Terrible Swift Sword (2 page)

"Damn them all!" Hamilcar hissed, and he looked coldly at the pet.

"Well, did you eat flesh?" Hamilcar asked, clumsily forming the Merki words.

"I survived," the Rus replied, looking straight ahead as if offering no apology.

Hamilcar grunted with disdain.

"Your name."

"Yuri Yaroslavich, goldsmith of Suzdal." This time he spoke in Cartha, looking over at Elazar as if to indicate he had understood every word spoken.

The man said the words proudly, his Suzdalian accent returning in a clear tone.

"Go to the boat," Hamilcar said, his lips curling in disgust. "I'll take you back for your own people to judge."

The man bowed slightly, and headed into the water.

"He's too oily," Elazar said, loud enough for Yuri to hear. The man ignored his words and kept on going into the surf. "Why would he leave the security of being a pet to throw in with us?"

"Patriotism," Hamilcar growled cynically.

"Unlikely. Cut his throat and throw him overboard. Would you trust someone who had eaten human flesh? I'd cut his heart out and jam it down his throat to choke on. It's what we've always done to pets who try to hide with us. They are unclean."

He looked over to where Yuri was pushing his way aboard Hamilcar's ship and spat on the ground.

"And you were the one with the soft heart."

"After what I've seen," Elazar whispered, "my heart is of stone."

"My family?"

Elazar nodded in the direction of a fishing shack. Pushing his way through the crowd, Hamilcar ran up the beach, while shouting for his staff to signal the other boats in.

He felt as if he were running against the tide, the swarm of people streaming down to the beach slowing his advance to a maddening crawl. Cursing and shoving, he edged his way through the mob.

"Drasila!"

The door of the shack was open, several of his old soldiers who had snuck back in to Cartha weeks before standing in front of the shack as guards. At his approach they bowed low and stepped back.

She seemed almost to be an illusion. When he had left for the campaign against the Roum and Rus, he had felt that somehow he would never see her again. Pushing his way through, he reached the door as she flung herself into his arms.

"I never dreamed of seeing you again!" she sobbed, pressing herself tightly against his breast. He let his musket drop to the ground.

He felt a tugging at his sleeve and, reaching down, he swept Azruel up into his arms. The little boy squealed with delight, pulling at his father's beard and snuggling up against his broad chest.

"They said you were dead, but I didn't believe them!" Drasila whispered, her voice choking with tears.

"How did you escape?" Hamilcar asked, even as he anxiously looked back at the clamoring mob sweeping behind him toward the beach.

"It was Elazar. The day word came of the defeat he managed to sneak us out of the palace and into hiding. We just missed you the last time you were here. We almost didn't get out this time. The Merki have started the Choosing."

So the bastards were going to feed off Cartha flesh anyhow. He had expected it all along: The exemption for everyone he knew was conditional on defeating the Rus.

In a way he should be cursing Keane, Marcus, all of them, for if only they had submitted and been beaten none of this would now be happening. And yet he could not, for as Keane had said to him, if the situation had been reversed would he not have fought as well? The only real enemy was the Merki.

"My lord, we best get moving."

Hamilcar looked back at Elazar, who stood anxiously behind him.

"It got completely out of control this time—there were thousands of people on the road here. The Merki have to know."

Hamilcar nodded, and with Arzeul still in his arms he bent over, picking up his musket. With Drisila clinging to his side he started to press his way back through the crowd. He could sense a rising edge of panic to the mob.

"How many boats did you bring?" Elazar asked, keeping his voice low.

"Forty-one."

"It's not enough."

"I can see that," Hamilcar replied sharply. He tried to push his way through the crowd but saw that it was useless. Rank held no advantages here in the dark, as thousands pushed into the water, struggling to reach the boats that were now drifting in out of the darkness.

As each ship came in it was surrounded, people clinging to the sides, jamming up against the oars, threatening in more than one case to simply roll the galley over.

And then above the clamor of the mob he heard the sound which he dreaded the most, the high clarion call of a Merki nargas, war trumpet of the Horde.

A momentary hush came over the crowd, as if disbelieving that death had suddenly called out its warning.

