The Thousand Names Part 55

The corporal let go of the musket, jumping backward as her opponent let the weapon fall and stumbled forward. Winter caught the creature in the torso with a textbook thrust, slipping her sword neatly between its ribs, but the wound had no effect at all. She barely managed to yank the blade free in time to avoid its groping hands. Bobby fell in beside her, and she could hear Feor scrambling to her feet behind them.

Winter handed Bobby the Auxiliary's sword and drew her own. It wasn't much better, but at least she knew it was good steel. Three of the things blocked the corridor, with more of them crowding in behind. Now that they faced opponents with steel in their hands, the things seemed almost cautious, though Winter couldn't think why. The one she'd stabbed hadn't even flinched.

"Demons," Winter breathed. "Bra.s.s b.a.l.l.s of the Beast, they're f.u.c.king demons."

Bobby gave a shaky nod. Winter spared a glance for the corporal. She looked very pale, but the point of her sword never wavered. "What now?"

"Now, I think, we run." Winter slashed at one of the creatures that got too close, leaving another long, unbleeding wound on its arm. "On three. One, two, three."

With a final slash, she backpedaled a few steps, then turned and ran for it. On the way, she caught Feor's hand, dragging the Khandarai girl along until she got her feet under her. Soon all three of them were pounding down the tunnel, with the corpse-things shambling in pursuit.

The glowing green eyes had just vanished around the curve of the corridor when it abruptly ended, opening out into a much larger s.p.a.ce. Winter had a vague sense of a high-ceilinged cavern, but her attention was absorbed by more immediate details. In the center of the cave, amidst rows of strange Khandarai statues, the Seventh Company had formed a steel-edged square. She could see the gleaming rows of bayonets, and every so often a shot rang out, shatteringly loud in the enclosed s.p.a.ce. Surrounding them was a nearly solid ring of brown-and-tan uniforms two or three men deep. The white smoke they leaked mixed with the pink-gray of powder smoke to form a pervasive fog that made the whole cavern smell of saltpeter and burning sugar.

More of the walking corpses were scattered around the perimeter of the standoff, and at least a few of them looked in Winter's direction as she skidded to a halt in the doorway. They started for her immediately, closing in like iron filings drawn to a magnet. The sound of shuffling feet from the corridor behind them grew louder by the second.

She caught Bobby's eye. "Run for the square. I'll go first; you take Feor."

Bobby gave a jerky nod and made no objection. Winter could think of a whole host of objections herself, but there didn't seem to be any other options. She took a deep breath, fighting down the spikes of pain in her side, and charged.

Strong as they were, the demons weren't quick, or terribly bright. She went right at one, and it spread its arms wide like someone accepting a hug. At the last minute she ducked and veered right, slipping past it. From there she pivoted on one foot and brought the pommel of her sword around in a wide arc that ended in the back of its skull. Whether or not the impact pained it, it knocked the thing off balance, and it stumbled helplessly long enough for Bobby and Feor to dodge by.

Then they were in among the statues. Green eyes glowed from all directions, but Winter forced herself to focus on what was directly ahead of her. Another Auxiliary lurched out from behind a snake-headed statue, right into her path, and she barreled into it shoulder first, knocking the creature sprawling. It scrabbled at her as it went down, but Winter danced away, slashing at its hands with her sword. Glancing back, she found Feor right behind her, with Bobby holding off two more of the things with wild horizontal sweeps.

Ahead, the demons were packed tighter. Winter could see blue uniforms through the gaps, but she wasn't certain they could make her out through the crowd. She hoped desperately no one took the opportunity to fire at the commotion. She laid into the first monster with a wide two-handed swing, aiming low, and it toppled with its legs chopped out from under it. Others turned, white smoke gouting all around her, as she pressed toward the line of blue. They shied away from her cuts, though the sword did them little actual damage, and for a moment Winter thought she was actually going to make it.

Then one of the creatures didn't get out of the way in time. Winter's wild swing bit deep into its neck with a puff of white smoke and lodged in its collarbone. Her desperate tug failed to pull the weapon free, and the monster twisted away, ripping the hilt from her hands. They were suddenly all around her, hands scrabbling for a hold wherever they could grab. Winter tried to back away, but one of the things had her by the knee, and it wrenched her leg out from under her with casual strength. The world tilted sickeningly as she was hauled off her feet, and other hands s.n.a.t.c.hed at her arms before she could complete the fall.

Her one free leg kicked until it was grabbed as well, and she felt more hands scrabbling across her, grasping handfuls of fabric and twisting painfully. The things that had hold of her limbs were pulling, all in different directions. She felt something pop in her shoulder, followed by a savage spike of pain. Winter screamed.

A single shot rang out, followed by a roaring voice that she recognized as Folsom at full battlefield volume.

"No, idiots, you'll hit him! Give them steel!"

This was accompanied by a ragged war cry from a dozen throats. Just when Winter thought her arm would actually tear from its socket, the monster let her go. The others followed, and she slumped awkwardly to the floor, curling into a protective ball. Fighting raged above her. She could hear the shouts and grunts of the Vordanai, and the malign hissing of the demons. Finally there was another voice she recognized, and someone was prodding her tender shoulder.

"Sir! Lieutenant Iherngla.s.s!"

She opened one eye and found herself staring into a bearded face, creased with worry. "Graff?"

"He's alive!" Graff shouted. "Someone help me!"

"Back to the square!" Folsom said, somewhere high above.

Winter found herself being lifted once again. This time she bit back the scream. Ahead was a solid wall of bayonets. It parted as they approached, then formed again behind them as the demons closed in.

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 sc.r.a.pes 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 f.u.c.king 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 G.o.d. Folsom thought he saw you come in, but we couldn't be sure until you got close. That was G.o.dd.a.m.ned 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 embarra.s.sed 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 G.o.d, 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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sets on the strength report. She fought down an urge to ask Graff for their names. Later. If we get out of this alive.

"b.u.g.g.e.r all the saints with b.l.o.o.d.y 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 ent.i.ties. 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 rea.s.suring his fellows now that the lieutenant was here.

"Lieutenant Iherngla.s.s will get us out."

"He came with more troops. Got to be."

"The lieutenant always figures something out . . ."

Whatever rea.s.surance 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.

d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sage 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 . . .

a a a The hardest part was doing it all without weakening the square so much that the walking corpses would surge through. Orders had to be pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s-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 pa.s.sage- The sound of the first one going off was disappointing, more of a m.u.f.fled thud than the ma.s.sive boom of a cannon. It was accompanied by the merry zip and zing of lead b.a.l.l.s ricocheting off the stone floor. After tearing open enough cartridges to mostly fill the little sack with powder, she'd stuffed musket b.a.l.l.s in until it was nearly bursting. The idea was that it would be something like a load of canister, spraying b.a.l.l.s in all directions. Without a musket's barrel to channel the blast, the b.a.l.l.s 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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sage 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."