by C. L. Werner
‘Cleanse this place in the blood of the corrupt!’ roared the inquisitor’s bellowing voice. ‘The Day of Judgement is at hand!’
The cultists were scrambling for weapons or trying to dodge their way around the temple militia as the white-robed fanatics fell upon them, hewing and cudgelling the armed and the defenceless with equal zeal, sparing neither the aged nor the young their righteous rage. Through the carnage, Bocca stormed towards the altar, his sword cutting down any cultist who either in flight or in attack chanced to cross his path.
None of these scum would escape this place. Bocca would present their bodies and the filthy altar before which they worshipped to the temple fathers and the grand inquisitor. It would be a fitting tribute to Solkan, and a momentous note in the inquisitors career. Only one thing would make his victory any greater. Bocca turned his goldmasked face from side to side, searching for the one man he would bring before the grand inquisitor alive. Death was too good an end for Alfredo Gambini. At least a quick death.
Brunner observed the Solkanite militia crash into the Slaaneshi cultists like leopards falling upon sheep. The slaughter was horrible, but no better than the depraved cultists deserved. He was disturbed to see the hulking figure of Inquisitor Bocca among the zealots, wondering how coincidental it was that the inquisitor should happen to discover this place only now. There had been entirely too much coincidence occurring in this city since he had arrived.
The bounty hunter swore as he saw three men racing towards the back of the temple. Brunner was not interested over much in what fate might befall two of the men, Corvino and Alfredo Gambini were of no import to him. But the third man, clutching his black cloak about his midsection as he ran, he was of importance to the bounty killer. Brunner leapt from his cover, intent on cutting off Scurio’s escape. Horst followed the bounty hunter’s example, dashing forward to join the zealots in their attack. Schtafel called out after his friend, scrambling out from behind the urn in an attempt to stop Horst’s reckless charge at the Chaos cultists.
Brunner looked over at Schtafel. ‘Watch Horst’s back!’ he told the wiry marksman. ‘I’m going after Scurio!’ Brunner did not give the mercenary a chance to object, racing off into the midst of the swirling battle, trying to keep the fast retreating shape of his prey in sight. A white-robed figure loomed before Brunner and he discharged his pistol into its mask, heedless of whether his shot bore through wood or leather. Neither side in this frantic melee could be considered friendly to the bounty hunter. He replaced the pistol in its holster, relying upon Drakesmalice’s sharp edge to fend off any others that got in his way.
Soon, Brunner was clear of the melee. He could see Corvino leading the other two men down a small stairway at the back of the undertemple, beyond the rear wall, whose opening closed up behind them, leaving only a flat surface of pitted black stone, as though the door in the wall had never been. The bounty hunter swore under his breath, not looking forward to trying to find whatever mechanism controlled the hidden door, still less happy with the time such a delay would give his quarry to escape.
Such thoughts were put aside as a hulking shape in black armour turned toward Brunner. The inquisitor had forsaken the melee, seeking instead to destroy the profane idol of the cultists. But now the war-priest stalked out from behind the altar and its hideous icon, intent on a more personal form of retribution. Bocca’s golden mask silently condemned the bounty hunter as it came around to face him. The cloaked inquisitor’s eyes were like fire behind his mask.
‘You!’ Bocca roared as he saw the bounty hunter. He had not expected to find the man who had escaped him in the plaza only a few days ago here in the Slaaneshi temple, but now that he had, Bocca would only be too happy to visit the vengeance of Solkan upon the wretch. The inquisitor lifted his huge sword in anticipation of what he was certain would be a swiftly decided struggle.
Brunner watched the hulking giant advance upon him from the right, firming his own grip upon Drakesmalice. So intent had he been on Scurio’s fleeing shape, he had not seen the inquisitor straining at the Mother of Mystery, trying to knock it from its altar. Now there was nothing to do but face the imposing priest. He would hardly be able to find the hidden door with an inquisitor of Solkan hacking at him with five feet of steel. It seemed that he should have saved his pistol shot. It looked like he was going to need it.
