"We've lost our land," Kal said, and his voice was thick with pain. "To me, to the peasant, that is everything, his very soul. The boyars owned it all, but it was we who worked it, who brought life out of it. Not even the Tugars or the Merki can do that. They come and go, the name of the boyars changes from generation to generation, but the peasant is eternal. As long as he is on his land." He leaned back, looking up into the night sky.

"Half of all the Rus are dead now. Most of my friends are dead, and the rest are in the army, ready to die in another five days when the Merki finally get here."

"They'll not die in five days," Andrew said sharply.

"They'll die inside when they leave here forever."

"Damn you, Kal, do you want to lose?"

Kal looked over at him.

"Didn't you hear what I was saying down there? This land is nothing-Suzdal, all of it. All that counts now is two things. The factories, to make more weapons-and for the moment they're safe to the east," and he nodded toward the flickering fires. "And the army.

"That is what Vuka now has to defeat. He can occupy this entire damn world, but as long as the army exists and the tools for it to fight with are made, we still have a hope of winning."

"At what cost?"

"You made your choice back in the beginning," Andrew said coldly, his voice almost accusing. "On the night we were voting to decide whether to stay in Rus or to flee before the Tugars came, you started the peasant revolt in Suzdal."

Kal shifted uneasily beneath Andrew's gaze.

"My men voted then-they voted to come to your rescue and overthrow the boyars. You forced our hand. More than two hundred of those men who rushed to Suzdal that night are dead now, and most of the rest are scarred inside and out by what's happened since.

"But by God you are free. And better to die free than to live like the cattle you were."

He had chosen his word deliberately, and it stung. He could see Kal flinch at the word that no one now used, so loathsome were its connotations.

Low to the west, a circle of kerosene lamps flickered to life, marking the landing field for the aerosteamer that was coming back in to land, the evening patrol finished. The two watched intently as the shadowy bulk of the flying machine circled in and its ground crew secured its nose to the mast and then struggled with its bulk to tow it back into its hangar. From behind them a train whistle sounded in the distance, low and mournful, the engine coming through the gap in the White Hills, a thin plume of sparks marking its passage.

The night sounds were starting, crickets chirping, an owl hooting, a ghostly flutter of wings, while the silent flicking of fireflies blinked across the hillside, matching the campfires which illuminated the hills for miles around.

"When this cruel war is over ..."

The voices echoed, mingling with other songs.

"Oh Perm, hear us now at eventide . . ."

"Bring the old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song ..."

"There was a boyar's daughter, a lass of golden hair ..."

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . ."

The voices mingled together, the dozens of songs drifting, joining together into one harmony of living at the edge of war's destruction.

Kal stood up, hat in hand, listening to the voices which floated about them. Overhead the Great Wheel stood high in the sky, filling the heavens with light. The ground about them glowed with campfires, diffused now by the beginning of a soft milky ground fog that seemed to rise ghostlike from the earth.

Andrew stood up to join him, soaking in the life around him, feeling it in his heart, in his soul.

He knew what would happen tomorrow as he looked westward, imagining the nightmare two hundred miles away. Tomorrow they would bury the Qar Qarth, the one he had killed himself as surely as if he had pulled the trigger. He knew the horror of what would happen there, and he could feel the terror of the hundred thousand or more who tonight would be looking at this same sky, knowing that this would be the last night they would ever see such a sight.

That thought had come to him more than once, the cold sense that tomorrow he most likely would be dead, and that the world would continue on without him.

Tomorrow. God forgive me what happens tomorrow, he thought. He knew that he would not sleep tonight thinking about it, their fear reaching across all these miles to touch his heart.

"Perm help them," Kal whispered, and Andrew knew that Kal had been thinking the same thing.

"And help us after tomorrow," Andrew replied. "Let their deaths at least mean something for the future."

"Small comfort for the dying."

Andrew found he could not reply.

He tried to push the nightmare away, the massacre that the Merki would perform on their prisoners to water the grave of Jubadi. He looked back to his army, to his men, and tried to draw comfort from them, their innocence, their life.

