“Any more good news?”
“Well, the Lieutenant has talked to some of the prisoners. Says they are turncoats. They used to be part of Princess — ahem — Queen Kathea’s army, now they’ve turned blue.”
“Any idea why?”
“You’ll love this, and so will Lord Azaar,” said Weasel. “They say Ilmarec has changed sides. He’s holding the Princess — I mean Queen — in the Tower of Serpents. These men say if their liege lord has sided with the Blues so will they.”
“Great. Nothing so touching as loyalty is there.”
“It gets better. The Legion of Exiles is in Morven.”
“Khaldarus’s pet killers?” Rik shivered. The Legion had the worst of reputations. Their leaders were Terrarchs so depraved they had been banished by the Dark Empire and now fought as mercenaries for Prince Khaldarus. They used the darkest of magic too.
“None other. We’re to report all this to the General in person. We’re also to fill him in on the situation. I’m telling you this now in case we get separated. When we see Sardec in a few minutes he’ll doubtless tell you the same, but he’ll be more long winded about it. You know how Terrarchs are.”
“Got any plans for getting us out of here.”
“I thought we might try and drop into the river below the ford, let the current carry us downstream a bit and then double back to pick up the path to camp.”
Rik nodded. It made sense. Using the stream would keep the ripjacks from picking up their scent.
“It will be bloody cold,” he said. “The water I mean.”
“We’re not going for a picnic, Halfbreed. There’s men out there will kill us if they catch us.”
“Hot knives up your bunghole will soon warm you up if you are too cold,” said the Barbarian. He was nervous, his truculent manner always increased in direct proportion to his nerves.
Weasel just grinned like a dog whose belly was being scratched. Rik thought then, and not for the first time, that the former poacher was mad. It was not right for any man to be so fearless. Still, if he was going to risk his life, he was glad he was doing it in their company. He had never known anybody better suited for this kind of work.
“Let’s get on with it,” he said. “Soonest done, soonest home.”
Chapter Three
Rik shivered as he dragged himself from the river. So far, so good, he thought, lying on the bank and gasping. The chill seeped into him from his dripping wet clothes. He prayed to the Light that he would not get the flux after tonight’s exertions. He had seen it happen to others. Too late to worry about that now, he told himself.
A shadowy figure emerged from the water nearby. From its size he guessed it was the Barbarian. “Where’s Weasel?” he asked in a low voice. He did not whisper. Whispers carried further in the dark than speaking in a normal tone.
“Here!” came the response. “Just taking a rest after our midnight swim.” From downriver came the shouts of men, the roars of ripjacks, the neighing of horses: all the sounds of the enemy camp. The glow of their fires was dimly visible through the woods.
“We made it,” The Barbarian said.
“So far,” said Weasel. “Best be heading on, if we want to get round that camp.”
They squelched away from the stream. Rik held his bayonet in his hand. It was the only weapon he had, and it would not give him much chance against anyone armed with a firearm but he found it reassuring nonetheless. They had not brought their muskets or their pistols. They would not have worked after the soaking the three of them had just received.
Ahead of him, he could hear brush breaking as well as the soggy sound of feet in wet boots. This was a farce. They were moving without any stealth at all. The clouds that had proved so helpful in obscuring them from sight when they slipped over the wall were a hindrance now. It was dark enough to baffle even his normally excellent night sight. He could not see his hand in the pitch-blackness. Roots reached out to trip him. Trees jumped in front of him. Branches clawed his face.
“Stopping making so much bloody noise, Halfbreed,” said the Barbarian.
“You sound like a bull wyrm in a thicket yourself,” Rik replied.
“A very wet bull wyrm,” said Weasel.
“Why did we volunteer for this?” Rik asked.
“I don’t recall any volunteering. I was picked,” said the Barbarian. “On account of my courage, good looks and intelligence, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” said Rik.
“At least we have a chance to get out of that death trap alive,” said Weasel.
“The lads will make it,” said the Barbarian.
“Let’s hope so,” said Rik. His eyes were starting to adjust to the deeper gloom. At least he hoped they were, and that those deeper shadows were trees. He felt an odd fear growing in him, of being surprised by some hidden terror in the darkness. He noticed that the woods were full of small scuttling noises, and that things moved above them in the branches.
“If we head this way we should cut to the path,” Weasel said.
“You sure?” Rik asked.
“Of course I’m not bloody sure,” said Weasel. “But I’m giving it my best guess.”
“Let’s hope that is good enough.”
“Wait a second. What was that?” the Barbarian asked. They had all heard it. It sounded like something big was moving through the undergrowth in the distance.
“Most likely a wild pig,” said Weasel.
“Didn’t know they came out at night,” said the Barbarian.
An odd hissing roar filled the night. Men’s shouts responded to it.
“Fuck,” said the Barbarian. “A ripjack.”
“More than one,” said Weasel as an answering roar echoed through the woods. “And it’s caught our scent by the sound of it.”
All three of them bolted headlong through the woods. Behind them came the sound of men and wyrms in pursuit.
“You think they’ve got through, Sergeant?” Sardec asked. He looked down from the manor house’s wall, contemplating the fires that filled the night around them. There were a lot of them. He took another sip from the goblet of wine. It was bitter from the drugs the alchemists had given him to kill the pain of his stump. That still hurt even after all these weeks and all the spells of the Masters.
“I think so, sir. There’s no better man than Weasel in a wood. I reckon they are through.”
“Let’s hope so, Sergeant. There’s an army down there.”
“A small army, sir,” said Sergeant Hef.
“You’re right, Sergeant. What I can’t understand is why they haven’t attacked yet. It makes more sense to storm the place now. In the morning we’ll have a clear shot at them.”
“Maybe they want clear shots at us, sir. Maybe they have marched a long way and want rest. Maybe they are waiting for their cannon to come up.”
Sardec smiled at the small monkey faced man beside him. It had slowly been creeping up on him that he actually rather liked the Sergeant, in the same way he liked his hunting wyrms, of course. “If that was meant to reassure me, Sergeant, it did not do a very good job.”
“Just pointing out the options, sir. That’s my job.”
“You do it very well.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sardec noticed the Sergeant’s eyes flickering to the wine cup. He was wondering whether this sudden surge of affability in an officer was on account of the wine. Sardec wondered that too, but he already knew the answer.
