by Angus Wells
Stantin shrugged again. “Who knows? Does it matter?”
“I’d think,” said Corm, “that it might be good we know our enemies.”
“Godless creatures,” Stantin replied. “Wilderness things out of the forests. Not born of God, and therefore to be destroyed. No?”
“Yes,” said Corm dutifully, glancing back along the column.
It spread in a regimented line behind him. Horsemen two by two, the wagons at the rear, warded by ten riders. All armed with muskets and sabers. Shot and powder and food and tents on board the wagons. They had checked nine holdings so far, and none with report of attack.
But they drew close to the forest now, and he could not help shifting in his saddle as his gut stirred uncomfortable.
“Are you well?” asked Stantin.
Corm said, “Yes, of course,” and hid his hatred of the younger man’s senseless courage.
They bivouacked along the Restitution’s bank that night, in a meadow damp with spring rain and ripe with snowdrops, and the next day found the Defraney holding burned down.
It was not as Stantin had described the Thirsk farm. It was far worse: Corm spewed when he saw the skulls—the farmer and his wife mounted on poles alongside pigs and cows and dogs, the indentured folk beside.
In two more days they came on the Cateham mill. It was only charred rubble, save for the waterwheel: Anton Cateham and his wife were pinned to that and spun on the river’s turning. Fish nibbled at their flesh and Captain Corm threw up again.
They found nine more ravaged holdings as they traversed the wilderness rim, all burned; all destroyed as if something emerged from the woods to deny Evander’s supremacy, and then went back, hiding until the time to strike came again. There was no sign of where they came from, or where they went after, only what they left behind.
Corm felt his life draw close to ending, as if a malign shadow fell dark across his future: he felt the wilderness waited to strike him down. He decided he had better resign himself to remaining a captain and stay in Evander, but he was an officer and could neither discuss nor show that fear. He must act out his role, feigning a grim resolution he fortified with furtive sips from his hip flask. He must join Stantin in condemnation of the demons, blustering about bloody revenge, God’s will, and each day go on as Major Spelt had ordered him.
He took his column north to where the Glory River fed the forests, and turned east. By then even Lieutenant Stantin was nervous. He rode with musket primed across his knees, his finger on the trigger; all did. And all the time they watched the land around, anticipating. Along the banks of the Glory they found seven more burned holdings, all of them mounted with ghastly totems—as if the demons Corm no longer doubted existed threatened Salvation and vaunted their defiance of Evander’s rule. Captain Corm wished wholeheartedly he had never left Evander: ignominy should be better than this.
And then …
The sun stood high in a sky of pure azure, like a burning eye surveying the earth beneath; indifferent. Spring came apace, driven on the fresh wind that billowed clouds across the blue. Buttercups and daisies sprouted eager from the meadows bordering the river, and the Glory ran urgent with spring flood, bubbling and burbling between the wide grassy banks. It was a day such as the poets of the Levan described in their sonnets, or the minstrels of Tarrabon sang of.
And Captain Danyael Corm and his troop were caught between the river and what came out of the wilderness.
There was no warning. The last ravaged holding lay some nineteen days behind. Three back they had passed the night comfortably at the Payton farm, and since then the land had spread empty. Corm began to relax, thinking the worst was over, never guessing it awaited them.
He called a halt when the sun still stood a hand’s span above the western horizon. The river stood to their left, grass stretching beyond it to the ominous line of the forest edge, blue-gray at the day’s ending. He ordered the horses grazed and picketed, saw their tents pitched in orderly rows. He felt almost safe—the Glory was a reliable defense and in better than two weeks there had been no sign of the demons—but still he kept his watch doubled and longed for the day he should see Grostheim’s strong walls; preferably at his back, with gates closed and barred.
He sighed as he found the refuge of his tent, settling on the camp bed to bring his flask from his tunic and sip eagerly. Payton had refilled it with brandy, and he smacked his lips gratefully as he drank. Then he swiftly hid the flask as Stantin came in.
“All’s well.” The lieutenant gave no sign that he smelled the spirit on Corm’s breath. “The cooks have fires started, and I’ve stood down those not on watch.”
