CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Unh.” Alaric woke, feeling as if a mule had been dancing on his chest while men stabbed his stomach with red-hot pokers. Opening his eyes blearily he saw that he had been at least partially right. There was a mule, and its slow, steady plodding was sending jolts through his chest, although he was lying across the beast and not the other way around. Below the mule’s feet was hard grey granite, and that and the thin cool air suggested they were still in the World’s Edge Mountains. Not in the valley, though, since he saw no sign of sand within his limited view.
“You’re awake!” Alaric turned his head and saw Dietz walking beside him, hands behind his back. At first Alaric thought his friend had adopted a casual pose but then he heard the chink of the chains and saw the manacles around the older man’s wrists.
“It seems so,” Alaric agreed, trying to push himself up enough to look around. A sharp pain through his middle stopped him, however, and he collapsed over the mule’s back with a low groan. “What happened?”
“Gunther stabbed you,” Dietz reminded him quietly.
“Ah, yes. Now I remember.” And he did. The betrayal came flooding back. The double betrayal, really, since Hammlich had then turned on Gunther. Alaric glanced around. “Where are we?”
“Making our way to the Mad Dog Pass,” the man walking in front, holding the mule’s reins, replied, and Alaric remembered the other events as well. This stranger had arrived after the battle and taken them prisoner. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“A bit, yes,” Alaric admitted, and he did, now that he stopped and took stock. His stomach was still tender and he could feel the wound pulsing angrily, and trying to straighten up had caused him to break out in a sweat and made his vision swim, but at least he wasn’t shuddering or freezing as he had been right after taking the wound. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
The stranger laughed. “Such polite prisoners,” he said, tipping his hat slightly. “Merkel Lankdorf, and I already know your name, Herr Alaric.” Alaric glanced at Dietz, who nodded. “I should check your dressings, since you’re finally awake.”
Lankdorf halted the mule in a shallow basin between two mountain ridges, untied the rope around it, and dragged Alaric off, setting him on the ground none too gently. He also pounded a metal stake into the nearer ridge wall and attached Dietz’s manacles to it. Then he removed the bandages Alaric found around his waist, cleaned the wound, and packed some sort of paste into it before binding it with fresh bandages. He finished by tying Alaric’s hands and feet and then looping the rope around the stake as well, but at least he left Alaric enough slack to sit on the ground.
“I take it I’ve got you to thank for this,” Alaric said, gesturing weakly at the bandages, “my thanks.”
“Thank your friend,” Lankdorf replied, jerking a thumb back towards Dietz, “he convinced me.” Alaric noticed that it was getting dark, as the bounty hunter stood up and took something from the far side of the mule. “We’ll camp here,” he announced, raising the crossbow and sliding a bolt in place. “Don’t go anywhere.” Then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the lengthening shadows.
“How long was I out?” Alaric asked once Lankdorf was gone. He tried to pull himself into a more upright position but gave up when his vision swam again.
“Two days,” Dietz replied, crouching by the wall. That was apparently as far as the manacles would allow him to go. “You were feverish at first but Lankdorf fed you a broth of some sort and put a compress on your forehead. That helped.” He nodded in the direction they were heading. “He says there’s a pass not far from here and that’s how we’ll get back out of the mountains.”
Alaric nodded. “He seems… efficient.”
“He is,” Dietz agreed, frowning. “I just hope it doesn’t become easier for him to kill us and haul our heads back as proof.”
Lankdorf returned an hour or so later, a dead mountain goat slung across his shoulders. The bounty hunter gutted the animal, built a fire, and roasted the meat on Alaric’s rapier. Lankdorf ate his fill but he only gave Dietz and Alaric small pieces of meat, barely enough to stop their stomachs growling. Nor did he release Dietz’s hands, setting the meat upon the mule’s back and forcing Alaric’s friend to eat by bending down and snaring each piece with his teeth.
“Can we have a bit more?” Alaric asked after he’d finished the meagre meal and accepted a water skin from his captor. “We’re still hungry.”
“I know,” Lankdorf replied, carefully wrapping the rest of the meat and storing it in one of the saddlebags, “but I don’t know how often we’ll find meat up here.” He grinned. “Besides, I feed you more and you might feel strong enough to escape. I like you better this way.” The bounty hunter didn’t seem inclined to further conversation and moved to the far side of the mule after holding the water skin for Dietz to drink. He kept a clear line of sight on both of them, however, and lay down with the loaded crossbow on his chest, ready to fire at a moment’s notice.
