Born Of Darkness (Book 7)

by William King

  He lashed out with one enormous gauntleted hand. The blow smashed the shield of the nearest guard, crumpling metal, splintering the wood that backed it. His hand passed through the head of the human’s head. Blood and brains shot everywhere. The sight of the jellied grey matter sent a twinge of hunger through Vorkhul. Later. Later.

  The dull sound of metal on metal brought his attention to the impact of the other man’s blade upon his armour. Vorkhul grabbed the sword and snapped it in two. He took the jagged shards that remained and drove them through the human’s body.

  He sensed the approach of more mortals. They were arriving in scores, not just guardians of this museum but troops from the palace. An army would soon be on top of him.

  He would kill them all. Still he would need a more efficient way of doing it. Glancing around he saw the great battle axe hanging on the wall. It was a weapon intended for a Lunar prince, a fine compliment to his armour. With it he could slaughter the humans all the quicker.

  A glance showed him that the human with the Khazduri blade was tottering to his feet. His weakness gratified Vorkhul. He was tempted to pursue right now, but he wanted to get the axe before the bulk of the human army arrived. He strode to the wall and pulled it down.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  KORMAK REACHED INTO his beltpouch for a sunflare. He had only two left. The Old One’s back was turned. He needed to get its attention. Grogginess slowed him. His battered body protested every movement.

  Vorkhul touched the rune on the axe’s blade to the glowing gem on the breastplate of the armour. The greenish glow transferred itself from armour to axe, filling the weapon with killing power. Darkoth had slain three guardians and an army of humans before the Archmage Pelageus dispatched him. Vorkhul had been a deadly opponent before. Now he might prove invincible.

  More guards raced into the room. They gazed with horror on their fallen comrades and what they took to be the animated suit of armour. One of them froze. The remaining four moved forward, spreading out so as not to present an easy target.

  Booming laughter emerged from the demon armour, an alien sound, made by a creature with no idea what mirth was. It just wished to communicate its contempt in a manner it knew the humans would understand. The guards’ advance ground to a halt.

  “Run,” Kormak shouted. “Run!”

  Two of the guards turned tail and fled. The others backed away, keeping their eyes on the Old One. It strode forward, metal footsteps ringing on the flagstones.

  “Run! Damn you! Now!” Kormak bellowed. He did not want to throw the sunflare and blind the men. It would make them cattle to the slaughter. A soldier glanced at him. Vorkhul’s axe flashed out, leaving a trail of green light in its wake. It chopped right through the man’s body, splitting him in two. The guards ran.

  Kormak tossed the sunflare and covered his eyes. The mad laughter continued to ring out as the weapon blazed. When the brilliant light died, Kormak saw the Old One was almost on top of him. At first the crystal eye-sockets of its visor were pools of ultimate blackness then the green glow returned. The Old One had not been blinded. The huge axe slashed towards Kormak. There was no way he could parry that monstrous weight of metal.

  ***

  Vorkhul revelled in his utter triumph. The magical crystals of his helmet’s eye-pieces had neutralised the sunflare, darkening instantly when it burst. Now they had returned to normal translucency. Ahead of him the human stood, mouth hanging open, shock inscribed on his face.

  Vorkhul swung his blade, backed by all the amplified strength of the armour. There was no way he could avoid killing the man. The axe was not a subtle weapon. He hoped to make his blow as painful as possible. He aimed for the body, wanting to preserve the man’s brain. The bellowing of the hounds was near now.

  ***

  Kormak sprang away. The wind of the axe’s passage rippled his hair. Vorkhul killed the blade’s momentum and brought it swinging back. Kormak dropped beneath it and tried to scramble clear.

  The axe rose and then descended in a blurring arc. Kormak rolled to the left. The blade buried itself in the stonework. Green sparks fountained upward.

  Kormak scrambled to his feet and lashed out with his sword. It bit into the armour, but all he did was leave a nick. Vorkhul began to lift the axe.

