The charge around him ground to a halt, horses rearing in panic, throwing their riders, warriors covering their ears, howling in terror.

He turned and looked back, seeing the smoke trails die and then the sparks of light, hundreds of them coming down, down directly over the center of the advancing horde. A red flash and puff of smoke ignited over the line, then, within seconds, thousands of explosions, silent at first, but the thunder started to build, growing louder into a sustained world-shattering cataclysm of destruction.

Stunned beyond all comprehension, Tamuka watched the destruction of his umens, and then his horse bolted, breaking from the front of the van, pulling him back into the rear. Around him was mad confusion, riders caught under the salvo looking heavenward, roaring in terror, seeing the destruction behind them, unable to move in the press.

A howling shriek filled the air, and Tamuka, terrified, looked up as a rocket seemed to come straight down out of the smoke, exploding before him with a thunderclap.

The blow nearly lifted him from the saddle, and he reeled, aware that a frightening coldness had seized his arm. He looked down in horror to see blood spurting from his mangled hand. His horse, screaming, turned and bolted for the rear, Tamuka struggling to hang on.

The panic took hold; the sight of Tamuka, horse rearing and bucking, riding to the rear finished anything that was left.

Screaming in terror, the lines forward wavered.

The last rocket leaped out and away, the thunder of the detonations forward roaring against the hills.

An awed silence was the response. Many of the men were almost as terrified as their enemies, not understanding what had happened. A dawning realization started to arrive that whatever it was, it was destroying the Merki in the valley below, and a desperate cheer of hope started to rise up.

Chuck jumped up and down like a small boy at a Fourth of July finale and then suddenly remembered his one other surprise. His two assistants had finished pulling the canvas cover off the Gatling gun. Chuck reached down and opened the steam power line that was hooked back into the locomotive, then stepped behind the gun, aiming it straight at the Merki line on the ridge, which was milling about in terror.

He pulled the trigger back.

A single round snapped off, and then with a moaning hiss the gun seized up, steam pouring out in every direction.

Chuck stepped back from the machine and shook his head.

"Well, I'll be damned," he whispered.

Andrew, not even aware of the gun's failure, still stood in awestruck silence as the clouds of smoke billowed around him.

Chuck looked back at Andrew, grinning.

"He hath loosened the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword," Andrew said, his voice filled with awe.

"At least the rockets worked," Chuck said quietly.

"If I ever say no again, tell me to go to hell."

"Can I have that in writing, sir?"

Andrew threw back his head and laughed. He slapped Chuck on the shoulder and stood up on top of the launching car.

"Soldiers of the Army of Republics," he began, his voice sharp and clear, thousands of men looking to the trains, many of them now seeing Keane, who stood tall, sword in one hand, half-empty sleeve outstretched deliberately so that all would know who he was. Behind Andrew the flag bearers for the 35th Maine and the Army of the Republics stepped up to join him.

"Charge!"

He leaped from the car, striking the ground hard, losing his footing for a moment and then coming back up. Flag bearers came forward, standards of the 35th and the Army of the Republics by Andrew's side, men streaming out of the trains to his left, the line to the right struggling to get under or over the still-smoking launch cars, cheering wildly. The cry went up all along the line.

"Charge, men, charge!"

The cry was a thunderous release of rage and frustration, and now of growing hope.

Andrew swept forward, running hard, not even looking back, unaware that from out of the smoke a vast arc of men were rushing forward to the edge of the ridge. Forward, the line of Merki seemed transfixed, as if torn between the horror below in the valley and that before them. Riders turned, horses bolting. The Merki horde broke and started to run.

A warrior turned, raising his bow, aiming straight for Andrew, and a musket shot lifted him from his saddle, Andrew not even aware of what happened. Men paused for a second, pouring fire in, and then rushed forward with empty guns, bayonets lowered.

Andrew gained the crest of the ridge. And below he saw madness.

Across a front of half a mile and to a depth of nearly a quarter, a caldron of smoke was rising upward. To either side and the rear, Merki by the tens of thousands were fleeing, heading to the river. Forward was a writhing sea of confusion, Merki no longer fighting but turning, trying to flee, warriors losing their mounts, falling to be crushed, a wild insane deafening cry filling the air.

