Night had fallen. The funeral service was over. Some of the Foragers watched the prisoners; most of the others were taking a few celebratory swigs of the rum Sergeant Hef had broken out. They all felt that strange sad exultation where grief mingled with triumph. The Foragers had taken Rik and his friends at their word when they claimed the wizard was dead and the demon sent scurrying underground. They had the mage’s staff, head and hands as proof. But they had lost comrades. Pigeon was just one more added to a long roll. A few of the wounded in the battle for the mansion house had passed on too.
Rik, Weasel and the Barbarian sat around their fire outside the captured manor, looking down on the ruins of Achenar. The bridgebacks loomed over them as if they would warm themselves by the blaze if they could. As ever their massive presence made Rik uneasy. He seemed to sense their brooding violence and hunger. He would have moved away if he could but there was nowhere else to go, so instead he stared into the fire.
He did not want to remember the long trudge back up through the mine, carrying the wounded, and dragging the bodies of the dead, while the smell of burning came from below them. It had been horrible, and made all the more so by thoughts of the demons that might be below them. He stared into the flames.
They immediately brought back memories of the funeral ceremony. They had given their comrades the traditional pyre despite the effort of building one in the cold. In the absence of any officers capable of performing the ceremony, Sergeant Hef had spoken the words that sent their souls on to the Light. There had been no incense for the bodies, no unguents to anoint them with, and even though they had built the pyres a good distance from the camp, the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh still hung in the air. Now all that remained of Pigeon and the others were a few charred bones on which the carrion birds would feed. In the morning, they would consign those to the grave.
Rik remembered the way the flesh had been consumed, fat sizzling in the blaze, odd popping sounds emerging from the fire, and thought that one day that would be him. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next time they fought, maybe not in battle at all but still someday, he would be on that pyre.
Like the Sergeant always said, nothing like a good funeral to make you think about these things. He had not been particularly close to Pigeon but he had known him, had gotten used to seeing him around the camp, had gotten drunk with him and his woman Ana.
And now Pigeon was simply not there. If the Prophets were right, his soul had gone to dwell with the Light. If some of the new sacrilegious philosophers were closer to the truth, he was simply gone. All that was left of him was a burnt carcass and some memories that would slowly fade. Even now the memory of the melting flesh of the corpse had partially blotted out Rik’s recollection of the man when he was still alive.
One day that will be me, he thought again, and took another sip of the rum. He tried hard to concentrate on what Weasel and the Barbarian were saying, the story they had concocted for the benefit of the Terrarchs but his own morose mood was a distraction. Currently no one seemed in the slightest bit suspicious. Rik suspected that would all change when the Lieutenant awoke. Fortunately that would not be for a while. One of the bridgebacks was being set up so that a stretcher could be laid inside the howdah for Sardec and Master Severin’s body.
He moved closer to the fire, and stretched out his hands to warm them. “All agreed then?” Weasel said. Rik and the Barbarian nodded. It was going to be best to stick closest to the facts. They would tell all of it straight, right down to burning the wizard’s body and that causing the fire that had brought down the lower levels of the mine. They would even mention using his papers as kindling. The only thing they would leave out was the fact they had preserved most of them.
“All agreed on what?” said Sergeant Hef, moving closer to the fire. They looked up at him, starting a little guiltily. Rik wondered how long he had been standing there listening. The Sergeant could move with considerable stealth when he wanted to. He cursed the rum, it was making them slow, and then he took another swig against the cold.
“Nothing, Sergeant,” said Weasel.
“Nothing, is it? And you three being thick as thieves since you got back from the mine and all.” So he had noticed that, had he? The Sergeant was too damned sharp by half. Rik wondered what else he had noticed. Hef grinned at them.
“You did a good job back there. You got out with the Lieutenant, and the rest of the lads, and you got the wizard. Those were his bits, weren’t they? You did get him- didn’t you?”
“Look at that head you have in the bag, Sergeant,” said Rik. “That’s a Terrarch head, isn’t it?”
