The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  It went on that way, and on and on and on, longer than Marcus would have believed possible. Out in the smoke, the riders circled, rode past, formed and charged, but all invisibly. Men fell on the faces of the square and were dragged into the center—here one who’d lost the fingers of one hand to a saber, there a boy with his elbow shattered by a carbine’s bullet. One by one the square filled with these unfortunates. The toll on the Redeemers was worse, far worse. Marcus knew it had to be, but the only evidence was the shouts of men and the screaming of horses. He began to feel as though there was no end to the men out there, as though his own soldiers would be picked off, one by one, until only he and Janus remained, alone in the fog—

  The colonel opened his eyes, and his smile broadened.

  “Well,” he said, “that would appear to be that.”

  It was a few moments longer before Marcus realized he had the truth of it. The sound of hoofbeats on hard earth was fading, and the cracks of muskets sputtered out like a dying fire. The screams of the wounded, human and animal, seemed to rise in volume now that they were the only sounds on the field. Slowly, the fog of smoke and dust began to dissipate, prodded by the sea breeze.

  Janus flipped his reins abruptly, and his horse trotted toward the edge of the square. A lieutenant hastily pushed his men aside to make way. Marcus followed. Their mounts picked a careful path through the dead and dying men who littered the ground around the square until they had fought clear of the dusty murk and emerged into bright sunshine. Marcus was astonished to see how little the sun had progressed. He would have sworn they’d been fighting for hours.

  All around them, the enemy were fleeing, toiling up the slope or galloping east and west along the coast road. None of them even paused for a look at the two horsemen in blue.

  “Well,” Janus said, “it seems the men are up to it.” He expressed no particular emotion at this, as though it were merely another piece of data in an interesting experiment. He stared into the distance for a moment, then turned to Marcus. “Order the regiment back into column. We’ll march clear of the field, rest a quarter of an hour, then continue down the road.”

  “Sir?” The men would be exhausted. Marcus himself was quivering with released tension. A quarter of an hour didn’t seem like nearly enough.

  “We’re not finished yet, Captain. You heard the scouts’ report. The enemy infantry awaits us.”

  “Might it not be better to withdraw, then?” Marcus asked. “We could take a strong position to the west—”

  “No,” Janus said. “We must press our advantage.”

  Marcus was a little dubious that they had an advantage. By all accounts, the Redeemer host was at least twenty thousand strong, outnumbering the Vordanai army five to one. True, they were mostly peasants and fanatics recruited by the hysterical appeals of Redeemer priests, but twenty thousand men was still twenty thousand men.

  “What about the casualties?” he said.

  Janus pursed his lips. “Detail a company to care for our wounded. The dead can wait until nightfall, as can the business of gathering prisoners.”

  “Yes, sir.” That sat poorly as well. The men wouldn’t like not being able to stop to bury their fallen comrades, although Marcus was dubious that they’d be able to bury anyone in the sun-scorched, iron-hard earth.

  But orders were orders. Marcus rode in search of Fitz.

  • • •

  A vast cloud of dust marked the Redeemer army, rising above the coast road like a grounded thunderhead. A similar plume trailed the Vordanai column, leaving the rearmost battalion and the drivers in the train spitting grit. Marcus glanced sidelong at Janus, who was riding as carefree as if he were off to the theater.

  “Sir,” Marcus said after a while, in case the colonel hadn’t noticed the looming cloud.

  “Captain,” Janus said, “I’m aware that we have not reached the stage in our relationship where I have your full trust, but I hope you’re prepared to believe that I’m not actually blind.” He pointed a short way ahead. “There’s a bit of a ridge there, and the road veers slightly north. Not much, but every bit helps.”

  After another few minutes, the colonel reined up, and Marcus stopped beside him. Fitz, in his role as aide-de-camp, was still trailing at a respectful distance. To Marcus’ eye, there wasn’t much to distinguish this barren patch of roadway from what they’d been riding along all day, but Janus seemed satisfied.

