“It is,” Alaric admitted. “More than ten men could carry.” He shook his head and winced at the motion. “We were in a bit of a hurry.”
“And inhabitants?” Heim asked, his hands tightening on his hammer.
“Undead,” Dietz told him, “skeleton warriors, mummified cats, living statues… oh, and the king himself.” He shuddered, clearly remembering the fight in the burial chamber. “He’s like a skeleton but much worse, more alert, for one thing, and much stronger.”
“A liche!” The way the Sigmarite’s eyes lit up, Alaric might have thought the man had found a treasure beyond value, and perhaps the idea of killing such a creature was that valuable to him.
“Go due north for three days,” Dietz told them, “head between the cleft that resembles a bent fork tine and aim for the peak that looks like a hawk’s beak. Look for a valley with a flat wall along the west side.” His expression shifted. “You’ll see bodies there as well.”
“Bodies?” Urrel asked.
“Some of our recent companions,” Alaric explained, “and several local soldiers fought over the treasure.” When Heim’s gaze shifted to them and to Lankdorf, Alaric felt compelled to admit, “he wasn’t there. We were wounded and he found us afterwards.”
Lankdorf spoke up. “What about the way you came?” he asked, clearly bored with all this talk of the tomb. “Anything we should watch for?” He dragged the mule down into the pass proper, and then hauled Dietz along as well, leaving the way clear for the adventurers.
“Aye,” von Oswald replied, his face twisting into a snarl of disgust. “That town, the one we heard of. What was it again?”
“Vitrolle,” Enbar reminded him.
“That one,” the one-eyed man agreed. “Steer clear of it.”
“It stands at the head of the Howling River, where it splits in twain,” Kera explained. “We heard strange stories of that place and its people. They say all there are fanatics, all worshipping the same god. They say many who enter that region disappear, never to return.” She shuddered slightly, although she masked the tremor almost immediately.
“Good luck, and may Sigmar be with you,” Heim told them, raising his hand in benediction. Then he gestured ahead of him with his hammer and the others followed as he passed Alaric and Dietz, and Lankdorf began climbing the trail up the cliff side.
The other four said goodbye, each in his or her own fashion, and marched past them and up the winding trail. Before long Heim had reached the top and disappeared over the peak, the others following behind him.
“You meet the most interesting people,” Alaric murmured as Lankdorf gathered the mule’s reins and led her down the pass. None of them spoke much for the rest of the day as they followed Mad Dog Pass, but Lankdorf kept his crossbow close at hand and his eyes peeled, and all of them started every time a rock fell or the wind howled through the mountains.
It took them two more days to reach the path’s end, walking down out of the mountains, out of the foothills, and finally to the edge of rolling green countryside. They hadn’t seen anyone else along the way.
They were still camped on the third day, enjoying the shift from hard rock to dirt and trees, when they heard a strange rustling noise. Before any of them could react, the bushes erupted, a flurry of leaves and branches rising into the air around them. Then the steady drumbeat reached them, shaking their feet, making them want to die. The pounding increased, someone drawing closer, until suddenly the shadows around them burst into life as a trio of horsemen emerged. The men wore studded leather armour with wine-red sashes across their left shoulders, and carried shields and longswords. The shields were deep red, with a brown horse rearing upon them. The riders closed in around Alaric, Dietz and Lankdorf, leaving no path for escape.
“Who are you and what is your business here?” the lead horseman asked, addressing Lankdorf. His hand rested on his sword hilt, but he didn’t draw it.
“I’m a bounty hunter,” Lankdorf replied, carefully keeping his hands away from his weapons. He didn’t sound very concerned. “I’m taking these two criminals back to Akendorf.”
“Under what authority?” the rider demanded.
“My own,” the bounty hunter replied. “What else is there?”
One of the other riders laughed. “In these lands, you must have our ruler’s permission to engage in such activities.”
“I didn’t know that,” Lankdorf admitted. “I didn’t mean to break any laws.”
