SWORDS AND SADDLES

by John G. Hemry

 

* * * *

 

 

Illustrated by Broeck Steadman

 

* * * *

 

When choices are eliminated, one does what one must....

 

A long column of soldiers and horses moved across the rolling landscape, an intense thunderstorm pummeling them. At the head of the column walked Captain Ulysses Benton, on foot and leading his mount through the tempest like the rest of the cavalry company, peering ahead into the murk to be sure of his way. Civilians, who only saw cavalry on the Fourth of July when it paraded in dress uniforms while the band played, thought of horse cavalry as a romantic way of life. Captain Benton knew better, as did all of the troopers walking in column behind him.

 

The real cavalry was this, trudging through the endless prairie, mud sucking at your boots, grass slippery underfoot, your feet aching from the march, sheets of water being thrown on you from a leaden sky while gusts of wind tried to knock you from your feet and forced water through every seam and opening so that no portion of you remained dry, tugging on the lead of a horse just as weary and worn out as you were, the horse occasionally snapping at you in its misery and irritation or jerking its head with devilish timing so the tug of the reins would threaten to topple you into the mud, your stomach almost empty since there’d been no way to make a meal, and your last seven warm meals had only been bacon and beans, but this day there wouldn’t even be that, nothing but soggy hardtack since no fire could be lit under these conditions.

 

And all for the princely sum of thirteen dollars a month for the privates. It had been sixteen dollars a month, but Congress had cut military pay in this year of 1870.

 

In the middle of column, the four supply wagons jolted and jumped over the uneven ground, riding light now that most of the provisions they had carried had been used up. Two more days, Benton thought. The company of cavalry would be back at Fort Harker in two more days. The only small mercy was that he and his men all wore the new broad-brimmed black slouch hats instead of the old forage caps, which wouldn’t have provided any real protection from the rain.

 

Lightning suddenly erupted around them like an artillery barrage targeted on the column, momentarily lighting the world so brightly that men flinched and closed their eyes against the flares. Benton’s foot came down hard, the way it would when walking down steps and misjudging the distance to the next step. He staggered, staying up only thanks to the fact that he had the reins wrapped around one hand, and getting another attempted nip from his ornery mount as the tired horse protested being used as a support.

 

Hearing some muttered curses, Benton blinked against the renewed darkness, locating Sergeant Tyndall. “Are you okay, sergeant?”

 

“Yes, sir, cap’n, except for being cold, tired, wet and miserable, begging your pardon, sir.”

 

“‘If you want to see a good time, join the cavalry,’“ Benton quoted the recruiting motto.

 

“That’s right, sir. It’s bad enough out here in October. I hate to think of campaigning on the plains again come winter. And then that lightning, like we were back fighting Johnny Reb again. But just then I thought maybe we’d stumbled across a prairie dog town.”

 

“Did you miss a step, too?”

 

“Yes, sir. I wondered if the dogs had torn up the ground, but I can’t see none of their burrows, and we couldn’t not see them even in this mess.”

 

They plodded onward, men and beasts enduring the storm because they had no other choice. In a small mercy, the storm began lifting before sunset, and by the time dark came on, the clouds had split to reveal the innumerable stars above. Benton walked among his soldiers after the company had halted for the night, ensuring they had taken what care of their mounts they could in these conditions, with everyone and everything soaked to the skin. There was little he and Sergeant Tyndall could do but reassure the men that another couple of days would see them back in Fort Harker.

 

Lieutenant Garret, who had been walking with the rear of the column behind the supply wagons, straightened to attention and gave a precise salute. “I’ve had what dry hardtack remains distributed to the men, captain.”

 

“You found some? Well done.” Benton rubbed his forehead, feeling exhausted but knowing that like everyone else he’d be sleeping in soggy clothing on wet ground. At that, he was better off than the enlisted men, because his uniform was of decent quality and cut, while they were still forced to wear left-over uniforms hastily and cheaply manufactured for the Civil War since the War Department had no intention of buying new enlisted uniforms until every old one had worn out.

 

For that matter, he should have an experienced first lieutenant in the company as well as a brand new second lieutenant, but Lieutenant Randall had died of cholera four months ago and the slow-turning wheels of the War Department had yet to produce a replacement. Fortunately, Randall must have contracted the ailment off the post, because no one else had fallen ill with it. “You’ve done well out here, lieutenant. Very well for a newly commissioned officer on his first field maneuvers.”

 

Garret seemed to lose a little of his own fatigue at the words. “Thank you, sir. At one point I thought I’d literally lost my balance today.”

 

“What’s that?” Benton frowned at him. “Was it when the lightning hit?”

 

“Yes, sir. The ground wasn’t quite where I thought it would be. The men around me and my horse all stumbled, too. It was very odd.”

 

Benton’s frown deepened. “It appears many of us experienced that, lieutenant, the lay of the ground being different in small ways than it had been a moment before. Did an earthquake strike, do you think?”

 

Garret looked around as if seeking evidence of such an event. “I didn’t think Kansas was earthquake country, sir.”

 

“I don’t know about Kansas, but there were those earthquakes sixty or seventy years ago in Missouri. They still talk about them. One of them supposedly made the Mississippi River run backwards for a short time.” Benton shook his head. “Well, if it was an earthquake, it didn’t last long or do any damage we know of aside from minor adjustments to the prairie. Get what sleep you can tonight, lieutenant. The horses are nearly spent. We’ll have to walk all day tomorrow at an easy pace to let them recover.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

* * * *

 

The next day dawned clear and crisp. Benton stood up, wincing from the body aches inspired by sleeping on the wet ground.

 

“Good morning, cap’n,” Sergeant Tyndall declared, offering a steaming cup.

 

“Coffee? How’d you get a fire going, sergeant?”

 

“An old Indian trick, sir.”

 

Benton couldn’t help smiling as he took the coffee. “Lieutenant Garret, I should inform you that any time Sergeant Tyndall accomplishes some remarkable feat he attributes his success to an old Indian trick.”

 

Garret smiled despite the fatigue still shadowing his young face. “You must have known a lot of old Indians, sergeant.”

 

“Yes, sir, lieutenant,” Tyndall agreed before searching the horizon and pointing. “Look there, cap’n. Those elevations. Right where they should be. We didn’t lose our way at all yesterday afternoon.” He squinted. “Looks like something’s up on one of them, though.”

 

Benton pulled out his field glasses and focused them on the higher ground. One was crowned by a squat tower he didn’t recall seeing before. “What do you make of that, lieutenant?”

 

Garret studied the view for a while. “It appears ruined to me, sir, as if it were taller once. You see those blocks of stone to one side?”

 

“That explains it. It’s not ruined, lieutenant. It wasn’t there the last time we came this way. Someone must be building a tower up there and the stone hasn’t fallen, it just hasn’t been set in place yet.”

 

“Maybe Colonel Custer had the 7th build a monument to him, cap’n,” Tyndall suggested, deadpan.

 

Tyndall, like many cavalrymen, didn’t have a high opinion of Colonel Custer. Neither, for that matter, did Benton, but he couldn’t openly agree with an enlisted man on the subject. So he confined himself to addressing exactly what Tyndall had proposed. “The 7th Cavalry went through here in May, sergeant. I think we would have noticed something like that before now.”

 

Less than an hour later the column was under way again, clothing, horses and men drying under the warmth of the rising sun and with the assistance of a brisk breeze. They walked their horses through increasingly familiar flat stretches and across rolling hills and vales, stopping at the upper reaches of the Little Arkansas River in the middle of the day to water horses and men.

 

Tyndall cast a puzzled glance around as they led their horses through the river, the column having to shift northward as several men and horses unexpectedly floundered into deeper water. “Sir, the ford’s not the same. It should be down there a little ways.”

 

“Lieutenant Garret and I wondered if we’d experienced an earthquake during the storm,” Benton commented. “Perhaps that changed the ford, sergeant.”

 

“Could be, sir.” But Tyndall kept throwing suspicious glances at the river until it was out of sight.

 

In the late afternoon they came up out of a long, shallow gulley, following a well-known route, though oddly lacking in any signs that other horses or wagons had passed this way for a long time. “Cap’n?” Sergeant Tyndall was looking up and to the side, a baffled expression on his face.

 

Benton followed the sergeant’s gaze, blinked in disbelief, then looked again. “Where did that come from?” A low elevation overlooked the plains here, not so much a hill as a high point with gentle slopes in all directions. He had ridden past this area at least a dozen times that Benton could recall, and the ground had never shown anything but the long grasses of the prairie, a few outcrops of weathered sandstone, and crossing it at an angle the ruts from an old northern section of the Santa Fe Trail. Now something else stood there, what seemed to be the sprawling ruins of a fortress that had once covered at least fifty acres, if not more.

 

Tyndall was rubbing his eyes and then staring at the ruins. “You see it, too, sir? Cap’n, I figure we’re twelve or thirteen miles south-southeast of the fort, and that ain’t never been here. How the hell could someone have thrown that up since we came past last time?”

 

“I don’t know.” Benton held up one hand. “Column halt! Lieutenant Garret, remain here with the company while the sergeant and I go examine that . . . whatever it is.”

 

Handing off their horses’ reins to the bugler, Benton and the sergeant found the walk to the edges of the ruins to be unexpectedly difficult, as the ground close to the walls proved to be studded with fragments of partially buried sandstone blocks. As they neared a broken section of the wall, Tyndall let out a low whistle. “Look at them rocks. Someone went to a whole lot of trouble building this place, cap’n.”

 

Someone had, Benton thought, studying the size and number of the sandstone blocks that had been set into thick walls, which might have risen a dozen feet when whole. He hoisted himself through a gap in the remains of the wall, Tyndall following.

 

Picking their way along streets buried by blowing dirt, the tall prairie grass growing everywhere the dirt had found lodgment, they discovered badly eroded and fallen-in buildings covering the area inside the wall. The ever-present Kansas wind blew through the ruins, sighing as it swayed the prairie grass and caressed the ancient sandstone. At the end of the street they were following, Benton saw a massive structure whose walls still seemed mostly intact, though like all the other buildings, the roof had long ago collapsed. Walking up a short grass-covered slope that had once been a broad staircase, he passed through a broken entryway and into a courtyard.

 

Sergeant Tyndall walked over to one wall, studying drawings that had been deeply incised into the sandstone before it had hardened, and were still mostly visible. “Lots of horses. But they ain’t drawn like the Indians do ‘em.”

 

Benton came over to look closely at the drawings, nodding in agreement. An entire herd of graven horses gamboled across the broken wall, their lines still visible despite long weathering. The horse portrayals had a fluidity that he’d never seen in the drawings that the Indian tribes produced. Then he noticed the top of the wall. Part was missing, but on the remaining portion symbols he didn’t recognize had been carved in a series of long unbroken lines. “Do you recognize any of this, sergeant?”

 

Tyndall shook his head, looking mystified now. “No Cheyenne built this, cap’n. No, sir. And look how that sandstone’s been weathered. I never seen anything built of sandstone weathered that bad. It’d take, I don’t know, hundreds of years. But that’s crazy. This wasn’t here when we rode past last.”

 

That tower on the hill that Garret had thought ruined hadn’t been there before, either, Benton recalled. “Go get Lieutenant Garret and send him up here while you stay with the column.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Tyndall seemed glad for the chance to leave the mysterious ruins, moving as fast as the broken surfaces permitted back toward the column.

 

While he was waiting, Benton dug a little ways into the dirt. He found the remnants of what might have been a wooden beam, the wood long since turned to dust, but the dust blackened by the charring of fire. This place hadn’t simply died. Someone had destroyed it.

 

Lieutenant Garret arrived, examining everything with a stupefied expression. “Captain, I had no idea the plains Indians had built anything like this.”

 

“As far as I and the sergeant know, they didn’t.” Benton indicated the ruins. “You had a classical education back east, lieutenant. What do you make of this?”

 

Garret hesitated. “Honestly, sir?”

 

“You can safely assume that when I ask you something I want your honest answer, yes, lieutenant.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Garret made a helpless gesture. “It looks almost Biblical, sir. Like something from Babylon. Or maybe even a little older. The way the wall is built, what’s left of the houses. I’ve seen paintings of what people think the Hanging Gardens looked like and they’d fit in here, sir.”

