Terrible Swift Sword

by William R. Forstchen

  "Vu Bac Nov domicak gloriang, nobis cu [Hear, ancestors, ride now the night sky]."

  He whispered the words, smiling.

  Keane was right. He had become them far more than he was now human, cattle. He had taken pride in his master, shield-bearer to Zan Qarth. And yes, he had eaten of their meals.

  And he had grown to like it.

  Andrew had sensed that. That is why Andrew had never allowed him to hold his child.

  His child. My children.

  There was my child, Olga. Her mother. He smiled. A girl of the Chin, soft, delicate, oval-faced, almost a child herself.

  Beaten to death for spilling fermented milk on her mistress, first wife of Jubadi, and then cut up for the pits. Olga, my only child. It was better that I smothered you with my own hands than for you to be thrown into the pits.

  "How long?" he whispered.

  After Barkth Nom, at the place where the three rivers join into the salted sea. Fourteen seasons.

  Season after season he had nursed his memory, his hatred, his self-loathing for doing nothing. For squatting over the bones that were tossed out of the yurt for the pets.

  Endless seasons of the ride—at least in that there had been life. He had seen the whole world. Mountains that pierced the heavens, seas so thick with salt that one bobbed upon their surface. He had seen the twisting storms and the heavens alight with fire, and had laughed inwardly while his masters cowered. He had seen battles, standing atop a high hill— the beauty of the umens moving through a high sea of grass, their blocks of ten thousand moving as if guided by a single hand, filling the heavens with their thunder.

  He had seen twenty races of cattle—the Chin of his beloved, the dark Ubi, the Toltec, the Constan, yet more Rus upon the far side of the world. He had seen their cities gleaming, their people bowing. He had heard their lamentations, and the horror of it all had frozen his soul so that he had become as unfeeling as the earth.

  At least he thought he had.

  And then there was Sophi. A pet taken from Constan.

  Where was she?

  Most likely with the yurt of Hulagar even now, and with her, yet another child. There was a warming of his heart, which he had thought beyond caring.

  So that had been the promise of Tamuka. Kill Keane and they would go free, fail and they go to the feast—even the child, who would witness the death of her mother first.

  "Don't think about it," he whispered to himself.

  It would have been so easy, he realized, and he looked down at the ring on his finger. He pushed against the side of it with his thumbnail, striking the tiny stub. The poisoned needle snicked out, invisible in the dark.

  Why not?

  Because I am a coward? he wondered. He shook his head. Fear had been burned out of him long ago—a pet finally lost all fear in a world without hope. A free man feared death because he would lose the pleasure of life, but for a slave death was a release.

  Why not?

  The night he had first met him he was ready. Was it the brief sight of the child?

  It was the simple humanity of it, brought by Keane. The simple decent humanity of a family living without fear, a humanity that could be annihilated for the innocent sin of spilling a cup of milk.

  They thought he had forgotten.

  For after all, he was only a cattle, a soulless cattle.

  Now they would know. He could only pray that Sophi would in the end understand, that the child at least would never know the horror of living in a world ruled by the Merki. Because if he had killed Keane, they would truly have won.

  So Keane had turned him back upon them. Yuri knew he was being used, that Keane did not care what happened to him now, only that he succeeded.

  He smiled sadly, allowing the emotion of self-pity to form for the first time in years.

  He peeked back out, watching the silent ones moving up the slope. There was a flash of light. Four heartbeats, five . . . The boom washed past him.

  Keane had said it was just over one thousand yards away. The measure was meaningless to him.

  Yuri saw him again, starting up the slope.

  He reached down and brought the Whitworth sniper rifle up. He pulled the tampon out of the muzzle, then looked carefully at the six-sided bore to make sure no fragment of wood or speck of dirt was in the bore.

  He had been practicing with this terrible device daily, ever since Keane had first suggested that this was the only way to save all of them. Andrew had considered numerous other plans. Traps in the city, a sniper in town, exploding shells hidden away, fire from the iron ships. Yuri had laughed at all the suggestions, pointing out the methods of the Merki. It was only when Keane had shown him the Whitworth that he had known that here was the means.

