The Thousand Names

Chapter Twenty-five

WINTER

She never quite lost consciousness, but it was a close-run thing. There was a long stretch when everything was a blur except for the pain-the scrapes and cuts all over, the stabbing agony in her side, the protests from abused joints where the demons had tried to tear her literally limb from limb. It wasn’t fair to expect her to get up after all that, she thought. It wasn’t reasonable. She ought to be allowed to curl up in a ball, close her eyes, and just wait until it was over.

It lasted until she remembered Bobby and Feor. They’d been with her until she’d hit the wall of demons, and then she’d lost sight of them. Graff and Folsom had come charging to the rescue, but she hadn’t seen them find Bobby. Her chest suddenly tight, Winter unfolded herself with an effort and raised her head, blinking back tears.

Bobby was sitting on the flagstones nearby, with Feor beside him. The Khandarai girl had her skirt drawn up, exposing a set of vicious scratches along one leg, and the corporal was helping her with a bandage. That answered that question, anyway, but now that she was in motion Winter couldn’t bring herself to just lie down again. She dragged herself up to a sitting position and tried to speak, but managed only a faint croak.

Graff hurried to her side. He handed her a canteen, and she drank greedily, tepid water trickling down her chin and soaking her collar.

“Are you all right?” he said when she was finished.

No, I’m fucking not all right, she wanted to say. I was nearly torn apart by demons. What do you think? But Graff looked pretty close to the edge himself, and in any case that would a poor way to repay him for saving her life. So she forced a shaky smile and said, “I think I’ll live.”

“Thank God. Folsom thought he saw you come in, but we couldn’t be sure until you got close. That was goddamned brave of you, charging the lot of them like that.” He paused, making it clear by his expression that by “brave” he meant “insane.”

“There were more of them coming up behind us,” Winter said. “I figured our only chance was to make it to the square.”

“Ah,” Graff said. “Well.”

“Thank you,” Winter said.

He looked embarrassed for a moment, and then his expression turned grim. “You may change your mind before long. You’re not much better off in here than out there.”

Winter took a proper look around for the first time. The company square was tiny, only ten yards to a side, leaving a small patch of flagstones in the center inhabited by the three corporals, herself, Feor, and a few wounded. Beyond that, a double line of rankers held stolidly to their lines, presenting an unbroken fence of bayonet points. She couldn’t see past the wall of blue-uniformed backs, but she could hear the hissing of the demons beyond.

“They’d bury us if they really tried a rush,” Graff said quietly. “They shy away from steel, thank God, but I don’t know why. Sticking them doesn’t seem to bother them any. But anytime we weaken the line, even a little, they go for it like we’ve rung the dinner bell. They nearly had us when Folsom and I went out to bring you back.”

“Why aren’t we shooting them?”

“For one thing, I can’t spare the men to load,” Graff said. “For another, it doesn’t help much. God be good, I saw one of them keep going with a hole the size of my fist right through him. They don’t die like men, so what good is throwing lead at them?”

Winter realized for the first time that Graff was scared. She’d never seen him afraid before, at least not in battle. Only a thin veneer of military professionalism held him together. And he’s a veteran. She looked around at the steady backs of the Seventh Company with a new respect.

“We can’t stay here,” she said. “They’re just waiting us out.”

“Looks that way,” Graff said. “But that’s the trick, isn’t it? That last charge was the closest we’ve gotten to the door, and I lost two men just getting that far. If we try to push all the way to the doorway we’ll be crushed.”

Two men. Winter’s throat closed again for a moment. Two men had died just to rescue her, Bobby, and Feor. She didn’t even know which two-they were just “men,” rankers, expendable assets on the strength report. She fought down an urge to ask Graff for their names. Later. If we get out of this alive.

“Bugger all the saints with bloody rolling pins,” Winter swore. It didn’t make her feel any better. “Give me a minute.”

She crawled over to where Bobby sat beside Feor, finishing her bandage. To Winter’s surprise, the Khandarai girl’s cheeks were wet with tears. Bobby caught Winter’s eye and shook her head.

“She seems all right to me, sir,” Bobby said. “Maybe she’s just scared? When that thing grabbed you I nearly screamed the roof down.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Winter said. “Are you hurt?”

“Just scratches.”

Winter nodded and sat down on the other side of Feor. The girl looked up at her, dark eyes blinking away tears.

“Does it hurt very badly?” Winter said in Khandarai.

“No,” Feor said. “Bobby is being kind. I will be fine.”

“Then-”

“Akataer. My brother.” She gestured weakly at the side of the square. “These are his creations, the product of his naath. I can feel his agony.”

“Forgive me if I don’t feel sorry for him,” Winter said, more harshly than she intended. “His demons are trying to kill us.”

“They are not demons,” Feor said. “They are dead spirits, bound to their corpses and forced to serve.”

“That sounds like a demon to me,” Winter said. “How do we kill them?”

“You cannot. They have died once already. Now the body is just a. . container. They will keep going, until. .” She hesitated, then forged on. “Until Akataer releases them, or until he dies.”

“Wonderful. Is there anything we can use against them?” Winter tried to remember her fairy tales. What works on demons? “Holy water? Silver bullets? Not that we have any. Chanting scripture?”

“You do not understand,” Feor said. “They are not demons. Not separate entities. They are part of him, part of his naath. They consume him, little by little. I have seen him tired and weak after binding a half dozen for a day’s labor. This many?” She shook her head. “He will not recover.”

“Oh,” Winter said. Feor’s tears had stopped, and she simply looked weary. Winter felt a rising blush in her cheeks, which she tried to ignore. She opened her mouth, found she had nothing to say, and closed it again. Feor lay back against the flagstones and closed her eyes.

Folsom tapped Winter on the shoulder. She turned and clambered awkwardly to her feet, legs screaming protests. He offered her the hilt of her sword.

“One of the men picked this up,” he said.