 

“The Hanging Gardens of Babylon?” Benton decided not to make a sarcastic reply. He had asked for the lieutenant’s opinion, after all. “What do you make of that?” he asked, pointing to the wall of horses and the symbols above the drawings.

 

Garret examined it for a long time, then shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen art like that. Those symbols look like early writing, but I’m sure it’s not cuneiform.” He gave Captain Benton a worried look. “Sir, horses came to this continent with Europeans, a few centuries ago. But these depictions of horses, this whole place, feels a lot older than that.”

 

“How old does it feel to you?” Benton asked, realizing that he agreed with the lieutenant.

 

Garret took a moment to think about that. “Older than anything I’ve ever seen, sir. Really old. A thousand years, maybe.”

 

That sounded ridiculous, but then again saying the ruins were even a decade old, even a month old, would be equally absurd. They hadn’t been here and now they were.

 

Picking their way out along another path, Benton paused before a deep opening that gapped in the earth, kneeling to examine it. “I think this was a salt mine. A long time ago it was a salt mine, anyway. This place must have been built around the mines to protect them. A whole walled town grew up here.” It all made sense, except that he wasn’t talking about the ancient Middle East but about the central Kansas prairie.

 

Benton wanted to have those disquieting relics out of sight, so he kept the column moving until the impossibly old ruins were no longer visible, the cavalry reaching the low, wooded areas alongside Thompson Creek before halting for the night.

 

“What do you think they’ll say at Fort Harker when we report that, cap’n?” Tyndall asked.

 

“They may call us crazy.” Benton shrugged. “But they may have already heard of it. Plenty of civilians ride through this area.”

 

“Yes, sir. I been meaning to ask you about that, cap’n.” Sergeant Tyndall pursed his mouth, clearly and uncharacteristically hesitating to speak. “Where are they, sir? This area’s been plenty settled in the last few years, especially since the railroad came in as far as Ellsworth. But we’ve seen no one else and seen none of the trails we should’ve crossed.”

 

“You think everyone disappeared and that ruined city appeared in their place?”

 

“I don’t know what happened, cap’n, but I do know that I’ll be real happy when I lay eyes on Fort Harker again.”

 

* * * *

 

By late morning the next day even Benton was feeling extremely uneasy. They should have passed some roads and farms by now, but the only road they’d found wasn’t where it should have been and seemed to have been wide and very heavily traveled in the past. Aged ruins of abandoned buildings, some still bearing the scorches of fire on their walls, were spotted near once-cultivated fields gone wild. Even stranger, another desolate tower lay tumbled to one side of the large road not far from where the cavalry column crossed it. Lieutenant Garret was sent to investigate and came back bewildered. “It’s not the same architecture as the fortress ruins, sir. The tower seems sort of Roman, like the ones on Hadrian’s Wall.”

 

First the Hanging Gardens of Babylon and now Hadrian’s Wall. “Kansas seems to be gaining ancient historical artifacts at a very unusual rate, lieutenant. How old is that tower, do you think?”

 

“It seems a lot younger than the city, sir. I’d guess it’s maybe a hundred years old, or maybe two hundred. That’s just a guess.” Garret had been growing more and more puzzled. “Captain, are these ruins being kept secret for some reason? I’ve never heard a word about them.”

 

“That’s because they haven’t been here, lieutenant.” Feeling increasingly unsettled, Benton turned to face the column. “Mount up!” With he and his men settled into their saddles, he ordered the company into motion again, eager to see Fort Harker and the adjacent town of Ellsworth as soon as possible.

 

It was well after noon when they came over the last of the rises before the river lowland holding Fort Harker and Ellsworth. They had come up from the south, so both the fort and the town should have been almost due north of them. The Smoky Hill River, which skirted both places, was there, but otherwise the landscape was marked only by another wide road leading east. There was no sign Fort Harker or Ellsworth had ever been here, no indication the railroad line coming in from the east and then up along the Smoky Hill had ever been built here. How could an entire town and a fort with more than seventy buildings have vanished within a couple of weeks? How could the rail line and the warehouses beside it, which had been there for a few years, also have disappeared without a trace?

 

Sergeant Tyndall made a strangled sound as he looked east. Within a few miles the road entered a broad cultivated and cleared area, running through it, and up to the sealed gates of a city walled in stone which had been built between Spring Creek and Clear Creek. The city was miles east of where Ellsworth or Fort Harker should be, much bigger than either Ellsworth or the fortress to the south that they’d seen in ruins, and it was undisputedly still occupied. “Cap’n, begging your pardon, sir, but what the hell? Where’s the fort and where’s the town and what’s that?”

 

“It’s not Ellsworth.” Benton leveled his field glasses, making out banners on the top of high walls and some sort of castle or citadel in the center of the city. “There’s fighting going on. People on the walls are defending the city against a force encamped before it. See the ladders the attackers are putting up against the walls?”

 

Lieutenant Garret nodded, peering through his own field glasses. “Sir, I don’t hear any gunshots.”

 

Neither did he, Benton realized. Nor could he see the impossible to miss clouds of gun smoke that should have veiled the battlefield.

 

“What do we do, sir?” Tyndall asked.

 

His instructions from the colonel hadn’t covered this particular set of circumstances, but they had left him the authority to use his discretion if he encountered something not mentioned in those instructions. “There’s a city under attack. That’s clear enough. We’re to defend Ellsworth and other towns or settlers if they come under attack. That’s not Ellsworth, but it’s a city. We’ll ride that way, evaluate the situation as we get closer, and take appropriate action.”

 

Tyndall nodded, clearly relieved now that an officer had laid out a familiar and rational course of action.

 

Benton rode up close to Garret and spoke softly. “The men know something is wrong, lieutenant. They don’t know why any more than we do, but as long as their officers appear to be dealing with events in a calm and controlled way, the men will stay calm and controlled. Don’t let the men see anything in you that might feed alarm in them. Understand?”

 

Lieutenant Garret nodded, his worried expression smoothing out. “Yes, sir.”

 

The cavalry rode down from the hills to the river, splashing across and up onto the edge of the open area. The closer the column got to the walled city the more details they could make out. “They’re fighting with swords,” Garret announced at one point. “I think they’re wearing armor, too.”

 

Whoever had been attacking the city seemed to have noticed the cavalry company. While infantry continued to climb ladders to assail the walls, many other attackers ran back to their camp where a large herd of horses was visible, mounting up and forming into a mass facing the approaching cavalry. Benton watched the activity through his field glasses, shaking his head at the archaic armor, the brightly colored banners, and the lack of firearms. “Whoever they are, they’re not dressed or armed like Indians. Neither are the people on the wall. But the city people aren’t settlers like those in Ellsworth, either.”

 

“The ones attacking the city look more hostile to me, cap’n,” Tyndall commented. “It appears they’re aiming to hit us, too.”

 

“I’d prefer to parley first, but if they want a fight, they’ll get it. Bugler, sound form a line.” The sweet notes of the bugle resounded as the troopers in the cavalry column swung out to ride abreast, the two platoons of the company forming two lines, one behind the other, extending across a front facing the oncoming riders.

 

Benton halted the cavalry, standing in his stirrups and raising one empty hand high in the universal sign of parley.

 

The mass of horsemen facing them, now less than two miles distant, waved swords and lances over their heads as they came riding toward the cavalry without much semblance of a formation.

 

Captain Benton evaluated the terrain, looked at the enemy with their armor and swords, and made his decision. Experience told him that the people in the city should be settlers, and the attackers hostiles. Moreover, the attackers gave every sign of having decided to attack the cavalry as well. His company’s horses were tired, there were only about one hundred men all told in the company against what seemed four or five times that number of attackers, and he wasn’t about to have his soldiers trade saber blows with a mass of men wearing armor. “Lieutenant Garret, Sergeant Tyndall, form two dismounted lines of battle.”

 

Tyndall saluted, turned to face the cavalry, and bellowed his commands. “Company B, dismount! Form line of battle, first platoon front, second platoon rear!” The commands echoed along the cavalry ranks, the cavalrymen pulling their Sharps carbines from their saddle scabbards and dismounting. One of every four took control of four horses, leading them back a ways to where the wagons waited, while the remaining three soldiers fell into two long, open lines facing the enemy, the front rank kneeling and the second rank standing, each man about a yard from the men to the left and right of him. Less than a minute after Tyndall had shouted the orders, the cavalry was arrayed for battle.

 

Benton remained on his horse, riding slowly along the line. “Uncase the colors.” Canvas tubes came off the swallow-tailed guidon of the 5th Cavalry regiment and the flag of the United States of America, the banners unfurling to flap proudly in the breeze.

 

The oncoming horsemen were less than half a mile away, increasing their speed to a gallop. “They’re going to wear out them horses, charging that hard that far,” Tyndall observed, apparently unconcerned. He’d fought at Gaines’ Mill in the War of the Rebellion, and since then in dozens of other battles and skirmishes. This was just one more.

 

Benton raised his empty hand again. “Halt! We are United States Cavalry.” He doubted those charging toward the cavalry could hear him over the sound of their own horses, and in any case the attackers seemed oddly unconcerned by the steady lines of carbines facing them.

 

Drawing his pistol, Benton waited as the horsemen grew closer, the earth shaking from the pounding of their horses’ hooves. “Mark your man and aim your shots,” he called, riding slowly across the back of the second line of dismounted cavalry. “Standby. First Platoon, fire!”

 

The kneeling rank fired their weapons in a rippling volley, immediately afterward breaking open their carbines to eject the spent cartridge from the breech and reload as Benton called out his next order. “Second Platoon, fire!”

 

The shortest pause to allow the first rank to finish loading. “First Platoon, fire!”

 

“Second Platoon, fire!”

 

The volleys crashed out and the horses of the attackers went wild, bucking frantically, bolting and panicking. Armored men fell everywhere, some dead or wounded from hits by the heavy .50 caliber carbine bullets, other losing their seats and being hurled from the saddle by horses gone berserk. The attack had dissolved into total chaos, the survivors of the first four volleys fleeing as fast as they or their mounts could tear across the landscape.

 

“Company B, cease fire!”

 

Sergeant Tyndall stared at the remnants of the attack, shaking his head. “It’s like those horses had never heard a shot fired, cap’n.” His horse, like all cavalry mounts, had been trained not to flinch at the sound of gunshots. “And why can’t those men keep their seats?” Then his expression cleared. “They don’t have stirrups. Just like Indians. But those ain’t any Indians I ever saw.”

 

Looking past the ruin of the mounted charge, Benton could see the infantry that had been assailing the city frantically coming down off of their ladders and running through their camp, not to form a defensive line but away from the cavalry, joining their mounted comrades in panicked flight.

 

Sergeant Tyndall watched the rout, scratching his head. “Well, I’ll be damned. I guess we won. Now what do we do, cap’n?”

 

Benton wished for a moment that he had someone superior in rank to ask that same question. But there seemed only one realistic course of action. “Company B, mount up.” He waited until the soldiers in the rear had brought forward the horses and the cavalry once again formed two mounted lines. “Bugler, sound advance. Let’s go get a better look at that city. Sergeant Tyndall, make sure the wagons close up with us.”

 

They rode at a walk, wheeling the lines to bypass to one side of the dead and dying horsemen, but close enough for Benton to get a good look at some of them. He saw blond hair, brown hair, and black hair, skin and facial features that seemed mostly European but sometimes Asian, and weapons and armor that seemed out of the early middle ages or late Roman Empire.

 

This was all inexplicable, yet Benton knew he had to lead his company through whatever was going on. Already a bit emotionally numb, Benton focused tightly on the routines and procedures that needed to be followed now.

 

As the cavalry lines approached the city, they rode through the empty tent camp of the former besiegers, who were still visible in the distance but running for all they were worth. On the walls of the city, defenders were waving swords, spears, and axes over their heads and cheering. “Company B, halt! I guess we’d better find out who these people are and where we are, sergeant. Lieutenant Garret, hold the company here while the sergeant and I go parley.”

 

Benton rode toward the walls, Sergeant Tyndall on his horse just behind. Spotting a cluster of figures near some blue banners embroidered with many-pointed stars, Benton headed that way, assuming they would be the leaders of the defenders. Holding up his right palm again, Benton checked his horse just under the walls. Still skittish from the battle, his horse danced sideways as more cheers erupted from overhead.

