'Such as? I wouldn't trust him on sentry duty, or in a hunting party. He might cope with digging latrines and preparing rations, though I wouldn't put it past him to poison us.'
'I don't think that's what Quoll had in mind.'
'To hell with him. He should have raised his spawn right in the first place, rather than dumping him on us.'
'Maybe that training you promised will sort Wheam out.'
'Maybe.'
'It's bound to be a bit of a struggle fitting new members in, Stryke.'
He nodded. 'What do you think of Dallog?'
'I like him. He fought well today, and he's all right with the medic thing. I know he's not Alfray, but who is?'
'I wish everybody felt that way.'
Reaching the wrecked hay wagon, they perched themselves on the still intact shafts. They watched the band making camp and attending to chores. The breeze grew colder as evening shaded into full night.
Working his way through the wounded, Dallog continued to absent-mindedly deposit their bloodied bandages on the stone wall behind him. More than a dozen white strips had accumulated, fluttering in the wind. Unnoticed, a stronger gust whipped most of them away. They blew into the cemetery. One became entangled in the emaciated branches of a tree, another was caught by a wooden grave marker. The rest were scattered across the barren ground.
High above, the stars were sharp and hard, like diamonds.
'Funny to think we were born under these skies,' Coilla reflected. 'Do you ever feel homesick?'
'No.'
'Not even a twinge of longing?'
'It was a different land then. Humans ruined it.'
'That's true. But it still feels strange to be back here. Everything seems so long ago, and yet as near as yesterday. If that makes any sense.'
He smiled. 'I know what you mean.'
They passed time in silence, surveying the scene. The band went about the business of preparing to settle for the night. Weapons were cleaned and rations passed round. In the distance, sentries patrolled.
The few grunts waiting to be seen by Dallog had seated themselves on the graveyard wall. Wheam, still looking unsteady, had been sorting lengths of bandages for the corporal.
'I've finished,' he announced. 'What else can I do?'
'I'm busy here,' Dallog replied, intent on cleaning a lesion Wheam couldn't look at. 'Use your initiative.' He thought better of that and looked around. 'Make yourself useful and pick up those dressings. Can't have infections spreading.'
'What do I use to — '
'Here.' Dallog thrust a small canvas shoulder bag at him, normally used to carry shot for catapults.
Wheam set about the task with minimal enthusiasm. Making a face, he collected the couple of bandages still clinging to the wall, lifting them with thumb and forefinger at arm's length. The watching orcs elbowed each other's ribs and snickered.
He peered into the graveyard and saw the other scattered strips. Clumsily, he negotiated the wall. Once inside, he bent, picked up the first bandage and stuffed it into the bag. Spotting the next, hanging on the wooden marker, he went to retrieve that. Slowly, he worked his way through the cemetery, gathering the grubby windings of cloth.
He stooped to a bandage lying across a grave. There was a sound. He froze, listening. Nothing. He reached for the bandage. As his fingers almost brushed it, the noise came again. Once more he paused, trying to work out what it might be. The sound had a kind of scuffling, scrabbling quality, as though something subterranean was burrowing. Wheam stared at the ground. The earth was bulging and shifting. He leaned closer.
The ground burst open. A bony hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Wheam struggled against its iron grip. He opened his mouth to shout but nothing came.
The earth was erupting on every side, spewing writhing shapes.
Sitting on the wagon's shafts, Coilla and Stryke were savouring the night air and the quiet.
'Doesn't seem so bad now, does it?' Coilla said. 'With the moon up and the stillness, we could almost be back in Ceragan.'
'I wouldn't go that far.'
'So what would you be doing if you were there on a night like this?'
'If I was at home I'd — '
A piercing scream rent the air.
Coilla leapt up. 'What the fu — '
'Over there! The graveyard. Come on! '
They ran towards the cemetery wall. Others were dashing that way too.
There was another loud yell.
They arrived to see Wheam in the middle of the graveyard, bent over and apparently tugging at something like an oversized tree root. All around him, indistinct figures were hauling themselves out of the earth.
Coilla and Stryke moved closer, most of the band at their heels, and took in the scene. The graves were disgorging strange fruit. What looked like rotting melons or oversized, cracked eggs were pushing through the soil. It took them a moment to realise that they were heads.
Creatures rose, heaving from the loam with wriggling, undulating movements. As they emerged, their forms could be seen. They were human. Or had been. Their bodies were decayed. Some were merely putrid, with discoloured, rotting flesh. Others were near skeletal, scraps of skin and cloth hanging from their exposed bones.
They progressed fitfully, decomposing limbs jerking and quivering, and their eyes were afire with malicious hunger. The smell that accompanied them was obnoxious.
One of the creatures scooped up a gory bandage and crammed it into its mouth. Its dislocated jaw clicked loudly as it chewed on the sodden fabric.
A score of the animated dead had surfaced, with more appearing. The orcs watched, transfixed.
Haskeer arrived, panting. 'What the fuck?'
'That's what I said,' Coilla told him.
'Snap out of it, Wolverines!' Stryke yelled. 'Let's deal with this!'
Everyone drew swords and headed for the wall.
'I'm going for Wheam,' Coilla announced.
'Can't we forget the little bastard?' Haskeer pleaded.
Coilla ignored him.
As the band approached, the walking corpses stopped and turned their heads as one. Then they advanced on the orcs.
The creature hanging on to Wheam was out of its grave. It was far gone in corruption, with much of the flesh on its chest rotted away, revealing the ribcage and foul innards. Wheam struggled to escape its grasp. He pawed at his sword sheath with his free hand, trying to reach the weapon. The creature dragged him closer.
The Wolverines swept to the wall. Coilla leapt over it and ran into the graveyard. Stryke and Haskeer chose its broken gate. A pair of the monstrosities were shambling through, and it seemed to Stryke that they were starting to move faster and with more fluidity. He charged at the nearest. The creature lurched to one side, but not quick enough to avoid the attack. Stryke's sword met no resistance as it plunged into the fetid chest. The only effect was to make his target stagger slightly, and as he swiftly withdrew the blade a puff of rank dust was liberated.
Haskeer struck out with his sword, burying it deep in his foe's side. It hewed parchment flesh, and splintered bone, but hardly slowed the creature. Haskeer delivered a weighty slash across its belly. The contents spilled out, releasing an unspeakable stench. Entrails dangling, the abomination kept coming, arms outstretched, hands like talons.
More of the creatures stumbled out of the gate. Others dragged themselves over the squat wall. The orcs met them with steel and spear. But Stryke's sense that the brutes' speed and mobility was growing proved right.
