Battle Hymn

by William R. Forstchen

  Again he looked around the yurt. Why are we here? He sensed that there had been some sort of trade, of which he was a part. Otherwise why would he and hundreds of prisoners from the wars be culled out from what was left of the Merki and driven hundreds of miles to the east? This morning he had glimpsed a vast Horde encampment on the far horizon, yurts by the thousands dotting the prairie. The scene reminded him of the buffalo herds that were such a common sight on the plains.

  When the two of them were led to a separate yurt, Tamira became rigid with fear that they were being set aside for the Moon Feast. He had lied to her convincingly, stilling his own conviction that they had been driven all this way just to be used for ritual torture, most likely to calm the spirit of some damnable ancestor of some petty chieftain. Perhaps it was part of the tribute that the Bantag Horde now exacted on the shattered remains of the Merki, and the bastards wanted some prisoners to roast alive to cement the deal.

  He reached into the right pocket of his tattered sky-blue trousers and felt up along the reinforced waistband. The thin sliver of razor-sharp steel was still reassuringly there, tucked into its hiding place. It was the one assurance he still had that he could at least spare Tamira. If, when the bastards came back to get him there was a sense that they were to be dragged out to provide entertainment, one quick slash, a momentary flicker of pain, a look in her eyes almost of thankfulness, and she at least would be spared.

  Why had they even allowed her to come with him? That was a mystery as well. The bastards had no sense, no pity for any of the bonds of human affection. A couple, two pets, might be together for years, even indulged in their affection by their owner, only to be split apart forever on a whim. When the Merki had separated him off to be led away, Tamira had clung tightly to his side… and no one had stopped her from going along.

  That alone had filled him with curiosity, and a sense of dread. He knew his status as a prisoner was of the highest. Before Tamuka, the former Qar Qarth, had disappeared, riding back westward with the few that remained loyal to him, he had promised a long and agonizing death, as befitted his rank. He had heard that the issue of his survival had even been debated by the clan chieftains who had taken him away from Tamuka's circle and then shortly afterwards sent him east with so many other prisoners of the war.

  Maybe it was curiosity to see what would come next that had prevented him from simply ending Tamira's life and then taking his own. Why had they kept him alive—that alone was beyond understanding. Their hatred of Yankees, and especially of Andrew Lawrence Keane, knew no bounds. They must know that subjecting him to an agonizing death, and then making sure that Andrew knew about it, would be a way of striking back.

  He closed his eyes and again allowed "the dream" to form…

  They were on campaign—sometimes it was here, other times back on Earth, but everyone was there… Pat, Emil, and, of course, Andrew. It was after a fight, the tension easing off, the bottle of whiskey sliding back and forth across the table. Pat would tell the latest joke, usually about some less than virtuous innkeeper's wife; Emil would complain about the drinking even as he sipped from his glass; and Andrew—Andrew would sit quietly, the occasional flicker of a smile appearing as their gazes locked.

  Always there would be that unspoken something, a feeling, an understanding beyond words… again we've survived and won. And something much beyond that, a camaraderie, a trust, a love that would never be voiced but that was a bond unlike all others.

  Funny, he's still a boy to me in a way, Hans thought with a smile as "the dream" took on a reality that blocked out all others. The memories swirled like images in a kaleidoscope. Andrew, the scared young professor who had gone to see the elephant and had become a leader of a nation on this strange, accursed world. And I remember him when he didn't even know how to get a company from column into line. He chuckled softly at the thought of it, their old Colonel Estes swearing at Andrew, “Gods! What am I to do with a book-learning professor?" Andrew taking it, eyes straight ahead, the crestfallen look emerging only when he thought he was alone.

  Pity him I did at first, figured he'd get killed in the first fight, like so many young lieutenants.

  Hans let the memories engulf him. Andrew in his first fight at Antietam, the regiment trapped in the West Woods. At that moment I could see the fighter instinct behind the bookish features and I knew, Hans thought with a smile, I knew what he could be. That grand, glorious moment at Gettysburg, when Andrew assumed command of the regiment and held the rear guard as First Corps retreated… and losing his arm in the process. Wilderness, that nightmare morning at Cold Harbor, the trenches of Petersburg, they were still real inside, as if only this morning.

