In the Heart of Darkness by Eric Flint & David Drake

All that was needed, to give the proof to their words, was a sudden cataphract charge on the south edge of the camp.

Valentinian gave the order. He and his two comrades plunged out of the line of trees. Their horses thundered toward the Malwa camp, some sixty yards distant. They drew their bows, fired their first volley—

The northeast sky turned to flame and thunder.

Every Malwa soldier in the camp turned, as one man, and gaped at the spectacle. They did not even notice the first three casualties in their midst. Three soldiers, hurled to the ground by arrows plunging into their backs.

They did not notice the next three casualties. Or the next three. Or the next three.

By the time Valentinian and his comrades reached the pathetic little palisade—say better, low fence—which circled the camp, they had already slain eight Malwa soldiers and badly wounded as many more.

And, for all the good it did, they might as well have been boys casting pebbles at cows. All of the Malwa soldiers were still facing away, gaping with shock at the incredible display to the north, completely oblivious to the carnage in their ranks to the south.

The cataphracts reined in their horses at the very edge of the palisade. It was no part of their plan to get tangled up with the Malwa soldiers. They simply wanted to draw their attention.

The roaring explosions continued to the north. Rockets were firing into the sky in all directions, hissing their serpentine fury at random targets.

Valentinian’s curses, loud as they were, were completely buried under the uproar.

Random chaos came to the rescue. One of the rockets firing off from the exploding armory sailed directly toward the Malwa army camp. The milling soldiers watched it rise, and rise, and rise. Still heading directly toward them.

In truth, the rocket posed little danger to them. But there was something frightening about that inexorable, arching flight. This rocket—quite unlike its erratic fellows—seemed bound and determined to strike the camp head-on. Its trajectory was as straight and true as an arrow’s.

The mob of soldiers began edging back. Then, almost as one, turned and began pushing their way southward. Away from the coming rocket.

Finally, the Malwa saw the cataphracts. Finally, stumbling over the littered bodies, they caught sight of their murdered comrades.

“It’s about time, you stupid bastards!” cried Valentinian. He drew an arrow and slaughtered a Malwa in the first rank. Another. Another. Anastasius and Menander added their own share to the killing.

Valentinian saw a Ye-tai charge to the fore. He was about to kill him, until—he transferred his aim, slew a soldier nearby.

“It Romans!” he heard the Ye-tai cry, in crude, broken Hindi. “That Belisarius he-self! After they! Get they!”

The Ye-tai sprang over the palisade, waving his sword in a gesture of command.

“After they!” he commanded. Valentinian saw three other Ye-tai push their way through the Malwa mob, beating the common infantrymen with the flat of their blades and shouting the same simple command.

“After they! After they!”

Valentinian reined his horse around and galloped off. Anastasius and Menander followed. Seconds later, with a roar, the entire mob of Malwa soldiers was pounding in pursuit.

On his way, the cataphract sent a silent thought back. You are one brave man, Kujulo. You crazy son-of-a-bitch! I might have killed you.

Brave, Kujulo was. Crazy, he was not. As soon as he was satisfied that the momentum of the Malwa soldiers was irreversible, he began edging his way to the side of the charging mob. His three comrades followed his lead. A minute later, passing a small grove, Kujulo darted aside into its shelter.

Under the branches, it was almost pitch black. Kujulo had to whisper encouragement in order to guide the other Kushans to his side.

“What now?” he was asked.

Kujulo shrugged. “Now? Now we try to make our own escape.”

Another complained: “This plan is too damned tricky.”

Kujulo grinned. He, too, thought the plan was half-baked fancy. But he had long since made his own assess­ment of Ousanas.

“Fuck the plan,” he said cheerfully. “I’m counting on the hunter.”

Then: “Let’s go.”

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