That certainly had been the way with him these past few days, although if truth be told, he had always known of the wickedness of certain of his actions, and there had been nothing circumspect about it.
He wondered whether his soul would writhe in an eternity of torments, consumed by the demons of shadow, but never fully dying. If he died here in these mountains, unblessed, he would find out for sure. It was just one more reason he had for not wanting to die.
Another was Rena. Having heard Weasel’s words he recognised the truth of them. He guessed he had always known it. He had just been hurt and angry and consumed with his jealousy and envy of Sardec. He wanted, if he could, to put matters right with Rena and restore her good opinion of him. That seemed very important now.
He saw movement on the mountainside above them. It looked like somebody was watching them. He whistled and shouted a warning. A few moments later a puff of smoke emerged from among the boulders above and a shot skittered off the stones near the pathway. The wyrm paused, its head swivelling to try and sight the threat.
Rik took careful aim and fired away, at just about the same time as Weasel did, at a spot about 100 yards up the hill. They heard a scream, followed by more shouts. The cloud of acrid smoke blocked out sight. Automatically Rik began to reload. He bit down on his cartridge, and the taste of saltpetre filled his mouth. He dropped it into the barrel, followed by the bullet, then he rammed both home with the rod he had unclipped from below the barrel. In the time he took to do this others fired, and more smoke billowed. The mahout drove the wyrm out of the cloud. Rik caught sight of figures loping up hill, taking advantage of cover. He fired again and missed.
The other soldiers blazed away. The wyrms moved out of the smoke clouds. Rik was not sure what the attackers had meant to achieve. Perhaps they thought the Foragers might panic and run, or they could spook the great beasts. Perhaps their hatred of the lowlanders had simply gotten the better of them. It did not matter now. Nothing human could live in the hail of lead that enveloped them.
Within minutes the hill-men were down, musket balls riddling their flesh. Great wyrms stalked towards their position.
“Steady, lads,” said Sergeant Hef. “Eyes peeled for ambush.”
“I thought we just had one,” said the Barbarian.
The bridgebacks reached the corpses. Warriors swarmed down from the howdahs, Rik among them. A quick inspection of the corpses showed him what had happened. The eyes staring sightlessly at the sky were set in unlined faces. The oldest could not have been more than fourteen.
“They were bloody kids,” said Weasel. “Must have been on a scouting expedition or something. Decided to take potshots at the foreigners. Silly bastards did not know any better.”
“Shooting them will have let everybody in the mountains know we are here,” said Rik. It was true. The thunder of musket shot had echoed down the valleys.
“They are food for the wyrms now,” said Hef. The crunching of bone and flesh told him the great beasts had started to feed.
“Let’s hope we’re not before this day is out,” said Rik.
Zarahel smiled as he caught the familiar stink from the newly re-opened entrance to the mine. The tunnel here was full of it. He turned to the tribesmen and spoke.
“You have done well. Soon you will be rewarded for your faith and your patience.”
They might have possessed both in abundance but their faces showed only unease. They would be happy to get out of this darkness as quickly as possible, and Zarahel would be happy for them to go. The sight of the blisters on his neck and hands might have made them uneasy as well. “You are dismissed. All except Bertragh. He will accompany me.”
The factor appeared quite as reluctant as the others to follow him, and Zarahel really did not blame him. The mine was unsafe here. That was not important. What was important was that Zarahel recognised this place and the way was open to the lair.
“Follow me,” he said to Bertragh, bowing his head as the ceiling lowered. “Try to keep up.”
The tunnel was long and narrow and there was a faint sheen of damp slime on the walls. Zarahel moved ever deeper into the gloom. Bertragh followed holding the lantern, moving cautiously down the rock-strewn corridor. A dank wind carrying a loathsome scent hit their nostrils. They proceeded ever deeper. Massive scuttling figures emerged from the gloom. Their carapaces were white. Zarahel almost understood the gibbering that emerged from the small octopoid heads set at the front of their long segmented bodies.
Bertragh gasped, overcome by what he saw. He fell to his knees almost weeping in terror. Triumph filled Zarahel. The guardians had come to greet him and lead him to his destiny. Flanked by Ultari, marched almost like a prisoner, they headed into what had once been the great underground city of the Spider God. He knew he was on his way now to awaken the god of his ancestors and restore their lost glory.
Rik drew his coat tighter about him, and adjusted his scarf. There was a tension in the air he had not felt before, a suggestion of strange unnatural forces gathering around them in the mountains. He told himself it was just his imagination, but he felt sure it was not. He felt he was being watched by thousands of invisible eyes.
He wondered at the fate that had drawn them back to this valley so soon after they had left it. He cursed the day they had taken those damn books. If they had not, none of this might have happened. They would have been back in camp, drilling and waiting for the war to start, not plodding on wyrmback through these accursed mountains.
“You’re very quiet, Rik,” said Leon. He took the pipe from his mouth, tamped in tobacco and put it back in place unlit. “Got something on your mind?”
“Just wondering why there are so many of us being sent out to guard Lady Asea. She looks capable of protecting herself.”
“I reckon it’s because she is one of the First,” said Sergeant Hef. “Make sure no hill-men have their evil way with her.”
“I wouldn’t mind having my evil way with her,” said the Barbarian.
“Why is she here? What is she looking for?”
“The Light sent her to guide us and watch over us,” said Gunther. Everybody ignored him.
“Who knows with the Exalted? Half the time I am not sure they know their own minds. How are we supposed to know what is going on with them.”
“You reckon we are heading back to the old mine?” the Barbarian asked. “This path looks awfully bloody familiar.”
“You just work that out?” asked Weasel.
Zarahel stood in the centre of the great hatching chamber. It was an awesome sight, just like the city had been. A massive pattern resembling an intricate swirling spider-web was laid in the centre of the floor. It centred on a thing that was part altar, part lectern and part statue of a monster Ultari. This was the place where he must perform the ritual.
His mind spun from what he had seen on his way here. The ancient city was coming to life. Some of the old living machines were working. Some of the guardians were mobile. Some of the sacrifices had already been reborn. Alzibar’s sorcery had worked to that extent at least. Things were prepared for the return of Uran Ultar. Once the ritual was complete the city would be restored to its former glory. The life force of the god would flood through everything and all the dormant power of the Elder race would wake.
He looked around. The walls were covered in masses of near translucent egg-like sacs. Within each, the outline of an Ultari was visible. He knew they were waiting only for the touch of their deity, a darker god by far than the one the Terrarchs worshipped, and one more likely to manifest his power in this world.
He smiled to himself, touched the jelly like integument of one of his blisters, placed the book on the altar and began.