There was a moment of silence before Kaczmarek choked down a laugh, spluttering into her fist. I glanced back. His Highness just looked stricken, and no doubt had since the beginning, but Alemayehu spoke up.
“He is offering safe escape for the three of us, if given up the prince,” he translated. “My Torrean is not so good, but I think that is the essence.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “Could you ask him, as a fellow gentleman, to let us discuss it a minute?”
“Schreiner, surely you don’t mean to—”
“Of course not, your Highness,” I cut him off, internally flinching at the temerity of interrupting the prince. “But we need the time, and if he knew Hochsprache he would have used it already. Magus, if you would?”
I restlessly tapped my fingers against the reins looped over my thumbs while the Afamacian spoke in stilted Torrean. The pauses that punctuated his speech normally were more pronounced, I noticed, but to his credit he didn’t stutter.
When he finished, the fähnrich nodded decisively, uttering a short phrase.
“He will allow us a chance to speak among ourselves,” the magus translated. “But not long.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said again. I switched to a brisk tone, clear and precise. The type of voice a sterling officer was expected to have, to give orders that would not be questioned or misunderstood. “The valley is narrower than I expected. Jäger, look at the riverbed—would it permit the horses to go upstream? Ridden or led, it doesn’t matter.”
Kaczmarek turned her gaze from the Torreans to the terrain—for which I was grateful diplomatically as well as practically. Her stare looked like it could bore holes through wood. A moment later, she replied. “Mounted, no, but it should be alright afoot. Single file only.”
“So. Thank you,” I replied. “Then we act as follows: jäger, you will shoot the fähnrich, and I the man on his left, on the piebald. Munter and I will break their line; your Highness, ride hard on our heels. Magus, you must follow behind, and Kaczmarek, you will be the rearguard. They shall most likely have recovered by then. Have your sabre to hand. Once we have cleared their ranks I shall fall back to the rear with you.” I paused. Kaczmarek was nodding, His Highness looked pale, and the magus was as impassive as ever. “Do you have any questions?”
“Is that safe, Schreiner?” The prince asked.
I shrugged. “We’re discussing a plan in spitting distance of the enemy, sir. I’m afraid we lost safety somewhere in Nachberg. It’s as safe as anything we can do.”
He gulped, but nodded.
“Can you break the line?” Kaczmarek asked, giving the bay a sceptical glance. He pawed the ground as though in response.
“I think there was a mix-up in his foaling.” I patted his neck. “He got the spirit of a Jarenese charger by mistake. It’ll be fine.” I glanced around, and back at the Torreans. The officer was beginning to look impatient. “Then, sirs, jäger, if you’re ready? On my mark.”
“You will not give an answer?” Alemayehu suddenly asked, surprised.
“I might have said ‘fellow gentleman’, magus, but I’m just a man of the rank and file,” I said with what I hoped was a threatening smile. “I shoot the man in front of me. If he wanted fairness, sir, he should have stayed on Torrean soil. Are we ready?”
No further comments were forthcoming. I drew a deep breath and pressed my hat down, glancing up at the sky and mentally whispering a prayer to the Heavens. Fortune favours the bold, Friedrich, I told myself. The hot-cold clarity of the battlefield settled in like a choking blanket of the senses. The icy rain trickling down the nape of my neck and numbing my fingers, the hot sweat leaking below my shirt. The smell of wet earth, soon to be cut with the acrid guano-stench of black powder. The silence of the open plains in the rain, interrupted only by the noise of one of the dragoons rubbing his hands together to try to scrub some warmth into it.
The sight of the enemy in front of me, my allies at my sides. But such a quiet enemy, and so few allies. My heart felt like lead, but I set it aside, lowering my hand to my side. “Ready…” I murmured, “...go.”
At once, Kaczmarek and I dropped our hands to the dragonets hanging beside our saddles. The Torreans startled, the fähnrich shouting something and their hands going to their swords, but it was all too terribly slow. In a moment I had the cock jerked back to full and the butt of the stubby flintlock at my shoulder, and then the dragons’ roars swallowed up the silence of the steppe and its hot, stinking breath seared my face and blinded my sight.
