The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  “Desoltai. An ambush.”

  Marcus paused for a moment, listening. No rattle of musket fire broke the predawn stillness. Fitz, apparently reading his mind, shook his head.

  “Not here. About a mile farther on.”

  “What the hell was anyone doing a mile outside of camp?”

  “Captain Roston,” Fitz said, “led his battalion—”

  “Gods-damned fucking Adrecht,” Marcus roared. “Is he—? Never mind—fill me in later. Tell the drummers to beat assembly. Have you woken the colonel?”

  “The colonel’s not here, sir.”

  Marcus blinked, then remembered his brief conversation with Janus the night before. The colonel was off on another of his woolgathering expeditions. Of late he’d taken to spending every night outside the camp, perched on one of the rock formations with only a small escort. Marcus had complained, but Janus had been adamant. A few trustworthy men on the colonel’s detail had reported that Janus did nothing but stare into the dark and occasionally make notes in a little journal.

  He spent much of the day following each of these outings napping in one of the wagons, but even so the colonel had taken on the pallor and hollow eyes of someone who wasn’t getting enough sleep. Marcus had undergone a similar transformation, since the responsibility of keeping the column in motion had devolved entirely on his shoulders as supplies tightened and the invisible, ever-present Desoltai raiders grew bolder. What sleep he did manage to grab was plagued by vicious dreams, and he woke sheathed in sweat in spite of the chill of the desert nights.

  “Saints and martyrs and fucking Karis,” Marcus swore. “Right. Assembly for the First, and find Val, Mor, and Give-Em-Hell. I’ll be out in five minutes.”

  “Yessir!”

  Fitz saluted and ducked out, letting the flap close behind him. Once he was gone, Jen sat up, the thin sheet falling away from her bare breasts. She seemed to be naked as well, although as best Marcus could recall they hadn’t managed to accomplish anything the night before. His last memory was stripping off his clothes and toppling onto his bedroll, to be instantly drawn under by accumulated exhaustion.

  “Stay here,” Marcus told her. “I’ll send someone back when I’ve figured out what the hell’s going on.”

  She nodded, half-sleepy and half-alarmed. He tugged savagely at his shirt, fumbled with the buttons, and then pulled his coat on over the top. As an afterthought he grabbed his sword belt, tucked it under his arm, and stepped outside.

  The sun was still below the horizon, and the heat of the previous day had long since given way to a sullen, biting chill. Marcus’ tent stood alone in the midst of a sea of blue-coated men, most of whom had simply dropped where they’d finished the march without bothering to erect any canvas or undo their bedrolls. The regimental drummer was beating a steady tattoo, and the whole hive was roaring into life. Weary men clambered to their feet, grabbed their weapons, and looked for their sergeants, whose calls rose above the roll of the drums.

  Fitz was waiting, his uniform spotless as always. He saluted again as Marcus emerged.

  “I’ve sent runners to captains Solwen and Kaanos,” he said. “Captain Stokes will be here in a moment.”

  “Good. Now tell me what’s going on.”

  “I believe Captain Roston has walked into an ambush, sir.” Fitz paused as Marcus swore again, then continued. “Our reports are a little sketchy, but it seems as though a sizable force of Desoltai engaged our pickets on the north side of camp a little more than an hour ago. Captain Roston heard the firing and rounded up as much as he could of the Fourth to ‘turn the tables on them.’ After that, matters were a little confused, but as best I can tell he put the Desoltai to flight and went after them.”

  “Whereupon they waited for him to get far enough from camp, then swooped in and cut him off,” Marcus said. “Damn Adrecht, he should know better. He couldn’t spare anyone to tell me what he was doing?”

  He’d heard the firing, or at least it had infiltrated his dreams, but that hadn’t been particularly alarming. There were skirmishes every night now, and nervous sentries were always discharging their weapons at moving shadows, desert beasts, and occasionally one another.

  “Apparently not, sir. In any case, Captain Stokes sent out a patrol in pursuit. They were engaged by Desoltai horsemen, and only three men returned, but they reported that Captain Roston and his men had taken shelter in a rocky stretch and were holding their own, but that they were pinned by heavy fire from all sides.”