  Antietam—why, Antietam must be ten years ago now, nearly eight of those years here on thus world. Back home, 1872. That would make Andrew almost forty, and me halfway between fifty and sixty. And all that had happened in those eight years. Coming through the Tunnel of Light, the rebellion of the Rus, first against their own nobility and then the First War of the Horde, that one against the Tugars. Then the war against the Cartha, followed by the Second War of the Horde, the bitter, nearly yearlong struggle against the Merki.

  And what since then, since the day I was captured, more than a year ago and at least two thousand miles away? The vast distance of time and space weighed down on him yet again, and sighing, he tasted the gruel. No, it was just grain, mullet, no meat in it.

  He heard a rustling behind him, the sound of the curtain door to the yurt being pulled aside. He did not bother to turn around. Let the bastard announce his presence. Hans continued to eat, waiting, while his left hand slipped into his pocket, fingers touching the hilt of the blade.

  "Yankee, stand up."

  The words were in Rus. Surprised, Hans looked up. The warrior was dressed as a Bantag, wearing the chain mail jerkin favored by the southern clans, his dark scarlet cape reaching to his ankles. What was startling, though, was that this creature's face was clean-shaven, revealing the flat face, high cheekbones, and mashed-in nose of a Horde rider. Hans examined him cautiously, and then his eyes dropped to what the Bantag was holding.

  The Bantag chuckled softly at Hans's startled expression.

  "Come to your feet. I am Ha'ark Kathul, Qar Qarth of the Bantag Horde."

  The words were not quite a command, but they did carry an insistence that expected instant obedience. Hans, grinning softly, did not move.

  "I could have you killed for such insolence."

  "Go ahead—it'd be a pleasant end to the day," Hans replied coolly.

  Ha'ark threw back his head and laughed. "You aren't like the other cattle I've seen."

  "I'm not cattle," Hans replied slowly, his voice filled with a barely concealed rage. "I am a soldier of the Army of the Potomac, by God."

  The Bantag did not reply, studying him carefully, and then to Hans's amazement the warrior came forward and sat down by his side.

  "I wanted to meet you."

  "The feeling is not mutual."

  The Bantag leaned forward, his breath washing over Hans. “Don't bandy insults about, cattle. You live or die only by my wishes, and I can choose any manner of death."

  Hans fixed him with an icy glare. Even the fact that he looked into the Bantag's eyes was cause enough for death, but he had a sense that at the moment it might have quite the opposite effect.

  Ha'ark looked over at Tamira, who was still asleep, and Hans moved ever so imperceptibly to slip the knife out, ready to go for the Bantag or, if need be, to turn on Tamira.

  "Your mate?"

  Hans looked at him coldly. "Wife—there's a difference."

  The Bantag looked at him appraisingly, a wolfish grin flickering across his features.

  "Let us understand something here. To everyone outside this yurt you are a pet, cattle that could be consumed at any time. I don't necessarily see you in that light. I see you as a warrior, the same as I."

  Hans wanted to come back with a sarcastic reply but held his tongue.
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br />   "If you cooperate, your"—he hesitated as if trying to remember the word—"wife will be spared the slaughter pit. Do you understand me?"

  Hans said nothing, trying not to let the bastard sense the flood of emotion and relief that the comment had unleashed.

  "I see I've got your attention," the Bantag announced softly.

  "Where did you learn Rus?"

  "From two of your cattle. The one called Hinsen and another that we recently took."

  Hans spat angrily on the floor at the mention of the traitor who had gone into the service of the Merki before the Cartha War.

  "I share the same opinion; he is a sniveling coward."

  "But useful to you," and as he spoke Hans looked again at the rifle that was still in the Bantag's right hand.

  Ha'ark smiled.

  "When I came to this world, I brought this with me. Care to examine it?"

  Shocked, Hans looked straight at the Bantag. "Came to this world? You're not a Bantag?"

  A ripple of laughter greeted the question.

