The gasping country girl could wait no longer. She raised her head, then scrambled up and fled towards the trees. One of the soldiers glimpsed the panicked movement and cocked his musket with an ungloved thumb. He wore a neck-cloth round his face to filter out the smoke and the bloody smell of butchery. His eyes moved coldly, following his prey.

He watched her weaving through the scattered bodies. A swirl of smoke obscured her; then she crossed the muddy lane. He brought the musket sharply to his shoulder and fired a heavy ball that thudded hard into her back. The girl squawked like a rooster and pitched forward, her body bouncing on her breasts, and then she lay as limp as a dropped coat.

The soldier moved on through the gutted village, not bothering to load again. His bayonet was fixed and dripping red. Other troops were rooting through the buildings, or putting torches to thatched roofs. Fresh flames licked up into the wintry sky. The men were as ragged as blue-coated scarecrows, their faces masked against the acrid smoke.

Their officer stood watching the destruction, massaging his mittened hands as if tempted to warm them at the blaze. His thin face wore a sneer, devoid of pity. The village was a nest of vermin. Clearing it was satisfying work.

His gaze strayed to the stark surrounding woodland. The bare trees gave no sign of life, but he sensed a lurking hatred and despair.

Adjusting the muffler round his neck, he turned and squelched his way back through the mire. A few survivors cowered in the pigsty, surrounded by fixed bayonets and men as dangerous as hungry dogs. His sergeant glanced around. “They claim no knowledge of the rebels.”

The officer surveyed the captives. One was a wide-eyed girl with damp blonde hair. “Let’s see that pigeon fly,” he said. Her face fell as he pointed. A soldier grasped her arm and hauled her upright from the mud.

The officer gulped brandy from his hip flask, then gestured to the nearest man, who gave up his own musket dutifully. It was the standard ’77 model. The officer inspected it, as if his shabby troops were on parade. Then he jerked his head. The girl was shoved out of the pigsty, the leering soldiers making room as she stumbled clear and broke into a run.

Thumbing back the flint, he raised the musket to his shoulder. The girl fled from him, whimpering. The soldiers cheered her on. He sighted on her slender back – and heard the thud of hoofbeats. His forefinger tensed warily. A mounted figure loomed out of the smoke.

The fleeing girl’s escape was blocked, and she slithered to a standstill, a sitting target for the officer. But he switched his aim as the horse was pulled up sharply. The rider stared down at the girl, then coolly raised her eyes to meet his gaze.

She was a poised young lady in a long blue riding coat. The garment had a military cut, with red lapels to match those on the soldiers’ uniforms. A tricolour plume adorned her high-crowned hat.

Her face was rosy from her ride, with eyes that shone like sapphires. She had a mane of russet curls, tied back in a lace net. The officer observed her shapely figure, but didn’t overlook the pistol tucked into her sash.

The peasant girl glanced back at him, then scampered to the rider and clutched her horse’s bridle. “Please don’t let them, Miss,” she sobbed. The lady looked disdainful for a moment, then smiled condescendingly and stroked the girl’s damp hair.

“Your business in this district, Citizen?” the man demanded.

“The same as yours,” the lady said. “To root out the Republic’s enemies. We women have a part to play, whatever the Convention might decree.” She had a haughty tone of voice which irked the officer. The shameless scarlet of her lips provoked him even more.

“I trust you have a pass?” he asked her curtly.

“Of course,” she said, and touched her gun. “But this is all the safe-conduct I need.”

As she spoke, more riders were appearing, all women wearing long blue coats like hers. They were armed with saddle guns or fowling-pieces, more like ladies on a hunt than female revolutionaries. But some of them wore swords as well. The colour in their cheeks was more than rouge or the excitement of the ride.

“This isn’t women’s work,” he said.

She turned to scan the village, but it seemed the bloody sight left her unfazed. Her kid-gloved fingers petted the blonde peasant. The girl cringed closer to her stirrup, peering fearfully at the officer.

The rider’s fingers gripped her hair and pulled her head up sharply. Before the girl could even gasp, a dagger sliced across her tautened throat. The officer recoiled in shock. His leering men fell silent. Blood came squirting from the wound, as vivid as the rider’s smiling lips.

