Dietz looked around, studying the high cliffs on either side, and nodded. Too much blood had been spilled here for these peaks to be anything but ominous.
“Let’s leave them behind,” he suggested, and spurred his horse into a fast trot. He heard Alaric’s mount clattering along behind him, and together they raced towards the far side of the pass and the lands that lay beyond.
“You didn’t tell him about the map,” Alaric commented when they slowed their horses an hour or so later. The Black Fire Pass was a hundred miles long so there was little point in tiring out their horses at the start of their trek. Thus far they had encountered nothing worse than a few loose rocks, a few cracks they had been forced to jump and some startled lizards. It was the first thing either of them had said since spurring their horses, but Dietz understood what Alaric meant.
“Didn’t see the need,” he admitted, patting his horse’s sweat-covered neck. Alaric nodded. He liked Adelrich and trusted him, and knew Dietz did too, but his friend was right. Why go into the story about the map when it wasn’t necessary? Besides, the fewer people who knew about it, the better. That was one of the first lessons he had learned in his antiquities classes back at the university. Keep the information to yourself and those who have to know it and you minimise the chances of someone stealing your discovery out from under you.
And this could be quite a discovery. They still couldn’t read the entire document—lack of care or deliberate malevolence had destroyed portions of the old parchment. What they could read, however, was fascinating and drew him like a moth to a flame.
“It seems to be a map to an ancient tomb… in the Borderlands… famed for… treasures beyond imagining.”
The name was impossible to make out, although Alaric had stared at that portion of the manuscript so many times he felt he could trace its shattered lines in his sleep. Whatever had come before and after was also gone, but this was enough to inflame his curiosity.
A tomb in the Border Princes! He had heard of such things, of course. Several of the university professors had mentioned such troves and one, Professor Auguste, had even taught a very popular class on ancient tombs. The Border Princes were littered with old ruins, which was not surprising since the stretch of land between the orc and goblin infested Badlands and the Empire had been invaded, conquered, and occupied by at least four different cultures in the past thousand years. At least two of those civilisations had revered their dead enough to bury them in elaborate tombs, along with astounding treasures. Of course, most of those places had been looted long ago, and many of them had been outfitted with a variety of deadly traps to kill any who dared disturb them, but that only made the attempt more exciting.
They had another reason for going. The ancient scroll that accompanied the parchment, the one with the map on it, was also difficult to read but a few landmarks stood out on it. So did the glyphs along the side, which were already far too familiar for Alaric’s comfort.
The glyphs matched several of the marks he had seen etched into the Chaos statues they had recently destroyed. Something in or near this tomb bore the mark of Chaos.
Their friend Rolf had died because of those statues, and his son Hralir had passed the two parchments to Alaric, following instructions that his stone-carver father had left before his execution. Alaric considered it something of a last request for him to find that tomb, and poetic justice for him to destroy any Chaos taint he found there.
So far as Alaric was concerned, there was no reason for Adelrich to get wrapped up in their problems a second time, and Dietz had evidently felt the same way.
“He might have helped us find it, though,” Alaric pointed out, as much to himself as to his companion. Dietz only grunted in reply. “After all, we don’t know where we’re going, exactly. Adelrich might have had some idea, some suggestion on where to start.” The Border Princes was said to be a nightmare to navigate, in part because it was broken into a cascade of petty nations and in part because those miniature kingdoms frequently changed their borders, and their rulers.
Dietz didn’t bother to reply, but the expression on his face told Alaric they were probably thinking the same thing. The scout wasn’t the ideal person to show the map to. The real expert had been Renke, the Imperial geographer who had accompanied them to the first two statues and who had been killed by the treacherous Kristoff when Renke suspected his loyalties. This quest could prove equally dangerous. That was another reason they had not told Adelrich about the map. The scout might have insisted upon accompanying them, and Alaric suspected that neither of them could handle causing another friend’s death.
“We have the river,” Dietz commented finally. They had puzzled over the map every night during their ride back across the Empire and had finally realised that the wide, wavy line at the bottom was a river. More specifically, it was the Blood River, which separated the Border Princes above from the Badlands below. Not having anything else to go on, Alaric had agreed they should head towards the Blood River and then reorient from there. By that time they’d have been in the Border Princes for several weeks and were more likely to recognise other landmarks from the map.
“I know,” Alaric agreed. “I just wish we had a clearer idea of the location, and of how long it will take to get there.”
They rode on in silence for a while, allowing the scenery to distract them. The Black Mountains were certainly impressive, their dark peaks towering high above, and the pass itself would have fascinated Alaric at any other time. He spotted definite dwarf architecture several times, the remnants of outposts and forts they had built long ago to defend the entrance to the Old Dwarf Road that ran nearby and led off to the fabled Karaz-a-Karak. In other places he spotted monuments, or what was left of them. They rode past—and twice through—old battlefields, bones and bits of metal and wood still scattered across the bloodstained ground. Once Dietz’s sharp eyes spied the remains of a funeral pyre, the blackened wood and ash probably marking the destruction of orcs after a major conflict. Alaric felt the itch to explore the sites, but memories of their mission, and of Rolf, kept him to the pass, as did more practical concerns.
