Rough hands grabbed hold of him, pulling him up. By the light of the lantern he saw a short burly man, red-haired, hair on his face growing out of either cheek and over his lip.

The man looked at him and grinned coldly.

"Muzta of the Tugars?"

Muzta remained silent, sparing a glance to either side. The field was covered yet again with his own dead, dying yet another time. But this time he felt it was not the cattle who had killed them, it was Tamuka.

"Will you kill me now?" Muzta asked, struggling to form the strange words.

The red-haired one looked up at him and slowly smiled.

"I think there's someone you might talk to first."

He felt the nick of a sword at his back. But he needed no urging to go forward. The wall of the parapet was but a dozen strides away. His head ached, and he reached up to his helmet, feeling the dent on the side, from whatever it was that had knocked him senseless.

He paused for a moment and looked down.

Jamadu, his last son, lay upon the ground, unconscious, a gaping wound in his chest.

Muzta paused and looked over at Pat.

"My son," he whispered. "Please help him."

Pat nodded, and motioned for a detail to bring the youth in. Muzta knelt down beside Jamadu, touching his brow, smoothing the hair back, praying silently, and then stood back up, going over the parapet wall, no longer needing any urging.

"Once more, only one more charge," Tamuka shouted, looking at the silent forms around him. "I was there, I was atop the ridge, and it was near to empty."

"Then why were we defeated?" Haga asked, his voice cold. "By all the gods, Tamuka, a hundred and fifty thousand or more of our warriors are dead or hurt. If you claim this to be victory, I dread the specter of defeat."

"And yet it is victory," Tamuka shouted in reply. "Three times today our host gained the ridge."

"And three times driven back," Haga replied.

"Yet each time it was closer to the final victory. I tell you, if that last charge had been but five hundred paces to the north it would have broken through into empty air and tonight we would already be feasting."

Several in the circle nodded their heads, but the others stood silent.

"If! I hear nothing but ifs," Haga said coldly. "If we had extra skins of water so our warriors did not drop of thirst, if we had charged only a few hundred paces to one side, if the cloud fliers had not been defeated. All of it ifs, and I see the certainty of over one in three of our warriors gone, one in three no longer fit to fight. Our arrows are near gone, the flashing powder for the cannons all but used, and still the cattle stand upon the hills."

"How many of theirs do you think are left standing?" Gubta snarled. "Their numbers have never been as great as ours. Even if they have struck us down three for their one, there are few left. Though my umen did not attack today, I rode forward into the breakthrough upon our left. I saw open steppe beyond and clear sky, and nothing but one thin wall of cattle.

If you, Haga of the black horse, had supported that charge, it would have gone clean through to victory."

Tamuka turned to Haga.

"He is right," Tamuka said coldly. "Thirteen umens finally were across the river, two of them yours, and they did not fight."

"How were they even to get in?" Haga snarled. "The signal flags could not be seen for the smoke."

"The cattle fight in smoke, not in clean air for all to see valor and to see the flags," snapped Yimak, umen commander under Haga. "By the time the bell rider had come to me with my commands, the assault was already repulsed, the field before me clogged with retreat."

Tamuka held up his hand for silence, and slowly the arguments died away.

"I tell you this from my ka," ka," he whispered, deliberately keeping his voice low so that all were forced into silence to listen. "Today I saw into the heart of Keane, just before the setting of the sun. And he was afraid, he saw defeat before him. Never have I felt such fear within him. I was atop the ridge and I saw the light of victory beyond." he whispered, deliberately keeping his voice low so that all were forced into silence to listen. "Today I saw into the heart of Keane, just before the setting of the sun. And he was afraid, he saw defeat before him. Never have I felt such fear within him. I was atop the ridge and I saw the light of victory beyond."

There was a murmur from some, others yet silent.

"My brothers, have we ridden so far, fought them so many times, to now turn away as Haga would wish, only to hear their laughter of scorn?

"I tell you now this. Our fate rest upon tomorrow. Behind us our women, the old ones, the young, move across the steppe, expecting that by the passage of another moon we shall spread before them the fat, the wealth, of this land to feed their hungry stomachs. Are we now to ride back, heads lowered, and whine that a few remaining cattle have frightened us away?"

"At least we shall ride back and not have them come to seek our bleached bones," Haga said.

"Are you of the blood of the Merki?" Tamuka snarled, looking over at Haga.

Haga bristled, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"If you did not bear the helm of the Qar Qarth I would strike you dead for that."

