The market was exactly as Dietz had guessed it would be from his earlier glimpse. It was set up in the town square, an aptly named area between a small temple and several other important-looking buildings. People had set up stands, stalls and long tables and were offering produce, prepared food, drinks, and a variety of crafted goods. The prices were far better than they had seen in Munzig, as was the quality, competition keeping anyone from charging too much or from offering inferior goods. Dietz bought some sort of round green fruit, similar to a small apple but crisper and not as tart, to munch as he walked, and a small round of cheese, a strand of sausages and several small loaves of bread to store in his saddlebags. Alaric sampled a drink from one merchant and, delighted with the sweet, fruity taste, bought three wineskins, one of which he and Dietz passed back and forth.
They were beginning to enjoy themselves when Dietz turned from examining a box of tubers to find himself staring down a crossbow. The man holding it wore serviceable mail, a plain cloak, and a red tunic marked with a large black “L” in the fancy cursive script of the Tileans.
“Come along quietly,” the man, obviously a guard of some sort, said. “No trouble and you stay breathing.”
“Sounds fair,” Dietz replied. He could see that another guard had accosted Alaric and two more waited just beyond on horseback. Dietz was marched back to his horse, where the guard disarmed him while the two mounted warriors kept their weapons fixed upon him. Alaric was next. Heavy ropes were tied around their necks, the other ends fastened securely to a guard’s saddle, and after they’d remounted shorter lengths were used to bind their wrists behind them.
Dietz had to admire the concept. He could spur his horse on, but he’d hang himself in the process. This way the guards weren’t slowed by escorting prisoners on foot, but didn’t have to worry about an escape. The mounted guards led the way through town, forcing Alaric and Dietz to follow by the simple means of tugging their ropes, while the guards with crossbows flanked them on foot.
“May I ask why we have earned such a noble escort?” Alaric asked after they had left the market and were making their way down the main street. If being trussed like meat headed for the slaughterhouse bothered him he gave no indication.
“Shut up,” the guard to his side replied. “You’ll find out when we get there.”
“Get where?” Dietz asked, noticing that the town’s outer wall and front gate had just come into view. They were heading right for it, and the guards there nodded and waved them through. The two guards behind them paused long enough to mount horses before catching up, and all six moved on together.
“Zenres,” another guard answered. “Prince Levrellian wants to see you.”
“Well,” Alaric said, glancing at the wineskin he’d bought in the market, which now hung from a guard’s saddle, “at least we got that drink this time.”
CHAPTER FOUR
It took them six days to reach Zenres. The four guards, whose names they learned were Armin, Klaus, Matthias and Wim, were efficient and took no chances. The ropes around Alaric’s and Dietz’s necks never came off, but were transferred from saddle horn to low-lying branch when they camped each night. Their hands remained bound and at night their feet were bound as well. The guards rarely spoke to or even acknowledged them, although Armin and Klaus kept up a running conversation together and baited Matthias mercilessly. None of them could cook worth a damn, not that it mattered much since they only gave the prisoners water and stale bread.
Taking too long to get up in the morning or dismount in the evening earned a cuff to the head or a jab to the ribs, not vicious but certainly not friendly, and both Alaric and Dietz were tired, dirty, hungry, thirsty and bruised within days. At least the countryside was calm and pretty, the ground more solid on this side of the Skull River and the foliage more trees and crops and less marsh grass, and the weather was pleasant, warm with a cooling breeze off the river.
Then they reached Zenres and everything took a turn for the worse.
The city itself was pleasant enough. It was easily twice the size of Tengey despite not having as ideal a location, and the walls around it were high and strong. A dozen guards waited for them at the front gates and took the two foreigners from their four recent travelling companions. Matthias cuffed Alaric one last time as a parting gesture. Alaric and Dietz were led down several side streets to an imposing stone building that looked like either a courthouse or a prison.
Judging from the cell they were tossed into, Alaric guessed it was the latter.
