Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

  There had been an underlying level of tension throughout, the fifty-odd nobles about the table eyeing him with outright suspicion, while Kal with his limited ability attempted to explain what was being said.

  But the second mistake had been their vodka. Drink after drink was raised, which Kal insisted he must reply to as well, or the nobles would not think him a man.

  Somehow he wished he could have put Schuder in his place. The old sergeant would have drunk all of them under the table. He was finally reduced to simply sipping as each toast was raised, and the nobles openly chuckled at his distress.

  Emil, however, had pulled it all off in grand style, matching them glass for glass, finally raising a number of toasts himself until the assembly had collapsed into drunken squalor.

  Now if only the good doctor could give him a miracle cure for this damned hangover, he thought glumly as he stood up and stretched.

  Emil at least could sleep, and he looked across to his friend sprawled out on the cot opposite him. But the luxury of sleep was something he would not allow himself. All of this could still be a trap. He had insisted that Schuder and the men be moved into the courtyard outside his window, where throughout the night the men had stood at arms, half of them asleep, the other half awake. For himself he had sat things out till dawn, revolver in hand.

  It could be possible that Ivor was waiting for a lowering of his guard. But even more than Ivor it was the black-bearded warrior Mikhail and the one Kal said was the priest Rasnar, who had briefly appeared at the feast, that worried him the most. Perhaps he could work out something with the boyar, but there were other pieces on the board as well that would have to be played against if they were going to survive here.

  A low groan echoed out from under the pile of blankets in the corner.

  "My hand to God, I'll never drink again."

  A sallow face appeared, bloodshot eyes blinking in what appeared to be a vain attempt at focusing.

  "Where the hell are we?" Emil gasped, swinging his legs from the pallet. With a moan he tried to stand up, and then collapsed again, cradling his head in his hands.

  "Where are we?" Andrew laughed, shaking his head. "Damned if I know."

  "Oh yes, that," Emil replied. He smacked his lips, giving a grimace of disgust at the foul taste in his mouth. Groaning, he made a second attempt at standing, barely succeeding.

  Emil fumbled around for his glasses, put them on, and looked about the room.

  "If these people aren't descendants of medieval Russians, then I'm a blind man," Emil said, speaking as if every word emitted were a source of pain. "Look at that city out there," and he pointed out the window to the splendor of Suzdal now awash with the golden light of dawn.

  Groaning, Emil walked over to the window, and Andrew stood up to join him.

  "When I traveled in Russia to visit my family I saw places like this. And that damned drinking ritual, that's Russian, believe me. One good thing, though—wherever we are it's not the Russia of earth. Just curious, I drew a star of David for Kal, and didn't get the slightest response. So my people aren't here, and thus that good old Russian pastime of pogroms isn't one of their hobbies.

  "Before I did that I'd been thinking a wild one that somehow we've crossed time, but that's definitely not the case."

  "It's not earth," Andrew replied, "yet these people here seem to be from earth. So we still have a mystery."

  The two friends paused for a moment, turning their attention to the view out the window. The palace was situated on the highest hill of the city, so all of Suzdal was stretched out before them. All the structures, except for the limestone churches, were built of logs. But these were not the rough cabins Andrew was used to seeing in the backwoods of Maine. Most of the buildings were three, even four or five stories in height. The entire city seemed to be a wood carver's fantasy, the creative talents of the people let loose in elaborate carvings that adorned even the most modest of structures.

  Dragons appeared to be leaping from rooftops, angels looked heavenward, bears cavorted, cornices were inter-twinings of warriors in battle, and dwarfs stood as guards before doorways. The buildings were not just the dark color of aged wood, but instead were painted with swirling displays of flowers, trees, geometric patterns, and symbols of various trades, all in a riot of color to make a rainbow look dull by comparison.

  Already the streets were aswarm with early risers. Merchants were pulling back the shutters to their shops, some of them already crying out with singsong voices, beckoning for customers to examine their wares. A wreath of smoke hung over the city from thousands of cooking fires, and the savory scent of cooking drifted on the morning breeze.

