“Yes,” Alaric admitted finally. “We did see it. We were their guests, in fact.”
“Ah, excellent,” the baron said, a nasty gleam in his eye. “Then you can show us where it is.”
For an instant Dietz wondered about this. The camp had been well concealed within the trees, true, but surely the baron had enough men to comb the woods and find the wagons? Then he understood. Yes, the baron could find the camp without their help, but he wanted to make Alaric assist him. It was a petty attempt at control, ill-becoming a noble and particularly one who held power over lands and people. Perhaps it was not surprising given the few hints Alaric had made before about the baron’s character.
Finally Alaric sighed. “Very well.” He glared at the baron. “I will not be party to your bloodlust, however. My companions and I will guide you to the camp, but we will not take part in any attack.”
The baron’s expression turned sly. “What’s wrong, Alaric? Still no stomach for fighting? Your father must be so disappointed.”
For a second Alaric’s eyes flashed, his muscles tensed, and his hand reached for his sword. Dietz saw this, and also saw the glee on the baron’s face. He wants Alaric to attack, Dietz realised, so he can kill him. He didn’t dare interfere openly, but he nudged a candlestick beside him so that it toppled to the floor with a loud crash.
Alaric glanced up.
“Sorry,” Dietz muttered, trying to look and sound contrite. “How clumsy of me.”
The momentary respite was enough. Alaric forced his hand to open, and turned his back upon the baron instead, though it clearly took all his will. The baron, for his part, growled in frustration and glared at Dietz, then laughed.
“After you,” he said pointedly, bowing towards the front door, and followed as Alaric strode through. Dietz hurried behind them, making sure the two nobles were not alone at any point.
Soon the travellers were mounted again and riding back the way they had come, the baron and his men beside them. Dietz counted ninety soldiers, all in full armour, and the sergeant had left ten behind on the hill. One hundred soldiers, just to handle a gypsy camp? This would not be battle—it would be a slaughter.
“Are you certain you won’t join us?” Baron von Drasche asked with a nasty grin as they halted, hours later, upon the hill above the gypsy camp. “I promise to leave at least one for you to skewer—an old lady, perhaps, or a young child?” He was goading Alaric again and laughed when he received no reply. Instead the baron signalled his men and charged down the hill, weapons at the ready. Dietz was relieved to note that the baron, so intent upon the upcoming slaughter, had not bothered to leave anyone to guard them. He expected Alaric to lead them away as soon as the baron had vanished from sight, and his employer did wait until then to move, though the direction he chose was unexpected.
“Come on,” Alaric hissed to Dietz as soon as the soldiers were gone, kicking his own horse into motion, but heading down the hill instead of back over it. Dietz spurred his mount along on pure reflex, though shock almost overtook him.
“We’re not helping?” he protested, and was relieved by the revulsion he saw on his employer’s face.
“Of course not,” Alaric snapped, “but I’m damned sure not letting that ass butcher children. Hurry!”
Adelrich and Fastred joined them and together the four raced down the hill, veering to one side as they rode. Despite their speed, the baron’s men had a good head start, and were already entering the camp from the front as Alaric led his three companions around the back. They reached the far edge of the gypsy camp, closest to the statue’s grove, and leaped to the ground by the rearmost wagons even as the first sounds of battle reached them.
“Wha—?” One of the gypsies they had seen earlier, a young woman with long dark ringlets, emerged from the wagon, a dagger in one hand, and peered at them through bleary eyes.
“The baron is attacking!” Alaric told her quickly. “You and your children need to flee at once. Go!” As if to punctuate his statement another gypsy, an older woman who had offered Dietz a second helping of stew earlier that very night, staggered out of the trees towards them, blood streaming down her face. Even in the dark Dietz could tell there was something wrong with the shape of her head. She collapsed before any of them could go to her, pitching face-forward into the dirt, and did not move again.
