rebs, and nearly twice that here. It was leaving its mark: Though he was just barely forty, his hair was flecked with gray, his face lined and creased. He thought of himself as he was, the day before Antie-tam, and he seemed now to have been a child then, before the "seeing of the elephant," as the veterans called a recruit's first battle. Could he ever have been so young?
Antietam, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, he silently clicked off the names, Wilderness, Cold Harbor, Petersburg, the Peasant Rebellion, the First Tugar War, the Roum campaign, the naval battles before Suzdal, the incessant skirmishing of the winter campaign in the Shenandoah Hills, and now the next one, whatever its name would be—and in his gut he knew it was coming.
He turned his back to the rain and looked southward toward the vast open steppe, but there was hardly anything to be seen in the storm-swirled mists of early dawn. But he knew what it looked like, the vast open spaces that he found vaguely disturbing.
Was it because of the land, the endless, low, rolling hills that seemed to go on forever, so alien to one from New England? Or was it because of the threat that he knew waited out there, coiling up in its power, waiting for the weather to break and for the first grass of spring before it struck?
He knew they were coming, that was as undeniable as the rising of the bloodred sun. The intelligence that the bitter and near mad Hamilcar had returned with, from his raids down to Cartha, in a desperate bid to save at least some of his people, bore that out. The refugees coming back with him had told of the incessant preparations, the foundries turning out cannon and yet more cannon. Vast sheds were going up just on the other side of the Shenandoah Hills to house the flying machines. The Horde had wintered through at Cartha, nearly three quarter of a million of their people going into the pits as the Horde marshaled its strength, the umens maneuvering through the winter, practicing with their new weapons, freed from fighting against the Bantag, who even now were reported to be moving farther east.
The refugees also told of the feasting, of the hundreds of thousands who had been led to the slaughter pits. The age-old saying that "but two in ten would die for the tables of their masters" had long since lost any meaning, as if the Merki planned to devour all humans in their path.
They were coming, he realized, and this time it would be a fight to the death for one or the other, it would be a war of annihilation.
"You know, if Emil saw you out here like this, he'd die of apoplexy."
Andrew turned back into the driving rain and saw Hans Schuder standing behind him, a look of reproach in his eyes.
Andrew said nothing and turned away.
"How's the fever?" Hans asked, coming up to stand beside him.
"All right."
The mention of it made him realize just how sick he still felt. Despite Doctor Weiss's drive for sanitation, which had nearly eradicated the disease in Suzdal, typhoid was still a fact of life in army camps. He fought to suppress a shiver.
"Son, why don't you get back into your quarters where you belong? The train will be pulling in shortly, and you should be resting."
Andrew smiled sadly and looked over at his old mentor. Hans Schuder's dark eyes looked up at him through a face riven with deep-set lines, wreathed in a beard that had gone over to a bushy gray. Hans shifted uneasily, favoring the right leg a bit, the reminder of a rebel sniper before Cold Harbor. They both bore the souvenir of their profession, and for a brief moment he felt as if he could almost flex the fingers of his left hand. "The ghost limb," the old soldiers called it. Even though the arm was gone just above the elbow, there were times when it felt as if it was still there. He would absently reach out to touch the empty sleeve, half expecting that the long-lost limb, buried at Gettysburg, had somehow returned from the dust of another world.
He felt the compulsion but
Antietam, Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, he silently clicked off the names, Wilderness, Cold Harbor, Petersburg, the Peasant Rebellion, the First Tugar War, the Roum campaign, the naval battles before Suzdal, the incessant skirmishing of the winter campaign in the Shenandoah Hills, and now the next one, whatever its name would be—and in his gut he knew it was coming.
He turned his back to the rain and looked southward toward the vast open steppe, but there was hardly anything to be seen in the storm-swirled mists of early dawn. But he knew what it looked like, the vast open spaces that he found vaguely disturbing.
Was it because of the land, the endless, low, rolling hills that seemed to go on forever, so alien to one from New England? Or was it because of the threat that he knew waited out there, coiling up in its power, waiting for the weather to break and for the first grass of spring before it struck?
He knew they were coming, that was as undeniable as the rising of the bloodred sun. The intelligence that the bitter and near mad Hamilcar had returned with, from his raids down to Cartha, in a desperate bid to save at least some of his people, bore that out. The refugees coming back with him had told of the incessant preparations, the foundries turning out cannon and yet more cannon. Vast sheds were going up just on the other side of the Shenandoah Hills to house the flying machines. The Horde had wintered through at Cartha, nearly three quarter of a million of their people going into the pits as the Horde marshaled its strength, the umens maneuvering through the winter, practicing with their new weapons, freed from fighting against the Bantag, who even now were reported to be moving farther east.
The refugees also told of the feasting, of the hundreds of thousands who had been led to the slaughter pits. The age-old saying that "but two in ten would die for the tables of their masters" had long since lost any meaning, as if the Merki planned to devour all humans in their path.
They were coming, he realized, and this time it would be a fight to the death for one or the other, it would be a war of annihilation.
"You know, if Emil saw you out here like this, he'd die of apoplexy."
Andrew turned back into the driving rain and saw Hans Schuder standing behind him, a look of reproach in his eyes.
Andrew said nothing and turned away.
"How's the fever?" Hans asked, coming up to stand beside him.
"All right."
The mention of it made him realize just how sick he still felt. Despite Doctor Weiss's drive for sanitation, which had nearly eradicated the disease in Suzdal, typhoid was still a fact of life in army camps. He fought to suppress a shiver.
"Son, why don't you get back into your quarters where you belong? The train will be pulling in shortly, and you should be resting."
Andrew smiled sadly and looked over at his old mentor. Hans Schuder's dark eyes looked up at him through a face riven with deep-set lines, wreathed in a beard that had gone over to a bushy gray. Hans shifted uneasily, favoring the right leg a bit, the reminder of a rebel sniper before Cold Harbor. They both bore the souvenir of their profession, and for a brief moment he felt as if he could almost flex the fingers of his left hand. "The ghost limb," the old soldiers called it. Even though the arm was gone just above the elbow, there were times when it felt as if it was still there. He would absently reach out to touch the empty sleeve, half expecting that the long-lost limb, buried at Gettysburg, had somehow returned from the dust of another world.
He felt the compulsion but
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