The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  There was no time for speeches. Marcus stopped in the doorway, drew his sword, and chopped forward. The company followed, booted feet pounding on the flagstones. A few halfhearted cheers from the men guarding the front accompanied their appearance, but these died away as soon as it became clear the men weren’t coming to help them. Instead, Marcus turned right, hugging the wall of the temple. To his left was the barricade, held so thinly it seemed impossible that the Khandarai had not already swarmed over it. Pools and streaks of blood showed where men had been hit and dragged away.

  Two of Archer’s guns still boomed defiance on either side of the doorway, and Marcus caught sight of the lieutenant himself, face bloodied from yet another wound. He couldn’t spare more than a glance, however. The shouts and screams from the melee were audible even above the gunfire. Stumbling a little on the rocky ground, Marcus rounded the corner of the temple with Adrecht and the company hard on his heels and found himself face-to-face with a knot of struggling men.

  The Khandarai had swarmed over the gun, and a dozen men were at work on it, turning it to fire down the Vordanai line along the temple wall. The men in blue closest by had recognized the danger, and two dozen men from the right wing and a similar number from the center had already hurled themselves with musket butt and bayonet against the disorganized mass of Auxiliaries around the cannon. There was no order left, no organized charges and countercharges, just a confused brawl where soldiers laid into one another with whatever came to hand.

  Marcus didn’t need to give a command. He just gestured with his sword, and the men of the Fourth Battalion surged past, shouting with hoarse voices. A few shots rang out from both sides before the masses met, and then the struggle was once again hand to hand.

  It was going to work, Marcus saw. His little band, depleted as it was, nonetheless outnumbered the Khandarai survivors, and they were falling back from the captured artillery piece. A few moments more, and they would break. And then we’ve bought a few more minutes . . .

  He couldn’t hear Adrecht’s voice, and it took him a moment to see his frantic gestures. Marcus looked up, toward the Khandarai line, and saw another mass of brown-and-tan uniforms approaching.

  At least a company, he had time to register. Obviously the Khandarai commander had seen the same opportunity Marcus had led his men to prevent, and had committed his own reserves. Damn, damn, damn . . .

  Then the newcomers were on them, a solid line of leveled bayonets that shattered at the last minute as they had to traverse the uneven footing of the barricade. Marcus saw the flash of Adrecht’s sword coming out of its sheath. It was a pretty thing, he remembered—gold chasing on the hilt and colored embroidery on the scabbard. He just had time to hope that Adrecht hadn’t entirely neglected the edge before the Auxiliaries were on them.

  Marcus would never have described himself as a master swordsman. At the War College, there had been students who’d gone in for that sort of thing, studying the ancient forms under the College tutors and staging flashing, glittering contests in the quad while onlookers applauded politely. He remembered the beauty of those bouts, the way the contestants had clashed and spun, almost as though they were dancing instead of sparring.

  What experience Marcus had with his blade had come in back alleys and desperate ambushes, and none of it had been beautiful in any sense. He had learned a few important lessons, though, not the least of which was never to discount the efficacy of an unconventional blow. A punch to the stomach or a kick to the groin might not be as elegant as a perfectly executed thrust, but it would put a man on the ground just the same.

  In any case, his weapon was not one of the light, elegant rapiers the College swordsmen had favored. It was actually a cavalry saber, begged from the stores after his army-issue officer’s sword had broken in a skirmish years ago. The heavy, curved thing was really designed to be wielded from horseback, but Marcus liked the weight of it. The pommel could crack a skull, properly applied, and the blade was a solid three feet of good steel.

  He’d also learned, in a rough way, what to do when you were up against more than one opponent. Keep moving. Hold still and they’d circle round and skewer you. Thus, as three men clambered over the broken timber that topped the barricade in front of him, he bulled forward, dodging the point of a surprised Auxiliary’s bayonet and giving the man a wild slash across the stomach that sent him reeling. Before the man beside him could recover from his surprise and bring his unwieldy weapon to bear, Marcus slammed him in the face with the guard of the saber, which left him stumbling and clutching a broken nose.

