The Heretic

Numbers.

A huge force of Redlanders was gathered, was being gathered, for he saw more streaming in from outlying lands, many on dak-drawn wagons, some on donts, hundreds more walking.

So Lilleheim is just the tip of the spear.

Correct. Aimed at Treville. At your father, specifically. He is being targeted for his competency and the strength of the Treville Militia and Scouts. He holds the center. If Treville District falls, the Land will be open from north to south.

And if Treville holds firm?

Lindron is too well protected by the Tabernacle Guard, and the Valley too wide at that point for Blaskoye tactics, Raj said, his tone musing. An invasion from the north sweeping down the Valley, I’d suspect.

That is a ninety-two point four percent probability.

And if Treville falls?

Observe:

Terror in his veins, hard breathing. Running, running on his own two legs, his dont slain somewhere behind him in the retreat.

Make the River. Maybe a chance to make a stand. Or, if not, boats. An escape to the east. Anything besides this perpetual clash and retreat, clash and retreat-

But tired, so tired. The pounding of the thickened hoofpads of the Blaskoye mounts behind him thunderous, making it so hard to think-

And then, they are in front of him. A line of donts, with riders in flowing white robes, their faces hidden behind turban windings. Only their eyes shining. Those hard, Redlander eyes watching him.

Rifles raised.

And he running toward them, for he cannot turn, cannot run back, or his pursuers will be upon him.

How did the others get in front of him, cut him off from the River?

And then he looks up, checks the sun in the sky. And knows.

He has become confused, somewhere in the dust behind. He has ever so slowly made an erroneous turn. And not only him, but the men he leads. The two hundred. The survivors. The final muster after the devastation at Garangipore.

They were to escape and begin the guerilla harassment.

They were to be the unvanquished.

And now a simple mistake.

So easy to do in his exhaustion.

So costly. So entirely his own fault.

He has slowly turned, somehow gotten off course. Has allowed his terror and tiredness to join the chase. He has allowed himself and his command to run right into the enemy’s advancing, encircling front lines.

The Blaskoye rifles crackle.

We were to be the unvanquished.

The Redlanders reload. He raises his own weapon, but of course he is long out of caps and powder. Only bayonets remain, and the enemy will never allow him, allow any of his band, to get within range to use those.

The Blaskoye rifles crackle yet again.

And he is down, taken in the hip and shoulder. He has seen such wounds. He knows he will be a long time dying.

A long time to burn with the certain knowledge.

He is forever among not the unvanquished, but the vanquished.

Abel started in his saddle, almost sending his mount skittering. Joab, who was considering Abel’s previous statement, didn’t seem to notice.

“I believe it is a test,” Joab said, nodding to himself. “Yes. They wish to gauge our response so they will know what to expect the next time. And the next.”

Good head on his shoulders, that man, said Raj with an approving growl.

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