And his place, despite his family connections and his immaculate blood-line, was at the very bottom of the heap. And he would stay there for a very long time, unless he did something to distinguish himself, as his father had seven hundred years ago when he had saved the life of Lord High Commander Azaar at the Ford of Three Wands during the final stages of the Conquest.
He just wished he were not so conspicuous. Few true-blooded children were born to the Exalted at the best of times, and these were not the best of times. The Terrarchs had always been a slow breeding race unlike the accursed humans. In recent centuries, for reasons no one could quite understand, there had been more of those abominable miscegenations like that insolent half-breed in his own unit…
Smoke started to drift upwards from the flask. It was a brownish red. At first it looked like glittering motes of dust, and then these lost their sparkle and congealed into something thicker and ruddier. The redness took form, becoming strips thin as paper and roughly the shape of great bodiless bats. They writhed around each other and flowed around the inside of the magic circle, like lions confined within a cage.
Slowly the shadows took on greater substance, as if borrowing weight and mass from somewhere, becoming less translucent, and more energetic.
“Crimson Shadows,” Corporal Toby muttered. There was something like awe in his voice. Sardec shivered. He had heard his father’s tales of seeing these things unleashed. His mouth went dry. A strange exaltation filled him. He was witnessing something extraordinary, seeing one of the most ancient weapons of his people actually used. These were a direct manifestation of the sorcery that had chained humanity and sealed Terrarch supremacy for almost a thousand years.
The shadows swelled, billowing like sails as Severin’s chant lent them more substance. They drew strength from it and from him. The words droned on and on, and the shadows swirled ever higher like smoke drifting up a chimney. The scraps of matter split and split again, becoming thinner, more elongated and they soared higher and higher, like kites. A swarm of the Crimson Shadows swirled within a great invisible tube.
A crackling buzz filled the air. It sounded almost like a voice. Master Severin responded to it in an alien language which seemed somehow familiar. Sardec could sense another presence, something alien, inimical and hungry; a presence constrained by the circles and the will of the sorcerer. He knew that had the wizard not been there, the thing would be reaching for him and his men even now, and there would be very little they could do to stop it.
The great wyrms lashed their tails nervously and it took all the efforts of their mahouts to keep them calm. Sardec had his sword out. The old runes shimmered along the surface, evidence of eddy currents of magic.
His skin crawled as he listened to that great buzzing voice. It echoed deep within his bones. He could almost make sense of its words, although he knew that would not be a good thing for his soul. Even the least devout of the Foragers were making elder signs over their breasts now. Some muttered prayers to the Saints and Prophets to intercede with the Light on their behalf.
Finally, just when he thought he could take no more of it, the parlay ended. Severin and the Master of the Crimson Shadows had come to some agreement. The mage gestured and the vast invisible cage hemming the Shadows in receded into the ground. From the top, like a plume of smoke dispersing in a sudden wind, the Shadows drifted towards the valley, becoming ever more numerous as they writhed and split and flapped across the darkening sky.
They encountered some resistance as they neared the lake. Wards of some sort, he guessed. They swarmed against an invisible barrier which it seemed they could not cross. Sardec held his breath. There were certain sorceries that could rebound on their casters if they were baulked. Master Severin chanted another spell, and the invisible barrier collapsed, a weak dam giving way before an irresistible tide. The Shadows flowed forward once more and descended on the ruined mansion and its inhabitants in a flood. The walls were obscured.
With his far-better than human night sight Rik watched the cloud of Shadows descend on the mansion. He could see the scraps of crimson flow around individuals, wrapping them like a shroud. Chilling, terrified screams rang out. One man leapt from the roof, arms windmilling as he sought a cleaner death. His fall seemed somehow slower than normal, as if gravity’s pull were not quite as intense as usual.
Rik fought down an urge to cover his ears. There was something hopeless, lost, crazed about the shrieks of the highlanders. Their death was an unclean one. Hatred for the Terrarchs who had brought it about surged through his mind. It warred with the wariness in him. Here was evidence of the overwhelming power of the Terrarchs. This was his first real sighting of the mailed fist that was normally covered. Here was the reason why mankind lay beneath the Terrarch heel even after a thousand years, and most likely still would be after a thousand more.
The Shadows entered the building, flowing down chimneys, through openings in the roof, skimming down the side of the structure and sliding through gaps in wooden shutters. Moments later the screaming began again. It went on for minutes that seemed as long as hours.
Eventually the screaming died away. The bodies stopped moving. Slowly, much more slowly than they had advanced, the Crimson Shadows rose from the mansion and flapped back towards the ridge-line. There was something in their appearance that suggested an obscene satiation, as if they were bloated by the life force they had devoured. Rik felt a moment of pure terror as they approached. Several of the Foragers would have turned and fled had not Sergeant Hef ordered them to halt in a voice that brooked no disobedience.
It was with some relief that Sardec saw the Shadows flapping downwards, returning to the silver flask. One by one, they dropped within it and when the last one had finally squeezed in Severin spoke some words and restored the stopper to the flask. The ancient horror was safely penned once more. The wizard slumped to his knees, looking weary as an old man, and with a grimace of partially concealed guilt and an even more furtive pleasure etched onto the features visible beneath his half-face mask.
Severin stiffened and then began to shake as if stricken by palsy. From his twisted features it was obvious that he was making a dreadful effort to speak; “There were difficulties. Resistance far greater than I expected. Go ahead! I will join you when I can.”
Even as he spoke, he slumped forward and fell through the sides of his mystical circle. Sparks flickered around his form but nothing worse appeared to be happening. Sardec cursed and strode forward to pull the body clear, confident that his truesilver blade would protect him from the worst. He checked the wizard’s breathing and pulse. Good, he was still alive.
But what now, Sardec wondered? What was it that Severin had warned about? Was this some sort of trap? Should he order the attack to go ahead? He decided he should get into the fray as swiftly as possible. He felt confident that his blade would prove more potent than any sorcerer’s spells.
Should he leave a covering force here? No. There was no immediate threat here and every man might be needed down below.
“You two, look after Master Severin,” he ordered a couple of the soldiers. “Corporal Toby, fire the signal flare! The rest of you mount the wyrms. We are going to capture a wizard for the Inquisition.”
The flare blazed skyward. The bridgebacks got ready to move.
When the flare burst overhead, Rik sprang to his feet along with the Sergeant and half a dozen of the lads. They raced forward, rifles ready, straight for the nearest door. All around them, in the diminishing light of the rocket’s glare he could see others doing the same. Every second he expected a shot to bury itself in his body.
The distance across the open ground seemed enormous. He felt like he was making no progress and every limb moved with the slowness of treacle running down the side of a stone jar.
He was all too aware of what could go wrong, of all the accidents and mischances that might befall him. Friends might make a mistake. Guns could go off accidentally. Bayonets had accidentally lodged in someone’s back during a charge. At least the men who did it claimed it was an accident but who could tell; old scores sometimes got settled.
A man staggered up into the tower. Astonishingly it looked like there were still people alive in the mansion. Rik saw him begin to turn and look in his direction. He could not believe how slow the sentry’s movements were. He knew it was only his own heightened state of awareness, but still it was so remarkable that he laughed. The man was obviously confused. He leaned forward as if to get a better view of what was going on.
Rik raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired at him. Sparks flickered from flint. The rifle butt kicked against
