'Let's hope she notices.'
The two women fell silent. The duels down by the fire were coming fast and with a ferocity that had begun drawing more and more Barghast onlookers. Picker grunted, watching another warrior go down with a rival's knife in his throat. If this keeps up, they'll have to start building a new barrow tomorrow. Then again, they might do that anyway — a barrow for the Bridgeburners. She looked around, picking out solitary Bridgeburners among the crowds of natives. Discipline had crumbled. That fast surge of hope at the news that Trotts would live had sunk just as fast with the rumour that the Barghast might kill them all anyway — out of spite.
'The air feels … strange,' Blend said.
Aye. as if the night itself was aflame. as if we're in the heart of an unseen firestorm. The tores on Picker's arms were hot and slowly getting hotter. I'm about due for another dousing in that water barrel — shortlived relief, but at least it's something.
'Remember that night in Blackdog?' Blend continued in a low voice. 'That retreat…"
Stumbling onto a Rhivi Burn Ground. malign spirits rising up out of the ashes. 'Aye, Blend, I remember well enough.' And if that wing of Black Moranth hadn't spied us and come down to pull us up.
'Feels the same, Picker. We've got spirits loosed.'
'Not the big ones — these are ancestors we've got gathering. If it was the big ones our hair'd be standing on end.'
'True. So where are they? Where are the nastiest of the Barghast spirits?'
'Somewhere else, obviously. With Oponn's luck, they won't show up tomorrow.'
'You'd think they would. You'd think they'd not want to miss something like this.'
'Try thinking pleasant thoughts for a change, Blend. Hood's breath!'
'I was just wondering,' the woman shrugged. 'Anyway,' she continued, rising, 'I think I'm going to wander for a while. See what I can pick up.'
'You understand Barghast?'
'No, but sometimes the most telling communication doesn't use words.'
'You're as bad as the rest, Blend. Likely our last night among the living, and off you go.'
'But that's the whole point, isn't it?'
Picker watched her friend slip away into the shadows. Damned woman … got me sitting here more miserable than before. How do I know where the serious Barghast spirits are? Maybe they're just waiting behind some hill. Ready to jump out tomorrow morning and scare us all shitless. And how do I know what that Barghast warchief's going to decide tomorrow? A pat on the head or a knife across the throat?
Spindle pushed through the crowd and approached. The stench of burned hair hung around him like a second cloak and his expression was grim. He crouched down before her. 'It's going bad, Corporal.'
'That's a change,' she snapped. 'What is?'
'Half our soldiers are drunk and the rest are well on their way. Paran and his cronies disappearing into that tent and not coming out ain't been taken as a good sign. We won't be in any shape to do a damned thing come the dawn.'
Picker glanced over to Humbrall Taur's tent. The silhouetted figures within had not moved in some time. After a moment she nodded to herself. 'All right, Spin. Stop worrying about it. Go have some fun.'
The man gaped. 'Fun?'
'Yeah, remember? Relaxation, pleasure, a sense of well-being. Go on, she's out there somewhere and you won't be around nine months from now either. Of course, you might have a better chance if you took off that hairshirt — for this night at least-'
'I can't do that! What will Mother think?'
Picker studied the mage's fraught, horrified expression. 'Spindle,' she said slowly, 'your mother's dead. She ain't here, she ain't watching over you. You can misbehave, Spindle. Honest.'
The mage ducked down as if an invisible hand had just clouted him and for a moment Picker thought she saw an impression of knuckles bloom on the man's pate, then he scampered away, muttering and shaking his head.
Gods. maybe all our ancestors are here! Picker glared about. Come near me, Da, and I'll slit your Hood-damned throat, just like I did the first time.
Grainy-eyed with exhaustion, Paran stepped clear of the tent entrance. The sky was grey, faintly luminescent. Mist and woodsmoke hung motionless in the valley. A pack of dogs loping along one ridge was the only movement he could see.
And yet they're awake. All here. The real battle is done, and now, here before me — I can almost see them — stand the dark godlings of the Barghast, facing the dawn. for the first time in thousands of years, facing the mortal dawn.
