Rising Tides (17 page)

Pete Alden nodded thoughtfully. “Form up!” he bellowed, and the drums began to roll.

“Very much as expected, only somewhat more so,” Rolak replied to the signalman who’d requested a status report for Queen Maraan. The signalman ducked back into the tent and the “tele-graaph” key began to clatter. A most remarkable invention, he mused again; instant communication on a battlefield. Throughout his life, signal flags had served well enough, but before this war, his people had never fought battles on such a grand scale. They still used signal flags, but now distance, gunsmoke, and intervening terrain and foliage made them unreliable. He loved the tele-graaph.

The last of the Maa-ni-la Cavalry scouts he’d sent to investigate their flank leaped back over the hastily constructed breastworks. The rider was winded but unharmed, although the me-naak had two of the wickedly barbed Grik crossbow bolts embedded in its right quarter. The scout dismounted, handing his reins to a pair of cavalrymen who’d already returned. With a regretful backward glance at his suffering mount, he raced to stand before Rolak. The me-naak snorted shrilly through its nostrils and tried to smash one of the cavalrymen against its flank with its head when she jerked the first bolt free.

The scout saluted in the Amer-i-caan way he’d been taught, and Rolak returned it.

“Beg to report, sir,’ he said. “Our troop encountered a few Grik as we set out, but most seemed to be running for the port in response to the earlier horns. We left them alone, as ordered, and found a place where we could spread out a little, beyond the thickest jungle, and observe a large enemy camp. The commander there sent out some scouts of his own, and we tried to kill them all in the woods, but I fear we failed. After a while, horns began sounding from the camp itself—you must have heard them—and they just seemed to suck Grik out of the jungle. I presume, with the isolated nature of this Raan-goon, the enemy has dispersed most of his force to forage for itself. That seems consistent with the fact that we encountered almost nothing in the way of wildlife. In any event, a surprisingly large enemy force has assembled on your right front.”

“An excellent report, ah, Corporal,” Rolak said, glancing at the stripes on the hem of the trooper’s black and yellow kilt. “What is your estimate of the size of this force?”

The corporal blinked uncertainty. “Perhaps two thousands, Lord General. More? It was impossible to tell for sure, and our presence was discovered, interfering with our estimate. They pursued us very near.” He paused. “We lost two troopers to their crossbows.”

“Very well. Thank you, Corporal. It is not their nature to linger overlong when their prey is in sight. Tend your mount. We might expect their full attention at any moment.” He turned. “Colonel Taa-leen, Colonel Grisa, you heard?”

“Indeed,” replied both officers. They’d arrived nearly as quickly as the scout.

“Signalman,” Rolak called, “acquaint my dear Queen Maraan that we will likely have visitors shortly. I may call on her Black Battalion of the Six Hundred as a reserve if she has no objection and General Alden does not arrive in time.”

“Lord General,” the signalman replied, “General Alden and the First Marines have left the port at the double time.”

Rolak’s response was interrupted by braying, thrumming horns, quite close. An expectant roar thundered in the trees. “Send to
Dowden
,” Rolak yelled over the sudden cacophony. “‘Concentrate fire two hundred tails—I mean “yaards” forward of our position.’ ” He took a breath. “Mortar teams, make ready! Archers and artillery will commence firing at my command. Lock shields!”

Several
Hoosh-KAK!
sounds split the incoming tide, and the veterans who’d heard them before called out “Firebombs!” or “Grik-fire!” in two tongues.

“Cover yourselves!” roared Colonel Grisa, and he and Taa-leen attempted to tackle Rolak to the ground and cover him with their own bodies.

Rolak twisted away. “I will stand,” he said. “My old hide is not so valuable that I must squirm in the dirt to protect it.”

Taa-leen got another grip and roughly pulled him down. “With respect, Lord General,” he growled, “your ‘old hide’ covers the mind that will preserve
our
hides, and mine is quite important to me!”

Rolak was laughing when the first bombs struck.

“Grik-fire” was little more than a clay vessel wrapped in coarse cloth and painted with flammable resin. The contents were a mixture of other things, not necessarily always the same and still a little ill-defined. More resins, mostly. Some kind of tree sap. Maybe some petroleum. The result, however, was an effective incendiary that created an impressive fireball when the jar ruptured on impact and exposed the contents to the flaming wrap. There was no explosive force to speak of, but enough to blow the burning sap in all directions, and the stuff was incredibly hard to put out.

