by William King
“Nothing,” Rik said. “I thought I saw something, but it was nothing.”
The others slumped back against the howdah walls.
They passed a number of small ruined buildings. Some seemed almost like outcrops of stone. Only when he looked closely could he see that the moss-covered blocks had been dressed and shaped. Nonetheless, had they been roofed over they would have been inhabitable, if anyone could have faced the bleak prospect of living in these mountains.
Rik wondered aloud why some poor crofters had not taken them. He had caught enough glimpses of wild sheep and goats on the hillsides to know a living could be eked out here by someone hardy enough.
“Shows what you know,” said Weasel, spitting over the side of the howdah.
“Something you want to tell me, Weasel,” Rik said.
“It’s the feuds. When clans up here feel they have a grudge, they get together and burn out their neighbours.”
That would explain the old scorch marks on the ruins, Rik supposed. Weasel was in full flow now: “And of course when the burned out’s kin find out, they retaliate. And that leads to more burning, and more retaliation, till pretty soon everybody hates everybody else. That’s why there’s so many ruins. A man could make a fortune selling powder and ammunition up here.”
“Is that what you and the Quartermaster been up to then? I was wondering.”
“Hush, lad,” said Weasel. His grin looked a little pained.
“You’d think life would be hard enough up here without them making it harder,” said Leon. He chewed his empty pipe a bit more intently to aid his thoughts. A look of child-like seriousness passed over his face as he concentrated.
“You call this hard,” said the Barbarian. “You have never been to the Northlands of Segard.”
“It’s been my experience that people can always find a way to make things more difficult for themselves,” said the Sergeant.
“Godless heathens,” added Gunther with some venom.
“It’s endless war up here,” said Weasel, not without a certain gloomy satisfaction. “There’s only two things as can make the clans forget their feuds and band together.”
“And what would they be?” asked Pigeon, rather foolishly, Rik thought.
“Banditry. They like to get together and raid the caravans in the pass, and the farmers in the valleys.”
“And don’t we get blamed for enough of that,” said the Barbarian, somewhat too sourly for a man who had done his fair share of rustling. Weasel sucked his teeth and nodded his agreement.
“Lawless heathens,” said Gunther.
“They’re actually pretty god-fearing,” said Weasel, just to be argumentative. “One of the clans, the Malarceans even gave shelter to a Prophet of the Light. That’s how they got the name. They took his…”
“And look how they have disgraced it since…”
“What would be the other thing that unites these wild hill-men?” asked the sergeant, asking the question to change the subject and forestall an argument.
“The sight of a whole bunch of the Queen’s soldiers parading through their land.”
“It’s the Queen’s land,” said Gunther.
“At least as much of it as is on her side of the border,” Rik said, giving his attention back to their surroundings. He had already known the hill-men could be hostile, but Weasel had given his fears expression and put his nerves on edge.
“You will get no argument from me,” said Weasel. “The problem is they think we’re tax collectors or from the Estates.”
It had not been unknown for the Terrarchs to use their military connections to get the army to clear humans off freehold land they coveted. Such a thing had not happened since the Small Revolution, as the laws passed then had given humans some rights to their property, but the hill-men had long memories and little education. Rik could not see them reading any of the broadsheets.
“Who would want this land?” said the Sergeant mockingly.
“Sheep,” said Weasel.
“I don’t think our Exalted lords and masters would take kindly to hearing themselves described as such,” said Leon.
“I meant they would put sheep on the land. Textiles is big business, especially now. Who makes all our pretty uniforms? Who gets the profit of it? Remember - there is a war coming.”
“The Exalted are not to be compared to money grubbing human merchants,” said Gunther.
“Strange that for people who care nothing about money they should have so much of it,” said Weasel. "Maybe that's the secret."
“You talk like an Insurrectionary,” said Gunther.
“Not at all. I am merely making an observation. God knows I’ve put down enough revolutionists in my time.”
All of which was true, but Rik could not help but think Weasel had a sneaking sympathy for the revolutionaries. They all did. Most men wondered what it would be like to be masters of their own world once more. Surely the Dark Ages before the Terrarchs came had been terrible, at least according to the Terrarchs, but men had been free.
Rik shook his head at that folly. They had not been free. They had merely bowed their heads before different and darker gods. And there had been rulers then too, priests and kings. There would always be rulers and ruled, rich and poor. There always had been. There always would.
It is the way of the world, he thought. God likes order. He likes hierarchy. Only fools believed the Liberator would come and that men would be free. But there had been progress, another part of him argued. The Schism had ended most forms of serfdom in the Scarlet Realms. Men did have a voice in the councils of the great, albeit not a very loud one. The Queen had guaranteed the property rights of humans. Some humans had even become rich working in trade. Lickspittles and toadies, the lot of them, he thought sourly.
The signal to halt interrupted his reverie. The wyrms stopped. It seemed like they had arrived wherever they were supposed to go.
They stood to attention in the watery late afternoon sunlight and waited for the Lieutenant to explain the plan.
“Now, men,” Sardec said. Again, he made the word sound like it was the worst possible insult. “We have business.”
