Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  "It still sticks in my throat," O'Donald snapped in reply, unable to contain himself.

  "They need us as much as we might need them," Kal said, looking back at O'Donald. "We still don't know where the Tugars drifted off to, and there are still the other hordes to the south. Our people need allies if we are to survive in this world."

  Unable to respond to a logical military answer, O'Donald fell quiet.

  The leader of the Roum strode forward, his sharply chiseled features set with an even expression. His eyes were deep-set, nearly hidden by a dark jutting brow and sharp aquiline nose. His bearing was erect, an outward expression of the rigid self-control and regal bearing of a man used to absolute obedience from all who served him. The only mark of emotion was in his gray hawklike eyes, which betrayed open curiosity at Kal's strange garb and appearance.

  Behind Marcus the cohort of troops advanced at a steady rhythmic pace, a near mirror image of the 5th Suzdal, which fell in behind Kal in a regimental front by companies.

  "Good-looking troops he's got," O'Donald said appraisingly. "I'll give the devil that at least."

  "Roman tradition," Andrew replied, trying to contain his inner delight at this formation, which seemed to appear ghostlike out of the lost realm of history. The men were dressed in heavy leather tunics fronted with iron plate, their bronze helmets shining blood-red in the morning sun. Centurions, dressed in red cloaks, marked the pace, barking out commands, knowing they were on parade and ready to show the pride of the Roum off for the strangers who had come out of the west.

  The drum cadence ruffled, and as if guided by a single hand the formation stopped before the standards. Behind Andrew, shouted commands echoed down the Suzdalian formation, which now as if in rivalry came to a halt and as one presented muskets in salute.

  Vincent with sword drawn looked back at Kal, motioning for him to stay in place. He stepped forward and approached Marcus. Bringing his sword up, he saluted.

  "Marcus Licinius Graca, it is my honor to present to you President Kalencka of the Republic of Rus," he said in Latin.

  Andrew smiled at Vincent's fair grasp of Latin, learned at his Quaker school and honed to the needs of his new job. It was one of the reasons he had been appointed ambassador, since besides Andrew and Emil there were only half a dozen other men in the regiment who knew the language at all. The Latin spoken by the Roum was, of course, not the standard textbook version learned out of Caesar's Gallic Wars, it was a far more vulgar form, but across two thousand years the language had changed surprisingly little except for the smattering of Tugar words which seemed to be common to all who lived under the horde.

  He had sent the boy out here to provide military command for the work crew, which was also a fully armed brigade ready to fight at a moment's notice. But beyond all those other qualifications, Andrew realized that Vincent was imbued with the highest ideals of the republic, a fact which he wanted Marcus exposed to from one who held little if any guile in his soul. Perhaps guilelessness was not the best trait for an ambassador to have, but it was a risk worth taking in this delicate opening stage of development for Rus's first alliance.

  Marcus, his features cold and fixed, eyed Kal appraisingly. The two were a marked contrast in rulers. Kal, obviously of peasant stock, his rotund form draped in a rumpled black suit and topped with the slightly ludicrous stovepipe hat, smiled openly at the Roum patrician, who stood before them like a statue come to life from a distant legendary age.

  The two stood in silence for a moment until Kal, breaking the ice, stepped forward, extending his left hand.

  Marcus looked at the empty sleeve, and his features lightened even as he took Kal's hand.

  In Latin, he said, "Your arm—no one ever told me. It is gone, like Keane's," and as he spoke he looked over at Andrew and smiled.

  Andrew and Marcus had met on several occasions, when negotiations for trade and military alliance between the two peoples had first started. Between them a friendship had started to form, the bond of two men who knew command.

  "President Kalencka lost his arm defending Suzdal against the Tugars," Andrew interjected.

  "Then he is a warrior like you," Marcus replied approvingly, looking at Kal with respect.

  "Nothing like being a war hero to impress the people," Kal said openly, sensing the nature of the exchange between Marcus and Andrew.

  "It helps," Andrew responded.

