The Thousand Names Part 52

"Not a bad rate of fire," Ja.n.u.s mused, "with bayonets fixed. Still, that second shot could have used more discipline. Perhaps a bit of drill is in order."

Marcus didn't bother to reply to that. The Colonials were quickly disappearing inside the smoke from their own discharges, but the Desoltai were still visible. The second volley had convinced them that staying where they were was inadvisable, and the majority seemed to think that safety lay back the way they had come. A few more, either maddened or fanatic, charged the blue lines on either side. The third volley scythed them down, and the handful that made it to the top faced a wall of bayonets. Marcus watched one Desoltai plunge into the bank of smoke, only to have his terrified horse stumble out again dragging its unfortunate rider from the stirrups.

The great ma.s.s of the raiders was falling back, hurried along by further fire from the hills, though the shots lost effect as the Desoltai opened the distance. They funneled along the floor of the valley like water in a streambed, keeping to where the going was good. Before long their course curved to the left, taking the head of the panicking horde out of sight.

Marcus gritted his teeth. He understood the necessity, but he couldn't help feeling nervous at this part. If they press the charge home, it's my boys they'll be riding over. The First Battalion had double-timed out from cover to draw a line across the riders' route of escape, but unlike the Second and Third they were in the flat, where the Desoltai could easily get up enough speed to attack. But they aren't alone.

A deep, hollow boom floated over the low hills, then another and another. The crackle of musketry was almost inaudible under the thunder of the guns, first bowling their solid shots through the long, tightly packed mob of riders, then switching to canister as the desperate Desoltai closed. Even the thought of it was fearful, and Marcus was suddenly glad their vantage didn't provide a view.

"A lesson to remember," Ja.n.u.s said. "Use your advantages, but never feel too secure in them. You never know when they're going to be taken away."

Marcus wasn't sure if that was intended for his benefit. He saluted anyway.

"Yes, sir!"

a a a "A couple of hundred got away, all told," said Give-Em-h.e.l.l. His diminutive form was practically vibrating with excitement. "Sorry about that, sir."

"Not your fault, Captain," Ja.n.u.s said. "You didn't have enough cavalry to mount a proper pursuit. Did they show any sign of regrouping?"

"No, sir. Pardon the language, sir, but they were running as though all h.e.l.l was behind 'em, sir."

"Very good. Convey my appreciation to your men, and tell them to get some rest. We'll need you scouting our path in the morning."

"Yes, sir!" Give-Em-h.e.l.l saluted and ducked out of the tent, spurs jingling.

"A pity we didn't have a regiment of hussars handy," Ja.n.u.s said. "We'd have rounded up the lot. Still, one does what one can."

"Yes, sir." Marcus waved a sc.r.a.p of paper. "Captains Solwen and Kaanos have reported in. We have less than a dozen casualties, and only three killed."

"Any prisoners? I'd be interested to see what they had to say."

"Not many, sir, and all of those badly injured. I've had several reports of men running for it when they might have easily surrendered, or turning to fight hand to hand and forcing us to shoot them."

"I see." Ja.n.u.s didn't sound surprised. "I have a notion-"

An excited knocking at the tent pole interrupted him. The colonel looked up. "Yes?"

"Sir," came Fitz's voice. "You'll want to see this."

"Come in, then."

The lieutenant entered and gave a crisp salute. His normally pristine uniform was a little dust-stained, and the bruise on his face was still hideous, but he gave no sign of pain in his bearing. When Marcus caught his eye, he flashed a quick smile. He'd been in command of the First where they'd blocked the valley exit, and according to his initial report none of the enemy had gotten within fifty yards.

"What have you got for us, Lieutenant?" Ja.n.u.s said.

"Take a look at this, sir."

Fitz pulled a heavy object from his pouch and laid it on the colonel's writing desk. It was a blank mask, featureless but for two holes at the eyes. A mangled leather strap dangled from one side, and near the top it was bent, as though someone had struck it a terrific blow. Marcus leaned over and hefted the thing. It had the weight of solid steel.

"Interesting," the colonel said. "Was this taken from a body?"

"No, sir. We found it lying on the ground, amidst the dead, but not on any particular body." He touched the strap. "It's broken, see? Could be it fell off."

"You think he's dead?" Marcus said.

Fitz shrugged. "Only one man in ten got away. If he isn't dead, he's got the saints' own luck."

"Dead," Ja.n.u.s said. "Have you told anyone about this, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. It's just me and the sergeant who found it, and I trust him to keep his mouth shut."

"Good. Keep it quiet a little while longer." At Marcus' questioning glance, Ja.n.u.s shrugged. "I'd rather not get the men's hopes up. Rumors of the Ghost's supernatural powers have gone quite far enough already."

