Sacrosanct & Other Stories

by Various Authors

  ‘Who is headman here?’ Talorcan called out. ‘I would have words with your leader.’

  The crowd was silent. Though they maintained their distance, none of them had lowered their weapons. Esselt shifted around in her saddle, slowly drawing her silver-bladed greatsword. An awed murmur rose from the villagers and they withdrew several paces back, some of them stumbling as they bumped into huts and fences.

  ‘We are the Hunters of Sigmar,’ Esselt declared, letting her words linger in the air. ‘We will speak with your headman,’ she added as she set her sword across the front of her saddle, its bright edge glistening in the sun. ‘Let him come forwards.’

  An old man emerged from the midst of the crowd, his wrinkled brown body wrapped in a yellow burnoose bound about the waist by a heavy lizard-hide belt. The elder’s thin fingers were closed around a wooden hammer icon, and as he came towards the witch hunters, he held the holy image out to them.

  ‘Peace and rest be yours,’ the headman said, bowing low before the riders. ‘I am Morleo, leader of this community. Excuse the antagonism of my people. We did not recognise you for who you are.’ He drew the icon to his lips, kissing it reverently. ‘Tora Grae is dutiful in its faith. The God-King’s shrine is never neglected and I myself lead the morning devotions to Great Sigmar. We embrace and abide by the sacred teachings of his strictures–’

  ‘Into the halls of paradise the serpent of Chaos may slither,’ Talorcan interrupted, warningly. His gaze roved once more across the villagers. ‘We would have private conference with you. Then you will appreciate our purpose here.’ His tone dropped to a low whisper that barely reached the headman’s ears. ‘Then you will understand the danger your people are in.’

  Talorcan and Esselt followed Morleo through his village. The shrine of Sigmar stood some small way from the huts, raised up on a log platform. Only a little larger than the huts themselves, the space within the shrine allowed enough room for a small altar with a stone hammer fastened to the wall behind it. A basin of water rested to one side of the altar while on the other side was an open box with a litter of coloured stones. The blues of lapis lazuli and turquoise clustered with the yellows of amber and the greens of malachite.

  ‘Offerings to Mighty Sigmar,’ Morleo explained when he noticed Esselt staring at the box. ‘My people are not wealthy, but such small treasure as they do find they bring here to render up in gratitude to the God-King.’

  Esselt turned from the box. ‘Has anyone made an offering today?’

  ‘Not that I am aware,’ Morleo said. ‘It is possible someone may have come without my knowing. The shrine is open to all.’ An expression of almost painful regret replaced the worry that had been on his face. ‘Has something been stolen? Do you think one of my people to be a thief?’

  ‘Something has been taken,’ Talorcan said, slowly walking around the shrine, ‘but not from here. A foul relic from an unholy grave.’

  ‘Our problem is twofold,’ Esselt added. ‘We do not know who has it, nor do we know what it is.’

  Morleo scratched at his chin in confusion. ‘If you do not know these things, then how do you know there is anything to look for?’

  ‘A string of massacres that has left red sand almost to your own threshold,’ Esselt growled, smacking her fist into her palm in frustration.

  Talorcan glanced at her and frowned. Arriving too late to stop the slaughters was taking a toll on them both. He wished there was some comfort he could offer Esselt that wouldn’t seem a mere platitude.

  ‘Twenty days,’ Talorcan told the headman. ‘Twenty days we have been on the trail of this horror. It began with the grave of some chief of the Chaos hordes that once threatened the Khanate. Robbers took something from that tomb. Something saturated in the evil and madness of the Dark Gods.’

  Morleo’s face took on a sickly hue. ‘You say that the trail has led you to Tora Grae? That a thief has brought this unclean thing here?’

  ‘Someone has brought it here,’ Talorcan said. ‘The relic has a way of abandoning its owners.’ His eyes were like slivers of steel as he met Morleo’s gaze. ‘It takes possession of them before the end and uses the one who carries it to further its evil.’

  Morleo wrung his hands in despair. ‘It is horrible! Monstrous! If you do not know what this thing looks like, if you do not know who carries it, then how can you find it? I cannot even lead my people away from Tora Grae for, if you are right, we would be taking the curse with us!’

