October 29th, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

The boy saved my life. Mak panted on his back amongst the fallen soldiers who’d tried to kill him and his family. The pot Sherik had thrown was Konni’s heaviest that could fit through the window. The amount of strength it would’ve taken to achieve such a throw was impressive. Not to mention the aim.

All my bickering and complaining about the boy, and he was there for me when I needed him most. Mak coughed. His lungs burned from over exertion. Cold air filled them and exited like a puff of steam.

Sherik knelt over him. “You alright, Pa?”

“I’m not hurt,” Mak said. His shoulder ached, even more than usual, his head throbbed from the few blows that had landed, and there was a general ache throughout the rest of his body from diving here and there away from gunshots. The exhaustion was worse than anything else.

“I can’t believe we survived,” Sherik’s face was pale, and glazed in sweat.

Mak put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You did good, boy. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Sherik nodded. He scratched his eye and turned away.

A wave of relaxation took him. Sleep was heavy in his eyes. A light breeze whispered over his skin and chilled him, but the cold was soothing. He nodded off, despite himself.

“Mak, are you alright?” Konni called through the window. Her voice quivered, and she was short of breath.

It ripped him from a light sleep. He sat up in fright. The rest was not long enough to alleviate his fatigue. A layer of rust settled over his muscles and bones, stiffening him. His mind cleared, and he clutched Sherik’s wrist. “Tell your ma to stay in the shelter with the kids. Assess the shelter and make improvements wherever it looks weak.” Men camped in the bit of his land littered with Westen Freight equipment. They might’ve come at any moment. “I’m going after the rest of them.”

Sherik frowned.

“And you’re coming with me.”

The frown reversed. Sherik hopped to his feet and followed his father’s orders.

“I’ll be on my way by the time you come out,” Mak struggled to a sitting position. “Pass through the tool shed and stay low along the crop fence.”

“It won’t take me long, Pa.” Sherik took the heavy pot and started for the house.

“Wait,” Mak said.

Sherik halted.

“Bring her one of the soldier’s rifles,” Mak said. “Make sure it’s got a bayonet and that it’s loaded. Just in case something happens to us.”

Sherik’s movements slowed. He seemed to be holding back objections.

“I’d hate to be the man who gets in the way of your mother protecting her children,” Mak tried to reassure the boy.

Sherik smiled, selected a musket from a fallen soldier—the first one Mak had killed—loaded it, and brought it and the pot to the house.

Mak got to his feet. He gathered the remaining four muskets, Lady Marlay among them, loaded and primed each one, leaving only the clumsy blunderbuss. It was a powerful weapon, but unreliable. Mak preferred the precision of a rifle.

He looted the soldiers, donned two deep satchels and filled them both with the fancy loading cartridges used by the army. They contained bullet, wadding, and powder, all in one. It was much more efficient than his method where everything was stored in a different container, so he left his personal ammunition with the blunderbuss.

He carried the four muskets beneath an arm like a bundle of firewood. They struck door frames and the steam plough as he awkwardly brought them through the tool shed. They swept several tools off the work bench. Mak cursed. It would be worth it when he and the boy had two shots each before reloading instead of only one between them.

The tool shed was behind him. He crouched low and moved at a slow pace. The crouching caused a new ache in his hip, but he preferred it to a bullet in the head. He was not yet seen, or at least, the northern invaders showed no sign of having seen him.

The northerners sat around a decent-sized fire. There were eight in total. Eight men, half of them soldiers, against two shirtless fools, already exhausted from combat. The other four wore the garb of the men who’d been chopping down trees for Westen Freight. Mak would need to prioritize the soldiers. If they could eliminate the professional fighters, they might have a chance against the workmen, or better yet, the workmen might flee at the sight of their fallen companions.

He skulked along the fence, dreading the rising sun. The lightening sky would reveal him soon enough. His back, however, faced the east. If he could stay hidden for an hour or two, just long enough for the sun to climb and brighten, he’d have the advantage against blinded foes.

