The Serpent Tower (terrarch chronicles) Read online

  The Serpent Tower

  ( Terrarch chronicles )

  William King

  William King

  The Serpent Tower

  Chapter One

  “What happened to the bloody dancing girls, Halfbreed?” Toadface whispered, gazing out of the thick undergrowth into the surrounding trees. Rik raised a finger to his lips. If the ugly, bulging-eyed little man did not shut up he might get both their throats cut. There could be enemies twenty yards away. These woods were dense enough to hide a regiment.

  Rik understood why Toadface was pissed off. This scouting mission should have been unnecessary. There was not supposed to be any fighting at this point. The Talorean army had expected to be met by friendly forces when they crossed the border into Kharadrea. This province was supposedly devoted to Queen Kathea, their ally. Its overlord was her most loyal Lieutenant and uncle, the Prince Ilmarec.

  On the march through Broken Tooth Pass there had been much discussion about the welcome they would receive. Dancing girls and wine had been the talk of the entire army. Instead they had been met with ambushes and cavalry raids since they had entered the lowlands on this side of the border. The villages had all been abandoned and the flocks driven away.

  It seemed things were a little different than they had been led to believe, which was why Rik now found himself lying under this bush, waiting for Weasel and the Barbarian to return with news of what they had found up ahead. He did not expect the tidings to be good. He never did. He had been in the army too long. On the plus side, at least the rain had stopped. There had been rather too much of it for his liking recently. Some summer, he thought.

  “It was supposed to be simple,” muttered Toadface. He licked his lips with his extraordinarily long tongue. His pockmarked face looked downright sinister, like some crossbreed of a decadent Elder race and a depraved human. Legend had enough of those living in these woods. Before the coming of the Terrarchs, they had been home to the legendary Serpent Men. Their ghosts were said to haunt this forest.

  Rik drew his finger across his throat hoping that this time his companion would get the message. Toadface gave him a disgusted look but kept his mouth shut.

  All around him, the Foragers were strung out in a long line through the woods. Their green tunics blended in. Aside from the odd murmured complaint they were silent. If he had not known better Rik would never have guessed that there were nearly forty men and a Terrarch nearby.

  Even their inhuman commanding officer, Lieutenant Sardec, seemed to have learned something. He had shucked his scarlet officer’s tunic for a green shirt that blended in well with the early summer leaves. Adaana knew no one would have any difficulty recognising him or his voice. Sardec was a Terrarch, one of the world’s masters. He was tall and eldritchly thin with pointed ears and almond shaped eyes. His hair was fine as spun silver. In place of the hand he had lost in combat with the demon god Uran Ultar, he now sported a vicious hook. Combined with his recent scars, it made him look quite menacing.

  Rik looked at him with mixed feelings. Sardec had persecuted Rik for being a half-breed, a thing that Sardec appeared to think was an insult to him and all his dragon-riding ancestors. Rik had hated him in return. Rik still loathed Sardec but the officer seemed to have been changed, Rik was not sure what by. For some reason, the petty harassment had stopped.

  Perhaps it was the loss of his hand. Perhaps it was their encounter with the demons beneath the mountain two months ago. Perhaps it was something else entirely. Recently Sardec’s behaviour had been restrained as a Terrarch’s ever got towards humans. He had won the respect of the men in the hellish tunnels of the lost city of Achenar, and perhaps it was that respect that had changed him. The company expected him to behave like a leader, and now he did.

  The urge to say something about this to Leon passed through Rik’s mind, and he almost spoke, until he remembered that Leon was two months dead, killed by an Elder World demon in the same battle in which Sardec had lost his hand. Even after all this time, Rik was still not used to the loss.

  He had known Leon for as long as he could remember, since they had fled the vast draughty halls of the Temple orphanage in Sorrow to become thieves together. They had joined the Queen’s Army together and fought all the way through the Clockmaker’s rebellion side by side. It did not seem possible that Leon was gone, aged only eighteen, the victim of a monster from the old darkness that Rik himself had helped set free.

