The captain drew close to the Fist. ‘Beak says they’re marines, Fist. Seems we found some of them.’
‘All of them,’ Beak said. ‘The ones who got far ahead of the rest. They’re in the village and they’ve been killing Tiste Edur. Lots of Tiste Edur.’
‘The munitions we heard yesterday.’
‘Just so, Fist,’ Beak said, nodding.
‘All right, finally some good news. How many?’
‘Seven, eight squads,’ Beak replied. He delighted in being able to talk, in person, with a real Fist. Oh, he’d imagined scenes like this, of course, with Beak there providing all kinds of information to make the Fist do all the heroic things that needed doing, and then at last Beak himself being the biggest hero of all. He was sure everyone had dreams like that, the sudden revealing of some hidden, shy side that no-one else knew anything about and couldn’t ever have guessed was even there. Shy, until it was needed, and then out it came, amazing everyone!
‘Beak?’
‘Fist?’
‘I was asking, do they know we’re here?’
‘Yes sir, I think so. They’ve got some interesting mages, including an old style warlock from the Jakata people who were the first people on Malaz Island after the Stormriders retreated. He can see through the eyes of all sorts of creatures and that must have been helpful since the coast. There’s also a Dal Honese bush shamari and a Dal Honese Grass Dancer. And a Nathii swamp necromancer.’
‘Beak,’ said Keneb, ‘do these squads include Fiddler? Gesler and Stormy?’
‘Fiddler’s the one with the fiddle who played so sadly in Malaz City? The one with the Deck games in his head? Yes sir, he’s there. Gesler and Stormy, they’re the Falari ones, but with skins of gold and muscles and all that, the ones who were reforged in the fires of Tellann. Telas, Kurald Liosan, the fires, the ones dragons fly through to gain immunities and other proofs against magic and worse. Yes, they’re there, too.’
See how they stared at him in wonder! Oh, just like the dream!
And he knew, all too well, how all this was going to turn out and even that couldn’t make him anything but proud. He squinted up at the darkness overhead. ‘It’ll be dawn in a bell or so.’
Keneb turned to Faradan Sort. ‘Captain, take Beak with you and head into the village. I’d like to see these squads presented-barring whatever pickets they’ve set out.’
‘Yes, Fist. Plan on dressing ‘em down, sir?’
Keneb’s brows lifted. ‘Not at all, Faradan. No. I might end up kissing every damned one of them, though.’
So once more Beak walked alongside Captain Faradan Sort, and that felt good and proper now, as if he’d always belonged with her, always being useful when that was what she needed. False dawn was just beginning and the air smelled wonderfully fresh-at least until they came to the pits where the Edur bodies had been dumped. That didn’t smell good at all.
‘Gods below,’ the captain muttered as they skirted one of the shallow pits.
Beak nodded. ‘Moranth munitions do that. Just… parts of people, and everything chewed up.’
‘Not in this pit,’ she said, pointing as they passed another mass grave. ‘These ones were cut down. Swords, quarrels…’
‘Aye, Captain, we’re good at that, too, aren’t we? But that’s not why the Edur left-there was almost a thousand of them gathered here, planning on one more push. But then orders came to withdraw and so they did. They’re now a league behind us, joining up with still more Edur.’
‘The hammer,’ Faradan Sort said, ‘and somewhere ahead, the anvil’
He nodded again.
She paused to search his face in the gloom. ‘And the Adjunct and the fleet? Beak?’
‘Don’t know, sir. If you’re wondering if they’ll get to us in time to relieve us, then no. Not a chance. We’re going to have to hold out, Captain, for so long it’s impossible.’
She scowled at that. ‘And if we just squat here? Right in this village?’
‘They’ll start pushing. There’ll be four or five thousand Edur by then. That many can push us, sir, whether we want them to or not. Besides, didn’t the Fist say he wanted to engage and hold down as many of the enemy as possible? To keep them from going anywhere else, like back behind the city walls which would mean the Adjunct’s got to deal with another siege and nobody wants that.’
She glared at him for a moment longer, then set out again. Beak fell in step behind her.
From just behind a black heap of tailings at the edge of the village a voice called out, ‘Nice seeing you again, Captain.’
Faradan Sort went on.
Beak saw Corporal Tarr rise from behind the tailings, slinging his crossbow back over a shoulder then dusting himself off before approaching on an intercept course.
‘Fist wants to knock before coming in, does he?’
The captain halted in front of the stolid corporal. ‘We’ve been fast-marching for a while now,’ she said. ‘We’re damned tired, but if we’re going to march into this village, we’re not going to drag our boots. So the Fist called a short halt. That’s all.’
Tarr scratched at his beard, making the various depending bones and such rustle and click. ‘Fair enough,’ he said.
‘I am so relieved that you approve, Corporal. Now, the Fist wants the squads here all out in the main street.’
‘We can do that,’ Tarr replied, grinning. ‘Been fighting for a while now and we’re damned tired, Captain. So the sergeants got most of us resting up in the, uh, the tavern. But when the Fist sees us, well, we’ll be looking smart as can be, I’m sure.’
‘Get your arse into that tavern, Corporal, and wake the bastards up. We’ll wait right here-but not for long, understood?’
A quick, unobtrusive salute and Tarr headed off.
‘See what happens when an officer’s not around enough? They get damned full of themselves, that’s what happens, Beak.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Well, when they hear all the bad news they won’t be anywhere near as arrogant.’
‘Oh, they know, sir. Better than we do.’ But that’s not com.’ pletely true. They don’t know what I know, and neither, Captain my love, do you.
They both turned at the sound of the column, coming up fast. Faster than it should be, in fact.
The captain’s comment was succinct. ‘Shit.’ Then she added, ‘Go on ahead, Beak-get ‘em ready to move!’
‘Yes sir!’
The problem with owls was that, even as far as birds went, they were profoundly stupid. Getting them to even so much as turn their damned heads was a struggle, no matter how tightly Bottle gripped their tiny squirming souls.
He was locked in such a battle at the moment, so far past the notion of sleep that it seemed it belonged exclusively to other people and would for ever remain beyond his reach.
But all at once it did not matter where the owl was looking, nor even where it wanted to look. Because there were figures moving across the land, through the copses, the tilled grounds, swarming the slopes of the old quarry pits and on the road and all its converging tracks. Hundreds, thousands. Moving quiet, weapons readied. And less than half a league behind Keneb’s column.
Bottle shook himself, eyes blinking rapidly as he refocused-the pitted wall of the tavern, plaster chipped where daggers had been thrown against it, the yellow runnels of leakage from the thatched roof above the common room. Around him, marines pulling on their gear. Someone, probably Hellian, spitting and gagging somewhere behind the bar.
One of the newly arrived marines appeared in front of him, pulling up a chair and sitting down. The Dal Honese mage, the one with the jungle still in his eyes.
‘Nep Furrow,’ he now growled. ‘Mimber me?’
‘Mimber what?’
‘Me!’
‘Yes. Nep Furrow. Like you just said. Listen, I’ve got no time to talk-’
A fluttering wave of one gnarled hand. ‘We’en know! Bit the Edur! We’en know all’at.’ A bent finger stabbed at Bottle. ‘Issn this. You. Used dup! An’thas be-ad! Be-ad! We all die! Cuzzin you!’