by William King
Master Severin’s body had already been carried back under the strangely inscribed tent that acted as awning over the entrance to the large stone house the Regiment’s wizards all shared. The Death Angel flags in the Exalted quarter flew at half mast, a reminder to all that Mourning had begun. Everyone within sight of a Terrarch wore a solemn expression.
“Bastard,” muttered the Barbarian. “Mourning Time. Back just in time to listen to the Terrarchs whine about their lost land. Bread and water for rations too. What a treat!”
Rik was willing to bet that Weasel would somehow manage to get more than that during the period of fasting.
“At least there’s the Masque to look forward to,” said Leon, chewing his empty pipe. “That’s always fun.”
The Foragers made their way back into their camp. Rik watched Weasel and the Barbarian vanish off to find the Quartermaster. He made his way to the shack he shared with Leon and Hopper and Handsome Jan. The last two went their own way. They seemed a little embarrassed about having run off during the fight in the mine, and found it difficult to meet his eye. Rik understood that, just as he understood their resentment even though he should have been the one doing the resenting.
As he walked along beside the limping Leon he wondered what to do about the books. His knapsack seemed like the best place, although it was far from ideal. Constant petty thievery was rife in camps like this. He doubted that more than one in a hundred of the soldiers or their hangers-on would have the slightest idea of what they had found if they stole the books, but all it would take would be one, and that one reporting matters to the wrong person, and he would be in the sewer, neck-deep.
Perhaps he was worrying too much. He had owned books before and had never had one of them stolen. They were of no real value to most people in the camp, and they were hard to dispose of too. Perhaps the best bet would be just to let them be, and pretend they were just like other volumes he had read in the past. Nobody who was likely to come into his billet would have the slightest idea of their contents. He knew he would have to leave them somewhere. Nothing would attract suspicion like carrying all his gear everywhere. He shook his head. Already he was falling into the mind-set of the guilty. It was something he remembered well from his time as a thief in Sorrow.
Once the crime was committed and you had made your getaway, there was always this sense that every eye was on you, that every hand would soon be turned against you, that every voice would raise the hue and cry. If that happened, and the mob started baying for blood, you were dead. Even walking through the alleys of the Maze you felt that everybody knew what you were about, and would either report you to the thief-takers, or demand a piece of the action. He remembered what the Old Witch had told him, and Koralyn too before the man was hung. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred nobody has any idea. They are all too wrapped up in their own business. There is no sense in looking guilty. Just relax, behave naturally and be ready to run at the slightest sign anything is wrong.
He tried to take their advice now but he knew that running would be difficult. The Queen’s Army did not take kindly to deserters. That thought brought home to him just how much his life had changed since they found the books. Not a week ago he would never even have contemplated desertion. He had found among the Foragers something of the home he had never really known when he had been growing up. And that made him think of the strange alchemy of circumstance. When he had taken the Queen’s crown, the last thing he had expected was to find a home. All he had been looking for was protection from Antonio’s bully boys and a quick way out of Sorrow with all his limbs still attached.
Leon ditched his gear and strode out to get some water. Rik ducked his head as he entered the billet. It had been a shepherd’s bothy once and it was full with four men’s gear. He shrugged. It was nothing compared to the slums of Sorrow where families lived ten to a room in cramped tenements. At least here the air was clean and did not smell quite so much of sewage. They were far away from where the men squatted over the latrine trenches.
He took the books from his pack, stuffed them into a leather sack and reached up and put the sack into the shadows atop the rafter beams. No one would see them there and no one would think to look there. He would try and find a better hiding place later.
It was time to visit Karl Mandrake. If anybody could give him a clue to what had gone on back there in the mountains, it would be the Wyrm Hunter.
Karl sat outside his shack sorting through his box of gear. It lay on the ground before him atop several old blankets. It did not seem possible that one man could possess such a large supply of equipment but Karl was a Wyrm Hunter, and these were the tools of his trade. It was his job to kill wyrms and even dragons on the field of battle, and that was a thing that required all the tools modern alchemy could supply, as well as a stock of insane courage.
He looked up as Rik approached and nodded in greeting, then returned to oiling the crossbow he held in his hands. A look towards the jug of ale that sat nearby told Rik that he was welcome to take a slug, and then he gave his gaze back to the plains below.
Some sort of exercise was taking place. Infantry marched and wheeled to the beat of a drum. They were moving towards one of the emplacements, practising storming drill. It looked like someone among the Terrarchs had decided it was time for the men to throw off their winter sloth, and reacquire some discipline. Overhead a devilwing paced the infantry, some staff officer watching his troops through a Leash no doubt. What was it like to link your mind with that of a flying wyrm and look out through its eyes, he wondered, then resigned himself to the fact he would never know.
Karl pointed to the jug with the crossbow. Rik considered the booze for a moment. All alcohol was forbidden during the period of Mourning. A glance around told him that nobody nearby seemed to care. He slumped down with his back towards the hovel’s wall and took a drink.
“How is it going?” Karl asked. He had a surprisingly light voice for a man so huge. “You look like a wyrm just shat in your dinner and the Terrarchs made you eat it.”
