Kitted out in trendy coir body armour, Chulib projected a false impression of indestructibility. More show than substance, much like Eskaa, the lightweight fibre breastplate was plaited from softened, then beaten, coconut husk and had as much stopping power as tissue paper. Its actual strength stemmed from imbuing the wearer with a sense of imperviousness, promoting the notion that donning it made one spear-proof. Plus the Dokran's personal emblem splashed across the front of the rope cuirass supposedly increased invulnerability.
At least that was the belief Chulib fostered in his trusty Shurpeha regulars smartly arrayed in two rows of six behind him. Mind over matter is a powerful tool in a soldier's arsenal. Decked out in similar battledress to that garbing their stony-faced commander, Lunder Atoll's premier fighting force individually wore in addition to the useless breastplate serviceable trousers knitted from woven coir sennit, topped off by half-inch thick skull caps of the same plaited twine. Rope was no substitute for the protectiveness wood gave and shouldering circular shields of tougher bamboo at least gave the bodyguards a fighting chance to deflect the knocks inhering hand-to-hand scrapping.
Slightly more impressive and just as impractical, Chulib's headgear comprised a helmet of inflated puffer fish skin, again more ceremonial than combat friendly. Piawro warfare had long been a ritualistic game, as opposed to actual battles. Bluff counted for much in frogman society. Today, the war games were about to be played in deadly earnest.
His macana gripped comfortably in his fist, Chulib proudly headed his uniformed bodyguards, direction and pace movingly dictated by the trumpeters. Behind hopped the untested Shurpeha auxiliary force recruited to spearhead the amphibimen invasion of Nir Sea, their hundred black-tipped lances pointing skywards like a forest of unfired missiles. Bringing up the rear of the frog army jump-marched the reserves, mostly volunteers, the rest drafted, equipped with primitive wood javelins sharpened into fire-hardened points. Never in the atoll's turbulent history was Landhopper military might and awesomeness so blatantly strutted.
Bottling up grave doubts concerning their overall readiness, Chulib uncorked a muttered prayer to Terrible Vhello. “War God help us all.” Years of exhaustive preparation guaranteed only the highest quality warriors served as Shurpeha. These new additions, the draftees in particular, had undergone mere weeks of basic training. How they performed under actual combat conditions worried Chulib badly. Not that he would be there to personally oversee the opening battle, Ryops deciding to exclude him during the course of last night's strategising within the sanctity of the Dokran's compound.
Overruling his guard chief's zealous protestations, Ryops opted to command the invasion force himself. To Chulib fell the unglamorous task of defending the home island against attack ... from within. All things considered, there was not even the remotest chance of the handy-fish making landfall. Which left internal terrorism to contend with. “I need you to watch my back, Chu.” The Dokran coaxed his promise with a smile of sincerity.
"You mean make certain the Subos behaves while you're offshore. Wouldn't want his megalomania hopping rampant.” Eskaa, unwilling to get his feet wet and hands dirty, was to remain shoreside during the offensive.
"Keep your other eye on the Climbers,” Ryops cautioned. “Safeguard my Dokranry against everyone. It'll be a treasure having an island I can come back to once this ridiculous fishing trip is over and done with."
True to form, Chulib resisted until his unbending chieftain finally wore him down. His assenting came with a price tag: insistence Ryops be chaperoned by, at the very least, a trio of Shurpeha old guard.
Ryops instantly rubbished Chulib's counsel. “The full complement stays here on the atoll."
Painfully reminded how original Shurpeha numbers were reduced by one following the failure of the capture team to return from their ill-fated sortie two months earlier, Ryops nevertheless refused to take no for an answer. “I'll have the entire Amphib Army backing me up, Chu. What possible harm can come to me in such company?"
"From the Fish-with-Hands, I'm counting nothing whatsoever. Eskaa's add-ons to my Shurpeha don't fill me with confidence."
"You vetted them."
"I couldn't screen them all as thoroughly as I would've liked. There hasn't been enough time for that."
Always a fair judge of character, Ryops trusted his own instincts. “The army comprises Leapers and Burrowers all, not one Climber in their ranks. That's one hundred per cent loyalty in my brook."
"Complacency is a dangerous thing, Dokran."
