Of Bone and Thunder (9 page)

On first glance, and even a second, the men didn't inspire. Crossbowman Second Class “Big Hog” Postik, the beefy farm boy with a good, if limited, head on his shoulders, was flat on his back fast asleep. The Weasel, Crossbowman First Class Alminga Meerz, had his aketon off, revealing his scrawny, bug-bitten chest. He was lathering something over the bites, which made his pale skin turn a dirty yellow color.

It took Listowk a moment to spot Wraith. Like Listowk, the backwoods hunter turned longbowman had managed to accumulate leaves on his helm and aketon, making him difficult to see. He'd also acquired a
nonregulation bow half the size of his longbow, which was the reason Listowk chose him. Longbowman Nolli Lingletti was the walking embodiment of unorthodox.

“Carnan? You sure?” Sinte asked. The tone of his voice made it sound more like an accusation. “Waste of training, that one. What the fuck good is education if it doesn't make a man strong?”

Listowk studied Carny. Average build, plain face, not particularly adept with the crossbow, did what he was told but rarely any more than that, and little apparent desire than to do his time and get out of the army. And yet, he was bright. He could read words that gave Listowk a headache. He had a view of things bigger than most of the soldiers', even if it was usually pessimistic. But most of all, there was something about the man that Listowk felt was special. Not thaumic special—more like a wild card in a high-stakes game of coppers and silver. Carny looked like a lowly three, but damn if he wouldn't reveal himself to be an ace when it really mattered. At least, that's what Listowk hoped would be the case one day. “There's potential in him, I feel it in my bones. We just haven't found it yet.”

Sinte snorted. “He hides it well. Fine. I want you back here at dawn. Make sure you take a couple of signal stars with you. If the slyts do make a move tonight, I want some warning.”

“Our screams should handle that nicely.”

“Uh-huh. See that they do,” Sinte said. “If the bastards do decide to attack, we'll do what we can, but in the dark—”

Listowk cut him off. “We're on our own. I know. Just do me a favor and carry what's left of me down to the ocean. I don't want to rot away in this place.”

Sinte didn't smile, didn't even look. “When you're dead, you're dead.”

“By your command,” Listowk said, lightly tapping his chest with his closed fist.
Ass.

NIGHTFALL CLOAKED THE MOUNTAIN
as the insect chorus grew to a high-pitched whine. It set Carny's teeth on edge. He'd seen enough spiders and other bugs to last a lifetime, and now he was being forced to stay among them all night. In the dark. He started to get up from the ground but forced himself to remain sitting.

He needed something to take the edge off and keep the damn bugs away.
Snow.
He looked over at the soldier nearest him.

“Hey, Wiz, borrow some snow?”

Wizard Orlo Twick looked up from a pile of bowstrings he was untangling. His broad, freckled face and lank red hair draped over his forehead made him look pumpkinlike in the starlight. As the shield had yet to see any battle, Wiz's ministrations to the wounded had consisted of rubbing ointment in cuts and bug bites and applying the odd leech to bleed a soldier's humors back into balance. With little else to do, he'd taken on some extra mundane chores like waxing spare bowstrings.

“You were issued camphor this morning like everyone else,” Wiz said, refusing to use the slang term for the white crystalline blocks. He shook his head as he focused on teasing a string from the pile. When he pulled one free, he laid it on a large flat leaf he'd placed on the ground in front of him. “You got a hen's egg worth.”

Carny rolled his neck and shoulders, imagining bugs crawling over his skin. “Used it up already. C'mon, be a mate. Just a little?” Watching Wiz separate the mess of bowstrings unsettled Carny. It reminded him of a carrion bird pulling out lengths of intestine from a dead animal. A quick smoke would set him right.

Carny reached into the small canvas bag all soldiers were issued for personal items and pulled out an even smaller, dark green cloth bag with a
thin yellow cotton drawstring. He untied the string and upended the contents into his lap. An ebony pipe and pewter tinderbox with flint fell into his lap.

“You mean you used it? All of it?” Wiz asked.

“Every last speck,” Carny said. “They don't give us near enough.” He tried not to watch Wiz's hands and see them as bird beaks tearing into flesh.