 

Looking upward, Benton called out. “I am Captain Ulysses Benton, United States Cavalry. I wish to speak to your commanding officer, leader, or chieftain.”

 

A babble of noise broke out above in which Benton couldn’t make out a single familiar word, though some of the words teased at him in the way of sounds which share the same root as a word in a known language. Then the shouts died down rapidly as one of the defenders stood up on the rampart, gazing down a good twenty feet at Benton. This person wore a chain-mail shirt, with more mail forming a hauberk around the neck, what appeared to be leather trousers, and heavy leather boots that came up to the knee, almost meeting the mail shirt where it hung down. The chain mail was torn in several places where the blows of swords or axes had struck home. On the defender’s head, a bright helm topped with a white horse-hair plume shone in the sun. Raising one hand to mimic Benton’s gesture, the defender called down a long sentence, not one word of which Benton could understand.

 

But that wasn’t why he stared up, momentarily shocked into silence. The leader of the defenders, face streaked with sweat and dust, sword still wet with blood, had spoken in the unmistakable voice of a woman.

 

All right, then. The leader of the city was a woman. Compared to the disappearances of Fort Harker and Ellsworth, that was a relatively easy thing to accept.

 

Behind Benton, Sergeant Tyndall made a baffled sound. The captain turned in the saddle, facing the sergeant. “Did you recognize anything she said?”

 

“Sir . . . cap’n . . . that’s a woman!”

 

“It seems so, sergeant, now tell me if you recognized her language. Is it in any way related to Cheyenne or Arapaho?” He already thought he knew the answer. It hadn’t sounded a bit like a plains tribe language. If anything, some of the words had sounded vaguely European.

 

“No, sir.” Tyndall shook his head. “Not them, and not Sioux or Pawnee. I’ve talked to some of the civilized tribes down south, Cherokee, Choctaw, and the like, and it didn’t sound like none of them, neither.”

 

“I think I’d recognize Shoshone,” Benton said. “It’s not Crow, either. Did it sound a little Spanish?”

 

“Maybe a little, sir,” Sergeant Tyndall agreed. “But it’s not.” He scrunched up his face. “And I ain’t never seen a señorita like that, cap’n.”

 

Looking closely, Benton could now make out the feminine features under the helm. Unless he was mistaken, as many as half of the other defenders might be women as well. “Amazons. In Kansas. Maybe that’s Greek they’re speaking.” The idea was absurd, but no more so than what he was seeing. “Lieutenant Garret!”

 

Garret rode up, saluting.

 

“You know some Greek, don’t you?”

 

“Classical Greek, yes, sir. From Homer. Just a little.”

 

Benton gestured upward. “Try it on her.”

 

Gazing at the Amazon, Garret hesitatingly spoke a few words. The woman spread her hands to show she didn’t understand and called down again. “Captain, I—That’s strange. It almost sounds like a lot of languages, but it’s none of them.”

 

Benton tried again. “We’re from Fort Harker, in the state of Kansas, United States of America.” He didn’t need a translator to see that no one on the wall recognized any of those names.

 

The woman called once more, gesturing in a way that conveyed she wanted them to wait, then hopped down inside the wall and disappeared from view. After a few minutes, the sound of heavy objects being moved came from behind the walls, and then the massive gates of the city swung open and the woman came out riding toward the cavalrymen astride a horse that seemed part Arabian and part plains pony. Behind her came a small party of other mounted fighters from the city, both men and women, though those all stopped perhaps fifteen feet from the cavalrymen while the woman came on until she reined in close to them.

 

“No stirrups,” Sergeant Tyndall murmured. “Just like the others.”

 

Benton checked, having been distracted just watching the Amazon ride up, seeing that her saddle did lack stirrups and had high ridges in the front and back, doubtless to help the rider keep a seat during battle.

 

“Be careful, cap’n,” Tyndall added in a low voice. “Women can be tricky.”

 

The woman crossed her arms over her chest and bowed in her saddle, speaking again in a way that conveyed authority, then held out her hands to show what she held. “Bread and salt,” Garret said in a surprised voice. “That’s an ancient gesture of hospitality, captain.”

 

“She’s welcoming us?”

 

“Yes, sir, welcoming us as guests. You’re supposed to take a little of both to show you accept the hospitality.”

 

Benton kneed his horse forward a couple of paces, coming within easy reach of the Amazon. This close he could finally judge her age, thinking she was probably in her mid-to-late thirties, not all that different from Benton himself. Reaching carefully, Benton grasped the bread and took a bite, tasting a hearty loaf with a strange nutlike aroma, which didn’t match any wheat variety he had encountered. With his other hand, Benton rubbed a finger in the salt, feeling the warmth of the woman’s palm under it, then raised the finger to his mouth and licked it.

 

She turned to hand the bread and salt to another woman who rode up hastily. This Amazon was a bit older, stouter, her armor bearing signs of long wear and careful maintenance. Something about the way she carried herself and answered the first woman’s instructions made Benton glance at Sergeant Tyndall. “I think we’ve found the leading sergeant here.”

 

Tyndall looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to be scandalized or fascinated. But he could surely tell that Captain Benton was willing to accept the idea, so the sergeant seemed ready to follow his captain’s lead here as he had so many times before.

 

The leader of the city pointed toward Benton again. No, not just toward him, but to his uniform blouse and trousers, and then upwards before inclining her head respectfully toward him.

 

“Any guesses what that’s about, lieutenant?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

The Amazon swept off her helm, revealing dark hair cut short above her shoulders and making it easier to see that her eyes were the blue of a stormy sea. No, definitely not an Indian, but not Greek, either. Pointing to herself, the woman said two words. “Odwan Freya.”

 

“Her name?” Garret speculated.

 

“Maybe name and rank,” Benton replied. “She seems to be in charge.” He saluted her. “Captain Benton, ma’am.”

 

Pointing at him, the woman repeated the words. “Kiptin Bintin-miim.” Sergeant Tyndall coughed, doubtless covering up a laugh.

 

“It’s just—” Benton paused, then pointed to himself. “Captain Benton.”

 

She nodded. “Kip-tan Bin-ton.” The woman extended one hand toward the city and said, “Astera.”

 

Turning once more, the Amazon gestured out to where the fleeing enemy could still be seen, shaking her head. She covered her eyes, made a series of motions mimicking someone coming stealthily this way, then drew a flat hand across her throat and pointed toward the enemy again. “She thinks those fellows might come back tonight when they can’t be seen and cut our throats, cap’n,” Tyndall remarked. “We’ll have to post a lot of sentries.”

 

But the woman was pointing toward the gate, then made a gesture encompassing the entire company of cavalry, before indicating the gate once more and nodding vigorously. “Achates,” she declared, once again gesturing toward the cavalry and then at everyone with her and on the walls.

 

“Friends?” Lieutenant Garret wondered. “She’s inviting us inside, sir.”

 

Benton thought about that. He knew what could easily happen to his troopers inside the streets of a strange city. That wasn’t cavalry terrain at all, and his soldiers would be badly outnumbered by the people living here.

 

But they needed stables and forage for the horses, food and water and shelter for the men. The sun wasn’t far from setting, and having the city walls between the cavalry and those hostiles wouldn’t be a bad thing, either.

 

The Amazon looked steadily into his eyes, no trace of deception or hostility apparent. Drawing her sword slowly, she held it out hilt-first toward Benton.

 

That gesture of peaceful intent was impossible to mistake. Benton noted approvingly that the woman had obviously wiped the sword blade clean of blood before returning it to its scabbard. She knew how to take proper care of a weapon. He nodded at her, studied the width of the gate for a moment, then turned to Garret. “Lieutenant, form the company up into a column of fours, then lead the column here. We will enter the city.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Garret saluted, a gesture the Amazon watched with interest, then galloped back to the cavalry. A moment later the bugler sounded the signal, the clear tones echoing from the walls of the city, and the cavalry moved quickly from their two lines into a column, four men abreast, first platoon to the front and second platoon to the rear, the wagons taking their places in the center of the column again.

 

The woman had resheathed her sword and now watched the cavalry form up, an approving smile appearing on her lips. Holding up her arms, she made a fist with one hand and pounded it repeatedly into her other palm. “Extos!” she cried.

 

Other men and women from the city made the same gestures, which struck Benton as applause, some calling “extos” as well. The open admiration for how well his cavalry drilled helped dispel Benton’s doubts.

 

As the head of the company reached him, Benton kneed his mount ahead to take up position in the lead. It wasn’t until he turned to ride along with the column that Benton realized the Amazon had followed and now rode beside him as the cavalry approached the gateway. As they reached the gates, the guards there raised their weapons in salute to the woman and stood aside for the cavalry. The road inside jogged sharply to the right between towering walls, then led through a second gate and into the city proper. The inhabitants of the city, some still armored and carrying weapons and others either too young or too old to defend the walls, lined the broad street leading into the city, many making the fist pounding into their hand gesture.

 

Lieutenant Garret was looking around as if astounded. “Captain, it’s like an ancient city. The walls, the weapons, the defensive arrangements, the buildings, the people, everything.”

 

Benton heard the cheering rise in volume behind him and looked to see that the national colors had just entered the city. The inhabitants were pointing to the banner excitedly. “They recognize the flag. Thank God, they recognize the flag.” He called out to the crowd, “United States of America!” several times.

 

But the city’s people stared back blankly, before pointing at the U.S. flag and chanting “asteri” and then pointing upwards.

 

Lieutenant Garret understood first. “Asteri. Astra. Stars. Like the name of the city, Astera. They must consider stars important, so they’re excited to see the stars on our flag.”

 

“That big flag of theirs had a lot of stars on it, too,” Sergeant Tyndall agreed.

 

“And our uniforms, captain,” Garret continued. “She made special note of your uniform. Light blue trousers and dark blue blouse.”

 

“The color of the sky.” Hope died in Benton as quickly as it had blossomed.

 

“We’re not in Kansas, that’s for certain.”

 

But Sergeant Tyndall was shaking his head. “I don’t know what this is, cap’n, and I don’t know who these folks are, but that land out there is the land around Fort Harker and Ellsworth. I’d swear to it. I just don’t know where those places went and where this one came from.”

 

Kansas but not Kansas. “Lieutenant Garret, Sergeant Tyndall, we have to make every effort to learn the language of these people, or teach them ours, well enough to find out where we really are and how to get home.”

 

* * * *

 

The barracks to which the cavalry was led were clean and built of stone, as were the stables for their horses. Sergeant Tyndall, accompanied by the stout Amazon, actually seemed impressed. “Real nice quarters, sir, and they seem to know how to take care of horses. I got across to Belisa what our horses needed and she made sure it all showed up fast.”

 

“Belisa?” Benton asked.

 

“Uh . . .” Tyndall indicated the stout Amazon. “She . . . uh . . . seems pretty capable, cap’n.”

 

After he explained with gestures to Odwan Freya that he wanted to stay with his men, Benton found himself and Lieutenant Garret offered private rooms, plainly but practically furnished. Before the men and Benton were even settled in their quarters some of the city folk were coming with large kettles filled with hot food. The dishes served, which seemed to be mostly a kind of beef mixed with grains and dried fruits, were unfamiliar, but none of the famished cavalrymen turned up their noses at the food.

 

Odwan Freya came by to ensure the cavalry had been well taken care of just as the bugler reported to Captain Benton. “Sir, do I sound Taps?”

 

Benton looked at Freya and nodded. “Yes. Let these people hear Taps.”

 

The bugler saluted, then marched out into the hallway and raised his instrument to his lips as Odwan Freya watched. When the last long, slow notes of General Dan Butterfield’s tune had sounded, her face reflected astonishment and admiration. Turning to Benton before she left, Freya inclined her head and spoke in a quiet tone appropriate to the music she had heard. “Extos.”

 

The next morning, Benton resolved to send Lieutenant Garret out with a squad to collect the brass from the battle. He had yet to see any sign of gunpowder weapons here, and the inhabitants of the city regarded the cavalry’s carbines and pistols with an undisguised awe that seemed to reflect total unfamiliarity and suspicious fear in combination. The cavalry might end up having to make their own reloads, and while lead was easy enough to form into bullets, the brass cartridge casings wouldn’t be simple to replace.

