“Well, that explains his skill with the sword, then,” John said, watching the crane disappear into the cover along the next bend in the river.
“Oh?”
He looked back at the down-timer. “’Cause there’s no way Bidhi Chand just learned sword fighting since the guru said it was okay to defend oneself. If you watched him practice, you’d know better.”
“I haven’t seen that, b—”
John cut him off, shaking his head. “I mean, I’ve seen more swordwork than I could have ever wished since coming here, but that guy made Dara’s man look like he was wading in quicksand.”
Bertram continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted: “Dara said he was quite the scoundrel before converting. Made his living by the sword. Some kind of bandit chieftain.”
“No kidding?”
“N—” This time his reply was cut off by a thunderous explosion that made their horses rear and both men flinch.
John lost his seat. He watched, as if in slow motion, as Bertram, a far more accomplished horseman, stood in the stirrups and sawed at the reins, but lost sight of the other man as he went ass over teakettle and slammed into the ground.
Stunned by the impact, he could do nothing more than watch as his horse bolted for the stables.
Aware of the hooves of Bertram’s mount flashing close to his head, John rolled to one side and got to his feet as quickly as he could.
Bertram was still trying to control his horse and John staggered out from under the threat of the horse’s hooves. Once out of harm’s way enough to spare the attention, John looked toward the munitions factory: a great black smear of smoke was already rising from inside the berm just over a quarter mile away. Debris was still pattering to the ground, some within a few hundred yards of their position.
All along the river, on both sides, every single duck, goose, coot, and crane had taken to frightened flight, wings clattering and beaks or bills open to hoot, quack, or honk. It would have been deafening if his ears hadn’t already been ringing from the explosion.
“Jesus, the workers!” John barked. Turning to run, he staggered and almost fell, his bruised body refusing to follow the commands of his brain.
“Wait, John!” Bertram yelled.
John stopped, as much to let his legs steady as obey his friend’s command, and looked at Bertram. The eyes of the down-timer’s horse were rolling, but he had it under control.
“What if it’s sabotage?” Bertram asked, face pale and frightened above his horse’s head.
“So?! We still gotta get the workmen outta there!” The smoke was yellow beneath. Something was burning inside the compound.
“But what if the saboteurs are waiting for whoever shows up?”
Didn’t think of that, John, did you? Some military man you’re turning out to be.
Aloud, he said, “Ride back. I’m sure you’ll meet that patrol we passed or some other troop of riders sent to investigate. Send them on.”
“What about you?”
John spat. “I’ll wait and watch from that stand of trees over there. Go!” By the time he finished saying the words, Bertram had already turned his horse and was clapping his heels to its flanks.
Another, less violent explosion went off inside the compound as he reached the stand of trees between one estate and another. John threw himself flat, glad his horse had run off. One fall from horseback a day was more than enough for his abused posterior.
His eyes teared up as he looked at the factory. Something was burning very hot now, flames rising above the berm. Nothing could survive in there, least of all workmen already stunned by the explosions. No, least of all some supposed saboteurs waiting to mousetrap whoever responded to help.
John dragged himself up, started toward the fire, unsure what he could do for anyone in that furnace, but sure he had to try.
He’d covered half the distance before his stunned brain recovered enough to start assessing what this disaster would mean for the war effort.
“Shitshitshit!” he chanted, staggering into a run.
Outside the munitions factory
“There were no survivors, Salim,” Bertram said, visibly struggling to control his emotions as the last of the bodies they were able to recover were laid out beside the road. There were only fourteen of the hundred or so who were working within.
Salim nodded. He waved his entourage back and dismounted, walking to where John, Talawat, and Bertram stood with the patrol of horsemen that first responded. The manufactory was still smoking beyond the berms.
“What the hell was burning on the north side?” John was asking Talawat, wiping at his soot-blackened face with one hand and only succeeding in smearing the oily residue further. “Last time I was here, everything was covered in earthworks to prevent just this kind of thing.”
“There was a large store of supplies laid in that some workmen were using to expand the manufactory,” Talawat said quietly, wiping at his own soot-stained visage. “I believe the explosion was in the primer-cap manufactory and the secondary was the main powder store. It was muffled because it was covered in earth.”
“Jesus,” John said.
Talawat went on as if he’d not been interrupted. “The door to the main powder storage was off its hinges and several gaz from the entry. From the damage and its position, I can only imagine it was not closed when the first explosion occurred.”
“Why not?” Salim asked, deeply concerned about the possibility of sabotage.
Talawat waggled his head and explained in a leaden voice, “It may have been open in the course of obtaining powder for the day’s production of either shells or caps. Such would have been a bit late in the morning, but if there was powder left over from yesterday’s work, I require my people to finish