“A bit nicer than the last cell we spent time in, at least,” he said to Dietz, trying to lighten the mood. It wasn’t true, actually. The last time they’d been thrown in prison, back in Middenheim, the cell had been dark and dank and filthy. This one did not seem any better. The floor was hard-packed dirt, or at least he guessed that’s what it was through the layers of grime and blood and other old bodily fluids. The walls were rough stone and almost as dirty, and what little straw still covered the floor was rotted and slick to the touch. They had been searched thoroughly upon arrival and had been left their shirts and trousers but not their boots, which meant that Alaric knew for certain how the straw felt against bare flesh. At least the heavy wooden door had a barred opening, which allowed them air and some light. Alaric did his best to concentrate on that while he wondered what punishment was planned for whatever crimes they were supposed to have committed.
He didn’t have to wait long to find the answers to those questions. Less than an hour after they arrived, Alaric heard a door open and then footsteps. He stepped back from the door and Dietz rose beside him as the sound grew louder, finally stopping before their door. There was a clanking of keys, a loud grating sound, and then the door opened.
Several guards stepped into the small cell, two of them with cocked crossbows. Those two moved to the corners, covering Alaric and Dietz as three more guards filed in. Behind them was a man wearing a similar tabard but it was black-trimmed and he wore it over finer mail. He had a close-cropped beard, black with a few strands of silver, and his hair was equally short but more salt-and-pepper. His face was broad and bored and he barely glanced at Alaric and Dietz before nodding to the men beside him. One of the guards, a heavyset man with a broken nose and a ring of keys on his belt, took command. “All right, you two,” he barked, “move it!”
Alaric and Dietz were marched out of the cell and down the hall. They were led up a flight of stairs, which Alaric took to be a good sign; torture chambers were usually found in dungeons for some reason, not in airy upper rooms. He’d never understood that one, actually. He would have thought that if he was going to be doing something messy and tedious, he’d want a room with some ventilation and a bit of light. Perhaps it was the noise people worried about, though.
They walked down a wide hall with white-washed walls and floors of rough tile. Finally they stopped at a set of wide, polished wood doors. The man in the black-bordered tabard, who Alaric took to be a guard captain, knocked once and the doors swung inward, opened by a pair of guards. Again, everything felt eerily familiar. After their last prison sojourn Alaric and Dietz had been escorted into Todbringer’s throne room and, unless Alaric missed his guess, that was exactly the sort of place they were entering now.
The room was nowhere near as impressive, of course, since this was only a small kingdom in the Border Princes and that had been the court of the Elector Count of both Middenheim and Middenland, one of the most powerful men in the Empire. Alaric supposed it would seem imposing to the locals, however, with its slate floor and wood-plank walls. Thick white-plastered pillars ran down either side, and a single tall window marked the far end of the room, light streaming through the real stained glass to cast pools of colour upon the dais below. A throne was set there, really nothing more than a large, heavy wooden chair with thick crimson cushions. A man, presumably the Levrellian that Alaric had heard mentioned, sat on the throne awaiting their approach. He tapped his fingers idly on the chair arms as the guar
ds shoved Alaric and Dietz forward, using the crossbows to propel the two along. A few other men—most likely courtiers—stood between the dais and the far columns, watching the small party approach and talking quietly.
As they closed the distance Alaric studied Levrellian who was, in turn, studying them. The prince was slender and seemed to be of medium height, although it was hard to be sure with him slouching in his chair. His features were plain, nose and chin both a little narrow, and he had dusky skin and the oily brown hair that suggested Tilean ancestry. His clothes made up for his uninspiring features. He wore a handsome crimson velvet doublet and fine black trousers, with a fur-trimmed cape around his shoulders and matching boots upon his feet. He wore a heavy gold ring, set with a ruby, on his right hand, a slightly smaller ring with a black stone on his left, and a thick gold chain bearing a diamond hung around his neck. An ornate crown, gold with gems at each point, encircled his head and made him look very much a king. It was an excellent presentation, Alaric thought.
“Who have we here, then?” Levrellian asked when the guards finally brought Alaric and Dietz to a halt a few paces from the dais.
“These are the men brought from Tengey, my liege,” one of the guards replied.
