[Warhammer] - Zavant

by Gordon Rennie - (ebook by Undead)

  The two men—sage and soldier—nodded to each other in salute. “Sigmar watch over you, Herr Konniger,” said Gustav as he turned and led his men off at a run towards the growing clamour from outside. Konniger watched them for a second, intoning a silent prayer for their safety as he hefted the unfamiliar weight of the weapon in his hands.

  A warhammer, one end of the forged-steel hammerhead blunt and solid, designed for crushing bone and pulverising flesh. The other end of the weapon’s head had been shaped into a cruel metal beak, engraved to resemble the head and beak of the Templar order’s mascot griffon beast, and was designed to smash through metal armour to reach the vulnerable enemy flesh inside. Not a subtle or artful weapon, reasoned Konniger, even if it was similar to that legendary weapon wielded by the Lord Sigmar in his mortal guise as Sigmar Heldenhammer.

  Even though he disdained the use of weapons, Konniger had no little proficiency in the use of one or two of them. The warhammer was not one he was familiar with, however. It did not matter, he told himself, since he would be using the thing as a tool rather than a weapon, and the only material that the fearsome, heavy steel head would be smashing and pulverising would be ancient, crumbling stone and mortar rather than living flesh and bone. Or so he hoped.

  He was about to leave when a sudden thought stopped him in his tracks.

  The tolling of the bell had brought all the searchers running to meet here, at this central point. All of Gustav’s men were accounted for, but it was only now, with a lurch of sudden and apprehensive awareness, that Konniger realised that there was still one person unaccounted for.

  Sigmar’s oath, he silently asked himself, afraid of what the answer might be, what had happened to Vido?

  Vido frantically scrabbled with his dagger blade at the damnably resistant, rust-frozen internal workings of the door lock, aware all the time of the terrible sounds of the monstrous things crawling and flopping up the stairs towards him.

  They had come out of the darkness, summoned from their lairs far back in the tunnels and passages of the surrounding crypts by the light and the noise, and by the heavy slamming of the door which they no doubt had been conditioned to realise meant the coming of food. And by the scent of freshly-spilled human blood.

  Vido had snuffed out the candle at the first sign of the approaching mutant monstrosities, realising that its light was literally a beacon for them to home in on. He had started to drag Kree up the stairs, in an uncharacteristically noble but no doubt futile attempt to save the man, but the monk was already dead. Vido was not proud of what he had done next, but he defied anyone to claim that they would not have at least thought of doing the same. The monk was dead, his soul already with Morr, and Vido had more use for his now lifeless flesh than Kree did himself.

  He had dragged the corpse away from the foot of the steps, all the time aware of the sounds of the things now dragging themselves out of the darkness towards him. Scurrying back towards the imagined safety of the top of the stairs, he had fired off a mass of hasty prayers to as many benign-minded deities as he could remember, entreating them to ensure that the creatures would not pass up on the gift he had left for them below.

  One of those benevolent deities must have been smiling down upon him, for his ruse had worked. Or perhaps these dwellers in darkness were just like any other, unlikely to pass up the offer of a free meal.

  Vido crouched at the top of the stairs in front of the locked door and began to work diligently away with his dagger point, trying to ignore the awful noises from below. Sounds of rending flesh and snapping bones were mixed with the creatures’ hungry, angry growls as they fought and snarled with each other over the choicest morsels. Even before the sounds had died away to a low chorus of contented moans and snarls, he could hear other bodies moving through the darkness. Latecomers, perhaps, or those who had lost out in the brief, violent battles over the numerous pieces of the unfortunate, recently departed Brother Kree. They were still hungry, these ones, and they would be searching for some of the same sustenance that their brethren had found.

  Vido knew it wouldn’t be long before they found him. He had no idea whether they could see in the dark or what other kind of unnatural, Chaos-gifted senses these things might have, but he knew that, sooner rather than later, they would awaken to his presence amongst them.

  Sure enough, he heard a sound at the foot of the steps. A clumsy shuffling, scraping sound, followed by an exploratory snuffling. Then the shuffling began again. Something, he realised, had picked up his scent and was crawling up the steps towards him.

  In a frenzy, he redoubled his efforts to pick the door’s lock, not even daring to consider the possibility that such efforts would all be in vain if his assailant had also taken the trouble to close the heavy iron bolts on the other side of the door. Before, he had taken pains to work quietly, now he thought only of the need for speed. His knife scraped and rattled against the metal of the lock, the unfamiliar sound of metal on metal echoing through the subterranean space and drawing puzzled, vaguely angry grunts from the things in the darkness below.

  More of them started shuffling towards the steps, and Vido felt near uncontrollable panic well up within him. With an effort, he quashed it, remembering one of the mental tricks his master had insisted on teaching him. When he had first entered Konniger’s service, Vido had greatly resented these mental gymnastics that his master set for him, apparently for the sage-detective’s own amusement, or so his servant had sourly thought at the time, but now Vido could see the sense of them. Well, most of them, at least.

  He silently intoned the words he had learned, thinking not about the meaning of the words themselves—they were stanzas from a typically long and turgidly dull Tilean pastoral poem—but about where he was when he had learned them.

