The Thousand Names

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 pass.”

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 Balls. 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 buttons. Her fingers felt thick as sausages, and the buttons 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 scraped 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 Janus 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 mass 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 bitch,” Bobby said. “I wish you hadn’t killed the bastard. 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 passed 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 muffle 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-Hell 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 glassy 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 glassy 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 cocked 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?”

“For my behavior the night of the Desoltai raid, and during the time since we left the city.”

“Ah.” It’s about damn time. Winter shifted awkwardly and tried to sound conciliatory. Feor was clearly having a hard time getting this out. “I don’t know. I mean, it hasn’t been easy for you-”

“It’s no excuse.” Feor swallowed. “Especially for what I. . tried to do, at the end. I put you and Bobby in danger from my own selfishness.”

“But-” Winter shook her head. “All right. Apology accepted. If it means anything to you, I think I understand. After Ashe-Katarion. .”

“But you had the truth of it all along,” Feor said earnestly. “Onvidaer returned my life to me. To waste it now would be to cast away his suffering as well as mine.”

Winter had said something like that, come to think of it, although at the time she’d just spouted whatever came to mind in order to get Feor moving. She shrugged.

“Well. I’m glad you’ve worked it out.”

“It has become clear to me,” Feor said, “that it was the will of the gods that I meet you, and do as I have done. Even Mother’s sanction is nothing beside that. Bobby is the proof.”

“Proof?” Winter said. “What about her?”

“My naath. .” Feor hesitated. “It is a sacred thing. Obv-scar-iot. In Khandarai it means. .” Her lips worked silently for a moment. “‘Prayer of the Heavenly Guardian,’ perhaps. It is the closest I can come. The language of magic is. . difficult.”

“I remember. What about it?”

“It grants the strength and power of Heaven to defend the faithful and the cause of the Heavens in this world. When I used it on a raschem, a nonbeliever, I thought it would not achieve its full flowering. The power of the Heavens would not invest one who was not worthy.”

“Its full. . flowering?” Winter said.

“No.” Feor hesitated. “Have you examined where she was. . wounded, the first time?”

“I did.” Winter glanced again at Bobby, but spoke in Khandarai. “It’s growing, isn’t it?”

“I think so.”

Winter chewed her lip. “What’s happening to her?”

“The Heavens favor her. I do not know why, but they have chosen to grant her their power. She is truly becoming the Heavenly Guardian.” Feor blew out a deep breath. “That is how I know that coming to you was their will.”

“But what’s going to happen to Bobby? Is that stuff going to spread over her whole body?”

“I don’t know. There has not been a true Guardian in many generations, and I was not permitted to study the oldest lore.” Feor shook her head. “It may be that the process will halt when she has accomplished the purpose the Heavens have set for her.”

“‘May be’?” Winter tried to squelch her anger. Without this naath, Bobby would be dead twice over, and likely me in the bargain. “All right. So you don’t really know. Is there anyone who does?”

“Mother. Or perhaps not even she. Much of the knowledge of ancient days is lost to us.”

“Right.” Winter rubbed her forehead with two fingers, trying to fight off an incipient headache. “Right. So when we capture your ‘Mother,’ I’ll just ask the colonel if we can have a moment alone with her.”

“She will not be captured.” A haunted look passed across Feor’s face, and she hugged herself tightly. “She will die instead. They all will.”

“They might escape again,” Winter said.

“No.” Feor looked up. “That is what I came to tell you. Mother is close. I can feel her. Onvidaer as well.”

“You think they’re here? At the oasis?”

“Yes.”

“But. .” Winter turned to Bobby and switched to Vordanai. “You said the oasis was taken, right?”

The corporal nodded. “Why?”

“Feor insists that someone is still there. Those people we saw in Ashe-Katarion the night of the fire. Could they be hiding somewhere?”

Bobby paused. “I know the colonel ordered the place searched for supplies, but I hadn’t heard of anybody finding anything like that. They’re still at it, though.” She shrugged. “Graff and the rest of the company are out there now with Captain d’Ivoire.”

Winter went very quiet. Something in her chest had tightened into a knot, and it was a moment before she could speak.

“You stayed behind?” she said.

“We wanted someone to be with you when you woke up,” Bobby said. “I thought it would be best if it was me. Because-well, you know.”