“How could you use it up so fast?”

“I just did,” Carny said, frustrated that he was having to explain himself. He put his small pack to the side and flipped open the lid on one of the haversacks Squeak had delivered. He reached in and pulled out a misshapen lump the size of a helm. It was bread, or at least had been at one point in the distant past. He could feel the gouges in the crust where rats had nibbled on it.
Fucking navy
. They were dumping their rotten ship's stores on the beach and the copper-pinching Seventh Phalanx quartermaster was sending the worthless garbage to them.

“You're not eating it, are you?” Wiz asked. “You'll throw your humors out of balance. The human body is very similar to a tree in this regard. Consider the four essential liquids within you like sap. They flow in harmony, each with its purpose.”

Carny looked up from the bread. “Could we not talk about my innards? I'm feeling queasy enough as it is.”

Wiz shrugged. “I spent half a year studying the body of man. We dissected several corpses. I've seen the damage done by not keeping the humors in balance.”

“I get it, I get it,” Carny said, regretting that he'd asked Wiz anything. He reached over to his left, where he'd set down his quiver and crossbow, and slipped the small dagger he kept inside the quiver out of its sheath. With the blade in one hand and the bread in the other, he tapped the rock-hard crust gently with the blade until he found the soft spot. He jabbed the point into it and pried. The bread split apart, revealing a hollow center, inside of which were three fist-sized balls of shredded brown leaves.

“Now
that's
right as rain,” he said, holding the open loaf up to his nose and taking a deep sniff.

“If Sinte catches you with that, he'll have your guts on a limb,” Wiz said, gently twirling a bowstring between his thumb and forefinger. With his other hand, he dipped a finger into a shallow tin of wax and then began daubing it on the string.

Carny looked around to see if anyone else was listening.

“Sinte's too busy polishing anything that doesn't move. Besides, Wild Flower is just a smoother tobacco. Sort of evens out the bumps of the day,” Carny said, lowering his voice so that it didn't carry. “We're not in the Kingdom anymore. Live a little. I could trade you a pipe bowl's worth for, say, a half egg of snow.”

Wiz stopped waxing his string and looked at Carny. The expression on his face was stern. “I do not smoke or drink. The Leaves of Knowledge and Morality that fell from the Sacred Tree are clear on that.
Consume not any herb or liquid that cloudeth the mind, lest your way on the path to enlightenment be lost
.” He then held his right hand out, palm up, fingers spread, before closing it into a fist and bringing it in to rest over his heart.

“Right, sorry, I forgot you were a practicing Dendro,” Carny said, hoping he sounded sincere. While his mother had been devout, her zeal for the Kingdom's dominant faith had not rubbed off on him.

“Dendrolatrian,”
Wiz said, correcting him, “Order of His Most Illuminated High Druid.” He reached under his tunic and pulled out a tiny bronze medallion of a tree and a leather pouch on a string around his neck. There was a bulge inside the pouch about the size of a human eye.

Orthodox, great.
“Yes, of course, it was silly of me to suggest it.”

“Have you given thought to the afterlife, Carnan? How will your soul rise to the great forest in the sky if you do not plant your roots in the foundation of the one truth?”

“That's a great question, and I'll give it some serious thought. Right now, though, I have a question for you. Would you trade your snow for a hunk of cheese, then? Not a speck of mold.” There was more than one way to skin the bark off a tree.

Wiz sighed and put away the pouch and tree medallion. “Goat or cow?”

“I don't know, it's cheese,” Carny said. “Look, my fist's worth for a half egg of snow. That's a steal . . . sorry, great trade.”

“That is generous,” Wiz said, pausing in his waxing.

“So it's a deal?”

“No, sorry,” Wiz said, wiping his fingers against his tunic and restringing his crossbow. “I traded mine earlier with Lingletti for a length of leather thong and some dried fish.”

“You're a real pal, you know that?” Carny said.

“Shut the hell up,” Shield Leader Sinte hissed, suddenly appearing out of the darkness. “I don't know what you're prattling on about, Carny, but if there's a slyt within ten bowshots, he sure as hell heard it.”

