Maybe was the last soldier to join the others waiting impatiently around the modest arena, saying nothing though his lips moved in a silent recitation of numbers and names. Seeing the eyes of the others on him, he gave a single nod.
Fiddler swung to Bottle. ‘Bring out Joyful Union, lad.’ Borduke and Gesler issued similar instructions for their respective combatants. The Red-backed Bastard had been named Mangonel by Borduke’s squad, while Gesler and company had named their amber In Out scorpion Clawmaster.
The three boxes were brought forward and Fiddler said to his fellow sergeants, ‘All right, here and now we’re to look upon our beauties, and so swear that no alterations have been made to them, either by sorcery or alchemy or any other means. They are natural as the day we first found them. Unchanged. Each of us will examine each of the three scorpions-as closely as we might choose, including the assistance of a mage if desired, and then swear out loud, by whatever gods we normally swear by, as precise a statement of what we see as we can. Here, I’ll start.’
He gestured and the three boxes were set down just outside the knife ring. The first wooden container-Borduke’s-had its lid removed and Fiddler leaned close. He was silent for a long time, then he nodded. ‘I, Sergeant Strings of the 4th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear by the ghosts of the Deadhouse and every other nasty nightmare that haunts me that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Red-backed Bastard scorpion.’
The sergeant then moved on to Gesler’s champion, and after a long examination he sighed and nodded, repeating his sworn vow on behalf of the In Out scorpion scuttling about in the small wooden box. He then concluded with his own Joyful Union. Gesler followed the procedure, seeking the added opinions of both Tavos Pond and Sands during his protracted examination of Joyful Union, whilst Fiddler leaned back with a slight smile on his bearded face, waiting patiently until, with a snarl, Gesler swore his vow. ‘I, Sergeant Gesler of the 5th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear by the two Lords of Summer, Fener and Treach, that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion-even though I know there’s something about it I’m not seeing and I’m about to lose my life’s savings on the Sergeants’ Wager.’ Fiddler’s smile broadened momentarily.
Borduke crawled up to Joyful Union and came as close as was possible without being stung, his face almost inside the small box. Since that draped the motionless creature in shadow he cursed and leaned back slightly. ‘I should know about scorpions, shouldn’t I? But all I ever do is stamp on them-like any sane man would do. Sure, I knew a whore once who kept one on a thong about her neck, as golden as the skin of her breasts-tender nipples, you see, and she didn’t like them manhandled-’
‘Get on with it,’ Gesler snapped.
‘Don’t rush me. I don’t like being rushed.’
‘All right, I won’t rush you. Just swear your damned vow before my heart flies out to fill my breeches.’
‘I, Borduke of the 6th squad in the 9th Company of the 8th Legion, swear on the downy belly of the Queen of Dreams that the creature before me is a natural, unaltered Birdshit scorpion, and may my father’s ghost remain in its tomb, since the inheritance was mine to lose anyway, right? Dead means you don’t care any more, right? It had better, because if it doesn’t, then I’m doomed to paternal haunting for the rest of my days.’
‘The worst kind,’ Lutes muttered.
‘Another word from you, soldier,’ Borduke growled, moving back into the circle, ‘and I’ll make you the only one smiling later tonight.’
‘Besides,’ Balgrid said, ‘it ain’t the worst kind. Maternal haunting-now that’s a killer. How long can a man stand being seven years old?’
‘Will you two be quiet!’ Borduke snarled, his large-knuckled fingers clutching as if squeezing invisible throats.
‘We ready?’ Fiddler quietly asked.
‘She’ll hide, won’t she?’ Gesler demanded. ‘Wait till the other two have chopped and stabbed each other up before pouncing on the mangled survivor! That’s it, isn’t it? Her jelly brains are purer than theirs, purer and smarter, aren’t they?’
Fiddler shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know about that, Gesler. Are you done?’
The bronzed-hued marine settled back, the muscles of his jaw bunching.
‘How’s the word-line, Cuttle?’
‘Been repeating every word since we first settled, Fid,’ the sapper replied.
‘And so legends were born,’ Koryk rumbled with facetious portent.
‘Into the arena, then,’ Fiddler instructed.
The boxes were gingerly lifted and held over the arena.
‘Equidistant? Good. Tip ’em, lads.’
Mangonel was the first to land, tail arched and pincers out as it scuttled close to the knife-edge barrier, upon which, a hair’s breadth from the iron blades, it halted and then backed away, its carapace flushing red with its characteristic mindless rage. Clawmaster was next, seeming to leap down ready for war, fluids racing beneath its amber-tinted shell.
Joyful Union came last, slow and measured, so low on the sand as to seem belly-down. Pincers tucked away, tail curled to port and quiescent. Dwarfed by the other two scorpions, its black shell somewhere between glossy and flat. Its multiple legs scuttled it forward slightly, then it froze.
Gesler hissed. ‘If she plucks a couple knives from the ring and uses ’em, I’m going to kill you, Fid.’
‘No need,’ Fiddler replied, his attention divided between what was going on in the arena and Ibb’s running commentary, the man’s voice harsh with tension as he waxed creative in describing what had, up to now, been essentially nothing worth comment.
That suddenly changed as three things occurred almost simultaneously. Joyful Union sauntered into the middle of the arena. Mangonel’s assortment of natural weapons all cocked in unison, even as the creature began backing up, its shell turning fiery red. Clawmaster suddenly wheeled and darted straight at the nearest wall of blades, halting a moment before impact, pincers waving wildly.
‘He wants mommy, looks like, Hubb,’ Koryk drily observed.
Clawmaster’s Holder softly whimpered in answer.
Then, after a frozen moment from all three scorpions, Joyful Union finally lifted its tail.
Upon which, all but Fiddler stared in utter disbelief, as Joyful Union seemed to… split. Horizontally. Into two identical, but thinner, flatter scorpions. That then raced outward, one to Mangonel, the other to Clawmaster-each like a village mongrel charging a bull bhederin, so extreme their comparative sizes.
Red-backed Bastard and In Out both did their best, but were no match in speed, nor ferocity, as tiny pincers snipped-audibly-through legs, through tail, through arm-joints, then, with the larger creature immobile and helpless, a casual, almost delicate stab of stinger.
With In Out’s translucent shell, the horrid bright green of that poison was visible-and thus described in ghastly detail by Ibb-as it spread out from the puncture until Clawmaster’s once beautiful amber was gone, replaced by a sickly green that deepened before their eyes to a murky black.
‘Dead as dung,’ Hubb moaned. ‘Clawmaster…’
Mangonel suffered an identical fate.
With its enemies vanquished, the two Birdshit scorpions rushed back into each other’s arms-and, in the blink of an eye, were as one once more.
‘Cheat!’ Stormy bellowed, rearing to his feet and fumbling to draw his flint sword.
Gesler leapt up and, along with Truth, struggled to restrain their raging comrade. ‘We looked, Stormy!’ Gesler yelled. ‘We looked for anything-then we swore! I swore! By Fener and Treach, damn you! How could any of us have known “Joyful Union” wasn’t just a cute name?’
Glancing up, Fiddler met Cuttle’s steady gaze. The sapper mouthed the words We’re rich, you bastard.