01 - Day of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  A WARHAMMER NOVEL

  DAY OF

  THE DAEMON

  Daemon Gates - 01

  Aaron Rosenberg

  (A Flandrel & Undead Scan v1.0)

  This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

  At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

  But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

  PROLOGUE

  Dietrich “Dietz” Froebel flattened himself against the wall, the rough stone digging into his back through his sweat-soaked shirt and vest. “If I make it out of here,” he muttered to himself, “I swear I’ll never look at cats the same way again.”

  Just past him, an arched doorway broke the wall, and by craning his neck Dietz could see several tall, husky figures prowling down the hall beyond. He had seen beastmen before, of course—mostly when their bodies had been dragged back to Middenheim by bounty hunters and bored guardsmen. He’d even fought a few since enlisting in that madman Alaric’s service. When he thought of beastmen he pictured those creatures: animals that walked upright, bestial men with strangely distorted features and scraps of leather and cloth for makeshift clothes. Some had crude armour they’d clearly ripped from their victims and pieced back together. Weapons were the same way, crude or stolen and poorly tended.

  Not these, however. The creatures stalking past were built like men, except for their long lashing tails, but moved with the grace of cats, as well they should. Their bodies were covered in striped orange and black fur, their heads those of tigers, but with more intelligent eyes, their hands tipped with claws, but able to grasp weapons easily. These beastmen were nothing like he’d imagined. Their armour was clearly handmade, little more than tooled leather straps holding flat discs of metal and stone in strategic locations, but handsome and effective. Their weapons were hatchets and short swords, and spears with blades of glittering black stone and hafts of gleaming wood, far finer than Dietz had imagined beastmen capable of creating.

  Everything about Ind had come as a surprise. Of course, that made sense. They were several thousand miles from the Empire, after all. If it were all like home, what would be the point in travelling? Some of the surprises, like the lush landscape, were actually pleasant; shame this wasn’t one of them.

  He ducked back and pressed himself even harder against the wall when one of the beastmen paused and snarled something. Hoping they hadn’t heard him—or smelled him—Dietz held his breath. He heard a soft padding sound and knew at least one was approaching. His right hand crept to the long knife at his belt, though he knew he could only take one down before the others jumped him. Just as he was sliding the blade from its sheath he heard a loud, musical clang that echoed through the chamber, shaking the floor and setting his teeth vibrating. At last!

  The padding stopped, then resumed again, but moving away, and Dietz slowly let out his breath. A moment later the hall was silent and he risked another glance. They had gone.

  He and Alaric had watched the temple for several days before attempting to enter and had quickly seen the pattern. Every day, as the sun hit its height, a gong sounded from the temple’s peak. All the beastmen stopped what they were doing and funnelled indoors. Whether it was the mid-day meal or group worship did not matter. The important thing was that all of the beastmen were occupied, which would leave the halls clear. Dietz had wanted to wait until the gong to enter, but Alaric had pointed out the temple’s sheer size. “You’ll never get to the centre in time if you wait that long,” he’d explained. “You’ll have to start sooner so the gong can clear the final passages for you.”

  And he’d been right, damn him. Dietz was only halfway through the maze of corridors, though the rest of his progress would be quicker without having to duck along side passages. He hated it when Alaric was right. Not that his employer would even notice. And where was he, while Dietz was doing all the hard work? Probably still staring at that tablet by the entrance, he thought.

  “Fascinating!” Alaric von Jungfreud brushed some dirt from the flat panel embedded in the temple wall before him and traced the rune he’d revealed. Then he copied it down in his notebook. “Not an honorific at all. That’s definitely a warning of some sort, or an admonition—perhaps a conditional? Coupled with this other mark here…”

  His blond head bent over his notebook, Alaric barely registered the gong’s vibrations. Nor did it occur to him to wonder where Dietz was, or whether the other man was in any danger. Or to worry about crouching by the temple’s entrance, in easy view of anyone approaching or stepping out onto one of the balconies above. All Alaric thought of was the tablet and the words inscribed upon it. Dietz would be fine. He always was.

  “Sigmar’s Beard!”

  Though he kept his voice low, the words still echoed through the small chamber. Dietz had made his way down the corridors, trading stealth for speed now that the gong had cleared the halls of occupants. He had finally reached a door, the only one he had seen—every other portal had been an open archway. This archway held a slab of stone polished to silky smoothness, its glossy black surface providing a perfect reflection of Dietz and the hall behind him. The door had no lock he could find, but from its centre protruded a tiger’s head of red marble, a massive ring clutched in its jaws. A sharp tug on the ring and the door had slid open silently. He had stepped quickly inside and the sight beyond was the cause of his sudden outburst.

  This was the heart of the temple. It had to be. It was a small chamber, barely twenty feet across, with strange angled corners and walls that curved up to form a vaulted ceiling. A second smaller door stood to one side. The centre of the ceiling was a circle of clear crystal, and the sun shone down, its light flooding the room and spilling across the intricately tiled floor. Dietz saw tigers and lions, and other great cats battling beneath his feet, rending men and horses and each other.

