‘It is, friend. Do you wish to know why?’
‘Not at all. It’s just, uh, well, a damned relief, to be honest.’
Onrack reached down and snagged one of the cubs, lifting it by the scruff of its neck. The beast hissed in outrage, writhing as he held it up. ‘Trull Sengar, you may explain to our friend why Imass are forbidden to paint likenesses of themselves. You may also tell him my story, so that he understands, and need not ask again why I am awakened to pain within me, recalling now, as I do, that mortal flesh is only made real when fed by the breath of love.’
Quick Ben studied Onrack with narrowed eyes. I don’t recall asking anything like that. Well, not out hud, anyway.
Trull Sengar’s relieved expression fell away and he sighed, but it was a loose sigh, the kind that marked the unbinding of long-held tensions. ‘I shall. Thank you, Onrack. Some secrets prove a heavy burden. And when I am done revealing to Quick Ben one of the details of your life that has served to forge our friendship, I will then tell you both of my own secret. I will tell you of the Eres’al and what she did to me, long before she appeared to us all in the cavern.’
A moment of long silence.
Then Quick Ben snorted. ‘Fine. And I’ll tell a tale of twelve souls. And a promise I made to a man named Whiskeyjack-a promise that has brought me all this way, with farther still to go. And then, I suppose, we shall all truly know each other.’
‘It is,’ Onrack said, collecting the second cub so he could hold both beasts up side by side, ‘a day for gifts.’
From beyond the hills there came the sound of thunder. That faded, and did not repeat.
The emlava were suddenly quiet.
‘What was that?’ Trull Sengar asked.
Quick Ben could feel his heart pound in his chest. ‘That, friends, was a cusser.’
Fiddler made his way across the dirt floor of the barn to where Bottle slept. He stared down at the young soldier curled up beneath a dark grey blanket. Poor bastard. He nudged with his foot and Bottle groaned. ‘Sun’s set,’ Fiddler said.
‘I know, Sergeant. I watched it going down.’
‘We’ve rigged a stretcher. Just get up and eat something and then you’ve got a mobile bed for the rest of the night.’
‘Unless you need me.’
‘Unless we need you, aye.’
Bottle sat up, rubbed at his face. ‘Thanks, Sergeant. I don’t need the whole night-half will do.’
‘You take what I give you, soldier. Cut it short and we could all end up regretting it.’
‘All right, fine, make me feel guilty, then. See if I care.’
Smiling, Fiddler turned away. The rest of the squad was readying the gear, a few muted words drifting between the soldiers. Gesler and his crew were in the abandoned farmhouse-no point in crowding up all in one place. Poor tactics anyway.
There had been no pursuit. The drum had done its work. But that was four cussers lost, to add to the others they’d already used. Down to two left and that was bad news. If another enemy column found them… we’re dead or worse. Well, marines weren’t supposed to have it easy. Good enough that they were still alive.
Cuttle approached. ‘Tarr says we’re ready, Fid.’ He glanced over at Bottle. ‘I got the sorry end of the stretcher to start, soldier. You better not have gas.’
Bottle, a mouthful of nuts and lard bulging his cheeks, simply stared up at the sapper.
‘Gods below,’ Cuttle said, ‘you’re eating one of those Khundryl cakes, ain’t ya? Well, Fid, if we need us a torch to light the way-’
‘Permission denied, Cuttle.’
‘Aye, probably right. It’d light up half the night sky. Hood’s breath, why do I always get the short twig?’
‘So long as you face off against Corabb on that kind of thing,’ Fiddler said, ‘short’s your middle name.’
Cuttle edged closer to Fiddler and said in a low voice, ‘That big bang yesterday’s gonna draw down a damned army-
Assuming they’ve fielded one. So far, we’re running into companies, battalion elements-as if an army’s dispersed, which is more or less what we expected them to do. No point in maintaining a single force when your enemy’s scattered right across Hood’s pimply backside. If they were smart they’d draw up reserves and saturate the region, leave us not a single deer trail to slink along.’
