For an instant, everyone fell silent, shocked at such casual blasphemy. Then Kristoff tilted back his head and howled in rage, more like a beast than a man.
“Release him!” he shouted, pointing at Alaric, and the cultists around him fell back. Unfortunately that left more of them to swarm Dietz, who all but disappeared beneath a barrage of arms, fists, clubs, and blades. “Do not kill him!” Kristoff added, this time gesturing towards Dietz, and the cultists obediently stepped back, raising their weapons, several of them hauling a bleeding, stunned Dietz back to his feet. His knives were knocked from his hands and his arms secured on either side. “Let him watch as his friend dies,” Kristoff commanded, “and as the Blood God steps forth to destroy this city!”
“Impressive,” Alaric commented, turning towards Kristoff and advancing a step, but only one step, which forced the cult leader to take several towards him instead. “You command them well, Kristoff. Like well-trained dogs, they are. I suppose that suits you.”
The trader smiled, a far less pleasant expression than the one he had worn so often on their travels. “The Carrion Hounds are loyal,” he replied. “They know I serve the Lord of Skulls, as do they. Together we will summon forth his champion to rend this city from within. Then the Empire will fall around us, feeding our master with its demise!”
“Interesting notion,” Alaric replied, taking another small step and watching as Kristoff took two more in return. That’s it, he thought, away from the statue. He wasn’t sure how that would help prevent it from receiving the blood from above, but at least the cult leader would not be able to aid the process. “Yet you helped us destroy the other three statues. Why?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw several cultists stiffen and remembered what the youth in the tunnels had said. Kristoff had not told them about the statues’ destruction, or his part in it.
Kristoff only grimaced at him and took another step, his hand going to the sword at his side. “I knew you would accomplish your mission,” he replied. “There was no way to stop you altogether. I delayed you as much as possible, though.” Alaric suddenly remembered how Kristoff had often been the voice of caution, even of negativity, pointing out ways they might fail and things to worry about. “And with every delay the statues received more blood and the gates came closer to opening.”
“You had moved this one before we even left,” Alaric stated more than asked, though the cult leader nodded anyway, “before even meeting us.” Another nod and another step forward. Only ten feet separated them now and Alaric knew he could not stall much longer. “This was always the one you wanted open.”
“I wanted them all open,” Kristoff corrected, grinning, “but this was the most important one, yes. It was the key, both to summoning the Blood God’s champion and to atoning for our previous failure.” His face showed that the last comment had slipped out unintended, and Alaric pounced upon it.
“Failure? What happened?” he asked, taking a small step back as the cult leader took several forward. “You tried this once before?”
Kristoff eyed him carefully, clearly weighing how much to reveal, and then shrugged. “Aye, during the siege,” he admitted finally. “We hoped to summon the Blood God through battle, through our own sacrifices and the blood of our enemies. His champion would come forth and slaughter all the city’s defenders, and then lay waste its walls.”
“Not enough blood?” Alaric asked. “You and your friends not as skilled as you’d thought?” He gestured towards the other cultists, who still held Dietz captive off to one side, watching the exchange.
“Them?” Kristoff’s face twisted into a snarl. “They are nothing, replacements only, filling in the space my true brethren left behind!” If he heard the gasps from his followers he paid them no heed. “We were warriors, my brothers and I! The Warmongers’ elite! We slaughtered men by the dozens, the hundreds!” His eyes blazed. “Many of my brethren are called hero now, for their deeds upon the battlefield!”
“Yet you failed,” Alaric reminded him, pleased to see the trader losing control, “and where are they now?”
