The Thousand Names

Chapter Twenty-one

MARCUS

Marcus woke to the faint gray light of dawn, the warmth of Jen pressed against his side, and the sound of urgent knocking at his tent pole.

“Come in,” he called automatically, already sitting up and groping fruitlessly for his uniform coat. By the time he remembered he wasn’t alone, the tent flap was already open. Fortunately, the figure in the gap was Fitz, who could be counted on to be discreet.

“Sir,” he said, “you have to get up now.”

Something in the lieutenant’s tone jolted Marcus’ mind to full awareness faster than a hot cup of coffee. Fitz never shouted, unless it was to be heard over the noise of battle, but now he gave the strong impression that a lesser man would have been screaming.

“I’m up,” Marcus said, rolling off the bedroll. He found that he was naked, and started hunting for his underthings. “What’s going on?”

“Desoltai. An ambush.”

Marcus paused for a moment, listening. No rattle of musket fire broke the predawn stillness. Fitz, apparently reading his mind, shook his head.

“Not here. About a mile farther on.”

“What the hell was anyone doing a mile outside of camp?”

“Captain Roston,” Fitz said, “led his battalion-”

“Gods-damned fucking Adrecht,” Marcus roared. “Is he-? Never mind-fill me in later. Tell the drummers to beat assembly. Have you woken the colonel?”

“The colonel’s not here, sir.”

Marcus blinked, then remembered his brief conversation with Janus the night before. The colonel was off on another of his woolgathering expeditions. Of late he’d taken to spending every night outside the camp, perched on one of the rock formations with only a small escort. Marcus had complained, but Janus had been adamant. A few trustworthy men on the colonel’s detail had reported that Janus did nothing but stare into the dark and occasionally make notes in a little journal.

He spent much of the day following each of these outings napping in one of the wagons, but even so the colonel had taken on the pallor and hollow eyes of someone who wasn’t getting enough sleep. Marcus had undergone a similar transformation, since the responsibility of keeping the column in motion had devolved entirely on his shoulders as supplies tightened and the invisible, ever-present Desoltai raiders grew bolder. What sleep he did manage to grab was plagued by vicious dreams, and he woke sheathed in sweat in spite of the chill of the desert nights.

“Saints and martyrs and fucking Karis,” Marcus swore. “Right. Assembly for the First, and find Val, Mor, and Give-Em-Hell. I’ll be out in five minutes.”

“Yessir!”

Fitz saluted and ducked out, letting the flap close behind him. Once he was gone, Jen sat up, the thin sheet falling away from her bare breasts. She seemed to be naked as well, although as best Marcus could recall they hadn’t managed to accomplish anything the night before. His last memory was stripping off his clothes and toppling onto his bedroll, to be instantly drawn under by accumulated exhaustion.

“Stay here,” Marcus told her. “I’ll send someone back when I’ve figured out what the hell’s going on.”

She nodded, half-sleepy and half-alarmed. He tugged savagely at his shirt, fumbled with the buttons, and then pulled his coat on over the top. As an afterthought he grabbed his sword belt, tucked it under his arm, and stepped outside.

The sun was still below the horizon, and the heat of the previous day had long since given way to a sullen, biting chill. Marcus’ tent stood alone in the midst of a sea of blue-coated men, most of whom had simply dropped where they’d finished the march without bothering to erect any canvas or undo their bedrolls. The regimental drummer was beating a steady tattoo, and the whole hive was roaring into life. Weary men clambered to their feet, grabbed their weapons, and looked for their sergeants, whose calls rose above the roll of the drums.

Fitz was waiting, his uniform spotless as always. He saluted again as Marcus emerged.

“I’ve sent runners to captains Solwen and Kaanos,” he said. “Captain Stokes will be here in a moment.”

“Good. Now tell me what’s going on.”

“I believe Captain Roston has walked into an ambush, sir.” Fitz paused as Marcus swore again, then continued. “Our reports are a little sketchy, but it seems as though a sizable force of Desoltai engaged our pickets on the north side of camp a little more than an hour ago. Captain Roston heard the firing and rounded up as much as he could of the Fourth to ‘turn the tables on them.’ After that, matters were a little confused, but as best I can tell he put the Desoltai to flight and went after them.”

“Whereupon they waited for him to get far enough from camp, then swooped in and cut him off,” Marcus said. “Damn Adrecht, he should know better. He couldn’t spare anyone to tell me what he was doing?”

He’d heard the firing, or at least it had infiltrated his dreams, but that hadn’t been particularly alarming. There were skirmishes every night now, and nervous sentries were always discharging their weapons at moving shadows, desert beasts, and occasionally one another.

“Apparently not, sir. In any case, Captain Stokes sent out a patrol in pursuit. They were engaged by Desoltai horsemen, and only three men returned, but they reported that Captain Roston and his men had taken shelter in a rocky stretch and were holding their own, but that they were pinned by heavy fire from all sides.”