Directly overhead and not a hundred feet above, Republic Republic came out of the smoke, a rocket detaching, arcing down into the confusion, exploding, and the sight of the machine coming out of the curtain of darkness added to the madness, riders crouching low in terror. came out of the smoke, a rocket detaching, arcing down into the confusion, exploding, and the sight of the machine coming out of the curtain of darkness added to the madness, riders crouching low in terror.

Along the rim of the hill the army paused, men working feverishly, reloading their muskets. A spattering of musket fire rattled out, growing to a continuous concussion of sound, men firing into the packed mass, unable to miss, the grand battery to his left, which had continued to fire throughout the long minutes before, adding its weight. Along the ridge beyond the battery, Merki were now streaming back, running in panic after witnessing the destruction in the valley.

Volleys continued to thunder out and across the ridge, and in the smoke Andrew could see that nothing was now in front except the dead, the dying, and those still trying to flee.

"Push them into the river!"

The cry rose up, and the army started down from the crest, men leaping forward, battle flags forward.

He started into the charge and felt a hand on his arm.

He turned and looked back, ready to shake the restraining grip off.

"I don't want to lose you now," Kathleen said. "A commander should direct from here."

He felt the battle fury in him, the desire to drive them all the way back to the river and see it to the end.

She looked up at him pleadingly.

And he felt the fury die away.

He stopped, watching as the colors of the 35th went forward, flanked on one side by the red and white stripes of a flag he had once fought for so long ago, and in a way still did fight for, the old national colors flanked by the flags of Rus and Roum and the Army of the Republic.

They swept down the slope and disappeared into the smoke. He felt her arm go around his waist, and he pulled her close beside him.

"Well, you dark devil, will you look at that!" Pat O'Donald shouted, looking over at Muzta. The two of them were standing transfixed as the Merki host turned and started for the rear.

Muzta turned and faced Pat.

"Let me go."

Astonished, Pat could not reply.

"My horde is down there, all that is left of it. You heard what I said to Keane, of my hatred of the Merki. Let me go now."

"Why?"

"Because I wish to save my people."

Pat laughed darkly, looking over at the sentry who had orders to shoot Muzta if he so much as made a threatening move. Muzta had made the same offer to Andrew, an offer which was refused when Andrew realized that Muzta had undoubtedly seen just how truly weak they now were.

"Human, I will strike a bargain with you."

"And that is?"

"I will fight the Merki and not just pull my people out of the fight."

Pat looked at him in astonishment, and Muzta grinned coldly.

"The Merki still might rally at the river. My horde is there," and he pointed to a block of warriors drawn up just beyond the range of the northern grand battery.

"You have but a handful of a hundred or more here, and your wounded are behind us. My son in there as well," he continued, and he pointed back to the hospital area to the rear. "In their madness they might flee this way and slaughter all of them in vengeance. I will stop them."

"In exchange for what?"

"I expect nothing, but I wish to die with sword in hand, fighting those who have always been my enemy, even before you."

Pat looked up at the Tugar, remembering the sight of Kathleen running into Andrew's embrace, young Vincent beside her, freed by a strange act of chivalry from this hated foe.

He looked back into the valley. Though the stampede of the horde was moving straight back toward the river, still others were running blindly, some moving up the slope, and all too quickly they could learn that this section of the line was all but defenseless.

"There's my horse," Pat said.

Muzta grinned.

"Tell Keane I believe he is a warrior after all," Muzta said. "Perhaps even you and the others as well."

He ran to Pat's mount and leaped to the saddle, the horse nickering at the strange but yet somehow familiar scent and feel of the one now riding him.

Muzta jerked the reins around and started the horse forward, moving faster, scrambling up over the side of the parapet and then started down the slope, weaving his way through the deadfalls. Pat shouted an order to hold fire and stood grinning.

"By Jesus I actually hope he does make it," Pat said, leaning on the parapet to watch.

Muzta reached the bottom of the hill, riding hard. The block formation of Tugar infantry, which had turned to watch the destruction, now noticed who was approaching, and a deep guttural cheer rose up to greet him.

Pat raised his field glasses to watch. Muzta had taken a sword from a warrior, was standing up in his stirrups, speaking. A deeper cheer sounded, and the block turned, spreading outward, some moving back toward the river and the line of the Merki retreat, others moving along the edge of the slope back to the east. Merki, not yet comprehending, rode toward them. Arrows snapped out, Merki going down.