  Esselt stepped beside the old man, grabbing him by the shoulder. ‘You will achieve nothing if you surrender to fear. Keep faith with Sigmar. Know that he has sent us here before this evil could be set loose. If you keep faith, then we will prevail.’

  ‘This is the only settlement near the place we found the body of the last man to carry this obscene relic,’ Talorcan told Morleo. ‘Whoever took it from him, this is where they went. I need to see anyone who was away from the village today. Man, woman or child. We must interrogate and examine them all.’

  Morleo rang the bell that hung outside the shrine, summoning the people of Tora Grae. It took little time for a crowd to gather for most of the villagers had kept nearby, both intrigued and frightened by the headman’s visitors. The elder stood atop the log platform flanked by the two witch hunters as he addressed his people.

  ‘As many of you have heard, our visitors are from Sigmar’s Order of Azyr,’ the old man said. ‘They wish to speak with anyone who was away from Tora Grae today.’ Morleo waited while the hunters and herdsmen who had left the oasis stepped out from the crowd. Some of them, intimidated by the presence of the witch hunters, needed the encouragement of family and neighbours to admit that they had been away.

  Talorcan stepped down from the platform and began speaking with each villager. He watched each of them with a piercing gaze, studying their faces for any trace of duplicity. His questions were simple. Had any of them found a dead man in the desert? Had someone taken something from the body?

  Still upon the platform, Esselt was able to see more of the villagers than Talorcan. The questions he posed to the hunters and herdsmen were heard by those further away. At the very fringe of the group who had left the oasis, one of the hunters showed increasing signs of agitation. He kept looking at Talorcan, then hastily averting his eyes. Sweat beaded his brow and he kept fidgeting, kicking his feet in the dirt.

  Esselt knew guilt when she saw it, and the simple hunter wasn’t crafty enough to hide his. Carrying her sword with her, she dropped down and pushed her way through the crowd. ‘Talorcan,’ she called to her partner. ‘No need for more questions. The one we want is here.’ The hunter’s face went pale as the armoured woman strode towards him.

  ‘I think you have something to tell us,’ Esselt said as she closed upon the hunter. She held her greatsword over one shoulder, her stern gaze boring down upon the man.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ the hunter sputtered. ‘By the Hammer, he was dead already!’

  Talorcan circled around to one side of the hunter. He threw back the folds of his cloak, keeping his weapons in easy reach. ‘The man you found is of less concern to us than what he was carrying,’ he said, his words quick and sharp. ‘We want what you took from him.’

  ‘He was dead,’ the hunter insisted. ‘What good would it have done to just leave something so pretty to be lost in the sand?’

  ‘Fool,’ Esselt snapped. ‘Do you have any idea what you are trifling with? What did you take?’

  Talorcan was studying the hunter closely, but his eyes suddenly shifted from him to the crowd watching them from the village. He saw a woman, lissom and youthful, with an almost frantic expression on her face. He saw something more. Something that was out of place in a simple village like Tora Grae. Around her arm was a bronze armlet adorned with an immense girasol. The red opal was bigger than any he had seen in the courts of Arlk, bigger than the diamond that adorned the khan’s turban.r />
  ‘Esselt,’ Talorcan hissed. ‘He doesn’t have it. He gave it away!’

  Before Talorcan could move towards the woman wearing the armlet, the hunter dashed ahead of him. ‘Please!’ he cried. ‘Leave her alone. I will get it for you.’

  Reaching the woman, the hunter begged her to hand over the armlet before there was further trouble. She drew back from him, one hand closing protectively around the armband. Seeing her resistance, Esselt and Talorcan drew nearer.

  ‘Stay calm,’ Talorcan said. ‘We only want the relic.’

  The woman either didn’t hear or didn’t believe Talorcan’s words. Her efforts to pull away became more desperate. The hunter tried to soothe his lover’s fright, but his words, too, went ignored. The woman grew more panicked the closer Esselt and Talorcan came towards her. Her attempts to flee only made the hunter more frantic to get the armlet away from her. The other villagers retreated from her vicinity, alarmed by the conflict but more frightened by the attention the witch takers were showing in the woman.