But why did they sit around a fire, conversing idly, and even laughing while the others fought? They’d undoubtedly heard the gun shots, and they also heard the shots cease. Perhaps they were overly confident that their comrades would succeed.

One of the soldiers guffawed and nearly fell off his chair. Another, one of the workers, shot to his feet. Mak tensed. The worker fell to his knees and retched. They’re drunk! They’d be facing drunken soldiers with the sun in their eyes, but it was still eight against two.

The man who retched got back to his feet. He now wore Aldren Knester’s hat. The one with the long, lush hair that flowed from it. The other soldiers laughed thunderously. The man with Aldren’s hat wavered and moved about with awkward balance. He spoke in a mocking voice that sounded nothing like Knester, twirled his fingers through the fake hair, and fell on his ass. The others guffawed.

Mak reached the thick post at the far corner of his crop field. It was as close as he needed—or wanted—to get. He sat with his back against the wide wooden pole and leaned his guns along the side of the fence.

Sherik should’ve been there by now. Mak shook his head. Trust the boy. He proved himself in the first battle, he won’t fail you in the second. But Mak was unconvinced. He peered back at the house and saw nothing. The shelter doesn’t need to be completely flawless, boy. Hurry. I can’t start without you.

Several minutes passed and still, Sherik did not appear. Mak clenched his teeth and bared them like an angry wolf. It was all he could do to supress the curses he wanted to shout. The sun shot a couple rays his way, forcing him to look away from the house. It would be in its most advantageous position soon, and Mak was alone. He sighed—a deep, discouraged, and disappointed breath.

This is foolish. I shouldn’t be out here in the open starting a fight with eight men, no matter how drunk or blind they might be. It might have been wiser to simply stay in the house and barricade it. Wait for them to come. Jerri once told him that it was always easier to defend a castle than to attack one. She had used it as a metaphor. Mak forgot what it was about, but she’d gained a honey tart out of whatever argument it was.

Another thought pulled him toward attacking. If I leave these men in favour of barricading the home, they’ll just be joined by others later. If I can kill them now, then barricade, that will be eight less men to worry about when the big attack inevitably comes.

Pa’s words rang: A man is not a man unless he bleeds for land or family. He wrapped his fingers around Lady Marlay, turned, and aimed. “You have the honours of firing the first shot, my dear,” he said to the weapon. He rested the barrel on the rail of the fence to steady his aim.

The nearest soldier sat on a log with his back turned, and he wore no helmet. This fella is asking for it. Mak aimed, took a deep breath and settled his finger on the trigger. The moment I pull, the carnage begins. Where are you, boy?

“Should we go check on them?” The closest soldier asked the others.

“No,” one answered. “They are fine. Four trained men against some brainless southern family is not exactly a good fight. I’m guessing they are having their fun right now, you know.”

“I would rather we check on them.” The first one got to his feet and stretched. “It has taken them too long.”

He started toward Mak who stayed low behind the fence, his eyes locked on the soldier. The drunken man in blue stepped lazily with unreliable balance and belched. He halted and wavered like a tree in a windstorm. He stared directly at Mak, but his eyes squinted in the sun.

The soldier raised his hands to shield his eyes. “Comrades!” He turned to his companions.

He was spotted. Mak pulled the trigger. Foul-smelling smoke materialized around him as the soldier collapsed back over his log. The men shouted orders and scrambled about the camp, most likely treading through puddles of vomit.

Each of the seven remaining men grabbed a musket. Two of them shielded their eyes as they peered out toward the location of the shot, while the five others, including the three soldiers, loaded their guns.

He leaned Lady Marlay back in her initial position and grabbed the next musket. It was lighter than Lady Marlay, yet it felt more solid somehow. He rested it on the fence as he’d done on the first shot and found his next target.

Six of the remaining seven found cover, but one soldier stayed in the open, still loading his gun. His breathing was heavy but slow, his balance wavered, one of his blue sleeves was rolled up, the other sagged to his wrist, and his face contorted as he concentrated on his task. Mak grinned. You must be the drunkest of the bunch. He pulled the trigger and blood splattered from the man’s chest. He fell over, dead.

