Men of War

by William R. Forstchen

  His coming had shattered that dream, for everyone here this was the last night, and they knew it. Come dawn two umens of the Horde’s finest warriors, battle-hardened from bitter campaigning, would be unleashed, and in their frenzy all would die.

  He turned to look west, the twin rails glimmering by the firelight. He could back the train down that track right then. Fighting against despair, he tried to reason that at least they had accomplished something. It was a blow that would take months to recover from. Jurak would undoubtedly have to retreat to the Sea, perhaps even as far back as the Shennadoah or Nippon if Vincent’s mad thrust won through and thus threatened the southern flank of the Horde armies.

  And then what? Ultimately nothing would change, nothing. Jurak would simply build a new war machine.

  Hans squatted next to his friend, sighing with the pain as his knees creaked in protest. He looked at the three railroad men who sat hunched up in the far corner of the cab, talking in whispers with the driver of the locomotive. He caught words here and there, whispers about slaughter, death, families lost, fear.

  Outside, to either side of the stalled engine, the columns of frightened refugees continued to pass, fleeing they knew not where, but trying to get out nevertheless. Again another short stab of pain.

  “Hans?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You all right?”

  “Just tired, so damned tired.”

  “We’ve got to do something, you know.”

  “What?” He could sense his voice breaking. His mind was clouded, and it was becoming too hard to focus.

  “Come dawn they’ll attack; they’re reorganizing not five miles from here.”

  “I know that.”

  Ketswana spoke quickly to the locomotive engineer, motioning with his tin cup. The engineer took it, vented some more hot water, and threw some leaves in. Ketswana took the cup and pressed it into Hans’s hands, which were trembling.

  Hans took a sip, set the cup down, and leaned his head back against the woodpile.

  “We’ve got six hours or so till dawn,” Ketswana announced. “We have to dig in and get ready. Build a fortified line anchored on this rail line, use the factory compounds we’ve taken as bastions.”

  “I know, I know,” he whispered.

  So many years of struggle, so many long hard years, and now it seems to all end here. His mind drifted, the prairie, the starlit nights: Antietam, the road to Antietam, cresting South Mountain, looking back across the valley, the blue serpentine columns stretching to the horizon, afternoon sun glinting on fifty thousand rifle barrels; Gettysburg, when the sun seemed to stand still in the heavens; and these strange heavens. He looked up, the Great Wheel overhead, again wondering which star was home. To have run the race so far, so far, and now to fall at the last step and see it all washed away.

  He closed his eyes, a prayer drifting through his heart, God, let this all be for something.

  “Hans?”

  Ketswana leaned over, a moment of fright, his hand gently touching his friend’s forehead, drifting down to his throat, feeling for a pulse.

  He sighed and leaned back. Let him sleep, he needed sleep. Always trying to carry all the burden, forgetting just how many he had inspired and trained. No, let him sleep.

  The engineer was looking over, and Ketswana motioned that Hans was not to be disturbed.

  “Ketswana?”

  He looked down from the cab. Through the confused press milling about he saw Fen Chu, one of the old guard, a survivor of the Escape.

  “There’s not much left of the powder mill,” Fen reported. “All blown to hell it is.”

  “The next compound?” He motioned up the tracks toward Huan.

  “Told by some of the slaves that escaped that the guards started to shoot everyone, then fled. It was a cartridge factory for their rifles.”

  Ketswana looked back to the west. The factory compounds were strung like beads along the track for miles, most of them basically laid out the same, brick buildings housing foundries, mills, works for cartridges, shells, bullets, rifles, artillery barrels, land ironclads … the brick building surrounded by wooden barracks for the slaves, and those in turn surrounded by a palisades, usually of logs or rough-cut planking.

  Most of them were burning.

  He looked back toward the city. No, that hope was finished.

