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Authors: William R. Forstchen
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Kal with us for three days now. The language is Russian, or a form of it at least. You know that and so do I."
"Seems like something out of the tenth, maybe eleventh century, I'd venture," Andrew said, as if to himself . "But how, dammit? How? From what little I've been able to learn from Kal, he talks about a Primary Chronicle that tells of his people crossing here in a river of light. Now, I remember that the Primary Chronicle is a history of the early Russians. But we aren't in Russia. The sky and that strange red sun prove that. So tell me, Emil, where are we?"
Emil reached up and laid his hand on Andrew's shoulder.
"That is not your concern, if I might be so bold," Emil said sharply.
"And what does that mean?" Andrew replied, feeling somewhat irritated by the doctor's tone.
"Andrew, you're pondering an impossible. Chances are we'll never know the how of it, or the why. Even if we did, chances are we still couldn't change it. Your job now is to lead. To find a way for us to survive on this world. If an answer ever comes, we'll cross that then. But we can't stay here surrounded forever. For the time being we must find a place to live."
Emil stopped for a moment, and with a smile reached into his tunic and pulled out a flask and offered it.
Without comment Andrew uncorked it and took a long pull.
"Somehow we've got to make an accommodation with those people out there. You no longer command a regiment— you're the general in charge, and a diplomat now as well."
"So you're telling me to stop worrying and do my job, is that it?" Andrew said coldly.
"Just that you historian types want to know all the answers," Emil responded with a chuckle.
Andrew turned away for a moment. He knew the old doctor was right. For three days the regiment had been here, dug in and terrified. And the terror had been in him as well. Only iron discipline had kept him going, following the mechanical routines of running a regiment. In the evening he sat with Kal, trying to master the language. But when he was alone the cold terror would start to creep in.
Just what was he going to do?
"Worry about keeping us alive," Emil said softly as if reading his thoughts. "Let me spend my time figuring out the hows and whys of it all."
Andrew turned back to the doctor and smiled.
"Where the hell is that Hans? Time for the men to get up. After roll, let's you and me sit down with Kal," and capping the bottle he tossed it back to the doctor.
"Boyar, I Keane see your boyar."
At least that's what Kal thought he heard. Cursed strange how they tried to speak the mother tongue. He looked at Andrew and smiled.
"You Cane, see Ivor, talk friendship. I go back to Ivor and talk peace for you," Kal ventured back in English.
Andrew smiled and nodded in an exaggerated manner. Kal could not help but chuckle inwardly. In three days he'd learned far more of their language than he was willing to let on. Of all the Suzdalians, in fact of all the Rus, he alone could communicate with them. Ivor would really need him now.
For years he'd lived at the edge of Ivor's table, making up bad verse for the scraps of comfort offered to him. And, more than once he'd feared that Ivor might think him just a little too smart for a peasant and have him garroted. It'd been a dangerous game he played, all with one final hope. That when the Tugars came, he and his family would be exempt from the sacrifice, as were the rest of the nobility.
Continue to play dumb, he thought. Just play dumb and learn quietly from these bluecoats. Already he'd seen enough to leave him filled with terror. One of the young bluecoats, the one called Vincent, had shown him how his metal rod could kill an enemy many paces away. Ivor in his fear might try to destroy them and take the metal rods. But if that happened, Kal realized, he'd be out of a job as translator. No, peace would be essential, for him to serve as the go-between and thus secure himself in Ivor's court.
He looked about the tent and smiled his
"Seems like something out of the tenth, maybe eleventh century, I'd venture," Andrew said, as if to himself . "But how, dammit? How? From what little I've been able to learn from Kal, he talks about a Primary Chronicle that tells of his people crossing here in a river of light. Now, I remember that the Primary Chronicle is a history of the early Russians. But we aren't in Russia. The sky and that strange red sun prove that. So tell me, Emil, where are we?"
Emil reached up and laid his hand on Andrew's shoulder.
"That is not your concern, if I might be so bold," Emil said sharply.
"And what does that mean?" Andrew replied, feeling somewhat irritated by the doctor's tone.
"Andrew, you're pondering an impossible. Chances are we'll never know the how of it, or the why. Even if we did, chances are we still couldn't change it. Your job now is to lead. To find a way for us to survive on this world. If an answer ever comes, we'll cross that then. But we can't stay here surrounded forever. For the time being we must find a place to live."
Emil stopped for a moment, and with a smile reached into his tunic and pulled out a flask and offered it.
Without comment Andrew uncorked it and took a long pull.
"Somehow we've got to make an accommodation with those people out there. You no longer command a regiment— you're the general in charge, and a diplomat now as well."
"So you're telling me to stop worrying and do my job, is that it?" Andrew said coldly.
"Just that you historian types want to know all the answers," Emil responded with a chuckle.
Andrew turned away for a moment. He knew the old doctor was right. For three days the regiment had been here, dug in and terrified. And the terror had been in him as well. Only iron discipline had kept him going, following the mechanical routines of running a regiment. In the evening he sat with Kal, trying to master the language. But when he was alone the cold terror would start to creep in.
Just what was he going to do?
"Worry about keeping us alive," Emil said softly as if reading his thoughts. "Let me spend my time figuring out the hows and whys of it all."
Andrew turned back to the doctor and smiled.
"Where the hell is that Hans? Time for the men to get up. After roll, let's you and me sit down with Kal," and capping the bottle he tossed it back to the doctor.
"Boyar, I Keane see your boyar."
At least that's what Kal thought he heard. Cursed strange how they tried to speak the mother tongue. He looked at Andrew and smiled.
"You Cane, see Ivor, talk friendship. I go back to Ivor and talk peace for you," Kal ventured back in English.
Andrew smiled and nodded in an exaggerated manner. Kal could not help but chuckle inwardly. In three days he'd learned far more of their language than he was willing to let on. Of all the Suzdalians, in fact of all the Rus, he alone could communicate with them. Ivor would really need him now.
For years he'd lived at the edge of Ivor's table, making up bad verse for the scraps of comfort offered to him. And, more than once he'd feared that Ivor might think him just a little too smart for a peasant and have him garroted. It'd been a dangerous game he played, all with one final hope. That when the Tugars came, he and his family would be exempt from the sacrifice, as were the rest of the nobility.
Continue to play dumb, he thought. Just play dumb and learn quietly from these bluecoats. Already he'd seen enough to leave him filled with terror. One of the young bluecoats, the one called Vincent, had shown him how his metal rod could kill an enemy many paces away. Ivor in his fear might try to destroy them and take the metal rods. But if that happened, Kal realized, he'd be out of a job as translator. No, peace would be essential, for him to serve as the go-between and thus secure himself in Ivor's court.
He looked about the tent and smiled his
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