corps of Marines was swelling dramatically, borrowing heavily on the instruction, organization, and experience of their Lemurian-American allies. Until the recent battles on New Scotland and New Ireland, those Marines had never coordinated any large-scale operations however, and there’d been some severe growing pains. In any event, Imperial Marines, Guards, or marshals were the only ones with a legitimate reason to assemble such an armed party, particularly here in an Imperial preserve. That left only brigands, and everyone seemed to realize that fact at once. The reaction was… unexpected.
One of the beaters, a bearded man in a long, threadbare coat, suddenly dove at Mr. Bigelow, driving the gamekeeper to the ground with a startled cry. Another lunged at Sean, grabbing his pistol by its long barrel with a guttural shout. The third beater stood, just as stunned as everyone, his eyes wide in confused panic.
Sean allowed his assailant to yank the barrel from his shoulder and grasp it with both hands, pulling and wrenching savagely. He had only the grip to hold on to, but in this circumstance, for the instant it took, that was enough. He heaved backward suddenly, straitening the other man’s arms, and squeezed the trigger. The pan flashed and a heavy load of small shot blasted out, and its tight pattern at that range struck the man full in the face with the diameter, if not the weight, of a four-pound shot. It didn’t decapitate him, but his head erupted bloody gore and brains back at Sean like an exploding melon and his corpse dropped to the ground without a twitch.
“Goddamn!” Petey squealed, and launched himself toward Rebecca.
Ruik recovered his wits while the first attacker fought with Bigelow to gain control of his fowler that had fallen about two yards away from them. He raced over and aimed his musket, but loaded with bird shot, he feared he couldn’t hit one without the other. Bigelow was crawling on the ground, toward his weapon, while simultaneously trying to hold on to the traitor and keep him from it. But the bigger, bearded man was raining blows upon him, trying to loosen his grip and drag himself over the gamekeeper. Immediately, Ruik reversed his musket. He was a Naval officer, not a Marine, but everyone had to train with the new weapons to some degree. With a trilling cry, backed by his literally inhuman strength, he delivered a creditable butt stroke to the head of Bigelow’s adversary, who went limp and rolled senselessly onto his back.
“Thankee, sir,” Bigelow managed through broken lips, and Ruik helped him to his feet.
“Swell,” Ruik said, pushing him aside to see Princess Rebecca grimly aiming her double at the still-motionless third beater. The man-more of a boy, really-was obviously terrified.
“And what about you, sir?” Sean snarled, stepping toward him. The long pistol was thrust in this belt, leaving his tunic smeared with bloody chunks, and his sword was in his hand.
“I… I… didn’t-couldn’t!”
“Quit jabberin’, boy, an’ speak up!”
“I don’t know those men!” the boy finally managed. “Before God! I never seen ’em before taday!” He looked beseechingly at Bigelow. “You used me before, sur! For His Majesty! I’m as loyal as can be!”
Bigelow nodded slowly, a strange expression on his face. “Aye, we’ve used him before,” he confirmed, “an’ he seemed a good lad.” He glanced at the faceless corpse. “Them others, they was… recommended.” He turned to look back at the man he’d fought, and his eyes went wide. The bearded beater, his hair matted with blood from Ruik’s blow, was sitting up now. In his hand was a pistol of a cheap, common sort that the Company had long traded in the colonies. The things were hopelessly inaccurate beyond a dozen paces, but they were reliable, and it was pointed at the princess just a few steps away.
“No!” Bigelow roared, and lunged forward just as the pan flashed and fire and smoke bloomed from the muzzle. At that same instant, Ruik, who’d been distracted by the interrogation, brought his musket all the way back up and fired. The long coat covering the assassin’s torso shivered like a sail that just took a broadside and the man fell back, screaming. Ruik didn’t have a bayonet, but he pounced on the man, prepared to smash his skull this time, but his eyes, like everyone’s, went to the princess.
