Death's Angels

Chapter Thirty-Three

Zarahel looked down the long valley. Things were starting to go his way now. Several hundred men of his war band, mostly Agante but with a few brave outcasts drawn from the disaffected young of the other tribes, had gathered in response to his summons. They would make perfect witnesses for his ascendancy to great power.

He scratched his neck. There was a massive purple blister where his familiar drank from his blood. Others covered the rest of his body. They had stopped itching now but there were small hard things within them. Sometimes it felt as if they were moving, but that was a small enough price to pay for the power the familiar provided and the link with the Old Gods it gave him.

When first Alzibar had hatched it from the purple eggs using his alchemy, Zarahel had been horrified. Now he was used to it, and he was uncomfortable if he could not feel it scuttling around under his loose robes. The narcotic bites provided him with a euphoric confidence beyond anything he had ever experienced. His sorcerous powers had grown because of it. Perhaps now he would even be a match for a Terrarch.

Bertragh looked better. He had been in a strange fey mood for the past few days. He looked at Zarahel as if half expecting him to betray their masters in the Brotherhood. It would not matter much after tonight. Uran Ultar would be summoned and the assembled warriors would witness it. Word that he enjoyed the Old Gods favour would spread from tribe to tribe and they would swarm to his banner. Those that did not would be eliminated by the night-black sorcery he would command. He would be lord of the mountains and holy war would restore the empire his ancestors had lost.

Alzibar being slain had proved a good thing. Now matters lay purely in the hands of men and that was as it should be. The Old God really did favour him, as it had whispered in his dreams. He shivered as he remembered the black visions that had swept through his mind the night before. He had seen the past.

He had seen Achenar in its days of ancient glory when the proud civilisation of the Agante had dominated these lands, and the priests had offered up their screaming captives on the altars of Uran Ultar. He had seen the things that scuttled in the depths below the mountains, the living machines that wove spidersilk armour for the armies of Achenar, and birthed their living weapons. He had seen what the Spider God had provided his people with in return for the tithe of souls, and he knew it was a price worth paying. He had seen the time when all the proud emperors of men had sent tribute to Achenar.

He had seen other things in his dreams. He had seen the war of men and Ultari and Terrarch. He had seen the dragon-riders incinerating the Spider God’s followers. He had seen the final battle that had destroyed the surface city and sealed the city below. He had seen the way Uran Ultar had retreated through his portal, taking the souls and life force of his people with him, to wait, like a great trapdoor spider, for someone to come and free him.

Today was that day. He would crack the final secrets within Alzibar’s books. He would restore the ancient glory of his folk. He would drive the Terrarchs from this land. It was his destiny. Nothing could stand in his way. The Exalted were weak now, fragmented into many rival Realms and men were stronger and had guns. This time things would be different. With Uran Ultar’s help, men would prevail.

Nonetheless he was not taking any chances. Since his arrival he had already dispatched small groups of scouts to watch the approaches and report back. There would be no surprise attacks this time. Even without Alzibar to set wards he was determined on that.

Now all he had to do was make his way down into the depths of Achenar and seize control of his own destiny.

“Our lord and master is in a big hurry,” said Weasel. He was right, Rik thought. They’d already spent more than half a day on wyrmback and had not stopped to eat.

“It looks like we’re going to have trouble.” Rik said, studying the slopes above them and the peaks beyond. His mind still dwelt on Asea’s words. She knew something. The question was what? And there was another question — what was he going to do about it? Plotting to kill Bertragh was one thing, murdering one of the First surrounded by her bodyguards and her ripjacks and the Queen’s soldiers was another. He was not sure it was possible. Ever since he had picked up those damned books, one thing had led to another. He felt like his feet were on a long and slippery slope leading down to the edge of a vast chasm.

“Maybe the witch told him something,” said Leon. It was all Rik could do to keep from starting. It sounded like Leon had been reading his mind. “He spent enough time in her tent last night.”

“Can’t say as I blame him. I would shag her,” said the Barbarian.

“So you told anybody who would listen yesterday,” said Sergeant Hef. “I would keep quiet about it if I were you. Maybe those black clad henchmen will hear you.”

“Maybe they’ll tell her,” said the Barbarian. “Who knows where that might lead?”

“To you being burned at the stake,” said the Sergeant.

“It might be worth it.”

Rik studied the clouds massing around the peaks. It looked like the weather was going to change again. It also did so quickly up here in the mountains.

“It’s not her I am worried about,” said Hef. “It’s the hill-men. Some of them are out for blood and this is their territory. Once word that we’re here hits the high valley of the Agante, I expect they will be paying us a visit.”

“Bring them on,” said the Barbarian. “I will get to impress the Lady Asea with my heroism.”

“If she was impressed by stupidity,” said the Sergeant, “you would be in with a chance.

“No,” said the Barbarian proudly. “If she was impressed by stupidity I would be in bed with her already.”

It took him a few moments to realise what he had just said.

