[Daemon Gates 03] - Hour of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  “Hm.” Widmer finished his ale and idly dropped the empty mug on the ground at his feet, scratching himself as soon as his hand was free. “Can’t get all the way up, gets too narrow once you’re past the foothills, and the currents go crazy up that way. Could take you as far as Dotternbach, though.”

  “How far is that?” Alaric asked, making Dietz groan and Widmer grin.

  “A week’s travel by boat,” the captain answered. “Two months by foot, mayhap more. Just past the first foothills.”

  “That would be excellent,” Alaric said eagerly. “We may not need to go that far, actually. We’re sort of, following something, and I don’t know where we’ll need to put ashore.”

  “Hunters, eh?” Widmer said. “Thought as much. Knew ye weren’t no fishermen, nor merchants neither, not from your garb.” He shook his head as Alaric started to explain. “No, I don’t want to know what you’re chasing, or who. None of my concern.” He grinned, showing the gaps between his remaining, yellowed teeth. “Least, not so long as your coin is good.”

  Dietz sighed. He could see there was going to be no talking Alaric out of this, but at least he could stop the noble from doing anything even more stupid. “How much?” he asked, cutting Alaric off before he could name a figure. Dietz almost groaned. His friend was good at many things, but bargaining definitely wasn’t one of them.

  “Well now, let’s think on that,” Widmer answered, tugging at the hairs on his chin. Dietz knew at once that he was facing a fellow haggler. “We’d be looking at a week’s travel, mayhap more if the wind’s against us. There’s only the two of you?” Dietz nodded. “And no mounts?” A shake of the head. “That’s food for three, then, for a week, plus other sundries, and the wear and tear on the Flying Trout. There’s rocks up in the mountains, y’know, makes the river treacherous up that way, chance of tearing out her hull and the like, so that risk ups the price.” He smiled widely. “Let’s say ten gold crowns.”

  “Ten crowns?” Dietz spat the words out and clenched his jaw, his glare warning Alaric to stay out of this. “That’s absurd. For that price we could have taken a ship all the way from Nuln! And brought a horse along!”

  “Perhaps,” Widmer conceded, “but you aren’t in Nuln, eh? Harder to find ships here. Even if you trekked back up to Wissenburg you might not find anything heading that far, and the captains there’d rob ye blind ’cause they’d know you had no other choice.”

  “There’s always another choice,” Dietz reminded him. “We’ve walked this far, we can walk the rest of the way.” He shook his head. “For two gold I could buy a cart and a mule, and we could ride instead.” He didn’t mention that, as far as he could tell, no one in the village had a cart they’d be willing to sell. The point was still valid. “Three gold,” he countered, “more than you’d make in two months normally, and enough to buy a month of food and drink from Gerta.”

  “It’s not the time, but the danger that’s raising the price,” the boat captain reminded him. “I’ve got me livelihood to think about. If anything happens to the Trout, I’m sunk, literally.” He leaned back against the tavern wall and considered. “You seem like decent folk, and I haven’t had company aboard in a while. I could go as low as eight gold, I’d say.”

  “Halve that and you’ve got a deal,” Dietz told him firmly. “I could probably buy a boat for eight, never mind book passage on one.”

  “But could you sail it?” Widmer asked shrewdly, and nodded at the blank expression he saw on Alaric’s face. “Thought as much. You’re not sailors, either of you. I’d have lowered the price if you were, since you’d be lending a hand, but as it is you’re nothing more than cargo, and cargo that requires feeding, at that.” He frowned. “The fish aren’t biting as much this late in the season,” he admitted, “and there hasn’t been as much work from the other towns as I’d like, so I’m inclined to go below me normal asking price rather than lose your business. Seven… no, six and a half gold will do.”

  “You’re mad if you think you’re getting more than five from us,” Dietz answered. Then he thought of something else. “Five, and we’ll supply the food and drink.”

  Widmer’s eyes narrowed, as he was clearly calculating the value of the offer. “Food and drink for two weeks,” he bargained, “so I’ve got supplies to get me back.”

  “Done.”

  Widmer nodded and extended a weathered, heavily callused hand. “Done!” They shook on it, and he shook with Alaric as well. “When’ll you want to be leaving?” he asked.

