The lair of the daemons sat upon a large hill that reared from the heart of the benighted marsh. Banks of fog gathered at its base as the Unberogen and Endal warriors crept up its rocky slopes. Towering menhirs carved with spirals, circles and one-eyed monsters punctured the sodden gorse of the hill, like jagged teeth growing from within the body of the mound.
Nearly fifty warriors darted between the grotesque monuments as they approached the summit, keeping as low and silent as possible. The deadening qualities of the mist worked in their favour, and the clatter of plate and mail was muffled.
Sigmar kept his eyes upon the ridge at the top of the hill, feeling Ghal Maraz tingling in his grasp. The ancient weapon knew that evil creatures were near, and the urge to split their skulls coursed through Sigmar’s veins. Count Aldred climbed next to him, while Wolfgart and Redwane followed close behind. The young White Wolf kept a tight grip on Idris Gwylt.
They were almost at the summit, and Sigmar halted, moving forward on his belly to a jagged, rock-crowned ridge that overlooked the daemons’ lair. Looking through a gap in the rocks, he saw the top of the hill was in fact a vast crater, and the breath caught in Sigmar’s throat at what lay within.
Colossal blocks of pale, moonlit stone lay scattered throughout the crater, all that remained of a city raised in a forgotten age by unknown hands. It covered an area at least the size of Reikdorf and Marburg combined, and Sigmar could only imagine the scale of the beings that had lived here if the size of the streets was any indication.
“Ulric’s bones,” hissed Wolfgart, as he reached the ridge and saw the city. “What is this place? Who lived here?”
“I don’t know,” said Sigmar. “Aldred?”
“Gwylt took Marika through the mist to the top of the hill. I know nothing of this place.”
“It looks like it was built for giants,” said Redwane.
“Then let’s hope they’re as dead as their city,” said Wolfgart.
All thoughts of the city’s builders fled from Sigmar’s mind as he saw a flash of golden hair below them in what looked like a crude arena. Marika was bound to one of the soaring menhirs, and Aldred cried out as he too saw her.
“Blood of my fathers!” swore Redwane. “Daemons!”
Sigmar felt his blood chill as monsters emerged from the darkness. A host of vile creatures hauled themselves from lairs carved beneath the arena, and even from a distance they were repulsive.
There were around a hundred of the pallid-fleshed daemons, their bodies hairless and hunched. Bronze shields strapped to their torsos protected their wasted bodies, and barbed tails swayed beneath kilts of tattered mail. Each daemon carried a rusted weapon, either an axe or a spiked club, and beak-like snouts filled with savage, needle-like teeth snapped and gnashed as they closed on Marika.
Each of the daemons saw the world through but a single eye, and such a hideous aberration of form left Sigmar in no doubt as to their diabolical nature. More hideous than even the worst of the daemons was the loathsome creature that lurched and shuffled at the centre of the pack. Though shaped like its lesser brethren, this monstrous cyclops was much larger, the height of three tall men. Its limbs were bloated and its distended belly was like that of a woman on the verge of giving birth. Lank hair hung from this creature’s skull like tarred ropes and two shapeless dugs of withered flesh hung from its breast.
Was this some form of abominable daemon-queen?
The vast creature advanced on Marika, and Sigmar’s stomach turned as he saw a vile lust in its cyclopean features.
There was no time for subtlety here, only action.
Sigmar shouted, “Into them!” and surged over the ridge with Ghal Maraz raised over his shoulder. The hammer’s runes shimmered in the weak light, and the daemons let loose a gurgling shriek of warning at the sight of him.
The mass of Unberogen and Endal warriors charged after Sigmar, ululating war cries splitting the dead air with their ferocity. Wolfgart and Aldred charged alongside Sigmar, and the wiry count of the Endals pulled ahead of him, the desperate need to redeem himself and save his sister lending his tired limbs fresh strength. Redwane ran with a look of hatred twisting his young features. The daemons shambled from the arena towards them, brandishing their rusted weapons and answering the war cries of their enemies with hoarse roars of their own.
Sigmar sprinted downhill towards the arena, vaulting a fallen monolith and bellowing the name of Ulric. There was no way he could reach Marika before the daemon-queen tore her to pieces, but if nothing else, he would avenge her.
