Authors: TAYLOR ANDERSON
Crusade (10 page)
The Aryaalans had come at last. She knew it was true when she saw Lord Rolak trot up behind them, bellowing furiously. She could send ghastly shadows upon it.
He’s suffered so much for us all,
she thought,
ever since the very beginning
. Most of that suffering was inside, where no one else could see. But she had glimpsed the inner turmoil, even though he kept it hidden. He fought it alone because that’s what he had to do. If he’d ever shown an inkling of his concern and doubt to the crew—or their Lemurian allies—they certainly wouldn’t be here now, in the aftermath of a miraculous victory. More than likely they’d have been dead long ago, like Kaufman. With indecision, everything would have fallen apart.
He’s suffered so much for us all,
she thought,
ever since the very beginning
. Most of that suffering was inside, where no one else could see. But she had glimpsed the inner turmoil, even though he kept it hidden. He fought it alone because that’s what he had to do. If he’d ever shown an inkling of his concern and doubt to the crew—or their Lemurian allies—they certainly wouldn’t be here now, in the aftermath of a miraculous victory. More than likely they’d have been dead long ago, like Kaufman. With indecision, everything would have fallen apart.
She gently touched his lips, reassured by the warm breath she felt. He was getting old beyond his years, with the burden placed upon him, and she noticed for the first time that a few white whiskers had appeared in the stubble on his chin. Maybe he
had
been wrong to trust the Aryaalans, although she would never, ever, tell him so. Maybe even his whole grand strategy to roll back the Grik and create a world where all of them, destroyermen and Lemurians, could live in safety, was hopeless and doomed from the start. She slowly stood so as not to wake him, and stretched her painful muscles.
That may very well be,
she thought grimly,
but it’s something that needs doing, and we have to try
. If
Walker
and
Mahan
had been saved from the Japanese only so they could linger in some sort of purgatory of endless strife, so be it. At least she would be there to support Matthew Reddy however he would let her, and patch him up when the need arose as well. And if he believed they could make a difference, then somehow she would believe it too.
had
been wrong to trust the Aryaalans, although she would never, ever, tell him so. Maybe even his whole grand strategy to roll back the Grik and create a world where all of them, destroyermen and Lemurians, could live in safety, was hopeless and doomed from the start. She slowly stood so as not to wake him, and stretched her painful muscles.
That may very well be,
she thought grimly,
but it’s something that needs doing, and we have to try
. If
Walker
and
Mahan
had been saved from the Japanese only so they could linger in some sort of purgatory of endless strife, so be it. At least she would be there to support Matthew Reddy however he would let her, and patch him up when the need arose as well. And if he believed they could make a difference, then somehow she would believe it too.
CHAPTER
2
2
P
rince Rasik-Alcas sprawled on the heap of cushions opposite his father’s massive throne in the Royal Chamber of the high, sprawling palace. Blood matted his fur—none of it his—and he idly reflected that the opulent pillows would be ruined, but he didn’t care. He was exhausted by the fighting that Phad convulsed the city, even while the titanic struggle raged beyond the walls. He had, of course, never intended to get as caught up in it as he had, but when some of the palace guard, spurred by rage and shame, actually rose against the king, Rasik had been forced to fight. It was something he didn’t much enjoy, strangely enough—at least the physical aspects of it. He was keenly interested in war and strategy and politics and all the heady matters a future king should be interested in, but the actual fighting was something he’d just as soon leave to others. That didn’t mean he wasn’t any good at it.
rince Rasik-Alcas sprawled on the heap of cushions opposite his father’s massive throne in the Royal Chamber of the high, sprawling palace. Blood matted his fur—none of it his—and he idly reflected that the opulent pillows would be ruined, but he didn’t care. He was exhausted by the fighting that Phad convulsed the city, even while the titanic struggle raged beyond the walls. He had, of course, never intended to get as caught up in it as he had, but when some of the palace guard, spurred by rage and shame, actually rose against the king, Rasik had been forced to fight. It was something he didn’t much enjoy, strangely enough—at least the physical aspects of it. He was keenly interested in war and strategy and politics and all the heady matters a future king should be interested in, but the actual fighting was something he’d just as soon leave to others. That didn’t mean he wasn’t any good at it.
And a good thing too,
he mused, watching his bloated father nervously stuffing food into his jowly face. The king certainly wasn’t much good in a fight. He’d literally squeaked in surprised terror when the guard’s sword flashed down from behind. It missed him by the very thickness of the royal cloak it slashed, and Rasik was still amazed that anyone could miss something so fat and awkward.