“Dead!” Kristoff howled at him. “All dead, all but myself and one other! Too many of them, even for us—the swarms overwhelmed us! We could not kill enough to open the gate!” He drew a great, shuddering breath and for a moment Alaric thought the trader would charge at him. Much to his disappointment, Kristoff took several more rapid breaths, and then several deep ones, visibly forcing himself to remain calm. “But I survived,” he admitted, and there was an odd mixture of shame and pride in his voice. “I kept the cult from being discovered. My brethren were treated as fallen heroes and buried with all honours, their souls laughing at the irony. We rebuilt the cult, brought in new members, and continued with our ultimate goal.” He grinned, in full control of himself again. “And I realised the truth. We did not need to perform the kills ourselves. Any deaths would do. The gates require blood, blood spilled by violence, but they care not about the source.” He took another step towards Alaric, who realised that he was almost to the wall behind him. “As long as the statues were dedicated to the Blood God every drop of blood that struck them became an offering,” the trader said, clearly pleased with his own cleverness. “And now,” he added, grinning, “now your blood will join the rest.” He yanked his sword from its sheath, his grin showing that he knew Alaric had nowhere to run.
“We’ll see about that,” Alaric replied finally. He raised the short sword, and then studied it with distaste. Finally he threw it aside. “Shoddy blade, that,” he commented, enjoying the look of surprise on Kristoff’s face. “No balance, poor edge—really, you should be providing better.” He drew his rapier instead, holding it out so the point was aimed at the trader’s right eye and the blade caught the light. “This is far more to my liking.”
“Use any weapon you like,” Kristoff told him, lips drawing back in a snarl. “I’ll still spill your blood and take your life! For Khorne!”
He leaped forward, his wave-edged longsword slashing through the air, its razor-sharp edge aimed at Alaric’s throat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dietz struggled against his captors, twisting this way and that, trying to pull free of their grasp. It was no use—a man on either side had hold of him and several more hemmed him in so his every motion tangled him in their robes. He had to get free! He had to help Alaric!
He watched, horrified, as Alaric and Kristoff moved towards one another, and gasped despite himself as the trader lunged forward, the wicked-looking longsword slashing towards Alaric. His concern drew nasty chuckles from several of the cultists, who leaned eagerly forward, excited by the sight of their leader’s vicious attack against the bedraggled, weak-looking noble before him.
Their laughter turned to outcries and groans, and even gasps as Alaric’s rapier danced up and across, blocking Kristoff’s sweeping attack. A quick twist of his wrist and Alaric had spun the trader’s sword in a short circle, forcing it away from him and almost removing it from Kristoff’s grasp.
“Oh, surely you can do better than that?” Alaric asked in his best “arrogant nobleman” voice, and received a howl of rage in return. Even from where he stood, Dietz could see the gleam of rage in Kristoff’s eyes as he leaped in again, his blade flashing in the dim light.
Only to have his attack blocked a second time, and a third.
With a growing respect that bordered upon awe Dietz watched the fight unfolding before him. He knew that Alaric had received weapons training and had even seen his employer fight. He had known that Alaric could handle himself. Those had been battles with ruffians or soldiers, beastmen or orcs, however, several on each of them at once. Now, for the first time, he saw Alaric in a proper duel, and he finally understood his employer’s true skill with the blade.
After the first few foiled attacks Kristoff forced himself to calm down, and his attacks became less wild, more studied. The two men moved back and forth, advancing and retreating with each blow, and the clang of their blades filled the cham
ber, creating a series of overlapping echoes that threatened to deafen them all. Kristoff was shorter but broader, with thick arms and chest, and his technique put that strength to good use. His attacks were powerful, intended to cave in the opposition, and his longsword flicked back and forth, its strange waved edge throwing odd glints of light that could easily confuse and distract a lesser foe.
Fortunately Alaric was hardly lesser. Though thinner than Kristoff he was also taller and used his added reach to stay well clear of most attacks. He held his rapier loosely but firmly, and could pivot the blade in an instant. Every attack was met with a quick parry, the weight of Kristoff’s sword against the hilt of the rapier where it was strongest. Alaric’s ripostes and attacks were lightning-fast: mere flicks of the wrist, and small tears appeared in the trader’s robes, matched by tiny cuts along his arms, hands, and even face. That, along with the mocking smile Alaric wore, threatened to overwhelm the cult leader’s self-control and send him into a mad frenzy…
…Which was exactly what Alaric wanted, Dietz realised. He wanted Kristoff to lose control and charge him.