The circle about the fire was deathly quiet.

"I should ask," Haga said low, his voice a sinister hiss, "if you are even our Qar Qarth."

No one spoke. Tamuka gazed at Haga, seeing his deadly resolve, his desire to offer challenge of sword, perhaps even here, at this very moment, and he knew in his heart that Haga would win. Yet his anger boiled and his hand came to rest upon the hilt of the sword of the Qar Qarth, ready to draw it out.

"It is forbidden for there to be blood challenge in time of war." Sarg came into the circle to stand before the fire. He looked around at the clan chieftains and commanders.

"It is forbidden," Gubta said, coming to stand by Tamuka, half-drawing his blade.

With a low snarl, Haga turned and walked out of the circle.

Tamuka watched him depart, knowing that in Haga's mind it was not settled.

He looked back at the others.

"I tell you this from all that I know, that you cannot even see," and his voice was low but insistent. "If we turn away now, there shall come a day when it will be the cattle who will come in search of us, armed with weapons beyond our darkest nightmares. Three seasons back they were but infants in the ways of war, and the Tugars in their foolishness allowed themselves to be defeated."

He looked around the circle. Muzta was not present, and he smiled inwardly, having heard the report that the Qar Qarth of the Tugars and his son had fallen at the head of the assault. The survivors of his two umens were gathered together singing their death songs even now, vowing to die at dawn and thus end their disgrace. The world would be best rid of them anyhow.

"I tell you now that if we suffer the cattle to live, there will be endless war. They will rebuild, become yet stronger, forge new weapons, spreading their madness to all the cattle of this world. Tonight, upon that ridge," and he pointing to the low surrounding hills, "their broken army stands, knowing they cannot retreat, knowing as well that they cannot win. Yet if we ride away now, in years to come it will be war after war, our sons struggling against theirs, a war across the world, and we shall lose ten times what we have lost here, until in the end the Merki will be no more.

"We must do, we have to do, this."

He could see nods of reluctant agreement.

"I tell you this now as well. As Qar Qarth I promise you victory at dawn. Already I have ordered remounts brought forth. Six umens of horse I shall have placed in the center at dawn, four umens of warriors afoot behind them and to either side."

He picked up a broken musket, and using the attached bayonet he drew a half circle on the ground and a block in the middle. Then he drew an arrow straight forward from the block to pierce the half circle.

"This is how it will be. By tomorrow evening our riders will already be to the gates of Roum, which stand defenseless, their army here, what little is left smashed and captured. The day after, the rest of the horses will be brought up, and after we have feasted upon the cattle we take, we shall ride eastward and feast some more upon the city.

"I swear this as Qar Qarth, I swear this upon the ka ka of my spirit, which can see such things and bring them to be. I tell you now they are already beaten and at the first charge we shall slice through them with ease. of my spirit, which can see such things and bring them to be. I tell you now they are already beaten and at the first charge we shall slice through them with ease.

"Tomorrow I promise you victory."

Andrew Lawrence Keane walked along the lines, his thoughts no longer on the war; they seemed to take in so much more, all the dreams he had ever had since coming to this place, and he saw them reflected in the eyes of those who looked up at him.

The field was quiet now, a few fires sparkling low, men sitting around them, cooking what little they had, sharing the last of the rations.

There were no songs tonight; it was beyond that. He stopped, looking out across the fields. The Great Wheel of the heavens was moving westward; soon it would be dawn.

A fire flared up, and he turned to look at a knot of men gathered around a ruined villa. He drew closer.

"A hard day."

It was Marcus, Rick Schneid beside him.

"A hard day," Andrew whispered.

"And tomorrow?"

Andrew smiled sadly, and then shook his head.

"We're played out. Over twenty thousand more casualties today. It was a miracle that we held them at all-they started too late, or they would have finished it. Tomorrow they'll come in at dawn."

He shook his head again and looked off.

"A miracle," Marcus said. "A miracle we made ourselves today, perhaps tomorrow another."

"We'll see."

"What's over there?" Andrew asked, nodding toward the fire.

"Gregory, some of the boys," Rick said, limping along, nursing the saber cut to his leg. "Word kind of spread that Gregory wants to say something, so I thought I'd come over."

"How's Vincent?" Andrew said, looking over at Marcus.

"He's fine now. I think he'll be all right."

Andrew smiled sadly, having seen Vincent, Marcus holding him; he had quietly withdrawn, not even capable of helping.

