Bloodgore watched the others flee his wrath, feeling a brief glow of satisfaction. At least those who had once been his herd still feared him, and why shouldn’t they? He flexed his muscles, massive cords bulging in his arms and chest beneath his shaggy hair and thick, scaled brown skin. He was still powerful, still strong enough to slaughter those elves when they tried to reclaim the ruins, still powerful enough to destroy any of the other beastmen, even two or three of them at once if they dared stand against him. He had been challenged many times during his leadership, and had never lost: never, until him.
Turning, Bloodgore glared at a figure walking along a partially destroyed balcony deeper within the ruins. His small red eyes could only make out the figure’s outline, but Bloodgore knew what he would see were he closer. He knew every feature of the hated creature who had stolen his rightful place as ruler of this beastherd. He had memorised every crag, every scratch, every scar, every barb, blade, hook, and chain of his foe’s hated face and form.
Yet there was nothing he could do. The stranger had appeared and challenged him for leadership, and Bloodgore was forced to accept. To do otherwise was to show weakness, to admit fear at accepting the contest, and that would spell the end of his reign just as surely. Strength was all his people understood.
So he accepted, though the stranger was not even one of them; touched by the gods, yes, this massive figure in red and black, and brass, but not a beastman.
The stranger won.
No, not merely won, he had defeated Bloodgore as easily as if he were a mere child, a defenceless stripling. Bloodgore charged, his massive head lowered so the great curving horns sprouting from his temples targeted the challenger’s chest, his strong, goat-like legs propelling him forward at a terrible speed, a fearsome bellow erupting from his lips as he rapidly closed the distance. He would spit the stranger on his horns and then pull himself erect, lifting the pinned, gored challenger into the air and tossing him to the side so the rest of the herd could feast upon his mangled carcass.
That was what Bloodgore had planned, but it had not happened.
Instead, the stranger brought his massive axe down upon Bloodgore’s head just as he came within range. The twinned blood-stained blades turned so they struck flat rather than edgewise, but the colossal impact brought the great beastlord to a crashing halt, and drove his head down so fast and so hard that his chin slammed into the ground. A loud groan rose from the assembled herd as they watched their leader’s charge stopped cold.
Bloodgore clambered back up, his great clawed hands digging into the ground for purchase, even as his cloven hooves scrabbled to get beneath him and lift his bulk off the dirt. The stranger stepped back, waiting calmly. That only enraged Bloodgore further. He leapt forward, his head still ringing from the first blow, tasting blood where his lip had split from the fall, and his enormous hands shot forward to grab the challenger by the thick collar around his armoured neck and rip him to pieces.
But they never touched him.
Instead, the stranger turned, batting the hands aside with his axe as easily as a man might swat away a troublesome insect. Then he reached in, grabbing Bloodgore around the neck with one mailed hand, and smashed their foreheads together, the challenger’s helmeted one against Bloodgore’s scaled one. The collision produced a loud report and both stepped back, staggered by the impact, but Bloodgore had stumbled and fallen, unable to rise again. The challenger calmly turned and raised his axe high over his head, moving in a circle so that the herd could clearly see how undamaged he was.
At first the herd was too stunned to respond. This stranger, this human, had defeated their great leader? But they could not deny what they had seen, and leadership went to the strongest. After a moment, they began to cheer, braying and bellowing, and roaring their approval.
Then the stranger, the new ruler of the herd, glanced back to Bloodgore, who still lay stretched out upon the ground, gasping for breath, blood dripping down his face from the gash across his forehead where the helm’s lip had sliced his flesh open.
He walked away, showing his scorn by leaving his back open. Bloodgore clambered back to his feet, and killed the first beastman presumptuous enough to attack, showing he was still more than capable of killing anyone else who approached him. The rest of the herd backed away, giving him space, and Bloodgore knew their fear of him was still strong. Only their fear of the stranger was stronger. He had proven himself, and now controlled the herd—and Bloodgore with them.
