had known what he was – a bark-beater – and many had treated him like a dog because of it.
He was reminded of those hard, painful days of youth as he turned and saw how the soldiers were avoiding the flow of the river directly downstream from him. Now it wasn’t because he was a dirty barkbeater. Now it was because he was the slayer, the killer of their hero Adrianos.
Bull didn’t mind, or so he told himself anyway. Since an early age he’d raged against the jests and cruel indifference of his peers. He’d fought tooth and nail to gain the respect of these Khosians, first as a street brawler and then as a soldier in the Red Guards. Now at least they no longer looked down on him. Aye, now they feared him.
Besides, he was free at last, and that was all that Bull cared about just then. In truth he’d been ready to lose his mind in the confines of that buried cell. Yet here he was, standing thigh-deep in the Chilos river, with the stars bobbing on its surface and Calhalee’s Tears glowing all around him, the scents of the deep forest strong in the night air. If these were to be the last days of his life, Bull could hardly ask for more than this.
He sluiced a last handful of water over his face and shook his hands dry, his disfigured knuckles cracking loudly, ruined after all those years of pit-fighting. For a few moments longer, his eyes lingered on the distant forest. He’d never ventured further than the trading posts along its fringes, yet it was part of him. It was in his blood.
What’s stopping you? Bull asked himself, and could not fathom the answer.
The men of his chartassa file sat around the fire, talking amongst themselves and passing around a skin of wine. Bull said nothing to them, for he knew they wouldn’t heed him. Indeed, as he stood there against the heat of the fire, sweeping his skin dry with his hands, they ceased to talk entirely, and none would look his way.
Bull scowled and wandered off to one of the nearby wagons, his bundle of equipment under an arm and his backpack over his shoulder. Away from the warmth and light of the fire he dressed quickly, though he left his armour balanced against the wagon next to his sheathed shortsword. He pulled the cloak about him and sat with his back against one of the wheels, then searched around in his pack until he found the small vial of mother’s oil. He dabbed a little on his finger, and ran it around his gum where his back teeth were throbbing again, all the while eyeing the men huddled around the fire.
They’re frightened, thought Bull to himself. They know they march to their slaughter.
He thought of the battle that lay ahead at the end of their march, and felt the fear of it inside him too. The sensation thrilled him; made him feel that he was alive.
Bull drew his new sword from its sheath, and inspected the watermarks along the gleaming steel of the blade. It was Sharric steel, cast here in Khos, the finest in all the Midèrēs. He contented himself with sharpening the edge of it with the finer side of his whetstone.
In the light of a nearby campfire, he spotted General Creed walking past, conversing with the colonel of the Greyjackets. Bahn followed a few paces behind, looking as pensive as he had the first day Bull had ever met him, all those years ago on the cold marshalling grounds between the walls, with the first two walls of the Shield already fallen, the third likely to be next, the men shattered, their morale lower than any time before or since.
Bahn saw him now and gave a curt nod of his head, though Bull noted how he did not pause, did not share with him a few words.
Bull stared coldly back as the man walked beyond the light of the fire.
Behind the departing figures, young Wicks came stumbling towards him as the lad guzzled wine from a flaccid skin. Wicks tripped and rolled on the grass, then climbed to his feet again as though nothing had happened. He was alone too, though that seemed a matter of choice for Wicks more than anything else.
He noticed Bull in the shadows and flopped down next to him. ‘Hey, champ,’ Wicks panted as he offered Bull the wine. Bull shook his