Mak switched guns. He had two shots left before needing to reload. He dipped his hand into one of the satchels he’d placed on the ground and fished out four loading cartridges. He positioned each cartridge on the ground beside the butt of the gun they’d be used in.

He returned to his aiming position but quickly dropped when he saw six muskets aimed his way. He clamped his eyes shut at the blast and heard bullets whiz through the air above him. He jumped up and quickly aimed to find his next target. Another blast sounded before he could react. The bullet glanced off the fence post, sending splinters to sting his face. The bullet settled in the dirt not far from him. Clever. I’ll have to remember that.

He cursed himself for being so reckless. There was no way to tell how many of the six guns had went off in the initial blast. To so carelessly rush out of cover was foolish. If not for the fence post, his guts would have been filled with lead.

It all would have been much simpler with Sherik. The boy could’ve been stationed at the next fat pole a dozen paces away and they could alternate shots to keep the soldiers guessing. As it was, the northerners knew exactly where to shoot, even with the sun in their eyes. Mak did not want to risk running from post to post, especially while lugging his equipment.

The two sides continued to exchange fire. Mak shot his two remaining charges and missed with both. He began the long process of reloading the four guns. He used one ramrod to do each musket.

The sun must’ve been doing its part, for Mak’s foes continued firing at consistent intervals. Mak assumed he’d need to hatch some plan similar to what he’d done with the broom and bowl. Blinded by the sun, the northerners must’ve decided their best course of action was to simply fire, reload, and fire again. It was an advantage, but it also meant they likely had a near endless supply of ammunition to waste.

Mak had an ample supply of his own. Perhaps enough for twenty or thirty shots, there was no time to count. As long as both sides stayed under cover, Mak had the advantage. He did not need to advance as the defender, they did. And the moment one of them chose to leave cover, they’d eat lead.

He could keep his family safe for now, but the bullets would run out. Reinforcements might come, or they might devise a clever plan where one man snuck forward a little every time the northerners fire. Mak would never notice. He might be hiding from the next barrage, only to feel a bayonet pierce between his ribs.

What if the camp of drunken men was a diversion in the first place? What if Sherik hadn’t come because the moment they saw Mak leave, a group of soldiers who’d been waiting in the woods charged the house and killed everyone in it.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had enough problems without inventing his own. He needed to advance. He needed to kill these men before any of his fabrications became reality.

He peeked around the fence pole. There was nothing but a loose mound of hay between his and their positions. It was nothing but open, exposed territory beyond that. But he had to do something. He had to make it to the hay mound before the sun rose too high.

Mak fired his last shot and reloaded the four guns. A couple barrages flew overhead. One of the bullets hit the fence post, causing him to yelp. It was only the second time they’d hit it. He thanked whatever it was the men had drank all night, donned the satchels, and bundled up the loaded guns.

He crouched and awaited another barrage. There was a silence. He could hear only the light breeze in the long grass and a few birds, somehow still in the vicinity of so many blasts. That is, until his chance came. They fired again. The bullets whizzed above and around him.

After a deep breath, Mak hopped awkwardly over the fence with his weapons and satchels. He lowered his head but did not crouch. Speed would serve him more than stealth in the open field. He sprinted. Every bone in his body ached but he pushed ahead, glancing now and then toward the camp but the soldiers remained under cover.

If he could get to the hay before being spotted, the advantage would be his. All their shots would be aimed at the fence post, and he’d have four quick shots from the new angle.

“He’s running!” A voice nearly turned Mak’s bones to cream.

He glanced toward them. Six men stood upright, ignoring their cover. They aimed and fired. Mak dove at the sound of the blast. Nothing hit him, but he was still a few yards from the hay. He threw his guns toward the mound, one at a time like javelins, and hoped it wouldn’t damage them. The soldiers would use the same tactic as after their first shot and so he refused to get up.

