CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

“Why me?” Alaric grumbled as he was dressing for dinner. A guard had delivered a set of clothes to Estia’s tent earlier, with instructions that he wear them tonight. It was nobleman’s garb—where they had acquired it he had no idea—and a reasonable fit, although the jacket and shirt were a bit loose in the shoulders and across the chest. It was taking him forever to fasten the shirt ties, however, because too much stretching still caused a nasty twinge in his stomach.

“It’s the curse of good looks,” Dietz replied from where he sat in the corner. “If you weren’t so pretty you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“That’s not particularly helpful,” Alaric snapped. He knew his friend was laughing at him. Dietz seemed to have a way with women, at least if the encounters he’d had in several towns and ports were any guide. Alaric had always been too busy with his books for romance. He’d been raised as a noble, of course, and so he knew the social niceties and could spout poetry if necessary, but that was as far as it went. Still, he supposed a little light conversation and some witty banter wasn’t beyond him. Hopefully that was as far as it would go.

Not that Fatandira was bad looking; a bit mannish, perhaps, with that square jaw, but she was certainly fit and full-figured and she had striking eyes.

Of course, she was also a military commander and could have him killed if he displeased or upset her.

“Why not?” Dietz suggested for the third time. “Make her happy and we go free. Upset her and she slits our throats.”

“I know, I know,” Alaric groused. He finished tying the shirt to his satisfaction and buttoned the jacket. Then he unbuttoned it again when it tugged his bandages uncomfortably. She would simply have to accept that he was wearing the jacket open, he thought crossly.

“How do I look?” he asked Dietz, turning around and holding his arms out so his friend could see the full effect.

“Like a peacock,” Dietz replied, “all dressed up to impress the ladies.”

“Yes, well, let’s hope this lady is impressed.”

 

As he walked to the command tent, stepping between smaller tents and corrals and passing several guards and several soldiers on horseback, Alaric allowed himself to think about the other things that had been bothering him since their arrival. There were three, in fact: his recovery, his dreams, and that cursed gauntlet.

Estia was still amazed at how quickly he had recovered. She had praised Lankdorf’s use of herbs, but the bounty hunter admitted that they shouldn’t have caused such a rapid healing process. Estia spoke of her goddess, Shallya, taking a hand and Alaric wanted to believe that. The problem was, he worried that someone—or something—less benign had been knitting his wound together instead.

That was because of the dreams. He had been having nightmares, the same ones he’d had since their battle under Middenheim. He kept seeing the cultists in his dreams, and the portal they had created. He saw the shadowy form of the daemon they had summoned, slowly making its way through that otherworldly tunnel. Each time it drew closer and closer, and each time he woke up screaming, or whimpering.

The dreams had gotten worse since he’d been wounded. They were longer, and clearer, and somehow more vivid. He could smell the dank mould of that underground chamber, and feel the heat of the torches placed around the room, and the strange hot breeze that blew from the portal, carrying with it the stench of decay and old blood. The stone felt solid beneath his feet. It took him several minutes after waking to convince himself that this was the reality and that had been the dream, and not the other way around.

The gauntlet had also appeared in his dreams recently. In one he was wearing the artefact and had stood frozen in horror as barbs from the inside stabbed into his arm and hand, piercing his flesh and sending blood spilling into the tainted relic. Then the barbs, plates and runes had spread from the gauntlet, seeping up his arm and over his torso, finally covering his head and causing him to choke as they transformed his face into something horrific. He had woken up gasping for breath.

In another, the daemon was wearing the gauntlet. The artefact had glinted from its place on the creature’s forearm, visible even through the darkness of that long tunnel, and then that arm had shot forwards, somehow covering the distance instantly, so that the mailed hand burst free of the portal. At its arrival the air around the portal seemed to split open and Alaric felt as if the world was tearing apart. The daemon lumbered forwards, the distance halved and its speed increased by the presence and use of that gauntlet. Alaric knew it would be free of the portal in moments rather than hours, free to smother the world with its hatred and its madness and its bloodlust. Even while the rest of the daemon remained caught in the portal it proved itself dangerous beyond measure. It reached for Alaric with the gauntleted hand, locating him through the crowd of chanting cultists, its reach impossibly long. It caught him by the neck and lifted him off the ground, the barbs digging into his flesh. Then it had twisted, and he had woken clutching his neck, making sure it had not been broken like a dry twig. His neck had stung where one barb had cut him, although he couldn’t find an actual wound there.

