wrist. “Cold,” she snapped at Ninefingers, “been dead since this morning at least.” She pulled her hand out, fingers slimy with gore.
Jezal had belched half his meagre breakfast down his coat before he had time even to slide out of his saddle. He staggered a couple of drunkard’s steps, took a gasping breath and retched again. He bent over, hands on his knees, head spinning, spitting bile out onto the grass.
“You alright?”
Jezal glanced up, doing his best to look nonchalant with a long string of bitter drool hanging from his face. “Something I ate,” he muttered, wiping at his nose and mouth with his trembling hand. A pitiful ruse, he had to admit.
Ninefingers only nodded, though. “That meat this morning, most likely. I been feeling sick myself.” He gave one of his revolting smiles and offered Jezal a water skin. “Best keep drinking. Flush it away, uh?”
Jezal sloshed a mouthful of water round his mouth and spat it out, watching Ninefingers walk back to the bodies, and frowning. That had been strange. Coming from another source it might have seemed almost a generous gesture. He took another swig of water, and began to feel better. He made, somewhat unsteadily, for his horse, and clambered back into the saddle.
“Whoever did it was well armed, and in numbers,” Ferro was saying. “The grass is full of tracks.”
“We should be careful,” said Jezal, hoping to impose himself on the conversation.
Bayaz turned sharply to look at him. “We should always be careful! That goes without saying! How far are we from Darmium?”
Longfoot squinted up at the sky, then out across the plain. He licked his finger and held it up to the wind. “Even for a man of my talents, it is hard to be accurate without the stars. Fifty miles or thereabouts.”
“We’ll need to turn off the track soon.”
“We are not crossing the river at Darmium?”
“The city is in chaos. Cabrian holds it, and admits no one. We cannot take the risk.”
“Very well. Aostum it is. We will take a wide route round Darmium and off westward. A slightly longer path but—”
“No.”
“No?”
“The bridge at Aostum lies in ruins.”
Longfoot frowned. “Gone, eh? Truly, God loves to test his faithful. We may have to ford the Aos then—”
“No,” said Bayaz. “The rains have been heavy and the great river is deep. The fords are all closed to us.”
The Navigator looked puzzled. “You, of course, are my employer, and as a proud member of the order of Navigators I will always do my utmost to obey, but I am afraid that I can see no other way. If we cannot cross at Darmium, or at Aostum, and we cannot ford the river…”
“There is one other bridge.”
“There is?” Longfoot looked baffled for a moment, then his eyes suddenly widened. “You cannot mean —”
“The bridge at Aulcus still stands.”
Everyone glanced at each other for a moment, frowning. “I thought you said the place was a ruin,” said Ninefingers.
“A shattered graveyard, I heard,” murmured Ferro.
“I thought you said no one goes within miles of the place.”
“It would hardly have been my first choice, but there are no others. We will join the river and follow the northern bank to Aulcus.” Nobody moved. Longfoot in particular had a look of stunned horror on his face. “Now!” snapped Bayaz. “It is plainly not safe to remain here.” And with that he turned his horse away from the corpses. Quai shrugged and flicked his reigns and the cart grumbled off through the grass after the First of the Magi. Longfoot and Ninefingers followed behind, all frowns and foreboding.
Jezal stared at the bodies, still lying where they had found them, their eyes staring accusingly up into the darkening sky. “Shouldn’t we bury them?”
“If you like,” grunted Ferro, springing up into the saddle in one easy motion. “Maybe you could bury them in puke.”
Bloody Company
Riding, that was what they were doing. That was what they’d been doing for days. Riding, looking for Bethod, with winter coming on. Bog and forest, hill and valley. Rain and sleet, fog and snow. Looking for signs that he was coming their way, and knowing that there wouldn’t be any. A lot of wasted time, to the Dogman’s mind, but once you’ve been fool enough to ask for a task, you better do the one you’re given.
“Stupid bloody job, this,” snarled Dow, wincing and twitching and fussing with his reins. He’d never been too much of a one for horseback. Liked to keep his feet on the ground and pointed at the enemy. “Waste of our fucking time. How d’you put up with scouting, Dogman? Stupid bloody job!”
“Someone’s got to get it done, don’t they? Least I got a horse now.”
“Well I’m right delighted for you!” he sneered. “You got a horse!”
The Dogman shrugged his shoulders. “Better than walking.”
“Better than walking, eh?” scoffed Dow. “That just binds it all up!”
“I got new breeches and all. Not to mention good woollens. The wind don’t blow half so cold round my fruits no more.”
That got a chuckle from Tul, but it seemed Dow wasn’t in a laughing mood. “Wind round your fruits? By the fucking dead, boy, is this what we’re come to? You forgotten who you are? You was Ninefingers’ closest! You came over the mountains with him in the first place! You’re in all them songs along with him! You scouted at the head of armies. A thousand men, all following your say-so!”
“That didn’t turn out too happy for anyone concerned,” muttered Dogman, but Dow was already laying into Tul.
“And how about you, big man? Tul Duru Thunderhead, strongest bastard in the North. Wrestled bears and won, I heard. Held the pass all alone, while your clan got clean away. A giant, they say, ten feet tall, born under a storm, and with a belly full o’ thunder. What about it, giant? The only thunder I’ve heard you make lately is when you take a shit!”
“What of it?” snarled Tul. “You any different? Men used to whisper your name, scared to speak it out loud. They’d grip their weapons tight and stick close by the fire if they thought you was within ten leagues! Black Dow, they used to say, quiet and cunning and ruthless as the wolf! He’s killed more men than winter, and he’s got less pity in him! Who cares a shit now, eh? Times have changed, and you rolled just as far downhill as the rest of us!”
Dow only smiled. “That’s my point, big lad, that’s just my point. We used to be something, each one of us. Named Men. Known men. Feared men. I remember my brother telling me that there ain’t no better man than Harding Grim with bow nor blade, no better man in all the North. Steadiest damn hand in the whole Circle of the World! How about that, eh, Grim?”
“Uh,” said Grim.
Dow nodded his head. “Exactly what I’m saying. Now look at us. We ain’t so much rolled downhill as fell off a bloody cliff! Running errands for these Southerners? These fucking women in men’s trousers? These damn salad- eaters with their big words and their thin little swords?”
Dogman shifted in his saddle, uncomfortable. “That West knows what he’s about.”
“That West!” sneered Dow. “He knows his arse from his mouth, and in that he’s a damn stretch better than the rest, but he’s soft as pig fat, and you know it. Got no bones in him at all! None of ’em have! I’d be shocked to my roots if the better part of ’em have ever seen a skirmish. You reckon they’d stand a charge from Bethod’s Carls?” He snorted hard laughter to himself. “Now there’s a joke!”
“It can’t be denied they’re a piss-weak crowd,” muttered Tul, and the Dogman couldn’t very well disagree.
