"The night is long, my Qarth."
Ha'ark nodded and motioned Jamul to sit in the other camp chair by the fire.
Jamul settled into the chair and looked up at the Great Wheel.
"A long way from home," he sighed.
"Wonder if home is even in that galaxy overhead," Ha'ark replied.
"Do you miss it?"
Ha'ark chuckled. "Home. What was home? We were two drafted soldiers, caught in a war not of our making. We should have died in that ambush. Even if we had lived, that bastard sergeant would have had us killed by now."
"I don't mean that."
Ha'ark snorted with disdain. "What we were? Not of the upper caste. Students before the war—and if we had lived? Then what? You saw the mangled veterans of the last war, forgotten, disdained because they had fought on the losing side. I'm glad we're here."
"I'm not."
Ha'ark looked at him.
Jamul lowered his head. "This slaughter sickens me.”
Ha'ark laughed. "Life is war, war is life."
"Easy enough for you to say, oh, Redeemer."
Ha'ark bristled at the sarcasm in his voice.
Jamul looked at him. "After all, you are the Redeemer. But the question is, do you really believe it?"
Ha'ark stood and looked down at him.
Jamul smiled. "Remember, I knew you as Ha'ark, a scared recruit, the same as I. Do you really believe what you've become to these primitives?"
"And why not? If the prophecy fits, wear it. We came to this world for a reason and have found it."
Ha'ark nodded toward the encampment spread out in the valley below.
"These are the illustrious ancestors of legend. It was from here that our race sprang while here there was the descent into barbarism. We have come to return them to their rightful place."
"Their destiny, as you call it?" Jamul replied. "You want to unleash them on other worlds?"
"The humans we face. All that I learned and could sense from Schuder. If once we can defeat them here and marshal our forces, in ten, fifteen years we'd be ready to cross to their world, once we've learned the secret of the Tunnel of Light and how to use it."
Jamul did not reply, his gaze fixed upon the fire.
"I cannot accept that we must defeat the humans," he finally said. "Too much has been done by our 'illustrious ancestors,' as you call them, to make it otherwise. But I am weary of it all."
He looked at Ha'ark. "And you, my friend. What have you become? What amazes me is that you actually believe all this. You believe you are the Redeemer."
"There is no alternative but to believe. And is there complaint from you? You are one of the companions."
"Oh, thank you for that."
Ha'ark bristled. "On the day we came here I saw the terror in your eyes. Remember it was I who killed our stupid commander, not you. It was I who remembered enough of the old language to ensure our survival, the overthrow of the last Qar Qarth, the life of luxury you now lead. I do not hear you complain about the concubines, the wealth, even the choice food."
He nodded toward the human limb roasting on a spit over the fire.
"That, at least, has come to trouble me," Jamul replied. "If they have souls, which I am coming to believe, then it is sacrilege to use them as we do."
"It's either that or we die, you and I die," Ha'ark snapped back. "It has been the way of this world for thousands of years. I have asked much in the changing of them. To ask that as well is to go too far."
"It makes them an implacable foe. If we faced such horror we would fight to the death as well."
"They didn't fight until the Yankees came. That proves something to me right there."
"Hans—does he have a soul?"
Ha'ark looked across the open fields to the fort.
Do you? Ha'ark wondered. You've deceived me, you've defeated me throughout this chase. You've been a worthy foe. There was something in the human he even admired, the inability to submit.
“That's not the question now," Ha'ark finally replied. "We must destroy them tomorrow. We must not just destroy them, we must wipe their memory from the face of this world. We've taught our people that the Yankees and the cattle who follow them are possessed by demons, and therefore are foes worthy to fight. We must unleash their hatred and fear. And the Yankees now know of us. Their flyers have at least seen what we are doing. Therefore the war begins."
He studied Jamul carefully.
"I need you and the others to fight this war. There are so many things still to be made, to be improved upon. It will be years, perhaps a generation or more, before we can train the primitives we rule to think as we do, to make machines, to create and control so much of what we left behind from our world. Do you understand that?"
