“Shouldn’t he still be there, then?” Alaric asked. “It doesn’t do you much good if he’s here instead of there.”
Haflok looked genuinely displeased. “He was indeed instructed to remain in her camp,” he rumbled. “He arrived a few days past, saying he had urgent news for me, but he took ill crossing the river and has been in his tent since.” He gestured, and one of the guards stationed by the tent flap approached. “Bring Rorschach to me,” the Sigmarite leader commanded, “regardless of his health.” The man saluted and departed.
“Thank you, sir,” Alaric told him. “This armour is important to me, and I appreciate your aid in recovering it.”
“Of course,” Haflok said, waving one hand absently. “If this armour is yours it is only right for you to reclaim it, and if my man knows anything about it I will insist he tell you of it.” Then he lapsed into silence.
A moment later a different guard entered the tent and whispered something to Haflok, who nodded and said something in return. The man saluted and left again.
“Is there a problem?” Alaric asked cautiously.
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” their host replied, “only a status report from my men.” He glanced up at them. “Tell me, which way did you travel? Before encountering Fatandira, I mean.”
“We came from the east,” Alaric answered, “from the mountains. Why?”
Haflok had lost interest the minute he’d heard the word “east” and only shook his head.
“Trouble from the west?” Dietz asked, and started when the Sigmarite’s head whipped around to study him, his blue eyes narrowed.
“How did you know that?” Haflok demanded.
Dietz shrugged, trying to look unruffled. “You wanted to know where we’d been,” he answered. “It had to be north, east, or west to reach Fatandira’s camp. You didn’t care about the east and the north is on the other side of her lands, so are nothing to you, but the west butts up against you at the river.”
“That is correct,” the Sigmarite agreed, relaxing slightly. “My concern lies just above my own lands, at the edge of hers, where the halves of the Howling join.” He leaned forwards. “There is a town there, a place of true evil and infamy.”
“Vitrolle,” Alaric offered, and held up a hand when Haflok’s gaze swept to him. “We were warned against it by a fellow traveller, a Sigmarite named Heim.”
“Jurgen Heim?” Haflok’s eyes widened. They all nodded. “He is here, in the Border Princes?”
“In the mountains,” Dietz told him. “Or he was a week or more ago.”
“Ah, truly, his aid would be most welcome now,” Haflok said quietly, “for truly his deeds are mighty and his faith unassailable, but Sigmar has said nothing of his presence here, and thus Heim must be sent upon a separate mission. This task remains mine alone.”
“You’re going to destroy the town,” Dietz guessed, and this time it was the Sigmarite who nodded agreement.
“Truly it is a blight upon the land,” Haflok proclaimed, his words ringing. “They practise foul rituals there, and spread filth by their very touch. Sigmar himself has ordered them destroyed and their town razed, and it shall be done!” His eyes blazed with determination and piety, a combination Dietz had always found unsettling.
Haflok’s declarations were interrupted as a guard burst into the tent. “He is dead, lord,” the man blurted out.
“Who?” Haflok was on his feet in an instant, one hand reaching for the hammer at his side. Dietz and the others rose as well.
“Rorschach,” the guard replied, eliciting a groan from Alaric. “We found him in his tent.”
Haflok was already moving, and Dietz was right behind him as they exited the tent. The Sigmarite strode quickly past a row of tents, stopping at one whose flap had been tacked back. The stench of blood was overpowering.
“Who would do such a thing?” Haflok demanded, ducking inside. If the smell affected him he gave no sign.
Dietz and Lankdorf entered as well, but Alaric waited at the entrance.
Rorschach was certainly dead, that much was obvious. He had been carved open, and the tent walls all but painted with his blood. Several of the splashes seemed to form patterns, and Dietz heard Alaric gasp as he saw them.
“Runes,” the young noble said quietly.
“Runes?” Haflok whirled and confronted Alaric. “You say these are marks of the Dark Powers?” Alaric nodded. “How could such horrors have crept into my very camp, here beneath Sigmar’s watchful eye?”