  “This will do,” he said. “Draw up, all four battalions in line. Tell Captain Stokes to take the flanks, but that he’s not to go riding off without my express orders. And find me Captain Vahkerson, if you would.”

  Marcus nodded, still fighting the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach, and started dictating orders to Fitz. Before long the dust was everywhere, and with it the clatter and shouts of men getting into formation. The battalions went through the evolution from columns into long, three-deep lines with the usual hesitation and confusion, and Marcus winced every time a sergeant cut loose with an angry tirade. If Janus noticed or cared about the poor performance, however, he didn’t show it.

  Captain Vahkerson—the Preacher to all the Old Colonials—turned up, on foot and covered head to toe in dust. He saluted grimly.

  “Lord’s blessings be on you, sir,” he said, doffing his peaked artilleryman’s cap. He was a rail-thin man, with long, wiry arms patched with ancient powder burns. His hair was thinning from the top, as if in natural imitation of a monk’s tonsure, but he maintained his ferocious beard and whiskers. A Church double circle, wrought in brass, hung around his neck and flashed when it caught the sun.

  “And you, Captain,” Janus said solemnly. “Bring up your guns. Half batteries on the flank and the outer intervals. Leave the center to me.”

  “Yessir,” the Preacher said. “We should have a nice field of fire once the dust clears.”

  “As to that,” Janus said, “you’re to hold fire until the infantry opens. Load with double case and wait for my order, you understand?”

  “Sir?” The captain frowned, then caught Janus’ expression. “As you say, sir. I’ll see to it.”

  Janus nodded, and glanced at Marcus as the artillerist hurried off. Marcus had been trying to keep his expression neutral, but Janus seemed to see through him without apparent effort. “You don’t approve, Captain?”

  “Just a thought, sir. A few rounds at five hundred yards might serve to break their momentum a bit.”

  “It would indeed. But is that really what we want?” Janus favored him with a tight-lipped smile. “Trust, Marcus. You’ll see.”

  “Yes, sir.” He caught sight of a familiar figure moving toward the front. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  Miss Alhundt was an awkward rider, Marcus was surprised to see, possibly even as bad as he was. He guided Meadow alongside her small Khandarai mount. She was in her usual brown coat and trousers, with her braid coiled and pinned at the back of her neck. Her spectacles were covered in bits of grit and dust, and she rubbed at them ineffectually with the back of one hand.

  “Miss Alhundt,” Marcus said, “what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

  “Observing,” she said. “His Grace commanded me to be an observer, and to do that I must observe, don’t you think?”

  “You can observe from the rear. The firing line is no place for a—” He almost said “woman,” but sensed this would not go far toward convincing her. “—a civilian.”

  “From the rear I wouldn’t be able to see. I’m not averse to danger, Captain.”

  “This isn’t the opera,” Marcus snapped. “Men are going to be dying here in a few minutes.”

  She nodded, unimpressed.

  “Besides,” he said, “if our line breaks—”

  “I would be safer in the rear?” She raised an eyebrow. “That seems unlikely, unless you think the Redeemers would neglect to pillage the supply train. In fact, a position near the front makes it more likely that I would be killed outright in the event of a serious defeat, which frankly
I would find preferable to the alternative.”

  “But—”

  “It’s all right, Captain,” Janus said from behind him. “I asked Miss Alhundt to attend us.”

  Marcus turned in his saddle. “You asked her?”

  “Of course.” He gave a thin smile. “I would not want the Minister of Information to think I had anything to conceal.”

  Miss Alhundt’s expression turned stubborn, and she seemed about to argue, but he cut her off.

  “Miss Alhundt, you have just come from the wagon train, I believe?”

  She nodded, disconcerted. “Yes. Why?”

  “Did you happen to note what His Grace Prince Exopter was doing?”

  Her lips twitched. “Hiding, last I saw. He disappeared into that giant wagon of his around the time the Redeemer cavalry attacked, and hasn’t come out since.”

  “I see. A pity.” Janus glanced at Marcus. “I invited His Grace to witness this as well, you see. I think it will prove an interesting lesson.”

