“We need to find that gauntlet,” Alaric announced, feeling some of his aches and pains fading to the background.
“How are we going to do that?” Dietz asked. “Hammlich is long gone.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lankdorf pointed out, appearing from the shadows and dropping a brace of birds by the fire, “since I’m taking you straight to Akendorf.” Obviously his sharp ears had picked up at least part of their conversation and Alaric wondered how long Lankdorf had been listening. The mountains were quiet enough, and the small crevice where he’d made camp would amplify any sounds so that he could have heard the entire discussion.
“You don’t understand,” Alaric told him as the bounty hunter began plucking the birds and getting them ready for the fire. “That gauntlet is very powerful and very dangerous.”
Lankdorf shrugged. “Not my problem. All I have to do is get you back to Akendorf. End of story.”
“Well, it is my problem,” Alaric replied heatedly. “I found the gauntlet and I’m the one who removed it from the tomb. That means I’m responsible for letting it loose. I’ve got to put that right by finding it and either destroying it or returning it to the tomb!”
The bounty hunter finished gutting the birds, cleaned his knife against his trouser leg, and slammed the short blade back into its sheath. “We are not going anywhere near that thing,” he announced. “I’m taking you back to Akendorf. End of discussion.”
“I let it out, but you’re stopping me from correcting that,” Alaric responded. “That makes it your responsibility, too! If anyone dies from that thing because we couldn’t go after it, it will be your fault.”
Suddenly Lankdorf was on his feet, the knife back in his hand. In two quick steps he was across the clearing and the blade was against Alaric’s throat. “Another word and I’m bringing back a corpse,” he hissed, his eyes as cold as the stone around them, “understand?”
Alaric nodded carefully, the sharp blade pressing into his flesh, and the bounty hunter backed away. Then, without a word, he stormed off into the night, climbing the shallow incline to one side that led back towards a higher peak, leaving them, the mule, and the uncooked birds behind.
“Bit of a temper, hasn’t he?” Dietz commented dryly after a moment.
Alaric nodded, rubbing the line that still tingled along his throat. “These artefacts certainly bring out the worst in people,” he said absently. Then his gaze fixed on the birds and the fire beside them, both out of reach, and he shook his head.
“I guess I should have waited until after dinner to anger him.”
Lankdorf returned an hour or so later, tossed the birds into the fire, and lay down, all without speaking to Alaric and Dietz. He didn’t mention the incident the next morning, either, but he did alter their bonds slightly. He tied Alaric’s hands but not to the mule, leaving him free to twist about a bit more. His feet were still tied together below the beast’s belly, of course, and Lankdorf kept a tight grip on the mule’s lead, so there was no chance of escape. The bounty hunter also shifted Dietz’s bonds, moving his arms around in front instead of behind and then refastening the manacles. Now Dietz could eat more easily, and walk more comfortably, which was certainly a blessing.
Shortly before noon they topped another rise, this one taller than most of the previous ones. Below them lay a wide, deep channel, cut as straight as the stubborn rock would allow and broad enough to accommodate several wagons abreast.
“Mad Dog Pass,” Lankdorf said, clearly pleased, “takes us straight down out of these bloody mountains. Then we’ll follow the river north to Akendorf.” He glanced at Alaric, as if daring him to argue, but Alaric simply nodded. The bounty hunter seemed to be in a good mood and he didn’t want to jeopardise that.
Lankdorf located a narrow trail curving down to the floor of the pass and they navigated it carefully, the bounty hunter in the lead, followed by Dietz and then the mule. It was slow going, the trail so tight in places the mule’s sides scraped the rock, and all their attention was on the next step and the one after that. They were almost to the bottom when they heard noises and glanced up.
They saw a group of men, perhaps a dozen or more, emerging around a bend in the pass. From this distance, Alaric could make out very little about them, beyond the fact that they significantly outnumbered him and his companions.
“Unchain me, quick!” Dietz hissed, but Lankdorf shook his head.