A pained look crossed the man’s face, although it was gone in an instant. “I meant what are their names, you fool,” he said, his voice little more than a hiss. Alaric’s blood ran cold. Men generally came in two sorts. When angry they either turned to fire and passionate rage or to ice and calm malevolence. Levrellian was clearly the latter type, and in Alaric’s experience they were the more dangerous.
“I don’t know, my liege,” the guard replied. “We didn’t ask.”
Again that pained look, although this time it left behind a glance of irritation. “Never mind,” Levrellian told the guard. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my kingdom?” he demanded, turning his dark, shrewd eyes towards Alaric and Dietz.
“Alaric von Jungfreud, at your service, your majesty,” Alaric slated grandly, bowing as best he could with his hands bound. “This is my associate, Dietrich Froebel.” Dietz nodded. “As for our presence here, we are merely travellers, passing through.”
“Indeed?” The prince smiled; a slow, unpleasant expression. “And which way did you enter our domain, Herr von Jungfreud?”
Alaric considered lying but decided against it. If Levrellian knew anything about their trip, lying about it would only make them look guilty of whatever he thought they had done. “We arrived from the Empire, your majesty,” he answered, “by way of the Black Fire Pass. From there we travelled down along the Skull River until we reached its end and ferried across to Tengey. It was there your guards found us and escorted us here to your fair capital.”
“Nicely put,” Levrellian congratulated him, “but tell me, did you stop anywhere along the way? Say, in Akendorf?” The last word had the crack of a whip behind it, and the prince leaned forwards, his face eager. In his eyes Alaric saw the look he’d seen in his youth when one of his cousins, an avid hunter, had been about to spring a trap on some unsuspecting animal.
“I believe we did pass through a town of that name,” Alaric replied as casually as he could. “It is difficult to keep all the names straight after a while.”
“Oh, you would remember this one,” Levrellian replied nastily. “After all, I’m sure it’s not every town where you slaughter a dozen men, including the mayor’s own heir!”
“Slaughtered a dozen? What!” Dietz had been silent until now, no surprise given his natural taciturnity and his tendency to let Alaric take the lead in conversation, but this proved too much for him. “More like defended an unarmed man against a pack of nine!”
“Ah, I see.” The prince leaned back and stroked his chin, a smug smile on his face. “Obviously my cousin was mistaken when he sent me the details.” Alaric’s face must have given away his surprise, for Levrellian pounced on it. “Oh yes, didn’t I mention? The mayor there, Rillian, is my kin, and so was the son you killed!” He leaned forwards again, the smile breaking into a grin. “That must be why he placed such an impressive price upon your heads.”
A price? Alaric and Dietz exchanged a glance. That was something they had not counted upon. Weren’t the petty kingdoms here supposed to be poor and autonomous, with each one hating its neighbours? But this was family, apparently.
While Alaric was thinking this, one of the guards stepped forwards and slammed a mailed fist into his stomach. Alaric doubled over from the pain, the breath escaping him in a loud gasp. Tears came to his eyes as he struggled to breathe. Through the thudding of his heart he could hear a groan close by and gathered from it that Dietz had received similar treatment.
“That was in case you felt like lying to me,” Levrellian explained, his tone conversational but his eyes glittering. “I find it best to lay the ground rules beforehand. Now you know that dishonesty will bring you pain. So tell me,” he continued, “what are two such dangerous criminals doing in my lands?”
Still gasping for breath Alaric opened his mouth. He meant to say again that they were only passing through, that they meant no harm, that the incident in Akendorf had been an unfortunate misunderstanding that had escalated beyond their control. But those were not the words that emerged. Instead what he heard escape his lips was “We’re seeking an ancient Nehekharan tomb.”
Dietz stared at him as if he had gone insane, and for an instant Alaric thought his friend might have a point.
If Levrellian was startled by this honest answer, he did not show it. Instead he laughed.
“Ah yes, the tombs,” he said after a moment, still chuckling. “They litter the Border Princes, you know. Damn things are everywhere. You can barely walk around without tripping over a ruined this or that. Most of them were picked clean long ago. Pity, really. You’ve wasted your time… and your lives.” He gestured again and once more the guards pummelled Alaric and Dietz, their mailed fists striking heavily against ribs, bellies, chests, shoulders, and heads.