The running warriors struck the daemons in a clash of iron and bronze. As horrifying as the creatures were, they died as any creature of flesh and blood could die. Wolfgart’s huge blade clove through three of the monsters with a single blow, while Aldred spun through the daemons with the elegant sweeps of a fencing master. Redwane killed with brutally precise hammer-blows, the heavy, wolf-shaped head spinning around his body in devastating arcs.
Sigmar fought to keep up with Aldred, smashing a daemon from its feet with a chopping blow from Ghal Maraz. The beast howled in agony as the runes on the dwarf weapon seared its flesh and crushed its bones. Another monster came at him, but Sigmar ducked a skull-crushing sweep of its axe and slammed the head of his hammer against the creature’s midriff. Its belly split open and a bubbling gruel of stinking fluids spilled onto the hillside. Dank mist began forming in the bowl of the arena, and the vile smell of rotten meat increased on every stale breath of wind.
Sigmar pushed onwards, killing a daemon with every blow, but too many of the beasts were between him and Marika. All around him the battle raged, and the courage of his warriors, both Unberogen and Endal, was a thing of rare magnificence.
White Wolves fought with a brutal directness, always pushing forward with chopping blows from their hammers. Such weapons were designed for swinging from the back of a charging steed, but such was the skill of the Unberogen warriors that it made little difference to their tally of kills.
The Raven Helms fought to expunge the shame of leading their princess into the marsh, and each man cut into the daemons with no thought for his own defence, their swords stained with the blood of their enemies. The months of misery and suffering caused by these daemons were repaid in full, as the Endals vented their hatred and grief in every blow.
The daemons fought with equal ferocity, their axes and clubs landing with dreadful strength that smashed plate armour asunder, and tore through mail as though it were woven from cloth. Their limbs were wiry, but they were strong and brutal, and many a warrior had marched into this battle without armour.
Thick banks of mist rolled out from the enormous daemon at the centre of the horde, flowing up the hill in an unnatural tide. The stink of it was like a midden at the height of summer and it coiled through the battle like a host of wet grey snakes. Soon the entire hillside was wreathed in mist, and every warrior fought his own battle in the smothering fog, unable to tell friend from foe.
Blood stained the hillside as men and daemons hacked into each other. The Endals and Unberogen still pushed forward, but the greater number of their inhuman foes was beginning to tell. Their courageous charge slowed and finally stopped.
Sigmar caught up to Aldred, the Endal count’s glowing sword blade a beacon in the obscuring fog. The mist seemed reluctant to close around Sigmar and Aldred, as though kept at bay by the magic of their weapons.
Redwane fought towards them.
“The girl!” he shouted. “Get to the girl!”
Sigmar saw the hideous beast rear over the Endal princess. It reached for the struggling girl and let out a screeching, gurgling cry of triumph. Aldred cried out in despair, but no sooner did the daemon-queen touch Marika, than it recoiled as though burned. It loosed a hideous shriek, its monstrous features twisted in revulsion, as though disgusted by the young girl before it.
Aldred fought at Sigmar’s side. Together they cut a path through the daemons, parting the mist before them with their enchanted
weapons. Side by side, Emperor and count slew their foes, each protecting the other, and each fighting as though they had trained together since childhood. Their weapons wove killing arcs, and Sigmar sensed a kinship between these wondrous artefacts, as though they had slain creatures of the dark together in ages past in the hands of their makers. Though forged by craftsmen from very different races, oath-sworn pacts of ancient days still bound the fates of the weapons.
The moment passed, and Sigmar felt stone beneath his boots as he stepped onto the marble-flagged floor of the arena. He killed another monster as Aldred slew the last of the daemon-queen’s protectors and ran to his sister. Marika still screamed and wept in terror, sagging against the chains that bound her to the menhir.
“So much for willing, eh?” said Redwane, coming alongside Sigmar.
The daemon-queen backed away from them, though it hissed and spat in Marika’s direction. The sounds of battle still raged on the hillside above, but Sigmar knew that the daemons’ curse would only be ended with the death of this monster.
