The Heretic

by David Drake

  The Scouts had already been deployed to cut off a retreat up the Escarpment, or at least to harry any Redlanders if they did manage to break through. Abel had been reassigned to command the Militia Regiment, much to his chagrin at first, until Raj had pointed out that Joab had given him responsibility for his entire right. That, in fact, Joab intended to use the Regulars to drive the Redlanders out of the town directly into Abel’s lines.

  He’s made you the anvil, lad, Raj said. He knows the townfolk trust you, or at least they trust him, and know you are his son. They need a unified command.

  It is a good strategy if the goal is to drive the Blaskoye back where they came from, Center intoned. Notice that the southeast of the village is open. Joab doubts himself, and he is providing them with a route of retreat. With the proper stroke, he might annihilate them here.

  The Scouts will take them when they retreat, Abel thought. We will annihilate them.

  There is an eighty-seven point three percent chance that a significant portion of the Blaskoye will escape, said Center. The Scouts are too few.

  Abel stopped arguing. He was sure that Center was correct—in the abstract. He always was. Yet there must be something . . .

  He reached his command, a ragtag group of five hundred—one could hardly call it a regiment—that had taken up position behind a knoll to the south-southeast of the village. He was met by a group of three “captains,” that is leaders elected from within the militia themselves. One of these he recognized. It was Fleming Hornburg, the son of Matlan Hornburg. He was arrogant and privileged, but Abel also knew him to be no coward. They’d tangled once in the market over a bumped shoulder, and the fight had been inconclusive. Of course Abel had been conscious of the fact that if he beat the living hell out of Hornburg, he would have put his father in a very awkward political position in the town, if not the district. Perhaps he’d pulled a couple of punches that might otherwise have ended it—and that perhaps would have ended Hornburg’s existence as a result.

  The other captain was a local miller named Prokopov. And their third Abel did not recognize. He was dressed in ill-fitting garb, as if he wore a shirt and trousers a size too big. He held a carbine in his right hand and had a bow and quiver strung across his back. Then Abel took another glance and realized—this was no man at all, or boy, either.

  It was a young woman.

  And then he realized that he did recognize her. Mahaut DeArmanville. This was the sister of Xander. She was the daughter of Henri DeArmanville, a lieutenant in the Regulars. No, not Mahaut DeArmanville. Mahaut Jacobson. She had recently married into the well-to-do Jacobson clan of Hestinga.

  “Mahaut?” he asked. “Mrs. Jacobson? What are you doing here?”

  “Same as you, sir,” she answered. “I am the leader of the women’s auxiliary.”

  “The—what? But that’s a support group.”

  “We’re going to support you by firing our muskets into the enemy.”

  Abel looked at her a moment, shook his head. “Where is your husband? What does he have to say about this?”

  “He’s with me,” answered Flem Stopes, the miller, cracking the faintest of smiles. “And he says that he’s tried for six months to break this mount . . .” He turned toward Mahaut and bowed. “Pardon me, ma’am.” Mahaut nodded her assent for him to go on. “And he can’t do it. He says he figures no man can if he cannot, but that maybe a fight will finally do his job for him. Break her, I mean. Make her a little more pliable.”

  Mahaut smiled, shook her head. “I’m pliable enough for what he wants,” she said. “This is different. I have friends in that village. Lots of us women do. And we don’t want to leave it all to the men, getting rid of the Blaskoye.”

  Mims accent, though Abel. It was a larger town, almost a city—although only Lindron would truly qualify for that distinction given what he’d been shown by Center and his projections—and the women were given more leeway there than elsewhere in the Land, at least anywhere Abel had been. They might hold professions other than teacher or whore in Mims, for instance.

  “I want you in the rear,” Abel said. “You and the other women.”

  “We want to fight, Lieutenant,” she said. Being the daughter of DeArmanville, she would know his official rank. “Lots of us are armed with muskets—older ones, true—and all of us have had practice with bow and even spear. I’ve seen to it for months, ever since they elected me.”

