Chapter Two: Damsels

Two things happened at once: a shot rang out and Harper staggered as it slammed into his right thigh, and Oliver Purefoy screamed, high pitched and terrified, until he was abruptly cut off with a barely heard gurgle.

The Chosen Men erupted into activity.

"Find cover!" Sharpe cried, and lunged forward to catch Harper as he fell, slipping sideways a little under the larger man's weight and struggling to hold him tightly through his slick oilskin. A second and third shot thudded into the mud beside him as he swung an arm around his sergeant's waist and pulled him awkwardly backwards against the wall of the cottage. Harper was already fumbling at his neck for his kerchief, pulling it roughly off and pressing it against the wound. A second scream, this one of fury rather than terror, came from the far outbuilding, followed swiftly by several shots.

"Damn, damn, damn!" the large Irishman cursed. Sharpe pressed both of Harper's hands to his thigh over the kerchief, then fumbled in his own pack and hauled out his spare shirt. He bound it roughly around Harper's leg.

"You'll do?" he asked. Harper nodded. Sharpe pushed himself upright and primed his rifle, rounding the corner of the cottage at a run and skidding across the muddy yard to the far outbuilding. His men were involved in a vicious melee with two strange dark men – farmers by what they wore, although they fought like no farmer Sharpe had ever encountered.

One of them grabbed Cooper and threw him at least ten feet toward Sharpe. The Corporal thudded into the mud at his feet, winded. The Captain reached down and hauled him upright, and the two joined the fight. Sharpe saw Harris thrust his bayonet deeply into the chest of one of the whirling farmers, who faltered a little, but continued to fight, completely unaffected. Sharpe pushed his rifle butt into his shoulder and squeezed off a shot that hit the farmer that Harris had wounded in the chest. Again, the man faltered, but continued to snarl, laying Perkins flat with a swipe of his hand and - attempting to bite Harris on the neck? Harris pushed himself away just in time, his face a mask of horror. Sharpe felt a curl of fear up his spine. What were these things that looked like men?

"Back!" he ordered. "Reform!"

The Chosen Men stumbled backwards from the two snarling farmers. Abruptly, two more figures joined the fray, coming between the farmers and the riflemen, smaller – female? – figures, striking out with fists and feet and what appeared to be small hand axes, beating the strange men with a vicious efficiency that made Sharpe pause. The blonde grabbed one of the farmers and threw him towards the sheep pen, following in three quick steps to land beside him. She snapped a fence paling with one blow, picked it up and thrust it into his chest as he lunged at her. Then she whirled and with a shout tossed the paling to the darker woman, who finished off the other farmer in a similar fashion, kicking his feet from under him and stabbing the paling into his chest before he had even landed. Sharpe blinked in disbelief. It had taken these two less than ten seconds, by his reckoning, to dispose of the strange farmers, and now he could not even see the bodies. He stepped forward, adrenalin still surging through him.

"Halt!" he called, as much to his own men as to the two strange women, who looked at each other and then at him. The blonde looked pointedly at her partner then tucked her weapon into the top of her trousers. There was a moment of stillness, the only sound created by the rain storm as it gathered momentum and rumbled darkly around them. A chilly wind reminded Sharpe that he was soaked through, as were his men and the two women. He peered at them for a moment. They wore men's clothing, and looked a little too bruised to have gained all of their apparent injuries in the brief melee he had witnessed.

"So…" the blonde said suddenly, raising her hands as if in surrender. "Um… parlez vous Francais? Erm… Je suis… erm…Le stylo de ma tante est… fatigue." She shrugged and gave a small smile. The brunette still held her hand axe, and Sharpe noticed that her fingers curled more tightly around it.

"French women?" muttered Perkins, beside him. "Here?"

"Not French," Sharpe replied, looking again at the blonde. "Who are you?"

She sighed. "I never was all that good at French, but I guess since you guys apparently aren't French it doesn't matter."

"Who are you?" the brunette asked, thrusting her chin toward him. Hagman stepped forward and edged around them into the outbuilding, emerging a few seconds later.

"Purefoy's dead sir," he reported. "His throat…" There was a full minute where the only sound was the wet slapping of the rain. Perkins hung his head and Cooper clapped him on the shoulder to comfort him. Sharpe cursed softly, and returned his attention to the women.

"Who are you? And I tell you I will not ask again."

"My name is Buffy Summers. This is Faith," the blonde woman supplied. "And unless you want us all to die of pneumonia or something, don't you think we should get in out of the rain?"

There was another moment of stillness. Sharpe looked at Faith closely for a moment before shaking his head and opening his mouth to speak.

"Sir –", Harris began suddenly, peering rather intently at the two soaking women.