  There was no way to win this fight by standing toe to toe with the enemy. He was too battered and too tired. He needed to fall back and come up with a new plan. Perhaps if he could lure Vorkhul into the room full of elder signs, he would have a better chance.

  ***

  The human ran as if the hounds of hell were after him. Vorkhul pulled the axe from the stonework, cursing the fact that his pursuer had somehow eluded him again. His annoyance was momentary. He was glad the creature was alive and fled before him. He would have some sport before he put it out of its misery. He would make it beg for mercy.

  Vorkhul lengthened his stride and set off in pursuit. This was how things should be. He was the hunter. The human was prey. The Shadow be praised.

  ***

  Kormak ran through the room full of sarcophagi and raced into the space that held the elder signs then turned at bay. Behind him the gigantic metal form of his pursuer lumbered along. It halted at the entrance as if sensing the trap. It set down the axe, then picked up a metal coffin as easily as a man might heft an empty beer crate. It hurled the huge weight. It missed Kormak completely and crashed into the wall. The sarcophagus shattered on impact. Bits of broken stonework and twisted metal caromed around the room.

  The Old One picked up another coffin and hurled it at a different angle. It smashed into the other wall. Glancing to his right Kormak saw that all the hanging elder signs were either broken or fallen or both. The Old One picked up its axe and, laughing like an insane thing, strode into the room.

  The Old One’s stride slowed as it crossed the threshold but when it launched its first blow, its strength was undiminished. Kormak ducked away from the sweep of the blade, wondering if perhaps the creature was a fraction slower than it had been. It made no difference. It was still too strong for him. He backed away and then sprang through the outer doorway, slamming it closed.

  The axe smashed through the wood, splintering it with one blow. Kormak saw scores of troops pouring into the Museum. At their head was Rodric. Fang dragged him along. In the midst of a company of his Household Guard was King-Emperor Aemon. His brother stood beside him. Frater Jonas was at his shoulder. Warriors of the Order of the Dawn dug into their satchels, producing flasks of alchemical fire and sunflares.

  “Sunflares won’t work,” he shouted. “Use banefire if you’ve got it!”

  He ducked to one side as the door exploded outwards and the massive armoured form of the Old One appeared. It paused for a moment to contemplate the small army it faced.

  “Begone from my palace, thing of Shadow,” King Aemon shouted. He raised his hands. A halo of light played around his head and then a bolt of pure incandescent light flickered from his fingers. It hit the Old One right in the chest. The eye-pieces of the demon mask helmet went completely black. The metal of the armour began to bubble and run.

  The amulet against Kormak’s chest grew warm as the King’s magic took effect.

  ***

  Vorkhul felt the armour grow warm as the accursed human sorcerer unleashed his power. For a mortal he was strong.

  For a mortal.

  Vorkhul invoked more of the runes on the armour. Spells of protection shimmered in the air around him. The gnawing beam of light splashed off, sending bolts of golden sunfire slashing through the air. One hit the stuffed mammoth and set it alight, another sliced through the cable holding the skeleton of the dragon. Part of it tumbled to the ground, crushing humans beneath the calcified bones.

  Vorkhul strode forward, into the full power of the sorcerer’s spell, letting it glance off the wards. He shouted mockery at the insects who dared pit themselves against him. The human sorcerer’s face had gone from confident and zealous to weary and doubting.
He was using all his power in one tremendous burst and it was draining out of him quickly. The sunfire bolt became weaker and sputtered to a stop. The human soldier’s massed themselves around the mage and made ready to die in his defence.

  Vorkhul was happy to oblige them.

  ***

  Kormak watched the king’s spell fail. The glow of pure golden power around Aemon’s head dimmed and went out like a snuffed candle. No human being could unleash so much magical energy in so short a time without feeling the effect. The king doubled over like a man having a seizure. Prince Taran shouted to the guards.