  She’s right about one thing. A woman can pull a trigger just as easily as can a man, Raj said. And she looks to be capable with that bow, or at least she wears it well.

  Abel looked at Mahaut, blinked once. They had met several times at officers’ family get-togethers, but she, being a year his senior—an enormous gap at fourteen—had barely given him the time of day. For his part, he hadn’t thought her particularly comely. Her diaphanous robes were the best one could get from the linen works of Fyrpahatet, the seaside town where a leaf-eating creature that produced the fiber thrived, but she’d worn them indifferently. Although she was pretty enough, she’d also had on hardly a smudge of makeup back then, and he’d believed her skin was on the darker side of bronze, until he’d noticed a tan line near her shoulder.

  Exactly the lighter strip that a quiver strap might create, he now realized.

  Most of the girls of Hestinga worked hard to stay out of the sun and remain light-toned, even those who were black and brown by ancestry. The idea, Abel supposed, being that un-tanned skin signaled less work in the sun, and hence a higher social status. Obviously, this did not matter to Mahaut Jacobson, and if it mattered to her husband, he hadn’t been able to persuade her of the matter.

  “Listen,” he said to her. “We’re circling that knoll to the west”—he pointed to the rise to the northwest, beyond which lay Lilleheim—“and forming up half way down the beginnings of the Escarpment slope. If you’re in the rear, you’ll be above the main body of militia. You’ll have a clear sightline to the Blaskoye if they make a run for us, which I’m guessing they will.”

  “But I—”

  “You’ll get your chance to prove all that target practice was worth it,” Abel said.

  “Why not put us up front and closer to start with,” she quickly replied. “Let us fire a volley, then the men come up and absorb us into the lines?”

  She isn’t going to let this go, Abel thought. She’s got a vision of how she wants it to be, and, like many soldiers, myself included before I gained more experience, isn’t willing to let that vision of glory go, even under changing circumstances.

  “I could order you away entirely if you keep questioning my judgment. I believe I could get Fleming here to back me up, couldn’t I?”

  “Damn right,” said Hornburg. “There’s no place for women in any of this. They’re just going to be a nuisance and probably get more of us killed than had to be.”

  Abel turned back to Mahaut. “See?” he said. “That’s what you’re contending with here. I’m your friend.” He motioned over his shoulder. “The enemy is that way.”

  “I know that,” she answered, “Lieutenant.”

  “Then listen to me,” Abel continued, trying to strike a conciliatory tone. “This is Militia, not Regulars, Mahaut. You, of all people, should know what that means. The chance that we would be able to advance in an orderly fashion around you is next to nothing. What will actually happen is utter confusion. People dying as a result. Trampling. And the loss of any respect you have gained so far for your women.”

  Mahaut looked thoughtful, and then chagrined. Maybe he was getting through to her.

  “So take your position and rain some fire down on those bastards when the time comes,” he said.

  Mahaut nodded, and snapped to attention. “Yes, sir,” she said. “That we will do.”

  “Good,” Abel said, and then he turned to the disposition of his remaining troops.

  He formed them into an obtuse angle along the contours of the knoll and the rising Valley floor to the northwest. The miller
Stopes’s men, who were mostly made up of town merchants, manufacturers, and guildsmen, he put on the knoll, with Fleming Hornburg’s farmers, serfs, and sharecroppers along the Escarpment rise. His idea was to cut off the Redlanders to the northeast and force them west as they fought, back up the Escarpment trail that led down into Lilleheim—up toward the supposedly waiting Scouts.

  He would have to hope village fire-drill practice had been thorough enough. He knew the Regulars would be massed three lines deep, with each group engaged in a separate part of reloading of muskets. He could count on no such orderly engagement from the Militia, or really, any order at all. They would therefore form a single line.

  At least they have the high ground, Abel thought. Although I doubt a single one of them has practiced firing downhill.

  It was going to be interesting.

  And, with a shout, a crackle, and a rising cloud of black powder exhaust, the attack of the Regulars began.

  Abel sprang onto his dont. He was occupying the salient in his lines, the crook of the angle, which gave him a fairly unobstructed view of his entire force.