  South? He knew next to nothing of the land, just rumors. From his days of slavery he occasionally was allowed outside the compound on some errand, southward was nothing but open farmlands, vast rice paddies and pastures before the coming of the Bantag. Most of the farms were abandoned now. He remembered that on a clear day, from the roof of the factory one could see hills rising up, the distant hint of cloud-capped mountains beyond.

  “Can’t go south,” Fen announced, as if reading Ketswa-na’s thoughts.

  “Why?”

  “People are fleeing from that way as well. They said most of the Horde’s encampments are down that way, hundreds of thousands of them, their old ones, women and cubs, yurts as far as you can see. That’s their summer pasturing grounds on what had once been farms before everyone was herded into the compounds or slaughtered.”

  That was out then.

  No. The anchor was the railroad. We try to flee south, this mob will spread out run, in panic, and it will turn into a hunt.

  “All right, pull our men together; we start retreating back along the tracks. We’ll push the trains back up the line three or four miles. We string the trains along the tracks between three or four of the compounds and upend them. Loot out what weapons we can. Get into the cartridge works, for example, and drag out as much ammunition as you can. Start culling out this mob, tell them reinforcements are coming up the rail line but we have to hold out.”

  “Are they?”

  “We both know the answer to that, but we got to give these people some hope, some reason to turn and fight like men, rather than be hunted down like the cattle they were. If we can get ten hours, even eight, we should be able to fortify a good position, and then let’s see what those bastards will do.”

  “You’re talking about hundreds of thousands of people out here,” Fen cried. “They’ll all die once the Horde recovers and attacks.”

  “Fen, a year ago we all figured we’d die anyhow. All I asked then was to die killing the bastards. I still feel that way; how about you?”

  A grin creased Fen’s weary face, he came to attention, and saluted.

  “Fine, let’s get to work.”

  Fen raced off, disappearing into the mob, shouting orders. Ketswana looked over at the engineer and motioned for him to start backing the train up. As the machine slowly lurched into reverse, he looked down at Hans. Picking up a dirty blanket from the comer of the locomotive cab he gently draped it around his friend’s shoulders.

  “My friend, today will be a good day to die,” he whispered.

  * * *

  It felt like the old days, the assault on Caradoga, the fifth year of the War of the False Pretender. The city had been hit by the third atomic to be used in the war, the air assault was dropped upwind to seal off the retreat of the refugees and drive them back in to the inferno, since Caradoga had been a center of stiff resistance. That was the battle where he had lost faith in the cause. Ha’ark had joined the unit shortly after that fight. Perhaps it would have tempered him more to have seen it, Jurak thought.

  The Chin city of Huan looked the same now. It had been their beacon for the last fifty leagues of the flight, first a glow on the horizon, then a soaring pillar of light, so bright that it filled the cockpit of the aerosteamer with a hellish red glare. It reminded him as well of the Sacred Texts, the destruction of the city of Jakavu for its sinful ways.

  Explosions ignited in the city, entire blocks of cramped derelict homes, abandoned as the population had been driven to work in the factories, rail lines, or to the feasting pits, were now consumed, flaring to explosive incandescence. From the north to southern wall the entire city was bu
rning. By the glow he could make out snakelike columns moving out of the gates to the west of the city, where more fires burned.

  Even as his attention turned to that direction a glaring white-hot explosion ignited, soaring heavenward in a giant fireball. It was the powder mill. Damn all, so they were into the factories. A dozen plants or more, foundries, cannon works, powder mill, cartridge works, rifle works, all of them burning.

  It was hard to see the works to the east and south. He never should have left old Ugark as umen commander. He was far too much of the old ways, and bitter as well for not having command at the front. For that matter those who were there were, in general, warriors not fit for the front anymore, or those who were never fit, willing enough to torture a defenseless cattle, but not so willing to face one that just might be armed.

  It was always the same mistake, to group together the less competent, then send them off to some forgotten front.

