Jash rounded on him. “Treason against whom? Against what? The Celestial Mother, to whom we owe our highest obedience? Our very existence? Or Esshk—who made us too, but only to support his own ambition to rule an empire that’s crumbling around us?” Jash was ranting now. “He’s undermined the empire by subverting the Giver of Life and the order her reign guaranteed. He’s slaughtered the real Hij, the ancient Hij of Old Sofesshk, and the timeless stability they represented. And his arrogantly distant, unsupportable assaults on prey we disdained and no longer understood have resulted in innumerable defeats and brought this reckoning upon us!” Jash wasn’t exactly sure the last part was entirely Esshk’s fault, but he’d absolutely attempted to capitalize on the chaos that ensued. “You won’t speak again,” he roared at Sagat, “or you’ll be destroyed at once—and your master will have no eyes to see what comes to pass when we consult the Celestial Mother . . . and the enemy!”
CHAPTER 45
////// Southwest bank of the Zambezi River
The rain was over; all the Sky Priests back on Big Sal said so, whenever they managed to get through by radio or get reports from the planes starting to venture overhead. Wind’s still a bitch, though, grumped General Pete Alden. An’ this damn mud! He was riding on the back of Taa-leen’s tank again, churning, roaring, fishtailing northwest through bloodred, rocky soup. Though menacing clouds lingered to the north, the sky above was mostly clear, admitting the steamy, blistering rays of an afternoon sun intent on reestablishing its presence with a vengeance. Pete pulled his canteen from his belt and took a tiny sip before offering it to Taa-leen. The Lemurian division commander took a grateful gulp of his own, then, with a questioning blink, passed the canteen below. Water’s gonna be a big problem if we don’t get to the supply depot soon, Pete knew. Nobody would drink the rancid runoff hereabouts. An’ that’s just to keep the army alive. We need fuel and ammo to keep fighting.
There were more trees here at least, a few that survived Grik axes scouring the place for wood to shore up or cover trenches. And a lot of that effort had been wasted, since the fourth and final line had already been abandoned when the bedraggled remains of Pete’s two corps stormed it just at dawn. Pete wished they could’ve hit it sooner, but they had to regroup after the bloody, nightmarish melee in front of the third trench. Otherwise, he’d have had nothing left to lead but an utterly exhausted, disorganized mob. And once they had the final trench, he’d been almost desperate to stop, to let his army rest, but the main Repub force coming up from the south was still too far away. The Grik had the numbers to crush either one of them if they put things together. They had to keep pushing, keep them off balance, keep them running. Somehow, they had.
Bouncing as the tank lurched, Pete eyed the few short, fat, clumpy-topped trees he saw as his abbreviated tank column thundered past. Only six machines remained—including one of the slower veterans of Zanzibar that just showed up in the middle of the fighting. Its low speed wasn’t a factor now, since between getting stuck and breaking down, it was all any of them could do to keep up with the weary infantry columns, hurriedly and somewhat haphazardly reassembled by divisions, trudging through muck that seemed to stretch to the sea behind and the mountains ahead. Pete knew that wasn’t the case. Elements of the Army of the Republic now lay just beyond some low hills to the south, and a great forest—he wondered if the trees were the same as these—wasn’t far in front. But the stumps of what had once been forest here as well now jutted up like broken teeth in the mouth of hell.
“The wind will help dry the mud,” Muln Rolak offered, seemingly reading his thoughts. The old Lemurian had nimbly joined him on the tank shortly before, though he’d have clearly preferred to ride a me-naak, or even a paalka, despite the discomfort of sitting on one of their broad backs. But neither animal would stay near enough to the bellowing, smoking machine for him to talk to his friend, and Pete flatly refused to ride double with Rolak. “It’d look stupid,” he’d insisted. So now they talked—more properly, yelled—at each other, and Taa-leen as the shot-battered tank wallowed onward.
“Fat lotta good that does those poor guys,” Pete shouted, nodding out at the troops.
“I’m told it’ll dry quite quickly,” Rolak insisted. “Though it might seem this is the stormy season, it’s appaarently not the rainy season. Odd as thaat sounds, there’s a distinction.” He waved his hand around them. “All this will be haard as stone again in days.”
“Who told you that?”
