Purgatory's Shore

by Taylor Anderson

  Lewis and his friends filed outside, staying away from the dragoons and lancers but moving as far as they thought they’d get away with. No one said a word as they walked, but Harkin was clearly beside himself with fury, his bulbous form almost rippling as he shuddered with horror and rage.

  “Let it out, Reverend,” Lewis said, almost flippantly.

  “By God I will! This is monstrous! Monstrous! You can’t accept these terms, none of you. Father Orno, I beg you! I thought we understood each other perfectly! You all know that beast is lying. Every putrid word—lies! Forsake your honor, your alliance, and your cause, and you also forsake the God who brought us together to oppose the evil lurking in that tent, not appease it!”

  Harkin went on like that for several minutes while the others watched, nodding or shaking their heads, surreptitiously glancing inside the tent from time to time, watching Colonel Wicklow and Don Frutos talk, probably discussing the reverend’s unrestrained diatribe. When Harkin finally paused to take a breath, after repeatedly damning them all to hell, Father Orno stepped to him and put a hand on his arm.

  “It weren’t me, Reverend. Honest,” Private Willis piously proclaimed. Barca yanked him away and whispered furiously in his ear.

  “Well done, Reverend, you’ve convinced us,” Lewis said, very low.

  Harkin gaped, then blinked. “What the devil do you mean?”

  “We knew the only possible purpose the Doms—that ‘Don Frutos’—could have for this parley was to try to divide us,” De Russy told him gently, “so we pretended to let him think he has. Aside from meeting our enemy, we’re only here to focus, delay, and confuse him, after all. And reinforce his arrogance, of course. We couldn’t make it look too easy to split us, however, so we didn’t tell you of our plan. We needed a sincere voice to rise in opposition, in genuine righteous indignation, and decided yours would serve us best.”

  “They didn’t tell me either,” Leonor growled resentfully. “I was fixin’ to shoot somebody.” She looked at Lewis. “I would’ve shot you if it was true.”

  “You . . . you infernal bastards!” Harkin puffed, apparently shocked by his own use of such a word. “You frightened me out of my mind. Why me? Why not let Father Orno do it?”

  “Orno had to seem to be counseling Periz for peace. We couldn’t have both our clerical fellows on the same side, could we?” De Russy explained, and that’s what he believed. Lewis hadn’t told him that Orno actually came to him, afraid the alcalde might accept terms of some sort if they seemed at all reasonable. He couldn’t look in his face and gauge his reactions if he was as exercised as Harkin had been. But even Periz couldn’t find Frutos’s terms acceptable, could he? He had to know they’d leave him utterly at the mercy of the Doms. Now Lewis hoped for some signal from Orno, one way or another, but perhaps he still didn’t know.

  “One interestin’ thing,” Anson said, looking curiously back at the activity in the tent: “Colonel Wicklow’s still inside that shell of a man, an’ he doesn’t want us to quit.”

  “No,” De Russy agreed. “Poor man. I was confused at first, thinking his wits had gone, but ‘ponderous’ and ‘inflexible,’ as well as his reference to Arista, conveyed his meaning perfectly. It was a wonderful bit of intelligence regarding Dom tactics—considering we’ve never seen them before.”

  “I was confused by that as well,” Alcalde Periz finally said, speaking for the first time since they exited the tent. He looked at Lewis. “I understood that Palo Alto was a great victory for your army and this ‘Arista’ was on the other side. You were there.”

  “That’s true,” Lewis said. “So was Captain Anson and Leonor. A few others too. So was Teniente Lara, I hear. I guess it wasn’t very big as modern battles go, but it was ‘great’ in the sense that it was a decisive victory against a larger force.” He looked at Anson and Leonor, then back at Periz. “And none of us have forgotten what we learned there—and later.”

  “You were outnumbered,” Periz almost whispered, “but not by nearly so many, I think.”

  Lewis took a deep breath. “It’s been a pain and a rush, Alcalde Periz, especially over the last few days. Two months ago I would’ve said we’d never do it.” He smiled in the darkness. “But we’re ready for this fight. My people, yours”—he nodded at Varaa—“hers . . .” He shook his head almost angrily. “Our people are ready, and the Doms only think they are. Even if you just want to break it down to numbers, that’s three-quarters of any fight right there.”

