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No, he could not.

But the body can. It knows hunger and desire on the battle’ field-walking among the dead and dying, seeing the split flesh, the jutting bones, smelling the reek of spilled blood-ah, how the mouth waters.Advertisement

Well, everyone had his secrets. And few are worth sharing. Unless you enjoy losing friends.

He rode apart from the train, ostensibly taking an outrider flank, as he had done as a soldier, long ago. The Awl army of Redmask, fourteen thousand or so warriors, half again as many in the trailing support train-weaponsmiths, healers, horsewives, elders, old women, the lame and the once-born children, and, of course, twenty or so thousand rodara. Along with wagons, travois, and almost three thousand herd dogs and the larger wolf-hunters the Awl called dray. If anything could trigger cold fear in Toc it was these beasts. Too many by far, and rarely fed, they ranged in packs, running down every creature on the plains for leagues around.

But let us not forget the K’Chain Che’Malle. Living, breathing ones. Tool-or perhaps it was Lady Envy-had told him that they had been extinct for thousands of years-tens, hundreds of thousands, even. Their civilization was dust. And wounds in the sky that never heal; now there’s a detail worth remembering, Toc.

The huge creatures provided Redmask’s bodyguard at the head of the vanguard-no risk of assassination, to be sure. The male-Sag’Churok-was a K’ell Hunter, bred to kill, the elite guard of a Matron. So where is the Matron? Where is his Queen?

Perhaps it was the young female in the K’ell’s company. Gunth Mach. Toc had asked Redmask how he had come to know their names, but the war leader had refused him an answer. Reticent bastard. A leader must have his secrets, perhaps more so than anyone else. But Redmask’s secrets are driving me mad. K’Chain Che’Malle, for Hood’s sake!

Outcast, the young warrior had journeyed into the eastern wastelands. So went the tale, although after that initial statement it was a tale that in truth went nowhere, since virtually nothing else was known of Redmask’s adventures during those decades-yet at some point, this man donned a red-scaled mask. And found himself flesh and blood K’Chain Che’Malle. Who did not chop him to pieces. Who somehow communicated to him their names. Then swore allegiance. What is it, then, about this story that I really do not like!

How about all of it.

The eastern wastelands. A typical description for a place the name-givers found inhospitable or unconquerable. We can’t claim it so it is worthless, a wasted land, a wasteland. Hah, and you thought us without imaginations!

Haunted by ghosts, or demons, the earth blasted, where every blade of grass clings to a neighbour in abject terror. The sun’s light is darker, its warmth colder. Shadows are smudged. Water brackish and quite possibly poisonous. Two-headed babies are common. Every tribe needed such a place. For heroic war leaders to wander into on some fraught quest rife with obscure motivations that could easily be bludgeoned into morality tales. And, alas, this par-ticular tale is far from done. The hero needs to return, to deliver his people. Or annihilate them.

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Toe had his memories, a whole battlefield’s worth, and as the last man left standing he held few illusions of grandeur, either as witness or as player. So this lone eye cannot help but look askance. Is it any wonder I’ve taken to poetry?

The Grey Swords had been cut to pieces. Slaughtered. Oh, they’d yielded their lives in blood enough to pay the Hound’s Toll, as the Gadrobi were wont to say. But what had their deaths meant? Nothing. A waste. Yet here he rode, in the company of his betrayers.

Does Redmask offer redemption? He promises the defeat of the Letherii-but they were not our enemies, not until we agreed the contract. So, what is redeemed? The extinction of the Grey Swords? Oh, 1 need to twist and bend to bind those two together, and how am I doing thus far?

Badly. Not a whisper of righteousness-no crow croaks on my shoulder as we march to war.

Oh, Tool, I could use your friendship right now. A few terse words on futility to cheer me up.

Twenty myrid had been killed, gutted and skinned but not hung to drain their blood. The cavities where their organs had been were stuffed solid with a local tuber that had been sweated on hot stones. The carcasses were then wrapped in hides and loaded into a wagon that was kept apart from all the others in the train. Redmask’s plans for the battle to come. No more peculiar than all the others. The man has spent years thinking on this inevitable war. That makes me nervous.

Hey, Tool, you’d think after all I’ve been through, I’d have no nerves left. But I’m no Whiskeyjack. Or Kalam. No, for me, it just gets worse.

Marching to war. Again. Seems the world wants me to be a soldier. pqdm.com