A haunting tune drifted to him. Another old song from before, carried to this world, words changed to fit here . . . "Shenandoah."

He blinked back the tears as he listened.

"Oh gentle Neiper, I long to see you.

Roll away, you rolling river ..."

The song leapt from campfire to campfire, the other songs drifting away, thousands of voicing joining into one.

"Oh gentle Neiper, I long to see you . . .

Away, I'm bound away,"

The night on the Rappahannock, and then a week later . . .

He lowered his head.

"Let's go back, my friend," Andrew whispered.

"Kesus help us," Kal sighed, putting his hat back on and looking up at Andrew. "I need your strength, Andrew."

"And I, Mr. President, need yours," Andrew said in reply.

He put his arm around Kal's shoulder, and together the two went slowly back down the hill.

Chapter 4.

Tamuka, shield-bearer of the Qar Qarth, opened his eyes. The thin crescent of the morning moon hung low in the eastern sky, which was ablaze with the blood-red light of dawn. His breath of the ka ka came back to its slow steady rhythm, the near-deathlike breathing of meditation, which reached into the spirit of the came back to its slow steady rhythm, the near-deathlike breathing of meditation, which reached into the spirit of the tu, tu, giving way to the quickening pace of life. giving way to the quickening pace of life.

He felt an uneasy stirring about him. Though all was supposed to be silence, such a thing was impossible. Every hill was crowded with the multitudes who had sat through the night of vigil, and now with the final moments before dawn, there was a stirring- the creaking of leather armor, the cracking of joints, the sighing of the impatient, the sound of millions who lived, who had sat in silence for the dead. There was the other sound as well, the mournful cries of the cattle, which could not be stilled, their sobs cutting the night air like a sharpened blade-but then they were only cattle, and thus of no account, though their behavior lacked any semblance of dignity.

The cattle. Early in the evening, just after the setting of the sun, while the moon of receding twilight had yet hung in the sky, his ka ka had told him that the other was there, that Keane was somehow aware of him, of what was taking place. He had reached to Keane, his spirit sense seeking this one out, and with an inner sense of vision he could almost see him, standing upon a distant hill, looking back to the west. had told him that the other was there, that Keane was somehow aware of him, of what was taking place. He had reached to Keane, his spirit sense seeking this one out, and with an inner sense of vision he could almost see him, standing upon a distant hill, looking back to the west.

His hatred had flared out for a moment, his thoughts driving a dagger of fear into the cattle's heart. War could be fought not just on the battlefield, but in the heart as well.

A single horn sounded, a deep-throated narga. Tamuka let his gaze shift for an instant to the high tower that had been constructed for this one single purpose. It stood on the hills to the north, the voice of the narga carrying through the light fog hanging in the valleys. Several seconds later he saw the thin sliver of light break the horizon, reflecting dimly in the waters of the lake stretching off to the east.

Other nargas sounded, their voices swelling, echoing across the fields, mingling with the sighs as hundreds of thousands came to their feet.

The chant started. It had no real words; it was just a deep plaintive call, which he suspected perhaps eons ago did have words, but through the endless generations the words had been lost and only the sounds, a bone-chilling growling, had remained.

The warriors rose, covering the fields and hills for miles with their dark forms. The sun slowly broke the horizon, shining dully on the burnished shields and helmets of the assembled.

Tamuka stood with them, the growl rising, growing stronger, chilling his blood with its ancient calling until it would have rivaled even the thunder of the skies, the howling of the wind.

"It is time."

The voice of Sarg was distant, as if calling from another world. Tamuka nodded, allowing his gaze to return fully to this time, this place.

He looked to his left.

Vuka. He felt nothing at the moment. The Qar Qarth wavered slightly, his features drawn, pained. Sarg reached out to touch him, and the Qar Qarth flinched.

"I'm all right," he whispered.

Tamuka ignored him, looking instead to his companion to his right.

Hulagar, shield-bearer to the dead Qar Qarth, was silent, a distant light in his eyes, as if in this final night the memories had swirled into his soul, and even now were bearing him away.

