The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  Any sign that the little party was in place would be tantamount to failure, but Marcus couldn’t help staring after them, trying to make his eyes resolve shapes in the darkened village by sheer force of will. Eventually he gave it up and started back to rejoin the Old Colonials, who were camped in the muddy fields up the road far enough to be out of sight of the Auxiliary garrison.

  Not much to do now but wait.

  • • •

  Just after first light, with the sun still below the horizon and the sky a deep blue-gray, the Vordanai column began to form up on the outskirts of town. It was an ostentatious display—battalion flags flying, drummers beating for all they were worth, lieutenant and sergeants screaming orders—and by forming in columns of companies the Colonials partially masked the fact that each battalion was only a third the size it was supposed to be. Once these noisy preparations had been completed, the line advanced up the gentle slope toward the point of the triangular town and the stone-built temple that dominated it.

  The Auxiliary garrison was not inclined to stay to receive them. They had been deployed to protect the ford against raiding parties, not to try to impede a general Vordanai advance, and clearly here were the “corpses” in considerable force. A few desultory shots rang out from the windows of the temple as the blue line came closer, at far too long a range to find their targets, and then the company of Khandarai retreated in good order through the center of town. Their duty now was to rejoin their main body and report on what they’d seen, and accordingly their lieutenant marched his men hastily up the road and toward the ford.

  They were in sight of the canal when shots rang out from all sides, billows of smoke rising from the buildings lining the road and behind the embankment. Argot’s men, slipping past the sentries in the darkness, had taken up positions close to the ford from which they could direct a lively fire at the Khandarai column. Men fell, screaming, and in a panic the Auxiliaries spread out, seeking whatever cover they could find. A few shot back, trying to pick out blue-uniformed men crouching in doorways or behind windows, and for a few moments the racket of the firefight drowned out all other sound.

  Then, during a brief lull, a voice called in Khandarai for surrender. The Auxiliary lieutenant hesitated—the Redeemers were not kind to those who failed in the line of duty—but the choice was obvious. The way ahead was clearly blocked by an enemy force of unknown strength, and in the sudden quiet the drums of the main Vordanai line were quite audible. In any event, his men made the decision for him. First singly, then in twos and threes, they emerged from hiding with hands raised.

  • • •

  “All in all,” Adrecht said, “not a bad morning’s work. A dozen enemy dead and a hundred prisoners, in exchange for one man taking a bit of a bump on the noggin.”

  That had been one of Argot’s, slightly injured when a shelf had collapsed on top of him during the firefight. Marcus permitted himself a smile.

  “Don’t forget the lost night’s sleep,” he said.

  “If we can trade a night’s sleep for a company in the bag, I think we’ll come out ahead.”

  Adrecht stretched his arms over his head and yawned. He’d been able to put his head down for a few hours. Marcus himself had been too keyed up, thinking about Argot creeping into position and scanning the eastern horizon for signs of the rising sun.

  “Are they all accounted for?” Marcus said.

  “Yup. Their lieutenant is still doing his fence-post imitation, but a few of the sergeants were more talkative. Looks like we got them clean.”

  The midnight raid had served its purpose, then. News that the Vordanai had seized the ford had not escaped north of the river.

  “Good,” he said. “That’s good.”

  He turned his eyes north. The two officers stood outside the front door of the temple, on the low hill that dominated the village and the soggy fields beyond. From here Marcus could see the sludgy brown waters of the canal and a good bit of the land beyond. The horizon was thus far reassuringly empty.

  Adrecht followed his gaze. “You think they’re coming? Maybe we moved fast enough they won’t get the news at all.”

  “They’re coming. That first bunch, where we crossed, sent messengers in both directions as soon as they saw they were in for a scrap.” He shrugged. “Besides, we haven’t got the men to watch the whole canal line. It’d be easy enough for a single messenger to swim. No, Khtoba knows that we’re across, and that means his troops aren’t doing any good at Westbridge.”

