"Two days, you say, Milady?"
"So Lady Sybea assures me, but no matter, I will tell her that the great Benjario has assured me otherwise. I am sure she will be the first to admit her mistake."
"But Milady if there is even the slightest possibility that they may somehow complete their chariot within two days then we must fly tomorrow."
"Certainly not, Master Benjario. You have assured me that such a thing is not possible, and I would not presume to doubt you in such a case."
"Even the mightiest intellects may miscalculate occasionally, Milady. Even Benjario, if only very rarely indeed, but a truly great intellect must never discount the possibility that it might be mistaken."
"But what about the safety factors?"
"Benjario sneers in the face of danger."
"But what of the risk to Lady Asea?" asked Rik.
"If there is any danger, Benjario will gladly face it alone."
"I am sure that if Master Benjario thinks the vehicle is safe enough for him, then it will be safe enough for us, Rik," said Asea with the blandest of smiles.
"Us?" said Rik.
"You will be accompanying me, I hope."
Rik stared at her. Benjario bowed. "Milady, if I may be excused, I must see to it that these lazy swine do not slack on the job and that our chariot is ready to carry us into the history books."
"Of course, Master Benjario," said Asea with a nod of her head. As they departed Rik heard Benjario roaring like a bull at his staff. They all rushed to obey, except for his wife who stood nearby, making small circling motions with her forefinger against the side of her head.
Chapter Seven
Sardec glanced around. The graveyard was getting dark and they still had not found anything. The men were starting to show signs of unease. What had started out feeling almost like a game had become progressively grimmer as the day wore on. Clouds gathered overhead, cutting off the light and making things still gloomier. Sere leaves dropped from the cemetery trees crunched under his feet.
They now searched the richest part of the graveyard. The mausoleums looked more like small houses, and that was just the part of them that was on the surface. There were larger crypts below ground. In some ways it was like being in a small town, albeit a very quiet one, full of old, ornate buildings. They had seen no one since they entered, not even the wardens who were supposed to maintain the place, and keep out grave-robbers. The company, divided into sections of ten, swept along the lanes between the tombs, calling to each other in soft voices, more for reassurance than anything else.
As the air cooled, mist rose from the earth, turning the troopers first into black and white figures and then shadowy outlines. Torches spluttered. Men talked in low voices. Sardec considered calling it a day, before someone got lost or wandered off into the mist. If there were ghouls here, he thought, now would be their best time to attack. The advantage of the men's muskets would be negated by their limited vision.
The clammy air fingered his neck. An odd scent reached his nostrils. Somewhere nearby a hand-bell tolled. It startled him. He heard feet coming closer, almost like men marching. "Tell the lads to hold steady," he told Sergeant Hef. "It’s just a funeral procession."
He let out a long breath. It would not do to have the Foragers open fire. Things were already tense enough with the locals without massacring a bunch of mourners. Such things happened, he knew. His father had told him of it. He was determined that it would not happen on his watch.
The bell came closer, and he could hear chanting. From out of the mist emerged a group of priests, and what might have been a whole family of mourners bearing a coffin among them. They looked like a clan of rich human merchants, well-dressed in heavy black cloth trimmed with funereal gold. Obviously not even rumours of ghoul infestation had discouraged them from holding the ceremony. Sardec supposed that they wanted to show respect for the dead, and not use an unmarked pauper’s grave.
"Picked a nice time for it," he heard Weasel mutter as the mourners passed by. "Let's hope the ghouls don't get them."
"Let's hope they don't hear your idiotic blatherings," said Sergeant Hef in a low angry voice. The Sergeant was a devout man, and not without sympathy for the bereaved. He was annoyed that Weasel might be intruding in these people's grief.
"I was just saying, Sergeant," said Weasel. "Maybe we should go and make sure they are all right. Maybe we should stake out the grave... in case any corpse eaters decide that want a nice fresh snack."
