The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  “At least three thousand,” the lieutenant said.

  “Most of them just rode by,” Winter said. “Only a few hundred actually stopped to attack us, sir.”

  “I see.” D’Ivoire turned to the colonel. “There you have it, sir.”

  “Indeed I do,” the colonel said. “The only pity is that the lieutenant’s unfortunate demise has robbed me of the chance to castigate him for his incompetence. All that remains is to acknowledge your accomplishment, Sergeant.”

  Winter blinked. “Sir?”

  “You rescued your company from an impossible situation, and brought them safely back to the column when your officer broke and ran. That is an accomplishment, I would say.”

  “Sir,” Winter said stiffly, “thirty-eight men of the Seventh Company are dead.”

  Colonel and captain looked at one another, then back to her. The colonel gave a slow nod.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “things could have been much worse, and that deserves recognition. You are hereby brevetted to lieutenant, for the duration of the campaign, with the Ministry of War to review and approve a full promotion following the conclusion of hostilities. You’ll remain in command of the Seventh Company, as you have demonstrated such aptitude for it.”

  “Yes, sir.” That didn’t seem quite sufficient. Winter licked her lips and looked from one officer to the other. “Thank you, sir.”

  The colonel waved a hand airily. “Well done, Lieutenant.”

  “Congratulations.” Fitz Warus stood and took her hand amiably. He led her away from the table and out of the tent, talking, but Winter still felt too stunned to reply. Apparently he didn’t mind. He left her at the edge of the little group of tents that belonged to the senior officers, with another handshake.

  How am I going to tell Bobby? The boy would overreact, and she wasn’t sure she could stand it. She shook her head, then remembered Feor.

  I wonder if I should have told the colonel. An hour ago, she wouldn’t have even considered it, but that was before she’d met the man. He seemed—not friendly, of course, not even kind. But fair, possibly, and even-tempered. That was a pleasant change from Colonel Warus, whose rages had been rare but legendary. She had the feeling that he wouldn’t fault her for rescuing the girl, and he’d see to it that she wasn’t treated badly.

  She shook her head. No matter how she parsed it, it felt like a betrayal. Winter smiled crookedly and turned her steps back toward the Seventh Company’s tents. We’ll have to deal with this ourselves.

  Chapter Nine

  MARCUS

  “Adrecht!” Marcus rapped twice at the tent pole. There was no reply, and he frowned. “Adrecht, I’m coming in.”

  He twitched the flap aside, letting a shaft of sunlight in and momentarily brightening the semidarkness under the translucent canvas. There was a soft sigh and a murmur from the far end.

  “Marcus?” Adrecht said. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me,” Marcus said, picking his way carefully among bits of discarded clothing. He blinked the darkness and made out a figure lying on a mat at the other side of the tent. “We need to talk. I—”

  He paused. Some of the clothing on the floor couldn’t be Adrecht’s, unless the Fourth Battalion captain’s tastes were stranger than Marcus had given him credit for. He took a step closer and saw that there were two people on the bedroll. The smaller one sat up, letting the sheet fall away from her. She was a Khandarai girl, not more than eighteen or nineteen, with dark eyes and long dark hair. Her small breasts were uncovered, but it didn’t appear to concern her.

  “Saints and martyrs,” Marcus swore. “She had better not be from the Redeemer camp.”

  “What?” Adrecht sat up suddenly. “No! Honestly, Marcus, what do you take me for?” He brushed the girl’s cheek lightly. “Dali’s a camp follower. She’s been with us since Ashe-Katarion.”

  Marcus relaxed a little. Quite a few Khandarai had followed along with the regiment when it had fled the Khandarai capital: those whose livelihood depended on the Vordanai soldiers or who didn’t fancy their chances under the new regime. More had come to them while they waited at Fort Valor and on the return march, drawn by the chance to sell their wares, their services, or their bodies to the foreigners.

  “Well, tell her she needs to go,” he said.

