[Warhammer] - Magestorm

by Jonathan Green - (ebook by Undead)

  The ghastly sound was coming from the burnt-out remains of a fire-ravaged house. At first Wilhelm could not make sense of what he was seeing through the blackened beams and half-tumbled walls of the building, so malformed was its grotesquely overgrown body. Then the creature shifted its obscene bulk with a wallowing whoomph and great gust of expelled air.

  His followers, trailing along behind him, had seen the thing too.

  “Sigmar’s bones!” cried one. Another began to pray with the urgency of a penitent on his deathbed. Wilhelm could also hear weeping.

  The abomination had heard them too.

  Raising its great, eyeless head, the beast swung it in their direction, as if it were looking straight at them. Ropes of human entrails swung slackly from jaws that were oddly placed on its body.

  Wilhelm heard someone behind him vomit again.

  The abomination was of a monstrous size, fully as long as the ruins of the house it now wallowed in and the hump of its body was almost as tall as a man. The bulk of the creature’s huge, distorted body resembled an enormous segmented slug. Its wet, grey flesh rippled obscenely every time it moved. Protruding rather incongruously from its body were spindly multi-jointed limbs, ending in single hooked claws or writhing rubbery tentacles.

  Despite its slug-like form, the vertebrae of a malformed spine could be seen through the taut grey flesh of the monster’s back. Along this ridge, thickened bony plates afforded the creature some protection whilst the hooked talons, writhing tentacles and pseudo-pods could help the creature defend itself.

  The creature showed signs of sickness, the surface of its disgusting skin was covered with patches of huge, blistering boils that popped and oozed their filth regularly.

  Having surveyed the horror-struck warband, the creature flopped back down amidst the ruins and continued to consume its meal of half-burnt, rotting corpses in the shell of the fire ravaged house.

  Wilhelm knew what they were facing. He had seen such a thing once before, when he had been fighting on a battlefield under a bloody sky against the degenerate followers of the Fell Powers. He recognised it too from nightmares that came to him unbidden during the darkest watches of the night.

  It was a freakish parody of a living thing. It had quite possibly once been human, but it was no longer. It was a mindless thing, a spawn of Chaos, its only motivation being to feed on the rotting corpses of the dead, and to kill. Judging by its size, it must have consumed a fair amount of flesh.

  “Men of Sigmar!” Wilhelm declared, taking a step forward. “Such an abomination cannot be allowed to live! In the name of the Heldenhammer, attack!”

  Yelling like a maniac, the warrior priest charged towards the ruined house and the spawn lurking within it, raising his glowing warhammer above his head. Hurdling a broken section of wall, Wilhelm crashed into the blackened rubble and landed a mighty blow on the abomination’s head with his blessed weapon.

  The pallid flesh rippled under the blow and the creature jerked back instinctively. A horrible mewling whine escaped its jaws as it tried to retract its head inside its body.

  A bony claw lashed out at him, but Wilhelm was too quick. With his muscles straining, he brought the warhammer round again and hit the spindly, crab-like limb with a resounding crack, snapping it backwards. The creature whined again.

  His small entourage joined the battle, fighting with the zeal of the converted, raining blows down upon the abomination. However, it was obvious that these men were not trained fighters. They had been common labouring folk, farmers, millers, shepherds and the like, drawn to his cause by the valour and faith he had shown in battle. One of them, a grey-haired man by the name of Kuhlbert, had fought as a halberdier in the army of Ostland twenty years ago, but age was getting the better of him now.

  With little in the way of actual swordsmanship, Wilhelm’s accomplices did not strike effectively at the spawn’s vulnerable points with their blades. Their blows were turned aside by rubbery tentacles and armoured scales. So whilst the others did little more than irritate the spawn, it was up to the warrior priest to destroy it.

  Wilhelm swung his hammer round in an arc from the right. The solid iron head connected with the monster’s jaw, splintering teeth from its mouth and sending a spray of filthy blood into the air.

