Memories of Ice

'For three days, then one of 'em stumbled onto his own cusser-'

'And then they all went up, yeah. We were a thousand paces up the road and my ears rang for days.'

'That was the end of companies made up of sappers. Dassem broke 'em up after that, meaning that Spindle had no specialist corps to captain any more. So, Picker, what about it?'

'Nothing. Just that none of us is what we once was.'

'I've never been promoted.'

'Well, surprise! You've made a profession of not getting noticed!'

'Even so. And Antsy was born a sergeant-'

'And it's stunted his growth, aye. He's never been busted down, granted, but that's because he's the worst sergeant there ever was. Keeping him one punishes all of us, starting with Antsy himself. All I was saying was, we're all of us losers.'

'Oh, that's a welcome thought, Picker.'

'And who said every thought has to be a nice one? Nobody.'

'I would, only I didn't think of it.'

'Ha. Ha.'

The slow clump of horse hooves reached them. A moment later Captain Paran came into view, leading his horse by the reins.

'Been a long day, Captain,' Picker said. 'We got some tea if you'd like.'

Paran looped the reins over the saddle horn and approached. 'Last fire left among the Bridgeburners. Don't you two ever sleep?'

'We could ask the same of you, sir,' Picker replied. 'But we all already know that sleep's for weaklings, right?'

'Depends on how peaceful it is, I'd think.'

'Captain's right on that,' Blend said to Picker.

'Well,' the corporal sniffed, 'I'm peaceful enough when I sleep.'

Blend grunted. 'That's what you think.'

'We've had word,' Paran said, accepting the cup of steaming herbal brew from Picker, 'from the Black Moranth.'

'They reconnoitred Setta.'

'Aye. There's no-one there. Not breathing, anyway. The whole city's one big necropolis.'

'So why are we still marching there?' Picker asked. 'Unless we're not…'

'We are, Corporal.'

'What for?'

'We're marching to Setta because we're not marching to Lest.'

'Well,' Blend sighed, 'I'm glad that's been cleared up.'

Paran sipped his tea, then said, 'I have elected a second.'

'A second, sir?' Picker asked. 'Why?'

'Obvious reasons. In any case, I've chosen you, Picker. You're now a lieutenant. Whiskeyjack has given his blessing. In my absence you're to command the Bridgeburners-'

'No thanks, sir.'

'It's not up for discussion, Picker. Your lieutenancy is already inscribed in the rolls. Official, with Dujek's seal on it.'

Blend nudged her. 'Congratulations — oh, I suppose I should have saluted.'

'Shut up,' Picker growled. 'But you're right on one thing — don't ever bump me again, woman.'

'That's a hard order to follow. sir.'

Paran drained the last of his tea and straightened. 'I've only got one order for you, Lieutenant.'

She looked up at him. 'Captain?'

'The Bridgeburners,' Paran said, and his expression was suddenly severe. 'Keep them together, no matter what happens. Together, Lieutenant.'

'Uh, yes, sir.'

They watched Paran return to his horse and lead it away.

Neither woman said much for a while thereafter, then Blend sighed. 'Let's go to bed, Picker.'

'Aye.'

They stamped out the remnants of the fire. Darkness closing around them, Blend stepped closer and hooked her arm around Picker's.

'It's all down,' she murmured, 'to what the night hides …'

To Hood it is. It's all down to what the captain was saying behind what he said. That's what I need to figure out. Something tells me it's the end of sleeping peacefully for Lieutenant Picker.

They strode from the dying embers and were swallowed by darkness.

Moments later, no movement was visible, the stars casting their faint silver light down on the camp of the Bridgeburners. The oft-patched tents were colourless in the dull, spectral glow. A scene that was ghostly and strangely timeless. Revealing its own kind of peace.

Whiskeyjack entered Dujek's command tent. As expected, the High Fist was prepared for him. Hooded lantern on camp table, two tankards of ale and a block of Gadrobi goat cheese. Dujek himself sat in one of the chairs, head lowered in sleep.

'High Fist,' Whiskeyjack said as he removed his gauntlets, eyes on the ale and cheese.

The old commander grunted, sat straighter, blinking. 'Right.'

'We've lost her.'

'Too bad. You must be hungry, so I — oh, good. Keep filling your mouth and leave the talking to me, then.' He leaned forward and retrieved his tankard. 'Artanthos found Paran and delivered the orders. So, the captain will get the Bridgeburners ready — ready for what, they won't know and that's probably for the best. As for Paran himself, all right, Quick Ben convinced me. Too bad, that, though I'll be honest and say as far as I can see we'll miss the wizard more than we will that noble-born lad-'

Holding up one hand to stop Dujek, Whiskeyjack washed down the last of the cheese with a mouthful of ale.

The High Fist sighed, waited.

'Dujek-'