by William King
“He’s dead, Sergeant,” said Rik, letting a little annoyance and weariness show in his voice. “We killed him.”
“With the Lieutenant’s own blade. He won’t be pleased with that. No one but a Terrarch is supposed to handle those truesilver swords. You know how prickly they are about such things. Used to be you could be put to death for even touching one.”
“Next time I am trying to save one of our beloved Terrarchs from a wizard and his pet demon I will be sure to take that into account.”
“You’ll get no criticism from me, lad. I’m just letting you know the Lieutenant might not be as grateful as he ought to be. You know how he can be.”
Rik did indeed know, only too well. He wondered if even the Lieutenant would be petty enough to take this one out on him though. What could he do? Challenge him to a duel? Terrarchs did not fight with humans. It was beneath them.
“Things might get a bit sticky at the inquiry,” said the Sergeant. There was always an inquiry when one of the Terrarchs was killed by a human. It was the law. It was also an event. The Terrarchs were few and men were many. They always looked after their own.
The Sergeant looked at them again, suspiciously. He seemed sure they were up to something then he shrugged. “So what if you took the wizard’s gold. You deserve it.”
So that was it. He thought they had got some loot, and was sniffing around for a share. Rik looked at Weasel and saw relief written on his face too. He considered things for a moment, then fumbled in his pocket for the things he had taken from the wizard. “We got this from the body.”
The Sergeant leaned forward interestedly. He could see the rings embossed with Elder signs, and the gemstones. He tut-tutted and lifted the rings, and the amulet. “These will have to go to the Masters for examination. If they are worth anything, you’ll get your share, don’t worry. The gems will have to go into the report as well. I think we can forget about the coins. Sure there wasn’t anything else you forgot to mention? This might be a good time to tell, before the Lieutenant is up and about again.”
“Nothing, Sergeant.”
“Fair enough, lads. I think you’ll find your comrades are grateful to you for sharing your good fortune.”
The Sergeant slouched off into the gloom. “Well done, Halfbreed,” said the Barbarian. “Nice of you to give away our money.”
“It was mostly my money,” said Rik. “I took it from the wizard. And it got the Sergeant off our back. If he thinks we’re hiding anything, it will be gems.”
“Anyway,” he added. “You’ll get your share. The Sergeant will see to that.”
“I hope those bloody books are worth all you say,” said the Barbarian, a little sourly.
“Why don’t you just shout it out?” said Rik. “Then the other half of the camp might hear you as well.”
“Oh right. Sorry,” said the Barbarian. He even managed to sound a little sheepish. “I’ll watch my mouth.”
“Be a good idea,” said Weasel. “Wouldn’t want any Inquisitors round asking us questions in that special way of theirs. I am quite attached to my balls.”
The Barbarian laughed. “Nice one, Weasel, attached to your balls. I like that.”
Weasel just shook his head and rose. “Time for some more rum,” he said. “I’d bet a pint of ale to a pot of piss, we’ll be on the march again tomorrow.”
Rik thought so too. They had done what they came for. It was time to head back to Redtower. He felt an odd mixture of excitement and fear. That was when things would get really dangerous. Visions of Inquisitors and their torture implements danced before his eyes. Really dangerous, he thought drunkenly.
Lieutenant Sardec sat upright. His head was on fire, and he fought down an urge to vomit. He looked around and tried to work out where he was. He felt a moment of unreasoning panic when he could not see anything but a small bar of light, and then realised he was in a darkened room in the old mansion. The light was the glow of the lantern under the door. He could hear the sound of shouting and singing outside as the soldier’s celebrated their victory. As always he had to fight down a surge of repulsion and contempt.
This was what the army had come to, he thought, drunken humans swilling booze and shouting in their harsh cracked voices. It had not been like this in the old days, when his people had conquered this world, and made men fear them. Then it had been only ten thousand Terrarchs, and their dragons and their sorcery to bring an entire world full of demon-worshipping barbarians to heel.
How he wished he had been born into that earlier, glorious golden time. He envied those like his father and his uncles who had lived through it. Now everything was so diminished. The Golden Age had passed. Civilisation was sinking back into the Abyss. The stinking humans were dragging the Elder Race down to their level. He felt contaminated by their mere presence. Perhaps the Terrarchs who claimed that the Ten Thousand should have stayed on Al’Terra and died with the rest of their people were right, he thought sourly. That way the last true Terrarchs would at least have made a glorious end, and not faced this slow loss of all that was great about their people.
Sardec reached around for his sword. As he gripped its hilt he could feel strength flowing back into him. He seemed to be drawing it directly from the precious ancestral heirloom. Moonshade had been old when the Terrarchs had walked the lost islands of Al’ Terra before the Exile. It had been forged under the light of a different sun. It was a link to those older, more heroic days before the Exalted had come to this blighted world and lost their way.
Sardec groaned as he remembered his earlier awakening, and what he had learned then. It all came flooding back into his mind, filling him with shame. He recalled the fight with the Ultari. He remembered its speed and the astonishing flash of pain and paralysis when the claw struck him. He recalled the way he had lost control of his limbs. He recalled his sense of shock.
