A comm-’Cat raced up, splashing through wind-whipped puddles starting to run like little rivers. “Gener-aals!” he cried. “Gener-aal Rolak sends that First Corps has baashed through to the third Grik trench. Only one remains behind it. The Grik haave come out of their trenches, however, and counterattaacked! And the left flaank of his assault reports maany Grik maassing to strike.” The comm-’Cat straightened, rain gushing from the rim of his helmet, soaking his smock. He looked somewhat pitiful, but was apparently conscious of the momentous orders he carried, perhaps even his own small place in history. “The time is now,” he said loudly, tail slashing with excitement, “and Gener-aal Rolak requests thaat you will begin your attaack!”
“Very well. Paass the word to Gener-aal Mu-Tai to move immediately. No whistles, no drums—nothing to alert the enemy.” Faan was sure something would happen—somebody would fire a weapon or lightning would illuminate the assault—but they were only about three hundred yards from the Grik trench here and if the Grik were as surprised as he hoped, a little warning shouldn’t matter.
“Whaat of our taanks?” Saachic asked, waving at the machines behind them, still silent. They’d been attached to his cavalry.
“You may staart them, but we’ll leave them for now unless they’re needed. If all goes well, they’ll be too slow to help us. If not . . .” Faan shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.”
Where they sat on their miserable, dripping me-naaks, they never heard or saw XII Corps begin its attack. By some miracle of the Maker, nobody accidentally fired a weapon, and nothing occurred to alert the Grik. The first they saw, under a searing bolt of lightning lacing the heavy clouds, was an eerily silent mass of troops cutting across their front in an oblique approach toward the opposite position. Twelve thousand Austraalans churned through the mud, keeping a creditable line of advance without a sound they could hear.
“Gener-aal Loi, remind me to compliment Gener-aal Mu-Tai and his Austraalans. Untested or not, I doubt your Ninth Division could maaneuver better under the circumstaances.” Faan wished he could see, and unconsciously reached for the Impie telescope in its leather tube. His hand drifted away. Even if it wasn’t so dark, the glass would be fogged to uselessness. It didn’t matter. More lightning revealed that XII Corps was almost halfway across. “I believe the time haas come, Gener-aal Loi,” Faan said. Loi nodded, actually blinking gratitude, and dashed forward, shouting at the comm-’Cats in the trench. In seconds, dozens of field telephones up and down the line started sounding a distinctive whoop, whoop, whoop! repeated over and over. Muffled shouts reached them, and 9th Division clambered out of its trench and paused to dress its ranks and await its comrades to the right. The entire corps started across just as the first panicked Grik cannon opened up. A shell burst behind Faan, Saachic, and his cavalry, shattering empty tents. The wind took scraps of canvas and carried them away. Me-naaks shifted sullenly, a few glaring about. They were used to this and ready to go. Besides, they were hungry.
“Didn’t even take time to aim!” Saachic cried with satisfaction.
“Maany will,” Faan countered, to cool his enthusiasm. He looked at the young cavalry officer. “I wish I could send the entire corps behind you aafter we break through, but Twelfth Corps may be crippled by then. If so, it will certainly need the experience of Ninth Division to bolster it. Eleventh Division will follow you as closely as it caan. Leave a sufficient screen,” he reminded fussily.
“Of course.” Saachic grinned.
“And with the Maker’s help, the rest of us won’t be too faar behind,” Faan shouted, as several more case shot exploded nearby, still long, where there was nobody left to hurt.
“With the Maker’s help,” Saachic agreed, then grinned again. “Sure you don’t waant some of my caaval-ry to accompany you?”
Faan patted his impatient mount. “You’ll need them,” he said grimly, then surprised Saachic with a chuckle. “I fear the few me-naaks we must take will cause problems enough! I understaand Repubs haave fine caaval-ry, but ride something caalled ‘horses.’ Haave you ever seen a horse? I hear they’re very faast, but may not bear the presence of me-naaks. It would be a terrible thing if our caaval-ry chased theirs away!” He paused, staring ahead. Cannon thundered along the line, now clawing hard at XII Corps as it neared the enemy trench, but there was even less musket fire than he’d expected. Surely the Grik caan count on at least one shot from their weapons as well? he thought. Twelfth Corps’ front rank poured its first volley, ragged but fierce in comparison to the enemy’s. Grenades thumped, barely audible under another pounding band of rain. The second-rank volley flashed, the roar lost in thunder. Then, to Faan’s amazement, he heard . . . cheering.
