Seventh Decimate

by Stephen R. Donaldson

The sky looked unnaturally clear. Even the low winds seemed to pause, waiting to see what would happen.

  How did Amika know? he asked the empty air. Who betrayed us? How were we found?

  In the distance, two men rose from hiding places in the tall grass. They threw what might have been rocks at the Prince’s company—if rocks had trailed burning fuses. At once, the men ducked back into the grass.

  Their grenades struck some thirty paces short of the company. The concussions as they exploded shocked the Prince’s hearing. They seemed to startle the ground under his destrier’s hooves. Flames erupted from the impacts. Clods of earth, clumps of grass, shreds of bracken: all burst into the air like frightened birds. But the blasts did not touch the Bellegerins.

  Nevertheless, Prince Bifalt was shaken. Clearly, Amika had discovered gunpowder. And Amikan alchemists or soldiers had devised an unexpected use for it. There were references to such weapons in the old papers that had inspired Belleger’s efforts to make rifles. But the idea of grenades had been dismissed early. No thrown explosion had enough range to threaten enemy sorcerers. Everything Belleger had done to create rifles and keep them secret had been aimed at countering Amika’s Magisters.

  One purpose. No distractions. Bellegerin single-mindedness.

  The Prince considered it his greatest strength. He was not afraid. No sane foe would waste gunpowder when it could use theurgy. Therefore, the ambush did not include a sorcerer.

  All around where the grenades had exploded, the grasses and bracken caught fire. And where they burned, they emitted clouds of dense smoke. In moments, smoke the colors of ash and soot veiled the north. Prince Bifalt glimpsed nothing more than obscure shapes behind or within the fume.

  Instinctively, he believed those shapes were horsemen.

  “Open fire!” he roared, although his men could only guess at their targets.

  At once, rifles shouted flame and lead into the smoke. The guards snatched back their bolts to eject spent casings, then slammed the bolts home to fire again. Each rifle held a clip of six cartridges. Each veteran carried a satchel of loaded clips. If the Prince’s men sustained their rate of fire, they might disrupt the Amikan charge without ever seeing their foes.

  Through the rattling din of the rifles, he heard a horse’s scream. Another cry may have come from an attacker.

  Then a volley of arrows flew out of the smoke, men and horses among the company went down, and the defense became chaos.

  Arrows by the score. Arrows sent by skilled archers who nocked and loosed their shafts almost as quickly as the rifles fired. It was conceivable that the Amikans had left their mounts behind. On foot, they would be slower than horses; but they could hold their bows steady and take better aim. The smoke would give them more cover if they were closer to the ground.

  Camwish was already dead, a shaft jutting from his throat. Flisk had taken an arrow in one shoulder. Now he struggled to fire his rifle and work the bolt with one hand. Stolle lay writhing under his stricken mount.

  Prince Bifalt fired a shot at random. Lowering his aim, he fired again, and had the satisfaction of seeing a shape as vague as a shadow fall.

  A cruel breeze carried the smoke toward the Bellegerins. But it was thinning, dissipated by the wind; or perhaps the grasses resisted burning. On impulse, the Prince slung his rifle over his shoulder, drew his saber, shouted to his mount, and sent the destrier into the thickest of the fumes.

  This was fighting he understood, man against man. It was honest. There was no safety in it. Amikans would die, or he would. He slashed fiercely, down on one side, down on the other, hacking at foes he saw or did not see from one blow to the next. When his blade bit flesh, he did not pause. When he cut only air, he continued swinging. He struck down two of his foes, then a third, before he burst through the smoke to clear air.

  There he found a score of Amikans advancing, mounted, behind their obscured comrades. Random bullets had left three dead among them—three men and two horses. The rest were unscathed.

  Enemy commands responded to Prince Bifalt’s arrival. Five archers wheeled to pierce him with flights of arrows.

  His training saved him. He dropped from the far side of his horse, tossed his saber aside, snatched up his rifle. Shooting at speed from the cover of his destrier, he felled one Amikan and winged another before his clip was empty.