  "Well, let's get on to the signing then," Kal interjected and with a smile motioned to the table set up on the roadbed.

  The diminutive president and the consul walked over to the table, covered with purple cloth upon which were spread two documents, one in the Cyrillic script of the Rus, the other in Latin.

  Marcus, taking a proffered quill from Vincent, signed his name across the bottom of each, and then Kal, a bit self-consciously, simply drew his mark, a stylized mouse, an action Marcus watched with interest.

  "You cannot write?" Marcus asked, again in Latin.

  Again Kal, sensing the meaning of the Latin, looked up at the consul.

  "I was merely a peasant before the coming of the Yankees. But they made me, made all of us, men who are free, equal, and no longer cattle of the Tugars. I am learning to write, but I still prefer the mark of my nickname—the Mouse."

  Andrew quickly translated. It was not the most diplomatic of replies, Andrew instantly realized. The Roum had successfully repulsed the tattered remnants of the Tugars without benefit of the social revolution the Rus had undergone first. Marcus, as a member of the ruling caste, though joyful at the overthrow of his old overlords, was evidently not pleased at what the broader social implications the Republic of Rus represented. It was an issue which Andrew had been forced to negotiate with finesse. The treaty just signed, he had to remember, was an agreement between two independent peoples, for mutual protection, the opening of free trade, and transit rights for the railroad to continue eastward. The agreement had been reached in a letter of protocol a year ago, but this day, when the first length of iron would be laid in Roum territory, was a fitting time to bring the leaders of both countries together for a more formal signing. Andrew repeatedly had to emphasize to Marcus that it was not the harbinger of an ongoing revolution, which some of the more radical elements in the Rus Republican Party advocated in their call for a program of Manifest Destiny. His concern was that Kal himself advocated such an ideal. In his heart he knew that Marcus realized that this over time would be a threat as perilous as the Tugars.

  "If you lost your arm in fighting the Tugars, you are surely the equal of anyone," Marcus finally replied, looking down at Kal and smiling, and Andrew winced inwardly at the subtle implication.

  Kal winked knowingly at Andrew as he translated, and not taking offense, he again offered his hand to Marcus, who, finally smiling at last, grasped it with both of his own and then held it aloft.

  A wild shout went up from the Roum soldiers drawn up behind him.

  "Run up those rails," Kal shouted, looking over at the work gang, who stood to one side, waiting expectantly.

  With practiced skill a work team brought up four sections of rail and slapped them down on their stringers. Hammers rang out as spikes were driven into place. The first set of rails crossed onto the bridge, with two more laid out in front, A heavy two-handed sledge was brought to Kal, who awkwardly grabbed hold.

  Following one of the workers' lead, Marcus stepped over to the track, where a spike was already set. With a powerful swing, Marcus brought the hammer up and slammed it down, driving the spike in nearly to its head with a single blow. An appreciative shout went up from the road crew. Kal, stepping up to Marcus's side, lifted his own hammer up, and an expectant hush came over the Rus workers. The hammer arced down, striking hard on the spike head, driving it the rest of the way in, and a wild flurry of shouts rose up.

  "Regiment poise muskets!" Vincent shouted, and as one the five hundred men raised their pieces heavenward.

  "Take aim!"

  "Fire!"


  A perfectly timed volley snapped out, counterpointed by the blast of a dozen four-pounders from two Rus batteries fired in unison, while Ferguson cut loose with the Malady's shrill whistle. The Roum cohort broke ranks at the volley, the men drawing back, shouting with fear. Marcus, who Andrew had made sure had seen such a demonstration before, barely flinched, but the touch of fear was still evident. Thinking quickly, Andrew stepped forward and with a flourish unholstered his revolver, pointed it skyward, and handed it to Marcus.

  The consul grasped the weapon and then, turning to face his command, fired off six shots into the air, and at the sight of their commander, the cohort first fell silent and then, cheering, broke ranks and rushed forward to surround their leader, while the Suzdalian regiment, breaking ranks as well, surged in.

  "Good hammer swing, Kal," O'Donald shouted, pushing through the crowd.

