He never belonged here, for all his fancy clothes and Khandarai girls. This was my post. Marcus had taken the Khandar posting when Adrecht had been handed his exile, out of solidarity, but he’d fitted into it in a way his friend never had. It had been away, about as far away as it was possible to get from Vordan, from the burned wreckage of a house and a family.
The tent flap rustled. Marcus’ eyes flicked sideways and he saw a female silhouette against the faint glow of the camp. He relaxed.
Once the flap fell back, the tent was in darkness again. He heard a couple of footsteps, and then the soft cloth sounds of disrobing. A moment later Jen slid across the bedroll and pressed herself against him, bare skin warm against his. Marcus slipped an arm underneath her and turned his head to give her a kiss, but found his nose bumping into something cold and hard.
“Sorry,” she said. “Spectacles.” She pulled them off and set them carefully aside, then leaned back against him, brushing his lips with hers before settling her head on his shoulder.
A long moment passed quietly. He listened to her breathing, feeling it tickle the hair on his neck, the softness of her body pressed against his side.
“Are you all right?” she said.
“Mmm?”
“Adrecht. He was your friend.”
“He was.” Marcus let out a long breath. “No. I’m not all right. I just . . . I don’t understand.”
“People do strange things when the pressure gets too high.”
“Is that a professional opinion?”
He meant it as a joke, but by the way she stiffened he realized it was the wrong thing to say. He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. After a moment, he felt her relax.
“Sorry,” she said. “After today . . .”
He was silent. Her hand lay lightly on his chest, fingers tightly curled.
“I was sure they were going to kill me,” she whispered. “They’d have to, wouldn’t they? If you’re staging a mutiny, you don’t keep the informer around to write a report. Adrecht might have been too much the gentleman, but not Davis. I kept waiting for them to come back and . . .” She pressed against him a little tighter.
“I wouldn’t have let them,” Marcus said.
“Then they’d just kill you, too.”
“Is that why you told me I should let you handle it?”
He felt her nod. “You have to look at it logically,” she said, only the faintest quiver in her voice. “If I’m going to end up raped and dead anyway, there’s no sense in you getting killed as well if it won’t change anything.”
“Easy for you to say.” He thought about that for a moment, then said, “Well. Not easy. But if I had just sat by while something like that happened, I don’t think I could have lived with myself afterward.”
“At least you would have had the chance to try.”
Another pause. Marcus cleared his throat.
“It’s a good thing it didn’t come to that, then.”
“It’s a good thing,” Jen agreed.
There was a long silence. With Jen soft and warm beside him, Marcus’ eyes finally closed, and sleep beckoned.
“I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice was so quiet it might have been an incipient dream. “I can’t. If it really comes down to it . . .”
Marcus intended to ask her what she meant, but he was asleep before he got the chance.
• • •
The sun seemed to have been nailed to the sky. It refused to move, in spite of Marcus’ repeated glances and entreaties, and hung a few degrees short of its zenith like the flame in some enormous oven.
If he’d had a watch, he’d have checked it, for the hundredth time. The only watch he knew of in all of Khandar sat in Janus’ breast pocket, and Marcus was unwilling to reveal his anxiety by asking the colonel the time.
Trying to conceal that sort of thing from the colonel was a lost cause, however. Janus glanced at him and said, encouragingly, “It’s not noon yet, Captain. A few minutes more.”
“Yessir,” Marcus said. “Besides, I doubt the Desoltai will be completely punctual.”
“On the contrary. I expect them to be where we want them at noon on the dot. In fact—” Janus shaded his eyes with one hand. “Yes. I believe that’s the vanguard.”
Marcus looked, and at first saw nothing. Gradually, though, a patch of the unmitigated brown-on-brown landscape resolved itself into brown-robed riders, on brown or sandy-colored horses, passing across brown rock and rills of windblown sand. With the sun high overhead, there weren’t even shadows to give them away. No wonder we never spot the bastards in time.
