[Daemon Gates 02] - Night of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  “We’ll find it,” Dietz assured him calmly. “Something will turn up.”

  When they reached the Howling River, however, they had another problem.

  “I don’t know where we are,” Alaric admitted glumly. “This has to be the Howling River—it’s too big to be a stream, too small to be the Blood River, and the few scraps I’ve read about this region mention that high-pitched hiss you’re hearing, the one that gives the river its name.”

  Dietz nodded. “So you do know where we are.”

  “I know we’re by the river,” Alaric corrected. “It’s not a short span, though—this river runs from just above the Blood River all the way up into the World’s Edge Mountains—or down, I should say, since that’s upstream from here.” He squinted towards the east, where the mountain peaks were clearly visible on the horizon. “I’ve no idea where we are along that length.”

  Alaric pulled out his journal—it had still been in his jacket when he had reclaimed it from the guard—and flipped it to a page that held a rough map. “You see, this is the area.” He showed Dietz a line that ran almost straight down the page until it intersected another and stopped. “That is the River Starnak,” he explained. “This one,” he said, pointing to another line that intersected the first two-thirds of the way down on the right side, “is the Skull River. That’s what we followed. Here, where they meet, is Tengey, and over here,” he pointed to a spot farther up along the Skull River’s south side, “is Zenres. This,” he indicated a line that branched out as it rose to the right, “is the Howling River. We could be anywhere along here.”

  Dietz studied the map for a moment and shook his head. “No sign of the Starnak,” he pointed out, indicating the land to their west. “So we’re not that close to it. We haven’t crossed any water, so we’re still above the top branch.” He glanced towards the mountains. “Not that close, either. We’re somewhere in here.” He indicated the middle of the Howling River’s northernmost branch.

  “Yes, you’re probably right,” Alaric agreed, staring at the lines. Once again he marvelled at how his friend could make sense of things so quickly. “We must have walked south from Zenres, which puts us about here.” He looked up and grinned. “Well then, now I know where we are.” Dietz chuckled, as Alaric had hoped he would. This trip had hardly been a laughing matter thus far.

  “So we follow it west?” Dietz asked as they stood and gathered their gear again—they’d paused to eat lunch while they discussed their options.

  “Yes, west,” Alaric said. “If we follow the Howling River it will take us to the Starnak, which flows right to Blood River.” He frowned, “Of course, at some point we will need to go east, since we know the tomb is east of Blood River. The question is when to start turning.”

  Dietz had already started walking west but he stopped and came back, stifling a groan. “So we go east?”

  “Perhaps we should,” Alaric said absently, taking the map out again. He glanced down at it, and Dietz took a step closer, staring at it upside-down. After a minute he reached out and took the map from Alaric, who protested until Dietz turned it around and handed it back to him.

  “They’re not roads,” the older man said, indicating the thin lines between the river and the tomb. “They’re rivers.”

  “What?” Alaric stared down at them, and then stared again. “Oh. Oh!” He pulled out his journal again and hurriedly flipped back to the region map he’d sketched there. Then he compared the two. “You’re right!” he all but shouted. “They’re rivers! How did you know?”

  Dietz shrugged. “Saw it differently this way,” was all he answered.

  But Alaric could see why. The lines weren’t complete, which was why he hadn’t realised their nature before. They looked like paths, or hills, or even just arrows pointing towards something, but upside down it was clearer that they converged into a single line. Once he turned it right side-up again, he could see that they were really four small rivers merging into a single larger one: the Howling River.

  “We’re here!” he shouted happily, stabbing his finger at a spot on the parchment. “That’s the Blood River, that’s where the Howling River branches, and this is where we are! And this,” he traced the line with his finger, following it up until it branched again and then following the lower branch, “will lead us almost directly to the tomb!”

  “So we go east,” Dietz confirmed. He sounded more relieved to have a chosen direction than to know the location of the tomb, but Alaric knew his friend was also pleased he’d been able to figure out the map. Dietz just didn’t like to show it.