  And yet the war was so damn close to victory, he could feel it within his grasp. The raids, both here and across from Tyre, though brilliant, were indicators of a final desperation. All that was needed now was to hang on, to contain this madness, save the factories that were left. Once that was done, return to the front and make a final push as if nothing had happened at all. That would shatter their morale once and for all, and they would give in.

  The wind was building; the column of smoke ahead rose ten thousand feet or more to the heavens, then spread out in a dark mushroom cloud that blotted out the Great Wheel. Even from two leagues out bits of ash and smoldering embers were raining down. The machine lurched, bounced.

  Firestorm, the outer edge of the winds being sucked into the heart of the inferno, he realized, and ordered the weary pilot to turn about and find a spot to land along the railroad tracks north of the city.

  He could see the troop trains lined up, over two dozen of them. In the distance the headlight of another one came down from Nippon, winked, and shimmered. The pilot spi-raled down, deciding to alight on what appeared to be open land parallel to the track where the long line of trains were parked.

  A volley of bullets slashed through the cabin. A red mist sprayed into Jurak’s eyes as the machine lurched over. Wiping his eyes clear he saw the pilot, the side of his head a shattered pulp, slumped over the controls.

  More bullets slammed into the cabin as Jurak leaned over, trying to push the pilot to one side and free the wheel.

  He caught a glimpse of a locomotive, sparks soaring up from the stack, winks of light flashing behind it, rifle fire, and for an instant he wondered how the damned humans had gotten this far, then realized his own men were shooting at him in blind panic.

  Jerking the wheel back he banked sharply, closing his eyes for a moment and turning his head away as the forward glass panes exploded, showering him with fragments.

  Damn, after all this, to be killed by your own warriors, he thought grimly as he opened his eyes, caught a glimpse of several yurts straight ahead, pulled back up to go over them and felt the shudder of a stall shaking his machine. The controls were mushy, and the machine started to settle, tail first, then slapped down hard.

  The forward cabin snapped off from the front of the machine, and, covering his face, he fell.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then he felt the heat. The hydrogen bags were burning.

  Kicking, clawing, he tore himself free of the tangled wickerwork of the cab and crawled out onto the grass. A clump of dirt sprayed up into his face, the crack of another bullet whined overhead.

  “You damned fools, it is your Qar Qarth!” he roared.

  Another bullet snicked past so close that he felt the hollow sucking pop of it as it brushed his face and then the shouts of a commander echoed, screaming to the warriors to cease fire.

  Hesitantly, he came to his knees, knowing that to cower on the ground would be a loss of face. He stood up, brushing himself off. A commander of ten raced up, slowed, turned to shout for everyone to ground arms, then fell to his knees.

  “Forgive us, my Qarth.” His voice was trembling.

  “We thought . .

  “I know, that it was a Yankee airship.”

  “Yes, my Qarth. Take my life in atonement.”

  Jurak reached down and grabbed the commander by the shoulder, pulling him up to his feet.

  “If I killed everyone who made a mistake, I don’t think I would have much of an army left.”

  The commander looked at him wide-eyed, and nodded.

  “Your umen commander, where is he?”

  The trembling leader of ten pointed to the train. He could see that hundreds were coming over out of curiosity. In the long history of the hordes, he realized, never had a Qar Qarth arrived in such a manner.

  “Take me to him.”

  Jurak followed as he was led to the long line of trains. Word had already spread of what had happened and all were on their knees, heads lowered in atonement and fear.

  Bokara, the commander of the umen of the white-legged horse, came forward at the run, stopped, and went to his knees.

  Jurak motioned for him to stand.

  He started to sputter an apology, and Jurak cut him off. “Will your warriors be ready by dawn?”

  “Yes, my Qarth. The last of the trains is coming in even now.”

  “The situation?”

  Bokara looked south toward the flaring inferno.

  “The truth, my Qar Qarth?”

  “What I would expect and nothing less.”

  “Ugark panicked, my lord. When he heard the Yankees had landed at Xi’an he ordered all the cattle leaders of the city to be rounded up and slaughtered. I am told rioting was already breaking out even before the Yankees landed here early in the afternoon. Rumors had swept through the Chin that their liberator, the god Hans, was coming to free them.”