  While he scrambled to set another clip, arrows thudded into his horse. Squealing its agony, the beast collapsed toward him. It could have trapped him under it; but as it fell, he kicked out his legs and sprawled beyond it. Although the impact knocked the air from his lungs, he did not let it slow him. He was already in position to resume fire, concealed behind his dying animal.

  His foes were closer now. Fighting for breath, he ended two of them with three shots. The winged Amikan and his comrade veered away, racing now to outrun his bullets.

  The Prince ignored them. In the distance, at the far edge of the failing flames, he saw archers loose fire arrows across the smoke. They were aiming at the wain, trying to set it alight.

  If the company lost the wain—or its supplies—Prince Bifalt’s quest would end here, whether or not any of his men survived.

  The range was too great for accurate rifle-fire. Still, the Prince did what he could. He emptied his clip—three more bullets—at the fire-arrow archers. One fortunate shot hit a horse, forcing the Amikan to leap free. Then the Prince sprang to his feet and sprinted forward, discarding his clip and slapping another into place as he ran.

  Now he was able to see his company through the fading smoke. Stolid as a stone, Captain Swalish sat his horse and directed a fragmented fusillade toward the fire-arrow archers. At the same time, Elgart stood atop the wain with a water cask, splashing every fiery shaft as it struck.

  In a moment, Captain Swalish and his remaining men drove off the threat to the wain. At once, Elgart took up his rifle and began to shoot at the nearest Amikans.

  Abruptly, the ambush ended. The last of the fire arrows must have served as a prearranged signal. As one, the unmounted attackers turned and ran, racing to reach their horses before Bellegerin bullets hit them. In unison, the mounted Amikans near the Prince wheeled to flee. Captain Swalish and a few guardsmen continued shooting. They took down two more men before the rest passed beyond reasonable range for the rifles.

  The Captain ordered a cease-fire. Other attacks might come, and the company’s supply of cartridges was limited.

  Prince Bifalt was closer to the Amikan flight. He took aim. Before he could fire, however, his attention was caught by Slack.

  Ducking out from under the wain, the former Magister dashed to his horse, flung himself into the saddle, and followed the attackers at a desperate gallop.

  Again the Prince’s world reeled. Slack was not pursuing the Amikan forces. What harm could he do them? He had no theurgy.

  He meant to join them.

  Bartin fired at Slack’s back; missed. He slammed home another bullet and fired again. This cartridge exploded in the breech, shattering the rifle. Hot shards of iron ripped through Bartin’s hands, his chest, his face. He fell screaming.

  Without a glance at the Prince, Slack sped to distance himself from the betrayed quest.

  He was not fast enough—and Prince Bifalt was not slow in decision. For him, rage was speed. It was steadiness. In one quick motion, he aimed and fired.

  His shot punched Slack forward. For an instant, the former sorcerer clung to his mount’s neck. Then he toppled aside and flopped to the ground, left there by his frightened horse.

  None of the Amikans returned to retrieve their fallen ally. They could not outface rifle-fire.

  Running, Prince Bifalt approached Slack. He heard horses behind him—Captain Swalish and another guardsman, Vinsid—but he did not wait for them to cover him. As soon as he reached Slack, he flipped the man onto his back.

  He was still a
live.

  At once, the Prince crouched at the man’s side, gripped his shirt, jerked his head up. “Traitor! Spy! You dared?”

  Slack did not meet Prince Bifalt’s bitter gaze. The dullness of dying filled his eyes. He would meet no living gaze again.

  Close to his last breath, he gasped, “I know what you do not. I will not enlighten you.” The blood bubbling from his mouth promised that he spoke the truth. “But I will tell you this. My teacher was an Amikan Magister.”

  Again Prince Bifalt’s world took a new shape. Vague alarms and intimations gained substance. He heaved Slack from side to side as if he sought to snap the man’s neck.

  “The villagers we fed? Amikan? All Amikan?”

  “Belleger’s victims,” breathed Slack wetly. “They volunteered. To stop you.”

  “Victims?” shouted the Prince. “Amika makes victims of us!” Almost weeping with fury, he cried, “We fed them!”

  “Your generosity—” Slack spoke weakly. The Prince had to stop shaking him and lean close to hear. “It astonished me. But I could not turn from my purpose.

