The Heretic-eARC Page 7

  Abel is fumbling in his cartridge box for a cap when the Redlander leader arrives and, with the butt of a musket, strikes Abel to the ground.

  * * *

  Abel awakens with a pounding headache. It is night. Two moons have risen, while Churchill, the largest of the Land’s three moons, is on the horizon.

  He moves to put a hand to rub his aching forehead.

  He cannot move.

  It is then he notices that he cannot even see his hand.

  The moons are bright enough, he reasons. He ought to be able.

  Beside him, he does see a human head, its blank eyes staring at him.

  With a start, he realizes it is Himmel.

  Just a head.

  Then Himmel’s eyes open. He takes one look at Abel, and the disembodied head begins to laugh. It is a dry laugh that soon turns to coughing, then choking, then gasping for air.

  “Himmel,” Abel says, “what happened? What are you?”

  Again Himmel rolls his eyes toward Abel. “And what are you, boy, what are you?”

  He spits in Abel’s eyes. Why? How?

  Abel attempts to wipe the saliva away, and realization dawns.

  Sand around him. Sand above his chin, to his lower lip.

  He’s buried, with only his head above ground.

  He struggles.

  His arms will not move.

  “They’ve bound and weighted us,” Himmel coughs out. “No use.”

  And then on the other side of Abel, a plaintive wail. Abel just has the ability to turn his head to see. Facing in the opposite direction, looking toward a back that Abel can never turn toward again, it’s Kruso.

  “Alaha Zentrum, nish thet me over!” cries Kruso.

  Oh great God, not over me!

  What was Kruso seeing? What was going to happen?

  “Nish thet me over.” Kruso’s voice had become a whimper now.

  There was no way to turn his head. There was only waiting.

  On the horizon in front of Abel, Churchill rose fully above the horizon.

  And then something came down from above and blocked the view. Blocked the moon. Blocked the stars.

  From the smell of it, Abel knew immediately. One of the transport urns. An earthenware pot that had lately contained liquor, now emptied. Someone had, perhaps, been celebrating a victory and drained the wine.

  True night descended forever.

  * * *

  Ninety-four percent probability, given known Redlander torture methodology, with a nine percent chance that arrows will be set through hands and feet in lieu of binding with weighted rocks, Center intoned. More unfortunate—

  More unfortunate! How?

  More unfortunate is the cascade of consequences. Your father will blame himself. There is a significant chance he will take his own life. In any case, Treville governance degrades inexorably. The Scouts will only desultorily be rebuilt, and a moment for Redlander containment will be lost. Zentrum will accommodate and incorporate the invasion, as he has before, and the chance to break Stasis will be lost for several more generations. In fact, there is a probability function trending toward one hundred percent that, should he decide against self-slaughter, your father will be killed in a manner similar to you as the victorious Redlander forces make an example of regional military leaders.

  Okay, okay, I’ll obey orders, damn it, Abel thought. I guess that’s what you’re trying to tell me.

  Wrong lesson, lad. How about you merely avoid doing anything incredibly stupid that’s liable to get you killed in horrible ways, Raj replied.

  Okay.

  He could hear the Blaskoye donts that were hitched to the wagons groan as they strained to pull the heavy-laden vehicles forward into the sandy defile.

  What you need to do is get to those carts, said Raj.

  So—you want me to obey orders or do what you say?

  Yes.

  A cloud of dust from the north, and the Redlander caravan came into sight and into range. Himmel fired the first shot from his long rifle. Abel saw no effect, and counted three heartbeats before the Blaskoye vanguard began to scramble. It seemed the ball had hit something, if not someone. Then Kruso fired. A man fell into the dust as if his legs had been cut out from under him.

  Himmel must have quickly set aside his rifle and rearmed with his riding gun, a carbine, its shorter barrel intended for shooting from dontback and for close work. Crack!

  With that, the Redlanders charged to the east. Evidently, whoever it was Kruso had dropped was important, and they shouted with rage.

  Abel glanced over his shoulder. Sharplett had led the Scouts up from the bushes on the narrow piss trails, and they stood only a few strides deep in the underbrush behind Abel. They still did not have the view of the action that Abel did—which was the point, of course, for that also meant they could not be seen by the Redlanders.

