Free Of Bone and Thunder by Chris Evans Page B

he’s the loudest. Lets them all get it out of their systems.”
    Sinte scowled. “You sound like a damn witch with that folksy wisdom. Vooford is an infection that will spread if we don’t stop him.”
    Listowk didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. Sinte wasn’t blinking. “Any sign of Black Shield?” Listowk asked again.
    Sinte didn’t answer for a moment, as if weighing whether to continue his original train of thought. “No. I went two hundred yards and couldn’t find a thing.”
    â€œShield Leader Trivvos is a cagey rascal,” Listowk said. “He’s probably got his boys dug in and quiet as Holy Grove mice,” he said, making a mental note to ask Trivvos just how the hell he did that.
    â€œListowk, you look like a damn fool,” Sinte said suddenly. “Weel sees you dressed like that, he’ll have your balls.”
    Listowk looked down at his uniform. Without much effort, he’d simply grabbed a leaf here and some fronds there as they marched, weaving them into his leather webbing and aketon. A string or two of vine and some flowers, and he’d pass for just one more part of the jungle. “I do seem to pick up more than my fair share of the shrubbery, don’t I? Not exactly parade-ground presentable, but it seems to work out here.”
    â€œIt’s unorthodox,” Sinte said.
    â€œI suppose it is at that, but everything has to start out unorthodox atfirst,” Listowk said, refraining from asking Sinte whom he thought the slyts would shoot at first. “And like you said, SL, we’re in slyt territory here. They sure as hell blend in. I was planning to take a stroll in a bit and see if I can’t locate the Blacks myself. Figured I’d be better off if I blend in, too.”
    Sinte’s left hand brushed at something on his own aketon, perhaps self-consciously, and shook his head. “Forget that. It’s too dark. I don’t want you wandering around out there getting lost, or worse. We’ll sit tight here and make the best of it.” Sinte paused for a moment and looked around their camp. “Why, you worried?”
    A psaltery being lightly strummed filled the clearing before Listowk answered. Crossbowman Hanjil Sovoad—“the Bard,” as the shield called him—carried the thing everywhere. Sinte was surprisingly tolerant of the lad’s playing. Maybe the SL had a heart after all.
    The Bard sang, his voice a soft flannel.
    Dark mountain rising above the sea
    Our youth spent upon your velvet thighs
    With your head in the clouds
    And your heart buried in time.
    â€œLad needs to learn how to rhyme,” Sinte said.
    â€œI’ll tell him to stop,” Listowk said.
    â€œNot like the slyts don’t know we’re here,” Sinte said. “Let him play for a flicker or two.”
    Listowk raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, he turned and pointed at Carny. “Divvy up the food, okay? If they sent us any honey oranges, save me a wedge?”
    Listowk then waited until the bustle about food and the Bard’s singing and strumming had the soldiers preoccupied before answering Sinte. “So, am I worried? We’re up here with our asses out of our trousers. Weel chewed out Rhomy, and now we’re getting spanked. On a training exercise that’d be fine, but this is different. We have no idea where the other shields are and no way to contact them if we did. Maybe they brought some more carrier pigeons with the newest draft,” he said, motioning back downtoward the beach, “but that doesn’t help us tonight. The slyts are getting bold.”
    Sinte knocked his knuckles against the iron plates sewn to his aketon. “There are six shields on this little mountain. That’s nearly a hundred and twenty trained bows. And there’s hundreds more on the beach with more arriving every day. They’ll have heavier weapons, too.