From the rumours back in Middenheim and what little Alaric had told Haflok, Dietz knew that the Jade Sceptre cult focused on torture. They were into pleasure and pain, seeing the two as irrevocably linked, and tormented their victims slowly, drawing out each horrible mutilation until the person finally died. He had heard claims that victims might last weeks, even months, receiving just enough medical care each time they collapsed to revive them and let the torture start anew.
He had thought they were only stories, or at least exaggerations.
Now he knew better.
The one thing he had not been able to see from their vantage on the hill was the town’s decorations.
The stable doors they pushed past had been made of skin stretched over a rough wooden frame, a traditional method that Dietz had seen in many farms and small villages. Symbols were scrawled across them in what was clearly blood, however, and recent blood at that. Dietz recognised several of them from Alaric’s notebook and they all seemed to crawl across his vision, shifting even as he stared until he had to turn away for fear of nausea.
Compared to the obscene runes, the bodies nailed across them were nothing, even though he now knew where the blood had come from. Judging by the corpses’ hands, which were smeared with it, these victims had been forced to write the runes themselves, using their own blood, before being crucified across their handiwork.
The entire town was like that, Dietz saw as he shuddered and glanced around. Walls and doors were covered in runes, and bodies—or parts of them—hung everywhere. The town had statuary as well, and the nearest one depicted two beautiful women in the throes of passion. That seemed benign enough until Dietz noticed the man trapped between them, and the sharp little knives they were using to dig at his flesh. Charming, he thought. The rest of the statues seemed much the same, a combination of beauty and torment that left him feeling vaguely unclean.
Everywhere he looked Dietz saw more examples of utter depravity that no daemon had perpetrated, not directly, anyway. These cultists followed the Chaos god Slaanesh and through worship they allowed their master to tap the darkest recesses of their souls. That was what he saw displayed. This was the result of human cruelty. The very worst of the human soul had been dredged up and spewed out upon innocent victims. It sickened him, but the worst part was that some tiny portion in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his soul, understood each and every one of these foul creations. The cultists’ god had taken a side of man that normally hid deep within, never seen or even suspected, and exposed it to the light of day.
“Haflok was right,” Lankdorf rasped. “They all deserve death, and this place must be destroyed.” Beyond even the disgust Dietz heard something else in the bounty hunter’s tone—anger, pure and hard and deep—and he wondered at its source.
“They will be,” Alaric assured them both, “but right now that’s not our problem; he is.” He pointed ahead of them. Braechen had continued on, clearly unaffected by the sights around him.
Apparently, not all the cultists were fighting beyond the walls. Dietz saw several battling soldiers who must have found similar holes in the town’s defences, and others who seemed to be panicked beyond rational thought. Several ran past, apparently not seeing the three men near the stable doors but easily spotting the lone figure walking brazenly through their stronghold. The cultists launched themselves at Braechen, shouting their defiance, and he slaughtered them without even slowing down. As Dietz watched, Braechen entered the town’s central building.
“Quick, before we lose him!” Alaric ran forwards, dodging those few cultists still inside, and Dietz followed, glad of the distraction. He wanted to get the job done and get back out of this twisted place as soon as possible.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The building was easily the largest structure in Vitrolle. It consisted of a massive square with wide square-arched entrances on each side. Steps cut into the walls led up to the flat roof, reminding Alaric of the temple he and Dietz had seen in Ind. Was this the cultists’ temple? It would certainly make sense to have it so large and so centrally located, but what did the daemon want in here?
Braechen had vanished into the building and they were right behind him. Blinking in the sudden gloom, they were just in time to see his mutated form disappearing down a massive staircase. It had been cut right into the ground and then faced with stone, and Alaric could tell from the cool air wafting up that the stairs must go well beneath the surface. Ah, Sigmar’s beard, why did it always have to be tunnels? But he knew they had no choice. The daemon wanted something here, wanted more than just a chance to kill cultists, and whatever it was, they had to keep him from it.