“Of course we got him, Sergeant,” said the Barbarian. “Rik killed him deader than Emperor Goran- with my help, of course.”
“Well even if you didn’t, he won’t be getting out of that mine any time soon if all the lower levels are collapsed. Nor will the demon. A smart bit of work that. If the lower levels collapsed.”
Rik exchanged a look with Weasel. The Sergeant was fishing for information. Rik wished the Barbarian was not part of their little conspiracy. Weasel could keep his mouth shut, but it would not take an Inquisitor to get what he knew out of the Barbarian. He was not the brightest spark the Light had ever illuminated.
“He’s dead, Sergeant,” said Rik, letting a little annoyance and weariness show in his voice. “We killed him.”
“With the Lieutenant’s own blade. He won’t be pleased with that. No one but a Terrarch is supposed to handle those truesilver swords. You know how prickly they are about such things. Used to be you could be put to death for even touching one.”
“Next time I am trying to save one of our beloved Terrarchs from a wizard and his pet demon I will be sure to take that into account.”
“You’ll get no criticism from me, lad. I’m just letting you know the Lieutenant might not be as grateful as he ought to be. You know how he can be.”
Rik did indeed know, only too well. He wondered if even the Lieutenant would be petty enough to take this one out on him though. What could he do? Challenge him to a duel? Terrarchs did not fight with humans. It was beneath them.
“Things might get a bit sticky at the inquiry,” said the Sergeant. There was always an inquiry when one of the Terrarchs was killed by a human. It was the law. It was also an event. The Terrarchs were few and men were many. They always looked after their own.
The Sergeant looked at them again, suspiciously. He seemed sure they were up to something then he shrugged. “So what if you took the wizard’s gold. You deserve it.”
So that was it. He thought they had got some loot, and was sniffing around for a share. Rik looked at Weasel and saw relief written on his face too. He considered things for a moment, then fumbled in his pocket for the things he had taken from the wizard. “We got this from the body.”
The Sergeant leaned forward interestedly. He could see the rings embossed with Elder signs, and the gemstones. He tut-tutted and lifted the rings, and the amulet. “These will have to go to the Masters for examination. If they are worth anything, you’ll get your share, don’t worry. The gems will have to go into the report as well. I think we can forget about the coins. Sure there wasn’t anything else you forgot to mention? This might be a good time to tell, before the Lieutenant is up and about again.”
“Nothing, Sergeant.”
“Fair enough, lads. I think you’ll find your comrades are grateful to you for sharing your good fortune.”
The Sergeant slouched off into the gloom. “Well done, Halfbreed,” said the Barbarian. “Nice of you to give away our money.”
“It was mostly my money,” said Rik. “I took it from the wizard. And it got the Sergeant off our back. If he thinks we’re hiding anything, it will be gems.”
“Anyway,” he added. “You’ll get your share. The Sergeant will see to that.”
“I hope those bloody books are worth all you say,” said the Barbarian, a little sourly.
“Why don’t you just shout it out?” said Rik. “Then the other half of the camp might hear you as well.”
“Oh right. Sorry,” said the Barbarian. He even managed to sound a little sheepish. “I’ll watch my mouth.”
“Be a good idea,” said Weasel. “Wouldn’t want any Inquisitors round asking us questions in that special way of theirs. I am quite attached to my balls.”
The Barbarian laughed. “Nice one, Weasel, attached to your balls. I like that.”
Weasel just shook his head and rose. “Time for some more rum,” he said. “I’d bet a pint of ale to a pot of piss, we’ll be on the march again tomorrow.”
Rik thought so too. They had done what they came for. It was time to head back to Redtower. He felt an odd mixture of excitement and fear. That was when things would get really dangerous. Visions of Inquisitors and their torture implements danced before his eyes. Really dangerous, he thought drunkenly.
Lieutenant Sardec sat upright. His head was on fire, and he fought down an urge to vomit. He looked around and tried to work out where he was. He felt a moment of unreasoning panic when he could not see anything but a small bar of light, and then realised he was in a darkened room in the old mansion. The light was the glow of the lantern under the door. He could hear the sound of shouting and singing outside as the soldier’s celebrated their victory. As always he had to fight down a surge of repulsion and contempt.
