November 14th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

Konni didn’t react. She stared at her dead son and said nothing. No tears fell. No sound escaped her. For some reason, that disturbed Mak. He would have preferred to see her usual reaction. The apathy chilled him. Konni was gone. A creature had taken her place. A creature of pure anger with a thirst for revenge.

She pushed past Mak, ignoring his protest. She swiped one of the leaning rifles, checked the pan and nodded in satisfaction when she saw it was ready to fire.

Mak followed her with his eyes as she moved up the path. His heart froze in his chest. There, at the ominous portion of shadowed road, marched Guvson’s army. A few men were visible. They marched in perfect synchronization, blue coats on their backs, and winged helms atop their heads. More would come, soon.

Konni continued forward. She did not stop until she reached the first wall, the one closest to the road. She planted her boots firmly in the dry dirt and aimed her musket. Two others leaned against the wall beside her, loaded.

She shot. Smoked surrounded her for a moment. She did not even check to see if she hit her target before exchanging guns. She aimed and fired again. The second shot caught a soldier in the chest, but the army continued forward. Only one man stopped. He knelt beside the marching column, reloading a gun. He must have been the one who shot Net. Mak made a fist.

Many of the soldiers were lined up. They fired back at Konni. Bullets whizzed past her, but she did not flinch. One even pushed through a small lock of hair that had been missed when she’d tied her bun that morning. She did not flinch.

Her third shot hit its target as another soldier dropped, but the army was as unflinching as she was. She reloaded the three guns, never looking up at her enemies. Bullets continued whizzing by. It was easier to shoot at a mass of men than one small woman, but still Mak thought her luck must’ve been divine.

“Get to cover, Kon!” Mak shouted.

She ignored him. He realized what was happening. She did not intend to live. Mak’s heart rushed. He wanted to protect her, but she was being foolish. She was gone. If he tried anything to save her, he’d be dead, and Sherik would be left to fight alone. The bullet that killed Net took two loved ones from Mak. He turned to Sherik.

“This is it.” Mak said. “This is what it’s all been leading toward.”

Sherik’s eyes shifted from Net’s still body to his mother’s. Too much for his mind to process.

“Don’t make what she’s doing be in vain,” Mak said in a raised voice. “Go to the plough.”

“But…I thought…” Sherik stammered “Butterhoof.”

“Get to the plough, start it, and push it down,” Mak ducked beneath a barrage of bullets. A few whipped into the wooden walls, sending splinters spiraling through the air. “Then go to Butterhoof. The attack won’t be as smooth or precise as we’d like it to be, but it could still work.”

“What about you, Pa?”

“I’ll be fine if you hurry!” Mak lost his patience.

Sherik ran off.

Mak rushed and dropped behind cover where Lady Marlay leaned against one of the makeshift walls with a satchel of loading cartridges at her side. He aimed his trusty musket beyond Konni. How had she still been standing? She’d killed a few men but had been hit. Blood leaked down her arm from beneath the rolled-up sleeves. She continued firing, seemingly unbothered by the pain.

She fired her last shot. It missed. She dropped the gun and outstretched her arms like wings. She looked to the sky. “Do it!” She shouted. “Hit me!”

Tears welled in Mak’s eyes. Memories of their first meeting, first kiss, the births of their children, and everything else they’d gone through together flooded his mind. I’m so sorry, Kon. It could’ve been avoided. Every bit of destruction, every night of fear, and every death.

A line of six soldiers knelt and aimed, while others reloaded. They shouted a command and fired. Konni’s body jerked and fell to the ground. She turned over onto her stomach, still alive and crawled. Her fingers dug into grass and dirt and she pulled herself back toward the house, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. She climbed over the short walls, grunting as she fell over. The soldiers ceased their fire, and Mak watched his struggling wife through blurry eyes.

She reached Net’s corpse and smiled. She settled her body over the boy’s like a mother hen, and died, protecting him even in death.

