“Get off,” Dietz shoved him away, still asleep, and rolled right back over. In a second he was snoring again. Widmer did not stir at all.
A dream, Alaric thought, sitting up and trying to breathe slowly to calm his racing heart. It was just a dream. Yet his wrist still throbbed with pain, and his side hurt where he had fallen. Was it a dream? Or an omen? The armoured figure had seemed familiar, although he couldn’t say why.
Puzzled, Alaric lay back down and shut his eyes. Bits of the dream clung to him still, and it was some time before he fell back into a fitful, troubled sleep.
“Maybe you should stay away from ruins, just to be safe.”
“Yes, very funny, thank you.” Alaric threw the dried apple in his hand, but Dietz caught it easily, tearing it in half and offering one of the pieces to Glouste. His appetite still hadn’t returned, but the little tree fox was as ravenous as ever. They were leaning against the starboard rail, and Alaric had just recounted his strange dream.
“Could be something you heard somewhere,” Dietz pointed out, “an old story your mind dredged up.”
“It could be,” Alaric admitted, staring out over the water and watching the bank slide past. “I’ve certainly read enough grisly tales, old legends and horror stories to populate anyone’s nightmares.” He shook his head. “It felt more… personal, though. When he said he’d been waiting for me, I believed him. He wasn’t waiting for just anyone. He was waiting for me.”
Dietz shrugged, clearly unsure what else to say, and Alaric sighed. Why should his friend have an answer when he didn’t? But the dream refused to fade away. It lingered still, the memory of it overlaying everything in much the way his strange visions did, leaving a tinge of terror and uncertainty upon every object.
Alaric’s gaze moved back to the riverbank, watching as the thought of those visions drew them forth again. A reddish hue enveloped everything, and the plants along the shore shifted, shadows lengthening and deepening. Within that gloom, the trees seemed taller and thicker and more twisted, their leaf tips sharp like barbs and their fruits misshapen and dripping. He glanced towards the front of the boat and saw another of those horrible oily patches, and another beyond that. Their quarry had passed this way.
Then something else caught his eye, a glimpse of something dark within the trees. Alaric studied the spot, which was a little way ahead of them, but growing rapidly closer as the Flying Trout skipped across the water. There! He saw it again, only more clearly this time. Dark indeed, and oval, with sharp edges and bristling bits, and two gleaming spots set above and to either side of the centre: a face.
But not a human face, no. This was longer, more triangular, with heavy lips and jutting fangs, and a broad snout over a narrow chin. A tuft of hair hung down from the chin, but otherwise, the face was covered in short, fine hairs. It looked like a goat given intelligence and rage. Alaric had seen features like this before: a beastman.
He could pick out other similar shapes all around it. There were more of them. As he watched, he saw something else rise up beside the first face, something long and narrow and dull, something that sent a spike of cold into his heart.
It was a rifle barrel, and it was aiming at him.
“Get down!” Alaric shouted, diving to the deck. Dietz straightened, startled, then dropped onto his stomach. Widmer had been at the wheel as usual, and glanced up, but didn’t move. “Get down now!” Alaric warned him sharply. Something in his tone must have been convincing, because the captain crouched down, even though he kept his grip on the wheel.
Thwam! Something slammed into the mast not far past Alaric and Dietz, a heavy stone-headed spear, splintering the wood, but not enough to crack it. A second spear flew across the deck immediately after, and a third, these two whizzing past Widmer’s ear and shattering an empty ale cask, respectively. Several more missiles followed, although they apparently hit nothing. Mixed in among them, however, was a loud report, followed closely by a tearing sound as something holed clean through the tarp and oilcloth forming the Flying Trout’s cabin.
“Someone’s attacking us!” Dietz said, his tone a mix of surprise and anger. “Who is attacking us this time?”
“I don’t know,” Alaric replied, glancing over towards the shore. “I… saw the sunlight hit something, but couldn’t make out anything else.” He didn’t think now would be a good time to talk about his visions again.
