The Adjunct slowly turned to study the warchief. ‘We shall reach Vathar Crossing tomorrow, Gall. What will we find?’
The Khundryl’s eyes glittered. ‘That is for you to decide, Tavore Paran. It is a place of death, and it shall speak its words to you—words the rest of us will not hear.’
‘Have you been there?’ she asked. He nodded, but added nothing more.
Gamet drank down a mouthful of wine. There was a strangeness to this night, to this moment here in the Adjunct’s tent, that left his skin crawling. He felt out of place, like a simpleton who’d just stumbled into the company of scholars. The revelry in the camp beyond was dying down, and come the dawn, he knew, there would be silence. Drunken oblivion was, each time, a small, temporary death. Hood walked where the self once stood, and the wake of the god’s passage sickened mortal flesh afterwards.
He set his cup down on the map table. ‘If you’ll forgive me,’ he muttered, ‘the air in here is too . . . close.’
Neither replied as he walked back to the flap.
Outside, in the street beyond the two motionless Wickan guards, Gamet paused and looked up. Ancient light, is it? If so, then the patterns I see . . . may have died long ago. No, that does not bear thinking about. It is one of those truths that have no value, for it offers nothing but dislocation.
And he needed no fuel for that cold fire. He was too old for this war. Hood knows, I didn’t enjoy it much the first time round. Vengeance belonged to the young, after all. The time when emotions burned hottest, when life was sharp enough to cut, fierce enough to sear the soul.
He was startled by the passing of a large cattle dog. Head low, muscles rippling beneath a mottled hide literally seamed with countless scars, the silent beast padded down the aisle between the tent rows. A moment later and it disappeared into the gloom.
‘I’ve taken to following it,’ a voice said behind him.
Gamet turned. ‘Captain Keneb. I am surprised to find you still awake.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘That boar’s not sitting too well in my gut, sir.’
‘More likely that fermented milk the Khundryl brought—what is it called again?’
‘Urtathan. But no, I have experienced that brew before, and so chose to avoid it. Come the morning, I suspect three-quarters of the army will realize a similar wisdom.’
‘And the remaining quarter?’
‘Dead.’ He smiled at Gamet’s expression. ‘Sorry, sir, I wasn’t entirely serious.’
The Fist gestured for the captain to accompany him, and they began walking. ‘Why do you follow that dog, Keneb?’
‘Because I know its tale, sir. It survived the Chain of Dogs. From Hissar to the Fall outside Aren. I watched it fall almost at Coltaine’s feet. Impaled by spears. It should not have survived that.’
‘Then how did it?’
‘Gesler.’
Gamet frowned. ‘The sergeant in our legion’s marines?’
‘Aye, sir. He found it, as well as another dog. What happened then I have no idea. But both beasts recovered from what should have been mortal wounds.’
‘Perhaps a healer . . .’
Keneb nodded. ‘Perhaps, but none among Blistig’s guard—I made enquiries. No, there’s a mystery yet to be solved. Not just the dogs, but Gesler himself, and his corporal, Stormy, and a third soldier—have you not noted their strangely hued skin? They’re Falari, yet Falari are pale-skinned, and a desert tan doesn’t look like that at all. Curious, too, it was Gesler who delivered the Silanda.’
‘Do you believe they have made a pact with a god, Captain? Such cults are forbidden in the imperial army.’
‘I cannot answer that, sir. Nor have I evidence sufficient to make such a charge against them. Thus far, I have kept Gesler’s squad, and a few others, as the column’s rearguard.’
The Fist grunted. ‘This news is disturbing, Captain. You do not trust your own soldiers. And this is the first time you’ve told me of any of this. Have you considered confronting the sergeant directly?’
They had reached the edge of the camp. Before them stretched a broken line of hills; to their right, the dark forest of Vathar.
To Gamet’s questions, Keneb sighed and nodded. ‘They in turn do not trust me, Fist. There is a rumour in my company . . . that I abandoned my last soldiers, at the time of the uprising.’
And did you, Keneb? Gamet said nothing.
