William R. Forstchen Lost Regiment 1 Rally Cry

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of plague, typhoid, and God knows what else. If I had more time
I could guarantee the inoculation, but we'll have to take it from the dead
scabs of those Wanderers who already have it."
"You are telling me that you wish to push these dead scabs into our people,
and that will protect them?"
Casmar came to his feet as if the audience were at an end.
"Andrew, show him your arm," Emil said quickly.
Andrew stepped forward and with the doctor's help rolled up his sleeve.
"I had this inoculation," Andrew said. "The doctor gave it to me himself when
I joined the army."
"And this made you better?" Casmar asked.
"I was sick for several days, but nothing more than when you get a slight
fever. But he is telling the truth, your holiness. The Wanderers we have in
quarantine beyond the city are carrying smallpox with them. Apparently they're
spreading it ahead of the horde. Several people who were exposed to it ran
away, and we don't know who they are.
"I'm telling you, your holiness, if you don't help us, within weeks this city
will be a charnel house, I promise you that."
"But this thing the people might say it is a devilish plot to make them sick."
"He is telling the truth, your holiness," Kathleen said, stepping forward to
speak. "I am a healer the same as Dr. Weiss. You know that the two of us
worked in the hospitals to save hundreds of your people after the fight to
free the city. We could not lie about such a thing."
Casmar shook his head in confusion.
"I believe you," he said, looking straight at Kathleen, "for I have heard the
nuns of our order speak of you as a good and holy woman. But the people, they
will not believe."
"If you tell them to, they will," Emil said.
"But when some of them die they will claim that the church has misled them
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once again. I am trying desperately to repair the damage done by
Rasnar and the prelates before him. I want our church to help the people in
this world, and not just fill them with promises of the next.
"Remember, though, that there is another prelate even now in Vazima, and I
have to contend with that. The moment one of our people dies from this thing
you wish to do, Igor will thunder from the pulpit against me."
"Let him thunder," Emil cried, "but if he does not let his people get
inoculated as well, the proof will be obvious in a matter of weeks."
"You wish to do this same thing to the people of Vazima?" Casmar asked.
"I'm dedicated to saving lives," Emil said quietly. "I was hoping you could
arrange a truce, and I could train some people from that city and save the
rest of Rus as well."
Casmar looked at Emil with amazement. Since the great division there had been
occasional skirmishes between the border watchers of the two sides, but no
contact beyond that, other than the steady trickle of refugees who continued
to stream eastward, believing as the months passed that it was better to take
their chance with the Tugar pits than to die beneath their arrows and swords.
"I will think upon this," Casmar said quietly.
Frustrated, Emil sat down.
"There's the other problem now as well," Andrew said. "I'm afraid that word
has already spread of the advance guard of Tugars, and the city's in a
near-panic. What do you think they represent, your holiness?"
"Usually they first send the Namer of Time, a year before the arrival of the
horde. About three months before the arrival of the horde the chooser comes.
It is he who counts the amount in the warehouses, and under his guidance the
selection is begun."
"Then it is not the main body of the horde approaching?" Andrew asked.
"I believe not," Casmar replied cautiously.
"Most likely they're nervous about our being here," Andrew said, looking over
at Hans. "If I were their leader I'd send up a reconnaissance in force along
with this chooser to check things out."
Andrew settled back in his chair.
"At least five hundred, I'm willing to bet, more likely a thousand," and
Hans nodded in agreement.
"Why's that?" Casmar asked.
"Good tactics," Hans said. "That Namer fellow got a good estimate of our size.
Figures if we're still here, two-to-one odds should clean us out, and prevent
any trouble for the rest of the horde. I'd make it a thousand."
"It's important they don't see anything here," Andrew said. "The farther
forward we meet them the better.
"Hans, what've we got ready for action?"
"Precious few, colonel. There's the 35th Regiment, of course, and one regiment
of Suzdalians fully equipped, but still only partially trained."
"Artillery?"
"Five guns for the Suzdalian first battery," Hans replied. "That's it so far."
"And O'Donald's away with the
Ogunquit,"
Andrew said, as if to himself, "leaving us only two Napoleons."
"That's all we've got, sir."
"All right, Hans. The 35th and 1st Suzdalian to be formed up at dawn, along
with both batteries.
"Where do they usually come first?" Andrew said, looking over at
Casmar.
"Down the river road."
"There are a couple of passes farther up," Andrew said meditatively.
"I've checked the ground over myself. Nice bottlenecks the perfect place to
pen them in.
"Get the men formed, and have Kal come with me. I want our leader to see what
this new army can do."
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Reining in his mount, Qubata looked suspiciously at the low-lying hills ahead.
Everything felt wrong. They had passed dozens of Rus villages in the last two
days, and not a single cattle was in the fields. The few he had seen fled at
their approach.
Where were the nobles to keep their people working in the fields? Yet the
fields were well tended. In one of the empty villages he had stepped into a
barn. There was a strange device within it, a machine that looked like two
great wheels set nearly two arm lengths apart. The wheels were tied together
by six long blades. Curious, he had pushed the device, and the blades turned,
grating against another blade set across the bottom of the device.
It appeared to be some sort of cutting machine, but for what he was not sure,
and that made him more nervous as well, and had been troubling his thoughts
ever since.
Never had he seen such a machine. Could this be a device of the ones called
Yankees?
One of his scouts came galloping back up the road toward where the column
waited.
"The road ahead is clear, my commander," the courier shouted, reining in his
horse.
Qubata looked back at the long column behind him. He knew that his warriors
were viewing his caution with open disdain. More than once in the last day he
had heard a comment from behind his back, saying that he was so old that his
brain was becoming that of a frightened child.
"Are you sure you saw nothing?" Qubata asked.
"I have reported all that I've seen," the scout replied, and the warrior
looked at him darkly.
"Did the rest of your command fan out to either side of the road?"
"As you commanded."
There was a restive stirring behind him.
He could not hesitate, not here. If he delayed any longer and indeed there was
nothing farther ahead, what respect he had left would be finally lost.
With a grunt of disdain he urged his mount into a trot, signaling for the rest
of the column to follow.
The host moved down the road, past yet another abandoned village.
Again it was the same as before, the crops well laid out, shimmering beneath
the summer sun, but not a single cattle in sight. On the road he started to
notice footprints of cattle. Could it be they were simply fleeing before his
approach?
The tree-clad hills to his left marched downward, narrowing the valley,
pushing them in closer and closer to the broad muddy river on the right.
He did not like this region; he preferred the open steppes. But the great
inland sea, and the river that fed it, required them to swing far northward
for several days' march into the edge of the great forest, until a ford could
be reached sufficient to cross the great host. The trees closed around them,
making him feel tight, uncomfortable. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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