‘If boredom was fatal there wouldn’t be a soldier alive on this whole world, Blend. Feeble excuse. The problem’s simple: starting with the sergeant writhing around over there, the whole Oponn-cursed squad is insane.’

‘Except for you, of course—’

‘You kissing my dung-stained boots, lass? Wrong move. I’m crazier than the rest of you. If I wasn’t, I’d have run off long ago. Gods, look at these idiots. Got a mage wearing his dead mother’s hair and every time he opens his warren we get attacked by snarling ground squirrels. Got a sapper with permanent flashburns whose bladder must be a warren unto itself since I ain’t seen him wander off once and it’s three days running now at this camp. Got a Napan woman being stalked by a rogue bhederin bull that’s either blind or sees more than we do when he looks at her. And then there’s a healer who went and got himself so badly sunburned he’s running a fever.’

‘Don’t bother mentioning Antsy,’ Blend murmured. ‘The sergeant would top anyone’s list as a wall-eyed lunatic—’

‘I wasn’t done. Got a woman who likes sneaking up on her friends. And finally,’ she added in a low growl, ‘dear old Antsy. Nerves of cold iron, that one. Convinced the gods themselves have snatched Quick Ben and it’s all Antsy’s own fault. Somehow.’ Picker reached up and slipped a finger under the torcs on her arm, her scowl deepening. ‘As if the gods care a whit about Quick Ben, never mind the sergeant himself. As if they take note of any of us no matter what we do.’

‘Treach’s torcs bothering you, Corporal?’

‘Careful, Blend,’ Picker murmured. ‘I ain’t in the mood.’

Sodden and miserable, Spindle was climbing to his feet. ‘Evil spark!’ he hissed. ‘Finger-flicked like a burning booger – there’s malevolent spirits lurkin’ about, mark my words.’

‘Mark ‘em!’ Picker snorted. ‘I’ll carve ‘em in your grave stone, Spindle, and that’s a Hood-blown promise!’

‘Gods, what a stink!’ Hedge swore. ‘I doubt even a grease-smeared Barghast will come near you! I say we should vote – the whole squad, I mean. Vote to tear that disgusting shirt off of Spindle’s pimply back and bury it somewhere – ideally under a few tons of rubble. What say you, Sergeant? Hey, Antsy?’

‘Shhh!’ the sergeant hissed from where he sat at the very edge of the firelight, staring out into the darkness. ‘Something’s out there!’

‘If it’s another angry squirrel-’ Picker began.

‘I ain’t done nothing!’ Spindle growled. ‘And nobody’s gonna bury my shirt, not while I’m still breathing, anyway. So forget it, sapper. Besides, we don’t vote on nothing in this squad. Hood knows what Whiskeyjack let you idiots do back in the Ninth, but you ain’t in the Ninth any more, are ya?’