Down to the Sea

FOUR

General of the Armies Vincent Hawthorne shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, absently rubbing his left hip, which always troubled him when he rode.

“You wish to take a break, sir?”

Vincent looked over at his adjutant, Lieutenant Abraham Keane, and smiled. The boy was shaping up just fine, still a bit too eager to please, but, then again, young lieutenants fresh out of the academy tended to be like that.

He had his father’s lanky frame, long-limbed, narrow chest, high cheekbones, full lips, and, unfortunately, his father’s weak eyes, which required thick glasses. But he had inherited as well his mother’s Irish red hair. To look at him was somehow a reminder of himself of thirty years ago, when the world was new, the wars had yet to come, and youth seemed eternal.

“Not much farther, Lieutenant. The Bantag have spotted us, so we might as well press on in.”

Abraham nodded, removing his campaign hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. Vincent knew the boy’s canteen was empty, and he was tempted to offer a sip from his own, but decided against it. Good to let him suffer a bit and learn. The old veterans behind them expected their officers, no matter how young, to be as tough as they were.

Vincent looked back over his shoulder at the regiment following him, riding in columns of four. It was a grand sight, trailing back across the open steppes, hot dry wind whipping the guidons, dust boiling away from the column, sweeping off to the distant horizon.

Their dark blue sack coats, khaki trousers, and black knee-high boots were obscured by the thick layer of dust.

Most of the men had their bandannas covering their mouths so that only their eyes were visible.

He had a flash memory of the final battle of the war; the vast open ground, the limitless sky overhead and the thundering charge of the Bantag Horde.

A few of the men behind him had been there, though most were like Abraham, new to the ranks, enduring military service at one of the isolated outposts ringing the Hordelands. For twenty years it had been thus, twenty-five outposts ringing the million and a half square miles assigned to the defeated Hordes at the end of the Great War. The duty was tough: patrolling the range, ensuring that the Horde stayed within its territory, maintaining an uneasy peace between two races that had known nothing but hatred and conflict for thousands of years.

Those who had once been the masters of this world had finally tasted bitter defeat, and only a fool would assume that they did not harbor a dream of returning the world to what it had once been.

A distant hum caught his attention. Shading his eyes against the noonday sun, Vincent caught a glimpse of an aerosteamer lazily circling. Signaling for the column to change direction, he headed toward the steamer, knowing that it marked the destination of this, his annual trek into the Bantag Range.

Eager anticipation showed on young Keane’s face, and Vincent smiled.

“This is your first ride out here, isn’t it?” he asked.

‘ “Yes, sir. I’ve never seen a Horde encampment before, just a few hunting parties.”

“During the first battle of Suzdal, the Tugars camped all along the hills east of town where the new city now is. The golden yurt of old Muzta-now, there was a sight-must have been fifty yards across. Their tents stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a grand and terrible sight.”

He looked over at Abraham. God, how the years have passed. That seemed just like yesterday. It was colored, though, by the haze of memory. It was hard to remember the sheer terror; the umens drawn up, the thundering chants, the rhythmic pounding of scimitars on shields that so strangely sounded like the approach of a freight train.

And the terror of the charge. The way they came on like a hurricane, oblivious to loss.

Abraham knew none of that. All he would know would be the legends, the memories, the Decoration Day and Victory Day parades, where aging veterans gathered with his father, the Colonel, to remember the fallen and march in review, then retire to the nearest tavern to expand upon the stories and memories of old.

The losers, though, what did they now remember? Vincent wondered. Like Prometheus, they were chained to the rock of memory, tormented by the dream of greatness lost.

He looked back again at the column. Only a couple of them, mostly the older NCOs, had fought at Suzdal, Hispania, Rocky Hill, or the Liberation of the Chin. Some had seen a few minor skirmishes, really nothing more than shoot-outs with an occasional drunken band of Bantags, where two or three were killed on either side and then a flurry of protests and accusations would follow. He wondered how these boys would fare if they suddenly faced not a few drunks, but instead a tidal wave; a full umen filling the horizon ahead, sunlight flickering on drawn blades, the sky overhead turning black as night as volleys of arrows, hissing like snakes, rained down upon them.

