Daemon Gates Trilogy (15 page)

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

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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 the 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.

'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 uncertainly 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. Widmar 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 Dietz'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.