Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

She trailed off. Winter tore a piece from Bobby’s shirt and mopped carefully at the blood, until she could see the flesh beneath. Somehow she knew what she would find. Where the Desoltai weapon had done its vicious work, the flesh was now whole, the skin unbroken, but with the color and glittering black specks of marble.

“She’ll be all right?” Winter asked Feor. When the girl nodded, Winter let out a shaky breath. “Will she wake up soon?”

“I do not know.” Feor frowned. “She is no servant of our gods. I thought that the spell would reject her, in the end. But now. .”

Another sound, rolling across the plain, drew Winter’s attention away. It was like distant thunder, or the skirl of a company full of drummers barely brushing their instruments. She turned to look back toward the campfires of the Vordanai encampment and found that the night was alive with tiny flashes. They were white, tinged with pink, and she could already see columns of smoke rising against the stars.

“You see?” she said, to no one in particular. “ That is musket fire.”

MARCUS

Marcus woke to the faint gray light of dawn, the warmth of Jen pressed against his side, and the sound of urgent knocking at his tent pole.

“Come in,” he called automatically, already sitting up and groping fruitlessly for his uniform coat. By the time he remembered he wasn’t alone, the tent flap was already open. Fortunately, the figure in the gap was Fitz, who could be counted on to be discreet.

“Sir,” he said, “you have to get up now .”

Something in the lieutenant’s tone jolted Marcus’ mind to full awareness faster than a hot cup of coffee. Fitz never shouted, unless it was to be heard over the noise of battle, but now he gave the strong impression that a lesser man would have been screaming.

“I’m up,” Marcus said, rolling off the bedroll. He found that he was naked, and started hunting for his underthings. “What’s going on?”

“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.