Mak gritted his teeth. He couldn’t dwell. He still had Sherik to fight for. He assessed the enemy force for the first time. His heart sank. About twenty-five men in total, not counting the half-dozen Konni had killed. Where the last battle fielded an army half made up of mere workmen, this force was comprised of colony soldiers only.

Nine centaurs stood in a wide-spaced line at the head of the army. Each wielded a warhammer. Where was the other? Jerri had read that there’d be ten. A heap of fur and bloodied flesh caught his eye. You got one, Kon.

A carriage fixed with what looked like a massive, unmanned gun rolled near the back of the company. It expelled red steam as it came to a halt. At the tail end of the company rode a man on a colour-clad horse. Mak smiled grimly. Guvson sat in his frivolous saddle with his chin raised high and head tilted slightly to the right. He overlooked the soldiers as if he had command over them. A slender sword hung at his hip, but he had no gun.

The nine remaining centaurs charged toward the makeshift wall. Their hooves made the earth rumble. Mak’s shoulders dropped. There was nothing he could do against such beasts. His wall would never hold.

The slaves stopped just before the wall. They ripped nailed planks from poles with awful strength, as easy as plucking a feather. Movement in the corner of Mak’s eyes pulled his attention to the hill. Sherik had arrived at the steam plough, returning a bit of the hope Mak had lost.

He shouted and fired at the centaurs. He missed with his first shot but grazed one’s arm with the second. He reloaded. He aimed Lady Marlay but hesitated. Even though the creatures had demolished the first of five walls, they did not advance. Instead, their line parted to make way for the men to advance.

Mak turned his sights to the army. He caught two men in the head and was about to hit a third when he saw an unarmed soldier run through space between the centaurs. He hopped the second wall, then the third. He held what looked like a small canteen. Mak cocked a brow. The soldier stopped.

He pulled a pin from the strange item and launched it. It bounced and settled beside Mak. He wondered if it was the same item that had caused the flames in the hay during the battle at the Westen Freight camp, but that blaze had been preceded by broken glass, this item only thudded on the ground and did not shatter.

A thin stream of red steam whistled from the small hole where the pin had been. The whistling rose in pitch and intensity. Mak’s eye’s shot wide open. He spun around the wall for cover. He’d seen enough malfunctioning steam engines to predict what might come next.

A deafening pop sent hundreds of bullets in every direction, shattering what remained of the shutters on Mak’s windows, and a sound like gravel whipped against the wall, much like the blunderbuss. A light mist rained down on him, red as the steam. Mak looked up at it with barely opened eyes, not believing what transpired. What kind of stenchful northern weapons do they have?

The army cheered at the explosion. They must have thought him dead. He spun around, musket in hand, ready to fire, and shot blindly. His bullet caught the man who threw the bomb in the chest, killing him. Mak cursed. He would have preferred to hit an armed enemy, but it would do. He exchanged Lady Marlay for one of the loaded muskets leaning against the walls.

The first wall was completely demolished, and some of the men pushed past it. Mak dropped at the sight of a line of soldiers aiming. Bullets flew over him and struck the house. They were a much better trained unit than the men he’d fought two weeks before. They did not waste bullets. They bareley fired. They knew the walls would be enough to render their shots useless, so they focused more on advancing and only shot to keep him pinned down.

A chugging engine sounded atop the hill. The steam carriage barreled toward them. It rattled and clanked as it tumbled downward, nearly toppling a few times. Guvson shouted an order while pointing at the oncoming vehicle, but the army’s attention was already upon it. A soldier rushed up their carriage and manned the massive gun. He turned a crank repeatedly, and the gun slowly positioned itself with its aim fixed on the rampaging steam plough.

The soldier manning the gun counted to three aloud and dropped a fizzore rock into a small tank beneath the gun. A stream of bullets sprayed from the barrel along with a cloud of red steam, firing farther and more precisely than a musket. Steam and grey smoke engulfed the soldier, gun, and carriage.

The plough took damage but did not lose speed. Its doors were dented and riddled with holes, the tin roof disconnected from the frame and flapped in the wind, holding on by a thread, and the new iron wheels were already warped, not by the bullets, but by the rough descent.

