01 - Day of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  “Baron von Drasche?” Alaric repeated, and this time the boy nodded. “But you said the town was plague-free.” He rocked back on his heels. “Why would the baron send his troops to destroy your village?”

  The boy shrugged. “Undesirable, they said. ‘Cleansing the land’, they said.” He glanced about warily, as if afraid the baron would hear him and punish him for speaking out of turn.

  “I can’t believe it,” Alaric muttered, no longer seeing the villager before him. “Not even Gemot would—”

  “Would what?” Dietz demanded, stepping close to him. Alaric hadn’t noticed him dismounting, but realised now that all of them had done so, probably to reduce the boy’s fear.

  “Who is Gemot?” Fastred added, also approaching. The others gathered as well, all but Adelrich and Holst who stayed near the boy.

  “Gemot is the Baron von Drasche,” Alaric explained finally, pleased he kept the bitterness from his voice. “A nasty piece of work; he once complained that his lands were the dregs of the province and his people the refuse.” Alaric deliberately blocked out the argument that had goaded the young baron into such a statement. “Apparently he has decided to correct the situation.”

  “His soldiers destroyed all these towns?” Fastred asked, amazed, and the boy shrugged.

  “Uxer, that’s three days downriver, they left that one alone. An’ they took Hans the potter from Merxheim, and Greta the weaver, an’ a few others.”

  “So he’s actually dividing his own subjects into those worth saving and those to die,” Renke marvelled softly. “Astounding!”

  “No man has such dominion,” Kleiber agreed. “All who live just lives are entitled to protection by their lords, and only the gods may smite them.”

  “Oh, the baron follows the gods,” the boy said bitterly, speaking out for the first time. “His soldiers burn offerings at every town. I heard ’em say they’ll slaughter ten oxen when they finally bring the gypsies down.”

  “The gypsies?” Alaric had been lost in memory, but now he glanced down at the boy. “What have they to do with this?”

  “They’re the only ones left,” the village replied. “Big band of ’em, been wandering through here a year or two now. The baron hates ’em, but can’t get rid of ’em ’cause they just fade into the trees.” He shrugged. “Guess with no more villages they won’t have any place to hide.”

  “Serves them right, too,” Renke snapped, his face twisted into a surprising snarl. “Dirty thieves, the lot of them, good for nothing but mischief and disease.”

  “They are an ungodly people,” Kleiber agreed as if that were enough offence to justify a slow, painful death. For him it probably was.

  Even Kristoff was nodding. “I’ve crossed paths with gypsies before,” he admitted quietly, “and never had good come of it. They’re crafty, certainly, and out for themselves. This baron is not the first I’ve heard who wished them gone from his lands.”

  “That’s no reason to hunt them like animals!” Dietz snapped, glancing over his shoulder to the boy and lowering his voice. “Nor does it justify killing his own subjects.”

  “I’ll not argue that,” Fastred said, stroking his beard idly. “But it is ultimately his land to govern as he chooses. Who are we to gainsay his choices?”

  Kleiber and Renke both opened their mouths to reply, but Alaric spoke first to cut them off. “Fastred’s right—we have no say here. Nor is it our responsibility. We should find the statue, destroy it, and be gone.”

  Slowly the others nodded. Alaric understood their anger, as he felt the rage pouring through his own veins, but this was neither the time nor the place. They had a task to complete. Perhaps afterwards he would return and have a word with Gemot—in private.

  In the meantime, there was the boy to consider. Turning back, Alaric walked towards the villager, keeping his steps slow and his hands at his side. Finally he stopped just beyond arm’s reach.

  “What will you do now?” he asked softly, and the youth, who had nervously watched him approach, started at his voice.

  “Nothin’,” the boy replied finally, and Alaric almost laughed.

  “No, I mean where will you go? How will you and your sisters survive?” At the mention of his siblings the boy’s brow furrowed. “Look, do you have a trade?”

  At that the boy perked up slightly. “I’m good with wood,” he boasted, tugging a small pendant from around his neck. “Made it myself,” he bragged, removing it from its cord and handing it to Alaric. It was an owl and finely carved. The boy did have talent.