What did it all mean? Was it just his mind, taking all the things he worried about and throwing them together? Or were they really linked: his recovery and that daemon and the gauntlet? The gauntlet was definitely tainted by evil, and the daemon was born of Chaos, but it had not been wearing anything like that object when they had last met. Nor had he heard of such an artefact in his studies, and how or why would the daemon still be pursuing him after it had been banished back into Chaos when they had destroyed the statue and its portal? He didn’t know, but something in his gut told him they all had a purpose, and none of it was good for him.

Now he had dinner to deal with; dinner with a ruler who was also a warrior and a woman. To his mind that was a dangerous combination.

 

Alaric reached the front of the command tent, only to find Estia waiting for him.

“Not here,” she said with a smile. She led him to a second, slightly smaller tent off to one side. Its flaps were closed. “Here.”

The healer woman pulled open the flap and stuck her head inside. Then she re-emerged and gestured for Alaric to enter. As he did she touched his arm. “Do not exert yourself too much,” she warned, her pale eyes alight with mischief. “It might reopen your wound.”

Nodding and trying to look amused even though he felt a little faint, Alaric entered the tent. The flap slid back into place behind him.

This was clearly Fatandira’s personal tent. It was made from a thicker material than most of the other tents in the camp. They were canvas or oilskin or sometimes a layer of both, while this had been oilskin on the outside but had a layer of short golden fur for the interior walls. The ground was covered in thick, colourful rugs, and a large, short-legged brazier stood in the centre, generating heat and light. Silk cushions were piled here and there around the space, for use both as seating and as beds. Alaric gulped at that last thought. A faint scent hung in the air, rich and musky, and scarves hung from the tent’s peak, softening the sharp point and creating the impression of a low ceiling and a warm, intimate space.

The ruler herself lounged on several cushions not far from the brazier. Gone was the mail he had seen her wearing, and in its place he was surprised to see a vivid red skirt covered in an elaborate pattern of curling, swirling gold, and an embroidered vest, pulled tight across her impressive chest and fastened with buttons carved to resemble tiny flowers. Her dark hair, normally pulled back in a tight military braid, hung loose and flowed over one shoulder, and in her ears were large gold discs engraved with similar designs.

Slender gold bracelets hung around her wrists, minute charms upon them flashing and tinkling as she moved, and as she shifted her legs he heard a soft chiming as if she wore tiny bells upon her ankles as well.

The garb and the tent’s furnishings, along with her exotic looks, suddenly made sense to him.

“You’re Arabyan!” he blurted out, and then felt foolish. That wasn’t a very good way to start a dinner conversation.

Fatandira did not seem offended, however. Instead she laughed a rich throaty laugh.

“I am of Arabyan blood, yes,” she admitted, raising both arms over her head and then swivelling her wrists, a move he remembered the Strigany women using when they danced, the chiming of their charms providing a delicate counterpoint to the beat of the drums and the melody of the flute. He remembered several scholars theorising that the two, the Strigany and the Araby, were cousins, begun from a single source but travelling through different lands, and he thought that might be true. Perhaps, if he survived this strange quest of theirs, he might present a paper on it someday.

“My people have roamed this land for centuries,” Fatandira was saying, her wrists still moving to provide an accompaniment to her words. “We were here long before your Empire existed, long before your people forged weapons and conquered your own lands. My forefathers were here when the Nehekharans first set foot upon these shores, and one of my ancestors greeted Amenemhetum himself as he landed.”

“Really?” Alaric felt his interest in antiquities overwhelming his nervousness. He moved closer, and at a gesture from her he took a seat on a pile of cushions right beside her. “Amenemhetum the Great? Your ancestors knew him?” That reminded him of the tomb he had recently explored, “And Karitamen?”

