by David Drake
Abel understood in a general way how Center pulled off this feat. He also knew if he requested specifics of any one prediction, he was likely to get a lengthy lecture that left him feeling sorry he’d ever asked.
And as he had grown more a part of the group of Scouts and more adept, the deeper into the Redlands his “Rim patrols” had taken him. He wasn’t technically disobeying his father at the moment. The Rim, and the Valley below it, was still in sight, several leagues to the west. Well, they would be if you climbed a very tall hill and strained your eyes to make them out. Furthermore, this was not technically a mission—where one expected and planned for battle—but a patrol, where danger had to come to you.
It looked like danger had done just that.
“How many do you make out, Kruso?” called out a nasal, brassy voice. It was a voice made to cut through a harsh desert wind, and it belonged to Sharplett, the captain of the Scout squad.
“Ten,” Kruso replied. “Ten of many.”
From the vantage of the overhang where he and Kruso shared lookout, Abel could clearly see that they were more than ten. Then he remembered that Kruso could not count any higher.
“I make out twenty…twenty-three on foot,” called Abel. “At least…fifteen armed with muskets.”
Correct, based on tactile input and spectral analysis of your visual stimuli for metallic content, Center announced.
Isn’t that the same thing as what I just did on my own?
As in mathematics, it is often useful to check one’s work.
“Three wagons, three drivers, Captain,” said Kruso, perhaps in an effort to redeem his counting skills. “Too, a passel of Blaskoye does. Wear they thom ugly robes what hiden thar milkers, curse tham to darkness.”
“How many women?”
“Five…no, six,” Kruso replied, looking down at his fingers, where he’d been enumerating his sightings, to be sure his tallies matched. The only problem with that method was that his left hand was missing a pinkie.
The Blaskoye clan were generally excellent at evasion both of Scouts and of one another and did not repeatedly follow the same travel routes through the Redlands. In addition, they almost never returned on a route by which they’d left. Redland pathways often frayed into dozens of possible paths, especially when there were no features in the landscape such as rocky outcrops or higher mountains to avoid. Nevertheless, this time a caravan had come back precisely down the path upon which, two weeks before, it had traveled north. A single lookout had spotted them at a great distance, and soon the flags wigwagged across Scout-held territory from signal hill to signal hill—all the way back to the High Cliffs, the Scout base on the upper Escarpment. Abel had been there and had been part of the general scramble for muskets, bows, and donts as Fleischer, the signalman among the Scouts, translated the incoming message from the next hill over. Sharplett had instantly ordered the troop to ride.
I really can’t be blamed for going along with them. If I’d stayed, I would have been alone at the High Cliffs, and that could have been dangerous, too.
Except, of course, the squad cook and those two Scouts getting over their heat blisters stayed. They should be able to mount a drawn-out defense if they’re attacked, said Raj. And that base is at a hell of an excellent locus point, too. Three men could stand off a hundred for who knows how long, if the three were brave, fed and watered.
And given the stores, the interior spring, and the possibility of slaughtering stable donts, eating them or drinking their blood if need be, that would not be a problem, Center added.
Whatever, Abel thought. I’m here now. I can apologize to my father later.
Kruso strode up and slapped Abel on the shoulder. He said in a low voice: “View you tom waginen. Dre, t’is peer. You so tally?”
Abel took a close look through the formed by two boulders next to one another. “I see two high wheeled carts…no, you’re right, three,” he replied. Abel knew that Kruso understood Landish well enough, and Abel still wasn’t as comfortable speaking the Scout patois as he was understanding it when spoken to.
“Wagonen be goodsheavy, thay are hitched wid wubblebund donts ableatinz,” Kruso said.
The carts must indeed be loaded down with goods, for the donts teamed to pull it were straining and groaning. Their cries could be heard even at this distance.
“They’re coming from upper Treville, down the Pricklebush Route. Think they’re getting back from a raid?”
“Never,” said Kruso. “Our wigwag be quiet as fuckabone.”
There had been no semaphore traffic from the north, no indication that a raid on the Land had taken place in upper Treville or the Cascade District. So it was possible these Redlanders had utterly wiped out a Land village, leaving not even a survivor to report, or that they’d acquired the goods by trade or raid on another Redlander clan.
There’s another possibility lad, Raj growled in his low voice.
What?
It’s a payoff from Cascade.
From people in the Land? But the Blaskoye are bloodthirsty killers. Why would someone do such a thing?
I’d say they’re quite as bloodthirsty as their reputation makes them out to be, Raj said. But where they decide to drink that blood is another matter, isn’t it? Maybe the goods are an effort to persuade the Blaskoye to take their muskets and bows elsewhere. Somewhere like Treville District, where the protection geld doesn’t flow like honey.
