“I won’t beg for their help!” Periz stated adamantly.
“I’m not saying you should. But nothing’s wrong with begging for their understanding”—he nodded at the amateur logisticians—“and explaining why the things we need are so important”—he smiled faintly—“and how all things, all contributions from true friends to a common cause, tend to even out in the end.”
“It would be easier to get their cooperation if the Doms were already upon us,” Periz muttered darkly.
“Of course,” De Russy agreed, “but then it would be too late.” He looked at Lewis and Varaa in turn. “I agree it’s time to ‘scout about’ a bit, and not just at sea. Deeper than the Ocelomeh ordinarily go, and closer to known concentrations of the enemy. Captain Cayce’s right. We don’t know how long we have, and we need a better feel for that.” He nodded toward a line of mounted Ocelomeh “Rangers” and a squad of Lara’s new lancers working their way along a distant tree line near where the Pidra Blanca road disappeared into it. “There are sufficient scouts now, I believe.”
Lewis frowned. All the mounted men, even “professional” American dragoons and riflemen, were green, but with men like Boogerbear and Lara, Hernandez and Ixtla, even Anson and Varaa to lead them—though Lewis couldn’t spare the latter two—it probably was time to set them loose. In any other wilderness, I already would have, he realized. But with monsters like the one that killed Lieutenant Swain, and the Grik horde on the beach . . . He pursed his lips. That’s the whole point of scouting, though, isn’t it? To learn whatever is out there. And with all the Ocelomeh in the Rangers and lancers, they should avoid most inhuman threats . . . “Yes,” he said aloud. “Captain Anson, please detail at least two scouting missions. Use whatever mix of Rangers, dragoons, Rifles, and lancers you deem appropriate. If Alcalde Periz accepts De Russy’s suggestion to go to Itzincab, one scouting party will accompany them, then press on to Puebla Arboras and beyond. The other, bigger party will take the road back the way we came and continue on into the disputed territory between—what was it, Nautla? Yes. Between Nautla and Campeche. That’s the farthest extent of the Doms’ Camino Militar on the great map in the Audience Hall. If the Doms are massing against us, we’ll see the first evidence there.”
They were distracted by a lone Ocelomeh horseman galloping out of the east gate of the city. He paused a moment to gaze at the activity on the parade ground, then, apparently seeing them, urged his mount in their direction.
“That’s Klashi!” Varaa exclaimed as the horseman drew closer. “He’s one of King Har-Kaaska’s personal, ah, ‘aides,’ I think you’d call him!”
“Ave, Warmaster Varaa-Choon!” the man called, somewhat shrilly, as his lathered horse slid to a stop in the tall grass. “Ave, Alcalde Periz!”
“Ave, Klashi!” Varaa replied with a glance at Lewis.
“Isn’t that a Latin greeting?” Reverend Harkin murmured aside to Orno.
“I believe so,” Orno whispered back. “The Mi-Anakka used it among themselves, and it spread to the Ocelomeh for formal use.”
“Indeed?”
“Greetings, Klashi,” Periz said in English. “I assume your presence implies your king isn’t far behind?”
“The great King Har-Kaaska nears the west gate as we speak,” Klashi confirmed. “He’ll wait for you to receive him, but bears urgent news. Perhaps it would be more convenient to dispense with formalities and meet at the great temple in the center of your city?”
Periz glanced at Father Orno and his other companions. “Of course. We are coming.”
Klashi wheeled his horse and galloped back toward the gate.
“We should all go, and be quick about it,” Varaa said. “Klashi seems excited, and King Har-Kaaska will likely reach the temple before us!” She looked over at Lewis. “He will know things! Perhaps your scouts won’t be needed after all.”
Lewis doubted that, but maybe Har-Kaaska could give Anson a better idea where to focus them. He nudged Arete alongside Alcalde Periz’s beautiful new black mare. She was booty from the battle on the beach and had likely belonged to one of the Dom “Yellows.” “After you, sir,” he said respectfully.
