Jash noticed something else. Not only had the enemy all but stopped shooting at the grounded greatship, but they were also taking fire themselves. Shore batteries and antiair rockets flailed at them from the south bank of the river, mostly churning water, but they had to be doing some damage. And the cumulative damage of their long passage might be severe, Jash hoped. But when he saw how furiously the four lead ships pummeled every gun, every rocket emplacement that revealed itself, a suspicion formed that quickly became a certainty.
“They’re clearing a path for more vulnerable ships behind them!” he cried at Shelg.
“Troop ships,” Shelg guessed with horror, and Jash nodded.
“It must be so.” He looked across at New Sofesshk and knew Ign could never reinforce them now, and the enemy would only get stronger. “We must attack at once,” he decided. “Carry the breastworks in one great rush, secure the Celestial Mother, and retreat to the north!”
“There’ll be no time to carry her away,” one of Esshk’s garrison troops with Sagat snarled. “She must be destroyed!”
Without a word, and just as quickly as he’d dispatched General Alk, Jash drew his sword and slashed the blade across the warrior’s throat, its sharp edge gliding against the neckbone. The body leaped back in a spray of blood, convulsively kicking at the troops gathered round. Jash glared at Sagat. “Have I made myself clear?” he demanded. Raising his voice, he shouted as loud as he could. “The enemy approaches, and we must save the Giver of Life! Sound the horns! General attack! Hold nothing back!”
CHAPTER 43
////// Palace of Vanished Gods
Chack, Silva, Galay, Milke, and Moe had stood gasping behind the breastworks as troops quickly scattered to take their places again, or help wounded up toward the arched entrance to the shell-pocked Cowflop. The rain had stopped and isolated flickers of sunlight cooked steam out of the ground wherever they touched. Somewhat to their astonishment, they’d also watched the Grik pull back and go to ground as best they could.
“Gatherin’ for a really big push,” Silva guessed.
“Yeah,” Galay agreed. All of them were covered with mud and washed in blood and at least lightly wounded, but Galay looked like he could barely stand. The comm-’Cat who’d tried to get Chack’s attention before the sortie now literally grabbed his sodden sleeve. Just as he began to shout into his ear, one of the Grik BBs on the water opened up. They cringed as they looked at it, but quickly realized it wasn’t shooting at them. “What the hell?” Galay shouted over the din. Then they saw the shells start tearing into it.
“That’s the style!” Silva roared gleefully. “Take that, you lizardy bastards! The skipper’s here, an’ you’re really gonna get it now!”
Deafening explosions rolled across the water, shaking more raindrops out of the sodden air.
“Go!” Chack shouted at Moe. No one but Chack heard what the comm-’Cat said or what Chack told the old Lemurian hunter. “And take Major Gaa-lay inside for treatment.” His amber eyes fastened on the Filipino who was clearly about to object. “I think Cap-i-taan Milke haas proven he caan lead your Maa-reens for the present, and you’re of no use to your men if you’re dead.”
The deep, rumbling drone of the all-too-familiar Grik horns started booming across the bloody, corpse-strewn space around the palace, and Chack turned to Silva, smiling slightly but blinking sad resignation. “I think we’re all going to get it now.”
The surrounding Grik swarmed up out of their positions like a vast gray wave, relentless as the tide. “Here they come!” came a dozen shouts at once.
“Commence firing!” Chack roared.
* * *
* * *
There’d been little said inside the Celestial Mother’s chamber for some time, and Lawrence had moved into the anteroom where a constant stream of messengers kept him apprised of developments outside. Because of the labyrinthine passageways runners had to negotiate, however, reports were often half an hour out of date. He understood radio transmissions would never reach him through all the surrounding stone, but wished somebody had thought to give him a comm section and run wires to a field telephone. No doubt they’re all in use, he thought. But the most recent report described a very desperate situation, with the Grik massing for a final, all-out assault. He wondered if Silva was still alive, and his gut ached with a flash of fury that his friend might’ve been killed while he was stuck here, doing nothing.