Why wait, though, he wondered? Alaric was clearly the better swordsman—not one of Kristoff’s attacks had landed and the trader was bleeding from half a dozen small wounds already. Alaric could finish him easily. He probably could have done so with that first attack, when Kristoff had left himself wide open. Why was he drawing this out?
Alaric glanced towards Dietz. Their eyes met for just an instant, and then Alaric’s gaze dipped towards Dietz’s chest. Then the young noble was all focus once more as Kristoff attacked him yet again, this time with a clever feint that almost got past Alaric’s guard.
My chest, Dietz thought. His employer was telling him something, but what? What about my chest? His arms were still held tightly, but he shifted, twisting his torso, trying to figure out what the glance had meant. Then something moved within his jacket and he understood. Glouste! He had tucked the tree-fox inside when they had entered the tunnels, what felt like hours ago, and his pet had curled up and gone to sleep in her warm little nest. In all the confusion he had completely forgotten about her. Now she stirred slightly, awakened by his movements, and began to poke her head out of his jacket.
“Stay,” Dietz whispered to her, meeting her bright-eyed gaze. “Stay, Glouste. Wait. Be ready.” She twitched her whiskers at him, and then retreated so only the tip of her nose was visible. A quick glance around assured Dietz that none of the cultists had noticed. They were too busy watching the fight.
I have a weapon, Dietz thought, his eyes still following the back-and-forth of longsword and rapier. I may be able to break free, but what then? And when?
Even as he watched, Dietz heard muttering around him. Several of the cultists whispered together off to one side, and then slid away from him. They skirted the chamber, moving quietly along the wall towards the duel—three of them, each holding a short, heavy club.
They’re going to attack Alaric, Dietz realised. They’re tired of watching and worried that Kristoff might lose, so they’re going to even the odds. He started to shout a warning, but just then Alaric, who had just tagged Kristoff again along the cheek, disengaged for an instant and looked right at him. He knows, Dietz realised suddenly as his friend and employer resumed the duel. It’s what he’s been waiting for.
Ten cultists had been here when Dietz and Alaric arrived, not counting Kristoff. Four had died during their initial attack. Three had just moved to flank Alaric. That left only three on Dietz—one holding each arm and another in front of him. Alaric had been slowing his duel until the cultists came for him, knowing it was the only way Dietz would have a chance to break free.
Dietz wanted to shout anyway, to tell Alaric not to sacrifice himself like this, but he couldn’t. He understood. This wasn’t just about Dietz—Alaric was no more eager to meet Morr than he was and knew they had both understood and accepted the risks when they entered the tunnels, but they had the statue to consider. One of them had to live long enough to destroy it and dawn was upon them now. Any moment the witch hunters would give the order and men would die above, their blood sluicing down the gutters and through the grating overhead. If the statue was there to receive that offering, the gate would open and Chaos itself would pour forth beneath the unsuspecting city. They could not allow that to happen. Alaric thought Dietz would stand a better chance of stopping that, apparently, and Dietz knew he had to respect that decision.
The three cultists were only a little way from Alaric, and judging from his stance the young nobleman knew it. So did Kristoff, whose desperation had shifted back to confidence at the sight of his followers.
“Glouste,” Dietz called softly, and the nose protruding from his jacket twitched in reply. “Attack when I give the word. Understood?” The nose bobbed slightly in what he thought was affirmation, though he could never be sure how much she really comprehended. Then he glanced back up at the duel.
“You die now!” the trader snarled, advancing again, his sword held high.
“Not by your hand,” Alaric replied, laughing. “Or will you ask Khorne to handle it for you?”
As planned, the insult and the casual use of his god’s true name goaded Kristoff into action and he stepped forward, longsword slashing across and down, its point twitching suddenly to one side in an attempt to dart past Alaric’s defences.
For an instant it looked as if the ploy had succeeded. The longsword was met by Alaric’s rapier, catching it full on, and then Kristoff shifted his weight and his sword angled inward, gliding along Alaric’s as its point thrust at his chest.