“Charming fellow,” Alaric muttered, stretching out carefully and wincing as the movement pulled at his wound. Dietz only grunted a reply.
The next day they continued to make their way through the mountains, following narrow trails between cliffs and peaks, and wending generally southward. Alaric was well enough for Lankdorf to set him upon the mule in a sitting position, piling the saddlebags behind him to provide some support and tying his legs below the beast and his hands to the halter. Alaric swayed slightly but held on, pleased not to be banging his face against the mule all day.
He tried to engage Lankdorf in conversation several times but the bounty hunter proved almost as taciturn as Dietz. When he did respond his replies were short and to the point, and he offered very little information about himself, their surroundings, or what might happen to them once they reached Akendorf.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” was Lankdorf’s answer to that last question, but Alaric certainly cared, and since their captor wouldn’t talk about it he spoke to Dietz instead.
“Do you think they mean to kill us?” he asked his friend as they picked their way slowly through the mountains. Lankdorf was out in front scouting for loose rocks and unstable ledges, and then returning to lead the mule and Dietz carefully from crevice to crevice and peak to peak.
“Probably,” Dietz replied. The older man’s eyes were downcast, although Alaric suspected it was more to watch his footing than from some sense of foreboding.
“I wonder if it will be a public display or a private execution?” Alaric mused. He knew the thought was morbid but he had little else to think about, and he kept hoping that Lankdorf would offer his opinion, since the bounty hunter clearly knew the Border Princes and its customs far better than they did.
“How much did you say they’d offered for us?” Alaric asked as the bounty hunter returned and took the mule’s lead again.
“I didn’t.”
“All right then, how much did they offer?” When Lankdorf did not reply Alaric pressed him. “Oh, come now, surely I have the right to know my own price!”
For a moment he thought the bounty hunter was going to ignore him again, but finally the man grunted out an answer. Alaric leaned forwards to hear it, and then sat back, astonished. He had to grab the mule’s halter to keep from topping from his makeshift seat.
“Did you say five hundred gold?” he asked finally.
“I did,” the bounty hunter replied.
“Each?”
“That’s right.”
Alaric whistled, even though it made his side twinge. “Dietz, we’re rich!”
Dietz laughed. “How’s that?”
“Well, we’re worth five hundred gold apiece,” Alaric told him giddily, part of him realising that it was the pain, the fatigue and the hunger talking. “That’s as good as carrying around the money ourselves, for who’s closer to it than us?”
“Can’t spend it, though,” Dietz pointed out.
“Of course we can,” Alaric argued. “We can buy things on credit. We make a purchase, accept the debt, and they can collect the money when we’re caught and killed, simple as that.”
“Except I caught you already,” Lankdorf said softly, “and I’m not inclined to share.”
“Well, it’s hardly up to you, is it?” Alaric retorted. “You cannot very well stop us from owning ourselves, and thus the money is as much ours as yours, more even.”
Lankdorf half-turned, his sword hissing from his scabbard, and Dietz took several quick hops forwards, placing himself between Alaric and the bounty hunter. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Dietz said quickly. “He’s delirious.”
Lankdorf stared at Alaric past Dietz’s shoulder, the bounty hunter’s cold grey eyes hard. Finally he turned away again, the blade returning to its sheath. “The money is mine,” he said again as he distanced himself from them.
“Sigmar’s hammer, Alaric, are you trying to get us killed sooner?” Dietz demanded once their captor was away again. “He’ll gladly cut us both down and drag our corpses back.”
“Sorry,” Alaric said, although he didn’t feel very repentant. “I was just passing the time.”
“Pass it more quietly next time,” Dietz warned.
That night, Alaric and Dietz waited, bound and staked as usual, for Lankdorf to return from hunting. The man had already shown himself to be an excellent shot, particularly with the crossbow, although Dietz had noticed a sling at the man’s belt as well. While they sat Alaric let his thoughts drift back to the tomb and its hideous occupant.
He had been trying not to think too much about the valley and the structure built within it, because he was already having nightmares about walking, rotting corpses, mummified cats with eyes of fire and statues that came to life and carved people to pieces. Plus he kept seeing Therese and the others in his dreams, their skin chalk-white, their eyes milky, and their wounds still dripping blood as they came for his flesh. He knew he could not avoid the memories forever, and something about the doomed expedition was nagging at him, something that didn’t make any sense.