“Damn, damn, damn.” Marcus’ mind whirled. Everything depended on how many Desoltai were out there. A small force might pin a larger one at night, but day would expose the bluff and let Adrecht’s troops fight their way out. On the other hand, if they were outnumbered, their resistance wouldn’t last forever. No matter how good the ground they were defending, eventually they’d run short of ammunition and be forced to either surrender or be slaughtered. And God forbid the Desoltai have a cannon or two up their sleeves. “Any more bad news?”

“Just one piece, sir. The cavalry reported that the Steel Ghost himself is leading the attack. Their sergeant claims to have seen him personally.”

“Spectacular.” If the Ghost was there in person, that meant it wasn’t merely a spoiling attack. Which, in turn, meant that any effort at relief would have to go in considerable force.

He turned to find Val trotting up, with Mor close on his heels. The former looked red-faced and out of breath, while the latter, by his expression, was angry enough to spit lead.

“Have you two been apprised?” Marcus said.

“More or less,” Mor growled. “Do you ever get sick of pulling Adrecht’s chestnuts out of the fire?”

“The thought has occurred to me,” Marcus admitted. “But there are at least six hundred men out there with him.”

“Right.” Mor blew out a long breath. “So what do we do?”

“I’m taking the First and the Third out in support. In the meantime, Val, set up a line here at the camp with the Second and the artillery. Once we break through to Adrecht, we’ll fall back on you and see how the Desoltai like the taste of canister.”

Val’s expression was sour. “Has it occurred to you that this could all be a trap?”

“It was a trap,” Mor said, “and Adrecht walked right into it.”

“This is the Steel Ghost we’re dealing with,” Val said. “There may be more to it than that.”

Marcus raised a hand to cut off the debate. “I’ve thought about it, but we haven’t got any choice. We can’t just leave the Fourth.”

“I know, damn it,” Val said. He ran his fingers along his pencil mustache, smoothing the ends. “It just feels wrong. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“This whole damned trek feels wrong,” Mor said. “Where the hell is the colonel, anyway?”

“Out doing whatever it is he does at night,” Marcus said, without trying to disguise his bitterness. “Which reminds me. Val, find him and bring him in. He’s got an escort, but we don’t want the Desoltai stumbling across him.”

“Right. What about Give-Em-Hell?”

“Keep him here with you, in case they try some sort of wide swing.”

Not that the handful of cavalry troopers remaining would help much in that event. Marcus felt a pit yawning open in his gut. There were too many variables, too many things that might go wrong, and far too much he didn’t know. He kept picturing Janus, one eyebrow slightly raised, gray eyes impassive.

“And that was your response, Captain? Interesting. .”

Fuck him. Marcus ground his teeth. He’s not here when we need him.

“Well?” he said to Mor and Val. “What are you waiting for?”

• • •

The spit and crackle of musketry as they approached was comforting, since it meant that the fighting wasn’t over. Marcus had fumed and sweated as the First Battalion formed up east of the camp, faster than they ever had at Fort Valor but still far too slow to suit him. They’d marched out in column as the Third mustered behind them, while the Second and the Preacher’s guns started creating a defensive line at the edge of the encampment.

There was no road to follow, but it was obvious enough which way Adrecht had gone, even without the reports from the scouts Fitz had interrogated. The sandy ground was marked by the passage of hundreds of pairs of boots, and here and there bodies had been left behind by both pursuers and pursued like a trail of bread crumbs. There were no wounded, though, which Marcus found ominous. It meant Desoltai riders had combed the area after boxing Adrecht in, as far back as the site of the initial ambush.

When the rocks came into view, Marcus could see that the story Fitz had heard from the survivors had left out a few details. He’d pictured a single hill of boulders, with the Desoltai crouched in the rolling badlands beyond it. Instead, three high promontories dominated a sprawling field of jagged, broken rock, forbidding in the shadowy half-light and shrouded by gunsmoke. The shots came in ones and twos, not coordinated volleys, and he could hear the distant shouts and screams of hand-to-hand fighting.

Saints and martyrs. Marcus’ heart sank. The rock field was a commander’s nightmare, with vision restricted to a few yards in any direction and no chance of maintaining control over his men. He felt a flare of anger. How the hell did Adrecht let himself get stuck in there?

He turned to Fitz, who waited at his side as always. “Any thoughts?”

“That’s not going to be fun, sir.”

“There’s an understatement.” Marcus looked over his shoulder. He could see the dust cloud raised by the Third, perhaps ten minutes behind him. “Send someone to Mor and have him form up on the edge of this crap to make a rally line. We’re going in. Two-company front, reserve companies just behind the leaders.”

“Yessir!” Fitz saluted and hurried off.

• • •

For once, things went the way the tactics manual said they ought to. It was impossible for Marcus to keep close track of the battle once his men had vanished into the rocks, but he could see the rising smoke and hear the echoing cracks of musketry. One set of flashes marked the progress of the First, while renewed activity from the central hills meant that the Fourth had seen the attackers.

Each pair of companies made a little bit of progress, order dissolving as they closed with the Desoltai among the rocks by a series of rushes. Eventually they would stall as individual soldiers ran out of stamina or courage and sought cover. Then the next pair of companies, still fresh, would rush past them and repeat the process. In the face of determined opposition it was a recipe for a bloodbath on both sides, but judging by the rate of progress, the Desoltai were falling back before the action got too hot.

