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.