CHAPTER 24
Varaa had been right. Har-Kaaska and a fairly large entourage of mounted human Ocelomeh and a couple more Mi-Anakka were waiting near the front entrance to the temple when they arrived. They’d been slowed somewhat by the carriage bearing Reverend Harkin, Father Orno, and the increasingly uncomfortable heads of their new logistics department. Samarez was more used to the presence of high officials than Finlay, but neither seemed pleased by the responsibilities heaped on them, or even how casually their momentous new roles were accepted. For his part, Lewis’s daily association with Varaa and Koaar made him think he was inured to the sight of Mi-Anakka—their fur, wide eyes, even tails no longer shocking—but Har-Kaaska brought all those differences back to mind at once, striking him as even more outlandish.
He was bigger, for one thing, almost as tall as Lewis, it seemed, and alone among his party was mounted on a bizarre bipedal creature as similar to a giant lizard as a fat duck, complete with a broad bill protruding from its face in front of small, questing, almost thoughtful black eyes. And like the alcaldes at the disrupted reception, Har-Kaaska wore gold scale armor in sharp contrast to his black-and-brownish-gray brindled pelt, each scale as small as that of a fish and individually engraved. Engraved gold greaves covered his shins from moccasins to knees, and to literally top it all, he wore a high-combed Morion-style helmet—also gold washed—with holes cut in the sides for his ears.
The big Mi-Anakka urged his strange mount forward, sitting near the same height as the alcalde of Uxmal, and fondly clasped his forearm. Then he regarded De Russy, Lewis, and Anson with eyes as bright yellow as the gold he wore and held his right hand up, palm out.
“In case you’re wondering, that’s King Har-Kaaska,” Varaa hissed. “Return the gesture, if you please. It’s a traditional greeting among warriors unknown to one another where he and I come from. It’s called ‘the sign of the empty hand,’ but since no one’s hand is truly empty in this land”—she snorted ironically—“consider it equivalent to your salutes. You need not bow,” she hastened to add.
It had never occurred to Lewis to bow, but he’d certainly render a salute. He and De Russy did so now, fingers almost touching the down-pointed brims of their wheel hats.
“Ave, great warriors from another land and world,” Har-Kaaska said, grinning. “Greetings,” he added. “I’ve not used this tongue in . . . many years. Forgive me if I stumble.”
Lewis wondered once again why any Mi-Anakka spoke English.
“Greetings, King Har-Kaaska,” De Russy replied. “We’re at your service.”
Har-Kaaska glanced at Varaa, then Periz. “As I understand it, we are at your service now. Perhaps my warmaster hasn’t fully explained. I’m no Caesar, or even alcalde like Periz. Nor do I rule any permanent ‘city-state.’ ” He kakked a Mi-Anakka chuckle. “I’m called ‘king’ because I lead all the Ocelomeh on this peninsula—I suppose they must call me something, but I exercise no control over Periz and his fellow alcaldes.” He gestured vaguely around. “My domain may be larger than theirs, but it includes only the forest and wildlands, not the cities. We protect their people and they provide for us.”
“So you’re mercenaries,” Reverend Harkin said lowly.
Har-Kaaska blinked at him. “I suppose, in a sense, but what does that make you?”
Lewis sent Harkin a sharp stare and eased Arete between them, holding up a hand. “Like you, as I understand it, the protection of these people from the greater evil is our primary concern, beyond any reward for ourselves aside from sustenance and support. But I don’t understand what you mean by being at our service.”
Har-Kaaska laughed. “You must be Captain Cayce, the ‘hardened yet idealistic warrior, motivated by honor, who thinks as sharply as
he fights.’ ” He looked at De Russy. “And you’re the ‘statesman, organizer, diplomat in uniform, sensible enough to know you’re not a warrior, but ready to use your other skills.’ ” He glanced finally at Anson. “And you’re the ‘pure warrior, who fights for a vengeance he’ll never find—and perhaps other things more like Captain Cayce than he knows.’ ” He laughed again. “Do any of you disagree with those assessments? You see, though we’ve never met, I know you already. My warmaster has very diligently sent her reports.”
