River of Bones_Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “At a paltry five knots?” Ciano snorted. “Several days, I’m afraid. In theory, drawing only a little over three meters, we should be able to go faster where the river is straight. Our pilot is accustomed to the deeper draft of the largest Dom warships, however.”

  Gravois frowned. “Could he be persuaded by that?”

  Ciano made a wry face. “No. Just as we’re concerned about offending our hosts, he is most determined not to run us aground. If he did, I suspect he’d face a similar fate to that of the rebels. He won’t risk it, and would probably go slower if he could.”

  Three days later, Gravois was on the bridge with Capitano Ciano as Leopardo and its oiler, having gathered a pair of Dom steam frigate escorts, steamed into the north end of a very large lake their pilot called Lago de Vida. Hundreds of small boats were in view, as well as several large warships. More barges were headed toward the river. They’d have to be towed back or wait until later in the season to return. Only a steamer or one of the swift biremes of the Blood Cardinals could move against the current that prevailed for now.

  It soon became obvious that here was a major city indeed, probably the largest in all the Dominion. The lake was almost entirely surrounded by buildings of all sorts, mostly of stone. Many were clustered together, forming vast ghettos, while others stood alone—great villas with scenic views on impressive estates, perched on the flanks of mountains rising to the west. Most surprising, perhaps, even the ghettos looked clean and well kept. At least from a distance.

  Finally, as they steamed closer to the center of the lake, the pilot raised his hand and swept it to the side in a gesture encompassing the western shore. “Behold!” he said in his odd Spanish, “and give thanks to God as you lay eyes on the glory of Nuevo Granada! You now gaze upon the very gateway to Heaven, which no heretic has ever seen before! Certainly none have ever been summoned to view it! Are you not amazed?”

  “Indeed. It’s quite impressive,” Gravois exclaimed aloud. Almost as impressive as Alex-aandra, in the Republic of Real People, he silently conceded, if in a more primitive, less artistic way. “We’re most sensible to the honor.” He stepped out onto the starboard bridgewing and raised his binoculars. As he’d been told to expect, a great pyramidal temple rose perhaps fifty meters high, completely dominating the center of the city. It was built of countless massive stone blocks, each approximately seven meters square, judging by the height of the people thronging around it, and the blocks were stacked to create distinctive levels. Studying it, and the rest of the city, Gravois was surprised to see numerous smaller pyramids geometrically arranged around the first. He easily counted twelve, since they were probably twenty-five or thirty meters high and there were no taller buildings in the city. He wondered what significance their size, number, and placement might hold. Scanning closer, he was impressed by the stone wall encompassing the central city—and the many large gun embrasures piercing it. He doubted the wall could stand for long in the face of a determined, concentrated bombardment, even by the heavy muzzle-loading smoothbores the Allies had on their ships. And there was evidence the NUS had large-bore rifled guns. But only a very determined bombardment by wooden-hulled vessels could succeed, given the sheer number of well-situated Dom cannon. Gravois smiled to himself. Of course, even these defenses would be utterly at the mercy of any armored League warship. Perhaps we will find occasion to demonstrate that one day? He shook his head. No. We’re here to make friends. I must stop automatically thinking of everyone I meet as an adversary!

  He leaned toward Ciano and spoke in French so the pilot wouldn’t understand. “You know the League, on my advice, never approached Captain Reddy or his Grand Alliance with anything like an overture of friendship. Perhaps the fact that the British and Americans were our enemies on the world we came from influenced that decision to some degree, but in retrospect, it might have been a mistake.”

  Ciano looked at him, surprised. Gravois nodded. “Though the Grand Alliance tends to keep territory it wrests from its aggressive enemies, none of its members is inherently expansionist.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The Empire of the New Britain Isles has a few far-flung colonies, but they are limited and have remained static for a very long time.”

  “You think we could have . . . cooperated?” Ciano asked.

