Memories of Ice

Paran was three paces behind Trotts, who still held to his old role in Whiskeyjack's squad — that of taking point. Not the ideal position for the commander, but one that complemented the Barghast role of warchief. The captain was not happy with it. Worse, it showed Trotts's stubborn side all too clearly. A lack of adaptability that was disturbing in a leader.



An invisible presence seemed to settle on his shoulder, the touch of a distant, familiar mind. Paran grimaced. His link with Silverfox was growing stronger. This was the third time she had reached out to him this week. A faint brush of awareness, like the touching of fingers, tip to tip. He wondered if that made her able to see what he saw, wondered if she was reading his thoughts. Given all that he held within himself, Paran was beginning to instinctively recoil from her contact. His secrets were his own. She had no right to plunder them, if that was what she was doing. Even tactical necessity could not justify that to his mind. His frown deepened as her presence lingered. If it is her. What if-



Ahead, Trotts stopped, settling into a crouch, one hand raised. He gestured twice.



Paran and the soldier immediately behind him moved to join the Barghast warrior.



They had reached the Pannions' north pickets. The encampment was a shambles, bereft of organization, sloppily prepared and seriously undermanned. Litter cluttered the trodden paths between trenches, pits, and the ragged sprawl of makeshift tents. The air was redolent with poorly placed latrines.



The three men studied the scene for a moment longer, then withdrew to rejoin the others. The squad sergeants slipped forward. A huddle was formed.



Spindle, who had been the soldier accompanying Paran, was the first to speak. 'Medium infantry on station,' he whispered. 'Two small companies by the pair of standards-'



'Two hundred,' Trotts agreed. 'More in the tents. Sick and wounded.'



'Mostly sick, I'd say,' Spindle replied. 'Dysentery, I'd guess, by the smell. These Pannion officers ain't worth dung. Them sick ones won't be in the fighting no matter what we do. Guess everyone else is in the city.'



'The gates beyond,' Trotts growled.



Paran nodded. 'Lots of bodies before it. A thousand corpses, maybe more. No barricades at the gates themselves, nor could I see any guard. The overconfidence of victors.'



'We gotta punch through them medium infantry,' Sergeant Antsy muttered. 'Spindle, how are you and the rest of the sappers for Moranth munitions?'



The small man grinned. 'Found your nerve again, eh, Antsy?'



The sergeant scowled. 'This is fightin', ain't it? Now answer my question, soldier.'



'We got plenty. Wish we had a few of them lobbers Fiddler makes, though.'



Paran blinked, then recalled the oversized crossbows Fiddler and Hedge used to extend the range of cussers. 'Doesn't Hedge have one?' he asked.



'He broke it, the idiot. No, we'll prime some cussers but that'll be just for sowing. Sharpers, tonight. Burners would make too much light — let the enemy see how few of us there really are. Sharpers. I'll gather the lads and lasses.'



'I thought you were a mage,' Paran muttered as the man turned towards the waiting squads.



Spindle glanced back. 'I am, Captain. And I'm a sapper, too. Deadly combination, eh?'



'Deadly for us,' Antsy retorted. 'That and your damned hairshirt-'



'Hey, the burnt patches are growing back — see?'



'Get to it,' Trotts growled.



Spindle started tagging off squad sappers.



'So we just punch right through,' Paran said. 'With the sharpers that should be no problem, but then the ones on the outside flanks will sweep in behind us-'



Spindle rejoined them in time to grunt and say, 'That's why we'll sow cussers, Captain. Two drops on the wax. Ten heartbeats. The word's "run", and when we shout it that's what you'd better do, and fast. If you're less than thirty paces away when they go up, you're diced liver.'



'You ready?' Trotts asked Spindle.



'Aye. Nine of us, so expect just under thirty paces wide, the path we carve.'



'Weapons out,' the Barghast said. Then he reached out and gripped Spindle's hairshirt and dragged him close. Trotts grinned. 'No mistakes.'



'No mistakes,' the man agreed, eyes widening as Trotts clacked his sharpened teeth inches from his face.



A moment later, Spindle and his eight fellow sappers were moving towards the enemy lines, hooded and shapeless in their rain-capes.



The presence brushed Paran's awareness once again. He did all he could in his mind to push it away. The acid in his stomach swirled, murmuring a promise of pain. He drew a deep breath to steady himself. If swords clash … it will be my first. After all this time, my first battle.