The camp was louder than usual. Word of the Bleak Company's coming spread like fire in dry grass. Garran passed knots of soldiers huddled by their fires, muttering curses and old prayers. Some sharpened rusted blades. Others drank cheap wine like it might buy them mercy.
"You'd think we were all for the gallows," Haim grunted, nursing a cracked cup of something dark and bitter. He waved Garran over. "Come, Stone. Sit. Drink. If we're dying, might as well meet it drunk."
Garran took the cup, sniffed, winced. "What in the gods' name is this?"
"Rotgut. Brewed in a piss bucket by the trench boys." Haim grinned. "Strong enough to kill a crow."
"Maybe it'll take a Bleak man too."
They laughed, though it was thin. A nearby group of mercenaries argued over who'd face the vanguard come dusk. One spat into the dirt, another swore an oath to Saint Roran's bones. A crone chanted low over a circle of bone dice, muttering names of the dead.
"Dice fall soon," Haim said, watching the old woman. "You should wager something."
"I've little to lose."
"Your name," Haim grinned. "Bet your name. See if luck will give you a new one."
Garran smirked, but his hand went to the sword at his side, thumb brushing the worn sunburst on its pommel. Not now. Not yet.
From the palisade came the tramp of hooves. A patrol returning. Dust-caked riders, eyes hollow, a ragged banner trailing behind them. Men gathered to watch as they passed, each wondering if these poor bastards would be the last to ride out before the Bleak Company came.
"That them?" Haim asked.
"No," Garran said. "Ours. Still breathing."
A soldier broke from the watchers. Corven. His grin was half-mad, his breath reeking of ale.
"Orlec's calling a dice feast," he crowed. "One last game before the gods claim us."
Haim clapped Garran's shoulder. "There now. The old crow's soft after all."
"I'll see it."
They followed the ragged trail of men to a clearing near the burnt oak, where bone dice clattered on a flat stone. Orlec leaned on his spear, one eye gleaming.
"Crows gather, eh?" the old knight rasped. "Good. One last wager before dusk takes us."
"What's the stake?" Corven called.
Orlec's grin was sharp and cold. "Your names."
A murmur rolled through the crowd.
"Lose," Orlec said, "and you take what name the dice give you. Live or die by it. Win, and you choose your own curse."
Garran frowned. "That's an old game."
"Older than lords," Orlec said. "Older than keeps and coins. The gods listen when names are wagered."
The dice passed from hand to hand. Men threw and cursed, taking fool-names like Crowbait, Ox-Born, Bitter Hand. Laughter chased each throw.
Haim rolled a pair of threes. "Saint's teeth," he cursed.
"Luckless Dog," Orlec declared. "Wear it proud, boy."
Haim took a swig of rotgut, grinning. "Better than rat-bastard."
Garran took the dice. They felt cold, heavier than bone should. The crone watching nearby muttered something in an old tongue, words too thick with salt and age to catch.
He threw.
A six. A one.
A hush.
Orlec's voice was soft now. "Crow-mark."
A ripple of uneasy noise passed through the soldiers.
"What's it mean?" Haim asked.
"Marked by bad wings," Corven muttered. "Old omen. Blood follows the crow-mark. Death lingers."
"Good," Garran said, standing. "I was running out of names."
A rough cheer went up. Men toasted him, even those who would rather see his throat slit. In the world of mud and blood, a cursed man was still a man with coin to wager.
Orlec clapped his shoulder. "You'll ride with me at dusk, Crow-mark."
"I planned to."
"See you don't die yet. I've coin riding on it."
The gathering broke as men drifted back to their fires. Some to sharpen blades, some to drink themselves numb, others to mutter prayers to gods no longer listening.
Haim fell in beside Garran as they walked.
"Crow-mark," he mused. "Could be worse."
"It will be."
"You scared?"
"No," Garran said. "I've no house, no bloodline worth the name. Nothing left to lose."
Haim chuckled. "I've seen you watch the keep. You've got ghosts, Stone."
"We all do."
They reached their fire. The sky darkened. A storm threatened the horizon. The smell of rain thickened the air.
From the distance came the sound of hooves. Many hooves. Dozens.
The Bleak Company had come.
Garran felt the weight of the name settle on his shoulders like a cold hand.Crow-mark.Fitting.
He poured a measure of rotgut, raised it toward the gray sky.
"To names," he muttered. "And to blood."