William Forstchen - Men of War

He knew that if Tamuka should somehow win the argument, then it was over. Jurak would die, they would attack in a mad frenzy, and the Chin would unleash a massacre against hundreds of thousands in a final orgy of mutual destruction. Madness, to be so close and then have it all plunged back into madness.

“Kill them all!”

The world seemed to be shifting like sand swept away by a tidal wave. The lust was coming back. Jurak sat impassive, undoubtedly knowing he could not shout down the mad leader of the once great Merki.

“And kill this traitor from another world first!” Tamuka cried.

Hans barely understood the words, but he recognized the gesture as Tamuka dropped his reins and reached for a saddle-mounted holster. Like a snake striking, the revolver flashed out.

“No!”

Hans kicked his own mount forward. He saw the revolver going up, thumb cocking the trigger back. He fumbled with his own holster … and grabbed nothing but thin air. There was a flash memory of throwing it away after firing the last round. Time seemed to distort, he felt his heart thumping over, wondering if it was finally shattering. Or was it fear.

He saw the gun coming down, Tamuka squinting, one eye half-closed, the other sighting down the barrel, aiming it straight at Jurak. He caught a final glimpse of Jurak, knew the Bantag, at heart, was not a true combat soldier. He was reacting far too slowly, just then recognizing the danger, starting to recoil in anticipation of the crashing blow.

There was a final instant, a wondering, a sense that somehow this was a vast cosmic joke. This wasn’t Andrew, or Pat, or Emil, or even a simple Chin that he was trying to save. It wasn’t anyone, yet it was, as well, a warrior whom he had learned in the last few minutes to respect. He was someone who had offered an ending to the madness, a way out, a way for Tamira and the baby to live in peace … and that peace was about to die if Jurak died.

Time distorted, and he knew there was but one last thing he could do. Without hesitating Hans lunged forward across the neck of his horse. He saw the gaping maw of the revolver, the eye behind the barrel, face contorted in a mad scream … and then the flash.

“No!”

It was Jurak screaming, as Hans, lifted out of his saddle, tumbled over backwards and crashed to the ground. The dirty yellow-white smoke swirled in a cloud, and through the cloud he saw Tamuka. There was a momentary look of surprise that he had shot Hans, and then, even more enraging, a barking roar of delight.

Jurak drew his scimitar, blade flashing out, catching the light. He caught a momentary glance of those watching. This was now a blood challenge for control of the Bantag Horde. He raked his spurs, the pain in his leg forgotten. His mount leapt forward.

Tamuka, thumb on the hammer of his revolver, cocked the weapon and started to shift aim.

Screaming with a mad fury Jurak charged his mount straight into the flank of Tamuka’s horse. The revolver swung past his face, going off, the explosion deafening him, the flash of it burning his cheek.

Their eyes locked for a second. Even as he started his swing, there was a final instant, a flash of recognition. His rage, a rage which surprised him, for it was a mad fury over what had been done to a human, added strength to his blow.

The look in Tamuka’s eyes turned in that instant to disbelief as the blade sliced into his throat, driven with such force that it slashed clear through flesh, muscle, and bone.

Tamuka’s horse, terrified as a shower of hot blood cascaded over its back, reared and galloped off, ridden by a headless corpse still showering blood.

Jurak was blinded for an instant, not sure if he had somehow been wounded after all by the pistol shot. Then the mist started to clear as he blinked Tamuka’s blood out of his eyes.

He viciously swung his mount around, gaze sweeping the assembly, wanting to shout his rage at them, at all their insanity and bestiality. And in their eyes he saw something that had never quite been there before. It wasn’t just that he was their Qar Qarth. It was that he was their leader. Some went down on their knees, heads lowered.

Something snapped inside and he screamed incoherently at them, holding his bloody scimitar aloft. More went down on their knees; within seconds all were down, heads bowed.

He reined his horse around and looked down. Cursing wildly, he swung off his mount. As he hit the ground his broken ankle gave way and with a gasp of pain he went down on his knees. None dared to rise to help him.

He slowly stood back up and limped the half dozen paces over to where Hans lay. Looking up he saw humans, hundreds of them, running up, led by the dark Zulu. He held up his sword so they could see it, then threw it down by the severed head of Tamuka. The humans slowed, the Zulu turning, shouting a command. They stopped, and, alone, Ketswana came forward.

Jurak knelt down by Hans’s side, Ketswana joining him.

“I’m sorry,” Jurak gasped. “And thank you for my life.”

Hans looked up. Strange, no pain. The dark specter who had trailed his every step across all the years, and all the worlds, had him in hand at last, and, surprisingly, there was no pain.

Still he wondered why he had done it. Was it because I knew I was dying anyhow?

No.

A gallant gesture then? And he wanted to laugh over the irony of it, but no laughter came.

He saw them gazing down. Jurak was saying something, but he couldn’t hear him. He saw Ketswana, tears streaming down his face. He tried to reach up, to wipe them away, as if soothing a child, but for some strange reason his arm, his hands would no longer obey.

They were kneeling side by side, and he fully understood what it was he had been fighting for all along, and what he was now dying for. And he was content.

Then they slipped away … and Hans Schuder smiled as they disappeared into a glorious light.

Exhausted, he stood alone, watching as the sun touched the horizon.

The last of the gunfire died away and he felt cold, alone, empty. Throughout the long day the square had slowly contracted inward, drawing closer and yet closer after each successive charge until the backs of the surviving men were almost touching.

The ground was carpeted with the dead and dying, tens of thousands of Bantag and humans tangled together.

If ever there was a killing ground of madness, this was it. He stood atop the low rise of ground, watching as half a dozen ironclads, the survivors of the daylong fight wove their way up the hill, maneuvering slowly, looking for an open path through the carnage.

The lead machine ground to a halt fifty yards short of the square, the turret popped open, and he saw Gregory stiffly climb out then half slide, half fall to the ground. He looked at the other machines. St. Katrina ? No, he had seen that one blow up … the gentle gardener was dead, and Vincent blinked back the tears.

Walking like a marionette with tangled strings, Gregory slowly made his way up the hill. The men around Vincent parted at his approach.

Coming to attention he saluted. Vincent, exhausted beyond words, merely nodded in reply.

“They’re leaving,” Gregory announced, his voice slurring.

“What?”

“What’s left of them, the poor damned bastards. They’re mounting up now, heading north.”

Even as he spoke there was a ripple of comments along the battered line. Vincent looked past Gregory and saw a lone rider appear on the next rise half a mile away. The Bantag rider stood out sharply against the horizon. He held a horse tail standard aloft.

He waved it back and forth and Vincent watched, mesmerized. The Horde rider slammed it down, the shaft sinking into the earth. The rider held a clenched fist aloft and he could hear a distant cry, desolate, mournful. Vincent stepped out from the battered square, removed his kepi, and held it aloft.