“My God, Chackie!” Silva exclaimed in admiration. “You was a fightin’ fiend, tearin’ into them lizards like a goddamn push mower an’ spewin’ out Griks like grass clippin’s. What a sight! Why, I thought you was gonna get me for a second!”
Chack nodded, managing to stand on his own and grasp his weapon. He realized with a sick feeling he nearly had gotten Silva. Blinking and looking around, he first realized Moe was the one who’d been wiping his eyes, and he started to say he doubted Cook had been willing to spare him, but thought better of it. Next he realized his wedge had become a stable firing line, behind which the exhausted, battered survivors of the 11th were staggering back toward the breastworks. There weren’t as many as he’d hoped.
Silva knew exactly what he was thinking. “’Bout four hundred left,” he shouted over the shooting and the wind, which was whipping even harder, scouring their smoke away. “Maybe half that fit for duty,” he continued.
“Beg to report,” said a young man Chack didn’t know, bringing up the rear of the Marines. He looked as bad as the rest and his hoarse voice was hard to hear. “Captain Randal Milke, Company B, First Battalion, Eleventh Marines,” Milke supplied. “I’m new to the Seventh Regiment,” he added superfluously. “But I must report that none of us would be alive if not for Chief Silva—and your timely arrival, of course. My own inexperience . . .”
“Oh, belay that shit, Milky,” Silva shouted with a trace of irritation. “You did fine.” He looked at Chack. “He did fine!” he yelled over a heavy gust. “Now let’s all get the hell outa here.” He pointed. The Grik had fallen back, some even taking cover behind the low stone wall. Many still fell to fire from the line and the breastworks, but more were shooting back as well. Musket balls whizzed around them and there was an occasional thwack and scream. “They’re startin’ to wad up again, back in the city. Good thing they couldn’t send more than they did, or they’d’a got us all no matter what. But they still got the numbers an’ we got nothin’ but a dinky line o’ sticks an’ rocks to hunker down behind. They’ll all be comin’ soon.”
“I expect so,” Chack agreed, gulping from a water bottle someone handed him, and watching to make sure most of the 11th was finally secure. “And now it’s time for the rest of us to skee-daaddle as you say, baack behind cover. But I believe we may soon haave more thaan our in-aadequate breastworks to protect us,” he added cryptically. Silva arched the brow over his good eye, but Chack just shook his head. Tail whipping behind him, he raised his voice. “Relief detail! By the right flaank, at the double time, maarch!”
* * *
* * *
First Ker-noll Jash, surrounded by several officers and twenty guards—all Slashers—as well as the ever-present trio of “garrison” troops left by First General Esshk, raced through the ruins between the main part of Old Sofesshk and the battered buildings fronting the road along the riverside retaining wall. A number of buildings there, where the fighting had been fiercest, were relatively intact. The greatships hadn’t hammered them, and Jash didn’t have artillery. Gasping, they ducked behind a stone wall with bodies heaped on both sides and crawled through the ragged, bullet-pocked entrance to an abandoned dwelling. Jash paused to peer at the battle a moment longer, even as his new “executive officer,” Ker-noll Shelg, tried to tug him inside.
He shook off the hand; he’d been restrained long enough. He understood, as a commander, he must protect himself, but his earlier experiences had taught him that even if a commander can’t lead from the very front, he must be able to see it. Not only to direct the battle, but so his troops could see him do it. He was convinced it made a difference. Throughout this fight, however, he’d been held back in the city at the insistence of Esshk’s enigmatic guards who somehow radiated more authority than their rank suggested. And besides, Jash could see fairly well from where he’d been. The assault—the whole operation, down to the costly but audacious crossing—had seemed to go according to the plan he’d designed. He’d been content, confident of victory, even if it looked like the enemy had already taken the palace. That revelation drove the garrison guards to distraction, and Jash assumed it was because they realized how miserably they’d failed their own duties. But he suspected the Celestial Mother should be safe. The enemy wouldn’t actually harm her. . . . Would they? He’d get her back.
