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  It was the first time he had ever laid eyes upon the Cartha realm, and he could not conceal his admiration for the power of these cattle, their vast city making the Rus and the other realms of the Tugar march look small and weak by comparison.

  The city was laid out along the banks of the sea for several miles, the limestone walls and vast towering temples shining with a red brilliance by the light of the midmorning sun. Beyond the city he could see endless terraced fields, the hundreds of great water wheels that raised up the water from the sea forever turning by the strength of the tens of thousands who manned them.

  Around him a hundred ships rode low in the water, the rowers keeping a steady rhythmic beat, the oars dipping and lowering, the blades dripping with red crystalline light. Looking over his shoulder, Muzta could see the bent backs of the rowers in his own ship glistening with sweat, their muscles rippling. The sight of them made his stomach growl with hunger.

  "How many cattle in this realm?" he asked quietly.

  "Of the Carthas it is believed there are over four million," the Merki guide said evenly, a note of pride in his voice. "How many were there of the Rus?"

  Muzta looked at the warrior, who smiled evilly. Muzta turned away without comment.

  The throaty roar of a hundred nargas rent the air. Roused from his thoughts, Muzta looked to the shore as they passed between twin moles that marked the outer harbor of the city. As they entered the center of the bay he saw a channel turning off to the right and disappear, a line of smoke plumes rising up beyond where the channel turned. Directly ahead, a thousand of the Vushka Hush, the elite umen of the Merki horde, were arrayed along the walls of the harbor, battle pennants snapping.

  He felt cold inside, naked as he gazed upon their horsetail standards. They were here early, at least six months early, and it made him wonder if somehow the Bantag had been turned back and Jubadi now had strength to spare, to rush forward into this city. The small hope he held that perhaps the Carthas would rise up and give unto the Merki what he had received finally vanished. It was right to come here, he finally had to admit. For over a year he had evaded the searching probes of Jubadi; now there would be no stopping him.

  If I but still had such power, he thought sadly and then blocked the thoughts away.

  The steady beat of the rowers ceased. Commands in the high guttural tongue of the Cartha cattle echoed across the water as the ship cut in through the inner mole. In the vast inner circle rode yet another hundred ships, and even to someone untutored in the ways of the sea, Muzta could see that the vessels were freshly made, while up on the shore gangs of laborers worked on yet more ram ships.

  Curious, he looked about, but would not degrade himself further by asking yet another question. The purpose of the vessels was obvious, but against whom would they be used?

  The gates of the city were flung open, and as the ship drifted into its slip a thunder of drums rolled and a column of warriors rode out.

  Muzta gazed at them in silence with practiced eye, measuring their strength, sensing their power and arrogance.

  The ship tied off, Muzta leaped onto the dock, and watched in silence as a mount was led up to him. Climbing into the saddle, he suddenly found that he felt better, as if the horse between his legs somehow returned his strength. Absently he leaned over and patted the mount as he watched more and yet more warriors pour out of the gateway, lining the dockside with their commanding presence.

  "The Vushka Hush, hunting eagles of my lord Jubadi," the Merki officer announced with a growl of satisfaction, swinging his mount up alongside Muzta.

  "I know," Muzta snapped, "for I saw their standard-bearer struck down by the great Qubata at the battle of Orki."

  "And where is your Qubata, your Orkians, your score of umens now?" the Merki snarled back in reply. "What did the Yankees do to their bodies?" The Merki laughed, his features contorted with disdain.

  Mutza felt his heart trembling with rage. If he was being brought here for the purpose of humiliation he might as well end this farce now.

  "I am still Qar Qarth of my people," Muzta roared, turning in his saddle, his sword snapping from its sheath.

  The Merki warrior gazed at him with open hatred.

  "You were respectful enough when you came into my tent, offering this parley," Muzta shouted. "And now that I have come with you under the blood pledge of your Qar Qarth for my safety, now you hide beneath the swords of your warriors, and taunt me."

  The officer with cruel kicks spurred his mount around, drawing his blade.

  "Tugar, the cattle eat the flesh of your warriors. You are beneath my contempt. I soil my steel by drawing your blood."

