Death's Angels

by William King

  He wondered whether his soul would writhe in an eternity of torments, consumed by the demons of shadow, but never fully dying. If he died here in these mountains, unblessed, he would find out for sure. It was just one more reason he had for not wanting to die.

  Another was Rena. Having heard Weasel’s words he recognised the truth of them. He guessed he had always known it. He had just been hurt and angry and consumed with his jealousy and envy of Sardec. He wanted, if he could, to put matters right with Rena and restore her good opinion of him. That seemed very important now.

  He saw movement on the mountainside above them. It looked like somebody was watching them. He whistled and shouted a warning. A few moments later a puff of smoke emerged from among the boulders above and a shot skittered off the stones near the pathway. The wyrm paused, its head swivelling to try and sight the threat.

  Rik took careful aim and fired away, at just about the same time as Weasel did, at a spot about 100 yards up the hill. They heard a scream, followed by more shouts. The cloud of acrid smoke blocked out sight. Automatically Rik began to reload. He bit down on his cartridge, and the taste of saltpetre filled his mouth. He dropped it into the barrel, followed by the bullet, then he rammed both home with the rod he had unclipped from below the barrel. In the time he took to do this others fired, and more smoke billowed. The mahout drove the wyrm out of the cloud. Rik caught sight of figures loping up hill, taking advantage of cover. He fired again and missed.

  The other soldiers blazed away. The wyrms moved out of the smoke clouds. Rik was not sure what the attackers had meant to achieve. Perhaps they thought the Foragers might panic and run, or they could spook the great beasts. Perhaps their hatred of the lowlanders had simply gotten the better of them. It did not matter now. Nothing human could live in the hail of lead that enveloped them.

  Within minutes the hill-men were down, musket balls riddling their flesh. Great wyrms stalked towards their position.

  “Steady, lads,” said Sergeant Hef. “Eyes peeled for ambush.”

  “I thought we just had one,” said the Barbarian.

  The bridgebacks reached the corpses. Warriors swarmed down from the howdahs, Rik among them. A quick inspection of the corpses showed him what had happened. The eyes staring sightlessly at the sky were set in unlined faces. The oldest could not have been more than fourteen.

  “They were bloody kids,” said Weasel. “Must have been on a scouting expedition or something. Decided to take potshots at the foreigners. Silly bastards did not know any better.”

  “Shooting them will have let everybody in the mountains know we are here,” said Rik. It was true. The thunder of musket shot had echoed down the valleys.

  “They are food for the wyrms now,” said Hef. The crunching of bone and flesh told him the great beasts had started to feed.

  “Let’s hope we’re not before this day is out,” said Rik.

  Zarahel smiled as he caught the familiar stink from the newly re-opened entrance to the mine. The tunnel here was full of it. He turned to the tribesmen and spoke.

  “You have done well. Soon you will be rewarded for your faith and your patience.”

  They might have possessed both in abundance but their faces showed only unease. They would be happy to get out of this darkness as quickly as possible, and Zarahel would be happy for them to go. The sight of the blisters on his neck and hands might have made them uneasy as well. “You are dismissed. All except Bertragh. He will accompany me.”

  The factor appeared quite as reluctant as the others to follow him, and Zarahel really did not blame him. The mine was unsafe here. That was not important. What was important was that Zarahel recognised this place and the way was open to the lair.

  “Follow me,” he said to Bertragh, bowing his head as the ceiling lowered. “Try to keep up.”

  The tunnel was long and narrow and there was a faint sheen of damp slime on the walls. Zarahel moved ever deeper into the gloom. Bertragh followed holding the lantern, moving cautiously down the rock-strewn corridor. A dank wind carrying a loathsome scent hit their nostrils. They proceeded ever deeper. Massive scuttling figures emerged from the gloom. Their carapaces were white. Zarahel almost understood the gibbering that emerged from the small octopoid heads set at the front of their long segmented bodies.

