The crack of rifle-fire split the air, only slightly muffled by the wind and the snow, but not a single bullet came close to hitting her. Letting the dress go, she turned her back on the town and trotted toward her soldiers, who greeted her with cheers and laughter as she returned to them.

"So you killed the old man," said Polášek, her captain, looking up at her. "Did he put up a struggle, ctihodnyá?"

Morana shook her head. "I slit his throat before he could even open his eyes," she said, letting out a small laugh of her own. "So much for being combat-ready."

One of her soldiers, Kalinová, held out her rifle and her metal bracelet. She slipped on the bracelet, admiring the wink of light reflected from the early morning sun, and then took the rifle, aiming it at the town in the distance. Through the scope, she could see the figures of the townsfolk beyond their wall.

"Should we attack now, ctihodnyá?" Kalinová asked, tilting her head.

"No," Morana murmured, still watching the men. "They've no option but to come to us. Their leader is dead, and the wired message system hasn't been installed in their town yet— there is no way for them to ask for help. It might be today, it might be tomorrow, but they're running out of food and they will need to make a stand before they grow too weak."

"They could surrender," said Kalinová.

"They could," Morana replied, "but they won't. They won't leave their wives and their children to us, not if they can help it."

And then she heard it: a low rumble, steadily rising across the distance, louder and louder. She could see the men through the scope, leaping and screaming. It was as primordial as it was fitting, a collective war cry echoing over the snow, a return to the ancient days of clans and raids, fire and blood. A frenzy, she realized. Which means...

"Mount up!" she called. "All of you, grab your weapons and mount up! Kalinová, with me."

Her soldiers sprang into action, swinging up into saddles and pulling the carabines or sabers from their backs; Polášek barked out orders and yelled at one soldier who was not in place. Morana glanced back at the man— Daněk; more a boy, really, closer to her own age— and gave him a reassuring smile. Despite the odds that the townsfolk faced, she knew that their strength and ferocity, even born of desperation, could be terrifying to green soldiers. She had been in his place once.

Turning to her soldiers, she said, "Flank them, but keep your distance. There aren't many of them, so if we can encircle them and attack quickly, then they won't stand a chance. This will be over before noon. Are you ready? Forward!"

With the thundering of hooves matching her heartbeat, she drew the knives from her belt and brandished them. The Rikenskí militiamen might have been able to keep pace with her soldiers' horses on their own two feet, but she could match that too, and there was something she had that they did not. Baring her teeth in a grin, she let her eyes flicker half-closed as she called back a memory.

One of her first times sparring as a child, she'd fallen and tried to brace herself. The end result had been an acute, lancing pain in her wrist, one of the few instances that she had ever cried. Now she let the pain pulse and spark along her bones, welcoming it as it diffused throughout her body, even as it forced tears into her eyes. With a sharp laugh, she focused her feeling toward each individual militiaman, sending it like a bullet from a smoothbore.

She could see the exact moment it hit them, hear the screams— between her pain and Kalinová's fear, it was definitely enough to halt them in their tracks. She'd chosen Kalinová specifically, both because the woman was powerful and because she had faced trauma. While the muddle of emotions wasn't impossible for the militiamen to work through, it was enough. The pain she pushed on them and the fear Kalinová struck wreaked havoc in the militiamen ranks. The shriek of metal and report of bullets was all she needed to know that the militiamen were done.

She and Kalinová walked out among the rest of the soldiers, and she took a moment to nudge one of the militiamen with her toe. It was the one she'd spoken to back in the town, white shirt darkening by the moment. The pungent, burnt-earth scent of gunpowder wafted toward her nose, and she let out another laugh.

Setting her hand on Kalinová's shoulder, she said, "Well done, all of you. Before—"

Another flat crack tore through the sky and Morana's vision was obscured by a haze of red. The horses screamed and there was a loud thud as a soldier fell from his mount.