“We can’t just go,” said the man who had appeared from the wagon beside the young woman, hefting a thin curved sword as he dropped from the wagon bed. “We cannot leave our kin.” The sounds of fighting, cursing and dying were clearly audible, ringing through the woods, and the man was eager to run to his family’s aid.
“Then you’ll all die,” Adelrich said bluntly, shoving the man back. “Get your children out of here!”
“Wait!” Dietz stopped them and peered into the wagon, where the same little girl he’d seen curled up with Glouste now eyed him warily. “Zisi, you and the other bambini have a signal, yes? A private whistle?” She nodded, eyes wide. “Good. Use it now. Summon them here.” She glanced at her father, who nodded, and then she skittered to the front of the wagon. Pursing her lips, the girl emitted a short, piercing tone and then a second one, followed by a slightly longer one, the sounds carrying even through the din of battle. Within seconds they heard soft footsteps and then the children began appearing from the darkness of the camp. Most were only partially clothed. Several had wounds, clear evidence that the baron’s men had progressed beyond simply fighting the gypsy men, and were now attacking the women and children as well.
“Take them all,” Dietz told the couple. “You are now Zeo,” he pointed out to the man. “And you,” he told the woman, “are Nona, the matriarch. In these children your people will survive.” The couple glanced once more towards the clearing, wincing at a particularly loud cry that ended abruptly. Finally they nodded and hustled the children into the woods, pausing only to clasp each of the men’s forearms in thanks. Then they were gone.
“What about the wagon?” Fastred asked, but Dietz was already striding to the next one. Three young men, clearly brothers and little more than children themselves, and a woman not much older had been watching from behind their door curtain and gave up all pretence as he approached, tossing the curtain aside and hopping lightly down. Dietz wondered for a second why they were not fighting or fleeing, and then saw just how young they truly were and guessed their parents had ordered them to stay hidden.
“You are conocinti,” one of them said, clasping Dietz’s forearm firmly. “Thank you.”
Dietz shrugged. “Thank me by pretending that wagon is yours,” he replied, indicating the now-empty wagon behind them. “If the baron realises it’s empty he’ll send his soldiers to scour the forest for them.”
The gypsies nodded and the woman and one man took refuge in the last wagon while the other two returned to their own home, each of them clasping weapons and ready to die guarding the children’s escape. Judging from the sounds that still filtered through the trees, it would probably come to that. Realising they’d done all they could, Dietz and Alaric remounted, Fastred and Adelrich behind them, and turned their steeds back towards the small grove. Kleiber, Kristoff and Renke had reached it before them, and they arrived to find the witch hunter standing over a pile of rubble, his pistol still smoking—the sounds of battle back in camp had masked the gun’s report.
“It is done,” he told them, holstering his pistol, and after a quick glance they nodded and kicked their horses back into gallops, returning to where Holst and the soldiers still sat atop the hill.
“We should leave now, while the baron is occupied,” Renke suggested uneasily, but Alaric shook his head.
“I know Gernot, and he requires an audience. If we leave now he may send men after us out of spite. Better to wait here, applaud his ‘victory’ when he returns, and then depart with his blessing.”
The others nodded, though Renke looked pale at the thought of more delays. As they waited, forced to endure the cries from below, the
small man manoeuvred his horse beside Alaric’s.
“I need to speak with you,” he whispered, and Alaric noticed he was sweating despite the cool night air.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, shifting his horse closer to the geographer’s, but Renke shook his head.
“Not here,” he said. “Some place private. Soon,” he added through clenched teeth, but Alaric’s reply was halted by the sound of approaching hooves. He nodded and turned to face back down the hill, where the baron and several soldiers were departing the increasingly silent gypsy camp. Not all the soldiers were there, and for an instant Alaric hoped the gypsies had acquitted themselves well and taken a few of the baron’s men with them, though he knew the soldiers were not to blame for their master’s cruelty. Then other noises drifted up from the gypsy camp, sounds of equal violence, but different methods, and his face tightened. No, the men who had stayed behind deserved a far better fate. If only he could provide it.
