Mallet moved to her side. 'Lieutenant,' he said.
She scowled at him. 'Any idea what they're talking about, Healer?'
Mallet glanced down at the mages. 'They're just worried, sir. About those condors. They've had close enough looks at them of late and there doesn't seem much doubt that those birds are anything but birds.'
'Well, we'd all guessed that.'
'Aye.' Mallet shrugged, added, 'And, I expect, Paran's news about Anomander Rake and Moon's Spawn hasn't left their minds at ease. If they've been lost, as the captain believes, taking Coral — and taking down the Pannion Seer — will be a lot uglier.'
'We might get slaughtered, you mean.'
'Well…'
Picker's attention slowly fixed on the healer. 'Out with it,' she growled.
'Just a hunch, Lieutenant.'
'Which is?'
'Quick Ben and the captain, sir. They've got something else planned, stewed up between them, that is. Or so I suspect. I've known Quick a long time, you see, up close. I've picked up a sense of how he works. We're here covertly, right? The lead elements for Dujek. But for those two it's a double-blind — there's another mission hiding under this one, and I don't think Onearm knows anything about it.'
Picker slowly blinked. 'And Whiskeyjack?'
Mallet grinned sourly. 'As to that, I can't say, sir.'
'Is it just you with these suspicions, Healer?'
'No. Whiskeyjack's squad. Hedge. Trotts — the damned Barghast is showing his sharp teeth a lot and when he does that it usually means he knows something's going on but doesn't know exactly what, only he won't let on with that last bit. If you gather my meaning.'
Picker nodded. She'd seen Trotts grinning almost every time she'd set eyes on the warrior the past few days. Unnerving, despite Mallet's explanation.
Blend appeared in front of them.
Picker's scowl deepened.
'Sorry, Lieutenant,' she said. 'Captain sniffed me out — not sure how, but he did. I didn't get much chance to listen in, I'm afraid. Anyway, I'm to tell you to get the squads ready.'
'Finally,' Picker muttered. 'I was about to freeze in place.'
'Even so,' Mallet said, 'but I'm already missing the Moranth — these woods are damned dark.'
'But empty, right?'
The healer shrugged. 'Seems so. It's the skies we've got to worry about, come the day.'
Picker straightened. 'Follow me, you two. Time to rouse the others …'
Brood's march to Maurik had become something of a race, the various elements of his army straggling out depending on whatever speed they could maintain — or, in the case of the Grey Swords and Gruntle's legion, what they chose to maintain. As a consequence, the forces were now stretched over almost a league of scorched farmland along the battered trader road leading south, with the Grey Swords, Trake's Legion and another ragtag force in effect forming a rearguard, by virtue of their leisurely pace.
Itkovian had chosen to remain in Gruntle's company. The big Daru and Stonny Menackis wove a succession of tales from their shared past that kept Itkovian entertained, as much from the clash of their disparate recollections as from the often outrageous events the two described.
It had been a long time since Itkovian had last allowed himself such pleasure. He had come to value highly their company, in particular their appalling irreverence.
On rare occasions, he rode up to the Grey Swords, spoke with the Shield Anvil and the Destriant, but the awkwardness soon forced him to leave — his old company had begun to heal, drawing into its weave the Tenescowri recruits, training conducted on the march and when the company halted at dusk. And, as the soldiers grew tighter, the more Itkovian felt himself to be an outsider — the more he missed the family he had known all his adult life.
At the same time, they were his legacy, and he allowed himself a measure of pride when looking upon them. The new Shield Anvil had assumed the title and all it demanded — and for the first time Itkovian understood how others must have seen him, when he'd held the Reve's title. Remote, uncompromising, entirely self-contained. A hard figure, promising brutal justice. Granted, he'd had both Brukhalian and Karnadas from whom he could draw support. But, for the new Shield Anvil, there was naught but the Destriant — a young Capan woman of few words who had herself been a recruit not too long ago. Itkovian well understood how alone the Shield Anvil must be feeling, yet he could think of no way to ease that burden. Every word of advice he gave came, after all, from a man who had — in his own mind at least — failed his god.
