A WARHAMMER NOVEL
NIGHT OF
THE DAEMON
Daemon Gates - 02
Aaron Rosenberg
(A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
CHAPTER ONE
Clouds drifted across the night sky, obscuring stars and slivered Mannslieb. Their shadows fell across the town, rippling over its tall sturdy walls, momentarily dimming the torches set along the tops. Within, the sounds of revelry continued unabated.
Something moved in the shadows beyond the base of the wall. A tall figure stood in the darkness, staring up at the barrier. Dark cloth concealed features, even gender, although something about the figure’s posture and motion suggested a man. Beneath a long hood his eyes glittered in the dim light as they studied the wall. He stripped off thick gloves and raised one long-fingered hand, fingers splayed, to rest his palm against the rough stone. The hand stopped just shy of contact, a shudder passing though him.
The man raised his hand for a second time, and the air around him thickened. Wisps of fog or smoke swirled around his fingers as he pushed, his entire body leaning into the motion. Again his hand stopped inches from the stone.
After a moment the man tried again. This time the darkness seemed to rise around him, shrouding him until he was little more than a sensation of motion, a hint of substance. He did not move suddenly but advanced by inches, his raised hand closing the distance slowly but surely. Until, once again, it stopped. This time little more than a hairsbreadth separated flesh and stone. The air suddenly filled with a powerful stench, burning flesh and something far worse. For an instant the air was filled with hideous wailing torn from ravaged throats, but then the wind shifted and they were lost behind the music that issued from the town.
The man stood for a moment longer, unmoving, although his hand and arm shook with effort. Finally he pulled his hand back and stepped away, cradling it against his chest.
“Very well,” he muttered, his deep voice almost a growl. “Your defences hold, for now.” He glared at the tall, wide front gate, securely fastened for the night, as if his eyes could pierce the wood and see the people beyond. “Enjoy yourselves while you can, degenerates,” he warned, although his words were swallowed by the night. “Soon I will return, and when I do,” he said, his hands clenched into fists, “your barriers will fall before me.”
Turning, he slipped away, his footfalls silent even in the still night air. Behind him a faint mark, a swatch darker than its surroundings, marred the wall where his hand had approached it. The grass nearby was blackened as well, as were patches further on, marking a trail as if scalding liquid had been poured out at regular intervals. By morning the marks would have faded, and no one would notice them.
“Halt! Who goes—wait, I know you!” The guard lowered his crossbow and peered at them, the weapon resting atop the heavy wooden barricade before him. The sounds of other soldiers marching around, patrolling the pass that disappeared into the mountains above, emerged behind him.
“Indeed you do,” Alaric replied. “I am pleased to see our assistance has not been utterly forgotten so soon.” He preened slightly, adjusting the short sleeves of his soft leather jacket and the silk shirt-ties at his throat, brushing back a stray hair that had drifted across his handsome face. Then he shifted the weight of the rapier at his side, making his horse shuffle. If either of them felt the summer heat they didn’t show it, but Dietz was sweating up a storm, his raw-boned face dripping moisture, his simple, serviceable leathers clinging to his long frame. Perhaps ignoring the heat was a noble thing. That might explain why the slender young man beside him was able to shrug it off so easily.
“You were here when the orcs attacked,” the soldier said, eyes widening as he remembered. “You helped us fight them off.”
“That is correct,” Alaric agreed, nodding graciously. Dietz thought his friend and employer looked like a king receiving accolades and managed to stifle the amused groan that rose in his throat. Glouste, less concerned with propriety, chittered what might have been a rebuke from her perch upon his shoulder, although whether aimed at Alaric or himself, Dietz could not tell. He scratched the wiry, long-tailed tree-fox behind her small rounded ears to calm her and his pet’s complaints changed to burbles of delight. Interrupting Alaric when he was so clearly enjoying himself might put the younger man in a foul mood.
Nonetheless, they were on a schedule, and couldn’t waste much more time impressing some poor soldier.
“Time,” Dietz murmured, edging his horse close to Alaric’s so only his young employer would hear him. He saw Alaric glance at him, frown slightly, and nod.
“Yes, well, we are in a hurry,” Alaric said, never turning from the guard. “We need to use the pass.”
“Use it?” That had the guard confused again, although Dietz wasn’t sure he blamed the man. The Black Fire Pass was one of the only routes through the Black Mountains and into—or out of—the Empire. It was always heavily guarded, and this time they weren’t working for one of the elector counts, or really for anyone. This time they were on their own, not that Alaric planned to let that stop them.
“Yes yes, we need to reach the Border Princes,” he said testily. He raised his chin, blue eyes flashing, blond hair streaming behind him, for that instant every inch the imperious noble. “Now, either let us pass or take us to Captain Verten or Commander Haas.”
