She sank back against a tree, feeling it give a little, its roots loose on the edge of the water. Her heart fluttered within her ribs and it was hard to catch her breath. She had a burning pain in her side, born of too much running and fighting.
Lost? She ignored the thought. She needed to catch her breath and get her mind back in order. She would be no more or less lost with that achieved.
She found herself shaking. The fierce determination that had brought her here was fast leaking out of her. How many men have I killed? How many nearly killed me? She collapsed to the ground, thrusting her pistol back into her belt on the third try. So this is war.
She could not, in that instant, imagine what national insanity had brought Lascanne and Denland to a pass where this ordeal might be required of their citizens.
A king’s death? Is that all it takes to drive us to this?
She sagged back, and then scrambled for her feet, as she saw movement.
Red; a red jacket. Ours.
A shuddering sigh of relief tore itself out of her before she recognized the newcomer. It was Master Sergeant Sharkey of Bear Sejant.
He smiled at her unevenly. ‘Well, now,’ he called as he approached. ‘Look at the two of us.’
‘Sergeant?’ She felt weak still. Her knees might give way at any time.
Sharkey pushed his broad frame around the intervening trees. ‘Looks like it’s over,’ he told her, grinning still. She nodded wearily.
‘And look at the two of us,’ he added. ‘Isn’t this something?’
‘What, Sergeant?’ Wary now, for he was not stopping his approach.
‘Little Miss Marshwic all alone here,’ he pointed out. ‘All alone with just old Sharkey to look after her. Ain’t that nice.’
‘Sergeant—’ And then he moved, covering the last few yards to reach her in a sudden dash that put one hand about her throat, smashing her head back against the tree. Her world reeled and she felt his fingers tighten. ‘Now you be nice,’ his voice growled in her ear. ‘Be nice, you stuck-up bitch, and maybe you’ll enjoy it.’ She scrabbled at his clutching hand and he whipped it away, grasping one of her wrists and hauling her up by it onto tiptoe. His other hand was fumbling at her belt, prising at the man’s clothing, until eventually he yanked it hard enough to sprain her back, and it snapped in his grip.
She could not cry out; that was the worst thing. Even though nobody would hear – or, if anyone did, then Denlanders only – she could not cry out for help. The sheer physical fear of him, his brutal grip on her, had closed down her throat, forced silence on her as though he was making her voice his accomplice. He had locked her in his grasp. His heavy-jawed face loomed in her vision, teeth bared. She felt his hand tugging at her breeches.
He was stronger than she was, bigger, faster. He had done this before. What could a woman do to defend herself against such an assault?
Sergeant Demaine had said that in modern war it mattered not: man or woman, whole or cripple. Modern war was the leveller of all.
His hands stopped in that instant. He had felt the change come over her body, from woman to soldier. She saw the merest blink of uncertainty touch him, and she rammed her knee as hard as humanly possible between his legs.
He doubled up, fell back, both hands clutching his crotch as he roared with pain and fury. He came up fighting mad, killing mad, and within that time she had snatched her pistol from the ground and levelled it at him.
They stopped, both of them. Sharkey’s face was a picture of anger and fear, all of the vile things that mankind is inheritor of. Her own face, had she known, was expressionless.
‘A duel of weapons,’ she said, her voice wild, trembling and terrified. ‘I will pit mine against yours.’
He bared his teeth, but her gun was levelled at waist height and he dared not advance into it.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘that we should now rejoin the company.’ Her voice, her every muscle, was steady as a rock now. The fierce fighting spirit was back in her.
He nodded and turned to go, and she took a step forward.
With a crazed animal sound, Sharkey leapt back towards her with hands outstretched, and she pulled the trigger, remembering as she did so that she had no