In the Heart of Darkness by Eric Flint & David Drake

“Here,” said Rao. He scrambled up the slope, flinging himself to the ground just before reaching the crest. Maloji followed. On their bellies, the two men crawled to the crest itself, and peered over into the small valley below.

“You see?” hissed Maloji accusingly. He pointed angrily, with a bristling thrust of his beard. “Some of the disobedient dogs are still even using their swords.”

“Only two,” murmured Rao. He watched while the two young Marathas below finished cutting down a Malwa soldier before they began their own scramble up the slope on the opposite side. On the crest of that ridge, a line of guerillas was firing arrows into the swarming Malwa troops below.

“They are brothers, you know. One of them probably got tangled up and the other came to his rescue.”

“Still—”

“Do not fret, Maloji. They will learn discipline soon enough.” Grimly: “After they sustain heavy casualties from excessive enthusiasm.”

He broke off, gauging the Malwa. The officers were finally bringing order back to their little army. At their command, ranks of soldiers began slogging up the slope. They suffered considerable losses from the arrows raining down on them, but their advance was inexorable. The Malwa had tried to cram too many soldiers down the narrow valley—not much more than a ravine. Those packed ranks made an easy, slow target for ambush, but, once they began their counter-attack, were far too massive to be repelled.

“They should break off now, the dogs!” snarled Maloji. “Your orders were very clear!”

Rao did not argue the point. He had, in fact, ordered his men to fire no more than two volleys after the Malwa began their counter-attack. The guerrillas should already have been retreating. Instead, the young Maratha rebels waited until the Malwa were halfway up the slope before they finally scrambled away.

Rao turned, and edged his way down the slope. Maloji followed, still grumbling.

“You shouldn’t have given them those horses. That’s why they’re so bold. Disrespectful young dogs. They think those horses can outrun anything.”

Now well below the skyline, Rao stood up. He grinned at his lieutenant. “Those horses can outrun anything. Anything these sorry Malwa have. The best horses foreign money could buy!”

Maloji rose and brushed himself off. “Fine steeds, I admit,” he agreed reluctantly. “They were a wonderful gift.”

“I think of it as an exchange,” demurred Rao. He looked to the west. He could not see Bharakuccha, of course. The great port was many miles away, hidden behind the Satpura mountains. “They gave us the horses, we gave them the opportunity.”

“Will they make their escape, do you think?”

Rao shrugged. “I should imagine. We stopped the couriers, and we’ve been”—a gesture toward the ridge; a wide grin—“distracting the Malwa.”

He turned and began loping toward the dell where their own horses were hidden away. Speaking easily, despite the rigorous pace, he said over his shoulder:

“As I told you before, Maloji, those men are ­capable.”

Capability was unneeded. The escape, at the end, was child’s play.

Garmat simply marched across the ramp connecting the Axumite trader with the wharf, and presented himself to the captain. Before he had even reached the man, the captain was goggling.

“Stop looking like a frog, Endubis,” he growled.

The captain gaped.

“And close your mouth, fool. Spies may see you.”

Endubis’ mouth snapped shut. The captain glanced hurriedly at the shore, scanning for danger with an experienced eye.

Like all Ethiopian merchant captains, Endubis was no stranger to combat. Such merchants served as a reserve for the Kingdom of Axum’s navy. No seaman could reach the rank of ship captain, even in the merchant fleet, without the negusa nagast’s approval. For all their relaxed customs in other areas of life, the Axumites were never casual about their naval power.

“Trouble?” asked Endubis.

Garmat smiled, thinly. “You might say so. The entire Malwa Empire is baying for our blood.”

Endubis winced. “The Prince?”

“He is well.” Garmat made a little gesture with his head. “In that warehouse. With his dawazz and the sarwen. Some others.”

The adviser examined the ship briefly. “Thirteen men, in all. It will be crowded, but—”

“We’ll manage,” muttered Endubis. The captain turned and began bellowing orders. His seamen ­immediately scurried about the ship, preparing for ­departure.

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