“Excellent.” Corm stood up, straightening his tunic. He glanced at his musket and decided to leave the gun: he wore his sword and a brace of pistols. “Think you we’ve seen the worst?”
Stantin shrugged. “God only knows, Danyael. Or the devil.” He crossed his fingers and spat delicately. “We deal with demons out here, and they defy all reason.”
“Even so.” Corm frowned, not wanting to be reminded of what he could not forget. “We’ve seen no sign of attack since the Jaymes farm. I think we’ve left them behind.”
He settled his tricorn squarely on his head, afraid he showed Stantin his fear; afraid the junior officer might report it to Spelt. He nodded sagely and said, “We’ve much to report, eh?”
“Indeed.” Stantin smoothed his hair. “It’s my thinking these demons grow braver. I’d see a major expedition mounted against them.”
“Major Spelt shall doubtless hear your thoughts,” Corm said. “But have we the forces?”
“We should send word home,” Stantin gave him back. “Ask Evander for more men.”
Corm ducked his head. “My thoughts precisely,” he declared. “I shall communicate all this to the major on our return. But now—do we find our dinner?”
They quit the tent for an evening painted glorious by the setting sun. It seemed that fire lit the sky, as if the wilderness woods blazed above and smoked blue below. The slender crescent of a new moon stood to the east and a few brave stars vaunted the dusk. Swallows darted overhead, and in the grass pipits sang shrill. The Glory ran like molten metal, and the air was appetizing with the smell of roasting venison. Corm looked around: surely they were safe now?
They ate, as was customary on such patrol duty, with the noncommissioned officers. The two sergeants and five corporals were cheerful: Corm thought they lacked his imagination.
When they were done, he benevolently suggested that Stantin take the first watch and he relieve the lieutenant at midnight. That, he thought, should give him a while alone with his flask. He returned to his tent with the sun gone all the way down behind the trees and the sky stretched like blue velvet studded with silver above. He took off his belts and his tunic, his boots, and laid himself down with his pistols close to hand, his flask closer. He was not sure when he fell asleep, nor when he woke, only that it was a scream that roused him. It seemed to hang on the air, palpable as the earlier smell of roasting meat. He sat up, quite unaware of the flask that fell and dribbled across his legs.
He swallowed the horrible dryness that clogged his throat and snatched up both pistols. Those first, his boots after, then his belt that held his saber. He buckled it on, all the time aware that his heart beat wild against his ribs and all his worst fears came to meet him. He heard more screams. He thrust the pistols into their holsters and took up his musket.
“God,” he asked as he left the tent, not knowing he spoke aloud, “please let it be nothing. Please, let it be nothing.”
It was not: it was his nightmare fleshed.
He saw shapes moving amongst the tents. They were like shadows, indistinct and fleeting, and when he fired his musket at one he could not see whether it fell or only blended back into the night. He felt a terrible temptation to dart back to the useless refuge of his tent, to find his flask and drain it, but he saw flames and had no wish to die by fire. He cursed as he flung the mus
ket away and drew both pistols.
A shadow presented itself before him and he saw the gleam of white teeth snarling, eyes that seemed to burn with unholy fire. He discharged both pistols and the thing—the demon—fell. Moaning, he took his powder horn and dribbled a charge into a muzzle, wadded cloth and rammed it in, added a ball, more cloth, knowing all the time that something was coming out of the night to kill him. He cocked the pistol and stared around. The bivouac was lit bright now, tents were burning. He heard the horses shrilling terrified, and the shouts of dying men. He holstered his loaded pistol and drew his sword, thrust it into the ground, and reloaded the second pistol.
Then—his terror suddenly so deep he no longer felt afraid—he took up his saber in his right hand and a pistol in his left and ran for the camp’s center.