  "Nartan, drop your blade!"

  Stunned, the Merki warrior looked away from Muzta, who now stood in his stirrups ready to strike. Muzta, hesitating, followed the Merki's gaze.

  Standing before the entry to the gate was a lone warrior, short in stature, his head barely reaching the shoulders of his nine-foot-high guards. His long arms rippled with power; his black shaggy hair glistened with a fresh coating of boiled cattle fat. Muzta knew without asking that before him was Jubadi Qar Qarth, master of the Merki hordes.

  Nartan, as if stricken, let the blade fall from his grasp, and it clattered on the stone dock, the high metallic ring the only sound to break the expectant hush that had fallen at the sight of the confrontation.

  "Pick up your blade and come forward to me," Jubadi roared.

  The warrior leaped from his saddle, scooped up his sword, and strode down the length of the dock, head high with defiance.

  "My orders were," Jubadi said coldly, "to bring unto me Muzta, Qar Qarth of the Tugar horde, without insult or injury. I expected it done in a third of the year. You have taken four times as long. Beneath the very shadow of my tent, which I had pledged to him as a place of safety, you have seen fit to bring insult to him and to me."

  Nartan stood silent.

  "Kill yourself," Jubadi said coldly.

  Nartan turned away and looked back at Muzta, icy hatred flashing in his eyes.

  Kneeling, he braced the pommel of his sword on the ground, poising the point directly under his ribs.

  "Tugar, watch how Merki obey and die," Nartan hissed, and without the briefest of hesitations he threw himself forward. Muzta, sword still in hand, watched, hiding his admiration, as the Merki continued to bear down, the gore-tipped blade punching through the back of his leather armor.

  No cry escaped his lips, as farther and farther the blade slid in. A convulsive tremor coursed through the Merki's body as a great gout of frothy blood cascaded from his mouth. Ever so slowly his knees started to tremble as the blade continued to drive through. Without a sound the body slid forward, slamming into the sword's handguard. The warrior was dead before his anguish-contorted face touched the ground.

  Without a glance to the still-trembling body before him, Jubadi rode past, coming up to the side of Muzta's mount.

  "Debt is paid for the insult," Jubadi said evenly.

  Muzta looked over at one whom he had once faced as an equal on the field of battle and now appeared before as a pauper.

  Without comment, Muzta leaned over, touching the tip of his blade into the pool of blood coursing out from under Nartan's body. He ran the flat of the blade across his horsehide boots and then sheathed his sword.

  "Though it has already been said," Jubadi announced with a high clear voice, "I ask you, Muzta Qar Qarth of the Tugar horde, to accept my blood pledge while you repose in my tent. Within the limitless domain of the Merki horde no harm will come unto you."

  "I come not with intent of death to you or to your people, as long as I tread beneath your pledge," Muzta announced, bristling inwardly at Jubadi's use of the word "limitless" in describing the Merki realms.

  This was the first time he had ever set eyes upon the one who until a year and a half ago he would have called his equal in power. Jubadi was shorter than he, but he could sense at a glance that in a one-to-one match Jubadi might very we
ll best him, so powerful were his arms. There was a sharp virility, a coiled strength that Muzta found to be unsettling. Muzta knew that his own experiences of the last year had changed him beyond measure as he looked from Jubadi's powerful arms to his own, which were now matted with graying hair. He looked back up into Jubadi's eyes and could sense the slightest of derisive thoughts, as if his rival could not take him all that seriously.

  Let him think it, Muzta cursed inwardly. If it were he that had come by my command I would feel the same. And in that realization Muzta for the first time felt the first calming, the understanding of a potential not yet even formed in his mind.

  Jubadi returned Muzta's gaze without comment. So this is the fool, he thought quietly. How one of the Chosen Race could have allowed such a disaster to befall him was beyond comprehension. For the briefest of moments he wished he could spit in Muzta's face for all that had happened. Yet without what had happened, Jubadi realized, the hope for the Merki to survive the advances of the Bantag horde would be nonexistent. The thinnest of smiles creased Jubadi's features.

