The Serpent Tower

Chapter Three

Rik shivered as he dragged himself from the river. So far, so good, he thought, lying on the bank and gasping. The chill seeped into him from his dripping wet clothes. He prayed to the Light that he would not get the flux after tonight’s exertions. He had seen it happen to others. Too late to worry about that now, he told himself.

A shadowy figure emerged from the water nearby. From its size he guessed it was the Barbarian. “Where’s Weasel?” he asked in a low voice. He did not whisper. Whispers carried further in the dark than speaking in a normal tone.

“Here!” came the response. “Just taking a rest after our midnight swim.” From downriver came the shouts of men, the roars of ripjacks, the neighing of horses: all the sounds of the enemy camp. The glow of their fires was dimly visible through the woods.

“We made it,” The Barbarian said.

“So far,” said Weasel. “Best be heading on, if we want to get round that camp.”

They squelched away from the stream. Rik held his bayonet in his hand. It was the only weapon he had, and it would not give him much chance against anyone armed with a firearm but he found it reassuring nonetheless. They had not brought their muskets or their pistols. They would not have worked after the soaking the three of them had just received.

Ahead of him, he could hear brush breaking as well as the soggy sound of feet in wet boots. This was a farce. They were moving without any stealth at all. The clouds that had proved so helpful in obscuring them from sight when they slipped over the wall were a hindrance now. It was dark enough to baffle even his normally excellent night sight. He could not see his hand in the pitch-blackness. Roots reached out to trip him. Trees jumped in front of him. Branches clawed his face.

“Stopping making so much bloody noise, Halfbreed,” said the Barbarian.

“You sound like a bull wyrm in a thicket yourself,” Rik replied.

“A very wet bull wyrm,” said Weasel.

“Why did we volunteer for this?” Rik asked.

“I don’t recall any volunteering. I was picked,” said the Barbarian. “On account of my courage, good looks and intelligence, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” said Rik.

“At least we have a chance to get out of that death trap alive,” said Weasel.

“The lads will make it,” said the Barbarian.

“Let’s hope so,” said Rik. His eyes were starting to adjust to the deeper gloom. At least he hoped they were, and that those deeper shadows were trees. He felt an odd fear growing in him, of being surprised by some hidden terror in the darkness. He noticed that the woods were full of small scuttling noises, and that things moved above them in the branches.

“If we head this way we should cut to the path,” Weasel said.

“You sure?” Rik asked.

“Of course I’m not bloody sure,” said Weasel. “But I’m giving it my best guess.”

“Let’s hope that is good enough.”

“Wait a second. What was that?” the Barbarian asked. They had all heard it. It sounded like something big was moving through the undergrowth in the distance.

“Most likely a wild pig,” said Weasel.

“Didn’t know they came out at night,” said the Barbarian.

An odd hissing roar filled the night. Men’s shouts responded to it.

“Fuck,” said the Barbarian. “A ripjack.”

“More than one,” said Weasel as an answering roar echoed through the woods. “And it’s caught our scent by the sound of it.”

All three of them bolted headlong through the woods. Behind them came the sound of men and wyrms in pursuit.

“You think they’ve got through, Sergeant?” Sardec asked. He looked down from the manor house’s wall, contemplating the fires that filled the night around them. There were a lot of them. He took another sip from the goblet of wine. It was bitter from the drugs the alchemists had given him to kill the pain of his stump. That still hurt even after all these weeks and all the spells of the Masters.

“I think so, sir. There’s no better man than Weasel in a wood. I reckon they are through.”

“Let’s hope so, Sergeant. There’s an army down there.”

“A small army, sir,” said Sergeant Hef.

“You’re right, Sergeant. What I can’t understand is why they haven’t attacked yet. It makes more sense to storm the place now. In the morning we’ll have a clear shot at them.”

“Maybe they want clear shots at us, sir. Maybe they have marched a long way and want rest. Maybe they are waiting for their cannon to come up.”

