Men of War

Chapter Fourteen

Hans looked overhead to the red sun that seemed to hang motionless in the noonday sky.

The compound below him was a shambles, packed wall to wall with the wounded and terrified refugees. Mortar shells fell inside with terrifying regularity, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The one artillery piece had fallen silent, shells exhausted, the survivors of its crew reduced to prying loose bricks from the wall and hurling them as the Bantag surged outside the wall. All along the railroad embankment the Chin, after hours of insane resistance, were falling back, retreating into the ruins of the factory compounds lining the rail line. In the fields to the south, tens of thousands of refugees were stumbling away, desperately trying to escape. Mounted units of Bantag rode back and forth, cornering and slaying them.

Hans knew it was hopeless. The compound could not hold much longer. The only thing that was slowing the Bantag was the sheer number of people they had to slay. Yet they were paying as well. Their first assault, which had come on with such self-assured cockiness, had stormed up over the embankment and then been swarmed under as tens of thousands of terrified Chin, desperate when they realized they were cornered by cavalry closing in from behind, turned and in a spontaneous surge rushed forward, crushing the Bantag by sheer weight of numbers.

That had given him several thousand more rifles and ammunition, enough that when the second charge came, the single volley at a range of less than a dozen paces so that his inexperienced riflemen couldn’t miss, dropped hundreds more.

Jurak had then pulled back. Letting firepower, his unrelenting artillery and aimed rifle from several hundred yards out, do the deed. The Chin, defenseless against such an onslaught, had held through midmorning, but now were finally beginning to melt away.

Risking the enemy fire, Hans looked up over the east wall back toward Huan. Rumors had come that tens of thousands of survivors, still huddled in the south end of the burning city, were pouring out, enveloping the flank of the enemy, but it was impossible to see what was occurring there.

Nargas sounded, and seconds later there was a ragged cheer. Leaning over the wall he saw the Bantag infantry pulling back.

Ketswana, eyes wide with battle frenzy, trailed by his two surviving Zulus, came up to Hans’s side and pulled him back down from the exposed position.

“They’re retreating!” Ketswana cried.

Hans, exhausted, absently rubbed his left arm and nodded.

“You know why?”

“Artillery; he’s shifting his artillery over here, the same treatment as the rifle works.”

The next compound up the line had been swarmed under after the Bantag rolled a dozen guns up to within a hundred yards and blasted a hole through the wall.

Hans stood back up and saw the two batteries riding into position out in the middle of the field where the airships had landed. Even as he watched, the first of the guns unlimbered, its crew swinging it about, aiming it straight at him. Other guns fell into position.

They were so close he could see the gunners opening their caissons, pulling out shot and powder bags. Hans rested his carbine on the battlement wall, took careful aim, and squeezed, dropping what he suspected was the battery commander. It barely slowed the crew.

He fumbled in his cartridge box. Only one round left.

One final round, and as he chambered it he knew what that had to be saved for.

The first gun fired, the shock of the solid bolt hitting the wall beneath his feet nearly knocking him off-balance. The other guns opened, bolt after bolt slamming into the wall beneath them. In less than five minutes the first round cracked clean through the brick barrier, the spent bolt careening into the foundry. The platform they were on swayed, a huge crack in the wall opening up from the ground all the way to the top.

“Down!”

Hans followed the rush as they abandoned their position, swarming down the ramp. More bolts slammed into the building, the vast room echoing with shrieks of terror as thousands of Chin, with no place to hide, huddled on the ground; the few with weapons clustered behind furnaces, upended cauldrons, piles of coke, slag, and iron ore.

“They’ll charge as soon as the artillery stops firing! So get ready,” Ketswana roared, trying desperately to be heard. Few paid attention.

Ketswana unholstered a revolver, opened the barrel, dropped the empty cylinder, and, reaching into his haversack, pulled out a loaded cylinder and clicked it in. He looked over at Hans.

“Figured to save the last six rounds.”

“Got one for myself,” Hans said, trying to smile as he patted his carbine.

“So we have come full circle.” Ketswana sighed. “Until you gave me hope I always figured I’d die here.”

Hans looked around at the terrified mob, remembering all too painfully the same sight of not much more than a year ago, when he had fought his way through this same building to gain the tunnel and escape, leaving thousands of others to die. Perhaps this was atonement.

“At least we smashed this place,” Hans announced grimly. “Smashed the whole damn place from here to Huan and beyond. Took their port of Xi’an as well and smashed that up good and proper. It’ll be months, a year or more, before they can even think of recovering.”

The artillery fire slackened and stopped. The cries from within the building hushed. Horrified, Hans saw that some of the Chin were already making their final choice, more than one turning a blade upon themselves or loved ones rather than endure the horror of the final butchering.

The nargas sounded the charge.

“Damn Tamuka,” Jurak roared. “Damn him. I wanted the flank kept back, give them room to run, let them break.”

Jurak stalked back and forth, angrily shouting at no one in particular. He knew he should have slain Tamuka. It was undoubtedly he who urged the charge forward that had cornered the Chin into a fight. He wondered if Zartak had somehow foreseen this, and wished that his old friend was here now.

The losses had been appalling. Nearly half his warriors were down, most of them dead, swarmed under in the slaughter. Now word had come that Chin by the tens of thousands were coming up from beyond Huan and out of what was left of the burning city. In another hour they’d be into his flank, forcing him to disengage. He had already passed a signal all the way up to Nippon to bring down yet another two umens. But every train available had been used to bring the forces he now had. It would take at least two days, perhaps three, to bring up the reserves. As for the vast encampments to the south, he had dispatched a flyer to them. The females, cubs, and old ones had to be prepared to defend themselves, and that was his true concern. A hundred thousand yurts with nowhere to go farther south because of the mountains and jungles. If he broke off the fight, if he allowed those still dug in along the line a breathing space, they’d rally the hundreds of thousands of Chin still alive and it would be massacre if they turned south. He had to kill the core of resistance now … or lose the war.

The wall of the factory finally collapsed under the incessant pounding. That, at least, was a relief. His battery commander before being killed by a sniper had already informed him that they were digging dangerously into their reserves of ammunition. A ragged cheer erupted from the warriors who had been ordered back, and they surged forward again, closing in for the kill. Soon it would be finished.

Somehow word had spread into his army that it was the legendary Hans who was leading this fight. A Chin demigod, a legend returned to liberate. And something now told him that directly ahead was where Hans was cornered. He had already passed the word to his warriors that if Hans could indeed be captured and brought to him alive, the warrior would be promoted to command of a thousand.

It wasn’t that he wanted Hans to die in agony as Tamuka muttered about. True, Hans would have to die, and the Chin had to see him die to crush their hope of resistance forever. And then the Chin would have to die as well.

Hans would have to die, but first he wished to speak to him. Ha’ark had had that privilege a number of times. He had but observed him from a distance. If one was to understand Keane, Hans was the teacher. He was, as well, a consummate foe, a warrior worthy of respect for what he had accomplished, escaping, leading the flanking attack that finished the campaign in front of Roum, and now this.

So he would feast him once and talk long into the night. Perhaps he would learn something from him, perhaps not, but still he wanted that moment, and then with the coming of the following dawn he would offer him the knife or the gun so that he could finish it with his own hand. Then, after the Chin were brought forth to see the body, he would bum and scatter his ashes to the wind out of respect.

The charge reached the wall and within seconds gained the entryway, a desperate hand-to-hand struggle erupting in the piled-up rubble.