Stantin was there. An arrow jutted from his left shoulder, decorating his scarlet tunic with a darker color. Like Corm, he held sword and pistol. Then a figure erupted—Corm could think of no other way to put it—out of the burning shadows, and sunk a hatchet into Stantin’s skull. The lieutenant voiced no cry as he died: only gaped as if in surprise, and fell down with his face all curtained with blood. It was not possible through the shouting and the rattle of discharged muskets, the screaming of horses and men, the angry creaking of the burning tents, that Corm could hear the sound of the hatchet striking Stantin, but he did and it galvanized him.
He screamed himself and pounded forward, saber lifted high. He fired his pistol at the shadow as it stooped to lever its ax from the lieutenant’s skull. The lead ball struck the shadow in the shoulder and spun it away from Stantin. It made a sound and rolled onto its belly, struggling to rise. Corm swung his saber down and laughed as the steel blade cut deep across the ribs, then hacked again, against the shoulders. The shadow squealed and flattened: Corm drove his sword down straight, as if he pinned an insect.
The shadow grunted and was still. God! Dear God, thank you, he thought. They can be slain. Corm dragged his blade loose and holstered his empty gun, drew the other.
“Rally to me, men! Hold hard and fight!”
He looked around. He was not sure how many men he had left—he was, it seemed, inside a ring of fire. He could hear men dying beyond the flames, and some in them, their screams the worst. About him were no more than twenty of all his troop. He saw a sergeant and shouted, “Brystol, report!”
He had no time left to wonder why his fear was gone: only whether he survive this.
Sergeant Brystol came up. “Demons, sir! Just like the lieutenant said. Never saw them coming, sir; couldn’t tell they was here until …” He ducked an arrow that sang out of the flames. “Devil’s spawn, sir. Horrible shadowy beasts come from the night.”
“They can be killed,” Corm yelled. “Demons or no, they can be killed.”
“God’s on our side, sir,” said Brystol, “so that’s not surprisin’. Only it seems there’s an awful lot o’ them.”
“Yes, God’s on our side,” Corm answered. “Praise be, and form a square.”
He had not fought in the War of Restitution but he had studied the manuals, had attended the academy classes. He knew the correct procedures by rote.
Dear God, please let those procedures be right, he prayed. Please let them work against the devil’s minions.
He reloaded as his men formed around him.
They were a solid square. He checked them—five or so to each side, kneeling with muskets cocked and aimed.
“They’ve shot and powder, sergeant?”
He was aware of arrows whistling by: they seemed somehow far away.
“They do, sir,” said Brystol.
“Then volley,” Corm said.
“On my order, lads!” Brystol yelled. “Fire!”
From around the square, black powder smoke billowed. From past the flames there came screams, then arrows. Corm saw a trooper fall back, a shaft embedded in his throat; another swore volubly as he tugged at the pole driven into his side.
“Again! Fire at will!”
Corm spent his pistol into the flames. He could see the targets no better than his men. They all of them fired at shadows—at demons—that came out of the nighttime wilderness and faded back into that flamelit gloom. He wondered if their dead rose up. He glanced at the one he had killed and was thankful it still lay there. Perhaps they were mortal, if demons could be so described.
More arrows fell: more Militiamen died.
The square was down to fifteen men.
Then ten.
Corm saw Sergeant Brystol fall to his knees, an arrow in his chest, another in his belly. Then a third sprout from his throat.
Sergeant Brystol lay dead and Captain Danyael Corm was suddenly aware he stood with only five men.
He watched them die, and was alone.
A shape came out from the flames, whooping. Corm dropped his empty pistols and raised his saber. He was ready to die now. Dying was preferable to wondering, to waiting. The demon swung a hatchet at his head and he met the blow, turned it with his sword and delivered a cut that opened the devil’s belly. He laughed and took the hand from the wrist of the next attacker. Spun and sliced flesh as the thing went past him, then split its skull.
As you slew Rogyr Stantin, he thought.
“I’m God’s man,” he shouted, hardly knowing he did. “I’m Danyael Corm, and I’m a captain of the God’s Militia. I defy you to kill me! God’s on my side and I renounce your black master!”
He swung his blade at the next attacker, and was confused. The demon ducked lithe under his stroke and only touched him with the short lance it held.
