Death's Angels

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 squat 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.

After sundown, squads began to filter through the ruins, taking up position for the attack. Since his night sight was better than most men’s, Rik had the job of moving from position to position to make sure everyone was in place, and all the ways out of the trap were closed. Most of the Foragers were in small groups, one man watching while the others dozed. Being Foragers they were well used to sleeping anywhere, but it took real talent to do so with the wind cutting through you, and the prospect of violence in the air.

Finally he made it to where Weasel and the Barbarian lurked on the furthest side, towards the waterfall. There were spots of blood on their ragged green tunics. They had encountered a few hill-men in the ruins on their scouting foray. Leon and Pigeon and the Sergeant were with them. Rik gave the password as he approached since there was no sense in getting his throat cut by nervous men. Weasel has always been too good with that damn knife.

“Where’s this bloody mine then?” asked Weasel of no one in particular. “I think we should make that little bastard Vosh show us where it is? Might be gold there.”

“He said it was haunted,” said Pigeon. Weasel said nothing, nor did the others. The thought of what might wait in a haunted mine frightened them all. It was difficult to avoid dark thoughts in the doom-haunted ruins of old Achenar.

No lights showed. No one did anything to give their positions away. They waited for the attack to begin.

Lieutenant Sardec watched as the wizard continued his chant and drew his wand through the air, pointing to the five points of the astrological compass and invoking the names of entities that were not good to hear.

When would something happen? It had been almost an hour now since the ritual had begun, and each minute that passed increased the chance of something going wrong down below, of one of the Foragers doing something more than usually stupid, of one of the men being spotted. The wizard just kept to the ritual, moving with no sign of feeling any pressure to hurry.

Sardec envied Severin his gift. In his House, power had always flowed through the female side of the line. Even in these sadly diminished days, his family had still produced several sorcerers of note. At least if he were a sorcerer he would get some respect. No one respected a junior officer of a mere thirty years. Even his fellow Exalted still treated him as little more than a child.

He supposed to most of his kin he was a mere stripling. Most Terrarchs regarded anyone who had seen less than a hundred winters as dreadfully immature. It takes a century to educate a Terrarch was an old saying.

There were times when he suspected that was just another of the games his people played. With age came status, and with status came power. Those who held power did their best to hang onto it, and to remind those who were below them in the pecking order what their true place in it was.

And his place, despite his family connections and his immaculate blood-line, was at the very bottom of the heap. And he would stay there for a very long time, unless he did something to distinguish himself, as his father had seven hundred years ago when he had saved the life of Lord High Commander Azaar at the Ford of Three Wands during the final stages of the Conquest.

He just wished he were not so conspicuous. Few true-blooded children were born to the Exalted at the best of times, and these were not the best of times. The Terrarchs had always been a slow breeding race unlike the accursed humans. In recent centuries, for reasons no one could quite understand, there had been more of those abominable miscegenations like that insolent half-breed in his own unit…

Smoke started to drift upwards from the flask. It was a brownish red. At first it looked like glittering motes of dust, and then these lost their sparkle and congealed into something thicker and ruddier. The redness took form, becoming strips thin as paper and roughly the shape of great bodiless bats. They writhed around each other and flowed around the inside of the magic circle, like lions confined within a cage.

Slowly the shadows took on greater substance, as if borrowing weight and mass from somewhere, becoming less translucent, and more energetic.

“Crimson Shadows,” Corporal Toby muttered. There was something like awe in his voice. Sardec shivered. He had heard his father’s tales of seeing these things unleashed. His mouth went dry. A strange exaltation filled him. He was witnessing something extraordinary, seeing one of the most ancient weapons of his people actually used. These were a direct manifestation of the sorcery that had chained humanity and sealed Terrarch supremacy for almost a thousand years.

The shadows swelled, billowing like sails as Severin’s chant lent them more substance. They drew strength from it and from him. The words droned on and on, and the shadows swirled ever higher like smoke drifting up a chimney. The scraps of matter split and split again, becoming thinner, more elongated and they soared higher and higher, like kites. A swarm of the Crimson Shadows swirled within a great invisible tube.

A crackling buzz filled the air. It sounded almost like a voice. Master Severin responded to it in an alien language which seemed somehow familiar. Sardec could sense another presence, something alien, inimical and hungry; a presence constrained by the circles and the will of the sorcerer. He knew that had the wizard not been there, the thing would be reaching for him and his men even now, and there would be very little they could do to stop it.

The great wyrms lashed their tails nervously and it took all the efforts of their mahouts to keep them calm. Sardec had his sword out. The old runes shimmered along the surface, evidence of eddy currents of magic.

His skin crawled as he listened to that great buzzing voice. It echoed deep within his bones. He could almost make sense of its words, although he knew that would not be a good thing for his soul. Even the least devout of the Foragers were making elder signs over their breasts now. Some muttered prayers to the Saints and Prophets to intercede with the Light on their behalf.

Finally, just when he thought he could take no more of it, the parlay ended. Severin and the Master of the Crimson Shadows had come to some agreement. The mage gestured and the vast invisible cage hemming the Shadows in receded into the ground. From the top, like a plume of smoke dispersing in a sudden wind, the Shadows drifted towards the valley, becoming ever more numerous as they writhed and split and flapped across the darkening sky.

They encountered some resistance as they neared the lake. Wards of some sort, he guessed. They swarmed against an invisible barrier which it seemed they could not cross. Sardec held his breath. There were certain sorceries that could rebound on their casters if they were baulked. Master Severin chanted another spell, and the invisible barrier collapsed, a weak dam giving way before an irresistible tide. The Shadows flowed forward once more and descended on the ruined mansion and its inhabitants in a flood. The walls were obscured.