Then, of course, as most plans do, his began to fall apart. Having fixed the one force in place along the waterfront, he’d moved to isolate and chop it up, coordinating his great assault with what should be the utterly unexpected lighter attack from the river. To his consternation, both had failed. He’d seen the enemy overrun and engulfed, but then been amazed to see the dense, protective formation begin to emerge from within its own annihilation. He couldn’t imagine how they did it. No degree of discipline or ferocity could possibly overcome what he’d sent against them.
For the slightest instant, even from the distance at which he viewed the battle, he was sure he caught a glimpse of the light-haired giant he’d first seen at the land battle near the nakkle leg, hacking and stabbing all around with a broad blade no longer than those the Gharrichk’k used. It seemed too small for him, but he plied it with artful dexterity and savage force. Jash was seized by the conflicting impressions of rage and admiration, and felt safe indulging the latter, since the giant’s force was still clearly doomed. Then another shooting, bayonet-bristling column churned outward from the breastworks around the palace, along the riverbank, and fought its way into contact with the force that should’ve already been destroyed! He’d never seen anything like it. And even as his frustration mounted, so did his respect.
“I must get closer,” he’d pronounced brusquely. “Sound the call to halt the attack, but send runners to direct our troops into the forward fortifications abandoned by the enemy. All other forces, wherever they’ve landed, will advance to join them there.” He had no idea how many warriors he’d lost in battle and the crossing. Perhaps a whole division. But he’d started with thirty thousands, less than half yet committed to the fight. And most of what he’d lost in the water, at least at first, were only Uul. He could see what the enemy had left, barely three thousands behind their breastworks or recoiling back to them, and many would be exhausted, wounded, perhaps ready to turn prey—though he’d never actually seen the enemy do that.
Better, though the wind still howled and the air was thick with moisture, the rain had finally stopped entirely. Judging by the midday sky, it could even begin to clear. That might bring enemy flying machines, of course, but he should have time to pause the battle and allow his troops to clean and dry their weapons at last. His final assault would be overwhelming, and even if flying machines appeared, they couldn’t attack the point of decision without slaughtering their own.
He couldn’t know it, but he was watching his troops draw back from the doorway of the same HQ building that had served his enemy. Warriors already under cover were frantically swabbing their weapons with hunks of dry, absorbent fibers, passed out by Firsts of Ten and twisted onto the ends of their rammers. Iron rods methodically pumped, driving water from breeches and wiping greasy black fouling from garraks that had managed to fire. The same Firsts of Ten, with no finger claws at all, rapidly plied their specialized tools, unscrewing the cones threaded into the backs of barrels, clearing them or just replacing those they dropped from bulging pouches on their belts. Jash ordered that dry caps and ammunition be distributed.
For a time, except for the wind and the occasional long-range shot that invariably dropped one of the Firsts of Ten the enemy must’ve identified as important, there was almost silence. Jash was free to contemplate the light-haired giant again. Such a massive creature—so strong! he thought, unable to help wondering if he could defeat him alone. And the battle thus far, despite its unfortunate beginning, from my perspective, had been such a good fight, he grudged. A . . . wholesome fight, with warriors standing on the ground, on their own two legs. Not at all
like the battles in the galleys against Santa Catalina. He’d absolutely hated that, though it helped form him. He regretted his losses, particularly among his Slashers, but was generally pleased, considering his first battle as a general—in all but name—essentially won. Whatever happens now, he thought, I will be remembered. He turned and entered the dwelling at last, moving to a battered table. A hide with a crude sketch of his and his enemy’s dispositions was already tacked to the uneven surface, and he began to design his final assault.
A runner lunged through the entrance and hurled himself to the floor with a muddy splap. Ker-noll Shelg attended him, while Jash continued to concentrate on the map.