Mor’s Third Battalion was forming up behind Marcus as he fed the last pair of First Battalion companies into the fray. Mor himself clambered down from his big brown gelding and hurried over, eyes on the fuming mess ahead of them. Here and there muzzle flashes were visible, and soldiers in blue flitted like ghosts between the rocks and the drifting smoke.

“Nearly there,” Mor said, after a moment.

Marcus nodded. “So far, so-”

Shouts from behind him were quickly drowned out by the boom of the battalion drums calling for square. Marcus turned in time to see Desoltai horsemen, not three hundred yards off, riding hard for the rear of the Vordanai formation. Where the hell did they come from?

Surprised or not, Mor’s men gave a good account of themselves. The way they formed square, if not parade-ground smooth, was fast enough to get the walls of bayonets up in plenty of time. The Desoltai saw it and sheared off well before contact, but even so a volley of musketry from the nearer face of the square sent a few of them tumbling. There were fewer of them than Marcus had thought, not more than a couple of hundred.

Something’s wrong. Val had been encircled by a force big enough to keep him pinned down for hours, but Marcus’ men weren’t running into anything like that level of opposition.

Mor, evidently thinking along the same lines, said, “Think they saw us coming and ran for it?”

“Maybe.” Marcus frowned. “Maybe they’re hoping we’ll get strung out on the way back.”

“Hellfire. That’s going to be a long march if they follow us the whole way.”

Marcus nodded. Then, catching sight of a familiar figure approaching the square, he hurried over.

Men of the First and Fourth Battalions were emerging from the rocks in small groups, while their officers began the wearying process of sorting them out. Among the first to arrive was Adrecht, with Fitz in tow. The captain of the Fourth was smiling, his uniform ripped by rocks and blackened with powder grime, one empty sleeve folded up and pinned with a silver hair clip. Marcus didn’t know whether he wanted to embrace the man or slug him. He settled on a nod, as though they were meeting by chance in a café somewhere.

“Well, this has been a hell of a morning,” Adrecht said.

“How many of yours are still with you?”

“All of them, more or less. The bastards were bluffing us. When we went to punch out, they’d thinned the line down to practically nothing.”

“That’s because they want to try the same trap on a bigger scale.” Marcus gestured back to the east. “They’ve got horsemen in behind us.”

“You seem to be holding your own.”

“So far. We can’t stay here.”

“Agreed. Now what?”

Marcus closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, and then shook his head. “We haven’t got any cavalry, so this is going to be a slow business. We reorganize under cover of the square and start heading back to camp. Leapfrog-style, if we have to, one battalion in square while the other moves on.” That way might take all day to cover the mile or so they had to go, but without screening cavalry of their own or artillery to drive the horsemen off there wasn’t much choice.

“Fair enough.” Adrecht looked almost pleased at the prospect. Marcus supposed it was better than crouching in a pile of rocks wondering if there was anyone coming to get you. “I’d better get back to my men.”

“How are the losses on your side?”

“Light, considering.” Adrecht pursed his lips. “A couple of small groups got cut off in the initial dash, when we thought we were chasing a detached force. Once we got to the rocks, we managed to hold them off.”

Marcus desperately wanted to ask Adrecht what the hell he had been thinking, to go chasing off on his own, but now was emphatically not the time. He gave a curt nod instead and turned away to direct the breakout.

Maybe I won’t need to dress him down.After all, assuming we get out of this, he’s going to have to answer to Janus. Marcus realized that he’d crossed some boundary, without noticing. He was done with sticking his neck out for Adrecht Roston.

• • •

The first booms of the Preacher’s guns sent the hovering Desoltai cavalry into full flight, and Marcus gave the order to re-form into column with vast relief. The mile from the rocks to the Colonial camp had seemed to stretch on forever, and the three Vordanai battalions had played a deadly game of cat and mouse with the Desoltai for most of the distance. Riders swooped in whenever they thought they saw an opportunity, whenever one of the three columns looked disordered or strayed too far from the covering fire of the others.

They’d made it, though, and it had been a costly game for the Desoltai. When they saw the squares had formed, too strong to crack, they always turned away, but as often as not they’d strayed into musket range and a volley emptied a few saddles. After several repetitions the desert tribesmen had lost some of their enthusiasm, and they were content to merely escort the Vordanai the rest of the way to the safety of their artillery.

Now they were in full retreat. Marcus caught sight of one party hanging behind the rest. At its head, a tall man pulled back the hood of his robe and offered Marcus a congratulatory wave. The sun, now well overhead, gleamed off a polished metal mask. Marcus stared at the Steel Ghost and suppressed a ridiculous urge to wave back. He wondered briefly if the Preacher could pick him off at this distance, but after his quick gesture the nomad leader was already turning his horse and riding back into the Desol.