Winter blew out a breath. Her side ached.

“Well,” she said, “now that I’m up, I’d better get back to my post. Let’s track down the others.”

“That’s not really necessary,” Bobby said. “Graff can handle things-”

“I’d rather go myself,” Winter said, through gritted teeth. The memory of that terrible night in Ashe-Katarion kept playing out behind her eyes, with the young man named Onvidaer dispatching three armed men in the casual way one might kill a chicken for the pot. She turned to Feor and said in Khandarai, “Do you think you can find your way to Onvidaer?”

“Not. . precisely. I can feel him when he is close, but no more than that.”

“If we found him. .” Winter hesitated. “He disobeyed your Mother once. Do you think he would do it again? If you had the chance to talk to him?”

“I do not know.” Something in Feor’s expression told Winter that she’d been thinking along the same lines. “But I would like to try.”

MARCUS

Up close, a cannon always seemed like a tiny thing compared to the god-awful noise it produced.

Field guns did, anyway. Marcus had seen siege pieces, first at the War College and later on the docks in Ashe-Katarion. Those iron monsters were so enormous it was hard to imagine anyone even being able to load them, much less daring to be nearby when a spark was applied to the touchhole.

The twelve-pounder was tiny by comparison, a six-foot metal tube with a barrel not much larger than Marcus’ head at the business end. It was dwarfed by its own wheels, big hoops of iron-banded wood. This was one of the Preacher’s original three, carefully engraved from muzzle to axle with scripture from the Wisdoms, and now mottled all over with powder residue.

The Preacher himself was standing beside the gun, talking to Janus. Behind them waited the Seventh Company of the First Battalion. Marcus recognized the big corporal who’d been imprisoned with them in Adrecht’s tents, and resisted giving the man a wave.

“You’d get more force if you hit it straight on,” Janus was saying. “And those doors can’t be solid stone, or they’d be too heavy to move. There’s no room for a counterweight.”

“No disrespect, sir, but I’ve seen some clever counterweights,” said the Preacher. “Besides, if they are light, it won’t matter how we hit them. And if we get a rebound, I sure don’t want it coming right back at us.” He patted the cannon fondly. “Besides, by the grace of the Lord and the Ministry of War, we’ve no shortage of roundshot. If we don’t break through the first time, we’ll just have to try again.”

“I suppose you know your business.” Janus looked back at Marcus. “You’ve warned the men?”

“I sent Lieutenant Warus, sir.” Unexpected cannon fire had a way of producing unpredictable results, and with the Colonials dispersed through the little oasis town Marcus didn’t want to take a chance on someone panicking.

“Excellent.” Janus took two long strides back from the gun. “You may fire at your pleasure, Captain Vahkerson.”

The Preacher looked at the three cannoneers standing beside the piece, who gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded, and they fell back from the gun, one of them holding the end of a length of lanyard.

Janus retreated as well and, somewhat to Marcus’ surprise, jammed his hands over his ears. This undignified but prudent example rippled down the chain of command as first Marcus and then the men of the Seventh standing behind him followed suit. Marcus didn’t hear the Preacher give the order to fire, but he saw the cannoneer give a sharp jerk on the lanyard, and a moment later the world went white.

• • •

The “oasis” was little more than a spring, in truth, issuing from a crack in the side of a rocky hill that rose out of the endless wastes of the Great Desol like a granite whale. Where the steady trickle of water had once soaked away into the thirsty ground, the Desoltai had built a stone-walled pool, shaded with horsehides to keep off the worst of the sun. Around it was a village, if it could be dignified with the name. It consisted of a wide-open space around the pool, surrounded by a scattering of huts built of stone and scraps of wood and roofed with more hides. Even these must have represented a significant investment for the Desoltai. There were no trees in the Desol, so every piece of timber would have been transported on horseback from the valley of the Tsel.

Whatever noncombatants had inhabited the village had plenty of warning of the Colonials’ approach, and the Vordanai had found the buildings stripped of everything a man could carry. A wide corral stank with still-fresh horse droppings, but there were no animals to be seen. Marcus had been frankly glad to hear it. Given the state of their supplies, burdening the column with a few hundred captive civilians would have brought on some choices he didn’t like to contemplate.

