[Daemon Gates 03] - Hour of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  “Did you speak to your brother?” Dietz asked, watching him closely.

  “I did.” Alaric glanced over at him. “I take it you did as well.”

  His friend shrugged. “He wanted to know what had happened to you. I told him. Seemed a decent fellow.”

  Alaric thought about that one. “He is,” he admitted after a second. “He really is.” Then he shook off thoughts of family. “We’ve lost several days,” he pointed out. “Those cultists will be long gone by now.”

  “It couldn’t be helped,” Dietz replied. “You were very ill.”

  “I appreciate you finding me help,” Alaric answered. He saw the older man relax, and understood. “Taking me there was the right thing to do,” he assured his friend.

  Dietz nodded, clearly content to let the matter drop. “Where to now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Alaric admitted. He thought back to that night, and to the marks he had seen. The city was far quieter, now that Geheimnisnacht had passed, and, although a few remnants of the celebration remained, most of the decorations had been cleared away. That might work to their advantage, since the bloody marks would stand out more against Altdorf’s usual decor, provided the marks had not been removed in the process. “I remember where I last saw the trail,” he answered after a moment. “We’ll have to find that area again and then work our way forward from there. I just hope the marks haven’t faded away.” He didn’t say it out loud, but he also hoped the smears hadn’t been a product of his fever-addled brain. If that was the case, he might never find them again, and regardless of their origin they had seemed the only clue as to the thieves’ whereabouts.

  They rode quietly for a while, letting the more conventional sounds of a large city fill the silence. Alaric was still regaining his bearings after being ill and asleep for so long, and he was also trying to make sense of the conversation he’d had with Heinrich. Since when had his big, bullying brother turned into such a reasonable man? Had the rest of the family changed as well? Had their father? Alaric wondered if he should go to Ubersreik after this and find out. It had been a long time, and it would be good to see his mother again.

  He was so caught up in this thought that he almost missed the flash of red off to one side. Glancing around, Alaric didn’t see it again at first, but then it flickered into view once more, off on the right side, and he looked more carefully. A pair of stone columns flanked the end of the street, each one bearing the statue of some long-dead and long-forgotten hero, and on the right-hand pillar was a familiar smudge.

  “There.” Alaric moved his horse closer, which was a simple matter, since the streets were no longer packed with revellers. “They went this way.”

  Dietz stared at the column where Alaric was pointing, but finally shook his head. “I don’t see anything,” he admitted warily.

  “I don’t know why I can see it and you can’t,” Alaric said, rubbing at his eye, “but it is there, and that means we can still track them.”

  Dietz nodded, and they set off again, following the marks, which still resembled blood, but had the sheen of oil to them, and had not faded in the least. Alaric tried not to think about the possible reasons for that. The trail led them back through the city and down to the south docks, across water-warped planks and wave-worn stones, right to the end of one of the longer piers.

  “What now?” Dietz asked, glancing around. “You think they took a boat?”

  Alaric looked out over the River Reik, squinting against the sunlight reflected from the water. He could see well past the city’s harbour, the water shining like silver, except in patches where the sunlight was swallowed up by small pools of crimson and black.

  “There, do you see that?” he asked Dietz. “Those puddles on the river?” But Dietz shook his head. “They’re like the smears, only floating on the water,” Alaric explained. “They definitely took to the river.” And thanks to the city’s layout they knew which one. Altdorf had been built where the Talabec crashed into and was absorbed by the mighty Reik, and the city had three separate docks: to the east, for travel back up the Talabec; to the north, for travel up the Reik; and to the south, for travel down the Reik. From here the only direction a boat could take was south and east, towards Nuln.

  Dietz sighed, and Alaric felt a momentary twinge of guilt. The older man hated water travel. “Guess we’ll need a boat, then,” was all he said.

