The Thousand Names Part 14

She glanced up at the other two corporals for support. Graff looked dubious, but Folsom nodded grimly. He took off down the hill at a run, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

"The stream! Halt at the stream!"

"Help me," Winter said to Graff, and started grabbing men by the arm and pulling them away from the crest. Mesmerized by the sight of their own deaths approaching at a gallop, at first they refused to move. Winter turned them about by brute force, shouted in their ears to form up at the stream, and pushed them so they stumbled down the slope. Graff followed her example. By the time the pair of them were the only ones remaining, the first of the Redeemer hors.e.m.e.n were already climbing the ridge.

Winter spun at a piercing, inhuman shriek. D'Vries had tried to get even more speed from his mount, in spite of the rocky, broken ground, and the gray had put a foot wrong. The animal went down and rolled, screaming its terror, and the lieutenant was thrown free. Both came to rest near the bottom of the slope. The horse tried to rise, but immediately went down again, one foreleg refusing to bear its weight. D'Vries, miraculously unhurt, took one look at it and continued his run on foot, splashing across the muddy stream in his enameled leather boots and starting up the opposite slope.

Folsom's shouts were having some effect. The long-legged corporal had reached the bottom before most of the men, and he waved his musket in the air while he called on them to form. Some gathered around him, although no formation was evident, and those still coming down the slope headed for the crowd that was growing in the creek bed. Others, mostly those already past the stream, kept running after the lieutenant.

"Come on," Winter said to Graff, and ran. Turning away from the hors.e.m.e.n was hard, and keeping herself from stumbling in the first dozen yards was harder. The small of her back itched, expecting a musket ball or a rider's saber. When the ground leveled out enough that she could risk turning her head, she found she'd made better time than she'd thought. The first of the Redeemers were just cresting the rise, whooping and shouting at the sight of the Vordanai soldiers running for their lives. They wouldn't be able to gallop down without the risk of ending up like d'Vries.

She spotted Folsom in the crowd of nervous men, some of whom looked ready to take off running again. Winter cupped her hands to shout as she ran.

"Square! Make them form square!"

She covered the rest of the distance at a dead sprint, Graff behind her, his stubby arms pumping. Folsom was already at work, shoving the uncomprehending men into line. He'd managed to force the knot of men into a hollow oval, but it was open at the back, where the men were spreading out along the creek bed. Winter pulled up short, gasping for breath.

"Fix-fix-" She coughed, mastered her lungs by sheer force of will, and managed, "Fix bayonets. Two ranks. Don't shoot till they close. Graff!"

The wiry corporal was beside her, hands on his knees. "Yes?" he replied, coughing.

"Straighten them out. Hold fire. You understand?"

She caught his eye, and he nodded. Winter ran around the face of the oval, toward where the line dissolved into an amorphous ma.s.s. Bobby was at the edge, still shouting at the men who were climbing the opposite slope behind the lieutenant. Winter grabbed the boy's hand.

"Listen. Bobby, listen to me!" Winter gestured up to where the riders were picking their way through the rocks, only minutes from contact. "We need a rear face to this formation. Otherwise they'll just go around and take us from behind, you understand?" She became aware that the men nearby were listening, too, and raised her voice. "Form up! Double line! We have to guard their backs"-she waved at the men at the front of the square, now in a recognizable line-"and they'll guard ours! Form up now!"

Bobby raised his voice as well, high and girlish with barely mastered fear. The men started to form, pushing and shoving, and on the inside of the square Folsom started taking them by the shoulders and jamming them into the right positions. As the formation came together, the nerves of the recruits seemed to steady. It was agony to look away from the oncoming hors.e.m.e.n, as the back face of the square was obliged to do, but under Winter's prodding they stopped staring over their shoulders and concentrated on their weapons. Bayonets came out of their sheaths, and each man fixed the triangular steel blade to the lug just below his musket barrel. Folsom still bellowed from inside the square.

"Hold fire until my command! Any man who fires without my command is getting cracked over the head!"

It was strange to hear the big corporal speak so freely, as though danger had finally loosened his tongue. Graff was at work on the right face of the square, and Winter went to the left, but the men didn't require much steadying. Some critical threshold had been pa.s.sed, and the Seventh Company had gone from a fleeing mob back to an organized body of soldiery.

The sudden clap of a gunshot cut through the shouts of the men, and Winter saw a wisp of smoke rising from the ridge. The rider who'd fired lowered a stubby carbine and drew his sword. Other shots followed. Every bang and flash was accompanied by a collective swaying of the men in the square, each man individually attempting to dodge.

"Hold fire!" Folsom screamed. "Hold your fire, by Karis the Savior, or you'll wish you had!"

