from its hook on Lawrence’s belt. Of all Silva’s weapons, that one had really been more a trophy than anything, and he’d finally discarded it. Yet Lawrence, who’d never been sentimental about “things,” retrieved and kept it for some reason. Silva doubted it was even loaded. “An’ you never know,” he continued, loosing a burst at a group of Grik that had some of their guys at a disadvantage. “We may be here awhile. The ol’ Doom Stomper’s come in mighty handy before.” He peered through the drifting tendrils of white and black smoke, eyes burning and fuzzy with tears. “Heads up!” he bellowed. “Fresh lizards comin’ outa the chute!”

  Uninjured Grik were rushing from the arched palace entrance. All were yelling their own defiant cries. “Goddamn!” Silva exclaimed, almost admiringly, emptying his Thompson again, firing into the pack. “They’re fightin’ like fiends!”

  “Of course they are!” Chack replied. The new Grik were dressed and armored more richly than the others, but carried only spears. “I bet those’re paalace guards. But all these Grik’ve been protecting their Celestial Mother! Their living Maker on this world!”

  Enough Raiders with Blitzerbugs had gathered near the opening that the initial fearless charge quickly collapsed under a fusillade of lead. But more came, deliberately or accidentally late, bolting out while their enemies reloaded. Their spears found a few victims, but then they turned into spinning, rolling, leaping machines of death, teeth and claws combined with astonishingly acrobatic moves reminiscent of demonstrations Silva once saw in China. They too were soon shot down, but not before killing or crippling three times their number.

  “Sonovabitch,” Silva gasped, reloading his Thompson again and pointing it at a few Grik squirming on the charred, blood-spattered paving stones. Abruptly, there were no more dangerous Grik nearby and the firing around the palace had diminished to an intermittent patter. “Thank God all Griks don’t fight like that!”

  “Indeed,” Major Jindal agreed, suddenly joining them in the smoke. His eyes were running, like the rest of theirs, and his sword looked dark and lumpy with drying blood. “Ghastly! Utterly ghastly!” he exclaimed, gazing at the corpses all around. More than a thousand Grik had probably died just in the six or seven acres inside the breastworks on this side of the palace. Who knew how many more surrounded it? Most had been burned alive. A couple hundred Raiders also lay dead or wounded, and the cries of the latter tore his heart. Corps-’Cats were already busy, scattering and helping those they could.

  Abel Cook approached with First Sergeant Moe, Sergeant Pokey trailing behind. Abel was walking slow and staring around, eyes haunted. Silva suddenly remembered the kid had been the one in charge of the giant flamethrowers on Santy Cat. Cook had lost his helmet and blood coated the side of his face, streaming from a cut near his hairline. He didn’t even notice it as he watched a Grik trying to drag itself away, breaths rasping short and rapid, laced with pain. With its plumage burned off, its tail naked, it really did look like a crawling lizard.

  “Perhaps . . .” Cook began. “Perhaps we should put them out of their misery.”

  Silva spat a stream of yellowish tobacco juice on the living corpse. “What for?” he snapped coldly. “They’re just Griks.”

  Abel stiffened before him. “They’re living things in pain, that look a great deal like some of my Khonashi,” he retorted. “They’re certainly related.” He turned to Chack. “Do you want any member of our force to see their cousins treated so callously, particularly after Major I’joorka suffered such similar wounds?”

  “Khonashi may look like Grik, but they ain’t Grik,” Silva countered, looking appraisingly at Pokey as if wondering where he fit in. He shook his head, frustrated, then blurted, “An’ they didn’t kill Risa.”

  Chack blinked sudden understanding. Despite everything Silva said earlier, he wasn’t an indiscriminate killer. He needed to hate those he slew to “enjoy” it. He’d always hated the Grik and their other enemies before for what they’d done, but Risa’s death made his hatred more personal—and darker. He’d heard the hint of admiration in his voice for how hard the Grik were fighting, but that came in the heat of battle when his feelings were more normal, for him, and less complicated. With a moment to reflect, the Grik had reverted to vermin in his heart.

  “Detail a compaany to baayonet the enemy wounded,” Chack ordered Abel, “but be quick about it. The rest of your regiment’ll staart clearing bodies and reinforcing the breastworks. Make them as strong as possible.” He tried to see across the river through the smoke but it was impossible. With Allied air rov
ing at will, there wasn’t much chance of a counterattack now, but that would change after dark. “We’ve secured the perimeter around the paalace, but once the Grik react with sufficient force, we may not be able to hold it any better thaan the enemy did. We must secure the paalace itself.” He nodded at the dead guards that had spilled out. “Clearly, some haave survived inside. So caan we. And we must hurry or our ‘prize’ might still escape through hidden tunnels.”

  Abel Cook stepped in front of Chack. “The First North Borno was the least resisted and suffered the fewest casualties in the attack,” he stated. “I request the honor of leading my regiment into the palace.”

  Chack blinked compassion at him, then gestured at the arch. “Your request does you honor, but I fear you’ll find none in there. Not only do I need the steadfaast courage of your Khon-aashi outside, to guard against the unexpected—there must still be Grik in the city—but our objective now is to secure a certain Grik female,” he reminded delicately. “Even the Khon-aashi segregate their youngest mating-age females until they learn to control the . . . smells and signals they caan send. We know Grik females have the same powers over males.” He blinked at Lawrence. “He withstood the presence of the old Celestial Mother, but he’s also almost as different from these Grik as you are from me. The Khon-aashi are closer ‘cousins,’ as you put it. Never haaving haad the opportunity to expose them to the caaptive Grik female on Mada-gaas-gar, we caan’t predict how they’ll reaact.”

  Abel Cook pursed his lips, but nodded understanding. Chack turned to Silva. “You’ll lead the way. Maany of us haave been in the Celestial Paalace on Mada-gaas-gar, but you and Laaw-rence are the only ones who know how they defended it. Your experience will be our guide. Laaw-rence, our only Grik speaker, must stay a bit baack, however.”

  “I talk Grik,” Pokey reminded.

  Chack started to object that Pokey would be more affected by Grik females than anyone, but Silva interrupted. “Might be handy to have the brass-pickin’ skink along, like a canary in a coal mine. He starts actin’ squirrely, we know we’re gettin’ close. An’ there’s only one o’ him. Should be able to keep him from hurtin’ himself or anybody else.”