“Well, I’m damn glad you did,” Widmer called out from his spot by the wheel. He had scuttled to its far side, putting the heavy wood between himself and their hidden assailants. “Another few seconds and we’d have sailed right past ’em, still standing out in the open. They’d have cut us down like ducks.”
Alaric nodded, careful to keep his head low. Yes, for once his visions had come in handy. He knew that without them he never would have seen the beastmen in time.
Then he realised exactly what he’d seen.
“Beastmen!” he whispered excitedly to Dietz, ducking as another spear passed close to his head. “Beastmen are firing at us!” He thought about the glare again. “And I think… I think one of them had a rifle.”
“And this is a good thing?” Dietz asked sourly. The older man’s eyes were shifting about, and Alaric knew his friend was looking for any weapon that could reach their hidden foes.
“Kleiber said something about beastmen, remember?” Alaric pointed out. “Beastmen stealing rifles and shot?”
Dietz nodded. “This could be them,” he agreed. “Can’t be two packs of beastmen smart enough to steal, and use, blackpowder weapons.”
“Beastmen took the mask, or were with whoever did,” Alaric reminded him. “These could be the same ones.”
“Not much we can do about it now,” Dietz pointed out. Alaric nodded glumly. His friend was right, of course. Beastmen or not, and after all these visions he couldn’t be sure, someone was attacking them. Getting out of range as quickly as possible was the only sensible response. They didn’t have any distance weapons of their own, and even if they did they were too exposed on the Flying Trout to sit and trade shots with someone hidden in the trees. It was far better to get clear first, and then head for shore and loop back around.
The current was swift, and within a few minutes they had passed that stretch of the riverbank. Their assailants had continued to hurl spears and other missiles even after they had passed out of range, but few had actually connected. The ship had a few new holes, but nothing serious, and none of them had been injured, except by a few splinters.
“Should we have him put us ashore?” Dietz asked quietly, trying, but failing, to mask the hope behind his words.
“I—” Alaric looked back towards the source of the attacks, then glanced forward again, and froze. There, on the water, was a familiar patch of oily, grimy, filth, with something that looked suspiciously like a dead body floating within it, far too small to be an adult, its pale flesh standing out against the dark murky water. He saw another patch, well past the first, this one empty save for its own filth.
The trail still led along the river. Alaric shook his head. If that was true, what about the beastmen?
“No,” he said finally. “No, let’s stay on the river.”
Dietz was sitting up, his back against the railing. “You sure?” he asked softly.
“The trail goes this way still,” Alaric replied just as quietly. He wasn’t sure how good Widmer’s hearing was, and didn’t want to alarm the captain with what he knew probably sounded like drunken ravings. “Those beastmen, or whoever they were, aren’t our concern. We need to get that mask back. Everything else comes after.”
Dietz nodded and reached up to finger a spot on the railing where what might have been a second rifle shot had splintered the heavy wood. “Makes sense,” he agreed. “Good thing you spotted them, though.” There was a question buried in that statement, but Alaric wasn’t prepared to talk about it.
“Yes it was,” he agreed easily, sparing his friend a wide smile. The look that crossed D
ietz’s face was well worth the effort.
Bloodgore grabbed the rifle, its metal barrel still hot enough to burn his flesh, and wrenched it from its wielder’s grip. He twisted it into a crude circle and flung the ruined weapon after the departing boat. Then he turned towards the beastman he had disarmed. Spittle flew from his mouth and he gnashed his teeth, hungry for blood.
The other beastmen shrank back from their former herd leader, all too familiar with the signs of his rage, but a slender figure interposed itself, its loose robes flapping around it as it stood calmly before the slavering beastlord.
