Daemon Gates Trilogy (10 page)

'A horse perhaps?' was all Dietz asked, squatting down near where Alaric had pointed, but the older man was shaking his head even before Alaric responded. 'Beastman,' he answered softly, tracing the blotch with one finger. 'I don't have Lankdorfs skill, or Adelrich's, but I can still

make out the marks, and this is a cloven hoof print.' He glanced up at Alaric. 'This is where you see it?'

Alaric nodded.

'That's good,' Dietz said, standing up and brushing his hand against his leg to clean away the dirt. 'I was begin­ning to think you'd gone mad.'

'So was I, truth be told,' Alaric replied. They both nod­ded, agreeing without words that no more need be said on the subject, but Alaric felt an immense burden leave him. He was not imagining them! He still did not know why he could see the marks and Dietz could not, but there was no denying the strange signs were leading them after the mask. 'The handprints led here, and now these. Both a man and the beastmen were in that warehouse,' he pointed out. 'They must be working together. The beastmen couldn't be seen in the city so they used the sewers, and whoever this man is, he walked out in the open and rejoined them once the cultists were dead.' And, he added silently, once he had the mask.

'We'll need supplies,' Dietz pointed out, glancing back towards Nuln, and then turning to study the dirt road ahead of them. 'I doubt they'll stay on the road for long.'

'We can buy what we need and be off,' Alaric assured him, 'although we may wish to check with the local witch hunters first. If Kleiber is still here we may be able to work together.'

Dietz nodded, but he was still studying the road, and beyond it, his gaze slowly rising to take in the mountains beyond. Nuln was near the northwest tip of Wissenland, and the Grey Mountains ran along the province's northern edge, due west of them.

'The road leads south, following the river,' Alaric pointed out.

'I know,' Dietz said, grimacing, 'but the way my luck runs, they'll veer west and head towards the peaks.' The

older man disliked heights, which Alaric thought funny, Middenheim was carved atop a wide plateau, after all.

'I'm sure it won't come to that,' Alaric answered. Person­ally he did not mind mountains; it was caves and other depths that made him nervous. 'Regardless, we had best be getting our supplies while it's still light out.' Dietz nodded, and together they turned and headed back into the city. For the first time since they'd left Middenheim, Alaric was not worried about urgency. The marks were clearly there for him to follow. They would still be there on the morrow. Something wanted him to go after the mask, and, at least for now, he intended to oblige.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The beastlord snarled
, shaking its massive, shaggy head so his spittle flew, and grabbed the nearest beastman by the shoulders. A single heave and the offending creature flew through the air, tossed aside like so much rubbish to collide heavily with a stone slab twenty feet away. The other beastmen shrank back against the ruins, heads bowed to show respect and obedience. Their fellow had dared to hesitate when given an order. It was lucky it had not been torn apart for its insolence.

Bloodgore snarled again, glaring at the others, challeng­ing them to oppose him. None did, and he straightened with a snort, smashing a heavy fist into the nearest wall. The solid stone splintered, and the beastmen scattered, leaving Bloodgore to his rage.

Bloodgore watched the others flee his wrath, feeling a brief glow of satisfaction. At least those who had once been his herd still feared him, and why shouldn't they? He flexed his muscles, massive cords bulging in his arms and

chest beneath his shaggy hair and thick, scaled brown skin. He was still powerful, still strong enough to slaughter those elves when they tried to reclaim the ruins, still pow­erful enough to destroy any of the other beastmen, even two or three of them at once if they dared stand against him. He had been challenged many times during his lead­ership, and had never lost: never, until him.

Turning, Bloodgore glared at a figure walking along a partially destroyed balcony deeper within the ruins. His small red eyes could only make out the figure's outline, but Bloodgore knew what he would see were he closer. He knew every feature of the hated creature who had stolen his rightful place as ruler of this beastherd. He had mem­orised every crag, every scratch, every scar, every barb, blade, hook, and chain of his foe's hated face and form.

