Death's Angels tc-1

by William King

  He opened the letter from his sister next. It contained some news of her studies at the College of Magisters, and a warning concerning the portents all the fashionable astrologers were discovering. It seemed now was a particularly dark and threatening time for the Realm, and for their House, and for him as well by all accounts. His stars had entered a particularly ominous house. His recent encounter with the spider demons seemed to confirm the truth of that, at least.

  It mentioned that her spell-craft was advancing with great speed, although the same could be said of all members of her class, so she felt no great pride in the matter. That was odd, Sardec thought. Although sorcery had never been his forte he had been given to understand that in recent generations the aptitude of Terrarch wizards had been greatly lessened. Certainly the older Terrarchs always managed to give that impression. Perhaps, this was just a particularly gifted crop of new mages, or perhaps it was an omen too, like the dragons, that the good old times were returning.

  Elena went on to tell him all the family gossip that his father would not. His youngest sister Mariel was apparently still causing a scandal among the youths of the capital which, considering the decadence of the place, spoke of quite a talent for it. Elena concluded with a few enquiries about his health and his career, and he made a note to answer them as quickly as he could.

  He summoned a servant and wrote a note to the Lady Asea requesting permission to call on her, and then made ready for bed. His head hurt and Mourning Time was not the time to go back to losing money at cards to his brother officers.

  From downstairs he could hear the sound of chamber music. Some of them were playing instruments as others played cards. The likes of Jazeray and Paulus and Marcus would be drinking and joking and getting ready to visit the brothels of the town. Not for them the contemplation of the mighty deeds of their forefathers at this most significant of times. Sardec felt they were symbolic of how far his people had fallen. Still, if he was honest with himself, he admitted that he found that thought of the bawdy houses contained a certain piquancy, but now was not the time for it.

  He opened the Book of Prophets and read several pages about the Last Days of Al’ Terra before he fell asleep. His dreams were troubled and whispered of cataclysm. In many of them, strange spidery demons gnawed at the roots of the world.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “It took long enough,” said the Barbarian watching Weasel emerge from the Quartermaster’s tent with the papers clutched in his hand.

  “But it’s done,” said Weasel with some satisfaction, brandishing a handful of signed chits. “I got the passes.”

  Rik was impressed. For several days there it looked like they were not going to get out of camp at all. The rumours of the appearance of the new commander appeared to have put all the Terrarchs on their mettle. There had been plenty of spit and polish, plenty of mock assaults, plenty of bayonet practice even for the Foragers.

  It all seemed designed to keep the men too tired to work or worry about their lack of time off. Every night since their return had seen them turn in at the first drum roll. Their rations had consisted of bread and water and hard cheese. It was the Mourning Time, and the humans were being made to suffer through it just as much as the Exalted. So far Rik had not even found much time to look at the books. He had been so tired that he had most often fallen asleep after the drum sounded. Curiosity burned within him but he had not found the means of satisfying it.

  “How did you get them?” Leon asked. His pipe was back in his mouth. It was still unlit as he chewed away at the stem. Weasel gave him a disparaging look.

  “You should know better than ask such questions. All you need know is that we have passes with Lieutenant Jazeray’s signature on them, stamped with the regimental seal. And you can show your gratitude by buying me beer all night.”

  Rik wondered what sort of hold the Quartermaster could have on Lieutenant Jazeray. Rumour had it the Terrarch numbered a passion for gambling among his several vices. He had run up debts. The Quartermaster would be quick to take advantage of those. Rik wondered at his using up some of his influence just to get them a pass. Perhaps he owed Weasel a favour. Maybe it was some sort of reward. Every man who had got a pass had done something for the Quartermaster in the past.

  As they walked towards the edge of the camp, Weasel took Rik aside and whispered, “I have found some leads on selling the books, Halfbreed.”

  Rik looked at him in shock. “You sure that’s wise?”

  “The Inquisition are starting to interrogate the hill-men we brought in. The sooner we get rid of the things, the happier I will be.”