Zarahel sat in his sanctum in the old mansion and studied the text once more. He had it now. The narcotic venom burning in his veins had given him the critical insights. He had been guided by unerring instinct to the right page of the right volume. He reached within his robes and stroked the creature affectionately. He had found the secrets that Alzibar had sought to hide from him. Power beyond his wildest dreams was within his grasp.

Of course, he thought sourly, there was still the little matter of performing the ritual correctly and making contact with the demon god and binding it to his will. That was a prospect that had daunted a sorcerer considerably more experienced than himself. The familiar bit him again. Ecstatic joy and renewed confidence came with the bite.

Of course, he could do it. Of course he would succeed. Something wriggled within the blister on his neck. The sensation was oddly pleasurable.

He stood up and for the first time in hours became aware of his body and his surroundings. His back ached a little. His eyes felt raw. Blood from the battle his followers had lost to the Foragers still stained the mansion’s walls. He could smell it in the air.

He glanced out the window to where the dark waters of the lake reflected the cloudy sky. In the distance the work-teams laboured away around the mine. He needed the ways below to be clear by tonight, and the damage those idiotic soldiers had done to be repaired, or all of his plans would come to naught.

Bertragh looked at him warily. There was fear in his eyes now. The prospect of what they were doing was becoming real to him. His gaze was drawn inexorably to Zarahel’s neck and the purple blister visible there. The prophet pulled up his cowl to cover it.

Zarahel packed the books away into their leather satchel and made for the door. “Come on. We’d best begin preparations for the ritual. Are you certain you know your part?”

“As certain as I know my own name, Zarahel.” The sorcerer hoped so. When dealing with demons, you could afford no mistakes.

In the corner a fly struggled in a cobweb. The spider came ever closer. Zarahel paused to watch, fascinated.

“Looks like they are at it again,” said the Barbarian. “I wonder what they are talking about up there.”

Rik followed his gaze, fear gnawed at his stomach. Lieutenant Sardec had joined the Lady Asea on the back of her huge black wyrm, his own mount followed close behind. Rik wondered if she was telling Sardec about the books. He felt sure now that she knew more about the matter than she had told him. A word in the officer’s ear and he and Weasel and the Barbarian would be having their chestnuts roasted on an Inquisition fire. As if he sensed the intensity of Rik’s gaze, one of Asea’s servants turned and looked back in his direction.

Rik wondered about those black clad men too. They did everything for her. They were servants. They were mahouts and they were bodyguards. He was sure, too, that they would be full of unpleasant surprises. He hoped that he or one of the others got to Bertragh before they did. Although perhaps that did not matter now.

How quickly things changed in such short times, he thought, studying the cloud girt peaks and the grey landscape that stretched out below them. The last time they had passed this way, he had nothing to worry about but keeping himself alive in the teeth of a hill-man assault. Now that seemed like the least of his worries. There was the possibility of demons being summoned. He might need to commit murder. He had thought that long ago he had given up worrying about his immortal soul, but he found now that those worries had returned.

Bertragh had done nothing to him personally, had been quite fair if truth be told, and had paid him a small fortune for the books. Now he was driven by necessity to cause the factor’s death.

The words of an old Sorrow street preacher returned to him. We do not set out to sin. We do not set out to imperil our souls. We walk down that path slowly, circumspectly, one small step at a time, and before we know it we find ourselves at the edge of the abyss of Shadow.

That certainly had been the way with him these past few days, although if truth be told, he had always known of the wickedness of certain of his actions, and there had been nothing circumspect about it.

He wondered whether his soul would writhe in an eternity of torments, consumed by the demons of shadow, but never fully dying. If he died here in these mountains, unblessed, he would find out for sure. It was just one more reason he had for not wanting to die.

Another was Rena. Having heard Weasel’s words he recognised the truth of them. He guessed he had always known it. He had just been hurt and angry and consumed with his jealousy and envy of Sardec. He wanted, if he could, to put matters right with Rena and restore her good opinion of him. That seemed very important now.

He saw movement on the mountainside above them. It looked like somebody was watching them. He whistled and shouted a warning. A few moments later a puff of smoke emerged from among the boulders above and a shot skittered off the stones near the pathway. The wyrm paused, its head swivelling to try and sight the threat.

Rik took careful aim and fired away, at just about the same time as Weasel did, at a spot about 100 yards up the hill. They heard a scream, followed by more shouts. The cloud of acrid smoke blocked out sight. Automatically Rik began to reload. He bit down on his cartridge, and the taste of saltpetre filled his mouth. He dropped it into the barrel, followed by the bullet, then he rammed both home with the rod he had unclipped from below the barrel. In the time he took to do this others fired, and more smoke billowed. The mahout drove the wyrm out of the cloud. Rik caught sight of figures loping up hill, taking advantage of cover. He fired again and missed.

The other soldiers blazed away. The wyrms moved out of the smoke clouds. Rik was not sure what the attackers had meant to achieve. Perhaps they thought the Foragers might panic and run, or they could spook the great beasts. Perhaps their hatred of the lowlanders had simply gotten the better of them. It did not matter now. Nothing human could live in the hail of lead that enveloped them.

