The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  “She can’t have gone this way,” Bobby said. “The sentries would have stopped her.”

  “We’d have seen her if she doubled back,” Winter said. They’d lost sight of the Khandarai girl as they’d approached the edge of the fitfully lit camp. Feor moved easily over the sandy ground and past the sleeping soldiers with more grace than Winter would have given her credit for. “Besides, the sentries will be looking out, not in.”

  “But there’s nowhere to go!” Bobby said. “It’s just rocks and sand.”

  “God only knows what she’s thinking, but we’d better find her. The guards will probably shoot her if she tries to get back in.”

  With more confidence than she felt, Winter walked through the ring of empty ground that separated the camp from the ring of guards. No doubt it would have been possible to slip between the sentries, as Feor apparently had, but she preferred not to risk it. Creeping around outside the sentry ring was a good way to draw a shot in the back. Instead she picked out the closest guard and headed in his direction, calling out when she judged he was in easy earshot.

  “Coming out!” she told him. The man, a soldier from Captain Roston’s Fourth Battalion, turned around with a belligerent glare. This faded when he got a good look at Winter. After the incident in the barracks at Ashe-Katarion, she’d made a point of having the lieutenant’s stripe sewn onto her uniform. The sentry saluted stiffly.

  “Sir!” he said. “I’m sorry, sir, but my instructions are that no one is to leave the camp.”

  “Good man,” Winter said, trying to bluster. “That’s the problem, in fact. One of mine has gone wandering off this way. Have you seen him?”

  “Seen him? No, sir. No one has gone through.”

  “We’ll just be going out to have a look for him,” Winter said.

  The guard hesitated. By the slump of his shoulders, he was nearing the end of a long shift, and wanted nothing more than to seek a few hours’ sleep in his bedroll before morning. Still, orders were orders.

  “You must be mistaken, sir. Respectfully. If he’d come this way, I would have seen, and—”

  “He might not have come past your patch,” Winter said, trying to let the man off the hook.

  “But my orders—”

  Bobby spoke up. “So you let the lieutenant through, and make sure to note it in your report.”

  The sentry sagged, apparently satisfied with this compromise. “Yessir. Be careful, sir. Plenty of Desoltai crawling around out there.”

  “Thank you. We won’t be going far.” I hope.

  When they’d passed beyond the ring of sentries, Winter risked a smile at Bobby. “Thanks. Has anyone ever told you that you’d make a good sergeant?”

  Bobby patted her stomach. “Haven’t got the gut for it, sir. As I understand it, a sergeant’s got to be able to drink any man in the company under the table.”

  Winter laughed. As they hiked on, though, her smile faded. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness, and the brilliant march of stars overhead provided at least a modicum of light, but the landscape was still a mass of looming rocks and deep shadow.

  “We’ll never find her in this,” she said. “If she’s gone to ground somewhere . . .”

  Bobby pointed to a rock outcropping a few hundred feet ahead. “Up there. We should be able to get a good view.”

  “Right.” They started walking again. “Do you think there really are Desoltai out here?”

  “Could be, sir. We know they watch us pretty closely.”

  “Are you armed?”

  Bobby was silent for a moment, as though she hadn’t considered that point until now. “No, sir.”

  Winter grimaced. She hadn’t even thought to snatch up her belt knife. For a moment she wished she’d been a little slower to follow, or had paused to round up Graff and a few reliable men. There was no helping it now, though.

  “Best to stay quiet, then,” she whispered. Bobby nodded.

  By the time they reached the crest of the little mound of rocks, Winter was surprised to find that she could see quite a distance. Away from the torches and low-burning fires of the camp, the cold brilliance of the stars seemed to fill the world, and they drew gleams from the rocks and painted the sand blue-white. She hoisted herself up onto a low boulder and scanned slowly in a circle, looking for movement.

  “Anything?” Bobby hissed.

  “I’m not sure.” Winter blinked as something caught her eye. She scrambled down again and pointed. “Look over there.”

