He gasped with amazement at the gaping wound in the man's back and stuck his finger into the hole to examine it more closely.
"The metal ball has gone clean through the body," Muzta said, as if to himself.
"As I told you concerning my outrider," the Namer replied. "He was struck over thirty times, and dead before he hit the ground. His body was torn apart."
Muzta stood up and looked back across the field.
"Over a hundred paces, nearly the distance of our war bows," Qubata said evenly.
"These cattle are far too dangerous," Alem, the clan shaman, said sharply, while looking at the Namer with an accusing glance as if he had been responsible for their coming. "You should have stayed until the Rus people had destroyed them for you."
"I felt it important to come back and report, before the heavy snows came. My staying would have taken many more days and would show weakness. When cattle are ordered, they obey. I am sure the Yankees are already dead.
"And besides," the Namer added weakly, "after all, they are only cattle."
"Vulti did his job well as Namer," Tula stated, coming to the defense of his nephew. "If any are still there upon our arrival, I am sure old Qubata will finish them."
Qubata looked over at Tula and smiled, revealing his dull yellow teeth.
"I am sure you'll be happy to ride with me," Qubata said evenly.
"I am not afraid of cattle," Tula snapped, "as I assumed our war leader would not be."
Qubata growled softly, and reaching over he took the rifle from Muzta's hand.
"This weapon makes cattle into killers. They saw one of ours die from it already, and I say Vulti was a fool to sacrifice an outrider on such an experiment. Now they know they can kill us."
"But there are only a handful of them," Tula replied.
The group was silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts.
Finally Muzta looked over at Alem.
"Fetch me the other," Muzta commanded.
The shaman turned from the group and beckoned to one of the attendants, who stood with the mounts while their masters debated.
The attendant came forward bearing a long bundle wrapped in leather and handed it to the shaman. Alem quickly unwrapped the package and handed the device over to Muzta.
The group gathered around for a closer look. It seemed at first glance to be similar in form to the rifle brought back by the Namer, but was clumsier and heavier.
"See here," Qubata said, pointing first to the lock of the rifle and then to the other weapon. "The one from the Yankees strikes the tiny metal cone, which makes a spark. This old one merely had a string which burned. The Yankee thunder maker is lighter and better-made—this old thing is crude."
"How old is this?" Qubata asked, looking back to the shaman.
"It was taken over fifteen circlings ago, according to the secret history," the shaman said, "while our people were encamped near the blue sea. Two great water ships appeared out of the tunnel of light. Aboard them were cattle of dark skin and black beards. We captured one; the other escaped and has not been seen since. They killed many Tugars before we feasted upon them."
"These cattle that come through the gate of the Old Ones seem to arrive with ever better devices for killing," Qubata said quietly.
If only we could close the gates created by the Old Ones, Muzta thought to himself, looking at the arquebus and rifle which he held one in each hand. Each new species of cattle that arrived was more difficult to tame. Perhaps they should look for the secret of the gate and learn to close it, but now was not the time to worry about such a thing.
Muzta looked back at those around him and then let his gaze drift across the open steppe.
The snow was deep, nearly up to the tops of his knee-high boots. To move the hundred thousand yurts of the clan now would be impossible. To send warriors forward would be dangerous, for their mounts would have a difficult time gaining forage. Something in his heart told him that he should try to move now. But such was impossible; the clans were still restless about the breaking of tradition and moving two years in one.
If only the Wheel were higher, he wished. The days were gaining in length. It was nearly two dark moons since the shortest of days; another darkening and they could start.
Muzta looked back to those who stood about him.
"When the snows start to clear, we prepare to move."
"Most likely we'll have to anyhow," Ubata said evenly and pointed back to the Maya city.
"We've eaten near all who are fit to eat back there," Alem said. "In another moon there won't be any cattle left other than those who have had the pox and are now unclean to feast upon. It seems almost a pity."
Muzta nodded in agreement. In his childhood he had once owned a cattle as a pet. He had even come to love it and allowed the pet to ride by his side. When it had died after falling from a horse he had wept openly and refused to see it eaten. That had been the last time he had felt pity for cattle until now.
He knew that when the horde rode eastward again the city of the Maya would be a city of spirits, if indeed cattle did have spirits in the afterworld.
One night he had walked through the city alone, watching as the bodies of the dead were taken out, their calves and mates sobbing with anguish. The sobbing he was inured to, for after all, nearly all cattle sobbed when one was led to the pit.
But this had been different, for it seemed as if an entire species was sobbing, knowing that soon all of them would disappear forever.
What had startled him, though, was when several cattle, cattle who had not been chosen for the pits, came up to him and screamed their rage and hatred at him. To his stunned disbelief, one had drawn a dagger and rushed him. He had slain his attacker and of course all who had witnessed the defiance, but they had died cursing him.
He was used to cattle sometimes struggling as they were led into the pits, but this had been different, almost an act of desperation. The injunction that a thousand extra die for any such attack did not seem to matter to these cattle. Was desperation making the cattle dangerous? he wondered. Could there be a spirit in them worthy of respect after all?
