Terrible Swift Sword (26 page)

Tamuka felt a ripple of disdain. Was the brother he had murdered looking down now, cursing him? Was Vuka so ruthless, so blind, that he did not even care, feeling no guilt, no fear for what he had done?

Their gaze held for a second.

"What troubles you, shield-bearer?"

There was the slightest hint of taunting challenge in Vuka's voice. More than one of the companions turned from their excited chatter to listen.

Tamuka smiled.

"I am ready to ride at your side, my lord, my shield, my life, your protection," Tamuka answered, no trace of sarcasm betraying his contempt.

He could remember how Vuka had watched him fearfully after the fiasco in Roum, terrified that the shield-bearer had become Incataga, the messenger of death from the Qar Qarth to remove one not fit to rule. But now he was safe, the only surviving son of the blood, the only one to inherit.

"Then let us wet our blades," Vuka laughed, flicking his scimitar about. The tip of it whistled before Tamuka's eyes, but the shield-bearer remained motionless, refusing to blanch.

"The orders of the Qar Qarth were that the Kavhag Umen was to advance under the leadership of their Qarth, not under you," Tamuka said softly.

Vuka reined his mount in sharply, looking around at his companions.

"The blood should not be risked for the stray bullet of a cattle lurking in a pit; such death would be of little glory."

"And to linger here is of even less glory," Vuka snapped.

"His words, my lord, not mine. Even the Qar Qarth will not be in the van. This is but the opening move—there will be many battles to come. It would be a shame to miss them because a cattle shot you before the war had even started."

Vuka turned his mount away from Tamuka.

Regiment after regiment of the Kavhag Umen galloped past, wheeling to the southeast, falling in on the right, extending the line outward. Messengers on lathered mounts raced back and forth, signal poles tied to their backs, the flags fluttering above them, signifying who they were sent from and who they sought. Those bearing the gold flag of the Qar

Qarth rode sleek white mounts, the fastest of horse bred for their beauty and speed.

Red pennant-bearers positioned themselves in front of the Kavhag, broad red flags on long poles resting on the ground. Youths and old warriors with graying manes moved along the lines, bringing up strings of fresh remounts or moving away from the front, taking exhausted horses out into the open steppe to the south to be pastured and rested after the grueling forced ride that had started the evening before.

Tamuka took all of it in: the vast organization, the precision of the movements, the planning of months coming to fruition at last, right down to the number of arrows in each warrior's quiver and the whet stone in his carrying bag. Again he felt the stirring of the
ka,
the warrior spirit, seep into his soul as the steppe thundered with the power of the Merki Horde. Even against soulless cattle there was a glory to this vast panorama of primal strength.

Raising the field glasses he focused them on a rise in the ground a mile or more away. Jubadi sat atop the hill, the silent ones surrounding the position. Dozens of aides, messengers, commanders of umens, shamans, the sounders of the nargas, the rollers of the drums, and companions of friendship were positioned around him, the focus of power.

Vuka had deliberately chosen to range off on his own at this moment. He knew why, for to be in the presence of the Qar Qarth was to still be second. He could see Muzta standing behind Jubadi, the accursed leader joined by but a few, their two umens far to the rear. The breaking of the cattle line, the first victory, would not be theirs to boast of.

Tamuka shifted in his saddle, leather armor creaking, the bronze aegis of his office riding heavy upon his back. This was no place now for the
tu,
the spirit of the bearer, to speak, this was (he place of passion. He struggled for the control of feelings to return.

"Merki Gor Rivah Macr!" (Who rides thus of the Merki?)

The lone chanter raised the call and the long line stirred, warriors coming erect in their saddles.

As one they raised their voices.

"Navhag vug darg!" (We are of the Navhag!)

The announcing of clan started on the lowest bass, rumbling like the throaty growl of the nargas. The rhythm of the chant having been established, other voices started to weave in the counterpoint, voices sliding high.