“Could be someone else after your heads,” the bounty hunter explained, readying his crossbow and tugging the mule forwards several paces, where a handful of boulders almost blocked the end of the trail, “or bandits. I can’t take that risk. Get down and keep quiet.”
Dietz growled but did as he was told, missing his step on a loose rock and stumbling against the wall but not falling. He found a place to crouch just in front of Lankdorf, who was in front of the mule, his crossbow aimed through a gap between two of the rocks. Alaric, leaning down as best he could to hug the mule’s back, knew there was another reason why Lankdorf wasn’t going to arm them. They were both too weak from days of reduced meals to be able to fight, and his wound was still bad enough for him to be able to do little more than cling to the mule and hope the strangers passed without noticing them.
As the strangers drew closer, Alaric made out more details. The first thing he noticed was that they were ragged, their clothing little more than tatters and mismatched items, their hair wild and filthy, and their beards thick and matted. Each wielded a weapon of some sort, from sword and axe to crude club, and those were held in hand, unsheathed. The way the sunlight reflected on them, he was fairly certain the weapons were encrusted with blood, and some of it not that old, but two other details made Alaric’s blood run cold.
The first was the gleam in the strangers’ eyes. They had the look of fanatics, men gone beyond reason, utterly wrapped up in their own obsessions.
The second was the mark each bore on his forehead. It had been carved there, he was sure; he could still see dried blood in several places. It was a rune he recognised, and despite being cut into flesh it had a strange malleable look about it, that same skin-crawling sensation he had felt too many times before.
It was a Chaos mark, and these men wore it as a mark of devotion.
“They aren’t bandits, or bounty hunters,” he whispered to Lankdorf, in case the bounty hunter hadn’t noticed. “They’re cultists! If they see us they’ll kill us… or worse!”
Lankdorf nodded and Alaric saw his shoulders tense. “Then let’s hope they don’t see us,” he whispered back.
Unfortunately as the cultists neared their hiding place Alaric smelled a foul stench rising from them. Clearly religious fanaticism did not include an interest in bathing. The blood and gore caked on their weapons and clothes probably didn’t help either.
As good as Alaric’s nose was, the mule’s was better.
The beast brayed, shaking its head to drive away the smell. The sound was impossible to miss and the cultists turned towards the rocks, weapons shifting in their hands, grins splitting their faces to reveal rotting, bloody teeth.
“I hear meat,” one of the filthy men declared loudly, a rusty axe held high above his head, “and meat like that does not hide on its own. That means people. We shall feast on their hearts and offer their livers to our lord and master!”
The cultists surged forwards, several directly at the boulders while others curved around towards where they met the cliff wall. Lankdorf took that opportunity to fire, the bolt taking the lead cultist through the throat and flinging him back with the force of impact. There was not time to reload and so Lankdorf tossed the weapon down and rose to his feet, drawing his sword with one hand and a dagger with the other. As Alaric watched, the bounty hunter stepped forwards, blocking the end of the trail, blades swinging, and caught one cultists sword stroke on his dagger while his own blade darted in to gut the man. Lankdorf clearly knew how to handle himself, but would that be enough?
After a moment it was clear t
hat the answer was no. The bounty hunter was a competent fighter, but he was badly outnumbered. There were ten cultists in all, and several were trying to scale the boulders and climb down behind Lankdorf. Neither Dietz nor Alaric were in any shape to help, even if they’d had their hands free and weapons to hand. Lankdorf was holding his own, for the moment, fending off those who approached the trail’s mouth, but it was only a matter of time before one of the weapons around him found an opening or one of the cultists made it over the boulders and cut him down from behind, and once his blade dropped they were all dead.
“A little help would be good,” Alaric said softly. He wasn’t even sure who he was talking to, certainly not any of the gods, but it seemed that one of them heard him anyway, for an instant later they heard a shout from the other end of the path.
“By Grungni’s beard!” A deep, rough voice cried out. “Looks like a fight up ahead!”
“Help!” Alaric responded, trying to catch a glimpse of the newcomer. “We’re under attack and badly outnumbered!”
