03 - Hour of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  “Kleiber,” Dietz yelled, “help us!”

  The witch hunter turned, about to argue, and then saw what they were attempting. He immediately stepped up beside them and gripped the axe just above the handle, gasping as he felt the Chaos taint imbued in the weapon.

  Left on his own, Alaric crumpled to the ground, and began crawling towards the mask.

  “All together!” Dietz shouted. He, Lankdorf, and Kleiber all strained, and raised the axe to head height. Dietz stretched, feeling muscles protest and even tear, and just managed to hook his boot tip into the mask’s left eyehole. He tugged it towards them, eliciting a whine of protest from Alaric, and nudged it until it was right beneath the axe.

  “Now!” he yelled. They brought the axe down, although it was more a matter of dropping the heavy weapon than of actually striking anything with it.

  Whatever the cause, the double-bladed axe slammed down on the mask, smashing the thin stone face into the hard granite beneath.

  Dietz heard a definite crunch, followed by a shuddering wail. For the second time, he was swept off his feet by an explosion of air and sound, and smell.

  A voice shrieked in rage, the sound echoing and building, and shaking the very stones with its rage. “I will not be denied!” But with each word it was weaker, the echoes longer, as if it were farther away, and then it faded completely, leaving only a faint ringing in the ears.

  When he picked himself back up, Dietz saw that the mask was shattered into a thousand tiny slivers. The axe had fared better. Much of its haft remained intact, but the twin blades had crumbled away like rotted wood, their particles already scattered across the courtyard.

  Unfortunately, the haft had been propelled backward by the impact, and was jutting from Lankdorf’s chest. The bounty hunter dropped to the ground, his face white, clutching at the broken wooden haft as a dark stain spread across his chest and belly.

  “Lankdorf!” Dietz dropped to his friend’s side. “Lankdorf, can you hear me?”

  The former bounty hunter glanced at him and half-smiled. “Don’t… worry,” he managed to whisper through the blood that was welling out of his mouth. “I’ll… leave a… trail for you… to follow.” Then his eyes glazed over and his last breath rattled in his throat.

  “I know you will,” Dietz assured his friend, reaching out to close the tracker’s eyes. “May Morr treat you with the respect you deserve, Merkel Lankdorf.”

  He stood, shakily, and glanced around. He saw Alaric just beyond them, unmoving.

  “Alaric!” Dietz leapt over the remains of the artefact, and knelt by the noble. Kleiber, who had also been knocked down, roused himself and moved to Alaric’s other side.

  Alaric was a mess. His face had been torn to shreds when the mask had come loose, and Kleiber’s bullet had burned his temple, although it had not pierced his daemon protected skin. The wardancer had inflicted a score of cuts upon his arms, legs, and torso, and he bore several new burns and cuts from the recent explosion. Despite all that, his eyes flickered open, and he smiled at Dietz.

  “It worked,” Alaric whispered through torn lips. “It’s just me in here.”

  “Good,” Dietz said. “I wish we’d never seen that bloody mask!”

  Alaric coughed. “What, and miss all this adventure?” he asked. Then he passed out.

  Dietz glanced at Kleiber, who nodded. “The daemon has fled,” the witch hunter assured him. “It could not withstand the destruction of the items that bound it to this plane.” He glanced down at Alaric again. “He is weakened, but our friend will live.”

  Dietz nodded, and looked around. “Provided we survive the battle.”

  Someone ran out of one of the buildings along the courtyard. It was Wilcreitz. “Get back!” the short witch hunter shouted, running towards them. “Take cover!”

  Dietz responded without thinking, dropping back to his knees and twisting so that his back shielded Alaric, and just in time, too. He had just squeezed his eyes shut when he felt a powerful blast of hot air across his cheek and all along his back, and heard a massive explosion. This one sounded different to the others he’d already endured, and Dietz glanced back. This explosion was more mundane. Flames were rising from the building that Wilcreitz had just exited, and as he watched, the roof collapsed, sending chunks of stone and clouds of dust flying. One chunk struck Dietz a heavy blow to one leg, sending pain shooting up along the limb and all through his side. Smaller fragments tore at his face, leaving streaks of fire there, but he counted himself lucky that he hadn’t fared worse.