‘So far,’ Cuttle said, squinting through the gloom at the rest of the squad and massaging his roughly healed shoulder, ‘they ain’t been very smart.’
‘Moranth munitions are new to them,’ Fiddler pointed out. ‘So’s our brand of magic. Whoever’s in command here is probably still reeling, still trying to guess our plans.’
‘My guess is whoever was in command, Fid, is now Rannalled in tree branches.’
Fiddler shrugged, then lifted his pack onto his shoulders and collected his crossbow.
Corporal Tarr checked his gear one last time, then straightened. He drew his left arm through the shield straps, adjusted his sword belt, then tightened the strap of his helm.
‘Most people just carry their shields on their backs,’ Koryk said from where he stood by the barn’s entrance.
‘Not me,’ said Tarr. ‘Get ambushed and there’s no time to ready, is there? So I stay readied.’ He then rolled his shoulders to settle his scaled hauberk, a most familiar, satisfying rustle and clack of iron. He felt unsteady on his feet without that solid, anchoring weight. He had quick-release clasps for his pack of equipment, could drop all that behind him one-handed even as he stepped forward and drew his sword. At least one of them in this squad had to be first to the front, after all, to give them time to bring whatever they had to bear.
This was what he had been trained to do, from the very beginning. Braven Tooth had seen it true enough, seen into Tarr’s stolid, stubborn soul, and he’d said as much, hadn’t he? ‘Your name’s Tarr, soldier. It’s under your feet and you’re s tuck fast. When needs be. It’s your job, from now on. You hold back the enemy at that first blink of contact, you make your squad survive mat moment, aye? Now, you ain’t solid enough yet. Strap on these extra weights, soldier, then get sparring…’
He liked the idea of being immovable. He liked the idea of being corporal, too, especially the way he hardly ever had to say anything. He had a good squad for that. Fast learners. Even Smiles. Corabb he wasn’t too sure about. Aye, the man had Oponn’s wink true enough. And no shortage of courage. But it seemed he always had to get there first, before Tarr himself. Trying to prove something, of course. No mystery there. As far as the squad was concerned, Corabb was a recruit. More or less. Well, maybe he was a bit past that-nobody called him Recruit, did they? Even if Tarr still thought of him that way.
But Corabb had dragged Fiddler out. All by himself. A damned prisoner, and he’d done that. Saved the sergeant’s life. Almost enough to excuse him being at Leoman’s side as the two of them lured the Bonehunters into Y’Ghatan’s fiery nightmare.
Almost.
Aye, Tarr knew he wasn’t the forgiving kind. Not the forgetting kind, either. And he knew, deep down inside, that he’d stand for every soldier in his squad, stand till he fell. Except, maybe, for Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas.
Koryk taking far point, they headed out into the night.
Along the edge of the nearest stand of trees, on the path between those boles and the edge of the fallow field, they silently merged with Gesler and his squad. Setting out in darkness beneath burgeoning stars.
Stormy’s heavies were good to have around, Tarr decided. Almost as tough and stubborn as he was. Too bad, though, about Uru Hela. But she’d been careless, hadn’t she? Even if you’re carrying a waterskin, the least you should have at the ready was a shield. Even more appalling, she’d turned and run, exposing her back.
Should’ve sent me to do all that. Demon or no, I’d have stood to meet the bastard. Stood, and held.
‘Remember your name, Tare. And just to help you remember it, come over here and listen to your Master Sergeant, while I tell you a tale. About another soldier with tar under his feet. His name was Temper, and on the day Dassem Ultor fell, outside Y’Ghatan, well, here then is that tale…’
Tarr had listened, all right. Enough to know that a man like that couldn’t have existed, except in the mind of Master Sergeant Braven Tooth. But it had been inspiring anyway. Temper, a good name, a damned good name. Almost as good as Tarr.
