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?
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.