“Let’s finish this,” said Sigmar.
“Gladly,” agreed Redwane.
The two warriors charged towards the daemon-queen, but they had travelled no more than a few yards when the ground underfoot transformed from solid marble to sucking mud and water. Redwane stumbled, and Sigmar sank to his calves.
“Sorcery!” cried Redwane, hauling himself from the mud and pushing on. Sigmar extricated himself and splashed over the boggy ground after Redwane. Columns of yellow fog boiled from the suddenly marshy ground, and a powerful stench like rotten eggs assailed him. He gagged on the acrid mist, feeling his guts rebel at the foulness. In seconds, he was as good as blind.
A shadow moved in the fog, and Sigmar threw himself to one side as a huge clawed arm slashed towards him. He splashed into the stinking water as filth-encrusted talons flashed over his head, a hand’s span from decapitating him. He tasted the rank marsh water the daemon-queen had conjured.
Sigmar coughed and spat the black fluid clear, rolling in the mud as a huge, clawed foot slammed down. He swung his hammer, and the creature shrieked as the ancient weapon struck its wet and spongy flesh.
Redwane’s hammer tore into the creature’s side, and a froth of blood and lumpen matter spilled from the wound. That matter flapped and writhed as though alive, but thankfully sank into the swamp before Sigmar could see its true nature. The White Wolf’s hammer was a blur of dark iron, slamming home again and again into the daemon-queen’s flesh.
Sigmar struggled to his feet in the slippery mud, feeling the desire of the swampy ground to suck him down to his death. The beast lurched towards Redwane, faster than its bulk would suggest, and its clawed arms plucked him from the ground. The mist closed in around the combat, and Sigmar heard Redwane roar in pain, before his cries were suddenly silenced. A heavy splash sounded, and Sigmar swung Ghal Maraz up to his shoulder.
A bloated shape moved in the mist, and the daemon-queen loomed over him, its lank hair whipping around its head as it snapped at him. Sigmar threw up his hammer, holding it above his head with both hands, and the creature’s beaked jaw snapped down on the haft.
The force of the bite drove Sigmar into the sodden ground, and marsh water sucked greedily at his body, pulling him deeper into the mire. The monster’s foetid breath enveloped him, and gobs of stinging drool spattered him as it tried to bite through Ghal Maraz. Mud rose past his waist, and bubbles burst around him as he sank even further.
A flash of movement caught Sigmar’s eye as a dark shape leapt to the attack.
Sigmar’s heart leapt as he saw Redwane. The young warrior’s mail shirt was shredded, splintered links falling from him like droplets of silver. Blood soaked his side where the daemon-queen had torn his flesh, but the fury of battle was upon him and no force in the world was going to stop him.
Redwane yelled, “Ulric give me strength!” and brought his hammer down over his head.
The weapon thundered against the side of the daemon-queen’s head, and its lower jaw was smashed from its skull. Greenish-brown blood spattered Sigmar, and the pressure on his arms vanished. He wrenched Ghal Maraz free, and swung it one-handed over the splintered remains of the monster’s chitinous beak. All his strength was behind the blow, and the head of the rune hammer slammed into the daemon-queen’s eye.
It burst like a ruptured bladder, showering Sigmar and Redwane in reeking gelatinous fluids, and the daemon-queen howled in agony. The enormous beast crashed down, its flailing arms clutching its ruined socket. Blood squirted from the wound, and the mists that cloaked it began to fade as its life bled out. The monster convulsed in its death throes, and it vomited an enormous slick of wriggling things that flopped and thrashed like landed fish.
Sigmar struggled to free himself from the sucking marsh, as he felt the ground begin to solidify around him. He had no wish to be trapped when the magic that had transformed the stone to swamp was exhausted.
“Need a hand?” asked Redwane. His face was deathly white, and Sigmar saw how deeply the daemon-queen had cut him. Bright blood flowed from his side and drenched his leggings.
“If you can,” said Sigmar.
“I think I’ll manage,” said Redwane, taking hold of Sigmar’s wrist and pulling. Though his face contorted in pain, Redwane hauled Sigmar free of the mud without complaint. Sigmar got to his feet, feeling that the ground beneath him was solid stone once more.
