Maelstrom (47 page)

“Never fear,” he told her as softly as his gruff voice allowed. “All will be made right.” He squeezed her tight, then gently pushed her away. Behind her stood Adar. “I thought you were ashore,” he accused. “Go, take her with you. She belongs at the aid station, not here, and we have ‘medics’ enough. Besides, this will be a fight for the cannons. Our warriors are behind the fortifications.”

“I am going ashore, my lord.” Adar gauged the distance to the approaching enemy. More guns along the wall were firing now, and splashes rose among the ships.

“We have a moment yet.” That said, he spoke no more. He just stared at his lifelong friend.

“You’re likely to have a larger ‘official’ congregation before this fight is done,” Keje observed uncomfortably. “I hear Naga has climbed the Sacred Tree.”

“To the very top,” Adar confirmed. “He prays to the Heavens above the din of battle, so he might be heard.”

Keje grunted. “How did he get up there?” He shook his head. “Never mind. He knows the Jaaps may target the tree and the Great Hall?”

“He does. Suddenly he seems aware of quite a lot. He hopes his prayers will protect them.”

“Do you think they will?”

“No.”

Keje nodded. “Then surely mine won’t do much good,” he muttered wryly. He looked down. When he spoke again, his voice sounded sad, almost . . . desolate. “Will you pray with me now, Sky Priest?”

Adar blinked rapidly, overcome by emotion. “Of course.” Together with Selass and the few others on
Salissa
’s battlement, they faced in the direction the sun had set and spread their arms wide. As one, they intoned the ancient, simple plea:

“Maker of All Things, I beg Your protection, but if it is my time, light my spirit’s path to its Home in the Heavens.”

The traditional prayer was over, but before they could complete the customary gestures, Adar’s voice continued: “I also beseech You to extend Your protection beyond our simple selves to include all here who fight in Your name, even those with a different understanding of Your glory. Aryaalans, B’mbaadans, Sularans, and the others, all perceive You differently, but they do know and revere You . . . as do our Amer-i-caan friends. Our hateful enemy does not. I know it is . . . selfish of me to ask You to deny so many of Your children their rightful, timely reward in the Heavens, but Maker, we do so desperately need their swords! I beg You not to gather too many in this fight, for even should we be victorious, the struggle must continue, and it will be long, long. Instead, let those You spare be rewarded later, with a brighter glow in the night sky, so all will remember the sacrifice they made!” he lowered his head. “I alone ask this of You. If it is Your will to deny my own ascension in return, so let it be.”

The rest of those present stared at him, shocked by the bargain he’d made, and Keje’s red-brown eyes were wet with tears. Following Adar’s example, together they crossed their arms on their chests and knelt to the deck, ending the prayer at last.

“You take too much on yourself,” Keje insisted.

Adar blinked disagreement. “I only wish I had more to offer than my own meager spirit.”

“Then you may add mine as well,” Keje said, and Adar looked at him in alarm. Once spoken, the bargain could not be taken back. “Idiot. Do you think I would be separated from you in this life or the next, brother? The boredom would destroy me.” He paused. “Two last things; then you must leave. First, if we are victorious but I do not survive, send my soul skyward with wood from
Salissa
.” He grinned. “Perhaps the Maker did not hear me. Finally, I will trust you to give Cap-i-taan Reddy my thanks.”

Adar embraced him then, wrapping him in the folds of his cloak. “I shall.”

“I say,” exclaimed Courtney Bradford. “I believe the buggers are hitting the docks!”

The central hospital had been reestablished beneath a long block of elevated dwellings and shops, half a mile southeast of the Great Hall. The sheltered area covered almost six acres, and as the hours passed the space was filling with wounded. Nothing of the battle could be seen from where he stood, gazing westward, but the noise was overwhelming, even over the cries of the wounded.

“I think you’re right,” Sandra said tersely. “Now put that rifle down this instant and help me with this patient!”