 

But Benton had barely eaten breakfast when Odwan Freya, along with the Amazon he increasingly thought of as “Sergeant” Belisa, and two men came by, Freya indicating they wished him to accompany them. Collecting Lieutenant Garret and Sergeant Tyndall, Benton followed the Asterans a short distance to a large room letting out onto what seemed to be a parade ground. A line of guards stood sentry outside, not watching the cavalry but facing outward to hold back the crowds of city people who were gathered outside the barracks.

 

Freya pointed to the two men. “Decires Agani, Decires Costoni.” Decires was obviously a title of some kind, and both men appeared to be soldiers. Both also deferred to Freya, so the Odwan must outrank them.

 

Agani and Belisa unrolled a large sheet of vellum onto a table filling the center of the room, pinning down the corners with polished stone blocks and looking at Benton expectantly. “Lieutenant Garret. What do you make of this?”

 

Garret peered at the drawing. “It’s a map, captain.”

 

“Very good. A map of what?”

 

The lieutenant flushed slightly at the dry rebuke, then studied the beautifully hand-drawn map intently. “They’re tapping that symbol. It must be this city. Yes, that matches the river and the hills, doesn’t it?”

 

Sergeant Tyndall, peering over Garret’s shoulder, nodded. “Right, lieutenant.”

 

Encouraged by the sergeant’s agreement, Garret spoke with more confidence. “Then this over here . . . sir, this is like some very old maps I’ve seen. It doesn’t have a consistent scale. The area around the city is pretty clearly shown in large scale, but then this to the east must be the Missouri River and this the Mississippi River. The courses of those rivers are unmistakable.”

 

Benton ran his own hand across the map. “Once it leaves the vicinity of this city, the map shifts to small scale, showing large areas. No, here’s some city on the Missouri, and they show detail around it. That must be their map rule, shifting scale around cities to provide more information while leaving open countryside in a different scale. Hell of a way to draw a map.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Garret pointed to the lower portion of the map. “This area would be down near New Orleans. They show a town of some sort there. But many of the cities east of here seem to be missing, and these political boundaries don’t match anything I know of.”

 

“I can’t make them out, either,” Benton agreed, tracing the way west. “And this is the west coast. California. Look at all of those cities. It’s as if the continent was settled first in the west and then settlers moved east.”

 

Garret was following the west coast line north, then halted. “Sir? This goes into the new Alaska territory, but look. It just keeps going west up here. They show a broad strip of land going west until it reaches this other land mass. That’s got to be Asia, captain.”

 

“A land bridge? That big?”

 

The lieutenant had gone pale, his breaths coming rapidly. “Sir, sir, look. It is a land bridge. They’re saying that North and South America are connected to Asia and Europe by this big isthmus.”

 

“They’re not,” Benton said, wondering why Garret was getting upset.

 

“The map seems accurate as to terrain, sir. As far as we know. Except there.”

 

“I’ll grant you that.”

 

“Look at these people, sir! They’re not Indians. They’re like Central Europeans or something, maybe with more Asian in their blood. In our history, there wasn’t any easy way from Asia and Europe to North and South America, so every human migration headed west from Asia and ended in Europe. But here they could go east from Asia on foot or horseback as well, to North and South America, and some of them did. Nothing we know is here. Instead there’s the ruins we found, the language these people speak, the weapons and armor they carry, this city...”

 

A terrible suspicion filled Benton. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, lieutenant?”

 

“This isn’t our world, captain.” Garret seemed ready to pass out. “We haven’t just lost Fort Harker. We lost our entire world. History changed somehow while we were on that patrol, but it didn’t include us. There’s never been a United States of America. There’s probably never been an England or a France. North America was never isolated from the rest of the world. People did colonize the west coast first, maybe thousands of years before Columbus found the Americas in our world.”

 

“Great God Almighty,” Benton murmured. He didn’t want to believe such an outlandish thing, but Ellsworth and the fort were gone, ancient ruins rested where nothing had been before, and this city didn’t belong to any history of which he had ever heard. Nor did Freya belong in the North America he knew, a woman wearing armor, leading her people and wielding a sword in battle, as if Joan of Arc had lived in Kansas of all places. How could such a thing have happened though? His mind seized on the memory of the moment after which nothing but the land had been familiar, and the land itself had undergone tiny changes. “That lightning during the storm. For an instant it felt as if it were tearing the world apart. Maybe it did. If you’re right, lieutenant, what happened to the Indians?”

 

“Probably the sort of thing that happened to the first inhabitants of places like England in our history, sir. They were either wiped out by waves of invaders or assimilated, with maybe a few survivors pushed into areas no one else wanted.”

 

The idea was impossible. But so was this city. So were these people. He wasn’t an ignorant man. How could such a place exist anywhere on Earth and he not have heard of it? If it did, why did the land so closely resemble the land he knew, and how had the company of cavalry been transported there instantly without its knowledge?

 

Lieutenant Garret’s theory was impossible, but explained what they had found here. Every other explanation required ignoring the evidence of their senses.

 

Freya had been watching Benton and Garret talk, and now gestured to the map and then to Benton, clearly asking him to show where he was from.

 

That should have been an easy enough question to answer, but as Benton gazed at the map he realized every possible answer had problems. Strictly speaking, if Lieutenant Garret was right, then he and his cavalry company weren’t “from” anywhere that existed in this world.

 

This city was near where Fort Harker had stood. That answer was probably as good as any other. So Benton pointed to the city.

 

Freya shook her head patiently, pointing to herself and then the city symbol, then to Benton, Garret, and Tyndall before waving her hand over the map again with a questioning look.

 

Benton pointed to the city once more, firmly, keeping his eyes on her.

 

She looked annoyed, then something seemed to dawn on her and Freya spoke rapidly to the other Asterans. The two men, Agani and Costoni, spoke back just as fast, their faces lighting with enthusiasm.

 

Freya pointed to herself and tapped her city’s symbol again, nodding anxiously to Benton. He tapped himself and then the same symbol as well, nodding resolutely in return. With a dazzling smile, Freya drew her sword and raised it overhead, shouting so loudly it echoed through the room. The other Asterans did the same, and outside Benton could hear the cries being repeated, followed by prolonged cheering from the crowds. Belisa turned to Sergeant Tyndall, hugged him, then planted a kiss on his mouth while Tyndall looked startled. The two Asteran men had grabbed Lieutenant Garret and were almost shaking him as they smiled and spoke quickly and incomprehensibly. Sheathing her sword, Freya stepped close to Benton, her eyes shining, reaching one hand to seize his upper arm in a comradely grip and squeeze so hard it hurt. “Achates! Cronun t’achates!”

 

“Cap’n?” Sergeant Tyndall asked. “What did you just tell ‘em?”

 

“I’m not sure, sergeant.”

 

“Whatever it was, it sure made ‘em happy.”

 

* * * *

 

It took several days before Lieutenant Garret had learned enough of the Asterans’ language, and they had learned enough English, to be able to provide the answer. “We’ve been asked to a meeting, sir, to formalize our alliance with the city state of Astera.”

 

Benton gave Garret a questioning look. “Our alliance? Did you promise them something?”

 

“No, sir. You did, sir. As best I can tell, these people think we’re a wandering tribe of sorts, warriors who’ve been kicked out of our own lands for reasons they’re too polite to ask about. When Odwan Freya asked where you were from and you kept pointing to this city on the map, they decided that meant we had decided to settle here, to join forces with them.”

 

No wonder the Asterans had been so happy. From what little they’d been able to learn so far, the cavalry company was like nothing in this world. Benton looked out across the parade ground. “That wasn’t what I meant, lieutenant, but maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

 

Garret nodded unhappily. “We don’t seem to have anywhere else to go.”

 

“No. Here we have shelter, food, walls to protect us, and civilized people who need us.” He blew out a long breath. “Damn. Part of me says we should ride until we reach the east coast if necessary, confirm with our own eyes that Fort Riley and Fort Leavenworth and St. Louis and Chicago and Pittsburgh and Washington, D.C. aren’t there anymore and never were there. But another part of me already knows the answer. This is the area around Ellsworth. We couldn’t mistake the terrain. But there’s never been an Ellsworth here, never been a Fort Harker. Instead there’s sandstone quarries and salt mines dating back a thousand years.”

 

The lieutenant shook his head this time, his eyes haunted by worry. “I’ve been learning everything I can, captain, and I still haven’t found anything the least bit familiar in the history of this place.”

 

“Me, neither.” There’d been assorted city-states over the last thousand years, empires rising and falling apart. The latest such empire had its capital where San Francisco should be and had covered most of the land between the west coast up to about where the Oregon Territory lay, south into Mexico, and as far east as the Mississippi. But that empire, which had built the watchtowers, had slowly disintegrated over the course of the last century, leaving city-states squabbling over the remnants. “I can’t find out much about Europe, and they barely seem to know anything about Africa.”

 

“Yes, sir. They don’t know much about either place. I’d wager there are settlements from Europe on the east coast, but these people don’t have much knowledge of what’s east of the Appalachians.” Garret looked around as if evaluating the city again. “The technology here is a millennium behind ours, captain. No gunpowder, no steam power, no printing presses. They seem just as intelligent as we are, I swear they’re learning our language faster than we’re learning theirs, so maybe people just got started later here somehow.”

 

“Or they didn’t advance as fast for other reasons.” He recalled that the stirrup had come into the Roman Empire along with some of those barbarian invaders from the east. How many innovations, how much progress, had been because of those migrations all dead-ending in Europe? If some of them had gone east instead, would progress have been slower everywhere? “Or maybe a combination of those things. There doesn’t appear to be any way home, though.”

 

“No, sir.” Garret squinted at the city around them. “We’re actually already there, it’s just not the same there.”

 

“Corporal Fuller is impressed by the local blacksmiths.”

 

“What about ammunition, captain?”

 

“It turns out Private Merrick worked in a powder mill as a boy. He even remembers the right proportions for the ingredients. These people have a lot of livestock, so getting saltpeter won’t be a problem, and charcoal is easy enough to come by. We just have to explain what sulfur is and see if the locals can provide that. Our saddlemaker is busy showing the Asterans how to make stirrups. We’ll have to see how long we can keep the advantages of stirrups and gunpowder confined to Astera.”

 

Lieutenant Garret looked impressed and concerned. “You seem to have thought out what we need to do, to stay here a long time.”

 

“It’s my job to think things out, lieutenant.” Benton sighed. “And we both have to assume that we’re going to be here quite a while. A few of the men were married. I still haven’t worked out how to tell them we’re on permanent campaign.”

 

“Maybe we’ll be like Odysseus, sir, and have some strange adventures but make it home eventually.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

* * * *

 

The negotiations were hard, rendered difficult both by the still limited language both sides shared and by the Asterans’ apparent insistence on driving what they thought a fair bargain. At one point, as Garret and Costoni spent an extended conversation trying to figure out what the other meant, Benton saw Odwan Freya giving him a hard look and comprehended that he had been gazing at her for a while without realizing it.

 

Now Freya said some things, and Costoni said some things, and Garret went back and forth with them for a while before turning a worried glance on Benton. “Captain, I’m pretty certain that they’re insisting that Odwan Freya is not part of the deal.”

 

“What? What does that mean?”

 

“Ancient treaties were often sealed by marriages or, uh, other arrangements, sir.”

 

Benton’s reaction must have showed, because the Asterans seemed to lose some of their tense watchfulness. “Tell her—no, I have to say this directly to her. Odwan Freya, please accept my apologies for any implied inappropriate interest on my part. I would never . . . make your person a part of any agreement. You are the leader of these people and a free woman, and I would not so insult you as to barter for you. My country recently fought a terrible war, one which only ended five years ago, and in which many thousands of men died in order to establish the principle that no human being should ever belong to another, ever be bought or sold or treated as property. I am sworn to uphold those principles in my professional duties, and I personally believe deeply in them.”

 

He had no idea how much of that Odwan Freya and the other Asterans had understood, but enough seemed to have gotten across. Freya nodded to him, then surprised Benton by rendering him a passable imitation of a regulation salute. Benton returned the gesture, knowing neither of them had made it in a subservient way, but as mutual gestures of respect among equals.