Dark, heavy red smoke puffed from the engine as it finally lost speed at the bottom of the hill. It rolled toward two gunmen, but they avoided it with ease. It came to a halt just behind the front line of men. The army laughed.

Mak cursed. Some tragedies might be for the better. He thought of Net being in there had he still been alive. They could’ve never predicted such a weapon. What would the men have done to him had he been there? Mak shivered just thinking about it. The boy rested now. There was no longer a reason to worry about him. They all rested, peaceful. Not Sherik. He had to fight for Sherik. He put the failure of the thundering carriage behind him and—

It exploded. The blast nearly threw him from his feet. The flash was blinding, and mist fell about the battlefield like red rain. Mak threw himself against the wall and covered his head with his hands. Debris fell with the mist. Large hunks of metal hit the ground near and far. Men screamed in pain and orders were shouted from multiple voices.

Mak peeked over the wall, wary of flying steel. Two centaurs fled from the scene. They galloped down the road for freedom. Guvson shouted orders for their pursuit, but no one listened. The army crouched in shock, still cautious from the explosion.

Mist and debris settled. The army—what was left of it—returned to their feet. What had once been a force of nearly thirty men had now dwindled to less than a dozen. Most remained injured on the ground. Some had lost or broken limbs, one bled a river from a gash in his neck, another man held a hand over a gushing eye socket, and the ones closest to the blast were immobilized by burns or dead.

Those who got to their feet weren’t completely free of wounds, but theirs were manageable. They gave no attention to Mak, who stayed crouched behind his wall. Those who could walk turned their focus to helping the wounded, despite Guvson’s orders. “Your job is not complete!” He shouted. “The man still lives. Do you want me to tell the governor how insubordinate the lot of you have been?”

They ignored him. He yanked his horse’s reins and paced along the front of the army. The horse limped back and forth as Guvson eyed Mak. The rest of the army worked at helping their injured comrades.

Charge me, you fool, Mak thought. You know you want to. Do it!

They locked eyes. Even without words, Mak could tell the young man was considering it. One of the soldiers shouted his name, and he hurried away to meet the call.

Mak released his held breath and loosened his grip on the musket. He glanced up the hill. Sherik was not in sight. Mak smiled. He thought his son would’ve stayed atop the hill to watch the steam plough’s descent. But he must’ve left the moment he pushed it down. He’d be coming on Butterhoof’s back soon.

Hooves thundered his way. Already? He turned to their direction. His bowels nearly turned to liquid. A force of strength and rage rampaged toward him. The centaur smashed through the walls that had taken so long to build with the ease of running through cobwebs.

Mak attempted to flee, but the creature was upon him before he could get to his feet. The centaur smashed through the wall Mak used for cover. One of the planks shot out and struck him in the chest. Aided by the weight and inertia of the beast, Mak was sent flying against the wall of his house. He grunted, and air evacuated his lungs.

He caught his breath. The centaur raised its warhammer intently, nothing but red rage in the beast’s eyes. The warhammer cut through the air and plummeted toward Mak. He rolled to the side, felt the wind of the blow, and a slight tremor in the earth upon impact.

Mak found his feet. A quick glance over the shoulder told him the rest of the army was content with letting the centaur do their work for them. This beast won’t need any help finishing me off anyway…

He turned back to the frenzied foe, raised his musket, and aimed. The centaur gripped the barrel with two strong hands and roared. Bits of froth blasted from its mouth, covering Mak in thick spittle.

Mak pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the beast’s upper arm. The centaur cried in pain and bent the steel barrel as if it were no more than a roll of dough. Mak relinquished the gun and ran for cover, but the beast was upon him before he could take three steps.

The centaur smashed into Mak with a broad chest hard as stone. Mak was sent again into the side of his house. His head struck the window frame before he fell to the ground. He opened his eyes. The world was a blur. His head ached, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Where’s Sherik? He forced his eyes to open wide, and his vision cleared when he saw the centaur rearing overhead.

