A chill passed through him; things might easily swing the other way. They had in Sardea. That was not something any man wanted to consider. It galled him to admit that there might be worse things in this world than Sardec and his ilk, but there were. At least the Scarlet nations acknowledged that humans were entitled to some rights. The Purples would have them all as slaves again, indentured forever on their vast estates and palaces, subject completely to the whims of their masters. In Sardea, if a Terrarch wanted to kill one of his humans, put him to death by torture even, he could and with no other reason than he felt like doing so. His humans were his property, to do with as he would.
Rik pushed those thoughts aside and returned to the things the hill-man, Vosh, had said. All the talk about a haunted mine, and murderous sorcerers and the presence of the Prophet was disconcerting to say the least. It was clear now why Master Severin had come along, when usually the mages never left camp for anything less than a war or a long holiday. This was magician’s business. He was there to shield them from sorcery and doubtless plunder the lore-books of the wizard when they found him.
The rest of the squad looked no happier than Rik felt. The men on watch needed to keep their heads poking over the side of the howdah and into the cutting wind. The chill was like a sword-cut as Rik discovered when his turn came and Weasel slumped down gratefully and took a swig from his hidden brandy flask. Much to Rik’s surprise, for Weasel was not known for his generosity, the poacher offered it to him.
“You’ll need it,” Weasel said and grinned. For some reason he had always been good to Rik and Leon. It was he who pulled strings with the Sergeant Major to get the pair transferred from the line infantry to the Foragers. Rik guessed it was because he liked having a couple of Sorrow-trained thieves within easy reach. He and Leon had done some housebreaking and pocket-picking at Weasel’s instigation. It had been profitable for all three, but, Rik suspected, for Weasel most of all.
Rik let the burning liquid slide down his throat. It was surprisingly good, smooth and rich, and he immediately had a suspicion where it came from. Weasel had been raiding the colonel’s private stock again, and he had just involved him in his crime. A subtle bastard Weasel was, for all his country poacher’s manners.
He was right though. Rik did need it. The wind was bitter and that was not the worst of it. They were high up on the side of the mountains, moving along a narrow path between the trees, the rock-strewn slope descending steeply to their right. No wagon could have negotiated that narrow way, but the bridgebacks, larger and heavier by far, picked their way along with steps of surprising delicacy. Rik supposed the huge beasts were not any keener than he was to go tumbling down the mountainside, which was reassuring in its way. If they did, those in the howdahs would have been swiftly crushed beneath their weight.
The wind brought tears to his eyes till he was crying like a drunken whore at a low melodrama. Snow drifted down, forcing him to squint, burning on his cheeks, melting on his tongue when he left his mouth open for a second. The path was shadowed and wound around the hills so that part of the line of wyrms was always out of sight.
There was plenty of heather at this height and plenty of big boulders to hide behind. The hill-men were famed for their ambushes. Had the Foragers been afoot they would have matched them, for skirmishing and sneaking was a Forager’s trade, but mounted on these high beasts they were just nice juicy targets.
Rik wondered how well the side of the howdah would stop a musket ball. The flesh of his back crawled as he imagined eyes measuring it as a resting place for a bullet. Too much imagination had always been his curse.
Rik kept a wary eye out for Master Severin but the wizard had shown no further interest, even as they broke camp.
What would it be like to study the deep dark mysteries Severin had been initiated into? He would never know. The laws were strict; only pure-blooded Terrarchs were allowed to pursue the Art. Supposedly only they could study the dark secrets of magic without risking body and soul.
Not that Rik gave a toss about the law. All of his life it had been used to oppress him, and it had once seemed to him that in the Art lay a way of gaining some power over his life, a power that he had never possessed and supposed he never would. Dark as the path of the mage was, — and it was very dark, for madness, degeneration and vice seemed to lie along its entire length, at least for humans — it had always seemed the only real road to wealth and power open to the likes of him.
Despite all the laws and the Inquisition, there were, and always had been, human wizards, and their services commanded a high price. He regretted not learning more from the Old Witch when he had the chance.
By such lures does the Shadow seek to entrap our souls, Rik thought, remembering the words of the priests at the orphanage and shivering, not just with the cold.
He had seen what became of some human wizards before they were taken off to bedlam or the burning stake. He knew the warnings against magic were not simply propaganda put about by the Terrarchs but the simple truth, and yet he was still drawn to the Art.
Enough primitive faith had been beaten into him by the priests at the orphanage to make him fear for his soul because of it. What use was mere earthly power when your immortal soul was in peril? Ah, but what if the secret of terrestrial immortality was in your hands, the wicked part of him countered? What then? Guilt stabbed him and he knew it was this guilt that made him so nervous around the Magister.
He caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. He gripped his rifle tight as he surveyed his surroundings. It was more for reassurance than because he had any great faith in his marksmanship from atop this moving platform. His plan was to duck first and respond later if he caught sight of any would-be sniper. Better a live coward than a dead hero. He would leave the musketry to better shots like Weasel and Leon.
“What is it?” Handsome Jan asked, glancing up from the shard of mirror in which he had been admiring his noble profile. The others held their weapons ready.
Rik saw nothing even as he scanned the undergrowth and jutting rocks. He did his best to ignore the vistas of dizzying drops that were sometimes revealed. It came to him that they must be running parallel to Broken Tooth Pass and that it was even possible that they had crossed the border into Kharadrea. No shots came. The moment of fear departed, leaving only a small residue burning in the pit of his stomach.
“Nothing,” Rik said. “I thought I saw something, but it was nothing.”
The others slumped back against the howdah walls.
They passed a number of small ruined buildings. Some seemed almost like outcrops of stone. Only when he looked closely could he see that the moss-covered blocks had been dressed and shaped. Nonetheless, had they been roofed over they would have been inhabitable, if anyone could have faced the bleak prospect of living in these mountains.
Rik wondered aloud why some poor crofters had not taken them. He had caught enough glimpses of wild sheep and goats on the hillsides to know a living could be eked out here by someone hardy enough.
“Shows what you know,” said Weasel, spitting over the side of the howdah.
“Something you want to tell me, Weasel,” Rik said.
“It’s the feuds. When clans up here feel they have a grudge, they get together and burn out their neighbours.”
That would explain the old scorch marks on the ruins, Rik supposed. Weasel was in full flow now: “And of course when the burned out’s kin find out, they retaliate. And that leads to more burning, and more retaliation, till pretty soon everybody hates everybody else. That’s why there’s so many ruins. A man could make a fortune selling powder and ammunition up here.”