The Thousand Names (27 page)

“Indeed. But getting there is going to be a problem. News of our victory has reached them by now, and General Khtoba appears to have bestirred himself at last.”

“You think he’ll meet us on the road?”

“Unfortunately, I doubt that he’ll be quite so bold. No doubt he’ll keep to the west bank of the Tsel, and therein lies the difficulty. You see?”

Marcus frowned. He’d never claimed much of a gift for strategy, but the issue here was clear enough. Ashe-Katarion clustered around an inlet called the Old Harbor, repository of the trade that formed the city’s lifeblood. In ancient times, the river mouth had been there as well, but the channel had silted over and the mighty Tsel had dug a new path to the sea, some twenty miles to the west of the city. The kings of Khandar had cut a canal south from their city to a bend in the river rather than relocate their temples and palaces to the new outlet.

The result was that the Tsel was squarely between the Colonials and the Khandarai capital. Upstream to the south, the great river wiggled like a snake as it crossed the wide, flat plain, but here at the coast it ran fairly straight. Slow-flowing it might be, but it was nearly a mile wide and presented a formidable obstacle.

There was a bridge a few miles up from the sea, where a pair of rocky islands provided a decent footing. The Vordanai cartographers, in their unimaginative way, had dubbed the triple span Westbridge, and the town that had grown up on both banks Westbridge Town. It was through here that the coast road ran, over the river and down the last few miles into the city.

Marcus had ridden through the town many times, most recently on the retreat from the Redeemers that had ended at Fort Valor. There were no purpose-built defenses, no fortress walls or emplaced artillery, but the place would be a nightmare to take nonetheless. The bridges were narrow, barely wide enough for a pair of wagons to pass one another, and the islands commanded the approaches and provided excellent fields of fire. Troops attempting to cross would have to do so without cover, in the face of every gun the defender could muster, and even if they succeeded in storming the first island they would only have to accomplish the same task twice more. Then, on the far bank, they’d need to hold the bridgehead against whatever counterattack the enemy would have waiting.

“Khtoba’s dug in around the bridge,” Marcus guessed.

“Like a tick on a dog,” Janus said. “With only three battalions, though. He’s no fool, and he knows we won’t go that way unless we have to.” He tapped the map again, upstream of the city. “The other three are here. There’s a ford just north of this river bend, good enough to cross if we don’t mind getting wet.”

A ford sounded hardly better than the bridge. Marcus tried to imagine slogging through a waist-deep river and assaulting the far bank, while the enemy flailed the water with musket and canister. It might be done, if the attackers were determined enough, but the losses would be ghastly.

Janus was watching him with those deep gray eyes, and Marcus decided this was a test. He looked down at the map and searched his memory.

“We might march down the east bank,” he said eventually. “There’s another bridge here, at Saal-Khaaten, and more fords upstream where the river’s narrower.”

“Khtoba would follow,” the colonel said. “And he has the inside track.”

“If we can threaten more than two crossings at once, he’ll have to spread himself thinner. He can’t cover them all.”

Janus gave a slow nod. “It might serve. And then what, once we’ve crossed?”

“A battle, presumably.”

“A head-on fight, and he’ll choose the ground,” Janus said. “And Khtoba has us three to two.”

“The last Redeemer army had us five to one,” Marcus said. “I didn’t think the odds concerned you.”

The colonel waved a hand. “Those were rabble. The numbers didn’t concern me because I knew they would never stand up to disciplined fire. They might as well have left three-quarters of those men at home, for all the good they did. But the Auxiliaries are a horse of a different color.”

That was true enough. The Auxiliaries comprised six battalions of Khandarai recruited by Prince Exopter and trained by his Vordanai allies. Marcus had taken his turn at the training a time or two, and they’d certainly looked disciplined enough, marching up and down in their brown uniforms. More important, they had Vordanai weapons, including a full complement of artillery. They were supposed to have been a bulwark against rebellion, but no one had counted on the fervor the new religion inspired. The Auxiliaries had gone over to the Redeemers almost to a man, along with their commander.