"Where are the bodies?" Cooper asked abruptly, glancing apologetically at his Major, and at Harris. The two women frowned at each other, then gave the men a measuring glance.

"You should grab your friend," the blonde replied after a moment, jerking her head toward the outbuilding where Purefoy's still, booted feet could be seen through the low doorway. "Then we should get inside somewhere and discuss this."

A cold rivulet of water slid down Sharpe's neck and into his collar, and he could not at that moment argue with the logic of that. He shot a reflexive glance toward the top of the bluff. The rain obscured his vision, but he could not believe that the French infantry had disappeared as completely and mysteriously as the bodies of the two dead farmers. He shook his head.

"We can't afford to stop here," he said, looking at his men. "The French are still up there, and its only a matter of time before they find the way down, if they aren't already going around. We need to keep moving." He shivered. "Hagman, Harris, fetch Sergeant Harper. Corporal Cooper, fetch Purefoy's rifle and pack. We… we'll have to leave him here." He took a deep breath and motioned to the two women. "You will be joining us. I will require explanations of this as soon as we are away from danger. I must assume that provision for your transport will have to be made. Perkins, the pony." Perkins shrugged, and trudged toward the livestock pen. Sharpe strode toward the women, who stood their ground, although he noticed that the brunette's grip on the axe once again tightened.

"I'll not harm you. My name is Major Richard Sharpe of His Majesty's 95th Rifles. We are bound for the British position two days east of here. You will be under my care until we arrive there, and then we shall see what is to become of you."

Buffy regarded the tall sandy haired man who stood before her. Despite his words, his tone was devoid of much actual concern for them. He sounded royally pissed, actually. She flexed her hands. They were cold and wet, like the rest of her.

"So, B. Are we meant to be, like, damsels, here or what?" Faith asked, trying for a subtle tone but forced to shout a little to be heard above the rain.

The Captain looked at her sharply, but said nothing. Buffy shrugged. "I guess for the moment we are damsels," she replied, sending Faith a meaningful glare. The dark slayer twisted her mouth in chagrin, then shivered. She didn't reply, but nodded in understanding. The two slayers were out of their depth in this time, and needed to lay low for a while with the natives to get their bearings. The two soldiers Sharpe had sent around the cottage returned, supporting a taller, dark haired man between them. Buffy looked at him curiously. He was wounded in the leg, limping heavily and swearing so hard and creatively that Faith grinned beside her in appreciation of his efforts. All three men slid heavily in the sloppy mud, and the volume of swearing increased as the taller man put weight on his leg to steady himself.

"Sergeant, are you able?" Sharpe asked him. The dark haired man nodded.

"More of a scratch than anything sir, and that's a fact."

Buffy looked at the amount of blood on the makeshift bandage and doubted that diagnosis very much, but kept quiet. Sharpe's expression betrayed a similar opinion, but he also kept it to himself.

"So the pony's for him, right?" Faith asked, gesturing casually at the wounded man. "Right?"

All four men turned to look at her.

"Because, not a big fan of riding horsies."

The dark haired man looked at her sharply through the rain, seeing her for the first time.

"Ramona?"

Then he sagged between the two soldiers holding him upright as he passed out.

Perkins returned, dragging the reluctant pony behind him. It snorted and curveted and rolled its eyes. Faith backed away a few steps.

"Did I mention not a big fan of riding?"

Buffy shot her an amused sideways glance. "You? Afraid of horses?"

Faith raised an eyebrow. "I think I must have skipped the My Little Pony stage," she replied. Her expression told Buffy not to push the subject.

"Sir!" Perkins puffed as he approached. "The rain made it harder, but I think I heard movement out past the edge of the bluff."

"The French patrol," Sharpe said abruptly.

"We need to move?" Buffy asked. He paused.

"We need to move," he confirmed, looking at her closely. Buffy turned to Faith.

"Help me load him up, Faith." She faced Sharpe. "Muster your men. We'll take him."

He paused for a moment, then gestured to Hagman and Harris, who relinquished their burden into Faith's arms.

"Hold the nice horsie," she muttered to Perkins, who complied, wide eyed as she and Buffy hefted the six foot tall Harper onto the skittish pony's back. Cooper appeared with Purefoy's pack and Baker rifle slung over his shoulder. His men assembled, Sharpe barked out a few words that made no real sense to the slayers. The unit fell in to a marching order, with Hagman taking the lead followed by Major Sharpe. Perkins continued to lead the pony when neither of the two women, who were occupied by keeping Harper mounted and upright, showed any inclination of doing so. Cooper and Harris paced at the rear. They headed east out of the farmstead as the rain began to ease. They traveled silently.

The brief rainfall had stopped altogether when the French patrol caught up with them.