They all looked at Varaa, who shrugged. “I told King Har-Kaaska your way of war was closer to the Dominion’s than ours and you could raise an army to face it on more equal terms. You’ll note I’m equally objective in assessing my people as I am yours. Regardless, King Har-Kaaska had to know you, know who he was dealing with, before letting even more of his people join under your leadership.”
“And?” Lewis asked.
It was Har-Kaaska’s turn to shrug. “I’m here, am I not? I’ve left scouts in place, of course, and must return to direct them. Varaa-Choon will stay with you, to learn your ways of war,” he added definitively before Varaa could suggest they exchange duties. He puffed himself up and gave her a canine-tipped smile. “I’m a king! Too old and too . . . set to learn to fight all over again. And there’ll still be need for the old ways.” He looked back at Lewis and De Russy. “But many of my people will be joining you for training. How the bulk will be used then . . . I will retain some say,” he warned. “The Holcanos and Grik are still out there, and one threat doesn’t simply vanish when another draws near. Often it’s quite the opposite.”
“How will we feed them all?” Samarez almost moaned.
Alcalde Periz cleared his throat. “Does . . . Does this mean my people need no longer participate in the trainings? They can resume their lives as they were, now that those better suited for war can relieve them?”
Lewis started to protest, to demand what he meant by “better suited,” but Har-Kaaska’s stern gaze beat him to it. “No. It means you must train harder and faster.” His eyes settled back on Lewis. “Word of your battle has flown as far as the Great Valley and City of Mexico. Troops, Dominion troops, are moving toward Campeche from all over the empire. Holcanos and Grik gather east of there, at Cayal. They may raid past Puebla Arboras toward Itzincab, at least.”
Lewis looked at Anson and raised an eyebrow. Just as they’d expected. “You’ll be going back soon?” he asked Har-Kaaska. “We were going to send scouts of our own. Maybe some can come with you.”
* * *
“Interestin’ fella,” Captain Anson said as Lewis rode with him back through the east gate and out on the busy parade ground. There’d be another reception at the Audience Hall that night, and Lewis and Varaa would post sufficient troops to ensure no recurrence of the previous unpleasantness. De Russy, the “logistics division,” and the two clergymen had stayed with Periz to help arrange things.
“Very interesting,” Lewis agreed. “Mi-Anakka look so very strange,” he suddenly blurted, “but they’re just people like us, after all.”
Anson looked at him oddly. “People, sure,” he agreed, “but I doubt even Reverend Harkin’s ready to allow they’re ‘like us’ just yet.” He frowned. “An’ they ain’t, you know. Not with tails an’ fur all over ’em.” He looked thoughtful. “But all the ‘His image’ stuff in the Good Book aside, they’re like us where it counts.” He patted his chest and the heart underneath. “Has to be hard for Har-Kaaska just to turn his people over to us.”
“With reservations,” Lewis reminded.
“Sure. But not that we’d treat ’em bad or teach ’em stuff too strange for ’em, even try to take ’em away from him. He only ‘reserved’ the right to call ’em back under his command if the need arises.”
“A ‘need’ defined as whatever he wants,” Lewis objected.
“I guess.” Anson said nothing as they rode along the wall to the north, toward the bay. A couple of 6pdrs boomed in the distance, firing at a rotten old fishing boat anchored several hundred yards from shore. With suitable copper roundshot already being cast, they had enough for a little live-fire practice. And artillery trainees formed at least part of the crew whenever a big gun was fired. It was good for them to be around it, feel the roar and overpressure and observe the basics of what they could do. They were too short on exploding case shot to practice with it, however, and no one had figured out how to make more. Lewis had some ideas, but it would take time just to make the things to make things. In the meantime, exploding case would be hoarded for battle, and any inexperienced gunners would have to rely on the tables of fire to set fuses. At present, the water around the boat amply demonstrated what kind of accuracy to expect from solid shot, and how to achieve it. A round from the first gun splashed down long, sending a plume of spray in the air. The second gun sent its shot skating along the top of the water, shattering wave crests, before slamming through the rotten wooden planks.
“Shows it’s better to shoot short and skate it in than miss completely,” Anson murmured, pulling Colonel Fannin to a stop.
