“I am Haga, Qarth of the black horse clan of the Merki horde. I come to speak of terms.”
Andrew felt a ripple of excitement behind him. Though they had driven the Merki clear across the river, slaughtering tens of thousands, still there were others, and they could always try again tomorrow, or a week later, or a month.
“Where is your Qar Qarth, the one called Tamuka?” Andrew asked, and the flag bearer translated.
Haga growled angrily, spitting upon the ground, and then replied.
“He is a usurper of the rightful title of Qar Qarth and only holds such rank until the flag of war over the golden yurt is lowered, and the flag of peace flies. Then we are free to choose another. Until then I speak for the council of Qarths. Tamuka is now an outcast.”
The implications of it all caught him by surprise, and already he could see the political weakness. They needed peace to select their new leader, but then what?
“Why should we speak of peace to you?” Andrew said coldly. “You are on our land. It never even was the land of the Merki—before we freed ourselves it was Tugar land. You are usurpers yourselves.”
At the mention of the word “Tugar” he saw a spasm of anger cross Haga’s features. Good, he thought, it stings them that even now near to ten thousand Tugars are in the middle of the valley, guarded to be sure, but there nevertheless.
Haga sat silent for a moment and then began to speak, his voice low.
“This is not our land. It was the wish of Jubadi, whom you killed through sorcery, and Tamuka. It is no longer my wish or that of the council.”
“Then leave it,” Andrew snapped in reply, “or we shall unleash more of our sorcery so that the sky will rain fire, not only upon you but upon the yurts of your families as well, until the land is a smoking ruin, filled with the stench of your dead.”
A peal of thunder rolled in from off the plain, and Andrew smiled, as if he somehow had control over the fortunate coincidence.
Haga, unable to restrain himself, looked over his shoulder and then back at Andrew.
“Peace then,” he said. “We ask that we might pass through the land of the Roum to the great steppe beyond.”
Andrew looked over his shoulder at Marcus, who was listening while Vincent translated the conversation into Latin. There was a flicker in Marcus’s eyes, but he said nothing.
It would be simple to grant this request. A month from now they would be gone. Gone to unleash their pent-up fury on someone else, or to reconsider and still turn to fight again. No. Here was the choke point. He was glad Kal was not present, for he could well imagine that the president might be tempted otherwise.
“No.”
Haga stirred, not sure what to say next.
“Turn around, go back to whence you came.”
He paused, not sure of what was occurring five hundred miles to the south, suddenly realizing that if he prevented them from going east they might very well turn back upon Cartha yet again.
“And Cartha as well we now claim as part of our alliance.”
Haga bristled. “That land is ours.”
“Not any longer,” Andrew snapped, inwardly nervous that he might have pressed too far, backing them into a comer that might drive them to the desperation of deciding to die fighting.
Haga was silent, glaring coldly at Andrew.
“We shall give you free passage back through the land of the Rus, and you may graze your horses as you move.”
He did a quick mental calculation.
“At the end of sixty days you must be to the west of the river we call the Neiper, where our city of Suzdal rests. You are free to graze your mounts, but not one building is to be molested. All cities are forbidden and not to be entered. If but one more town is burned, we shall fight. If you agree, then you are free to pass. From there you are free to move as you please, but Cartha is not to be molested, though the grazing of your horses upon the land to the west of them is yours.”
Haga sat in silence, this time barely flinching when another snap of thunder sounded even closer.
“This we also demand. That all humans who might be prisoners are to be released and none who are of Cartha, or Roum, or Rus are to be taken by you.
“If you do not accept, then the war must continue and we at least know how it shall end. I should add that if you honor these terms, when the last of your people cross the Neiper we will release back to you, unharmed, the prisoners we have taken, who number over ten thousand.”
Haga lowered his head.
“It is agreed,” he whispered.
“Swear it upon your blood.”
Haga looked up at Andrew in surprise. He unsheathed his short blade and cut his arm, holding it up for Andrew to see the blood. Andrew looked over at Marcus.
“Could you help me?”
Marcus edged his mount up and with his sword traced a light cut across Andrew’s arm. Andrew held it up. Haga was clearly shocked that a cattle would give blood oath.
“We still hate you,” Haga said coldly.
“And we you. I doubt if it is finished here between us. But for now there is peace, and that is enough.”
Haga nodded. “You have ka, the soul of a warrior, Keane, even if you are a cattle.”
“I am no different from any of my comrades who stood with me today,” Andrew replied.
Haga’s eyes, filled with sadness, looked past Andrew to the fields of dead behind him. “In three days we lost all that was best upon this field. Its memory will be cursed. A hundred thousand yurts will be filled with mourning.”
He jerked his horse around and galloped off.
A cold drop of rain splashed Andrew’s face, and within seconds a downpour came swirling in from the southwest, lashing across the river, a snap of lightning arcing the sky.
It always rains after a battle, he thought, looking back across the valley. Perhaps the heavens wish to wash the earth clean, to soak the blood into the ground, so that life can grow again.
He turned his back to the storm and rode silently back up the hill, to Hispania, Kathleen, and a night of sleep.
