Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  "His men made it for me," Jubadi announced proudly.

  A thundering boom started to echo down the vast shed with a rumble like a thousand war drums, and Muzta looked around nervously.

  "The tilt hammers," Tobias announced, and he continued down the vast length of the shed and stopped before a series of man-size hammers that slowly rose up and then dropped down, striking sheets of hot metal, sending out vast showers of red-hot sparks. Crews of Cartha laborers moved the metal with heavy tongs. As the group watched, a gang of workers lifted one sheet off, carried it over to a blazing kiln, and slid the metal inside, while another crew took a red-hot sheet and maneuvered it between two stone rollers. As if moved by unseen hands, the rollers started to turn. The red-hot iron passed between the rollers, flattening out into a long sheet. Tobias led the group around to the other side, where another team of workers stood ready, pulling the sheet over to a long table, where they started to trim the edges, squaring it off, while others, with heavy hammers and spikes, proceeded to punch holes around the sides of the glowing sheet.

  "One-inch armor plating for the Ogunquit, and the other gunships," Tobias announced proudly.

  "It is hellish, this Yankee creation," Muzta whispered, unable now to hide the fear.

  "I thought the same," Jubadi replied, looking over at Muzta. "Yet it is now a hell I control."

  Tobias turned away from the rollers and continued on to where a vast bed of sand was laid out on the floor. To one side a tower of dried clay rose up higher than Muzta could reach, its sides as thick as the body of a horse. Above the clay tower a dozen Cartha laborers stood on a platform maneuvering a heavy dark ladle into place. The ladle tipped over, and out poured a river of molten iron.

  Muzta looked over at Tobias with an inquisitive gaze.

  "Show him the result of this," Jubadi announced, and pointed to an open door flanked by half a dozen guards of the Vushka.

  Grateful to be escaping the scorching heat, Muzta went through the doorway, gasping for breath. The noonday heat of Cartha now seemed cool by comparison.

  He paused for a moment in wonder as he turned and looked at the long line of wooden wheels, each nearly twenty feet high, that lined the side of building. Inside each of the wheels, dozens of naked cattle walked endlessly, as if they were trying to climb the inside of the wheel, which kept turning, defeating them in their purpose. For a moment Muzta looked at the strange procession as if the men were mad. Why would anyone walk inside a wheel?

  "We use manpower to turn the wheels that power our machinery," Tobias said. "We've got two thousand of them at this day and night. Eventually I'll get steam to do it for us."

  Muzta still did not understand, but he hid his confusion and turned away.

  Walking down the length of the building, Muzta tried to block out the sour stench of the laboring cattle. The smell and desiccated look of his old food made his stomach want to rebel.

  The courtyard outside the factory was aswarm with workers. A high earthen ramp led up one side of the building. An endless procession of laborers walked up the ramp with woven baskets on their shoulders. As each reached the top he handed the basket to another who emptied the contents into a smoking hole, which Muzta reasoned must be the top of the furnace out of which the iron came from.

  "We have to ship in the charcoal from the southern forests, the ore from nearly a hundred miles away. I've got at least five thousand men working on this," and Tobias's voice was filled with pride.

  Muzta looked around appraisingly. There was a lot here that was missing from the old Yankee factories which he had surveyed after they surrounded Rus. Somehow the Rus works seemed more mysterious. There were no strips of iron laid on the ground here with the fire-breathing machines, the great water wheels were driven instead by sweating cattle, yet there was power here nevertheless.

  "You are making thundermakers," Muzta announced, knowing he'd be a fool not to see the obvious.

  Jubadi laughed.

  "Let's go back to your ship, Tobias."

  As they made their way back down to the dock, Muzta kept silent, cursing himself inwardly. If he had but known the true power of the Yankee weapons he would have done such as this. But damn them, all the Merki now had the advantage from his mistakes.

  Reaching the ship, Tobias strode up the gangplank. A strange shrieking rent the air, and Muzta looked around suspiciously as he stepped aboard and saw the blue-clad cattle standing rigid before him, one with a curious pipe to his lips. Tobias saluted the red-and-white striped flag with a blue square filled with stars floating on a pole above the stem. But Muzta barely noticed that.

