"Load solid shot—let's give 'em a chaser."
The gun leaped again. The round crashed into the woods, snapping down several trees.
"All right, keep the ranks close," Andrew shouted. "Forward, at the double. O'Donald, hold here, get ready in case we're pushed back again. Somebody give me a pistol."
One of the artillerymen tossed him a loaded revolver, and leading the way, Andrew started up the trail. Trying not to look too closely, he stepped past the bodies. Turning the bend in the trail, he saw a small band of the enemy starting to regroup.
"Volley fire forward," Andrew shouted.
Rifles snapped to position, and a sheet of flame lashed out. Cartridges were torn, steel ramrods slammed fresh rounds home, and weapons were brought back up.
"All right, forward again at the walk!"
With leveled bayonets the company spread out to either side of the trail. Arrows snicked past, and with a grunt of pain another man went down by Andrew's feet. Another bolt shot past, slashing into Andrew's empty sleeve, so that it dangled loosely by his side.
For the first time he realized that he was being singled out as a target, but the realization only gave him a grim determination to drive the enemy back.
Another volley was fired, a twenty-yard advance, and then another volley.
They gained the end of the woods and saw the burning village before them aswarm with several hundred men pulling back, rushing to their horses, which were picketed in a small clearing at the other end of town. Many of them were already mounted, waving their weapons and shouting defiantly.
A high clarion call sounded off to the right. Stepping out into the clearing, Andrew could see Ivor and his men charging out of the woods a quarter mile away, Novrodians fleeing before them.
By the time Ivor was within hailing distance the last of the attackers had already disappeared off toward the east.
"Captain Mina," Andrew said grimly, "take roll, and get our dead and wounded back to the ship."
Andrew stepped out of the woods and started toward Ivor. A wave of light-headed giddiness swept over him, and his knees felt loose and rubbery. For a moment he thought he might vomit, and he had to struggle for control. It was always the same after a fight, the exhilaration giving way to shock at what he had done with such cold joy only moments before. His memory flashed to the bodies swept to the ground as if from the blow of a giant. At least the rebs knew what artillery could do. This felt more like murder than anything else, and he was sickened at the thought.
But it was a trap. That was already obvious. They'd been waiting for him.
Ivor reined his mount in, while signaling for the rest of his command to sweep forward in pursuit of the enemy.
Kal—where was Kal? Andrew wondered, suddenly worried. The peasant had been aboard the boat and landed, and he had not seen him since. But as if by magic the peasant appeared out of the smoking woods to stand by his side.
"Just where the hell were you?" Andrew asked.
"Where else, when nobles fight?" Kal replied honestly, "Hiding."
"Maybe you're even smarter than I thought," Andrew replied, seeing nothing but common sense in the response.
"So you had a good fight," Ivor shouted, reining up by Andrew's side.
"Could call it that," Andrew said laconically. "Would you care to see?"
Turning, he pointed back down the trail, and together the three started back.
Rounding the bend in the trail, Ivor drew his mount up short. Wide-eyed, he looked at the carnage. Dismounting, he stepped gingerly around the bodies, looking first at the ground, and then at the torn and shattered trees to either side of the path.
Turning, he looked Andrew straight in the eye.
"I'm glad after all I decided not to fight you," he said quietly.
"So am I," Andrew replied in Russian.
Ivor walked over to the body of the priest and kicked it over. The face was half gone. With a curse, Ivor spat on the corpse.
"Halna, priest of Novrod. So the church is now against me in the open."
"And someone knew we were in town today, and planned this attack to lure us out, and perhaps defeat me," Andrew replied.
"Who else but Rasnar?" Ivor said darkly. "I know my brother Mikhail fled to Novrod, so that is the plot."
"So what are you going to do?" Andrew asked.
"Nothing."
"Nothing, and leave that snake in the middle of your city?"
