Terrible Swift Sword (27 page)

"If they've already broken you," she said, her voice edged with coldness, "then I might as well go back to Suzdal, smother Maddie, and then cut my own throat."

Startled, he looked up at her.

"Like it or not, it rests on you, Andrew Keane."

"I planned a disaster out here. I walked right into where they wanted us to be, believing we could hold them beyond our border. But we never had enough. We were too thin, and I should have seen it. Those damn aerosteamers could watch us like hawks, they knew everything and we knew nothing. I should have—"

"You should have and didn't," Kathleen snapped sharply.

He looked at her coldly.

"We did the best we could for right now, but it's not over yet," Kathleen stated, her voice a bit softer.

He tried to force a smile.

"You know," he whispered sadly, "I'm not afraid of dying, Kathleen. It might almost seem a release."

He looked away from her, the cabin shaking from a rapid volley of artillery.

"It's living through this, having to do all of it again and yet again, seemingly forever. God, I'm sick to death of it. I lost today. Thousands of boys who trusted me are dead, will be dead before tomorrow."

"The war has only started," she said softly. "A lot more will die even if we do win. But we will certainly lose, Andrew, if you fail yourself now."

She stepped around the table and took his hand, with a surprising gentleness after her flash of anger.

"I've got to get back to accompany the wounded out. It's up to you for the rest, my love."

She looked into his eyes for a moment as if searching, wondering at what had changed, what had been lost. She remembered the first time she had seen him, asleep in the wardroom of the
Oqunquit,
his frail, thin body stretched out, the boyish features filled with pain even as he slept. He had already been pushing the edge even then, three long years of war had done that. Would this war finish it?

She had sworn to herself that she'd never marry a soldier, not after losing her fiance at Bull Run. "My dearest Kathleen," the letter had started, "if your loving eyes should read these words, then it means we shall never see each other again."

That had almost killed her, and yet in the end she had come to love this gentle, strong, and now frightened man. She loved him even more because of that fear, born out of the terrible burden he had carried for far too long, dreaming freedom for an entire world. Somehow she had to pour her soul into him now, to brace the strength that was starting to break apart like fractured glass.

"Even if we both should die in this," she whispered, "there will still be Maddie. Where will she be if you lose?"

He seemed to flinch at the mention of her name.

"Hug her for me," Andrew said. Kissing Kathleen lightly on the lips he stepped back, his right hand fumbling to straighten his uniform. She forced a smile. Again the fear, never knowing if any goodbye might be the last.

He gave a nervous nod and turned away as she left the cabin, ashamed that she might see the tears forming in his eyes. He stood alone for long minutes, knowing that just outside dozens were waiting to receive his orders.

The closest friend he had ever known was fighting for his life, for the life of all of them, not sixty miles away. He went back to the map, tracing out the lines. They had talked about this through endless evenings of "what ifs," the thinking up of disasters and what to do if they should come to pass. But in all their original plans he had believed that they could stop the initial attack and that it would be into summer, when the river had dropped to a trickle, before they would be forced to withdraw to the line that would be built during the springtime at the edge of the forest. Hold until late summer, and the Horde would have to retreat or starve.

By dawn the rail line back to Suzdal from the north would most likely be sliced, and he could assume that most of the umens would drive straight in to the east and then wheel to the south to link up with the forces across from him.

Masterful.

Hans ran the risk of getting cut off, a fair portion of his corps going down with him, some of the best troops in the army.

He gazed at the map knowing what had already been agreed upon. Knowing that the most basic of principles was to always reinforce victory, and never reinforce defeat. He felt his stomach tighten, as if Hans were standing next to him, his hawklike gaze fixed, telling him what would have to be done.

He walked back to the telegrapher's office, the six coded words given the telegrapher staring up at Andrew even as he tapped out the message.

Andrew walked out of the cabin to where his staff was waiting.

"He has sounded forth the trumpet," Andrew said quietly.

"My god, we're pulling out?" an aide cried.

Andrew nodded.

