#byron anders

Both are pale, too pale, but even at this distance he can make out splotches of black and red. Blood falls from more wounds than he can count, leaving crimson flowers in the snow, and if he squints he is sure he can see burns. Neither is dressed for the cold, tattered tailored clothes hanging like prison rags about their shoulders. And desperately broken voices rise, each urging the other on.

Once again, Stanford tells himself not to intervene. Dark shapes burst over the ridge above; men and horses. Arrows fly; the leading child, hair a shock of white, looks back just in time to see their companion fall. It’s an awful thing; shots land with sickening crunches, and stick up like spines as blood splatters. And once again, Ford abandons the pretence.

Range: four hundred and closing; elevation: twenty; aim centre-of-mass; the coldest equation. The beam burns blue. Horse and rider fall. The others scatter, but they are ordinary soldiers against a weapon of a future age. Four more shots bring the others down, the snow burned black by directed energy, and then it is over.

An Author saves two lives, a list is fulfilled in a night, and an offer is given.