A third gun roared, probably laid by Olayne himself, and the ball flew true and smashed right through the boat near the waterline, spraying jagged splinters in all directions.
“Best to hit what you’re shooting at,” Lewis quipped, “but you’re right.” He sighed. “We’ve got to increase ammunition flow so the men can practice more. We don’t have nearly enough to make professional artillerymen! And the infantry has it just as bad.”
“There’s lead to make musket balls,” Anson pointed out.
“But we’re still stuck with the gunpowder we brought until the very process for making more is improved,” Lewis retorted. “And what will the men use for paper cartridges then? Riflemen can load from flasks, since they’re not supposed to get close.” He pursed his lips at what he’d just said. “Supposed to” often fell victim to “had to” in battle, and he wanted their gunsmiths and blacksmiths (wildly important people now) to modify enough bayonets to fit their M1817 rifles if “had to” occurred. “But infantry on the firing line relies on volume of fire to survive,” he continued. “Fast loading and shooting with paper cartridges.” He snorted. “I never thought good paper would be as important as powder—and probably as hard to make. God knows how much the Uxmalos who salvaged the wrecks, even our people with them, destroyed when they burned the ships’ skeletons. I should’ve had them save every old newspaper, logbook, and journal, even outdated daily reports.”
Anson scratched his beard. “Well, there’s at least a few hundred pocket Bibles amongst the men. . . .”
Lewis shook his head. “No. Those little books are all some fellows have to cling to. I won’t take them away. Even if we did, it wouldn’t make much difference. I hope Mr. Finlay comes up with something.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe wood or leather tubes with stoppers, like we found with those Dom muskets?” He shook his head. “Too bulky.”
“It’s always the little stuff you have to worry about,” Anson conceded, then grinned. “On top of the big stuff.” He grunted. “Varaa sure nailed you down, tellin’ Har-Kaaska you’re ‘idealistic.’ ”
Lewis urged Arete onward, speaking over his shoulder. “You think so? Then that means she was right about your vengeance—and maybe you’re a little idealistic too.”
Anson caught up as they turned to follow the lapping waves on the shoreline, working their way around huge nets stretched between tripods to dry in the sun. Soon, they drew even with the 3rd Pennsylvania, performing close order drill with Uxmalos in its ranks, raising its number (so far) to almost five hundred. The 3rd looked a shambles at a glance, poorly executing the most basic maneuvers. And when Lieutenant (now elected Captain) Wagley called for them to deploy from column into line, the whole force disintegrated into chaos amid indignant shrieks and bellows of harried NCOs.
Lewis was intrigued by the different
training methods used by the 3rd and 1st, but had given Wagley and Captain Beck their heads. Major Reed, commanding all the infantry now, seemed to agree. The Pennsylvanians were using “total immersion” to train their new men, the old hands guiding the recruits at their side. The whole regiment would suffer for a time, but Wagley believed the new men would catch on quicker by example.
Beck was more traditional, forming companies of recruits who knew nothing at first while keeping other companies intact and ready. There were good reasons for both approaches, and Lewis wondered which would be best.
“Maybe you’ve rubbed off on me. I never imagined myself an idealist,” Anson confessed at last. “An’ maybe I’ve let vengeance consume me too long,” he added lowly. “I’ve spent a decade burnin’ to get even for my family . . . for Leonor. But you never ‘get even’ for somethin’ like that. No way in hell to find the ones really responsible.” He sighed and looked out to sea, where Tiger was beating back east past the point, a little farther out. “An’ you can’t kill your way out of tryin’,” he murmured. “You only kill your soul, piece by piece.” He blew out a breath. “Then this war started”—he waved his hand helplessly—“the one back home, where we met. I was after revenge again. For her,” he added significantly. “For Leonor. For what a few shabby, undisciplined Mexican soldiers did. I never hated Mexicans as Mexicans, even after the Alamo an’ Goliad, an’ when I fought ’em at San Jacinto. There were Mexicans on our side too. Still are. Sal Hernandez’s been ate up for revenge—for both our families—as long as me.”
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