Jamul nodded slowly.
A flurry of rifle fire erupted from the fort, and he looked up to see the pinpoints of light flashing along the parapet and return fire coming from the field.
"Damn it all," said Ha'ark. "If only we could drive our warriors to fight at night. One storming column and we'd be over the parapet and this would be finished. We'll lose twice, three times as many trying to take it in the daylight."
"They're not trained for it anyhow," Jamul replied.
"Neither are the cattle."
"It's going to be carnage out there tomorrow."
"A good blooding for them. Let them taste real action rather than the shams we've been staging."
He surveyed the encampment. Two regiments of his elite umens had come up during the night, along with a battery of thirty-pound guns. The other units could launch the first assaults, a fitting punishment for panicking before the gate and running. And then let them see what well-trained troops could do.
He looked back up at the Wheel and smiled.
"We have indeed come a long way," he whispered.
"Hans?"
Stirring from a dreamless, exhausted sleep, he saw her by his side, sitting up, looking down at him.
"What?" He wanted to tell her to sleep, that the hours till dawn were precious, but then he saw the glimmer of a tear, caught in the reflection of the starlight streaming in through the window.
"Will we live?"
"Of course, Tamira."
She tried to force a smile. "I keep thinking, if it wasn't for me, this never would have happened."
There was no sense in denying the truth of that now. But then again, if it wasn't for her, he would have been dead years ago. It was always to protect her that he had restrained himself from some final act of madness that would have resulted in his death. It was because of her, and especially because of Andrew, that he had agreed to try the escape.
"All those who died," she whispered. "And now, tomorrow, all the people of this town who will die as well."
"We were doomed anyhow. At least we regained our honor, our pride."
"And is that what Andrew will one day die for? If he lives through tomorrow, will he one day be killed anyway?"
He wanted to say no, but he couldn't. How many wars have been fought, he wondered, with those who did the bleeding, the dying, promising themselves that they suffered thus so their children would never know such horror?
"At least we're giving him the chance to live, to be a man, to be free. That's the best we can hope for."
He knew the words were small comfort, but he had never lied to her. He could not bring himself to do it, not with her golden eyes gazing into his soul.
He reached up and brushed the hair off her forehead, and she lay back down, snuggling against him. Why does she love me so? he wondered. I'm an old man, past fifty. She could have had so many others, and yet she chose me.
"I'll always love you," she whispered. "I never knew anyone to be so gentle and yet so strong."
He looked at her and again brushed the lock of unruly hair from her forehead.
"Go to sleep," he whispered.
"I can't."
"And?"
Smiling, she gently wrapped her arms around his shoul
ders and pulled him closer.
"Cast off all lines!"
Andrew felt his stomach knot as the ship began to climb. He closed his eyes, cursing this madness that had seized him and now compelled him to go up in an airship again. In the darkness he could just make out Jack's profile to his left. Behind him he saw Feyodor hunched down in the small aft compartment of the ship. They had argued vehemently over that, Andrew insisting that he sit on the floor and Feyodor arguing just as fiercely that he'd be damned before he'd let his commander sit on the floor. It was Jack who finally settled it, with the statement that he was captain of the ship and Andrew was to have the chair.
"You might as well settle back and get some sleep, sir," Jack said, interrupting Andrew's thoughts. "Six hours till we get there."
"And what about you? You had less than four hours' sleep in the last day and a half."
"What the hell, sir. There's only so many hours. Considering how long I expect to live, I might as well stay awake for most of them."
"I hate dragging you back out like this."
"Let's just hope Flying Cloud can stand it. We've got only three engines now and we're leaking badly. Lose one more and we're in trouble, especially with the wind picking up again from the west. It'll help us get down there, sir, but I ain't too sure about getting her back."
"Well, let's hope this is the last run."