“Lord First Ker-noll,” Shelg spoke excitedly, getting his attention. “There’s word from across the river, from Ker-noll Naxa!”
Jash regarded him, wondering how such specific word could come. Signal pennants would be almost impossible to read in this wind, across the mile of river. “How?” he asked.
“This one brought it,” Shelg replied, nodding at the now-upright warrior, “in a small boat at the height of the latest fighting.” Despite the rain, little had fallen far enough inland to quicken the river. It remained rough from the wind, but sluggish.
“Tell me,” Jash insisted.
Naxa—and Second General Ign—had raced all night by carriage and would soon arrive in the woods beyond New Sofesshk. Just as important, they were bringing sixty thousand troops, turning them around as they marched to the battle in the east. More would join them as “the direction their duty lay was made increasingly clear.”
“That is exactly what was said?” Jash demanded, troubled, and the courier jerked a diagonal nod.
“The very words of Second General Ign himself. He also cautions you to hold in place if you can, and wait for him to join you. Above all, defend the Celestial Mother.”
“Then . . . the battle at the nakkle leg is over. Ign must have won.” Jash looked down, then raised his head. “But Ign can’t know the palace—and probably the Giver of Life—is already in the claws of the enemy, and he can’t cross to join us now. The enemy’s flying machines will slaughter his warriors as easily as General Alk’s.” He paused. “We remain on our own, and our forces are quite sufficient.” Inwardly, he was relieved he couldn’t think of a way for Ign to come to his aid. This battle—and the victory—would still be his.
“Yes!” First of One Hundred Sagat snapped urgently. “The palace must be secured now.” He stopped and regarded Jash with the utmost seriousness. “Even at the cost of the Giver of Life herself,” he stated flatly. “This is the command of Regent Champion First General Esshk.”
“What? Nonsense!” Jash exclaimed, stunned. “Her life is what we fight for!”
“You forget yourself,” Sagat sneered. “We fight for the Race—and Esshk! He has decreed that the Celestial Mother not be taken or defiled by prey. If she has been, she cannot live.”
“You forget yourself,” Jash snarled back. “Regardless of the patron you claim and airs you assume, I command under Second General Ign’s authority, and Esshk is not here. I’ll hear no more of this, and only the possibility you speak for Esshk has preserved your miserable life!”
Ker-noll Shelg cleared his throat. “Should we signal the greatships of battle to resume their bombardment?” he asked diplomatically. “Now that all the enemy is massed near the palace once more?”
Jash stepped back outside and crouched by a broken lamp he knew the enemy used to pass signals of their own. Beside it was the remains of a very large garrak of some kind, shattered, and partially covered by a dead Grik. Nearly everyone else followed him, also crouched low. Jash’s eyes left the broken weapon and he peered over the wall at the palace, considering Shelg’s suggestion. The troops around him appeared ready, and their weapons were clean and loaded. More were moving in behind, their Firsts shouting for them to tend their garraks as well. A bombardment would be wise, he thought. These are good troops and have suffered much already. He glanced at the sky and saw tiny smears of blue peeking through. But a bombardment will take time to order, prepare, and have its effect; time the enemy flying machines may not give us. Besides, he almost snorted, much as I appreciate artillery, it is so impersonal. Don’t the foes we face—have already faced today—deserve better than indiscriminate slaughter? If there ever was such a thing as worthy prey, capable of becoming other hunters in the way things once were reckoned, this enemy would certainly qualify. He shook his head. What a strange thought! My very existence, and that of the New Army itself, proves this war has left such ideas behind!
“Yes,” he said abruptly, gazing at the brooding battleships on the river, then back at the enemy breastworks. “Signal the greatships to resume their bombardment. Admonish them to hurry, however, and make their fire as destructive as they can. We can’t wait long.” He gauged the wind direction by the smoke from the city, now boiling away to the northeast. “The pennants will signal them to cease firing when we begin our assault.”