Self-consciously, Bradford leaned the Krag against a massive “bamboo” support and peered at the limp form placed before her. All around them, other nurses and Lemurian surgeons fought their own battles to save the wounded, even while ever more arrived. Many had terrible, purplish red burns, and their fur was scorched and blackened. Others had been slashed by sword or axe, and many were pierced by the wicked crossbow bolts with the cruelly barbed points. There were few minor wounds. Those were tended by medical corpsmen right amid the fighting, or in one of the several field hospitals or aid stations. Those who were able returned to their posts with a bandage and some antiseptic paste on their wound. Only the most severely hurt were brought before Sandra. In spite of the fact that she was, after all, still just a nurse, she’d become the most experienced trauma nurse in the world. An orderly passed by, lighting lamps with a taper.

“I’d love to help you, of course, but I fear there’s little point,” Bradford said. Sandra spared him a harsh glance, then looked at her patient’s face. The jaw was slack and the eyes empty and staring, reflecting the flickering flame. “Dead, you see,” Courtney continued bleakly. “Perhaps the orderlies would be good enough to fetch us another?”

Sandra closed her eyes and held the back of her hand to her forehead. It was a classic pose, and for a terrifying instant Bradford feared she would faint, leaving him alone to deal with everything. To his utmost relief, she sighed and wiped sweat from her brow. She strode quickly to a basin and began washing her hands. Surreptitiously Bradford yanked a flask from his pocket and look a long, grateful gulp.

“Yes. I’m sure they will,” Sandra said woodenly.

Bradford wiped his mouth and replaced the flask. Then he glanced around. “I haven’t seen young Miss ‘Becky’ since the fighting started. I thought she was in your care.”

“So did I,” Sandra replied, “but she told me last night that she’d decided to stay with Mr. O’Casey at HQ. Said he’s protected her quite sufficiently up till now, and she preferred to stay with him, where she might see more of the ‘action.’ ” Sandra sounded worried, and maybe even a little disappointed. “It’s just as well, I suppose. She should be perfectly safe, and”—she gestured at the wounded—“I doubt this is the best environment for a child.”

“Perhaps . . .” said Bradford. He lowered his voice. “You do know she represents . . . considerably more than is apparent?”

Sandra nodded. “I suspected as much, but every time Matt seemed about to tell me what it was, there were always other people around. I gather it’s a secret?”

“Of sorts,” Bradford confirmed, “for now.”

Sandra shrugged, gazing at the sea of wounded. “Well, whatever it is, right now I don’t much care. I only hope she’s safe.”

A thundering rumble came from the dock, almost uninterrupted now. They’d grown accustomed to the sound of battle to the south, but this was closer, louder. She looked up worriedly.

“Don’t fret, my dear. They’ll stop the blighters,” Bradford assured her. “It’s all part of the plan, you see. Rest assured, I know everything that’s going on, and it’s all part of the plan.” Sandra noticed that Bradford had picked up the rifle again, nervously fiddling with the rear sight.

“I haven’t heard
Walker
’s guns for a while,” she said, drying her hands and motioning the orderlies to bring another patient.

“Ah, well, of course not! She has limited ammunition, you know. Saving it for the Jappos! Besides, you wouldn’t hear her, would you? Not over all that noise!” He waved vaguely westward. “Goodness me!” he said, tilting his head to one side, listening. “They’re really going at it!”

On the waterfront, hundreds of firebombs arced through the night sky, leaving thin, wispy trails of smoke. Most fell behind the line, amid shops and storehouses, and erupted with a searing
whoosh!
of roiling flames. One fell directly atop a laboring gun crew, punctuated by a chorus of terrible screams. They were cut mercifully short when the ready ammunition placed nearby exploded. The rest of the guns never even slowed their firing, as the densely packed red-hulled ships drew closer and closer to the dock. Pivoting on her cable,
Big Sal
brought her augmented broadside of twenty heavy guns to bear on the enemy flank, and her well-aimed shots crashed remorselessly through the ships at point-blank range, demolishing those closest to her. But there were so many. With a tremendous shuddering crash, the first Grik ship smashed into the dock, splintering wood, and dropping both its remaining masts upon the anxious horde waiting in the bow. Many were crushed amid piteous shrieks. Regardless, the rest swarmed over the head-rails and onto the dock. Another crash came, and another, as more ships followed the example of the first. The area between the dock and the seawall began to fill with Grik. Some appeared dazed in the face of the onslaught of fire and missiles raining upon them, so close on the heels of their rough landing. Most didn’t even pause. They immediately swept into their instinctual, headlong assault. The slaughter was horrific. Mounds of bodies were heaped at the base of the wall as the big guns snapped out, hacking great swaths of carnage into the surging horde. The docks became slippery with blood and gore, but the furious, ululating, hissing shriek continued to grow as more ships grounded, or warriors leaped across to those that had, and found their way into the assault.