And then he saw them.

A commander of a thousand had just ridden up to ask for orders and his gaze, locked on Jurak, drifted, looking past him, eyes going wide. Raising a hand, he pointed.

Jurak turned and looked. For a moment he refused to believe, and then the enemy aerosteamers began to fire.

Hans, standing by Ketswana’s side, waited just inside the shattered wall. The first of the Bantag were up and over the barrier, crouched low against a hail of thrown bricks and chunks of iron ore. They slashed into the defenders, the killing frenzy upon them. Several, looking in his direction, shouted to each other and came on, as if recognizing him.

Instinct took hold and he raised his carbine, aiming straight at the chest of the nearest one, and fired, dropping him. He heard a revolver let go, several rounds, dropping the next two.

Ketswana was by his side.

“Two rounds left,” his friend cried, looking at him questioningly.

Hans smiled.

Skimming the ground, Jack Petracci bore straight in, aiming directly at the tall standard adorned with horse tails and human skulls. An umen commander at least, perhaps even Jurak, he thought grimly.

There was no need to tell his copilot to open fire. Crouched behind the steam-powered Gatling in the nose, his copilot fired the forward weapon. A steady stream of bullets stitched into the low ridge, slicing through a mortar battery, walking up along the hillside, the standard-bearer collapsing.

Continuing to fire, the gunner shifted aim, slashing into the open-order columns of Bantag infantry. As they raced past the first compound, which was blanketed with smoke and fire, he saw a charging column gaining a shattered wall. Looking down from above, he saw the thousands huddled inside and knew what was about to happen.

Hoping that the other aerosteamers were not following too closely and would continue to press toward Huan, he banked his Eagle hard over, shouting to his top gunner to bring the column under fire as they turned.

Swinging about to the south, he spared a quick glance back to the west. Twenty Hornets, flying nearly wingtip to wingtip, were coming straight in, joined as well by the four surviving Eagles. The arrival of the Hornets in Xi’an just before dawn had left him stunned. The Eagle he had sent back to Tyre had actually survived and touched down. The pilots of the Hornets clamored to be released, to go up and save Jack and Hans. The fact that they had actually made the audacious jump from Vincent’s position all the way to Xi’an, burning nearly every ounce of fuel they had to make it, had filed him with awe. As it was, nearly half of them had been lost in transit. Never had he known such pride in his command as he did at that moment.

The twenty Hornets and four Eagles were all that was left of a force of over eighty that existed but a week before. From the looks of what was going on below, once they expended their ammunition there would be no place left to land. He might be able to get back to Xi’an, but with the increasing wind out of the west the Hornets were doomed. Yet still they came on, sweeping low over the ground.

Behind them, half a dozen miles back, he could still see the eight trains. He had almost strafed them coming in until he spotted a makeshift flag of the Republic fluttering from each of the locomotives, and then realized that the thousands packed aboard the flatcars were in fact Chin. What they proposed to do was beyond him.

He bore straight in at the compound, top and forward gunners both firing continual blasts of Gatling rounds into the attacking column. Within seconds the enemy began to dissolve, looking up in panic, turning aside, and running.

As he winged up over the compound he wagged his wings, hoping all below would see the stars of the Republic painted on the bottom of his ship. And in spite of the noise of battle, he could hear the cheers.

Banking hard up to the left, he winged over sharply, turning to head straight toward the artillery batteries that had been pounding the makeshift fortress only minutes before. Gatling fire from a Hornet flying across his own path at a right angle slashed into the position, decimating the crews. As the Hornet passed he added his own fire into the balance. A caisson blew, and he winged over yet again to avoid the exploding mushroom cloud.

He was behind the advance line of Hornets, who now that they were into the fight had poured on full throttle and were quickly surging ahead at nearly a mile a minute.

Smoke poured out from underneath as twenty Gatlings fired, sweeping the Bantag lines, tearing them to shreds. The enemy quite simply broke apart from this unexpected pounding from above. Chin started to pour out from the beleaguered compounds, racing forward, a human wave of tens of thousands, moving like a swarm of locusts.

He circled back around once more to check on the first compound. But the countercharge was already up and over the broken wall, some of the Chin were nearly into the Bantag artillery positions.

And then he spotted him, a ragged guidon, several Zulus around him standing out in dark contrast to the surrounding Chin.

And then he saw him fall.

Jurak stood motionless as the burst of fire swept past him, knocking over his standard-bearer, and he wished at that instant that it would take him as well, ending this horrible burden forever.

The rounds stitched past, clumps of sod kicked up in his face, then the machine passed. Another one soared by, skimming the ground so close he could look straight into the cab and see the human pilot.

Around him was chaos. A mortar battery annihilated, a caisson erupting in a fireball. He could see his warriors falling back, not giving ground doggedly but running, frightened of the mob, the tens of thousands of Chin pouring out from their beleaguered positions sweeping all before them.

Looking back to the west he saw the plumes of smoke, and for a brief instant there was a renewed flash of hope, but he knew in his heart that it had to be Chin coming up from Xi’an. If it had been his own warriors, the Yankee aerosteamers would have strafed them.

At that instant he knew that he had lost a war.

Warriors raced past him in panic, and press of the crowd forced his horse to turn. Suddenly his mount reared, screaming in pain. Never a trained horseman, he panicked, sawing on the reins rather than letting go and jumping off. The horse went down heavily on its side, pinning him.

Cursing, he gasped for breath, trying to pull himself free and then was shocked by the explosion of pain from his broken ankle, which was twisted in the stirrup.

Warriors continued to run past, not noticing him. Suddenly there was a shadow, and looking up he saw an emaciated Chin standing above him, holding a broken rifle tipped with a bayonet. The Chin gazed down at him, eyes wide with lust and hate. He raised the weapon up. Jurak looked straight at him, not resisting, at the moment not caring.

“No!”

A man, a black man, grabbed the Chin by the shoulder, pulling him back.

Jack’s aerosteamer had barely rolled to a stop next to the wreckage of the factory compound when he was already out. He had passed over once more to check, and what he had seen convinced him something was wrong and caused him to venture the landing. Running across the field he made his way through the press of advancing Chin.

He spotted Ketswana, kneeling by the side of an artillery piece, and he pushed his way forward.

They had Hans sitting up, jacket torn open. No blood, but his features were deathly pale, beads of cold sweat on his forehead. Ketswana, obviously frightened, was holding his hands.

Jack burst through the crowd, cursing at them to move aside. He knelt by Ketswana’s side and to his relief saw that Hans’s eyes were open, though dull.

“What happened?” Jack cried.

“We thought it was finished,” Ketswana whispered, “I had two rounds left, I was saving one for him, one for me, and then you soared over us. Never have I seen him smile like that, and laugh, the first time in so long he laughed from the depths of his soul.

“We followed the charge out. He had just spotted Jurak, pointing him out, when suddenly he stopped, grasping his chest and fell.”

Ketswana lowered his head, a sob wracking him.

“Still here, my friend,” Hans whispered.

Hans stirred, life coming back into his eyes.

“Jack, that you?” he spoke in English, the words slightly slurred.

“Here, Hans. I couldn’t leave you out here. A lot’s happened, Hans. Word reached Tyre last night that the government wanted an armistice. The damn stupid Hornet pilots decided on their own to fuel up and see if they could reach Xi’an. They touched down just after dawn. I was getting set to come back here anyhow, and they wanted to come along.”

