River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  “Yes, Lord,” Ign actually interrupted, his tone weary. “I will, of course, destroy myself at once.”

  “No!” Esshk snapped. “As I was saying, in the unfortunate event that you cannot overwhelm the enemy and they land more troops, you must save as much of your force as you can. Most specifically yourself”—he glanced at Jash—“and as many of your apprentices as possible. The enemy fleet cannot pass the blockage at the nakkle leg any easier than we . . . and we will make it even more difficult if it comes to that.”

  Utterly shocking Ign and Jash, and it was probably fortunate no one else could hear, Esshk’s tone turned almost pleading. “You will begin to design defensive battles on ground of your choosing, as well as in the south. We cannot ever allow this enemy and the Other Hunters to combine.”

  Esshk sighed deeply, and they finally saw a glimpse of his mental and physical exhaustion. “All my grand schemes have been overturned. I have already sent runners summoning every warrior in the empire. We have even contacted General Halik at last. When all are gathered, no force on earth—combined or not—can overwhelm us. But I grow uneasy that the whole war will become one of defense. I suppose there are advantages to that in terms of numbers and supply—such is actually what that creature Kurokawa advocated from the start—but it was never possible. The Ghaarrichk’k do not fight defensive wars!”

  “Until now,” Ign said softly, and Esshk reacted as if he’d been struck.

  “Perhaps,” he whispered, “and I . . . do not know how . . .” His voice firmed. “You and the army you made must form the spine of that war.”

  Ign nodded but couldn’t escape the irony that Esshk had probably wanted him dead just a few hours before, and now implied that he had the very survival of their race in his claws. He looked at Jash. “Sound the preparatory horns. We attack in one hundred breaths.” He looked at Esshk. “Go, Lord. Be safe. The Celestial Mother cannot lead, and all relies on you. But you must prepare yourself. If I can destroy the pitiful survivors before us, the enemy will find it more difficult to land.” He hesitated. “But they will most likely land. They will continue to bomb us from the sky, and their fleet will be as safe from ours as ours from theirs. So, for a time at least, the Ghaarrichk’k must fight a defensive war. But as this enemy taught us and you yourself have seen, the greatest might can shatter against a strong defense. And as the enemy has finally come to us in attack, so will we one day return to them.”

  Tassanna’s Perimeter

  The brush-fire smoke had long died away, but great new gouts of pink smoke, colored by the red setting sun, suddenly billowed from the enemy trenches, and shrieks tore the sky as shells came in. Some burst long raining shrapnel between the Allied trench and the hospital tents, but enough of them sleeted sizzling shards directly down on the defenders. Screams erupted in the trench, and even Silva tried to crawl under his helmet. He cursed Petey for taking up so much room, then hissed at Chack as the shells kept coming. “Lawsy! Them damn lizards’re gettin’ too good at this artillery shit— Gad!” he exclaimed when a sputtering shell actually landed in the trench just yards away before it blew, blowing their hearing and showering them with dirt clods, blood, and pieces of people. They were only eighteen-pounders, compared to the hundred-pounders from the Grik BBs, but their gunners seemed better at setting fuses.

  The hellish bombardment continued for what seemed an hour but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. It was incredibly frustrating not to fire back, but the range was long for mountain howitzers and they simply didn’t have enough ammo for the long guns. Still, the shelling was so intense that Silva was sure they must’ve lost a few of their own guns and crews, anyway. Then, suddenly, distant horns bellowed and the barrage lifted all at once. Silva, Chack, and many others slowly raised their heads to peer over the top of the trench and scanty breastworks. Petey looked too, only to utter a squeaky “Skirp!” and finally bolt away, back down toward the beach.

  Silva didn’t even notice. Thousands of Grik had risen from their own trenches like a surging tide. Even more alarming, they didn’t just immediately wad up into a charging mob, but paused to adjust their alignment and raise their bayonet-tipped muskets to something like the position of port arms in front of them. Dozens of battle streamers unfurled in the breeze, and to the raucous blare of other horns, they stepped off into a loping advance.

  “Holy shit,” Silva blurted. “These’re trained soldiers, just like Kurokawwy’s an’ them lizards down on the West Mangoro!”

