The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [177]
Mo stopped climbing. A pikeman or gunner or, if they were really fucked, one of those plate-covered Imperial assholes, must have tickled her brain, and Manuel almost let himself slide back down the wall, but then she crawled a little higher and he clumsily squirmed to her left, and with much sliding and slipping he was able to scramble up beside her. The cloud had dissipated, and with the edge of the earthwork just above them he assumed she was waiting for the next volley to blanket the wall before making their charge. He tried to pray, then, but could not fully concentrate, the best he could manage a muttered promise never to paint again if God would only let him live out the day.
Manuel began to panic but caught himself—this was the bravest thing he had ever done, this was his noblest act. Saint Niklaus, the muddy martyr, the man who gave his life so that a witch who denied Christ might live. At least he was not a fucking coward Imperial hiding behind a wall instead of fighting like honest men. His mind began to slide back down the wall, across the field, past the little red millwheel, and up the walk to where his wife and niece and daughter and little boy and even that terrible cat all awaited his safe return, then his eyes fell on the overturned cart beneath him. Smoke was trailing up from the slats like the mud squishing between his fingers, but before he could go back or tell Mo the next volley shook the wall, and with the wave of smoke washing down over them Manuel realized the arquebusiers must be just over their heads, firing at the Swiss who huddled a short distance east along the wall. Fuck them, fuck them and fuck him, and over he went.
The wind was carrying the smoke down the wall and over the Swiss, which was grand for the pikemen clustering at the base of the earthwork but rather fucked for Manuel, who rolled over the top of the wall to find himself utterly exposed in the early morning light. Thankfully Mo had captured the attention of the dozens of arquebusiers they had emerged on top of, the giantess leaping into their rows with a pistol in each hand. Manuel saw the lines instantly become a disorganized mob as she fell amongst them, both guns discharging as she kicked men down and stomped them into the earth.
“Ay dios mio!” one of the gunners cried, which only incensed Monique further.
“Spaniards!” she howled as she dropped the pistols in her hands and drew the pair from her waist-scabbards. “Evil fuckin Spaniard cunnnnts! Fire! Fire!”
Two heads split, fountains of blood and brains erupting as her second volley struck home, and then the pack of arquebusiers broke, the devil amongst them, and as they ran Manuel went to work with his hand-and-a-half. He had only hacked a few legs out from under the fleeing gunners before his stomach dropped and he took a step back—a dozen landsknechte, the Imperial equivalent of the Swiss pikemen who had proved so effective against the Empire in the past, were pushing through the fleeing arquebusiers. Must have crossed myself with the wrong hand this morning, the artist thought glumly. Then he noticed the plated man at their forefront, and the eager voices of the old Manuel shouted down the less brave ones of Niklaus Manuel Deutsch, would-be civil servant and fusspot. A real fucking knight had come to play, and Manuel would have charged at once if Mo had not dropped to her knees over her discarded guns.