Carnifex

8/7/468 AC, Runnistan, Pashtia

Rachman was terrified; Tribune David Cano could see it in his eyes. Yet the fierce Pashtun would rather die in horrible agony than ever admit to feeling the slightest fear.

And why the hell shouldn't he be terrified, Cano thought. Poor bastard's never been up in a helicopter before. He's never even flown before. If I were him, I'd be shitting myself. What a great people these are. What a formidable people.

It had been this way since he'd first been assigned to the Pashtun scouts. Everything about them impressed Cano. Everything about them he liked. Were they rough men? Yes and so was he. Were they crude and uncultured, ignorant and savage?

Well, what was I but an ignorant ridge runner before the Legion picked me up and sent me to school? My only skill was riding a horse. But these people aren't stupid, no more than I was. They're just uneducated . . . and that can be fixed.

Cano had the oddest feeling, in accompanying Rachman and a hundred and nineteen of his fellow tribesman going to their home villages on leave, that he was going home as well. He'd fit in so well with these men, enjoyed their company and their comradeship so much, that he just knew he was going to belong, and perhaps better than he'd ever belonged anywhere before.

He felt Rachman's fist pounding his shoulder and looked over. The look of fear in Rachman's eyes had disappeared as the Pashtun gestured enthusiastically at what appeared to be a nothing-much village a few thousand feet below.

"Home," Rachman announced over the thrum of the Volgan-built IM-71. And again, with a mix of satisfaction and exuberance, "David, we are almost home."