“Great,” Lankdorf said, stepping up on his left side. Dietz was on his right. Already several shouts were aimed in their direction. “How in Myrmidia’s name are we going to get out of this?”
“I—”Alaric started to reply, but then he saw the bounty hunter stiffen. Lankdorf’s face twisted into a look of pure rage and he leapt into the combat, his wound apparently forgotten, shouting something incoherent and raising his crossbow like a club. The crowd swirled around him and in seconds he was lost from view.
“Damn and blast!” Dietz swore. “What got into him?”
“I don’t know,” Alaric replied. “Obviously something important.” He shook his head. “We need to get out of here.” A soldier, any markings he’d had torn away or covered in blood and gore, lunged at them and Dietz almost absently clubbed the man down with his axe.
“What about Lankdorf?” Dietz asked, and chuckled at Alaric’s expression. “I know, I know,” the older man said, shaking his head. “He’s a piece of work, all right, but he’s been damned useful and he’s not a bad sort to have around.”
Alaric nodded. He still didn’t quite trust the bounty hunter, at least not where money was concerned, but he had fought beside them without hesitation, and he certainly hadn’t been the worst travelling companion they’d had in recent months.
“He’ll turn up,” Alaric assured his friend, turning away for a second to parry a sword thrust from a cultist and stab the woman in reply. His point took her between bare breasts and he glanced away as he yanked the blade free. “He’s a survivor. The smart thing is for us to get out of here and wait for him somewhere beyond all this fighting.”
Dietz nodded, hefting his axe and pulling his mace from his pack to use in his other hand. “Right, let’s go.”
They turned and made their way towards the town’s outer wall, figuring there had to be one or more breaches that they could use for an exit. Soldiers attacked them, as did cultists, and Alaric and Dietz found themselves forced to advance back-to-back, sidling like a crab while using sword, dagger, mace and axe to fend off blows. Fortunately the fighting was so confused that most of their opponents got swept away after only a quick flurry of blows. Many of their assailants were cut down from behind, by foes who then attacked Alaric and Dietz before also being targeted. This was not a war anymore, Alaric realised. It was mere carnage. Most of these people were no longer thinking about anything, just fighting on instinct. He and Dietz had a plan and a purpose, however, which gave them the advantage.
Another cultist charged him, and Alaric defended himself, but the man fell before Alaric’s blade touched him, a heavy sword point sprouting from his chest amid the ribbons and straps. The cultist toppled, a surprised frown on his lips.
Alaric found himself staring at a familiar face.
Levrellian was still dressed in finery, but at least this version was more practical. The prince wore a suit of glittering mail and wielded a golden broadsword that flashed in the sunlight. A crown had been worked into his gleaming helm but the faceplate was open and Alaric saw at once that the man’s eyes were wide and a little dazed as he tugged his sword free of the cultist’s back. Several men in the border prince’s livery fought nearby, presumably Levrellian’s personal guard, but the melee was too confused for them to stay at his side, and for the moment the prince was alone.
“I know you!” the prince shouted upon seeing him. “You were in my throne room!”
Alaric nodded. He didn’t think it would help to remind the prince why they’d been there.
“Ah, yes, the travellers!” Levrellian glanced over at Dietz, whom Alaric noticed had his axe at the ready. “You killed my nephew!”
“You never liked him much,” Alaric pointed out, leaning to one side to stab a soldier who’d been approaching with a mace held high to strike. Then he quickly changed the subject. “Will you win this battle?”
“Hmm? Yes! Ah, of course!” Levrellian glanced around again, taking in the confusion. “Although I don’t remember why I wanted this place so much.” A wave of warriors crashed through before Alaric could reply, carrying the prince with them.
“A little confused,” Dietz commented as they continued on, fending off a cultist, one of Levrellian’s soldiers and one of Haflok’s in rapid succession. They had crept past the main square and the fighting around them lessened slightly, although they still had to keep their backs together and their weapons ready.
“I suspect Strykssen manipulated him,” Alaric said, parrying a surprisingly skilful attack by a cultist wielding a rapier. A stray blow from a hammer took out the duellist before they could cross blades again and Alaric consoled himself by stabbing the hammer-wielder instead. “He was the one who wanted the map, so he could get the gauntlet, and he wanted this town so he could get the sceptre.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen that before, counsellors who take control, but Levrellian let him. He’s no one to blame but himself.”
They continued to fight for several minutes, both of them feeling the strain. The initial adrenaline had worn off and fatigue was setting in, as well as the effects from the numerous small wounds they’d each received. There were fewer opponents now that there was also less confusion, which meant those who did attack them were less likely to get distracted a moment later. Alaric was starting to wonder if they would escape alive when Dietz nudged him.
“There,” the older man said, pointing with his mace. Alaric looked and felt his spirits lift slightly. Somehow they had arrived before the town’s main gates, and they were open! Well, battered apart was more accurate, but the wide portal stood open, and with much of the fighting inside the town, the gates and the field beyond looked almost empty by comparison.
