by C. L. Werner
‘He wanted you destroyed,’ Remaro said, reaching toward Corvino. ‘It was I who sold you to a travelling band of Strigany entertainers. It was I who got you away from your father’s bloodlust.’
Corvino smiled down at the old man. ‘Then I have much to thank you for,’ he said. ‘The Strigany sold me in their turn. They saw my… disability… and sold me to a sorcerer. He reared me as his apprentice, but he was more deserving of the title “fool” than I have ever been. Through his dark arts, he learned who I was. Through his stupidity, I learned who I was. When I had learned enough from him, I left, stealing what I would need to work my vengeance.’ Corvino lifted Remaro back to his feet. ‘You see, I’ve come home to claim my kingdom!’
Corvino looked down at the front of his tunic. The cloth was moving, as something within one of the inner pockets wriggled against his shirt. He looked back at Remaro, this time his smile was neither cruel nor mocking, but apologetic. ‘It was a very potent ritual I stole from my teacher, uncle, a spell that even he did not dare contemplate. Sadly, it is well under way now, and I have much to do before my guest arrives.’ Corvino suddenly whipped the length of his staff against the floor in a savage, one-handed motion, snapping it in half. He lifted the upper portion, staring at the goblin head and its jingling bells. ‘If I don’t want the daemon to cheat me, I have to finish this now!’
‘Not my son!’ wailed Remaro as Corvino drove the bronzed head of his staff against the old man’s head. For a minute or so, Remaro struggled against the fool’s assault, but at last he choked, slumping to the floor.
‘Oh, most certainly your son,’ the fool told the corpse as he walked away. ‘He presumes that everything that belongs to me, belongs to him. I simply have to correct that delusion.’ Corvino paused as he opened the door, tapping his chin contemplatively.
‘But first I think I’ll go claim my bride.’
Brunner staggered back as the inquisitor’s sword struck his blocking blade. The bounty hunter snarled, feinting an overhand return, then swiping low toward the inquisitor’s knees. Bocca second-guessed his adversary, and once more Drakesmalice crashed against the man’s intercepting steel. Brunner stepped away to recover and instantly Bocca was following through with his own attack. Brunner barely managed to avoid the murderous downswing of the inquisitor’s blade, dancing backward just as the priest’s steel flashed past his face. The bounty hunter did not have time to consider this latest in a series of narrow escapes, for Bocca was already swinging at him once more.
He had expected Bocca to be no mean hand with a sword, but Brunner found himself woefully outclassed by the fanatic. The bounty hunter had fought all manner of swordsmen in his time, from the most skilled to men who would have been better off using a farm tool to defend themselves. Generally, the more practiced swordsmen were cool, calculating men, taking the measure of their foe and awaiting their chance to strike at some opening in their defence. Bocca was a different sort of creature entirely. He had the knowledge and instincts of a fencing master, but these skills were suborned to his fanatic lust to spill the blood of heretics. The inquisitor threw himself completely into the attack, trusting to his thick black armour to guard his body from any attacks that an enemy might manage to strike at him.
It was a deadly combination, Brunner could only think of a trained bear from Kislev he had seen once that some lunatic had taught actual wrestling moves, filling the brute mind of the animal with the knowledge that would allow it to exploit its bulk and strength to its best advantage. Bocca was no less a monster than the bear had been, a blood-crazed animal devoting its learning toward one solitary goal, restraint and self-preservation cast aside in a fit of bloodlust. He was just the sort of man Brunner would never have chosen to face in close combat. If ever there had been a man meant for a crossbow bolt or a pistol shot, that man was Bocca. Brunner would have laughed if he had enough wind to do so. The way things were looking, the inquisitor might not have gone down if Brunner had fired a cannonball into him.
The bounty hunter had already attempted several times to tip the odds back into his favour. He had stabbed at the inquisitor’s knee with one of his knives early in the fight, but the war-priest’s thick armour had deflected the thrust, causing Brunner’s knife to sink into Bocca’s calf rather than the vulnerable tendons of his knee.
Later, exploiting a brief opening, Brunner had driven the slender stiletto concealed within the sleeve of his tunic into the inquisitors neck, but the slim blade had again missed the intended target, striking the edge of Bocca’s armour and snapping like a twig.
