by Tim Marquitz
“Not long now, lad,” Foss commented without moving, evidently sensing the boy’s apprehension.
“How can you tell, sir?” Thomas replied, glancing nervously at the older man.
Foss raised a finger and pointed to the inverted anvils of black cloud hanging on the horizon.
“See them?” he said. “When yonder rainclouds come crawling across this valley to meet us, we’ll have a battle on our hands, no mistaking.
Thomas considered this for a moment, eyeing the approaching weather front.
“How can you be so sure of that?” he asked. “You can’t possibly know Boney’s soldiers will arrive with the rainfall. That’s bloody mad.”
“Aye,” said Foss, “but them’s not normal clouds, laddy, cos they’s moving towards us against the wind.”
Thomas stared hard at the cloudbank. He hadn’t noticed it before, but it was true. Only the lightest of breezes stirred the evening air and it was indeed coming from the west, the opposite direction from which the French approached. Suddenly cold, he tightened his grip on his rifle, taking little comfort from the metal in his hands. No cloud Thomas had ever seen could move against the wind, and he began to contemplate, for the first time, that perhaps the stories he had heard about the sorcerer, Napoleon, were true.
“What does it mean?” he asked, swallowing hard on the sudden lump in his throat.
The sergeant took his eyes from the horizon and regarded his young companion with growing concern.
“It means we might be in trouble, lad,” he whispered through gritted teeth, before returning his attention to the sky.
~
The duke was becoming agitated. He had sent out riders well over an hour ago to scout for the approaching foe, and not one of them had returned. He hated guessing, but without a steady supply of information, his tactical prowess counted for nought. The Patriarch of the Ucléan Brotherhood had offered to scry for him, but Wellington was uneasy enough about the bargain he made without capitulating further. Now, forced into making a decision based solely on local topography and instinct, he turned in his saddle and beckoned a runner to him.
“Tell the monks to make ready,” he instructed, watching the junior officer depart in the direction of the nearest column.
The mist, previously infesting the ground, had now matured into a substantial fog through which it was difficult to make out anything more than half a mile away. Above, the stars had vanished behind a similar curtain of vapour. With the moon obscured, the valley had become a dark and foreboding place.
Within the confines of the walls of fog, sounds were reflected back, and the duke could hear the nervous chattering of his men as if he stood amongst them. He swiveled to his left and observed his corps of engineers making final preparations to the artillery.
Congreve had assured him that vast improvements had been made to the rockets since their first inept deployment during the Indian campaigns. The colonel had spoken of the addition of something called a Revenant Sphere to the warhead of each missile. Wellington did not profess to fully comprehend the inner workings of the device, having chosen not to get involved in Sir William’s dealings with the Brotherhood, but he understood it had something to do with unleashing the souls of the recent dead upon approaching soldiers.
The souls had been harvested from the numerous corpses littering the surrounding villages by the zealous acolytes of the Brotherhood. Having already been robbed of their existence by the French dogs, the duke figured that giving these men and women a chance at gaining some revenge was the least he could do. Still though, he preferred the abrupt certainty of a cannonball to all this mumbo jumbo. That was why he requested Congreve construct his suit of overlapping armor. If he was going to wade into battle against Napoleon’s inhuman devils, then he was going to make damn sure he took the necessary precautions. The only trouble was that the infernal contraption was so damn heavy! He felt like an accursed medieval knight in all this get-up, and if the fog bank elected to come any closer, he would have more to worry about than just the French.
~
Thomas near jumped from his skin as a robed figure strode past him down the line. Quickly recovering his wits, he stared after the monk and the bucket of red fluid he carried. Beside him, Foss sniffed the air and made a face.
“Pig’s blood,” he commented flatly, voicing his disapproval.
Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but before he was able to mutter a word, he felt something sticky and wet being brushed against his tunic. Turning, he found another hooded man daubing the front of his uniform with blood, forming three precise strokes into a pictogram of sorts. Startled, Thomas took a step back from the brush, but a firm hand on his shoulder prevented him from pulling away further.
“Steady there, private,” instructed the surly-looking lieutenant who accompanied the monk. “Duke’s orders, and all. You just stand easy.”
The stench of the still warm blood was overpowering, and Thomas wrinkled his nose at the smell. As the monk moved to his right, Foss turned his head and spat in the dust before stepping forward and puffing out his chest as a canvas. As the monk carefully constructed the exact same symbol across his tunic, the sergeant attempted to peer beneath the man’s cowl, without success. The hood seemed to contain only darkness where a man’s features ought to be, and in the anxious gloom, both Foss and his young companion were loath to lean any closer in to this unnerving figure.
With the second pictogram complete, the lieutenant cracked an unconvincing smile and patted Thomas across one shoulder.
“Fine job, young man, fine job,” he said before following in the monk’s wake towards the next group of soldiers.
“This stuff smells awful,” whispered Thomas, once the lieutenant was out of earshot. “Can’t we wash it off, or something?”
Foss said nothing, looking fearful for the first time that day, as he watched the various groups of monks move amongst the other columns, enacting the same ceremony on each man. At the edges of the field, the first sets of monks could be seen returning to their camps—small knots of threadbare tents, where horned figures stood stirring vast cauldrons of blood over fires of green flame.