  Adrecht gave an exaggerated sigh and said something in Khandarai. He spoke the native language better than Marcus did—better than any of the officers, in fact, except possibly Fitz. The girl laughed and rolled to her feet, stretching ostentatiously in front of Marcus before hunting around on the floor for her clothes. The sight of her body, lithe and trim, forcefully reminded Marcus of how long it had been since he’d enjoyed that particular comfort. He ground his teeth while he waited for her to gather her things and go.

  In the meantime, Adrecht had slipped into a pair of trousers and gotten out of bed. When the girl had gone, he turned to Marcus and crossed his arms on his bare chest.

  “Well?” he said. “What is it this time? It can’t be missing drill; I heard the announcement last night.” Janus had given the regiment the day off for recovery, except for those needed on work details.

  “It’s not that.”

  “Well?” Adrecht smiled. “Why do you look so gloomy? We won, didn’t we?”

  The victory seemed to have reinvigorated the Fourth Battalion captain. He almost looked his old self again, albeit still missing his fancy trappings.

  “It’s not the battle, either,” Marcus snapped. “It’s what happened afterward. Have you been out to the camp?”

  “Oh.” Adrecht looked away. “That was . . . unfortunate.”

  “‘Unfortunate’ is not the word I would choose,” Marcus said. “I gave an order that the men halt outside the camp and return to their formations. Your men ignored it.”

  “It wasn’t only my men,” Adrecht protested.

  “The Fourth led the way,” Marcus said.

  There was a long pause. Adrecht shook his head irritably.

  “Come on, Marcus. What do you want from them?” He waved his hand. “These aren’t saints. They’re not even proper soldiers. They’re the scum of the earth, and you know it—the sweepings of the army. You can’t expect them to behave like a bunch of country gentlemen.”

  “All I expect is that they obey orders.”

  “After a battle like that you can’t blame them for wanting a little . . . release. You know?” Adrecht laughed weakly. His smile faded when Marcus’ fist crashed against the tent pole.

  “Damn it,” Marcus said. “Listen to me. I’m not here to preach the Wisdoms at you, Adrecht. The colonel is not going to be happy about this. If I were you, I’d get a head start and start handing down some discipline as soon as possible.”

  “But—,” Adrecht sputtered. “What am I supposed to do? Start thrashing rankers at random?”

  “Do something, or else if we do get back to Ashe-Katarion they’ll burn the place down around our ears.” Marcus turned on his heel.

  Behind him, Adrecht said, “There were some of yours right at the front, you know.”

  I know, Marcus thought. He could guess which, too—Sergeant Davis and his pack of wolves, for starters. Fitz was already asking questions.

  He let the tent flap fall behind him and struck out across the camp, setting a slow pace to give himself time to cool off.

  Maybe it doesn’t make any difference. He hadn’t had a moment alone with Janus since the battle, so he wasn’t sure if the colonel was angry or not. Plenty of highborn colonels wouldn’t have given a copper bit about the rape and murder of enemy camp followers, especially grayskin infidel camp followers. Marcus thought Janus might be different, but—

  It doesn’t matter. I’m angry enough for the both of us. He’d spent most of the previous evening leading the work details that had finally cleaned up the Khandarai camp. Every overturned tent seemed to hide some fresh horror, and each one added another coal to the pile smoldering in his gut.

  And all
for what? So that fool of a prince can get back on his crumbling throne? If it was up to Marcus, he’d have handed the man over to the Redeemers and wished them good fortune.

  I shouldn’t have taken it out on Adrecht, though. As his temper cooled, he could admit that. The Fourth Battalion had been the worst offenders, but the speed of the Redeemer collapse had caught them all by surprise. It was no wonder the officers had lost control.

  On the other hand, he’s not the one who has to explain it to the colonel.

  • • •

  Marcus’ vague feeling of apprehension came into sharp focus when he approached the drill field and saw the artillery arrayed for review, and the colonel in conversation with some of the men. When he hurried over, though, he found the Preacher all smiles.

  “. . . bless you, sir. We’re honored by your interest,” he was saying.

  “I notice,” Janus said, “that these guns have some fascinating modifications.”

