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.
Chapter Five
Rik ran along the corridor, expecting at any moment to feel a musket ball blast through his flesh. Dead bodies sprawled everywhere, their flesh stained a strange vivid crimson.
He kicked a door. It crashed open. Scared and panicked hill-men filled the room. They had long beards and drooping greasy moustaches and were garbed in sheepskin jackets and plaid trews. All of them bore a family resemblance. There was a strange inbred look to the lot of them that Rik found disturbing. Some bore tattoos with spider patterns on their faces and arms; others had webs inked on their flesh. Maybe they had something to do with the fact that the Crimson Shadows had missed this room.
Several of them held weapons. One of them raised a pistol to fire.
Rik charged forward spearing the would-be shooter on his bayonet. The blade pierced flesh and scraped against the stone wall as it passed right through the body. The hill-man screamed. His limbs thrashed. Rik drew his bayonet free and slashed the throat of another man as he reached for the fallen pistol. Blood gushed forth, covering the man’s sheepskin jacket.
“Wait! I surrender! Don’t kill me,” someone shrieked. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”
Rik lunged at him, cutting his face with the bayonet. All was madness and confusion. The smell of blood and faeces filled the air. Screams and the thunder of musketry in a confined space echoed through the building.
Although it has been cold outside, Rik felt unaccountably warm. He stabbed at another man who grabbed the barrel of his rifle and tried to twist it from his grip. Rik wrestled with him. He had time to notice the man’s scarred face, and the great veins standing in his neck before the Barbarian passed his big knife through the body, and the hill-man dropped to the ground, gurgling and taking Rik’s rifle with him.