This was what the army had come to, he thought, drunken humans swilling booze and shouting in their harsh cracked voices. It had not been like this in the old days, when his people had conquered this world, and made men fear them. Then it had been only ten thousand Terrarchs, and their dragons and their sorcery to bring an entire world full of demon-worshipping barbarians to heel.
How he wished he had been born into that earlier, glorious golden time. He envied those like his father and his uncles who had lived through it. Now everything was so diminished. The Golden Age had passed. Civilisation was sinking back into the Abyss. The stinking humans were dragging the Elder Race down to their level. He felt contaminated by their mere presence. Perhaps the Terrarchs who claimed that the Ten Thousand should have stayed on Al’Terra and died with the rest of their people were right, he thought sourly. That way the last true Terrarchs would at least have made a glorious end, and not faced this slow loss of all that was great about their people.
Sardec reached around for his sword. As he gripped its hilt he could feel strength flowing back into him. He seemed to be drawing it directly from the precious ancestral heirloom. Moonshade had been old when the Terrarchs had walked the lost islands of Al’ Terra before the Exile. It had been forged under the light of a different sun. It was a link to those older, more heroic days before the Exalted had come to this blighted world and lost their way.
Sardec groaned as he remembered his earlier awakening, and what he had learned then. It all came flooding back into his mind, filling him with shame. He recalled the fight with the Ultari. He remembered its speed and the astonishing flash of pain and paralysis when the claw struck him. He recalled the way he had lost control of his limbs. He recalled his sense of shock.
Why had Moonshade not protected him? Its Elder Signs were meant to be a sovereign protection against inimical magic. Either the blade was failing, like so much of the old magic, or there had been no magic involved with the claws, only poison. He tried to assure himself that the latter was the most likely. The Ultari were degenerate survivors of one of the Old Races, demon worshippers who had fought for possession of this world long before the coming of the Terrarchs. It must have been poison.
He knew he was just trying to avoid the most painful thought of all, that he had been saved by the half-breed, that where he had fallen, that abomination against all the laws of heaven and Terrarch had stood and triumphed, and worse, he had done it with Sardec’s own sword. Even in the dark he could feel his skin grow taut with shame. As soon as he got back to camp he would have to have the Priests perform a ritual of cleansing to remove the taint from the weapon. Just the thought that one of Rik’s tainted blood had touched the weapon made his fingers weak, and the hilt difficult to clasp.
What was worse- the men had seen it. They had witnessed his fall in what should have been triumphant single combat against the demon. He would be a laughing stock even among his own people when word of that got around. The Terrarchs were not a people to forgive any sign of weakness, and his brother officers would use him as a whetstone on which to sharpen the blades of their wit. The taint might be removed when the blade was purified, but the stain on his honour never could be.
Just the thought of Rik goaded him to greater rage. He loathed the creature. It astonished him that his brother officers could stand seeing that face, those features amid the common soldiery of their own camp. Did they not see the affront it was to them, that one of his tainted and diluted blood should be allowed to mock them by his very presence? How he despised those of his own race who wallowed in the mire with the females of the human kind, who thrust themselves into the tainted ripeness of their bodies, who…
Sardec wrenched his thoughts away from such vileness. Severin was dead! A wizard lost. All in all, he thought, this expedition had not been a good one for the Elder Race. The humans had managed to complete at least part of the mission while their betters had been left sprawled senseless on the ground. The Colonel would say that it merely showed how well they had been trained, that they had reacted so well to the situation, but Sardec knew differently.
He knew that, treason though it was to say it aloud, in some ways the Blues were right and the Reds were wrong. It was a new world now, one in which the power of the Terrarchs would slowly slip away, and with it all that remained of their great culture. Unless something was done a new mongrel civilisation would emerge, one which the Reds seemed prepared to accept and make peace with. Sardec knew that was their mistake. The Terrarchs were the source and fountainhead of all that was fine in this world, and they held their place now only by virtue of their ability to overawe the members of the inferior races.