“Thanks.” Winter sheathed it. Even her hands seemed to ache. “And thanks for coming to get me.”

He shrugged. With the immediate danger gone, the big corporal seemed to have reverted to his normal taciturn persona.

“I don’t suppose you have any brilliant ideas on how to get out of here?”

Folsom shook his head. Winter sighed and limped around the inside of the square, searching for inspiration.

The men couldn’t salute, and didn’t dare take their eyes off the monsters that waited just beyond the wall of bayonets. Nevertheless, she heard their whispers underneath the omnipresent hiss of white smoke. Every second man seemed to be reassuring his fellows now that the lieutenant was here.

“Lieutenant Ihernglass will get us out.”

“He came with more troops. Got to be.”

“The lieutenant always figures something out. .”

Whatever reassurance her presence brought the men seemed to drain confidence from Winter in equal measure. She could feel the weight of their hope, their faith, stacking higher and higher on her shoulders until she wanted to collapse under the burden and simply die. She wondered briefly if this was how Captain d’Ivoire and Colonel Vhalnich felt every day. Is there some magic formula they teach you at the War College to deal with it? Or do you just go numb eventually? This was just a single company. She could hardly imagine what it would be like to have the entire regiment leaning on you for support.

Damn it. Focus! Her head felt like it was filled with cotton. There’s got to be something. From where she was standing, she could see the doorway, just fifty or sixty feet away. As close as that, and as distant as the moon.

If we can get there, we’re safe. The passage was only wide enough for three or four men at a time. The Seventh Company could defend that against these creatures for hours. The problem was that sixty feet. If we break the square, they’ll pull us down. But they’re not quick. She had outrun them easily in the tunnel. We just need a few seconds, really. Enough time to get past them.

And what have we got to work with? There wasn’t much. Sixty-odd soldiers and no supplies. The shots in their cartridge pouches, the coats on their backs, the boots on their feet. Plus three corporals and a Khandarai naathem half a step away from tears. And me.

Her eye lit on something just inside the edge of the square. It was a metal-framed lantern, scavenged from one of the wrecked carts. They must have carried it in with them. Now that she was looking, she could see several more, scattered where the men had dropped them. So add a half dozen lanterns to that tally. Does that help?

A few seconds. .

• • •

The hardest part was doing it all without weakening the square so much that the walking corpses would surge through. Orders had to be passed from man to man, since she didn’t dare distract them all by shouting. Plus, who knows how much those things understand? It was like a giant game of pass-the-story, each man telling his neighbor, with Winter following along behind to straighten out the inevitable misunderstandings.

Eventually, they had a pile of uniform jackets in the center of the square. Winter kept her own, since she was sweating enough that she didn’t trust her undershirt to conceal her properly, but everyone else was in shirtsleeves. Beside that they had a smaller pile of cartridge pouches, each a loose leather sack containing the twenty rounds of ammunition that the rankers kept on them. Bobby and Folsom were hard at work on those, while Graff helped her with the lanterns.

It seemed like hours before they were finished. Winter expected a charge the entire time, waiting for the green-eyed corpses to lose patience and simply surge into and over the bayonets to finish what they’d started. But they remained at bay, confident or just uncaring.

Finally, when everything was ready, she stood beside Folsom, facing the doorway. Graff hurried over, carrying an improvised torch in each hand, and Winter lit both with the last of her matches. He touched his torches to Bobby’s, and then to one more, which he handed to Winter.

“Okay.” Winter blew out a long breath and looked up at Folsom. “If this gets us all killed, let me just say in advance that I’m sorry.”

The big corporal grunted and hefted the cartridge pouch he held. A twist of cloth dipped in lamp oil served as a makeshift fuse. Winter gingerly touched her torch to the very end and sent up a silent prayer of thanks when the whole affair didn’t go off there and then. Once it was alight, Folsom didn’t wait. He gave the thing a heave, and it disappeared over the heads of the men in the square to fall in among the monsters.

They got two more lit and thrown. Then there was a single agonizing second of waiting, in which Winter pictured the pouches bursting when they hit the ground, or the tapers being snuffed out by the wind of their passage-

The sound of the first one going off was disappointing, more of a muffled thud than the massive boom of a cannon. It was accompanied by the merry zip and zing of lead balls ricocheting off the stone floor. After tearing open enough cartridges to mostly fill the little sack with powder, she’d stuffed musket balls in until it was nearly bursting. The idea was that it would be something like a load of canister, spraying balls in all directions. Without a musket’s barrel to channel the blast, the balls wouldn’t go far or hit hard, but she hoped it would still be enough to damage something.

Two more blasts, almost simultaneous, announced the explosion of the other two bags. The wall of green eyes in front of her thinned out as the corpses turned to see what was happening or were knocked down by the blasts. She heard someone cry out, struck by a stray ball. She’d been afraid of that, but it was too late to worry about it now. A few seconds.

“First rank, hold!” she screamed, tearing her throat raw. “Second rank, past me, charge!”

The men had been instructed by the same chain-of-whispers method, and she was frankly surprised when they did what she wanted them to. One face of the square, the one closest to the doorway, erupted with cheers and shouts as men surged forward, leading with their bayonets. Behind them, the second rank of each of the other faces-the innermost line of the square-dropped their weapons, rushed to the center pile, and picked up a uniform jacket in each hand. They rushed past her in a body, into the gap behind the advancing men, where the creatures were just starting to turn back to face their escaping prey.

Just beside her, a ranker tossed one of his jackets. It was a good throw, landing squarely across the face of one of the monsters. The thing plucked at the coat with both hands, but before it could tear the fabric away Winter reached out and touched her torch to the uniform’s sleeve. The lamp oil spattered across it caught instantly, and soon the entire jacket was a mass of flames. The sizzle of burning flesh mixed with the ever-present hiss, and black smoke gouted upward to discolor the white.