  That was not what had stopped him. Nor was it the carved columns at each corner of the room or the inset nooks holding sculptures and vases, or even the tapestries that hung between them. No, the statue facing the door had provoked his outburst. It covered the entire wall and dominated the chamber.

  Dietz stepped closer, studying the carving. Much of it was the red marble of the door sculpture, though a paler, brighter red. The dark marbling had been artfully arranged to reproduce tiger stripes across the torso and limbs. The figure towered above him, its uppermost claws almost scraping the skylight. Other arms held a golden sword, a glittering black mace, a strange barbed fan and a black-headed spear. The bottom arms clutched a crimson scroll between them. Gold-set jewels hung from the tufted ears, decorated many of the claws and even pierced various points about the chest.
A heavy belt, gold links connecting rubies and diamonds and other stones, hung on the hips. A curving golden spike capped the tail arcing up behind, but it was the face that captured his attention. Carved from a single slab of stone, golden brown with streaks of light where the sun touched it, the face spoke of cruelty and blood lust and a horrible intelligence. It’s only a statue, Dietz reassured himself as he gasped for breath, but his heart did not believe that. No, this was She’ar Khawn, the eight-armed tiger-god of Ind, standing before him. And She’ar Khawn was not happy.

  The sound of a second, lighter gong rippled through the temple air and shook Dietz from his panic. It was the first of several, and after the fourth there would be one final peal from the larger gong. Then the beastmen would return to their duties and the hall would be swarming with them again. He had to hurry.

  Alaric had not known what to expect, so his instructions had been vague. “Grab something small enough to carry, valuable enough to be worth our time and distinctive enough it could not come from anywhere else,” he had said. Dietz thought about this. The figures in the wall niches were handsome but perhaps not that unique. The tapestries were too large to carry easily. The jewels about the statue might be fused to the stone. He considered the scroll, but could not see its surface well enough to know whether it was real or a clever carving, and what good would a sculpture of a scroll be to him? Then his gaze returned to the tiger-god’s face, and Dietz nodded. Since She’ar Khawn was already displeased, he saw no reason to be nice about it.

  Pulling his knife, Dietz stepped up close to the statue, resisting a shudder as he passed within the compass of those eight arms. Raising his blade, he applied its tip to the bottom edge of the statue’s golden face and exerted pressure, just enough to see how securely the face was held. Much to his surprise he heard a faint pop and a shrill keen, and it slid free. He caught it reflexively as it dropped, surprised by its lack of weight. Turning it over, Dietz realised why. It was not a solid carving so much as a mask, the interior carved away to allow space for a face behind it. Glancing up again, he saw that the statue still had a face the same red marble as the rest. The mask had been laid over it.

  As he stepped back, sheathing the knife and sliding the mask into the pack at his back, Dietz noticed the keening had not stopped. In fact it had grown louder, and now it was joined by a strange hiss.

  Trusting his instincts, Dietz hurled himself backwards. A sharp breeze tugged at his hair and beard as the hiss intensified, and he felt as much as saw a sheet of silver plummeting from the ceiling. He struck the ground hard, landing on his rear and rolling to his feet as the massive blade dropped from the ceiling and sank into a groove carved along the floor mere inches from the statue, and right where he had been standing.

  “Time to go,” he muttered to himself, and turned in time to see the door sliding shut. “Damn!” He pushed against it, but it did not budge. Beyond it he could hear the pad of feet and the scrape of claws against stone. Glancing around, Dietz saw the second door also sliding shut and dived for it, scraping through just before the heavy stone slab thudded into the doorframe. “What have we here?” he wondered, glancing around.

  This was an even smaller room, though with more traditional squared walls and comers. It had no windows, no elaborate carvings and its floor was the same smooth red granite he had seen elsewhere in the temple. A second door barring the far side of the room was of polished wood rather than stone. Clearly, this was an antechamber of some sort, but for what purpose?

  Then Dietz noticed the cages.

  They were small, barely the size of his head, and made from tightly fitted wooden slats. He had missed them at first because of their size and because they were all piled in the corners. Scraping sounds, whimpers, clicks and other noises told him they were occupied, as did the smell, which finally hit him. With a shudder, Dietz remembered the scroll in She’ar Khawn’s lowest hands and understood. The crimson was old blood from sacrifices. These poor creatures were the victims.

  “Sorry I can’t help,” he told them as he hurried past to the outer door. Hauling it open, Dietz found himself facing a narrow corridor—and several beastmen charging towards him, faces twisted into snarls, blades at the ready.

  A quick glance around confirmed that the antechamber had no other exits. The corridor was empty save the approaching guards, but the antechamber itself—

  “Your lucky day,” Dietz said as he grabbed the cages stacked there. “Freedom and revenge all at once.” He picked them up and hurled them, one at a time, at the charging beastmen.