“On even terms, in open ground, I wouldn’t hesitate,” Janus said. “But Khtoba is not likely to give us a chance at that. Judging from his actions thus far, I doubt he’d even give battle. More likely he’d fall back behind the canal, or into the city itself, and fight us in the streets.
That
we must avoid at all costs.”

Marcus shook his head. “So what, then?”

“The general has given us an opportunity here.” He tapped the bridge again, and then the ford. “Two detachments, widely separated, and not much between them but pickets. Where we need to be”—he moved his finger to a point between the two—“is here.”

“We’d be surrounded, with no line of retreat,” Marcus objected. “Even if we could get there, which we can’t, since we can’t cross the river.”

The colonel grinned like a cat.

•   •   •

It was nearly sundown. Rest—which at the start of the day had seemed like some distant and unreachable oasis—was practically within his reach, and Marcus therefore had a strong inclination not to answer when there was a knock on his tent pole. In theory, it might be important, although short of an impending Khandarai attack Marcus couldn’t think of anything that qualified. He compromised by responding with a sort of muffled grunt, in the hopes that the knocker either wouldn’t hear him or would give up and go away.

Instead, the visitor spoke. “It’s Adrecht.”

Damn.
“Oh, all right.”

Adrecht ducked through the flap. Even in the dim lantern light, there was no mistaking the huge bruise that purpled his cheek and nearly closed one eye. A shallow cut above his eyebrow was dark with scabbed blood.

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus swore. “What happened to you?”

“Mor,” Adrecht said, with an exaggerated wince. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Marcus nodded, and Adrecht folded his lanky form up beside the camp table. Marcus waved at his trunk.

“Do you want a drink? I think I’ve got something . . .”

“No,” Adrecht said. His expression was thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so.”

“So what happened? Mor just jumped you?”

“After a manner of speaking,” Adrecht said. “He came into my tent and told me that he’d had it with me, and that Marcus was a better friend than I deserved.” He smiled slightly. “With more swearing, of course. Then he picked me up and tossed me into a tent pole. Snapped it in half, as a matter of fact.”

“Hell.” Marcus’ face clouded. “I’ll talk to him. I don’t care what he thinks, that was out of line—”

“No,” Adrecht said. “Not really.”

Marcus swore inwardly. He’d hoped to avoid this for a while. “Ah. He told you the whole story, then.”

“Most of it. I got the rest out of Val. If you want to keep something a secret, you ought to think twice before sharing it with those two. Think three times, maybe.” Adrecht shook his head. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“I wanted to keep it quiet.”

“Honestly, Marcus.”

Watching his friend’s expression, Marcus could tell that excuse wouldn’t do. He sighed. “I didn’t want you to do anything . . . rash.”

“Rash? Like turning myself in before you got a chance to resign?”

“Like that, for example.”

“Accepting dismissal,” Adrecht deadpanned, “rather than risking your being shot for desertion. That would be ‘rash.’”

“I suppose so.” He frowned, searching for words. It was hard to explain to the others, but he’d never really felt endangered—he had no
reason
to be sure that Janus wouldn’t shoot him, or even bring him up on charges, but he felt the certainty nonetheless. “It wasn’t really about you. I tried to explain that to the colonel.”

“Did he believe it?”

“I’m not sure.” Marcus shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“I suppose not.” Adrecht paused, then said, “Well, if it makes any difference, you were right. I would have been rash.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Marcus searched for something to say, but drew a blank, and in the end it was Adrecht who spoke.

“You don’t owe me anything, you know. It’s been—”

“Eighteen years,” Marcus said. “I know.”

Another silence. Adrecht sighed.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean?” Marcus said.

“How can I just go back to my battalion now? I know the colonel would rather be rid of me. Mor seems to hate me. And you—” He shook his head. “It seems like I ought to resign, but after what you’ve been through that would be a bit of a waste, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” Marcus hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Mor will come around eventually. But I think you need to prove the colonel wrong.”