It was not a bad idea, except for the fact that ghouls preferred rotten, worm-infested meat. And of course it would not be the height of sensitivity to set up an ambush around a funeral service.
The family disappeared into one of the nearby mausoleums. Sardec heard keys being used twice, once to unlock the outer door, and once the inner gate. He knew that such vaults were double-locked from the outside. Presumably to keep their inhabitants in, if they felt an urge to go for a stroll.
He could see a couple of torchbearers standing nervously by the doorway. This was getting them nowhere, he thought.
"Sergeant Hef, pass the word. We are pulling out. The graveyard watch is over for the day."
"Glad to hear it, sir. I would not want to be left in here when they lock the outer gates for the night."
At that moment, he heard a voice come from the gloom. "I think we've found something, sir."
"Oh great," he heard the Barbarian mutter. "Just in the nick of time."
Weasel knelt and inspected the track in the mud.
"What do you make of it," Sardec asked.
Weasel traced the outline of the print in the air with his finger. "Human sized. Not wearing boots obviously. Hasn't cut his toenails for a longer time than the Barbarian. Either that or he's developed claws."
"How long ago?"
"Not long. Print's quite fresh."
"I thought ghouls only came out at night," someone muttered.
"It's misty. Maybe ghoulie got confused. Or maybe he got a sniff of the funeral and couldn't contain his hunger. Maybe the smell of incense does for them what the smell of frying onions does for me."
"There more of them about?" Sardec asked.
"Don't know, sir. I can check the area for prints but the lads mostly likely trampled on a lot of them if they were there."
"At least we know there's one of them in here, sir," said Sergeant Hef. "Maybe more."
"One's enough for me," said Toadface.
"Think you can track him?" Sardec asked Weasel. The sharpshooter scratched his beak of a nose then sucked his teeth.
"It's misty, sir, and the light's not so good." Like the rest of them, Weasel wanted to go home. Sardec could tell.
"There's a bounty for each ghoul head," he reminded the Foragers. "Can buy a lot of vodka for a silver piece."
Weasel grinned. "A drink for each man in the company, sir. Maybe." There were a lot of soldiers here and one head would not do much for their thirst. Plus the soldiers still had their plunder stashes. They were not short of money. Sardec could not blame them for their lack of enthusiasm under the circumstances. He was really no keener than they about remaining in the graveyard.
A scream rang out. Followed by another. Then silence.
"It came from the direction of the mausoleums," said Weasel. "Somebody did fancy a snack."
"Ready weapons, lads," said Sardec. "Looks like we're going to kill some ghouls after all."
"Are you sure what you are planning is wise?" Rik asked Asea as they entered her chambers in the Palace. She smiled and spoke the words of the warding spells. The street noise from outside fell away.
"I do believe you are frightened, Rik," she said with a mocking smile.
"My last experience with flying engines was not the sort that makes me keen to get into the air again."
"Master Benjario's machine will work Rik. I have checked his calculations myself."
"That reassures me somewhat, Milady, but still I fear for your safety. Accidents happen. And sometimes the
y happen deliberately."
"I don't think Master Benjario is going to kill himself just to rid the world of me, Rik. I have known people who would but he is not one of them."
"His wife might," said Rik, only half-joking. "But I was thinking more of sabotage."
"Our preparations will be most thorough. Everything will be checked before we take off."
"You really are determined to do this, aren't you, Milady?"
"I am."
"Why?"
"For the thrill of it, Rik." He studied her, trying to work out whether she was being flippant. He could not tell. He wondered if he had a life as long as hers whether he would risk it.
"Is your life really so dull?"
"This will be a new experience," she said. "There are not many of those in my life."
"It might be the last new experience you will ever have."
"There are risks attached to everything, Rik. Even walking across the street."