  ‘Get away from her,’ Esselt warned the hunter. ‘The relic is dangerous.’ The greatsword was no longer resting across her shoulder but was clutched tightly in both hands as she took another step towards the woman.

  ‘Please! I’ll get it for you! Don’t hurt her!’ the hunter pleaded. Desperation made his effort to get the armlet away from his lover violent. In his move to wrest the armband free, the rough edge of the bronze ripped open the palm of his hand. Blood gushed from the wound, streaming down the woman’s arm.

  The huge girasol began to glow with a hellish light. A hideous chill swept through the village. Grass wilted. Breath turned to frost. A charnel stink filled the air, the stench of busy abattoirs and old battlefields.

  ‘Get away from her!’ Esselt shouted a second time. The warning came too late. Even if the hunter had intended to listen to her, the hand of his lover closed around his arm in a steely grip. He looked into the woman’s face, screaming when he found her eyes vanishing beneath a glaze of blood. Crimson tears ran down her face as her mouth curled back and long fangs sprouted from her gums. The cursed woman’s other arm drew back, slamming her fist into his chest with such colossal force that it erupted from his back in a spray of blood and splintered bone.

  Terror raced through the village. The crowd parted, scattering in every direction. Morleo cried in horror and fled into the Sigmarite shrine. Animals bleated and howled in their pens, trying to trample through their enclosures. Dogs and chickens fled out into the desert, yelping and shrieking. Even the trees of the oasis seemed to shudder as the profane power of Khorne was unleashed.

  The possessed woman moved with ghastly speed and power. In one swift motion she peeled her dead hunter from her clawed hand, casting the carcass aside like an old glove. Bones could be seen shifting and changing beneath her skin and clothes, a fringe of spikes stabbing out from her shoulders and spine. Hideous knots of muscle swelled around her arms and bulged from her legs while her face elongated into a lupine muzzle.

  ‘Butcher of Khorne!’ Talorcan shouted, firing his pistol into the monster. ‘By Sigmar, you will kill no more!’ The shot smashed against the thing’s breast, burrowing through to the heart. The shot alone would have finished a mortal, the blessings on the bullet should have vanquished a daemon. The awful power of the thing the witch hunters faced was that it was neither mortal nor daemon, but rather the murderous legacy of the ancient chieftain made flesh.

  With steaming ichor spilling from the bullet wound, the abomination turned on Talorcan. It sprang at him like a rabid jackal, crimson froth dripping from its fangs. One clawed hand slashed for his face. Talorcan matched the incredible speed of his foe, bringing his sword licking across the mutated arm. A deep furrow was gouged into the corrupted flesh; bestial fingers were hewn from the gnarled hand. Yet the beast was oblivious to its hurt and its attack did not falter. Talorcan was thrown back as the maimed limb smashed into him. Unable to penetrate his armour, the blow still had enough force to send him flying. He crashed down on his back, almost cracking his skull against the edge of the log platform.

  ‘Leave him!’ Esselt’s cry rang through the air, so fierce it rose even above the screams of the villagers. She charged at the possessed creature, bringing her greatsword chopping down in a vicious arc. The thing snarled in fury of its own as the silvered sword chewed through its neck and sent its head slopping to the ground.

  Esselt turned away from the mangled thing as it slumped to its knees. She looked for Talorcan, alarm in her eyes. He managed to sit up, making a dismissive wave of his arm to allay her concerns. Esselt was hardly reassured. She knew he would conceal the gravity of any injury from her in order to calm her fears. Slinging her greatsword up onto her shoulder, she started towards Talorcan.

  It was Talorcan’s face that suddenly became twisted with fear. Eyes wide with horror, he thrust his hand and pointed. ‘Esselt – behind!’ he shouted.

  Even as Esselt turned, the headless fiend attacked. Far from vanquished, its claws came sweeping down, scratching across her vambrace and tearing away her pauldron. She dived to the ground to avoid the vicious talons. She struck hard against the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust. She scuttled back as the dust settled and found herself staring into the grisly eyes of the fiend’s severed head. The monster noticed her, rolling its eyes and gnashing its fangs as it tried vainly to strike at her. Then a feral grin contorted its visage. The eyes stared upwards. It was warning enough for Esselt. Rolling across the ground she avoided the slashing claws of the thing’s body by the narrowest margin. Strips of shredded cloak fluttered upon the beast’s talons when it stalked after her.