“Small chance that I’ll get the opportunity. He’ll have me guarding the latrines for the rest of the campaign.”

“He won’t, as it happens.” Now it was Marcus’ turn to smile. “We’re going into action again tomorrow, and you’ve got a big part in it. Right beside me, in fact.”

“Oh.” Adrecht didn’t sound surprised. “And how did that happen?”

“You volunteered.”

“I suspected as much. I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” Marcus admitted. “I didn’t.”

WINTER

W
inter sighed and rubbed her weary eyes. The lantern on her little table had guttered low while she’d been working. She blew it out, added another inch of oil, and wound out more wick, then struck a match and relit it. The sudden flare of light seemed bright as noon in the darkness of her tent.

What I ought to do
is sleep.
But awake, she could feel the captain’s orders for tomorrow staring at her from where she’d tucked them in her coat, and every time she lay down to sleep she found herself faced with accusing green eyes.

Her only solace lay in work, of which there was fortunately a sufficiency. In spite of Winter’s intermittent efforts, the company books were still badly out of date. Not only did the various infractions, minor penalties, and daily logs of the march still need to be recorded and approved, but the deaths of nearly a third of the men still needed to be processed. Each of the dead had left behind some pathetic bundle of possessions, all of which Bobby had carefully inventoried and assessed. These would be sold at the first opportunity, and the proceeds forwarded to the dead men’s kin along with the army’s standard benefits.

The lists made for sad reading. Winter tapped her pen beside a line that read, “One locket or keepsake, brass, containing a miniature of a young woman. Of indifferent quality. 2f 6p.” She wondered whether the girl had been a wife, a lover, or merely some object of brotherly affection. Then, frustrated, she tossed the pen aside and leaned back on her elbows. Her eyes, itchy with fatigue and lantern smoke, filled with tears.

“Are you unwell?”

The voice was Feor’s—there was hardly anyone else likely to speak to her in Khandarai—but Winter started anyway. The girl was so quiet it was easy to forget that she was there. She lay on her stomach on the extra bedroll Graff had cadged from the quartermasters, reading by the flickering light of Winter’s lamp. Aside from the occasional rasp of a turning page, she might have been a queer-looking statue.

“No,” Winter said, blinking away the tears. “Well, yes, but not how you mean. I’m tired.”

“Your diligence does you credit,” Feor said. Sometimes the girl’s tone was so solemn that Winter was sure she was joking, but her face never showed any hint of it.

“I’m sorry. I must be keeping you awake.”

“It’s no trouble. Since I have no duties here, I have time enough to sleep.”

With a broken arm, Feor could hardly set up tents, or cook, or clean weapons or uniforms. She spent most of her time bundled in a white robe, trudging along with the quartermasters and the rest of the camp servants. Graff escorted her to Winter’s tent when they stopped for the day, and she stayed inside until full dark. Bobby or Folsom brought food in at dinnertime.

Winter had been worried that someone would notice, and undoubtedly many had, but it hadn’t attracted the attention she’d feared. The army had started out with a considerable “tail” of servants and camp followers, and had only added to it during the slow progress up the coast road toward Ashe-Katarion. However much the Khandarai might hate their Vordanai oppressors, it seemed as if some of them were not averse to washing those oppressors’ clothes, selling them food and wine, or sharing their bedrolls. Not if the price was right. So while it was an open secret that Winter shared her tent with a young woman every night, she was hardly the only one, and the only response from the men had been some wistful grumbling about the privileges of rank.

No doubt Davis and the others were laughing at what their “Saint” was up to. Thankfully, Winter had not run across the sergeant since the battle. If her earlier promotion had angered him, her brevet to lieutenant would drive him to a frenzy. She hoped idly that he’d gotten himself killed somehow, but she doubted she would be so lucky.

“I’m sorry I don’t have more for you to read.” Winter’s inquiries among the servants and camp followers had produced only a couple of slim volumes, mostly myths and tales for children. “You must have seen all that before.”

“I consider myself lucky that I was rescued by someone with such a command of our language.”

