Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  Gradually at first, then ushered more forcefully by NCOs, the crowd left a surprisingly large space around the visitors. It was as if, unable to kill this new, frightening thing, the men wanted away from it.

  “That was close,” Holland breathed in Lewis’s ear as the mounted men stepped down from their horses. The dragoons and unwounded riflemen took charge of the animals, with the infantry privates in tow, likely anxious to begin spinning their own tale. Lewis had no problem with that. The story would be distorted, no doubt, but the gist would get around and form a foundation for him to build on while refuting things that became overblown and encouraging the “bright side” of things. If there is a bright side.

  “Thank you, Captain Cayce,” the blue-eyed . . . cat-person said, disconcerting Lewis again to hear English from its mouth. “Believe me, I understand your position. My people have experienced many strange encounters on this world over time!”

  “Your people? ‘This world’?” Lewis immediately pounced, but Varaa-Choon made a dismissive gesture.

  “For the present, we must focus on more pressing concerns. I and those I help to lead really do come to you in peace and friendship. We need one another rather badly, I fear.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes.” Varaa-Choon paused. “First, allow me to present my companions. The other Mi-Anakka, the . . . other of my kind, is Consul Koaar-Taak. He’s a, ah, ‘subchief’ of the nearest band of ‘Jaguaristas,’ as your man called them. An appropriate term, I suppose, since not all are warriors, but these warriors are all from his village.” The creature sniffed. “Do I smell food? Would it be possible to feed my escort while we continue?”

  Lieutenant Olayne seemed about to protest, but Burton had gathered his wits enough to call Sergeant Hayne. “With the captain’s permission, assemble a detail and escort our guests to one of the mess areas. Don’t let anyone pester them.”

  Hayne looked at Lewis, who nodded.

  “Sir.”

  “Thank you again,” Varaa-Choon said, blinking strangely at the little man in the hat. “I already named Father Orno, who is a ‘Verdadero Cristiano,’ a ‘True Christian.’ I gather from Private Meder and Private Hudgens most of you are as well.”

  Koaar-Taak was rapidly translating everything to the little priest. Lewis recognized a lot of Spanish, but it was mixed with something else.

  “Christians, aye, but few bloody papists!” Hudgens muttered darkly as Boogerbear and Hernandez herded him, Meder, and the infantry lieutenant over to join them.

  The cat-creature kakked a kind of laugh. “Father Orno may call himself a Jesuit, but you won’t find him quite the ‘papist’ you imagine.”

  That only confused Lewis more. “Let’s move away where we can talk.” Turning, he led the way back to the skeleton of Mary Riggs, where he and Holland and Anson had their talk the night before. It seemed surreal. They’d thought then that they were finally getting a handle on things, at least for themselves, but now he realized they knew nothing at all. Calling to Private Willis, skulking surreptitiously closer, he told him to bring food. Mumbling to himself, Willis turned and snapped at men to help him. Leaning on one of the dead ship’s cracked ribs while absently rubbing his own, Lewis first looked expectantly at the infantry officer, who quickly saluted. “Lieutenant James Manley, First Infantry, sir, dispatched by Colonel De Russy with three Third Pennsylvania Volunteers to contact you.” He quickly and succinctly described the situation at the shore as it was when they left.

  “What’s goin’ on there now?” Holland asked, gesturing at another flash on the horizon.

  Manley pursed his lips. “A . . . battle, I presume.” He looked almost imploringly at Boogerbear.

  The big man snorted. “A battle sure enough, an’ considerin’ how many Injins—man an’ lizard—we dodged comin’ out, an’ the way things were when we left—no defenses at all—I’m surprised De Russy’s kept it goin’ this long. Maybe he got some warnin’.”

  “We must hope he did,” Lewis said brusquely, “but now you speak of ‘lizard Indians’? What are those, and”—he glanced at Varaa-Choon—“what other surprises will there be?”

  Now Varaa-Choon snorted. “The surprises will never cease. But regarding the ‘lizard Indians,’ the locals here long called them ‘Lagartos del Diablo.’ They’re distressingly similar to creatures called ‘Grik’ that border . . .” Varaa-Choon paused. “My own far-away land. Many now call them Grik here as well.”