He turned to the two runners, chosen from the hardiest of the young recruits. They saluted and hurried off at his gesture, having memorized in advance the message they were to repeat to Val and Mor if all went according to plan. Marcus satisfied himself that they were scampering down the rear of the hill, then turned back to Janus.
He and the colonel occupied a fissure in a massive boulder, around which sand and smaller rocks had built up until it was nearly covered. The shelf was deep enough for a half dozen men and provided a lip of rock that would screen anyone waiting there from casual observation. It was an excellent vantage point.
“He’s getting sloppy,” Janus murmured.
“Who is?”
“Our friend the Steel Ghost. Look—they’re in a single column. No outriders, no scouts.”
Marcus frowned. That didn’t sound like the Desoltai. “Do you think they’re onto us? This could be a trap.”
“Unlikely,” Janus said. “I suspect they’ve simply become a little overreliant on their secret advantage. Remember, the Ghost already knows where the raschem army is headed.”
They’d been up half the night making sure of that. At Janus’ direction, pickets had marked down the locations and patterns of the lights flashing in the darkness around the camp. A detachment of picked men had surrounded one of them, neat and quiet, and dispatched the three-man Desoltai patrol without anyone being the wiser. The messages that followed had been composed by the colonel, an apparently meaningless sequence of flashes and pauses that Janus assured Marcus the Ghost would understand. In the meantime, Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry had been noisily unleashed, driving back the other Desoltai observers and guaranteeing there would be no contradictory testimony.
It had all been carried out very smoothly, Marcus had to admit, especially for a regiment that had been on the brink of mutiny the day before. But that was only natural. Every soldier’s nightmare was being stuck fighting a foe he couldn’t hit back. Offered the chance to strike a blow, the Colonials had jumped at it, and morale had surged. Even the Fourth Battalion troops had shown some spirit.
“They’re coming this way,” Janus said. “Now it’s down to discipline.”
Marcus gave a grim nod. He bent his thoughts toward Val and Mor, and every man in their commands, as though he could calm them by mental effort alone. Hold fire . . . hold fire . . . wait for it . . .
There were a lot of Desoltai. Janus had been right about that, as about so much else. They rode five or six abreast, a rough column snaking along the twisting course between two sandy rills. It went on for what looked like miles. Marcus did a rough mental estimate and came up with two to three thousand horsemen. That has to be close to everything they have. He wondered if Janus was right and the Steel Ghost was down there in person. There was no gleam of a metal mask amidst the riders, but those brown robes could hide anything.
“Almost there,” Janus said, as calm as if he were watching a tennis match. “Captain Vahkerson has kept his nerve, in any case.”
“He always does,” Marcus said. The Preacher had a hold over his cannoneers that bordered on the fanatic.
His eyes were glued to the tall blue-and-gray rock that they’d fixed as the starting post, standing out from the dusty landscape like a menhir. It was a few hundred yards from the little hill. The leading horsemen were approaching it, so close that they could have reached out and touched it, when on
e of them reined up. Behind them, the column shuffled to a halt, spreading out across the flat ground and up the sides of the rills.
“Not quite far enough,” Janus said. “We’ll have to signal from here.”
“Now?” Marcus queried.
“Now.”
Marcus grabbed the musket that leaned against the lip of rock, aimed it in the general direction of the Desoltai, and pulled the trigger. The familiar mule kick of the gun shocked his shoulder into numbness, and the crack of the shot carried out across the desert and echoed off the walls of the valley.
The chance of the ball hitting anything at this distance was nil, but the flash and the sound would be obvious for a long way. Val and Mor would be watching. The single shot from the hill was the signal to open the attack.
For a lingering moment, nothing happened. The Desoltai milled, shouting and pointing. Marcus had a brief fantasy that something had gone horribly wrong, that he and Janus were alone out here with two thousand desert warriors and the Steel Ghost.
