Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  Singling Beck out for such criticism might’ve been unwarranted—Lewis barely knew him—but army discipline was notoriously capricious. Looking back at Lewis, Leonor continued, “Rumors’ll fly the whole time, o’ course, but when we get settled, you lay it all out. Tell ’em the whole truth.” She chuckled. “By then, it probably won’t be as bad as they think it is.”

  “But how do we keep them together? Keep them Americans?” Dr. Newlin insisted.

  Lewis already knew. Gazing at Leonor with even greater respect for her intellect, he spoke softly. “Our men will never stop being Americans, Doctor. Even immigrants new to the States already loved the idea of America, and many could already quote much of our Constitution by heart.” As if changing the subject, he looked at Varaa. “You say we’re ‘brothers’ and ‘protectors’ to the Uxmalos now. That implies the battle we fought isn’t an isolated incident and they need ongoing security.”

  “That’s true,” said the human warrior named Ixtla, surprising them all with his command of English. Lewis supposed he must’ve learned it from Varaa or Koaar, though he couldn’t imagine why. From what he’d gathered, there were few Mi-Anakka in this land—and English wasn’t their first language either. “The Ocelomeh have long provided that protection,” Ixtla continued, adding simply, “We are a warrior tribe. Defending those who cannot defend themselves is our purpose.” He said that so plainly, so sincerely, Lewis not only believed him at once but was struck with admiration for the apparent purity of his people’s philosophy. Particularly since it rather mirrored his own. Though it had never really come to him quite so distinctly before, he realized now he’d always considered the small, prewar regular army of the United States a “tribe” unto itself as well, performing the very same duty.

  Varaa nodded and twitched her rounded ears out at the beach of death. “That may become more difficult now. Those things, the Holcanos and Grik, are nothing compared to what the Doms could bring against us. They’re merely the foul breath of the distant beast. You don’t yet know how vast and powerful the Holy Dominion is. We in this Yucatán have remained isolated from it, and its attention has long been elsewhere.” She sighed. “But its power is built on terror and unthinking obedience to its twisted faith. It won’t suffer dissent to exist, and we won’t be safe forever. Already they push us harder every year through their Grik and Holcano pets. In all honesty, I doubt we could’ve stopped them this time if they hadn’t been drawn here, and were already savaged so severely,” she concluded glumly.

  Ixtla regarded Leonor. “I talked to Alferez Lara—interesting that some of your enemies would be among you, fighting at your side! And he speaks a language similar to mine.” He waved that away. “But he told me when he joined you and Captain Anson in scouting the Holcano camp to the west, you saw Amarillos—‘Yellows’—there.”

  This was the first Lewis heard of that.

  “Yes,” Leonor said, then described them for the others’ benefit. “Those were these ‘Dom’ fellas you been talkin’ about?”

  “Dominion soldiers,” Ixtla pronounced grimly. “We have called them ‘Doms’ since even before the Mi-Anakka came to us,” he added dismissively. “You killed or injured some of them?” he pressed.

  “We did,” Leonor confirmed. “They didn’t leave us much choice.”

  Ixtla looked at Varaa, who blinked and frowned. “The Doms care nothing for their so-called allies, or even the lives of their own people. They spend them wastefully enough,” she added bitterly. “But the scope of our victory over those they support will trouble them. And that ‘heretics’ not only dared to harm uniformed Dominion solders but were actually able to will embarrass them and undermine the aura of invincibility they strive to project. It may inspire them to contemplate a more direct approach against us.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Olayne.

  Varaa hesitated. “If they send a Dominion army into our land, a real army with professional soldiers”—she glanced at the 12pdr howitzer nearby—“with many great guns like yours, the time of harassment by surrogates will be over. They won’t stop until this land is fully theirs and all its people slaughtered or enslaved. The Verdadero Cristianos will be gone forever.” Her huge eyes narrowed at Ixtla. “We’ll resist, and bleed them badly. They can’t fight in the forest as we do.” She shook her head. “But we’re too few and can’t fight as they do in the open, near our friends’ villages and cities. Only another real army could face them like that.”