“That’s done then,” the baron announced with obvious satisfaction, holding his sword up so the blood along it was clearly visible in the moonlight. He wore an expression Alaric recognised from days past, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth slightly open like a cat scenting fresh cream. It was a look of extreme satisfaction.
“Finally!” The studied contentment dropped away, replaced by a look of outright lust. “I’ve wanted those gutter-rats gone for years!” he confessed, shocking Alaric with his candour. “I knew someone would object if I killed them, though—weak-hearted fools!” He grinned at Alaric, sending a chill through him.
Gernot knew better than to speak openly about such things, especially in front of strangers. Either his easy victory had made him careless—or he had other plans. “Good thing the Chaos invaders swept through, eh?” he continued, approaching Alaric and resting his sword easily across his saddle. “Anything can be justified as a defence against daemon-worshippers—or an attack by them.” Those last words carried more emphasis and Alaric recognised the inevitable. Still, he had to attempt the bloodless route first.
“Indeed,” he replied coldly, and then faked a yawn. “Well, now you’re done I’m sure you’ll wish to return to your manor. We’ve our own business to pursue, so we’ll be on our way.”
“Yes, yes,” the baron answered, moving his horse in front of Alaric’s and eyeing him coldly. “Such a shame you cannot stay longer.” He leaned in slightly, as if sharing a confidence. “You’ll not mention this to anyone, of course?” He resumed his pose of the careful, diplomatic ruler. “These are troubled times for our Empire, what with the rebuilding and the continued incursions. Now is a time for all patriots to unite, to stand together to protect our lands and our peoples.” He had the audacity to look solemn. “Surely one man’s attempts to rid his land of undesirables, to improve the quality of life for his people, is of no one else’s concern? It would be best not to trouble others with such petty details when so many larger issues remain at stake.”
“I’ll not say a word,” Alaric assured him blandly. Meanwhile his hand had slid to the hilt of his rapier and he shifted in his saddle, using the noise to mask the sound of the blade loosening in its scabbard.
“Quite,” the baron replied. He leaned back again and assumed a look of deep consideration. “I know you for a man of your word, Alaric,” he admitted finally. Then he sighed heavily. “Still, your companions—I don’t know them, and if they talked my reputation might suffer.” He made a great show of thinking again, and then shook his head and gestured with his bloody sword. “Now I think on it, far better they don’t get that chance. Or you.” He grinned. “Kill them all,” he called out, and kicked his own horse towards Alaric.
Dietz had expected a betrayal, as had the others, and they had their weapons drawn before the soldiers reached them. He slashed one across the face with his knife, sending the man tumbling backward with blood spraying from his cheek, and blocked another’s sword slash before laying open his forehead on a return stroke. Kleiber had reloaded his pistol while they had waited, and now the gunshot echoed through the valley as a soldier plummeted from his horse, a smoking hole in his chest. The others laid about them with their swords and daggers, and Fastred’s crossbow twanged as a soldier fell with a bolt through his sword arm.
“Shoot the horses!” Holst shouted, and his soldiers’ bows twanged as arrows blossomed in the legs and chests of the soldiers’ mounts. It was a clever tactic—the men were heavily armoured, but their horses were not and the wounded beasts reared in pain, knocking other soldiers to the ground and trampling more as they fell. Alaric had blocked Gernot’s charge and delivered a stinging cut to one cheek before a soldier’s mount collided with the baron’s, sending him tumbling down the hill and leaving Alaric alone to assess the situation. He saw at once that they were badly outnumbered, but they were also more alert and he recognised the opportunity.
“Head for the trees!” he shouted, kicking his own horse into motion and barrelling down the hill and into the trees beyond the gypsy camp. The others followed, most of the baron’s soldiers too busy calming their mounts or avoiding panicked hooves to give chase. A short time later the travellers stopped amid the trees to catch their breaths, well away from the baron’s men and well hidden.