  Bertragh gasped, overcome by what he saw. He fell to his knees almost weeping in terror. Triumph filled Zarahel. The guardians had come to greet him and lead him to his destiny. Flanked by Ultari, marched almost like a prisoner, they headed into what had once been the great underground city of the Spider God. He knew he was on his way now to awaken the god of his ancestors and restore their lost glory.

  Rik drew his coat tighter about him, and adjusted his scarf. There was a tension in the air he had not felt before, a suggestion of strange unnatural forces gathering around them in the mountains. He told himself it was just his imagination, but he felt sure it was not. He felt he was being watched by thousands of invisible eyes.

  He wondered at the fate that had drawn them back to this valley so soon after they had left it. He cursed the day they had taken those damn books. If they had not, none of this might have happened. They would have been back in camp, drilling and waiting for the war to start, not plodding on wyrmback through these accursed mountains.

  “You’re very quiet, Rik,” said Leon. He took the pipe from his mouth, tamped in tobacco and put it back in place unlit. “Got something on your mind?”

  “Just wondering why there are so many of us being sent out to guard Lady Asea. She looks capable of protecting herself.”

  “I reckon it’s because she is one of the First,” said Sergeant Hef. “Make sure no hill-men have their evil way with her.”

  “I wouldn’t mind having my evil way with her,” said the Barbarian.

  “Why is she here? What is she looking for?”

  “The Light sent her to guide us and watch over us,” said Gunther. Everybody ignored him.

  “Who knows with the Exalted? Half the time I am not sure they know their own minds. How are we supposed to know what is going on with them.”

  “You reckon we are heading back to the old mine?” the Barbarian asked. “This path looks awfully bloody familiar.”

  “You just work that out?” asked Weasel.

  Zarahel stood in the centre of the great hatching chamber. It was an awesome sight, just like the city had been. A massive pattern resembling an intricate swirling spider-web was laid in the centre of the floor. It centred on a thing that was part altar, part lectern and part statue of a monster Ultari. This was the place where he must perform the ritual.

  His mind spun from what he had seen on his way here. The ancient city was coming to life. Some of the old living machines were working. Some of the guardians were mobile. Some of the sacrifices had already been reborn. Alzibar’s sorcery had worked to that extent at least. Things were prepared for the return of Uran Ultar. Once the ritual was complete the city would be restored to its former glory. The life force of the god would flood through everything and all the dormant power of the Elder race would wake.

  He looked around. The walls were covered in masses of near translucent egg-like sacs. Within each, the outline of an Ultari was visible. He knew they were waiting only for the touch of their deity, a darker god by far than the one the Terrarchs worshipped, and one more likely to manifest his power in this world.

  He smiled to himself, touched the jelly like integument of one of his blisters, placed the book on the altar and began.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Looks like we are expected this time,” said Sardec, as the bridgebacks headed downslope. Hill-men had lined the ridge top, lying flat with readied weapons. Their ambush might have been successful too, had not the ripjacks hissed a warning and then loped forward obeying the unspoken command of their mistress. The battle had been short and sharp. There had been only a few dozen riflemen up there against almost eighty wyrm mounted Foragers and the ripjack pack.

&nb
sp; Looking through the telescope Sardec could see windows of the manor house were crowded with more men, as was the roof. There were scores of tents set up around the building and the ground between swarmed with warriors. There were an awful lot more hill-men this time. They were outnumbered. Sardec spoke reluctantly, knowing it was in the best interests of his force, and the First he guarded, even though he knew it made him sound like a coward. “It might be best to send back for reinforcements.”

  “We do not have the time,” said Lady Asea. “Powerful magic is at work below the mountain.”

  “Magic, Lady?”

  “A great and unholy ritual is being enacted. It would be in the best interests of the Realm if we stopped it.”

  “Perhaps so, Lady, but we are outnumbered by three to one, at very least.”

  “We need to get into that mine.” There was a look of horror on her face that was visible through the mask. It seemed sculpted onto her metal features. Sardec did not like to think about anything that could frighten one of the First.

  “You have sorcery that can aid us now?”

