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  Stunned, O'Donald looked around.

  "All right, let him have it again. Aim for that gun port and keep pouring it in."

  Wiping the muddy dirt from his face, he trained his field glasses on the ship as the Napoleons opened fire. Round after round slammed into the forward armor, the shot bounding off, the water around the Ogunquit kicked into a raging foam. Hammered dents appeared, but nothing more.

  "Pour it in, pour it in."

  Relentlessly the black iron ship came steadily forward, staying in midchannel.

  "He's going to run the length of the city. Forty-fourth and fifteenth battery, swing your guns around to the west side. Sixteenth and seventeenth, hit those damn gunboats!"

  Gunners grabbed hold of their weapons, lifting the prolongs, leaning into the wheels of their one-ton pieces. Boris and the peasant senators joined in, shouting and cursing.

  The Ogunquit was less than fifty yards away. From the height of the bastion O'Donald looked down on its armored roof. Guns were run up to the bastion wall, crews cranking the elevation screws up, the barrels dropping down. The Ogunquit stood abeam of the bastion. Five gun ports along her starboard side swung open.

  The two sides seemed to fire at once. A showering wall of dirt washed over O'Donald, and his ears felt as if they were about to be crushed in. Guns leaped alongside him, and ricocheting shot screamed across the water, crashing into the trees on the far side of the river. Through the smoke he saw part of a gun-port cover spinning through the air. Turning his glasses, he watched as the other gunboats came on relentlessly, shot screaming past, the Neiper white with foam. The Ogunquit slowed as if daring O'Donald to do his worst.

  "Keep pouring it in," he shrieked. "Aim at the shattered gun port."

  The battery crews worked in a fevered frenzy, powder boys shouldering their way up from the bomb-proof magazine below. A shot from a gunboat screamed past, its hot breath washing over O'Donald, staggering him, the round slamming into the capitol.

  "Mortar!"

  O'Donald looked up for a second, even as out of the comer of his eye he saw the Ogunquit's guns being run back out.

  Turning, he looked back at the black ugly maws of the heavy guns. They were firing up, he thought with relief. The bastion on the low bluffs gave him a good thirty-foot advantage.

  "O'Donald, they're going to hit," Hans shouted, pointing heavenward.

  At the same instant the Ogunquit fired.

  Grabbing hold of Kal, who throughout the battle had stood by O'Donald, watching the action as if he were attending a play, Pat dived for the scant protection of the earthen wall.

  The air was slapped out of his lungs as the sky overhead darkened with showers of earth. A humming scream filled the air, the darkness penetrated by a blinding flash. Stunned, Pat looked over at Kal, whose eyes were wide with terror. Looking down the line, he saw a gunner tumble over the side of the bastion, shrieking in anguish. An upended gun teetered for a moment on the edge of the parapet and then ever so slowly tumbled backward into the fort.

  Yawning to clear his ears, O'Donald stood up. The sixteenth battery was a shambles.

  "A direct hit," O'Donald shouted, coming back to his feet and running down to help pull out the wounded. Men staggered past him. Ten bodies littered the bastion. What was left of a corpse, the upper half of the body gone, lay spread-eagled against the wall, blown into the dirt by the explosive force of the shell.

  "Clear the wounded back to the hospital! The rest of you keep at it!"

  Turning, he looked back at Kal, who was kneeling over a body. Going up to the corpse, O'Donald was horrified to see Boris's bloodied face looking up at him.

  "Oh, goddammit," he whispered.

  Turning away, he saw a knot of men running back toward the city.

  "They would live," Hans said, coming up alongside O'Donald, brushing the dirt from his uniform.

  "She's moving up to the city," O'Donald yelled, pointing to the ironclad, which was again under way.

  "They're running their entire fleet right under my nose and I can't do a bloody thing about it!"

  Raging, he slammed his fist down, beating the bastion wall with impotent rage.

  "Get your guns out of here," Hans said. "That last mortar shot was a lucky hit. But eventually they'll pound this bastion to rubble."

