"And have a peasant revolt on your hands. Though that scum fear and hate us, they fear their hell even more."
Ivor settled back in his chair with a muffled curse.
"Come, come, my old friend, you and I can reach an arrangement."
"Go on then," Ivor said coldly.
"Help me to kill the Yankees and I'll forget our disagreement."
"Absurd. They are useful allies."
"You are playing with fire. I know they aren't demons, they are men like us. The Primary Chronicle tells how our ancestors fell into the light long ago, and thus came to this world. We know that the Maya to the west and the Roum and Carthas to the east and south came here in the same way.
"But your Yankees are different. How will they react when it comes time to give one of five of their numbers to the Tugar feeding?"
Ivor was silent. He already knew that answer. These men did not understand the larger needs, to sacrifice some so that the rest might live. They had weapons as well, weapons far more powerful than the dreaded war bows of the horde. If but one Tugar was slain by a Yankee, a thousand heads would be taken in retaliation, for thus was the law.
He liked Keane; in some ways he could even call him a friend and as such would spare him and those Keane pointed out for special treatment. But already he knew Keane would not tolerate the taking of any of his men. That was obvious from the anguish the one-armed man had shown over the previous day's losses, and the capture of the one called
Hawthorne. Keane had demanded a march at once upon Novrod, and was still threatening it, with or without Ivor's agreement.
"By your silence I know what you are thinking," Rasnar replied softly.
"It is still three years away, and by then they shall be trained in our ways," Ivor stated.
"You're a fool," Rasnar snapped. "I saw the danger of them the moment I observed their power. I know why you wanted them—to use their power against the other princes and thus fulfill your foolish dream of being another Ivan. I know as well that you wish to use them against me. But they will bring you down first, or I will do it myself."
"Priest, if you threaten me again I care not for what injunction is placed upon me, I'll burn this church to the ground tonight."
That was the one predictable fault of Ivor, Rasnar realized. He thought himself to be brilliant, and in some ways he was, but he was also a blustering buffoon, like most nobles. Like foolish children they would rage and fight over a sand castle, only knocking the prize down in the process. Ivor was dangerous when blinded by rage, and he would have to be handled carefully now that his blood was up.
"Let me make you an offer," Rasnar said soothingly.
"My people in Novrod have taken your bastard brother in. They help him even now, and he has gained the alliance of Vlad and Boros."
Ivor growled darkly at the revelation.
"I'll tell you now it was Mikhail that organized the little entertainment of the previous day, with the hope of destroying the Yankees and killing Keane, but unfortunately things didn't quite work," and so saying he extended his hands in a gesture of exasperation.
"Why are you telling me this?" Ivor snarled.
"Oh, just to let you know what I can so easily do against you."
"So what is your offer?"
"I can arrange for a little accident with Mikhail, and for
all the
world it would appear to be the doing of Vlad or Boros. In turn I'll stir the nobles of Novrod against their boyar, revealing that he had allied with me to destroy you. For even though there is no love lost between Novrod and Suzdal, still nobles will unite against one who uses the church to kill another.
"The rest will be
easy,
You march on Novrod and take it as your own when the nobles there come to your side. Then when the Tugars come, simply shift a greater portion of the taxes and feeding to that city. The result, your enemy will be crippled and Suzdal will emerge as the most powerful state after the Tugars are gone.'*
"And in return I kill the Yankees," Ivor whispered.
"But of course. I have some who know a thing or two about poison in water. Weaken them first,
then
finish them off."
"You are evil incarnate," Ivor hissed.
"I am practical. Of course, for my help you and I will split the spoils of the Yankees. I will even agree that you keep all the great smoke makers that did such damage in that little disagreement yesterday."
Ivor eyed Rasnar closely, unable to speak.
"You know in the end it is the only way," Rasnar said evenly.
Growling with anger, Ivor stood up.
"We made a mistake before when each prevented the other from acting," Rasnar stated. "Both of us feared that the other would get the secret of the Yankee weapons. Thus they lived, and now threaten you more than you think."
"I can control them, and when need be
eliminate
them."
"Your tea grows cold," Rasnar said soothingly.
With a sweep of his hand, Ivor knocked the cup from the table and started for the door.
"Such a waste.
It was a wonderful brew," Rasnar said calmly. "I know in the end you'll come to an agreement on this, for there's no other way out of your predicament. The Yankees are a two-edged sword, Ivor, and you are now balanced on the blade."
As the door slammed shut, Rasnar could not help but laugh, the first time he had done so since the arrival of the Yankees. He knew Ivor all too well. As a boyar he was better than most. But the man thought too much of his own vanity and dream of power, something which could be so easily maneuvered.
In the end he'd agree. If the Rus were to survive the next visit of the horde, he'd have to agree, and in the process the church would once again gain its power back, for Ivor would be beholden to him before it was finished. And besides, with several hundred of the Yankee weapons, much could be done to spread the church's authority over all the boyars of the realm once Ivor was eliminated.
The report had reached him only this morning that two prisoners had been taken, and with the right persuasion would reveal how the magic powder could be made.
Chuckling, Rasnar stood up, threw the contents of his untouched teacup into the fire, and strode from the room.
The feasting had been good. Muzta Qarth rode slowly past the slaughter pits where the scattered bones of humans had been piled up, according to ritual, skulls in one heap, ribs in another, arm and leg bones in the third.
