[Daemon Gates 01] - Day of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  “He’s not going to send us after them, is he?” one of them said.

  “Not a chance,” another replied. “He can’t risk Valgeir’s gaining the upper hand again. If his knights rally, Halmeinger’ll need every one of us here to hold them back.”

  “Can’t just leave those things out there, though,” a third commented, “could wind up causing all manner of havoc, and it’d reflect badly on us if anyone knew we’d known about them and done nothing.”

  The snippet of conversation explained a great deal, and Dietz sidled forward until he was right next to Alaric. “Tell them we’ll do it,” he whispered, and his employer glanced over at him curiously.

  “Do what? Speak up. I can barely hear you.”

  “Tell them we’ll get rid of the other three,” Dietz explained, still whispering and watching the two men on the platform. They seemed to be finishing their own consultation, which meant they only had a moment.

  Fortunately, Alaric understood immediately, and stepped forward, giving a discreet cough to recall the two men’s attention.

  “My lords, I have a proposal,” he stated. “One which will both prove our innocence and eliminate any further danger these items might pose. Three of those sculptures have already been delivered to various points throughout the Empire, clearly intended for some nefarious—one might safely say daemonic—purpose. You,” he bowed to Todbringer, who nodded back, “are of course busy maintaining this city and this province and defending it from attack. You,” here he bowed to the thin man, whose only response was a slightly raised eyebrow, “must maintain constant vigilance against the foes of the Empire. These sculptures must be found and destroyed, yet surely this matter is beneath men such as you.” He smiled. “My companion and I, however, are lesser men and thus well suited to the task. I am also a scholar of Altdorf, and well-versed in ancient languages. We would happily undertake this mission on your behalf. Allow us to destroy these sculptures, bringing back proof of their destruction. Thus we can demonstrate our loyalty and remove the threat, all without requiring you to divert your own forces from their necessary duties.”

  The two men seemed to consider the proposal, whispering back and forth. It was clear that Todbringer found merit in the idea, but Halmeinger did not approve. Finally they reached an agreement, and the elector count turned towards them. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, however, a loud thud echoed through the room.

  It sounded again, and all eyes turned towards the double doors, still reverberating from the force of the blow. Once more it sounded, and then at a gesture from Todbringer the doors were pulled open to reveal a pair of men in the hall beyond. They wore fur pelts across their shoulders, but were unarmoured, and each carried a massive two-handed warhammer; even without the wolf’s-head clasps at their necks, everyone would have recognised them immediately.

  They were the Knights of the White Wolf—Templars of the Cult of Ulric.

  The two knights entered and stopped just inside the door, forcing the witch hunters there to retreat a few paces. Two more knights followed behind them, though these advanced to the centre of the room—Alaric and Dietz took the opportunity to move to one side. Behind the second set of knights strode a tall, powerfully built man in full armour, his breastplate adorned with the wolf’s head of Ulric and a thin silver circlet upon his thick white hair. A handsomely carved silver hammer hung from his belt, and his eyes were black as obsidian.

  Though he had only seen the man a few times in his youth, Dietz knew immediately that this could only be Emil Valgeir, the Ar-Ulric.

  “Greetings, my count,” announced Valgeir, inclining his head as one equal to another. He spared a single, hard glance at the man beside Todbringer. “Witch hunter captain,” he said in clipped tones. Then he forced a smile to his face. “I had hoped to discuss certain defensive repairs with you, count, but if you are otherwise involved I would be happy to wait.” His glance swept across Alaric and Dietz before returning to the throne, and the two of them admired the man’s move. Even Todbringer would not dare send the Ar-Ulric away, which meant either including him, or ending whatever they were doing in favour of discussing his own goals. He had probably heard of their arrest and had staged his entrance perfectly to interrupt the trial, which by rights was his to conduct.

