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 they 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.