Distant Thunders (27 page)

Matt nodded. “Very well. Chack, you and Queen Maraan let him through, but I want you both to support him closely. No telling what surprises the enemy may have left. Form a perimeter inside the gate, in that open area around the big fountain like we did last time. Use other supporting regiments. After the plaza’s secure, proceed to secure the rest of the city. Once we’re sure the enemy’s gone, we’ll form details to take those damn heads down.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Alden and Chack chorused, and trotted off. Matt turned to Jenks, who’d remained mostly silent since coming ashore.

“A most impressive display, Captain Reddy,” Jenks said. His tone held no irony.

“I guess you could do it better, though,” muttered Gray sarcastically. Despite the slightly more cordial relations between Jenks and his captain, the Bosun hadn’t thawed.

Jenks rounded on Gray, snatching the kerchief from his face. “It was a genuine compliment,
Mr.
Gray. I do grow weary of your attitude, however. You have harbored a grudge for long months now and perhaps I provoked it. If so, I sincerely apologize in the presence of”—he waved toward the countless pikes—“these tragic dead. That said, and the apology made, I will gladly oblige you if you insist on a confrontation.” Jenks took a breath and suddenly gagged violently. “Excuse me,” he muttered, and, stepping a short distance away, he retched. His companion, kerchief still in place, joined the commodore while he continued to heave and gasp.

Gray was stunned. “I’ll be damned,” he managed. “That Bakelite Brit can bend a little after all.” He lowered his voice. “Even if it did break him to do it.”

“Leave him be, Boats. He’s been ‘bending’ quite a bit lately. More than you know. And seeing that”—he nodded at the city—“could break anybody. We’ve kind of gotten used to it,” he said bitterly, “and it still makes me want to puke.”

Jenks finally composed himself and returned to face them. His color was ashen. “My apologies again, gentlemen.” His voice was rough.

“No need,” said Matt, almost gently.

“I . . . guess I’m sorry too,” said Gray. “I didn’t mean to make you move your hanky . . . and . . . blow.”

It was all Matt could do, even under the circumstances, to keep from cracking up. The Bosun had always had a talent for the backhanded compliment, apology, or . . . anything. Jenks looked at the big man intently for a moment before deciding to accept Gray’s . . . statement.

“Actually, as I was saying,” continued Jenks, forcing himself to keep the kerchief from his face, “your landing was most impressive. Very businesslike and coordinated. And somewhat ominous to a”—he glanced again at the heads—“a
neutral
observer such as myself.”

“Surely you practice such things? Your Marines, for example.”

“Certainly, but you have clearly had much more practice, on a considerably larger scale of late. My nation relies as heavily on naval power as does yours. Even more so, I’d wager, but we rarely engage in major land actions. The most recent of those was several years past. As you know, there are just under a hundred Marines aboard my ship, and I’m sure they could have come ashore just as creditably. But even their modern weapons might not have added much punch to your force.”

Matt avoided commenting on Jenks’s definition of “modern weapons” and the dubious advantage Matt considered muskets to be over the Lemurian’s powerful longbows, but he knew his troops had won Jenks’s respect. It remained to be seen whether that was a good thing or not.

The wind veered slightly and a gentle, merciful breeze diverted most of the stench northeast, toward B’mbaado. That or their noses were growing desensitized. Flags flapped and popped within the perimeter where the command staff awaited the first reports from the city. They’d heard no shots, but it was possible they might not have. The few rifle-armed scouts might have penetrated far enough by now that the ruins and the breeze could swallow the reports of their Krags. Eventually however, a runner appeared in the gateway and raced down through the ranks until he stood before Matt.

“General Rolak’s compliments, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” announced the ’Cat with surprisingly little accent. “The city is secure from the north gate, halfway to the south. There is no sign of the enemy other than a few . . . curious corpses. The Royal Palace has also been secured, and General Rolak begs you to come to him.”

Matt arched an eyebrow. “Any resistance? Casualties?”

“No casualties, sir . . . but there
is
resistance—of a sort. Nothing to be concerned with,” the ’Cat added with a snort, “but something my general prefers you see for yourself.”

Matt shrugged and looked at Gray. “Very well. Tell him we’ll be along.”