  Bobby followed her finger. Another hill, a good half mile off, was a looming black shape against the skyline. The corporal started to ask something, but Winter waved her into silence, waiting. Then light blossomed again, very briefly. A flash of orange-yellow, campfire light, looking like a firefly at this distance. It flickered once, twice, then again after a short pause, and then went dark.

  “That looked almost like musket fire,” Bobby said.

  “No,” Winter said. “We’d have heard the shots by now. Besides, musket fire is a bit pinker.”

  “Think it’s the Desoltai?”

  “It has to be. They’ve probably got their campfires screened off somehow.” It sounded like a desert nomad trick. “They’re a long way off, thank God.”

  “Not that far,” Bobby said. She peered into the darkness. “There’s a little hill over that way. I bet they’re on top of it.”

  Winter squinted, but she couldn’t make anything out through the shadows. “You’ve got good eyes.”

  “Not really,” Bobby said. “I’ve always—” She paused, and stiffened. “There’s someone out there. Heading for the Desoltai.”

  “So they really are spying on us at night?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bobby said. “A Desoltai would be mounted, wouldn’t he?”

  “Probably.” Winter glanced at Bobby in alarm. “You don’t think—Beast’s Balls, of course it’s her. Come on.”

  Bobby fell behind briefly as Winter scrambled down the rocky slope, moving dangerously fast in the dim light, but quickly caught up when she reached the bottom and started running across the sandy ground.

  “What the hell does she think she’s doing?” the corporal managed, as she drew alongside.

  Winter grimaced. “I think I’m getting the idea.”

  • • •

  She’d started running on pure instinct, without any kind of a plan other than a vague hope that she might intercept Feor before the girl reached the hill. It quickly became apparent that this was not going to happen. By the time she and Bobby had crossed the flat ground between the two promontories, Feor—even Winter could see her now, a moving shape against the larger darkness—had started clambering up the slope toward the spot where they’d seen the light. Winter cupped her hands to call out, then thought better of it and kept running.

  They were only twenty yards away when a patch of shadow unfolded from the lee of a boulder and took hold of Feor by her still-splinted arm, hauling her off her feet. The Khandarai girl’s scream was piercingly loud in the nighttime stillness, and even the Desoltai was momentarily surprised, letting her go and dropping his hands to his weapons.

  Winter covered the last few yards at a dead sprint and threw herself at the nomad in a shoulder-first tackle, bowling him off his feet. She’d hoped he’d crack his head on a rock, but no such luck. He grabbed her arms and started to roll her over before they’d stopped moving. Winter slammed her elbows into his ribs, twisting to try to get the leverage to bring her knee up into his crotch. Anything to keep him off balance, so he wouldn’t realize he was fighting a girl half his weight. The Desoltai was good, though, squirming out from underneath her and wrenching her into a half crouch with her arms pinioned at her sides. She got a glimpse of a fierce, bearded face, eyes wild in the starlight, before his forehead met hers with a sound like billiard balls colliding at speed. Stars of brilliant pain exploded behind her eyes, and her stomach filled with bile. For a moment her vision narrowed to thin tunnels.

 
Bobby, coming up behind the nomad, was short on technique but long on momentum. She swung her heavy army-issue boot into the side of his head as though she were punting a handball, and Winter felt his hands spasm and let go of her arms. She collapsed to the side helplessly, her head still throbbing with violent pain. It took all her strength not to vomit. From behind her there was a brief further sound of a scuffle, and then silence.

  A timeless interval of agony passed, during which Winter found herself looking forward to the Desoltai coming over to slit her throat. Eventually she heard someone calling her name, as though through thick cotton earplugs. She rolled over, fighting another wave of nausea, and saw Bobby’s silhouette against the stars.

  “Winter? Sir? Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you,” Winter croaked. “I’m . . . I’m okay.”

  That was a bald-faced lie, but she felt obliged to tell it. Her hands came up to explore her face and found it surprisingly intact. The nomad’s head butt had been slightly off target, or else it would surely have broken her nose. Her right eye was already puffy to the touch.

  “Where’d he go?” she managed.

