'I know,' Lankdorf said, setting his hat over his face. 'I just don't like it, that's all.'
There wasn't much to say to that, so Dietz didn't bother. In a minute he was asleep anyway.
* * *
When he woke up the sun was low on the horizon and the bounty hunter was nowhere to be found. Getting up, Dietz stepped to the tent's entrance flap and glanced outside. Men and women milled around, handling the normal business of a camp, and he could see the edge of the command tent. A familiar figure crouched next to it.
'Find something?' Dietz asked once he'd walked over. He crouched beside Lankdorf, who didn't bother to turn around or look up.
'Here,' the bounty hunter said finally. He traced something on the ground. Peering at it, Dietz made out a half-moon indentation. Just ahead of that was a second depression, shaped more like a blunted arrowhead but far larger.
'A footprint?' He glanced at it again. 'So what? This is a camp. There are a lot of people here, all of them walking about.'
'None of the others have boots like these,' Lankdorf replied. He glanced up and met Dietz's eyes. 'Most of these people have riding boots, high and stiff, with no heel but a groove from the stirrup. These are softer boots with sturdier soles, made more for walking.' He grinned. 'I've been watching people's feet the past hour or more. I haven't seen any like this. I've only seen one set here like this, not counting ours.'
'That guard's?' Dietz guessed. Lie knew he was right even before the bounty hunter nodded. 'So you're saying you can track him?'
Lankdorf nodded again. 'If we're not stuck here too long,' he added, 'but if I can figure out his direction now, while they're still mostly fresh, I can guess his direction and his destination.'
'Have you told the guards?'
The bounty hunter shifted his weight, settling back on his haunches. 'No,' he replied finally. 'Not sure if I will, either.'
'Why not?' Dietz stared at him. 'He killed Hammlich, and he's got the gauntlet.'
'I know. That's why I want to track him down.'
Dietz frowned. 'I thought you said the gauntlet wasn't your problem.'
'It isn't.' Lankdorf looked down and idly traced the boot print with one finger. 'But maybe it's worth something. A thing like that, it's got to be. It might be worth my while to retrieve it.' Dietz was sure there was more to it than that, but he wasn't about to press it.
'So once Alaric's better, if they let us go, you plan to track that guard?' Lankdorf nodded. 'Good. We'll go with you.'
'Oh, count on it,' Lankdorf replied, straightening up. 'You're still my prisoners. I'm still taking you to Akendorf.'
Dietz snorted and stood. 'I don't think so.' The bounty hunter rose to his feet and they stared at each other for a moment. Dietz was a full head taller. 'You had a crossbow last time, and we were tired and Alaric was wounded,' he pointed out. 'None of those things are true now.'
'I can still take you,' Lankdorf claimed, but even he didn't sound convinced.
'Look, you were only taking us back for the money, right?' The bounty hunter nodded. 'Well, you've got the rest of the things we found in the tomb and they're probably worth as much as the price on our heads.' Lie wasn't exactly sure, but they were certainly worth a good deal. 'Why not just take that and be done?'
Lankdorf scowled. 'I've never failed a job and I don't aim to start now.'
'It's not a failure,' Dietz argued. 'It was taken beyond your control.' He thought the bounty hunter was starting to weaken. 'And we can help you with the gauntlet,' he added.
'How? I can track it fine on my own.'
'True,' Dietz agreed, 'but Alaric is an expert on artefacts like that. If anyone could tell you what it is and what it's for - and what it's worth - it'd be him.'
That caught Lankdorfs attention, and his eyes looked through and past Dietz as he mulled that over.
'I keep whatever we get for it,' he said finally, 'part of the price for letting you go.'
'Done,' Dietz agreed.
'Done.' They shook hands and then relaxed. Dietz was relieved it wouldn't come to a fight - although he'd still keep an eye on Lankdorf if and when they got their weapons back - and thought the bounty hunter probably felt the same. Why risk life and limb when you could get as much or more with less danger?
'So what do we do now?' he asked.
'We track these prints as far as we can,' Lankdorf replied, 'and then we wait.'