"So is paranoia."
"Humour me, chief. Take some of the regulars along as swimming buddies."
Seeing Chulib was not going to budge, Ryops wheedled him into accepting a compromise, making his own amendment. “Whittle my honour guard down to one, of my choosing, and you'll get your way."
"One is better than none,” acceded the guard chief, unhappy about the deal but in no position to countermand the Dokran Teh's wishes.
No surprise then that Ryops picked Knalli. The privileged junior Shurpeha hovered at his chieftain's side further up the beach, tensely waiting along with the ceremonious Subos and his temple flunkies for the advancing army to make the rendezvous. Burning torches planted in the soft sand lined either side of the approach like runway lights, channelling the already regimented warriors.
The crouching Dokran looked the worse for wear. Lack of sleep only partly accounted for his patently haggard state. Spending the bulk of the night coordinating battle plans with Chulib, wrongly working on the misleading projection that they were pitted against an inferior two hundred Fish-with-Hands instead of the grave enormity of having a thousand plus tridents pointed at the Surge, Ryops finished up by hitting the bottle, toasting the foregone victory.
Any excuse to drown his fears. No warrior himself, Ryops chugged every drop of fortifying arrack his maidservants could liquor him up with. There was something to be said for downing Dutch courage. Once that supply ran dry he had the stoppered bakau juice wine drawn from his private stock, noisily guzzling the aged nectar until he slumped into drunken oblivion on his lonely sleeping mat, the bamboo empties strewn about like dead marines.
Unwilling to join the Dokran in getting plastered, Chulib sensibly retired to his own quarters and meditated. Clearheadedness was to be the order of his day come morning.
Pity Ryops failed to emulate Chulib's temperance. Paying the price for his getting hammered, the Dokran's hangover was an oppressing weight threatening to squash him like a bug. Every pore in his body lodged a screaming protest at being drunkenly abused. Irrationally, Ryops blamed half the gods for his debilitation. If Vhello and Enayres had not collaborated on whipping up their ambrosial concoction, there would be no firewater to afflict mortals stupid enough to inebriate themselves. Transferral of that fault naturally shifted onto Eskaa. Spiteful, Ryops looked askance at him, hoping his eyeballs would not pop out of their sockets in doing so.
Propping up his sagging chieftain, Knalli exemplified Shurpeha steadfastness. Dokrans quite literally leant upon their bodyguards for support. “Smarten up there, chief. The Subos is watching. You don't want to make a bass of yourself."
Overhearing, Eskaa sneered deprecatingly at Knalli. “Too late for that, tadpole. The notion that drunks are lovable is a gross misconception. Your master is a disgrace to the whole atoll."
"A Piawro is known by the company he keeps, Subos. I guess your limited partnership with the Dokran means you're just as unloved,” Knalli retorted on Ryops’ behalf.
Eskaa let the rejoinder go unmet. It was beneath him to trade quips with a lowly, unclothed bodyguard.
Fighting nude except for a foot wide sash of dried ray skin, the skimpily attired Shurpeha was not cowed by Eskaa's trademark flamboyance. In his mind the magician-priest's draping mantle and conical headpiece were overdone fashion statements.
Having a temple lackey jostle Knalli out of the way as another forcibly lifted Ryops up by his underarms, Eskaa admonished the suffering Dokran. �
�Pull yourself together. I didn't invest valuable time and energy in this detestable advertising campaign to let my carefully contrived image of yours be tarnished by you being unable to hold your liquor! You've been a public figure long enough to know a Dokran must always present a façade of calming strength. Thanks to my efforts, the masses hero-worship you. Smile for your adoring fans, Liberator. You're about to win a war."
Pushing off the smothering acolyte, Knalli menaced the other religious groupies with the tip of his recently issued spear. Trading in his customary sword for the user-friendlier underwater weaponry, he technically turned the titled conflict into the Hundred and One Spears War.
They cleared away from Ryops, leaving him tottering.
"Pathetic looking saviour,” a scornful disciple of Eskaa's boldly hissed. The butt of Knalli's spear driving into his stomach stifled further insult.
"Save it for the fish,” Ryops croaked, reasserting his authority. “Infighting only weakens us."