I jammed the dragonet through the strap of my cartridge pouch and gripped the hilt of my scimitar, the deadly silver coming free of its scabbard as easily as it had so many times before. Blade in hand, I kicked at Munter’s flanks and screamed a warcry as we charged forward.
The veil of smoke cleared as we lunged forward, revealing the dragoons in as much disarray as I’d dared to hope. The fähnrich’s horse had reared, throwing him, and the man at his side was slumped in the saddle and sliding over. I dropped low over Munter’s neck. “Go, lad, Immer, go,” I hissed in his ear.
It was not far between us and the enemy—we had been in speaking distance, after all—but the gelding was undismayed by the small space, his spirit as great and unbridled as I’d claimed. More like a charging bison than a horse he slammed into the gap opened by the fallen men, heedless of danger—or his rider. I cursed as the fähnrich’s rearing mount’s forehooves pawed at the air just above and aside my head, leaning into the other side only to be forced to sway back by the horse on that side, now also baulking in panic. My knee cracked into its saddle but I clung on to my seat, rising enough to lash out at the rider with my elbow. Anything to open the gap a little wider, to give the prince a little more space.
Then the press of horseflesh and the heat of bodies was gone and we were clear, riding at full gallop down a gentle but fast steepening slope. The plains stretched out to the mountains ahead again, and if it were not for the smell of blood and fouling and powder and the screams from behind I could almost imagine the day at peace again.
I shook off the moment of stillness, glancing behind me. His Highness was there, as hard by as I could want. His cloak was in disarray and he’d somehow grazed his face, but he was clear and unhurt—at least in the main. Behind him the magus was emerging, clinging close to his horse and clutching the reins for dear life. The Torreans were scattering, moving forward to turn about to give chase, and it was widening the gap as they rode. In fact, as Kaczmarek came through with her cloak thrown back over both shoulders, her sabre in her hand, and murder in her eyes, she faced no resistance at all.
“To the river, your Highness!” I shouted over my shoulder, pulling Munter aside and reining him in slightly. The gelding wanted nothing more than to run free, but I tugged insistently and he reluctantly gave ground to the prince and the magus, letting the jäger draw alongside.
“Reload!” I shouted, pulling my own dragonet from where I’d shoved it and grabbing the powder horn with shaking hands.
“At the gallop?” Kaczmarek yelled back, between glances over her shoulder. “Are you mad?”
“Just do as you’re ordered, jäger!” Every moment was precious, with the dragoons circling around behind us. So long as they only have arquebuses they can’t fire on us unless they dismount to load and fire, I thought, But five against two is terrible odds at swords drawn. Even if one is a Mourner. “Doesn’t matter if it’s overcharged!” I added as an afterthought. “All I ask is lead in the air!”
“Immer! Fine!” She began sheathing her sabre, the tip wavering away from the mouth of the scabbard.
She may have a point, I reluctantly conceded. I had forgotten she wasn’t a trained rider. Matter at hand, Friedrich, I immediately chided myself, glancing down at my hands. Numb as they were I’d got the powder horn open, coarse pellets of powder spilling over the top of the measure as Munter’s back trembled and shook with each stride.
And I’m a fool myself, I realised as I looked at the still-closed hammer of the uncocked dragonet. Heedless of the rain, I jammed the barrel under my armpit and struggled with the lock with my left hand, somehow bringing it to half-cock and snapping open the hammer to pour a careless dash of powder—and raindrops—into the pan. Half of it spilled wild, and I had to pour more grains into the measure after I closed the hammer.
Finally I could prop the dragonet upright between my legs and dump the rest of the measure down the barrel, followed by fumbling with frozen fingers for a ball and patch. I finally forced them down the muzzle and rammed the charge without looking, finally glancing ahead and then back. I’d been trusting Munter to follow the horses ahead and he’d not led me wrong, but the dragoons behind had begun the chase in truth, swords drawn. I spat a curse, then looked to Kaczmarek again.