  Rik could find no way to disagree with that statement but inside he was reeling. He had hoped to hold on to the books for at least the coming campaign and to have time to study them and divine their secrets. It seemed the poacher had other ideas. Rik considered his response carefully. He did not want to give Weasel any idea of his real thoughts.

  “Who is it?”

  “I will be talking to some guys tonight, in Mama Horne’s. I’ll have a better idea then.”

  “So nothing is certain yet?”

  “Not yet. But who knows, we might get them off our hands in the next few days. They are starting to make me feel damn uncomfortable.”

  That was quite an admission for Weasel to make. As far as Rik knew he was utterly fearless. If Weasel was uneasy, maybe he should be terrified, he thought.

  Part of him wondered if there was some way to keep his partners from selling the books, at least until he was done with them. Part of him felt like a traitor for even considering such a thing. Could he really put his own dark interests before that of his friends?

  He already knew the answer to that.

  Rik, Weasel and the Barbarian hitched a ride on one of the supply carts going to Redtower. The carter had just come from hiring on and seemed well pleased with the prospect of renting his vehicle for the campaign season. He was just one of many. Even a small army on the move took a lot of provisioning.

  Leon joined them at the edge of the camp along with Hopper, Toadface and Handsome Jan. In addition to the passes, Weasel had managed to get an advance from the Quartermaster at reasonable interest, against the gold piece they had been promised for the head of the wizard by Master Severin. It seemed the wizard's debt would be honoured by his estate.

  It was time for a big night on the town. After all, if the Regiment was moving out they might not get another one. In the distance the beacon atop the temple’s dragonspire lit the sky over the town. The glowing windows of Lady Asea’s palace rose almost as high, and gave the monstrous red tower a brooding presence that seemed to challenge that of the temple.

  As the cart rattled along the muddy road Handsome Jan preened himself.

  “You smell like a whorehouse tart,” said Weasel. The cologne Jan used was almost as overpowering as Toadface’s body odour.

  “It gets me the women,” said Handsome Jan complacently. “They love it.”

  “That’s because they think you are one of them and want to be your friend.”

  “You’re just jealous of my success with the ladies.”

  Weasel laughed. Oddly enough for such an ugly man he was amazingly popular with the tavern girls when he wanted to be. The Barbarian shook his head and said; “Jealous of you? The girls will take one look at my manly form and pass you effete southerners by.”

  No one disagreed. Arguing with the Barbarian could be dangerous. His moods changed unpredictably. Rik suspected that the enormous quantities of alcohol he consumed had something to do with it.

  “I know I am going to find me a woman tonight,” said Handsome Jan.

  “You’ll be followed home by sailors,” said Weasel. “Wearing that stuff.”

  “We’re a long way from the sea,” said the Barbarian, getting the wrong end of the stick as usual.

  “The ladies love it,” said Handsome Jan. He paused to admire his profile in his bit of broken mirror.

  “I can touch my nose w
ith my tongue,” said Toadface. He did it just to prove his point. “The ladies love that as well.”

  “That was an image I could have lived without having in my head,” said Rik.

  “I hear that our new General will arrive soon,” said Leon.

  “You and the rest of the camp,” said Toadface cheerily. His nature was almost as pleasant as his face was ugly.

  “They say it’s Lord Azaar.”

  Rik had heard that too. It had spread round the camp like wildfire. That sort of thing always did. Azaar had been the main slaughterer of the human tribes during the Conquest. He had been feared almost as much as the Old Queen and he had been just as famous. His name was part of ancient legend. Mothers would terrify naughty children with it.

  “Why would the Lord of Battles be sent here?”

  “In order to lead us to inevitable victory, I imagine,” said Weasel sardonically.

  “He’s not taken to the field since the Schism,” said Rik.

  “You know what the Exalted are like, Rik, bone bloody idle,” said Weasel.

  “That’s over a century ago,” said Rik.

