Read Online Terrible Swift Sword by William R. Forstchen - Free Book Online
Authors: William R. Forstchen
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lances and they damn near took us, the second time against ironclads, and now, with nearly three times the strength of the Tugars, artillery like ours, and those damn flying machines."
He shook his head and fell silent.
The flying machines. At least they wouldn't be up today. At last count there were over twenty of the things. One had been brought down, or rather something had caused its engine to stop. The machine had drifted far out into the steppe between Suzdal and Roum, and finally had crashed when the cigar-shaped bag of hydrogen that supported the engine and the engineers' compartment burst into flames. What they had been able to sift out of the wreckage was the most troubling revelation of the winter.
The first people to approach the scorched machine had fallen sick within hours and died within days. It was fortunate, Andrew realized, that Ferguson, the engineering genius who had done so much to save all of them, had not been nearby. He would have crawled over the wreckage to learn the mystery of their engine, which apparently could fly for days without fuel. Before he got there Emil had passed up a firm order to keep him back, and to have the machine buried. Half a dozen more had died in carrying out that order.
Just how they had obtained the mysterious engine was an enigma. It was obviously far in advance of anything they had managed to create. During the winter, when Ferguson and several others had come to his home for an evening visit, they had agreed that any topic related to the forthcoming war was forbidden for the night. It had been an evening of pleasant diversion, of speculation about the world and how it had come about. Ferguson had gone so far as to suggest that perhaps the tunnel of light was a machine, drawing a comparison to electricity traveling through telegraph wires. If his speculation was true, then who had built it?
If such things were hidden on this world, what else might the Merki have access to?
"Ferguson will get us in the air," Andrew said quietly.
"Whistling in the wind will work for the others," Hans replied, a note of irritation in his voice, "but I don't need the reassurance."
Andrew leaned against the side of the parapet, Hans joining him. Meditatively, he chewed slowly on a precious piece of tobacco and spat over the side.
"Just how the hell are we going to get out of this one?" Hans whispered, as if to himself.
"The flying machines?" Andrew said, realizing that this was but one small part of the issue. "Fergusonis working on this caloric engine idea; we'll be in the air within the month."
"I mean everything."
Andrew felt shaken. Hans had always been the one source of strength, the quiet reassurance standing in the background. Like the best of all possible mentors he had first taught and then at least stepped aside, though he was always there when you really needed him, if for nothing more than an approving nod.
Damn him, Andrew thought quietly, I need him now, and instead he needs me.
"We'll fight them here on the Potomac line. We've got the beginning of a line back at Wilderness Station, and then if need be on the Neiper River itself."
"They outnumber us at least six-to-one, Andrew, and they have the mobility of the horse. All of them are mounted, something we don't have."
"You heard John Mina's assessment," Andrew replied. "That's four hundred thousand horses that have to be fed, at least sixteen million pounds of grass a day. Their forage problem will be a nightmare. Damn them, if they had any sense they would have hit this winter, coming in on foot if need be, but at least in that they're predictable. The Horde lives by the horse."
"When they hit, it will be a hurricane," Hans said quietly. "Now I know how the rebs felt. No matter how many of us they killed, we kept on coming. We were one of the worst-led armies in history— McClellan, Burnside, Hooker—and yet we kept on coming ."
"You're saying we're going to lose this one," Andrew replied, trying to hide the
He shook his head and fell silent.
The flying machines. At least they wouldn't be up today. At last count there were over twenty of the things. One had been brought down, or rather something had caused its engine to stop. The machine had drifted far out into the steppe between Suzdal and Roum, and finally had crashed when the cigar-shaped bag of hydrogen that supported the engine and the engineers' compartment burst into flames. What they had been able to sift out of the wreckage was the most troubling revelation of the winter.
The first people to approach the scorched machine had fallen sick within hours and died within days. It was fortunate, Andrew realized, that Ferguson, the engineering genius who had done so much to save all of them, had not been nearby. He would have crawled over the wreckage to learn the mystery of their engine, which apparently could fly for days without fuel. Before he got there Emil had passed up a firm order to keep him back, and to have the machine buried. Half a dozen more had died in carrying out that order.
Just how they had obtained the mysterious engine was an enigma. It was obviously far in advance of anything they had managed to create. During the winter, when Ferguson and several others had come to his home for an evening visit, they had agreed that any topic related to the forthcoming war was forbidden for the night. It had been an evening of pleasant diversion, of speculation about the world and how it had come about. Ferguson had gone so far as to suggest that perhaps the tunnel of light was a machine, drawing a comparison to electricity traveling through telegraph wires. If his speculation was true, then who had built it?
If such things were hidden on this world, what else might the Merki have access to?
"Ferguson will get us in the air," Andrew said quietly.
"Whistling in the wind will work for the others," Hans replied, a note of irritation in his voice, "but I don't need the reassurance."
Andrew leaned against the side of the parapet, Hans joining him. Meditatively, he chewed slowly on a precious piece of tobacco and spat over the side.
"Just how the hell are we going to get out of this one?" Hans whispered, as if to himself.
"The flying machines?" Andrew said, realizing that this was but one small part of the issue. "Fergusonis working on this caloric engine idea; we'll be in the air within the month."
"I mean everything."
Andrew felt shaken. Hans had always been the one source of strength, the quiet reassurance standing in the background. Like the best of all possible mentors he had first taught and then at least stepped aside, though he was always there when you really needed him, if for nothing more than an approving nod.
Damn him, Andrew thought quietly, I need him now, and instead he needs me.
"We'll fight them here on the Potomac line. We've got the beginning of a line back at Wilderness Station, and then if need be on the Neiper River itself."
"They outnumber us at least six-to-one, Andrew, and they have the mobility of the horse. All of them are mounted, something we don't have."
"You heard John Mina's assessment," Andrew replied. "That's four hundred thousand horses that have to be fed, at least sixteen million pounds of grass a day. Their forage problem will be a nightmare. Damn them, if they had any sense they would have hit this winter, coming in on foot if need be, but at least in that they're predictable. The Horde lives by the horse."
"When they hit, it will be a hurricane," Hans said quietly. "Now I know how the rebs felt. No matter how many of us they killed, we kept on coming. We were one of the worst-led armies in history— McClellan, Burnside, Hooker—and yet we kept on coming ."
"You're saying we're going to lose this one," Andrew replied, trying to hide the
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