"A shadow's moving over the ironclad."

Jack looked back to see the sailors. Some were standing, pointing straight up, others scattering, pushing to get into the gunports. The captain stood alone, revolver drawn, pointing it straight up and firing.

Swinging around to the east, putting the wind at their back, Yankee Clipper II Yankee Clipper II raced off, two Merki ships above and only a hundred yards astern. raced off, two Merki ships above and only a hundred yards astern.

Reining in hard, Tamuka Qar Qarth came to the top of the rise, a shout of exultation escaping him. Turning, he looked back to the line of warriors riding up behind him and pointed forward.

"There they are!"

At last, dammit, at last, the long chase finished.

He leaped down from his mount, stretched, pulled the water bag from his saddle, and took a deep draft. Grabbing a small bucket clipped to his saddlebag, he poured the rest of the water into it and held the bucket up to his horse, which drank the water greedily.

His standard-bearer rode up beside him, followed seconds later by the silent ones, the message riders, and Sarg. The old shaman was swaying from exhaustion.

To the north he saw the long line of riders, stretching to the far horizon, coming up over the crest with a splendid precision. To the south, on the other side of the iron rail tracks, the view was the same. He had wanted it that way. A full umen, ten thousand riders, to appear at once covering a front of five leagues, to show the cattle the precision and control of the horde.

He let the bucket drop and pulled the far-seeing glass out of his saddlebag. He uncapped the lens and slowly swept the river line half a league away. The silent ones moved cautiously forward, watching the other side, ready to react if a single puff of smoke snapped out.

Advanced scouts and maps drawn by the aerosteamer pilots had already told him how they were deployed, and now he could see for himself.

He looked north, seeing the sharp-cut riverbank of the eastern shore, bluffs rising up to fifty feet high, the walls sheer, gradually dropping down. Straight ahead was their small city, limestone walls shining dull red from the afternoon sun. And then the long section of flat bottomland, the ground rich, green, slashed from north to south by earthworks, the low hills curving eastward, then marching back down to the river. This side of the riverbank was higher than the other only along this stretch. He looked to the south, noticing where the hills on the other side finally came back down to meet the river and then continued south, disappearing in the afternoon haze.

"The chart reader of the Tugars said that it was here that they cross the river," Sarg said. "This is the first town of the Roum. North of here the banks are too steep, to the south are the hills, and on the east side there is river bottom swamp and marsh down to the sea."

Tamuka nodded. Leaning over, he scooped up a handful of water that his horse had left in the bottom of the bucket and wiped the dust from his face.

"Keane chose his ground well," Tamuka whispered, turning to look back at the enemy line. At Kev he could have attacked anywhere along a full day's ride of front, the land west rich, laced with streams for water to feed his army. Here the front would be narrow, no room to flank, water scarce. He would threaten, the north flank, with luck perhaps even succeed, but it would be here, and it would be bloody.

But at least it was here, a final decision. If they broke the line there was no place for the cattle to run except to the open steppe, where they would be ridden down.

He looked up at his chart master and snapped his finger. The scribe dismounted, uncased the parchment scroll, and rolled it out at Tamuka's feet. The Qar Qarth motioned for the clan Qarths and commanders of five who were riding with him to dismount. The warriors gathered around, Tamuka kneeling down by the chart and pointing.

"We are here. The last great river we crossed is this line here, two days of battle riding behind us, eight days of march by yurts."

He pointed to the blackened sections drawn in east of the Kennebec, then to several thousand square j j miles of ground burned fifty miles to the west of the river, and then finally to the half-dozen-mile line burned just west of the Sangros. miles of ground burned fifty miles to the west of the river, and then finally to the half-dozen-mile line burned just west of the Sangros.

"This is the grass these animals burned." Several of the warriors growled angrily at the sacrilege.

"Except for those of the umen of the white horse and the Vushka Hush, we have left all remounts back behind the river."

The commanders nodded.

"There is not enough grass here. Thus I command that except for the Vushka, the umen of the white horse clan, and four umens of the gray, all umens are to ride up to their position here and dismount, sending their horses to the rear. A relay of twenty thousand horses of the blue clan will be used to transport heavy water skins up from the last great river, or whatever small streams we find to here, and then back until we've breached their line."

There was an angry growl of dissent from those who had heard for the first time that they were to be on foot.

Tamuka looked up at the circle that stood above him.

"Merki do not fight on foot," Haga, senior Qarth of the black horse clan, snarled.

Tamuka stood up to face him.