Sardec smiled at the small monkey faced man beside him. It had slowly been creeping up on him that he actually rather liked the Sergeant, in the same way he liked his hunting wyrms, of course. “If that was meant to reassure me, Sergeant, it did not do a very good job.”

“Just pointing out the options, sir. That’s my job.”

“You do it very well.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sardec noticed the Sergeant’s eyes flickering to the wine cup. He was wondering whether this sudden surge of affability in an officer was on account of the wine. Sardec wondered that too, but he already knew the answer.

“They don’t seem terribly well organised, do they Sergeant?” The enemy had made no attempt to fortify their position. They seemed to have posted very few pickets. The men had made camp wherever they felt like it as long as it was just out of musket shot. If he’d had a few more men, Sardec would have contemplated a night raid. A few grenades among those tightly packed fires and…

“They’re probably just local militia, sir, or farmboys fresh from some noble's estate. Some local lord raised a regiment and fancies himself a General. That’s always been the way of it in Kharadrea.”

“It wasn’t when Koth ran things,” said Sardec.

“No, sir, you’re right, but from what I’ve heard the Royal Army never was more than a small fraction of the troops in Kharadrea. The rest were levies.”

“Koth was from near these parts, Sergeant. Did you know that?” Sardec wondered whose banner fluttered over that central cluster of tents. He was sure he had seen the tall figures of Terrarchs mixing with the men.

“Started as a bandit in these very woods, if I recall correctly, worked his way up to chief warlord for King Orodruine.” Of course, the Sergeant knew about Koth. Every human soldier did. He was their idol. Sardec considered Koth’s career. The man had been born in a woodsman’s hut and had ended up humbling the best Generals of two kingdoms, Terrarch Generals with centuries of experience of war. How was that possible?

“Some men have a talent for war, sir,” said Sergeant Hef. Sardec was a little shocked. The drugs or the wine were more potent than he had thought. He had not realised he had been talking out loud.

“Well, hopefully, whoever is out there is not one of them,” he said.

“Hopefully, sir,” said Hef. He tried to sound enthusiastic but Sardec knew they were both thinking the same thing. It did not matter how incompetent the enemy commander down there was, or how unprofessional his troops. Sheer weight of numbers would overwhelm the Foragers when they attacked tomorrow. Sardec prayed to the Light that the three men the Sergeant had picked had managed to find their way through the enemy lines.

This old manor was strong; a fortified farmhouse with thick walls around it, designed to resist bandit attacks from the forest and the raiding soldiers of neighbouring lords. It was a product of the constant internecine warfare that had long plagued Kharadrea. Yes, it was a strong building.

Sardec just hoped the building was strong enough.

After what seemed like an eternity, the moon emerged from the clouds and shafts of light struck the earth through the foliage. By this time, Rik’s eyes were used to the gloom. The blindness was over. He could see. The woods shimmered in the moonglow. Large mushrooms thrust up through the mulch of leaves. The Barbarian and Weasel were goblin figures ahead of him.

The sound of pursuit came from behind them. Rik felt as if his chest was on fire. The wet clothes chafed his skin. He itched from mosquito bites. A new tone had entered the voices of wyrms. If Rik had not known better he would have said it was fear. He could hear men, trying to lash them on, but for some reason the ripjacks simply would not advance.

“What’s going on?” Rik asked.

“Don’t know,” said the Barbarian.

“There’s something strange about this place,” said Weasel. They stood in a large clearing beside a large almost perfectly circular lake. It was so mathematically symmetrical that Rik suspected it was artificial. Weasel pointed to a path winding its way through the trees.

It was unnaturally quiet here, and the trees had a queer warped twisted look. Mould clung to some of their branches. Old tales of the horrors to be met in woods after midnight leapt into his mind. It seemed they had been driven far from the path they wanted to take and into some place utterly different.

At that moment, the wind shifted and Rik caught the smell.

“What’s that stink?” he asked.

“Smells rotten,” said the Barbarian. Instinctively they moved closer together, forming up in a triangle so they could cover all the lines of approach.

