William King - The Serpent Tower

“Fuck,” said the Barbarian. “A ripjack.”

“More than one,” said Weasel as an answering roar echoed through the woods. “And it’s caught our scent by the sound of it.”

All three of them bolted headlong through the woods. Behind them came the sound of men and wyrms in pursuit.

“You think they’ve got through, Sergeant?” Sardec asked. He looked down from the manor house’s wall, contemplating the fires that filled the night around them. There were a lot of them. He took another sip from the goblet of wine. It was bitter from the drugs the alchemists had given him to kill the pain of his stump. That still hurt even after all these weeks and all the spells of the Masters.

“I think so, sir. There’s no better man than Weasel in a wood. I reckon they are through.”

“Let’s hope so, Sergeant. There’s an army down there.”

“A small army, sir,” said Sergeant Hef.

“You’re right, Sergeant. What I can’t understand is why they haven’t attacked yet. It makes more sense to storm the place now. In the morning we’ll have a clear shot at them.”

“Maybe they want clear shots at us, sir. Maybe they have marched a long way and want rest. Maybe they are waiting for their cannon to come up.”

Sardec smiled at the small monkey faced man beside him. It had slowly been creeping up on him that he actually rather liked the Sergeant, in the same way he liked his hunting wyrms, of course. “If that was meant to reassure me, Sergeant, it did not do a very good job.”

“Just pointing out the options, sir. That’s my job.”

“You do it very well.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sardec noticed the Sergeant’s eyes flickering to the wine cup. He was wondering whether this sudden surge of affability in an officer was on account of the wine. Sardec wondered that too, but he already knew the answer.

“They don’t seem terribly well organised, do they Sergeant?” The enemy had made no attempt to fortify their position. They seemed to have posted very few pickets. The men had made camp wherever they felt like it as long as it was just out of musket shot. If he’d had a few more men, Sardec would have contemplated a night raid. A few grenades among those tightly packed fires and…

“They’re probably just local militia, sir, or farmboys fresh from some noble's estate. Some local lord raised a regiment and fancies himself a General. That’s always been the way of it in Kharadrea.”

“It wasn’t when Koth ran things,” said Sardec.

“No, sir, you’re right, but from what I’ve heard the Royal Army never was more than a small fraction of the troops in Kharadrea. The rest were levies.”

“Koth was from near these parts, Sergeant. Did you know that?” Sardec wondered whose banner fluttered over that central cluster of tents. He was sure he had seen the tall figures of Terrarchs mixing with the men.

“Started as a bandit in these very woods, if I recall correctly, worked his way up to chief warlord for King Orodruine.” Of course, the Sergeant knew about Koth. Every human soldier did. He was their idol. Sardec considered Koth’s career. The man had been born in a woodsman’s hut and had ended up humbling the best Generals of two kingdoms, Terrarch Generals with centuries of experience of war. How was that possible?

“Some men have a talent for war, sir,” said Sergeant Hef. Sardec was a little shocked. The drugs or the wine were more potent than he had thought. He had not realised he had been talking out loud.

“Well, hopefully, whoever is out there is not one of them,” he said.

“Hopefully, sir,” said Hef. He tried to sound enthusiastic but Sardec knew they were both thinking the same thing. It did not matter how incompetent the enemy commander down there was, or how unprofessional his troops. Sheer weight of numbers would overwhelm the Foragers when they attacked tomorrow. Sardec prayed to the Light that the three men the Sergeant had picked had managed to find their way through the enemy lines.

This old manor was strong; a fortified farmhouse with thick walls around it, designed to resist bandit attacks from the forest and the raiding soldiers of neighbouring lords. It was a product of the constant internecine warfare that had long plagued Kharadrea. Yes, it was a strong building.

Sardec just hoped the building was strong enough.

After what seemed like an eternity, the moon emerged from the clouds and shafts of light struck the earth through the foliage. By this time, Rik’s eyes were used to the gloom. The blindness was over. He could see. The woods shimmered in the moonglow. Large mushrooms thrust up through the mulch of leaves. The Barbarian and Weasel were goblin figures ahead of him.

The sound of pursuit came from behind them. Rik felt as if his chest was on fire. The wet clothes chafed his skin. He itched from mosquito bites. A new tone had entered the voices of wyrms. If Rik had not known better he would have said it was fear. He could hear men, trying to lash them on, but for some reason the ripjacks simply would not advance.

“What’s going on?” Rik asked.

“Don’t know,” said the Barbarian.

“There’s something strange about this place,” said Weasel. They stood in a large clearing beside a large almost perfectly circular lake. It was so mathematically symmetrical that Rik suspected it was artificial. Weasel pointed to a path winding its way through the trees.

It was unnaturally quiet here, and the trees had a queer warped twisted look. Mould clung to some of their branches. Old tales of the horrors to be met in woods after midnight leapt into his mind. It seemed they had been driven far from the path they wanted to take and into some place utterly different.

At that moment, the wind shifted and Rik caught the smell.

“What’s that stink?” he asked.

“Smells rotten,” said the Barbarian. Instinctively they moved closer together, forming up in a triangle so they could cover all the lines of approach.

At that moment, a faint glow started about twenty paces away. There was a greenish tinge to it. Rik felt a pricking on his skin.

A large creature stood in the centre of the glow. Rik felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. The thing was as bulky as the Barbarian but not as tall. It was longer and lower to the ground. It resembled nothing so much as a ripjack, but a ripjack with the proportions of a man. Its head was serpent-like. A massive tail rose behind it. Its skin was scaly. Its eyes bulged and were larger by far than a man’s. A long tongue whipped from its mouth and tasted the air. In its hands it held a serrated edged sword as long as a rifle, and vicious looking as hell. Tales of the ghosts of Serpent Men sprang to Rik’s mind.

“What the hell is that?” said the Barbarian. The thing stared at them across the clearing. Rik tensed expecting an attack. He glanced left and right wondering if this was a distraction meant to hold their attention while something else snuck up on them. He saw nothing, and heard nothing save the small night sounds of the forest.

“Who are you?” Rik asked.

“What are you?” The Barbarian sounded as if he were on the edge of berserk fury now. He had all the Northman’s primitive superstitions about the demons of the Elder World. Looking at this thing, Rik did not blame him.

“Serpent Man,” said Weasel. “Must be. Its people once lived in these parts.”

“They died out ages ago,” said Rik.

“Tell that to scaly over there. He’s the one you need to convince.”

“You think it’s a ghost then, Halfbreed?” said the Barbarian. The fear in his voice was even more evident. He sounded like he could not decide whether to charge at the thing or run screaming into the night. He was simply saying what they were all thinking.