Down to the Sea Read online

  “My lord, if he is alive, we will find him.”

  Emperor Yasim tu Zartak was silent, icy gaze sweeping the sea. A flyer hummed past, skimming low across the water, heading into the darkness.

  Yasim lowered his head. He was exhausted. A moon ago all would have thought him dead and his brother’s star in its final ascendancy to zenith. And then everything had changed. In the end, all it had taken was a bribe—a bribe that had emptied his coffers and indebted him for life to the Order. It was that or defeat, and though one was barely preferable to the other, still it was a victory.

  He looked back at his bridge crew. All stood silent, respectful…and in awe of what had transpired this day; the climax of a generation of war.

  The fleet of the Blue Banner, what was left of it, was burning. As for the Yellow, a blade in Sar’s back had settled that issue—yet another bribe. Half the Yellow had lowered their flags, switching colors to the Red. The other half had fled into the darkness.

  It had all seemed so effortless, and none knew its true cost: The pledges made to the Grand Master. He smiled sadly, the cost, perhaps the throne itself; a price that would empty the imperial coffers for a hundred years, all that just for two blades in two backs. Granted, a few hundred others had died, or would die in the days to come. It would all be so seamless; done with a certain elegance.

  Would the Grand Master rest with this victory? Would he be content, or would he now reach for the throne as well? Surely he would not sit back and expect nothing; not after the price exacted.

  With the riches paid, the estates transferred, what force could the Grand Master marshal? An entire fleet perhaps? There were mercenaries enough out there. Half of his fleet was hired through the Shiv, and they could change sides again tomorrow.

  No. The war was far from over, he realized. The Banners of the Green, the White, the Black—they might pledge to the throne for the moment, but what was the game behind them?

  The flare on the distant horizon winked out.

  “I wonder why they fired a star shell?” someone on the bridge whispered.

  The emperor ignored the breach of etiquette. Time enough later to find out who had dared to raise a question in his presence and punish him accordingly.

  They wondered if Hanaga had escaped after all. Unlikely; it was the second to the Grand Master himself who had been assigned the task of killing. An interesting choice. Undoubtedly the Grand Master wished as well to eliminate a rival to his own power. Yet someone had indeed transferred from the flagship of his brother. It was not his brother. His inner sense told him that his brother was dead.

  With a sharp clarity of insight, a clarity that had saved him more than once, the new emperor of the Kazan understood at least part of the puzzle, and smiled.

  FOUR

  General of the Armies Vincent Hawthorne shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, absently rubbing his left hip, which always troubled him when he rode.

  “You wish to take a break, sir?”

  Vincent looked over at his adjutant, Lieutenant Abraham Keane, and smiled. The boy was shaping up just fine, still a bit too eager to please, but, then again, young lieutenants fresh out of the academy tended to be like that.

  He had his father’s lanky frame, long-limbed, narrow chest, high cheekbones, full lips, and, unfortunately, his father’s weak eyes, which required thick glasses. But he had inherited as well his mother’s Irish red hair. To look at him was somehow a reminder of himself of thirty years ago, when the world was new, the wars had yet to come, and youth seemed eternal.

  “Not much farther, Lieutenant. The Bantag have spotted us, so we might as well press on in.”

  Abraham nodded, removing his campaign hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. Vincent knew the boy’s canteen was empty, and he was tempted to offer a sip from his own, but decided against it. Good to let him suffer a bit and learn. The old veterans behind them expected their officers, no matter how young, to be as tough as they were.

  Vincent looked back over his shoulder at the regiment following him, riding in columns of four. It was a grand sight, trailing back across the open steppes, hot dry wind whipping the guidons, dust boiling away from the column, sweeping off to the distant horizon.

  Their dark blue sack coats, khaki trousers, and black knee-high boots were obscured by the thick layer of dust.

  Most of the men had their bandannas covering their mouths so that only their eyes were visible.

  He had a flash memory of the final battle of the war; the vast open ground, the limitless sky overhead and the thundering charge of the Bantag Horde.

