Blood In the Water (35 page)

“Lord Regent Champion!” he practically squealed.

“Report!” Esshk demanded, already recognizing that the air-warrior before him was one of the “superior” ones he was so proud of—and made him fear for the future.

“We tried to fly after the blue enemy. They was too fast to catch. We seen what they did, though.”

“Well?”

The aviator swallowed and groveled more energetically. “They flyed west, and we seen rockets rise over Lake Nalak. They bursted, many, but then there was smoke rised up high. We turned to report here, but seen the fast blue enemy fly back east, south of Sofesshk. It go away.”

Esshk took a long, deep breath. “You did well,” he said. “And even better to report what you saw.” Not many would have, he realized, and the contrast between the value and danger of initiative struck him once again. Better to encourage it, for now. “What is your ship?”

“
Pouncer
, Sire.”

Esshk nodded, though the name meant nothing to him. Unlike naval squadrons, which were always organized in threes, airship squadrons were organized like the land forces: by groups of ten, within groups of a hundred named for their commander. An example would be “second of ten, eighth of Lashk's.” Esshk didn't know air-warriors had begun naming their ships.
More initiative,
he thought. “Very well. You will be rewarded. Now return to your ship.” The aviator dragged himself a short distance away, then jumped up and sprinted back for the line still dangling from the airship that hovered somewhat lower now.

“So they did bomb something, after all. And escaped to tell what they saw.”

Esshk whirled back to face the Chooser, and the shorter creature took a step back in the face of his fury. “We are
almost
ready. Perhaps they will bomb us, and I will follow your advice and move the army here. But they can do little to us in a month—and a month should give us the time we need. Then we will finish this ‘Captain Reddy' and his Grand Alliance of prey animals once and for all!” He seemed about to continue, but stopped and gurgled something that sounded almost like laughter.

“What is it, Lord Regent Champion?” the Chooser ventured.

“It is only that, in the time until then, our ‘ally' Kurokawa is poised to give them something more immediate than our presence and preparations here to think about. We would not have moved until that occurred regardless. That it will take us slightly longer to move than I led Kurokawa to believe should allow
all
our enemies a little more time to rend one another.”

“You planned that from the very beginning of your renewed contacts with the Jaaphs!” the Chooser guessed aloud, his rigid crest trembling with its effort to lie flat in admiration.

“Of course.”

CHAPTER
24

West-Central Mada-gaas-gar
October 11, 1944

Every warrior of the Naa-Kaani Clan of the Shee-Ree followed the river west, paced by all the boats from their village, and more with each village that they passed. The boats were kind of beamy, shallow draft dhows equipped with oars and single masts upon which high lizardbird wing–shaped sails could be raised. There still weren't enough boats to move everyone, so the warriors marched on shore while all the very young and very old went by water. Chack was serious about getting everyone out that they possibly could, and the boats would also prove useful if the warriors had to cross the river.

They were joined by groups of warriors from many clans, some quite distant from the river. Most were still Shee-Ree, or from allied clans, but the tellers of tales had ranged far enough, quickly enough, to bring 'Cats from clans that Kaam and Ror'at-Raal had never heard of. These represented
every imaginable color and physique, but all were armed with the powerful bows the visitors had grown used to. Their clan names were so varied and even unpronounceable, to the humans at least, that it was difficult to keep track of them. Silva didn't even try. He simply referred to them as “the red ones, the white ones, the stripey tails,” etc. All shared the same purpose, however, and recognized this could be the only chance they'd ever get to resist their ancient enemy.

How they'd do that, exactly, remained a mystery. At least until they viewed the dispositions of the Grik. A conventional pitched battle was out of the question. Regardless how “magical” the weapons of the five visitors, they had limited ammunition and no artillery. Three Vickers GO (gas-operated) guns had been retrieved from the Beaufort, and Silva and Lawrence had gone through them as well as they could, removing rust, grime, and dried grease. All three had been restored to reasonable functionality, but their ammunition was limited as well, consisting of only ten serviceable drum magazines with around ninety-five carefully cleaned rounds of .303 in each. The Shee-Ree were excellent archers, and their relatively short (compared to those of the Erokighaani) composite bows were easily as lethal as a .45 auto, but they weren't skilled at hand-to-hand fighting. For that they carried only “hunting” clubs with long wooden handles and blue-gray chalcedony heads attached with rawhide. Those heads were napped to a fine, murderous edge, but Chack hoped their new friends could avoid getting “stuck in.”