  They found a river barge that was heading down to Nuln, departing in a few hours, and booked passage on it. “I’ll keep an eye out for the puddles,” Alaric assured his friend. “If they leave the river, or turn off down a stream, we’ll get out and follow them. Otherwise we’ll take this barge all the way to Nuln and see if we can pick up the trail again there.”

  Dietz nodded. “This trip’s getting longer and longer,” he pointed out.

  “I know,” Alaric agreed. “I’d hoped we’d be heading back to Middenheim by now, but if there’s a chance of getting that mask back, we have to take it.” He looked at his companion. “Look on the bright side—we’ll be out of Altdorf by evening.”

  Dietz grunted. “About bloody time.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Be ready,” Lasalnean Silverleaf whispered. He had an arrow nocked, as did all his warriors, and they crouched in the forest not far from their target, their brown and green clothing and grey cloaks fading into the protective foliage. He had waited for the day to pass, knowing their colouring and sight would be used to greater advantage when dusk sent shadows across the world. The light was mostly gone already, only a few small traces of the day remaining, and the sky overhead was deepening to the cool dark blue of night. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and beyond the trees he could see only darkness, which was just what he wanted.

  The trees rustled around him, as his brethren shifted in preparation. Or perhaps it was merely the forest indicating its impatience. It was old, nearly as old as Athel Loren, and could outwait any elf, but at times it was capricious and demanding, and unwilling to delay its gratification. What’s more, the sight before them was most likely as irritating to the forest as it was to Lasalnean and his kinband.

  “Now,” Lasalnean shouted, leaping up and charging out from the trees. The ruins stood before them, not two hundred feet away, their backs to the mountains that loomed up just beyond, to brush the sky with snow-capped peaks. The ground flew by as he raced to cross the distance before their foes spotted him.

  No such luck, however. The clouds shifted even as he rose from the forest’s edge, allowing the moon to cast its soft glow down upon the ground, and Lasalnean knew that his long silvery hair would catch the light. He heard a bellow from somewhere up ahead, joined an instant later by other shouts and cries. He and his kin had clearly been spotted. A crude spear hurtled towards Lasalnean a second later, missing his shoulder by less than a handspan, the force of its travel imbedding it in the ground behind him. More spears followed, along with chunks of rock. Lasalnean grimaced as one stone fell just short of him, and his eyes caught the rainbow sheen of the rock and the delicate, scrolling patterns carved along one smooth, polished side. The beasts were using the very ruins around them as a weapon.

  “Die, foul creatures!” he shouted, his cloak billowing behind him as he ran, his warbraids bouncing against his neck and shoulders. “For Athel Loren! For the Asrai!” His sharp eyes picked out a glimmer that might have been an eye from up ahead behind the stones, and he fired an arrow at it, swiftly drawing and nocking a second one. He kept his longbow high as he ran, so that its carved length and corded bowstring would not tangle his legs. A movement caught his attention as one of the creatures stepped from behind the rocks to launch a spear. Lasalnean’s arrow took the beast in the throat before it could release its weapon, the spear falling from its hands as it pitched backward.

  Beside him, Nelyann was singing her battle cry, an eerie combination of melody and rage, her voice mimicking the sounds of fierce winds and heavy rains. Although he had heard her sing many times, it still
sent chills up his spine, but he also knew that it unnerved their foes even more, and so he did not object. She wore no armour, as befitted a Wardancer, but twin blades gleamed in her hands, and she spun and leapt as she ran, sliding past spears and other missiles as if they were moving in slow motion. Although he did not fully understand her devotion to the trickster god, Lasalnean had always admired her grace, and her skill in battle left him in awe. He was glad to have her beside him, as always.

  Ersomir and Ellsamar ran on his other side, along with Riellyan, each with their bows strung, and he could hear the zip of the arrows as they leapt towards the waiting foes. Lasalnean felt the same surge of pride he always did when he led his warriors into battle. They were a good, tight unit, his kinband, every one of them proven in combat time and again. He’d trust any one of them with his life and gladly, and he knew they trusted him.

