Rally Cry (25 page)

Sobbing, she looked at her lover beseechingly.

Opening the door, Andrew wiped the sleep from his eyes.

"
Hawthorne, it's long past taps. There'd better be a damn good reason for this."

The boy stood before him trembling, his face ashen.

"Sir, it's monstrous."

"What?"

Wide-eyed, the boy looked at him.

"Come on in, sit down."

Andrew went over to his foot locker, pulled out a bottle of brandy, and, pouring a drink, handed it to the trembling soldier. To his shocked amazement the Quaker took the drink and downed it. The lad started to cough, and then as the liquor took effect the trembling eased.

"Sir, I found out about the Tugars."

"Tell me," he said evenly.

Pulling over a chair, he sat across from the private, who started to talk, his voice near to breaking.

There was a knock at the door, and die two looked up. Several drinks were now missing from the bottle, and Andrew wasn't sure if his stomach was churning from the liquor or with the horror of it all.

Before they could respond, the door flew open and Kal came in, dragging Tanya behind him, her eyes puffy from crying.

"Did she tell you?" Kal cried excitedly, looking at
Hawthorne.

The boy nodded in reply and,
standing,
came over to Tanya, who pulled free from her father and flung herself into his arms.

Tanya cradled herself in Vincent's protective embrace. Too much had happened now for her even to dare to tell him of the other news which she had so eagerly wished to speak of. But she could see that now was not the time.

Without asking for permission, Kal poured himself a drink, downed it, and stood before Andrew.

"Kal, this is monstrous, sickening," Andrew said coldly.
"Absolutely goddam sickening."

"You mustn't say anything," Kal begged.

"Say anything? Goddammit, man, do you expect me to stand by while twenty percent of my men are dragged out to be slaughtered like cattle? Damn you, I'll fight them to the last before allowing that."

"Colonel Keane, please don't."

"How could you people allow this? Isn't there a man among you to stand up to this? What is wrong with all of you?
Better to die weapon in hand than to be driven to the slaughter pits like sheep!"

"Then no one would be here," Kal said dryly. "You have not seen the horde, and I have. They are as numberless as the trees of the forest. They stand near twice our height. Any one of them could lift a man off the ground with a single hand and crush the life from his body. They are as unstoppable as the snow, or the river in spring torrent. Nothing can stay them. Thus it has always been—nobles rule, the church takes, and peasants toil and
are
chosen to die."

Even as Kal spoke, he kept his inner thoughts hidden, wishing to hear and to see what Andrew would say in response.

"If we do not submit, they slaughter all. Better that two shall die than all ten, for thus we still live. If a peasant dares to say no, the nobleman slays him out of hand, for thus it has always been."

"Such talk sickens me," Andrew snarled. "Better to die as free men than to live as cattle to these fiends."

"Then you will fight them?" Kal asked quietly.

"You're damn right I'll fight them."

Kal slowly started to smile.

"Just what the hell are you smiling about?" Andrew roared.

"I knew you would act like this."

"How else did you expect me to act?"

"Some thought you would give yourselves to Ivor, or even Rasnar, trading your weapons for protection by the nobles, or indulgences by the church."

"Like hell I would. You mean Ivor allows this?"

"His father helped in the choosing the last time, and thus my father went to the pits. It is the nobles' privilege to help select and to spare, and the memory of the wolf is long when it comes to the mice that have annoyed him."

"Why haven't your people fought?" Andrew asked.

"With what, our bare hands?"

Disgusted, Andrew turned away.

"Ivor is coming here tomorrow," Andrew said sharply. "I plan to ask him just what the hell he intends to do when these savages show up again."

"Don't," Kal begged. "It will be death for my daughter and me. Even if you deny we told you, still he'll suspect and kill us out of hand."

"I'll protect you," Andrew said.

"I belong to Ivor. He'd never permit you to harbor a peasant that he can rightfully claim."

"How long till they come?" Andrew asked.

"They are still three snow seasons away from us. Do not jump into the fire before it has even started to burn, my friend."

Andrew sat down and poured another drink for himself, not bothering to offer one to Kal, or the now slightly inebriated Hawthorne.

"I'll wait," Andrew said coldly. "But by God you'd better know right now that when the time comes, this regiment will fight to the last man. If Ivor wants my help, he'll have it. Otherwise we'll stand against them alone."

"Come, Tanya," Kal said, looking back to his daughter.

Hawthorne
pulled her to his side protectively.

"I won't hurt her," Kal said gently, extending his hand, and led his daughter out into the night.

"Please, Father, I'm sorry," she gasped between racking sobs.

He didn't know whether to punish or to thank her, but at least the impasse had been crossed.

"Just keep your foolish mouth closed," and giving her a chastising swat across the backside, he led the girl home, and by the time he had reached the cabin the peasant felt somehow different. Could there truly be another way after all? Might his dream not be quite
so
mad as others said?

Somehow he just couldn't get himself to concentrate on his work. The enormity of what Andrew had confided in him the night before could not be washed away or simply turned off.

"Sir, it'll be a hell of an engineering project. We'll need to build an earthen dam thirty feet high for two hundred yards." As he spoke, Ferguson pointed to the narrow pass above the city, through which the Vina River passed, before wending its way past Suzdal and on into the Neiper.

"What was that?" Emil asked, looking back over to the private who along with Kal stood beside him.

"There, sir. Partway up the rapids, that's where we should build it. It'll cause the whole valley farther up to flood, and there'll be enough of a dropoff here to position a dozen heavy mills and still have enough water left over to send down to the city through a covered aqueduct."

