Rally Cry

by William R. Forstchen

  "Lead the way, envoy," Andrew said haughtily, and touching spurs to his mount, he followed as the Tugar started back toward his own lines.

  The stench of death hung heavy in the air as they passed the area of pitfalls and entanglements where bodies still lay from the first day of the siege. Clearing the region at last, the two galloped another hundred yards and crossed into the Tugar lines.

  Their position was a strong one, and in many ways an imitation of his own fortifications, Andrew saw at once. Earthen ramparts had been piled up, with positions for the rock- and spear-throwing catapults covered by heavy logs, to absorb artillery fire.

  Weaving through a sally port, Andrew felt a moment of cold fear.

  The path ahead was lined on either side by hundreds of Tugars in full fighting armor. Though he was mounted on his horse, most of the warriors, who stood stiffly to either side, still towered above him.

  Their sharp angular helmets covered all but their eyes, which gazed out at him with hatred and contempt. War bows were strung, and double quivers filled with four-foot bolts hung from their shoulders. From shoulders to knees hung a heavy curtain of chain mail, and at their belts dangled great axes or swords.

  He had not seen such as these at the battles on the river road—they must be the heavy shock troops for a task like the one he had presented. The helmets he had seen before, watching them through field glasses while the steady sniping went on day after day, killing many without much result other than misery for both sides.

  As he reached the end of the line, Andrew was stunned to see a separate contingent of Tugars bearing muskets. Booty from the last battle, he realized. They probably had only a handful of rounds per gun, but it was unnerving nevertheless.

  Onward they rode, and Andrew felt that most likely the main purpose of this parley was to do nothing more than awe him with the Tugar strength. Unit after unit lined the road—foot archers, horse archers, heavy lancers, and then a row of double-torsion catapults with stacks of ten-foot spears piled up like cordwood.

  Then finally there was something he could not ignore.

  Turning a bend in the road, he saw a long line of human warriors, standing grim-faced. Approaching the unit, Andrew reined in his horse to face Mikhail, who looked at Andrew with open hatred.

  The man's face was deeply pit-marked. So he had caught smallpox, Andrew realized. The tales that had filtered out of Vazima before the battle had started horrified him. Nearly a third of the population had died, another third sickened and horribly disfigured. Of course, the prelate, Igor, had blamed it on the church of Suzdal.

  Emil had repeatedly sent envoys, begging to let him stem the pestilence, but Igor had refused, a refusal that had finally resulted in his being shoveled into a mass burial pit.

  At Andrew's approach, Mikhail leaned over and spat on the ground. Several Tugars who had been riding escort behind Andrew came up and positioned themselves between the two.

  "Let's finish it here and now," Mikhail growled. "Sword against sword."

  Andrew looked at the pox-scarred man without comment.

  "It was you who brought this down upon us!"

  "You could have fought with us against the common foe," Andrew said evenly.

  "And die as all of you fools will die."

  "If need be, die like men," Andrew snapped. "I'd rather that than crawl as a slave for the Tugars."

  Mikhail's hand leaped to his sword hilt. The Tugar closest to the boyar barked a warning as his own blade snapped from its scabbard.

  Mikhail sat motionless for a long moment and then gradually let his hand fall. Andrew almost felt a sense of pity for the man, now shamed as he was before his warriors. Spurring his mount, he continued down the road.

  Out of range of the city's field pieces, the great tent city of the Tugar warriors was spread out before him. Each tent was like an overturned bowl twenty feet across and half as high.

  The week before, the first of the tents mounted on wheels had appeared down the river road. The strange procession had continued day after day, to encamp in the fields above the dam, the city of women and children stretching to the far horizon. Along with them had come yet more warriors numbering in the tens of thousands to move in around the siege lines.