  I wish I had half his confidence. Marcus looked back at the still-forming line. The Preacher had unlimbered his guns in the gaps between battalions, and some of his men were leading the teams back to a safe distance, while the rest started loading. Each round of case shot looked a bit like a battered tin bucket, closed at both ends, and the ammunition rattled and clanged as the gunners forced it down the barrels.

  As the troops came into position and lapsed into stillness, all eyes were to the east, where the cloud of dust rising above the enemy host loomed larger every minute. Here and there, when a breeze cleared a patch, it was possible to see them—a seething mass of brown and black covering the narrow plain from the shore to the north to the edge of the southern ridge.

  There seemed to be no end to the Khandarai army. If it really deserved the name “army.” On the whole, Marcus thought not. It seemed to be more of a mob—no units, not even an attempt at organization, just a huge sea of humanity pressing forward in the desire to get to grips with the foe. Here and there he could pick out Redeemer priests, wrapped head to heel in black, walking backward in front of their flock so they could continue their harangues.

  The “soldiers” of this force would have been almost laughable in any other context. They were the sweepings of Ashe-Katarion, the poor fools who dwelt in the gutters and tenements, summoned to war by the priests’ promises of retribution in this world and rewards in the next. Each was armed with whatever he had had to hand. There were swords and spears, a few muskets and blunderbusses, but also hoes, picks, and cudgels.

  But there were so many of them. Twenty thousand, the reports had said; Marcus had no way to count them, but they seemed to go on forever. The flat ground around the road was fairly narrow, only a mile or so from the sea to the hills, and the Khandarai covered it like a swarm of locusts. Their charge would swamp the thin Vordanai line, and even if it didn’t, the flanks were vulnerable. It would be easy for the Redeemers to circle around the edges and take the line of blue from the rear.

  We were fools to leave the fort, Marcus thought. The ancient sandstone walls might have been useless against a modern army, but they certainly would have sufficed against this mob. Now, in the open, the Redeemers could bring their numbers to bear.

  The leading edge of the host had advanced to within long cannon range. Some of them obviously knew it, and a shiver seemed to go through the whole force as individuals paused, tensed, waiting for the distant puffs of smoke and the scream of cannonballs. When it didn’t come, they pressed onward, driven forward by those behind them.

  Closer, and closer still. When it became obvious that no fire was forthcoming from the Vordanai line, the Khandarai began to howl, and the priests sent up their weird, high-pitched cry. The swarm surged forward.

  Janus had a pair of lieutenants by his side to act as runners, and he summoned them with a crook of his finger.

  “I will give the order to fire myself,” he said. “Make sure that’s understood. Any man who shoots beforehand will have a great deal to answer for.”

  The young men scampered off. Marcus watched them go, then turned back to the approaching horde. They were in easy cannon range now. The Preacher’s guns ought to have been pounding them, cannonballs snatching great gaps in those tight-packed ranks, carrying men away by the dozen. It might not have been enough—Marcus wasn’t sure if anything would be enough—but it would be something. But Janus had ordered them loaded with double case, two rounds of tight-packed musket balls in thin metal shells, converting each piece into something like a giant shotgun. At close range, the effect would be fearful, but the wasted opportunity for fire made Marcus wince.

  The priests were ahead of the wave of men, urging them on with their song and their example. There was a slight slope up toward the Vordanai position, but the attackers slowed only a little. The front ranks, composed of those men most eager for blood, were a solid line of bristling steel of every description.

  Marcus spared a glance for his own men. The triple-ranked battalions stood, still as statues, muskets already loaded and at the ready. Here and there, Marcus saw a man turn to look anxiously over his shoulder, as though to make sure the road was still open behind them in case a hasty flight became necessary. The sergeants, prowling behind the ranks, raised a shout if any man looked for too long.