 

* * * *

 

The people here did not campaign in the cold season, so the company settled in to wait out the frigid fury of the plains winter in a degree of comfort unheard of for them. The men remained baffled as to where they were, but content to be living in comparative luxury among a citizenry who almost worshiped them. Benton continued to apply himself to learning the Asterans’ language, but found that, just as Garret had said, the Asterans seemed more adept at learning English. Aside from getting home, the security situation concerned Benton the most, so he questioned Freya about it as her grasp of his language improved.

 

“The army that was attacking Astera, the Wikosans.” Wikosa occupied roughly the same location as Kansas City had in Benton’s world. “Do you know why they attacked us without talking first?”

 

“Bad people, Wikosans,” Freya responded.

 

“But why did they assume we were enemies? Why did they try to ride us down?”

 

Freya seemed to think about the question this time before answering. “You get off horse. All walk, make long, thin line. Not many of you. They think, ride over you. Easy. Then bwam, bwam! Smoke and fire, like demons.”

 

Of course. Like the British infantry square, troops armed with pikes or spears would have had to be tightly packed, shoulder to shoulder, in order to defend against a mounted charge. Modern firearms changed that, but the hostile horsemen hadn’t known of such weapons. To them the thin line of dismounted cavalry must have looked extremely vulnerable.

 

The more they learned about Astera the more Benton realized that whichever fate had led them here had at least sent them to a people deserving of rescue. Astera had grown large and fairly well-off during the period when the last empire kept the peace on the plains. Trade had flowed along the road running east and west, and there had been major routes going north and south accessible through Wikosa. The surrounding area had boasted numerous farms and fields with a variety of livestock. But since the collapse of the empire, Astera had suffered from the loss of trade and the unstable security outside its walls. Nonetheless, the city had remained a bastion of learning, order, and civilization in a region where such things had become all too rare.

 

The Wikosans, on the other hand, had tried to maintain their city’s wealth by plundering surrounding regions, something which had worked in the short term but now required them to range farther and farther afield since the communities near them had been looted dry.

 

“Cap’n, sir?” Sergeant Tyndall asked awkwardly a few weeks after their arrival. “We got a situation that needs handling. Private Murphy keeps asking me when we’re going to hold church services.”

 

He should have realized the troopers of Irish descent would worry about that more than the others. “Have you found any Catholic priests, sergeant?”

 

“No, sir. What do I tell Murphy and the others?”

 

“Let me talk to the Odwan, first.” He wasn’t surprised to learn from Freya that the Catholic church didn’t exist as such in this world, or at least in this part of this world, but on the other hand the Asterans had no objection to others practicing their own beliefs as long as such beliefs didn’t involve human sacrifice. Benton informed his troopers that they could hold services as they wished and that he would officiate at any of them if asked.

 

The next crisis was one Benton had assumed was inevitable. Sergeant Tyndall escorted Private Bannock into Benton’s quarters, the Asteran “Sergeant” Belisa hovering in the background with an unreadable expression. With a worried glance at Tyndall, Bannock saluted. “Captain, request permission to marry, sir.”

 

“What happened, sergeant?” Benton asked Tyndall.

 

“Thanks to Bannock, one of the city girls is in a family way, captain. Belisa tells me the girl’s family is okay with that, as long as Bannock does his duty by her.”

 

The Asteran nodded soberly. “He binds to her and her only. Marriage? Yes. Or he pays child-price.”

 

“What’s child-price?”

 

“Enough to take care of child until grown.”

 

Private Bannock owned little but the uniform on his back, and that was technically the property of the U.S. Government. Benton gave Bannock a sharp look. “You plan on marrying her? Do you understand that this will be a legal marriage that you can’t just ride away from?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Do you have any idea what I’ll do to you if I find out you have in any way mistreated that girl or acted in any way which might disappoint the people of this city in our company or damage the reputation of the United States Cavalry?”

 

“Yes, sir. No, sir. I’ll treat her right, sir.”

 

“Permission granted.”

 

The cavalry company hunkered down within the city as winter hit hard, the winds howling from the north, and snow drifts piling up against the walls of the city so deep in places that groups of citizens were sent out to clear them before anyone could use the drifts as ramps to enter the city.

 

His language skills improving daily, Benton found he could speak more and more naturally with Freya in a strange mix of English and the Asteran tongue. The Odwan had proven skilled at working out any conflicts among the cavalry and the city, mediating in a way that had impressed Benton. Lieutenant Garret, when not helping to supervise the company and its efforts to become self-sufficient, spent a lot of time in the city’s library, puzzling his way through documents, some of which were written in languages the Asterans themselves had little command of.

 

Unfortunately, the more they learned, the more obvious it was that one company of cavalry couldn’t miraculously solve all of the problems here. The Asterans had been able to use diplomacy to play different potential foes off of each other. This had limited attacks on the city, but as the experience with the Wikosans had shown even the most Byzantine diplomacy had its limits when it couldn’t be backed up by sufficient power. Astera’s position remained perilous, cut off from trade and with many crops and much livestock lost to the same Wikosans who had attacked the city. It would take time to get a gunpowder mill set up and a steady source of sulfur identified, and until then the cavalry was limited to the ammunition they had brought with them. The idea of equipping the Asterans with rifles manufactured here had been raised early on, but the city simply didn’t have enough of the right metals and tools to even produce more than a few such weapons on a handcrafted basis over the winter.

 

On a crisp day in what Benton thought was January, a once-more awkward Sergeant Tyndall stopped by. “Begging your pardon, cap’n. But there’s something I’ve been wondering. You see, sir, there’s a lot about this place that’s different, and sometimes it takes a while to figure if different is good different or bad different or just something you can make either way.”

 

Benton nodded solemnly. “I suppose that’s right, sergeant.”

 

“Well, cap’n, an old Indian once told me that when the Great Spirit gives you a horse, you don’t go around looking for another dog instead. What I mean is, even if something isn’t the way you always thought things should be, maybe it’s still okay.”

 

“Is that about Belisa, sergeant?”

 

Tyndall’s face flushed red. “Yes, sir, cap’n.”

 

“Do you want to know if it’s okay to get to know her better?”

 

“I think I already know her real well, cap’n. Not to imply anything improper. No, sir.” The sergeant let exasperation show. “But, cap’n, come campaign season, if the Asteran army goes out, Belisa goes with it. She’s made it real clear that won’t change. At first I was thinking, all right, Tyndall, you’ll rescue the lady if she needs it. But I’ve watched Belisa training and practice fighting an’ all, and now I’m thinking it’s just as likely she might be the one rescuing me. And I don’t know what to think about all that, sir. Her fighting in a battle and being real good at it. She’s a fine top sergeant as well as a fine woman, cap’n. But that ain’t what I was brought up thinking a woman should be.”

 

It was the sort of question he had thought would have arisen more than it already had. “Sergeant, I’ve already given considerable consideration to just that question. I believe it comes down to this. You appreciate the woman who Belisa is. If she were a different woman, would you think the same of her?”

 

Tyndall scratched his head. “I don’t know for sure, cap’n. Maybe not. She wouldn’t be Belisa. Now, she wasn’t raised a Christian, either, but that don’t bother me. The Good Lord understands that kind of thing, and Belisa seems a better Christian than many a church-goer I’ve seen, if you take my meaning, sir.”

 

“Then, Sergeant,” Benton advised, “I’d tell you to take Belisa as she is. She’s not what we were raised to expect, but she is, as you say, a fine woman. Maybe changing what we expect isn’t a bad idea.”

 

Grinning, Tyndall nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. That’s the truth, isn’t it? Though she’s not the only fine woman here. Not by a long shot. That Odwan Freya, she’d make a fine officer’s lady. Hell, I mean she’s a fine officer in her own right. Oh, damnation, what I mean is—”

 

“I understand, sergeant.” After Tyndall had left, Benton sat thinking, surprised at his own reactions to the sergeant’s words about Freya. She was a fine lady, indeed, and the more he learned of her the more he thought of her. But his inadvertent implication at the negotiations that he might use her need for the cavalry’s support to force her favors had been bothering Benton ever since then. Surely Freya had not forgotten, either. As an officer and as a gentleman, he could not allow her to believe that he ever intended demanding her as a price for the protection the cavalry company provided the city.

 

Only a few days later, Freya asked him to speak privately with her. The weather was mild that day, so she led the way to the city walls, where they could stand on a rampart isolated from anyone else and speak knowing that no one was close enough to overhear.

 

Freya leaned on the wall, looking east. She wasn’t dressed for battle, but wearing one of the outfits in which she usually conducted business, a white blouse embroidered with depictions of horses that seemed to bear some ancestral debt to the drawings in the ruins south of here, dark trousers with more embroidery in many colors, a long over-skirt split almost all the way up the center and back so it fell gracefully at rest but didn’t hinder movement or riding, and over all a high-collar, knee-length coat with more needlework, this time of warriors and battles moving among signs and emblems of various kinds. It wasn’t like any outfit that Benton had ever seen a woman wear, yet he found it very pleasing to the eye. “We must speak of war,” Freya said. “The Wikosans plan to attack Astera again, as soon as the threat of freezing storms lessens, but before we expect them.”

 

“Your scouts told you this?”

 

“Yes. Scouts. Spies. I think both words are right. They say the army will be at least ten decires strong.”

 

“Decires? I thought that was a military rank.”

 

“Decires are also those who lead decires.” Freya held up her hands, all fingers spread, then closed all but two.

 

“Twelve?”

 

“A decire is a twelve of twelves.”

 

Benton did the math. “One hundred and forty-four. Ten of those. So about one thousand five hundred.” Very nasty odds if only his cavalry company was counted, but Astera had its own army. “How many soldiers do you have?”

 

“Able to defend the walls? About eight decires. The ones who could face the enemy in open battle only number about six decires, though.”

 

A question had kept occurring to him, and now he voiced it. “What happened? There’s a lot more young and elderly people in this city than there are men and women of military age, and you had plenty of room for my men in your barracks and for our horses in your stables.”

 

Freya’s face grew somber and she let out a long sigh, her forehead resting for a moment on the cold stone of the parapet before she raised it again. “The last Odwan gathered the largest force that Astera could muster, and marched it to meet Wikosa in battle. He didn’t know the Wikosans had forged a temporary alliance with Telasa, which controls the lands south of us to the great gulf. As our army fought the Wikosans, the Telasans fell upon us from the rear.” She shook her head. “Some of us managed to hold our formations together and fight our way clear. If night hadn’t fallen we wouldn’t have gotten away, but under cover of darkness we escaped. We left many comrades behind, those who had died holding their places. Now you know why we greeted your alliance with such joy.”

 

It must have been a battle rivaling some of those during the southern rebellion against the United States. “The alliance has benefited us as well. How many mounted troops do you have?”

 

“Half a decire. Brave, but not the equal of yours, even if you did not carry the carbines.”

 

All right, then. About one hundred U.S. Cavalry, counting all ranks, against fifteen hundred enemy soldiers. “We can fight on horse or on foot, outside the walls or inside, depending on what seems best.”

 

“It is wise not make firm plans until we know more.” But despite her words Freya appeared unhappy, and she finally faced him full on. “I have deceived you in part. Not by saying what is false, but by not saying all that is true.”

 

Benton frowned at her, shocked by how badly that statement had rattled him.

 

“There can be no half-truths between us if we are to fight as one,” Freya continued. “Now, under the sky, I give you a full answer to what you asked before. You wondered why the Wikosans attacked your company without speaking first, without learning who you were. That was my doing.”

 

That had been the last thing that Benton had expected to hear. “You told the Wikosans to attack us? And they did?”

 

“No, no! Not that way. They would have heeded nothing from me. But on the walls we saw you coming. We could tell even from a distance that you weren’t from any place we knew of. We had nothing to lose. I ordered everyone on the walls to begin cheering and pointing toward you, as if you were expected allies who had come to relieve the siege of the city.”

 

He stared now, momentarily wordless at Freya’s audacity. “You fooled the Wikosans into thinking you were happy to see us and that we were coming to help you?”

 

“We were happy to see you,” Freya replied with a half smile, “and you were coming to relieve the city. You just didn’t know it yet.” The smile grew and became mischievous before fading into regret. “I should have told you. But I feared your response, and Astera needs your cavalry so badly.”