  “They’re bigger and smarter than the gaaraches that injured Private Hudgens and me, and there are different tribes of them, like Indians,” Private Meder supplied.

  “And they sometimes ally with some of the more warlike Indios—‘Indians,’ ” Varaa-Choon agreed darkly. “A combined force of Grik and Holcano Indians—who fancy themselves human cousins to Grik—was actually staging to make a long-planned attack against our allies at Father Orno’s city of Uxmal when your ship on the beach appeared in their path. Such events are rare but not unknown, and there is always great plunder to be had . . . and meat. They couldn’t resist attacking it, even at the expense of their previous plans.”

  “They eat people?” Burton gasped. “Just the lizards, surely.”

  “No,” Varaa-Choon stated flatly, blinking rapidly. Lewis was beginning to think the blinking conveyed meaning, like human facial expressions. “I’m only being pragmatic when I say that was a good thing for us in the short term,” Varaa-Choon continued, “since even as they die, your people weaken our enemies. In the long term, however, our enemies will quickly recover, and they’ll have deadlier weapons. Very bad for us.” Varaa-Choon looked intently at Lewis. “Based on my impression of Private Meder and Private Hudgens, I’ve come to offer a temporary alliance. Koaar has sent for all his Ocelomeh, and almost four hundred can join us before dawn. Travel by night is always hazardous, but less so for large groups. In any event it can’t be helped. King Har-Kaaska will send more Ocelomeh when he learns of the need and though there are few warriors among the Uxmalos or other city dwellers, Father Orno assures me they will come as well.”

  Varaa-Choon paused significantly. “The problem, of course, is it will take too long for the Uxmalos or other Ocelomeh to arrive. The battle is happening now. For you to save your people and me to save those I protect from your weapons, we must move together against our very suddenly common enemy at once.”

  Lewis stared hard at the creature. “You honestly expect me . . .”

  “Sir, they saved us! She saved us!” Private Meder blurted. “Those things out there . . . our people!”

  “Silence, Private!” Burton barked, startling Father Orno, “or I’ll have you bucked and gagged!”

  Lewis would never allow that; he hated that sort of punishment. But he hardly even noticed the threat. “She,” he murmured, recognizing for the first time that Varaa-Choon was actually quite clearly female. He’d been so overwhelmed by the rest of her appearance, the very fact of her . . . Of course she’s female—his mind reeled, winging unbidden to Leonor Anson, another female warrior, certainly in danger if not already dead. Varaa-Choon seemed amused by Lewis’s consternation, but blinked in apparent surprise when Lewis snapped angrily at her. “What makes you so certain De Russy will lose—and what did you mean by ‘this world’?” he repeated adamantly.

  “The primary assaulting force is Grik, not human, and they don’t fight by half measures,” Varaa-Choon informed him, tone milder than before. She did know what he was trying to cope with, or thought she did. “They breed and mature very quickly when they need to and food is plentiful, so fighting to the death is part of their culture. It’s expected. They’ve pressed us long enough that their numbers have soared, and perhaps several thousands, from different tribes, will eventually be drawn to the fight. The gaaraches Private Meder spoke of will gather as well. They’re merely young Grik, running wild and not yet attached to a tribe.”

  “A somew
hat singular approach to child rearin’,” Holland said softly.

  “De Russy had three, four hundred troops. Maybe a couple hundred more if the infantry came ashore from Isidra like they planned,” Boogerbear said.

  “Six hundred at best, and a battery of howitzers,” Lieutenant Manley agreed with a worried frown.

  “And the men? The enemy Indians?” Captain Holland demanded. “How many are they?”

  “That’s our only hope,” Koaar said, speaking for the first time, other than translating for Father Orno. “The Holcanos are more dangerous at a distance for the same reason we are: our bows.” He said this despite the fact he, like Varaa-Choon, carried a musket. But all the human Ocelomeh carried longbows the English would envy, and very large arrows. “Grik aren’t built to do well with bows and have to get close to fight with spears and other hand weapons.” He blinked. “And their teeth and claws, of course.” He raised his musket. “Sometimes I suspect that bows and other distance weapons are the only reason anyone but Grik can live on this world,” he added somewhat dismally. “But the Holcanos are just as scattered as we are at present, preparing as they were to attack us. There are probably fewer than three or four hundred near enough to influence the fight.”