At that moment, a faint glow started about twenty paces away. There was a greenish tinge to it. Rik felt a pricking on his skin.

A large creature stood in the centre of the glow. Rik felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The thing was as bulky as the Barbarian but not as tall. It was longer and lower to the ground. It resembled nothing so much as a ripjack, but a ripjack with the proportions of a man. Its head was serpent-like. A massive tail rose behind it. Its skin was scaly. Its eyes bulged and were larger by far than a man’s. A long tongue whipped from its mouth and tasted the air. In its hands it held a serrated edged sword as long as a rifle, and vicious looking as hell. Tales of the ghosts of Serpent Men sprang to Rik’s mind.

“What the hell is that?” said the Barbarian. The thing stared at them across the clearing. Rik tensed expecting an attack. He glanced left and right wondering if this was a distraction meant to hold their attention while something else snuck up on them. He saw nothing, and heard nothing save the small night sounds of the forest.

“Who are you?” Rik asked.

“What are you?” The Barbarian sounded as if he were on the edge of berserk fury now. He had all the Northman’s primitive superstitions about the demons of the Elder World. Looking at this thing, Rik did not blame him.

“Serpent Man,” said Weasel. “Must be. Its people once lived in these parts.”

“They died out ages ago,” said Rik.

“Tell that to scaly over there. He’s the one you need to convince.”

“You think it’s a ghost then, Halfbreed?” said the Barbarian. The fear in his voice was even more evident. He sounded like he could not decide whether to charge at the thing or run screaming into the night. He was simply saying what they were all thinking.

“How would I know? It looks real enough.”

“Think my sword would cut it?” The Barbarian asked.

“Want to go over and find out?”

“You think I am scared?”

“I sure as hell am,” Rik replied.

“It’s not moving,” said Weasel. As ever he had managed to keep his wits about him. Now that Rik looked closely he could see the poacher was right. The faint glow surrounding it rippled and gave the impression of movement, but so far the creature had done nothing since it became visible.

“Maybe it’s waiting. Snakes can wait forever without moving,” said the Barbarian.

Now that the immediate rush of fear had passed, Rik was more curious than afraid. He edged slowly closer to the Serpent Man. It appeared to be standing on top of something, a massive block of stone, partially buried in the earth. As Rik approached runes lit up and crawled along its side. He froze immediately but nothing happened.

“Come back, Halfbreed,” the Barbarian called. “Remember what happened in the mines.”

Curiosity and something else niggled at Rik. There was something wrong here. A mystery he was determined to penetrate. Curiosity had always been a fatal weakness of his. He halted almost within touching distance of the Serpent Man.

This close Rik could not help but notice that two long fangs curved down from the corners of its mouth. He wondered if they were poisonous in life. He was close enough now to see that this thing was a statue, standing on top of some sort of plinth. He admired the detail of the workmanship. It was incredibly life like. Looking around, he could see the ground here was irregular. An open area of paved stone lay just beyond the statue. Strange glowing runes crawled over its surface as well.

What was going on here, he wondered? Had their presence triggered something? Was this some sort of sorcerous trap? Or had this nothing to do with them.

“I think this place is haunted, Halfbreed,” said the Barbarian. “Come away.”

“It’s only a statue,” Rik replied. “It’s not a ghost.”

“What about these bloody lights then?”

“Magic of some sort,” said Rik.

There was no denying the sorcery involved in them, but so far it had not seemed to do anything to them. Perhaps this was a place best left alone. His nerves were taut. His senses screamed at him to go. He felt as if at any minute something dreadful might appear.

“I think now we should leave this place,” said Weasel.

Rik nodded. They turned to follow the path once more, and progressed through the night with many an uneasy glance over their shoulders. They could still hear the sounds of their pursuers behind them. Rik understood now why the wyrms would not approach this place.

They were more sensible than men.

