by ich du
More men tried to force their way in through the low door. In their rush they hindered each other, and four more fell before his blade. The shape in the corner grew larger and more distinct and the chattering grew louder.
The Tarkhals tried again. Aelfir slew three more warriors in a rush, but was about to be overwhelmed when the Tarkhals turned in fear and fled. He struck down one last warrior and howled to Khojin, 'Nine gifts for Tchar!' In response torches were thrown in through the open door, setting the bedding alight. Aelfir ran to Kitsa, and crouching, gathered her into his arms.
Then he felt a presence at his side and turned. A gaunt and naked man with mad blue eyes crouched over the fallen Tarkhals, grinning with blood-stained fangs. Suddenly, Aelfir saw the shadow had taken temporary form in that body, and knew that a daemon had come to devour the souls of the slain.
'Who are you?' he asked.
'Some call me Jormunrekkr Ornsbane.'
'You were the one in the hall and on the mound.'
'Yes.'
The fire rose higher and the daemon laughed.
Aelfir shook Kitsa, trying to wake her, but she lay still. He felt the back of her head, finding blood. 'No.' he said. 'No. No. No.'
'Yes.' Jormunrekkr laughed, fading into a shadow, disappearing. 'You are a fool, Aelfir.'
The walls were burning. At the door he saw the Tarkhals moving, waiting for the chance to kill him when the smoke and heat forced him out. Aelfir pulled the bench he slept on to the hearth and picked up an axe from the fireside. Standing on the bench, Aelfir climbed onto the mantel of the hearth and stood up. Holding his breath against the smoke, he hacked repeatedly at the ceiling near the chimney, desperately trying to break out on to the roof.
Aelfir succeeded in breaking a hole through the roof, scattering the shingles to the street below. The stone of the mantel grew hot and Aelfir tried to force his way through the gap he had made. He became stuck with only one arm and his head through. As the fire rose inside the hall he felt his clothes catch fire. In panic, he broke through and leapt, burning, to the roof of a nearby house.
AELFIR RAN, BURNING, along the roof of the empty house. His cloak and shirt were alight and across half his face the flames had seared his skin to crimson, closing one eye. He heard Khojins men below him, the thud of their feet in the dirt of the lane and the clank of their armour kept pace with his flight. In desperation, he leapt to another roof, losing his footing and landing hard on the shingles.
He staggered up and continued running. He heard shouts and the sound of men climbing around him. In his pain there was room in him for only one thought. 'The river.' he gasped through scorched lips as he ran across the roof tops.
Ulla swung up to the roof, blocking the way, shouting, 'Aelfir! Kitsa is dead! Stay and pay the blood debt you owe!'
She stood before him with a sword in her hand, but the pain of the flames drove him blindly on. At the last moment he saw the blade and threw himself to one side, dodging her blow but crashing into her and in his haste carrying her off her feet. For a moment they hung in the darkness, burning like the daemons themselves, and then suddenly they were gone, crashing into the icy black water of the river that flowed between the houses of the living Ornings and the tombs of their dead fathers.
When Aelfir's head at last arose above the rushing surface of the river he found he was not alone, something clung to him under the black water. He howled in fright, briefly lost in childhood tales of the clutching things that made the river their home. Then in the pain of his burns he remembered his flight from Khojin and Ulla barring his way and he realized what he must do.
He knotted his fingers in the silky hair he found floating just below the river's surface and kept her head down. Her hands clawed at him, raking his face. He did not know how long in the blackness he held her under before her struggles stilled and he freed himself of her grip.
As she slid away from him in the dark he saw witch-lights rising from the depths toward them, illuminating the terror on her face. In panic, he thrashed to the shore, hauling himself out of the black water among the bones scattered about the tombs on the far side of the river.
He crawled away from the river. In the water he had lost most of the rags the fire had left him. He was naked and covered with burns. He shook with cold and he could not stand. He knew that he was dying. He saw a fire before him, bones burning among the tombs and he crawled towards it.