  “Damn, damn, damn.” Marcus’ mind whirled. Everything depended on how many Desoltai were out there. A small force might pin a larger one at night, but day would expose the bluff and let Adrecht’s troops fight their way out. On the other hand, if they were outnumbered, their resistance wouldn’t last forever. No matter how good the ground they were defending, eventually they’d run short of ammunition and be forced to either surrender or be slaughtered. And God forbid the Desoltai have a cannon or two up their sleeves. “Any more bad news?”

  “Just one piece, sir. The cavalry reported that the Steel Ghost himself is leading the attack. Their sergeant claims to have seen him personally.”

  “Spectacular.” If the Ghost was there in person, that meant it wasn’t merely a spoiling attack. Which, in turn, meant that any effort at relief would have to go in considerable force.

  He turned to find Val trotting up, with Mor close on his heels. The former looked red-faced and out of breath, while the latter, by his expression, was angry enough to spit lead.

  “Have you two been apprised?” Marcus said.

  “More or less,” Mor growled. “Do you ever get sick of pulling Adrecht’s chestnuts out of the fire?”

  “The thought has occurred to me,” Marcus admitted. “But there are at least six hundred men out there with him.”

  “Right.” Mor blew out a long breath. “So what do we do?”

  “I’m taking the First and the Third out in support. In the meantime, Val, set up a line here at the camp with the Second and the artillery. Once we break through to Adrecht, we’ll fall back on you and see how the Desoltai like the taste of canister.”

  Val’s expression was sour. “Has it occurred to you that this could all be a trap?”

  “It was a trap,” Mor said, “and Adrecht walked right into it.”

  “This is the Steel Ghost we’re dealing with,” Val said. “There may be more to it than that.”

  Marcus raised a hand to cut off the debate. “I’ve thought about it, but we haven’t got any choice. We can’t just leave the Fourth.”

  “I know, damn it,” Val said. He ran his fingers along his pencil mustache, smoothing the ends. “It just feels wrong. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “This whole damned trek feels wrong,” Mor said. “Where the hell is the colonel, anyway?”

  “Out doing whatever it is he does at night,” Marcus said, without trying to disguise his bitterness. “Which reminds me. Val, find him and bring him in. He’s got an escort, but we don’t want the Desoltai stumbling across him.”

  “Right. What about Give-Em-Hell?”

  “Keep him here with you, in case they try some sort of wide swing.”

  Not that the handful of cavalry troopers remaining would help much in that event. Marcus felt a pit yawning open in his gut. There were too many variables, too many things that might go wrong, and far too much he didn’t know. He kept picturing Janus, one eyebrow slightly raised, gray eyes impassive.

  “And that was your response, Captain? Interesting . . .”

  Fuck him. Marcus ground his teeth. He’s not here when we need him.

  “Well?” he said to Mor and Val. “What are you waiting for?”

  • • •

  The spit and crackle of musketry as they approached was comforting, since it meant that the fighting wasn’t over. Marcus had fumed and sweated as the First Battalion formed up east of the camp, faster than they ever had at Fort Valor but still far too slow to suit him. They’d marched out
in column as the Third mustered behind them, while the Second and the Preacher’s guns started creating a defensive line at the edge of the encampment.

  There was no road to follow, but it was obvious enough which way Adrecht had gone, even without the reports from the scouts Fitz had interrogated. The sandy ground was marked by the passage of hundreds of pairs of boots, and here and there bodies had been left behind by both pursuers and pursued like a trail of bread crumbs. There were no wounded, though, which Marcus found ominous. It meant Desoltai riders had combed the area after boxing Adrecht in, as far back as the site of the initial ambush.

  When the rocks came into view, Marcus could see that the story Fitz had heard from the survivors had left out a few details. He’d pictured a single hill of boulders, with the Desoltai crouched in the rolling badlands beyond it. Instead, three high promontories dominated a sprawling field of jagged, broken rock, forbidding in the shadowy half-light and shrouded by gunsmoke. The shots came in ones and twos, not coordinated volleys, and he could hear the distant shouts and screams of hand-to-hand fighting.