  Guilt stabbed him. He would never see Leon’s wizened urchin features again, never watch him chew on his battered clay pipe or put his lucky feather in his cap. There was no one left to watch his back, and these days Rik felt the need for that more than ever. Things had become more dangerous since Lord Azaar had taken command and the army had crossed the border from Talorea.

  Weasel and the Barbarian appeared. They seemed to have materialised as if summoned by sorcery. Rik was not surprised by Weasel’s stealth. The former poacher was the best hunter in the company, and this company was made up of men who were very good at woodcraft. Weasel was tall and skinny and balding with a long neck, a large Adam’s apple, a jutting blade of a nose and starved, cunning looking features. His uniform hung loose and ragged on his body. He clutched his rifle in one bony hand, and a roasted chicken in the other.

  The Barbarian was something different. It was unnatural that anyone so large could move so quietly. He was half again taller than Rik, and far heavier. A waterfall of thick blonde hair fringed his bald crown. A massive walrus moustache covered the lower part of his face. He was a trifle more gaunt than he had been, but that was the only after-effect of the wound he had taken beneath Achenar that showed. The Magister’s healing spells had been very effective, but that was no surprise.

  Such spells relied in part on the patient’s own vitality, and that was something the Barbarian had to spare. He radiated raw strength like a prize bull. Perhaps there really was something to his boasting about the hardihood of his people. The Barbarian was an exile from the snowbound lands of the far north, a place never conquered by the Terrarchs, a fact of which he was inordinately proud even when Weasel pointed out that there was nothing up there the Terrarchs could possibly want.

  The two of them stood before Sardec. They had found his hiding place without apparent effort.

  “Well?” Sardec asked. His voice was quiet but it carried. There was no mistaking it for a human voice either. It had a sweet metallic tone and the accents of the Terrarch ruling class.

  “There are men up ahead, sir,” said Weasel. He could not avoid giving the impression of insolence even when he was trying not to. There was something insinuating about his face. “They had a couple of our horse troopers tied to a tree and were doing unfriendly things with hot knives.”

  “You are sure these were our men?”

  “One was Sergeant Kalmek of the 17 ^ ^th Hussars, sir. I took money from him at shuffle only two nights ago. He still owes me.”

  “You’re gambling debts are of no concern,” said Sardec. He winced slightly, as he always did at allusions to gambling debts. No doubt they reminded him of Mama Horne’s parlour back in Redtower where he and his officer friends used to slum it up. Rik fought unsuccessfully with his bitterness. Mama Horne’s was where Sardec had picked up Rena. It was where Rik had picked her up too. He tried to tell himself he was not jealous and failed.

  Weasel looked away from the officer. His expression was plainly visible to Rik and seemed to say, the debts are important to me.

  “Anything else?” said Sardec.

  “There was a large fortified manor near the ford, sir,” said Weasel. “The gates were open and only a few men were inside. Everybody else seemed
to have headed down to the river to watch the fun.”

  “Where did you get the chicken, soldier?” Sardec asked.

  “It was on a spit, sir. I helped myself to it when I walked into the enemy camp.”

  “You walked into the enemy camp?” Incredulity was evident in the Lieutenant’s voice.

  “I took the colours from a sentry and decided to have a sniff about, sir. Nobody paid me the slightest attention. They were all too busy listening to Kalmek howl.” Rik did not doubt that Weasel had done exactly that. He was fearless to the point of madness, and doubtless his sheer nonchalance had helped him carry the bluff off. “Would you like some chicken, sir? It’s very good.”

  Sardec looked at the proffered roast as if Weasel’s hand were full of excrement. No Terrarch would want food that a human had nibbled at. He shook his head slowly and shifted his attention to the Barbarian. The big man chewed at the end of his moustache and then said; “It’s like Weasel says, sir. There was about fifty of them. All in colours too.”

  Sardec raised an eyebrow. “What colours.”

