Reaper's Gale

‘Get your arse into that tavern, Corporal, and wake the bastards up. We’ll wait right here-but not for long, understood?’



A quick, unobtrusive salute and Tarr headed off.



‘See what happens when an officer’s not around enough? They get damned full of themselves, that’s what happens, Beak.’



‘Yes sir.’



‘Well, when they hear all the bad news they won’t be anywhere near as arrogant.’



‘Oh, they know, sir. Better than we do.’ But that’s not com.’ pletely true. They don’t know what I know, and neither, Captain my love, do you.



They both turned at the sound of the column, coming up fast. Faster than it should be, in fact.



The captain’s comment was succinct. ‘Shit.’ Then she added, ‘Go on ahead, Beak-get ‘em ready to move!’



‘Yes sir!’



The problem with owls was that, even as far as birds went, they were profoundly stupid. Getting them to even so much as turn their damned heads was a struggle, no matter how tightly Bottle gripped their tiny squirming souls.



He was locked in such a battle at the moment, so far past the notion of sleep that it seemed it belonged exclusively to other people and would for ever remain beyond his reach.



But all at once it did not matter where the owl was looking, nor even where it wanted to look. Because there were figures moving across the land, through the copses, the tilled grounds, swarming the slopes of the old quarry pits and on the road and all its converging tracks. Hundreds, thousands. Moving quiet, weapons readied. And less than half a league behind Keneb’s column.



Bottle shook himself, eyes blinking rapidly as he refocused-the pitted wall of the tavern, plaster chipped where daggers had been thrown against it, the yellow runnels of leakage from the thatched roof above the common room. Around him, marines pulling on their gear. Someone, probably Hellian, spitting and gagging somewhere behind the bar.



One of the newly arrived marines appeared in front of him, pulling up a chair and sitting down. The Dal Honese mage, the one with the jungle still in his eyes.



‘Nep Furrow,’ he now growled. ‘Mimber me?’



‘Mimber what?’



‘Me!’



‘Yes. Nep Furrow. Like you just said. Listen, I’ve got no time to talk-’



A fluttering wave of one gnarled hand. ‘We’en know! Bit the Edur! We’en know all’at.’ A bent finger stabbed at Bottle. ‘Issn this. You. Used dup! An’thas be-ad! Be-ad! We all die! Cuzzin you!’



‘Oh, thanks for that, you chewed-up root! We weren’t taking the scenic leg like you bastards, you know. In fact, we only got this far because of me!’



‘Vlah! Iss th’feedle! The feedle orn your sergeant! Issn the song, yeseen-it ain’t done-done yeet. Ain’t yeet done-done! Hah!’



Bottle stared at the mage. ‘So this is what happens when you pick your nose but never put anything back, right?’



‘Pick’n back! Hee hee! Een so, Bauble, yeen the cause alia us dyin, s’long as yeen know.’



And what about the unfinished song?’



An elaborate shrug. ‘Oonoes when, eh? Oonoes?’



Then Fiddler was at the table. ‘Bottle, now’s not the time for a Hood-damned conversation. Out into the street and look awake, damn you-we’re all about to charge out of this village like a herd of bhederin.’



Yeah, and right over a cliff we go. ‘Wasn’t me started this ‘ conversation, Sergeant-’



‘Grab your gear, soldier.’



Koryk stood with the others of the squad, barring Bottle who clearly thought he was unique or something, and watched as the leading elements of the column appeared at I the end of the main street, a darker mass amidst night’s last, stubborn grip. No-one on horses, he saw, which wasn’t too surprising. Food for Keneb and his tail-end company must have been hard to find, so horses went into the stew-there, a few left, but loaded down with gear. Soon there’d j be stringy, lean meat to add flavour to the local grain that tasted the way goat shit smelled.



He could feel his heart thumping strong in his chest. Oh, there would be fighting today. The Edur to the west were rolling them up all right. And ahead, on this side of the great capital city, there’d be an army or two. Waiting just for us and isn’t that nice of ‘em.



Fiddler loomed directly in front of Koryk and slapped the half-blood on the side of his helm. ‘Wake up, damn you!’



‘I was awake, Sergeant!’



But that was all right. Understandable, even, as Fiddler went down the line snapping at everyone. Aye, there’d been way too much drinking in this village and wits were anything but sharp. Of course, Koryk felt fine enough. He’d mostly slept when the others were draining the last casks of ale. Slept, aye, knowing what was coming.