The stranger made Bloodgore his second, issuing orders, and then leaving the beastlord to see them carried out. Bloodgore did so, because by surviving he had accepted the consequences. He must live and serve, and obey. The only way to break that hated cycle was to challenge for leadership, seeking to reclaim his former rule or die in the process, and he had already been defeated once. Bloodgore knew his new master could beat him again, and easily. He found that he feared that defeat, and the death that would surely accompany it. He was not afraid to die, but he was terrified of throwing his life away in so foolish a manner.
So, he lived on, and hated every minute of it. If only there were some way to gain the upper hand, or even equal footing, he would challenge his master in a second, but Bloodgore had yet to see such a chance. So, he waited, and watched, and vented his wrath on the herd that had once been his.
“He will kill you one day.”
Deathmaul turned, unsurprised, as a figure melted out of the balcony shadows not far from his position. The newcomer was tall and thin, with long robes worn loose over dark clothes of sturdy make. Even in the dim light, he could see the runes woven into the robe’s hems, and the similar marks on the heavy rings, wristlets and amulets adorning the man. Varlek never missed an opportunity to acquire a new item decorated with the signs of his master.
Deathmaul grunted, glancing again towards the ruins’ front edge, where Bloodgore had been glaring up at him just seconds before. “He will need to muster his courage first, and if he does I will be ready.”
“I’ve no doubt you can defeat him,” Varlek said smoothly, stepping closer and laying one long-fingered hand upon a shattered statue, the gems of his rings winking in the twilight. “The Blood God has chosen his champion well, but if he dies who will convey your orders to the herd?”
“I still have you,” Deathmaul pointed out, laughing at the angry pride he saw flash across his companion’s face. “Do not fear, Varlek,” he assured the other man after a second’s pause, “I know you are more than just an errand boy.”
“I do not serve you at all,” Varlek replied haughtily, his narrow features still tight with irritation. “I answer to our master directly. I am only here because our goals coincide. If that changes, I am gone. Never forget that.”
Deathmaul felt his temper rising at his companion’s tone, and stretched to his full height so he could glower down at the sorcerer. “And never forget that if you cross me, I will carve your spine from your body and use its shards to pick my teeth,” he growled. One hand gripped and tightened on a broken column nearby, splintering it further, while the other grasped the haft of his axe where it rested against his side. “You are a useful ally, Varlek, but you are not indispensable. Do not try my patience!”
They glared at one another for a moment, Varlek’s slate grey eyes against Deathmaul’s jet black ones, seeking dominance. At last Varlek looked away, admitting defeat. As they had both known he would.
“What do you think of the new weapons?” Varlek asked after a moment, waving one hand towards the courtyard behind and below them, where members of the herd stood in a row facing broken statuary. They both turned to study the scene, watching silently for a time.
“I do not like them,” Deathmaul stated finally. “They are loud and sloppy. These creatures can barely hold the things properly, much less use them effectively.”
“They give us range and power,” Varlek pointed out, “and are devastating against a massed foe. Every arrow fired into a crowd will claim a target.�
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“Arrows do not explode on the bow,” Deathmaul growled, “nor does their theft draw attention.”
“What if it does?” The sorcerer replied with a nasty smile, revealing small, sharp teeth that had been filed to points. “No one would think to look for them here.”
That much was true, Deathmaul conceded with a grudging nod. They were too far away for anyone who was curious about what had happened to realise the attackers and their plunder might be here. Not that he feared pursuit, but he did not want his plans disturbed until all was ready.
“I still do not like them,” Deathmaul repeated, watching without wincing as the top of a distant pillar exploded into dust and tiny fragments, “but they may prove useful.”
“They will,” Varlek assured him. “They will. With these weapons we can mount an attack against any city in the Empire, knowing we can destroy all opposition even before it can reach us,”
“Perhaps,” said Deathmaul, continuing to watch for a second, before turning away, “but I will not rely upon such factors. I will trust in my own strength and the gifts our masters have given me.” He strode off, towards the balcony’s far end, and disappeared into the building, heading back towards his own quarters. There was still much to do.