“Fire when ready, jäger,” I called. “Look back and aim if you can but if you can’t just pray and fire blind!”
Fifty metres or so to the river, and the broad stretch of scraggly trees and brush and exposed rocks in its ravine. I rose to my feet in the stirrups, turning to face backwards as much as I could and raising the dragonet again. The barrel was already cold again, I absently noted as I stabilised it with my left hand.
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The orange-jacketed Torrean dragoons made easy targets even in the grey light of the afternoon, but aiming like this was a bit of a farce. I’d said before that a dragonet was about as dangerous as harsh language past fifteen metres, and on top of that my target was men on horseback, while on horseback myself—and standing turned in the saddle no less. Disregarding specifics, I pointed the flintlock at the rider who looked to be the most in the lead, muttered a prayer, and pulled the trigger. The roar sounded out like before, but the spray of smoke was left behind in the wind of our passage.
I didn’t even wait for a glimpse through the smoke before turning back and dropping into the saddle. There was no chance of hitting, only causing a panic, and I dared not ride further without looking forward. Off to the side, Kaczmarek was cursing and fumbling with her rammer, reins wrapped round her wrists. Ahead, His Highness and the magus were slowing, the slope becoming more treacherous and our breakneck pace becoming less figurative. We’re not going to make it, I thought, biting my lip.
Crying out in triumph, Kaczmarek slammed her ramrod back into its tubes and twisted around with the dragonet held one-handed. She held the position unsteadily for a moment before firing, the impact jerking her arm and shoulder so she spat a curse as she turned back. “Still four left!” She shouted, jamming the flintlock into its cradle. “But we can take them!”
Four? I thought, baffled. Heavens above that was a shot for the ages, jäger. I eyed the distance to the ravine ahead, glanced over my shoulder, made a snap decision.
“On my call, split!” I called to Kaczmarek and the riders ahead of us. “Your Highness, left, with me! Magus, right, with the jäger!” I barely waited for a response, threading my hand through my scimitar’s loop and drawing it again. This time it would see use. “One! Two! Three! Split!”
I pulled hard left, Munter’s hooves cutting into the grassy turf as he banked as steeply as he dared. Ahead the prince and the magus peeled apart, His Highness following me and Alemayehu—I trusted—following Kaczmarek. I reined Munter in further, bringing him back about to the right and glancing back over my shoulder. The Torreans had been blasted close to us before we split, and as I’d hoped had overshot us before turning about as well. Despite the loss of the officer they had somehow done so in good order; two in each direction.
As I watched, one of the horses after Kaczmarek and the magus stumbled in the turn, ground softened by the rain and loosened by the first horses giving way beneath its hooves. The dragoon spilled from the saddle as his mount fell, one foot caught in the stirrup, and I pulled my gaze back to the two bearing down on me. The jäger could manage one. I hoped.
The Torreans had lightly curved sabres in the western continental style, with some ability for hacking chops but mainly thrusting blades. In a proper cavalry melee the curve of my scimitar should give me a decisive advantage, in my estimation, on account of its easier movement across the body and how much easier it was to connect a quick slash, but out here in an open skirmish I feared their ability to circle me like jackals. It took only a moment’s exposure while I faced the one for the other to rush in and skewer me.
If they split around me on the first pass it was as good as finished. Already they were raising their sabres to the tierce, blades levelled at the height of the eyes. Praying the ground would hold, I drew Munter harder on into the turn, coming near fully around the way we’d just come, and abruptly reined him in. Speed here would only favour the horseman riding with his blade out like a lance. Better to let them come. Ten metres away and closing.
There was always a deplorable moment in a battle where the enemy was so close it seemed you could all but smell their breath, but not so close you could do anything yet. The right rider is leaning away from me, further to his left, the thought popped into my head. The odd observations came unbidden, sometimes useful, sometimes banal. Like that the frogging on that same dragoon’s cap was dangling loose. The empty mind of readiness invited whatever was passing by in, I supposed.