  “Dead,” Bobby said. “And Feor’s okay.”

  Winter sat up.

  The Desoltai was indeed sprawled motionless nearby. The hilt of a long knife, presumably his own, stuck up from his throat, just above his collarbone. Nearby sat Feor, huddled protectively around her injured arm.

  “We have to get out of here,” Winter said. She grabbed Bobby’s outstretched hand, and between them they managed to get her to her feet. “Everyone for a mile around heard that scream.”

  Bobby glanced at Feor. “I’m not sure she’ll walk, sir.”

  “Then we’ll fucking carry her.” Pain still throbbed in Winter’s temples, and she could barely open one eye. “Come on.”

  The Khandarai girl didn’t look up as they approached. Bobby prodded her shoulder cautiously, and got no response.

  “What was she thinking, coming all the way out here?” Bobby looked up at Winter. “Was she trying to go over to the Desoltai? I thought they were going to kill her.”

  “They would. Which, I think, is what she wants.” Winter switched to Khandarai. “Stand up.”

  “No.” Feor’s voice was tiny. “Leave me.”

  “I told you to stand up!”

  When she didn’t obey, Winter nodded to Bobby and they hauled Feor to her feet. She hung between them, limp as a rag doll.

  “I don’t understand,” Bobby said. “You think she wants—”

  “To die,” Winter spat. “Just as her Mother ordered.”

  “Oh.” Bobby was silent a moment. “If she’s going to kill herself . . .”

  “She can’t kill herself.” Winter gave a vicious chuckle. “Suicide is a terrible sin by Khandarai lights. But she can try to get herself killed.”

  “Just leave me here,” Feor whispered. “If the Desoltai do not return, it will not be long before the desert takes me.”

  “The hell I will,” Winter said in Khandarai. “I need you. We need to know what’s happening to Bobby.” She paused for a moment, then continued in a softer tone. “Besides. Your brother gave you your life back, didn’t he? Are you going to throw that away?”

  “I . . .” Feor choked back a sob. “He should not have done that. It was not proper.”

  “Who cares what’s proper? You’re really ready to roll over and die just because some old woman told you to?”

  “She is our Mother,” Feor said. “We sahl-irusk would not live at all, except by her grace. She provided us with our lives, our purpose. We owe her everything.”

  “Just because she gave you a place to live doesn’t mean she owns you.”

  “It’s more than that.” Feor shook her head. “You are Vordanai. I do not expect you to understand.”

  Winter nearly spat at her. “That’s right. I’m just a barbarian, and I’ve given my word I’ll take care of you. Now am I going to have to drag you back to camp, or are you going to walk?”

  Feor climbed shakily to her feet. “I will walk.”

  “Good.” Winter turned to Bobby, who’d watched uncomprehendingly throughout the argument. “She’s coming. Let’s—”

  She was interrupted by the shattering bang of a pistol at close range. Winter ducked, instinctively but uselessly, and heard the whine of the ball going wide. The shot had come from up the slope, but the flash had ruined her night vision, and all she could see against the starlight was two dark shadows charging down the hill. More obvious was the glitter of the faint illumination on drawn steel.

  “Die, raschem!”

  The lead man closed with a shout, headed for Feor. He charged right past Bobby, and Winter realized that the Desoltai must be as near-blind as she was. The corporal bulled into the raider as he passed, pushing him sideways off his feet. She managed to get her hands around his wrist, keeping his sword out of the way, but he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her down to meet a vicious knee to the stomach. Bobby grunted but hung on.

  Winter, meanwhile, blinked away the afterimages of the single shot and dove for the spot where the corpse of their first assailant lay. He had a sword at his belt, too, and after a panicked second of scrabbling she wrenched it free. The second Desoltai had closed in on Bobby, his own sword drawn, but he was wary of striking his comrade. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed the corporal by the back of the collar, wrenching her free and tossing her roughly to the ground.

