Django Wexler - The Thousand Names

Another bayonet flashed, over his shoulder, and he ducked. Someone kicked him-obviously he wasn’t the only one who’d spent time in the back-alley school of swordsmanship-and sent him sprawling. His world was suddenly a mass of dusty, stamping boots. Marcus saw a gap ahead and crawled toward it, grabbing ankles to use as handholds. Someone looked down and a bayonet shivered into the turf by his leg, but the next moment he managed to drag himself into the clear.

He rolled over and looked up, dumbfounded, into the maw of a twelve-pounder. He’d fought his way into the little clear space the Auxiliaries were striving to maintain around their prize. The gun was a few feet away, aimed over his head, but Marcus didn’t doubt it would be loaded with canister, which made the precise orientation of the barrel irrelevant. He remembered the fields of fire of the Preacher’s guns at the last battle, the men torn to pieces so small they weren’t even recognizable as corpses. By the side of the gun, a gawky Khandarai in a brown uniform grinned, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth, and raised a lit match to the side of the cannon-

— and scrabbled at it, mystified. The gun was engraved all over, verses from the Wisdoms crammed in as small as careful hands could manage. A Kravworks ’98, Marcus remembered. Friction primers.

He jumped to his feet, driven by a sudden, desperate energy, and slammed his fist into the would-be gunner’s face. There were four more men beside the piece, though, and these still had their muskets. They surrounded Marcus on three sides, advancing cautiously. He tried to grab a musket by the barrel, but the man pulled back so fast Marcus nearly cut his hands on the bayonet, and one of the others thrust at his head. Marcus avoided being skewered only by falling awkwardly backward, leaving him looking up at four gleaming steel points.

One of which twitched suddenly and fell away. Adrecht broke through the circle of Khandarai, and the other three turned to face him. He raised his sword, and under other circumstances Marcus would have had to laugh at the expression on his fellow captain’s face. His blade had snapped off half a foot from the hilt.

Two of the Khandarai thrust simultaneously. The third would have as well, but for the fact that Marcus grabbed his ankle from behind and pulled his foot out from under him, leaving him sprawling in the dust. Adrecht spun away from the pair. One bayonet just missed his back, and the other caught him on the upper arm, ripping a deep, bloody gash through the muscle. Suddenly off balance, Adrecht stumbled against the cannon.

Marcus snatched up the fallen man’s weapon, treading on him in the process, and sank it into the small of another man’s back. The fourth Auxiliary turned to face him, but Adrecht managed to kick him off balance, and Marcus slammed the butt of the musket into his fingers, then skewered him on the point of the bayonet. He hurried to Adrecht, who was clutching the deep cut just above his elbow.

“Fucking sword,” Adrecht moaned. “The damned armorer promised me that was good steel. Remind me to kill him if we ever get to Ashe-Katarion.”

“Fair enough,” Marcus said. He put his back to the cannon, beside Adrecht, and took a moment to look around. There were fewer brown uniforms in view than he’d expected, and those he could see were retreating rapidly. Don’t tell me we actually stopped them after all?

There was a boom , close at hand. Not the deep-throated roar of a gun going off, but the higher-toned blast of a shell exploding. Howitzers already? The Auxiliaries were still engaged all along the perimeter-the inaccurate weapons would be as likely to kill their own men as the Vordanai. He straightened up for a better look.

Another shell exploded with a flash, well back from the temple, down among the wreckage from which the Auxiliaries had launched their attack. Where their reserves, officers, and wounded were presumably still waiting. That’s a hell of an unlucky shot, Marcus thought, until another one exploded practically on top of the first. Then he understood.

“Marcus?” Adrecht said. His eyes were shut tight against the pain. “What’s happening? Are we going to die?”

“No,” Marcus said. “Not unless Janus overshoots a bit.”

“Janus?” Adrecht cracked one eyelid cautiously.

“The colonel.” Marcus waved a hand. “He’s captured the guns, which means he’s captured the ford. Which means he’s captured the whole lot.”

All around the temple the Auxiliaries were falling back under the unexpected fire from their own artillery. Most of them were streaming back the way they had come, toward the ford, unaware that they were running straight into the arms of fresh blue-uniformed infantry. The brighter ones scattered, heading east or west or south across the fields, but no doubt there were cavalry waiting to gather them up. The colonel, Marcus knew, did not believe in half measures.

GENERAL KHTOBA

F ar be it from me, General Khtoba thought, to tell the Divine Hand that he shouldn’t pray. And, truth be told, a bit of divine intervention would not go amiss. But the man’s constant muttering was getting on his nerves.

The general’s legs and back ached from hours on his feet and more hours in the saddle, but nervousness would not let him sit. The black felt tent did not offer much room for pacing, and he found himself very nearly turning in place, swatting irritably at the hanging tassels of the pillows with his thin black swagger stick. He’d put on his dress uniform that morning, and the crisply folded brown-and-tan had long ago sagged under his perspiration.

Half the tent was taken up by the Hand and his attendants, a gaggle of black-robed priests that reminded Khtoba a flock of geese in mourning. Most of them had followed their leader’s example and settled in for some serious prayer, but one of the older men, with a glance at the Hand’s bowed head, scuttled over to Khtoba and spoke in a harsh whisper.

“How dare he keep us waiting!” he said. “These savages need to be taught some respect.” But, Khtoba noticed, he didn’t raise his voice enough for the two Desoltai lounging by the pinned-open tent flap to hear.

“I’m sure our eminent companion has other things on his mind,” Khtoba drawled, his voice dripping sarcasm that the priest completely failed to notice.

“Other things on his mind? What can be more important than a summons from the Divine Radiance himself?”

More of a visit than a summons . He took a certain pleasure in seeing the arrogant pup of a priest brought low, but it was thin recompense for his own disasters. What was left of the Auxiliaries waited outside, in the midst of the Desoltai encampment. Three or four hundred men, all he’d been able to salvage from the debacle atop the hill near Turalin. The remainder, those who’d escaped the sabers of the raschem cavalry and hadn’t surrendered outright, were probably still running.

As for the other half of his army, reports were still uncertain, but the general did not hold out much hope. What information he could gather said that the Vordanai had captured those three battalions lock, stock, and barrel, and even if that was an exaggeration, he didn’t think many of the survivors would be hurrying back to the colors.

It might be possible to rebuild, eventually. He had a disproportionate number of officers remaining. Those with the most to lose by abandoning the uniform had naturally been the most inclined to follow him in the pell-mell retreat to the city. But that would take months, if not years. In the meantime, the fires of the Redemption appeared to be burning low indeed.

“Why doesn’t he come?” The priest was pouting. Khtoba recalled that his adopted name was Tzikim-dan-Rahksa, the Angel of Divine Retribution. Divine Retribution shouldn’t pout.