The peasant squirmed and gave a liquid gurgle, then drooped until the rider’s fist was all that held her up. The fingers opened slowly and her damp blonde hair slid through them. The girl flopped down into the mud, her throat still leaking and her mouth agape.

The rider wiped her dagger with a white lace handkerchief. “My name is Juliette,” she said. “My friends and I can ride, and we can hunt. Citizen, it troubles me to see men killing women. I wonder if they’re spurred by more than revolutionary zeal.” Her tone was wry. He bridled at its sarcasm. One of the other women gave a mocking little smile.

“As for us,” said Juliette, “our motives are quite pure. To safeguard the Republic, even from our own fair sex.” She sheathed her blade and cast away the bloody handkerchief. It landed in the crimson pool still spreading from the peasant girl’s slit throat.

A civilian on a horse had made his way into the village and was talking to some soldiers by the church. He wore a tricolour cockade and carried an old shotgun. One of the bluecoats sloshed upstreet towards the officer.

“Six women are being held in the next chateau,” he reported. “Suspected rebel sympathisers. Shall we send a squad to deal with them?”

The officer hesitated, then gave Juliette a sour look. “Leave this to pure republicans,” he sneered. Juliette smiled graciously and nudged her grey mare forward. Her friends came trotting after her, some glancing at the soldiers as they passed. Their looks were full of confidence, with just a hint of coyness. The soldiers stared back hungrily, but none was bold enough to make a move. The women’s weapons gave them pause, but so did their assurance. The type of riding coats they wore were named for female warriors.

Amazones.

* * *

Martine raised her pistol butt and knocked on the big door. “Open up,” she called, “the revolution’s here!” Stepping back, she peered up at the chateau. A modest place, compared to some, but grand enough for country girls like her.

The clothes she wore had once been fine – frock coat and riding breeches – but she’d scuffed and frayed them with rough use. The building was likewise the worse for wear. Martine pushed back her tricorne hat and pouted with annoyance, then glanced at Nell, who was lounging with her back against the wall.

Her friend stared down the drive. Her cool blue gaze belied her posture. There was dirty smoke above the trees. “They’re getting closer,” she said evenly.

“Infernal columns,” said Martine. “That’s what he called them, didn’t he?” Glancing back, she licked her lips, then gave a twisted smile. Nell recognised the sentiment behind it. The thrill of tantalising Death was something that she shared.

Both of them wore greatcoats bearing tricolour cockades, although the badges had been taken from dead men. Nell had a red coat underneath, but that was stolen too, a trophy from her days as a camp whore. The carbine braced against her thigh had been purloined as well. She’d got it from a dead republican. But the gun must have been looted from the royal armoury, its barrel inlaid with golden fleurs-de-lys.

There were footsteps from beyond the door, and Martine turned her pistol. Most of the guard had been cut away and the trigger tied back with a piece of twine. Lowering the gun, she summoned up a winning smile. The door was opened warily. A sour-faced girl stood looking down at her.

She wore a maid’s drab dress and lacy mobcap, but was done with being a servant. The big pistol she was holding said as much. A tricolour sash was tied across her apron. She eyed Martine suspiciously. “So who are you?” she said.

Martine jerked her head towards the distant smoke. “We’re with the column. Requisitioning supplies – and looking out for Whites.”

“This chateau is in loyal hands,” the maid retorted quickly. Martine sensed her unease and pounced on it. “I hope it is,” she said, projecting careless arrogance. “Come on, Elisabeth, let’s look around.”

She sauntered past the maid, who stood aside uncertainly. Nell followed, stifling a smile: Martine had never called her that before. Their footsteps echoed in the spacious hallway. “Can I see your pass …?” the maid began.

“I’d show you,” Martine sniffed, “if you could read.”

Behind the girl, Nell pulled a face at her audacity. Ignoring her, Martine peered round. “We’re itemising valuables as well.”

“We have some,” said a man’s voice from the staircase. “But first, I’ll see your pass and read it too.”

Nell’s thumb twitched, but she kept it off the hammer of her carbine. Martine turned with a show of nonchalance. The man was coming down the stairs, holding a musketoon. The large-bore weapon wasn’t aimed, and didn’t need to be.

