Terrible Swift Sword Page 2

  "It's not enough."

  "I can see that," Hamilcar replied sharply. He tried to push his way through the crowd but saw that it was useless. Rank held no advantages here in the dark, as thousands pushed into the water, struggling to reach the boats that were now drifting in out of the darkness.

  As each ship came in it was surrounded, people clinging to the sides, jamming up against the oars, threatening in more than one case to simply roll the galley over.

  And then above the clamor of the mob he heard the sound which he dreaded the most, the high clarion call of a Merki nargas, war trumpet of the Horde.

  A momentary hush came over the crowd, as if disbelieving that death had suddenly called out its warning.

  The nargas sounded again, echoing across the beach, counterpointed by dozens more, sounding their call in a vast ring about the village.

  "The Merki!" It was a shriek of terror, picked up in an instant by thousands of voices.

  Helpless, Hamilcar felt as if he would be borne under by the crush, as by the thousands the panic-stricken crowd surged down to the water.

  A ripple of explosions flashed in a vast ring. Seconds later the solid shot and exploding shell smashed into the mob, foaming the water and cutting bloody furrows through the crowds.

  "Hamilcar!"

  His ship was so maddeningly close, with Githra, the ship's captain, standing atop the prow, cupping his hands and screaming for his leader. The ship was less than a score of paces away, yet hundreds were packed between him and safety.

  "Hang on to me!" Hamilcar screamed, as he felt Drisila's hand slipping from his. He tried to turn back to her. She looked at him, eyes wide with panic, and as if in a nightmare he felt his grasp upon her slip away.

  "Save Azreul!" she screamed. An obese woman pushed between them, desperate to claw her way through. With his now free hand Hamilcar struck her, trying to push her quivering form aside. Her eyes mad with fear she clawed back, trying to fight past him to the water.

  "Drisila!"

  The mob surged, picking Hamilcar off his feet. The fat woman fell, shrieking in anguish. More and yet more tripped over her body, climbing over her and kicking her into the gravel.

  Drisila was gone.

  "Mama!" Azreul shrieked, trying to claw his way out of Hamilcar's arms. Hamilcar clutched the boy tightly, raising the child above the crush while Azreul wailed for her mother.

  Above the mad confusion the nargas continued to cry out. The Merki artillery lifted its range, bursting shells over the water in their eagerness to cripple the ships, as if the people upon the beach were no longer worth the effort.

  A ripple of shots snapped out from the ships—the Suzdalian musketmen firing over the heads of the crowd in a desperate bid to hold them back.

  "Hamilcar!"

  Githra was looking straight at him.

  "We must get to the boat!" Elazar shouted, trying to push him forward.

  "Drisila!" he roared, trying to fight his way back up the beach.

  "My lord, get Azreul to the boat!" Elazar shouted.

  The survival of his only living child suddenly forced out all other thoughts. He turned aside, pushing back toward the ship, clawing his way through the mob. A contingent of sailors were over the side of the ship, waving their swords, trying to keep the crowd back, the water already pink from their efforts.

  A shell detonated almost directly over the ship, snapping with a glowing brilliance, and as if by some divine guidance its breath cleared an opening in the crowd, as bodies dropped into the surf. Hamilcar leaped forward, holding Azreul over his head with both hands, the child screaming with terror.

  The ring of sailors stepped past him and he held the child up to the side of the ship, Githra reaching down and sweeping the boy up on board. There was a dull snap of sound and, stunned, Hamilcar looked at the quivering arrow buried in the side of the ship. An instant later a sheet of feathered death rained down, rattling against the ship and striking dozens. Men tumbled back into the vessel, others over the railing and into the mob.

  "Get on board!" Githra shouted.

  Hamilcar turned away.

  "Drisila!"

  From the corner of his eye he saw the flat of Elazar's blade coming down.

  "No!"

  The blow slammed him up against the side of the ship.

  "Get him aboard!" Elazar screamed.

  Stunned, he struggled weakly, as he was half pushed and half dragged into the ship. A continual hail of arrows swept down, the barbed points acting as prods, driving the mob into an hysterical frenzy.