Riding through a dried riverbed, he urged his mount up a steep embankment, grunting with pain as he leaned forward. His old wound had never really healed, and even after twenty years he still had to change the protective pad that covered the hole drilled into him by a Bantag bullet. Splinters of bone still worked their way out and only last month Kathleen had been forced to operate yet again to withdraw a particularly painful fragment.

He knew she had most likely told her boy to keep a careful watch on him, and Abraham was doing his part, riding beside him, close enough to offer a supportive hand if he should start to lose his grip on the saddle.

He waved the boy off.

As he crested the riverbank he felt more than heard a distant thunder. The sound instantly sent a cold shiver down his back. It was unmistakable, a deep resonant rumble. His mount pricked up her ears, slowing, tossing her head up to catch the scent of the wind. He’d caught it as well; a mingling of horse, leather, and the musky stench unique to those of the Horde.

He reined about, looking back at his column. The tail of it was still on the far side of the dust-filled riverbed. Some of the men were looking up, a few reaching down to unsnap the holster covers for their carbines.

Looking back at the rise of ground ahead he saw them. Visible first were the horsetail standards held aloft. Within seconds, across a front of half a mile they had appeared, a line of Horde riders advancing at a steady trot, silent, silhouetted against the yellow-blue horizon.

“My God,” Abraham whispered.

Vincent looked over at him and smiled. “Only a regiment. Just a little show, nothing more. Ride back, tell the troop commanders that all weapons are to remain hol-stered. We don’t want any mistakes. Order the regiment to remain on this side of the riverbank and deploy. Then report back to me.”

Abraham hesitated for a second, gaze locked forward, mouth gaping at the display.

“Go on, boy, see to your duty. There’s not going to be a war today. If there was, it’d be a full umen coming at us at a gallop.”

Abraham, recovering, snapped off a proper salute and reined about.

Vincent continued forward, ordering his guidon bearer and bugler to follow, urging his mount to a slow trot. The Bantag came to a stop at the crest of the ridge, the wind \ whipping the horsetails of the Qar Qarth’s standard. He had learned some of their ways over the years and identified the banner as that of the first regiment of the umen of the white horse, the elite personal guard of their Qar Qarth. Here were the best of them, the victors at Port Lincoln and Capua, bled out in the siege of Roum, defiant, however, to the bitter end. Their ranks, like his, were now filled with the sons of those who had survived the war.

Lieutenant Keane rode up to join him. Like an eager child, he was hoping to be invited along. Vincent hesitated for a second. This was, after all, the only surviving son of Andrew Lawrence Keane.

Political considerations however, swayed him. The one he was going to meet had a grudging respect for Andrew, and it wouldn’t hurt to have the boy along. He nodded his consent. Abraham broke into a boyish grin, but then, remembering that he was a newly minted officer out of the academy, instantly assumed the proper look of stern forthrightness.

“Abraham, you can carry my guidon.”

Vincent looked over at his bugler.

“Ruffles and flourishes, Sergeant.”

The high piercing call sent a chill down his spine. Looking up at the line of Bantags, he half wished it was the call for charge instead. He smiled inwardly. Old memories, old hatreds, and passions, die hard. He had been seasoned by war, bitterly scarred by it, and yet after all these years the dark coiled longing for it lingered in his soul.

The words of Robert E. Lee whispered to him: “It is good war is so terrible, else we would grow too fond of it.” The deep, throaty rumble of a narga, the Horde battle trumpet, echoed back in reply. He saw two figures separate from the Bantag line, a rider followed by a standard bearer.

With a gentle nudge he urged his mount to a canter and started up the hill to meet Jurak, Qar Qarth of the vanquished Horde of the Bantag.

Qar Qarth Jurak reined in for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the steppes, focusing on the antlike column deploying across the streambed below. They glanced at the flyer circling overhead.

“Damn them,” he whispered softly.

“My Qarth?”

He looked over at his son, who today was serving as his aide, and smiled. “Nothing, Garva. Just remember, stay silent and observe.”

The lad nodded eagerly, and Jurak felt a stab inside. The boy’s mother had died during the winter of the breathing sickness, which had swept through the impovished camps, killing thousands. He had her eyes, the set of her jaw, the proud visage, and to look at him triggered memories that were still too painful to recall.