Rik told him Pigeon was dead.
There was a sympathetic expression in Karl’s brown eyes that was at odds with his beetling brow, bald tattooed head, and barbaric-looking plaited beard. Rik was not surprised. Like most Wyrm Hunters, Karl was an unusual man. He could read and he possessed a fund of strange lore, not all of it merely useful for his job. He set down the crossbow and cloth with great care, picked up the ale jug and took a long swig. His massive belly wobbled with every gulp. He passed the jug to Rik.
“To the departed,” he said. Rik drank.
“To the departed.”
Rik watched the soldiers below marching towards the earthworks. The company belonged to the Seventh. He could see the Death Angel fluttering on its battle-flag. Another company waited for them, weapons ready. Someday soon, he thought, we are going to be doing this for real.
“Death’s part of a soldier’s life,” Karl said.
“It’s part of everybody’s life,” said Rik. “Unless you’re one of the Terrarchs.”
“No,” said Karl with an air of great deliberation. “They die too. They just live a lot longer than we do.”
Rik took another swig and looked at him.
“I’ve seen Terrarchs die,” Karl said. “On the battlefield, from the Grey Sickness, from accidents. Their corpses stank same as a man’s. Hey, it’s Mourning Time, remember. What do you think they are mourning for?”
“The loss of the Blessed Land, the destruction of their Patron Adaana, their defeat by the Princes of Shadow and their flight to a new world; our world. I seem to recall the Book of Prophets mentions all this.”
“Nice to know you’re familiar with Holy Scripture but you’re missing my point. They die, same as us.”
Rik could see what he was getting at. “Their souls go to the Higher Paradise though.”
Karl gave him his slow smile and went back to polishing one of his glass grenades. Strange chemicals swirled inside. Rik watche
d a little nervously, wondering what would happen if the Wyrm Hunter dropped it. One of those things could probably kill half the company storming the fortifications down there. Karl seemed untroubled though, and probably with reason. For all his massive bulk he moved with a careful deliberation. Still, Rik thought, everybody makes mistakes. There’s always a first time.
“Do they?” asked Karl. “How can you be so sure? Nobody has ever come back to tell us what happens after death. No human. No Exalted. Not even one of the Elder Races as far as I know.”
“The Prophets tell us.”
“So they do. Ever met any of them? Did they die and come back?”
“Erewen did.”
“You sure? You see it?”
“You’re verging on blasphemy.” Rik was at little shocked. Wyrm Hunters were given a lot of leeway even by the Terrarchs. Many of them went more than a little crazy due to all the poisons and chemicals they worked with. Still, Karl was going a little too far. He seemed to appreciate this himself.
“I tumbled over the edge of blasphemy some time ago. Or maybe it’s heresy, whatever. What you gonna do? Report me to the Inquisition?”
That was exactly what he should do, Rik knew, and exactly what Gunther would, but he knew he was not about to do it. He valued his friendship with the big man. Had done ever since they had run into each other drunk in some roadside tavern and he had been surprised to notice the Wyrm Hunter reading one of the histories of Azalus. All knowledge was useful to a man in his trade Karl claimed, and Rik did not doubt he was right.
“What do you know about a demon called the Ultari?”
“The Ultari or an Ultari?”
“Either. Both.”
“It’s Ultari singular or plural. They were one of the Elder Races, some sort of connection with the Spider King Uran Ultar according to Ostarch. Strode this world on their six legs in the ages before men and Terrarch, spreading darkness, devouring souls; the usual sort of thing. They were supposed to hate daylight and fire and truesilver, the usual stuff. The Terrarchs did for the last of them about a thousand years ago, or so they say. Buried them beneath that big mountain up there.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the glittering cloud-capped peaks. “Why do you ask?”
“According to the Lieutenant one of them killed Pigeon.”
“You see it?”
“With my own eyes.”
“Touch it?”
“I hacked it with a sword.”
“You sure it was an Ultari?”
“How the hell should I know? That’s what the Lieutenant called it.”
“He would most likely know. So you saw an Ultari. I would give my right nut for that.”
“I almost did.”
“You can say you’ve seen something that most men haven’t and never will. I thought they were extinct. Most of the Old Races are, if you believe the books. Just goes to show that you should take everything with a pinch of salt. The Ultari were all supposed to have died when the Terrarchs destroyed Achenar at the time they put Uran Ultar down.”
“Any idea why a wizard would be talking to one of those things?”
“You kidding?”
“No.”
“Most wizards would give their souls to talk with an Elder World demon. They’re supposed to possess all sorts of forbidden knowledge. Used to be all manner of folks sought them out to learn but the Inquisition put a stop to that. It all started in the days before the Terrarchs, in the Age of Men.”
“There was a wizard there. You think he was after knowledge?”
“I don’t imagine he was planning on having sex with it.”
“You never know.”
“What actually happened?”
Rik told him, leaving out the part about the books, stressing the fact that the wizard had been talking to the demon.
“Best be careful there, Halfbreed,” said Karl nodding slowly to emphasise his point. “That’s Inquisition stuff you’re talking about.”
“I know. I know. I just find my head full of unhealthy curiosity these days. Call me strange but I like to know why I killed someone.”