“The gauntlet,” Alaric asked softly, “do you see it anywhere?”
Dietz and Lankdorf both looked. The tent had few furnishings so it was not hard to search, except for the blood and gore everywhere. The gauntlet was nowhere in sight.
“Gone again,” Alaric said with a sigh. “What is it about this thing? It just won’t stand still!”
“Clearly there is more to your story,” Haflok said with a trace of annoyance. “You will tell me the rest, that I might be better apprised of the evil loosed among my men.” He gestured to one of the nearby guards. “Marshall the men and check them against the rosters. If any are missing, or anyone has appeared unannounced, I would know of it at once.” The guard nodded and hurried away with two others, and Haflok returned his attention to Alaric.
“All right,” Alaric said, taking a deep breath. “You want to know what’s going on? Well, it all started in Ind…”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the time he had finished the tale Haflok’s face had paled, and his wasn’t the only one. Lankdorf also looked a bit green.
“You faced all that,” the bounty hunter asked, “and you’re still going after this thing?”
Dietz nodded. “Somebody has to,” he answered.
Alaric had worried that the Sigmarite commander might not believe them, but that turned out not to be a problem. “Truly, you serve Sigmar well,” Haflok announced, clapping him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. “This Kleiber of yours was correct: you are noble men and well worthy of praise!” Alaric had made sure to mention Kleiber, knowing the Sigmarite would value the Witch Hunter’s opinion.
“Thank you,” Alaric replied modestly, “but we are just doing what is necessary.”
“This foul artefact has passed through my camp, and beneath my very nose,” Haflok muttered, “and I knew nought of it!” He was clearly upset, but didn’t seem angry with them at all, just at himself for not knowing, and perhaps at his god for not telling him.
“Sigmar must have wanted your full attention on Vitrolle,” Alaric suggested diplomatically. “He did not want you distracted with our problems.”
“Yes, that must be so,” Haflok agreed with the ready acceptance of the fanatic. “For the Jade Sceptre must be stopped, and I have been granted that task!”
“Did you say Jade Sceptre?” Lankdorf asked. He had gone from green to red in an instant.
“Yes, for it is the foul cult that holds the town in thrall,” Haflok said. “I know little of them beyond their name and the depravity of their deeds.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Alaric admitted, shuddering as he remembered the stories. “They were in the Empire several years ago. Many of their members came from the noble class, and several of my fellows at school belonged, although only to the outer fringes.” He winced. “A few even tried to recruit me, saying it wasn’t about worship, only about pleasure, but I didn’t believe them. I’d heard even those casual members saying mumbled prayers to the Prince of Chaos.” He refused to say the name, but he thought it: Slaanesh. “They were strong in Middenheim, if I remember right,” he said with a glance at Dietz, “but I’d heard that a rival cult destroyed them.”
His friend nodded. “I remember some of the stories,” he said. “People would disappear and their bodies would be found days or even weeks later.” He shook his head, and Alaric could hear the bitterness in his voice. “They say only nobles belonged to the cult, and that they preyed upon us ‘lesser folk’.”
&nb
sp; “Animals,” Lankdorf said sharply, and looked surprised at his own outburst. “They thought us little more than animals.”
“Truly they deserve their fate,” Haflok agreed. “They do not allow any but their own within their walls, and so we shall tear those walls down, expose their filth to the bright light of day, and purify the land with salt and fire.”
Just then one of the guards rode up. “We have marshalled the men as ordered, lord,” he announced after saluting. “Braechen is missing. No one has seen him at all today and he was supposed to report for duty two hours since.”
“Braechen,” Haflok said, shaking his head. “He has ever been one for solitude, yet he has served faithfully and I did trust him. Clearly I was deceived.”
“Which direction would he have taken?” Lankdorf asked.
“I cannot say,” their host admitted. “I thought him loyal despite his faults, and know not who else he might report to.”