"If we keep our horses here, in a week they will die," he said. "There is not enough food for them, or water. There is barely enough food and drink for our warriors-already we are eating the flesh of our mounts. Water at least will be eased once we secure a section of the river they now control."

"He speaks wisely," Gubta said.

"What care of it is yours? You will continue to ride."

"We fought on foot in the first battle that turned their line," Gubta said.

"And it crippled you."

"We won nevertheless, and ate cattle till we choked on the grease."

Haga, unable to reply to Gubta, looked back at Tamuka and said, "All the umens should be up by tomorrow. The following day let us ride-many will die, but we will cross the river and be into the fertile lands beyond, our horses fat again, our bellies distended from the feasting after victory."

Tamuka smiled as if in agreement. "And too many will die."

He pointed back to the river line. "This side of the riverbank here is higher than theirs. They have given it to us, and I will use it. Five days behind us come all our cannons-already I have sent twenty thousand of our remounts back to move them both day and night. Let us bring them up, and mount them wheel to wheel along the river. I will have them all fire as one, slaughtering the cattle, and only then shall we cross. Fewer of our warriors will die to these animals, and we shall laugh as we see them die by the machines they themselves created. I will not show the stupidity of a Tugar and rush my warriors into a battle not yet ready to be fought.

"I will send three mounted umens to the north, to probe into the woods, to force him to cover that side, and then the rest of us shall go straight in here," and he pointed to the plain south of Hispania.

Haga nodded slowly in agreement. "You speak wisely, Tamuka. You have combined the ka ka of your warrior to that of the of your warrior to that of the tu, tu, and it has given you a powerful wisdom." and it has given you a powerful wisdom."

"I have had the meat of one of the horse-riding cattle salted," Tamuka said. "I would be honored, Haga, if you would join me in the eating of its heart tonight."

Unable to reply to the honor, Haga bowed low.

"Let my warriors lead the first attack," the Qarth of the black horse clans said.

"The lead position shall be yours," and Tamuka smiled, hiding the terrible concern locked within, not revealing just how difficult he knew it was going to be, now that he was shorn of the ability to move his army quickly. Compounding it all was not just the fighting, but the simple question of keeping his mounts and warriors alive and fit until the battle was joined and finally won.

"I guess that's him," Andrew said, lowering his telescope and pointing to the knot of Merki on the distant hill a couple of miles from the far side of the river.

Andrew nodded to the Rus engineer standing at the corner of the bastion. The old man hesitated and then connected the wire to the telegraph battery.

Two-hundred-pound charges detonated at either end of the bridge, benzene barrels strapped to the powder igniting into fireballs. Slowly, as if not willing to die, the bridge started to sag down, and then with a rush it plummeted into the riverbed.

Andrew swung his telescope up to watch the group of warriors, one of them stepping forward several feet, hands coming to rest on his hips.

"That's it, you bastard," Andrew said, chuckling softly. "We've got all the powder in the world to waste."

Powder. It reminded him of what he had to decide, but not now.

"They came up damn fast," Pat said dejectedly, as if he had somehow failed in his delaying actions.

"Ten days from Kev to here, three hundred miles," Andrew replied, trying to sound unconcerned, "but they're strung out all to hell. It'll be five days, a week, before they're ready, and by then their belts are going to be damn tight."

He lowered the telescope, which he had been resting on the walls of the earthen bastion, and handed it over to Emil, who climbed up on the firing step to take a look. The bastion of the northern grand battery was dark, gloomy, roasting hot, the only air circulating through the firing ports, the overhead ceiling of logs and earth giving him a claustrophobic sense as if he were somehow in a tomb. In the darkness he could see his corps commanders, Barry of the First, Schneid of the Second, Mikhail Mikhailovich commanding the three-brigade division of what had once been the Third, Gregory as his chief of staff standing behind him. Pat, still up on the firing step, was second in command of the army and commander of both Fourth Corps and the artillery reserve, and then Vincent of the Sixth and Marcus of the Seventh, also commanding the Fifth, which was guarding the south of Roum and picketing the southern end of the Sangros River.

"It's only an advance line out there," Andrew said. The men looked through the firing ports, Marcus and Vincent leaning over to gaze through the open shutter door for a twelve-pound Napoleon. "We can expect the bulk of the army to be up by tomorrow."

"Think they'll attack?" Andy Barry asked, rubbing the stubble of his beard, the scar from a Tugar arrow furrowing the dark skin under his left eye.