"You think we'll see him again?"

The colonel gave another summer-lightning smile. "I'm certain of it, Captain. Tomorrow, we attack the oasis."

Chapter Twenty-four.

WINTER.

Winter awoke slowly, rising to consciousness like a corpse floating to the surface of a deep, still pond, still wrapped with clinging tendrils of dream. For a moment she tried to grasp them-there had been something, something important, and she felt herself losing it. Jane had been there, as always, but she had been different. Warning. She was warning me about something.

It was like trying to catch smoke. The dream faded, and she opened her eyes to see the familiar army blue of her tent glowing with the faint light that meant the sun was well overhead.

That can't be right. She tried to reckon the hours. It had been the middle of the night when she'd rescued the colonel and the others, and then . . . her memory was not as clear as she would have liked. She could vaguely recall being helped into the tent, and sometime later being prodded to drink a little water. A concerned face, looking down.

"Bobby?" Her voice was a croak.

"Sir?" Bobby said from nearby. "Winter? Are you awake?"

"I think so." Winter blinked gummy eyes.

"How do you feel?"

She considered that for a moment. Her body was gradually making its protests known. Her nose felt twice its normal size, and every breath brought painful stabs all along her left side. She managed to shift a little, and more bruises announced themselves.

"Lousy," she said, closing her eyes again. "Like some ape used me for a punching bag."

"Do you think you can sit up?"

Winter gave a weak nod, planted her hands, and levered herself off the ground. Halfway there, the world swam sickeningly. She felt Bobby's hands on her shoulders, guiding her the rest of the way. When she opened her eyes again, the corporal was giving her a worried look.

"The colonel had a look at you," Bobby said. "Your nose isn't actually broken, but you took a couple of nasty cracks to the head. He said you might be a little dizzy, but it should pa.s.s."

The colonel. The memory of their last conversation came rushing back. Did he really . . . I mean . . . he knows, but he's not going to tell? She couldn't make that fit in with the world she understood.

"I'll be all right," Winter said, more for her own benefit than for Bobby's. She touched her nose gingerly, and winced again. "Beast's b.a.l.l.s. Not broken, he said?"

Bobby nodded. "If you can get out of bed, we ought to get you cleaned up. Graff wanted to look at your ribs, but the colonel said you shouldn't be moved too much." She hesitated. "Does he-did he see-"

"He knows." Winter gave a hollow laugh, which brought a stab of pain from her side. "He's agreed not to tell anyone, what with my saving his life and all."

"Good," Bobby said. "That's . . . good."

Winter looked at her clothes. She still wore the uniform she'd fought Davis in, torn undershirt and all, caked with mud and dried blood. A wide stain across one shoulder marked where the sergeant had slid to the floor. Gripped by a sudden revulsion, she started fumbling with the coat b.u.t.tons. Her fingers felt thick as sausages, and the b.u.t.tons slipped away from her twice before Bobby leaned in.

"Let me," the corporal said gently. She deftly got the coat open, then turned away with a blush when Winter shrugged it off as though it was full of spiders. Bobby indicated a bucket and cloth beside the bedroll. "There's not enough for a proper bath, I'm afraid. But we can at least get the blood off. Unless . . ."

Winter blew out a long breath, feeling the ache in her ribs. "It's all right."

It had been more than two years since Winter had been naked in the presence of another human being, and she found the prospect deeply unsettling. Back before the Redemption, when the Colonials had enjoyed unrestricted access to Ashe-Katarion, she had very occasionally sc.r.a.ped together the coin to rent a room at one of the private bathhouses the served the high-rent districts. A big cistern full of blood-warm water, all to herself, seemed like the height of unimaginable luxury, but she'd never been able to bring herself to fully enjoy it. No matter how sincere the attendants' promises of total discretion, no matter how far away from the areas normally frequented by Vordanai the bathhouse was, she could never shake the feeling that someone would take the opportunity to spy on their pale-skinned visitor. Then, somehow, her secret would get back to Davis, and the captain, and the colonel, and then- She'd never been able to picture what would happen then, but the thought had been horrifying enough that she'd hurried through her ablutions and back into her carefully altered uniform. Now that the worst had actually happened, Winter wasn't sure what to think. But the habits of years died hard, and even if Ja.n.u.s was prepared to accept the fact of her gender, she was certain that the men of her company and her fellow officers would not.

Her torn undershirt was so soaked with Davis' blood that the front was as stiff as if it had been starched. Winter tossed it aside with a shudder of disgust and fumbled awkwardly with her belt, trying not to look at Bobby. She stepped out of her trousers and underthings, kicked them aside, and sat back down on the bedroll.