Sadly, he turned away and looked at the city. It was strange how similar yet different the cattle were. They all looked basically the same, and seemed to somehow, in their primitive souls, find an ability to love one another. Yet they could be so strangely different. Each with its own tongue, customs, and curious beliefs. And tastes of flesh as well, he thought dryly.
Some even made things of value, beautiful objects of gold and silver to decorate with, rugs of intricate design, saddles, woven fabrics, even the bows and arrows of the warriors. Thousands of such cattle traveled with the horde, producing objects of great value, and they were cherished as worthy pets. Many had died of the pox, and already Muzta had noticed how certain things could not be replaced without them.
Have we become too dependent on our cattle? Muzta wondered to himself. They had always been docile and learned the truth of submitting to the horde. Many had even prospered under their guidance. Could these Yankees represent some new breed of cattle?
"Their machines that you spoke of," Muzta said, looking back at the Namer.
"I saw little of their devices. The priest said their great water vessel could move without the wind or oars."
Several of the subclan chieftains laughed.
"Impossible," Tula barked. "Besides, we are Tugars. Water is for cattle, not for such as we, so why should we care what they do upon water?"
"I also saw where they had laid strips of metal upon the ground. The priest could not explain it, and it seemed a strange waste of good iron."
"That is curious," Qubata replied. "Could they have done it to show they had more than needed as a trick to us?"
"Or is it a Yankee spell?" Alem asked.
The group looked at one another but none could venture an answer.
"Can they fashion more of these before our coming?" Muzta asked, holding up the rifle.
"It must require some great magic or machines," Alem said, stepping forward and taking the rifle to examine it. "The powder that was poured into the barrel I have never seen before, and I believe it must come from the world the cattle live upon. Cattle have never made such things here on Valdennia."
"Perhaps until now," Qubata said dryly.
Tula and several of the other clan chieftains started to laugh.
"Cattle are cattle," Magtu Vu'Qarth roared. "Fit for the pit, not for warriors. Or is it that since Qubata's teeth grow dull he will now hide in his yurt when cattle bellow?"
Qubata turned toward Magtu, his hand leaping to the hilt of his blade.
Smiling, Magtu started to draw his sword.
"Come on, old one," Magtu snarled.
"If blood flows from either of you," Muzta roared, "both will die by my hand."
Magtu looked toward the Qar Qarth. For the briefest of moments there was a flicker of defiance in his eyes, and then, sheathing his blade, he smiled back at Qubata with a look of disdain, as if saying that the old man had been spared by the protection of another.
Trembling with anger, Qubata turned and stalked away.
"There is nothing to be done about this now," Muzta said evenly, pointing to the rifle in Alem's hands.
"We finish the winter feasting here. The Wheel is already rising high again in the sky. But before the snow is melted we move. At that time I will send Qubata forward with the command of a thousand to drive ahead of the horde."
"He could clear out the wandering cattle as well," Alem said.
The others grunted their agreement at that. Every several years they'd send an expedition forward to destroy those cattle who would not submit but rather ran away ahead of the horde. They were a bad example and on a regular basis needed to be cleaned up.
"I haven't hunted running cattle in some time," Magtu laughed. "I will go along for the sport."
Muzta could not refuse a clan chieftain the request, but he could see that there would be problems from this.
"If all is decided, let us return to the city for the new moon feast."
There were loud grunts of agreement, and smiles lit up the features of the group at the mention of the forthcoming festivities and delicacies that awaited, and the group started back to their mounts.
Muzta turned away from the group and strolled over to where Qubata stood alone.
"You should not have interfered," Qubata said, his voice trembling with rage.
"He would have killed you, my friend," Muzta replied.
"Then if I can be killed I should be, for to live otherwise is without honor."
"My friend," Muzta said putting his hand on Qubatat's shoulder, "you must face the fact that your sword arm has weakened with age. It comes to us all."
Qubata looked at his old friend, a pained expression in his eyes.
"There was a time when such as Magtu would never have dreamed to speak to me such. Once I could have cleaved his body in half with a single blow. Now I am nothing to myself or to you, my Qarth."
Muzta laughed, as if his friend had told a foolish joke.
"When I was young I rode behind you at the great battle of Onci and saw your personal strength lay low a dozen Merki. It was not my father, it was you who planned the defeat of the Merki to the south. It was you and your brilliance that saved the Tugar horde from oblivion.
"I can find ten thousand brawling fools like Magtu to swing a sword or draw a bow. But I can only find one mind such as yourself."
"Onci was more than a circling ago," Qubata said.
"The Merki might come again," Muzta replied, "for this pox drives them as well. Hunger might send them north into our grazing grounds. I would turn upon them myself if I thought we had the numbers to defeat them and hold their grounds for our own clans."
"And beyond the Merki are the southern hordes," Qubata said. "We have divided the world after Onci. It would be foolish to start a war yet again, for surely the southern clans would respond."
"But if war does come I need your brilliance. Your sword arm is meaningless to me—it is your mind that I cherish, my old friend."