  "Back oars!"

  He tried to regain his feet, but stronger hands forced him back down, a coil of rope going over his shoulders. The world was a dizzy confusion, a blurred memory of a wide-eyed man hanging to the side of the ship, swordsmen screaming with an inner torment as they struck down their own people, wild shouts of panic, a severed hand clinging to the railing, and then ever so slowly the ship backing away, rolling low on the water.

  And the nargas continued to cry out. Coming up to his knees he felt Elazar holding him tight, preventing him from standing. Several ships were trapped on the beach, one of them on its side, the oil from a lantern having spilled out, the bow of the vessel engulfed in flames that illuminated the nightmare. The beach seemed to be a shifting, writhing mass, as if it were a single living creature twisting and rolling in agony.

  The closing ring of Merki was visible, dim shadow-figures towering in the streets of the village. He could imagine their gloating joy. After all, they were harvesting cattle, runaway cattle who would all be condemned to the slaughter pits. Those who had died tonight would be on their tables by morning.

  Drisila . . .

  Bristling with rage, he looked back at Elazar, who said nothing, his bearlike arms holding him down.

  The rowers struggled at the oars, the men toward the bow powerless to move what with each blade jammed by desperate hangers-on. The cries of the thousands left behind rolled across the ocean like the mournful night-dream voices of the damned. A deeper boom snapped across the waters, the thunder of the heavy shot from the supporting ironclads rippling across the water. It was an impotent gesture.

  Hundreds of flaming arrows arced through the air, adding their light to the madness. Merki cannon that had pushed down to either side of the village churned the water with shot. In the shadows he saw a galley riding low, and then ever so slowly roll over on its side, going down at the bow. Suzdalian rowers and the refugees on board spilled out into the surf.

  Another galley appeared out of the darkness, swinging in close. Maybe Drisila is on another ship, he thought, even as the coldness within screamed at him not to dream. Few of the ships had even touched land, their captains holding back from the crush. As far as he could tell, his was the only one to get back out.

  "Hamilcar?" The cry came from the closing ship.

  "He's safe!" Githra shouted. "We run back for Suzdal!"

  He wanted to protest, yet he knew that his voice would break with sobs, and so said nothing.

  Azreul came up to his side, whimpering, and he gathered the child into his arms, crushing him tight against his chest as if he could blot out the memory his five-year-old mind would forever carry.

  "Where's Mama?"

  "She'll be with us later," he choked, looking over at Elazar, as if his old friend could somehow still work a miracle.

  "She's a smart girl, young and strong," Elazar whispered. "I know her, she wouldn't stay with the mob. She'll most likely swim out and come back in to shore when it's safe."

  Already the cries on the beach were growing more distant. Knowing what he would have to order, he looked up at Githra.

  "We got a late start in, as is," Githra said softly. "We have to run—their air machines will be up before dawn, and there'll be no wind this morning. If we order any ships to swing back in they'll get mobbed by the people in the water, and the Merki guns will tear them apart."

  Numbly he nodded, unable to voice the commands.<
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  If peace was brewing between the Merki and Bantag he had to get word back to Keane, for this would change the balance against them even further. He saw Yuri sitting in the middle of the ship, eyes closed as if lost in serene thought. He was tempted to run the bastard through, so he looked away.

  There is no hope left here, he realized, his heart tight, a bitter bile burning his throat.

  When all of this was done the Cartha people would be but a memory, for whether the Merki won or lost would not matter for the Cartha people— they would be used in the war until all were dead. Even if he went back to them, his death offering would not change a thing. Keane was right in that: This would be a war to the finish between the Hordes and all humans on this world. But why did it have to be here? Could it not all have waited until after the Hordes had passed, letting some other people pay the price?

  "Take us home," Hamilcar whispered.

  Githra looked at him curiously, the single word sounding so strange. Hamilcar looked up at the man.

  "To Suzdal."

  Tayang, Qar Qarth of the Bantag Horde, leaned back upon his throne and smiled.

  "There has not been a moment such as this since the forgotten grandsires of our grandsires met two hundred circlings ago, to divide between us our paths across the everlasting steppe."