  With the first hundred practice shots, he had slowly worked his distance further back. The second hundred, he had sharpened his skill. The third hundred, he had polished his craft, shooting on a hidden range set up near the mines above Fort Lincoln, where the slope of the ground matched that where he now was.

  He watched the small pennant fluttering atop the poles that held the banner aloft. The wind was coming out of the west, slightly gusty.

  If the wind had been too hard, if it had rained, if Jubadi had come this way too late in the day, if the riders who had passed by had looked just a bit more closely . . . There were so many "ifs" that had played out into his hands.

  He brought the heavy Whitworth up, checking the percussion cap on the nipple. He slid the gun forward and rested it in the groove carved into the rock. The weapon fit into the hard, stone trough, chiseled to match it.

  He moved his shoulder into the curved stock that had been recarved to fit him perfectly. He pressed his eye up to the long brass scope mounted down the length of the barrel.

  He moved the weapon slightly to the left, then pulled a thin sliver of lead out from a pouch. He tilted the weapon up slightly, put the lead under the barrel, and then looked through the scope again.

  Just a bit low. With almost imperceptible pressure he raised the rear of the weapon up not much more than a fraction of an inch.

  The cross hairs were set for this range and this range only. The gun was tuned for this one shot and no other.

  With his right thumb, he clicked the hammer back.

  Jubadi was moving up the slope. Yuri moved the gun ever so slightly, tracking him.

  Five heartbeats in one place, that's how long it would take the bullet to travel to its target.

  The smoke from the torch in Jubadi's hand was curling from right to left.

  Difficult.

  The sights were set for the range—all he had to do was place them on the mark. The wind. The smoke shifted, curling straight up.

  Hold it there.

  Jubadi leaned forward, running the torch along the bottom of the banner.

  It caught.

  The Qar Qarth of the Merki Horde stepped back, dropping the torch.

  Yuri touched his finger against the first trigger and pulled. He felt the tumbler click. It was now on a hair setting, a mere touch to the second trigger would finish it.

  Jubadi stood still, watching the banner flare up.

  Yuri took a final breath in, let half of it out.

  The smoke curled slightly to the left.

  He moved the cross hairs just to the right, almost onto Jubadi's arm.

  He brushed the second trigger with his finger.

  The hammer slammed down with a click.

  "Sir, the line up ahead is clear. The Merki are across the northern rail line and through Vyzima. They'll be across our tracks in a couple of hours, maybe sooner. Why are we waiting?"

  Andrew looked down at the telegrapher, who stood anxiously by the side of the train.

  "In a moment," he whispered, and turned to look back to the west.

  Hulagar turned. There was something. He knew it. He looked over at Tamuka, who was gazing straight at him, an uneasy look in his eyes.

  Hulagar brought his shield around, moving u
p toward Jubadi. Ritual be damned.

  Yuri hissed out a curse, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

  He yanked the hammer back. The unexploded percussion cap was wedged on the nipple. He pushed against it with his fingernail, struggling to free it. His fingernail split. He ignored the pain. With an audible pop the cap flipped off.

  He fumbled with the cap box at his waist, spilling most of them out. Taking hold of a fresh small copper cap he slipped it onto the nipple, then cocked the hammer full back.

  He leaned back down and pressed his eye to the sight, anxiously moving the Whitworth back and forth.

  There.

  Calm, he cautioned himself. There's only this one chance.

  Don't think of anything else, just this. Not of her, not of the smothered baby limp in your arms, not of Sophi, not of the pits, the blood on your own hands. Nothing, think of nothing but this. Think of twenty years of waiting for redemption. Redemption now, with the flick of a finger.

  He drew in his breath, his finger touching the first trigger.

  He saw Hulagar moving toward his target, Tamuka moving behind him. Tamuka. There was a flashing moment of understanding, as the shield-bearer of the Zan Qarth seemed to look straight at him. Could it be that after all ... ?

  He pushed the thought aside.

  He touched the second trigger.

  "My Qarth, leave this place now!" Hulagar hissed.

