The Thousand Names Part 13

Khtoba, on the other hand, had everything to gain by waiting. The Auxiliaries, smaller and better disciplined than the peasant horde, drew their supplies from well-stocked and a guarded depots. They were also the only claim to power Khtoba had, and he was loath to risk them. A defeat, or even a costly victory, might leave his ranks so depleted that one of his rivals would gobble him up.

And the Steel Ghost? Jaffa glanced at the silent figure in black, and wondered. He hadn't said more than a few words during the whole affair. Jaffa had delivered Mother's message to him, but he'd given no sign of his answer.

At this rate, nothing would be accomplished. Jaffa thought on his instructions from Mother and decided it was time to break the deadlock.

"My friends," he said, interrupting their sniping, "might I make a humble suggestion?"

All eyes turned on him, Yatchik's large and liquid, Khtoba's piggy and red. The Ghost's, of course, were unreadable behind his mask.

"The foreigners are a threat to the Redemption," Jaffa said. "Perhaps even the greatest threat. But they are not the only threat. There are still followers of the prince hiding in the city, or gone to ground in the outskirts. Bandits and raiders multiply like locusts."

Khtoba shot a glance at the Ghost. The Desoltai had always been the most feared, and certainly the most effective, of the "bandits and raiders." For all that they were now allies of the Redemption, there was no love lost between the Auxiliaries and the nomads.

"So," the general said, "you agree, then, that we must remain here."

"Some of us must," Jaffa replied, before Yatchik could object. "But we must also consider what the enemy may do. Suppose they decide to wait where they are indefinitely."

"Exactly!" the priest said.

"Therefore," Jaffa said, "I suggest that the Auxiliaries remain here to defend the city, while the army of the Redemption marches forth to lay waste to the invaders."

Both men looked at him for a long moment, then exploded at once.

"Of all the foolish-"

"You can't-"

"The Grand Justice speaks wisely," rasped the Steel Ghost, in a whisper that somehow cut through the chatter. Jaffa rallied a bit at this unexpected support.

"To confront the enemy with less than your whole strength is folly," Yatchik said. "Even I know that much of your *art of war.'"

"True," Jaffa said, "but, as you say, we have the numbers. Surely the faithful will not be defeated by heathens?"

The priest was silent for a moment. "It's not a matter of victory or defeat. Or course we will be victorious. But how many will need to lay down their lives? If General Khtoba's a.s.sistance could reduce the suffering among the devout-"

Khtoba snorted. "Now whose courage is in question?"

He was smiling like the cat that had eaten the canary, and small wonder. Jaffa could see the scenario playing itself out in the general's mind. With the Redeemer army away from the city, he would have the only reliable body of men. The Divine Hand could be put under proper control, and sooner or later the general would have the throne he'd always coveted. Yatchik could see it, too, of course, but Jaffa had one more card to play.

"And," he said, "we know that the prince-may his name be cursed-rides with the raschem. Surely the glory of his capture is a goal worth the risk?"

Yatchik's eyes lit up. It was common knowledge that Prince Exopter had fled the Palace with most of his treasury and wagons full of valuables, all the loot his dynasty had extracted over centuries of tyranny. It was not the glory that attracted the priest, but the gold. Whoever brought that wealth back to the Redemption would find his star on the rise. Now it was Khtoba's turn to sputter.

"Now, see here-," he began.

Jaffa sat back and left them to it. He thought they would agree in the end, but as long as they did something it would make no difference. He hoped fervently that the Redeemers and the foreigners would annihilate one another, although there seemed small chance of that. As Yatchik said, the Khandarai had the numbers. Even if they lost two-for-one, the tiny Vordanai force would be extinguished long before the Swords of Heaven.

He saw the Steel Ghost looking at him-at least, the mask was turned in his direction, though the eyes behind it were still invisible. When he had caught his gaze, the Desoltai chieftain dipped his head in a slight nod.

Jaffa nodded back. Mother would get the meeting she wanted after all.