  Muzta, Qar Qarth of the tattered remnants of the Tugar Horde, sat in silence, looking over at the third Qar Qarth here this morning.

  Jubadi gazed upon Tayang with barely concealed hatred.

  "Yet you and I met less than two years before,"

  Jubadi finally replied, as if each word tasted of bitterness, "and you violated the blood pledge of protection and tried to kill me."

  "You knew what you were doing," Tayang retorted. "Your Vushka Umen slaughtered ten thousand of mine in reply. How do I know that they will not strike even now?"

  "Each of us has an umen here," Muzta interjected. "Ten thousand of our finest. A circle, for three days' ride in every direction on this border between Merki and Bantag lands, is cleared of all living things— Tugar, Merki, Bantag, and even cattle. No one will kill another today."

  Muzta looked from one to the other. Both had approached him, offering threats and promises, if only he would order his umen to swing over and aid in the destruction of the other.

  He had been tempted, to be sure, but he knew as well what it would mean for all of them in the end. Even Jubadi realized that, or at least his shield-bearer Hulagar did. A curious idea, he thought. As a Tugar he had his advisor, old Qubata, but not even Qubata could exert such influence the way a shield-bearer of the Merki could. It was said that a shield-bearer strove not only to protect the life of his lord, but that if need be, for the sake of the clan, and if the Qar Qarth proved to be unworthy, he would take it as well.

  Such a system seemed to be madness to him. What was a Qar Qarth, if not the ruler of all his clans with no one above him? For was it not said, "As Bugglaah ruled the choosing of death, so shall a Qar Qarth rule all who are living?"

  Hulagar caught his look and held it for a brief moment. What did the shield-bearer think of all of this? But the look was inscrutable, as if he were gazing through him.

  "And though you are the weakest," Tayang said quietly, breaking Muzta's thoughts, "here you are the strongest."

  Muzta bristled inwardly. Yet again, another Qar Qarth was taunting him.

  "If either of you had faced the Yankee weapons first, then it would be you who saw his horde destroyed, and now sat before the other two as a pauper."

  Tayang laughed softly but Muzta could sense the wariness, for what he had said was in a way true. He had nothing left to lose. What could be taken from him now was nothing, therefore Jubadi and Tayang would never join together at this kurata, the meeting of Qarths, to slaughter him. For a brief moment it was he who held power over the other two. Yet if he should betray one or the other, their hordes were still numberless and would hunt what was left of his nearly defenseless people across the entire world until vengeance had been taken. The umen with him was barely all he could scrape together for this meeting—nearly all the rest were buried before the human city of Suzdal.

  Jubadi held up his hand to Tayang, as if in warning.

  "Don't laugh so loudly," he said softly. "Too many of our dead will not take your mirth so lightly."

  "Tugar dead, Merki dead, what are they to me?" Tayang replied, but Muzta could see the quick upward glance of his eyes to the peak of the yurt, where malevolent spirits were said to enter through the smoke-hole.

  "It will be Bantag dead soon enough," Jubadi said, "if we do not reach agreement."

  "And that is a concern of yours?" Tayang retorted.

  "It is a concern for all of us—Merki, Tugar, and Bantag."

  Startled, Muzta looked over at Jubadi's entourage of clan Qarths, who sat beneath him in a circle around his throne of cattle bones. A Merki came to his feet, looking up at his Qar Qarth. He was slender of build, hair a shaggy brown, eyes dark and full of cold purpose and knowledge, more like those of a serpent than of a hunting tiger. His armor was simple: chain mail of black steel, the coverlet over it adorned with a white circle on black silk, trousers of browned leather faced with metal strips to protect his thighs. Over his shoulder was the round, oversized bronze shield of his office.

  There seemed to be a look of surprise in Jubadi's eyes, that one who served beneath him would dare to interject his thoughts at this moment when three Qar Qarths had come together. Jubadi looked down at him, as if weighing a decision, then nodded almost inperceptibly. The Merki stepped forward.

  "I am Tamuka, shield-bearer of the royal heir, the Zan Qarth Vuka."

