They had managed to bring the war right to the indigenes’ doorsteps.
‘Ensign, I think we should leave here,’ she decided but, even as the words left her mouth, one of her soldiers called out, ‘Sergeant! They’re coming.’
‘Cover!’ she snapped automatically. ‘Use the stones as cover. Ready to return fire!’
She found a line of jagged stones where a monstrous carved column had fallen, and put herself behind it, watching the rim of the depression – waiting for the Denlanders to show themselves. Caxton staggered down to settle beside her, breathing harshly.
‘This is really bad,’ the ensign wheezed. ‘This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.’ Her hands were shaking as she readied her musket.
‘I don’t think anyone really planned this.’ The continued attention of the indigenes was getting on Emily’s nerves. She could not shake it. They were behind her and all around her. They had spears, bows and knives. If they turned nasty there would be no chance at all, and surely better to be shot cleanly by Denlanders than cut apart by savages?
There was a disturbance in the trees up above, and one of her soldiers fired instantly. They heard a shout of pain, and a ripple of jubilation went through the Lascanne forces, such as they were. At this stage, any victory was better than none.
For a long moment nothing moved, save for that same red-coated soldier reloading his gun.
Emily glanced at Caxton, who was clutching her musket too tightly. She gave her sergeant a sideways look and said, ‘Is it too late to resign my commission?’
‘Nonsense, we’ll make a major of you before we’re done,’ Emily told her, her voice cracking with the words. She could not manage mere banter with the enemy so close. ‘Tell me, Caxton, what did you do before all this?’
The ensign gave a weak smile at that. ‘A man’s tailor, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘Only one to take over the family business, so I’m used to doing a man’s work.’ And her expression was such that Emily could not help but return the grin.
‘There’s no trade that could prepare you for this,’ she told the other woman, and then fresh movement dragged her eyes back up. She could see from brief glimpses that the Denlanders were spreading out along the edge of the slope in a loose semicircle. ‘How many, do you think?’
‘Two full squads at the least. At least twice our number,’ Caxton replied, eyes narrowing. She settled herself into a more comfortable position, finger poised on the trigger.
‘They’ve got to come down,’ Emily decided. Because we’re sure as hell not going up. Against her will, she found her head pulled round to stare at the indigenes as they lurked against the stones, clutching one another. Their eyes spoke mute accusation at her.
Any moment now, this place will become sheer speeding death. Every missed shot could kill one of them. Why didn’t they run?
This is their place, their home. She remembered Mallen warning the indigenes to flee the Denland camp, before the attack. How bitter he had seemed that Denland and Lascanne had brought their human war into the very homes of these natives.
There will be a lot of dead indigenes before the day is out. He may never speak to me again.
‘Why don’t they come?’ Caxton hissed. There was surely enough cover down the slope to cloak a Denlander assault. Brave one volley to get to us, and then we’d stand no chance. Two squads of them, perhaps more, and only eighteen of us. Which left Caxton’s question: Why didn’t they come? What kept them holding back to the edge of the slope? Sheer craven fear?
She held her breath, because a mad idea had come to her: an idea just as mad as Brocky’s pistol frenzy, though far less likely to succeed.
But what if . . . ?
Could she put herself in the mind of a Denlander officer? What would he be thinking that would stay his hand?
Is there any common ground at all?
We are dead either way, she decided. They will get reinforcements soon enough. They will have enough men to surround this entire village, and kill everyone and everything in it. Hiding here behind the stones won’t stop us getting shot in the back.
She let out her breath, for still the Denlanders hesitated.
‘God protect me,’ she whispered.
‘Sergeant?’
‘Caxton, have you got on your person a pocket handkerchief?’
The ensign made a wretched little laugh. ‘I wouldn’t be much of a tailor else.’
Under Caxton’s incredulous gaze, Emily knotted the ridiculous little square of