“You broke them with that.”

“No, you did. We just mopped up.”

Hans chuckled softly, then was silent for a moment, obviously wracked by another seizure of pain.

“Damn, hurts worse than getting shot.”

“What’s wrong, Hans?”

“I think the old heart finally decided to give it up.”

Jack tried to force a smile.

“Hell, if that’s all it is, we’ll have you up and around in no time.”

Hans looked up at him, his silent gaze frightening Jack.

There was a stir behind Jack, a confusion of angry voices.

Ketswana stood up to see what was going on, then barked out a sharp command. Jack saw several of Ketswana’s men dragging a Bantag toward them. He instantly suspected who he was, the gold trim to the uniform, the gilting on the bent horns of the war helmet.

“Hans, is that him?”

Hans stirred again.

“You got him?”

“I think so.”

“Help me up. Don’t let him see me like this.”

Ketswana grabbed several Chin, placing them around Hans, blocking the view.

Jack was down by his side.

“You need rest. Don’t move.”

Hans smiled.

“Son, I’ve been in this war for how long now? I’m not going to miss the final act. Now button up my jacket for me.”

Jack didn’t move for a moment.

“Do it now, son,” he gasped through clenched teeth.

Jack let his hand rest on the narrow chest. It was the chest of an old man who had been filled with unstoppable strength in his youth but was now sunken, flesh sagging, as if ready to begin the final breaking away. The skin felt cold, clammy, and though not a doctor, he could tell there was something wrong with the heart fluttering beneath the ribs.

“All right,” he finally whispered, and he buttoned the jacket, the buttons still the old eagles from his Union Army uniform, the gilding long since polished off.

Hans nodded his thanks.

“Now help me up.”

Jack took him by the arm and there was a gasp of pain as Hans stood. He swayed uneasily for a moment, took a deep breath, and it seemed as if by sheer strength of will the heart continued to beat.

He slowly brushed the dirt off his jacket and stepped out of the surrounding circle. Jack wanted to stay by his side, to help him walk, but Ketswana held him back.

He fought to block out the pain, the strange, empty sensation that part of him was floating away. He focused on the warrior before him, leaning awkwardly against the wheel of an artillery caisson. Though he had only seen him from a distance, Sergeant Major Hans Schuder knew he was facing Jurak, Qar Qarth of the Bantag Horde.

He approached slowly, warily. Except in the heat of combat, the last time he had been this close to a horde rider he had still been a slave, and he was ashamed that the old instinct almost took hold, to lower his head and avert his eyes until directly spoken to.

He maintained eye contact. Jurak shifted slightly, and there was a slight grimace of pain.

“Are you wounded?” Hans asked, speaking again in the tongue of the Bantag, the mere act of it sending a chill through him as he carefully sorted out the words.

Jurak said something in reply, a bit too quickly, and Hans shook his head, a gesture they used as well.

Jurak spoke again, more slowly.

“The ankle is broken; it is nothing. You look wounded as well.”

Hans paused for a moment on the mental translation, startled to realize that in the language of the Horde, Jurak had used the personal form of you, used only when addressing another of the same race, rather than the contemptible kagsa, their form of the word you for speaking to cattle.

It took him a moment to regain his poise from that. The pain in his chest was still there, coursing down his arms; he forced the recognition of it away.

“Knocked down by an explosion. It is nothing,” he lied.

Jurak stared at him and Hans wondered if the ability to see into the thoughts of others was with this one. He realized he had to be careful, to stay focused.

“Though enemies, we must talk,” Hans announced.

He felt light-headed, knew that Jurak was in pain as well. Finally, he motioned to the ground. Jurak nodded and, with leg extended, sat down, Hans making it a point of not waiting to be invited to sit as well.

“You’ve lost,” Hans said.

“Today yes, but not tomorrow. I have two more umens arriving by train even now.”

He waited, forming his words carefully so as to not imply that Jurak was lying and therefore automatically dishonorable.

“My eyes see differently,” he finally said.

“And what is it that your eyes see that mine do not?”

Hans looked straight at him. Less than an hour ago he assumed it was lost. They had damaged the Horde, perhaps fatally, but it would still be lost for him and his comrades. Now there was a glimmer of light.

Again the flutter of pain, but he ignored it. Even if I don’t survive this day, those whom I love will.

He tried to pierce into the mind, the heart of Jurak. The Horde believed their shamans could read into the souls of others. Andrew claimed it was true as well, having resisted the leaders of the Tugar and Merki Hordes. He, in turn, had been in the presence of Tamuka and Ha’ark. There was something about Tamuka that had been coldly troubling, a sense that he could indeed see.

As for Ha’ark, he was simply a warrior. A shrewd one at times but nevertheless easy to pierce. There was something about this one, though, that was different yet again.

Hans reached into his haversack, Jurak’s gaze fluttering down. Hans slowly withdrew the small piece of tobacco and bit off a chew. There was a soft grumbling chuckle from Jurak.

“Now I remember,” Jurak said. “You chewed that dried weed. Disgusting.”

Hans could not help but laugh softly as well.

He continued to stare at Jurak. As with most of the Horde there was no discomfort in silence, the feeling that one needed to fill the emptiness. As horse nomads they were a race long accustomed to silence, to days of endless riding alone.

The air reverberated around them, distant explosions, the chatter of a Gatling. From the west the shriek of an approaching steam train, the neighing of horses, guttural cries of mounted warriors. Hans looked up. Less than half a mile away he could see a knot of them forming up, the fallen standard of the Horde held aloft again as a rally point. They most likely knew that their Qar Qarth was fallen; he wondered if they knew that he was still alive and a prisoner.

A Hornet circled in on the forming ranks, opening fire, scattering them.

Hans looked over his shoulder. Several hundred men were gathered behind him, watching in open awe and curiosity.

“Jack, do you have some sort of signal to tell those flyers to cease fire? And Ketswana, I think they understand a white flag. Get some men out there, men who can speak Bantag. We’re not surrendering, but we are offering a cease-fire. Tell them we have their Qar Qarth.”

He looked back at Jurak who sat, features unreadable. That has always been one of the damned problems with dealing with them, he thought. Can’t read their faces, their subtle gestures; it’s like dealing with a statue of stone.

“I am telling my men to stop firing while we talk,” Hans said.

Jurak nodded, then looked around. Groups of Chin were wandering about the battlefield. Whenever they spotted a wounded Bantag they closed in with shouts of rage, and of glee and fell to tormenting him before finishing it with a bayonet thrust or a crushing blow to the head.

“And Ketswana!”

His comrade came up to his side, looking down at him, eyes still filled with concern.

“I’m doing fine now. But tell our people to stop that,” Hans said in the language of the Bantag. He nodded to where, less than fifty yards away, a mob of Chin had fallen on a Bantag warrior. “It’s despicable. This is a cease-fire, damn it, not an opportunity for a massacre. I want our people to halt where they are and hold. The wounded are to be left alone; if they can get out on their own, let them pass.”

“Their blood’s up,” Ketswana replied in the same language, his voice filled with bitterness. “It’s time to remember and take vengeance. They wouldn’t offer us mercy if it was you who were now prisoner.”

“And that’s what’s different between us,” Hans shouted, the effort of it leaving him dizzy and out of breath.

Ketswana’s gaze locked on Jurak. He finally nodded, formally saluted Hans, and ran off, shouting orders.

“Are we really so different?” Jurak asked.