A bridgeback gave out a rumbling belch. Sardec glared at it as if he was going to order the beast flogged. Nobody laughed. The Lieutenant walked up and down the line, his hands behind his back. He paused in front of Rik and looked almost disappointed to see all the requisite buttons present on his tunic. The wizard looked on behind Sardec, his silver-masked head cocked to one side, conveying an air of patronising amusement.
Vosh, the mountain man, looked nervous as Rik supposed he had every reason to be. He would have a whole lot of upset kinfolk down on him if he were spotted with the Terrarch’s soldiery.
The Foragers were keen to hear exactly why they had been dragged up these God-benighted, freezing mountains. They were even keener to know when they would get the business over and get out again.
“We know bandits have based themselves up here. We know they have eluded you for some time,” Sardec said. That you was a nice touch, Rik thought. It showed that their Terrarch leaders had nothing to do with the failures of mere humans. It told them that things were going to go differently now one of the Lords of Creation had taken a hand. “We know also they have made a pact with a sorcerer of the darkest type.”
He paused to give that time to sink in. Rik saw several men go pale and not a few shudder. Everybody made the Elder Sign against evil with their right hand. He looked at their own wizard’s impassive, partially masked face. Fight magic with magic was one of the oldest rules of warfare.
It certainly explained why scryers could never find the Prophet’s men. If they had a wizard shielding them, they would not be easy to view. Of course, that begged several other questions. For instance, what was a mage doing in this god forsaken place, and why had he aligned himself with the local riffraff?
Any wizard competent enough to thwart a Magister’s scrying could surely find service with someone
willing to pay. Unless, of course, he was one of those so mad or so dark that no one else would have him. That would make him an outstanding specimen of depravity.
“Take him alive if you can,” said Severin, speaking for the first time. His voice was surprisingly deep and musical when he addressed a crowd.
“That might be easier said than done, master,” said the Sergeant.
“It will not be. I shall overpower his defences and leave him paralysed. All you need do is slay or drive off his guardians and claim the body.”
“How will we tell which one he is, master?” The Sergeant asked. It was a not unreasonable question.
“He will be the only Terrarch present barring the Lieutenant and myself. I trust identifying such a one should provide no insuperable difficulties.”
Supercilious twat, Rik thought, but the more subservient types chuckled fawningly. There were always plenty of those in the army, even in the Foragers.
“Alive if you can, dead if you must,” Master Severin said.
The Lieutenant looked on, not a little displeased at having his place at the centre of attention so summarily usurped and decided that the time had come to exert his control of matters once more.
“The bandits are camped out down in the valley. They have occupied a ruined manor house; its walls are thick but holed in several places and hopefully they too should provide no insuperable difficulties.”
Rik was impressed by his confidence. If he ran true to form Sardec would lead from the front. Personally Rik didn’t fancy charging a fortified position in the teeth of mountain marksmen.
“The moon will be out this evening,” said the Lieutenant. “We shall commence the assault once it is full dark. Anything to add, Master Severin?”
The wizard nodded. “Make sure that you are all wearing your Elder Signs. Do not get too close to the mansion house until after the signal to attack is given. Tonight the Crimson Shadows will descend on our enemies.”
Men muttered to themselves. It looked like very powerful sorcery was going to be unleashed. Master Severin raised his hands for quiet.
“Do not worry. There will still be work for you. We want some prisoners taken for interrogation, and it is quite likely the sorcerer and any bodyguards he might have will be protected against my magic.”
“Thank the Light for that,” muttered Weasel. “I mean we would not want our lives to be too easy now, would we?”
At least Sardec had given matters that much thought, to give him credit. Their arrival had obviously been timed with this plan in mind. Perhaps he was more competent than Rik had thought, or perhaps the whole plan had been thought up by someone else.
“Any questions, men?” Sardec asked.
“How many enemy, sir?” asked Sergeant Hef.
"About forty tribesmen. The so-called Prophet’s band.”
“The Prophet, sir? Zarahel?” Hef asked.
“Zarahel, indeed. The preacher of the resurrection of the Old Gods. Don’t worry Sergeant. I know there is a price on his head. Your men shall all share the prize money.”
Again, that sneering tone of voice, Rik thought. Sardec was, of course, above such considerations or affected to be. The majority of the prize would find its way into his pocket anyway. Officers took the lion’s share of such cash. It recompensed them for the price of their commissions.
“What about the wizard, sir?” asked Weasel. “Any bounty on him?”
There usually were bounties on dark sorcerers. The temple offered them and many wealthy private individuals contributed to this worthy cause. Dark magic was feared by everybody, particularly by those who had most to lose.
“I will authorise payment to each of the men who take him of a gold crown from my own personal funds, in addition to the usual state bounty” said Master Severin. "Double if you take him alive. Lieutenant Sardec is my witness."
That got a few mutters of approval. A man could stay drunk for a month on a crown.
“Something against him, eh master?” said Weasel. The wizard merely stared at him coldly.