  "I came here as you did, through the Tunnel of Light."

  "Not of this world, then?" Hans asked softly. There was a momentary flood of relief. Perhaps, just perhaps. He said he was not of this world, and yet he is the Qar Qarth, ruler of the Bantag Horde. Was there a hope, that he would see everything differently, see that humans were not cattle? But then he looked at the weapon. The rifle was heavy, built to fit a Horde Rider, with a barrel and stock nearly six feet in length. But what caught his attention was the working mechanism at the breech.

  He looked back at Ha'ark.

  "Go on, you may hold it."

  Hans hefted the weapon and felt a surging thrill. Again he had a gun in his hand, and for a fleeting instant he felt free, but then he looked at Ha'ark again and saw the cool gaze of appraisal and wariness, ready to spring if he made the slightest mistake. Hans held the weapon up to examine it. It was heavy, at least eighteen to twenty pounds, but he knew the weight was a matter of scale. For a Horde warrior the gun would be a comfortable weapon to hold. He examined the breech; it reminded him of a Prussian needle gun, and taking hold of the bolt, he worked it back. A bright shell casing ejected onto the floor of the yurt, and Hans slammed the bolt forward. He stole another look at the Bantag. For the first time since his capture he had a real weapon in his hand. If only the barrel were shorter, I could swing it around…

  “Don't even consider it," the Bantag replied smoothly. “Though I do want to speak to you, I'll kill you if you make a wrong move."

  Hans saw the glint of a dagger in the Bantag's left hand, poised to strike.

  Hans smiled.

  He slid the breech open again. It worked smoothly. It was precision work, and he sensed it was far better than anything that could currently be made by the Rus. For that matter it was better than anything he had seen on Earth. The thought was chilling… the bastards are ahead of us with this. What else do they know that we don't?

  With the breech open, he lifted the gun up, turning it to look straight down the barrel. By the dim reflected light shining into the breech he saw the tight, spiraling bands of rifling. The bands were smaller, tighter than in a Springfield, or his old Sharps carbine. Watching Ha'ark, he carefully lifted the gun, with the breech open, to his shoulder, and sighted down it. In spite of the weight, the gun had a good balance to it, and he aimed at the flickering lamp hanging in the center of the yurt. There was a single levered rear sight, and as he squinted, he realized that the sight was an adjustable peephole that could slide up and down for range. The only weapon he had ever seen with a peephole rear sight was the precision Sharps rifle issued to Berdan's Sharpshooters.

  The writing etched into the rear sight was unintelligible, but he supposed that the gradient markings would each represent roughly a hundred yards, since trajectory had to be adjusted at approximately that distance to compensate for the drop of a bullet.

  “Strange. The gravity must be slightly less on this planet," Ha'ark said. "I've noticed the sights aren't quite accurate."

  Hans looked at him in surprise. He had heard Ferguson talk about that and remembered feeling a bit lighter when they had first arrived on this world. But the thought had never concerned him.

  Hans laid the gun down on the floor of the yurt and then picked up the bullet. It was definitely brass cartridge, caliber seemed to be around a fifty, but the bullet was hard and pointed. He sensed it carried a lot more power to it than the old minie ball of the Springfield.

  "You brought the gun from where?" Hans asked.

  "My own world."

  Hans said nothing.

  "That is why, in part, I wanted to speak to you. I, like you, am not of this world. I came through the Tunnel of Light."

  "And you had this gun?"

  "A soldier as well, though at the time I did not want to be. And you?"

  "A soldier. How we got here…" he shrugged, "I don't know. Do you?"

  Hans was surprised he was even speaking to the creature before him. Maybe it was the simple joy of hearing a familiar tongue again. German was still his native language, and seventeen years in the States had made English far more familiar, but with Rus being the common speech, he found that that language had become the one that he finally thought in. What was disturbing was that of late he had acquired enough skill with the language of the Hordes that on occasion he now dreamed in it. It was a delight not to have to articulate his thoughts in a language that struck him as being nothing more than grunts and animal growls. To hear someone of the Horde speak Rus was indeed curious, the language coining out rough and guttural.