  Saints and martyrs. Marcus’ heart sank. The rock field was a commander’s nightmare, with vision restricted to a few yards in any direction and no chance of maintaining control over his men. He felt a flare of anger. How the hell did Adrecht let himself get stuck in there?

  He turned to Fitz, who waited at his side as always. “Any thoughts?”

  “That’s not going to be fun, sir.”

  “There’s an understatement.” Marcus looked over his shoulder. He could see the dust cloud raised by the Third, perhaps ten minutes behind him. “Send someone to Mor and have him form up on the edge of this crap to make a rally line. We’re going in. Two-company front, reserve companies just behind the leaders.”

  “Yessir!” Fitz saluted and hurried off.

  • • •

  For once, things went the way the tactics manual said they ought to. It was impossible for Marcus to keep close track of the battle once his men had vanished into the rocks, but he could see the rising smoke and hear the echoing cracks of musketry. One set of flashes marked the progress of the First, while renewed activity from the central hills meant that the Fourth had seen the attackers.

  Each pair of companies made a little bit of progress, order dissolving as they closed with the Desoltai among the rocks by a series of rushes. Eventually they would stall as individual soldiers ran out of stamina or courage and sought cover. Then the next pair of companies, still fresh, would rush past them and repeat the process. In the face of determined opposition it was a recipe for a bloodbath on both sides, but judging by the rate of progress, the Desoltai were falling back before the action got too hot.

  Mor’s Third Battalion was forming up behind Marcus as he fed the last pair of First Battalion companies into the fray. Mor himself clambered down from his big brown gelding and hurried over, eyes on the fuming mess ahead of them. Here and there muzzle flashes were visible, and soldiers in blue flitted like ghosts between the rocks and the drifting smoke.

  “Nearly there,” Mor said, after a moment.

  Marcus nodded. “So far, so—”

  Shouts from behind him were quickly drowned out by the boom of the battalion drums calling for square. Marcus turned in time to see Desoltai horsemen, not three hundred yards off, riding hard for the rear of the Vordanai formation. Where the hell did they come from?

  Surprised or not, Mor’s men gave a good account of themselves. The way they formed square, if not parade-ground smooth, was fast enough to get the walls of bayonets up in plenty of time. The Desoltai saw it and sheared off well before contact, but even so a volley of musketry from the nearer face of the square sent a few of them tumbling. There were fewer of them than Marcus had thought, not more than a couple of hundred.

  Something’s wrong. Val had been encircled by a force big enough to keep him pinned down for hours, but Marcus’ men weren’t running into anything like that level of opposition.

  Mor, evidently thinking along the same lines, said, “Think they saw us coming and ran for it?”

  “Maybe.” Marcus frowned. “Maybe they’re hoping we’ll get strung out on the way back.”

  “Hellfire. That’s going to be a long march if they follow us the whole way.”

  Marcus nodded. Then, catching sight of a familiar figure approaching the square, he hurried over.

  Men of the First and Fourth Battalions were emerging from the rocks in small groups, while their officers began the wearying process of sorting them out. Among the first to arrive was Adrecht, with Fitz in tow. The captain of the Fourth was smiling, his uniform ripped by rocks and blackened with powder grime, one empty sleeve folded up and pinned with a silver hair clip. Marcus didn’t know whether he wanted to embrace the man or slug him. He settled on a nod, as though they were meeting by chance in a café somewhere.

  “Well, this has been a hell of a morning,” Adrecht said.

  “How many of yours are still with you?”

  “All of them, more or less. The bastards were bluffing us. When we went to punch out, they’d thinned the line down to practically nothing.”

  “That’s because they want to try the same trap on a bigger scale.” Marcus gestured back to the east. “They’ve got horsemen in behind us.”

  “You seem to be holding your own.”

  “So far. We can’t stay here.”

  “Agreed. Now what?”