Alaric altered his stance in response, his elbow lifting and pointing his own sword downward, knocking Kristoff’s longsword back away from him. Alaric leaned in, his forearm striking the trader’s sword at its guard and shoving it farther out of the way, and then Alaric leaned back, arm cocked back as well, and jabbed forward suddenly. The rapier pulled back across Kristoff’s body, leaving a neat cut across his robes. It suddenly moved forward and its tip pierced the trader’s chest, half the sword’s length following it into his body.
With a gasp and a gurgle, Kristoff collapsed, pulling his body off the sword as he fell.
“No!” One of the cultists next to Alaric shouted in disbelief as he saw his leader fall, and he stepped forward, weapon raised. One of his companions moved as well, and two clubs fell upon Alaric’s head and shoulders, striking bone and flesh with a meaty thunk. Without a sound Alaric crumpled to the ground, the rapier falling from limp fingers.
“Now!” Dietz hissed to Glouste. “Attack!” His pet darted forwards, out of his jacket in an instant. As he’d hoped she made for the nearest target, the cultist to his right, and her sharp teeth lanced into the hand on his right arm.
“Aargh!” The cultist screamed and jerked back, colliding with the one beyond, clutching his torn hand.
“Get off!” Dietz snarled at the remaining cultist, twisting and grabbing the man’s hand with his now-freed right hand. He squeezed, feeling the cultist’s bones grinding together, and yanked the man in front of him. A quick kick struck the first cultist in the groin, doubling him over, and another took the second cultist in the head as he struggled to regain his feet, felling him for a second time. The three around Alaric were too far away to interfere, torn between beating up Alaric, aiding Kristoff, and running to apprehend Dietz. He was free, at least for the moment. Even as he realised that, however, Dietz heard a pattering sound and knew it was almost too late. The executions were done and the blood was starting to pour down.
“You failed,” the cultist in his grasp said, his face still twisted in pain, but bearing a mocking smile nonetheless. “When the blood strikes the statue the gate will open and the Blood God’s champion will step forth!”
Dietz thought quickly. He was too far from the statue to reach it in time. He had no weapons except the ones the cultists had dropped, Glouste—and the man trapped in his grip. He grinned back and was pleased to see the doubt and fea
r blossom in the other man’s face. “Not yet,” he said, and his other hand grabbed the man’s waist while his right hand shifted from hand to shoulder. He bent as his hands moved, shifting his feet to get better leverage. Then, with a grunt, Dietz straightened, lifted the stunned cultist from his feet—and hurled him across the room.
It was not as prodigious a toss as the tentacled mutant had managed back in the tunnels, but Dietz was tall and his muscles had been hardened by years of labour. He also had fear and rage on his side, powering his desperate attempt. The cultist flew backward, sailing across the floor—and struck the statue full-force.
“Oof!” The man’s shoulders and back collided with the heavy stone carving, doing him only a little damage and knocking the wind from him, but the impact rocked the statue on its base, unsettling it where it rested on the uneven stone floor. It teetered, causing Dietz’s heart to skip—and then it fell.
Wham! The statue slammed to the ground, causing a small cloud of dust and tiny rock fragments. Cracks spider-webbed its surface, visible through the bloody coating, but it remained intact. It was no longer directly beneath the grating, however.
And just in time, as blood began to spill down from above, so much that it formed a thin curtain across the centre of the room. Droplets sprayed everywhere, some striking Dietz where he stood, others hitting Alaric as he lay upon the ground. Most of them, however, flowed straight down, pooling in the room’s centre where the statue had been instants before, drenching the cultist, and all but drowning him—
—and then flowing down from that high point, a thin layer of blood creeping across the floor in every direction.
“No!” Even as Dietz watched, some of the blood touched the statue where it lay—and was sucked into the stone. A strange light appeared within the statue, a blood-red glow that soon filled the room and dwarfed the torches and the sunlight visible above. The glow rose, breaking free of its carved prison, compressing and elongating until it towered above the statue, and where it touched the carving the stone seemed to melt. The air around the glow shimmered, and everything in the chamber seemed to shudder and swell, and shrink, as if the light itself was causing the room to alter.
[Daemon Gates 01] - Day of the Daemon Page 21