  His eyes looked greedily at the long line of thundermakers lining the deck. Behind each of the weapons stood four cattle.

  "Six-pound iron field pieces," Tobias announced. "Freshly made here by the Carthas," and he looked over at Hamil-car, who had been silent throughout the tour but now let a look of pride light his features.

  "My Qarths," Hamilcar announced, pointing over the side of the ship. A small battered craft was anchored in the middle of the northern harbor, a hundred yards away.

  A thunderous crack echoed down the ship. All the old horrors came rushing back, and Muzta recoiled with barely concealed terror, thankful for the cloud of sulfurous smoke that enveloped him to hide the fear in his eyes. As the smoke cleared he saw a geyser of spray kicking up around the vessel, showers of splinters boiling up into the air.

  The smoke blew away, and the Cartha cattle around him cheered lustily. The small boat bobbed and swayed in the foaming water, and ever so slowly started to settle.

  Muzta started to turn away.

  "We are not done yet," Jubadi said calmly, nodding to Tobias. The Yankee nodded, and leaning over an open hatchway he waved his hand.

  "Number one fire!" Tobias roared.

  Stunned, Muzta grabbed hold of the ship's railing as the entire vessel seemed to surge as if a giant had struck it with a hammer. A fountain of smoke cascaded out from beneath his feet, illuminated by a slash of fire. An instant later the target ship seemed to lift into the air, its back broken.

  "Numbers two and three fire!"

  Two more shots screamed downrange. One of them smashed through the vessel's stern, ripping it clean off in a shower of splinters. Muzta could see the other shot continue on, striking the water once and then again several hundred yards away, the ocean erupting from the impact, and then it disappeared from view.

  "Such power," Jubadi whispered.

  "The guns are the most powerful in the world, my lord," Tobias announced proudly. "Fifty-pounders. The four-pounders the Tugars faced are as nothing compared to what I have created."

  "How many so far?" Jubadi asked.

  "Fifteen, my lord. We'll have thirty by the time we sail. Along with two that can shoot a hundred-pound ball."

  "What have you done to this ship?" Muzta asked, unable to hide his curiosity.

  "We cut off the entire top deck and dropped the masts," Tobias said proudly, as if lecturing a group of admirers. "Beneath your feet is a gun deck running a hundred and thirty feet in length, sheathed with two inches of iron, backed by nearly two feet of wood. The ship will mount five guns on each broadside and one heavy gun forward and another aft. The sides, as you can see, are sloped to cause shot to rebound away, and up forward is a metal ram."

  "Tell him of the other ships," Jubadi said proudly.

  "I'm building eighteen gunboats. Each one will carry a single fifty-pound piece inside an armored housing, and there will be two boats that can carry heavy mortars."

  "Mortars?" Muzta asked. It was hard enough to understand the Yankee's terrible accent; the strange words he said made it nearly impossible.

  "Short fat cannons that will hurl hundred-pound balls filled with exploding powder up to four miles. We have a way to make exploding shells, like the ones you saw used by the guns the Yankees brought with them."

  "The powder?" Muzta asked.

  "The Yankees had traded some of it to us before the
war started," Hamilcar announced. "We bribed a Suzdalian merchant to reveal the secret to us and were already making it before the Namer of Time had even come."

  Muzta looked over at Jubadi and allowed the slightest of smiles to cross his features. So the Carthas were thinking of fighting you as well, he thought with a certain satisfaction. Too bad they didn't have enough courage to do it.

  "You have served me well," Jubadi said quietly. "All of you may go now. I want this ship to myself."

  Tobias looked at the two for a moment, and Muzta could sense the slightest edge of resentment in this one. Hamilcar stood in silence and with a bow turned away, Tobias following in his wake. From below deck a swarm of Cartha gunners came up, looking at Jubadi and Muzta with outright awe as they filed off the vessel.

  "You are too stiff-necked," Hamilcar whispered as he and Tobias alighted on the dock.

  "Without us, the bastards would have none of this," Tobias hissed softly. "They should realize that."