“Enough,” Varlek said softly, raising one hand. Jewels glittered along his fingers, but it was the glittering in his grey eyes that quelled Bloodgore’s rampage. Dark fires lurked there, dangerous powers held only by the Chaos sorcerer’s will, and his gaze warned that he could release those magics with but a thought, and loose them upon Bloodgore or any one else that angered him. Even the beastlord was not crazed enough to risk such a fate.
The warning stopped him from punishing the rest of the herd, but it did little to staunch the beastlord’s anger and shame. “We failed,” Bloodgore snarled, his massive clawed hands clenching and unclenching, desperate to rend something. “They escaped!”
“What of it?” Varlek asked softly, turning to look out along the river. The boat’s stern was just visible in the distance. “They were simply a convenient target, that is all.” He smiled, an unpleasant expression. “Your beastmen performed admirably.”
“The boat was undamaged,” Bloodgore insisted, glaring at his herd as if he could flay them with his gaze.
“But we hit it,” Varlek pointed out, “and that was our goal.” He shrugged. “Even a boat that size could not be sunk by mere rifle fire, unless we were exceedingly skilled, or blessed by our master. It was a moving target too far away for spears or even bows to do much damage, and moving rapidly.” He nodded. “I counted at least two successful hits, and there may have been others, and that was from a single rifle.” His eyes gleamed. “With more practice we will hit every time, and then we can destroy our enemies before they can even reach us.”
“None of them were even wounded,” Bloodgore muttered, although his rage had been replaced by petulance. “I saw no blood.”
“Nor did I,” Varlek admitted, frowning. “They reacted quickly to our attack, and were able to take cover. I thought we had taken them by surprise, but perhaps one of them saw something just beforehand.” He shrugged again. “No matter; we know we can hit such a target, and that was all I wished to test at this time.”
Bloodgore shook his massive horned head. He did not understand the idea of attacking something if not for food, for power, or for protection. “What now?” he asked the sorcerer.
“Now we return to camp,” Varlek replied. “We may find more targets along the way, which will provide good practice.”
Bloodgore turned and began barking orders at the other beastmen, as the sorcerer waited impatiently. He hated taking orders from this strange man with his long robes and gleaming jewellery. It was bad enough that he had lost control of the herd to the armoured one, but now it was as if he had two masters, and they often fought for control, with Bloodgore and his herd trapped between them. Then a thought occurred to him, one that split the beastlord’s scaled face into a broad, nasty grin. Perhaps the two would finally come to blows, the Chaos champion and the Chaos sorcerer. It did not matter which one survived. The victor would be weakened, and then Bloodgore would challenge him. That might be his only chance to finally defeat the armoured human or the strange sorcerer and regain control of the herd.
Bloodgore’s grin widened, showing his long fangs, as he thought on that. Yes, he would watch the two leaders closely upon their return, perhaps even find a way to hasten their confrontation, and deepen their anger at one another. The more vicious their eventual battle, the weaker the victor would be. Then Bloodgore could step in, fresh and powerful, kill the survivor, and rule the herd once more.
He laughed, a hoarse snorting sound, and turned to make sure the other beastmen were ready to start the long trek back. It would take them several days to reach the ruins, even at their pace. That was good, it would give him time to think upon this plan.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“This is Dotternbach.” Widmer coughed and swung the wheel hard, and the Flying Trout did a strange sideways skip across the water, coming to rest against a long rough-hewn pier. He tossed a thick rope, the loop at the end passing neatly over the nearest raised piling, and then nodded towards the collection of rough shacks, huts, and small hovels clustered just beyond the pier. “This is as far as I go.”
Dietz peered at the village suspiciously, but that didn’t stop him from leaping onto the pier the second the boat stopped moving. His legs buckled slightly, trying to compensate for a roll and pitch that was no longer there, which surprised him, since he never would have expected to grow accustomed to being on the water. Accustomed and accepting were, of course, two very different things. He was delighted to be back on solid ground once more, or at least on a row of thick planks leading to solid ground.
