Three strides forward. Under the eyes of over three hundred Wickans, and five hundred Seti, the burly Khundryl-his grey eyes fixed on Temul-halted. Then he unslung his broken tulwar and held it out to the Wickan youth.
Temul was pale as he reached down to accept it.
Gall stepped back and slowly lowered himself to one knee. ‘We are not Wickans,’ the warchief grated, ‘but this I swear-we shall strive to be.’ He lowered his head.
Temul sat unmoving, visibly struggling beneath a siege of emotions, and Strings suddenly realized that the lad did not know how to answer, did not know what to do.
The sergeant took a step, then swung his helm upward, as if to put it back on. Temul caught the flash of movement, even as he looked about to dismount, and he froze as he met Strings’s eyes.
A slight shake of the head. Stay in that saddle, Temul! The sergeant reached up and touched his own mouth. Talk. Answer with words, lad!
The commander slowly settled back into his saddle, then straightened. ‘Gall of the Burned Tears,’ he said, barely a tremble to his voice, ‘Blackwing sees through the eyes of every Wickan here. Sees, and answers. Rise. In Blackwing’s name, I, Temul of the Crow Clan, accept you… the Burned Tears… of the Crow Clan, of the Wickans.’ He then took the loop of leather to which the broken tulwar was tied, and lowered it over his shoulder.
With the sound of a wave rolling up a league-long strand of beach, weapons were unsheathed along the ridge, a salute voiced by iron alone.
A shiver rippled through Strings.
‘Hood’s breath,’ Cuttle muttered under his breath. ‘That is a lot more frightening than their warcries were.’
Aye, as ominous as Hood’s smile. He looked back to Temul and saw the Wickan watching him. The sergeant lowered the helm onto his head once more, then grinned and nodded. Perfect, lad. Couldn’t have done better myself.
And now, Temul wasn’t alone any more, surrounded by sniping arthritic wolves who still wouldn’t accept his command. Now, the lad had Gall and three thousand blooded warriors to back his word. And that’s the last of that. Gall, if I was a religious man, I’d burn a crow-wing in your name tonight. Hood take me, I might do it anyway.
‘Gall of the Burned Tears,’ the Adjunct announced. ‘Please join us at our command quarters. We can discuss the disposition of your forces over a meal-a modest meal, alas-’
The Khundryl finally straightened. He faced the Adjunct. ‘Modest? No. We have brought our own food, and this night there shall be a feast-not a single soldier shall go without at least a mouthful of bhederin or boar!’ He swung about and scanned his retinue until he spied the one he sought. ‘Imrahl! Drag your carcass back to the wagons and bring them forward! And find the two hundred cooks and see if they’ve sobered up yet! And if they haven’t, I will have their heads!’
The warrior named Imrahl, an ancient, scrawny figure who seemed to be swimming beneath archaic bronze armour, answered with a broad, ghastly smile, then spun his horse round and kicked it into a canter back up the slope.
Gall swung about and raised both hands skyward, the crow-wings attached to the forearms seeming to snap open beneath them. ‘Let the Dogslayers cower!’ he roared. ‘The Burned Tears have begun the hunt!’
Cuttle leaned close to Strings. ‘That’s one problem solved-the Wickan lad’s finally on solid ground. One wound sewn shut, only to see another pried open.’
‘Another?’ Oh. Yes, true enough. That Wickan Fist’s ghost keeps rearing up, again and again. Poor lass.
‘As if Coltaine’s legacy wasn’t already dogging her heels… if you’ll excuse the pun,’ the sapper went on. ‘Still, she’s putting a brave face on it…’
No choice. Strings faced his squad. ‘Collect your gear, soldiers. We’ve got pickets to raise… before we eat.’ At their groans he scowled. ‘And consider yourselves lucky-missing those scouts don’t bode well for our capabilities, now, does it?’
He watched them assemble their gear. Gesler and Borduke were approaching with their own squads. Cuttle grunted at the sergeant’s side. ‘In case it’s slipped your mind, Fid,’ he said, low, ‘we didn’t see the bastards, either.’