  "Been practicing for weeks," Kal replied, obviously pleased with himself, as the men from both sides intermingled, the railroad work gang surging in to join the celebration.

  "This party's going to ruin the work schedule for the rest of the day," Vincent ventured glumly as he sheathed his sword and came up by his father-in-law's side.

  "Relax, son," O'Donald shouted, trying to be heard above the roaring crowd. "The boys need a day off."

  "That Roum wine of theirs is near as bad as your damnable vodka. The men will be useless tomorrow."

  "Ah, still trying to be a temperance man, I see," O'Donald laughed. "And you the best killer and swearer of the lot."

  Vincent looked at O'Donald coldly.

  "It's all right, laddie, some of it you couldn't help. But don't worry about the boys—they'll be back on the line tomorrow."

  "I was hoping to be into Hispania by this evening," Vincent said glumly. "Ferguson's got a little surprise cooked up for us."

  Ferguson, the young engineering student who was the driving force behind so many of the technological innovations that had saved Rus, pushed his way through the crowd.

  "Don't worry, sir, I had some of it brought here," Ferguson ventured, stepping forward, and with a smile he nodded to Marcus. The consul and the engineer stepped off to one side, chatting amiably in Latin, the consul obviously friendly to the young soldier, who must appear to the Roum to have the mind and spirit of a magician.

  Marcus beckoned to one of his officers, who approached the table nervously, gingerly carrying a wooden board upon which rested a hammer and a small pile of white crystals.

  The officer placed it on the table where the treaty had just been signed and drew back hastily.

  "All right, Ferguson, what've you been up to?" Andrew asked, knowing that another surprise was about to be sprung on all of them.

  Ferguson, smiling as if he held a great secret, walked up to the table and took up the mallet.

  "Just watch this!"

  With a sharp quick movement, he snapped the hammer down onto the pile of crystals. A snap of light shot out with an explosive crack. With a yelp, Ferguson jumped back, madly patting at the smoldering flame which had ignited his jacket sleeve.

  "Percussion explosives!" O'Donald roared with delight, rushing forward to help Ferguson put out the fire. "By God, we can finally put friction primers on our field pieces."

  "And get rid of those damn flintlocks for percussion caps on the muskets," Hans growled.

  Ferguson looked back at Andrew with obvious pleasure, just waiting for the questions.

  "All right," Andrew finally ventured, "just how the hell did you come up with this one?"

  "It's Marcus's silver mine above their town of Hispania," Ferguson replied. "Something in the back of my mind kept playing on how the old Romans, with their silver mines in Spain, also got quicksilver, mercury, from the same place.

  "Well, that started me to thinking some more. So last time I was up here I spent a couple of days experimenting— that's how me and Marcus—excuse me, the consul and I—got to know each other," and as he spoke he looked over at Marcus, who smiled in agreement.

  "He is a wizard," Marcus said in Latin with an evident note of respect.

  "I didn't want to get anyone's hope up, so I kept it quiet. I knew our musket caps were made of fulminate of mercury—it's just getting the fulminate part down so the stuff would explode when hit.

  "Anyhow, I finally got it figured out. I think, sir, we could arrange a little trade agreement on their mercury and in short order we can reconvert all our shoulder weapons."

  "Well, thank heavens the Roum have copper and tin— you'll be able to make caps for the muskets," Hans stated, full of enthusiasm. "The supply of caps left for our own Springfields and revolvers was damn near depleted as is."

  "And metal for bronze guns," O'Donald said glowingly.

  "Damn me, I always did prefer good bronze Napoleons to iron guns."

  The mention of copper pulled Andrew's thoughts back from the delight of those around him. In the spring after the war trade ships had ventured out to make the first run down to Cartha, and they had not returned.

  Throughout the summer, more ships had ventured forth, until finally in late autumn, one had returned, badly damaged, with word that they had been attacked by Cartha ram ships.

  So apparently the sea power to the south had adopted a belligerent stance. He could see the logic to it. The southern horde would be approaching that city this coming fall, if reports were correct, and undoubtedly they had been ordered to cut all contact with the renegade Rus to the north.