Haas was a fine commander and his men had done an excellent job, first destroying the large warband that had threatened to tear through the pass and into the Empire and then mopping up the remaining orcs. But the mountains were vast and filled with hiding places. The orcs were very good at burrowing into caves and crevices, and even with a force ten times the size Haas would not have been able to find them all. Alaric and Dietz spotted orcs moving about several times, and three times orcs spotted them as well. The first time they kicked their horses into motion and galloped away before the handful of orcs could descend from the ledge where they perched. The second time, the orcs emerged from a cave just off the pass, but Dietz shot the first one in the chest and they safely passed the rest. The third time the orcs appeared almost underfoot, but Alaric had kicked one away and then skewered it with his rapier. Dietz had shot two more, and the rest had backed away just long enough for the horses to break free. They rode hard for an hour before slowing again, but the remaining orcs had not pursued them.
Finally, after almost ten days of travel, Alaric and Dietz reached the end of the Black Fire Pass. Grey cliffs closed in above, the pass narrowing to a single wagon width and then dropping down steeply as the mountains fell away. Both men took deep breaths as they emerged into the lands beyond, enjoying the smell of trees and dirt after so many days surrounded by nothing but rock.
The small village of Munzig stood near the end of the pass. It was little more than a crude trading post with a few ramshackle homes for those who traded there all year round. It had high, sturdy walls, however, and armed guards patrolled them, crossbows and spears in hand. Alaric and Dietz paused long enough to get a few additional supplies, although the prices were so steep they bought sparingly, before heading out again. A few of the traders had eyed Alaric’s fine clothing and handsome sword a little too long and he wanted to put some
distance between himself and those men before they decided his finery would look better on them.
Dull brown dirt cloaked the rocks on either side of the pass and stunted bushes clung to them, masking the terrain with sickly greenery. An hour’s travel saw the end to the stone altogether. The soil was deep brown and the small bushes were replaced by large, looming trees with dark dull bark and grey-green leaves. The foliage formed a thick canopy overhead, blocking out the light of the sun, which was both a blessing and a curse. The sun was high overhead and they would have been broiling out in the open, but the shade made their surroundings dark, gloomy, and difficult to navigate. A road had been cleared through the forest but the massive trees seemed determined to reclaim that ground. On several occasions, they were forced to step their horses carefully past tangled roots and thick vines, or hack through interwoven branches that hung across the path in a leafy barrier.
“Charming place,” Alaric commented as they picked their way along. “I cannot imagine why more people do not visit it simply for its natural beauty.”
“Heh?” Dietz hacked at a vine blocking their path and absently swatted away the snake that ducked down from a low-hanging branch. “Less beauty, more speed.”
Despite their best efforts it was past nightfall by the time they found a place to make camp. The forest had offered several tempting little clearings, but both men had agreed they felt too much like traps, as if the forest was lying in wait for them to drop their defences. The copse they finally selected was really just a cluster of three sad-looking trees amid the denser forest, but there was enough space between them to build a small fire and stretch out and they could see not only the sky but also anyone approaching. The forest around them seemed to glower like a put-out old woman who’d been denied what she saw as her rightful reward.
The next morning the sun blazed down on them, the copse’s foliage doing little more than adding a flurry of small shadows to the onslaught. Dietz and Alaric blinked against the early morning light as they stoked the fire enough to brew water for tea, ate a quick breakfast, and then dowsed the fire with dirt and gathered their gear and their horses. The sun was still inching its rays across the land, chasing away the shadows, when Alaric and Dietz were up and riding, their horses plunging back into the welcoming shadows of the forest to seek relief from the heat the day promised.
They reached Akendorf three days later.
“Lovely,” Alaric said facetiously, glancing around as they topped the rise and headed down towards the town. “I can see why people forsake the Empire for this paradise.”
The valley below was narrow and shallow, little more than a long depression in the surrounding hills. The town filled the valley floor and had a sturdy wooden wall ten feet high around it. Gates on both sides stood open, but only a few people were visible near them. The land around the town was clearly given over to farms, their crops forming a patchwork across the valley, the lighter hues standing out against the forests all around. They could just make out the broad ribbon of the Thunder River to the east, its waters separated from the valley by a single ridge of low hills. Enough water trickled through in places to provide decent irrigation, it seemed, and the farms seemed to be prospering.
“Not so bad,” Dietz replied, taking in the sight. Alaric sighed. Dietz was a good man, an excellent companion, and a trusted friend, but despite his upbringing in Middenheim he was horribly provincial in some ways. The town below probably didn’t even have a decent tavern! Still, they probably had an inn, or at least a farmer willing to rent them his barn for the night. It would certainly beat sleeping on hard-packed dirt and scraggly grass as they had the last few nights.
“Best be wary,” Dietz continued. “People who flee here are often running from something.”