‘Where are we?’ Alfredo demanded as Corvino lit the only candle in the small, cell-like room to which the fool had led them. Alfredo took quick note of as much of the room as the candle revealed, seeing a dark opening in the far wall that might indicate a passageway. The sounds of battle sounded from overhead, clearly indicating that they were only a few feet below the undertemple. Upon the floor, daubed in dried, crusty blood, was the eight pointed symbol of Chaos.
‘You might think of this as an “under undertemple”,’ Corvino laughed. ‘I had it constructed shortly after I led your cult to this place,’ the fool added, removing a wavy-bladed copper dagger from a pocket within his tunic.
‘Why?’ the cult leader asked, not understanding.
‘We must all have our secrets, must we not?’ Corvino said. He looked past the cult leader to Scurio. The priest had recovered his robe, once more garbed in his black priest’s habit. ‘Scurio, be so kind as to take hold of Alfredo’s arms,’ he calmly ordered the priest. Alfredo struggled in Scurio’s grip, but found the hold upon him surprisingly strong and unyielding.
‘You see,’ smiled the sorcerer, speaking with the superior tone of a lecturer, ‘this is a very special temple. The priests of Morr never desanctified this place, it was still devoted to Morr when your cult profaned it with your first ritual to the Lord of Pleasure. And now I shall doubly profane this place by making an offering which I am certain Slaanesh would find most disturbing.’
Corvino stepped closer, showing Alfredo the skull rune inscribed upon the blade. The Slaaneshi cultist paled as he saw the loathsome symbol of that other power.
‘My friend here, Scurio, is rather unique too,’ continued Corvino. ‘You see, he really is a priest of Morr. He was captured by Arabyan corsairs many years ago, tortured and tormented by them night and day for months on end. He should have died, but in his despair, he called out to any power that would heed him. And one did, though Scurio did not expect the price that power would demand.’
‘Please,’ Scurio moaned, ‘you said tonight was the night! You said tonight I would be free of this evil inside me!’ Scurio could feel the hideous thing that had been inked into his back writhing, crawling under his skin, striving to be released.
‘Quite so,’ stated Corvino. With no further warning, he reached up and ran the dagger across Alfredo’s throat. ‘Blood for the Blood God,’ he snarled into the man’s face. The cultist gargled on his own blood as the crimson liquid bubbled from the wound in a river of red. Corvino observed the blood for a moment, ensuring that most of it dripped into the Chaos star daubed upon the floor. Then the fool turned away, striding over to an iron-bound wooden chest that formed the only visible furnishing in the room. He lifted the heavy lid and removed a small clay jar from within.
Scurio let the dying Alfredo fall to the floor as Corvino returned. ‘You said you would free me!’ he shouted. ‘I can feel the evil swelling within me! You must hurry!’
Corvino smiled at the frantic priest. ‘I shall free you of the evil that has haunted you these many years,’ he said. He directed Scurio to step forward and stand at the centre of the eight-arrow symbol, and the expanding pool of Alfredo’s blood, then the fool handed the priest the clay jar. It was an artefact of great antiquity, discovered in Araby during some long ago crusade and brought back to the Imperial capital of Altdorf. Through General Mandalari’s contacts, Corvino had arranged to have the artefact stolen and smuggled into Remas. Now he would put the object to the use for which it had waited throughout the ages.
Corvino smacked the daggers hilt against the lead seal of the jar, each time speaking the Blood God’s name. Scurio’s
eyes were wide with horror as he heard the vile sound issue from the fool’s lips. The priest trembled as he held the jar, struggling to keep from dropping the ancient clay vessel. All his hopes depended upon this ritual.
When the dagger struck the lead seal for the eighth time, the old metal crumbled away, falling to the floor in a crusty black ash. The stench of rancid, ancient blood issued from within the jar. Corvino waved his hand at Scurio, instructing the priest to inhale the fumes issuing from the mouth of the clay jar.
‘That’s it!’ crowed the fool, as Scurio breathed deeply of the filthy vapour. ‘You must breathe in as much as you can if we are to solve your little affliction.’ Corvino laughed as he watched the priest struggle to keep from vomiting as the stench filled his lungs. The priest’s trembling grip at last faltered and the old clay jar fell to the floor, shattering within the eight-pointed star drawn upon the floor. A black mist rose from the shards, quickly dispersing.