“Is that their Qarth?” Garva asked, nodding toward the two that were approaching.

“General of their armies, Vincent Hawthorne.”

“He is tiny. How can that be a general?”

“He’s one of their best. Remember, he defeated us. Never judge an enemy by physical strength. Always consider the mind. Now, be silent.”

Over a year passed since he had last seen Hawthorne. Hawthorne’s hair was showing wisps of gray, and by the way he rode it was obvious that he was in pain. He looked even smaller on his diminutive mount. The humans had been breeding their mounts for a size that fit them better. Their horses now looked almost toylike.

Vincent reined in a dozen feet away, stiffened, and formally saluted. “Qar Qarth Jurak, you are well?”

His command of the language was good. It was obvious he had been studying.

“I am well, General Hawthorne, and you?”

Vincent smiled. “A reminder of the old days troubles me.” He absently patted his hip. “I heard the sad news of your mate’s passing and bring the regrets of Colonel Keane.”

“Thousands died,” Jurak replied. “Some see it as a sign of the displeasure of the ancestors.”

Vincent nodded. He stiffly swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. It was an interesting gesture, Jurak thought, for the first to dismount was acknowledging subservience, and he wondered if Vincent knew that.

There was a slight grunt of amusement from Garva, but a quick glance stilled him.

Jurak dismounted as well and came forward. For an awkward moment, the two gazed at each other, the small general of the humans, who were the victors in the Great War, the towering Qar Qarth of the Bantag Horde looking down. He let the moment draw out. Humans tended to be frightened when a Horde rider stood close, and they were forced to gaze up at dark, impenetrable eyes. Hawthorne did not flinch. His gaze was steady, and a flicker of a smile creased his mouth.

He finally broke the silence. “We can stand here all day and play this game, Jurak, or we can sit down and talk like two civilized leaders.”

Jurak laughed softly and looked back at his son. “Something to eat and drink, Garva.”

Without ceremony, Jurak sat down on the hard ground.

The scent of crushed sage washed up around him, a pleasant smell: crisp, warm, ladened with memories.

Hawthorne’s aide dismounted as well, unclipping a folding camp chair from behind Vincent’s saddle and bringing it up.

“Hope you don’t mind that I use a chair,” Vincent asked. “At least then we can see eye to eye, and it’s a bit easier on me.”

Jurak nodded, realizing that Vincent was aware of the implications of sitting higher in the presence of the Qar Qarth.

Garva brought forward a jar filled with kumiss and two earthen mugs. Pouring the drinks, he handed them over. Jurak dipped his finger into the mug and flicked droplets to the four winds and then to the earth before drinking.

As he did so, his gaze fell on Vincent’s aide. The boy was watching him, fascinated. There was something vaguely familiar to Jurak.

“Jurak, may I introduce Lieutenant Abraham Keane, who is serving as my adjutant.”

“Your sire, then, is Andrew Keane?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You come from good blood. How is your father?”

“Well, sir. He asked that I convey to you his personal respects, and his regrets as well for the passing of your mate.”

Jurak nodded his thanks. “We both know pain, your sire and I. You are his only surviving son, are you not?”

“Yes, Qar Qarth Jurak.”

“Interesting that he became your-how do you call it- your president yet again. Does he enjoy such power?”

“No, sir. It was never his desire to hold that rank.”

Jurak smiled. “All of ability desire power.”

“And I assume your aide is your son?” Vincent interrupted.

Garva stiffened, and then formally nodded with head slightly bowed.

Jurak, caught by surprise, said nothing.

“I could see your blood in him. Tell me, do you desire power, son of the Qar Qarth?”

“Of course,” Garva replied stiffly. “When my sire goes to our ancestors, I shall rule as he did.”

“And how shall that be?” Vincent asked. “How shall you rule?”

Jurak looked over at his son, eyes filled with warning “Justly,” Garva replied coolly.

“Yes, your father has been just.”

“To whom?” Jurak asked. “Just to your people or to mine?”

“There has been no war for twenty years. I think that is a worthy accomplishment.”

“No war. Define war, Vincent Hawthorne.”