Marcus turned away as well, and only then became aware of a commotion behind him. He found Val, uniform grimy with powder smoke, hurrying up with an escort of Second Battalion men. They pulled up short when they found Marcus. The men saluted, but Val was too obviously agitated to bother with formalities. One hand tweaked the end of his mustache with such force Marcus thought he was trying to pull it off.

“Good work,” Marcus said. “Looks like the Steel Ghost doesn’t have the stomach for charging a line of guns.” He paused, feeling a sudden unpleasant premonition. Val wouldn’t have gotten so grimy from a few cannon shots unless he’d been standing right next to the gunners. “What’s happened?”

“I’m sorry,” Val said. “I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t-”

Marcus raised his voice, aware of the listeners on all sides. “Captain Solwen!”

“Sir!” Val said automatically, straightening up. His hands snapped to his sides, and his eyes seemed to clear. “You’d better come and see, sir.”

• • •

“I’m sorry,” Val said again, now that they were more or less alone. “They came in so fast, we barely had time to form up.”

Marcus nodded slowly, surveying the devastation. Reconstructing what had happened was simple enough. The Second Battalion had formed a line facing east, at the edge of the camp, just as Marcus had ordered. They’d been waiting to intercept a Desoltai pursuit of the retreating First and Third Battalions. When a thousand desert horsemen had descended on them from the west, screaming for blood, they’d had only a few minutes’ warning from Give-Em-Hell’s cavalry scouts.

Under the circumstances, Val had done well. He’d gotten the Second into square in time, and even managed to herd most of the noncombatants and wounded into the safe interior of the formation before the Desoltai had arrived. Walls of bristling bayonets had been ready to see off the riders when they charged, if they were foolish enough to attempt such a thing.

They were not. And, Marcus was coming to understand, they had never intended to, any more than they had intended to press home a costly attack on Adrecht’s force or his own. Their real target was spread before him.

Weeks of desert sun had bleached and dried the planks of the carts and wagons that followed the army until they were as dry as driftwood, but the nomads had taken no chances. Bottles of lamp oil had been flung into the bed of each vehicle, followed by blazing brands. Other squads had descended on the lines of penned pack animals, turning them loose to flee in panic from the fires and then slaughtering all they could catch. But the main blow had been delivered by a picked force, armed for the task with hatchets and heavy axes, who had gone straight for the barrels Fitz had extracted from the Khandarai wine merchants.

They’d been thorough. Fire was an uncertain weapon at best, and no doubt a few bits and pieces had escaped destruction, but the vast majority of the Colonials’ supply train had been reduced to ruins while a full battalion of blue-coated soldiers stood by and watched.

“Give-Em-Hell wanted to attack,” Val said dully. “I almost listened to him, but I knew what would happen. This was the Steel Ghost himself. They’d just ride away while we broke formation, circle around, cut us to pieces from behind. There were so many of them.” He shook his head. “Maybe you could have thought of something, Marcus. All I could do was watch.”

“I wouldn’t have had any ideas,” Marcus said. He meant it-aside from moving the supplies inside the square, which there hadn’t been time for, there was nothing an infantry battalion could do against such a mobile force. He glanced at Val. “You think the Steel Ghost was here personally?”

“I saw him myself,” Val said. “Leading the squad that smashed the water barrels, riding a big black stallion.”

Maybe he rode around and met up with the other force before I saw him? That seemed like an awful risk to take just to taunt Marcus. Besides, he could have sworn he’d felt the Ghost’s guiding hand in the feints and ambushes the Desoltai had executed in the rocks. They say he can be everywhere at once, and move across miles in an instant. .

Smoke was still rising from the burning wagons, forming a thick pillar in the unmoving desert air. Here and there a dying animal thrashed and moaned, but otherwise the scene was quiet. A small escort of Second Battalion soldiers stood at a polite distance, but Marcus could feel their eyes on him. Most of the rest of the Colonials were off to the east, and no doubt Val’s troops were spreading news of the disaster. Marcus could almost hear the whispers beginning already.

This is going to be bad. He tasted bile at the back of his throat, swallowed hard, and turned to Val.

“All right. First order of business is to salvage whatever we can. Get squads out looking for any animals that escaped, supplies we can still use, and especially water. We’re going to need everything we can get.”

Val nodded. His relief at having someone issuing orders was obvious. “Right away.”

Speaking of which. . “What about the colonel? Where is he?”

“He’s safe,” Val said. “He should be here in a few minutes. I sent some men to escort him back to camp, but when he saw the attack starting they decided it would be safer to wait. I had a runner just now.”

Marcus didn’t know whether to be relieved or apprehensive. “I’d better go and find him. Do you have a horse I can borrow?” The officers’ personal horses had been strung out with the rest of the animals. Poor Meadow was no doubt lying charred on the field with her throat slit.

Val found him a horse from those that had survived the carnage, a big, unpleasant animal that seemed instinctively aware of Marcus’ dislike of the equine species. He rode in search of Janus, following the vague directions that Val had given him, and before long he was giving serious consideration to getting off and walking. He was so distracted sawing on the reins to keep the stubborn animal headed in the right direction that he nearly ran over Janus’ little party, who were picking their way down a rocky scarp at the bottom of a small hill. The colonel stepped smartly aside as Marcus brought his fractious mount under control and dismounted, handing the reins to a waiting soldier with great relief.