He turned his head toward them. Two continued to aim while the others reloaded. He rolled to the side and crawled desperately. He hoped the grass was tall enough to help the sun with obscuring their view.

Two more guns blasted, but he found cover behind the hay. He sat, leaning against the mound and rearranged his guns like he’d had them at the fence. He panted and coughed from breathing in too much hay dust. He was much closer to the soldiers now. He would have to be more vigilant to notice any attempts at advancement. They knew where he was. Running to the hay had been a wasted risk.

“I have an idea,” one of the men declared, drunkenly.

The others cheered after a moment of incoherent explanations. Mak felt sick to his stomach. He aimed Lady Marlay, hoping for the small chance that they’d mistakenly forgotten about their need for cover while they discussed their plans. Only one man was out of cover, and he’d just launched something in the air toward Mak.

Glass shattered beside him, and flames roared in the hay, quickly spreading across the mound. How in God’s name did he do that? The heat increased at an alarming rate. Mak had to leave, but he needed cover. The powder! If one speck of it ignited he’d be engulfed in flames before he could scream.

He stayed on his knees, peeked toward the soldiers, and cursed. Each man stood aiming their guns in his direction. There was nothing he could do.

His only chance would be to run. He could shoot one, drop the gun and sprint. It might force them to chase him. He could then hide amongst the trees and kill them one by one. He cursed. It would never work. He couldn’t make it three steps out of cover.

Hopeless, he took his guns and ammunition and backed away from the flaming mound, while keeping it between himself and the soldiers. Eventually, the mound would be gone, and the bullets would come.

He’d narrowly avoided death hours ago just to face it now. The same thoughts took him as before. Boy, you’d better be getting them out of here. Get them safe. That’s the one way I’ll forgive you for not showing up. Protect them. Keep them safe. Keep yourself safe.

The mound was a mess of blackened, curled bits of straw, and ash. Thick smoke hovered over the slowly dying flames, though the fire did spread. It’s all over. I’ve failed you, Pa. I’ve let them burn your land. Soon, they’ll kill me, then my family. I’m not strong as you! But I have bled, Pa. I’ve bled for land and family, but I don’t feel like a man. I feel like a fool! A stubborn idiot!

Distorted silhouettes were visible through the flames and smoke. The heat was almost too much even at the distance he’d gained. The soldiers took aim. Mak raised Lady Marlay and aimed in return. Sherik, Konni, and the kids would have a better chance against five rather than six. He might be gone, but he would take as many northerners with him as he could.

A strange sound rumbled the earth, slightly, like a distant storm. It came from the forest on the northerner’s side of the field. The heat became unbearable. He shuffled back and recoiled when he saw the flames inching toward him. His first instinct was to run, but he couldn’t leave the bullets there. He didn’t know what so many cartridges packed into one satchel would do if lit, and he didn’t want to find out. He inched back, away from the heat and flames, but it became too much. The flames increased their pace, as if smelling his fear. He had no choice. He got to his feet, put his head down and ran.

He dropped the satchel. He wanted to stop for it, but he knew the soldier’s guns were fixed on him, just waiting for the perfect shot. Lady Marlay aimed toward the soldiers at first. He hoped it would scare a few of them enough to seek cover, but he doubted it and dropped the aim in favour of speed.

The soldier’s guns went off, their blasts echoed through the sky. A terrible pain moved like lightning from knee to ankle. He fell forward violently. His mouth filled with dry grass, his elbows and palms burned from scraping along the ground, and Lady Marlay lodged into his ribs, nearly breaking them.

The thundering sound from the forest drew nearer. He glanced at the soldiers. They didn’t even look his way. They were reloading frantically, wild eyes shifted from forest to gun.

Mak sat up, spit the grass back where it belonged, and inspected his knee. There was no blood. Only a sprain. He’d thought he’d been shot, and the thought alone had somehow made the pain worse than it truly was.

He massaged the knee and gave his attention to the thundering forest. The sound grew more distant before approaching again. Flames caught his eye. They’d spread faster and farther than he’d anticipated and were nearing the satchel of cartridges he’d dropped.

