The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  “Second rank on my command!” Winter shouted, unsure whether anyone but the men right beside her could hear over the tumult. “First rank, hold steady!”

  She heard Folsom’s bellow, and a snatch of Bobby’s voice excoriating his troops with words a lad his age ought not to have known. The riders were so close now that the whole world beyond the blue square seemed to be filled with horses and shouting men.

  The front rank of Vordanai had knelt to allow the second rank a clear field of fire, and set the butts of their muskets against the dirt. Their bayonets presented an unbroken line of razor-edged steel points to the oncoming riders, and if the men were foolish enough to want to hit that obstacle at a gallop, the horses were not. They shied away, swinging to either side in order to avoid contact with the bayonets, only to collide with the attackers against the other faces of the square who were doing the same. Other riders reined up and managed to bring their animals to a halt just outside the line, but they, too, had to work quickly to avoid collision with those coming on behind them.

  In an instant the wave of screaming riders had become a melee of shoving men and rearing horses. Those closest to the square slashed down at the points of the bayonets, trying to bat them aside. Somewhere a pistol cracked, and a man in the rear rank of Winter’s side of the square toppled backward, hands clawing at the red ruin of his face. His cry was inaudible amidst the tumult.

  “Second rank, fire!”

  She wasn’t sure if the men heard her or simply could wait no longer. Forty muskets cracked, the sound like a bludgeon against her ears, and lurid smoke wreathed the whole scene. The effect on the horsemen was fearful. At that range, the ball from a musket would pass through flesh and bone like wet tissue paper, with enough energy to come out the other side and kill again. Horses screamed and collapsed, all around the line, and men were shouting and cursing at one another. There were more cracks, either late firing or enemy weapons.

  “First rank, hold steady! Second rank, load!”

  If they had been able to press forward, the Redeemers might have broken the square. With the bayonets of the second rank withdrawn so they could hurry through the drill of stuffing powder and ball down their barrels, the first rank stood momentarily alone, a thin line of steel. But the volley had torn horrid gaps in the mob of attackers, and those that remained were having difficulty controlling their mounts, much less pressing forward over the still-thrashing bodies of those that had fallen. On the edges, a few were already shying away.

  Half a minute—Too slow, Winter thought—and the second rank’s weapons swung back into line. More of the riders started to turn away.

  “Second rank, fire!”

  Another volley ripped out, more ragged than the first, but nearly as effective. Suddenly the horsemen were fleeing, riding away from the square with the same desperate speed with which they’d charged. A ragged, spontaneous cheer erupted from the Vordanai as their enemies fanned out and away. Winter’s voice cut through it like a knife.

  “First rank, load. Second rank, steady!”

  Through the shredded wisps of smoke, she could see the black-clad priest still waiting at the top of the ridge, with a considerable body of men around him. The first wave was rapidly dispersing in all directions, but some of them turned their horses about when they’d regained a safe distance. Others kept going, despite the shouts of their comrades. Outside the square, screams rose from the field of broken men and animals.

  When the first rank had finished loading and reestablished the line of bayonets, Winter told the second rank to load and took a moment to look behind her. All the faces of the square were intact—as she’d known they had to be, or else some rider’s saber would have taken her from behind—and she could see the three corporals echoing her orders. Here and there a Vordanai soldier had slumped over in place, and his comrades had closed ranks around him. A few others, not as badly hurt, had walked or crawled to the center of the square. She saw one man, with an almost mechanical calm, tearing strips from his smoke-grimed undershirt to wrap around the bloody ruin of his left hand.

  The cry of the Redeemer priest—that high note, incongruously pure—drew her attention back to the ridge. With the survivors of the first attack out of the way, the black-wrapped cleric urged his own mount down the hill, and the men gathered around him followed. They kicked their horses to a reckless speed, and more than one stumbled and fell amid the rocks and wreckage, but the rest came on.