But it seemed that the captain heard the silent question none the less. ‘I didn’t, although I will not deny that some of the decisions I made back then could give cause to question my loyalty to the empire.’
‘You had better explain that,’ Gamet said quietly.
‘I had family with me. I sought to save them, and for a time nothing else mattered. Sir, whole companies went over to the rebels. You did not know who to trust. And as it turned out, my commander—’
‘Say no more of that, Captain. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to know. Your family? Did you manage to save them?’
‘Aye, sir. With some timely help from an outlawed Bridgeburner—’
‘A what? Who, in Hood’s name?’
‘Corporal Kalam, sir.’
‘He’s here? In Seven Cities?’
‘He was. On his way, I think, to the Empress. From what I gathered, he had some issues he wanted to, uh, raise with her. In person.’
‘Who else knows all this?’
‘No-one, sir. I’ve heard the tale, that the Bridgeburners were wiped out. But I can tell you, Kalam was not among them. He was here, sir. And as to where he is now, perhaps the Empress alone knows.’
There was a smudge of motion in the grasses, about twenty paces distant. That dog. Hood knows what it’s up to. ‘All right, Captain. Keep Gesler in the rearguard for now. But at some point, before the battle, we’ll have to test him—I need to know if he’s reliable.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Your beast is wandering out there.’
‘I know. Every night. As if looking for something. I think it might be Coltaine. Looking for Coltaine. And it breaks my heart, sir.’
‘Well, if it’s true, Captain, that the dog’s looking for Coltaine, I admit to being surprised.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Because the bastard’s here. You’d have to be blind, dumb and deaf to miss him, Captain. Goodnight to you.’ He turned and strode off, feeling the need to spit, but he knew the bitter taste in his mouth would not so easily leave him.
The fire was long dead. Wrapped in his cloak, Strings sat before it, looking at but not seeing the layered bricks of ash that were all that remained of the pieces of dung. Beside him lay the scrawny Hengese lapdog that Truth said was named Roach. The bone the creature gnawed on was bigger than it, and had that bone teeth and appetite it would be the one doing the eating right now.
Contented company, then, to mock this miserable night. The blanketed forms of his squad lay motionless on all sides. They’d been too exhausted to get drunk, after raising the pickets then sitting first watch, and full bellies had quickly dragged them into sleep. Well enough, he mused, they’d be among the few spared the ravages of hangover in a few bells’ time. Even Cuttle had yet to awaken, as was his custom—or perhaps his eyes were open where he lay with his back to the hearth.
It did not matter. The loneliness Strings suffered could not be alleviated by company, not such as he might find here, in any case. Nor were his thoughts the kind he would willingly share.
They’d been spitting dust almost since the march began. Not the place for marines, unless a massive pursuit threatened the rear of the column, which was not the case. No. Keneb was punishing them, and Strings had no idea why. Even the lieutenant, who had somehow managed to avoid actually being present to command the squads, was uncertain as to the captain’s motivations. Though not displeased, of course. Then again, how can Ranal hope to acquire his stellar reputation with his soldiers coughing the entire Fourteenth’s dust?
And do I even give a damn, any more?
br />
The night air stank of bile, as if Poliel herself stalked the camp. The sudden acquisition of three thousand veterans had done much to lift the Fourteenth’s spirits—Strings hoped there was no omen in the aftermath.
All right then, let’s consider the matter at hand. This army has its chance, now. It doesn’t need bastards like me. Why would I want to go back to Raraku anyway? I hated it the first time. I’m not that young, mouthy fool—not what I once was. Did I really think I could recapture something in that holy desert? What, exactly? Lost years? That charging momentum that belongs to the young? To soldiers like Smiles and Koryk and Bottle and Tan. I joined for revenge, but it’s not filling my belly like it used to—Hood knows, nothing does any more. Not revenge. Not loyalty. Not even friendship. Damn you, Kalam, you should’ve talked me out of it. Right there in Malaz City. You should’ve called me a fool to my face.
Gesler’s cattle dog padded into view.
