Badan Gruk, take a lesson from Pores, I beg you. No more of the sad eyes, the hurt look. I see it and I want to stab deeper. Lash out. I want to make true all your miserable worries, all those wounds upon your heart. Let’s see them bleed!
The wagon jarred beneath her. She gasped. Flowers and trees, leaves of fire igniting behind her eyes. No time to think. Every thought tried running, only to explode in the forest. Bursting awake all the leaves, high in the canopy, and every thought wings away. Like birds into the sky.
The leg was infected. There was fever, and nothing anyone could do about it. Herbs fought the good war, or they would if there were any. If she asked for them. If she told someone. Pastes and poultices, elixirs and unguents, all the ranks of grim-faced soldiers, banners waving, marching into disease’s grinning face.
No one’s allowed to get off. On pain of death, aye.
Stay right here, this rocking wagon, the rank sweat of the oxen so sweet in our nostrils. We got us a war, comrades. Can’t stop and chat. We got us a war, and no one’s allowed to get off. No one’s allowed to get off. No one’s allowed to—
Badan grunted and looked up.
‘Shit,’ said Sinter, starting forward.
Kisswhere had been leaning forward over her thighs, one leg dangling off the wooden tail, the other splinted straight, thrust out at an angle. She’d just fallen back, head cracking as it bounced on the slats.
Sinter clambered on to the wagon. ‘Gods below, she’s on fire. Badan – get us a cutter, fast.’ Straightening, she faced forward and leaned over the bundles of gear. ‘Ruffle! Pull this thing over to one side – hurry! Out of the line!’
‘Aye, Sergeant!’
‘They’re pulling outa line, Sergeant. Should we go back and see what’s up?’
Hellian scowled. ‘Just march, Corporal.’
It was dark but not so dark as it maybe should be. People glowed green, but then, could be that was how it always was, when she didn’t drink. No wonder I drink. ‘Listen, all of you,’ she said, ‘keep an eye out.’
‘For what?’ Breathy asked.
‘For a tavern, of course. Idiot.’
They’d gotten two transfers. From the Seventh Squad. A pair of swords, one of them with a bad knee and the other one with the face of a gut-sick horse. Limp’s the name of one of them. But which one? That other one … Crump. A sapper? Is Crump the sapper? But sappers ain’t worth much now, are they? Big enough to be a sword, though, unless Crump is the one with the bad knee. Imagine, a sapper with a bad knee. Set the charge and run! Well, hobble. Fast as you can. Guess you looking like a horse was some kind of joke, huh?
Sappers. Nothing but a bad idea that stayed bad. Bust up one leg on all of ’em, that’d make the breed extinct quick enough.
Aye, Limp’s the sapper. Crump’s the other one. Crump goes the knee. Limp goes the sapper. But wait, which one’s got the bad knee again? I could turn round. I suppose. Turn round and, say, take a look. Which one’s limping? Get the limper sorted and I got Crump, meaning the sapper’s the other one, with the bad knee. Limp, then. He’s named Limp on account of the bad knee of his buddy’s, since he has to help the fool along all the time. But then, if he got that name at the start, why, he’d not make it as a soldier at all. He’d of been drummed out, or planted behind a desk. So, the sapper didn’t run fast enough from some fuse, that’s how he earned his name. Got the name Crump, on account of a crumpling knee. Now I get it. Whew.
But what’s the point of a horse with a bad knee?
‘’S getting cold, Sergeant.’
Hellian’s scowl deepened. ‘What do you want me to do about it, fart in your face?’
‘No. Was just saying. Oh, and Limp’s lagging – we should’ve stuck ’im on the wagon.’
‘Who are you again?’
‘I’m Maybe, Sergeant. Been with you since the beginning.’
‘Which door?’
‘What?’
‘The street we lived on in Kartool City. Which door was you in?’
‘I ain’t from Kartool, Sergeant. I meant, the beginning of the squad. That’s what I meant. Aren. Seven Cities. The first time we marched across a Hood-rotting desert.’
‘Back to Y’Ghatan? No wonder I’m so thirsty. Got water in that jug there, soldier?’
‘Just my piss, Sergeant.’
‘Lucky you ain’t a woman. Try pissing into a bottle when you’re a woman. Y’Ghatan. Gods below, how many times do we got to take that place?’
‘We ain’t marching to Y’Ghatan, Sergeant. We’re – oh, never mind. It’s a desert for sure, though. Cold.’
‘Corporal Touchless!’
‘Sergeant?’
‘What you got in that jug there?’
‘Piss.’
‘Who’s selling that stuff anyway? Bloody genius.’
Maybe said, ‘Heard the quartermaster was tying bladders on the Khundryl stallions.’
Hellian frowned. ‘They’d explode. Why would he do that? And more to the point, how? Stick your hand up its—’
‘Not the horse’s bladder, Sergeant. Waterskins, right? Cow bladders. Tied to the stallion’s cock.’
‘Duck, you mean.’
‘What?’
‘Horses hate cocks, but they don’t mind ducks. But that bladder would slow ’em down something awful. Quite the farm where you grew up, Maybe.’
‘I ain’t fooled, you know,’ said Maybe, leaning close. ‘But I see the point, right? You’re keeping us entertained. It’s like a game, pieces jumping every which way.’
She eyed him. ‘Oh, I’m just fooling with ya, am I?’
He met her gaze, and then his eyes shied away. ‘Sorry, Sergeant. Feeling it, huh?’
Hellian said nothing. Glowing green, aye. And all those rocks and shards out there, where the spiders are. Tiny eyes all heaped up, all watching me pass. I’m sober. Can’t pretend they’re not there, not any more.
And not a tavern in sight.
This is going to be bad. Very bad. ‘Hear that?’ she asked. ‘That was a damned hyena.’
‘That was Throatslitter, Sergeant.’
‘He killed a hyena? Good for him. Where’s Balgrid anyway?’
‘Dead.’
‘Damned slacker. I’m going to sleep. Corporal, you’re in charge—’
‘Can’t sleep now,’ Brethless objected. ‘We’re walking, Sergeant—’
‘Best time for it, then. Wake me when the sun comes up.’
‘Now that ain’t fair how she does that.’
Brethless grunted. ‘You hear about them all the time, though. Those veterans who can sleep on the march.’ He mused, and then grunted a second time. ‘Didn’t know she was one of them.’
‘Sober now,’ Maybe muttered. ‘That’s what’s new with her.’
‘Did you see her and Urb and Tarr heading back into the trench? I’d just about given up, and then I saw her, and she pulled me along as if I was wearing chains round my neck. I had nothing left – me and Touchy – remember, Touchy?’
‘Aye. What of it?’
‘We were finished. When I saw Quick Ben go down, it was like someone carved out my gut. I went all hollow inside. Suddenly, I knew it was time to die.’
‘You were wrong,’ said Maybe in a growl.
‘We got us a good sergeant, is what I’m saying.’
Maybe nodded, and glanced back at Crump. ‘You listening, soldier? Don’t mess it up.’
The tall, long-faced man with the strangely wide-spaced eyes blinked confusedly. ‘They stepped on my cussers,’ he said. ‘Now I ain’t got any more.’
‘Can you use that sword on your belt, sapper?’
‘What? This? No, why would I want to do that? We’re just marching.’
Lagging behind, breath coming in harsh gasps, Limp said, ‘Crump had a bag of munitions. Stuck his brain in there, too. For, uh, safekeeping. It all went up, throwing Nah’ruk everywhere. He’s just an empty skull now, Maybe.’
‘So he can’t fight? What about using a crossbow?’
‘Never seen him try one of those. But fight? Crump fights, don’t worry about that.’