  Gravois snorted. “I doubt that. And we could never have become friends with the Union or its allies; we’re far too different. With the possible exception of the Empire and Republic, they govern themselves with too much—how can I say? I think the best way to describe it is exuberant, tolerant chaos. And even the Empire and Republic accept more independent thought than we ever could. I believe they all would find the League too . . .” He smiled. “Ideologically demanding. That said, we all have priorities, and it is a vast world. I believe we could have coexisted with the Allies in relative peace for years—before it became necessary to destroy them. We could never have brought them willingly into the fascist fold, particularly with so many . . . animals they’d never abandon among them.” He shrugged. “So a confrontation was and is inevitable.”

  Ciano nodded agreement but spoke cautiously. He disliked discussing politics, particularly with such as Gravois. It was so easy to say something that might cost him his career—or his life. “The Grik, Doms, and Kurokawa as well are expansionist by nature. Conquest seems seared into their very bones. Each believes it their destiny to annihilate all opposition to their ultimate supremacy on this world.”

  “As does the League,” Gravois agreed philosophically. “And like the League, they cannot suffer the existence of examples of another way.”

  “Indeed. But unlike the Grik, who seem incapable of innovation, or the Doms, who are, but resist it with great tenacity, the Grand Alliance—even the Lemurian ape-folk who make up its greater part—are amazingly innovative and industrious. Given the time a peaceful coexistence could have afforded them, they might soon have equaled even our technology!”

  “Exactly why I proposed the path we took—and was probably right to do so.” Gravois sighed. “Hopefully, Kurokawa has crushed their First Fleet by now, and what remains will be ripe for the Grik to pick. The Alliance and Grik will continue to slaughter one another until even the victor can be managed. The question remains, however: what of the Dominion? They’re religious zealots, crazed by their twisted faith. But are they not also fascists of a sort already? Except for those who resist them from within, they’re slavishly devoted to their leaders and gladly sacrifice their very lives on command! If they could be brought to accept a few of the truths we bring them, along with our aid, we might even learn a thing or two from them.”

  Ciano pursed his lips, unable to imagine anything they might learn from the Doms. He chose to say nothing more as Leopardo neared the city and they continued to gaze at the spectacle of it all.

  “This is close enough,” the pilot said as they drew within a quarter mile of the dock paralleling the waterfront defenses.

  “I beg your pardon?” Gravois asked, confused. “Why should we stop here? The dock is there,” he pointed.

  “It is,” the pilot agreed, sounding surprised. “I thought it had been made clear. You cannot dock; you must anchor. No heretic can touch the sacred soil of the Holy Dominion and live! That is the Law of God, older than time itself.”

  “But . . .” It was Gravois’s turn to be surprised. “I thought I was supposed to meet His Supreme Holiness.”

  The pilot actually laughed. “That is impossible! Only Blood Cardinals may gaze upon his holy form, and even then they may not truly see him.” That confused Gravois even more, but he nodded at Ciano, who cried, “All stop! Call the anchor detail!” Bosun’s pipes twittered and feet pounded on the fo’c’sle. Moments later, a great splash accompanied the clattering rumble of the anchor chain. It ran out quite a distance, and Gravois was impressed by how deep the lake was. He turned back to the pilot. “I don’t understand, señor,” he said. “We were
invited.”

  “Yes,” the pilot agreed. “An honor without precedent. Particularly since His Holiness Don Hernan de Divina Dicha himself will condescend to meet with you aboard your fine ship.”

  “So much for liberty,” Ciano told Gravois wryly in French, his tone almost relieved. “I doubt there will be many complaints once the men understand it means their life to go ashore!”

  “How soon might we be . . . blessed by Don Hernan’s presence?” Gravois asked the pilot, trying to conceal his annoyance.

  “Quite soon. The proprieties must be observed and a propitious day chosen.” He hesitated, actually counting on his fingers, then he beamed. “No more than three or four days.” Victor Gravois’s face turned beet red and his eyes flashed.

  “We should leave at once!” Ciano ground out, teeth clenched.

  “No,” Gravois replied. “Whether the insult they offer is deliberate or not, I’m sure they’d view our departure as such—and there are all those forts along the river to the sea. We’ll stay a few days more and hear what Don Hernan has to say. That’s why we came, after all.”