She seemed bewildered, her hand pressing a bloody spray on her bright green hunting frock, just above the belt around her waist. Petey was staring at her, eyes bulging.
“Lass!” Bates yelled. He’d been halfway to the killer, his sword raised. Now he dropped the weapon and rushed to the girl, stripped off her belt, and eased her to the ground.
“It really doesn’t hurt much,” Princess Rebecca softly murmured.
“I must see yer wound, lass,” Sean told her apologetically but forcefully. Tears already streaked his face.
“Of course.”
Sean ripped the coat open, but paused in surprise. There was no blood on her blouse.
The Imperial gamekeeper suddenly coughed, swayed, and collapsed.
“Mr. Bigelow!” cried the boy, kneeling beside him. “It’s him that’s shot!”
Suddenly Sean knew what must have happened. The pistol ball had torn through Bigelow and sprayed the princess with a stream of his blood. The ball may have even been turned downward by a rib and struck her itself, thankfully spent. He quickly opened the blouse over her midriff to assure himself and saw there was indeed a ripening oval bruise, but that was all.
“Thank God!” he breathed.
“I’m not shot?” the princess asked.
“No, but Mr. Bigelow is. He saved your life!”
“Go to him, I beg you!”
“Aye.” Sean stood and looked down at the gamekeeper, but the poor man was clearly gone. “Did he speak?” he asked the boy.
“Aye,” replied the boy through tears of his own. “I understood but a single word-but it made no sense!”
“What was it?”
“McClain.”
“Sur,” Ruik interrupted over the screams of the wounded man he still guarded. “Those other men, on horses- they shot the coach driver. They come this way now!”
“Bind that man,” Sean directed Ruik, “an’ gag ’im. We need ’im ta live, fer a time at least, but I’ve had enough o’ his screamin’! Have ye other than small shot fer that musket?”
“Some,” Ruik said.
“Load it, then.” He paused a moment, deciding whether they could really trust the youngster. He snorted. “Boy? Can ye use Mr. Bigelow’s fowler? He keeps ball in ’is pouch.”
“I know how to load, but I’ve rarely shot.”
“But ye can?”
“Aye.”
Princess Rebecca had restored her clothing and was already pulling the wads atop the bird shot in her double with a corkscrew-shape device on the end of her ramrod. She poured the shot on the ground, then dropped a single large ball down each barrel. They thunk ed against the powder wads. “They’re loose,” she said in a strange tone. “I have never loaded a weapon for the express purpose of shooting a man before.”
Sean looked at the girl. Despite her words, she still sounded so… calm that it worried him. He fished in his pouch and handed her a portion of a paperlike insect’s nest. “Those’re not men,” he snarled. “Ram more waddin’ ta hold the balls in place, lass,” he added. “Ye have a few fixed charges with which to reload. Do ye not?”
The princess nodded. The riders were coming hard now and were barely half a mile away. Sean clasped the long pistol to his side with the stump of his left arm and proceeded to load it. The process may have looked odd, but he managed it quickly enough.
“How… what you want to do? How we do this?” Ruik asked. With the excitement, his normally excellent English had slipped a bit.
“Well, clearly we must kill ’em or drive ’em off. Don’t fire till I give the word, but then choose yer target wi’ care. We’ll not fire a volley! Princess, yours an’ mine’ll be the least-accurate shots, an’ we must save ’em till they’re nearly on us.”
“I don’t think I can hit a man on a running horse!” the boy cried.
“Are ye daft? Ye an’ Lieutenant Ruik’ll shoot at the horses! Surely ye can hit a target such as that! Wi’ luck, ye’ll dump the riders, an’ p’raps goad the others into firin’!”
Even Ruik knew it would be next to impossible for the riders to hit a mark at a gallop-more difficult than deliberately striking a distant ship with a single, aimed shot from the pitching deck of his own Simms. Walker could do it, but she had advantages no other ship-or man-could match. “I hate to shoot horse,” he said sadly. “They not
