Terrible Swift Sword (19 page)

"No, Dimitri," he whispered. "I can't remember ever looking like that."

"But you were. Perhaps even the Colonel himself looked like that once, a scared recruit on the point of tears."

Hard to imagine, Keane a new recruit, a lieutenant. The 35th once a mob of frightened, excited boys going to see the elephant for the first time, many of them wetting their pants when the first bullet whistled past.

"They'll learn when the time comes. The same way you did, the same way we did."

"Let's hope so, Dimitri; if they don't it'll be all our asses in the fire. The rebs at least took prisoners. One mistake with the Merki, and all of us are dead— all of us____"

His voice trailed off, a cold, distant look in his eyes. He nudged his mount forward, passing the regiment in square, snapping off salutes to the waiting officers, who came to rigid attention at his passing. Dimitri and the rest of his staff trotted behind him. Riding down the length of the field, he drew up before the brigade practicing large-unit tactics for the first time. Some of the faces were familiar. There was even an old hand from the 35th, a brigade commander now. Behind him fluttered a triangular flag, red with a white cross, for the 1st Brigade, of the 2nd Division.

It was a touch from the old Army of the Potomac, corps badges. The Greek cross for the new-formed 6th, and he looked over his shoulder at his own guidon-bearer proudly holding the square gold cross flag on a dark blue field, marking the presence of the corps commander.

Strange that it would be the cross for my unit, he thought, and he had a flashing memory of the dead Merki hanging in the forum. But the men of the 35th, remembering the old ways, had insisted upon their new army's carrying the same emblems of old.

"Strayter, good to see you."

Roger Strayter gave a friendly salute in reply. There had been a little getting use to for Roger. He had been an old hand in the 35th, having served with the regiment since Antietam, a deep furrow in his cheek a souvenir from Fredericksburg. They had known each other vaguely back in Vassalboro, Maine, and Roger had been something of a village roustabout, ready for a good prank. He doubted if Roger even remembered once chasing him down the street, threatening to thrash the "little Quaker boy." He wasn't going to remind him.

Roger had proven his mettle as a regimental commander and was now doing it again as a brigadier, but Vincent could sense the faintest touch of resentment in this towering six-foot giant with broad shoulders taking orders from a diminutive warrior who barely weighed in at a hundred and twenty.

"First day of brigade drill, isn't it?" Vincent asked.

Roger nodded, looking slightly nervous.

"Well, don't let me stop you then."

Roger turned away to face his regimental officers.

"Again! And god damn it, Alexi, your boys have got the furthest to run, so keep them in line!"

The men saluted and raced back to their command.

Vincent looked appraisingly at the long line. Three regiments were to the front in line, stretching across nearly four hundred yards, behind them two more regiments in column. The sight gave him
a
sharp thrill—at least the three regiments in front had muskets, which glistened in the morning sun. A wall of steel and flesh.

"Brigade!" the command echoed down the line. "By the right in line"—he paused for a second—"wheel!"

The man farthest to the right stayed anchored, the men to the far left breaking into a double-time run. Like a vast door on a hinge the line started to turn, swinging across an arc nearly a quarter of a mile across. The pivot continued and Vincent turned his horse about, riding in front and looking over his shoulder. He watched with a cold, appraising eye.

A gap started to open between the 2nd and 3rd regiments, curses echoing across the field as staff officers raced about, trying to swing the hole closed. The gap widened, with the men at the edge of it trailing behind. The line started to curve and ripple like a taut string going slack. Over the commands echoed the thunder of feet, the rattling of accoutrements, the hoarse cries of officers. The 3rd Regiment started to lose all cohesion, turning into an inverted V. Vincent looked over at Roger, who was scarlet with anger. The two regiments to the rear, in column of company front, at least held together, the deep blocks turning sharply.

At last the wheel was complete, stragglers were filtering back into the ranks, and all eyes were on Vincent, as if waiting for judgment.

With Roger in tow he cantered over to the 3rd

Regiment, where a Roum commander waited for the explosion.

"It could be better," Vincent said, his voice carrying over the line.

The commander said nothing.