Iron-shod hoofs were poised to strike down upon him. He reached for a nearby unloaded gun and thrust the bayonet into the bison-like abdomen. Another cry of pain. Mak pulled upward and side to side, trying to scramble the creature’s guts as best he could. The centaur’s hoofs slammed to the ground. The gun lodged in the large foe’s flesh and was pulled from Mak’s grip. The centaur reached for it with its furry human-like arms. The gun was just out of reach.

Mak crawled away like a pathetic insect. He sought any bit of shelter or cover from the much stronger opponent. Even if he somehow survived the fight, there were a handful of centaurs that remained, not to mention the trained military men.

Soldiers cheered from the road. The centaur managed to dislodge the gun. It held the weapon over its head victorious. Blood spilled from its wound. Its dark eyes fixed on Mak, who hadn’t been able to find a place to hide. It charged.

Its speed had been halved but its rage doubled. Seething eyes and foam-covered snout fixed on Mak as the beast snarled like a wolf. Mak had never seen a centaur make such a face. It laboured toward him with hate-filled eyes.

Mak got to his feet and dashed for the nearest gun. It took everything not to fall over as his concussed head filled with liquid. His balance gave out a few paces before the gun. The nearing hoofs rattled his bones. He scuttled through the grass and dirt. The centaur’s breaths wheezed only a few paces back. He reached for the gun as the centaur roared in the lust of imminent victory.

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Mak spun and aimed without checking if the gun was loaded. The centaur lifted its hammer. Mak pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The hammer whistled through the air. Mak rolled to the side, barely dodging the blow. The hammer caught and shattered the musket.

He continued back and dodged a few more hammer swings. The soldiers cheered for their beast. Mak reached the next leaning gun. He grabbed it, turned and dashed back toward the house. When he felt he’d gained enough space between him and his pursuer, he turned. He was wrong. The centaur was upon him. He crouched to dodge another swing of the hammer and dove to the side. He settled to one knee and aimed. The centaur growled in frustration. It hammered down another portion of Mak’s wall. It wasn’t enough to alleviate its thirst for destruction, so it turned its large head toward Mak and spat another spurt of froth.

Mak kept his aim steady. The creature’s head was in his sights. He acknowledged the possibility of the gun malfunctioning again and remembered every shot that had worked until that point. The odds of two shots failing in a row were small.

He waited with trembling patience. The centaur thundered toward him, hammer raised, showing no sign of fatigue. Mak waited. Where’s Sherik? The soldiers roared in anticipation. Mak’s arms shook, and he felt as though he might retch. He barely kept control over his nerves as the great beast charged.

He couldn’t hold it any longer even though he wanted to. The centaur was a few paces away from hammer range. Mak pulled the trigger. The gun blasted. The beast’s head jerked back as if hit by its own hammer. The bullet entered an eye, turning it to a pit of flesh and red mush.

Mak dove out of the way. The centaur was dead, but its body moved at an unstoppable speed. It crashed to the ground where Mak had been and slid for many yards, taking two layers of wall down with it.

A collective gasp hovered over the army at the road, and the men mumbled their disbelief, a disbelief he shared. Mak crawled to his house. Every bone in his body ached, and his lungs burned from exhaustion. Where’s Sherik?

He entered the house. It smelled of memories that seemed ancient. A touch of Konni’s cooking remained, along with Sherik’s old boots, Jerri’s books, and Net’s garden. Skylde’s songs played in his mind as clearly as if she were right there by his side, sawing on her broken fiddle. The smells and sounds had always lived in the back of his mind even if he’d never noticed. They’d remind him that those he cared for were there, alive, and that he needed to protect them. He’d failed.

There was no time for tears. He got to his feet and sat on his favourite redwood chair. Three muskets leaned beneath the window with a satchel of loading cartridges. He peaked out the window. A breeze rushed in to meet his sweaty brow. It felt nice but smelled of death.

The soldiers remobilized. He counted six centaurs, eight able-bodied soldiers and one Guvson. He refused to die before he could get his hands on the spoiled northern prick.