“Lord preserve us,” muttered Foss beneath his breath. He quickly made the sign of the cross across his chest. Where his finger touched the blood though, an angry hiss was heard and smoke rose from its surface, evidently bringing with it a burning pain for Foss uttered a grunt of discomfort. The two men exchanged a glance of horror, and then each stared down at the symbol painted on his chest wondering what on earth they had gotten themselves into.
~
The abrupt thunder crack which rolled along the valley floor was so sudden, that for a moment, the duke believed one of his cannon had been discharged without permission. The nearby mounts of his generals whinnied in terror; Marshal Paget almost unseated from his horse, despite his years of experience and his prosthetic leg hooked into the stirrups. Wellington’s steed did not startle, seemingly too concerned with staying on its feet under all the weight.
The sky continued to rumble but no rain fell as Wellington’s staff regained control of their horses. The fog bank, having been immobile for what seemed like an age, now abruptly began to roll towards them. Wellington reached for his sword.
“Prepare yourselves, gentlemen,” he warned, sliding the blade from its scabbard and making the sign for his men to advance, “for we have a date with the devil himself.”
~
Foss’s rifle gave a dull click as he uncocked and unloaded it, allowing the ball and powder to slide from the barrel onto the ground at his feet. Thomas gaped at him, wondering if the veteran sergeant had lost his head.
“What on earth are you doing?” he pleaded. “If that lieutenant catches you, he’ll have you flogged.”
“If I live,” Foss muttered, lowering himself to one knee and rummaging in his pack.
Thomas glanced along the line, thankful there were no officers close enough to observe the disobedience. Foss gave a
brief, “Ah,” as he located what he was looking for and withdrew a second pouch of ammunition from his pack, slinging it over one shoulder as he stood again. He proceeded to re-powder his rifle as the sky flashed with light and a second crack of thunder came. One of the younger recruits let out a brief yelp of terror at the sound and hid behind his comrades. Thomas’ hands were shaking. In the distance, he could make out the sound of marching boots. The French were coming.
Foss pulled a gleaming ball of wrapped shot from his cartridge pouch and deposited it down the barrel. Drawing his ramrod, he firmly pushed the bullet home and then returned to his original position of readiness. Thomas looked at him, confused.
“That shot doesn’t look normal. What on earth have you got in there?”
Foss didn’t look back, carefully cocking his rifle and stepping forward with the line, the British column beginning to slowly move forward. Thomas kept pace and prepared his own weapon, still glancing in confusion at the sergeant.
The step of boots was louder now, the French approaching through the mist. Thomas could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his palms slick with sweat. He remembered his brief training—French columns were thin like a hammerhead, intended to smash open their enemies position whilst presenting the fewest targets. He swallowed and prayed for courage.
The fog was everywhere, beginning to wisp its way amongst the lines like moistened fingers, but still he couldn’t make out the figures of the French front line. Surely they couldn’t be far away now. The curtains of cloud above were suddenly drawn open, as if by invisible hands, illuminating the battlefield with moonlight. It was then Thomas saw the first malformed figures in the fog.
The French were not huddled together in the tightly bound unit he expected. Rather, they were spread out across the field, as though having stalked through the dark like a pack of ravenous animals. As the first beams of moonlight fell across the enemy position, an unearthly scream leapt from the darkness. It was quickly joined by several more.
Thomas’ blood ran cold at the sound, and he felt warm piss descend his legs as he trembled uncontrollably. Beside him, Sergeant Foss swallowed loudly enough for him to hear. Thomas moved closer to the older man, seeking reassurance. The sound of men screaming was everywhere, the French soldiers howling and barking like dogs, accompanied by the terrible sounds of ripping fabric and flesh. The voices were wrong, though, more guttural and debase than they should be. Stopping in their tracks, the English lines glanced fearfully amongst themselves and looked as though they might turn back. Before they could move, under command from Wellington himself, the lead officers bellowed for the men to stand their ground.
“What’s in that rifle, Fossy?” Thomas asked again, his voice that of a frightened small boy.
Foss drew up his rifle and tenderly kissed the tip of the barrel for luck.
“Silver,” he replied, “and you just be glad I have it when they come, lad.”
~
The first Hussar stepped hungrily from the fog and stood before the British line, his sides panting with exertion. What remained of the man’s uniform hung in tangled strips about his shoulders, and beneath, a mass of coarse black hair covered his entire body. The musket in his hand was inverted and he brandished it like a club, stepping forward and snarling at his enemy.
“Holy mother of God,” Thomas managed to murmur before the lead officer gave the order to fire.
A vast barrage of lead spat out towards the French soldier, peppering his fur-covered body with multiple shots and filling the space between the lines with thick smoke. For a moment, everyone held their breath, listening for the quiet thud of a body hitting the ground. Then, as the smoke blew clear and the soldiers glimpsed the fallen Hussar lying flat on his back, a great cheer rose up amongst the men. It was then that a dozen more ravenous French beastmen stepped from the fog. It was the turn of the English to scream.
