Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

For a moment, between the blinding flash of musketry and the billowing smoke, he could see nothing. As the roar died away, it took the bloodthirsty shrieks of the Redeemers with it, and a moment of shocked silence seemed to fall across both armies. Then, as though on command, the wails of the wounded rose like the screams of the hosts of hell.

The volley had gone through the Redeemer host like a reaper’s scythe through wheat. Corpses lay three-, four-, five-deep in front of the Vordanai line, mixed with wounded men and here and there a few who had come through miraculously unscathed. In front of the guns, there were no such fortunates, and not even any corpses recognizable as such. Pieces lay scattered like dismembered dolls, legs and arms and shattered skulls, men who had been hit by a dozen balls and torn to shreds. For an instant the field of fire of each piece was clearly visible, a giant cone of fallen men spreading back through the horde as though swept by a giant broom, while those to either side stood stunned into insensibility.

In deference to the shouts of their officers, the blue-clad soldiers did not stop to admire their handiwork. Ramrods rattled as the triple line reloaded. They were still slow, and a quick man might have been able to sprint through the field of corpses and reach them, but none of the Khandarai even tried. In less than a minute musketry started to roll again, not all at once but unit by unit as lieutenants called for fire. The pall of smoke was stabbed again and again by yellow-pink fire, and Marcus could hear more screams.

Something had been hanging in the balance, some equilibrium between the stunned immobility of the Khandarai survivors and the pressure of the still-eager men behind them, shielded from the fire by distance and the bodies of their comrades. The second volley tipped the balance, and men started to run. Some were fleeing, some running toward their tormentors. Some, unable to breast the current of men behind them, ran sideways along the ranks of Vordanai like ducks in a shooting gallery. When the third volley exploded, those few who’d tried to reach the blue line went down with it. One by one, the guns spat a second discharge of lethal projectiles. The Preacher aimed at the thickest points in the crowd, where those trying to flee met those coming up from behind, and the fire cut them down in clumps.

Then there were no more men trying to close, or even pressing forward from the rear. The whole vast host was in flight, panic spreading from man to man like a plague, until even those who hadn’t gotten close enough to taste the smoke were throwing down their weapons to speed their flight. Only the black-clad priests tried to stem the rout, and few listened to their entreaties. One cluster sent up their high-pitched song yet again, and it moved something in their followers. A knot of men started to gather around them, accreting more as these brave few grabbed their comrades bodily and turned them back to face their foes. It lasted until the Preacher took notice. One of the guns growled, sending a storm of metal in their direction. Priests and men were blasted to bloody ruin, and the rout resumed.

The colonel turned back to Marcus. His smile was gone, but his eyes still sparkled.

“The men are to fix bayonets and advance. Keep the pressure on. They may make a stand around their camp.” Then he did smile, slightly. “Oh, and a message to Captain Stokes. Tell him the leash is slipped. Tell him”-Janus paused-“tell him to give them hell.”

• • •

Even a half mile down the road, leaving the scene of the slaughter behind, the plain was still dotted with corpses. Some wounded men had made it this far before their legs gave out. Others had been cut down by Give-Em-Hell’s pursuing horsemen. Janus had instructed that quarter was to be offered to those who asked for it, but thus far few had, preferring to trust to their legs rather than the mercies of the foreigners.

Marcus rode slowly, feeling dazed. What had seemed like an eternity while it was happening now felt like a flash, an instantaneous transition. A few minutes separated certain doom from total victory. The men had seemed to take it in stride, setting off after the Khandarai with a chorus of cheers and yells, but Marcus was having more difficulty.

He couldn’t have known. It nagged at him like a broken tooth, best avoided but unavoidable. He couldn’t have known. There had been a moment, just a moment, after the first volley had slammed out. A matter of thirty seconds or so, when nothing had protected the Vordanai line, not even bayonets. If they’d pushed the charge home, that line would have shattered like glass. Every man for himself, and damn the consequences. Marcus was certain that he himself had been only an instant from putting the spurs to Meadow and riding for it. Perhaps that was what rankled.

It hadn’t worked out that way, of course. But he couldn’t have known they’d break. Not for certain. Janus had tossed the dice, and they’d come up sixes, but the thought of what might have been made Marcus’ stomach roil.

Even worse, he didn’t know why . Why hold fire for so long? Why deploy to meet that giant horde at all? He wanted to march up to the colonel and demand an explanation, but that simply wasn’t done. Colonels were under no obligation to explain their battle plans to subordinates.

If he was overconfident before this, now there’ll be no stopping him. Marcus thought of the strange light in those gray eyes and shivered. “He couldn’t have known.” But he acted as though he had.

“You seem troubled, Captain.”

Marcus hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud, or that Miss Alhundt had been riding alongside him. He looked up into her dirty spectacles and managed a sickly grin.

“Apologies, Miss Alhundt. I didn’t see you there.”

She waved a hand. “You were preoccupied. I merely wondered with what.”

“Tired,” Marcus said. “Just tired.”

That was true enough. The nervous energy had gone out of him like water out of a bath when the plug was pulled, leaving him feeling unutterably empty. He wanted nothing more than to find a bed and sleep, for all that it was only midafternoon. But he couldn’t-not yet. There was more work to be done. Messengers had already carried his orders to the troops, telling them to re-form at the edges of the Redeemer camp and set guards while details of picked men rounded up the prisoners. He wanted no wanton violence toward civilians, and in this at least Janus had agreed with him. The tedious, grisly business of tending the wounded and burying the dead would last long into the evening as it was.

Miss Alhundt’s horse stepped daintily over a dead man in the road, lying on his face with his back slashed open by a cavalry saber.

“I must admit I had a moment of doubt when the Redeemers came so close. It seemed risky.” She caught his eye. “But I’m not a military expert.”

Marcus’ lip twitched. He said nothing, but he was sure she could read everything she needed in his expression.

“And yet,” she went on, “this is certainly a victory. Even His Grace can have no cause for complaint.”

Enough is enough. “What are you getting at, Miss Alhundt? What do you want from me?”

“I want to know where your loyalty lies.”

“Where it always has,” Marcus growled. “With king, country, and the chain of command.”

“In that order?”

“I’m not going to play word games with you.”

“It’s not a game, Captain. I need your help.”

Just for a moment, Marcus thought he saw something genuine in her expression. The coy, clever smile was still in place, but there was something in her eyes. It was the look of someone treading water over an infinite abyss. Then she turned away.