Beckoning fatal lures to weak self — the mule was there, after all, and look upon poor beast — exhausted by what its eyes could not help but witness! Exhausted unto near death by simple empathy!
'Oh, hear naught of Kruppe and his secret desires for self-destruction at hands of delicious woman! Hear naught! Hear naught until meaning itself disperses. '
Picker stared out on the black waters of Ortnal's Cut. Chunks of ice brunted the current, grinding and pushing their way upstream. To the southeast, Coral Bay was white as a winter field under the stars. The journey from Eryn Mouth had taken but half the night. From this point on, the Bridgeburners would travel on foot, staying under cover as they edged round the dark, forest-clad mountains, skirting the relatively level region between the Cut and the range.
She glanced down the slight slope to where Captain Paran sat with Quick Ben, Spindle, Shank, Toes and Bluepearl. A gathering of mages always made her nervous, especially when Spindle counted among them. Beneath the skin beneath the hairshirt, there scrabbled the soul of a sapper, half mad — as were the souls of all sappers. Spindle's magery was notoriously unpredictable, and more than once she had seen him unveiling his warren with one hand while throwing a Moranth munition with the other.
The three other Bridgeburner wizards weren't much to crow over. Bluepearl was a pigeon-toed Napan who shaved his head and pretended to airs of vast knowledge concerning the Warren of Ruse.
Shank had Seti blood, the importance of which he exaggerated by wearing countless charms and trinkets from the north Quon Tali tribe — even though the Seti themselves had long since ceased to exist except in name, so thoroughly had they been assimilated into Quon culture. Shank, however, wore as part of his uniform a strangely romanticized version of Seti plains garb, all of which had been made by a seamstress in the employ of a theatre company in Unta. Picker was unsure which warren Shank specialized in, since his rituals calling upon power usually took longer than the average battle.
Toes had earned his name by his habit of collecting toes among the enemy's dead — whether he'd been personally responsible for killing them or not. He had concocted some kind of drying powder with which he treated his trophies before sewing them onto his vest — the man smelled like a crypt in dry weather, like a pauper's pit before the lime when it rained. He claimed to be a necromancer, and that some disastrously botched ritual in the past had left him over-sensitive to ghosts — they followed him, he would assert, adding that by cutting off their mortal toes he took from the ghosts all sense of balance so that they fell down so often that he was able to leave them far behind.
Indeed, he looked a haunted man, but, as Blend had pointed out, who wouldn't be haunted with all those dead toes hanging from him?
The journey had been an exhausting one. Being strapped to the rear saddle of a quorl and shivering in the fiercely cold winds, as league after league passed beneath, had a way of leaving one enervated, stiff-limbed and leaden. The sodden nature of this mountainside forest didn't help. She was frozen down to her bones. There'd be rain and mist all morning — the warmth of the sun would not arrive until the afternoon.
Mallet moved to her side. 'Lieutenant,' he said.
She scowled at him. 'Any idea what they're talking about, Healer?'
Mallet glanced down at the mages. 'They're just worried, sir. About those condors. They've had close enough looks at them of late and there doesn't seem much doubt that those birds are anything but birds.'
'Well, we'd all guessed that.'
'Aye.' Mallet shrugged, added, 'And, I expect, Paran's news about Anomander Rake and Moon's Spawn hasn't left their minds at ease. If they've been lost, as the captain believes, taking Coral — and taking down the Pannion Seer — will be a lot uglier.'
'We might get slaughtered, you mean.'
'Well…'
Picker's attention slowly fixed on the healer. 'Out with it,' she growled.
'Just a hunch, Lieutenant.'
'Which is?'
'Quick Ben and the captain, sir. They've got something else planned, stewed up between them, that is. Or so I suspect. I've known Quick a long time, you see, up close. I've picked up a sense of how he works. We're here covertly, right? The lead elements for Dujek. But for those two it's a double-blind — there's another mission hiding under this one, and I don't think Onearm knows anything about it.'
Picker slowly blinked. 'And Whiskeyjack?'
Mallet grinned sourly. 'As to that, I can't say, sir.'
'Is it just you with these suspicions, Healer?'
'No. Whiskeyjack's squad. Hedge. Trotts — the damned Barghast is showing his sharp teeth a lot and when he does that it usually means he knows something's going on but doesn't know exactly what, only he won't let on with that last bit. If you gather my meaning.'
Picker nodded. She'd seen Trotts grinning almost every time she'd set eyes on the warrior the past few days. Unnerving, despite Mallet's explanation.
Blend appeared in front of them.
Picker's scowl deepened.
'Sorry, Lieutenant,' she said. 'Captain sniffed me out — not sure how, but he did. I didn't get much chance to listen in, I'm afraid. Anyway, I'm to tell you to get the squads ready.'
'Finally,' Picker muttered. 'I was about to freeze in place.'
'Even so,' Mallet said, 'but I'm already missing the Moranth — these woods are damned dark.'
'But empty, right?'
The healer shrugged. 'Seems so. It's the skies we've got to worry about, come the day.'
Picker straightened. 'Follow me, you two. Time to rouse the others …'
Brood's march to Maurik had become something of a race, the various elements of his army straggling out depending on whatever speed they could maintain — or, in the case of the Grey Swords and Gruntle's legion, what they chose to maintain. As a consequence, the forces were now stretched over almost a league of scorched farmland along the battered trader road leading south, with the Grey Swords, Trake's Legion and another ragtag force in effect forming a rearguard, by virtue of their leisurely pace.
Itkovian had chosen to remain in Gruntle's company. The big Daru and Stonny Menackis wove a succession of tales from their shared past that kept Itkovian entertained, as much from the clash of their disparate recollections as from the often outrageous events the two described.
It had been a long time since Itkovian had last allowed himself such pleasure. He had come to value highly their company, in particular their appalling irreverence.
On rare occasions, he rode up to the Grey Swords, spoke with the Shield Anvil and the Destriant, but the awkwardness soon forced him to leave — his old company had begun to heal, drawing into its weave the Tenescowri recruits, training conducted on the march and when the company halted at dusk. And, as the soldiers grew tighter, the more Itkovian felt himself to be an outsider — the more he missed the family he had known all his adult life.
At the same time, they were his legacy, and he allowed himself a measure of pride when looking upon them. The new Shield Anvil had assumed the title and all it demanded — and for the first time Itkovian understood how others must have seen him, when he'd held the Reve's title. Remote, uncompromising, entirely self-contained. A hard figure, promising brutal justice. Granted, he'd had both Brukhalian and Karnadas from whom he could draw support. But, for the new Shield Anvil, there was naught but the Destriant — a young Capan woman of few words who had herself been a recruit not too long ago. Itkovian well understood how alone the Shield Anvil must be feeling, yet he could think of no way to ease that burden. Every word of advice he gave came, after all, from a man who had — in his own mind at least — failed his god.
His return to Gruntle and Stonny, each time, held the bitter flavour of flight.
'You chew on things like no other man I've known,' Gruntle said.
Blinking, Itkovian glanced over at the Daru. 'Sir?'
'Well, not quite true, come to think of it. Buke …'
On Itkovian's other side, Stonny sniffed. 'Buke? Buke was a drunk.'
'More than that, you miserable woman,' Gruntle replied. 'He carried on his shoulders-'
'None of that,' Stonny warned.
