The men and women turned about, and
came
running back to the track, clambering aboard the boxcars. Holding the throttle wide open, he continued on up the hill, the powder mill at last in sight. Slowing to pick up the switchman for the foundry turnoff, he pressed on.
Still holding the whistle down, he leaned out of the cab. The switchman for the powder-mill turnaround was still at his post. Malady waved in the direction of the mill, and the man pulled his lever over.
"I'll pick you up on the way back!" he roared, as the train headed in on the last stretch.
The switchman for the turnaround waved him through, and the train skidded into the powder-mill siding.
Leaping from the cabin, Malady stormed into the mill.
"Mina, where the hell are you?"
"They can't take this place," Mina cried as he pushed a barrel in under the wooden grinders.
"We've got to get the hell out of here!"
"In a moment," Mina said absently. Reaching into his pocket, the major pulled out a match.
"Goddammit, man!"
Malady roared, snatching the match from the man's hand. With a roundhouse punch he knocked John out with a single blow, and picking him up, ran to the door.
"Grab this madman," Malady shouted to his fireman. Turning, he raced back into the mill. Spying a barrel, he kicked the side in, poured it over the half-dozen barrels stacked under the gears and grinding mechanism, and then, stepping backward laid out a trail to the door.
"Throttle her up," Malady shouted.
The train lurched forward, pulling through the sharp narrow curve that pointed it back down the hill.
Malady watched the train swing out and start
to close in toward the switch.
Striking a match, he let it drop on the powder, which flared into life, the flame streaking back into the building.
Pumping wildly, he raced away. The
train drifted through the switch, its operator leaping into a passing boxcar while
the fireman looking back anxiously toward his boss.
Running up alongside the cab, Malady leaped in and slammed the throttle full open. The train careened away.
Behind them there was a thunderclap roar. Shouting with fiendish delight, Malady watched as the roof of the building lifted into the air, flame blowing out through the windows.
The hundreds of Tugars who had come in behind the train on its rush up the hill cried out at the sheer size of the explosion and then at the dragon bearing down on them.
Sweeping down from either side, they charged in on the train, a shower of arrows slamming into the puffing, steam-belching giant.
Tying the throttle to full, Malady grabbed hold of Mina's pistol. Leaning out of the cab, he drew careful aim and started to snap off rounds. One after another, Tugars tumbled from the saddle.
One of the warriors, waving a long lance, came alongside the tracks and, leaning over, charged straight at the train.
"Come on, you bastard!" Malady howled, holding the whistle down.
Picking up speed, the
Bangor
bore down, and the Tugar, shouting wildly, continued his mad charge.
A shudder slapped through the train, knocking Malady off his feet.
"Damn idiot," Malady shouted, staggering up to look out of the cab at the mess lying beside the track, "you almost derailed me, dammit!"
Streams of Tugars swarmed in to either side as the train careened through the first curve and down toward the second.
From atop the northeast bastion, several field pieces cut open, their shot screaming in to scatter some of the warriors.
One of the Tugars, swinging his mount in, leaped atop the wood tender.
Malady spun around, with a single shot dropping the warrior.
Another one came alongside, and roaring with delight the engineer grabbed hold of the terrified fireman's iron poker and with a single blow sent the Tugar tumbling off.
Hitting the final curve, the engine came straight toward the breastworks, the gate still left open for this last arrival. Rushing in at over forty miles an hour, the engine roared straight in over the moat bridge.
Malady slammed back on the throttle and grabbed the brake lever, lifting
himself
off the ground with the effort.
Sparks
flying, the engine screamed through the fortification line, the gate swinging down behind them.
"Hang on!" Malady yelled as the train skidded down the track, heading straight into the sharp curve just before the main city wall.
With a shrieking, tearing roar the engine leaped the tracks, dirt flying up in every direction, plowing across the ground, and then with a final gentle nudge it tapped into the log walls of Suzdal and came to a stop.
Thousands had held their breath, watching the drama, and now burst into wild thundering cheers.