“I would like to think we are, at least when it comes to how we wage war.”

“And tell me, Hans. After all this, after all the thousands of years of this, if your race gains the upper hand, can we expect any different?”

“I can’t promise anything,” Hans replied. “For myself, yes. For those who’ve lived here all their lives, who know nothing different. I don’t know.”

“So we shall continue to fight. Kill me if you wish. But I was always an outsider. Few will truly miss me. I was Qar Qarth because they were afraid of you and believed in Ha’ark, who claimed we were sent by the gods. They will select one of their own blood to continue the fight.”

“What I assumed,” Hans replied wearily.

There was a long blast of a steam whistle. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a train easing to a stop. Shocked, he saw that Seetu, one of Ketswana’s men was leading them. They had actually made it all the way from Xi’an. Dismounting from the locomotive, hundreds of Chin, all of them armed with Bantag rifles, jumped down from the string of flatcars and formed up.

“They’re from Xi’an,” Hans announced proudly, “and there will be thousands more.”

Jurak said nothing.

If what Jurak said was true, Hans realized, it would simply go on. He might have saved the Chin, but who would be next after that? And so the war would continue.

“You said your eyes did not see-my new umens,” Jurak said, interrupting Hans’s thoughts.

Hans looked back at him absently rubbing his left shoulder.

“I know enough of cat …” Jurak quickly stopped, “of humans to know you are ill.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“It is your heart, isn’t it?”

Surprised, Hans nodded.

“You are very ill, Hans Schuder.”

“Not too sick to see this through to the end.”

Jurak laughed softly.

“Ha’ark once told me you were indomitable. I remember once telling him that if he sensed that in you, perhaps it was best to kill you before you created trouble.”

“One of his many mistakes,” Hans said with a soft laugh.

“Yes. I know.”

“What do I see that your eyes do not?” Hans replied.

“I know two umens were brought up by rail last night from Nippon. It must have taken near to every locomotive and piece of rolling stock within three hundred leagues to do that. Even if you had half a dozen umens in Nippon, it will still take you two days to turn those trains around, run them north, load them up, then another two days to bring them all back.

“As you can see, I now control the rail line between here and Xi’an.”

Jurak looked past Hans and nodded.

“I will not speak an untruth. I don’t know how they got through. Perhaps they control the line. Perhaps you had few if any warriors between here and Xi’an to stop them.” Jurak was silent for a moment.

“Obviously not enough to stop them.”

“We captured supplies in Xi’an. Powder, artillery, guns.” He hesitated, remembering the barges of ammunition exploding. “Millions of cartridges, thousands of shells, even some of your steamships and land ironclads.

“By the time you are reinforced, I can arm fifty thousand Chin.”

“Then it will be a mutual slaughter.”

“I could also pull back, tearing up track. Burn the factories that are left before leaving. Then you will have yet another front and hundreds of thousands of Chin armed and eager for blood by the time your umens reach Xi’an.” Jurak shook his head wearily.

“Then we are doomed to fight. You and I will not be here to see it, but it will continue.”

Hans sighed and lowered his head.

“I know.”

There was a long moment of silence. He looked back up at Jurak. Here was a warrior of the Horde. Eight feet or more in height, black-and-brown mane matted, dirty, the same as the black uniform. Visage that for a decade had filled him with horror. There was the memory of slavery, the terror, the brutality, the moon feasts and slaughter pits. And all so many comrades of the 35th and 44th New York. Men of Rus, his friend Marcus, those whom he had suffered bondage with. All caused by this race.

He fought down the urge to find a weapon, a knife, anything, to gut Jurak right there, to make it a signal for the slaughter to continue to the death. For he did indeed have the upper hand at the moment.

He looked to his left and saw Ketswana standing over a wounded Bantag, ordering the Chin back. They were ready to fall on him with drawn knives.

He thought of the rumors of yesterday, that in the frenzy of killing, Bantag had been mutilated beyond recognition; and some were even whispering that a few had even taken their flesh and consumed it.

He looked closely at the wounded Bantag and realized that it was barely more than a cub, about the same height as the Zulu standing over him. He was on his side, gutshot. Looking up at Ketswana.

The Chin fell back. Ketswana started to turn away, and the wounded Bantag said something. Ketswana hesitated, then unslung his canteen, pulled the cork, knelt, and offered the Bantag a drink.

Jurak was watching as well.

“In spite of what my race did, still one of yours will offer a drink to a dying child.”

Hans said nothing for a moment. He was ready to shoot back with a sarcasm, an enraged comment about how many human children had died in agony, watching parents murdered before they themselves were slaughtered. He sensed, as well, that Jurak had an inner revulsion for what this world was. And the thought formed as he continued to watch Ketswana, holding the canteen to the cub’s lips.

“Jurak.”

He was looking straight into his opponent’s eyes.

“Yes, Hans.”

“Your tribal camping areas. Your old ones, your children, your women. Do you know where they are camped now?”

Jurak seemed to stiffen slightly, the first true gesture Hans felt he could read accurately.

“Yes.”

“Many are south of here, toward the Shin-Tu Mountains.”

There was a moment’s pause.

“Yes, some are there. Others to the north and east.”

“But many are there. A hundred thousand yurts, two hundred thousand perhaps.”

“I cannot count them all.”

Hans smiled. Jurak could try to bluff, but somehow he wasn’t.

“My forces here are between them and you. Troops moving along this rail line are between them and you. For that matter, I have a score of airships that could be over them within the hour.”

“What are you saying?”

Hans made it a point of dropping eye contact for a moment. He slowly stood up. Jurak remained seated, but now it was he looking down on Jurak rather than the other way around.

“I am ordering that all of them are to be put to death.”

Jurak said nothing, gaze becoming icy.

“The umens you see that I do not can come up if you want. But in two days’ time I will have a ring closed in around a hundred thousand yurts. The flyers will be over them ceaselessly from dawn to dusk. Arrows fired by women and old ones will fall back to the ground. Bullets and firebombs slashing down from the skies will slaughter by the tens of thousands.

“And once armed Chin are amongst them, once I tell the Chin that this is their destiny, that the gods seek revenge, the slaughter will continue until even the ground can no longer drink all the blood, and the rivers will turn red.

“You might bring up two umens, a dozen umens, but they will find themselves to be childless, fatherless, for their seed will be extinguished from this world forever.

“This is the war your race started and I shall now finish.”

As he spoke he was aware that Ketswana had come back and was standing by his side.

“When do we begin?” Ketswana asked, his voice a guttural challenge.

Jurak looked at the two of them and wearily shook his head.

“Am I to believe you, a warrior I had come to respect, would do this thing?”

“You did it to us first.”

Jurak visibly flinched and lowered his head.

He was again silent, and then ever so slowly he grabbed hold of the wheel of the caisson he had been sitting against and pulled himself up, flinching as he gingerly tried to put weight on his broken ankle.

“It is over,” he finally whispered. “I would like to believe that you do not wish this murder to continue. I am asking you to spare them.”

Hans said nothing, keeping his features hard.

“Your terms?”

This was a leap ahead for Hans which momentarily caught him off guard. Two hours earlier he was hoping Ketswana had saved one final round to prevent the agony of capture, now he was negotiating the end of a war. He wished Andrew was here; his friend would be far better at this than he.

“Immediate cease-fire on all fronts. Immediate withdrawal from the territory of Roum, Nippon, and the Chin.”

“To go where?”

