They were descending the broad steps of the palace, the same steps they had been escorted up several months before. This time, however, they were alone, and leaving not as prisoners or even suspects, but as honoured citizens and favoured guests.
It had taken several days to straighten out matters to everyone’s satisfaction. Dietz was not entirely satisfied, in fact—he felt there were still a few loose ends to consider. In particular he remembered Kristoff talking about his cult’s demise during the siege. The trader had mentioned that he “and one other” had survived and rebuilt the cult. Yet he had sneered at the other cultists in the chamber, saying they were nought but replacements. Did that mean one original member still existed and had not been present? Dietz thought so and even had his suspicions as to who it might be. Whoever it was must have some authority in Middenheim to help arrange the statues’ transportation so easily. That same person had known where they would be before setting out, allowing Kristoff to join them that first evening, and the individual would be placed highly enough so that he would still be at his post even during the attempted opening, in case anything went wrong.
After leaving the tunnels that morning Dietz and Alaric had walked resolutely towards the palace, a large leather satchel clasped in Dietz’s hands. They had marched up the steps and into the entryway, where they had demanded to see their old friend Struber. When he had finally appeared the heavyset official seemed distracted.
“Yes, what?” he snapped at them as he descended an upper stair, adjusting his velvet cloak on his shoulders. “Who are you and what do you want? I’m a very busy man.”
“This might interest you, Herr Struber,” Dietz said. He reached into the satchel and pulled out its contents.
Struber went chalk-white at the sight of Kristoff’s head dangling before him. Several other courtiers and clerks were in the wide entryway and exclaimed as well. One of them fainted.
“Friend of yours?” Dietz asked innocently, shoving the head towards the official. The man’s eyes widened and he started again, glaring at Dietz for an instant before regaining his composure.
“What? No, of course not—I’ve no idea who he is, but what is the meaning of this? What—happened to him?”
“He was part of a Chaos cult,” Alaric started to explain, pitching his voice so everyone nearby could hear. Realising that as well, Struber had quickly hustled them back upstairs, insisting that Dietz restore the head to its satchel for the time being. He had closeted them in a small meeting room and told them to wait there, and wait they had.
Dietz had worried that the official would gloss over their visit again, or, worse, find a way to make them seem the guilty parties. Either his fears were unfounded or too many people had seen the head, because after an hour or perhaps two they were escorted down another hall and to a room they had seen once before: The elector count’s throne room. There, in the same seats they had occupied the last time, were the two most important men in Middenheim: Elector Count Boris Todbringer and Witch Hunter Captain Halmeinger.
Struber had not recognised Alaric the day before, but his superiors had no such difficulty—the minute they saw Alaric and Dietz they told Struber to shut the door, ordered all but a handful of guards outside, and demanded to know what had occurred. Dietz uncovered the head a second time and set it on the floor before him as Alaric explained the events of the previous night and this morning.
“Fastred Albers is dead, then?” Todbringer asked when they had finished. “Good man, that. Damn shame.”
“No one else saw this fight but the two of you?” Halmeinger inquired, his eyes narrowed, “and no one else survived the incident underground?”
“Some of the cultists may have survived,” Alaric corrected. “They fled at the sight of the daemon.”
“Yet you stayed,” the witch hunter captain pointed out, his lips twisted into a superior smile.
“Someone had to close the gate,” Alaric replied, “and there was no time to summon help.” He bowed to Halmeinger and Todbringer, making it clear that they would have been the first to be called upon, and Dietz once again admired his employer’s skill. When Alaric wanted to he could be extremely diplomatic. Thank Ulric this was one of those times.
“We will need to examine this chamber,” Todbringer decided, stroking his chin.
“Of course,” Alaric replied, bowing again. “We can guide your men there.” He straightened. “Perhaps you will send Herr Struber along to coordinate? He has been so helpful already.”
Struber directed a quick, suspicious glance at Alaric, who merely smiled back. Dietz watched his employer as well. Did Alaric share his suspicions about the official? Or did he genuinely want Struber along?
