"Suzdal beautiful," Vincent remarked, grinning broadly.
"Da, da, beautiful, yes," Kal responded eagerly.
Vincent looked at the man closely. The others might think him a dumb peasant, but Vincent sensed there was an intelligence to this man that no one had yet to pick up on.
A pealing of bells echoed out across the countryside, the most beautiful sound Vincent had ever heard. This was not the monotone tolling of the single bell in the Methodist church tower back in East Vassalboro. The bells here seemed to cover every note across several octaves, so that it seemed as if a virtual symphony filled the air.
As they approached the main gate of the city the barrier was thrown back, and before him Vincent saw a broad avenue that led into a square. The streets were lined with thousands, all of them silent.
As they crossed under the rounded stone gate, Vincent felt a moment of fear at the sight of the thousands waiting for them. But he quickly saw that his fear was a counterpoint to the fear of those awaiting him. The citizens of Suzdal, though eager to see the strangers, drew back at the approach of the column. Many lowered their gaze, raising their hands in symbols to ward off the evil eye. The column pushed forward into the broad open square several hundred yards across. Vincent looked with amazement at the single stone structure that dominated the center of the city. It was obviously a church of some sort, for the walls facing the square were covered with iconlike paintings that soared fifty feet or more up to the very eaves. To the left of the main door was a towering figure that appeared ghostlike, wrapped in black robes.
Vincent pointed at the figure and looked at Kal.
"Perm. Father God."
To the right of the door was another figure, this one in white with a golden beard. To Vincent's amazement a cross was behind the man.
"Jesus?" Vincent asked tentatively.
"Da, da, Kesus."
Surprised, Vincent looked around to his comrades, who had noticed the massive icon as well.
"Well, I'll be damned," Hinsen ventured, and the others looked at him with disdain. Somehow maybe they were on earth after all, Vincent thought hopefully.
To either side of the two were dark figures, looking almost demonlike in visage, with long hairy bodies, pointed ears, slanted eyes, and sharp glistening teeth. They immediately reminded Vincent of the wooden statues lining the road. Gathered about their feet, smaller figures of men and women stood about them with heads lowered.
"And those?" Vincent asked tentatively.
Kal seemed to hesitate for a moment.
"What are they?" Vincent asked, somewhat more insistently.
Kal shook his head and then turned away.
What were they? Vincent wondered. He could see that the rotund peasant was fearful to speak further on the subject.
Could they be demons? Whatever they were, the images upon the church wall gazed upon them with lust-filled eyes, and he could see a fear in Kal as well at the mere sight of them.
The column crossed the open square. Several knights had pulled in front of Keane and were beckoning him to follow. A massive log structure faced the cathedral from the other side of the square, more ornately carved than any building Vincent had seen so far. A portly man wearing a flowing robe of burgundy came out of the building to stand atop the flight of wooden stairs. To his amazement, Vincent saw that the man was wearing glasses. The low murmur of the crowd in the square dropped away to a whisper, and by the thousands the Suzdalians bowed low, brushing the ground with their extended right hands.
"Company, halt!"
Schuder stepped out from the ranks.
"Company, attenshun! Present arms!"
Vincent snapped to attention and brought his weapon to the present.
The square was silent. Keane swung down from his mount, Dr. Weiss following his lead. Dusting himself off, Keane looked back at the ranks.
"Sergeant Schuder, detail twelve men with Sergeant Barry to go in with me. Unlimber the Napoleon and the rest to form square about it, at parade rest. You're in charge out here, Schuder. Handle any problem as you see fit."
Schuder looked at the men. "First three ranks, fall in behind the colonel, the rest form open square. Now step lively, men."
Vincent realized that he had been detailed to go forward.
"Shoulder arms," Sergeant Barry snapped, and with Vincent in the lead the twelve men stepped forward to come up behind Keane.
Without looking back, the colonel mounted the steps, his men falling in behind. Reaching the top of the steps, Keane drew up before Ivor, snapped to attention, and saluted.
"Colonel Keane of the 35th Maine," he said evenly, which Kal quickly translated.
Ivor looked at him appraisingly, putting on a show of bravado for the thousands in the square. With a snort of disdain he turned about and strode into the building. Sergeant Barry growled softly at the slight to their commander, but a quick look back from the colonel stilled any comment.
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 p
eople.
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 i
n 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.
Chapter 4
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.
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