Yet there was nothing he could do. The stranger had appeared and challenged him for leadership, and Blood­gore was forced to accept. To do otherwise was to show weakness, to admit fear at accepting the contest, and that would spell the end of his reign just as surely. Strength was all his people understood.

So he accepted, though the stranger was not even one of them; touched by the gods, yes, this massive figure in red and black, and brass, but not a beastman.

The stranger won.

No, not merely won, he had defeated Bloodgore as eas­ily as if he were a mere child, a defenceless stripling. Bloodgore charged, his massive head lowered so the great curving horns sprouting from his temples targeted the challenger's chest, his strong, goat-like legs propelling him forward at a terrible speed, a fearsome bellow erupting from his lips as he rapidly closed the distance. He would spit the stranger on his horns and then pull himself erect, lifting the pinned, gored challenger into the air and toss­ing him to the side so the rest of the herd could feast upon his mangled carcass.

That was what Bloodgore had planned, but it had not happened.

Instead, the stranger brought his massive axe down upon Bloodgore's head just as he came within range. The twinned blood-stained blades turned so they struck flat rather than edgewise, but the colossal impact brought the great beastlord to a crashing halt, and drove his head down so fast and so hard that his chin slammed into the ground. A loud groan rose from the assembled herd as they watched their leader's charge stopped cold.

Bloodgore clambered back up, his great clawed hands digging into the ground for purchase, even as his cloven hooves scrabbled to get beneath him and lift his bulk off the dirt. The stranger stepped back, waiting calmly. That only enraged Bloodgore further. He leapt forward, his head still ringing from the first blow, tasting blood where his lip had split from the fall, and his enormous hands shot forward to grab the challenger by the thick collar around his armoured neck and rip him to pieces.

But they never touched him.

Instead, the stranger turned, batting the hands aside with his axe as easily as a man might swat away a trouble­some insect. Then he reached in, grabbing Bloodgore around the neck with one mailed hand, and smashed their foreheads together, the challenger's helmeted one against Bloodgore's scaled one. The collision produced a loud report and both stepped back, staggered by the impact, but Bloodgore had stumbled and fallen, unable to rise again. The challenger calmly turned and raised his axe high over his head, moving in a circle so that the herd could clearly see how undamaged he was.

At first the herd was too stunned to respond. This stranger, this human, had defeated their great leader? But they could not deny what they had seen, and leadership went to the strongest. After a moment, they began to cheer, braying and bellowing, and roaring their approval.

Then the stranger, the new ruler of the herd, glanced back to Bloodgore, who still lay stretched out upon the ground, gasping for breath, blood dripping down his face from the gash across his forehead where the helm's lip had sliced his flesh open.

He walked away, showing his scorn by leaving his back open. Bloodgore clambered back to his feet, and killed the first beastman presumptuous enough to attack, showing he was still more than capable of killing anyone else who approached him. The rest of the herd backed away, giving him space, and Bloodgore knew their fear of him was still strong. Only their fear of the stranger was stronger. He had proven himself, and now controlled the herd - and Blood­gore with them.

The stranger made Bloodgore his second, issuing orders, and then leaving the beastlord to see them carried out. Bloodgore did so, because by surviving he had accepted the consequences. He must live and serve, and obey. The only way to break that hated cycle was to challenge for leadership, seeking to reclaim his former rule or die in the process, and he had already been defeated once. Bloodgore knew his new master could beat him again, and easily. He found that he feared that defeat, and the death that would surely accompany it. He was not afraid to die, but he was terrified of throwing his life away in so foolish a manner.

So, he lived on, and hated every minute of it. If only there were some way to gain the upper hand, or even equal footing, he would challenge his master in a second, but Bloodgore had yet to see such a chance. So, he waited, and watched, and vented his wrath on the herd that had once been his.

'He will kill
you one day.'

Deathmaul turned, unsurprised, as a figure melted out of the balcony shadows not far from his position. The newcomer was tall and thin, with long robes worn

loose over dark clothes of sturdy make. Even in the dim light, he could see the runes woven into the robe's hems, and the similar marks on the heavy rings, wristlets and amulets adorning the man. Varlek never missed an opportunity to acquire a new item decorated with the signs of his master.

