“I’d have gone by the river,” the scout repeated with a shrug, “but then I’m a man of Middenheim and not familiar with the ways of our south-west neighbour. He seems confident in his route and I’ll trust in his judgement.”
Alaric had certainly been right, Dietz mused as they passed through the city gates. Carroburg was large enough. As the former capital it was the largest city in the province after Middenheim itself, and though it lacked his own home’s rugged exterior, this place had enough people, wares and energy to satisfy any traveller. Not that Carroburg had escaped the war, of course, but it had not been involved in more than peripheral skirmishes. The brunt of the war’s impact here had come when refugees from eastern towns had arrived seeking shelter and protection. Tents and shanties still lined the space outside the city walls and filled every alley within. The resulting crowd was thicker than Middenheim had suffered at its height, and Alaric admitted he found it hard to breathe with so many bodies jammed so close together.
They wasted little time in Carroburg, however. The party took rooms in a modest inn halfway up the riverbank, high enough to avoid water and waste, but low enough not to be extravagant, and spent the next day replenishing their supply of food, drink and feed. New bolts and arrows were bought to replace the ones used in fighting the beastmen, and Dietz saw Kleiber tying a fresh powder horn to his belt beside a new pouch of pistol balls.
The witch hunter had also penned a long report, which he had then taken to one of his peers within the city. He assured Alaric and Dietz over dinner that the report mentioned their dedication and would clear their name at once. Fastred had sent copies of his journal entries to his fellows at the guild, and Kristoff had given a written account to a cohort at Carroburg’s trading guildhouse. Holst had arranged for his wounded men to stay in the city and travel back to Middenheim when they could, taking his short report and a list of their slain brethren back with them. Only Adelrich and Renke had not sent word—the scout pointed out his job was merely to help them get where they were going safely, and Renke was updating his maps as they travelled and saw no need to send them off half-finished, or to leave copies of the uncompleted versions with his counterparts there in town.
That night they all slept well and the next morning they departed. Alaric had hired a boat and, once men and horses were loaded, they set off along the river towards Marienburg.
Riverboat travel was an easy, comfortable thing. The sailors handled the sails and steered from the rudder at the rear, leaving the travellers nothing to do but laze about in the sun and enjoy the quiet. They passed several other boats along the way, ranging from one-person skiffs to longboats twice the size of their boat, and each time the boatmen exchanged news and information about their route. Dietz admitted to Adelrich that, if he was forced to travel by water, this was the least upsetting method. Still, he could not shake his sense of dread whenever he looked out over the silver waters or realised just how far they were from each bank, or how deep the water ran below them. He slept fitfully, waking from nightmares of lying chained on the riverbed as boats glided by above him.
Glouste did her best to distract her master, nipping him awake whenever he cried out. During the day the tree-monkey delighted in racing about the ferry, scampering under and sometimes over the horses, and weaving in between baggage and people at top speed. The rest of the party had grown accustomed to her antics during their ride through Middenland and watched her with amusement, complaining half-heartedly when she nipped their feet or hands or scurried up their arms or legs. The sailors were less comfortable, and after a near miss with an oar on the first day, Dietz warned her not to bother the sailors or get in their way. Glouste seemed to take this as a challenge and spent the rest of their voyage keeping just beyond the sailors’ reach and just at the edge of their sight.
The river barge finally reached the Hundleir. Middenland lay on the north side and Reikland on the south, Uder and Merxheim representing them respectively. Alaric paid the ferrymen and the party disembarked on the Reikland side, leading their horses onto the dock and down into Merxheim proper. It was not until the ferry had swung back into the current and floated on down the river that the travellers examined their location.
Merxheim was not a large town, perhaps a hundred buildings in all, and many were in sad repair. Deitz had grown up among the stone of Middenheim and still found it strange to see wooden houses and dirt roads, but he had learned to appreciate the warmth of a well-built wooden structure. The buildings he saw beyond the docks did not match that ideal—their planks were worn and grey, the roofs sagged, the walls drooped, and the buildings themselves leaned, often in more than one direction. Doors hung crooked and shutters flapped in the breeze, revealing darkened interiors. No one moved around them.