It just goes to show,
he thought philosophically,
if you’re going to retain a palace guard, always choose them from the nobility. Then, if they are treacherous, they will probably be incompetent as well.
he mused, watching his bloated father nervously stuffing food into his jowly face. The king certainly wasn’t much good in a fight. He’d literally squeaked in surprised terror when the guard’s sword flashed down from behind. It missed him by the very thickness of the royal cloak it slashed, and Rasik was still amazed that anyone could miss something so fat and awkward.
It just goes to show,
he thought philosophically,
if you’re going to retain a palace guard, always choose them from the nobility. Then, if they are treacherous, they will probably be incompetent as well.
He lifted an eyelid and glanced idly at the only guard currently in the chamber.
A loyal one,
he thought with a smirk. Rasik didn’t know the guard’s name and didn’t care what it was, but he was a formidable warrior. He’d fought alongside Rasik, defending his king and prince from the very beginning of the attempt against them. He had, in fact, been the only one for a time. Now he stood, nervously vigilant, as the occasional sounds of renewed fighting wafted through the broad arched windows and all it might be a while before they managed to root out all the traitors. And, of course, there was Rolak. Rasik seethed. He could still feel the cold metal of Rolak’s blade against his neck. That one would surely die, he promised himself. And the Orphan Queen as well.
A loyal one,
he thought with a smirk. Rasik didn’t know the guard’s name and didn’t care what it was, but he was a formidable warrior. He’d fought alongside Rasik, defending his king and prince from the very beginning of the attempt against them. He had, in fact, been the only one for a time. Now he stood, nervously vigilant, as the occasional sounds of renewed fighting wafted through the broad arched windows and all it might be a while before they managed to root out all the traitors. And, of course, there was Rolak. Rasik seethed. He could still feel the cold metal of Rolak’s blade against his neck. That one would surely die, he promised himself. And the Orphan Queen as well.
“I told you!” proclaimed Fet-Alcas in a frail attempt at a menacing growl. “We should have let Rolak out!”
Rasik sighed. “No, you didn’t, sire.”
Fet-Alcas blinked. “Well, he got out anyway,” he grumped. “And then those ridiculous sea folk actually defeated the Grik!” His voice became shrill. “That . . .
that
you
did
tell me would not happen!” Rasik lazily blinked unconcern. “And then a rebellion!” wheezed the king, spewing food across the tiled chamber. “Never before in history has Aryaal rebelled against its rightful king!” Fet-Alcas’s rheumy eyes smoldered. “And all because you counseled me to deprive our people of their place in the battle! A battle arranged by the rightful Protector himself.” He stared out the windows at the darkness beyond. “No wonder they rebelled,” he murmured. “The greatest battle ever fought—and a victory!” He glared back at his son. “You
did
that!” he accused darkly, draining a cup of seep. Rasik yawned and blinked irony. “I did not want Rolak to go,” the king admitted, “but only because you said the sea folk would lose! We could fall upon the Grik remnants and have our great battle to ourselves!”
that
you
did
tell me would not happen!” Rasik lazily blinked unconcern. “And then a rebellion!” wheezed the king, spewing food across the tiled chamber. “Never before in history has Aryaal rebelled against its rightful king!” Fet-Alcas’s rheumy eyes smoldered. “And all because you counseled me to deprive our people of their place in the battle! A battle arranged by the rightful Protector himself.” He stared out the windows at the darkness beyond. “No wonder they rebelled,” he murmured. “The greatest battle ever fought—and a victory!” He glared back at his son. “You
did
that!” he accused darkly, draining a cup of seep. Rasik yawned and blinked irony. “I did not want Rolak to go,” the king admitted, “but only because you said the sea folk would lose! We could fall upon the Grik remnants and have our great battle to ourselves!”
Fet-Alcas belched then, and shifted uncomfortably on his throne. “But no!” he continued bitterly. “The miserable sea folk and their friends with the iron ships did
not
lose! It is we who lost!” He stared back into the darkness with a grimace. “The greatest battle ever fought!” he repeated and took a gulp from another cup of seep.
not
lose! It is we who lost!” He stared back into the darkness with a grimace. “The greatest battle ever fought!” he repeated and took a gulp from another cup of seep.
“Do not complain, sire,” Rasik sneered. “Our people had their battle after all!”