His gaze flicked down to Martine’s gun and saw it wasn’t cocked.  “I’m waiting, Citizen,” he said. Martine gave a conciliatory smile. Nell took a sideways step and his attention switched to her. Martine swung up her gun and slapped her palm across the cock.

With the trigger tied, the hammer fell at once against the steel. The pistol blasted dirty smoke and sent a bullet ploughing through his chest. The musketoon swung wildly as his forefinger contracted, but the hammer stayed securely at half-cock. The man went down, blood spurting through his waistcoat. Nell turned her carbine on the startled maid.

“Let’s see what pearls you’ve got,” she said, “before the swine get here.” Her English accent shocked the girl still more. Martine shoved her gun into her pocket, and drew another from beneath her coat.

The maid’s jaw dropped. “You’re nothing but a pair of thieves,” she blurted.

“Better thieves than butchers,” Martine said. “Now move your arse.”

The maid threw down her pistol like a gesture of defiance. She sidestepped the slumped body and began to climb the stairs. Martine and Nell came after her, ears straining at the silence, but the chateau felt deserted. Then they heard the distant crackling of shots.

Martine’s heartbeat quickened: an agreeable sensation. “We’re not particular,” she told the maid. “So long as we can carry it and sell it …”

The maid went to the nearest door. “How much d’you think you’ll get for these?” she sneered.

Opening the door, she led the way into a bedroom. Martine followed her and came up short. There were six young women huddled in the corner, stripped down to their chemises, with their hands behind their backs. They cowered as Martine came in, their faces pale and tear-stained. Their eyes widened in horror at the sight of her cockade.

The low-cut undergarments gave a view of each girl’s cleavage. To see six panting pairs of breasts left even Martine lost for words at first. Their bosoms had been tautened by the tying of their wrists. She looked from face to frightened face, then cleared her throat. “A brothel would pay well.”

“Who are they?” Nell asked wryly from the doorway.

“Whores of royalists,” said the maid. “The Guards will deal with them when they get here.”

Martine could see it wasn’t just the girls who had been stripped. The room was bare, its drapes and linen gone. Whichever side had plundered the chateau, they’d left few pickings. She pouted, then looked round at Nell. “I guess we cut this one too fine,” she said.

Ignoring the bound girls, her friend went over to the window. “It looks like they’re coming as the crow flies – burning everything that’s in their way.”

Martine grunted. “Time we made our arses scarce,” she said. Nodding to the wide-eyed girls, she touched her battered tricorne. “A pleasure to have met you, ladies ...”

“Wait!” one girl burst out. “You’re not with them?”

 “Not if we look lively.” Martine turned towards the door.

“You can’t leave us,” the girl said hoarsely. Someone else had started whimpering.

Martine gave her a scathing glance. The girl had big brown eyes and a mane of chestnut ringlets, as dishevelled as a gypsy’s by her plight. “They’ll murder us in cold blood,” she insisted. “But first they’ll have their way with us. They’re men!”

Martine made for a brusque retort, but found no words for it. She looked at Nell. The blonde girl smiled. “That’s twice today that something’s shut you up!”

Martine just made a face at her, then looked back at the girls. “So what do you think?” she asked her friend.

Nell’s smile died. “I think the same as you do.”

“Bollocks,” Martine muttered. “Right, girls – let’s get you untied.”

Nell turned back to the window. “Riders coming down the avenue,” she rapped.

The maid, who had been hanging back, lunged out onto the landing. Martine went racing after her. She couldn’t shoot: the newcomers would hear. Instead she pounced and brought the girl down as she reached the staircase, but the maid kicked back and struggled clear. Her tricolour sash ripped off in Martine’s hand. She tumbled down the first few steps, then found her feet again. Her kick had winded Martine, but the smaller girl came scrambling in pursuit.

The maid was almost flying by the time she reached the hallway. She hurtled for the open door, too panicked to retrieve her own dropped gun. Outside, two female riders were approaching the big house. They both wore long blue amazones with scarlet facings like a guardsman’s coat. The maid ran down the steps and fled towards them. Martine emerged behind her, and one rider pulled her carbine from its sheath.