He shot to his feet, causing the pain in his knee to flare. He nearly fell, but he fought through it. He hopped on his good leg with a balance kept alive by the desperate cause. He was only a few hops away when he realized he would be too late. He dove and hit the ground just as the flames touched the satchel.

Terrible heat rushed over him as the satchel exploded. He kept low, as low as he could, and gripped handfuls of grass in fear. The initial rush died down, but the heat remained to his left. He lifted his head and recoiled from the flames that roared not one yard away, approaching quickly.

He rolled desperately, Lady Marlay still in hand. Once out of the heat, he stood and hobbled toward the soldiers, who still paid him no mind.

The thunder was loud, closer than ever. It sounded like hoofs.

The soldiers fired at the forest.

A mighty horse emerged from the line of trees. Its coat was a deep brown, almost red in the sun. Its black legs paced the ground, sending clumps of dirt to the air, a black mane flowed in the wind of its gallop, and a white stripe graced its nose. Butterhoof?

Mak’s jaw dropped. Sherik rode atop the mare’s back with no saddle. He had a handful of his loyal steed’s mane in one hand, and the northerner’s blunderbuss in the other. The gun gleamed in the morning sun. Its flash shook Mak from his dumbfounded stare.

He aimed Lady Marlay and fired. A soldier dropped, causing disorder in their ranks. Two of the workmen fled. Mak hopped to the camp and swiped a loaded gun from one of the dead soldiers. He fired at the fleeing men and caught one of them between the shoulder-blades, dropping him. The other continued to flee.

A massive blast created a thick cloud around Sherik and Butterhoof, which they immediately outran. A handful of bullets flew from the blunderbuss. The majority struck one of the soldiers, sending him back a couple yards. One bullet caught a workman in the arm. He wailed in pain, dropping his gun.

Only two armed foes remained. A soldier and a workman. Both had their muskets aimed at the galloping Sherik. Mak reloaded Lady Marlay and aimed for the soldier even though the worker was closer. The soldier would likely have better aim.

He held his breath, steadied his aim, and pulled the trigger. The soldier dropped as he fired his own gun. Mak’s bullet entered his neck and was enough to skew his aim. Butterhoof reared at the soldier’s blast, causing the worker’s shot to miss as well, for he must have aimed where he anticipated his target to be.

The worker began to reload but dropped his gun when he saw Sherik bearing down on him. He tried to flee but Butterhoof tackled and trampled him. The remaining worker, who had taken a bullet to the arm, fell to his knees in surrender.

Sherik halted his mare and dismounted. He looked around the field. His eyes shifted from each body, living or dead. He cheered. Howled almost like a wolf, the blunderbuss raised in victory.

Mak took a loaded rifle and hurried to join him. “Boy!” It was all he could say before a laugh burst from him.

“Pa!” Sherik ran to meet him and they embraced in a rough bear-hug.

“How did you…” Mak stammered. “I thought you weren’t coming. I thought I was… You saved me again, boy.” He gripped his son by the shoulder. “I guess I can’t call you that no more. Boy. You’re a man now, you crazy bastard.”

Sherik scratched his eye and turned away, just as he had after the first battle. Mak patted him on the shoulder a few times before turning to the only surviving foe. It must have been the one who had retched, for his chin bore chunks of something, and the front of his white shirt was stained yellow and putrid.

“Do we question him, Pa?” Sherik asked.

Mak locked eyes with the workman. The man would have killed him had Sherik not appeared. Who would he have killed afterward? “No. I know everything I need to about these people.”

He thrust his rifle forward before the workman could protest. The bayonet entered his throat, blocking the words. He pulled the blade out, blood came with it like a weak fountain, and the man toppled over.

“I found Butterhoof, Pa,” Sherik grinned like he hadn’t since childhood.

Mak looked around. Seven dead men, one of them trampled to death. There was vomit, blood, and other bodily excretions one would rather not see or smell at breakfast time. “I see that. Come. We have to get that fire out before it spreads too much.” He limped for the tool shed.