  Esselt had no intention of running from the possessed monster. Once she was clear of its reach, she regained her feet and waited for her opportunity. Removing the beast’s head had not killed it, but at least it had slowed the creature down, made its movements less agile. When it failed to strike her with another sweep of its claws, she lunged at its body. Esselt drove her sword deep into the thing’s side. With a brutal wrenching motion, she tore the blade free, tearing open a great gash from sternum to flank. A confusion of entrails spilled from the wound, flopping against the monster’s legs in a welter of gore.

  Still the fiend would not fall. The back of its hand slammed into Esselt, sending her reeling. The headless horror came after her, relentless as a juggernaut.

  At the base of the platform, Talorcan rallied. His head ringing from his violent impact, all pain was banished when he saw Esselt. A wave of dread seized him. Snatching up his sword from the ground, he staggered to where the decapitated head lay. The thing glared at him, clacking its fangs together in a display of mute fury. Then he brought his sword crunching down into the mutated skull. Twisting the blade, he bisected the head, the two halves sizzling as the ichor within them steamed away.

  Unlike the discarded hosts they had found before, destroying the head was not enough to end the monster’s rampage. Talorcan saw the headless body lunge at Esselt once again, its claws just missing her face. Then he spotted the armlet still fastened around the beast’s arm, the girasol still ablaze with hellish light.

  ‘The relic!’ Talorcan shouted. ‘That is its power!’

  Esselt gave no sign of hearing Talorcan’s cry, but her actions showed that she understood. When the monster came at her again, she ducked beneath its talons and attacked it from the side. The cleaving edge of her silvered sword smashed down on the thing’s shoulder, cutting through bone, muscle and tendon. The arm went rolling across the ground. Esselt was sent spinning through the dirt as the monster’s remaining hand caught hold of her cloak and flung her backwards.

  Talorcan hurried towards the severed arm. The fingers were scratching at the earth, trying to flip the limb over so it could drag itself back into the fray. He stamped down on its palm, pinning it in place. His eyes stared down at the armlet locked about the bicep, the ghastly girasol still ag
low with infernal power. Taking his sword in both hands, he brought it chopping down, striking the ancient bronze in which the gem was set.

  A mighty howl roared across Tora Grae as the armlet was severed and the girasol was sent tumbling away from its host. At once the unnatural cold and gory scent that had descended upon the oasis was banished. The headless monster that only a moment before had been ready to attack Esselt now slumped to its knees. Esselt prodded it with her sword and it fell onto its side, already losing its monstrous proportions. Soon it wilted into the maimed body of a young woman.

  Talorcan reached to his belt and removed a strip of golden cloth from one of its pouches. Carefully he set the cloth over the loosened girasol, noting with some dismay the way the cloth darkened when it came into contact with the gem. He didn’t ponder the phenomenon for long. Turning from the cursed relic, he staggered over to where Esselt stood above the carcass of their late enemy.

  ‘Are you harmed?’ Talorcan asked, his voice heavy with concern.

  Esselt gave her companion an appraising look and raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I should be asking you that question, Tal,’ she told him.

  ‘Nothing that won’t heal,’ Talorcan said. He tried to smile, but the effort was ruined by a wince of pain. ‘I am more ashamed than hurt. I thought I had some idea of what we were up against, but the first thing you should never forget is that Chaos obeys few rules in its manifestations.’

  Esselt removed what was left of her cloak and draped it across the mangled remains of the woman’s body. ‘What matters is that our faith in Sigmar brought us victory,’ she said. ‘How many times have we visited judgement on the filth of the Dark Gods? It will need more than a cursed bauble to overcome us.’

  Talorcan looked back at the cloth he’d set over the girasol. The golden colour had turned a deep scarlet, almost the colour of clotted blood. ‘It still has power and I am not sure it is safe to carry back to the temple for disposal.’