Reaching the fire, he rolled on to his back, gasping, unable to continue. When he looked about him he recognized the twisted faces of the Ornings driven mad by his father's ritual looking down at him, and among them he saw the ice-blue eyes of his father's slayer.
'You ARE WEAK, Aelfir,' Jormunrekkr said, 'weak and a fool. And you are dying. It is fitting. You are the last of a house that failed.'
'We failed in nothing.' Aelfir gasped. 'Always we kept the rites, always in our land Tchar's words were spoken and the eagles were fed. Where did we fail?'
'When the storm raged and the powers called the men of the north down to rend the world the Ornings betrayed their master. Where was Orn when the armies of the gods met at the southland city?'
'I was there!' Aelfir said. 'I led men to the Wolf City for Tchar!'
'You were not chosen. Until that time you had lived your life out of the sight of the gods. How could you take the place of your father? And yet he sent you south to die. He heard whispers in the sea of souls, voices that promised him immortality if he could bend the power of the storm to his will. Tchar promised him only death on the walls of the Wolfburg. He made his choice. Now he will have immortality, running with the spawn.'
'Why did Tchar want my father to die? Why does the Eagle kill his chosen?'
Jormunrekkr's eyes flashed. 'Look into the fire, Aelfir.'
Painfully, Aelfir turned toward the fire. It grew until he saw nothing else for a time, and then he saw the hound, a hound the size of a mountain, running ceaselessly, drawing ever nearer, over a field of corpses. Next he saw the carrion crow, a rotting thing greater than a longhouse, digging in the world's grave for the flesh of men. Last he saw the serpent, coiling in the depths of the sea, rising to devour the land. From these visions Aelfir recoiled in horror.
'Now you see,' Jormunrekkr said, 'against these the Eagle raises his chosen, and bids them live or die according to his need.'
'You came for my gifts on the mound, and in the burning hall,' Aelfir said. 'Give me a chance to win back Tchar's favour. Let me serve the Eagle once more.'
'Will you keep the faith your father forsook?' Jormunrekkr demanded. 'Can you?'
'Give me strength. I will do it.'
'Your father feared to die. Show me you are unafraid. You know the pain of burning, here is a fire. Would you be chosen? Go into it.'
Aelfir struggled to raise himself from the earth. 'I am too weak to stand.' 'Crawl.' 'I will die.'
'Tchar does not promise long life to his chosen.' Aelfir struggled to his knees, feeling burned skin stretch and crack. He swayed, too weak to hold himself up, and a low moan escaped his lips. He grew quiet, closed his eyes, and fell forward into the fire.
His hair caught fire. A shriek burst from his lips. The pain from his burns returned a hundredfold. He cried out, 'Tchar! Tchar!' and the fire felt like cool water on his skin. He opened his eyes, and he saw that the flames were blue. He looked for Jormunrekkr and saw a vast dark shape with many blue eyes, eyes that burned like stars.
A great weariness came upon him. He lay down peacefully. He looked for his mad kinsmen and saw them standing about in reverent silence, their souls shining through the veil of the flesh. It seemed to him that they wore crowns of flame. And then the crowns warped, and the colours multiplied, and he saw the horrors of Tchar unfolding, rising like alien flowers from the heads of his kinsmen. He fell into a dreamless sleep.
AELFIR AWOKE FILLED with new strength. He rose lightly to his feet, marvelling at the strange new gold-flecked skin that had grown during his sleep to replace his bu
rned flesh, the new thickness of his arms and legs, and the width of his chest. Out of the litter of the dead he pulled some blue rags and bound them about his waist as a kilt.
A short distance away he saw his mad kinsmen playing with the fire and knew them for what they were, daemonhosts, blessed for a time with the companionship of the children of the uttermost north, the daemons of Chaos.
AELFIR APPROACHED THE fire. The daemonhosts turned to watch him and withdrew from the flames. He saw both the daemons and the spirits of his kin, and also their shared flesh. The daemons began to show their shapes in the flesh they wore, growing claws and tentacles, opening new eyes and mouths.