Beside the spring, where the hill had crumbled into something approaching a sheer cliff, the rock was carved into what must once have been a spectacular bas-relief. That it was ancient was obvious by the weathering. Human figures had eroded to blank-faced mannequins, arms raised in prayer or war or missing entirely. There were dozens of them, stretching for yards on either side of the crack where the spring emerged. Between them the remains of pillars could still be discerned, and in a few spots where a crevice had provided shelter from the wind the original delicate carvings of leaves and foliage were visible.

In the center of the ancient work of art was a pair of doors, twice the height of a man and cut from the same yellow-brown stone as the hillside. They had once been carved as well, but the centuries had weathered them nearly flat. More important, at least to Janus, it was obvious from the wide scrapes in the sandy soil that they had been opened recently. So while the rest of the regiment had been set to hauling water from the pool and searching the town, one company of infantry and one of the Preacher’s guns had been quietly commandeered to effect an entry. The men had spent the better part of an hour straining at the door with lines and makeshift crowbars, to no effect, so Janus had decided on more drastic measures.

• • •

Even with his ears covered, the blast of the cannon filled the world. Close up, it wasn’t the bass roar he was used to, but a monstrous crescendo that rattled his teeth and shifted things uncomfortably in his guts. His next breath reeked of powder. When he opened his eyes tentatively, he saw a ragged cloud of smoke drifting upward from the gun’s muzzle. Beyond, barely twenty paces away, were the doors of the temple. Marcus couldn’t imagine anything resisting the shot at that distance. It seemed as though it would have torn a hole in the mountain itself.

It certainly had done a number on the doors. The Preacher had aimed for the crack between the pair, and his aim had been impeccable, as had Janus’ logic. The stone surface was revealed as a thin facade, no more than an inch thick, supported by a wooden frame. The ball had punched clean through, smashing an irregular hole in the stonework and sending a spiderweb of cracks across the rest of the surface. As Marcus watched, a snapped-off section buckled and fell with a sound like someone dropping a tray full of crockery. Other pieces followed, one by one, until only the lower half of the doors and a few scraps around the hinges remained intact. A cloud of dust billowed up from the pile of stone fragments at the base.

“Well laid, Captain,” Janus said, when the chorus of destruction had come to an end. “I think no further shots will be required.”

“At your service, Colonel,” the Preacher said, and saluted. “Shall I send for my teams?”

“Indeed.” Janus looked thoughtfully at the dark opening. Sunlight cutting through the dust cloud illuminated only a narrow square of cut-stone floor, the air ablaze with dancing motes. Beyond that, the blackness was complete. He turned to the infantry, who were cautiously lowering their hands from their ears. “Corporal! Clear this mess out of the way, if you would?”

“Yessir!” the corporal snapped, throwing a sharp salute. A team of rankers was soon at work tossing the chunks of rubble aside, while others levered the wrecked wooden structure of the door out of the way. As the Preacher’s artillery mounts arrived to drag his gun back to the camp, Janus turned to Marcus.

“You seem like a man with something on his mind, Captain,” he said.

“Just thinking, sir,” Marcus said. “If there’s anyone in there, that just about rang the front bell for them. They’ll be ready for us.”

“True. But without access to the spring, they couldn’t hope to conceal any significant force.”

Marcus lowered his voice. “What about that thing that came for you in Ashe-Katarion?”

“The demon may try to stop us,” Janus acknowledged. “But we demonstrated there that it is not invincible. Formidable as an assassin, certainly, but a full company should see it off.”

“And you think you’ll find your Thousand Names here?”

“I’m certain of it,” Janus said. “We know they moved it this far, and they had no way to take it any farther. We’ve searched the rest of the town-not that it offers much of a hiding place. There’s nowhere else it can be. Ergo, it must be here.”

Marcus nodded. Looking into the dark entryway gave him a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he’d had the same feeling in Ashe-Katarion, when the search had led to a dead end. Nerves, he told himself. It’s just nerves.

• • •

Saints and martyrs. This place goes on forever.

Once the corporals of the Seventh had managed to round up enough lanterns to light their way, Marcus and Janus had proceeded into the hillside, a squad of infantry in the lead. The doors had opened onto a low-ceilinged tunnel with a gentle curve, laboriously hacked from the native rock. After a few dozen feet, though, it opened out into a much larger space.

