Rally Cry (10 page)

Following their commander, the escort marched into the broad dark halls.

Flanking either side of the entryway were two more images like die ones painted on the church wall.

Just what were they? Vincent wondered, for the mere sight of them gave him an uneasy feeling of dread.

Muzta, Qar Qarth of the Tugar horde, rode quietly through the night. This was the time he always loved the most, the gentle settling of the darkness, the march of the day completed. From seventy thousand yurts came the murmuring of his people, the laughter of the children, the voices of his warriors,
the
singsong chants of the shamans and legend speakers who wove the tales and memories of the Tugar people. Yet as he looked out across the horde he could also sense their fear.

Campfires were springing up, flickering flames to cast back the shadows dotting the steppe from horizon to horizon. Gaining a low crest, he paused for a moment, speaking softly to Bura, his old cherished mount. The horse snickered in reply. Bura had been given to him upon the day he was proclaimed Qar Qarth, King of Kings, ruler of all the clans of the Tugar realm.

"How long has it been, old friend?" he whispered softly.

Over a circling, at least.
Curious with the thought, he let his mind drift backward. It was before the cattle city of
Constan that his first father had passed. Constan was now four seasons passed yet again.

A hot place, Constan.
The cattle there had gained in wealth, sailing their white vessels across the landlocked sea.

It was there as well he had fought his last battle, against the Merki horde, sending them reeling back, leaving the great northern steppes to the Tugar horde.

Now that had been a fight.
Three days and nights, the great northern clan of two hundred thousand warriors, to face the half million of the south.
Twenty blood clans against fifty, and he, Muzta, leading the final charge, with the great Qubata praising him afterward for his valor.

How they had slain before the inland sea, until the waters ran red with blood. What joy he had felt, the greatest moment of his life. His father dying as only a Tugar should die, leading his host in the great charge.

And since then?
He had given his people a complete turning, a total circling of the world, in peace. They had ridden the great northern steppe completely around the world, and none had dared to poach upon their path.

"A quiet evening, is it not, my Qarth?"

Muzta turned and barked a soft laugh of greeting.

"Qubata, old comrade, don't tell me it is already time."

Qubata, first of all the generals of the Tugar horde, edged his mount up alongside his lord and bowed low in the saddle, an action which still caused embarrassment for Muzta.

He could remember sitting upon Qubata's knee, the warrior singing to him the chant of Hugala, how the legendary warrior had been first to ride about the world, proving that the great northern steppe was one.

Even then he was the first of the generals of the clan. But he was Qar Qarth, and so the ritual must be observed. To do otherwise meant death for the offender, for such was the law of the people.

Qubata remained silent, turning his head upward to observe the glowing splendor of the Great Wheel.

"The kuraltai awaits, my lord," Qubata whispered softly.

"Let them wait awhile longer," Muzta replied evenly.

"It is not good, my lord," Qubata prodded. "
Tula is again speaking, and there are those who listen."

"I'll remember their names," Muzta replied, looking at his general with a cold smile. "I am still the Qarth."

"And
Tula's clan is the strongest in our confederation, my lord."

"I know, curse him, I know."

He found himself half wishing that the Merki horde would return. That at least would divert them from this crisis and allow his people to vent their fear upon a common foe. That was an enemy to be understood, almost loved in a way. Sword could be matched against sword. Of the harvesting of cattle there was no joy for the warrior, only the taking of food. The enemy he faced now was beyond that type of understanding, and it filled him with a quiet dread.

He could not hide out here, for in his heart he knew that was what he was doing. Cursing softly, he kicked Bura into a gallop and started back for the heart of the camp.

As he passed through the encampment of his elite guard, shouts of warning ranged before him announcing the approach of the Qar Qarth. He crested a low hill, and the great yurt came into view. A hundred paces across, its barrel-thick center pole reached to the height of ten; from atop it the horsetail standard fluttered fitfully with the evening breeze. Bringing Bura up to the edge of the platform, Muzta leaped from his mount, and striding past the ceremonial fires of cleansing, he entered into where the clan heads awaited him.

"So,
Tula," he said coldly, "I leave to think upon what was said and you fall back into your old position."

The assembly fell quiet. Muzta gazed about the room, fixing each in turn with his gaze. There was no reply.

"It is the right of the clan leaders to speak what is in their heart, my Qarth. Though you are appointed above us, still the Tugar people are free to speak."

Tula
came to his feet, stretching his towering ten-foot frame. Rubbing the shaggy growth of coarse brown hair on his arms, he strode to the center of the tent to face Muzta.

The room was silent, expectant. Only a member of the golden clan could be the Qar Qarth, and thus Muzta's position could not be challenged. But it was the right of a clan leader to leave the Tugar horde if he so desired. Such an event could only mean one thing—a bitter civil war, for control of the northern steppe.

"And what is it that you wish to say?" Muzta said coldly.

"The snows of winter have passed, and we have come near to starving. You have decreed that the feeding must be of the old form—only those who spawned may be taken, and those of high birth are to be spared, except at the moon festivals.

"We starve, my Qarth, because of that."

"You think only of your belly for today," Muzta growled.

"If we did otherwise there would be no feeding when we had ridden about the world once again, for the cattle would be gone. We must leave the breeding stock to replenish the fields."

"But if there are no Tugars left because they starve, then what is the purpose? I say let us harvest all the cattle—let us worry about what we eat in the future when the future comes."

Muzta turned away with a snort of disdain.

"He is right, my Qarth." It was Suba, leader of the Merkat clan.

Muzta looked back over his shoulder. So you have turned too, he thought quietly.