As promised, Adar had taken Selass ashore, but he hadn’t gone much beyond it himself. Now he paced behind the wall with Chack’s sister, Risa, at his side, calling encouragement to
Big Sal
’s warriors, who defended this section. They were heavily engaged. A single Grik warrior either vaulted or was launched entirely over the top of the wall and the warriors behind it. It landed nearby with a crunching thud, and, wild eyed and slathering, it tried to rise to its feet. At least one of its legs was broken. Risa quickly dispatched it with a meaty
chunk
of her axe, and Adar looked at her appreciatively. “Well-done,” he said. “You made that look quite simple.”

“It was,” she answered disdainfully. “It was crippled.”

“Even so. I expect you’ve had much practice in war of late.”

Risa shook her head. “Not much, really, since the fight for
Salissa
. I was on her during the battle before Aryaal. We were late to the fight.”

Adar remembered. “Late perhaps, but instrumental. Both you and your brother have much honor due you.”

Risa blinked, and with a wry grin she shook her head. “You knew, before this all began, that Chack did not even like to fight? He was afraid of injuring someone.”

“I knew,” Adar confirmed. “Your mother was perplexed, but proud of his restraint. She was always utterly without fear,” he recalled fondly. “Where is she now?”

Risa gestured toward
Big Sal,
invisible through the choking clouds of smoke, except for the stabbing, orange flashes of her broadsides. “Home. She wouldn’t leave. She only ever wanted to be a wing runner; now she is a warrior as well.”

“We are all of us warriors now, I fear. Even your peaceful brother.”

“Even you, Lord Priest?” Risa asked.

“Even I,” he confirmed. “Even I have the battle lust upon me, if not the skill or training in war the smallest youngling has received. I yearn to do as you just did—slay the enemy that threatens my people, our way of life, our very existence as a species.” He looked at his hands, held out before him. “I do not have the skill for that, and after what I saw . . . once . . . it’s frustrating. In a way I envy your brother. The skill I now crave came so easily to him, he never even knew it was there. I understand why the B’mbaadan queen thinks so highly of him. Hers have ever been a warlike people, and must recognize the talent”—he blinked dismay—“the
gift
for war when they see it.”

He straightened. “I’ve learned much, however, about how battles are shaped. Major Shinya and the others have taught me that.”

“How is this battle taking shape?” Risa asked, and Adar sighed.

“Very much as planned, I’m afraid.”

Risa was confused. “But that is good, surely?”

Adar shook his head. “I believe the single greatest lesson in war we’ve learned from the Amer-i-caans is to hope for the best, but plan for the worst. Hope is necessary; without it you’re defeated before you even begin. But you must plan for the worst, so if it happens you will be prepared.” He blinked at her. “I fear this battle is going almost
exactly
as planned.”

A roar came from beyond the wall, and a new flurry of bolts rained down beyond them. Warriors tumbled from their posts, and Risa hurried to fill a gap.

“I have no objection,” she shouted over her shoulder, “as long as the plan was for victory!”

Perry Brister gulped water from an offered gourd. It soothed the pain in his throat a little, but he doubted it would restore his destroyed voice. Shinya and Rolak also drank as the gourd was passed to them. They gasped their thanks to the youngling who brought it. It had been dark for some hours, but with the fires burning in every direction they could see surprisingly well. Before them now, the coastal plain and the gap were almost deserted. A short while earlier Grik horns had sounded again, from the direction of the city, and as if it had been a dog whistle from hell, the Grik before the fort turned as one and practically fled in the direction of the sound. Across the gap and up through the road cut streamed the Grik as fast as they could, toward Baalkpan. None remained behind to even watch their trapped prey, except the wounded and the dead.

Thousands of Grik bodies lay heaped to the wall, and the three thousand mixed troops occupying the fort had been reduced by nearly a third. Yet they’d held. Now they could begin to prepare for what Brister had been planning ever since he silenced the guns.