  A group of them grabbed the king by his arms and began to pull him back through the door. All the while Aemon protested but he could do nothing to stop them. Jonas went with him. He clutched daggers in his hand.

  Taran stood his ground. He bellowed orders, making sure the troops stood fast while his brother escaped. Kormak felt something like admiration for the man. There was no denying his bravery or his loyalty. It seemed likely that they going to get him killed.

  ***

  The brothers of the Order of the Dawn threw their flasks of banefire at the oncoming demon. Alchemical liquid clung and ignited. Flames danced over the metal shell, transforming the Old One. An armoured elemental of blazing death strode through the hall.

  Then the impossible happened. The flames around Vorkhul dwindled and died. It was a thing Kormak had never seen happen before. Banefire could burn even underwater.

  And still the demon came on.

  ***

  Vorkhul moved through the ranks of the soldiers like a bladed whirlwind, killing as he went. Kormak knew there was nothing ordinary men could do to stop him. Sunflares had failed. Alchemical fire had failed. Sorcery had failed. Even his own dwarf-forged blade had failed. There had to be something he could do.

  He felt at his belt for the flask of Valen’s Elixir. He did not want to take it. It might kill him but that was not what made him reluctant. Drinking it would be the final admission that his body, his skill and his blade had all failed him.

  Vorkhul slaughtered two more soldiers. The men were on the edge of breaking. How many more would die if he did nothing?

  Kormak unstoppered the flask and put it to his lips. It burned like rotgut alcohol on the way down, making him gasp and snort.

  He stood frozen for a moment. His heart beat faster. His tongue tingled. His skin felt tight. He counted to ten, knowing that the drug would take that long to affect him and wondered if he was going to die. Many men did when they took the elixir. It worked best for young men. Warriors of his age who used it were prone to sudden apoplectic death.

  The Old One killed another dozen men. They threw themselves at him, trying to find a weakness in the armour, to restrain his limbs. He tossed one man a score of yards. There was a terrible cracking noise as he smashed into the wall. He lashed out with his axe and chopped down another three men.

  Was he weakening? Were his movements slowing? Kormak realised that the soldiers were slowing down as well. They moved with the speed of men trapped in a nightmare.

  It was not that the speed of the battle had slowed down, but that his ability to apprehend what was going on had increased. His hurts were fading away. He could no longer feel his bruises, only a slight numbness on his flesh where they had been. He felt stronger and all nervousness and fear sloughed away from him. He was invincible. There was nothing to fear from the Old One no matter how powerful his magical armour made him. He had slain many such foes in his time. Surely this would be but one more.

  A small part of Kormak’s mind recognised these thoughts as a species of madness, as much a side effect of the drug as his speeded perceptions or his numbed flesh. Somehow he managed to refrain from throwing himself forward into the maelstrom of battle. No matter how strong he felt, he knew the Old One was stronger.

  Nonetheless it was his duty to fight, to protect the others from the demon. “Vorkhul,” he bellowed. “Turn and face me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  KORMAK CHARGED TOWARDS the Old One. He aimed a cut at its neck. The dwarf-forged blade clanged into the armour. Slivers of metal flew off the point of impact. The sound of the blow resonated like a bell.

  The axe swept towards him, trailing bands of green light. He stepped away, knowing better than to attempt a parry despite how strong he felt. The axe-blade whipped by, a finger’s breadth away from his face.

  Encouraged by his stand more soldiers threw themselves forward, and were reduced to bloody pulp. Kormak shouted for them to keep clear.

  He struck another blow, aiming for the runestone in the centre of the breastplate. Vorkhul raised an arm to block the blow then lashed out with his fist.

  Kormak eluded the strike. He spotted a potential weak spot at the elbow joint of the armour and brought his blade down on it. Sparks flew but his blow had no effect.