“Right,” Alaric said, nodding. He took a deep breath, batted aside a longsword, and raised his own blade in reply. “Let’s not keep the horses waiting.”
“Who do you think will win?” Dietz asked, gesturing at the town below. They were back at the ruins, peeking out from behind the still-standing corner and watching the last gasps of the battle they had just waded through. Large parts of Vitrolle were in flames, but they could still see small patches of fighting through the smoke.
“Who cares?” Alaric replied absently, tending to a cut along his side, fortunately not the side where he’d been stabbed before. They had managed to cut and bash their way through the gates and across the field to the hill but it had not been easy and neither of them was exactly unscathed. He frowned. “Levrellian doesn’t care anymore,” he pointed out, now that he thought about it, “and Haflok only wants it destroyed. I suspect they’ll both back off after the town is gone, leaving the land to Fatandira.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters to us.”
Dietz nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer, and Alaric lapsed into his own thoughts again. He had so many questions. Why had Karitamen had that gauntlet? How had it got into his tomb? Had it been interred with him, or smuggled in later? And if the latter, by whom? What about the wards and the amulet, both of which might have stopped the liche from leaving his burial chamber? Who had put them there?
How had the daemon known about all this? And about the warpstone in the sceptre?
“I don’t get it,” he said finally, throwing up his hands and wincing as the motion tugged at one of the wounds he’d just clumsily bandaged.
“Looks like you were right,” Dietz said over his shoulder, still watching the town. He was absently stroking Glouste, who had hidden within his jacket throughout the battle and had only emerged, chattering a sharp rebuke, when they’d collapsed onto the stones of the ruin. “Haflok’s gathering his men. So is Levrellian, and they’re both facing away, as if they’re about to leave. Fatandira’s got the town, or at least what’s left of it.” Then he turned, Alaric’s comment apparently just registering. “Don’t get what?”
“Any of it,” Alaric replied sharply. He shook his head. “None of this makes any sense.” He gestured towards Vitrolle. “The daemon wanted the warpstone, correct?” His friend nodd
ed. “So why not go and get it?”
Dietz frowned. “He did. Or he was about to.”
“No, why not go get it before the battle? He waited until the battle had started. Why?”
“Maybe the bloodshed made him stronger?” Dietz suggested.
“Maybe.” Alaric thought back, trying to remember the sequence of events. They entered the ruins, Strykssen died, Braechen put on the gauntlet, the attack on the town began, the daemon laughed—
“That’s it!” he said softly. “It was excited when the attack began!”
“Like I said, bloodshed.” Dietz nodded.
“No, that’s not it,” Alaric corrected his friend. “If it was that, the daemon would have stayed on the battlefield longer. Instead he made straight for the town, and for that hole in the wall. That’s when he laughed, after he heard the stones break.” He pounded one hand against the old stone beside him. “He didn’t go in before that because he couldn’t!”
Dietz didn’t have much education but he was quick on the uptake and he had a good memory. “Fire and water?” he asked.
“Exactly,” Alaric replied. “The cultists held the town in… in the name of their god. The daemon serves a different god. The town must have been shielded against him, but once the attackers broke through he could use that gap to enter.”
He frowned, his mind racing. “Strykssen manipulated Levrellian into attacking,” he said out loud, working through the ideas as they hit him, “so he knew the town would be attacked. That’s why he was waiting here, but he also needed that gauntlet, and we found it for him.”
“He’d have found it anyway,” Dietz pointed out. “He had your map.”
“Maybe,” Alaric agreed, but he wasn’t convinced. The original map had been less detailed than the one he’d drawn, supposedly from memory. Where had those extra details come from? Without them he couldn’t have found the valley, which meant he wouldn’t have found the gauntlet. Had someone helped him? If so, why?
Alaric didn’t much like the idea of anyone else manipulating his thoughts or actions. He tried to tell himself it had simply been bad luck, but something in his gut told him that wasn’t true.
Something was toying with him.
He shuddered as he remembered what the daemon had said down in the cultists’ temple. “Mine now,” it had said, meaning the gauntlet. “Soon you will be, as well: body and soul.” Right before its borrowed body had been destroyed, the daemon had proclaimed, “Soon I come for you.” Alaric shivered, suddenly covered in a cold sweat. He gulped desperately at the wine that Dietz had pulled from one of their saddlebags when they’d reached the ruins and found their horses still here.
The daemon wasn’t gone. He knew that somehow. It had been banished, yes, but it was not destroyed. That meant it was still out there, and he had a feeling he would see it again. Their fates were intertwined, and he worried that, the next time they met, the daemon might be right. Next time it might claim him utterly, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to resist it.
Scanning, formatting and
proofing by Flandrel,
additional formatting and
proofing by Undead.
[Daemon Gates 02] - Night of the Daemon Page 24