  “Good, good,” Alaric said then, reaching for his pouch. “Best if you leave here—make for Carroburg or Altdorf or one of the other cities, but outside this province. Understand?” The boy nodded. “Take these coins—” He had his hand in his pouch already, but the boy shook his head and backed away.

  “I’m no beggar,” he grumbled, and Alaric almost growled in frustration. He was trying to help! How would this poor wretch survive otherwise, him and his sisters alone and with nothing? He glanced over at Dietz, who looked pointedly at the pendant still dangling from Alaric’s fingers. Then he glanced at the pouch and nodded his chin towards the boy.

  Ah, of course. Alaric turned back to the youth. “No, of course not,” he agreed cheerfully, “but this pendant”—he held it up between them—“is truly fine work. Will you sell it to me?” When the boy’s chest puffed out he knew Dietz had hit upon the right tack. “I can only imagine its worth to you,” Alaric continued, rummaging in his pouch, “and I am sure you hate to part with it. I hope this will be sufficient recompense?” He realised as he said them that the boy might not understand the words, but judging from the gleam in his eyes he had followed the meaning. Alaric held up four gold coins and the boy snatched them from him, stuffing them into his tattered shirt.

  “Fine then.” Alaric tied the pendant around his neck, adjusting the cord so the polished woodcarving hung neatly at the front of his shirt, and returned to his horse. “Good luck to you and your sisters,” he called out, swinging into his saddle again. Then he turned and led the way from the ruined village. The others followed him, though he saw several of them glancing back from time to time, looking at where the boy still stood watch by the closed door. At one point Alaric thought he saw something fall from Dietz’s saddlebags, and when he turned to his companion the older man shrugged innocently.

  “Must not have tied it shut,” he said, but Alaric knew better. A moment later something tumbled from Renke’s side as well, and then something from Adelrich’s. Soon the way behind them was littered with food, rope, a knife, a blanket and several more coins. The boy and his sisters would have enough to get them to a larger city and perhaps enough for the lad to apprentice himself to a woodcarver as well.

  Putting the boy from his mind, Alaric led his companions further along the river, wending their way towards the Grey Mountains. They had left the Reikwald behind and were in gentler country, rolling hills dominated by rich farmlands. Small stands of trees still appeared here and there, but much of the land was covered in crops, and from their horses they could easily see over vast stretches.

  They reached another town a few days later, the Uxer the boy had mentioned. Just as he’d stated, this town had not been harmed and it seemed a tidy, active place.

  “I can see why the baron would leave this place unmolested,” Kristoff commented as they rode through, admiring the neat houses and the bustle of activity all around them. “It’s certainly a credit to his name.”

  “That it is,” Adelrich replied, rejoining them—the scout had veered off towards the docks when they approached. “It has the last dock along the Hundleir.” He grinned in answer to Alaric’s unspoken question. “The gypsies the boy mentioned have a camp somewhere nearby.” He scratched his chin. “Arrived in boats two months back, beached them and drove their wagons ashore, through town and out the other side. A month ago four of them sailed in and hauled a small cart onto the docks. Heavy, I hear, but covered in blanket
s. They wheeled it out towards the gypsy camp.”

  “We might have known they would have the statue,” Kleiber commented. “I only hope we have arrived in time to prevent them from sacrificing infants before it, as is their wont.”

  “Those are only old tales,” Dietz argued, but the witch hunter sniffed dismissively.

  “Old tales are borne from old truths,” he stated. “The gypsies are a blight upon our world and all right-thinking folk despise them upon sight.”

  “Prepare to brave your disgust then,” Alaric told him. “We will need to find the statue ourselves, which means close contact with these gypsies, if they possess it.”

  They left the town, resisting the urge to sleep on real beds and eat food someone else had cooked for at least one night. Fastred in particular looked longingly towards a long, low building that looked suspiciously like a tavern, and Dietz knew the large man was thinking of the ale and wine within. The very thought set his mouth watering, but he knew their mission came first. “Perhaps we can drink to our success later,” he told Fastred as they rode away and the explorer nodded glumly. “I’ll buy,” Dietz added, and that cheered the other man up considerably.