“Yet you have,” the first horseman informed him. He frowned. “You will come with us,” he said after a second’s pause, “all of you.”
“Is that really necessary?” Lankdorf asked. He let one hand rest on his belt pouch and shifted it slightly, causing a clink that could only come from coins rubbing together. “Isn’t there some fee I can pay instead? I don’t like long delays.”
“You will delay for as long as necessary,” the rider informed him. He studied the three of them carefully. “I do not trust your presence here,” he said finally, “especially at such a time. We will take you to our ruler and let her decide your fate.”
Alaric noticed the pronoun shift. The local ruler was a woman? He’d never heard of a female ruler here, and he was curious to meet her. Not that they seemed to have much of a choice.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Apparently the ruler’s camp was nearby. One of the three horsemen removed Lankdorf’s weapons, tied his hands behind him, and pulled him up onto the horse in front of him. Another hoisted Dietz up onto his horse, leaving the wrist manacles but taking the key from Lankdorf and removing the anklets. The third clearly considered treating Alaric the same way, but after seeing his bandages the rider decided it was better to leave Alaric where he was, and so it was three horses and a mule that rode away from the last sight of the pass and plunged back into the Border Princes.
The land was not as heavily forested as it was to the north, although there were trees aplenty. The copses were smaller and further apart, however, creating small plains and valleys in between. Tall grass covered the ground between the trees, but Dietz also saw cultivated fields bordered by sturdy wooden fences.
The horsemen led them along a wide dirt path that was clearly well used, judging by the way every bit of grass had been trampled flat. It took only two hours for them to reach a large camp staked out on a decent-sized plain. The tents were sturdy and well anchored, suggesting this was a long-term encampment. Armed guards barred the path but moved aside when they saw the horsemen coming. Soldiers were everywhere, most of them sitting or pacing, drinking, gambling, honing weapons, cleaning armour, cooking or sleeping. Alaric was glancing around, a strange look on his face, and Dietz remembered that his friend had seen such gatherings before, in his youth, when his father had forced him to accompany his kin into battle.
The horsemen had barely spoken during the ride, although they did offer all three captives water skins and even wizened apples and hunks of dried meat. Now they tethered their horses at a convenient hitching post and helped Dietz and Lankdorf to the ground. Alaric had to be lifted down. The hard ride had opened his wound again, and he was barely able to stand unaided.
The horsemen led them into a large tent near the centre of the encampment, its heavier material and better construction indicating that it belonged to someone important. Stepping through the entrance flap, however, Dietz saw only a low table and seating cushions off to one side, and a sturdy, high-backed chair to the other. The three of them were forced down onto the rug before the chair and left there. The horsemen disappeared but two other men stood by the entrance flap, spears in hand, watching their every move.
After a few minutes a woman entered the tent. She was short, broad-shouldered and busty, with strong features, dusky skin, dark hair and large dark eyes. Dietz might have called her “handsome” and certainly she had a charisma that made him and his two companions pay attention. She was wearing plain, well-made clothes and wore a sword at her side, its handle worn from use. Nothing about her ap
pearance or attire suggested anything other than an unusual woman warrior, possibly a mercenary. Her presence, however, said that she was far more than a mere fighter, and this was confirmed when she sank down into the chair with the ease of long practice and the grace of someone whose reflexes had been honed from years of hard use.
“You are on my lands and have broken my laws,” she told them, her voice deep and rich. “Explain yourselves. Who are you and what do you want here?”
As usual Alaric managed to speak first. “Alaric von Jungfreud, madam, at your service.”
“Ignore him, madam,” Lankdorf said quickly. “He’s my prisoner. They both are. I am a—”
“Yes, a bounty hunter,” she interrupted, her flashing eyes warning him not to test her patience. “I have been told. Yet I gave you no permission for anyone to hunt people on my lands. You have no authority here.” She returned her attention to Alaric. “You were saying?”
“Yes, madam.” Alaric executed a graceful bow, although Dietz saw him sway slightly. “As I said, I am at your service. This is my friend and companion, Dietrich Froebel.” Dietz nodded, “but I do not believe I know your name, fair lady.”