As if to confirm Raj’s suspicion, Kruso nodded and muttered, “Dortgeld,” the Scoutish word for ill-gotten gains.
Because they were the two best pairs of eyes in the squad, Kruso and Abel had been put on lookout. The entire squad was on a rise in the desert. It was a rocky area, bare of Redlands vegetation. They’d left their dont mounts in the brush below. Near the highest point on the rise was an uptilted stone of darker basalt that Kruso and Abel had scrambled up to get the best view. It was from here they called down their report.
The trade route cut through the center of the rise north and south. The forbidding brush of the desert surrounded the rise in a thorny, dense thicket, whereas the bare hilltop with the path running along it provided a quarter league of prickle-free travel.
When they’d first arrived at the place, Captain Sharplett had remarked in Landish that it was “not the best place I’ve ever seen for an ambush, but it’ll do.” Sharplett, unlike Kruso, came from a better-off family from the lower Delta and, although he understood Scoutish well enough, spoke Landish with only a trace of downriver accent. But however educated and skillful he might be, he was still a Delta man. He was considered a lesser breed by the military Regulars, who were almost entirely upriver men—and, Abel had to admit, it was hard not to think of the squad commander as a bit of a marshland barbarian.
Abel and Kruso climbed down from the lookout. Sharplett had already sent the main body of six Scouts down the western side of the rise and into the brush. There the hardy, desert-bred donts were grazing on the thorny vegetation.
“Kruso, I want you and Himmel on the east in them bushes. Looks like there’s a couple of piss trails cut into the thicket over there that go a ways back. Use them for your retreat.”
The Redlanders, though they lived in a land with no trees and only limited concealment, were fanatics about not being seen when defecating or urinating. They had been the ones who had cut those offshoot trails. Abel reflected that this was one more fact about the enemy that you picked up from being around Scouts that you would never find out in the Regulars.
“You two’ll hit first, one shot, draw their fire and pull ’em east. When they hit the bushes, fire a second round—Himmel with your gun, and Kruso, use your bow. That’ll be our signal. We’ll ride out, hit ’em hard from the west.”
Kruso nodded and Himmel answered with a smart “Yes, sir.”
“And one more thing,” Sharplett added. “After that second round, you get lost in that brush, hear me? They’ll be madder than a carnadon mam with a raided nest, and they’ll be after you. H
immel, you reload and cover. And Kruso…”
“Captain?”
“Make use of that bow of yours after we turn ’em around.”
Kruso smiled a crooked smile. “Yes, sir. That I will.”
Kruso’s composite bow was a thing of beauty to Abel. He carried it over his back, left to right, with the bowstring securing it in front. The outside was carved from the thick, pliable river pufferwood that grew only in the Delta, and Kruso had told Abel he’d picked out the tree himself on an expedition. The wood was laminated by special glue made from the tuskhorn of a gigantic ocean-going creature called a grendel that Abel had never seen, but only heard about.
Kruso reached down to the quiver suspended from his belt and ran a finger along the fletching of one of his brace of arrows. Some were white fletched, some black. The feathers of the white arrows were notched once for tactile identification. The tips were clad with copper for longer range but ultimately smaller damage—unless you got lucky and placed one in an eye or a joint. Black feathered arrows were notched twice and tipped with sharpened and barbed iron for maximum destruction of flesh.
Then Sharplett was beside Abel giving instructions.
“We’ll mount up, and I want you up at the edge of the west thicket, Dashian, to give the sign to charge. When yon sharpshooters fire round one, they’ll fall back a bit, then turn and fire again. Then they’ll hightail into the brush. On the second volley, you’ll wigwag, and we’ll swarm the donts.”
“But sir, I—I want to fight, sir.”
Sharplett gave him a wry smile. “I expect you’ll get your chance, don’t worry. As you said, there looks to be thirty of them and only nine of us.” Sharplett spat on the sand, wiped his mouth. He chewed the desert herb nesh incessantly. Lots of Scouts did. This was another trait the Scouts shared with Redlanders. Abel had tried nesh, but had never liked the bitter taste.
Pay attention, lad. This is a fine disposition, and Sharplett’s a good man. But one band of Blaskoye is neither here nor there. We need to know what’s in the wagons. You need to find out and tell him, lad.
But he won’t let me go, I’m just a kid to him.
You might be surprised. After these past few months, I have a feeling these men don’t look at you quite like that anymore.
Still, I—
Make yourself heard, lad. Do it now, and be forceful.
Sharplett had already turned to walk away. It was now or never.
“Captain, I have an idea.”
