Night of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosemberg

  'Animals,' Lankdorf said sharply, and looked surprised at his own outburst. 'They thought us little more than animals.'

  Truly they deserve their fate,' Haflok agreed. They do not allow any but their own within their walls, and so we shall tear those walls down, expose their filth to the bright light of day, and purify the land with salt and fire.'

  Just then one of the guards rode up. 'We have marshalled the men as ordered, lord,' he announced after saluting. 'Braechen is missing. No one has seen him at all today and he was supposed to report for duty two hours since.'

  'Braechen,' Haflok said, shaking his head. 'He has ever been one for solitude, yet he has served faithfully and I did trust him. Clearly I was deceived.'

  'Which direction would he have taken?' Lankdorf asked.

  'I cannot say,' their host admitted. 'I thought him loyal despite his faults, and know not who else he might report to.'

  'Vitrolle,' Dietz suggested. Alaric turned to look at him, as did the others, and his friend shrugged. 'Runes here,' the older man said, gesturing at the tent behind them, 'cultists there. Makes sense to me.'

  'You're right,' Alaric agreed. 'It does make sense.' He sighed. 'It's back across the river, then, since the town's in Fatandira's lands, where we're not supposed to go, on pain of death.' He brightened. 'At least we can use that boat this time.'

  'Assuming he hasn't taken it,' Lankdorf pointed out. 'In fact, he may have been delayed in his flight because he saw us and couldn't risk running into us on the river.'

  'Then we may not be far behind him,' Alaric realised, leaping to his feet. 'We need to go now!'

  He had worried that Haflok might detain them for some reason, but the Sigmarite nodded. 'Yes, your mission must continue!' he announced. 'I will lend you horses. Braechen has none, and thus you will close the gap still further. Use them with my blessing, although I will expect their return afterwards. Anything else you need, name it.'

  'A second crossbow,' Dietz admitted, handing Lankdorf s back to the bounty hunter. 'We only have the one.' Lankdorf seemed surprised to be offered his weapon back, but nodded and accepted it without a word, 'Maybe another pair of trousers.'

  'Done,' Haflok said. He gestured a guard over. 'Saddle three horses, and hang a crossbow and bolts on one, and

  spare clothes for all.' he ordered. 'Our friends must depart at once!'

  The camp really was well run and within minutes they were mounted and off again, Lankdorf s saddlebags transferred to one of the horses from his mule and a second crossbow hanging from another. Haflok offered Sigmar's blessing as they departed. 'May he guide us all to victory!' he shouted as they rode away. 'Good luck, my friends!' Then he was behind them.

  'He could have been worse.' Dietz commented as they crested the hill at a gallop, covering in minutes what had taken them hours to cross on foot.

  'Fanatics can be great.' Alaric agreed, 'as long as you agree with their ideas.' Dietz was right, of all the people they had met in the Borderland thus far, Haflok had been the one most willing to help them for no reason other than their common heritage and a general belief that they were doing the right thing.

  THEY REACHED THE river a few hours later, and sure enough the boat was gone. This time they had horses, and their mounts forded the river far more quickly than the mule had last time. Then they were up on the far bank, back in Fatandira's territory.

  'Let's not get caught by her guards.' Alaric warned as they paused to change into dry trousers. 'I doubt she'd be happy to see me again so soon.'

  'Stop breaking women's hearts.' Dietz advised with a laugh, 'or some day one of them will carve out yours.'

  They turned west and rode for two days, pausing only when necessary for the horses. As dawn rose on the third day they crested another hill and looked down on the fork of the Howling River, and the town that nestled between its branches. They all stared in utter shock.

  'That's not a town.' Dietz said, voicing what all of them were thinking, 'it's a bloody fort!'

  It was true. From where they stood they could see Vitrolle clearly, outlined against the rushing waters above and below

  it. The town did not cover much area, trapped as it was between the two banks, but it had high, sturdy walls and the structures within were linked by walkways, creating the impression of a single massive building broken into smaller sections. The sun struck the walls wrong for them to be wood or metal - they were too smooth and flat for the one and too dull for the other - which meant they were made of heavy stone. Even from here they could see men walking those walls, which showed how thick the battlements were. Alaric had seen castles with weaker fortifications.

