Rally Cry (55 page)

The charging line paused and was still, as before them the fires that had raged but seconds ago disappeared, like the flame from a lamp suddenly sniffed out.

A thunder echoed through the air, a wave of dank hot air blowing up from the side streets whisking about the men, smelling of charred wood, wreckage, and death.

"Merciful heaven, what is it?" Andrew whispered, standing in stunned disbelief.

"The boy did it!" O'Donald shrieked
,
leaping in front of the now stilled line.

Whooping with ecstasy, O'Donald raced up to Andrew's side.

"He blew the dam!
Hawthorne blew the dam! I plumb forgot to tell you he was going to try!"

Wide-eyed Andrew looked across the square now silhouetted by clouds of steam racing straight up, the ground still shaking beneath his feet as the pent-up fury of the river continued to roar through the lower city, destroying all in its path.

Turning, he looked back at his men, who stood struck dumb.

"Now, men now, let's finish it!
Charge!"

Cheering wildly, the line surged forward again, their cry echoing down across the square all the way to the eastern gate. Behind them the terrified populace stood up, pointing and shouting. First one, then another, and in an instant by the thousands they surged forward, waving clubs, spears, their bare hands, crying that Perm had answered their prayers and a miracle had been delivered to them.

Racing at the fore, the
Maine
and national colors at his side, Andrew bore down on the Tugar line.

A bow was dropped, then by the hundreds the weapons clattered to the pavement, and they fled, piling back down the streets, pushing to go north,
east
, anywhere to escape the avenging fury.

Tugars who but moments before had believed victory and pillage were at hand staggered in stunned disbelief as the one-armed Yankee waded into their ranks, his men shouting hoarsely, slashing with their bayonets,
driving
the now terror-stricken mob into the darkness.

But there was no place to flee.

Rushing down darkened streets, the Tugars plunged into the roaring current, and with wild cries were swept away into the night.

Pushing forward, Andrew cut and thrust, totally lost in the pure shock of battle madness. And then there was nothing before him but a swirling night of storm-tossed waters foaming past.

Horrible cries echoed from the torrent, and in the stygian shadows he saw desperate forms drifting past, clinging to logs, broken boards, each other, howling like the damned that they were.

To the side of the road Andrew saw a knot of Tugars, wide-eyed, looking in equal terror at Andrew and at the dark death sweeping by.

All around him the sounds of battle were drifting away, church bells were ringing out, and wild cries of joy were soaring up from the city.

He looked back to the terrified enemy.

"There's been enough for one night," Andrew said. "Take them prisoner."

The knot of men still with him surrounded the Tugars and led them away.

Panting with exhaustion, Webster stood at his side, the
Maine
flag fluttering in the damp breeze. Through the press, Hans and O'Donald came up to his side. From out of the darkness the cries of thousands continued to rise.

Turning, he looked at Hans, who stood impassive, still chewing. Surprised, Andrew realized that somewhere back on the square he had swallowed his tobacco, but somehow his body had not rebelled.

Together they stood watching as the Tugar army disappeared in the night.

"I hope, gentlemen," he said softly, "that I've fought my last battle."

"They're leaving, sir."

Rousing from his cot, Andrew looked numbly about the room.

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked.

"The doctor told me to let you sleep the night," the young orderly said. "It's almost dawn."

Rubbing his neck, he sat up, letting the young man put his boots on for him.

Emil appeared in the doorway.

"It's true—their tent wagons are pulling off to the south and east. We started to hear them move in the middle of the night."

Blinking, Andrew looked about.

What happened yesterday?
he
wondered, and gradually the memories filtered back.

There had been nothing but the waiting for the next assault. The Tugars to the south of the city had disappeared back up into the hills. He had stood and watched throughout the day. It always seemed to rain after a battle, he thought. At dawn the heavens had opened up with a cold chilling downpour, adding to the dark gloom.

As the sky had grown lighter, the dark floodwaters had gradually started to recede, revealing a horror beyond imagining.

Thousands upon thousands of Tugar bodies lay tangled in the charred wreckage, torn and contorted, pinned high in branchless trees, scattered in among blackened logs, by the hundreds dotting the river, floating downstream on the swollen Neiper.

Right up to the ugly gash of the blown dam the entire valley had been torn apart, the encampments of the enemy host, the great tent of the leader, all of it simply gone, as
rf
swept away by the hand of an angry child who had become enraged with his toys.

Destitute bands of Tugars staggered about. In spite of his rage at all that had been done, he could not help but be moved by the thousands of Tugar women and children who wandered across the muddied field, turning over bodies, looking and looking, their high keening wail reaching up even to the city walls.