The bombs streamed in, trailing smoke, and erupted with large mushrooms of roiling flame. One fell directly on an open ammunition chest for the six-pounders, and the combination went up with a dull
fwump
and a towering column of white smoke. Droplets of burning sap spattered the paalkas and they screeched in agony. Another bomb fell in the water and had little effect, but one ruptured in the trees over the shield wall and dozens of Aryaalan troops were burnt to death beneath the descending curtain of fire. Others scrambled to quench themselves either by abandoning their posts and leaping into the river or by rolling in the loamy sand.

Rolak staggered to his feet. “Signalman! Please ask
Dowden
to hurry her barrage! Mortars may commence firing!”

The Allies had done away with their original mortars, basically small bronze Coehorns that launched a copper shell with a powder charge. Now they had “real” mortars, the “drop and pop” kind, as Bernie Sandison called them. They were larger and shaped like an egg, with a finned tube protruding from the rear. They had to be handled with care, but in action all one had to do was drop them down a much-improved mortar tube and they launched themselves with an integral percussion-fired charge. A rod protruding from the nose of each “egg” fired another cap inside and detonated the bomb on impact.

Two dozen mortarmen each removed an egg from a small padded box, gently inserted the rod in the nose, and poised their weapons over the mouths of the tubes. The tubes had already been adjusted for elevation by other mortarmen. There, they awaited the orders of their section commanders. The wait was short. The command to “drop” spread down the line, and with a rippling
paFWOOMP
, two dozen mortar bombs leaped skyward, trailing smoke from their expended launching charge. The resulting stuttering detonations in the jungle didn’t sound like much through the overall din, but the screams, and at least one secondary explosion, indicated the range estimate was good.

“No change, no change!” Taa-leen bellowed. “Fire for effect!” Even as the mortars began coughing independently,
Dowden
’s guns sent heavy case shot flying as high overhead as elevation would allow, and the six-pounders positioned at the hasty breastworks bucked backward, sending canister scything through the vines, leaves, and bodies of the Grik front rank, finally visible through the trees.

“Archers must wait for targets,” Rolak declared. “It is some denser here than the ground before the Queen. The trees will soak up too many arrows!” Grisa passed the word.

Another salvo of firebombs dropped behind Lemurian lines, but there were only three this time. One wiped out an entire squad hurrying forward from the barge they’d just left, and their screaming antics were horrible to behold. Another fell in the water again, and the third fell close to the command tent but didn’t go off. By the look of it, it hadn’t even been lit.

“Keep at it! Keep at it!” Rolak chanted aloud. “Punish them! Kill them!”

The jungle pulsed with explosions, filling the air with hideous wails and acrid smoke. A huge fireball vomited into the sky, and after that there was no more Grik-fire.

“We run low on mortar bombs!” Taa-leen observed.

“Send to
Donaghey
that we need more ammunition!” Rolak shouted at the beleaguered signalman.

“I already did. They have no more to send us. Most of our reserve was sent to the left by mistake!”

“Then tell them we need it
here
!”

The light guns spat another load of canister into the smoke-shrouded woods, and then the crews pulled them back so the shield wall could close the gaps where they’d been. With a stunning crash, like the one they’d heard to their left near dawn but much, much louder, the Grik slammed into the interlocked shields in front of Lord General Rolak.

The shield wall bowed inward alarmingly in several places, but nowhere did it break. The front rank merely hunkered down and heaved against the blow, with the second rank pushing against them with its shields. Over their heads, the spearmen of the third rank probed and stabbed at the attackers. Rolak had seen it many times now—the determined wall of people, his people all, now standing and struggling against the vicious jaws and curved talons of purest evil. Individually, hand to hand, Grik warriors had no equal. Braad-furd had once called them “perfect killing machines.” “The top of the Darwinian predatory heap.” But individually, mind to mind, the Grik simply couldn’t cope. They carried wicked swords, but used them poorly. They had crossbows, but often fired them indiscriminately. Some were better than others, of course, and though not up to Allied standards, their gunnery was improving, so they
could
learn. They might even be cultivating specialized elites within the ranks of the Uul. That was an unpleasant thought. But only the Hij, the “elevated ones”—probably naturally elevated, if allowed—could devise and implement a strategy, or even a more involved tactic than “up and at ’em.”