She shuddered slightly, her hands dropping to her lap, the right clenching as if on a sword hilt. “The Death Scarab?” she said, “Yes, we knew of him. For many years my people were welcome in his lands, until his mind grew dark and we turned away, fearing for our lives.” She looked at Alaric, who found himself lost in her intense dark eyes. “You entered his tomb.” It was not a question.

“Yes.” He found himself fidgeting beneath her sharp gaze. “We were seeking something there.”

“The gauntlet?”

“Yes.”

“And Karitamen?”

Alaric took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure he should tell her the truth, but at the same time he realised she would see through any lies. “He walks within his crypt,” he admitted, shuddering as he remembered that skeletal form and the hunger it had expressed. “He is undead, a liche.”

Beside him he heard Fatandira gasp slightly, but she nodded. “So the legends are true, then,” she said, almost to herself. “My people heard of his obsession with the dark arts, his desire to rule his people forever. The stories claim he only slumbers within his tomb in the mountains, awaiting the right moment to awake and return to his throne, and now he has.”

“You think he will come here?” Alaric asked her.

“These were his lands,” she replied, tugging absently at the buttons on her vest. “His domain once stretched from the World’s Edge to the Starnak, from the Black Mountains to the Sour Sea. If he has returned, he will wish to rebuild his kingdom, and we will all fall beneath his shadow.”

“Perhaps not,” Alaric said. He told her of the door to the burial chamber and the carvings he had seen upon it. “Those were wards,” he explained, “and I suspect they were set there to contain Karitamen. I do not think he can leave that chamber.”

“Ah, this is good news!” Fatandira beamed, the smile transforming her face. She would never be lovely but she was certainly striking, and Alaric found himself getting flustered. This was not the formal, pleasant dining he’d expected. “First you save my life and then you rescue my people,” she continued, eyeing him as if he were a prized possession. For a second they sat there, not speaking. Then she roused herself and lifted two golden goblets from the floor beside her.

“We drink,” she told him, her voice once more tinged with command, and he accepted one of the goblets from her. They both raised them in a silent toast and sipped, and Alaric was pleased to find that he was drinking an excellent wine. Whatever else might be said of her, Fatandira was a gracious hostess.

A platter by the side of the brazier was laden with food, olives and dates, and cheeses and soft flat bread. Metal spits lay across the fire, roasting delicately spiced meat. They ate, wrapping the meat within the bread, and drank more wine, conversing about this and that. Fatandira was an interesting woman and held a wealth of information about these lands and their people. She told him of their surroundings and in return Alaric told her of some of his travels.

“You have experience with servants of the Dark Gods,” she noted after he had given her an abbreviated version of their encounters with the Chaos statues. “That will be most useful.”

“Oh?” Alaric felt a warning prickle at the back of his neck. “Why?”

“Soon we ride against them,” Fatandira explained, shifting instantly from woman to commander. Even her posture changed, becoming straighter, bolder. “The town of Vitrolle,” she said, “they nest within it, like poisonous snakes, and from there they attack travellers and traders, and anyone foolish enough to cross their path.”

Alaric remembered what Enbar and the other adventurers had said of the place. “It is by the split in the Howling River, is that right?”

“Yes.” She glanced at him, clearly wondering how he had known that.

“Some travellers we met warned us to avoid it,” he explained.

“They were among the lucky ones,” Fatandira replied, “for few who pass close to that place survive.” She scowled. “They sit upon my lands, for all that lies between the mountains and the forks of the river is my domain. They prey upon my people. They must perish!” Her hands had bunched into fists and Alaric noticed the heavy muscles along her upper arms. This woman could snap him in half.

“The town holds treasures as well,” she added, suddenly surprisingly coy. “It is rumoured the cultists have amassed a great fortune there, both money taken from their victims and wealth they brought with them when they arrived. I have heard stories of a sceptre carved from jade, worth more than all our weapons and horses together. With such wealth I could hire more men, equip them, and drive off my rivals once and for all!”

She turned back towards Alaric, leaning towards him. He couldn’t help noticing how her vest dipped severely in front and suddenly found himself sweating. “You could accompany me,” she said, her voice going throaty, her posture shifting again. Once more she was all woman. “You could ride at my side. With your knowledge and my might we could dispose of these cultists. Then we might have time for… other activities.”

