Union Forever

by William R. Forstchen

  "Damn them all," Marcus growled. Cocking a musket, he looked up over the wall. Vincent scrambled over to the dying private, pulled the musket from his hand, and stood up to join Marcus.

  The square below was packed with a wave rushing forward, bypassing the opening into the courtyard and hitting the north and south sections instead. Ladders were raised, men scrambling up.

  Vincent leaned over, pointing his musket straight into the face of an advancing Cartha, who looked up at him with desperate terror-filled eyes. Vincent squeezed the trigger. The man tumbled over, taking the ladder with him. Marcus fired a second later, dropping a man who with musket raised was preparing to shoot back.

  The rest of the Suzdalians in the room poured out a hail of fire, but the Carthas kept coming, pushing the ladders back, scrambling up as the defenders paused to reload. The first man gained the top, leaping into the breach in the wall. One of Marcus's servants drove in low with a makeshift pike, slamming the man in the stomach, pushing him back over the wall.

  "They're on the roof!"

  Vincent turned and looked up to the hole in the ceiling. A Cartha stood above him, musket aimed straight at his chest. He felt as if the moment was an eternity, the payment of all his sins coming to fruition at last. The hammer of the musket slammed down, emitting a shower of sparks. Nothing happened. Shaking, he just stood there looking up at the man above him not twenty feet away.

  To his absolute amazement, the Cartha lowered his weapon, looking at the open room now exposed to the mist and the drizzle. A curious smile lit his features, and raising his hand, he waved, as if offering an apology for having just tried to kill Vincent, and then ducked out of view.

  All around him men were pulling back, running for the doorway into the next room. Marcus, oblivious to the threat from above and behind, had already reloaded, and as the next man appeared in the gap in the wall he shot him at point-blank range, the hair on the man's head exploding into flames from the hot discharge of the weapon.

  "Get back!" Vincent screamed, grabbing Marcus by the shoulder. Marcus turned, looking at him as if he had been disturbed from an enjoyable pastime.

  "Above us!" Vincent screamed, looking back up to see another Cartha bringing his musket up. Throwing aside his musket, Vincent pulled out his revolver and fired wildly, causing the man to duck.

  "Let's go!"

  Together the two ran for the doorway, where already the men were reforming the next line of defense. Stepping into the momentary protection, Vincent went over to the opposite wall facing the courtyard.

  "My God, they're in the courtyard!"

  Below was a scene of mad confusion, barely visible in the dark billowing smoke and hissing steam as the light rain continued to fall. Men struggled hand to hand in the rubble, slashing at each other with lowered bayonets, wrestling their foes to the ground, grabbing fragments of polished marble, smashing them down on their screaming opponents. Knives flickered in the fireglow, carving into human flesh. For a moment he saw Dimitri, regimental flag by his side, holding the broken stock of a musket, using it as a club, desperately swinging, holding back two Carthas who kept coming in low with leveled bayonets, looking for an opening.

  Gazing down from above, he felt as if he were looking straight into the lower depths of hell.

  A bullet slapped into the wall beside him, spraying his face with fragments, and everything turned red. Gasping, he staggered back, terrified to open his eyes. Hands grabbed hold of his, forcing them away.

  Dimly he could see Marcus looking at him.

  "Can you see me, son?" In spite of his pain he found for the first time a warmth in the cold stoic consul he had worked so hard to reach. The man gazed at him, frightened.

  Vincent fumbled in his pocket for his sweaty handkerchief. As he wiped the blood from his eyes he felt as if his face had been washed in fire.

  Pulling the handkerchief away, Marcus took it and gently wiped his face, shaking his head.

  "You're going to look like a demon of the underworld after this," Marcus said. "You'll scare your children to death when you get home."

  "Home?" Vincent started to laugh, looking back out to the madness in the courtyard below as the Carthas steadily pushed their way into the palace.

  "If Hulagar discovers this?"

  "Shut up about Hulagar," Vuka laughed. "I just want to see what the sport is. It's never been my pleasure to see cattle slaying cattle."