  Ixtla blew out a breath. “Perhaps they won’t come,” he said hopefully. “Why should they? What is the Yucatán to them?”

  Samantha spoke up somewhat hesitantly, with a worried look at Lewis. “I still know very little, but I should think they might view it as a symbol to be crushed as an example to others.”

  “She’s right,” Varaa admitted, blinking a sad smile at Ixtla. “It takes a female to get to the heart of such things.” She looked away. “So perhaps the best course of action is to leave. Lead our people and friends away.”

  “Where?” Ixtla demanded. “How? Yucatán is like this little fort, only cut off on one side by the Doms and all others by the sea. We’d have to go through the enemy to escape and then we could only go south. Who knows how far the Doms have spread in that direction? I don’t. And what lies beyond them?” He shook his head. “To fight our way farther than we can imagine through lands we don’t know, carrying old and young along . . . It’s impossible.”

  Lewis cleared his throat. “It sounds like the Uxmalos and others you protect need an army of their own,” he said thoughtfully, with a slight smile for Leonor and a significant look at Dr. Newlin. “If they’re willing, we can help them build a ‘real’ one.” He gestured at the tired soldiers, many finally sleeping. “You’ve seen how these men fight, even when they’re hurt and confused, frightened, all mixed-up or spread out—and without proper organization. Think what they could do, what they could teach others, after we put them back together.”

  “How on earth will you do that?” Dr. Newlin persisted, then yawned tremendously.

  “We’ll elect new officers and NCOs. We need them, and that’s the volunteer way. We’ll give them stability in a time of uncertainty and ‘keep them proud,’ as you said,” he told Leonor. “Finally, the army they’ll all help build will be an American army, governed by principles they had every right to expect from the one they originally joined; that the Articles of War go both ways and their service will earn them honor and respect. All the things they taught me at the military academy, but tried to punish into private soldiers. The men will teach those things to the soldiers they train, and it’ll be a better army for it.” He gazed challengingly around. “And it’s only appropriate that it be an ‘American’ army”—he paused and managed a slight smile—“because Yucatán was part of the Americas where we came from, after all.”

  Ixtla was frowning. “Where you came from,” he stressed. “There are many tribes here, all proud, all independent, and none are ‘Amer-i-cans.’ ” He snorted. “Some don’t even like each other, and the only thing they have in common is their reliance on the Ocelomeh.”

  “Which can’t save them alone,” Varaa reminded him.

  Surprisingly, it was the British Samantha who supported Lewis by saying, “Americans aren’t any one tribe, they are a collection of them, of ‘states’ as diverse as yours, I suspect. They don’t all like each other either,” she added ironically, “but the ideals of America unite them for their common defense and prosperity in spite of their differences”—she actually chuckled—“and make them so irritating to their adversaries.”

  Ixtla sighed and looked at Lewis. “I’ll have to learn more about these ‘ideals’ before I support your proposition.”

  “Just as we have much to learn about your people, the conditions here . . . and the Doms,” Lewis agreed. Looking back at Newlin, however, he suddenly felt much better, more energized, the pain in his sid
e nearly gone. “But taken together, all the challenges we face, combined with the threat Warmaster Varaa and . . . Mr. Ixtla described, our people will have the one thing that’ll keep them together through anything.”

  “Really? Do tell. It sounds like idealistic enthusiasm, to me,” Newlin grouched skeptically.

  Lewis nodded solemnly. “Perhaps. But what could build a stronger bond between them”—he turned to face the others—“and all the people of this land, than a cause they can believe in?”

  A thunderous roar came from the beach and the dim, rising moon outlined a monstrous shape, much like the dragon that got Lieutenant Swain, only considerably larger.

  “Stand ready, lads,” Olayne called to the artillerymen as he paced quickly past them to a 6pdr’s crew who’d loaded their weapon with roundshot. “Stand fast,” he told them. “Don’t draw its attention, but be prepared.”

