None knew what had motivated Curl to murder his partner, and he was not forthcoming on the matter.
Behind him came the one woman promoted thus far, from Slate Pit to the northwest. Aral was gaunt, her black hair streaked with grey, with a pinched, pale face and eyes that seemed capable of holding a world’s fill of malice and spite. She had, one fine evening, fed a dozen select guests her husband for supper. That her guests were one and all related to her husband made the deed all the sweeter, as far as she was concerned, and she would have happily included any or all of them as dessert. When Faror had heard the tale, from Rebble one night over a cask of ale, his telling had dragged her past horror into humour. But upon meeting Aral, all amusement vanished into the depthless darkness of her gaze.
‘It’s the husband you need to think about, Warden,’ Rebble had added later. ‘I mean, one look into those eyes … no, not a thing to marry, not in there. Not a thing to love, or cherish, or – gods forbid – worship. That woman – I near piss myself every time we chance to meet gazes. So you can’t help but wonder at the man who took her hand. But one thing’s for certain. She’ll be a fine commander, since no man or woman, if they got eyes to see, would ever go against her.’
‘That’s a dubious justification,’ Wareth had replied. ‘It’s not just giving orders, Rebble. Being an officer’s a lot more than that. It’s down to who you’ll follow.’
‘Well, lieutenant, if you know anything about that, it’d be from the backside.’
‘True enough, Rebble, but that don’t make my vision any less clear.’
Of these new officers, selected from the prisoners, only Rebble and Wareth had caught Faror Hend’s interest. Rebble was a victim of his own temper, and that was far from a rare thing. Nothing in Rebble baffled her. As for Wareth … well, monstrous he might appear to be after years of wielding a pick, but there was something gentle in the man. Gentle and, she had to admit, weak. It may well have been his cowardice that made him as clever as he was. She would not trust Wareth in any setting that threatened violence, but she did not anticipate ever finding herself in such a situation when she might have to: accordingly, she accepted him as he was, and perhaps the real reason for that was, just as with Rebble, she understood him.
Her aversion to joining the military had guided her into the company of the Wardens. She saw nothing inviting or glorious in battle, and had no desire to seek it out.
Accompanying Aral were Denar and Kalakan, a pair of thieves who had broken into an estate in Kharkanas, only to stumble into what they swore was a father raping all four of his children, with the wife lying dead on the floor in the room’s centre. By their tale, which they still maintained as the truth, the man in question was highborn enough to sell his innocence to the magistrate, and, indeed, to twist the scene around, accusing the thieves of the murder and the rapes. As the four children were, one and all, driven too deep into shock to be capable of responding to anyone or anything, it was the noble’s word against two common thieves.
Denar and Kalakan had been sent to separate pits, only to reunite here in the Hust Legion. Their promotions were earned by the sharpness of their minds, and the cutting precision of their wit. Their sheer popularity made the charges against them seem profoundly unlikely, and, as it turned out, the two men had been partners in love as well as thievery.
A few moments later, Wareth arrived, and with him was a young woman who seemed far from pleased to be in his company, or anyone’s company for that matter. She immediately moved off to stand with her back against canvas, arms crossed and eyes upon the muddy floor.
You have my sympathy. This is a bag full of knives, and here you all are, with your hands plunged into it.
She saw Galar Baras studying the newcomer with a frown, and then he looked away, scanning the others for a moment before nodding and rising. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘we begin issuing weapons and armour.’
Castegan seemed to choke, but it was the quartermaster who said, ‘Commander, you cannot do that!’
‘It’s time, Seltin.’
‘The blades are eager for blood,’ Castegan said. ‘They are stung, each and every one of them. You can hear it, Galar Baras. The betrayal burns them.’
Sighing, Galar said, ‘Enough of that nonsense, Castegan. Yes, the iron has a voice, but you would make those weapons out to be more than what they are. Henarald himself explained how the Hust iron reacts to changes in temperature, and how each blade talks to those nearest it, as would a tuning fork. What we hear is pressure, and tension. These weapons, Castegan, are not alive.’
Castegan scowled. ‘It may be that they weren’t, Galar, but they are now. And I tell you this’ – he rapped the scabbard at his belt – ‘my blade slides into my dreams every night now. Begging for blood. Beseeching me to be the hand of its vengeance.’ He jabbed a finger at his commander. ‘Tell me, does your sword sleep at night?’
Galar met Castegan’s gaze for a long moment, and then he turned away. ‘Wareth, do you have anything to report?’
‘No, sir. Just another murder. Another woman-killer now stumbles through the everlasting Abyss. The mystery of how the bodies are moved continues to perplex us. We’ve gone nowhere in our investigation.’
‘And who is this woman you have brought to us?’
‘Rance, sir. From White Crag Pit. She has the makings of an officer, sir.’
Galar Baras grunted, and then faced her. ‘Rance. What think you? Shall I distribute the weapons and armour of the Hust to you and your fellow recruits?’
Her eyes narrowed on the commander. ‘It’s a conversation we cannot but overhear, sir,’ she said. ‘Those … things. What you suggest … I don’t know if any of us want to be part of that conversation.’
‘Not a conversation,’ Castegan said. ‘An argument. They’ll pluck at the worst in you. Think on that, Galar Baras! Think on these wretched murderers you would now arm! There will be chaos. Bloody chaos.’
Denar cleared his throat, glancing briefly at Kalakan, and then said, ‘Sir, it’s chaos already, and that’s building. We all spent years working, stumbling exhausted back to our bunks. Now we just march this way and that – at least, those willing to listen to us. Most of them, sir, just lie around bickering.’
Kalakan added, ‘We need more than just weapons, maybe. We need to be doing something. Anyway.’
Galar Baras nodded. ‘Well, consider this, then. It seems that Urusander is not interested in doing things the traditional way. He will not wait for spring. He will probably begin his march on Kharkanas before the month’s out.’
Faror Hend wondered at that, and then she said, ‘Forgive me, commander. But that would be foolish of him. The Wardens—’
Castegan cut her off with a harsh bark of laughter. ‘Then you’ve not heard. Ilgast Rend was given command by Calat Hustain and took your Wardens to Neret Sorr. There was a battle with Urusander’s Legion. Rend’s dead, the Wardens shattered.’