  Marcus closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, and then shook his head. “We haven’t got any cavalry, so this is going to be a slow business. We reorganize under cover of the square and start heading back to camp. Leapfrog-style, if we have to, one battalion in square while the other moves on.” That way might take all day to cover the mile or so they had to go, but without screening cavalry of their own or artillery to drive the horsemen off there wasn’t much choice.

  “Fair enough.” Adrecht looked almost pleased at the prospect. Marcus supposed it was better than crouching in a pile of rocks wondering if there was anyone coming to get you. “I’d better get back to my men.”

  “How are the losses on your side?”

  “Light, considering.” Adrecht pursed his lips. “A couple of small groups got cut off in the initial dash, when we thought we were chasing a detached force. Once we got to the rocks, we managed to hold them off.”

  Marcus desperately wanted to ask Adrecht what the hell he had been thinking, to go chasing off on his own, but now was emphatically not the time. He gave a curt nod instead and turned away to direct the breakout.

  Maybe I won’t need to dress him down. After all, assuming we get out of this, he’s going to have to answer to Janus. Marcus realized that he’d crossed some boundary, without noticing. He was done with sticking his neck out for Adrecht Roston.

  • • •

  The first booms of the Preacher’s guns sent the hovering Desoltai cavalry into full flight, and Marcus gave the order to re-form into column with vast relief. The mile from the rocks to the Colonial camp had seemed to stretch on forever, and the three Vordanai battalions had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Desoltai for most of the distance. Riders swooped in whenever they thought they saw an opportunity, whenever one of the three columns looked disordered or strayed too far from the covering fire of the others.

  They’d made it, though, and it had been a costly game for the Desoltai. When they saw the squares had formed, too strong to crack, they always turned away, but as often as not they’d strayed into musket range and a volley emptied a few saddles. After several repetitions the desert tribesmen had lost some of their enthusiasm, and they were content to merely escort the Vordanai the rest of the way to the safety of their artillery.

  Now they were in full retreat. Marcus caught sight of one party hanging behind the rest. At its head, a tall man pulled back the hood of his robe and offered Marcus a congratulatory wave. The sun, now well overhead, gleamed off a polished metal mask. Marcus stared at the Steel Ghost and suppressed a ridicul
ous urge to wave back. He wondered briefly if the Preacher could pick him off at this distance, but after his quick gesture the nomad leader was already turning his horse and riding back into the Desol.

  Marcus turned away as well, and only then became aware of a commotion behind him. He found Val, uniform grimy with powder smoke, hurrying up with an escort of Second Battalion men. They pulled up short when they found Marcus. The men saluted, but Val was too obviously agitated to bother with formalities. One hand tweaked the end of his mustache with such force Marcus thought he was trying to pull it off.

  “Good work,” Marcus said. “Looks like the Steel Ghost doesn’t have the stomach for charging a line of guns.” He paused, feeling a sudden unpleasant premonition. Val wouldn’t have gotten so grimy from a few cannon shots unless he’d been standing right next to the gunners. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m sorry,” Val said. “I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t—”

  Marcus raised his voice, aware of the listeners on all sides. “Captain Solwen!”

  “Sir!” Val said automatically, straightening up. His hands snapped to his sides, and his eyes seemed to clear. “You’d better come and see, sir.”

  • • •

  “I’m sorry,” Val said again, now that they were more or less alone. “They came in so fast, we barely had time to form up.”

  Marcus nodded slowly, surveying the devastation. Reconstructing what had happened was simple enough. The Second Battalion had formed a line facing east, at the edge of the camp, just as Marcus had ordered. They’d been waiting to intercept a Desoltai pursuit of the retreating First and Third Battalions. When a thousand desert horsemen had descended on them from the west, screaming for blood, they’d had only a few minutes’ warning from Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry scouts.

  Under the circumstances, Val had done well. He’d gotten the Second into square in time, and even managed to herd most of the noncombatants and wounded into the safe interior of the formation before the Desoltai had arrived. Walls of bristling bayonets had been ready to see off the riders when they charged, if they were foolish enough to attempt such a thing.