Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Janus flipped his reins abruptly, and his horse trotted toward the edge of the square. A lieutenant hastily pushed his men aside to make way. Marcus followed. Their mounts picked a careful path through the dead and dying men who littered the ground around the square until they had fought clear of the dusty murk and emerged into bright sunshine. Marcus was astonished to see how little the sun had progressed. He would have sworn they’d been fighting for hours.

All around them, the enemy were fleeing, toiling up the slope or galloping east and west along the coast road. None of them even paused for a look at the two horsemen in blue.

“Well,” Janus said, “it seems the men are up to it.” He expressed no particular emotion at this, as though it were merely another piece of data in an interesting experiment. He stared into the distance for a moment, then turned to Marcus. “Order the regiment back into column. We’ll march clear of the field, rest a quarter of an hour, then continue down the road.”

“Sir?” The men would be exhausted. Marcus himself was quivering with released tension. A quarter of an hour didn’t seem like nearly enough.

“We’re not finished yet, Captain. You heard the scouts’ report. The enemy infantry awaits us.”

“Might it not be better to withdraw, then?” Marcus asked. “We could take a strong position to the west-”

“No,” Janus said. “We must press our advantage.”

Marcus was a little dubious that they had an advantage. By all accounts, the Redeemer host was at least twenty thousand strong, outnumbering the Vordanai army five to one. True, they were mostly peasants and fanatics recruited by the hysterical appeals of Redeemer priests, but twenty thousand men was still twenty thousand men.

“What about the casualties?” he said.

Janus pursed his lips. “Detail a company to care for our wounded. The dead can wait until nightfall, as can the business of gathering prisoners.”

“Yes, sir.” That sat poorly as well. The men wouldn’t like not being able to stop to bury their fallen comrades, although Marcus was dubious that they’d be able to bury anyone in the sun-scorched, iron-hard earth.

But orders were orders. Marcus rode in search of Fitz.

• • •

A vast cloud of dust marked the Redeemer army, rising above the coast road like a grounded thunderhead. A similar plume trailed the Vordanai column, leaving the rearmost battalion and the drivers in the train spitting grit. Marcus glanced sidelong at Janus, who was riding as carefree as if he were off to the theater.

“Sir,” Marcus said after a while, in case the colonel hadn’t noticed the looming cloud.

“Captain,” Janus said, “I’m aware that we have not reached the stage in our relationship where I have your full trust, but I hope you’re prepared to believe that I’m not actually blind .” He pointed a short way ahead. “There’s a bit of a ridge there, and the road veers slightly north. Not much, but every bit helps.”

After another few minutes, the colonel reined up, and Marcus stopped beside him. Fitz, in his role as aide-de-camp, was still trailing at a respectful distance. To Marcus’ eye, there wasn’t much to distinguish this barren patch of roadway from what they’d been riding along all day, but Janus seemed satisfied.

“This will do,” he said. “Draw up, all four battalions in line. Tell Captain Stokes to take the flanks, but that he’s not to go riding off without my express orders. And find me Captain Vahkerson, if you would.”

Marcus nodded, still fighting the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach, and started dictating orders to Fitz. Before long the dust was everywhere, and with it the clatter and shouts of men getting into formation. The battalions went through the evolution from columns into long, three-deep lines with the usual hesitation and confusion, and Marcus winced every time a sergeant cut loose with an angry tirade. If Janus noticed or cared about the poor performance, however, he didn’t show it.

Captain Vahkerson-the Preacher to all the Old Colonials-turned up, on foot and covered head to toe in dust. He saluted grimly.

“Lord’s blessings be on you, sir,” he said, doffing his peaked artilleryman’s cap. He was a rail-thin man, with long, wiry arms patched with ancient powder burns. His hair was thinning from the top, as if in natural imitation of a monk’s tonsure, but he maintained his ferocious beard and whiskers. A Church double circle, wrought in brass, hung around his neck and flashed when it caught the sun.

“And you, Captain,” Janus said solemnly. “Bring up your guns. Half batteries on the flank and the outer intervals. Leave the center to me.”

“Yessir,” the Preacher said. “We should have a nice field of fire once the dust clears.”

“As to that,” Janus said, “you’re to hold fire until the infantry opens. Load with double case and wait for my order, you understand?”

“Sir?” The captain frowned, then caught Janus’ expression. “As you say, sir. I’ll see to it.”

Janus nodded, and glanced at Marcus as the artillerist hurried off. Marcus had been trying to keep his expression neutral, but Janus seemed to see through him without apparent effort. “You don’t approve, Captain?”

“Just a thought, sir. A few rounds at five hundred yards might serve to break their momentum a bit.”

“It would indeed. But is that really what we want?” Janus favored him with a tight-lipped smile. “Trust, Marcus. You’ll see.”

“Yes, sir.” He caught sight of a familiar figure moving toward the front. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Miss Alhundt was an awkward rider, Marcus was surprised to see, possibly even as bad as he was. He guided Meadow alongside her small Khandarai mount. She was in her usual brown coat and trousers, with her braid coiled and pinned at the back of her neck. Her spectacles were covered in bits of grit and dust, and she rubbed at them ineffectually with the back of one hand.

“Miss Alhundt,” Marcus said, “what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Observing,” she said. “His Grace commanded me to be an observer, and to do that I must observe, don’t you think?”

“You can observe from the rear. The firing line is no place for a-” He almost said “woman,” but sensed this would not go far toward convincing her. “-a civilian.”

“From the rear I wouldn’t be able to see. I’m not averse to danger, Captain.”

“This isn’t the opera,” Marcus snapped. “Men are going to be dying here in a few minutes.”

She nodded, unimpressed.

“Besides,” he said, “if our line breaks-”

“I would be safer in the rear?” She raised an eyebrow. “That seems unlikely, unless you think the Redeemers would neglect to pillage the supply train. In fact, a position near the front makes it more likely that I would be killed outright in the event of a serious defeat, which frankly I would find preferable to the alternative.”

“But-”

“It’s all right, Captain,” Janus said from behind him. “I asked Miss Alhundt to attend us.”

Marcus turned in his saddle. “ You asked her?”

“Of course.” He gave a thin smile. “I would not want the Minister of Information to think I had anything to conceal.”

Miss Alhundt’s expression turned stubborn, and she seemed about to argue, but he cut her off.

“Miss Alhundt, you have just come from the wagon train, I believe?”

She nodded, disconcerted. “Yes. Why?”

“Did you happen to note what His Grace Prince Exopter was doing?”

Her lips twitched. “Hiding, last I saw. He disappeared into that giant wagon of his around the time the Redeemer cavalry attacked, and hasn’t come out since.”