Roach growled, and the bigger beast paused, nose testing the air, then settled down a few paces away. The lapdog returned to its gnawing.
‘Come ahead, then, Gesler,’ Strings muttered.
The sergeant appeared, a jug in one hand. He sat down opposite, studied the jug for a moment, then made a disgusted sound and tossed it away. ‘Can’t get drunk any more,’ he said. ‘Not me, not Stormy or Truth. We’re cursed.’
‘I can think of worse curses,’ Strings muttered.
‘Well, so can I, but still. What’s really bad is I can’t sleep. None of us can. We was at Vathar Crossing—that’s where we drew the Silanda in to wait for the Chain of Dogs. Where I got punched good and hard, too. Damn, but that surprised me. Anyway, I’m not looking forward to seeing it again. Not after what happened there.’
‘So long as the bridge hasn’t been swept away,’ Strings replied.
Gesler grunted.
Neither spoke for a time, then: ‘You’re thinking of running, aren’t you, Fid?’
He scowled.
Gesler slowly nodded. ‘It’s bad when you lose ’em. Friends, I mean. Makes you wonder why you’re still here, why the damned sack of blood and muscle and bones keeps on going. So you run. Then what? Nothing. You’re not here, but wherever you are, you’re still there.’
Strings grimaced. ‘I’m supposed to make sense of that? Listen, it’s not just what happened to the Bridgeburners. It’s about being a soldier. About doing this all over again. I’ve realized that I didn’t even like it much the first time round. There’s got to come a point, Gesler, when it’s no longer the right place to be, or the right thing to do.’
‘Maybe, but I ain’t seen it yet. It comes down to what you’re good at. Nothing else, Fid. You don’t want to be a soldier no more. Fine, but what are you going to do instead?’
‘I was apprenticed as a mason, once—’
‘And apprentices are ten years old, Fiddler. They ain’t crabby creak-bones like you. Look, there’s only one thing for a soldier to do, and that’s soldiering. You want it to end? Well, there’s a battle coming. Should give you plenty of opportunity. Throw yourself on a sword and you’re done.’ Gesler paused and jabbed a finger at Strings. ‘But that’s not the problem, is it? It’s because now you’ve got a squad, and you’re responsible for ’em. That’s what you don’t like, and that’s what’s got you thinking of running.’
Strings rose. ‘Go pet your dog, Gesler.’ He walked off into the darkness.
The grass was wet underfoot as he made his way through the pickets. Muted challenges sounded, to which he replied, and then he was out beyond the camp. Overhead, the stars had begun to withdraw as the sky lightened. Capemoths were winging in swirling clouds towards the forested hills of Vathar, the occasional rhizan diving through them, upon which they exploded outward, only to reform once the danger was past.
On the ridge three hundred paces ahead of the sergeant stood a half-dozen desert wolves. They’d done their howling for the night, and now lingered out of curiosity, or perhaps simply awaiting the army’s departure, so they could descend into the basin and pick at the leavings.
Strings paused at a faint singing, low and mournful and jarring, that seemed to emanate from a depression just this side of the ridge. He’d heard it other nights, always beyond the encampment, but had not been inclined to investigate. There was nothing inviting to that thin, atonal music.
But now it called to him. With familiar voices. Heart suddenly aching, he walked closer.
The depression was thick with yellowed grasses, but a circle had been flattened in the centre. The two Wickan children, Nil and Nether, were seated there, facing one another, with the space between them occupied by a broad, bronze bowl.
Whatever filled it was drawing butterflies, a score at present, but more were gathering.
Strings hesitated, then made to leave.
‘Come closer,’ Nil called out in his reedy voice. ‘Quickly, the sun rises!’
Frowning, the sergeant approached. As he reached the edge of the depression, he halted in sudden alarm. Butterflies swarmed around him, a pale yellow frenzy filling his eyes—brushing air against his skin like a thousand breaths. He spun in place, but could see nothing beyond the mass of fluttering wings.
