Ammikaa 3, 544 CSE, Nu’uman Continent

The sand was white hot; the sun, a glowing orb of dry death parching the moisture from everything beneath its mighty gaze.

Both Mudrat and Wymrick stopped, mid-shovel toss, as a loud thump and then a clang rang out behind them. Neither of them looked back until each tossed away their shovel full of dirt and sand to the front and side of the ten-pace trench they were hip deep in. Off to one side was a wadded up roll of muslin with their rucks sitting on top of it.

Then, both griping and complaining about the amount of sand in their short clothes, they turned to gaze down at the young man laying full out on the desert sand about two feet back from the trench.

His skin was beat red, his hair dark but glistening with the speckled sand blowing and eddying around everything within sight.

A dribble of saliva was hanging about at one corner of his mouth. It flapped and wavered in the hot desert wind and little bits and pieces broke off and wafted away.

Mudrat rolled her eyes and Wymrick let out something that sounded like a strangled laugh. “Seven Hells, New Guy,” he said as he climbed from the trench and grabbed the prostate man around the back of his tunic and dragged him about ten paces toward two lone palm trees that cast a stark shadow on a very small portion of the desert ground.

Wymrick sank to one knee at the man’s side, untied the water skin at the unconscious soldier’s side and tested its weight. It was near full. He sighed, uncorked the bottle, took a swig of it himself and then lifted the man’s head more gently then might be expected and began to slowly dribble the water into his mouth.

The soldier’s mouth worked of its own volition. Wyrmick continued to slowly let it trickle down.

Behind him, Mudrat glanced at the position of the sun. “Is he dead yet?”

Laughing and shaking his head, Wyrmick took another short swig of the water himself. “Nah. He’s going to live and more than likely Littleeye is going to make you his nursemaid.”

Mudrat reached out a hand and Wymrick passed her the water skin. “Yeah, as much as she hates you I think that job has your name written all over it.”

He smiled and stood up. “Well, that’s probably for the best.”

“Not if you’re as bad at it as you fuck.”

He flipped his foot to spray her with sand. “Beggars can’t be choose…”

“Where the hell did that come from?” Mudrat said, taking several steps away and not paying him any heed.

Wyrmick turned to look in the direction she was facing and raised a hand to cover his eyes from the ever-present glaring sun overhead.

The Nu’uman landscape had been messing with Wymrick’s head since the day they landed at the port city of Ota Bu’ai.

The great colossal walls that were carved with such amazing detail and craftsmanship seemed to hold out the desert with a firm, but beautiful hand. For miles around them, aside from the river basin that snaked away into the far east and the tiny huts and tents that sprang up along it, there was only desert. Sand. The occasional tree. A sporadic sprinkle of scrub brush around a watering hole. And the sky.

He groaned. The sky. It was always blue. It was always bright. Even at night when you were trying to sleep, the lack of clouds, even occasionally, meant the stars glowed almost as bright as the sun itself. Well, not that bright obviously, but it screwed with your night vision and made it a pain in the ass to try to sleep because inside the tent was too hot, outside the tent was too cold and bright. So sleeping was terrible.

But inside the city, was a thriving metropolis of grace, spice, wine and song. The smells were amazing. The food was beyond reproach. The natives were friendly.

He knew all this not out of experience, but because for the past two months since arriving, the Swords all had their asses parked out nearly a mile from the city, digging ditches for irrigation, trenches for overwatch and setting up little tent cities for the unit to live in.

And none of them had set foot in the city yet.

Apparently, word on high was the main contingent of Ota Bu’ai’s own army was off somewhere to the north east engaged in quelling some sort of insurrection by one of the minor God-Priests. So the Swords had been commissioned to protect the city in the very unlikely event anything happened. Wyrmick didn’t give two shits about that. He wanted some of whatever was on the other side of that wall but the likelihood of that happening anytime soon was about the same odds as it raining.

In other words, he was screwed. All of them were screwed. All for some idiotic baby-sitting job.

So the big black wall far off in the distant east, into the heart of the land, that Mudrat was staring at was having a difficult time registering in his brain.

Then he noticed the very faint, but very distinct noise, a hum of sorts.