Ahead of Sardec a pack of ghouls swarmed over one of the torchbearers, tearing at his throat, ripping at his flesh with bloody fangs. Horribly the man still moved, but his tongue had been bitten out, and only soft gobbling sounds emerged from his blood-streaming mouth. More ghouls scampered about the mausoleum. They moved with a hideous loping motion, sometimes upright, sometimes on all fours, sometimes hunched in a position in between. Their movements had a reeling, uncoordinated quality as if something was wrong with their nervous system. Doubtless the degeneration induced by their disease had something to do with it.
The ghouls' flesh was grey and blotched. In some places it appeared covered in weeping sores, in others, sodden mould. Some of the things looked scaly. Many of them had lost fingers and noses and eyes. A few of them had wisps of hair, but most were bald. Their eyeballs were yellow and filled with madness. They were mostly silent, but occasionally an odd meep or glibber would emerge from their fanged mouths.
Shots rang out. One of the ghouls toppled and then began to rise again despite the hole punched in his chest. "Aim for the heads!" Sardec shouted. "That will stop them."
He wished he felt as sure as he sounded. He had no idea whether his plan would work, and in the bad light and mist it was easier to order than to achieve. The ghoul’s disease seemed to make them immune to pain though, and perhaps to most forms of injury. Hopefully destroying the brain would stop them.
Sardec raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger. The ghoul lurched to one side and the shot took it in the shoulder. The force of impact sent it reeling backwards, but it righted itself and came on at Sardec. He tossed the pistol into the air and caught it by the barrel, preparing to use the weighted grip as a club. As the ghoul came closer he caught its smell, like damp mouldy clothing mixed with rotten meat, of acrid long unwashed bodies. Meeting its gaze was horrible. Malevolence and mad sentience burned in those yellowish, bloodshot eyes. It smiled, revealing greyish gums, and sharpened, blood-covered teeth.
Sardec did not wait for it to come to him. He sprang forward bringing the pistol butt down on the side of its head. There was a sharp crack. As the ghoul slumped, Sardec got his hook into its throat, and tugged, turning it around to face away from him. He did not want to take any chances of being bitten. The hook cut into the windpipe and with a twist of his wrist Sardec tore the ghoul's throat open. Air wheezed from the gap. He kicked the creature so that it fell forward, sprawling onto its face, then leapt into the air, bringing both booted feet down on the back of the thing's neck with the full force of his body weight. Vertebrae cracked. Sardec staggered to one side and kicked the thing again and again, until its head was a bruised pulp, dry skin peeling away to reveal white bone beneath. An eye rolled free on the end of an optic nerve, and squelched like a burst tomato when he stamped on it.
Eerie mocking laughter rang out from above. Sardec looked up and saw through the swirling mist that a strange and horrifying figure had appeared on the mausoleum roof. He froze momentarily, his mouth dry, his heart hammering against his ribs when he realised what it was.
“You won’t take any more of my people,” shrieked a voice. “Not one. Not one. Not one.”
A female figure wrapped in tattered grave clothes leant against the ornamental carving on the roof. The gown was open and revealed two flopping breasts. The skin was albino pale. The hair was long and wild, leaves and twigs were caught in it. The woman's nails were long as claws. Her eyes were staring and mad. What was worst, at least for Sardec, was that she was not a human. She was a Terrarch, and judging from her clothing she had been an aristocratic one.
It made the whole thing personal and terrifying for him. Up till now he had managed to put aside his fear. Ghouls were just another sub-species, far below him in the natural order, just like he had considered humans to be. Now it came to him that his own people were not above the ravages of this disease. It was possible that if he were bitten, that one day soon he could be like the thing on the roof. The thought almost paralyzed him. Almost.
He turned and saw that Weasel had almost finished reloading his long rifle. "Kill that obscenity," Sardec bellowed, pointing up at her with his hooked arm.
Weasel nodded. "Sir!" He rose to his feet and raised his rifle for the shot. At that moment, something emerged from the mist behind him and leapt for his throat. Keen instinct warned the sharpshooter and he twisted to face his attacker. With the speed of his namesake, Weasel smacked the thing on the head with the butt of his rifle and then struck it again, smashing its skull. Sardec turned to look up at the ghoul chieftainess on the roof. She had vanished but from somewhere in the midst emerged a mad piercing shriek.