“East if you want, south. I’ve been told that there’s a thousand leagues east of here with barely a human on it. That is range enough for your people to live upon.”

“You’d suffer us to live?”

“It’s either that or kill all of you.” He held back for a second then let it spill out. “And if I did that, if we did that, in the end we would become you.”

Jurak stood with lowered head and finally nodded.

“I offer no apologies for what this world became.”

“Then change it, damn it. Change it.”

“And what is to prevent war from starting again?”

“I don’t know,” Hans said, his voice weary. “I promise you this, though, if you go beyond that thousand leagues of open prairie, if word should ever come back of but one more person dying, of being slaughtered for food, or put into bondage, then I, or Andrew, or those who come after us will hunt your people without mercy.”

“You will have the factories, the flyers, the machines. We will not,” Jurak replied. “I know what the result of that would be.”

“Fine. I will keep the Chin back from your encampments. I will order the release of ten thousand yurts immediately to start moving east. Once I have word that the last of your troops are out of Roum territory, twenty thousand more. Once out of the realm of Nippon and the Chin, fifty thousand more, and a year from today the remainder. Any violation of what we agree upon here and all of them will die without mercy.”

“Would you really do that?” Jurak asked.

Hans stared straight at him.

He knew there was no sense in bluffing, but he could not betray his own doubts either.

“I don’t think either one of us wants to find out what we are capable of doing.”

Jurak nodded.

“Perhaps someday we can talk more, Hans Schuder. You might not believe this, but I sense your Andrew and I are more alike than each of us realizes, the same as Andrew has you, there is an elder for me.”

Hans did not know what to say.

In a way it had all been so simple, and yet all the years of agony and suffering to reach this moment, and all the millions of dead.

Strange, he suddenly thought of Andrew, and knew that what had happened here Andrew would have agreed to.

“I will signal that the attack is off at Capua.”

Hans looked at him quizzically.

“There were rumors that your government had collapsed, that Andrew was going into exile. We were to start the attack this evening, just before sundown.”

Hans tried to quickly digest all that he had just learned. Andrew in exile? Suppose the government had already thrown in the towel. Then what? If this fighting was to end, he had better move quickly. He had already decided to let Jurak go, but he had to get him back to where he could telegraph out orders of a cease-fire before the government back home surrendered first. If they did that, some other Bantag leader might be tempted to press the attack anyhow.

“Ketswana, bring up a couple of mounts.”

The two stood in silence, waiting as Ketswana left them to find horses.

“Twenty years from now I wonder,” Jurak said.

“Wonder what?”

Jurak fell silent again as Ketswana came up, leading two horses, one of them sightly wounded and limping.

Hans motioned for Jurak to take the better horse. He hobbled over. Grimacing, he grabbed hold of the pommel, swung his injured leg up and over, then slipped his good foot into the stirrup.

Hans, still feeling light-headed, though the pain had subsided somewhat, struggled to mount and was embarrassed when Ketswana and several others came to his side to help.

“Hans, where the hell are you going?” Ketswana asked.

Hans looked down at his old comrade.

“lust for a little ride, that’s all.”

“Wait for me.”

“I can’t wait for you, my friend.”

Hans suddenly reached down and took Ketswana’s hand.

“Thank you. I don’t know how many times over I owe you my life.”

“I owe you my freedom,” Ketswana replied, his voice suddenly choked.

“No man owes another man his freedom,” Hans replied softly. “That was, and always will be, your right. Remember that.”

He nudged his mount gently, not wanting to hurt it.

“Wait here; I’ll be back soon enough.”

The two rode off, side by side, heading to where Bantag survivors of the bloody fight were rallying. Overhead a flyer circled as if keeping watch. Chin infantry, coming off of the trains, was fanning out to envelop the flank of the Bantag. Eastward, toward the still-burning city, the sound of battle continued to thunder, though it seemed to be dying away, falling into a final spasm of slaughter.

The pain had abated; he wondered for a moment if that meant that he would survive the day after all, or was it the final ringing down of the curtain and that soon he would slip away.

At the moment it really didn’t seem to matter. He felt a sudden lightness, a gentle floating, a sense of peace. Back home, back in Suzdal, for that now was home, Tamira would most likely be out with his young Andrew, the boy leading his mother on their daily walk through the meadows to the east and south of town. The thought of it made him smile. In the last year he had shared not more than half a dozen days with them, but each moment had been a blessed treasure, each night a reawakened dream.

They would be safe, and ultimately he knew that a man could not ask for anything beyond that, to know that those whom he loved were safe.

“What are you thinking about?” Jurak asked.

Hans stirred.

“My family.”

“You had a child, I remember that.”

“Yes.”

“And they are safe?”

“You mean did they escape safely with me?” Hans asked, a touch of anger flaring into his voice.

“No. I know that. I was there, I saw her lead the escape carrying your child. She was brave. To be proud of.”

Surprised, Hans nodded his thanks.

“They are safe now?”

“Yes, as far as I know.”

“You are lucky.”

“Why so?” Surprised he turned to look at Jurak. Strange, for a brief instant he had almost forgotten who he was talking to.

“My home world. My family, parents, the one that I … what you called married.”

“Yes.”

“They all died. A type of bomb I pray to the gods is never known on this world. They all died. That was just before I came here.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jurak looked over at him, surprised. Hans as well felt a mild shock. The two words had slipped out of him so easily. Never did he dream he could feel sorrow for a Bantag. Yet in Jurak’s voice he had sensed the pain.

There was an awkward moment of silence.

“Do you have a family here?” Hans asked.

Jurak shook his head.

“No. They cannot replace her.”

“Perhaps someday. I lived alone nearly all the days of my life and did not find her until …” He let the subject drop, given how he and Tamira had met.

“Perhaps someday.”

They were approaching the Bantag formation. Hans could see them stirring as they recognized that their Qar Qarth was still alive. Jurak reined in, gaze sweeping the battered ranks.

“The war is finished,” he shouted. “We withdraw.”

Excited murmuring erupted. Hans could sense rage on the part of many, but there were others who seemed relieved, nodding, grounding clenched rifles.

Jurak looked over at Hans.

“I will order my troops pulled back north of the city at once. Tomorrow, at noonday, let us meet on the rail tracks going north out of Huan. We both have to assume that there will still be fighting until word reaches all, and we can separate from each other.”

Hans nodded.

“Noon then.”

To his surprise, Jurak extended his arm in the gesture of clasping. Hans reached out tentatively, then grasped Jurak’s wrist, and felt the tight grip on his own forearm.

“No!”

Hans looked up. A rider, followed by half a dozen, broke out of the ranks and approached. There was something darkly familiar about him, and then the recognition hit, the scarred disfigured face. It was Tamuka.

“No! That is the path of a coward. Press the fight now and slaughter them all.”

Jurak drew himself up stiffly.

“They are between us and the yurts of our clans. In agreement for our ending the war and withdrawing, they will harm no one and let our families live. If this madness continues half a million or more of our sires, females, and cubs will die.”

With the announcement of that Hans could see that yet more were now glad that it was ended. He suddenly realized that the Bantag had been terrified that over the last day the Chin would even now be swarming southward to initiate a massacre.

“They have made the gesture of letting our old ones and young live, even though they now have the power to kill them all. We all know that we are powerless to stop them. There is not one more warrior between Xi’an and Nippon capable of resisting them. It will take days to bring down what we have left in Nippon. By then, all our families will have been slaughtered.”