  Of course, it probably didn’t help Dietz’s mood that the tomb almost had to be in the World’s Edge Mountains. If the map was right it was past the river, which ended at the mountain’s feet, and Dietz didn’t much care for heights.

  “Oh, cheer up,” Alaric told him as they walked. “At least it’s better than crawling through dank caves or musty tunnels.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Dietz said. “You can’t fall to your death in a tunnel.”

  It took them three more days to reach the place where the Howling River branched again. A small fishing village sat there, and they traded the ring Alaric carried for more food, two backpacks, a second coil of rope, a small pot, a pair of short, hook-backed hammers and a sturdy lantern. The ring was worth considerably more than that but it was a matter of what the fishermen had to trade. They could have traded for a boat or a donkey but they needed to head upstream and, without knowing how they would get up the mountain, the donkey might not have been able to follow them.

  The sale of the ring also got them a ride across the river, this time in a fast, narrow boat owned by a man who claimed he made a living diving in the river for pearls, shellfish and sunken treasure. The boat swayed dangerously and leaked more than a little but it carried them swiftly across the currents. An hour later they were clambering out of it and onto the river’s south bank. The boatman backed his boat away without a word and spun it around, letting the current carry it away quickly. Dietz watched the man go, shuddering, and then turned deliberately away, shouldered his new pack, and started walking. Alaric was right beside him. The mountains were close, their peaks looming high above, and Dietz felt slightly dizzy tilting his head back to study them.

  “Are you sure we need to go up?” he asked for the third time. “Tombs are usually down.”

  “The tomb itself will be underground,” Alaric agreed cheerfully, “but the entrance is up there.” He grinned, clearly enjoying Dietz’s discomfort. “Come on.”

  “Fine,” Dietz grumbled, clambering up onto the rocks behind Alaric, “but if I fall you get to haul your own treasure back.”

  The first day wasn’t so bad, actually. They were in the foothills still, and though rugged they were no worse than the hills back home. Dietz kept from looking back, knowing if he saw the land and the river far below he’d regret it, and focused on the path ahead, picking his way among loose stone, clumps of dirt and scraggly bushes.

  That night, as they rested, Alaric pulled out the map again. Dietz was cooking one of the fish they’d traded for and after pulling it from the fire he glanced over to see Alaric drawing something onto the parchment. The younger man seemed almost asleep, his eyes half-closed and not even looking at his hands.

  “What are you doing?” Dietz demanded, and Alaric glanced up, startled.

  “What?”

  “You’re ruining the map!” Dietz accused stepping over to see what his friend and employer had done.

  “No I’m not,” Alaric protested. Then he noticed the quill, and started. “I… I was dreaming,” he said quietly. “I saw the river, and the mountains, and the path, all just like they are on the map.”

  “What path?” Dietz didn’t remember anything like that.

  Alaric frowned. “This one,” he answered, pointing to a line Dietz hadn’t noticed before. It started just below where the Howling River branched, apparently in the same foothills they occupied. It wound its w
ay through the foothills and up into the mountains proper, and stopped just shy of the tomb itself.

  “That wasn’t there before,” Dietz said. He was sure of it.

  “Really?” Alaric studied the map again. “It must have been,” he replied finally. “I was just dreaming about it, wasn’t I? And this is exactly how it looked in my dreams.” His frown deepened. “Although I don’t remember seeing it here last night,” he admitted.

  Dietz felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. That line hadn’t been there before and now it was. Had Alaric just drawn it? Was it real, or just something he had dreamed up?

  Still, if it helped them find the tomb…

  “Perhaps it was on the original map,” Alaric suggested, “and I forgot it until now. Yes, that must be it,” he decided. “It must have been faint on the other map and that’s why I didn’t redraw it right away, but I knew it was there, and finally I remembered it well enough in my dreams to draw it again.”

  “Maybe,” he said. It did sound plausible, but Dietz wasn’t convinced.

  “Well, there’s only one way to be sure,” Alaric told him. “Tomorrow we’ll look for this path. If it does exist, it must have been there.”