“Better news,” called a familiar, creaky voice from the passageway, and Lawrence saw Sergeant Moe. The old Lemurian looked terrible. His eyes were puffy and his mouth was bloody enough that he might’ve lost his few remaining teeth. The rhino-pig armor over his combat smock was gouged and stained and washed in rain-thinned blood. His scruffy fur was slick and dripping pink. Despite all that, the ancient ’Cat didn’t seem seriously injured, and moved with an ease that belied his age. He also managed a hideous grin. “Caap’n Reddy’s fought his way upriver at laast—there was less Grik ships ’tween him an’ us thaan we thought”—he paused and blinked concern—“or some pulled baack paast us in the daark, to one o’ them big lakes.” Certain now, he added, “I thought the shellin’ waas too heavy for jus’ two BBs.” He flipped his tail as if that didn’t concern him. “Either way, he’s here wit’ Second Corps. The traansports is slaammin’ aashore east o’ the pal-aace, an’ Gener-aal Queen Safir Maraan’s un-aassin’ now. Col-nol Chack says now’s the time to use the Grik broad to stop the fightin’, if we caan.”
“How?” Lawrence asked, but Moe only shrugged. “Is Chee’ Sil’a . . . not dead?” he ventured.
Moe shrugged again. “Not when I lef’ ’em, but I try ta stay away from his crazy aass!”
Lawrence nodded. “Rest. I’ll send an an-ser ’ith another.”
“No,” Moe said. “I go baack out. Whaat you say?”
Lawrence took a deep breath. “I’ll try.” Striding directly into the Celestial Mother’s chamber, he returned to her language, reflecting how odd it was that it came easier than the English he now considered his own. “You have lost,” he said without preamble. “Our fleet is here, with reinforcements.”
Lounging on her throne, the Celestial Mother glared at the Chooser on the far side of the chamber, then looked back and bowed her head. “You expect me to take your word?”
“No need,” Lawrence replied, “though you’ll probably agree I’ve told you nothing but the truth. Still, you could step outside and see for yourself. I warn you, however, if that’s your choice, I can’t answer for your safety.”
“Your warriors will kill me?” she demanded hotly, and even still a little doubtfully.
Lawrence considered. “No. Much as many might want to, they’ll obey their orders. But the battle still rages, and battles are very dangerous. Other than that, I suspect the greatest threat may come from others.”
The Celestial Mother clearly didn’t understand.
The Chooser sighed deeply and stepped closer. He looked as ragged as Moe, in his way, and had apparently been fighting a battle of his own, with himself. “Giver of Life, if I may?” he asked. For the first time, his voice was devoid of any affectation and he only sounded . . . drained.
“Speak.”
He took another long breath. “It’s . . . possible you’re in greater danger from your own troops than the enemy.” The Celestial Mother went rigid. “The New Army is beholden to Ign and Esshk before you,” the Chooser added miserably. “Why do you think, virtually banished as I was from your presence, I came here when I did? I came to take you away myself.” He pointed his snout at Lawrence. “Not from him—whom I couldn’t know was coming—but from Esshk. I had motives of my own,” he stipulated, “but foremost in my mind was to take you to another regency, still strongly loyal to you, while this one collapsed in fire.” He faced Lawrence. “I take it you have no word of First General Esshk?” He turned back to the Celestial Mother. “He’s been”—he shot a gla
nce at Lawrence—“elsewhere, and will doubtless attempt to continue the war. It’s the only way he can preserve the power he craves! And how much more difficult might that be if you’re in the claws of the enemy?”
The Celestial Mother was genuinely astounded. “He’d . . . have me slain? He could do that?”
“I consider it likely there are those in the New Army with orders to do whatever they must”—he inclined his head at Lawrence—“to keep you from their grasp.”
“And my former Regent Champion is capable of issuing such a command?” the Celestial Mother breathed aloud.
“Don’t forget the Hij of Old Sofesshk,” the Chooser reminded, slowly lowering himself to the leafy floor. Lawrence noted he made no mention of the part he played in the purge, but decided the Chooser had realized his own survival depended on how useful he might be in gaining the Celestial Mother’s cooperation. He was certainly right about that. “I’ve failed you in many ways,” the Chooser pronounced loudly, his face in the ivies again, “but I beg you’ll hear my counsel once more. My life is yours and I would rededicate it to your service!”
