Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(70)
“And you do not? God keep you, Major Blas,” Koratin said, then backed away from the breastworks before moving off to the right.
“That guy is so weird,” said A Company’s First Sergeant Spon-Ar-Aak, better known as “Spook,” taking the place Koratin just left. The white-furred ’Cat had been a gunner’s mate on Walker, but had followed Blas ever since. “Prob’ly could’a been a gen-raal. The Heavens know he can fight. You know he’s a Chiss-chin, right?” Blas nodded. “One o’ the first o’ our people to be one,” Spook continued. “Now there’s bunches of ’em. I don’t know how folks can do that; just switch to a new Maker whenever they like. Gives me the creeps.”
Blas waved around. “Half our humans are Chiss-chins, an’ they fight just fine.” She snorted and blinked impatience. “An’ it ain’t a new Maker, it’s the same as ours. Even Adar said so. I got no problem with ’em.”
A trumpet sounded dully in the gloomy woods ahead, followed by a terrible rumble of drums that echoed and reverberated through the trees and off the nearby mountains despite the mist. With warning from the Ocelomeh, she’d chosen this spot carefully. It wasn’t exactly open, but the passing army had left a good killing ground. She nodded toward it. “I got no problem with anybody on our side today.” Shapes began racing toward them, forest creatures of various sizes. Some were dangerous, and one Blas saw looked amazingly like a Grik. Their allies had told them those were solitary, territorial predators, and only a threat if they caught you alone or in small groups, unarmed. A few larger beasts, like rhino pigs but with different horns and strange armor on their heads, thundered toward them. All veered from the breastworks when they saw it, crashing into the woods on either side. One must’ve gotten too close, however, because Blas heard a muffled shot far to the right. Somebody’ll get reamed for that, she thought. The drums grew louder.
“Here they come!” somebody hissed to her left. Through the mist-clouded morning, she saw them: rank on rank of men marching forward, muskets on their shoulders. Their lines grew confused as they avoided trees, but quickly reformed and pressed on. This will be baad, Blas thought. It still wasn’t light enough to see the yellow of their coats, but if their facings had been white, she could tell by now. That meant these troops had red facings, and were the toughest, most ruthless soldiers Don Hernan possessed. Called Blood Drinkers, they were the personal, elite warriors of the Dom pope himself, so in their minds, they were God’s own warriors. Rising, Blas stepped back a few paces, where a gun crew stood by its piece. They hadn’t brought many cannon—they couldn’t— and the two batteries they had were all the old, lighter, six-pounders the Allied armies had used since the Battle of Aryaal. She knew there were even lighter guns now, little things called mountain howitzers that would’ve been perfect for this, but none had made it to her. She wondered if Shinya had them. “Whistler,” she said, calling her Marine signal-’Cat near. “Sound ‘load canister,’ then ‘advance your pieces.’”
“Ay, ay, Major!” replied the ’Cat, raising his big brass whistle and blowing the sequence of sharp chirps to pass the command. Quickly, the cannoneers made their weapons ready and pushed them to the breastworks. She hadn’t already placed them because she hadn’t known how the attack would come. With the enemy moving straight back up the track like this, the guns would fight right alongside the infantry. “Standby mortars,” she added. The mortar sections had been carefully situated where they could fire without hitting trees overhead. With a rising exhilaration, she prepared to “start the dance.”
“Good morning, Major Blas,” came Sister Audry’s jarringly pleasant, strangely accented voice. Blas turned, blinking consternation, and saw the Dutch nun, dressed much as she was in helmet, combat smock, and tightly wrapped leggings. Her blond hair had been sawed off even with her jaw. A crucifix hung around her neck, and a white cross was painted on her helmet. Sergeant Koratin met Blas’s searching gaze and he rolled his eyes to the Heavens, as if asking for assistance. Beside Audry was “Captain” Ximen, his gray beard almost covering his own wooden cross. Ximen wasn’t a fighter, and rather frail in any event. His followers had joined Arano Garcia’s Vengadores. Captain Ixtli retained direct command, under Blas, of his Jaguar Warriors.
“Get . . .” Blas snatched what she was about to say out of her throat. “Ah, I wish you’d get baack from here, Col-nol. Those are Blood Drinkers comin’ to kill us, an’ we’re about to open fire.”
Sister Audry smiled. “Very well, Major. Don’t mind me. I just thought you might enjoy some conversation during the battle. Perhaps you might step behind the secondary breastworks with me and describe the action as it unfolds?”
“But . . .” The implication was clear. Sister Audry didn’t want Blas in the thick of it either. She looked to the front. It was almost time. The first volleys and initial blast of canister must be timed for maximum effect. “My place is here,” she finished lamely, almost yearningly.
Sister Audry nodded seriously. “In that case, if you’re certain, then here is where I belong as well, at your side.” She smiled sweetly. “I am your commander, after all.”
“But my Marines, they’re used to me fighting with them.”