“Most of the Old Colonials speak it, at least a little.”

“You have more than a little,” Feor said. “You must have made a study of it.”

Winter shrugged. “Here and there. There wasn’t much else to do while we were in camp.”

“In my limited experience, most soldiers seem to be satisfied with drinking, dicing, and whoring. These did not appeal to you?”

“Not especially.” Winter cast about, eager to change the subject. “What about you? I suppose you lived on the sacred hill, before the Redemption started?”

Feor nodded. “In a special cloister, with the other
naathem
.”

“What was that like? The old priestesses never let any Vordanai so much as set foot on the holy ground.”

The girl reflected for a moment. “Orderly,” she said. “We live our lives for Mother and the gods. Our days were tightly circumscribed—so much time for prayer, so much for study, so much for chores.”

“That sounds familiar,” Winter muttered. “Did it bother you, living like that?”

“I knew no other way to live, until the Redemption. We were kept from contact with the unholy.”

“What about before you came to the temple? Did you have a family?”

Feor shook her head. “We were all orphans. The word is
sahl-irusk
, sacred children. Those entrusted to the temples in infancy. Mother chooses her
naathem
from among these.” She paused, and there was a hint of pain in her eyes. “The last few months have been something of a shock. The Redeemers have brought us . . . chaos.”

“And you want to go back?”

“Yes,” Feor said. “I must return to Mother.”

“Even if she locks you up again?”

“It is for our own protection.
Naathem
are in danger from the unholy world. It would use us, or destroy us.”

Winter frowned. “Then why tell me?”

“You saved my life,” Feor said. “Lies seemed a poor way to repay you.”

Winter nodded. She still wasn’t sure what to make of this
naathem
business. Feor seemed ordinary enough, for a priestess. But she clearly believed the title meant something, and Winter had been hesitant to challenge her on it.
Let her have her beliefs, if it makes her happy.
The
naathem
of the stories were monstrous figures, powerful and malicious, but perhaps the priests of the sacred hill meant the term differently.

“I should get some sleep,” Winter said. She glanced at her coat, as though she could read the orders through the pocket lining. “Tomorrow is going to be . . . busy.”

“Another battle?”

“I hope not. God willing, we’ll just get a little wet.”

Feor nodded, but thankfully didn’t press for details.

“If . . .” Winter coughed. “If something goes wrong, and we’re . . . captured, or something like that, you may end up on your own. If you stick with the army, you shouldn’t have too much trouble.”

“I can wash clothes with the rest, if need be.” Feor fixed her with an oddly calm stare. “But you will return.”

“Is that a prophecy?”

Another little smile. “No. Just a guess. But hopefully an accurate one.”

Winter snorted and blew out the lamp.

•   •   •

If she dreamed, she was too tired to remember any of it. When Bobby came to wake her, an hour before dawn, Winter got out of bed feeling almost refreshed. She dressed in darkness and slipped outside to find the Seventh Company waking up around her, men emerging from their tents grumbling and bleary-eyed. Watching them tighten their belts and take their weapons from where they’d stacked them the night before, Winter felt the first fluttering of the anxiety she’d fought all the previous day.

That anxiety was in full flood by the time the men had formed up and begun the short march to the river. Winter walked at the head of the column, looking over her shoulder every few moments to make certain they were still following.
Why
should
they follow?
Her stomach roiled.
A week ago I was
Ranker
Winter Ihernglass. Then sergeant. That wasn’t so bad. I still just had to follow orders. But now?
The captain had given
her
the assignment, and there would be no one else to blame if it went wrong.
Or if I get my people killed, like d’Vries did.
The lieutenant had been a fool, but . . .
I’m sure he didn’t think of himself as an idiot. Who’s to say I’m any better?

The sky was gray with predawn light by the time they reached the river. The Vordanai column had camped a few miles to the west of the Tsel, behind a ridge that would hide their bivouac from any lookouts across the water. They’d left the coast road the day before, behind a strong cavalry screen, and Winter’s men trudged across sodden fields and goat tracks to cover the last stretch to the riverbank. The Tsel stretched out before them, looking more like a lake than a river. It was nearly a mile across, milky brown in color, and placid as a millpond.