To Lawrence’s amazement, the Celestial Mother actually rolled her eyes and glanced at him as if sharing some secret joke. He bristled. There was no joke here. Nothing about this was amusing, and his friends were dying outside! Sensing something new, however, he restrained a furious outburst and observed.
“Will you destroy yourself, Lord Chooser?” she demanded.
After a long pause, the Chooser finally replied in a small voice. “If you so command.”
“Very well. I do not—yet. Speak your counsel.”
The Chooser visibly breathed a sigh of relief. “In that case, I believe you must . . .” He caught himself. “Should accept the offer the invaders make. Join their hunt against First General Esshk! When he’s defeated, all will be as it was before. As it should be.”
“Not as before,” Lawrence snapped harshly. “I already told you your old ways are dead. You’ll accept this if you wish to save even a portion of your empire.”
The Celestial Mother looked at him. “Must indeed. From you.” She looked away. “I’m very young and haven’t even learned all the old ways yet. How can I balance them against what you offer?”
Lawrence considered his next words with care. “There is no balance to contemplate, and it’s only because you are young that I can make any offer at all. Unlike your mother, perhaps you’re young enough to learn new, better ways, instead of the old ones that brought us to this.”
“Will you teach me?” the Celestial Mother asked, and suddenly Lawrence again caught a whiff of the scent that drove Pokey mad. So close, it had a noticeable effect, and his thoughts turned hazy. Even the Chooser began to squirm.
“Stop that at once,” he said sternly. “Using that . . . weapon is one of the first things you must change.”
Apparently disappointed, the Celestial Mother relaxed slightly on her throne and the smell began to dissipate.
“I . . . and others . . . will see that you’re taught,” Lawrence hedged. “But first we must end the fighting. There must be a way without exposing yourself to danger. Many are dying on both sides as we speak, and the second lesson you must learn is that all lives are precious and not to be wasted.”
“An easy lesson to learn with my mind,” the Celestial Mother said doubtfully, “but so different from everything I’ve already been taught, it may be difficult to feel as truth.” Her eyes narrowed and she regarded Lawrence deeply, as if he were the only other being in existence. He fidgeted. “There is a way to call those outside the palace to attention,” she finally confessed, pointing a clawed toe at the Chooser. “He can direct the operation of the device and speak to your general. I would . . . speak more with you here.”
Lawrence gulped. “No others remain with our force who can speak your tongue,” he said quickly, then nodded at the Chooser himself. “And I don’t trust him to say only what he’s told.”
“Very well,” the Celestial Mother agreed, eyes still intent, jaws and even posture forming an expression he’d never seen. Of course, his experience with females of any race resembling his own was nil. “But I expect you to return as soon as the fighting’s done and begin my . . . education.”
Lawrence gulped again but managed to jerk a nod. It was then he noticed that the Celestial Mother’s expression had changed back from . . . whatever it had been. “The first thing I’d like to know is how you came to command prey.”
He hesitated, conscious of Chack’s admonition not to lie, but uncertain how to proceed. “Come, Chooser,” he snapped instead, “we must hurry. There’ll be time for such discussions later.” The Chooser stood, and Lawrence motioned two ’Cats inside to escort him. Instead of following immediately, however, he paused and turned back. “I don’t command prey,” he stated simply, “and that’s the third thing you must learn. There is no prey in this fight, except that which we make of each other.” He nodded at the Lemurians. “They rescued my people, and I found my place among them—and others—by choice. They’re all my people now, and are far nobler than yours have ever been allowed to be.” He turned to follow the Chooser but called out behind him. “Prepare yourself. For all our sakes, I hope you’re the one to change that.”
CHAPTER 44
////// Palace of Vanished Gods
Commence firing!” Chack bellowed again, setting off for the breastworks at a run, Dennis Silva at his side. Six machine guns were already chattering, peeling deep layers off the charge, and the two mountain howitzers coughed their sprays of canister. Mortars popped and rifles crackled in earnest. But the swarm was only slowed by the ranks the fire melted away, and thousands more replaced them. Chack’s Raider Brigade braced for the seething horde swarming down.