  “They had blue armbands.”

  “That seems a little unlikely,” said Sardec.

  “They all had them, sir,” said Weasel. He stuck his hand in his pocket and took out a long strip of grubby blue cloth. It could indeed be a makeshift declaration of allegiance to the cause of those who supported Queen Emperor Arachne of Sardea.

  “This is news,” said Sardec. Indeed it was. No one had supposed a Blue army to be within a hundred miles. It seemed their intelligence was very out of date. This did not really surprise Rik. Even with scrying crystals and dragon-mounted scouts, the army could always manage to make mistakes. It seemed not even famous Generals like Azaar were immune to them.

  “You are sure there are only fifty of them?”

  “Well, sir, the Barbarian here has some difficulty counting more than his fingers, but I reckon there was at least fifty, maybe more.” The Barbarian scowled but there were faint chuckles from the woods, which doubtless explained why Sardec did not discipline Weasel. So close to combat anything that raised morale was good. Sardec looked round at monkey-faced Sergeant Hef. The two seemed to be reading each other’s minds.

  “Let us go and free our prisoners,” said Sardec. “And take a few ourselves. Doubtless the Lord Azaar will want to talk to them.”

  The word rippled down the line. The Foragers prepared to advance. Up ahead there were enemies. Rik was glad when Weasel and the Barbarian dropped into the line beside him. They were dangerous men but he had been through many a desperate scrape with them.

  “Want a bit of chicken?” Weasel asked. He ripped off a drumstick and offered it Rik.

  “Why not?” Rik said. It tasted succulent. He tried to ignore the thoughts of condemned men and last meals that flickered through his mind.

  Chapter Two

  Silently the Foragers moved through the dim forest.

  Ahead Rik heard screaming and the cheers of men and the flow of water. He slapped a mosquito on his hand, splattering it in a bubble of red blood. Sweat stained his clothes. His heart raced. His mouth felt dry and he was aware of every speck of dust drifting in the columns of sunlight between the trees. He tasted the odd rich air of the woods. Moist fern fronds brushed his legs. He felt truly and utterly alive, as he always did when he knew that he might soon be dead. His whole life had shrunk into a narrow tunnel. Ahead of him lay violence and bloodletting and a terrible place he would need to pass through to get to any future he might have.

  A small animal part of his mind gibbered that he could still turn and flee, run off into the woods and wait for the eye of the coming storm of violence to pass over him. Another equally animal part lusted to run forward and plunge his bayonet into warm living flesh. His true self hung suspended between the two poles.

  He was not going to run. Not while his whole unit advanced. He was not scared so much of the Sergeant’s boot or the lash that waited for cowards as he was of letting down his comrades, of the shame he would feel if he ran off now in plain sight of them before things had even started. Every man around him felt the same way. He had seen forces of hardened veterans flee once the first man turned tail and ran, but no one wanted to be that first man.

  He scuttled up the last ridge, threw himself flat on his belly and looked down on the enemy. Most of them stood around a large tree in a clearing by a slow-flowing river. They were not well organised, more like bandits than soldiers. There were few sentries. A bloody figure was tied to the bole of the oak, head slumped to one side, shirt torn from chest. It howled. There was another figure nearby who had stopped moving altogether.

  The men below laughed too loudly and shouted too enthusiastically. There were several broached barrels of blood-red liquid sitting in the middle of the clearing. Some of the enemy soldiers ladled the wine into wooden goblets and swilled it down.

  “The bastards are drunk,” the Barbarian muttered. “I am not going to stand by and watch enemies of the Queen be drunk when I am not.”

  Rik cast his eye down to the ford. The Mor was wide here and its bed was paved with stones. Beyond was a large walled building on a slight rise. It dominated the whole area. From its walls, a small group of men could stand off an army while supplies held out.

  Rik glanced in the direction of the Lieutenant and could see that he was not the only one who had noticed this. Already Sardec was giving orders to Sergeant Hef and Corporal Toby. A moment later the big, blonde, ruddy-faced Corporal slid into the position where Rik, Weasel and the Barbarian lay.