  “Not at all, my dear Ar-Ulric,” Todbringer replied, smiling with only a little awkwardness. “It is always the pleasure of the court to hear the wisdom of the Cult of Ulric, and the recovery of our city is of paramount importance.” He turned his attention to Alaric and Dietz, and then visibly dismissed them. “We were merely discussing a small journey these gentlemen proposed, and had just given them our permission to embark.” He gestured and a heavy-set man with a grey-flecked beard and a fine velvet cloak stepped to the edge of the platform. “Take care of the arrangements, Struber,” Todbringer instructed him, and the man nodded and stepped away, bowing to him and to the Ar-Ulric and the witch hunter captain before beckoning for Alaric and Dietz to follow him out. They did so quickly, with several bows to the three powerful men, each of whom pretended not to watch them depart.

  “We will need our weapons back,” Alaric pointed out after they had descended to the main level, and Struber nodded impatiently.

  “Yes yes,” he said quickly. “The guard have them. We can retrieve them now.” He stopped and turned to face them both. “You understand that if the Cult of Ulric takes an interest in your activities…”

  Alaric spread his hands. “We are merely travelling the Empire in search of old ruins, a favourite occupation, but one that sadly yields little of value or significance. We had hoped to study several promising sites along the edges of Middenland, hence our asking the count’s permission.”

  Struber nodded. “Just so.” He led them back to the jail, and they stepped inside just long enough for Alaric to retrieve his rapier and Dietz his club and knives. Just before they left, Dietz glanced up at the rafters and whistled.

  “Glouste!” A dark form scuttled along a nearby beam and dropped to his shoulders, happily nuzzling his cheek as he stepped out and shut the door solidly behind him.

  “Well,” Alaric commented. “Let’s get our horses and be off, then.”

  Struber shook his head. “You will leave in the morning,” he informed them, leading them down another street to a small inn named the Dancing Frog. “You will spend the night here.”

  “I’d really rather get started right—” Alaric began, but Struber shook his head again and pulled open the inn’s front door.

  “The elector count insists,” he explained quietly, but clearly, putting an emphasis on the word “insists”. “You must be well rested before your journey.” He glared at them, as if daring them to object again, and glanced meaningfully behind him, where Alaric and Dietz suddenly noticed a pair of the same black-clad soldiers waiting a short distance away. Evidently their stay here was not a request.

  “Yes, well, I suppose I could do with a good night’s sleep,” Alaric admitted gracefully, waving cheerfully at the soldiers and allowing the courtier to usher him into the inn. Dietz followed along, happy enough to be anywhere but jail, but unable to shake the feeling that he had merely traded up for a larger cell.

  The Dancing Frog was a fine place, it turned out, not fancy, but clean and well tended. The food was hearty, the beds were solid, and there were real mattresses, one for each of them. The room even had a pitcher of water and a basin for washing in. They had certainly stayed in worse places.

  Struber’s reasons for insisting on their stay became clear when a man approached them during dinner. Though of average height, the stranger’s broad shoulders made him seem to tower over their table, and his angular face peered clown at them from beneath his broad-brimmed hat.

  “Alaric von Jungfreud and Dietrich Froebel?” he inquired with the bored tone of a man who already knew the answer. “I am Oswald Kleiber, witch hunter. I will be accompanying you.”

  “Thanks all the same,” Alaric said, glancing up from
his roast, “but we don’t need any assistance.”

  Kleiber’s thin lips narrowed further. “It is not a request. Witch Hunter Captain Halmeinger has detailed me to escort you.” His gaze flickered across them. “Should you prove to be Chaos worshippers I will dispatch you and return with your heads.”

  “We’ll do our best to pray quietly then,” Alaric muttered, and then winced as Dietz’s elbow struck him hard in the ribs. “We welcome the knowledge and spiritual guidance of a witch hunter,” he amended more loudly, but Kleiber bowed as if he thought the statement sincere.

  “I will be waiting at first light,” he informed them, before turning and striding out of the inn.

  “Charming,” Alaric commented, watching the man’s exit, “and just what we needed, our very own fanatic.”

  “Better than our very own beheading,” Dietz pointed out, returning to his own food. He had barely managed two bites before another shadow fell across his plate.

