Death's Angels Page 2

  “All right, men,” Sardec said, turning the word men into a sneer in the way only one of the Elder Race could. “Listen to me. We are heading out into the hills to catch some of the raiders that have plagued these lands. We’ve got word where we’re going to find them, and we’re going to take some and hang them from the trees as an example to their brethren. No more kidnappings. No more ambushes. No more travellers going missing.”

  He spoke loudly almost as if he hoped he would be overheard by hill tribe spies. That was typical of his vanity. Sardec probably thought mere word of his coming would send the tribesmen running in panic. No one said anything. The company had that much discipline in the presence of an Exalted, Foragers though they were, but a rustle of excitement passed along the line.

  Despite his pique over the punishment detail, Rik noticed Weasel stiffen a little - he suspected that, at least in part, the raiders had eluded the patrols for so long because of Weasel’s efforts and the Quartermaster’s, and maybe the Barbarian’s. If there was a dishonest penny to be made, Weasel would find a way to make it.

  Rik did not really blame him. All of them were dirt-poor, despised by the local farmers for stealing their sheep and their daughters, sometimes for the same purpose or so the farmers affected to believe. Until recently it had not mattered to any of them if the hill-men got away, just so long as they did not take any pot-shots at the patrols.

  To be honest Rik had the impression that the Terrarchs had not really cared all that much either. They all seemed to think the Regiment had been sent here for another purpose. It had not escaped anyone's notice that they had been billeted below the mouth of Broken Tooth Pass. Across the border lay Kharadrea and beyond that the ancient enemy, the Dark Empire of Sardea. For weeks there had been rumours going back and forth about their reasons for being there. Since the death of Lord Orodruine, the struggle for the Kharadrean succession had been bitter.

  Kharadrea had been a buffer between Talorea and the Dark Empire for over a hundred years. Before that it had been a battleground between the two warring factions of the Terrarch civil war for over five centuries. Now every peddler, every refugee and every mendicant monk brought stories that the regime in the East had been spending gold like water, seeking to bring Kharadrea under its wing, bribing voters in the Kharadrean parliament and paying for mercenaries to support their chosen contender.

  The Legion of Exiles, a deadly force of renegade Sardean nobles and sorcerers was said to be supporting Prince Khaldarus. The Queen of Talorea and her Council could not afford to allow a Blue ruler to come to the throne. With King Aquileus of Valon ever hungry for conquest on her western border, Queen Arielle could not afford to have Kharadrea fall to the Dark Empire. That would mean Blue nations on both borders, and a two front war against a pair of the strongest land powers on the Ascalean continent. It had always only been a matter of time before the drums rolled and the trumpets sounded. It looked like that time had come.

  Rik’s eyes were drawn to a small figure lurking in the door of the Inn. The Lieutenant beckoned to the man, who fell in beside him. The newcomer was armed with a very long barrelled musket, and dressed in the rough sheepskin jacket and fur hat of a mountain man. His trousers and scarf were of some blueish plaid. One thing was for sure, he was no soldier. He must be a local guide of some sort then. Perhaps the Terrarchs really were going to do something about the disappearances.

  In recent months it had not just been sheep and cattle that had gone missing, but children and solitary travellers. There had been no demands for ransom which made people uneasy. The old ways had died hard in the mountains, and there were said to be some who still followed the ancient ways of worship. The mountain men had been among the most fanatical worshippers of the old Demon Gods, and had never been fully converted. Recently there had been word of some new Prophet of the elder ways rising in the hills, stirring the tribes up to new heights of religious craziness.

  “This is Vosh. He is our guide,” said the Lieutenant. “Protect him with your lives.”

  Sure, we’ll do that, thought Rik. Like any Forager would risk his life for somebody not in the regiment, a hill-man in particular.

  The Lieutenant guided them and his new friend towards the wyrm corrals. Under the gaze of the other Exalted the squad remained silent. Privileged as the Foragers were, the Terrarchs would still take the cat to them if they thought them disrespectful, and no one could ever really be sure what one of the pointy ears would find an assault on his dignity.