Ror'at-Raal was in nominal command, but it was understood that “Col-nol” Chack and Kaam were his designated war leaders. Kaam, apparently, was renowned enough as a warrior that even the unknown clans had heard of him. Chack, of course, was a “warrior shaman” of the Big Boat People. That was enough for most. But Chack constantly stressed that their curious force wasn't an army by any definition and it was impossible to mold it into one on the march. Regardless, he also swore he'd devise a plan that, combining the native archery with the magic weapons his people bore, would allow them to strike a heavy blow. Some may have noticed he didn't promise
victory
, but did seem confident they could accomplish their objective—whatever an “objective” was.

The objective remained merely a general desire, even to Chack, Silva, and Lawrence: to cause enough confusion among the Grik to steal a ship and get their band of fighters, their dependents, and hopefully the
“slave”'Cats as well, out and away to the north. It couldn't seriously damage the Grik army in Mada-gaas-gar, beyond causing as much pandemonium as possible, or bring a significant force to Captain Reddy, even if they all made it out. But it would bring warning—if he didn't already have it by then. And word would spread among all the peoples of Mada-gaas-gar, south of the great jungle, that everyone who wanted to join the fight against the Grik was welcome, and that one hardy band had actually fought to do so. It might wind up being only a bloody propaganda stunt, Chack thought grimly at times, but surely it would be worth it?

“Col-nol Chack!” Kaam cried, edging through the mob that surrounded Chack, Silva, and Miles as they trekked along the river in the hot, muggy, mosquito-infested air. Bradford was with Ror'at–Raal, and Lawrence was . . . somewhere else. The land cover was changing here, even as the climate became more oppressive in the lower elevation, from the tall grass of the savanna to a kind of prickly brush that Silva had compared to a stunted hackberry.

“Here,” Chack called back, and Kaam joined them.

“Scouts have returned, your Laaw-rence among them, and bear reports. They observed the enemy this very day. Indeed, we are that close at last.”

“We'll be right there,” Chack assured. He glanced at Silva. “Are you ready for this?”

“Born ready, Chackie.” Silva shrugged. “If our main goal is to raise a ruckus, why, that's what I do best!”

*   *   *

Lawrence squatted and began briskly drawing a map on the ground, the other scouts watching supportively, making suggestions. Obviously, using a stick and dirt to convey images and ideas wasn't an unusual expedient among these plains 'Cats, at least. The leadership of their combined force, including Ror'at, Kaam, Chack, and half a dozen other clan chiefs, looked on, as did Silva, Courtney, and Miles. Surprisingly, one of the scouts explained what Lawrence was drawing.
Maybe not so surprising,
Chack considered. They'd all been concerned the natives would fear Lawrence because of his similarity to their enemy, but lethal as he undoubtedly was, Lawrence had always maintained an air that
somehow inspired a trust similar to what one might feel toward a particularly helpful youngling. He'd never understood it, but Lawrence just had a way about him.
And part of that is a surprising vulnerability,
he supposed,
always evident by the self-consciousness with which he speaks around strangers. He understands English and the apparently almost universal Mi-Anakka base language perfectly, and has even learned a great deal of Grik, but it painfully frustrates him that he just can't say certain words. He often substitutes, sometimes imperfectly, but in this situation, with clarity so important, he's obviously agreed with the other scouts that they should speak, not he
. That encouraged Chack, even as he felt for Lawrence—and he suddenly realized that was another way their Grik-like companion did it. He hid a blink of secret admiration.

“The greater portion of the Gaa-riek army has gone,” the scout said, blinking what looked like a mix of relief and alarm, “leaving a wide trail pointing toward the great jungle.”

“North,” Lawrence hesitantly clarified. They'd begun to realize the Shee-Ree, at least, didn't have words for “north” or “south.” With the river that ran through their territory running east and west, “sunrise-ward” and “sunset-ward” were all they really needed, and north and south were described as being in the direction of various prominent features, the farthest point north being “toward the wall of rotting trees,” and the farthest south simply “toward the cold.”