“You killed a wizard and stabbed an Elder World demon.” Karl whistled. “You’ve been busy. Planning on having a storybook written up about you?”
“It just happened that way. I was only trying to stay alive.”
“That’s a healthy attitude, one to keep in the forefront of your mind. Sounds like you were lucky.”
Rik looked at all the weapons. It was time to change the subject he could see. “What are you up to?”
“Just preparing my gear. We’ll be moving out soon, I’m guessing.”
“Have new orders come in?”
“Not yet, but they will. We’ve had dragon couriers, reinforcements and a new commander is on his way according to the Quartermaster, and he should know. The big boys are not doing this for fun. We’re going somewhere and my guess is over the border.”
Rik’s thumb jabbed in the direction of the pass. “That means war and not just with the Kharadreans.”
“I know. Why do you think I am taking such care with my gear?”
“You always do that.”
“I am doing a full inventory check. I might actually get to kill a dragon if we go against the Blues. Might get to kill some Purples too. I hate those slave-owning bastards like poison.”
“Why?”
“I thought you had read the history books, son. They think us humans are fit only for slaves and feeding to the dragons.”
“I can think of some on our side of the border who think the same way.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Halfbreed. Nobody on our side thinks the way the Blues do. They want to bring the past back to life. They want to repeal all the Scarlet Queen’s reforms. They want us all back in our place which is a big shit-hole with the lid pushed down heavy.”
Rik thought now would be a good time to change the subject. He was in no mood to listen to Karl’s ranting right now, even though he agreed with most of it.
“Who are these new guys?”
“Hussars, artillery. Scouts and siege workers. The usual mix. The cavalry men are snotty, their Terrarchs snottier still. The artillery are all right. I drank with some of them and talked about maths and mixtures.”
“Gunpowder mixtures?”
“What else?”
“When do you think we’ll leave?”
“When the General gets here. When we get all the carts and mules we need. When the Festival of Mourning is over. Take your pick.”
“Some high muck-a-muck coming then?”
“Yes. All sorts of rumours; maybe even one of the First.”
“That clinches it; it’s war. That sort don’t come to the field unless there’s the chance of glory.”
“Now you are thinking like a soldier,” said Karl.
“How long till he gets here?”
“Camp talk says another couple of days, three at the most. The Quartermaster says he’s already on his way.”
“Then we’ll wait for the skies to clear and be out of here.”
“That’s my guess. Before we go, there will be a whole round of exercises and inspections, just to keep us on our toes.”
“Thanks for the beer. I better go and see what the rest of my mob are up to.”
“Halfbreed?”
“What?”
“Be careful. After that business in the mines the Terrarchs will have their eyes on you. There will be an inquiry sooner or later.”
“So?” Rik felt sure his guilt about the books must show on his face.
“If you were an ordinary soldier, I would say you would be up for big things. Commendations, promotions, sugar plum fairies.”
“But I am not.”
“We both know you’re the bastard get of one of them. They don’t like that. Not in a common soldier. Some of them will think you are showing them up, others that you are getting above yourself.”
“Not much I can do about it now, is there, Karl?”
“You’re starting to sound like me now. You never know; they might make you a Wyrm Hunter.”
“Death or glory, eh?”
“The pay is good.”
“Yes, but I would have to hump one of those bloody big trunks around.”
“Be good for you, give you muscles. Say hello to Sergeant Hef for me. Tell him he owes me a beer and I’ll be around to collect.”
“Surely,” said Rik rising to his feet and suddenly realising how strong the ale was. He gave Karl a wave and reeled off downhill. As always the Wyrm Hunter had given him a lot to think about. He had not considered the fact that the Terrarchs might consider his heroism an embarrassment. That was something that could be potentially lethal - as if he did not have enough on his plate as things stood. It would be bad enough if they caught him this drunk.
He looked down slope one last time. The exercise was over. Lots of men lay sprawled in the mud pretending to be dead. Someday soon they would not be pretending.
Chapter Eleven
Sardec stood before Colonel Xeno’s desk. He had forced himself from his sickbed to make his report in spite of the wizards. They had wanted to make sure there were no lingering side effects from his wounds and the Ultari’s poison, but duty was duty after all, as his father was fond of saying.
His superior looked him up and down, paying particular attention to his bandaged head and his pallor. Sardec could feel Xeno judging him. The Colonel had never bothered to conceal his opinion that Sardec was just another placeman, an officer by virtue of his family connections, too young to be of any use whatsoever. Not that Xeno’s opinion made much difference. Xeno was Colonel only because Sardec’s uncle Ansalec, who owned the regiment and its charter, preferred to spend his time at court these days. He was of a good but impoverished family, a competent commander but lacking the extensive web of connections that would get him a better place. Sardec suspected it had made the Colonel bitter.
After this long, silent inspection, Xeno put down his quill, sanded his signature on a scroll and handed it to his clerk, a human mute whose tongue had been surgically removed to make sure he did not spread any secrets among his illiterate brethren. Xeno rang a small silver bell to summon a servant then he returned to toying with the small prayer crystal that lay beside his right hand.