Of all the regimental commanders that began the operation, only young Abel Cook remained. Jindal’s place had been taken by Captain McIntyre, and Randal Milke stood for Enrico Galay. Perhaps Jindal had been right and it was appropriate that here, now, both original Raider regiments be led by Imperials. Symbolism’s importaant, Chack reflected as he and Silva, puffing, took their places close to McIntyre near the center of the line. And if my brigade’s destroyed and the palaace retaken before Safir aassembles enough of her corps aashore to save us, it will be importaant to the survivaal of the Graand Alliaance that Imperiaals were here.
Runners were racing back and forth from the entrance to the palace, bringing ammunition. There wasn’t much left. Silva snatched a satchel of grenades from one as she rushed past, and Chack managed a genuine grin for his big friend. “Your favorite toys.”
Silva grinned back. “Not my very favorites,” he denied, “but they’re pretty fun. Never got to play with ’em much in the old days. Spanky wouldn’t let me. Remember when I had to actually getteem ta write a note, sayin’ it was okay? An’ then he took it back!”
The leading edge of the Grik tide erupted in smoke and musket balls. Too many found targets, with metallic clanks or hollow thumps. ’Cats, men, and Grik-like Khonashi fell back from the barricade or dropped to the ground, screaming and thrashing. Chack and Silva both crouched instinctively, but Captain McIntyre stood entirely erect, apparently unconcerned, nothing but his sword in his hand.
“Get down, Cap-i-taan,” Chack shouted at him. “And get a rifle. The chaarge is still a hundred tails out! Precious seconds remain to kill more Grik before you need a sword!”
McIntyre blinked at him, and Chack recognized his own hypocrisy. Somewhat sheepishly, he unslung his Krag and slid it up over a jagged timber in front of him. He spared a glare for Silva, who shrugged, thumping his battered Thompson down as well. “Just waitin’ on you, little buddy. An’ mine’s better for up close.” He squinted his eye. “Course, they’re gettin’ pretty close.” Without another word, he hunkered behind the weapon and started throwing long bursts at the enemy. Chack fired as well, and it seemed Silva was changing mag
azines almost as fast as Chack could work the Krag’s smooth bolt.
The firing intensified all around them, driven by the controlled, experienced terror that felt so much like panic, but couldn’t be more different from a practical standpoint. Instead of causing those afflicted to rise and flee, this kind of terror, infused with a rising dose of desperate rage, only turned the veterans of Chack’s Brigade into a more focused, lethal, single entity, with one thought in its collective consciousness: kill Grik. It became a unified organism dedicated to destruction. And even as its component parts—like fingers, toes, and tails, then hands and eyes—started to fall away, it fought more urgently to destroy the thing attacking it.
Blitzers crackled unceasingly as the Grik charge neared the barricade. Nearly everyone had one now, whether they’d brought their own or not. Blitzers once belonging to the fallen still fought to avenge them as Raiders laid their powerful single-shot rifles aside in momentary favor of rapid fire. Grenades arced out in streams, thrown as fast as their pins were pulled, and Grik were shredded or blown into the air, knocking even the unhurt down. Silva did the same, lobbing grenades forty, then thirty yards, just past the leading edge of the assault, blasting those in front down from behind and leaving smoking gaps in the charge. That furious final convulsion of destruction was enough to slow the onslaught ever so slightly, so when it finally drove home against the breastworks, the defense was bristling with bayonets on retrieved rifles once more, each held by a man or ’Cat or Khonashi who’d learned to use it well. And the sound of the impact—the shooting, booming, crashing, screaming roar of it all—must’ve been something like the cataclysmic noise a sinking ship makes when it smashes into the bottom of the sea.
These Grik soldiers might’ve been the best in the world, led by a commander they respected and fighting to recover their holiest shrine and the “mother” of their species. Chack’s Brigade was the most experienced, deadliest cream of all the Allied armies—and it was better. But Jash’s Slashers, revealed by attrition and among the first to bash into the breastworks, had experience of their own, backed by an overwhelming quantity of respectable quality.
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