Fet-Alcas turned to him and began a furious shout, but all that emerged was a gout of blood. It splashed down on his white robe and pooled like vomit at his feet. Both Rasik and the guard rushed to his side and stared at the king as he looked at them in shock.
“The king is ill!” cried the guard in alarm.
“No,” said Rasik, as he drove his own sword into the distracted retainer’s throat. Blood spurted down the sword onto Rasik’s hand and splattered on the king’s white robe. The guard fell to the floor and thrashed, describing great crimson arcs upon the tile as his mouth opened and closed spasmodically. His tail whipped back and forth for a few seconds more, smearing the blood still further, and then he lay still.
Fet-Alcas, stunned, looked at the corpse that had fallen almost at his feet. He tried to speak, but yet another gush of blood poured forth and he was wracked with spasms of agony. Silently, for the most part, he continued to retch, but by now the blood had slowed to a trickle. The poison in the seep from the cup he still held was of a type that deadened all pain and sensation while it corrosively ate any flesh that it touched. At least it deadened it for a while. Fet-Alcas looked at the cup in his paw and then dropped it in horror.
Rasik slowly sheathed his own sword and drew the one worn by the dead guard. His eyes were wide with excitement and his tail twitched nervously back and forth. “No,” he repeated with a hiss, drawing his thin lips hard across his teeth. “You are not ill, sire. You are dead. Killed by another traitorous guard!”
With that, he slashed down repeatedly across the king’s neck and upper chest, grunting with effort as the blade bit deep. Finally,peate throne and joined the guard on the tile abattoir. Rasik stood motionless, listening, while his breathing returned to normal. Laying the bloody sword on the floor, he drew his own again and looked at it wonderingly. Then he dipped the tip into the pool of blood rapidly spreading beneath his father’s corpse.
“A king’s blood on a king’s sword,” he whispered, and stepping toward the hallway that led to the chamber door, he began to run. “Murderers!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, flinging the door wide. “They have murdered the king!”
Courtney Bradford stood at the barricade staring through his “borrowed” binoculars at the scene of the previous day’s battle. The first rays of the sun were creeping above the horizon, but so far all he could see was a seemingly endless sea of indistinct shapes, alone or massed in piles, across the marshy plain. Occasionally he saw movement. Either a wounded Grik that the searchers hadn’t dispatched the night before, or possibly some scavenger darting furtively through the unprecedented smorgasbord.
It was the scavengers he hoped to see. Queen Maraan—a delightful creature, he thought—had told him about skuggiks, which she described as vile little predators about the size of a turkey. They invariably appeared to feast upon the carrion after a battle. They walked on two legs and actually looked a lot like Grik, she said, except they were considerably smaller and had no upper limbs at all. They were walking mouths, for all intents and purposes, with quick, powerful legs and a long, whiplike tail. Bradford couldn’t wait to see one.
Perhaps there?
he thought, as something seemed to move. He was having trouble holding the binoculars with one hand since his other arm was still in a sling. “Blast!” he exclaimed, lowering his good arm to rest for a moment. He would just have to wait until there was enough light to see. He glanced to his right and was surprised to find a number of Lemurian warriors, on guard against a renewed Grik assault, staring at him with open curiosity. He looked to the left, saw much the same, and felt a twinge of unaccustomed self-consciousness. “I’m a scientist, not a ghoul!” he announced harshly, brandishing the binoculars. They continued to regard him with their inscrutable stares. He sighed and stepped away from the barricade. Most of these wouldn’t understand English, he realized, since the majority were Rolak’s or Maraan’s people. They had made every effort to retrieve all of their own few wounded and many dead throughout the night, but some would undoubtedly remain. The idea of him watching in fascination while some scavenger chewed upon anyone besides Grik—and maybe them too—might be a less than popular morning activity.
he thought, as something seemed to move. He was having trouble holding the binoculars with one hand since his other arm was still in a sling. “Blast!” he exclaimed, lowering his good arm to rest for a moment. He would just have to wait until there was enough light to see. He glanced to his right and was surprised to find a number of Lemurian warriors, on guard against a renewed Grik assault, staring at him with open curiosity. He looked to the left, saw much the same, and felt a twinge of unaccustomed self-consciousness. “I’m a scientist, not a ghoul!” he announced harshly, brandishing the binoculars. They continued to regard him with their inscrutable stares. He sighed and stepped away from the barricade. Most of these wouldn’t understand English, he realized, since the majority were Rolak’s or Maraan’s people. They had made every effort to retrieve all of their own few wounded and many dead throughout the night, but some would undoubtedly remain. The idea of him watching in fascination while some scavenger chewed upon anyone besides Grik—and maybe them too—might be a less than popular morning activity.