‘Closer! He wants you here!’ Nether’s high, piping voice. But Strings could not take another step. He was enveloped, and within that yellow shroud, there was a . . . presence.
And it spoke. ‘Bridgeburner. Raraku waits for you. Do not turn back now.’
‘Who are you?’ Strings demanded. ‘Who speaks?’
‘I am of this land, now. What I was before does not matter. I am awakened. We are awakened. Go to join your kin. In Raraku—where he will find you. Together, you must slay the goddess. You must free Raraku of the stain that lies upon it.’
‘My kin? Who will I find there?’
‘The song wanders, Bridgeburner. It seeks a home. Do not turn back.’
All at once the presence vanished. The butterflies rose skyward, spinning and swirling into the sunlight. Higher, ever higher . . .
Small hands clutched at him, and he looked down. Nether stared up at him, her face filled with panic. Two paces behind her stood Nil, his arms wrapped about himself, his eyes filling with tears.
Nether was screaming. ‘Why you? We have called and called! Why you!?’
Shaking his head, Strings pushed her away. ‘I—I don’t know!’
‘What did he say? Tell us! He had a message for us, yes? What did he say?’
‘For you? Nothing, lass—why, who in Hood’s name do you think that was?’
‘Sormo E’nath!’
‘The warlock? But he—’ Strings staggered another step back. ‘Stop that damned singing!’
The Wickans stared.
And Strings realized that neither was singing—neither could have been—for it continued, filling his head.
Nether asked, ‘What singing, soldier?’
He shook his head again, then turned and made his way back towards camp. Sormo had no words for them. Nor did he. Nor did he want to see their faces—their helpless desperation, their yearning for a ghost that was gone—gone for ever. That was not Sormo E’nath. That was something else—Hood knows what. ‘We are awakened.’ What does that mean? And who’s waiting for me in Raraku? My kin—I’ve none, barring the Bridgeburners—gods below! Quick Ben? Kalam? One, or both? He wanted to scream, if only to silence the song that whispered through his head, the dreadful, painfully incomplete music that gnawed at his sanity.
Raraku, it seemed, was not yet done with him. Strings silently railed. Damn all of this!
To the north, through the smoky wreaths of the encampment, the mantled hills of Vathar seemed to unfurl the sun’s golden light. On the ridge behind him, the wolves began howling.
Gamet settled back in the saddle as his horse began the descent towards the river. It had not been long enough for the land to entirely swallow the victims of the slaughter that had occurred here. Bleached bones gleamed in the sandy mud of the shoreline. Frag
ments of cloth, pieces of leather and iron. And the ford itself was barely recognizable. Remnants of a floating bridge were heaped on it on the upstream side, and on this barrier more detritus had piled. Sunken, waterlogged wagons, trees, grasses and reeds, now anchored by silts, a hulking, bowed mass that had formed a kind of bridge. To the Fist’s eye, it seemed the whole thing was moments from breaking loose.
Scouts had crossed it on foot. Gamet could see a score of mud-smeared Seti on the opposite side, making their way up the steep slope.
The forests on both sides of the river were a mass of colour, their branches festooned with strips of cloth, with braids and painted human bones that twisted in the wind.
Mesh’arn tho’ledann. The Day of Pure Blood. Upstream, on either bank for as far as he could see, long poles had been thrust into the mud at angles so that they hung over the swirling water. The carcasses of sheep and goats hung from them. From some the blood still drained, whilst others were well along in their rot, seething with flies, capemoths and carrion birds. Small white flecks rained down from the sacrificed animals, to which fish swarmed, and it was a moment before Gamet realized what those flecks were—maggots, falling into the river.
Captain Keneb drew his horse alongside Gamet’s own as they approached the bank. ‘That’s not mud binding that flotsam, is it? Oh, a little silt and sand, but mostly—’
‘Blood, aye,’ Gamet muttered.
They were trailing the Adjunct, who was flanked by Nil and Nether. The three reached the water’s edge and halted their mounts. Behind Gamet and Keneb, the front companies of the 10th Legion were on the slope, within sight of the river and its ragged bridge.