Alaric leaned back against the cold stone cliff and tried to lock down the errant thought. What was it that had bothered him? The tomb’s construction? No, even though the exterior had not matched—no pyramid—the interior had been consistent with what he’d read of the Nehekharans. The inhabitants? Certainly, but he’d heard stories of such creatures being found in pyramids and tombs before. No, that wasn’t it. It was something he’d seen, something that didn’t seem to belong.
Then he knew what it was.
It was the gauntlet.
“Hammlich wanted that specifically,” he said softly.
“What’s that?” Dietz had been petting Glouste, as best he could with his cheek.
“The gauntlet,” Alaric replied. “It was the one thing Hammlich specifically wanted. He took the gold, of course, but the others had gathered trinkets as well. He ignored all of those, but the gauntlet he took.”
Dietz shrugged. “Maybe he thought it was worth more.”
Alaric nodded, “Yes, clearly, but why? It wasn’t made of gold, I don’t think, and it didn’t have any gems that I recall.” He closed his eyes, trying to see the gauntlet again in his mind. There! Not gold, no, some sort of strange, banded stone, he remembered, with overlapping plates, and barbs everywhere. There were engravings as well, but he hadn’t been able to examine it properly and couldn’t say what they were, exactly. It was certainly an intriguing piece, but worth more than the rest put together? He doubted it.
He thought there was something else about its appearance. Alaric concentrated, forcing himself to ignore the pain, hunger and fatigue, and push through it. What else had he seen about the gauntlet?
Then he remembered. It had been covered in runes, and he had seen those runes before.
Reaching for his belt pouch, Alaric winced as he tugged at the wound yet again. Moving more carefully he managed to retrieve his notebook, which he flipped open.
“There!” he said after finding the right page. Dietz glanced over at the mark Alaric was indicating. “That’s it!”
“That’s what?” his friend asked.
“That mark,” Alaric explained, “was on the gauntlet.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” Alaric snapped. “I know what I saw.” He stopped to think. “The entire surface was covered in runes.” He straightened up, carefully, knowing how painful it might be.
“That gauntlet was marked by Chaos!” he whispered. “It’s another artefact!”
Dietz groaned. “What, another one?”
“I know,” Alaric agreed, “but that’s partly why we came out here, to make sure nothing like that was set loose upon the world.” He grimaced. “I suppose we haven’t been doing much to stop that lately, but now we will.”
He thought about the gauntlet again. Now that he knew its origins the design made sense. No human would have designed it with so many spikes and barbs. Perhaps he had even recognised the gauntlet’s inhuman nature subconsciously and that was why he had taken it from the crypt.
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” he realised. Dietz waited patiently for an explanation. “The gauntlet was in the Death Scarab’s crypt, the very heart of his tomb,” Alaric explained, “but the Death Scarab is a liche, one of the undead. The undead may be evil but they’re tied to this world, not another. I’ve never heard of such creatures consorting with the forces of Chaos. It should be anathema to them.”
“Maybe they’ve got a pact?” Dietz suggested, and shivered. “Sigmar’s hammer, just thinking about those skeletons mixed with that daemon makes me sweat.”
“It wouldn’t happen,” Alaric reassured him. “Artefacts of Chaos make us uncomfortable because they come from another world. The undead are powered by magic, and Chaos magic would disrupt that. They’d never work together. If anything, I would think the undead would be even more determined to destroy anything Chaos-tainted.”
He thought back. What was it Karitamen had done when he’d found the gauntlet? The liche had looked almost crazed with anger and it had shouted something, but Alaric didn’t know enough Nehekharan to understand the words. The long-dead king had certainly wanted him dead, however.
Or perhaps he simply had not wanted that gauntlet to leave his tomb.
If it had belonged to Karitamen, an artefact like that, why hadn’t he been wearing it? It had been tucked safely into his sarcophagus instead, almost as if it had been placed there for safekeeping.
“Morr’s blood,” Alaric whispered as he realised exactly what the liche’s actions meant. “I’m an idiot.”
“No argument here,” Dietz replied, leaning against the rock wall.