“Whatever you do,” Winter passed the word, “don’t drink the water.” The warning hardly seemed necessary. After crashing down from the southern highlands and winding its way across the plains, the mighty Tsel was more like an oozing flow of liquid dirt than a proper river.
Not to mention that half of Khandar uses it as a sewer.

The boats were waiting for them, drawn up on the bank with a guard of a half dozen cavalry troopers. They were a sorry-looking bunch of craft, mostly small fishing skiffs that wouldn’t hold more than four or five men, with a couple of shaky-looking rafts and a tub of a barge that looked to have been recently patched and pressed back into service.

“The Auxies aren’t stupid,” Captain d’Ivoire had explained to her. “They’ve pulled all the heavy transport over the east bank. But they didn’t expect us so soon, so they didn’t have time to be thorough. Give-Em-Hell is out there right now, rounding up whatever’s left in the fishing villages, and he tells me there’s some bits and pieces. Not much, but it should be enough to get your company across, plus a few more men to work the oars. We’re volunteering anyone who’s ever worked on a boat before.”

He’d gone on to explain the strategic situation, pointing here and there on a leather map, but it had rolled over Winter like water off oilcloth. All she’d absorbed was the pertinent facts:
you and your company are going across the river.

“Right!” she told her men, when they’d gathered around. “Starting putting those boats in the water. Get in a man at a time until it looks like the next man will swamp the thing. Then get down and stay down. I’m not coming back to fish anybody out of the river!”

“But, Sarge, I can’t swim!” someone said from the back, and there was a round of laughter. It sounded forced.
They’re nervous, too,
Winter realized. Somehow that made her feel a little better.

“Graff,” she told the corporal, “you take the barge; that’s the biggest. Folsom, one of the rafts. Bobby, stay with me.”

The captain’s estimate had been accurate, and what was left of the Seventh Company managed to cram aboard the little flotilla, along with the “volunteers” from the rest of the regiment. These rowers were without gear, to keep the load as light as possible, and most of them had stripped their uniforms to the waist in anticipation of a long, hard day’s work.

When the last man was aboard, the boats shoved off. Oars flashed, disturbing the smooth brown flow of the river. As the captain had promised, the oarsmen had been chosen from those who knew what they were about, and their progress was steady. The big barge wallowed precipitously low in the water, but with the river so glassy still it hardly seemed a danger.

She’d told the men not to talk once they’d begun to cross. Sound could carry queerly over water, and she was determined not to alert the Auxiliaries until she could no longer avoid it. The morning seemed unnaturally quiet, and every cough or rustle of cloth was audible, even above the creaking of the boats and the steady splash of the oars.

Before long the west bank of the river had dwindled until it was a mere smudge, brown on brown. It was almost like being at sea, with nothing visible but water and a barely distinguishable shoreline. But the sea was never so calm, even on the mildest day. Compared to the gentle rock of the waves, the Tsel felt like something decaying and dead. Even the smell of it was the rich, earthy scent of rot, drifting up from the accumulated silt of a hundred winding miles.

The east bank came into view, so gradually that Winter had to lean forward and squint to be certain. There was a fishing village at this spot on the Auxiliaries’ side of the river, a middling-sized place that boasted a long stone quay. Ordinarily it played host to the riverboats that carried grain and produce to satisfy the city’s appetite, but General Khtoba had designated it as one of a half dozen spots for his men to store the vessels they’d appropriated from the west bank villages and fisherfolk.

With some relief Winter identified the long, low shapes of the quay and the high-sided barges tied up all around it. It was always good to know that things in the field really were the way the officers had said they’d be, if only because this so rarely turned out to be the case. As they closed, she was further relieved to see no signs of life from the village or evidence of sentries at the riverside. The villagers, no doubt, had fled or been evacuated when the soldiers had arrived.