  There were brown uniforms all around him now. He hacked and slashed at random, grabbed the haft of a musket as it thrust past him and twisted it out of the owner’s grasp, blocked another blade by sheer luck and replied with a wild swing that took off most of the Khandarai’s face. He expected every moment to feel the sting of a point in the small of his back. Looking around, he saw a knot of blue and struggled toward it, but a hard shove from behind drove him practically into the arms of another Auxiliary. Instinctively, Marcus lowered his blade, and the point went in the man’s stomach and came out between his shoulder blades. He sagged, face twisted in a comic surprise, and the deadweight tore the saber from Marcus’ grip.

  Another bayonet flashed, over his shoulder, and he ducked. Someone kicked him—obviously he wasn’t the only one who’d spent time in the back-alley school of swordsmanship—and sent him sprawling. His world was suddenly a mass of dusty, stamping boots. Marcus saw a gap ahead and crawled toward it, grabbing ankles to use as handholds. Someone looked down and a bayonet shivered into the turf by his leg, but the next moment he managed to drag himself into the clear.

  He rolled over and looked up, dumbfounded, into the maw of a twelve-pounder. He’d fought his way into the little clear space the Auxiliaries were striving to maintain around their prize. The gun was a few feet away, aimed over his head, but Marcus didn’t doubt it would be loaded with canister, which made the precise orientation of the barrel irrelevant. He remembered the fields of fire of the Preacher’s guns at the last battle, the men torn to pieces so small they weren’t even recognizable as corpses. By the side of the gun, a gawky Khandarai in a brown uniform grinned, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth, and raised a lit match to the side of the cannon—

  —and scrabbled at it, mystified. The gun was engraved all over, verses from the Wisdoms crammed in as small as careful hands could manage. A Kravworks ’98, Marcus remembered. Friction primers.

  He jumped to his feet, driven by a sudden, desperate energy, and slammed his fist into the would-be gunner’s face. There were four more men beside the piece, though, and these still had their muskets. They surrounded Marcus on three sides, advancing cautiously. He tried to grab a musket by the barrel, but the man pulled back so fast Marcus nearly cut his hands on the bayonet, and one of the others thrust at his head. Marcus avoided being skewered only by falling awkwardly backward, leaving him looking up at four gleaming steel points.

  One of which twitched suddenly and fell away. Adrecht broke through the circle of Khandarai, and the other three turned to face him. He raised his sword, and under other circumstances Marcus would have had to laugh at the expression on his fellow captain’s face. His blade had snapped off half a foot from the hilt.

  Two of the Khandarai thrust simultaneously. The third would have as well, but for the fact that Marcus grabbed his ankle from behind and pulled his foot out from under him, leaving him sprawling in the dust. Adrecht spun away from the pair. One bayonet just missed his back, and the other caught him on the upper arm, ripping a deep, bloody gash through the muscle. Suddenly off balance, Adrecht stumbled against the cannon.

  Marcus snatched up the fallen man’s weapon, treading on him in the process, and sank it into the small of another man’s back. The fourth Auxiliary turned to face him, but Adrecht managed to kick him off balance, and Marcus slammed the butt of the musket into his fingers, then skewered him on the point of the bayonet. He hurried to
Adrecht, who was clutching the deep cut just above his elbow.

  “Fucking sword,” Adrecht moaned. “The damned armorer promised me that was good steel. Remind me to kill him if we ever get to Ashe-Katarion.”

  “Fair enough,” Marcus said. He put his back to the cannon, beside Adrecht, and took a moment to look around. There were fewer brown uniforms in view than he’d expected, and those he could see were retreating rapidly. Don’t tell me we actually stopped them after all?

  There was a boom, close at hand. Not the deep-throated roar of a gun going off, but the higher-toned blast of a shell exploding. Howitzers already? The Auxiliaries were still engaged all along the perimeter—the inaccurate weapons would be as likely to kill their own men as the Vordanai. He straightened up for a better look.

  Another shell exploded with a flash, well back from the temple, down among the wreckage from which the Auxiliaries had launched their attack. Where their reserves, officers, and wounded were presumably still waiting. That’s a hell of an unlucky shot, Marcus thought, until another one exploded practically on top of the first. Then he understood.

