Daemon Gates Trilogy Page 7

  It was a scene from a nightmare, and Alaric started as it washed over him. Only he and Dietz seemed unchanged, and his friend was still glancing around without apparent concern.

  I am imagining this, Alaric thought; the after-effects of that fever, and of obsessing over the mask and those bloody marks for so many days already. My mind is play­ing tricks upon me, that is all.

  But somehow he could not quite believe that. What he was seeing was too real. He could hear the whickers and

  grunts from the labourers, the hissing and chittering of the merchants, the cackles of the boys, the hiss and pop of the flames. He could feel an oily residue upon his skin from the air, and the hard sharp edges of the stones beneath his feet. The air that filled his lungs was smoky and oily, and tinged with the coppery smell of blood and the too-sweet smell of decay.

  This was real. Dietz couldn't see it, but it was real, and he was in it.

  He told himself firmly that it didn't matter. He was look­ing for something, for that mask, and for the cultists who had taken it. He was looking for those smears. The rest was not his concern. He needed to focus.

  He studied the horrible scene before him, searching for any sign of the marks that had led them to the city. At first, it was impossible to make out any fine detail amid the general may­hem, but his eyes gradually grew accustomed to the nightmare, and he began to pick out specifics: a torn shirt there, a claw here, a jagged tooth over there, a rotting corpse back behind those bales... he forced himself to look at every­thing, watching for any hint of the cultists or their path.

  At last he found one.

  There! The edge of one building bore a handprint, lower than most men would rest their palms, and the mark was a brilliant red, almost a light against the grey and black of the building. Somehow, Alaric knew it was linked to the blood smears he had seen before.

  'Over there,' he told Dietz softly, and together they approached the spot.

  'Looks like blood,' his friend commented after they had reached the warehouse in question, and Alaric glanced over at him, surprised.

  'You can see it?' His heart gave a lurch. Perhaps he was not mad after all!

  Dietz nodded. 'Someone had blood on their hands and leaned here for support.' He ran a forefinger across the

  print and then rubbed the finger and his thumb together. 'Not fresh/ he said with a frown. 'At least a day old, maybe more.'

  'There's another/ Alaric said, pointing between that warehouse and the one next to it. The second mark was along the side wall of the other building, and they moved quickly towards it. A third mark led them farther down the narrow alleyway, and Alaric was glad to be away from the bestial crowd he had seen moments before. He wanted to ask Dietz whether he had noticed them, but decided against it. The fact that his friend could see the prints was enough for now.

  They walked a bit farther, and the marks continued, each one more distinct than the one before. It was a clear trail, almost too clear, and Alaric loosened the blade by his side. Dietz had clearly had the same concerns, and already had a long knife in one hand. Glouste was peeking up from his jacket collar, head swivelling this way and that, chittering to show she shared her master's concern, and Alaric tried to ignore the way her noises were similar to those of the rat-merchants he had glimpsed.

  Finally they reached an old warehouse, smaller than the others and not in good repair. Its door hung off one hinge, and cobwebs covered what had been a window. Clearly this place had not seen use in some time. Yet the last hand­print was on the doorframe, the fingers towards them, as if the bloody-handed person they had been tracking had emerged from this very building.

  'I hate it when things are obvious/ Alaric muttered, drawing his sword, 'but here we go.' He stepped inside and quickly moved to one side so that Dietz could follow him, squeezing his eyes shut for an instant so they could adjust to the dim interior.

  When he opened them he wished he hadn't, and then he hoped he was imagining things, but the strangled gasp beside him showed him that this was real.

  The light from the half-open door and the cobwebbed empty window frame showed that they were alone, or at least they were the only living people here.

  The warehouse was even smaller than it had appeared from the outside, or it had been partitioned into rooms. Alaric could see the far walls easily enough, even in the half-dark. The paint was peeling, the boards were warping, and the ground was covered with debris.

  At least, that had been his first impression, but even before the image had finished registering he realised his mistake. It was not clutter and trash that glistened so wetly upon the warehouse floor, in chunks and strips, and shreds and tendrils.

