Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

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 think we’ll see him again?”

The colonel gave another summer-lightning smile. “I’m certain of it, Captain. Tomorrow, we attack the oasis.”

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.”