Bobby, Folsom, and Graff were all wielding torches, touching off the coats the rankers flung whenever they found a target. Those creatures they set aflame staggered away, or were pushed or kicked aside. Once he’d disposed of his burden, each ranker ran for it, sprinting for the doorway behind the vanguard of men still carrying bayonets.

“First rank, run!” Winter shouted.

The last of the square backed away a few steps and ran, holding on to their muskets. The monsters following hard on their heels were met by more flung coats, and once afire they blocked the path of their fellows. Winter saw a couple of men go down, tripped or grabbed from behind, but the rest made it past her. She started to backpedal as the wall of corpses approached, then turned to run.

Feor had gone ahead with the first wave, but she’d stopped by the doorway, while the rankers had sprinted out into the passage to press back any of the creatures that were still waiting there. Winter skidded to a halt beside her as the men of her company surged past, a river of tattered blue and white undershirts, carrying muskets or coats or no weapons at all.

“Go!” Winter waved them onward. Folsom had gone with the vanguard. Winter caught sight of Bobby trying to push backward against the tide of rankers, and she waved the corporal onward. Finally, the last few men hurried past, with Graff bringing up the rear.

“Something’s wrong with them,” Graff said, puffing to a halt. “Look.”

The oil-damped coats were going out, throwing the room into relative darkness once again. Winter could see the dead things as vague shapes in the firelight, with green eyes cutting through the smoke here and there. They didn’t seem to be pursuing. In fact, they’d all frozen in place, as though some vital force had suddenly been removed.

“Is that everyone?” Winter said. “I saw a couple of men fall.”

“We picked ’em back up again,” Graff said. “That’s every man who wasn’t already dead out the door. Except the captain and the colonel, poor bastards.”

The captain and the colonel. “Right.” Winter waved him on up the corridor. “Go. I’ll be right behind.”

Graff saluted and hurried after the rest. Winter and Feor remained in the doorway.

The green lights went out all at once. The corpses toppled wherever they stood, sprawling in heaps across the flagstones. Here and there flame still clung to them, filling the air with the smell of burning cloth and flesh.

The captain and the colonel. She’d almost forgotten about them. But they must be dead. They weren’t in the square, so they must be dead.

“Fuck,” Winter said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She chewed her lip for a long moment, then rounded angrily on Feor. “You’d better go after-”

“I’m going with you,” Feor said.

“No, you are-” Winter caught Feor’s expression and suddenly felt too tired to argue. “All right. But stay close.”

Feor stepped up and took her hand again. Winter raised the torch over her head, took a deep breath, and hurried back into the gloom.

MARCUS

Marcus gave a grunt as he wrenched his saber free, stepping away from the demon’s still-scrabbling hands. His next carefully aimed stroke split its skull, sending up a torrent of white smoke. Then he retreated to where Janus waited in the shadow of one of the twisted statues. The thing kept thrashing behind him, but without a head it was blind.

“We’re almost there,” Janus said, tapping the corner of the statue’s plinth with the tip of his sword. “Two more, I think.”

“Fucking saints,” Marcus said. “How many men did Khtoba have left?”

He knew objectively that they’d been lucky. Some of the Seventh Company had managed to form a square after all, and they were attracting the attention of the vast majority of the creatures. Picking their way around the edge of the vast cavern, he and Janus had to deal with only the scattered remnants, and he’d disposed of a dozen or so of those. But it felt like they’d been at it forever. He’d opened his jacket, his undershirt was soaked with sweat, and someone seemed to have added several tons of lead to his sword. His shoulder ached abominably from the impact of steel on bone, and the bite on his hand throbbed.

At least the colonel knew where he was going. Or he says he does, anyway. They’d been weaving through the statues, cutting down the demons singly or in pairs, but Janus had kept to a relatively constant direction. Marcus hadn’t asked where they were going, because he frankly didn’t want to know. He just hoped like hell the colonel had some kind of plan.

“Two,” Marcus said after a moment. “Okay.”

“I’ll go right; you go left,” Janus said. He didn’t even seem winded. “Ready?”

“Ready,” Marcus lied.

“Go!”

They spun around opposite sides of the statue. Two of the green-eyed creatures stood in the gap between another pair of idols, as idly as a couple of sentries. They looked up, mouths opening to trickle white smoke, as the two officers charged.

Janus’ first instinct had been the correct one. As usual. Nothing Marcus had been able to do had put an end to the creatures’ scrabbling parody of life, but their bodies could be damaged as easily as any human’s. A good hit to the legs would leave them nothing to do but crawl. He ducked and aimed low, swinging the heavy cavalry saber in two hands like a sledgehammer. The demon’s outstretched hands brushed past his cheek and over his shoulder, while his blow caught the thing on the knee. Flesh and bone exploded, bloodless as rotten wood, and Marcus spun away from the clutching fingers as the suddenly unbalanced monster toppled.

The colonel had dissected his opponent with typical grace, dodging its clumsy lunge and dancing behind it to neatly sever the muscles in its thighs with his lighter blade. It fell facedown, and Marcus gave it a slash in passing, smashing its face into a ruin. Once they were down and blinded, the demons presented a danger only if you managed to step on one.

“There.” Janus pointed with his sword. A small campfire burned up ahead, banked against the base of one of the statues and invisible from a distance. “Come on-we have to hurry.”

He trotted toward it, and Marcus heaved a deep breath and lumbered after him. Janus’ reserve of strength seemed boundless, and keeping up with him made Marcus feel like a milk cow trying to race a warhorse.

The little half circle of firelight looked as though it had been someone’s camp. A small sack and a waterskin were propped neatly against the statue, and a thick blanket was unrolled over the hard flagstones for use as a bed. Lying on the bed-

At first Marcus thought it was a corpse. It looked more like a corpse than the green-eyed demons did. The young man’s flesh was withered and shrunken, and his skin hung in loose folds from protruding bones. Ribs and hips were clearly visible, moving slowly under his gray skin like puppies squirming in a sack, and Marcus realized with a start the boy was still breathing in short, sharp gasps. His eyes were closed, but at the sound of the two Vordanai approaching they flickered open.

