“May the touch of Sigmar destroy you!” Talbek gasped out, rising to his feet. He reached down with his good hand and grasped his hammer where it rested beside him, intending to finish the battle at last.
This time, however, it was he who had misjudged his opponent. Deathmaul’s wound was grave, and surely fatal to any mortal, but the Chaos champion was no longer strictly mortal. Even as Talbek raised his weapon, Deathmaul staggered back towards him, his massive axe clutched in both hands, and swung. The blades described a bloody arc, seeming almost to cut the air, and with the hammer in that hand, Talbek could not raise his shield in time. The axe caught him full in the neck and sliced cleanly through, sending the Sigmarite’s head flying as his body toppled, fountaining blood from its severed neck.
“Die for my master’s pleasure,” Deathmaul gasped, his voice thick and guttural from the wound.
A great cheer rose from the Chaos army as they saw their leader victorious, and the beasts turned on their opponents with renewed enthusiasm. The men, for their part, were demoralised by Talbek’s death, and the tide quickly turned against them. The battlefield was filled with the sounds of rending and chewing as the beasts began to devour their fallen foes.
Deathmaul watched the devastation, but did not participate. Instead, after a moment, he crouched and lifted Talbek’s head by the hair, raising the fallen warrior’s hammer in his other hand. Blood still spilled from his neck, but he ignored it.
The Chaos champion spat a dark name into the air, the strange sounds dripping from his tongue. “Hear me, my master!” The Chaos champion growled out, unable to shout from his injury. “Hear my cries and receive my worship. I offer you the head and lifeblood of an enemy, anointed of the accursed Sigmar, and his hammer that has been steeped in the aura of that usurper-god.” He held both grisly trophies high, and Alaric’s breath caught as he saw the air darken between them.
The darkness whirled, forming a vortex of shadow, and the shrieking and moaning in the air intensified, but with a strange echo, as if thousands of people were crying a great distance away. The vortex, too, had a sense of distance to it, and the air seemed somehow to recede, forming a shifting tunnel of flickering light and shadow. It was the colour of blood and ash, the consistency of oil and sludge, and they mixed together, mingling and writhing, and whirling as if alive.
Alaric struggled to swallow, his throat dry. He had seen such a phenomenon once before, when a daemon had tried to materialise beneath Middenheim.
The Chaos champion still held both his trophies aloft, but something was happening to them now. The head shrivelled, flesh and hair fading away, bone darkening and crumbling, until it sifted through the warrior’s fingers like soot. The hammer, however, sagged, melting, wood burning away and gleaming metal turning black. It hung down over Deathmaul’s hand, curling around it, and the metal changed, becoming dark iron and blood-tinged copper, incised with runes. It had become a thick, spiked collar.
“Thank you, master.” Deathmaul set it around his neck immediately, and at once stood straighter. “I wear it proudly.” He bowed low. His voice was stronger, almost back to its earlier power.
The darkness shifted, its attention wandering, and Alaric was suddenly certain that the creature behind that veil saw him somehow, although he was not truly there upon that field. A wet, rasping sound erupted across the plain, the same mocking laughter that Alaric had heard when the daemon had taunted him beneath the cultist city in the Border Princes. Then the vortex dwindled away, taking the darkness with it. The light fled as well, leaching all colour from the land, leaving only a moist grey blankness behind.
“The fog,” Alaric thought, as the weight of what he had just seen bore down upon him. Then the grey faded to black and he collapsed upon the bone-strewn earth.
“Alaric? Alaric!”
Dietz ran towards the huddled figure, stopping just short and dropping to his knees. He had been searching for his friend since first light, but the valley was wide and the strange shapes emerging from the ground made it difficult in the dim light to be sure what was a body and what merely a hummock or small mound. At last, he caught a flash of something bright against the dark grey, and moving closer that flicker had resolved into blond hair.
