Mangonel was the first to land, tail arched and pincers out as it scuttled close to the knife-edge barrier, upon which, a hair’s breadth from the iron blades, it halted and then backed away, its carapace flushing red with its characteristic mindless rage. Clawmaster was next, seeming to leap down ready for war, fluids racing beneath its amber-tinted shell.

Joyful Union came last, slow and measured, so low on the sand as to seem belly-down. Pincers tucked away, tail curled to port and quiescent. Dwarfed by the other two scorpions, its black shell somewhere between glossy and flat. Its multiple legs scuttled it forward slightly, then it froze.

Gesler hissed. ‘If she plucks a couple knives from the ring and uses ’em, I’m going to kill you, Fid.’

‘No need,’ Fiddler replied, his attention divided between what was going on in the arena and Ibb’s running commentary, the man’s voice harsh with tension as he waxed creative in describing what had, up to now, been essentially nothing worth comment.

That suddenly changed as three things occurred almost simultaneously. Joyful Union sauntered into the middle of the arena. Mangonel’s assortment of natural weapons all cocked in unison, even as the creature began backing up, its shell turning fiery red. Clawmaster suddenly wheeled and darted straight at the nearest wall of blades, halting a moment before impact, pincers waving wildly.

‘He wants mommy, looks like, Hubb,’ Koryk drily observed.

Clawmaster’s Holder softly whimpered in answer.

Then, after a frozen moment from all three scorpions, Joyful Union finally lifted its tail.

Upon which, all but Fiddler stared in utter disbelief, as Joyful Union seemed to… split. Horizontally. Into two identical, but thinner, flatter scorpions. That then raced outward, one to Mangonel, the other to Clawmaster-each like a village mongrel charging a bull bhederin, so extreme their comparative sizes.

Red-backed Bastard and In Out both did their best, but were no match in speed, nor ferocity, as tiny pincers snipped-audibly-through legs, through tail, through arm-joints, then, with the larger creature immobile and helpless, a casual, almost delicate stab of stinger.

With In Out’s translucent shell, the horrid bright green of that poison was visible-and thus described in ghastly detail by Ibb-as it spread out from the puncture until Clawmaster’s once beautiful amber was gone, replaced by a sickly green that deepened before their eyes to a murky black.

‘Dead as dung,’ Hubb moaned. ‘Clawmaster…’

Mangonel suffered an identical fate.

With its enemies vanquished, the two Birdshit scorpions rushed back into each other’s arms-and, in the blink of an eye, were as one once more.

‘Cheat!’ Stormy bellowed, rearing to his feet and fumbling to draw his flint sword.

Gesler leapt up and, along with Truth, struggled to restrain their raging comrade. ‘We looked, Stormy!’ Gesler yelled. ‘We looked for anything-then we swore! I swore! By Fener and Treach, damn you! How could any of us have known “Joyful Union” wasn’t just a cute name?’

Glancing up, Fiddler met Cuttle’s steady gaze. The sapper mouthed the words We’re rich, you bastard.

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.’

‘And that crossbow can lob cussers far enough? Hard to believe.’

‘Well, the idea is to aim and shoot, then bite a mouthful of dirt.’

‘I can see the wisdom in that, Fid. Now, you let us all know when you’re firing, right?’

‘Nice and loud, aye.’

‘And what word should we listen for?’

Fiddler noticed that the rest of his squad had ceased their preparations and were now waiting for his answer. He shrugged. ‘Duck. Or sometimes what Hedge used to use.’

‘Which was?’

‘A scream of terror.’ He climbed to his feet. ‘All right, soldiers, it’s time.’

When the last grains trickled down, the Adjunct turned from the hourglass and nodded to Gamet. ‘When will you join your companies, Fist?’

‘In a few moments, Adjunct. Although, because I intend to remain in my saddle, I will not ride out to them until the fighting starts.’

He saw her frown at that, but she made no comment, focusing instead on the two Wickan youths standing near the tent’s entrance. ‘Have you completed your rituals?’

The lad, Nil, shrugged. ‘We have spoken with the spirits, as you ordered.’

‘Spoken? That is all?’

‘Once, perhaps, we could have… compelled. But as we warned you long ago in Aren, our power is not as it once was.’

Nether added, ‘This land’s spirits are agitated at the moment, easily distracted. Something else is happening. We have done all we could, Adjunct. At the very least, if the desert raiders have a shaman among them, there will be little chance of the secret’s unveiling.’

‘Something else is happening, you said. What, specifically?’

Before she could answer, Gamet said, ‘Your pardon, Adjunct. I will take my leave now.’

‘Of course.’