The Thousand Names (54 page)

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 ridiculous 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.

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.”