A deep breath sent a sharp pain through his chest. He winced and brought a hand up to inspect. He’d definitely broken a rib. The one beneath it was swollen, perhaps broken as well. He cursed. A slight dizziness persisted since knocking his head, and he sprained an ankle somewhere along the way.

The most concerning of his ailments was the difficulty of breathing. Each breath caused a stinging in his chest and did not seem to gather enough air for a satisfying breath. It felt as though he was buried alive.

What was left of the army pushed forward. They stepped over Konni and Net and ignored them as they approached Mak’s house. He hated the idea of their bodies being behind enemy lines. A man is not a man unless he bleeds for land or family. His pa’s words rang in his mind, almost mocking him. He made a fist and grabbed one of the leaning muskets.

“I’ve bled enough,” he said aloud. “I’ve bled for both, and for what? I’ve lost both!”

He pulled the chair to a more comfortable position where he could aim and kill the enemy soldiers one by one. Having a shot at Guvson was the only thing that kept him going. Sherik is long gone by now. Good. He’s smart. I’m not even angry at you for running. Run! Don’t ever come back. A thought burned through him like a red-hot iron rod. They’d have more of those bombs. If they managed to throw one through a window, he could do nothing about it. Not to mention the remaining centaurs.

He slowly got to his feet, wincing and groaning all the while, pushed the table to the door, hoping to barricade as much as possible. He brought everything that weighed more than a pound to the door. Dozens of crates from the unused corner, Konni’s biggest pots, a couple chairs, and a few boulders from the fireplace. He wanted to bring the beds, but they were too heavy for his injuries.

He returned to the redwood chair, sighed as he sat, and leaned back, his gun ready. Might as well be comfortable at the end of my life.

Men kicked at his door. The heavy thuds sent pangs of fear through him. He was ready to die, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t frightened. They kicked over and over but made no progress. He nearly smiled but it died on his lips. The centaurs would make quick work of his barricade.

He pushed the barrel of his gun out the window. No one looked his way. These are trained men? He forgave their seeming ineptitude. It must’ve been the most unorthodox battle any of them had ever experienced. A single man holed up in an inadequately fortified farmstead.

He shot one in the temple. Spattering blood meant nothing to Mak anymore. It had been the same transition he’d experienced as a child with the slaughtering of animals. As a young boy, he did not want to witness their deaths, but after careful explanations from his pa, and being exposed to many slaughters and cleanings, it no longer fazed him. The same had now occurred with human blood.

The man fell. Guvson rode forward, still behind his line of centaurs, making it nearly impossible to take a confident shot at him. “The window, you idiots!” He ordered the soldiers.

Most ignored him and continued to work on the door. They must’ve been through enough similar situations to know the best course of action. Two men followed his orders. One hugged the wall and inched toward the window, thinking Mak wasn’t aware. The other ran back toward the road. Fleeing?

Mak exchanged guns and kept it ready for the moment the soldier poked his head in the window. The others kicked the door and shouted curses in frustration. Then the kicking stopped. He waited in silence, praying to see a winged helm appear in the window. It never came. Instead, the flash of a hand was seen and followed by something solid thumping along the floor.

Steam whistled behind him as footsteps ran away from the house outside. He jerked his body and found an odd canteen, just like the last one. Red steam rushed from the pinhole, louder and louder.

He jumped from his chair, ignoring his screaming wounds and rushed for the item. He nearly fell over when he reached for it, but he maintained balance. It was hot to the touch, too hot. He hurried to the window, his skin cooked against it. He moaned in pain and lobbed it out the window toward the nearby group of eagerly waiting soldiers. The lot of them flinched as the bomb launched toward them.

The blast came only seconds after leaving his burnt hand. Dozens of bullets flew through his arm. The pain was so intense that he barely felt it, as if his mind could not comprehend such a feeling. He fell back onto his chair, wailing in pain. Another bullet must have grazed his neck, for blood flowed like a creek down his chest, taking little time to saturate his white shirt.

He looked out the window, and his vision weakened. Two men lay dead from the blast, and another held a hand over a wounded shoulder. The others were unharmed. The result satisfied him, and he leaned back in his chair. Heat flashed through him, followed by a shiver.