  The air hummed with the voices of tradesmen, shoppers, and laughing children. From the church came the distant sound of a rich and wonderful plainchant, heavy with basses and offset by the high notes of tenors, all of which was counterpointed by the pealing of the multitoned church bells that seemed to give the air a crystalline lightness.

  Down by the river the wharves were bustling with activity. The ships lining the shore and dotting the river were a pure delight to the historian in Andrew. They looked like clinker-built long boats straight out of the Viking age. The vessels were somewhat heavier and beamier than the graceful long boats of old, with high sweeping bows and stern-posts, the sides of which were adorned with red and blue paint, drawn yet again in the delightful patterns so prevalent in the city. Many of the vessels were adorned with dragon heads, and he could not help but smile at the sight of them, remembering his childhood fantasies of Viking explorers sailing through the misty seas of Maine.

  "Quite a trade system they have, for that many vessels," Andrew said softly. "Must be a number of cities on this river and out across the sea where we wrecked."

  "I heard several mentions of a place called Novrod," Emil replied.

  "Novrod," Andrew said softly, and his features brightened. "Damn me, Novgorod! It was a major trade city of early medieval Russia. One of their most famous princes, Alexander Nevsky, ruled that city during the Mongol invasion."

  EmiPs advice from earlier came back to him. Let others worry about where they were now, even though the curiosity of it all was at times near overwhelming.

  "Sergeant Schuder, everything in order?" Andrew asked, leaning out of the window.

  Turning from the task of chewing out a private, Schuder strolled over and saluted.

  "Still quiet, sir, but some of the men are grumbling because they aren't allowed to eat the food here and are stuck with hardtack and salt pork."

  "Can't be helped," Emil replied, loud enough so that the men could hear. "Until we're sure of these people, a little poisoning could eliminate us rather easily."

  And besides, Emil thought to himself, grimacing with the memory of last night's meal, the way they serve their food was enough to turn his stomach. He'd given up kosher when he'd come to America, but that was the least of his worries now. The wooden troughs the meals were served in were caked with an accumulation of grease that nauseated him. Sanitary conditions around here were positively medieval, just like the rest of the city, and they could get poisoned anyhow, even if it was unintentional. The hypochondriac in him was already exploring inwardly, wondering when the first effects of that bear meat would hit.

  As he looked at the city he shuddered inwardly. He could see people drawing water from the river, even as sailors emptied slop buckets over the sides of their vessels not a dozen feet away. The place had a fetid smell of unwashed bodies, raw sewage, and filth that had most likely been accumulating for generations. Even as he looked across the square he saw a rat scurry out from an alleyway, followed an instant later by several ragged children waving sticks.

  An upper window opened on a building across from the palace and a cascade of liquid poured out, its nature all too obvious. He could barely suppress a retch at the sight of it.

  Many of the people he watched passing by seemed ill-nourished, with pasty complexions, the poorer folk dressed in litt
le more than rags. The mere contemplation of trying to help solve all the problems of sanitation, nourishment, and health left him feeling helpless. Undoubtedly their surgeons still cut and slashed on victims tied to the table, probing with filthy hands and gore-encrusted instruments. They'd most likely hang him for even trying to suggest any change, for undoubtedly any new ideas would be regarded as witchcraft.

  "It looks strangely beautiful," Andrew whispered, looking back at Emil.

  Before the doctor could reply, a knock on the door interrupted them. Andrew nodded to the doctor, who went over and unbolted the latch.

  It was Kal.

  "Sleep well, yes?" the peasant asked, stepping into the room with a bright cheery smile.

  Andrew nodded in reply. Kal looked closely at Emil, and his broad peasant features crinkled up, his eyes showing the merriment that a drinker feels at the sight of a hungover comrade.

  With exaggerated gestures Kal placed his hands to his temples and groaned.

  "Shut the hell up," Emil snapped, turning away.

