Smiles creased careworn faces, and O'Donald stood up, announcing he knew just the tavern for a rousing good time.
The group headed for the door, but Kal lingered behind, joined by Weiss, Hans, and Casmar.
With a look of concern, Andrew patted Weiss on the shoulder.
"Doc, you need some rest. Our friend Casmar must have a place for you to get a little sleep."
"I can't," Weiss said wearily. "When you stop fighting, that's when I begin," and straining, he came to his feet.
"There's thousands of wounded out there," he said sadly. "I've got to do something."
Andrew knew it was impossible to stop him, and with hunched shoulders the doctor left the room.
"We'll beat them," Kal said hopefully. "From all you said I know we will."
Andrew looked at Kal and smiled.
"A lot depends on the Tugars. If we had two years, I'd feel a lot better about it. Every day will be precious. But maybe there's a chance."
Kal and Casmar exchanged glances and looked back at the man who was now their boyar, and each of them could see the unspoken fear in the other's eyes.
Bringing the rifle barrel up to his nose, Muzta sniffed curiously,
then
grimaced at the sulfurous smell.
"And how many of these devices do the Yankees have?" he asked grimly, looking back to his Namer of Time.
"I counted several hundred upon the walls of their fortress, and the priest said the number was near correct, my Qarth."
Holding the still-warm rifle, Muzta started to walk across the field, his heavy boots crunching through the thick crust of snow.
"And their big thunder killers?"
"I did not see them," the Namer said evenly.
"Why not?"
Muzta snapped, looking back.
"They had them hidden."
"Did you not demand to enter their village to examine these things?" Muzta said quietly.
"No, my Qarth," the Namer responded nervously.
"And why not?"
"Their leader showed defiance," the Namer replied softly. "I struck him to set an example, and his followers pointed hundreds of the thunder makers at me. The priest had already told me of their power, and I knew we would all die if I pursued that path."
"So that's when you left?" Muzta said evenly.
The Namer merely nodded in reply.
Without comment, Muzta continued walking until he reached the human corpse lying in the snow. He looked at the body, which stared up at him wide-eyed, a trickle of blood still oozing out from the wound in its chest. Muzta kicked the body over and then knelt by its side.
He gasped with amazement at the gaping wound in the man's back and stuck his finger into the hole to examine it more closely.
"The metal ball has gone clean through the body," Muzta said, as if to
himself
.
"As I told you concerning my outrider," the Namer replied. "He was struck over thirty times, and dead before he hit the ground. His body was torn apart."
Muzta stood up and looked back across the field.
"Over a hundred paces, nearly the distance of our war bows," Qubata said evenly.
"These cattle are far too dangerous," Alem, the clan shaman, said sharply, while looking at the Namer with an accusing glance as if he had been responsible for their coming. "You should have stayed until the Rus people had destroyed them for you."
"I felt it important to come back and report, before the heavy snows came. My staying would have taken many more days and would show weakness. When cattle are ordered, they obey. I am sure the Yankees are already dead.
"And besides," the Namer added weakly, "after all, they are only cattle."
"Vulti did his job well as Namer,"
Tula stated, coming to the defense of his nephew. "If any are still there upon our arrival, I am sure old Qubata will finish them."
Qubata looked over at
Tula and smiled, revealing his dull yellow teeth.
"I am sure you'll be happy to ride with me," Qubata said evenly.
"I am not afraid of cattle,"
Tula snapped, "as I assumed our war leader would not be."
Qubata growled softly, and reaching over he took the rifle from Muzta's hand.
"This weapon makes cattle into killers. They saw one of ours die from it already, and I say Vulti was a fool to sacrifice an outrider on such an experiment. Now they know they can kill us."
"But there are only a handful of them,"
Tula replied.
The group was silent for a moment, each lost in
his own
thoughts.
Finally Muzta looked over at Alem.
"Fetch me the other," Muzta commanded.
The shaman turned from the group and beckoned to one of the attendants, who stood with the mounts while their masters debated.
The attendant came forward bearing a long bundle wrapped in leather and handed it to the shaman. Alem quickly
unwrapped
the package and handed the device over to Muzta.
The group gathered around for a closer look. It seemed at first glance to be similar in form to the rifle brought back by the Namer, but was clumsier and heavier.
"See here," Qubata said, pointing first to the lock of the rifle and then to the other weapon. "The one from the Yankees strikes the tiny metal cone, which makes a spark. This old one merely had a string which burned. The Yankee thunder maker is lighter and better-made—this old thing is crude."
"How old is this?" Qubata asked, looking back to the shaman.
"It was taken over fifteen circlings ago, according to the secret history," the shaman said, "while our people were encamped near the blue sea. Two great water ships appeared out of the tunnel of light. Aboard them were cattle of dark skin and black beards. We captured one; the other escaped and has not been seen since. They killed many Tugars before we feasted upon them."
"These cattle that come through the gate of the Old Ones seem to arrive with ever better devices for killing," Qubata said quietly.
If only we could close the gates created by the Old Ones, Muzta thought to himself, looking at the arquebus and rifle which he held one in each hand. Each new species of cattle that arrived was more difficult to tame. Perhaps they should look for the secret of the gate and learn to close it, but now was not the time to worry about such a thing.
Muzta looked back at those around him and then let his gaze drift across the open steppe.
The snow was deep, nearly up to the tops of his knee-high boots. To move the hundred thousand yurts of the clan now would be impossible. To send warriors forward would be dangerous, for their mounts would have
a difficult
time gaining forage. Something in his heart told him that he should try to move now. But such was impossible; the clans were still restless about the breaking of tradition and moving two years in one.
If only the Wheel were higher, he wished. The days were gaining in length. It was nearly two dark moons since the shortest of days; another darkening and they could start.
