“Look over there,” said Weasel. Rik followed his gesture and saw the glint of something on the hillside. He covered his eyes and squinted and could just make out several squat figures loping upslope. “Bloody hill-men are already watching us. When word gets out of this, the clansmen will be hot for vengeance.”
“Let them be,” said Sergeant Hef. “By the time they get organised we will be back in Redtower.”
“They might come looking for us,” said Weasel. “There’s nobody like hill-men for vengeance-seeking when their blood is up.”
In the distance they heard bones splinter as the wyrms started to feed. All of them looked at each other. “Well, at least we don’t have to chop wood and build a pyre,” said Weasel, eventually.
Somewhere in the distance somebody blew a horn, the signal to get back and mount up. It was time to head back to the lowlands.
Chapter Ten
As they breasted the last ridge and Redtower came into view, plumes of dust told Rik that something was happening down there. Such clouds had to be kicked up by a sizeable force, and as he looked closer he could see that troops of cavalry wheeled and manoeuvred on the plain. Hastily thrown up breastworks marked the position of artillery. It looked like the Seventh had been joined by a considerable force.
He saw he was not the only one to have noticed. Lieutenant Sardec had his telescope pressed to his eye and surveyed the scene continually. Shouts passed from howdah to howdah, as the rest of the Foragers noticed what was going on.
“Looks like we really are getting ready for war,” said Weasel. “Must be a squadron of hussars down there, and at least a battery of heavy artillery. More wyrms too.”
“Those will be to carry the cannons,” said the sergeant. He did not seem at all surprised by this new development. Rik pointed this out.
“Use your head, Halfbreed,” he said. “What time of year is it being? Spring! Campaigning season! The reason why we were sent here to hold the mouth of the pass last year was so we would be here now. Now we have cavalry and artillery. My guess is that more will be arriving soon. There’s only one place we’ll be going.”
“And where’s that, Sergeant?” asked Leon.
“Kharadrea, lad,” said the Sergeant. “Where else would we be going?”
“The Dark Empire might object,” said Weasel.
“I don’t doubt they will,” said the Sergeant. “I don’t doubt that is the whole point. I don’t doubt we’ll be at war with the Blues before this year is out. Somebody’s going to sit on old Orodruine’s throne, and I doubt Her Majesty wants that someone to be anyone sympathetic to the Power of the East like Prince Khaldarus.”
“Lot of plunder in Kharadrea,” said Weasel.
“Lot of pretty girls too,” said the Barbarian. “Bonniest in the world, outside the Northlands.”
“My guess is we’ll march right after the Masque of Solace,” said Sergeant Hef.
“Looks like we’ll be on campaign again soon, boys!” yelled Leon in a fit of youthful enthusiasm. “Plunder for all.”
He was joined in enthusiastic whoops by all the rest of the Foragers. Even Rik joined in eventually, although he was far more interested in the contents of the books they had found than in the prospect of plunder.
The camp around the Redoubt had expanded considerably since they had set out to find the Prophet, and seemed to be getting bigger by the hour. Every minute a cloud of dust announced the arrival of a wagon full of merchants or camp followers.
On the way into camp they were greeted loudly by a cartload of well-rouged young ladies. There were always such. Soldiers on campaign grabbed loot with both fists and spent it with both hands, as men will when they know each day might be their last. There would be no shortage of women following them when they hit the road.
There were a lot more destriers about. Riders in the red frogged tunics and tall hats of hussars were everywhere. “What regiment, lads?” bellowed the Barbarian as a troop of them rode past.
“17th lancers,” came the reply. “The Queen’s Own.”
The Foragers managed a ragged cheer. In their excitement they had forgotten the traditional dislike of infantry for cavalry. Even the Lancers’ Terrarch officers managed cold smiles when they heard. A new sense of purpose energised the camp. There were more riders, more soldiers, more women, more travelling peddlers, more of everything. The old familiar winter lines were gone. It felt in some ways as if they had been gone for months rather than just a week, so much had changed. New tents crammed into the spaces between the old ones. New faces stared out the doors of some of the lean-tos. Rik knew that would mean trouble if a Forager came home and found some new man in his woman’s bed. Such things were not uncommon either.
They dismounted from the bridgebacks at the corral and waited to be dismissed. It did not take long. The few hill-men prisoners were led off to the Redoubt for interrogation. The Lieutenant seemed eager to get away and make his report to the Colonel even though he was unsteady on his feet. He took a few strides and then collapsed. Some of the men nearby ran to help him. Rik felt no urge to do so. He felt a brief spurt of savage glee as the Lieutenant was carried off to the Masters to be healed.
Master Severin’s body had already been carried back under the strangely inscribed tent that acted as awning over the entrance to the large stone house the Regiment’s wizards all shared. The Death Angel flags in the Exalted quarter flew at half mast, a reminder to all that Mourning had begun. Everyone within sight of a Terrarch wore a solemn expression.
“Bastard,” muttered the Barbarian. “Mourning Time. Back just in time to listen to the Terrarchs whine about their lost land. Bread and water for rations too. What a treat!”
Rik was willing to bet that Weasel would somehow manage to get more than that during the period of fasting.
“At least there’s the Masque to look forward to,” said Leon, chewing his empty pipe. “That’s always fun.”
The Foragers made their way back into their camp. Rik watched Weasel and the Barbarian vanish off to find the Quartermaster. He made his way to the shack he shared with Leon and Hopper and Handsome Jan. The last two went their own way. They seemed a little embarrassed about having run off during the fight in the mine, and found it difficult to meet his eye. Rik understood that, just as he understood their resentment even though he should have been the one doing the resenting.
As he walked along beside the limping Leon he wondered what to do about the books. His knapsack seemed like the best place, although it was far from ideal. Constant petty thievery was rife in camps like this. He doubted that more than one in a hundred of the soldiers or their hangers-on would have the slightest idea of what they had found if they stole the books, but all it would take would be one, and that one reporting matters to the wrong person, and he would be in the sewer, neck-deep.
Perhaps he was worrying too much. He had owned books before and had never had one of them stolen. They were of no real value to most people in the camp, and they were hard to dispose of too. Perhaps the best bet would be just to let them be, and pretend they were just like other volumes he had read in the past. Nobody who was likely to come into his billet would have the slightest idea of their contents. He knew he would have to leave them somewhere. Nothing would attract suspicion like carrying all his gear everywhere. He shook his head. Already he was falling into the mind-set of the guilty. It was something he remembered well from his time as a thief in Sorrow.
Once the crime was committed and you had made your getaway, there was always this sense that every eye was on you, that every hand would soon be turned against you, that every voice would raise the hue and cry. If that happened, and the mob started baying for blood, you were dead. Even walking through the alleys of the Maze you felt that everybody knew what you were about, and would either report you to the thief-takers, or demand a piece of the action. He remembered what the Old Witch had told him, and Koralyn too before the man was hung. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred nobody has any idea. They are all too wrapped up in their own