Why had Moonshade not protected him? Its Elder Signs were meant to be a sovereign protection against inimical magic. Either the blade was failing, like so much of the old magic, or there had been no magic involved with the claws, only poison. He tried to assure himself that the latter was the most likely. The Ultari were degenerate survivors of one of the Old Races, demon worshippers who had fought for possession of this world long before the coming of the Terrarchs. It must have been poison.
He knew he was just trying to avoid the most painful thought of all, that he had been saved by the half-breed, that where he had fallen, that abomination against all the laws of heaven and Terrarch had stood and triumphed, and worse, he had done it with Sardec’s own sword. Even in the dark he could feel his skin grow taut with shame. As soon as he got back to camp he would have to have the Priests perform a ritual of cleansing to remove the taint from the weapon. Just the thought that one of Rik’s tainted blood had touched the weapon made his fingers weak, and the hilt difficult to clasp.
What was worse- the men had seen it. They had witnessed his fall in what should have been triumphant single combat against the demon. He would be a laughing stock even among his own people when word of that got around. The Terrarchs were not a people to forgive any sign of weakness, and his brother officers would use him as a whetstone on which to sharpen the blades of their wit. The taint might be removed when the blade was purified, but the stain on his honour never could be.
Just the thought of Rik goaded him to greater rage. He loathed the creature. It astonished him that his brother officers could stand seeing that face, those features amid the common soldiery of their own camp. Did they not see the affront it was to them, that one of his tainted and diluted blood should be allowed to mock them by his very presence? How he despised those of his own race who wallowed in the mire with the females of the human kind, who thrust themselves into the tainted ripeness of their bodies, who…
Sardec wrenched his thoughts away from such vileness. Severin was dead! A wizard lost. All in all, he thought, this expedition had not been a good one for the Elder Race. The humans had managed to complete
at least part of the mission while their betters had been left sprawled senseless on the ground. The Colonel would say that it merely showed how well they had been trained, that they had reacted so well to the situation, but Sardec knew differently.
He knew that, treason though it was to say it aloud, in some ways the Blues were right and the Reds were wrong. It was a new world now, one in which the power of the Terrarchs would slowly slip away, and with it all that remained of their great culture. Unless something was done a new mongrel civilisation would emerge, one which the Reds seemed prepared to accept and make peace with. Sardec knew that was their mistake. The Terrarchs were the source and fountainhead of all that was fine in this world, and they held their place now only by virtue of their ability to overawe the members of the inferior races.
Today he had contributed to the erosion of that ability and it made him so sick he could almost have wept. He had let down his people, his bloodline, his family and the proud warrior legacy of his father. There were times he knew he could never be what his father had been and it clawed at his gut like a sword wound. This was one of those times. He swore he would find a way to make that Rik share some of his pain, although he doubted the beast could feel more than a small fraction of it.
“That’s the last,” said Weasel, looking at the corpses they had tossed down in front of the bridgebacks.
“This was not right,” said Rik. He was surprised to find he meant it. The hill-men had been enemies, and he normally wasted no thought on the deaths of those. But they had also been killed by elder world sorcery and had their souls devoured and now their mortal remains were food for wyrms.
“Don’t waste your sympathy,” said Sergeant Hef. “These men were scum. They consorted with the forces of Shadow. They served a sorcerer. They helped feed that demon. Their master Zarahel wants to bring back the Spider God. They say he’s going to drive the Terrarchs from the land and restore the lost glories of man.”
Rik knew this but it did not help a great deal. He thought about the thing that lurked in the mine. Had these men known? They surely must have guessed something but maybe in some ways they had been just like he and his comrades, following orders. Maybe they had been enslaved in the service of a madman they had not dared defy. Having spent some time in the army that was something he could identify with. And where were the bodies of all those people who had vanished in the mine? He saw Vosh coming closer; he looked very pale. He had done so ever since he had scuttled in fear from the mine.
“No sign of Zarahel?” Rik asked the hill-man. He had known the man, after all. His former kinsmen had cursed him as they died.
“He’s not among the dead. It looks like he got away.”
“What’s he like?” Leon asked, scratching his bandaged head. His skull had taken a nasty crack when the Ultari’s convulsions threw him across the chamber. He was pale and his breathing was fast. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. He seemed to be taking this feeding squad duty worse than the rest of them. Rik was surprised to see Vosh shudder.
“He claimed he was of the blood of the old princes, of the Priest Kings who worshipped Uran Ultar. He would talk about that, and there was something about the way he talked that made you believe him, made you believe that the Old God would rise soon.”
“Why did you sell him out then?” asked the Barbarian, somewhat untactfully, Rik thought.
“Only a madman would want the Old Gods back,” said Vosh. “Only a damned heretic unbeliever would listen to all that devil’s talk of the old days come again, of immortality here in the flesh. Aye, immortality for the chosen few- just like it was in the old days. The rest of us would be just…food for his god, just like we were back then. Zarahel’s breed are not the only ones who remember the Old Days. The rest of us know some stories too.”
All of this was making Rik think uncomfortably of the books he had stowed away in his pack. He decided to change the subject.
“How do you think he got away?”
