Free Taste of Lightning by Kate Constable Page A

the boar was close enough that he could bring her closer without having to sing for long. He couldn’t pull that trick too often, but knowing that tomorrow night was going to be so simple, he’d wanted to do something impressive. He was almost disappointed that Tugger wouldn’t see him try his chantments on any man-monsters.
    He just managed to stop himself from whistling.
    The next day it rained. ‘Damn you, Wispy,’ muttered Fello. ‘Can’t stand to be wrong, can you?’
    They spent an uncomfortable day crouched under canvas in the boat, well hidden in the reeds. Pigeon went out once, but didn’t see anything unusual.
    â€˜Hunting party from the Palace. Just some fat Baltish kids fooling around.’
    â€˜Hope they run into that big boar from last night,’ said Fello. ‘Give em a fright. Did I tell you about that, Wispy?’
    â€˜Only about twenty times.’ Wisp winked at Perrin, who sat quietly sharpening his dagger. Perrin recognised the subdued, tense mood of the men: it was the same before any battle. He reached into his knapsack and pulled out his finger-harp.
    Now was not the time for rousing tunes or comic songs; he played the old ballads of Rengan that the men had learned as early as breathing, songs they’d heard as they lay in their mother’s wombs. The steady drumbeat of rain on the canvas kept time, and the irregular drip of water as it slid off the brim of Tugger’s battered hat made a counter-beat. Perrin kept his eyes on his fingering, but he saw Wisp raise a hand to his face, and Doughty turn away. He judged the moment Tugger was ready to say, ‘That’s enough,’ and played a merry little jig to finish up.
    The rain eased slightly around sunset, but didn’t stop. ‘No need to worry about moondark,’ said Wisp. ‘We got enough cloud to block ten moons.’
    â€˜And enough mud to drown a damn battalion,’ growled Pigeon.
    As the dial on Tugger’s pocket-clock crawled toward midnight, the men grew quiet. Perrin was tense, but not afraid. The danger for him was the dogs, and he wasn’t scared of them. Even if that big old boar-sow jumped out at them in the woods on the way, he knew he could handle her.
    â€˜Time, lads,’ Tugger said softly. Perrin was the first to his feet.
    â€˜I’ll have a swig of spiced wine waiting for you,’ said Wisp. ‘Good luck, lads.’
    â€˜We’ll make our own luck tonight,’ said Tugger sternly, but he laid a hand briefly on Wisp’s shoulder.
    â€˜See you on the other side,’ croaked Wisp. It was the traditional soldier’s farewell, and Perrin lifted one hand to acknowledge it.
    This time it was impossible to creep silently through the woods; the rain had turned the ground to slush. Doughty slid, and when he scrambled up, he was limping. ‘It’s not bad.’ He shrugged off Fello’s hand. ‘It’ll come good. I swear it, Tug, it’s not that bad.’
    â€˜Stand on it,’ said Tugger.
    Doughty swore, and grimaced, and his leg buckled. ‘Back to the boat,’ said Tugger. ‘Now. Send Wisp to catch up.’
    The remaining four struggled on. Low branches lashed their faces, thorns snagged their clothes, and always the mud slid and sucked under their feet. At last they reached the place where there was no cover between them and the Palace gardens.
    â€˜Right, lads. Count of one hundred between. You first, Pigeon. Go, go, go.’
    Perrin’s stomach turned over. They were crossing the open ground alone, every man for himself. What was he supposed to do after that? He’d thought Tugger would look out for him. He hadn’t listened to the briefings. It was too late to ask now. Pigeon and Fello were already gone.
    â€˜Ninety-nine, a hundred.’ Tugger waved him forward, eyes down on his pocket-clock. ‘Make luck for yourself, son. Go, go, go.’
    And Perrin was off, running