Malady alighted from the cab, waving good-naturedly at his admirers. Patting the side of the
Bangor
,
he stepped around to the front. Climbing up on the cow catcher, he pulled out the spear point that was imbedded in the front plate and then stepped back to look at his wreck.
"Best damn train ride I ever had," he whispered in awe.
"Here they come."
Sick with exhaustion, Andrew stood atop the northeast bastion, watching as the Tugar host, several thousand strong, came forward on foot.
Artillery started to snap out rounds, cutting bloody furrows in the charging ranks, which slammed into the first row of entanglements. Cutting aside the brush and stakes with their powerful two-handed axes, individuals continued to push in, all semblance of order in the charge broken.
Andrew turned and nodded to Hans.
Shouted orders raced down the line from division to brigade and finally to regiment. A thousand muskets roared. Still the enemy pressed in, weaving their way through the trap holes, stakes, and barriers. From two hundred yards out, several thousand more Tugars in support stood in massive formations. Their volleys of arrows darkened the sky, to rain down with little effect onto the protective logs, covered with
earth, that
formed a canopy over the heads of the defenders.
The leading edge of the host reached the edge of the dry moat. Some leaped in, but most simply stood gape-mouthed at the barrier still to be traversed before coming to blows.
From out of the ranks an arrow soared heavenward, a red streamer fluttering behind it. Deep-throated horns rang out, and as one the Tugars turned and retreated, leaving the field covered with hundreds of casualties. The fire on the walls died away.
"So what was that all about?" Kal asked.
"Testing our lines," Hans replied. "Professionals—damn good professionals out there."
Sighing, Andrew turned away and looked at his staff.
"Too close," he whispered. "We almost lost it all back up there," and he nodded vaguely toward the north.
"All right, Hans, what's the bill?"
Hans pulled out a scrap of paper and started down the list.
"In twelve days, over four thousand dead and wounded, eleven field pieces
lost,
over a thousand muskets and other assorted equipment. Over half of all artillery and a third of infantry ammunition expended. Three regiments wiped out, all of them this morning, a third of the rest, especially in
Houston's division, losing more than fifty percent.
"
Houston's dead, Kindred's wounded, and in the 35th and 44th we took thirty percent casualties."
Hans stopped and looked over at Andrew, who stared at
him
exhausted and hollow-eyed.
"A hell of a performance for my first command, wouldn't you say, Sergeant Hans?"
"You stopped over ten times our numbers for nearly twelve days. That too was a hell of a performance, sir," Hans said sharply. "We got enough muskets to form another division and enough artillery for another battalion, and we made up near half the ammunition fired off. Fletcher reports we got enough now for full rations to last five months. That, sir, to me was a victory."
Andrew tried to force a smile.
"And forty percent casualties under my command," he said weakly.
"You did what had to be done," Hans replied, a slight edge of reproof in his voice.
"Of course, as I've always done," Andrew replied distantly.
"Well,
look
what the cat dragged back," O'Donald interrupted, looking over his shoulder.
The group parted as
Hawthorne, with Dimitri limping at his side, came through the edge of the group and, wearily coming to attention, snapped off a salute.
"Colonel Hawthorne reporting, sir.
The remains of the Sth and 11th Suzdalian and third battery are back in the city.
It's
sundown, sir, and you said that's when you'd see me."
It had been too much today, all of it too much, Andrew thought, looking at what he had turned the young private into—yet another killer. Just like John, he thought sadly,
just
like Johnnie. I took this boy and plugged him into a hole and left him to die.
"Colonel now, is it?" O'Donald roared. "Soaking wet like a drowned kitten and yet 'e's a colonel."
Grim-faced, Hans looked sharply at O'Donald who became quiet at the look of reproach.
"Dunlevy?"
O'Donald asked, suddenly turning serious.
Hawthorne
looked away and shook his head.
O'Donald turned from the group and walked off.
Andrew stepped forward, and taking the boy's hand, he tried to force a smile.
"You did well, son. I'm proud of you."
Proud of making him a killer, he thought, looking into
Hawthorne's eyes, eyes that had seen far too much.
Andrew tried to force a smile, and finally exhaustion, shock, and all that had happened overwhelmed him.