“I don’t need to do that for you. We both know what it is.”

“Let us get, as you humans say, ‘down to business.’ ” Vincent nodded.

“I received your listing of complaints-the incident at Tamira’s Bridge, the refusal of passage to the Nippon settlers, the supposed raids, the disappearance of two flyers, the rumors of raids to take prisoners for the moon feast, and all the other allegations.”

“You may call them allegations. I attended the funeral of the thirty-two men killed at Tamira, and their dead bodies were not allegation but fact. As to the incident where a dozen Chin settlers disappeared, by God, if they were sacrificed, I will have one hell of a problem restraining Congress from ordering a punitive expedition. Remember, the Chin are the single largest voting block, and they are screaming bloody murder over this rumor.”

“Fifty-three of my riders died at Tamira,” Jurak replied, choosing to ignore the issue of the Chin, “and the question is who shot first. We both have our own answers to that.”

“It could have sparked a war.”

“And you have yet to define war to me, Hawthorne. Remember, I am not of this world. I came here from another place, as did you. I was educated on a world where there are things you cannot imagine or dream of.”

Vincent stiffened slightly. “Such as weapons you might dream of?”

“Perhaps, yes. And in my education, I studied the writings of Ju ta Vina, who stated, ‘War is the eternal process, and peace is but the preparation for the renewal of conflict.’ ”

“Do you believe that?”

“You do, otherwise you would not be here, in uniform, in command of the tens of thousands of troops that ring us in on what you call the Bantag Range and which many of my people define as nothing more than a prison.”

“What, then, was the alternative?” Vincent asked sharply. “My God, we could have slaughtered you after the Chin rebelled. Remember, it was Hans that offered the compromise and saved your life as well.”

Jurak lowered his head. “I owe him blood debt,” he acknowledged, “and yes, you could have slaughtered us.”

“We are drifting onto dangerous ground here,” Vincent interjected. “Refighting the past is meaningless.”

“Yet history is the foundation of the future.”

Vincent said nothing, taking a sip of kumiss, then setting the cup down.

“The reason for this meeting is that we are dying here. The herds of the great hairy giants are all but gone after twenty years of hunting. In a few more years what food we can gather will be gone forever. More and more of our horse herds are being devoured. Riders who once owned a dozen mounts now rarely have more than two or three. We once ranged around the entire world. Now we are confined to but one small corner of it, and the land is used up.”

“We survive on less land with far more people.”

“You are farmers, and you have the machines that you have denied us the right to make or to own.” As he spoke he nodded to the flyer, which continued to circle overhead. “Then be farmers.”

Garva barked a defiant laugh, and Jurak did not look back. “Go suggest that to my warriors up there,” Jurak replied sharply, pointing at the regiment deployed on the ridge behind them. “See how long you or I would live. The Ancestors would scoff at us, would be ashamed and deny any who did thus the right to join them on the Everlasting Ride through eternity.”

“You are not of this world. Do you honestly believe that?” Jurak stiffened, knowing that his son was standing but half a dozen feet away, hearing everything.

“Of course,” he said hurriedly, “but what I believe does not matter. It is what my people believe that is important. I convinced them to give up the ride, for it was either that or the war continued. I convinced them to forswear the moon feast, to become hunters of other creatures instead.”

Vincent’s gaze went icy.

“I mean no offense, Hawthorne, but remember, that is how you were viewed.”

“I know, and that is why I wonder what it is you and your warriors are now truly thinking.”

“You must acknowledge that the way it now is cannot last. Do you honestly expect my people to quietly sit on this empty land and starve to death? The lung sickness of last winter was but the start. They will grow weaker, ask your doctors of it. It is called malnutrition, and as they grow weaker they will become susceptible to a whole host of diseases.

“You have your medicines, inoculations, a wealth of food. We do not.”

“Then make them.”

Jurak laughed. “How? Where in the name of the Gods do I start? Build a school? Who will teach? What will we teach? I am but one from another world. You Yankees had hundreds of minds to start with. To do what you suggest will take a hundred years, which I don’t have. I am worried about what will happen when winter comes again.”

“So what are you asking for?”

“To leave this place, to resume the ride.”

