Death's Angels

Chapter Three

The wind blew chill from the moment the Foragers broke camp. The fir trees grew more stunted as the bridgebacks carried them higher. Clouds scudded swiftly across the sky, sometimes obscuring the peaks, sometimes rewarding Rik with glimpses of the sun breaking through a gap.

The soldiers dug out scarves, mufflers and old fingerless gloves and those who had them donned extra waistcoats and shirts. The Terrarchs showed no sign of feeling the cold. Rik wondered if this was some proof of the theory that they did not feel pain in the same way as men do.

As he huddled down in the howdah miserably watching the small icicles of snot forming on the end of Weasel’s nose, Rik brooded on the events of the previous night. Had it simply been his imagination or had the mage showed a particular interest in him? It was forbidden for any human to study the art of sorcery, and Rik had done a little of that, snatching the few crumbs of lore the Old Witch had let fall. Maybe the Terrarch had some way of telling.

If that was the case why not just drag him off and interrogate him? The Terrarchs had been known to do such things despite all the laws that the House Inferior had passed against it. Rik suspected that they only paid attention to the human part of the legislature when it suited their purposes. Everybody knew that the House Superior and the Amber Throne were where real power lay, and that their hand-picked human representatives were there merely to rubber stamp their decisions.

Wizards had even less respect than the rest of the Terrarchs for the rights of men. Most of them behaved as if the Small Revolution had never happened, and it was still the bad old days when humans had no rights at all. Rik took it for granted that most Terrarch wizards would have happily gone over to the Dark Empire but were just too proud to change sides.

Still, things were changing. Having any representatives at all was a step forward. The new human mercantile class was feeling its strength. A century ago General Koth had shown that a human army with guns could cause the Terrarchs problems, even with their dragons and their sorcerous powers. Everybody knew that was the real reason the Queen and her Council of Lords had to grant humans those concessions.

A chill passed through him; things might easily swing the other way. They had in Sardea. That was not something any man wanted to consider. It galled him to admit that there might be worse things in this world than Sardec and his ilk, but there were. At least the Scarlet nations acknowledged that humans were entitled to some rights. The Purples would have them all as slaves again, indentured forever on their vast estates and palaces, subject completely to the whims of their masters. In Sardea, if a Terrarch wanted to kill one of his humans, put him to death by torture even, he could and with no other reason than he felt like doing so. His humans were his property, to do with as he would.

Rik pushed those thoughts aside and returned to the things the hill-man, Vosh, had said. All the talk about a haunted mine, and murderous sorcerers and the presence of the Prophet was disconcerting to say the least. It was clear now why Master Severin had come along, when usually the mages never left camp for anything less than a war or a long holiday. This was magician’s business. He was there to shield them from sorcery and doubtless plunder the lore-books of the wizard when they found him.

The rest of the squad looked no happier than Rik felt. The men on watch needed to keep their heads poking over the side of the howdah and into the cutting wind. The chill was like a sword-cut as Rik discovered when his turn came and Weasel slumped down gratefully and took a swig from his hidden brandy flask. Much to Rik’s surprise, for Weasel was not known for his generosity, the poacher offered it to him.

“You’ll need it,” Weasel said and grinned. For some reason he had always been good to Rik and Leon. It was he who pulled strings with the Sergeant Major to get the pair transferred from the line infantry to the Foragers. Rik guessed it was because he liked having a couple of Sorrow-trained thieves within easy reach. He and Leon had done some housebreaking and pocket-picking at Weasel’s instigation. It had been profitable for all three, but, Rik suspected, for Weasel most of all.

Rik let the burning liquid slide down his throat. It was surprisingly good, smooth and rich, and he immediately had a suspicion where it came from. Weasel had been raiding the colonel’s private stock again, and he had just involved him in his crime. A subtle bastard Weasel was, for all his country poacher’s manners.

He was right though. Rik did need it. The wind was bitter and that was not the worst of it. They were high up on the side of the mountains, moving along a narrow path between the trees, the rock-strewn slope descending steeply to their right. No wagon could have negotiated that narrow way, but the bridgebacks, larger and heavier by far, picked their way along with steps of surprising delicacy. Rik supposed the huge beasts were not any keener than he was to go tumbling down the mountainside, which was reassuring in its way. If they did, those in the howdahs would have been swiftly crushed beneath their weight.

The wind brought tears to his eyes till he was crying like a drunken whore at a low melodrama. Snow drifted down, forcing him to squint, burning on his cheeks, melting on his tongue when he left his mouth open for a second. The path was shadowed and wound around the hills so that part of the line of wyrms was always out of sight.

There was plenty of heather at this height and plenty of big boulders to hide behind. The hill-men were famed for their ambushes. Had the Foragers been afoot they would have matched them, for skirmishing and sneaking was a Forager’s trade, but mounted on these high beasts they were just nice juicy targets.

Rik wondered how well the side of the howdah would stop a musket ball. The flesh of his back crawled as he imagined eyes measuring it as a resting place for a bullet. Too much imagination had always been his curse.

Rik kept a wary eye out for Master Severin but the wizard had shown no further interest, even as they broke camp.

What would it be like to study the deep dark mysteries Severin had been initiated into? He would never know. The laws were strict; only pure-blooded Terrarchs were allowed to pursue the Art. Supposedly only they could study the dark secrets of magic without risking body and soul.

Not that Rik gave a toss about the law. All of his life it had been used to oppress him, and it had once seemed to him that in the Art lay a way of gaining some power over his life, a power that he had never possessed and supposed he never would. Dark as the path of the mage was, — and it was very dark, for madness, degeneration and vice seemed to lie along its entire length, at least for humans — it had always seemed the only real road to wealth and power open to the likes of him.

Despite all the laws and the Inquisition, there were, and always had been, human wizards, and their services commanded a high price. He regretted not learning more from the Old Witch when he had the chance.

By such lures does the Shadow seek to entrap our souls, Rik thought, remembering the words of the priests at the orphanage and shivering, not just with the cold.

He had seen what became of some human wizards before they were taken off to bedlam or the burning stake. He knew the warnings against magic were not simply propaganda put about by the Terrarchs but the simple truth, and yet he was still drawn to the Art.

Enough primitive faith had been beaten into him by the priests at the orphanage to make him fear for his soul because of it. What use was mere earthly power when your immortal soul was in peril? Ah, but what if the secret of terrestrial immortality was in your hands, the wicked part of him countered? What then? Guilt stabbed him and he knew it was this guilt that made him so nervous around the Magister.

He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He gripped his rifle tight as he surveyed his surroundings. It was more for reassurance than because he had any great faith in his marksmanship from atop this moving platform. His plan was to duck first and respond later if he caught sight of any would-be sniper. Better a live coward than a dead hero. He would leave the musketry to better shots like Weasel and Leon.

“What is it?” Handsome Jan asked, glancing up from the shard of mirror in which he had been admiring his noble profile. The others held their weapons ready.

Rik saw nothing even as he scanned the undergrowth and jutting rocks. He did his best to ignore the vistas of dizzying drops that were sometimes revealed. It came to him that they must be running parallel to Broken Tooth Pass and that it was even possible that they had crossed the border into Kharadrea. No shots came. The moment of fear departed, leaving only a small residue burning in the pit of his stomach.

“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.