He’d started to step back into the building when he unexpectedly heard the great, thumping roar of one of the greatships opening fire. Mere moments had passed and his command couldn’t possibly have been relayed. He whirled to see. The more distant greatship had certainly fired, and had either raised or loosed its anchor to get underway and turn somewhat to ripple its heavy broadside downriver. Jash’s fury turned to bafflement. The ship would never fire at nothing, and the Palace obscured his view of any possible target. Apparently, his troops closer to the water could see, however, and a rumbling moan of dismay rose among them. The monstrous forward guns on the closer greatship vomited fire and smoke—also downriver—just as something exploded against its forward armor, throwing shattered plates far in the air, and a tight pattern of tall splashes erupted alongside it.
Jash jerked his head up to the sky but saw no flying machines. What could . . . ? More explosions hammered the farther greatship amid still more tall, tightly concentrated splashes. A funnel toppled in a rush of smoke and sparks, and iron plates were blasted away—just as two monstrous columns of water jetted high in the sky alongside, heaving the huge ship over. A great gulp of steam joined the spume, then the three remaining funnels twirled away as the top of the iron-plated casemate erupted like a volcanic ridgeline. Fire and smoke roiled high and away downwind past the palace, further obscuring this new threat from Jash’s eyes. The same apparently wasn’t true for whatever was shooting at the greatships, because the impacts against the closest one and the splashes rising around it only intensified.
“First Ker-noll Jash!” shouted a First of One Hundred, running up from the riverside, disdainful of the bullets suddenly whizzing around him. He finally crouched down under cover, and a hail of jagged lead and rock fragments pattered around him.
“What is it?” Jash demanded. “What have you seen?”
“The enemy fleet is here!” the warrior practically screeched, eyes bulging. He was bleeding from a bullet gouge across the top of his snout.
“Impossible,” Jash snarled—even as he knew it wasn’t. He’d seen what the enemy warships were capable of and had firsthand experience with how devastating their deceptively small guns could be. He’d also seen how fast their small, narrow ships were when they raced in to turn the tide of the first battle at the nakkle leg. And only their strange fast-swimming bombs could so quickly and thoroughly destroy a greatship—as he’d just seen occur. That ship was already sinking, lying on its side, flames and steam roaring from its gun ports. And the closest ship had clearly slipped its own cable and was backing away, the whole forward casemate a smoking ruin. He realized almost vaguely that it was out of control, backing toward his shore with growing speed. The intent of the likely dead hand on the wheel might’ve been to unmask the undamaged guns along its side, but it would smash aground, curving in to strike near the palace. If it made it that far. Accurate enemy fire still punished it relentlessly.
In any event, it was dreadfully evident the enemy fleet had arrived. He simply couldn’t grasp how it did it so quickly in the face of all that must’ve stood against it: shore batteries, rockets, their own fleet. . . . Surely someone had thought to block the narrows in the same way the enemy’s Santa Catalina had done?
He stiffened. But why do I assume that? he asked himself. Only because it’s what I—and probably Ign—would’ve done? But neither of us was there. Ign likely knew the enemy fleet was coming, but couldn’t have gotten word to all ships’ masters to sacrifice their vessels to block a narrow channel if they must. And no Gharrichk’k ship’s master would make such a momentous decision on his own. Esshk—wherever he is—should’ve commanded every ship they had to prepare to do that very thing, Jash thought bitterly, but this wouldn’t be the first time Esshk was found wanting in foresight.
Jash saw the enemy ships now through a brief gap in the smoke, furtive sunlight dashing down to illuminate them against the dark backdrop of high, wooded hills a dozen miles downriver. He glanced again at the wreckage of the greatships and saw the closest grind to a halt sixty or seventy yards from shore. The enemy’s closer than the hills, of course, only two or three miles. But they did all this from that far! He suspected the enemy fleet must be fairly large, but all he could see was four sleek shapes, one larger than the others, advancing into this wider part of the river. A couple of smaller ships, actually very fast boats, were closer.
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