Bobby hissed through clenched teeth. Winter looked down at herself and winced. The bruises had subsided a little from the night before, but they still covered her skin with a ma.s.s of blue-and-black blooms, as though she'd contracted some awful plague. Her left side in particular was swollen and tender to the touch where he'd kicked her.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," Bobby said. "I wish you hadn't killed the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I'd like to have a turn at him."

Winter gave a weak smile. "You might have to wait in line."

"I should have been there with you."

"You'd already saved my life once that night, and nearly gotten cut in half because of it. I'll live." Winter touched her side and flinched again. "Probably."

"Those cuts need cleaning." Bobby gestured imperiously to the bedroll. "Lie on your stomach."

Winter propped her chin on the pillow, keeping the weight off her bruised face, and waited. The air was warm and dusty on her bare skin. The first touch of the wet cloth made her flinch. Bobby paused.

"Sorry," the corporal said. "I'll be as gentle as I can."

Actually, after a few moments, it became almost relaxing. The bruises hurt in a dull way whenever the wet cloth pa.s.sed over them, but Bobby had a light touch, letting the rag sit and soak sticky patches of dried blood before wiping them away. Where her skin had been torn up against the rocky ground or Davis' fists, the stinging made Winter chew her lip, but she managed to keep from crying out.

"How long have I been asleep?" she said, in an effort to distract herself.

"More than two days," Bobby said.

"Two days?" Winter couldn't help but twitch, and it made Bobby's finger stab hard into her bruised ribs. She pressed her face into the pillow to m.u.f.fle her shriek.

"Sorry!" Bobby squeaked, dropping the rag. Winter turned her head to look up at the corporal. She wondered again how she'd ever believed Bobby was a boy.

"My fault," Winter said, through gritted teeth. She hissed a few breaths and tried to relax. "But-really two days?"

The corporal nodded. "They had you on one of the carts. Colonel's orders."

Winter didn't remember that at all. Then again, given the tendency of the unsprung carts to bounce over every pebble, maybe it was better to have been unconscious.

"Two days," Winter repeated. "So what's happened?"

She listened while Bobby worked even more tentatively with the rag and explained about the ambush, the near-complete annihilation of the Desoltai fighters, and the subsequent march to the oasis. When the time came for her to roll onto her back, Winter closed her eyes to keep from having to stare up at Bobby's blushing face.

"They tried to make a stand," the corporal went on, "but there wasn't much fight left in them. Most of them broke at the first charge, and we spent the day cleaning out the rest. Give-Em-h.e.l.l was all for following the ones that ran, I hear, but the colonel ordered us to stay put. We're camped just by the edge. There's a little town-not much more than a few shacks, really, but there's a spring and a pool, just like the colonel said."

"What about you?" Winter said.

"I'm sorry?"

"You. The-" She drew a line across the front of her body with one finger, where Bobby had been cut, not wanting to say the words aloud. "You know."

"Oh. Fine. The same as always." Bobby gave a weak chuckle. "I don't think I've had so much as a hangnail since . . . the first time."

"That's good." Winter tried not to picture the healed skin under the corporal's uniform, warm and pliable but gla.s.sy as marble. And spreading . . . She gritted her teeth again.

Bobby gave the cloth a last swish and sat back. "There. That's better. Do you think we need to bind those cuts?"

Winter opened her eyes and sat up, poking at her torn skin with one finger. "I'll be all right. It doesn't seem to have started bleeding again-"

There was a knock at the tent pole. They both froze. Winter caught Bobby's eye and jerked her head in the direction of the tent flap, and the girl nodded.

"Who's there?" Bobby said.

"Feor."

Winter relaxed. "One moment," she said in Khandarai, and got up to get clothing. She was down to her last clean shirt, and there was no choice but to wear the stained trousers again. She left the jacket in the dirt. It would need a thorough wash before she could even think of putting it back on. Once she was at least decent, she waved at Bobby, who held the tent flap open. Feor ducked inside.

The girl had changed somehow. She'd discarded the splint that had held her arm since they'd first tended her, but it was more than that. The gla.s.sy look in her eyes was gone, replaced with a hard sense of purpose. The march from Ashe-Katarion had thinned her, too, hollowing her cheeks and giving her a lean, hungry look.

"Winter," Feor said, looking her over. "You are . . . well?"

"Well enough. Your arm?"

Feor raised it experimentally. "It still feels weak," she said, "but Corporal Graff said the bone has healed true." She c.o.c.ked her head. "I think that is what he said, at least. My Vordanai is improving, but he still speaks too quickly."

Winter gave an uneasy chuckle. "Good. That's good."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Winter glanced at Bobby, who gave a tiny shrug, reminding her that she understood nothing of the Khandarai conversation.

"I wanted to apologize," Feor said.

Winter blinked. "Apologize?"