With as much dignity as he could muster, he stuffed the binoculars into his sling and strode away from the breastworks toward the guttering torches that surrounded the hospital tent. Marine guards ringed the area, nearly dead on their feet. After the treachery of the day before, they’d been reluctant to allow the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans to take their place on the barricade, but they were exhausted and Adar ordered them to rest. They weren’t about to trust undependable allies with the security of their wounded comrades and leaders, however. Battle-weary Marines rotated the duty throughout the night. Bradford knew now what had happened, and he personally felt nothing but gratitude for the warriors that came to their aid, but he could sympathize with how the Marines felt.
There were many, many wounded lying on the ground in the vicinity and he carefully picked his way through the sleeping forms. Many, he suspected, would never awake. Most would, however, and that was largeng torchesg into the gray morning light. He realized she’d probably brought little in the way of medical science to the Lemurian people. In many ways their medicines were more effective than those she knew—the strange antiseptic paste for one—but she had introduced the idea of battlefield triage and the associated patch-and-splice that went with it. That was something the local healers had never considered. The sea folk didn’t need it because they so rarely fought anything like a major battle, and the locals, who fought all the time, had just never thought of it. Perhaps it was because even they had never fought a battle such as this, in which the sheer numbers of casualties were so high. Unlike anyone they’d met so far, the B’mbaadans and Aryaalans understood the concept of surrender, at least among themselves. Maybe they had never let things go this far before one side or the other just quit. Whatever the case, the exhausted young nurse had done heroic work that night. He picked his way toward her.
“You should rest, my dear. You are destroyed.” He spoke quietly so as not to disturb those nearby whose sleep was only temporary. She nodded at him and smiled weakly. “But you know that, of course.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “The healers we brought are a wonder. I couldn’t have managed without them.” Her face brightened somewhat. “Pam Cross and Kathy McCoy came from
Mahan
to lend a hand. God, I’m so glad they’re safe!” She gestured under the tent and shook her head. “They’re in there now. Last night was bad, but they sure had a rough time on
Mahan
. Everything from constant fear for their lives to attempted rape. With Kaufman in charge”—she snorted—“pretending to be in charge—there was chaos. They told me things . . .” She didn’t finish, but instead looked in the direction of the barricade and what lay beyond. “Beth Grizzel went ashore with Kaufman. Did you know that?”
Mahan
to lend a hand. God, I’m so glad they’re safe!” She gestured under the tent and shook her head. “They’re in there now. Last night was bad, but they sure had a rough time on
Mahan
. Everything from constant fear for their lives to attempted rape. With Kaufman in charge”—she snorted—“pretending to be in charge—there was chaos. They told me things . . .” She didn’t finish, but instead looked in the direction of the barricade and what lay beyond. “Beth Grizzel went ashore with Kaufman. Did you know that?”
Bradford nodded and gently patted her arm. “Mr. Ellis told me last night.”
Sandra shivered, but continued to glare at the barricade. “Damn Kaufman!” she muttered fiercely. “So much misery because of him. I hope he roasts in hell!”
Bradford felt his eyebrow arch, but decided now wasn’t an appropriate time for the response that leaped to mind. Pity. “I’m quite certain he did, my dear.” He guided her to a bench and hovered near her as she sat down at last. “And how then are the captain and his extremely lucky companions? I still can hardly believe they survived, from what I hear.”
She stared bleakly at her hands on her lap. “As you say. Lucky to be alive. Keje has a concussion, I think, but other than that he didn’t get a scratch. The Chief had an arrow in his hip, but it struck the very edge of his pelvis and went down instead of up. Lucky. If it went up, it would have perforated his bowel. God knows if that Lemurian paste would have any effect on peritonitis. It’ll hurt when he walks for a while, but he should be fine. Matt?” She closed her eyes tightly and tried to control the relief in her voice. “His cheekbone is cracked, at least, and he has a deep gash in his side, down to the ribs. Besides that, he was stabbed in the back, through his shoulder blade and out his chest with a spear.” She laughed bitterly. “At least it was a ‘clean’ wound. Not many bone fragments or other debris. Those Grik spears are sharp!” The tears came then, in spite of all she could do.
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