“Everyone here?” Alaric asked softly, and one by one the others responded. “Anyone hurt?” Several of them had minor cuts or scrapes and one soldier had a nasty leg wound, but the baron’s men had been using spears and swords and had been hampered by fighting at such close quarters. Renke did not respond to the question, and when Adelrich nudged him the smaller man pitched forward, toppling from his saddle and landing hard upon the ground.
“Damn and blast!” Dietz was out of his saddle in an instant, Kristoff and Fastred right behind him. “He’s been stabbed,” he reported to Alaric a moment later, “badly.” The three men worked frantically, but after a few moments their patient gave a rattling sigh and died, his body jerking beneath their hands. They backed away, falling silent, and gave him a respectful moment before wrapping his body in cloaks and tying it to the back of his horse. Then, sombre, they mounted their steeds and rode on.
“We’ll take him back to Carroburg,” Alaric said softly when they finally made camp at dawn. “The Imperial Geographic Society had a man there, Renke visited him briefly.” He glanced towards the body, now stretched on the ground with torches around it to keep any animals at bay. “His maps can go to them, as he’d have wanted.”
“There’s something—” Dietz started, and then stopped and glanced around. “His wound,” he continued more quietly, making sure the others could not hear him.
Alaric grimaced. “I owe Gernot that,” he said bitterly. “After this is done I’ll make him pay.”
Dietz shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.” His voice dropped so low Alaric had to lean in to hear. “Renke was stabbed.”
“That’s what you said, yes.”
“Not a sword stab, though: by a dagger.”
Alaric started to form a question, but stopped at the older man’s nod. Dietz had grown up rough and knew knife fighting well. If he said it was a dagger blow then that was the weapon used.
“Furthermore,” Dietz added. “It wasn’t from the front or side.”
He fell silent as Alaric pondered this—a dagger from behind? The baron’s men had fought with spears and swords, not daggers. And even in the tumult he doubted any would have been at Renke’s back. Which meant—His eyes widened, and Dietz nodded.
“The baron didn’t do this,” he agreed softly. The two of them glanced around at their companions: Kleiber, Kristoff, Fastred, Adelrich, Holst and his soldiers.
One of them had killed Renke. But why?
CHAPTER NINE
They set out at dawn, riding hard to stay ahead of the soldiers von Drasche would certainly send after them. That night Adelrich scouted along the River Hundleir until he found a place narrow enough for them to cross. The others busied themselves repacking their gear, adjusting bags and pa
cks on top of their saddles instead of alongside to keep them dry during the crossing. Everyone avoided glancing at Renke’s horse, or the tightly wrapped figure bound across its saddle.
When Adelrich returned he led the way towards the riverbank, and one by one the men guided their mounts into the water, alternately walking and swimming across the cold, swift Hundleir. Finally Adelrich dragged himself onto the opposite bank, the last of the party to cross, and they all collapsed on the grass, grateful to be beyond von Drasche lands at last.
They did not lie about long, however. Within the hour Alaric had roused the others and, adjusting their gear a second time, they mounted up and rode away. The forest here was thicker, but Adelrich possessed an uncanny sense of direction and kept them riding north-east, towards the Reik. At last they emerged near the town of Arzbach, not far from Carroburg itself. Dietz negotiated passage on a river barge, and soon they were on the water again. It was as peaceful as the boat ride they had taken to reach the Hundleir, though now for different reasons. By evening they had passed back through Carroburg’s gates, and led their mounts quietly through the streets, ignoring the obvious questions on the faces of everyone who saw them and their grisly burden. Renke had kept meticulous notes of their journey, including the address of Carroburg’s chapter of the Geographers’ Guild, and they headed there immediately, wending their way through the city’s many layers.
Carroburg’s resident geographer, a tall, florid man named Hanser, showed genuine grief at the sight of Renke’s body. He took the little geographer’s maps and notes with reverence, and promised to treat them with the care they deserved. He also offered to make arrangements for Renke’s burial, and the travellers were only too happy to leave their fallen companion with him. They left soon after.
01 - Day of the Daemon Page 12
