Fateful Lightning Read online

  Vincent looked over sharply at Marcus.

  “Lincoln had the same problem for years with political generals,” Vincent said, his voice deceptively quiet.

  Marcus bristled, sensing that he had been insulted in a way that he had never experienced before. The Roum turned and walked away, hands clenched behind his back. The staffs of both commanders, as if sensing an explosion, drew farther away. Marcus finally turned back, his features red.

  “Just what the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I want to win and not see it thrown away.”

  “The gods damn you,” Marcus roared.

  Vincent drew himself up, standing rigid, his features hard.

  “One mistake,” Vincent hissed, “one goddam mistake, and six months of training, thirty thousand men, the entire war might be lost.”

  “And you won’t make any mistakes, while I will?” Marcus snapped.

  “I see it that way.”

  “Well, I don’t. You’re nothing but a mad pup. You saw a little too much killing, got a bit too much blood on your delicate hands, and now you’re soulless. Now you think you’re the son of Mars incarnate.”

  “I came up through the ranks the hard way,” Vincent replied.

  “And I didn’t, is that it?”

  “Some could say that.”

  “I was leading these people before you were even born,” Marcus snapped. “You think you’ve seen too much death? When I was ten and saw the Tugars come for the first time, I watched as my closest friend was dragged into a moon feast, my father as proconsul powerless to do anything. When I was thirty and proconsul I watched three hundred thousand of my people die. At fifty I was prepared to see it happen again until your people smashed the Tugars. I know as well that if we lose at Hispania every last one of my people will die. So don’t play the hardened warrior with me. It makes you look ridiculous in my eyes.”

  Vincent felt a sudden rage with himself. His jaw muscles were twitching, his hands shaking with anger, and he couldn’t control it.

  “My Suzdalian regiment died to protect you when your own Senate and army turned on you last year,” Vincent said, his voice near to breaking from anger.

  “And I acknowledge that debt,” Marcus replied, his features suddenly softening into a smile. “But son, you’re pressing yourself too hard, taking too much of the responsibility. It’ll kill you. You’ve already killed yourself inside. Now you think you can stand and watch your corps fight, killing ten thousand of them to win a battle, without flinching. Well, I don’t want to be around when that day comes for you.”

  “I’m not your son.”

  “All right, then, dammit, general, god, whatever you want to call yourself now.”

  Marcus drew closer and started to put his hand on Vincent’s shoulder, but thinking better of it he clumsily stopped himself.

  “But I’m telling you this as a friend,” he continued, his voice now soft. “We live in the same house. I can hear your children laughing, and it warms my heart. I now have no family but them,” and he looked away for a moment.

  “I can also hear your wife crying, the fights when you drink in a vain attempt to sleep. I remember you different, before the Cartha attacked. I knew the darkness that haunted you, but you could still laugh, still smile. I listened for hours to your dreams of how the world should be and came to believe some of it. It was you far more than Kal or Andrew that taught me to trust your people. It was you far more than your armies that taught me that we could fight and beat the hordes. You were honest to a fault. I cannot forget the times you told me the secrets of how my own people might better compete against the Rus and Yankees when it came to these new ways of making things and wealth. That was an honesty some would call madness, but I came to see as from the heart of a worthy soul. You said just now that you are not my son. You know that my own son died from the pox just before your healers came to teach us inoculation.”

  He stopped for a moment as if unsure of his own control.

  “You became that son, your children my grandchildren. That is how I’m trying to speak to you now.”

  Vincent felt the distant tug of a stirring, and with it a blackness. There was a flash memory of the dying Merki hanging on the cross, and swirling into it all the other nightmares, the Neiper choked with the bodies he put there, nameless soldiers dying in his arms, the horror of the Tugars charging through the pass, the first man he killed, lying crumpled on the pavement in Novrod. How, oh God, how did this happen to me? he wondered. He felt his hands trembling, the all-powerful need for another drink stealing over him. And Emerson had dared to talk about the universality of all living things, he thought coldly, had said that evil shall wither before the power of love. Let the bastards who had taught him those lies of youth come to this place. He felt a self-loathing, a sudden urge to vomit, and now it wasn’t two in the morning, the daze of an alcoholic’s dream sweeping over him. It was noon, in the field, his army around him in the sunlight—the army which he had forged to be his striking hand, the destroyer of worlds.