“Hij Geerki,” Rolak confessed, blinking surprise for Pete’s benefit. “He came in with a draaft of his Grik from Mada-gaas-gar, just before the storm, to supply gener-aal labor at Arracca Field. A few prisoners haave been taken downriver for him to interview about such things. And, of course, much of whaat the Sky Priests know about the seasonal weather here came from Grik sailors we captured at Zaan-zi-baar.”
“We have prisoners?” Pete asked, somewhat shocked. “From this fight?”
“Quite a few, I understaand. Perhaps hundreds.”
“Huh. I’ll be damned.”
“I imaagine so,” Rolak grinned, blinking genuine humor.
Pete looked sidelong at him. “You’re in a awful good mood, considerin’,” he grumbled. “An’ last night,” he added lower, suppressing a shudder. “We came that close to losin’ the whole damn war.”
“But we didn’t,” Rolak countered simply, “and the plaan—which I considered overly complicated, as you know—seems to haave worked quite well.”
“Not that complicated,” Pete denied, “just lots of moving parts that went to shit. The basic idea was pretty simple.”
“Indeed,” Rolak agreed, still cheerful. “But you miss my point. Of course the moving paarts of the plaan went to shit; they were each in intimate contaact with the enemy. Cap-i-taan Reddy, you, and I all expected thaat to haappen, and those directly commaanding those seemingly disassociated aaspects rose to the chaallenge—as we’ve come to rely on them to. Why do you suppose I raised so little fuss when you younglingly insisted on gaamboling forwaard into the attaack yourself? You knew you’d be needed there at some criticaal point, and I trust your instincts enough thaat I knew—if you lived long enough—you were probably right.” He grinned. “I also knew I’d haave to organize some effort to save your aass.”
“You’re just making shit up to make yourself look good.”
“I need not invent anything to do thaat.” Rolak sniffed. “But you digress me. Returning to my aargument: though maany paarts of the plaan haad to be . . . modified on the fly, the graand scheme, primarily formulated by Cap-i-taan Reddy and Mr. McFaar-lane—both of whom remain refreshingly modest regaarding their straa-tegic thinking,” he jibed, “seems to haave come off raather well.”
The tank had been laboring up a slight rise, and as it reached the top, Pete was distracted by the sight of the river on their right. It was surprisingly low down in relation to the advance and Pete realized they must’ve been on a gently rising grade all along. Green forest still dominated the far shoreline, flanking steep hills that turned to mountains in the distance. No way we ever could’ve pushed through there, Pete realized, and the Grik knew it too. That’s why there’d never been any choice but for us to butt heads here. His gaze was quickly drawn to the smoldering wreck of a Grik BB in the near shallows, then expanded to encompass the Repub monitors, smoke streaming from their twin funnels as they guarded the cluster of transports gathered behind an impromptu but healthy-looking defense of a broad beach at the bend of the river. They’d reached the Maroons at last, and Pete felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. A handful of me-naaks quickly gathered in the open behind the barricades, mostly constructed of crates, and started galloping uphill in his direction.
“He’s right,” Taa-Leen agreed. He’d been listening to his headphones with one ear while trying to keep up with the conversation behind him. “A few Naancys is scouting ahead, an’ with a few exceptions, a
ll they’re seein’ is the baacks o’ the Grik, runnin’ for the forest south o’ Sofesshk.”
“Swell,” Pete said, and meant it. “Now shut this thing down. Have all the tanks stop here. We’ll never get ’em down that slope, anyway.” He grinned. “Well, we could, but we’d never get ’em back up here if we did. Fall the crews out an’ tell ’em to hit the shade for a while. They’ve earned it. There’s a clump of those dopey trees along the ridge that drops off to the river. We’ll get some o’ those Shee-ree an’ Maroons to lug fuel and ammo up here. They’ve got wagons an’ paalkas.”
One by one, the roaring engines died, and a kind of quiet that Pete had forgotten existed descended. At least for a moment. That’s when the cheering started, rising from the parched throats of tired troops, eventually stretching down the straggling columns to the southeast. Most of the troops couldn’t see the depot yet, but the excitement spread from others who could, and in their minds, just reaching it was a victory. It was, of course, but it would be a while before anyone knew how complete it was.