  “What was that?” Kleiber demanded, rising to his feet and dusting his hat off against his leg.

  “The blackpowder,” Wilcreitz answered, walking towards them. “They had it all stashed in that building. There was too much to carry back, and the beastmen were getting more aggressive about fighting past us to get to it again. I could not risk them seizing rifles again, so I set fire to it.”

  Kleiber considered this for a second, and then nodded. “A wise choice,” he complimented his assistant, who looked pleased. “Now we may depart, knowing that no other will misuse those weapons.”

  “We should make sure the last of the beastmen are dead,” Wilcreitz pointed out, but Kleiber shook his head.

  “Look around.” Dietz did too, scanning the courtyard again, and he saw what Kleiber meant. Some beastmen remained, but they were clearly outnumbered by the elves and the humans, and looked confused. Their leaders had been killed or fled, the blackpowder weapons were gone, and they had nowhere left to turn.

  “Let the elves pursue the last of them. They hate the beastmen far more than we do, and it will keep them occupied. No, our task here is done. Gather the men and regroup in the clearing.”

  Wilcreitz nodded and turned away, and Kleiber stepped up and placed a hand on Dietz’s shoulder. “Come,” he said, “let us leave this place.”

  Dietz nodded and followed the witch hunter out of the ruins, cradling Alaric in his arms.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Ah!” They were sitting in the clearing between the ruins and the trees, where they had thrown together a makeshift camp. It had seemed a better choice than staying in the ruins, but safer then venturing back under the trees. Dietz had a damp rag in one hand, and was using it to clean away the damage to Alaric’s face. Unfortunately, that damage included most of his skin, and each touch of the cloth was agonising.

  “How bad is it?” Alaric asked after several more minutes, trying to unclench his teeth enough to speak properly.

  “Bad,” his friend admitted. “You’ll never be pretty again.”

  “That may be a blessing in disguise,” Alaric said sharply, remembering how his looks had gotten him undesired attention more than once.

  “You will survive, friend Alaric,” Kleiber said from nearby, “and that is what matters. Your scars will bear witness to your courage.”

  Alaric twitched, and then regretted it as the movement caused his cheeks to tighten, the air making the raw flesh sting. Courage? He’d been possessed by a daemon! He was having a hard time thinking about that. It was as if his mind refused to acknowledge what had happened to him. He remembered shoving the mask onto his face, and then he had only hazy images of battle, followed by a burst of pain as the mask had been torn free. Dietz had filled him in on what he’d said and done in between, but he couldn’t recall any of it clearly, which was probably for the best. As it was, he felt he was barely keeping himself together; strange images, thoughts, and emotions kept swirling through him, leaving him breathless and confused, and he feared that the slightest pressure could destroy what was left of his mind.

  “You survived,” Dietz pointed out quietly, “that’s something.” He shrugged. “Not many could fight their way back, I’d say.”

  Kleiber was nodding. “Dietz is correct,” he assured Alaric. “The fact that you forced the daemon from your body is proof of your courage and your faith, for without both your soul would surely have perished. We do, of course, need to perfor
m a proper exorcism upon our return to Altdorf.”

  “I’m just glad it’s over,” Alaric replied, starting to shake his head, and then thinking better of it. “No more tainted relics for me.” He saw the look on Dietz’s face. “I promise.”

  Dietz snorted. “We’ll see.” The older man set aside the rag. “Done.” He reached for a bowl filled with some greenish paste. “I asked Lankdorf how to make this salve the other day. I thought it’d be good to have.” All of them were injured to some degree, but Dietz had insisted upon treating Alaric’s injuries first, as they were the most severe. Alaric had been in no condition to argue, and sat still as his friend administered the salve, coating his damaged face with the concoction.

  “We owe him a great deal,” Alaric said after a minute.

  “Herr Lankdorf was a worthy ally,” Kleiber agreed, “and a good man. Surely Sigmar sent him to aid us, and has gathered his soul that he may be rewarded for his bravery.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Dietz said without turning around, “but what about his body? He deserves a proper burial.”

