The rider reined in. ‘Fist, the Adjunct requests your presence in the sub-camp of the Fifth Squad, Ninth Company, Eighth Legion. There has been an incident.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Captain Yil didn’t say.’
Keneb glanced back at the rising sun, and then the stretch below it. Wastelands. Even the name leaves a sick feeling in my gut. ‘Let’s go then, Bulge. On the way, you can amuse me with another story about Master Sergeant Pores.’
The scarred man’s round, pocked face split into a smile. ‘Aye, sir. Got plenty.’
They set out at a brisk canter.
After relaying Fiddler’s orders to the squad, Bottle returned to the Fifth Squad’s camp. He found a solid cordon round it and was forced to use his sergeant’s name to push his way through. The three heavies were sitting close to a weak dung fire, looking morose. Fiddler stood close to the motionless, prostrate body of Quick Ben. Alarmed, Bottle hurried over.
‘What happened? He try a quest?’
‘You back again? I sent you away, soldier-’
‘Not a good idea, Sergeant. You shouldn’t have let Quick try anything-’
‘Why?’
Bottle pointed down. ‘That’s why. He’s still alive, isn’t he? He’d better be.’
‘Aye. Now what’s this about avoiding any magics, Bottle?’
‘Small stuff is fine. Food, water, all that. But I wouldn’t even think of doing anything bigger. First off, the Wastelands might as well be dusted in otataral. Attempting sorcery here is like pulling teeth. Most places, that is. But there’s other, uh, places, where it’s the damned opposite.’
‘Back up, soldier. You’re saying there’s areas out there where magic comes easy? Why didn’t you mention this before? Our warlocks and witches are half-dead right now-’
‘No no, it’s not like that, Sergeant. It’s not areas, it’s people. Or, more accurately, things. Ascendants, stinking with power.’ Bottle waved one hand eastward. ‘Out there, just… I don’t know, just walking around. And they bleed, uh, energies. Sure, we could feed on them, Sergeant, but that would mean getting close to them, and close is probably a bad idea.’
Quick Ben groaned.
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The rider reined in. ‘Fist, the Adjunct requests your presence in the sub-camp of the Fifth Squad, Ninth Company, Eighth Legion. There has been an incident.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Captain Yil didn’t say.’
Keneb glanced back at the rising sun, and then the stretch below it. Wastelands. Even the name leaves a sick feeling in my gut. ‘Let’s go then, Bulge. On the way, you can amuse me with another story about Master Sergeant Pores.’
The scarred man’s round, pocked face split into a smile. ‘Aye, sir. Got plenty.’
They set out at a brisk canter.
After relaying Fiddler’s orders to the squad, Bottle returned to the Fifth Squad’s camp. He found a solid cordon round it and was forced to use his sergeant’s name to push his way through. The three heavies were sitting close to a weak dung fire, looking morose. Fiddler stood close to the motionless, prostrate body of Quick Ben. Alarmed, Bottle hurried over.
‘What happened? He try a quest?’
‘You back again? I sent you away, soldier-’
‘Not a good idea, Sergeant. You shouldn’t have let Quick try anything-’
‘Why?’
Bottle pointed down. ‘That’s why. He’s still alive, isn’t he? He’d better be.’
‘Aye. Now what’s this about avoiding any magics, Bottle?’
‘Small stuff is fine. Food, water, all that. But I wouldn’t even think of doing anything bigger. First off, the Wastelands might as well be dusted in otataral. Attempting sorcery here is like pulling teeth. Most places, that is. But there’s other, uh, places, where it’s the damned opposite.’
‘Back up, soldier. You’re saying there’s areas out there where magic comes easy? Why didn’t you mention this before? Our warlocks and witches are half-dead right now-’
‘No no, it’s not like that, Sergeant. It’s not areas, it’s people. Or, more accurately, things. Ascendants, stinking with power.’ Bottle waved one hand eastward. ‘Out there, just… I don’t know, just walking around. And they bleed, uh, energies. Sure, we could feed on them, Sergeant, but that would mean getting close to them, and close is probably a bad idea.’
Quick Ben groaned.
Bottle frowned down at the High Mage. ‘Is that a welt on the side of his head?’
‘How close to us is the nearest thing , Bottle?’
‘I know the smell of one of them. T’lan Imass.’
‘Really.’ The word was flat, dangerous.
‘Still far away,’ Bottle hastily added. ‘There’s nothing within twenty leagues of us. That I know of-some ascendants are good at hiding-’
‘You winging out there, Bottle? How often?’
‘Hardly at all, Sergeant. It’s scary out there. In the dark, I mean.’ Bottle was beginning to regret coming back here. What’s with me, anyway? Sticking my nose into every damned thing, and if it stinks real bad what do I do? I go find something else to stick my nose in. And they all stink-you’d imagine, wouldn’t you, I might quit the habit. But no, of course not. Gods, Bottle, listen to yourself-
Quick Ben sat up, cradling his head. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘What?’
‘Took a fall there, High Mage,’ said Fiddler.
‘A fall?’
‘Aye, I’m thinking you was struck with a thought.’
Quick Ben spat, gingerly probing the side of his head. ‘Must have been some thought,’ he muttered. ‘Hit so hard I can’t even remember it.’
‘Happens,’ said Fiddler. ‘Listen, Bottle. Wasn’t a T’lan Imass who kidnapped Gesler and Stormy. It was what we talked about before: K’Chain Che’Malle.’
‘Wait,’ said Quick Ben. ‘Who said anything about T’lan Imass?’
‘I did,’ Bottle replied. ‘You were the one talking about winged K’Chain Che’Malle.’
Fiddler snorted. ‘No doubt the Adjunct will talk to us about the fucking Forkrul Assail. Who’s left? Oh, the Jaghut-’
‘Still days away-’ said Bottle and Quick Ben in unison, and then glared at each other.
Fiddler’s face reddened. ‘You bastards,’ he hissed under his breath. ‘Both of you! We’ve got a Jaghut tracking us?’
‘Not one,’ admitted Bottle. ‘I counted fourteen. Each one a walking armoury. But I don’t think they’re actually following us, Sergeant-unless our High Mage knows more about it, which is possible.’