Todbringer missed the exchange entirely. “Go with them,” he ordered Struber. “Study everything and report back to me.”
“I will send my witch hunters as well,” Halmeinger offered, receiving a grudging nod from Todbringer in response. “You are already acquainted with Herr Kleiber, I believe?” he asked Alaric, and it was all Dietz could do not to show his relief. He had worried they would be saddled with a stranger and would have to prove their loyalties all over again.
“Certainly,” Alaric replied. “Herr Kleiber accompanied us on our mission and proved invaluable in the destruction of the other statues.” He nodded his head politely towards Halmeinger. “Thank you for assigning him to this matter.”
Todbringer was still frowning. “We will have to tell Ar-Ulric,” he said finally.
“Why disturb his prayers,” the witch hunter captain objected, his face contorted in rage, but his voice silky smooth. “Surely his devotions to Ulric are more important than this simple matter?”
The elector count shook his head, however, and met Halmeinger’s sharp, dark gaze with his own ice-blue glare. “This matter has gone beyond mere politics,” he stated. “This creature is a foul abomination, a champion of Chaos, and it very nearly emerged within my city! The White Wolves are our spiritual defence against such creatures and the Ar-Ulric must be informed!”
The two men matched stares for a moment before Halmeinger looked away. “Of course,” he said softly, conceding. “We must include the Church in this matter. I had merely thought to spare him the complication.”
With that resolved, Todbringer launched into action. He sent Struber to fetch both Kleiber and a guard captain, and, in what may have been punishment for defying him, dispatched Halmeinger to personally request the Ar-Ulric’s presence. That left Alaric and Dietz alone in the throne room with the elector count, a handful of his elite guards and a severed head.
“Now what shall we do with you?” Todbringer muttered, and Dietz was sure he was not referring to Kristoff’s remains.
Fortunately Alaric was still in good form. “You should clear us of all charges, first of all,” he replied smoothly. “You should also pardon Rolf, the stonemason, of complicity. It will not restore his life, but at least his family will bear no shame.”
“Yes, of course,” Todbringer replied, leaning back and drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne. “But truly, if this did occur as you say, we owe you a great debt, both of you, and I repay my debts.” He studied them for a moment. “So, what can I do to show my gratitude?”
Alaric thought about that for a moment. “Well,” he said at last. “I do need a new sword…”
After Emil Valgeir, the Ar-Ulric, had arrived and been told what had happened he had ordered a squad of his own Knights of the White Wolf to accompany them as well. No mention was made of the previous statues or of the mission to destroy them, but Dietz was sure he saw a spark of recognition when the high priest had looked at them. Valgeir was no one’s fool.
Together with Captain Herrer—the same guard captain who had arrested them and Rolf—and his guard detail, plus Kleiber and several lesser witch hunters, Struber and the White Wolves, Alaric and Dietz had returned to the tunnels and retraced their steps. The chamber looked much the same as it had when they had left it. Bodies were st
ill strewn about, the statue’s remains were still scattered across the floor, and one of the cultists was still thrashing on the ground, foam still emerging from his tight-clenched lips. The daemon’s footprints remained as well, gouged deep into the rock floor.
“Clearly it is as you said,” Kleiber announced after walking around the room. “The daemon came forth just there and you destroyed the statue before it could fully emerge. The Empire is in your debt, gentlemen.” Kleiber had already impressed them that morning; when he had arrived and discovered the Ar-Ulric and his White Wolves, the witch hunter had bowed low in what seemed genuine respect. Halmeinger might not like the Ar-Ulric, but Kleiber seemed to admire the man’s devotion and he treated the six White Wolves with them as fellow warriors. Now his willingness to acknowledge what had happened impressed them further, and Dietz was glad yet again that Halmeinger had put Kleiber in charge instead of some other member of their order.
The White Wolves had agreed with Kleiber’s assessment and, an hour later, they had all returned to the surface, dragging the writhing cultist with them. The elector count’s guards removed the bodies as well, and workers were sent to scrub away the blood. If anyone else realised that the witch hunters’ excesses had contributed to the near disaster, no one mentioned it.