 

He really ought to be angry that she had provoked the Wikosans to attack his company, but Benton found himself laughing. “That was a stratagem worthy of U.S. Grant himself! Sergeant Tyndall was right when we first met you and he told me to watch out for tricks from you.” Only after the last sentence had left his mouth did Benton realize he shouldn’t have said that to her.

 

But Freya didn’t seem offended, instead smiling. “You must thank your sergeant for me for giving me such praise.”

 

Praise? Well, why wouldn’t she see it that way? Male commanders who outwitted their opponents by using clever tricks or stratagems were happy to be praised for such skills. Why wouldn’t a woman commander feel the same way? “I’ll be sure to tell him you were pleased.”

 

“Who is this U.S. Grant? Your leader?”

 

“Yes. He was a general, a war leader, and he was recently elected our president. That is, the people of my country voted for him to lead us.”

 

“Oh. An Odwan. Like me.”

 

“You?” Benton found himself staring at Freya again. “I thought you were some sort of princess.” Caught up with learning about the past here, learning the language and keeping an eye on the company, he’d neglected to learn much about how the city was run. It simply hadn’t been necessary when he could deal directly with Odwan Freya.

 

“Prin-cess?” she now asked.

 

“Yes. Hereditary royalty. Your family rules because they’re always in charge.”

 

Freya’s smile vanished. “Don’t you believe I could earn this position on my own? Be elected because I’m the best at it?”

 

He could feel the heat of an embarrassed flush on his face as he realized that was exactly what his thoughts had been, even though Freya had repeatedly proven her intelligence and skills as a leader. “My sincere apologies. I spoke without thinking.”

 

She seemed uncertain whether to accept the apology. “Our people belong to groups. By where they live, by what they do for work. The groups elect leaders, who form the council. The council votes for the Odwan.”

 

A form of democracy then, instead of the monarchal setup he had assumed. “I am sorry.”

 

Freya gave Benton a direct look. “Why did you think otherwise? Your men, they seemed surprised by our women. I did not wish to pry, but now I ask why?”

 

“Because back home our women don’t fight alongside men and don’t hold positions of authority.”

 

Her gaze sharpened. “Unless they are a prin-cess?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“This is a very backward place you come from. I had thought it very civilized, but now I see otherwise.”

 

He bit back an angry rebuttal. Backward? When we have carbines and pistols and you have bows and arrows? But she’s not talking about weapons or technology. She’s talking about . . . civilization.

 

When he was twelve years old, Benton’s mother had drawn up and proposed a few changes in the laws of his hometown. His mother, well read and with a keen mind, had crafted ideas that had impressed twelve-year-old Ulysses Benton, and which he still thought would have been of great benefit to the town. However, the proposals had been rejected without discussion or debate, but with a goodly portion of scorn because they had been made by a woman. His mother had never again ventured to do such a thing, though he had seen the well-hidden resentment in her whenever politics was discussed in her hearing, and young Benton had often wondered that the most foolish and least educated man in town could vote in elections and his mother could not.

 

He thought of the West he had known with a different way of seeing it, thinking of the women there who from necessity or desire worked at tasks regarded as unfeminine by his civilization. That civilization had not yet established a firm grip on those who lived between the Missouri River and the Sierra Nevada, and Benton now realized for the first time that when that happened, and women in the West were confined to corsets and kitchens, something of great value would have been lost. Maybe changing what we expect isn’t a bad idea, he had told Sergeant Tyndall. “You have a point there. You have a very good point there.”

 

His response finally seemed to mollify Freya. “But you do not truly think like that. I see this. For a moment I feared you were like the Wikosans.”

 

“They’re that different from your people?” Benton asked.

 

Freya pointed west. “We are from those who came out of Palenkaza long ago. Along the waters of the greatest ocean.”

 

“The west coast.”

 

“Yes. The lands there. We, the peoples to our south and west and some ways north, all came out of Palenkaza, where the men and women work as one. This is as our ancestors were and as the Light wishes. But the Wikosans are of those who came out of Bareos, from the north out of the cold lands. They, and the people north and east of them to the mountains, do not live as we do.”

 

Waves of migration, as Lieutenant Garret had speculated. “They don’t have women soldiers?”

 

“Of course they do! What city could stand if half of its people didn’t bear arms along with the other half? But the Wikosans use their women only to guard the city. On the attack, they use men, and they allow no women to lead their armies.”

 

It felt odd to know that he would have agreed without question with the Wikosans not long ago, and even odder to realize how much his opinions of women had changed from being around those of Astera.

 

Freya inclined her head toward him. “Do I have your forgiveness for my deception?”

 

“Yes, Odwan Freya. I respect you all the more that you admitted to it, and for the cleverness of your stratagem. But you’re right that we must keep each other apprised of such stratagems in the future.”

 

She smiled, and Benton realized she had really cared how he would react. But then, the safety of her city and her people rested on how he had accepted the news, didn’t it?

 

* * * *

 

Six weeks later, a courier raced down the road from the east, bringing news that triggered a full council of war. Besides Freya and Benton, it included Lieutenant Garret, the Decires Agani and Costoni, Sergeant Tyndall, and Belisa.

 

Decire Agani laid out the news brought by the rider. “They come early, before their full force is ready, to strike us with surprise when we believe ourselves still safe. The Wikosans number only about six decires. This is a great opportunity. We can strike them and wipe them out.”

 

Freya ran her hands across the map before them, tapping an area that Benton estimated was about twenty-five miles to the east-northeast of Astera, near where Salina had been. “We could do it here, near the crossroads.” She frowned. “Why do I feel doubts?”

 

Benton glanced at Lieutenant Garret, who gestured at the map. “It seems like a perfect opportunity, sir.”

 

Sergeant Tyndall cleared his throat, and Benton turned his gaze that way. “What do you think, sergeant?”

 

Tyndall squinted at the map, his mouth twisting. “Captain, an old Indian once told me that when you see one wolf, you ought to be wondering where the rest of the pack is.”

 

Lieutenant Garret frowned in puzzlement, but Freya gave the sergeant a careful look. “You think this is a trap? Why?”

 

“Ma’am, I’m no general, but I’m looking at these guys and there ain’t all that many of them. They outnumber us, sure, but even if we didn’t have our carbines we’d still be in a fort. I’m thinking, what if they’re bait? The Indians do that, send out a few braves to lure us into chasing them, and then before you know it there’s a lot more Indians on all sides.”

 

Belisa was nodding. “The Telasans. Like last time.”

 

“The Telasans cannot come north this early in the year.” Decires Agani pointed at the map. “If we fail always to act, we will never win. This is a great opportunity.”

 

“True,” Freya agreed. “But the chance seems too good. Are the Wikosans so foolish? They know we have the carbines of the cavalry now.”

 

“Our messenger says the Wikosan fighters have been told it was a trick, a noise to frighten them but one otherwise harmless.”

 

“They’ll learn otherwise,” Tyndall remarked with a grin.

 

“But,” Benton added, “their own leaders may have convinced themselves it’s true. Those killed by our shots didn’t make it home.”

 

Freya nodded. “They were buried on the field in one grave. So, the Wikosans believe us to be desperate and still weak. They would think this bait would be irresistible. We could not risk not taking it. It is in my mind to find the hook, that which would strike us when we go for the bait, and to deal the surprise to them.”

 

Benton was studying the terrain. “Will they expect you to attack them in that place you showed us?”

 

“There or closer to Astera. No farther off, because we would not risk such a long march from our city, leaving it lightly defended in our absence.”

 

“I can see a crossroads, but is there a town there? What do these symbols mean?” Salina had boasted a population of about one thousand, but it was surely gone along with every other human artifact he had known of in Kansas.

 

Costoni shook his head. “The ruins of a city. Over there, to the northeast of the crossroads. It’s been empty for a very long time. Right there, not far away from the ruins, there was a town in the time of the empire, but it was new and too small to defend itself when the empire fell, and was abandoned as well a few decades ago.”

 

Benton nodded, trying not to let what he had known of human habitation in that area get in the way of what was now there. “There’s not a lot of cover on the plains, but a force moving along a watercourse would be low and screened by the trees growing alongside the water.” He moved one finger the length of a stream. “Is this Spring Creek, sergeant?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“This would offer a great approach for that hook you spoke of, Odwan Freya. They could move along here, concealed from being spotted by anyone on the road roughly paralleling them to south.”

 

The Asterans followed his gesture, nodding. “Six decires on the road,” Decire Costoni remarked. “That leaves at least four for the hook. I distrust our reports on this. If the Wikosans gathered even minor help from cities such as Lacanan,” he pointed to near where St. Louis should be, “or Midasa,” pointing to a place about midway between Omaha and Sioux City, “they could easily have at least six decires in the hook, or perhaps another hook to the south as well.” Costoni pointed to a another watercourse running south of the area. “What do you call this?”

 

“Dry Creek,” Tyndall replied. “Cap’n, if someone followed Dry Creek where it bends west, it’d take ‘em toward that same area with Spring Creek to the north.”

 

“Cannae?” Lieutenant Garret wondered. “That’s what Hannibal did at Cannae, tricking the Romans into attacking and then surrounding them on both flanks.”

 

“None of us would escape this time,” Freya murmured, her expression as she looked at the map becoming concentrated like that of a cougar eyeing her prey. “But we are not so desperate as they think. If we turn their own plan upon them, Wikosa will suffer such a blow that for years they will be busy defending themselves from those they have preyed upon.” Her hand moved as she talked, sketching out movements of forces, while the others watched and listened, Benton with growing approval, Garret obviously surprised but listening closely, the two Decires nodding, and Tyndall’s own jaw slowly dropping.

 

As they left the room, Sergeant Tyndall shook his head. “What do you think, cap’n?”

 

“I think it’s bold and has a decent chance of success.” Benton smiled. “I once compared Odwan Freya to U.S. Grant. I guess I was more right than I knew.”

 

“U.S. Grant? Hell, cap’n, if she pulls this off she’ll be Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan all rolled into one.”

 

The Asterans had developed fairly decent weather forecasting ability, being as reliant on the skill as any people who depended on grazing, farming, and trade for their survival. When the forecasters declared a mild period was coming up, Freya ordered the Asteran forces to prepare to march at any time. Captain Benton took his company out on the field before the city and drilled them out of their winter ease, getting the cavalry ready for offensive operations.

 

Additional mounted scouts were sent out in all directions. The city could ill afford to spare them from its battle forces, but it would need all the warning time it could get if any other enemy army came marching toward the city from an unexpected route.

 

When word came down the road that the Wikosans were coming, and with the predicted six decires, the Asterans and the cavalry set out. Benton looked up at the walls as they rode away, seeing many young women waving to his soldiers, and the soldiers waving back. “Just like old times,” Sergeant Tyndall commented. “Remember riding off in 1861?”

 

“Yes, sergeant, I do. We were going to have the rebellion crushed before the year was out. That’s what they said, anyway.”

 

“Things don’t always work out like we plan.” Tyndall looked over to where the Asteran column was marching, accompanied by the small Asteran mounted force. The saddles of the Asteran riders now had stirrups, but otherwise they were still equipped just as the Wikosans would be. It had been bittersweet as well as amusing for Benton to see that the Asterans had carefully copied the cavalry stirrups right down to the “U.S.” embossed on the leather.

 

“Are you all right?” Benton asked Tyndall, knowing that Belisa was with that mounted force.

 

“I think so, cap’n. But when we parted, Belisa said she hoped I’d come home with an enemy’s head tied to my saddle. Do you think she meant that?”

 

He hadn’t seen any signs of such primitive, bloodthirsty behavior among the Asterans. “It sounds like a traditional thing to say to someone going off to fight. Something from their ancient past that isn’t meant literally anymore.”

 

The sergeant nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. “I expect you’re right, sir. Or, at least I hope you’re right. I do like Belisa, cap’n, but there’s some things I draw the line at doing even when a woman asks me.”

 

Scouts searching with extreme care well off to either side of the road had confirmed the suspicions of the Asterans and the cavalry. There were mounted forces moving on both the north and the south sides of the road, far enough away to be unseen by anyone watching the Wikosan infantry march up the road itself. Wikosan scouts coming down the road had sighted the advancing Asteran infantry and raced back to tell their commanders.