"He is the arch prelate of all the people of Rus," Ivor replied sharply. "Move directly against him and not only will I face Novrod, but Vazima, Kev, Zagdors, all the cities of Rus. My father wrested temporal power from his father. Because of that I have the support of the nobles of all the cities. They would not support a move to depose me, for it would threaten their position. But not even I would dare to face him directly in this. So I will act as if this were nothing but yet another raid, as we all engage in to keep our neighbors off balance from time to time."
"Madness," Andrew said grimly.
"When you know more of my world, you'll not say that," Ivor said, a sharp tone of admonishment in his voice. "Your men harvested many heads for my wall. My prestige in this little fight will grow, and others will think twice before crossing me. You've caused trouble for me, Keane, but you have your uses as well."
Ivor walked back over to his mount and swung his bulky frame back into the saddle.
"I shall see you back at the city—we'll feast tonight. And yes, our argument of earlier is settled. Your man died just before I left, so now there is no problem between us. Now the people will like you again."
Astounded, Andrew watched as the boyar galloped back up the hill.
Andrew turned and looked at Kal.
"He's mad."
"We are all nothing but part of his game," Kal whispered.
"All know that in the end the struggle between the lords and the church will soon be decided. Peasants fear nobles, peasants fear priests as well—whoever wins their argument, it will stay the same for us. As for you and yours, when wolf is done fighting wolf, the victor will devour the new fox."
John Mina and his command came down the trail, carrying half a dozen bodies.
"What's the bill, John?" Andrew asked.
"Not good, sir. Ten men dead, thirteen wounded, but they should pull through all right. Four men were killed when we first got hit, and their bodies were stripped, so they've got muskets and ammunition now."
"Dammit."
So that was the most likely cause of it as well, Andrew realized. Get some guns and figure out how to use them.
"There's something else, though," Mina continued.
"Go on."
"Two men missing, sir. No one saw them go down. I think they've been captured."
"Who are they?"
"Brian Sadler was one of them, sir."
"And the other one?"
"Hawthorne, sir."
Chapter 7
Terrified, Hawthorne tried not to watch, but driven by some horrible compulsion he couldn't turn away.
The previous night, he'd been slung over the back of a horse like a sack of grain and, tied and blindfolded, carried back to Novrod.
Each breath now felt like fire, and he wondered if some ribs might have been cracked. But for the moment that was the least of his worries.
"Make gun work!"
What was before him seemed straight out of a medieval nightmare. Private Sadler was strapped to a chair, his head encased in a metal cap, with screws over each temple.
"Make gun work!" the priest roared.
"You can kiss my hairy ass!" Sadler screamed.
Smiling, the priest took hold of the screws and turned them another half twist. Sadler arched up in the chair, screaming with pain, and then collapsed.
Sobbing, Hawthorne tried to tear himself free from the ropes that held him to the wall. The priest looked over at him, chuckled softly, and then went back to work.
"Make gun work!"
Sadler spat in th
e priest's face.
The screws were turned again. Hysterical shrieks rent the air, joined by the begging pleas of Hawthorne to stop the madness.
The priest came up to Vincent and held the musket up before him.
"You make work, I stop."
God in heaven, how could this be happening? Hawthorne wondered. He could stop Sadler's anguish, but then another machine of killing would be in the hands of these men.
"Don't do it!" Sadler sobbed. "They'll use it against our men."
The priest turned back to Sadler. Advancing, he prepared to turn the screws yet again. This time, however, a priest who had stood in the shadows stepped before Sadler and started to argue with the torturer.
The man kept pointing to Sadler and shaking his head. It was obvious to Vincent that the man was worried that Sadler would die if the screws were turned any tighter. Blood was pouring from Sadler's nose, and it appeared as if his eyes were about to burst from their sockets.
Finally the torturer smiled as if in agreement to a suggestion. The screws were loosened, and shuddering Sadler sank down in the chair.
The torturer left the cell. A moment later the door opened again, and Hawthorne's eyes grew wide with terror.
