The afternoon following the raid and the slaughter of the Seti, Strings slowed his pace during the march, until he fell in step with Bottle and Tarr. Despite his casual expression, the truth was, the bile roiled sour in his stomach. The Fourteenth had found its own scorpion, out there in the wastes beyond, and it had just delivered its first sting. The mood of the soldiers was low, and uncertainty gnawed at their confidence. None had believed, it was clear, that the first blood they tasted would be their own. Got to get their minds off it.
‘How’s little Joyful, Bottle?’
The mage shrugged. ‘As hungry and nasty as ever, Sergeant.’
Strings nodded. ‘And how’s the training coming along, Corporal?’
Tarr frowned beneath the rim of his helm. ‘All right, I suppose. As soon as I figure out what kind of training it needs, I’ll get right on it.’
‘Good, the situation sounds ideal. Spread the word. First battle’s tonight, one bell after we set camp.’
Both soldiers swung their heads round at this.
‘Tonight?’ Bottle asked. ‘After what just-’
‘You heard me. Gesler and Borduke are getting their beauties primed, same as us. We’re ready, lads.’
‘It’s going to draw quite a crowd,’ Corporal Tarr said, shaking his head. ‘The lieutenant won’t help but wonder-’
‘Not just the lieutenant, I’d imagine,’ Strings replied. ‘But there won’t be much of a crowd. We’ll use the old word-line system. Run the commentary back through the whole camp.’
‘Joyful’s going to get skewered,’ Bottle muttered, his expression growing sorrowful. ‘And here I been feeding her, every night. Big juicy capemoths… she’d just pounce real pretty, then start eating until there wasn’t nothing left but a couple wings and a crunched-up ball. Then she’d spend half the night cleaning her pincers and licking her lips-’
‘Lips?’ Smiles asked from behind the three men. ‘What lips? Scorpions don’t have lips-’
‘What do you know?’ Bottle shot back. ‘You won’t even get close-’
‘When I get close to a scorpion I kill it. Which is what any sane person would do.’
‘Sane?’ the mage retorted. ‘You pick them up and start pulling things off! Tail, pincers, legs-I ain’t seen nothing so cruel in my life!’
‘Well, ain’t that close enough to see if it’s got lips?’
‘Where’s it all go, I wonder?’ Tarr muttered.
Bottle nodded. ‘I know, it’s amazing. She’s so tiny…’
‘That’s our secret,’ Strings said quietly.
‘What is?’
‘The reason why I picked a Birdshit, soldiers.’
‘You didn’t pick…’
At the suspicious silence that followed, Strings simply smiled. Then he shrugged. ‘Hunting’s one thing. An easy thing. Birdshits don’t need to get… elaborate, killing a maimed capemoth. It’s when they have to fight. Protecting territory, or their young. That’s when the surprise comes. You think Joyful’s going to lose tonight, Bottle? Think your heart’s going to get broken? Relax, lad, old Strings here has always got your tender feelings in mind…’
‘You can drop that “Strings” bit, Sergeant,’ Bottle said after a moment. ‘We all know who you are. We all know your real name.’
‘Well, that’s damned unfortunate. If it gets out to the command-’
‘Oh, it won’t, Fiddler.’
‘Maybe not on purpose, but in the heat of battle?’
‘Who’s going to listen to our screams of panic in a battle, Sergeant?’
Fiddler shot the young man a look, gauging, then he grinned. ‘Good point. Still, be careful what you say and when you say it.’
‘Aye, Sergeant. Now, could you explain that surprise you were talking about?’
‘No. Wait and see.’
Strings fell silent then, noting a small party of riders approaching down the line of march. ‘Straighten up, soldiers. Officers coming.’
Fist Gamet, the sergeant saw, was looking old, worn out. Getting dragged out of retirement was never a good thing, he knew, since the first thing that an old soldier put away was his nerve, and that was hard, if not impossible, to get back. That stepping away, of course, marked a particular kind of retirement-and one a cautious soldier usually avoided. Abandoning the lifestyle was one thing, but surrendering the deadly edge was another. Studying the Fist as the man rode up, Fiddler felt a tremor of unease.
Accompanying Gamet were Captain Keneb and the lieutenant, the latter so grim-faced as to be near comical. His officer mask, with which he tries to look older and thus more professional. Instead, it’s the scowl of a constipated man. Someone should tell him…
The threesome reined in to walk their horses alongside Fiddler’s own squad-somewhat unnerving to the sergeant, though he offered them a nod. Keneb’s eyes, he noted, were on Cuttle.
But it was Ranal who spoke first. ‘Sergeant Strings.’
‘Aye, sir?’
‘You and Cuttle, please, off to one side for a private conversation.’ Then he raised his voice to the squad marching ahead. ‘Sergeant Gesler and Corporal Stormy, back with us on the double.’
‘Four should be enough,’ the Fist rumbled, ‘to see the instructions properly delivered to the other squads.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ranal, who had been about to call over Borduke. When the four marines were assembled, Fist Gamet cleared his throat, then began, ‘It’s clear you are all veterans. And Captain Keneb informs me that you have marched in these lands before-no, I need no more details of that. My reliance depends on that very experience, however. The Adjunct wishes the marines to answer the desert raiders tonight.’ He fell silent then.
And no-one spoke for a time, as the significance of the Fist’s words slowly settled in the minds of the four marines.
Finally, Captain Keneb said, ‘Aye, Dassem’s answer, all those years ago. It’s fortunate, then, that you’d planned on using the word-line this evening. Simple enough to keep it going once the three-way fight’s finished.’ He leaned over slightly in his saddle and said to Fiddler, ‘You’ve the Birdshit, Sergeant? What are the odds running at right now?’
‘Maybe says it’s about forty to one,’ Fiddler replied, keeping his face straight.
‘Even better than I’d hoped,’ Keneb replied, leaning back. ‘But I should add, Sergeant, that I’ve convinced the Fist to back your Birdshit as well.’
‘Ten jakatas,’ Gamet said, ‘and in this I rely upon the captain’s… experience. And yours, Sergeant… Strings.’
‘Uh, we’ll do our best, sir.’
Gesler turned to Stormy. ‘Smell something, Corporal?’
The huge Falari with the flint sword on his back scowled. ‘Ain’t no scorpions on the coasts, dammit. Aye, Sergeant, I’m smelling something all right.’
‘Get used to it,’ Cuttle advised.
Ranal was looking confused, but wisely said nothing… for now.
‘Use the word-line,’ Keneb said, resuming his instructions, ‘and remember, make sure the toughest squads are the ones showing their smiles.’
‘Aye, Captain,’ Fiddler replied, wondering if he should reassess his opinion of Keneb.
‘One last thing,’ the man added. ‘Fist Gamet will be commanding the operation tonight. Accordingly, I want your two squads and Borduke’s to double your duties tonight.’
Oh, Hood’s balls under a big rock. ‘Understood, Captain.’
The soldiers of the Fourteenth Army were strangely arrayed throughout the encampment once the tents had been raised and the cookfires started, seemingly casually seated in a manner that, if seen from on high, would have resembled a vast, knotted rope. And following the meal, activities seemed to cease entirely, barring the reluctant marching out of the soldiers on first picket duty.
In one particular place, centred on the marines of the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, a somewhat different assembly of soldiers was apparent-a smallish, exclusive ring, surrounding a still smaller ring of daggers thrust into the ground, edge inward, at a spacing of two finger-widths. For the moment, that inner ring was empty, the sand smoothed flat and free of pebbles.