  The parlour off the kitchen in Konniger’s residence in Altdorf. There was a fire burning in the hearth, a pitcher of fine, Moot-brewed beer on the table before him, the smell of succulent roast venison wafting through from the kitchen beyond. He remembered all these fine and wonderful things, and realised that all he had to do was get this Sigmar-damned door open, and they would be his to experience again soon. It may not have been exactly what Konniger had had in mind when he set him this mind-calming trick, but it was enough to—

  Something tugged at the hem of Vido’s cloak. Clawed nails rasped against the surface of the step just behind him, and he heard a laboured, heavy wheezing as a bulky, malformed body pulled itself up towards him. Vido spun round, the knife in his hand slashing out into the darkness. He felt the blade cut through vile, wart-covered flesh. Something that felt like blood, but may not have been, splashed over his hand. There was a loud whinny of pain and shock, and, in the dim light coming through from the edges of the door, Vido saw something vaguely human-shaped rear up before him, tottering off balance.

  He struck out blindly again, this time with a stabbing motion, rather than a slashing one. The wound may not have been fatal, but it was enough to do its job. Wounded and knocked off-balance, the creature tumbled screaming back down the steps, landing heavily amongst its brethren now gathered there. Its screams increased in intensity as, excited by the scent of blood and the wounded creature’s pain, its companions fell upon their fellow and hungrily ripped it to shreds.

  With an effort, Vido turned his attention away from what was happening down in the darkness and concentrated once more on the life-dependant lock-picking test before him. Picking a lock of this kind would be child’s play to the clumsiest of apprentice thieves, but Vido defied any of his peers to try to accomplish the same task under the same conditions he was now suffering.

  In the pitch dark. With only a dagger instead of the specialist lock-picking tools the task required. And with a pack of flesh-eating, Chaos-mutated former monk monstrosities lurking just a few yards away.

  Roars and grunts from below.

  A warm fire burning in the hearth, he reminded himself.

  The sounds of more heavy, shuffling footsteps on th
e stone steps.

  A pitcher of fine, malt-tasting, Moot-brewed beer.

  The thick, rasping breath of something now just a few steps behind him. The grinding of hungry, fleshless jaws.

  Roast venison, stewing in a rich gravy of its own juices.

  The rusty lock workings gave with a protesting groan. The sudden movement inside the lock snapped the tip off Vido’s dagger, jamming the lock for good. It didn’t matter. He already had it sprung open.

  He heaved against the wood of the door, still not daring to think about the bolts. The door pushed open, and Vido tumbled forward into the passageway beyond. He flipped instantly to his feet, damaged ankle be damned, and turned and ran.

  A braver being, he realised, would have turned and fought the creatures, slaying the first few and clearing the top of the steps, giving time to close and securely bolt the door behind which they had been held for so long.

  Vido was no such a being. He was a halfling, a fact which he had never been forced to feel the need to apologise for, and it was not in the nature of halflings to indulge in such audacious and foolhardy deeds of suicidal recklessness. The average lifespan of a halfling was more than twice that of a human, and Vido fully intended to see out and enjoy every single day still remaining in his allotted time.

  He reached the entrance to the spiral stairwell leading back up to the upper levels of the monastery, and took it unhesitatingly. Behind him, he heard the door to the crypts bang open and a refrain of angry, snapping growls and hisses as too many deformed, monstrous-shaped bodies tried to simultaneously push through into the passage beyond. It was more than enough to keep Vido limping onwards at speed up the stairs, ignoring the protesting screams of pain from his injured ankle.

  He had to find Konniger. Instinctively, he suspected that, whatever Konniger had been doing in the meantime, by now his master would have already learned at least some of the information Vido now had to tell him. If he was right, then he already knew where he would find the sage-detective.

  Vido ran through the empty, echoing halls and corridors of the monastery, dreading what further horrific discoveries awaited him at his eventual destination.

  Nine

  For the second time that day, the beastmen charged screaming and roaring at the monastery gates. For the second time that day, the Templar defenders stood ready to meet them on the battlements. Some things, however, had changed.

  There were fewer Templars than before, and no monks at all, since the Templars would not trust those touched by the taint of mutation to stand with them. The beastmen also had darkness on their side, shielding them from the wrath of the Templar crossbowmen almost until they were right before the walls of the monastery.

  And sorcery. The beastmen had that on their side this time also, as the defenders were about to learn.

  “Fire!” called Gustav, watching as his men loosed crossbow bolts and spears at near point-blank range into the first ragged line of attackers. Beastmen fell to the ground as Nuln-forged steel pierced their bodies. Too late, though, Gustav saw the group in the assault’s second line. They were clustered -together, carrying tall wicker shields covered with stretched hide. Shields like that would not stop a speeding crossbow bolt, Gustav knew, but he realised now that they were designed to shield something from sight rather than from harm. With a precision that the Templar would not have suspected such creatures to be capable of, the hedgehog formation of beast-things split apart, revealing the figure that had been sheltering amongst this living shield wall.