  “He still might march them through the city, instead of up the river road.”

  “If he does, they’ll be too late to do any good.” Assuming Janus wins the battle in the south. The colonel had taken the majority of the Colonials to pounce on the other half of Khtoba’s divided army, but even that would only give him roughly even odds. He forced himself not to worry about that. Concentrate on our own problems. “Either way, we should assume they’ll try to force a crossing.”

  “Stopping three battalions is going to be a hell of a job.” Adrecht looked down at the village with a professional eye. “There’s no cover on the bank itself. The shacks are worth something, but if they bring up guns it’ll be trouble. Even a four-pounder could probably reach us from the other bank, and anything heavier . . .” He shook his head. “If the damn Khandarai would build their houses out of something a bit more substantial, we’d have more to work with. What I wouldn’t give for a proper Vordanai country village.”

  “I think stone and timber are in shorter supply around here than back home,” Marcus said. He glanced at the temple behind them. “We can hold in here, though.”

  Adrecht grunted. “Hold, sure. But if it comes to that . . .” He trailed off sourly.

  Marcus followed the thought. The temple made for a reasonable blockhouse, with thick stone walls and a heavy timber roof. The windows were tall and narrow, and began a considerable distance from the ground. The main doors looked solid, and in any case could be reinforced by a barricade. It was big enough to hold two or three companies, at least, and he wouldn’t want to have to take on the task of assaulting it if he were on the other side.

  But if it got that desperate—a last-ditch defense that far from the ford—they’d be surrounded for certain. Once the Auxiliaries broke out into the open, their greater numbers would let them circle around and cut off any possible retreat.

  “We’ll hope it doesn’t come to that,” Marcus said. “Get the men started loopholing the shacks by the canal, and tell Lieutenant Archer to start setting his guns up at the top of the embankment. We’ll have to work on something to camouflage them—” Marcus felt suddenly light-headed. He put out a hand to steady himself on the wall of the temple, missed, and took a few stumbling steps before Adrecht caught his arm.

  “I’ll take care of it,” the other captain said. “Get some sleep.”

  “You’ll wake me if there’s trouble?”

  Adrecht smiled. “I swear to it. Go.”

  Marcus lurched away, his feet suddenly feeling like they’d grown thirty-pound weights. Inside the temple, the air was dusty, and the floor tracked with mud and bits of smashed furniture. The crews that Adrecht directed inside, later in the day, were astonished to find their senior captain stretched out on a surviving bench, jacket wadded up as a pillow, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

  Chapter Twelve

  WINTER

  “Take the knife—”

  Winter opened her eyes. The light was the familiar blue-gray of the morning sun filtered through the faded canvas of her tent, but her lips still tingled from the kiss. When she blinked, tears spilled from her eyes.

  “You were dreaming,” said a voice in Khandarai. Feor. Winter sat up abruptly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “How did you guess?”

  “You were speaking to someone,” the girl said, propped up on one elbow in her bedroll on the other side of the tent.

  Winter cursed silently. If she’d started talking in he
r sleep, there would be no keeping her secret. “What did I say?”

  “Nothing I could understand.” Feor raised an eyebrow. “In the cloister, there was a young man who dreamed of the future. Was it that sort of dream?”

  “No,” Winter said. She could still feel the brush of Jane’s hair against her face. “I dreamed about the first time I fell in love.”

  “Ah.” Feor fell silent, and Winter gave her a look.

  “I suppose priestesses aren’t allowed to fall in love?”

  “No,” the girl said, serious as always. “We are permitted to take our pleasure with the eckmahl, the eunuch servants, but love . . .” She caught Winter’s expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “Just surprised,” Winter muttered. “In Vordan, priests and nuns are expected to be chaste.”

  “I pity them, then,” Feor said. “It seems unnatural.”