‘The pain!’ screamed Scurio, clutching at his chest. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he shouted, sizzling as it struck the floor. Corvino continued to smile as he watched the priest’s body convulse in agony.
‘Of course there is pain,’ the fool said. ‘No new life is born without a lot of pain, and much blood.’ Corvino leaned down to stare into Scurio’s face. The man’s eyes were pools of crimson now, sanguine tears rolling down his face. The priest opened his mouth to speak but no sound issued, only a great bubble of black blood. Corvino patted the stricken man’s head, as if consoling a frightened puppy.
‘Poor Scurio,’ the sorcerer said, his voice laden with regret. ‘You can’t imagine how hard it was, finding you, recognising what had made a home within you. Compared to that, finding the old Arabyan jar was a mere conjurer’s trick. Think of it, for the first time since it was vanquished, the spirit of the Mardagg has come into contact with the vessel that holds its essence!’ the fool laughed loudly, paying no heed to Scurio’s hacking cough, or the blood spilling from his mouth. Corvino looked at the shattered clay fragments. ‘Or perhaps I should say the vessel that held the Mardagg’s essence? Seems that it isn’t holding much of anything now.’
Scurio doubled over, crouching on his hands and knees over the ruinous symbol drawn upon the floor. His blood was pouring from him now, as though he was trying to vomit every drop from his body. As the crimson liquid fell on the floor, it steamed, gnawing at the stones like acid. In response, the dried blood that had been used by Corvino to create the eight-arrow symbol began to glow with a hellish light.
‘So very many things to do this night!’ he called down at Scurio, oblivious to the fact that the priest was so far gone in his pain to hear anything the fool was saying. ‘This place, for instance, twice profaned. I don’t think you really appreciate the power of that. And poor Alfredo, a devoted servant of Slaanesh! What better sacrificial offering to attract the attention of Khorne the Blood God than a priest of his most despised rival? Why, even yourself, my dear Scurio, you too were a priest of a rival deity. The spirit of the Mardagg did well when it chose you.’ The fool laughed again. ‘But, then, even before it made a home within your mangy skin, you had ever so much in common. I mean, you both were very interested in death.’ Corvino paused for a moment, deep in thought. ‘Actually, I think that is about all you have in common.’
Scurio reached out, his hand gripping Corvino’s shoe. With an extreme effort, he looked up into the sorcerer’s face. Though no words emerged from his mouth, Corvino could easily understand the word the priest’s dripping face mouthed. It was a last, desperate plea for help. The fool shook his head.
‘I’m afraid that it is much easier to free the evil of you rather than you of the evil,’ the fool explained. Scurio groaned, falling onto his face within the eight-pointed symbol. ‘You did a very nice job of feeding it all these years, fattening it up on blood. Your filthy evil little body is just the thing to house a daemon after it has been locked up in a nasty old jar for a thousand years or so.’
Corvino watched with eager eyes as the blood gurgling from Scurio’s wound began to thicken and darken. Soon the priest’s body began to twitch beneath its cloak upon the floor.
The fool leaned down, reaching toward the hand clutching his shoe. The skin was already beginning to split, cracking open like the fabric of a moth’s chrysalis. The flesh beneath was wet and gleaming, withering even as the bones beneath began to swell. Corvino brought the dagger raking across one of the fingers, cutting it free. He gripped the digit and cackled at the mutating body at his feet.
‘Now I shall lead and you must follow,’ he told the growing shape on the floor. Corvino dashed towards the passage at the rear of his sanctum. The daemon was now bound to its host body, all of its host body. Even removed from Scurio, the finger was still a part of him, and the daemon a part of it. The Mardagg would be drawn after the severed digit, tracking it like some loathsome hound, compelled to find it by an all-consuming compulsion. Of course, the daemon would need blood to keep it from decaying while it hunted down its finger. But in a city as large as Remas, Corvino did not think it would have any trouble satisfying that need.
‘I shall lead and you must follow,’ he laughed again, before slipping into the dark tunnel. The passage came out very near the Great Reman Bridge, he would be back inside the Gambini palazzo within only a score or so minutes. The daemon, however, would use a different route. After a thousand years of cold captivity, its spirit wandering from one madman to another, Corvino knew that it would be in no mood to hide and slink in the shadows. It would find a route that would allow it to appease its hunger. And where it walked, so too would walk death and destruction on a scale the city had never seen.