  Tamuka, shield-bearer of Vuka, looked about nervously. These new smoke killers of the cattle left him uneasy. Cattle were without teeth, to be grazed and fattened for the kill. He did not like this thing that they could now do. Though the Tugar were unclean, they were still of the horse, the ever-circling riders of Valennia, who would at least ascend to the everlasting sky as servants to the Merki. Cattle would return to the dust that they came from, or go to the afterworld as food for the feasting tables. It was not right to make of them one who could kill even one of the Vushka Hush.

  Tamuka drew his bow, nocking an arrow, slinging his quiver around from its riding position on his back to down alongside his hip. The escort around them, seeing his action, followed suit.

  "We were strictly ordered not to let the cattle of Roum see us. You are here to observe how this cattle weapon fighting is done, not to play in it as well."

  "I am sick of hiding from the vermin," Vuka barked. "I am the Zan, heir to the Qar Qarth. It is Hulagar who should take orders from me. He is not even of the Golden Blood. There is blood being spilled, and I wish to wet my blade."

  The escort laughed at Vuka's words, and Tamuka bristled. Holding down a curse, Tamuka fell in by Vuka's left side, watching intently as they clattered through the gates of the city.

  A sharp continual thunder rolled across the city. Streaks of flame rose up from the center of town, marking where the palace was being stormed.

  "Shall we go, my friends?" Vuka said, pointing toward the center of the city.

  Tamuka pushed his horse in front of Vuka and turned.

  "My lord, I cannot allow it."

  "Out of my way," Vuka said, his voice oily and dark, "or are you a coward?"

  There was an expectant hush. Tamuka had been accused —by right he could draw sword. All knew he could defeat Vuka, yet all knew as well he could not, for he was sworn to protect Vuka with his very life.

  "My lord, I am going to give you a choice," Tamuka said quietly. "If you ride in there and the Yankees see you, I must face Hulagar, shield-bearer of your father. He will surely take my head for allowing this to happen, and I will submit. If you must ride in, then strike me down first."

  Vuka looked around at his followers, who gazed at him intently. Tamuka could see that more than one would be indifferent if he should die. Several looked straight at Tamuka, and he could see agreement in their eyes especially from Kan, Vuka's youngest brother. Vuka as well could see it and cursed quietly.

  "If you must see something," Tamuka reasoned, knowing that Vuka would indeed strike him if he did not desist, "then go down to the wharfs. There was a flurry of fighting there, at least."

  Wordlessly Vuka nodded and turned his horse aside.

  "My lord."

  "What is it."

  "My honor demands that you retract your words," Tamuka said, forcing a winning smile. "You were hot for blood, you smell battle, one can get excited. But I must have my honor if I am to ride beside you."

  "You are with honor," Vuka said, a bit too quickly. The tension of the group slipped away.

  "I think this way will lead to the docks," Tamuka announced, pointing down a side alleyway.

  Spurring his mount, Vuka set out.

  "You test me at times, my shield-bearer," Vuka snapped as he cantered off.

  "As a shield-bearer must," Tamuka said under his breath. Especially for one as impetuous as you, he thought safely to himself. It was an assignment traditional to his family, which was trained not in arms as much as in wisdom and the thinking of ka-tu, the path of knowing. It was they who rode by the cl
an leaders, the commanders of the umens, and the members of the Golden Blood. Often they drifted in the paths of right thinking, the leaving of the body to gain knowledge. It was claimed by some, the masters of the old order, that they could at times even learn to decipher the mystery writings of the ancient ones, the star-walking gods, fathers of all who rode the endless steppe. The Golden Blood ruled, but it was clan of the white, the holders of the ka-tu, who thought. The bond was far more than that of a warrior protecting his lord. It was to be the voice of wisdom as well, to stop them from the madness of blood that power gave.

  Hulagar would not have slain him, he thought with a smile. That was merely an idle threat. In fact, there was really nothing Hulagar could do to Vuka, other than to intimidate him by his presence. But it had worked, and he smiled.

  Vuka might eventually become a Qar Qarth worthy of the name, but he prayed to his ka that that day would be long in coming.