The inquisitor showed no sign that he was becoming fatigued by the long battle, nor any trace of concern or impairment from his leg wound. The bounty hunter only wished that he could say the same. It was becoming an effort for him to maintain the speed and strength required to meet and match the fanatic’s blows. Brunner cursed whatever unnatural power kept the inquisitor from tiring like any normal man.
The gold mask of the zealot considered Brunner with its unmoving, disapproving face, the eyes staring from behind it burning with a feral fury. There was triumph in that mad gaze, and Brunner knew that unless he thought of something to upset the tide of the contest soon, that triumph would not be long in coming.
Suddenly both of the combatants staggered as the ground beneath their feet shuddered. Brunner recovered first, but even as he lashed out at the inquisitor, the floor rumbled again, nearly knocking the bounty hunter from his feet. It was as if a giant steam-hammer was pounding on the floor from below. Bocca stared at the floor for a moment, then tried to steady himself as it shuddered yet again.
Brunner began to warily back away from the disturbance, eyes locked on the black-garbed inquisitor. Bocca saw his enemy withdrawing and began to follow, his huge sword held upward at his side. Yet the gold-masked priest had taken no more than a few steps when an even greater tremor rocked the undertemple. The sound of tearing stone screamed across the vast hall, dust and chunks of rubble exploding from a great rupture in the floor.
A thick, sanguinary stench billowed upward from below, causing many of the surviving cultists and temple militia to retch, all thoughts of battle momentarily slipping from their minds. A dark shape loomed up through the hole, a black silhouette within the stone dust. A miasma of dread rolled across the chamber like a tide of terror. Moans of despair and screams of fright sounded, echoing from the walls and the ceiling high above.
Brunner watched as a shape strode forward from the dust. The bounty hunter could make out little more than a shadow within the murk, but what he could see added to the air of dread that suddenly filled the hall. The shape was huge, looming up at least twelve feet above the floor, its frame gaunt and scrawny for such an imposing height.
It had been some time since the bounty hunter had known fear. He had never known terror such as gripped him now, as the monster emerged from the shadows and the daemon’s ancient aura of merciless evil washed over his soul.
Juliana considered the chaotic turn events had taken in the last few hours. Mandalari was dead, and the prince’s cousin appeared to be the killer. Things were happening much too fast for her to handle. She was used to politicking and double-dealing from her life in the Bensario palace, but all those years of learning how and who to manipulate had never prepared her for this!
The princess tore at the cloth clenched in her delicate hands, trying to work the tension from her body into the tortured rag. The thought that a madman might even now be prowling the halls of the palazzo made her skin crawl. Prince Gambini had posted five men outside her door, however. Even a madman would have a hard time getting to her through that many guards.
‘You look ravishing this evening,’ a familiar voice spoke from behind the princess. Juliana spun around, shocked by the unexpected voice. She was greeted by the sight of a smiling Corvino emerging from a panel in the wall, a secret door whose existence Juliana had never even guessed. There was blood on his checkered clothes, and an ugly glimmer in his eyes. The prin
cess gasped, licking her suddenly dry mouth. She’d been upset enough pondering her own private suspicions regarding who had killed the old general. Now the subject of those thoughts stood before her. She began to tremble as she saw the mad gleam in Corvino’s eyes. It was like facing some rabid animal, a deranged, unpredictable beast that might pounce at any instant.
Juliana tried to control the trembling in her limbs, tried to calm her breath, lest her agitation disturb the lunatic. Slowly, carefully, Juliana backed away from the fool.
‘But, then, brides always look beautiful on their wedding day,’ Corvino said, walking around the divan upon which Juliana had been sitting.
‘What do you want?’ the princess demanded, though somehow she could not quite force any real measure of authority into her voice. She continued to back away as the fool advanced.
‘Why, I have come for you, my love,’ he said, reaching his pale hand out to her. There was blood on his wrist, blood on his sleeve. ‘You do intend to marry Prince Gambini, do you not?’ Juliana cringed away from the mad gleam in his eyes, and only then realised her mistake. She had allowed herself to be backed into a corner, away from the outer door, where the guards were positioned.