Mak pushed his burnt palm against the wound in his neck, causing both to sting, but he needed to stop the blood. Impossible. The hand did nothing, as blood pushed through cracks between fingers and ran along his arm before dripping to join the rest on the floor.

He looked outside again. It was all over, but his instincts to defend himself were still present. One of the centaurs must’ve been hit by the blast, for it lay dead before a pale-faced Guvson.

Five centaurs, five soldiers, one prick. Mak chuckled and coughed. I almost had it. I was doing so well. Sherik must think I’m dead. I’m glad he’s gone. I hope he’s safe wherever he is.

Mak’s eyes widened for a moment before nearly closing again. The largest centaur led the herd. A familiar pattern of beads hung from its horns. It was the only centaur who looked Mak’s way. Konni and Net’s corpses lay on his long bison-like back. Mak swallowed hard and waved at the beast. The centaur waved back, displaying the lizard brand on its palm.

The kicks resumed on his door. It won’t be long now. He took one last look around the house. It looked nothing like it once had. Furniture was strewn everywhere, most of it broken, dirty, or covered in blood. Guns and ammunition were stationed at each window, snuffing the feeling of home the place once had. And of course, the emptiness. He was alone. A loud kick shook him from his thoughts. Another kick came soon after. The door cracked.

“Make way!” Guvson shouted.

The kicking stopped, and footsteps moved away from the door. Mak looked outside. He could barely see through blurry eyes. The steam gun approached. The carriage rolled past the first wall, the second, and third, until it settled before the fourth.

A soldier pulled a lever to stop the carriage. He poured water from multiple canteens into the gun’s boiler, closed the lid, and aimed the gun quickly as the fizzore from the last firing was already in.

Mak cursed, more out of annoyance than fear, and toppled over for cover. His body blared in pain as he crashed to the floor. Bullets hissed through the air and ripped through wooden walls. The bullets drew a line through the center of the house, from wall to wall, at the height of his heart had he still been sitting.

The bullets stopped, and the kicking resumed soon after. The door split. The top half fell forward onto the table. Faint, late evening light wisped in. The soldiers had only to remove the makeshift fortifications.

One of them bent over and pushed the table. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as he pushed the weight of everything Mak had stacked there. Mak, with his one good hand, raised the musket, aimed, and fired. The bullet caught the man in the temple, sending his winged helm flying with a jet of blood. He died there on the table. Mak nearly laughed. It was too easy. They must not have thought much of him judging by the absolute carelessness they’d shown. He wondered if he hadn’t truly died that night when the four soldiers moved onto the house. The man had aimed the blunderbuss directly at him. He had only to pull the trigger. It was foolproof. Mak coughed. A sharp pain in his chest brought him back to reality.

He had no loaded gun left in reach. He dropped the musket and watched the blood drain from his neck. It flowed quickly down to meet the puddle near the window. He’d never realized the floor was warped there, and for a brief moment, he added it to his list of things to fix. He smiled.

A familiar sound snuck in through the window. A whinny. Thundering gallops followed. No… Mak climbed atop his chair. The soldiers abandoned his door and rushed for the road. The steam gunner spun his crank violently to face the new threat.

Sherik darted into view, a mighty warrior atop the back of his steed. You shouldn’t have come back. But he could not deny the warmth the sight gave his dying heart.

The steam gun faced the rider, and the gunner discarded one empty canteen after another. “I need water,” he called. The soldiers rushed to give theirs, but Sherik’s blunderbuss gleamed in the dying sun, red like blood and steam.

He aimed the blunderbuss and fired. A thick, dark cloud formed around them, but the unflinching Butterhoof stormed onward, nearly as fast as the volley of bullets from the fat-mouthed barrel. The gunner was sent flying as the bullets found refuge in his chest. He landed on the ground a few paces from the gun, motionless.

Sherik reloaded the blunderbuss, trusting Butterhoof enough to let go of her reins. They continued down the road, past the house until they were out of sight. He returned soon after, rushing in the opposite direction, like a jousting knight. The injured soldiers who remained on the road made themselves as small as they could, and some tried to crawl away. Two were trampled by an indifferent Butterhoof.

