A flash of unease-
Warcries filled the air. The glint of heavily armoured figures rising up on the barrows, crossbows lowering. Smaller objects flew out, one of them striking the ground five paces to Corabb’s right.
A detonation that stabbed at his ears. The blast threw him to one side, and he stumbled, then fell over a thorn bush.
Multiple explosions-flames shot up to light the scene-
At the wolf’s howl, Fiddler flattened himself still further beneath his cloak of sand and brush-not a moment too soon as a moccasined foot thumped down on his back as a raider ran over him.
The barrows had done their job-drawing the attackers in to what, by all outward appearances, seemed isolated positions. One squad in three had shown face to the enemy; the remaining two had preceded them by a bell or more to take cover between the barrows.
And now the trap was sprung.
The sergeant lifted his head, and saw a dozen backs between him and Borduke’s strong-point. Their charge slowed as three of their number suddenly pitched down to the ground, quarrels buried deep.
‘ Up, dammit !’ Fiddler hissed.
His soldiers rose around him, shedding dusty sand and branches.
Crouching low, cusser-fitted crossbow cradled in his arms, the sergeant set out, away from Borduke’s position. Gesler’s marines were easily sufficient to support the squad at the barrow. Fiddler had seen a mass of raiders moving along the ridge beyond the basin-easily two hundred in all-and suspected they were moving to flank the ambush. The narrowest of corridors awaited them, but if they overran the infantry picket stationed there, they could then strike into the heart of the supply camp.
He grinned at the snapping crack of sharpers detonating behind him, along with the deadly whoosh of burners filling the basin with red, flaring light. The raid had been stopped in its tracks, and confusion had snared the attackers. Fiddler and the five marines trailing in his wake were low enough to keep their silhouettes from being backlit by the flames as they reached the base of the slope.
They had ascended halfway to the ridge when Fiddler held up a fisted hand.
Cuttle scrambled up beside him. ‘We won’t even have to duck on this one,’ he growled.
The sergeant raised his crossbow, sighting well above the crest line and settling the metal stock against his shoulder. He drew a breath, held it, and slowly pressed the release.
The iron ribs thunked, and the cusser quarrel leapt away, describing a graceful arc up and over the ridge. It sank out of sight.