The edges of the cloth covering his head to keep off the sun began to gently tug and flap.

Mudrat turned back to put up her hands, a questioning look on her face.

Wymrick shrugged. “I have no idea what it is.”

The young man at their feet suddenly coughed, groaned, sat up and then passed back out.

Behind them, from the heart of the Sword’s camp, a small bell began to ring out.

Rolling his eyes, Wymrick turned to the sound. “What the hell now?”

The camp was coming to life. People were beginning to scramble, grabbing tent ties and pushing over many of the hanging shade shields.

The hum was growing louder.

A memory clicked in Wymrick’s brain. When he was a catcher in Corsica it happened on the water all the time, they’d run into something like this practically every sail of more than a couple of days duration. Vordoff would start screaming, the first mate would start screaming and they’d all move like something had just bit them to secure every single loose piece of equipment on the ship.

He whirled back to Mudrat. “Get him into the trench.” He reached down and grabbed one of the young man's legs and started to drag him.

Mudrat just stared at him. The hum was turning into a dull roar and the tap of loose clothing in the wind was starting to become more emphatic. “What the hell for?”

He pointed behind him but never let up. “That. Storm of some sort.”

She gave him a disdainful look. “Well, you’re dumber than I thought, it hasn’t rained here in…”

The first small chunk of debris hit her square in the forehead. 

“Fuck!” She yelled and staggered back a step. She put a hand to the wound and felt the tiny trickle of blood on her fingers.

Then she looked back up at the encroaching wall, her eyes a bit wider. “I should’ve been an apothecary.” She wiped her fingers on her jerkin and then quickly grabbed the young soldier’s other leg to finish helping Wymrick drag him the last bit to the trench.

The moment they were in, Wymrick vaulted back out and grabbed the edge of the muslin laying on the sand. Once he’d dragged it to the opening he dumped the three rucksacks sitting on top down into hole and then hopped down as well. He handed Mudrat one end of the muslin roll.

“We need to cover up with this. Tuck it under you and sit on it and don’t move.”

“What about him?” she asked, gesturing to the unconscious soldier at their feet.

“We’ll put him in the middle.”

The pull and push of the wind was growing rapidly in strength. First sitting on the ends of the tarp had been enough. Now they had to hold it. The hum of the wind had grown to a growl and now a roar. They hadn’t realized it but they had begun to shout to be heard.

“How long is this going to last?”

“I have no idea. On the seas it could be a quarter bell or a full night’s passing!”

“A full night? What the hell are we supposed to do?”

“I could work on fucking better?!”

“And you’re going to wake up with your dick in your mouth!”

Wyrmick almost couldn’t hear the last part because of the noise of the storm. When he almost lost the grip on his end of the muslin tarp the smile on his face disappeared almost immediately.

*****

The cool air of the desert nighttime was kept at bay by the warm, pleasant fire at the center of their perimeter. Only occasionally did the cold tug and wind its way through the group offering a brief, but refreshing chill before whispering away.

Nearly a mile back to the west the lights of the main Broken Swords encampment could be seen across the flat sands. And further on, the glow of the city they protected.

Wymrick’s feet were up on his rucksack and he was stretched out on a thick, heavy blanket. His head cloth was waded up and draped across his eyes. His breathing was growing heavy and his thoughts were just starting to float away like the gentle cool desert wind, when something landed right smack in the middle of his stomach.

With a grunt, he sat up fast, rolled to the left and reached for the loaded crossbow off to the side.

The cacophony of laughter brought him to a halt before his hand closed on the grip.

“Very funny, you bunch of lizards.” He stood up and stretched.

Grin was laying fully splayed out snoring lightly and completely oblivious. Mudrat was rolled onto her side, covered with half of her ground blanket and sleeping as well. Little-eye, Stick and Fritter, were all lazily sitting around the campfire. Fritter was poking at the fire and a flat stone he’d laid on one side that had a handful of fresh-baking unleavened rolls resting on its surface.

“I thought, yes, I thought, yes, that, you might, yes, want one of those, yes, before we woke up Grin to sneeze on the others, yes, to make sure no one else ate them. Yes?”