  The thrice-damned farmers were charging.

  What was Hornburg thinking? Abel had given explicit orders to hold position, wait for the Blaskoye to appear as they were driven toward Abel’s Militia. And even then, wait for Abel’s command.

  Obviously this had meant nothing to the Hornburg idiot. Without another thought, Abel kicked his dont into motion and charged down the hill. It took him a moment to get in front of the charging line, but he was on dontback, and they, except for a small cavalry unit, were on foot, and he outpaced them. They had discovered what soldiers for millenia had found to be true: a charge downhill, whether mounted or on foot, inevitably became a trot before too many paces, as men and animals stumbled. Abel turned along the lines, riding in front of them.

  “Halt! Halt!” he called. “Wait for the others! Halt, I say!”

  And most of them did. All except Hornburg and his “cavalry” unit. The sixteen donts and riders charged forth down the slope and toward the village. They reached the edge, aiming their short-barreled carbines ahead of them. Plumes flew back from their saddles, and one carried a regimental standard, blue and white, that streamed behind.

  They did look glorious. Brave. Gallant.

  Abel stopped up short near the end of the line, which had now halted its advance, entered again with the troops.

  “Come on, boys,” he said. “I hope you give it to them.”

  But they rode right into a fusillade of lead, just as he’d feared they would. The invisible scythe cut through them, taking man from saddle and felling donts with flowering wounds to the head or legs. The charge seemed to hesitate, lose steam. And then, as if by signal, the donts broke and parted, some to one side, some to another, as if the unseen clump of those riflemen who opposed them were a literal wedge. There was more fire from along the edge of the village, and the donts turned entirely about and were scrambling back toward Abel and the lines. Quite a few of them were merely obeying the herd instinct to follow the group, and were riderless now.

  “Thrice damn him,” Abel said. He turned to a nearby solider. “Find me Captain Hornburg. Do you see him?”

  “He rides the spot-faced doe yonder,” said the other, pointing to a dont. Its rider was still in the saddle, but was slumped over, holding to an arm.

  Up rode Fleming Hornburg. There was fire in his eyes for Abel. “You Scout scum, you Zentrum-damned sellout! You cut off my support! I’ll see your command taken for that! I’ll see you hanged for a coward, that’s what!”

  Hornburg turned his dont, grazed the flank against Abel’s own animal, and Abel’s leg. A childish attempt to embarrass him, as even Hornburg must know he would be able to quickly slip the foot free and avoid injury.

  “You’re wounded, sir,” Abel said.

  “A scratch, you stupid fool,” Hornburg shouted back. He raised his carbine and pointed it at Abel. Abel stood his ground, still in the saddle of his dont Spet—a beast which had faced open muzzles before, and did not shy.

  “Lower that rifle, Captain,” Abel said.

  “I should shoot you down where you stand.”

  Abel did not move. His own carbine remained in its saddle holster and his dragon blunderbuss tucked in his waist band.

  Hornburg pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Nothing.

  Of course nothing, Abel thought. You haven’t had time to reload. The only chance was that you hadn’t gotten a shot off in the first place.

  Even as he thought this, Abel moved forward. Using his momentum, he snatched the rifle from the hands of an amazed Hornburg, then wheeled about, rejoined the line, and, in full sight of the men, carefully and quickly reloaded—a task he knew he could do in better than half the time of all but a few who might be watching. He took a cap from his cartridge box, half cocked the trigger, and then held the rifle, butt-first, in an outstretched hand toward Hornburg.

  “Here, Captain,” he calmly said. “Now it’s ready to use again. At my command.”

  Hornburg sat staring hatred at him for a moment. Then he reached out and snatched the gun from Abel, wheeled and rejoined his other Scouts, who were back in the lines once again a short distance away.

  Abel pushed through and rode along the rear of his line back to his previous position at the salient. There was more crackling and war cries from the village, but the lines held firm, waiting. It seemed to Abel, gazing down it, that the line itself was trembling in anticipation.

  Then the waiting was over.