  “I need to preserve as much power as I can for the main battle but I will give you such help as I can.”

  Sardec considered this. They had the wyrms, bridgebacks and ripjacks. And perhaps they had the element of surprise if they did the unexpected. He looked at his men and saw expectancy written on every face.

  “Forward!” he said. “Attack the camp. Scatter the bastards. Lady Asea’s sorcery will protect us!”

  Sardec prayed to the God of Light that it was true.

  Zarahel spoke the words of the spell. Bertragh echoed them from his position at the edge of the pattern. Power swirled through the pattern that surrounded him. Magic flowed through his veins. His blisters moved in time to the rhythm of his words. The monstrous egg-sacs on the walls mimicked them. Overhead faint flickering images spun through the air, taking on shape, forming a mirror of the pattern on the floor. Faint lines of fire converged above his head, just above the altar, forming the centre of the portal. Beyond it, Uran Ultar waited to come through.

  The great beast’s muscles surged below Rik. The bridgebacks spread out, moving line abreast in long rows in order to allow the men in the howdahs to bring the maximum amount of firepower to bear.

  He crouched as low as he could, clutching his rifle in his bandaged hands, trying to make himself as small a target as possible. He did not envy the mahout ahead of them, an obvious target for the hill-men’s fire.

  The ripjack pack loped forward, hissing defiance, gnashing their teeth, mad keen to get to grips with their prey. Up ahead the hill-men massed. They had no grasp of formation. They merely kneeled or stood where they wanted and made ready to fire. Rik did not delude himself. The hill-men were excellent shots. He was not sure the Foragers could match them from their rolling platforms on the back of the bridgebacks. From where he crouched Sardec’s decision looked like monumental insanity. He only hoped that Lady Asea’s sorcery was as potent as everybody supposed it was.

  She stood erect on the back of her massive black bridgeback. The air around her shimmered faintly. She looked poised and confident. In her hand something metallic glittered. She looked glorious, a figure from an earlier, more epic age. Just the sight of her brought a catch to Rik’s throat, although he knew that it shouldn’t.

  Musket fire crackled in the evening gloom. Some of the hill-men had opened up with a volley. Somewhere someone bellowed for them to stop. The wyrms were still out of range.

  Closer and closer they came, skirting the edge of the ruins of Achenar, moving ever nearer to the mansion. Rik felt a faint glimmer of hope. If they could just reach the camp and get among the hill-men they would have a chance. In close combat nothing human could match a wyrm. Weasel gave him one of his fearless grins. The Barbarian checked his musket. Leon squatted at the back of the howdah out of sight. The rest of them hunkered down and made ready for battle.

  Musket fire began in earnest now, spattering the earth around them, kicking up small clouds of dust that mingled with the huge ones raised by the bridgeback’s claws. Their wyrm bellowed. Rik saw blood glistening along its side. Some scales were missing. The enemy had gotten first blood. A triumphant roar from the hill-men told him they knew it too.

  Rik held his fire. It was one thing hitting something the size of a wyrm at this range. It was another hitting a man. A horn sounded. The wyrms picked up speed. The bridgeback’s stride lengthened. Their bellowing increased and still the ripjack pack loped ahead. Rik held onto the side of the howdah grimly. Inside it, Foragers were being tossed about like dice in a cup. There was no way anyone could even think of shooting now.

  Clouds of smoke partially obscured the foe. The sound of musketry filled the early evening. Off to the left, a flower of blood blossomed on a mahout’s brow. He fell sideways, tugging the reins as he went. His wyrm veered out of the formation. It smacked into a bridgeback on the far side. The two of them stumbled in a tangle of thrashing necks and limbs. The screams of crushed Foragers echoed in Rik’s ears. Hill-men cheered and jeered.

  This was not going well, Rik thought. Where was the sorcery that was supposed to protect them?

  Bullets cracked the wood of the howdah and bit into the side of the wyrm. The mahout bellowed encouragement to his mount. Rik tried to raise his rifle but the movement of the howdah made it impossible to get a bead on any target. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Asea raise the metal wand, and bring it forward.

