William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

“You made sure in the treaty that we could not. Remember, we are denied the ability to make such weapons.”

“What the hell else were we supposed to do? If the roles were reversed, I daresay you would have not been so generous. It would have been all of us to the slaughter pits.”

As he spoke his face turned red, anger rising to the surface. “Yes,” Jurak replied quietly. “My people would have demanded such a thing, for both of us realize a fundamental point now. Only one race will survive on this world.”

“Sir, it does not have to be that way.”

Both of them looked at Abraham Keane, who throughout the conversation had stood in respectful silence behind Vincent.

Vincent started to make an angry remark, but Jurak extended his hand. “Indulge him. Besides, he is the son of Keane. Go on, boy, speak.”

Abraham blushed. “Sir, my father has often said that his hope was that somehow we could finally learn to coexist, side by side.”

“And you believe this?”

“I want to.”

“I know enough of your father to believe him and you, at least as to what you might wish.”

“It is what many of us wish,” Vincent interjected. “Wishes, always wishes,” Jurak replied sharply. “I must deal this winter with facts.”

“We could send food to you.”

“Ahh, so now we are reduced to beggary. Should we come to the depot and bow in thanks? Suggest that to my warriors up on the ridge and see what they say. They would choose one of two things in reply to that: either cut their own throats or cut yours. The Ancestors would spit upon them for such an infamy.”

“You are telling me, then, that there will be war?” Vincent asked.

Jurak leaned back and closed his eyes, then finally shook his head.

“No. But I am telling you that unless something changes, no matter what we desire, things will become impossible. Either we are allowed to expand our range to new lands, or we starve. No other alternative you suggest can work.”

“And that is what I am to carry back to Congress?”

“Tell your Congress to come to our encampments and see the starvation. Then ask them what is to be done.”

“Jurak, I hope you know enough about me to know that I will honestly tell them the truth regarding your situation.”

Jurak nodded. “Yes, I believe you will.”

“But I promise nothing. I will suggest expansion to the north. It is land belonging to the Nippon, which is still open range. They are very testy about such issues, but if we could give you access to the Great Northern Forest, there is game aplenty there. Perhaps that might help.”

“For the present at least.” Jurak’s voice was cool, distant.

Vincent shifted uncomfortably, and Jurak could sense that he wanted to talk about something else.

He nodded to his son, who refilled his goblet with kumiss.

“We’ve had reports,” Vincent continued.

“Of what?”

“The Kazan.”

Jurak looked straight ahead, wondering how his son was reacting. His gaze focused on Keane’s son, standing behind Hawthorne. The boy was staring straight at him, penetrating pale blue eyes that, if of the Bantag, would mark him as a spirit walker.

Somehow he sensed that the boy knew, and it was disquieting.

Hawthorne looked back over his shoulder at Keane. “Abraham, could you fetch that item you’re carrying for me?”

The boy stirred and turned away.

Abraham Keane opened the saddlebag on his mount. As he reached inside, he looked back at Jurak, who was still staring at him.

Something is bothering him, Abraham thought. All of the Qar Qarth’s attention was focused on him.

Why?

He pulled out the package, wrapped in an oil-soaked wrap, and brought it up to Vincent, who motioned for him to open it. Untying the binding, Abraham laid the cloth open. He picked up the revolver, the bulk of it so large that he felt he should hold it with two hands.

The steel was burnished to an almost silver gleam, and the grips were made of ivory. It was not an old cap and ball weapon from the war, but a cartridge-loaded weapon, the cylinder holding eight rounds of a heavy caliber. As he held it forth, he looked again at Jurak.

Abraham wondered what it would be like to do what his father had done. More than once his father had leveled a revolver into the face of one of the Horde riders and fired, so close, he had heard veterans say, that their manes had burst into flames.

What was it like to kill? he wondered.

Jurak stared at him, the flicker of a smile crossing his features. “Ever been in battle, boy?”

The words were a deep grumble, spoken in the slave dialect, which was taught at the academy to young cadets who would be assigned to the cavalry on the frontier.

“No, sir.”

“Your father killed scores of my warriors with his own hands.”

“I know.”

“Does that make you proud of him?”

Abraham hesitated.

“Speak with truth.”

Abraham nodded. “It was war. Your race would have destroyed, devoured mine. He’s told me he fought so that I would grow up safe, which I have.”

Jurak laughed softly. “He did it for more than that. He did it because he loved it.”

Abraham shifted uncomfortably, gun still in his hands, pointed not quite at Jurak but in his general direction.

What does this one know of me, of my father? Abraham wondered. Is it true that my father did love it, that he gloried in it? He thought of Pat O’Donald, of William Webster, who was now secretary of the treasury and holder of the Medal of Honor for leading a charge. And he thought of the few others of the old 35 th Maine and 44th New York who were still alive, who would come to the house in the evening and never did a night pass when they did not talk of “the old days.” Always there’d be that gleam in their eye, the sad smiles, the brotherhood that no one else could possibly share. Is that what they love, the memories of it? Or was this leader of a fallen race correct, that they loved it for the killing?

“Did you love it as well?” Abraham asked. “I heard it said that after you defeated us at Capua, you rode before your warriors carrying one of our battle standards, standing tall in your stirrups, acknowledging the cheers of your warriors. Did you love that moment?”

Jurak, caught off guard, let his gaze drop for a second. Hawthorne, who had been watching the exchange, reached out and took the heavy revolver from Abraham’s grasp and inverted it, holding the stock toward Jurak.

“Go ahead, take it.”

Jurak, smiling, accepted the revolver, hefted it, half cocked the weapon and spun the cylinder. He raised it up, pointing it toward the flyer, which still buzzed overhead. “A gift?” Jurak asked.

“No, a return.”

Jurak laughed softly. “You speak in riddles, Hawthorne.”

“I think you know what I mean, Qar Qarth Jurak.”

“Then enlighten me.”

“This weapon was taken from one of your dead after the fight at Tamira. You can see it’s of the finest craftsmanship. Its precision, according to my designer of armaments, exceeds anything we could now make. It is obvious it is not an old weapon left over from our war.”

“So?”

“Where did it come from?”

“You said it was looted from one of my dead.”

“A commander of ten thousand as near as we could figure out from his uniform and standard.”

Jurak was silent.

“It is either one of two things, Jurak. First, if you are now making such things, it is in violation of our treaty.”

“You, however, can make whatever machines that please you,” Garva interjected, voiced filled with anger. He stepped up to his father’s side. Nearly as tall as his sire, he looked down menacingly at Abraham.

Abraham struggled for control, not willing to let this one see fear, and yet he suddenly did feel afraid. It had a primal edge, as if he were confronting a terrifying predator in the dark. He suddenly wondered if this one had ever tasted human flesh, and he knew with a frightful certainty that if given the chance, Garva would do such a thing without hesitation.