“This must have been a natural cavern,” Janus mused. “I can’t believe anyone would excavate so much stone.”

Marcus nodded in agreement. The vaulting cave put him in mind of a cathedral, high-ceilinged and spreading wide to either side of the entrance. Two great fires burned in the far corners, but they barely served to outline the space and throw leaping shadows. The floor was covered with shapes, humanoid figures twisting grotesquely in the bobbing lantern light and the flares of the bonfires, and Marcus had a bad moment before he realized they were statues. He’d seen dozens like them on Monument Hill in Ashe-Katarion, elaborate depictions of the myriad Khandarai gods, each possessing inexplicable animal features and dressed in odd, ceremonial regalia. The closest pair were what looked like a horse-headed man with wings and a snake that walked upright on a pair of grasshopper legs, and had for some reason been provided with an enormous, drooping penis.

“Goddamned priests,” Marcus muttered. He wasn’t a religious man, but there was something a lot more. . well, respectful about a simple double circle in gold hanging over an altar. He turned to Janus. “You were right. This is a temple.”

“There must be a shaft,” Janus said to himself. “Otherwise the smoke would be smothering. Unless they only lit the fires as we came in?”

“Either way, they’re ready for us.”

“As you pointed out, Captain, that was inevitable when we used a cannon as a door knocker.” Janus raised his voice. “All right, Corporal. Onward! They’re only statues. And ask your men not to touch any of them, please. They are quite old, and some of them seem fragile.”

The big corporal barked orders, and the rankers advanced, spreading in a loose formation through the enormous room. The statues were set in a rough pattern, not quite a grid, with ten or twenty feet between them. They seemed to fill the cavern to the walls, giving the impression of an army of shadowy, lantern-lit figures all around them. Marcus heard muttering among their escorts, and more than one man brought his hand to his chest to make the double-circle ward against evil. He couldn’t blame them.

Another fire sprang to life, just ahead of them, and men raised their weapons. This one was smaller, just enough to illuminate a small circle of flagstones. On either side of it lay a human figure, spread-eagled, with a wooden box sitting between them. Marcus glanced at Janus, and caught the corner of the colonel’s mouth quirked in amusement.

“Sir?” Marcus said.

“Gifts, Captain. Someone is trying to. . buy us off.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Janus beckoned him forward, and Marcus reluctantly approached the fire. As he got closer, he realized with a start that he recognized both of the men on the floor. The fat body of General Khtoba, still in his stained dress uniform, wore an expression of blank surprise. The young man in black robes who had been the Hand of the Divine seemed more serene. Each corpse had a slim dagger embedded to the hilt in its left eye socket.

The colonel went to the box and flipped the lid open with a boot before Marcus could protest. He stared down at the contents for a moment, then looked up with another brief smile.

“Take a look, Captain. You’ll appreciate this.”

The firelight glittered across a steel mask, twin to the one they’d found after the ambush. Janus bent and picked it up. Underneath it was another identical copy, and Marcus could see another beneath that.

“What is that?” Marcus said. “The Steel Ghost’s spare wardrobe?”

“More like the source of his mysterious powers,” Janus said.

“I’m not sure I understand. Was there something special about the masks after all?”

“Only the significance ascribed to them.” Janus ran a finger along the smooth metal. “It’s inspired, really. I’m amazed they managed to keep the secret for so long.”

“The way he could be in two places at once,” Marcus said. “The Steel Ghost used doubles.”

“In a way. My guess is that there was never any such person as the Steel Ghost to begin with. He was. . a sort of myth, but one that only outsiders believed in. They must have laughed long and loud around the campfires.”

“But someone must have worn the masks!”

“Whoever was convenient. Once you’ve built up the legend, think of the advantages. Pull a mask out from under your cloak, and suddenly it’s not just a Desoltai raid but the Steel Ghost himself out for blood. Take it off when no one’s looking, and the Ghost vanishes into the desert like a shadow. Combine that with the intelligence advantage they derived from their lantern codes, and they’d created a shadow puppet that had the whole country running scared.”

Marcus looked down at the mask in the colonel’s hand. “You knew. That’s why you told me not to put it out that we’d killed the Ghost in the ambush-you knew he might turn up here as well.”