Rolf was posthumously exonerated, though Dietz suspected the money his widow received as recompense meant more to her than the nicely worded apology. Dietz and Alaric were cleared of all charges and formally thanked for their assistance to Middenheim. They were granted favoured status in the city, which meant they were essentially minor nobles here, but without any lands, monies, or titles. This meant little to Alaric, who was already a noble by birth, but it mattered a great deal to Dietz, whose family would share in his elevation. The witch hunters had formally cleared them as well and presented them with a small note of thanks for their assistance. The White Wolves had sent a similar note, though it included a suggestion that they bring any such future troubles directly to the Church, a subtle reprimand for not involving them earlier.
“From outlaws to heroes,” Alaric commented after the last of the recognition ceremonies. “If we stay here much longer we’ll be running the place.”
Dietz nodded, but felt a pang. He had known they would not stay, of course. Alaric had too much wanderlust in him, and over the past year or more Dietz had acquired it as well. This matter was closed and it was time to move on, but that meant saying good-bye to his father yet again, and to Dagmar. Still, with the elector count’s gratitude he could perhaps make their lives a little easier. Something Alaric had mentioned in passing, just before they had pursued Fastred, returned to Dietz and suggested another way to aid his sister in particular.
“You’re in a good mood,” Alaric commented that evening. They were back at the Dancing Frog and Dietz had just entered their room, whistling. Glouste was wrapped around his neck as usual and purring like mad, sharing her master’s mood.
“Indeed yes,” his friend replied, dropping into the other chair by the small table near the window. He grinned and stroked his pet, which nipped at his fingers affectionately.
“Care to explain why?” Alaric had been jotting down some notes in his journal, but set that aside now, curious. It was rare to see Dietz so visibly pleased with himself.
“lust taking care of my family,” was the reply, but Alaric stared until Dietz sighed and elaborated. Not that he seemed reticent—on the contrary, for once the tall man seemed eager to talk. “Todbringer asked what we wanted,” he reminded Alaric, who simply nodded for him to continue. “I asked for Kristoff’s house.”
“A fine place, as I recall,” Alaric agreed, “but what do you need with a house? Ah,” he said, seeing the look on his friend’s face. “It is not for you.”
“No.” Dietz looked smug. “I gave it to Dracht.”
“Your brother?” Alaric frowned. “I thought you two were not on the best of terms.”
Dietz shrugged. “No, though this may help.” He leaned forward. “But that was not why.”
Alaric contained his impatience. Clearly Dietz wanted to tell this story at his own pace. “All right, why then?”
“It is much nicer than his old house,” Dietz explained, “and much larger.” He grinned again. “Large enough for Father to have his own room.”
“O-ho! Now I see.” Alaric admired his friend’s deviousness—Dietz was normally a very straightforward man, but he could be extremely clever when he wanted to be. “Dracht had claimed he couldn’t care for your father because he lacked space for him. Now you’ve removed that argument.”
“He could hardly refuse,” Dietz agreed gleefully. “The house is a definite improvement for him and much closer to the shop, and as the eldest son it is his duty.”
“Which leaves Dagmar free to pursue her own life,” Alaric agreed. He noticed that Dietz looked, if possible, even more smug now. “What?”
“I’ve not been idle there either,” Dietz admitted. He laughed. “I went to see Dagmar today, and I brought Hralir with me.” At Alaric’s blank look he explained. “Rolf’s son?”
“Ah.” Alaric remembered the tall, fine-featured man in the stonemason’s shop. “I never got his name.”
“He and I were friends as youths,” Dietz said, his eyes trained upon the past. He smiled. “Hralir is a good man and a fine carpenter, and he has always thought highly of Dagmar, and she of him.” He looked very pleased with himself. “Now that she’s free to choose her own life, and has the money Todbringer gave me as well, I suspect Hralir is even more interested.”
