Then, when the Blaskoye were within only a few paces, Himmel stopped short, took aim, and calmly dropped the Redlander’s point man.
I guess he did reload, Abel thought. It had been with amazing speed.
At the same moment, Kruso put an arrow into a man’s chest.
Abel dropped his hand.
Across the rise, the two Scout sharpshooters turned on their heels and ran as fast as they could back in the direction from which they’d come.
As if on cue, the enraged Redlanders followed.
The remainder of the Scout squad flowed over the hill crest, thundering past Abel, and charged into the rear of the Redlander soldiers full tilt with bayonets fixed.
It was not a fair fight, which was a good thing, for the Scouts were outnumbered threefold.
At a shout from Sharplett, the dontback Scouts raised their weapons and, at the same time, urged their donts into a full bipedal sprint. Each Scout aimed over his dont’s shoulder. The Scout carbines crackled to life, spewing minie slugs or buck and ball shot-in either case, death and destruction.
But there were ten more Blaskoye, plus the drovers and passengers of the wagon retinue. It was going to be a long, hard fight.
As if to underline this fact, one of the Scout’s necks exploded with blood. He clutched at it as he fell from his mount and into the dust. At least one of the Redlanders had found the presence of mind to turn and shoot.
The wounded man looked to be Dornberger, a Scout who was not that much older than Abel.
Don’t think of rushing out there to drag him off, lad. You’ll just get yourself killed.
Besides, he is already dead, Center intoned.
Time to get into the brush and mount up.
Abel went back into the thicket to find his dont, a creature he’d named Corie. His personal riding dont, Mot, was safely in a stable back at home. Mot was far too old and too much of a Valley-bred creature to be used for Scout work. Corie was patiently waiting, chewing on a needleplant.
Check your carbine, lad, and have caps and cartridge limbered, said Raj. The blunderbuss dragon from your father, as well. Put it in your belt.
Joab had insisted he carry a flintlock sidearm in addition to his military-issue rifle when he went on patrol and had given Abel his own old dragon, which had been in the family for generations. The dragon had seemed an encumbrance at times. It was singular among the Scouts, and it caused him to stand out as different among them-something he strove not to do-but now Abel was glad of having it. He checked that the dragon was at half-cock and the flashpan frizzle had not come loose and spilled his power. It had not. Then he stowed the pistol in his belt and took up his rifle, a shorter, carbine model of more modern vintage, and ran a finger down and felt the edge of the percussive cap where it covered the fire nipple leading to the barrel. Should I cock my rifle now? he asked.
What, and tear the head off poor Corie with a misfire? answer Raj with a chuckle. Wait till you reach the wagons, then give it the flick.
Abel spurred his dont and raced up and out of the brush. Then he turned the beast to the south to circle around the melee in front of him and get to the wagons if he could. He pushed his dont to her ultimate speed, and with only Abel’s light weight to support, she was soon up on her back feet and racing.
The wagons loomed ahead. Abel fumbled for a moment, then managed to cock his rifle.
He felt his finger snaking toward the trigger and consciously pulled it away. He’d been lectured time and again on the need to keep one’s finger out of the trigger guard until it was time to fire, but in the heat of the moment, he found it extraordinarily hard to do so.
There were three carts with half a dozen occupants or attendants nearby. Two wore the billowy, multicolored patchwork pants and shirts of Redlander men. The others had the flowing white robes worn by the Blaskoye women. He’d heard tell that Blaskoye women were not only allowed to serve as muleskinners and drovers, but were actually the clan’s traders and merchants as well. Abel found this hard to believe, but Kruso and Sharplett had assured him it was so. In the Land, a female merchant would have been inconceivable.
Just another way the Redlanders behave as complete heathens, Abel thought.
Don’t be so sure, and don’t underestimate the does, lad. Might be your last thought.
I think I can take a woman, at least.
You must concentrate on the animals first, boy, said Raj sternly. At least one on each cart must be put out of commission to bring the wagons to a halt.
The motley-clad driver of the first of the carts was armed, and he pointed a gun at Abel and fired. A flintlock. Even running at full tilt, Abel saw the flashpan ignite and the smoke rising. A whistling sound nearby.
Was that a bullet?
Aye, lad. Be glad about the ones you hear. It’s the ones you don’t hear that are the problem.
He grew closer, closer-the driver with the rifle was attempting to reload by pouring powder out of a horn down the muzzle. Abel smiled and aimed the carbine at him.
The move must have registered, for the driver suddenly gave up what he was doing and leapt behind the cart in blind panic.
Abel adjusted his aim for one of the daks in the middle of the team.
He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Damn it, bad cap or-
Look down, lad.
Abel did as instructed. His Scout tunic had wafted up and gotten between the hammer and the cap. He quickly cocked again, pulled the fabric free, took aim.
Bang! The rifle’s report was startlingly loud, even though he was rushing forward full tilt on the dak. And this time, the ball had its affect. The dak he’d been aiming at let out a roar. It rose into the air, pawing at the sky in agony and spurting its milky blood over the other herbidaks, terrifying them.
He grew so fascinated watching the effect that he nearly forgot to turn his mount to avoid a head-on collision. As it was, he reined just in time and headed for the wagon that was next in line.
He drew his pistol and didn’t waste time trying for a middle animal, but shot the lead dak of the pack team straight in the head at point-blank range. Dak blood and brains spattered across his chest, and a bone fragment popped him smartly in the cheek. Abel rode on.
To the next wagon and-
He was riding into the muzzle of a musket pointed directly at him.
A swirl of flowing white robes, a headscarf. It was a woman, a young woman with crystal blue eyes. A fierce, beautiful face. Her mouth curled to a snarl.
But the musket had his attention now. There was no way he could turn his dont in time. The Redlander woman would shoot him in the chest. He reared back to throw his pistol at her, sure the move wouldn’t work, but unable to think of anything else to do-
An arrow took the woman through the neck.
Startled, she dropped the gun, reached for the shaft protruding from either side, and let out a piercing scream. It did not sound like pain. It sounded like anger to Abel.
He charged past and swung his mount around as quickly as he could. More arrows were flying into the remaining occupants of the cart. Kruso emerged from the western thicket and was firing his bow in a steady rhythm. His rate of fire was like nothing Abel had ever seen before.
Abel pulled his mount to a stop and leapt to the desert floor. Corie stopped expertly without shying.