  Dietz wasn’t sure that made sense, but he was too tired to argue and it rarely did any good anyway. So he gave up and went to sleep.

  Sure enough the next morning they headed slightly south, deliberately distancing themselves from the river to approximate the path’s position on the map. And after a few hours Dietz literally stumbled onto a narrow trail that stretched up into the hills.

  “That’s it!” Alaric exclaimed when he caught up to Dietz a moment later. “You found the path!” Dietz couldn’t argue. It was clearly a path, narrow and worn away and only visible if you were looking, but definitely someone or something had once worn a channel through these hills, and it was too close to the position on the map for it to be a coincidence.

  They followed the path into the hills and Dietz had to admit it was much easier than climbing. The path did turn steep at times, and often it wound up and around like a corkscrew, but it never got so steep that they needed the climbing hammers they’d bartered in the village. They could have brought a donkey through here, in fact, and Dietz regretted not getting one, but of course he hadn’t known that at the time.

  After two days they had left the hills behind and were in the mountains proper. The World’s Edge Mountains were hard granite and everything around them was cold grey and black stone, most of it sharp-edged enough to cut flesh. The path was actually easier to follow here. In the hills it had been worn away and obscured by rocks and dirt, but here it was a clear channel cut through the rock. Dietz even found he didn’t mind the altitude that much, since the path stayed well below the peaks, leaving sturdy cliffs on either side to block the vision of just how high up they really were. The air was crisp and clean, sharp enough to burn slightly on a deep breath, and sound travelled easily through each valley, but was quickly dampened beyond, while the clear sky, strong sun and thin cool air combined to let the eyes see for miles.

  It was exhilarating and Dietz wondered why he’d ever griped about climbing mountains. Alaric clearly felt the same way and each day he grew even more confident about their route, moving quickly among the rocks, climbing onto small ledges and cliffs to survey the valleys ahead and chart their course. He was adding detail to the map as they went, changing it from a vague indicator to a clearly defined route, and each day brought them closer to the spot marked as the tomb’s location. Dietz marvelled more than once at how his friend had acquired an uncanny sense of direction, for he seemed to know instinctively which direction the map would lead them in next.

  For three days, as they climbed through the mountains, they did not see another living soul beyond a few birds of prey overhead and the occasional mouse or lizard. They had run out of fresh fish and meat and were down to the salted goods, supplemented by mushrooms they dug from cracks in the surrounding rocks.

  Then one morning they came across a shallow valley. Its narrow floor was strewn with debris, small rocks and jagged stone and dirt. Alaric led the way without concern and Dietz followed but caught his foot against something and stumbled. Looking down he saw a glint that could only be metal.

  Curious, Dietz knelt to examine it more closely. It was rusted, whatever it was, and had the jagged edge that indicated a break. Only a sliver of it was visible but it looked no wider than his finger and roughly as long.

  “What is it?” Alaric asked, turning back towards him.

  “I don’t know,” Dietz replied, studying the small piece again. Then he froze for an instant before slowly, carefully rising to his feet and backing away.

  “What’s wrong?” Alaric asked, but Dietz motioned him to be quiet. Glouste sensed her master’s unease and craned her neck from her usual perch, her nose quivering with curiosity but her tail vibrating slightly from anxiety.

  “It’s moving,” he answered when he was beside his friend, one hand on his club. More of the metal had been exposed when he’d looked a second time, as if it were shifting forwards, out of the ground.

  “That’s—” Whatever Alaric had meant to say was lost as they both froze, listening. There it was again: a scratching noise, like Grouse’s claws on rock but louder, deeper, and repeated, again and again.

  As they watched, unable to move, the ground shifted in front of them. It continued to move in several patches, the dirt and rock shoved aside as objects began to rise from the earth. Dietz saw that the metal he’d first noticed was a sword, a broken, rusty sword, as its shattered blade pierced the earth and then rose into the air.

  Nor was it alone, because clutching it, raising it, was a skeletal hand, still caked with dirt, ragged bits of what might be flesh still clinging to the yellowed bone.