  O'Donald nodded sadly in agreement.

  A heavy shot from a gunboat screamed past, but he barely noticed its passage as it passed on into the city.

  "O'Donald, I've only got one good brigade and a bunch of raggedy militia to hold this city, and the factories."

  Hans paused for a moment as if wanting to say something, looking over at Kal.

  "Mr. President, I'm sorry, but I need to talk to you."

  Woodenly Kal got to his feet.

  "He was one of my oldest friends," Kal whispered. "He was with me from the beginning of everything."

  "I know, Mr. President," Hans said softly.

  A gunboat drawing abeam the fort fired off its single gun, shaking the bastion, showering the group with dirt.

  "What is it that you want, Hans?"

  "Mr. President, there's nothing we can do to protect the city. We'll have to ride this one out and pray his ammunition is limited. The Cartha infantry will be up here by midafternoon. I don't think they'll try to storm the place—we've at least got the advantage in numbers, maybe even muskets."

  "I know that, Hans. We've already gone over it," Kal said quietly.

  "And I think Cromwell knows it as well. He must have a plan for winning this with that consideration in mind. I'm therefore advising you to declare martial law and immediately arrest Mikhail and the boyars."

  "So you're telling the mouse to become the fox?" Kal shouted, trying to be heard above the batteries, which were again returning fire.

  "You and I know who that envoy was referring to."

  "If I should do that, then those who follow me will do it even more easily," Kal replied. "Even your Lincoln did not do such a thing."

  "He got pretty damn close," Hans yelled.

  A thunderclap roar echoed over the river. Turning, the group watched as the Ogunquit fired a volley straight into the capitol. A section of its roof flipped into the air. Overhead a mortar round screamed down, exploding inside the city.

  "The moment he makes a traitorous move I will have his head," Kal said forcefully, "but not before."

  Kal looked down at the sword which Hans was still holding.

  "May I have my son's sword, please," he said quietly.

  Hans gently passed it over. Kal took the weapon clumsily in his left hand and held it up for a moment, looking at the script engraved down the blade.

  "The boy was trying to teach me to read his English. I never was too good at it," he said quietly.

  "It doesn't mean he's dead," O'Donald said. "That Vincent's got the lives of a cat, he does."

  "Thank you, Pat," Kal said, smiling even as his eyes clouded over. "I'd better go back to the city."

  Pat drew up, saluting Kal as he started to turn.

  "Why, Pat, I think that's the first time you've saluted without being told to," Kal said, and turning away he walked down the bastion ramp, oblivious to the thunder of war and the guards that fell in closely around him.

  Pat looked back at the battle still being waged. Two of the gunboats had already run past, and the Ogunquit was already several hundred yards upstream. In the shambles of the bastion the remaining guns continued to play at their hot, deadly game.

  "That man's either a saint or a fool," Hans growled.

  "But don't you know," O'Donald replied ruefully, "sometimes they're one and the same."

  Grinning with satisfaction, Tobias tore the top hatch open and stuck his head out. A gust of hot air rushed up around him, and the men below cried with relief as cooling air finally rushed in through the open gun ports.

  Cautiously he peered around. There could always be snipers on the shore just a hundred yards away. He turned to look back. Dark pillars of smo
ke rose up from half a dozen places. A thunderclap of fire snapped out from the last gunboat in line, the shot slamming straight into the inner wall, cleaving away a section of logs.

  A fantasy that he had held for years had finally been fulfilled. He had led a fleet in line, run past a battery, and shelled an enemy city from one end to the other, losing but one man in his entire crew.

  As he breathed in the cool air, the memory of the horrifying noise of heavy guns firing, the clouds of smoke, and the drenching suffocating heat was washed away. An entire city had stood in terror of what he had just accomplished.

  He climbed back down the ladder.

  "Even I am impressed," Hulagar announced.

  Tobias looked straight into his eyes and saw that they were filled with an awed wonder. The nine-foot-high Merki had finally resigned himself to sitting on the gun-deck floor, unable to stand in the cramped fighting space. Tobias was pleased at not having to look up at the Merki.