Today he had contributed to the erosion of that ability and it made him so sick he could almost have wept. He had let down his people, his bloodline, his family and the proud warrior legacy of his father. There were times he knew he could never be what his father had been and it clawed at his gut like a sword wound. This was one of those times. He swore he would find a way to make that Rik share some of his pain, although he doubted the beast could feel more than a small fraction of it.
“That’s the last,” said Weasel, looking at the corpses they had tossed down in front of the bridgebacks.
“This was not right,” said Rik. He was surprised to find he meant it. The hill-men had been enemies, and he normally wasted no thought on the deaths of those. But they had also been killed by elder world sorcery and had their souls devoured and now their mortal remains were food for wyrms.
“Don’t waste your sympathy,” said Sergeant Hef. “These men were scum. They consorted with the forces of Shadow. They served a sorcerer. They helped feed that demon. Their master Zarahel wants to bring back the Spider God. They say he’s going to drive the Terrarchs from the land and restore the lost glories of man.”
Rik knew this but it did not help a great deal. He thought about the thing that lurked in the mine. Had these men known? They surely must have guessed something but maybe in some ways they had been just like he and his comrades, following orders. Maybe they had been enslaved in the service of a madman they had not dared defy. Having spent some time in the army that was something he could identify with. And where were the bodies of all those people who had vanished in the mine? He saw Vosh coming closer; he looked very pale. He had done so ever since he had scuttled in fear from the mine.
“No sign of Zarahel?” Rik asked the hill-man. He had known the man, after all. His former kinsmen had cursed him as they died.
“He’s not among the dead. It looks like he got away.”
“What’s he like?” Leon asked, scratching his bandaged head. His skull had taken a nasty crack when the Ultari’s convulsions threw him across the chamber. He was pale and his breathing was fast. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated. He seemed to be taking this feeding squad duty worse than the rest of them. Rik was surprised to see Vosh shudder.
“He claimed he was of the blood of the old princes, of the Priest Kings who worshipped Uran Ultar. He would talk about that, and there was something about the way he talked that made you believe him, made you believe that the Old God would rise soon.”
“Why did you sell him out then?” asked the Barbarian, somewhat untactfully, Rik thought.
“Only a madman would want the Old Gods back,” said Vosh. “Only a damned heretic unbeliever would listen to all that devil’s talk of the old days come again, of immortality here in the flesh. Aye, immortality for the chosen few- just like it was in the old days. The rest of us would be just…food for his god, just like we were back then. Zarahel’s breed are not the only ones who remember the Old Days. The rest of us know some stories too.”
All of this was making Rik think uncomfortably of the books he had stowed away in his pack. He decided to change the subject.
“How do you think he got away?”
“Maybe he knew you were coming. Maybe he was away on one of his trips. He was always coming and going among the tribes, trying to whip up support for his plans, trying to get the chiefs to unite against the Terrarchs.”
“I can see why we were sent here to get him,” said Leon, fitting his pipe into his mouth and for once filling it and lighting it.
“Think he’ll come to pay us back for this?” Leon asked. It was a thought that had been on all their minds. They had all heard the tales.
“If he does, I’ll cut his heart out and make him eat it,” said the Barbarian, staring off into the distance. There was an undercurrent of worry in his voice.
“Look over there,” said Weasel. Rik followed his gesture and saw the glint of something on the hillside. He covered his eyes and squinted and could just make out several squat figures loping upslope. “Bloody hill-men are already watching us. When word gets out of this, the clansmen will be hot for vengeance.”
“Let them be,” said Sergeant Hef. “By the time they get organised we will be back in Redtower.”
“They might come looking for us,” said Weasel. “There’s nobody like hill-men for vengeance-seeking when their blood is up.”
In the distance they heard bones splinter as the wyrms started to feed. All of them looked at each other. “Well, at least we don’t have to chop wood and build a pyre,” said Weasel, eventually.
Somewhere in the distance somebody blew a horn, the signal to get back and mount up. It was time to head back to the lowlands.