  “Kristoff Magnusson, at your service,” the gentleman announced, pulling out a chair and dropping into it. “May I?” Since he was already sitting down they couldn’t very well refuse, but his grin said he knew that. “The trading guild sent me,” he said, helping himself to a glass of wine. “I understand you’re off on a mission of some importance and delicacy. They thought an experienced trader might prove useful.”

  More likely they want to know what Todbringer and Halmeinger are up to, and to get their hands on anything valuable we find, Dietz thought to himself, but he said nothing. He knew better than to voice such opinions, and besides he found himself liking the short man with the unruly brown hair and the needle-thin nose.

  Kristoff proved an entertaining fellow, and was regaling them with a story about a seasick merchant and a lusty sailor when a tall, portly gentleman of middling years stepped up to their table. “I believe you are the gentlemen embarking for the Howling Hills?” he asked, hands resting on the back of an empty chair, and Alaric and Dietz exchanged glances. They had, in fact, chosen the Hills for their first stop, if only because it was the closest of the three locations. When they nodded the gentleman cleared his throat and, after Alaric nodded him to the chair, smiled graciously. “Fastred Albers is my name—” he began, but was cut off before he could finish.

  “Albers?” Alaric leaned forward, his pose of nonchalance vanishing, “from the Guild of Explorers?” At Albers’ nod, he grinned and reached out to shake the man’s hand. “You lectured to us once in Altdorf, a few years ago, about establishing trade routes and their cultural significance, particularly to nomadic tribes.”

  “Ah, yes,” Albers beamed, a wide smile above his neatly trimmed white beard. “My friend Waldemar asked me to speak—I’d just returned from Bretonnia and he said his students could do with a bit of practical knowledge.”

  “Has the guild sent you to join us, then?” Alaric asked, and at Albers’ nod his own grin widened. “Excellent! Oh, I have many questions for you, and I would dearly like to tell you of my own travels—perhaps you’ll be able to help me make sense of them all.” He poured Albers a glass of wine, and soon they and Kristoff were happily engaged in swapping stories and comparing notes. Dietz took advantage of the time to finish his food—he was used to letting Alaric talk unheeded, and now he discovered he could manage that trick as easily with three as with one.

  The next morning, after a solid night’s sleep, Alaric and Dietz gathered their belongings and stepped out of the inn. Albers and Kristoff were waiting for them, as was Kleiber. So were several others.

  “Renke Jülicher,” a small, slender man informed them, stepping forward and bowing with precision. “Imperial Geographic Society.” His short tones, and the disapproving glance he gave Dietz, indicated his attitude clearly, and Dietz was quite pleased to let the man direct all his attention to Alaric.

  The remaining strangers, however, stepped towards both of them, and so Dietz found himself dealing with them while Jülicher pulled a map from the long leather case at his back and began discussing probable routes. The newcomers were almost two dozen, most of them clearly soldiers from the count’s militia, wearing the Middenland tabard over chainmail and carrying swords and shields. One had a plume atop his helmet, designating him as squad leader. The last man wore leathers instead of mail and bore a longsword at his side and a longbow across his chest.

  “Adelrich Jaarl,” he introduced himself, offering Dietz his hand. “Scout for the count’s army.” Adelrich was a rangy fellow with long features, weather-beaten skin and short black curls, and Dietz liked him immediately, sensing a kindred spirit. “This lot are along as well,” Adelrich added, gesturing towards the soldiers. “One full unit, twenty men, members of his guard, Sergeant Holst commanding. Orders are to assist in your mission and protect the other travellers as necessary.”

  “Glad to have you,” Dietz said, and meant it. He could see that Kristoff and Albers might be useful for their knowledge, and Kleiber for his religious authority—even Jülicher might be handy in a pinch, but soldiers would definitely increase their chance of survival, and a good military scout was worth his weight in gold.

  As they packed everyone’s gear and got ready to depart, Dietz found himself next to Adelrich, and they traded comments as they worked.