“Advaance your caaval-ry now, Col-nol Saachic!” he ordered tensely, blinking concentration. “I’ll come with you.”
It was just as well he did. By the time the 1st Maa-ni-la Cavalry Brigade thundered up to the enemy trench, the fighting was all but over and the gleeful confusion of victory was almost as bad as a defeat, from an organizational standpoint. Both corps had stopped and intermingled to a shocking degree in and around a practically empty trench. Apparently, only the guns had been fully manned, and the troops, expecting a bloody melee, were stunned by their insignificant losses and perhaps just the fact they were alive. Saachic’s brigade kept a tight rein on their rebellious mounts, extremely upset they weren’t allowed to feast on Grik, and General Faan rode forward, bellowing for officers to control their units. “This isn’t over!” he roared. “Whaat’s the maatter with you?” He pointed to the northwest. “Your brothers and sisters are dying there, and here you caper like younglings! Gener-aal Loi!” he shouted, seeing 9th Division’s commander at last. “Form your troops! Where’s Gener-aal Mu-Tai?”
A crack of lightning briefly illuminated a burly older Lemurian, bawling at troops in a strange accent. “There you are!” Faan cried. “We must push on! I thaank the Maker for this easy crossing, but if the enemy isn’t here, he’s there.” He pointed northwest again. “First Corps will suffer accordingly,” he added bleakly. “Your war is thaat way, however!” He pointed south. “Lead your troops; reform them on the maarch. There’ll be more Grik, I promise!” He hesitated very slightly, making a decision on the fly. “I’ll find you directly.”
He whirled his mount back to face Loi, but looked to Saachic instead. “Send a runner baack to your taanks. Haave them and all our reserves drive due west and strike the enemy that left this position in the flaank.” He turned back to Loi. “As for you, find Gener-aal Priaa. All of Third Corps will now follow Col-nol Saachic and strike the Grik attacking First Corps in the rear. You command Third Corps now, and there’s not a moment to lose!”
“But . . . whaat about you, Gener-aal?” Loi asked between shouted orders to junior officers trying to untangle their troops. Faan was glad to see she wasn’t intimidated, only confused, by the greater responsibility he’d cast upon her.
“You’re senior to Priaa and with Saachic’s help caan easily get Third Corps moving without me!” he shouted back. “You haave disciplined troops with plenty of experience. Twelfth Corps is . . . less experienced, and Gener-aal Mu-Tai may need me to see opportunities and hazaards the Grik might present.” Mu-Tai could be fully capable of independent movement, but that was still unproven. His troops were obviously game, but XII Corps would have to smash past the Grik in front of the Repubs without 9th Division now. Faan himself must bolster it. He grinned at Loi. “Besides, as agreed, it would still be best if I were there when we meet the Repubs at laast!”
The Third Trench
South bank of the Zambezi River
General Taa-Leen had taken to his new, unexpected command of all the Smushers with a gusto he hadn’t anticipated. His machine, designated Number 4, he discovered, radiated unbearable heat, ruined his hearing even with the headphones Sergeant Kaalo gave him, and his position in the turret was painfully cramped. The spattering lead of Grik m
usket balls had forced him lower in the turret, and he could only see through narrow slits. Worse, everything around him was hard and sharp, and he suspected he hadn’t taken a worse beating in the old shield walls they used to fight in. That was saying something. And if it weren’t for the excitement, he might’ve gone mad in the tight confinement. Roundshot banged off the dented armor carapace of the Smusher with a stunning, mind-numbing regularity, and just the motion of the vehicle bruised and cut him and jarred his bones.
But Taa-Leen was killing Grik with an impunity he’d never imagined. He fired the hot machine gun, sweeping tracers through a raging mass of Grik, using controlled bursts as he’d been taught. His only disappointment came when the big gun was empty and he had to wait while the overworked youngling loader quickly brought more ammunition. Thaat poor loader haas the worst job of all, he thought, squirming around, taking aammunition to each weapon as the gunner shouts for it. He haas nothing to brace himself with against unexpected jolting, and caan’t even see outside! But Taa-leen could see, and he gloried in the slaughter he was wreaking.