“Busy indeed,” Alaric agreed. “Good for you.” Something bounced from the back of his mind, stirred by what Dietz had just said. “Wait a second—Hralir!” He stood, crossed quickly to his chest of drawers and began rifling through it.
“What?”
“Rolf’s son gave me something back at the shop,” Alaric explained, still digging through shirts and socks and razors and scarves. “A small casket—ah!” He pulled the casket from the bottom drawer and carried it over to the table. “Rolf wanted me to have it,” he explained as he sank back into his chair.
“What’s in it?”
“The mask,” Alaric said, opening the casket and removing the mask to show Dietz. His friend did not seem entirely pleased to see the carved stone face again. “Oh, calm yourself! It is only a carving, and a valuable one at that.” He looked into the casket again, “but there’s something more in here.” Setting the mask down carefully, he reached in and pulled out a worn-looking scroll. “What’s this?”
Dietz stood and moved aside as Alaric carried the scroll to his bed and carefully unrolled it. “It’s very old,” he told Dietz over his shoulder as he fingered the silk-smooth parchment. “Look here, these markings. That style hasn’t been used in centuries.” He frowned and rubbed his jaw, remembering something else. “Rolf had said, when I showed him the mask, that he had some other items he thought would interest me. These must be them—he never got the chance to show me himself and so he left Hralir with instructions to give them to me.”
Dietz shook his head. “Nice of the witch hunters to admit their mistake,” he said gruffly, “but Rolf still died for nothing.”
“I know.” Trying not to think about it, Alaric returned to studying the scroll. “Look at this!” He pointed to a strange figure, almost a glyph, and Dietz leaned closer to examine it over his shoulder. “That mark was on the statues!”
“Are you sure?”
Alaric nodded. “Positive. I even sketched it in my notes.” He fetched his journal from the table and flipped through it until he found the correct page. “Here.” Held side by side the marks in the journal and on scroll were clearly identical.
“We should tell someone,” Dietz suggested, but Alaric shook his head.
“Not until we know more about it,” he argued. “For all we know that could simply mean ‘power’ or ‘wealth’ or something else innocent and universal.”
His friend did not look convi
nced, so to distract him Alaric turned to the scroll again and began pointing out other details. “What is this here?” His fingers traced a set of tiny triangular marks.
Dietz studied the pattern, frowning. “Hills,” he said finally.
Alaric stared at them again. “You’re right,” he admitted after a moment, “and this must be a river.” He tapped a long wavy line. “This is a map!”
“It is,” Dietz agreed, stepping back to squint at it. “But of where?”
Alaric looked in the casket again and pulled out a second piece of parchment. This one was much smaller and not nearly as old, the edges not yet worn smooth. “Perhaps this will say,” he said hopefully, unrolling it and scanning it quickly. “It’s badly damaged,” he said after a moment. “Little more than scraps left. It almost looks like someone meant to destroy it, but I can still make out a bit.” He squinted and traced the edge of a word near the top. “Yes! Listen: ‘…seems to be a map to an ancient tomb. I can’t quite make the name out… in the Borderlands… famed for… treasures beyond imagining.’” He glanced up at Dietz. “It’s a map to a tomb in the Border Princes!”
“We don’t know where,” Dietz pointed out. “This scroll only shows a small area. It could be anywhere.”
“It could be,” Alaric admitted sadly. He looked at the map again. “But wait, these scratchy marks appear to indicate geographic features—rivers and mountains, probably. If we compare this to a map of the region, and try to match them up, we should be able to find where it is!”
Dietz scratched his chin. “Might work,” he said after a minute.
“We must find this tomb,” Alaric announced, hopping to his feet and pulling his worn saddlebags from under the bed. He started to toss them onto the bed, stopped, rolled the scroll back up and set it aside, and then tossed them down. “Those markings from the statue—you’re right, it could be connected. We must make sure this tomb does not contain a portal of its own, or some other daemonic lure.”
Dietz groaned. “Couldn’t we send someone else?”
01 - Day of the Daemon Page 23
