Nathaniel laughed. "I reckon, iffen that's the case, they done sent the wrong man to be scouting."
Owen raised an eyebrow and fixed him with a stare.
The Mystrian held a hand up. "Didn't say I thought it was true, Captain Strake. I was just supposing. Truth be told, you seen more in just a handful of days than most all your countrymen put together. You ain't whimpering for a return to Temperance, so you's likely the right man after all."
Though he felt no real inclination toward it, he let Nathaniel's remark mollify him. It wouldn't do to get upset over a simple remark, especially when it was based in the truth. Owen had spent a great deal of time in school and the military fighting prejudice based solely on his being half-Mystrian. He was used to it. Being thought deficient for entirely different reasons caught him by surprise.
As he thought about Nathaniel's remark-and reclaimed his hat from where a branch had knocked it yet again-he discovered the difference in criticisms. Norillians looked down upon him for something he could not controclass="underline" the circumstances of his birth. Mystrians were judging him for something he could controclass="underline" his lack of experience. Nathaniel and Kamiskwa were even helping him gain experience, and protecting him from perils he had no way of understanding. They might be wary of him, but they were also willing to give him a chance.
He caught up with Nathaniel as they entered a narrow meadow at the base of a wooded valley. "I appreciate all the help you're giving me. I want you to know that."
"That's kind of you." Nathaniel nodded solemnly. "I reckon I been a-judging you by other Norillians, and that weren't quite fair. My apologies, Captain."
"Not necessary, sir."
Ahead of them Kamiskwa slowed as he moved through the waist-high grasses. Nathaniel pressed a hand to Owen's chest.
"What?"
"Iffen we's gonna see a jeopard in these parts, this is the kind of place it likes." Nathaniel pointed off across the meadow toward a tree leaning against another at the edge of the woods. "Like this when we shot the Prince's jeopard. It was perched atop a log like that one over…"
Woods whistled loud and Kamiskwa dove forward. The Mystrian brought his rifle up with no further warning. His thumb covered the firestone. Fire jetted from the muzzle. Thunder roared and smoke blossomed, half-blinding Owen.
But not before he saw a puff of smoke in the distance, heard the blast of gunfire and the hiss of a ball scything through grasses before it knocked him flying.
Chapter Twenty
May 9, 1763
Bounty, Mystria
O wen's musket flew into the tall grasses. He spun away from it, landing on his left hip. Pain jolted through it. He glanced down. The ball had caught him there, but he didn't see a hole or much blood. By rights blood should have been gushing and the pain of a shattered pelvis should have left him screaming.
Keening war cries and another gunshot eclipsed any chance to check his injuries. One of the Twilight People, this one with his face painted black save where a single white eye had been painted on his forehead, appeared at his feet. The warrior raised a warclub and shrieked.
Owen rolled to the left as the club pounded the ground, just missing him. Then in one smooth motion, as the warrior spun and raised the club again, Owen drew the pistol from the small of his back. His thumb covered the firestone. The warrior's eyes widened.
Owen invoked magick.
Had it not been for long hours of drill and hot minutes spent in battle, he never could have triggered the spell. Panic and pain he'd long since learned to shunt away. Almost without thought, he conjured the formula then pumped it out through his right thumb. The energy burned into the firestone, igniting the brimstone.
The warrior's face evaporated. The.50 caliber ball caught him right above the bridge of the nose, shattering bone. Scalp stretched, trapping the fragments, then the ball burst out the back. Blood and brains jetted in both directions. The shot lifted the man off his feet and dumped him in the long grasses.
With no time to reload, Owen snatched up the dead man's warclub and stood. His hip held, but something wasn't quite right. The stiffness didn't matter, as another warrior drove forward. The man backhanded a warclub at Owen. Owen blocked the blow, then tipped his club forward and jabbed. The blade plowed into the warrior's chest.
The Shedashee stepped back, fingers probing the wound, but Owen kept coming. Another jab smashed the hand holding the warclub. As it dropped, Owen buried the club in the man's stomach. The warrior pitched forward. Owen crashed the club into his skull. The warrior collapsed and lay still.
Owen limped ahead. Kamiskwa blocked an overhand club blow with his rifle, then whipped the butt around. His opponent's face crumbled and teeth flew. Woods, rifle in his left hand, snapped his right hand forward. A bloody tomahawk spun through the air, catching another warrior in the flank. He'd been sneaking up on Kamiskwa. The Altashee Prince spun, whipping the rifle's butt around in a blow that dropped his assailant.
Another shot rang out from the same spot as the first. Owen dove for cover. He found himself crouching near Nathaniel with a body between them. From other rustling Owen took it that Kamiskwa had also ducked out of sight.
"The shot came from the fallen tree."
"I saw. I'll get him once I reload."
"Don't, he'll see you."
The Mystrian laughed. "He would if I had to stand to load."
Nathaniel grasped a lever that had previously sat flush in a groove on the stock. He forced it down and the whole firestone assembly at the base of the barrel slid back. A gimbaled cylinder tipped up. Nathaniel stuffed a paper powder cartridge into it, then seated a bullet in the opening. He pushed the cylinder back down, and worked the lever to advance the assembly and seal the chamber.
Owen smiled. "Very quick work."
"Thanks. Kamiskwa, you reloaded yet?"
"By the time you miss I shall be, yes."
Nathaniel grinned. "Reckon I cain't afford to miss."
"I'll draw his fire." Owen heaved himself up and thrashed his way through the grasses. He cut at an angle to the tree so the shooter would have to track him. He bobbed up and down, his red coat contrasting vividly with the green grasses, waiting for the shot.
The sniper obliged him. The bullet whizzed past Owen's head, leading him by a couple of feet. Then Nathaniel shot. Even with his rifle blast still echoing in Owen's ears, there was no mistaking screams of mortal agony from the fallen tree.
Owen cut back to where he'd dropped the pistol and quickly reloaded it. He fed powder from a paper cartridge down the barrel, then rammed the paper and a ball home. He slid the ramrod back into its place beneath the barrel. "My pistol is ready."
"I'm ready. Kamiskwa?"
"I've been waiting on you."
Owen found Nathaniel again. "How do we do this?"
Nathaniel gestured to one of the bodies. "These are Ungarakii. They're part of the Seven Nations. They travel in packs of six or so. We got most all of them. The painted eyes say they were scouting. Probably for the Tharyngians."
Owen looked toward the fallen tree. "Likely a Ryngian or two down there then."
"Most like." Nathaniel pointed at him. "How's your hip?"
Owen took his first good look at it. Wooden splinters peppered his hip and thigh. He plucked one out, then tossed it aside. "Ball must have hit my stock. Long range for a musket shot, so it just broke wood and knocked me down."
"Stiffening up, is it?"
"I'll limp for a bit." Owen paused. "Don't hear anything. He's dead or getting away."
"I reckon we best do something about that."
Setting a pace that had more to do with caution than Owen's limp, they closed in on the fallen tree. Kamiskwa ranged out far on the right flank and circled around into the trees. Owen and Nathaniel, advancing and covering each other, moved in more directly. It took them the better part of an hour to reach the fallen tree.