 

Benton led his cavalry overland, moving as quietly as possible, using any cover available, traveling far enough to the south to outflank the Wikosan mounted force planning to outflank the Asterans on the road. Much farther to the north, Odwan Freya was leading a force of Asteran infantry and the small Asteran mounted force to outflank the Wikosans on the north side.

 

The Wikosans appeared to have at least six hundred mounted fighters, against the combined numbers of a U.S. cavalry and Asteran mounted force of less than one hundred fifty. Little wonder the Wikosans advanced with too much confidence and too little care, trusting in their deception and their strong superiority in numbers.

 

The final approach to the battlefield was in the predawn dimness, the cavalry column moving silently through prairie grass dry and brown from the winter. The wagons had been left behind in the city, unneeded for such a short period in the field, and too likely to be spotted by the enemy. As the sun rose, Captain Benton led his company through small, unnamed courses and creek beds south of Dry Creek. “Lieutenant Garret.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“We’re leading our horses to conserve their strength. Did your professors teach you the other reason for walking horses rather than riding them?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

Benton pointed upward. “A man on a horse has a much higher silhouette than a man and a horse walking. A man riding a horse can be seen by a man on the ground much farther than they can see that man.”

 

Reaching their objective, Benton halted the column and pulled out his field glasses, then handed his horse’s reins to the bugler and hiked up the side of the gulley they were in to look north, keeping low as he reached the top. He gazed through the field glasses, slowly traversing the landscape, but from here couldn’t see the main Wikosan force coming up the road, or the Asterans coming up to meet them. There was no sign of the left or right hook of the Wikosans, either, or of Freya’s force farther north. “Lieutenant Garret, go back west along this gulley and see if you can spot any of the moving forces. Sergeant Tyndall, get our own scouts out to the north and see what they can find.”

 

Benton lowered his field glasses, unhappy at his inability to communicate with the other parts of the Asteran force but knowing there was nothing he could do about it. The people of this world knew all about using mirrors to flash simple messages quickly over long distances. Indeed, the ruined imperial guard towers they’d seen had done that as part of their mission. But attempting to flash messages between the different parts of the Asteran force now would only betray their presence to any Wikosans moving in the same line of sight.

 

As the sun climbed in the sky, it beat down into the gulley, the air growing warm despite the season. Down here, the almost ever-present Kansas wind couldn’t penetrate well, so the cavalry sat and literally sweated out the wait, most of the cavalrymen grabbing a nap with the practiced efficiency of veterans.

 

Lieutenant Garret finally came back, moving bent over to keep from being seen by any Wikosan looking this way, and knelt beside Benton. “Captain, the Asterans are coming up the road just as planned. They and the Wikosans on the road are in sight of each other and both sides are spreading out on either side of the road for a fight.”

 

Several minutes later three of Benton’s scouts scuttled out of the grass and slid into the gulley. “Sir, them Wickies are there in Dry Creek, all right. About five hundred yards north of here. All cavalry, near as we could tell,” Corporal Stein reported. “About three company’s worth of them, I figure.”

 

Roughly three hundred, then. “Do they have any scouts out on this side?”

 

“No, sir. Not a one. And all of them are looking north toward the road. I reckon we could’ve walked up and carried off a couple of them and the rest wouldn’t have noticed.”

 

“Show me where they are.” The scouts pointed, Benton studying the area carefully through his field glasses and now spotting a few plumes among trees growing in the creek bed. Some careless Wikosans were wearing helmets that stood up high enough to see. “Is there anything for the horses to worry about between us and them?”

 

Corporal Stein pointed east. “A little prairie dog town over that way, captain. That’s it.”

 

“Good job. Lieutenant Garret, let’s get the company lined up.”

 

They’d learned all about this from the plains tribes. How to sneak up on an enemy, ensuring surprise, the importance of scouting the terrain carefully, and then an overwhelming attack before those being assaulted had time to gather their wits.

 

Moving with care to avoid making noise, the company formed into one line facing toward the enemy, each cavalryman holding his horse and ready to mount, about one yard between the men and horses as they stood abreast. “Pass the word down the line,” Benton ordered. “The men are to use their pistols. They are to fire a volley just before contact with the enemy, and only after emptying their pistols are they to draw sabers and fight with blades.”

 

Sergeant Tyndall passed the word, then grinned at Benton. “Good thing you got the company some of them new Smith and Wesson revolvers, cap’n.”

 

Good thing, indeed, given the odds facing them. The .44 caliber Smith & Wessons that the Army had bought this year could fire six shots almost as fast as a trooper could pull the trigger, whereas the old Model 1860 Colt cap and ball pistols had taken a while to fire each shot and a long time to reload.

 

Then they could only wait. Benton kept looking north, but his thoughts were often not on the Wikosans, but on the Asteran force to the north commanded by Odwan Freya.

 

“They’ll be fine, cap’n,” Sergeant Tyndall startled him by saying in a low voice. “Belisa says that Odwan is one tough fighter.”

 

“Thanks,” Benton muttered, embarrassed that Tyndall had read his feelings.

 

A moment later, the sounds of horns floated over the prairie. “Those are ours, cap’n,” Tyndall confirmed. “Asteran, I mean. They’re ordering the infantry on the road to advance.”

 

The feint attack was going in. “Pass the word for the men to prepare to mount,” Benton ordered.

 

Tyndall took a long drink from his canteen, then spat to one side. “Faking a retreat is hard to do right, cap’n. You think that Agani and Costoni can do it?”

 

“They’ve got the best troops the Asterans can muster as well as the worst, and the best ones are supposed to form a shield wall in the rear to keep the weaker ones from really running.” That was how it was supposed to work, anyway.

 

More Asteran horns, Tyndall listening carefully. “That’s the order to attack, cap’n.”

 

“Mount up.”

 

All along the line, cavalrymen swung into their saddles, one hand grasping their bridles and the other drawing and cocking their pistols.

 

“Uncase the colors.”

 

The flag of the United States of America and the guidon of the 5th Cavalry regiment came free of their canvas tubes, unfurling in the breeze.

 

The sounds of the horns were confused now. Decires Agani and Costoni had command of the force on the road, which was even weaker than it appeared since half of it was made up of the sort of older, younger, or inexperienced fighters whom Freya had characterized as only good enough to defend the walls. Those soldiers would be falling back now as the Wikosans advanced, the enemy no doubt thrilled at how easily the Asteran attack seemed to be crumbling.

 

Benton raised one hand. “Company B, advance at a walk!” His hand came down and the cavalry surged into a walk, moving as one, the line of men and horses coming up from the gully and heading toward the still-hidden mounted force of Wikosans. Dressing their line to keep it as straight as possible, the company advanced.

 

This was the hard part for any cavalry force, to wait to commence the charge until they were the right distance from the enemy. Charge too early, and the horses would be spent when they made contact. Charge too late, and they might not have enough speed up.

 

The metal-on-metal clanging din of battle on the road could be heard now as well as the calls of horns, and Benton saw the Wikosan mounted force, still screened from the road but every man in their own saddles now, every head turned north toward the fight.

 

Three hundred yards, the cavalry moving steadily through the high prairie grass, silent but for the rattle of harness and the crackling of the dry grass being shoved aside by the horses. Two hundred yards, the Wikosans milling about, plainly eager to go but waiting for some signal.

 

“Bugler,” Benton ordered. “Sound the trot.”

 

As the notes of the bugle rose over the prairie, the line of cavalry kicked their horses into a trot.

 

The enemy horsemen looked back as the sounds of the bugle finally rose over the racket of the nearby battle and the noise of the Wikosans’ own horses and gear. Their mouths gaped open in shock, then Benton heard them shouting warnings to each other.

 

One hundred and fifty yards. “Bugler, sound the gallop.”

 

This time the bugle call was more insistent, and at the demand of their riders the cavalry horses leaped forward, the straight line maintaining its order even as the horses raced faster toward the enemy. Benton gripped his pistol harder, the wind whipping at his face.

 

The Wikosans were turning their horses and colliding with each other as the enemy force struggled to reorient toward the new threat.

 

Roughly fifty yards. “Bugler, sound the charge!” Benton shouted over the thunder of one hundred horses galloping to the attack. The bugle sang urgently and continuously, its notes ringing over the battlefield, and now the cavalrymen roared as they kicked their horses into an all-out assault, the flags flying open behind the color bearers as Company B hit the enemy with the mass and momentum only a cavalry charge could create.

 

Benton leveled his pistol at a Wikosan who seemed to be shouting orders, firing a few feet short of contact with the enemy, other pistols going off all along the line as the rest of the troopers fired. The Wikosans, already wavering, broke frantically toward the road, all thought of attacking fled as the cavalry herded them north, firing and shouting, the Wikosan horses panicking at the noise again and throwing many of those riders who weren’t being felled by the .44 caliber bullets from the revolvers that punched easily through the armor of the Wikosans.

 

He could see the road now, the Asteran force holding a blocking position along the road to the west while the Wikosan infantry pressed forward against it. But the sound of the gunshots from the cavalry had already alerted the Wikosans on the road to their peril, and Benton saw them beginning to fall back. He shot another Wikosan at point blank range, the impact of the shot knocking the enemy out of the saddle, then took two more shots to drop a Wikosan with a lance. His next bullet went into a dismounted Wikosan who was staggering around waving an axe.

 

The cavalry was near the road now, herding the surviving Wikosan horsemen toward their infantry, the horns of the Asterans on the road sounding as their holding action turned into a slow, steady advance. The Asteran line thinned, extending outward to either side to curl around the edges of the Wikosan infantry formation as the Wikosans fell back.

 

From the north, more Wikosans came, riding frantically, then hauling in their reins as they saw the cavalry charging up from the south, pistol shots still crashing over the lesser sounds of swords on shields or armor. The small Asteran mounted force appeared just north of the road beyond the Wikosans there, the blue banner spangled with stars identifying them clearly as they blocked the road, then Asteran infantry came into view to the north, advancing quickly in line, shields locked, pressing the northern hook into the Wikosan infantry on the road where the fleeing remnants of the southern hook were already stampeding into their own infantry.

 

Benton wheeled his formation, forcing the Wikosans ahead of him to crash into the Wikosan infantry as they tried to escape. The enemy mounted force that had formed the northern hook was mostly intact since it had been able to outrun the Asteran infantry, but it was also forced into its own infantry as it tried to flee and the Wikosan force was pressed on all sides. The cavalry wheeled again and Asteran infantry pushed forward and around, the forces on the road moving to link up with the northern advance as it reached the road behind the Wikosans. The Asteran mounted soldiers charged into a band of fleeing Wikosan mounted men who seemed about to escape, driving those Wikosans back upon their infantry as well.

 

A line of Wikosan infantry headed for the last open escape path, moving southeast with their shields joined to form a solid defense.

 

Benton slowed his horse, turning to shout at the thirty or so cavalrymen closest to him. “Carbines!” The cavalrymen checked their mounts, drawing their carbines and aiming at the escaping Wikosans. Shooting from the saddle was notoriously inaccurate, but the wall of Wikosans was almost impossible to miss. “Fire!” A ragged volley erupted from the carbines, and several of the Wikosans in the front rank were punched backward by hits. The rest of the escaping Wikosans hesitated, stumbling to a halt.

 

Sergeant Tyndall led another group of cavalry close to the Wikosans, reining in their horses only twenty feet from the infantry and firing their carbines in a devastating salvo.

 

The Wikosan infantry broke, running back toward their comrades, smashing into other Wikosans who had tried to follow them out of the trap.

 

The southern flank of the Asteran infantry under Agani and Costoni made contact with the southern edge of the Asteran infantry that had come from the north, closing the net and completely encircling the Wikosans.

 

The Wikosans on each side of the formation tried to force their way to the other side to escape, only to discover an unbroken line of Asterans on all sides. The enemy army turned into a mob as panic set in and the vengeful Asterans locked shields and pressed in harder, an unyielding wall of armor and weapons ringing in the Wikosans, who were increasingly packed too tightly to fight well and were no longer offering any effective resistance.

 

“Bugler, sound assembly.” Benton’s mount was exhausted, almost staggering as he reined the horse to a walk. This was the infantry’s battle now. The surviving Wikosan mounted forces were trapped in the heaving mass of foot soldiers, their horses lashing out at their own side in panic.

