Carnifex

2/1/468 AC, The Base, Kashmir Tribal Trust Territory

If ever a man looked downcast, and in need of rest, it was Noorzad. Oh, he'd made it out, along with a critical dozen of his key followers. The rest? Bombed, burnt, butchered. Even after escaping from the mines dropped by air, he'd found a new group of fast horse cavalry on his tail, relentlessly tracking him over the mountains. He'd had to sacrifice the last of his newer people to those cavalry to buy time for the rest to escape.

His one weary eye, the white patches on his skin that told of frostbite, and the general air of sheer exhaustion he exuded; all said he needed a break.

There was one good thing, one tiny bright spot, amidst the disaster. Coordination between the lesser, mercenary infidels and the greater infidels in the north of Pashtia had been poor. Noorzad had half expected to be met by yet another ambush as he and the pitiful remnants of his band emerged from the snows of the central mountain range. Instead, there'd been nothing except some sympathetic tribesmen who'd provided camouflage for the guerillas on their way to the nearest city.

Once there, things had improved considerably. Noorzad had acquired a new satellite phone and reported in to Mustafa, seeking guidance and orders. Those had been simple, both to receive and to follow.

"Come home."

Now he was "home." However exhausted Noorzad might have been, he still could hardly wait to rebuild his force and return.

"That will be a while," Mustafa advised as he poured tea for the both of them with his own hand. "Our . . . infrastructure was not well rooted in the south of Pashtia. Our defenses were weak. And this enemy is not as weak as the Taurans. Worse, though he doesn't have the firepower of the greater enemy, he makes up for that with a ruthlessness to match our own."

"The men I left behind?" Noorzad queried.

"It was not your fault," Mustafa cut him off, insisting, "You had no other choice. To stand and fight would have meant being slaughtered. But . . . "

The lesser chief raised one eyebrow. "But?"

"As near as we can tell, they've cleaned out your band completely. And no, we cannot take hostages to trade because these infidels not only won't trade—that much we learned when they were in Sumer—they've already shot or hanged all their prisoners . . . unless they've spared a few for questioning."

A look of mental agony flashed briefly across Noorzad's face. If he had known, he would have stood and fought rather than run. Not that he'd cared about most of his men, especially the spoiled Yithrabis. But he'd left friends behind.

Mustafa read the look well. "No," he said. "That is, I think, part of their method. They shoot their prisoners precisely to make us want to stand and fight. They may someday sell our women and children as slaves to the same purpose."

"What now?" Noorzad asked, willing away his feelings of personal failure.

"Now the winter is upon us. The passes are mostly closed. South of the mountains the infidel is continuing to clear out our people and the filthy, decadent Taurans are setting up shop again. In the spring, the mercenaries will surge over the mountains to reinforce the Federated States and Anglia. We cannot stop them, though we can bleed them."

"Cut their supply?"

"No . . . I think not," Mustafa answered. The Federated States troops require more in supply per man, even for light infantry, than the Volgans did for their armored troops. They must have their comforts, at least when in base. The lesser infidels seem to require much less. They live . . . . rough." There was a tone almost of admiration in Mustafa's voice. "I don't think we can appreciably interdict their supply lines."

Noorzad sighed sadly. "Then . . . my men go unavenged?"

"No," Mustafa smiled. "No; we have a plan and a means to hurt these infidels in return."