  Emitting a guttural, throaty bellow from the depths of its chest, the abomination rose up on its muscular tail. Strings of slime oozed from its underbelly that elastically touched the ground. Its broad head towered some twelve feet above the ground.

  Wilhelm noticed the most horrific thing about the monstrosity. In the middle of the creature’s thorax were horribly stretched and distorted features of a human face. The priest was sure he could hear a weak mewling noise coming from the quivering lips of the face, and thought he saw tears running from the slits of its eyes through the slime. But no matter how human and pitiful the face appeared, the spawn was nothing more than a mindless beast.

  The creature threw its whole body forward to crush its attacker. Wilhelm leapt out of the way but the less experienced man behind him, confused by the chaos of the battle, was not quick enough.

  The spawn crashed down on top of the man, covering him entirely. The horrific creature pulled its tail forward, sliding on its slime-trail through the rubble and then rose up on its strong tail again to repeat the manoeuvre. Wilhelm staggered backwards, trying to maintain his balance and stop himself being killed.

  As the beast rose up the crushed man was revealed. He was struggling weakly, and gagging on the sticky filth that clogged his mouth. The monster flopped down again, sending clouds of ash billowing into the air. The attackers coughed.

  Up close, Wilhelm was aware of the putrescent stench put out by the creature: an acrid mix of bile, the ammonia stink of sewage and the sickly-sweet reek of rotting meat. The spawn opened its maw and Wilhelm could quite clearly see the rows of sharklike teeth receding into the dark hole of its gullet.

  Aware of a movement out of the corner of his eye he swung round, instinctively bringing his warhammer up to parry any incoming attack. The creature had struck at him with a mottle-fleshed limb that extended elastically from the side of its loathsome body. Snapping at the end of this pod-tentacle was another fang-lined mouth, large enough to take a man’s head off. The tentacle struck again like a swaying cobra.

  Wilhelm smacked the head of his hammer into the mouth and with a twist of his wrist caught it and flung it onto the ground. The initial impact tore the maw open along one side. The head was stuccoed with gobbets of meat, and the mouth twitched spasmodically. Wilhelm brought his hammer down again, crushing the pod-head to a messy pulp.

  The warrior priest rained blow after blow down upon the spawn, rupturing its horrid flesh, bursting pus-filled boils and fracturing what bones there were inside its mollusc body. The monster responded by whipping at him with its tentacles, snapping at him with its horribly distended jaws and clawing at him with its ungainly, multi-jointed, taloned limbs. They scraped against the iron of his breastplate, and sliced through the heavy cloth of his robes, drawing blood from his flesh with its claws. He was coated in the filth and slime discharged by the spawn, and its dark blood stained his cowled cloak.

  His relentless blows seemed to be having little effect; the beast’s grotesque bulk absorbed the damage. He did nothing other than drive the creature into an animal rage, which showed no signs of abating.

  Wilhelm could feel his muscles beginning to tire. He needed to try a different approach. It would take more than weapons to destroy this monster.

  If he could stir one of the bonfires back into life he was certain the flames would prove an effective weapon. But in the time it would take him to achieve such a thing the abomination might well have put an end to him and those who now fought at his side. To simply turn and flee would be neglecting his duty and would be a blasphemy against Sigmar’s will.

  “Keep it busy!” he commanded his men and took a step back.

  If Wilhelm was beginning to feel exha
ustion creeping up on him, then that was nothing compared to what the others must be feeling. Nevertheless, his puffing and panting followers redoubled their attacks against the spawn, striking at it from all sides.

  Wilhelm had to admire their fortitude, taking on a horror such as this. But then they had already seen their own fair share of horrors stalking the streets of Steinbrucke. Their attacks were having little real impact against the spawn but at least they were keeping it busy, so Wilhelm could prepare himself.

  The priest closed his eyes and began to pray. Sinking into a semi-trance-like state he was only dimly aware of a cry from one of the men.

  It was cut short by a sickening crunch, and was followed by terrified protests of the rest of his party. When the warrior priest opened his eyes again, they were orbs of fire.

