At the Queen_s command

Makepeace Bone hefted two muskets, one in each hand. In his titanic hands they might as well have been long pistols. He fired both toward the loopholes, never slowing down. Men screamed, others shot, and Makepeace charged straight ahead.

He hit the wooden gate with a shoulder, roaring as he went. The gate exploded off its leather hinges. Makepeace rolled into the darkness beyond it. Rangers followed. More muskets lit the dawn with fire.

Nathaniel came through the door two steps behind Kamiskwa. He pointed toward the fort's ramparts. "Justice, get your boys up there. Trib, the other side. Caleb, your boys sweep the courtyard! Move it!"

Muzzle flashes came like lightning, freezing combatants for one quick second. Under Caleb's command, the first squad crouched and shot at anything moving in the compound. The second and third squads cut right and left respectively, heading up to the ramparts with the Bone brothers. The fourth and fifth squads inched forward, taking cover behind storage sheds and a longboat undergoing repairs.

Shots echoed from the sloop. A ball ricocheted off the gatepost near Nathaniel's head as he crouched to reload. The Ryngians returned scattered fire from the fort's far end, where they'd been waiting the dawn firing.

Which was what we was waiting for, too. So much for the Major's diversion! Nathaniel levered the rifle's breach closed. I reckon we're the diversion now!

A door opened on the compound's central building. A man silhouetted himself against a lantern. Nathaniel moved right, lifted his own rifle and shot. Smoke blinded him and by the time tears had washed his eyes clear again, all he could see was light pouring through a hole in the door.

Nathaniel reloaded again, then tapped one of the Bookworms on the shoulder. "Be pleased iffen you'd tell them Summerland boys we'd enjoy them cannons helping out with the barracks and all."

The man nodded. "Which one?"

"Either, for a start. Go!"

The Ryngians had built the barracks against the north and south walls respectively. The central building cut the compound in half. Nathaniel reckoned the Prince could explain the math they used for designing the layout, but no matter the numbers; it made things awkward for the Rangers. Already Ryngians had knocked loopholes in the barracks walls and were shooting back. Nathaniel also figured they'd be forming up on the other side of the headquarters for a charge that would sweep the Rangers right out into the lake.

Nathaniel's heart pounded. The Ryngians would come running around that building, bayonets gleaming. They'd fire maybe one volley. Maybe they'd not even bother. Twenty-five yards and they'd be on the Mystrians like cats on mice.

What am I going to do? If the Rangers stayed, the Ryngians would slaughter them. If they ran, they'd die. He glanced at Caleb, not seeing the soldier the man had become, but the boy he'd been. Damned foolish thing, war.

Nathaniel drew his tomahawk and laid it on the ground by his knee. "Fix bayonets, boys. Give 'em one volley on my order. Shoot low."

Muskets clanked with the haunting sound of bayonets being slid over the barrel and locked down. From the compound's far side, a whistle shrilled. A Ryngian voice shouted orders. Booted feet stamped in unison, the crisp sound smothering the occasional crack of a musket. The whistle blasted again.

From twenty-five yards away, the Second Company of the Silicium Regiment streamed around their headquarters, sharp steel forward, shrieking with outrage and fury.

Nathaniel stood. "Hold it, boys. Hold it! Fire!"

The Rangers fired, but thirty muskets against sixty men didn't matter much. Here and there a Ryngian went down, but their fellows just galloped over them. A couple Rangers stared, frozen. A couple more ran. Others looked around, defiance melting into fear as uniformed soldiers drove at them.

Nathaniel fired quickly, smashing the whistle and the face of the man blowing it. He stood there, loading as quickly as he could, but he knew there wasn't time. The rolling thunder of the Ryngians' pounding feet confirmed it. He fumbled with his bullet, but caught it before it hit the ground. He drove it home and levered the breech shut.

Too late!

The Ryngians had closed to where he could see their wide eyes and glinting bayonets.

Then hands yanked him backward as Makepeace Bone yelled, "Get down!"

Makepeace swung one of the swivel-guns around and slapped his palm over the egg-sized firestone. White teeth showed in a smoke-stained grimace. A heartbeat later, the small cannon erupted.

Compared to the sloop's cannon, swivel-guns hardly presented a threat. They could fire a small, two-pound cannonball, which would have bounced off the sloop's hull. But men do not have oaken flesh, and these swivel-guns had been loaded with grape shot: twelve balls to the pound, two pounds to the load.

The Ryngians had crossed all but the last ten yards to the dock when Makepeace fired.