  “I rest my case.”

  “He must be over a thousand years old. Maybe older. He was one of those who came here from the Eternal Realm. The First they call themselves.”

  “I hope he’s not senile,” said Weasel.

  The Barbarian shook his head and said, “A thousand years, think about it. A thousand years of drinking and eating and whoring. I think I would like to live forever.”

  “Perhaps you would get tired of it,” said Leon.

  “Speak for yourself.” The cart hit a bump in the road and began to tip over sideways. They all shifted their weight to keep it steady. No one wanted to be tipped through the hedge and into a ditch. They were silent for a few minutes, each man lost in private contemplation.

  “You really think it’s him,” asked Leon. “The Lord of Battles, I mean, not just somebody else with the same name. It might be his son or one of his family.”

  “Never heard of any other General by that name,” said Weasel.

  “Nor me,” said Rik. “Must be something pretty special happening if they are bringing that bloodthirsty old cripple out of retirement.”

  “Think there’ll be a lot of plunder on this campaign then, Weasel?” asked Toadface.

  “There always is if you just know where to look. Stick with me, boys, and you’ll be rich yet.”

  “Just like you are,” said Rik sourly. He was annoyed about Weasel’s plan to sell the books, and his anger was finding its way into his speech. Be calm, he told himself. You don’t want Weasel getting suspicious of you at this stage.

  “The taxes on my estates cost me a lot of money,” said Weasel with a grin.

  “I can think of something else that will be taxing us in half an hour,” said Hopper gloomily. “The excise man when we buy a barrel of Morven Rose.”

  As they approached the town, fetid slums surrounded them, cheap, jerry built tenements that looked like they could be pushed over by a strong breeze. Rik reckoned they were just like their equivalent in Sorrow, full of peasants thrown off their freeholds by the enclosures on the great estates.

  Lots of lean and hungry people in threadbare clothes stared at them as if they might represent a meal. Here and there a few tatty black Mourning flags dangled on clothes lines strung between buildings. Most of the shops were tiny cave-like things in the fronts of the tenements, selling second hand clothes, cheap foods, watered ale, matches, firewood, and the other necessities of life for those who could afford them.

  Rik felt momentary unease. Soldiers were not always popular in the slums of Sorrow. Folk had long memories of riots being put down. No one here, though, had any recent memories of such things and were just glad to see someone spending.

  People filled the streets. It was their playground, their living room and their theatre, all the entertainment most of them would ever get or could ever afford. Young couples walked together, arms linked, the girls with Mourning Time black ribbons in their hair, the boys wearing their temple best jackets and black armbands.

  A daring showman played his accordion while a small and mangy bear did a lumbering shuffle that was meant to be a dance. Puppeteers put on shows by lantern light. Pie-sellers pushed forward the trays dangling from their necks, hoping to convince the short sighted to buy their filthy wares. Old women smoked pipes and gossiped on tenement steps. Drunks lay in the gutter while ragged children went through their pockets and then skipped away. Rouged women thrust their hips at strangers and sometimes disappeared hand in hand with them down shadowy alleys.

  “It’s nice to see the common folk taking Mourning Time so seriously,” said Weasel.

  Rik was not so sure he had good reason to be cynical. If you looked closely you could see that there were people in their best clothes heading to temple, and there were as many buyers for religious tracts and prayer crystals as for liquor bottles and pies. The theatres were ostentatiously closed, their doors sealed with ribbons of black cloth. Their managers sat gloomily by the doors, lest someone should steal even this. Some mothers were hustling their children indoors and hushing them.

  Still things had changed. Rik could remember the Old Witch talking about her youth, when humans had to be silent all day during Mourning Time, and indoors all night unless they got special dispensation from a priest. Watchmen had enforced that law, and the stocks and whipping posts had been full of those stupid enough to disobey. There were some that saw such things as proof that the world was getting worse. Rik thought that it meant it was in some ways getting better.