All day he had waited, marshaling his lines, but in his heart he knew it was over. At some point he must have collapsed, for he had no memory of leaving his post or of coming to rest in this room.

The orderly done with his task, Andrew came to his feet.

"How's Kal?" Andrew asked.

"Doing smartly, no sign of infection.
I taught that girl well," and even as he spoke the words he regretted them.

Andrew looked at the doctor vacantly, unable to reply.

"Form up a guard and let's go out and have a look," Andrew said quietly.

Rousing from his bunk, he stepped out into the hallway where Casmar stood as if waiting.

"I know you have a heavy burden," the priest said softly. "Not just for her, but for everything. Do not blame yourself, Andrew Keane. Remember that in the end you have saved our people."

Andrew knew the sincerity with which the priest spoke, but how could he explain what he felt now? There could never be a healing for him, not now. In his heart he realized fully what it had been that held Kathleen back from him for so long, and what had warned him as well.

Nodding his thanks, he stepped down the hall and into Kal's room.

The peasant was sitting up in his cot, eating a broth that Tanya was feeding to him.

"They're pulling out," Andrew said, and Kal's features lit up in a grin.

"So they've had enough of the mice after all."

Andrew, trying to force a smile, nodded in reply.

"We share your sorrow, my friend," Kal said quietly. "My life came back to me through her hands."

"
Hawthorne?" he asked silently, mouthing the name.

Kal shook his head.

Emil came into the room and looked at his patient.

"Would you care to go out and have a look? I think the air might do you good," he asked.

Excitedly, Kal tried to swing his legs out of bed.

"No you don't. I've got a litter waiting outside the room."

Four men from the 35th came in, gently lifted Kal off the bed, and put him on the fur-covered stretcher.

"Let's go see," Andrew said. Tanya, her eyes red-rimmed, stood up and went out to join her father.

With Casmar falling in beside them the group walked down the great nave of the cathedral, still packed with wounded, and stepped through the great doors into the sunlight.

A thundering ovation went up. The square was packed from end to end with people.

Andrew looked over at Casmar, who simply shrugged his shoulders.

"A little celebration I planned to honor you," the prelate said, breaking into a grin.

Embarrassed by the wild demonstration, Andrew walked down the steps of the church. To his delight, someone had found Mercury, who snorted and pranced as Andrew approached. Affectionately, he patted the horse's side,
then
swung up into the saddle.

As the stretcher bearing Kal came down the steps, he struggled to sit up, and holding up his left hand, he waved to the crowd, which roared with approval, calling his name.

The men of the 35th and 44th were drawn up in column of fours. Andrew quickly scanned the line. How thin it now was. Over half of them
gone,
the remaining veterans looking battle-worn but proud.

Andrew drew up alongside the regiment, his pride in them near overflowing. Turning to the two flags, he snapped a salute, and then, looking back to the regiment, he saluted them as well, and their cheers joined in with the crowd.

Coming to the front of the column, he saw Hans mounted off to one side, his corps flag and the four division standards of the Suzdalian army snapping behind him.

"Well, Hans, do you wish to ride in this one as a general or as a sergeant major?"

"I think, son, I'll take the sergeant major position for today."

He brought his mount over to Andrew's side, and they waited until Emil came up on horseback to join them, with Kal's litter and Casmar on foot leading the way.

The column started off toward the eastern gate. The road to either side was lined with thinned regiments of the Suzdalian and Novrodian troops.

"God, how many we lost," Andrew said quietly, scanning their ranks.

As he passed each regiment he saluted their colors, and the men stood rigid and proud.

Coming past the 5th Suzdal, he saw Dimitri standing beneath a flame-scorched regimental standard, a knot of less than a hundred men gathered about the flag. The flag snapped in the breeze, and emblazoned in English across its side he saw two words:

"
Hawthorne's Guards."

Andrew reined in and saluted the flag, the Suzdalian major looking up at him proudly, with tears in his eyes.

"We've molded an army here," Andrew said evenly, continuing down the road.

"As good as the Army of the
Potomac," Hans replied sharply.

On down to the gate they rode, passing O'Donald's batteries. The major was waiting for them and swung his mount out to join the line.

Behind them the men of the 35th started to sing, the regiments of Rus picking up the words and singing in their language.

"Yes, we'll rally round the flag, boys . . ."

The detachment rode out through the eastern gate.