  Abel raised a hand.

  The five Scouts behind him shifted in their saddles, and a dont pawed the ground.

  Kruso and Himmel came into view through gaps in the Redlander grouping. They both charged toward the Redlanders. Himmel carried his bayonet-tipped rifle. He had probably not reloaded, but the Blaskoye had no way of knowing this. Kruso was armed with his bow and let fly arrow after arrow. Abel had never imagined the gnomish man could be so graceful. He simultaneously sprinted forward, fired, reached for an arrow, notched it, and fired again.

  Several of the Redlanders returned fire with muskets as they ran, but no bullet hit either Himmel or Kruso.

  Then, when the Blaskoye were within only a few paces, Himmel stopped short, took aim, and calmly dropped the Redlander’s point man.

  I guess he did reload, Abel thought. It had been with amazing speed.

  At the same moment, Kruso put an arrow into a man’s chest.

  Abel dropped his hand.

  Across the rise, the two Scout sharpshooters turned on their heels and ran as fast as they could back in the direction from which they’d come.

  As if on cue, the enraged Redlanders followed.

  The remainder of the Scout squad flowed over the hill crest, thundering past Abel, and charged into the rear of the Redlander soldiers full tilt with bayonets fixed.

  It was not a fair fight, which was a good thing, for the Scouts were outnumbered threefold.

  At a shout from Sharplett, the dontback Scouts raised their weapons and, at the same time, urged their donts into a full bipedal sprint. Each Scout aimed over his dont’s shoulder. The Scout carbines crackled to life, spewing minié slugs or buck and ball shot—in either case, death and destruction.

  But there were ten more Blaskoye, plus the drovers and passengers of the wagon retinue. It was going to be a long, hard fight.

  As if to underline this fact, one of the Scout’s necks exploded with blood. He clutched at it as he fell from his mount and into the dust. At least one of the Redlanders had found the presence of mind to turn and shoot.

  The wounded man looked to be Dornberger, a Scout who was not that much older than Abel.

  Don’t think of rushing out there to drag him off, lad. You’ll just get yourself killed.

  Besides, he is already dead, Center intoned.

  Time to get into the brush and mount up.

  Abel went back into the thicket to find his dont, a creature he’d named Corie. His personal riding dont, Mot, was safely in a stable back at home. Mot was far too old and too much of a Valley-bred creature to be used for Scout work. Corie was patiently waiting, chewing on a needleplant.

  Check your carbine, lad, and have caps and cartridge limbered, said Raj. The blunderbuss dragon from your father, as well. Put it in your belt.

  Joab had insisted he carry a flintlock sidearm in addition to his military-issue rifle when he went on patrol and had given Abel his own old dragon, which had been in the family for generations. The dragon had seemed an encumbrance at times. It was singular among the Scouts, and it caused him to stand out as different among them—something he strove not to do—but now
Abel was glad of having it. He checked that the dragon was at half-cock and the flashpan frizzle had not come loose and spilled his power. It had not. Then he stowed the pistol in his belt and took up his rifle, a shorter, carbine model of more modern vintage, and ran a finger down and felt the edge of the percussive cap where it covered the fire nipple leading to the barrel. Should I cock my rifle now? he asked.

  What, and tear the head off poor Corie with a misfire? answer Raj with a chuckle. Wait till you reach the wagons, then give it the flick.

  Abel spurred his dont and raced up and out of the brush. Then he turned the beast to the south to circle around the melee in front of him and get to the wagons if he could. He pushed his dont to her ultimate speed, and with only Abel’s light weight to support, she was soon up on her back feet and racing.

  The wagons loomed ahead. Abel fumbled for a moment, then managed to cock his rifle.

  He felt his finger snaking toward the trigger and consciously pulled it away. He’d been lectured time and again on the need to keep one’s finger out of the trigger guard until it was time to fire, but in the heat of the moment, he found it extraordinarily hard to do so.