“Let’s say that I strongly suspected. When you have a man whose only distinguishing feature is something that hides his identity, why should you assume it’s the same man each time? It’s like saying the Pontifex of the White has lived for a thousand years because different men keep putting on the hat.”

“You might have told me.”

“I would have, if it had ever become a serious issue. As it is, it’s simply a. . curiosity.” He looked dismissively at the two corpses, then raised his voice to a shout. It echoed off the distant walls. “Very generous! I thank you.”

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, but Janus held up one finger for silence. A moment later, another voice filled the cavern, a distant hissing sound that seemed to come from every direction at once.

“You have what you came for, raschem. Consider this our surrender.”

“Steady,” Marcus said, as the rankers looked in all directions. The last thing they needed was a careless shot causing a panic. “Corporal, get the men to close up.”

“I am Count Colonel Janus bet Vhalnich Mieran,” Janus said in Khandarai. “May I have the honor of knowing to whom I speak?”

“You may call me. . Mother.” The word echoed oddly, repeating over and over through the vaulting hall for longer than it had any right to. “And I know well who you are.”

“Then you know that this is not what I came for.”

“No?” Mother’s voice was a hiss, like windblown sand sliding across stone. The fire lighting the two corpses started to flicker and die. “You have the leaders of the Redemption. Bear them back in triumph to your pet prince. The Desoltai will raise no more rebellions, and the Steel Ghost will vanish into the myths of the Great Desol. What more do you require?”

“I will have the treasure of the Demon King,” Janus said. “Give me the Thousand Names.”

“Then it is as I feared. You are the minions of Orlanko and the Black Priests.”

Marcus glanced at Janus, but the colonel’s face was blank. None of the rankers would understand the Khandarai conversation, and Marcus was starting to doubt his own comprehension. Black Priests? If she means our Priests of the Black, she’s about a hundred years too late. .

“No,” Janus said. “They are my enemies as well.”

“You lie,” Mother snapped. “Or else you are deceived. It matters not. I offer you this final chance, raschem. Take your prizes and go.”

“I will have the Names.”

The ancient voice trailed off into a fading whisper.

“As you wish. .”

A new sound filled the cavern. A hiss, rising from the shadows in every direction at once, like the sound of a kettle just before it becomes a shriek. There were a hundred kettles, a thousand, echoing and re-echoing until the whole vast temple seemed to be alive.

Around the edges of the room, where the glare of the bonfires didn’t reach, green lights flickered to life. They were eyes, Marcus realized, a swarm of eyes, all glowing a pale, eerie green that put him in mind of lightning bugs. By their faint light he could see ranks of swaying bodies and rows of faces with slack, distant expressions, all framed by wisps of rising white vapor. More white smoke trickled up through the air just in front of him, mixing with the dark woodsmoke of the extinguished fire. Marcus looked down.

General Khtoba had only one eye left, but that was open, filled with green light from edge to edge. His mouth worked, letting out a stream of liquid smoke whenever his fat lips parted. With an arthritic jerk, his corpse rolled on its side and started to fumble its way to its feet. Beside him, the Divine Hand sat up, his burning green gaze fixed on Marcus, and crawled forward on hands and knees.

“Kill them,” Mother’s voice said, echoing louder and louder until it thundered through the hiss of the smoke. “Kill them all!”

“Saints and fucking martyrs,” Marcus said. At least he thought he was the one who said it, but the oath had escaped from several mouths simultaneously, along with an assortment of choicer obscenities. At least one of the rankers had a more emphatic response, and the bang of his musket going off was loud enough in the echoing cavern to make Marcus duck. It was followed by another, and another, then the whole company, not a single volley but a staccato chorus of shots ripping the air and merging with their own echoes like a never-ending bolt of lightning. The flashes drowned out the bonfires and turned the scene into a flickering montage of light and darkness, men waving and running in jerky stop-motion.

