And around them all, the morning stretched out in its measured madness, senseless as ever. Lightening sky, the spin and whirl of insects, the muted baying of animals being driven to slaughter. One thing was missing, however. No one was saying much of anything. Soldiers sat, heads down, or glancing up every now and then, eyes empty and far away.
All under siege. By the gaps round the circle, by the heaps of tents left folded and bound with their clutter of poles and bag of stakes. The dead didn’t have anything to say, either, but everyone still sat, listening for them.
Urb drew up at the foot of one such broken circle of seated soldiers. They’d set a pot on embers and the smell wafting from the brew was heady, alcoholic. Urb studied them. Two women, two men. ‘Twenty-second squad?’
The elder of the two women nodded without looking up. Urb remembered seeing her. A lively face, he recalled. Sharp tongue. Malaz City, maybe, or Jakatan. Islander for sure. ‘Stand up, all of you.’
He saw resentment in the faces lifting to him. The other woman, young, dark-skinned and black-haired, had eyes of startling blue, which now flashed in outrage. ‘Fine, Sergeant,’ she said in an accent he’d never heard before, ‘you’ve just filled out your squad.’ Seeing Saltlick standing behind Urb, her expression changed. ‘Heavy.’ She nodded respectfully.
The other woman shot her companions a hard look. ‘This is the Thirteenth you’re looking at, boys and girls. This squad, and Hellian’s, they drank lizard blood that day. So, all of you, stand the fuck up and do it now.’ She led the way. ‘Sergeant Urb, I’m Clasp. You come to collect us, good. We need collecting.’
The others had clambered to their feet, but the younger woman was still scowling. ‘We lost us a good sergeant—’
‘Who didn’t listen when they said duck,’ Clasp retorted.
‘Always had his nose in something,’ said one of the men, a Kartoolian sporting an oiled beard.
‘Curiosity,’ observed the other man, a short, broad Falari with long hair the colour of blood-streaked gold. The tip of his nose had been sliced off, stubbing his face.
‘You all done with the elegy?’ Urb asked. ‘Good. This is Saltlick. Now, faces I know, so I know all of yours. Give me some names.’
The Kartoolian said, ‘Burnt Rope, Sergeant. Sapper.’
‘Lap Twirl,’ said the Falari. ‘Cutter.’
‘Healing?’
‘Don’t count on it, not on this ground.’
‘Sad,’ said the younger woman. ‘Squad mage. About as useless as Lap right now.’
‘Still have your crossbows?’ Urb asked.
No one spoke.