‘Warrens are sick, Sergeant. Well, you seen what they’re doing to us mages. And there’s new ones, new warrens, I mean, but they ain’t nice at all. Still, I might have to delve into them, once I get tired of being completely useless.’
‘You’re the best among us with a crossbow, Widder, so you ain’t useless even without any magic.’
‘Maybe so, Throatslitter, but it doesn’t feel that way.’
‘Deadsmell,’ said Balm, ‘you’ve been doing some healing.’
‘I have, but Widder’s right. It’s not fun. The problem – for me, that is – is that I’m still somehow bound to Hood. Even though he’s, uh, dead. Don’t know why that should be, but the magic when it comes to me, well, it’s cold as ice.’
Widdershins frowned at Deadsmell. ‘Ice? That makes no sense.’
‘Hood was a damned Jaghut, so yes, it does. And no, it doesn’t, because he’s … well, gone.’
Throatslitter spat and said, ‘If he really died, like you say, did he walk into his realm? And didn’t he have to be dead in the first place, being the God of Death and all? What you’re saying makes no sense, Deadsmell.’
The necromancer looked unhappy. ‘I know.’
‘Next time you do some healing,’ said Widdershins, ‘let me do some sniffing.’
‘You’ll heave again.’
‘So what?’
‘What are you thinking, Widder?’ Balm asked.
‘I’m thinking Deadsmell’s not using Hood’s warren any more. I’m thinking it must be Omtose Phellack.’
‘It’s occurred to me,’ Deadsmell said in a mumble.
‘One way to test it for sure,’ Balm said.
Widdershins swore. ‘Aye. We don’t know the details, but the rumour is that she’s got some broken ribs, maybe even spitting up blood, and is still concussed. But with that Otataral in her, no one can do much about it.’
‘But Omtose Phellack is Elder.’ Deadsmell was nodding. ‘We should go, then. It’s worth a try.’
‘We will,’ said Balm, ‘but first we eat.’
‘And leave the Adjunct in pain?’
‘We eat and drink here,’ said Balm, eyes flat, ‘because we’re marines and we don’t kick dirt in the faces of fellow soldiers.’
‘Exactly,’ said Widdershins. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I’m starving.’
Shortnose had lost the four fingers of his shield hand. To stop the bleeding that had gone on even after the nubs had been sewn up, he had held them against a pot left squatting in a fire. Now the ends looked melted and there were blisters up to his knuckles. But the bleeding had stopped.
He had been about to profess his undying love for Flashwit, but then that sergeant from the 18th had come by and collected up both Flashwit and Mayfly, so Shortnose was alone, the last left in Gesler’s old squad.
He’d sat for a time, alone, using a thorn to pop blisters and then sucking them dry. When that was done he sat some more, watching the fire burn down. At the battle the severed finger of one of the lizards had fallen down the back of his neck, between armour and shirt. When he’d finally retrieved it, he and Mayfly and Flashwit had cooked and shared its scant ribbons of meat. Then they’d separated out and distributed the bones, tying them into their hair. It was what Bonehunters did.
They’d insisted he get the longest one, on account of getting his hand chopped up, and it now hung beneath his beard, overwhelming the other finger bones, which had all come from Letherii soldiers. It was heavy and long enough to thump against his chest when he walked, which is what he decided to do once he realized that he was lonely.
Kit packed, slung over one shoulder, he set out. Thirty-two paces took him into Fiddler’s old squad’s camp, where he found a place to set up his tent, left his satchel in that spot, and then walked over to sit down with the other soldiers.
The pretty little woman seated on his right handed him a tin cup filled with steaming something. When he smiled his thanks she didn’t smile back, which was when he recalled that her name was Smiles.
This, he decided, was better than being lonely.
‘Got competition, Corabb.’
‘Don’t see that,’ the Seven Cities warrior replied.
‘Shortnose wants to be our new fist,’ Cuttle explained.
‘Making what, four fists in this squad? Me, Corporal Tarr, Koryk and now Shortnose.’
‘I was a corporal not a fist,’ said Tarr. ‘Besides, I don’t punch, I just take ’em.’