Janus crossed the flagstones to stand beside the boy in a few quick, sure strides, and flicked the point of his sword to hover just above the throat of the emaciated youth. He spoke in Khandarai, loud and clear enough that even Marcus could follow him.

“Call them off. Now.”

A dozen pairs of green eyes turned to stare at them. Marcus raised his sword. The closest of the demons regarded him through the curtain of white smoke rising from its lips.

“Call them off,” Janus said. “All of them, or I slit your throat.”

The boy’s mouth opened slowly. His voice was a thin rasp.

“I am dead already,” he said.

A hollow boom echoed through the chamber, followed by two more in rapid succession. Marcus tried to see what was happening, but there were too many statues blocking the way. He could hear a tide of shouts rising above the hissing of the demons.

“Call them off,” Janus said.

“He won’t do it,” said a woman’s voice, also in Khandarai. “You should know better than to try to reason with fanatics, Colonel.”

Jen Alhundt walked between two of the frozen demons, for all the world as if she hadn’t noticed them. Her spectacles gleamed white in the light of the campfire. She held a pistol in one hand and had another thrust through her belt.

“Jen.” Marcus’ sword arm dropped slowly to his side. “Jen? What the hell-”

“Miss Alhundt,” Janus interrupted. “I take it you have a suggestion?”

“Only the obvious,” Jen said. She leveled the pistol abruptly and pulled the trigger. The boy’s body jerked and stiffened for a moment, blood blooming from his chest, and then sagged.

All across the vast cavern, the green lights went out. The corpses dropped into place with a final exhalation of white smoke, staggering drunkenly into one another or sagging against the statues. Silence fell throughout the vast cavern as the inhuman hiss of the demons finally quieted. Marcus couldn’t hear the shouts of the Colonials anymore, either. He swallowed hard.

“Jen,” Marcus said, trying to keep his voice calm, “what are you doing here?”

“She’s doing her job as a member of the Concordat,” Janus said. His gray eyes were fixed on Jen. “Completing her assignment from the Last Duke.”

“Her assignment was just to observe,” Marcus protested. It felt weak, even as he said it.

“It was to observe,” Jen said, “unless circumstances warranted other action.”

“And they do now?” Janus said.

“I believe so.” She tossed the empty pistol aside, drew the other one from her belt, and pulled back the hammer. “Colonel Vhalnich, in the name of the king and the Ministry of Information, I place you under arrest.”

• • •

“Interesting,” Janus said, after a long moment of silence.

“Drop your sword, if you please.” Jen raised the pistol to a level with his chest.

The colonel shrugged and let the weapon fall. “May I ask the charge?”

“Heresy,” Jen said. “And conspiracy against the Crown.”

“I see.” His expression was thoughtful. “His Grace may have difficulty making that case to a military court.”

“That’s not my affair,” Jen said. “You’re welcome to take it up with him once you return to Vordan.”

“If I return. Much better for all concerned if I were to suffer a little accident during the crossing. Swept overboard in a storm, say. I’m sure an appropriate storm can be provided. Sea voyages are so dangerous.”

She regarded him in stony silence. Janus sighed.

“I suppose it would be uncouth of me to mention that there are close to four thousand men outside who answer to my orders? I assume you have the appropriate paperwork tucked away somewhere, but they may not be inclined to examine it.”

“The men will obey their commanders.” Jen looked sidelong at Marcus. “Senior Captain d’Ivoire. I have a commission from the king and the Ministry to assume overall command of this expedition if I deem it necessary. As such, I am placing you in command of First Colonials. Your orders are to detain Colonel Vhalnich and return the regiment to Ashe-Katarion, where it will rendezvous with the transport fleet.”

The formal language made Marcus draw himself up automatically, his aches and pains forgotten. He gritted his teeth. “Jen, you can’t be serious. Heresy?”

“I believe you are aware of the colonel’s interest in acquiring Khandarai relics. If you wish to label yourself an accessory, I am willing to expand the charges. No doubt Captain Kaanos would be willing to assume command.”

“Fucking saints.” Marcus blew out a long breath. “You said you were a clerk. You were lying to me all this time.”

“I neglected to tell you everything.” Jen gave a slight shrug. “It comes with the job.”

“Of course she was,” Janus said. “She’s Concordat, Captain. This is what she does.”

“I’ll thank you to be quiet,” Jen snapped.

“Do you intend to shoot me?” Janus flashed a quick smile. “I doubt it, now that I think about it. The Last Duke needs to know what I know, doesn’t he?”

“I intend to bring you to trial,” Jen said, raising the pistol slightly. “If possible.”

There was another silence.

“Jen. .,” Marcus began.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Marcus,” she said. “Please. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

“On the contrary,” Janus said. “I think he finally understands.”

“I’m not going to let you shoot him,” Marcus said. “We’ll go back to the camp, talk this over. I’m sure-”

A flicker of motion over Jen’s shoulder was the only warning. Marcus dove forward, cannoning into her, and they both slid across the dusty flagstones to fetch up against the base of one of the statues. The pistol clattered and spun to a halt beside them. A silver blur hummed through the space where Jen had been standing, hit one of the nearby statues, and bounced off with a single ringing note, sending stone chips flying. The long, curved dagger bounced twice more, leaping like a fish off the flagstones, before it finally clattered to a halt.

The young assassin Marcus had last seen in the colonel’s quarters stepped between two of the statues. He had another dagger, which he tossed idly from hand to hand. Apart from a loose pair of shorts, he was naked, his shaved head gleaming with oil. His chest was striped with bright red welts, as though he’d been whipped.

Marcus didn’t spare the time to think. He grabbed for the pistol, brought it up, and fired. The assassin didn’t even break his stride, skipping gently to one side as if dancing, and Marcus heard the ball ping uselessly somewhere out in the darkness. He was already scrambling to his feet, clawing for the sword where he’d dropped it, as the young man advanced on him and Jen.