"A damn sight better!" Vincent snapped. "This is a goddamned parade field, and you can't even hold your regiment together! If a Merki charge should swing into the army's flank, god help us if you're on the end of the line and we're forced to refuse our flank. It won't be a parade ground, it'll be dust, smoke, and men dying, and you're going to have to do it perfectly or we're all dead. You bastards won't last five minutes in a fight."

Angrily he jerked his horse around and rode off, Dimitri by his side. He rode in silence for some minutes and then finally looked at Dimitri.

"Well go on, say it."

"What should I say?"

"That I've never lost my temper before, that I've always won through quiet explanation and example—I know what you're thinking."

"You said it yourself, my general."

"I want them to be ready to kill Merki, to kill all those damned bastards."

He fell silent, cursing inwardly. Kill them all, that's what I want.

"I can't stand the thought of those men fumbling, losing, making a mistake that could cost us."

"Shouting at them is one way of doing it," Dimitri replied. "But I do remember, when you were my captain, you led far better the other way."

Vincent wheeled in his saddle. He knew the old man was right. Something was giving way inside— he had somehow lost the gentleness that had once been there in such abundance. He had lost it pumping rounds into a tortured figure on a cross, and loving the sense of power it gave him. God help me, he thought, will I ever get it back?

Or is there even a God to hear me?

He said nothing, riding on in silence with Dimitri lost in thought riding by his side.

Barely acknowledging the salutes of the various units that he rode past, he seemed to be floating in another world, a dark world of fire and war, his crisp uniform a mantle for this new embodiment of Mars.

From out of the west gate of the city a cavalcade of horsemen emerged, riding hard. In the van Dimitri immediately recognized Marcus. The standard of the patrician consul, an eagle on a field of purple, fluttered behind him.

Vincent reined in his mount, a twitch of excitement trembling across his cheek—something that Dimitri had noticed was becoming increasingly common.

Marcus, his features grim, pulled up beside Vincent.

"It's started—ten umens reported so far, moving towards the center of the Potomac front."

"God damn," Vincent mumbled, edging his horse around to look back to where the brigade was again practicing a wheel.

"Another three months before we're ready, and I'm stuck out here."

"The front to the south of us?" Vincent asked quietly.

"Still the same, nothing."

Vincent nodded almost imperceptibly.

"They'll come straight on. They've got those damn airships and we don't. They'll know what we're up to, and we won't know a goddamn thing.

"Damn them!" He slapped his thigh with a balled fist.

"Anything else?"

Marcus shook his head.

"We stay here, get ready, and wait as planned."

Vincent said nothing, but cursed inwardly. He had not wanted this assignment, but Andrew and Kal had forced it on him anyway. At least Tanya and the three children were safe here, six hundred miles from the front. No, he had not wanted this at all. Whatever was left of his soul had warned him against it, had counseled him to ask to be relieved of command, to work for his father-in-law at a desk job and contribute that way.

But that counsel was barely listened to, and everyday he had stared at the body on the cross, the body he had so joyfully killed. Everyday now he rode across this drill field, shaping his corps. He was a major general in command, of the same rank as the men he had once read about in
Harpers' Weekly:
Hancock, Sedjwick, Pap Thomas of Chickamauga, little Phil Sheridan. He smiled inwardly, knowing that he had even taken on some of Sheridan's outward trappings.
Gates' Weekly Illustrated
had run a woodcut picture of him on its front page when his promotion had been announced, and he had taken a secret delight in the image, right down to the Sheridan-like beard. And he knew he had taken on something else as well: the unrelenting desire to unleash a killing machine against the Merki.

And now the action was starting, and he was stuck six hundred miles away. He looked back to the west, as if he could somehow hear the guns.

"We'll be in it soon enough," he whispered.

Dimitri felt an inward shudder at his commander's voice, for it was the whisper of a lover eager for an embrace with death.

Chapter 4

"Magnificent!"

Jubadi Qar Qarth reined his mount in, turning in the saddle to look back at Hulagar.

The shield-bearer of the Merki Qar Qarth could but nod in agreement, for in spite of what his
tu
might direct, the
ka
spirit of the warrior could not help but be stirred.

