Terrible Swift Sword (29 page)

The stationmaster came running out of the shed waving a lantern. Down the line a green lamp was raised up on a post, announcing that the switch was clear.

The engineer pulled down on the throttle, and (he train lurched forward.

"What time is it?" Gregory asked.

"An hour and a half till dawn," Pat said softly.

"We'll never get up there in time."

"We have to," Pat said coldly.

Gregory said nothing. Cupping his mug, he turned away with shaking hands.

There would be no dawn this morning.

Tamuka stirred uncomfortably as the first nargas sounded. Pulling back the heavy felt blanket that had sheltered him from the worst of the rain, he stood up. The world was gray, the sky and horizon one. Everyone soaked, rain dripping down the flanks of his mount.

He grabbed hold of the saddle that had served as his pillow and slung it up over the horse's back, cinching the wet slippery belt under the beast's belly.

Slinging his oil-skinned bow case behind the saddle, he then buckled the sword around his waist. Drawing the chain armor out from a greased blanket of felt he quickly donned it and put his helmet on, before finally uncovering the bronze shield and slinging it over his back.

The nargas sounded again. Turning to what he judged to be the east he bowed low, intoning the prayer of the new day toward the direction of the everlasting ride. He then went to his knees on the wet grass and bowed to the west, to the departing of the night, the everlasting haven of the ancestors.

Pulling a leather bag out from under his tunic, he scooped out a handful of dried meat and curds. Munching on them absently, he washed the meal down with a gulp of stale water. Stepping away from where he had slept, he faced north to relieve himself. Ready at last, Tamuka climbed into the saddle, grimacing slightly at the cold discomfort of the wet saddle.

He looked down at the grass. It would be hard to tell direction. Normally the blades leaned slightly to the east, growing with the wind that drew them out of the ground. Maneuvering would be difficult, so thick were the clouds which completely hid the sun. They would have to judge by the wind on their backs. Signal pennants would have to be spaced every fifty yards, at least until the heavy mist had lifted with the passing of the storm.

This had not been planned for.

The nargas sounded yet again, and from the encampment of the Qar Qarth the bearers of the blue flags, marking the line of advance, galloped out. The army would split now. Half swinging straight east, the other half turning northward to cut off any who were left in the trap, to link up with the Vushka and from there ride northeasterly along the Tugartrail into the woods to where the crossing of the river was.

Vuka, stepping out of his father's small field yurt, swung into his saddle without comment, and Tamuka fell in silently behind him.

"Pass the word to halt, and keep it quiet."

Hans reined in his mount. Shadowy forms shuffling to either side of the track stopped; commands, muffled in the rain and fog, drifted down the line. Cursing soldiers collapsed. Soaked clean through, they sat on the ground, in the mud, oblivious to discomfort.

A dull thump echoed through the mist.

Hans looked up, trying to gauge the direction.

Another thump, deadened, washed through. Men stirred, looking back in the direction from which they had been marching since after midnight.

"Gunfire," lngrao said, looking off to the west, trying to judge where the sound had come from.

Dark gray ghosts moved in the clinging mist. The world was only one color now, all of it shades of gray. Men, horses, moving like shadows.

"I can feel something," a young soldier said, going down to his knees, pressing his ear to the ground.

Hans swung down from his mount and squatted down by the boy. It reminded him of an Indian scout, listening for the sound of hooves out on the vast prairies of western Kansas.

"Something's moving . . . Horses," the boy said.

Hans nodded.

"Horses, lots of them," he said.

"Lines dead."

Hans looked up at the telegrapher, dangling from the pole beside the track, having just hooked in to the line.

"Did you get that last message out?"

The boy nodded.

Hans looked back at lngrao, the only general officer left, both division commanders and the three brigadiers of the units now left having gone down the day before.

"Most likely their advanced parties have crossed the tracks."

"We're cut off, then?"

Hans looked at the artilleryman and said nothing.

A soft metallic clang rippled past him and he looked down at the rails.

