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Hellian frowned. With what? What was he talking about? Oh, right. She thought for a moment, then smiled. 'I'll borrow your sword, of course.' There, what a pleasing solution.

Sergeant Balm squatted in the dirt, studying the array of pebbles, stone discs and clay buttons resting on the elongated Troughs board.Advertisement

He muttered under his breath, wondering if this was a dream, a nightmare and he was still asleep. He glanced across at Sergeant Moak, then looked back down at the game-board.

Something was wrong. He could make no sense of the pieces. He'd forgotten how to play the game. Straws, discs,buttons, pebbles – what were they all about? What did they signify? Who was winning? 'Who's playing this damned game?' he demanded.

'You and me, you Dal Honese weasel,' Moak said.

'I think you're lying. I never seen this game before in my life.' He glared round at all the faces, the soldiers all looking down to watch, all looking at him now. Strange expressions – had he ever seen any of them before? He was a sergeant, wasn't he? 'Where's my damned squad?

I'm supposed to be with my damned squad. Has the call come? What am I doing here?' He shot upright, making sure one foot toppled the gameboard. Pieces flew, soldiers jumping back.

'Bad omen!' one hissed, backing away.

Growling, Moak rose, reaching for the knife at his belt. 'Swamp scum, you'll pay for that. I was winning-'

'No you weren't! Those pieces were a mess! A jumble! They didn't make sense!' He reached up and scratched at his face. 'What – this is clay!

My face is covered in clay! A death mask! Who did this to me?'

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A familiar but musty-smelling man stepped close to Balm. 'Sergeant, your squad's right here. I'm Deadsmell-'

'I'll say.'

'Corporal Deadsmell. And that's Throatslitter, and Widdershins, Galt and Lobe-'

'All right, all right, be quiet, I ain't blind. When's the call coming? We should've heard something by now.'

Moak closed in. 'I wasn't finished with you – that was a curse, what you did, Balm, on me and my squad – since I was winning the game. You cursed us, you damned warlock-'

'I did not! It was an accident. Come on, Deadsmell, let's make our way to the pickets, I'm done waiting here.'

'You're headed the wrong way, Sergeant!'

'Lead on, then! Who designed this damned camp, anyway? None of it makes any sense!'

Behind them, Sergeant Moak made to step after them, but his corporal, Stacker, pulled him back. 'It's all right, Sergeant. I heard about this from my da. It's the Confusion. Comes to some before a battle.

They lose track – of everything. It should settle down once the fighting starts – but sometimes it don't, and if that's the case with Balm, then it's his squad that's doomed, not us.'

'You sure about all that, Stacker?'

'Yeah. Remember Fist Gamet? Listen. It's all right. We should check our weapons, one last time.'

Moak sheathed his knife. 'Good idea, get them on it, then.'

Twenty paces away, Deadsmell fell in step alongside his sergeant. '

Smart, all that back there. You was losing bad. Faking the Confusion, well, Sergeant, I'm impressed.'

Balm stared at the man. Who was he again? And what was he blathering on about? What language was the fool speaking, anyway?

'I got no appetite,' Lutes said, tossing the chunk of bread away. A camp dog closed in, collected the food and scampered off. 'I feel sick,' the soldier continued.

'You ain't the only one,' Maybe said. 'I'm in there first, you know.

Us sappers. Rest of you got it easy. We got to set charges, meaning we're running with cussers and crackers over rough ground, climbing rubble, probably under fire from the walls. Then, down at the foot of the wall and Hood knows what's gonna pour down on us. Boiling water, oil, hot sand, bricks, offal, barrack-buckets. So it's raining down.

Set the munitions. Acid on the wax – too much and we all go up right there and then. Dozens of sappers, and any one of 'em makes a mistake, or some piece of rock drops smack onto a munition. Boom! We're as good as dead already, if you ask me. Bits of meat. Tomorrow morning the crows will come down and that's that. Send word to my family, will you? Maybe was blown to bits at Y'Ghatan, that's all. No point in going into the gory details – hey, where you going? Gods below, Lutes, do your throwing up outa my sight, will you? Hood take us, that's awful. Hey, Balgrid! Look! Our squad healer's heaving his guts out!' pqdm.com