The nargas sounded again, echoing across the beach, counterpointed by dozens more, sounding their call in a vast ring about the village.

"The Merki!" It was a shriek of terror, picked up in an instant by thousands of voices.

Helpless, Hamilcar felt as if he would be borne under by the crush, as by the thousands the panic-stricken crowd surged down to the water.

A ripple of explosions flashed in a vast ring. Seconds later the solid shot and exploding shell smashed into the mob, foaming the water and cutting bloody furrows through the crowds.

"Hamilcar!"

His ship was so maddeningly close, with Githra, the ship's captain, standing atop the prow, cupping his hands and screaming for his leader. The ship was less than a score of paces away, yet hundreds were packed between him and safety.

"Hang on to me!" Hamilcar screamed, as he felt Drisila's hand slipping from his. He tried to turn back to her. She looked at him, eyes wide with panic, and as if in a nightmare he felt his grasp upon her slip away.

"Save Azreul!" she screamed. An obese woman pushed between them, desperate to claw her way through. With his now free hand Hamilcar struck her, trying to push her quivering form aside. Her eyes mad with fear she clawed back, trying to fight past him to the water.

"Drisila!"

The mob surged, picking Hamilcar off his feet. The fat woman fell, shrieking in anguish. More and yet more tripped over her body, climbing over her and kicking her into the gravel.

Drisila was gone.

"Mama!" Azreul shrieked, trying to claw his way out of Hamilcar's arms. Hamilcar clutched the boy tightly, raising the child above the crush while Azreul wailed for her mother.

Above the mad confusion the nargas continued to cry out. The Merki artillery lifted its range, bursting shells over the water in their eagerness to cripple the ships, as if the people upon the beach were no longer worth the effort.

A ripple of shots snapped out from the ships—the Suzdalian musketmen firing over the heads of the crowd in a desperate bid to hold them back.

"Hamilcar!"

Githra was looking straight at him.

"We must get to the boat!" Elazar shouted, trying to push him forward.

"Drisila!" he roared, trying to fight his way back up the beach.

"My lord, get Azreul to the boat!" Elazar shouted.

The survival of his only living child suddenly forced out all other thoughts. He turned aside, pushing back toward the ship, clawing his way through the mob. A contingent of sailors were over the side of the ship, waving their swords, trying to keep the crowd back, the water already pink from their efforts.

A shell detonated almost directly over the ship, snapping with a glowing brilliance, and as if by some divine guidance its breath cleared an opening in the crowd, as bodies dropped into the surf. Hamilcar leaped forward, holding Azreul over his head with both hands, the child screaming with terror.

The ring of sailors stepped past him and he held the child up to the side of the ship, Githra reaching down and sweeping the boy up on board. There was a dull snap of sound and, stunned, Hamilcar looked at the quivering arrow buried in the side of the ship. An instant later a sheet of feathered death rained down, rattling against the ship and striking dozens. Men tumbled back into the vessel, others over the railing and into the mob.

"Get on board!" Githra shouted.

Hamilcar turned away.

"Drisila!"

From the corner of his eye he saw the flat of Elazar's blade coming down.

"No!"

The blow slammed him up against the side of the ship.

"Get him aboard!" Elazar screamed.

Stunned, he struggled weakly, as he was half pushed and half dragged into the ship. A continual hail of arrows swept down, the barbed points acting as prods, driving the mob into an hysterical frenzy.

"Back oars!"

He tried to regain his feet, but stronger hands forced him back down, a coil of rope going over his shoulders. The world was a dizzy confusion, a blurred memory of a wide-eyed man hanging to the side of the ship, swordsmen screaming with an inner torment as they struck down their own people, wild shouts of panic, a severed hand clinging to the railing, and then ever so slowly the ship backing away, rolling low on the water.

And the nargas continued to cry out. Coming up to his knees he felt Elazar holding him tight, preventing him from standing. Several ships were trapped on the beach, one of them on its side, the oil from a lantern having spilled out, the bow of the vessel engulfed in flames that illuminated the nightmare. The beach seemed to be a shifting, writhing mass, as if it were a single living creature twisting and rolling in agony.