The chanters raised the question again, and the umen roared their response. The slow tempo gradually rose in speed, question and answer came faster and yet faster. Drummers, with huge cattle-hide kettle drums slung across their horses' backs, rolled out a steady beat, timed to that of a pulsing heart. Nargas, the horn-blowers, mounted as well, raised their fifteen-foot-long trumpets into the air, sounding a strident, dissonant note that grated through the air. Tamuka felt his hackles stand on edge, his pulse matched that of the drums, which ever so imperceptibly were picking up the beat.

Totem-holders positioned themselves forward of each regiment. Smoking pots shaped from cattle skulls coiled with blue-green clouds, as incense rose up on the breeze to awaken any of the ancestors who still might be slumbering.

A golden pennant topped by a red flag rose up from the position occupied by Jubadi. All along the front of the Navhag red flags were raised.

"Navhag, Navhag, Navhag!"

The red pennants dropped, held out sideways, the bearers twirling the colors in tight circles. Ten thousand sand scimitars flashed out and were held aloft, a if a curtain of burnished steel had materialized b magic.

The Navhag advanced, their mounts at the walk, chanting their clan name. Drummers kept the temp up, horns trumpeted, totem-bearers trailed clouds of smoke. Vuka swung his mount around, unsheathed his blade, and held it up.

"Let us take blood!" Vuka roared, spurring his mount forward.

Cursing silently, Tamuka pulled the bronze shield off his back while raking his spurs in. The horse leaped forward. And even as he cursed the insane bravado of his appointed charge, he gave an inner thanks for the release and the prospect of killing cattle.

Hans looked around at his aides, who stood gathered by the side of the command car.

"You've got your orders—now move!"

The dozen couriers galloped off.

"Here they come," Kindred announced.

Hans looked westward. The lowering sun, showing momentarily through a break in the storm clouds, forced him to squint his eyes half-shut.

The vast line was starting forward.

He looked down the line.

Two goddamned regiments, to cover a front of over six miles. One more brigade, and he could have held.

Wheezing, Tim leaned over the withers of his horse, coughing hard, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Goddamn asthma ... It would hit at a time like this," Tim gasped.

"We better get going," Hans said sharply. "There's not much more we can do here."

Tim unsnapped his holster and drew out a revolver, half cocking the weapon and spinning the cylinder to check the load.

"Think I'll stay a while," Tim gasped.

"You're a corps commander," Hans snarled peevishly. "This isn't the time for heroics."

"I've just ordered a thousand boys to stay here, you know," Tim replied, "and I know not one of them will live through this."

He started to cough again.

"Damn spring grasses . . . Always said they'd kill me."

He looked over to Hans and extended his hand.

"Navhag!"

Hans looked up. The line had moved into a canter as they'd hit the broad shallows of the Potomac, which here was little more than a stream. The single battery of four-pounders on the front kicked into action, while individual soldiers ventured their first shots at long range.

"I've decided to make my stand here," Tim said. "Take care, sergeant. I think we're all going to have to choose our place to stand, and I guess I'm just plain tired of fighting."

Hans grasped Tim's hand, holding it tight.

The few staff officers and the guidon-bearer behind Tim looked about nervously, knowing what this decision meant for them, but they remained silent.

Tim pulled free. Leaning over, he slapped the side of the engine, as he wheeled his mount to start back toward the front.

"Now get the hell out and save my corps!"

Hans watched as Tim cantered down the slope, moving straight toward the advancing Merki.

The engineer, who had been standing to one side, looked up at Hans.

"Get us back up the line to Bastion 100," Hans growled, trying to conceal the tightness in his voice.

The engineer saluted and ran back to his cab. Seconds later the train lurched forward, moving back north again to where Ingrao was still holding against the Vushka. Once this position here fell the line was finished—everyone north of Bastion 100, over two divisions, would be cut off from the rest of the army farther south. The Potomac line was finished.

He raised his carbine and fired off a round—a childlike action, he knew, as were the tears of humiliation and rage.

"We can expect them to hit come night," Andrew said, looking around at his staff. "I want fifty guns raking that crossing once the sun goes down, and then keep it up till dawn."