Carny stuffed the bread back into the haversack and held up his hands in submission while Wiz focused on his crossbow. Even in the dark, Carny was sure he saw the trace of a smile on Wiz's face.

“Sorry, SL,” Carny whispered, doing his best to stare daggers at Wiz. “But the Bard's still strumming and I can't be any louder than him.”

“Nice bloody inscription for your grave tree,” Sinte said, melting back into the dark.

Something crawled across Carny's right thigh. He tried to stifle his yelp and succeeded in biting the inside of his cheek. It was going to be a long night.

“IT'S NOT GETTING
any darker,” Sinte said, looking at Listowk as if expecting him to dispute the natural progression of dusk to nightfall.

“We'll be going then,” Listowk said, easing himself into a standing position with the least effort required. It was sticky hot and his armpits were irritated from chafing.

“Keep it tuned and tight,” Sinte said, using a bowman's expression and softening his voice so that it didn't come across as an accusation. It surprised Listowk because Sinte normally avoided sounding so . . . human.

“So it'll fly fast and right,” Listowk responded, reaching out a hand.

It met only empty darkness. Sinte was already walking away.

Listowk turned and surveyed the mountaintop. Small orange lights
dotted their camp as men settled in with their pipes. He'd let them enjoy one more smoke. The slyts sure as splinters knew they were there.

“Night patrol to me,” he said, just loud enough to carry to the nearest soldiers. They would pass it along. Shouting was just so much wasted energy.

“It's suicide, is what it is,” Voof muttered.

Listowk sighed. Sinte was right. Vooford
was
an infection.

“It's a stroll among the trees,” Listowk said, smiling hard; no one could see it, but he hoped it came through in his words. “And it's for all our benefit, so let's focus on more important things.”

That should have been the end of it.

“We shouldn't even be up here,” Voof continued.

Listowk looked around for Sinte, expecting to see him charging across the camp with his hewer drawn, but the SL was nowhere in sight.

There was a grumble of agreement from a couple of soldiers standing by Voof. The shield was with him. This was all Listowk needed. Despite the darkness, the air felt even more humid than it had during the day. Moving, even just raising an arm to run it across your forehead, took effort.

Listowk sensed the rising anger and was tempted to let it take its course. Sinte was an ungrateful prick. He could deal with it. See how well he managed. But as sweet as that might have been, letting things spiral out of control helped no one.

“Inside voices, my darlings, the slyts have big ears,” he said, walking slowly around the summit and patting each soldier on the arm or shoulder. He did it gently, careful not to irritate sunburned skin and frayed nerves. It was also a sly way of checking to see that no one's skin was dry, which was a clear sign they were suffering from sun vapors and close to passing out. “The SL is looking out for your best interests. I'll be tucked in just a little ways from here, all snug and safe, keeping both eyes open for you. Me and the boys will be fine, and so will you, if you remember your training and keep a level head on your shoulders. Take a good long drink from your water skin every eighth of a candle. You know Weel's edict. Anyone collapsing from vapors will be brought up on charges.”

“I drink any more water, I'm going to puke,” a soldier said.

“The powder we have to put in the water makes it taste like piss.”

“Better than a lashing,” Listowk said, spending time on each word so that message got through. Silence, save for the sound of men packing their gear and drinking, reigned. If Vooford said another word, Listowk feared he'd have to shoot the fool.

Silence. Beautiful, peaceful silence . . . except for the bloody insects. But thankfully Vooford, whether because of the grace of the High Druid or pure luck, was keeping his mouth shut.

The building tension slid away, leaving the night darker yet somehow less threatening than it had been a moment before. Listowk said a silent prayer that Sinte was still nowhere to be seen.

“That's my good boys,” Listowk said, making an exaggerated show of lifting up his own water skin, uncorking the spout, and taking a drink. It did taste terrible.

“I wish you weren't going,” a soldier said.

Listowk peered into the dark. A pale, frightened-looking boy was staring at him. “You're Omisk, right?”

“Fletcher's Assistant Feern
Ahmist
,” the soldier said. He started to come to attention, then thought better of it and ended up adjusting his helm and slinging his crossbow over his left shoulder. “I landed a week ago with the last cohort.”