  The dry reptilian odour of their skin and the odd acrid stink of wyrm dung smote Rik’s nostrils as they approached the lair. He felt himself grow tense as he usually did in their presence. Bridgebacks were far less given to sudden blind rages than their winged draconic cousins or even other wyrms like ripjacks or shieldhorns, but he found them terrifying enough in their own way. He had always thought it best to exercise a healthy caution in the presence of a creature that could squash him beneath its taloned foot.

  Each great scaly quadruped was as tall as a house. Their wedge-shaped heads were smaller in proportion to their bodies than a ripjack’s and their necks longer even than their upright hunting cousins. There was still a great deal of the dragon in them even if it was a dragon grown fat and slow and stupid. Their enormous beaked mouths, so like those of a snapping turtle, could take off a man’s limb as easily as a seamstress’s scissors snipped cloth.

  There were about twenty of the great wyrms in this corral. Some of the females in must were leagues away in a separate corral lest their scent get the males all upset and fighting. The others were out on patrol or had been loaned out to various local farmers for work clearing the land of tree stumps and such.

  The Queen’s army liked to keep its components busy, be they man, beast or Terrarch. And it liked those components to turn a profit if they could. It was an article of faith among the Supreme Command that war must finance itself. In peace too, an army must pay its way if it could. Of course most of the gold would find its way into the pockets of the officers but the Queen did not grudge them it. It helped pay for their fine scarlet uniforms and their truesilver blades.

  Lieutenant Sardec strode forward and lectured the mahouts. Sardec made a point of letting everybody know he came of old dragon-riding stock, lack a dragon though he currently might, so his manner was frosty.

  It appeared he was expected. Ten of the bridgebacks were ready, kneeling on all four great columnar legs, with howdahs strapped on their backs. The wyrm's heads turned to survey the Foragers as they approached. There was a strong suggestion of brute curiosity in their small reptilian eyes.

  As the men got closer one of wyrms hissed like a boiling kettle steaming on a fire. It made as if to rise, and some of the Foragers flinched back and raised their rifles. Bridgebacks had been known to run amok. One of the drivers said something in the low secret language of his caste. The wyrm subsided again, and became peaceful save for the way it tasted the air with its long flickering tongue. Occasionally it felt for its drivers face with it, and he let it do so with every sign of affection. Rik was not sure he could have stood that himself.

  “Mount up,” said the Lieutenant, and the soldiers swarmed up the rope ladders into the howdahs. Somehow a dozen got onto one wyrm and eight onto another and they spent a couple of minutes getting the numbers balanced while the drivers prepared their beasts for the off, snapping metal clips into place within the beast’s sensitive ear-holes. By pulling the reins attached to the ears and shouting commands they guided their massive charges to and fro.

  The noise of the bridgebacks was so loud it almost drowned out Corporal Toby’s shouts. Eventually all the mahouts had taken up their position on the high partially enclosed prow of the howdahs, screened off from the soldiers within by thick wooden walls designed to protect them from enemy fire.

  As they made ready to depart another figure appeared, one that Rik was not in the least glad to see. It was a Terrarch, dressed in a long jewel-buttoned red greatcoat, but even leaner an
d thinner than usual and with the top half of his face obscured by a moulded silver mask. Instead of having his white hair long and pigtailed, his head was shaven and tattooed with Elder Signs. They matched the inscribed bits of runestone that dangled from his neck and ears.

  “Looks like we got ourselves a wizard for company,” muttered the Barbarian, as the newcomer joined Sardec in his howdah. The rest of the men groaned almost audibly. “Master Severin is coming with us.”

  The mage’s presence made Rik nervous. He had his own secret reasons to fear them. Why was the wizard accompanying them? Mages usually did not go with patrols. They were too busy studying the stars, brewing spells and potions, and scaring the hell out of lesser mortals around camp.

  “Move out!” shouted Lieutenant Sardec.