  “We have two hundred and ten men fit for duty,” Olayne urgently reminded Lewis, “but almost a hundred we can’t leave and can’t take!”

  “We’ll leave enough Ocelomeh to protect your injured,” Varaa assured. “You’ve fortified this place well, and it’ll be simple to hold against most forest monsters.”

  Funny, Lewis thought. Now that I know this warmaster is female, suddenly she’s “Varaa” in my mind.

  “Four-to-one odds sound long to me,” Holland grumped, looking at Boogerbear. “What do you think? You said these ‘Grik’ and ‘Holcanos’ chased you.”

  Boogerbear scratched his thick black beard. “Appears to me, it’s four to one at best, an’ that’s if we fight right now. If they rub out those foot soldiers, the odds get worse. I’ve fought Comanches most o’ my life, an’ Holcanos don’t scare me. But I never fought a single lizard before, much less thousands of ’em. On the other hand, Arista had twice as many men as us at Palo Alto, just as well armed, an’ we whipped him. So I figure it’s more how you do it than how many there are.”

  Varaa-Choon was nodding approval. “The principal war chief of the Holcanos calls himself ‘Kisin.’ ” She snorted. “Kisin, indeed. He listens too much to the filth the Dominion feeds him. But I’m a better warmaster than he.” She didn’t seem to be bragging, only stating a fact. Lewis wanted to ask what she meant by “the Dominion,” but she was already speaking to him. “So what’s your decision? If we make this fight, you must move at once. We’ll lead you along the shortest path to a road—your Mr. Boogerbear has seen it—and the bulk of Koaar’s Ocelomeh will join us on the march. There’s no guarantee your friends will last the night,” she cautioned, “but even if they don’t, right after they die is the next-best time to strike.” Lewis was annoyed by Varaa-Choon’s insensitivity, but accepted her pragmatism. Whatever its nature, an attacking force is always most disordered after a battle it thinks it has won. The strange female warmaster continued. “My next question is equally important. If you do choose to fight, will your men follow you? I do understand what they’ve been through. Koaar and I, and others, were merely victims of an ordinary shipwreck in this land, but our history is full of others who came to this world as you did. Can you make your people fight?”

  Lewis saw Private Willis waiting impatiently at a distance with a cook and his helper, each holding three steaming mugs with spoon handles sticking out. Seemingly out of the blue, he said, “Private Meder, Private Hudgens, I congratulate you both on your survival. How are your wounds?”

  “They do very well, sir,” Hudgens begrudged, as if surprised himself. He nodded at Father Orno. “He fixed us up right.”

  “Good. All of you who just came in, go get something to eat as quick as you can. You too, Lieutenant Manley. Lieutenant Olayne, I want you to choose your very best gun’s crews, enough for two sections, and have them prepare four guns to move in the fashion of flying artillery. I know you’ve grasped the fundamentals. Let’s hope the men have too. Lieutenant Burton, you’ll assemble everyone here directly. I promised them a report. Captain Holland, stay by me for a final word with our guests, if you please.”

  He looked at Varaa-Choon, Koaar-Taak, and Father Orno while the others left. The little priest seemed on edge, but earnest. Lewis’s Spanish was poor, but he’d recognized enough of the parts of the conversation Koaar translated to believe Father Orno received a good account. It was natural he’d be nervous about what Lewis would decide, since apparently, his people might be as much at risk as the shipwrecked Americans. Lewis finally sighed and shook his head at Varaa.

  “I won’t make these men march off to fight someone else’s enemy. After what they’ve been through, I’m not sure I could if I wanted to.” He took a breath. “I’ll ask them to, though, because Corporal Beeryman and Lieutenant Manley confirmed your ‘Grik’ and ‘Holcanos’ are attacking our people, and that makes them our enemies too. That’s what I’ll say when I tell them everything else. After that?” He shrugged. “I think they’ll fight because the lives of their countrymen are at stake. Many won’t want to, but they’ll go because others do and because they know it’s right. Finally, after I tell them what you’ve been hinting at—about this somehow being a whole different world . . . I guess most will agree there isn’t a choice.” He frowned and remembered. “After all,” he said lowly, “doing something—no matter what—is almost always better than doing nothing.”