  Steady, Marcus decided, but only for the moment. Mor wasn’t the only one who’d worked out the odds. The Old Colonials hadn’t survived in Khandar by fighting unwinnable battles. As for the recruits, Marcus could remember the balance of pride and terror he’d felt the first time he’d gone into action. The pride would hold them for a while, but if that balance tipped toward terror they’d break badly. When that happened, the whole line would give way at once.

  The colonel looked at the approaching enemy, gray eyes shining, nothing on his face but serene confidence. He seemed almost a different man here on the battlefield, as though some madness had taken hold of him. Val had told him that camp gossip said the colonel was insane. Marcus hadn’t paid it any mind, since soldiers said the same of practically every officer who made a decision they didn’t agree with. Now, though, looking at the gleam in those huge eyes—

  He glanced at Miss Alhundt, and found her looking at Janus as well. When she turned to Marcus, their gazes met, and a spark of understanding leapt between them. She sees it, too. Marcus was filled with a sudden terror—if he really was mad, it was too late, too late to do anything but run—

  The cries of the Redeemers drew his eyes forward again. They’d started their sprint too early, Marcus could see, a common mistake among green troops. It was easy to misjudge distances, and the men were always eager to start running. Now they were slowing to a trot or a walk, clumping up as the wave behind them pressed on. Here and there, knots of men hesitated, intimidated by the wall of silent Vordanai uniforms and the sight of the waiting guns. But the majority came on, to two hundred yards, legs pumping as they pushed themselves back into a run. One hundred.

  Fire! Marcus wanted to scream. They’d get in two volleys, if they were lucky. The cannon would take a frightful toll. Fire! But he held silent.

  The screams turned triumphant. The leading edge of the horde spread out as men broke into a dead sprint, weapons flailing. They had barely forty feet of ground to cover. Even placid Meadow shied at the cries, and Miss Alhundt’s horse shifted nervously backward, though Janus kept his mount under expert control. The Vordanai line hadn’t even fixed bayonets—it was going to be slaughter—

  Marcus turned desperately to the colonel, only to find Janus looking back at him. His gray eyes were sparkling, and a hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

  “Fire,” he said.

  “Fire!” Marcus roared.

  He was drowned out by the crash of muskets. What resulted was not the blast of a single volley, but a rapid, rising thunder as the firing spread from the center of the line to the flanks, like flame racing along a fuse. Half a second after it had begun, Marcus heard the dee
p crump of the guns speaking as one.

  Double canister at ten yards. Oh, saints and martyrs. Even in the midst of shock and terror, Marcus had a moment to feel pity for the charging men. The bucket-like case shot would disintegrate when the main charge went off, carrying its load of half-inch balls outward like a giant load of buckshot. Those balls retained enough force to kill at five hundred yards; from thirty feet, they would hit like the hammer of God.

  For a moment, between the blinding flash of musketry and the billowing smoke, he could see nothing. As the roar died away, it took the bloodthirsty shrieks of the Redeemers with it, and a moment of shocked silence seemed to fall across both armies. Then, as though on command, the wails of the wounded rose like the screams of the hosts of hell.

  The volley had gone through the Redeemer host like a reaper’s scythe through wheat. Corpses lay three-, four-, five-deep in front of the Vordanai line, mixed with wounded men and here and there a few who had come through miraculously unscathed. In front of the guns, there were no such fortunates, and not even any corpses recognizable as such. Pieces lay scattered like dismembered dolls, legs and arms and shattered skulls, men who had been hit by a dozen balls and torn to shreds. For an instant the field of fire of each piece was clearly visible, a giant cone of fallen men spreading back through the horde as though swept by a giant broom, while those to either side stood stunned into insensibility.

  In deference to the shouts of their officers, the blue-clad soldiers did not stop to admire their handiwork. Ramrods rattled as the triple line reloaded. They were still slow, and a quick man might have been able to sprint through the field of corpses and reach them, but none of the Khandarai even tried. In less than a minute musketry started to roll again, not all at once but unit by unit as lieutenants called for fire. The pall of smoke was stabbed again and again by yellow-pink fire, and Marcus could hear more screams.