Aelfir stopped at the fire and made a torch out of rags and bones. He lit it, and raised it above his head. 'Hear me.' he called, 'my kinsmen. Hear me you Shining Ones, you Blessed Ones. You wander lost. Come to the halls of my people. I invite you in. Once you got offerings, now there will be red blood, and fire, and the walls of the world will thin.'
He turned and walked with firm strides back towards the city of the Ornings. Drawn like moths to a flame, the blessed ones followed.
He crossed a narrow bridge over the swiftly flowing river and thought for a second he saw his father's ruined form running in the lanes between the longhouses. He paused only for a moment, then set fire to the nearest house. The blessed ones capered madly about the blaze and made torches of their own from the trash in the silent street. With unnatural, shrill voices they piped a song he could almost understand, then scattered, running madly through the city.
The fire quickly spread. Stave and shingle burned as the fire leapt from house to house, but always in the wake of Aelfir and the daemonhosts. The Tarkhals and the remaining Ornings fled from their burning long-houses only to be pulled down and slain, or cast back into the fires. Smoke laden with the stench of burning flesh rolled through the streets. The roar of the flames and the screams of the dying were loud in Aelfir's ears when at last he came to Orn's great hall.
Before the open doors Khojin stood alone as the last of his people fled and died under the claws of the daemon-hosts. The flames roared on the shingles and roof beams crashed within the hall. Daemonhosts capered about Khojin, mocking him in piping tones. His silver armour gave back the flames in reflection. He seemed like a man on fire. In his hand was the sword Ornsbane.
The daemonhosts parted to let Aelfir through. 'Now, Khojin of the Tarkhals,' he cried. 'Tchar has turned against you and your life is at its end. You betrayed me but could not slay me, I won free of the burning hall, and now I have returned out of the darkness to claim my sword.'
'As Tchar wills it,' said Khojin, 'but I will never submit to you and I may yet have my revenge for my sister and my bride. Die!' Red fire leapt from his outstretched hand, engulfing Aelfir for an instant before disappearing, leaving Aelfir unmarked.
Aelfir laughed, 'No fire of yours can harm me now.'
Aelfir leapt forward, catching Khojin's wrist as he attempted to swing his sword and punching him twice in the breastplate of his armour, breaking ribs.
Khojin fell to his knees and crawled away from Aelfir, fighting for breath and trying to remove his damaged armour.
Aelfir picked up the sword. Despite the fire, a darkness grew about him. He heard daemonic voices calling for Orn, his father, and knew they must be satisfied. Using the sword as a conduit, he reached out to his father, compelling him to come forth out of the burning city and obey the blade that made him a spawn.
Orn's twisted form appeared. Lurching out of the flames, Orn fell upon Khojin, devouring him.
In the burning door of the great hall a shape of shadow waited, watching with ice-blue eyes. Aelfir saw the daemonhosts gather about Orn as he fed, and saw Orn drawn, howling, into the flames. He heard Jormunrekkr's sardonic voice say, 'Ready the benches and measure the mead, for a hero comes to the Daemon's Hall.'
DEATH'S COLD KISS
by Steven Savile
I
THE OLD PRIEST fled the castle.
Lightning seared the darkness, turning night momentarily into day. The skeletal limbs of the trees around him cast sinister shadows across the path that twisted and writhed in the lightning. Thunder rolled over the hills, deep and booming. The rain came down, drowning out lesser sounds.
The primeval force of the storm resonated in Victor Guttman's bones.
'I am an old man.' he moaned, clutching at his chest in dread certainty that the pain he felt was his heart about to burst. 'I am frail. Weak. I don't have the strength in me for this fight.' And it was true, every word of it. But who else was there to fight?
No one.
His skin still crawled with the revulsion he had felt at the creature's presence. Sickness clawed at his throat. His blood repulsed by the taint of the creature that had entered Baron Otto's chamber and claimed young Isabella. He sank to his knees, beaten down by the sheer ferocity of the storm. The wind mocked him, howling around his body, tearing at his robes. He could easily die on the road and be washed away by the storm, lost somewhere to rot in the forest and feed the wolves.
No.