But Hij didn’t fight in the line. Regardless of their ferocity and physical superiority, the average Grik warrior stood no chance against the skill, discipline, and training of the average Lemurian soldier. The problem was, they never fought “one on one.” When given time to think about it, they did seem to understand the principle of “mass” as Captain Reddy taught it, and they knew where and when to apply it. Crossbow bolts streaked by, mostly overhead but in almost continuous sheets. Nearly as continuous were the stretcher bearers carrying wounded to the barges. Corpsmen worked frantically near the beach, in a little muddy recession, but many would have to be carried to the ship for a proper surgeon—Jamie Miller—to look at. Jamie had started out a mere pharmacist’s mate on
Walker
, but everyone was filling bigger shoes nowadays.

“Lord General!” cried the signalman, rushing from the tent. “The B’mbaadan Queen asks if we can hold a little longer. She has observed how closely we are engaged, and though she is pressed now as well, she will gladly send the Black Battalion to our aid. Scouts from her left have determined we face the deepest enemy reserves ...” He paused as one of the signalman’s mates joined him, speaking quickly. “Lord General, the first elements of the First Marines are passing behind the Queen’s position!”

“Excellent. We would hold regardless, but send my—” A Grik bolt nailed the signalman’s helmet to his head and he dropped instantly, his tail quivering. Rolak paused for the slightest instant, then looked at the other “comm-’Cat,” staring down at his companion. “Send my appreciation for the Queen’s gracious offer, but we will hold. The enemy is gutting himself on our spears.” The signalman’s mate saluted shakily and dashed for the tent.

“Colonel Taa-leen, your B’mbaadans are heavily engaged, but you have some reserves yet. Grisa does as well, but his are still coming straight from the barges into the fight. They plug holes. Can you move anything behind him?”

A triumphant roar built on the far right and spread across the front. A suddenly unmasked four-gun battery spewed double loads of canister, and the distinctive yellowish smoke drifted back across the shredded landing zone between the battle line and the shore. The roar of battle slowly dwindled, as did the flurry of bolts overhead. Another battery, closer to the center, unleashed its own swath of canister, lunging back until the double-pole trails buried in the loam. The cheering grew.

“Thank you, General,” Grisa said, “but that is not necessary! We have repelled them!”

“They will be back,” Rolak assured him. “The question is, will they strike the same place again, hoping they have weakened it, or somewhere else, hoping
we
have weakened it?”

“Surely you give them too much credit?” Grisa asked. “I was at Baalkpan, sir.”

“I give
most
of them too much credit,” Rolak agreed, “but the ‘stratait-gee’ at Baalkpan nearly succeeded. I will never be guilty of giving too
little
credit to their ones who design battles.”

A troop of six me-naaks loped near, out of the smoke. One of the yellow-and-black-uniformed riders noticed Rolak and steered the rest of his troop toward the old Lemurian. The me-naaks were clearly restless in this environment of smoke and noise, and though they’d been exposed to cannon fire as often as possible, they still flinched a little when the guns boomed again, bidding the fleeing Grik farewell. They were also drooling buckets, probably due to the smell of so much blood.

“Lieu-ten-aant Saachic, General,” announced the trooper, saluting. “Third Maa-ni-lo Caav-alry. I have the honor of informing you that Gener-aal Aal-den and the First Maa-reens will be at your service presently.”

Rolak returned the salute. “That is excellent news, Lieutenant. Now, if you might ride back to the general and give him a message for me, I would be most appreciative.”

“Of course.”

“Tell him if he can manage to arrive and position his troops within the next one, perhaps as much as two handspans of the sun, I believe I can promise him exactly the battle—the ‘test’—he seeks!”

The Grik did nothing for the next hour, but horns continued sounding in the jungle. All the vegetation except the larger, harder trees in front of the fighting position had been sheared away by the coming and going of the Grik horde, and the canister that had churned all the vines, small trees, and low-hanging branches to mulch. Equally mulched were the countless Grik dead heaped at the base of the breastworks and scattered on the ground as far as the eye could penetrate into the once dense foliage. Many had already been buried by the falling leaves. Visibility was good now, with the sun well up in the midmorning sky. Scattered cottony clouds had begun to form.
Dowden
continued a desultory barrage, a round or two every quarter hour, as if to goad the Grik into remembering and concentrating on this supposedly exposed flank.