The Lemurian shields made a big difference. For a while. The Dominion front ranks were decimated by those first volleys, but they had greater numbers to start with. Chack and Blair’s experiments with the shields paid off, teaching them that the dense hardwood-backed bronze implements would turn a musket ball if held at an angle, and the shields were battered and streaked with smears of lead, while the rear ranks delivered a withering fire. The front ranks suffered terribly from the beating they were taking, painfully flayed by spattered fragments of balls, stunned by incessant impacts, and even struck by balls that skated in or found a gap. The shields could take only so much, however, and they began to be pierced or fall apart under the hammering.
“Second rank! Take shields where you can,” Lieutenant Blair ordered, knowing Chack would never do it. “First rank, fall back to the rear!”
Chack spared him a thankful glance. Less than thirty Lemurian Marines were able to obey.
O’Casey appeared, unfired pistols still dangling around his neck. He was covered with blood, caused by dozens of splinter wounds. “This is the damnedest thing there ever was,” he gasped.
“It is quite like a duel itself, is it not?” Blair asked. His hat was gone now, replaced by a bloody rag. “A most appropriate setting, I suppose.”
“It is stupid,” Chack growled. “General Alden would not approve.” He shrugged. “But I don’t know what else to do. We cannot maneuver here, and there is no cover other than the stands-and we can’t reach them without exposing ourselves. Stupid! All we can do is stand here, trading blows like fools.”
“Where’s Captain Reddy, an’ Jenks?” O’Casey asked.
A ball caromed off Chack’s steel American helmet, almost knocking him down. He shook his head and resumed his erect pose. “Stupid,” he repeated, looking almost desperately around for some inspiration. “If only we had a single gun!”
“Just be glad theirs are silent,” Blair said. He looked at O’Casey. “Captain Reddy has gone for Mr. Reed. Jenks seeks the Governor-Emperor!”
“Then I must assist one or the other,” O’Casey said. “I’m of no further use here.”
“Nooo, Mr. O’Casey,” Chack said. “Untrue. Your collection of pistols might soon be of great use. I weary of this mutual mauling! I ask myself what I would do if those… people were Grik, and I see only one course that will decide this before both sides are annihilated! Lieutenant Blair? I see the enemy has not fixed bayonets. Why is that?”
“Why…” Blair paused. “Well, they can’t.”
“They do have them?”
“Yes, but they’re a different style. A type of plug bayonet. They insert them into their muzzles and they are quite effective, but their shooting is over then. They usually have to drive them out. If they’d affixed them before now, they’d have had to charge, or stand and be shot to pieces.”
“Like we are doing?” Chack practically roared. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I-” Blair was confused.
“Listen to me, Lieutenant Blair. You must trust me. We are about to lose a lot of troops, your men mostly, but then we will shortly end this fight. Do you believe me?”
“I… uh…” Blair suddenly remembered the last time he’d disregarded the advice of a Lemurian commander. Safir Maraan had tried to warn him at Singapore that his tactics simply didn’t apply. His command had been virtually eradicated that day, and he’d miserably blamed himself ever since. He’d also come to realize that these… creatures, these Lemurians, knew a lot more about pitched battles on land than he did. “Yes, I do, Captain Sab-At,” he said finally, formally. “What are your orders?”
“The discipline and execution must be flawless,” Chack warned.
Another grenade preceded Matt, Gray, Stites, and the ten surviving Marines through the shattered door of the Dominion embassy. A second Imperial had been killed by a sniper from a second-floor window. The grenade burst amid another chorus of screams, and the group charged in, Gray’s Thompson spitting at a trio of men in uniforms crawling on the floor.
The entry hall looked different this time. The lanterns were askew and fresh blood pooled beneath bodies on the tile. The red walls didn’t seem any different, but they glistened where fresh color had splashed. The golden tapestries and accents ran with glittering purple-red. There must have been at least twenty men near the door when Gray’s first grenade dropped among them, and many had been killed outright. The rest, probably still stunned, had fallen to the second. A few more shots finished the survivors.
“Upstairs!” Courtney Bradford shouted. “Check upstairs! The buggers will likely be there!”
Matt pointed around at darkened alcoves. “You men,” he said to the Marines, “check those spaces! Make sure there’s not another way out of this joint!”
“Where’ll they be?” Gray asked, puffing.
“Upstairs, like Courtney said. I hope.”
They thundered up the spiral staircase. A pair of musket shots, fired wildly from above, shattered the banister just a few feet from Bradford, and his enthusiasm ebbed just a little. Stites hosed his BAR upward, stitching back and forth, and they were rewarded by a scream and a thud. As a group, with Bradford lagging slightly, they arrived at the top of the stairs. A man in the uniform of a Blood Drinker, probably one of those who’d fired, lunged at Matt with a bayonet inserted into the muzzle of his musket. Matt knocked it aside with the Springfield and drove his own bayonet into the man’s chest with a shout, pushing him back until he’d virtually pinned him to the wall. The dim, orangish light in the room reflected off the glazing eyes that stared back into his.
“Bravo!” came a voice from the far side of the chamber, standing before the garish golden cross on the wall. “You have me, it seems.”
Matt turned, yanking the bayonet clear, and saw Harrison Reed dimly illuminated, sinister shadows around his eyes and mouth. He stood with his arms crossed before him, a pistol loosely in his hand. The naked servant girl lay sprawled on the hardwood floor in the center of a spreading pool of blood.
“You will face the very fires of hell for storming this place,” he said conversationally. “This is not just an embassy-bad enough, I assure you-but a blessed house of God.”
“Where you just murdered a little girl!” Matt said, bringing the Springfield up. “I ought to kill you where you stand!”
Reed pointed the pistol at Matt in a classic style that showed he was proficient. “I did not kill the child. I presume Don Hernan sent her to paradise himself, before he left. He was quite taken with her.” He shrugged slightly. “I found her like this, and before you ask, I don’t know where Don Hernan is. Directing the completion of our plan, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Sumbitch has skipped!” Stites snarled disgustedly.
Reed ignored him, but wiggled the pistol slightly. “Perhaps, Captain Reddy, you would care to exchange my life for yours? You are here, so I assume the fighting went poorly at the dueling grounds?”
“Things were looking up when we left,” Gray said harshly. “We got reinforcements.”
Reed smirked. “Pity. Regardless, I remain optimistic.”
“You wouldn’t be if you’d stayed for more of the show,” Matt promised. “Is that why you hid here? I wouldn’t be ‘optimistic’ about anything right now, if I were you. Listen.” Even through the solid, windowless walls, a crescendo of distant musketry rattled incessantly. “Besides, you’re basically the reason we’re here.”
Reed looked genuinely surprised. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Your Commander Billingsley attacked our Alliance, abducted Princess Rebecca, and… took some other people who mean a lot to us,” Matt ground out. “That’s all on you. We came here looking for Billingsley-and whoever it was who put him up to it.”
Reed slapped his forehead. “Oh, dear!” he said. “It seems I was most dreadfully mistaken! You had me quite convinced the princess is safe and you had abundant proof of the conspiracy arriving with Achilles!”
“We do have proof. Plenty. We know you sent Agamemnon back to kill the girl, along with three other ships. We destroyed Agamemnon and captured the others, but Billingsley already had Rebecca and our people on Ajax. We came looking for him… and you.”