The Tail-less Ones! he realized with a sense of wonder, then repeated his thought at the top of his lungs. "The Tail-less Ones! They have returned! The Tail-less Ones destroy the Grik!" With a gleeful bellow, echoed by many, and a surge of unexpected hope, he waded back into battle. The Grik fought just as fiercely as before and, if anything, with renewed frenzy. But the frenzy was different somehow. For the first time he sensed desperation and—could it be?—fear. Chack fed off that, real or imagined, as he swung his axe in great arcs that hewed heads and arms and chests. His own arms ached and the axe became difficult to grasp. Sometimes it slipped sideways and he struck a Grik or its shield with the flat of the blade and felt the blow jar his bones, but still he fought on. Others sensed the difference as well, and they pushed the Grik with renewed energy. The flames began to envelop the forward tower and, reluctantly, the Grik gave ground. It was that or burn.
Chack found a moment to cast a glance at their saviors. They approached closer, but after so decisively dealing with the unattached ship, they hesitated, as if unsure what to do. He understood. They'd clearly decided to help the People, but their magical weapons weren't selective enough to influence the battle for Home itself. At least he thought that at first.
"What now?" whispered Matt. They'd thrown away any hope of neutrality when they destroyed the lizard ship, and there was clearly no hope for survivors. That was a terrible aspect of naval war in this new world that he would have to bear in mind, he thought, watching the flashing shapes consume the last of the creatures in the water. They'd fired in self-defense, but he doubted the hundreds of lizards fighting the Lemurians would see it that way. Okay, so maybe two salvos were excessive, but they'd made him mad. Now, like it or not, he had chosen sides, and as precarious as the situation on the big ship looked, this wasn't the time for half measures. One side or the other would win this fight, and it didn't seem like a good idea to let it be the ones they'd shot at.
"Come left, to one three zero," he said coldly. "Guns crews stand by, but cease firing. Small arms will commence firing at one hundred yards. The targets are the lizards on the Lemurian ship. The machine guns may fire, but have them conserve ammunition and be careful of their targets. Concentrate where the enemy is massing, away from the `friendlies.' Rig all fire hoses and have handlers standing by." He clasped his hands behind his back, listening to the responses, and stared straight ahead at the battle.
Sandra moved beside him, also looking at what they were getting themselves into. "I'm sorry, Captain," she said in a small, quiet voice.
He looked at her a moment, then nodded with a shrug. "Me too," he said. "I guess it's not in me to watch something like this without trying to help. But Lord above, we have enough problems without winding up in the middle of a war!" He spoke quietly, so she was the only one who knew, truly, what an agonizing decision it had been. They heard the crack of Springfields as riflemen on deck chose their targets, and the starboard .30-cal opened with short bursts of its own.
"These . . . Lemurians better be worth it," he said grimly. "Because every bullet we fire for them is one less we'll have to save our own asses with." With that, he stepped away from her and onto the starboard bridgewing to take Walker back to war.
"Hot damn!" growled Dennis Silva as he racked the bolt back on the starboard .50-cal. "We finally get to kill somebody!" Ordnance Striker Gil Olivera was beside him, poised to change the ammunition box when it was empty. He giggled nervously. Alfonso Reavis and Sandy Newman also stood nearby, Springfields over their shoulders, but their job was to gather spent shells before they rolled into the sea. Silva didn't know why; as far as he knew, they couldn't be reloaded. Even if they'd had more bullets— which they didn't—they didn't have powder or primers. Oh, well, he didn't care. He'd finally been ordered to kill the hell out of somebody, and he was ready. If Campeti wanted guys scurrying around picking up his empty brass, that wasn't his concern.
The sound of battle on the burning ship was awesome. The roaring flames could be heard over the blower, and the screams and shouts from alien throats lent the scene a surrealistic aspect. He couldn't see much through the smoke, though, and he squinted over his sights. There. There seemed to be a battle line of sorts formed just aft of the base of that big tower forward. It was burning like mad, and the heat and smoke must be hell. He pointed it out to Felts, who stood between him and the number three gun with one of the BARs. "Everything forward of there looks like nothin' but lizards!" he shouted. Felts squinted and nodded. If they got too much closer, they'd be shooting up. One of the lizard ships was sunk alongside, between them and the enemy horde, and men were shooting lizards from its rigging.
"I see it, Dennis. If we shoot in among that bunch, we ought to get half a dozen with each shot!"
"'Zactly!" said Silva, and grinned.
"Just be careful not to hit any of them monkey-cats!" warned Felts.
Silva rolled his eyes. "The hell you say, Tommy Felts! They're catmonkeys, goddamn it! How many times have I got to tell you! Are you strikin' for snipe, or what?"
Before Felts could answer, Silva let out a whoop and pressed the butterfly trigger on the back of his gun. A stream of tracers arced across the short distance through the smoke and into the densely packed mass of lizard warriors.
"I'll teach you to kick my 'Cats, you unnatural sons-a-bitches!" Silva screamed.
Keje-Fris-Ar felt dazed as he sagged with his hands on his knees, panting. The world was upside down. He'd been wounded superficially in many places and was faint with fatigue and perhaps loss of blood. His tongue was swollen, his lips cracked and bleeding, and he'd lost his voice hours ago. He blinked thanks when Selass gave him a large copper mug, but his hands shook uncontrollably and he couldn't drink. From the gloom, Adar was beside him, helping to hold it still. Pridefully, he tried to shake off the Sky Priest's hands, but didn't have the strength even for that. Instead, he drank greedily with closed eyes as the tepid water soothed his throat. But even with eyes closed, his mind still saw the momentous things he'd witnessed.
He'd seen things that day that rivaled the epic power of the Scrolls themselves. Acts of courage and horror without compare—without precedence—as far as he knew. And he'd seen wonders beyond comprehension, such as the power of the Tail-less Ones who'd so unexpectedly come to their aid. Without whose aid they'd have surely perished. But beyond even that, he'd seen what that power did to the Grik. The People helped, of course, but it was the power of the Tail-less Ones that worked the miracle he could hardly believe, even now. The Grik had broken.
They hadn't been merely repulsed; he'd seen that before. They'd utterly and completely broken and fled in absolute terror from the combined assault of the Tail-less Ones' magic and the vengeful ferocity of the People. There'd been confusion on both sides at first, when suddenly there raged a hammering sound like nothing ever heard and the Grik—but only the Grik—began dying by the score. Hundreds fell, horribly mangled, in the space of a few short breaths, and they couldn't fight—couldn't even see— whatever was killing them! The panic began in their rear, behind the fighting, and Keje first noticed it as a lessening pressure in front of his fighters. Wary glances of alarm became shrieks of rage and terror, as the Grik saw their comrades dying and fleeing behind them. Keje saw it too, and despite his own shock, grasped the opportunity. He led the charge that swept the enemy entirely from the decks of Home.