  Anson was nodding back at the tent. “Wicklow’s gone. Weird stuff goin’ on in there, an’ they’re gettin’ antsy. I think our time’s up.”

  “Varaa,” Lewis said, “you and Leonor join Burton and Espinoza when we go back inside. Tell them to be ready.”

  “Don Frutos said the war would start if we rejoin our guards,” Periz objected.

  “The war’s already on, sir,” Leonor told him coldly, “an’ they don’t want neither of us in there anyway. Damned if we’ll just stand out here by ourselves.”

  “She’s right,” said Orno firmly, pushing his friend and secular leader ahead of him toward the lurid marquee. “The war has been ‘on’ since long before the Americans ever came, and I for one will be glad to have the end of it start.”

  Varaa kakked quietly as she and Leonor started for the dragoons and lancers. Leonor snorted. “We ain’t gonna end it tonight, priest. Or tomorrow neither.”

  “No,” Orno agreed. “But a thing must be properly begun before it can ever be finished.”

  “Anybody tries to stop you gettin’ over there, we’ll ‘start the end’ right here an’ now,” Anson whispered loudly after the Mi-Anakka and his daughter, eyeing the enemy lancers still holding their positions. None moved. Stepping over to walk by Lewis as they went to confront Don Frutos, Anson muttered, “We still want to drag this out as long as possible?”

  “Yes. Our people are still getting in position, moving through monster-infested forests in the dark!”

  “An’ they can’t so much as fire a shot to defend themselves,” Anson unhappily agreed, though if something the size of the dragon that got Lieutenant Swain appeared, a hundred shots might not make a difference.

  “Ocelomeh escorts with those big bows should help,” Lewis murmured, unconvinced, as they reached the scalloped edge of the tent. “The curtain rises again,” he quipped, then, “Jesus. What’re they doing now?”

  CHAPTER 33

  All the chairs had been moved to one side of the marquee, and everyone was standing, waiting, expectant, gathered around the long, low table, leaving a gap barely wide enough for Lewis, Anson, De Russy, and Father Orno. It was clear they were expected to fill it, and they reluctantly did so. As before, Barca and Willis hung back, but now so did Reverend Harkin. Colonel Wicklow was still absent.

  “I’m glad you returned to us!” Don Frutos exclaimed with what looked like a genuine smile. He regarded Alcalde Periz. “I presume you know that can only mean one thing?”

  Periz jerked a nod, flicked a glance at Lewis, and cleared his throat. “The cooperative association between Uxmal, Pidra Blanca, and Itzincab must remain intact to oppose the Holcanos, but as that alliance’s only representative present, I release the Americans—the Detached Expeditionary Force—from their commitment to it.” He looked squarely at Lewis. “I do in fact insist they leave the defensive positions they’ve erected behind the walls of Uxmal just as soon as they can.”

  General Agon respectfully whispered something to Don Frutos, who said, “You have two days to accomplish this, Major Cayce, or the Army of God will descend upon Uxmal regardless, bringing all the consequences I already described. For everyone concerned.”

  Lewis clenched his jaw, never looking at Periz, suddenly even more unsure of the alcalde’s real intentions. At least he’d implied all the Americans were still in his city. “What would you have us do?” he asked.

  “Disavow
the Ocelomeh at once, of course,” Don Frutos told him, “then march out of the city and stack your arms and all your gear.”

  “My men will be treated well?” Lewis asked.

  “As promised. As long as they cooperate in every way and don’t resist conversion to the True Faith.”

  Lewis imagined how such an order would go over with his men. They’d string me up, he thought with dark amusement. Virtually every man in his command was devout to some degree, adhering to diverse Protestant denominations and even the real Pope in the Rome on the world they left behind. A few now followed Father Orno’s version of Christianity. Surely Wicklow had warned Don Frutos how few would willingly convert to a faith they considered abhorrent? Don Frutos won’t care, Lewis knew. He’ll do whatever he wants with us after we’re helpless.

  “I don’t think it’ll take two days to vacate Uxmal,” Lewis said lowly, almost cryptically.

  “Nevertheless, you shall have them,” Don Frutos said pleasantly, as if granting a favor.

  Which confirms it’ll take that long to bring his whole army up from the washboard glade, Lewis decided, at which time he’ll attack us, arrayed helplessly in the open, then fall on Uxmal itself. He thinks. No wonder he looks so cheerful.