"It's possible. That's what they've done in the past-launch a forward probe to fix our attention, and then go for the maneuver to the flank. I doubt they'll try south of here. We command the river channel, and they'd have to build boats to get through the swamps, and there isn't a stick of lumber except by the coast, where we'll keep an eye on things.

"I'm thinking it'll be north, and that's you, as we already discussed," Andrew said, nodding to Barry.

Andrew looked back down at the map, illuminated in the gloom by an overhead lantern. Two divisions out of three of Barry's First Corps were strung out along the river up into the forest, scouts ranging far to the west of the Sangros in the forest to watch for any flanking maneuvers through the woods. The third division was still working in the musket and Springfield rifle factories in Hispania; they would remain there until the fighting actually started and then would serve as a mobile reserve, waiting aboard five trains kept in the rail yard. The artillery works in Roum had already been shut down, the men transported back up to the front, their standing in the lines now more important than the few additional Napoleons or three-inch rifles they could still turn out. The powder and percussion cap works, it was decided, would continue to function even after the battle began.

"Rick, you'll hold from Hispania down a half mile into the valley."

Schneid nodded, looking up at Andrew with a grin. "If they hit here the river will be red."

"I hope they come straight at you," Andrew said, doubting that they would. Hispania, sitting up on the bluff, was a near-impregnable fortress.

It was in the center that he knew the show would start, and he traced out the line to be held by Pat's Fourth Corps, stretching directly across the center of the valley, with the heavy division that had been Third Corps deployed a half mile to their rear as reserve. On their left flank anchoring up to the grand battery of fifty guns positioned at the southern end of the bowl would be two divisions of Vincent's corps, one division in reserve, and behind them as strategic reserve was one division of Marcus's Seventh, the other two divisions holding the line farther south. He was worried about the two new corps, having debated throwing Marcus to the north to hold the flank, but had decided against it, wanting his best-trained veterans to protect that position. Both the Tugars and the Merki had preferred the turning of the flank anchored in the woods; this time there would be veterans dug in and waiting if they should try it again.

Marcus's reserve division was deployed at the switching yard built behind the grand battery. A second line of track had been built from Hispania, running parallel to the line going to Roum, which curved behind the hills, both rail lines tying into a just-completed switch yard and turntable. Using it, a mobile reserve could be moved in a matter of minutes and dropped off at any point along the six-mile rear line. Andrew realized with the building of it that it might be his only hope to counter the interior lines the Merki would occupy if they ever broke into the valley and forced him back to the surrounding hills. But if they wanted the valley they were going to have to pay for it, and he hoped that the decision might be made right there.

"The bastards are leaving," Emil said, nodding toward the distant ridge.

Andrew went back up to the firing step and took the telescope back. It was hard to see, the setting sun silhouetting the enemy commander in sharp relief.

The Merki stood with arms raised, as if using a telescope as well, and then lowered it. Andrew felt a chill, as if a presence were trying to probe into his very thoughts. He remembered Yuri telling him that shield-bearers were capable of such things.

Where was the shield-bearer? He looked at the others. There was no bronze symbol of office, yet there was the skull-and-horsetail standard of the Qar Qarth.

Curious. Was that Vuka, or was this a trick, was the Qar Qarth elsewhere, maybe north at the forest? They had done the same thing on the Potomac, and it made him uneasy.

He watched closely. Those around the leader were obviously talking, pointing, a command council, a lowering of a head, one kneeling down for a moment, the other putting a hand on his shoulder, the kneeler standing back up.

Yet no shield-bearer, the one called Tamuka. Or was he on the other side of the ridge? The last of the riders mounted, turned, and disappeared over the other side of the slope. The one stood alone for a moment, then mounted. Andrew felt as if the Merki were somehow trying to look straight at him, to pierce into his soul. Foolish, but he sensed it nevertheless, and defiantly he stared straight back.

"I'm waiting for you, you fucking son of a bitch," Andrew whispered. Emil looked over at Andrew in surprise, having never heard Andrew use the foulest of soldier curses.

The rider raised his arm, scimitar flashing out, and he pointed the blade straight at Andrew, then turned and rode off, a circle of sentry riders following after him.

"What was that all about?" Emil whispered.

"I'm not sure," Andrew said, suddenly aware that his heart was racing.

Emil pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it, stopping first to move it back an hour and a half to readjust it from old earth time to the time on thisworld. "I've got a meeting with my staff. I've got togo"

"Everything ready?"