  Jubadi turned his mount and started back to the gate, Muzta falling in beside him. Pausing between the two ceremonial fires that flanked the entryway into Cartha, the two leaned over in their saddles, bowing first to the east, the place of the never-ending ride, the direction that while living all of the Tugar, the Merki, and the far southern hordes of Bantag and Tamak rode. Turning, they bowed westward, to the direction of rest, the ending of day and of time, the pathway to the stars. Muzta silently prayed that even now, Qubata and all those who had fallen were riding that endless steppe of night, looking down upon him, whispering to him as he dream-walked the eternal realms.

  Crossing under the gate into the city, Muzta relaxed in the momentary coolness. These southern realms were too damn hot, and though the occasion demanded it, he wished he could have avoided wearing the heavy ceremonial armor, cattle-hide cape, and heavy war helmet adorned with four cattle skulls. The brief moment of coolness passed as they rode on into the city of cattle.

  The stench of it was so overpowering that Muzta struggled to keep from gagging. How cattle could live in such places had always been a mystery to him. They seemed to prefer living in their own stink rather than in the freshness of the open steppe.

  "How they can stand this smell is beyond me," Jubadi growled, wrinkling his nose with disdain.

  "They are cattle—they know no better," Muzta replied.

  As he looked about he saw no cattle present, and it stirred a thought.

  "You are here earlier than expected," Muzta ventured. "Were these cattle ready to receive you?"

  Jubadi smiled.

  "They were ready, though I am here only with one umen of my guard. The rest of my horde still marches seven months away."

  He paused for a moment.

  "They knew as well what had been done up north."

  Muzta had secretly hoped that the Carthas would rise against Jubadi, weakening him as he had been weakened. Could it be that Jubadi had hurried here to prevent such an action?

  "I have granted all of them exemption, except for the moon feast," Jubadi said evenly.

  Stunned, Muzta turned to look at his companion.

  "How will you survive?"

  "Better to tighten the belt than to see your host as corpses," Jubadi said coldly. "We eat horseflesh, I send raiding parties ahead of the Bantag advance to harvest cattle, but for the Carthas there is exemption."

  So there is something behind all of this, far more than I thought, Muzta mused. He knew that Jubadi would reveal the reasons soon enough, so he hid his curiosity behind a mask of indifference.

  Muzta looked to either side of the street, which was lined with the warriors of the Vushka standing shoulder to shoulder with double-handed swords before them, points resting on the ground, hands resting upon the pommels. Muzta looked at them appraisingly. They were good, battle-hardened, tough, many showing scars on limbs and face.

  "I hear your war with the Bantag goes poorly," Muzta ventured.

  "You hear correctly," Jubadi retorted, his voice edged with bitterness.

  "Such frankness surprises me," Muzta replied with a cold laugh.

  "It is a time for frankness between Merki and Tugar if we are to survive."

  So that's his game, Muzta thought, feeling the inner tension draining away at last. He needs me for something.

  Muzta settled back, waiting for more, feeling that he was gaining control of this situation, but Jubadi was silent as they rode on through the city. Passing into the central square of the city, Muzta looked around with open wonder at the wealth of these cattle. All the buildings were of carved stone, temples rising to the sky, fires burning atop them with a strange oily smoke. From the high parapets of a vast columned edifice he could see anxious cattle faces peering out, but the square was empty, except for the endless ranks of the Vushka. Cutting across the square, the two turned to ride northward, following the lane marked by the ranks of the guard.

  Panting for breath beneath the scorching heat, Muzta endured the ride in silence, as Jubadi led the way through narrow alleyways back again down toward the ocean.

  Muzta looked around, realizing that there was much new construction in this area, long shed structures of rough-cut stone and timber. From within came the sounds of incessant hammering. With a hissing roar a vast thundering column of sparks soared up out of an open-roofed building, and Muzta nervously reined his mount in. A heavy fetid smoke poured out of the building, and Muzta felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand out.

  Jubadi laughed darkly.

  "Just a bit farther," he said.