“Where is everyone?” Alaric wondered out loud, glancing about. “I’ve always thought Merxheim a dirty little hovel, but last I was here it had mud-spattered children and dogs playing in the road, old women trying to sell fish and soap, and brutish men offering to hire as guides and bodyguards.” He looked around again, as did the others, but still nothing moved but them, the doors and shutters. The town seemed deserted.
“Perhaps it was the war,” Renke suggested, though he did not sound convinced. As far as they knew the forces of Chaos had not crossed the Reik.
“Plague,” Fastred offered with a shudder, an explanation that was both more plausible and more chilling. Normally plague houses were fired with the victims inside, but the buildings here, though dilapidated, were unburned. Adelrich and Dietz jogged quickly among the buildings but saw no people nor any traces of them. Finally they returned, no less confused than before.
“Well, whatever happened here is not our concern,” Alaric decided, swinging up into his saddle. He frowned, “Although this was the drop-off point for the second statue. I hope its presence was not the cause of the town’s emptiness.” He raised his head and grabbed his reins. “Still, it’s clearly not here so we’d best get moving.”
“But where should we go?” Kristoff asked, still looking around warily. “Do we have any idea who might have taken the statue, or where it might be?”
“None,” Alaric admitted. He grinned. “But Drasche is not that big, no matter what its baron might think. If we head south along the river we’ll be out of the trees in a week. Another two will see us to the foot of the Grey Mountains and I very much doubt that anyone carried it up there. If we have not found it by then,” he shrugged, “we head north along the mountains’ base until we hit the Fleudermeiser, which forms Drasche’s—and Reikland’s—northern border. That will lead us back to the Reik. If we reach the Reik again without seeing signs of this statue it is not in the barony, I guarantee you.”
The others looked less certain, but none of them knew the terrain as well as Alaric did, and he had already demonstrated his leadership to be competent, so they nodded, mounted, and followed him from the empty town. Dietz kept glancing back as they rode away, worried that something might be lurking there to leap at them from behind. He was not the only one.
Two days later they reached another village, this one so small it did not appear on Renke’s maps. Nor was it likely to do so now, Alaric thought as he studied the blackened remains of buildings, posts—and people. Merxheim at least had been intact. This nameless place had been burned to the ground and its inhabitants had perished with it.
“It could have been plague,” Fastred confirmed, tossing aside several charred planks to examine a body beneath them. “I see no evidence of sickness, but the fire would have burned it away.”
“Sigmar’s holy flame cleanses the world,” Kleiber agreed, though Alaric noticed the witch hunter kept his mount well back from the destruction. Perhaps, he thought, the fanatic was not so confident in his god’s favour, or in Sigmar’s power to protect him, as he often claimed.
“Whoever did this was efficient,” Holst commented, his eyes skimming across the wreckage. “More bodies at the centre, and more ash—they started
there and worked outward, burning as they went.” He shook his head. “Militia, I’d wager my sword on it.”
“Reikland’s soldiers do have a reputation,” Kristoff pointed out lightly, and Alaric was glad he was standing slightly ahead of the others when the trader said it. That way he knew his expression wouldn’t betray him.
“Oh yes,” he replied, forcing his tone to stay casual. “We have some of the finest soldiers in the Empire. No offence,” he added, nodding to Holst, who nodded back.
“None taken, sir,” the warrior replied. “I’ve fought alongside several from Reikland and always been impressed with their skill.” The burly sergeant frowned. “I’m not sure why soldiers would burn a village, though, unless it was plague.”
“Or bandits,” Adelrich added, returning from a quick survey of the area. “I’ve heard stories of small towns that preyed upon travellers, and they’re well-situated for it here.” It was true—the nameless village had stood along the bank of the Hundleir, still well within the north-west edge of the Reikwald Forest. It would be easy to ambush anyone coming down the river or through the woods.
