Into the Storm (56 page)

“In!” Captain Reddy yelled, and he dropped out of sight.

 

Keje-Fris-Ar stared in shock at the devastation they’d wrought. The big bronze guns that Letts worked so hard to produce—along with the foundry at Baalkpan and more than a hundred helpers—had been inexpertly used, to say the least. Despite the assistance of the destroyerman named Felts and another Amer-i-caan supervising each gun, more than half the destructive force of each shot was wasted, churning up the already maddened sea for hundreds of tails beyond the target. Even so, it was more than enough. A total of fifteen shots were fired at the boats, three from each cannon, sending thousands of copper balls scything through the flimsy vessels and enemy warriors. Parts of bodies and large chunks of the boats themselves scattered among marching plumes of violent splashes and horrible, unearthly shrieks. When the smoke and spray had cleared, nothing was left of the enemy but shattered flotsam and struggling forms. Flasher-fish weren’t active when the sea ran high. They couldn’t sense the splashing of their prey, and the turmoil of the water was dangerous for them in such a shallow place. It didn’t matter. The Grik had no more reason or inclination to learn to swim than People did. Within moments, there was no movement but the relentless march of the churning swells.

That left the Grik ship bearing down upon them. It was downrange during the firing, and its sails and rigging were savaged. The enemy aboard saw what happened to the warriors in the boats, but true to form, on they came. Tom Felts called for “round shot.” The Grik bored in, without maneuver, no finesse at all. It apparently wasn’t going to lay alongside and send its remaining boarders across. It meant to crash headlong into
Salissa
’s side. That might cause significant damage. Keje waited tensely while the big guns were loaded. At two hundred tails, they spoke. Massive detonations trundled the heavy guns back against their restraints. The brief “swoosh” of heavy shot ended in multiple crashes that launched blizzards of splinters and large, spinning fragments of the Grik’s bow into the sea. When the smoke cleared, the Grik still came, but slower and lower in the water. The approach ended at a hundred tails, as the vessel filled. Keje saw a wisp of smoke and remembered the Grik firebombs.

“Once more!” he commanded. This time, when the massive smoke cloud dissipated, all that remained was jutting masts, rapidly slipping lower. With a jolt, the hull struck bottom, and the masts tilted crazily, almost disappearing, before they came to rest.

Then began the cheering. It was like the times before, when he’d witnessed
Walker
’s devastating powers to lay waste the hated foe. Only this time it was he and
Salissa
who’d unleashed it! It was a heady moment. With power like she now possessed,
Salissa
need fear nothing on earth! Perhaps the time
had
come at last for the Ancient Enemy that had haunted their lives and dreams to be laid low. Perhaps even their Ancient Home, the very cradle of their race, might be restored! The name Keje-Fris-Ar would be spoken with reverence and honor as great as that of Siska-Ta, the prophet who wrote the Scrolls themselves!

Keje knew exultation beyond any he’d ever felt. He clasped Selass in a joyful embrace and capered with glee along with the others. In that brief moment, anything was possible! Most of the people on the shore couldn’t see what had happened, but hearing the cheers even over the wind and surf, they began cheering too.

“Look, look!” Jarrik-Fas cried, pointing out to sea. Far away now,
Walker
grappled with the dismasted Grik. The distance was too great for detail, even through the binoculars that he hastily raised. Keje’s happiness was tempered by the realization that
Walker
’s role was by far the most dangerous. He hadn’t really known that when the plan was conceived, before the glory of artillery against open boats was made abundantly clear. None of
Salissa
’s numerous defenders had even had to raise a sword. Now he knew that for
Walker
to succeed, his friends—the very ones who made his victory possible—must come to direct blows with the enemy. He felt as if his own kin were at risk, and the possibility their ship might be damaged filled him with sudden dread. He chafed at the distance.

 

Matt landed on a shattered table and it collapsed beneath him with a crash. He rolled off the debris and scrambled to his feet, coughing from the smoke and dust. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed movement, and he ducked as an axe whooshed through the space his head had just occupied and sank deep into the wall behind him. A Grik, snarling in frustration, tried to wrench it loose. Matt yanked his Academy sword from its sheath with a well-oiled, metallic
snink
.