  A few of the men behind him had been there, though most were like Abraham, new to the ranks, enduring military service at one of the isolated outposts ringing the Hordelands. For twenty years it had been thus, twenty-five outposts ringing the million and a half square miles assigned to the defeated Hordes at the end of the Great War. The duty was tough: patrolling the range, ensuring that the Horde stayed within its territory, maintaining an uneasy peace between two races that had known nothing but hatred and conflict for thousands of years.

  Those who had once been the masters of this world had finally tasted bitter defeat, and only a fool would assume that they did not harbor a dream of returning the world to what it had once been.

  A distant hum caught his attention. Shading his eyes against the noonday sun, Vincent caught a glimpse of an aerosteamer lazily circling. Signaling for the column to change direction, he headed toward the steamer, knowing that it marked the destination of this, his annual trek into the Bantag Range.

  Eager anticipation showed on young Keane’s face, and Vincent smiled.

  “This is your first ride out here, isn’t it?” he asked.

  ‘ “Yes, sir. I’ve never seen a Horde encampment before, just a few hunting parties.”

  “During the first battle of Suzdal, the Tugars camped all along the hills east of town where the new city now is. The golden yurt of old Muzta—now, there was a sight—must have been fifty yards across. Their tents stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a grand and terrible sight.”

  He looked over at Abraham. God, how the years have passed. That seemed just like yesterday. It was colored, though, by the haze of memory. It was hard to remember the sheer terror; the umens drawn up, the thundering chants, the rhythmic pounding of scimitars on shields that so strangely sounded like the approach of a freight train.

  And the terror of the charge. The way they came on like a hurricane, oblivious to loss.

  Abraham knew none of that. All he would know would be the legends, the memories, the Decoration Day and Victory Day parades, where aging veterans gathered with his father, the Colonel, to remember the fallen and march in review, then retire to the nearest tavern to expand upon the stories and memories of old.

  The losers, though, what did they now remember? Vincent wondered. Like Prometheus, they were chained to the rock of memory, tormented by the dream of greatness lost.

  He looked back again at the column. Only a couple of them, mostly the older NCOs, had fought at Suzdal, Hispania, Rocky Hill, or the Liberation of the Chin. Some had seen a few minor skirmishes, really nothing more than shoot-outs with an occasional drunken band of Bantags, where two or three were killed on either side and then a flurry of protests and accusations would follow. He wondered how these boys would fare if they suddenly faced not a few drunks, but instead a tidal wave; a full umen filling the horizon ahead, sunlight flickering on drawn blades, the sky overhead turning black as night as volleys of arrows, hissing like snakes, rained down upon them.

  Riding through a dried riverbed, he urged his mount up a steep embankment, grunting with pain as he leaned forward. His old wound had never really healed, and even after twenty years he still had to change the protective pad that covered the hole drilled into him by a Bantag bullet. Splinters of bone still worked their way out and only last month Kathleen had been forced to operate yet again to withdraw a particularly painful fragment.

  He kn
ew she had most likely told her boy to keep a careful watch on him, and Abraham was doing his part, riding beside him, close enough to offer a supportive hand if he should start to lose his grip on the saddle.

  He waved the boy off.

  As he crested the riverbank he felt more than heard a distant thunder. The sound instantly sent a cold shiver down his back. It was unmistakable, a deep resonant rumble. His mount pricked up her ears, slowing, tossing her head up to catch the scent of the wind. He’d caught it as well; a mingling of horse, leather, and the musky stench unique to those of the Horde.

  He reined about, looking back at his column. The tail of it was still on the far side of the dust-filled riverbed. Some of the men were looking up, a few reaching down to unsnap the holster covers for their carbines.

  Looking back at the rise of ground ahead he saw them. Visible first were the horsetail standards held aloft. Within seconds, across a front of half a mile they had appeared, a line of Horde riders advancing at a steady trot, silent, silhouetted against the yellow-blue horizon.

  “My God,” Abraham whispered.