  CHAPTER 8

  ////// Army of the Republic

  South Soala

  Ungee River

  Major “Legate” Bekiaa-Sab-At, commanding the newly amalgamated 23rd Legion of the Army of the Republic, removed her helmet and slowly raised her head to peer over the reinforced breastworks on the south side of the Ungee River. Her careful movements were meant to draw as little attention as possible, since the Grik had moved a lot of cannon down to their own forward positions protecting the other side of the river and their half of the Grik city of Soala, about a quarter mile away. Republic troops had found the other half of Soala, on the south bank of the river, utterly abandoned. Though it was obvious the enemy intended to contest their crossing, they’d sensibly chosen not to fight with the river at their back. That implied the Grik leadership knew what it was about, for a change, which bothered Bekiaa a lot. She couldn’t help peeking over the breastworks from time to time to see what else they were up to. Grik couldn’t see as well as Lemurians, even in daylight, but tended to expend a lot of ordnance on any movement they spotted, and Bekiaa didn’t want to bring that down on the people around her. Still, she had to look, and wasn’t encouraged by the growing defenses she saw. “Daamn,” she muttered, slowly lowering her head. Plopping her helmet back on, she slid into the trench below.

  Her aide, Optio (basically lieutenant, as she reckoned things) Jack Meek, regarded her like a wayward youngling. “Still determined ta’ get yer ’ead knocked off, I see,” he scolded, his expression mirrored by the blinking and disapproving looks of the men and ’Cats nearby. These were mostly members of the 2nd Battalion of the 23rd Legion, who’d originally belonged to the 10th before it was decimated on the Plain of Gaughala. Those who’d been in the 23rd from the start now made up 1st Battalion. Lots of things had changed since the narrow victory at Gaughala, and the reorganization of the various armies of the Republic into one cohesive force had been the most beneficial. But the momentum they’d gained after the battle, and during their increasingly professional and effective push through the terrible Teetgak Forest, had stalled at Soala, and Bekiaa was afraid the initiative was slipping away as well. “General Kim wouldn’t approve o’ his fair-haired lass pokin’ her fool ’ead up like a bloody skuggik, right in front of a hundred an’ fifty thousand Grik.”

  “I’m not fair-haired,” Bekiaa corrected pedantically. Like that of her cousins Chack and Risa, her fur was brindled.

  “Figure o’ speech,” Meek stated unapologetically. “An’ a fittin’ one. General Kim relies more on you than his army”—he corrected himself—“his corps commanders, for advice.”

  Bekiaa grunted. “If thaat were so, we’d’ve been across this daamn river as soon as we got here.”

  “An’ prob’ly lost half the army doin’ it,” Meek retorted. “We’re just now back up ta the seventy-five thousand we started with.”

  Bekiaa glanced around. Most of the replacements had endured hard marching and seen some kind of action in the Teetgak. More important, they’d joined the 23rd after the reforms were already in place. She had no concerns about them, and only their slightly less faded and weather-worn fatigues set them apart from the veterans now. “Each soldier here is worth two or three of what they were before,” she reminded, to grins and barks of approval.

  “That’s as may be,” Meek agreed, “but even Courtney Bradford don’t think that’s enough ta force a crossin’—an’ remain an effective force after we do.”

  Bekiaa was silent. Courtney had never been a military man, though he’d shown his mettle in combat, but the Australian engineer, self-proclaimed naturalist, and direct representative of the Union to the Republic had changed in many ways. Most recently, he’d started focusing his formidable intellect less on bugs, flying reptiles, and the plethora of other fascinating fauna on this world and more on military matters. She had to admit the strategies he’d begun to contemplate, even propose, made sense. She sighed. “I’m just frustrated. We’ve saat here for two weeks gettin’ ready to go, and the Grik’ve only got more ready for us to come. I don’t see an end to it. And now my friends are goin’ up the Zaam-beezi, alone and unsupported. . . .” She shook her head. “Haard to sit on my aass.”

  Prefect Bele, Bekiaa’s XO, approached at a crouch. Most could stand upright in the deep trench without danger, but Bele, his skin as black as General Queen Safir Maraan’s fur, was the tallest man Bekiaa had ever known. He stopped when he found her and saluted—still crouching—a small grin on his broad face. “You are wanted at the Army HQ,” he said.

