Battle Hymn Read Online Free

weapon up to examine it. It was heavy, at least eighteen to twenty pounds, but he knew the weight was a matter of scale. For a Horde warrior the gun would be a comfortable weapon to hold. He examined the breech; it reminded him of a Prussian needle gun, and taking hold of the bolt, he worked it back. A bright shell casing ejected onto the floor of the yurt, and Hans slammed the bolt forward. He stole another look at the Bantag. For the first time since his capture he had a real weapon in his hand. If only the barrel were shorter, I could swing it around …
    "Don't even consider it," the Bantag replied smoothly. "Though I do want to speak to you, I'll kill you if you make a wrong move."
    Hans saw the glint of a dagger in the Bantag's left hand, poised to strike.
    Hans smiled.
    He slid the breech open again. It worked smoothly. It was precision work, and he sensed it was far better than anything that could currently be made by the Rus. For that matter it was better than anything he had seen on Earth. The thought was chilling … the bastards are ahead of us with this. What else do they know that we don't?
    With the breech open, he lifted the gun up, turning it to look straight down the barrel. By the dim reflected light shining into the breech he saw the tight, spiraling bands of rifling. The bands were smaller, tighter than in a Springfield, or his old Sharps carbine. Watching Ha'ark, he carefully lifted the gun, with the breech open, to his shoulder, and sighted down it. In spite of the weight, the gun had a good balance to it, and he aimed at the flickering lamp hanging in the center of the yurt. There was a single levered rear sight, and as he squinted, he realized that the sight was an adjustable peephole that could slide up and down for range. The only weapon he had ever seen with a peephole rear sight was the precision Sharps rifle issued to Berdan's Sharpshooters.
    The writing etched into the rear sight was unintelligible, but he supposed that the gradient markings would each represent roughly a hundred yards, since trajectory had to be adjusted at approximately that distance ׳to compensate for the drop of a bullet.
    "Strange. The gravity must be slightly less on this planet" Ha'ark said. "I've noticed the sights aren't quite accurate."
    Hans looked at him in surprise. He had heard Ferguson talk about that and remembered feeling a bit lighter when they had first arrived on this world. But the thought had never concerned him.
    Hans laid the gun down on the floor of the yurt and then picked up the bullet. It was definitely brass cartridge, caliber seemed to be around a fifty, but the bullet was hard and pointed. He sensed it carried a lot more power to it than the old minie ball of the Springfield.
    "You brought the gun from where?" Hans asked.
    "My own world."
    Hans said nothing.
    "That is why, in part, I wanted to speak to you. I, like you, am not of this world. I came through the Tunnel of Light."
    "And you had this gun?"
    "A soldier as well, though at the time I did not want to be. And you?"
    "A soldier. How we got here ..he shrugged, "I don't know. Do you?"
    Hans was surprised he was even speaking to the creature before him. Maybe it was the simple joy of hearing a familiar tongue again. German was still his native language, and seventeen years in the States had made English far more familiar, but with Rus being the common speech, he found that that language had become the one that he finally thought in. What was disturbing was that of late he had acquired enough skill with the language of the Hordes that on occasion he now dreamed in it. It was a delight not to have to articulate his thoughts in a language that struck him as being nothing more than grunts and animal growls. To hear someone of the Horde speak Rus was indeed curious, the language coming out rough and guttural.
    "I don't know either," Ha'ark replied. "I was hoping you could explain."
    "Why, do you want to go home?"
    Ha'ark leaned back and laughed