“Maybe he knew you were coming. Maybe he was away on one of his trips. He was always coming and going among the tribes, trying to whip up support for his plans, trying to get the chiefs to unite against the Terrarchs.”
“I can see why we were sent here to get him,” said Leon, fitting his pipe into his mouth and for once filling it and lighting it.
“Think he’ll come to pay us back for this?” Leon asked. It was a thought that had been on all their minds. They had all heard the tales.
“If he does, I’ll cut his heart out and make him eat it,” said the Barbarian, staring off into the distance. There was an undercurrent of worry in his voice.
“Look over there,” said Weasel. Rik followed his gesture and saw the glint of something on the hillside. He covered his eyes and squinted and could just make out several squat figures loping upslope. “Bloody hill-men are already watching us. When word gets out of this, the clansmen will be hot for vengeance.”
“Let them be,” said Sergeant Hef. “By the time they get organised we will be back in Redtower.”
“They might come looking for us,” said Weasel. “There’s nobody like hill-men for vengeance-seeking when their blood is up.”
In the distance they heard bones splinter as the wyrms started to feed. All of them looked at each other. “Well, at least we don’t have to chop wood and build a pyre,” said Weasel, eventually.
Somewhere in the distance somebody blew a horn, the signal to get back and mount up. It was time to head back to the lowlands.
Chapter Ten
As they breasted the last ridge and Redtower came into view, plumes of dust told Rik that something was happening down there. Such clouds had to be kicked up by a sizeable force, and as he looked closer he could see that troops of cavalry wheeled and manoeuvred on the plain. Hastily thrown up breastworks marked the position of artillery. It looked like the Seventh had been joined by a considerable force.
He saw he was not the only one to have noticed. Lieutenant Sardec had his telescope pressed to his eye and surveyed the scene continually. Shouts passed from howdah to howdah, as the rest of the Foragers noticed what was going on.
“Looks like we really are getting ready for war,” said Weasel. “Must be a squadron of hussars down there, and at least a battery of heavy artillery. More wyrms too.”
“Those will be to carry the cannons,” said the sergeant. He did not seem at all surprised by this new development. Rik pointed this out.
“Use your head, Halfbreed,” he said. “What time of year is it being? Spring! Campaigning season! The reason why we were sent here to hold the mouth of the pass last year was so we would be here now. Now we have cavalry and artillery. My guess is that more will be arriving soon. There’s only one place we’ll be going.”
“And where’s that, Sergeant?” asked Leon.
“Kharadrea, lad,” said the Sergeant. “Where else would we be going?”
“The Dark Empire might object,” said Weasel.
“I don’t doubt they will,” said the Sergeant. “I don’t doubt that is the whole point. I don’t doubt we’ll be at war with the Blues before this year is out. Somebody’s going to sit on old Orodruine’s throne, and I doubt Her Majesty wants that someone to be anyone sympathetic to the Power of the East like Prince Khaldarus.”
“Lot of plunder in Kharadrea,” said Weasel.
“Lot of pretty girls too,” said the Barbarian. “Bonniest in the world, outside the Northlands.”
“My guess is we’ll march right after the Masque of Solace,” said Sergeant Hef.
“Looks like we’ll be on campaign again soon, boys!” yelled Leon in a fit of youthful enthusiasm. “Plunder for all.”
He was joined in enthusiastic whoops by all the rest of the Foragers. Even Rik joined in eventually, although he was far more interested in the contents of the books they had found than in the prospect of plunder.
The camp around the Redoubt had expanded considerably since they had set out to find the Prophet, and seemed to be getting
bigger by the hour. Every minute a cloud of dust announced the arrival of a wagon full of merchants or camp followers.
On the way into camp they were greeted loudly by a cartload of well-rouged young ladies. There were always such. Soldiers on campaign grabbed loot with both fists and spent it with both hands, as men will when they know each day might be their last. There would be no shortage of women following them when they hit the road.
There were a lot more destriers about. Riders in the red frogged tunics and tall hats of hussars were everywhere. “What regiment, lads?” bellowed the Barbarian as a troop of them rode past.
“17th lancers,” came the reply. “The Queen’s Own.”
The Foragers managed a ragged cheer. In their excitement they had forgotten the traditional dislike of infantry for cavalry. Even the Lancers’ Terrarch officers managed cold smiles when they heard. A new sense of purpose energised the camp. There were more riders, more soldiers, more women, more travelling peddlers, more of everything. The old familiar winter lines were gone. It felt in some ways as if they had been gone for months rather than just a week, so much had changed. New tents crammed into the spaces between the old ones. New faces stared out the doors of some of the lean-tos. Rik knew that would mean trouble if a Forager came home and found some new man in his woman’s bed. Such things were not uncommon either.
They dismounted from the bridgebacks at the corral and waited to be dismissed. It did not take long. The few hill-men prisoners were led off to the Redoubt for interrogation. The Lieutenant seemed eager to get away and make his report to the Colonel even though he was unsteady on his feet. He took a few strides and then collapsed. Some of the men nearby ran to help him. Rik felt no urge to do so. He felt a brief spurt of savage glee as the Lieutenant was carried off to the Masters to be healed.