Winter was thinking quickly. The windows were high and narrow—no getting in that way without being an easy target. That left the door, but they’d be waiting inside.

“First six, into the doorway, but only on my signal,” she said. Balls clattered and cracked all around her, and Jane’s attack in the main yard was well under way. Hopefully, the Deslandai are spread thin. “Next six, wait half a minute, then follow. I don’t want us jammed up in there. Remember, wait till I say!”

Winter got nods or grunts of assent. She edged beside the door and lifted her borrowed musket, butt first. Back still to the wall, she swung it inward as hard as she could, slamming the wooden butt against the door right above the latch. The farm door, never designed to stand that kind of abuse, gave way with a crash, and Winter snatched her arm out of the way. Just in time—at least three men inside fired, balls whining past the tips of her fingers.

“Go!” Winter shouted. “Before they can reload!” And hope none of them held their shots.

One had. One of Abby’s soldiers leapt into the doorway, and another musket cracked from inside, catching her in the belly and sending a spurt of blood and gore out the small of her back. She crumpled with a moan, and the woman next to her leaned into the doorway and fired. Someone inside screamed. Abby went next, stepping over the writhing woman. Her sergeant stayed beside her, and Winter followed.

She had time only for brief impressions. There was a single hallway, leading to a T-junction with a larger hall that went from the back to front of the house. Doorways led in both directions, to what had been a kitchen and a dining room, and Abby’s soldiers burst through them. More shots and more screams followed, along with the clash of steel on steel.

Two Deslandai came around the corner from the back of the house, bayonetted muskets in hand. Smoke still trickled from the barrels, and they gaped at the sight of the Vordanai women. One of them clawed at his belt, where Winter saw he had a pistol. At this range, he could hardly miss, so she didn’t give him a chance to fire—she charged, tossing her own spent musket aside and clawing the sword from her belt. The Deslandai boy raised his bayonet to spit her, but at the last moment Winter twisted adroitly aside and let the momentum of her run carry her blade into his ribs. He folded up, gurgling, and she jerked the weapon free.

The other Deslandai backpedaled rapidly into the corridor. Winter waved at the hall behind her, where more of Abby’s squad were coming in. “After them! With me!”