“Vitrolle,” Dietz suggested. Alaric turned to look at him, as did the others, and his friend shrugged. “Runes here,” the older man said, gesturing at the tent behind them, “cultists there. Makes sense to me.”
“You’re right,” Alaric agreed. “It does make sense.” He sighed. “It’s back across the river, then, since the town’s in Fatandira’s lands, where we’re not supposed to go, on pain of death.” He brightened. “At least we can use that boat this time.”
“Assuming he hasn’t taken it,” Lankdorf pointed out. “In fact, he may have been delayed in his flight because he saw us and couldn’t risk running into us on the river.”
“Then we may not be far behind him,” Alaric realised, leaping to his feet “We need to go now!”
He had worried that Haflok might detain them for some reason, but the Sigmarite nodded. “Yes, your mission must continue!” he announced. “I will lend you horses. Braechen has none, and thus you will close the gap still further. Use them with my blessing, although I will expect their return afterwards. Anything else you need, name it.”
“A second crossbow,” Dietz admitted, handing Lankdorf’s back to the bounty hunter. “We only have the one.” Lankdorf seemed surprised to be offered his weapon back, but nodded and accepted it without a word, “Maybe another pair of trousers.”
“Done,” Haflok said. He gestured a guard over. “Saddle three horses, and hang a crossbow and bolts on one, and spare clothes for all,” he ordered. “Our friends must depart at once!”
The camp really was well run and within minutes they were mounted and off again, Lankdorf’s saddlebags transferred to one of the horses from his mule and a second crossbow hanging from another. Haflok offered Sigmar’s blessing as they departed. “May he guide us all to victory!” he shouted as they rode away. “Good luck, my friends!” Then he was behind them.
“He could have been worse,” Dietz commented as they crested the hill at a gallop, covering in minutes what had taken them hours to cross on foot.
“Fanatics can be great,” Alaric agreed, “as long as you agree with their ideas.” Dietz was right, of all the people they had met in the Borderland thus far, Haflok had been the one most willing to help them for no reason other than their common heritage and a general belief that they were doing the right thing.
They reached the river a few hours later, and sure enough the boat was gone. This time they had horses, and their mounts forded the river far more quickly than the mule had last time. Then they were up on the far bank, back in Fatandira’s territory.
“Let’s not get caught by her guards,” Alaric warned as they paused to change into dry trousers. “I doubt she’d be happy to see me again so soon.”
“Stop breaking women’s hearts,” Dietz advised with a laugh, “or some day one of them will carve out yours.”
They turned west and rode for two days, pausing only when necessary for the horses. As dawn rose on the third day they crested another hill and looked down on the fork of the Howling River, and the town that nestled between its branches. They all stared in utter shock.
“That’s not a town,” Dietz said, voicing what all of them were thinking, “it’s a bloody fort!”
It was true. From where they stood they could see Vitrolle clearly, outlined against the rushing waters above and below it. The town did not cover much area, trapped as it was between the two banks, but it had high, sturdy walls and the structures within were linked by walkways, creating the impression of a single massive building broken into smaller sections. The sun struck the walls wrong for them to be wood or metal—they were too smooth and flat for the one and too dull for the other—which meant they were made of heavy stone. Even from here they could see men walking those walls, which showed how thick the battlements were. Alaric had seen castles with weaker fortifications.
“How in the Emperor’s name are we going to get into that?” Lankdorf demanded. His gaze narrowed. “It’s only got the one entrance,” he said after a moment’s scrutiny, “and it’s those bloody great gates!” The gates in question were enormous and clearly too heavy for even the three of them together to open. They would certainly be barred on the inside anyway, and would swing outwards to prevent intruders from battering them down easily.
“Getting in may not be the problem,” Alaric said. “Look!” He pointed past the town and the others followed his gesture, seeing what he had noticed a moment ago.
