The press of the melee forced him away from the rifle. He drew one of his own pistols and unloaded it into the face of a man charging at him. He saw bits of bone and brain fly everywhere for an instant then a cloud of acrid smoke enveloped the scene. He flipped the pistol into the air, caught it by the still warm barrel and used it to club the nearest hill-man.
A few heartbeats later the room was cleared. The only foes present were the dead and wounded. Already Weasel and the Barbarian, with their usual presence of mind, were stripping the corpses of anything valuable, stuffing pouches into their britches for later inspection, grabbing any weapons that looked serviceable.
The rest of the squad began to do the same. Rik reclaimed his rifle from Pigeon who seemed inclined to call it the spoils of war, until Rik pointed to his mark carved into the butt. The Sergeant watched the operation with an eagle eye. He would claim his share later. Not even Weasel and the Barbarian would try and cheat him.
Rik cursed because he was too late to stake any claim. The bloodlust and the fear had gotten to him. Hopefully, he thought, there would be more. The sounds of fighting echoed all around him. He noticed the Sergeant’s eye was on him.
“What?” he said.
“Looks like it’s all over here.”
“So?”
“Not exactly a hard fought encounter, was it?”
“Speak for yourself. I was leading this assault, remember? One of those bastards almost killed me.”
“I mean considering these are the bodyguards of a dark sorcerer and a renegade prophet.”
Rik noticed that the others were listening now, even as they thrust stuff into their packs. It was down to soiled blankets and clothing now. Well, you never knew when those might prove useful. “Maybe we should be grateful for that.”
“Maybe we should consider where the wizard keeps his treasure,” said Weasel.
“There’s that, certainly,” said the Sergeant.
“Most likely cursed,” said the Barbarian. He had a justifiable fear of the dark arts.
“Pass on the curse when you spend the treasure,” said Weasel attempting more cheerfulness than he appeared to feel. The atmosphere in the room had changed now, Rik noticed. The stillness of death had settled on it, and a kind of clammy fear. It was amazing how quickly it happened. If one of them bolted for the door, the rest of them would follow.
The Lieutenant appeared. Vosh was with him. Master Severin was not. Sardec did not look pleased. From outside came the bellowing of wyrms. The sounds of combat had died down around the building now. It looked like the Foragers had won, and scored an easy victory too. Vosh avoided the glances of the prisoners being dragged outside. They spat when they saw him until cuffed into sullen silence by the Foragers.
Sardec glanced in through the doorway, did not appear to find what he was looking for, and then moved on. Vosh disappeared along with the Lieutenant.
“They are all dead,” said the Barbarian. “Every last bloody one of them.”
They were all appalled by what they had found in this one room. The Crimson Shadows had entered through the chimney and emerged from the fireplace. Corpses filled the chamber, not one of them killed by any human agency.
Rik inspected another body, that of a grizzled oldster, long bearded, lined of face. His eyes and mouth were wide. His tongue protruded. A faint trickle of blood stained the corners of his lips and his nostrils. His skin had an odd pinkish tinge, like that of a man who had spent too long in a very hot bath, except that the discolouration showed no signs of fading. Rik prodded the body with his boot, not wanting to touch it with the flesh of his own hands, in case somehow, death should prove contagious.
The mansion had been filled with armed men. Aside from a few who had survived the massacre on the lower floor not a single one of them remained alive. Most had died by sorcery. The Crimson Shadows had sucked the life out of them. Why had they taken some and not others? There did not seem to be any logic to it.
Revulsion twisted Rik’s stomach as he looked at this evidence of uncanny magic, revulsion and something else. Here was a type of power he had always coveted.
Would he really want power like this? No, shrieked most of his being. But in one small, sick, ambitious corner of his mind, he knew the answer was yes. To have such power, even at peril of his soul, would be an awesome thing.
The squad fell to discussing their spoils. As ever they were not nearly enough for the risks run. A few minutes later, Sardec returned. His face was icy calm, a sure sign that the Terrarch was enraged. The soldiers all shrank away from him, even the Barbarian. Rik fought to stop himself from flinching. He would be the most likely butt of the Lieutenant’s anger.
“No wizard,” he said, giving the guide a glare. “No Zarahel — just a bunch of stinking tribesmen.”
“He was here, master,” said Vosh. “They both were.”
“You swore they would be here,” said the Lieutenant.
“Maybe they are nearby. Maybe they are in the mine.”
“The mine? Where is it?”
“The shaft in the hillside. The sorcerer had it dug. God only knows why. The place is haunted.”
“Maybe that was why they were interested in it,” said Sardec. “Why did you not mention they could be there before?”
“Why should I have? They were here. They were always here at night.”
“Well, they quite plainly are not now. Maybe they got wind of our coming. How far to this mine?”
“It’s on the hillside above us. I will take you there in the morning.”
“Our friends could be leagues away by then.”
“Aye, master, they could, but in that case tracking them will be easier by daylight.”
Sardec looked as if he might strike the man for a moment, but then took a deep breath and spoke, “Sergeant! Begin clearing these corpses from the house. May as well give the wyrms something to eat. You!” he pointed directly at Rik. “See that they are fed.”
No one complained. It would be easier work than building a pyre.
Rik watched snowflakes fall onto the lake. Nearby the wyrms waited. He wondered whether it was just his imagination or whether they had oddly replete expressions on their faces. The other Foragers were inside wrapped in their blankets against the cold. The Lieutenant was upstairs. He had summoned Weasel to interrogate the prisoners, a task for which the poacher had a talent and which he performed with no particular gentleness.
The screams had made sleep difficult to come by for some time. Rik wondered what Sardec had found out. Doubtless the Lieutenant would choose to share his discoveries in his own sweet time. And if he would not, Weasel would, if he had not figured out some way to profit from the situation.
The groans of the wounded were not conducive to rest. Casualties had been light but still there were some. There always were. And at the moment the dazed looking Master Severin seemed in no condition to heal them.
Some of the few surviving hill-men were wounded too but they either shut up or were put out of their misery. The Foragers did not have a lot of sympathy for the hill tribes. They’d heard too many of the stories of what the mountain men did to soldiers they captured. Woe to the vanquished indeed, thought Rik.
He had volunteered to swap Pigeon this watch because he wanted time to think. He needed less sleep than normal men anyway, and it was a favour Pigeon would owe him.
What he thought about mostly were the Crimson Shadows. It was the first time he had witnessed such a wholesale use of devastating magical power from so close a range.
It showed him how the Terrarchs could dominate a civilisation where men outnumbered them a hundred to one. He thought about the corpses of those who died from the Shadows’ attack, their skins stained a strange red, blood running from their noses and the corners of their mouth. The Shadows were a lesson to those who opposed the Terrarchs as well as a weapon.