"Something banging on the track," Hans whispered. The men sitting along the embankment looked at the rail as if it had taken on a voice that spoke of impending disaster.

"Definitely in front of us, most likely moving up behind us as well. Hell, it's the only way we could have gone—our trail's easy enough to follow."

A faint breeze stirred through the overhanging trees. In the gradually brightening light the guidon next to him stirred, its colors muted, silken folds hanging heavy.

A slash of rain washed over him, and Hans shivered.

"It's getting colder," he whispered. "Storm should be clearing soon."

Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a pocket watch and unsnapped the cover. Like all the watches that had been brought through the tunnel, every day it registered an extra hour compared to time on this world. He did a quick calculation.

"Dawn nearly an hour ago."

He put the watch back in his jacket and looked eastward.

Should have been here an hour ago. Where the hell are they?

Six lousy trains. All I need is six trains. To hell with the equipment, just get these men out.

"How far do you think we've gone?" lngrao asked, leaning forward in the saddle, swaying with exhaustion.

"Six miles, maybe seven or eight. Hard to tell."

A horse neighed and Hans turned. Shadows swirled to the south. A horse rider appeared for a second, sitting motionless.

A Merki.

"Bastards must have swung in behind us, figuring to cut us off. Now they're on the hunt."

A gust of wind stirred, rolling the mist back as if drawing a curtain aside. Several dozen riders were visible, racing parallel to the track, several hundred yards to the south.

"They've found us," Hans snapped. Standing, he climbed back into the saddle.

"We fight it out here!" he shouted, and with a vicious pull drove his mount up onto the tracks, motioning for the regimental commanders who had been riding with him to come to his side.

"Those are scouts; the main van should be up shortly. I want a full division square, first brigade north and east, second brigade south and west. Five company front to each regiment, other five companies forming a second line. I want this thing four ranks deep, two ranks kneeling, other two standing. First brigade, second division, is to form a reserve in the center. Charlie, post what guns we've got left on the four corners and keep a battery in the center. We've got men spread out for more than a mile alongside the tracks, and we've only got minutes to get them ready. Now, ride!"

Bugles echoed out commands and officers galloped off, shouting orders. Men stirred, officers urging them on at the run. The square started to form. Regimental groups were forgotten, the men simply falling in where placed. The soldiers looked grimfaced, pulling leather cartridge boxes to their side and fumbling gingerly with the double flaps that had been clamped down tight to keep the rain out.

Hans galloped up and down the inside of the forming square, marking positions, shouting out encouragement, cursing any who were too slow.

The smattering of Merki scouts started to grow into clusters, a gradual line of skirmishers moving around the square, staying out of range. Riders with blue pennants started to gallop along the south side of the square, barely visible in the mist.

Another two miles and we'd have been into the woods, Hans thought coldly. Two goddamn miles, and now we're caught out in the open. He looked northward. The trees of the forest were clearly visible. A mile northward and they'd be into the woods. For several seconds he thought of moving them that way, but knew instantly that it would be suicide. The Merki would cut him off up there. Once the square was formed he'd have to keep pushing eastward straight along the track and cut a way out.

Another sound echoed, and all stopped for the briefest moment. A whistle, high and urgent in its calling, drifted in from the east.

A ragged cheer swept the line, to be stilled when another sound, dark with menace, rolled over them. It was the sound of a rising thunder, the ground trembling. From out of the dying storm the Horde emerged, and at the sight of their hated foe the Merki broke into song.

"Skirmishers, cover the flanks!"

Pat leaped down from the cab of the train, barely noticing the arrows arcing in.

From out of the twenty boxcars behind the engine two regiments piled out, men already running to cover the flanks. The armored car forward of the engine cut loose with a spray of canister that sliced out into the dying mist, the concussion and swirl of shot spinning the wisps of fog into eddies.

Pat raced down the track, screaming for men to follow, cursing wildly at the sight of a section of missing rail.

In the shadowy mists he saw a cluster of Merki riding slowly off, dragging something between them.