Muzta placed both hands on the shoulders of the graying warrior and shook him affectionately.
"Let's go back for the feast," Muzta said, both of them now slightly embarrassed by the outward display of love that each held for the other.
"It is not the Merki I worry about now," Qubata said as the two walked over to where their mounts waited.
"The Yankee cattle have you that worried?"
"With their thunder makers they can kill the same as a Merki arrow. Tula's nephew was a fool for sacrificing a warrior just to see how far their weapons can shoot. It might give all the Rus the wrong idea."
"But to stand against all our horde? They would be madmen," Muzta replied.
"We have chosen to forget, my Qarth, that cattle have feelings, perhaps as strong as ours. Our forefathers planned well with the injunction that only two of ten be harvested, since all would cling to the hope that they would not be selected. That we spare breeding stock, and cull out the weak, the deformed, and older ones, taking only the prime cuts for the moon feasts, was a great wisdom.
"But this pox makes them desperate, and these Yankees might upset the time-honored arrangement that has kept order with the Rus, and for that matter with cattle all around the world. One or the other factor could create a great danger.
"The only wise thing Vulti did was to order the rulers of Rus to destroy the Yankees now. Let us hope that has been done, for they sound defiant and could be desperate, and such things make cattle dangerous."
Muzta thought back to what had happened in the city the night before. Perhaps Qubata was being overly cautious. But there was little that could be done, he thought, before they arrived in Rus. If there was a worry now it was still this strange pox. He could only hope that it would not destroy next winter's feeding.
"My Qarth, we must consider as well the prospect that all the cattle around the entire world might become infected, or that this Yankee way of thinking may spread ahead of us," Qubata said quietly.
Muzta looked over at his friend. So often his thoughts would be voiced by Qubata only a moment later, as if at times their minds had been strangely linked.
"Then we die," Muzta said dejectedly.
"My lord, we must learn to think," Qubata replied sharply. "Before the coming of the cattle we lived by gathering our own food and by hunting. Now we have become dependent on the cattle as our one source of food, never dreaming that it would sicken, or rebel. But the cattle has brought us the horse, and if need be we should sweep up its hooved meat, drive it along with us, and breed it so that it can replace the meat of the cattle."
"But there is barely even enough food for the cattle. Only the nobles eat of such things, and we take the rest."
"Then it is time that we learn how to raise this meat," Qubata replied.
"You believe the situation is that bad?" Muzta asked softly.
"I believe it is bad enough," Qubata replied sharply, "that I think we should learn even to eat of our horses."
"Never!" Muzta roared. "There are hardly enough for our own mounts and for the wagons of the families. Would you reduce us again to wandering the world on foot? Better to die! The horse is above cattle, it is wrong to eat of it, even when it is old and can no longer serve us."
"My lord, I think we might be considering even more drastic action before this crisis is past."
Muzta fell silent, unable to respond.
Reaching their horses, the two mounted, taking the reins from their waiting attendants. They started back down the hill. Suddenly Muzta reined in his horse and looked back at the attendants.
"Send somebody back here to pick this cattle up," Muzta shouted, pointing to the human corpse lying in the snow. "We shouldn't waste perfectly good food."
"All right, Malady, give her the throttle," Ferguson shouted.
Andrew was tempted to stand back, but realized that i
t would be seen as a lack of faith in Ferguson's engineering ability.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd of Suzdalians, to whom Kal had granted an hour's break so that they could witness the ceremony.
The engine had already been tested the night before, to make sure that everything worked. The worst part had been when Ferguson had the engine raised up on blocks, the firebox stuffed to near overflowing, and then poured on a full head of steam.
Andrew had ordered him to step away—an accident could kill one of the most important men in all of Rus. The youthful engineer, confident of his work, had protested until his commander's stern gaze had forced him to withdraw.
The machine had passed the load test with flying colors, but it still made Andrew nervous when Malady pushed the throttle down.
Puffs of smoke bellowed out from the locomotive, hissing steam escaped, and then, ever so slowly, the drive wheels started to turn.
With a lurch the engine chugged forward, the two hopper cars and single flatbed behind it moving in unison. Andrew and the other dignitaries shifted to maintain balance on the flatcar. Stunned at the sight, the Suzdalians stood with open-mouthed amazement, while the scattering of Yankees, assigned to design and build the railroad, broke into wild cheers.
Malady hauled down on the steam whistle, which shrieked merrily as the engine started to build up speed, and in an instant the hundreds of laborers shouted wildly in triumph.
"You Yankees!" Kal roared, while pumping Andrew's hand.
"It's a start," Andrew said, feeling delighted at this major step.
Pulling out from the dock, the engine chugged past Fort Lincoln, gathering speed. As it reached the first turnoff, the Suzdalian switchman waved that the way was clear. The engine roared past the turnoff to Suzdal and started up the mill-stream hill.
"Fifteen miles an hour at least," Ferguson shouted joyfully, like a schoolboy with a new toy. "Now that we've got better steel for the boilers, and proper lathes and cutting tools to turn out better cylinders, I'll get twice the horsepower out of the next engine!"
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