  Once past Uxer they kept riding, though they slowed considerably. There had been no tracks in the town itself, or at least none to be distinguished from the general foot traffic. Out here, however, the signs of man and horse were less frequent and Adelrich had a better chance of noticing the marks they wanted. They were still within sight of town when the scout stopped them and indicated a faint trail amid the grass and mud.

  “Many wagons,” Adelrich announced, studying the tracks, “at least one month ago, possibly two or three.” He ran one hand, palm down and fingers splayed, over the marks. “Frequent visits to Uxer,” he decided finally, “but only in small groups.”

  An hour later they crested a small hill and found themselves looking down upon a shallow valley. It was a wide, low stretch filled with trees spaced too evenly to be natural—Alaric guessed it might have originally been an orchard. Sunlight leaked through the gaps in the foliage and spilled upon the long grass, and upon the camp nestled there.

  Alaric’s first impression was one of frenzied disorder, but he revised that as he registered more details. The scene below was certainly a lively one, filled with constant activity, but his eyes began to see patterns in the way the people moved, as if they danced about one another. Music wafted up to them, enhancing that notion of a dance, and in fact he saw people stepping in time to the melody. Strange covered wagons were ranged among the trees, almost hidden in the shadows, but the people who owned them were impossible to miss, their brightly coloured clothing producing flashes of brilliance as warm as the flames from their small cookfires. Horses grazed near each wagon, evidently tethered to their masters’ homes.

  “Gypsies,” Renke whispered, the name almost an insult from his lips.

  “Indeed,” Kleiber agreed, “and like as not, the recipients of the abomination we pursue.”

  Dietz looked ready to protest, but stopped and nodded instead. “Probably true,” he finally agreed. “Let’s go find out.” He kicked his horse into motion, cresting the hill and trotting down towards the gypsy camp.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Damn and blast!” Muttering one of Dietz’s favourite curses, Alaric prodded his own horse forward and raced after his friend. The others followed right behind and they all reined in together at the bottom, mere yards from the startled gypsies.

  “What were you…?” Alaric’s question died on his lips as he glanced around. A moment ago these people had been laughing and dancing without a care in the world. Now they had somehow moved to surround the travellers, and in each hand he saw a knife, a whip, an axe, or even a sword. A low murmur had sprung up as well and it was growing louder.

  “Oyega, Roma,” Dietz shouted, and the tension stilled. He looked down at the gathering gypsies, glancing from face to face and finally settling on one, an older man with a shock of white through his otherwise black hair and golden hoops in each ear. “Zeo?” Dietz asked him.

  The man nodded and stepped forward, openly sheathing the dagger he’d been holding. The tension dropped still further, and another buzz spread through the crowd, though to Alaric this one felt different—not hostile at all, more curious and slightly excited.

  “Conocinti,” Dietz continued, gesturing at himself and the other riders. Then he held up a wineskin—not water, Alaric noted, and wondered where his companion had been hiding that. “Spartirimos vini,” he said, and took a swig, then offered the skin to the gypsy.

  For an instant no one moved as the earringed man studied Dietz. Then he reached up, accepted the skin, and took a hefty swallow. Wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, he beckoned for Dietz to dismount, which he did. Still the gypsies stayed silent and the travellers held themselves ready. Then the gypsy grinned and embraced Dietz. The air around them exploded with shouts and laughter. Weapons vanished and the other riders found themselves dragged from their horses and offered warm bread, cold water, strong wine and fresh fruit.

  “Your accent,” Alaric heard the man asking Dietz as they were led into the centre of the gypsy camp. “Estalian?”

  Dietz nodded. “I met them in Middenheim. Their daughter Rosali and I were—close.” Was it just the dim light or was Dietz actually blushing?

  The man he had called Zeo laughed and clapped him on the back. “Good, good! Tonight you are one of us, in honour of Rosali. Come!”

  “A girl taught you gypsy speech?” Alaric asked quietly as he and Dietz brushed past one another on the way to the central fire.

  “Among other things,” was the short reply.