“Not very big,” he said finally, scanning the village again. That was an understatement. Under other circumstances, Dietz would have called the rude collection of buildings an extended hamlet, and moved on without a backward glance. Alaric nodded behind him, clambering onto the pier. They had little enough to carry, just a pack each, and had gathered those things up this morning when Widmer had announced they’d soon be reaching their stopping point.
“It’s not,” the captain agreed, stepping onto the pier beside them. “Not much up this far to make people want to settle here.”
“You’re sure you can’t take us any farther?” Alaric asked, and Dietz stared at him, wondering if his employer were addled again. Did he actually want to get back on that watery deathtrap? Fortunately, Widmer shook his head.
“The river narrows just past here,” he explained. “I could sail the Trout up another hour or so, but then I’d have no way to get her back without beaching her and turning her by brute force.” He grinned. “And she’s heavier than she looks.”
“Of course.” Alaric reached into his purse and extracted five gold coins. “Five gold crowns, as promised, and our thanks.”
Widmer took the coins carefully, his expression showing he was not used to dealing with such sums, then extended a callused hand. “You’ve been decent enough, lads,” he told them gruffly. “If you ever need to sail this river again, I’ll take you.”
“That’ll never happen,” Dietz assured him, but he shook the man’s hand anyway. Widmer was a crazy old man, and Dietz, for one, couldn’t wait to get away from the grizzled old river captain. Still, despite its strange appearance and bizarre locomotion, the Flying Trout had got them this far safely, even if he still felt as if he’d never slept properly or been able to keep food down for long. “Good luck to you.”
“Where will you go now?” Alaric asked, clasping the captain’s hand after Dietz had released it.
“Oh, back down towards Nuln,” Widmer replied, scratching at his beard. “Mayhap I’ll stop off and see Gerta again on the way, for food and sleep.” He smirked at Dietz. “Tell her ye survived, aye?”
Dietz nodded. “Thanks.” Glouste popped her head out of his jacket, and chattered a farewell of her own to the grizzled captain, who nodded and scratched her head fondly. Leave it to Glouste to make friends wherever she went.
There was little else to be said, so they turned and headed into the village. Widmer didn’t follow, and by the time Dietz glanced behind him, the Flying Trout was already bouncing over the water, dancing its madcap way back down the river.
“The trip could have been worse,” Alaric said as they stepped off the pier and onto real dirt for the first time in a week. “A bit bracing, really.”
Dietz glared at him, knowing his friend was deliberately goading him. “Oh yes, bracing,” he agreed finally, letting his tone convey that h
e would find being stabbed by a thousand poisonous insects and then torn apart by a team of horses and devoured by rabid bears to be equally pleasant.
The river journey appeared to have done Alaric some good, at least. His colour had returned, and his sense of humour.
But their journey was not finished yet. “Where to now?” Dietz asked, eyeing a handful of villagers, most of the inhabitants, judging from the number of buildings, as they emerged to stare at them. The grubby men, women, and even children looked caught between surprise, curiosity, and fear. He guessed Dotternbach did not have many visitors.
Alaric was looking around as well, a faraway cast to his gaze, and Dietz knew his friend was searching for the strange signs that only he could see. Dietz still didn’t know why they appeared to Alaric and not to him, although he wondered if their previous encounters had anything to do with it. Alaric had been exposed to many hideous things over the course of their adventures. Had those events left him more susceptible to receiving portents? More aware of traces normally unnoticed? The cultists and the beastmen were all Chaos-tainted, and if Alaric was able to see or sense that taint it would explain how he was able to follow their trails. Dietz was half-glad he could not see such things, but he wished he could help Alaric shoulder the burden. Unfortunately, all he could do was provide support and not press him too much for explanations.
“Into the mountains,” Alaric replied after a moment, wincing at something. “They didn’t pass through here, but they were not far away, and the trail continues to go west.”
[Daemon Gates 03] - Hour of the Daemon Page 12
