Daemon Gates Trilogy by Black Library Page A

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