“That is none of your business,” he said. From his tone Rik suspected that things might go ill for Weasel once the dark mage was caught. Weasel probably did too, but no sign of it showed on his face.
“You’re right, sir, beg your pardon, sir; I let my enthusiasm for the task at hand carry my tongue away.”
Sardec reasserted command. “Sergeant Hef, take your squad and begin to scout the entrance to the valley while there is yet light. Corporal Toby, accompany the Sergeant with your squad. Do not stray too far from the ridge-line. We do not want to trip any wards there might be, do we?”
Both men nodded and gestured for their men to fall in. It seemed that battle would soon be upon them.
Chapter Four
Rik threw himself flat alongside the others just before they reached the brow of the hill and made his way forward on hands and knees. He knew a man is never more visible than when on a ridge-line, particularly with the sun behind him. He was taking no chances of being spotted.
He looked down into a long valley, flanked on either side by peaks. A waterfall at the far end fed into a large lake. Around the lake were a number of tumbled down buildings. The lake had once been smaller for the ruins of many towers protruded above its surface now. Clearly there had been a city here a long time ago.
“Achenar,” said Weasel. “Not a good place.”
These were the ruins of the ancient city of the Spider God, destroyed by the Terrarchs during their wars of conquest. This was the home of the demon Uran Ultar, reviled in legend, a place whose name was still a byword for horror, almost eight centuries after its destruction.
“I wish they had told us we were coming here,” said the Barbarian.
“Stayed at home, would you?” asked Sergeant Hef.
“No. But I would have brought some truesilver bullets.”
“It’s just a bunch of ruins,” said Leon.
“The hill-tribes avoid this place,” said Weasel. “Can’t say as I blame them.”
“I thought it was one of their sacred sites,” said Hef.
“It’s both, I suppose. A lot of them still revere Uran Ultar, in secret of course.”
“Heathens,” said Gunther. Rik studied the ruins in the fading light. He did not like this place at all and it was not just its fearsome reputation stimulating his imagination. There was something about it that made his flesh creep.
“This Zarahel has the right idea,” said Hef. “I doubt if any of the tribes are going to fight him for this place.”
“What could a wizard be looking for down there?” Leon asked. “One thing’s for sure, he did not come here by accident. Why dig a mine here?”
“They say Uran Ultar’s priests filled his temples with gold taken in tribute from conquered nations,” Rik replied. “Maybe he left something buried down there.”
“Nah,” said Weasel. “The Terrarchs would have grabbed the lot of it. You know what they are like. Greedy bastards, the lot of them.”
“It’s not for us to criticise our betters,” said Gunther. “You in particular.”
“If I don’t, no one will.”
“I think there’s more going on here than meets the eye,” said Rik. “We’ve got a company of Foragers and a wizard up here. It’s for a reason.”
“The reason is to grab this wizard and kill the Prophet and have the whole business wrapped up before Mourning Time,” said Sergeant Hef.
“I still think they are up to something. What about this mine that Vosh was on about? All those folk disappearing? What’s all that about then?” Rik asked.
“Who knows with wizards?” said the Sergeant. “Our job is to put a stop to it whatever it is and we’d best be getting started.”
“Speaking of wizards, what’s this about the Crimson Shadows?”
“If it makes our job easier, why complain? Ah there’s what we’re looking for.”
On the shoreline, on a slight rocky rise close to the falls, stood a sq
uat fortified manor, partially ruined. A tower stood at one corner, and at its top a bell glittered. In some pens nearby were lots of the lean mountain sheep. Nobody was visible, but columns of smoke rose from the chimneys.
“Sentry in the tower,” said Weasel. Looking closely Rik could see what he meant. A man’s head was visible over the parapet. He was holding a rifle too. The bandits were not being entirely negligent about their safety. “Might be some more holed up in the ruins as well.”
“I can’t see any,” said the Sergeant.
“Nor can I,” said Weasel, “but you can bet your last farthing they are there.”
“Take care of them then,” said the Sergeant. “You and the Barbarian. Don’t get close enough to trigger any wards”
“I don’t like the look of those ruins,” said the Barbarian.
“Scared the Spider God might get you?” asked Weasel. “Old Uran Ultar has been in his grave this last thousand years.”
Rik wished Weasel would shut up. What was a thousand years to a god? And could gods die the way ordinary mortals did? Maybe he was just asleep. There was something about those ruins that made him deeply uneasy, a part of him responded fearfully just to the sight of them.
“I am scared of nothing,” said the Barbarian. “I am just saying I don’t like the look of the place.”
Weasel touched the hilt of his knife and grinned. The Barbarian’s fingers whitened as he clutched the hilt of his sword.
“Do it quietly,” added the Sergeant, with particular emphasis.
“You don’t need to tell us that, Sergeant,” said Weasel with his throat-slitter’s grin. “We knows what we are about, we do.”
“Wizard said don’t get too close,” said Gunther.
“When was the last time you heard of wards set so far from a camp,” said Weasel.
“Always a first time,” said the Sergeant. “Carefully does it.”
Weasel and the Barbarian nodded and vanished over the ridge top.