[Daemon Gates 01] - Day of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  “Run, Glouste,” Alaric whispered, knowing it wouldn’t help. Either the tree-fox would escape or she wouldn’t. The same was true for the rest of them. The statue was more important than any of their lives. Dietz knew that. Alaric suspected his pet did as well. That didn’t make the pistol any less heavy as he raised it, took careful aim, and fired.

  Glouste had done her job well. She had tucked the pouch into a nook halfway up the statue, what would have been a crooked arm on a man. Alaric had a clean shot at it through a stone loop, and he hit it perfectly. The pistol ball smashed into the statue, striking the pouch first, and the heat and impact ignited the rest of the blackpowder.

  BOOM!

  The crash was deafening. The entire chamber shook, throwing them from their feet, and rock fragments flew—Alaric saw one orc fall with a stone shard through its eye and felt a similar chunk soar past his head, narrowly missing his cheek.

  “Get out!” he shouted at his friends, climbing to his feet and running back towards the tunnel that had led them down here. They couldn’t hear him in the din, but they saw his motion or simply guessed the safest course for themselves, and all of them scrambled towards the exit. Several of the orcs proved smart enough to understand what was happening and they retreated as well, disappearing back down the passage they had used. Larger fragments fell, and then with a resounding crash the ceiling collapsed, filling the space with dust and rock.

  Alaric had just reached the tunnel, having paused to help Fastred to his feet after the heavier man had tripped over a rock, when they were thrown forward by the impact behind them. Dietz helped Fastred back to his feet and they all stared back at the jumble of rocks blocking the exit, and completely filling the underground chamber.

  “Is everyone all right?” Alaric asked, glancing around. Amazingly enough he and his friends had escaped with only bruises and battered bones.

  “It collapsed the entire chamber,” Kleiber commented in what sounded almost like awe. Alaric nodded.

  “The blast split the ceiling,” he explained, remembering what old Professor Haedilick had taught them about geology and fault lines. “There was already a crack there and so the blast could reach much further into the rock and widen that gap.” He glanced back. “I expect it’s completely filled in.” He smiled. “The statue is demolished, just more rubble mixed with the rest. The orcs won’t be able to get back down here, either, I’m sure their passage must be choked up as well.”

  Dietz stepped up to the exit and ran his hands over the rocks, as if checking to see if any could be pulled loose. They were wedged tight, though in some places he could stick his hand into the gap between two fragments. “Glouste!” he called hoarsely, choking on the rock dust that had billowed out of the chamber. “Glouste!”

  “I’m sorry,” Fastred told him, stepping up and clasping his shoulder. “I fear the clever little thing made the ultimate sacrifice.”

  Dietz started to snarl a reply, and then stopped, his shoulders sagging. “She knew,” he said softly, glancing up towards the spot where he had last seen her. “She didn’t want to do it. I made her do it.”

  “She gave her life to destroy that monstrosity,” Kleiber pointed out, sheathing his blade and accepting his pistol back from Alaric. “Many men have not shown such bravery or such devotion.”

  Dietz only nodded and turned away.

  It took several more minutes to gather themselves, but they were finally ready to depart. Dietz glanced back one last time at the cavern entrance.

  “Goodbye, Glouste,” he said. He paused, sighed, and turned to go—and then turned back again.

  “Glouste?”

  “She’s gone, Dietz,” Alaric told him gently, tugging at his arm, but Dietz pulled away.

  “No, I’m sure I just heard something. Glouste?” He stepped back to the entrance, head cocked to one side. “Answer me?”

  The others followed him, loath to leave him alone, and it was Adelrich who nodded after a moment. “I hear it too,” he assured Dietz. “It’s just a squeak, but it sounds like her.”

  “It is her!” Dietz insisted, scrambling at the rocks. “Glouste, where are you?” The others joined in, shoving and tugging at the rocks, trying to find a way back in. Finally Adelrich managed to shove a smaller rock aside and Kleiber tugged out the rock behind it, creating a space large enough to see through to the chamber.