  “Hold fire!” Winter shouted. “The same damn thing again—just hold until they close—”

  At twenty-five yards, the first rank exploded into flames, and men fell up and down the charging line. There were fewer of them, and being more loosely packed they suffered less than the first wave had. The survivors, including the priest, urged their mounts into a gallop and pushed on over the corpse-strewn ground.

  Winter watched the priest with fascination. He was unarmed, practically standing in his stirrups and holding the reins with both hands. His high-pitched song had given way to a shriek, and his face was screwed up in ecstasy or hatred. By fervor or superior horsemanship, he’d outdistanced all of his companions.

  “Second rank,” Winter shouted, “fire!”

  A half dozen muskets had drawn a bead on the man in black, and they all cracked together. The priest had nearly reached the line, and he urged his animal into a final leap to clear the barricade of dead or dying horses that lay in front of the square. In midair he seemed almost to explode, bits of black wrap blowing outward in sprays of blood. A bullet found his horse as well, and the beast’s front legs collapsed when it landed just in front of the square. It was traveling too fast to be stopped so easily, though. The horse twisted and rolled, nervelessly, and collided with the wall of bayonets.

  In dying, the animal had achieved what the living riders could not. It slammed into the men in the square, knocking their bayonets aside or trapping them in its flesh. Three more riders followed close behind it, having evaded the volley and threaded the obstacles, and they charged into the gap.

  One soldier, knocked down by the corpse of the priest’s mount, found a horse riding directly over him. He thrust his bayonet point upward and rolled aside as the animal collapsed with a shower of blood. The rider on the left found another man jabbing at him and leaned forward to aim a cut at the soldier’s hand. His attacker rolled backward with a cry and a spray of gore.

  The third horseman, hefting a spear, came directly at Winter.

  Her first instinct, to get out of the path of the charging animal, saved her life. The horseman reined up beside her and thrust, but she threw herself aside just in time. He circled, fending off an outthrust bayonet, and came at her again. This time she had to roll as he passed, and fetched up against the corpse of a young man in blue, hands still clenched around his musket. She snatched the weapon, swung it clumsily to point at the rider, and started fumbling with the cock. The pan clicked open, letting the priming charge trickle out into her face.

  Winter spat, tasting the salt of the powder, and blinked a few grains from her eyes in time see the spear coming down at her. Abandoning any attempt to fire the musket, she blocked the swing with the barrel and thrust the bayonet back at him. The Redeemer shouted when the point scored on his arm, and dropped his weapon. He wheeled away just in time for the rider who’d been unhorsed to charge her, screaming. Winter scrabbled away, leveling the musket like a spear, but the man kicked the barrel with his booted foot and it jolted from her hand.

  Something flashed past her, dressed in blue. Bobby charged with all his weight behind his bayonet, like a medieval lancer. It caught the man high in the chest and sank in until the barrel was flush with his skin. The Redeemer toppled, dragging the musket from the boy’s grasp. Bobby sank to his knees beside the corpse, but a half dozen soldiers swarmed past him and Winter. Dimly, she saw them butcher the wounded horseman like a hog, then move on to close the gap opened by the dying horse. Around the outside of the square, the rest of the late priest’s comp
anions were shying away, and at that moment another volley boomed out, pressing them into full flight.

  Winter’s heart hammered so fast she was certain it was about to explode. She searched her body for pain, and discovered with mounting disbelief that she seemed to be relatively intact. Another volley exploded all around her, chasing the fleeing Khandarai, but her battle-numbed ears barely registered it. She rolled over and crawled to where Bobby sat staring into space in the direction the Khandarai had come from.

  “Bobby!” Winter said, her own voice distant and ringing in her ears. “Corporal! Are you all right?”

  Bobby looked at her quizzically, as though she were speaking in a foreign tongue, and then blinked and seemed to recover himself a little.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  Winter staggered to her feet. The square was intact, the first rank of men kneeling grim-faced with leveled bayonets while the second rank busily loaded yet another volley. Beyond that, she could see nothing. The smoke had piled up around the company like a fog bank, and even the sun was only an unseen presence overhead.