  It was flesh, or what was left of it.

  The floor was alive, writhing and shifting, and chittering and chewing sounds filled the room. The rats and other vermin had found the bodies first and were so intent upon their feast that they had not even noticed Alaric and Dietz's entrance.

  'Morr's blood,' Dietz whispered. 'Are these... were these the cultists?'

  'I don't know,' Alaric admitted. 'It looks like five or six bodies, so the numbers are right. We'll need to see them more closely, what's left of them, and to search for the mask.'

  Dietz nodded and sheathed his knife, then ducked back out of the building. He returned a few minutes later, car­rying a lit torch and a large open flask of something.

  'Get out, you filth!' he shouted, waving the torch low to the ground. The rats backed away, squealing with terror and rage, and huddled in the corners scraping their claws angrily across the floor. Dietz ignored the threat. Once he was sure all the vermin had abandoned the bodies, he began pouring the flask's contents in a wide circle around the room, making sure the path came within a few feet of the open door. Alaric could smell the heavy oil as his

  friend brushed past him, and once the circle was complete, Dietz touched the torch to it, and a ring of fire sprang up, casting its harsh, ruddy light and dancing shadows around the room. The rats fled screaming, knowing they could not cross the flames to reach either their food or the humans who had robbed them of it.

  'Nicely done,' Alaric congratulated his friend as he stepped carefully over the ring. Dietz had been careful, too; the oil was thick enough not to spread, so the rest of the building and the adjoining warehouses were not at risk. Alaric fought back a wave of nausea as he approached the bodies. In the new light, they could clearly see bones and organs, and in several places what remained of heads, limbs, and faces.

  'Torn apart,' Dietz all but whispered, shaking his head, 'and recently. No blades did this.'

  Alaric nodded. They had seen enough death to know the difference between an axe blow and a sword thrust, and this was neither. Dietz was right, these men had been torn apart as if by animals, but by something far larger than rats.

  'Not enough left to identify,' Dietz commented, but this time Alaric shook his head. He had just seen something, a gleam amid the blood, bone and flesh, and he reached out to lift it gingerly from the strewn remains.

  'Here,' he said, holding his find aloft at arm's length. It looked like a simple nail bent into a crude oval, except that it gleamed gold beneath the blood. The ear it had pierced was still attached, at least part of it was.

  'It was the cultists, then.'

  'Yes,' Alaric agreed. He glanced around, tossing the ear­ring and ear aside and selecting a half-stripped and much-gnawed arm to stir the bones and viscera. 'No sign of the mask, though.' Dropping the arm back with the rest, he rose to his feet and carefully backed away. 'Whatever did this to them must have taken it.'

  'Beastmen?' Dietz asked.

  'They're capable of terrible savagery/ Alaric said, remem­bering the men who had died fighting the creatures beside them in the Howling Hills.

  'Kleiber was investigating beastmen in Nuln/ Dietz reminded him.

  'Yes he was.' Alaric frowned. 'I wonder if he is still here? The two might be connected.' Then he shook his head. 'The boat he said was robbed, that m
ust have been a week or more ago, and this happened today or yesterday, I'd judge, recently enough for no one to have noticed the stench. Still, two packs of beastmen sneaking into or around one city; that is odd.'

  'Mutants, perhaps?' Dietz scratched at his jaw. 'Like the ones beneath Middenheim?'

  They both glanced at the bodies again, thinking about the Chaos-mutated creatures living, and hunting, in the tunnels under that city.

  They might be strong enough, and certainly savage enough/ Alaric agreed. 'I don't know if Nuln has them, but then no one knew about the ones below Middenheim.' He frowned and rubbed at his eye. 'Regardless of who did this, the mask is gone. We need to find it. If someone wants to go around killing Chaos cultists, well, I've no quarrel with that.'

  They walked around the room, paying as much attention to the walls as to the grisly mess in the centre. 'Over here/ Dietz said after a minute. He was near the far corner, beside a large grating set in the floor; the shadows and filth had concealed it before. 'It leads down into the sewers.' He kicked it and it rattled. 'And it's loose.'