They crept down the stairs as fast as they dared. Alaric was sure they would encounter more cultists—no religious group would leave their temple unguarded, even during an attack—and they had to step over several, still twitching bodies, but saw no one else. One of the fallen cultists had been bearing a curve-bladed axe and Dietz appropriated it, shoving his mace in his pack.
“What are we going to do once we get wherever we’re going?” Lankdorf asked behind him. The bounty hunter had his crossbow loaded and ready, but Alaric suspected that it was as much for comfort at this point as for real use. They’d already seen how little effect the thing had on Braechen.
“No idea,” he admitted, wincing as his head finally dropped below the level of the floor above, and the daylight behind them vanished. Calm, he reminded himself, calm. You’re chasing a daemon into a Chaos temple. Surely the fact that a few tons of rock sit above us and could crush us in an instant is the least of your concerns. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar under his breath anyway, just in case. “Let’s see what we find first.”
What they found was the base of the staircase, a good hundred feet or more below the surface. The floor was solid rock, carved and carefully smoothed, and it widened out into an enormous rough-walled chamber. The curving ceiling was at least forty feet high and that made Alaric feel better. It was hard to feel claustrophobic in such a large space. The walls curved slightly as well, although with no discernible pattern, and he suspected that the cavern was natural. The cultists had found it somehow and crafted the staircase to it, but beyond smoothing the floor they had done little else to alter the room’s original elements.
This was clearly their temple, and silk curtains and banners hung upon the walls, masking the harsh stone with smooth fabric. Torch brackets had been imbedded at regular intervals, as had manacles and a variety of straps, bars, and cages. Alaric saw several devices he recognised as torture implements and many more he guessed were equally vile, although thankfully he did not understand their use. Not all of the devices were empty, and Alaric was glad the lighting was dim enough to hide some of the wounds he could almost see on those bodies. Rugs covered the floor and cushions had been strewn upon them, several already trampled by Braechen’s passing. Couches and chairs were grouped together here and there, often around strange metal racks covered in thick leather straps. Small bronze braziers still smoked, sending delicate incense fumes to tickle his nostrils, and he also saw implements heating in many of them. This place was like a lady’s boudoir or a high-class brothel’s sitting room mixed with a torture chamber.
Then he noticed the centrepiece.
Rearing high above them, her head almost brushing the ceiling, was the statue of a woman, or at least of something with certain feminine attributes. Her face was stunning, with full lips, wide eyes, a strong brow, high cheekbones and a surprisingly sharp nose. Golden hair billowed around her, framing her features in a golden halo that did little to dim the proud, demanding look upon her face. Two pairs of curving horns sprouted from her temples, each adorned with gold and gems. Her skin was smooth and white, most likely alabaster, and gleamed in the torchlight.
Her body was equally perfect, with broad shoulders, proud, prominent breasts and a smoothly curved stomach, her belly button pierced by a pair of overlapped silver crescents. Her arms were strong and well muscled but still smooth: all
six of them.
Just below the belly button she began to change, however. Her skin developed a pattern of overlapping scales that quickly covered her lower form, and instead of legs she narrowed from the hips into a single thick column that coiled twice before rearing up behind her. The scales were a varied green, from deep emerald to a pale milky colour, and formed patterns that made Alaric’s eyes ache.
He knew who he was looking at. The intense, almost frightening beauty, offset by the unsettling combination of human and animal, meant it could only be one of the four Chaos gods. Slaanesh: the Prince of Pain and Lord of Pleasure. This must be one of his many forms, the beautiful woman with the six arms and the lower body of a massive serpent.
The daemon-possessed soldier was already halfway across the large chamber and appeared to be heading straight for the statue. Lankdorf fired another crossbow bolt, striking it in the back near one proto-wing, and Braechen stumbled, snarling. Apparently the change had not progressed as far there, because the bolt stuck out from his flesh, and blood dripped from the wound. He glanced behind him and grunted when he saw them, and Alaric was careful not to meet his gaze. Then Braechen turned back towards the statue once more.
