Dietz had blocked a second blow from his opponent but could not move back far enough to fire his crossbow without getting mauled in the process. He drew a knife instead, plunging it into the goblin’s neck while mace and crossbow were locked together. The first stroke tore a deep bloody wound, but it did not slow the goblin, so Dietz withdrew the knife and stabbed again. This time he hit a vital spot and blood fountained forth, the goblin dropping its mace to clutch at its throat. The creature turned its mount, trying to flee the battle, and Dietz stepped back far enough to get a clear shot at the wolf’s head, putting a crossbow bolt through its skull and dropping both wolf and rider in a heap as they leapt to apparent safety.
He fired at another rider, hitting it in the shoulder, and Alaric took a shot at a fourth, also winging it. That was evidently enough to persuade the wolf riders that this would not be an easy kill, and they retreated, leaving their dead behind as they vanished into the forest’s gloom.
“I told you I heard something,” Alaric pointed out as he cleaned his blade and tugged his cloak out from under a wolf carcass. “Now it smells of wet dog,” he complained, adjusting the cloak over his shoulders.
“At least you’re alive to wear it,” Dietz pointed out. They spent some time retrieving usable bolts from the bodies. There was no sense wasting them, especially when they couldn’t be sure of finding more any time soon. Alaric also found a handsome lady’s ring, gold with a small pink pearl, in one goblin’s ear and took it, pouring wine over it to clean it before wrapping it up and putting it in his belt pouch. The goblins had a few coins on them as well, no doubt taken from previous victims and kept for their shine, and Dietz took them, reasoning that the wolf riders owed them for disturbing their rest.
Then, since there was no chance of going back to sleep and they had no desire to remain among the corpses, Alaric and Dietz saddled the horses and set out again.
Akendorf was almost a week behind them. Any pursuit on the part of the town guard had long since ended, but they still kept off the roads to be safe. The land was heavily forested, although not as dark or gloomy as the first stretch past the mountains. They could see the World’s Edge Mountains looming up to the far left, the vast mountain range forming the eastern border of both the Border Princes and the Badlands and effectively cutting the continent in two. The Thunder River had merged into the Skull River, which ran along to their immediate left, its fast-moving current providing a pleasant accompaniment to their horses’ hoof beats as they rode.
Alaric had suggested taking a boat downriver, for the Skull was wide enough to be navigable and boats plied the water from just below its juncture with the Thunder to the Blood River itself, but Dietz had pointed out the problem with that notion.
“No regular travel,” he explained, and Alaric interpreted his friend’s typically terse statement and realised he was right. This wasn’t the Empire. The Border Princes were still wild, and the various rulers fought one another constantly. The river was wide enough to allow boats, yes, but no one wanted the risk of maintaining such vessels. They might see fishing boats here and there but few would venture beyond their immediate area. It just wasn’t safe for them.
Besides, he reasoned, river travel might make it difficult to follow the map. It indicated that the tomb was somewhere above the Blood River, but how far above it? They could travel all the way down, only to learn that they should have turned westward several days earlier. At least they wouldn’t pass it by so quickly if they were on horseback.
Every night when they camped, Alaric took out both parchments: the map and the document describing it, and puzzled over them until it was too dark to read them properly. He had made some progress, both through careful examination of the worn markings and several educated guesses.
“It is Nehekharan,” he announced one night, looking up from the map to beam at Dietz. “It must be!”
“Nehekharan?” Dietz shook his head. “I thought they were desert people.”
“Nehekhara is a desert, yes,” Alaric explained, shifting into lecture mode as he often did, “but the Nehekharan Empire was once the greatest civilisation in the world. They conquered and occupied most of the nations we know today, including the Border Princes. I believe it was Amenemhetum the Great, back in—”
“You’re sure this tomb is one of theirs?” Dietz interrupted. He wasn’t in the mood to hear ancient history.
“Fairly certain, yes,” Alaric admitted. “It makes sense. The Border Princes have been held by many different civilisations, including both the Nehekharans and the Arabyans. Both cultures revere their dead and build elaborate tombs and memorials in their honour.” He paused, waiting, and finally Dietz sighed.
“Why isn’t this an Araby tomb, then?” he asked, knowing his friend had been waiting for just that question.
“Ah, you see, that is the really interesting part.” Alaric’s eyes lit with excitement. He was a good enough fellow, and an excellent companion and employer, but he got far too worked up over musty old details that no one but scholars would ever care to hear. Dietz tuned out the rest of the explanation, about how the tomb’s entrance, marked clearly on the map, showed it had to be Nehekharan because the direction was all wrong for an Araby memorial, owing to their different cultural beliefs about facing or shielding from the sun and on and on and on. Eventually Alaric ran down, as Dietz had known he would.
“Any idea whose it is?” he asked, both to fill the silence and because he actually wanted to know the answer.