The wait ended up being four days. Alaric woke up that night but was feverish again and too weak to do more than whisper and sip at the broth Estia had prepared. The next day his fever had broken and he could sit up and talk more normally. The third day he was finally allowed out of bed. On the fourth he insisted on leaving the tent.
'It's an amazing recovery,' the healer said, shaking her head as she watched Alaric moving around carefully. That alfunas must be the cause. He shouldn't even be able to sit up yet, and here he is, walking around.'
'I heal quickly,' Alaric replied lightly, but Dietz could tell that he was only putting on a brave face. He was a little alarmed at his young friend's pallor, and at the way his arm shook when he held the water skin to his lips, but it was good to see Alaric up and about, at least.
'The fresh air will do you good,' Estia agreed as she helped him step out of her tent. She had placed a stool right by the entrance and sat him down with the water skin and a bowl of broth.
'What, no meat?' Alaric joked, but he drank the broth meekly enough.
While the healer ducked back into her tent to air out the bedding and remove the old bandages she had just replaced, Dietz filled Alaric in on recent events.
'Glad to hear we're no longer captives,' Alaric said afterwards, grinning at Lankdorf, who only grunted in reply, 'and it's excellent news about pursuing the gauntlet, even
though it may not be as valuable as you think, at least not in terms of money.' Dietz winced, wishing for the hundredth time that his friend and employer was not so honest.
Fortunately the statement didn't seem to faze the bounty hunter. 'I'll take that risk,' was all he said. His tone suggested he thought Alaric was holding out on him, and Dietz silently cheered the man's inherent greed and suspicion.
'Has anyone spoken to our hostess?' Alaric asked next. Both Dietz and Lankdorf shook their heads, but Alaric stopped whatever he'd been about to say and looked past them. 'Well, her timing is certainly excellent,' he commented. The statement didn't make much sense until Dietz glanced behind him and saw Fatandira striding towards them.
She was wearing mail today, as she had the past two days when he'd seen her from a distance. The gear looked solid and well worn, and clearly she was accustomed to its weight. A longsword and a dagger hung at her side, and she carried a spear in one hand, its edge glinting slightly in the late morning light.
'You have recovered,' she said without preamble, marching past Dietz and stopping just beyond arm's reach from Alaric.
'I am on the mend, yes,' he replied, doing an abbreviated bow so as not to aggravate the wound further, 'thanks to the kind attentions of your healer. I am in your debt, madam.'
'No, I am in your debt,' she replied with a faint smile. 'You saved my life. All t did was help to save yours.' Estia emerged from the tent, and nodded when the ruler glanced her way.
'He is recovering well,' the healer said, 'surprisingly well. A few more days and he will be healed completely, I think.' She shook her head. 'I have never seen such an apt patient,' she admitted quietly. 'Surely Shallya has blessed you with her touch.'
Then I am in her debt as well.' Alaric said with a smile. 'I will offer up my thanks to her as soon as I am able.'
'Rest today.' Fatandira told him. 'Recover your strength. Tonight you dine with me.' Then she turned and stalked away.
The three men watched her go, Alaric with a familiar look of confusion on his face. Lankdorf, however, was chuckling.
'Looks like you'll get a chance to show your gratitude after all.' the bounty hunter said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
'Why me?' Alaric grumbled as he was dressing for dinner. A guard had delivered a set of clothes to Estia's tent earlier, with instructions that he wear them tonight. It was nobleman's garb - where they had acquired it he had no idea - and a reasonable fit, although the jacket and shirt were a bit loose in the shoulders and across the chest. It was taking him forever to fasten the shirt ties, however, because too much stretching still caused a nasty twinge in his stomach.
'It's the curse of good looks,' Dietz replied from where he sat in the corner. 'If you weren't so pretty you wouldn't have this problem.'
'That's not particularly helpful,' Alaric snapped. He knew his friend was laughing at him. Dietz seemed to have a way with women, at least if the encounters he'd had in several towns and ports were any guide. Alaric had always been too busy with his books for romance. He'd been raised as a noble, of course, and so he knew the social niceties and could spout poetry if necessary, but that was as far as it went. Still, he supposed a little light conversation and some
witty banter wasn't beyond him. Hopefully that was as far as it would go.