  Jubadi looked back at him, the banner kicking and swirling as flames raced up its silken folds.

  "There is something terrible about this place," Jubadi said softly. "I miss the steppes of home."

  Hulagar looked away from him, and from the corner of his eye he saw something.

  What?

  A thin puff of smoke. A gunshot? Why? It was so far away.

  Hulagar felt his heart tighten, as if it had frozen. And then it thumped hard. Once, twice.

  "Jubadi!"

  Hulagar turned. The world was going impossibly slowly. He stepped forward, moving up behind Jubadi. Rushing to raise the shield up behind his Qar Qarth.

  He felt as if his heart were about to explode, as it thumped again and then once more.

  Jubadi was looking straight into his eyes, a curious look, the slightest of quizzical smiles . .. the eyes suddenly went wide with astonishment.

  "No!"

  Even as Hulagar reached out, raising the shield up across Jubadi's back, he saw the hole, ever so small, appear in the middle of his friend's back. A ghostly shower of blood exploded out of Jubadi's chest, spraying into the still burning banner.

  "No!"

  Jubadi started to turn. His features were strange, as if already going into dust and darkness. The eyes held on him.

  "Hulagar?" It was a drawn-out whisper.

  The shield fell, as if drawn into the earth. It struck the ground and rolled slowly down the slope. Hulagar reached out, grabbing his friend who refused to fall.

  He felt the blood pulsing out of Jubadi, each contraction of the heart spraying out its dying, diminishing stream.

  Hulagar pulled him in tight, arms around him.

  "I just burned the banner of my own funeral," Jubadi whispered, as if he were the victim of a paradox beyond his understanding.

  "My Qarth."

  "The dream," Jubadi sighed.

  "Wait for me, my Qarth."

  A thin smile crossed his features.

  "These cattle, they are ..."

  A shudder passed through him. With a sigh,

  Jubadi's head cradled on Hulagar's shoulder. The shield-bearer raised his face to the everlasting sky and stood in silence.

  Jubadi va Griska, Qar Qarth of the Merki Horde, was dead.

  Hulagar stood alone, holding the body, feeling the last pulse of the heart slip away, the legs go limp, the final breath whispering on his cheek.

  There was a moment of silence, as if the world had ended, as if Bugglaah had drawn her curtain across all present.

  A single cry rose up, a high ululation of mourning, joined in an instant by another and another, until the cries of thousands thundered across the land.

  Vuka came up, Tamuka behind him with his shield raised, the silent ones crowding round.

  Hulagar looked into Vuka's eyes and saw the terror, the dread, the anxious gaze, as if another such bolt would appear to strike him down as well.

  "Vuka va Jubadi, know that Bugglaah has gathered thy father," Hulagar said, his voice choked. "When the moon of mourning has passed, you shall be proclaimed Qar Qarth of the Merki Horde."

  Vuka nodded, saying nothing.

  "Tamuka Shield-Bearer, fulfill your duty. Get him to safety until we find the murderer."

  Tamuka motioned for the silent ones to close in around the heir and lead him away. Vuka did not look back, nor even reach out to touch the body of his father. He was led away.

  "There can be no time for mourning," Tamuka said, looking straight at Hulagar.

  "There will be the moon of mourning!" Hulagar cried. "I rule until the heir is anointed, and the law is to be obeyed. The Horde will cease to move until then."

  "That is why they did this!" Tamuka shouted, his voice barely heard above the wild screams of lamentation.

  "When the mourning is done your Qar Qarth will have his vengeance, but not before. Now leave me."

  Tamuka hesitated.

  "I am sorry, my old friend," he whispered. Reaching out, he touched Hulagar on the shoulder.

  "For me, or for the Merki?"

  "For you," Tamuka replied.

  Hulagar looked into his eyes, and there was a moment of wondering. Already he knew in his heart who had done this. But what of Tamuka?

  The shield-bearer of the new Qar Qarth turned and walked away, barely noticing Muzta of the Tugars, who stood to one side, saying nothing.

  Lifting up the body of his Qarth and cradling him in his arms, Hulagar turned and watched as the last of the flaming banner flickered away, the smoke curling to the everlasting sky.