Corvino considered this to be a rather wonderful bonus to all his plans. Oh yes, the fool thought as he ran down the subterranean tunnel, there would most assuredly be a hot time in old Remas tonight.
X
Old Remaro Gambini sat within his bedchamber on one of the upper floors of the palazzo. The elderly man stared at the wall, not seeing it. After being led to this room, his mind had deserted his surroundings, focusing instead, as they had so often in the last few years, upon his son. He had known the secret since the beginning, and had borne it stoically for decades. But now, as his life began to ebb from his tired old bones, Remaro found that the secret was crushing him, squashing him like an insect under the hoof of an ox. It was choking him, robbing the air that filled his lungs of its sweetness. He should never have agreed, should never have allowed it to happen. But he had, and it was far too late to try and undo what had been done.
Still, to have his son gaze upon him, looking upon him as a son should look at his father, now that seemed to be the only thing he wanted out of his life, the only thing that could allow him to rest easy in his grave.
‘Are they still looking for Alfredo?’ a quiet voice asked. Remaro swung his head around, watching as the red and black clothed Corvino emerged from the depths of his wardrobe. There was a secret door in that closet; Remaro wondered how the fool had come to learn of it. The old man smiled at Corvino, the only man in the palazzo who seemed to listen to him any more.
‘I’m afraid they won’t find him,’ the fool sighed, flopping down into a chair. As he did so, Remaro noticed that there was blood on Corvino’s clothing. Seeing the old man’s reaction, the fool realised what he’d seen. ‘I apologise, uncle, I must present such a sight.’ The fool pointed at his sleeve, the red fabric stained a darker hue. ‘That, I believe, is Scurio.’ He pointed to a large splotch across his chest. ‘This, I’m afraid, is Alfredo.’ The old man stared at him stupidly, as though wondering why he should be concerned by the death of Alfredo. ‘I might still have some Mandalari on my shoes,’ he quipped, hopping to his feet.
All at once, something Corvino had said registered within Remaro’s addled mind. The old man’s eyes bulged with horror, as if seeing the fool for the very first time, seeing him for what he truly was. Corvino’s smile spread into the grinning rictus of a skull.
‘Very good,’ he hissed. ‘I was wondering when you’d come around.’ Remaro turned to scurry to the door, but Corvino was on him in an instant, tossing him to the floor with contemptuous ease. The fool brought the edge of his staff cracking into the old man’s head, opening a gash in his scalp. Remaro’s trembling hand patted the flowing crimson.
‘I must insist that you stay, dear uncle,’ Corvino snarled. ‘There is a reckoning between you and I. It can’t be delayed any longer, dear brother of my father.’ The fool lashed out again with his staff, cracking the old man in his ribs. ‘Usurper!’ he spat.
‘It was the only way,’ Remaro gasped. ‘You were born…’
‘I know what I was born!’ shouted Corvino. ‘Do you think you need to tell me of my deformity, of the stamp of ruin upon my body? How my father must have cursed all the gods when he saw me! So proud to have sired a son, an heir, until he saw that clawed foot at the end of my left leg!’
‘He killed your mother before I could stop him!’ Remaro exclaimed. ‘But you I saved! You were only a babe, I couldn’t allow him to kill you.’
‘So you proposed a trade? Your son for my father’s?’ Corvino sneered maliciously as he saw the pained look on Remaro’s face. ‘Ah, I see, it was he who proposed the substitution. It must have seemed such a good deal, one mutant whelp for the security of your son, for letting little Giovanni inherit the title, the property, the position! How that must have pained you, dear uncle, to in one instant make your line the future of the house Gambini.’
‘Do you think it has been easy?’ Remaro asked. ‘To see my son every day to watch him grow before my very eyes and never be able to acknowledge him as my son?’
‘You could have kept me,’ Corvino pointed out. ‘But, no, what would the Temple of Solkan say if one of our enemies were to tell them that a Gambini had sired a mutant? We couldn’t risk that, any more than we could risk my ever learning who I was. Ever discovering that I am Umberto Gambini!’