  Silently, they watched the thing, stalking back and forth on the beach, snatching up whole corpses and gnashing them down its gullet. Occasionally, it whirled and snapped at smaller things darting past its legs.

  “Damned if there ain’t real dragons hereabouts,” one of the men by the 12pdr hissed in wonder. “I thought them fellas that brought the other guns was jus’ tryin’ to scare us.”

  “You scared?” came another voice.

  “Not now,” the first man replied after a pause. “Not after today. I been scared, an’ now . . . I’m too damn tired. Besides, it’s goin’ away.”

  He was right. Taking up another ragged body in its jaws, the monster turned, its long tail lashing behind it as it paced southwest toward the trees.

  Lewis was relieved, not only that the monster was leaving, but by the attitude of the men. They’d been through enough that even giant carnivorous monsters no longer had the power to break them.

  “A ‘dragon mayor,’ a ‘greater dragon,’ only middling size,” Varaa-Choon observed.

  “Middling.” Newlin snorted, looking at Lewis, red-rimmed eyes wide open. “I take back all my cynicism, sir. With things like that prowling about, I’ve no doubt the men will remain united, if only in their own interests!”

  “That’s a good reason,” Lewis confessed. “But they’ll do it for more than that,” he added with growing confidence.

  “I hope you’re right,” Newlin said around another yawn. “Remarkable,” he added, nodding in the direction the terrible beast had vanished. “Despite our respective professions, I’m not the natural philosopher Reverend Harkin is. But the creatures here do arouse a measure of fascination within me. Some recent controversial propositions by respected comparative anatomists spring to mind. . . .” He yawned once more. “Forgive me. Come, Mistress Samantha, I’ll escort you to the tent where your friend is sleeping. Good night, all, and may tomorrow be a better day.”

  Lewis yawned also as the doctor and Englishwoman moved away. Olayne had to catch him as he swayed. Fatigue, and perhaps a touch of fever, he supposed.

  “You must sleep as well, sir,” Olayne insisted worriedly. “You’ve hardly done so since you regained consciousness after the wreck—and what will we do without you?”

  “You’ll manage,” Lewis assured. “Besides, I slept a little last night—the night before last,” he corrected, pressing his hand to his side.

  “You wounded?” Leonor demanded.

  Lewis shook his head. “Just an old ache.” He sighed. “Maybe I will rest awhile.”

  “We brought few tents, and they’re occupied by the wounded and the ladies,” Olayne told him, “but Private Willis rigged a fly from a gun tarp and arranged a bed beneath it.”

  “Very well.” Lewis looked at Olayne and Beck. “I trust the Ocelomeh to ensure we’re not surprised, but at least one of you must remain alert at all times. Until Captain Anson stirs—or Captain Holland returns. Call me at once when he does. I want to know what he discovered on Tiger.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Touching the brim of his hat to Varaa and Ixtla, Lewis turned to find his bed—and almost immediately staggered again.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Leonor snapped at the young officers, going to Lewis’s side to support him.

  “I’m fine . . .” he objected.

  “No you’re not,” Leonor scolded. “None of us are. An’ we won’t ‘manage’ at all if you go down. You know it too, so don’t be a fool.”

  CHAPTER 12

  This is your fault, Capitan Arevalo!” groaned the big, red-painted warrior with a bleeding head and shattered leg as he was lifted and placed beside the wounded Dominion officer. Now they both lay on the bed of a boxy cart hitched to a large, indifferent, and extremely flatulent beast called an “armabuey.” It was, in fact, one of the “giant armadillos” Anson had seen in the Holcano village, and the description wasn’t inappropriate. There were a number of differences besides size, of course, and they came in various sizes, types of armor, and dispositions, but all were called armabueys and they were ubiquitous beasts of heavy burden throughout the Yucatán and the Dominion.

