Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“That you, Bobby?” she said, without looking up.

“Yessir,” came the boy’s voice from outside.

“I’ll be there in a moment.” Winter turned to Feor. “We’re not breaking camp today, so you should be all right here.”

The girl nodded. “You will fight today?”

“Probably.”

“Then I wish you luck.”

“Even though I’ll be killing your countrymen?”

“The men of the Redemption are no countrymen of mine,” Feor said, with a rare hint of ire. Then her expression turned worried. “Winter-dan-Ihernglass. If. .”

She trailed off, lips pressed together. Winter forced a smile.

“It’ll be fine. Try not to worry.” She finished lacing her boots and got to her feet. “We should be back by evening.”

Feor nodded. Winter ducked through the flap and into the gray morning light, where her three corporals were waiting. Around them, the men of the Seventh Company were piling out of their tents like ants from a smashed anthill. Since they were planning to return to camp by evening, they could march light, and the soldiers were taking this opportunity to shed all the kettles, utensils, spare clothing, extra biscuits, and miscellaneous loot that somehow ended up in every ranker’s pack.

Bobby was smartly dressed and bright-eyed, as usual. Whatever fit of melancholy had come over him on the pier had apparently passed. He hadn’t said anything to Winter about her promise, and she hadn’t brought it up. He saluted crisply and handed her a half sheet of flimsy paper.

“Orders from Lieutenant Warus, sir!” he said. “The First will be taking the left center of the line. We’ve got half an hour to report to the south field.”

“Right,” Winter said. Then, because it seemed like a sergeant-y thing to do, she shouted, “Hurry it up! You’ve got fifteen minutes!”

It was in fact more like twenty minutes, but the Seventh was still among the first companies on the field. A thin line of blue stood at attention, thickening by the minute as more troops filed in and were directed to their places. Captain d’Ivoire had taken the Old Colonials with him and even after a week on the march the recruits still presented a nicely uniform appearance. Their uniforms were no longer factory-crisp, but they were still deep Vordanai blue, and the dawning sun gleamed off gunmetal and polished buttons.

To the left of the First Battalion was the Third, whose Captain Kaanos was barking orders to everyone in sight. Fitz Warus stood quietly by his side. Kaanos, with his bushy eyebrows and bushy beard and sideburns, resembled a bear and had a voice and temper to match. Winter hurried her company into position, then took up her place in the center file of the front rank.

Whether she should stand in the ranks was something of a sticky question. The proper position of a senior sergeant was the center of the first of three ranks, while his junior sergeant took a similar position in the rear. The leftmost and rightmost files of the company were supposed to be composed of corporals, while the lieutenant had no place in the ranks at all. He stood in front of the men for inspection and behind them in battle, which as far as Winter was concerned said all that needed to be said about officers. While she had, technically, been brevetted to lieutenant, she couldn’t bear the thought of acting that way. Fortunately for her, the Seventh Company was conspicuously under-officered, with only three corporals and no sergeants at all, so there was no one to argue with her choice of position.

Ahead of the forming line, the senior officers gathered. She recognized Captain Solwen of the Second, in charge of the other pair of battalions along with a lieutenant she didn’t know. Directly in front of her and ahorse was Colonel Vhalnich himself, talking with Give-Em-Hell and the Preacher. The colonel’s mood was foul. The approach march had been plagued with delays, culminating in a loss of nearly six hours’ marching time when a supply wagon, attempting to jump its place in line after a rest halt, had broken an axle in a ditch and snarled the guns and rearguard. The recruits had quickly become disorganized, and sorting everyone out had consumed the rest of the day. The colonel had been furious.

The time lost had given General Khtoba the chance to abandon his low-lying position by the Tsel ford and retreat to high ground, a stretch of rocky scrubland that rose from the surrounding fields like the low dome of an overturned rowboat. The Colonial camp was near the base of it, in a miserable patch of watery earth churned to mud by the passage of thousands of boots. There had been talk that Khtoba might retreat from even this position, and fall back all the way to Ashe-Katarion, but the scouts had him still in place on the summit.

The ranks were filling out as company after company trickled in, leaving behind the supply train and a few camp guards to watch for Desoltai raiders. The colonel summoned the two infantry captains and dictated a few orders; these two in turn went back to their assigned positions and conferred with their lieutenants. Winter looked left and right, checking her company’s alignment against those on either side. Corporal Folsom stood two ranks directly behind her, in the junior sergeant’s position, while Bobby and Graff headed the left — and rightmost files. In between, the rest of the Seventh-considerably diminished compared to the companies around it-stood in three ranks with shouldered muskets.

Lieutenant Warus, after a few words with Captain Kaanos, walked back to the First and gestured for attention. His immaculate appearance was spoiled somewhat by the mud, which had already coated his boots and splattered his trousers.

When he had the eyes of all six companies, he raised his voice and said, “I’ve never been one for speeches. The Auxiliaries are up there ”-he jabbed a finger at the hill-“and we’re going to go and get them. There’s no time for anything fancy. Just remember that when all’s said and done, you are the Vordanai Royal Army and they are a pack of grayskins. All their guns and fancy uniforms were a gift from us. If not for us they’d be out here with clubs and spears! General Khtoba used to say that his men were as good as any troops from the continent. I expect you to prove him wrong!”

Winter, who’d read a bit about Khandarai history, knew that was laying it on a bit thick. She suspected Lieutenant Warus knew it as well, but he was playing to the crowd, and it had the desired effect. A cheer rose from the recruits, and Winter added her voice.

Colonel Vhalnich drew his sword, steel glittering in the sun, and slashed it down in a peremptory gesture.

“Ordinary pace!” Fitz shouted. “Form column of companies, and prepare to advance!”

• • •

The first they saw of the Auxiliaries was the flashes from their guns.

There had been a general sigh of relief as the Colonials marched out of the irrigated fields with their clinging mud and onto the good, solid ground of the rock outcrop. The regiment advanced as four columns-not the long, winding column of march but squat columns of battle, with a forty-man front and the companies stacked up one behind the other. The Seventh Company was third in line, and the regulation four-yard gap between its front rank and the rear rank of the Sixth Company ahead meant that Winter had a better view of the action than the men stuck in the second rank behind her.

Each battalion column was separated from the others by a good hundred yards or so, to give them room to maneuver and eventually deploy into line. In those intervals came the single battery of light guns that Colonel Vhalnich had brought along. The guns were still limbered, hitched up and facing backward, and the teams of horses strained to drag the weapons and their caissons up the increasing slope. The gunners in their peaked artillery caps walked alongside, shouting good-natured taunts at the infantry on either side, which the rankers cheerfully returned. Winter caught sight of the Preacher off to her left walking behind a two-gun section, his lips moving in silent prayer.