Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“On my signal,” she said, “march pace, forward. Align on me. March!”

The drums started again, slower this time, and the column shuffled into motion. Without the distraction of trying to move sideways, and with only three men per rank to contend with, the march wasn’t terrible. Winter walked in front of the first rank, who adjusted slightly to stay behind her, letting her steer the long column like a snake.

She found what she wanted, a hundred yards away. Another company, in the usual three-rank line, was practicing the Manual of Arms while a sergeant barked orders. A lieutenant stood beside them, looking bored. Their backs were to her and her men.

Winter led the column in that direction, glancing over her shoulder occasionally to make sure her company was still in good order. There was a moment’s hesitation as they closed with the other company. She took the opportunity to step sideways, out of their path, and shout, “Forward! Charge pace!”

The drums thrilled faster. The men in the front ranks, when it became clear what they’d been ordered to do, went to it with surprising gusto. No one in the other company noticed until it was far too late. There were a couple of startled squawks, and then the long column collided with the rear of the line at a dead run. Winter’s men bowled through, knocking the others sprawling, until someone in the opposing company started fighting back. A punch was thrown, somewhere in the press, and a moment later the whole of the two companies was a mass of fistfights and roughhousing, going at it with all the sudden energy of discipline released.

Winter, standing at the edge of the melee with the horrified drummers behind her, looked over her handiwork with a satisfied expression. The lieutenant of the other company, a fat man with a scraggly beard, bore down on her while his sergeants tried in vain to restore order. Winter saluted and forced her face to assume a blank expression.

“ What in all the hells do you think you’re doing?” the lieutenant said, vibrating with anger.

“Sorry, sir. Following orders, sir!”

“Whose orders?”

“Lieutenant d’Vries, sir! Said to keep the men at it. Didn’t mean to run into you, sir!”

The lieutenant eyed her, uncertain of what attitude to take. He settled on contempt. Winter struggled to maintain her facade of amiable idiocy.

“Well, you’d better sort this out,” he said. “If your damned men aren’t out of my company and off this drill field in five minutes, the captain will hear of it, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” Winter spun back toward the mess she’d created. “Corporal Forester!”

The boy had extracted himself after the initial rush, wriggling eel-like to the edge of the press, and was looking on nervously. At the sound of Winter’s voice, he whirled and snapped to attention.

“Let’s get these men off the drill field!” She gestured at the lieutenant behind her. “Right away, he says!”

She could tell he was having trouble suppressing a smile, too, as understanding dawned. “Yes, sir !”

• • •

The brief punch-up seemed to have dissipated all the exhaustion of the previous few hours, and the men streamed off the field in a raucous crowd, laughing and shouting to one another. The carnival atmosphere continued once they were back at the camp. Someone produced a handball from somewhere, and soon two impromptu teams were scrimmaging up and down the line of tents, while spectators laughed and cheered from the sidelines.

Winter couldn’t see where they found the energy. The release of tension had left her feeling shaky and drained, and she wanted nothing so much as a few hours of oblivion. Under the exhaustion was a dull sense of dread. Her little ruse, which had seemed so clever in the moment she’d thought of it, now felt ridiculously transparent. D’Vries wouldn’t care if she’d had contradictory orders or not-he would only see that his demand had not been obeyed, and she’d bear the brunt of his anger. He’d bust her back down to ranker, send her back to Davis.

She pushed her way into the cooler semidarkness of her tent. On the little desk sat the papers-long marches had left her little time to work on settling the accounts, so an intimidating stack still remained. She knew she should address them, but at the moment the thought of picking up the pen made her feel ill.

Instead she slumped onto the bedroll, and stretched out, not even bothering to take off her boots. Surely I’m tired enough now. If I just close my eyes for a moment. .

• • •

Warm, soft lips on hers, fingers running along the small of her back, the heat of a body pressed against her. Jane’s hair, dark red and soft as sin, spilling down over Winter’s bare shoulder like a velvet curtain. A brief flash of her eyes, as green as emeralds.

Jane pulled away from the embrace, stepping back. She was naked, the most beautiful thing Winter had ever seen.

“You have to get away,” Jane said. “Not just away from the Prison. Away from all of it. Away from everyone who wants to tie you up and take you back. .”

Winter could say nothing. Her throat felt thick.

Jane raised one hand. A dagger glittered, flashing silver. “Take the knife,” she said, as though instructing a friend on how to carve a roast. “Put the point of it about here”-she raised her head and put the tip of the dagger on her throat, just under her chin-“and press in, upward, as hard as you can.”

“Jane!” Winter’s scream sounded distant in her own ears.

The knife slid in, smooth as silk. Jane’s emerald eyes were very wide. She opened her mouth, but no words emerged, only a tide of thick, sticky blood.

Winter jerked awake, pulse pounding in her temples, ears full of screams in the dark. They took a long time to fade. She lay perfectly still, feeling the ache in her limbs and staring at the blue fabric of the tent.

Can you be haunted by someone who isn’t dead?

There was a rap at the tent post. Winter sat up, pathetically eager for a distraction.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” said Bobby from outside. Winter glanced guiltily at the stack of reports, but it was too late to do anything about them now.

“Come in.”

The boy ducked inside. He was rubbing one hand with the other, and Winter could see a bruise blossoming along his knuckles. She felt a brief pang of sympathy.

“Sorry about that,” Winter said.

“About what?” When she indicated his hand, he smiled broadly. “Oh, this? It’s nothing, sir. One of the men of Third Company was inconsiderate enough to obstruct my fist with his jaw. I’m fairly sure he got the worst of it.” Bobby looked suddenly uncomfortable. “That was all right, wasn’t it, sir? A corporal is not permitted to involve himself in brawling with the rankers, but under the circumstances-”

“It’s fine,” Winter said. “I take full responsibility. Was anyone badly hurt?”

“Two of the men had to carry Ranker Ibliss back from the field, sir.”

“Oh, dear. Will he be all right?”

“I think so.” Bobby coughed. “Apparently he suffered a blow to an unfortunate area.”

Winter looked quizzical.

“Kicked in the nadgers, sir. Probably not on purpose. You know how it is.”

“I see. I hope Third Company isn’t going to hold a grudge.”

“Better if they do, sir!” Bobby was smiling again. “The captain of my depot battalion used to encourage fighting between the companies. A good rivalry helps knit the unit together, he always said.”

“How long were you in depot?” Winter asked.

“A month. Should have been six weeks, but I was transferred out ahead of time for this expedition. Still, I count myself lucky.”