“He wasn’t trying to protect it,” Alaric said absently, replaying the scene in his head. “He was trying to guard it.” Alaric tried pulling himself to his feet but gave up after a second, forced to content himself with sitting a little straighter than before.
“If the gauntlet had been Karitamen’s he would have been wearing it,” Alaric pointed out. “It had to be one of the most potent items he possessed, but he had it stashed in his sarcophagus instead. It was hidden in the innermost layer, which is the most important one, and the most heavily guarded. He was trying to keep anyone else from finding and taking the thrice-cursed thing. That way the servants of Chaos wouldn’t have access to something so powerful; until now.”
“So how does a liche get hold of a Chaos artefact, anyway?” Dietz asked.
“I don’t know,” Alaric admitted. “We know he had some sort of foul sorcery, bestowed on all the walking dead, but why wouldn’t he tell them to keep anything Chaos-tainted well away from his tomb?”
“We need to find that gauntlet,” Alaric announced, feeling some of his aches and pains fading to the background.
“How are we going to do that?” Dietz asked. “Hammlich is long gone.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lankdorf pointed out, appearing from the shadows and dropping a brace of birds by the fire, “since I’m taking you straight to Akendorf.” Obviously his sharp ears had picked up at least part of their conversation and Alaric wondered how long Lankdorf had been listening. The mountains were quiet enough, and the small crevice where he’d made camp would amplify any sounds so that he could have heard the entire discussion.
“You don’t understand,” Alaric told him as the bounty hunter began plucking the birds and getting them ready for the fire. “That gauntlet is very powerful and very dangerous.”
Lankdorf shrugged. “Not my problem. All I have to do is get you back to Akendorf. End of story.”
“Well, it is my problem,” Alaric replied heatedly. “I found the gauntlet and I’m the one who removed it from the tomb. That means I’m responsible for letting it loose. I’ve got to put that right by finding it and either destroying it or returning it to the tomb!”
The bounty hunter finished gutting the birds, cleaned his knife against his trouser leg, and slammed the short blade back into its sheath. “We are not going anywhere near that thing,” he announced. “I’m taking you back to Akendorf. End of discussion.”
“I let it out, but you’re stopping me from correcting that,” Alaric responded. “That makes it your responsibility, too! If anyone dies from that thing because we couldn’t go after it, it will be your fault.”
Suddenly Lankdorf was on his feet, the knife back in his hand. In two quick steps he was across the clearing and the blade was against Alaric’s throat. “Another word and I’m bringing back a corpse,” he hissed, his eyes as cold as the stone around them, “understand?”
Alaric nodded carefully, the sharp blade pressing into his flesh, and the bounty hunter backed away. Then, without a word, he stormed off into the night, climbing the shallow incline to one side that led back towards a higher peak, leaving them, the mule, and the uncooked birds behind.
“Bit of a temper, hasn’t he?” Dietz commented dryly after a moment.
Alaric nodded, rubbing the line that still tingled along his throat. “These artefacts certainly bring out the worst in people,” he said absently. Then his gaze fixed on the birds and the fire beside them, both out of reach, and he shook his head.
“I guess I should have waited until after dinner to anger him.”
Lankdorf returned an hour or so later, tossed the birds into the fire, and lay down, all without speaking to Alaric and Dietz. He didn’t mention the incident the next morning, either, but he did alter their bonds slightly. He tied Alaric’s hands but not to the mule, leaving him free to twist about a bit more. His feet were still tied together below the beast’s belly, of course, and Lankdorf kept a tight grip on the mule’s lead, so there was no chance of escape. The bounty hunter also shifted Dietz’s bonds, moving his arms around in front instead of behind and then refastening the manacles. Now Dietz could eat more easily, and walk more comfortably, which was certainly a blessing.
Shortly before noon they topped another rise, this one taller than most of the previous ones. Below them lay a wide, deep channel, cut as straight as the stubborn rock would allow and broad enough to accommodate several wagons abreast.
“Mad Dog Pass,” Lankdorf said, clearly pleased, “takes us straight down out of these bloody mountains. Then we’ll follow the river north to Akendorf.” He glanced at Alaric, as if daring him to argue, but Alaric simply nodded. The bounty hunter seemed to be in a good mood and he didn’t want to jeopardise that.
