Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“Khtoba’s dug in around the bridge,” Marcus guessed.

“Like a tick on a dog,” Janus said. “With only three battalions, though. He’s no fool, and he knows we won’t go that way unless we have to.” He tapped the map again, upstream of the city. “The other three are here. There’s a ford just north of this river bend, good enough to cross if we don’t mind getting wet.”

A ford sounded hardly better than the bridge. Marcus tried to imagine slogging through a waist-deep river and assaulting the far bank, while the enemy flailed the water with musket and canister. It might be done, if the attackers were determined enough, but the losses would be ghastly.

Janus was watching him with those deep gray eyes, and Marcus decided this was a test. He looked down at the map and searched his memory.

“We might march down the east bank,” he said eventually. “There’s another bridge here, at Saal-Khaaten, and more fords upstream where the river’s narrower.”

“Khtoba would follow,” the colonel said. “And he has the inside track.”

“If we can threaten more than two crossings at once, he’ll have to spread himself thinner. He can’t cover them all.”

Janus gave a slow nod. “It might serve. And then what, once we’ve crossed?”

“A battle, presumably.”

“A head-on fight, and he’ll choose the ground,” Janus said. “And Khtoba has us three to two.”

“The last Redeemer army had us five to one,” Marcus said. “I didn’t think the odds concerned you.”

The colonel waved a hand. “Those were rabble. The numbers didn’t concern me because I knew they would never stand up to disciplined fire. They might as well have left three-quarters of those men at home, for all the good they did. But the Auxiliaries are a horse of a different color.”

That was true enough. The Auxiliaries comprised six battalions of Khandarai recruited by Prince Exopter and trained by his Vordanai allies. Marcus had taken his turn at the training a time or two, and they’d certainly looked disciplined enough, marching up and down in their brown uniforms. More important, they had Vordanai weapons, including a full complement of artillery. They were supposed to have been a bulwark against rebellion, but no one had counted on the fervor the new religion inspired. The Auxiliaries had gone over to the Redeemers almost to a man, along with their commander.

“On even terms, in open ground, I wouldn’t hesitate,” Janus said. “But Khtoba is not likely to give us a chance at that. Judging from his actions thus far, I doubt he’d even give battle. More likely he’d fall back behind the canal, or into the city itself, and fight us in the streets. That we must avoid at all costs.”

Marcus shook his head. “So what, then?”

“The general has given us an opportunity here.” He tapped the bridge again, and then the ford. “Two detachments, widely separated, and not much between them but pickets. Where we need to be”-he moved his finger to a point between the two-“is here.”

“We’d be surrounded, with no line of retreat,” Marcus objected. “Even if we could get there, which we can’t, since we can’t cross the river.”

The colonel grinned like a cat.

• • •

It was nearly sundown. Rest-which at the start of the day had seemed like some distant and unreachable oasis-was practically within his reach, and Marcus therefore had a strong inclination not to answer when there was a knock on his tent pole. In theory, it might be important, although short of an impending Khandarai attack Marcus couldn’t think of anything that qualified. He compromised by responding with a sort of muffled grunt, in the hopes that the knocker either wouldn’t hear him or would give up and go away.

Instead, the visitor spoke. “It’s Adrecht.”

Damn. “Oh, all right.”

Adrecht ducked through the flap. Even in the dim lantern light, there was no mistaking the huge bruise that purpled his cheek and nearly closed one eye. A shallow cut above his eyebrow was dark with scabbed blood.

“Saints and martyrs,” Marcus swore. “What happened to you?”

“Mor,” Adrecht said, with an exaggerated wince. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Marcus nodded, and Adrecht folded his lanky form up beside the camp table. Marcus waved at his trunk.

“Do you want a drink? I think I’ve got something. .”

“No,” Adrecht said. His expression was thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so.”

“So what happened? Mor just jumped you?”

“After a manner of speaking,” Adrecht said. “He came into my tent and told me that he’d had it with me, and that Marcus was a better friend than I deserved.” He smiled slightly. “With more swearing, of course. Then he picked me up and tossed me into a tent pole. Snapped it in half, as a matter of fact.”

“Hell.” Marcus’ face clouded. “I’ll talk to him. I don’t care what he thinks, that was out of line-”

“No,” Adrecht said. “Not really.”

Marcus swore inwardly. He’d hoped to avoid this for a while. “Ah. He told you the whole story, then.”

“Most of it. I got the rest out of Val. If you want to keep something a secret, you ought to think twice before sharing it with those two. Think three times, maybe.” Adrecht shook his head. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“I wanted to keep it quiet.”

“Honestly, Marcus.”

Watching his friend’s expression, Marcus could tell that excuse wouldn’t do. He sighed. “I didn’t want you to do anything. . rash.”

“Rash? Like turning myself in before you got a chance to resign?”

“Like that, for example.”

“Accepting dismissal,” Adrecht deadpanned, “rather than risking your being shot for desertion. That would be ‘rash.’”

“I suppose so.” He frowned, searching for words. It was hard to explain to the others, but he’d never really felt endangered-he had no reason to be sure that Janus wouldn’t shoot him, or even bring him up on charges, but he felt the certainty nonetheless. “It wasn’t really about you. I tried to explain that to the colonel.”

“Did he believe it?”

“I’m not sure.” Marcus shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“I suppose not.” Adrecht paused, then said, “Well, if it makes any difference, you were right. I would have been rash.”

There was a long, awkward silence. Marcus searched for something to say, but drew a blank, and in the end it was Adrecht who spoke.

“You don’t owe me anything, you know. It’s been-”

“Eighteen years,” Marcus said. “I know.”

Another silence. Adrecht sighed.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean?” Marcus said.

“How can I just go back to my battalion now? I know the colonel would rather be rid of me. Mor seems to hate me. And you-” He shook his head. “It seems like I ought to resign, but after what you’ve been through that would be a bit of a waste, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” Marcus hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Mor will come around eventually. But I think you need to prove the colonel wrong.”

“Small chance that I’ll get the opportunity. He’ll have me guarding the latrines for the rest of the campaign.”

“He won’t, as it happens.” Now it was Marcus’ turn to smile. “We’re going into action again tomorrow, and you’ve got a big part in it. Right beside me, in fact.”

“Oh.” Adrecht didn’t sound surprised. “And how did that happen?”

“You volunteered.”

“I suspected as much. I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Probably not,” Marcus admitted. “I didn’t.”

WINTER