The Thousand Names

by Django Wexler

  They were not. And, Marcus was coming to understand, they had never intended to, any more than they had intended to press home a costly attack on Adrecht’s force or his own. Their real target was spread before him.

  Weeks of desert sun had bleached and dried the planks of the carts and wagons that followed the army until they were as dry as driftwood, but the nomads had taken no chances. Bottles of lamp oil had been flung into the bed of each vehicle, followed by blazing brands. Other squads had descended on the lines of penned pack animals, turning them loose to flee in panic from the fires and then slaughtering all they could catch. But the main blow had been delivered by a picked force, armed for the task with hatchets and heavy axes, who had gone straight for the barrels Fitz had extracted from the Khandarai wine merchants.

  They’d been thorough. Fire was an uncertain weapon at best, and no doubt a few bits and pieces had escaped destruction, but the vast majority of the Colonials’ supply train had been reduced to ruins while a full battalion of blue-coated soldiers stood by and watched.

  “Give-Em-Hell wanted to attack,” Val said dully. “I almost listened to him, but I knew what would happen. This was the Steel Ghost himself. They’d just ride away while we broke formation, circle around, cut us to pieces from behind. There were so many of them.” He shook his head. “Maybe you could have thought of something, Marcus. All I could do was watch.”

  “I wouldn’t have had any ideas,” Marcus said. He meant it—aside from moving the supplies inside the square, which there hadn’t been time for, there was nothing an infantry battalion could do against such a mobile force. He glanced at Val. “You think the Steel Ghost was here personally?”

  “I saw him myself,” Val said. “Leading the squad that smashed the water barrels, riding a big black stallion.”

  Maybe he rode around and met up with the other force before I saw him? That seemed like an awful risk to take just to taunt Marcus. Besides, he could have sworn he’d felt the Ghost’s guiding hand in the feints and ambushes the Desoltai had executed in the rocks. They say he can be everywhere at once, and move across miles in an instant . . .

  Smoke was still rising from the burning wagons, forming a thick pillar in the unmoving desert air. Here and there a dying animal thrashed and moaned, but otherwise the scene was quiet. A small escort of Second Battalion soldiers stood at a polite distance, but Marcus could feel their eyes on him. Most of the rest of the Colonials were off to the east, and no doubt Val’s troops were spreading news of the disaster. Marcus could almost hear the whispers beginning already.

  This is going to be bad. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, swallowed hard, and turned to Val.

  “All right. First order of business is to salvage whatever we can. Get squads out looking for any animals that escaped, supplies we can still use, and especially water. We’re going to need everything we can get.”

  Val nodded. His relief at having someone issuing orders was obvious. “Right away.”

  Speaking of which . . . “What about the colonel? Where is he?”

  “He’s safe,” Val said. “He should be here in a few minutes. I sent some men to escort him back to camp, but when he saw the attack starting they decided it would be safer to wait. I had a runner just now.”

  Marcus didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive. “I’d better go and find him. Do you have a horse I can borrow?” The officers’ personal horses had been strung out with the rest of the animals. Poor Meadow was no doubt lying charred on the field with her throat slit.

  Val found him a horse from those that had survived the carnage, a big, unpleasant animal that seemed instinctively aware of Marcus’ dislike of the equine species. He rode in search of Janus, following the vague directions that Val had given him, and before long he was giving serious consideration to getting off and walking. He was so distracted sawing on the reins to keep the stubborn animal headed in the right direction that he nearly ran over Janus’ little party, who were picking their way down a rocky scarp at the bottom of a small hill. The colonel stepped smartly aside as Marcus brought his fractious mount under control and dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting soldier with great relief.

  That feeling evaporated instantly as he turned to meet Janus’ cool, gray-eyed stare. Marcus stiffened to attention and snapped a crisp salute, which the colonel acknowledged with a nod.

  “Sir!” he said. “Have you been brought up to date on the situation?”