Lankdorf located a narrow trail curving down to the floor of the pass and they navigated it carefully, the bounty hunter in the lead, followed by Dietz and then the mule. It was slow going, the trail so tight in places the mule’s sides scraped the rock, and all their attention was on the next step and the one after that. They were almost to the bottom when they heard noises and glanced up.
They saw a group of men, perhaps a dozen or more, emerging around a bend in the pass. From this distance, Alaric could make out very little about them, beyond the fact that they significantly outnumbered him and his companions.
“Unchain me, quick!” Dietz hissed, but Lankdorf shook his head.
“Could be someone else after your heads,” the bounty hunter explained, readying his crossbow and tugging the mule forwards several paces, where a handful of boulders almost blocked the end of the trail, “or bandits. I can’t take that risk. Get down and keep quiet.”
Dietz growled but did as he was told, missing his step on a loose rock and stumbling against the wall but not falling. He found a place to crouch just in front of Lankdorf, who was in front of the mule, his crossbow aimed through a gap between two of the rocks. Alaric, leaning down as best he could to hug the mule’s back, knew there was another reason why Lankdorf wasn’t going to arm them. They were both too weak from days of reduced meals to be able to fight, and his wound was still bad enough for him to be able to do little more than cling to the mule and hope the strangers passed without noticing them.
As the strangers drew closer, Alaric made out more details. The first thing he noticed was that they were ragged, their clothing little more than tatters and mismatched items, their hair wild and filthy, and their beards thick and matted. Each wielded a weapon of some sort, from sword and axe to crude club, and those were held in hand, unsheathed. The way the sunlight reflected on them, he was fairly certain the weapons were encrusted with blood, and some of it not that old, but two other details made Alaric’s blood run cold.
The first was the gleam in the strangers’ eyes. They had the look of fanatics, men gone beyond reason, utterly wrapped up in their own obsessions.
The second was the mark each bore on his forehead. It had been carved there, he was sure; he could still see dried blood in several places. It was a rune he recognised, and despite being cut into flesh it had a strange malleable look about it, that same skin-crawling sensation he had felt too many times before.
It was a Chaos mark, and these men wore it as a mark of devotion.
“They aren’t bandits, or bounty hunters,” he whispered to Lankdorf, in case the bounty hunter hadn’t noticed. “They’re cultists! If they see us they’ll kill us… or worse!”
Lankdorf nodded and Alaric saw his shoulders tense. “Then let’s hope they don’t see us,” he whispered back.
Unfortunately as the cultists neared their hiding place Alaric smelled a foul stench rising from them. Clearly religious fanaticism did not include an interest in bathing. The blood and gore caked on their weapons and clothes probably didn’t help either.
As good as Alaric’s nose was, the mule’s was better.
The beast brayed, shaking its head to drive away the smell. The sound was impossible to miss and the cultists turned towards the rocks, weapons shifting in their hands, grins splitting their faces to reveal rotting, bloody teeth.
“I hear meat,” one of the filthy men declared loudly, a rusty axe held high above his head, “and meat like that does not hide on its own. That means people. We shall feast on their hearts and offer their livers to our lord and master!”
The cultists surged forwards, several directly at the boulders while others curved around towards where they met the cliff wall. Lankdorf took that opportunity to fire, the bolt taking the lead cultist through the throat and flinging him back with the force of impact. There was not time to reload and so Lankdorf tossed the weapon down and rose to his feet, drawing his sword with one hand and a dagger with the other. As Alaric watched, the bounty hunter stepped forwards, blocking the end of the trail, blades swinging, and caught one cultists sword stroke on his dagger while his own blade darted in to gut the man. Lankdorf clearly knew how to handle himself, but would that be enough?
After a moment it was clear that the answer was no. The bounty hunter was a competent fighter, but he was badly outnumbered. There were ten cultists in all, and several were trying to scale the boulders and climb down behind Lankdorf. Neither Dietz nor Alaric were in any shape to help, even if they’d had their hands free and weapons to hand. Lankdorf was holding his own, for the moment, fending off those who approached the trail’s mouth, but it was only a matter of time before one of the weapons around him found an opening or one of the cultists made it over the boulders and cut him down from behind, and once his blade dropped they were all dead.
“A little help would be good,” Alaric said softly. He wasn’t even sure who he was talking to, certainly not any of the gods, but it seemed that one of them heard him anyway, for an instant later they heard a shout from the other end of the path.