He started over toward the fire. The villa had served as the anchor point for Third and Fourth Corps sealing off the breach to the line. The ground was still carpeted with Merki dead. A roaring fire was blazing in front of the ruined building. More and more men were coming up, many with bandaged wounds. Leaning against the wall were the battle standards, and as Andrew approached he stopped to look at them. Proud flags, Suzdalian regiments, Kev, Novrod, Murom, and Vazima. Old names of ancient Russia, now upon this world, the army instilled with all the valor and traditions of the Army of the Potomac. In the middle of the stand he saw the colors of the 35th Maine, the men of the unit deployed to help seal the breach, and already he had heard more names said softly, men who would never answer another roll.

He looked around at the gathering crowd, seeing many of his comrades from the beginning. To one side he saw Gates, sketch pad in hand, as if he would actually turn out another newspaper, Bill Webster beside him, no longer the financial planner of the country, now again in the ranks for this fight. So many of the familiar faces.

Several men came out of the villa carrying a table and set it up in front of the fire, and Gregory, now commander of the corps, one that wasn't much more than a small brigade, came out, features set with a grim purpose. He climbed up on the table, extending his hands to silence the growing crowd.

Andrew moved to the back of the group, Marcus beside him, old friends of the 35th moving up around them. He felt the old bonds again, comrades of such times together, and he felt the first glimmer of a returning strength, even though he knew with a dreadful certainty that it was finished, that come morning all was over. He looked about the group, their faces shining in the firelight, and he felt a bond of love and comradeship that for the moment transcended all pain.

"I asked you men, my comrades, to gather around," Gregory began, "because I wanted to talk with all of you. You brothers of mine of Third Corps, and all you others that now gather in to this circle." He paused, looking out at the gathering, waiting for a moment as more and yet more came in from other parts of the line, drawn by curiosity, until more than a thousand had gathered around.

"We have fought upon many a field, you and I," he said, his voice carrying high and clear, "and tonight we know we are brothers. Our tradition goes back far into the misty past, our battles together many, starting with Antietam."

Andrew stirred, looking around at the few around him who had once stood upon that desperate field.

"And then to Gettysburg, and the Wilderness. And then here at the Ford," and the men of Rus nodded. He continued to recite the long list of honors, bringing them all closer together through the shared memory of pain and glory.

"And now so few of us are left to face the greatest fight of all."

The men around him were silent. He lowered his head for a moment and then looked back up, eyes gleaming, head raised.

"If we are marked to die, we are enow To do our country loss: and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honor."

Andrew stirred, looking over at Gates, smiling. Gregory, a Rus peasant, was reciting Henry V, Henry V, and he felt a stirring within at the words. and he felt a stirring within at the words.

The young man's voice cut through the night air like a clarion call. Those assembled were silent, faces raised, shining in the firelight.

"This day is called the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day and comes safe home, Will stand a tiptoe when this day is named, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors, And say, 'Tomorrow is Saint Crispian': Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, and say, 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.' "

Andrew, stunned, looked out across the assembly, men standing transfixed, eyes shining, headings nodding, an electric like thrill running through all of them.

"This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered . . .

Gregory paused, lowering his head for a moment, and then looked back up, tears streaming from his eyes, his voice choked but clear.

"We few, we happy few, we band of brothers ..."

His words were barely a whisper, yet ringing and clear, many in the group joining in with him, reciting, Andrew, his voice choked, reciting as well.

"For he today that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile This day shall gentle his condition: And gentlemen in England, now abed, Shall think themselves accursed they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day!"

The words soared out, as if defiantly flung to the world, and when they were finished a wild cheer thundered up, men pressing forward, crying, fists raised to the heavens, shouting their approval, their passion finding voice, words created so long ago leaping across time and space to give spirit yet again in an hour of desperate need.

Head raised high, Andrew Lawrence Keane wept unashamedly, men pushing past him, not even aware that he was there, struggling to get closer to the center. Battle flags were pulled from the wall, held aloft, waved in the firelight.

He backed away, standing alone at the edge, watching. Gates came out of the press, eyes shining. He came up to Andrew as if to say something and then couldn't, just extended his hand as if to touch Andrew, and then he turned away and ran into the darkness back toward the city.

Andrew looked up to the heavens.

"Merciful God, please let them win," he whispered.

He turned and started to walk away.

"Andrew."

He looked up and saw Pat standing in the shadows. Andrew went up to him.

"Did you hear that?" Andrew whispered, still awestruck.