Within minutes the hill-men were down, musket balls riddling their flesh. Great wyrms stalked towards their position.

“Steady, lads,” said Sergeant Hef. “Eyes peeled for ambush.”

“I thought we just had one,” said the Barbarian.

The bridgebacks reached the corpses. Warriors swarmed down from the howdahs, Rik among them. A quick inspection of the corpses showed him what had happened. The eyes staring sightlessly at the sky were set in unlined faces. The oldest could not have been more than fourteen.

“They were bloody kids,” said Weasel. “Must have been on a scouting expedition or something. Decided to take potshots at the foreigners. Silly bastards did not know any better.”

“Shooting them will have let everybody in the mountains know we are here,” said Rik. It was true. The thunder of musket shot had echoed down the valleys.

“They are food for the wyrms now,” said Hef. The crunching of bone and flesh told him the great beasts had started to feed.

“Let’s hope we’re not before this day is out,” said Rik.

Zarahel smiled as he caught the familiar stink from the newly re-opened entrance to the mine. The tunnel here was full of it. He turned to the tribesmen and spoke.

“You have done well. Soon you will be rewarded for your faith and your patience.”

They might have possessed both in abundance but their faces showed only unease. They would be happy to get out of this darkness as quickly as possible, and Zarahel would be happy for them to go. The sight of the blisters on his neck and hands might have made them uneasy as well. “You are dismissed. All except Bertragh. He will accompany me.”

The factor appeared quite as reluctant as the others to follow him, and Zarahel really did not blame him. The mine was unsafe here. That was not important. What was important was that Zarahel recognised this place and the way was open to the lair.

“Follow me,” he said to Bertragh, bowing his head as the ceiling lowered. “Try to keep up.”

The tunnel was long and narrow and there was a faint sheen of damp slime on the walls. Zarahel moved ever deeper into the gloom. Bertragh followed holding the lantern, moving cautiously down the rock-strewn corridor. A dank wind carrying a loathsome scent hit their nostrils. They proceeded ever deeper. Massive scuttling figures emerged from the gloom. Their carapaces were white. Zarahel almost understood the gibbering that emerged from the small octopoid heads set at the front of their long segmented bodies.

Bertragh gasped, overcome by what he saw. He fell to his knees almost weeping in terror. Triumph filled Zarahel. The guardians had come to greet him and lead him to his destiny. Flanked by Ultari, marched almost like a prisoner, they headed into what had once been the great underground city of the Spider God. He knew he was on his way now to awaken the god of his ancestors and restore their lost glory.

Rik drew his coat tighter about him, and adjusted his scarf. There was a tension in the air he had not felt before, a suggestion of strange unnatural forces gathering around them in the mountains. He told himself it was just his imagination, but he felt sure it was not. He felt he was being watched by thousands of invisible eyes.

He wondered at the fate that had drawn them back to this valley so soon after they had left it. He cursed the day they had taken those damn books. If they had not, none of this might have happened. They would have been back in camp, drilling and waiting for the war to start, not plodding on wyrmback through these accursed mountains.

“You’re very quiet, Rik,” said Leon. He took the pipe from his mouth, tamped in tobacco and put it back in place unlit. “Got something on your mind?”

“Just wondering why there are so many of us being sent out to guard Lady Asea. She looks capable of protecting herself.”

“I reckon it’s because she is one of the First,” said Sergeant Hef. “Make sure no hill-men have their evil way with her.”

“I wouldn’t mind having my evil way with her,” said the Barbarian.

“Why is she here? What is she looking for?”

“The Light sent her to guide us and watch over us,” said Gunther. Everybody ignored him.

“Who knows with the Exalted? Half the time I am not sure they know their own minds. How are we supposed to know what is going on with them.”

“You reckon we are heading back to the old mine?” the Barbarian asked. “This path looks awfully bloody familiar.”

“You just work that out?” asked Weasel.

Zarahel stood in the centre of the great hatching chamber. It was an awesome sight, just like the city had been. A massive pattern resembling an intricate swirling spider-web was laid in the centre of the floor. It centred on a thing that was part altar, part lectern and part statue of a monster Ultari. This was the place where he must perform the ritual.

His mind spun from what he had seen on his way here. The ancient city was coming to life. Some of the old living machines were working. Some of the guardians were mobile. Some of the sacrifices had already been reborn. Alzibar’s sorcery had worked to that extent at least. Things were prepared for the return of Uran Ultar. Once the ritual was complete the city would be restored to its former glory. The life force of the god would flood through everything and all the dormant power of the Elder race would wake.

He looked around. The walls were covered in masses of near translucent egg-like sacs. Within each, the outline of an Ultari was visible. He knew they were waiting only for the touch of their deity, a darker god by far than the one the Terrarchs worshipped, and one more likely to manifest his power in this world.

He smiled to himself, touched the jelly like integument of one of his blisters, placed the book on the altar and began.