  Even as he pondered he cautiously watched the streets. Never before had he ridden into a cattle city and not seen the terror and obeisance. At their approach the cattle scattered. But after their passage the street filled behind them, and the sight made him uneasy.

  In their barbaric tongue he heard the word "Tugar," over and over, and there was a sinister tone to their voices that was chilling.

  Vuka galloped ahead, threatening with his sword, clearing the way. A woman dressed in nothing more than filthy rags refused to give way, raising her clenched fist. With a backhanded swing Vuka cut her in half, and laughing rode on. The others, as if seeing this as permission to kill cattle, after the long months of restraint under pain of death among the Carthas, now laid to, laughing at the sport.

  Tamuka knew the enormity of this mistake, but there was nothing to do but ride after Vuka.

  Clearing the end of the lane, they turned into a broad boulevard facing out into the river. Dozens of Cartha and Roum ships lined the quay, and gangs of laborers formed a steady stream, hauling baskets of grain out of the warehouses. A circle of Cartha pikemen lined the boulevard watching the Roum slaves anxiously.

  A sharp explosion rent the air, and looking up the hill Tamuka could see a column of fire-clad smoke soaring straight up from the direction of the forum.

  "Ah, Hamilcar!" Vuka cried as if addressing a pet that he was almost fond of.

  The Cartha general looked up astonished at Vuka's approach.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Hamilcar snapped.

  "Cattle, watch who you address like that," Vuka roared.

  A bitter smile crossed Hamilcar's features, and he lowered his head. Tamuka could see the hatred in the man's eyes but said nothing. They needed this man, and though pledges to cattle were in the end meaningless, for now it was still a pledge.

  "How goes the fighting?" Tamuka asked quickly, before Vuka could make an issue of the exchange.

  Hamilcar turned deliberately away from Vuka.

  "The palace is falling, but the price is far higher than I wanted. In the end I see no sense to it."

  "If we could have taken the city without a fight, perhaps the Yankees would be caught then."

  "A wild dream of Cromwell's, nothing more," Hamilcar replied. "Perhaps, though, it will still work."

  Hamilcar drew up closer to Tamuka, dropping his voice.

  "These people did not know you were here. This could cause trouble."

  Tamuka found that he actually liked this pet who spoke so boldly, and nodded in reply. A sound like a distant wave upon the Inland Sea started to rise up, in seconds matching the thunder of the battle being fought up on the hill. He turned in his saddle and looked back from the direction they had just come, and he felt a cold chill.

  Brimming with rage, Julius raced down the street, leaping over the bodies of the slain. It had been a maddening day and night. Few had heard Marcus's words as he wandered about the city, trying to raise support, dodging the Cartha patrols and the occasional legionary who had not melted away, and now stood with the dying Lucullus. As he spoke he felt seized with a mad desperation. No one would believe him, no one cared, for what was one master versus another. They would still labor and starve anyhow.

  And then he had seen them, Tugars riding through the gate as if going to see the fight, to laugh and watch as cattle slaughtered cattle. So all the words of the Yankee were true after all, for even he had doubted them. Tugars, whom they had slain and driven away, were now back, riding through the open gate unopposed.

  As he screamed the warning, the streets, which had been empty, filled.

  "I am Julius, servant of Marcus!" he had cried. "My words are true. Fight the enemy, fight the Tugars in our midst, and we will be free!"

  And finally they had listened, following him down the street, pouring into the alleyways, leaping over the dead and dying who had been cut down by the beasts, prying up paving stones, sticks of firewood, tools from the shops, anything to kill a Tugar with.

  "We've got trouble," Hamilcar shouted, pointing toward the crowd that had started to spill out of the streets and alleyways.

  From the direction they had just come from a dark angry shout went up, a mob spilling around the comer. Tamuka could see that more than one of them were from the legion.

  Most of them had been rounded up easily enough the day before, the fight gone out of them by the occupation and the beautifully planned betrayal by the cattle rulers of this city. If that one knot of resistance had not formed, he thought, the city would have truly been theirs without much of a fight.