“No idea,” Alaric admitted cheerfully. “The name is too worn away or defaced to read on the manuscript, and it isn’t mentioned on the map.” He frowned. “Actually, I heard once that they didn’t mention their dead by name, something about it calling the soul back to this world and delaying or even ruining its journey to the next phase of existence.” He pointed at several marks on the map. “This talks about the tomb’s occupant, though. If I’m reading it correctly he was a great war leader, although there is also a word that usually denotes a king. He could have been both, of course, a war leader and king, or a war leader who became a king.”
“What about those?” Dietz stabbed a finger towards the strange, scratchy marks along the side, being careful not to actually touch them. True, they were only ink on parchment here, but he’d seen what similar marks could do, and there was no sense in risking it.
“I haven’t been able to decipher them yet,” Alaric replied, “but at least one of those marks appears not only here and on the statues but on the mask as well.” He frowned. “If only I had the mask here,” he added pointedly, “I could tell for certain.”
They’d had this argument several times before, and Dietz suspected they would have it several more times in the near future. When they had decided to follow the map Alaric had planned to bring the mask with him so he could study it more closely. Dietz had pointed out that this was a bad idea.
“It’s valuable,” he had said, “and rare, maybe even unique.”
“I know,” Alaric had replied, “that’s precisely why I need to study it.”
“We’re going into the Border Princes,” Dietz had pointed out. “Bandits, orcs, mutants: you want to bring the mask there? You’ll lose it.”
“I won’t lose it,” Alaric had protested. “I’m very careful with things!”
“I meant someone would take it from you,” Dietz had clarified, “and then it’d be gone forever.”
“Oh.” He’d thought that might work. Alaric was confident, sometimes too confident, in his own abilities, but the thought of losing such a precious item gave him pause.
“What should I do with it, then?” he’d demanded after a moment, “Leave it with the innkeeper until we return?” Dietz had repressed a smile. If Alaric was considering alternatives he had already conceded the point.
Dietz had already had an answer for that. “Give it back to Hralir,” he’d suggested. Rolf’s son had held it for them once already and would keep it safe a second time.
Afte
r a few additional protests Alaric had finally agreed, and they had left the mask, still in the box Rolf had placed it in, with Hralir. The carpenter had promised to put it somewhere safe and not to let anyone near it but them. Dietz knew he would keep the promise.
Alaric had of course sketched the runes on the mask before handing it over, but he continued to grouse about the difference between his drawings and the original markings.
“Should have done better drawings, then?” was Dietz’s standard reply.
* * *
Unfortunately, puzzling over the map and the runes were not the only things on Alaric’s mind. As they continued their journey his dreams were occupied by other thoughts, images and events he wished he could put behind him.
The first night after leaving Middenheim, he had dreamed. In that dream he had been back in the chamber beneath the city, watching Kristoff and his cultists complete their foul ceremony. The statue had stood undamaged in the chamber’s centre, directly beneath the large circular grating through which blood had poured from the witch hunters’ execution stands up above. The statue was as repulsive and horribly fascinating, towards the end, as it had ever been, its shifting surface covered in blood, its stone features writhing and pulsing like a monstrous heart.
This time he and Dietz were not there to interfere. This time the statue remained upright as the curtain of blood fell, enveloping it, and the statue began to glow, just as it had before, that glow spreading around it to form a wide disc with the statue at the centre. The statue flared into a strange dark-light, disappearing from view, and somehow that light created the illusion of depth, as if the disc were a cone, a tunnel connecting this plane to another far away.
That was exactly what it was. For in the centre of that disc, at the tunnel’s far end, something moved, and came closer.
Alaric had shrieked and bolted upright as the daemon began once more to emerge.
Dietz was on his feet in an instant, crossbow in hand, but had relaxed slightly when he saw Alaric sitting there, staring sightlessly into the banked fire.
“A nightmare,” Alaric had assured his friend, “just a nightmare.”
“Not surprising,” Dietz had replied, setting the crossbow back down and handing Alaric a water skin instead. “After all we’ve faced, it’s a wonder we can sleep at all.”
Dietz was right, of course. They had fought Chaos cultists, destroyed Chaos relics, encountered a true daemon in the flesh—at least partially—and survived. It was amazing they were still sane, let alone able to sleep. A few nightmares were a small price to pay for the good they’d done and the evil they’d averted.
That didn’t stop him from screaming himself awake several times on their journey. For each time he dreamed he was back in that chamber as the daemon neared the end of the tunnel, and Alaric knew that if it stepped forth, through that statue, into this world, it would claim his soul as its own.
Something told him that part would not be a dream.
Ever since the battle with the cultists, ever since he had carelessly looked up and locked gazes with the daemon, ever since he had been so close to the creature, Alaric had felt a strange sensation. It was like the prickle of feeling watched, but different. This was more internal, as if the eyes upon him were not physical, as if they were peering into his very soul. It was a feeling he could not shake, and it made him jittery, jumping at sounds and starting at shadows. Dietz did not snap at him, however. The older man understood.
Two weeks later they reached the base of the Skull River. They had passed several small tributaries, all coming east from the mountains, but on their side the way had remained clear, or clear of waterways, at least. The land had been littered with ruins, some recent and others far older.