  She heard a couple of cracks, distant gunshots, but they sounded a long way off. Before long, even the drumming of hooves on dry earth had faded like departing rain. A light breeze coming down the valley started to shred the smoke, and snatches of blue sky became visible.

  The second rank had loaded and leveled. Winter saw Graff and Folsom looking at her for orders. Bobby was still immobile on the ground.

  “First rank, load,” Winter croaked. She turned in place, wishing she could see. Beyond that smoke, the Redeemers could be waiting, re-forming for another assault—

  But they were not. By the time all the company’s muskets were reloaded and ready, the dense bank of smoke was drifting into tatters, and the valley floor became visible. For as far as the eye could see in any direction, it was empty. The Redeemer cavalry had moved on, the vast bulk of the horsemen simply sweeping around the tiny square and on toward the main Vordanai column. In the immediate vicinity of the Seventh Company, the ground was littered with shattered, screaming horses, wounded men, and corpses. On the slope of the northern ridge, patches of blue marked where Vordanai soldiers had been cut down as they ran. Some of them moved feebly, but most were still.

  Winter stared in dumb disbelief. She felt someone move to her side, and looked up to see Graff, his bearded face twisted into a parody of a smile.

  “Well, that seems to be over.” He scratched the side of his nose. “What the hell do we do now?”

  Chapter Seven

  MARCUS

  The Colonials went through the evolution from march column into square with considerably more expertise than they’d shown a few days before, though they were still too slow for Marcus’ taste. From above, they would have looked like a chain of four diamonds strung out along the road, points aligned with one another so that the faces of the squares could shoot without risking friendly fire. The Third and Fourth battalion squares, at the back of the column, had formed around the artillery and the vulnerable supply train, while Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry were gathering nearby.

  The diminutive cavalry captain himself rode over to where Marcus, Janus, Fitz, and the regimental color party waited by the First Battalion square. He reined up and, his eyes gleaming, ripped off a tight salute to the colonel.

  “Give me leave to charge them, sir,” he said, his pigeon chest swollen with pride. “I’ll clear that ridge in a flash.”

  Janus raised a polite eyebrow. “You don’t think you’re at too much of a numerical disadvantage?”

  “Each man in blue is worth a dozen of those cowardly goat-fuckers,” the captain said.

  Marcus winced at this, but Janus was unperturbed.

  “Indeed. Though, if our scouts are even marginally trustworthy, they would outnumber you roughly thirty to one. Possibly more.”

  “But they won’t be ready for it!”

  The colonel shook his head sadly, as though he would have loved nothing better in the world than to let the captain off his leash.

  “I’m afraid the cavalry has too important a part to play in today’s battle to risk it at this stage, Captain. Keep your men close. You’re to shelter inside the Second Battalion square, understand?”

  “But—” Give-Em-Hell caught Janus’ eye, and somewhat to Marcus’ astonishment he subsided. “Yes, sir. As you say.” He put his heels to his horse and rode toward where his men waited, near the front of the column.

  Marcus leaned toward his commander. “I apologize for Captain Stokes, sir. He’s a good cavalryman, just a touch overeager.”

  “Eagerness has virtues all its own, Captain.” Janus shrugged. “There is a place for every man, whatever his talent or temperament. Captain Stokes will have his turn.” He looked up at the ridge. “I can’t imagine what they’re up to. If they take much longer, I shall have to order up some artillery to hurry them along.”

  The hilltop was dark with enemy horsemen gathering around a dozen black-clad priests who chose that moment to break into their sweet, high song. They all hit subtly different notes, and the result was a ringing harmony that echoed down from the ridge with a weird, unearthly beauty. Marcus felt his jaw tighten, but when he looked at Janus he saw that the colonel was sitting with his eyes closed, absorbing the melody. He opened them again only when the keening was answered by a roar that seemed to come from thousands of throats.