That feeling evaporated instantly as he turned to meet Janus’ cool, gray-eyed stare. Marcus stiffened to attention and snapped a crisp salute, which the colonel acknowledged with a nod.

“Sir!” he said. “Have you been brought up to date on the situation?”

“I saw most of it happen,” Janus said, holding up his spyglass. “I happened to have a good vantage, though I didn’t have any view of the action where you went to rescue Captain Roston. Judging by the returning formations, however, I assume you succeeded?”

“Yessir,” Marcus said. “The Desoltai tried to cut in behind us, but we were able to break through.”

“I’m glad to see that something came of your blunder, in any case,” Janus said. “Although, in the short run, it makes our task more difficult.”

The colonel’s tone was so pleasant Marcus wasn’t certain he’d heard properly. “Sir?”

“Not that you deserve much blame,” Janus went on. “Whoever commands the Desoltai clearly has a firm grasp of tactical principles, and obviously knows how to employ the advantages of his mobility and the terrain. It’s not surprising that you were overmatched. No, the lion’s share of the fault must of course go to Captain Roston, for taking so obvious a bait.”

Marcus had thought the same thing at the time, but now he bristled. “I’m sure that Captain Roston made the best decision he could under the circumstances.”

“Captain Roston is a cowardly fool,” Janus said. There was no rancor in it, just a statement of fact. “I believed I could tolerate him, for your sake, but that was clearly an error, and one that reflects on my own judgment. You see, Captain, none of us escapes censure.” Ignoring Marcus’ stunned expression, Janus stepped away from him, looking down at the still-smoking camp. “That’s something to consider in the future, however. For the present, we must work our way out of this predicament. Fortunately, we have options available to us. Have you completed your survey of the remaining supplies?”

“Ah. . not yet, sir.” Marcus was still trying to digest what he’d heard-Janus apparently blamed him, and Adrecht, for the whole disaster, and yet he didn’t plan to do anything about it. Not “for the present,” anyway. He forcibly redirected his thoughts onto a more practical path. “Captain Solwen’s men are still searching the wreckage. At a guess, we’ll have quite a bit of food left, but as to water. .”

“Certainly the more problematic of the two. A man can go a week without food, but a few days without water will kill as certainly as a musket ball. I want you to organize a detail of trustworthy men immediately and collect the canteens and waterskins from the men.”

“Sir?”

“We’re going to need every drop, Captain, and it’s going to have to be rationed. Leaving it in the hands of the rankers only assures that it will be wasted.”

“Most of those men have been fighting all day,” Marcus said. “They’re not going to be happy about this.”

“I assume they would prefer to be unhappy and alive to the alternative. Do it. Another detail needs to gather the carcasses from the horse lines and the pack train. Drain the blood and carve as much meat as can be had.”

“Drain the blood?”

“Horse blood will keep a man alive, Captain. Among the Murnskai, a man on an urgent journey can subsist on nothing but blood and horseflesh for more than a week.”

“The men really aren’t going to like-”

Janus gave a little sigh, as though he were a schoolmaster losing his patience with a particularly slow pupil. “Captain d’Ivoire. I wonder if you fully understand the predicament that you and your friend Captain Roston have created.”

“I know-”

“We are in the Great Desol,” Janus continued, cutting him off. “We are at least a week’s march from the nearest known source of fresh water, even allowing for forced marches, and I estimate we’ll have less than two days of half water rations remaining. We are surrounded by hostile forces under an extremely capable commander, who has deliberately created this situation and will certainly be standing ready to exploit our increasing weakness. If we do not act decisively, all that will remain of this army will be a pile of bleaching bones.”

Marcus gritted his teeth. “What should I have done?”

“Excuse me?”

“When Adr-when Captain Roston took the Fourth after the Desoltai. What should I have done, if going after him was such a mistake?”

Janus blinked, as though the answer was so obvious he was astonished Marcus had to ask the question. “You should have let him go. Kept your men close to the camp, defended the supply train, and carried on with the march.”

“Sacrificed the entire Fourth Battalion, in other words,” Marcus said.

“Yes,” Janus said. “Sacrifices are sometimes necessary to ensure the success of a campaign.” His gray eyes glittered. “Besides, if you cared about the welfare of those troops, you would have allowed me to replace Captain Roston with someone more competent.”

Marcus had never wanted to hit someone so badly in all his life. Instead, slowly, he saluted.

“Yes, sir!”

• • •

The gory work of carving and jointing the dead animals went on all through the rest of the day and into the night, with crews of soldier-butchers working by the light of improvised torches cut from the remains of wagons. Barrels that had survived the attack with only minor damage were patched and filled with steaming blood, while other teams carefully extracted the dregs from smashed containers and combined them with the water from the canteens and waterskins collected from the unwilling rankers. They still didn’t have a precise accounting, but Marcus could already see it would be a pitifully small collection.