  The guard pulled back the canvas screen. The small chamber stank of powder, and also of death.

  "We found it!"

  He reached in, grabbing Yuri's body by the hands and pulling it out.

  He felt a slight flicker of pain, as if stung by a thorn.

  The cattle looked up at him with lifeless eyes, his features fixed in a curious smile. The warrior suddenly felt weak, light-headed. He sat down and looked over at the body again.

  There was a ring on Yuri's finger, a thin needle projecting out of it.

  The Merki started to scream, knowing what he had just done to himself.

  The screams did not last for long.

  * * *

  "Raise the signal flag," Bullfinch said, looking over at the boy crouched alongside him in the pilothouse of the ironclad Fredericksburg.

  He looked back down at the sealed orders that he had opened, as ordered, when the insane, bloodcurdling screams had started on shore.

  "Mr. Turgeyev."

  "Aye, sir."

  Bullfinch looked through the hatch down to the gun deck below, and broke into a smile.

  "Pass the word to the crew. The ruler of the Merki is dead. Now let's start tossing some shells into their caterwauling hides."

  Looking forward, he saw the three red pennants break out atop the Novrod, which was anchored several miles below Suzdal. The word would be flashed down the river, to a spot where the signal tower positioned above the mines could pick it up.

  The sky was darkening, the red sun turning the scattering of clouds into scarlet plumes of light.

  The only sound was the soft puffing of the engine up forward as it vented off some steam. He could sense their tension, their wondering why he had waited here, thirty miles beyond Novrod.

  He heard the clattering of the telegraph key and felt his heart tighten up. He waited.

  The door to the telegraphers' room opened and he heard the boy moving down the length of the car, the door opening behind him. The boy handed him a slip of paper.

 
; He opened it.

  He stood looking at the paper for a long moment, then folded it up. He stepped back into the car.

  They had been waiting patiently, none knowing why he had asked that the train stop here.

  "I just got a signal from Bullfinch's ships on the Neiper," Andrew said quietly.

  He looked back down at the paper again.

  "Three red flags flying from the Fredericksburg."

  He looked back up and saw their quizzical gazes.

  "Jubadi, Qar Qarth of the Merki, has been killed by a sniper before the gates of Suzdal."

  There was an uneasy stirring.

  "It means," Andrew said, his voice sharp and filled with a cold power, "that for the next thirty days all offensive operations of the Merki will cease until their mourning is finished. We will have the time to get the line at Kev ready, we will have the time to prepare."

  "Glory hallelujah," Kal sighed.

  Andrew nodded, unable to say more.

  Casmar stood up.

  "Yuri did it?"

  "It was Yuri."

  "And?"

  "He is most likely dead. He told me what he would do. There was no hope for him of escaping, he knew that when he volunteered." Andrew paused. "When I volunteered him for it."

  "May he find rest," Casmar said, making the sign of blessing.

  "The outcast saved us," Kal said, shaking his head ruefully. Coming to his feet, he walked over to Andrew and took his hand.

  "You saved us, as well."

  "No, I just gave us a little more time," Andrew replied softly. "No, it was Hans, all those boys that we lost, our own people, those yet to die. They are the ones who saved us, who will save us."

  He hesitated.

  "And Yuri ... he found some peace, and gave us one final chance."

  He looked around at the group.

  "Tell the engineer to get us going," he said.

  He wanted to say more, to tell them what was coming. That they had thirty days now, but that when the Merki came on again it would be for vengeance as well. He thought of Yuri's letter, laying out his reasons, his advice, and what to expect. Vuka would be unpredictable, but then again Vuka most likely would be the least of their worries.

  "Excuse me," he whispered, and turned to step back out onto the platform. He didn't even hear the excited cries, or notice the instant lifting of their spirits, the return of their belief that they might somehow survive after all. Their euphoria was like that of a drowning man who finds a raft in the middle of the ocean. There is the moment of rejoicing, until the reality sinks in that one has most likely traded the swift death of drowning for the slow one of starvation. But for the moment, their spirits had returned.