  “Trained to fight shoulder to shoulder, just like we were at Saay-lon,” Chack countered. “We’ll slaughter them,” he growled. Silva had no doubt of that, but also doubted they’d ever get them all. His concern was shared by most. “Here they come!” rose a chorus of shouts from many throats—human, ’Cat, Khonashi—but all one people at that moment, ready to fight to the death and bound more tightly by the certainty they were about to.

  Chack stood. “All baatteries! Commence firing!”

  Five howitzers, loaded with case at first; nine Grik eighteen-pounders; and three Allied six-pounders had survived the shelling. They all opened up at once, the staggered reports pounding their ears, muzzle flashes and vent jets stabbing the gathering twilight. Shells and roundshot ripped downrange and burst in front of the charging ranks or plowed great furrows of blood and gore. Grik artillery—and their gunners—might’ve improved dramatically, but the veterans in the Allied trench, even using captured guns, were professionals. Grik fell in oval swaths of riddled bodies, as if gigantic shotguns blasted them from the sky.

  “Oh yeah,” Silva urged. “Hammer ’em! Chew ’em up!” He was distracted when Commodore Tassanna-Ay-Arracca and several of her officers plunged into the trench beside him, all armed with a variety of Allin-Silvas, rifle-muskets, and Blitzerbugs. To his consternation, Pam slid into the trench behind them, Simy Gutfeld and an armed corps-’Cat helping her with a dazed but determined-looking Risa. His first attempt to berate them all died in his throat when he saw Risa’s manic blinking and realized she now had no leg at all beyond the bloody bandage wrapped around her knee and thigh. He gulped. “What the hell’re you doin’ here!” he finally managed.

  “Same as you,” Pam flashed back. “About to get killed. An’ you’ll let us do it how we want, or so help me, I’ll kick you in the balls so hard, they’ll pop out your ears!”

  “I will fight to the laast,” Risa proclaimed, softer, wan, almost fey, but just as unwavering. Her slack face suddenly became animated and she blinked delight. “Here we are all together again! My brother.” Chack spared her an understanding blink. “My ‘mate.’” She grinned at Silva, then clasped Pam’s hand tightly in hers. “And my best friend in all the world! I am surrounded by faam-ily. How could I aask for better compaany at a time like this?”

  Tassanna looked at her, blinking affection. Beyond her, Arracca still blazed. It would take a long time for something that size to burn to the waterline, even with occasional internal ordnance explosions and ruptured fuel lines feeding the fire. Itaa, what was left of her, burned too. She’d been entirely demolished. “My Home is gone,” Tassanna said. “The only one that remains to me is whaatever place my people, my faam-ily, make their staand.” She raised a Blitzerbug. “This raagged hole in the earth is my Home now, and I will defend it.”

  Silva grunted, laying his Doom Stomper across the breastworks and taking aim. “Crazy damn wimmen,” he groused. In his heart he had to agree with them, but he’d never admit it. And unlike that morning, he had no fear. “I don’t know what kinda ‘time like this’ you dopey broads’re goin’ on about. All I see is a chance to kill a whole shitload o’ Griks. Okay,” he muttered lower, “big lizards line up, little lizards bunch up. . . .” He fired.

  “Howitzers, load caanister!” Chack roared, gauging the distance. “Rifles, present. At three hundred yaards . . . fire!”

  The Grik charge withered under the awesome volley of two thousand c
anister balls and nearly three thousand rifle bullets. And with the enemy running practically shoulder to shoulder, it was almost impossible for any of the projectiles to miss. But there were just so many targets. The gaps in the line were quickly filled by more panting Grik—just as other gaps appeared when Allin-Silvas kept firing independently and the two .30-caliber machine guns they’d salvaged off Arracca opened up, toppling shrieking Grik in windrows. Rifle-muskets fired slower, ramrods flashing in the last light of day. Many sailors were either too panicked or unfamiliar with the weapons to load them properly, or even forgot to cap them. Unaware they hadn’t fired because of the deafening din, they repeatedly loaded charges and bullets on top of one another. If they suddenly remembered to cap them now, their barrels would burst. But the vast majority knew what they were doing and added a respectable volume to the cloud of lead the Grik charged against. Silva’s Doom Stomper got off six punishing rounds that rolled him back each time, but he probably killed a dozen or more Grik as the huge bullets tore through the ranks. Finally, reluctantly, he laid the big rifle aside and slipped the Thompson off his shoulder. The Grik wave was getting close now, visibly depleted but still outnumbering the defenders four or more to one. At a hundred yards, however, the Raiders’, Marines’, and sailors’ fire was even more effective. And on top of the blistering canister coughing from the stubby howitzers, Chack had one more surprise.