  There were three carts with half a dozen occupants or attendants nearby. Two wore the billowy, multicolored patchwork pants and shirts of Redlander men. The others had the flowing white robes worn by the Blaskoye women. He’d heard tell that Blaskoye women were not only allowed to serve as muleskinners and drovers, but were actually the clan’s traders and merchants as well. Abel found this hard to believe, but Kruso and Sharplett had assured him it was so. In the Land, a female merchant would have been inconceivable.

  Just another way the Redlanders behave as complete heathens, Abel thought.

  Don’t be so sure, and don’t underestimate the does, lad. Might be your last thought.

  I think I can take a woman, at least.

  You must concentrate on the animals first, boy, said Raj sternly. At least one on each cart must be put out of commission to bring the wagons to a halt.

  The motley-clad driver of the first of the carts was armed, and he pointed a gun at Abel and fired. A flintlock. Even running at full tilt, Abel saw the flashpan ignite and the smoke rising. A whistling sound nearby.

  Was that a bullet?

  Aye, lad. Be glad about the ones you hear. It’s the ones you don’t hear that are the problem.

  He grew closer, closer—the driver with the rifle was attempting to reload by pouring powder out of a horn down the muzzle. Abel smiled and aimed the carbine at him.

  The move must have registered, for the driver suddenly gave up what he was doing and leapt behind the cart in blind panic.

  Abel adjusted his aim for one of the daks in the middle of the team.

  He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  Damn it, bad cap or—

  Look down, lad.

  Abel did as instructed. His Scout tunic had wafted up and gotten between the hammer and the cap. He quickly cocked again, pulled the fabric free, took aim.

  Bang! The rifle’s report was startlingly loud, even though he was rushing forward full tilt on the dak. And this time, the ball had its affect. The dak he’d been aiming at let out a roar. It rose into the air, pawing at the sky in agony and spurting its milky blood over the other herbidaks, terrifying them.

  He grew so fascinated watching the effect that he nearly forgot to turn his mount to avoid a head-on collision. As it was, he reined just in time and headed for the wagon that was next in line.

  He drew his pistol and didn’t waste time trying for a middle animal, but shot the lead dak of the pack team straight in the head at point-blank range. Dak blood and brains spattered across his chest, and a bone fragment popped him smartly in the cheek. Abel rode on.

  To the next wagon and—

  He was riding into the muzzle of a musket pointed directly at him.

  A swirl of flowing white robes, a headscarf. It was a woman, a young woman with crystal blue eyes. A fierce, beautiful face. Her mouth curled to a snarl.

  But the musket had his attention now. There was no way he could turn his dont in time. The Redlander woman would shoot him in the chest. He reared back to throw his pistol at her, sure the move wouldn’t work, but unable to think of anything else to do—

  An arrow took the woman through the neck.

  Startled, she dropped the gun, reached for the shaft protruding from either side, and let out a piercing scream. It did not sound like pain. It sounded like anger to Abel.

  He charged past and swung his mount around as quickly as he could. More arrows were flying into the remaining occupants of the cart. Kruso emerged from the western thicket and was firing his bow in a steady rhythm. His rate of fire was like nothing Abel had ever seen before.

  Abel pulled his mount to a stop and leapt to the desert floor. Corie stopped expertly without shying.

  “Good girl,” he muttered, then reached for his rifle in its saddle scabbard. The rifle was nowhere to be found. He’d dropped it after firing and hadn’t realized it.

  In his belt was the blunderbuss dragon, however. Would it take a minié ball? He supposed he’d find out. He reached into the cartridge box at his waist and dug out a cartridge, which consisted of a ball and powder charge wrapped in a thin layer of knife-peeled papyrus. He bit off the end to expose the powder.

  Okay, okay, thumb up the frizzle, shake gunpowder into the pan. Not too much, not too much. Close it up. Half cock the hammer.

  He flipped the pistol over. It had a bell-shaped muzzle. This was not to spread the charge upon firing. Instead, it had been given this shape in order to funnel the powder down the barrel more effectively. He poured the powder in and followed it with paper and ball. The lead seemed to be a close enough caliber, and maybe the paper would serve as a makeshift patch to form enough of a seal.