Deathmaul grunted, glancing again towards the ruins' front edge, where Bloodgore had been glaring up at him just seconds before. 'He will need to muster his courage first, and if he does I will be ready.'

'I've no doubt you can defeat him,' Varlek said smoothly, stepping closer and laying one long-fingered hand upon a shattered statue, the gems of his rings winking in the twi­light. 'The Blood God has chosen his champion well, but if he dies who will convey your orders to the herd?'

'I still have you,' Deathmaul pointed out, laughing at the angry pride he saw flash across his companion's face. 'Do not fear, Varlek,' he assured the other man after a second's pause, 'I know you are more than just an errand boy.'

'I do not serve you at all,' Varlek replied haughtily, his narrow features still tight with irritation. 'I answer to our master directly. I am only here because our goals coincide. If that changes, I am gone. Never forget that.'

Deathmaul felt his temper rising at his companion's tone, and stretched to his full height so he could glower down at the sorcerer. 'And never forget that if you cross me, I will carve your spine from your body and use its shards to pick my teeth,' he growled. One hand gripped and tight­ened on a broken column nearby, splintering it further, while the other grasped the haft of his axe where it rested against his side. 'You are a useful ally, Varlek, but you are not indispensable. Do not try my patience!'

They glared at one another for a moment, Varlek's slate grey eyes against Deathmaul's jet black ones, seeking dom­inance. At last Varlek looked away, admitting defeat. As they had both known he would.

'What do you think of the new weapons?' Varlek asked after a moment, waving one hand towards the courtyard behind and below them, where members of the herd stood in a row facing broken statuary. They both turned to study the scene, watching silently for a time.

'I do not like them,' Deathmaul stated finally. 'They are loud and sloppy. These creatures can barely hold the things properly, much less use them effectively.'

'They give us range and power,' Varlek pointed out, 'and are devastating against a massed foe. Every arrow fired into a crowd will claim a target.'

'Arrows do not explode on the bow,' Deathmaul growled, 'nor does their theft draw attention.'

What if it does?' The sorcerer replied with a nasty smile, revealing small, sharp teeth that had been filed to points. 'No one would think to look for them here.'

That much was true, Deathmaul conceded with a grudg­ing nod. They were too far away for anyone who was curious about what had happened to realise the attackers and their plunder might be here. Not that he feared pur­suit, but he did not want his plans disturbed until all was ready.

'I still do not like them,' Deathmaul repeated, watching without wincing as the top of a distant pillar exploded into dust and tiny fragments, 'but they may prove useful.'

They will,' Varlek assured him. 'They will. With these weapons we can mount an attack against any city in the Empire, knowing we can destroy all opposition even before it can reach us.'

'Perhaps,' said Deathmaul, continuing to watch for a second, before turning away, 'but I will not rely upon such factors. I will trust in my own strength and the gifts our masters have given me.' He strode off, towards the balcony's far end, and disappeared into the building, heading back towards his own quarters. There was still much to do.

Varlek watched him go, the Chaos sorcerer's thoughts hidden once again behind his calm, focused features. He glanced back down one last time and then shouted a few additional instructions and departed, leaving the beast­men below to continue their blackpowder practice unobserved.

CHAPTER NINE

'This is why I
hate villagers,' Alaric was complaining, gnawing on a piece of hard bread as they walked. "'Beware the fog, particularly near the bones". What sort of a state­ment is that?' He squinted up at the leaden sky and glowered at the valley they were slogging through, which looked much the same as the ones they had been travers­ing for the past two weeks. 'Of course you should beware a fog. You could break your neck stumbling around when you can't see. And any place that has bones, particularly fresh human ones, is worth steering clear of. Couldn't they have said something more useful, like "Don't take the left fork it leads into swampland," or "There are beastmen in the caves to the west so steer clear"? Instead it's just a bunch of vague mutterings from people who've never even learned to read.'

'Hm.' Dietz was chewing his way through a hard cheese, rind and all, and swallowed before replying further, Vague, maybe, but still wise.'