The line of hors.e.m.e.n directly opposite the square slowed their descent, but those beyond it on either side swept forward with wild cries. Free of the rocky ridge, they spurred their horses to a gallop, starting up the smaller rill beyond. D'Vries had made it halfway to the top, with the men who'd fled straggling behind him, but the hors.e.m.e.n easily caught up to them. Some of the men turned to face their pursuers, and there was a ragged chorus of shots and a billow of smoke. Winter saw a couple of horses go down. Then the riders were on them, shouting and slashing with their sabers or jabbing with long spears. The last Winter saw of Lieutenant d'Vries was a brief glimpse of glittering gold and silver as four men closed in around him.

Other men were cut down as they ran, or spitted on the spears. Some tried to fight, blocking the sabers with the barrels of their muskets, but the clang of steel on steel invariably drew the attention of another horseman, who cut down the unfortunate soldier from behind.

Directly above, on the crest of the high ridge, a party of Redeemers was forming. They'd been quick to sweep around the sides of the square, giving it a wide berth to stay out of easy musket range, but none of them had yet challenged it directly. Here and there a carbine or even a pistol cracked, but at that distance the riders had little chance of hitting even the tight-packed ranks of the Vordanai formation. Winter could see one of the black-wrapped priests screaming at the top of his lungs, and the scattered hors.e.m.e.n gathered into larger groups. Many continued on, over the low ridge behind which the Vordanai main column waited.

A group was forming on the other side of the square as well, and smaller units circled around the sides, like predators eyeing prey for a hint of weakness. Winter realized, belatedly, that she was outside the protective wall of bayonets. She looked around quickly to make sure she was the last one still standing beyond the line, then stepped sideways between two of the musket barrels that protruded like spears. The men shuffled aside to let her in, then closed behind her like a curtain.

Corporal Folsom stood in the center of the tiny clear area inside. The faces of the square were only ten men wide, so the interior was about twenty-five feet across, bisected by the creek bed and the muddy, trampled ground around it. The corporal saluted, as though nothing unusual had happened.

"Where's Bobby and Graff?" Winter said. Folsom pointed to where the two of them stood side by side in the rear rank, and Winter pulled them out. Bobby looked white-faced and terrified, knuckles standing out bloodless as he clutched the barrel of his musket. Graff, grizzled and bearded, was harder to read, but Winter thought even he was looking a little gray. She did her best to appear unconcerned.

"Right," she said. "We each take a face. Hold fire until twenty-five yards, and then only one rank. Second rank holds fire until point-blank. You understand?" She caught Bobby's eye. Graff was a veteran, and Folsom seemed to know what he was about, but the boy looked rattled. "Senior Corporal Forester, do you understand?"

"Yessir," Bobby said automatically. He blinked, and some life returned to his face. "Hold fire till twenty-five-"

"Right. And whatever you do, don't let them step back an inch. No horse alive will charge a row of bayonets, but if they waver-"

The priest on the hill cut her off. He sang a single high note, close to a howl, breathtaking in its pitch and purity. It would have been almost beautiful if Winter hadn't recognized it-the Redeemers in the city had given the same cry before they set light to the pyres of heretics. The riders answered with a roar, and there was a sudden thunder of hooves as they started forward. Winter couldn't begin to estimate their numbers-hundreds at least- "Go!" she told the corporals, and ran to the south face, directly opposite where the priest had gathered the largest band of the enemy. Her voice rose to a hoa.r.s.e shout, sc.r.a.ping her throat raw. "Hold fire! First rank, kneel and ready to fire on my order. Second rank, hold fire. Hold!"

The hors.e.m.e.n started out slowly, picking their way down rough ground at the top of the hill, then gaining speed as the slope flattened out. The distance closed rapidly. Seventy yards, sixty, fifty- A musket cracked to her right, followed quickly by a couple of others as trigger fingers tightened in sympathy.

"Hold your f.u.c.king fire!" Winter screamed, and heard the corporals echoing the call. Bobby's voice was high and tremulous, while Folsom's ba.s.s shouts carried over the thunder of hooves.

Answering cracks came from the advancing mob. More carbines, and the range was shorter. Most of the shots went wide, but just in front of Winter a man grunted as if in surprise and slumped forward. From behind her, she heard a shriek.

Thirty yards. The riders had to close in to match the narrow face of the square, until they were riding boot to boot and five-deep. Spears and sabers waved in the air, and gray-skinned faces twisted in fury. The red flame of the Redemption adorned every breast. Twenty-five yards.

"First rank, fire!" Winter screamed, echoed moments later by the three corporals.