  Alaric had been right. The blast had collapsed the ceiling, filling the entire chamber with rock. They could barely see through the rock dust, but had an impression of large, jagged boulders piled everywhere. The statue was completely gone, as was the rock structure that had held it up.

  Dietz stuck his head through the gap, and pulled it back out, coughing. Alaric handed him a handkerchief and Dietz took it without a word, tying it around his head and over his nose and mouth. Then he stuck his head back through. “Glouste?” He could hear the squeaking more clearly now, and after a second he caught a glimpse of red-brown fur behind a rock. “She’s here!”

  The others waited, hardly daring to breathe, as Dietz called again. He saw the fur again, a little closer now. Then it disappeared. After a moment it flashed past another boulder much closer, and suddenly Glouste was clinging to a rock right in front of him. Her sides were streaked with blood, but she was still very much alive. She leaped forward and Dietz stepped back just in time as she scrabbled into the hole. Then she wriggled through and leaped onto his shoulders, where she curled around his neck and nuzzled him fiercely.

  “Yes yes, I’m happy to see you too,” he told her, reaching up to pet her gently. “You did an excellent job. Good tree-fox.” She purred her thanks and head-butted him repeatedly.

  “I don’t think she’s seriously injured,” Fastred said after studying her as well as he could from her perch. “The wounds look minor. She must have leaped away from the statue and found shelter just before the explosion.”

  “Smart,” Alaric admitted, eyeing the pet with surprise and a little wonder. “Smarter than I thought.”

  “Of course she’s smart,” Dietz replied, scratching her under her chin. “She’s mine.” The others laughed, and they were all in a good mood as they made their way back up the winding tunnel and out into the valley above.

  What they saw there only improved their mood. Neither side had expected the explosion or the resulting collapse, of course, but Haas had reacted quickly, pulling his men back to the valley edges and letting the unstable floor collapse beneath the orcs’ combined weight. His archers had penned them in, keeping them atop the shattered stone, and his soldiers had killed any orc that broke free. Finally the tremors had subsided, the valley had settled to its new depth, and the orcs began to regroup. That was when Haas waded in, his men arrayed behind him, and made straight for the warband commander. It had been an impressive fight, Holst told them afterwards, the short Empire leader with his gleaming longsword and the hulking orc with its massive warhammer. Haas had triumphed, using a dagger to pin one of his foe’s hands and thus the hammer, and then lopping off the creature’s head. That had demoralised the remaining orcs and they had fled.

  “They’ll hide and regroup,” Haas admitted later, when they were all back in camp, “but only in small bands. The warband died with its leader.” He studied Alaric. “I take it you found your cargo?”

  Alaric nodded. “We did, and destroyed it.”

  “And the explosion?”

  “That was it.”

  Haas Holsted his wineskin in salute. “Then we owe you our victory.” He took a long pull and handed the skin to Alaric. “My thanks.”

  Alaric grinned. “My pleasure.” He raised the skin in salute to Haas before drinking and passing it along. “We’ll be heading back tomorrow to report our success. Do you need us to carry any messages for you?”

  Haas nodded. “I’ll pen a quick report to my superiors—if you could carry it to Nuln I’d be grateful.” He looked around at them, and frowned when his eyes reached Adelrich and Holst. “I wonder if you would be
willing to stay behind a short while. You,” he nodded to Adelrich, “my scouts say could teach them much, and you,” he turned to Holst, “have the respect of Sergeant Druber, a thing not easy to obtain. We’ll be chasing down those bands and I could use another good scout and a second seasoned guard unit.”

  Holst looked to Alaric, but Adelrich replied immediately. “I will stay. Middenheim does not need me just now and here I can aid the Empire.”

  Alaric shrugged in reply to Holst’s unvoiced question. “It’s your choice, sergeant,” he said. “You and your men have been the difference between life and death for us more times than I can count, and I thank you for that, but I cannot command you to stay or go. Our job is done. Do what you think best.”

  Holst considered that, and looked at Kleiber. “Will you be returning to Middenheim?”

