Rally Cry (40 page)

Casmar shook his head in confusion.

"I believe you," he said, looking straight at Kathleen, "for I have heard the nuns of our order speak of you as a good and holy woman. But the people, they will not believe."

"If you tell them to, they will," Emil said.

"But when some of them die they will claim that the church has misled them once again. I am trying desperately to repair the damage done by Rasnar and the prelates before him. I want our church to help the people in this world, and not just fill them with promises of the next.

"Remember, though, that there is another prelate even now in Vazima, and I have to contend with that. The moment one of our people dies from this thing you wish to do, Igor will thunder from the pulpit against me."

"Let him thunder," Emil cried, "but if he does not let his people get inoculated as well, the proof will be obvious in a matter of weeks."

"You wish to do this same thing to the people of Vazima?" Casmar asked.

"I'm dedicated to saving lives," Emil said quietly. "I was hoping you could arrange a truce, and I could train some people from that city and save the rest of Rus as well."

Casmar looked at Emil with amazement. Since the great division there had been occasional skirmishes between the border watchers of the two sides, but no contact beyond that, other than the steady trickle of refugees who continued to stream eastward, believing as the months passed that it was better to take their chance with the Tugar pits than to die beneath their arrows and swords.

"I will think upon this," Casmar said quietly.

Frustrated, Emil sat down.

"There's the other problem now as well," Andrew said. "I'm afraid that word has already spread of the advance guard of Tugars, and the city's in a near-panic. What do you think they
represent,
your holiness?"

"Usually they first send the Namer of Time, a year before the arrival of the horde. About three months before the arrival of the horde the chooser comes. It is he who counts the amount in the warehouses, and under his guidance the selection is begun."

"Then it is not the main body of the horde approaching?" Andrew asked.

"I believe not," Casmar replied cautiously.

"Most likely they're nervous about our being here," Andrew said, looking over at Hans. "If I were their leader I'd send up a reconnaissance in force along with this chooser to check things out."

Andrew settled back in his chair.

"At least five hundred, I'm willing to bet, more likely a thousand," and Hans nodded in agreement.

"Why's that?" Casmar asked.

"Good tactics," Hans said. "That Namer fellow got a good estimate of our size. Figures if we're still here, two-to-one odds should clean us out, and prevent any trouble for the rest of the horde. I'd make it a thousand."

"It's important they don't see anything here," Andrew said. "The farther forward we meet them the better.

"Hans, what've we got ready for action?"

"Precious few, colonel.
There's the 35th Regiment, of course, and one regiment of Suzdalians fully equipped, but still only partially trained."

"Artillery?"

"Five guns for the Suzdalian first battery," Hans replied. "That's it so far."

"And O'Donald's away with the
Ogunquit,"
Andrew said, as if to
himself
, "leaving us only two Napoleons."

"That's all we've got, sir."

"All right, Hans.
The 35th and 1st Suzdalian to be formed up at dawn, along with both batteries.

"Where do they usually come first?" Andrew said, looking over at Casmar.

"Down the river road."

"There are a couple of passes farther up," Andrew said meditatively. "I've checked the ground over myself. Nice bottlenecks—the perfect place to pen them in.

"Get the men formed, and have Kal
come
with me. I want our leader to see what this new army can do."

Reining in his mount, Qubata looked suspiciously at the low-lying hills ahead.

Everything felt wrong. They had passed dozens of Rus villages in the last two days, and
not a
single cattle was in the fields. The few he had seen fled at their approach.

Where were the nobles to keep their people working in the fields? Yet the fields were well tended. In one of the empty villages he had stepped into a barn. There was a strange device within it, a machine that looked like two great wheels set nearly two arm lengths apart. The wheels were tied together by six long blades. Curious, he had pushed the device, and the blades turned, grating against another blade set across the bottom of the device.

It appeared to be some sort of cutting machine, but for what he was not sure, and that made him more nervous as well, and had been troubling his thoughts ever since.

Never had he seen such a machine. Could this be a device of the ones called Yankees?

One of his scouts came galloping back up the road toward where the column waited.

"The road ahead is clear, my commander," the courier shouted, reining in his horse.

Qubata looked back at the long column behind him. He knew that his warriors were viewing his caution with open disdain. More than once in the last day he had heard a comment from behind his back, saying that he was so old that his brain was becoming that of a frightened child.

"Are you sure you saw nothing?" Qubata asked.

"I have reported all that I've seen," the scout replied, and the warrior looked at him darkly.

"Did the rest of your command fan out to either side of the road?"

"As you commanded."

There was a restive stirring behind him.

He could not hesitate, not here. If he delayed any longer and indeed there was nothing farther ahead, what respect he had left would be finally lost.

With a grunt of disdain he urged his mount into a trot, signaling for the rest of the column to follow.

The host moved down the road, past yet another abandoned village. Again it was the same as before, the crops well laid out, shimmering beneath the summer sun, but not a single cattle in sight. On the road he started to notice footprints of cattle. Could it be they were simply fleeing before his approach?

The tree-clad hills to his left marched downward, narrowing the valley, pushing them in closer and closer to the broad muddy river on the right. He did not like this region; he preferred the open steppes. But the great inland sea, and the river that fed it, required them to swing far northward for several days' march into the edge of the great forest, until a ford could be reached sufficient to cross the great host. The trees closed around them, making him feel tight, uncomfortable.