"Beautiful sight," Hulagar whispered, a thin smile lighting his features. His eyes darted, looking out upon the horde, which still faced to the east, its cry thundering about them.

"A beautiful sight, a world that was wondrous."

Hulagar sighed and turned to face Tamuka.

"Let's begin," Hulagar said, his voice almost cheerful.

Sarg nodded solemnly and turned away, going back into the yurt, the others following. The interior was dim, except for the single lamp that hung above the dais. The washers of the dead stood about the body, heads lowered, their task only now completed, the last incantation having been written upon the funeral shroud that encased the mortal remains of Jubadi with the sounding of the first narga of the last day of mourning.

Sarg approached the dais, Tamuka, Vuka, and Hulagar behind him. The silent ones, the guardians, stepped aside to let them pass.

One of the washers turned and bowed low.

"We return our Qar Qarth to his people for the final time. We return his mortal remains. His spirit is ready for the endless ride of the ancestors who soar over us."

The washers, with heads lowered, withdrew from the yurt.

Sarg turned to Vuka and nodded.

The new Qar Qarth, walking unsteadily, mounted the dais and knelt down before the remains of his father. The tent was silent, though outside the crying of the horde still thundered.

Tamuka watched him intently, wondering if now, at this moment, some sense of all that he had to do had somehow been realized at last. He doubted it. All Vuka could see was the power, the glory, nothing beyond that, nothing of the struggle, of the cunning that would be needed, nothing of all the changes that would have to be wrought if there was to be any hope of surviving in this world.

Vuka had spoken of simply riding through the cattle, of slaughtering those who resisted, of scattering the rest, of taking their machines of war and then riding on to face again the old enemy the Bantag.

Madness.

He knew that within his soul the Qar Qarth was now truly afraid of the cattle. Had they not struck down his father from almost beyond sight? The report of the guns on the cattle ships that stood upon the river now made him flinch and look about fearfully. It was a war he now feared. If war could be fought in ways other than upon the battlefield, the Yankee cattle Keane had already defeated Vuka-in fact, he knew that this Keane most likely had planned for it. It was a strange transformation in Vuka, who had at one time been able to ride fearlessly, almost too impetuously, against the Bantag. But now he was terrified of being struck down by something as lowly as an animal, a mere cattle.

Vuka at last stirred, coming back to his feet. He stood unsteady for a moment, swaying. Sarg came up to him, reaching out. Vuka looked around the yurt, the yurt that after the purification would be his. He steadied himself, then stepped down and came back to Tamuka's side.

Sarg nodded a signal to the commander of the silent ones, who clapped his hand once. The guards turned, and a dozen of them gathered on either side of the dais. Long poles were inserted through rings set into the wooden platform. The commander clapped a second time. The guards stood up, hoisting the platform onto their shoulders.

They turned, holding the body of Jubadi high, while two other guards reached up to the lamp with a long pole, carefully unhooked it, and brought it down, placing it inside a glass carrying case so that no errant breeze might extinguish it during the procession.

Tamuka stepped back, letting the bearers of the lamp and of the funeral platform of Jubadi move pass. At the entrance to the yurt an even broader platform than the one Jubadi rested upon was brought in and laid upon the ground. The dozen guards carrying Jubadi stepped up upon it.

Eighty guards flanked it on all four sides. Again there was a single clap of command, and this platform was raised up to rest upon the guards' shoulders, standing atop it the dozen silent ones who bore upon their shoulders the body of Jubadi Qar Qarth. Nearly twenty feet high, the two-tiered funeral stage now stood waiting at the entrance to the yurt, the front flap pulled back to let them pass.

Tamuka had a flash of memory, remembering the moon feast the night before the beginning of the campaign, when, half drunk, Jubadi had been carried out of the yurt upon a raised shield, held high by his Qarths and umen commanders.

A great narga sounded before the yurt. Its single call was joined in an instant by a hundred more nargas surrounding the yurt. Their brazen call pierced the air, counterpointed by the rolling of the great drums, which picked up upon the low steady beat of the death drum that had rolled continuously for the last thirty days.