  The witch hunter nodded. “I must report back on the success of our mission, and on the motives of our companions.” Surprisingly he smiled at Alaric and Dietz. “Madmen you may be, and too cavalier with the gods, but you are no daemonspawn and I will slaughter any who say otherwise.”

  “Thanks, I think,” Dietz replied dryly.

  Holst smiled and nodded. “Then I know you will see them safely back as well,” he told Kleiber, indicating Dietz and Alaric. He turned back to Haas. “My men and I will assist you, sir,” he announced, saluting.

  “Good man,” Haas told him, returning the salute and following it with the rapidly emptying wineskin. The conversation continued, but so did the drinking, and none of them was sure later exactly what was said.

  The next morning Alaric, Dietz, Kristoff, Fastred and Kleiber readied their gear and prepared their horses. Haas, Adelrich and Holst saw them off, each handing Alaric sealed reports to deliver.

  “Watch your back,” Dietz warned Adelrich, clasping the scout’s hand.

  “You too,” his friend replied. “When I get back we’ll share a drink.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Thank you, sergeant,” Alaric told Holst after mounting, looking down at the soldier.

  “My pleasure, sir,” Holst replied, saluting him. Alaric didn’t bother returning the salute, but smiled as he turned his horse and kicked her into motion.

  “It seems strange to be done,” Fastred commented as they rode out of the pass and towards Grenzstadt. “After all these months, the statues are destroyed and our mission complete.” He grinned. “I cannot imagine what I’ll do with myself.”

  “I plan to drink, eat, and whore,” Kristoff replied, laughing. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  “That may be a plan,” the explorer agreed, chuckling, “and what of you two? Will you join us in our debauchery?”

  Alaric shrugged. “I don’t know what we’ll do next.” He frowned. “Somehow this doesn’t feel done. I can’t say why, though.”

  “Pessimism?” Dietz suggested, earning him a mock-kick that brought a chittering rebuke from the slumbering Glouste.

  The four of them continued to banter as they rode into the village, Kleiber maintaining his usual dignified silence off to one side. It was going to be a long trip home.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Travelling with you does have its uses,” Alaric admitted to Kleiber as they rode into Middenheim through the same gate they had left through all those weeks ago. The witch hunter tapped his hat in mocking salute. The city guards had not dared search them this time and had waved the five men through with hasty salutes in Kleiber’s general direction.

  Their return to Middenheim had been far easier than their departure; at least they had not been searching for statues or fighting the creatures defending them. The four of them had taken the Old Dwarf Road down from the Black Fire Pass and across Averheim. That road had led them to the Old Forest Road, and they had followed that clear through the Great Forest, and up to Middenheim itself. They had been attacked by bandits twice, accosted by local soldiers once and harassed by desperate villagers three times. The travellers had fought their way through the first problem and talked their way past both the second and the third, finally arriving back at the City of the White Wolves only a little the worse for wear. Even so, it was nice to know that soon they could dismount, stable their horses, sit down on chairs and perhaps even sleep on real beds, and eat food they did not have to hunt, kill and cook themselves.

  “I must report to the witch hunter captain at once,” Kleiber informed his companions after they were past the city’s defensive courtyard and had paused in one of the small squares nearby. He nodded to them each in turn. “Gentlemen, I commend you for your assistance in ending this threat to our fair Empire. Rest assured my superiors will hear of your devotion.” And with that he was off.

  “Assistance?” Dietz snorted, though he waited until the witch hunter was far enough away. “As if he was responsible!”

  “I don’t care who gets the credit,” Alaric told him honestly, “as long as they clear us of all charges.” He turned to face Kristoff and Fastred. “What will you two do now we’re back?”

  “I am off to the guild offices,” Fastred replied, idly stroking his beard. “I’ll report on our particulars, of course, and sample the excellent brandy they keep there. You’re all welcome to join me.” The others laughed—the explorer had depleted his meagre supply of wine two weeks back and had been lamenting the loss ever since.

  “I must away to my own masters,” Kristoff said, “though perhaps later I may avail myself of your kind offer.” He bowed to them all while still mounted, an impressive feat. “Gentlemen, it has been an honour and a pleasure.” Then he tapped heels to his mount and was off, with Fastred not far behind him.