  He gestured to the six cannon that had been with the Colonials when he’d arrived, which had been given pride of place in the center of the line. Chief among these “modifications” was the addition of passages from scripture, engraved all over the surface from muzzle to base. The Preacher insisted this improved the weapon’s accuracy. He had a steady hand, and he’d been able to cram quite a large chunk of the Wisdoms onto each gun.

  The Preacher doffed his peaked artilleryman’s cap. “Weapons of the Lord, sir,” he said. “Weapons of the Lord, every one of them. Gives them an extra bit of sting against the heathens. This one, I started with Martyrs, and got all the way to—”

  “This is a Kravworks ’98, isn’t it?” Janus interrupted.

  The Preacher blinked, fingering the brass Church double circle that hung around his neck. “Yes, sir. All our original twelve-pounders are.”

  “But you’ve done something to the touchhole.” He leaned closer. “I can’t quite see from the outside, but—”

  The Preacher gave a broad smile. “You’ve got a good eye, sir! We had to drill out the originals—”

  Noticing Marcus, Janus waved him closer and launched into an explanation. “The Kravworks ’98 was a botched job,” he said. “Problems with the touchhole, something about the boring. The tests showed that the misfire rate would be nearly twenty percent, so most of the guns got sent abroad, or else—”

  “To bottom-of-the-barrel outfits like this one,” Marcus finished. That was a familiar story—the Colonials got the worst of everything. Muskets that wouldn’t fire, uniforms that fell to pieces, cannons that exploded . . .

  “Indeed.” Janus caught Marcus’ expression. “No offense intended, of course.”

  “None taken,” Marcus said. “I understand that Captain Vahkerson’s made the best of it.”

  “What have you got in there?” Janus said to the Preacher.

  “Friction primers,” he said. “New Hamveltai design. Works a bit like a match. Had to tweak them a little myself, of course, but we’ve got the misfires down to one in a hundred shots, and that last shot is usually a failed ignition rather than something dangerous.”

  “Interesting.” The colonel appeared to follow all that, which was more than Marcus himself could say. “But aren’t Hamveltai primers a bit hard to come by out here?”

  “Ah, as to that, my Lieutenant Archer is a dab hand with chemicals. We managed to puzzle out the recipe with only a few scorched gloves to show for it. By the grace of God, all the raw stuff is easy to get locally, so we’ve got a ready supply.”

  “Ingenious.” Janus put on a broad smile. “He’ll have to give me a demonstration of the process at some point.”

  “Whenever you like, sir! We’d be honored.”

  “And I was impressed by your performance,” Janus replied. “I hope the new pieces are to your satisfaction?”

  “Absolutely, sir. Smooth as butter, the whole lot. The six-pounders are particularly fine.”

  “I picked them out myself before we set sail,” Janus said. “If there’s anything you need—”

  “Actually, sir,” the Preacher said, “I understand we captured a number of mounts and packhorses from the heretics. Some of our teams are already under-strength, and we could do with extras for rotation. If you could see your way . . .”

  “Of course.” The colonel smiled again. “Not worried about having heretic horses pulling your holy guns?”

  “Bless you, sir. I’ll soon have ’em on the straight and narrow. I read ’em scripture every night, you see.”

  Marcus didn’t know if that was a joke or not. The Preacher had an odd sense of humor.

  Janus chuckled. “Very well, then. Carry on, Captain.”

  “Sir!” The Preacher saluted. “Thank you, sir!”

  Turning away from the guns, Janus motioned for Marcus to follow him. Marcus fell into step, almost unconsciously, slowing his pace to match Janus’ shorter strides.

  “A good man, Captain Vahkerson,” he mused.

  “A bit eccentric,” Marcus said, “but certainly a good officer.”

  “He’s effective,” Janus said. “Give me effective and eccentric over stolid and conventional every time.” He eyed Marcus sidelong. “There are those who have called me eccentric as well, you know.”

  “I can’t imagine why, sir.”

  Janus laughed. When Marcus remained silent, the colonel glanced at his companion. One look, but from that one brief glimpse of those gray eyes Marcus suddenly felt as though his every thought had been revealed.

