William King - Shadowblood

"What the hell was that?" asked Lieutenant Sardec, startled by the sound of gunfire. Most of the Foragers dived for cover, muskets held ready to respond to an attack. Rubble from fire-damaged buildings blocked part of the street. Puddles of recent rain filled the holes in the cobbles. It was a good site for an ambush. This once-prosperous district of Halim was even more run down than the rest of the Kharadrean capital.

"Shots, sir," said Sergeant Hef, standing calmly upright. The monkey-faced little human was always calm, no matter what danger threatened. Sardec would have envied him that steadiness, had it not been ludicrous for a Terrarch to envy a man like Hef anything. Sardec’s tall inhumanly lean form as much as his officer’s red jacket marked him out as a target for any rebels, but he was unwilling to show less courage in front of his men than the Sergeant.

"I meant who is shooting and what are they shooting at?"

The staccato sound of musket fire sounded again. Someone screamed.

“Could be a trap, intended to lure us into an ambush.”

Sardec shook his head. “That does not seem very likely.”

“Then I suspect, sir, that the best way to find out would be to investigate.” Sardec returned the Sergeant’s grin. He and Hef had come to understand each other very well over the past year.

“Weasel! Barbarian! The pair of you scout ahead and see what’s up. The rest of you get up off your arses and get ready to fight. If any rebels are around here, they’re going to make you do it anyway — so best be ready.”

The massive human called the Barbarian rose to his feet and drew his long knife. He scratched his bald pate, picked up his fallen tricorne hat and slammed it back on his head. “Right you are, sir.” He moved off with a silence and speed surprising in so bulky a figure.

Tall, lanky Weasel, as ugly a man as Sardec had ever set eyes on, followed him, long musket at the ready, moving with even more stealth than the huge Northman. Sardec suspected the pair of almost every crime against regulations a man could commit but they were the best men he had when it came to this sort of street fighting.

The Barbarian stalked into position on the corner then gestured for the others to come forward. Sardec drew his pistol left-handed, cursing the wound that had cost him his right hand and the ability to wield a blade. His metal hook was a poor substitute when it came to close combat.

The rest of the crew, more than thirty ragged green-tunicked humans, picked themselves up and made ready to move out. There were a lot of new faces. Many of the men who had been with the regiment when Sardec joined were dead, casualties of their struggles with the Elder world demons beneath Achenar and last summer’s march through Kharadrea. Several more had lost their lives putting down riots in the aftermath of Queen Kathea’s assassination. They were sadly missed now.

Sardec reached the corner and stuck his head around. Less than a hundred yards away a group of elaborately robed Terrarchs fought with a horde of sinister figures. The attackers had been human before they had died, but now they were something else, creatures of the darkest sorcery, re-animated by the foulest of plagues.

“More bloody walking corpses,” muttered the Barbarian. “You’d think the graveyards would be empty by now.”

“Always more deaders about,” said Weasel. “It’s been a hard winter and there’s no end of famine and plague.”

“We’ve had hard winters before,” said the Barbarian. “Somehow the dead always managed to stay where we planted them.”

“They’ve not stayed down since the night Queen Kathea died,” said Weasel.

“Maybe we are accursed for that,” said the Barbarian. Sardec knew that the risen dead had nothing to do with any curse brought on by the murder of royalty. It had begun with Jaderac’s ritual to raise the dead and use them as an army against the Taloreans. It had continued with the plague winds that had blown out of the East since the start of spring.

“Right, lads,” he said. “Fix bayonets. Remember, knock the deaders down and crush their skulls, chop them limb from limb if you have to. Don’t let them bite you either.”

Almost immediately he wished he had not said that. It was a reminder that these unclean things spread plague, and it made the men nervous.

“What the hell…” The Barbarian shouted. The central Terrarch in the group under attack, white robed, head covered in a tall cowl, face masked in gold, had raised his hands. Flames licked around them, and yet the Terrarch was not consumed. His garments did not ignite. He reached out and touched the nearest animated corpse. Flames surrounded it, flickering a mixture of black and red and gold. The corpse tumbled backwards, limbs twitching, the blaze consuming it with mystical quickness. It shrivelled, blackened, turned to ash and began to flake away.

“The cleansing flame,” Sardec said, knowing only one type of Terrarch who could wield that power. “Forward, lads. Let’s not let the Inquisitor take all the glory.” That got the Foragers moving. None of them wanted to get on the bad side of an Inquisitor. For centuries the title had been a byword for terror among the humans.

They raced forward, bayonets fixed. The streets echoed with their battle cries as they hacked through the walking corpses.

Sardec flinched when he got to grips with the undead things. Their skin was grey and puffy, peeling away to reveal bone and tendon beneath. Strange witch-fires burned in their eyes. Maggots writhed in their rotting cheeks. Yellow teeth grinned from lipless mouths. Some wore tattered grave clothes, as ragged as their flesh. Others were naked. There were women and children. At least none of the deaders were Terrarchs. So far the plague of revenants appeared only to affect humans.

The creatures were slow but they were strong and they felt no pain. One reached for him with claw-like hands, nails long and sharp. Hunger burned in its eyes. It opened its mouth. No words emerged, only a hissing like a broken bellows. A draft of stinking air hit Sardec in the face, so corrupt that it made his stomach churn.

He slashed at the clutching hand with his hook, severing fingers, then placed his pistol against the thing’s chest and pulled the trigger. The force of the shot tumbled the revenant backwards. Sardec thrust his boot down on its throat, pinning it in place and shouted for one of the Foragers to smash the creature’s skull.

Ugly pock-marked little Toadface rushed forward and brought down his musket butt on the revenant’s head. An eye rolled from its socket, bits of brain oozing out. Toadface struck again and again, reducing the skull to mush. Still the thing kept moving. Sardec removed his boot. At least now it could not see, and had not even its previous rudimentary intelligence to guide it. Experience had shown that in a few minutes or hours it would lose all animation.

Flame erupted nearby. A wave of heat and the stink of burning flesh washed over Sardec. He looked around and found himself face to face with the cowled Terrarch he had seen earlier. The Inquisitor’s white robes were soiled with filth. Black blood and gobbets of flesh besmirched his gold mask. Flames danced around his hands. Looking closely Sardec could see they emerged from ancient jewelled gauntlets.

“Well met, Lieutenant,” the Inquisitor said in a voice that was rich and surprisingly good-humoured. “Your arrival is timely.”

As he spoke, he lunged forward, passing Sardec’s shoulder. A burst of heat told Sardec that the Inquisitor had dealt with a foe creeping up behind him. He returned the favour by grappling with the creature that made a grab for the newcomer. He had no sooner brought the creature down than the flame engulfed it. Sardec let go quickly, fearing to be burned. Somehow the flame did not singe him although he felt its heat.