  “I saw most of it happen,” Janus said, holding up his spyglass. “I happened to have a good vantage, though I didn’t have any view of the action where you went to rescue Captain Roston. Judging by the returning formations, however, I assume you succeeded?”

  “Yessir,” Marcus said. “The Desoltai tried to cut in behind us, but we were able to break through.”

  “I’m glad to see that something came of your blunder, in any case,” Janus said. “Although, in the short run, it makes our task more difficult.”

  The colonel’s tone was so pleasant Marcus wasn’t certain he’d heard properly. “Sir?”

  “Not that you deserve much blame,” Janus went on. “Whoever commands the Desoltai clearly has a firm grasp of tactical principles, and obviously knows how to employ the advantages of his mobility and the terrain. It’s not surprising that you were overmatched. No, the lion’s share of the fault must of course go to Captain Roston, for taking so obvious a bait.”

  Marcus had thought the same thing at the time, but now he bristled. “I’m sure that Captain Roston made the best decision he could under the circumstances.”

  “Captain Roston is a cowardly fool,” Janus said. There was no rancor in it, just a statement of fact. “I believed I could tolerate him, for your sake, but that was clearly an error, and one that reflects on my own judgment. You see, Captain, none of us escapes censure.” Ignoring Marcus’ stunned expression, Janus stepped away from him, looking down at the still-smoking camp. “That’s something to consider in the future, however. For the present, we must work our way out of this predicament. Fortunately, we have options available to us. Have you completed your survey of the remaining supplies?”

  “Ah . . . not yet, sir.” Marcus was still trying to digest what he’d heard—Janus apparently blamed him, and Adrecht, for the whole disaster, and yet he didn’t plan to do anything about it. Not “for the present,” anyway. He forcibly redirected his thoughts onto a more practical path. “Captain Solwen’s men are still searching the wreckage. At a guess, we’ll have quite a bit of food left, but as to water . . .”

  “Certainly the more problematic of the two. A man can go a week without food, but a few days without water will kill as certainly as a musket ball. I want you to organize a detail of trustworthy men immediately and collect the canteens and waterskins from the men.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’re going to need every drop, Captain, and it’s going to have to be rationed. Leaving it in the hands of the rankers only assures that it will be wasted.”

  “Most of those men have been fighting all day,” Marcus said. “They’re not going to be happy about this.”

  “I assume they would prefer to be unhappy and alive to the alternative. Do it. Another detail needs to gather the carcasses from the horse lines and the pack train. Drain the blood and carve as much meat as can be had.”

  “Drain the blood?”

  “Horse blood will keep a man alive, Captain. Among the Murnskai, a man on an urgent journey can subsist on nothing but blood and horseflesh for more than a week.”

  “The men really aren’t going to like—”

  Janus gave a little sigh, as though he were a schoolmaster losing his patience with a particularly slow pupil. “Captain d’Ivoire. I wonder if you fully understand the predicament that you and your friend Captain Roston have created.”

  “I know—”

  “We are in the Great Desol,” Janus continued, cutting him off. “We are at least a week’s march from the nearest known source of fresh w
ater, even allowing for forced marches, and I estimate we’ll have less than two days of half water rations remaining. We are surrounded by hostile forces under an extremely capable commander, who has deliberately created this situation and will certainly be standing ready to exploit our increasing weakness. If we do not act decisively, all that will remain of this army will be a pile of bleaching bones.”

  Marcus gritted his teeth. “What should I have done?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When Adr—when Captain Roston took the Fourth after the Desoltai. What should I have done, if going after him was such a mistake?”

  Janus blinked, as though the answer was so obvious he was astonished Marcus had to ask the question. “You should have let him go. Kept your men close to the camp, defended the supply train, and carried on with the march.”

  “Sacrificed the entire Fourth Battalion, in other words,” Marcus said.

  “Yes,” Janus said. “Sacrifices are sometimes necessary to ensure the success of a campaign.” His gray eyes glittered. “Besides, if you cared about the welfare of those troops, you would have allowed me to replace Captain Roston with someone more competent.”

