'There, Coltaine's own Crow Clan are guarding the south side, along the hills, making sure none of the livestock strays or gets plucked by the locals — there's a village over on the other side.'
'Did you say Sahul Fleet? Why aren't you with Admiral Nok in Aren, Captain?'
The red-haired soldier grimaced. 'Wish we were. We left the fleet and pulled up in Sialk for repairs — our transport was seventy years old, started shipping water two hours out from Hissar. The mutiny happened the same night, so we left the ship, gathered up what was left of the local Marine company, then escorted the exodus out of Sialk.'
The farmhouse they approached was a sturdy, imposing structure, its inhabitants having just fled the arrival of Coltaine's train. Its foundation was of cut stone, and the walls were split logs chinked with sun-fired clay. A soldier of the Seventh stood guard in front of a solid oak door. He nodded to Captain Lull, then narrowed his eyes on Duiker.
'Ignore the tribal garb,' Lull told him, 'this one's ours. Who's here?'
'Everybody but the Fist, the Warlocks and the captain of the sappers, sir.'
'Forget the captain,' Lull said. 'He ain't bothered showing for one of these yet.'
'Yes sir.' The soldier thumped a gauntleted fist on the door, then pushed it open.
Woodsmoke drifted out. Duiker and the captain stepped inside. Bult and two officers of the Seventh were crouched at the massive stone fireplace at the room's far end, arguing over what was obviously a blocked chimney.
Lull unclipped his sword belt and hung the weapon on a hook by the door. 'What in Hood's name are you building a fire for?' he demanded. 'Ain't it hot and stinking enough in here?' He waved at the smoke.
One of the Seventh's officers turned and Duiker recognized him as the soldier who'd stood at his side when Coltaine and his Wickans first landed in Hissar. Their eyes met.
'Togg's feet, it's the historian!'
Bult straightened and swung around. Scar and mouth both shifted into twin grins. 'Sormo was right — he'd sniffed you on our trail weeks back. Welcome, Duiker!'
His legs threatening to give way under him, Duiker sat down in one of the chairs pushed against a wall. 'Good to see you, Uncle,' he said, leaning back and wincing at his aching muscles.
'We were going to brew some herbal tea,' the Wickan said, his eyes red and watering. The old veteran had lost weight, his pallor grey with exhaustion.
'For the love of clear lungs give it up,' Lull said. 'What's keeping the Fist anyway? I can't wait to hear what mad scheme he's concocted to get us out of this one.'
'He's pulled it off this far,' Duiker said.
'Against one army, sure,' Lull said, 'but we're facing two now-'
The historian lifted his head. 'Two?'
'The liberators of Guran,' the captain known to Duiker said. 'Can't recall if we were ever introduced. I'm Chenned. That's Captain Sulmar.'
'You're it for the Seventh's ranking officers?'
Chenned grinned. 'Afraid so.'
Captain Sulmar grunted. 'Not quite. There's the man in charge of the Seventh's sappers.'
'The one who never shows at these briefings.'
'Aye.' Sulmar looked dour, but Duiker already suspected that the expression was the captain's favourite. He was dark, short, appearing to have Kanese and Dal Honese blood in his ancestry. His shoulders sloped as if carrying a lifetime of burdens. 'Though why the bastard thinks he's above the rest of us I don't know. Damned sappers've been doing nothing but repairing wagons and collecting big chunks of stone and getting in the cutters' way.'
'Bult commands us in the field,' Captain Chenned said.
'I am the Fist's will,' the Wickan veteran rumbled.
There was the sound of horses pulling up outside, the jangle of tack and armour, then the door thumped once and a moment later swung open.
Coltaine looked unchanged to Duiker's eyes, as straight as a spear, his lean face wind-burned to the colour and consistency of leather, his black feather cape bellying in his wake as he strode into the centre of the large room. Behind him came Sormo E'nath and half a dozen Wickan youths who spread out to array themselves haphazardly against walls and pieces of furniture. They reminded the historian of a pack of dock rats in Malaz City, lords over the small patch they held.
Sormo walked up to Duiker and held out both hands to grip his wrists. Their eyes met. 'Our patience is rewarded. Well done, Duiker!'
The boy looked infinitely older, lifetimes closing in around his hooded eyes.
'Rest later, Historian,' Coltaine said, fixing each person in the room with a slow, gauging study. 'I made my command clear,' he said, turning at last to Bult. 'Where is this captain of the Engineers?'
Bult shrugged. 'Word was sent. He's a hard man to find.'
Coltaine scowled. 'Captain Chenned, your report.'
'Third and Fifth companies are across the ford, digging in. The crossing's about four hundred and twenty paces, not counting the shallows on both sides, which add another twenty or so. Average depth is one and a half arm-spans. Width is between four and five most of the way, a few places narrower, a few wider. The bottom's about two fingers of muck over a solid spine of rocks.'
'The Foolish Dog Clan will join your companies on the other side,' Coltaine said. 'If the Guran forces try to take that side of the ford during the crossing, you will stop them.' The Fist wheeled to Captain Lull. 'You and the Weasel Clan shall guard this side while the wounded and the refugees cross. I will maintain position to the south, blocking the village road, until the way is clear.'
Captain Sulmar cleared his throat. 'About the order of crossing, Fist. The Council of Nobles will scream-'
'I care not. The wagons cross first, with the wounded. Then the livestock, then the refugees.'
'Perhaps if we split it up more,' Sulmar persisted, sweat glistening on his flat brow, 'a hundred cattle, then a hundred nobles-'
'Nobles?' Bult asked. 'You meant refugees, surely.'
'Of course-'
Captain Lull sneered at Sulmar. 'Trying to buy favours on both sides, are you? And here I thought you were a soldier of the Seventh.'
Sulmar's face darkened.
'Splitting the crossing would be suicide,' Chenned said.
'Aye,' Bult growled, eyeing Sulmar as if he was a piece of rancid meat.
'We've a responsibility-' the captain snapped before Coltaine cut him off with a snarled curse.
It was enough. There was silence in the room. From outside came the creak of wagon wheels.
Bult grunted. 'Mouthpiece ain't enough.'
The door opened a moment later and two men entered. The one in the lead wore a spotless light-blue brocaded coat. Whatever muscle he'd carried in youth had given way to fat, and that fat had withered with three months of desperate flight. With a face like a wrinkled leather bag, he nonetheless projected a coddled air that was now tinged with indignant hurt. The man a step behind him also wore fine clothes — although reduced by dust and sweat to little more than shapeless sacks hanging from his lean frame. He was bald, the skin of his scalp patchy with old sunburn. He squinted at the others with watery eyes, blinking rapidly.
The first nobleman spoke. 'Word of this gathering reached the Council belatedly-'
'Unofficially, too,' Bult muttered dryly.
The nobleman continued with the barest of pauses. 'Events such as these are admittedly concerned with military discussions for the most part, and Heavens forbid the Council involve itself with such matters. However, as representatives of the nearly thirty thousand refugees now gathered here, we have assembled a list of.. issues … that we would like to present to you.'
'You represent a few thousand nobles,' Captain Lull said, 'and as such your own Hood-damned interests and no-one else's, Nethpara. Save the piety for the latrines.'
Nethpara did not deign to acknowledge the captain's comments. His gaze held on Coltaine, awaiting a reply.
The Fist gave no sign that he was prepared to provide one. 'Find the sappers, Uncle,' he said to Bult. 'The