FEOR.

Feor sat with her head in her hands, eyes closed, trying to block out the screams. She kept returning to the day the temples fell, the day her fellow holy orphans had died beneath the swords of the vicious new priests. No matter how many times she went over it, nothing would change, not for her and not for Aran or Mahl or any of the others. But she couldn't seem to stop herself from remembering, over and over.

She'd been treated well enough. A few bruises from Gaedra's ma.s.sive hands were nothing. She remembered the look in Aran's eyes, the dawning terror an instant before the eunuch's club dashed his brains to paste against the wall.

The flap of her tent rustled. She could tell it was him without looking up. The huge man didn't seem to have bathed since that awful day, and he gave off a sour stench.

"Get up. Yatchik wants you."

Feor raised her head, but apparently too slowly for Gaedra's taste. He grabbed her forearm and jerked her painfully to her feet, then forced her to stand on her toes as he straightened to his full height. Her shoulder burned.

"I said get up, little wh.o.r.e. Dirty s.l.u.t. Worthless c.u.n.t."

A deep rage smoldered in Gaedra. He had been a servant of the temple, like her, but the eunuch had betrayed his sacred trust and opened the doors to the Redeemers. Even that had not slaked his thirst for vengeance, and he took his anger out on her, abusing her as much as his limited vocabulary would allow. Yatchik-dan-Rahksa had not, as yet, permitted him to go any further.

She bit down a gasp and managed to say, "And what would you know about such matters?"

The eunuch roared and spun, slinging her through the tent flap and out into the camp. She hit the ground with her aching shoulder and rolled, breathless with pain. Gaedra stalked after her, and she scrambled back to her feet before he could grab her again.

"When Yatchik speaks, you obey." He smiled. "Or not obey. Perhaps then Yatchik will see how useless you are. And after that . . ."

Feor straightened her robes, sniffed, and turned in the direction of Yatchik's tent. Gaedra hurried along at her heels, but when they arrived at the priest's plain black dwelling, the eunuch hung back. Feor ducked through the flap and went inside alone. Yatchik-dan-Rahksa sat on a cus.h.i.+on in the semidarkness, studying a leather map unrolled on the dirt floor. He shot her a questioning look.

"Feor. You know what I need from you. Have you reconsidered?"

"You understand nothing," she told him, for what seemed like the hundredth time. "Even if there is an abh-naathem among the raschem army-"

"There is," Yatchik interrupted.

He was right about that, although she refused to admit it aloud. For several days now she had been able to feel the dull presence of the foreign sorcerer, lurking off to the west like the sun just pa.s.sing below the horizon. There was power there, more power than she'd ever felt before. More, even, than she felt from Mother or Onvi.

"Even if there is," she repeated, "and even if I wished to help you, I could not."

"You are a naathem," he said. "Your magic can defend us from his."

"You speak of *magic' as though you knew something of it," Feor scoffed. "I tell you again, you do not understand. My naath cannot do what you ask."

"I do not have time to understand." Yatchik stood, his thin frame unfolding to its full height. His head brushed the cloth ceiling, and Feor had to look up to see his serious eyes. "Tomorrow the faithful take their vengeance on the raschem. Whatever fate they suffer will be your fate also. If I were you, I would be more careful how I speak."

"I know you would," Feor said. "But that is because you have never truly had faith."

Chapter Six.

WINTER.

It figured, of course, that after all the drill their first a.s.signment would be something they'd never practiced.

Moving inland from the coast, the land rose irregularly in a series of low rills, roughly perpendicular to the road the Colonials were marching along. Colonel Vhalnich was worried about these ridges, as well he might be. Even Winter, no student of strategy, could see that any cannon emplaced here would have a formidable field of fire. Companies had been broken out, therefore, to advance up the high ground, make sure it was clear of scouts or sharpshooters, and "if possible, make contact with and ascertain the location of the enemy."