  Moving farther up the hill, Andrew rode past several felt tents which were nearly a hundred feet across, but even these were dwarfed by the great center structure. He had gazed upon it many times through his binoculars, but drawing close to it Andrew was stunned by the magnificence of the shelter. Rather than the simple felt of the warriors' shelters, this one appeared to be covered with gold cloth that gave it the appearance of a great dome that shined dull red in the sunlight.

  The entrance was hung with great curtains of silver-threaded velvet, the awnings held up by ornately carved poles embedded with rare and precious gems.

  The envoy reined in and dismounted, beckoning for Andrew to do likewise. As he climbed off Mercury, he caught a faint sniff of something on the wind, and looking to the side of the great tent, he saw a thin curl of smoke rising from a pit. It appeared as if the ground about the pit had been freshly raked over and cleaned, but that could not hide what it was.

  The envoy followed his gaze and then looked back at Andrew, his mouth curled in the slightest of grins.

  With cold hatred in his eyes, Andrew stared at the envoy with contempt.

  "We cleaned away last night's feast before your arrival," the envoy said, smiling. "We didn't want to frighten you away."

  "And when this war is done with," Andrew said slowly, "I'll personally see to the task of shoveling your body into the ground."

  The envoy said nothing, but for the briefest of moments his control seemed ready to slip. Then, turning away, he beckoned for Andrew to enter the great tent.

  Alone, he walked into the shelter, its soft darkness a relief after the glare of the sun. Pausing to let his eyes adjust, Andrew looked about, trying not to let his inner fear show. If they wished to kill me, he reasoned, they would have done so by now; or could they be saving me for something far worse? His heart suddenly started to race at the thought.

  "You who are named Keane, come forward to my presence."

  His eyes adjusting, he could see several shadowy forms sitting before a softly glowing brazier in the center of the tent. Taking a deep breath, Andrew strode forward. There were only three in the vast cavernous shelter, the entire effect of the large empty space making him feel even smaller and more vulnerable.

  I would try to create the same effect, he reasoned inwardly. This is all part of the game within the game, to deceive, to intimidate, and to learn. The realization calmed his fears, and when he came to a stop a dozen feet away from the three Tugars, his heart was calm again.

  The one standing to the right he felt he had seen before, and then the realization came that he was the Namer of Time. The one to the left appeared old, his long shaggy hair nearly all gray with broad streaks of white.

  Andrew immediately recognized him as the Tugar warrior he had seen before the pass, and riding almost every day on inspection around the siege lines.

  Andrew nodded slightly in recognition, and to his surprise the Tugar returned the nod.

  The old one's eyes looked at him with open curiosity, which were a contrast to the sense of caution he felt from the powerful, towering Tugar who sat between the two.

  "He is the one," the Namer said to Muzta, who sat quiet, without any outward show of emotion.

  "It is traditional," the Namer said in Russian, looking back at Andrew, "for cattle to abase themselves before Muzta Qar Qarth, and before all of the Tugar race when summoned to appear."

  "I remember you," Andrew said quietly, "and you will recall I did not abase myself then, nor shall I now, nor will I be addressed with the word 'cattle.' "

  The Namer started to speak, but Qubata extended his hand for silence and spoke quickly to Muzta.

  "I know some of your tongue," Qubata said evenly, motioning for the Namer to withdraw. Withou
t comment, the Namer strode from the tent.

  "As a child I had a Rus pet, and I have decided to learn it again," Qubata said, sitting down beside Muzta. "You call yourself Keane and are a Yankee?"

  Andrew nodded in reply.

  "You are the one who created the army of Rus?"

  "I and the other Yankees who came here with me merely guided them. The rest they did themselves."

  "I am impressed by what you have created, Keane."

  Somewhat surprised, Andrew nodded a thanks.

  "Ask him why he and those with him did not bow down to my rule," Muzta asked, and Qubata delivered the question.

  "Because we will not submit to your slaughter pits," Andrew said evenly.

  "Our rule has been fair and just," Muzta said. "We take but two in ten, even though it is in our power to slaughter all."