“Right,” whispered Redwane, “I think I’ll lie down now.”
Sigmar caught the youth as he fell, and laid him down gently before lifting the torn mail from his body. The skin was ashen and slick with blood, three parallel scars running from Redwane’s ribs to his pelvis. “I need water!” shouted Sigmar.
“Damn, but that stings,” hissed Redwane. “The bitch was quicker than she looked.”
“These?” asked Sigmar. “Ach, they’re nothing, lad. I’ve had bigger scars from the bites of Ortulf’s fleas.”
“That old dog must have some damn big fleas,” said Redwane, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Perhaps Wolfgart should throw saddles on them and we’ll fly into battle.”
Sigmar smiled and looked uphill to where Wolfgart and the White Wolves stood triumphant with Laredus and the Raven Helms amid a field of corpses. Daemons and men lay scattered across the hillside, for it had been a battle won with the blood of heroes. The dead would be mourned in time, but for now, the victory belonged to the living.
“Here,” said a voice at Sigmar’s side. “Water.”
Sigmar looked up into Aldred’s battle-weary face. The Count of the Endals and his sister stood over Sigmar. Aldred held out a leather canteen. Sigmar took it and poured clear liquid over Redwane’s wounds.
“Will he live?” asked Marika, dropping to her knees beside Redwane.
“His wounds are wide, but shallow,” said Sigmar, trying not to think of the filth encrusted on the daemon-queen’s claws. “So long as the wounds do not fester, I believe he will live.”
“That’s good to know,” hissed Redwane.
“He will receive the best care in Marburg, my emperor,” said Aldred.
“I will nurse him myself,” promised Marika.
Aldred offered Sigmar his hand and said, “I have been a fool, my friend. I doubted your vision, and my father’s death blinded me to its truth. Idris Gwylt fanned the flames of that doubt and his dark faith almost cost me the life of my sister.”
“He promised my sacrifice would save our people,” said Marika, and Sigmar was impressed at how quickly she had recovered her composure after so close a brush with death. Clearly Endal women were as hardy as those of the Unberogen. “His lies had me convinced that only I could save us, that I should walk into the marsh and let that… thing devour me.”
“Aye, and for that he will pay with his life,” said Aldred. “I will curse his soul to eternal torment with a thrice death in the waters of the marsh.”
“It is no more than he deserves,” said Sigmar.
“The mists are lifting,” said Aldred. “I think the journey out of the marshes will be happier than the journey in.”
“Indeed it will,” agreed Sigmar, “but we should move quickly. It will be dark soon.”
Aldred nodded and led Marika away as Wolfgart came over to help him with Redwane.
“Well, lad,” said Wolfgart. “You have fought daemons now. Was it all you hoped for?”
“Oh yes,” snapped Redwane. “I’ve always wanted to be mauled by a fat daemon bitch.”
Wolfgart grinned, tearing strips from the lining of his cloak to use as bandages.
As Wolfgart bound Redwane’s wounds, Sigmar looked over at the mouldering corpse of the daemon-queen, picturing how the creature had recoiled from its intended victim.
“There is one thing I don’t understand,” said Sigmar. “Why did the beast not kill Marika? I thought daemons hungered for the blood of virgins.”
“Trust me,” said Redwane with a sly grimace. “That lass is no virgin.”
—
Troublesome Kings
Count Aldred renewed the Sword Oath of his father in the main square before the Raven Hall, dropping to one knee and lifting Ulfshard for the Emperor to take. Cheers echoed from one end of Marburg to the other as Sigmar took the ancient blade and then handed it back to Aldred, thus sealing their pact of confraternity.
Dawn had been lighting the eastern horizon when the battle-weary but elated warriors emerged from the marsh. They bore their dead but, after the noxious reek of the swamps, the sweet smell of clean, sea air banished any thoughts of grief.
All through the journey back to Marburg, bodies had floated to the surface of the swamp, as though the defeat of the daemons had freed them to return to the world above. The unique properties of the bog water had preserved the bodies remarkably, and in time they too would be recovered and sent into the next world with honour.
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