  “Do Khandarai priests always sing like that before they enter battle?” Janus asked.

  Marcus shrugged. “I don’t think so, sir. As far as I’m aware, it’s a Redeemer thing.”

  “Hmm.” Janus looked thoughtful. “Pity.”

  “Perhaps we ought to take shelter, sir?”

  Janus examined his hand for a moment, flicked a bit of grit from under one fingernail, then looked up again at where the enemy horsemen were beginning to pour over the ridge. “Very well. Let’s find a safe vantage.”

  The interior of the First Battalion’s square was a bare patch of trampled earth seventy yards or so to a side. Behind the triple ranks that formed the edge stood the lieutenants, one to each company, while the sergeants prowled back and forth. All around him, men loaded their weapons and fixed their bayonets.

  Janus had produced a spyglass, a fearsomely expensive-looking thing in brass and blond wood. His horse’s height let him peer over the heads of the men around him, and he shook his head regretfully.

  “A mob. Nothing more than a mob.”

  Marcus watched the horsemen thundering down from the ridge. Without the aid of a glass, most of what he could see was the dust raised by their passage. The priests were still at the front, waving the others forward, and he could see a few of the “soldiers,” ragged men with improvised weapons, riding scrawny horses.

  “A big mob,” he said. “From what the scouts said, there have to be three or four thousand of them.”

  “Four thousand or forty, it makes no difference,” Janus said. “A charge like that will never break a solid square.” He gave Marcus a smile, his big gray eyes unreadable. “Assuming our men are up to it, of course. If not, things will become exciting very quickly.”

  “They’re up to it, sir.” Marcus put a certainty into his voice that he didn’t feel.

  “We’ll soon see.”

  Marcus watched the approach of the riders impatiently. There was nothing for him to do, not now. The lieutenants would give the orders to load and fire, and they knew their business—or if they didn’t, it was too late to teach them. The gleaming line of bayonets shifted slightly as the men on the sides of the square turned in place to face the oncoming tide. Marcus felt oddly detached as the huge cloud of dust glided toward them, like the leading edge of a sandstorm.

  “Level!” The shout, from a dozen throats at once, brought Marcus back to reality. The horsemen were only sixty yards away, coming on at the gallop, and their shouts filled the air. Fifty yards, then forty—

  He never heard the order to fire, only a single musket
’s crack followed by a roar that spread along the formation like a blaze catching in dry tinder. Two sides of the square flashed and boiled with smoke. He could see a few horses fall, but most of the effect was hidden by the dust. The first rank of soldiers knelt, bayonets braced in the dirt, while the third rank began to reload. The second had reserved their fire, the points of their blades projecting between the men of the first.

  The last Marcus could truly see of the battle was the riders splitting against the point of the square, flowing around it like water breaking around a rock. Unable to charge home, they ended up riding along the faces of the formation, slashing impotently at the ranked bayonets. The second rank fired, and more horses went down. Then the dust of the riders’ charge mingled with the smoke to obscure his view entirely. He could hear the calls of the sergeants, to load and fire, but the organized crash of volleys was gone now. Each man fired at fleeting targets, or at no target at all, flinging his lead into the gritty fog and trusting that some Redeemer would stop it. Muzzle flashes from outside the square showed here and there through the murk, but few of the riders had pistols or carbines. Those that did seldom got a second chance to use them—the unmistakable glare of a shot instantly drew a dozen answering blasts from the faces of the square.

  The other squares were fighting, too. Marcus could hear the thunder of their fire, but for all he could see they might as well have been on the face of the moon. He glanced across at Janus. The colonel sat, reins held lightly in his hands, his eyes closed in contemplation. The expression on his face was utterly relaxed, lips curved in a slight smile. It made Marcus look away, uncomfortable, as though he’d walked in on his superior doing something private and sordid.