  As he drew upon the glorious light of Sigmar, and the righteous fury that such an abomination should defile the face of the world, a lambent golden glow surrounded him.

  As if understanding it did not have long to live, the Chaos spawn made one last desperate lunge at the warrior priest. Wilhelm stood his ground. The creature was within three feet of him when pure white light flashed and burnt the air above him. It was as if the abomination had struck some invisible shield created by the priest’s faith.

  The spawn recoiled, great black weals and blisters burned into the underside of its body and covered the stretched human face. Before it could recover Wilhelm strode in, swinging the fiery head of his warhammer in a figure of eight pattern.

  He struck once, twice, three times—half-congealed blood and corruption spurting from wound after wound. The spawn sank back, its spine arching backwards, and then collapsed in on itself.

  Wilhelm waited, warhammer at the ready, for another sudden impulsive attack.

  And waited.

  No attack came.

  He heard an unpleasant fizzing, gurgling sound as the hideous Chaos spawn’s body turned in on itself. The pallid flesh of the slug-thing began to bubble and ripple as if worms were crawling under its skin. Its shape changed from the inside out.

  Wilhelm tightened his grip on the haft of the warhammer as the creature lurched into the air once more. An agonised howl rose from the monster’s jaws as the scarred human face gave a scream that turned the blood of all who heard it to ice.

  The creature’s sides heaved, and it started to spew out a stream of blood. Quickly it became clear to the horrified observers that the creature was regurgitating its own organs, effectively turning itself inside out. Muscles and thick cords of intestines twitched and spasmed, and the lector could see new bony limbs forming within the mass, straining at the contorting, bubbling flesh as they did so.

  Wilhelm could sense the waves of energy writhing around the monster, to fuel its metamorphosis.

  The Chaos spawn spasmed one last time and from somewhere within the bloody offal-flesh there came a rattling, gargling cry that could be nothing other than a death-howl.

  The convulsions stopped and the pile of flesh sagged, then dissolved. There could be no doubt that the abomination was dead at last.

  “Where now, your holiness?” Kuhlbert asked, as they prepared to leave the destroyed village. They had lost two of their number in the fight against the Chaos spawn.

  Climbing into Kreuz’s saddle, the lector paused. They were gathered at the shattered remains of the north gate leading out of Grunhafen. Where there had been few signs of traffic from the south, here the tracks had been churned by the passage of men and horses. Whoever had been here, and witnessed or taken part in this carnage, had left heading in that direction.

  “North,” Wilhelm stated in his deep booming voice.

  “The city of Wolfenburg lies in that direction,” Kuhlbert said.

  “Dark things are afoot in this land,” Wilhelm said grimly, turning his stern gaze on his followers, “and I fear the city could be in danger. I sense a time of great evil is near, a time when we will all have our part to play.”

  Turning Kreuz’s head to the north, Wilhelm kicked his heels into his steed’s sides and led the way out of the ruined village.

  FIVE

  Trial by Fire

  “The Sword of Judgement hangs over me now, and all I see around me is a shadowy web of secrets and lies. Secrets and lies.”

  —Osrus Fogweaver before

  his execution as a heretic by

  the Council of Siedlung

  Gerhart opened his eyes. There was no light in the cell. Through the tiny barred arch of a window fifteen feet above him, all he could see were the pinpricks of stars set into an arc of deepest blue. He could feel the damp chill of the stone wall against his back, leaving him numb with cold.

  It felt as if the dark, dank cell had leeched the heat from the very marrow of his bones and had taken his strength with it. He was half-sitting in a corner of the room. As his eyesight gradually adjusted to the gloom Gerhart began to discern objects amongst the amorphous black shapes in his vision.

  In front of him, on the other side of the cell, were a few shallow stone steps that led up to a sturdy iron-banded oak door, with heavy hinges and a small barred grille at head height. The steps were wet with slime and smooth from years of use.

  There was nothing more to his prison than bare stone walls, steps and a wooden door. Rusted chains and manacles dangled from the vaulted roof. Whoever maintained this cell took punishment very seriously.