  Chapter Two

  The lead mahout blew his signal horn. The drivers gave their strange hissing call and struck their beasts on the back of the neck with their pike-length staves. With a stomach-sickening lurch the bridgeback rose and Rik found himself twice the height of a man above the ground. He felt the usual moment of fear. Sometimes straps snapped or buckles on howdahs gave way and they tumbled to earth, leaving their contents to be trampled under the claws of the wyrms. Another prod, another hiss and the beasts strode towards the distant hills.

  Rik had heard a great deal about the sense of power being astride a bridgeback gave. It was nonsense. He felt very much at the mercy of the twenty ton creature carrying him. He had no control over the thing whatsoever, a fact brought home to him with every uncomfortable step. He felt like a sailor on the deck of a ship in a choppy sea.

  Occasionally the wyrm turned its long, long neck to look at the occupants of the howdah and he felt as if he was being weighed up as a snack. He could almost feel the hunger that burned like fire in the creature’s belly.

  He was embarrassed by the sense of relief he felt as it gave its attention back to the leaves of passing trees. Occasionally the huge tail whipped upward and long snakes of turd emerged. They turned into pungent pancakes as they smacked the ground. There was a lot of farting as well, which the Barbarian claimed was probably how alchemists produced the fatal gas they captured in their glass grenades. He should know, Rik thought, since he was a master producer of flatulence himself.

  As they marched he thought about how many people were misled by the great parades they saw in Place of Sorrow, Tower of Joy and other cities of the Realm. Like so many others he had always thought of wyrms as moving in lock-step like Guards on parade, disciplined as elite soldiers. He now knew that most of the time, those wyrms were controlled by Terrarch sorcerers using leashes, sorcerous adjuncts that allowed their wearer to dominate the beast by force of will.

  When under the direction of a mere mahout, a bridgeback’s progress was more like a meandering stroll. They left the track to seek choice morsels from the branches of nearby trees and returned to it only in response to a great deal of prodding, hissing and chanting by their drivers.

  Still, for all the maddeningly erratic nature of their progress, they moved very swiftly. The wyrms' long stride ate the ground quicker than guards marching at double step. The foothills of the mountains came closer with alarming speed.

  “This is the life,” said Weasel, fumbling in his pocket for a stick of biltong. The Lieutenant was far from their howdah, leading from the front as he always liked to do. With him were the wizard and Vosh. Rik shared the howdah with the Barbarian, Leon, Weasel and several others including the Sergeant. “No marching. No climbing any bloody hills. Just a nice, relaxing excursion into the countryside.”

  “You call these hills?” said the Barbarian. “In the Northlands we would call them molehills, just as we would call those things you say are mountains hillocks.”

  “Perhaps you would care to get down from the back of the beast and jog along beside us up them, as you were wont to do as a youth back in your rugged homeland?” said Leon in deliberate mockery of the Barbarian’s manner. The pipe had moved to the far left corner of his mouth and bobbed up and down cynically at every word.

  “They are not steep enough to give me any exercise.”

  “You’ll be getting exercise soon enough when we get where we are going,” said the Sergeant. They all looked at him, suspecting that, as he usually did, he had a better idea of what they were about than the rest of them.

  “What do you know, Sergeant?” asked Weasel. “Don’t keep us in the dark. Spill the beans! Who is the little rat up front?”

  The Sergeant gave one of his dry chuckles. A look of amusement made his little cheeks pinker and his small eyes even more monkey-like than usual. “You don’t think they have given us the use of their precious wyrms so that we can sample the fresh country air hereabouts, do you?”

  “You never know,” said Weasel. "The Exalted may be feeling generous today."

  “Why have they given us ten bridgebacks?” Rik asked.

  “To get us where we are supposed to go quickly, and it must be some distance away. Ask yourself why they send out a company of Foragers on wyrms into these hills? Ask yourself which direction we are heading?”

  “Towards the sun rise,” Rik said. “Towards the border.”

  “Nice to see you are awake, Halfbreed,” said the Sergeant.