The woman frowned, eyes narrowing, and for a second Dietz thought his young friend’s charms had backfired. “Fatandira is my name,” she answered finally, “and I will ask the questions. Now, Herr von Jungfreud, why are you here?”
Dietz thought his friend would launch into an explanation of their plight, and of the events at the tomb. Instead Alaric chose a different tack. “We are pursuing a man, a spy,” he answered, ignoring the shock on Lankdorf’s face. “He stole something from us, something of great significance, and we must restore it to its rightful place.”
Fatandira leaned forwards in her chair, clearly intrigued. “A spy, you say? This sounds little like a bounty hunter and his prisoners, does it?” She glanced at Lankdorf and Dietz shuddered. He had seen similar looks from cats when they had cornered their prey.
“We were captured by this man while pursuing the spy,” Alaric explained.
“What is his name, this man you seek?”
“Hammlich,” Dietz offered, knowing his friend and employer’s problem with names. Alaric could speak half a dozen languages well, write more of them, and recite chapter and verse from various dry old tomes on archaeology or what have you, but he couldn’t remember most people’s names five minutes after meeting them.
“Yes, Hammlich,” Alaric confirmed. “He—”
He was cut off by the sound of laughter. Fatandira was chuckling, a deep throaty laugh. This was not a delicate woman, but Dietz appreciated her direct nature.
Alaric was less amused. “Did I say something funny?” he demanded.
“Oh yes,” Fatandira replied. She raised her voice so the guards at the tent entrance could hear it. “Has Hammlich recovered yet? If so, bring him to me!” One of the guards saluted and vanished from the tent.
“You know him?” Alaric asked.
“Of course I do,” she replied. “He works for me.”
While Alaric absorbed this information the guard returned, supporting a familiar figure. Hammlich started slightly when he saw the two of them, and then nodded and smiled.
“Well, you survived,” he said by way of greeting. “I didn’t think you would. I almost didn’t make it, myself.” He had a small sack hanging from his belt and Dietz noticed bandages around the scout’s left arm and torso.
“This is the man you wanted to chase down?” Lankdorf asked. He had been looking around before, but had glanced up when Hammlich and the guard entered and had started slightly. Now he was watching both men carefully.
“Yes,” Alaric agreed. “He betrayed his commander, stole something from us, and fled just before you arrived.”
“I did not betray anyone,” Hammlich corrected haughtily. “Gunther was never my true commander, nor is my loyalty to that filth, Levrellian. My allegiance lies here, with Fatandira.”
Fatandira smiled at his statement. “That is true,” she said. “Hammlich has been true to his oaths. I sent him to spy on Levrellian and inform me if that weasel attempted another attack on my lands.” She eyed Hammlich. “Now that your wounds have been tended, report. I had not expected you to come here in person,” she told him, her tone indicating he was on dangerous ground. “You have compromised your cover.”
“I know,” the scout admitted. “I can never go back there. I would not have betrayed my position but we found something, something I knew Levrellian should never see.”
“Oh?” She glanced back over at Dietz, Alaric, and Lankdorf. “And who is this ‘we’?”
Hammlich straightened, eyes focusing straight ahead, clearly a soldier rattling off a report. “Levrellian learned the location of an ancient Nehekharan tomb,” he said. “He sent Gunther to locate it, explore it, and bring back any treasures it contained. I accompanied him, along with a patrol unit. We encountered these two”—he indicated Alaric and Dietz—“at the mouth of the tomb, with several others. Apparently Levrellian had taken their map. We explored the tomb, which belonged to a king named Karitamen.”
Fatandira shuddered at the name, going slightly pale below her normal dusky hue. “The Death Scarab!” she whispered.