Vincent shook his head. “You can’t ride west. The Chin will never stand for it. You mix your people in with mine, and there will be a slaughter on both sides, and we both know it. If you go east, Congress will never accept that. There are people there. They are not yet part of the Republic, but soon will be. It is their land, and we are sworn to protect it.”

“So, you are telling me that we are stuck here.” Hawthorne looked down at the ground, absently kicking an anthill with the toe of his boot.

“The Merki are all but dead. They tried to continue on. Wherever they went, there was rebellion and slaughter, hundreds of thousands of humans, and riders have died far to the west across the last twenty years. The Tugars have settled into the great forest and are surviving.”

“Surviving?”

There was a snort of disdain from Garva, and again Jurak let the youth have his way. The humans fully understood that the Tugars were held in contempt for their betrayal of the Merki at the Battle of Hispania. If ever the two Hordes should meet, no matter what the humans threatened, there would be a war of vengeance.

“We are two aging warriors,” Vincent said, his gaze again fixed on Jurak. “We can speak bluntly. I am ordered by Congress and by the president of the Republic to inform you that the boundaries of your lands are permanently fixed by the treaty that you yourself signed. Any attempt to move beyond them will be construed as an act of war, and we both know what that would mean.”

“You will slaughter us,” Jurak replied, his voice cold. “If I had a thousand of those things”-he pointed at the flyer circling overhead-“not those primitive machines but the kind I knew on my world, you would not speak so lightly of war. You do so now because you know that with your land ironclads, your trains, and your flyers, it would not be war, it would be extermination.”

Vincent nodded. “I speak to you now as someone who has come to respect you. I came to this world a stranger. At first I hated your race and everything associated with it. I killed as you did.”

“Yes, I know. You are a legend, Vincent Hawthorne, when it comes to killing.”

Vincent was silent for a moment, features gone pale as if a dark dream had seized him. He lowered his head, the slightest of tremors flickering across his face.

“Yes, I killed on a level that even the oldest of your warriors would admire. I don’t want any more of it. Fighting in the field as we once did, line facing line, there was at least some honor to that butchery. This is different. How long could your warriors stand against our land ironclads, our gatlings, the firebombs dropping from our flyers?”

“You made sure in the treaty that we could not. Remember, we are denied the ability to make such weapons.”

“What the hell else were we supposed to do? If the roles were reversed, I daresay you would have not been so generous. It would have been all of us to the slaughter pits.”

As he spoke his face turned red, anger rising to the surface. “Yes,” Jurak replied quietly. “My people would have demanded such a thing, for both of us realize a fundamental point now. Only one race will survive on this world.”

“Sir, it does not have to be that way.”

Both of them looked at Abraham Keane, who throughout the conversation had stood in respectful silence behind Vincent.

Vincent started to make an angry remark, but Jurak extended his hand. “Indulge him. Besides, he is the son of Keane. Go on, boy, speak.”

Abraham blushed. “Sir, my father has often said that his hope was that somehow we could finally learn to coexist, side by side.”

“And you believe this?”

“I want to.”

“I know enough of your father to believe him and you, at least as to what you might wish.”

“It is what many of us wish,” Vincent interjected. “Wishes, always wishes,” Jurak replied sharply. “I must deal this winter with facts.”

“We could send food to you.”

“Ahh, so now we are reduced to beggary. Should we come to the depot and bow in thanks? Suggest that to my warriors up on the ridge and see what they say. They would choose one of two things in reply to that: either cut their own throats or cut yours. The Ancestors would spit upon them for such an infamy.”

“You are telling me, then, that there will be war?” Vincent asked.

Jurak leaned back and closed his eyes, then finally shook his head.

“No. But I am telling you that unless something changes, no matter what we desire, things will become impossible. Either we are allowed to expand our range to new lands, or we starve. No other alternative you suggest can work.”

“And that is what I am to carry back to Congress?”

“Tell your Congress to come to our encampments and see the starvation. Then ask them what is to be done.”

“Jurak, I hope you know enough about me to know that I will honestly tell them the truth regarding your situation.”

Jurak nodded. “Yes, I believe you will.”