  “Ah, Captain,” Janus said. “I think you are not entirely pleased with me.”

  “Sir?”

  “If there’s something you wish to say, I encourage you to say it.”

  Marcus stiffened. “It’s not my place, sir.”

  “Nonsense. In a crisis, certainly, I expect to be obeyed without question, and I must say you have performed admirably on that front. Afterward, however, you may feel free to berate me however you like. My pride is not easily injured.”

  Marcus blinked. “Sir?”

  “However.” Janus held up a hand and looked around at the bustling camp. “Perhaps we should be alone.”

  Janus’ tent was nearby. Augustin let them in, his lined face disapproving as always. Once they were seated on opposite sides of the camp table, Janus sent the servant off to the commissary in search of fresh water. Marcus wondered if this was for his benefit.

  “Sir,” he ventured, “did we have business to attend to?”

  “Of course,” Janus said. “But first, I think, the air must be cleared. Whatever you wish to say, please say it.”

  Marcus took a deep breath and held it for a moment. Criticizing a senior officer to his face went against every tenet of army etiquette, not to mention good sense. But Janus had insisted. He tried to frame the question as politely as possible.

  Luck. The colonel had gambled, and it had paid off. But if he was overconfident before, now he’ll be positively dangerous. If I can make him see that . . .

  “When the Redeemer infantry first approached,” Marcus said, “why did you order us to hold our fire? We could have done them a great deal of damage in the time it took them to form and charge. We might even have broken up the attack altogether.” Marcus swallowed hard, but persevered. “It seemed . . . unnecessarily risky. Sir.”

  The colonel was silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Risky,” he said. “Probably. Certainly. But unnecessary?” He shook his head. “What you need to understand, Captain, is that the answer to every question is not in the tactics manual. You should consider the larger situation.”

  He waved a hand. “For example, you must always consider the character of the enemy. Truthfully, I did not know this one as well as I might have liked—a Vordanai force, for example, or a Hamveltai one would have been a different matter. But I knew they were green troops who had never faced a field battle. Poorly organized, led with enthusiasm but without discipline.”

  “I would have thought green troops more likely to be disordered
by long-range fire.”

  “Precisely. Disordered, but not broken. Suppose we had opened on them, and they had retired in confusion before reaching musket range. What would the result have been?”

  “A victory,” Marcus said.

  “And then? What would our next move have been?” Janus raised an eyebrow. “Cannon kill with great efficiency, but not fast enough to make up for our numerical disadvantage. We lack the cavalry strength for an effective pursuit. The Redeemers would have simply retired a short distance and confronted us again, at substantially the same odds. Sooner or later, they would hold together long enough to push a charge home, and then—disaster. Or, if they had a commander with any skill, a flanking movement would have forced us to retreat. In either case, once that vast army had its legs underneath it, things would go hard for us.”

  Marcus nodded. “We might have fallen back to a defensible position—”

  “Then we would have been lost for certain. Nothing hardens men faster than a siege, and they would have little trouble cutting us off from water and forage. The best we could hope for would be to cut our way back to the fleet.” The colonel shook his head. “No, the only chance for victory was a complete rout. A single, sudden blow, so hard that they would come apart entirely. For green troops, their first contact with enemy fire is crucial. It sets the character, you might say, of everything that comes afterward. Most of those men will never return to the enemy ranks, or if they do they will only run again. Certainly it will take weeks before they can assemble another force half so large. And, in the meantime, the road to Ashe-Katarion is open.”

  Marcus sat for a moment in silence, absorbing this.

  “Our troops were green as well,” he said after a while. “Most of them, anyway. And even the Old Colonials had never fought a battle like this.”

  “Indeed,” Janus said. “I expect this first contact to have a most salutary effect on them.”

  Luck, Marcus thought. He risked all our lives on—a hunch? His impression of the enemy? But he couldn’t fault Janus’ logic. He himself hadn’t seen any way to win through against the numbers they’d faced. He’d assumed that, in spite of Janus’ talk the night he’d arrived, he planned to make a reasonable effort, prove to his superiors that he was no coward, and then retreat when the situation became untenable.