  The trembling faded. His features throughout had not changed, except perhaps for the eyes, which attempted to focus on Marcus.

  “Seventh Corps is yours,” Vincent Hawthorne whispered, “but God help you if you kill them without taking down the Merki with you.”

  He turned and walked away, not even seeing the troubled look and returning anger in Marcus’s eyes.

  Tamuka Qar Qarth sat in silence, watching the conflagration, and was well pleased.

  “A fitting pyre for the son of Jubadi,” Sarg said, nodding his head with approval.

  The inferno of Kev shimmered before them, the heat so intense that his horse nickered, attempting to shy away even though the walls were more than an arrow flight’s distance.

  The ceremony had been simple enough. The fact that Vuka had not been officially confirmed as Qar Qarth was argued by Sarg as a legitimate reason to observe but three days of mourning without loss of fire. Vuka’s body had been placed upon a bier in the center of the town square. A full umen of mounted archers then surrounded the city and sent volley after volley of flaming arrows into the town. Cannons had arrived just before dawn and added their thunder to the firing of the city. The first coils of smoke started within minutes, and now the entire city was being consumed. Tamuka found the sight of the destruction to be strangely exciting, the flames leaping hundreds of feet into the air, the column of smoke soaring for thousands. So he would do to all cities ever built by the filth of cattle.

  He was tempted now to send the order back to ravage the other towns of the Rus, especially Suzdal, but he hesitated; such places would still be required in the near future to house and feed the cattle that might be needed to make yet further war on the Bantag, once this campaign was finished. The burning of this place called Kev would be sufficient for now. When he was done with using those whom he suffered to live, he could wall them up in the towns and burn them alive for his amusement.

  The three days had been most curious. The death of Vuka had elicited none of the genuine lamenting that had marked Jubadi’s passing. Sarg’s pronouncement of who the new Qar Qarth was to be, however, was far more difficult. Roaka, Qarth of the red horse clans, was now a problem to be reckoned with and had openly called for ending the war and turning back to the south to deal with the Bantag.

  Roaka as well had questioned Sarg’s description of the fit which had taken Vuka’s life. Tamuka looked back at the array of clan and umen leaders drawn up behind him. They were not happy, that was all too obvious. They were deep into a strange land, they had lost their leader of over a full circling, the heir holding his title for less than two moons. And now, for the first time in more than fifty circlings, a shield-bearer ruled them.

  He smiled inwardly. Jubadi’s brothers had all died before having issue. There were several second cousins who could claim the saddle and sword of the Qar Qarth, but that would not be until the white banner of peace fluttered above the golden yurt. That had always been
the custom, a decision made by long-forgotten ancestors when the hordes were first forming and it was realized that a fight for succession in time of war could excite rivalry or even cause a permanent splitting.

  But none of them had ever reckoned on a shield- bearer who had discovered his ka, his warrior spirit, and was willing to exercise it. That he knew would be his strength in convincing the younger umen commanders, the warriors bent on vengeance, to follow him. It would work as well in the time afterward. It might be years before the white banner flew again.

  He turned his mount and rode slowly up to where the leaders of the Merki horde awaited him. He looked over at Sarg, who dismounted and approached the group.

  “As shaman of the great horde of the Merki, I now proclaim that with the passing of the spirit of Vuka, Tamuka Shield-Bearer is Qar Qarth.”

  The gathering looked one to the other, some with nods of approval, others feigning disinterest, and those around Roaka with disdain.

  “Not since the death of Zorgah in the circling when the great fire fell from heaven and the earth shook and his son Baktu was not yet born has this occurred. But it is the way as decreed by our ancestors, and so must it be now, until there is peace and the great may gather for a season of snow to decide who of the white clan shall lead us next.”