  As opposed to taking little boys and cutting off their balls? But she declined to begin that argument. By the amount of light filtering in through the canvas, she could tell it was past dawn. Before she’d made it across the room to her jacket, the drumroll started, at the double-quick pace that meant “to arms.” Winter pulled on her uniform coat, buttoned it, and was working on her socks when there was a rap at the tent pole.

  “That you, Bobby?” she said, without looking up.

  “Yessir,” came the boy’s voice from outside.

  “I’ll be there in a moment.” Winter turned to Feor. “We’re not breaking camp today, so you should be all right here.”

  The girl nodded. “You will fight today?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then I wish you luck.”

  “Even though I’ll be killing your countrymen?”

  “The men of the Redemption are no countrymen of mine,” Feor said, with a rare hint of ire. Then her expression turned worried. “Winter-dan-Ihernglass. If . . .”

  She trailed off, lips pressed together. Winter forced a smile.

  “It’ll be fine. Try not to worry.” She finished lacing her boots and got to her feet. “We should be back by evening.”

  Feor nodded. Winter ducked through the flap and into the gray morning light, where her three corporals were waiting. Around them, the men of the Seventh Company were piling out of their tents like ants from a smashed anthill. Since they were planning to return to camp by evening, they could march light, and the soldiers were taking this opportunity to shed all the kettles, utensils, spare clothing, extra biscuits, and miscellaneous loot that somehow ended up in every ranker’s pack.

  Bobby was smartly dressed and bright-eyed, as usual. Whatever fit of melancholy had come over him on the pier had apparently passed. He hadn’t said anything to Winter about her promise, and she hadn’t brought it up. He saluted crisply and handed her a half sheet of flimsy paper.

  “Orders from Lieutenant Warus, sir!” he said. “The First will be taking the left center of the line. We’ve got half an hour to report to the south field.”

  “Right,” Winter said. Then, because it seemed like a sergeant-y thing to do, she shouted, “Hurry it up! You’ve got fifteen minutes!”

  It was in fact more like twenty minutes, but the Seventh was still among the first companies on the field. A thin line of blue stood at attention, thickening by the minute as more troops filed in and were directed to their places. Captain d’Ivoire had taken the Old Colonials with him and even after a week on the march the recruits still presented a nicely uniform appearance. Their uniforms were no longer factory-crisp, but they were still deep Vordanai blue, and the dawning sun gleamed off gunmetal and polished buttons.

  To the left of the First Battalion was the Third, whose Captain Kaanos was barking orders to everyone in sight. Fitz Warus stood quietly by his side. Kaanos, with his bushy eyebrows and bushy beard and sideburns, resembled a bear and had a voice and temper to match. Winter hurried her company into position, then took up her place in the center file of the front rank.

  Whether she should stand in the ranks was something of a sticky question. The proper position of a senior sergeant was the center of the first of three ranks, while his junior sergeant took a similar position in the rear. The leftmost and rightmost files of the company were supposed to be composed of corporals, while the lieutenant had no place in the ranks at all. He stood in front of the men for inspection and behind them in battle, which as far as Winter was concerned said all that needed to be said about officers. While she had, technically, been brevetted to lieutenant, she couldn’t bear the thought of acting that way. Fortunately for her, the Seventh Company was conspicuously under-officered, with only three corporals and no sergeants at all, so there was no one to argue with her choice of position.

  Ahead of the forming line, the senior officers gathered. She recognized Captain Solwen of the Second, in charge of the other pair of battalions along with a lieutenant she didn’t know. Directly in front of her and ahorse was Colonel Vhalnich himself, talking with Give-Em-Hell and the Preacher. The colonel’s mood was foul. The approach march had been plagued with delays, culminating in a loss of nearly six hours’ marching time when a supply wagon, attempting to jump its place in line after a rest halt, had broken an axle in a ditch and snarled the guns and rearguard. The recruits had quickly become disorganized, and sorting everyone out had consumed the rest of the day. The colonel had been furious.