And then this. Marcus stared at the stark white paper, neatly creased, that Fitz had delivered to him under the colonel’s seal. One edge was torn where he’d opened it in haste.

“He can’t be serious,” Marcus said dully.

“In my experience, the colonel is always serious,” Fitz said.

“I know.” Marcus glared, as though he could force the neat writing to change shape by force of will. Tomorrow morning, the Colonials will continue the march northeast by north. .

He looked up at Fitz. “This is going to be trouble.”

“The water situation?”

“Not just that. When the news of this gets out-”

The lieutenant nodded. “I’ve already received messages from captains Solwen and Kaanos. They want to see you.”

“I’ll bet they do. Go and tell them to come over, and Adrecht, too. Then. .” Marcus hesitated, embarrassed.

“Sir?”

“See if you can find Jen,” he said. It felt wrong employing Fitz on personal business, but he couldn’t help it. She’d been gone from his tent when he’d returned from the ill-fated expedition, and he’d been too busy since then to find her, despite his worry. “I just need to know if she’s okay.”

“Of course, sir,” Fitz said. He saluted and slipped out.

It wasn’t long before Val and Mor arrived. The former had changed into a clean uniform and applied fresh wax to his mustache, while the latter was still in the grimy coat he’d worn in the battle. Both clutched their own copies of Janus’ orders. Mor waved his in Marcus’ face, the creased paper flapping like a broken-winged bird.

“What the hell is this?” he exclaimed.

“Orders,” Marcus managed to say. He gestured for the pair to sit. Val took a cushion beside the low table, but Mor remained standing, and so Marcus had to stand awkwardly between them.

“Orders, my ass,” Mor said. “‘Continue the march’? We’re just going on as though nothing has happened?”

“Not exactly,” Marcus said. “We’re changing direction-”

“We’re still going deeper into the Desol! We’ve got maybe two days of water left, and then we’ll be down to drinking blood and horse piss. And when that runs out we’re all going to end up dead!”

“He’s right,” Val said. He didn’t look up, as though ashamed to be agreeing with Mor. “I know the colonel is determined, but this is madness. He must give up the campaign.”

“Even if we turned around now, there’s no guarantee we’d make it,” Marcus said.

“We can strike toward the coast,” Mor said. “There’s streams there, and it’s only four days’ march. We’ll be thirsty, but we’ll live if we stretch the supplies.”

“Some of us,” Marcus said.

“Better than none,” Mor shot back.

Val smoothed his mustache with one finger. “More important, if we move deeper into the Desol another confrontation with the Desoltai is inevitable. After a few days without water, the men are going to be in no condition to fight. If we retreat, we may be able to regroup and resupply.”

“Assuming the Desoltai leave us alone,” Marcus said. “Do you really think the Steel Ghost is going to pass up an opportunity to annihilate this army if he has the chance?”

“So the best you can offer is that it’s certain death either way, so we might as well march off the cliff?” Mor said. “Is that what the colonel told you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Marcus said. “He never tells me anything, I told you. Except when I’ve done something wrong.”

“Then why are you taking his side?” Mor said.

“I’m not taking his side!” Marcus paused. “Suppose I agreed with you in every particular. What am I supposed to do about it?” He gestured at the folded paper. “Orders are orders.”

“Only if we obey them,” Mor said.

Marcus stared at him. “You don’t mean that.”

Mor’s lip curled, but it was Val who spoke. “There are provisions for this sort of thing. In the regulations, I mean. In the event that a commanding officer is deemed to be mad, his senior subordinate can remove him from his post pending an investigation by a court-martial.”

“There isn’t a court-martial within three thousand miles,” Marcus snapped. “Don’t mince words. You’re talking mutiny.”

“I have a duty to the men of this regiment,” Mor said stiffly, “not to get them killed to no useful purpose.”

“You have a duty to obey orders. An oath.”

“I have an oath to the king, and to defend Vordan. How the hell does leading my men to die in the desert serve either?”

“You don’t get to pick and choose,” Marcus said. “The colonel gives the orders that he decides are in the interests of the king, and we carry them out. That’s all.”

“Fine,” Mor said. “Then let him come and explain to me what he’s trying to do.”

“He’s under no obligation to do that.”

“He owes us something.”

Val cleared his throat. “It doesn’t need to go that far, Marcus. What if you just tried to talk to him? He’ll listen to you. He has before. Explain it to him-”

“I have a feeling that my stock with the colonel is fairly low at the moment,” Marcus said. He sighed. “I’ll talk to him. I was going to try that anyway. But I will not disobey orders. You understand? No matter how mad you think the man is. And if you try it, I will have you put under arrest for treason.”

“Good,” Mor said. “Then you can shoot me and spare me a slow death from dehydration.”

“Just talk to him,” Val said soothingly. “That’s all we wanted.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Marcus pursed his lips. “Have you spoken to Adrecht?”

“Not since the fighting,” Mor said. “Why?”

“The colonel was not happy with the stunt he pulled this morning,” Marcus said. “At this point, it may be better if he resigns after all.”

“You really think that matters now?” Mor said.

