‘There won’t be any desertions,’ Lull said, his battered fingers slowly raking through his beard. ‘The sappers ain’t run away. They’re up to something, I’d hazard. It’s not easy reining in that unwashed, motley company when you can’t even track down its captain – but I don’t imagine Coltaine will make the same mistake again.’

‘He’ll not have the chance,’ Sulmar muttered. ‘The first worms will crawl into our ears before the day’s done. It’s the oblivious feast for us all, mark my words.’

Lull raised his brows. ‘If that’s as encouraging as you can manage, Sulmar, I pity your soldiers.’

‘Pity’s for the victors, Lull.’

A lone horn wailed its mournful note.

‘Waiting’s over,’ Chenned said with obvious relief. ‘Save me a patch of grass when you go down, gentlemen.’

Duiker watched the two Seventh captains depart. He’d not heard that particular send-off in a long time.

‘Chenned’s father was in Dassem’s First Sword,’ Lull said.

‘Or so goes the rumour – even when names are swept from official histories, the past shows its face, eh, old man?’

Duiker was in no mood to rise to either jibe. ‘Think I’ll check my gear,’ he said, turning away.

It was noon before the final positioning was completed. There had been a near riot when the refugees finally understood that the main army was to make the crossing without them. Coltaine’s selection of the Weasel Clan as their escort – the horsewarriors presented a truly terrifying visage with their threaded skin, black tattooing and filed teeth – proved his cunning yet again, although the Weasel riders almost took it too far with their bloodthirsty taunts flung at the very people they were sworn to protect. Desultory calm was established, despite the frenzied, fear-stricken efforts of the noble-born’s Council and their seemingly inexhaustible capacity to deliver protests and writs.

With the main force finally assembled, Coltaine issued the command to move forward.

The day was blisteringly hot, the parched ground rising in clouds of dust as soon as the brittle grass was worn away by hooves and tramping boots. Lull’s prediction of eating dust proved depressingly accurate, as Duiker once more raised his tin belt-flask to his lips, letting water seep into his mouth and down the dry gully of his throat.

Marching on his left was Corporal List, his face caked white, helmet sliding down over his sweat-sheened forehead. On the historian’s right strode the veteran marine – he did not know her name, nor would he ask. Duiker’s fear of what was to come had spread through him like an infection. His thoughts felt fevered, spinning around an irrational terror of ... of knowledge. Of the details that remind one of humanity. Names to faces are like twinned serpents threatening the most painful bite of all. I’ll never return to the List of the Fallen, because I see now that the unnamed soldier is a gift. The named soldier – dead, melted wax – demands a response among the living ... a response no-one can make. Names are no comfort, they’re a call to answer the unanswerable. Why did she die, not him? Why do the survivors remain anonymous –as if cursed – while the dead are revered? Why do we cling to what we lose while we ignore what we still hold?