Daemon Gates Trilogy (11 page)

His friend spared him a weary 'oh, please' look, but Dietz shook his head. '"Don't go beneath the city, mon­sters lurk there",' he reminded Alaric. 'Or what about "The Strigany worship daemons" or "The dead walk the moun­tains"?'

'Yes yes,' Alaric said irritably, tossing the bread heel aside. Glouste scampered after it and returned to Dietz's shoul­der a moment later, chittering excitedly about her new acquisition, which she began nipping at greedily. 'I take your point. Not all mutterings are useless, and even vague warnings should be heeded.' He slipped back into lecture mode for a second. 'In fact, many superstitions have their roots in actual past events. People were forced to adopt strange activities to combat certain menaces, and passed those habits down to their children, who passed them along in turn, until the menaces were long gone and their very existence forgotten, but people still turned widder- shins and stepped carefully over thresholds and never brushed dirt out of the door, even though they had no idea why.' He frowned, recalling his irritation. 'But that's not the case here,' he insisted. 'This is just foolishness. These people are vague for no reason other than they're not smart enough to add more detail to their crude fears.'

'I think you're just annoyed because they wouldn't sell us better food,' Dietz commented, finishing the piece of cheese, and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

'Well, what of it?' Alaric replied sharply. 'They clearly had other food there, but all they would part with was that rock-hard bread and the equally rock-like cheese. Is that any way to treat a pair of noble adventurers? And the prices. They're insane! They might as well have held us at sword point and taken our coin, at least then I'd feel justi­fied in the loss.'

Dietz nodded. Yes, the villagers had been stingy in sell­ing them food, and the prices had been steep, but they had obviously seen how desperate the two men were for fresh

food. There was little game in these hills, and the supplies they'd bought in Nuln had run out days ago. So, the vil­lagers had sold them only what they didn't want themselves, and had overcharged them for the privilege.

Dietz was relieved that his friend's temper had returned. He knew Alaric well enough to know that the nobleman became mild and meek when he was seriously ill or badly wounded. This sudden vehemence about the villagers meant that Alaric must be fully recovered from his illness, and Dietz was more than happy to let his friend continue to rant if it meant he was in good health once more.

'Still see the marks?' he asked after Alaric had wound down a bit.

'Yes,' the younger man replied. He waved ahead of them. 'They're still there, clear as day. We're still going in the right direction.'

Dietz nodded. They were walking south, following the river, in fact, keeping its broad expanse just within view most of the time. That was fine by him. Better south than west, where the mountains beckoned ominously, and the river meant the chance for fish, which he had caught more than once since they'd started their trek. True, he was tired of the fare, and Alaric hated fish even at the best of times, but it was enough to keep them alive when between vil­lages. Besides, tonight he could make stew with the small spicy sausages he had talked one woman into selling. It would make a welcome change.

They continued on, both lost in their thoughts for a while. Finally, Alaric broke the silence, as Dietz had known he would. His friend could not bear the quiet for long.

'What worries me,' Alaric began, 'is why they took the mask.'

Dietz shrugged. 'It's attractive,' he answered. 'That might be reason enough.' It was, too, from what he remembered of it. A single slab of some unfamiliar stone that gleamed gold and brown with strange bands like the markings of a

cat, it had been carved into a striking face that combined the feline and the human, bringing the ferocity and hunger of the one to the intelligence and deliberate cruelty of the other. It represented the eight-armed tiger-god of Ind, and it had captured his attention at once when he'd spotted it in the inner sanctum of the beastman temple in that for­eign land.

That was why he'd taken it.

It had been Alaric's fault, of course. He was the one who had dragged them both to that distant shore, seeking trea­sure and knowledge unknown to any in the Empire. It was Alaric who had sent him into the temple to scout it out and to bring back 'something small enough to carry, valu­able enough to be worth our time and distinctive enough so that it could not have come from anywhere else.' The mask had fit those instructions nicely, and he had pried it loose from the rest of the enormous statue. He had also managed to survive the angry beastmen who had come after him, enraged at his sacrilege. Not ordinary beastmen, either, they had all been catlike and far more intelligent, more graceful, and more organised than the normal vari­ety. .. and far more dangerous. He had made it out of there alive, and with the mask, though he'd often regretted that since.