“No signs of the statue,” the scout added, falling in beside Dietz and Alaric. “Nor can I see traces in the forest of a wagon or cart carrying such a weight.”
“It did not travel by land,” Alaric agreed, turning away from the burnt village and leading them farther along the river. “Whoever has it must have received it at Merxheim and taken it south by boat.”
The others nodded. That made sense—the Hundleir was right here and Merxheim stood at the junction between it and the Reik. The forest was dense enough to make even riding on horse back difficult—no one could have brought a massive stone sculpture through the trees intact, but the river provided an easy alternative. By riding alongside the river they were tracing the same route as the statue, but could stop to study clues at any time. Alaric could not help but notice the nod Adelrich gave him—it was the gesture of a man who agrees with your decision and respects it—and that buoyed his spirits, which had been low since they had boarded the river boat and crossed into his home province. He was not accustomed to making decisions and even less familiar with having them turn out correct. For an instant he wished his father could see him now, but he quickly quashed that notion.
Adelrich spotted another small settlement a few days later, this one deeper within the forest and well away from the riverbank. It too had been destroyed, but not burned—the buildings had been shattered and torn down. They detoured to examine it and Holst confirmed the others’ first impressions.
“Axes did this,” he stated, running one finger along a broken board, “and longswords. More soldiers.” He squinted up at the surrounding trees. “They didn’t dare risk a fire spreading so they tore the place apart instead.”
“No sign of the people,” Fastred was saying, but Kleiber interrupted him.
“Over here.” The witch hunter gestured and the others followed his finger to a low mound just beyond the furthest building. The ground was still damp and loose. “Fully forty people could be buried there,” he declared, his voice unusually soft, “possibly the village’s full occupancy.”
“Plague again?” Fastred wondered aloud, but corrected himself. “No, they’d have burned the bodies, at least. Bandits, then? It is an ill-omened place,” he said, looking at the trees looming over the wreckage, “and well-suited to such villainy.”
“Well-armed men passed through here,” Adelrich confirmed, studying the ground around the village, “but nothing larger.”
“No statue,” Alaric muttered, trying not to look at the mound. “So we return to the river.” The others followed him back, but it was a sombre group that focused almost obsessively upon their quest, avoiding images of the place they had just seen or the fate its people had doubtless suffered.
They had almost reached the edge of the forest when they came upon a third village. “Not again,” Dietz muttered quietly, and he saw several of his companions making similar requests. Even Kleiber paused in obvious prayer, and Dietz suspected the witch hunter was asking Sigmar to spare them the sight of another mass grave.
This settlement sat along the river, so close the water lapped up against the outer buildings, and that had been its salvation. As they rode in they saw signs of fire again, but several buildings still stood and a few were even serviceable. The river had doused the flames before they could spread along the waterfront and so had spared the town the same fate as its predecessors.
Not that this had saved it completely. The buildings furthest from the water had turned to ash and blackened wood, and several more bore both scorch marks and signs of violence. A few buildings had toppled as a result, creating a pile of wreckage near the village’s centre. The remaining homes stood open and empty, their dark doorways staring reproachfully at the travellers as they rode past.
“Is anyone still alive in this land?” Alaric wondered out loud, smacking his fist against his thigh. Not that he liked the Baron von Drasche—far from it—but he had nothing against the man’s people. Besides, no one deserved this. What had happened here? He turned to ask Dietz a question and saw that his friend had stiffened in his saddle. One hand was gliding slowly to the long knife at his belt and the other was stroking his horse’s neck, keeping it calm. Glouste, that damnable tree-monkey, chittered once and disappeared into its owner’s jacket. That, as much as anything, warned Alaric to be ready. Much as he hated to admit it his friend’s pet had an uncanny sense for imminent danger.