Pete and Rolak helped Taa-Leen out of the tank, the division commander’s legs too rubbery to support his weight at first. Willing members of the Triple I, providing close support for all the tanks, jumped up and hauled all the crews out and half carried them to the meager shade. The tankers were so caked with foamy sweat that Pete could hardly recognize them as ’Cats. Finally, he, Rolak, and Taa-Leen slid to the ground and waited while the me-naak riders approached. The me-naaks themselves balked a few yards away, nostrils flaring at the smell of hot iron, oil, and sweat, but the riders slid off their animals and splashed in the mud, striding forward and saluting.
“Colonel Will, Lieutenant Colonel Durai, Lieutenant Colonel Naasra,” Pete greeted the commanders of the Maroons and Shee-ree, as well as the CO of the 5th B’mbaado. He was rarely so specific about rank unless chewing somebody out, but Maroons and Shee-ree had a bumpy history. If he just called them all “colonel,” they’d start fighting over who was really in charge. As for Naasra, Pete didn’t know her, but she might be one of those ’Cats who didn’t like taking orders from Shee-ree or Maroons. Fortunately, no matter how tired he was, he remembered that simply addressing them all formally should squash any bullshit. Regardless how glad he was to see them, however, his eyes had already fastened on to somebody else he hadn’t expected at all. “Major,” he added with a growing smile.
Bekiaa-Sab-At smiled back, tilting her helmet away from her face. She looked just as worn as anyone in Pete’s command, her tattered smock and leather armor as black with dried blood as her brindled fur. She and a human companion stood in stark contrast to the relatively clean troops who’d secured the beachhead depot against minimal, confused resistance. All the me-naaks looked rough, and Bekiaa’s in particular practically sagged where it stood. Pete could only guess what Bekiaa had been through, but some inner reserve of energy had animated her eyes with obvious pleasure, and she actually lunged forward to embrace Rolak, Taa-Leen, even Pete. Self-consciously, Pete raised a hand and patted her shoulder.
“Ah, she’s Legate Bekiaa, in the Army o’ the Republic, makin’ her senior ta any colonel while she holds the title,” said her companion, a tall, tough-looking young man, vaguely familiar. His tone was somewhat sharp and disapproving, and Pete would’ve sworn it was protective—as if Bekiaa needed protecting! “Ye can take her back, I suppose, an’ call her what ye will, but she directly commands the hardest-fightin’ division in our army. Now may not be the best time to muck things up.”
“Optio!” Bekiaa chided, while Pete and Rolak both laughed. “This is Pete Aalden, Gener-aal of all the Union Armies and Maa-rines!”
“An’ ye talk ta General Kim any different?” the man accused. “I know who he is.”
“Then you should also know we’re extremely well aacquainted with Legate Bekiaa and her quaality, and would never dream of mucking things up just now. Though we most emphaatically do waant her baack when the time is right,” Rolak said evenly.
Bekiaa grinned. “Gener-aals, may I present my aide, Optio Jack Meek.”
Pete reached to shake the younger man’s hand. “You’re Ambassador Meek’s boy,” he stated. “Interesting guy.”
“Aye,” Meek grudged, but shook the offered hand.
“Good to meet you . . . Optio.” Even Pete knew Meek was more senior in Inquisitor Choon’s intelligence service than his army rank implied. He looked back at Bekiaa. “But what’re you doing here? How did you get here? Where’s your division? Where’s Courtney?”
“Gener-aal Braadford’s safe, coordinating the movement of his corps with Gener-aal Kim, whose main army now lies less than eight miles south. The Grik opposing him haave fled. As best we can tell, except for a pocket of five or six thousaands thaat Colonel Saachic’s caaval-ry cut off, all of Second General Ign’s Grik are destroyed or in retreat.”
“Gener-aal Braadford,” Rolak observed, blinking surprise.
“So it was Ign after all,” Pete muttered. “I suspected as much.”
“We only suspect as well,” Bekiaa confided, “but raadio reports from your Arracca Field via our airborne Caantets confirm thaat’s what your prisoners say.”
Pete looked at Rolak. “More than they’ve told us.”
