William King: Death's Angels

“I hate those bastards. They think they are better than us just because their ears come to a point,” said the Barbarian. He chewed at the drooping strands of his long walrus moustache and glared at the scarlet-coated Terrarch courier striding away down the hill.

“No offence, Halfbreed,” the Barbarian added almost as an afterthought. He scratched his bald pate then ran his fingers through the fringe of long blonde hair surrounding it as if checking to see whether any had grown back since the last time he had done so.

“None taken,” Rik assured him. He was only nineteen years old and the Barbarian was pushing forty but that was his only advantage. Although he was tall, the Barbarian was a head taller still and almost twice as heavy. Most of that extra weight was muscle. On top of that the big man was the regimental bare-knuckle champion.

Leon gave Rik a supportive wink and then returned to packing his gear. As always, he had a clay pipe stuck jauntily in his mouth. It looked ludicrous when combined with his pinched street urchin’s features. Leon had watched his back since they were children in the rough streets of Sorrow, and Rik was glad of his presence now.

“They think they are better than you because they are immortal and wise and the chosen of God,” said Gunther, his lean face constricted with passion. “It is something you’d do well to remember.”

“If I hear one more word out of you about the chosen of your God, I’ll send you to him,” said the Barbarian. Gunther showed no fear. He was as tall as the Barbarian, and although much skinnier he had a wiry strength that made him a formidable fighter. And, of course, he had God on his side. He would need all the divine assistance he could get if he was going to fight with the Barbarian, Rik thought.

Toadface and Handsome Jan looked on with keen interest. Any moment now they would start making bets on the outcome of the fight. Toadface’s protuberant eyes bulged even more than usual now that he was excited. His long tongue licked his thick lips, making him look like a glutton contemplating a feast. Handsome Jan had stopped contemplating his profile in the shard of mirror he always carried, for a moment.

“You’d both better speak a bit lower,” said Sergeant Hef, moving between them. The top of his three-cornered hat only came up to the middle of the big men’s chests, but he had an undeniable authority. “If the pointy ears hear you, it’s a taste of the cat you’ll be getting.”

“Will it now?” said the Barbarian. “And do you think that bothers me?”

“It will if it happens,” said the Sergeant, sucking his teeth, his lined face and wrinkled expression making him look more like a monkey than ever.

"I am not one of you soft Southerners," The Barbarian said but his voice was softer now.

The Sergeant shook his head and went back to getting his gear in order in obedience to the lieutenant’s order. His long-barrelled rifle lay propped up on his rucksack.

“Have you so soon forgotten the last lashing you took?”

Rik doubted that anyone could forget a lashing. He would never forget the five lashes he had got a couple of months back, nor forgive Lieutenant Sardec for ordering it. The lick of the cat was not something that easily slipped from the mind.

The Barbarian put his finger in his mouth and became a study of a simple-minded attempt at remembrance. His blank-faced stupidity made everybody laugh, even the Sergeant, but it slipped no one’s mind that it had been less than a year since the Barbarian’s last encounter with the whipping post. He had been dragged away from that with his back bleeding, and barely conscious. The scars were visible when he took off his green tunic. He would carry them to the grave.

“I still hate the pointy eared bastards,” the Barbarian muttered. But of course he didn’t, not really, Rik thought. He disliked their Terrarch masters, resented their authority and power, and grumbled about it, but he did not truly hate them, not the way Rik did. Then again, the Terrarchs had not ruined the Barbarian’s life the way they had ruined his.

Rik hefted his heavy pack. The pot and cup and anything that might clank were wrapped inside his change of clothes. His greatcoat, not needed in the mild early spring weather, was rolled up and fastened to it by leather straps.

Before lifting the rifle he made sure all his pockets were full of wax paper cartridges, both pistols were in his belt and his tricorn hat was clamped down firmly on his head. Whatever had glory-mad Lieutenant Sardec so keen to get them out of camp was most likely not something to meet with unprepared. All the talk of war had everybody on edge, and they were far too close to the Kharadrean border for comfort. The flintlock felt reassuringly heavy in his hand.

Having made his point the Barbarian went about his business. He heaped what little gear he had into his pack and tested the heavy hill-man fighting knife he always carried on the air before sheathing it and picking up his own rifle. The knife was the size of a short-sword. The Barbarian was from Segard and like most of the denizens of his cold northern homeland he had little faith in gunpowder weapons. Having had his own share of misfires and damp powder during his four years with the army, Rik could understand that.

Off in the distance Corporal Toby bellowed orders to the rest of the Foragers. Since Toby’s speech was like an ordinary man’s shouting, the noise was not to be ignored.

“Old Toby surely likes the sound of his voice, doesn’t he?” muttered Leon, fitting his lucky goose’s feather into his tricorn the way he always did before action.

“He’s the only one,” said Rik. Leon’s laugh came out as small whistling noises vented through the pipe.

“Why is it always the poor bloody Foragers who get the hard work?” the Barbarian said.

“Because it’s our job,” said the Sergeant. “When you want rows of musketeers all marching in step you go to the line infantry; when you want things scouted it’s to the light companies you go. I would have thought that even you would have got that through your thick head by now.”

Sometimes the Sergeant took the Barbarian’s rhetorical questions too literally, Rik thought.

Soon, they had formed up in a line and were wending their way towards the great Redoubt. As they did so other squads joined them. All in all there were about ninety men, all light infantry and rangers: pretty much all the Foragers in camp at that time. Corporal Toby stood at the side of the path, his great chubby ruddy-cheeked face redder than ever as he checked off the name of every ragged-uniformed soldier who passed.

The camp was situated on a range of hills overlooking the town of Redtower. The great peaks of the Giant's Shield Mountains marched away north and south. From the hillside they had a good view of the town below and the open fields surrounding it. The great dragonspire of the Temple of the Terrarchs dominated the skyline. Leathery-skinned devilwings circled it on huge bat-like pinions, skimming over the red-tiled roofs to catch rats and pigeons and other prey in their long, serrated-toothed beaks.

All the flyers avoided the massive crimson tower of Lady Asea’s palace, as if afraid of it. They were probably right to be scared of that ancient structure. Most people were, even though the town took its name from it. They said the sorceress was two thousand years old, and steeped in sin. She was already ancient a thousand years ago when the Terrarchs conquered this world with their dragons and their wyrms, and she would probably live to see the end of it.