"Thank God you're safe, at least you're safe," and dissolving into tears, he embraced the trembling boy who was now so like himself.
"We face something unlike anything dreamed of before," Qubata said, looking back at Muzta.
The strange chase had held him breathless, and to his amazement he had actually found himself secretly cheering for the man who with such bravery controlled the smoking, breathing dragon.
What manner of men were these to have changed the Rus cattle into such warriors? There were six thousand dead Tugars lying back across thirty miles, another twenty thousand injured. Three Umens were completely shattered.
"We shall not be fools," Muzta said grimly, his attention again focused on the massive walls and entanglements that surrounded the city. Thousands upon thousands of his warriors were streaming past, galloping across the fields to encompass the city.
"We learned on that final attack that this will not be easy," Muzta continued. "If they had not met us and fought us I might have been a fool and ordered you to send in all the Umens to charge and lost five times as many, to no purpose.
"No, we will do this slowly and carefully. Though I prefer my cattle fattened, we will let these grow thin for a while before finishing them off.
"Come, my friend, we have harvested more than a thousand bodies today. At least we shall eat well tonight."
"I'll come shortly," Qubata said quietly.
The old Tugar watched as darkness drifted down over the field, blanketing the waiting city in night.
Somehow, he thought quietly, I shall never quite enjoy my food ever again.
"Sir, message from northeast bastion."
Andrew walked over to Mitchell and sat down by his side, listening to the clicking of the key. The young soldier sat hunched over, writing with a stub of pencil. Finished, he tore the sheet off and handed it up to Andrew.
"Well, I'll be damned," Andrew mumbled. "All right, Mitchell, tell them I'm coming up.
"Orderly,
get
out my dress uniform and be quick about it, and send for Kalencka and his holiness."
Leaving the headquarters room, Andrew crossed the hallway into his private room. The orderly was already pulling out his one good uniform, and with the young Suzdalian's help Andrew quickly dressed.
There was a knock on the door.
"Come on in."
Kal came through, his heavy tunic covered in dirt, with Casmar stepping in behind him.
"The Tugars are asking for a parley," Andrew said evenly. "What does it mean?"
The two Suzdalians looked at each other in surprise.
"It is a trap, Andrew," Kal blurted out. "Turn it down."
Andrew looked over at Casmar.
"You must remember, Keane, they view us as nothing but cattle to feed upon. If a bull had gored you, would you then go speak to it under rules of war? No, you would trick
it
any way you could and then slay it. They want our leader, and will do what is needed to get him."
"I'm willing to take the chance," Andrew said quietly, buckling on his sword, "if the terms are right. It's been over a month, my friends. Perhaps they grow weary of this siege."
"It is we who will run out of food first," Kal said quietly.
"But they don't know that," Andrew replied, "and perhaps, my friend, you are wrong on that account."
The two were silent.
Dressed, Andrew stepped out of the room and back into his headquarters.
"Mitchell, send a message up to Hans at the northeast bastion. I want the 35th to report to the east gate, along with the 5th Suzdal. Tell Hans I'll meet him at number three bastion."
The telegrapher bent over his key, and calling for his staff and couriers, Andrew strolled out of the room, down the main corridor of the cathedral, and out into the square.
All about him was quiet, grim. The sixteen hundred men of the reserve brigade sat in small clusters about the square, huddled over open fires to ward off the chill in the late-autumn air. Overhead, Petracci's balloon hovered on the end of its tether. Andrew could almost feel some small pity for Hank. The man had never mastered the contraption he had designed, and had learned to take up a bucket after his first day aloft, to spare those who were unfortunate enough to be directly below.
With pale, drawn face, he stayed at his task day after day, ascending each morning to observe any changes in the deployment of the Tugar lines.
Mounting his horse, Andrew cantered out onto the east road and started down the hill.
The front was strangely silent. At least the parley had brought that respite, Andrew thought. Nearing the eastern gate, he started to pass the first signs of damage. Work crews were still sifting through the smoking ruins of what had once been an entire block of warehouses. The Tugars had knowledge of siegecraft, and the shelling from their heavy catapults was becoming more serious with each passing day. Thousands of men now worked around the clock on fire watch to drown the hundreds of flaming bolts that rained into the city every day. And nearly every day some fires got out of control.
