Jorgen's eyes opened wide with bewilderment. "What the fuck are you talkin' 'bout? You a fuckin' crowd of stupe muties?"

Uchitel tried again. He could feel a pulse beating at the corner of his right eye, which meant he was at risk of losing his temper. This imbecile was trying to make him look like a fool in front of everyone.

"We are..." he paused, deciding to use the Russian name "...Narodniki." He turned the pages with clumsy haste, his eyes brightening as he found what he wanted. "I he she it we they want wants food."

"Food! You crook-talkin' bastards want our food?"

Something was going wrong. Uchitel could sense it. He blinked, trying to clear the reddish mist that clouded his vision. The man facing them was waving his rifle in a way that was clearly threatening. They could all see that.

Stena, nicknamed the Wall because he was six feet tall and five feet wide, heeled his horse forward to the side of Uchitel. "The dog threatens us. Let me kill him, Uchitel?"

"Nyet. Wait."

"Get the fuck out, you snowsuckin' bastards! Go piss up an ice rope."

Jorgen put the Remington to his shoulder and aimed at the man who'd been doing the talking. Stena saw the move and kicked his heels into the flanks of his big bay mare and, yelping his delight, drew the 9 mm Makarov pistol from his belt.

Jorgen Smith's old gun barked first, the 7 mm bullet hitting the big Russian in the right shoulder. Stena fell from his saddle, landing with a great crash on his back in the snow.

Jorgen grinned at his success, frantically struggling with the makeshift manual ejector on the ancient Remington. A few yards away, Uchitel stood in the stirrups and yelled a command to his band.

"Do not shoot! Nyet! He is mine."

During his foraging through the ruins of Yakutsk, Uchitel had found a glass case among the rubble of some public building. A card had said that the item within the case had been used by Comrade General Denisov in his valiant fight against the forces of capitalism and fascism during the first months of 1919."

Now it hung from the pommel of Uchitel's saddle, a long cavalry sword with a slightly curved blade, angled and weighted for a downward thrust from horseback. The hilt was padded with rotting maroon velvet tied with fine gold wire that had long frayed through. The ferrule was brass, the guard and knuckle bow, silver. An indentation on the back of the flat blade was engraved with hunting scenes. From the tip to the dog-head pommel, the sword was only two inches short of four feet.

As Jorgen prepared another round, Uchitel drew the saber from its leather sheath, feeling the cold hilt against his palm. Hearing the stamping of hooves, the American looked up at the last moment and parried the lethal down cut of the glittering sword with his rifle. Uchitel put so much force into the blow that it smashed clean through the stock of the rifle a couple of inches behind the finger guard, cutting Smith in the right shoulder. He dropped the splintered remains of the Remington, clapping his left hand to the bleeding wound.

"You done me, you bastard," he yelped plaintively, standing still and feeling his doom approach.

Uchitel swung the saber again. It sliced through the fur hood, skin, flesh and muscle, through the cervical vertebrae of Jorgen's neck, clean out the other side. For a long second, the corpse stood upright, head balanced precariously in place. Then the head rolled and toppled, bouncing on the stones to the cheers of the Narodniki. Blood gushed high in the cold air, the body slumping slowly to its knees, then folding on its side and lying still.

Uchitel wiped the blade of the saber on a handful of his stallion's mane, sheathing the sword once more.

"So die all who oppose the Narodniki," he called, pleased with his triumph.

"Not a bullet wasted," said Barkhat in his soft, gentle voice.

"One was wasted on me!" roared Stena, still holding his wounded shoulder.

"Is it bad, brother?" asked Uchitel. "Will you stay to seek poor Nul, wherever he might be?"

"No, brother, I ride on with you. Let us take more of these soft Americans."

"We shall take the entire land, brother," laughed Uchitel. He felt good. If this was the best this nation could do, then there was no need to fear.

Before they moved eastward, Uchitel carefully folded and put away the phrase book. It had been disappointing not to be able to use it more, but these peasants were such lackbrain weaklings that communication was hardly needed.

One last sentence caught his eye, and he spoke it carefully to the blood-sodden corpse, lying decapitated in the snow beside the gurgling brook.

"Much thanks for your help, sir," he said, trying to follow the phonetic pronunciation. "Here is a nickel for your trouble."

Uchitel heeled his black stallion eastward, and was followed by the others deeper into the bleakness of what had been Alaska.

Ryan parried the first spear thrust, but cut his left hand on the white bone point. Grabbing the end of the shaft, he pulled hard, swinging the dwarf mutie to one side, knocking the second attacker off balance. With odds of three to one, he knew that he had to do something fast. The longer it went, the shorter his odds became.

He dropped the useless, jammed gun and tried to draw the steel machete from its sheath, but the muties were too close for that. And if he tried to go for the SIG-Sauer beneath his coat, they'd take him for sure. He had to buy himself a little time and space.

Holding the barbed end of the spear, Ryan screamed mightily and launched himself toward the creature holding the other end of the spear. The mutie slipped on the ice and nearly fell, loosening his hold on the spear. Ryan tried to wrench it from his grasp, but the gloved fingers clawed on to it. The muties had been expecting Ryan to keep away from them, and had been taken by surprise, but now the other two closed in again.

"Bastard!" spat Ryan, dodging a thrust aimed at his ribs from the mutie on the left, then moved a few steps toward the top of the track.

Knowing that the only way to fight close combat was bare-handed, he dropped his gloves. The hilt of the panga slipped into his fingers and he drew the blade, waving it in front of him in a singing curtain of death.

"Come on, now," he invited, waving the three muties toward him with his bleeding left hand.

Making little grunts and whistles, they seemed to be speaking to each other. Their slit eyes flicking nervously to him and then back, they spread into a half-circle about fifteen feet away from him. Above all, Ryan didn't want any of them sneaking behind him. Best defense was a good offense, he decided.

They had the advantage of reach with the long spears. If he let them keep him away, they'd kill him in the end, no doubt about that. Ryan watched them, noticing that the mutie to the left seemed crippled and moved slower and more clumsily than the other two.

He feinted to the right, making them back away from the whirling steel. Immediately he darted low and fast to the left, feeling the clunk of the blade cutting into flesh and bone. He'd hit the mutie just above the knee, parrying a spear thrust with his left hand. The little fur-clad figure toppled sideways, dropping its spear to the ice. The others hesitated, seeing their comrade down and done for.

Ryan didn't hesitate at all.

He slashed at the mutie's exposed shoulder and neck with the panga and simultaneously retrieved the wooden spear with his free hand. Blood jetted and the creature screamed, the furs falling back from its face. Ryan winced at the horror of the mutations in the dwarf's skull. It was squashed vertically so that the forehead rested squarely on the buried eyes. The distance between brows and chin couldn't have been more than three inches. There was also evidence of an appalling skin disease that had left the face raw and weeping, with crusts of small pustules nesting around the eyes, nose and mouth.