  A bolt of lightning sprang from its tip. Thunder accompanied it like the crack of a whip. The bolt smashed forward into a hill-man, catching the barrel of his rifle, making his hair stand on end and his flesh fry. The bolt leapt from rifle barrel to rifle barrel. Rik saw a man walking briefly on stilts of lightning before his blackened corpse hit the ground.

  The hill-men’s cheering turned to screams. The whip of lightning flickered again and again. More hill-men fell; others turned and fled, more from fear of the unknown power that wielded heaven’s fire than from their casualties.

  The wyrms smashed through the tents, uprooting stakes, cracking the central posts. Rik winced as one of the great beasts seized a man in its jaws, raised him on high and snapped him in two with one bite. He could see others being trampled underfoot. Over to his right swarmed a closely packed mass of men. He snapped off a shot hoping to hit something in the crowd. The motion of the bridgeback swept him off his feet and by the time he regained his balance there was no opportunity to see if he had hit anything or not.

  Not that it mattered now. The ripjack pack was loose among the hill-men. Not even those long knives were a match for the jaws of the beasts. Here and there a group of hill-men surrounded one and by sheer weight of numbers dragged a ripjack down despite its advantage in weight and strength and ferocity. For the most part they died where they stood, slaughtered by the ravening mass of teeth and fury that fell on them.

  The hill-men broke. Some raced for the mansion, others for the slopes. From the top of the building came a steady stream of fire, until Asea raised her glowing wand and swept men from the rooftops with its lightning. How could anything human stand against that, Rik thought? He could see how with the aid of wyrms and dragons, the First had overcome his human ancestors.

  Soon the enemy fire was silenced. They huddled cowed within the mansion, waiting for the Foragers to come and get them.

  “Leave them,” he heard Asea shout. “We must get to the mine before it’s too late.”

  Zarahel screamed. Something was wrong; pain filled him along with power. The blisters on his flesh burst. Something was hatching from them.

  He ripped at his robe, desperate to see what was happening to him. Small Ultari wriggled forth all wet with blood and slime. They looked at him with their evil eyes. He wanted to run from the pattern now, but he could not. Something held him in place. Something compelled him to keep chanting the words, just as it compelled Bertragh to echo them. The factor had already tried to run away once but the Ultari
guardians had forced him back. They moved round the edges of the pattern, as if performing some intricate mating dance.

  The small Ultari began to move. Their slime covered his wounds and began to harden. They slithered over him, laying more slime. Some bit at him, sending the euphoric venom through his veins. The moment of doubt and horror passed. They were protecting him, he knew. They were giving him a new skin, hard enough to resist weapons. They were making him immortal. Reassured, he chanted with renewed vigour.

  The wavering lines of fire steadied and grew stronger. Tendrils of energy reached out from him flowing down the pattern, outward and away through the walls of the city. He felt connected to every living machine, to every Ultari. More knowledge flooded into him. Something told him not to be afraid. He was needed here, and no harm would befall him. He began to understand why.

  The Ultari were a damaged race. Their sentient sorcerer caste was dead, wiped out during the ancient pre-human wars. Those that were left were little better than living machines, mere bundles of appetite and reflex without the will of Uran Ultar to guide them. And the Spider God could only enter this world when summoned. That took a sorcerer, like him or his ancestors, the Priest Kings.

  Uran Ultar had known they would be needed again when he had fled through his doorway to escape the wrath of the Terrarchs. He had compelled them to write down their secret rituals, knowing one day someone would come, seeking power, and be drawn into his web. No, that was not right. They would come and summon the god and gain ultimate power and immortality. That was the truth of it.

  The armour hardened. The wrigglers moved over him. Part of him wanted to scream. Another image had entered his mind and it was not one of power and immortality. It was of a host body being prepared from within from which the mortal body of Uran Ultar would be hatched. The host body he had in mind was his own. The image remained but a moment until it was burned away by waves of pleasure and power and knowledge as more and more venom found its way into his veins.