Not that Fatandira was bad looking; a bit mannish, perhaps, with that square jaw, but she was certainly fit and full-figured and she had striking eyes.
Of course, she was also a military commander and could have him killed if he displeased or upset her.
'Why not?' Dietz suggested for the third time. 'Make her happy and we go free. Upset her and she slits our throats.'
'I know, I know,' Alaric groused. He finished tying the shirt to his satisfaction and buttoned the jacket. Then he unbuttoned it again when it tugged his bandages uncomfortably. She would simply have to accept that he was wearing the jacket open, he thought crossly.
'How do I look?' he asked Dietz, turning around and holding his arms out so his friend could see the full effect.
'Like a peacock,' Dietz replied, 'all dressed up to impress the ladies.'
Yes, well, let's hope this lady is impressed.'
As he walked to the command tent, stepping between smaller tents and corrals and passing several guards and several soldiers on horseback, Alaric allowed himself to think about the other things that had been bothering him since their arrival. There were three, in fact: his recovery, his dreams, and that cursed gauntlet.
Estia was still amazed at how quickly he had recovered. She had praised Lankdorf s use of herbs, but the bounty hunter admitted that they shouldn't have caused such a rapid healing process. Estia spoke of her goddess, Shallya, taking a hand and Alaric wanted to believe that. The problem was, he worried that someone - or something - less benign had been knitting his wound together instead.
That was because of the dreams. He had been having nightmares, the same ones he'd had since their battle under Middenheim. He kept seeing the cultists in his dreams, and the portal they had created. He saw the shadowy form of the daemon they had summoned, slowly making its way
through that otherworldly tunnel. Each time it drew closer and closer, and each time he woke up screaming, or whimpering.
The dreams had gotten worse since he'd been wounded. They were longer, and clearer, and somehow more vivid. He could smell the dank mould of that underground chamber, and feel the heat of the torches placed around the room, and the strange hot breeze that blew from the portal, carrying with it the stench of decay and old blood. The stone felt solid beneath his feet. It took him several minutes after waking to convince himself that this was the reality and that had been the dream, and not the other way around.
The gauntlet had also appeared in his dreams recently. In one he was wearing the artefact and had stood frozen in horror as barbs from the inside stabbed into his arm and hand, piercing his flesh and sending blood spilling into the tainted relic. Then the barbs, plates and runes had spread from the gauntlet, seeping up his arm and over his torso, finally covering his head and causing him to choke as they transformed his face into something horrific. He had woken up gasping for breath.
In another, the daemon was wearing the gauntlet. The artefact had glinted from its place on the creature's forearm, visible even through the darkness of that long tunnel, and then that arm had shot forwards, somehow covering the distance instantly, so that the mailed hand burst free of the portal. At its arrival the air around the portal seemed to split open and Alaric felt as if the world was tearing apart. The daemon lumbered forwards, the distance halved and its speed increased by the presence and use of that gauntlet. Alaric knew it would be free of the portal in moments rather than hours, free to smother the world with its hatred and its madness and its bloodlust. Even while the rest of the daemon remained caught in the portal it proved itself dangerous beyond measure. It reached for Alaric with the gauntleted hand, locating him through the crowd of chanting cultists, its reach impossibly long. It caught him by the
neck and lifted him off the ground, the barbs digging into his flesh. Then it had twisted, and he had woken clutching his neck, making sure it had not been broken like a dry twig. His neck had stung where one barb had cut him, although he couldn't find an actual wound there.
What did it all mean? Was it just his mind, taking all the things he worried about and throwing them together? Or were they really linked: his recovery and that daemon and the gauntlet? The gauntlet was definitely tainted by evil, and the daemon was born of Chaos, but it had not been wearing anything like that object when they had last met. Nor had he heard of such an artefact in his studies, and how or why would the daemon still be pursuing him after it had be;en banished back into Chaos when they had destroyed the statue and its portal? He didn't know, but something in his gut told him they all had a purpose, and none of it was good for him.