  Sarg looked at the group with a cold challenge in his eyes.

  “Is there any who now disputes this and is willing to show his blood?”

  Tamuka waited, as if not interested in the proceedings.

  Roaka stirred and looked at his followers.

  “I am not eager for a blood feud to break between us, and hence issue no challenge,” the aging Qarth said, nudging his horse out of the group.

  Sarg looked back at Tamuka.

  “You are free to speak. You were a trusted friend of Jubadi’s from his youth,” Tamuka said, sounding gracious and almost deferential.

  Roaka, taken aback by Tamuka’s reply, nodded a thanks.

  “This war now serves us no purpose,” Roaka said. “There is no honor, no glory, no calling of our lineage to face those of equal worth. We waste our time in the worthless lands of the Tugars, which might be fit for those of such a class, but is not sufficient for us of the Merki.”

  Several of the group looked over with mocking gazes at Muzta Qar Qarth, who sat astride his horse to one side, observing the proceedings.

  “Even by the estimates of Jubadi, perhaps upward of thirty thousand of our best warriors will die in this campaign to stamp out these rebellious cattle. I say to the dark regions with them all—the world is wide enough, and there are still the Bantag to the south. I rode without protest because it was Jubadi who wished it. Now Jubadi is dead and the smoke of Vuka goes to meet him.”

  “If we allow cattle to kill even our Qar Qarth and punish them not for this greatest of sins, we shall be mocked by the Bantag, and our ancestors will turn their faces from us,” Tamuka replied sharply, and he smiled inwardly at the nods of approval and barks of agreement from the umen commanders.

  “This is a war of revenge,” snarled Gubta, the new commander of the Vushka Hush. “We buried one in three of my umen, the commander, my elder brother, among them. And one in three is crippled or still sore from injuries. I will not rest till I drink blood from the skull of Keane and piss upon his blackened bones. If any attempt to stop me from this fate, I shall ride alone into the east, until my sword is wet with their blood and I am struck down. But I shall know in so doing that my fathers will sing my praise and curse those who do not ride with me.”

  Gubta now drew out his short blade and slashed his arm, holding it aloft as sign of blood oath.

  The barks of approval grew louder, many of the warriors drawing out swords, brandishing them, making ritual cuts upon their arms, thus swearing a blood oath upon the words of Gubta to see the deed accomplished or to die in the attempting. Tamuka, seeing the moment, drew out his own blade and slashed his forearm, edging his mount forward until he was alongside Gubta. The commander of the Vushka Hush, his eyes bright with emotion from the honor now offered, leaned forward and sucked the blood from Tamuka’s arm.

  The shouts of approval grew louder.

  “I swear to lead you not as shield-bearer, but as a warrior guided by his ka. I seek revenge for Jubadi, and for the Vushka Hush, and I pledge destruction of Keane and all cattle who dare to raise their heads up from the dirt, which is their origin and fate. This I swear upon my blood. This I swear as well, to give to Gubta my brotherhood in his oath of blood.”

  Leaning over, he grabbed hold of Gubta’s arm and sucked blood from it. For a brief instant their eyes locked, an understanding between them already known. It had not been difficult for Sarg, in the hours before dawn, to go to Gubta and speak of the death of his brother and the need for revenge, which a retreat would prevent. Gubta had not the intelligence to see the plan within the plan and by the coming of dawn was weeping tears of rage at the thought that his brother might even now be languishing in the afterworld, taunted because he had not been avenged by his kin. It had all been so easy, though Gubta would never know just how he had been used to sway the others. For with all Merki the swearing of blood oath, the sight of the red running down another’s arm, the chanting of oaths of vengeance, was certain to elicit a frenzied response. Without honor, without bonds of helping in war and vengeance, there was nothing to the joy of living.

  It was all so easy. All it truly required of Tamuka was understanding of the traditions and the ways to use them to his own advantage.