He saw Khtoba rear up, finally managing to lift his fat bulk to his knees. One of the rankers shot him from only a few feet away. In the next flash, Marcus saw the big general jerk, strings of gristle and gore hanging down the back of his uniform where the ball had punched clean through him. No blood ran from the wound, though, only a trickle of white smoke like the trail from a snuffed candle. And Khtoba himself gave no indication of being aware that he’d been hit. He sprinted at the ranker, no more bothered by the hole in his chest than the dagger in his eye. The Colonial screamed, raising his musket in desperate self-defense, but the Khtoba-thing grabbed it with both hands, jerked it out of the way, and bore the man to the ground.

Screams were erupting throughout the cavern. Marcus’ night vision had been ruined by the muzzle flashes. All he could see was the distant glow of the fires and the swarms of green eyes closing in. The wave of panicked shouts washed over him.

“Out! Fucking get out of here!”

“Brass Balls of the fucking Beast-”

“Get it off me!”

“Die, you son of a fucking-”

“They’re in the door-”

“Form on me!” That was the big corporal, he thought. “Seventh Company, form square on me!”

A good idea, Marcus thought half hysterically, but it wouldn’t work. Forming emergency square was hard enough in the open, let alone with demons bearing down on you.

Demons. .

“Captain!”

The colonel’s voice snapped Marcus out of his stunned reverie. He looked up to find the Divine Hand nearly on top of him, one arm thrown wide to draw him into a vicious embrace. Marcus jammed his hand into the thing’s face and gasped when it bit down hard on the heel of his palm.

The blast of a pistol going off at close range muffled Marcus’ scream. The creature’s head came apart as the expertly placed ball caught it just above one ear, scattering bits of skull and brain. A torrent of the strange white smoke issued forth, mixing with the pink-gray of powder smoke. It staggered, which was enough for Marcus to yank his hand out of its unhinged jaw and pull himself away. A moment later, the colonel stepped in front of him, his drawn sword a shining line of steel between himself and the still-standing monster.

“Are you all right, Captain?”

“Sir-I think so, sir.” He lifted his left hand and winced at the neat half circle of teeth marks. His other hand dropped to the hilt of his own sword.

Before he could draw it, the thing lurched forward again, apparently unimpaired by the lack of the top half of its head. It was clumsy, though, and Janus sidestepped as it came at him. His cut sliced neatly through the back of its leg, which abruptly failed to support the thing’s weight, sending it crashing down in a heap. Even so, it scrabbled forward, forcing the colonel to back away.

Marcus had finally gotten his sword free, and he fell in beside Janus. Something brushed his shoulder, and he looked around in panic, but it was only the outstretched hand of one of the ancient statues. Most of the demons had followed the fleeing rankers toward the exit, but there were still two dozen immediately in front of them, closing in a rough semicircle. More clustered around the soldiers wherever they had fallen, tearing at them with fingers and teeth until the screaming finally stopped.

All the creatures Marcus could see were dressed in the brown-and-tan uniforms of the Auxiliaries. Many of them were officers, their uniforms heavy with gold braid and colorful patches, though they’d apparently forgotten the use of their swords. They retained enough sentience to know a touch of caution, however, and even a hint of tactics. Facing a pair of drawn weapons, they halted just out of reach and started to spread to encircle the two officers.

“Sir?” Marcus said, putting his back to the statue and trying to look in all directions at once. “Any ideas?”

“Run,” Janus said.

“Run?”

“On count of three.” Janus nodded to indicate a direction. “They don’t seem so thick that way.”

“That’s away from the exit,” Marcus said.

“One thing at a time,” Janus said calmly. “One. Two. Three!”

They spun away from the statue. One of the demons blocked Marcus’ path, and he hacked at its outstretched arms, sending one hand spinning off. His second cut went low, cracking its knee out from under it, and the thing toppled. Another came at him from behind, and Marcus whirled around with a desperate swing that caught it in the ribs and slammed it against the statue. He sent up a brief prayer of thanks that he’d retained his heavy cavalry saber in place of a slim officer’s blade, and a further offering when the weapon came free without sticking in the bone. Then he was backing away from a pack of green lights, and Janus fell in beside him. Marcus caught the colonel’s eye, and they turned their backs on the pack of demons and fled through the maze of statues.

WINTER

“Sir,” Bobby said, almost jogging to keep up with Winter’s rapid stride, “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I’m fine, Bobby,” Winter lied. She felt better than she’d expected, actually, once she got up and moving. Her nose was still tender, though, and every too-swift movement brought stabs of pain from her side.