  "How is our ammunition?" Hulagar asked.

  "We'll have to be conservative now. We put on the big display running up. The fleet will turn about and run back down, all ships firing two salvos, and anchor off the bastion to give support to our infantry moving up. The gunboats are ordered to fire one shot an hour. I want to keep a good reserve if we need to put the pressure on later or for an emergency. We've got eight thousand rounds with the fleet— there's no sense in using them all up at once."

  "Arrows are the same," Hulagar replied. "A wise commander knows that."

  Tobias felt himself beaming inside. Here was a Merki showing open admiration.

  "Now we just wait for the rest of the plan to unfold."

  Grinning, Tobias nodded, and leaving Hulagar, he strolled aft to prepare the ship to come about.

  Hulagar watched him, a smile crossing his features.

  He found that he almost liked this pet, for after all he was only a pet. It was strange in a way. He was forced to allow this one to address him as an equal, to wring from him every secret, to let him play out his game. It would almost be a shame to kill him.

  The thought caused his attention to shift. Vuka sat across from him in the reeking darkness, their gazes locked.

  "This is not war," Vuka said. "It is the devices of Kara the Dark One."

  "It is war nevertheless—a war we must learn to survive."

  "War is the glory of the charge, the wind in your hair, a fleet horse, the fear in your enemies' faces as you ride them down. There is no glory here."

  "War is victory, nothing more," Mantu replied. "The glory comes afterward when your enemies are dead and you can talk about it while their bodies turn to dust."

  Vuka fell silent, looking craftily at Mantu and then back to Hulagar.

  His rage had slowly cleared. It had always taken too long; Tamuka had implied that often enough. Inwardly he cursed himself now. Not for what had happened in the cattle city. When there was blood, it was his right to wet his blade. It was afterward that he cursed, and he felt a cold stab of fear, and fear was a new thing to him.

  Lowering his head as if to sleep, he looked over at Hulagar through barely opened slits. There again, Hulagar was watching him. Again he had been a fool for speaking, for acting before thinking. The words that Mantu had uttered should have been his, weak and addled though they were.

  He watched carefully, nodding his head as if weariness from the maddening noise had deadened his senses. Hulagar's gaze at last dropped away from him and shifted to his brother beside him.

  There, his expression had changed, the harsh judgment leaving his face.

  So it would be Mantu. Why had Hulagar sent Tamuka back to his father? Could the unthinkable be even now planned for him? He cursed himself again. Even as he had turned on Tamuka he knew he might be sealing his own fate. The mere fact that Hulagar had so openly berated him before his brother was a deadly warning which his ka, his fighting rage, had driven him to ignore. Who might it be? Hulagar could not, nor could his brother, for fratricide was the most heinous of crimes. Who would be sent, if indeed his father had pronounced the judgment against him, to strip away his right as Zan Qarth and bestow it on someone else?

  A thought slowly formed. Who would the someone else be? Surely not Yojama, the slow buffoon, nor Qark, nor Toka, who drank of the fermented milk till he vomited nightly.

  He stirred as if stretching, leaning his head back against the side of the ship, his eyes still barely open.

  He needed to buy time, to redeem himself. He knew his father would hesitate, he knew his father's weaknesses, the foolishness of having warmth for one's offspring. How he had played that in the past, laughing inwardly as his father made himself appear stupid in his eyes.

  He must buy time, must delay the judgment which must be done in such a way that he would die with honor, for he knew his father would never send him to the everlasting sky to be an object of scorn.

  If the judgment was to be done.

  He looked over at Mantu through veiled eyes. He would be the one to be chosen in his stead, he knew that with all certainty from the way Hulagar still looked at him.

  His plan started to form.

  Chapter Twelve

  "You two on the third bench, pull with the others!"

  The two Suzdalian privates looked at the Roum drillmaster standing above them not understanding a word that had been said.