  “See?” Meek told her smugly. “General Kim’s got somethin’ up his sleeve an’ wants your opinion, no doubt.”

  Bekiaa growled at him, but gathering her kit—which included a 1903 Springfield rifle—she stood and followed Bele back the way he had come. Zigzagging through the maze of trenches Courtney had designed, Bekiaa made a point of catching as many eyes as she could and nodding confidently at their owners. Originally resented as an upstart foreigner, she’d gained a reputation as an innovative leader and fierce fighter who’d saved the left flank of the army at Gaughala. She had few detractors now, from any legion.

  “Down!” came a chorus of shouts, and she, Bele, and all around her flopped on the timber floor of the trench as a stutter of loud reports popped in the sky nearby. Grik case shot, she thought. They get more and more all the time. Enough to waste on gaal-ling fire. Hot iron flailed the tops of the trenches, but there were no screams. After a few moments, she and Bele rose and continued on. There was no answering fire from Republic gun emplacements. They had few howitzers or mortars yet, and their 75-mm Derby guns, while capable of far greater accuracy, range, and a truly stunning rate of fire, were direct-fire weapons—just like Grik smoothbores—and wouldn’t be much more effective against protected positions. They occasionally performed counterbattery fire missions, knocking out Grik guns, but that worked only against weapons they could see, and the Grik were getting better at hiding theirs. If the Grik were foolish enough to attack, they’d slaughter them in the open. But Grik artillery, primitive as it was in comparison, could do the same.

  For now, Republic artillery was focused on stockpiling enough ammunition to smother the Grik forward defenses when the time finally came to strike. That, at least, was going well. The rail line had pushed almost up to the other side of the Teetgak, and hundreds of suikaa-drawn wagons made supply runs back and forth along the long forest track. The army wanted for little and had amassed a stupendous ammunition reserve. It would all likely be needed when the big push came, however, and there was no sense wasting it.

  Finally, Bekiaa and Bele reached a wider part of the trench with a lot of busy coming and going. There were also thick bundles of wire running in all directions. That was another improvement after Gaughala: field telegraphy connected all parts of the army
to its primary, secondary, and tertiary HQs, as well as its artillery batteries. New wireless sets, similar to those their allies used, had also been rushed to the front and should alleviate the confusion that had reigned at Gaughala. As some now said, “All wires lead to General Kim,” and Bekiaa and Bele followed them into a heavily reinforced bunker with lots of overhead protection.

  Inside, past the comm room where telegraphers clacked away and runners sat on benches along the earthen wall, waiting to scamper to unconnected parts of the line, they found twenty officers crammed in General Kim’s conference room, leaning over a map table or standing back, trying to see. Most looked up as they entered and Bekiaa noted a few resentful stares, though not as many as there’d once been. General Kim, Courtney Bradford, Inquisitor Kon-Choon, and General Taal-Gaak all smiled at their approach. General Taal, now commanding all Republic cavalry, had dispensed with his flashy armor and cape. Even Courtney now wore the standard muddy yellow-brown combat fatigues and black leather accoutrements issued to all Republic troops, though he still had his wide straw sombrero under his arm instead of the standard dark-painted helmet. Bekiaa herself probably remained the most unusually dressed, still wearing her tie-dyed camouflage combat smock, faded blue Marine kilt, and platter-shaped helmet. In battle, she’d also wear her once brilliant white rhino-pig armor. It was a mottled tan now, permanently stained with mud and blood.

  “Ah, Legate Bekiaa,” Kim greeted. “I’m glad you could join us.”

  Bekiaa shrugged. “Nothin’ else going on.”

  Kim frowned, choosing to ignore the sarcasm. “Yes. And I’m afraid that will remain the case a while longer. We haven’t the forces to just bash across the river yet”—he shifted his gaze to Bradford and Choon, both looking as unhappy as Bekiaa, but they nodded—“and Kaiser Nig-Taak himself is reluctant to condone an unsupported frontal assault. He believes it will be too costly. We’re here to discuss another way.”