Winter wondered whether Colonel Vhalnich-or Captain d'Ivoire, who'd actually issued the order-had really thought about the last part of it. Lieutenant d'Vries had certainly taken it to heart. As a result, the Seventh Company was currently splas.h.i.+ng through a stream between the ridge flanking the road and the next hilltop, getting farther and farther from the main body. Winter had been growing correspondingly more and more nervous, until she finally felt she had to say something.

D'Vries was mounted, which made him hard to approach. Winter patted the flank of his horse, a beautiful dapple gray that was obviously suffering badly in the Khandarai heat, and tried to attract the lieutenant's attention.

"Sir?" When this had no effect, she resorted to the slightly humiliating expedient of tugging at the tail of his coat, like an anxious child accosting a busy parent. "Sir, could I have a word?"

"Eh?" D'Vries looked down. He was in his element at last, riding boldly at the head of his company, resplendent in his bright blue-and-gold. A sword with a silver-filigreed sheath hung at his belt. Even his spurs gleamed with polish. "What is it, Sergeant?"

"I wondered-," Winter began, but d'Vries interrupted.

"Speak up, man!"

Winter cursed silently, then said, "I wondered, sir, if perhaps we've come far enough."

"Far enough?" He looked down at her disdainfully. "We haven't found anything!"

"Yes, sir," Winter said. "But we were ordered to hold the ridge-"

"And to make contact with the enemy!" the lieutenant said.

She gave a quiet sigh. He'd said the same thing at the outset. "But, sir, if we're attacked-"

He barked a laugh. "Then my men will have to show their mettle!"

Winter felt lost. She wanted to explain that mettle wasn't the issue-if they located a substantial force of the enemy, a mere hundred and twenty men weren't likely to be able to make much of a stand, however valorous they were. But d'Vries would only laugh and call her a coward.

"In any case," he said, "this is my first a.s.signment, and I've been ordered to locate the enemy. I do not intend to return as a failure!"

That there were a dozen companies with similar orders, up and down the line of march, had apparently made no impression on him. Winter saluted and turned away, feeling the day's heat throbbing against the back of her neck and soaking her uniform in sweat. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s ached where she'd bound them too tightly; she'd had only a few hours with the sewing kit, and hadn't gotten the measure quite right on her replacement unders.h.i.+rts. Her skin itched where it rubbed against the soaked cotton.

Most of the men were suffering equally, if in different ways. A few days of drill had helped, but it took longer than that to truly become accustomed to the h.e.l.lish sun. As they pa.s.sed the stream, they took the opportunity to drink, refill their canteens, and splash water on their faces. The little brook was brackish and warm, but it was pleasant even so.

They were advancing in loose order, not the shoulder-to-shoulder line they'd practiced on the drill field. The men took advantage of the laxer discipline to talk and joke with one another as they trudged across the bottom of the valley and started up the opposite height. They didn't seem worried. Winter flinched at each burst of laugher, but she was the only one.

She kicked savagely at a dry puff bush as she pa.s.sed, and it exploded satisfactorily into a thousand drifting seed pods. The h.e.l.l of it was, more than likely nothing would come of all her nerves. So far none of the scouts had sighted anything more than distant hors.e.m.e.n, who turned and fled at the first approach of anything in blue. Give-Em-h.e.l.l's cavalry ranged out ahead of the column, covering the most likely approaches of an enemy force. These reconnaissances were just a precaution. But, of course, try telling that to d'Vries.

Bobby drifted over to her. The boy was plainly exhausted, sweat running down his face in rivulets, but he struggled gamely onward under the weight of pack and musket. He even managed a smile.

"Aren't-aren't-" He labored for a moment to catch his breath. "Aren't we getting a bit far out?"

Winter snorted. "D'Vries thinks the colonel has ordered him personally to chase down the entire enemy army."

"He'll get a dressing-down from Captain d'Ivoire, I bet."

"Maybe." Winter shrugged. "Captain d'Ivoire's a busy man."

