'No, the river's ankle-deep and getting shallower as the season drags on. More likely on the other side – the trail winds through some rough country – we'll find trouble there. In any case, we either carve ourselves some breathing space then, or we're purple meat under the sun and it don't matter.'
The Wickan horns sounded.
'Ah,' Lull said, 'we're done. Get some rest, old man – we'll find us a spot in the Foolish Dog camp. I'll wake you with a meal in a few hours.'
'Lead on, Captain.'
Scrapping over something unrecognizable in the tall grasses, the pack of Wickan cattle-dogs paused to watch Duiker and Lull stride past at a distance of twenty or so paces. The historian frowned at the wiry, mottled beasts.
'Best not look them in the eye,' Lull said. 'You ain't Wickan and they know it.'
'I was just wondering what they're eating.'
'Not something you want to find out.'
'There's been a rumour about dug-up child graves ...'
'Like I said, you don't want to know, Historian.'
'Well, some of the tougher mud-bloods have been hiring themselves out to stand guard over those graves—'
'If they ain't got Wickan blood in that mud they'll regret it.'
The dogs resumed their snapping and bickering once the two men had moved past.
Hearthfires flickered in the camp ahead. A last line of defenders patrolled the perimeter of the round hide tents, old folk and youths, who revealed a silent, vaguely ominous watchfulness that matched that of the cattle-dogs as the two men strode into the Wickan enclave.
'I get a sense,' Duiker muttered, 'that the cause of protecting the refugees is cooling among these people ...'
The captain grimaced but said nothing.
They continued on, winding between the tent rows. Smoke hung heavy in the air, as did the smell of horse urine and boiled bones, the latter acrid yet strangely sweet. Duiker paused as they passed close to an old woman tending one such iron pot of bones. Whatever boiled in the pot wasn't entirely water. The woman was using a flat blade of wood to collect the thick bone fat and marrow that congealed on the surface, scraping it into an intestine to be later twisted and tied off into sausages.
The old woman noticed the historian and held up the wooden blade – as she would if offering it to a toddler to lick clean. Flecks of sage were visible in the fat – a herb Duiker had once loved but had come to despise, since it was one of the few native to the Odhan. He smiled and shook his head.
As he caught up with Lull, the captain said, 'You're known, old man. They say you walk in the spirit world. That old horsewife wouldn't offer food to just anybody – not me, that's for certain.'
The spirit world. Yes, I walked there. Once. Never again. 'See an old man in crusty rags...'
'And he's gods-touched, aye. Don't mock out loud – it might save your skin one day.'
Nil's hearth was unique among the others in sight in that it held no cooking pot, nor was it framed in drying racks bedecked with curing strips of meat. The burning dung within the small ring of stones was almost smokeless, revealing a naked, blue-tinged flame. The young warlock sat to one side of the hearth, his hands deftly pleating strips of leather into something like a whip.
Four of Lull's marines squatted nearby, each running through a last check of their weapons and armour. Their assault crossbows had been freshly blackened, then smeared in greasy dust to remove the gleam.
One glance told Duiker that these were hard soldiers, veterans, their movements economical, their preparations professional. Neither the man nor the three women were under thirty, and none spoke or looked up as their captain joined them.
Nil nodded to Duiker as the historian crouched down opposite him. 'It promises to be a cold night,' the boy said.
'Have you found the location of this warleader?'
'Not precisely. A general area. He may possess some minor wards against detection – once we get closer they will not avail him.'
'How do you hunt down someone distinguished only by his or her competence, Nil?'
The young warlock shrugged. 'He's left... other signs. We shall find him, that is certain. And then it is up to them—' He jerked his head towards the marines. 'I have come to a realization, Historian, over these past months on this plain.'
'And that is?'
'The Malazan professional soldier is the deadliest weapon I know. Had Coltaine three armies instead of only three-fifths of one, he would end this rebellion before year's end. And with such finality that Seven Cities would never rise again. We could shatter Kamist Reloe now – if not for the refugees whom we are sworn to protect.'