“It matters to Adrecht. If the colonel has to force him out, and we get out of this, he’ll face charges.”

“I’ll try to talk to him,” Val said. “You worry about the colonel.”

Marcus promised again that he would, and managed to usher his friends out. Soon after, Fitz arrived to report that Jen was fine and in her own tent, and Adrecht had retreated to the Fourth Battalion camp and was not receiving visitors. Sulking, Marcus decided. He sent the lieutenant off again, this time to Janus to request an audience, and settled down to wait.

• • •

“Busy,” Marcus deadpanned.

“Busy,” Fitz confirmed.

“What the hell is he doing?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. Master Augustin said that the colonel was busy and was not to be disturbed.”

Marcus shook his head, bewildered. It smelled like panic. Many senior officers in a desperate situation might deliberately shut the door on their subordinates, but it was hard to picture Janus in such a panicked state. Apart from one flash, under Monument Hill, he’d never shown any emotion more vehement than mild disapproval.

Maybe it’s a plan? Marcus frowned. Maybe it’s a test.Maybe-no. He would only drive himself mad thinking like that. Maybe Mor is right after all.

“I had another note from Captain Roston,” Fitz said. “He wants you to come to speak with him.”

“I’m the senior captain,” Marcus groused. “If he wants to talk, he should come here.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll inform him-”

“Don’t bother.”

Marcus stood up from his cushion, legs groaning in protest. His lips were dry and cracked in the desert heat, and his throat was parched. That was nothing new, of course, but thinking of all those smashed, empty barrels brought his thirst inexorably to the front of his mind. He did his best to ignore it.

The table in front of him was covered with hastily scrawled reports, from which he’d been trying to put together some coherent picture of what supplies the regiment had left. A leather-backed map was marked with penciled circles, indicating how far they could march while the water held out and his estimate of what they could make beyond that, but Marcus would be the first to admit it was only guesswork. Mor had been right about one thing, in any event-even making it back to the coast would be difficult. If we march any farther east. .

He put the thought out of his mind as he picked up his coat and emerged from his tent for the first time all day. The encampment outside bore little resemblance to the usual neat army camp town. Most of the tents had gone up in flames with the rest of the supplies, and order had decayed badly in the aftermath of the morning’s fighting. Each battalion was sprawled in a rough circle, working to light fires in anticipation of the night’s chill. The sun was sliding toward the horizon, and the reddening light turned the rocky ground the color of rust.

Eyes followed Marcus as he picked his way through the First Battalion troops and headed in the direction of Adrecht’s Fourth. He studiously ignored the muttering in his wake, but couldn’t help but notice that the recruits and the Old Colonials seemed to have separated again, like oil and water. The recruits sat around the fires, but the veterans drifted to the shadowy spaces in between, holding earnest, whispered conversations in small groups. Marcus did his best to convince himself that it didn’t mean anything.

It was much the same with the Fourth Battalion. Adrecht’s tent was one of the few still standing, and Marcus made his way through the scattered troops to reach it. The stares here were considerably more hostile. The Fourth was obviously aware of the blame Janus had placed on it and its commander for the morning’s events, and just as obviously considered Marcus party to that decision. I wonder if I should tell them that the colonel chewed me out as well.

Adrecht appeared in response to his rap at the tent pole. He wore his uniform pants and a white silk shirt, one sleeve of which hung loose and empty. When he saw Marcus, he managed a smile, but his eyes were brittle.

“You wanted to see me?” Marcus said.

“Of course. Come in, come in.”

Reluctantly, Marcus stepped into the interior of the tent. No candles burned, and not much of the setting sun came through the canvas, leaving the interior in shadow. Adrecht seated himself on a pile of cushions and invited Marcus to do the same. On the low table he saw a copy of Janus’ order, and beside it a bottle of Khandarai wine, its wax seal already broken.

Adrecht indicated the bottle. “Help yourself, if you like. We found it while we were gathering undamaged supplies. Some ranker must have been saving it for a special occasion, poor fellow.”

“No, thank you.” Marcus crossed his arms in his lap and sat stiffly. “What do you want, Adrecht?”

“Just to talk.” A grimace of pain flitted across Adrecht’s face, and his good hand went to the stump of his arm. “God. It feels like my hand is still there, you know that? Like I’ve got it clenched into a fist, so tight it hurts my knuckles, but I can’t make it relax. It aches. Does that make any sense?”

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said quietly. “When this is all over, we can send you to the University. I’m sure they’ll be able-”

“To grow it back?” Adrecht gave a death’s-head grin.

“To do something for the pain,” Marcus finished.

“Could be. It makes me wonder what happens to fellows who’ve had their heads cut off. Does their whole body ache like this?”

Marcus eyed the wine bottle. Adrecht, following his gaze, chuckled weakly.

“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re wondering. Just. . thoughtful. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“In the morning,” Adrecht said, “we’re to march farther into the Desol.”

“Those are the colonel’s orders,” Marcus said.

“Farther from any source of food or water.”

“There are oases in the Desol,” Marcus offered. He knew it was a weak response.

