CHAPTER ONE
A procession of the damned wending its way to one of the nine Hells. At least that is what it looked like - a line of horsemen silhouetted on top of a sparse hill line, as the storm clouds parted long enough for the moon to shine briefly through. The clearing of the sky wasn't a regular occurrence in the weather of the region. Mostly it just pissed down.
Newly commissioned Lieutenant of the 1st Company, 7th Mounted Infantry Regiment, Ashkent Expeditionary Army, Ronin Locke gazed back at his very sorry looking command. Not that he could see much. There should have been some twenty-five men behind him. He could just about make out a dozen. The weather and the black army issue storm ponchos conspired with the night to swallow his men whole. There was, however, no mistaking Sergeant Mac who was directly behind him. An old sweat soldier who had wed himself to the Army, not because of any real sense of duty or that he particularly enjoyed it. Rather he couldn't really be bothered to look elsewhere for employment. Locke had some sympathy. Better that than working in a factory, or a farm or the Fleet. Of an indeterminate age and a stomach that had given up the fight against gravity a long time ago, what really marked out Sergeant Mac were his large fists. They came very handy when "field discipline" was called for. That and his legendary nose. It emerged from his cowl like an enraged proboscis, big, round and pitted. Some of the lads claimed that he must have Dwarf blood in him. Others added that he could sniff out any bullshit the boys might try and pull. But at least you could see the nose coming. It gave you time to hide what you were doing. He was however, the soul that the Company built itself around. The nose moved left to right, trying to probe the night for hidden dangers. Lieutenant Locke rather doubted there would be any of those about. Not in this bloody weather.
Turning to look forward he made out the form of Corporal Jonas some twenty yards ahead. Identifiable by the great ash bow he wore on his back over his poncho, this thin, quiet man was the company's best scout. He tended to talk in short sentences or handy catchphrases like "bloody arsehole" or "Porky Boy should cork it". Wordy he was not, descriptive he was. Apparently the man was a Half-Elf on his mother’s side. Not that Locke could see it himself; Elven blood was evident in the man’s tracking skills alone.
They had been out on patrol for about three hours, searching for an 'elusive' enemy who were probably so described because they were all tucked up in bed. It had been raining all day and Locke felt sodden. Not just wet, beyond wet; the kind of wet that made your every movement a trial in clamminess. A wet that just said "This is really shit, what you want is to go home, sit in front of the fire and forget about going out until it stops bloody raining." If he sat really still on his saddle then it wasn't so bad. Not that he could justifiably do that, what with him being in charge and all. Instead he reflected back on the events that had brought him to this sorry state.
A third son of a well-connected and established merchant family, he had never wanted to join up. A top rate education and an indulgent childhood had nurtured a natural laziness and arrogance that very firmly said no thanks to rough living. This was largely due to his mother’s doting. His father had other ideas, however, and he informed Ronin in no uncertain terms that that there was no way in hell that the lad would gain anything in the way of inheritance until he’d done some real bloody work. “I didn’t get where I did today by living off the charity of others you know. I had to scrimp and save and earn my fortune,” his father would pronounce. A litany Ronin had heard before and rather felt was wearing thin. Especially as his father had also had the benefit of being the sole beneficiary of his uncle’s shipping business. But the youngster had decided not to argue the point. His father could be somewhat ‘physical’ when crossed. Besides he figured that a three-year commission could be tolerated, especially if he wangled himself a nice garrison posting somewhere south, where the biggest threat would be some drunken Dwarf with a penchant for axe hurling.
There followed a short period at the Ashkent Military Academy where he was taught a great deal about being a good leader and strategy and tactics and political groupings. He also learnt how to switch off during lessons. He found himself surrounded by a mixed bunch of characters. The Ashkent military liked to draw its officer class from a range of backgrounds. It felt that there was room for people who were of lesser breeding but who possessed ability. It therefore opened its doors to the well-born and the well-trodden alike. Ronin tended not to mix with the later, finding many like himself to ally with at the Academy. Of course, Ashkent also liked to promote other ranks who had earned success in the field. Like his own officer commanding. That really grated on Locke. His captain always behaved as if Ronin was nothing more than a green recruit. Always bringing him up on decisions that he made. Always telling him to stop playing at soldiers as if he were a child. How dare he? At least I have an education and a bright future. What did that old man have coming to him? A pitiful pension and a few meaningless words of thanks. For the time being he had to follow orders. But the way his Commander treated him was seen and copied by the other men. Some were rather more open in their disdain, others you could just see it in their eyes. As if they couldn’t trust him to make proper decisions. Well damn it, that was why he had been made an officer and they hadn’t. And they would learn that true quality would always show through. Just let them wait and see.
Ahead of Locke, Corporal Jonas had stopped and was gazing forward. Locke moved up and reined in his horse next to Jonas's. He waited for a response but the Corporal remained silent, his bony face barely visible in the cowled blackness.
"Well?" he asked impatiently
"Woods, ahead."
"So?"
"So do we go round ‘em or through ‘em." stated Sergeant Mac who had ridden up to join them.
"Well it seems to me, Sergeant," said Locke, not entirely able to disguise his annoyance, "that if the enemy is in there, then we would be foolish to avoid them. Would we not?" Besides, he was rather keen to be able to get out of the rain for a small while.
"Yes, Sir."
Locke waited for more and got nothing. "Shall we?" He stared impatiently at his subordinate. Sergeant Mac remained motionless for a second longer than was polite and turned his head to Corporal Jonas. Without a word the other man wheeled his horse and cantered towards the trees. The scout slowed his horse and stopped before the woods.