  He had seen this one before. He could only hope that he had the strength to control Vuka, for if ever there was one who was not fit to be a Qar Qarth it was he. Muzta could see the wary look in Vuka's eyes as Tamuka strode to the middle of the yurt.

  "Is your tongue so weak it cannot speak for itself?" Tayang asked, looking over at Jubadi.

  "Perhaps I can form the words best for all of us," Tamuka said. "I am not Qar Qarth, concerned with my power and that of my horde. The three of you are guided by your ka, the spirit of the warrior, as is fitting for those who rule. But all of you here know that the shield-bearers of the Merki, those born to the White Clan, are guided by the tu, the ka-tu shaped by the inner spirit."

  "I have heard of this," Tayang said, his voice betraying a hint of curiosity.

  "Though to allow such as you to have influence would never happen with the Bantag," he added quickly, looking over at Muzta. "Nor the Tugar Hordes as well, I would assume."

  "And perhaps if I had listened more to one whom I suspect was guided by the ka-tu," Muzta replied, "all that has happened would not have been, and it would be the cracked bones of the Yankees that bleached in the sun rather than that of the Tugars."

  There were certain moments in one's life, he had come to learn, which are relived a thousand times; and each reliving is a torment, filled with a desire to somehow go back into time, to change an action or even a single word and thus prevent all the anguish that had come since. Two such moments had come in his life. One from so long ago, a moment in his inner life with a consort long gone, the other as Qar Qarth. Qubata had stood before him, counseling against a headlong attack against the Yankees; and he had ignored him. And Qubata was dead, as were nearly all who had charged into the battle that day.

  "Listen to him," Muzta said. His voice carried such force that Tamuka turned, a glimmer of acknowledgment in his eyes.

  Tayang looked over at Muzta and then let his gaze drop on Tamuka.

  "Speak then, one who does not live by the ka spirit of the warrior."

  Tamuka gave a nod of acknowledgment, ignoring the insult of not being called a warrior, and stepped into the ceremonial circle of gold cloth in the center of the yurt, the marking place where truth must be spoken.

  "All of us have fought," he began softly, turning to look at the three gatherings of Qarths and
Qar Qarths. "Bantag against Merki, Merki against Tugar, and before the great kurata which divided the world,

  Tugar has fought even against the Bantag. I could recite the honors we have all gained, the grievances we all bear, the deaths across two hundred circlings we wish to revenge.

  "These are the things which drive our spirits, which give us the thrill of the charge, the singing of the ka within as we ride against each other, chanting our songs of battle. It is the fullness of what it means to be one of the Hordes."

  He smiled for a moment, as if recalling a pleasant memory.

  "It is what makes us alive, for without a foe, how else may one measure oneself and one's ka?" All nodded in agreement, murmuring to themselves about the intelligence of his words.

  "And now, at least for this moment, it is all meaningless."

  Tayang stirred uncomfortably, but remained silent.

  "Cattle have been the source of life. They have come through the tunnels of light, the portals our ancestor gods built which once gave them the power to walk between the stars. The working of it is a mystery we do not understand, something we have lost. The tunnels of light seem now to be a thing of their own will, pulling all through who are near them, opening and closing at different times and bringing to Valennia many strange things.

  "It was a good thing our ancestors made—at least in the past it was a good thing. It brought the cattle to this world, many of the plants which have taken root, the animals of the woods and steppe, and it brought us the horse which set us free to ride the world."

  "Yes, that at least is good," Tayang mumbled, and the entourage of the three Qar Qarths nodded in agreement, as if they had somehow been responsible for what he had said.

  "The horse has given us freedom, has enabled us to own all of Valennia, riding forever eastward toward the rising sun. We who were once few, living in the fastness of the Barkth Nom, the mountains that are the roof of the world, became masters of wherever our mounts could ride.

  "The cattle we bent to our will, for as we grew in numbers and started our everlasting ride we found some of them already here. And then more came, and yet more. It seems that whatever world they come from beyond the stars they must breed like carrion flies, and thus spill out of the Tunnel into this world.