  “As soon as possible,” Alaric answered. He was never comfortable with haggling, even when he wasn’t the one doing it.

  “Fine,” the captain agreed, rising to his feet. “See to the food and ale, I’ll make sure the Trout is fit and ready to depart.” He stuck his head in through the doorway of the inn. “I’m off, Gerta,” he shouted. “I’ve got to ferry these fine gents somewhere up the river.” Then he turned and started back down the path to the river.

  “Are you mad?” Dietz hissed as soon as the man was out of hearing. “That thing looks barely able to float and you want to take it up into the mountains?”

  “Just shy of the mountains, actually,” Alaric answered easily, rising and dusting off his trousers and jacket, “and it’s less a question of want than need. I don’t see any other boats around, do you?”

  “No, but—” Dietz stopped as Gerta stepped outside again.

  “He wasn’t lying, then,” she said, seeing the looks on their faces. A brief twinge of regret washed over her own. “Not that he lies much, that one: exaggerates, boasts, promises, but rarely lies.”

  “Is that… boat really river-worthy?” Dietz asked.

  “You wouldn’t think so to look at it, but yes,” she answered. “Not that I’d ever go on it, but I doubt you’ll drown.”

  “Thank you.” Dietz smiled down at her. “We may stop this way again, on our return.”

  Gerta smiled back at him, and yes, she was definitely not unpleasant-looking. “That’d be welcome,” she admitted. “Now, did I hear Jonas say something about food for the trip?”

  She sold them food and ale at what Dietz realised was a fair price, and he told himself privately that he would try to make good on his promise to return later. It had been some time since he’d enjoyed the company of a woman, and he’d certainly met far uglier. But their quest came first, and before dusk they were stepping onto the Flying Trout, lugging casks of ale and baskets of bread, cured meat, and salted fish. That, plus the boat voyage, would take nearly the last of their money, but at least they would eat well along the way.

  Up close, the boat didn’t look any better. It was as weather-beaten as its captain, and almost as malodorous, with flaking paint and wooden rails worn smooth by the water and wind. It did seem sturdy enough, though, if ungainly, and Dietz’s worst fears subsided. Besides, Widmer clearly had been sailing for some time, so it was unlikely the boat would sink the minute they pulled free of the bank.

  “Good, good,” the grizzled boat captain said, taking the food and drink from them and stowing it in the ship’s small hold. “Heh, this is good stuff, Gerta must have liked you.” Dietz didn’t answer, but the man’s grin widened anyway. “Wish she liked me half as well, I’d marry her!” Widmer chortled, then gestured them towards the strange roofed cabin. “There’s only the one cabin,” he explained, as if they couldn’t see that, “but there’s room enough for all three of us within when it rains. On clear nights, I sleep out on deck. That’s all the gear you’ve got?” They nodded. “Then toss off the ropes and we’ll be off.”

  Alaric did as requested, moving once more with the easy grace he’d always shown, and Dietz knew this had been the right decision. Even if the boat moved no faster than they could have walked, it meant not exerting themselves along the way, and that would give Alaric time to recover fully.

  Dietz had a feeling they would need to be at their best when they finally caught up with whoever had taken the mask, particularly if he was still
with the beastmen.

  Widmer spun the wheel, and the Flying Trout slid backward, away from the pier. For a second, the boat was caught by a powerful counter current that threatened to carry them back the way they had come. Then the captain spun the wheel again and tugged on the sail lines at the same time, belling the sail for just long enough to catch a burst of wind that tugged them forward and to the side. The little boat shuddered as it slipped across the water, then it landed in a new current and shot forward hard enough for Alaric to stumble, and for Dietz to clutch at the rail.

  Yes, they would need their strength, provided they survived this damnable river voyage.

  He clung to the rail and stared out at the bank, watching as the village quickly disappeared behind them. He had told Gerta he meant to come back. He hoped he got the chance.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Up and at ’em, lads,” Widmer called out from his position near the front of the deck, one callused hand resting lightly on the wheel. “The sun’s climbing into the sky and there’s work to be done.” Then he coughed, the same horrible hacking sound he produced throughout both day and night, and finally spat something over the side.