Locke guessed that the scout was riding ahead to check for signs. Fat chance in this weather. Muck and mud would be all that he would find. He waited a few more moments then started forward again and joined Jonas a few metres from where the tree line began. Jonas glanced at Locke, his features indistinct.
"Nothing come through here recently. 'Cept some deer two hours ago."
"See, Sergeant?" Locke felt a small measure of triumph as Sergeant Mac joined them. "Nothing but wildlife."
"Yes, Sir, as you say. But this is only one entrance in many."
"I tell you, Sergeant that this route is safe. No doubt we will find the enemy clustered round a pitiful fire. That is, if they are stupid enough to be abroad this night. Pass the word, we are going in."
Sergeant Mac nodded and turned his horse to the next rider in line and bent in close to the man's hood.
"Smitty, tell the lads to buck up. Could be riding into shit."
"Yes, boss."
The trooper began to pass the word back and a quiet change happened in the line of riders. They sat up straighter and moved their weapons into a more accessible position.
Locke, satisfied that all was well, led his procession of horses into the dark woods. Ahead of him he glimpsed Corporal Jonas notching an arrow to his bow, which he held lightly, resting the weight on his saddle. The darkness swallowed him up and moments later Locke found himself sucked into a world of shadows and endless motion. Although his night vision was now well adapted he still found it difficult to see much more than a few feet ahead of him. The rain was greatly reduced here and the wind spent much of it
s force on the outer wall of the woods. Due to the dank and claustrophobic atmosphere, they were not accompanied by the usual sounds of the night, just the muffled sound of the footfall of hooves as they picked their way along a muddy but obvious trail through the trees. Locke found a small knot of panic forming in his stomach, which he fought to crush back down. It was the feeling of isolation and the absence of space that suggested he had entered some other place; somewhere he was alone, where the way out was hidden to him, where he was lost in the dark. Listen to me. I'm no child. I'm better, stronger, than these phantoms. He could just make out the black form of Jonas ahead of him and clung to that form as a lost mariner to a lifebuoy. He kept turning his head to check the progress of those behind him. He could sense, if not see, the presence of Sergeant Mac behind him. Of the others, he could not tell. And damn it all, try as he might, that small nagging feeling of panic would not go.
Locke began to lose all sense of time. How long have we been in here for the God’s sake? He knew logically that it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes yet the time stretched interminably. To quiet his mind he let his thoughts drift to their return to camp. Hopefully there would be a fire or two lit and a pot of stew gently bubbling, awaiting their return. This was usually the case, as the men back at camp knew all too well what it was like to be on night patrol. Afterwards a flagon of ale would be passed around. He himself would indulge in a small tipple of his own personal wine supply. He absently registered another soft rumble of thunder as the storm grew in strength again. A few moments later a flash of lightning lit up his field of vision. About him were mossy branches slick with rainwater, and the track was a mess of mud and fallen leaves. Above him was a crisscross network of branches as trees vied for space. Some were very large indeed. One branch seemed grossly misshapen as if it had formed its very own humpback. Then he saw a glint of light reflected from a point halfway along the shape. In growing alarm Lock shook his head and stared at the shape. Light shouldn’t reflect off wood. As he gazed left and right to better use his night vision he saw the shape move. Move in a very non-woodlike way. Before he had time to open his mouth to warn Corporal Jonas, the scout had released an arrow and had hit the waiting form. He heard a grunt followed by the crash of a falling body as it careened through the lower branches of the tree.
The next moment the woods became a cacophony of shouts and screams as hidden forms arose from the dirt and seemed to merge with the riders. The clash of metal muffled and dulled and the cries of startled horses added to the general chaos. Locke looked about wildly and drew his sword to slash at momentary shadows. He could not make sense of anything.
"To me! Rally to me," he cried, desperate to have some company, some allies against the dark. His shouts went unheard as men attended to the more pressing matter of survival. Suddenly a rider was by his shoulder and a voice shouted in his ear.
"Stop bloody sitting there and bloody move!"
The voice was Sergeant Mac and he slapped the rump of Locke's already agitated steed. It bounded off into the dark and it was all Locke could do to hold on. The horse crashed through the trees, changing direction at random. Locke lost his sword as it was whipped from his hand by a passing branch. Head down he closed his eyes and could only place his trust in the horse under him. All semblance of composure was gone and he cried out in fear and pain as smaller branches licked and snapped upon his upper body. The sounds of battle were beginning to withdraw as his horse stretched the distance not that Locke noticed through his own screaming. This was swiftly cut short as with a half-grunt, half-gasp he was forced forward in his saddle by the weight of a heavy object crashing into him from behind. He was vaguely aware of this weight having movement and purpose before he received a hard strike against his head. For a moment, his world went black. Swiftly coming to he realised that his assailant was preparing for another strike. It was all happening so fast the Locke felt powerless to intervene in his own death. He lifted his sword arm in a warding gesture, knowing as his did so that it was useless.
Sergeant Mac’s horse was suddenly by him. The burly sergeant leant over and swung his arm around and out. Though Locke could not see it, he certainly heard the scream of his attacker as Sergeant Mac’s short sword slammed into the man’s head. The body fell from the horse and Locke, feeling faint, collapsed forward. He felt a restraining arm upon him, keeping him in the saddle. As he began to pass out he heard the voice of the Sergeant.
“You’re right in the shit when the Captain hears about this one, lad.”