  That left the first raider stumbling backward, off balance, and Winter surged to her feet and went after him. He barely saw her coming in time to bring his blade around in a desperate attempt to parry, but Winter threw the whole weight of her body behind the thrust, wielding the curved Desoltai weapon like a lance. It struck the raider high in the chest and sank half a foot of steel in him, and he went down without a sound. His own weapon dropped from nerveless fingers, and Winter abandoned hers and snatched it up.

  She looked up in time to see Bobby on her feet again, backing away from the other Desoltai. He advanced cautiously, burdened by some kind of heavy leather pack, but when he finally understood that she was unarmed he charged. Bobby tried a feint to one side, then dove the other way, but the raider followed with a swordsman’s grace and intercepted her with a vicious overhand slash. The girl hit the ground with a spray of blood.

  Winter wanted to scream, but she didn’t have the breath. She came up fast behind the Desoltai. His pack blocked her from a straight thrust into his back, so she went low, swinging two-handed for his legs. The weighted Desoltai blade bit deep, and the force of the blow snapped the bone and took the leg out from under him. He fell on his face with a muffled shriek, sword spinning away. Winter wrenched her blade free and circled him, lining up carefully on the back of his neck, and chopped down hard. The blade bit deep and refused to budge, and so she let go and took a step back while the man’s convulsive throes subsided.

  “Shit,” she said, when she had enough breath to speak aloud. Then, louder, “Shit.” She skirted the dead man and hurried to where Bobby had fallen.

  She lay on her stomach, surrounded by a dark stain on the dusty ground. Winter knelt and rolled her over, already dreading what she would see. The heavy downward cut had opened her from collarbone to navel, and the tattered edges of her torn uniform fluttered loose, already soaked in gore.

  But, underneath the blood, there was something else. Light was seeping out, a soft white glow tinted with aquamarine, all along the cut. It spread as Winter watched, as though Bobby had starlight in her veins instead of blood. Mild at first, it swelled quickly to an actinic glare almost too bright to look at, then began to fade. Bobby twitched, arching her back, fingers scrabbling in the bloody sand; then she drew a long breath and let it out, and her body went limp. The breath caught in Winter’s throat for a moment, but the girl’s breathing was slow and regular, and the flow of blood had stopped entirely.

  “Obv-scar-iot.” Winter hadn’t heard Feor approach, but the girl spoke
from just behind her shoulder. “She truly has become the Guardian. I did not think . . .”

  She trailed off. Winter tore a piece from Bobby’s shirt and mopped carefully at the blood, until she could see the flesh beneath. Somehow she knew what she would find. Where the Desoltai weapon had done its vicious work, the flesh was now whole, the skin unbroken, but with the color and glittering black specks of marble.

  “She’ll be all right?” Winter asked Feor. When the girl nodded, Winter let out a shaky breath. “Will she wake up soon?”

  “I do not know.” Feor frowned. “She is no servant of our gods. I thought that the spell would reject her, in the end. But now . . .”

  Another sound, rolling across the plain, drew Winter’s attention away. It was like distant thunder, or the skirl of a company full of drummers barely brushing their instruments. She turned to look back toward the campfires of the Vordanai encampment and found that the night was alive with tiny flashes. They were white, tinged with pink, and she could already see columns of smoke rising against the stars.

  “You see?” she said, to no one in particular. “That is musket fire.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MARCUS

  Marcus woke to the faint gray light of dawn, the warmth of Jen pressed against his side, and the sound of urgent knocking at his tent pole.

  “Come in,” he called automatically, already sitting up and groping fruitlessly for his uniform coat. By the time he remembered he wasn’t alone, the tent flap was already open. Fortunately, the figure in the gap was Fitz, who could be counted on to be discreet.

  “Sir,” he said, “you have to get up now.”

  Something in the lieutenant’s tone jolted Marcus’ mind to full awareness faster than a hot cup of coffee. Fitz never shouted, unless it was to be heard over the noise of battle, but now he gave the strong impression that a lesser man would have been screaming.

  “I’m up,” Marcus said, rolling off the bedroll. He found that he was naked, and started hunting for his underthings. “What’s going on?”