  Spurring his mount forward, Jubadi cantered down the length of the alleyway and disappeared around a bend in the road. Muzta could feel the sarcastic gaze of the Vushka warriors who still lined the road, and with a muffled curse he spurred his mount forward. Turning the bend in the road, he pulled his mount up beneath the gate out of the city and gasped out a startled cry.

  The great ship of the Yankees rested in the dockyard before him.

  Jubadi looked over as his companion leaned back and barked out a laugh.

  "You want to ask how, but your pride prevents you," Jubadi roared.

  Wordlessly Muzta slowly rode forward, guiding his nervous horse up onto the dockside. The ship looked different, lower in the water, its masts gone, but it was the damnable Yankee ship nevertheless. He was certain of it.

  Drawing closer, he eyed the vessel carefully, comparing what he now saw to the memory of the year before.

  The wooden sides of the ship had disappeared. In their place were black sheets of metal, skirting the sloping sides of the vessel from one end to the other. Small doors had been cut through the metal, and out of each opening a dark angry snout protruded—thundermakers of the Yankee warriors. But these were thundermakers beyond anything he had ever seen before. The opening in them was so big he could have slid his balled fist into it.

  He did not know whether to curse or laugh with joy at the sight of this weapon in Merki hands.

  "Muzta Qar Qarth, may I present the warrior of this ship," Jubadi announced, "and Hamilcar, ruler of the Carthas."

  Muzta turned in his saddle and looked down at the two cattle who, coming out of an opening in the side of the ship, stepped up to stand by Jubadi's side.

  The one man was not Keane, Muzta realized at a glance, and he felt a tug of regret. Keane was one he still wished to see again, though of late he found he could not decide what his reaction would be at that confrontation.

  This one was shorter, fat almost, with a florid face running with sweat. The uniform was different as well. It was the same blue as the Yankees wore, but longer in cut, reaching to the man's knees and adorned with golden lace and twin rows of buttons.

  The Cartha towered above the Yankee, his dark beard and hair oiled, his bare chest a mat of hair, almost like a Tugar's. Muzta could see the veiled caution in the eyes of the Cartha, but the Yankee seemed to have a smirking air of
triumph.

  "We have met before in battle," Tobias said, his words stumbling over the guttural intonations of the Merki tongue. The dialect was similar to Tugar, but to Muzta it sounded even stranger coming from the throat of a Yankee.

  "Your ship looks different now," Muzta replied sharply.

  "Now it is a true vessel of war," Tobias responded proudly.

  "Show him how you did this," Jubadi ordered

  Tobias led the way, pointing for Muzta to follow him down the dockside. Falling in behind the two cattle, Muzta looked over at Jubadi, who smiled openly.

  "Surprised?"

  "I would lie if I said otherwise," Muzta growled.

  Doubling back up the path which led down to the northern harbor, Muzta rode in silence. The path they had followed through the city had been cleared of all cattle, but he could sense that just on the other side the buildings were a hive of activity. Cattle voices were shouting, strange hammering sounds echoed, sparks soared up out of buildings, and above the rooflines of the vast sheds he could see the tops of great wooden wheels turning.

  Tobias and Hamilcar stopped before an arched doorway and beckoned for the two Qar Qarths to dismount. Muzta came down off his mount and drew up before the Yankee cattle, who looked up at him with that infuriating air of disdain.

  The doorway swung open, and Muzta gasped for breath with the rush of scorching heat that flooded out to greet him. He felt a knot of fear but held it in check as he bent low and walked into the hellish scene before him.

  The far side of the vast cavem was dominated by a high brick structure that filled one entire wall. The shed roof was open around it. A glaring red heat like the eye of the sun shimmered in the center of the wall.

  "Our iron kiln," Tobias announced. "We're getting three tons a day out of it.

  "Straight ahead is the furnace where we convert the pig iron into cast," and he pointed to where dozens of cattle, naked except for sweat-drenched loincloths, labored over a vast shimmering pit, stirring the molten metal with long metal rods.

  "It is a Yankee building for the making of metal," Muzta whispered out loud.

  Tobias looked back at him and smiled.