Gray hitched his pistol belt and shouted for an orderly to assemble the rest of the Captain’s Guard, some of whom were still aboard ship. Matt rolled his eyes, but knew it was pointless to complain. He looked at Jenks.

“Care to join us?”

They entered the city and the entourage was joined by an even larger security force that escorted them to the Royal Palace. Pete Alden met them there, reporting that Rolak and Queen Maraan were inside. Chack was leading his troops on a deeper penetration of the city. As the runner had told them, Alden confirmed that the only signs of the enemy were some “strange” corpses, but cryptically added that they
had
discovered a few Grik. Matt was curious, but knew if there was a threat, they’d have told him. They probably just wanted him to see whatever it was in the same context they’d first viewed it. Sometimes, context was important, and maybe they didn’t want to prejudice his perceptions. The palace was filthy and full of reeking droppings. Matt wondered whether the enemy had done that deliberately. Surely even the Grik couldn’t live amid such filth? The ships they’d captured hadn’t been
clean
, but they hadn’t been defiled to this extent.

Alden paused before a macabre scene. A Grik—or was it?—was staked to heavy beams resembling an inverted cross. It flashed through Matt’s mind that the thing had been
crucified
right here in the palace! Its tail had been hacked off and was nowhere in sight. All the claws were torn away, leaving mere jagged stumps of fingers and toes. It looked like even some of the creature’s teeth had been knocked out. Both eyes were missing from the desiccated corpse but whether they’d been gouged out by scavengers or during the evident “entertainment” was impossible to guess. By the amount of dark, dried blood spattered all around, it had clearly been alive for at least part of the process.

“That’s not an ordinary Grik,” Gray said.

“Yeah,” agreed Matt. “The fur color’s wrong. It looks more like one of those aborigine Griks we saw on Bali.”

“Wow,” muttered Gray. “Bastards must not get along. Wonder why they didn’t just eat him?”

“He’s not the only one,” Alden said. “And there’s something else you need to see.”

They followed the Marine up a long, winding stair that landed upon another wide chamber, not quite as filthy as the one below. Pete then advanced to a high-arched, guarded doorway. “Open it,” he said to one of the guards, and the ’Cat pushed the heavy door inward. Pete glanced back, his face grim, and made a “follow me” motion with his head.

Rasik-Alcas, king of Aryaal, sat upon what had so briefly been his ornate golden throne. The throne had suffered the ravages of the Grik and was now somewhat the worse for wear—but so was Rasik-Alcas. His once elaborate robes were dingy and weather-beaten, faded and stained. His pelt was a loose shroud draped over what had been a powerful frame. His cheeks were hollow and his whiskers were long and shaggy. Within the well-defined skull, however, large eyes still shone bright with hatred and madness. Currently they were locked upon those of Lord Muln-Rolak, standing just a few feet away, his sword point held casually—and unwaveringly—less than an inch from Rasik’s nose.

“My lord,” Rolak said, addressing Matt, “we were mistaken. Somehow, the beast still lives. Clearly, the punishment we expected for him was far too mild.” He grinned horribly. “Or perhaps even the Grik could not stomach the thought of eating him!”

Matt’s first reaction was one of rage. He hated Rasik-Alcas more than any living creature—but he hadn’t known he was living, had he? The bastard was responsible for the death of Harvey Donaghey, and probably Tom Felts and half a dozen other destroyermen as well. God knew how many Lemurian lives were lost to his treachery. Matt started to order Rolak to hack the miserable murderer down. Then his hand strayed to his Academy sword. He’d do it himself! Pulling the sword free with a snarl, he took a step forward.

“Ah, Skipper?”

“What, Pete?” Matt snapped.

“Well, hold on just a second. Please.”

Matt paused, blood thundering in his ears, and looked back at Alden. The chamber was large, but much was in shadow. Large, arched passages that once opened upon a balcony were covered over with planks. The full heat of the day pounded against the wooden barriers, radiating inward. It was hard to see anything, though, except for Rasik and Rolak, who stood in a beam of light that must have been purposely channeled to rest upon the throne.

“We ain’t alone in here, Skipper,” Pete said.

For the first time, Matt peered hard into the gloom. Evidently, Gray did too, because there came a muttered, “Shit!” and the unmistakable sound of the Thompson’s bolt being yanked back.