  “You think there is going to be some incident with the Kharadreans?”

  “I don’t know, but something big is afoot. Vosh was brought to the Colonel in the wee hours, and the Lieutenant was rousted from his bed along with a few others. Look up ahead now, what do you see?”

  Even at this distance Rik could see Sardec was studying a map which he had produced from inside his tunic. The wizard leaned close to his shoulder and seemed to study it with him. The mountain man nodded his head as if in response to some question.

  “He’s looking at some sort of scroll,” said the Barbarian. “Is he going to work magic? I never knew the Lieutenant had that in him.”

  “It’s a map,” Rik said. “He’s checking where we are going.”

  Even as he said this, the Lieutenant leaned forward and said something to his driver. “We’re going a fair ways into the hills, or we would not be on these beasts,” he said.

  “You think we might be crossing the border?” Rik said.

  “I think we’re going near it.”

  “It’s probably bandits though,” Rik said. “Has to be. If it were anything else we would be moving in force.”

  “Most likely,” said the Sergeant with as much reluctance as if he suspected something else entirely. Visions of spies and secret missions and all manner of things from the cheapest form of storybooks danced through Rik’s head, but he dismissed them as just too fantastic.

  The Foragers discussed the matter in low whispered voices as the wyrms strode ever higher into the pine-covered hills until the shadow of the ancient mountains lay across them and chilled the heat of the sun.

  Spring in the mountains was like winter in the valley. Snow still covered the peaks. Sometimes it fell in light flakes driven from the higher valleys, and discomforted the wyrms. Doubtless they would have been worse tempered had they not been so sluggish from the chill.

  On the first night, the Foragers made camp in a hollow with the bridgebacks picketed to the trees and set sentries exactly as if they were in enemy territory. The hill-men of these parts had no love for soldiers of any sort, reckoning them all to be tax collectors or spies or thieves. In this they were not always incorrect, Rik supposed.

  While they made camp, the wizard set wards, the old rune-covered sort that dated from the arrival of the Elder Race on this world. Rik had plenty of time to witness the weaving of magic as he gathered firewood for the others. Cold hands and a sore back were the price he had to pay today for his missing button and his mixed blood.

  When Master Severin spoke the words to activate the ancient runestones a chill ran up Rik’s spine and a shiver passed through his body. He suspected that part of his heritage made him unduly sensitive to the presence of sorc
ery. It might have been his imagination but it seemed to him that the wizard turned and looked in his direction. The twilight and the mask made it impossible to tell his expression.

  Of all of the Foragers, only the Barbarian had grown less miserable as they reached the heights. The colder it got, the happier he looked. The chill air reminded him of the bracing cold of his beloved homeland, although of course, it was not to be compared in any way favourably to it. Rik suspected the Barbarian merely took pleasure in the fact the rest of them were uncomfortable. It provided him with a chance to boast loud and long about the hardihood of his people and, more importantly, himself.

  Those not on sentry duty wrapped themselves in their greatcoats, broke out pipes and threw themselves down by the fires. Most chewed tough biltong. Weasel toasted some rock hard bread on the end of his bayonet. They had set fires in hollows in the woods. Rik dumped the last of the branches he had gathered beside the fire and slumped down to rest.

  Corporal Toby strode to the fire. Rik looked up at him. From this angle his craggy features and huge body looked even more monumental. “You dropped this,” he said in a voice only slightly less loud than a musket being fired. He handed Rik something and then strode off. Rik looked at the small cold metal object in his palm. It was a tunic button. “Thanks,” he said to the departing back.

  He opened his pack and fumbled through it looking for a needle and thread, then, despite the chill, he took off his tunic, wrapped his greatcoat back around him and, by the fire’s flickering light, began to sew.

  Leon sat across from him, an odd look on his face as he surveyed their surroundings. He looked out of place and wary, a city boy from Sorrow, the night out of doors in this chill place making him uncomfortable. He caught Rik’s expression and said; “Not like night in the Old Quarter is it?”