So why are you twisting Paran around?'
Trotts grinned, revealing a blue-stained row of filed teeth. 'It is fun. Besides, it's up to Whiskeyjack to explain things—'
'Only he ain't done any explaining yet. Dujek wants us back in Pale, gathering up what's left of the Bridgeburners. Paran should be happy he's getting a company to command again, instead of just a couple of beat-up squads. Did Whiskeyjack say anything about the upcoming parley with Brood?'
Trotts slowly nodded.
Hedge scowled. 'Well, what?'
'It is coming up.'
'Oh, thanks for that. By the way, you're officially relieved of this post, soldier. They're cooking up a bhederin carcass for you down there. I had the cook stuff it with dung since that's how you like it.'
Trotts rose. 'One day I may cook and eat you, sapper.'
'And choke to death on my lucky bone.'
The Barghast frowned. 'My offer was true, Hedge. To honour you, my friend.'
The sapper squinted up at Trotts, then grinned. 'Bastard! You almost had me there!'
Sniffing, Trotts turned away. '"Almost", he said. Hah hah.'
Whiskeyjack was waiting when Paran returned to the trader post and its makeshift barricade. Once sergeant, now Dujek Onearm's second-in-command, the grizzled veteran had come in with the last flight of Moranth. He stood with his old squad's healer, Mallet, the two of them watching a score of soldiers from the 2nd Army loading the past week's toll onto the quorls. Paran approached, walking cautiously so as to hide the pain within him.
'How fares the leg, Commander?' he asked.
Whiskeyjack shrugged.
'We were just discussing that,' Mallet said, his round face flushed. 'It's healed badly. Needs serious attention—'
'Later,' the bearded commander growled. 'Captain Paran, have the squads assembled in two bells – have you decided what to do with what's left of the Ninth?'
'Aye, they'll join what's left of Sergeant Antsy's squad.'
Whiskeyjack frowned. 'Give me some names.'
'Antsy's got Corporal Picker, and ... let's see ... Spindle, Blend, Detoran. So, with Mallet here, and Hedge, Trotts and Quick Ben—'
'Quick Ben and Spindle are now cadre mages, Captain. But you'll have them with your company in any case. Otherwise, I'd guess Antsy will be happy enough—'
Mallet snorted. 'Happy? Antsy don't know the meaning of the word.'
Paran's eyes narrowed. 'I take it, then, that the Bridgeburners won't be marching with the rest of the Host.'
'No, you won't be – we'll go into that back at Pale, though.' Whiskeyjack's flat grey eyes studied the captain for a moment, then slid away. 'There's thirty-eight Bridgeburners left – not much of a company. If you prefer, Captain, you can decline the position. There's a few companies of elite marines short on officers, and they're used to noble-borns commanding them ...'
There was silence.
Paran turned away. Dusk was coming, the valley's shadow rising up the slopes of the surrounding hillsides, a spatter of dim stars emerging from the sky's dome. I might take a knife in the back, is what he's telling me. Bridgeburners have an abiding dislike for noble-born officers. A year ago he would have spoken those words out loud, in the belief that baring ugly truths was a good thing to do. The misguided notion that it was the soldier's way . . . when in fact it's the opposite that is a soldier's way. In a world full of pitfalls and sinkholes, you dance the edges. Only fools jump feet first, and fools don't live long besides. He'd felt knives enter his body once. Wounds that should have been fatal. The memory sheathed him in sweat. The threat was not something he could simply shrug off in a display of youthful, ignorant bravado. He knew that, and the two men facing him knew it as well. 'I still,' Paran said, eyes on the darkness devouring the south road, 'would consider it an honour to command the Bridgeburners, sir. Perhaps, in time, I might have the opportunity to prove myself worthy of such soldiers.'
Whiskeyjack grunted. 'As you like, Captain. The
Trotts grinned, revealing a blue-stained row of filed teeth. 'It is fun. Besides, it's up to Whiskeyjack to explain things—'
'Only he ain't done any explaining yet. Dujek wants us back in Pale, gathering up what's left of the Bridgeburners. Paran should be happy he's getting a company to command again, instead of just a couple of beat-up squads. Did Whiskeyjack say anything about the upcoming parley with Brood?'
Trotts slowly nodded.
Hedge scowled. 'Well, what?'
'It is coming up.'
'Oh, thanks for that. By the way, you're officially relieved of this post, soldier. They're cooking up a bhederin carcass for you down there. I had the cook stuff it with dung since that's how you like it.'
Trotts rose. 'One day I may cook and eat you, sapper.'
'And choke to death on my lucky bone.'
The Barghast frowned. 'My offer was true, Hedge. To honour you, my friend.'
The sapper squinted up at Trotts, then grinned. 'Bastard! You almost had me there!'
Sniffing, Trotts turned away. '"Almost", he said. Hah hah.'
Whiskeyjack was waiting when Paran returned to the trader post and its makeshift barricade. Once sergeant, now Dujek Onearm's second-in-command, the grizzled veteran had come in with the last flight of Moranth. He stood with his old squad's healer, Mallet, the two of them watching a score of soldiers from the 2nd Army loading the past week's toll onto the quorls. Paran approached, walking cautiously so as to hide the pain within him.
'How fares the leg, Commander?' he asked.
Whiskeyjack shrugged.
'We were just discussing that,' Mallet said, his round face flushed. 'It's healed badly. Needs serious attention—'
'Later,' the bearded commander growled. 'Captain Paran, have the squads assembled in two bells – have you decided what to do with what's left of the Ninth?'
'Aye, they'll join what's left of Sergeant Antsy's squad.'
Whiskeyjack frowned. 'Give me some names.'
'Antsy's got Corporal Picker, and ... let's see ... Spindle, Blend, Detoran. So, with Mallet here, and Hedge, Trotts and Quick Ben—'
'Quick Ben and Spindle are now cadre mages, Captain. But you'll have them with your company in any case. Otherwise, I'd guess Antsy will be happy enough—'
Mallet snorted. 'Happy? Antsy don't know the meaning of the word.'
Paran's eyes narrowed. 'I take it, then, that the Bridgeburners won't be marching with the rest of the Host.'
'No, you won't be – we'll go into that back at Pale, though.' Whiskeyjack's flat grey eyes studied the captain for a moment, then slid away. 'There's thirty-eight Bridgeburners left – not much of a company. If you prefer, Captain, you can decline the position. There's a few companies of elite marines short on officers, and they're used to noble-borns commanding them ...'
There was silence.
Paran turned away. Dusk was coming, the valley's shadow rising up the slopes of the surrounding hillsides, a spatter of dim stars emerging from the sky's dome. I might take a knife in the back, is what he's telling me. Bridgeburners have an abiding dislike for noble-born officers. A year ago he would have spoken those words out loud, in the belief that baring ugly truths was a good thing to do. The misguided notion that it was the soldier's way . . . when in fact it's the opposite that is a soldier's way. In a world full of pitfalls and sinkholes, you dance the edges. Only fools jump feet first, and fools don't live long besides. He'd felt knives enter his body once. Wounds that should have been fatal. The memory sheathed him in sweat. The threat was not something he could simply shrug off in a display of youthful, ignorant bravado. He knew that, and the two men facing him knew it as well. 'I still,' Paran said, eyes on the darkness devouring the south road, 'would consider it an honour to command the Bridgeburners, sir. Perhaps, in time, I might have the opportunity to prove myself worthy of such soldiers.'
Whiskeyjack grunted. 'As you like, Captain. The
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