  Gubta drew back from Tamuka, unsheathed his scimitar, stood in his stirrups, and brandished the blade overhead, roaring his battle cry.

  Tamuka looked back at Roaka, who sat patiently, observing the ritual with indifference.

  “Strange that a shield-bearer would drink a blood oath. I thought you were ruled by your tu and thus incapable of such emotion.”

  “I am now Qar Qarth.”

  “You have yet to receive the sword of the Qar Qarth, for I am not finished with what I have to say.”

  “Then speak.”

  “I doubt the death of Vuka.”

  The group fell silent, Roaka daring to voice what more than one of them secretly thought.

  Tamuka sighed and looked back at the inferno that even now was consuming the body of the one he had sworn to defend.

  “Will you swear blood oath to the truth of his death?”

  An angry ripple of comments swept the group.

  “You know he murdered his own brother, who would now be Qar Qarth.”

  All were silent, stunned by Tamuka’s words.

  “There is no proof of that,” Roaka snarled angrily.

  “I know it,” Tamuka replied, his voice barely a whisper, and looking away from Roaka he fixed each in the group in turn.

  “For I had looked into his soul, guided by the spirit of the tu, and saw the dark truth.” His voice was distant, as if he were speaking from the spirit world, and his eyes were bright. More than one of the group averted their gaze, for the power of the shield-bearer to look into the hearts of others was known, and a thing to be feared—feared even more now that such a thing could be done by one who would be Qar Qarth.

  “Vuka murdered Mupa on the night that the iron ship sank. I was there, as was Hulagar, and we both saw it in his soul.”

  “And did Jubadi know this thing?” Roaka asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Vuka was sole heir. If Jubadi had sired again, Hulagar would have told him. Vuka killed his brother and lied when he was asked how Mupa died.”

  “You dare say such a thing even when the smoke of Vuka’s soul is about us?” Roaka asked.

  “I do not dare say such a thing,” Tamuka said, his voice growing hard and sharp, and he looked straight back at the pyre. “I shout such a denouncement.”

  The group was silent.

  “It is he as well that lost us the first part of the war. It was he who demanded to ride into the ca
ttle city of Roum when it was fairly taken, the cattle not yet aware of our hand in that thing. Upon seeing him they rioted. The youngest brother was taken and beaten to death by the stampede of cattle. The city was lost, and with it our plan to defeat them without ever having to ride north. He was not only a murderer, he was a fool. If there had been another heir I myself would have called for a council of my clan to decide his death as one unfit to rule over us.”

  He fell silent, waiting.

  Roaka shifted uncomfortably. “Nevertheless, he was still rightful Qar Qarth. Will you now take blood oath that you had no hand in killing Vuka?”

  Tamuka looked over angrily at Roaka, a shift of the wind sweeping them all with the heat and smoke of the fire.

  Tamuka yanked the short blade from his belt and cut his arm again.

  “I swear blood oath,” he snarled.

  Roaka stared at him coldly.

  “May Hulagar and all the ancestors see the blood and hear the words,” he said coldly.

  Tamuka looked past him to the raging fire and again felt the coldness, as if the eyes of Hulagar were still upon him.

  With an angry snarl, Tamuka looked back at the others, most of them nodding, mumbling their disapproval of Roaka, the others silent, nervously watching the firestorm of the city.

  “Are there any others to speak?” Sarg asked.

  The group was silent.

  Returning to his horse, Sarg pulled the sword of the Qar Qarth from its scabbard, than approached Tamuka, who dismounted.

  “The sword of the Qar Qarth Tamuka,” Sarg announced, holding the blade aloft, his thin gray-haired arm knotting with the effort. “To be held by Tamuka, giving unto him the power of Qar Qarth until the white banner floats in the wind in the time of snow.”

  Tamuka reached up and grabbed hold of the hilt, taking it from Sarg. As one the clan Qarths dismounted and approached him, each bowing in turn to kiss the tip of the blade. Roaka waited until last, and finally, without comment, he dismounted, walked up, and kissed the blade.