Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“Call it three dozen.”

Winter chewed her lip. That would leave her barely fifty to hold the quay on this side until the boats returned. The captain had been quite specific-they’d need every one of the boats to get the entire regiment and its supply train across. Winter’s task would be to make sure the Auxiliaries didn’t catch wind of what was going on and wreck the remaining craft before enough men could cross to put them into service.

Things seemed quiet enough, though. She gave a decisive nod and directed the corporal to Bobby, who started telling off men for rowing duty.

The last of the newly crewed barges was just casting off when a pair of shots came from the direction of the village, shockingly loud in the morning quiet. The corporal, aboard the barge, looked back at Winter, but she waved him on and turned to Bobby.

“Corporal Folsom, guard the quay. Corporal Forester, with me.” She pointed out another dozen soldiers, and they fell in behind her. They set out into the village at a jog, spurred by another pair of shots that echoed like falling trip-hammers.

The village would barely have qualified as a hamlet in Vordan. It was just a cluster of clay-and-thatch houses, not more than twenty in all, arranged in a rough circle. The occupants were long gone, and the empty doorways gaped at Winter as she passed. Up ahead, against the walls of the last couple of huts, were a dozen men in Vordanai blue. Graff trotted up to meet her, his face grim.

“One of ’em got away. Sorry, sir.”

Winter shoved down a sudden thrill of panic. “How many were there?”

“Four. Out a good distance, away from the houses, so we couldn’t get close without them seeing. We got as near as we could and tried to bring ’em down, but that was still a long shot.”

“Only one escaped?”

“Yessir. We got two, and one whose horse was hit surrendered. They got one of ours, though.”

“Who?”

Graff pursed his lips in disapproval at the question, but said, “Jameson. He’s dead, sir.”

No time for regrets now. “Take me to the man you captured.”

Graff nodded and conducted Winter forward. The men Graff had brought with him were still on guard, muskets loaded and at the ready, as though they expected the Khandarai to return any moment. The unfortunate Jameson lay on his face where he had fallen, a bloody hole the size of Winter’s fist between his shoulder blades. Winter looked away.

Two Khandarai lay out in the field beyond the village, while a third sat cross-legged under the watchful eyes of a pair of Vordanai. He surveyed his captors with an arrogant air, and, guessing that none of them spoke Khandarai, amused himself by insulting them to their faces.

“You, on the left. If you were not born of the union of a bitch and a goat, then your mother must have been a woman of such surpassing ugliness I wonder that any man would stoop to lay with her.” On seeing Winter, he added, “Ah, and here comes the commander, who is evidently a boy of twelve. Drop your pants, sir, and let us see if there is any hair on your cock. Or perhaps you were born without one?”

“Shall I order them to strip you,” Winter snapped in Khandarai, “so that we can have a comparison?”

The man sat up a little straighter, but said nothing. Winter shook her head.

“Should I bother asking questions?” she said. “Or should I just tell my men to begin beating you?”

The Khandarai blinked. He was a young man, in the brown and tan uniform of the Auxiliaries. His dark hair was gathered at the back of the neck, in the Khandarai fashion, and his chin was covered with a bristly fuzz that he probably thought of as a beard. By his lack of insignia, he was a ranker-the Auxiliaries used the same ranks as the Royal Army-but he wore an armband of red silk, daubed with the ubiquitous open triangle of the Redemption in black ink.

All in all, aside from the uniform, Winter wouldn’t have given him a second glance if she’d passed him in the streets of Ashe-Katarion. She might even have shared a drink with him, if they’d met in a tavern. But now. .

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said. “But you’d be best advised to surrender when Rahal-dan-Sendor fetches our men. You’ll be treated kindly, I assure you.”

“How many men in your force? How far away are they?”

He looked at her defiantly. Winter looked over her shoulder at Graff.

“Lay one across his jaw, would you? Then try to look menacing.”

“Gladly,” the corporal growled.

• • •

Winter was still fighting a sick, acid feeling in her gut when she returned, with Graff and Bobby, to the rest of the company.

“I don’t know what you said to him,” Graff said, “but that was neatly done.”

“Sergeant Davis was an excellent tutor,” Winter muttered. Her knuckles itched, as though she’d administered the beating herself.

Folsom had the rest of the men loading and checking their weapons. The big corporal stood up and saluted as they approached, and the rankers made to do likewise. Winter waved them back to their task.

“We’re going to have guests,” she told them. “There’s a Khandarai detachment not far from here. Four companies, unless our friend with the black eye was telling stories. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes before they arrive.”

There were a few groans from the men near enough to hear. Winter turned to Bobby.

“How long until the boats get back?”

“It took us nearly an hour to cross, sir.” The boy seemed perfectly composed, in spite of the bad news. “It’ll probably take the big barges a little longer. Plus they may take some time to get things arranged on the other side. Call it three hours total.”

“Captain d’Ivoire will have everything ready the moment they touch bank.” That was partly for the soldiers’ benefit, but it was also the truth, or so Winter devoutly hoped. She had a lot of faith in Captain d’Ivoire. “So we’ve got to keep them off the quay for a few hours.”

The three corporals nodded. Winter was a little surprised at the lack of protests. She felt as though, in their place, she would have said something like, “That’s impossible!” or “We’ll all be killed!” Even the rankers seemed more confident than she was. She took a long breath and tried to think.

“Right,” she said eventually. “Break into teams of three. Each team takes a hut. One man shooting, two loading. If you haven’t got a convenient doorway, knock a hole in the wall. I’ll take the first shot myself, so hold fire until you hear it.” She raised her voice. “Everyone got that?”

There was a ragged chorus of assent. Winter turned to the three corporals. “Folsom, Graff, get the teams set up around the center of the village. Bobby, you’re with me in case I need a runner.”

“Yessir!” The boy’s eyes were bright. He’s looking forward to this. How can he be looking forward to it?

“I don’t mean to contradict you, sir,” Graff said in a low tone, “but what if they don’t come in dumb? If I was in charge out there, I’d break out some men to search the houses. If it comes to hand-to-hand, they’ll swamp us.”

Winter risked a smile. “That’s because you’re not an educated man, Corporal. Did any of your old commanders do things strictly by the tactics manual?”

He scratched a bearded cheek. “No. At least not for long.”

“These Auxiliaries were trained to be model Vordanai soldiers. I should know; we used to have to train them.”

“So?”

“So they really believe in that tactics manual.”

• • •

Either the Khandarai had taken longer than Winter had expected to get organized, or else the twenty minutes had merely felt like hours. She hoped it was the former.