"Never be ready for what's coming," Emil said. "I want supplies for thirty thousand casualties, the doctors and nurses ready for them, and hospital trains to take the serious cases back to Roum. Hell, nearly three thousand of the boys in this army are on sick call as is, two hundred of them with typhoid, and there's typhoid in the city as well. And you ask me if I'm ready."

Andrew held up his hand and smiled.

"You know what I mean," he said, "and damn it all, I keep telling you if we take thirty thousand casualties they'll break through and it'll be over anyhow."

"Well, damn me, that's what I'm planning for. We had damn near that many at Gettysburg and we still won."

'And Lee lost around the same and lost," Pat said. "Remember I was there too."

"You didn't see the fighting the way we did," Emil replied.

"Didn't see the fighting? I was on Seminary Ridge and then Cemetery Hill the whole three days, fired over a thousand rounds, and you tell me we didn't see fighting?"

"We both saw enough at Gettysburg," Andrew said, holding up his hand for silence.

"I'm still planning for thirty thousand," Emil said and started out of the bastion.

"Tell Kathleen I'll be home around dark."

"She's on night shift in the hospital," Emil replied.

"Oh," and he struggled to control the disappointment in his voice.

"Don't worry, I'll order her home."

Andrew looked around in embarrassment at the round of suppressed chuckles.

"Rank does have its privilege," Pat announced with a laugh, and he followed Emil out, eager to continue the well-worn argument of whether the 35th or 44th New York had been in the worst of it at Gettysburg, Antietam, Fredericksburg, or at whatever place they decided to argue about.

Made aware of the time by Emil, Andrew looked back at the group.

"Would you gentlemen excuse me," he said, and he followed the two out, moving off to one side to avoid being pulled in by Emil to back up a point.

Walking along the track that ran past the bastion, he paused to look back. The bridge was burning fiercely, oily smoke drifting straight up into the silent uncaring sky. He turned back and continued on, walking along the railroad ties. It triggered a flash memory of when he was still a boy. The first train into Maine had come through his town, the Irish work crews laying track, the old-fashioned Norris locomotive following behind the workers. He had scrambled up onto the track and then tried to walk from tie to tie, finding that they were set in such a way that his steps either had to be too long or too short. He had asked a rail layer why they were set that way and received what he guessed now must be the stock reply, that it was to keep damn fools like himself from walking on the track.

He smiled at the memory, noticing that as before the ties were set in such a way that it was impossible to walk upon them and keep a normal stride. He finally left the railbed and stepped onto the platform of the old train station, which was now serving as headquarters. Atop the building flew the flags of the two republics. Slightly lower was the flag of the Army of the Republics, and alongside it the faded and stained flags of the 35th Maine, one the blue state flag of Maine, the other the Stars and Stripes, upon its shot-torn folds emblazoned in gold letters the name of every action the regiment had fought in. He stopped for a moment to look at them as they stirred with the passing of a light breeze, drifting in hot from the steppe. More than twenty actions in eight years. It was 1869 back home. He smiled, imagining all his old comrades back to civilian life by now, the war undoubtably won. By now they'd most likely have a statue up to the 35th someplace, grieving widows, parents, and orphans setting flowers before it on the Fourth of July.

He did a quick calculation. Midsummer night here on Valdennia had passed several days back; it was getting near to the equivalent of July on this world. July in Maine, best time of the year, he thought with a sigh, but then except for mud season nearly every month could be called a best month back home. School would be out, a few students staying on; he'd have the summer off to write, to go up to his summer cottage near Waterville to fish and boat. The Fourth of July. He could imagine Lincoln back home by now in Illinois, practicing law again, the nation at peace. He looked back to the west, where a thin line of Merki pickets occupied the hills back beyond the river, sitting astride their mounts, watching, waiting.

He sighed, knowing that he was stalling, and stepping up on to the platform, he acknowledged the salute of the sentry, dressed in the Union Army blue of the 35th. He scanned the boy's face for a second. Not one of the old ones from home, which would have been an excuse to talk for another minute.

"Where you from, son?" The boy looked at him quizzically. He asked the same question again in stumbling Latin.

"Ah, Capri."

Andrew nodded, smiled, not wanting to get into the complexities of trying to speak in Latin, and went into the headquarters, the boy beaming nervously, delighted that the legendary Keane had spoken to him.

He walked over to his office, which had once belonged to the stationmaster, and looked to the back door.

"You can show them in," he snapped. He went into his office, and with a dramatic flourish slammed the door shut behind him.