Alaric was shaking his head.

'It is striking, certainly,' he agreed, 'but I doubt that would be enough to sway a beastman into taking it, and what about the cultists? They were slaughtered, but not eaten, which does not match the beastmen's usual approach to battle. It's as if the cultists were slain for the mask, and then discarded because only the mask was important.' He frowned.

'You're thinking of the statues,' Dietz guessed.

They were Chaos tainted,' Alaric replied, 'and one of them was being worshipped by the beastmen. Clearly they have an affinity for such items. The mask has similar markings; I

could see them finding it, realising its connection to the forces they serve, and carrying it off for veneration.'

'So now you know why they took it,' Dietz said. They recognised it as a Chaos artefact.' The fact made him shiver. It seemed as if, lately, they encountered such relics at every turn.

'Yes, but how did they know to look for it?' Alaric asked. 'How did they find the cultists back in Nuln? And why are they taking it so far from the city? Either they were from Nuln, like the mutants in Middenheim, in which case they've gone a long way from home; or they came to Nuln, in which case they must have come a long way, and was it for the mask or for something else?'

Dietz shrugged. 'No idea,' he admitted, 'but once we catch up to them we can find out.'

Yes,' his friend agreed. 'I just like knowing the answers beforehand. It makes it less likely that we're walking into a trap, or at least into a situation we don't understand and are not prepared to handle.'

'We'll handle it,' Dietz answered, reaching up to scratch Glouste, who had finished her bread and was burbling happily 'We always do, and how could it be a trap when no one could possibly have expected us to find this trail, much less follow it?'

Alaric nodded, but did not reply, and Dietz shivered as he thought about that last part. How could anyone have known they would find this trail? But then, how could anyone have suspected they would follow a map fragment to a lost tomb deep in the Border Princes? But they had, and apparently their actions had been anticipated, even guided, by the daemon; the daemon they had encountered twice; the one that had known Alaric by name. Could this be another situation like that? Was that daemon still influ­encing them somehow, still guiding them towards some purpose of its own? The thought was terrifying, and Dietz shook it away. They had vanquished the daemon back in

Vitrolle, destroying the body it had claimed. Surely it was gone from this plane for good? And surely their latest quest was only due to Alaric's obsession with antiquities, and his justified concern about the mask falling into the wrong hands? They were travelling for their own reasons and no one else's.

Dietz wanted desperately to believe that.

A
week later
they were still walking.

'Don't these beastmen have a camp somewhere?' Alaric muttered as they stomped down a small hill, pushing their way through a thick clump of tangled brush that snagged at their clothes, their packs, and their hair. 'Or are they simply planning to walk forever?'

He was irritable. He was tired, cold, damp, and hungry. The weather had alternated between overcast gloom and glaring sun, with most nights miserably dank and cold. They'd fought off wild animals and scared off a few ban­dits, although they'd been fortunate not to encounter anyone worse thus far. His head was aching again, his eyes burning, and the sunlight was like thin slivers of white-hot metal jabbing through his eyes and into his brain. Every glance burned, every blink provided short-lived but blessed relief. He wanted to lie down, to close his eyes and not open them again until the sun vanished below the horizon or the pain ceased, whichever came first.

On top of that, he had noticed a blur to his vision along the right edge, as if the scenery there were wavering some­how, shifting ever so slightly when he was not looking directly at it. He was worried that the strange visions might be starting again. He had been free of them since leaving Nuln, except for the glowing tracks, and had started to hope the bloody, crazed images were a thing of the past. Now he was not so sure.

Alaric tried hiding his discomfort from Dietz, but as usual the older man saw right through him. 'Head

hurting?' he asked, and Alaric nodded slowly, afraid that more rapid movement would unleash a fresh wave of agony. We should camp,' he continued, and Alaric nodded again. The heavily forested hill had bottomed out into a wide, flat valley, the trees thinning until the basin had only some bushes, a few small groves, and sparse, greying grass. A wide, shallow gouge ran across the valley, meandering here and there, darker grass poking up within it, and Alaric guessed that it had once been a river. He and Dietz exchanged a glance. Both men knew without speaking that this would not be a good place to stop for the night.