“By Grungni’s beard!” A deep, rough voice cried out. “Looks like a fight up ahead!”
“Help!” Alaric responded, trying to catch a glimpse of the newcomer. “We’re under attack and badly outnumbered!”
“Outnumbered?” A second new voice replied. “Looks like bandits! Well, they’ll soon regret their actions. Fall before Sigmar’s light!”
Suddenly the strangers came into view through a gap between the boulders. Alaric saw the dwarf first, a short, stout figure with swirling blue tattoos, a long red beard and the distinctive orange crest of a Slayer. He bore a massive war axe in each hand. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and stern features emerged behind him, wearing the armour of a Sigmarite, his bronze hammer catching the light as he called Sigmar’s fury down upon the heathens before him. Behind them were two other men, one dressed in a long red robe and the other a massive white-bearded man with an eye patch, a longsword and an array of daggers and knives about him. A silver-haired woman strode with them, lovely and fine-featured even though she wore full armour and carried both a shield and a sword.
The dwarf reached the cultists first, roaring something in his native tongue, his axes lashing out to cut the nearest cultist in half, the blades sliding past each other as they met through the man’s middle. The Sigmarite’s hammer shattered another’s skull even as the man with the patch stabbed one through the chest with his longsword and the woman knocked another aside with her shield, following the blow with a slicing attack from her delicate but clearly sharp blade. The robed man did not use a weapon but fire danced around his clenched fists and he struck out with that, the flames licking around his target as the cultist fell, blackened marks appearing where the man’s fists had connected.
Lankdorf did not miss his opportunity, either. As the surviving cultists turned away from him to deal with this new threat his sword arm snaked out, catching the nearest cultist around the neck. A quick tug backwards and a slice with his dagger and the man fell dead at his feet, blood spurting from his cut throat.
The dwarf had already taken down another foe, his blades shearing one of the man’s legs off and then lopping off his head as he toppled. The one-eyed man also killed another, and the Sigmarite battered down the final cultist before either the woman or the robed man could reach him.
“Thanks for the help,” Lankdorf called out. He seemed to be directing his speech towards the Sigmarite, which made sense, since a man like that was not likely to take orders from anyone else, so he was most likely the leader of the strangely assorted group.
“I could not in good conscience let you battle alone against such vermin,” the Sigmarite replied, his manner of speech reminding Alaric of their witch hunter friend Oswald Kleiber. Why did religious fanatics all speak the same way, he wondered? Or at least why did Sigmarites? The cultists had certainly not bothered with such careful diction.
“Are you injured?” The robed man asked, stepping over the bodies towards the trail entrance. He had wild red hair and a flowing beard, and a flame tattoo around his left eye. Alaric noticed that the man’s robes also bore flame patterns at the cuffs and a set of silver keys hung prominently around his neck.
“Nothing important,” Lankdorf answered. He had a few small cuts where blades had nicked him, but none of them seemed to hamper him.
The robed man glanced up and saw Alaric and Dietz behind the bounty hunter. His eyes widened, clearly surprised to see anyone else there, and then narrowed as he noticed their bonds. His companions had approached and stood arrayed before Lankdorf. For a second Alaric thought this might be their chance to escape, but the bounty hunter was no fool.
“I’m a bounty hunter,” he explained. “These two are wanted for crimes in Akendorf.”
“A misunderstanding,” Alaric corrected, keeping his tone light, “nothing more. Why the prince felt the need to take such extreme action for so minor a disagreement is beyond me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lankdorf countered, turning slightly and cuffing Alaric on the cheek. “They’re my prisoners and that’s that.”
The strangers stood for a second without speaking, but then the Sigmarite stepped forwards.
“We have no wish to interfere,” he assured Lankdorf, who visibly relaxed. “Yours is a rightful task and we will not impede you.”
“Thanks.” Lankdorf nodded and sheathed his blades. “Merkel Lankdorf,” he introduced himself.
“I am Alaric von Jungfreud, at your service,” Alaric interjected, bowing carefully from his seat to avoid aggravating his wound, “and this is my companion, Dietrich Froebel.” Dietz nodded. Lankdorf glared at him but didn’t try to strike him again.