"Do me a favor, sir. Don't put it quite that way," Jack said quietly, and Andrew saw him nervously finger the miniature icon dangling from a cord around his neck. "You make it sound like we're not coming back."
"The way you fly, it's a wonder we ever get back," Feyodor interjected.
Andrew leaned back in the chair, pulling a blanket up around his shoulders, and gradually his thoughts drifted away while Jack and Feyodor continued the argument that had been running for years.
"Sir?"
Hans looked over at Gregory, who was pointing at the railroad embankment and a small triangle of white cloth held aloft by a mounted Bantag.
"Flag of truce?" Gregory asked.
Hans raised his field glasses to study the warrior. Then he saw another rider approaching from behind the rise. It was Ha'ark.
The flag bearer galloped forward and Gregory shouted the command to hold fire. The rider slowed as he approached the moat. It was Karga!
"The Qar Qarth wishes to speak with Schuder."
Hans looked down at him in surprise, not replying.
"Let me just shoot the bastard," Gregory snarled, and a chorus of angry taunts erupted along the wall.
Hans remained silent for a moment, and then a smile creased his features. "Oh, why the hell not? It'll buy us a little more time."
"You're not going out there, are you?"
Hans leaned over the battlement and cupped his hands. "He can meet me halfway. I'll use your horse."
Karga hesitated for a moment, then dismounted.
"Damn it, Hans. He'll get you out there and then spring the attack. You'll be trapped on the outside."
"Maybe, but I doubt it. The bastard's curious about something. And like I said, it'll buy time."
He looked back at Alexi, working feverishly on his contraption.
On his way down the side of the bastion, he motioned for Ketswana and several of his men to follow. He crawled through the wreckage of the gate and slid down the other side, Ketswana following.
"Get some sort of ladder rigged up for when I come back. I don't want to have to crawl up out of the moat, and I might have to move fast."
"Be careful."
Hans patted the revolver tucked into his belt and smiled. Then he slid down the side of the moat, scrambled up the other side, and cautiously approached Karga.
"So your holy one wants to talk and sent his pet to fetch me."
Karga, his features contorted with rage, said nothing, merely extended the reins.
"For what it's worth," Hans said, "there's a hundred rifles aimed at you. Anything happens to me, and you go straight to your ancestors."
"It would be worth it to see you dead."
Hans laughed. "I'll tell you something, though. My friends will find your body, gouge out your eyes, cut off your tongue, and cut off something else as well, so you'll be a blind, dumb eunuch in the next world."
Karga struggled to suppress his rage and fear. "I'll eat your heart for that."
"Stand on line, then. Your false redeemer gets his first chance at that. But I'll tell you what you can eat," and as he finished the description he spurred the mount around and galloped across the field, laughing.
Most of the Bantag dead and wounded had been recovered during the night, but he could see trails of blood and parts of bodies where canister had torn into their ranks. Ha'ark came forward at a canter and Hans slowed his mount, forcing him to come closer. Ha'ark finally stopped fifty yards away.
"So, Hans Schuder, shall we argue about who shall come the last steps?"
"We could. Remember, I've been a sergeant for twenty years, I can shout in hell and still be heard in heaven."
Ha'ark nudged his mount forward and Hans, smiling, did the same.
"I want to offer you terms," Ha'ark said.
Hans continued to smile. "Free passage out of this hellhole is the only terms I'll consider."
"So you expect rescue? Impossible."
"And why not? But we could just simply stay here for a while instead, maybe stir up a rebellion or two."
"I have five regiments ready to assault. If you throw those back, I'll have a full umen by the end of the day, and if need be two umens after that. You know it is useless. You've made an excellent campaign. It has provided good training for my troops. I am impressed, but it is ended."
"Then finish it."
"A waste. I'll lose some good warriors, though the training will be helpful for those who live. I'm offering you and those who escaped with you life."
"As what? Slaves? We'd rather be dead."