The other horsewoman took in the situation quickly. The girl running towards her wore a local’s dowdy dress. The one pursuing her sported a tricolour cockade. The rider guessed a prisoner was trying to escape.

She drew her sabre with a rasp as the maid came stumbling up. Before the panting girl could speak, the heavy blade slashed down into her neck. It cleaved her soft white flesh and split her windpipe, then lodged against her clavicle. The maid’s dark eyes snapped wide with shocked dismay.

Her protestations turned into a gargle as the blood spilled down her cleavage, thick as soup. She flailed convulsively, and then the rider freed her sabre. The maid fell sideways like a doll, writhed briefly in the gravel and went limp.

Martine had come up short, her bosom heaving. The other rider gestured with her gun. “Put down your pistol, Citizen,” she ordered. “Let’s see your pass, or you’ll be joining her.”

“I have it here,” said Martine, as she laid the pistol carefully at her feet. The girls were riding side-saddle, their postures arrogant. One wore a low-crowned riding hat, the other a smart tricorne. The carbine was the new Versailles one, short but accurate.

She dug into the pocket of her greatcoat. The carbine levelled warningly. “Are you with Westermann?” Martine enquired.

“With Turreau,” said the rider with the sabre, rather proudly. “We’ve joined the Hell-column back there. This district must be purged.”

Martine drew a wad of papers from her pocket. They were tied with a red ribbon. “It’s with these, somewhere …” she said.

The rider with the carbine glanced beyond her, to the building. “You’ve five more prisoners, yes?” she asked. “We’ll execute them once our leader’s here.”

Martine shrugged. “My father always told me, don’t count your birds until they’re in the bag.”

The papers she was riffling through were love-letters from Nell, which she had written to help Martine learn to read. But the silken ribbon tied a pocket pistol to the bundle. As Martine spoke, she thumbed the cock, then swung the stubby weapon up and fired.

The gun had a short barrel, and its ball was buckshot-sized, but at that close range it pierced the rider’s brow. Her head fell back and to the side, her shocked mouth falling open. The carbine slipped from her gloved hands, and a scarlet teardrop spilled down her pale cheek.

The other girl sat frozen for a moment, the confidence congealing on her face. Then she dropped her sword and grasped the pistol in her waistband. Both blade and carbine fell towards the ground. But Martine hit the gravel first and scooped up her dropped pistol, rolled over as she cocked it and fired upward at the disbelieving girl. The bullet struck its target just beneath one swelling breast. The rider wailed and arched her spine, then slithered off her mount.

“Go ask the damned in Hell to show their passes,” Martine said.

At the upstairs window, Nell lowered her carbine and set about untying the scared girls. The one with gypsy ringlets was the first one to get free. She rubbed her wrists, then started tugging at the next girl’s bonds. “What’s your name?” Nell asked her as they worked to free the others. “Louise,” the girl said flatly as she picked a knot apart.

Martine came back into the house, holding the Versailles carbine. “Who can use a gun?” she called as the captives started hurrying downstairs. A gamine-haired brunette put up her hand and took the weapon. Her face was pale and anxious, but her jaw was firm. She wouldn’t waste her shot.

Nell came down the staircase, shepherding the last few girls. They edged around the man’s slumped body, staring with dismay at his spilled blood. One stooped down impulsively to take his musketoon. She was tall and lean and serious-faced. A quill pen would have better suited her.

Louise saw the maid’s pistol on the floor and picked it up. Martine was still reloading hers. She jerked her head. “We’ll go out through the back.” Nell caught her eye as she came past and Martine smiled thinly. The odds were stacked against them, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

They went through to the scullery and out into the yard. Nell led the girls towards the trees; Martine brought up the rear. Louise and the others cringed in their chemises as the frigid air embraced their tender flesh. The thin shoes that they wore were good for walking round a garden but would not sustain them through rough countryside.

Martine and Nell had left their mounts in the woods behind the chateau. Martine caressed her horse’s face, then took her shotgun from the saddle boot. It was an ornate Thonon, made for some forgotten noble, the damascened barrels cut in half. A killing weapon, not a sporting one.