"I'll be damned," Pat roared, passing the word to hold fire along his front. The Tugars swept forward and in their movement blocked the hospital from any last attack.

Tugars started to edge up the hill, sweeping eastward, their joyful shouts ringing up, as once again, they fought against a foe they understood, a foe already in panic, a foe they could take glory from in killing.

He looked at his watch. It was still an hour before sunset, but the world was dark. From the western horizon to far eastward the sky was green-black, thunderstorms marching in from the west. Already a cold wind was whipping in, the flags behind him standing straight out, snapping.

He looked back across the valley. The stench was now being driven away, and the air was almost breathable again.

Occasional musket shots still sounded as lone Merki refused to surrender and were hunted down. He had passed the order shortly before noon that surrender was to be accepted when offered, for to his amazement he had seen warriors throw down their weapons and go to their knees, heads lowered, as if they had reached the conclusion that fate had turned her back upon them and death was now unavoidable.

The frenzy of the last three days had been such that many were more than willing to comply with this final wish of a hated foe, but many more had seen enough of killing, and prisoners by the thousands were being herded to the rear.

He looked back across the river.

A warrior was upon the opposite bank, a rider beside him holding a white flag, waving it back and forth. Andrew nodded, and an orderly tied a dirty towel to the tip of his sword and waved it overhead. The warrior and his flag bearer started forward, his horse splashing up spray, moving gingerly to weave its way around the corpses.

They gained the opposite bank and stopped a dozen feet away. The warrior looked straight at Andrew and began to speak, his voice low, his words incomprehensible, and then he stopped, the flag bearer translating in broken Rus.

"I am Haga, Qarth of the black horse clan of the Merki horde. I come to speak of terms."

Andrew felt a ripple of excitement behind him. Though they had driven the Merki clear across the river, slaughtering tens of thousands, still there were others, and they could always try again tomorrow, or a week later, or a month.

"Where is your Qar Qarth, the one called Tamuka?" Andrew asked, and the flag bearer translated.

Haga growled angrily, spitting upon the ground, and then replied.

"He is a usurper of the rightful title of Qar Qarth and only holds such rank until the flag of war over the golden yurt is lowered, and the flag of peace flies. Then we are free to choose another. Until then I speak for the council of Qarths. Tamuka is now an outcast."

The implications of it all caught him by surprise, and already he could see the political weakness. They needed peace to select their new leader, but then what?

"Why should we speak of peace to you?" Andrew said coldly. "You are on our land. It never even was the land of the Merki-before we freed ourselves it was Tugar land. You are usurpers yourselves."

At the mention of the word "Tugar" he saw a spasm of anger cross Haga's features. Good, he thought, it stings them that even now near to ten thousand Tugars are in the middle of the valley, guarded to be sure, but there nevertheless.

Haga sat silent for a moment and then began to speak, his voice low.

"This is not our land. It was the wish of Jubadi, whom you killed killed through sorcery, and Tamuka. It is no longer my wish or that of the council." through sorcery, and Tamuka. It is no longer my wish or that of the council."

"Then leave it," Andrew snapped in reply, "or we shall unleash more of our sorcery so that the sky will rain fire, not only upon you but upon the yurts of your families as well, until the land is a smoking ruin, filled with the stench of your dead."

A peal of thunder rolled in from off the plain, and Andrew smiled, as if he somehow had control over the fortunate coincidence.

Haga, unable to restrain himself, looked over his shoulder and then back at Andrew.

"Peace then," he said. "We ask that we might pass through the land of the Roum to the great steppe beyond."

Andrew looked over his shoulder at Marcus, who was listening while Vincent translated the conversation into Latin. There was a flicker in Marcus's eyes, but he said nothing.

It would be simple to grant this request. A month from now they would be gone. Gone to unleash their pent-up fury on someone else, or to reconsider and still turn to fight again. No. Here was the choke point. He was glad Kal was not present, for he could well imagine that the president might be tempted otherwise.

"No."

Haga stirred, not sure what to say next.

"Turn around, go back to whence you came."

He paused, not sure of what was occurring five hundred miles to the south, suddenly realizing that if he prevented them from going east they might very well turn back upon Cartha yet again.

"And Cartha as well we now claim as part of our alliance."

Haga bristled. "That land is ours."