Wymrick glanced down. Lying next to his ground blanket was a very innocent, but mighty tasty looking, roll. He scooped it up, still warm, and pulled it apart, popping a small piece into his mouth.

“Fritter, next time Little-eye puts you at front guard, we should all mutiny.”

Fritter let out a hoot of approval and tossed one of the rolls to Little-eye who caught it, ignored the jab from Wymrick and dribbled something from a tiny stoppered jug she fished from her ruck. “No honey then for you two.”

“Keep it. If that’s from Crookback’s batch, I won’t tell you where I saw him put his hands right before he drew it.” Wymrick grinned as he tore another piece and chewed it slowly, mouth open as he talked.

Little-eye never broke eye contact, and never blinked, as she slowly pushed the honey-dripping piece of roll into her mouth and began to make sounds of pleasure that were better meant for the bedroom.

Rolling over face down on his blanket, Stick just shook his head and grumbled almost inaudibly. “Why? Why? Why didn’t the sandstorm kill these two?”

The other three began to chuckle and Little-eye almost choked on her roll. Fritter handed a roll to Stick as he sat back up and then tore into one himself.

They chewed a moment in silence. Wymrick glanced in several directions, his back to the fire and could make out the little tell-tale pinpoints of firelight that noted the other units that had been sent out to widen the interior perimeter.

“Gods I hate garrison.” He grumbled as he licked his fingers clean and turned to sit around the fire.

Stick nodded. “As the ancient scholars say, ‘Put two soldiers together you have a unit. Put two soldiers together in garrison, you have a mayhem.”

“Those books are filling your head with a lot of nonsense, Stick.” Little-eye muttered as she laid back down, eyes facing the stars.

“Nonsense? I disagree. Nonsense is sitting out here, on our ass ends, staring at the eternal yellow floor that goes on forever.”

Wymrick lifted the drinking skin he’d grabbed from his ruck. “I’ll drink twice to that, Stick.”

Fritter seemed to be far away, occasionally just stirring the coals of the fire with a fresh-cut switch of one of them thick scrub bushes that peppered the dry landscape. He hummed softly to himself.

Handing the skin across to Stick, Wymrick rubbed his thick red beard and tried to wipe crumbs and sand from it. “All I know is this had better not go on as long as that Brigga campaign went on for.”

Little-eye groaned. “Red, you have just doomed us to be here for at least a year.”

“Don’t be a superstitious ork. We’re going to be here as long as we’re going to be here and I just hope it’s shorter than longer.” Wymrick caught a look on Stick’s face. “What?”

The soldier shrugged. “Pudge really doesn’t like that word.”

“Yeah, well, Pudge isn’t here and I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“You know he outweighs you by nearly ten stones?”

“Can it, both of you. Pudge can take care of himself.” Little-eye said, never shifting position. “And I’m not being superstitious. It never fails. Someone makes a comment about what we’re doing. ‘What could go wrong?’ ‘This isn’t so bad,’ and it always goes sour after that. Always.”

“Yes,” Fritter spoke, still staring into a fire, “that is, yes, superstitious, yes.”

“Thank you, Fritter!”

“Besides,” Little-eye started as she rolled back to sitting. “Brigga was your first. You don’t get to complain about your first because we always go easy on new guys.”

The other three turned to stare.

A small flinch of her nose and all four broke into laughter.

As they settled again into silence, Bear’s team leader cleared her throat and reached for Wymrick’s drinking skin. “Top says, it’s going to be a while.

Stick picked up one of the remaining rolls. “We should probably wake Mudrat before Grin sees these.” 

As he started to rise, Wymrick climbed to his feet and gestured to him with a grin. “Give me that, I’ll do it.” 

*****

The sun was bearing down from its zenith once again. Everyone in Top’s company had been given the day to rest.

Which of course meant they were going to do anything but.

All three teams, Bear, Vulture, and Cobra, had gathered around the unit's water hole to play a game of Fetch It and Kill It. Ash team was with Top, which was standard for the support attachments, and doing business with their regiment deputry commander, Fallen. Wymrick hoped it would be more rest but in all likelihood it was bound to be something boring, tedious and exhausting.