"That's going to come out to nearly ten thousand rounds fired by dawn," Yevgeni, the corps artillery commander interjected. "It's going to dig into our reserves, and the war is only three days' old."

"The Merki will be stuffed on the leavings," a young aide said coldly, standing up for a moment to look over the battlement wall.

The officer staggered backward, turned limply, and collapsed without a word. Andrew looked over at the dead soldier, who but seconds before had been trading a ribald comment with his friends. The casualties were becoming a slow yet maddening wastage, as the Merki guns across the river kept up a steady spray of canister and shrapnel.

Andrew looked away as the body was dragged off.

"You need some rest, sir," an aide ventured.

Andrew nodded woodenly. He had been up since dawn of the day before. In another couple of hours it would be dark. He had to get some rest.

Without comment Andrew turned away from the battlement. He left the bastion and walked back to his headquarters, oblivious to the shells bursting overhead.

The tolling of a bell signaled a train pulling in behind the protection of the secondary line. The puffs of steam and smoke were shilhouetted behind the battlement walls.

A Merki airship, struggling against the increasing wind and lowering clouds, was turning about after attempting to hit the engine. With the strong tail wind it raced overhead, running back to the protection of its hanger somewhere beyond the Shenandoah Hills.

Andrew stepped into his headquarters and went over to his cot. He stretched out with a groan.

"Andrew?"

Startled, he sat up. Kathleen stood in the shadows.

She came forward, a worried smile creasing her features.

"Just what the hell are you doing here?" he snapped.

"A fine welcome," she retorted, sitting down by his side. Her hands brushed against his cheeks, then pushed back a shock of pale blond hair, streaked with gray, from his forehead.

He leaned over, kissing her lightly. A sharp thunderclap, followed seconds later by the rattle of shrapnel raining against the outside of the hut, made him stiffen.

"I came down on the hospital train as the doctor in charge," she said softly. "Emil sent me along."

"Damn foolish of him," Andrew replied. "There is something known as a war going on out here."

"I can take care of myself."

"And Maddie?"

"She's with Ludmillia for the day."

Andrew relented, knowing it was useless to argue with her about the proper place of a woman in time of war. Such niceties might have applied back home, but this was now a nation at war for its very survival Everyone was at equal risk, and who was he to attempt to order his wife to hide?

"It's going hard," she asked.

He nodded woodenly.

"I never anticipated this dam. It was so obvious, and we never planned for it. God help me, I've seen most likely ten thousand Cartha die out there. The river is running red with their blood. The Merki have slaughtered thousands more who've tried to escape. We're burning tons of ammunition to kill our own kind."

His voice trailed off. He was already feeling used up by what he was witnessing.

In the next room he heard the telegraph key start to chatter, and she could feel him stiffen.

Wearily he came to his feet.

She looked at him warily. He was different—his reactions seemed wooden, strained, and it wasn't just from the lack of sleep. She remembered him from the Tugar War, sensing defeat yet raging his defiance to the end, and in the process dragging all of them to a victory. This time there was something different, and looking into his eyes she finally saw it for what it was: He was afraid.

The telegrapher came bursting out of the next room, ashen-faced.

"It's Hans," Andrew said, his voice barely a whisper.

The telegrapher held the message up, adjusting his spectacles, his voice shaking.

"Message from General Schuder. The front has been broken from Bastions 85 to 90. Estimate over twenty umens in the attack. Recommend abandoning entire Potomac line. Need trains to get two divisions out from Bastion 100. Expect road back to Suzdal to be cut by dawn."

Stunned, Andrew turned away, waving the messenger of doom out of the room.

Wide-eyed, Andrew looked back at Kathleen.

"My God," he whispered. "They've beaten us in just three days."

She sat in silence.

"A year of planning to fight it out here, to hold them back, and they slice through us, just as Hans had feared, and I couldn't see."

He walked over to the map table, tracing the extent of the breakthrough with his finger, shaking his head dumbly.

He slammed the table with his fist.

"God damn all of it!" She heard the quaver in his voice.

Kathleen stood up and came around to the opposite side of the table.