“All Smushers, spread out! You’re bunching up too much!” he called into the big round microphone in front of his face. “Smushers on the left, be on guard. The dope on the horn is thaat all the Grik in the south trenches are heading this way.” The mic was supported by a thin strap of leather-bound brass attached to the earphones, in turn supported by two more straps across the top and back of his head. He didn’t have one of the padded leather helmets, and uncomfortably wore the one he’d been issued over it all.
Another roundshot banged off the portside sponson, smashing the water jacket on the MG and sending the gunner screaming to the hard, bouncing deck. Taa-Leen glanced down and saw a spreading pool of blood that the loader was trying to staunch. The breech probably claapped him as haard as the caannon-ball, he thought grimly. A bright flare erupted to his right and he saw a Smusher engulfed in flames. Troops crowded around, trying to pull the crew out. He sighed, realizing he had only nine Smushers left. Two had been destroyed at the first trench, three at the second, and three more had gotten stuck or otherwise disabled. The one on the right was the first to die as they neared the third trench, but they were taking heavier fire than ever. Still, the Grik are running, he thought with satisfaction. Break this line and I doubt they’ll stop at the next. He fired his gun, shredding the top of the berm in front of him, sending bodies jerking back, making a fine spray of blood that glowed orange under the stabbing lightning. Then he blinked.
He couldn’t hear the Grik horns over the roar of the engine, but saw the infantry jogging alongside the tank begin to slow. That’s when the Grik ahead came out of their trench and he was taken back in time. They carried muskets with bayonets instead of spears and swords and crossbows, but they were coming as they had the first time he faced them. A bomb of terror went off in his guts and he hesitated for an instant before he knew what to do. He may have been playing tanker, but he was still an infantryman. “Turn left to bring the right gun to bear and stop,” he shouted down at Sergeant Kaalo. Without question, the iron beast slewed left in a shower of mud thrown up by the starboard track. It lurched to a stop.
Taa-Leen stood in his turret and saw the troops around him beginning to waver. They had plenty of courage but hadn’t expected this. Their initial reaction was just like his, but he had to rally them—if he could be heard. He squeezed the Press-to-Talk switch on the braided wire to his headset, so the other tankers could hear him too. They’d repeat what he said if they were able.
“Staand!” he roared down at the troops. “Re-form your raanks, three deep. Staand steady and we’ll slaughter them!”
He felt as much as heard a pounding behind him and was amazed to see Pete Alden rejoin him on the tank. He was splashed with mud and blood and his beard was a tangled, matted mess. A gaggle of Marines were with him, some dragging a comm cart, one of the heavy radios, complete with batteries, enclosed in a box on a wooden carriage. Pete was holding his rifle and a long, thin staff with wires trailing behind. “Call half your tanks back on the left to form a line at a right angle to yours,” he hollered, voice hoarse. “I’ve already got Sixth Corps doing the same. Gotta refuse our flank. Half the Grik left in the world are about to hit us there.” He pointed south. Lightning bloomed behind him. “Rolak’s bringing the Second Corps reserves and everything we’ve got left,” he continued, “and General Laan’s sending his reserves to hit their flank!” Pete grinned, and his teeth glared bright in the muzzle flash of a Grik gun. “What a glorious, screwed-up mess!”
Taa-Leen didn’t understand.
“General Laan got bogged down a bit, but sent his whole corps to kick the Grik in the ass,” Pete went on. “All we hafta do now is hold and bleed the bastards.” Taa-Leen blinked, and Pete finally realized he didn’t get it. They could all hear the Grik horns now, and tens of thousands of them were charging, drawing close. The first hastily formed rank, staggered and wavy, but at least half a mile long, began delivering company-, then regiment-sized volleys that sent hundreds of Grik facedown in the mud. Machine guns on tanks were still stuttering, and a few small mortars were lofting bombs into the enemy rear.
Pete laughed. “Don’t worry, Taa-Leen! So what if the plan went in the shitter an’ the whole Grik army’s about to hit us like a steel strakka straight outa hell? Look on the bright side: now we don’t have to chase ’em anymore!”
Taa-Leen just blinked again, then shook his head. “You better move, Gener-aal. I gotta staart shooting.”