Varlek watched him go, the Chaos sorcerer’s thoughts hidden once again behind his calm, focused features. He glanced back down one last time and then shouted a few additional instructions and departed, leaving the beastmen below to continue their blackpowder practice unobserved.
CHAPTER NINE
“This is why I hate villagers,” Alaric was complaining, gnawing on a piece of hard bread as they walked. “‘Beware the fog, particularly near the bones’. What sort of a statement is that?” He squinted up at the leaden sky and glowered at the valley they were slogging through, which looked much the same as the ones they had been traversing for the past two weeks. “Of course you should beware a fog. You could break your neck stumbling around when you can’t see. And any place that has bones, particularly fresh human ones, is worth steering clear of. Couldn’t they have said something more useful, like ‘Don’t take the left fork it leads into swampland’, or ‘There are beastmen in the caves to the west so steer clear’? Instead it’s just a bunch of vague mutterings from people who’ve never even learned to read.”
“Hm.” Dietz was chewing his way through a hard cheese, rind and all, and swallowed before replying further, “Vague, maybe, but still wise.”
His friend spared him a weary “oh, please” look, but Dietz shook his head. “‘Don’t go beneath the city, monsters lurk there’,” he reminded Alaric. “Or what about ‘The Strigany worship daemons’ or ‘The dead walk the mountains’?”
“Yes yes,” Alaric said irritably, tossing the bread heel aside. Glouste scampered after it and returned to Dietz’s shoulder a moment later, chittering excitedly about her new acquisition, which she began nipping at greedily. “I take your point. Not all mutterings are useless, and even vague warnings should be heeded.” He slipped back into lecture mode for a second. “In fact, many superstitions have their roots in actual past events. People were forced to adopt strange activities to combat certain menaces, and passed those habits down to their children, who passed them along in turn, until the menaces were long gone and their very existence forgotten, but people still turned widdershins and stepped carefully over thresholds and never brushed dirt out of the door, even though they had no idea why.” He frowned, recalling his irritation. “But that’s not the case here,” he insisted. “This is just foolishness. These people are vague for no reason other than they’re not smart enough to add more detail to their crude fears.”
“I think you’re just annoyed because they wouldn’t sell us better food,” Dietz commented, finishing the piece of cheese, and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Well, what of it?” Alaric replied sharply. “They clearly had other food there, but all they would part with was that rock-hard bread and the equally rock-like cheese. Is that any way to treat a pair of noble adventurers? And the prices. They’re insane! They might as well have held us at sword point and taken our coin, at least then I’d feel justified in the loss.”
Dietz nodded. Yes, the villagers had been stingy in selling them food, and the prices had been steep, but they had obviously seen how desperate the two men were for fresh food. There was little game in these hills, and the supplies they’d bought in Nuln had run out days ago. So, the villagers had sold them only what they didn’t want themselves, and had overcharged them for the privilege.
Dietz was relieved that his friend’s temper had returned. He knew Alaric well enough to know that the nobleman became mild and meek when he was seriously ill or badly wounded. This sudden vehemence about the villagers meant that Alaric must be fully recovered from his illness, and Dietz was more than happy to let his friend continue to rant if it meant he was in good health once more.
“Still see the marks?” he asked after Alaric had wound down a bit.
“Yes,” the younger man replied. He waved ahead of them. “They’re still there, clear as day. We’re still going in the right direction.”
Dietz nodded. They were walking south, following the river, in fact, keeping its broad expanse just within view most of the time. That was fine by him. Better south than west, where the mountains beckoned ominously, and the river meant the chance for fish, which he had caught more than once since they’d started their trek. True, he was tired of the fare, and Alaric hated fish even at the best of times, but it was enough to keep them alive when between villages. Besides, tonight he could make stew with the small spicy sausages he had talked one woman into selling. It would make a welcome change.