  Kal stepped back through the door, beckoned, and then reentered the room. Behind him a young girl of sixteen or seventeen stepped into the room carrying a tray laden with cups and a steaming pot-of tea. She was dressed in a simple peasant dress of white, embroidered around the high collar and hem with blue thread. The dress was bound tightly at the waist, showing off a slim girlish figure. Her strawberry-blond hair peeked out from under a plain white scarf. Smiling nervously, she stepped into the room, her eyes the same pale blue as Kal's, her high cheekbones, full lips, and smiling features so identical to Kal's that Andrew realized immediately that it was the translator's daughter.

  Smiling, Andrew gave a bow of acknowledgment that caused the girl to blush and lower her eyes.

  Andrew pointed to Kal, still smiling, and then to the young girl.

  "Daughter?"

  "Da, uh, yes, Cane. Daughter, Tanya."

  Emil stepped forward and bowed formally as well, to Kal's evident delight and Tanya's confused embarrassment. Coming back up, his face contorted in a grimace, he groaned and rubbed his temples.

  With a conspiratorial wink Kal patted Emil on the shoulder. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a ceramic flask, uncorked it, and poured some of the contents into one of the cups of tea.

  "Hair of the dog, is it?" Emil said, taking the cup. Sipping the scalding hot drink, Emil mumbled to himself and then quickly drained off the cup.

  Kal watched him expectantly. Suddenly the doctor's features started to lighten.

  "Well, I'll be damned," Emil exclaimed. "There was a touch of the juice in that, to be sure, but there was something else as well, and by heavens it's cleared the cobwebs away."

  Andrew tried a cup, and to his amazement the slightly minty drink worked the same effect, and within minutes he felt refreshed.

  "Look better," Kal said, still grinning, "See Ivor, talk peace now."

  "Let's get this over with," Andrew replied. "We've been away from the regiment too long already. I want to get back today—otherwise Pat might bring all the boys up here thundering for our release."

  Buckling on his sword, with Kal's help, Andrew went over to the window.

  "Sergeant Schuder, we're going in for the meeting now."

  "Be careful, sir," Hans said, lowering his voice. "If it starts to look like trouble, just fire off a shot, and the boys and I will be in after you."

  "We'll be all right, Hans."

  This was a different type of combat, and he could see that Hans was uneasy about it, wishing to be alongside his colonel, carbine ready, rather than standing outside worrying.

  "Nothing but a little bluff work now, Hans. The weapons have them half scared already. Just relax and I'll be out shortly."

  "Take care, colonel," Hans said, and to Andrew's surprise the sergeant reached up and patted him lightly on the arm.

  Andrew could not help but smile at this momentary break with formality, something he had not seen since Hans found him in the hospital at Gettysburg and the old soldier had burst into tears at the sight of him.

  "All right, Kal, let's get this over with."

  He bowed again to Tanya, and as he did so he could not help but notice the beauty of the girl, and the proud look of her father that Andrew had shown such formality to one of his class.

  "They're in there meeting with him right now," Mikhail said coldly, the disgust in his voice obvious.

  "Ah, my son, so that disturbs you."

  "It is an evil," Mikhail replied, looking straight into the prelate's eyes.

  "But of course," and as he spoke Rasnar beckoned to his personal secretary to pour some tea.

  "Well done, Casmar," Rasnar said, waving for the priest to withdraw.

  "It is good to know that there are loyal members to the holy church such as yourself, Mikhail," and as he spoke he made a sign of blessing over the bearlike warrior and beckoned for him to take a seat.

  "It is good you came and talked to me over these last several days," Rasnar continued smoothly, sitting down beside Mikhail. "I can see why you are distressed by this foolish decision of your brother to make a peaceful agreement with the blue devils."

  "There are others who feel as I," Mikhail growled. "My brother is a madman. Even if the devils are humans, they are foreigners, and thus suspect. They even make the holy sign of blessing backward and thus mock you and our holy church, yet still Ivor will deal with them."