The priest came back into the room carrying a wire basket nearly six feet in length and a foot in diameter.
Inside, a dark-green snake coiled and slithered, hissing menacingly. As it opened its mouth, twin fangs glistened evilly in the torchlight.
"Not that!" Sadler shrieked. "God in heaven, not that! I can't take it!"
Two assistants came into the room and dragged a high table over to Brian, while the master torturer opened one end of the basket and placed it on the table. Untying Sadler's right arm, the two assistants started to push the limb toward the opening.
"God, God save me!" Sadler screamed.
"Stop it!" Hawthorne cried. "I'll show you—just stop it!"
The priest looked over to Hawthorne and smiled, gesturing for Sadler to be spared.
Hawthorne was cut down from the wall, and the priest tossed the musket into his hands.
"Make fire and smoke," he ordered.
Trembling, Hawthorne rested the butt of the Springfield rifle on the floor and motioned for the cartridge and cap box to be brought over.
As he finished, the torturer came up to stand by his side with drawn dagger ready to strike.
Cautiously, Vincent brought the weapon to his shoulder, pointed to the iron-barred window, and squeezed.
Badly frightened, all in the room jumped back.
Vincent handed the weapon back to the priest. Gingerly the man took the weapon. Sniffing the barrel, he exclaimed at the sulfurous smell and gazed darkly at the trembling youth.
Taking the cartridge box, he pulled out a paper-wrapped round, and following Vincent's directions, tore the round open, poured the powder down the barrel, pushed the bullet in, and then rammed the charge home. Cocking the piece, he placed a percussion cap on the nipple.
Hawthorne pointed to the trigger, and gestured to indicate how the weapon should be held.
The priest brought the weapon to his shoulder and pointed it straight at Hawthorne's face.
Please God, let him do it, Hawthorne prayed inwardly. He had already betrayed his beliefs by joining the army, and now had taught someone how to kill. The punishment could only be fitting.
The priest smiled at him darkly.
The man spun around, putting the gun barrel against the side of Sadler's head.
"See you in hell!" Sadler roared.
The priest pulled the trigger. Brains and blood splattered against the far wall.
Leaning over, Hawthorne vomited while his tormentors laughed.
The doorway into his cell opened slowly, and a black-bearded warrior stepped into the room. Vincent gazed warily at the man, recognizing him immediately as the warrior who had confronted him on the road.
The priest tossed the gun to Mikhail, who hefted the weapon and smiled. Motioning for the cartridge box, he pulled out a round, tore it open, and poured the powder into the palm of his hand, then started speaking to the priest, who nodded eagerly.
"You show magic of this," the priest snapped, coming up to face Vincent. "Say no . . ." With a shrug he pointed to the snake in the cage.
"Sleep tonight and think."
"How do you know our language?" Hawthorne asked, curious even through the cloud of dread and pain that engulfed him.
The old priest suddenly seemed to shrivel up into the posture of a cripple.
"Yankee, help me," he whined, holding out his hand.
Horrified, Hawthorne realized that he had seen the man before, but as a beggar outside the gate of Fort Lincoln. He had even given the man a copper coin and spoken to him a number of times, feeling sympathy for someone so wretched.
Cackling, the priest stood back up.
"With this," and he gestured to the gun, "we send man to kill your Keane, or maybe his woman too."
The priest then pointed dramatically at the snake, laughed, and stalked out of the room. Two assistants cut the ropes that had held Sadler and dragged the shattered body feet first out of the room, while another picked up the snake basket, grabbed the single torch, and walked out behind them.
Mikhail was the last to leave. Coming up to Vincent, he grinned and then delivered a smashing blow to the boy's stomach, doubling him over. Laughing, Mikhail left the room and the door slammed shut behind him.
Sobbing, Hawthorne collapsed on the floor, dreading the realization that tomorrow morning he would have to try to die, rather than give the knowledge that could threaten his comrades.
Rasnar gestured for Casmar to withdraw now that the tea had been served.