For an instant all four sides of the square were fringed in fire, the yellow-pink glare of muzzle flashes, followed by a billow of smoke. With the enemy packed so tightly, they could scarcely miss, and every ball seemed to find either a horse or a rider. Men dropped from their saddles as though swatted by invisible giants, and horses screamed and collapsed, spilling their riders onto the unforgiving earth. Every horse that went down took two or three others with it, until they formed a pile of terrified, thrashing animals and screaming riders. Those behind broke to the left or right, avoiding the obstacle, or if they were particularly brave urged their mounts into a jump. Staggered and broken, the charge closed nonetheless.

"Second rank on my command!" Winter shouted, unsure whether anyone but the men right beside her could hear over the tumult. "First rank, hold steady!"

She heard Folsom's bellow, and a s.n.a.t.c.h of Bobby's voice excoriating his troops with words a lad his age ought not to have known. The riders were so close now that the whole world beyond the blue square seemed to be filled with horses and shouting men.

The front rank of Vordanai had knelt to allow the second rank a clear field of fire, and set the b.u.t.ts of their muskets against the dirt. Their bayonets presented an unbroken line of razor-edged steel points to the oncoming riders, and if the men were foolish enough to want to hit that obstacle at a gallop, the horses were not. They shied away, swinging to either side in order to avoid contact with the bayonets, only to collide with the attackers against the other faces of the square who were doing the same. Other riders reined up and managed to bring their animals to a halt just outside the line, but they, too, had to work quickly to avoid collision with those coming on behind them.

In an instant the wave of screaming riders had become a melee of shoving men and rearing horses. Those closest to the square slashed down at the points of the bayonets, trying to bat them aside. Somewhere a pistol cracked, and a man in the rear rank of Winter's side of the square toppled backward, hands clawing at the red ruin of his face. His cry was inaudible amidst the tumult.

"Second rank, fire!"

She wasn't sure if the men heard her or simply could wait no longer. Forty muskets cracked, the sound like a bludgeon against her ears, and lurid smoke wreathed the whole scene. The effect on the hors.e.m.e.n was fearful. At that range, the ball from a musket would pa.s.s through flesh and bone like wet tissue paper, with enough energy to come out the other side and kill again. Horses screamed and collapsed, all around the line, and men were shouting and cursing at one another. There were more cracks, either late firing or enemy weapons.

"First rank, hold steady! Second rank, load!"

If they had been able to press forward, the Redeemers might have broken the square. With the bayonets of the second rank withdrawn so they could hurry through the drill of stuffing powder and ball down their barrels, the first rank stood momentarily alone, a thin line of steel. But the volley had torn horrid gaps in the mob of attackers, and those that remained were having difficulty controlling their mounts, much less pressing forward over the still-thrashing bodies of those that had fallen. On the edges, a few were already shying away.

Half a minute-Too slow, Winter thought-and the second rank's weapons swung back into line. More of the riders started to turn away.

"Second rank, fire!"

Another volley ripped out, more ragged than the first, but nearly as effective. Suddenly the hors.e.m.e.n were fleeing, riding away from the square with the same desperate speed with which they'd charged. A ragged, spontaneous cheer erupted from the Vordanai as their enemies fanned out and away. Winter's voice cut through it like a knife.

"First rank, load. Second rank, steady!"

Through the shredded wisps of smoke, she could see the black-clad priest still waiting at the top of the ridge, with a considerable body of men around him. The first wave was rapidly dispersing in all directions, but some of them turned their horses about when they'd regained a safe distance. Others kept going, despite the shouts of their comrades. Outside the square, screams rose from the field of broken men and animals.

When the first rank had finished loading and reestablished the line of bayonets, Winter told the second rank to load and took a moment to look behind her. All the faces of the square were intact-as she'd known they had to be, or else some rider's saber would have taken her from behind-and she could see the three corporals echoing her orders. Here and there a Vordanai soldier had slumped over in place, and his comrades had closed ranks around him. A few others, not as badly hurt, had walked or crawled to the center of the square. She saw one man, with an almost mechanical calm, tearing strips from his smoke-grimed undershirt to wrap around the b.l.o.o.d.y ruin of his left hand.

The cry of the Redeemer priest-that high note, incongruously pure-drew her attention back to the ridge. With the survivors of the first attack out of the way, the black-wrapped cleric urged his own mount down the hill, and the men gathered around him followed. They kicked their horses to a reckless speed, and more than one stumbled and fell amid the rocks and wreckage, but the rest came on.