“We’ve got to stop it!” Alaric said, his mind racing. Perhaps it contained some tainted energy of its own, as had the Chaos statues they’d encountered before, something the daemon could tap to increase its own strength. Whatever its reasons, if the monster wanted to reach the statue they had to prevent that from happening, but how?
“The gauntlet!” Dietz shouted, already running towards the mutated man. “We broke the statue and closed the gate. If we destroy the gauntlet maybe it’ll be forced out again.” He raised his new axe, saying something that Alaric recognised as a prayer to Ulric. Lankdorf was right behind him and Alaric saw the bounty hunter also muttering something, although he couldn’t make out the words.
Alaric nodded to himself. That made sense. At least, it was worth a try. The only problem was, the daemon didn’t want to cooperate. Braechen was walking again and seemed oblivious to the two men rapidly approaching from behind. If he didn’t stop he would reach the statue before they could get close enough to attack the gauntlet.
That meant they had to distract him, and Alaric knew just how to do it.
Taking a deep breath, he called out. “Hey! Braechen!” He thought he heard the man grunt but Braechen didn’t react otherwise. Alaric took a few steps closer and tried again. “You, daemon! Turn and face me!” This time the daemon-infested soldier laughed, making that horrible sound again. That gave Alaric another idea.
He closed his eyes and let the memories he had held at bay for so long overwhelm him. He was back in that chamber once more, facing the daemon as it struggled to enter this world. Dietz had shattered the statue and the gate was closing, but still the daemon lurched forwards. He raised one hand absently to rub at his neck, where the daemon’s tentacle had struck him just before it vanished. He remembered what it had said.
“K’red’lach!” he shouted, his eyes flying open again.
Braechen stopped dead.
He turned, slowly, to look at Alaric, and Alaric forced himself to look right back.
Studying what had been Braechen in an effort to maintain his sanity, Alaric saw that the changes to his body had continued. His entire arm was now scaled, ridged and barbed, right up to the homed shoulder, and his chest had traces of alteration as well. Right in the centre, a dull glow rose through his flesh, reminding Alaric of the throbbing sphere he had seen in the daemon’s flesh. Was that its heart, he wondered? Braechen’s flesh had all gone dark all mottled, and his face had shifted, growing longer and narrow, with cheekbones that literally carved through his flesh and reared like small axe blades along his face. His sandy hair had clumped together, looking more like spikes or horns scattered atop his head, and darkening to black at the tips, and his eyes glittered and burned, tugging at Alaric again as they had once before.
This time the daemon was trapped within a man. Even though it had claimed that body, and was changing it to suit itself, it was still mortal flesh, and the gaze, though powerful, was muted by its terrestrial prison. Alaric found he could still think, could still move a little, even as those eyes bored into his.
“You know me, don’t you?” he asked, advancing a few more feet. Dietz and Lankdorf were almost in position, swords at the ready. “You remember me.”
The mutated warrior eyed him, both mouths split into wide grins. Then the lower mouth, the one across its neck, moved, hissing something he could not begin to comprehend, and the upper mouth, the one that had belonged to Braechen, formed one word.
“Alaric.”
He shuddered and the creature laughed. It knew his name! But how?
Dietz chose that moment to attack, his borrowed axe flashing out and down, landing right at the juncture of gauntlet and mutated flesh. Lankdorf’s sword was right beside it, hitting the arm just a little higher up.
Braechen roared. His arm flailed, knocking both blades away, and then his other arm swept the two men aside, sending them tumbling to the floor.
“How do you know me?” Alaric shouted, desperate to draw the daemon’s attention. The ploy worked. Braechen turned back to face him, still grinning, but Alaric thought he saw blood along the arm where the blades had struck.
“I know you,” the daemon-altered man replied simply, the Braechen-mouth apparently translating the mind-numbing sounds that issued from the wider mouth below.
“Yes, but how?” Alaric demanded. It wasn’t just a ploy. He needed to know. “From the statue?” he asked.