That admission startled Hans. So it was a bluff. They had stripped themselves bare.

There was a sidelong glance from Jurak and Hans felt he could almost smile, as if Jurak had finally revealed that he didn’t have a pair of deuces, let alone a full house.

Tamuka turned to face the Bantags.

“Fight! Kill them all while there is still time! One more charge, and we break through and slaughter them all!”

His screams were met with a stirring. More than one again gave himself over to the lust for battle, some raising their rifles in response, shouting agreement.

Hans could not understand all that was being said, the words were spilling out of Tamuka so quickly, yet he could sense the rage that was out of control. He looked over again at Jurak, who sat motionless. This wasn’t a leader who could win by overpowering. It had to be a display of calm in the face of madness.

He knew that if Tamuka should somehow win the argument, then it was over. Jurak would die, they would attack in a mad frenzy, and the Chin would unleash a massacre against hundreds of thousands in a final orgy of mutual destruction. Madness, to be so close and then have it all plunged back into madness.

“Kill them all!”

The world seemed to be shifting like sand swept away by a tidal wave. The lust was coming back. Jurak sat impassive, undoubtedly knowing he could not shout down the mad leader of the once great Merki.

“And kill this traitor from another world first!” Tamuka cried.

Hans barely understood the words, but he recognized the gesture as Tamuka dropped his reins and reached for a saddle-mounted holster. Like a snake striking, the revolver flashed out.

“No!”

Hans kicked his own mount forward. He saw the revolver going up, thumb cocking the trigger back. He fumbled with his own holster … and grabbed nothing but thin air. There was a flash memory of throwing it away after firing the last round. Time seemed to distort, he felt his heart thumping over, wondering if it was finally shattering. Or was it fear.

He saw the gun coming down, Tamuka squinting, one eye half-closed, the other sighting down the barrel, aiming it straight at Jurak. He caught a final glimpse of Jurak, knew the Bantag, at heart, was not a true combat soldier. He was reacting far too slowly, just then recognizing the danger, starting to recoil in anticipation of the crashing blow.

There was a final instant, a wondering, a sense that somehow this was a vast cosmic joke. This wasn’t Andrew, or Pat, or Emil, or even a simple Chin that he was trying to save. It wasn’t anyone, yet it was, as well, a warrior whom he had learned in the last few minutes to respect. He was someone who had offered an ending to the madness, a way out, a way for Tamira and the baby to live in peace … and that peace was about to die if Jurak died.

Time distorted, and he knew there was but one last thing he could do. Without hesitating Hans lunged forward across the neck of his horse. He saw the gaping maw of the revolver, the eye behind the barrel, face contorted in a mad scream … and then the flash.

“No!”

It was Jurak screaming, as Hans, lifted out of his saddle, tumbled over backwards and crashed to the ground. The dirty yellow-white smoke swirled in a cloud, and through the cloud he saw Tamuka. There was a momentary look of surprise that he had shot Hans, and then, even more enraging, a barking roar of delight.

Jurak drew his scimitar, blade flashing out, catching the light. He caught a momentary glance of those watching. This was now a blood challenge for control of the Bantag Horde. He raked his spurs, the pain in his leg forgotten. His mount leapt forward.

Tamuka, thumb on the hammer of his revolver, cocked the weapon and started to shift aim.

Screaming with a mad fury Jurak charged his mount straight into the flank of Tamuka’s horse. The revolver swung past his face, going off, the explosion deafening him, the flash of it burning his cheek.

Their eyes locked for a second. Even as he started his swing, there was a final instant, a flash of recognition. His rage, a rage which surprised him, for it was a mad fury over what had been done to a human, added strength to his blow.

The look in Tamuka’s eyes turned in that instant to disbelief as the blade sliced into his throat, driven with such force that it slashed clear through flesh, muscle, and bone.

Tamuka’s horse, terrified as a shower of hot blood cascaded over its back, reared and galloped off, ridden by a headless corpse still showering blood.

Jurak was blinded for an instant, not sure if he had somehow been wounded after all by the pistol shot. Then the mist started to clear as he blinked Tamuka’s blood out of his eyes.

He viciously swung his mount around, gaze sweeping the assembly, wanting to shout his rage at them, at all their insanity and bestiality. And in their eyes he saw something that had never quite been there before. It wasn’t just that he was their Qar Qarth. It was that he was their leader. Some went down on their knees, heads lowered.

Something snapped inside and he screamed incoherently at them, holding his bloody scimitar aloft. More went down on their knees; within seconds all were down, heads bowed.

He reined his horse around and looked down. Cursing wildly, he swung off his mount. As he hit the ground his broken ankle gave way and with a gasp of pain he went down on his knees. None dared to rise to help him.

He slowly stood back up and limped the half dozen paces over to where Hans lay. Looking up he saw humans, hundreds of them, running up, led by the dark Zulu. He held up his sword so they could see it, then threw it down by the severed head of Tamuka. The humans slowed, the Zulu turning, shouting a command. They stopped, and, alone, Ketswana came forward.

Jurak knelt down by Hans’s side, Ketswana joining him.

“I’m sorry,” Jurak gasped. “And thank you for my life.”

Hans looked up. Strange, no pain. The dark specter who had trailed his every step across all the years, and all the worlds, had him in hand at last, and, surprisingly, there was no pain.

Still he wondered why he had done it. Was it because I knew I was dying anyhow?

No.

A gallant gesture then? And he wanted to laugh over the irony of it, but no laughter came.

He saw them gazing down. Jurak was saying something, but he couldn’t hear him. He saw Ketswana, tears streaming down his face. He tried to reach up, to wipe them away, as if soothing a child, but for some strange reason his arm, his hands would no longer obey.

They were kneeling side by side, and he fully understood what it was he had been fighting for all along, and what he was now dying for. And he was content.

Then they slipped away … and Hans Schuder smiled as they disappeared into a glorious light.

Exhausted, he stood alone, watching as the sun touched the horizon.

The last of the gunfire died away and he felt cold, alone, empty. Throughout the long day the square had slowly contracted inward, drawing closer and yet closer after each successive charge until the backs of the surviving men were almost touching.

The ground was carpeted with the dead and dying, tens of thousands of Bantag and humans tangled together.

If ever there was a killing ground of madness, this was it. He stood atop the low rise of ground, watching as half a dozen ironclads, the survivors of the daylong fight wove their way up the hill, maneuvering slowly, looking for an open path through the carnage.

The lead machine ground to a halt fifty yards short of the square, the turret popped open, and he saw Gregory stiffly climb out then half slide, half fall to the ground. He looked at the other machines. St. Katrina? No, he had seen that one blow up … the gentle gardener was dead, and Vincent blinked back the tears.

Walking like a marionette with tangled strings, Gregory slowly made his way up the hill. The men around Vincent parted at his approach.

Coming to attention he saluted. Vincent, exhausted beyond words, merely nodded in reply.

“They’re leaving,” Gregory announced, his voice slurring.

“What?”

“What’s left of them, the poor damned bastards. They’re mounting up now, heading north.”

Even as he spoke there was a ripple of comments along the battered line. Vincent looked past Gregory and saw a lone rider appear on the next rise half a mile away. The Bantag rider stood out sharply against the horizon. He held a horse tail standard aloft.

He waved it back and forth and Vincent watched, mesmerized. The Horde rider slammed it down, the shaft sinking into the earth. The rider held a clenched fist aloft and he could hear a distant cry, desolate, mournful. Vincent stepped out from the battered square, removed his kepi, and held it aloft.