With his far-better than human night sight Rik watched the cloud of Shadows descend on the mansion. He could see the scraps of crimson flow around individuals, wrapping them like a shroud. Chilling, terrified screams rang out. One man leapt from the roof, arms windmilling as he sought a cleaner death. His fall seemed somehow slower than normal, as if gravity’s pull were not quite as intense as usual.

Rik fought down an urge to cover his ears. There was something hopeless, lost, crazed about the shrieks of the highlanders. Their death was an unclean one. Hatred for the Terrarchs who had brought it about surged through his mind. It warred with the wariness in him. Here was evidence of the overwhelming power of the Terrarchs. This was his first real sighting of the mailed fist that was normally covered. Here was the reason why mankind lay beneath the Terrarch heel even after a thousand years, and most likely still would be after a thousand more.

The Shadows entered the building, flowing down chimneys, through openings in the roof, skimming down the side of the structure and sliding through gaps in wooden shutters. Moments later the screaming began again. It went on for minutes that seemed as long as hours.

Eventually the screaming died away. The bodies stopped moving. Slowly, much more slowly than they had advanced, the Crimson Shadows rose from the mansion and flapped back towards the ridge-line. There was something in their appearance that suggested an obscene satiation, as if they were bloated by the life force they had devoured. Rik felt a moment of pure terror as they approached. Several of the Foragers would have turned and fled had not Sergeant Hef ordered them to halt in a voice that brooked no disobedience.

It was with some relief that Sardec saw the Shadows flapping downwards, returning to the silver flask. One by one, they dropped within it and when the last one had finally squeezed in Severin spoke some words and restored the stopper to the flask. The ancient horror was safely penned once more. The wizard slumped to his knees, looking weary as an old man, and with a grimace of partially concealed guilt and an even more furtive pleasure etched onto the features visible beneath his half-face mask.

Severin stiffened and then began to shake as if stricken by palsy. From his twisted features it was obvious that he was making a dreadful effort to speak; “There were difficulties. Resistance far greater than I expected. Go ahead! I will join you when I can.”

Even as he spoke, he slumped forward and fell through the sides of his mystical circle. Sparks flickered around his form but nothing worse appeared to be happening. Sardec cursed and strode forward to pull the body clear, confident that his truesilver blade would protect him from the worst. He checked the wizard’s breathing and pulse. Good, he was still alive.

But what now, Sardec wondered? What was it that Severin had warned about? Was this some sort of trap? Should he order the attack to go ahead? He decided he should get into the fray as swiftly as possible. He felt confident that his blade would prove more potent than any sorcerer’s spells.

Should he leave a covering force here? No. There was no immediate threat here and every man might be needed down below.

“You two, look after Master Severin,” he ordered a couple of the soldiers. “Corporal Toby, fire the signal flare! The rest of you mount the wyrms. We are going to capture a wizard for the Inquisition.”

The flare blazed skyward. The bridgebacks got ready to move.

When the flare burst overhead, Rik sprang to his feet along with the Sergeant and half a dozen of the lads. They raced forward, rifles ready, straight for the nearest door. All around them, in the diminishing light of the rocket’s glare he could see others doing the same. Every second he expected a shot to bury itself in his body.

The distance across the open ground seemed enormous. He felt like he was making no progress and every limb moved with the slowness of treacle running down the side of a stone jar.

He was all too aware of what could go wrong, of all the accidents and mischances that might befall him. Friends might make a mistake. Guns could go off accidentally. Bayonets had accidentally lodged in someone’s back during a charge. At least the men who did it claimed it was an accident but who could tell; old scores sometimes got settled.

A man staggered up into the tower. Astonishingly it looked like there were still people alive in the mansion. Rik saw him begin to turn and look in his direction. He could not believe how slow the sentry’s movements were. He knew it was only his own heightened state of awareness, but still it was so remarkable that he laughed. The man was obviously confused. He leaned forward as if to get a better view of what was going on.

Rik raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired at him. Sparks flickered from flint. The rifle butt kicked against his shoulder. Acrid smoke made his eyes water. He hit his mark more by luck than judgement. The sentry slumped backwards out of sight.

Others began firing, most likely shooting at shadows, but that’s what happened once the madness started. Rik saw several faces he recognised, illuminated by muzzle flash and then obscured by the billowing of powder smoke. Some Foragers kneeled to begin reloading. At least he thought that was why they had done it. There’s always some who don’t want to be the first into the breach. He did not bother to reload but fixed his bayonet, jamming it on the end of the rifle.

The lads started howling like an army of devils as they reached the walls. Ahead of him, the Sergeant ordered one of them to open the door. It was locked. Somebody with some presence of mind shot out the lock and kicked the door in.

Rik caught a brief glimpse of a long shadowy corridor. The Sergeant produced a bulls-eye lantern and went in. He was brave. A man with the lantern was always the easiest target.

Everybody else hung back. The Sergeant stopped, looked back at Rik and gestured for him to go forward.

“Lieutenant Sardec picked you to lead the assault,” he said, not without sympathy.

There was no helping it. Everyone knew about Rik’s night sight. He went in first, bayonet at the ready. That was all it took, the rest of them swarmed in behind him.

Wonderful, Rik thought, knowing he would be the first to stop a musket ball when the defenders opened fire. Maybe he would get the chance to die a hero's death.

It was another thing he had Lieutenant Sardec to thank for.