  “I hate you,” Dietz muttered in reply, staggering to the railing and clutching it, half-hunched, as if his life depended upon it. “I really, really hate you.”

  It had been like this for the past two days, ever since they had left the town. Widmer had been gruff, but not unpleasant, and Dietz had been surly and just short of murderous.

  Not that Alaric could entirely blame his friend. He knew how much Dietz hated water travel, and boats in particular, and this journey was proving even more… interesting than any of their previous excursions.

  Widmer hadn’t been lying when he’d said the Flying Trout skipped across the waves, but Alaric wasn’t sure that was how a boat was supposed to travel. Didn’t most ships cut through the water, or float atop it? He’d never heard of one that bounced across it. Yet here they were, and the Flying Trout certainly seemed to be skipping, its raised prow slamming hard into the water and then rising again, its stern doing the same. Spray accompanied the ship’s constant motion, and Alaric resigned himself early on to being drenched for the duration. He also learned to compensate for the boat’s rolling, jerking motion, and to keep his feet set well apart to balance on the worn wooden deck. Once he’d gotten used to it, he found the Flying Trout’s mode of travel amusing.

  Dietz disagreed.

  “This isn’t a boat, it’s some sort of captive leaping fish,” he snarled on the first night, after he’d emptied his stomach over the side, and the heaving had quieted enough for him to speak again. “Or an enormous shingled frog. No boat would move like this.”

  Alaric tried to defuse the situation. “Perhaps it’s the shape of the hull,” he pointed out, “but we are moving, and faster than if we had walked.”

  “I’ll take walking over this madness any day,” Dietz spat out, wiping sweat and river spray from his forehead. “He’ll kill us all, or shake our bones right clear of our skin.”

  “Nonsense,” Alaric told him. “It’s just a matter of getting used to it. In a day or two you’ll barely even notice the motion.”

  But here they were, two days later, and Dietz was still pale and sweating, his stomach still rebelling at the thought of food. Alaric suggested he sleep it off, but his friend complained that he couldn’t sleep on a floor that was constantly shifting and rolling beneath him. Widmer’s stench and raspy cough didn’t help, especially when it rained and he crawled into the boat’s tiny cabin with them. Glouste, of course, seemed completely unfazed, and the little tree fox annoyed her master further by scampering about, exploring the boat’s many nooks and corners, and generally having a grand old time.

  Ah well. If things went well they would be off the boat soon enough. Widmer still held that he could not take the Flying Trout any farther than Dotternbach, so they would part company with the strange sailor there and walk the rest of the way, assuming, of course, that the mask went past Dotternbach.

  Alaric glanced out over the water again, looking past the churning caused by the Flying Trout’s presence. The river moved smoothly, the water sliding quickly past, and in the early light it seemed black as coal and silvery as moonlight, revealing no hint of what lay beneath.

  But that was not all Alaric saw. He could see the river, and the banks to either side, but he saw other images as well. There was a patch of something on the water, a swirl of colour like an oil patch, dark, gritty and slimy to the touch. Beyond that he saw another, this one broken by a small shape at its centre: a rotting fish head, part of its torn spine still attached. More patches stretched beyond those, several of them marred by objects: dead and decaying fish and birds, their bellies ripped apart, their eyes little more than bloody stains upon their faces; torn planks from some other boat, deep blotches staining them, and blood dripping from their splintered edges; shreds of gore-drenched clothing, some of it too small for a man or even a woman, all of it too damaged for any hope that its former occupants had survived. Clearly the path continued.

  Alaric rubbed his eyes. The images were horrible, and seemed to be lasting longer, as if the brief flashes back in Altdorf had merely been a peek into another world that he was now viewing almost as often as he saw the world around him. They didn’t stop when he closed his eyes, either, which was part of why he hadn’t been sleeping well since they’d set forth. At least he didn’t have to exert himself, which was a good thing given that he still felt a bit weak. Whatever else he could say, sailing on the Flying Trout was easier than walking.

  Unfortunately Dietz clearly didn’t agree.

  “Feeling any better?” Alaric asked as he carefully crossed the deck and reached the railing alongside his friend.