Alaric lay without moving, but Dietz was relieved to see his friend’s chest rising and falling. He was still alive. When Alaric had not reached the hills last night he had feared the worst, but he had known that to venture back into the fog or wander the area at night after the fog had gone would do neither of them any good. More likely, he would have stepped in a hole somewhere and broken a limb, and then they would truly be at the land’s mercy.
As it was, Dietz rolled Alaric over and got his arms underneath him. Then he heaved, struggling to his feet while lifting the nobleman. Sigmar’s beard, he was heavy! Dietz managed to stagger a few feet before collapsing, landing on his knees again. That was not going to work. Instead, he set Alaric gently back on the ground and began casting about for anything he could burn.
By the time Alaric awoke, Dietz had a decent fire going beside him, and was sitting warming his hands and cooking a pot of thin soup. Glouste was curled up nearby, enjoying the heat.
“Ah, you’re awake,” Dietz said when he saw his friend’s eyes flutter open. “Thank Ulric. I was starting to worry.”
“I…” Alaric began, sitting up. Then he sank back down, clutching his head. “What?” He glanced around, wide-eyed, and Dietz saw that his friend looked terrible: ashen skin, glazed and sunken eyes, slack lips, trembling jaw. He looked as if he had received a powerful fright.
“I got lost in the fog,” Dietz told him, ladling some soup onto a plate and offering it to his friend. Alaric glanced at the plate and reached for it, but his movements were so jerky he almost knocked it from Dietz’s hand. “Here.” Dietz spooned up some broth and fed his friend carefully.
“Thank you.” Alaric gasped after swallowing. Then he shivered. “Where are we?” He shivered again, and Dietz saw that his hands were almost blue. “Why is it so cold?”
You’re in shock, Dietz thought, though he did not say so. What had happened to his friend deep within that fog? “We’re still in the valley,” he answered, “but at least the fog’s gone. It’s a sunny day.”
They glanced up at the sky, and Alaric managed a weak smile as he felt the sun’s rays across his face. “Yes, sunny,” he agreed, closing his eyes. The light seemed to help, and after a minute of basking in its warmth, he was able to feed himself the rest of the soup.
“What happened to you?” Dietz asked finally, as he put out the fire and gathered the rest of their gear back up. Glouste sensed they were getting ready to go and uncurled, then scampered back up his arm and onto his shoulder, curling around his neck as usual.
“I…” Alaric started to answer, then shook his head, trembling a little again. “I don’t know, Dietz,” he said finally. “I don’t know.” He frowned, clearly concentrating, and then shook his head, and winced as if the movement hurt him. “I think I… saw something last night, in the fog, but I don’t know what. I can’t remember. Something about a… about a battle,” he said, shuddering. “I don’t think it was good, though.”
“Best we move away from here,” Dietz suggested, rising to his feet. The younger man followed, swaying as if his limbs were not strong enough to support him, but he kept his balance and nodded after a moment.
“Yes, we should leave,” he agreed quietly. He glanced around, still wild-eyed. “The sooner the better.”
They walked silently, doing their best to avoid the bones and other remnants littering the area. Alaric staggered several times, and Dietz did his best to offer a hand, knowing his friend hated being so weak.
“I’ll never mock villagers again,” Alaric muttered finally, as they slowly climbed the hill leading out of the valley. “I only wish I’d heeded their warning.”
Dietz nodded, but there was little else to say. Instead, he concentrated on guiding his friend up the hill, and wo
rrying about where they would go next.
CHAPTER TEN
It took them five harrowing days to reach the next village, and Dietz worried the entire time. He’d rarely seen Alaric this weak. Although not feverish as he had been in Altdorf, the noble was dizzy enough for rapid movement to make him feel faint, and focusing his eyes on anything not stationary invited vertigo. He was able to walk unaided, at least, but needed help to climb the small hill they’d encountered, and had been all but useless at night. If they had encountered anything worse than a few wild dogs and a maddened boar they might not have survived. At least Dietz had been able to force some food into him each day, and Alaric’s colour had improved, but he was still not his usual self. He was distracted, confused, and clearly upset. Whatever he’d seen that night in the fog had shaken him badly, even if he couldn’t remember it.