“Sure, sure,” Pete agreed, but jammed the staff supporting the antenna in the turret. “You can still shoot with that in there,” he shouted dismissively. Hefting his rifle, he jumped down and was gone. Baack to playing Maa-reen, Taa-Leen predicted sourly, trying to avoid the antenna as he realigned his sights on the charging Grik. “Then again, whaat else caan any of us do now?” he asked himself aloud.
First and VI Corps’ volleys were continuous, their smoke swirling and gushing away as rank after rank presented their rifles and fired into the Grik army that had become a rampaging horde again. And volleys lashed southward now as well, as the first Grik summoned from the rest of the line began to appear. Seeing what was happening and with no further orders to guide them, they charged directly into the attack. Some groped for the eastern flank of VI Corps’ line, running up the abandoned trenches only to be met by Rolak and his reserve. Taa-Leen knew little of that, though the chatter of excited, panicky tankers filled his ears. More than once, their voices were cut off by screams. Tank Number 4’s engine still rumbled, but it had become a stationary fort. With nothing else to do, Kaalo was helping the overwrought loader. The portside gunner was dead, and the one to starboard soon joined him when an unlikely musket ball slipped through his viewing slit and hit him in the side of the head. The compartment below was filled with a furry, nauseating mist and the sound of retching. But Kaalo took the starboard gun and joined the fight.
Taa-Leen was aware of all this but couldn’t even spare a moment to look. The Grik wave was breaking against them, the front rank of riflemen resorting to their bayonets. Taa-Leen’s gun jetted steam from the water jacket, the fitting from the reservoir loose with heat, and all he could do was kill—and hope they didn’t run out of ammunition. Thunder wracked the heavens, grenades exploded, Blitzers rattled, and tracers probed the driving rain and fleeting fog banks, hacking at bodies, shattering bones and weapons, and adding bloody rivers to the flooding night. ’Cats and Grik screamed and screeched, and all there was was noise.
CHAPTER 35
////// Palace of Vanished Gods
The anteroom to what was apparently the final, uppermost chamber in the palace, where the desperate Grik guards made their last, furious stand, was an abattoir. The dark stone walls were splashed with blood, spalled by hundreds of gray bullet strikes, and almost seemed to be growing fur from all the downy, feathery Grik fur stuck to the blood. Weapons, entrails, severed
limbs, even an extraordinary number of broken teeth were scattered all over the floor, and the pile of bodies heaped in front of the inner chamber almost blocked the entrance. Chack realized sickly that there were more Lemurian dead than Grik. As always, his Raiders had lost all caution when their objective was near. Dazed wounded were being helped or carried past them, and tired, blood-spattered Raiders were dragging corpses aside from the pile, blinking nervously at the opening as if expecting attack from within at any moment.
Pokey was writhing on the floor, jaws bound shut, secured by six resentful, battered-looking ’Cats. His eyes bulged, questing spastically, and he made a dismal keening sound. Blood bubbled and sprayed from his snout with every heavy breath, and Chack suspected at least some of the broken teeth they’d seen were his.
“Poor little fella,” Silva said solicitously.
“Him?” a ’Cat retorted indignantly. “He nearly killed us! He fought them other Griks too, but you tole us to caatch him.” Pokey suddenly thrashed, trying to break loose, and his captors pressed down harder. “Well, we caatched him,” the ’Cat gasped. “Now whaat?”
“Bind him and take him below,” Chack decided. “He’s no use like this. He should recover when he’s away from here.” He blinked anxiously at Lawrence. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Lawrence jerked a nod. “I a coonhound.”
Silva nodded at the arched entry. “Then sidle over an’ yammer some o’ that Grikish gibberish at ’em. Get ’em to roll over on their backs an’ wave their arms an’ legs in the air er somethin. You an’ Pokey’s the only ones ever got fightin’ Griks to surrender before.”
Lawrence hissed at him, then looked at Chack. “I’ll try. ’Ut these aren’t Uul ’arriors or sailors,” he added skeptically. Moving to the wall, with Silva backing him with his Thompson, he slowly eased his head around to peer into the gloomy space. Abruptly, he jerked back just as a spear whipped past his snout and sailed down the passageway, clattering on the stones. It was amazing it didn’t hit anyone.
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