  Marcus had never wanted to hit someone so badly in all his life. Instead, slowly, he saluted.

  “Yes, sir!”

  • • •

  The gory work of carving and jointing the dead animals went on all through the rest of the day and into the night, with crews of soldier-butchers working by the light of improvised torches cut from the remains of wagons. Barrels that had survived the attack with only minor damage were patched and filled with steaming blood, while other teams carefully extracted the dregs from smashed containers and combined them with the water from the canteens and waterskins collected from the unwilling rankers. They still didn’t have a precise accounting, but Marcus could already see it would be a pitifully small collection.

  And then this. Marcus stared at the stark white paper, neatly creased, that Fitz had delivered to him under the colonel’s seal. One edge was torn where he’d opened it in haste.

  “He can’t be serious,” Marcus said dully.

  “In my experience, the colonel is always serious,” Fitz said.

  “I know.” Marcus glared, as though he could force the neat writing to change shape by force of will. Tomorrow morning, the Colonials will continue the march northeast by north . . .

  He looked up at Fitz. “This is going to be trouble.”

  “The water situation?”

  “Not just that. When the news of this gets out—”

  The lieutenant nodded. “I’ve already received messages from captains Solwen and Kaanos. They want to see you.”

  “I’ll bet they do. Go and tell them to come over, and Adrecht, too. Then . . .” Marcus hesitated, embarrassed.

  “Sir?”

  “See if you can find Jen,” he said. It felt wrong employing Fitz on personal business, but he couldn’t help it. She’d been gone from his tent when he’d returned from the ill-fated expedition, and he’d been too busy since then to find her, despite his worry. “I just need to know if she’s okay.”

  “Of course, sir,” Fitz said. He saluted and slipped out.

  It wasn’t long before Val and Mor arrived. The former had changed into a clean uniform and applied fresh wax to his mustache, while the latter was still in the grimy coat he’d worn in the battle. Both clutched their own copies of Janus’ orders. Mor waved his in Marcus’ face, the creased paper flapping like a broken-winged bird.

  “What the hell is this?” he exclaimed.

  “Orders,” Marcus managed to say. He gestured for the pair to sit. Val took a cushion beside the low table, but Mor remained standing, and so Marcus had to stand awkwardly between them.

  “Orders, my ass,” Mor said. “‘Continue the march’? We’re just going on as though nothing has happened?”

  “Not exactly,” Marcus said. “We’re changing direction—”

  “We’re still going deeper into the Desol! We’ve got maybe two days of water left, and then we’ll be down to drinking blood and horse piss. And when that runs out we’re all going to end up dead!”

  “He’s right,” Val said. He didn’t look up, as though ashamed to be agreeing with Mor. “I know the colonel is determined, but this is madness. He must give up the campaign.”

  “Even if we turned around now, there’s no guarantee we’d make it,” Marcus said.

  “We can strike toward the coast,” Mor said. “There’s streams there, and it’s only four days’ march. We’ll be thirsty, but we’ll live if we stretch the supplies.”

  “Some of us,” Marcus said.

  “Better than none,” Mor shot back.

  Val smoothed his mustache with one finger. “More important, if we move deeper into the Desol another confrontation with the Desoltai is inevitable. After a few days without water, the men are going to be in no condition to fight. If we retreat, we may be able to regroup and resupply.”

  “Assuming the Desoltai leave us alone,” Marcus said. “Do you really think the Steel Ghost is going to pass up an opportunity to annihilate this army if he has the chance?”

  “So the best you can offer is that it’s certain death either way, so we might as well march off the cliff?” Mor said. “Is that what the colonel told you?”

  “He didn’t tell me anything,” Marcus said. “He never tells me anything, I told you. Except when I’ve done something wrong.”

  “Then why are you taking his side?” Mor said.

  “I’m not taking his side!” Marcus paused. “Suppose I agreed with you in every particular. What am I supposed to do about it?” He gestured at the folded paper. “Orders are orders.”

