Slayer-of-Men kept one ear cocked at the distant pounding while he conferred with his team. All wore the same face paint and camouflaged clothing. None of the uniforms carried any indication of rank.
"Wohosni." His eyes flashed over the tall, thin man. "You take the cossack in the tent." His finger jabbed the twig model. "Paul, Claude," he glanced at the shorter men, one burly, one slight, "you deal with the three soldiers in the kitchen." A wood knot surrounded by smoothed dirt.
"Leader," said Malagni, a wide-faced, big-boned man whose muscular chest threatened to split the fabric of his large shirt. "I would like a cossack." His fingers caressed the skinning knife he held in his other hand.
"You take the one with the Kalashnikov. He has to die first, but not too early. And don't depend on your knife, use your bow."
"I understand," Malagni said through a wide smile.
"Heron." The man personified the bird. "You eliminate the soldier on the turret. Lynx, you take out the tank with the satchel charge. Remember, we want their slaves alive; that's the reason we're here."
"Maybe that's true for you, big brother," Malagni said. "But I'm here to kill cossacks."
"That's our second reason," the tall man said. "Alex, you move in on the left here"—he pointed at the twig standing upright—"and as soon as Malagni takes out his cossack, you destroy the radio with your satchel charge." Alex, easily the handsomest man present—despite the blotches of paint—nodded and displayed perfect teeth.
"Cora, you cover Alex; we have to get the radio. Wing, can you get two with your bow before they know what's happening?"
"Of course I can," the raven-haired woman said as she thrust out her finely chiseled chin. "You know that."
"Just checking. I want you to get the armed guard here"—his finger prodded dirt in the model layout—"and cover this one. If he makes a move to shoot, kill him."
She grinned, causing the scar on her wide cheek bone to bend back on itself. "Can't I just kill him?"
"No. We need trained people." Slayer-of-Men felt proud as he looked over the nine under his command. Each of them had commanded raids like this in the past.
They were the best warriors the Dená nation offered. He fervently believed that every day brought them closer to the time when the cossacks and their masters would be driven from Dená land. And people like these would lead new armies.
"You must all be in place by the time the shadows have moved from here"—his finger traveled less than a hand's width—"to here. I will signal and, after Malagni kills the Kalashnikov, the attack begins."
Murmurs of assent dissipated in the air and the team melted into the brush. Slayer-of-Men made his way back to the wide oval hacked out of the forest by the Russians. He waited and watched the huge cossack who sat on the small guard platform with an automatic rifle resting across his knees.
There would be more weapons like that in the camp. The cossacks ruled their world so completely that they felt only one of them at a time needed to be armed in this manner. Every one of their camps the Dená had attacked had been just like this one.
The only deference the Russians made to their previous losses elsewhere was the decrepit tank sitting on the riverbank. The tankers had lapsed into boredom and indifference over a week ago. The prisoners didn't need the machine to keep them working; the cossacks did that.
The cossacks wasted their own strength, Slayer-of-Men thought for the second time in less than an hour. He knelt and took his bow from its hiding place. Nocking a metal-headed arrow, he leaned back and calmly waited for his team to strike.
The shadows crawled inexorably along their appointed paths.