The one thing Alaric wasn’t confused about was the trail. He claimed that he was still able to see the strange marks, and they still followed the river south, but Dietz was sure the gap between them and the trail’s creators, and the mask, was steadily increasing. It should have taken them two days to get from the valley to here, not five. At this pace, it would be weeks before they got past Wissenburg and then Weningen, and their quarry would be long gone, assuming they hadn’t turned off somewhere before that. Dietz pointed this out to Alaric as they sank gratefully onto a creaking old bench outside the small, weathered shack that served as the sad little village’s town hall and tavern, clutching bowls of thick stew and mugs of watery ale.
“You’re right,” Alaric agreed, taking a long draught of his ale between words. “I wish I could move faster, but I don’t seem to have it in me.” He smiled briefly, the first smile Dietz had seen since the fog. “I feel less muddled, though. These past few days have been a blur, like my mind was wrapped in cotton, soft and warm, but smothering.”
“Whatever you saw made you retreat from it,” Dietz pointed out, eating his stew with enthusiasm. It was far better than the watery broth he’d managed to produce for the past week, and there was real meat in it, although he knew better than to ask what kind.
“Probably,” Alaric admitted. He frowned. “I’ve felt this way before, although not as intensely or for as long, in Middenheim and again in Vitrolle.” He didn’t clarify, but Dietz understood, and he felt a sudden chill. Those were the two times they’d faced the daemon. Was Alaric saying he’d faced more Chaos again, during the fog? And by himself? How had he survived?
“I don’t know,” Alaric said, as if reading Dietz’s mind. “I still don’t know what happened. I can remember tiny fragments, brief glimpses. There was a battle, the one that left those bones, I think, and I was watching it, but that’s all I can see.” He shuddered. “Perhaps that’s for the best.”
“At least you’re feeling better.”
“I am,” Alaric agreed, using the hunk of bread he’d been given to sop up the last of the stew. “I think with a little rest and more food I’ll be all right, but I know I’ve cost us time.” He shook his head, and Dietz was pleased to see his friend no longer winced from the motion. “If only there were some way to cover the distance more quickly.”
Dietz nodded. They had little money left, certainly not enough to buy horses or even mules, so riding was out. They might be able to find a ride to Wissenburg, the nearest big town south of here, if anyone from the village was driving a cart there today or tomorrow, but barring that he had no ideas.
“Gerta.” A man came limping up the worn dirt path from the river, a hessian sack slung over his shoulder, leaking water down his back and onto the ground behind him. “Gerta, I’ve brought you something!”
Gerta, who ran the tavern, stepped out through the wide doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. The expression on her broad, lined face was tough to read, part amusement, Dietz thought, but part irritation as well. “Ah, it’s you, then,” she said as the stranger clomped up and stopped beside her. “Well, and what’ve you brought me, then?”
“Eels,” the man proclaimed as if it were lost treasure, raising the bag high so she could see the contents. Dietz saw several wriggling forms within and nodded, noticing that Alaric had recovered enough to look alarmed and slightly green at the sight.
“I see that,” Gerta replied, taking the bag from him and turning it this way and that to inspect the catch. “Two shillings,” she said finally, and waited until the man nodded before turning and stepping back inside. “Sit over there,” she instructed as he started to follow her. “You’re still dripping.”
She had pointed to the bench on the other side of the door, and the man sank onto it obediently. Now, Dietz could tell that the stale briny smell he’d thought had been the eels was in fact wafting from the man’s body. A minute later, she returned with a bowl of stew and a flagon, which she thrust into his hands along with a handful of brass pennies, presumably the rest of his money. “Anything else for you?” she asked Alaric and Dietz, her manner towards them considerably warmer. “Another stew or ale or both?”
“Please,” Alaric replied, holding out his empty bowl and flagon. “They were excellent, especially the stew.” Dietz nodded and handed over his empties as well, along with enough coin to pay for their second servings. That earned a smile from Gerta, who was not unpleasant looking, despite the smallpox scars covering her cheeks. She returned with their portions a moment later and nodded at them again before heading back inside.