  Alaric shuddered. He hated enclosed spaces. That's how they got in and out unseen/ he agreed reluctantly.

  'We'll need to follow/ Dietz pointed out, lifting the grate and setting it carefully back against the wall.

  'Wait/ Alaric said quickly. He was thinking frantically, looking around the room for any excuse not to crawl into

  the darkness. His eyes touched upon the door through which they'd entered.

  'That handprint just outside the door/ he said, glancing back at Dietz. 'That was not made by a beastman.' He frowned as he followed through with the thought. 'That means at least one other person has been here since this carnage, and whoever he is, he probably took the mask.'

  Dietz considered that and finally nodded. 'Then we fol­low the handprints.' He let the grating drop back down with a loud clang that echoed through the room.

  'As far as they will take us/ Alaric agreed, trying to hide his relief. They carefully picked their way over to the door.

  'Wait a minute/ Dietz said once they'd reached the exit. He was still holding the flask, and he turned and waved it back and forth across the remains, covering them with the last of the oil. The flames spread, leaping from the cir­cle to the bodies. 'Better than feeding the rats/ he explained as he tossed the empty flask back inside and followed Alaric out.

  'Fair enough. I hope you were careful, though, we wouldn't want to set the whole city on fire.'

  They retraced their steps back to the wider avenue, which Alaric was relieved to see looked normal once again. He had worried that the prints would vanish there, wiped clean by the sort of casual contact that occurs in such a bustling workplace, but Dietz's sharp eyes spotted another print on the far side of the street. They crossed quickly, skirting carts, wagons and men, and resumed their quest, seeking the next mark to guide them.

  The handprints became smaller and rougher as they went, as the last traces of the cultists' blood wiped away, but Alaric was seeing the strange smears again. They over­laid the prints, creating the clear outline of a human hand rimmed in red that faded to black at the edges and rippled slightly as if it too were on fire. By the time they were

  halfway across the city, the real blood had vanished, and they were relying entirely upon the strange new marks that only Alaric could see.

  The new wavering handprints continued, and Alaric and Dietz followed them, walking across bridges and past homes and shops, and even towers. Finally, they reached the city's south edge, and here the last handprint marred the thick stone post at the edge of the bridge that crested the River Reik, leading off into Wissenland.

  That's the last of them,' Alaric said, glancing along the bridge's stone railing. 'I don't see any more.'

  'What about on the other side?' Dietz asked. Once again, Alaric was grateful for his friend's patience and trust. He must look mad, raving about glowing handprints that only appeared to him, but Dietz followed him without com­plaint or question. Such loyalty was all too rare, Alaric thought as he walked across the broad bridge. He hoped he was worth such trust.

  As if in answer to his question, he saw a new mark just beyond the bridge's far end. It was not a handprint but a blotch, and not on the post but upon the ground. It resem­bled the smears he had followed to Nuln, crimson and black mixed together with an oily sheen, but the shape was different, less rounded and more triangular, widening as it stretched away from him, then narrowing again, with a deep cleft down the middle, like a large, heavy hoof print.

  'Here,' he called, and Dietz strode towards him. 'It's a hoof print,' he announced, amused at how excited he sounded, sad that he should become so gleeful at the sight of another phantom print that would doubtless lead them on yet another long and gruelling journey.

  'A horse perhaps?' was all Dietz asked, squatting down near where Alaric had pointed, but the older man was shaking his head even before Alaric responded. 'Beastman,' he answered softly, tracing the blotch with one finger. 'I don't have Lankdorfs skill, or Adelrich's, but I can still

  make out the marks, and this is a cloven hoof print.' He glanced up at Alaric. 'This is where you see it?'

  Alaric nodded.

  'That's good,' Dietz said, standing up and brushing his hand against his leg to clean away the dirt. 'I was begin­ning to think you'd gone mad.'