'We'll camp on those hills just beyond,' Alaric decided, gritting his teeth. He would not let this discomfort con­quer him. He began walking again, determined to reach the far side, and Dietz fell into step beside him.

As they walked, a shadow fell across them. At first, Alaric thought some massive bird or colossal bat must have flown overhead, its wings blocking out the sun, but when he glanced up, he saw that the entire sky had become hazy, the sun only a burning white disc behind a gauzy curtain. The light did not hurt as much, now that it was diffuse, and he was able to see their surroundings more clearly, which was ironic since tendrils of grey mist were beginning to blanket the land.

'Beware the fog,' he said softly, watching as the mist spread rapidly, creating a vast plain of pale grey. His foot caught on something unseen beneath the mist, and he stumbled, remembering the second half of the villagers' warning, even as his hands brushed the ground, and something curved and solid and smooth that jutted up from beneath the dirt and grass. Even without being able to see it, Alaric's agile fingers could tell that what they were feeling was a bone. A human one, or at least humanoid, if the rusty metal bracelet still wrapped around it were any indication.

'Particularly near the bones,' he recited. His words echoed and vanished, were bounced around through the

fog and then swallowed whole. 'Well, perhaps not so stu­pid after all,' he admitted, straightening up.

'We have to camp,' Dietz said. He let his pack fall to the ground, and Alaric nodded and dropped his own, sinking to the damp ground beside it. Dietz was right; they could kill themselves trying to cross this place in the fog. Better to sit tight and move on once the fog had passed.

After a few moments, Alaric roused himself again.

'I'll gather 'some firewood,' he told Dietz, clambering back to his feet. 'We'll need it on a night like this.'

His friend nodded slowly. 'Be careful,' he warned. 'Don't go far.'

'I won't,' Alaric assured him.

He walked away slowly, cautiously, feeling his way along the ground, peering through the fog in search of trees or old branches. His feet kept bumping against things hidden in the fog. Some of them felt like lumps of smooth stone, while others rang hollow like old metal. The ground was littered with them, or at least it had been long ago. Enough time had passed for the dirt to have piled up around and over the shapes, grass growing atop many of them, as the earth sought to reclaim what organic matter remained.

'It must have been a great battle,' Alaric whispered, stop­ping to free his foot from something he suspected had been an axe or a hammer at one point. He straightened again, only to discover that he was surrounded on all sides by the soft fog. He was alone.

'Dietz?' His call carried oddly.

'Alaric?' came the reply an instant later. 'Where are you?'

'Here,' Alaric answered, knowing even as he said it that such a statement was worse than useless.

'I'll come find you.'

'No.' Dietz had not dealt with fog and mist often, but Alaric had, his homeland was often covered in such shrouds, and he had been taught their dangers at an early age. 'You will lose all sense of direction the minute you

step away from our packs,' he warned, 'and sound is strange within this fog, it will mislead you.'

'What should I do, then?' Dietz's voice seemed to come from all around him.

'Stay where you are,' Alaric instructed. 'I'll find you, or I'll just sit and wait for the fog to pass. Don't worry.'

He heard no reply, but assumed that Dietz was following his directions. His friend was far too sensible not to. Alaric shrugged and started walking again. He knew that it prob­ably wasn't the best idea, but he still hoped he could retrace his steps and stumble back upon Dietz somehow. At least his head did not hurt anymore.

No, that was not quite true; it still ached, but with a dull throbbing, rather than the sharp stabbing pain of before. His eyes still burned with the same sensation he got when he had been staring during bright daylight for too long. The fog was all around him, and its softness would have seemed comforting if not for the cloying moisture it added to every breath, and the sticky closeness of it upon his flesh. It was like being swaddled in an enormous blanket soaked in water, and Alaric could feel it clinging to his limbs as he struggled to push through it and reach the safely of the hills beyond.