Without thought, he drove it through the Grik’s chest, twisted, and yanked it clear. With a terrible screech, the hideous creature slashed and lunged falteringly toward him. Matt stepped aside and thrust again, stabbing deep at the base of its throat. Blood sprayed explosively between its terrifying teeth and it crashed to the deck, its tail beating a spastic tattoo. Another rushed him from behind—already wounded, thank God—and he dodged its clumsy leap. He slashed as it passed, but the dull edge of the sword had no effect. It had never occurred to him to sharpen it. Luckily, the injured Grik stumbled or slipped on blood when it landed, and he was on it in an instant, driving the sharp point of his blade into its back. He must have pierced its spine, because it instantly crumpled to the deck, jaws gnashing, but incapable of further movement. He spun in place, sword outstretched, but there was no other threat at present.

His heart pounded with terror at his close call—and just at the sight of the things. He’d seen them from a distance, of course, and they were much like the Bali creatures, but up close like this . . . A swaying lantern hung on a bulkhead, slightly askew, its feeble glow piercing the gloom of the compartment. Blood was spattered everywhere and two more Grik lay on the deck. From the look of one, it actually caught the grenade before it exploded. Shattered bone and gray-red lengths of intestine made up its torso. There were no arms. He forced his breathing back to normal and concealed his shaking hands by sticking his sword point into the deck and resting them nonchalantly on the hilt. The remaining four Marines hopped lightly through the skylight, followed by Garrett, who helped Gray lower his more difficult bulk onto the wrecked table.

“Well done, Captain! You made short work of them!” Garrett exclaimed.

“Thanks, Mr. Garrett. Now let’s check these doors. This compartment must’ve been their wardroom. The doors may lead to officers’ quarters.” He pointed with his bloody sword to another door aft. “That’s the captain’s cabin, I expect.”

The heavy door on the forward bulkhead crashed inward and Grik surged inside, slashing with swords and ravening jaws. The Marines lunged forward with their spears and Gray and Garrett fired.

 

“God, this is fun!” bellowed Silva, swinging his cutlass like an axe. It caught a Grik right across the bridge of its snout and cleaved almost to its throat. Blood geysered.

“Speak for yourself!” screamed Scott, fumbling with another magazine. Silva hadn’t even tried to reload; there’d been no time. He had no idea where the BAR was now. There were
many
more Grik belowdecks than they’d expected and they’d jumped into a hornet’s nest. The Marines’ shields were useless—there just wasn’t room—so it degenerated into a melee, as Alden had feared it might. Fortunately, at least the Marines were trained in that to some degree. If they lived, some damn good NCOs would come out of this one. Scott finally locked the thirty-round stick and racked the bolt. Silva ducked.
Bra-ba-ba-ba-ba-bap!

“I
am
speakin’for myself!” Silva replied, hacking down at a lizard try- ing to crawl in under the fire. He nearly severed its head and the senseless body leaped straight up and bounced against the overhead, bowling others over when it fell. He laughed. He’d killed a lot in his life, before the War even started. Bar fights and back alleys in China, mostly—although there’d been that pool shark down in Mobile too. Most had it coming, by his definition, though he might have been hasty a time or two. The Japs had it coming, and he guessed he’d killed some of them with his number one gun. But that was a team sport. He’d never killed anybody because he was “good” and they were “bad.” They’d just been “badder” than he was. And sometimes Dennis Silva could be a bad man. But now he
felt
good because the creatures he killed were indisputably bad. They’d killed Marvaney (he made no distinction) and a bunch of his cat-monkey friends. Mallory said they’d wiped out a place the size of Baalkpan at what ought to be Tjilatjap. Now they were trying to kill
him
! They were mean and ugly and needed killing by anyone’s definition—and utterly righteous killing had a liberating effect on Dennis Silva. He felt like the big mean dragon in the story that everybody was scared of, who swooped down and ate the evil king. Sometimes it felt good to be “good.”

He almost tripped. Several Grik made a lunge for him, but Marine spears and Alden’s pistol probably saved his life. With a nod, Alden reholstered the pistol and went back to his spear. For an instant Silva watched in admiration as the Marine parried another Grik thrust as simply as swatting a fly and drove his spear into the creature’s belly. It screamed and intestines uncoiled on the deck.
That’s
one
Marine I’m never pickin’ a fight with
, he swore to himself. He looked down at what had tripped him. “There’s my gun! Gimme a minute, Tony!”

