William King - Death's Angels

“Nothing,” Rik said. “I thought I saw something, but it was nothing.”

The others slumped back against the howdah walls.

They passed a number of small ruined buildings. Some seemed almost like outcrops of stone. Only when he looked closely could he see that the moss-covered blocks had been dressed and shaped. Nonetheless, had they been roofed over they would have been inhabitable, if anyone could have faced the bleak prospect of living in these mountains.

Rik wondered aloud why some poor crofters had not taken them. He had caught enough glimpses of wild sheep and goats on the hillsides to know a living could be eked out here by someone hardy enough.

“Shows what you know,” said Weasel, spitting over the side of the howdah.

“Something you want to tell me, Weasel,” Rik said.

“It’s the feuds. When clans up here feel they have a grudge, they get together and burn out their neighbours.”

That would explain the old scorch marks on the ruins, Rik supposed. Weasel was in full flow now: “And of course when the burned out’s kin find out, they retaliate. And that leads to more burning, and more retaliation, till pretty soon everybody hates everybody else. That’s why there’s so many ruins. A man could make a fortune selling powder and ammunition up here.”

“Is that what you and the Quartermaster been up to then? I was wondering.”

“Hush, lad,” said Weasel. His grin looked a little pained.

“You’d think life would be hard enough up here without them making it harder,” said Leon. He chewed his empty pipe a bit more intently to aid his thoughts. A look of child-like seriousness passed over his face as he concentrated.

“You call this hard,” said the Barbarian. “You have never been to the Northlands of Segard.”

“It’s been my experience that people can always find a way to make things more difficult for themselves,” said the Sergeant.

“Godless heathens,” added Gunther with some venom.

“It’s endless war up here,” said Weasel, not without a certain gloomy satisfaction. “There’s only two things as can make the clans forget their feuds and band together.”

“And what would they be?” asked Pigeon, rather foolishly, Rik thought.

“Banditry. They like to get together and raid the caravans in the pass, and the farmers in the valleys.”

“And don’t we get blamed for enough of that,” said the Barbarian, somewhat too sourly for a man who had done his fair share of rustling. Weasel sucked his teeth and nodded his agreement.

“Lawless heathens,” said Gunther.

“They’re actually pretty god-fearing,” said Weasel, just to be argumentative. “One of the clans, the Malarceans even gave shelter to a Prophet of the Light. That’s how they got the name. They took his…”

“And look how they have disgraced it since…”

“What would be the other thing that unites these wild hill-men?” asked the sergeant, asking the question to change the subject and forestall an argument.

“The sight of a whole bunch of the Queen’s soldiers parading through their land.”

“It’s the Queen’s land,” said Gunther.

“At least as much of it as is on her side of the border,” Rik said, giving his attention back to their surroundings. He had already known the hill-men could be hostile, but Weasel had given his fears expression and put his nerves on edge.

“You will get no argument from me,” said Weasel. “The problem is they think we’re tax collectors or from the Estates.”

It had not been unknown for the Terrarchs to use their military connections to get the army to clear humans off freehold land they coveted. Such a thing had not happened since the Small Revolution, as the laws passed then had given humans some rights to their property, but the hill-men had long memories and little education. Rik could not see them reading any of the broadsheets.

“Who would want this land?” said the Sergeant mockingly.

“Sheep,” said Weasel.

“I don’t think our Exalted lords and masters would take kindly to hearing themselves described as such,” said Leon.

“I meant they would put sheep on the land. Textiles is big business, especially now. Who makes all our pretty uniforms? Who gets the profit of it? Remember — there is a war coming.”

“The Exalted are not to be compared to money grubbing human merchants,” said Gunther.

“Strange that for people who care nothing about money they should have so much of it,” said Weasel. "Maybe that's the secret."

“You talk like an Insurrectionary,” said Gunther.

“Not at all. I am merely making an observation. God knows I’ve put down enough revolutionists in my time.”

All of which was true, but Rik could not help but think Weasel had a sneaking sympathy for the revolutionaries. They all did. Most men wondered what it would be like to be masters of their own world once more. Surely the Dark Ages before the Terrarchs came had been terrible, at least according to the Terrarchs, but men had been free.

Rik shook his head at that folly. They had not been free. They had merely bowed their heads before different and darker gods. And there had been rulers then too, priests and kings. There would always be rulers and ruled, rich and poor. There always had been. There always would.

It is the way of the world, he thought. God likes order. He likes hierarchy. Only fools believed the Liberator would come and that men would be free. But there had been progress, another part of him argued. The Schism had ended most forms of serfdom in the Scarlet Realms. Men did have a voice in the councils of the great, albeit not a very loud one. The Queen had guaranteed the property rights of humans. Some humans had even become rich working in trade. Lickspittles and toadies, the lot of them, he thought sourly.

The signal to halt interrupted his reverie. The wyrms stopped. It seemed like they had arrived wherever they were supposed to go.

They stood to attention in the watery late afternoon sunlight and waited for the Lieutenant to explain the plan.

“Now, men,” Sardec said. Again, he made the word sound like it was the worst possible insult. “We have business.”

A bridgeback gave out a rumbling belch. Sardec glared at it as if he was going to order the beast flogged. Nobody laughed. The Lieutenant walked up and down the line, his hands behind his back. He paused in front of Rik and looked almost disappointed to see all the requisite buttons present on his tunic. The wizard looked on behind Sardec, his silver-masked head cocked to one side, conveying an air of patronising amusement.

Vosh, the mountain man, looked nervous as Rik supposed he had every reason to be. He would have a whole lot of upset kinfolk down on him if he were spotted with the Terrarch’s soldiery.

The Foragers were keen to hear exactly why they had been dragged up these God-benighted, freezing mountains. They were even keener to know when they would get the business over and get out again.

“We know bandits have based themselves up here. We know they have eluded you for some time,” Sardec said. That you was a nice touch, Rik thought. It showed that their Terrarch leaders had nothing to do with the failures of mere humans. It told them that things were going to go differently now one of the Lords of Creation had taken a hand. “We know also they have made a pact with a sorcerer of the darkest type.”

He paused to give that time to sink in. Rik saw several men go pale and not a few shudder. Everybody made the Elder Sign against evil with their right hand. He looked at their own wizard’s impassive, partially masked face. Fight magic with magic was one of the oldest rules of warfare.

It certainly explained why scryers could never find the Prophet’s men. If they had a wizard shielding them, they would not be easy to view. Of course, that begged several other questions. For instance, what was a mage doing in this god forsaken place, and why had he aligned himself with the local riffraff?