The king waved his hand again and glanced at his son. «That is not your concern.»

«It is my concern if my honor is at stake, Lord King. I beg you to satisfy my honor and that of your people by telling us what your plan might be.»

«That is simple. The strangers refused your offer of honor to join us within these walls and fight at our side. They chose instead to fight alone. It is my order that we let them! They came here unasked for and without my permission»

«To save us!» Rolak interrupted.

«— with fanciful plans to continue this war far from here. They did not come here to save us, and if they did, what is their price? That we should fight for them as their slaves? No! We will let them fight they had. No choice. «Forget the ‘no shooting’ order. I want one of you to each regiment, ready to pour fire into any breakthroughs if they occur. We’ve got to keep this line together at all costs. If it breaks, we’re dead. Conserve your ammunition and don’t get trigger-happy, but use it if you have to. Now go!»

They all hurried off except Silva, who stood rooted with a worried expression on his face. «But what about you, Skipper?»

«Never fear, Mr. Silva. I have my pistol. If that fails, the Bosun will protect me.»

Silva arched an eyebrow and a grin crept across his face. «But who’s gonna protect him?»

Gray’s face turned purple with rage. «Buzz off, you goddamn weedchewin’ ape! Or I’ll let that crazy cook use you for fish bait!»

«Just worried about you, is all,» shouted Silva as he loped off down the line. Gray shook his head and stifled a grin. They were standing right behind the rear rank of the Second Marine Regiment. The Second was near the center of the line and it was spear-heavy, all of its members being large and strong enough to stand in the front rank. Those at the rear were methodically shooting arrows over the heads of those in front, and periodically they’d move forward and take the place of an exhausted comrade. It was a good drill and Matt wished the Guard regiments had learned to do the same. Many of those who came to the rear were wounded, some badly, and an increasing number of them were pushed or dragged out of the ranks as the fighting continued. A growing number of bodies, some moving, others not, were gathering behind the lines, waiting to be carried back to the barricade on stretchers to be tended in the field hospital.

«There ain’t enough stretcher bearers,» Gray observed grimly. «When we start to pull back, things could go bad in a hurry.»

Matt recognized one of the wounded Lemurians as he was tossed roughly on a litter. It was that runner of Shinya’s he’d spoken to before. He had a terrible slash across his chest and blood-soaked bandages were heaped high upon him. Matt hurried to his side. «Do you understand me?» he asked urgently. The young Lemurian nodded, his teeth clenched with pain. «The hospital must evacuate! Get the wounded to safety.» He grasped the runner’s hand in his. «Tell Lieutenant Tucker.» He paused. He didn’t know what to say. «Tell her to pull out now. That’s an order.» He squeezed the hand.

«I will tell her, Cap-i-taan,» the runner replied with a strained voice. Matt nodded and the stretcher bearers raced to the rear with their burden.

Chack-Sab-At gasped with pain as a Grik spearpoint skated off his shield and laid open the top of his shoulder. The thrust had overextended his enemy, however, and Chack drove his own spearpoint into the Grik’s throat with a triumphant snarl. An explosive spray of blood and spittle flecked his face as the enemy warrior went down. If it screamed, Chack didn’t hear it over the constant roar of battle.

For just an instant, his thoughts turned to his sister, Risa, and he wondered what she would think if she saw him now. It seemed so long ago that she’d virtually shamed him into taking the warrior’s tack. How little he’d known at the time; beneath his nervousness and protestation a warrior was what he was. Or perhaps, deep down, he knew it all along. Maybe that was why he allowed himself to be bullied and never tried to win the frequent bouts of his youth. Or raid. He had loved it, and much to his great surprise, he had been good at it as well.

His warrior-minded sister had seen the change in him when she recovered from her wounds, but she’d believed it was just a sign that he’d grown up at last. She hadn’t realized the more fundamental nature of the change. Once, his greatest ambition had been to one day become a wing clan chief. That goal no longer even entered his thoughts. He no longer cared about running Salissa’s great wings, or those of any other Home. He still loved Salissa, but Walker was his Home now and he was a destroyerman through and through. He knew most people believed he was playing a game with Selass, rubbing her nose in her rejection of him for Saak-Fas. But as far as he was concerned, she could remain mated to the mad, broken shell that Saak-Fas had become. The only thing he really felt for her now was pity. He didn’t care about anything that once seemed so important — other than his sister, of course, despite her bothersome behavior, and the safety of his people and their strange tail-less friends. All that mattered now was the joy he felt when he was destroying their enemies. A joy he felt even now, in spite of the pain and thirst and exhaustion.

He’d spent most of the fight in the second rank, where his height gave him an advantage, stabbing and thrusting powerfully with his spear. Then the one in front of him, another wing runner from Salissa, fell. Chack immediately took his place. He couldn’t kill as many of the enemy from the wall, fighting and straining to hold back the weight of thousands, it seemed, but the wall had to hold. Another Grik took the place of the one he had slain, battering furiously at his shield with its sickle-shaped sword. Chack dug his feet into the slurry of sandy, bloody mud and leaned hard into his attacker. He let his spear fall toward the warrior at his back — quite certain it would be put to good use — and drew the cutlass that the destroyermen had given him. He slashed at the Grik’s feet under the bottom edge of his shield and was rewarded with a jarring contact of blade on bone.

The pressure eased, but as he stood up straight, a blow from an axe right on top of his head drove him down again. He was stunned for a moment and he’d bitten his tongue. His comrades to the right and left helped support him while his senses returned. Thank the stars for the strange, platter-shaped helmet, he thought. He spat blood between gasps for air. There was frenzied shouting from behind him and he risked a quick glimpse. The muzzle of one of the cannons was inching through the press. He and the others near him shielded its progress until it was right behind them and then, at a shout, they gave back on either side.

Instantly, there was a deafening thunderclap, seemingly inside his head. The pressure turned his bones to jelly and the fur on the right side of his body felt like it had been driven into his skin. A choking cloud of smoke engulfed him and a high-pitched ringing sound replaced the noise of battle. He didn’t care. For just a moment, all that remained of the enemy in front of him was a vast semicircle of churned, shattered gobbets of flesh. He barked an almost hysterical laugh and was surprised he couldn’t even hear himself. Recoil had driven the gun backward, and the wall closed up tight where it had been. Something caught his eye and he looked up. High in the air, beginning to descend, was yet another flare.

«It’s fallin’ apart, Skipper,» Gray wheezed, his hands on his knees. He had lost his hat and his hair was matted with blood. To their left, they heard the rattle of a Thompson on full auto. None of the guys could have much ammo left, thought Matt as he inserted his last magazine into the butt of the Colt. He glanced at the barricade behind them just a lt U dast magazihe grass that had covered this plain.