  'How in the Emperor's name are we going to get into that?' Lankdorf demanded. His gaze narrowed. 'It's only got the one entrance,' he said after a moment's scrutiny, 'and it's those bloody great gates!' The gates in question were enormous and clearly too heavy for even the three of them together to open. They would certainly be barred on the inside anyway, and would swing outwards to prevent intruders from battering them down easily.

  'Getting in may not be the problem,' Alaric said. 'Look!' He pointed past the town and the others followed his gesture, seeing what he had noticed a moment ago.

  Fatandira's lands lay behind the town. To the north, on the far shore, were Levrellian's lands. Both regions were crawling with tiny figures that they knew must be men.

  'Fatandira's attacking the town,' Alaric reminded the others. 'She wants them gone from her lands, and she wants the sceptre she claims they have.'

  'Levrellian must have his own reasons for attacking,' Lankdorf said. 'He never does anything unless it serves his purpose.'

  'He could claim that land for himself if he takes the town,' Alaric pointed out, remembering the lessons his father had drilled into him long ago. 'From there he can strike out at Fatandira, driving her back against the mountains and finally crushing her altogether. He could control both lands then.'

  'And the third is massing behind us as we speak,' Dietz said pointedly. 'Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere else?'

  'There!' Lankdorf pointed. East of the town, on a small slope, they saw few brown splotches, and by squinting Alaric could tell they were stones of some sort. 'It looks like an old ruin,' the bounty hunter explained. 'We could tether the horses there and get a closer look at the town's defences. It's an ideal vantage point.'

  'It's below the line of Fatandira's men,' Alaric said, musing aloud, 'and Haflok will follow our path, which is the most direct approach, so it's east of his attack as well. It's perfect.' He kicked his horse into a fast trot, the best they could manage on such a steep slope, and raced down the hill, heading for the ruins. The others were right behind him.

  UPON APPROACHING IT, they saw that the building was in better repair than they had realised. It stood atop a low hill and had apparently been a single storey stone building. One corner was still largely intact, offering a stretch of wall on two sides. The rest had tumbled down but the builders had used large rough blocks and they were piled here and there like bales of hay, offering more shelter if necessary. The roof was long gone, of course, and so the ruin was open to the elements, but they only needed a place to stop and think, and plan.

  Unfortunately someone else had apparently had the same idea.

  As they dismounted they heard a faint noise, like muttering. Dietz and Lankdorf both had their crossbows ready in an instant.

  'Someone's here,' the bounty hunter said, gesturing towards the standing corner. They crept forwards, Lankdorf in the lead, and rounded a pile of blocks to see two men conversing. One of them was of average height and build, although Alaric could see that the man had powerful arms. His back was to them but he had sandy brown hair and wore serviceable mail that looked like it had been patched many times. A sword and an axe hung at his belt.

  The other man was facing them and reaching for something from the first when they approached. They could see

  him clearly as a result, and Alaric couldn't prevent the
gasp that escaped him. He had seen the tall thin man with the piercing eyes once before, weeks ago, in Levrellian's throne room back in Zenres.

  'Strykssen!' he said, the name slipping out.

  Levrellian's chief advisor glanced up at them, and Alaric took a step back. Strykssen had struck him as a fanatic and a sadist during their first encounter, but he had been handsomely dressed and impeccably groomed. This was almost a different man. His face had sagged in places as if made from warm wax and clumps of his long pale hair were missing around his head. He wore a long cloak and beneath it his body protruded strangely, as if someone had rearranged his limbs and perhaps added several spares. Alaric was instantly struck by a memory of equally twisted creatures in the sewers beneath Middenheim, and understood at once. Strykssen had been touched by Chaos!

  The deformed advisor laughed, a horrible strangling sound, and resumed his previous motion. Braechen had turned as well, however, and in his hands Alaric saw the gauntlet.