  'So was I, truth be told,' Alaric replied. They both nod­ded, agreeing without words that no more need be said on the subject, but Alaric felt an immense burden leave him. He was not imagining them! He still did not know why he could see the marks and Dietz could not, but there was no denying the strange signs were leading them after the mask. 'The handprints led here, and now these. Both a man and the beastmen were in that warehouse,' he pointed out. 'They must be working together. The beastmen couldn't be seen in the city so they used the sewers, and whoever this man is, he walked out in the open and rejoined them once the cultists were dead.' And, he added silently, once he had the mask.

  'We'll need supplies,' Dietz pointed out, glancing back towards Nuln, and then turning to study the dirt road ahead of them. 'I doubt they'll stay on the road for long.'

  'We can buy what we need and be off,' Alaric assured him, 'although we may wish to check with the local witch hunters first. If Kleiber is still here we may be able to work together.'

  Dietz nodded, but he was still studying the road, and beyond it, his gaze slowly rising to take in the mountains beyond. Nuln was near the northwest tip of Wissenland, and the Grey Mountains ran along the province's northern edge, due west of them.

  'The road leads south, following the river,' Alaric pointed out.

  'I know,' Dietz said, grimacing, 'but the way my luck runs, they'll veer west and head towards the peaks.' The

  older man disliked heights, which Alaric thought funny, Middenheim was carved atop a wide plateau, after all.

  'I'm sure it won't come to that,' Alaric answered. Person­ally he did not mind mountains; it was caves and other depths that made him nervous. 'Regardless, we had best be getting our supplies while it's still light out.' Dietz nodded, and together they turned and headed back into the city. For the first time since they'd left Middenheim, Alaric was not worried about urgency. The marks were clearly there for him to follow. They would still be there on the morrow. Something wanted him to go after the mask, and, at least for now, he intended to oblige.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The beastlord snarled, shaking its massive, shaggy head so his spittle flew, and grabbed the nearest beastman by the shoulders. A single heave and the offending creature flew through the air, tossed aside like so much rubbish to collide heavily with a stone slab twenty feet away. The other beastmen shrank back against the ruins, heads bowed to show respect and obedience. Their fellow had dared to hesitate when given an order. It was lucky it had not been torn apart for its insolence.

  Bloodgore snarled again, glaring at the others, challeng­ing them to oppose him. None did, and he straightened with a snort,
smashing a heavy fist into the nearest wall. The solid stone splintered, and the beastmen scattered, leaving Bloodgore to his rage.

  Bloodgore watched the others flee his wrath, feeling a brief glow of satisfaction. At least those who had once been his herd still feared him, and why shouldn't they? He flexed his muscles, massive cords bulging in his arms and

  chest beneath his shaggy hair and thick, scaled brown skin. He was still powerful, still strong enough to slaughter those elves when they tried to reclaim the ruins, still pow­erful enough to destroy any of the other beastmen, even two or three of them at once if they dared stand against him. He had been challenged many times during his lead­ership, and had never lost: never, until him.

  Turning, Bloodgore glared at a figure walking along a partially destroyed balcony deeper within the ruins. His small red eyes could only make out the figure's outline, but Bloodgore knew what he would see were he closer. He knew every feature of the hated creature who had stolen his rightful place as ruler of this beastherd. He had mem­orised every crag, every scratch, every scar, every barb, blade, hook, and chain of his foe's hated face and form.

  Yet there was nothing he could do. The stranger had appeared and challenged him for leadership, and Blood­gore was forced to accept. To do otherwise was to show weakness, to admit fear at accepting the contest, and that would spell the end of his reign just as surely. Strength was all his people understood.

  So he accepted, though the stranger was not even one of them; touched by the gods, yes, this massive figure in red and black, and brass, but not a beastman.

  The stranger won.

  No, not merely won, he had defeated Bloodgore as eas­ily as if he were a mere child, a defenceless stripling. Bloodgore charged, his massive head lowered so the great curving horns sprouting from his temples targeted the challenger's chest, his strong, goat-like legs propelling him forward at a terrible speed, a fearsome bellow erupting from his lips as he rapidly closed the distance. He would spit the stranger on his horns and then pull himself erect, lifting the pinned, gored challenger into the air and toss­ing him to the side so the rest of the herd could feast upon his mangled carcass.