"More than half of his corps has been cut off. By tomorrow the Merki will attack this position from the rear. I've sent the orders for the reserve trains to move down here tonight to evacuate the army across the Neiper."

"What about General Schuder?"

"He's on his own now," Andrew said quietly. "If we try to save him the entire army will perish out on this steppe. We'll try and run some trains down from Suzdal on the northern line to Bastion 100, and get him out before they cut the line."

"Kesus and Perm help him," an aide whispered.

"Kesus help all of us in the days to come," Andrew said.

Forgive me, Hans, he whispered to himself, as he went back into the cabin and closed the door.

Chapter 6

"He has sounded forth the trumpet."

John Mina looked over at Pat.

"Which shall never call retreat," Pat said softly.

Kal shifted nervously in his chair, looking over at the situation map on the wall.

"How could we lose the Potomac line so quickly?" Kal asked sadly. He stood up, his one hand patting down the wrinkles of his long black jacket.

"It was a risk," Pat replied almost defensively. "Lee held nearly the same length of line in '64, with about the same numbers."

"Three hundred miles of rail, a hundred miles of fortifications, all of it lost," John whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

The telegraph key continued to chatter in the next room. An orderly brought in the latest tear sheets, and Pat read them silently before passing them over.

"Are we ready for this?" Kal finally asked, looking over at John.

"Thirty engines and rolling stock are in reserve behind the lines, to move the troops and artillery back. Fortunately we decided to keep our main depot here in Suzdal. It'll mean losing whatever direct supplies are at the front, nothing else."

"But for the rest of our plans?" John shook his head.

"We gambled on the Potomac, figuring we'd have another two months at least to build the secondary line at Wilderness Station, and even heavier fortifications along the upper reaches of the Neiper. We were counting on having at least two more corps of infantry, another twenty batteries of guns, by early July for the final showdown."

He paused for a moment, leaning back in his chair as if calculating out a textbook problem.

"We might lose all of Hans's corps," Pat said quietly, looking at the reports coming in from the beleaguered third corps headquarters. "The penetration is five miles deep already—nothing to stop them except darkness."

Pat rose up out of his chair. Leaning over the table, he adjusted the wick of the kerosene lamp and looked over at Kal.

"If we lose all of Kindred's men, I don't think we'll stop them," Pat said quietly. "That's one-third of all our veterans."

"We might lose even if we do save them," John said coldly. "The Merki apparently have taken precious few loses. We had to trade casualties at ten-to-one to come out ahead. I doubt if we'll even see two-to-one. They'll hit the Neiper almost intact."

"What the hell are you two saying?" Kal snapped angrily. "All of us have gotten too damned confident of always winning. We lost this one, but it's only the first battle of the war."

Pat looked down at Kal and smiled.

"Assuming the best, can we hold the Neiper line?" Kal asked, looking over at Pat.

Pat pulled on his whiskers, frowning.

"That trick of building the dam . . . We never figured on it, and by me hairy ass we should have."

"They'll pull the same trick on the upper reaches of the Neiper. They got a hundred miles of river. They can probe, find an unprotected spot, and lash through. Once across . . ." He fell silent.

"How long?" Kal asked sharply.

"If they move up the Cartha prisoners, give 'em a week to march them a hundred and thirty odd miles," John replied.

"Then we have a week to figure something out," Kal snapped.

"I better get going," Mina said, coming to his feet. "It's going to be chaos on the Neiper River bridge, and we've got rolling stock to sort."

Picking up a sheaf of papers and stuffing them into his haversack, he walked out of the room.

Pat picked up his hat and started for the door.

"Where can I find you?" Kal asked.

Pat smiled.

"I'm going up to the front; somebody's got to get Hans out."

"Andrew expects you to be here."

Pat laughed good-naturedly and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Why are we stopping?" Tamuka snarled.

Against his own instincts he hunkered down in the saddle as a bolt of lightning snapped overhead.

He struggled to control his own fear, hearing the screams of whatever unfortunates had been struck. The thunder roared past. There was another bolt, flashing against the shield of his companion, showing hot and clear on the burnished surface.