“Reload! Reload!” cried a sword-wielding captain, just before one of the creatures launched itself through twenty feet of air and came crashing down on top of him with a snarl. The captain didn’t have time to yell anything further as the beastman slashed open his throat with five-inch retractable claws, and then ripped his head from his shoulders.
Further wolf-like monsters appeared in the gloom and descended upon the English in packs. Their yellow eyes glowed in the dark as they clawed their way into the British columns and began to feast. The sounds of rifles filled the battlefield, smoke springing up in pockets amongst the flailing bodies, but it did little good. The French devils seemed impervious to lead as they tore open men like sacks of sand, spilling blood by the gallon. Presented with this army of Hell, the remaining soldiers did the only thing feasible and turned to run. The sight of their quarry fleeing emboldened the French further, and the creatures sprang forward on all fours like wolves hunting cattle.
Thomas made a dash for the rear but was brought down by the sudden weight of a Hussar against his back. With the air knocked from his lungs, he rolled over and desperately tried to fight off his attacker. The beastman was over seven feet tall, his slavering maw dripping saliva and other men’s blood across Thomas’ face as he tried to devour his prey. Foss’ rifle sang out like a bell, the silver bullet making a beautiful ringing noise as it exited the muzzle and plowed into the beastman’s chest. The effect was something astonishing, throwing the creature several feet through the air to land in a motionless heap in the dust. Foss pulled Thomas to his feet and dragged him back towards the lines, but three more creatures barred their way home, reaching out with blood-streaked talons.
“I’m sorry, lad,” Foss mumbled, drawing his dagger as the lead beastman rushed forward and went for his throat.
~
On the hilltop, Wellington surveyed the butchery with clinical detachment. He estimated two-thirds of his infantry had been eviscerated, and within a few minutes the remainder would also be gone.
“Tell the patriarch and his followers they may begin their work,” he barked at the bugler, the youth responding by emitting three short blasts on his instrument.
From beyond the luminous green bonfires came the sound of low chanting, the Brotherhood of Uclés at last giving voice to their beliefs. The sounds became a crescendo, rising into a deafening roar, which echoed down the battlefield towards the lines. The ground shook briefly, as if in pain, and then from amongst the corpses of the dead came freshly anguished cries. Wellington smiled with quiet satisfaction as what remained of his dead began to clamber back to their feet.
“Now, let’s see what the French have got,” he grinned, before digging his spurs into his horse with a roar. He galloped towards the front line.
~
Thomas couldn’t feel his left arm. At first, he thought it merely trapped beneath the weight of his body where he had fallen but then, as he rolled onto his side, he began to think perhaps something more serious had occurred. Vague images blurred through his mind as he remembered what had happened moments ago—the immense weight of the beastman pressing down on his chest, the futility of his struggle against the creature’s frightening strength, and finally, the incredible pain as he was torn apart.
The boy’s eyes went wide with shock as he recalled his own death. Sitting bolt upright, he stared in horror at the multitude of corpses littering the ground. Then, he let out a loud wail of anguish as his eyes fell upon the stump of bloody flesh protruding from his left shoulder where his arm should have been. The severed limb lay beside him, stringy threads of skin and sinew trailing from its top like soggy cabbage. Thomas reached out and laid his one remaining hand atop the lifeless arm. Beside him, Sergeant Foss sat up and made a strangled hissing noise through the ragged hole in his throat.
The two of them observed each other’s wounds in wonder and saw the pictograms bestowed by the Brotherhood of Uclés were now nothing more than charcoal, burnt through their tunics and seared deep into the flesh of their chests. It was becoming clear the monks had invoked some powerful forces on the duke’s behalf.
Around them, more previously lifeless corpses began to stir from their eternal slumber.
Sergeant Foss’ head jiggled on the remains of his neck as he raised a hand and indicated the last of their regiment, engaged in close-quarters combat with the ferocious beastmen of the Ninth, some way distant. Unable to comprehend his strained rasping, Thomas understood enough of Foss’ motions to know he was suggesting they carry on fighting. Clambering to his feet, the shattered body of Thomas Worthington helped what remained of Reginald Foss’ eviscerated form to stand. With his own severed limb brandished as a makeshift club, the two of them staggered back towards the battle. A horde of reanimated soldiers stumbled along behind them.
~
The Duke of Wellington’s initial entrance into the battlefield had not gone as well as planned. For starters, his mighty warhorse had become spooked by the feral beastmen and had run amok throughout the lines, crushing tens of soldiers underfoot, be they friend or foe. To make matters worse, he had discovered that the armor, which Congreve had so carefully designed to protect his personage from harm, was next to useless in the rapid cut and thrust of battle. He was already beginning to seize up in the moist air. He had only managed to wound two of the howling loups-garous, and miraculously decapitate a third by virtue of a gargantuan physical effort. Now though, he was in a definite spot of bother.
A wild lunge from a flailing beastman had gored out his horse’s throat. In its pitiful death throes, the poor animal had collapsed to the ground on top of him, pinning him beneath. The metal legs of his suit had become hopelessly crushed beneath the horse’s flank, and unable to escape from his armor, the duke struggled to defend himself against the enemy.
