The sergeant, with a final glance at Gesler and Truth – who were dragging a foaming Stormy away – then moved to crouch down beside Ibb. ‘All right, lad, what follows is for the marines only, and especially the sergeants. We’re about to become our own Joyful Union to big, bad Mangonel tonight. I’ll explain what the Adjunct has ordered – repeat what I say, Ibb, word for word – got it?’

Three bells had passed since the sunset. Dust from the Whirlwind Wall obscured the stars, making the darkness beyond the hearth-fires almost impenetrable. Squads from the infantry trooped out to relieve those stationed at the pickets. In the Khundryl camp, the warriors removed their heavy armour and prepared to settle in for the night. Along the army encampment’s outermost trenches, Wickan and Seti horse warriors patrolled.

At the 4th squad’s fire, Fiddler returned from the company’s wagons with his kit bag. He set it down and untied the draws.

Nearby sprawled Cuttle, his eyes glittering reflected flames, watching as the sergeant began withdrawing variously sized, hide-wrapped objects. Moments later he had assembled a dozen such items, which he then began unwrapping, revealing the glint of polished wood and blackened iron.

The others in the squad were busy checking over their weapons and armour one last time, saying nothing as the tension slowly built among the small group of soldiers.

‘Been some time since I last saw one of those,’ Cuttle muttered as Fiddler laid out the objects. ‘I’ve seen imitations, some of them almost as good as the originals.’

Fiddler grunted. ‘There’s a few out there. It’s the knock-back where the biggest danger lies, since if it’s too hard the whole damn thing explodes upon release. Me and Hedge worked out this design ourselves, then we found a Mare jeweller in Malaz City – what she was doing there I’ve no idea—’

‘A jeweller? Not a weaponsmith?’

‘Aye.’ He began assembling the crossbow. ‘And a wood-carver for the stops and plugs – those need replacing after twenty or so shots—’

‘When they’re pulped.’

‘Or splitting, aye. It’s the ribs, when they spring back – that’s what sends the shockwave forward. Unlike a regular crossbow, where the quarrel’s fast enough out of the slot to escape that vibration. Here, the quarrel’s a pig, heavy and weighted on the head end – it never leaves the slot as fast as you’d like, so you need something to absorb that knock-back, before it gets to the quarrel shaft.’

‘And the clay ball attached to it. Clever solution, Fid.’

‘It’s worked so far.’

‘And if it does fail...’

Fiddler looked up and grinned. ‘I won’t be the one with breath to complain.’ The last fitting clicked into place, and the sergeant set the bulky weapon down, turning his attention to the individually wrapped quarrels.

Cuttle slowly straightened. ‘Those ain’t got sharpers on them.’

‘Hood no, I can throw sharpers.’