  He found himself relaxing a little. There was something about these streets that reminded him of Sorrow. It was the bustle and the commerce and all the little details of street life; the lanterns dangling on brass arms from street corners and in shop windows; the link boys with their sputtering torches leading wealthier citizens home. Merchant’s palanquins and their escorts of bully boys shoved their way through the throngs. And of course there was the constant singing of drunks and glee clubs and beggars trying to earn a copper. The scent of open sewers and incense and cheap perfume battled with the smell of pies and wine in his nostrils.

  He saw a young woman inspecting a dress inside a second hand shop, holding it up to her bosom. Closer inspection showed it to be a Terrarch officer’s dress coat too narrow at the shoulders for a man, but just right for a tall girl. She caught his glance, looked modestly away and then looked up again just to make sure he was still looking, by which time the cart had moved on.

  Other things reminded him of Sorrow. The hulking bruisers who lounged in doorways and alley mouths and studied passers by the way wolves studied herds of cattle looking for the weak ones. One of them saw him looking and glared and Rik was suddenly glad he had a loaded pistol thrust in his belt and a knife in his boot. Beside him the Barbarian caught the glance and thought it was meant for him.

  “You looking at me?” he shouted. “Or are you chewing a brick? Either way you will lose some teeth.”

  It was an old favourite line of his and he shouted it with obvious relish. Taking in the Barbarian’s size and obvious confidence, the bruiser spat on the muddy street and disappeared up a side alley into a courtyard. Rik put his hand on the Barbarian’s shoulder and whispered the magic word beer to restrain him.

  The cart carried them through the gates in the old walls of Redtower. Watchmen checked the driver’s pass, and inspected the soldiers sullenly.

  “Regimental business, for the Quartermaster,” said Weasel. The old Sergeant of the watch said something to the others in a low voice and they were let pass without further challenge. The Quartermaster’s name was always a talisman. He had his finger in most of the criminal pies in town.

  Tall, old buildings leaned overhead blocking out the evening sky. The streets became so narrow that you could reach out from the back of the cart and touch the walls. Rik slipped the carter a copper and they got down. This was the really ba
d part of town. No money had been spent here on upkeep. It was an area that was said to be fever-ridden, and ill-omened and not even those wealthy merchants and factors who normally paid extra to live within the walls close to the mansions of the Terrarchs wanted to live here. Instead it had decayed like an old whore riddled with pox. Even the buildings had a weak, crumbling, diseased look. Patches of damp soiled the flaking plasterwork. A mouldy smell filled the air. They passed huge old brick buildings that had once been warehouses and were now transformed into the worst sort of taverns, huge dance halls and brothels.

  Normally these would have been doing a roaring trade, but tonight because of Mourning Time it was quiet. They were going to have to go a lot deeper into the Pit to find what they were looking for.

  Rats scampered along the streets, moving from midden heap to midden heap, dancing across the open sewers. Gangs of furtive youths studied them as they approached. They were the same the world over. Many a night he had fled from such bravoes through the back alleys of Sorrow.

  Weasel hailed a linkboy and the torchbearer approached. He was a local youth and Rik guessed he must have some sort of arrangement with the local boss, to work here unmolested. Weasel slipped him a coin and said; “The Headsman’s Axe.”

  The boy lit a torch and moved with confidence through the darkened alleys. They streamed along behind him, keeping their hands close to their weapons. They were all more or less sober still and they all felt the menace around them.

  The lad led them through an archway and into a large courtyard. A midden heap the size of a small hill filled its centre. All around, the walls of a vast decaying mansion leaned closer. It was one of those fine old houses that had once belonged to some wealthy man, and was now endlessly sub-divided and sub-let. Rik listened to the sounds from within. Just from the little he overheard as they passed he knew that lovers were quarrelling, a man was beating his wife, two whores were fighting over a customer and a drunk was protesting his undying fidelity to a woman who quite obviously did not believe him. Music sounded too, in defiance of the Mourning Edicts.