  Or maybe not, and he’d have an exploding pipe bomb in his hand.

  No time to worry about it.

  Abel yanked out the small ramrod from the pistol’s underside and stuffed it down the barrel once to set and once again to pack.

  The wagon was blocked by the others ahead, and the packtrain had stopped moving, but the lead animal was attempting to find a way to get around the jam. Several arrows quilled its hide, but they didn’t seem to faze it. Daks were smart, and their toughness must never be underestimated.

  He cocked the hammer on the pistol all the way back and strode quickly past the other animals. When he got to the lead, he took careful aim and pulled the trigger. A flash in the pan, and a crack as the pistol went off.

  The dak screamed and fell. The pistol had worked.

  He walked back toward the wagon.

  There on the ground before him lay the Redlander girl. The arrow was still through her throat. Blood covered her robes, and she was gasping for breath. She had located her dropped musket and held it up, its muzzle pointed toward the sky.

  Their eyes met.

  Such blue eyes she had.

  He reached for the musket, and, instead of yanking it away or pointing it at Abel, the woman handed it to him.

  She tried to say something, but only a moist gurgle escaped her throat. It didn’t matter. Abel looked into her pleading eyes and understood what she wanted.

  He pointed the musket at her head, turned his face way, and fired.

  The world blurred. Abel blinked. He had not thought he would cry.

  “Thas weakness wastes time,” Kruso said as he stepped up beside Abel and took the musket from his hands. “Wagons to burn have weh.”

  “Yes,” said Abel, rubbing a forearm across this face to clear his tears. “You’re right.”

  They climbed into the bed of the last wagon, and Kruso used his bayonet knife to cut a line that held down a tarp. By this time, Himmel had arrived, and the three of them pulled back the tarp together.

  Barrels. Hooped barrels with Landish markings. There was no mistaking what they were. Abel and the other Scouts had seen enough of them before from the Land’s princi
ple powder plant in Cascade.

  Gunpowder. Kegs and kegs of it.

  Excellent, said Center. The variable necessary for further calculation.

  “Neh good,” said Kruso, shaking his head. “At all, neh good.”

  “Let’s check the others,” Abel said.

  He and Kruso ran to the other wagon and found that it too was laden with similar cargo. The lead cart had no barrels, however. In its bed were earthen urns that, when struck open with a rifle butt, were revealed to be full of barley grain. There was also a row of jugs the size of butter churns. Himmel was about to break one open when Abel motioned for him to hold up.

  “Lamp oil and wine,” he said. “Let’s soak the tarps in the oil.”

  A gunshot nearby. Then another.

  “I thought you took all the wagon riders out with arrows,” Abel said.

  “Might somebody tham missed.”

  They skirted around the middle wagon and found Himmel near a Redlander male. The Blaskoye was gut-shot and attempting to crawl away. He trailed a steadily increasing length of gut behind him that was winding out from his body. Himmel stood on the trailing end of the man’s intestine, holding it in place. As he watched the other crawl, a horrible smile played over Himmel’s face.

  “Bastard took a shot at me,” he muttered.

  Kruso did not waste time speaking to Himmel, but jogged up to the Redlander. He quickly took the man’s head in his gnomelike hands, then, with a jerk, twisted and broke the Redlander’s neck. The man collapsed, kicked twice, and was dead.

  Kruso strode back to Himmel, looked him straight in the eyes for a moment. The smile left Himmel’s face. “Nonsense is such,” Kruso said with a shake of his head, and turned away.

  “Can we burn the wagons now?” Abel said.

  They quickly went and did just that, dividing the wagons among them, with Abel taking the middle.

  Himmel reloaded and fired a gun point-blank into the rear tarp, expecting the muzzle flash to catch fire to the lamp vapors that filled the air.

  Nothing.

  They tried again with Abel’s dragon. No fire.

  Abel reached into his tunic pocket and retrieved his wooden box of matches. He thumbed it open and pulled out a lucifer.

  Himmel backed away. He, like Abel, was not an initiate of Irisobrian. Unlike Abel, he was a Stasis literalist. “Nishterlaub,” Himmel said. “Neh good.”