"Stop them, goddammit, stop them!" Pat roared.

A young soldier stood beside him. Snatching the rifle out of the youth's hand, he raised it to his shoulder and fired. A rider pitched forward out of the saddle.

"Come on!" Pat screamed.

Leaping from the roadbed he started to run through the knee-high grass, his leather-soled shoes slipping. The ground was torn up in front of him from something being dragged over it.

"Stop them!"

Several soldiers paused and fired, and another rider went down. A Merki turned in the saddle, bow drawn. With the release Pat saw the spray from the string. The arrow came in slow yet still found its mark, dropping the man next to him.

Screaming with a wild rage, Pat rushed on into the open field, men racing by his side. A flurry of shots snapped out and another rider fell, the burden dropping into the grass.

He pulled his revolver out, firing as he ran. The warriors scurried off.

Gasping for breath, his stomach knotted, Pat slid to a stop by the twenty-foot section of rail.

"Now, pick it up! Let's get the hell back!"

A dozen men gathered round, hoisted the section of iron up, and started at a slow run back to the track. Another low thunder was starting to build, and suddenly there was the loud shriek of the train whistle.

Pat looked back over his shoulder. From out of the disappearing fog a dark wall appeared, moving fast, sweeping to the west several hundred yards away, weaving their way past the occasional clumps of conifers that marked the edge of the great forest. The wall started to turn, horns sounding and chants growing. From out of the mist a line of Merki appeared, scimitars raised. They came in at a charge.

"Run!" Pat screamed.

Alongside the engine the first regiment was forming up, deploying lines to either side of the track and forward of the armored car, which was holding its fire, waiting for the struggling party to get in.

The charge continued to surge up the slope. The men around him looked over their shoulders, panic in their eyes, but not one let go of the precious rail.

A snap of light appeared off to the south. Seconds later the shot screamed in, the range high, the round snapping through a treetop to the north of the track.

"Move it, move it!" The chant roared up from the line of Roum infantry, who now formed a wall in front of the train.

Pat looked over his shoulder, and saw that they were less than a hundred yards away and closing in.

A shower of arrows snaked up from the line, slamming into the ground around him. A man holding the rail dropped without a sound.

"First rank, aim!" The command echoed out in Latin. Muskets flashed up and were leveled.

The line parted as they raced into its protection.

"Fire!"

The volley snapped out, horses shrieking, skidding on the wet turf, going down.

The six guns inside the armored car snapped off a volley of canister, cutting gaping holes in the line.

Pat directed the gasping men to lay the rail back in place.

"The spikes are gone!" one of the firemen shouted, barely audible above the crash of the second volley.

"Bayonets, then!" Pat shouted. "Drive the bayonets in! Use the musket butts as hammers!"

A horse, coming forward under its own momentum though already dead, crashed into the volley line not twenty feet behind him, crushing down the double rank, the body slamming alongside the track. Several Merki waded in through the gap, mounts and warriors dying under bayonet jabs but slashing men down in their dying. The wave receded.

A deep, booming roar was now plainly heard. Climbing up the side of the armored car, Pat looked forward. Another line of Merki cavalry was setting up astride the track a hundred yards forward. And beyond them, not a half-mile away, barely visible, he saw the sharp flash of a volley. Several seconds later a patter of bullets snapped past.

A gust of wind swirled through the light scattering of trees, drawing the mist away. An entire division in square had been formed down in the gentle drop of the valley just ahead. Pat unsnapped his field glasses then raised them, ignoring the rain of arrows dropping in from the riders who ranged a hundred yards out, galloping down the length of track, firing bolt after bolt.

From all sides of the square down in the valley Merki were surging in, scimitars flashing. In measured pace, volley after volley rippled down the line, holding them at bay.

In the center of the square he saw a cluster of horsemen, the guidon of the corps planted in the middle, fluttering alongside the dark blue flag marked with the chevrons of a sergeant major.

"Hans!" Pat screamed, slamming his fists against the side of the car with impotent rage.