It was a wild cacophony of noise-the rising screams of the horde, the crashing of swords on shields, the great drums, the nargas. With a slow measured step, the eighty bearers stepped forward, bearing Jubadi into the light of early dawn. Though it was hard to imagine it possible, Tamuka felt as if the sound had taken on physical form, a wild primal release after the thirty days of deathly silence.

Walking with Hulagar and Vuka, Tamuka followed the body of Jubadi into the light, the sun hanging directly before them, blood-red, the light fog of dawn reflecting its sullen light. The Qarths of the tribes that were united as Merki stepped forward to flank the procession, joined in turn by the commanders of the umens, shamans, and the remaining silent ones who would not follow Jubadi at the end of this day. The sounders of the nargas lifted up their horns, assistants carrying the bells upon their shoulders, drummers joining them, the great kettledrums slung from their necks, moving to fall in behind the chief mourners.

Clearing the tent, the procession turned to the west, moving in an arc around the south side of the tent. The plains were dark with the horde, stretching back all the way to the walls of the cursed cattle city. He looked at it with hatred. He had wanted it to be the pyre of Jubadi, but had been overruled by Sarg and Vuka, who had declared the place accursed and to be left alone. He forced the sight of it out of his mind.

From the top of the hill, nearly all of the horde could see the procession, and as if moved by a single hand they surged forward, voices raised in lamentation, pushing to draw closer, surging inward. A full umen was drawn up shoulder to shoulder with spears lowered, keeping the path cleared, and so great was the crush that at times the lines threatened to break, and hundreds died, either flinging themselves upon the spears in sacrifice or being pushed upon them from the surging crowd.

Ever so slowly, the procession made its way down the hill, pausing for long minutes when the narrow path momentarily closed because of the surging mob. The bottom of the hill was reached, and Tamuka noticed that the ground was slippery with blood from where dozens had fallen and been crushed, or speared.

Foolish waste, he thought coldly. Better to die in battle than like this.

Gradually the procession started back up the next hill, the bearers on top of the platform leaning forward slightly to keep the body of Jubadi steady. The top of the next hill was flat, as if shaved off by a blade. Ten thousand cattle had labored upon the barrow of Jubadi, shearing the top of the hill off, digging into its heart. They had finished their work only the night before.

The platform reached the top of the hill and stopped. The crowd surged in again, and for a moment Tamuka felt a flicker of panic as the warriors lining either side of the narrow path were nearly crushed up against each other. The din was stunning. He saw Vuka blanch as guards were crushed up against him, and then the crush eased back again and with hurried step the group gained the top of the hill.

He took a deep breath and looked back. Behind them the narrow valley was filled, the path washed under by the press which struggled to get closer. But the hilltop was unreachable, for another umen had been positioned around it, its ranks six deep on three sides, and a stockade stood chest-high to keep the press back. The fourth side, to the south, was where the others waited, but that did not matter, for a high fence had been built to contain that place.

Tamuka turned his attention back to the barrow. The top of the hill, over a hundred and fifty feet across, had been razed flat. In the center a hole had been sunk, forty feet across and half as deep, in the middle of which was the pyre of stacked wood, laid out to accept the funeral platform. From the four corners of the hole, trenches half a dozen feet across had been sliced in at an angle gently rising from the floor of the burial pit up to ground level at the very edge of the hill. Earthen steps had been set into the east side of barrow for access to the bottom of the pit. The entire subterranean pit was paved, floor and walls, with stones, cunningly set, tightly fitted, and polished to a mirrorlike sheen.

There was a bark of command, and the eighty bearing the great platform lowered their burden to the ground and stepped back. Tamuka spared a glance at Hulagar, and he felt his heart tighten. His old comrade, seeing his look, smiled and in an almost fatherly fashion reached out and touched him on the shoulder.

Two shamans came up out of the hole, mounting the earthen steps carved into the east side, bearing two poles between which fluttered the black funeral banner of Jubadi.