Then the flashing tips of bayonets emerged from behind the rills on either side of the long column. Neat rows of dusty blue uniforms double-timed over the crests, far enough to get all three ranks into view, then halted and leveled weapons with practically parade-ground timing. Some of the Desoltai caught sight of them, but they had barely enough time to turn their horses around before sergeants up and down the line yelled the order to fire.
The massed chorus of musketry, at this distance, was a rolling crash like nearby thunder. Neat puffs of off-white smoke rose from every lock and barrel. They were too far away to hear the horrible zip of balls and the smack of impact in man and horseflesh, but Marcus had heard it often enough that his mind filled it in. Among the Desoltai, all was suddenly pandemonium. Men fell, horses stumbled, lost their footing, rolled over their riders or collapsed in a broken-legged heap. Every one of the riders was suddenly fighting for control of his mount, as even animals trained for battle panicked at the unexpected attack.
Marcus counted heartbeats under his breath. Here and there along the line, flashes and puffs of smoke from the riders’ carbines showed they were firing back, but there was no coordinated return volley. A few small groups struggled free of the wreckage of dying horses and tried a charge, fighting to build speed on the rocky slopes. Marcus had reached thirty-five when the men on his left, Mor’s Third Battalion, let loose another volley, more ragged than the first but just as effective. The Desoltai closest to the line went down in a single body, as though a giant’s hand had swept across them, and the carnage in the valley multiplied. A few heartbeats later Val’s troops fired as well, completing the chaos.
“Not a bad rate of fire,” Janus mused, “with bayonets fixed. Still, that second shot could have used more discipline. Perhaps a bit of drill is in order.”
Marcus didn’t bother to reply to that. The Colonials were quickly disappearing inside the smoke from their own discharges, but the Desoltai were still visible. The second volley had convinced them that staying where they were was inadvisable, and the majority seemed to think that safety lay back the way they had come. A few more, either maddened or fanatic, charged the blue lines on either side. The third volley scythed them down, and the handful that made it to the top faced a wall of bayonets. Marcus watched one Desoltai plunge into the bank of smoke, only to have his terrified horse stumble out again dragging its unfortunate rider from the stirrups.
The great mass of the raiders was falling back, hurried along by further fire from the hills, though the shots lost effect as the Desoltai opened the distance. They funneled along the floor of the valley like water in a streambed, keeping to where the going was good. Before long their course curved to the left, taking the head of the panicking horde out of sight.
Marcus gritted his teeth. He understood the necessity, but he couldn’t help feeling nervous at this part. If they press the charge home, it’s my boys they’ll be riding over. The First Battalion had double-timed out from cover to draw a line across the riders’ route of escape, but unlike the Second and Third they were in the flat, where the Desoltai could easily get up enough speed to attack. But they aren’t alone.
A deep, hollow boom floated over the low hills, then another and another. The crackle of musketry was almost inaudible under the thunder of the guns, first bowling their solid shots through the long, tightly packed mob of riders, then switching to canister as the desperate Desoltai closed. Even the thought of it was fearful, and Marcus was suddenly glad their vantage didn’t provide a view.
“A lesson to remember,” Janus said. “Use your advantages, but never feel too secure in them. You never know when they’re going to be taken away.”
Marcus wasn’t sure if that was intended for his benefit. He saluted anyway.
“Yes, sir!”
• • •
“A couple of hundred got away, all told,” said Give-Em-Hell. His diminutive form was practically vibrating with excitement. “Sorry about that, sir.”
“Not your fault, Captain,” Janus said. “You didn’t have enough cavalry to mount a proper pursuit. Did they show any sign of regrouping?”
“No, sir. Pardon the language, sir, but they were running as though all hell was behind ’em, sir.”
“Very good. Convey my appreciation to your men, and tell them to get some rest. We’ll need you scouting our path in the morning.”
“Yes, sir!” Give-Em-Hell saluted and ducked out of the tent, spurs jingling.