  “Very well,” Lewis said. “I hereby denounce the Ocelomeh and divorce my forces from theirs. I also accept . . . His Holiness’s generous offer to take myself and my troops into the service of the Holy Dominion.” Just saying those words made his stomach rebel, but he kept the disgust off his face.

  “Excellent!” Don Frutos exclaimed and turned to another heavy priest in a finer robe who’d been very near him earlier. “Obispo Estupendo, proceed with the consecration!”

  The fat priest nodded gravely. Staring at the ground and extending his arms to his sides, he began to chant in what sounded like a mix of Latin and the Spanya that seemed universal on this continent. More braziers were lit as if by magic, and pungent smoke filled the tent with a fog that bleared the eyes . . . and possibly other senses. Lewis immediately felt a spike of alarm as he grew light-headed, but as the effect increased, so did his apathy and willingness to accept it. Long wooden flutes retrieved from within the priest’s robes made a sharp, plaintive, monotonous sound, probably annoyingly audible all across the clearing around the tent. Other voices joined the chant, though Don Frutos made no sound, only gazing benevolently about. Suddenly, the tapestry behind the throne stirred again, and two figures were ushered out between the weaselly Tranquilo and portly Felicidad. Both were naked, bound, and apparently drugged, and through the rising haze in the tent—and in Lewis’s mind—it took him a moment to realize the first figure was one of the gold-painted girls, but the other was Colonel Wicklow. He looked at Don Frutos and caught him watching him. “One of mine and one of yours,” he almost shouted over the din of flutes. “Of no further use to either of us. Besides, I told you I’ve grown fond of the colonel, and it’s time he was rewarded for his service. He will go to heaven, Major Cayce! Accompanied by that wretched child as his everlasting servant!”

  Whatever was in the smoke kept this from fully registering for a moment. Longer still before Lewis began to piece together a response or plan of action. In that time he dimly heard shots outside and fighting, as well as insistent cries of alarm. As if he was watching a dream, he saw the girl flung down on the table as the chanting increased in urgency and volume and willing hands, probably accustomed to whatever was affecting Lewis’s mind, cut the girl’s bonds and held her arms and legs while Father Felicidad took his place at the head of the table, drawing a long, green obsidian blade, its serrated edges and faceted sides reflecting the flames of the closest brazier like a malevolent jewel. Lewis felt the grip of his saber in his hand but couldn’t seem to draw it. Looking desperately at Orno and Periz, he saw the horror on their faces made more intense, like his, by their inability to do anything but watch as Felicidad cried out and raised the wicked blade above the bare breast of the unresisting child.

  Just as he began the fatal thrust, Father Felicidad’s triumphant expression bulged to the side and exploded all over the anxiously expectant Doms on the other side of the table amid an earsplitting crash and roiling ball of smoke. Lewis felt someone grab him from behind, dragging him back, while Captain Anson leaped on the table with one of his huge revolvers in hand, swaying drunkenly, reaching to lift the golden child.

  “Kill him, you fools!” Don Frutos roared, backing behind his throne-like chair. “He’s already fired his shot!” Lewis distinctly saw an idiot grin spread across the Ranger’s face as a priest produced a sword from beneath his robe.

  Anson shot him too. “This pistol’s magical, made by a fiendish demon named Sam Colt. It’ll shoot a hundred bullets at a throw, an’ I can do this all damn night!” he bellowed, snapping off another shot that blew a hole in the throne as Don Frutos and General Agon ducked out of sight—and men in yellow-and-black uniforms swarmed in from the hidden annex. They fired quickly, frantically, trying to protect their masters, killing a couple of red-robed figures in their haste. Lewis finally freed his saber from its scabbard, but whoever had him kept him from tottering to the Ranger’s aid.

  “Shake it off, Major!” shouted Private Willis in his ear. “Take deep breaths an’ blow that nasty shit out. Barca smoked the smoke right off, if you get me, an’ said they was up to somethin’. Sure enough! Them squeaky flutes must’a signaled their hunnerd-yard guards to come creepin’ up. Here’s your horse, sir. Up you git!”

  Lewis’s head was already clearing as he climbed in the saddle and saw the result of the fighting he’d vaguely heard. Men lay dead all around, mostly Dom lancers, but a dragoon and a couple of Espinoza’s lancers as well. Balls fired by Dom muskets were whirring past as the hundred—more—Dom infantry continued to advance, lighting the night with their sparkly muzzle flashes very close.