The temple. He had to get back to the temple.
He pushed himself back up and lurched a few more paces down the pathway, stumbling and tripping over his own feet in his need to get away from the damned place.
There were monsters. Real monsters. He had grown numb to fear. A life of seclusion in the temple, of births and naming days, marriages and funeral rites, such mundane things, they somehow combined to turn the monsters into lesser evils and eventually into nothing more than stories. He had forgotten that the stories were real.
Guttman lurched to a stop, needing the support of a nearby tree to stay standing. He cast a frightened look back over his shoulder at the dark shadow of Drakenhof Castle, finding the one window that blazed with light, and seeing in it the silhouette of the new count.
Vlad von Carstein.
He knew what kind of twisted abomination the man was. He knew with cold dark certainty that he had just witnessed the handover of the barony to a daemon. The sick twisted maliciousness of Otto van Drak would pale in comparison with the tyrannies of the night von Carstein promised.
The old priest fought down the urge to purge his guts. Still he retched and wiped the bile away from his mouth with the back of his hand. The taint of the creature had weakened him. Its sickness was insidious. It clawed away at his stomach; it tore at his throat and pulled at his mind. His vision swam in and out of focus. He needed to distance himself from the fiend.
His mind raced. He struggled to remember everything he knew about vampires and their ilk but it was precious little outside superstition and rumour.
The oppression of the pathway worsened as it wound its way back down toward the town. The sanctuary of rooftops and the welcoming lights looked a long, long way away to the old man. The driving rain masked other sounds. Still, Guttman grew steadily surer that he was not alone in the storm. Someone - or something - was following him. He caught occasional glimpses of movement out of the corner of his eye but by the time he turned, the shadow had fused with deeper shadows or the shape he was sure was a pale white face had mutated into the claws of dead branches and the flit of a bat's wing.
He caught himself looking more frequently back over his shoulder as he tried to catch a glimpse of whoever was following him.
'Show yourself!' the old priest called out defiantly but his words were snatched away by the storm. The cold hand of fear clasped his heart as it tripped and skipped erratically.
A chorus of wolves answered him.
And laughter.
For a moment Guttman didn't trust his ears. But he didn't need to. It was a man's laughter. He felt it in his gut, in his bones and in his blood, the same revulsion that had caused him to black out at the feet of von Carstein when the man first entered van Drak's bedchamber.
One of the count's tainted brood had followed him out of the castle. It was stupid and naive to think that von Carstein would be alone. Th
e monster would have minions to do his bidding, lackeys who still clung to their humanity and servants who had long since given it up. It made sense. How could a creature of the damned hope to pass itself off among the living without an entourage of twisted souls to do its bidding?
'I said show yourself, creature!' Guttman challenged the darkness. The rain ran down his face like tears. He wasn't afraid anymore. He was calm. Resigned. The creature was playing with him.
'Why?' A voice said, close enough for him to feel the man's breath in his ear. 'So your petty god can smite me down with some righteous thunderbolt from his shiny silver hammer? I think not.'
Brother Guttman reeled away from the voice, twisting round to face his tormentor but the man wasn't there.
'You're painfully slow, old man,' the voice said, behind him again somehow. 'Killing you promises to be no sport at all.' Guttman felt cold dead fingers brush against his throat, feeling out the pulse in his neck. He lurched away from their touch so violently he ended up sprawling in the mud, the rain beating down around his face as he twisted and slithered trying to get a look at his tormentor.
The man stood over him, nothing more than a shape in the darkness.
'I could kill you now but I've never taken a priest. Do you think you would make a good vampire, old man? You have a whole flock of dumb sheep to feed on who will come willingly to you in the night, eager to be fed on if your holy kiss will bring them closer to their precious Sigmar.' The man knelt beside him, the left side of his face lit finally by the slither of moonlight. To Guttman it was the face of ultimate cruelty personified but in truth it was both beautiful and coldly serene. 'What a delicious thought. A priest of the cloth becoming a priest of the blood. Think of the possibilities. You would be unique, old man.'
'I would rather die.'