[Daemon Gates 01] - Day of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  “Hang on.” Drawing his knife, Dietz turned back to the bridge and sliced at one of the hand-ropes. The sharp edge of the blade slid off, repelled somehow. Looking more closely, Dietz saw a thick, sticky coating about the ropes, most likely sap. “Clever,” he admitted.

  “Leave it,” Alaric urged him, tugging at his sleeve. “They’re right behind us.”

  Dietz shook him off. “That’s why I have to cut the bridge. Otherwise they’ll keep chasing us.” With a sigh, he turned and started back onto the bridge. “Get back among the trees,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  As he had hoped, the sap only protected the ropes at either end. Twenty paces back it faded away and his knife sliced easily through the first hand-rope. Unfortunately, a dozen beastmen were already on the bridge and stalking towards him.

  “Hurry!” Alaric shouted from the trees and Dietz snarled. What did the fool think he was doing? But he had two ropes left. A quick look at the rapidly approaching beastmen and Dietz made a decision. He stooped, just in time to avoid several spears thrown from the far side, and sliced down with all his strength, his free hand tightly curled around the other hand-rope. With a twang the rope below parted and his feet dropped out from under him. His grip held and Dietz dangled from the third rope. Most of the beastmen had not been that lucky. Their snarls turned to yowls as they plunged into the darkness below. A series of thuds a moment later testified to the chasm’s depth and the presence of a solid bottom.

  Three beastmen had reacted quickly when the bridge was cut, dropping their weapons and curling their paws around the remaining rope. Now the foremost began creeping towards Dietz, hauling itself hand over hand, its face twisted into a vicious array of teeth and whiskers. Dietz was not waiting around. With his other hand he lashed out again, and the knife slid easily through the last rope just behind him. The taut cord parted with a loud snap, and the remaining beastmen plummeted to their deaths. Dietz almost joined them, his sweaty hand slipping as his weight tugged on the rope, and dropped his knife just in time to grab the rope end with his other hand. The chasm wall was solid stone and his breath whooshed out as he slammed against it, but his grip held. After catching his breath again, Dietz wrapped the rope around his right hand and began hauling himself up with his left.

  That was when he heard the chanting.

  Looking over his shoulder, he discovered that one of the beastmen had not attempted the bridge. Standing on the far side of the chasm, this one’s fur was shot with white, especially around the muzzle. One hand held a glittering black sword and the other bore a long staff of golden stone, several long claws mounted near the top. More claws and stones decorated a chain around the beastman’s throat, and others rose like a crest above its head. The beastman continued chanting, strange liquid sounds rolling from its throat, and it gestured with its staff towards Dietz.

  Expecting to be struck dead, Dietz was surprised when instead he felt the rope in his hands writhe. As he stared, horrified, the rough brown cord turned a glistening greenish black, its dry surface growing wet and scaly. The end, just beyond Dietz’s right hand, narrowed at the tip and split across, revealing a pair of long, dripping fangs and small diamond-shaped yellow eyes just above them. The beastman had transformed the rope into a snake—and its fangs were only inches from Dietz’s face.

  Dietz knew this was the end. His second knife was in his boot and too far away to reach. His right hand was too tightly wrapped to get loose, and his left was still clutching to keep him from falling. He couldn’t duck the snake’s attack, not this close. His only hope was to let go and pray he caught on the cliff wall somehow before he struck bottom. He could almost feel Morr hovering nearby.

  Even as his left hand was losing its grip, something darted past Dietz’s head from behind. A small furry form lunged down, its tiny mouth wide open, its needle-like teeth latched onto the snake just below the jaws. The newcomer’s mouth shut with an audible snap and the snake thrashed in Dietz’s hands as its head was torn free and tossed aside. Instantly, it reverted to rope, and Dietz hauled himself the rest of the way up, pausing only to grab a loose rock and hurl it at the beastman on the far side. It snarled and dodged the missile, but backed away and disappeared into the jungle.

  Alaric stepped forward and grasped Dietz’s free hand once he came into view, helping the older man haul himself onto solid ground. The small creature leaped down at once from Dietz’s pack and began rubbing its head and shoulder against Dietz’s chin.