“A pity we didn’t have a regiment of hussars handy,” Janus said. “We’d have rounded up the lot. Still, one does what one can.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcus waved a scrap of paper. “Captains Solwen and Kaanos have reported in. We have less than a dozen casualties, and only three killed.”
“Any prisoners? I’d be interested to see what they had to say.”
“Not many, sir, and all of those badly injured. I’ve had several reports of men running for it when they might have easily surrendered, or turning to fight hand to hand and forcing us to shoot them.”
“I see.” Janus didn’t sound surprised. “I have a notion—”
An excited knocking at the tent pole interrupted him. The colonel looked up. “Yes?”
“Sir,” came Fitz’s voice. “You’ll want to see this.”
“Come in, then.”
The lieutenant entered and gave a crisp salute. His normally pristine uniform was a little dust-stained, and the bruise on his face was still hideous, but he gave no sign of pain in his bearing. When Marcus caught his eye, he flashed a quick smile. He’d been in command of the First where they’d blocked the valley exit, and according to his initial report none of the enemy had gotten within fifty yards.
“What have you got for us, Lieutenant?” Janus said.
“Take a look at this, sir.”
Fitz pulled a heavy object from his pouch and laid it on the colonel’s writing desk. It was a blank mask, featureless but for two holes at the eyes. A mangled leather strap dangled from one side, and near the top it was bent, as though someone had struck it a terrific blow. Marcus leaned over and hefted the thing. It had the weight of solid steel.
“Interesting,” the colonel said. “Was this taken from a body?”
“No, sir. We found it lying on the ground, amidst the dead, but not on any particular body.” He touched the strap. “It’s broken, see? Could be it fell off.”
“You think he’s dead?” Marcus said.
Fitz shrugged. “Only one man in ten got away. If he isn’t dead, he’s got the saints’ own luck.”
“Dead,” Janus said. “Have you told anyone about this, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir. It’s just me and the sergeant who found it, and I trust him to keep his mouth shut.”
“Good. Keep it quiet a little while longer.” At Marcus’ questioning glance, Janus shrugged. “I’d rather not get the men’s hopes up. Rumors of the Ghost’s supernatural powers have gone quite far enough already.”
“You t
hink we’ll see him again?”
The colonel gave another summer-lightning smile. “I’m certain of it, Captain. Tomorrow, we attack the oasis.”
Chapter Twenty-four
WINTER
Winter awoke slowly, rising to consciousness like a corpse floating to the surface of a deep, still pond, still wrapped with clinging tendrils of dream. For a moment she tried to grasp them—there had been something, something important, and she felt herself losing it. Jane had been there, as always, but she had been different. Warning. She was warning me about something.
It was like trying to catch smoke. The dream faded, and she opened her eyes to see the familiar army blue of her tent glowing with the faint light that meant the sun was well overhead.
That can’t be right. She tried to reckon the hours. It had been the middle of the night when she’d rescued the colonel and the others, and then . . . her memory was not as clear as she would have liked. She could vaguely recall being helped into the tent, and sometime later being prodded to drink a little water. A concerned face, looking down.
“Bobby?” Her voice was a croak.
“Sir?” Bobby said from nearby. “Winter? Are you awake?”
“I think so.” Winter blinked gummy eyes.
“How do you feel?”
She considered that for a moment. Her body was gradually making its protests known. Her nose felt twice its normal size, and every breath brought painful stabs all along her left side. She managed to shift a little, and more bruises announced themselves.
“Lousy,” she said, closing her eyes again. “Like some ape used me for a punching bag.”
“Do you think you can sit up?”
Winter gave a weak nod, planted her hands, and levered herself off the ground. Halfway there, the world swam sickeningly. She felt Bobby’s hands on her shoulders, guiding her the rest of the way. When she opened her eyes again, the corporal was giving her a worried look.
“The colonel had a look at you,” Bobby said. “Your nose isn’t actually broken, but you took a couple of nasty cracks to the head. He said you might be a little dizzy, but it should pass.”
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