"Dokran, as always your grasp of reality is stupendous."
"And your flair for the dramatic is oddly lacking today, Subos. What's the story? No creative juices flowing."
"Wood shortage. Trees are at premium these days. Predictably, there's a ban on bonfires. Awfully hard to mount an applauded performance without sets."
Not that Eskaa wanted to hog the stage today. The magician-priest deliberately toned down his invocations. 500 warriors were about to conduct a large scale, reverse amphibious assault, leaping from the eroding, overpopulated land into the roomier, richer sea. An incalculable number of heroic frogmen would not be coming home. In a rare moment of respectfulness, Eskaa deemed a flashy show inappropriate under the circumstances. Their send off should be low key and dignified, warranting the stately procession and haunting fanfare.
"Promise me no drums, Eskaa. My poor head can't take another hammering."
Strangely accommodating, the orchestrating Subos cancelled the upcoming percussion segment of the ceremony. Muffling the unbeaten drums until the army returned, hailing the conquerors and in turn preceding the victory celebrations and associated feasting, the tattoo would usher in a golden age of Piawro civilisation with Eskaa alone the drum major.
The frog army and its followers pulled tautly up to a halt before the stationary amphib hierarchy. Chulib greeted his Dokran with a wordless nod. They had concisely expressed their partings the night before. Theirs was a working relationship built up on trust over the years that exceeded the usual patron/protector rapport. The boss Shurpeha stayed the Dokran Teh's truest, and only, friend. Distressingly, Ryops actually said goodbye rather than farewell, giving Chulib the uncanvassed inkling his chieftain might not make it back.
Wisps of smoke from the avenue of burning brands trailed listlessly into the sky, unstirred by even a single puff of wind. It was as if Soruca held his breath until the outcome of the battle looming. Acoustics broadcast a reciprocating level of expectation, the final note of the bugling shells lingering in the suspenseful air before dissipating into leaden silence.
"The gods be with you."
"As the gods guide you."
The assemblage's response to Eskaa's litany sounded like rolling thunder in the electrified tranquillity. His follow-up blessing was restrained eloquence. Drawing his technicolour cloak about him, the yellow imprinted red warming the dawn chill, Eskaa's top-heavy, metalled mitre hat hampered him from solemnly bowing his head. Modulating his voice with the required sincerity, he wove his spell of oration.
"Let Terrible Vhello's fire inflame your hearts, even as Divine Enayres boils your blood. Immerse yourselves in the heat of battle. Fear not mortality. War means sacrifice, but death transcends life. Righteous Soruca will shepherd the living and the fallen home to the Blessed Isle, where Holy Ceretas waits to bid the glorious dead welcome into hallowed Dughenna. From this gain solace ... guaranteed are you all Kadi Nho. This day marks the supreme trial, an ultimate test of faith. Alive or dead, not a one of you shall be denied the honour of rebirth. So concur the brother Elementals."
Waving over an acolyte cupping a shell bowl in his careful hands, Eskaa dipped a finger into the brimming bakau dye contained within—the depletion of the coastal mangroves moving apace as the juggernaut consumption of the inland jungle forced loggers to fully exploit the only remaining timber source, creating a surplus of leaves for the manufacture of the indelible chestnut stain—and daubed the timeless symbols for fire and earth on the forehead and chest respectively of both the Dokran and his personal bodyguard; the first to ignite the resourceful warrior passion to do battle, the second a reminder that in their hearts they fought to preserve their isle homeland. Little did the recipients know that the artful Subos had just squiggled them with recognisable bullseyes.
Hopping back from his devious handiwork, the Subos rounded off his general invocation with the earnest ribbit, “Go with the grace of the gods."
The absence of cheers was glaring, the seashore silent as the grave. In war there are no winners, only survivors. Spiritual assurances were scant comfort when playing a lottery in which dying was the booby prize, and this dawning day illumined many dead frogmen hopping.
