Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

D’Vries was mounted, which made him hard to approach. Winter patted the flank of his horse, a beautiful dapple gray that was obviously suffering badly in the Khandarai heat, and tried to attract the lieutenant’s attention.

“Sir?” When this had no effect, she resorted to the slightly humiliating expedient of tugging at the tail of his coat, like an anxious child accosting a busy parent. “Sir, could I have a word?”

“Eh?” D’Vries looked down. He was in his element at last, riding boldly at the head of his company, resplendent in his bright blue-and-gold. A sword with a silver-filigreed sheath hung at his belt. Even his spurs gleamed with polish. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“I wondered-,” Winter began, but d’Vries interrupted.

“Speak up, man!”

Winter cursed silently, then said, “I wondered, sir, if perhaps we’ve come far enough.”

“Far enough?” He looked down at her disdainfully. “We haven’t found anything!”

“Yes, sir,” Winter said. “But we were ordered to hold the ridge-”

“And to make contact with the enemy!” the lieutenant said.

She gave a quiet sigh. He’d said the same thing at the outset. “But, sir, if we’re attacked-”

He barked a laugh. “Then my men will have to show their mettle!”

Winter felt lost. She wanted to explain that mettle wasn’t the issue-if they located a substantial force of the enemy, a mere hundred and twenty men weren’t likely to be able to make much of a stand, however valorous they were. But d’Vries would only laugh and call her a coward.

“In any case,” he said, “this is my first assignment, and I’ve been ordered to locate the enemy. I do not intend to return as a failure!”

That there were a dozen companies with similar orders, up and down the line of march, had apparently made no impression on him. Winter saluted and turned away, feeling the day’s heat throbbing against the back of her neck and soaking her uniform in sweat. Her breasts ached where she’d bound them too tightly; she’d had only a few hours with the sewing kit, and hadn’t gotten the measure quite right on her replacement undershirts. Her skin itched where it rubbed against the soaked cotton.

Most of the men were suffering equally, if in different ways. A few days of drill had helped, but it took longer than that to truly become accustomed to the hellish sun. As they passed the stream, they took the opportunity to drink, refill their canteens, and splash water on their faces. The little brook was brackish and warm, but it was pleasant even so.

They were advancing in loose order, not the shoulder-to-shoulder line they’d practiced on the drill field. The men took advantage of the laxer discipline to talk and joke with one another as they trudged across the bottom of the valley and started up the opposite height. They didn’t seem worried. Winter flinched at each burst of laugher, but she was the only one.

She kicked savagely at a dry puff bush as she passed, and it exploded satisfactorily into a thousand drifting seed pods. The hell of it was, more than likely nothing would come of all her nerves. So far none of the scouts had sighted anything more than distant horsemen, who turned and fled at the first approach of anything in blue. Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry ranged out ahead of the column, covering the most likely approaches of an enemy force. These reconnaissances were just a precaution. But, of course, try telling that to d’Vries.

Bobby drifted over to her. The boy was plainly exhausted, sweat running down his face in rivulets, but he struggled gamely onward under the weight of pack and musket. He even managed a smile.

“Aren’t-aren’t-” He labored for a moment to catch his breath. “Aren’t we getting a bit far out?”

Winter snorted. “D’Vries thinks the colonel has ordered him personally to chase down the entire enemy army.”

“He’ll get a dressing-down from Captain d’Ivoire, I bet.”

“Maybe.” Winter shrugged. “Captain d’Ivoire’s a busy man.”

“Think he’ll call a halt when we get to the top of the next ridge?”

“God Almighty, I hope so.” Winter looked at the perspiring troops now struggling up the slope. “Otherwise we won’t even need to run into the Redeemers. The sun’s bad enough.”

Bobby nodded wearily. They walked on in silence, picking their way around occasional screes of loose rock or clumps of hardy shrubs and grass. This ridge was taller than the one that ran along the road, and Winter imagined it would afford quite a view. She hoped that d’Vries would be satisfied with taking a look from the top.

There was a surprised shriek from her right, followed by a burst of laughter.

“Sarge! I think something bit Cooper!”

More laughter. Winter left Bobby’s side and hurried over to a small group of soldiers, acutely aware that getting bit by something in Khandar was no laughing matter. In the city she’d known a Khandarai trapper who’d claimed there were a hundred and seven varieties of snakes in the Lesser Desol, and at least a dozen kinds of scorpions. Each was dangerous in its own particular way.

On inspection, however, Cooper turned out merely to have stepped in a prickerbush, whose barbed thorns had snagged his trousers and drawn angry red scratches down his leg. Winter got the lad disentangled, much to the amusement of his companions.

As she straightened up, there were shouts from above, at the top of the ridge. Winter thought at first that another man had had an encounter with local wildlife, but from the volume it sounded as though the whole company had stumbled into a nest of snakes. Above it she heard the high, shrill voice of the lieutenant.

“Back! Go back!”

He came into sight over the top of the ridge, his terrified horse moving far too fast already, blood spotting the animal’s flanks where he’d kicked it viciously with his spurs. A few soldiers followed, picking their way down the rocky slope as fast as their legs would carry them.

Winter spat a curse that would have given Mrs. Wilmore an apoplectic fit on the spot. She forced her weary legs to move, sprinting the last dozen yards to the crest of the ridge, and found most of the Seventh Company still gathered there. The thin line had contracted to a tight bunch as the soldiers instinctively huddled together.

The top of the high ridge afforded an excellent view. Over her shoulder, Winter could see the ocean, though the coast road and the Vordanai army were blocked by the lower ridge behind them. Ahead of her, to the south, the furrowed land stretched on and on until it flattened out into the sandy wastes of the Lesser Desol.

The objects of the soldiers’ attention were closer at hand, however. Off to the east, the coast road became visible again as it swung inland to avoid some obstacle, and there a vast host had gathered. It looked more like a camp than an army, with tents and crude banners showing the crimson flame of the Redeemers on a black field. Men milled around, reduced to ants by the distance, and there was no mistaking the flash of the sun from polished steel blades.

Spreading south and east from the camp was an apparently endless tide of horsemen. They rode in small groups of twenty or thirty, and there were more groups than Winter could count, covering the valley at the foot of the ridge. They were shabby-looking men, un-uniformed and mounted on scrawny beasts liberated from their lives as cart horses or field animals, but they screamed and drew swords when they saw Vordanai blue against the horizon. Priests in black wraps egged them on, screaming loudest of all and waving the riders forward.

The lieutenant was still shouting, barely audible over the shrieks of the Redeemers.

“Back! Back to the column!”