Seen from atop the pass, the vast plains rolling northward were lit by the afternoon sun, the knee-high grass rich with the full bloom of spring. But it was not the beauty of the steppe that held him.

Moving in vast squares of black, ten regiments of a thousand each, the disciplined ranks of the Baki Hush Umen moved forward, debouching out of the high pass of the mountains, rolling forward like an unstoppable wave. Grinning with delight, Jubadi tossed the long-seeing tube over to Hulagar. Uncapping the bronze covers, Hulagar extended the tube to its full length. It felt almost toylike, but then, after all, it had been fashioned by the Yankee cattle, captured the previous fall, and presented to the Qar Qarth as a present.

Holding it to his eye, Hulagar scanned the vast plain. A block of a thousand had spread out to the right flank, extending out the skirmish line to cover the front of a dozen miles over to the next pass. Far to the right flank, barely visible on the horizon, were yet two more umens, and he knew that beyond them were yet two more clearing the pass right down to the sea.

Seven full umens advancing across a front of sixty miles—and that was but a fraction of their power. With joyful shouts a battery of guns came rumbling past, their crews lashing the horses as they crested over the final rise. Hulagar looked at them appraisingly. The carriages were roughly made, far heavier than ones fashioned by the cattle, but then, he tried to reason, we have limitless horses and they do not.

Far out forward, like bloated beetles hovering on the breeze, the airships floated, riding forward of the advance, scouting into the cattle lines, looking for any threat of surprise. At first he had not believed the machines would prove of any use, but now he knew differently. They had become the eyes of eagles, and their crews had even decorated them as such, painting winged outlines on the bottom of the gas bags and large eyes at the front. Even now thousands of cattle were laboring just beyond the other side of the hills to build new sheds for the air weapons.

Scanning to the left, the steppe rolled on undisturbed, except for a loose open order of skirmishers, riding like tiny dots across the sea of green. Lowering the telescope, he passed the instrument over to Vuka, who grunted with excitement.

"One good push and we might even break through here!" the Zan Qarth announced, his teeth flashing in a grimace of pleasure.

"The last thing we want," Jubadi said softly. "And besides, they know we are coming here. This is the butt of the head; it is the horn that counts."

He pointed to the toppled watchtower atop the ridge, looking down on the pass, and then to the long line of poles that marched in an arrow-straight line due north back to the cattle position fifty miles away. The poles were bare of the precious wire, proof that they had had enough time in their retreat to bring the copper back. That device was still a mystery. He had hoped to capture one of the wire-talkers intact so that the pets who worked with Hinsen and the other Yankee crewmen from the
Oqunquit,
who had been left behind on the campaign of last year, might decipher its secret.

Thirty-odd Yankee and Suzdal sailors and their families were still back in Cartha. Some of them had proven resistant to helping out, but after witnessing a moon feast most of them had proven willing enough. For cattle they lived in luxury: the best of foods, women of their choosing, all that they might wish for. The cattle sailors under the one called Jamie had been far more wily, disappearing after they had delivered the Yankee machine that rides on iron rails. They were of no account, and could be hunted down once this war was over.

Perhaps for Hinsen, and those who worked with him, he would even honor his promise to spare them if they continued to help in the making of weapons. At least the one called Hinsen had proven invaluable, giving them the secret of the flaming air that made the ships rise to the sky. He was a good pet.

Vuka, his mount restless, edged over to Hulagar and motioned for the far-seeing tube, which Hulagar handed over.

"When the time comes for our full weight, only then will we attack," Jubadi said, looking back at his son. "Remember that. If your enemy is fixed in one place then prepare your trap well, do it with cunning, and strike with the weight of a mountain and not before."

Vuka reluctantly lowered the tube to look over at his father.

Jubadi pointed off to the west.

"Our riders will take the passes from this side, leading the Yankees to believe the strength of our blow is coming through here and that the left is of no importance. They will cut the observation posts in these hills off from behind, preventing him from seeing what is moving on the other side. Forward from here he'll see the standards of twenty-five umens, when in fact there are only eight. Only then will we attack where we want, for now we must keep them busy; our right wing will be more than enough for that.