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 trying 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 oneMarine 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!"
Bra-ba-ba-bap! Bra-bap!
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.