"Hold fire!" Winter shouted. "The same d.a.m.n thing again-just hold until they close-"

At twenty-five yards, the first rank exploded into flames, and men fell up and down the charging line. There were fewer of them, and being more loosely packed they suffered less than the first wave had. The survivors, including the priest, urged their mounts into a gallop and pushed on over the corpse-strewn ground.

Winter watched the priest with fascination. He was unarmed, practically standing in his stirrups and holding the reins with both hands. His high-pitched song had given way to a shriek, and his face was screwed up in ecstasy or hatred. By fervor or superior horsemanship, he'd outdistanced all of his companions.

"Second rank," Winter shouted, "fire!"

A half dozen muskets had drawn a bead on the man in black, and they all cracked together. The priest had nearly reached the line, and he urged his animal into a final leap to clear the barricade of dead or dying horses that lay in front of the square. In midair he seemed almost to explode, bits of black wrap blowing outward in sprays of blood. A bullet found his horse as well, and the beast's front legs collapsed when it landed just in front of the square. It was traveling too fast to be stopped so easily, though. The horse twisted and rolled, nervelessly, and collided with the wall of bayonets.

In dying, the animal had achieved what the living riders could not. It slammed into the men in the square, knocking their bayonets aside or trapping them in its flesh. Three more riders followed close behind it, having evaded the volley and threaded the obstacles, and they charged into the gap.

One soldier, knocked down by the corpse of the priest's mount, found a horse riding directly over him. He thrust his bayonet point upward and rolled aside as the animal collapsed with a shower of blood. The rider on the left found another man jabbing at him and leaned forward to aim a cut at the soldier's hand. His attacker rolled backward with a cry and a spray of gore.

The third horseman, hefting a spear, came directly at Winter.

Her first instinct, to get out of the path of the charging animal, saved her life. The horseman reined up beside her and thrust, but she threw herself aside just in time. He circled, fending off an outthrust bayonet, and came at her again. This time she had to roll as he pa.s.sed, and fetched up against the corpse of a young man in blue, hands still clenched around his musket. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the weapon, swung it clumsily to point at the rider, and started fumbling with the c.o.c.k. The pan clicked open, letting the priming charge trickle out into her face.

Winter spat, tasting the salt of the powder, and blinked a few grains from her eyes in time see the spear coming down at her. Abandoning any attempt to fire the musket, she blocked the swing with the barrel and thrust the bayonet back at him. The Redeemer shouted when the point scored on his arm, and dropped his weapon. He wheeled away just in time for the rider who'd been unhorsed to charge her, screaming. Winter scrabbled away, leveling the musket like a spear, but the man kicked the barrel with his booted foot and it jolted from her hand.

Something flashed past her, dressed in blue. Bobby charged with all his weight behind his bayonet, like a medieval lancer. It caught the man high in the chest and sank in until the barrel was flush with his skin. The Redeemer toppled, dragging the musket from the boy's grasp. Bobby sank to his knees beside the corpse, but a half dozen soldiers swarmed past him and Winter. Dimly, she saw them butcher the wounded horseman like a hog, then move on to close the gap opened by the dying horse. Around the outside of the square, the rest of the late priest's companions were shying away, and at that moment another volley boomed out, pressing them into full flight.

Winter's heart hammered so fast she was certain it was about to explode. She searched her body for pain, and discovered with mounting disbelief that she seemed to be relatively intact. Another volley exploded all around her, chasing the fleeing Khandarai, but her battle-numbed ears barely registered it. She rolled over and crawled to where Bobby sat staring into s.p.a.ce in the direction the Khandarai had come from.

"Bobby!" Winter said, her own voice distant and ringing in her ears. "Corporal! Are you all right?"

Bobby looked at her quizzically, as though she were speaking in a foreign tongue, and then blinked and seemed to recover himself a little.

"Fine," he said. "I'm fine."

Winter staggered to her feet. The square was intact, the first rank of men kneeling grim-faced with leveled bayonets while the second rank busily loaded yet another volley. Beyond that, she could see nothing. The smoke had piled up around the company like a fog bank, and even the sun was only an unseen presence overhead.

She heard a couple of cracks, distant gunshots, but they sounded a long way off. Before long, even the drumming of hooves on dry earth had faded like departing rain. A light breeze coming down the valley started to shred the smoke, and s.n.a.t.c.hes of blue sky became visible.

The second rank had loaded and leveled. Winter saw Graff and Folsom looking at her for orders. Bobby was still immobile on the ground.