Closer. Closer. They would pass on my right, only one able to bring his blade to bear. His arm was steady. I matched his guard, reining Munter in to just a walk and levelling my blade. The edge of my blade pointed outwards, ready to strike with just a twitch of my wrist and shoulder. I breathed in.
Then they were on me at a canter and the long wait turned into an instantaneous flurry, like the cock of an arquebus snapping forward to fire the powder. He brought his sabre down at the last moment to strike for my chest rather than my throat, but I slapped downward with my scimitar to knock it astray. As I reversed the motion, raising my blade just a little above my head to bring it down in a diagonal stroke that would strike off his head, he risked drawing back his elbow to thrust again. I lurched aside and instead of spitting my lungs he only slit my coat. My balance ruined, my blow flew wide of the mark, but now we were shoulder to shoulder and the thrusting sabre was useless while I had one last chance.
Spurring Munter to the right, I folded my arm—a risk; it exposed the elbow to an easy and crippling bow, but a rider couldn’t stab backwards—to complete the circle begun with my first blow, and slip my blade between the horses’ flanks back up to my side. Lifting the blade up to shoulder height once more I lashed out from the elbow all the way down to my hips, drawing the cutting edge of the blade through a long arc that ran from his shoulder right down the diagonal of his back.
Then the moment was past and we were clear of each other, wheeling like quarrelling vultures. I had the advantage of him, being already turning and at a slower pace while he was still at a straight run. He would be obliged to wheel right or else offer me his weaker side, and while he circled widely I could—
The other dragoon was gaining on His Highness, and everything went white for a moment. Heedless of my old plan, I kicked at Munter’s flanks, screaming in my mind for the lathered gelding to find a burst of speed to catch the dragoon up the hill. Somehow the big bay obliged, lurching his way from the near-halt up to a laboured run.
“Left, sir! Left!” I cried, praying the prince would hear and understand. A second later my prayers were answered as he began to wheel, turning to complete almost a full circle from where we’d started—bringing himself and his pursuer closer to me. Left flank to left flank. The dragoon raised his blade, levelled at me across his chest.
Sorry, Fechtmaster, the wry part of my mind that popped up at strange times thought, and I shifted my weight as I brought my scimitar across with my arm still bent, leaving my elbow wide open. In a moment we were passing. He struck, and I rose in the stirrups, tilting my blade as I lifted it. The blow skittered off it like a lost shoe on an icy road as my blade kept rising.
“Immerland!”, I bellowed, and hewed downwards with all my weight in a dreadfully final stroke. The dragoon fell, the cap with the loose frogging slipping off in two pieces. Awful, reckless swordwork, but effective. I wheeled back to my first opponent.
“Keep riding, sir!” I shouted as I went. Deeper into the valley was still the safest direction. I sucked in a deep breath—my side was aching; strange, that, I’d not had a stitch in years—and resettled my grip on my sword. One more push, Friedrich, I told myself, and raised the pace towards the other dragoon. It should have been long enough for blood loss to begin troubling him, I hoped. Enough that I should be able to end things here quickly in one exchange, and then ride to Kaczmarek’s rescue if need be. I hadn’t had so much as a moment to glance over my shoulder to see how she’d fared.
Once more I brought my blade up, and once more I clashed with the Torrean. This time, though, we were riding slowly enough that instead of rushing past each other we wheeled, like a mill where the stone was swords and the grist was any flesh too slow to escape. I turned right. He followed right. Our blades hovered level between us like the turning hands of a great clock.
I parried his first strike, lifting it out of line before cutting beneath his blade, aiming at his upper arm or shoulder, but my parry was rushed and he recovered in time to knock my blade aside himself. For a long moment we circled again, blades held level once more, neither willing to make the next move. If he committed to a thrust he risked a devastating blow to the arm before he could launch it, but if I made a blow at his head or torso without controlling his sabre first he could run me through even as he died.