He was right, of course. They had both heard the stories, although neither of them had been here before. The Border Princes were renowned across the Empire, and not always for the best of reasons. Stories claimed that a man could rise from slavery to kingship here, just on the strength of his own right arm. Certainly some of the local petty tyrants had once been peasants or worse and now ruled lands of their own. Life here was brutal and usually short, and each person was out for himself, willing to kill for power, money, or simple pleasure. Criminals often fled the Empire and took refuge here, knowing it was not worth the Empire’s trouble to send men after them. Some of those villains rose to power here too, carving out realms where they could act out their depravities without restriction—paradise, indeed.
As they drew closer—for the distance proved greater than they’d realised—Alaric and Dietz could see that the town was of a decent size. It boasted at least three two-storey buildings, all handsomely crafted from mountain stone and aged wood. They saw farmers working in the fields though none of them returned the travellers’ friendly nods as they rode past. It never hurt to make a good impression on the locals.
Then, a mile or more from the town gate, they heard a commotion—the sounds of raised voices and of wood on flesh.
“Ah yes,” Alaric said out loud as they followed a bend in the path and discovered a scene laid out before them, “the bedrock of the civilised world—random senseless violence.”
They saw a man clutching onto a thick wooden fence post, struggling to stay upright. His simple, mud-spattered clothes and the deep tan on his face, neck, and arms suggested someone who worked the fields, either a farmer or a farmhand. The eight or nine men who were beating him looked much less wholesome, with their battered mail, dirty cloaks, ragged beards and simple but well-honed weapons. Two of them were holding the farmer’s arms, prying him away from the post, while a third prepared to brain him with a large tree branch.
“Damn and blast!” Dietz was charging before Alaric even realised his friend had moved.
“What the…?” Alaric turned his horse and hurried after his friend, cursing under his breath as he did so. Dietz could be a hard man, but he had a good heart and sometimes his moral outrage got the better of him. He was charging the motley crew of warriors, enraged at the notion of so many trained, armed and armoured men attacking a single man. “Excellent way to meet new people, Dietz,” Alaric muttered under his breath, even as he drew his rapier. Then they were in the thick of things, as always.
CHAPTER TWO
“Leave him be!” Dietz shouted, his hand straying to his crossbow, but then moving past it to the club that hung beyond. There was no sense shooting if he didn’t have to. Several of the ruffians turned, hearing his horse’s hooves, and shouted as they stumbled back to avoid being trampled. Dietz let his horse barrel into the man with the club, knocking him aside like a wind-blown leaf. Then he turned his horse and halted, facing them.
“Pathetic!” Dietz said, the word coming out sharp as a thrown dagger, carrying the weight of his contempt and rage. He’d seen men like these too many times in his life. They were bullies too weak to threaten anyone by themselves, but high and mighty when in a pack. Somehow the like-minded always found each other, and they grouped together, roving the streets and hills, throwing their collective weight around, terrorising good folk. They were always eager to use violence because they were thrilled to finally have opportunity, and exhilarated to know they could beat someone senseless without getting mauled themselves. He’d been the victim of gangs like this himself a few times and still bore scars from such encounters. He’d steered clear of some of them afterwards, but he’d paid others back in kind, and he’d sworn not to let another suffer the same fate if he was near enough to offer aid.
The good news was with a pack like this, any show of superior force usually sent them scurrying like rats. His sudden charge and harsh tone should spook them and put an end to this.
Or not, he thought, as he saw the man he’d felled clamber to his feet. The ruffian had dropped his makeshift club and did not bother to retrieve it, drawing a nasty-looking short sword from the scabbard at his side, instead.
“Should have kept on riding, stranger,” the man
said, levelling his sword at Dietz. “Mind your own affairs. It’ll cost your life, this will.”
“Not likely,” Dietz replied shortly. He kicked out, his boot striking the man solidly in the chest and sending him flying again, while he pulled the club free from its place among his saddlebags and thwacked another ruffian on the head with it.
Two down, seven to go.
His actions only served to enrage the other bullies. Drawing swords, axes and maces, they charged his horse, shouting and cursing. It was a lot more resistance than he’d expected.
Nor was the man he’d saved any help. He still hung from the fence post, wide-eyed and apparently frozen with fear. Great.
Fortunately, Dietz had not come alone.
Glouste uncoiled from his shoulder, launching herself at one of the attackers. Her sharp claws latched onto the man’s scalp and cheek, eliciting hoarse screams that turned shrill when she clamped tiny, needle-sharp teeth into his left ear. He dropped his sword and grabbed at her desperately, but the quick little tree-fox scurried up over his head and around to the back of his neck, clinging there as she bit down on his other ear. In his panic, the man staggered too close to Dietz, and a quick kick put him into soothing unconsciousness. Glouste leapt from the bully as he fell, onto Dietz’s boot and then up his leg, winding her way around him until she was back on her perch on his shoulder, chattering proudly.
“Yes, very helpful, thank you,” Dietz told her as he clubbed another man.
Four down. Five left.
Unfortunately those five had seen enough to grow wary. They backed away, out of Dietz’s range, and circled him, weapons ready. It was clear they were planning to charge him all at once, knowing he could not club them all before at least one reached him. His horse gave him the height advantage but limited his ability to sidestep blows or turn quickly, and his leather jerkin, while sturdy, would not stop a strike by one of those blades. This was not good.
[Daemon Gates 02] - Night of the Daemon Page 2