He saw another coming and pointed his blade at the thing’s belly, but that, too, evaded his saber and struck him as it ran past.
The blow was hard and he twisted, anticipating the return, but the demon was gone into the surrounding flames and he faced a third.
That, like the others, hit him and darted by.
Then more, until his head swam and his sword arm grew tired. A blow struck his back and he staggered. Another took his knees from under him and he fell down. He waved his saber and felt it struck from his grasp.
I am going to die, he thought. Now they’ll kill me.
He tried to climb upright, but could not: too many blows landed on him. Blood ran into his eyes and he could not find his sword. He tasted dirt in his mouth and waited for death. He felt too weary to pray.
Then hands were on him, turning him roughly onto his back so that he flung up both arms, protective about his face, anticipating the hatchet he knew must descend. He felt his wrists gripped, and weight upon his ankles, as if the demons stood on him and pinned him down. He waited for the final blow, vaguely surprised he was not screaming. He thought he no longer cared, that death was preferable to wondering at its arrival.
Powerful fingers clasped his jaw then, digging deep, and he opened his eyes. The sky was red and silent save for the sounds of burning. Sparks rose in whirling flood, climbing up to falter against the stars, and Danyael Corm saw the demon clearly. It knelt beside him, its left arm extended, its hand a vise about his face, compelling attention. No less the eyes that studied him. They were dark, reflecting flame so that they appeared lit by fire. They sat beneath a craggy brow, divided by a broad, hooked nose. Across the eyes and nose ran a band of black, dark as the braided hair that framed the awful visage. The mouth was wide and full-lipped, and Corm could not tell whether it snarled hatred or beamed triumph; perhaps both.
He did not, at first, realize the demon spoke. It seemed only to snarl and grunt, but then he recognized words amongst the grumbling.
“I let you live, redcoat, so that you go back and tell your people to go. We are coming against your walls to kill you all. Tell them that! Stay, and none shall live. The heads of your men shall stand on poles for the crows to pick, and your women shall weep as we take them. This is our land and you have no place here. Go away or die.”
Corm stared aghast as the creature rose. It wore leather and furs, an
d he smelled it—an earthy, musky odor. It seemed a thing of the land, of the wilderness. That it spoke in words he could understand seemed inexplicable—save it was a demon and so could, presumably, speak in tongues. He saw that it held a short lance that appeared to be decorated with hair: not knowing how, he knew the hair was human. He saw a hatchet tucked beneath its belt, and a knife. He felt a foot drive hard against his ribs and gasped.
“Stand up. You are not a man, but stand like one.”
Corm rose slowly to his feet, groaning as his bruised back protested. Warily, he looked around. He stood surrounded by demons. They seemed to him all alike: skin-clad and horrible, with the band of black across all their faces. He could not yet accept they gave him back his life. He was not sure he wanted it: he could see his command dead beyond the creatures. Some already lacked heads, and he must swallow bile as he saw a demon slice off Sergeant Brystol’s scalp and lash the bloody scrap to its lance.
“Come.”
The demon chief—he supposed this must be the leader—took his arm and thrust him toward a horse another brought out of the flames.
“Get up.”
Corm tried hard to mount, but he was shuddering now and the horse pranced, scenting his fear. Now that it seemed he might live, he felt once again terrified. The demons laughed; one struck him hard across the buttocks. God, dear God, he prayed, only let me live. Grant me my life, please. That and my dignity. Grant me the strength to set my foot in the stirrup and ride away as befits an officer in your Militia.
Shaking, he took the stirrup and raised his leg. The horse snickered, eyes rolling, ears flattened. Corm lost the stirrup, stumbling helplessly back. He wept bitter tears as he was picked up and flung into the saddle, clutching desperately at the reins as the animal bucked and the demons whooped and laughed, capering in mimicry of his helplessness.
“Remember my words.” The demon chief locked a steely hand about Corm’s knee. “This is our land and we share it with no one. Go away or we shall kill you all.”
One of the creatures must have prodded the horse then—Corm did not see it, knew only that the horse shrilled and began to gallop, maddened, away from the fires.