“Idiot,” Jen said from behind him. “Get out of the way!”

She gave him a sideways shove, sending him stumbling drunkenly against a statue. The assassin whipped the other dagger at her, bright steel blurring into a line too fast to see. Jen brought her left hand up, fingers splayed, and something sparked in front of her like caged lightning. The knife glanced away as though it had struck a stone wall, and went ringing and clattering off into the cavern.

The young man’s face clouded.

“You are abh-naathem,” he said in Khandarai. “A minion of Orlanko. We have expected your coming.”

Jen let out a long breath. A grin spread across her face, a savage joy that Marcus had never seen on her before. She let her arms dangle in front of her, fingers working like a violinist limbering up.

“You pestilential goat-fuckers,” she said, in perfect Khandarai. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“You think you are the first to come in search of the Names? We have held them for four thousand years.”

“Until today.” Jen brought one hand up and made a double circle over her chest, the traditional ward against evil. “Ahdon ivahnt vi, ignahta sempria.”

He blurred into motion, covering the distance between them with the horrible, inhuman speed Marcus remembered from Ashe-Katarion. Jen’s hand came up, palm out, and the Khandarai crashed into a wall of brilliant silver sparks just before he reached her. He’d been moving so fast he bounced, twisting nimbly in midair to land on his feet. His next attack was more circumspect, circling Jen and feinting a few jabs to test the limit of her defense. She faded backward, raising her right hand above her head.

The assassin guessed what was coming, or else had access to some sense that Marcus lacked, and he dove sideways as she brought her hand down. There was an enormous ripping sound, as though the air itself were being torn, and something flashed out from Jen in a vertical wave. It hit a statue behind where the Khandarai had been standing, a snake-headed thing with tree-trunk limbs, and cut it cleanly in half from top to bottom with a billow of dust. The separated pieces fell to the ground in a cacophony of shattering stone.

Demon. There was no doubt in Marcus’ mind, not anymore. Janus had warned him the Concordat was after the Thousand Names, but he’d never mentioned anything like this.

He levered himself to his feet and looked around for the colonel. Janus was staring after Jen as she followed the retreating creature. He didn’t seem surprised so much as in awe. That wasn’t quite right, either, though. Marcus was reminded of the very first time he’d seen the man, holding up a venomous scorpion and watching it twist with the same raw admiration a patron of the arts might show for a masterpiece painting or symphony.

“The Panoply Invisible,” he muttered. “Borracio said it passed into Church hands, but. .” He shook his head slowly. “I never thought to see such a thing.”

“Sir,” Marcus said. When Janus took no notice, he grabbed the colonel’s arm. “Sir! We have to get out of here.”

“What?” The deep gray eyes blinked and seemed to focus once again on the here and now. Another shower of sparks lit up the clouds of dust flowing away from the battle, accompanied by a screech like a glassmaker’s knife across a windowpane.

“Come on,” Marcus said, tugging the colonel’s arm.

Together they stumbled into motion, heading away from the little campsite and toward the center of the room, where the Seventh Company had made their stand. Janus soon recovered enough to set the pace, and before long Marcus was fighting for breath. Another of the tearing sounds sent them both diving for cover, and more statues exploded behind them.

“What is she?” Marcus wheezed, rolling over and putting his back to a stone plinth.

“Concordat,” Janus said grimly. “But matters have gone further than I thought. I’ve underestimated Orlanko’s allies.”

“Is she really a demon?”

“Someone who has summoned and contracted one, yes. Ignahta sempria, the Penitent Damned. She works for the Pontifex of the Black.”

“There hasn’t been a Pontifex of the Black for a hundred years!”

Janus gave him a grim look, but said nothing. Marcus risked a glance around the corner of the plinth. With the dust of ancient statues, the white gas from the corpses, and the powder smoke, the cavern was full of an unpleasant miasma that made it hard to see much. The air reeked of saltpeter and blood, mixed with the gritty taste of blasted masonry. He couldn’t see either of the supernatural combatants at first. A curl of smoke off to his left disgorged Jen, peering around with an unsatisfied expression. She caught sight of Marcus at the same moment, before he could duck back, and an ugly smile spread across her face.

“I wondered where you’d gotten to,” she said. “Marcus, if you sit down and wait quietly until all this is over, I guarantee things will go well for you afterward. I owe you that much, for everything we had.”

“Everything we had?” Marcus used the plinth to pull himself to his feet, breathing hard. “You’re not even human!”

“That depends on your point of view,” she said. “But I’ll spare you the metaphysics. Just step aside, please.”

He gritted his teeth. “I won’t.”

“Idiot,” Jen sighed. She raised her right hand-

The assassin emerged from the smoke like a shark from the depths, hurtling horizontally at an incredible speed. Jen turned to meet him barely in time, and the wall of sparks flared between them. His bare feet scraped for purchase on the stone floor as he leaned against her with all his inhuman strength, fingers flexing to try to tear the intangible shield that guarded her.

Marcus grabbed for Janus again, dragging him back to his feet and away from the statue. He was just lumbering into a run when Jen noticed. Her frustrated scream melded weirdly with the nails-on-glass sound of flashing magic.

Her right hand came around in a fast horizontal swipe. Another ripple tore out, and Marcus threw himself to the floor, dragging Janus down with him. He heard shattering rock behind him as the wave hit a statue, and then the ominous groan and crack of shifting stone. On blind instinct, he rolled sideways, and a moment later bits of rock were crashing down all around him, small fragments pattering off his coat and pinging away across the floor.

When it was over, he raised his head. His blue uniform was coated in a thick layer of pale dust, which cascaded off him as he rose. Chips and fragments of stone lay all around. The main body of the statue, an armored figure with the head of a chimpanzee, had fallen near where he and Janus had been lying. Marcus hurried around it to find that the colonel had thrown himself mostly clear. One of the ape’s outstretched arms had crashed down on his leg, leaving him pinned under its weight.

