Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“I see. A pity.” Janus glanced at Marcus. “I invited His Grace to witness this as well, you see. I think it will prove an interesting lesson.”

I wish I had half his confidence. Marcus looked back at the still-forming line. The Preacher had unlimbered his guns in the gaps between battalions, and some of his men were leading the teams back to a safe distance, while the rest started loading. Each round of case shot looked a bit like a battered tin bucket, closed at both ends, and the ammunition rattled and clanged as the gunners forced it down the barrels.

As the troops came into position and lapsed into stillness, all eyes were to the east, where the cloud of dust rising above the enemy host loomed larger every minute. Here and there, when a breeze cleared a patch, it was possible to see them-a seething mass of brown and black covering the narrow plain from the shore to the north to the edge of the southern ridge.

There seemed to be no end to the Khandarai army. If it really deserved the name “army.” On the whole, Marcus thought not. It seemed to be more of a mob-no units, not even an attempt at organization, just a huge sea of humanity pressing forward in the desire to get to grips with the foe. Here and there he could pick out Redeemer priests, wrapped head to heel in black, walking backward in front of their flock so they could continue their harangues.

The “soldiers” of this force would have been almost laughable in any other context. They were the sweepings of Ashe-Katarion, the poor fools who dwelt in the gutters and tenements, summoned to war by the priests’ promises of retribution in this world and rewards in the next. Each was armed with whatever he had had to hand. There were swords and spears, a few muskets and blunderbusses, but also hoes, picks, and cudgels.

But there were so many of them. Twenty thousand, the reports had said; Marcus had no way to count them, but they seemed to go on forever. The flat ground around the road was fairly narrow, only a mile or so from the sea to the hills, and the Khandarai covered it like a swarm of locusts. Their charge would swamp the thin Vordanai line, and even if it didn’t, the flanks were vulnerable. It would be easy for the Redeemers to circle around the edges and take the line of blue from the rear.

We were fools to leave the fort, Marcus thought. The ancient sandstone walls might have been useless against a modern army, but they certainly would have sufficed against this mob. Now, in the open, the Redeemers could bring their numbers to bear.

The leading edge of the host had advanced to within long cannon range. Some of them obviously knew it, and a shiver seemed to go through the whole force as individuals paused, tensed, waiting for the distant puffs of smoke and the scream of cannonballs. When it didn’t come, they pressed onward, driven forward by those behind them.

Closer, and closer still. When it became obvious that no fire was forthcoming from the Vordanai line, the Khandarai began to howl, and the priests sent up their weird, high-pitched cry. The swarm surged forward.

Janus had a pair of lieutenants by his side to act as runners, and he summoned them with a crook of his finger.

“I will give the order to fire myself,” he said. “Make sure that’s understood. Any man who shoots beforehand will have a great deal to answer for.”

The young men scampered off. Marcus watched them go, then turned back to the approaching horde. They were in easy cannon range now. The Preacher’s guns ought to have been pounding them, cannonballs snatching great gaps in those tight-packed ranks, carrying men away by the dozen. It might not have been enough-Marcus wasn’t sure if anything would be enough-but it would be something. But Janus had ordered them loaded with double case, two rounds of tight-packed musket balls in thin metal shells, converting each piece into something like a giant shotgun. At close range, the effect would be fearful, but the wasted opportunity for fire made Marcus wince.

The priests were ahead of the wave of men, urging them on with their song and their example. There was a slight slope up toward the Vordanai position, but the attackers slowed only a little. The front ranks, composed of those men most eager for blood, were a solid line of bristling steel of every description.

Marcus spared a glance for his own men. The triple-ranked battalions stood, still as statues, muskets already loaded and at the ready. Here and there, Marcus saw a man turn to look anxiously over his shoulder, as though to make sure the road was still open behind them in case a hasty flight became necessary. The sergeants, prowling behind the ranks, raised a shout if any man looked for too long.

Steady, Marcus decided, but only for the moment. Mor wasn’t the only one who’d worked out the odds. The Old Colonials hadn’t survived in Khandar by fighting unwinnable battles. As for the recruits, Marcus could remember the balance of pride and terror he’d felt the first time he’d gone into action. The pride would hold them for a while, but if that balance tipped toward terror they’d break badly. When that happened, the whole line would give way at once.

The colonel looked at the approaching enemy, gray eyes shining, nothing on his face but serene confidence. He seemed almost a different man here on the battlefield, as though some madness had taken hold of him. Val had told him that camp gossip said the colonel was insane. Marcus hadn’t paid it any mind, since soldiers said the same of practically every officer who made a decision they didn’t agree with. Now, though, looking at the gleam in those huge eyes-

He glanced at Miss Alhundt, and found her looking at Janus as well. When she turned to Marcus, their gazes met, and a spark of understanding leapt between them. She sees it, too. Marcus was filled with a sudden terror-if he really was mad, it was too late, too late to do anything but run-

The cries of the Redeemers drew his eyes forward again. They’d started their sprint too early, Marcus could see, a common mistake among green troops. It was easy to misjudge distances, and the men were always eager to start running. Now they were slowing to a trot or a walk, clumping up as the wave behind them pressed on. Here and there, knots of men hesitated, intimidated by the wall of silent Vordanai uniforms and the sight of the waiting guns. But the majority came on, to two hundred yards, legs pumping as they pushed themselves back into a run. One hundred.

Fire! Marcus wanted to scream. They’d get in two volleys, if they were lucky. The cannon would take a frightful toll. Fire! But he held silent.

The screams turned triumphant. The leading edge of the horde spread out as men broke into a dead sprint, weapons flailing. They had barely forty feet of ground to cover. Even placid Meadow shied at the cries, and Miss Alhundt’s horse shifted nervously backward, though Janus kept his mount under expert control. The Vordanai line hadn’t even fixed bayonets-it was going to be slaughter-

Marcus turned desperately to the colonel, only to find Janus looking back at him. His gray eyes were sparkling, and a hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

“Fire,” he said.

“Fire!” Marcus roared.

He was drowned out by the crash of muskets. What resulted was not the blast of a single volley, but a rapid, rising thunder as the firing spread from the center of the line to the flanks, like flame racing along a fuse. Half a second after it had begun, Marcus heard the deep crump of the guns speaking as one.

Double canister at ten yards. Oh, saints and martyrs. Even in the midst of shock and terror, Marcus had a moment to feel pity for the charging men. The bucket-like case shot would disintegrate when the main charge went off, carrying its load of half-inch balls outward like a giant load of buckshot. Those balls retained enough force to kill at five hundred yards; from thirty feet, they would hit like the hammer of God.