“Hidden springs,” Adrecht agreed. “Which are, of course, hidden. Only the Desoltai know how to find them. I suppose we could always ask.”

“What do you want me to say?” Marcus said. “The colonel doesn’t consult me when he makes his plans.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Today?” Marcus shook his head. “He wouldn’t see me.”

“Did he say why not?”

“His man said he was busy.” Marcus couldn’t disguise a hint of bitterness.

“Busy. Well, I should hope he’s busy.” Adrecht picked up the bottle of wine, considered it for a moment, then took a swig. “The situation certainly calls for it.”

“You’ve been talking to Mor and Val.”

“I have,” Adrecht admitted. “And to Give-Em-Hell, and the Preacher. And the lieutenants and sergeants. To the Old Colonials.”

“Performing an assessment of morale?”

“You might say that.” Adrecht smiled thinly and set the bottle down. “The opinion of the camp is that the colonel is crazy.”

“Mor said the same thing. We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

“Some of us aren’t eager to find out.”

Marcus chose his words carefully. “I don’t think any of us are eager. But I don’t see that we have any choice.”

“A man with a weapon always has a choice,” Adrecht said. “I said from the beginning that we ought never to have come out so far. Are you willing to admit now that I was right?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus said. “And I don’t see that it matters.”

Adrecht’s lip curled. “What would it take, Marcus? How far does he have to go before you understand?”

“He’s the colonel of this regiment,” Marcus said. “He has his commission from the king and the Minister of War.”

“The infallible Ministry of War,” Adrecht said bitterly. “The ones who dumped us here in the first place.”

“Get to the point, Adrecht.”

Another spasm of pain crossed Adrecht’s features. He closed his eyes, breathing deep, until it passed. Then he said, “The regiment will not march tomorrow. Not to the east.”

“It’s mutiny, then.”

“It’s common sense. You have to see that.”

“Don’t do this.” Marcus fought to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Please.”

“Tell that to the colonel.” Adrecht reached for the wine again. “I was hoping you would listen to reason. Mor told me I was wasting my time.”

“I’m going back to my tent,” Marcus said. “In the morning, I expect the Fourth to be mustered and ready to march. You can still back away from this.”

“Go, then.” Adrecht swigged from the bottle and gave a crooked smile. “And keep your head down.”

Marcus turned and left without another word. The men of the Fourth were still sprawled in their disheveled camp, but he couldn’t help but feel an air of menace in their looks as he hurried past them. He wondered how many would follow Adrecht. How many would follow Adrecht and Mor and Val together, against this new colonel who had led them, finally, to the brink of disaster?

Janus has to be told. He’d given Adrecht until morning, but they couldn’t afford to wait that long. A real mutiny would tear the regiment apart, and given their precarious position it would as good as sign the death warrant for every one of them. We have to stop them now, Marcus realized, and felt a sick weight settle in his gut. Adrecht would have to be arrested, and maybe Mor and Val as well. And Give-Em-Hell? The Preacher? That had to be a bluff. He couldn’t imagine either of them going along with anything so underhanded.

Lost in thought, Marcus found his way back to the First Battalion’s encampment and headed for his own tent. Three men were waiting for him outside it, Old Colonials. They saluted.

“Lieutenant Warus is inside, sir,” said one wearing a corporal’s stripes. “He had a message for you. Said it was urgent.”

Maybe he finally got in to see Janus. Marcus gave another nod and slipped through the tent flap. Only a couple of candles and the light of the failing sun illuminated the interior of the tent, leaving it almost as dark as Adrecht’s. A couple of men stood at the other end, both too large to be Fitz. The bigger of the pair stepped forward, and Marcus recognized the rotund form of Sergeant Davis.

“Sir,” Davis said, with a lazy salute.

“Sergeant,” Marcus acknowledged. “Where’s Lieutenant Warus?”

“He’s been unavoidably detained, sir,” Davis said.

“They told me-”

The sound of canvas and a prickle at the back of his neck made Marcus turn. Two of the men from outside-men from Davis’ company, he now recalled-had entered. Both carried muskets with bayonets fixed, shouldered and trained on Marcus.

From behind him he heard the click of a hammer drawing back. He turned back to Davis. The second figure had stepped up beside the fat sergeant, cocked pistol in his hand.

“Sergeant?” Marcus said, with more calm than he felt. “Care to explain yourself?”

Davis smiled hugely. “I’m afraid you’re under arrest, sir. Orders of Senior Captain Roston.”

“Senior Captain Roston?” Marcus matched the man’s stare. “I suggest you take that up with the colonel.”

“Regrettably, the colonel has been relieved of his command, on grounds of mental unbalance.”

“Don’t be stupid, Davis.”

“Sorry, sir.” The sergeant shrugged. “It’s nothing personal. I’m only following orders. Men?”

The men behind Marcus took him by the arms, and the man with the pistol lowered his weapon. Davis sauntered forward. Then, brutally fast, he buried one hamhock fist in Marcus’ gut.

“That-” He bent to speak in Marcus’ ear as he doubled over in agony. “That, sir, was personal.”