FORTUNE’S STROKE BY ERIC FLINT DAVID DRAKE

Maurice summed it up. “Could be worse. Walls are thick. The stones were well placed. Roof’ll be a problem, but at least”—he pointed to the rubble filling the northern third of the farmhouse—”when it collapsed it brought down the adjoining walls. One or two Rajputs could squeeze in there, but there’s no way they could do a concerted rush.”

Hands on hips, he made a last survey of their fort.

“Not bad, actually. Once we brace the door—”

He smiled thinly, watching Anastasius match deed to word. The giant simply picked up a beam and jammed it against the door. Then, as casually as it were but a twig, he did the same with another.

Maurice finished: “—we’ll be able to hold them off for quite a bit.”

Valentinian’s expression was still sour. Sour, sour, sour. “That’s great,” he snarled. “You have noticed there’s no way out of here? You have noticed there’s no food in the place?”

Gloomily, he watched Belisarius pry the cover off what appeared to be a well in the southeast corner.

“At least we’ve got water,” he grumbled. “Maybe. If that well isn’t dry.”

Belisarius spoke, then, with astonishing good cheer. “Better than that, Valentinian. Better than that. I do believe this leads to a qanat.” He pointed down into the well. “See for yourself.”

Valentinian and Maurice hurried over.

“Make it quick,” commanded Vasudeva. The Kushan was peering through a small chink in the western wall. “The Rajputs are into the grove.”

“Same on this side,” added Anastasius, peering through a similar chink in the opposite wall. “They’ve got us surrounded.” A moment later: “They’re dismounting, now, going to charge us on foot.” His tone grew aggrieved. “I thought Rajputs never got off their horses, even rode them into the damned latrines.”

“Not Sanga’s Rajputs,” commented Belisarius idly, still staring down into the well. “He’s just as stiff-necked as any Rajput when it comes to his honor, but that doesn’t extend to any silliness when it comes to military tactics.”

Suddenly, Vasudeva hissed. “They’ve got grenades!” he exclaimed.

Belisarius’ head jerked up from his examination of the well.

“You’re certain?” he demanded. But he didn’t wait for a reply before reconsidering his plans. Vasudeva was not the man to make such a mistake.

“I thought the Malwa never let anyone but their kshatriyas handle gunpowder weapons,” complained Valentinian.

“So did I,” mused Belisarius, scratching his chin. “Looks like Damodara decided to relax the rules.”

He resumed studying the well. “Not surprising, I suppose. He’s rumored to be far and away their best field commander, and his army’s based on Rajputs. Sanga’s Rajputs, to boot.”

As he continued his scrutiny of the well, his voice grew thoughtful. “That explains this ambush, I think. I forgot how good Sanga is. Got too accustomed to those arrogant Malwa in Mesopotamia. He knows me. He probably figured I’d do my own reconnaissance, and set traps all along the foothills.”

Belisarius looked up, finished with his examination. When he spoke, the iron tone in his voice indicated that he had reached a decision.

“No point in forting up, now,” he announced. “They won’t waste lives trying to force their way through the door. They’ll just blow out the walls of the farmhouse.”

“They’re already moving in,” agreed Vasudeva. “Three men, on this side, carrying grenades. I can’t even fire on them. Chink’s big enough to peek through, but not for an arrow.”

“I’ve got two on my side,” said Anastasius. “Same thing.”

Belisarius pointed down the well. “We’ll make our escape through here. Strip off your armor. It’s a long, narrow climb, and I’ve no idea how much room we’ll have below.”

“What about the horses?” demanded Valentinian.

Belisarius shook his head. “No way to get them down. We’ll use them for a diversion. But first—” He strode over to the horses. “Pull out our own grenades. I want to set them against all the walls. We’ll do the Rajputs’ work for them. Bring the whole place down. It might cover our escape.”

He began digging grenades out of his saddlebags. An instant later, Maurice and Valentinian were doing the same.

“I’ve got fuse-cord,” announced Maurice. “We can tie together all the grenades. Set them off at once.”

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