Hulagar reached out, patting his fellow shield-bearer on the elbow.

"Because of that!" he shouted, as another boom of thunder rolled across the steppe.

"It's too dark, the rain, and we need rest. Rest my young friend, your
ka
is boiling with blood-desire. Rest, the victory has been good today."

Tamuka shrugged Hulagar's hand off, ashamed at his momentary lapse into fear. Yet even for the Qar Qarth it was acceptable to show fear when the torches of Worg snapped down from the heavens, for after all it was the fire of a god. Turning his mount around toward where Jubadi sat, barely visible in the light of a sputtering torch, he started to urge his mount forward. Hulagar reached out and grabbed the mount's reins, and Tamuka looked over at him angrily.

"Don't!" Hulagar hissed. "It is not your place. You press yourself forward too hard."

"We have them! You saw them run, you saw the slaughter when the line broke!"

"Yes," Hulagar said softly, "and I saw you in the van. I saw you cut down the fleeing cattle, joy in your eyes. Is that a shield-bearer?"

His voice was heavy with reproach, and Tamuka looked up uncomfortably.

"It is not our place to fight, it is our place to protect and to advise, not to draw their blood. Let our Qarths do that."

Did not Hulagar feel it? Tamuka wondered. This was not battle for sport, the proving of names. This was beyond war, this was the survival of the Horde, all the Hordes, even of the disgraced Tugar and the accursed Bantag who still pursued their own ride eastward, letting the Merki take the bloody burden of salvation for all of them.

It was strange, this lust. A year ago he had believed he'd achieved detachment from all things except the path to understanding, the rising to the pure crystalline light of the shield-bearer.

He looked at the gathering, Vuka by his father's side, and felt contempt. He remembered Vuka in the charge, riding to the fore when all could see. But in the moment of shock, when they rode through the pit traps, horses falling, screaming, then up the sides of the ramparts, with cattle rising up, and shooting into their faces; at that moment Vuka had hung back, not enough to truly be noticed, but just enough.

It was not the wise decision of a Qar Qarth, a leader who knew there were times to let others go forth ahead, to save himself a danger that was senseless. No, this was different, there was a lingering fear. It was all right when cattle behaved like cattle, sport for a quick wetting of a blade. But when they could deal death, a death that ultimately was ignoble, without honor, then Vuka had shown fear.

It had spurred within him a madness and he had leapt ahead, lowering his shield from Vuka's side, drawing scimitar and crashing up over the battlement. His mount had gone down, rolling into the enemy fort, kicking, screaming, the cattle who had shot the mount standing there, wheezing, his face pale and drawn. The cattle had raised his handgun and squeezed again, but the hammer had fallen on an empty chamber.

Tamuka remembered that with an inner shiver. He thought himself dead in that instant, dead by the hands of a lowly animal, and it had filled him with rage.

The cattle had not died quickly, he had seen to that. The slashing lasted for a long moment—first the arms, before the death-strike to take his head.

Vuka had laughed at the sight, dipping his sword into the cattle's open wounds as if the kill were his, and then he had gone on.

No, Hulagar had not felt that, he still did not feel how deadly this struggle truly was.

"If we press on," Tamuka said coldly, "we could cut both their roads of iron strips by dawn."

"The umens have ridden since afternoon of yesterday, a hundred miles," Hulagar replied sharply. "We have fought a battle, our mounts are dropping with exhaustion. If we press through the night all could be lost at dawn, our warriors too drawn to fight, our horses too tired to move. Already thousands of them have died."

Tamuka snorted with disdain, even as he fought to control the trembling of his limbs. He looked up at the night sky with the rain washing his face and running down inside his armor, and he shivered from the cold, clammy feel of wet leather.

"Why could not the night be day, for just this one moment?" he cried. "For just these hours? They will escape!"

Hulagar, shocked by the dark intensity of Tamuka's emotions, said nothing.

"It could be finished here," Tamuka snapped. "We could cut them off, far beyond their cities, and in half a score of days march into their lands unopposed."