  “You must not find the book.”

  He drew one last gurgling breath. Then his life slumped out of him, leaving him limp in Prince Bifalt’s grasp.

  Captain Swalish and Vinsid approached. Their mounts stamped to a halt. “Highness!” croaked the Captain.

  The Prince released Slack’s body. He needed to understand, but he could not compel answers from a corpse. The memory of his talk with his supposed comrade made him writhe. You may be the most necessary member of our company. He had said that after Slack had said, A man is not a man at all— He should not have trusted the former Magister. He should not have chosen the northeast track.

  He should not have been commanded to lead this futile quest. He had no instinct for treachery. He had imagined that a powerless sorcerer could be honest.

  Captain Swalish dropped to the grass. “Highness,” he insisted. “He is dead. We must go. They will regroup. They have more than enough men. Our losses—”

  Prince Bifalt did not raise his head. Looking at Swalish and Vinsid required too much effort. Slack’s betrayal held him. As if to himself, he muttered, “They fear our rifles.” But he knew the Captain was right. More strongly, he repeated, “They fear our rifles.”

  Captain Swalish started to protest. The Prince demanded silence with a gesture. “Vinsid,” he ordered, “go after them. If you can drop a straggler or two, do so. Make them think we give chase. But do not risk yourself. See how far they go before they gather themselves. See if they have reinforcements. Come back and tell us how much time we have.”

  Vinsid nodded. His sullen glower cracked uncharacteristically, baring his teeth in a feral grin. He had lost his best friend. Without a word, he rode away, following the track left by the Amikans.

  His departure eased Captain Swalish. The Captain came to Prince Bifalt’s side. Clearing his throat, he said hoarsely, “A just end, Highness. A bullet in the back is a kinder death than he deserved.”

  Prince Bifalt rose unsteadily to his feet. The weakness in his limbs undermined him, but he ignored it. “How, Captain?” he demanded, disguising his frailty with ire. “How was this done to us? We were told the river and its gorges are impassable.”

  Swalish rasped a curse. In his fashion, he was as angry as the Prince. “We were mistaken, Highness,” he snarled. “That is all. We were mistaken. We have never scouted this boundary. Why should we? No army attacks us here. Cunning and treachery we could expect—but not here.

  “A fault of judgment, Highness,” he declared with more assurance, “but not a fault of ours. Our commanders think what their commanders thought. None of them studied this terrain. They did not know enough to warn us. With an Amikan spy among us, we were exposed to some attack from the start.”

  Yes, the Prince thought. From the start. Because we have always relied upon sorcery. We did not imagine we could be made helpless so easily.

  But he did not speak that thought aloud. Instead, he replied harshly, “We are still exposed, Captain. How many men do we have?”

  Swalish looked away. His flesh seemed to sag on his bones. Hoarse again, he answered, “Come, Highness, and count our losses. See what has become of us.”

  Prince Bifalt knew then that his losses were severe.

  PART TWO

  However, the Prince did not return at once to the wain and his men. First he went to his destrier—his fallen favorite—and searched the tall grasses until he recovered his saber. Only then did he mount behind the Captain and ride to see what price his company had paid.

  He had left Belleger’s Fist with ten guardsmen. He now had five, although only Swalish, Vinsid, and Elgart were uninjured. The arrow in Flisk’s shoulder prevented him from performing even such tasks as saddling his horse. Fortunately, the fifth, Klamath, had suffered nothing worse than grazed ribs. The cut bled heavily, and the pain made him wince, but he assured the Prince that he would be able to fight once his wound was bandaged.

  Camwish was among the dead, as was Nowel. The explosion of Bartin’s rifle had killed him instantly. Ardval had taken an arrow in his face and lay close to death. He still drew shuddering breaths, but the interval between them stretched as Prince Bifalt watched.

  The last loss was Stolle, who had been crushed by his horse. Even Nowel at his best could not have treated the man’s internal bleeding. He would not whisper secrets to his wife again. But while his life and pain lasted, he wept. “She will not understand,” he moaned between gasps of blood. “She will not. Dead? she will cry. For what? For what? I cannot get her to understand.”