Fetch It and Kill It was a fairly simple game. Wymrick recalled playing a similar game out to sea on the Hempen Jig. They’d called it Catch and Overboard. Vordoff hated it and Wymrick, and his shipmates, had spent many bells having to re-pitch the hull as punishment for playing games when they were tide over.

Once, Younk had taken it literal and fell overboard. Vordoff refused to hold the ship against the current and the rest of them had gotten some twisted humor out of tossing Younk a line and watching him being dragged behind the ship all the while yelling “I’ll take the brig! I’ll take the brig!”

They eventually pulled him aboard.

The Swords version, though, used an old waterskin filled with sand and heavily bound with old leather scraps they’d scrounged from Gotet, their hesir’s quartermaster. Each of the teams would toss the bag around. All within a perimeter of thirty paces by thirty paces. Ten tosses without being tackled by any other team warranted a point. Five points and you win.

Usually it was best of three. But they’d been playing so much lately that three full games would last two to three bells and none of them had the patience for that. So now they just played the one set. Cobra was at four points, Bear at two and Vulture was stuck at one. And Wyrmick was pretty bent on taking out one of the transfers from Coad Regiment because she was way too good at this game and he didn’t like Cobra having that much of an advantage.

A halt had been called by Vulture. All the teams were huddled around in circles sucking on water skins. Wyrmick laughed because judging by the swearing coming from Vulture’s huddle, Buttercup was anything but pleased to be losing.

Little-eye kicked him in the shin. “Pay attention. We’re getting our asses handed to us and we need to focus.”

“Or we just need to trade Grin because he’s fucking useless.” Mudrat said as she slapped Grin on the ass.

“Hey,” was the quick retort, followed by a giggle.

“Yeah,” Stick cut in. “How can someone as big as you not figure out how to get more in the way.”

Wymrick shook his head as he handed a water skin to Fritter. “Grin ain’t the problem. It’s Whisper.”

Feral started nodding frantically but he didn’t say anything.

There was a lot of nodding and grunts that went around.

Stick cast a glance over to Cobra’s huddle. “Yeah, she moves like a ferret.”

“So, what’re we going to do about it?” Wymrick eyed the others.

Little-eye’s brow creased. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, we take her out, she stops being a pain.”

“You’re an ass, you know that, Red? No one likes a cheater. Especially against one of your own.”

Wymrick felt the heat rise in his neck and into his cheeks. “And you’re a chicken shit who’s afraid to get her hands dirty.”

The others started to cast glances at each other, none of them saying a word.

Eyes narrowed to slits, Little-eye batted Stick’s hand away as he tried to stop her from stepping forward. “You want to go at this now?”

Wymrick grinned. Then before anyone else could react he started laughing.

The others were all taken aback except Little-eye who was still fuming with rage and staring hard at him. “Relax, Little-eye. Seven Hells, you’ve got a sense of humor like a dead mule.”

He laughed some more and the others caught on, chuckling and grinning. 

Grin shook his head with his trademark giggle and looked over top their huddle at the other teams. “Breaks over, looks like Buttercup wants us to get back to it.”

“All right, listen,” Little-eye said, “Grin, you and Stick, just concentrate on Whisper. Get in her way, lay on top of her, I don’t care. But the two of you stay on her no matter what.”

“That will, yes, leave us down, yes, short a man, yes?” Fritter sputtered out.

Little-eye nodded. “Yeah, but Slab’s slower than Grin is and Catch isn’t too far behind, so the three of us will just have to handle the other four. Fritter, you’re sitting out. If we can get her tired enough, we’ll spell you in for Mudrat and we’ll have a fresh five, which’ll put us up one on them.”

“And Vulture?” Mudrat asked.

“Who cares. Just keep it out of Switch’s hands. He’s the only one in that group that can hit anyone further than two paces anyway. Let’s do this.”

They all broke out of their group and headed back to the center of the yard.

“Wymrick.” Little-eye said as the others spread out. “You’ve got the others laughing but keep that shit to yourself from now on. Pretend all you want but don’t ever threaten another Sword.”