Alaric was taken aback. He had expected an evening of pleasantries, perhaps even flirtations, not this suggestion of more physical involvement. It didn’t sound as if she was talking about a brief tryst, either, but about something more extended, months if not years at her side! His first impulse was to flee but then he reminded himself where he was and who he was with. If he spurned her so callously his life might be short indeed.

“That is a most generous and enticing offer,” he began slowly, “and were I free to choose I would be honoured to stay beside you, but my life is not my own to give.”

“You are indebted to someone?” Her dark eyes flashed. “Tell me his name and I will kill him for you.”

“Ah, no,” he back-pedalled quickly, “no, I am not indebted. No, what I meant was, that I am bound to a higher purpose and cannot deviate from it, not even for such pleasures.”

Her gaze narrowed. “You are no fanatic,” she accused. “I have seen many such, and you lack their religious fervour.”

That made him laugh. “No,” Alaric agreed, “I am not religious, although I do respect the gods and even call upon them in need. My purpose is not tied to one of them, however, at least, not specifically. I spoke to you of the statues we found, and the evil that lay behind them, waiting to emerge?” Fatandira nodded. “It is that evil I have pledged to stop. That is why I seek the gauntlet. I must prevent evil from using that artefact to enter our world.” Something else occurred to him. “We share a common interest in fact. Both of us wish to see such influences removed from your lands. You seek to destroy that town and its inhabitants, while I seek to remove the gauntlet. The result is the same, to drive the taint from your realm.”

“So you will destroy this gauntlet, and after that you will be free to return?” Fatandira asked bluntly.

Alaric frowned. “I would say yes, but something tells me otherwise. I think there is more waiting for me. There is the mask I mentioned, and I am sure that also plays a part here.” He shrugged. “I do not know when this quest will end, only that I must continue it. I am caught up in this evil’s plans and must foil them or the world will perish.” Although he had initially mentioned the quest as an excuse, the more he spoke of it the more Alaric realised the truth behind his words. He really was caught up in the daemon’s attempts to enter this world, and somehow it had fallen to him—and to Dietz—to stop the Chaos creature’s plans.

“So you refuse my offer?” The words were soft but made of steel, and he could see from her face and her pose that woman and commander both spoke, and both were angry.

“I have no choice,” he said. “I must continue my mission. It takes precedence over all other interests, and my feelings are insignificant beside it.”

Fatandira glared at him for an instant, and then turned away with a huff. “Very well. Leave me, at once!” She lashed out with one hand, knocking the pitcher to the floor, dark wine spilling out and seeping into the rugs and cushions.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Alaric told her, and a part of him was. She was a fine woman, and he could imagine how desperately lonely she must be. She had to be a commander here and nothing more. She could never dally with any of her subjects, not without losing their respect. An outsider like him was her only chance at romance, and he had spurned her, as politely as he could, but it was still a rejection. He bowed and left, moving quickly but without hurry, trying to ignore the shiver in his back as he half-anticipated a blow from behind. Nothing happened and he exited the tent, walking quickly to the tent that Dietz and Lankdorf shared.

“Get up,” he said as soon as he’d entered. Dietz was there, laying back on his bedroll, Glouste curled contentedly on his chest. The older man was smoking a pipe and lazily scratching the tree-fox, but he sat up as soon as he saw Alaric.

“That bad, eh?” was all he asked.

“We’re leaving,” Alaric replied. “Gather what you can.” He glanced around. “Where’s Lankdorf?”

“No idea.” Dietz shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Alaric frowned. “I don’t know that it’s safe for any of us to stay,” he said, “and I would feel responsible if he suffered from my actions.”

“What’d you do, laugh at her?” Dietz asked. He was already up and rolling the bedroll, Glouste in place across his shoulders.

“She asked me to stay with her,” Alaric replied. “I turned her down.”

“Sigmar’s beard, you do inspire them,” his friend said. He shoved a few things in his pack and hoisted it. “Ready.”

“Good.” Alaric turned and found himself face to face with one of Fatandira’s guards.

“You will leave in the morning,” the guard said to both of them. He thrust a scrap of parchment at them. It had the horse image Alaric had seen on the shields crudely burned into it. “This will allow you to pass through these lands unmolested.” Then the guard was gone.

