Daemon Gates Trilogy 02 Night of the Daemon

by Black Library

  '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.

  Then the screams began.

  Fortunately they did not last long.

  Unfortunately, the daemonic laughter began at the same time, and continued to echo after the last of the cultists had fallen forever silent.

  Dietz, Alaric and Lankdorf had dispatched the rest, although one ducked Lankdorfs blade, stumbled back out of the ruins, and turned back towards the nearby town.

  'To arms, my brothers!' he shouted. 'Strangers have entered our realm! They seek to usurp our lord with their own foul creation, but we will teach them the error of their ways and the primacy of our Prince.' Dietz wanted to protest that last part - what, the man thought they were allied with the daemon? - but it didn't matter. The cultists' cries were drowned out by a new sound rising up from the field below the hill: the sound of battle.

  Dietz knew it far too well to be mistaken. He heard horses charging, men bellowing and war horns sounding. Then he heard the grinding of a massive gate, and answer­ing shouts and screams. Close behind them, he heard the sound of clashing metal.

  Clearly the Border Princes had arrived, and the cultists of Vitrolle had come forth to meet them.

  The remaining cultist paused, surprised, and Lankdorf used the opportunity to knock the man out with his cross­bow. Another sound reached them as the man dropped, and Dietz recognised this one too.

  It was the sound of stone shattering.

  The armies must have reached the town's outer walls. He had noticed battering rams and ballistae among the armies when they had looked down towards the town earlier, and had seen similar weapons in Haflok's camp. Clearly one or more of the local rulers had unleashed these weapons, and judging by the sounds they'd done so to good effect. Vit- rolle's defences were caving.

  Dietz glanced at Alaric but the younger man looked as uncertain as he felt. They couldn't fight an entire army, let alone four, and getting into the town would be impossi­ble with all those warriors running around, just looking for targets. Not that they wanted to enter Vitrolle anyway. They had only been going there because they thought it was Braechen's destination, but now he was wearing the gauntlet and the daemon had taken hold. They had no idea what the daemon would try to do next, nor how they would stop it, even in this partial state. So what could they do?

  He was about to ask Alaric when they all heard Braechen laugh again. It was different this time, more liquid, horri­bly reminiscent of blood draining from a gaping wound, complete with bubbling gasps, and, although he hated himself for knowing it, Dietz could tell that it was a sound of pure joy. The daemon inside the man was thrilled.

  Dietz wasn't sure he wanted to know why.

  Then he noticed that the laughter was growing fainter, its hideous sound swallowed up by the battle beyond.

  'He's getting away!' Alaric shouted. He dashed around the edge of the ruins, looking down the hill and towards the town. Dietz followed him, shaking his head. Lankdorf was right behind him.

  Sure enough, they saw Braechen striding away from them, heading right towards Vitrolle. He had evidently stepped through one of the gaps in the shattered building.

  Past him, Dietz saw a massive battle to match the sounds he'd already heard. He couldn't tell much, beyond the fact that there were people everywhere, some on horseback and some on foot, and weapons were swinging wildly. He saw the glint of sunlight off metal here and there, suggesting heavy armour, but beyond that it was all a blur: a blur that the daemon-infested warrior was heading straight for.

  'After him!' Alaric said, breaking into a jog.

  'Why?' Dietz asked, although he only paused for long enough to reclaim his mace before catching up with his friend. 'What can we do?'

  '1 don't know,' the young nobleman admitted, 'but we have to try something. Anyway, I want to know why he's going towards the town. What does he need there?'

  That was a fair point, Dietz thought. Besides, he didn't have any better ideas. So he and Lankdorf flanked Alaric, and all three of them sprinted after the daemon-possessed soldier. He was moving slowly but purposefully and they caught up before he had reached the base of the hill, or the battle that raged just beyond. They slowed perhaps ten feet behind Braechen and then stayed far enough for him to be unable to reach them easily, but close enough to follow.

  Not that Braechen paid them the slightest attention. He lumbered onto the field and towards the town, cutting a swathe through the raging battle.

  'Stay close!' Lankdorf shouted, taking the lead. The bounty hunter had his crossbow slung on his back, his dag­ger in one hand and his sword in the other, and charged into the battle without looking back to see if they were fol­lowing. For a second, faced with the daunting prospect of entering that wild melee, Dietz considered backing away. Let the daemon reach the town, assuming it wasn't killed in the process. Let Lankdorf die at the hands of the four clash­ing armies. He and Alaric could walk away and never look back. Who cared if the Border Princes fell?

  Unfortunately, he did care, and so did Alaric. That was the problem. That was why, with a sigh, Dietz checked to make sure Glouste was secure inside his jacket, hefted his mace in one hand and gripped one of his knives in the other, and plunged after Lankdorf. Alaric was right beside him, rapier at the ready.