Emil tried to focus his attention back to the task at hand.

Ivor, who sat next to him, was obviously confused by
Ferguson, who kept peering through a roughly made surveyor's transit, and then turned back to scribble on his note and sketch pads.

Emil looked over at Ivor, wondering how the man could allow his people to live in such squalid conditions. The constant threat of pestilence in the city had driven him to near distraction since their arrival, for if it broke out there, it would sweep over the regiment in no time. He felt the answer was simple.

The Suzdalians drew their water from the Neiper and from the Vina, which flowed past the north wall of the lower town. The problem was that the damn fools allowed their raw sewage to go straight back in. Since the city rose above the two rivers on a series of low-lying hills, bringing the water up to their dwellings was even harder. Most of them relied on hand-dug wells, and to his horror their sinks and cesspools were more often than not positioned sometimes only a dozen feet away.

His prediction had come true regarding the sickness in the regiment. Nearly thirty boys had come down with typhoid and other complaints, and two of them rested up on cemetery hill as a result. All of them had sickened after visits to the town.

So there was only one answer: build a dam farther up the Vina and trap its fresh waters in the gorge where
Hawthorne had been found after his escape. The dam would be higher than the tallest hill in Suzdal, and thus the water could be directed anywhere needed. Of course, the moment Emil had raised the idea
Ferguson had leaped into the project, seeing in it a tremendous potential for waterpower as well.

Emil turned about and looked back down the valley toward the city of
Suzdal four miles away. How could those people ever allow such a barbarity to be permitted? Silently he cursed.
Medieval barbarians, all of them.
Dammit, Andrew should load up the
Ogunquit
and get all of them the hell out of here and leave them to their stink, disease, petty squabbles, and the Tugars.

"A beautiful site, sirs,"
Ferguson said, looking up at the two men. "It'll take a lot of labor. A dam thirty feet high, by sixty at the base tapering up, and two hundred yards long comes to over five hundred thousand cubic yards of fill."

"Now, just how the hell much is that?" Emil asked.

"Well, if we had five thousand men working on it, I figure it'll be something like nearly a half year to finish it up. But there'd be one awful lot of power pent up behind it.
Tens of thousands of horsepower."

And water enough to clean that cesspool out good and proper, Emil thought.

"Many men, way too many men," Ivor growled.

"Perhaps an arrangement could be made," Emil replied, looking over to Kal for a translation. "We'll want the site for new mills, of course, and I'm sure Colonel Keane would be willing to pay with iron or some other such goods to rent your people for the work."

Ivor looked craftily at Emil, ready to start with some hard bargaining. Then in the distance there came the tolling of a bell.

Ivor turned in his saddle and looked. Another bell started in, and then another. Uneasy, Ivor and the guards that accompanied him looked about. Suddenly one of the guards pointed off toward the river road that was visible north of the city.

Antlike creatures appeared to be riding hard. Ivor strained his eyes to see. Reaching around to his saddlebags, Emil pulled out field glasses, raised them to his eyes, and brought the procession into focus.

"In the name of God," Emil whispered.

Nervous, Ivor looked over at the doctor.

"Tugars," Emil said softly.

The boyar blanched as if the word could somehow strike him. For the moment he completely forgot to ask how Emil knew the word.

With a shout, the fat boyar spurred his horse forward, his guards clattering behind them.

"So what got them into an all-fired rush?"
Ferguson asked.

Emil looked over at Kal.

"We'd better get down there," Kal whispered

"
Ferguson, get your gear together. Let's go."

And moments later the three were charging down the hill and toward the city, where all the bells were tolling and
cries
of panic rent the air.

The gates of the city were flung open, and as one the terrified residents lining the street fell prostrate to the ground, none daring to look.

Deep-throated nargas, the thunder trumpets of the Tugars, blasted with a chilling bass peal that sounded like the cries of the damned. A dozen trumpeters rode in, astride their great mounts. Behind them came the rollers of doom, their great kettledrums lashed to either side of their mounts, the warriors of the golden clan swinging their mallets back and forth, setting up a trembling roar like thunder. Six of them entered, and behind them the twenty riders of the guard appeared, their great six-foot war bows drawn, arrows nocked.

And then at last
came
he who was simply known as the Namer of Time, he who came to let all cattle know that soon they would be honored by the presence of the Tugar horde. For with his arrival the people of Rus must now prepare
,
to prepare two years early for the choosing, to bring in their harvests, to fill the grain houses, to fatten the beasts they themselves ate and to have all ready—silver, goods, supplies, iron, and finally themselves.

The Namer of Time sat crosslegged on his great platform, which was mounted atop the backs of four horses. Grinning skulls rimmed the platform, bleached rib cages hung from the sides. The pennant snapping above him was the color of blood.

Onward the procession came, behind the Namer came yet twenty more archers, and then finally the pets—Suzdalians who had disappeared with the horde nearly a generation before and now returned home at last. Their eyes were clouded with tears, tears at the horrors they had grown inured to, horror that they were now outcast in their own land, which they had stopped dreaming of long ago.

Eyes wide with terror, Emil stood speechless in the square. What approached was beyond his most fevered dreams. They seemed like some devil-dreamed parody of a man. Eight feet in height some of them seemed; the one atop the platform he judged to be closer to ten. Their faces were sharp, cunning, near devil-like, covered entirely with a matting of hair, as were their bodies. All about him threw themselves face first upon the ground as the procession crossed the great square.