"Down!" she yelled, letting herself fall and wiping the blood from her eyes. "Get down!"

Crammed between the militiaman and Daněk, the fallen soldier, she turned to face her comrade. His chest was heaving, his eyes were wide, and his face was the same ashy-pale as the lieutenant she'd killed not so long ago; between that and where his hands were, protectively over his stomach, she knew that he was a dead man, just the same as dozens of others around them.

"It hurts," he whispered, face contorting. "It hurts, ctihodnyá."

Now she focused on numbness, on her skin's apathy to the freezing cold, and she saw Daněk relax a little, eyes half-closing. "You fought well," she told him, placing the point of one of her knives in one of the gaps between his ribs. "Close your eyes now. Breathe."

As he exhaled, she drove the blade into his heart. His body slumped, and she placed her knife back in its sheath, hating the warm slide of flesh that preceded it. After a moment, she crawled to the other side of Daněk's horse, dampness of the snow soaking through to her skin, and stood up.

Glancing at the other soldiers, she said, "Tell me where he is."

"He circled to the side of us, ctihodnyá," said Polášek. "I can see him now. He's still there, likely waiting for another shot at you."

"He'll have it."

She led the horse alongside her, returning to the copse of evergreens where it would be nearly impossible to shoot her. Looping the reins around a low-hanging branch, she stared at the figure of the lone militiaman. It was probable that he'd meant to hit her, but he had made the greatest and last mistake in his life by killing Daněk.

Breaking into a sprint, she crashed through branches and underbrush, speed barely reduced by her shoes in the snow. This man was going to die with her knife in his heart, just the same as Daněk had. The thought circulated like the blood in her veins as she came closer and closer, near enough to make out the man's features. He had his rifle raised, finger poised on the trigger, but she wasn't deterred in the slightest.

At the exact moment that his finger tightened on the trigger, she hurled one of her knives, and the hilt smashed into the man's hand. He let out a yelp that was cut off as her other knife found his abdomen, point-first. Kicking the rifle away from him, she snatched her blade up from the ground and brought it down into his chest. Blood leaked from his mouth and dribbled down his chin. She pulled her blades free and drove them back in, again and again, until someone touched her shoulder.

Polášek stood behind her, dark hair ruffled from running. "Your orders, ctihodnyá?" he prompted gently.

She wiped the blades off, then stood. "The town," she said, words clipped. "I want it razed."

And not long after, she sat atop Daněk's horse and watched the town glow a harsh orange as she took in the scent of smoke. Burning souls now, she thought, but soon bound for eternal cold. Technically, her mission had been a success— a lieutenant dead and a town burnt— but she still felt the jerk of Daněk's body under her hand. Casualties were simply a part of life at war, she knew, but this one could have been avoided had she taken into account the possibility that they would do more than simply charge.

As she wheeled the horse around, Morana took one last look at the militiaman and Daněk laid out side by side. Perhaps she should feel something beyond this, she thought, some shock or horror like many of the soldiers she'd worked beside in her life. But she couldn't, because she was no stranger to the dead.

Trust me, you've not seen a proper frenzy until you see Europeans during the World Cup. 

Ctihodnyá (stee-HOHD-nee-yaa): Venerable one, a made-up title used for females only.

Carabines: firing a full-size rifle on horseback was pretty much impossible, so shorter versions were made. Accuracy suffered a bit, and many cavalries did eventually just decide to dismount and fight, but this story's got to function a little differently.

Smoothbore: guns can come rifled, with the grooves on the inside of the barrel, or they can come smoothbore (no grooves). Rifled improves accuracy, but smoothbore wears down less over time and causes less speed to be lost while firing.

Above is a picture of an 1800s cavalry man; you can see the shorter rifle in his hand. 

In case you're wondering on pronunciation, ě creates a 'yeh' sound, š is 'sh', and á is an elongated 'ah' sound as compared to normal 'ah'-- it is not necessarily for emphasis, like in Spanish.