  Varaa-Choon stroked the tan fur on the side of her face with nails almost like claws, blinking something Lewis would later learn conveyed respect. Very quickly, she told Lewis Cayce and Eric Holland enough to confirm their worst fears: that they had somehow fallen to another world of some kind. She capped it off with a revelation they hadn’t even considered yet, however, and by far the most devastating. When she was finished, watching them closely, Holland cleared his throat and found his voice first. “Well, Lewis,” he said, using the artilleryman’s given name for the first time, “I reckon if it was me, when I talked to the lads, I’d leave that last bit off for now.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE BATTLE OF “FORT COMMISSARY”

  Leonor Anson pounded a ball down the fouling-choked barrel of her rifle, primed the pan, then collapsed in the sand, exhausted and in pain. The monsters had pulled back again, dragging bodies (their own as well as American) into the darkness of the coastal forest. She lay like a corpse herself, panting, with men she didn’t know—though she recognized the grimy face of the volunteer Private Cox, who’d led them to the officers when they first arrived. She didn’t care, couldn’t think, and couldn’t remember when she’d last slept. All she’d been through over the last few days came to her only as brief mental images, and she tried to order them in her mind. There’d been the storm and shipwreck, then the dragon attack, followed by an all-day trek, a running fight, and now a nightlong battle against Indians of some sort and nightmarish monsters. Both her arms had been cruelly raked by claws when lizard warriors tried to drag her over the breastworks and eat her. An insanely sharp obsidian spear point had sliced the top of her left shoulder, narrowly missing ripping a gaping hole in her chest. She’d been saved by the infantrymen around her, whether they knew it or not, who fought with a manic ferocity and apparently boundless energy beyond their attackers’, at times. Leonor wasn’t fooled. She was proud of their defiance and inspired by their refusal to quit, but knew there’d eventually be an end to their strength. And courage—even fed by terror—had a limit.

  There weren’t many left to hold the flimsy barricade. Leonor had no illusions and knew they’d only lasted to see the first paintbrush streaks of another dawn because they were defending a relatively small enclosure the enemy couldn’t swarm with all i
ts might. And that equally exhausted enemy had to pull back and rest from time to time as well. When they did, like now, blood-smeared men fell gasping to the ground, lying as still as the unheeded dead except for their heaving chests. There was still no true respite, because now the heavy arrows came, making it dangerous and often fatal for walking wounded to bring water and more ammunition, or drag their injured behind the heavy “fort” thrown together from Commissary’s timbers where Dr. Newlin and his helpers, including the curious foreign women, did their best for them.

  Both Leonor’s revolvers were so gummed with fouling they simply wouldn’t function anymore in spite of the fact she—like her father—had twice retreated from the fighting to break the complicated pistols down and wash them out, drying them as best they could with shirttails and lubricating them with pork slush from an overturned cookpot. Those were the only times she’d seen her father, more haggard and bedraggled each time, though she’d heard the distinctive bark of his Walker Colts at intervals sufficient to let her know about where he was, and that he was alive.

  Fumbling at her side, Leonor drew the Paterson she feared she’d forced too hard, possibly damaging delicate internal parts. Shakily lifting her canteen, she pulled out the stopper, hoping for a few drops to smear in strategic places to soften the fouling enough to shoot the last four chambers without spoiling the loads. It was hopeless. The canteen was as dry as her cracking lips. There was a shooshing sound beside her, and she turned her head to see Alferez Lara crawling toward her through the sand. Slithering, like a snake. She shuddered and felt an uncontrollable urge to jump up and run away. But that’s insane. Besides, he isn’t really slithering. She waited until he came up beside her and produced his own canteen. “Here,” he offered. “There’s little left, but enough to loosen your weapon and perhaps take a sip.”