  “Marcus?” Adrecht said. His eyes were shut tight against the pain. “What’s happening? Are we going to die?”

  “No,” Marcus said. “Not unless Janus overshoots a bit.”

  “Janus?” Adrecht cracked one eyelid cautiously.

  “The colonel.” Marcus waved a hand. “He’s captured the guns, which means he’s captured the ford. Which means he’s captured the whole lot.”

  All around the temple the Auxiliaries were falling back under the unexpected fire from their own artillery. Most of them were streaming back the way they had come, toward the ford, unaware that they were running straight into the arms of fresh blue-uniformed infantry. The brighter ones scattered, heading east or west or south across the fields, but no doubt there were cavalry waiting to gather them up. The colonel, Marcus knew, did not believe in half measures.

  Part Three

  GENERAL KHTOBA

  Far be it from me, General Khtoba thought, to tell the Divine Hand that he shouldn’t pray. And, truth be told, a bit of divine intervention would not go amiss. But the man’s constant muttering was getting on his nerves.

  The general’s legs and back ached from hours on his feet and more hours in the saddle, but nervousness would not let him sit. The black felt tent did not offer much room for pacing, and he found himself very nearly turning in place, swatting irritably at the hanging tassels of the pillows with his thin black swagger stick. He’d put on his dress uniform that morning, and the crisply folded brown-and-tan had long ago sagged under his perspiration.

  Half the tent was taken up by the Hand and his attendants, a gaggle of black-robed priests that reminded Khtoba a flock of geese in mourning. Most of them had followed their leader’s example and settled in for some serious prayer, but one of the older men, with a glance at the Hand’s bowed head, scuttled over to Khtoba and spoke in a harsh whisper.

  “How dare he keep us waiting!” he said. “These savages need to be taught some respect.” But, Khtoba noticed, he didn’t raise his voice enough for the two Desoltai lounging by the pinned-open tent flap to hear.

  “I’m sure our eminent companion has other things on his mind,” Khtoba drawled, his voice dripping sarcasm that the priest completely failed to notice.

  “Other things on his mind? What can be more important than a summons from the Divine Radiance himself?”

  More of a visit than a summons. He took a certain pleasure in seeing the arrogant pup of a priest brought low, but it was thin recompense for his own disasters. What was left of the Auxiliaries waited outside, in the midst of the Desoltai encampment. Three or four hundred men, all he’d been able to salvage from the debacle atop the hill near Turalin. The remainder, those who’d escaped the sabers of the raschem cavalry and hadn’t surrendered outright, were probably still running.

  As for the other half of his army, reports were still uncertain, but the general did not hold out much hope. What information he could gather said that the Vordanai had captured those three battalions lock, stock, and barrel, and even if that was an exaggeration, he didn’t think many of the survivors would be hurrying back to the colors.

  It might be possible to rebuild, eventually. He had a disproportionate number of officers remaining. Those with the most to lose by abandoning the uniform had naturally been the most inclined to follow him in the pell-mell retreat to the city. But that would take months, if not years. In the meantime, the fires of the Redemption appeared to be burning low indeed.

  “Why doesn’t he come?” The priest was pouting. Khtoba recalled that his adopted name was Tzikim-dan-Rahksa, the Angel of Divine Retribution. Divine Retribution shouldn’t pout.

  If that was a prayer, of a sort, it was answered almost immediately. The Steel Ghost strode into the tent, acknowledging the nods of the men on the door and offering the very slightest inclination of his head to the Divine Hand. Khtoba he ignored entirely.

  The general’s hands tightened, but he said nothing. His intelligence had reported that the Steel Ghost was with the Desoltai outriders to the south, watching the Vordanai advance to the city. A swift rider on a galloping horse might have reached him in time for him to make an equally headlong gallop back to see the Hand, but the Ghost did not have the look of a man who’d just finished a desperate twilight ride. He was wrapped, as always, in neat blacks and grays, with his head covered and his hands gloved so that no hint of flesh showed. The steel mask was thick enough that even his eyes were difficult to see through the small holes.