“Even if you are,” Bobby said, “the colonel gave strict instructions that no one was to go after him.”

“That obviously doesn’t apply to you and me,” Winter said. “He took the Seventh Company with him, and we’re part of the Seventh Company. We’ve got to be allowed.”

“What about her?” Bobby said, indicating Feor. The Khandarai girl wore a hooded brown robe, but she was still attracting odd looks from the soldiers they passed.

“She’s-got information we might need,” Winter said. “I’ll explain things to the colonel.”

“But-”

“No more objections, Corporal.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

The little town was much as Bobby had described it. The colonel had ordered it searched, but there wasn’t really much to search. She saw a few men examining the household items and furnishings that had been left behind, following the time-honored soldiers’ tradition that anything you could carry off from an enemy camp was fair game, but there wasn’t much to loot, either. At least there was water. They passed the cistern, which was at one end of a never-ending bucket chain of sweating men struggling to refill the casks of the regiment and water its thirsty animals.

Bobby had reluctantly pointed out where they were headed, a section of the cliff face at the back of the village that boasted a stretch of ancient carvings. A doorway gaped in the sand-colored wall like a missing tooth, flanked by small mounds of broken stone and smashed wood. A faint smell of gunsmoke hung in the still desert air.

Winter paused just outside, uncertain. The sun was well up by now, and the shadow of the cliff was starting to creep away from the face and down toward the town. After a dozen feet, the tunnel was completely black. Winter glanced at Feor, who had pushed back the hood on her robe and was looking at the carvings with interest.

“Do you know this place?” Winter said.

Feor shook her head. “It is a temple, a very old one. But Mother and the Desoltai have never been on good terms, and they did not share their secrets easily. It took the arrival of you Vordanai and the beginning of the Redemption to bring them together.”

“Do you think they’re inside?”

“Yes,” Feor said. “I can feel them.” Her expression turned uncertain. “Something else as well.”

“Sir,” Bobby said, “something’s wrong here.”

“How so?”

“The colonel warned everyone off from this place.”

“So you said.”

Bobby frowned. “Don’t you think he would have left a couple of guards outside?”

That made Winter pause. She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Maybe they’re farther in?”

“Could be,” Bobby said.

“Come on,” Winter said. “Let’s find the others.”

• • •

Winter edged forward, one hand feeling ahead along the dry stone wall. The entrance was a square of brilliant daylight behind them, slipping slowly out of view as the tunnel curved into the cliff face. There was some kind of light ahead, something that flickered like an open flame. Just as they’d entered there had been a resounding crack, and a rumble like faraway thunder.

“Was that a shot?” Bobby said.

Winter pursed her lips. It was hard to say-the stone made everything echo oddly and changed the timbre of familiar sounds. She kept edging forward, step by careful step. Another crack, accompanied by a distant flash, brought her up short.

“That was definitely a shot,” Bobby said. “Who the hell are they shooting at?”

They started moving faster. Light gradually started to filter in, a weird, flickering brilliance. It was the red glow of a fire, Winter was sure, shot through now and again by the brighter yellow-white of a muzzle flash. It was enough to make out the bare outline of things, which narrowly prevented Winter from tripping over the first dead man.

She threw out an arm to bring Bobby to a halt. The tunnel ahead of them was strewn with corpses, a dozen or more, all lying flat or sitting against the walls in attitudes that suggested they’d been propped there like puppets. It was impossible to make out any detail in the firelight, and Winter dug hastily in her pocket for a box of matches.

“Are those-,” Bobby said.

Winter struck the match on the tunnel wall. The flickering firelight from up ahead made colors difficult to distinguish, but in the steadier light of the match she recognized the brown-and-tan uniform of the Khandarai Auxiliaries. Bobby let out a long breath of relief.

“What are they doing here?” Winter muttered, half to herself.

“Could Khtoba have followed us across the desert?” Bobby said.

“Or we followed him.” Winter looked back at Feor, who was looking down at the bodies with a puzzled expression. “Are you all right?”

“There’s no blood,” Feor said.

None of the corpses were visibly marked. Winter frowned.

Bobby was already pressing ahead. Feor threaded her way past the Auxiliaries to join her, and Winter followed slowly. Beside the last of the corpses, she paused.

