‘As am I. You may now-’
She got no further, seeing that the attention of the three men standing before her had slipped past, over her shoulder; and from the four thousand soldiers standing at attention, there was sudden, absolute silence-not a rustle of armour, not a cough. For the 8th had drawn a single breath, and now held it.
Gamet struggled to maintain his expression, even as Tavore raised an eyebrow at him. Then she slowly turned.
The toddler had come from nowhere, unseen by any until he arrived to stand in the very spot where the Adjunct had first stood, his oversized rust-red telaba trailing like a royal train. Blond hair a tangled shock above a deeply tanned, cherubic face smeared with dirt, the child faced the ranks of soldiers with an air of unperturbed calculation.
A strangled cough from among the soldiers, then someone stepped forward.
Even as the man emerged from the front line, the toddler’s eyes found him. Both arms, buried in sleeves, reached out. Then one sleeve slipped back, revealing the tiny hand, and in that hand there was a bone. A human longbone. The man froze in mid-step.
The air above the parade ground seemed to hiss like a thing alive with the gasps of four thousand soldiers.
Gamet fought down a shiver, then spoke to the man. ‘Captain Keneb,’ he said loudly, struggling to swallow a welling dread, ‘I suggest you collect your lad. Now, before he, uh, starts screaming.’
Face flushed, Keneb threw a shaky salute then strode forward.
‘Neb!’ the toddler shouted as the captain gathered him up.
Adjunct Tavore snapped, ‘Follow me!’ to Gamet, then walked to the pair. ‘Captain Keneb, is it?’
‘Your p-pardon, Adjunct. The lad has a nurse but seems determined to slip through her grasp at every opportunity-there’s a blown graveyard behind the-’
‘Is he yours, Captain?’ Tavore demanded, her tone brittle.
‘As good as, Adjunct. An orphan from the Chain of Dogs. The historian Duiker placed him into my care.’
‘Has he a name?’
‘Grub.’
‘Grub?’
Keneb’s shrug was apologetic. ‘For now, Adjunct. It well suits him-’
‘And the 8th. Yes, I see that. Deliver him to your hired nurse, Captain. Then, tomorrow, fire her and hire a better one… or three. Will the child accompany the army?’
‘He has no-one else, Adjunct. There will be other families among the camp followers-’
‘I am aware of that. Be on your way, Captain Keneb.’
‘I–I am sorry, Adjunct-’
But she was already turning away, and only Gamet heard her sigh and murmur, ‘It is far too late for that.’
And she was right. Soldiers-even recruits-recognized an omen when it arrived. A child in the very boot prints of the woman who would lead this army. Raising high a sun-bleached thigh bone .
Gods below…
‘Hood’s balls skewered on a spit.’
The curse was spoken as a low growl, in tones of disgust.
Strings watched Cuttle set his bag down and slide it beneath the low flatboard bed. The stable that had been transformed into a makeshift barracks held eight squads now, the cramped confines reeking of fresh sweat… and stark terror. At the back wall’s urine hole someone was being sick.
‘Let’s head outside, Cuttle,’ Strings said after a moment. ‘I’ll collect Gesler and Borduke.’
‘I’d rather go get drunk,’ the sapper muttered.
‘Later, we’ll do just that. But first, we need to have a small meeting.’
Still the other man hesitated.
Strings rose from his cot and stepped close. ‘Aye, it’s that important.’
‘All right. Lead on… Strings.’
As it turned out, Stormy joined the group of veterans that pushed silently past ashen-faced recruits-many of them with closed eyes and mouthing silent prayers-and headed out into the courtyard.
It was deserted, Lieutenant Ranal-who had proved pathetically ineffective at the assembly-having fled into the main house the moment the troop arrived.
All eyes were on Strings. He in turn studied the array of grim expressions around him. There was no doubt among them concerning the meaning of the omen, and Strings was inclined to agree. A child leads us to our deaths. A leg bone to signify our march, withered under the curse of the desert sun. We’ve all lived too long, seen too much, to deceive ourselves of this one brutal truth: this army of recruits now see themselves as already dead .
Stormy’s battered, red-bearded face finally twisted into an expression too bitter to be wry. ‘If you’re going to say that us here have a hope at Hood’s gate in fighting the tide, Strings, you’ve lost your mind. The lads and lasses in there ain’t unique-the whole damned three legions-’
