‘The Moranth look to be gone,’ Len told Goss.
Goss nodded at the news. ‘So I heard.’
‘Good report there, Len,’ Wess said, lying down.
‘Now what?’ Suth asked Goss.
A slow shrug from the man where he sat in his threadbare padded aketon. ‘Guess we’ll attack.’
‘Attack? Half of us couldn’t drag our backsides across the bridge.’
Goss pondered that for a time. ‘I hear they got lotsa provisions over on that side…’
‘If we controlled the river we could build weirs,’ Len added.
Suth was suddenly maddeningly hungry. It was as if the mere mention of a solid meal was enough to set his juices flowing. He almost said aloud how desperately famished he was, but refrained: those who mentioned that forbidden subject were looked on as if they were idiots. Who in the name of Togg and Fanderay isn’t, you horse’s arse? was the usual comment. He lay down to sleep, mumbling, ‘Let’s just get it over with.’
*
An aide summoned Devaleth to the command tent. It was still quite early; she hadn’t even broken her fast yet with a glass of thin tea. She finished dressing hurriedly and headed across camp, which was seething with the most commotion she’d seen in weeks. Was there to be a fresh assault? Or an attack? The bridge was quiet; rather, everyone was studying the far shore. Glancing over as well, she tried to see what was of such interest but couldn’t identify it.
She found Greymane and the Adjunct, Kyle, standing before the tent, scanning the west shore. The High Fist appeared more animated than she’d seen in a long time. The man had frankly been deteriorating; losing weight, becoming withdrawn and sullen. Only Kyle seemed able to rouse him from his dark moods. Now a faint smile, or eagerness, kept pulling at his mouth behind the iron-grey beard he’d been growing. Kyle bowed, greeting Devaleth. Even Greymane offered a smile — though one tinged with irony. ‘What do you think, water-witch? What are we to make of this?’
‘Make of what?’
Kyle raised his chin to the west. ‘It seems the Moranth Black have decamped.’
‘Really? Whatever for?’
The High Fist nodded. ‘That’s what everyone’s wondering.’
Fist Rillish appeared, walking stiffly and carefully towards the tent. Devaleth fought an urge to help the man — that he was even on his feet was painful to see. The dysentery ravaging the troops had drained pounds from the man: his face was ashen and greasy with sweat, and his shirt hung loose on him. He saluted and the High Fist curtly responded.
‘I understand the Blacks have marched off,’ he said weakly.
‘So it would seem,’ Greymane rumbled.
‘Then we will be attacking?’ Devaleth asked.
‘Not quite yet…’ Greymane answered, his shaded gaze on the far shore.
‘Oh?’
‘It could be a ploy,’ Rillish explained. ‘A fake withdrawal to draw us into committing ourselves. The remaining troops would fall back, then the Moranth would counterattack, catching us exposed.’
Devaleth knew she was no strategist, but she was dubious. ‘Sounds very risky.’
The High Fist was nodding his agreement. ‘Yes. And unlikely — but best be sure.’ He looked to the Adjunct. ‘Kyle, take some scouts north, cross the river, and follow them till nightfall.’
Devaleth felt a stab of empathetic pain for Fist Rillish: strictly speaking, the Adjunct was not currently in the hierarchy of command. Greymane should have addressed the Fist. Yet the nobleman’s taut strained face revealed nothing. Kyle invited the Fist to accompany him, saying, ‘Perhaps you can recommend some names…’ Kyle at least seemed aware of the awkwardness.
The High Fist watched the two leave, his mouth turning sour once more, and ducked back into the tent. Devaleth was left alone to ponder the news, and she wondered whether this was the opportunity Greymane had been waiting for, or just another false hope. The gods knew some relief was desperately needed. Fist Shul remained bogged down with the rest of the invasion force, stymied by landslides, floods, downpours and two Skolati uprisings. It seemed the supplies the High Fist had counted on sat rotting in the rain and snow along some nameless track.
*
Around noon, while Suth dozed, someone came to camp. He thought he heard his name mentioned, then someone shook him. He sat up, blinking in the harsh light, to see Captain Betteries scowling down at him the way someone might regard a dog turd he’d just stepped in. Suth saluted.
The captain returned the salute; he was bareheaded, his red hair a mess. His eyes were bruised, and he wore only a dirty linen shirt hanging down over wool trousers. ‘You Suth?’ he asked, his voice hoarse.
‘Aye, Captain.’
‘You can scout?’
Suth thought about saying no, then decided he’d probably already been volunteered for whatever it was so nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘Come with me.’
Suth dragged himself upright, grabbed his armour. ‘Leave that,’ Betteries ordered. Shrugging, Suth complied.
Sergeant Goss eased forward. ‘I’ll go, sir.’
‘No, not you. Just the young bloods.’ The sergeant’s face clouded, but he said nothing. ‘Let’s go, trooper.’ Goss saluted and the captain acknowledged it. ‘Sorry, Goss.’
The captain collected three others, two squat Wickan plainsmen and a tall girl recruit, coarse-featured, wearing thick leathers, with a wild tangled mane of hair tied off with beads, bits of ribbon and leather braces. ‘Barghast,’ one of the Wickans mouthed to Suth.
The Adjunct was waiting for them. He wore plain leathers. Tall moccasins climbed all the way to his knees. His sword was sheathed high under his shoulder, wrapped in leather. Suth had seen a good deal of the young man, but he was struck anew by how rangy the fellow was, squat but long-limbed, his face seemingly brutal with its long moustache and broad heavy chin. He motioned to piled equipment. ‘Kit yourselves out.’
Suth picked up a shoulder bag and found a stash of food. A strip of smoked meat went straight into his mouth while he searched through the rest. Belted long-knives went to his waist, a bow and bag of arrows on his back.
The Adjunct spoke while they readied themselves. ‘We’ll head north then cross the river. We’re to shadow the Moranth. If you’re spotted, cut away — no leading back to anyone.’ All three nodded, stuffing their mouths. ‘All right. Let’s go.’
They jogged off. The Adjunct led them east at first, off behind a hillock until out of sight of the far shore, then cut north. Suth was wincing for the first few leagues: gods he was weak! But then his legs loosened up and he found his rhythm.
The Barghast girl jogged along beside him. ‘You are Dal Hon?’ she asked, grinning.
‘Yes.’
‘They say you are good warriors, you Dal Hon. We must fight sometime.’
Fight? Ahh — fight. He eyed her sidelong: heavier than he usually liked, but that was a promising grin. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Tolat, of the Yellow Clay clan.’
‘Suth.’ He flicked his head to the two Wickans following, their eyes on the western skyline. ‘What about those two?’
‘Them?’ Tolat shook her head. Her tangled mane swung in the wind. ‘Too much like my brothers. But you… you are different. I like different.’
Wonderful. Some Barghast gal out to taste the world. Well… who was he to complain? The same could be said of him. ‘Any time you want lessons, you just let me know.’
She let out a very unladylike braying laugh and punched his arm. ‘Ha! I knew I would like you!’
‘Quiet back there,’ breathed the Adjunct.
Tolat made a face, but Suth did not. He remembered the solid iron grapnels clutching the stern of the Blue war galley, and the Adjunct swinging, severing each cleanly. And on the bridge, shields parted like cloth by that bright blade wrapped now in leather. He also recalled overhearing Goss mutter something while eyeing the young man: ‘Damned Crimson Guard,’ he’d said, as if it were a curse.