“Jurgen Heim,” the Sigmarite responded, “and these are my companions.” He gestured at the dwarf, the robed man, the lady, and the one-eyed man in turn. “Urrel Two-Axe, Otto Enbar of the Bright Order, the lady Kera of Ostermark, and Gorge von Oswald.”
Dietz gasped when he heard the last name. “The Butcher of Middenheim!” he blurted out, and then looked embarrassed as the man in question scowled. “Sorry, it’s just… I’ve heard all about you! I’m from Middenheim myself. My father was a wheelwright there.”
“Oh?” von Oswald brightened. “What did you say your name was? Froebel?” He thought for a moment, and then snapped his fingers. “Not Denholm Froebel?”
“That’s my father!” Dietz straightened. “My older brother Dracht runs the shop now.”
“Ah, a fine man, your father,” von Oswald said. “Yes, an excellent craftsman. I bought from him more than once.” His face clouded, as if remembering that time in his life had led to other, less happy thoughts, and he fell silent once more.
“The Bright Order?” Alaric asked the robed man, trying to fill the uncomfortable pause. He’d heard that somewhere, but where? After a second he had it. “You’re a fire mage!”
“Yes.” Enbar seemed pleased at the recognition. “You know of our order?”
“Only a little,” Alaric admitted. “I’ve heard of the various magical orders but not in detail.” This was actually the first time he’d met a Bright Wizard in person and he had several questions to ask, but the way Lankdorf was looking at him he knew he’d best not push his luck.
“Lucky our paths crossed when they did,” the bounty hunter commented, forcing attention back away from his prisoners.
“Yes,” Heim agreed, “particularly since we will not stay on this road long. Our path lies somewhere within the mountains, through less travelled routes.”
“Assuming we can find the damned thing at all,” Enbar muttered.
“We’ll find it,” the dwarf, Urrel, growled back. “I can find anything buried in the ground.”
“Anything belonging to your people,” Enbar agreed, “but what do you know of the ancient Nehekharans?”
Alaric’s ears pricked at the name, and he resisted the urge to see if Dietz had caught the mention as well.
“Stone is stone,” Urrel was insisting. “If it’s here, I shall find it.” His grip tightened on his two axes as if daring anyone to contradict him again. No one did.
“Which way did you travel?” The lady, Kera, asked them. Her voice was smooth and soft, her speech delicate, and Alaric knew at once that he was dealing with a fellow noble. Yet she wielded a blade and wore armour and shield, more like a guard or man-at-arms than a lady. He wondered what her story might be.
“We came from the north,” Lankdorf told them grudgingly. He indicated the peaks behind them.
“Did you see anything… unusual?” Enbar asked, his eyes bright.
The bounty hunter seemed unwilling to yield information. “A lot of rock,” was his only reply.
“Unusual in what way?” Alaric asked, unable to stay quiet.
“Oh, strange formations, carvings, that sort of thing,” Enbar replied as casually as he could.
“You mean like a pair of massive doors, carved in the image of a dead Nehekharan king?” It was the first time Dietz had spoken since mentioning his brother, and several of the newcomers started at his comment, their eyes widening as his words sank in. Dietz grinned at them.
“Aye, that’s what I thought,” he said slowly. “You want the tomb.”
“Shut up!” Lankdorf struck Dietz in the stomach, hard enough to double him over. “You speak when I say you speak!”
“I would hear what they know of this tomb,” Enbar announced, stepping forwards. Perhaps Alaric was imagining it but the air around the man seemed to shimmer, the way it did around a strong fire.
“Aye, so would we all,” Heim agreed. He studied Lankdorf soberly. “It would be a great aid to us if you would allow them to speak, friend.”
“Fine.” Lankdorf spat the word out. “Talk, then.” All eyes turned back towards Dietz, who suddenly looked less thrilled about that.
“We’ve been there,” Alaric interjected, drawing the newcomers’ attention away from his friend. Now he had all their attention. “Karitamen the Death Scarab, his tomb, we’ve been there.”
“You carry no treasure,” von Oswald pointed out, his one eye piercing. “The tomb is said to be filled with gold and other baubles.”
“It is,” Alaric admitted. “More than ten men could carry.” He shook his head and winced at the motion. “We were in a bit of a hurry.”
“And inhabitants?” Heim asked, his hands tightening on his hammer.