  “Well, that was exciting,” Alaric murmured. “Find anything worthwhile?” Dietz handed him the mask and watched his employer’s face light up. “Ah, excellent! Most excellent!” He glanced down at Dietz again. “Good work, and where the devil did you get that monkey?”

  Dietz blinked at the small creature, which stared back at him. “No idea, but it saved my life,” he admitted. “It can stay if it wants.” He studied it more closely. “Maybe the antechamber—lots of small animals there. Monkey? Are you sure?”

  The creature was the length of his arm, though much of that looked to be its thick tail, and covered in short tawny fur, with bands of red along its body and darker red at its head and feet, and tail end. It had a long, narrow face with a pointed nose and small round ears. Its eyes were dark and had a look of lively intelligence.

  Alaric looked offended. “Of course I’m sure. That is an Indyan tree-monkey.”

  The creature reared back as if offended, and Dietz chuckled despite himself.

  “Doesn’t look like any monkey I’ve seen, but you’re the expert. We’ll need a name for you, little one.” He considered. “I’ll call you Glouste.” He rubbed its head and it pushed against his fingers like a contented cat. “Well, Glouste, we shouldn’t sit here all day. Come on.” Dietz stood up and Glouste skittered up his arm and settled around his neck like a fur collar.

  Alaric shook his head and shoved the stone mask into his own pack. “Yes, well, do not expect me to help you clean up after it!” he insisted as they moved away from the chasm, heading into the jungle to begin the long, dangerous trek back to their boat and eventually to civilisation.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I’ll be speaking with your superiors about this!” Alaric shouted over his shoulder as he kicked his horse forward. “The nerve,” he muttered to Dietz as they cleared the gate and entered Middenheim proper. “Searching my bags! As if I was a common merchant, or a pedlar! This is the twentieth year of Karl-Franz’s reign. You’d think he’d have brought some culture to these people by now!”

  Dietz shrugged. He’d been a bit surprised to see so many soldiers at the gate when they’d arrived, including several half-familiar faces, but he couldn’t fault them for searching their belongings. These were dangerous times and they were strangers here. Well, at least Alaric was.

  As they passed out of the gate’s shadow, Dietz glanced around, eager to see how his former home had fared of late. The sights that greeted him, however, made him wish they had chosen a different city to visit. What had happened here? When they had left, Middenheim had been the rock of the Empire, the mighty stone city that no foe could breach. Its homes had stood high and proud, its streets smooth and clean, its people rough but lively.

  All that was gone. As they rode Dietz saw rubble everywhere, homes in ruins, buildings shattered. Their horses moved slowly, carefully setting hooves between chunks of stone, rotten foods, old rags, and even bodies. Some of the figures stretched out on the paving stones groaned and twitched, but others lay still; whether in sleep or worse Dietz could not tell. Those people walking past had a hard look about them, a look of despair as if they had seen the pits of Chaos and had not escaped unscathed.

  “Madness,” Dietz said softly, eyeing their surroundings. He had heard about the war, of course, and the plague—the sailors had told him during their return voyage, and both he and Alaric had counted themselves lucky to have avoided such events. Clearly they had not escaped its aftermath. He found himself wondering how many of his old friends had survi
ved both illness and combat. He was deliberately not wondering the same about his family.

  “Absolutely,” Alaric agreed, but when Dietz glanced over he saw his employer rummaging through a saddlebag, not even noticing the dreariness around them. “That lout could have destroyed these items easily, with those ham-hands of his!” Alaric exhaled sharply as his hands closed about something wrapped in several silk scarves, and pulled it loose to feel its contours carefully. “Well, the mask is intact, at least,” he assured Dietz. “Now, as I was saying earlier, I don’t think the symbols are writing exactly. More of a pictogrammatic style, I’d guess, illustrating some significant…”