  "They know that. And I know that the Merki are not as foolish as the Tugars. They placed their best umen here to ensure we would not arm against them. We must play their game, and above all else not arouse their ire. Learn that, Tobias, if you wish to survive, for if you should turn them against us I'll kill you myself."

  "I am under his protection," Tobias snapped.

  "They will not be here forever," Hamilcar retorted as he stalked away.

  "What the hell was that about?"

  Tobias turned and smiled as Jim Hinsen, with Jamie swaggering by his side, came up to stand beside him.

  Tobias looked over at the young infantryman, the only member of the 35th who had joined him when he fled Rus. The boy had proved himself well enough. The information he had gleaned about manufacturing of powder and guns had been invaluable. Tobias sensed from the beginning that this one had the instincts of a cat and would always land on his feet, no matter what the situation.

  "That Hamilcar is running too scared of Jubadi, that's all." Tobias snorted.

  "I still wouldn't cross either him or the Merki," Hinsen said.

  "With the Ogunquit fully armed, I'll play their game," Tobias replied, "I'll play it just as he wants it, but don't forget we have our own plans as well."

  Tobias looked back to the deck where Jubadi and Muzta stood alone.

  "I still don't trust the bastards," Tobias whispered.

  "You shouldn't trust anyone," Jamie replied, the thinnest of smiles crossing his features. "Especially them human-eating devils. Come along—I've got a powerful thirst, and by God's hairy ass a need to sheathe myself as well."

  Tobias looked over disdainfully at the pirate and walked away, Hinsen and Jamie following in his wake and laughing softly over some private joke.

  He wanted to look back, to rebuke them, for he could sense they were laughing at him, but said nothing as he stalked away.

  Muzta watched in silence as the cattle turned away from the dock and disappeared up the alleyway that led back to the foundry.

  "Do you really trust them?" Muzta asked as if to himself.

  Jubadi laughed darkly. "About as much as I trust you," he said evenly.

  Muzta did not reply. The reason why he had been summoned to this parley would now be revealed, but he wished not to divulge that he was in a hurry.

  Turning away from Jubadi, he strode down the length of the ship, which was cut flat from bow to stem except for a single funnel for the steam engine, a small open pilot house, and half a dozen horn-shaped vents which forced air below. The deck was covered with iron plates like the one he had seen being forged in the mill. That in itself was a mystery. By what witchery could these Yankee cattle make a thing of iron float on water? The thundermakers along the deck were larger than the ones he remembered from the Yankees, and looking at them closely he saw that the metal-working was cruder, the barrels were rough-shaped, thicker. Going up to the edge of the railing, he looked over the side of the ship, which sloped outward as it reached the water. The sides were shrouded with the iron plates as well, and he realized at once that this vessel had been rebuilt to go against the Yankees—what other purpose could it possibly serve?—and his pulse quickened.

  Going over to a hatchway, he scrambled down below and felt a cold surge of uneasiness. The gun deck was gloomy, lit only by narrow shafts of sunlight coming down through the occasional breaks of open grating above his head. The heat was stifling, the stench of gunsmoke so heavy in the air he thought he would choke. Panting, he gasped for breath, his tongue lolling out in the boiling heat. The deck was made for cattle, not Tugars. He wanted to get out from the killing heat, but curiosity drove him into the darkness. Squatting down on his haunches Muzta crawled forward. The thunder-maker before him filled him with a near-reverent awe.

  The barrel was of iron, and at a glance he estimated it must weigh twenty, maybe even fifty times as much as the thundermakers on deck. Round iron balls were lined up in a rack along the bulkhead. Crawling over, he hefted one up, and the muscles in his arm tightened.

  "By Bugglaah," he whispered, "if such could have served me."

  His imagination raced. With such weapons as these he could have smashed the Yankees down, rending their city to splinters. The thought of Jubadi's now possessing such power sickened him. He placed the cannonball back on the rack. Settling back, he looked down the length of the gun deck, his eyes growing accustomed to the gloom. There were ten such guns down here. Up forward he saw one nearly twice as big as the others, and he crawled up to the massive weapon and sat down beside it, his heart pounding. Is this what war has become? he wondered darkly. Buildings of cattle turning out things that could strike down a man at ten times the range of an arrow? It made him feel sick.