  "I don't know either," Ha'ark replied. "I was hoping you could explain."

  "Why, do you want to go home?"

  Ha'ark leaned back and laughed deeply.

  "Home. To what? To be a student, or worst yet, a drafted soldier? Here—why, here I am Kathul. Do you know the word?"

  Hans shook his head.

  "The Redeemer, the one of prophecy."

  Hans felt a chill at the way he said it.

  "No. I'll stay. But if I could find a way back, there are things I need."

  "Such as?"

  The Bantag smiled as if deciding whether to share a secret or not.

  "What I would give for a book on refining. Or even some good tungsten steel tool bits. As for engines, I never could understand how internal combustion worked, though one of my Companions worked on—what is the word you use?—railroads."

  Hans was silent.

  "So we do know steam. Tell me, did you have flying machines on your world?"

  Hans felt a cold chill creep into his soul. "Of course."

  The Bantag smiled again and shook his head. "I doubt it. Your machines are generations behind what I knew. There are artifacts here on this world, however, that are useful. I think the ancients, before the fall, even had atomic power. At least that's what I suspect from the description of the engines the Merki used for their flying machines. We're digging in gravesites right now for more of these ancient devices. Unless the fuel has decayed, they should still be useful for flyers."

  He stopped for a moment. "Atomic? Do you understand the word?"

  "Who doesn't?"

  “Then explain it."

  Hans fell silent, angry with himself. Whatever it was this creature was rambling about, Hans knew that he had already revealed too much. He felt he should say nothing more, but his curiosity compelled him not simply to turn away and retreat into silence.

  The Bantag chuckled. “You're not revealing anything I didn't suspect. Your friend Hinsen told me everything of your world. Primitive. If we could but use a portal from my world to yours we would squash you."

  "I doubt it."

  "By defending yourselves with what?" Ha'ark laughed. "Rifled muskets against machine guns. Airships against jets and rockets. Do you even know what a radio is?"

  "Go ahead and try it," Hans spat, feeling increasingly angry, as if this creature were taunting him with his ignorance.


  The Bantag smiled and shook his head. "Don't worry. There are other things to do first."

  "Such as?"

  "End this war between you"—he hesitated for a moment—"you humans and us."

  Hans felt a surge of hope that he knew had to be misplaced. There would never be an end to the war until one race, or the other, was annihilated.

  "How?"

  "Maybe an accommodation could be made—a division, perhaps."

  "I doubt it."

  "Why?"

  "First of all, why should we?" Hans replied coldly. "We all but destroyed the Tugars, and the Merki were shattered as well. What's left?"

  "The Bantag, with over sixty umens. The Harangi to the south of the Bantag, with another forty umens. That's a million warriors we can put in the field."

  "We defeated forty umens of the Merki."

  "And nearly destroyed yourselves in the process. Even now your people are still recovering and, I hear, are divided as well."

  In his year of captivity Hans had not heard a single word of what had happened to his old comrades. He tried not to show interest. The Bantag smiled.

  "Curious, aren't you? Maybe later I'll share more. For that matter, you might even see your friends before you die."

  "That doesn't matter to me. I assumed I was dead the moment I was taken prisoner. Hope of a different ending is a fool's dream."

  "You know, I might actually like you."

  Hans found himself weakening. He felt almost as if he were talking with another soldier rather than a hated enemy.

  "I'll grant that if those barbarians you called the Bantag marched against you as they were, they'd most likely lose. But"—and Ha'ark patted the rifle on his lap—"that's changed."

  "The Merki had weapons like ours."

  "Primitive, and besides, not enough. Things have changed since I've come. We have a factory east of here, turning out three hundred rifles a week."

  "Like yours?" Hans asked cautiously.

  "No, muzzle loaders like yours. We used a Merki weapon as a pattern, but I think we'll be up to breechloaders in a year or so." He snorted with disdain. "Damn primitives, these tribes. Taking them over was child's play. They feared me. I spouted some ancient legends about the Redeemer, killed half a dozen, and was soon Qar Qarth. That was the easy part. Getting them to work, another thing altogether."