  “I agree.” The new voice made Alaric glance up, and he saw Wilcreitz standing beside them. “He was worthy of respect, and should be buried with honour.”

  Dietz looked surprised, and turned to nod his thanks to the stocky witch hunter.

  “We will venture back into the ruins shortly,” Kleiber decided, taking the wineskin Wilcreitz offered him and drinking before passing it along to Dietz. “I would retrieve whatever we can of the stolen weapons, to bring back to Altdorf with our remaining rifles as proof. We will collect Herr Lankdorf’s remains, and those of our fallen mercenaries.” He frowned. “We cannot carry them back with us, but we will build a fine pyre for them, and give them all due rites.”

  Dietz nodded, wiping a hand across his mouth and offering the wineskin to Alaric. Glouste, perched on his shoulder, burbled, and the sound increased in volume as Alaric reached across to scratch the tree fox behind her ears.

  “No, I’m not angry at you, Glouste,” he assured her softly, taking the wineskin and drinking, careful not to touch it directly to his torn lips. “I know you helped. Thank you.” The tree fox rubbed her forehead against his hand affectionately.

  “How are the others?” Dietz asked, taking the wineskin back from Alaric and returning it to Wilcreitz. Their wounded were stretched out nearby, and the stocky witch hunter had been tending to them.

  “Seven are severely wounded and may not live through the night,” the second witch hunter replied. “Four are injured, but in no serious danger, and with no loss of mobility. Two have only minor injuries.”

  Alaric did the math. Kleiber had brought thirty mercenaries, plus Lankdorf. Thirteen had survived. They had lost eighteen men in the attack.

  It could have been considerably worse, if Bloodgore hadn’t donned the gauntlet, if he hadn’t remembered about Deathmaul’s throat… Yes, it could have been much worse.

  “What about that man?” Dietz asked. “The tall one in the robes? Did he get away?”

  “Varlek,” Alaric answered. “He’s a sorcerer, and Deathmaul’s assistant, or perhaps ally.” He struggled to remember what the Chaos champion had said before the battle. “Varlek killed the cultists and took the mask, and he brought back the gauntlet.”

  “Most likely he was responsible for stealing the blackpowder weapons as well,” Kleiber commented. “Since the tracks we followed were of normal boots, not of heavily armoured feet.” He scratched idly at his chin. “Clearly, this Varlek was deeply involved in what occurred. I will inform my superiors when we return so we can attempt to capture him.”

  “And then,” Wilcreitz added, “we shall execute him.” His superior nodded, and Alaric couldn’t help feeling a surge of relief. From what he’d seen, Varlek didn’t deserve any mercy, and they’d all sleep better knowing that the sorcerer was dead.

  He started to say as much, when a faint movement beyond their camp caught his eye. Watching closely, Alaric saw something shift in the trees just past the clearing.

  “We’re being watched,” he said softly to Dietz. His friend’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything, only nodded.

  “I need another drink,” Dietz announced, scooping Glouste back into his jacket, rising to his feet and stepping over to retrieve the wineskin from Wilcreitz. As he took it from the witch hunter, Dietz leaned in and whispered something in Wilcreitz’s ear. Alaric saw the stocky witch hunter start, his eyes darting towards the forest, but Wilcreitz managed to control himself. It was not until after Dietz returned to Alaric’s side that Wilcreitz leaned in and muttered something to Kleiber, whose hands immediately went to his sword and his pistol.

  Kleiber had never been long on subtlety, and this was no exception. Rising to his feet, the witch hunter turned towards the forest’s edge. “Show yourself,” he shouted, “or we will be forced to assume that you are hostile, and will react accordingly.” Behind him, the remaining mercenaries, startled by the sudden announcement, leapt to their feet and drew their weapons.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, just as Kleiber opened his mouth to speak again, the trees rustled. Alaric watched as a shadow beneath one tree detached itself, shifting and gaining substance as it crossed the distance between them, until it stopped just beyond the light of their fire. From this short distance, Alaric could see the grey cloak and leaf-patterned armour, and the figure’s hair shone silver even in the dim light.