  It was utter madness. Dietz had been in fights before. He'd even fought a pitched battle before, back in the Black Fire Pass, but that had been only two forces, the Empire armies against the orc warband. There were four separate groups here, and only one could claim the victory.

  Warriors from the three armies were everywhere, as were the cultists. Dietz was amazed at how many people must have been packed inside that one town, and, as best he could tell, no one was worrying about who was fighting whom. He saw one of Fatandira's men battling a soldier wearing the garb of Levrellian's troops, while another of her warriors fought a cultist only feet away. One of Haflok's knights charged past, cutting down both the cultist and his opponent without pause. It was a free-for-all, a complete madhouse.

  Dietz sidestepped a blow from someone, he didn't even see whom, and struck back, feeling his mace connect with a body and the resulting crack of bone. Someone else swung at him just beyond the first assailant and he blocked with his knife, hitting again with the mace and shattering an arm. Then he grabbed Alaric and yanked him forwards, his long strides carrying them both to Lankdorfs back. With the bounty hunter close by, they were better able to defend themselves and Dietz was able to concentrate on their left flank, knowing that Alaric had the right and the bounty hunter the front. He swung at anyone who approached them, knowing that everyone else on the bat­tlefield would do the same to them.

  They marched thei
r way slowly through the fighting. Dietz had a handful of small nicks and bruises where something had got past his defences, and his head swam from fatigue, tension and trying to focus through the

  tumult. The town walls were growing closer, however. He just hoped they'd survive long enough to reach them.

  Surprisingly enough, the possessed soldier's own focus helped them immensely. Braechen, whom Dietz had half- expected to stop and revel in all the confusion and bloodshed, continued on without stopping. He dispatched anyone in his path, ripping warriors limb from limb, snap­ping blades with his gauntleted hand, sending battle-hardened men screaming or dropping them to the ground in quivering balls with a mere glance.

  Dietz could see that the changes were continuing: Braechen's back had some of the same bumps and lumps and discoloured patches that had appeared on his arm. His boots had merged into his legs and sprouted both claws and flat­tened appendages like fins, and two small protrusions had sprouted from above his shoulder blades and were rising higher and curving in slightly, forming the unmistakable base for a pair of wings. Still he kept going, not hurrying but never turning aside, straight towards Vitrolle's walls. Dietz and his companions marched in the creature's wake, taking advantage of the carnage he'd created to keep pace with him.

  Dietz expected Braechen to batter his way into the town, but that proved unnecessary. He had heard the armies tear­ing at the outer walls and that had apparently been what had pleased the daemon-bearing soldier because he angled directly towards one of the breaks. It must have been a ballista attack because Dietz saw cracks in the stones up above and a great gouge smashed through several more. Chunks had fallen, littering the ground, but near the base of the wall the cracks widened into a gap large enough for a small wagon to enter.

  Braechen walked straight for and then through this gap, into Vitrolle itself. Alaric followed the daemon, with Dietz and Lankdorf right beside him.

  'Sigmar's beard!' Alaric said softly as they passed through a stable and into the town proper. Dietz nodded. He was impressed despite himself, and of course Alaric, with his scholarly tendencies, would be spellbound.

  Vitrolle had only a handful of buildings, the ones they had seen from the hill. Dietz had thought there were nine, but he wasn't sure any more. They all seemed to be built mostly of stone, with some wood, and they were rough but solid. Walkways connected each building, forming a latticework of shade and shelter throughout the town and reinforcing the sense of the town as a sin­gle large building.

  That, however, wasn't what had caught his eye, or made his gorge rise in his throat.

  From the rumours back in Middenheim and what little Alaric had told Haflok, Dietz knew that the Jade Sceptre cult focused on torture. They were into pleasure and pain, seeing the two as irrevocably linked, and tormented their victims slowly, drawing out each horrible mutilation until the person finally died. He had heard claims that victims might last weeks, even months, receiving just enough med­ical care each time they collapsed to revive them and let the torture start anew.

  He had thought they were only stories, or at least exag­gerations.

  Now he knew better.

  The one thing he had not been able to see from their van­tage on the hill was the town's decorations.

  The stable doors they pushed past had been made of skin stretched over a rough wooden frame, a traditional method that Dietz had seen in many farms and small villages. Sym­bols were scrawled across them in what was clearly blood, however, and recent blood at that. Dietz recognised several of them from Alaric's notebook and they all seemed to crawl across his vision, shifting even as he stared until he had to turn away for fear of nausea.

  Compared to the obscene runes, the bodies nailed across them were nothing, even though he now knew where the blood had come from. Judging by the corpses' hands, which were smeared with it, these victims had been forced to write the runes themselves, using their own blood, before being crucified across their handiwork.