  "It is not justice," Andrew replied, "it is keeping men as herds, to be culled and harvested at your wish. That to us is worse than slavery."

  "Yet the vast majority still live," Qubata replied. "Yet the vast majority could still live, if you submit."

  "Is the purpose of this meeting, then, to offer terms?" Andrew asked.

  "That is the wish of my Qar Qarth," Qubata replied. "Submit now, and we will take but the traditional two in ten. Your machines must be turned over and you will be forbidden to make more. Do that and you will be boyar, and granted the right of giving exemption to any you choose, within reason."

  "No."

  Muzta bristled at the simple, curt response, not needing a translation to explain, but Andrew could sense that his answer had been expected.

  "You know you will all die if you resist. Some may die, or all will die. I see no sense in that."

  "I am surprised at this offer," Andrew said evenly. "Would you submit to us, if it were we who owned the slaughter pits? You are a proud race, and I think you would fight to the death as well."

  Qubata translated to Muzta, who looked at Qubata as if he had not heard correctly.

  "But these are cattle," Muzta said. "Such a thing is unheard-of."

  "The cattle we know have always been trained, already subjugated by our forefathers. These Yankees are different. We see how they fight and have trained the Rus. When we thought we had them trapped, I was stunned at how many sacrificed their lives so their companions could escape. That is something a Tugar would do to save his clan, and now we see it in them as well."

  "I am almost glad he did not take our offer," Muzta said evenly, still looking at Andrew. "They are too dangerous. We must annihilate them all."

  "That is what we have been trying to do," Qubata said dryly.

  "See if you can find out the other things I wish to know."

  Qubata looked back at Andrew, who had stood patiently during their hushed conversation.

  "When did you come through the tunnel of light?"

  The new subject caught Andrew off guard.

  "When I met your Namer he spoke of that as well," Andrew said. "Then you know of the tunnel?"

  "It is how all men arrive here," Qubata replied.

  "Have any men ever gone back?" Andrew asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

  So this one would like to leave, Qubata realized. The answer to the question he did not know, and feeling some desire to be honest, he shook his head.

  "Would you like to go back?"

  "Some would," Andrew replied. "Some might wish to stay."

  It could be an answer to these troublesome creatures, Qubata thought, and then he turned his direction back to Andrew.

  "My Namer reported that it was early in the summer of the previous year that you arrived."

  "That is correct."

  "Then you did all of this, built your machines, made your army, and overthrew the rightful rulers all in that time?"

  "Yes to the first two," Andrew replied, "but it was the people of Suzdal themselves who rebelled and asked us to lead them."

  Qubata looked back at Muzta and translated.

  "The boyar Mikhail is lying then, as I suspected," Muzta replied. "This is another first—cattle rebelling against the lords we appoint over them."

  "The presence of these Yankees tipped the scales. It is as the few prisoners we took have said."

  "What is the tunnel?" Andrew asked, when the two had paused for a moment and were looking back in his direction.

  "You do not know?"

  Andrew felt there was no sense in playing a game of lies and simply shook his head.

  "Perhaps someday we will tell you, for a price," Qubata said evenly, gaining satisfaction from seeing the frustration in the man's eyes.

  "Is there any further purpose, then, to this interview?" Andrew retorted. "I have told you we will not submit. I will offer you these terms, though. If you withdraw from our city we will not hinder nor attack you. That is the only agreement I will offer. I suspect that rather than we, it is you who are growing short of food. You could find more elsewhere, but your pride or perhaps your desperation prevents you from leaving us unpunished. Do not let your pride destroy you."

  The audacity of this one, Qubata thought, feeling a sense of admiration for the man.

  "You know that we shall defeat you," Qubata replied softly, without any threat in his voice.

  "And when you are done, where will be your victory?" Andrew replied. "We will leave no bodies for you to feast upon, for as we die we will burn or bury our corpses. You will have nothing in the end.

