‘Perhaps it’s too late, Fist,’ Tavore said, ‘but I would remind you that these two children are also warlocks.’
‘I’ve seen no sign of it yet, Adjunct. But if they want to curse me, then so be it.’
For the moment, however, neither seemed inclined to do so. Rage had given way to something very much resembling a sulk.
Tavore cleared her throat. ‘Nil, Nether, I believe there will be need for representatives of our army to seek out the local tribes in this forest, to assure them we are aware of the meaning behind their gesture. None the less, we must ensure safe passage across this ford.’
‘Adjunct, Fist Tene Baralta has suggested something similar, but using the Khundryl.’
‘Perhaps representatives from both, then.’ To the Wickans: ‘Report to Fist Tene Baralta.’
Gamet watched the siblings exchange a glance, then Nil said to the Adjunct, ‘As you wish.’
Nether cast a parting look of venom at Gamet as they headed off.
‘Pray you won’t have to pay for that,’ Tavore said when they were out of earshot.
Gamet shrugged.
‘And next time, have Tene Baralta bring his suggestions to me personally.’
‘Aye, Adjunct.’
Cuttle and Strings scrambled back from the shoreline. Soaked and sheathed in blood-crusted mud, they none the less could not keep grins from their faces. A doubling of pleasure in that the munitions had come from the Fourteenth’s stores, not their own. Twelve crackers that would drive the explosions horizontally, three cussers placed shallow in the detritus to loosen the wreckage.
And a bare handful of heartbeats before it all went up.
The rest of the army had pulled back to the top of the slope on this side; the Seti scouts on the opposite side were nowhere to be seen. Leaving only the two sappers-
— running like madmen.
A thundering whump sent both men flying. Sand, mud, water, followed by a rain of debris.
Hands over their heads, they lay motionless for a long moment, with the only sound to reach them the rush of water sweeping over the cleared ford. Then Strings looked across at Cuttle, to find him looking back.
Maybe two cussers would have done.
They exchanged nods, then clambered to their feet.
The ford was indeed clear. The water beyond seethed with flotsam, now making its way down to the Dojal Hading Sea.
Strings wiped mud from his face. ‘Think we made any holes, Cuttle?’
‘Nothing that’ll drown anyone, I’d wager. Good thing you didn’t run,’ Cuttle added in a murmur, as riders made their way down the slope behind them.
Strings shot the man a glance. ‘What don’t you hear?’
‘Not a question I can answer, is it, Fid?’
The first rider arrived-their fellow sapper, Maybe, from the 6th squad. ‘Flat and clean,’ he said, ‘but you left it too close-what’s the point of making a big explosion when you’ve got your face in the dirt when it goes off?’
‘Any other bright comments to make, Maybe?’ Cuttle growled, brushing himself down-a gesture that clearly had no chance of any kind of measurable success. ‘If not, then kindly ride out there and check for holes.’
‘Slowly,’ Strings added. ‘Let your horse find its own pace.’
Maybe’s brows rose. ‘Really?’ Then he nudged his mount forward.
Strings stared after the soldier. ‘I hate satirical bastards like him.’
‘The Wickans will skin him alive if he breaks that horse’s legs.’
‘That has the sound of a feud in the making.’
Cuttle paused in his fruitless efforts to clean himself, then frowned. ‘What?’
‘Never mind.’
Ranal and Keneb rode up. ‘Nicely done,’ the captain said. ‘I think.’
‘Should be all right,’ Strings replied. ‘So long as nobody starts firing arrows at us.’
‘Taken care of, Sergeant. Well, to your squad, the privilege of first crossing.’
‘Aye, sir.’
There should have been pleasure, in a task well done, but Strings felt nothing beyond the initial rush that had immediately followed the detonation. The broken song whispered on in his mind, a dirge lying beneath his every thought.
‘The way ahead seems clear,’ Cuttle muttered.
Aye. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
The land rose steeply on the north side of the Vathar River, with a treeless butte towering over the trail to the west. The army’s crossing continued as the Adjunct and Gamet climbed the goat trail towards the butte’s summit. The sun was low in the sky-their second full day at the ford-and the river was made molten by the lurid streams of light off to their left, although this side of the rock prominence was in deep shadow.