“Outnumbered?” A second new voice replied. “Looks like bandits! Well, they’ll soon regret their actions. Fall before Sigmar’s light!”
Suddenly the strangers came into view through a gap between the boulders. Alaric saw the dwarf first, a short, stout figure with swirling blue tattoos, a long red beard and the distinctive orange crest of a Slayer. He bore a massive war axe in each hand. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and stern features emerged behind him, wearing the armour of a Sigmarite, his bronze hammer catching the light as he called Sigmar’s fury down upon the heathens before him. Behind them were two other men, one dressed in a long red robe and the other a massive white-bearded man with an eye patch, a longsword and an array of daggers and knives about him. A silver-haired woman strode with them, lovely and fine-featured even though she wore full armour and carried both a shield and a sword.
The dwarf reached the cultists first, roaring something in his native tongue, his axes lashing out to cut the nearest cultist in half, the blades sliding past each other as they met through the man’s middle. The Sigmarite’s hammer shattered another’s skull even as the man with the patch stabbed one through the chest with his longsword and the woman knocked another aside with her shield, following the blow with a slicing attack from her delicate but clearly sharp blade. The robed man did not use a weapon but fire danced around his clenched fists and he struck out with that, the flames licking around his target as the cultist fell, blackened marks appearing where the man’s fists had connected.
Lankdorf did not miss his opportunity, either. As the surviving cultists turned away from him to deal with this new threat his sword arm snaked out, catching the nearest cultist around the neck. A quick tug backwards and a slice with his dagger and the man fell dead at his feet, blood spurting from his cut throat.
The dwarf had already taken down another foe, his blades shearing one of the man’s legs off and then lopping off his head as he toppled. The one-eyed man also killed another, and the Sigmarite battered down the final cultist before either the woman or the robed man could reach him.
“Thanks for the help,” Lankdorf called out. He seemed to be directing his speech towards the Sigmarite, which made sense, since a man like that was not likely to take orders from anyone else, so he was most likely the leader of the strangely assorted group.
“I could not in good conscience let you battle alone against such vermin,” the Sigmarite replied, his manner of speech reminding Alaric of their witch hunter friend Oswald Kleiber. Why did religious fanatics all speak the same way, he wondered? Or at least why did Sigmarites? The cultists had certainly not bothered with such careful diction.
“Are you injured?” The robed man asked, stepping over the bodies towards the trail entrance. He had wild red hair and a flowing beard, and a flame tattoo around his left eye. Alaric noticed that the man’s robes also bore flame patterns at the cuffs and a set of silver keys hung prominently around his neck.
“Nothing important,” Lankdorf answered. He had a few small cuts where blades had nicked him, but none of them seemed to hamper him.
The robed man glanced up and saw Alaric and Dietz behind the bounty hunter. His eyes widened, clearly surprised to see anyone else there, and then narrowed as he noticed their bonds. His companions had approached and stood arrayed before Lankdorf. For a second Alaric thought this might be their chance to escape, but the bounty hunter was no fool.
“I’m a bounty hunter,” he explained. “These two are wanted for crimes in Akendorf.”
“A misunderstanding,” Alaric corrected, keeping his tone light, “nothing more. Why the prince felt the need to take such extreme action for so minor a disagreement is beyond me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lankdorf countered, turning slightly and cuffing Alaric on the cheek. “They’re my prisoners and that’s that.”
The strangers stood for a second without speaking, but then the Sigmarite stepped forwards.
“We have no wish to interfere,” he assured Lankdorf, who visibly relaxed. “Yours is a rightful task and we will not impede you.”
“Thanks.” Lankdorf nodded and sheathed his blades. “Merkel Lankdorf,” he introduced himself.
“I am Alaric von Jungfreud, at your service,” Alaric interjected, bowing carefully from his seat to avoid aggravating his wound, “and this is my companion, Dietrich Froebel.” Dietz nodded. Lankdorf glared at him but didn’t try to strike him again.