  "I know this," Andrew continued, venturing a stab. "You have come here two years early, something unheard-of before. This was not at first because of us, though your arrival with just your warriors was obviously a response. You were driven here by something else. I have heard of your rivals the Merki."

  "How do you know that?" Qubata asked in surprise.

  "Our great ship sailed to southern waters and there met people who do not expect their enemies for yet two more years. But I do not think it is the Merki that brought you here early."

  "Then please tell me," Qubata replied coldly, not wishing to show interest but unable to contain himself.

  "Starvation," Andrew replied. "You have allowed yourselves to become dependent on us alone for everything you need. When was it last that Tugars found or raised their own food? No, you have lived off our backs and our sweat. And then your cattle," and as he said the word his expression flared with anger, "started to die."

  Andrew paused for a moment to let Qubata translate.

  "A disease always seemed to be just ahead of you, and that is why you rushed onward, desperate to outrace it. As fast as you marched, still the disease spread before you. If you know of the Wandering People who flee before you, you should know as well that the disease travels with them. If you slow, the disease slows. Go quicker and the disease spreads faster. I think, Qubata, that you and your people are at the end of your rope. It is you who are starting to starve, not we.

  "And I might add," Andrew said dryly, "we Yankees know the way to prevent the disease, for you should know by now that only those of Suzdal have been spared its ravages. We offered it to the rulers of Vazima, and they spurned us. A third of them died, and few are left healthy, enough for your pits or to bring in the vast amounts of food your people need."

  Stunned, Qubata turned away and spoke to Muzta.

  "Can it be true?" Muzta asked in surprise.

  "There is most likely no other explanation," Qubata replied. "It was all so simple—we should have seen it. We could try to hunt down the Wanderers, but you and I know there are always more of them."

  "Then we are truly doomed, even if we win here," Muzta said softly. "Send him away. We need to speak of this, and I wish him not to know of our concern."

  "I think he senses that already," Qubata replied.

  "Send him away."

  Qubata nodded and looked back at Andrew.

  "We shall speak again," Qubata said softly. "You are free to go, one named Keane."

  "And your name?" Andrew asked.

  "I am Qu
bata, sword master of the Tugar horde," he replied, not feeling any insult at such a question.

  "It was you whom I saw in the first battle, and have faced on the field."

  Qubata nodded.

  "A masterful move before the passes," Andrew said ungrudgingly.

  "I should have had you all, except for the courage and sacrifice of your men," Qubata replied, surprised that he was speaking so to a human, but unable to respond in any other way.

  "You are free to go," Qubata said, "though we might speak again."

  Andrew nodded and to his own surprise came to attention and saluted before turning to leave.

  "Keane."

  Andrew turned to look back.

  "You know you will lose in the end."

  Andrew did not reply.

  "If need be we'll sacrifice fifty thousand to gain your walls, for there is no alternative for us but victory," Qubata said softly.

  "As is the same for us," Andrew replied grimly.

  * * *

  "They are a pestilence and must be destroyed,' roared, and his cry was picked up through the gathering of clan leaders.

  "If we let them live," Zan said, coming to his feet, "then what they are will be ten times worse than the pox that ravages our cattle. Surely you are mad to think of terms with the likes of them."

  Muzta sat quiet, while all about him was chaos.

  "We can take their city now!" Tula shouted.

  Qubata came to his feet.

  "Yes we can take their city," Qubata said softly, "and there are two ways. We can wait to starve them out, and that can take months and we shall starve, or we can assault them, and thousands, tens of thousands, of ours will die."

  "We are dying anyhow," Tula roared.

  "Or we can come to terms," Qubata said quietly.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, and then bellows of rage. Muzta, who sat to one side, looked straight ahead, and as Qubata looked in the direction of his Qarth, Muzta's eyes lowered. The old general stared at his friend and then looked away and stepped to the middle of the tent.

  "As sword holder of the horde, I demand to be heard, in the circle of speech," Qubata said evenly.

  But still the shouting continued, until at last Muzta came to his feet and the gathering fell silent.