“Colonel!”

Marcus knelt and tried to get his fingers under the statue, then gave it his best heave. The mass of stone barely shifted.

“Leave it,” Janus said. His voice was still calm, but Marcus could see the strain in those deep gray eyes. “My leg appears to be broken in any case.” He pushed himself up on his elbows, shivered, and lay back down. “Yes. Definitely broken. Get out of here, Captain.”

“But-”

Janus turned his head, fixing Marcus with an implacable stare. “What are you planning to do? You can’t stop her. The whole regiment might not be able to stop her.” Janus gave a cough as the clouds of dust swirled past. “I suggest you go along with her. For the sake of your career, not to mention your life.”

“I can’t just leave you with her!”

“Go, Marcus,” the colonel spat. “Now. That is an order.”

“Damn it, Marcus!” Jen’s voice drifted through the smoke. Sparks flared again, and Marcus turned and ran.

WINTER

Feor collapsed all at once, as though every bone in her body had turned to jelly. One moment she was scurrying along at Winter’s side, the next she was dangling from Winter’s hand like a corpse.

At the same instant, distant light flared, cutting through the miasma of smoke and dust that choked the ancient temple. The sound that accompanied it set Winter’s teeth on edge, a high-pitched scraping whine that seemed to bypass the ears and resonate directly in her gut. She stumbled under Feor’s sudden deadweight, then managed to drag the girl a few more feet and prop her against the base of a nearby statue.

“Feor!” Winter bent over her worriedly. Feor’s eyes fluttered open, but she seemed to be having difficulty focusing. “Feor? Can you hear me?”

“I. . can.” Feor blinked.

“What happened? Are you all right?”

“I felt. .” She sucked in a breath, then coughed. “Power. So much power. .”

“Is it Onvidaer?”

“No,” Feor said. “I have felt his naath many times. He is here, but this is different.” She looked up, fear suddenly showing in her face. “I think it is your leader. The abh-naathem, the sorcerer. He has finally shown himself.”

“The colonel?” Winter frowned. Maybe he doesn’t need rescuing after all. “Come on. We’ve got to see what’s going on.”

They took a circuitous route, bypassing the mounds of formerly animated corpses where the Seventh’s square had been. There were more flashes of light in the distance, and a sound like a giant ripping sailcloth. Feor flinched each time, though she didn’t collapse again.

Hurrying around another of the weird, misshapen statues, Winter caught the gleam of distant light on dull metal. Feor pulled up short, dragging Winter to a halt. They had reached one of the walls of the cavern, and leaning against the dressed stone was a long row of enormous steel slabs, each taller than Winter and several inches thick. Their surface was covered with the densely packed curls of strange script incised deeply into the metal.

Feor sucked in her breath. “The Thousand Names,” she said, very quietly. “We have guarded it since the time of the kings of Khandar. The naath are inscribed there, to be read by the faithful when Mother judges them worthy.” There was a touch of awe in her voice. “I have only seen it once before, when I read my own naath.”

“Where was that?”

“Another cave, in Ashe-Katarion. Even among the priesthood, few knew of it. The Redeemers tried to find it, but could not.” She sounded uncertain. “Mother must have brought it here from the city.”

Winter remembered a heavy cart rumbling toward the city gate on the day of the great fire, and nodded grimly.

“She warned us that the Church would stop at nothing to gain it,” Feor said. “The minions of Orlanko have schemed against us for decades, and the Black Priests for centuries. They would take the power of the Names for themselves.”

“I thought there were no more Black Priests,” Winter muttered.

“They are hidden,” Feor said, with dogmatic certainty. “But still powerful.”

Something flashed nearby with another horrible glass-cutting whine. Feor spun.

“Onvi!”

She ran into the smoke, forcing Winter to hurry to keep close behind her. Statues loomed to either side, wraithlike and monstrous. Ahead, light flared, and as the mists parted, Winter grabbed Feor by the collar to keep her from sprinting right into the open.

Onvidaer stood in a fighting crouch, shifting his weight, ready to spring. Opposite him was a young woman it took Winter a moment to recognize-Jen Alhundt, the Ministry of Information liaison. What the hell is she doing here? Everything she’d heard about Alhundt, in spite of her title, said that she was a nonentity. And that she was sleeping with Captain d’Ivoire, though that hardly seemed relevant. But. .

She was smiling, a toothy wolf’s grin. And Onvidaer seemed wary. He feinted one way, then the other, then jumped almost straight up in a catlike pounce that took him over Alhundt’s head. She slashed her right hand vertically, and a wave of distortion fanned out, passing through space like a ripple across the surface of still water but with a sound like it was tearing the air apart. Onvidaer somehow twisted in midair, and the surface of the thing missed him by inches. He reached for her, and Alhundt’s other hand came up, palm out. A wall of sizzling white sparks crackled into being where the two were almost touching.

Some trick of momentum held them there for an instant, a perfect still life in the wildly shifting light of the effervescent pinpricks. Then Onvidaer was hurled away. He struck one of the statues hard, his momentum tilting the stone giant into a slow but unstoppable fall. Onvidaer bounced away before it hit the ground, vanishing amidst the grinding crunch of stone and clouds of billowing dust.

Alhundt’s attention was elsewhere. Following her gaze, Winter caught sight of Captain d’Ivoire peeking out from behind another statue.

“I wondered where you’d gotten to,” Alhundt said, turning toward him.

Winter managed to drag Feor back into cover before they were seen. The girl had gone stiff, her hands curled so tightly that her knuckles stood out as white spots under her gray skin.

“It was her,” Feor said. “It was always her. Not your colonel. The minion of Orlanko.” She screwed her eyes tight. “How could she hide what she is?”

“The Concordat are good at hiding,” Winter said. “Listen. I saw the captain down there, and the colonel might be with him. There’s got to be something we can do to help. Can Onvidaer beat her?”

