Russian Amerika by Stoney Compton

the rope."

    Grisha tugged obediently on the rope. Irena had arrived in the same coffle of prisoners with Grisha. He'd noticed her compact, pleasing body on the trip here, before sickness dominated his life. She was the first of the coffle to be raped by the Cossacks. Even now her purpled right eye swelled as a result of further attention from one of their masters.

    His willpower had dissipated in tandem with his physical strength and both approached their nadir. At the trial he had felt grateful toward the judge for saving him from the rope, even though was not sure he had received the most humane sentence. At least now the mosquitoes were nearly gone.

    A breeze wafted through the trees and cleared the air momentarily. Instantly Grisha imagined himself on the deck of Pravda , the master of his domain, and free on the water. A frustrated tear leaked from the corner of his eye and he concentrated on hoisting the log onto the wall. Only three weeks completed out of thirty years.

    Kazina's name stuck in his mind. But try as he might, he could no longer picture his wife's face. Last week he received official notice of the dissolution of his marriage. He used the paper at the slit trench and wondered if she still slept with the naval kommander.

    Another tear broke free of his suppressed emotions and blended quietly into his sweat. In all of this upheaval and hell, he nursed but one teethgritting dream-to meet Valari Kominskiya one more time. He vowed she would not live through the encounter.

    Hammers sounded from the small cabins grouped around the ever-growing lodge, bringing him back to grim reality. They all worked as hard as possible to finish before the subarctic winter snapped down on the land. All this for foreigners, he thought. Why would anyone pay money to vacation here?

    “Put your back into it, you cockless mare!"

    Grisha gripped the rope and did as he was told._

    8

    Outside Construction Camp 4

    Slayer-of-Men kept one ear cocked at the distant pounding while he conferred with his team. All wore the same face paint and camouflaged clothing. None of the uniforms carried any indication of rank.

    "Wohosni." His eyes flashed over the tall, thin man. "You take the Cossack in the tent." His finger jabbed the twig model. "Paul, Claude," he glanced at the shorter men, one burly, one slight, "you deal with the three soldiers in the kitchen." A wood knot surrounded by smoothed dirt.

    "Leader," said Malagni, a wide-faced, big-boned man whose muscular chest threatened to split the fabric of his large shirt. "I would like a Cossack." His fingers caressed the skinning knife he held in his other hand.

    "You take the one with the Kalashnikov. He has to die first, but not too early. And don't depend on your knife, use your bow."

    "I understand," Malagni said through a wide smile.

    "Heron." The man personified the bird. "You eliminate the soldier on the turret. Lynx, you take out the tank with the satchel charge. Remember, we want their slaves alive; that's the reason we're here."

    "Maybe that's true for you, big brother," Malagni said. "But I'm here to kill Cossacks."

    "That's our second reason," the tall man said. "Alex, you move in on the left here"-he pointed at the twig standing upright-"and as soon as Malagni takes out his Cossack, you destroy the radio with your satchel charge." Alex, easily the handsomest man present-despite the blotches of paint-nodded and displayed perfect teeth.

    "Cora, you cover Alex; we have to get the radio. Wing, can you get two with your bow before they know what's happening?"

    "Of course I can," the raven-haired woman said as she thrust out her finely chiseled chin. "You know that."

    "Just checking. I want you to get the armed guard here"-his finger prodded dirt in the model layout-"and cover this one. If he makes a move to shoot, kill him."

    She grinned, causing the scar on her wide cheek bone to bend back on itself. "Can't I just kill him?"

    "No. We need trained people."