  He could remember little after he had been knocked senseless. There had been brief periods when he had been shaken into head-aching consciousness, only for his world to fade to fuzzy grey again moments later.

  He did remember being slung onto the back of a horse and jolted into unconsciousness again as the creature galloped from the madness in the village of Grunhafen. And he’d been aware of the ride through the enclosing dark of a forest and the sound of hounds barking in the distance. He had only been half-conscious when the party arrived at this nameless village where he was now prisoner. He vaguely recalled the clattering of keys in a lock, the gruff complaints of rough, sweat-stinking men then the numbing cold of the cell.

  A thought suddenly struck Gerhart and he felt for his sword belt. It was gone. So had his staff, although his captors had left him with the numerous other charms and totems he wore.

  His head ached. He did not know how long he had been unconscious but thought it unlikely that it had been much more than a day, or he might not have recovered his senses at all.

  As far as he could tell, he was at least partly below ground, and that was why it was damp and cold. In fact it was as icy as a cold store. Lying there, unconscious and inactive for the gods knew how long, the cold had taken a great deal of power from him.

  He closed his eyes and then opened them again to his wizard-sight. He could see the icy-blue and frosty-green currents of other magical energies trailing like marsh lights through the darkness of the cell. The tendrils of power he sought were not drawn to dark, damp cold places: in fact such environments repulsed them. No flame burned in his mind’s eye.

  A warm, yellow-orange glow suddenly appeared beyond the bars of the grille in the cell door. Gerhart heard the rattling of keys accompanied by low, hissing voices. He could not make out what they were saying although he thought one of them sounded familiar.

  With a creak of rusted hinges the cell door was heaved open and a man stepped into the cell, silhouetted by the glaring light of a lantern held by another.

  In the wizard’s mind’s eye light sparked in the darkness.

  Gerhart put a hand up to shield his eyes as the witch hunter approached him. As well as the black-clad Sigmarite and the lantern-bearer, Gerhart could see two other figures moving in the flickering light and shadows. These two followed the witch hunter into the gaol cell.

  “Where am I?” Gerhart asked crossly.

  The witch hunter ignored his question. “Bind him,” he instructed.

  Gerhart struggled to get to his feet as the two burly men closed on him. But in his aching weakened
state the lean wizard could do little to stop these stronger men. They seized him, forcing his arms behind his back. A rope was tied around his wrists, to bind them, pulled so tight it cut into his flesh. The witch hunter’s lackeys hauled Gerhart to his feet.

  “Where are you taking me?” the wizard demanded.

  The witch hunter looked back at him disinterestedly, but did not answer.

  “Answer me!” Gerhart demanded, feeling fury building inside him.

  “Take him to the chamber,” was all the witch hunter said, again speaking only to the escorts.

  With a minder either side of him, Gerhart was half-marched and half-dragged from the cell.

  The cell door was opened once more and Gerhart pushed inside. He stumbled down the slick steps into the gloom and fell to his knees on the chill stone floor. The door slammed shut behind him and was locked again. Gerhart rolled onto his side, contorting in agony as he put pressure on the bruises and weals now covering his back, arms and legs.

  His body was a map of pain. The sadistic witch hunter had known what he was doing. Where other, less experienced torturers would have used hot coals, heated pokers and naked flames to exact a confession, the witch hunter had instructed his torturer to use a combination of blunt instruments and icy cold water.

  He winced as he rested his bruised cheek on the cold, wet stones of the cell floor. His torment had lasted for hours, the witch hunter calmly asking him the same questions over and over. He repeated the same accusations, and Gerhart strenuously denied them all.

  The witch hunter’s words echoed in Gerhart’s mind, fresh as the agonies the blubbery, leather-hooded torturer had inflicted on him.

  “Who is your master? Which of the Fell Powers have you sold your soul to?”

  “When did you turn to the worship of the Dark Gods?”

  “You are a devotee of Chaos, are you not?”

  “What made you turn your back on the Empire and Lord Sigmar?”