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.

The new marines from 3rd Company had provided some novelty but not for long. They’d taken the easy route and they knew it and now so did everyone else, and it gave them all a look in the eyes, one that said they still had something to prove and this little help-out here in this village hadn’t been nearly enough. Gonna have to dive across a few hundred more Edur, sweetie, before any of us but Smiles gives you a nod or two.

At the head of the column, which had now arrived, there was Fist Keneb and the sergeant, Thorn Tissy, along with Captain Sort and her brainless mage, Beak.

Keneb eyed the squads then said, ‘Sergeants, to me, please.’

Koryk watched Fiddler, Hellian, Gesler, Badan Gruk and Primly all head over to gather in a half-circle in front of the Fist.

‘Typical,’ muttered Smiles beside him. ‘Now we all go up on report. Especially you, Koryk. You don’t think anybody’s forgotten you murdering that official in Malaz City-so they know you’re the one to watch for.’

‘Oh, be quiet,’ Koryk muttered. ‘They’re just deciding now which squad dies first.’

That shut her up quick enough.

‘You’ve all done damned well,’ Keneb said in a low voice, ‘but now the serious work begins.’ Gesler snorted. ‘Think we didn’t know that, Fist?’

‘Still in the habit of irritating your superiors, I see.’ Gesler flashed his typical grin. ‘How many you bring with you, sir, if I might ask? Because, you see, I’m starting to smell something and it’s a bad smell. We can handle two to one odds. Three to one, even. But I’ve got a feeling we’re about to find. ourselves outnumbered what, ten to one? Twenty? Now, maybe you’ve brought us some more munitions, but unless you’ve got four or five wagons full hidden back of the column, it won’t be enough-’

‘That’s not our problem,’ Fiddler said, pulling a nit from his beard and cracking it between his teeth. ‘There’ll be mages and I know for a fact, Fist, that ours are used up. Even Bottle, and that’s saying a lot.’ Fiddler then scowled at Beak. ‘What in Hood’s name are you smiling about?’ Beak wilted, moved to hide behind Fafadan Sort. The captain seemed to bridle. ‘Listen, Fiddler, maybe you know nothing about this mage here, but I assure you he has combat magicks. Beak, can you hold your own in what’s to come?’

A low murmuring reply: ‘Yes sir. You’ll see. Everyone will because you’re all my friends and friends are important. The most important thing in the world. And I’ll show you.’

Fiddler winced and looked away, then squinted. ‘Shit, we’re losing the night.’

‘Form up for the march,’ Keneb ordered and damn, Fiddler observed, the Fist was looking old right now. ‘We’ll alternate to double-time every hundred paces-from what I understand, we don’t have very far to go.’

‘Until the way ahead is full of enemy,’ Gesler said. ‘Hope at least it’s within sight of Letheras. I’d like to see the damned walls before I feed the weeds.’

‘Enough of that, Sergeant. Dismissed.’

Fiddler didn’t respond to Gesler’s grin when they headed back to their squads.

‘Come on, Fid, all those talents of yours got to be all screaming the same thing right now, aren’t they?’

‘Aye, they’re all screaming at you to shut your damned mouth, Ges.’

Corabb Bhilan Thenu’alas had collected almost more weapons than he could carry. Four of the better spears, two javelins. A single-edged sword something like a scimitar; a nice long, straight Letherii longsword with a sharply tapered point, filed down from what had been a blunted end; two sticker knives and a brace of gutters as well. Strapped to his back was a Letherii shield, wood, leather and bronze. He also carried a crossbow and twenty-seven quarrels. And one sharper.

They were headed, he well knew, to their last stand, and it would be heroic. Glorious. It would be as it should have been with Leoman of the Flails. They would stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, until not one was left alive. And years from now, songs would be sung of this dawning day. And there would be, among the details, a tale of one soldier, wielding spears and javelins and swords and knives and heaps of bodies at his feet. A warrior who had come from Seven Cities, yes, from thousands of leagues away, to finally give the proper ending to the Great Uprising of his homeland. A rebel once more, in the outlawed, homeless Fourteenth Army who were now called the Bonehunters, and whose own bones would be hunted, yes, for their magical properties, and sold for stacks of gold in markets. Especially Corabb’s own skull, larger than all the others, once home to a vast brain filled with genius and other brilliant thoughts. A skull not even a king could afford, yes, especially with the sword blade or spear clove right through it as lasting memento to Corabb’s spectacular death, the last marine standing-