Bekiaa diplomatically cleared her throat. “In any event, Gener-aal Faan’s Third Corps and Gener-aal Mu-Tai’s Twelfth, as well as my own division, are much closer.” She pointed at low, brushy hills to the south. “Probably just a couple of miles by now. I expect your scouts haave made contaact already. The Gener-aals provided us with their own and some of their scouts’ mounts so I could ride here and make contaact with Col-nol Will.” She nodded at the Maroon, then grinned again, blinking mischievously. “Kim and Choon wanted to send Repub caaval-ry, under Gener-aal Taal-Gaak—which would’ve been very historic, I’m sure—for the first meeting of all Aallied forces in this hemisphere. But judging by the re-aaction of some of Taal’s horse caav to meanies”—she blinked amusement at a remembered scene—“I strongly recommended we use Faan’s animaals.”
“I suspect you also strongly suggested you be the one to make contaact,” Rolak said dryly.
“Optio Meek and me,” Bekiaa replied sweetly. “We were closest after all, and well . . . I know you.”
Colonels Will, Durai, and Naasra had been reduced to whipping their heads back and forth during this exchange, but Will finally got a word in. “What’s it all mane, Gan’rals?” he asked. “Are armaes are cambinin’ at last, the Gareiks are an tha’ ran, an’ we hare thare’s a truce a’ same sart at tha’ Gareik Palace at Sofesshk.” He hesitated. “Daes it mane we’ve won?”
Impulsively, Pete hugged Bekiaa again, the stench of her sweaty smock and bloody leather, as well as the filthy me-naak she’d ridden, going unnoticed. No doubt he smelled as bad or worse. “What it means, Colonel, is now we can really push the bastards,” he said. “Keep ’em going, keep ’em running, an’ wear ’em out. I expect our cavalry”—he glanced at Bekiaa—“horse and meanie, if we can teach ’em to get along or keep ’em apart, will be a big help with that. Grik never have liked cavalry. Probably never even occurred to ’em to break anything to ride—if there’s any such thing on earth that’d let ’em. Maybe a meanie would, raised from an egg. We may never know. Anyway, we keep enough pressure on the lizards, and sooner or later they’ll either fall apart—or have to stop and fight. My money’s on the second bet.” His voice turned harsh. “If it comes to that, though, we’ll kick their asses straight to hell.” He sobered, looking at a big chunk of a column of infantry that had ground to a halt to hear and see what was happening. They looked dead tired, but his excitement must’ve been catching because none seemed out of it, none looked ready to quit.
“Have we won?” he repeated Will’s question, raising his voice. “Depends on how you look at it, after last night. We kicked the lizards outa their trenches an’ sent ’em off with their tails between
their legs. An’ we’re alive. That tells me we won a battle.” Satisfied cheers and yips rose around them, but Pete was shaking his head. “Have we won the war?” he shouted, and quickly answered himself. “Not yet.” He looked at Bekiaa. “But, by God—by the Maker—we ain’t lost. An’ I’d’a helluva lot rather be in our shoes than theirs!”
CHAPTER 46
////// Palace of Vanished Gods
Third Division’s General Mersaak himself led Safir Maraan’s Silver and Black Battalions of her own personal guard regiment, the fabled 600, in pushing reluctant Grik back from the positions they’d taken near the small dock. That had been the biggest test so far of how compliant the enemy would be to the horns. Quickly, the 600 formed a corridor leading from there, through the Allied perimeter, and to the palace itself. Two companies of the 3rd Baalkpan and what was left of the 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines (about the same number) formed an honor guard carrying the Stainless Banner of the Trees for Baalkpan, the silver and black flag of B’mbaado and Aryaal, the Stars and Stripes of the Marines, and the brightly embroidered flag of the United Homes—all flapping loudly in the whipping wind—out to meet USS Walker.
Matt Reddy wished they could’ve flown the Empire and Republic flags too, but nobody around here had examples and there hadn’t been time to have them made. The battered old destroyer gingerly maneuvered around the wrecked Grik BB and hardly kissed the dock, brown river water churning forward from reversing screws, and lines were thrown to ready hands waiting to secure her. Spanky had brought the ship in and Matt, already resplendent in his best whites, hat, and even white gloves, stood near the brow, while Chief Jeek’s pipe relayed instructions for final adjustments to the height of the accommodation ladder. Finally, with all engines stopped and lines singled up, Matt briskly descended to the dock and saluted the waiting flags before exchanging salutes with the officers who met him.
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