Going through the first pass, he looked about nervously. A small trail cut away from the main road heading up into the hills. Qubata reined his mount in and beckoned for the scout, while the rest of the column thundered past.

"Did you send someone up that trail?"

"As you told me to," the scout said, his disdain becoming more and more obvious.

Qubata looked at the ground, seeing the hoofmarks of the scout, but the road had recently been churned up by many cattle footprints and several wheel tracks, as if from heavy carts.

"And his report?"

"He has not yet returned," the scout replied coldly.

"What?"

"They are only cattle, my great general," the scout retorted sarcastically.

There was something wrong. He could feel the hairs on the nape of his neck starting to prickle. With every passing second more and more of his Tugars rushed past, some of them shouting jokes, others exclaiming about the pleasure of entering the cool woods.
Magtu, with the chooser riding beside him, trotted by, a taunting look lighting his features.

"Old one, are you still looking for demons hiding in the woods?" Magtu barked, and the warriors about him laughed.

Ignoring the taunt, Qubata looked about, hesitating. It most likely is nothing, part of his inner mind kept saying, smarting from the growing lack of respect the warriors showed at his cautiousness.

But there was something wrong, something wrong here. He had to decide.

Standing in his stirrups, he held his hand up.

"Stop the column," he roared.

The warriors before him started to rein in, those behind pulling off the trail to either side to keep from ramming into the ranks in front.

At the same time those who had already passed continued forward, not hearing or not heeding his shout.

Qubata turned his mount, ready to race forward.

And then he heard a distant human shout, clear and defiant, and the world exploded around him.

"Fire!"

A sheet of flame slashed out from the woods. Dozens of Tugars tumbled from their saddles, horses rearing up in pain and panic.

Turning from the volley line, Andrew started to race northward.

Dammit. Another minute or two at most and they would have had nearly all of them caught between the two passes. At best they had a quarter of them in the trap. He had been watching the gray-coated one for the last fifteen minutes, realizing almost at once that this one must be the commander. Somehow the Tugar had sensed a trap. So why did the fool walk into it anyhow, and then stop again?

Another volley slashed out, and the Suzdalians around him roared with ecstasy to see the hated Tugars fall by the score beneath their guns.

A thundering boom cut out, followed seconds later by three more cracks, the last two the deeper bass of the Napoleons. Two thunderclaps erupted in the road, spilling more Tugars from their mounts, while the four-pound solid shot slashed through the ranks. The artillery position, masked up on the hill near the village where they had fought Mikhail, had been revealed, and now started into a steady pounding toward the village where the rear of the Tugar column milled about in confusion.

But the brunt of the battle would start to tell forward, where the 35th waited, concealed along the first line of hills.

Andrew paused for a moment, watching the developing rout.

"Now, Hans!" he roared. "Charge them!"

"Back!"
Qubata roared. "Fall back!"

All about him was madness. Another crashing roar came out of the woods, and in stunned disbelief he saw dozens more of his finest warriors pitch out of their saddles. In the maddening confusion few of them had yet unslung their bows to return fire.

Riderless horses galloped past, Tugars on foot staggered and fell. He saw Magtu being dragged past, his lifeless body bouncing down the road as his fear-crazed horse dashed away.

Another thunderous roar, and still more fell.

Suddenly a wild shrieking cry rose up from the woods. Out of the darkness a horde of cattle erupted, carrying thunder sticks atop which he could see long tapered spears.

But what was even more terrifying was how most of them advanced at a walk, keeping to a line. Coming into the edge of the clearing, they
stopped,
the first rank kneeling and bringing their thunder sticks up.

There was another roar, smoke and fire filled the air, and the few Tugars who had turned to charge them tumbled to the ground. Transfixed, Qubata hesitated and watched. The line now started to swing about, while from farther down the road another line came up with weapons lowered, their spear points gleaming in the sun. In the middle of the line he saw three carriages with metal tubes mounted between the wheels.

They are fighting with discipline, Qubata thought with amazement.

There was another flash of fire, and he heard a strange buzzing whip past his ears. From behind he heard another roar, and looking back from the direction he had come down only minutes before he saw more of his warriors falling.

Spurring his mount, Qubata galloped down the road. Directly ahead he saw a blue-clad form emerge from the woods raising a weapon toward him. Qubata ducked low in the saddle and another buzzing sound whipped past him. With saber drawn he swept past the man, his arm jarring from the impact of sword on flesh. He did not even turn to look back, but galloped on.

The woods were behind him, his host streaming back toward the village. A thunder roared behind him, and ahead in the village two more blossoms of fire appeared.

All was madness and confusion. Pushing hard, he forced his way through the host trying to restore order.

Some of the warriors were finally fighting back, drawing bows and firing into the woods.

There was another flash and yet more fell.

The scout who had shown defiance only moments before stood in the road before him, his mount lying dead.

"But they're only cattle," the scout cried despairingly as Qubata drew up.

For a moment he was tempted to strike the fool down, but instead he extended his hand and swung the warrior up behind him. Onward he pushed through the village and past a building, now ablaze from the strange burst of fire hurled by the cattle.