  This time, however, he feared their trust was misplaced. A spear slammed into Riellyan, piercing her clean through the torso, the force of the blow knocking her back and pinning her to the ground. Lasalnean did not pause, nor did the others. They had heard her last breath rattle from her chest as she fell, and had seen her eyes glaze over before she went limp. There was nothing they could do for her, save collect her body and accord it the proper rites, providing they survived this battle.

  Lasalnean knew that it was a matter of position. He and his warriors were the stronger fighters by far, and he would stand them against far larger numbers and not fear the outcome, but the creatures held the ruins, and that gave them a clear advantage. If this battle was taking place in the forest proper, it would barely be a contest. Not only would they have more ease of movement than the beasts could ever hope to possess, and the ability to move silently between the trees, but the forest would also rise up to aid them and to devour the interlopers. The creatures would never have been able to enter the ruins, much less spread their foul touch through it, if it stood within the forest.

  Unfortunately, the buildings stood on the very edge of the forest, where the trees trailed off and the mountains began. It had been a different time then, and the settlements’ builders had felt that such a location would be favourable, both to them and to those with whom they had begun trading goods and knowledge.

  Changes had been made since then, however, by the creatures that now dared to occupy it. The trees had once marched gracefully up to and even into the ruins, the forest’s way of embracing the fallen city as its own. It had been too great a distance for the forest to cover completely, but still there had been a grove, and over time the trees would have grown stronger, their branches interlinking, until the forest was able to assert itself fully and absorb the ruins.

  Those trees had been cut down, their brutally hacked-apart stumps still dotting the landscape, their trunks and branches shattered and tossed every which way, until the space between forest and ruins was strewn with wood chips and splinters, bark slivers and leaves. The forest had recoiled from such violence, leaving the ruins to the intruders, and allowing the space between them to grow barren. The grass had shrivelled and died, the vines had retreated, and all that remained were the tree remnants and what rocks had been uncovered as their roots had burrowed through the earth.

  There was no shelter. The beasts held the high ground and had cover as well as superior numbers. The kinband’s only hope had lain in speed and surprise, and they had already lost the latter.

  More spears rained down upon them, and though Lasalnean and his fighters all fired back it was difficult to tell if they had actually accounted for any deaths. Certainly, the onslaught did not lessen. Ersomir fell. A block of stone the size of his head collided with and shattered his skull, leaving a pulpy mass of bone, blood, and brains to ooze from beneath his caved-in helmet. Ellsamar fell next, with one spear through the leg and a second through the arm, neither of them fatal blows, but enough to pin him down and leave him unable to dodge the heavy rock that smashed into his chest a second later.

  Lasalnean gritted his teeth and fired another arrow, catching one of the beasts through the throat. He was reaching back to draw another, when he heard a strange whizzing, growing louder and louder, and saw something heading towards him in a blur of grey and brown. He twisted to the side, trying to avoid it, but he lacked Nelyann’s speed. Then pain blossomed in his chest, and the breath was knocked from his lungs as he stumbled and fell backward, all his forward momentum removed by the heavy impact. He glanced down and stared at the heavy spear haft protruding from his side, blood already seeping from the wound to soak his tunic and drip down towards his belt and breeches.

  “No!” Nelyann broke off mid-song and grabbed him, somehow sheathing her swords in time to keep him from falling to the ground. “How bad?” she demanded, her eyes flashing in the dim light.

  “Bad enough,” Lasalnean managed to gasp. “I cannot fight like this.” He pushed at her arm, although his own had no more strength. He felt cold, even though he had broken out into a sweat. “Leave me here and go on. Take the others and reclaim the ruins.”