Ha'ark stared at him intently and Hans could almost sense a moment of regret. Ha'ark reached into his pocket and Hans stood ready to draw his revolver. Ha'ark slowly withdrew his hand and offered a plug of tobacco.
"Thanks. I've run kind of short, what with all the excitement," Hans said. Tearing off a chew, he held out the rest to Ha'ark.
"Keep it. I'll get it back later."
Hans shook his head.
"We can still call this war off," Hans said. "You know the terms. All humans to be set free. You live where you want. It's that simple."
"And again, no. Your race outnumbers us by ten, maybe a hundred to each of us. How long would it last?"
"Try."
Ha'ark shook his head. "The offer I made is final. Your lives, you return with us. Your wife and child, I give my blood pledge they will never be harmed. Your child will live, Hans, grow, have children of his own, and my pledge will be extended to them as well."
"I'd rather he be dead," Hans said softly, "than to live as a slave."
He could sense some final understanding within his opponent, a smile flickering over Ha'ark's features.
"You'll be worthy opponents, I can see that. There will be glory in this war."
Hans leaned over and spat. "The hell with glory. The fight is for survival and you will lose."
"Even if I do, you'll never live to see it."
"We'll see."
"Then there's nothing more to discuss."
"We could talk about the weather," Hans said dryly.
"And give you more time?" Ha'ark shook his head and started to rein his horse around. Then paused. "By the way, no help is coming. The airship you saw yesterday was destroyed. It went down in flames."
At Hans's expression, Ha'ark smiled. "Ah. So you didn't know?"
"The hell with you," Hans snarled.
Ha'ark studied him intently. "There was someone on that flyer. Wasn't there? Keane, perhaps? The bodies were burned to ashes, but I shall send my men to examine the remains and find the skull of the one with only one arm. It will make an excell
ent feasting cup."
"I'll see you in hell," Hans cried, furious that he had finally lost control.
"Good-bye, Sergeant," Ha'ark said calmly. He held Hans's gaze for another moment, as if regretting the final parting, and then he reined his horse about, dug in his spurs and galloped off.
Hans struggled with the desire to pull out his revolver and shoot the bastard, but in spite of what had been said, the honor of a truce still held sway. Hans turned his own mount as well and started back across the field at a gallop, expecting for them to open fire any second. Reaching the moat, he reined in hard, dismounted, and threw the reins to Karga.
"So he told you?" Karga said with a laugh.
"Get the hell out of here, you lowborn son of a bitch," Hans growled, "before I order you blown apart."
Hans started to slide down into the moat.
"Hans! Cattle scum!"
He turned to see a revolver in Karga's hand, and in that instant a volley erupted from the wall. Dozens of bullets blasted Karga. A shout of joy issued from the fort as the hated overseer was torn apart.
Hans grinned. It was a gift from Ha'ark, he realized. Karga could not have reacted any other way. The humiliation of being taunted from the wall by his former prisoners would have goaded him into it. It was a fitting punishment as well. Hans looked back and saw a lone rider watching in the distance. Ha'ark held up his hand, and Hans returned the gesture.
At that instant the Bantag artillery opened fire. Hans reached the bottom of the moat and scrambled up the other side. The first rounds came screaming in and detonated on the earthen wall to his right.
Ketswana extended his hand, pushing Hans forward and up through the narrow hole in the gate, then scrambling in behind him to slide down into the dirt piled up on the other side. Ducking low, Hans covered his head as a shower of splinters exploded from the gate.
“What did he say?" Ketswana asked, brushing the dirt from Hans's uniform as they ran into the bombproof under the northeast bastion.
Hans struggled to control his features. It must have been a lie. Yet he had seen the damage to the airship as it headed back up into the clouds. Damn it all, Andrew, why did you risk yourself like that? It would be like Ha'ark to say such a thing, if only to unnerve him. But now the doubt was there, the fear that help would never come, and worse, that all he had pinned his hopes on for the survival of the Republic was destroyed as well.
Battle Hymn Page 29