Sherik twisted his torso in the saddle and fired another volley into the remnants of Guvson’s army. Two men were killed, including the one with the wounded shoulder, and a centaur took a bullet in the knee. He reloaded and rode out of sight again.

“Form a line,” Guvson shrieked. His voice more boy than man. His colour-clad horse reared, and he struck it in the back of the head.

His two remaining soldiers stood side by side between Sherik and Guvson and aimed their muskets at the road, ready for the rider’s return.

“I said, form a line!” The complaint was directed to the five centaurs, but they seemed more interested in their comrade’s injured knee. They escorted the injured centaur away from Guvson, toward Mak’s house, and knelt together in surrender.

Mak nodded off. He shook his head, barely able to see. It’s still three men against my son. He got to his feet and nearly retched. Nothing but pain. He somehow managed to reload a gun and made his way to the door using walls for support.

He climbed over the fortifications and fell to the ground outside. He took deep breaths and nearly fell asleep again. Sherik… I’ve got to help him. He picked himself up. Weak knees trembled as he slowly rose to a stand. Once on his feet, he breathed again, still unable to intake a satisfying amount of air.

He aimed his gun at the back of a winged helm. An easy target despite his failing sight. His aim wavered as even the weight of the gun was too much for him now. He dropped it and cursed. His head rushed, and he fell to the ground, barely able to keep his eyes open.

He must’ve slept, for he opened his eyes to find Guvson standing over him. The northerner aimed a musket at Mak’s brow. No. Not him.

“You’ve cost me so much this last month,” Guvson said. “A lot of money I could have put toward the rail, but you just had to be stubborn.”

You don’t know what true cost is, he wanted to say it, but he couldn’t speak. Only air exited his throat.

Guvson raised the musket, his finger rested on the trigger. Mak closed his eyes. Good luck, Sherik.

Something dropped on the ground beside him. He opened his eyes. It was Guvson’s gun. Had Sherik gotten him somehow? He looked up just in time to eat a fist.

“I want to enjoy this,” Guvson said. “Get up.”

Mak didn’t move. The strike did nothing as his pain couldn’t get much worse.

Guvson kicked his ribs a couple times. He was wrong. The pain could get worse. Much worse. Mak shrieked and writhed in pain. He didn’t want to give the northerner the satisfaction, but it couldn’t be helped.

Guvson grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet. The young man’s strength surprised him. Mak nearly fell over, but Guvson caught him in a bearhug. Careful, you might soil your cream-coloured clothes. Mak smirked.

He grunted as Guvson pushed him against the wall of the house. Mak leaned and closed his eyes as Guvson rained blows into his face, ribs, and kidneys, mumbling some rage-fueled monologue that Mak could barely understand through the deafening pain.

The blows stopped, and Mak withered to the ground. He opened his eyes. Both were swollen, further limiting sight. The centaur who held Konni and Net on his back had Guvson in a hold.

“Let go of me,” Guvson shouted. “I own you, beast.”

The centaur ignored him.

Hooves thundered. Sherik rode past. He exchanged fire with the guards. Most bullets missed, but one of Sherik’s knocked a soldier’s helm from his head, and one of the soldier’s grazed Butterhoof’s shoulder. She cried in pain but trusted her rider and continued onward. Sherik rode out of sight and returned with impressive speed. He aimed, fired, and reloaded. One soldier lay dead. Blood fountained from his chest.

The last soldier fired and missed. Sherik, already reloaded, pulled Butterhoof to a halt and hopped off. He approached the soldier at a brisk pace, holding the gun forward with one hand. The soldier held his bayonet-fixed gun like a spear. The blunderbuss flashed and sprayed the final soldier full of lead, sending him to his final resting place a couple yards away.

Butterhoof walked onto the property and grazed immediately. A small line of blood ran down her leg, but she did not seem to mind.

