Dust of Dreams

She’ll have to call a halt. She’ll have to—
    No, that colour was wrong. Mouth dry as stone, he felt a tightening in his throat, a pain in his chest.
    Gods no. That wind is the breath of a warren. It’s—oh, Worm of Autumn, no.
    He staggered as convulsions took him. Half-blinded in pain, he fell on to his knees.
     
    Sergeant Sunrise dropped his kit bag and hurried over to the fallen priest’s side. ‘Rumjugs! Get Bavedict! He’s looking bad here—’
    ‘He’s a drunk,’ snapped Sweetlard.
    ‘No—looks worse than that. Rumjugs—’
    ‘I’m going—’
    Thunder shook the ground beneath them. Cries rose from countless beasts. Something seemed to ripple through the ranks of soldiery, an unease, an instant of uncertainty stung awake. Voices shouted questions but no answers came back, and the confusion rose yet higher.
    Sweetlard stumbled against Sunrise, almost knocking him over as he crouched beside the priest. He could hear the old man mumbling, saw his head rock as if buffeted by unseen blows. Something spattered the back of Sunrise’s left hand and he looked down to see drops of blood. ‘Errant’s push! Who stabbed him? I didn’t see—’
    ‘Someone knifed him?’ Sweetlard demanded.
    ‘I don’t—I ain’t—here, help me get him round—’
    The thunder redoubled. Oxen lowed. Wheels rocked side to side with alarming creaks. Sunrise looked skyward, saw nothing but a solid golden veil of dust. ‘We got us a damned storm—where’s Bavedict? Sweet—go find ’em, will ya?’
    ‘Thought you wanted my help?’
    ‘Wait—get Hedge—get the commander—this guy’s sweating blood all over his skin! Right out through the pores! Hurry!’
    ‘Something’s happening,’ Sweetlard said, now standing directly over him.
    Her tone chilled Sunrise to the core.
     
    Captain Ruthan Gudd drew a ragged breath, savagely pushing the nausea away, and the terror that flooded through him in its wake had him reaching for his sword.
Roots of the Azath, what was that?
But he could see nothing—the dust had slung an ochre canopy across the sky, and on all sides soldiers were suddenly milling, as if they had lost their way—but nothing lay ahead, just empty stretches of land. Teeth bared, Ruthan Gudd kicked his skittish horse forward, rising in his stirrups. His sword was in his hand, steam whirling from its white, strangely translucent blade.
    He caught sight of it from the corner of his eye. ‘
Hood’s fist!
’ The skeins of sorcery that had disguised the weapon—in layers thick and tangled with centuries ofmagic—had been torn away. Deathly cold burned his hand.
She answers. She answers . . . what?
    He pulled free of the column.
    A seething line had appeared along a ridge of hills to the southeast.
    The thunder rolled on, drawing ever closer. Iron glittered as if tipped with diamond shards, like teeth gnawing through the summits of those hills. The swarming motion pained his eyes.
    He saw riders peeling out from the vanguard. Parley flags whipping from upended spears. Closer to hand, foot-soldiers staring at him and his damned weapon, others stumbling from the bitter cold streaming in his wake. His own armour-clad thighs and the back of his horse were rimed in frost.
    She answers—as she has never answered before. Gods below, spawn of the Azath—I smell—oh, gods no—
     
    ‘Form up! Marines form up! First line on the ridge—skirmishers! Get out of there, withdraw!’ Fiddler wasn’t waiting, not for anything. He couldn’t see the captain but it didn’t matter. He felt as if he’d swallowed a hundred caltrops. The air stank. Pushing past a confused Koryk and then a white-faced Smiles, he caught sight of the squad directly ahead.
    ‘Balm! Deadsmell—awaken your warrens! Same for Widdershins—where’s Cord, get Ebron—’
    ‘Sergeant!’
    He twisted back, saw Faradan Sort forcing her horse through the milling soldiers.
    ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘It’s some foreign army out there—we’ve sent emissaries. You’re panicking the soldiers—’
    Fiddler caught Tarr’s level gaze. ‘See they’re formed up—toss the word out fast as it can go, you understand, Corporal?’
    ‘Aye sir—’
    ‘Sergeant!’
    Fiddler pushed his way to the captain, reached up and dragged her down from the saddle. Cursing, she flailed, unbalanced. As her full weight caught him, Fiddler staggered and then went down, Sort on top of him. In her ear he said, ‘
Get the fuck off that horse