Dujek paused, eyed them, then nodded and said, 'That's all, Bridgeburners. The Trygalle are waiting for you. Captain, remain a moment — I would a private word with you. Oh, Picker, send High Mage Quick Ben up here, will you?'
Picker blinked. 'High Mage?'
Dujek grimaced. 'That bastard can't hide any longer. Tayschrenn's insisted.'
'Yes, sir.'
Paran watched the small troop head down the hill.
Dujek drew a palsied hand across his face, turned away. 'Walk with me, Paran.'
Paran did. 'That was well done, sir.'
'No, it wasn't, Ganoes, but it was all I could do. I don't want the last of the Bridgeburners to die on some field of battle, or in some nameless city that's fighting hard to stay free. I'm taking what's left of my Host to Seven Cities, to reinforce Adjunct Tavore's retributive army. You are welcome-'
'No, sir. I'd rather not.'
Dujek nodded, as if he had expected that. 'There's a dozen or so columns for you, near the carriages below. Go with your company, then, with my blessing. I'll have you counted among the casualties.'
'Thank you, High Fist. I don't think I was ever cut out to be a soldier.'
'Not another word of that, Captain. Think what you like about yourself, but we will continue seeing you as you are — a noble man.'
'Noble-'
'Not that kind of noble, Ganoes. This is the kind that's earned, the only kind that means anything. Because, in this day and age, it's damned rare.'
'Well, sir, there I'll respectfully disagree with you. If there's but one experience I will carry with me of my time in this campaign, High Fist, it is that of being humbled, again and again, by those around me.'
'Go join your fellow Bridgeburners, Ganoes Paran.'
'Yes, sir. Goodbye, High Fist.'
'Goodbye.'
As Paran made his way down the slope, he stumbled momentarily, then righted himself. My fellow Bridgeburners, he said., well, the achievement is shortlived, but even so.
I made it.
Ignoring the grim-faced soldiers on all sides, Toc — Anaster — reined in beside the small tent the Grey Swords had given him. Aye, I remember Anaster, and this may be his body, but that's all. He slipped from the saddle and entered it.
He hunted until he found the cask, hid it within a leather sack and slung that over a shoulder, then hurried back outside.
As he drew himself into the saddle once more, a man stepped up to him.
Toc frowned down at him. This was no Tenescowri, nor a Grey Sword. If anything, he looked, from his faded, tattered leathers and furs, to be Barghast.
Covered in scars — more scars of battle than Toc had ever seen on a single person before. Despite this, there was a comfort, there in his face — a gentleman's face, no more than twenty years of age, the features pronounced, heavy-boned, framed in long black hair devoid of any fetishes or braids. His eyes were a soft brown as he looked up at Toc.
Toc had never met this man before. 'Hello. Is there something you wish?' he asked, impatient to be away.
The man shook his head. 'I only sought to look upon you, to see that you were well.'
He believes me to be Anaster. A friend of old, perhaps — not one of his lieutenants, though — I would have remembered this one. Well, I'll not disappoint him. 'Thank you. I am.'
'This pleases me.' The man smiled, reached up and laid a hand on Toc's leg. 'I will go, now, brother. Know that I hold you in my memory.' Still smiling, he turned and strode away, passing through the midst of curious Grey Swords, heading north towards the forest.
Toc stared after him. Something. something about that walk.
'Mortal Sword-'
The Shield Anvil was approaching.
Toc gathered the reins. 'Not now,' he called out. 'Later.' He swung his horse round. 'All right, you wretched hag, let's see how you gallop, shall we?' He drove his heels into the beast's flanks.
His sister awaited him at the edge of the forest. 'You are done?' she asked him.
'I am.'
They continued on, under the trees. 'I have missed you, brother.'
'And I you.'
'You have no sword …'
'Indeed, I have not. Do you think I will need one?'
She leaned close to him. 'Now more than before, I would think.'
'Perhaps you are right. We must needs find a quarry.'
'The Barghast Range. A flint the colour of blood — I will invest it, of course, to prevent its shattering.'