"First rank, load," Winter croaked. She turned in place, wishing she could see. Beyond that smoke, the Redeemers could be waiting, re-forming for another a.s.sault- But they were not. By the time all the company's muskets were reloaded and ready, the dense bank of smoke was drifting into tatters, and the valley floor became visible. For as far as the eye could see in any direction, it was empty. The Redeemer cavalry had moved on, the vast bulk of the hors.e.m.e.n simply sweeping around the tiny square and on toward the main Vordanai column. In the immediate vicinity of the Seventh Company, the ground was littered with shattered, screaming horses, wounded men, and corpses. On the slope of the northern ridge, patches of blue marked where Vordanai soldiers had been cut down as they ran. Some of them moved feebly, but most were still.

Winter stared in dumb disbelief. She felt someone move to her side, and looked up to see Graff, his bearded face twisted into a parody of a smile.

"Well, that seems to be over." He scratched the side of his nose. "What the h.e.l.l do we do now?"

Chapter Seven.

MARCUS.

The Colonials went through the evolution from march column into square with considerably more expertise than they'd shown a few days before, though they were still too slow for Marcus' taste. From above, they would have looked like a chain of four diamonds strung out along the road, points aligned with one another so that the faces of the squares could shoot without risking friendly fire. The Third and Fourth battalion squares, at the back of the column, had formed around the artillery and the vulnerable supply train, while Give-Em-h.e.l.l's cavalry were gathering nearby.

The diminutive cavalry captain himself rode over to where Marcus, Ja.n.u.s, Fitz, and the regimental color party waited by the First Battalion square. He reined up and, his eyes gleaming, ripped off a tight salute to the colonel.

"Give me leave to charge them, sir," he said, his pigeon chest swollen with pride. "I'll clear that ridge in a flash."

Ja.n.u.s raised a polite eyebrow. "You don't think you're at too much of a numerical disadvantage?"

"Each man in blue is worth a dozen of those cowardly goat-f.u.c.kers," the captain said.

Marcus winced at this, but Ja.n.u.s was unperturbed.

"Indeed. Though, if our scouts are even marginally trustworthy, they would outnumber you roughly thirty to one. Possibly more."

"But they won't be ready for it!"

The colonel shook his head sadly, as though he would have loved nothing better in the world than to let the captain off his leash.

"I'm afraid the cavalry has too important a part to play in today's battle to risk it at this stage, Captain. Keep your men close. You're to shelter inside the Second Battalion square, understand?"

"But-" Give-Em-h.e.l.l caught Ja.n.u.s' eye, and somewhat to Marcus' astonishment he subsided. "Yes, sir. As you say." He put his heels to his horse and rode toward where his men waited, near the front of the column.

Marcus leaned toward his commander. "I apologize for Captain Stokes, sir. He's a good cavalryman, just a touch overeager."

"Eagerness has virtues all its own, Captain." Ja.n.u.s shrugged. "There is a place for every man, whatever his talent or temperament. Captain Stokes will have his turn." He looked up at the ridge. "I can't imagine what they're up to. If they take much longer, I shall have to order up some artillery to hurry them along."

The hilltop was dark with enemy hors.e.m.e.n gathering around a dozen black-clad priests who chose that moment to break into their sweet, high song. They all hit subtly different notes, and the result was a ringing harmony that echoed down from the ridge with a weird, unearthly beauty. Marcus felt his jaw tighten, but when he looked at Ja.n.u.s he saw that the colonel was sitting with his eyes closed, absorbing the melody. He opened them again only when the keening was answered by a roar that seemed to come from thousands of throats.

"Do Khandarai priests always sing like that before they enter battle?" Ja.n.u.s asked.

Marcus shrugged. "I don't think so, sir. As far as I'm aware, it's a Redeemer thing."

"Hmm." Ja.n.u.s looked thoughtful. "Pity."

"Perhaps we ought to take shelter, sir?"

Ja.n.u.s examined his hand for a moment, flicked a bit of grit from under one fingernail, then looked up again at where the enemy hors.e.m.e.n were beginning to pour over the ridge. "Very well. Let's find a safe vantage."

The interior of the First Battalion's square was a bare patch of trampled earth seventy yards or so to a side. Behind the triple ranks that formed the edge stood the lieutenants, one to each company, while the sergeants prowled back and forth. All around him, men loaded their weapons and fixed their bayonets.

Ja.n.u.s had produced a spygla.s.s, a fearsomely expensive-looking thing in bra.s.s and blond wood. His horse's height let him peer over the heads of the men around him, and he shook his head regretfully.

"A mob. Nothing more than a mob."

Marcus watched the hors.e.m.e.n thundering down from the ridge. Without the aid of a gla.s.s, most of what he could see was the dust raised by their pa.s.sage. The priests were still at the front, waving the others forward, and he could see a few of the "soldiers," ragged men with improvised weapons, riding scrawny horses.