I tapped his blade. He brought it back. He disengaged, threatening low. I followed his blade down, keeping him in check. A moment later I risked a feint high and he took it, over-committing into a parry that brought that deadly point out of line with my vitals. It was all the opening I needed to twist my wrist and pull from the shoulder, flicking the wicked curve at the end of my scimitar down across his shoulder. The second wound shook his composure, and I pressed the attack, striking high on the back swing—but as the blow landed his blade came down too, the thrusting sword used as a hacking tool in the throes of desperation, and only by throwing my left arm up could I avoid it striking my face open. The impact sent a nauseating ripple up my bones and shocked what little feeling was left out of my fingers, but the attack had lacked vigour. My arm was intact and whole, but my enemies were defeated. The prince was safe, for now.
I let my right arm fall limp at my side, scimitar dangling from the knot around my wrist, and heaved deep breaths. The stitch in my side was still burning. Sound rushed back into the world, carrying with it the ringing of steel and someone shouting, and I desperately scrabbled to grasp the hilt of my sword again, with rain- and blood-slick fingers.
“Just die!—swine!—dogson!—rat!” Kaczmarek yelled. The diminutive woman’s tan jacket was mottled with crimson blotches, but she was raining blows on the Torrean dragoon fast enough he was forced to constantly defend. Any time he moved his blade he was forced to abandon the attack as, with wild disregard for any school of fencing, the jäger slashed at wherever was open. Her sabre was also of the straighter type, a truer cousin to the broadsword than the scimitar, but she wasn’t letting that stop her. Any blow she landed would doubtless trap her blade, but the way she was swinging it should also end the fight.
As I brought Munter about and nudged the tired beast into a trot forwards, the Torrean broke away, spurring his horse into a dogged canter away and then a gallop. Red-faced and screaming, Kaczmarek hurled her blade after him. I winced as the sword spun through the air. Somehow, it struck the trooper’s back edge-on, but only enough to make him twitch forward in the saddle. A sabre like that didn’t have the kind of edge that could go straight through a heavy jacket with only its own weight. I drew a ragged sigh and set out to pursue him. We could ill afford to let him alert whatever reinforcements they had.
“I’ve got the snake right where I want him!” Kaczmarek shouted at me. I blinked, needing to think twice before I could make sense of it.
“What?” I called back.
“Just watch!” She tensed in the saddle, pulling in a hissing breath, and then swung down to the grass with a string of imprecations all the way. After a moment staggering with a hand on the saddle to stabilise herself, she grabbed the oiled leather tube holding her arquebus and slipped it out, tossing it and trapping it under her right arm while she fumbled in her jacket pocket. The first cartridge she pulled out was ruined, the whitish paper stained a dark red, and she threw it aside with a curse. The next had only a little, and she savagely ripped the end off and set to loading the flintlock.
The trooper was getting further away, I noted with concern. “Are you sure, jäger?”
“Easiest shot of my life,” she dismissed, the effect only slightly spoiled by the way she abruptly cut off and grimaced when she raised her hand above her head to ram. “Only be a problem if he went over the crest, but as long as I can see him he’s dead.” She flashed me a grin instead of the grimace, a shred of crimson cartridge paper stuck in her teeth.
“Then move fast!”
Loading was a slow process. The dragoon’s horse had been tired by the chase, but it was fresh before that. He’d still made good speed, though by whipping at the poor brute’s flanks like a demon. Over two hundred metres away and rising, it was an absurd shot. The only reason I was even letting Kaczmarek try it was that the confounded stitch in my side still hadn’t gone away and was hitching with every breath and every jostling step Munter took, and as the battle rush wore off my left arm was faring worse.
After what felt like the longest half-minute of my life, Kaczmarek raised her gun to her shoulder and stared along the barrel. For a long few seconds she stared at the fleeing figure, little more than an orange blot atop a brown one to my eyes, and then the deafening crack of her strange piece echoed out across the foothills and the smoke shrouded her figure. I stared intently.
Nothing happened.
“You missed, soldier,” Alemayehu started in a resigned tone, but Kaczmarek raised an arm, forestalling him. A moment later, I blinked in disbelief as the orange blot tumbled from the brown, rolling down the hill.
“The bullet takes time to fly, magus,” she said. “And my title,” she added with a smug smile, the bit of paper still lodged between her teeth, “Is jäger.”