  He sat in silence for long minutes, letting all that he had seen be absorbed. There were paths within paths here, plans weaving around yet other plans.

  "So what would you now counsel, my good Qubata?" Muzta whispered, and a sad smile crossed his features as the first shadows of answers began at last to form.

  Jubadi rose up with a languid air from where he had been leaning against the ship's railing as Muzta reemerged upon the deck. With a friendly gesture he beckoned for Muzta to join him under an awning at the stern of the ship, where a table had been set out. Taking off his helmet, Jubadi settled down on a saddlelike chair. Reaching over the side of the vessel, he pulled a line up, on the end of which dangled a heavy sealed crock. Pulling the lid open, Jubadi poured out a long draft of fermented horse milk into two cattle-skull goblets.

  With a sigh of relief, Muzta took the goblet, nodding to the west as he poured out a small libation. Raising the skull up without any hint of ceremony, he drained the contents off in a single gulp, absorbing the cooling draft with relish. Without hesitating he took the heavy crock and poured another drink.

  "How you people stand this heat is beyond me," Muzta growled as he drained off the second drink with almost as much dispatch as the first.

  "How you stand your damned frozen north is a mystery to me as well. Anyhow, it is better than the Bantag realms."

  "Ah yes, the Bantag," Muzta said, looking over at his host. "I think in the end all of this revolves around the Bantag."

  "Our sires, our grandsires unto countless generations, have fought," Jubadi said, the faintest of smiles lighting his features as if recounting a treasured memory.

  "As it has always been, for what is the source of pride, the reason for our existing, but to show the strength of our arms?"

  "And that strength is gone, my old enemy," Jubadi replied.

  Muzta started to bristle, but he sensed no taunting in Jubadi's voice.

  "For how else could we prove our valor, our strength, our pride," Jubadi continued, "but by the crossing of swords, of Tugar against Merki, of Merki against Bantag? For are we not of the same race? Has it not always been such even in the days of our father gods who walked between the stars?"

  Muzta nodded slowly in agreement. Across the circling of his youth, and after the las
t great war, had not the nightly fire been kindled and burned to the singsong chant of the legend keepers, recounting the tales of valor? Had he not dreamed in his youth that when he too should fly westward, when he reposed in the heavens of the endless steppe, he would hear at night the chants of his people below, singing yet new songs of his own valor when he had walked among them as their Qar Qarth?

  "We could crush you now," Jubadi said, his voice distant and cold. "You are burdened down. For every warrior you have, there are twenty children to be fed. Even your women now ride as hunters. I can send forth my Vushka Hush to ride like the wind. Your people could not hide forever— within a year we would find you and slay all that remained. I could send forth but two umens to range ahead, to sweep north and east, and in the end we would catch you in our net, for my warriors could cover in but a day what your yurts could travel in four.

  "I need but to reach out my hand and the memory of the Tugar race will disappear forever. Your ancestors before you, their spirits would then disappear, for no more would the songs of their people rise up at night to give them renewed strength. So that even in the endless steppe of the western sky the name of the Tugars would be forgotten."

  "Then why don't you?" Muzta growled. "Or do the Bantag to the south press you too hard?"

  Jubadi looked over at Muzta with surprise, and the Qar Qarth of the Tugars smiled for the first time, knowing he had caught his rival off guard.

  "I know that you lost against them early last spring near the crossing narrows of the salt sea far west of here and only by a ruse did you destroy their elite umen and force but a temporary withdrawal."

  "Do the ears and eyes of Muzta have wings?" Jubadi asked.

  "Remember always the cattle known as Wanderers," Muzta replied softly. "I have learned that they are more than just a nuisance, like flies buzzing about our ears. The word of what happens passes between their lips like the wind.

  "Word of victory runs fast, but the news of defeat has wings," Muzta went on evenly. "We have both had troubles, Jubadi Qar Qarth."

  "But my inconvenience was at the hands of the Chosen Race, not cattle," Jubadi snarled. "Remember, Muzta, you can be smashed by my merest whim."