The Bantag rider turned and disappeared, leaving the standard behind.

Gregory came to his side, and Vincent turned to face him.

“I hope this was worth it,” Gregory whispered.

Vincent’s gaze swept the wreckage, the tangled mounds of dead. All he could do was lower his head and cry.

“Pat!”

“It’s started?”

Instantly, he was awake, sitting up in his cot. All day long he had been anticipating the attack. Praying in fact that it would come, come before someone finally got through from the west with the orders to stand down or he finally made the suicidal gesture and attacked instead. Rumors had been floating through the army ever since Pat had dropped the telegraph lines and all trains from the west had ceased to arrive.

Only that morning Schneid had come back up to the front, personally bearing a report that rioting had erupted in Suzdal and Roum.

Rick stood in the doorway of the bunker, the sky behind him glowing with the colors of sunset.

“Where are they hitting?” Pat cried, stumbling up from the steps and out onto the battlement.

He was stunned by the silence. There were no guns firing, not even the usual scattering of shots between snipers. Then he heard it, a strange distant keening.

He stepped up onto a firing step and cautiously peered over. He saw though that men were now standing up, some atop the earthworks, fully exposed, and not a shot was coming from the other side.

“What the hell is going on?”

“I’m damned if I know. It started an hour or so ago. This weird chanting. I thought they were getting themselves built up for the assault. I figured to let you sleep as long as possible, though, and waited. Well, this chanting kept on going and going and then about five minutes ago I saw the damnedest thing.”

He suddenly pointed across the river.

“There, another one!”

Pat looked, not sure for a moment what he was seeing. It was darker on the far shore, and then he saw where Rick was pointing. Two Bantag were standing, fully exposed. They were holding something. It was a mortar … and they flung it over the side of their fort and down into the mud of the riverbank. And then, without any ceremony they turned and simply walked away.

All along the riverbank he could now see them, not just a few, but hundreds upon hundreds, climbing up out of the trenches, still chanting, then walking off into the darkness.

Suddenly a flare ignited on the far shore and in the flickering light he saw a mounted Bantag, war helmet off, white mane catching the light. The Bantag was holding the flare and Pat looked at him mesmerized.

He felt a strange stirring within, as if this one could somehow reach into his soul and touch his heart. There was no hatred, only an infinite sadness.

“It’s over,” a voice seemed to whisper inside.

By the light of the flare he saw a rider moving down into the river, holding a white flag aloft, in his other hand waving what appeared to be a piece of paper.

“Send someone down to get that,” Pat shouted.

The rider reached midstream and waited, and a minute later a mounted artilleryman galloped into the shallow river, approached the messenger, and took the paper.

At the same instant the flare was thrown heavenward. He traced its flight as it bisected the Great Wheel, which even then was rising in the east. It fell into the water, and all was darkness.

Pat, unable to speak, simply looked over at Rick and smiled, though in his heart he sensed, at that same moment, that something was lost forever as well.

Andrew Lawrence Keane, his wife riding beside him, rode into the Great Square of the city. The entire populace was out cheering his arrival, chanting his name, but he ignored the tribute.

He saw Father Casmir standing on the steps of the White House, and as Andrew reined in his mount, Casmir made the gesture of taking off his skullcap and offering the traditional Rus bow, right hand sweeping to the ground.

Andrew smiled and dismounted. He started to raise his hand in a formal salute, then remembered he was no longer in the army and instead he simply held it out. Casmir took it.

“Welcome home, Colonel Keane.”

Andrew did not know what to say. The courier, a young priest, had arrived at his retreat, a country house on the edge of the Great Forest, near the old Tugar Ford, only that morning. Breathless, he had announced that Father Casmir insisted that he return to the city immediately.

All Andrew’s questioning would not budge the youth, who insisted he was sworn to a vow of silence. The only news he would divulge was that Kal had emerged from his coma and asked for him as well.

Leaving the children under the protection of several young men from the 35th who had gone with him into exile, he rode south, back to the city along the old ford road, Kathleen insisting that she come along, too. The ride with the silent priest and Kathleen was a flood of memories … the battles around the Tugar Ford, the first skirmish in the woods against a raid by boyars, the ambush of the Tugar column just north of the city. As they cleared the lower pass he was stunned to see thousands outside the gates, lining the road.

There had been no cheering, only an awed and respectful silence. As he passed, all offered the old traditional bow of the Rus, bent at the waist, right hand sweeping to the ground. He wanted to ask but sensed all had been told to wait, to let Casmir explain.

He looked into the eyes of the Metropolitan of the Rus.

“I will never forget the night that I, a young priest, ran barefoot through the snow to where you and your men were camped below this city,” Casmir began, his voice echoing across the plaza, and Andrew realized that this was all part of some elaborate ceremony.

“I knew you Yankees were voting that night whether to stay and fight the Tugars or to take ship and leave and seek safety. I came bearing the news that we, the people of Suzdal, had rebelled against the boyars and wished to fight the Tugars as well.

“Colonel Keane, you could have turned your back upon me at that moment. You could have left, but you decided to stay and to fight for our freedom.

“Those men that were with you that night,” and his voice faltered, “how few now remain.”

Casmir paused, and Andrew saw the emotions and felt a knot in his own throat.

“You did not leave us, Andrew Keane. It was we who left you.”

Andrew wanted to say something, embarrassed. He felt the touch of Kathleen’s hand on his shoulder, stilling him.

“We left you. You tried to teach us that though you fought to give us freedom, we ourselves must have the strength to defend it. When you rode out of the city, alone, we finally learned that.

“My friend, I now beg you. Pick up your sword again. Take command of the armies. Be Colonel Andrew Lawrence Keane once more.”

As he spoke the last words the chanting resumed, “Keane, Keane, Keane.”

Stunned, Andrew was unable to respond for a moment.

“What about Bugarin, the vote for an armistice?” Kathleen asked.

“Those buggers. We loaded them onto a ferry across the river. They’re packing it on the road west of here,” Emil announced, coming down the steps to join them.

At the sight of him Andrew brightened, reached out, and grasped his hand.

“It started down at the factories,” Emil continued. “Oh this priest might deny it, but his monks were organizing it. By yesterday evening the entire city was on strike. They cut the telegraph lines repeatedly, blockaded the Capitol and the White House. The poor damned Chin representatives didn’t dare set foot outside for fear of getting torn apart.”

“They didn’t overthrow the government, did they?” Andrew asked.

Emil smiled.

“Let’s call it vox populi. Some of the senators got a bit roughed up, maybe a couple of them were told that if they voted the wrong way, they might not get reelected because they wouldn’t live long enough to make reelection. But the people of Suzdal made it clear they would fight to the end rather than go down, and communicated that real clear to the Roum as well.”

“What did Bugarin do?”

“It came to a head last night. He tried to order some ruffians he had rounded up to fire into the crowd gathered right here. They lined the steps, and then Casmir here steps out, arms extended, and tells them to aim at him first.” Andrew looked at the priest, unable to speak.

“That finished it. There was a bit of roughness, a few black eyes, busted ribs, broken arms, and a few lads singing soprano, but the people of this city took the White House. I declared Kal competent to resume office. There was talk of a treason trial and that was it, ten senators and a couple of congressmen quickly resigned and got the hell out of town.”

“My role is somewhat exaggerated,” Casmir intervened. A wild cheer rose up in the square, laughing, belying Casmir’s statement.

