I’m a Scout. I want to fight, not be a signalman and a slink!
Really? Let us assume you have your way. Observe:
What do they need a signalman for? They’ll know when to strike from the muzzle blasts.
And it seems Abel is correct, for when he neglects to give the signal, but instead charges at point, his rifle at ready, his bayonet affixed, the squad soon comes thundering after. The donts race past him, and he’s left sprinting in their dust, but he doesn’t care.
But his appearance on the rise has been spotted. It is a matter of a few seconds. But those seconds are enough.
A shout goes up from the Redlander leader. Ambush! He calls his men to turn back from pursuing the sharpshooters, and soon they are in rough formation facing west. Not perfect. But good enough.
Scouts and donts charge.
Instead of being taken by surprise, the Blaskoye meet them with a ragged volley. The Scouts are close. It is difficult to miss, although most of the shots do. Four do not, and the Scouts are literally cut to half their numbers. And before the still-mounted Scouts can meet the line-the space of a breath, a gasp, but long enough, long enough-the reload is done and another volley of lead scythes into the Scouts.
This one leaves no survivors.
Except for the two sharpshooters, who are attempting to escape into a desert that their pursuers know too well.
And Abel, who rushes forward, nearly trips over a fallen, screaming dont, drops his rifle in trying to regain his balance, pulls up short to find-
Thirty Redlander faces staring at him.
The leader begins to laugh. He rides toward Abel.
Abel fumbles, lifts his rifle up.
The hammer is down, the charge spent.
The gun had fired when he dropped it.
He begins to reload. He tries to stay calm. He pulls out a cartridge, bites the papyrus end off. Pours powder into the muzzle. Like the Scouts have taught him. Carefully. Agonizingly carefully. Now take out the ramrod, tamp it down, tamp it-
He jerks the musket up to cock it, take aim.
He’s left the old percussion cap in.
Flick it out. Get another.
Abel is fumbling in his cartridge box for a cap when the Redlander leader arrives and, with the butt of a musket, strikes Abel to the ground.
Abel awakens with a pounding headache. It is night. Two moons have risen, while Churchill, the largest of the Land’s three moons, is on the horizon.
He moves to put a hand to rub his aching forehead.
He cannot move.
It is then he notices that he cannot even see his hand.
The moons are bright enough, he reasons. He ought to be able.
Beside him, he does see a human head, its blank eyes staring at him.
With a start, he realizes it is Himmel.
Just a head.
Then Himmel’s eyes open. He takes one look at Abel, and the disembodied head begins to laugh. It is a dry laugh that soon turns to coughing, then choking, then gasping for air.
“Himmel,” Abel says, “what happened? What are you?”
Again Himmel rolls his eyes toward Abel. “And what are you, boy, what are you?”
He spits in Abel’s eyes. Why? How?
Abel attempts to wipe the saliva away, and realization dawns.
Sand around him. Sand above his chin, to his lower lip.
He’s buried, with only his head above ground.
He struggles.
His arms will not move.
“They’ve bound and weighted us,” Himmel coughs out. “No use.”
And then on the other side of Abel, a plaintive wail. Abel just has the ability to turn his head to see. Facing in the opposite direction, looking toward a back that Abel can never turn toward again, it’s Kruso.
“Alaha Zentrum, nish thet me over!” cries Kruso.
Oh great God, not over me!
What was Kruso seeing? What was going to happen?
“Nish thet me over.” Kruso’s voice had become a whimper now.
There was no way to turn his head. There was only waiting.
On the horizon in front of Abel, Churchill rose fully above the horizon.
And then something came down from above and blocked the view. Blocked the moon. Blocked the stars.
From the smell of it, Abel knew immediately. One of the transport urns. An earthenware pot that had lately contained liquor, now emptied. Someone had, perhaps, been celebrating a victory and drained the wine.
True night descended forever.
Ninety-four percent probability, given known Redlander torture methodology, with a nine percent chance that arrows will be set through hands and feet in lieu of binding with weighted rocks, Center intoned. More unfortunate-
More unfortunate! How?
More unfortunate is the cascade of consequences. Your father will blame himself. There is a significant chance he will take his own life. In any case, Treville governance degrades inexorably. The Scouts will only desultorily be rebuilt, and a moment for Redlander containment will be lost. Zentrum will accommodate and incorporate the invasion, as he has before, and the chance to break Stasis will be lost for several more generations. In fact, there is a probability function trending toward one hundred percent that, should he decide against self-slaughter, your father will be killed in a manner similar to you as the victorious Redlander forces make an example of regional military leaders.
Okay, okay, I’ll obey orders, damn it, Abel thought. I guess that’s what you’re trying to tell me.
Wrong lesson, lad. How about you merely avoid doing anything incredibly stupid that’s liable to get you killed in horrible ways, Raj replied.
Okay.
He could hear the Blaskoye donts that were hitched to the wagons groan as they strained to pull the heavy-laden vehicles forward into the sandy defile.
What you need to do is get to those carts, said Raj.
So-you want me to obey orders or do what you say?
Yes.
A cloud of dust from the north, and the Redlander caravan came into sight and into range. Himmel fired the first shot from his long rifle. Abel saw no effect, and counted three heartbeats before the Blaskoye vanguard began to scramble. It seemed the ball had hit something, if not someone. Then Kruso fired. A man fell into the dust as if his legs had been cut out from under him.
Himmel must have quickly set aside his rifle and rearmed with his riding gun, a carbine, its shorter barrel intended for shooting from dontback and for close work. Crack!
With that, the Redlanders charged to the east. Evidently, whoever it was Kruso had dropped was important, and they shouted with rage.
Abel glanced over his shoulder. Sharplett had led the Scouts up from the bushes on the narrow piss trails, and they stood only a few strides deep in the underbrush behind Abel. They still did not have the view of the action that Abel did-which was the point, of course, for that also meant they could not be seen by the Redlanders.
Abel raised a hand.
The five Scouts behind him shifted in their saddles, and a dont pawed the ground.
Kruso and Himmel came into view through gaps in the Redlander grouping. They both charged toward the Redlanders. Himmel carried his bayonet-tipped rifle. He had probably not reloaded, but the Blaskoye had no way of knowing this. Kruso was armed with his bow and let fly arrow after arrow. Abel had never imagined the gnomish man could be so graceful. He simultaneously sprinted forward, fired, reached for an arrow, notched it, and fired again.
Several of the Redlanders returned fire with muskets as they ran, but no bullet hit either Himmel or Kruso.