The guard straightened at the mention of his superiors. He glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting to see the two officers there. Then he chuckled at himself, nodded, and said something to someone below. A moment later two soldiers moved the barricade door aside.
“The captain is down in Grenzstadt with Sergeant Druber, getting supplies,” one of the men admitted, evidently having overheard their conversation, “but Commander Haas is probably in his tent or near enough to make no difference in finding him. You know the way?” Dietz knew the man was debating whether to leave his post to accompany them or let them wander the pass unescorted. The three guards were alone at the barricade, but they were enough to secure it against anything but a major assault. Two might be hard-pressed to defend it and that was probably the guard’s concern.
“We know it,” he assured the guard. “We’ll go straight to Haas.”
“Good.” The guard nodded, pushed the stout iron-banded door back into place, and then paused. He glanced up at them, his eyes wide. “There isn’t another orc warband coming,
is there?”
“Not that we know of,” Alaric reassured him. “We’re simply passing through.”
Suiting the action to the word, he spurred his horse on, and he and Dietz rode up the trail and into the pass.
“What are you two doing here?” Haas asked when Alaric and Dietz reined in. The stocky army commander had obviously just returned from a patrol and rock dust clung to his face and hands, although his uniform was no dirtier than usual. Dietz was pleased to see his friend Adelrich beside Haas, and exchanged friendly nods with the scout. The ride to the army camp had taken two hours, but fortunately Dietz had remembered the route. He didn’t relish the idea of wandering aimlessly through the narrow trails that branched off the main pass, hoping to avoid any stray orcs that might still lurk in the mountains. The camp looked much as he remembered it, an orderly array of tents set in rows in a large clearing, the larger command tent at the centre. There were men everywhere, sharpening weapons, drilling with blades, eating, sleeping, mending uniforms and marching on patrol.
“Sorry to trouble you, commander,” Alaric said smoothly, bowing from his saddle with the grace of the nobleman he was. “We are simply passing through and felt it courteous to inform you of our presence.”
“Passing through? Where are you going?” Haas’ eyes narrowed. “What does Todbringer have you doing now?”
“Well, actually,” Alaric coughed nervously, “we are not here on the elector count’s orders.”
“No?” Haas studied him for a moment, and then turned his gaze on Dietz. “Who did send you, then?”
“No one,” Dietz answered honestly. He didn’t see any reason to tell Haas about the map, or about their reasons for investigating it.
“Are you bringing trouble to my door again?” Haas demanded.
“I’ll have you know we were here to remove—” Alaric began, but Dietz cut him off.
“No trouble,” he assured the commander. “We’re just on our way to the Border Princes.”
Haas locked gazes with him for a moment, and then nodded. “Fine, just so long as you’re not leading another orc warband towards us.” The faint upward curve to his mouth indicated that he might in fact be joking, although Dietz decided not to chance it. You never knew with officers when they were joking and when they were deadly serious.
“We didn’t lead that warband here,” Alaric objected. “If anything, we—” Again Dietz cut him off.
“Can we stay the night?” he asked. “We’ll be gone in the morning.”
Haas hesitated for only a second before nodding. “Fine, you can take that tent over there, its owners won’t be needing it again.” He turned on his heel and walked away, although Dietz knew better than to take offence. The commander was probably preoccupied as usual with the all-important job of defending the pass and the Empire.
Dietz dismounted and let out a soft groan of relief as he stretched to his full height. Damn and blast, it felt good to be out of the saddle! He didn’t mind riding, but after the past few months he’d be happy never to see a horse again, much less climb into another saddle.
Adelrich was at Dietz’s side, grinning, by the time his feet had settled on the ground. They clasped hands, the wiry little scout and the tall, raw-boned traveller, both relieved to see the other still alive. Of all the men who’d accompanied Alaric and Dietz during their months-long quest to find and destroy the Chaos statues scattered across the Empire, Dietz had identified with Adelrich most strongly, and the two had become fast friends.
“No drinks, I’m afraid,” Adelrich said sadly, “not until Druber returns with supplies.” The two men had agreed to share a drink the next time they met and the scout was clearly disappointed that the army sergeant’s poor timing would delay that.
It was Dietz’s turn to grin as he reached back up to his saddle and untied a wineskin hanging there. “Fortunately I brought my own,” he said, passing it to Adelrich, who took a long draught and sighed appreciatively.
“Ulric’s beard, I needed that!” he said, returning the wineskin so Dietz could drink as well. “Now, tell me how you’ve fared since we parted. No more strange encounters, I hope?”
“You have no idea,” Dietz replied, shuddering. He and Adelrich found a place to sit on the rocks near the camp’s edge and traded the wineskin back and forth while Dietz scratched Glouste behind her ears and told of their experiences in Middenheim. Alaric wandered over to join them after a few more words with Haas, and chimed in from time to time as Dietz related their discovery of the first statue’s disappearance.