Andrew reined in for a moment and looked over the ruins.
At least fifty tons of food lost in this one.
If they keep this up, Suzdal will gradually burn down around us, he thought sadly.
He nodded to the soot-blackened workers who had stopped to look up at him and then pushed on. Passing out the east gate, he saw the blue uniforms of the 35th marching in column out of the hard-pressed northeast bastion, coming down the military road to meet him.
They still looked good, he thought with a smile. Over a third of them who had come here a year ago were gone now, but then, hadn't it always been that way? At
Gettysburg he'd lost half of them in a single day, and again at
Cold Harbor. Yet the regiment still endured. The battle-torn standards came past, snapping in the brisk chilled breeze. Emblazed upon the national colors, two new names had been stitched in, the Ford and
River Road
, the names added to the list which had started with
Antietam.
Men looked up to him, nodding in recognition with that old familiarity that veterans kept for their leader, while the new faces looked up at the now legendary Keane with simple awe.
Hans, riding beside his old regiment, came up to Andrew and saluted.
"They have an envoy out there.
Speaks pretty good Suzdalian.
He asked for you directly by name and requests a parley."
"What guarantees will they give?"
"None at first, and so I told him to go to hell."
Andrew chuckled softly.
"Still expect us to come crawling to them, I guess."
"Well, he came back fifteen minutes later. The offer was ten warriors as hostage, and I told him you weren't worth anything less than a hundred of their finest and that still wouldn't be enough.
"Now, that started the beast to growling, but damn me if he didn't agree at once."
"They must want a look at me real bad," Andrew said quietly. "He also said that they are giving blood bond for you, whatever that means."
Andrew looked back to Casmar, who showed open amazement.
"Blood bond is a Tugar pledge of fair play. But I've never heard of its being given to a human before. This is truly unique."
"Well done, Hans," Andrew said, smiling.
"Bring their hostages into this area. I want additional troops around, and bring up some rations. Offer some beef to them as well, just to set them thinking."
Hans tried to force a smile.
"Take care, will you?"
"It should be an interesting change of pace," Andrew replied, and nodding for the gate to be opened, he trotted out beyond the breastworks, the 35th falling in to either side of the road and presenting arms.
He felt somehow naked as alone he crossed the moat bridge and reined in his mount.
The envoy sat alone on the other side, towering above Andrew, a cold dispassionate look on his face.
"You are the one-limb human who leads these cattle," the envoy said coldly.
"I am Colonel Keane, commander of the Suzdalian army of men," Keane snapped back. "If I hear the term 'cattle' but once more, this parley is finished."
The Tugar gave a snort of disdain and raised his hand in the air.
From out of the Tugar siege lines a column of warriors stepped out and trotted down the road.
Andrew felt a moment of fear watching them draw closer. If this was indeed a plan to kill him, here would be the chance.
"Steady men, steady," he said, looking back at his escort, who stood nervously, hands clenched tight around their weapons.
Andrew eased his mount to the side of the road, and in a display of bravado, which he hoped did not look like playacting, he simply looked straight ahead, not sparing a glance for the Tugars as they trotted past, their heavy footfalls echoing in rhythm as they crossed the bridge.
"Lead the way, envoy," Andrew said haughtily, and touching spurs to his mount, he followed as the Tugar started back toward his own lines.
The stench of death hung heavy in the air as they passed the area of pitfalls and entanglements where bodies still lay from the first day of the siege. Clearing the region at last, the two galloped another hundred yards and crossed into the Tugar lines.
Their position was a strong one, and in many ways
an
imitation of his own fortifications, Andrew saw at once. Earthen ramparts had been piled up, with positions for the rock- and spear-throwing catapults covered by heavy logs, to absorb artillery fire.
Weaving through a sally port, Andrew felt a moment of cold fear.
