In the year they had stationed here, Rik had never seen the roads so busy. He reckoned it must be true. The army was preparing to move into Kharadrea. And in far more force than the one regiment that was normally stationed at this border post.

As they strode along, the mocking shouts from the Skywatchers distracted him.

“Going for a little walk, are we?”

“Taking a stroll in the woods?”

“Lieutenant going to teach you to shoot?”

The last was an allusion to the marksmanship contest that the Foragers had lost to the Skywatchers the previous week. Most people still could not understand how it happened. Weasel and Leon were the two best shots in the regiment. Rik had his own suspicions. There was very little Weasel would not do to win money even if it meant betting against himself. Rik was certain that the former poacher had somehow persuaded Leon to go along. The scrawny little lad had always been malleable by any evil influence, particularly when ill-gotten gains were involved.

“I’ll teach you how to sit on a bayonet,” bellowed the Barbarian, who had lost quite a lot of copper betting on his friends. It was still a sore spot with him.

“Hush,” said the Sergeant. “There will be time enough to pay them back in months to come.” It sounded like he had a plan.

Weasel loped towards them from the tent village of the camp-followers. His tatty green uniform looked worse than ever as it clung to his long lean frame. He appeared to have lost his hat again, and his narrow, bald head on its long neck made him look even more rodent-like than ever. The nostrils twitched in his huge nose as if scenting for danger.

“Nice of you to join us,” said the Sergeant. “Any later and you would be competing with the Barbarian and Gunther for a place on the whipping post.”

“Just making sure your wife was satisfied,” said Weasel. He was one of those who, without having any rank whatsoever, still managed to wield a great deal of influence in the regiment. It came by way of his involvement with the Quartermaster’s countless black-market schemes. Still, he must have been feeling particularly cocky today, or even he would not have taken that tone with the Sergeant.

Sergeant Hef raised an eyebrow. Such talk was water off a duck’s back to him. He and Marcie had been together as long as anybody could remember, had numerous sprogs and, as far as anyone knew, had never even looked at anybody else from the day they met. It would take more than Weasel’s leering insinuations to upset him.

“With the rabbits,” said Weasel, with a comedian’s timing, his tone all wounded innocence. “With the rabbits I sold her. Not what these dirty-minded louts were thinking at all.”

The Sergeant shook his head. “One day you’ll dig your own grave with that tongue of yours,” he said.

“It’s the only digging he’ll ever do,” said Gunther. “Never seen that one do a lick of work.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Weasel. “Tupping your girlfriend is work.”

Gunther’s face congested with rage. His hand went to the butt of his pistol but somehow Weasel’s long bony fingers already contained a knife.

“That’s enough the pair of you,” said the Sergeant, in a voice that let them both know the fun was over. For such a small man he had a lot of authority. “It’s stripes on both your backs you’ll be getting if you keep up this nonsense.”

Weasel gave him a wink.