"Think he'll call a halt when we get to the top of the next ridge?"

"G.o.d Almighty, I hope so." Winter looked at the perspiring troops now struggling up the slope. "Otherwise we won't even need to run into the Redeemers. The sun's bad enough."

Bobby nodded wearily. They walked on in silence, picking their way around occasional screes of loose rock or clumps of hardy shrubs and gra.s.s. This ridge was taller than the one that ran along the road, and Winter imagined it would afford quite a view. She hoped that d'Vries would be satisfied with taking a look from the top.

There was a surprised shriek from her right, followed by a burst of laughter.

"Sarge! I think something bit Cooper!"

More laughter. Winter left Bobby's side and hurried over to a small group of soldiers, acutely aware that getting bit by something in Khandar was no laughing matter. In the city she'd known a Khandarai trapper who'd claimed there were a hundred and seven varieties of snakes in the Lesser Desol, and at least a dozen kinds of scorpions. Each was dangerous in its own particular way.

On inspection, however, Cooper turned out merely to have stepped in a p.r.i.c.kerbush, whose barbed thorns had snagged his trousers and drawn angry red scratches down his leg. Winter got the lad disentangled, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of his companions.

As she straightened up, there were shouts from above, at the top of the ridge. Winter thought at first that another man had had an encounter with local wildlife, but from the volume it sounded as though the whole company had stumbled into a nest of snakes. Above it she heard the high, shrill voice of the lieutenant.

"Back! Go back!"

He came into sight over the top of the ridge, his terrified horse moving far too fast already, blood spotting the animal's flanks where he'd kicked it viciously with his spurs. A few soldiers followed, picking their way down the rocky slope as fast as their legs would carry them.

Winter spat a curse that would have given Mrs. Wilmore an apoplectic fit on the spot. She forced her weary legs to move, sprinting the last dozen yards to the crest of the ridge, and found most of the Seventh Company still gathered there. The thin line had contracted to a tight bunch as the soldiers instinctively huddled together.

The top of the high ridge afforded an excellent view. Over her shoulder, Winter could see the ocean, though the coast road and the Vordanai army were blocked by the lower ridge behind them. Ahead of her, to the south, the furrowed land stretched on and on until it flattened out into the sandy wastes of the Lesser Desol.

The objects of the soldiers' attention were closer at hand, however. Off to the east, the coast road became visible again as it swung inland to avoid some obstacle, and there a vast host had gathered. It looked more like a camp than an army, with tents and crude banners showing the crimson flame of the Redeemers on a black field. Men milled around, reduced to ants by the distance, and there was no mistaking the flash of the sun from polished steel blades.

Spreading south and east from the camp was an apparently endless tide of hors.e.m.e.n. They rode in small groups of twenty or thirty, and there were more groups than Winter could count, covering the valley at the foot of the ridge. They were shabby-looking men, un-uniformed and mounted on scrawny beasts liberated from their lives as cart horses or field animals, but they screamed and drew swords when they saw Vordanai blue against the horizon. Priests in black wraps egged them on, screaming loudest of all and waving the riders forward.

The lieutenant was still shouting, barely audible over the shrieks of the Redeemers.

"Back! Back to the column!"

The closest groups were only minutes away. The slope would slow them, but not enough. Winter cursed again. She hurried to the ma.s.s of men on the ridge, only to find it melting away before she got there. The soldiers, momentarily transfixed by the sight, had recovered their wits, and one by one they were making the same decision as d'Vries had. There were only a few dozen left when she arrived, Bobby and the other two corporals among them.

Winter grabbed Bobby's shoulder. The boy looked up at her, eyes wide.

"Wh-wh-what-"

"Back down the hill," Winter said. "But stop at the stream. Understand that? Get everyone you can to stop at the stream."

"We have to get back to the column," Bobby gabbled. "We'll be killed-oh, saints and martyrs-"

"We'll never make it," Winter said. "Too far. If we run they'll cut us down. We have to stand them off!"