  The entire town was like that, Dietz saw as he shuddered and glanced around. Walls and doors were covered in runes, and bodies - or parts of them - hung everywhere. The town had statuary as well, and the nearest one depicted two beautiful women in the throes of passion. That seemed benign enough until Dietz noticed the man trapped between them, and the sharp little knives they were using to dig at his flesh. Charming, he thought. The rest of the statues seemed much the same, a combination of beauty and torment that left him feeling vaguely unclean.

  Everywhere he looked Dietz saw more examples of utter depravity that no daemon had perpetrated, not directly, anyway. These cultists followed the Chaos god Slaanesh and through worship they allowed their master to tap the darkest recesses of their souls. That was what he saw dis­played. This was the result of human cruelty. The very worst of the human soul had been dredged up and spewed out upon innocent victims. It sickened him, but the worst part was that some tiny portion in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his soul, understood each and every one of these foul creations. The cultists' god had taken a side of man that normally hid deep within, never seen or even sus­pected, and exposed it to the light of day.

  'Haflok was right,' Lankdorf rasped. They all deserve death, and this place must be destroyed.' Beyond even the disgust Dietz heard something else in the bounty hunter's tone - anger, pure and hard and deep - and he wondered at its source.

  They will be,' Alaric assured them both, 'but right now that's not our problem; he is.' He pointed ahead of them. Braechen had continued on, clearly unaffected by the sights around him.

  Apparently, not all the cultists were fighting beyond the walls. Dietz saw several battling soldiers who must have found similar holes in the town's defences, and others who seemed to be panicked beyond rational thought. Several ran past, apparently not seeing the three men near the sta­ble doors but easily spotting the lone figure walking

  brazenly through their stronghold. The cultists launched themselves at Braechen, shouting their defiance, and he slaughtered them without even slowing down. As Dietz watched, Braechen entered the town's central building.

  'Quick, before we lose him!' Alaric ran forwards, dodging those few cultists still inside, and Dietz followed, glad of the distraction. He wanted to get the job done and get back out of this twisted place as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The building was easily the largest structure in Vitrolle. It consisted of a massive square with wide square-arched entrances on each side. Steps cut into the walls led up to the flat roof, reminding Alaric of the temple he and Dietz had seen in Ind. Was this the cultists' temple? It would certainly make sense to have it so large and so centrally located, but what did the daemon want in here?

  Braechen had vanished into the building and they were right behind him. Blinking in the sudden gloom, they were just in time to see his mutated form disappearing down a massive staircase. It had been cut right into the ground and then faced with stone, and Alaric could tell from the cool air wafting up that the stairs must go well beneath the surface. Ah, Sigmar's beard, why did it always have to be tunnels? But he knew they had no choice. The daemon wanted some­thing here, wanted more than just a chance to kill cultists, and whatever it was, they had to keep him from it.

  They crept down the stairs as fast as they dared. Alaric was sure they would encounter more cultists - no religious

  group would leave their temple unguarded, even during an attack - and they had to step over several, still twitching bodies, but saw no one else. One of the fallen cultists had been bearing a curve-bladed axe and Dietz appropriated it, shoving his mace in his pack.

  What are we going to do once we get wherever we're going?' Lankdorf asked behind him. The bounty hunter had his cross­bow loaded and ready, but Alaric suspected that it was as much for comfort at this point as for real use. They'd already seen how little effect the thing had on Braechen.

  'No idea,' he admitted, wincing as his head finally dropped below the level of the floor above, and the day
­light behind them vanished. Calm, he reminded himself, calm. You're chasing a daemon into a Chaos temple. Surely the fact that a few tons of rock sit above us and could crush us in an instant is the least of your concerns. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar under his breath anyway, just in case. 'Let's see what we find first.'

  What they found was the base of the staircase, a good hundred feet or more below the surface. The floor was solid rock, carved and carefully smoothed, and it widened out into an enormous rough-walled chamber. The curving ceil­ing was at least forty feet high and that made Alaric feel better. It was hard to feel claustrophobic in such a large space. The walls curved slightly as well, although with no discernible pattern, and he suspected that the cavern was natural. The cultists had found it somehow and crafted the staircase to it, but beyond smoothing the floor they had done little else to alter the room's original elements.

  This was clearly their temple, and silk curtains and banners hung upon the walls, masking the harsh stone with smooth fabric. Torch brackets had been imbedded at regular intervals, as had manacles and a variety of straps, bars, and cages. Alaric saw several devices he recognised as torture implements and many more he guessed were equally vile, although thankfully he did not understand their use. Not all of the devices were empty, and Alaric was glad the lighting was dim enough to hide some of the wounds he could almost see on those

  bodies. Rugs covered the floor and cushions had been strewn upon them, several already trampled by Braechen's passing. Couches and chairs were grouped together here and there, often around strange metal racks covered in thick leather straps. Small bronze braziers still smoked, sending delicate incense fumes to tickle his nostrils, and he also saw implements heating in many of them. This place was like a lady's boudoir or a high-class brothel's sitting room mixed with a torture chamber.