 

He looked down at the saber in his hand. He couldn’t clearly remember holstering his empty pistol and drawing the saber, but the blade had a slick of blood on the edge where he had struck a Wikosan.

 

Lieutenant Garret rode up, his face pale but his eyes still lit from the excitement of battle. “Two dead, six wounded, sir. Four horses down.”

 

“Thank you, lieutenant.” Benton, trying to keep his hands from trembling, carefully wiped his saber blade and returned the weapon to its scabbard. “Who are the dead?”

 

“Private Murphy and Private Frost, sir.”

 

“Damn. Sergeant Tyndall, check on the wounded, let me know how serious their injuries are, and make sure the Asteran surgeons know we have wounded who need treating.”

 

Tyndall saluted and rushed off at the best pace his winded horse could manage.

 

Lieutenant Garret stared toward where the Asteran infantry was still crushing the helpless rabble that had been the Wikosan army. “As close to another Cannae as matters, captain.”

 

“Yes, lieutenant. Congratulations on your first battle. You handled yourself well.” Benton sighed, looking back at the fight before kicking his reluctant horse into motion again. “The Wikosans don’t stand a chance now, but they keep trying to fight. The Asterans don’t need us to assist in the slaughter. Let’s see to our dead.”

 

Corporal O’Hare was standing sentry with the bodies, his face stiff with grief, and saluted as Benton approached. “Beg to report, captain, that Private Murphy and Private Frost are dead.”

 

“I heard.” Benton dismounted and knelt by the bodies. The dead soldiers had already been laid out properly, their eyes closed. “They were good men.”

 

“Yes, sir. Captain, sir, how do we bury them, sir?” O’Hare seemed very agitated as he asked the question.

 

“Like any soldier, corporal. A sad duty, but it’s one we’ve carried out before this. Why do you ask?”

 

“Captain, sir, it’s—” O’Hare waved a hand to encompass their surroundings. “I haven’t seen a church here, sir. Not one. And not one man of God, neither. The city folk are nice and all, but they’ve never heard of Him. How can we give our men a proper burial if . . . if the Lord’s not here to accept them?”

 

Benton stood up, raising one hand to clasp O’Hare’s shoulder. “Corporal, were you taught that He is everywhere?”

 

“Yes, sir. That I was.”

 

“Then He is here, corporal. We will bury our men as they would have wished to be buried, with the full regulation service, and He will take their souls in His hand, because He is here with us.”

 

O’Hare’s face cleared, anxiety being replaced by a relieved smile. “Of course, sir. I knew I should ask you right off, captain. Yes, sir. At the city, sir? We’ll bury them there? The city folk won’t mind the crosses on the grave markers, will they?”

 

“No, corporal, the Asterans won’t mind.”

 

As Benton mounted again, Lieutenant Garret came to stand by his stirrup. “Captain, that thing you told the corporal,” Garret asked quietly. “Do you believe it?”

 

Benton leaned forward, looking down at Garret, “Lieutenant, during the war the 5th Cavalry fought in a lot of battles. The Wilderness was one of them. It was also the nearest thing to hell I ever hope to experience. During the Wilderness, I thought the only way I could possibly live through the fight would be if the Lord stayed right beside me. As you see, I did survive the battle. If the Lord could be with me through that, I’m sure He’s here, too.”

 

“But what if our world is still there somehow, if both it and this world exist at the same time?”

 

“If General Grant could handle more than one division, I reckon the Lord can handle more than one world, lieutenant. Make sure O’Hare has all the help he needs to get Private Murphy’s and Private Frost’s remains prepared for the ride to Astera.”

 

Wearily, Benton rode back toward the fight. The massacre seemed to have stopped, and now the Asterans were holding under guard about two hundred Wikosans who had finally surrendered rather than fight to the death. Benton guessed that something on the order of fifteen hundred Wikosans lay dead on the field.

 

He spotted Freya riding toward him, a trickle of blood welling from a long cut on one side of her somber face, and Benton’s breath caught for a moment. Freya was wearing the same battle gear as when he had first seen her, and though the rents in the chain mail then had since been repaired, there were new gashes in the mail from today’s fight. Thank heavens she’s all right. What a woman, to conceive and win such a battle as this. No. All I need say is what a woman. I don’t need to add more than that.

 

Freya reined in next to him and gave Benton an Asteran salute. “My friend and ally. Thank you. This could not have happened without your cavalry. The mounted forces facing us fled when they heard your weapons. I thank the Light that you have survived and brought home the head of an enemy.”

 

There seemed to be a lot of emotion behind Freya’s words. Wondering if that was just because of the passions generated by the battle, Benton looked away and found himself gazing toward the surviving Wikosans, who were staring back at him with dread and despair. “What’s going to happen to them?”

 

Freya shrugged. “They laid down their arms rather than die holding their place, so they belong to us now, and there’s much work to be done in and around Astera.”

 

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. “They’re going to be enslaved?”

 

“Made to work, yes, as long as they live. They are ours.” She must have noticed his reaction. “What is wrong, my friend?”

 

He took a deep breath before speaking, wondering if the promising alliance with Astera was about to founder at the moment of its greatest success, and whether his friendship with Freya would also wither. “I have told you of the war my country fought only a few years ago. In just one battle of that war more than six thousand men died and tens of thousands more were wounded. We fought that war to save the Union, but also to eliminate the stain of slavery from our nation. Our Odwan then, a wise man named Lincoln, said ‘as I would not be a slave, so I would not be a master.’ My company will not fight to enslave others, Odwan Freya. To do so would be to betray our comrades who died in that war and to betray the beliefs we hold that slavery is always an evil and a wrong.”

 

Freya listened without interrupting, her eyes on his, and remained silent for a long while after Benton finished. “Did you fight in that war?” she finally asked.

 

“I did, Odwan Freya. So did Sergeant Tyndall and some other members of my troop.”

 

“It is well you survived that, too.” Turning her horse, Freya rode a short distance until she was right next to the huddled prisoners. Rising in her new stirrups, she addressed the Wikosans, using only those words of her language that she knew Benton could understand. “Choose twelve among you to return to Wikosa. You will tell Wikosa that they may buy your lives and your freedom with any Asterans they hold, and with horses, cattle, sheep, grain, gold, and other metals. What Wikosa has taken will be returned to us, and more besides if they wish you back whole.”

 

She rode back to Benton, ignoring surprised looks from the other Asterans. “Wikosa will pay. It will need them to defend itself when the wolves come to howl at its walls. My people will accept this when they see it profits us. Is this well?” she asked. “Would your Odwan Lincoln approve?”

 

“He would. Thank you, Odwan Freya.”

 

“Thank you for frank words that ring true. You must tell me more of this Odwan Lincoln. I once said your civilization was backward in some ways, but it seems we can learn from yours just as you have learned from ours.”

 

* * * *

 

It turned out that there had been one decire of mounted fighters from Lacanan among the Wikosan army, but they had been completely wiped out in the battle, with none to bring home the tale of their defeat. Freya assigned a messenger to bring the news to Lacanan, along with an offer of alliance that would have been scorned before, but in the wake of this battle would surely receive serious consideration.

 

In the week after the victorious forces returned to Astera, a Telasan force seven decires strong was spotted marching north, but turned back when brought news of the Wikosan defeat. One of the wounded cavalrymen had suffered such serious injuries to one arm that Benton feared he would have to lose the limb, but the Asteran surgeons worked on it and applied their salves and treatments, afterwards declaring that both man and arm should recover fully. Private Murphy and Private Frost were buried with full military honors, the poignant notes of Taps sounding in the city for the first time for that purpose. Construction began on the powder mill, even though Astera was still trying to secure a reliable source of sulfur. Three more cavalrymen married local girls, and the grateful Asteran city council agreed to formalize the regular payment of salaries to the cavalry so Benton could once again be sure of routinely being able to pay his men. He was especially pleased that the pay rate the Asterans agreed to was equivalent to at least twenty dollars a month for the privates.

 

On the seventh night after returning, Benton walked out onto the walls surrounding the city, looking west toward where the lights of Fort Harker and Ellsworth, Kansas, had been, should have been, but in this world had never been.

 

“Something troubles you.” Freya had come near and now spoke quietly.

 

“There’s someplace I should have gone, Freya, someplace I should have returned my company. But I failed in that.”

 

“Failed? I do not believe you could have failed.”

 

Benton smiled bitterly. “I’m a fairly good officer, I think, but not outstanding. No one would ever confuse me with Sheridan or Sherman.”

 

“More of your Odwans?’

 

“No, just war leaders.”

 

Freya waited a moment to see if Benton had more to say before she spoke again. “You are better than you believe, I think. Your men seem happy.”

 

“Most of them, yes. Most of them believe we’re still going to get home someday, and in the meantime this is as nice a posting as any cavalryman can hope for. Most of the men in the company didn’t have a wife or a steady girlfriend back home,” Benton explained. “A few do, though, and that’s a hard thing, to know you may never see them again.”

 

Freya paused, then spoke carefully. “Do you have such a woman, Captain Benton?”

 

He didn’t answer for a moment, decided to only reply in the negative as he usually did when someone asked that, then found himself saying much more. “No. My wife died several years ago, during the war with the South. It’s . . . not easy to think of even now, because when I left for the war she was so worried that I wouldn’t return, that I’d never be able to come back to her. But while I was campaigning she fell ill and died, so when I came home she couldn’t be there. I . . . can’t think of it without hoping she didn’t know her last hours were her last, because it would have hurt her so to know she wouldn’t be there waiting for me when I came back.” Benton couldn’t recall the last time he’d spoken of that to anyone.

 

Freya regarded him gravely. “May the Light ease the burden of your grief and the stars shine in memory of the one you have lost.” The words sounded ritualistic, but she said them with real feeling.

 

“Thank you. What about you, Odwan Freya?”

 

She made a sad sound. “I had a man who died nearly half my life ago, in battle. He stays young in my memory. Now I am bound to my duty as Odwan. There has been little room for anyone else. You understand?”

 

“Yes, I do. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m grateful there is room in your life for my friendship.” It felt both comfortable and strange to be speaking so with a woman, one who truly did share so many things with him, who also knew how the burdens of command could force out personal wants and needs. The only thing standing between them like a wall was a truth that Benton hadn’t yet shared with her. “I need to tell you where we actually came from, Freya.”

 

She shook her head. “Whatever led you from there is nothing I need know.”

 

“Yes, I think you do.” He explained his world, the storm, the changed world they’d found afterward, and Lieutenant Garret’s theory. “We have no idea how to get back, but if we ever found a way, we’d have to use it. I have a duty to fulfill.”

 

To his surprise, Freya didn’t express any disbelief, instead nodding knowingly. “The lightning. Its ancient name is the fire-writer, that which the Light uses to cast messages in the sky, messages whose meaning we often cannot read. The lightning brought you here from the world you knew, but the reason may never be clear.” She sighed. “Your cavalry has saved Astera not once but twice and guaranteed our safety for years to come. You have already done so much. Yet, you may also help us and other cities build peace in this part of the land again, the type of peace no one has seen since the days of the fallen empire. But our debt and our duty is clear. If Astera, if I, can ever help you reach your home again, we will. But the lightning never repeats the same message twice.”

 

“We say much the same thing,” Benton replied, turning away from the darkness where his duty had lain, turning to face Freya.

 

She smiled and touched his face gently with one hand. “No matter what the lightning does, you will always have a home here.”

 

* * * *

 

Postscript

 

Though historical memory of the Benton Massacre has been eclipsed by the Fetterman Disaster in 1866 and Custer’s Last Stand at the Little Big Horn in 1876, it attracted considerable attention for a brief period and remains an enduring military mystery. On October 4, 1870, a company from the 5th Cavalry Regiment under the command of Captain Ulysses Benton left Fort Harker on a routine training patrol of the area south and west of the fort in preparation for campaigning later in the season. The company of cavalry did not return as scheduled, and every attempt to locate Captain Benton or any of his men failed. Nearby tribes all denied knowing what had happened to the cavalry unit, but an official investigation concluded that the only plausible explanation for their disappearance had to be a massacre of the entire company and the concealment of their bodies and equipment. No trace of Captain Benton’s command has ever been found.

 

Copyright © 2010 John G. Hemry