  Vorkhul returned to the offensive. He rained down blow after blow, forcing the Guardian back towards the milling soldiers. Kormak ducked low and aimed a sweeping blow at the back of Vorkhul’s knee.

  This time he managed to find a weak spot. The blade slashed through a gap in the armour. The force of the Old One’s movement ripped it from Kormak’s grip.

  He faced the Old One without his most potent weapon. The terrified soldiers were at last retreating from the burning building. He was alone and unarmed against the most dangerous foe he had ever faced.

  Even through the euphoric confidence of Valen’s Elixir Kormak felt the worm of fear gnawing at his heart.

  ***

  Screaming agony surged through Vorkhul’s leg where the edge of the Khazduri blade made contact. He altered his form, letting it flow away from the weapon, pulling it clear out of the leg of the armour, not wanting to let it touch him.

  He was unbalanced, his movement restricted. He reached down to pull the weapon from the knee joint of the battle-suit. If only he could get it free he would be safe and his opponent would be unable to hurt him.

  ***

  Kormak saw the Old One bend to remove the blade. For a moment Vorkhul was off-balance. He sprang forward, aiming all his weight at the metal form, tipping it to the ground. Kormak had the sunflare in his hand and his dagger in the other.

  He jammed the dagger into the armour’s faceplate. With a heave of his drug-enhanced muscles he prised it open. He activated the sunflare, pushed it in and slammed the faceplate shut once more.

  ***

  Vorkhul felt himself fall and wondered what the human was up to. No matter. He pulled the blade from his leg-piece. All he had to do was rise up and crush the man.

  The visor of the faceplate rose. A sharp blade entered aimed at his eye. He pulled his flesh away from the point of the dagger until he realised that the human’s puny weapon could barely scratch him. The mortal must be mad with fear to even attempt such a thing.

  Burning light exploded in front of his eyes. He was blinded and dazzled and in pain from the sunflare. He constricted his form deeper into the armour, compressing it, seeking to get away from the blaze. Trapped within the armour there was no escape.

  ***

  Kormak bend over and picked up the dwarf-forged blade. It felt like regaining a part of himself. With all his strength, he drove it into the runestone in the middle of the chestplate. The magical gem shattered, revealing the fitting into which it had been mounted. Kormak drove his blade right through the gap. He heard the sizzle of Old One flesh as the sword made contact, smelled the death-stink, watched as black fluid leaked from the gaps in the armour.

  ***

  Searing pain blazed through Vorkhul. No matter how he tried to writhe away he was caught by the runes of that devil blade.

  No. No. He could not die. Not now. Not so close to victory.

  A last image of a long ago ball and a perfect lunar beauty filled his mind. The Lady smiled a forgiveness he did not want. He thought he heard music and then he heard nothing at all.

  ***

  Vorkhul was dead. Kormak turned and wa
lked from the blazing building. Prince Taran stood at the foot of the steps, looking up at him. His face was pale and shocked. King Aemon leaned on his brother’s shoulder looking drained of all strength, a pale, sick shadow of the man Kormak had first seen.

  “Is the Old One dead?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Kormak. “It is dead.”

  Behind him the roof of the museum crashed down. The palace burned. The drug burned in his belly. Kormak felt like he had won no victory at all.

  COPYRIGHT © WILLIAM KING 2015

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  William King lives in Prague, Czech Republic with his lovely wife Radka and his sons Dan and William Karel. He has been a professional author and games developer for almost a quarter of a century. He is the creator of the bestselling Gotrek and Felix series for Black Library and the author of the bestselling Space Wolf books which between them have sold over three nine hundred thousand copies in English and been translated into 8 languages.

  He has been short-listed for the David Gemmell Legend Award. His short fiction has appeared in Year’s Best SF and Best of Interzone. He has twice won the Origins Awards For Game Design. His hobbies include role-playing games and MMOs as well as travel.

  His website can be found at: www.williamking.me

  He can be contacted at bill@williamking.me

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