The Merki war was over.
Chapter 13
Overhead the church bell started to peal, and was picked up by the other churches of the city of the Rus, the city of Suzdal. Andrew Lawrence Keane stepped out of the cathedral.
The procession was drawn up in the town square, waiting, the men of the 35th Maine in front, flanked by those of the 44th New York. He stepped down from the steps of the cathedral, the men snapping to attention. He paused to return the salute and then walked down the line, looking into their faces. Some of them were old familiar comrades, men who had served with him since Antietam and Gettysburg. So many were new, Rus and Roum, and so many, all too many, were missing.
He thought of them, his first colonel, Estes, his brother, John, and then all the others lost, the Malady, Kindred, Mina, the list going on and yet on, three hundred and fifty of the six hundred who had come to this world now gone forever. And yet their sacrifice was not in vain. Today of all days that was clear to him. He looked back to the flag of Maine with a sadness mingled with joy and saluted once more. Next he passed the 44th New York, Pat O’Donald before the four guns of the battery, the barrels of the Napoleons polished to a gleaming brilliance.
Pat stepped forward and shook his hand.
“A fine day, me bucko, a glorious day.”
Andrew smiled, putting an affectionate hand on Pat’s shoulder, and continued on, Pat stepping out and falling in beside him.
Drawn up behind the two units were men of the other seven corps, representatives of each regiment standing at attention, their colors held high.
He walked down the lines, looking up at the banners, eyes bright. Barry’s First Corps was before him, the first unit of the army, the old guard as they now called themselves, the men who had held the northern flank in the three days of the battle of Hispania. The flag of the 1st Suzdal was to the right of the line, the very first regiment of the army which had s
een the first action in the war against the Tugars. He continued on to the Second Corps, Rick Schneid standing proudly before his men.
Andrew paused for a moment, looking up at the torn standard of the 1st Vazima, the haunting words “I need five minutes” hovering around him.
Emblazoned on the flag in gold letters was the rest of his command: “Take the guns.” He stopped and directly saluted the flag and then continued on.
Before the Third Corps was Gregory, new stars of a major general on his shoulders. The Rus officer proudly saluted as Andrew approached.
“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,” Gregory said with a smile, and Andrew nodded, unable to reply.
Fourth Corps was next, Pat stopped for a moment to look at the standards, eyes moist, grinning with pride. Next were the men of the Fifth, who had fought a near-unknown war to the south of Roum, distant skirmishing to hold back the Merki detachments that had crossed the inland sea and come north. Finally there were the men of the Sixth and Seventh, Vincent standing before them, eyes clear and bright, the young officer saluting.
“A fine day,” Vincent said with a smile.
“A day to tell our grandchildren about,” Andrew replied, shaking Vincent’s hand.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Andrew said.
“And I’m proud to have served under you, sir. Thank you.”
Beside Vincent’s command were half a dozen mounted troopers, a sergeant carrying the guidon of the 1st Cavalry Brigade of the Republics, the flag recovered by some of Barry’s men from a Merki unit caught in the forest.
Finally there was the naval detachment, Bullfinch drawn up stiffly in front of his men, behind him the flags of the marine detachment and ensigns of the ships now anchored in the river. On the flags of the marine brigade were emblazoned “Defense of Cartha” and “Battle of the Bantag Pass.”
Two days after the end of the war, Bullfinch’s ship had dropped anchor at Roum and he had taken a train north to Hispania to report. Andrew looked at the young admiral, remembering again that nothing protects a soldier more than good luck and above all else success. Bullfinch had organized the Cartha and then moved his ships two hundred miles south to cover the main coastal pass through which the Bantag were advancing. The marines had deployed, coming up behind them tens of thousands of Cartha militia pushing before them cannons that were nothing more than wagon wheels and logs painted black, carrying muskets that were poles painted black and tipped with knives. A bombardment from the ships and the sight of the army arrayed across the pass had been convincing argument enough for the Bantag, who had not seen such weapons but had heard far too much about what the cattle were capable of doing. They had turned back, the battle a near-bloodless coup.
Next they had turned north to shield Cartha from the Merki umens which were still west of the city and the additional units coming down from the north,
Bullfinch and his men getting a factory back on line to start producing smoothbore muskets and powder. The Merki had probed but not attacked.
The situation was still tense with Cartha, especially after Hamilcar had learned the contents of the treaty struck on the Sangros. His hatred for Andrew was stronger than ever, but at least for Bullfinch he held a clear affection, an affection however that did not extend to the returning of the ironclad he had taken. Four weeks after the end of the war, Bullfinch had brought the fleet back north to cover the Neiper River and shadow the Merki as they started the recrossing to the west, a constant reminder of a power that could cut them off from even that retreat if the treaty was violated. It was with the ironclad fleet that Andrew, along with a brigade of infantry and representatives of all the other regiments, had finally come back to Suzdal.
Bullfinch, still slightly nervous around Andrew over his venture into diplomacy and independent command, stood stiffly at attention while Andrew stared at him for a long moment. A grin gradually creased Andrew’s features, and he extended his hand.