  The captured guns were loaded with gravel, shards of iron from the case shot that galled them all day, broken pieces of Grik weapons—anything that came to hand. Added to this were the howitzers, of course, but also about two hundred Allin-Silva shotguns ready to blast out twenty .30-caliber pellets per shot, and as many as six hundred fully automatic .45ACP Blitzerbugs—not to mention Horn’s BAR and Silva’s Thompson. When all the cannon fired their final defensive gust of canister and improvised shot at around forty yards, that was the signal for every SMG, shotgun, and pistol to open up.

  The effect was devastating. The whole front rank of the charge collapsed as if swept by an invisible scythe, and the follow-on ranks tottered and staggered as well. But then, the roughly ten thousand Grik who were still able finally fired back. They were winded and rushed and their aim was poor, but probably a third of the defenders instinctively dropped behind the protection of their breastworks or were blown back by the impact of big lead balls. Tassanna and Pam both cried out and fell, just as Chack roared, “Baayo-nets up! Out of the trench! Meet them in the open!”

  Silva had his ’03 Springfield bayonet but nothing to affix it to, and he didn’t want to leave the girls. But he couldn’t just wait with them until the Grik poured into the trench. With a fleeting glance at Pam and Tassanna, unable to tell how bad they were hit but seeing them still moving, he jumped up and mowed down a semicircle in front of him with the Thompson. Only then did he realize he hadn’t seen Risa with the others. No time for that! He dropped his empty magazine, inserted a fresh one, and started firing controlled bursts. Chack was beside him, the bayonet on his trusty Krag jabbing and stabbing, the rifle firing occasionally. Simy Gutfeld was there too, fighting with an Allin-Silva, his limp hardly apparent.

  And then, to his horror, Silva saw Risa. She’d hobbled into the open, using a Grik musket for a crutch, and was shooting a Blitzer one-handed, like a pistol. Blitzers were too heavy for that, and she’d swing it up, fire a short burst, and let it drop for a moment before repeating the process. Most frightening to Silva, and probably unknown even to Risa, she was blinking . . . contentment. Silva’s Thompson was empty and he dropped it on the ground, pulling his cutlass and 1911 again. Hacking frantically at one Grik and stabbing another—shooting it with his pistol for good measure—he roared over the battle, “Goddammit, Chackie! Your nutty sister . . .” A tangle of Grik swarmed around him and he slashed one across the throat. A shower of blood blinded him and he fired his pistol twice in the direction he’d seen a bayonet thrusting at him. A different bayonet skated off his ribs, and he shot in that direction too, trying to wipe blood out of his eye with his sword arm.

  “I got Risa!” Simy yelled, pounding and stabbing his way toward her. Silva saw her blinking, disappointed, at her empty weapon, but then got very busy again. Somewhere above the racket he heard the drone of airplane engines. About damn time, he thought. Hope they’re ours. . . . The slide on his 1911 locked back and he had no more magazines. Nearly decapitating a Grik with a backhand stroke with his cutlass, he found the opening to his holster with the pistol muzzle and dropped it in. Then, without even thinking, he pulled Captain Reddy’s gleaming Colt from his belt. The full-house black powder .44-40 loads made it buck and roar and kill in a most satisfying manner.