Before him the harsh reality of war came rushing back. Wreckage was everywhere. Thousands of bodies still carpeted the field. Looking north, he saw where the flood had reached its maximum height, a wall of flotsam piled ten feet high in some places, the shattered remnants of the
Bangor
slammed up vertical against the wall.

O'Donald had told him about that. If he could give Congressional medals he knew where he would pin one of the first.

"The only thing as terrible as a battle lost," Andrew said softly, "is a battle won."

Across the far hills he could see the tent wagons moving away, as if the ground were covered with thousands of humpbacked creatures moving toward the edge of the world.

"You released the prisoners?" Andrew asked, looking over at Hans.

"A lot of people wanted to kill 'em. It was a little touchy last night, but we got them out of the city."

Then at least there was still some civility left. The war was over as far as he was concerned; there was no sense in holding three thousand Tugars that would have to be fed from the tight supplies still left. Some had argued for keeping them as slave labor, but the force of his argument, and
,,
to his pride, the shouted outcries from his regiment, had ended that argument in a hurry.

Pushing forward, the group reached the edge of the battlements, and making their way over the sally-port bridge, they stopped at last. For long minutes they lingered, looking toward the vanishing host, while on the city walls thousands stood cheering.

From out of a stretch of woods above the Tugar line a lone warrior appeared.

Taking up his field glasses, Andrew brought him into focus.

"Muzta," he said quietly.

Without comment, he spurred his mount forward into a canter.

Hans, Emil, and O'Donald galloped up to join him.

"Could be a final shot to get you," Hans said cautiously.

"I think not," Andrew replied.

Reaching the Tugar siege lines, he weaved his way through a sally port as alone Muzta cantered down to meet him, a man trotting by his side.

"Wait for me," Andrew said, and despite their protest he moved ahead to where Muzta had reined in his mount.

The Tugar looked down at him appraisingly and then nodded to the lone man he had brought along.

"My lord Muzta Qar Qarth wishes to speak to you," the man said in Suzdalian.

"And who are you?" Andrew asked quietly.

"I was taken from here a circling ago. I have been the pet of Muzta as a fashioner of gold."

Andrew looked up at Muzta and waited. Slowly the Tugar began to speak.

"My lord wishes to thank you for the release of the prisoners, though you most likely did not realize that among them was his only surviving son."

Andrew looked questioningly at the interpreter.

"The other two died fighting against you," the interpreter added.

"We have both lost ones that we loved," Andrew replied evenly.

"He wishes to inform you that the Tugar horde leaves to go east and south.
Though his people and yours are still enemies."

"There was no need for this war," Andrew replied.

"For my people it was as unstoppable as the wind and the rain," Muzta replied. "Perhaps now we shall starve, but that is my concern and no longer yours."

Andrew merely nodded in reply.

Muzta lowered his head and spoke softly.

"Some of my people now claim that all humans must die. Perhaps for the sake of my race they are right. Perhaps we may still rule you, perhaps not, and maybe it will be different, as a friend of mine once wished. I need tribute from those whom we ride to. And yes, we might take of their flesh as well."

"I think that might no longer be true," Andrew replied. "The Wanderers undoubtedbly have spread the word before you. Your warriors are gone—you can no longer rule as you once did."

Muzta paused for a long moment and then nodded in reply.

"But perhaps we can barter something as we circle once again."

"And that is?"

"An end to the pox," Muzta replied. "You have a healer with you. If I left a number of my healers here for several days, would he teach them his magic? Then I would send them before the horde and offer this thing in exchange for food."

"Emil, come up here."

The doctor came up to Andrew's side, and Andrew quickly explained what had been asked.

Smiling, the old doctor nodded his agreement.

"Give me a couple of weeks and I'll teach them asepsis surgery, and how to make anesthesia as well. God knows with all their wounded they're going to need it.
If that's all right with you, Andrew?"

Andrew nodded in reply, watching as the doctor explained what he would do to help out, the translator speaking in turn to Muzta.

With a look of surprise, Muzta contemplated the two before him.

"What manner of men are you?" he whispered.

"Merely men who wish to be free and are willing to pay the price for it."

Muzta nodded gravely.

"I leave now. Perhaps we shall meet again when twenty seasons have passed. Perhaps I shall hold my rule, and maybe remember and use the words of an old friend who perished here. Perhaps I shall come armed, perhaps not. As I leave, I will give you two gifts, in memory of that friend, who I know would wish it such, and for the gift of my son you returned to me so freely, when it was your right to slay him out of hand.

"Goodbye, human called Keane."

Muzta turned his mount about and then paused. He spoke quickly to the translator and then galloped off, leaving the man, who stood in silence, stunned by his freedom.