“But I promise nothing. I will suggest expansion to the north. It is land belonging to the Nippon, which is still open range. They are very testy about such issues, but if we could give you access to the Great Northern Forest, there is game aplenty there. Perhaps that might help.”

“For the present at least.” Jurak’s voice was cool, distant.

Vincent shifted uncomfortably, and Jurak could sense that he wanted to talk about something else.

He nodded to his son, who refilled his goblet with kumiss.

“We’ve had reports,” Vincent continued.

“Of what?”

“The Kazan.”

Jurak looked straight ahead, wondering how his son was reacting. His gaze focused on Keane’s son, standing behind Hawthorne. The boy was staring straight at him, penetrating pale blue eyes that, if of the Bantag, would mark him as a spirit walker.

Somehow he sensed that the boy knew, and it was disquieting.

Hawthorne looked back over his shoulder at Keane. “Abraham, could you fetch that item you’re carrying for me?”

The boy stirred and turned away.

Abraham Keane opened the saddlebag on his mount. As he reached inside, he looked back at Jurak, who was still staring at him.

Something is bothering him, Abraham thought. All of the Qar Qarth’s attention was focused on him.

Why?

He pulled out the package, wrapped in an oil-soaked wrap, and brought it up to Vincent, who motioned for him to open it. Untying the binding, Abraham laid the cloth open. He picked up the revolver, the bulk of it so large that he felt he should hold it with two hands.

The steel was burnished to an almost silver gleam, and the grips were made of ivory. It was not an old cap and ball weapon from the war, but a cartridge-loaded weapon, the cylinder holding eight rounds of a heavy caliber. As he held it forth, he looked again at Jurak.

Abraham wondered what it would be like to do what his father had done. More than once his father had leveled a revolver into the face of one of the Horde riders and fired, so close, he had heard veterans say, that their manes had burst into flames.

What was it like to kill? he wondered.

Jurak stared at him, the flicker of a smile crossing his features. “Ever been in battle, boy?”

The words were a deep grumble, spoken in the slave dialect, which was taught at the academy to young cadets who would be assigned to the cavalry on the frontier.

“No, sir.”

“Your father killed scores of my warriors with his own hands.”

“I know.”

“Does that make you proud of him?”

Abraham hesitated.

“Speak with truth.”

Abraham nodded. “It was war. Your race would have destroyed, devoured mine. He’s told me he fought so that I would grow up safe, which I have.”

Jurak laughed softly. “He did it for more than that. He did it because he loved it.”

Abraham shifted uncomfortably, gun still in his hands, pointed not quite at Jurak but in his general direction.

What does this one know of me, of my father? Abraham wondered. Is it true that my father did love it, that he gloried in it? He thought of Pat O’Donald, of William Webster, who was now secretary of the treasury and holder of the Medal of Honor for leading a charge. And he thought of the few others of the old 35 th Maine and 44th New York who were still alive, who would come to the house in the evening and never did a night pass when they did not talk of “the old days.” Always there’d be that gleam in their eye, the sad smiles, the brotherhood that no one else could possibly share. Is that what they love, the memories of it? Or was this leader of a fallen race correct, that they loved it for the killing?

“Did you love it as well?” Abraham asked. “I heard it said that after you defeated us at Capua, you rode before your warriors carrying one of our battle standards, standing tall in your stirrups, acknowledging the cheers of your warriors. Did you love that moment?”

Jurak, caught off guard, let his gaze drop for a second. Hawthorne, who had been watching the exchange, reached out and took the heavy revolver from Abraham’s grasp and inverted it, holding the stock toward Jurak.

“Go ahead, take it.”

Jurak, smiling, accepted the revolver, hefted it, half cocked the weapon and spun the cylinder. He raised it up, pointing it toward the flyer, which still buzzed overhead. “A gift?” Jurak asked.

“No, a return.”

Jurak laughed softly. “You speak in riddles, Hawthorne.”

“I think you know what I mean, Qar Qarth Jurak.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“This weapon was taken from one of your dead after the fight at Tamira. You can see it’s of the finest craftsmanship. Its precision, according to my designer of armaments, exceeds anything we could now make. It is obvious it is not an old weapon left over from our war.”

“So?”

“Where did it come from?”