The scout blinked at Lawrence and continued, pointing at the map on the ground. “A large group remains near the Rik-Aar village, still unloading things and putting them on carts.” He glanced up. “Slaves pull the carts away but none return, according to what other watchers told us.”

“Other watchers indeed,” Courtney said with interest.

“We met some Khot-So warriors who escaped the Gaa-riek. They watch to see what happens to their families, and to send tales, of course. They watch for us now as well.”

“How many slaves remain?” Ror'at-Raal asked.

“Four hundreds. Maybe more. It is hard to count them since they are penned on both sides of the river like the herdbeasts the Gaa-rieks consider them. They . . . are not in health,” the scout added darkly.

“And the enemy?”

“That many, three or four times,” the scout replied.

“Call it fifteen hundred. Half again as many as us,” Silva murmured thoughtfully, and Lawrence nodded at him. Silva grinned. “That's not so bad. Seen a lot worse odds.”

“How is the enemy disposed?” Chack asked. “Ah, how placed?”

Lawrence pointed at a semicircle he'd drawn south of the river, and the scout answered, “They guard outward here, on this side of the river, with four big . . .” He paused and looked at Lawrence.

“Guns,” the Sa'aaran supplied. “Artillery.” The scout blinked appreciation and continued.

“They have landing places for their smoking boats on both sides of the river and warriors and supplies unloaded on this are floated to the other in smaller boats, but then they follow the greater Gaa-riek force. The outward guard is not so large on that side, and they have no . . . guns.”

“Sure,” Miles said, suddenly and surprisingly engaged. “That's the way their army went, gobbling up everything in their way. Why watch there?”

Silva looked at him, speculating a variety of things, then nodded.

“They do watch,” the scout stressed.

“But that may be our best bet,” Silva suggested to Chack, who nodded slowly. “How many smoking boats and barges—I mean, square boats—are there now?”

“Three,” the scout answered. “One on this side and two on the other side of the river. There were four, but one came and two left even as we watched. The other watchers say they always come or go under the sun,” he added. “And it will be quickly reported if more come or go.” He blinked uncomfortably. “There are now two of the great flying fishes as well,” he added. “A second arrived yesterday, we were told. They somehow . . . float near the ground, tied to it like boats.”

“Which side of the river?”

“This side . . . Col-nol,” the 'Cat said.

“Where the larger force can protect them,” Courtney mused. “And we might also assume that's where their headquarters—and leadership—would be.”

“A fair assumption,” Chack agreed. “And regardless that the main army has already marched, the staging area remains active, so we must move quickly. Another single boat and barge could change the equation by half a thousand warriors. Did the Khot-So watchers say when the main Grik army marched away?”

“Four days,” the scout said, “But five hundreds have gone each day since. With the carts,” he reminded.

Chack looked at Ror'at-Raal. “I must see the ground myself,” he said, “but Chief Silva and I have discussed many scenarios, several of which might work based on what we have heard.” He nodded at Dennis with an ironic blink. “He and I both have faced . . . difficult situations in the past. But it sounds as though speed is essential to our success, so as I go forward, you must move the rest of our force as close as the scouts deem safe and we must all be prepared to go into battle tonight.”

Ror'at's eyes bulged amid the rising clamber of objection. “We cannot fight in the dark!” he sputtered. “Only under the eyes of the Sun can we do battle, where He might witness our glory—or gather the souls of the slain!”

“My dear Ror'at-Raal,” Courtney interjected, “we respect your faith and traditions. Many of our people, B'mbaadans and Aryaalans, share them, in fact. But they understand, as you should, that the Sun, God, the Maker of All Things—however you wish to describe Him—sees ALL. Do you feel free to behave in such a way that He wouldn't approve of at night, simply because He's not then watching from the sky? Do you commit evil deeds in the shade of the trees?”

“Some do,” Ror'at snapped. “The Erokighaani believe the trees of the jungle shield them from His view and His wrath.”

“Do you believe that? Are you like the Erokighaani?”

Ror'at's fur bristled with rage, but then he blinked. “No,” he finally grudged. “But it is not the same,” he added weakly.

“Of course it is,” Courtney assured gently. “And even by the strictest interpretation of B'mbaadan and Aryaalan faith, the Sun Brother—the Moon, we call it—remains to watch the night even as the merest sliver, or even resting entirely behind the curtain of stars. Is it not the same with you?”