‘You’re right,’ Strings replied, ‘it’s slipped my mind completely. Huh, there it goes again. Gone.’
Cuttle scratched the bristle on his heavy jaw. ‘Strange, what were we talking about?’
‘Bhederin and boar, I think. Fresh meat.’
‘Right. My mouth’s watering at the thought.’
Gamet paused outside the command tent. The revelry continued unabated, as the Khundryl roved through the camp, roaring their barbaric songs. Jugs of fermented milk had been broached and the Fist was grimly certain that more than one bellyful of half-charred, half-raw meat had returned to the earth prematurely out beyond the fires, or would in the short time that remained before dawn.
Next day’s march had been halved, by the Adjunct’s command, although even five bells’ walking was likely to make most of the soldiers regret this night’s excesses.
Or maybe not.
He watched a marine from his own legion stumble past, a Khundryl woman riding him, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his neck. She was naked, the marine nearly so. Weaving, the pair vanished into the gloom.
Gamet sighed, drawing his cloak tighter about himself, then turned and approached the two Wickans standing guard outside the Adjunct’s tent.
They were from the Crow, grey-haired and looking miserable. Recognizing the Fist they stepped to either side of the entrance. He passed between them, ducking to slip between the flaps.
All of the other officers had left, leaving only the Adjunct and Gall, the latter sprawled on a massive, ancient-looking wooden chair that had come on the Khundryl wagons. The warchief had removed his helm, revealing a mass of curly hair, long and black and shimmering with grease. The midnight hue was dye, Gamet suspected, for the man had seen at least fifty summers. The tips of his moustache rested on his chest and he looked half asleep, a jug gripped by the clay handle in one huge hand. The Adjunct stood nearby, eyes lowered onto a brazier, as if lost in thought.
Were I an artist, I would paint this scene. This precise moment, and leave the viewer to wonder. He strode over to the map table, where another jug of wine waited. ‘Our army is drunk, Adjunct,’ he murmured as he poured a cup full.
‘Like us,’ Gall rumbled. ‘Your army is lost.’
Gamet glanced over at Tavore, but there was no reaction for him to gauge. He drew a breath, then faced the Khundryl. ‘We are yet to fight a major battle, Warchief. Thus, we do not yet know ourselves. That is all. We are not lost-’
‘Just not yet found,’ Gall finished, baring his teeth. He took a long swallow from his jug.
‘Do you regret your decision to join us, then?’ Gamet asked.
‘Not at all, Fist. My shamans have read the sands. They have learned much of your future. The Fourteenth Army shall know a long life, but it shall be a restless life. You are doomed to search, destined to ever hunt… for what even you do not know, nor, perhaps, shall you ever know. Like the sands themselves, wandering for eternity.’
Gamet was scowling. ‘I do not wish to offend, Warchief, but I hold little faith in divination. No mortal-no god-can say we are doomed, or destined. The future remains unknown, the one thing we cannot force a pattern upon.’
The Khundryl grunted. ‘Patterns, the lifeblood of the shamans. But not them alone, yes? The Deck of Dragons-are they not used for divination?’
Gamet shrugged. ‘There are some who hold much store in the Deck, but I am not one of them.’
‘Do you not see patterns in history, Fist? Are you blind to the cycles we all suffer through? Look upon this desert, this wasteland you cross. Yours is not the first empire that would claim it. And what of the tribes? Before the Khundryl, before the Kherahn Dhobri and the Tregyn, there were the Sanid, and the Oruth, and before them there were others whose names have vanished. Look upon the ruined cities, the old roads. The past is all patterns, and those patterns remain beneath our feet even as the stars above reveal their own patterns-for the stars we gaze upon each night are naught but an illusion from the past.’ He raised the jug again and studied it for a moment. ‘Thus, the past lies beneath and above the present, Fist. This is the truth my shamans embrace, the bones upon which the future clings like muscle.’