  'No!' he shouted, leaping forwards, drawing his rapier as he went. Dietz and Lankdorf simply fired their crossbows. Both of them aimed at Strykssen, apparently seeing him as the bigger threat, and both bolts struck home, sinking into his chest with meaty thunks and driving the mutated man back against the crumbling wall.

  Strykssen staggered and righted himself. His eyes were glazed and gleamed with an unhealthy red glow. He snarled, more an animal sound than human, and lunged forwards again, one twisted, claw-like hand scraping Braechen's arm. Then he laughed, a chilling, wet sound that still haunted Alaric's dreams every night, and collapsed.

  'Is he dead?' Lankdorf asked, already loading a second bolt, his crossbow swivelling to cover Braechen, who stepped back, eyes wide.

  'I think so,' Alaric replied. He moved forwards, sword still at the ready, and kicked the advisor's body. It shifted but

  the man made no sound. Nor was there any motion under the cloak. 'Dead,' he confirmed.

  Dietz had approached as well, and the three of them stood over the body. 'Too easy,' the older man said. 'Something's wrong.'

  As if on cue they heard a strange gurgling behind them. Whirling around, Alaric saw Braechen standing there, writhing, his body contorting wildly. The man's eyes had rolled back in his head, and froth was erupting from his mouth, and blood from his nose and ears. Alaric thought he saw strange flashes of colour and even odd images dancing across the man's face and body. Then Braechen straightened. He looked right at Alaric and laughed, the same liquid, rasping laugh they had just heard from Strykssen. The same laugh that Alaric had heard months before, in the chamber beneath Middenheim.

  Then Braechen donned the gauntlet.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  'No!' DIETZ HADN'T reloaded yet so he tossed his empty crossbow aside and raised his mace, intending to club the man down before matters got any worse. Then Braechen glanced at him and Dietz felt his arm go weak, the mace dropping to the floor beside him with a dull clatter. His eyes!

  Lankdorf had apparently not been affected. A crossbow bolt flew towards Braechen's head, and was knocked aside by the gauntlet. Dietz wasn't sure what Alaric was doing in the meantime. He could see his friend off to one side, but most of his attention was trapped by the spectacle before him.

  The gauntlet had been hideous when Dietz had seen it back in Fatandira's tent and here he had a clearer view, too clear, in fact, as if the artefact had somehow come into sharper focus than it should. He could see, for example, that the armour was constructed of some strange, murky stone, the light causing bands of colour to shimmer across and through each plated segment. Between the runes were

  small carvings, which he could see were faces, eyes open wide with horror, mouths pleading for release. He was sure he saw several of them move. Vicious barbs curved out along the edge of each plate and from the fingertips and over the knuckles. It was a thoroughly nasty piece of work.

  That had been before, but now it was worse. As he watched, unable to turn away, he heard something like the click of a key in a lock, only quieter but repeated many times. Braechen's entire body tensed, and then shuddered, and Dietz saw the gauntlet flex and tighten as if it was swallowing his hand and arm whole. Blood began dripping from beneath the gauntlet's edge, thin rivulets all around, and somehow he knew it had pierced the man's flesh many times within.

  As if fuelled by this bloodletting, the gauntlet's appearance shifted slightly. Instead of flat stone the plates seemed more like living scales or armoured hide. The barbs writhed as if alive. The runes glowed with a black nimbus that burned his eyes.

  The gauntlet was growing. It had extended over most of Braechen's forearm, leaving the area around the elbow free for mobility, but now it ran right to the elbow, the mail there vanishing somehow, replaced by another row of barbed, rune-etched plate. His elbow was already changing appearance, darkening and stretching to match.

  Nor were those the only changes in Braechen. He seemed taller and fuller across the chest and shoulders, yet his legs had somehow changed stance, moving farther apart at the hips and resembling a horse's or bull's more than a man's in their conformation. The man's skin had mottled along his face, neck and other hand, darkening with strange splotches that moved of their own accord, and his eyes... Dietz knew better than to look into that gaze again.

  He finally managed to tear himself free by glancing at Alaric. The young nobleman was right beside Braechen, having crept closer during the transformation, and as Dietz watched Alaric lunged, his rapier piercing the man through the throat. Braechen gurgled once and staggered back a

  pace, the blade pulling free with a wet sucking sound, blood trickling from the wound.