  Dietz tuned out the rest of the lecture. He enjoyed Alaric’s company, and liked working for the young noble-turned-explorer, but by Sigmar the boy could talk! Since Dietz didn’t care to hear all the details of centuries-old writing, and Alaric could happily talk to himself for hours, the arrangement worked perfectly—Alaric continued to babble on about runes and carvings and ancient languages, and Dietz guided their horses down street after street, leading them through the city and back to Rolf’s shop. At least some parts of the city were intact, and he was surprised how happy he was to see the carved wolves’ heads still atop the mounting posts and the street lamps that resembled icicles, and the bite- and claw-marks traditionally carved above every door, showing that Ulric had set his seal upon it and offered his protection to its occupants. Still, it was not all pleasant. Several times along the way Dietz had to kick loose hands as people grasped their saddles and reins, begging for coins or food or death, and he was finally forced to keep his gaze on the shop signs and street posts so that he would not see yet another starved, maimed wretch hobbling after them, pleading for help.

  Rolf’s shop looked the same, at least, its thick stone front undamaged and the heavy wooden plaque above, supported by stout chains whose links were shaped into wolves biting their own tails, still well polished. They left their horses at a livery one street over, where the stable hand remembered them and promised them the best stalls, and tossed the saddlebags onto their shoulders. Glouste made a small sound of protest as Dietz’s bags rose perilously close to her, but forgave him an instant later and lowered her head against his neck again.

  She had been one of the only saving graces during their long voyage back, and Dietz had distracted himself from all that water around them by testing the limits of his new pet’s intelligence. He had been pleasantly surprised—though he had never had a pet himself, Dietz had known boys with cats and dogs and even tame rats, and Glouste was smarter than he remembered any of them being. She clearly understood him, at least his tone and simple words, and obeyed commands unless she was feeling unappreciated. One of the sailors, seeing the monkey pretend not to hear Dietz, had chuckled and said “got yerself quite the little woman there, friend. Mine demands baubles and fine food afore she’ll do aught for me—bettin’ yers is the same.” Nor had he been wrong—though affectionate and surprisingly protective, Glouste had shown a strong will and a sense of humour, and often resisted Dietz’s instructions or obeyed in such a way as to cross his intentions. Alaric she alternately ignored and obstructed, and Dietz couldn’t help feeling that his pet still disapproved of the “monkey” label his employer had given her.

  “Hello? Rolf?” Alaric strode through into the shop, sidestepping a variety of carvings and sculptures. No one responded to his hail and so he continued on to the back of the shop. Dietz followed him, Glouste emitting tiny sneezes from her perch around his neck. In the rear wall was a wide doorway that led to Rolf’s outdoor workshop, and Alaric pushed his way though the thick leather curtain there. He immediately backed out again, coughing. “Damned dust!” Pulling a silk handkerchief from one sleeve, he covered his mouth and nose, and stuck his head past the curtain again, blinking furiously to keep his eyes clear of the stone dust that swirled in the cold breeze. “Rolf, are you out here?”

  “Aye, and who’s calling now?” a voice replied, and Alaric stepped outside, Dietz right behind him.

  The area behind the shop had been fenced off and was littered with blocks of stone in various shapes, sizes, and states of carving. Near the far wall stood a heavy table and a large man leaned over it, chipping flecks of stone from a small block set before him. Rolf was as broad as a dwarf, though he swore no such blood tainted his line, and as tall as Dietz, with massive arms and hands, and thinning red hair tied back in a long braid. That hair looked greyer than Alaric remembered, as did the full beard, but perhaps that was simply the dust. Rolf’s eyes, grey as granite and twice as hard, seemed as sharp as ever, and they widened slightly when they finally spied him.

  “Alaric!” The husky stonemason laid aside his hammer and chisel and turned, wiping both hands on the heavy leather smock covering his torso. “And Dietz as well—still with this young rascal, then?”

  Dietz smiled and nodded. He had known Rolf for many years, from back when his own father had traded goods with the man, and it had been his recommendation that had first brought Alaric here. “Can’t get rid of him,” he admitted wryly, earning a glance of mock-reproach from his employer.

  “Aye, and you’ve missed the worst of it, to be sure,” Rolf assured them as he clasped their hands in turn. “First the siege and the war, and then the plague,”—he gestured past the fence, where the roofs of the neighbouring buildings could just be seen peeking up. “It’s a wonder there’s a city left!”