Adelrich was already off his horse and moving silently towards the largest remaining structure, a small single-storey house whose thick wooden walls looked almost undamaged. The scout had his longsword in one hand, the other held open before him, and as he reached the building his free hand reached up and flattened against the door. Then he froze, going completely motionless for several seconds. Suddenly he shoved the door hard, reached in, and grabbed at something inside.
“Got you!” Adelrich shouted, yanking his arm back, and a wretched-looking individual with it. The man might have been young, but his hair was thin and oily, his face lined and flushed, eyes bulging above sunken cheeks, his skin pale. He wore little more than rags and yelped with fright as Adelrich hurled him towards the others.
“Don’t kill me!” the man pleaded, dropping to his knees, and Alaric felt disgust—not towards this unfortunate, but whoever had instilled such fear in him.
“We won’t hurt you,” he told the man, dismounting and tossing his reins to Dietz. “It’s all right.” That was a stupid thing to say, he knew, but as usual he had spoken without thinking. “We mean you no harm,” he tried again, holding his hands out from his sides. “Look, I’ll leave my blade in its scabbard.” He wished he’d thought to disarm first, but it was too late for that now—he was sure if his hand ventured anywhere near his sword hilt the man before him would interpret this as an attack. Not that the wretch was any threat, but Alaric desperately wanted to know what had happened here, and this man was the only survivor they had found thus far.
“Alaric!” At Dietz’s hiss he glanced back, and turned just in time to catch the water skin and biscuit the older man tossed him. “Give him those.” It made sense, Alaric admitted—the man was clearly starving. He offered the food and drink to the man, who was still kneeling, hands up to protect his head. When the villager didn’t move, Alaric inched forward and set the offerings on the ground a few feet away, and then backed away.
“Go on, eat,” he urged. The man glanced up, saw the food at once and snatched it up, cramming the entire biscuit into his mouth in a single motion and swigging water from the skin even before he had begun chewing. He swallowed convulsively, almost gagging, and spluttered a bit, spewing water about him, but at last he had forced the food down and sat back.
“More,” he demanded, and Dietz wordlessly tossed down several more biscuits and a second skin, plus a hunk of cheese. The villager gathered them up and rose unsteadily to his feet. He backed away, in
ching past Adelrich, who moved aside at Alaric’s nod. When he reached the doorway, however, the villager did not enter. Instead, he tossed the food and the water skin into the building, and then pulled the door shut behind him. They could all hear the sound of hurried footsteps and a soft squeal of delight, followed by slurping and chewing.
“My sisters,” the man explained, his back protectively against the door, and Alaric felt like laughing and crying all at once. They were almost twenty, all well fed and well armed and mounted. He was one man, barely alive. Yet he guarded the door as if he would strike them all dead should they pursue his sisters.
“What happened here?” Alaric finally asked and the villager seized gratefully upon the change of subject.
“Soldiers,” he replied grimly. “Rounded us up an’ marched us to the elder’s house. Slaughtered everyone, then tore the town down around ’em.” He puffed up slightly. “I saw ’em coming… was fishing. Hid my sisters in the root cellar and climbed a tree. They didn’t find me.”
“Was there plague here, boy?” Fastred asked kindly, and at the word “boy” Alaric looked again and blinked in surprise. Fastred was right—what he had taken for a man was no more than a boy, perhaps fifteen summers! Even as he realised this, the boy shook his head.
“Marauders, then,” Kleiber asked, leaning forward, and Alaric was not surprised to see the boy cower from the witch hunter. Even after weeks of travel together he found Kleiber’s zeal intimidating, but the boy shook his head again.
“Did Chaos venture this far west, then?” Holst asked, standing stock-still so as not to frighten the lad. “Was it orcs or goblins or the like did this?” The boy once again shook his head.
“Soldiers,” he repeated, and Alaric knew he was not the only one confused.
“Whose soldiers?” he asked finally, and the young villager gaped at him as if he were simple.
[Daemon Gates 01] - Day of the Daemon Page 9