“Jurgen Heim,” the Sigmarite responded, “and these are my companions.” He gestured at the dwarf, the robed man, the lady, and the one-eyed man in turn. “Urrel Two-Axe, Otto Enbar of the Bright Order, the lady Kera of Ostermark, and Gorge von Oswald.”
Dietz gasped when he heard the last name. “The Butcher of Middenheim!” he blurted out, and then looked embarrassed as the man in question scowled. “Sorry, it’s just… I’ve heard all about you! I’m from Middenheim myself. My father was a wheelwright there.”
“Oh?” von Oswald brightened. “What did you say your name was? Froebel?” He thought for a moment, and then snapped his fingers. “Not Denholm Froebel?”
“That’s my father!” Dietz straightened. “My older brother Dracht runs the shop now.”
“Ah, a fine man, your father,” von Oswald said. “Yes, an excellent craftsman. I bought from him more than once.” His face clouded, as if remembering that time in his life had led to other, less happy thoughts, and he fell silent once more.
“The Bright Order?” Alaric asked the robed man, trying to fill the uncomfortable pause. He’d heard that somewhere, but where? After a second he had it. “You’re a fire mage!”
“Yes.” Enbar seemed pleased at the recognition. “You know of our order?”
“Only a little,” Alaric admitted. “I’ve heard of the various magical orders but not in detail.” This was actually the first time he’d met a Bright Wizard in person and he had several questions to ask, but the way Lankdorf was looking at him he knew he’d best not push his luck.
“Lucky our paths crossed when they did,” the bounty hunter commented, forcing attention back away from his prisoners.
“Yes,” Heim agreed, “particularly since we will not stay on this road long. Our path lies somewhere within the mountains, through less travelled routes.”
“Assuming we can find the damned thing at all,” Enbar muttered.
“We’ll find it,” the dwarf, Urrel, growled back. “I can find anything buried in the ground.”
“Anything belonging to your people,” Enbar agreed, “but what do you know of the ancient Nehekharans?”
Alaric’s ears pricked at the name, and he resisted the urge to see if Dietz had caught the mention as well.
“Stone is stone,” Urrel was insisting. “If it’s here, I shall find it.” His grip tightened on his two axes as if daring anyone to contradict him again. No one did.
“Which way did you travel?” The lady, Kera, asked them. Her voice was smooth and soft, her s
peech delicate, and Alaric knew at once that he was dealing with a fellow noble. Yet she wielded a blade and wore armour and shield, more like a guard or man-at-arms than a lady. He wondered what her story might be.
“We came from the north,” Lankdorf told them grudgingly. He indicated the peaks behind them.
“Did you see anything… unusual?” Enbar asked, his eyes bright.
The bounty hunter seemed unwilling to yield information. “A lot of rock,” was his only reply.
“Unusual in what way?” Alaric asked, unable to stay quiet.
“Oh, strange formations, carvings, that sort of thing,” Enbar replied as casually as he could.
“You mean like a pair of massive doors, carved in the image of a dead Nehekharan king?” It was the first time Dietz had spoken since mentioning his brother, and several of the newcomers started at his comment, their eyes widening as his words sank in. Dietz grinned at them.
“Aye, that’s what I thought,” he said slowly. “You want the tomb.”
“Shut up!” Lankdorf struck Dietz in the stomach, hard enough to double him over. “You speak when I say you speak!”
“I would hear what they know of this tomb,” Enbar announced, stepping forwards. Perhaps Alaric was imagining it but the air around the man seemed to shimmer, the way it did around a strong fire.
“Aye, so would we all,” Heim agreed. He studied Lankdorf soberly. “It would be a great aid to us if you would allow them to speak, friend.”
“Fine.” Lankdorf spat the word out. “Talk, then.” All eyes turned back towards Dietz, who suddenly looked less thrilled about that.
“We’ve been there,” Alaric interjected, drawing the newcomers’ attention away from his friend. Now he had all their attention. “Karitamen the Death Scarab, his tomb, we’ve been there.”
“You carry no treasure,” von Oswald pointed out, his one eye piercing. “The tomb is said to be filled with gold and other baubles.”
02 - Night of the Daemon Page 15