"Before we always followed the dictates of our forefathers, who spread the cattle that came to us throughout the world," Suba said softly, rising up to stand by
Tula. "We harvested the cattle that had spawned, and those who were not of prime stock. When we rode about the world and returned there would be another generation of food. But that was before the spotted sickness struck the cattle.

"For all we know, the spotted sickness might slay them all. It is a pestilence of fear, my lord. Since first we saw it at Constan, it has swept into a fire, slaying the cattle by the tens of thousands. And since they die, my lord, we starve."

"So slaughter them all, eat now, and then starve later, is that it?" Muzta barked.

"At least then we'll have a chance. We can worry about finding more cattle when we ride back this way again, or sweep into Merki lands and take their cattle."

"And if I say no?" Muzta said coldly.

The room was silent. If there was to be a breaking of the clan it would be now. He already had his plan, had formed it days ago, but he wanted to see what
Tula and any of his followers would do.

"Do you want war, then?" Muzta said coldly, fixing each in turn with his gaze.

It was a delicate balance, and he spared a quick glance to Qubata, and could see the concern in the old warrior's eyes.

"If our confederation should break," Qubata said quietly, "know that word shall fly to the Merki horde. For remember what Jemugta, father of Muzta, taught us. If we are but single reeds, scattered to the winds, we shall each be broken, but together we are strength," and as he spoke he pointed to the ceremonial bundle of reeds tied by Jemugta's own hands and lashed to the center post.

"A starving bundle,"
Tula growled.

"But hear first what it is my lord wishes before you vote," Qubata interjected. And walking to the far side of the tent, he pulled open the sacred scroll, the great map first forged by Hugala.

"We are here, encamped east of Mempus," Qubata stated. "Normally we pass at our leisure to where the cattle of Ninva await us. It is the wish of Muzta that we not stop there for the winter. Rather we shall march quickly, sparing not our mounts, sweeping up to Maya by the end of the season. From the western kingdom of the Maya we move the following spring to their eastern realm of Tultac and then winter the following year here."

And he stabbed at the map with his finger.

"The realm of the Rus."

"But that is four seasons' march in two,"
Tula retorted.

"Exactly," Qubata replied.

"Our old ones, our young, cannot make that," Suba protested.

"They will have to. Perhaps in doing that we can outrace this spotted sickness and feed to our fill once it is left behind."

"And it will also place us two seasons' march ahead of the Merki to the south," Muzta said softly, his features alighting with a smile as he moved to Qubata's side. "If needs
be
we can dip southward and grab something extra for our larders."

A number of chieftains smiled at that part of the plan.

The room was silent. He was asking for two tough seasons ahead, four years' ride compressed into two. But if it succeeded they could feed, and yet still preserve the cattle of the northern steppe for when next they rode through here again in twenty seasons.

Muzta looked back at
Tula, a smile still lighting his features. His rival was silent. So the trap had worked. He had lured out a clan leader whom he had suspected of wishing to break the confederation, and the information that Suba was behind him was of even greater value. Jemugta had taught him well how to ferret out possible challenges to the golden clan of the Tugars.

"Is there even a need for a vote now?" Qubata said evenly.

The old general watched the interplay. No one could refuse the plan, but he could see the silent rage in
Tula and Suba as well. They would need to be watched.

A murmur of approval swept through the tent praising the wisdom of the Qar Qarth, and as
Tula returned to his seat, those about him edged away.

Muzta smiled softly.

"Then let us feast!"

From out of the corner Alem, the soothsayer and chooser of cattle, rose up on spindly legs. The old Tugar went to the entry of the tent, which was swept open.

Smiling Alem led two cattle in chains into the tent.

"For the approval of my lords," Alem said softly. There were barks of delight from the assembly. These were prime cattle, not yet of breeding age and obviously of the highest caste.

"Their livers shall be baked in wine sauce," Alem announced. "Crust had already been rolled for the kidney pies, and as a special treat we shall cook their brains inside their skulls."

Alem looked back at his trembling meal and poked them tentatively with his long sharp finger.

The two clung to each other, terror in their eyes.

Muzta surveyed them with disdain.

"Drain their blood well—I want some soup with my meal," Muzta said softly.

Alem with a gleam in his eyes beckoned for the guards to drag the two humans out to the slaughter pit.

At least we shall eat well for tonight, Muzta thought to himself.

Munching absently on the cracked marrow from a cattle bone, he considered the Rus people in their wooden cities and felt a thrill of anticipation. He was partial to their meat, far better than the cattle they would pass by in reaching there. They seemed to have a finer grain to their flesh. With a smile he settled down upon his throne as servants brought in cuts of roasted cattle limbs for an opening snack while the high piercing shrieks of the main course, about to be slaughtered, rent the air.

Attempting to suppress a yawn, Andrew looked about the room. It had been a night without sleep, compounded now by a hangover that made his temples feel as if they were about to explode.

He had expected that there would be a simple straightforward meeting with Ivor, an agreement struck, and then a return back to the encampment. That was mistake number one.

A grand feast had to be presented first. The meal had not been all that bad—most anything was better than the food at the regimental mess—but it had dragged on for hours, so that he felt as if he were being subjected to an endurance test.

The meal had started with baked fish and eels,
then
progressed to cuts of pork, roast mutton, and what looked like pheasant. But that was only for starters. With great pageantry and fanfare an entire roasted bear was paraded into the feasting hall, still wrapped in its fur, its grimacing bead mounted atop the carcass on a silver pole. That had been a hard one to take, for he had always felt a soft spot for bears, and though raised in the woods of
Maine
had never found it in his heart to hunt for bear or any other creature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Kal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Daughter?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We'll be all right, Hans."

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