“I doubt that,” Andrew cried, trying to be heard above the roaring of the crowd.

“You know, Andrew. Maybe it’s a good thing for a Republic to clean house occasionally and throw out a few cowardly senators now and then.”

Andrew said nothing, shaking his head with disbelief. “Flavius, and the shot at Kal. Who did it?”

“I don’t think we’ll ever really know, but if my sacred vows did not prevent it, I’d bet on Bugarin even though he vehemently denied it.”

“I’d like to see Kal,” Andrew said. “He is the president, and he alone can appoint the commander of the army.”

“I told you he would say that,” Emil interjected as he led the way up the steps and into the White House.

Following Emil, he could not contain himself any longer and asked the question that had been tearing his soul apart ever since he had let go of the mantle of command.

“Any news from the front?”

“Nothing,” Emil replied. “I think Pat cut the lines, though we’ve been trying to reach him all day. Of course, nothing from Tyre, though we have to assume a courier boat from Roum carrying the cease-fire order reached there last night.”

“Not even a flyer?”

“No, nothing.”

“I hope these people realize that by doing this they’ve most likely condemned themselves to death.”

“Andrew, they know that. They know as well that what Bugarin offered was death as well. A coward’s death. It might have given them an extra month, maybe a year, maybe even five years, but in the end, without freedom, it would be death anyhow. At least now, if we’re doomed, we go down with heads held high. I think that alone is worth fighting for.”

They reached the door to Kal’s sickroom. He stepped in, following Emil’s lead. Kal was propped up in bed, features pale and drawn. The Lincolnesque beard was still there, and the unofficial symbol of his office, the stovepipe hat, was back by his side on the nightstand.

Andrew approached the bed, and Kal, smiling weakly, patted the covers.

“Sit down, my old friend.”

Just the tone in his voice broke away all the tension of the last months. Andrew sat down and took his friend’s hand.

“Once I’m out of this damned bed we should go off together, have a drink, and perhaps buy that pair of gloves we’re always talking about.”

Andrew chuckled at the clumsy joke, for Kal had lost his right arm and Andrew his left.

“How are you, Kal?”

“Better than I’ve ever been. Perhaps that bullet knocked some sense into my thick skull.”

“You know what you are letting yourself in for?”

“I know. Most likely a bloody end. But then again, my boyar often told me that would be how I finished.”

“For everyone,” Andrew whispered.

“That was our difference, my friend. I wanted a way out, any way out to stop the slaughter. You saw that the only way out was to endure it, to have the courage to fight your way through it. When I thought of Bugarin crawling before them, again offering us up, something finally changed in my heart, as if I was throwing off a sickness. Oh, he would be spared, perhaps even I would be spared, but I swore an oath to myself, long before the Republic, long before I was president, that never again would I see a child go into the slaughter pits. That I would die first, that I would rather see us all die than endure that again.

“You knew that all along. I had to relearn it. So if we are doomed to die, we’ll die as free men. And as long as you are by my side, Colonel Andrew Keane, I will be content.”

“Fine then,” Andrew whispered, squeezing his friend’s hand. “Together, and perhaps we can still win.”

Kal smiled.

“Actually, I think we shall. This afternoon I had a dream. You often told me that Lincoln was famous for such things.”

“And?”

“Strange. It was even like his dream. A ship, far out to sea, coming toward me. It sailed past, and I felt a strange wonderful peace.”

“Good. Perhaps it will come true.”

“There was something else, though. Someone was standing on the deck. I couldn’t tell who. He was alone, but then he wasn’t. The deck was crowded, so very crowded. I felt that it was the Ogunquit, the ship that bore you to this world, sailing one last time, perhaps back to where it came from, bearing with it all those who gave the final sacrifice. The lone man raised his hand, and then the ship disappeared into the mist.”

Andrew said nothing.

“Sleep, my friend. Perhaps you’ll have another dream.”

“I think I will. Knowing you’re back, I feel safe again.”

“I never really left.”

Kal winked. “I know that, too.”

Andrew looked up at Emil, who nodded, and with Kathleen quietly withdrew. Andrew sat by Kal’s side, watching as his old friend drifted off.

It was a peaceful moment. A strange mix of feelings. On the one side an infinite sadness, knowing what was still to come, the sacrifice still to be made. On the other side, though, there was a tremendous swelling of pride. Win or lose, the people of Rus, of Roum had come together, mingled their blood, and out of that mingling a republic was born. And now, even if they should lose, they would not crawl basely into the night but would go with heads held high. The legend of it would then live on as well, and in the turning of years be remembered, be reborn, and finally triumph.

His thoughts drifted to Hans, wishing he was there to share the moment. As Hans had taught him, he had passed that strength and vision on to others. Everyone pointed to him, and yet actually it had been Hans all along who had shaped and guided him, and, in turn, he had created the Republic.

He heard renewed cheering outside, a wild tumultuous roaring that thundered up. Embarrassed, he stood up, gently releasing Kal’s hand. They were most likely cheering the news that he had accepted reappointment; he would have to go out and give yet another speech, something he did not want to do just now.

And then he saw Kathleen in the door, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“It’s over,” she gasped.

“What?”

“The war Andrew! It’s over.”

He couldn’t speak, and then he sensed something else.

“The telegraph line just went back up to the front. Pat reports a message from the Bantag side. They are withdrawing. The Chin have revolted.”

“Glory Hallelujah,” Andrew gasped.

“Andrew.”

And then he knew, even before she whispered the words and fell into his arms crying.

“Andrew, darling. Hans is dead.”

He couldn’t speak. He held her tight, trying not to break.

He saw Emil and Casmir in the doorway.

So strange, such joy, and yet such pain in their eyes.

“Emil, stay with Kal. Let him sleep; if he wakes up, tell him, but don’t say anything yet about Hans.”

“That dream-I think he already knew.” Emil sighed.

He tried to step past Emil. The doctor touched him on the shoulder.

“The year, this year was a gift, Andrew. He came back to lead us one last time. Now the job is finished.”

Andrew nodded, unable to speak.

He stepped out of the room, and Kathleen stopped him.

“Andrew.”

“Yes?”

She nodded to Casmir, who was holding a package.

“I brought this with me; I thought you might want it.”

Casmir opened the package. Inside was Andrew’s weather-stained uniform jacket, his Medal of Honor still pinned to the breast.

He nodded in agreement, and Casmir and Kathleen helped him remove his simple brown coat. The feel of the tight uniform somehow reassured him, and he wordlessly nodded his thanks.

Holding Kathleen’s hand, he walked down the corridor, passing the reception room where he and Hans had first stood before the Boyar Ivor, and at last gained the steps to the White House.

Out in the square there was wild rejoicing, and though he was filled with grief, he could feel their joy as well. They had made the decision to stand and fight, redeeming their souls at that moment, and now they had discovered that it was not just their souls that had been redeemed, but their lives as well.

At the sight of him the cheering redoubled into a thunderous tumult, so that it seemed as if the very heavens would be torn asunder.

He stood silent, and then gradually the wild celebration died away. As if sensing his thoughts and his pain, a new chant emerged, “Hans, Hans, Hans.”

There was no rejoicing in it, only a deep and reverent respect.

Alone he stood, eyes turned heavenward, imagining the ship Kal had dreamed of.

“Good-bye, Hans,” he whispered. “Good-bye and thank you, my comrade, my friend.”