  “He carries a fine blade,” Adelrich commented at one point, gesturing to where Alaric stood by his horse, his rapier visible at his side.

  “Aye,” Dietz replied, trying to control his disgust, “and he makes a fine show with it, if you stand still long enough.” They both laughed, and Dietz admitted to himself that he felt better about this trip than he had since they’d agreed to it.

  “I still don’t like taking orders, particularly from witch hunters,” he mentioned to Alaric as they led the others through the gate and out of Middenheim. “They should be doing their own dirty work.”

  “Never mind that,” Alaric replied, his eyes already alight with a look Dietz knew all too well. “Think about what we’re doing, where we’re going! We’re in pursuit of real Chaos icons! And we’re going into the Howling Hills! I can’t wait to see what we find!”

  “Oh, I can,” Dietz muttered softly. “I can definitely wait.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Alaric and Dietz had worked together for more than a year, and had travelled to many interesting places. They had sailed on ships, ridden with caravans, hiked over mountains, and frequently walked or ridden alone, but this journey was a new experience for both of them. They had travelled with large groups before, but it had always been a matter of convenience—settlers or traders, or miners who were already heading in the same direction and welcomed an extra pair of hands and swords (well, one rarely-used sword and one oft-used club). This time everyone was going to the same destination. It was a single expedition, with a single purpose, and a single leader: Alaric.

  They had discovered this the first night, when the beefy army sergeant, Holst, had approached Alaric close to sunset.

  “It’s getting dark, sir,” the scarred veteran had mentioned quietly. He seemed slightly embarrassed.

  “Hm?” Alaric had been having a fascinating conversation with Fastred and Kristoff, and it took him a moment to realise the sergeant was addressing him. “Is it? Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Might be best to stop soon,” Holst added after a moment, just as Alaric had turned back to his two companions.

  “Do you think so?” Alaric had glanced about again, frowning slightly. “I’d hoped to get a bit farther before turning in.”

  “As you say, sir.” Holst had faded back to his men, leaving Alaric a bit confused and Fastred and Kristoff chuckling.

  “I think he was hoping for a more decisive answer,” Kristoff explained with a grin.

  “What? Answer from whom?” Alaric glanced over his shoulder, and back at his two new friends. “What, from me? I’m not in the militia!”

  “No, but you are the leader of this expedition,” Fastred pointed out. “He’s taking his orders from you.”


  “Orders?” Alaric thought about that one. Growing up, servants had sometimes taken orders from him, though more often his father had already given them instructions and nothing he said could change them. Dietz worked for him, and that meant he was supposed to take orders, but somehow it never worked out that way—they discussed things and often Dietz convinced him to do something a different way or to give it up altogether. Now this sergeant was expecting orders? That would make him the first person to be actively soliciting such command decisions, and Alaric discovered the idea made him a bit nervous.

  For the next two days he second-guessed himself constantly and asked others’ opinions on everything. Finally Dietz lost patience.

  “What is wrong with you?” he demanded after Alaric had questioned whether they should in fact refill their waterskins. “You’re acting like an idiot!”

  “What?” Alaric drew himself up to his full height, which never helped since Dietz loomed over him anyway. “It’s not easy being in command, you know.”

  “Ah. Is that what’s wrong?” Sometimes Alaric swore his companion was reading his mind. “Relax. Just do what you’d normally do. I’ll let you know if it’s wrong, and don’t let them see you worried.”

  Alaric considered the advice. Act as usual. Well, they had travelled extensively and had always managed fine, so obviously he did know when to stop for the night and where to get water, and how to hobble the horses—though Dietz usually handled the actual chores. Trust Dietz to stop him from blundering—that much he was used to. Never show concern or hesitation. At last his father’s discipline would be useful for something!

  After that the trip became much easier. He grew more comfortable giving orders, and Holst visibly relaxed once Alaric took charge, which made it even easier. Their companions were all seasoned travellers in their own right, which certainly helped—they didn’t really need instruction on how to water a horse or set up a fire, and so he could say something as simple as “Let’s set up camp” and it would be done.