"Go ahead and drink," the prelate said soothingly, "I promise it isn't poison."
Ivor looked across the table and, smiling, pushed the cup aside.
"You insult my honesty," Rasnar replied softly.
"Then be insulted. I'm not so stupid as to drink something you'd serve."
"Come, come. I am far more diabolical than that. If you visit me, then die of some malady shortly thereafter, the blame would rest squarely on my doorstep. More than one man has been falsely accused after the mere bad luck of having an enemy die after the two had shared a perfectly innocent meal. If I kill you, Ivor, I'll do it far more subtly than that, and be sure at the same time of having another of my enemies blamed instead."
"And so what has stopped you so far, if you are so powerful?"
"Ah, my old rival, perhaps I need you, as you need me."
Ivor leaned back and adjusted his glasses.
"Both of us would be better off if the other were dead. This power struggle between the two of us has been brewing for years. My father did what was needed to strip temporal power from your father. Your church has no business in the affairs of state, and you wish to change that."
"But ah, my friend, a reckoning is coming," Rasnar replied smoothly. "The Tugars liked our little arrangement that your father so foolishly upset. The church ruled the nobles, the nobles ruled the peasants. Through our power, all submitted to the Tugar host, and thus lived because of our preaching of submission to their laws of feeding.
"I shall tell you something else as well. Though the church ruled over all cities, we did not interfere when you and your uncouth brethren would fight in the gutter with each other. It was as the Tugars wished, for the cities were divided, and thus there was never a dream of resistance."
"Nor would we resist now," Ivor said gruffly. "It would be madness. There are not twenty thousand warriors among all the Rus, to stand against the hundreds of thousands of the horde. But we are not here to talk of Tugars, but of your plots against me and my holdings."
"But the topic comes back to the Tugars nevertheless," Rasnar replied. "They so ordered the balance of rule, and so it has always been. To tamper with that, without their permission, is folly. You and those of noble birth have the exemption, and the church sells indulgences from the pit to tho
se not of such birth. Together we controlled the peasants, took the taxes, and prevented any trouble that might result in the slaughter of us all."
"And the great grain houses and silver hoards are already half full in anticipation of their arrival three and a half years hence," Ivor replied. "I shall make sure all is in order for their arrival, so why do you worry such about them?"
"I fear you have plans with these Yankees," Rasnar replied sharply. "I saw it the first night after you witnessed their power when they smashed your catapults. I could see that fire in your eyes, Ivor Weak Eyes."
Ivor bristled at the name. He had been Weak Eyes once, but the Yankee gift had solved that. He preferred now the title of Ivor Yankee Owner, and felt Rasnar's taunt an affront. And yes, he had plans, plans to unite all of Rus under his rule. Not since the time of Ivan near twenty generations ago had one man ruled all the Rus. Even the Tugars respected him, taking one of his sons on their endless migration around the entire world. Upon his return Ivan had given the throne to that son, the legendary Ivan the Great.
If he could unite all the Rus, then he could perhaps negotiate that more of the feeding would be leveled against Novrod, thus making his base of power even stronger after the host had left.
But as it had stood before, only the church was totally exempt from even the taxes of the Tugars. The church still had that vast wealth stored away and could use it as bribes to the Tugars and to turn princes one against the other. He needed and wanted that money. His father had not had the nerve to take it, but with the Yankees on his side, he could perhaps even bring down the church and have all its wealth in his coffers.
"But we are not here to talk of Tugars," Ivor said peevishly. "One of your priests led an attack against my Yankees, and thus against me."
Rasnar chuckled.
"It is not funny!" Ivor roared, slamming his fist on the table. "Two of the Yankees were taken prisoners as well. What has happened to them? I must tell Keane something."
"Tell him they're dead. They were killed trying to escape."
"I doubt that. They could show you how the Yankee weapons work."
"We could figure that out on our own," and Rasnar waved his hand as if the topic were of no importance.
Rally Cry Page 15
