‘Quartermaster Pores.’
He looked up. Saw Fist Blistig standing at the back of the wagon. ‘Fist?’
‘I need to speak to you.’
‘Aye, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘You can give me my casks.’
‘Casks? Oh, those casks.’
‘Get over here, Pores, I ain’t in the mood to be looking up at you.’
He clambered his way to the back of the wagon, dropped down on to the ground – at the impact his knees folded under him and he swore as he sank lower.
And the knife meant for his heart went into his upper chest instead.
Pores fell back, sliding from the blade. Blood sprayed, pattering the dusty ground like raindrops. He found himself staring up at the Jade Strangers.
‘Bleeder,’ Blistig said, moving into his line of sight and looking down at him. ‘That’ll do.’
He listened to the Fist walking away, and he wanted to laugh. Saves me a night’s march .
Things were quiet for a time, as he felt himself fading away. And then he heard the crunch of a foot stepping close to the side of his head. He blinked open his eyes. Look. It’s the Grey Man, the Harrower, come for me. I knew I rated special attention . The rotted skeleton crouched down to stare at him with black, empty sockets.
Pores smiled. ‘Just leave it by the door.’
Balm looked round, scowling. ‘So where is he?’
Throatslitter hacked out a dry cough that left him doubled over. On one knee, he gasped for a time and then said in a voice like sifting sand, ‘Probably running an errand for Pores, Sergeant.’
Deadsmell snorted. ‘Errand? You lost your mind, Throat? Nobody’s running errands any more. He should be here. No, I don’t like this.’
Balm drew off his helm and scratched at his scalp. ‘Throat, climb up and give it a look over, will you?’
‘There ain’t nothing worth stealing up there, Sergeant.’
‘I know that and you know that, but that don’t mean anybody else knows it. Go on.’
Groaning, Throatslitter slowly straightened. Made his way over to the side of the wagon.
‘Widdershins,’ said Balm, ‘go up and talk to the haulers, see what they know.’
‘What they know is the sight of their own feet, Sergeant.’
‘I don’t care.’
The mage made his way to the front of the wagon.
‘Down to a crawl,’ Balm observed, eyeing the wagon’s wobbly wheels rocking past. ‘We’ll be lucky making two leagues tonight.’
Throatslitter pulled himself on to the sideboard.
The crossbow quarrel coming out of the darkness caught him in the right buttock. He howled.
Balm spun round, bringing up his shield. A quarrel slammed into it, skittered up past his face, slicing cheek and ear. ‘Ambush!’
The wagon trundled to a halt.
Throatslitter had dropped back down, only to fall on to his side, a stream of curses hissing from him. Deadsmell threw himself down beside him. ‘Lie still, damn you – got to cut it out or you’re useless t’us!’
But Throatslitter had managed to get one hand around the quarrel’s shaft. He tore it loose, flung it to one side.
Deadsmell stared at the man – he hadn’t made a sound.
With bloodied hands, Throatslitter signalled: Someone in wagon .
The healer nodded, looked round – Balm had squatted down behind his shield, short sword readied. Widdershins was nowhere to be seen. The last of the regulars on this flank had simply melted away, and though the glow from the Strangers was now painting the desert pan a luminous green their attackers were nowhere to be seen.
Deadsmell collected a pebble and flung it at Balm. It struck his hip and the sergeant’s head snapped around.
More hand signals.
Balm backed until he was pressed against the wagon’s front wheel. With his tongue he was trying to lap up the blood trickling down his cheek. He flung a series of gestures off to his right, and then glanced back at Deadsmell and, tongue snaking out yet again, he nodded.
Thank Hood . Deadsmell met Throatslitter’s eyes, jerked his head upward. Make a show .
Drawing his knives, Throatslitter gathered into a crouch.
Rackle held himself perfectly still. Not quite the way they’d planned this. One wounded to show so far. The Fist wouldn’t be happy, but maybe he could salvage this mess.
He heard the wounded one hiss, ‘Get up on top, Deadsmell, and take a look around.’
‘You lost your mind, Throat?’
‘Just do it,’ growled the sergeant.