Muzta looked back to those who stood about him.
"When the snows start to clear, we prepare to move."
"Most likely we'll have to anyhow," Ubata said evenly and pointed back to the Maya city.
"We've eaten near all who are fit to eat back there," Alem said. "In another moon there won't be any cattle left other than those who have had the pox and are now unclean to feast upon. It seems almost a pity."
Muzta nodded in agreement. In his childhood he had once owned
a cattle
as a pet. He had even come to love it and allowed the pet to ride by his side. When it had died after falling from a horse he had wept openly and refused to see it eaten. That had been the last time he had felt pity for cattle until now.
He knew that when the horde rode eastward again the city of the Maya would be a city of spirits, if indeed cattle did have spirits in the afterworld.
One night he had walked through the city alone, watching as the bodies of the dead were taken out, their calves and mates sobbing with anguish. The sobbing he was inured to, for after all, nearly all cattle sobbed when one was led to the pit.
But this had been different, for it seemed as if an entire species was sobbing, knowing that soon all of them would disappear forever.
What had startled him, though, was when several cattle, cattle
who
had not been chosen for the pits, came up to him and screamed their rage and hatred at him. To his stunned disbelief, one had drawn a dagger and rushed him. He had slain his attacker and of course all who had witnessed the defiance, but they had died cursing him.
He was used to cattle sometimes struggling as they were led into the pits, but this had been different, almost an act of desperation. The injunction that a thousand extra die for any such attack did not seem to matter to these cattle. Was desperation making the cattle dangerous?
he
wondered. Could there be a spirit in them worthy of respect after all?
Sadly, he turned away and looked at the city. It was strange how similar yet different the cattle were. They all looked basically the same, and seemed to somehow, in their primitive souls, find an ability to love one another. Yet they could be so strangely different.
Each with its own tongue, customs, and curious beliefs.
And tastes of flesh as well, he thought dryly.
Some even made things of value, beautiful objects of gold and silver to decorate with, rugs of intricate design, saddles, woven fabrics, even the bows and arrows of the warriors. Thousands of such cattle traveled with the horde, producing objects of great value, and they were cherished as worthy pets. Many had died of the pox, and already Muzta had noticed how certain things could not be replaced without them.
Have we become too dependent on our cattle? Muzta wondered to himself. They had always been docile and learned the truth of submitting to the horde. Many had even prospered under their guidance. Could these Yankees represent some new breed of cattle?
"Their machines that you spoke of," Muzta said, looking back at the Namer.
"I saw little of their devices. The priest said their great water vessel could move without the wind or oars."
Several of the subclan chieftains laughed.
"Impossible,"
Tula barked. "Besides, we are Tugars. Water is for cattle, not for such as we, so why should we care what they do upon water?"
"I also saw where they had laid strips of metal upon the ground. The priest could not explain it, and it seemed a strange waste of good iron."
"That is curious," Qubata replied. "Could they have done it to show they had more than needed as a trick to us?"
"Or is it a Yankee spell?" Alem asked.
The group looked at one another but none could venture an answer.
"Can they fashion more of these before our coming?" Muzta asked, holding up the rifle.
"It must require some great magic or machines," Alem said, stepping forward and taking the rifle to examine it. "The powder that was poured into the barrel I have never seen before, and I believe it must come from the world the cattle live upon. Cattle have never made such things here on Valdennia."
"Perhaps until now," Qubata said dryly.
Tula
and several of the other clan chieftains started to laugh.
"Cattle are cattle," Magtu Vu'Qarth roared. "Fit for the pit, not for warriors. Or is it that since Qubata's teeth grow
dull
he will now hide in his yurt when cattle bellow?"
Qubata turned toward Magtu, his hand leaping to the hilt of his blade.
Smiling, Magtu started to draw his sword.
"Come on, old one," Magtu snarled.
"If blood flows from either of you," Muzta roared, "both will die by my hand."
Magtu looked toward the Qar Qarth. For the briefest of moments there was a flicker of defiance in his eyes, and then, sheathing his blade, he smiled back at Qubata with a look of disdain, as if saying that the old man had been spared by the protection of another.
Trembling with anger, Qubata turned and stalked away.
"There is nothing to be done about this now," Muzta said evenly, pointing to the rifle in Alem's hands.
"We finish the winter feasting here. The Wheel is already
rising
high again in the sky. But before the snow is melted we move. At that time I will send Qubata forward with the command of a thousand to drive ahead of the horde."
"He could clear out the wandering cattle as well," Alem said.
The others grunted their agreement at that. Every several years they'd send an expedition forward to destroy those cattle
who
would not submit but rather ran away ahead of the horde. They were a bad example and on a regular basis needed to be cleaned up.
"I haven't hunted running cattle in some time," Magtu laughed. "I will go along for the sport."
Muzta could not refuse a clan chieftain the request, but he could see that there would be problems from this.
"If all is decided, let us return to the city for the new moon feast."
There were loud grunts of agreement, and smiles lit up the features of the group at the mention of the forthcoming festivities and delicacies that
awaited
, and the group started back to their mounts.
Muzta turned away from the group and strolled over to where Qubata stood alone.
"You should not have interfered," Qubata said, his voice trembling with rage.
"He would have killed you, my friend," Muzta replied.
"Then if I can be killed I should be, for to live otherwise is without honor."
"My friend," Muzta said putting his hand on Qubatat's shoulder, "you must face the fact that your sword arm has weakened with age. It comes to us all."
Qubata looked at his old friend, a pained expression in his eyes.
"There was a time when such as Magtu would never have dreamed to speak to me such. Once I could have cleaved his body in half with a single blow. Now I am nothing to myself or to you, my Qarth."