The Heretic

Now a roar from behind, which it took Abel a moment to realize was the sound of his own charging men. They swarmed around him. After a moment, he pushed his beast forward, toward the village. Back through the front of his lines again and-

Out of the swirling dust and smoke.

The remainder of the Blaskoye were caught in the pincer of the Regulars and the Militia. They rode about in confusion, terror, rage.

And entirely in vain.

Another reload and he was ready, but then the shouting, manic voice of Joab screamed an order. The order taken up by his officers, passed along.

“Cease fire!”

Abel realized that Joab’s men had been about to shoot directly into his, Abel’s, advancing line.

“Bayonets!” he heard his father shout. “Forward!”

The Regulars, drilled daily on such orders, obeyed without hesitation, moving at an inexorable slow trot.

His own men were still running pell-mell. But it didn’t matter now. The Blaskoye were caught, surrounded. Hornburg and his dont riders struck, along with Joab’s cavalry. Then the foot soldiers closed in.

It was bloody. It was hard fought.

And within half an hour, it was over. All the Blaskoye were either dead or unhorsed and captured.

At least so Abel thought. For suddenly, just as the last of the mopping up had seemed to be accomplished, there came a cry from the village, and the renewed bellow and scream of donts.

He tried to locate the source.

The low cry of a bone horn. Two. Three. The Blaskoye instrument of war.

They want us to look, find them, to see.

And he whirled toward the village-

And did see.

Blaskoye on dontback, perhaps thirty or so, riding out, riding directly toward them, toward the assembled forces of Treville.

And no Blaskoye with a drawn musket.

Only with a gleaming knife, each taken from some scrapyard of the Redland sandpits and worked to sharpness. Each knife held at a neck.

The neck of a child.

On they rode, closer.

Is that-? Can they really be-?

Aye, it is, Raj growled. Aye, it is.

They were using the children as shields. Carbines whirled, hard eyes aimed.

And then the guns lowered. The riders came on.

They slowed but slightly. Enough to allow the lines to part.

They parted not far from Abel, and he saw the Blaskoye riders.

These were not run-of-the-mill warriors. Anyone could see it who had eyes. First, they did not wear mere white robes, but linen tunics, red sash belts, and legwraps, all very similar to the uniform of the Scouts. They wore turbans of iron red, so there was no mistaking them for Scouts, however.

Most of all, their faces were swirled with tattoos. Angry welts that looked more burned into place with firebrands than inked with charcoal-coated thorns.

The one who rode in the lead was not the largest, but there was something about him that seemed to bristle more than the others. Perhaps it was the fact that he held an actual silver knife.

No, not silver, said Center. It is steel and chrome. The surface is an electroplated coating of chromium. Very curious.

Whatever it was made of, it gleamed against the throat of a little girl, dark-haired, who looked about terrified. A bead of blood like gemstones had formed where the knife had already sliced into skin.

“You!” shouted Abel. “You, silver knife!”

At this, the Blaskoye turned and looked about furiously.

Abel pointed the dragon pistol at him. It was reloaded. Somehow he’d done it in the turmoil. It was cocked and ready to fire.

The Blaskoye met Abel’s gaze. He did not flinch, but returned it as hard and as void of mercy as it had been delivered.

Then he smiled, and with a kick, urged his dont on. Through the lines they went and up the hill.

The women, Abel thought. They won’t see in time. Won’t know.

He turned and galloped after the Blaskoye. But it was too late.

A crackle of fire. Two, three Blaskoye fell. As did their hostages.

And then a cry of anguish, of horror, as the Blaskoye drew near and the women saw what they had done.

That was when, at an order from the one with the sliver knife, the Blaskoye drew their carbines and, keeping their children in hand, raised the guns and fired into the crowd of mothers, sisters, and wives, armed, but unable to shoot, held back by a compassion that proved their own undoing.

The Blaskoye rode through the hole they had blasted in the line of the woman auxiliaries. And then they were up the hill and away.

The Scouts are out there, Abel thought. They’ll get them.

I wouldn’t be so certain, Raj said. A gang like that will have considered that possibility. They may have an alternate route.

Indeed, said Center. The Scouts cannot be everywhere, and this one, the leader, is one who can guess where they have stationed themselves and avoid it.

He’s the leader? Silver knife?

Chrome.Yes. Psychometric observation of his subordinates’ comportment confirms to a high certainty this status.

I want to kill him.

Of course you do, lad , said Raj.

I will kill him.

To this, Raj did not answer.

Then Abel rode up the hill to the women and saw what the Blaskoye had wrought. A dozen lay wounded, dead, or dying.

Among these was Mahaut. Her right leg and a portion of her belly had been laid open by a minie ball. She was still alive, but Abel did not think she could survive such a wound. He dismounted, knelt beside her.

Was there a watersack canteen nearby? Yes. He pulled one from a dead body, brought it to Mahaut.

“I live,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered. “Drink.”

He drizzled water over her lips, and she licked them.

“The girl,” she said.

“Yes,” said Abel.

“He had her.”

“Yes,” said Abel.

He dripped another bead of water onto Mahaut’s lips, and she coughed blood. He took off his scarf and wiped the blood away from her lips so she could draw in a ragged breath. There was nothing he could do about the groin, the gut.

“My niece,” she said. “A Jacobson. But still. Mine. Loreilei.”

“Oh,” he said.

“My husband?”

“I don’t know,” Abel said.