The Bonehunters

'A matter of killing,' Icarium repeated, his words a whisper. After a moment, he resumed honing the edge of his sword.

'And such a matter,' Taralack Veed said, 'belongs to you.'

'To me.'

'You must show them that. By ending the battle. Utterly.'

'Ending it. All the killing. Ending it, for ever.'

'Yes, my friend. It is your purpose.'

'With my sword, I can deliver peace.'

'Oh yes, Icarium, you can and you will.' Mappo Runt, you were a fool.

How you might have made use of this Jhag. For the good of all. Icarium is the sword, after all. Forged to be used, as all weapons are.

The weapon, then, that promises peace. Why, you foolish Trell, did you ever flee from this?

****
North of the Olphara Peninsula, the winds freshened, filling the sails, and the ships seemed to surge like migrating dhenrabi across the midnight blue of the seas. Despite her shallow draught, the Silanda struggled to keep pace with the dromons and enormous transports.

Almost as bored as the other marines, Bottle walked up and down the deck, trying to ignore their bickering, trying to nail down this sense of unease growing within him. Something… in this wind… something…

'Bone monger,' Smiles said, pointing her knife at Koryk. 'That's what you remind me of, with all those bones hanging from you. I remember one who used to come through the village – the village outside our estate, I mean. Collecting from kitchen middens. Grinding up all kinds and sticking them in flasks. With labels. Dog jaws for toothaches, horse hips for making babies, bird skulls for failing eyes-'

'Penis bones for homely little girls,' Koryk cut in.

In a blur, the knife in Smiles's hand reversed grip and she held the point between thumb and fingers.

'Don't even think it,' Cuttle said in a growl.

'Besides,' Tarr observed, 'Koryk ain't the only one wearing lots of bones – Hood's breath, Smiles, you're wearing your own-'

'Tastefully,' she retorted, still holding the knife by its point. 'It' s the excess that makes it crass.'

'Latest court fashion in Unta, you mean?' Cuttle asked, one brow lifting.

Tarr laughed. 'Subtle and understated, that modest tiny finger bone, dangling just so – the ladies swooned with envy.'

In all of this, Bottle noted in passing, Corabb Bhilan Thenu'alas simply stared, from one soldier to the next as they bantered. On the man's face baffled incomprehension.

From the cabin house, voices rising in argument. Again. Gesler, Balm, Stormy and Fiddler.

One of Y'Ghatan's pups was listening, but Bottle paid little attention, since the clash was an old one, as both Stormy and Balm sought to convince Fiddler to play games with the Deck of Dragons.

Besides, what was important was out here, a whisper in the air, in this steady, unceasing near-gale, a scent mostly obscured by the salty seaspray…

Pausing at the port rail, Bottle looked out at that distant ridge of land to the south. Hazy, strangely blurred, it seemed to be visibly sweeping by, although at this distance such a perception should have been impossible. The wind itself was brown-tinged, as if it had skirled out from some desert.

We have left Seven Cities. Thank the gods. He never wanted to set foot on that land again. Its sand was a gritty patina on his soul, fused by heat, storms, and uncounted people whose bodies had been incinerated – remnants of them were in him now, and would never be fully expunged from his flesh, his lungs. He could taste their death, hear the echo of their screams.

Shortnose and Flashwit were wrestling over the deck, growling and biting like a pair of dogs. Some festering argument – Bottle wondered what part of Shortnose would get bitten off this time – and there were shouts and curses as the two rolled into soldiers of Balm's squad who had been throwing bones, scattering the cast. Moments later fights were erupting everywhere.

As Bottle turned, Mayfly had picked up Lobe and he saw the hapless soldier flung through the air – to crash up against the mound of severed heads.

Screams, as the ghastly things rolled about, eyes blinking in the sudden lightAnd the fight was over, soldiers hurrying to return the trophies to their pile beneath the tarpaulin.

Fiddler emerged from the cabin, looking harried. He paused, scanning the scene, then, shaking his head, he walked over to where Bottle leaned on the rail.

'Corabb should've left me in the tunnel,' the sergeant said, scratching at his beard. 'At least then I'd get some peace.'

'It's just Balm,' Bottle said, then snapped his mouth shut – but too late.