Widdershins found that he was walking beside Throatslitter. He’d not expected an actual military march, and already his bare feet inside his worn boots were raw. He’d always hated having to throw his heels down with every step, feeling the shocks shooting up his spine, and having to lift his knees higher than usual was wearing him out.
He could see the end ahead, the edge of the damned camp. Once out of sight of these wretched regulars going all formal on them, they could relax again. He’d happily forgotten all this shit, those first months of training before he’d managed to slip across into the marines – where discipline didn’t mean striding in cadence and throwing the shoulders back and all that rubbish. Where it meant doing your job and not wasting time on anything else.
He remembered the first officers he’d encountered, bitching about companies like the Bridgeburners. Sloppy, slouching slackers – couldn’t get ’em to stand in a straight line if their lives depended on it, and as likely to slit their officers’ throats as take an order. Well, not quite. If it was a good order, a smart order, they’d step up smart. If it was a stupid order, an order that would see soldiers die for no good reason, well, the choice was not doing it and getting hammered for insubordination, or quietly arranging a tragic battlefield casualty.
Maybe the Bridgeburners had been the worst of the lot, but they’d also been the best, too. No, Widdershins liked being a marine, a Bonehunter in the tradition of their unruly predecessors. At least it had put an end to this kind of marching.
His heels were already bloody in his boots.
Deadsmell didn’t want to say goodbye, not to anyone. Not even Throatslitter limping one row ahead of him, whom with a choice comment or two he could make yelp that laugh – like squeezing a duck. Always entertaining, seeing people flinch on hearing it. And Deadsmell could do it over and over again.
It’d been a while since he’d last heard it, but now was not the time – not with all these regulars on either side. All these men and women saying goodbye to us. The Bonehunters were in their last days. This tortured army could finally see the end of things – and it seemed to have come up on them fast, unexpected, appallingly close.
But no. We marched across half a world. We chased a Whirlwind. We walked out of a burning city. We stood against our own in Malaz City. We took down the Letherii Empire, held off the Nah’ruk. We crossed a desert that couldn’t be crossed.
Now I know how the Bridgeburners must have felt, as the last of them was torn down, crushed underfoot. All that history, vanishing, soaking red into the earth.
Back home – in the Empire – we’re already lost. Just one more army struck off the ledgers. And this is how things pass, how things simply go away. We’ve gone and marched ourselves off the edge of the world.
I don’t want to say goodbye. And I want to hear Throatslitter’s manic laugh. I want to hear it again and again, and for ever more.
Hedge had drawn up his Bridgeburners just outside the northwest edge of the encampment. Waiting for the marines and heavies to appear, he scanned his collection of soldiers. They were loaded down, almost groaning beneath the weight of their gear. Way too many kittens.
Sergeant Rumjugs caught his eye and he nodded. She moved up to position herself at his side as he turned to face the Bonehunter camp. ‘Ever seen the like, sir? Who do you think gave the command for that? Maybe the Adjunct herself?’
Hedge shook his head. ‘No commands, Sergeant – this came from somewhere else. From the regulars themselves, rank and file and all that. I admit it, I didn’t think they had this in them.’
‘Sir, we heard rumours, about the marines and heavies … that maybe they won’t want us with them.’
‘Doesn’t matter, Sergeant. When it comes right down to it, we don’t even take orders from the Adjunct.’
‘But didn’t she—’
‘I lied,’ Hedge said. ‘I ain’t talked to nobody. This is my decision.’ He glanced over at her. ‘Got a problem with that, Sergeant?’
But she was grinning.
Hedge studied her. ‘You find that funny, do you? Why?’
She shrugged. ‘Sir, we heard rumours – other ones – about us not being real Bridgeburners. But you just proved ’em wrong, didn’t you? We don’t belong to nobody – only to each other, and to you, sir. You lied – hah!’
Behind them Sweetlard said, ‘Last night I took a man t’bed for free, sir, and y’know why? When he asked me how old I was and I said twenty-six, he believed me. Lies are sweet, ain’t they?’
‘Here they come,’ said Hedge.
Fiddler had appeared, leading his troops out from the camp. Even from this distance, Hedge could see the faces of the marines and heavies – sickly, grim. They’d not been expecting any sort of send-off. And they don’t know what to do with it. Did Fiddler throw a salute back? No, he wouldn’t have.
Fid, I see you. You’re as bad off as the rest of ’em. Like you’re headed for the executioner.
Us soldiers only got one kind of coin worth anything, and it’s called respect. And we hoard it, we hide it away, and there ain’t nobody who’d call us generous. Easy spenders we’re not. But there’s something feels even worse than having to give up a coin – it’s when somebody steps up and tosses one back at us.
We get antsy. We look away. And part of us feels like breaking inside, and we get down on ourselves, and outsiders don’t understand that. They think we should smile and wave or stand proud. But we don’t want to do anything of the sort, even when we’re made to. It’s because of all the friends we left behind, on all those battlefields, because we know that they’re the ones deserving of all that respect.
We could sit on a king’s hoard of those coins and still stay blind to all of ’em. Because some riches stick in the throat, and choke us going down.
When he saw Fiddler look up and see him, Hedge strode over.
‘Don’t do this, Fid.’
‘Do what? I told you—’
‘Not that. You halt your company now. You form ’em up facing those regulars. You’re captain now and they’re looking to you. It’s the coin, Fiddler. You got to give it back.’
The captain stared at Hedge for a long moment. ‘Didn’t think it’d be this hard.’
‘So you thought to just run away?’
Fiddler shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t sure what they wanted.’
Cocking his head, Hedge said, ‘You’re not convinced they’re worth it, are you?’
The captain was silent.
Hedge shook his head. ‘We ain’t made for this, you and me, Fid. We’re sappers. When I get in trouble on all this stuff I just think what would Whiskeyjack do? Listen, you need those regulars to stand up, you need them to buy you the time needed. You need them to buy it with their own blood, their own lives. It don’t matter if you think they’ve not earned a damned thing. You got to give the coin back.’
When Fiddler still hesitated, Hedge swung round and gestured to his Bridgeburners, then turned back. ‘We’re forming up, Fid, faces to the camp – you just gonna stand there, with all your marines and heavies mobbing up and not knowing where to fucking look?’
‘No,’ Fiddler replied in a thick voice. ‘Hedge – I think … I just faltered a step. That’s all.’
‘Better now than a few days from now, hey?’
As Hedge moved to join his squads, Fiddler called out. ‘Wait.’
He turned back. ‘What now?’
‘Something else everyone needs to see, I think.’ And Fiddler stepped forward and held out his hand.
Hedge eyed it. ‘You think that’s enough?’
‘Start there, idiot.’
Smiling, Hedge grasped that forearm.
And Fiddler pulled him into a hard embrace.