“Well,” Dietz said, dropping his pack and collapsing back onto his bedroll, “at least we can get a night’s sleep before they kill us.”

“Ha ha.” Alaric dropped onto the other bedroll and, despite his concerns, was soon fast asleep.

 

The next morning a guard roused them at dawn. Several more warriors stood outside the tents, spears in hand, but at least the points were not levelled at them.

Alaric and Dietz were escorted back to the command tent and led inside. Lankdorf was already there.

“What’s all this?” the bounty hunter asked as they joined him before the tall wooden chair that Fatandira used as a mobile throne.

“Alaric refused her,” Dietz explained quietly.

“What? You idiot!” Lankdorf snapped.

“You sleep with her, then,” Alaric snapped back. “We can’t stay here.”

Whatever the bounty hunter had meant to reply, faded from his lips, as Fatandira entered and took her seat before them. The woman was completely masked again. She was in her customary mail, her hair bound back, every inch the ruler once more. Only he thought he saw a hint of sadness in her eyes.

“You have saved my life and revealed a traitor among us,” she announced without preamble. “For that you may go. Keep your pass close at hand, for you will need it whenever you encounter one of my guard patrols. My men will escort you beyond our camp, and your weapons will be returned to you there.” She glanced at Alaric. “Return and you will die.” Alaric opened his mouth to speak but she gestured with a hand and guards appeared at his side. They motioned with their spears and he turned away, knowing that she did not want to hear whatever he had been about to say.

Outside the command tent Lankdorf was handed his pack, and his mule was led to him, its saddlebags already in place. Alaric’s pack had been brought as well, and he could tell it was heavier than it had been, although he did not have time to inspect its contents. Once they were equipped the guards led them through the camp. They marched for two hours without a word. Then the guards suddenly stopped.

“Go,” one of them said, and tossed a bundle onto the ground. Dietz was closest to it and managed to reach it before Lankdorf, giving the other man a grin as he straightened. The clank of metal suggested it was their weapons.

“Thank you,” Alaric told the guards, who were already turning away, “and tell your ruler we are truly grateful for her hospitality.” The men were already marching back and he wondered if they’d heard him, and if they would bother to relay his message. Not that it mattered. He suspected that he was the last person Fatandira would want to hear from.

After the warriors had disappeared over a low rise, Dietz opened the bundle. He handed Alaric his rapier and dagger and restored his knives to their sheaths, lifting out his mace as well. Then he tossed Lankdorf his sword and daggers.

“What about the crossbow?” the bounty hunter asked, as he belted his weapons back into place.

Dietz cocked his head, studying their companion. “I’m not so sure I want that thing pointed my way again,” he said softly.

“We have a deal,” Lankdorf reminded him. “I get these”—he tapped the sack at his side, which clinked—“and any money we get from that gauntlet, and I don’t pursue the price on your head.”

“That makes us partners,” Dietz pointed out.

“That’s right.”

“So I’ll carry this for you, partner,” Dietz said, shouldering the crossbow.

Lankdorf scowled for a second, and then nodded.

“Fine.” He felt for the sling at his belt. “Better we both have range, anyway.”

Alaric had checked his pack during this exchange, and was surprised and pleased by what he found. Fatandira had provided food, water and wine, and had given him a fresh set of clothes as well. His own shirt had been carved into bandages when he’d been injured, but Estia had found him one when he’d been allowed to leave the sickbed, and that was here as well, along with his trousers. Even when she had been angry Fatandira had proved generous.

His companions had provisions as well, and they were in excellent shape as they gathered their gear and prepared to move out.

“We should circle down to the south,” Lankdorf told them as they walked. “That was the direction of the boot prints.”

Alaric nodded. Levrellian was to the north and the mountains were to the east. Rorschach probably did not work for Levrellian, which meant he would have to head either south or west, and if his footprints were heading south, that was good enough for him. He shouldered the bag.

“Let’s go,” he said. “I’d feel safer if we put a little more distance between us and the camp, anyway.” He knew from the stories he’d read—and a few of the ones Dietz had told him—that a woman scorned could have a very long reach.