Alaric withstood the assault as best he could but after the second blow his head was ringing, his vision blurred, and his side burning every time he took a breath.
“Wait,” he gasped finally, twisting so the guard’s latest blow glanced along his cheek rather than smashing his jaw. “Wait!”
“Yes?” Levrellian leaned forwards slightly, indicating that the guards should pause in their attack.
Alaric had intended to reason with the man, or make up a story about their importance or offer services in exchange for their freedom, anything really to keep the beating from being renewed. Instead he once again found his voice working without his consent or control. “I doubt this one has been ransacked,” he said clearly. “It’s hidden, and only I have the map.”
A man emerged from the shadows behind the Border Prince’s chair and stepped forwards to whisper in Levrellian’s ear. He was tall and narrow, with long pale hair and piercing eyes, and was dressed in handsome dark clothing and fine leather gloves. Alaric had not noticed him before but something about the man made him uncomfortable.
Levrellian listened intently before glancing up again.
“Let us speak of this tomb,” he said, turning a disarmingly friendly smile upon them, and gesturing to his guards. “Give my guests chairs at once,” he commanded. “And bring me this map Herr von Jungfreud has mentioned.”
Two gilded chairs were slid up behind them and Alaric and Dietz were pushed down into them, although Alaric noticed that no one bothered to untie their hands first. After a few moments a guard entered the room and handed the man in the black-bordered tunic Alaric’s scroll case. He in turn handed the case to his prince. Levrellian removed the scroll and the accompanying document carefully and examined them closely, the tall man leaning in to study them as well.
“How did you come by these?” Levrellian asked, his friendly manner barely hiding the steel in his tone.
“A friend thought I might find them interesting,” Alaric replied, pleased to di
scover his voice was once again his own. “Do they interest you?”
“Oh, indeed,” Levrellian replied, matching Alaric’s casual tone. “I’ve a powerful curiosity about such things. Have you deciphered this map?”
“Not yet,” Alaric admitted after a moment. He had debated whether to lie. If he said he had learned the tomb’s location, however, Levrellian might have him killed to make sure that only he had that information. It seemed safer to tell the truth. “I am working on it, though,” he added.
Again the tall man and the prince had a whispered conversation, and Alaric’s ears twitched trying to catch what they were saying. Whatever it was, the prince did not seem to agree with his advisor’s suggestion. Alaric was not sure which of the two he hoped would win the debate, but he was certain his and Dietz’s fate hung upon the outcome.
Finally Levrellian turned back towards them.
“It seems I have a dilemma,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair and twirling the scroll case idly. “You killed my cousin, and his father—also a cousin—has appealed to me for aid in catching and punishing you. He has also offered a handsome reward. Thus, for reasons of both blood and money, I should kill you now.” Guards appeared on either side of them, drawn blades in hand, and Alaric tried not to shrink back. If he were to die now, he would do so with dignity.
“You have brought me this very fine map, however,” Levrellian continued, “and as Strykssen points out it may be worth more than the price on your head.” Strykssen was evidently the tall man, who stood nodding behind his prince. “So what am I to do?”
It seemed like a genuine question and Alaric decided he didn’t have much to lose by answering. “Let us go, your majesty,” he suggested. “Let the map’s value cancel out our debt.” He hated the idea of losing the map, but if it was that or his life he’d gladly see the scrap of parchment gone.
“Hmm, yes, that was what Strykssen suggested as well,” the prince admitted. For a moment he looked like a child denied its favourite toy. “Strange, really, normally he’s the first to suggest a little torture or an execution.” Behind him the gleam in his advisor’s eyes told Alaric that the statement was true. This was a man who enjoyed bloodshed. His gaze flicked back to Levrellian even as the spoiled child was replaced once more by the cool monarch. “Fortunately, I’ve never much liked Rillian,” the prince confided. “I practically handed him that town as a favour to our mutual aunt, and this is how he handles it? He deserves what he gets, and young Anders was a nasty piece of work, I doubt anyone else will miss him.”
[Daemon Gates 02] - Night of the Daemon Page 5