“My God,” Matt said. He could now discern other figures in the chamber that he’d missed in his single-minded concentration on the Aryaalan king. Half a dozen forms stood stationary along the walls, each covered by two or more Marines. At first, he thought he must be imagining things, that the gloom was playing tricks on his vision, but he quickly realized that wasn’t the case. They were lizards. Grik. He’d seen quite enough of the monsters to identify them at a glance. These were the real thing, not aboriginals or a different species like Lawrence. These were the exact same creatures they’d come here to fight, but here they stood, almost alone, and their reaction to the situation wasn’t right at all.

“What the hell’s going on here, Mr. Alden?” Matt demanded, pausing his killing advance on Rasik.

“Damned if I know, Skipper. We came in here and found ’em like this: Rasik on his fancy chair and a bunch of lizards standing around like guards. His guards. Lord Rolak went to kill the bastard and he told the Griks to defend him! It’s been like this since: Rolak ready to stick Rasik and the lizards ready to fight. Wouldn’t be much of a fight,” he added, “but, well, I figured you ought to see it.”

“Rolak?”

“The beast says they are his ‘children,’ his ‘pets.’ They do seem willing to defend him. Just as odd, he spoke to them in the language of the People, which he must have taught them.”

“Ask
them
what this is all about!” Matt ordered.

“I tried. I think they even answered me, but I could not understand. They seemed to understand me, though, and I managed to get them to lower their weapons, at least.”

Matt had never personally met the Aryaalan king, but that didn’t matter. They knew each other through their deeds. He was glad he’d finally polished his ’Cat enough to vent his rage without an interpreter: “Rasik, you sick bastard! I figured when we left you here, you’d wind up on a stick! I thought that a fitting punishment for what you did. Even then, I never dreamed you’d collaborate with these monsters! They killed your people, your city! Have you seen what they did outside? Have you even
been
outside?”

Rasik turned his gaze upon the captain, the hate and madness still bright. “I did not ‘collaborate,’ you fool! I fled! I went into the wilderness with my few loyal guards and we evaded the Grik and sometimes killed them. We even fed upon them, on occasion,” he added with some satisfaction. “But I
stayed
when all my people left me, left our sacred city to the Grik!
You
are to blame for what has befallen us! You led this evil here! If you had not come, all would be as it has always been. We would have defeated the first, smaller Grik horde and then turned our attention back to B’mbaado! Well, that city is mine now too, as is all of Jaava! None remain to contest me; even the Grik have fled! But I stayed. I
stayed
! All this land is
mine
!”

Rasik’s rant was so wildly untrue and preposterous, Matt couldn’t even bring himself to respond to it. Instead, he looked at the Grik guards. “Not all the Grik fled, it seems. If you didn’t collaborate with them, why do they protect you?”

“A simple thing. They collaborated with
me
. They are not the same as the vermin that infested my city. They are some of those that scattered after the battle I so wisely kept my warriors”—Rasik paused and glared at Rolak—“
most
of my warriors from joining. My companions and I hunted them at first,” he admitted, “like any Grik. We did not know the difference. When we discovered they
were
different, we . . . allowed them to enlist in our army of liberation! Never have there been such loyal troops! Lift a finger against me and they will strike you down and eat your bones!” Rasik chuckled and it sounded like a wood rasp dragged across a rock. “We came to hurl the invaders from my city and discovered it all but abandoned! The horde must have learned that I was coming to reap my revenge! All that remained were a few feral Grik, like are known to inhabit the islands nearby. Their masters must have left them here.” Rasik flicked his wrist. “We disposed of them.”

Matt wondered whether the crucified creature downstairs was one such Rasik had “disposed” of, and if all had been given similar treatment.

“Where are your other ‘companions,’
king
?” asked Rolak. The word “king” dripped sarcasm.

“They were like you,
Lord
Rolak,” Rasik replied matter-of-factly, with equal sarcasm. “They were disloyal. They disobeyed me
just like you
and I was forced to punish them.”

“So,” Matt said, taking a few steps closer. “Now you’re the uncontested king of all Aryaal, all Java—with nothing but a handful of Grik for subjects!”