Sighing, the High Fist resumed. ‘In retrospect, perhaps I should have delayed my raid on that Moranth warehouse, and not just for reasons of safety, though as I am sure you all know, the Moranth are very efficient and careful when storing munitions. Nonetheless, transporting them in bulk and overland entails undeniable risks. Fortunately, here we are.’ And he gestured behind him. ‘And there they are.’
He had been waiting for a heightening of tension, a stirring of anticipation. The first of broadening smiles, soldiers finally straightening to attention, even. Instead … Paran’s gaze narrowed. Nothing.
I might as well be describing the weather. What’s wrong with them?
Thought they respected me. Thought that maybe I’d finally earned the rank I was saddled with. But now … feels like it was all a sham.
‘You may be pleased to know that your waiting is at an end. This morning, you will avail yourselves of these munitions, and return to your squads. The marines will lead the assault. You are to break the defences and, if possible, advance to the second trench. This assault must be rapid and sustained …’ His words trailed away as he caught something at the corner of his eye.
Standing in the front row off to his right, where the sun’s light slanted across unobstructed, a grizzled corporal, his broad, flat face seamed with scars visible even from where the High Fist stood. Paran squinted at the man. Then he gestured to Noto Boil. The cutter walked over, pulling the spine from his mouth.
‘Noto Boil,’ Paran said in a low tone.
‘Sir?’
‘Walk over to that corporal – that one there – and take a closer look, and then report back to me.’
‘Is this a test?’
‘Just do it.’
The cutter reinserted the spine and then headed over to halt directly in front of the corporal. After a moment, he swung round and made his way back.
‘Well?’ Paran demanded.
Noto Boil removed the spine. ‘The man is crying, High Fist.’
‘He’s crying.’
‘So it seems, sir.’
‘But … why is he crying?’
Noto Boil turned back to regard the corporal once more. ‘Was just the one tear. Could be anything.’
Swearing under his breath, Paran marched over to stand before the corporal. The marine’s stare was fixed straight ahead. The track of that lone tear, etching its way down from his right eye, was already dulled with grit and dust. ‘Something in your eye, Corporal?’
‘No sir.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No sir.’
‘You’re trembling.’
The eyes flicked briefly in their thinned slits, locked for an instant with Paran’s own. ‘Is that so? Didn’t know that, sir. Beggin’ your pardon.’
‘Soldier, am I blocking your view?’
‘Yes sir, that you are, sir.’
Slowly, Paran edged to one side. He studied the sapper’s face for a half-dozen heartbeats, and then a few more, until … oh, gods below! ‘I thought you said you weren’t sick, Corporal.’
‘I’m not, sir.’
‘I beg to differ.’
‘If you like, sir.’
‘Corporal.’
Another flicker of the eyes. ‘Sir?’
‘Control yourselves. Be orderly. Don’t blow any of us up. Am I understood?’
A quick nod. ‘Aye, sir. Bless you, sir.’
Startled, Paran’s voice sharpened, ‘Bless me?’
And from the mob of sappers came a muttered chorus, echoing the corporal’s blessing. Paran stepped back, struggled for a moment to regain his composure, and then raised his voice. ‘No need to rush – there’s plenty for everyone.’ He paused upon hearing a faint whimper, then continued, ‘In one turn of the sand I want you back with your squads. Your sergeants have been apprised of this resupply so you can be sure that the word has gone out. By the time you get back to them they will all have done with their prayers, sacrifices, and all the rest. In other words, they’ll be ready for you. The advance begins two turns of the sand from now. That is all.’
He set off, not looking back.
Noto Boil came up alongside him. ‘High Fist.’
‘What?’
‘Is this wise? That’s more munitions than any of them has ever seen.’
‘In those crates are just the sharpers, burners and smokers. I haven’t even let them see the cussers and redbolts—’
‘Excuse me, sir, the what bolts?’
‘It turns out, Noto, that there exists a whole class of munitions exclusive to the Moranth. Not for export, if you understand me. Through a card I was witness to the demonstration of some of them. These ones, which I have called redbolts, are similar to onager bolts. Only they do not require the onager.’
‘Curious, High Fist. But if you haven’t shown them to any sapper yet, how will anyone know how to use them?’
‘If we need to fight the Perish, well, it’s possible that a crash course will be necessary. For the moment, however, why distract them?’
They were approaching the camp edge, where two companies of regulars and heavies were assembled, one to either side of the cobbled road. Between them and awaiting their arrival was Fist Rythe Bude.
Noto Boil said, ‘One more question, sir.’
Paran sighed. ‘What?’
‘Those cussers and redbolts, where did you hide them?’
‘Relax. I made my own warren for them – well, to be more precise, I walled off a small area in a different warren, accessible only to me, via a card.’
‘Ormulogun?’
‘Excuse me? Did he paint the card? Of course.’
‘Did he use a funny red slash, sir? Like lightning, only the colour of blood?’
Paran frowned. ‘Redbolt symbol, yes. How did you know that?’
Noto Boil shrugged. ‘Not sure, sir. Seen it somewhere, I suppose. No matter.’
Corporal Stern wiped at his eyes. Crates were being cracked open, the sappers working quickly. He scanned the remaining boxes, swore under his breath, and then turned. ‘Manx, get over here.’
The Dal Honese shaman waddled over. ‘Just what we figured! Only the small stuff. That bastard don’t trust us.’
Stern grunted. ‘You idiot. I don’t trust us. But listen, if we—’
Manx held up a hand in front of Stern’s face. ‘Got it covered. See?’
The corporal tilted his head back, studied the tattoo blazoned across the hand’s palm. A blood-red jagged slash. ‘That’s it? That’s all you need?’
‘Should do. We made sure the toad described it in detail.’
‘Right. Has he recovered?’
‘Well, we roasted him a bit crispy here and there, but he’ll survive. It all kind of went wrong for a bit – I mean, we had ’em both trussed up, and we figured just threatening the toad would be enough to make the artist break down and talk. We was wrong. In fact, it was Ormulogun who suggested the roasting bit – never seen the old lunatic happier. We thought they was friends—’
‘Be quiet, will you? You’re babbling. I don’t care what happened, so long as you didn’t kill either of them.’
‘They’re alive, I told you. Trussed up and gagged for now. We’ll let ’em go later.’
Stern looked round, raised his voice, ‘Sappers! Leave room for a cusser or two!’
‘Ain’t no cussers, Stern.’
‘Never mind that. It’s taken care of. Now let’s get this done – and carefully. We make a mistake here and we don’t take none of the bad guys with us on the way out, and that’ll send our souls to the fiends of the Sapper’s Torment for ever – and nobody wants that, do they?’
A sudden hush, a renewed attention to caution, and here and there, a few subtle gestures warding against the curse of the Sapper’s Torment.
Satisfied, Stern nodded. ‘Manx, stay close to me from now on.’
‘We ain’t never used one of those redbolts, Stern.’