off."
Gelthius pushed himself to his feet and leaned out from under the cloak roof with a hand outstretched. Just as he was doing this, there was a yelp from the direction of Loordin. The legionnaire came stumbling back into the dell, a brown stain down the inside of his right leg.
"Fucking arsehole, you should've cleaned up!" snarled Muuril, standing up to grab Loordin's breastplate in preparation for shoving him back into the dark.
"Someone's coming!" Loordin hissed, slapping away the sergeant's arm. "Shut your holes!"
They all looked to where the legionnaire pointed, at a spark of light in the night. It was a lantern swaying on a pole by its pendulous movement, and soon the sound of the rain drumming on canvas pulled taut could be heard. As it approached, the light resolved itself into a lamp, hanging on the side of a cart coming up the road. The tramp and splash of an abada's tread became audible. There was a man in heavy robes and hood on the driving board, and Gelthius took the driver to be a Brother.
"Put out the lamp," he said, not looking at the others. The darkness around him deepened as one of them complied.
The cart stopped on the road, almost level with where the dell was. It was easy to find because there was a pair of trees flanking a broken gate; the landmark the five men of the Thirteenth had agreed would be their mustering point in the event of discovery.
"Something not right about this bastard," said Loordin. There was a scrape as he drew his knife from its sheath. Gelthius' hand went to his own knife and pulled it out; it would be too difficult to untie the cloaks from the spears in the blackness.
The cart driver stood up on his board, one hand on the reins, the other pulling back his hood. The light from the lamp was not enough to show his face as he turned left and right, staring into the gloom. Hitching the reins, the robed man jumped down onto the road and walked towards the gate.
"You pig fuckers had better be here!" a voice called out, revealing the hooded figure to be Faasil. Turning, he stepped into the light of the lantern, revealing his distinctive jutting chin and broken nose.
"You're late, you lazy cunt!" Muuril called back with a laugh.
The three of them forged out of their shallow hiding place towards the wagon. They were halfway there when Muuril stopped and grabbed Loordin by the arm.
"You," said the sergeant, propelling the legionnaire into the night, "still have shit on your legs. Show some self-respect."
"Yes, sergeant," Loordin called back. His following words were a lot quieter as the dim outline of the man disappeared, but still unintentionally loud enough to be heard. "What about all that shit in your head, you bossy bastard?"
"Leave him be, sergeant," said Gelthius as Muuril took a step after Loordin. He hated pulling rank sometimes, and even having any rank to pull, but it was amazing the effect it had on the others. Legion obedience was so ingrained, Muuril stopped immediately and turned back, despite being much larger and more experienced that the Salphor. "You can deal with him when we're back at camp with the king, right enough."
"Right enough," said Muuril, his voice low with menace.
They reached the light from the wagon lantern and found that Faasil was around the back of the cart, pulling something off the back.
"Here you go," said the legionnaire, tossing a rolled blanket to Muuril. The sergeant caught it with a grateful smile. He flapped out the thick woollen material and flung it around his shoulders as another blanket came arcing towards Gelthius.
"Where'd you get these?" asked the captain.
"Stroke of luck, to be honest," said Faasil. He climbed up under the wagon's awning and dropped something else over the side to Muuril. "Have a ham, sergeant."
Muuril caught it in one hand and held it to his chest like a babe to stop it falling into the dirt. Gelthius could smell the
Gelthius pushed himself to his feet and leaned out from under the cloak roof with a hand outstretched. Just as he was doing this, there was a yelp from the direction of Loordin. The legionnaire came stumbling back into the dell, a brown stain down the inside of his right leg.
"Fucking arsehole, you should've cleaned up!" snarled Muuril, standing up to grab Loordin's breastplate in preparation for shoving him back into the dark.
"Someone's coming!" Loordin hissed, slapping away the sergeant's arm. "Shut your holes!"
They all looked to where the legionnaire pointed, at a spark of light in the night. It was a lantern swaying on a pole by its pendulous movement, and soon the sound of the rain drumming on canvas pulled taut could be heard. As it approached, the light resolved itself into a lamp, hanging on the side of a cart coming up the road. The tramp and splash of an abada's tread became audible. There was a man in heavy robes and hood on the driving board, and Gelthius took the driver to be a Brother.
"Put out the lamp," he said, not looking at the others. The darkness around him deepened as one of them complied.
The cart stopped on the road, almost level with where the dell was. It was easy to find because there was a pair of trees flanking a broken gate; the landmark the five men of the Thirteenth had agreed would be their mustering point in the event of discovery.
"Something not right about this bastard," said Loordin. There was a scrape as he drew his knife from its sheath. Gelthius' hand went to his own knife and pulled it out; it would be too difficult to untie the cloaks from the spears in the blackness.
The cart driver stood up on his board, one hand on the reins, the other pulling back his hood. The light from the lamp was not enough to show his face as he turned left and right, staring into the gloom. Hitching the reins, the robed man jumped down onto the road and walked towards the gate.
"You pig fuckers had better be here!" a voice called out, revealing the hooded figure to be Faasil. Turning, he stepped into the light of the lantern, revealing his distinctive jutting chin and broken nose.
"You're late, you lazy cunt!" Muuril called back with a laugh.
The three of them forged out of their shallow hiding place towards the wagon. They were halfway there when Muuril stopped and grabbed Loordin by the arm.
"You," said the sergeant, propelling the legionnaire into the night, "still have shit on your legs. Show some self-respect."
"Yes, sergeant," Loordin called back. His following words were a lot quieter as the dim outline of the man disappeared, but still unintentionally loud enough to be heard. "What about all that shit in your head, you bossy bastard?"
"Leave him be, sergeant," said Gelthius as Muuril took a step after Loordin. He hated pulling rank sometimes, and even having any rank to pull, but it was amazing the effect it had on the others. Legion obedience was so ingrained, Muuril stopped immediately and turned back, despite being much larger and more experienced that the Salphor. "You can deal with him when we're back at camp with the king, right enough."
"Right enough," said Muuril, his voice low with menace.
They reached the light from the wagon lantern and found that Faasil was around the back of the cart, pulling something off the back.
"Here you go," said the legionnaire, tossing a rolled blanket to Muuril. The sergeant caught it with a grateful smile. He flapped out the thick woollen material and flung it around his shoulders as another blanket came arcing towards Gelthius.
"Where'd you get these?" asked the captain.
"Stroke of luck, to be honest," said Faasil. He climbed up under the wagon's awning and dropped something else over the side to Muuril. "Have a ham, sergeant."
Muuril caught it in one hand and held it to his chest like a babe to stop it falling into the dirt. Gelthius could smell the
Similar Books