‘Prince Umberto Gambini? That is the man you are going to marry?’
‘Please, Corvino,’ she sobbed, wondering if she dared provoke the man by screaming for help.
‘Corvino?’ the fool asked, touching his hand to his breast. ‘Why, there is no one of that name! There never was! I am Prince Gambini, Prince Umberto Gambini! I am the real prince! That man you thought to marry was but an impostor, a usurper! I am the man you want!’
Juliana tried to run towards the door, but the fool was quicker, grabbing her wrist in a vice-like grip.
‘Oh yes, it is true,’ Corvino assured her. ‘I’ve just spoken to my treacherous uncle about it at some length.’
Juliana started to scream, but Corvino’s other hand closed upon her mouth. With her free hand, the princess tried to rake her attacker’s eyes, but Corvino leaned away from her clutch, causing her hand to tear at his tunic instead. Something fell on the floor, wriggling upon the rug. Juliana stared at it in horror, too frightened even to scream when Corvino removed his hand from her mouth.
It was a severed finger, enormous and skeleton-thin, the bone-like length of it a dark red, like old blood. And it was alive, wriggling on the floor like some hideous worm. It struggled in Corvino’s grip as the fool retrieved it.
‘We really must hurry,’ Corvino told Juliana as she passed out. The fool stepped forward, catching her body as she swooned. He stared down at her, patting a lock of hair away from her face. ‘You see,’ he added as he replaced the loathsome finger within one of his pockets, ‘the priest is already on his way.’
It stood twice the height of a man, shrouded in what looked like the black hooded habit of a priest of Morr. The long garment only reached to its waist, the legs beneath it standing bare. They were thin, little more than bones, as were the long arms that extended from the sleeves of the robe. The skeletally thin limbs were the colour of blood, seemingly composed of a slimy sheen of gore. The face that stared from beneath the cowl of the priest’s habit was that of a skull, though it was no such skull as any clean creature had ever been born to. The jaw was long, the teeth pointed fangs each three inches long. Bony growths resembling hound-like ears rose to either side of the skull, disappearing into the depths of the cowl. Like the rest of the apparition, the skull too was red, composed of a glistening, writhing sheen of blood.
The daemon turned its head slowly, causing drops of blood to fall from its face, sizzling upon the stone floor. The sockets of its eyes were empty, filled only by a black vacancy, yet Brunner could feel the homicidal hatred of the daemon’s stare surging from those dark, empty pits.
The daemon uttered no sound as it inspected the undertemple. Solkanite zealots and Slaaneshi cultists alike stood in a horrified silence, eyes locked upon the ghastly shape, terror numbing legs that wanted nothing more than to flee, to run until the walls of Remas were many leagues in the distance.
The daemon took a step forward, sizzling blood dripping from its body. The sight of the monster moving dispelled the paralysis gripping the onlookers, and as it stepped forward, they took a collective step back. The abomination seemed to notice their reaction, and it extended its bony arm. Gleaming blood began to boil around its hand, extending in either direction from the skeletal claw. The blood began to solidify, to take on a shape of its own. Soon, a gleaming scythe composed of the daemon’s otherworldly substance was gripped firmly in its claw.
Screams sounded once more and the onlookers fled as the daemon resumed its unhurried advance. Cultists scrambled alongside militia, forgetting their mutual hatred in their desperation to escape the nightmarish being. Only one man retained his courage in the face of the baleful manifestation. Inquisitor Bocca firmed his grip on his sword, stepping into the path of the skeletal daemon.
‘Test my faith, filth!’ Bocca cried up at the horror. ‘I shall let the city of Mighty Solkan be profaned by neither man nor hell-sent abomination!’
Brunner had to admit it was a display of bravery as immense as any lie he had ever heard recorded in legend and song. The bounty hunter turned, hurrying toward the stairs that led to the abandoned Temple of Morr high above. Unlike the legends, he didn’t think Bocca’s heroic stand was going to fare very well.