  As Dietz watched, horrified, the blood flow increased. The wound widened, becoming a deep cleft all the way around Braechen's neck, and the blood that poured forth turned darker, almost black. It spilled down over his chest and stuck there, solidifying, raising bumps and grooves that made Dietz think of diseased animal flesh.

  Then the tear in Braechen's neck widened further. The edges curled outwards, thickening, and within the gap shreds of flesh poked out and hardened, into what were unmistakably rows of teeth.

  Braechen laughed through his new second mouth. A laugh that Dietz remembered all too well, even though he had been busy fighting off cultists and smashing a statue the last time he had heard it. It was a laugh that could never have come from a human mouth, a laugh that did not belong in this world: the laugh of the daemon.

  'It's coming through!' Alaric shouted, falling back and tugging Dietz with him. Lankdorf was already behind them, having stayed back to attack with his crossbow. He sent another bolt into Braechen, and it struck him dead centre on the chest, and sank in with an odd ripple, as if the man's torso had turned liquid. 'The daemon is using him as a living gate!'

  'What can we do?' Dietz asked, letting his friend and employer pull him back until they were almost out of the ruins.

  'I don't know,' Alaric admitted, his eyes wild. 'Last time we destroyed the gate. This time it is the gate!'

  'We have to do something,' Lankdorf pointed out, already loading another bolt despite the uselessness of his last attack.

  'I know!' Alaric shouted.

  A movement behind the young nobleman caught Dietz's eye and he turned, just in time to duck an axe swing that would have removed his head. The man screamed and swung again, and Dietz drew his knives reflexively, blocking

  the axe with one and driving the other deep into the man's stomach. The blade entered with a gratifying thunk and the man shuddered and collapsed, blood frothing from his lips. At least this attacker had been human!

  Unfortunately he hadn't been alone. Several more men and a few women charged into the ruins, each wielding at least one blade. They were strangely dressed, so much so that Dietz almost stopped and stared despite the danger. None of the newcomers wore much, just flimsy wisps of cloth and odd leather straps that seemed designed to accentuate their forms rather than for any defence or other practical purpose. They all had long h
air, although several had theirs braided while others wore it loose, and he noticed idly that at least one of them had painted nails. Jewellery glistened from fingers, wrists, arms, ears, and other areas where Dietz didn't normally see such adornments. They were also all bare-chested, even the women.

  'Die for the glory of our lord!' one shouted as he lunged at Lankdorf with a nasty looking short sword and caught the crossbow stock in the jaw for his troubles.

  The Prince of Pain welcomes your suffering!' A handsome blonde woman declared, stabbing at Alaric with an ornate longsword. He parried the blow easily and disarmed her, although her naked chest seemed to distract him slightly. He had to sweep his blade free when she lunged at him again, her empty hands tensed into claws. He knocked her out with his sword pommel and turned to Dietz.

  'Cultists!'

  'I thought cultists were all ragged, filthy people, like the ones in the pass?' Dietz asked without turning, his hands already full with two more. Someone from the town must have noticed them as they rode towards this place, or perhaps this band had simply been set to patrol the area. Not that it mattered.

  'Different gods,' Alaric explained, sidestepping an attack from a man wielding a pair of long daggers and covered in thin strips of ribbon and gauze that danced around him as

  he moved. 'These worship a god of pleasure and pain. They believe in beauty and style, or at least their version of it.'

  Not all of the cultists were attacking the three of them. Several had brushed past and charged Braechen, who was still somewhere behind them near the building's surviving corner. One of the cultists who had darted past screamed, a high-pitched wail of sheer terror. He must have seen the daemon-mutated man clearly, Dietz guessed, remembering the cultists in Middenheim whose sanity could not withstand even a partial view of the very champion they had summoned. The others either did not get as good a look or were less susceptible, because they continued to shout about their own god and the pain they would visit upon these intruders. Dietz heard the sounds of blades striking flesh. Then there was a sudden silence, followed by gasps of surprise. He didn't have time to turn around and look, and was glad of that.