Fatandira’s lands lay behind the town. To the north, on the far shore, were Levrellian’s lands. Both regions were crawling with tiny figures that they knew must be men.
“Fatandira’s attacking the town,” Alaric reminded the others. “She wants them gone from her lands, and she wants the sceptre she claims they have.”
“Levrellian must have his own reasons for attacking,” Lankdorf said. “He never does anything unless it serves his purpose.”
“He could claim that land for himself if he takes the town,” Alaric pointed out, remembering the lessons his father had drilled into him long ago. “From there he can strike out at Fatandira, driving her back against the mountains and finally crushing her altogether. He could control both lands then.”
“And the third is massing behind us as we speak,” Dietz said pointedly. “Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere else?”
“There!” Lankdorf pointed. East of the town, on a small slope, they saw few brown splotches, and by squinting Alaric could tell they were stones of some sort. “It looks like an old ruin,” the bounty hunter explained. “We could tether the horses there and get a closer look at the town’s defences. It’s an ideal vantage point.”
“It’s below the line of Fatandira’s men,” Alaric said, musing aloud, “and Haflok will follow our path, which is the most direct approach, so it’s east of his attack as well. It’s perfect.” He kicked his horse into a fast trot, the best they could manage on such a steep slope, and raced down the hill, heading for the ruins. The others were right behind him.
Upon approaching it, they saw that the building was in better repair than they had realised. It stood atop a low hill and had apparently been a single storey stone building. One corner was still largely intact, offering a stretch of wall on two sides. The rest had tumbled down but the builders had used large rough blocks and they were piled here and there like bales of hay, offering more shelter if necessary. The roof was long gone, of course, and so the ruin was open to the elements, but they only needed a place to stop and think, and plan.
Unfortunately someone else had apparently had the same idea.
As they dismounted they heard a faint noise, like muttering. Dietz and Lankdorf both had their crossbows ready in an instant.
“Someone’s here,” the bounty hunter said, gesturing towards the standing corner. They crept forwards, Lankdorf in the lead, and rounded a pile of blocks to see two men conversing. One of them was of average height and build, although Alaric could see that the man had powerful arms. His back was to them but he had sandy brown hair and wore serviceable mail that looked like it had been patched many t
imes. A sword and an axe hung at his belt.
The other man was facing them and reaching for something from the first when they approached. They could see him clearly as a result, and Alaric couldn’t prevent the gasp that escaped him. He had seen the tall thin man with the piercing eyes once before, weeks ago, in Levrellian’s throne room back in Zenres.
“Strykssen!” he said, the name slipping out.
Levrellian’s chief advisor glanced up at them, and Alaric took a step back. Strykssen had struck him as a fanatic and a sadist during their first encounter, but he had been handsomely dressed and impeccably groomed. This was almost a different man. His face had sagged in places as if made from warm wax and clumps of his long pale hair were missing around his head. He wore a long cloak and beneath it his body protruded strangely, as if someone had rearranged his limbs and perhaps added several spares. Alaric was instantly struck by a memory of equally twisted creatures in the sewers beneath Middenheim, and understood at once. Strykssen had been touched by Chaos!
The deformed advisor laughed, a horrible strangling sound, and resumed his previous motion. Braechen had turned as well, however, and in his hands Alaric saw the gauntlet.
“No!” he shouted, leaping forwards, drawing his rapier as he went. Dietz and Lankdorf simply fired their crossbows. Both of them aimed at Strykssen, apparently seeing him as the bigger threat, and both bolts struck home, sinking into his chest with meaty thunks and driving the mutated man back against the crumbling wall.
Strykssen staggered and righted himself. His eyes were glazed and gleamed with an unhealthy red glow. He snarled, more an animal sound than human, and lunged forwards again, one twisted, claw-like hand scraping Braechen’s arm. Then he laughed, a chilling, wet sound that still haunted Alaric’s dreams every night, and collapsed.
[Daemon Gates 02] - Night of the Daemon Page 20