Mak dozed off. He was in and out of sleep, only short momentary bursts of it. Sherik ran toward him, seeming to skip a few steps every time Mak slept. “Pa!”

Sherik glanced at the centaurs but understood their position of surrender. He dropped to his knees before his dying father. “We did it, Pa,” Sherik tried to force a smile, but his face was wet with tears. “We protected the land.”

Mak wanted to speak. He wanted to reach out and wipe the tears from his son’s eyes, but he had no strength.

Guvson spoke instead. “You know I shall return.” He spat a loud, obnoxious laugh, much like a child. “With far more men.” His colour-clad horse grazed with Butterhoof. “You will not have your father to help you next time.” The young man sneered. “It is a pity you have to watch him die tonight. Your mother, your brother, sisters. You should have left! I offered you so much! Idiot farmers. The jesters do not exaggerate, I see.”

Sherik said nothing. He stared at Guvson, his limbs trembled. Relax.

“I am coming back,” Guvson said. “I will have this land. I always get what I want. And I will kill you like the rest of them if you stay.”

The centaur tightened his grip on Guvson, cutting the words short. Sherik approached. Mak didn’t want him to leave. He wanted his son by his side as he died, and he did not know how much time he had left.

“Let him go,” Sherik said.

The centaur studied him and obeyed.

Guvson started for the road, but Sherik caught him with a strong right fist. The northerner cupped a hand over his broken nose and blood streamed down his chin. Guvson cocked a fist. Sherik avoided the strike and caught him with a quick left jab. It was enough to buckle the northerner’s knees. He fell.

Sherik straddled him and wrapped fingers, blackened from reloading countless times, around Guvson’s skinny neck.

Mak tried to call for Sherik to stop, but he couldn’t manage a voice.

Sherik pushed his weight onto Gusvon’s throat. Tears streamed from Sherik’s bloodshot eyes as Guvson’s bulged and his face turned red, then purple. A final breath breezed from his chest, and the northerner died. Sherik wept but did not release his grip. The centaur put a massive hand on his shoulder.

“What?” Sherik barked like a dog. The centaur flinched.

“Come,” the centaur said.

Sherik wept like he’d done as a boy. He allowed the centaur to help him to his feet and escort him to his father. Mak smiled as Sherik dropped to his knees beside him.

Mak applied pressure to his wound, and he was able to push out a feeble voice. “My pa’s words—”

“I know,” Sherik interrupted. “I’m willing to bleed for land and family.” He took a deep breath and sobbed. “I already have! What else do I have to do? What will be enough?”

“No, listen!” Mak tried to shout over Sherik’s voice but a fit of coughing took him. His son quieted. “Land is only land. It’s not worth the blood. Family is all that matters.” A sob caught his throat. He had enough things impeding his speech without the addition of weeping. “We could’ve left. We could’ve been safe on your grandpa’s land. All of us.”

Sherik’s face twisted as his weeping increased, making it hard for Mak to control his own.

“My stubbornness has left you alone, son.” Mak could barely speak, and he was nearly blind. “Don’t make the same mistake. Take what you can, what you need, and leave. Don’t be here when they come back. Guvson isn’t the owner. There are men higher than him in the company, that’s clear to me. No one who runs a business like that child could ever achieve the success of Westen Freight. This isn’t the end.”

“I’ll make sure those bastards never do this to anyone again,” Sherik said.

“No,” Mak clutched his son’s wrist. “Live your life. Don’t focus on revenge. It will gain you nothing.” Sherik’s eyes wandered, unconvinced. “Have a family,” Mak’s eyes filled with tears and he sobbed multiple times before regaining control. “Nothing will give you more meaning. Nothing will make you prouder.” His grip on Sherik’s wrist tightened.

“I love you, Pa,” Sherik’s voice was as weak as Mak’s.

“I love you, too,” Mak could only whisper now. “I love all of you so much. More than anything.” He wept silently for a moment and took control. “Forget land. It’s not worth the blood. A man is not a man unless he protects his family.”

Sherik leaned over him and they shared an embrace. It lasted the rest of Mak’s life, allowing him to die with a smile.