Stryke called to the nearest grunt. 'Finje! That could be a well. Over there, see? Go and check it.'
Haskeer arrived, face like granite.
'Have this place searched,' Stryke told him. 'We could do without any more little surprises.'
'Right,' his sergeant grunted morosely, turning to obey.
'And Haskeer.'
Haskeer looked back.
'What happened with Liffin and Yunst is done. Live with it. Your moods put the band off whack, and I won't have it. Save your temper for enemies.'
Haskeer nodded, curtly. Then he went off to scare up a search party.
' Well's dry! ' Finje shouted. He demonstrated by upending a shabby bucket. Only dirt and gravel came out of it.
Coilla returned. 'How are we for water?'
'It's not a problem yet,' Stryke replied. 'But we could do with finding a clean source soon. Guards in place?'
'Done. But there's something you should see.'
'Lead the way.'
She took him to the largest and most intact of the ruins. Parts of three walls were still standing, and they could see that it once had peaked eaves. A pair of large, heavy doors lay in the debris. They showed signs of having been breached with force.
As they scanned the scene, Haskeer joined them.
'What's so special about this?' he asked.
'I reckon it's a place of worship,' Coilla explained.
'So?'
'Look over here.'
They followed her to a low dry stone wall. Parts had collapsed, and there was what was left of a gate. The wall enclosed about an acre of land. Very little grew in it beyond three or four gaunt trees. Dozens of stone slabs and wooden pointers jutted from the ground, many at skewed angles.
'You know what this is, don't you?' Stryke said.
'Yes. A burial ground.'
'Oh, great,' Haskeer muttered.
'Not afraid of a few dead humans, are you?'
He glared at her.
'But why is nothing growing in there?' she wanted to know. 'Look out here; they're weeds everywhere. Nature's reclaiming it. Why not there?'
'Maybe they did something to stop things growing,' Stryke suggested. 'Sowed it with salt, or — '
'Why?'
'Out of respect for their dead? Who knows with humans.'
'Too right,' Haskeer agreed. 'They're fucking crazy.'
Stryke thought this a little rich coming from Haskeer, but kept the observation to himself. 'This is as good a place as any to pass the night. The wall can serve as a windbreak. Get them to pitch camp, Haskeer. But no fires.'
'That won't make for much cheer.'
'Just do it.'
Haskeer strode away, looking unhappy.
Coilla watched him go. 'He's being his usual joyful self then.'
'That's not our only problem right now.'
'Wheam?'
'Wheam.'
'What you gonna do about it?'
'Give him some kind of job that keeps him out of our faces, and clear of Haskeer. Come on.'
Looking bemused at the bustle of activity going on around him, Wheam was standing by Dallog further along the wall. An uncomfortable expression came to his face when he saw Stryke approaching.
Before Stryke could speak, Wheam said, 'You're going to punish me, aren't you?'
'Because of Liffin?'
'Of course. But I was afraid and — '
'Nobody under my command gets punished for being afraid.'
'Oh.' Wheam was confounded.
'Only fools don't feel fear,' Stryke went on. 'It's what you do despite the fear that affects our survival. So you'll be trained in combat, and you'll practise what you're taught. Agreed?'
'Er, yes.'
'But we don't carry non-combatants; everybody's expected to fight. That's your part of the bargain. Understand?'
'Yes, sir, Captain.'
'All right. I'll work out a training rota for you. If you want to honour Liffin, you'll stick with it. Meantime you need to have a proper role. What special skills do you have?'
'I could be our official balladeer,' Wheam replied hopefully, holding up his lute.
'I meant something useful.' Stryke turned to his new corporal. 'Dallog, what are you doing?'
'I was about to check the wounded. Change dressings, that sort of thing.' He nodded to a small group of waiting orcs.
'Wheam can help. All right with you?'
'Fine. If today's anything to go by I could use an aide.'
Wheam looked apprehensive.
'We can't risk kindling any light for you,' Stryke said. 'Got enough to work by?'
'The moon's good enough.'
'Make a start then.'
Dallog got Wheam to move closer, then beckoned over the first in line. Pirrak, one of the new intake, stepped forward, a grubby dressing on his forearm.
'How's it been?' Dallog enquired.
'Bit sore,' Pirrak answered.
Dallog began unwinding the bandage. 'Did you know blood flows more copiously when the moon's full?' he remarked conversationally and to no one in particular.
'Course I did,' Coilla replied. 'I'm a female.'
'Ah. Yes.' There was just a hint of awkwardness in the corporal's response.
He carried on unravelling. As the layers of binding peeled away they grew more soiled, until finally the wound was exposed. Dallog absently draped the gory bandage over the graveyard wall.
'Hmm. Lot of congealed blood. Might need to sew this gash. See how the flaps of skin hang loose on either side, Wheam? And all this pus — '
There was a groan and a weighty thud.
'He's fainted,' Coilla said.
The queuing orcs burst out laughing. Pirrak laughed, though he winced at the same time.
'What kind of an orc is he?' Using her teeth, Coilla pulled the cork from her canteen and poured a stream of water over Wheam's ashen face.
'Go easy with that,' Stryke warned, 'we've none to waste.'
Wheam spluttered and wheezed, causing more hilarity among the onlookers.
'I'll take care of him,' Dallog sighed, kneeling to his new patient.
Stryke and Coilla left them to it.
'Perhaps medicine isn't Wheam's calling,' she commented dryly.
'I wonder what is.'
'He should have some kind of job.'