Now he had dinner to deal with; dinner with a ruler who was also a warrior and a woman. To his mind that was a dangerous combination.
Alaric reached the front of the command tent, only to find Estia waiting for him.
'Not here,' she said with a smile. She led him to a second, slightly smaller tent off to one side. Its flaps were closed. 'Here.'
The healer woman pulled open the flap and stuck her head inside. Then she re-emerged and gestured for Alaric to enter. As he did she touched his arm. 'Do not exert yourself too much,' she warned, her pale eyes alight with mischief. 'It might reopen your wound.'
Nodding and trying to look amused even though he felt a little faint, Alaric entered the tent. The flap slid back into place behind him.
This was clearly Fatandira's personal tent. It was made from a thicker material than most of the other tents in the camp. They were canvas or oilskin or sometimes a layer of both, while this had been oilskin on the outside but had a
layer of short golden fur for the interior walls. The ground was covered in thick, colourful rugs, and a large, short- legged brazier stood in the centre, generating heat and light. Silk cushions were piled here and there around the space, for use both as seating and as beds. Alaric gulped at that last thought. A faint scent hung in the air, rich and musky, and scarves hung from the tent's peak, softening the sharp point and creating the impression of a low ceiling and a warm, intimate space.
The ruler herself lounged on several cushions not far from the brazier. Gone was the mail he had seen her wearing, and in its place he was surprised to see a vivid red skirt covered in an elaborate pattern of curling, swirling gold, and an embroidered vest, pulled tight across her impressive chest and fastened with buttons carved to resemble tiny flowers. Her dark hair, normally pulled back in a tight military braid, hung loose and flowed over one shoulder, and in her ears were large gold discs engraved with similar designs.
Slender gold bracelets hung around her wrists, minute charms upon them flashing and tinkling as she moved, and as she shifted her legs he heard a soft chiming as if she wore tiny bells upon her ankles as well.
The garb and the tent's furnishings, along with her exotic looks, suddenly made sense to him.
'You're Arabyan!' he blurted out, and then felt
foolish. That wasn't a very good way to start a dinner conversation.
Fatandira did not seem offended, however. Instead she laughed a rich throaty laugh.
'I am of Arabyan blood, yes,' she admitted, raising both arms over her head and then swivelling her wrists, a move he remembered the Strigany women using when they danced, the chiming of their charms providing a delicate counterpoint to the beat of the drums and the melody of the flute. He remembered several scholars theorising that the two, the Strigany and the Araby, were cousins, begun from a single source but travelling through different lands, and he thought that might be true. Perhaps, if he survived
this strange quest of theirs, he might present a paper on it someday.
'My people have roamed this land for centuries,' Fatandira was saying, her wrists still moving to provide an accompaniment to her words. 'We were here long before your Empire existed, long before your people forged weapons and conquered your own lands. My forefathers were here when the Nehekharans first set foot upon these shores, and one of my ancestors greeted Amenemhetum himself as he landed.'
'Really?' Alaric felt his interest in antiquities overwhelming his nervousness. He moved closer, and at a gesture from her he took a seat on a pile of cushions right beside her. 'Amenemhetum the Great? Your ancestors knew him?' That reminded him of the tomb he had recently explored, 'And Karitamen?'
She shuddered slightly, her hands dropping to her lap, the right clenching as if on a sword hilt. 'The Death Scarab?' she said, 'Yes, we knew of him. For many years my people were welcome in his lands, until his mind grew dark and we turned away, fearing for our lives.' She looked at Alaric, who found himself lost in her intense dark eyes. 'You entered his tomb.' It was not a question.
Yes.' He found himself fidgeting beneath her sharp gaze. 'We were seeking something there.'
'The gauntlet?'
'Yes.'
'And Karitamen?'
Alaric took a deep breath. He wasn't sure he should tell her the truth, but at the same time he realised she would see through any lies. 'He walks within his crypt,' he admitted, shuddering as he remembered that skeletal form and the hunger it had expressed. 'He is undead, a liche.'
Daemon Gates Trilogy 02 Night of the Daemon Page 17