  "Get that damn Petronius out here again," Hamilcar shouted and then turned back to Tamuka.

  "The Yankee army—how far away?"

  "Half a day at least."

  "If only we could finish off that defense and secure this town, we might still have a go at it."

  A dark chant started to echo up across the rain-shrouded street, the crowd slowing at the sight of the Cartha pikemen lining the plaza.

  "Tugar, Tugar, Tugar."

  "It's you that's stirred this," Hamilcar snapped, looking back at Vuka.

  "I'll have your tongue if you speak like that again," Vuka snarled.

  "He's right," Tamuka shouted. "They had no idea we were here. Remember, my lord, they've killed Tugars, and they thought they were free of us."

  Petronius came out of the warehouse and paled visibly at the sight of the growing mob, but when he turned and saw Vuka looking back at him coldly the man started to back up.

  Hamilcar came up by his side, and Tamuka saw the flicker of a blade behind Petronius's back.

  Trembling, Petronius stepped forward and started to speak. The crowd fell silent for a moment, but only for a moment.

  "Bastard, you sold us to the Tugars!" a high clear voice cried.

  A single rock arched into the air, followed an instant later by a shower of debris.

  "We'd better get out of here!" Tamuka shouted.

  "Tugar, Tugar!"

  The chant was hate-filled, speaking of centuries of rage.

  A paving stone arched through the air, landing in front of Tamuka so that his horse shied. Sawing at the bit, he swung the mount around.

  "Get out of here!" Hamilcar shouted. "I'm burning the warehouses and pulling back," and turning, he disappeared into a crowd of soldiers.

  Standing in his stirrups, Tamuka looked around. The only way open was toward the line of ships along the quay. But once there, what? None of them knew how to make such a thing move. The Carthas started to break away, running south, back toward the forum.

  "This way!" Tamuka shouted, pointing in the direction of the fleeing soldiers.

  Vuka, shouting with battle lust, fired bolt after bolt into the cattle, laughing as each shot slammed home.

  "This is not a game! They can kill us!"

  As if to add emphasis to his words, Kan, youngest son of the Qar Qarth suddenly spun around on his mount, his helmet gone, blood streaming down his face. Horrified, Tamuka watched as the terrified horse ran straight into the advancing mob. With the frenzy of wolv
es the cattle leaped upon the youngest brother of Vuka, tearing the hair from his body, stabbing at him with sharpened sticks, pelting him with rocks.

  Kan shrieked in terrified anguish. The mob pulled him down. Desperately he struggled with his blade, backing up against his horse.

  "Kan!" It was Vuka, screaming in anguish for his brother. Tamuka cut in front of Vuka, grabbing the reins of his horse, pulling him around.

  "Run, my lord!"

  "Vuka! Tamuka!"

  Tamuka looked back. A cattle had leaped upon the back of Kan's horse. Holding up a heavy stone, he brought it down, screaming with maniacal rage, splitting his foe's head, spraying those around him with blood.

  Kan disappeared, the cattle surrounding him, their arms rising and falling rhythmically, the wooden stakes and stones flashing pink with foaming blood.

  "Now, my lord!" Tamuka screamed, viciously spurring his mount into a gallop, Vuka's horse following behind him. Cartha or Roum, he did not care now, as he pushed southward, riding the cattle down, desperate to escape the advancing mob, the memory of Kan's death seared into his soul.

  "Move it, dammit, move it!" Andrew roared. The city was now in sight. The center of the town was in flames, smoke and steam swirling up into the low-hanging clouds overhead. Before him the Cartha skirmish line was pulling back a mile or more away.

  Turning, he looked back over the plain. His army was strung out for miles down the Appian Way. At best he could throw four or five thousand men into the advance. But something told him he'd have to strike now.

  Pulling out his field glasses, he looked down toward the coastal plain. The blackened city of Ostia was barely visible through the mist.

  White dots moved on the broadening waters of the Tiber, and it took him a moment to realize that the fleet was already putting out to sea. Barely discernible on the horizon he could see a dark squat shape, surrounded by a dozen beetlelike forms.