  A second hand appeared beside it, empty, its finger-bones digging into the ground just beyond. Then a dull yellow globe rose between the two. After a second he saw two dark gaps beneath the upper dome. The smoky red light deep within those sockets confirmed what he had already realised and somewhere deep inside he wanted to curl up and hide.

  The objects rising from the ground were not objects but people. Or at least they had been.

  Now they were the undead, and according to legends all undead hated the living.

  Dietz had a feeling he was about to find out if that was true.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Sigmar’s Beard!” Alaric cried out when he saw the first skeleton pull itself out of the ground, an unfamiliar breastplate over its decayed torso and a few tatters of yellow cloth clinging to its ancient, yellowed bones. His heart was pounding and his breath came in short gasps as he stared at the walking bones. He wanted to cower, to run and hide, to curl up somewhere small and dark and pray that the long-dead warriors did not come for him, but somehow he knew that running was not an option. These creatures would never tire, never stumble and never lose focus. Once they began to pursue him they would chase him forever.

  The only way to deal with them was to destroy them.

  The first skeleton was making straight for Dietz, who stood frozen as it approached, knife still in his hand. Four more had emerged behind the first, and Alaric slipped around a boulder to get a clear line on the rearmost. “Sigmar preserve us,” he prayed as he moved, hoping against hope that the god might be listening for once. He ran forwards, deciding speed was more important than caution, and stabbed, a clean lunge that took his rapier’s point through the warrior’s chest and out the other side, sliding neatly between two ribs.

  “Damn!” Of course the sword would be useless, he thought, cursing his own stupidity. These creatures had no flesh to pierce and no blood to let, and his rapier was useless for hacking. He needed something heavier, something more like—

  The straps of his new pack cut into his shoulders as he turned, and he glanced up to see the handle of the hammer he had bartered for in the village. Perfect!

  Alaric tugged the hammer free. “D
ietz, here!” he shouted, and lobbed it at the older man.

  Fortunately Dietz’s reflexes kicked in. He looked up at the sound of his name, caught the hammer instinctively, and used its thick wooden handle to block the sword the lead skeleton swung at him. Then he knocked the blade aside and used the heavy iron hammer to bash in the creature’s face. It staggered back and he swung again, this time at its neck. Alaric could hear the crunch of bone giving way and the skeleton’s head tumbled from its body, which collapsed in a heap at Dietz’s feet. His friend’s lips were moving and Alaric thought he saw the name “Ulric” on them. Of course his friend would be praying to the Winter Wolf, guardian of Middenheim and its people, and here, in these cold grey mountains, Ulric might even pay attention.

  He was distracted from watching further when the skeleton he had stabbed before attacked him in turn. Alaric barely managed to sidestep the undead creature’s mace, idly noting the fine workmanship as he did. Unfortunately he had given his hammer to Dietz, leaving him nothing but the rapier that he had already demonstrated was useless against these creatures.

  His friend had come to the same conclusion. “Alaric, catch!” He glanced up in time to see the hammer flying towards him even as Dietz pulled the second from his own pack. Alaric fumbled at the hammer and barely caught it. Then he staggered back from the skeleton’s second attack while he shifted the weapon into a proper grip. He swung with it but the hammer was very different from his rapier and he misjudged the balance, missing the creature by a narrow margin. It swung again, a clumsy enough blow that Alaric easily dodged, and this time his own return strike was better aimed, connecting with the skeleton’s upper left arm. The limb shattered and the lower portion fell to the ground and lay still.

  It had been clutching the mace with both hands and the loss of one, which lingered on the grip a moment before dropping free, unbalanced it. Alaric took advantage and struck again, this time collapsing the creature’s chest. He almost lost his weapon to the tangle of bones and had to wrench it free, taking a weak blow from the mace as punishment. Then he attacked its right arm and destroyed that limb as well, leaving the skeleton unarmed both literally and figuratively. That allowed Alaric to take careful aim and demolish its neck, leaving nothing but a scattered pile of bones on the ground.