ANDERSON, TAYLOR - Crusade

“Aryaalans, Captain,” he said simply. Then he looked at Matt, inscrutable and expressionless as always, but he was blinking a sequence reserved for surprise. Intense surprise. “And others.”

Matt had started to turn and issue an order, but stopped and looked back at Chack. “What do you . . . ? Just a moment.” He did turn then. “Signal the fleet ‘Well done’ and compliments. Also, all battle line captains please report aboard Walker . They can send a representative if they have damage or other pressing concerns.” His gaze returned to Chack. “What were you saying?”

Chack wordlessly handed the binoculars back. Slightly annoyed, Matt raised them once more. The boat was much closer now, and even as he looked, he heard several exclamations of surprise from some of those crowding with him on the bridgewing.

The first thing he noticed was the Aryaalans themselves. He was struck by how different they appeared from the Lemurians he was used to. Counting the rowers, there were sixteen or seventeen of them on the barge, and almost all of them had dark-colored pelts. It was impossible in the dim light to tell exactly what color they were, but he had an impression of sable. That was unusual enough, since no two Lemurians he’d met were precisely the same color. And yet the differences didn’t end there. The People they’d grown accustomed to—Spanky’s efforts notwithstanding—wore as lians he re of Mahan ’s tale. Judging by the appearance of Ellis and Steele, it had been a hard one. Both men’s uniforms were badly stained and battered, and a dreadful experience of some sort seemed to haunt their eyes. Jim still limped too, and Matt remembered that Captain Kaufman had shot his friend. He returned his attention to Lord Rolak, who was speaking.

“They will certainly attack at dawn.” Keje translated for him. “They attack most days, but after tonight . . .” He shrugged in a very human way. “They will certainly come and I doubt they will stop this time. I propose that your”—the Aryaalan lord actually sneered slightly—“warriors join ours in the defensive positions. They should take direction from our captains, of course.”

Matt suddenly found all of his commanders’ eyes on him as Keje told him what Lord Rolak had said. He answered their unspoken question with a single word.

“No.”

For just a moment, after Keje relayed the response, there was an uncomfortable silence. Prince Rasik finally spoke up. “This . . . creature speaks for you all?”

Keje grunted and answered in an ominous tone. “He does. He not only speaks for us, he commands us for the duration of this campaign.” He gestured angrily toward the porthole. “In case you did not notice, we swept your little bay clear for you this night. He was the architect of that.”

Lord Rolak shifted, and visibly regrouped his argument. “Your victory tonight was impressive,” he hedged, “but you are sea folk. Surely you see the wisdom of letting land folk lead when a fight is on land. Aryaalans are a warrior race. The warrior’s way is bred into us and nurtured in us as younglings. You sea folk do not even fight unless you have to! We have the experience . . . !”

“It seems to me that you were about to experience defeat, Lord Rolak,” Bradford interrupted quietly. “What is your estimate of the forces arrayed against you?”

Rolak was quiet for a moment as he looked around the table. Finally he sighed. “There are, perhaps, fifteen thousands of the enemy.” Matt nodded when the translation came. That was consistent with Mallory’s estimate of the enemy force.

“How many warriors do you have to face them?” Matt brutally cut to the heart of the matter. If the Grik truly were going to attack at dawn, there was no time for this foolishness. Rolak answered him in a slightly more subdued tone.

“King Alcas has twenty-four hundred warriors in the city, fit for battle. Queen Maraan from B’mbaado Island across the water has sent another six hundreds to our aid.”

“She should have sent more!” seethed the young prince, speaking for the second time since his introduction.

Rolak looked at him. “We are lucky she sent anything at all! Do you forget we were at war with her before the Grik came?” Rolak shrugged again and glanced at the others around the table. “War is a . . . pastime . . . among my people. That is why we are so good at it.” He paused and his tone subtly changed. “It is different this time. The Grik do not follow the rules. They do not have rules. No truce is accepted. There is no parley, no discussion of aims or demands, and . . . no respect for the dead.” His tail swished and he blinked outrage. “They eat fallen warriors, you know, whenever we cannot recover them. Sometimes they even stop fighting long enough to feed...” Quickly controlling himself,ize="3">“Most are accounted for, but some are not. I fear we must assume they were lost breaking through the Grik.”

Matt nodded somberly, looking at Rick Tolson. “ Revenge will make a quick search after dawn to see if any are adrift, disabled.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Don’t take too long, though. I want you back as soon as possible.” Tolson nodded. “Mr. Shinya, you will land three-quarters of the Marines and Guards at the dockyard. I’ll leave the choice of units to you, but I want you to reserve one-quarter of the force to demonstrate as if they’re going to land here”—he pointed at the map—“across the river. Hopefully, we can keep the Grik reserves tied down, prepared to defend against a landing. The battle line will support that impression with a bombardment.” He paused. “The main force will assemble at the breastworks that join the castle walls to the beach.”

Most of those present were already familiar with the plan, but Lord Rolak leaned forward and peered at the map. “Why gather there?” he asked, puzzled. “It will take time to move your forces within the walls and through the city. Would it not be better to send them in as they arrive?”

“No, Lord Rolak,” Matt explained. “The Allied Expeditionary Force won’t be going inside.”

Shortly, after escorting the dignitaries and the battle line commanders to their boats and watching them scurry to their various commands to begin preparations, they returned to the wardroom. They didn’t have much time, but Matt was determined to know, at last, what had happened to Mahan and her people. Sandra and Bradford were present, as were Spanky, Gray, and Dowden. By now, the whole crew had heard the exciting news that ome are nohad settled upon the host, almost twenty-six hundred strong, as they gazed over the barrier and across the coastal plain. Matt and the Chief walked behind them, their shoes squelching in the ooze that had been churned in the damp sandy soil by the milling and marching of so many feet. Matt wished he had a horse to ride that would give him an elevated perspective not only of the events that were about to unfold but of the mood of “his” troops as well. It was hard to judge their feelings at that moment, with their inscrutably feline faces. But he’d learned to read Lemurian body language fairly well, and he’d learned to read much of the blinking they used instead of facial expressions.

Most were nervous, of course. Hell, he was nervous. But some few were blinking uncontrollably in abject terror. Most of those were surrounded and supported by steadier hearts, however, in a Lemurian way that Matt admired. But the vast majority of the troops poised for battle showed every sign of grim determination, if not outright eagerness. He nodded to himself. They would need all the eagerness, determination, and courage they could muster because across the marshy field before them lay the right flank of the Ancient Enemy.