“You said it was looted from one of my dead.”

“A commander of ten thousand as near as we could figure out from his uniform and standard.”

Jurak was silent.

“It is either one of two things, Jurak. First, if you are now making such things, it is in violation of our treaty.”

“You, however, can make whatever machines that please you,” Garva interjected, voiced filled with anger. He stepped up to his father’s side. Nearly as tall as his sire, he looked down menacingly at Abraham.

Abraham struggled for control, not willing to let this one see fear, and yet he suddenly did feel afraid. It had a primal edge, as if he were confronting a terrifying predator in the dark. He suddenly wondered if this one had ever tasted human flesh, and he knew with a frightful certainty that if given the chance, Garva would do such a thing without hesitation.

He forced himself to stare up at Garva and not back down. Jurak extended his hand. “Go on, Hawthorne.”

“Did you make this weapon?”

Jurak shook his head. “The machinery required, the lathes, to cut the cylinder to such perfection, even the refining of the steel-you know we couldn’t do that and keep it hidden for long.”

“Then if you did not make it, how did one of your warriors come to possess it? It’s not sized to a human. It does, however, fit your hand perfectly.”

Jurak looked straight at Vincent, but did not answer.

“The Kazan. Is that it?”

There was a long silence. Abraham turned his gaze away from Garva, again focusing on Jurak. He wondered how one learned to read them, to understand the nuances of gesture, and found it impossible. Always there was that impenetrability he had heard his father speak of so often.

“They are fifteen hundred leagues or more from here,” Jurak finally replied, waving vaguely toward the south.

“And twelve hundred of those leagues are ocean, which they know how to sail. Have you been in contact with them?”

Jurak actually smiled, but said nothing.

“Is that from the Kazan?” Vincent pressed, and though Abraham’s command of the Bantag slave dialect was far from good, he could clearly catch the tone of anger and even of threat in Vincent’s voice.

“Given how this conversation is progressing, I’d certainly take pleasure in meeting these Kazan,” Jurak replied, leaning forward menacingly, the revolver in his hand now almost pointed at Vincent.

Abraham looked up to the riders who, throughout the meeting, had remained motionless on the ridgeline behind them. He could see that they were intently watching the exchange, and more than one was shifting. Several had old rifles from the war out of their saddle sheaths. He could sense their eagerness, their hope that something was about to explode.

“The possession of that weapon…Vincent continued, ignoring the implied threat in Jurak’s gesture. “If there is contact between you and the Kazan, I must urge you to step back.”

“Why? Is there something about to happen between you and them?” Jurak replied, the slightest of mocking tones in his voice. “If so, it could prove most interesting for the Bantag.”

“Don’t get involved in it, Jurak,” Vincent replied. He sounded almost as if pleading, which Abraham found uncomfortable, but then he realized that it was a heartfelt warning.

“I don’t want another war with you. We fought our fight. We don’t need another such bloodletting, because if there is, we both know the end result.”

Jurak grunted and shook his head. As if bowed under with weariness, he slowly stood up and stretched, then stepped closer to Vincent.

Abraham realized that at last he was seeing anger-the flat nostrils dilating, mane bristling slightly along the neck, the brown wrinkled skin shifting in color to a brighter hue. “Human, we are not slaves. We are not cattle.”

He said the last word in the old tongue, the meaning of it quite clear.

Vincent stood up as well, though the effect simply made the difference in their size more pronounced. Hawthorne barely came up to the Qar Qarth’s chest.

“If they are out there,” Vincent said, “stay out of it. If we do find them, and there is a war, stay out of it. I tell you this not just as a representative of my government, but as a soldier who once faced you in battle. We do not want another war with you. You have nothing to gain by it except slaughter.”

“We have our pride,” Garva interjected.

“Silence!” Jurak shifted, gaze locked on his son for a brief instant, and yet Abraham wondered if he was indeed angry, if the son had not spoken what Jurak felt.

Jurak pointed the gun straight at Vincent. “This weapon proves nothing to me other than your fears. Your fear of a Horde you cannot even find; a fear of us, a fear of yourselves.” He laughed darkly. “You are afraid of becoming like we once were, aren’t you? Your pity stayed your hand, and now you are afraid.”

