Heirs of Empire

The regimental pipers formed in the intervals in the brigade’s column, and Lord Sean nodded to his aides. They spurred up and down the entire length of the corps, and Folmak waved to his unit commanders.

“Move out!” he barked, and the Angels’ Army slogged through blowing sheets of rain towards Erastor.

Sean watched his men move forward and tried to look confident. Every man in Folmak’s brigade had been issued a Guard cloak, and his vanguard looked as much like Terrahk’s relief force as he could make them, but the rest of his men wore Malagoran ponchos. One look at them would tell the dullest picket what they were. The rain wasn’t falling as hard as he’d feared—yet—but it was getting worse, and only First Brigade marched with slung weapons. The rest of his men carried their bayoneted rifles under their arms like hunters to shield the priming with their bodies and ponchos and keep rain from ru

He and Tibold had reorganized the army into six-hundred-man regiments, three to the brigade, and despite the rain and the slaughter to which he’d led them, each regiment cheered as it passed him. He slapped his streaming breastplate in answering salute, and his emotions were a welter of confusion. Shame for the mistakes which sent them into battle under such a hideous handicap. Pride in how they’d responded. Dread of the butcher’s bill they were going to pay, a sense of awe that they were willing to pay it for him, and a strange, shivering eagerness. He’d seen battle and its aftermath now. He knew how horrible it was, how ugly and vile and brutal, yet part of him was actually eager to begin. Not glad, but … impatient. Anticipating.

He shook his head, angry with himself. He couldn’t think of the word, and he was ashamed of feeling whatever it was, but that didn’t change it. He spurred ahead to overtake Folmak’s brigade, and as he splashed along the road, he wished he could ride away from his own complex feelings as easily.

Under-Captain Mathan stood under the lean-to and gazed out into the rain. It was barely midafternoon, yet it looked like late evening as charcoal clouds billowed overhead. His dragoons were glad to be spared the lot of the men ma

He spoke to himself sternly. He should be down on his knees thanking God for sparing him the slaughter the demon-worshipers had wreaked on the rest of the Host, not complaining because of a little rain! He’d certainly told his troopers that often enough!

He turned to pace briskly. He could only go a few strides in either direction and stay under the roof, but the rain had chilled the mountain air, and the activity warmed his blood.

Perhaps he’d feel happier if his present assignment had some point. With the heretics blocked west of the Erastor Spur, the pickets east of the main position were little more than an afterthought. They were out here getting soaked simply because the field manuals said all approaches, however unlikely, should be covered, and like most soldiers, they resented being made miserable just because some headquarters type wanted to be neat and tidy.

A branahlk splashed up to the shelter, and Sergeant Kithar saluted.

“We’ve sighted the head of the column, Sir. Should reach the pickets in about another twenty minutes.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. That’s good news.” Mathan returned Kithar’s salute, then pointed at the smoky fire crackling under another crude awning. “Warm yourself and dry off a bit before you head back.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

The sergeant hurried towards the fire, and Mathan folded his hands behind him with a sigh of relief. High-Captain Ortak had sworn the Temple would reinforce them, but after Yortown it had been hard for many of his men—including, Mathan admitted, himself—to believe it would happen in time. Now it had, and he breathed a silent prayer of thanks.

Captain Folmak trotted at the head of his brigade, and his belly was a hard, singing knot. He could see the first dragoons now, and they looked as miserable as Lord Sean had predicted. They were waving, and he heard a few cheers, but they also weren’t budging out from under the crude lean-tos they’d erected in a vain effort to stay dry.

“You know what to do, boys,” he told his grim-faced riflemen. “No shooting if you can help it, but be damned sure none of them get away!”

“Sight for sore eyes, aren’t they?” Shaldan Morahkson demanded. “I told you Lord Marshal Surak would reinforce us!”

“Sure you did,” one of his companions jeered. “Between pissing and moaning about the rain, your saddle sores, and how fucked up the whole war’s been, you told us all about your personal friend the Lord Marshal!”

The others laughed, and Shaldan made a rude gesture as the lead ranks of the relief column squelched past. The incoming Guardsmen looked almost as shabby and sodden as Shaldan and his fellows after their hard march, and he turned his back on the others to wave and shout at the newcomers, then paused.

“That’s fu

“What?” his critic demanded. “Your buddy Lord Marshal Surak screw up somehow?”

“They’re all musketeers,” Shaldan said. “Look.” He pointed as far down the column as they could see in the blowing rain. “There must be a thousand, fifteen hundred of them, and not a pike among ’em!”

“What?” The other dragoon turned to peer in the direction of Shaldan’s pointing finger.

“And another thing. I’ve never seen bayonets like those. Have you?”

“I—”

Shaldan never found out what his fellow meant to say, for even as they stared at the column, it suddenly broke apart.

“Take them!” Under-Captain Lerhak shouted, and his men swarmed out across the picket. There were cries of alarm from the watching dragoons, and two or three turned to race for tethered branahlks, but surprise was total. Musket butts and bayonets did their lethal work, and within ten minutes, every man of High Captain Ortak’s easternmost picket was dead or a prisoner.

Under-Captain Mathan stretched and called for his mount. He’d already sent a messenger ahead to Erastor, and if Sergeant Kithar was right, the column should have reached his forward position by now. Little though a ride in the rain appealed to him, he’d best go up to greet them like a properly industrious junior officer, and he trotted away from the lean-to with regret. He was riding directly into the wind, and the water ru

He looked back up and blinked on rain as mounted men in the soaked crimson cloaks of the Guard loomed out of the dimness. One of them waved, and Mathan started to wave back, then paused.

He stared at them, watching them ride closer, unable to believe his eyes. Their saddles and tack were mismatched, not standard Guard issue, and aside from their cloaks, they weren’t even in uniform. Two of them actually wore what looked like farmer’s boots, not jackboots. But that was impossible. They had to be Guardsmen! No one else could get at Erastor from the east! Not unless the demons had—