The Mardagg stared down for a moment at the defiant mortal who stood in its path. The daemon gave Bocca no more thought than a steer swatting flies with its tail. The sickle-bladed scythe of the Mardagg descended in a swift, murderous arc. Bocca did not even have time to understand that he had been killed as the daemon’s weapon clove through his thick steel armour as neatly as a knife through cheese.
The upper half of the inquisitor was hurled across the chamber by the force of the blow, crashing against the wooden altar, causing the Mother of Mystery to splinter, such was the intensity of his impact. A stream of blood sprayed upward from his severed waist for a moment, like some macabre fountain, before his muscles relaxed and the dead man’s legs fell to the floor.
The Mardagg strode onward, crossing the hall of the undertemple. Like all creatures of the Blood God, it was attracted to the sounds of conflict, to the smell of blood. It had been unable to resist the combat unfolding just above its head as it consumed Scurio’s body, once more manifesting itself in flesh. But now, it felt another pull, something else drawing it onward.
The daemon’s claw flexed, feeling the absence of its severed digit.
It would reclaim its flesh from the fool who had called it into being. And then it would complete the task it had started long ago, offering the lives of all upon the peninsula to Khorne.
Brunner was astonished to find Schtafel and Horst waiting for him in the street just outside the ruined temple. The bearded mercenary was injured, a gash running along one side of his face, courtesy of a temple militia man. Schtafel supported his friend. Both mercenaries gave a sigh of relief when they saw the bounty hunter emerge.
‘Praise be Myrmidia!’ exclaimed Schtafel. The wiry marksman was pale as a corpse, his hands trembling. Brunner considered that it would probably take such a shock to make the warrior show a religious streak.
‘What are you two doing here?’ demanded Brunner.
‘Horst wouldn’t leave without you,’ explained Schtafel. ‘What the hell is that thing?’
‘Some devil from the very heart of Chaos!’ Brunner answered. He reflected upon the black cloak the daemon had worn, and where he had seen that garment last.
‘Get Horst somewhere safe,’ Brunner told the crossbowman. Schtafel started to scuttle off down the street.
‘What about you?’ Schtafel asked, looking back.
‘That thing isn’t going to stay down there,’ Brunner stated in a grim voice. ‘I think I know where it is heading, and if I’m right, somebody had better go and tell Zelten!’
The mercenaries might have pres
sed him further, but the sound of stone crashing within the ruins of the temple brought a renewed look of terror to Schtafel’s pale features and the marksman began to hurry away with all the speed the cumbersome weight of Horst would allow.
Brunner looked over at the temple. The sounds of destruction continued. The bounty hunter could easily guess their origin, as the daemon kicked the rubble from its path. He could feel its intense aura of evil, of bloodlust emanating from the ruins. In his hand, Drakesmalice could sense the immense Chaos energies of the monster as well, the blade glowing red-hot. Brunner knew that the ancient sword had been forged for the Great War against Chaos, that upon it had been worked potent spells to smite the creations of the Ruinous Powers. But a sword was only as good as the hand that held it, and against such a monstrous, unnatural foe, the bounty hunter did not trust his own resolve.
People were starting to appear in the street now, wondering what had caused so many temple militia and masked revellers to race past their homes. They murmured amongst themselves in whispers of wonder as a dark shadow began to move within the temple. A few, the smartest, began to back away. Brunner did not linger to wait for the Mardagg to emerge onto the street, but began to sprint along the street, dodging past the citizens who now cluttered it. He did not know how long he would have to reach the bridge and the Gambini palazzo, but he felt that it would not be long.
Behind him, as if to confirm his suspicions, screams began to echo from around the old temple.
Prince Umberto Gambini stormed down the wide staircase, a dozen of his guards behind him. The aristocrat’s face was one of sullen rage. Things had been going so well only the previous day. Now his military advisor and commander of his household guard was dead; his own cousin, the apparent killer, missing, possibly hiding somewhere within his own house. Now a messenger had arrived from the garrison at the bridge gate informing him that sentries standing watch in the tower had reported what appeared to be some sort of riot spreading from the old Temple of Morr, and advancing toward the bridge. The prince was not sure which god had decided to heap misfortune upon him, but he swore that he would have the faith proscribed within the walls of the city.