  “So, here we are,” Alaric said with a sigh, glancing over at Dietz. “Just the two—well, three—of us again. Seems strange now, doesn’t it? Too quiet by half.”

  “Strange, yes,” Dietz agreed, also missing their friends already, “but I like the quiet.” He frowned. “Should we report to someone as well?”

  “I suppose so.” Alaric thought for a moment. “What was that man’s name, the one who worked for Todbringer? Stroder? Striner?”

  “Struber.”

  “That’s the one. We should inform him of our success.”

  Deitz fidgeted on his horse. “Do you need me along? I’d hoped—I wanted—”

  Alaric understood immediately. “Go. See your family. I’ll take care of it.” He searched his memory again. “The Dancing Frog, isn’t that where we stayed before?” His friend nodded. “Let’s return there, then—if nothing else it was serviceable and Kristoff and Fastred both know to look for us there. Meet me there after your visit.”

  “Thanks.” Dietz turned his horse down a side street, and Alaric found himself alone for the first time in a very long while. Suddenly, he realised just how much he’d come to depend upon Dietz in the year since they’d begun travelling together.

  “Well, not like I’m scaling a mountain,” he told himself softly as he kicked his own horse into a fast walk. “Just a word with this Struber fellow and then off to the Dancing Frog.” His mind strayed back to their last visit, and he smiled. “Oh yes, with one quick stop between.”

  “Hello?”

  The door was unlatched and Alaric pushed it open and slid past it into the half-darkness. He sneezed as he entered, yet the shop was less dusty than he remembered and lacked that ever-present sound of hammer and chisel on stone.

  “Who’s there?” A high-pitched voice rose from the back and Alaric followed the well-remembered path to the work table near the back wall. A woman stood there, tall and slender to the point of being gaunt, head covered in a black shawl. She was glancing through a thick ledger. Alaric recognised her from previous visits.

  “Alaric von Jungfreud, fraulein,” he announced himself, bowing carefully to avoid his rapier bumping any of the carvings to his side. “You must be Rolf’s wife?”

  “His widow, yes,” she replied, eyes narrowing, and Alaric straightened rapidly, trying to control his shock.

 
“Widow? What happened?”

  “Executed for heresy and treason, he was,” the woman said flatly, though she could not look up as she spoke. Alaric graciously attributed her tears to the dust that still hung thick in the air.

  “But he was innocent!”

  “Well I know it,” she replied, sniffing, “but the witch hunters chose to believe otherwise. They call a man heretic at the merest slight and attribute anything odd or defiant to witchcraft and Chaos worship.”

  “Who is it, mother?” a voice called out from beyond the curtained door, and a moment later a young man stepped in from the stone yard beyond. He was as tall as Rolf had been and bore his father’s eyes, but his frame and features were narrow like his mother’s.

  “An old friend and associate of your father’s,” Alaric replied, bowing again. “Alaric von Jungfreud is the name. I did business with your father on occasion, and knew him to be a fine and decent man.” He did not add that he had been present at Rolf’s arrest, or that he and Dietz had been partially to blame for the incident. It seemed best not to mention such details right now.

  Nonetheless the youth frowned. “Alaric? I know that name. Ah, yes. I remember.” And he ducked back behind Rolf’s worktable. After rummaging for a moment he produced a small wooden casket, handsomely carved of a dark polished wood. He handed it to Alaric.

  “My father wanted you to have this,” the young man said. “He mentioned it on my last visit to him before—” he trailed off.

  “Thank you,” Alaric said quietly, accepting the casket. He lifted the lid and saw a familiar silk-wrapped object within: the mask. It was the reason he had returned, hoping to find Rolf out the back carving as usual. The stone carver’s consideration, thinking of him in the shadow of his own certain death, brought tears to Alaric’s eyes and it was a moment before he could speak.

  Rolf’s son and widow both noticed and relaxed slightly. “Do not show that to anyone,” the youth cautioned, gesturing towards the casket. “The witch hunters have eyes everywhere.”