  * * *

  * * *

  Jash had made the charge right among his Slashers and now fought directly beside those that remained, loading and firing their garraks slightly back from the “clash of claws,” the ancient term for the point of contact with the enemy where the most vicious, visceral fighting occurred. Second General Ign had directly commanded him to keep his distance, to “preserve his Slashers’ temper” after their earlier reverse, but Jash suspected the order had been mostly intended to preserve him. Even then, the charge had been terrible, unlike anything he’d ever imagined, and his survival owed little to his position in the attack. The galley battle, under such murderous fire from enemy fast-shooters, had been bad enough—as bad as he thought it could get—but this . . . Half his Slashers, now counting Ign’s Guards, died in that meager five-hundred-pace assault. He’d watched them shredded by canister, riddled by bullets, even pulped by random solid shot. Clearly, the artillery barrage hadn’t been as effective as he’d hoped. And now to see the desperate abandon and single-mindedness with which the enemy fought, face-to-face, bayonet to bayonet, close enough to see their snarling faces twisted with rage, hear their shrill, furious, or agonized cries . . . He’d always been told the enemy couldn’t fight like this; they were too weak, too sensitive to loss. He doubted that now, in general, but also clearly saw how brutally a proper defense could bleed any attack, even one as overwhelming as he and Ign believed this was. More important, he saw how he could’ve stopped the amphibious attack that morning, or at least made it just as costly. For all he and his Slashers had learned during their training for defense, this was the true lesson he must remember. If he lived.

  The firing had all but stopped in the midst of the wild melee before him, replaced by the thunder and clash of garraks grinding together like spears. Squeals of pain and howls of fury intermingled in an all-encompassing roar that muted the few shots still coming. A short, muffled stutter drew his eyes to one of the tree prey, a “Lemurian,” nearby, fighting in the open with only one leg. He lowered his garrak, amazed. No member of the Race would ever do such a thing! A missing limb was a mortal wound, and warriors who lost them either died on the battlefield or went to the cookpots. None would keep fighting; there was no reason. It was best to cut your own throat or make yourself as comfortable as possible for the time you had left. He was even more amazed to see a human actually fighting to reach the Lemurian, to render aid—and was almost disappointed to see them both fall under a fusillade from his Slashers when they saw a gap to shoot through. Oh, but then! A one-eyed giant he thought he might’ve glimpsed in the predawn fight, already killing with thoughtless fury and matching skill, suddenly became a machine of death! Armed only with a sword and one of the strange hand garraks, he slew his way toward his fallen comrades as effortlessly as one of the great herbivores of the plains ate grass. No, Jash thought, there is no comparing that to an herbivore. It is more like one of the great predators that take a hundred Ghaarrichk’k armed with spears to slay!

  “You must kill that one,” he directed the troops around him as they loaded their garraks, not even sure why. The enemy was finally crumbling here in the middle. Soon, the attack would push through and roll them up to the side, just as the enemy had done to them that morning. Even as that thought came to him, however
, he felt a pressure on his own right as warriors surged against him. He also realized he’d been hearing the roar of flying machine engines for several moments but had been too absorbed by what he’d seen to take proper heed. Now he did.

  A formation of the small blue-and-white planes, so similar to the “fighters” of the Japhs, was swooping down on the rear of the assault, toward him. Fast-shooters in their wings flashed in the gathering gloom. Then he heard the clatter of the fast-shooters as warriors started falling, flailing on the ground. Worse, something was definitely happening on the right—and the enemy in front had taken advantage of the attack’s hesitation to reload their small fast-shooters and mow his warriors down again.

  “Ker-noll!” Naxa shouted. “The enemy is out of their trench, attacking on the right! They are led by a giant with black fur on his face, firing one of the big fast-shooters in his hands!” Jash was confused. The enemy was out of its trench here as well. . . . And Naxa’s report had doubtless been exaggerated even before he heard it, but there was another giant before him, with lighter-colored fur. How many giants did the enemy have? Jash and Naxa both crouched as more planes roared by, spitting bullets, scattering troops, kicking up great clouds of dust. Jash hurried to the rear, where he could see, and was horrified to watch the right side of the attack peeling back, away from the enemy, and firebombs did fall then, scorching the retreating troops with mushrooms of flame.

  “We still have them here,” Jash snapped. “I smell their blood! Their throats are bared to our teeth!” Naxa just looked at him, and in that moment Jash knew this First of One Hundred would finally do whatever he asked without complaint or resentment. Yet, unbidden, he suddenly remembered First General Esshk’s words and Second General Ign’s last command: “Don’t spend all your troops on this.” That’s when he knew he was in great danger of doing just that, even if the attack succeeded. To emphasize that, he heard the distant, growing thrum of the recall horns.