  Nelyann shook her head. “Not without you to lead us,” she replied, ignoring his feeble attempt to order her away. “Besides, we have lost enough this night.” She commanded the other elves to halt, and they stepped back to group around her. Then she lifted Lasalnean’s arm over her shoulder, her arm around his back to provide additional support, and, turning, broke into a run once again, forcing him to run with her. She ran back towards the safety of the forest, each pounding step sending fresh jolts of pain through Lasalnean as the spear shifted within him. His head swam and his vision grew dim, each breath a labour to produce, his legs leaden but somehow maintaining the rhythm Nelyann had set for him. The forest welcomed them, rustling its branches to distract their foes. The rest of the warriors covered them, retreating as they fired arrow after arrow to keep their foes busy, until they were once more deep within the forest’s embrace.

  “I failed,” Lasalnean whispered as Nelyann helped him lower himself to the ground behind a fallen tree trunk and began the slow, agonising task of cutting the spear haft off before drawing it from the wound. “We have lost.”

  “Don’t talk that way,” Nelyann all but hissed at him, her face scrunched in anger. “This isn’t over yet, and neither are you. I will see to your wound, and then we will fall back and regroup deeper within the forest. Now we have encountered their defences firsthand. Next time we will know what we face, and can prepare better to overcome them. We will reclaim the ruins.”

  “I hope so,” Lasalnean agreed, trying not to cry out as she began rocking the spearhead back and forth within his side, loosening the blade so she could yank it free. “They befoul that place, and the forest, with their continued presence.”

  “We will find a way,” Nelyann assured him. “The beastmen will know our wrath. They will regret the day they defiled the sacred place.”

  Lasalnean nodded, but he was barely conscious, which was just as well, since Nelyann chose that moment to give the remaining haft a sharp, hard tug, pulling the spear tip free of his body with a single smooth motion. The pain made him gasp, but he was only barely aware of it. His last thought as he drifted off into unconsciousness was that they had not even managed to engage the beastmen up close. All they had seen of the hated creatures were distant glimpses as the beastmen readied weapons to drive them back. Lasalnean decided hazily that he would have to rectify that. Next time, he would face the beastmen in person, close enough for his daggers to pierce the creatures’ flesh, and they would not be able to hide behind the sacred walls and hurl stones at them.

  Any other plans Lasalnean might have made faded away as he drifted off into a fitful sleep, with Nelyann watching over him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Greetings, sir. Sigmar be with you.”

  “And with you,” Kleiber replied. He nodded perfunctorily, touching the brim of his hat in salute. “See to the men,” he told Wilcreitz as he stepped onto the Nuln dock beside the harbourmaster. “I will be at the
headquarters. Find me there when you are finished.”

  He strode away, allowing no time for debate, and barely suppressing the smile that threatened to spring to his lips as he heard Wilcreitz’s strangled gasp of a reply. The shorter man was foul-tempered enough already, and being treated like a servant would only increase his ire, but Kleiber couldn’t help it. His associate’s constant sniping and complaints had grated on him the whole way from Altdorf, as had his exaggerated displays of piety. Didn’t the man realise that following Sigmar was less about show than about true belief? But perhaps he did not. Wilcrietz had spent most of his years training, studying and praying. This was his first mission in the real world, and no doubt it had shaken his faith in himself if not in their order and in Sigmar. That was natural. It would wear off soon enough… he hoped.

  Taking one of the many bridges that linked the various portions of Nuln, Kleiber walked quickly, but without hurry, towards the local headquarters. He had been here several times before and knew his way, but still he found the city fascinating. Such a contradiction! The waters of the Reik and the Aver shone in the sunlight, broad expanses of rippling silver and gold, and many of the buildings here, including the Royal College of Engineering, were tall and slender, their graceful walls rising up to sleek roofs of polished slate that sparkled throughout the city’s broad expanse. Squat, ugly buildings like the Gunnery School stood elsewhere, heavily shaped from rough planks or crude stone blocks, and palls of smoke hung over portions of Nuln, a by-product of the forges that made it so famous and so wealthy. Smoke and sunlight, grace and ungainliness, clean water and dirty stone. It was a strange place, and though he enjoyed looking at it, Kleiber had never felt completely comfortable here.