  Vincent looked over at him and smiled. “Only a regiment. Just a little show, nothing more. Ride back, tell the troop commanders that all weapons are to remain hol-stered. We don’t want any mistakes. Order the regiment to remain on this side of the riverbank and deploy. Then report back to me.”

  Abraham hesitated for a second, gaze locked forward, mouth gaping at the display.

  “Go on, boy, see to your duty. There’s not going to be a war today. If there was, it’d be a full umen coming at us at a gallop.”

  Abraham, recovering, snapped off a proper salute and reined about.

  Vincent continued forward, ordering his guidon bearer and bugler to follow, urging his mount to a slow trot. The Bantag came to a stop at the crest of the ridge, the wind whipping the horsetails of the Qar Qarth’s standard. He had learned some of their ways over the years and identified the banner as that of the first regiment of the umen of the white horse, the elite personal guard of their Qar Qarth. Here were the best of them, the victors at Port Lincoln and Capua, bled out in the siege of Roum, defiant, however, to the bitter end. Their ranks, like his, were now filled with the sons of those who had survived the war.

  Lieutenant Keane rode up to join him. Like an eager child, he was hoping to be invited along. Vincent hesitated for a second. This was, after all, the only surviving son of Andrew Lawrence Keane.

  Political considerations however, swayed him. The one he was going to meet had a grudging respect for Andrew, and it wouldn’t hurt to have the boy along. He nodded his consent. Abraham broke into a boyish grin, but then, remembering that he was a newly minted officer out of the academy, instantly assumed the proper look of stern forthrightness.

  “Abraham, you can carry my guidon.”

  Vincent looked over at his bugler.

  “Ruffles and flourishes, Sergeant.”

  The high piercing call sent a chill down his spine. Looking up at the line of Bantags, he half wished it was the call for charge instead. He smiled inwardly. Old memories, old hatreds, and passions, die hard. He had been seasoned by war, bitterly scarred by it, and yet after all these years the dark coiled longing for it lingered in his soul.

  The words of Robert E. Lee whispered to him: “It is good war is so terrible, else we would grow too fond of it.” The deep, throaty rumble of a narga, the Horde battle trumpet, echoed back in reply. He saw two figures separate from the Bantag line, a rider followed by a standard bearer.

  With a gentle nudge he urged his mount to a canter and started up the hill to meet Jurak, Qar Qarth of the vanquished Horde of the Bantag.

  Qar Qarth Jurak reined in for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the steppes, focusing on the antlike column deploying across the streambed below. They glanced at the flyer circling overhead.

  “Damn them,” he whispered softly.

  “My Qarth?”

  He looked over at his son, who today was serving as his aide, and smiled. “Nothing, Garva. Just remember, stay silent and observe.”

  The lad nodded eagerly, and Jurak felt a stab inside. The boy’s mother had died during the winter of the breathing sickness, which had swept through the impovished camps, killing thousands. He had her eyes, the set of her jaw, the proud visage, and to look at him triggered memories that were still too painful to recall.

  “Is that their Qarth?” Garva asked, nodding toward the two that were approaching.

  “General of their armies, Vincent Hawthorne.”

  “He is tiny. How can that be a general?”

  “He’s one of their best. Remember, he defeated us. Never judge an enemy by physical strength. Always consider the mind. Now, be silent.”

  Over a year passed since he had last seen Hawthorne. Hawthorne’s hair was showing wisps of gray, and by the way he rode it was obvious that he was in pain. He looked even smaller on his diminutive mount. The humans had been breeding their mounts for a size that fit them better. Their horses now looked almost toylike.

  Vincent reined in a dozen feet away, stiffened, and formally saluted. “Qar Qarth Jurak, you are well?”

  His command of the language was good. It was obvious he had been studying.

  “I am well, General Hawthorne, and you?”

  Vincent smiled. “A reminder of the old days troubles me.” He absently patted his hip. “I heard the sad news of your mate’s passing and bring the regrets of Colonel Keane.”

  “Thousands died,” Jurak replied. “Some see it as a sign of the displeasure of the ancestors.”