“We encountered many horrors,” Hammlich continued without pause, “including the dead king himself, now a hideous creature of bones and foul magic.” That got a shudder from everyone present, including Lankdorf, who had never asked about the tomb or what lay within it. “However, there was indeed treasure, enough to buy an army large enough to rule all the Border Princes. Only a handful of us escaped alive, but I knew if Levrellian got his hands on that gold he would be unstoppable.” He straightened. “So I killed Gunther, took the treasure we had carried out, and brought it here, although I was attacked twice along the way. The rest of Levrellian’s men are dead. No one else knows how to find that tomb.” He looked straight at Alaric and Dietz when he said this, and the meaning was clear: no one else but the three of them.
“You left something out,” Alaric pointed out softly. “You didn’t tell her about the artefact.”
“What artefact?” Fatandira looked back and forth between the two men, her dark eyes piercing, and Hammlich finally looked away.
“I was going to tell you of it privately,” the scout claimed, although his words sounded false to Dietz. “That one”—he gestured towards Alaric again—“found an item, clearly something of great power. Gunther was going to kill him after we escaped the tomb and claim it for Levrellian. I knew you wouldn’t want that.”
“So he took it from me,” Alaric clarified, “after he’d killed Gunther with his own pistol.”
“I see.” Fatandira stroked her chin absently as she thought. “This item… you have it with you?”
In reply Hammlich opened the sack and pulled out the gauntlet, holding it up so it would catch the torchlight.
Everyone in the tent gasped as they gazed upon the gauntlet. Dietz found himself entranced and he knew where it had come from, knew that it was tainted, but it was still utterly captivating.
It was hideous, actually. It had segmented overlapping plates and wicked claws like insanely long fingernails. It had barbs and spikes all over. Runes covered much of the surface, but in between them were small carvings of some sort. Dietz strained to make out the carvings, but gave up, realising that he might be better off never knowing.
Hammlich lowered his arm, extending the artefact towards Fatandira, who reached towards it… and recoiled as a gleaming blade slid through Hammlich from the back, piercing his heart.
The scout dropped to the ground without a sound, the gauntlet tumbling from his limp fingers.
The guard behind him, the one Lankdorf had been eyeing, wiped his blade off and, raising it again to the ready, reached down and retrieved the gauntlet.
“I’ll be taking this,” he said, wrapping the item in his cloak, “and as for you—” He turned towards Fatandira, his sword raised. She simply watched him
approach, apparently calm, her hand not straying to her blade because she knew she would never be able to draw it in time.
Lankdorf burst into action, just as the guard pulled his arm back to strike Fatandira. He took a quick step forwards, scooped up a heavy brazier, and smashed it into the treacherous guard, toppling him like a felled oak. Then the bounty hunter shoved both the brazier and its victim aside and offered Fatandira a hand up.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the gesture and the aid without a hint of reluctance. She looked down at Hammlich’s body and shook her head. “I am sorry, cousin,” she whispered, so softly that Dietz barely heard her. Then she walked over to the fallen guard and kicked him hard in the side. “To think, I trusted you, Rorschach,” she snarled. “Well, good riddance!”
She turned and took a step towards the entrance to give an order to the remaining guard. She froze. For an instant Dietz couldn’t understand why. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a man dragging himself to his feet.
The guard, the one she had called Rorschach, was awake and somehow standing right behind them. He had the gauntlet cradled under one arm still, and his sword tip wavered slightly but not enough to make him less than a severe threat.
“Die, you filthy she-beast,” he growled, “for the glory of—”
For a second time he was interrupted, this time as someone hurled himself forwards, colliding with Rorschach’s legs and knocking him to the ground. Alaric groaned with the impact and Dietz could see blood seeping through his bandages, but he was impressed. No one would ever call his friend a coward.
Unfortunately Rorschach proved resilient, and Dietz saw that the collision had knocked the guard down but not out. More guards were entering the tent, however, and the traitor must have realised that the moment was past, for he leapt to his feet and bolted for the entrance, shoving two other guards aside and escaping before they realised that he was their intended prey. They took off after him while Dietz turned and knelt by his friend’s side. After a moment Fatandira joined him.
02 - Night of the Daemon Page 16