For a moment, all three men ate and drank in silence, but Alaric really was feeling better again, and his curiosity had returned full force.
“You are a fisherman then, I take it?” he asked the stranger politely.
“Fisherman? Aye, when they’re biting,” the man replied. He was older than Alaric, perhaps Dietz’s age and perhaps older still. His skin was weathered and his hair bleached from the sun and the water, making it difficult to be sure. He had a wide face and mouth, a thick nose, and small eyes beneath heavy blond-brown brows that matched the thin beard tracing his jaw. His clothes were weather stained and water marked, the heavy britches and jacket clearly intended to protect against the damp, and his cap had a thick brim below a battered peak. Judging from the stench, they were the only clothes he owned, and got washed only when the waves splashed across their owner. “When they’re not I take to other means to keep afloat.”
“You’re a sailor, then?”
“I’m a captain,” the man answered proudly, straightening. “Jonas Widmer, master of the Flying Trout, at your service.”
Alaric introduced himself and Dietz. “Is your boat docked here?” he asked, and Dietz could see where his friend was heading with this. Despite his hatred of water travel, he had to admit it made sense. Travelling the river would be far faster than walking alongside it, and they could easily make up the time they’d lost, and then some, if this Widmer really had a boat and was willing to take them downriver, and if they could handle the smell.
“Aye, right over there,” Widmer answered, clearly pleased by Alaric’s interest. “She’s a beauty, too, glides through the water swift as a trout, moves before the wind as easily as a leaf.”
Dietz glanced down the path. The village was small and set close to the bank, and he could see the river from here. There was only the one pier, a rickety thing with planks that badly needed repair, and tied alongside it was… that?
Dietz rubbed his eyes and looked again, but there was still only one shape by the pier. That couldn’t be the boat this man was speaking of, could it?
He glanced over at Alaric, whose surprise showed he had seen the same thing. “Is it… is it the one tied up at the pier, there?” his friend asked carefully.
“Course it is,” Widmer answered, quaffing the last of his ale. “Where else would she be?”
Dietz turned and looked a third time, still trying to match this—thing—on the river with the man’s glowing praise. He knew little enough about boats, certainly, but from his limited experience he’d be hard-pressed to call that shape a boat at
all, much less a fast, fleet ship. It was broad and flat, and low like a barge, but its front end rose higher than the back. There was a sturdy tent across the back, or at least a canopy. It had two sides that met at the top and slanted downward, passing over the hull, as if a larger tent had been added to the boat and not cut down to fit the narrower deck. It appeared to be made from thick tarpaulin, with battered oilcloth layered on top. All in all, the thing looked more like a strange pointed shoe than a boat, except for the heavy sail mounted on the short, thick mast in the middle.
“Something, ain’t she?” Widmer asked, seeing their gaze. “Gerta! I’m parched, woman. Bring me another ale.”
Gerta stepped out and wordlessly thrust a full mug at him, snatching the other and the proffered coin from his grasp. She asked if Alaric or Dietz wanted anything else, and Dietz was fairly certain, the way her gaze lingered on him, that she meant more than mere food. Then she retreated inside again.
“Where are you headed?” Alaric asked casually after she had left. Dietz had to stop his mouth from falling open. His friend couldn’t be serious. That thing looked like it could barely float, much less travel quickly. He’d sooner go back into the Border Princes than step foot on that so-called boat.
“Nowhere in particular,” Widmer answered, taking a long swig of ale and then belching. “Got enough money for three days’ food and drink with Gerta, and after that, who knows? Maybe down, maybe up, maybe more fishing, or I’ll see if they need any cargo hauled from Wissenburg or Maselhof.” He eyed Alaric, and Dietz could see the mercenary gleam in the grizzled sailor’s eye. “Why, you needing passage somewhere?”
“We are indeed,” Alaric agreed. “We’re heading upriver, towards the mountains.”
[Daemon Gates 03] - Hour of the Daemon Page 10
