The Bonehunters

'Gods, these people need clothes,' he said.



Beside him, Stormy grunted. About the extent of his communication lately, ever since he'd heard of Truth's death.



'They'll start blistering soon,' Gesler went on, 'and Deadsmell and Lutes can only do so much. We got to catch up with the Fourteenth.' He turned his head, squinted towards the front of the column. Then he rose. 'Ain't nobody thinking straight, not even the captain.'



Gesler made his way up the track. He approached the gathering of old Bridgeburners. 'We been missing the obvious,' he said.



'Nothing new in that,' Fiddler said, looking miserable.



Gesler nodded towards Apsalar. 'She's got to ride ahead and halt the army. She's got to get 'em to bring us horses, and clothes and armour and weapons. And water and food. We won't even catch up otherwise.'



Apsalar slowly straightened, brushing dust from her leggings. 'I can do that,' she said in a quiet voice.



Kalam rose and faced Captain Faradan Sort, who stood nearby. 'The sergeant's right. We missed the obvious.'



'Except that there is no guarantee that anyone will believe her,' the captain replied after a moment. 'Perhaps, if one of us borrowed her horse.'



Apsalar frowned, then shrugged. 'As you like.'



'Who's our best rider?' Kalam asked.



'Masan Gilani,' Fiddler said. 'Sure, she's heavy infantry, but still…'



Faradan Sort squinted down the road. 'Which squad?'



'Urb's, the Thirteenth.' Fiddler pointed. 'The one who's standing, the tall one, the Dal Honese.'



****

Masan Gilani's elongated, almond-shaped eyes narrowed as she watched the old soldiers approaching.



'You're in trouble,' Scant said. 'You did something, Gilani, and now they want your blood.'



It certainly looked that way, so Masan made no reply to Scant's words.



She thought back over all of the things she had done of late. Plenty to consider, but none came to mind that anyone might find out about, not after all this time. 'Hey, Scant,' she said.



The soldier looked up. 'What?'



'You know that big hook-blade I keep with my gear?'



Scant's eyes brightened. 'Yes?'



'You can't have it,' she said. 'Saltlick can have it.'



'Thanks, Masan,' Saltlick said.



'I always knew,' Hanno said, 'you had designs on Salty. I could tell, you know.'



'No I don't, I just don't like Scant, that's all.'



'Why don't you like me?'



'I just don't, that's all.'



They fell silent as the veterans arrived. Sergeant Gesler, his eyes on Masan, said, 'We need you, soldier.'



'That's nice.' She noted the way his eyes travelled her mostly naked frame, lingering on her bared breasts with their large, dark nipples, before, with a rapid blinking, he met her eyes once more.



'We want you to take Apsalar's horse and catch up with the Fourteenth.' This was from Sergeant Strings or Fiddler or whatever his name was these days. It seemed Gesler had forgotten how to talk.



'That's it?'



'Aye.'



'All right. It's a nice horse.'



'We need you to convince the Adjunct we're actually alive,' Fiddler went on. 'Then get her to send us mounts and supplies.'



'All right.'



The woman presumably named Apsalar led her horse forward and handed Masan Gilani the reins.



She swung up into the saddle, then said, 'Anybody got a spare knife or something?'



Apsalar produced one from beneath her cloak and passed it up to her.



Masan Gilani's fine brows rose. 'A Kethra. That will do. I'll give it back to you when we meet up again.'



Apsalar nodded.



The Dal Honese set off.



****

'Shouldn't take long,' Gesler said, watching as the woman, riding clear of the column, urged her horse into a canter.



'We'll rest for a while longer here,' Faradan Sort said, then resume our march.'



'We could just wait,' Fiddler said.



The captain shook her head, but offered no explanation.



****

The sun settled on the horizon, bleeding red out to the sides like blood beneath flayed skin. The sky overhead was raucous with sound and motion as thousands of birds winged southward. They were high up, mere black specks, flying without formation, yet their cries reached down in a chorus of terror.



To the north, beyond the range of broken, lifeless hills and steppeland ribboned by seasonal run-off, the plain descended to form a white-crusted salt marsh, beyond which lay the sea. The marsh had once been a modest plateau, subsiding over millennia as underground streams and springs gnawed through the limestone. The caves, once high and vast, were now crushed flat or partially collapsed, and those cramped remnants were flooded or packed with silts, sealing in darkness the walls and vaulted ceilings crowded with paintings, and side chambers still home to the fossilized bones of Imass.