  The cages burst on impact, spilling angry, desperate animals into the hall. They clung to the beastmen, hissing and spitting, biting and clawing. The organised charge collapsed into a desperate attempt to remove these tiny fiends from head and arm, torso and back. In their panic, the beastmen dropped their weapons, reverting to claws and teeth, and Dietz took advantage of the moment. He darted through the frenzied mass, using one beastman’s fallen axe to club anyone in his way. Finally, he was through the small throng and back in a larger hallway. Snarls and growls were everywhere, and Dietz knew he could not return the way he had come. Choosing a direction at random, he took off at a run, hoping to avoid any more surprises.

  Behind him, unnoticed, the last creature he had spilled from its cage hopped off a fallen beastman, shook itself, and darted after him.

  Several minutes and a few hair-raising encounters later, Dietz burst through an archway onto a small balcony. The beastman he had clubbed lay groaning behind him, and he had eluded the others, so he took the time to glance around. He was facing the jungle, which was a good sign—he had already seen an interior balcony, but had avoided it, knowing it would leave him open to the beastmen’s spears. This one was on the temple’s exterior, along the west wall, judging from the sun. Peering down, he saw one of the temple doorways some fifty feet beneath him. A familiar figure knelt to one side of the arch, scribbling furiously.

  “Alaric!” At Dietz’s shout the other man glanced up and waved. “Time to go!” Dietz added, and then looked around behind him. The beastman had rolled over and was trying to lever itself to its feet. Past him, Dietz saw several more rounding the corner. They would soon be here. The balcony was too high to jump from and the temple’s exterior had been planed smooth as glass, but handsome tapestries hung to either side of the archway. He grabbed the one to the left, kicking the beastman in the head as he passed, and hauled the heavy cloth from the wall. Running back to the balcony, Dietz used his knife to slice the tapestry down the middle, eliciting a cry of dismay from Alaric below. Ignoring it, he tied one half around the balcony railing and twisted the other end around his hand. Then he jumped.

  The tapestry tore under his weight; a loud rip he knew would bring the other beastmen running. However, it slowed his fall enough so that he dropped the last few feet, landing with a loud grunt, but otherwise unharmed.

  “That tapestry was priceless!” Alaric complained, giving him a hand up.

  “Then it won’t cost anything to replace,” he snapped back, grabbing Alaric’s arm and tugging him towards the jungle. “Come on!”

  A pack of beastmen burst from the temple entrance, growling and waving spears and swords, and Alaric nodded. “Right, I’ll have to come back for the tablet.” Then he took off after Dietz, who was already among the first trees.

  Behind them, the small creature from the antechamber had reached the balcony It hopped up onto the tapestry and scrambled down it, sharp claws finding easy purchase in the thick cloth. Leaping the last few feet to the ground, it darted into the jungle after the men, disappearing in the thick undergrowth.

  * * *

  “Taal’s teeth!”

  Alaric slid to a stop, slamming into Dietz’s back as he came upon the taller man suddenly. Only Dietz’s outflung arm, grasping tightly to a thick vine, kept them both from falling into the chasm that yawned at their feet. Dietz had almost missed it, too intent upon ducking vines and low branches, and skipping over thic
k roots to notice the approaching line of grey that slashed across the green around them. Now, however, the wide gap was impossible to miss—the plants ended suddenly and beyond them was empty air, and another jungle-covered cliff beyond that.

  “Where did that come from?” demanded Alaric, righting himself and taking two cautious steps back from the edge. “That wasn’t there before.”

  Dietz rolled his eyes. “We didn’t come this way before.”

  “Oh.” Alaric looked around, and pointed. “What’s that over there?”

  Following his finger, Dietz saw something dark curving across the gap. “Come on.”

  As they reached it, they saw it was a bridge, though not much of one. A thick rope was strung across the chasm, with two thinner ropes above and on either side.

  “You call that a bridge?” Alaric said in disgust, staring at it. “I’ve seen better from orphans living in ditches!”

  “Insult it later,” Dietz warned him, shoving the younger man towards it. “Use it now.”

  They both glanced back, hearing the growls and roars growing behind them, and Alaric nodded. Setting one foot upon the thicker rope and clutching the two thinner ones, he walked quickly across—for all his complaints his steps were sure and steady, and he seemed no more inconvenienced than a man on an afternoon stroll. Dietz was right behind him, doing his best not to look down. His attention entirely focussed on the ropes at his hands and feet, and the sounds behind him, he never even noticed as a small figure darted from the jungle and leaped, its front claws latching onto the leather of his pack.

  “Shall we?” Alaric asked lightly as Dietz reached the other side, and was half-turned to the jungle beyond when Dietz shook his head.

  “Hang on.” Drawing his knife, Dietz turned back to the bridge and sliced at one of the hand-ropes. The sharp edge of the blade slid off, repelled somehow. Looking more closely, Dietz saw a thick, sticky coating about the ropes, most likely sap. “Clever,” he admitted.