  “We saw,” Dietz admitted, though he knew Alaric had barely noticed. He started to ask another question, but couldn’t bring himself to. The stonemason understood.

  “Your father’s still alive,” he said softly, “though his sight’s utterly gone now. Dagmar still tends to him, poor lass. And Dracht—he lost a leg in the war and a son to the plague, but he’s back in the shop now, hopping about with the aid of a stick.”

  Dietz nodded, grateful for the news. Both Dagmar and Dracht still alive—that was more than he’d dared hope. Deisen had been lost long ago, as had Dehanna, and Darulf had been killed by a panicking horse only the year before—their father had always claimed he chose their names because he felt “D” was good luck, but Dietz suspected the man had simply never learnt the alphabet beyond that point. Rolf had not mentioned Darhun, which could only mean he had died as well, though whether from a blade or sickness Dietz did not know. He promised himself he’d visit his two surviving siblings while they were here, and perhaps even look in on their father if he had the time and the stomach for it.

  “Now, what have you brought me?” Rolf asked finally, leading them back into the shop and over to his scarred desk, casting an amused glance to where Alaric was hopping excitedly from foot to foot. “It must be a rare treat for you to dance so.”

  “It is, it is,” Alaric assured the larger man, setting the scarf-wrapped bundle down on the desk, safely away from a small carved wolf with impressively sharp claws. “From Ind itself, my good man, an exquisite find indeed. I believe the markings on it…”

  Dietz took the opportunity to wander away—he’d heard enough from Alaric about the mask, so much so that at times he’d regretted finding it. Now he left the two other men to discuss the matter, knowing Rolf would never cheat them beyond the normal craftsman’s need for a small profit, and distracted himself by roaming the shop. Rolf was an expert carver, and though he trafficked in building blocks, most of his business was sculpture and fine carving. His work filled the large store, lintels and benches and sculptures leaning against the walls or lined up to create narrow aisles, and Dietz strolled among them, admiring several new additions. He could still hear snippets of the conversation towards the back, enough that he would hear Alaric if the younger man needed his aid or his input.

  “Fine work indeed,” Rolf was saying, turning the mask over and stroking one chiselled cheek with a surprisingly delicate touch. “I’ve not seen the like of it, to be honest, but the carver was a true master to shape it so thin without shattering the material.” He frowned and held it up
so the light from the door shone upon it. “Not seen this stone before, either.”

  “Nor have I,” Alaric admitted. “Much of the temple was marble, but this—I’d say some form of chalcedony, perhaps, but those bands that catch the light—”

  “Aye, they’re stunning,” Rolf agreed, tilting the mask again, “and capture the sense of a cat’s stripes beautifully. The problem is, since I canna identify the stone, I canna say its quality. Oh, I can vouch for the craftsmanship, certainly, but not whether this is a valuable stone or some common rock to them, or even stone that’s been treated somehow.” He held up a hand to stop Alaric’s protests. “I’m not saying it’s worthless—the carving alone makes it a prize for some, but without knowing the stone I canna tell you a fair price for it.”

  “Of course, of course,” Alaric murmured, trying to hide his disappointment. He did not do a good job of it—as usual his handsome features reflected his mood all too clearly.

  “Not to worry,” Rolf assured him, setting the mask back on the desk. “I know a few who might be interested. I’ll ask around, get a feel for it, and find out what they’re willing to pay. Then you tell me if that’s enough. If so I’ll set up the deal as usual. If not you’ll have your mask back and can take it elsewhere. Perhaps someone in one of the coastal towns knows this stone and can find a better buyer.”

  Alaric hesitated a moment. He knew Rolf would try his best, but was loath to relinquish the mask at all. Still, they had brought it here from Ind to sell it, and he had already sketched it and its runes for future study.

  “Done,” he said finally, and they clasped hands upon it.

  “Now that’s settled,” Rolf said, folding the scarves back over the mask, “I’ve got a few new pieces you might want to see yourself. Came to me from a wandering tinker, a week or two back, and they’re not the sorts of thing I normally buy, but I knew they’d draw your interest. Got them back here for safekeeping, not the sort of thing I’d leave lying about.”