The path ahead was lined on either side by hundreds of Tugars in full fighting armor. Though he was mounted on his horse, most of the warriors, who stood stiffly to either side, still towered above him.
Their sharp angular helmets covered all but their eyes, which gazed out at him with hatred and contempt. War bows were strung, and double quivers filled with four-foot bolts hung from their shoulders. From shoulders to knees hung a heavy curtain of chain mail, and at their belts dangled great axes or swords.
He had not seen such as these at the battles on the river road—they must be the heavy shock troops for a task like the one he had presented. The helmets he had seen before, watching them through field glasses while the steady sniping went on day after day, killing many without much result other than misery for both sides.
As he reached the end of the line, Andrew was stunned to see a separate contingent of Tugars bearing muskets. Booty from the last battle, he realized. They probably had only a handful of rounds per gun, but it was unnerving nevertheless.
Onward they rode, and Andrew felt that most likely the main purpose of this parley was to do nothing more than awe him with the Tugar strength. Unit after unit lined the road—foot archers, horse archers, heavy lancers, and then a row of double-torsion catapults with stacks of ten-foot spears piled up like cordwood.
Then finally there was something he could not ignore.
Turning a bend in the road, he saw a long line of human warriors, standing grim-faced. Approaching the unit, Andrew reined in his horse to face Mikhail, who looked at Andrew with open hatred.
The man's face was deeply pit-marked. So he had caught smallpox, Andrew realized. The tales that had filtered out of Vazima before the battle had started horrified him. Nearly a third of the population had
died,
another third sickened and horribly disfigured. Of course, the prelate, Igor, had blamed it on the
church
of
Suzdal
.
Emil had repeatedly sent envoys, begging to let him stem the pestilence, but Igor had
refused,
a refusal that had finally resulted in his being shoveled into a mass burial pit.
At Andrew's approach, Mikhail leaned over and spat on the ground. Several Tugars who had been riding escort behind Andrew came up and positioned themselves between the two.
"Let's finish it here and now," Mikhail growled.
"Sword against sword."
Andrew looked at the pox-scarred man without comment.
"It was you who brought this down upon us!"
"You could have fought with us against the common foe," Andrew said evenly.
"And die as all of you fools will die."
"If need be, die like men," Andrew snapped. "I'd rather that than crawl as a slave for the Tugars."
Mikhail's hand leaped to his sword hilt. The Tugar closest to the boyar barked a warning as his own blade snapped from its scabbard.
Mikhail sat motionless for a long moment and then gradually let his hand fall. Andrew almost felt a sense of pity for the man, now shamed as he was before his warriors. Spurring his mount, he continued down the road.
Out of range of the city's field pieces, the great tent city of the Tugar warriors was spread out before him. Each tent was like an overturned bowl twenty feet across and half as high.
The week before, the first of the tents mounted on wheels had appeared down the river road. The strange procession had continued day after day, to encamp in the fields above the dam, the city of women and children stretching to the far horizon. Along with them had come yet more warriors numbering in the tens of thousands to move in around the siege lines.
Moving farther up the hill, Andrew rode past several felt tents which were nearly a hundred feet across, but even these were dwarfed by the great center structure. He had gazed upon it many times through his binoculars, but drawing close to it Andrew was stunned by the magnificence of the shelter. Rather than the simple felt of the warriors' shelters, this one appeared to be covered with gold cloth
that gave it the appearance of a great dome that shined dull red in the sunlight.
The entrance was hung with great curtains of silver-threaded velvet, the awnings held up by ornately carved poles embedded with rare and precious gems.
The envoy reined in and dismounted, beckoning for Andrew to do likewise. As he climbed off Mercury, he caught a faint sniff of something on the wind, and looking to the side of the great tent, he saw a thin curl of smoke rising from a pit. It appeared as if the ground about the pit had been freshly raked over and cleaned, but that could not hide what it was.
The envoy followed his gaze and then looked back at Andrew, his mouth curled in the slightest of grins.
With cold hatred in his eyes, Andrew stared at the envoy with contempt.
"We cleaned away last night's feast before your arrival," the envoy said, smiling. "We didn't want to frighten you away."