Rally Cry by William R. Forstchen Page B

least could sleep, and he looked across to his friend sprawled out on the cot opposite him. But the luxury of sleep was something he would not allow himself. All of this could still be a trap. He had insisted that Schuder and the men be moved into the courtyard outside his window, where throughout the night the men had stood at arms, half of them asleep, the other half awake. For himself he had sat things out till dawn, revolver in hand.
    It could be possible that Ivor was waiting for a lowering of his guard. But even more than Ivor it was the black-bearded warrior Mikhail and the one Kal said was the priest Rasnar, who had briefly appeared at the feast, that worried him the most. Perhaps he could work out something with the boyar, but there were other pieces on the board as well that would have to be played against if they were going to survive here.
    A low groan echoed out from under the pile of blankets in the corner.
    "My hand to God, I'll never drink again."
    A sallow face appeared, bloodshot eyes blinking in what appeared to be a vain attempt at focusing.
    "Where the hell are we?" Emil gasped, swinging his legs from the pallet. With a moan he tried to stand up, and then collapsed again, cradling his head in his hands.
    "Where are we?" Andrew laughed, shaking his head. "Damned if I know."
    "Oh yes, that," Emil replied. He smacked his lips, giving a grimace of disgust at the foul taste in his mouth. Groaning, he made a second attempt at standing, barely succeeding.
    Emil fumbled around for his glasses, put them on, and looked about the room.
    "If these people aren't descendants of medieval Russians, then I'm a blind man," Emil said, speaking as if every word emitted were a source of pain. "Look at that city out there,"and he pointed out the window to the splendor of Suzdal now awash with the golden light of dawn.
    Groaning, Emil walked over to the window, and Andrew stood up to join him.
    "When I traveled in Russia to visit my family I saw places like this. And that damned drinking ritual, that's Russian, believe me. One good thing, though—wherever we are it's not the Russia of earth. Just curious, I drew a star of David for Kal, and didn't get the slightest response. So my people aren't here, and thus that good old Russian pastime of pogroms isn't one of their hobbies.
    "Before I did that I'd been thinking a wild one that somehow we've crossed time, but that's definitely not the case."
    "It's not earth," Andrew replied, "yet these people here seem to be from earth. So we still have a mystery."
    The two friends paused for a moment, turning their attention to the view out the window. The palace was situated on the highest hill of the city, so all of Suzdal was stretched out before them. All the structures, except for the limestone churches, were built of logs. But these were not the rough cabins Andrew was used to seeing in the backwoods of Maine . Most of the buildings were three, even four or five stories in height. The entire city seemed to be a wood carver's fantasy, the creative talents of the people let loose in elaborate carvings that adorned even the most modest of structures.
    Dragons appeared to be leaping from rooftops, angels looked heavenward, bears cavorted, cornices were inter-twinings of warriors in battle, and dwarfs stood as guards before doorways. The buildings were not just the dark color of aged wood, but instead were painted with swirling displays of flowers, trees, geometric patterns, and symbols of various trades, all in a riot of color to make a rainbow look dull by comparison.
    Already the streets were aswarm with early risers. Merchants were pulling back the shutters to their shops, some of them already crying out with singsong voices, beckoning for customers to examine their wares. A wreath of smoke hung over the city from thousands of cooking fires, and the savory scent of cooking drifted on the morning breeze.
    The air hummed with the voices of tradesmen, shoppers, and laughing children. From