Most were on dontback. They charged into the open field, and, at shouted order, a group of perhaps fifty riders wheeled to guard their rear. I’ve never seen Blaskoye so disciplined, Abel thought. Who are those guys? The remainder made for the hill, seemingly zeroing in on the knoll as a rallying point. They were in for a surprise. “Hold,” he shouted down the line. “Hold for the girls!” And they did hold, this time. Even Hornburg. The Militia waited, grim-faced, as the Blaskoye drew nearer and nearer. Into musket range. Past it. Was she going to fire? Abel whirled, trying to pick out Mahaut among the mass of women on the hillside, but could not. They all had weapons at ready, however, at least all of them who were armed with muskets. Another second, another. Yes, he thought. That is my range, not theirs. She does right to wait. And then the muskets behind him crackled to life, and Abel whirled to look upon the damage. Blaskoye fell from saddles, donts screamed and whirled. The charge reached the first of the upslope.