  Vincent nodded. He stiffly swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted. It was an interesting gesture, Jurak thought, for the first to dismount was acknowledging subservience, and he wondered if Vincent knew that.

  There was a slight grunt of amusement from Garva, but a quick glance stilled him.

  Jurak dismounted as well and came forward. For an awkward moment, the two gazed at each other, the small general of the humans, who were the victors in the Great War, the towering Qar Qarth of the Bantag Horde looking down. He let the moment draw out. Humans tended to be frightened when a Horde rider stood close, and they were forced to gaze up at dark, impenetrable eyes. Hawthorne did not flinch. His gaze was steady, and a flicker of a smile creased his mouth.

  He finally broke the silence. “We can stand here all day and play this game, Jurak, or we can sit down and talk like two civilized leaders.”

  Jurak laughed softly and looked back at his son. “Something to eat and drink, Garva.”

  Without ceremony, Jurak sat down on the hard ground.

  The scent of crushed sage washed up around him, a pleasant smell: crisp, warm, ladened with memories.

  Hawthorne’s aide dismounted as well, unclipping a folding camp chair from behind Vincent’s saddle and bringing it up.

  “Hope you don’t mind that I use a chair,” Vincent asked. “At least then we can see eye to eye, and it’s a bit easier on me.”

  Jurak nodded, realizing that Vincent was aware of the implications of sitting higher in the presence of the Qar Qarth.

  Garva brought forward a jar filled with kumiss and two earthen mugs. Pouring the drinks, he handed them over. Jurak dipped his finger into the mug and flicked droplets to the four winds and then to the earth before drinking.

  As he did so, his gaze fell on Vincent’s aide. The boy was watching him, fascinated. There was something vaguely familiar to Jurak.

  “Jurak, may I introduce Lieutenant Abraham Keane, who is serving as my adjutant.”

  “Your sire, then, is Andrew Keane?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You come from good blood. How is your father?”

  “Well, sir. He asked that I convey to you his personal respects, and his regrets as well for the passing of your mate.”

  Jurak nodded his thanks. “We both know pain, your sire and I. You are his only surviving son, are you not?”

  “Yes, Qar Qarth Jurak.”

 
“Interesting that he became your—how do you call it— your president yet again. Does he enjoy such power?”

  “No, sir. It was never his desire to hold that rank.”

  Jurak smiled. “All of ability desire power.”

  “And I assume your aide is your son?” Vincent interrupted.

  Garva stiffened, and then formally nodded with head slightly bowed.

  Jurak, caught by surprise, said nothing.

  “I could see your blood in him. Tell me, do you desire power, son of the Qar Qarth?”

  “Of course,” Garva replied stiffly. “When my sire goes to our ancestors, I shall rule as he did.”

  “And how shall that be?” Vincent asked. “How shall you rule?”

  Jurak looked over at his son, eyes filled with warning “Justly,” Garva replied coolly.

  “Yes, your father has been just.”

  “To whom?” Jurak asked. “Just to your people or to mine?”

  “There has been no war for twenty years. I think that is a worthy accomplishment.”

  “No war. Define war, Vincent Hawthorne.”

  “I don’t need to do that for you. We both know what it is.”

  “Let us get, as you humans say, ‘down to business.’ ” Vincent nodded.

  “I received your listing of complaints—the incident at Tamira’s Bridge, the refusal of passage to the Nippon settlers, the supposed raids, the disappearance of two flyers, the rumors of raids to take prisoners for the moon feast, and all the other allegations.”

  “You may call them allegations. I attended the funeral of the thirty-two men killed at Tamira, and their dead bodies were not allegation but fact. As to the incident where a dozen Chin settlers disappeared, by God, if they were sacrificed, I will have one hell of a problem restraining Congress from ordering a punitive expedition. Remember, the Chin are the single largest voting block, and they are screaming bloody murder over this rumor.”

  “Fifty-three of my riders died at Tamira,” Jurak replied, choosing to ignore the issue of the Chin, “and the question is who shot first. We both have our own answers to that.”