The Thousand Names (28 page)

The quay was so crowded with boats there was no room for her little flotilla to dock. Instead they coasted up beside it, riding next to the enormous grain barges and sleeker fishing skiffs. The shore was a murky mess of mud and cattails, strewn with the skeletons of wrecked boats left there to rot long ago. These obstacles meant they could approach only into the shallows, with the barge bringing up the rear.

Winter waved her hand, and the men piled over the sides, boots sinking in slimy mud and water lapping at their shins. The little boats rocked at the shifting weight, and brown water slopped into the bottoms. Those in the lead waded ashore, raising their knees high to shake off the muck like a troupe of high-kicking dancers. The rest followed. When Winter’s turn came, she braced herself and stepped out into the river. Instead of the chill she’d been expecting, the water was as warm as a bath, and her boot sank through a few inches of mud before it met something solid. Something slimy and many-legged brushed against her thigh.

She gave no instructions—this part had all been prearranged. Graff led two dozen men on a broad sweep into the town, to search for and hopefully capture any Auxiliaries who might be on guard. Winter and Bobby gathered the rest of the company on the shore, assembling on a rough, stony path that ran along the riverbank. The oarsmen swarmed out down the quay, looking for the vessels most likely to suit their purpose.

Graff hadn’t returned by the time their leader, a thin-faced corporal Winter didn’t recognize, reported back. He kept his voice low, unwilling to break the sepulchral silence.

“We should be able to get a least a dozen of those big barges back for this leg,” he said. “Those’ll carry a company apiece, easy.”

“How many men will you need?” There were too few of the rowers to move the larger boats, so some of the Seventh would have to be drafted as extra hands.

“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.

She and Bobby were crouched in one of the little clay huts. It was nearly empty inside, the inhabitants having carried away everything they could when they left. The only evidence of the occupant’s profession was a pile of half-mended net lying against the wall. The building was a simple dirt-floored affair, with a ring of stones in the center for a fire and a single doorway. It now also boasted an impromptu window—a few minutes’ work with bayonets had been enough to carve a head-sized hole through the soft clay. It was through this hole that Bobby was keeping watch to the northeast, the direction from which the prisoner had said the Khandarai would come.

When the boy waved her over, Winter’s tension ratcheted up another notch. She’d been halfway hoping the Auxie had been lying, out of bravado or a desire to frighten her off.
Apparently not.
Leaning out the doorway, she could see men in the distance, marching across the sodden fields. They were in close order, as though on parade, a wall of brown uniforms and glittering weapons.

At least she couldn’t see any guns. That would have spelled the end of any chance of effective resistance—these clay walls would offer little protection from cannonballs, and the Auxiliaries would be happy to blast the huts to pieces and march in over the ruins.
As it is . . .

She watched for a few tense minutes. Bobby, at the loophole, had a better view than Winter.

“They’re doing something,” he said. “Changing formation, or—”

“Breaking off.” Winter saw it, too. “Damn. They’ll send part of the force in and keep the rest as a reserve.”

“Should we change the plan?”

“No time now. Just don’t shoot until I tell you.”

While one group of men stood, staid as cows, out in the fields, the advance force closed in. Winter guessed there were two companies—two hundred forty men, give or take—in a neat column on a half-company front. The leading men passed between the outermost pair of huts, stepping in unison to the steady beat of their drums. She could see a lieutenant in front of the first rank, his drawn sword in his hand.

Winter sent up a silent prayer that her men would remember their instructions, and have the stomach to sit on their hands until the Khandarai got closer. Surprise was a precious thing, and they would get only one chance at it.
Though with another two companies in reserve . . .
She shook off the thought.

Apparently the Almighty was listening. No shots echoed through the village as the Auxiliaries advanced, neat tan boots spattered with mud. The head of the column was nearly level with her hut now, which was most of the way to the waterfront. The rear was just entering the village.

“Think you can hit that lieutenant?” Winter said.

The boy frowned. “That seems a little unsporting, sir.”

“Sporting is for handball. Drop him.”

The boy nodded and bent to one knee, resting the barrel of his musket on the edge of the loophole. The man Winter had so casually marked for death was barely ten yards away, still oblivious, conducting the march with his shiny sword as if he were in review in front of the palace.

The
crack
of the musket was magnified in the tiny interior of the hut until it sounded like a mountain shattering. Smoke boiled up from the barrel and the lock of Bobby’s weapon, obscuring the view through the loophole, but watching from the doorway Winter could see the lieutenant spin and fall.

Almost immediately, shots cracked from all over the village, puffs of smoke rising from doorways and loopholes. The tight column was a difficult target to miss, and a chorus of screams and shouts from the Khandarai attested to the effect of the fire. Bobby grabbed Winter’s musket, loaded beforehand, and returned to the loophole. Winter watched a moment longer from the doorway.