"Away my children. Away!" Sardec knew with utter certainty that the voice belonged to her. It seemed that even in her new state she ruled the humans as she had done in life. At once they began to glibber obscenely among themselves, breaking off from their struggles and retreating into the mist. “Do not let the outsiders take you!”
A gap appeared in the mist. The female ghoul was briefly visible. Almost casually Weasel raised his riddle to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Smoke and sparks billowed forth. The former Terrarch lady’s head exploded. “Got her,” muttered Weasel.
From within the mausoleum, came more gobbling calls, and ghouls swarmed out of the place, some of them clutching severed limbs and heads. A few were mown down by the Foragers, but the rest of them vanished into the darkness and the fog, leaving the soldiers to check their dead and wounded.
"Sergeant Hef," said Sardec. "Take two sections and check out the mausoleum for survivors."
"Aye, sir," said the Sergeant, turning to shout at the soldiers who were unwilling to venture into the darkened tomb. Sardec did not blame them. He suspected that they would find only the dead down there, and maybe a few of their stranded foes, still hiding.
He walked around the men, asking if any had been bitten or even scratched. Those who had he forced to wash their wounds with whiskey and cauterise them. Astonishingly despite the bitterness of the combat, his men had taken no fatalities. At least not yet, he reminded himself. Perhaps they had been infected with a slow lingering death that would be worse than eaten alive.
Sergeant Hef returned. "We found nothing, sir, except corpses. The ghouls seemed to have killed everybody." He noticed Sergeant Hef was staring at his hand. He looked at it himself. There were bite marks there. When had he gotten them? He could not tell. He had not even felt any pain during the blazing emotional maelstrom of combat. Maybe when he had grappled with the ghoul. He offered up a prayer to the Light that he was not infected. He knew there was only one thing to do. He had no desire to end up like the dead thing in the dress over there.
"Sergeant, if you would be so kind as to bring me a torch and some whiskey."
Sergeant Hef did so, and Sardec applied the whiskey to his wound and set it alight. It burned and the stink of burning flesh reminded him uncomfortably of the time he lost his hand.
“One thing bothers me, sir,” said the Sergeant. Sardec looked at him Sergeant Hef’
s worries were usually worth listening to.
“What’s that Sergeant?”
“What was that hag gibbering about? She seemed to think we had come to capture the ghouls instead of putting them down.”
Hef accompanied him as he strode over to look at the corpse. In death, it looked obscene, sprawled in the dirt with brains bubbling out through a hole in its head. He did not want to touch her even with his hook.
“Maybe she was mad,” said Sardec.
“Maybe, sir.” The Sergeant looked away into the mist. Sardec knew what he was thinking because he was thinking it too. Who in their right minds would want to capture ghouls? And why?
Chapter Eight
"Are you sure this is a wise idea, Milady?" Rik asked. He stared at the sorcerous contraption suspiciously, wondering how this thing was supposed to get them airborne. It was cold this early in the morning. The late autumnal sun had not yet had a chance to warm them. Benjario assured them that this was the best time to get aloft. Apparently the spirits of the aerosphere were more amenable at this hour of the day.
Lord Azaar watched from a platform nearby. His mask made it impossible to tell what he was thinking from his expression, but his whole posture radiated indifference.
All around the hillside a crowd had gathered. It seemed word of their experiment had spread through the city. Rik did not need to wonder how that had happened. People gossiped. Someone had known that Azaar and his bodyguards were setting up a pavilion here. Someone had erected that pavilion. Someone had talked. Possibly that someone had been Benjario. He was a man who wanted his name in the history books. Hopefully, Rik thought, surveying the crowd, none of Lady Asea's many enemies had decided that this would make a wonderful opportunity for doing away with her. He looked across at Karim. The Southerner was as intently focused on the sea of faces as Rik was.