use your bow.”
“I understand,” Malagni said through a wide smile.
“Heron.” The man personified the bird. “You eliminate the soldier on the turret. Lynx, you take out the tank with the satchel charge. Remember, we want their slaves alive; that’s the reason we’re here.”
“Maybe that’s true for you, big brother,” Malagni said. “But I’m here to kill Cossacks.”
“That’s our second reason,” the tall man said. “Alex, you move in on the left here”—he pointed at the twig standing upright—“and as soon as Malagni takes out his Cossack, you destroy the radio with your satchel charge.” Alex, easily the handsomest man present—despite the blotches of paint—nodded and displayed perfect teeth.
“Cora, you cover Alex; we have to get the radio. Wing, can you get two with your bow before they know what’s happening?”
“Of course I can,” the raven-haired woman said as she thrust out her finely chiseled chin. “You know that.”
“Just checking. I want you to get the armed guard here”—his finger prodded dirt in the model layout—“and cover this one. If he makes a move to shoot, kill him.”
She grinned, causing the scar on her wide cheek bone to bend back on itself. “Can’t I just kill him?”
“No. We need trained people.” Slayer-of-Men felt proud as he looked over the nine under his command. Each of them had commanded raids like this in the past.
They were the best warriors the Dena nation offered. He fervently believed that every day brought them closer to the time when the Cossacks and their masters would be driven from Dena land. And people like these would lead new armies.
“You must all be in place by the time the shadows have moved from here”—his finger traveled less than a hand’s width—“to here. I will signal and, after Malagni kills the Kalashnikov, the attack begins.”
Murmurs of assent dissipated in the air and the team melted into the brush. Slayer-of-Men made his way back to the wide oval hacked out of the forest by the Russians. He waited and watched the huge Cossack who sat on the small guard platform with an automatic rifle resting across his knees.
There would be more weapons like that in the camp. The Cossacks ruled their world so completely that they felt only one of them at a time needed to be armed in this manner. Every one of their camps the Dena had attacked had been just like this one.
The only deference the Russians made to their previous losses elsewhere was the decrepit tank sitting on the riverbank. The tankers had lapsed into boredom and indifference over a week ago. The prisoners didn’t need the machine to keep them working; the Cossacks did that.
The Cossacks wasted their own strength, Slayer-of-Men thought for the second time in less than an hour. He knelt and took his bow from its hiding place. Nocking a metal-headed arrow, he leaned back and calmly waited for his team to strike.
The shadows crawled inexorably along their appointed paths.
9
Grisha could not ignore his thirst any longer. One of the many Cossack rules forbade convicts more than one drink of water per hour. He felt sure dehydration due to diarrhea played no part in their calculations; a drink of water would improve his work. Perhaps if he just explained it to them.
The water station stood directly in front of the squat guard tower. A Cossack corporal dominated the middle of the newly built square, a Kalashnikov resting across his muscular thighs. Fear threatened the tightness of Grisha’s bowels as he spread his arms outward in the prescribed manner and shuffled forward.
As if it were animate, the barrel of the automatic weapon lazily centered on Grisha’s chest. The corporal’s blocky, bearded face remained bereft of expression. When Grisha was five meters from the drinking water, the big Russian spoke with a voice reminiscent of rusty iron hinges in use.
“What are you doing here, dung-eater? You guzzled more than your share of water much less than an hour ago.”
Grisha stopped and braced as straight as he could. The weight of his hands multiplied every trembling second but he resolutely held them out.
“Yes, master, that is true.” He felt overwhelming disgust for his selfdebasement. “However I have the shitting sickness and my body does not retain the fluid—”
“Then shit in a cup.” The Cossack jerked the slide back on the weapon and released it to snap a round into the chamber. One pull on the trigger and Grisha would no longer need water, ever.
His knees trembled uncontrollably, the familiar burning told him he’d slightly fouled himself, and the stench of his body hung around his face like a rotten wreath. A raven called from deep in the trees. His tongue ran over cracked, parched lips, and he felt the last reserve of energy, and care, drain from his soul. Only anger remained.
The anger sparked a determination to end this animal-like existence. If nothing else, he would die like the soldier he once was. His arms dropped.
The corporal’s mouth slowly twisted into a parody of a grin and he raised the weapon. “Go back to work now or you die.”
Grisha felt incredible freedom. This moment would have presented itself sooner or later; why endure any longer in a world without hope? He squared his shoulders and lifted his head, a Troika Guard major and boat captain one last time, and finished throwing away his life.
At least fight me bare-handed, you louse-infested sodomite.” The insolence felt so good that he grinned.
The corporal snapped the weapon to his shoulder and squinted down the barrel. He shuddered and his expression shifted to surprise.
Grisha frowned at him, wondering at the hesitation. Could the huge fool actually be considering his challenge?
The Kalashnikov clattered to the ground.
Grisha jerked back in amazement.
The corporal slowly leaned forward, and picking up momentum, toppled off the platform into a heap on the ground. An arrow protruded from the base of his skull.
Grisha snatched up the automatic weapon and, dashing back to the water, stuck his whole parched head into the wide tin basin. After three huge sucks he threw himself to the ground behind the water tank and peered around, trying to make sense of the situation. Another raven called from the forest. Two women prisoners stood in the framed—in doorway of the lodge, staring silently at the dead Cossack.
He checked the weapon. The chamber indeed held a round. He remembered the muzzle steadying on his chest and shivered.
Grisha twisted to see how the tankers would react. The soldier who always sat on the turret seemed to be patting the cannon; a feathered shaft jutted from his back also. Grisha realized the man was trying to escape.
The soldier gracefully slid around the barrel and fell to the ground. A figure popped up from behind the riverbank and deftly tossed a blocky object into the now-vacant hatch. Grisha blinked in disbelief as the figure vanished.
The camp was under attack.
Footsteps pounded behind him and he turned to see the burly army guard racing toward the fallen Cossack. He pulled the Kalashnikov up to shoot the guard. The guard pointed his rifle from the hip, the muzzle bobbed back and forth.
Silence expanded like a bubble, then exploded with the tank. A piece of flaming debris scorched past Grisha’s head and hit the guard, knocking him gurgling to the ground, his chest a mass of blood, ripped flesh, and mangled organs.
A Kalashnikov suddenly racketed off a burst. Another explosion blew the main Cossack cabin into flinders. Chunks of wood rained down.
Out of the corner of his eye something moved rapidly toward Grisha. He recognized the straw boss, the