The Scout captain paused, turned back to Abel. “Yes, Dashian? What is it?”
“I was thinking Kruso and Himmel should go after the wagons, sir.”
“How do you mean?”
“After they’ve drawn them to the east, they could circle around and hit the carts. They’ll be mostly unguarded, with the Redlanders out front fighting you. That way, we could see what’s in those wagons, sir, even if you and the others have to beat it back to cover.”
Sharplett swirled a lump of nesh in his cheek and considered. “I would like to know what’s so important it’s got near thirty buck warriors assigned to bring it down from Cascade.” He spat again. “And maybe they’d have time to ruin some of that cargo, too.” He slapped Abel on the shoulder. “Good plan, Dashian. Now, you run over and tell Kruso and Himmel about it while I see to the others. And take care not to break the horizon or all this’ll be for naught.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t, sir.”
Abel breathed deeply as the Scout captain stalked away. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until this moment.
He thought it was a good idea.
Raj chuckled coarsely. Of course he did, lad. It was mine. Now go make sure the Scouts get those orders.
Abel ran to do just that, and, after Kruso nodded his understanding, he crossed the rise one last time, careful to keep a line of boulders between himself and anyone coming up the rise from the north. He was about to take his position at the edge of the brush when Sharplett tapped him on the shoulder.
“Get me another look,” the captain said, and ordered him up the basalt lookout post a final time. “But take care. They’ll be able to see you even through their own dust at this distance.”
“Yes, sir.”
Abel scrambled back up the rock and raised just his head and eyes above its peak.
The caravan was still on its way. It was at the bottom of the rise, a hundred strides to the north. Not long now. He could make the caravaners out quite distinctly, and he confirmed his previous count of warriors in the vanguard.
So close. They seemed nearly naked, small. Certainly not the giant warriors of the stories, clothed in dont feathers and the skins of their enemies. The Scouts knew not to underestimate them, however, as did Abel.
The wagons were in the rear. They rolled upon very large, very thin wooden wheels. Each wagon was pulled by a team of four herbidaks arranged in the typical Redlander manner, three abreast behind with one in the lead dak position.
The daks were similar animals to the riding donts, but without a dont’s spinal plumage. Daks also had much more rounded heads—heads with a single plated horn that terminated in a breathing hole at the very top. Both donts and daks were closely related, and each was capable of producing eye-stinging droplets of acidic drool and phlegm from their breathing holes when they huffed and puffed, however.
Abel, nevertheless, thought of daks as an inferior species to the riding donts, not nearly so noble. But they were useful animals, nonetheless, and they could and would interbreed with riding donts to produce remarkably strong mules on occasion.
Abel scrambled down and took a narrow, barely perceptible trail into the brush to deliver the caravan’s position. He found the Scouts gathered in a clearing not far inside the thicket.
“Hundred strides, no more.”
Sharplett took in this news, then turned to the other Scouts and gave the hand signal for them to mount up.
The donts had been waiting patiently. But these were experienced beasts, and the fact that their neck plumage was erect indicated that they were aware something was afoot. The Scout squad mounted adroitly and trotted up to the edge of the clearing they occupied.
Dont tongues flickered out to taste the wind. One dont pawed the ground with a fore claw. Abel knew that, at speed, these donts would rise up on their rear legs and run like a human. And when they did, those forefeet became rending appendages that could tear a man in half.
The men unlimbered muskets from saddle holsters and unlatched the black-powder cartridge boxes hanging upon their belts. There were only so many rifles to go around, and it wasn’t only Kruso but several of the Scouts who preferred a bow to a musket or pistol in a close fight. Three of the Scouts had decided to go in with bows rather than muskets. What the bows lacked in firepower, they made up for in rate of fire. Reloading a musket rifle was a three-stage process, and stage one required tipping the muzzle up to receive powder—not an easy task to perform while riding a charging dont. Reloading a bow could be done in a single, one-handed motion.
Abel returned up the trail to the thicket’s edge. Kruso and Himmel were in position across the way.
He waited nervously for the first shot.
Remember, those carts are what matters here.
Why? Why are they so important?
Because I am not sure what is inside them, even after extended extrapolation, Center said. I have made a good guess, but I require specific confirmation for our future plans.
So they’re payoff goods or whatever, and somebody in Cascade’s a traitor? What of it?
For one thing, the goods themselves may point to who is to blame, Raj replied.
On a larger scale, Center put in, knowing which of the Redland clans is most likely to initiate the new round of Blood Winds will be essential if we are to mitigate its effect and use the results as leverage against Zentrum’s strategy of prolonged technological stasis.
I’m a Scout. I want to fight, not be a signalman and a slink!
Re
ally? 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.