He looked a little taken aback, raised his hands. “Not a problem, didn’t mean nothing by it.”

She turned to jog across the sand to her defensive spot and Wymrick clamped down hard on the rising anger in his stomach. Little-eye was sounding more and more like Vordoff everyday and he hadn’t come the-gods-knew-how-many miles and two full campaigns to have to deal with that again.

Nothing came of it anyway. Buttercup immediately called a halt. “Hold up, everyone. We got company.”

The rest of them glanced in the direction she was looking to spot Top, Hob and Kaylee striding across the flat sand from the command tent toward the game field.

As they were all milling about Wymrick casually worked his way over to Stick and Grin, giving them both a nod. Whisper and Catch we’re passing a water skin back and forth, the game ball resting at Whisper’s feet.

“Looks like you got off lucky,” Wymrick said with a grunt.

Catch furrowed his brow and swished some water around in his mouth before spitting it onto the sand. “Lucky, yeah, you all down two points. We sure got lucky,” he said, handing the skin back to Whisper who wasn’t paying any attention to Wymrick. 

Grin giggled. Stick was watching Wymrick, who shrugged. “Two points isn’t squat. We can make that up easy. She’s easy to figure out and you lose your edge, just like that, Catch.”

Whisper lowered the water skin from her mouth, swallowed deliberately, and still didn’t acknowledge Wymrick’s taunts.

He chuckled and looked at Grin. “Yeah, see Grin, that’s what I thought.” Grin’s giggling died immediately and his eyes widened slightly. Wymrick turned back and Whisper was standing directly in front of him, barely an arms length away. The raw skin of her neck, a wound that never seemed to heal and was constantly oozing pus streaked with blood, gave off a coppery smell tinged of meat that had gone just slightly bad. Wymrick wrinkled his nose as he took a step back.

“We’ll see the next time we toss, big guy.” She growled. Her voice wasn’t normal. Well, it was almost normal but not quite. There was a raspy, metallic rattle somewhere in it. It was like someone was tapping on a pot in another room and if you listened close enough it almost had an echo to it, which was obnoxious. 

Wymrick couldn’t stand it. Neither could many of the others which is why most gave her a wide berth. He remembered Tat from her old unit had once tried to ask her about it and she’d gotten a dagger through her arm for asking. Whisper got three weeks hard labor and no pay for the duration which Wymrick thought was too lenient.

He grinned as Whisper glared at him. “You really should get Hob to take a look at that...thing.”

Whisper answered by turning around and walking back to stand by Catch who gave Wymrick a look as if to say, “You’re an idiot.” Wymrick gave him an obscene gesture and joined the rest of the group as Top and his entourage arrived.

Wymrick never could figure out how Hob kept getting attached to Top’s company. She - he found out accidentally by wandering into the wrong tent at the wrong time and he still had the rash on his ass to prove it - was like a lip sore after visiting Mama Kindeep’s brothel in Wayanmar, it seemed to stick around forever. And it was never pleasant. Anytime that weasel warmage was sniffing around the perimeter it made everybody edgy. Mainly because she never had anything to say but doom and gloom. “This war is stupid.” “You ugly horse, of course it isn’t right.” “Do I look like I care about what you think?” Judging by the look on her face when the three of them stopped in front of the group, it wasn’t going to be any different today. Before Top even said anything she sneered at all the faces, squatted down, and proceeded to pull out several vials and pour them into a hole she dug in the sand. Wymrick wasn’t even going to pretend to know what she was doing.

“All right, all.” Top called out. “Listen up. I got good news, news, and bad news.”

It was funny though, Hob and all, because ever since Kaylee had taken her oath a few weeks back, she’d been attached to their unit as well. She clearly couldn’t stand Hob who clearly couldn’t stand her either. It dawned on Wymrick that since Kaylee came in, Hob had been less inclined to snipe at everyone else, just at the water witch.

He guessed that was a win.

Kaylee was looking in disgust at whatever it was the warmage was doing in the sand. Just like every other new guy who finally took the oath, she was fiddling constantly with her torc because she hadn’t gotten used to it yet. It was bright and new, no wear and tear on it at all. But given Kaylee had been around the Swords longer than pretty much anyone standing in the near vicinity, Wymrick didn’t envy the poor bastard who underestimated her.