“Good job, Admiral, a damn good job.”
Bullfinch beamed with delight as Andrew continued down the line, turning to come back to the front. In the distance they all heard the high piercing cry of a train whistle, and a spontaneous cheer went up from the assembly.
Andrew went over to Mercury and mounted, Pat and the other corps commanders coming up to join him. Andrew turned his mount toward the broad road that led down to the east gate of the city. Behind him a band started to play, the regiments forming into columns, the thunder of their marching echoing across the square, the men picking up the song, the deep bass so beloved by the Rus starting the opening refrain.
“Yes, we’ll rally round the flag, boys,
We’ll rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom!”
Andrew hummed along, turning to look back over his shoulder, the street behind him packed with the standards that seemed to float in the air.
“I’m proud of you, son.”
He felt as if the voice had actually spoken, and he turned to look. Pat was beside him, looking straight ahead, bellowing the song off key.
Hans, damn it all, Hans, I wish you were here.
They passed through the gate, the first train to make the run from Roum and Hispania turning through the outer earthen wall, bell ringing, whistle playing out the first bar of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” the engine and cab decorated with bunting.
Even as the Merki retreated across the steppe, the work crews had started forward, advance units repairing the track, rebuilding bridges from prefabricated stock that Mina had hidden away. It had taken two and a half months of hard work through the heat of the summer and now into the early fall. Already trains were running on a regular schedule to what was left of Kev and the ruins of Vazima, refugees returning home, standing first in shock at the wreckage and then starting into the task of rebuilding. Now at last the first train back to Suzdal was arriving, the whistle sounding high and clear.
He turned in his saddle to watch. Through the glade of trees the city was barely visible on the other side of the river, but the sound of the singing and cheering was unmistakable. He felt as if his hatred would burn out of his soul and consume the world around him.
Tamuka, who had once been Qar Qarth and was now known as One Hand, sat astride his horse, his followers around him.
Civil war was now the reality of the Merki horde, which was fracturing into three parts, the clans of Roaka, who even now harried the borders of Cartha, not acknowledging the treaty. Then there was the traitor Haga, who had cast him down from his power at the council of Qarths, daring to proclaim himself Qar Qarth and leader of the Merki horde. There was no horde any longer. But someday there would be, he thought bitterly.
The numbers who had perished were uncountable, some said a hundred thousand, others a hundred and fifty thousand just in the battles, tens of thousands more dying now from disease, hunger, thirst on the retreat across the steppe, and lingering wounds. By the council of Qarths it was agreed that there would be no fighting for now, peace and the finding of enough food for winter the sole concern, the three parts of the horde spreading out and away from each other after crossing the river. Two umen commanders had elected to stay with Tamuka, those of the Vushka Hush and of the Kartu. It was enough.
He watched, his heart cold, as the train came down the slope, heading toward the city. He could see all so clearly what it heralded, and suspected that Haga saw it as well but would not face such a thing. But he would. If need be he would go to the Bantag, to the Nan, or to whatever hordes rode even farther south. If need be he would take a circling of twenty seasons but he would prepare and return. They could have their peace for now, but there would be another time yet to come.
The rest of the horde was already heading southwestward. He would go straight west and then decide where to go from there. This morning the last of his riders and their pitifully few yurts had crossed the river. Behind them, coming last of all, were the humiliated ones, those who had allowed themselves to be take
n prisoner. Many had joined him, too ashamed to return to their own yurts, where the death songs had already been sung for them. The outcasts joining the outcast. It was strength to him, and that was all that mattered.
Haga had released those few pets spared from the sacrifice that were still with the hordes as well, but he was not aware, he would never be aware, that there were two who were not released this day.
He jerked his horse around and looked at the two cattle standing to one side, kept well separated, for the old one had tried repeatedly to kill the other.
“Look long, cattle, it is the last you’ll ever see of your home.”
Hans Schuder smiled, spitting a stream of tobacco juice on the ground.
“He beat you, that’s all I need to know. He beat you and they’re free.”
Tamuka was tempted yet again to kill him. This one had refused to partake of the flesh of his own kind, starving nearly to death, fighting, struggling, his thoughts sealed away.
And yet he felt some reason to keep him alive, for what he was not sure, but he would find it.
The other looked around nervously, his own dreams of vengeance and power gone. Yet still he was alive and he would survive no matter what. Dale Hinsen looked over nervously at Hans, ready to move quickly if the old sergeant tried yet again to kill him.
Tamuka turned his horse and rode back into the forest, disappearing from view, his warriors following behind him.
“I’m proud of you, son!” Hans cried, still smiling. “Proud of all you bastards!”
The halter around his neck jerked tight, and he looked up at Sarg, eyes defiant. He spit a stream of juice against the rump of the shaman’s horse and then turned away as well, shoulders and back straight, and disappeared into the forest.
The train rolled into the station, bell ringing, the church bells in the city tolling in joyful reply, the regiments drawn up in columns beside the platform.
Steam hissing out, the train came to a stop, and Chuck Ferguson leaned out of the cab, grinning with delight, and leaped down to the platform.
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