  “Only if we obey them,” Mor said.

  Marcus stared at him. “You don’t mean that.”

  Mor’s lip curled, but it was Val who spoke. “There are provisions for this sort of thing. In the regulations, I mean. In the event that a commanding officer is deemed to be mad, his senior subordinate can remove him from his post pending an investigation by a court-martial.”

  “There isn’t a court-martial within three thousand miles,” Marcus snapped. “Don’t mince words. You’re talking mutiny.”

  “I have a duty to the men of this regiment,” Mor said stiffly, “not to get them killed to no useful purpose.”

  “You have a duty to obey orders. An oath.”

  “I have an oath to the king, and to defend Vordan. How the hell does leading my men to die in the desert serve either?”

  “You don’t get to pick and choose,” Marcus said. “The colonel gives the orders that he decides are in the interests of the king, and we carry them out. That’s all.”

  “Fine,” Mor said. “Then let him come and explain to me what he’s trying to do.”

  “He’s under no obligation to do that.”

  “He owes us something.”

  Val cleared his throat. “It doesn’t need to go that far, Marcus. What if you just tried to talk to him? He’ll listen to you. He has before. Explain it to him—”

  “I have a feeling that my stock with the colonel is fairly low at the moment,” Marcus said. He sighed. “I’ll talk to him. I was going to try that anyway. But I will not disobey orders. You understand? No matter how mad you think the man is. And if you try it, I will have you put under arrest for treason.”

  “Good,” Mor said. “Then you can shoot me and spare me a slow death from dehydration.”

  “Just talk to him,” Val said soothingly. “That’s all we wanted.”

  “I’ll talk to him.” Marcus pursed his lips. “Have you spoken to Adrecht?”

  “Not since the fighting,” Mor said. “Why?”

  “The colonel was not happy with the stunt he pulled this morning,” Marcus said. “At this point, it may be better if he resigns after all.”

  “You really think that matters now?” Mor said.

  “It matters to Adrecht. If the colonel has to force him out, and we get out of
this, he’ll face charges.”

  “I’ll try to talk to him,” Val said. “You worry about the colonel.”

  Marcus promised again that he would, and managed to usher his friends out. Soon after, Fitz arrived to report that Jen was fine and in her own tent, and Adrecht had retreated to the Fourth Battalion camp and was not receiving visitors. Sulking, Marcus decided. He sent the lieutenant off again, this time to Janus to request an audience, and settled down to wait.

  • • •

  “Busy,” Marcus deadpanned.

  “Busy,” Fitz confirmed.

  “What the hell is he doing?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir. Master Augustin said that the colonel was busy and was not to be disturbed.”

  Marcus shook his head, bewildered. It smelled like panic. Many senior officers in a desperate situation might deliberately shut the door on their subordinates, but it was hard to picture Janus in such a panicked state. Apart from one flash, under Monument Hill, he’d never shown any emotion more vehement than mild disapproval.

  Maybe it’s a plan? Marcus frowned. Maybe it’s a test. Maybe—no. He would only drive himself mad thinking like that. Maybe Mor is right after all.

  “I had another note from Captain Roston,” Fitz said. “He wants you to come to speak with him.”

  “I’m the senior captain,” Marcus groused. “If he wants to talk, he should come here.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll inform him—”

  “Don’t bother.”

  Marcus stood up from his cushion, legs groaning in protest. His lips were dry and cracked in the desert heat, and his throat was parched. That was nothing new, of course, but thinking of all those smashed, empty barrels brought his thirst inexorably to the front of his mind. He did his best to ignore it.

  The table in front of him was covered with hastily scrawled reports, from which he’d been trying to put together some coherent picture of what supplies the regiment had left. A leather-backed map was marked with penciled circles, indicating how far they could march while the water held out and his estimate of what they could make beyond that, but Marcus would be the first to admit it was only guesswork. Mor had been right about one thing, in any event—even making it back to the coast would be difficult. If we march any farther east . . .