William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

“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.”