  Captain Swalish ignored them all. Like a man who could not bear the sight of his dead and dying, he watched the north, studying the hills for some sign of Vinsid.

  Despite his hurt ribs, Klamath tried to make Stolle more comfortable. But there was nothing that could save him.

  Weighted with grief—a burden he carried as smoldering fury—the Prince went to join Captain Swalish.

  For their part, none of the teamsters had been harmed. The wain had covered them. But the beasts had not fared so well. Two more horses were dead, one urgently needed to be released from its agony, and one ox would have to be put down. Slack’s mount was gone; the Prince’s, slain. The company was left with four horses for six men, three oxen for the wain. By Elgart’s efforts, the wain itself and its burden of supplies had taken no significant damage.

  Prince Bifalt neither knew nor cared how many Amikans had been killed, or would die soon. Only those that remained concerned him.

  They were enough to strike again.

  “I do not understand,” protested Klamath in a cracking voice. “How was this done to us? How can Amika know what we do?”

  “Spies,” snapped Elgart. “Amika did not need many. One would be enough. Slack volunteered to join us. He knew when we would depart. He knew where we hoped to go. He could guess our heading. A spy took his report to Amika.

  “The villagers we fed. Those starved and dying children. Those decrepit elders. They were all Amikan. They crossed the gorges and the Line into our lands, groups of them. All sent to affect our choices. They found abandoned homes, where they pretended to live. When they saw us—when they knew where we were—they waited until we were gone. Then they fired the houses. The signals warned other groups. They warned the force that ambushed us.

  “It was simple enough. If they knew trails and river crossings. They could wade shallows. People on foot could use goat tracks in the gorges.” He shrugged. “Horses could not. But those soldiers had days. They could have brought the horses across one at a time.”

  Trembling, Klamath asked, “Will they send more?”

  Elgart snorted. “They do not need more. We left enough of them alive to finish us.”

  Prince Bifalt found himself nodding. He knew that Elgart was right.

&nbs
p; There was still no sign of Vinsid.

  When Ardval was gone, and Stolle had too much blood in his mouth and throat to speak, Captain Swalish tried to cast the company’s straits in a less ruinous light. Loud enough to be heard by the others, he said gruffly, “We were fortunate, Highness. They did not bring a sorcerer.”

  The Prince thought that Amika had better uses for its theurgy. Every Magister would be needed to overwhelm Belleger. The only encouraging conclusion he could draw was that Hexin Marrow’s book was not in Amika. The Repository was not. If it were, the ambush—and the starving villagers—served no purpose. His foes and Slack had not needed to risk those losses. They could have ignored him until he tried to cross into Amikan lands.

  However, the Captain had other concerns. Faintly pleading, he continued, “But we will not survive another attack. Highness, we must go on. We have our orders. We cannot remain where we are. Perhaps the Amikans will miss our trail.”

  “King Abbator,” said Elgart heavily, “does not know our straits. If we go back, he will not fault us. He cannot want his eldest son killed for nothing. And the Amikans may let us pass when they see we have given up. They will be reluctant to lose more men.”

  “Elgart!” Captain Swalish was shocked. “You would give up? You would betray your king’s trust? You would let Amika slaughter your homeland? I do not believe you. I will not. The Elgart who has ridden into hell with us and paid the price”—he gestured at Elgart’s scar—“would not go back. The Elgart who saved the wain would not.”

  “But I am not that Elgart,” retorted the rifleman. “I am this one.” He thumped his chest. “The one who still lives.

  “This Elgart wants to hear what Prince Bifalt will say.”

  But the Prince said nothing. Biting his cheek, he watched the north. He needed—

  Behind his back, Stolle’s struggle came to an end. In spite of what he had just said, Elgart went to work with Captain Swalish and Klamath. Together, they did what they could for the dying beasts, the slain men. They treated Klamath’s side, using cloths and balms from Nowel’s supplies. Then Swalish broke the arrow in Flisk’s shoulder, wrenched it out by its ends, bound the wound as best he could. The pain turned the young veteran pale, but he bore it without complaint.