“Undead,” Dietz told him, “skeleton warriors, mummified cats, living statues… oh, and the king himself.” He shuddered, clearly remembering the fight in the burial chamber. “He’s like a skeleton but much worse, more alert, for one thing, and much stronger.”
“A liche!” The way the Sigmarite’s eyes lit up, Alaric might have thought the man had found a treasure beyond value, and perhaps the idea of killing such a creature was that valuable to him.
“Go due north for three days,” Dietz told them, “head between the cleft that resembles a bent fork tine and aim for the peak that looks like a hawk’s beak. Look for a valley with a flat wall along the west side.” His expression shifted. “You’ll see bodies there as well.”
“Bodies?” Urrel asked.
“Some of our recent companions,” Alaric explained, “and several local soldiers fought over the treasure.” When Heim’s gaze shifted to them and to Lankdorf, Alaric felt compelled to admit, “he wasn’t there. We were wounded and he found us afterwards.”
Lankdorf spoke up. “What about the way you came?” he asked, clearly bored with all this talk of the tomb. “Anything we should watch for?” He dragged the mule down into the pass proper, and then hauled Dietz along as well, leaving the way clear for the adventurers.
“Aye,” von Oswald replied, his face twisting into a snarl of disgust. “That town, the one we heard of. What was it again?”
“Vitrolle,” Enbar reminded him.
“That one,” the one-eyed man agreed. “Steer clear of it.”
“It stands at the head of the Howling River, where it splits in twain,” Kera explained. “We heard strange stories of that place and its people. They say all there are fanatics, all worshipping the same god. They say many who enter that region disappear, never to return.” She shuddered slightly, although she masked the tremor almost immediately.
“Good luck, and may Sigmar be with you,” Heim told them, raising his hand in benediction. Then he gestured ahead of him with his hammer and the others followed as he passed Alaric and Dietz, and Lankdorf began climbing the trail up the cliff side.
The other four said goodbye, each in his or her own fashion, and marched past them and up the winding trail. Before long Heim had reached the top and disappeared over the peak, the others following behind him.
“You meet the most interesting people,” Alaric murmured as Lankdorf gathered the mule’s reins and led her down the pass. None of them spoke much for the rest of the day as they followed Mad Dog Pass, but Lankdorf kept his crossbow close at hand and his eyes peeled, and all of them started every time a rock fell or the wind howled through the mountains.
It took them two more days to reach the path’s end, walking down out of the mountains, out of the foothills, and finally to the edge of rolling green countryside. They hadn’t seen anyone else along the way.
They were still camped on the third day, enjoying the shift from hard rock to dirt and trees, when they heard a strange rustling noise. Before any of them could react, the bushes erupted, a flurry of leaves and branches rising into the air around them. Then the steady drumbeat reached them, shaking their feet, making them want to die. The pounding increased, someone drawing closer, until suddenly the shadows around them burst into life as a trio of horsemen emerged. The men wore studded leather armour with wine-red sashes across their left shoulders, and carried shields and longswords. The shields were deep red, with a brown horse rearing upon them. The riders closed in around Alaric, Dietz and Lankdorf, leaving no path for escape.
“Who are you and what is your business here?” the lead horseman asked, addressing Lankdorf. His hand rested on his sword hilt, but he didn’t draw it.
“I’m a bounty hunter,” Lankdorf replied, carefully keeping his hands away from his weapons. He didn’t sound very concerned. “I’m taking these two criminals back to Akendorf.”
“Under what authority?” the rider demanded.
“My own,” the bounty hunter replied. “What else is there?”
One of the other riders laughed. “In these lands, you must have our ruler’s permission to engage in such activities.”
“I didn’t know that,” Lankdorf admitted. “I didn’t mean to break any laws.”
“Yet you have,” the first horseman informed him. He frowned. “You will come with us,” he said after a second’s pause, “all of you.”
“Is that really necessary?” Lankdorf asked. He let one hand rest on his belt pouch and shifted it slightly, causing a clink that could only come from coins rubbing together. “Isn’t there some fee I can pay instead? I don’t like long delays.”
“You will delay for as long as necessary,” the rider informed him. He studied the three of them carefully. “I do not trust your presence here,” he said finally, “especially at such a time. We will take you to our ruler and let her decide your fate.”
Alaric noticed the pronoun shift. The local ruler was a woman? He’d never heard of a female ruler here, and he was curious to meet her. Not that they seemed to have much of a choice.