“We’d better leave the horses,” she said grimly.

Nell nodded. “Who were those outside?”

“Hell’s harlots,” Martine said. “And there’ll be more.”

As she spoke, they heard the sound of half a dozen horses approaching from the far side of the house. One of the girls moaned softly. Martine squeezed her cold bare arm. “Come on,” she urged and led the way between the leafless trees.

Juliette cantered up the drive, then reined her mare in sharply and stared down at the bodies of her friends. Her cheeks stayed rosy but her face grew livid, offsetting the bright scarlet of her lips. Her blue eyes raked the chateau as the other riders joined her. “The birds have flown,” she grated, “but they won’t get far. I want them in the pot!”

The riders split up dutifully and rode around the house. “There’s footprints here!” one girl called out and urged her pony on into the wood. The others followed, spreading out behind her, their horses scuffing through the rotted leaves.

The tall girl with the musketoon glanced back uncertainly. She, Louise and Nell were the impromptu rearguard. The wood behind looked naked and deserted, but the noise was getting louder all the time. She chewed her lip, then halted by a thorn bush. The other two kept moving till Nell turned to check their trail.

She gestured with impatience, but the tall girl shook her head. “Go on!” she hissed. “I’ll try and slow them down.” Louise turned with a gasp and looked about to scurry back, but Nell forestalled her with a baleful look. As the three of them stood staring at each other, they heard a twig snap like a brittle bone. Nell caught a glimpse of scarlet through the tree trunks, and then the dark blue of a riding coat.

Ahead, the other girls were hesitating. Louise went forward, ashen-faced, and urged them on again. The tall girl knelt and raised the heavy firelock. Nell pressed her shoulder to the nearest tree. The horsewoman came onward, full of haughty confidence, her hair as blond as corn beneath her hat. As she ducked her head under a branch, the tall girl pulled the trigger and the musketoon erupted with a roar.

The horse collapsed beneath the burst of grapeshot. Its rider whinnied just as shrilly, clutching at herself as she went down. The girl reared with the weapon’s kick, which almost broke her shoulder. She stared in disbelief at what she’d done.

Over to the left, another rider spotted her, and aimed a pistol over her left arm. As the tall girl rose, the bullet struck her midriff. She folded forward with a grunt, and pitched into the bush she’d crouched behind. The thorns cut through her thin chemise and needled her soft flesh. She screamed with all her dwindling strength, but couldn’t wriggle from the spiky web. The black spines raked her cleavage and sank deep into her breasts. By the time her body slumped inert, her ripped chemise was spotted with bright red.

Grimacing, Nell trained her carbine on the second rider. She’d learned to fight from fellow whores, but an officer had taught her how to shoot. She fired and burst the girl’s firm breast as if it were a wineskin. The rider lifted from her saddle, tumbling back over her horse’s rump.

Nell rolled clear of the betraying gunsmoke. A bullet struck a nearby oak and left a white scar as it ricocheted. She heard a horse being whipped into a run between the tree trunks, the rider bearing down on her before she could reload. But Nell’s carbine had twin rotating barrels. She swung the charged one uppermost and locked it into place. Still stretched out in the loam, she cocked the hammer. The polished stock felt smooth against her cheek as she took aim.

The horsewoman came pounding into view, her face exultant, a huntress running down her prey. Nell put a ball into her pretty head. The flat-topped riding hat flipped off, and blood trailed out behind it. The girl’s spine arched, her large breasts lifting as her horse surged out from under her.

Nell scrambled up while the body was still falling. She loped after the others, leaving foul smoke like a fogbank in her wake.

Martine pushed on and kept her charges with her. She tugged one girl by the chemise, and slapped her gun across another’s rump. Her mouth was dry with fear for Nell, but she didn’t glance behind her, just forced the pace relentlessly till she saw a squat stone building through the trees.

It was a mill belonging to the chateau, abandoned now and crumbling with neglect. A river barred the way to it and Martine came up short. The rough path they’d been following led down the bank towards some stepping stones. She studied the old building for a moment, while the girls stood wheezing with exertion, huddling together at her back. The one with short dark hair still clutched her carbine, her knuckles white against the walnut stock.