Yet again, though, the disease had been here before them, killing half the population of the village before the first outriders and choosers of the flesh had arrived. Another quarter of the cattle
were
still weak and disfigured, and thus unfit to eat.
It took over fifteen hundred cattle a day, along with other foodstuffs, to feed the host. When the two out of ten had been consumed they would move on. The only way to feed now was to take every healthy human, good breeding stock or not, young and old, and place the symbolic halter about his neck.
Muzta paused in his thoughts and looked down the hill at the human village, from which the cries of lamentation of the few survivors rent the evening air.
Their anguish moved him not, as the cries of any beast facing the knife moved not those who must eat. But he knew what they would leave behind, when the yurts pushed on in the morning.
The few weakened survivors would most likely perish come the storms of winter, for they would not have even the strength to bring in the harvest. When he returned here again with the next circling the village would be overgrown ruins.
A stopping place for the Tugars for a hundred generations gone forever.
He had hoped not to feed here at all, and save this place, but
Tula and the other chieftains had demanded fresh meat, having gone for a week without a decent feed. Even Muzta had to admit to himself now that the smell of flesh crackling over the fire pits, the kettles of blood soup, the great pies of kidney, and fresh roasted liver had set his mouth to watering.
The final course of the evening, in commemoration of the moon feast, he had eagerly looked forward to.
A healthy
female cattle of breeding stock had been brought into his yurt. The moon feast usually was the only time
that breeding stock were
eaten, and thus he felt no regrets. She had been dragged under the special Table of the Moon and her head pushed up and secured in place. Alem himself had done the honors, and with sure deft movements quickly sawed away at her skull.
The cries of the victim were part of the ceremony, the shaman interpreting them for omens regarding the next month. When the sawing was finished, the victim was still alive and conscious, another good omen. With an audible pop the skull was yanked off, revealing the victim's
brain,
and those around the table reached in with their golden spoons to scoop out the contents, while the cattle struggled weakly and then died.
But then, to everyone's horror, an ugly red knot of evil-looking flesh the size of a small apple was revealed. Nauseated, Muzta spat out the brains he had been chewing on, while Alem cried out that the auguries were too horrible to voice.
The memory haunted him, and he needed no shaman to interpret what it meant. They must race on, he thought grimly, and somehow outdistance this pestilence of running sores, which left the cattle disfigured with ugly pock marks that could turn the stomach of any who even contemplated eating them.
He looked heavenward. The Great Wheel stood at its zenith directly overhead, the sign of late summer. The plan was still good, he realized, even though the horses of the clans were thinning from the constant march without a day to rest, covering in one season the grounds that normally took two years. When they reached the land of the Maya cattle the Wheel would be low, and the first snows falling. Perhaps then there would be rest.
Meditatively he took another bite from the fresh sausage made by his seventh consort and rode on into the night.
Somehow he had slept. Coming up to his knees,
Hawthorne looked about the cell, which was bathed by the silvery light of the Wheel and the twin moons that had risen in the eastern sky.
Groaning, he came to his feet and rested his hands against the wall. With a startled cry he pulled his hands back and held them up.
What had once contained the essence of Sadler's mind dribbled off his fingertips and splashed to the
floor.
Sobbing, he tried to wipe the gore off, the horrid memories washing through his soul.
Could he stand it in the morning?
he
wondered feverishly. The
snake, and the leering grin of the priest while he screamed in terror—could
he stand it? And in his heart there was the nagging fear, an inner voice that told him he would break.
The priest knew his craft well,
Hawthorne realized. In the mad terror earlier he might have been able to hold out, but now there was only the long night and the contemplation of what was to come.
He tried to form a prayer, to turn inward, as he had once so easily done during the Meeting for Worship. But that seemed endless lifetimes away. He tried to imagine the gray-shingled church at the base of the Oak Grove hill.
Snow drifting down silently outside, the peace within, and even the memory of Bonnie Price sitting in the women's section stealing sidelong glances in his direction.
Why had he ever left?
he
thought self-pityingly. He could be there now. It was still February back home, maybe even Sunday. Longingly he looked at the Wheel, trying to imagine that somewhere up there was his world, where even now they would be praying, perhaps for him.
And in his soul he knew before the priests were finished he would break, condemning more to death by his weakness.
He slid back down to the floor. What could he do? How he wished the priest had killed him instead, ending this nightmare.
The thought started to form. It was a sin, he realized, a horrible
sin, that
would condemn him to hell. But perhaps the Lord would understand after all. To do it might spare hundreds more from death.
Yet was he not taught that such an equation was fallacy, that it was a logic the world had always used to justify murder? Kill one to save hundreds—the moment that was done and accepted, then killing was accepted.
But suicide?
A sacrifice to save hundreds.
Even so, that would be better than living out his last moments with the realization of a worst sin—the possible death of his comrades because of his weakness.
Twisting his hands against their bonds, he realized that Mikhail had done a clumsy job with the knot. Bringing the rope to his teeth he worked feverishly, twisting and turning his wrists till they were chafed raw. Gradually the knot loosened and finally the rope fell away.
Steeling himself,
Hawthorne came to his feet, looked about the room, and saw at once the instrument of his deliverance. The coils of rope used to bind Sadler still lay upon the floor.