  It was enough to make one believe that he really did have strange powers, as the rumors claimed. After whatever wizardry the raschem had conjured up to bewilder his Auxiliaries, it wouldn’t have surprised Khtoba.

  The Divine Hand looked up briefly, then nodded to Tzikim and turned back to his prayer. The older priest confronted the Steel Ghost, but Khtoba noticed he had some trouble meeting the implacable stare of the blank mask. The general also noted he didn’t say a word about having been kept waiting.

  “My honored friend,” the Angel of Divine Retribution said. “You must know of the unfortunate reverses that have overtaken us. The gods require your service, now more than ever. It is time to show your faith!”

  Khtoba laughed. He couldn’t help it. Tzikim glared daggers in his direction, and the faceless mask turned slowly to regard him. He favored the Ghost with a lazy smile.

  “What my honored friend means is that his own people have all run away, and he would be most obliged if you would bring your men inside the city to defend him.”

  The priest gritted his teeth. “As the general says. The walls of Ashe-Katarion are high and strong, but they still require men to defend them. The Swords of Heaven have experienced a few . . . setbacks. We need time to rebuild our ranks. And our companions in the Auxiliaries have proven inadequate to the task of stopping the raschem.” He flashed a gloating smile in Khtoba’s direction. “The Divine Hand therefore requires that you move your men inside the city. He swears that the Heavens will reward you handsomely.”

  The strength of the walls was questionable, in Khtoba’s opinion. They enclosed only the stone heart of the city, including the Palace and the sacred hill, but they were still too long to be defended by less than a few thousand men. Ancient, crumbling in places, they were thick enough, but they hadn’t been built to withstand a modern siege. Especially if the raschem have captured our heavy artillery. He cursed himself, for the hundredth time, for allowing those guns to be removed from the city. It had seemed like such a clever idea at the time.

  The Ghost fixed the priest with a steady glare, and under that blank gaze Tzikim crumbled like cheap bricks. His face went waxen and shiny with sweat, and his expression shifted rapidly from imperious command to obsequious supplication. When the Desoltai chieftain looked away, the Angel of Divine Retribution sagged with audible relief.

  “No,” the Ghost said, in his characteristic growl.
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  Defiance appeared to revive Tzikim’s spirits briefly. “What? You would betray the Redemption?”

  “No,” the Ghost repeated. “But you ask the impossible. My warriors will not man your walls.”

  “They’re your men, aren’t they?” Khtoba put in. “Why wouldn’t they follow orders?”

  “They are only my men so long as my superior wisdom is evident,” the Ghost rasped. “We are not raschem, to march to our deaths on the whim of some king. If we are trapped in the city, we will never escape.”

  Tzikim seemed to shrink back into himself. With a contemptuous glance, Khtoba dismissed the priest and concentrated on the Desoltai.

  “Then what course do you suggest?” he said.

  “I suggest nothing,” the Ghost said. “My people abandon this camp as we speak. We will return to the Ruskdesol.”

  Khtoba had been around the Desoltai long enough to catch that last word, which meant something like “Father Desert” in the nomads’ dialect. For the Desoltai, their arid domain was the center of the world. Sometimes they seemed to think of it as a kind of god.

  “And then what?” Khtoba said. “Back to raiding towns and ambushing caravans?”

  “When the raschem follow, we will teach them the true meaning of war.”

  Khtoba chuckled. “I have no doubt you would, if they were fool enough to pursue you into the Great Desol. But what makes you think this Vordanai captain is such a fool?”

  “He is no fool,” said the Ghost. “But he will follow nonetheless. We will have a prize that he cannot ignore.”

  Khtoba glanced over at the Divine Hand, still praying with his eyes tightly shut, and then down at himself. A faint smile played across his lips.

  “I take it we’re to accompany you, then.”

  The Ghost inclined his head, flickers of lamplight shifting on the brushed-steel mask.

  Khtoba had three hundred men outside, mostly armed and a few ahorse. If he chose to object, they might make a brave show of it. Some might even get away. Then again, that remnant was tired and demoralized after the short, disastrous campaign. They also might put up no fight whatsoever.