Louise had caught them up, but there was still no sign of Nell. A shot rang out behind them. Martine stepped aside. “Go on! I’ll cover you.”

One of the girls, a sniffling blonde, began to cross the stones, her arms spread wide for balance as her soft shoes found a purchase on each slab. Then another gunshot cracked, much closer, and a bullet pierced her side and spun her round. She flopped into the river as the other girls screamed vainly, and the current pushed her back against the stones.

Cursing, Martine risked a look along the riverbank. There was a stone bridge to their left, and two blue coats above the parapet. The amazones had found a road and used it to outflank them. While the girl who’d fired reloaded, her companion would be covering the ford.

There wasn’t time to hesitate. She thumbed her shotgun’s hammers. “We’ve got one chance,” she told the fearful girls. “Now follow me!” She sprang onto the stones and fired one barrel at the bridge, then let fly with the second as she made for the far side. The buckshot wasn’t good for much at that range, but the blasts produced two gouts of smoke that hung between the banks. She heard a carbine firing blind, and the ball slashed through the billows as the girls behind her crossed unscathed, like spectres in the fog.

It was Juliette’s turn to curse over the sights of her short carbine. She was perched on her side-saddle at the centre of the bridge. She glanced at her companion, who was ramming home a bullet, and gestured for her carbine. “Give me that, and reload mine!”

Martine urged the girls towards the mill, then looked across the river. Her heart surged as Nell came in sight, but the temporary smokescreen had dispersed. Catching her friend’s eye, she gestured sharply at the bridge, then followed in the others’ wake. The building was a place they could defend.

The bridge could still be seen beyond the trees and undergrowth. The short-haired girl swung round and fired defiantly at it. The shot went wide and Juliette ignored it. She aimed towards the fugitives and chose the one who’d dared to shoot at her. The girl was still off-balance from the unfamiliar recoil when the bullet struck her naked upper chest. It clipped her breastbone just above her cleavage and ploughed its way into her heart. She pirouetted with a doleful cry.

The others reached the shelter of the building. Martine began reloading from the pockets of her coat. Louise crouched next to her, her scratched breasts heaving. The cut-down Thonon drew her gaze. “How close do you need to get with that?” she asked.

 “Close enough to kiss a girl,” said Martine through her teeth. It was rather more than that, of course, but the buckshot lost its punch as it spread out.

 Nell had slithered down into the hollow of the bank, still hidden from the bridge, but with no way to get across the stepping stones. The shot girl lay before her, half-submerged like a drowned deer. The mill beyond looked very close and much too far away. Nell fumbled a fresh cartridge from her pocket – then stiffened as she heard a horse approach.

 The last of the pursuing riders reached the bank above her. She saw the body in the river, and peered round for other fugitives. Nell pressed back against the bank. She could hear the horse’s breathing. The hammer of the rider’s carbine clicked back to full cock.

 Across the river, Louise raised her pistol and triggered it towards the amazone. The bullet missed, but it got the girl’s attention. Focusing on the puff of smoke, she nudged her mount downslope.

 Nell struck her as the horse went past, putting all her strength behind the carbine’s butt. It thumped into the rider’s ribs and jarred her from her saddle, a more precarious perch than if she’d been astride her mount. She landed in the water as the startled horse splashed forward. Nell pounced while she was floundering, and forced her head down with the rosewood stock.

 She glanced towards the bridge, but there was no-one on it now. The girl lay thrashing on her belly, weighed down by her sodden riding coat. Nell braced the carbine’s butt against the back of her blonde head, and held her underwater till her struggles grew spasmodic and she slumped. The English girl’s expression was set grimly, like a kitchen maid wringing a chicken’s neck. The flow of icy water swirled her coattails and spread the rider’s hair like golden weeds.

 Juliette and her companion rode towards the mill. A magpie chittered as they passed, and rooks called hoarsely from the trees around. The pair dismounted warily in front of the old building. Juliette cocked her pistol, and her minion braced her carbine at chest height.

 As they started to advance, they heard a splashing from the river, and a mare came scrambling up out of the ford. The rider had slumped forward in her saddle, her blonde head hanging past the horse’s neck. Her long blue amazone was black with water. The girls stood staring in dismay. “It’s Pauline!” Juliette’s companion said.