Braechen laughed. “The statue,” it repeated. Was that agreement? “Yes, and from this.” He raised his left arm, the gauntlet gleaming and flickering, and apparently moaning between them.
“The gauntlet?” Alaric was confused. “How?”
“Yes, gauntlet,” the daemon replied, “Hraklonesh.” The Braechen-mouth mimed the word, which apparently defied translation. “Expanding Maw, his.”
“That belonged to… Hraklonesh of the Expanding Maw?” The name made his teeth feel numb and his mind shriek but Alaric continued. He could see Dietz and Lankdorf out of the corner of his eye. They were on their feet again and ready for a second attempt.
“Mine now,” Braechen replied. He laughed. “Soon you will be, as well: body and soul.” Alaric had continued his approach during their conversation and wondered if that was his doing or the daemon’s. He suddenly remembered being drawn towards it once before against his will, and panicked as he discovered he could not stop himself from taking the next step. Only a few feet separated them.
He was saved, surprisingly enough, by cultists. A wave of men and women came charging down the stairs, straps, ribbons and gauze flying, and weapons raised, shouting their defiance. They paused at the sight before them, unsure who to attack first. Dietz solved that problem for them.
“He’s an unbeliever,” he shouted, gesturing towards Braechen. “He defiles this holy place!”
That was enough for the cultists. They launched themselves at the mutated soldier. He laughed and turned to meet them, ripping the first attacker’s arm clean out of its socket and beating the stunned man’s head with the limb hard enough to crack both arm bone and skull. More attacked, however, and even with the daemon inside him Braechen was forced to focus on this new threat.
Several braziers had been knocked over already and more were overturned, their coals smouldering atop the rugs and pillows. The cavern was getting darker, but it was still light enough to see what was happening. Alaric blinked, noticing a light oddly placed at the upper edge of his vision, and turned to look. It was coming from the statue. In the uppermost of her right hands the statue held a large sceptre of cunningly wrought gold set with bands of milky jade. It was the jade sceptre, the symbol of the cult and the Chaos god’s greatest treasure.
Jade didn’t usually glow.
Alaric stared. Then he blinked and stared again. Yes, he was sure: the jewe
l at the very tip of the sceptre, a large rounded gem, possessed a dull glow, invisible before but evident now that the room had grown darker. That wasn’t jade!
“Ulric’s beard! It’s enchanted!” Dietz gasped out, also staring at the sceptre. “It’s probably another relic!”
Alaric nodded. That could be the daemon’s goal, to claim not one but two artefacts. Certainly Braechen was heading in that direction, shoving his way past couches and benches, and piles of cushion without slowing. Why would the daemon need a second artefact? And why was only the tip glowing? The rest of the sceptre, although it appeared to be of excellent workmanship and extravagant materials, did not appear unusual in any way.
“Warpstone!” It was Lankdorf who hissed the word, and Alaric remembered again the bounty hunter’s sharp eyes. “I think that thing’s a warpstone!”
“That’s what he wants!” Alaric said, suddenly putting the pieces together. “The gauntlet must not be enough of a gate to bring him through completely. He needs that warpstone to complete or at least speed up the process!” Then his mind took another leap. “The gauntlet lets him manifest through Braechen,” he realised, speaking out loud, “but that’s still not his full presence. With the warpstone he can step through completely, just as he’d planned with the statues. We have to keep him away from that sceptre!”
He turned back towards the battle before him, just in time to see the remaining cultists fall back and to the sides, making room for a new figure.
“Begone, foul daemon!” The man now speaking was tall and slight, making Alaric think of Strykssen, although his hair was dark, dyed a deep red like wine, and bound back in a long braid, and his features were delicate, almost feminine. He wore an assortment of leather straps around each limb and a series of looped chains around his waist, covering a flimsy loincloth of some shimmering fabric. Gems hung from his ears and naked chest, and adorned his fingers and neck, and he moved with the assurance of command. Clearly this was a high priest of some sort.
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