He looked back over his shoulder. An old woman crouched down behind a tree, hands shaking.

"Good shot, mother," he said, and crawled back to her.

Still shaking, she clicked the breech of the Sharps carbine open and chambered another round. This time he remembered to do the same.

A slow but steady crackle of gunfire boomed through the forest. It was hard to tell exactly what was going on. The fight was a mad confusion of small groups hunting and being hunted. To his right, down by the river, he could hear a more steady thunder, a straggler having told him that First Corps was sealing the breech.

That was all well and good, but there could still be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the bastards in the woods.

He looked over at the only soldier in his entire unit he was now in touch with.

"Olga, isn't it?"

"Yes, your excellency." "I'm not your excellency, dammit."

"No, your excellency," and she smiled weakly.

"That was a good shot. Thank you."

"It was an honor to kill him," she said, showing him a toothless grin.

"Well, let's go get another."

"You've got other work to do," she said. "We'll hold things here. Now get the hell back and get that train moving, before its too late."

Andrew walked through the hospital ward, trying to project a sense of calm, a sense that somehow it was still under control and victory was possible.

The world was a nightmare. He knew that something like thirty thousand had been wounded. Another ten thousand were already dead, and thousands more were missing.

The army as a fighting unit was finished. Third and Fourth Corps together wouldn't make a strong brigade between them. Vincent's Sixth was not much better, Schneid's Second had lost half its men, Marcus's Seventh almost as many. It was a shambles and here was the aftermath, the mangled wreckage chewed out and left behind. In the lantern light it looked as if the etching of a Durer nightmare had come to life. Limbless men were stretched out in row after row. He passed through a ward of stomach wounds, men whom Emil, Kathleen, or two or three other doctors might have saved if given the time, but who were now left to die, so many were the casualties.

He weaved his way through the tents, stopping occasionally as a hand reached up to grab him.

"We licked 'em good today, didn't we colonel?"

He'd nod and smile.

"We'll win, won't we?"

Again he'd smile.

A young man grabbed hold of his arm, reaching up from the floor, and he looked down. The face was familiar, from the old 35th.

"Billy, how are you?" Andrew said softly, stopping and kneeling down on the bloody floor.

"Not good, colonel," he whispered.

"I saw your brigade fight today. You did good, son, very good."

The young brigadier smiled weakly.

"I'm afraid, sir," he whispered.

Andrew didn't know what to say, feeling already the coldness in the young veteran's hand.

"What should I do now?"

Andrew lowered his head.

"Remember back home, on earth?"

Billy smiled sadly.

"Remember the prayer your mother taught you when you went to sleep?"

Billy nodded.

"Let's say it."

His voice came out, barely a whisper, and Andrew joined him.

"Now I lay me down to sleep ..."

Andrew finished the prayer alone, the soldier's hand slipping out of his.

Andrew pulled the blanket up over the boy's head and heard crying behind him.

It was Kathleen.

She wiped the tears away.

"That poor boy. He kept calling for his mother, and then you came."

"Most of them do call for their mothers in the end," he said softly.

"I keep realizing how much more I love you," she whispered. "Andrew, thank God you're still alive."

"Where's Emil?"

"Next tent. Why?"

"I need to talk to him."

She fell silent, as if knowing. Then she asked, "How are we doing? I've been hearing things all day, and I don't know what to believe."

"Take me to Emil," he said softly.

Taking his hand, she led him into the next tent, where Emil was finishing up a surgery, extracting an arrow from a boy's chest, laying a bandage across the wound, turning away to wash his hands while an assistant finished bandaging the wound. Emil looked up to see Andrew, and his eyes were dark circles of exhaustion.

"We need to talk," Andrew said.

Emil motioned for him to wait. The assistant and orderly picked up the stretcher and carried it out of the tent. Emil followed them and then came back a moment later, pulling the flap shut behind him.

"How bad is it?" Emil asked.

Andrew looked over at Kathleen and tried to form the words but couldn't.

"It's finished, isn't it?" Kathleen said softly.

Andrew nodded, unable to speak.

Emil exhaled noisily and sat down in a chair in the corner.

"And you're here to tell me I should kill the wounded."

Andrew hesitated, wishing somehow that Kathleen weren't here, wanting to tell her to leave. He looked back at her. There was a sad gentle smile on her lips. No tears, no anguish or hysteria, only a vast hidden strength.

"Even if it all ends tomorrow, it was still worth it," she whispered, coming up and putting her arm around him.

He nodded, kissing her on the forehead.

"At least Maddie will be safe awhile longer," she said softly. "For that only it was worth it all."

He tried not to think of his daughter; he knew if he did it would finish him. He had to keep his thoughts focused. He looked back at Emil.

"You know how many casualties we've had. I've got less than thirty thousand men left able to fight, and not even enough ammunition to get us through another day. The artillery's almost been depleted. First charge tomorrow and they'll be through us. And then ..."

His voice trailed off.

"My God, Emil, you know what they'll do to those poor men out there," and he nodded toward the madness just outside the tent.

Emil reached over to a side table. With hands shaking he poured himself a drink and downed it.

"For forty years I've been trying to save lives, and now you're telling me to kill all those men."

"Emil, you know how the Merki will make them suffer first."

Emil nodded. "Fucking animals." He looked up at Kathleen, suddenly ashamed of his profanity.

"Oh, I agree," she whispered, a smile coming to her lips.

"Come dawn, I'll detach a regiment to this hospital. We've got some extra revolvers, and your orderlies have weapons. Any wounded that can fight should be sent back up, or have them stay here as a guard.

"I'll have the order in writing in my breast pocket. My aides will know it's there if something should happen to me. I'll only send it when I know it is truly finished and not before. God help me, I don't want any mistakes on this. But if they start to overrun you first, you know what you'll have to do."

Emil nodded, hands still shaking.

"Is there any chance?"

Andrew looked back at Kathleen.

"There's always a chance," he whispered, and she looked back at him, knowing the truth.

He looked back at Emil. "Thank you for everything, Dr. Weiss-for your friendship, your advice." He paused and tapped his empty sleeve. "And for my life."

He let go of Kathleen and stepped forward, taking Emil's hand in his.

The old doctor smiled, shaking his head softly.

"Next year Jerusalem," Emil said in Hebrew.

"What?"

"Oh, just an old promise I always wanted to keep."

Andrew smiled and turned away. "Maybe someday you will."

He walked out of the tent, Kathleen by his side.

"I've got to go back."

She said nothing, watching from the corner of her eye as a fresh casualty was brought into her tent.

"I've got to go too."

He hesitated.

"You know I want you to live, to try to escape, there's still time ..." His voice trailed off; he was ashamed of what he was saying when so many others were standing and dying. But this was his wife. He looked over at her.

She shook her head. "I have my duty as well," she whispered. "Tanya and Ludmilla will see that our baby is safe."

He looked at her, filled with pain and yet also with a deep pride.

"If I had it to do all over again, even the losing in the end, it would be worth it," Andrew said softly. "It'd be worth it because for at least one moment I had you."

He kissed her gently on the mouth and then backed away, the lingering touch between the two dropping, arms lowering.

He turned and walked into the night.

"I'll wait for you," she whispered, and then went back into the tent.

"That's him right there."

He could barely understand the words; it had been long since he had learned the cattle language of the Rus.

He felt someone grab his shoulder, rolling him over, and the cold touch of steel at his throat.

Muzta Qar Qarth waited for death, but it did not come.