  The time lost had given General Khtoba the chance to abandon his low-lying position by the Tsel ford and retreat to high ground, a stretch of rocky scrubland that rose from the surrounding fields like the low dome of an overturned rowboat. The Colonial camp was near the base of it, in a miserable patch of watery earth churned to mud by the passage of thousands of boots. There had been talk that Khtoba might retreat from even this position, and fall back all the way to Ashe-Katarion, but the scouts had him still in place on the summit.

  The ranks were filling out as company after company trickled in, leaving behind the supply train and a few camp guards to watch for Desoltai raiders. The colonel summoned the two infantry captains and dictated a few orders; these two in turn went back to their assigned positions and conferred with their lieutenants. Winter looked left and right, checking her company’s alignment against those on either side. Corporal Folsom stood two ranks directly behind her, in the junior sergeant’s position, while Bobby and Graff headed the left – and rightmost files. In between, the rest of the Seventh—considerably diminished compared to the companies around it—stood in three ranks with shouldered muskets.

  Lieutenant Warus, after a few words with Captain Kaanos, walked back to the First and gestured for attention. His immaculate appearance was spoiled somewhat by the mud, which had already coated his boots and splattered his trousers.

  When he had the eyes of all six companies, he raised his voice and said, “I’ve never been one for speeches. The Auxiliaries are up there”—he jabbed a finger at the hill—“and we’re going to go and get them. There’s no time for anything fancy. Just remember that when all’s said and done, you are the Vordanai Royal Army and they are a pack of grayskins. All their guns and fancy uniforms were a gift from us. If not for us they’d be out here with clubs and spears! General Khtoba used to say that his men were as good as any troops from the continent. I expect you to prove him wrong!”

  Winter, who’d read a bit about Khandarai history, knew that was laying it on a bit thick. She suspected Lieutenant Warus knew it as well, but he was playing to the crowd, and it had the desired effect. A cheer rose from the recruits, and Winter added her voice.

  Colonel Vhalnich drew his sword, steel glittering in the sun, and slashed it down in a peremptory gesture.

  “Ordinary pace!” Fitz shouted. “Form column of companies, and prepare to advance!”

  • • •

  The first they saw of the Auxiliaries was the flashes from their guns.

  There had been a general sigh of relief as the Colonials marched out of the irrigated fields with their clinging mud and onto the good, solid gro
und of the rock outcrop. The regiment advanced as four columns—not the long, winding column of march but squat columns of battle, with a forty-man front and the companies stacked up one behind the other. The Seventh Company was third in line, and the regulation four-yard gap between its front rank and the rear rank of the Sixth Company ahead meant that Winter had a better view of the action than the men stuck in the second rank behind her.

  Each battalion column was separated from the others by a good hundred yards or so, to give them room to maneuver and eventually deploy into line. In those intervals came the single battery of light guns that Colonel Vhalnich had brought along. The guns were still limbered, hitched up and facing backward, and the teams of horses strained to drag the weapons and their caissons up the increasing slope. The gunners in their peaked artillery caps walked alongside, shouting good-natured taunts at the infantry on either side, which the rankers cheerfully returned. Winter caught sight of the Preacher off to her left walking behind a two-gun section, his lips moving in silent prayer.

  She couldn’t see the cavalry from her position, but when the advance had begun she’d watched them ride off to either side, taking up positions on the outside flanks of the formation. Give-Em-Hell had been the subject of particularly extensive instructions from the colonel, and he’d gone off looking pleased, so presumably he had some important role to play. For the moment, Winter’s attention was occupied with searching the crest of the hill for the enemy, occasionally sparing a glance to either side to make sure her company’s ranks stayed even.

  When guns started to flash ahead, it was a moment before she realized what she was seeing. The booms, like the grumble of distant thunder, arrived a moment later, followed by the hair-raising whistle of solid shot. The lines of recruits shivered, like wheat trembling in the breeze, as every man instinctively ducked and shied away.