One had been the burnt-out remains of a farmhouse, the blackened wood still warm to the touch and the ground still saturated in places with blood. Not all of the blood had been human.
Another had been a tower of some sort, the foundation built from stones made perfectly square and almost silk-smooth. Little of the building remained above the foundation, although a few of the upper blocks littered the area, all covered in moss and half-buried beneath brambles and thorn bushes. Alaric had wanted to linger, but had settled for sketching down the marks he had found carved into the top of each block, and drawing the foundation’s general design.
The land was soft and marshy, the bank of the Skull low and easily overrun during heavy rains. Tall, tough grass grew everywhere, interspersed with reeds near the river, and no trees shielded them from the warm midday sun. Stinging insects, drawn to the warm, damp climate, were everywhere, and Dietz was forced to add green wood to the fire each night. The smoke made them cough, but at least it kept the bugs at bay.
They had only seen a few people since leaving Akendorf behind. The first had been a hunter of some sort, judging by the longbow on his back, and he had clearly seen them but had not returned their nod or greeting. He had disappeared into the taller rushes of the bank when they had drawn closer, and they had not pursued him.
The other people had been a small merchant train, perhaps twenty strong, their heavy covered wagons staying far to the west of the river and its soft ground. Guards armed with crossbows had ridden before and behind, and had levelled their weapons at Alaric and Dietz when they had waved hello. The caravan had not slowed but one guard rode out to speak with them and inquire about any dangers that lurked in the direction from which they had come. Alaric warned them of the wolf riders and the guard gave him a silver coin as payment for the information. He had also told them they had come from Zenres and then Tengey, and that the land was quiet.
“Prince Levrellian keeps a tight grip on his lands,” the guard said, although it was hard to know whether he meant it as a compliment or a warning. He had returned to the caravan after that, and Alaric and Dietz had continued on their way. They suspected Zenres was the large town, really a small city, that they had first sighted a few days back, but the Skull River was far too wide to cross without a boat and they had decided to stay on this side of the water for as long as possible.
They had not been attacked since the wolf riders, even though Dietz had seen shadows moving among the trees and later in the tall grass, more than once. Each time he had hefted his crossbow in what he hoped was a menacing fashion, and the shadows had faded away.
Now they stared at the spot, not far ahead, where the Skull River met the River Starnak and the two continued down towards the Blood River. Both were large rivers in their own rights, and swift-moving, but here their currents merged seamlessly, only a little spray and a touch of churned white indicating where the two became one. The result was a wider but equally fast Starnak, which ran south until it was swallowed by the massive Blood River. The Blood River in turn widened into the Black Gulf that led to the Tilean Sea.
Alaric and Dietz paused for a moment to take in the scene and ponder their options. They would have to cross somewhere, either by fording the Skull River and staying to the combined river’s east side or by crossing the Starnak and venturing west into the Varenka Hills.
“We should stay east,” Alaric decided after consulting the map again. “The Blood River runs below and a little west of the tomb, judging from this. If we head into the hills we’ll be too far to the west.”
Dietz agreed, and they rode at a leisurely walk to the juncture of the rivers. A small fishing town sat there and it was an easy enough matter to hire one of the locals to take them and their horses to the town on the far side in his wide, flat-bottomed fishing boat.
“Tengey, that is,” the man said when they asked. It was all he said during the hour-long crossing, which was fine. Alaric was busy studying the map again and Dietz was staring at the town as it grew nearer.
Tengey was a fair size, and the side facing the river had only low stone walls so he could see much of the town as they approached. Long wooden piers stuck out into the water, each supported by rows of thick poles sunk deep into the riverbed, and boats of all
sizes were tethered there or anchored nearby. Dietz tried not to shudder as he thought about taking one of those craft down the river. At least with this crossing he could see the far side the whole time, so the terror was lessened.
He could see sturdy wood and stone buildings past the docks, and what looked like a central market as well. They’d probably find fresh produce there, sold by the farmers who worked the lands nearby. That was something to look forward to, since they had been making do with the dried meat and hard bread Haas had given them, and with whatever fish or small game they could catch each day.
Their boat reached the docks and Dietz leapt out before it was fully tied down. He hated the feel of the water beneath him. It was far better to stand on properly fastened planks, than in some flimsy shell tossed about by the currents. Alaric followed behind, the amused look on his face showing he knew all too well the source of Dietz’s hurry. They had paid the fisherman in advance and once they had led their horses onto the dock he pushed off again, not even waving a farewell, but then he probably did this so often that a few more travellers were nothing to remark upon.
“Ah, civilisation at last,” Alaric said, rubbing his hands together happily. He shot an arch look at his companion. “Do you think we can stay in this one long enough to have a drink, at least? And perhaps some decent food?”
Dietz only growled in reply. Alaric’s laughter followed him as he led their horses towards the market that he had spied from the river.
[Daemon Gates 02] - Night of the Daemon Page 4