Rake from Vulture, shouted what everyone else was thinking. “We’re going home, say it, Top. We’re leaving this sand trap!” Wymrick grinned in spite of himself. Rake was Shoehold’s replacement after getting killed in Eisentol. There weren’t a lot of people that Wymrick really liked but Shoehold had been one of them.

Buttercup whipped her head and glared hard at Rake. “Can it, Rake, unless you like breathing out a pipe.”

“As a matter of fact…” Top let the words trail off as he dropped the small ruck he’d slung over his shoulder with a plop into the sand. Wymrick was trying not to laugh at the palpable feeling of everyone leaning in with anticipation. “That would be, no, Rake.”

The reaction was unanimous. Groans, bitching and Hob laying on her back, looking up at the sky, telling everyone to piss off.

Buttercup tried to get her team to quiet down but no one was really listening. Little-eye and Farwing, Cobra’s lead, didn’t seem to care or, more likely, decided it was a waste of time trying to shut everyone up. Little-eye did punch Grin in the back of the head when he started singing, “Stick it in Your Ass and Let the Sun Shine through Your Nose.”

Say what you want about Grin being dumber than a barrel of tayama fish but Wyrmick thought that was pretty damn funny and he actually liked that song.

“Stand down, everyone.” Top called out after letting them blow off a little verbal steam.

The moaning immediately died and everyone tried to get comfortable to listen in.

“The good news is that we all gets some R&R in Ota Bu’ai.”

The response was muted. A few chuckles. A few hoots. A few hollers. Mostly everyone just looked around at each other knowing what was next.

Hob had rolled over face down in the sand and covered her head with one of the ratty animal skins that adorned her birros. Kaylee just glared at the warmage and made faces.

Top pulled a rag out of his hutch and poured a bit of water in it, careful not to waste anyway. He dropped his helmet into the sand and wiped the rag across the top of his shaved head and along the back of his neck where his breast-plate pressed against it. “The news is that for the time being we’re still going to be sitting pretty in the outskirts. We aren’t pulling out anytime soon as the city’s army has found working on “issues” isn’t going according to the schedule they’re diviners had ‘predicted.’

“Well, that’s mages for you.” Egg called out.

Hob immediately sat up and yanked her cover off her head to glare in Egg’s direction. To his credit, Egg looked at the sun overhead and pretended he didn’t say it.

Kaylee, still fiddling with her torc, giggled and Hob’s gaze whipped over to her. Kaylee glared back at her.

Farwing climbed to his feet. The Jotinar wiped his hands down his breeches to get the sand off of them. “All right,” he said. “So we know the bad news is bad because you always start a crap fest this way. Give it straight up.”

The rest of the unit got really quiet and all eyes turned to Top. Hob laid back down on the sand and covered her head again. Wymrick knew that meant it wasn’t just bad, it was really bad.

Top waited a moment, thinking. “Right. The bad news is we don’t get the R&R until after our mission.” He pointed off in a general south-easterly direction. A few heads, including Wymrick’s, turned that way. It was mostly just the bare desert but there were clear fuzzy silhouettes of some sort of mountainous region that most of them had only seen pointed out on a few maps that had been floating about.

“That’s the Ayata’to’ai region. Ayata means ‘hills’. It’s a local joke. They aren’t hills, more like cliffs that suddenly erupt out of the sand. We’ve been picked to head out that way.”

There was a bit of mumbling and murmuring but it didn’t last long. Little-eye decided to screw decorum and ask the question Wymrick knew everyone else wanted to know. “ Why?” She called out.

There was a really loud groan from beneath Hob’s covered head. “Will you stupid sheep shut up and let him talk.”

Top chuckled and prodded Hob with a foot. “Glad you got my back, Hob, now sit the hell up and listen with the rest of them.”

The warmage did as she was told and Wymrick was surprised because she didn’t even grumble about it.

“There are a number of small villages that line the base of that region. We’re going to one of those villages.” Top took a pull from his water skin. “And before there are more questions, we’re going because the scouts got back with information suggesting the village is acting as a way point for the insurrectionists. We’re to assess, confirm and eliminate if needed.”