Sardec stood on a cold peak looking down on the long road that vanished into darkness. Dozens of figures walked it. They were tall and shrouded in funeral grey. He stroked his chin with the fleshy fingers of his right hand. Surprise shook him. He thought he had lost those fingers. He thought they had been burned away. He could still feel the terrible heat in them. He reached down and found his father’s blade, Moonshade, hanging at his side. That too was funny. He had thought the blade destroyed, lost in the mines beneath Achenar, when he and his soldiers had fought the demon god Uran Ultar.

He remembered what the road was now. He had been here before. It was the road of the dead, which the souls of Terrarchs walked en route to the Place of Judgement. So I’m dead then, he thought. Did the Kharadreans attack in the night? Or had he never walked away from the lair of the Spider God? Had that been some sort of dream? No, he thought, that was wrong. This was the dream.

Even as he thought that, he felt the things scuttling over him. They were small creatures, a cross between a spider and a centipede whose long tails arched scorpion-like over their bodies. They began to clamber over him, stinging him. Where the tails entered, flesh swelled into huge bumps from which more and more of the creatures hatched. Behind him, he heard something big scuttling closer and closer. He writhed in agony, rolling and trying to crush the things, as they swarmed into his clothes, into his mouth, as their stings penetrated his eyes…

Covered in cold sweat, he sat up. The room was empty. The fire was out. He had endured the dream once more. He wondered if it had any mystical significance or whether it was just a nightmare.

“Ah, the sweet smell of home,” said the Barbarian, taking a lungful of the foul air into his nostrils. He had become more cheerful with every step that put the haunted glade and its strange statue behind them.

They had smelled the camp long before they saw it. The odour of cooking and latrines and wyrms and thousands of unwashed bodies packed close together in damp tents was unmistakable. Now the camp was visible below them, a dark mass of tents and lanterns laid out in regular rows, large fires built far enough from the tents to prevent a blaze, sentries with lanterns moving to and fro through the mobile city. Rik could see the inverted v of the human tents and the vast pavilions of the Terrarch nobles, with tents of all sizes in between. On the far side of the camp from the horses, corralled wyrms bellowed and grunted in their sleep.

They trudged downhill until a sentry challenged them, and they gave their names and their regiments. “Password,” went the sentry.

“We don’t know the bloody password,” said the Barbarian. “We’ve just come back from a battle and we’ve news for the General.”

“If you don’t know the password I have to lock you up. Orders are orders.”

“Is that Corporal Menzel?” Weasel asked.

“Aye, Weasel, is that you?”

“You know it is, and I have the Barbarian and Halfbreed with me.”

“So you do.”

“Let us pass. This is important. The rest of the lads are trapped back there and we need to get a relief column organised.”

“I don’t know anything about. I have my orders and orders is orders.”

The Barbarian sputtered with rage. “If you don’t let us pass I’m going to take this knife and stick it up…”

“What’s going on here?” said another voice. It belonged to a Terrarch. Lieutenant Jazeray emerged from the gloom and began surveying the scene down his long nose.

“We’ve come from Lieutenant Sardec, sir,” said Rik. “He encountered the enemy today, took a stronghold from them but was cut off by enemy reinforcements. He sent us to get help. I appreciate Corporal Menzel here being zealous in his duties but we were instructed to take the word to General Azaar himself.”

“Were you now?” Jazeray asked. “Sardec surrounded you say? How many enemy?”

“Maybe a thousand Blues.”

“I doubt there are that many Blues in a hundred miles.”

“With all respect, sir, perhaps the General should be the one to make that decision. Our lads could be dying back there and…”

Jazeray came to a decision. He nodded. “Of course. But I warn you if this is some sort of hoax…”

“It’s no hoax, sir.”

“Come then, let us go and disturb the General and his half-sister.”

Rik started. As far as he knew Lord Azaar only had one half-sister, the Lady Asea. Once she had promised to teach him sorcery, but she seemed to have forgotten him for the past few months. He wondered why she was back in camp at this time and what tidings she had brought. He wondered if she even remembered who he was.

He shrugged. He would know the answers soon enough.