  “Once the shooting starts we’re going to cross the ford and attack the manor house,” Toby said. “Over there — the overhanging trees will give us some shadow and some cover. The bastards have left the gate open so we’re going to grab it if we can.”

  Rik measured the distance. It seemed like madness to try and sweep by a large group of armed men and take the building, particularly when there were sentries on the wall. Sardec had thought of this too.

  “Weasel, reckon you can pick off those sentries?” Weasel sucked his teeth as he considered.

  “Yup. If the Barbarian and Halfbreed leave me their muskets I reckon I can get them one after the other, before the wankers know what’s going on. If one of this pair will reload for me I can pick off anybody else that sticks their head above the battlement.”

  “I don’t want to be your bloody loader,” said the Barbarian. “I want to fight.”

  “Give it a couple of minutes and there will be enough fighting to go round,” said Weasel. The Barbarian shook his head and laid a massive hand on the hilt of his hill-man fighting knife. “There’s killing to be done and I want to do it.”

  Corporal Toby looked at the pair of them. His blue eyes were cold. He did not have time for arguments. “You’ll get to use your shortsword, northman. Leave your musket here and join the assault party. Rik will do all the reloading. You don’t have any objections do you, Halfbreed?”

  His tone told Rik that he’d better not have. Rik nodded. It was a job that needed to be done and Weasel was the man to do it. He had been the runner up in the regimental shooting championship, and would have won it if he had not placed a bunch of secret bets on himself to lose.

  “Good,” Toby scuttled off along the ridgeline to gather the assault group. The Barbarian went with him, long- knife bare in his fist. Rik took out his cartridges, unclipped the ramrod from beneath the barrel of his musket and made ready.

  Weasel gave him a wink. “Spearing carp in a barrel,” he said. He raised his long gun to his shoulder and waited.

  A moment later, with a rumble like summer thunder, the Foragers opened fire. The densely packed band of men round the torture tree shrieked as musket balls ripped through them. Some fell, some turned, some threw themselves flat and were trampled. Drunk and surprised they had absolutely no idea what was going on. A very few, with some remaining presence of mind, reached for their muskets. The others milled and bleated like sheep in the pen of an abattoir.<
br />
  There was a loud bang and a puff of smoke from nearby. The sulphurous smell of powder smoke assaulted Rik’s nostrils. A man on the battlements fell. He handed his own loaded musket to Weasel, and held the Barbarian’s ready. There was another bang, and another man fell. He passed the third musket to Weasel and began to reload the first. There was another bang and the last sentry on the battlements fell.

  While this was going on, Corporal Toby and his assault group stormed round the enemy flank and headed for the river. The Foragers in the wood kept up a steady stream of fire. One man in the centre of the swirl of bodies began to bellow orders, and get the troops into some semblance of order. Weasel took the musket from Rik’s hands, twisted and fired. The would-be leader dropped.

  For the men under attack it was the last straw. Some dived for the undergrowth, some fled towards the river, some stuck their hands in the air and howled about surrender. The relentless barrage of fire from the woods continued, unabated, swift and professional. The Foragers were good shots and the enemy had no idea how many men attacked them. Right now, it would not have mattered. The enemy were in a panic, and had lost all discipline. Under the circumstances if they had outnumbered the Foragers ten to one they would not have stood their ground.

  Looking back at the building, Rik could see Corporal Toby and his men disappear through its gates. From inside came the sound of firing and the howls of the Barbarian’s battle cry. Weasel had transferred his gaze back to the structure’s walls.

  “Those men were idiots, Halfbreed,” he said. “They could have interrogated Kalmek in the building, and had walls around them. Instead they made a barbecue out of it. If the rest of the Kharadreans are like this, just the company of us could take this whole bloody country.”

  “I doubt the rest of the country will be,” said Rik.

  “I can dream, can’t I?”