William Forstchen - Men of War

“Knocked down by an explosion. It is nothing,” he lied.

Jurak stared at him and Hans wondered if the ability to see into the thoughts of others was with this one. He realized he had to be careful, to stay focused.

“Though enemies, we must talk,” Hans announced.

He felt light-headed, knew that Jurak was in pain as well. Finally, he motioned to the ground. Jurak nodded and, with leg extended, sat down, Hans making it a point of not waiting to be invited to sit as well.

“You’ve lost,” Hans said.

“Today yes, but not tomorrow. I have two more umens arriving by train even now.”

He waited, forming his words carefully so as to not imply that Jurak was lying and therefore automatically dishonorable.

“My eyes see differently,” he finally said.

“And what is it that your eyes see that mine do not?”

Hans looked straight at him. Less than an hour ago he assumed it was lost. They had damaged the Horde, perhaps fatally, but it would still be lost for him and his comrades. Now there was a glimmer of light.

Again the flutter of pain, but he ignored it. Even if I don’t survive this day, those whom I love will.

He tried to pierce into the mind, the heart of Jurak. The Horde believed their shamans could read into the souls of others. Andrew claimed it was true as well, having resisted the leaders of the Tugar and Merki Hordes. He, in turn, had been in the presence of Tamuka and Ha’ark. There was something about Tamuka that had been coldly troubling, a sense that he could indeed see.

As for Ha’ark, he was simply a warrior. A shrewd one at times but nevertheless easy to pierce. There was something about this one, though, that was different yet again.

Hans reached into his haversack, Jurak’s gaze fluttering down. Hans slowly withdrew the small piece of tobacco and bit off a chew. There was a soft grumbling chuckle from Jurak.

“Now I remember,” Jurak said. “You chewed that dried weed. Disgusting.”

Hans could not help but laugh softly as well.

He continued to stare at Jurak. As with most of the Horde there was no discomfort in silence, the feeling that one needed to fill the emptiness. As horse nomads they were a race long accustomed to silence, to days of endless riding alone.

The air reverberated around them, distant explosions, the chatter of a Gatling. From the west the shriek of an approaching steam train, the neighing of horses, guttural cries of mounted warriors. Hans looked up. Less than half a mile away he could see a knot of them forming up, the fallen standard of the Horde held aloft again as a rally point. They most likely knew that their Qar Qarth was fallen; he wondered if they knew that he was still alive and a prisoner.

A Hornet circled in on the forming ranks, opening fire, scattering them.

Hans looked over his shoulder. Several hundred men were gathered behind him, watching in open awe and curiosity.

“Jack, do you have some sort of signal to tell those flyers to cease fire? And Ketswana, I think they understand a white flag. Get some men out there, men who can speak Bantag. We’re not surrendering, but we are offering a cease-fire. Tell them we have their Qar Qarth.”

He looked back at Jurak who sat, features unreadable. That has always been one of the damned problems with dealing with them, he thought. Can’t read their faces, their subtle gestures; it’s like dealing with a statue of stone.

“I am telling my men to stop firing while we talk,” Hans said.

Jurak nodded, then looked around. Groups of Chin were wandering about the battlefield. Whenever they spotted a wounded Bantag they closed in with shouts of rage, and of glee and fell to tormenting him before finishing it with a bayonet thrust or a crushing blow to the head.

“And Ketswana!”

His comrade came up to his side, looking down at him, eyes still filled with concern.

“I’m doing fine now. But tell our people to stop that,” Hans said in the language of the Bantag. He nodded to where, less than fifty yards away, a mob of Chin had fallen on a Bantag warrior. “It’s despicable. This is a cease-fire, damn it, not an opportunity for a massacre. I want our people to halt where they are and hold. The wounded are to be left alone; if they can get out on their own, let them pass.”

“Their blood’s up,” Ketswana replied in the same language, his voice filled with bitterness. “It’s time to remember and take vengeance. They wouldn’t offer us mercy if it was you who were now prisoner.”

“And that’s what’s different between us,” Hans shouted, the effort of it leaving him dizzy and out of breath.

Ketswana’s gaze locked on Jurak. He finally nodded, formally saluted Hans, and ran off, shouting orders.

“Are we really so different?” Jurak asked.

“I would like to think we are, at least when it comes to how we wage war.”

“And tell me, Hans. After all this, after all the thousands of years of this, if your race gains the upper hand, can we expect any different?”

“I can’t promise anything,” Hans replied. “For myself, yes. For those who’ve lived here all their lives, who know nothing different. I don’t know.”

“So we shall continue to fight. Kill me if you wish. But I was always an outsider. Few will truly miss me. I was Qar Qarth because they were afraid of you and believed in Ha’ark, who claimed we were sent by the gods. They will select one of their own blood to continue the fight.”

“What I assumed,” Hans replied wearily.

There was a long blast of a steam whistle. Looking over his shoulder, he saw a train easing to a stop. Shocked, he saw that Seetu, one of Ketswana’s men was leading them. They had actually made it all the way from Xi’an. Dismounting from the locomotive, hundreds of Chin, all of them armed with Bantag rifles, jumped down from the string of flatcars and formed up.

“They’re from Xi’an,” Hans announced proudly, “and there will be thousands more.”

Jurak said nothing.

If what Jurak said was true, Hans realized, it would simply go on. He might have saved the Chin, but who would be next after that? And so the war would continue.

“You said your eyes did not see-my new umens,” Jurak said, interrupting Hans’s thoughts.

Hans looked back at him absently rubbing his left shoulder.

“I know enough of cat …” Jurak quickly stopped, “of humans to know you are ill.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“It is your heart, isn’t it?”

Surprised, Hans nodded.

“You are very ill, Hans Schuder.”

“Not too sick to see this through to the end.”

Jurak laughed softly.

“Ha’ark once told me you were indomitable. I remember once telling him that if he sensed that in you, perhaps it was best to kill you before you created trouble.”

“One of his many mistakes,” Hans said with a soft laugh.

“Yes. I know.”

“What do I see that your eyes do not?” Hans replied.

“I know two umens were brought up by rail last night from Nippon. It must have taken near to every locomotive and piece of rolling stock within three hundred leagues to do that. Even if you had half a dozen umens in Nippon, it will still take you two days to turn those trains around, run them north, load them up, then another two days to bring them all back.

“As you can see, I now control the rail line between here and Xi’an.”

Jurak looked past Hans and nodded.

“I will not speak an untruth. I don’t know how they got through. Perhaps they control the line. Perhaps you had few if any warriors between here and Xi’an to stop them.” Jurak was silent for a moment.

“Obviously not enough to stop them.”

“We captured supplies in Xi’an. Powder, artillery, guns.” He hesitated, remembering the barges of ammunition exploding. “Millions of cartridges, thousands of shells, even some of your steamships and land ironclads.