“Pity?” Vincent cried. “In the name of God, we were all sick of the killing. Remember, it was a human, a cattle who saved your life from that insane animal, the Qar Qarth of the Merki.”

There was a flicker of doubt, of sadness, on Jurak’s face. “Yes, Hans,” he said quietly.

“Then in his name, stay out of this. I’ll see what I can do about expanding your territory, perhaps even easing the restrictions on making machinery, as long as it can’t be used for weapons. I’ll do that in the name of Hans and on my honor as a soldier.”

“You would do that, Hawthorne. I have heard of this religion you once believed in, this thing called Quaker. Tell me, do you still have nightmares over all whom you’ve killed?”

Vincent stiffened and then stepped back. “I’ll forget that question,” he said, his voice filled with icy menace.

Jurak nodded. “I offer apology.”

Vincent, struggling for control, could only give a jerky nod of reply.

“There is nothing else to be said here today,” Jurak announced. “We understand each other. I have begged, and you have threatened, and now we understand.”

– “I have not threatened,” Vincent finally replied, his voice strained. “I have tried to explain things as they are.”

“As have I.”

“My adjutant will deliver a written statement to your camp tomorrow, detailing our understanding of what transpired today. Let us ponder what we’ve discussed and agree to meet again tomorrow or the day after.”

“You have such a love of things in writing, you humans. My old world was like that, too. It is one of the few things about it I don’t really miss.”

“If there is anything else you wish to communicate, I’ll remain camped here for a while.”

Jurak looked at him warily.

“By the treaty signed between us, I and an appropriate escort have the right to traverse your territory, though I would prefer if I did so as an invited guest who has received your permission.”

“My permission?” Jurak laughed softly.

“This is, after all, your land.”

“By your sufferance.”

“I wish you saw it differently.”

“How can I?” There was an audible sigh. “You humans, how can you know what I think? You know nothing of the world I came from, where we were the sole masters. The things I knew there, about the history of our greatness, the half-formed knowledge I still carry of weapons that could sweep you away in a single day, but which I do not understand how to make. Tell me, on your old world, did you not have nations that subjugated and annihilated others solely because they could?”

Vincent did not answer.

“I see that here now. No matter what your intentions, your sense of honor, as you call it-the fact that you and I can in some way respect each other as two former enemies-will not change the inevitable. I know how such things must always end.”

Vincent sadly shook his head. “The better angels of our nature,” he whispered.

“What?”

“A saying by our president back home, the one this young officer”-he nodded toward Abraham-“was named after. He once said that. I wish we could be touched by that now, Jurak.”

But then he pointed at the revolver still in the Qar Qarth’s hand.

“If that, and what it implies, does not unravel everything.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned away and walked to his mount.

Abraham remained where he was for a few seconds longer, looking at the two.

Garva was rigid, gaze fixed on Hawthorne’s back, and he sensed that if the revolver had been in this one’s hand, Vincent might very well be dead. Garva, realizing he was being watched, looked over at Abraham.

“There will be a day,” he hissed, and then turned away.

Vincent looked next at Jurak, but could not read him. Wondering how to withdraw, he hesitated for an instant, then simply came to attention and saluted.

Jurak, a flicker of a smile again on his face, nodded. “At least I will say this,” he said slowly, “your General Hawthorne has the spirit of a warrior, and I believe that in his heart, he knows us and sees the tragedy of all that was and all that shall be.”

“And what, sir, will you do in reply?” Abraham asked.

“Do? Survive, human, survive.” Jurak turned and walked away.

Abraham came up to Vincent’s side and gently helped him to mount, then swung into his own saddle.

“There’s going to be a war, isn’t there, sir?” he asked.

Vincent, saying nothing, rode back to where the regiment was digging in for the night’s encampment.

Abraham looked toward the bloodred setting sun that hung low on the horizon, the vast, empty steppes bathed in its bloody light. Strange, it was such a beautiful sight, even though it was filled with foreboding.

A random thought came to him. He wondered where his friends Richard and Sean were. Perhaps, out on the vast open sea, such a sunset was indeed a sailor’s delight; a portent of at least one more day of peace.