  No one spoke. The elf—whose name, Alaric somehow knew, was Lasalnean Silverleaf—and Kleiber stared at one another, no doubt sizing each other up. Alaric noticed that the elf leader had acquired another bow, but it remained across his back. His hands hovered near the long knives at his belt, but did not draw them, and Kleiber’s hands rested on his pistol and his sword, but they too remained holstered and sheathed.

  “The beastmen are no more,” Lasalnean declared finally. “The ruins are empty, and soon they will be cleansed of all remaining taint.” From his tone, Alaric suspected that included their touch. “You have trespassed upon our sacred place, and upon these woods,” the elf continued, his tone sharp, even though his voice was musical. “You must die.”

  “What in Sigmar’s name?” Wilcreitz rose to his feet and took a step forward, hands going to the sword and pistol at his side. “Are you threatening us?” he shouted at the elf. “We are servants of Sigmar, protected and shielded by his divine grace! You cannot—”

  Whatever he had meant to say next was overpowered by a series of soft thrums, followed by several quick whistling sounds.

  “Down!” Alaric felt an impact against his side and the ground rushed up to meet him, even as something sharp pricked his cheek. Then he was hitting the earth and rolling over, pushing Dietz off him.

  “What was that?” Alaric demanded, trying to get back to his feet, but his friend had a hand on his shoulder and kept him from rising. Dietz didn’t speak, but shook his head and gestured with one hand.

  Turning to where Dietz had pointed, Alaric saw Wilcreitz. The stocky witch hunter was still standing, but now he swayed, his knees giving out. As he slid slowly to the ground, his body twisted, and Alaric could see the arrow piercing Wilcreitz’s throat.

  “By Sigmar!” Alaric raised a hand without really thinking about it and brushed the stinging spot on his cheek. His fingers came away sticky, and a quick glance showed that they were covered with salve and something darker: blood.

  “Coward!” Kleiber was shouting, not at Lasalnean, but at the trees beyond him, both weapons in his hands. “You would fell a warrior of Sigmar, and from under cover? Come forth and face me!” Somehow the witch hunter was unharmed, although Alaric saw what looked like a new tear along Kleiber’s hat brim.

  A figure emerged from the woods and drifted forward to join Lasalnean, its cloak blending into the shadows, creeping in as the sun drifted below the horizon. Another followed, and another, all of them moving without a sound, all with bows in hands and arrows nocked. Alaric saw that
their leader also had his bow in his hands. There were seven elves in all, and Alaric glanced behind him to do a quick count of their own forces. It was only then that he realised why he had heard so many thrums. Four of the mercenaries lay dead, arrows in their throats or eyes. Judging by what he saw, the sharp-eyed elves had carefully targeted the healthiest of Kleiber’s men. Of the remaining nine, seven seemed unable to stand unaided.

  That left two still capable of fighting, plus Kleiber, Dietz, and himself, against seven very angry elves.

  Alaric felt laughter bubbling up in his throat, and could not prevent the hysterical giggle that escaped his bloodied lips. They had survived a daemon and its champion, and a battle with beastmen, and now they were going to die at the hands of a pack of elves? A race that most believed to be pure myth? He let the laughter sweep through him, knowing he seemed mad, and wondering if it were true.

  Then he drew his rapier and leapt forward. He knew without looking that Dietz was right behind him.

  EPILOGUE

  “Sir!”

  The harbourmaster looked up from his papers as the other man, one of his dockworkers, approached. “Yes, Fredrich?”

  “You’d better have a look at this, sir.”

  The harbourmaster followed as Fredrich led him to one of the outermost piers. Another dockworker, Hans, stood there with a long pole in his hand. The pole had a metal hook on its far end, and was used to pull waterbound items closer or push them farther away from the safety of the pier. The harbourmaster noticed that Hans’ pole was angled down towards the water, but that he was not putting much pressure on it.

  “Down there, sir,” Hans said as they approached, waggling the pole to indicate its far end. The harbourmaster glanced out over the piers edge, and stared.

  It was a raft, or at least so he assumed. Really, from here, it looked like little more than random branches and planks crudely tied together, yet the rough collection did seem to float. Stretched across it was a man, spread-eagled with his hands and feet wedged into the gaps in order for him to hold on.