They had parted ways after destroying the third statue in the pass and had thought their quest finished, the Chaos statues gone and the daemon attempting to use them safely repelled. Unfortunately that had not been the case. The original statue, which they had assumed was destroyed, had been spirited deep beneath Middenheim, and Alaric and Dietz had been forced to pursue it and its owners. Adelrich growled when they told him of their former companions, of Kristoff’s treachery and Fastred’s death, and shuddered when they described the mutants and cultists in the tunnels below the city. His face turned pale when Dietz spoke of the ceremony Kristoff had performed, the gate it had created through the remaining statue, and the daemon that had begun to emerge. Alaric was white as a sheet too, clearly reliving those horrific events, and Dietz could feel his pulse beating rapidly and knew his voice was shaking as he remembered the mind-bending, sanity-shredding terror of the daemon. Glouste whimpered softly, the little tree-fox sensing her master’s distress, and coiled herself around Dietz’s neck in an effort to comfort him.
“Morr’s breath,” Adelrich whispered finally when Dietz had finished his tale. “I thought what we faced together was grim enough, but this! You beheld a daemon in the flesh! And fought it!” His voice held a note of awe.
“It did not fully emerge,” Alaric corrected, his voice shaky. “We did not so much defeat it as destroy the gate and foil its attempt to cross over.” He shuddered, recalling the daemon’s ever-shifting features, and its voice as it had bellowed at him even as the gate collapsed. His hand rose idly to rub at his neck.
“Even so,” Adelrich replied, “you faced a daemon, a true daemon, and survived! And triumphed!” He took the almost empty wineskin from Dietz. “You saved Middenheim, certainly, and most likely the Empire as well.” With that, the scout hoisted the wineskin in salute. He took a quick sip before handing it to Alaric, who sipped as well before giving it back to Dietz.
“How is Holst?” Alaric asked, trying to change the subject. He had not seen the Middenheim army sergeant since they’d arrived and was curious as to why. They all owed their lives to Holst and his men several times over after the hunt for the Chaos statues. Alaric regretted asking, however, when he saw Adelrich’s face fall.
“Dead,” the scout admitted quietly. “We’ve been cleaning up the remains of that orc warband we fought, killing scattered groups that escaped the battle and hid among the cliffs. Last week we came across a group of a dozen or so. Two of them had bows, those short horn bows they favour. One got off a lucky shot when he saw us. It took Holst in the throat. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
“Damn and blast!” Dietz lifted the wineskin, realised it was empty, and tossed it aside. He’d liked the quiet, competent sergeant.
“Commander Haas sent word to Middenheim,” Adelrich added. “He said Holst had been a fine soldier and had given his life defending the Empire. The same thing he says about the others we’ve lost.”
“Holst deserved better,” Dietz said quietly. “They should have given him a medal, after all we faced.”
“He wouldn’t have worn it anyway,” Alaric pointed out. “It would have made too much noise clinking against his armour.” All three of them laughed, realising it was true, and felt a little better.
Still, it was with some relief that they watched Sergeant Druber’s return, a few hours later. He was carrying supplies, including several fresh wineskins, one of which they appropriated to toast their falle
n friend.
The next morning Alaric and Dietz spoke briefly with Haas, thanking him for his hospitality and catching him up on recent events in the Empire. They had come well provisioned for their journey, but accepted a wineskin and a few packets of dried fruit and travel bread from Druber anyway, to supplement their own fare. Then they left the camp, following the winding path back to the larger pass and turning their backs to the Empire, their horses pointed towards the Border Princes. Adelrich accompanied them until noon before turning back.
“Be careful,” he warned as he said goodbye. “We’ve cleared the immediate area of orcs, but they are like rats; there’re always more of them lurking somewhere nearby, and if they are lurking, they’re likely to be hungry.”
“We’ll watch ourselves,” Dietz replied, patting the crossbow at his side. It had belonged to Fastred Albers, another friend who had died recently, and it reloaded automatically. Dietz was sure that the big, generous explorer would have wanted him to have the weapon, and he took good care of it.
“I still expect that drink in Middenheim,” Adelrich said as they clasped hands.
“Definitely,” said Dietz. He waved and kicked his horse forwards, Alaric’s steed moving beside his. Within minutes they had rounded a small bend in the pass and Adelrich was gone from view.
They rode in silence for some time, both glancing nervously around in case of ambush. The pass was wide enough for ten men to ride abreast, but somehow it felt as if the walls were closing in on them, and the sky seemed to weigh down upon them. The ground was rough, bare stone still jagged despite centuries of travel, and here and there Dietz saw hints of old ruins. For once his companion showed no interest in investigating them, a rare thing indeed.
“I hate these mountains,” Alaric commented finally, hiding a faint shudder. “It’s as if they’re frowning at me, glowering at me.”
[Daemon Gates 02] - Night of the Daemon Page 1