  “And how is that, El Apestoso?” Arevalo hissed mockingly through his own pain. The warrior chief of the combined Holcanos preferred to be called “Kisin,” after the god of earthquakes and death, who ruled the underworld. He even wore a Death Collar strung with dried, shrunken eyes. Arevalo was in no mood for him, however, and “El Apestoso” was another name for the same god, meaning “Stinking One.” It was somewhat interchangeable with “the Devil” to those adhering to the “True Faith,” and even the heretical Christian faith lingering in the Yucatán. Kisin despised it.

  “You didn’t give us guns, as promised!” he sulked.

  “I promised you’d have guns when you’d earned them,” Arevalo snapped. “And you could’ve earned all you needed by taking them from the blue heretics on the shore!”

  “How could we get guns without guns? They slaughtered the Concha Band of Blood Lizards, and their survivors have abandoned us, limping away in hopes the Bosque Band will take them in. The Conchas are extinct! And those cursed Ocelomeh scattered my cousin’s band of Holcanos—my strongest supporters on the coast—and my cousin himself was slain! Without his power, all the Holcano villages in this entire area will have to flee.” Kisin almost shrieked when an old, filthy, bare-breasted woman—a healer, it seemed—began padding his leg as best she could in preparation for the rough motion of the cart. A younger healer, entirely nude and just as filthy, sat with Arevalo’s head in her lap. Occasionally, he gasped in pain when she leaned over to suck on the small bullet wound in his upper chest and spit blood over the side of the cart. Arevalo knew the idea was to draw out the poisoned blood (and malevolent magic, he assumed) but doubted she could draw out the ball.

  Medicine in the Holy Dominion wasn’t much more advanced, since it relied more on the whim of a generally uninterested God than any real treatment beyond cleaning and binding a wound. But a Dominion surgeon would at least probe for the ball and any debris it carried in, removing as much as he could before consigning him to God’s indifferent care. Perhaps he had singular value? If so, he’d heal fairly quickly. If not, he might suffer enough to earn God’s casual esteem. At that point he’d either die in grace or live to be judged by a Blood Cardinal. He would decide if he’d suffered enough to earn singular value—or should entertain God with more suffering.

  Either way, Arevalo expected he was as doomed as this little village astride the sweet stream west of where the calamitous battle occurred. The place had no name, nor would it, since the surviving Holcanos who’d been there just a few months were rapidly abandoning it. Most were already gone, streaming south, then southeast toward Nautla. Nobody lived there, but they’d shelter in the ruins until Capitan Arevalo either died or recovered enough for the much longer journey to Campeche. From there, he’d take ship if he was lucky, or travel up the Camino Militar to the Great Valley of Mexico and the Holy City. There he’d report the disaster of
the day. Messengers would precede him so the setback in the Dominion’s long, long plan to destabilize the region by proxy would surprise no one. He’d had no part in the disaster, of course, and even tried to restrain Kisin from mounting his impetuous attack on the apparently helpless but also obviously very rich new pilgrims from another world. Better to carry out the original plan against the Uxmalos—that Arevalo had helped him with—then observe the newcomers for a while. But it would be his disaster by the time he reached the Holy City. He’d only be surprised if he lived that long, and was allowed to live longer.

  The cart finally lurched forward, and Kisin grunted in pain and grimaced, dry paint cracking and scattering in fragments on his face. “Who do you think they were . . . are?” he finally asked the Dominion captain.

  Arevalo frowned, assuming he meant the shipwrecked strangers. With his coat and shirt removed, he felt the chill of the evening on his sweaty torso. “Others,” he said dismissively. “Others who came here as my ancestors did. As yours did.” He sent a scathing glare at Kisin. “Though we both missed the battle, I think we can safely say they’re very dangerous ‘others.’ Armed much like the Holy Dominion in most respects, it seems.” He reached vaguely toward the small wound in his chest. “But I’m certain some of their pistols fired more often than they should. I’ve seen double-barrel pistols, even some with three revolving barrels, but the one that shot me had only one, yet it fired many times. And they have cannon, of course. We heard them.”

  “And they’re already allied with the contemptible Ocelomeh,” Kisin spat. “They’ll be in league with the Uxmalos next.”