The closing ring of Merki was visible, dim shadow-figures towering in the streets of the village. He could imagine their gloating joy. After all, they were harvesting cattle, runaway cattle who would all be condemned to the slaughter pits. Those who had died tonight would be on their tables by morning.

Drisila . . .

Bristling with rage, he looked back at Elazar, who said nothing, his bearlike arms holding him down.

The rowers struggled at the oars, the men toward the bow powerless to move what with each blade jammed by desperate hangers-on. The cries of the thousands left behind rolled across the ocean like the mournful night-dream voices of the damned. A deeper boom snapped across the waters, the thunder of the heavy shot from the supporting ironclads rippling across the water. It was an impotent gesture.

Hundreds of flaming arrows arced through the air, adding their light to the madness. Merki cannon that had pushed down to either side of the village churned the water with shot. In the shadows he saw a galley riding low, and then ever so slowly roll over on its side, going down at the bow. Suzdalian rowers and the refugees on board spilled out into the surf.

Another galley appeared out of the darkness, swinging in close. Maybe Drisila is on another ship, he thought, even as the coldness within screamed at him not to dream. Few of the ships had even touched land, their captains holding back from the crush. As far as he could tell, his was the only one to get back out.

"Hamilcar?" The cry came from the closing ship.

"He's safe!" Githra shouted. "We run back for Suzdal!"

He wanted to protest, yet he knew that his voice would break with sobs, and so said nothing.

Azreul came up to his side, whimpering, and he gathered the child into his arms, crushing him tight against his chest as if he could blot out the memory his five-year-old mind would forever carry.

"Where's Mama?"

"She'll be with us later," he choked, looking over at Elazar, as if his old friend could somehow still work a miracle.

"She's a smart girl, young and strong," Elazar whispered. "I know her, she wouldn't stay with the mob. She'll most likely swim out and come back in to shore when it's safe."

Already the cries on the beach were growing more distant. Knowing what he would have to order, he looked up at Githra.

"We got a late start in, as is," Githra said softly. "We have to run—their air machines will be up before dawn, and there'll be no wind this morning. If we order any ships to swing back in they'll get mobbed by the people in the water, and the Merki guns will tear them apart."

Numbly he nodded, unable to voice the commands.

If peace was brewing between the Merki and Bantag he had to get word back to Keane, for this would change the balance against them even further. He saw Yuri sitting in the middle of the ship, eyes closed as if lost in serene thought. He was tempted to run the bastard through, so he looked away.

There is no hope left here, he realized, his heart tight, a bitter bile burning his throat.

When all of this was done the Cartha people would be but a memory, for whether the Merki won or lost would not matter for the Cartha people— they would be used in the war until all were dead. Even if he went back to them, his death offering would not change a thing. Keane was right in that: This would be a war to the finish between the Hordes and all humans on this world. But why did it have to be here? Could it not all have waited until after the Hordes had passed, letting some other people pay the price?

"Take us home," Hamilcar whispered.

Githra looked at him curiously, the single word sounding so strange. Hamilcar looked up at the man.

"To Suzdal."

Tayang, Qar Qarth of the Bantag Horde, leaned back upon his throne and smiled.

"There has not been a moment such as this since the forgotten grandsires of our grandsires met two hundred circlings ago, to divide between us our paths across the everlasting steppe."

Muzta, Qar Qarth of the tattered remnants of the Tugar Horde, sat in silence, looking over at the third Qar Qarth here this morning.

Jubadi gazed upon Tayang with barely concealed hatred.

"Yet you and I met less than two years before,"

Jubadi finally replied, as if each word tasted of bitterness, "and you violated the blood pledge of protection and tried to kill me."

"You knew what you were doing," Tayang retorted. "Your Vushka Umen slaughtered ten thousand of mine in reply. How do I know that they will not strike even now?"

"Each of us has an umen here," Muzta interjected. "Ten thousand of our finest. A circle, for three days' ride in every direction on this border between Merki and Bantag lands, is cleared of all living things— Tugar, Merki, Bantag, and even cattle. No one will kill another today."