There was a long pause.

Then they all began looking around at each other. Most of the veterans knew there was a catch. It was clear. Hob was rolling her eyes at the reaction.

Even Kaylee scowled at the unit and took a few steps toward them. “You all better quiet down. Top’s not done. Listen.”

Sufficiently chastised they all shut back up.

Wymrick hadn’t joined in with the pissing and moaning, he’d been watching Top. He’d never seen Top rattled. Ever. Their company leader had nerves of hard steel. Wymrick respected that, actually really appreciated it. But it did make figuring out what he was thinking nearly impossible. This time was no different, cold as ice.

“There is an unsubstantiated rumor they’ve got a sorcerer in the village.”

There was another brief pause before Slab, twirling one of his axes, inadvertently asked, “Just one?”

Some agreement and nods. Farwing said, “Yeah, we got Hob and Kaylee. One is a problem but that’s not terrible.”

More agreement.

Top never said a word. But Wymrick saw the moment he glanced down at Hob sitting in the sand. For her part, Hob’s mouth was hanging open. Wymrick was pretty certain it was because she was actually stunned at how stupid everyone was apparently being, for whatever reason. And since she didn’t even see Top look down at her, Wymrick grinned when she stomped to her feet because he knew he’d been right.

“You bunch of witless monkeys.” She screeched out. Even Kaylee was surprised and stepped back a bit from the warmage. “It’s a ‘sorcerer’. Any of you know what that could mean? Huh? Buttercup? Stick? Farwing? Didn’t think so. Well, what it might mean is it’s a “Nu’uman” sorcerer. That ring any bells in those melon heads of yours?”

Everyone had gone dead silent. Top just stood there, casually watching. Kaylee looked as if she thought Hob might torch the entire group.

Wymrick thought as long as no one said anything else before the warmage was through, they’d probably be alright. Probably.

“Here, let me help spell it out for you. Nu’uman sorcerers aren’t like regular warmages. They don’t make things burn. They don’t make things explode. They don’t make steel too cold to hold or harden the air so you can’t get past it or make water go foul. They make you think it is. They make you think there’s solid ground when you’re actually walking off a cliff. They make you think that local woman is handing you flowers when she’s actually getting you to stick your hand in a basket of asps. When you come around a corner during a battle they make you think one of theirs is standing ready to take your head off with a blade and only after you’ve killed them do you realize it was actually one of ours.”

She glared at them and smacked herself, hard, in the head several times. “They mess with your damn heads and you’re all to stupid to realize they’re doing it and by the time you do, there’s no one left to bail your asses out of the shit storm you’ve just wound up in.”

The silence was eerie. No shuffling. No breathing. Everyone was completely still. None of them even looked at each other. Wymrick screwed up his face a bit, wanting to scoff at the over-exaggeration, but he realized he’d been holding his breath and by the look on Top and Kaylee’s face, everything the warmage had just gone on about was true.

Top gently reached out a hand and placed it on Hob’s shoulder. The warmage seemed to relax slightly. Then she grunted, flopped back down into the sand and covered her head again.

“So,” the company leader began. “That’s what we’ll potentially be up against. I need all team leaders now for briefing. We move out at dusk and we’ll only travel at night to avoid most of the heat of the day.”

Buttercup, Farwing and Little-eye all acknowledged with a somber nod.

“Kaylee’s going to need time to examine everyone. Anyone with ‘rot’ or she deems unhealthy enough for travel is going to be attached to 2nd Company to assist with wall repairs until we get back. I know there are dozens of questions running around in your heads right now. Start getting used to clamping down on them now.”

He turned to Kaylee. “Start with Cobra and be strict. It’ll hopefully save us some lives.” She nodded as he turned back. “Team leads, let’s move.”

Without another word Top turned on his heels and headed back toward the main encampment, scooping up his ruck and helm. Hob climbed to her feet to follow and Farwing, Buttercup and Little-eye hurried to catch up.

Kaylee turned back to the unit. “All right. Cobra first. Line up, side by side and strip.”