  "Now just what the hell am I supposed to do? Here I'm waving this damn stick in thin air, and you're screaming at me," one said.

  Andrew stood to one side and looked over at Dimitri, who seemed to turn an impossible shade of scarlet.

  "Excuse me, sir," Dimitri said stiffly.

  Breaking away from the group, the old colonel stormed down to the row of benches.

  "Now listen here, you bastards," Dimitri roared in his best parade-ground voice.

  The Roum ship captain looked back at Dimitri with evident relief.

  "When that man over there says jump, you jump!"

  "But he's speaking that Roum gibberish," the protesting private cried. "How are we supposed to understand him?"

  "You learn his bloody language," Dimitri shouted.

  The men started to grumble.

  "Ten days have already passed. We don't have much time if you want to see your homes still standing when we get back. So, Perm damn all of you, learn it! And learn how to row these ships."

  "We're sitting here on dry land," the private snapped back. "It's like learning to ride a horse by sitting on a log."

  "Or loving a woman by using your hand," another soldier said, and the group broke down into gales of laughter.

  Dimitri let a smile cross his features, and waited for the jokes to die away.

  "Very funny, Lev, very funny indeed."

  Lev looked around proudly.

  "You have a daughter. Lev?"

  "You know I do," Lev replied, "and I didn't use my hand to make her."

  The group started to laugh again.

  "Fine, just fine," Dimitri said quietly, putting his arm around Lev's shoulder. "While you're sitting here on these benches," Dimitri said, letting his voice rise slightly, "think about a Cartha using something other than his hand on your daughter."

  Lev fell silent.

  "Or better yet, a Merki taking her to the moon feast— she's just about the right age."

  The group was silent. Lev looked around, his features pale.

  "You'll get your turns on the practice ships," Dimitri shouted. "Exactly one half day of it. The rest of the time you're here on the beach waiting for the rest of our fleet to be made.

  "So, damn all of you, think about what's happening back in Suzdal. And when this Roum fellow shouts, you'd better damn well listen.

  "If you make a mistake in battle," Dimitri said, stabbing a finger into Lev's chest, "everyone on this ship might die, and your daughter as well, so think about it."

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and stormed off.

  "He was a damn good sergeant before he became a colonel,
" Andrew said approvingly, looking over at Marcus.

  "I didn't understand the words, but I got the meaning," Marcus said with a smile. "I think sergeants and centurions must all be born from the same blood and nursed on vinegar to sour their tempers."

  Andrew laughed in reply. He wondered how his old sergeant was doing. Hans must be up to his neck in it right now.

  "Let's go on," Andrew said, urging Mercury into a brisk canter.

  Across the broad field that less than two weeks ago had been occupied by the Cartha they rode. Well over half his army, ten thousand men, and an equal number of Roum were arranged in a hundred groups. Rough outlines of ships, patterned after the captured Cartha quadriremes, were marked off with stakes, rows of benches lined up inside.

  Less than a thousand oars had been made so far. The rest were waving boards with weights on the end, and in more than one "ship" the men simply held their hands up going through the motions.

  "Oars?" Andrew asked, looking over at Mina, who awkwardly, rode with the group.

  Nervously dropping the reins, he pulled out the heavy sheaf of notes from the haversack dangling by his side.

  "Two hundred and ten yesterday."

  "We need eight thousand," Andrew snapped. "We've got only a thousand so far. You should be up to three hundred and fifty a day."

  "Andrew, I've got over a thousand men on it. It's the tools that are short. We've even got people using hand knives carving down the wood as fast as they drag it out of the forest."

  "Couldn't we shift some of it onto the sawmills?"

  "The mills are running twenty-four hours a day to supply the lumber for the ships. It's one or the other. The oars are more labor-intensive. Ship planks and ribs are best left to the machines."

  Andrew didn't say anything, just looked back out on the field at the men sweating under the noonday sun. It was a bizarre sight, the men lined up across a quarter square mile of field, moving back and forth rhythmically, the chants of the ship captains echoing, the incessant drumbeats marking the time.