  “That gal Leonor killed half these buggers,” Willis said admiringly, using a dead lancer as a step to his stirrup, “then covered us while we went for you.” Lewis now saw that despite his bulk, Reverend Harkin had practically carried Father Orno and Alcalde Periz back to their horses while Barca half dragged a nearly insensible Colonel De Russy. Varaa, Burton, Anson, and Leonor were still shooting at Doms in the marquee, forted behind the heavy, overturned table. Dragoons and lancers were shooting carbines at the other advancing Doms while the rest of their “hundred” dragoons, lancers, and Ocelomeh Rangers galloped up to join them from behind. It looked like there’d soon be another battle here—not that Lewis hadn’t half expected it from the start—but, shaking his head and blinking his eyes to clear the intoxicating smoke, he saw that Don Frutos had cheated again. There were at least three or four hundred Doms coming up the rise. “Let’s go, Captain Anson! We’ve more company coming than we can entertain.”

  “I just wanna get that slimy Frutos bastard,” Leonor raged.

  “You think he just stayed behind that chair?” Lewis shouted. The marquee was starting to burn, ignited by an overturned brazier or torch. A lancer’s horse squealed and went down, but the rider hopped off in time to avoid being crushed. “He and the rest are out the back and down behind the infantry by now. Let’s go!”

  Reluctantly, Anson called the others away, still carrying the drugged girl when he climbed in the saddle. Lewis looked around. Leonor was mounted, and so was Varaa. Barca was behind De Russy, holding him up. Father Orno seemed to be doing the same for Alcalde Periz. “Take them down to the trees, Lieutenant Burton,” Lewis ordered, waving his sword at the Doms. “We’ll meet them the same way as before.”

  Seeing them start to pull back at last, the Doms broke ranks and charged, swarming up and around the marquee. That’s when Lewis saw the emaciated, naked form of Colonel Wicklow walking in circles in front of the big burning tent, hands still bound. “Jesus,” he hissed, turning Arete back and preparing to touch her with his spurs. “I can’t leave him to them. God knows what they’ll do to him now.”
The roaring overpressure of Captain Anson’s Walker Colt buffeted his right ear, and forty yards away, silhouetted by the growing flames, Colonel Wicklow dropped like a stone. Lewis turned to glare at Anson and was surprised by the fury he saw.

  “What do you reckon they’d do to you, Lewis?” Anson snapped. “An’ what would we do without you?”

  “He did Wicklow a mercy, Major,” Varaa shouted over the swelling musket fire, “and probably saved your life. You can fight later. Now we fight Doms. To the trees!”

  Lewis had no business faulting Don Frutos for cheating—though the drugged smoke was a bit much—because Lewis had “cheated” as well. All of Felix Meder’s mounted riflemen and Hudgens’s two sections of artillery had moved up the forest track to the edge of the trees under cover of darkness. Much like the Doms must’ve done. And they’d deployed the same way they’d met the Dom lancers by the time the enemy infantry swept down. The result was much the same as well. Silhouetted against the burning tent, the enemy made a perfect target for massed rifle and carbine fire as well as the thundering, whistling canister belching from four well-plied 6pdrs. In moments, it seemed, the slope descending toward the trees was covered with steaming, mewling carrion once more.

  “Now we move,” Lewis cried, Leonor beside him as he urged Arete toward the carriage Father Orno and Reverend Harkin had packed Alcalde Periz and Colonel De Russy back into. “Lieutenant Burton, pass the word for Lieutenant Hudgens to replace the canister he expended from his caissons and have the rest of the men replenish ammunition as well. Wounded to the rear, and prepare to advance. Messengers!”

  Two pairs of mounted Ocelomeh joined him as he rode. In these woods, at night, no single rider could be relied on to carry word of this importance. “Other couriers down the line have heard the fighting, no doubt, so Major Reed will probably know what to do before you even get there. If not, however, he must be told to ‘execute his movement as planned.’ ” Even these runners wouldn’t know exactly what the ‘movement’ was, in case they were taken, though its general purpose must be obvious. The Ocelomeh Rangers galloped away as Lewis and Captain Anson dismounted by the carriage, finding Varaa and a cluster of her healers there. “Has the alcalde recovered his senses yet?” Lewis asked, but Varaa clutched his arm.