Silva stabbed his cutlass into a dead Grik to keep it handy and seized the BAR. It was slick with blood and rough with chunks of other things. He slammed in a fresh magazine.

“I’m almost out’a ammo!” gasped Scott. “A and C comp-nees should’a been here by now! If that Nip doesn’t get his ass here quick, even you will be ready to play somethin’ else!”

“Don’t worry, he’ll get here!” Dennis assured him and wondered suddenly why he was so sure. “Stand aside!”
Bam-bam-bam!

 

The Grik “wardroom” was an abattoir by the time they hacked and shot their way through the initial push and managed to secure the door. It had a convenient bar to prevent it from being opened from forward. Matt wondered what that said about Grik discipline? One of his Marines was dead and Garrett’s left arm hung almost useless, blood pattering on the deck to join the deep pool there. Matt wasn’t wounded, but he was splashed with gore and his “ceremonial” sword was notched and bloody. Gray was tying a tourniquet around Garrett’s arm, and the three Marines were wedging pieces of the heavy broken table against the door, which rattled with incessant pounding.

“Quick, let’s check these other rooms!” They looked in both compartments on either side. There were no enemies, but the collections decorating each were disconcerting. Skulls, mostly. Like trophies. One cabin held nothing but rows and rows of clay pots or jars, suspended from the bulkheads by netting. At a glance, they had no idea what was in them, but the stench was overpowering. Maybe they were firebombs and the compartment was a magazine? Gray and one of the Marines guarded the door leading forward. Heavy fighting raged on the other side. It was becoming more intense, and they heard a couple of grenades and more firing. They remained there, watching the rear while Matt, Garrett, and the other two Lemurians checked the final door aft. It was locked from within.

“Stand back,” Matt ordered and nodded at Garrett, who fired two shots into the familiar-looking keyhole below the doorknob. The Marines kicked it open and dashed inside. One fell back immediately, a spear through his chest. A Grik waiting beside the door slashed at the other, missing by the thickness of her fur. Garrett bellowed the first obscenity Matt had ever heard him use and fired directly through the wall. Matt lunged through the doorway and spun, raising his sword. The Grik from beside the door grappled with the remaining Marine, trying to tear out her throat. The one that Garrett had shot slumped to the deck, leaving a red stain on the wall. It was dark in the room, but blurred movement caused him to rush forward, driving his blade through a gaudily dressed III Grik. It slashed at him with its claws, but they skated across his steel helmet. He yelled and stabbed it again, driving it backward to sprawl into some chairs behind it. Garrett was suddenly beside him, firing at the Grik where it lay. Together, they turned to the one fighting the Marine, and when it glanced at them with toothy, gape-mouthed astonishment, the little female Marine drove her short-sword into its belly, clear to the hilt.

Matt spun back, looking at something he’d glimpsed as he dashed inside. Seated at a dark, highly polished desk and silhouetted against the gray sea through the windows behind it, a startlingly obese Grik glared at him with intense, unblinking eyes. It was lavishly attired in a shimmering red and black silk-like robe and its fur, or plumage—whatever—was shiny and well groomed. A window was open and the desk was littered with tablets. Perhaps it was throwing things out? It snarled at him and a string of saliva foamed on its yellowed teeth. Without hesitation, it grasped a curved blade from the cluttered desk. Matt raised his sword and prepared to spring forward before it could rise. With a defiant cry, the thing drove the knife into its own throat and slashed outward, severing muscle, trachea, and arteries. Blood spumed, and the head, no longer supported by muscle and sinew, flopped backward before rebounding forward and slamming down upon the desk.

Matt lowered his sword and stared. Gun smoke eddied in the breeze through the window, but the sharp stench of blood and voided bowels was overpowering in the confined space. The female Marine, her bloodstreaked sword still in her hand, retched in a corner, overcome by nausea and relief.

Gray hurried into the cabin, glancing about, taking it all in. He strode to the corpse of the Grik captain and heaved it roughly aside. It slid to the deck like a sack of wet tapioca. “Bugger was bleedin’ all over the books!” he growled.