  That had been his one overriding concern. The Tugars, he felt, would not be back—they had tried to attack the Roum and were driven off, and all contact had been lost with them. But the southern horde, moving across the steppe over seven hundred miles to the south, was a potential threat if they should ever decide to turn north. The defensive lines he was laying out a hundred miles southwest of Roum would be ready by then, but without Roum manpower as a backup if the Merki horde should turn north, he knew the situation would be desperate.

  But there had been something else to the tale the survivors of the Cartha attack brought back that was far more disturbing. They claimed to have seen, as darkness had fallen, a large three-masted ship on the horizon, trailing smoke. The Ogunquit.

  Nothing had been heard of Tobias since his defection. Andrew had half hoped that the recalcitrant captain would return. There'd be a chewing-out to be sure, but in all honesty he couldn't blame him for running; the battle was lost, and aboard ship he had a means of escape.

  That was the other thought that had bothered him ever since. If Tobias had not returned, then what exactly was he up to?

  "Some wine?" Marcus asked in Latin, coming up beside Andrew and holding out a silver goblet.

  Andrew took the drink and tried to force a smile.

  Chapter Two

  The humiliation burned into his soul, tearing his heart, which he felt could not bear yet another pain. Muzta Qar Qarth, leader of the Tugar horde, stood alone upon the bow of the ship crossing the narrows of the inland sea.

  Qar Qarth, he thought coldly, leader of a horde that is no more. Once his warriors were as numberless as the stars in the heavens, as powerful as the wind that flashed with the light of the everlasting fire of heaven, as terrifying in battle as Bugglaah, Goddess of Death, who did his bidding and slaughtered all who opposed him.

  And now they were gone, the power, the majesty, of the Tugar horde, reduced to a starving, tattered remnant; reduced by cattle.

  He turned to look back at the Merki escort who stood at the stern of the ship. The Horde of the Red Sun, across the endless generations the hated foe whom his father before him had bested at Orki, with Qubata at his side.

  "My old friend Qubata, would you have counseled me to this path?" Muzta whispered.

  "My lord, did you say something?"

  Muzta looked over at the arrogant young Merki who came up to stand behind him.

  With a growl, Muzta shook his head.

  Others had noticed it, this talking to Qubata, as if his old g
raying friend still rode by his side. In a way he did, Muzta thought, letting the faintest of smiles crease his features. What would Qubata now counsel in this final humiliation?

  He would tell him to do this, for there was no other path to survival for now.

  After the debacle before Rus, the fewer than thirty thousand warriors who had survived, with the vast numbers of women and children, who had providentially been out of the path of the flood, had moved east and south. He had agreed to let the healers of cattle, given by the Yankee Keane, to go beyond him, to stop the spread of the pox. But for the Tugars, starvation had dogged their tracks. Humiliation had been compounded when the Roum, having learned of the success of the Rus, blocked his advance beyond the realm's outlying villages, refusing even to barter for food. To continue on would be senseless; the taking of every people, the Roum, the Kan and Kathi, and the races beyond, would wear his people away to nothing. For the wanderers had gone ahead of them, spreading the word about the world how cattle had fought and won.

  His only hope was to somehow find safe haven, to find a place where the children of the horde could come of age, to fill out again the empty ranks, to give unto his one surviving son a people who might one day be masters again.

  And then had come the envoys of the Merki horde, appearing before him like gloating vultures. Telling him to appear at the cattle city of Cartha under the protection of blood bond to appear before Jubadi Qar Qarth. If he refused, his people would be annihilated. His followers were now a thousand miles away, encamped in a circle of high hills, living off their own horseflesh and cattle they could catch unaware, awaiting the return of their Qar Qarth with word either of haven or of death.

  The boat continued to rock beneath his feet, and he felt a strange turning of his stomach. He had always hated water. The Tugars' march had carried them around the great waters, unlike the march of the southern hordes, who were forced at several points, such as this one, to rely on cattle to ferry them across.