They continued on, both lost in their thoughts for a while. Finally, Alaric broke the silence, as Dietz had known he would. His friend could not bear the quiet for long.
“What worries me,” Alaric began, “is why they took the mask.”
Dietz shrugged. “It’s attractive,” he answered. “That might be reason enough.” It was, too, from what he remembered of it. A single slab of some unfamiliar stone that gleamed gold and brown with strange bands like the markings of a cat, it had been carved into a striking face that combined the feline and the human, bringing the ferocity and hunger of the one to the intelligence and deliberate cruelty of the other. It represented the eight-armed tiger-god of Ind, and it had captured his attention at once when he’d spotted it in the inner sanctum of the beastman temple in that foreign land.
That was why he’d taken it.
It had been Alaric’s fault, of course. He was the one who had dragged them both to that distant shore, seeking treasure and knowledge unknown to any in the Empire. It was Alaric who had sent him into the temple to scout it out and to bring back “something small enough to carry, valuable enough to be worth our time and distinctive enough so that it could not have come from anywhere else.” The mask had fit those instructions nicely, and he had pried it loose from the rest of the enormous statue. He had also managed to survive the angry beastmen who had come after him, enraged at his sacrilege. Not ordinary beastmen, either, they had all been catlike and far more intelligent, more graceful, and more organised than the normal variety… and far more dangerous. He had made it out of there alive, and with the mask, though he’d often regretted that since.
Alaric was shaking his head.
“It is striking, certainly,” he agreed, “but I doubt that would be enough to sway a beastman into taking it, and what about the cultists? They were slaughtered, but not eaten, which does not match the beastmen’s usual approach to battle. It’s as if the cultists were slain for the mask, and then discarded because only the mask was important.” He frowned.
“You’re thinking of the statues,” Dietz guessed.
“They were Chaos tainted,” Alaric replied, “and one of them was being worshipped by the beastmen. Clearly they have an affinity for such items. The mask has similar markings; I could see them finding it, realis
ing its connection to the forces they serve, and carrying it off for veneration.”
“So now you know why they took it,” Dietz said. “They recognised it as a Chaos artefact.” The fact made him shiver. It seemed as if, lately, they encountered such relics at every turn.
“Yes, but how did they know to look for it?” Alaric asked. “How did they find the cultists back in Nuln? And why are they taking it so far from the city? Either they were from Nuln, like the mutants in Middenheim, in which case they’ve gone a long way from home; or they came to Nuln, in which case they must have come a long way, and was it for the mask or for something else?”
Dietz shrugged. “No idea,” he admitted, “but once we catch up to them we can find out.”
“Yes,” his friend agreed. “I just like knowing the answers beforehand. It makes it less likely that we’re walking into a trap, or at least into a situation we don’t understand and are not prepared to handle.”
“We’ll handle it,” Dietz answered, reaching up to scratch Glouste, who had finished her bread and was burbling happily. “We always do, and how could it be a trap when no one could possibly have expected us to find this trail, much less follow it?”
Alaric nodded, but did not reply, and Dietz shivered as he thought about that last part. How could anyone have known they would find this trail? But then, how could anyone have suspected they would follow a map fragment to a lost tomb deep in the Border Princes? But they had, and apparently their actions had been anticipated, even guided, by the daemon; the daemon they had encountered twice; the one that had known Alaric by name. Could this be another situation like that? Was that daemon still influencing them somehow, still guiding them towards some purpose of its own? The thought was terrifying, and Dietz shook it away. They had vanquished the daemon back in Vitrolle, destroying the body it had claimed. Surely it was gone from this plane for good? And surely their latest quest was only due to Alaric’s obsession with antiquities, and his justified concern about the mask falling into the wrong hands? They were travelling for their own reasons and no one else’s.
03 - Hour of the Daemon Page 8