  “No,” Dietz admitted, shaking his head. He looked exhausted, drained, and scared, “and I won’t, as long as we stay on this deathtrap.”

  Alaric nodded, though he could feel a frown tugging at his lips. “We’ll leave the Flying Trout behind in a second if the mask and its thief leave the river, or when we reach Dotternbach. Until then,” he reminded Dietz, “we need to make up lost ground. That means using the river, and Widmer was the best captain available, with the best boat.”

  “He was the only captain,” Dietz managed to snarl, although it was a half-hearted effort, “and this… thing was the only boat.”

  “That means it must be the best, doesn’t it?” Alaric said, pleased with his logic. “Or at least the best one available.”

  Alaric found himself on the edge of a vast forest, facing the Grey Mountains. Just in front of him were piles of rocks, which he quickly realised must be ruins, for they were too organised, too even to be natural. The structures were clearly old, and just as clearly abandoned, judging by the moss that clung to them in places, and the ivy that had begun to creep over the outer stones. The forest vanished as Alaric’s attention focused on the ruins, leaving only vague green smudges at the edge of his vision.

  His natural curiosity awakened, Alaric stepped forward, moving quietly among the towering old buildings. He could see delicate carvings, flower and leaf traceries worn almost smooth with time, and he saw that there were flagstones beneath his feet, although they were partially hidden beneath a layer of grime and dirt. The ruins were too large to be a single building, even a temple. This had been a village, perhaps even a city, but who had created it? And what had happened to them?

  He felt as if he were being watched, several times, but every time he glanced around Alaric found that he was alone. His footsteps echoed strangely among the buildings, distorted, but definitely his, and nothing else moved. The ruins seemed utterly abandoned.

  Alaric continued on, deeper and deeper, the stone city unfolding before him like a life-sized map, marvelling at each turn. Whoever had wrought this place had been true masters of stone, making his old friend Rolf seem like a bumbling fool, and Rolf had been counted an expert craftsman back in Middenheim. Something about th
e carvings, however, seemed strange. They felt wrong, or at least different, as if their creators had possessed a different perspective. Alaric saw what he thought might be writing in several places, but the marks were too worn away for him to be sure.

  Eventually, the ruins shifted, the walls sliding away to present a wide central area, a vast courtyard. Buildings rose on every side, with crumbling balconies and walkways facing the centre, where a massive fountain had once stood. Much of the fountain had crumbled away over time, but its base still rose from the flagstones, a short column of jagged marble and granite, its top shorn away to form an irregular surface like a crude slanted table. Something sat atop that shape, gleaming softly in the dim light, and Alaric’s pulse quickened.

  A few quick strides, aided by the courtyard sliding beneath his feet, brought him closer to the truncated fountain, and he saw that he had guessed right. Even from across the courtyard, Alaric had thought that shape seemed familiar. It was the mask.

  Alaric reached for it, unable to believe he had finally recovered the artefact, and in such a strange fashion, but as his hand closed upon the thin smooth stone of the mask, another hand closed upon his wrist. This hand was massive, considerably larger than his, and covered in a heavy gauntlet festooned with barbs and spikes.

  Startled, Alaric glanced up. A man stood across the fountain from him, a colossal figure covered head-to-toe in elaborate red, gold, and black armour. Every inch of him bore spikes and barbs, and hooks and flaring edges, and a pair of massive horns sprouted from the temples of his heavy helm. Deep within that helmet a pair of eyes watched Alaric, their dark gaze seeming to convey both hatred and triumph.

  “Alaric von Jungfreud,” the figure rumbled, his mailed grip crushing Alaric’s wrist. “I have been waiting for you.” His voice was thick and raspy, his words strangely accented and heavy with malice.

  Alaric tried desperately to pull away as the armoured man raised his other hand, revealing the massive double-bladed axe he held. Alaric tugged and pulled, kicked and shoved, but the man held his wrist in an iron grip and he could not pull free. He watched, transfixed, as the axe rose high above him, its blades giving off a dull glint, turning the colour of rust and old blood. Then the weapon fell, its sharp edge streaking towards Alaric’s neck… and he awoke, gasping and throwing himself sideways to avoid the blow.