“No.” There were tears in Feor’s eyes. “He is a brave fool to even try. She holds one of the Great Powers. We have not dared such an incantation in centuries. Not even Mother.”

“What about. .” Winter waved a hand, trying to take in Feor, the library of steel tablets, the cavern full of ancient mysteries. “There has to be something!”

“I cannot. I-”

The screech of another shower of sparks drew Winter’s attention back to the battle. Onvidaer attacked Alhundt again, with as little effect as before, but the captain took advantage of the distraction to make a run for it. Winter could see another blue-uniformed figure with him. The colonel?

Alhundt spun. Another rippling wave flashed out, chopping a chimpanzee statue off at the knees. It toppled toward the two men, exploding into fragments somewhere between them and obscuring her view with a roiling cloud of dust.

“Damn it, Marcus!” Jen shouted.

She spun back toward Onvidaer, but he was on her before she could face him, crossing the flagstones separating them so fast he was a blur. His hand grabbed for hers an instant before the field of sparkling light appeared. The incandescent magic washed over him, but he managed to hang on, flapping away from her in the supernatural pull like a flag in a stiff breeze. Alhundt screamed and brought her other hand around in a wild swing. There was a horrible tearing sound, and blood sprayed across the flagstones in a wide arc. Onvidaer shot across the room, to land somewhere in the mists. Alhundt collapsed to her knees, cradling her wounded arm.

This time Winter wasn’t fast enough. Feor darted beyond her reach, headed in the direction Onvidaer had flown. Winter spat a curse and followed.

• • •

They found him where his flight had intersected with yet another statue. This one had had scorpion pincers, but not much else was apparent, since Onvidaer had hit it hard enough to blow the stone into a spray of a thousand fragments. Winter watched in stunned disbelief as the Khandarai youth struggled to his feet. Any normal man would have been the consistency of gruel after that impact, but Onvidaer didn’t even seem bruised.

He wasn’t entirely uninjured, however. Alhundt’s swing had taken off his left arm, just below the shoulder, with as neat a cut as a surgeon had ever performed. He had his other hand pressed against the stump, but bright red blood was leaking between his fingers and dripping in a steady patter across the floor.

“Onvi!” Feor pulled up short as she realized what had happened. “Heavens above-what are you doing?”

He was getting down off the plinth, stumbling like a drunk, his previous grace gone. Winter stepped up behind Feor, who stared in wide-eyed horror.

“Going. . to fight her,” Onvidaer said. His breath was ragged. Up close, Winter could see he hadn’t come through the collision entirely unscathed. His bare skin was covered in tiny lacerations, and a hundred small cuts wept blood. “Mother. . wants her dead.”

“Mother wanted me dead,” Feor said. “You’ve done enough, haven’t you?”

“You don’t understand. She’s one of them.” He coughed. “The Black Priests. The minions of Orlanko. We can’t let her have the Names.”

“But you’re not going to stop her!” Feor shouted. She was crying freely now. “You’re just going to die. Onvi, you don’t have to!”

He managed a brief smile. “Mother’s. . orders.”

“Then why did you spare me?” Feor sobbed. “What was the point of. . of anything?”

“Didn’t have a choice.” He shuffled closer, and Winter tensed, but he only bent awkwardly and kissed Feor on the forehead. It left a bloody smear. “Mother was wrong then. But she’s. . right this time.”

“But-”

“Feor. Listen.” He shifted his grip on the stump of his arm, blood falling like heavy rain. “I can’t stop her. Maybe. . hurt her. Distract her. A little longer. But you can.” She met his eyes, and Winter could see something pass between them. “You understand?”

“But. .” Feor glanced over her shoulder at Winter, then back at Onvidaer. “I understand.”

“Good.” He coughed again. “Take care. Little sister.”

Then he was gone, running back toward Alhundt so fast there were yards between where one drop of blood splashed the floor and the next. Winter stood awkwardly behind Feor, not knowing what to say. The girl had her arms crossed over her stomach, head bowed, as if she wanted to shrink in on herself and disappear entirely. Winter tentatively put one hand on her shoulder, and Feor flinched at the contact. After a moment she relaxed and let her arms drop.

“Feor?” Winter said. “I didn’t follow. . all of that.”

“He’s gone to buy us some time,” Feor said. There was the slightest tremor in her voice, held tightly in check.

“Time for what?”

“I can. . help. We can.” Feor looked up at Winter, her eyes still wet. The tears had cut clean lines through the grime and powder grit on her cheeks. “You wanted to help your colonel, didn’t you? You trust him?”

Winter nodded uncertainly. Feor drew in a deep breath.

“Even if it’s. . dangerous?”

Winter nodded again. Feor wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging the grime across her face, and exhaled slowly.

“All right,” she said. “Then come with me.”

• • •

They retraced their steps to the edge of the cavern, where the enormous steel tablets lay against the wall. Before, Feor had been filled with sacred reverence, reluctant to approach the things. Now she ran along the line, periodically stopping to stare at the lines of dense script. She stood on tiptoe, peering up into the gloom, then shook her head and moved on.

Finally, close to the end of the row of metal slabs, she stopped. One finger traced a long line of script, her mouth working silently. When she reached the end, she looked up at Winter.

“There’s something here that can stop her. I think. It hasn’t been used since long before I was born.”

“Can you read it?” Winter said.

“It’s not that simple,” Feor said. “Naath are jealous things. Mine would not tolerate another power in my body, and the conflict would certainly kill me if I tried.”

“But-” Then Winter got it. “You can’t be serious.”

Feor nodded grimly.

“But. . me?” Winter shook her head. “I’m not a-a wizard, or anything like that. I don’t even think I can read this!”

“Only those of us who have been trained can read it,” Feor agreed. “But you don’t have to. You only need to repeat what I say, exactly. Then, when we reach the end. .” Feor’s fingers ran across the marks on the tablet. “The last words of the spell are viir-en-talet. You have to remember that. I will guide you up to that point, and then you complete the naath yourself.”