  “Slaughter the leaders? I didn’t order that.”

  “I know that, my Qar Qarth.”

  “Go on.”

  “I am told that last night the Chin telegraph operators in the city received your message. I know that it was correctly relayed through Nippon, for I was there and received it, making sure it was passed on.”

  Jurak nodded, sensing that Bokara was also being careful to wash his hands of this mistake.

  “It is apparent the cattle operators did not give the messages to Ugark but did spread the word among their own kind. Thus the riot which actually started before the Yankees even landed here.”

  Jurak nodded. Again it shows our weakness, he thought. Our very messages carried by our enemies. He should have realized that given what his message to Ugark contained, of course the cattle operators would hide it and use it against him. And the way Bokara said the word rioted carried with it a certain disbelief, that the Chin slaves, dumber than the dumbest beast, were incapable of such rebellion.

  “My train arrived here just before dusk. I heard Ugark was already dead and that Tamuka had seized command.”

  “The Merki?”

  “Yes, my Qar Qarth.”

  “How, damn it? I wanted him detained.”

  “Sire. He wears the crest of a Qar Qarth and said that you had given him authority.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know, my Qar Qarth. Reports are he is west of the city, fighting, rallying the warriors that survived. They say he fought well.”

  Jurak caught the note of admiration in Bokara’s voice. Was this also a subtle way of conveying his disagreement. Far too many of his own Horde actually admired Tamuka’s fanatical manner and hatred of the cattle.

  “Then let him fight there for the night,” Jurak finally announced, deciding that dealing with Tamuka could wait.

  “I arrived here just as the cattle started to swarm out of the burning city. It was like waves upon a great ocean, my Qar Qarth, no one could stop them, driven in panic as they were by the flames behind them. I abandoned my attempt to try and link up with those rallying to Tamuka, thinking it best to pull back, form my umens here, to the
north of the city, and wait till dawn to move in strength.”

  Jurak nodded in agreement.

  “The second umen?”

  “Already forming as well. We’ll have twenty thousand warriors well armed, with artillery support and half a dozen land ironclads I managed to get out of one of the factories before it was taken.”

  “Very good.”

  “My lord.”

  “Yes.”

  “The encampments of the clans of the black horses and of the gray-tailed horses. Our people are in the summer encampments to the south in the hills.”

  Jurak did not quite grasp for a moment what he was driving at.

  “The cattle, my Qar Qarth. They are between us and a hundred thousand yurts of my own clan. The cubs of my own young, all that is left of my blood, are but a day’s ride south of here.”

  He caught the edge of fear in the old warrior’s voice. “They are armed,” Jurak replied, trying to reassure. “Only with bows, my lord. Many of the Yankees and the cattle they’ve freed now have guns.”

  “We defeat the Yankees tomorrow morning, then that fear will be put to rest.”

  “Yes, my Qarth.”

  “I’m exhausted; I need some food and a place to rest.”

  “This way, my Qarth.” Bokara started to lead him toward the train.

  He stopped for a moment and saw a dark form lying on the ground, then another and another. Ten of them in all. Other warriors stood in silence. It was the commander of ten and his warriors, all of them dead, having performed the ackba, the ritual of forming a circle and simultaneously slitting the throat of the comrade to their right in atonement for a failure by the unit.

  He wanted to denounce such madness; it had been a mistake, but ritual had to be obeyed. He said nothing, the ten were fallen, it would not be seemly for him to comment upon those who should be beneath his notice. His gaze swept the circle, warriors carrying rifles, yet still wearing the horned and human-skull-adorned ceremonial war helmets of old, the train venting steam while Chin slaves, moving furtively so as not to draw notice, tended to it, feeding wood into the firebox, while another was oiling the driveshaft. What acts of destruction might they be secretly planning at that very moment, he wondered.