Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

“It hardly seems fair that you come through without a scratch,” Adrecht said jovially. As soon as the words had passed his lips, his expression went contrite, as if he wished he could stuff them back in. “Sorry. I meant since you led that attack-that was a damned mad thing to do-not because. . I mean. .”

“I know what you meant,” Marcus said.

There was a long, awkward silence. Adrecht held up his tattered, bloodstained shirt, cursed softly, and tossed it aside.

“Give that to the bandage pile, I guess.” He sighed. “I had those shirts tailored for me in Ashe-Katarion. Only half an eagle for the dozen, would you believe that? The Khandarai were always mad for Vordanai coin.”

“Probably because a Vordanai eagle still has more gold in it than lead.”

“I always figured they were just fond of King Farus’ face.” Adrecht smiled, and shrugged into his uniform coat without a shirt. “All right. I think it’s time you let me in on the plan.”

“What plan?”

“The plan, meaning what the hell we do now.” Adrecht grinned crookedly. “It may have escaped your attention, but our relief column hasn’t arrived.”

“I know.” The southern horizon had remained obstinately empty all day. Marcus had left sentries looking in that direction, with orders to report to him as soon as they made contact.

“So we have to fall back,” Adrecht continued briskly. “Once the cutters have finished with the wounded, we withdraw out onto the plain. Leave a rear guard to confuse the Auxies, make them deploy for attack, and then run for it before they get here. With any luck we can break contact and head south.”

“Leaving them free to maneuver,” Marcus said. “If the colonel is still engaged with the enemy, and they take him from behind, it’ll be slaughter.”

“You want to stay here, don’t you?” Adrecht said, his voice flat. “Try to hang on.”

“Ja-the colonel said he was coming. If he’s been delayed, we’ve just got to give him a little more time.”

“And if he’s been defeated? Captured, even?”

Marcus gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“You know it’ll be butchery here by morning,” Adrecht continued remorselessly. “Right now, at this very moment, those bastards are dragging their guns across the ford. If they get one of those monsters on the near bank, we won’t be able to get within two hundred yards of the waterfront.”

“We abandon the waterfront,” Marcus said. “Dig in around the temple. This place is solid stone. Even thirty-six-pounders are going to take some time to crack it.”

“Right. And the hill is good ground, plenty of material for barricades, no problem. Except for one detail-if we fall back, there’s nothing stopping them from sending men around the sides of the village and coming at us from behind.”

“The walls are just as thick from behind.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Adrecht said patiently. “Once they get there, we’ve got no way out. When they batter this place down around our ears, they’ll have the lot of us on spits.”

“Unless the colonel arrives before that happens.”

“Unless the colonel arrives,” Adrecht said. He paused, then shook his head. “So it comes down to that, does it? You want to bet that Colonel Vhalnich will ride to the rescue.”

“More or less,” Marcus said. His throat was tight.

“With the lives of every man in this command as the stake.”

“The colonel asked me to keep those Khandarai off his back,” Marcus said. “I intend to do it. They don’t dare march past as long as we’re here, and they haven’t got enough men to break off a screening force.”

“I agree,” Adrecht said. “They’ll have no choice but to break in here and kill us all .”

“Unless-”

“I know!”

Adrecht turned away, pacing once across the room, then again. Marcus watched in silence while he completed a third circuit. His chest felt tight.

Finally, Adrecht turned to face him, standing at what was very nearly attention.

“I just want to make one thing clear,” he said. “The men here are our men. The Old Colonials. You know them. You want to risk all their lives for a colonel you’ve barely met and a bunch of recruits?”

“Val is with them,” Marcus said. “And Mor. And Fitz.” And Jen Alhundt. That thought surprised him, and he squirreled it away for later inspection.

“But you’d stay even if they weren’t.” It wasn’t a question.

Marcus nodded.

Adrecht let out a long breath. “What the hell. I owe you, Marcus. My life, maybe. If you want to throw it away now, who am I to stop you?” He straightened up and snapped a crisp salute. “Give the orders, Senior Captain.”

Marcus grinned. Adrecht maintained his serious composure a moment longer, then broke down with a chuckle. The tension drained out of the room like water from a bath.

“They aren’t going to like it,” Adrecht said. “The men, I mean.”

Marcus shrugged. “They always like to have something to grumble about.”

WINTER

Folsom laid Bobby on the floor of Winter’s tent, carefully arranging the boy’s limbs as though settling him in a casket. The corporal looked half a corpse already, his face pale as milk, but his eyelids flickered and he gave a soft moan when his back touched the ground.

Graff, still powder-blackened and covered with grime, stripped off Bobby’s coat and tossed it in a corner. His shirt was shockingly white underneath, with stark gray rings on his cuffs where they’d protruded from his sleeves.

Winter looked down at the boy and bit her lip. Graff, Bobby had said. No one else. “Corporal Folsom?”

The big man was squatting by the boy’s side. He looked up.

“I need you to take an inventory of the company. Find out how many we had hit, then go to the cutters and try to track everyone down.”

Folsom looked down at Bobby again, then back at Winter. His thick features hardened, but he got to his feet and saluted.

“On your way out,” Winter said, “find a couple of men and have them sit outside the tent. No one comes in without my leave, understand?”

Folsom nodded again and ducked out of the tent. It was still broad daylight outside, and a brilliant lance of light from the flaps glowed by the entrance. That felt wrong, somehow. It should have been twilight.

Graff unbuttoned Bobby’s jacket, lifting it away carefully where it was soaked with gore. He tried raising the boy’s shoulder to get the sleeve off, but Bobby gave another groan, and Graff let him lie and turned to Winter.

“I don’t want to move him more than I have to. You got a nice sharp knife somewhere?”

She nodded and pawed through her pack until she found a heavy-hilted skinning knife, which she’d bought in Ashe-Katarion a lifetime ago because she’d liked the embroidery on the leather sheath. She handed it to Graff. “Anything else?”

“Water.” Graff looked at the mess on Bobby’s stomach and shook his head. “Though I warn you, I don’t think-”

“Water,” Winter repeated, and ducked out of the tent.

The camp outside was chaos, and it took her a few minutes to track down a brace of full kettles. By the time she returned, Graff had gotten Bobby’s jacket off by slicing open the sleeves and spreading them flat, and he was working on the undershirt where it was glued to the boy’s skin with sweat and dried blood. It reminded Winter uncomfortably of a hunter skinning a kill, carefully peeling back each layer to reveal the gory interior.

Also uncomfortable was the presence of Feor, who had crawled out of her bedroll and now sat cross-legged beside the sickbed, one arm still in a sling. Winter had forgotten the girl was there.