Free Terrible Swift Sword by William R. Forstchen Page A

recovering from yet another bout with one of the myriad of camp illnesses. When not in the hospital he had struggled along on the march, and by the end of the day, more often than not, sergeant Barry or one of the others was carrying his musket. And yet he had doggedly refused to quit. More than once Andrew had offered him a place in the rear with a quartermaster unit, and Chuck had always replied indignantly that he would do his part. Thank God he had stayed and survived, Andrew thought, as he smiled at the soldier who, since coming to this world, had not fired a shot in anger but had done more than perhaps all of them put together to save them from the feasting pits of the enemy.
    Lastly there was Hamilcar, who seemed almost to be standing in the shadows. Kal and Hans had objected loudly to his being present, but Andrew had insisted. Only seven months ago this man had been an enemy who had come close to defeating them. And yet now he might be one of the keys to winning. Nearly forty thousand Cartha had been relocated to Suzdal, settling down along the coast on the frontier between the Republic and Roum. Their raids back to their homeland, to rescue their people, were a constant harassment of the enemy and a valuable source of information. He wanted Hamilcar to fully realize that his people were being accepted into the alliance, that technically Cartha was now considered an allied city under enemy occupation. Of course if Marcus had come it would have been impossible, so deep was the enmity between Roumand her former enemy. Though Hamilcar's hatred of the Merki was now evident, Andrew knew for certain that the man's grasp of Rus was rudimentary at best, and he would not be around after this initial session, when maps and other secret information were laid out on the table.
    "Gentlemen, we've got a long couple of days ahead of us," Andrew said quietly, "so let's get started.
    He nodded appreciatively to the young steward who came out of the tiny galley next to the telegraph office, bearing a trayload of heavy earthenware mugs, filled with the traditional Rus brew of dark fragrant tea. The steward looked over at Emil, who gave an approving nod, before setting a mug down before Andrew.
    "Off that damn broth, at last," Andrew said with a sigh.
    "Just be careful," Emil replied. "Not too much. And be sure to eat something with it."
    Andrew felt no need to argue with the doctor, as a second steward deposited a wooden tray of dark bread, liberally spread with a thick coating of fresh cheese. It was a rare treat for the Rus, since the first war had killed off most of their livestock, which after three years were just starting to get their numbers back up. Kal always made it a point of spreading a table that was no better than what the common working families of Rus enjoyed, and more than once Andrew had found nothing more than bread and butter that bordered on being rancid on his plate.
    "It keeps us from becoming boyars," Kal would remind them. It was also damn good politics, Andrew realized as well.
    Andrew wrapped his hand around the mug, letting the warmth seep in, and, raising it to his lips took a sip, a smile of contentment crossing his features.
    It was the first tea he had tasted in nearly a month. This had been his second bout with typhoid, and this time he had half believed it was going to kill him.
    He took another long sip, the tea jarring his senses awake. Setting the mug down, he looked around the table.
    "John, why don't you start with an overview of things."
    John Mina pulled open a folder and looked up at the group. The papers in his hand were never really neccessary, for the facts and figures danced through his mind without ceasing.
    "Production is slowing somewhat. It's what we talked about before. Morale is down. It's been nearly three years nonstop, and two major wars with a third on the way. Our illness rate was up, for starters."
    "To be expected in the winter," Emil said almost defensively, "and still a whole