“And then what?”

“Then you can confront her.” Feor looked away. “If you survive.”

“Survive?”

“Naath are not for the weak. The power coils around your soul like a serpent, and those who are not strong enough may be crushed by its embrace. I think that you will be strong enough, but. .”

“You’re not certain.”

Feor nodded, still not meeting Winter’s eyes.

There was a long silence. From somewhere out in the mist came the shriek and rip of magic.

“Viir-en-talet,” Winter said. “Am I pronouncing that right?”

• • •

“Sit down,” Feor said, “and close your eyes.”

Winter obeyed, resting against the cool surface of the metal. She leaned her head back and tried not to think.

“Repeat what I say. Do not open your eyes. And whatever happens, do not stop before you have said the final words. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” Winter’s mouth was suddenly dry.

“Very well.”

Feor paused, then started to intone the odd words of the language of magic. She spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable. There were no pauses or breaks, just a continuous stream of sound. Winter repeated each word a moment later. “Ibh-jal-yat-fen-loth-see-”

Suddenly she felt monumentally silly. It all seemed like an enormous practical joke, Feor’s earnest voice running through volumes of nonsense words carved into steel by some long-ago shyster. Certainly Winter didn’t feel anything, no more than she had at the Prison, repeating the Church hymns and prayers by rote.

If this doesn’t work. . If it didn’t work, she had no idea what she would do. Hell, I don’t know what happens if it does work. There was no kind of a plan. She was running through a fog, one hand waving blindly in front of her, hoping not to crash into anything solid.

Her thoughts had wandered. Winter hesitated, even as Feor went on. Was that “shii” or “su”?

Pain lanced through her. Not the dull ache of her bruises or the hot agony from her side, not any of the fuzzy signals that reached her from the pile of meat, bone, and gristle that she called her body. This was sharp, silver pain on a level she’d never known existed, needles tearing into her essential self. It was everywhere at once-ripping at her stomach, clutching around her heart, driving in through the back of her skull-but she knew somehow that it was in none of those places.

She wanted to vomit. It took an enormous effort of will to fight down her gorge and gasp out the next word.

“Shii.” The pain abated, a little. Her memory offered up each word only after a fight. “Nan. Suul. Maw. Rith.”

She heard-a million miles away-the drone of Feor’s voice slow down. There was no time to be thankful, no time for anything but the next word.

As though the spikes of pain had shocked her into a greater awareness, she could feel the naath now. It wound around her like a great black chain, drawing tighter and tighter with every link she added. It was in her, under her skin, inside her bones, binding itself to an internal essence Winter had never even known she possessed. She realized, in that instant, that she would never be rid of it. How could she be? The chains were tightening until they were as much a part of her as her hands, her feet, her tongue. The thought brought a sudden panic, but this time her voice didn’t stumble. She could feel what would happen if she stopped, as well-the chains tearing away, ripping great chunks of her with them. There was no choice, not now. Finish or die.

Feor’s voice was growing ragged. Winter wondered if she was tiring. She’d been speaking for what felt like centuries. But when the words started to come in gasps, she understood that it was pain she was hearing. The naath drew no fine distinctions between teacher and student.

The end was approaching. There was a structure to the words after all, Winter could see that now, and they were building to a crescendo. Every syllable echoed along the fibers of her body, making them hum in unison. The agony had transformed into something else, halfway between pain and pleasure, the chains of the incantation wrapping around her tighter and tighter as her voice drew them together to weld the final link. The pressure of the thing was terrible. When she snapped that last link in place, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to stand it. It felt as though her soul might shatter in a single instant of near-orgasmic relief, leaving the whipping strands of power to thrash like loosed hawsers and demolish whatever was left of her.

It was terrifying, but there was no going back now. Stop, and the thing would rip her to pieces just the same. Winter mouthed the last few words as Feor fell silent. There was a pause that seemed to last forever, like the moment at the apex of shell’s trajectory, before it begins its terrible descent. In the roiling tumble of her mind, Winter saw green eyes, red hair, a sly grin.

“Viir. En. Talet,” she said.

Feor gave a shocked gasp, as though someone had punched her in the stomach. Winter felt the last link snap into place, the shivering tension as the thing squirmed across her, searching for a weakness. Little spikes of pain came and went as the energy squirreled around. Then, as it settled, she became aware of her body again. Her heart thumped so fast she thought it might explode, and her legs trembled and threatened to give way beneath her. She tasted blood in her mouth where she’d bitten her lip, and her jaw ached from tight-clenched teeth. She put one hand against the steel plate for support, finding its surface icy cold against her flushed skin.

She opened her eyes.

Feor lay in a crumpled heap at the base of the steel slab, her breathing fast and shallow. Winter automatically knelt beside her, and nearly fell over herself when she tried to move. Her muscles felt as stiff as the morning after a forced march. She sucked at her lip and touched Feor on the shoulder. The girl’s eyes fluttered open.

“Are you all right?” Winter said. Feor’s skin was far too pale, her normal gray lightening to almost ghostly white.

“You. . made it.”

“I’m alive, anyway. I think it worked.” Winter could feel something different. The naath had worked its way into her, insinuating itself into the core of her being and sinking down like a toad at the bottom of a pond. It lay quiescent, for now, but she could feel it every time she took a breath.

“It worked,” Feor said. “You’re alive.” She grimaced, her back arching, and her breath became ragged.

“What about you?”

“Don’t know,” Feor said. “Never tried this. Listen. Just. . touch her. The abh-naathem. Call for the power.”

“Call for it how?”

“Will. Just. .” Feor twisted again, her hands spasming. “Just will it to act.”

Her breath hissed past clenched teeth, and she went limp. Winter caught her before she slid off the tablet and hit the ground. Her skin was hot to the touch, and her pulse hummed. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut.

Bloody buggering Beast, Winter thought. What the hell do I do now?