  "Abomination," Rasnar replied smoothly.

  "Since Ivor received that demonic gift to cure his weak eyes he has been bewitched by them."

  "Perhaps he has been driven mad by the gift," Rasnar said softly.

  Rasnar fixed the warrior with his gaze. Of course, he knew that each of them was playing a game with the other. As an illegitimate brother to Ivor, Mikhail had no direct hope to the throne of the arch boyar—as long as his brother lived, that is. And of course the appearances in his chambers over the last several days were an open bid for support.

  "You realize," Rasnar said quietly, "that I have often wished that things had been somewhat different."

  "And how is that?" Mikhail asked cautiously.

  "Just that I have always wished that your father had brought your mother to the altar rather than Ivor's," the prelate said evenly.

  "My brother should be the bastard," Mikhail growled darkly. "That fat damned weak-eyed fool. I should be the boyar of Suzdal, dammit—I should be the one!" As he spoke he pounded the table with his fists.

  "Exactly as I've often thought and wished," Rasnar replied.

  And of course you would be far more pliable, the priest thought, still smiling in an understanding way.

  "You know, of course," Rasnar said, "that holy church would view a change with the utmost understanding and would speak well of it from the pulpit. If the bluecoat leader should fall, I daresay his fellow demons would quickly be defeated, then their weapons would be properly stored away in the hands of the church where they rightfully belong."

  Mikhail looked darkly at Rasnar.

  "But the church would be willing to give several such devices to its most loyal servants," Rasnar added dryly, and Mikhail smiled.

  "It is time for my morning prayers," and the tone of his voice was one of dismissal. "But know, my friend, that your loyalty to holy church will bring you blessings."

  With a bow Mikhail turned and started for the door.

  "I will remember your name in my mass this morning, but act quickly, my friend, for such a chance to have then-leader away from protection might not come again," Rasnar said, and the warrior turned, looking back at the prelate with a crafty smile.

  The door closed, Rasnar could not help but chuckle. So the brother was willing to knife brother over this issue. He had none of the guile of Ivor. Most likely his pride had been wounded by the encounter on the road and the incident over the glasses, and now it could only be salvaged through destruction. He had planted the suggestion of Mikhail being the translator, but that damned peasa
nt had ruined that idea as well. Mikhail never was one to understand diplomacy; he could well imagine what he and his confederates were planning to do at this very moment.

  The father of Mikhail and Ivor had led the boyars revolt against the church power, stripping its direct right to the tithe of the peasants and declaring that the boyar of Suzdal was the supreme ruler of the church.

  It was time to wrestle that control back, and perhaps the bluecoats could be the catalyst. Mikhail would be most pliable indeed, and when there was no longer a need an accident could be arranged and then the church would rule and nobles would answer, as it had once been.

  "Casmar!"

  The door opened and the young priest entered, bowing low.

  "Order up a mount and courier. I might have orders to go out to the prelates of the other cities within the hour."

  "I want them to swear full allegiance to me alone," Ivor said evenly, "to serve as my guard in time of war, to enforce my rules in time of peace. Tell them that."

  Kal turned away from his lord and looked across at Andrew.

  "Ivor says, peace between you and him. You help him and he help you in return."

  Andrew nodded sagely, putting on a display of profound thinking. In spite of the rifles and artillery he knew the Suzdalians had the advantage. If need be they could simply starve them out, or just swarm over them, using their thousands of peasants in wave attacks. They needed time to repair the ship and gain their bearings. If at a later date things got too uncomfortable, they could always pack up and leave for some other place. He had to come to some sort of an agreement, even if it meant serving this nobleman for now.

  "It sounds as if it might be acceptable, but there must be guarantees."

  Kal looked back at Ivor.

  "He begs to accept."

  Ivor grunted an assertion.

  Andrew leaned over to Emit, and regardless of the issue of politeness he started to whisper.

  "Do you somehow sense this Kal isn't quite translating straight?"

  "Son, he's had only six days to learn what he has—don't push the man."