Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz by Tim Marquitz Page A

beef than a man, slowly cooking
in his own juices.
    Ignoring his growing discomfort for a moment, he cast
his eyes over the lines of men. Row upon row of stern-faced soldiers
stood huddled together in the dirt, a few of them glancing up at his
watchful gaze. The duke noted with dismay the number of boyish faces
amongst the ranks. Though his army was great in number it had been
raised quickly from an already war weary populace. Most of them were
either fresh-faced recruits, who did not yet know the horrors of war,
or were ill equipped mercenaries from Spain and Prussia—hired
guns bought with plundered French gold.
    Across the expanse of plain before them, a threadbare
mist coveted the ground. Emerging from loose pockets of earth, it
seeped through the topsoil and made its way toward the Allied
position. Murmurs of unnatural and witchcraft were
heard making their way amongst the ranks. Despite his reasoned
military mind, Wellington had to agree.
    Stories of Napoleon’s improbable escape from Saint
Helena, atop a mighty two-headed sea serpent, had already made their
way to English shores. The duke was powerless to halt the tide of
unrest, which had washed over his men since dark had fallen. Despite
his best efforts at Waterloo, that accursed French sorcerer had
somehow found a way to outwit his captors yet again and return to
Europe a second time, to raise another army.
    Within weeks of his escape, tales of Napoleon’s
unbridled barbarism had returned to the front pages of the Times .
Spanish civilians told of fur-covered monsters in uniform emerging
from the night to feast on human blood as Napoleon’s army
surged north into Aquitaine, butchering villages to the last man and
marching inexorably towards Paris. Wellington had paid little
attention to the headlines, preferring instead to rely on the efforts
of his spymaster, Wickham, but even he had begun to suspect that
perhaps the specter of the emperor’s terrifying Ninth Hussars
had not been completely vanquished from the field as previously
thought. Wellington only hoped the advantages, which Congreve’s
technological developments, and his new alliance with the Brotherhood
of Uclés had brought him would be enough.
    In the night sky above, banks of thick cloud rolled in
from the east, bringing with them the threat of torrential downpour.
If the weather turned against them, things would become much more
difficult. Tightening his grip on the reins, the Iron Duke shifted
uneasily inside his armored suit and prayed it wouldn’t rain.

    ~

    Young Thomas Worthington, former vagrant and thief, did
not know what to make of it all thus far. This being his first
experience of battle, he was unaccustomed to the great deal of
waiting about, which often accompanied modern warfare, and so hopped
from one foot to the other as he waited with the rest of his unit,
some two hundred yards back from the duke’s position. Beside
him, Sergeant Reginald Foss stood leaning on his rifle, his pale eyes
transfixed upon the distant horizon.
    Though not much older than a lot of the raw recruits,
Foss held the distinction of having served under Wellington in the
previous campaign and had acquired a degree of awe and respect
amongst the men. Many of them tried to emulate the sergeant’s
steady posture as they waited, but few, Thomas saw, maintained the
same unruffled composure. Rechecking his rifle for the umpteenth
time, Thomas re-shouldered the weapon and wished he had been able to
pilfer more than a solitary flask of brandy from amongst his
comrades. Peering over the shoulders of the forward ranks, he tried
to make out whether anything was happening at the front.
    “Not long now, lad,” Foss commented without
moving, evidently sensing the boy’s apprehension.
    “How can you tell, sir?” Thomas replied,
glancing nervously at the older man.
    Foss raised a finger and pointed to the inverted anvils
of black cloud hanging on the horizon.
    “See them?” he said. “When yonder
rainclouds come