“I see,” Wyllyms said slowly. It was obvious to Schahl that the lieutenant’s instincts were at war with his advice. That was unfortunate. Still, Wyllyms had already demonstrated his deference to the cloth, and Schahl reached up and casually adjusted his priest’s cap.
“As I say, my son, I’m no soldier, but I’m afraid I really must insist in this instance.” Wyllyms stiffened slightly, and Schahl patted him on the shoulder with a fatherly air. “There are elements of the situation of which you’re not aware, my son. Please, just trust me in this.”
“Of course, Father,” Wyllyms said after a moment, and began whispering orders to his sergeants.
Schahl stood back, listening and nodding in approval while his right hand crept into the side pocket of his cassock and touched the smooth, curved wooden grip of the pistol Bishop Mytchail had provided.
Tobys Raimair reached the bottom of the trail and dismounted. The basin below the fall was much larger than he’d thought it was looking down into the darkness from above. It extended well away from the rumbling smother of foam where the water crashed down into it, and he led his weary horse to the edge of the wind- and current-ruffled pool, enjoying the blowing mist and letting the beast drink but keeping one eye on it to make sure it didn’t drink too much. His other eye was on the trail, watching the others make their way down it-slowly and carefully, despite the moonlight-and he allowed himself a sense of cautious optimism.
Still, something didn’t quite smell right. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but there was something…
You really are an old woman tonight, aren’t you? he asked himself sardonically. You’ll find something to worry about, no matter what!
That might very well be true, but it didn’t do anything about that itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Perhaps it was just that the Charisians didn’t seem to have reached the rendezvous point. Well, Seijin Merlin had warned them how far the boats had to come, so it was hardly surprising they hadn’t arrived yet. In fact, the truth was that even with Merlin being forced to lead off the pursuit, this entire operation had gone far more smoothly than Raimair would have believed possible after a lifetime in the Army. Something always went wrong. That was the soldier’s wisdom, and it had never yet failed him.
He grinned, shaking his head, then looked up as Princess Irys reached the bottom with Daivyn before her. Earl Coris was right behind her. The rest of the men followed in single column, with Zhak Mahrys, Rahzhyr Wahltahrs, and Traivahr Zhadwail bringing up the rear.
“Go ahead and dismount, Your Highness,” he said quietly as the princess reached him. “We should probably rest the horses again before we head on downriver. Besides, I’d like to let the moon get a little higher. It’s pretty rocky down here, and the horses’ll need all the moonlight we can get if they’re not going to break a leg.”
“Won’t that make us more visible?” Irys asked. It was a question, not an argument or a criticism, Raimair observed, and nodded back to her.
“Aye, Your Highness, it will,” he agreed. “Still and all, I think we’re probably past them now, given the seijin ’s diversion. And, truth be told, I think it’s a lot more likely a tired horse is going to put a foot wrong in bad light than that we’re suddenly going to be ambushed by a batch of Delferahkan dragoons.”
“Sounds sensible to me, Tobys,” Coris agreed, dismounting as he reached the sergeant’s side. “And-”
“Stand where you are!” a voice shouted suddenly out of the darkness. “Throw down your weapons!”
Young Wyllyms had really done quite well, Schahl observed. It was a pity, in so many ways, that Bishop Mytchail’s instructions left him with no alternative.
“-down your weapons!” the lieutenant shouted, and Schahl heard his two sergeants ordering their men to advance cautiously. The Corisandians were frozen, standing as if struck to stone by the totally unexpected ambush. They obviously had no idea how many men Wyllyms had. If they’d realized how understrength the lieutenant’s platoon actually was, they might have shown more fight. As it was, Wyllyms’ ambush was about to become a brilliant success.
And that, unfortunately, could not be permitted.
The Schuelerite quietly drew the pistol from inside his cassock. He’d never used one of the Charisian-invented weapons before, but it wasn’t all that complicated, and he cocked it as he stepped up close behind the lieutenant.
“It worked, Father!” Wyllyms said exuberantly. “You were right-this is perfect! ”
“I’m happy for you, my son,” Schahl said, and then pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the back of the young man’s skull and pulled the trigger.
Tobys Raimair stood frozen by the shock of the sudden shout, cursing himself for not having listened to that inner instinct. He should have listened! And how had he missed spotting the damned slow matches? They were coming out into the open now, glowing like blink-lizards, but he’d never even seen a thing before they did! He hadn’t paid even that much attention to his job, had he? Oh, no, not him! Instead, he’d let the girl and her brother walk straight into it, and now Then the gunshot roared in the darkness, and the blinding muzzle flash and echoing report jerked him out of his funk. He turned towards Irys, both arms reaching out, gathered her and her brother to his chest, and flung all three of them not to the ground, but into the pool below the waterfall.
“They’ve shot the Lieutenant!” Schahl bellowed, tossing the empty pistol into the river and grimacing distastefully at the blood and bits of brain matter which had blown back over his cassock. “They’ve shot the Lieutenant!” He drew a deep breath. “Kill the heretics!”
“ Down! Everybody down!” Phylyp Ahzgood shouted as he heard the three-word command and knew-somehow he knew -it had come from an inquisitor’s throat. Worse, the troopers out there in the dark would know the same thing, and the bone-deep reflex of obedience to the voice of Mother Church would finish what confusion had begun.
A matchlock flashed, thundering in the darkness. Langhorne only knew where the ball had gone, but another fired, and then another. Inaccurate at the best of times, it would take a special miracle for one of them to hit someone at this range under these conditions, but matchlocks weren’t the only weapons dragoons carried, and Coris knew what was coming.
Why God? a voice demanded bitterly deep inside him. Why did You let us come this far only to fail now?
God didn’t reply. Or not immediately, at any rate. But then “Take ’em, lads!” another voice shouted, and someone cried out in alarm, then screamed in anguish.
“Zhaksyn, make sure none of them get past us!” that same voice shouted-an extraordinarily young voice, Coris realized, but one which carried a hard ring of command.
Another matchlock fired, and then there was a different sound-a flintlock. A fresh muzzle flash stabbed the night, and suddenly half a dozen flintlocks went off almost as one, firing from the hillsides, upslope from and on either side of the dragoons who’d been hidden in the woods.
“Bayonets!” that voice yelled out of the darkness. “Up and in, boys! Up and in! ” it shouted, and the night was abruptly ugly with the clash of metal, the terrible wet sounds of steel driving into human flesh, with screams and curses.
“Quarter!” someone bawled suddenly. “Quarter! Sweet Langhorne! Quarter! ”
And then, that abruptly, it was over.