Thrawl nodded to the one aiming his weapon. ‘Where’s Poppa?’ he called out, fighting to be heard over the argument.
‘Parapet,’ the soldier grunted, hiking a thumb over his shoulder. His accent was atrocious, and he spoke with a pronounced drawl. Then, that wasn’t surprising, given where he and his fellows came from. He lowered his weapon and gave it a fond pat.
Those Leatherbacks that weren’t lucky enough to own such a weapon had to make do with a glaive or a halberd, until someone better equipped died and they could ‘inherit’ a handgun. In his time at the fort, Thrawl had seen no less than three duels fought over such abandoned weapons. The duels were theoretically fought only to first blood, but said blood usually wound up spurting from somewhere vital. The Leatherbacks would just as cheerfully murder their own kin as they would the enemy, if it meant getting their hands on a gun.
Thrawl started towards the parapet, but cursed as he trod on the tail of a dog – one of a dozen curs that seemed to have followed the Leatherbacks from their last duty. The big, yellow brute yelped and turned, teeth bared. Thrawl, used to such displays by now, fumbled loose a scroll and smacked the mongrel on the snout. It blinked and backed off, growling. Thrawl swept past, before it recovered its courage. More of the beasts lay in the shadows beneath the parapets, hiding from the wind. Several barked lazily as he climbed the crude wooden steps up to the top of the wall, and the enclosed parapet above.
Poppa Chown was waiting on him, at the top. The mountainous commander of the Leatherbacks was silver-haired, twice the height of his tallest warrior and heavy with fat and muscle. Even his scars had scars. His clothes had been altered to fit his massive frame, and gave him a tatterdemalion aspect beneath his battered coat. He sat on an iron stool in front of a firing slit, his rifle between his knees. It was half again as long as a handgun, with a narrow barrel that scraped the roof of the parapet and a reinforced stock that Thrawl knew was heavy enough to crush a deadwalker’s skull.
His men bustled about him, keeping watch on the road and the desert that stretched out to the horizon on either side. Chown glanced around as Thrawl entered the parapet. ‘Ho, children – look. The scribe has come to visit.’ Chown spoke around a mouthful of the brownish herb he incessantly chewed, and he punctuated his welcome with a gobbet of spittle that narrowly missed Thrawl’s boot. ‘Say hello to the scribe, pups.’
Nearby warriors shouted obscenities or made rude gestures. Thrawl ignored them. ‘I need your pay records,’ he said, without preamble.
Chown turned with a grunt and squinted at him. ‘Why?’
‘To ensure that they align with my copies.’
‘They do.’
‘Even so, I wish to make sure.’
Chown smiled, showing off brown teeth. ‘Don’t you trust Poppa?’ He gestured expansively, and his men laughed knowingly. Chown’s title was informal but accurate. He was the patriarch of a wide-ranging clan, as well as its captain. He was father, master and commander, and his men loved and hated him in equal measure.
‘I don’t trust my own father, let alone you,’ Thrawl said bluntly.
Chown gave a bellow of laughter and slapped his knee. ‘And nor should you,’ he growled cheerfully. ‘We’re cheating you.’
‘I know.’
‘Then you don’t need the books.’ Chown made to turn back. Thrawl stepped up beside him.
‘I need them if I want to see how much you’re cheating my employers by.’
Chown glanced up at him and grinned. ‘Intending to skim off the difference and fatten your own purse, eh?’
‘Obviously.’ Thrawl looked out through the gun-slit. He could see the great wagon-fortresses of the Zirc nomads moving across the horizon, trying to outrace the storm everyone knew was coming but no one was talking about. Behind the hulking conveyances, Thrawl could see the purple glare on the horizon. It was brighter than it had been yesterday.
He shivered, suddenly cold. He fumbled a sigmarite amulet out from within his robes and rubbed it with his thumb. It was just a cheap thing, made from lead. His mother had given it to him before his departure, thinking it would protect him from the horrors of Shyish. Its weight was comforting, when the shadows of this realm pressed too close.
‘The desert is on fire,’ Chown said, idly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pouch of tanned leather. He extracted a handful of leaves from the pouch before offering it to Thrawl as he stuffed the leaves into his mouth. Thrawl waved the pouch away, faintly disgusted by the musky odour emanating from it.
‘It’s getting closer, then,’ Thrawl said, softly. They’d felt the realm shake, and the packs of deadwalkers roaming the desert had become more focused. Worse were the reports from the nomads, of the things they’d seen and heard, out in the wastes.
‘Death always does.’
Thrawl frowned. ‘Is that meant to be reassuring?’
Chown chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged.
Thrawl sighed. This hadn’t been his first choice of posting, but it had been the only one available. Men and women who could read and write were in high demand on the frontier. Someone had to keep proper records, to keep barbarians like Chown from bankrupting Azyrite merchants. And to keep said merchants honest when it came time to pay their taxes.
Besides records, Thrawl had amused himself with writing a concise history of Fort Alenstahdt. He fancied his Dispatches from Zircona might one day be read alongside such volumes as Herst’s History of Greater Lyria, Tertoma’s Forty Days in the Writhing Weald and Guillepe Barco’s infamous The Klaxus Wars: An Eyewitness Account.
At the moment, he was stuck on the chapter concerning the recent earth-tremors and the increased deadwalker activity. Accounts he’d gathered from passing traders and pilgrims made it seem as if every tomb and grave had disgorged its contents. It all seemed so… impossible. But that word had little meaning on the frontier. He sighed again. ‘I hate the desert. I hate Shyish.’
Chown grunted. ‘You should put in for a change of post, scribe.’
Thrawl snorted. ‘And do you have a recommendation, then?’
‘The Black Marsh Barony, scribe – good place. That’s where we’re from. A place for men. Not like this desert. Only bones in the desert.’ Chown leaned over and spat a mouthful of whatever he’d been chewing, hitting a dog that lay nearby. The beast yelped and whirled to its feet, snapping at the air in confusion. The men laughed. Chown wiped his lips and grinned. ‘Sand gets everywhere. Scrape a man to his stilts.’
‘Then why are you here?’ Thrawl asked.
Chown rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘We go where the money is, friend.’ He frowned. ‘And where our creditors aren’t.’
Thrawl laughed. ‘You must have a lot of creditors, to wind up out here.’ Few Freeguild companies sought frontier duty – it was alternately boring and dangerous work, with little chance of filling the coffers. Most preferred to bivouac behind high walls, and patrol civilised streets, rather than chance the wilds.
Chown shrugged. ‘Powder and shot is expensive. And we don’t like cities.’ He stiffened and gestured to one of his men. ‘Buzos, bring Poppa his spyglass, there’s a lad.’ Buzos hurried over, holding a heavy spyglass made from brass and gold. Its shell was scuffed and tarnished, but the lenses were almost perfect.
Thrawl blinked. ‘Why does that have the Glymm crest on it?’
Chown shrugged again. ‘It’s a mystery. Hush now, scribe. Something is happening out there. The Zirc are sounding their prayer-horns.’