 The horse walked past them aimlessly and she ran to catch its bridle, her gun still aimed one-handed at the mill. She realised her mistake as the blonde rider raised her head, but before the French girl could react, Nell plunged a bayonet into her breast.

 She didn’t want to risk using her pistol in case the priming powder had got damp. But her eighteen-inch steel blade had no such problems. She drove it through the girl’s plump tit and felt her shudder as it found her heart.

 Juliette fired reflexively and pierced the horse’s brain. The mare tossed its head and toppled sideways, almost crushing Nell as she lunged clear. Juliette hurled the gun at her and ran for her own mount. She didn’t mean to get away, just grab the carbine in her saddle boot.

 But a girl wearing a torn chemise was there ahead of her and dragging the short rifle from its sheath. Louise had darted forward from the cover of the building. Her dark eyes flashed with hatred as she tried to cock the gun. Juliette hissed and sprang at her, and they struggled for the weapon. Martine came forward slowly with the Thonon at her cheek. Sensing her approach, Juliette gave her a baleful glance. She thrust herself against Louise. And then the gun went off.

 The recoil jolted them, but Juliette recovered first and jabbed Louise’s belly with the butt.  The brunette doubled up around the impact, and Juliette seized her neck and swung her round. The knife with which she’d killed the peasant girl came out of nowhere. She held it to Louise’s throat and hugged her like a shield.

 Martine stopped five yards away, her stumpy shotgun levelled. Juliette sneered defiantly. There were spots of colour burning on her cheeks. Martine glanced at Nell. The English girl was sitting up and fumbling for her pistol, but the fall had winded her.

 Louise’s bosom panted, almost splitting her torn neckline. Her dark eyes stared at Martine’s gaping gun. “Close enough to kiss a girl?” she asked, her hoarse voice catching.

 Martine flexed her trigger finger. “Yeah – and stick my tongue right down her throat.”

 She slipped her finger off the forward trigger, and found the second trigger’s rearward curve. A pinch of pressure dropped the left-hand hammer, and Louise quailed before the flaring pan. She raised her hands reflexively, as if to swat the buckshot. The barrel blasted smoke at her, but it was loaded with a single ball.

 The bullet grazed her shoulder and gashed Juliette’s slim neck. The amazone lurched backwards with a look of disbelief as much as pain. Her knife flailed clear, her free hand clutching at her bloodied collar, and Louise slithered from her grasp.

Martine squeezed the first trigger of her gun.

The right-hand barrel had been charged with buckshot. A wad of it struck Juliette, a hand’s span underneath her heavy breasts. The impact slammed her breath out in whoop of agony and flipped her over backwards so that Martine glimpsed her lacy petticoats. Her body tumbled to a stop a dozen feet away. As Martine watched, her painted lips began to overflow with brighter red.

Louise was crouching where she’d fallen. Martine went across and helped her up. The girl stared at her dumbly, then embraced her with a whimper, while all around the rooks took flight, their cries like rusty echoes of the shots.

* * *

The column out of Hell was marching westward, the soldiers splashed with blood and grimed with smoke. Another farm was burning in the distance. The region was being steadily laid waste.

As they tramped along the muddy track, five riders came towards them. Three were in long blue amazones, and the other two wore greatcoats with cockades. There was no sign of their imperious leader, but the girls in blue looked more subdued this time. Their loss of confidence amused the soldiers. One of the coats was soaking wet; another bore an ugly crimson stain.

The patriots in greatcoats seemed more cheerful, like two camp followers let off the leash. One of them, a small brunette, gave the men a teasing look, but her blonde companion kept her nose turned up.

“Citizens,” the officer called wryly, “don’t tell me that you’ve had your fill of Hell?”

Martine glanced back and grinned. “We’ve just had breakfast with the Devil. But one of his angels had my share – and I think she’ll be a while digesting it.”

Ignoring his bemusement, she caught Louise’s eye and winked. The other girl smiled wanly, huddled in her borrowed coat. The five of them rode on, towards the tail end of the column and the devastated country in its wake.