Chulib came forward as the unexcited army shuffled to form ranks at the waterline. With the enemy blockade set up in shallow waters only a stone's throw offshore, the five hundred strong Piawro would breaststroke out to prise apart the Fish-with-Hands” stranglehold on the high seas. Driving his shield upright into the sand, Chulib placed his freed hand on Knalli's rigid shoulder and recited the Shurpeha credo to the younger frogman. “Guard unto death,” he averred, instructing afterwards, “Stick to Ryops like breadfruit glue. He is the father of our generation. Defend against fish and frogs. Ensure he stays unarmed. With a spear in his mitts, the Dokran poses more of a danger to himself than the enemy.” Ryops’ many bruises from sparring with his preferred guard attested to his ineptness.
"Will do, boss,” pledged Knalli.
"I ought to be accompanying you. Were it not for the Dokran's mulishness, mine would be the first spear flung into the seawaters."
Chulib sighed away his envy. Surveillant was a poor consolation prize when he should be the one blooding his warrior sect. Harassing Eskaa might have provided an interesting distraction if Ryops had not shackled his homicidal intent. “Don't take a swing at the Subos unless severely provoked,” was Chulib's curtailment. That said, baiting Eskaa did hold a devilish appeal.
Snapping back to the present, Chulib blithely punched Knalli's chinless snout. “Do the Shurpeha proud, froglet."
Knalli hastened to again take up position at Ryops’ side, the comparably body-painted chieftain poised to address his warriors. Mindful that brevity was today's buzzword, all the Dokran loudly croaked was, “The hand that cooks with the ladle rules the sea."
Confused looks met his utterance.
Reducing his catchphrase to bare bones for the benefit of his untaught listeners, Ryops was better understood second time around. “I'm hungering for some breakfast. Let's go liberate."
Receptive nods partnered tentative spear waving.
The Subos flagrantly shook his head. Ryops, you fool. His nemesis unwisely regarded this outing as nothing but a glorified fishing trip. Clearly the Dokran's mindset was not focused on war and such ignorance would add to his undoing.
Bounding into the placid surf, Ryops splashed to a befuddled halt in ankle-deep saltwater awash with predawn greyness. Looking sharply about, he was dismayed to find himself alone in entering the waveless lagoon. Seeing Knalli hesitating on the beach along with the unmoving army, he quizzed him. “Why is nobody following me? Water too cool for your liking?"
"We're waiting for the tide change, chief. Nobody egresses the Surge until the currents are favourable."
As that was a good hour away yet, Ryops lamely hopped back to shore, the disdaining eyes of the Amphib Army upon him.
Slipping a bamboo hip flask out of the lining of his sash, Knalli offered his sulky Dokran a heartening nip. “S
cale of the dogfish will doubly dull your hangover and any embarrassment."
Ryops dismissed the goodwill gesture. “Drinking on the job is frowned upon.” Abruptly changing his mind, he impolitely snatched the flask out of Knalli's extended hand. Taking a hasty swig annulled his disapproval.
Openly smiling at his rival's idiocy, Eskaa's deemed his takeover bid was going to come about far easier than schemed.
Chapter Fourteen
"They're coming in force!"
Cerdic grinned at the sentry excitedly relaying the findings from his latest sonar sweep and prodded Lasbow's ribs roughly with his elbow. “You wanted action, Captain. Seems like you've got your wish."
Lasbow did not share the Merking's enthusiasm. Quite the opposite in fact. For two quiet months Desolation Reef lived up to its name as an aquatic wasteland, deserted by fish and fry alike. Over that period of time the besieging Cetari unwearyingly staked out the tidal gap to Lunder Atoll's saltwater moat, their crucial undersea supply line stretched tenuously thin, waiting for the mass attempted Landhopper breakout which never came. Other than the odd canoe foolhardily making a run for it, only to be overturned and the paddlers sunk along with their craft, the majority of blockade-runners comprised lone swimmers irregularly probing mermen defences. That excitement aside, the weeks were spent watching largely empty and inactive seas.
The past few days, boring repetitions of the wasted sunlight hours gone before, had the captain of the brave Seaguard wanting to call it a day. The only action Lasbow desired was to pack up their seagrass bags and swim for home before the war Cerdic was so riskily pushing for eventuated. Unfortunately, the power to call off the blockade rested solely with the gung ho Sovereign of the Seas and the crowned madmerman exhibited the limitless patience of a stonefish. Misreading his commander's edginess as a suppressed desire to fight only cemented Cerdic's commitment to the submarine siege.
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