  It proved to be an interesting evening. The gypsies were true to their Zeo’s word, welcoming the travellers like long-lost cousins. That meant a feast, with music and dancing, and much wine, but it also meant no standing on ceremony—Fastred was handed a basket of fresh rolls and pushed towards the circle to hand them out, Renke was wrangled into filling goblets with wine, and even Kleiber was pulled into helping with the meat, a boar hanging on a spit over the fire. Alaric found himself chatting with several of the gypsies and enjoyed the opportunity to meet them, find out more about their culture, and learn their language. Fastred and Kristoff seemed to feel the same. Holst, Adelrich and the soldiers stayed wary, though they gladly accepted the gypsies’ hospitality and willingly helped when asked. Kleiber and Renke were still visibly uncomfortable in the crowd, though Renke did his best to hide his disapproval. The witch hunter did not bother masking his contempt, but that only made him a target for several young, pretty lasses who took turns trying to sway him to think of them more favourably.

  Zeo—Alaric learned that the word meant “uncle” and was the honorific given to the band’s leader—sat between him and Dietz, and alternately questioned them, told them stories, and offered them food and drink.

  “We come here during summer,” Zeo told them over spits of roast meat, “avoid the swelter. The townsfolk know us. They come in evenings, we read fortunes and sing and dance, and they give us coin and food.” He frowned. “Not lately, though. Lately they stay away, don’t look at us when we pass. Some won’t sell to us, say we steal babies.” He snorted. “Why steal them? People give us their children all the time, no need to steal!”

  Dietz nodded. “The baron has been spreading lies,” he suggested quietly, and Alaric knew he was probably right. It would be typical of Gemot, inventing falsehoods to turn the people against these wandering entertainers. He had heard many stories of gypsies himself, but had never met them, and he was both fascinated and delighted to find that many of the darker tales had been lies as well. These people were open and honest and playful, though he knew Dietz’s words had helped that. Their language and clothing were colourful, and their grace and rhythm daunting, but he could no longer see them as dangerous.

  Apparently Dietz’s pet felt the same way. Shortly after they sat down Glouste emerged from Dietz’s jacke
t, producing a shout of surprise and delight from Zeo and several others. The tree-monkey crept out onto her master’s shoulder and looked around, nose twitching as she sampled the rich smells of food and wine, and warm bodies in motion. Finally she accepted the morsel Dietz held out, and then licked her lips, whiskers twitching eagerly, and nudged his cheek for more.

  “Alberi volpini,” Zeo marvelled, holding out one hand palm up, a shred of meat upon it. Glouste examined him carefully, and then the meat, and then the man again before finally accepting the offering. She butted his hand with her forehead in thanks. “It means ‘tree fox’,” he told Alaric, who had been about to ask. “I have heard of such, though never have I seen one myself. Like the ferret, yes?”

  “This is an Indyan tree-monkey,” Alaric corrected, and to his surprise the gypsy roared with laughter.

  “Scimi?” Zeo repeated to the others around him, still laughing, then shook his head. “No, my young friend, not scimi.” He patted Glouste’s head cheerfully, causing her to purr and butt his hand again. “Closer to volpini the fox, than the monkey, this one.”

  Alaric bristled. How dare this ignorant nomad doubt his classification? “I tell you it is a tree-monkey,” he repeated. “We found it in Ind.”

  “Ind?” Zeo shook his head and fired off a rapid question to one of the others nearby, a man whose hair and short beard were streaked with white. The second gypsy replied, and Zeo nodded. “Yes, we have heard tales of that land from cousins. They talk of strange creatures walking and climbing, and flying in those jungles.” He shrugged. “I do not know that place, but I tell you what I do know. This charmer is no scimi.” He gestured at Glouste’s paws, planted securely on Dietz’s shoulder. “The diti, the fingers, the paws, are wrong. The testi, the head, is wrong. The codi, the tail, is wrong.” He smiled, still stroking Glouste’s head. “We Roma know scimi well. This is no scimi.”

  As the gypsy leader talked, Alaric calmed down and sat back, thinking hard. He had assumed Glouste was a tree-monkey—he had heard of them from the sailors when they had first docked in Ind, but what Zeo said made sense. Glouste was not built like any monkey he had seen before, and did resemble a fox more with her pointed face, dainty paws, and thick tail. Finally he nodded.