  2

  With a shout, the Blaskoye emerged en masse from the buildings and ran across the small fence that demarcated the village boundary. Most were on dontback. They charged into the open field, and, at shouted order, a group of perhaps fifty riders wheeled to guard their rear.

  I’ve never seen Blaskoye so disciplined, Abel thought. Who are those guys?

  The remainder made for the hill, seemingly zeroing in on the knoll as a rallying point.

  They were in for a surprise.

  “Hold,” he shouted down the line. “Hold for the girls!”

  And they did hold, this time. Even Hornburg. The Militia waited, grim-faced, as the Blaskoye drew nearer and nearer.

  Into musket range. Past it.

  Was she going to fire? Abel whirled, trying to pick out Mahaut among the mass of women on the hillside, but could not. They all had weapons at ready, however, at least all of them who were armed with muskets.

  Another second, another.

  Yes, he thought. That is my range, not theirs. She does right to wait.

  And then the muskets behind him crackled to life, and Abel whirled to look upon the damage. Blaskoye fell from saddles, donts screamed and whirled. The charge reached the first of the upslope. Slowed.

  Some raised carbines or even bows and fired at Abel’s lines.

  The arrows fell short. The minié balls did not. Several men on Abel’s line crumpled, fell. First blood. Would they break for cover or hold firm?

  And could Mahaut get another round into the Redlanders? Had she drilled her women that well?

  He got his answer with another crackle of fire, this time more ragged, not as loud—

  —but adequate to fell several more riders.

  It’s time, lad.

  Yes.

  He raised an arm. “Fire!” he shouted, and brought it down.

  The massed line responded. Not quickly, not half as smoothly as the well-drilled women’s auxiliary, but adequately. A plume of smoke traveled down the line as the order to fire seemed to be communicated as if by word of mouth.

  Sergeants shouted their order to reload, but this was hardly necessary, as the men quickly began to do so as soon as they were able.

  Still the Blaskoye came on, their donts raised on their hind feet now, huffing up the hill toward the line, and now not twenty paces away.

  Some spooked and raised their muskets with ramrod still in the end. Fired
ball and rod both to no effect.

  Some broke and ran.

  Most completed the reload, brought rifles back to bear—

  When a cloud of arrows rained down on the advancing Blaskoye.

  The women had changed weaponry.

  This was too much. The charge faltered, broke. The donts turned around in general retreat down the hillside.

  But there were Blaskoye shouts of muster. They were not in retreat, but had merely pulled back to regroup, have another go.

  Abel couldn’t make out what they were doing exactly, could only see a whirlwind of donts and men within a cloud of spent powder and kicked-up dust. But he could see beyond the Blaskoye, to the village itself.

  And that was when he saw Joab’s Regulars burst forth from the village and attack the Blaskoye rear.

  The rearguard of the Blaskoye that had been left behind fired and fought wildly, but many times their number streamed past and overran them.

  The Blaskoye whirled blindly amid more dust, chuffed barley, and powder clouds.

  Abel unconsciously and from long practice raised the scarf around his neck to cover his mouth and nose. He then reached backward, all without taking his eyes from what was happening below, and slid his carbine from its holster. He raised the gun into the air.

  “Charge!” Abel shouted. He lowered the carbine and kicked his mount to action, downward, toward the cloud of screaming, bellowing donts and men.

  Down the hillside they went, with Abel and the other dont riders far in the vanguard. In fact, despite his reining Spet back to a canter, too much so. He slowed his mount, allowing the foot soldiers to catch up behind him—not for support, but so that they could take full advantage of any opening he made in the Blaskoye.

  Then he entered the dust-and-powder cloud and into mayhem. Pieces of the enemy. An arm there, the dull glint of a musket there. The white and terrified eye of a dont, a snot-streaming muzzle.

  He struggled to find a target that would hold still long enough. Then the cloud parted for a moment, and a large Blaskoye warrior was suddenly revealed. Blue and white clothes, red sash around the waist. Legs gripping the flanks of the dont tightly, expertly, for the Blaskoye, unlike the people of the Land, did not use stirrups on their saddles.