“If they’re fighting. .,” Bobby said in low tones.

“Just a moment.”

Winter prodded the facedown man with her boot. He was an officer, judging by the braid on his shoulders and the scabbard at his belt. The corpse rocked slightly when she touched it, and after a moment of hesitation she got down, grabbed his shoulder, and rolled him onto his back. There was no wound on his front, either. The elaborately decorated Auxiliary uniform was unmarred.

Something hissed. She watched, fascinated, as a thin wisp of white smoke trickled from the body’s slightly parted lips and wafted toward the ceiling.

“Sifatz,” Feor said, then repeated it in her half-learned Vordanai. “Run!”

“Wh-”

The corpse’s eyes snapped open. They were green from edge to edge and glowed with an inner light that threw Winter’s shadow wide across the tunnel ceiling. Its hands came up and locked around her wrist, dragging her off balance. She gave an undignified squeal as she fell across the corpse, her left side lighting up with pain. As she fell, the thing shifted its grip, wrapping its arms around her waist in a horrid parody of an embrace. Its mouth opened wide, releasing a gush of white smoke that played across her face and filled her nostrils with a scent like burning sugar.

With sudden horror she realized it was going to bite her, rip her throat out like some kind of beast. One of her arms was stuck by her side, but she just barely managed to bring the other up in time, slamming her forearm under its chin and forcing its jaw closed with a clack of teeth. She brought her knee up as hard as she could, almost automatically, but it didn’t even flinch at the blow to its groin. Its arms merely tightened their grip, holding her as close as a lover. Their faces were inches apart. Winter could see the faint stubble where the man hadn’t shaved properly, and the green of his eyes bored into her.

Her left hand groped for purchase and found the handle of the corpse’s sword. She didn’t have the leverage to draw it, though, and the strength of the creature’s arms seemed endless. Her breath came in tiny gasps, and her lungs were starting to burn. She arched her back desperately, trying to break free, but only managed to loosen her grip on the corpse’s throat. It bared its teeth again, bathed in white smoke, and tried to force them closer to her face.

Winter gaped, desperate to draw a breath, but the grip around her shoulders pressed her chest too tight. It felt as though her spine was about to snap. Her lungs were on fire. She felt her legs kicking it, distantly, but for all the good it did she might have been pounding on a wall.

Then, all at once, something gave way. One of the creature’s arms pulled free, giving Winter a moment to hurl herself away from it with all the strength she could muster. She felt its nails leave long scratches down her back, even through the fabric of her uniform, but it didn’t manage to get a grip before she was clear and rolling sideways. She cannoned almost immediately into Feor, who was holding on to one of the monster’s wrists with both hands. Winter and the Khandarai girl went down in a heap, accompanied by a metallic clatter.

Breath flooded back into Winter’s body, and sight and sound came with it. She heard Bobby’s frantic shouts, and saw the corporal struggling with another monster in a brown-and-tan uniform. Behind it, the other corpses were rising, herky-jerky, like puppets on invisible strings. A dozen pairs of eyes bathed the tunnel in their unearthly green glow.

The one that had grabbed her rolled onto its hands and knees and reached for her again. Winter scrambled backward, and felt Feor do likewise. One of her hands brushed something solid-the hilt of the Auxiliary officer’s sword, which she’d been holding on to when she’d pulled herself away. Her fingers curled around it, and the next time the corpse reached for her she brought it around in a wild sweep. It was a light, whippy little thing, a dress sword for showing off at parties rather than actual combat, but at least it was sharp. It caught the creature as it went for a grip on her ankle and sheared its hand in half. No blood issued from the wound, only a gout of white smoke. The remaining digits brushed uselessly at Winter’s boot as she pushed herself out of range.

Bobby had achieved a sort of stalemate, she saw, by snatching up a musket from beside one of the dead men and using it as a wedge to keep the thing away. More of the creatures were approaching, though. Winter finally managed to get her feet under her and shifted the sword to her good hand. When the thing on the ground reached for her ankle, she stomped down hard on its forearm and heard the bones snap.

“Bobby!” she shouted. “Back here!”

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. “Brass Balls of the Beast, they’re fucking 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 space. 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 space. 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 snatched 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 Ihernglass!”

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.