  “Reload! Sigmar’s oath, someone give me a throwing spear!” shouted the Templar, as the black-cloaked figure of the Chaos sorcerer extended his skull-topped staff towards the men on the battlements.

  Black fire leapt from the staff, scouring half the battlements in one sweep. Stone cracked and exploded. Men fell screaming to their deaths, surrounded by flickering auras of black fire, hitting the ground not as men but as shrivelled, blackened, doll-like parodies of what they had once been.

  Three crossbowmen beside Gustav were consumed in the unnatural conflagration. He had the time and the wits to hold up his shield. Black fire splashed against it, instantly burning into the metal.

  Gustav saw a network of cracks and fractures spread like wildfire across the inside surface of the shield. The sorcerous fire ate through the now rust-corroded metal, licking against his mailed arm. Instantly, the arm withered and died. Gustav reeled back in shock and pain, falling headlong off the battlement platform.

  Sorren gestured again, and another blast of the terrible fire sprang out from his staff. This time, the target was the monastery gates. Black fire played across them, inflicting the withering damage of centuries of exposure to the elements in a matter of seconds. The wood warped and split, and those inside the courtyard saw the surface of the gates change colour to a withered, aged shade of grey as the Chaos magic drained all life and strength out of the materials they were constructed from.

  Incredibly, though, when the stream of energy died away, the gates were still standing, and the defenders inside the courtyard allowed themselves a few seconds of impossible hope. It didn’t last.

  An instant later the gates exploded apart, the crumbling, now ancient wood reduced to splintered ruins by the impact of the horse and rider crashing against them.

  Arek kept control of his steed, spurring it forward through the remains of the gate and mercilessly riding down a helpless, stunned-looking Templar in his path. Behind him, his beastmen rushed through the gap of the destroyed gates, and into the monastery courtyard. This time, there were too few defenders for them to be driven back out again, and no trap waiting to be sprung.

  Watching from a narrow cell window above, the hunter cursed in anger. The Chaos warrior’s dramatic entrance through the gates had taken even him by surprise, and he had missed the opportunity to let loose a crossbow bolt that would have knocked the warband leader dead from the saddle. Now the warrior was gone, his charge carrying him too far forward into the monastery entrance, out of sight of the hunter’s limited visibility vantage point.

  The hunter had just begun his search of the monastery’s upper levels when the beastman attack had begun. Out of reach of danger, but unable to help the defenders, he had been forced to watch the disaster unfold below, unable to alter the course of events. The defenders were doomed now, he knew, and so it became all the more imperative that he find the sage-detective as fast as possible.

  Still, he thought, bringing his crossbow to bear again, there was still one thing he could accomplish from up here.

  His practiced eyes scanned the chaos of the night-time battle below, until at last they found what they had been searching for: the figure of the Chaos sorcerer, striding confidently through the gates, accompanied by his shambling phalanx of beastman bodyguards.

  Head or heart, the assassin-marksman in him queried as he took aim. The woodsman peasant in him answered, reminding him of the forest tales of evil sorcerers who tried to cheat death by removing their own hearts from their bodies and then secreting the precious, still-beating organ in a well-guarded hiding place.

  The hunter took the advice, and let loose his shot.

  Sorren the Foresworn was well pleased with himself, feeling the balance of power in the warband now starting to swing decisively in his favour. Let Arek kill and torture as many as he wanted. The Chaos champion thought that these creatures would follow him because they feared him. Feared him, and so respected his power.

  Now, though, with a few passes of his staff, Sorren had shown these stupid, mindless creatures what true power really was. The beastmen around him were totally under his submission now, completely in awe of the power they knew he wielded, and that awe would soon spread to the rest of the creatures in the growing warband.

  Yes, after this battle, he would make his challenge against Arek, and the Chaos champion would then learn how much respect his followers had for him when they sided instead with Sorren. The sorcerer’s power and reputation would quickly d
raw many new recruits to the warband. Not just beastmen, but other, greater servants of the Lords of Chaos: the powerful minotaur creatures which haunted the depths of the Forest of Shadows; human Chaos warriors, keen to swear their allegiance to this new champion-sorcerer; heretic acolytes and novice sorcerers, who would flock to learn the arcane secrets of black sorcery from one of its master practitioners. And, while Arek had been content to skulk around in the forests attacking remote villages and farmsteads, the Lords of Chaos would soon know that their new champion’s ambitions were far greater than those of his unworthy and cowardly predecessor.

  His warband would become an army, and, when the time was right, he would lead that army out of these dank forests and march south on the cities of the Empire. The Empire armies sent against him would be crushed, and—

  His dreams of glories to be were cut short rudely as the crossbow bolt transfixed him through his hidden face, one feathered end jutting from the opening of his hood while the other steel-headed end emerged, blood dripping, from the back of his skull.

  The sorcerer tumbled backwards to lie in the churned mud at the entrance to the courtyard. Charging beastmen trampled over the body, not even noticing it in their blood-maddened haste to rush through the shattered gates and join the killing beyond.

  * * *

  More and more beastmen poured into the courtyard. All too aware that they were almost certainly doomed, Waasen rallied a few trustworthy veterans and prepared to make a last stand at the steps to the monastery building.

  A beastman charged at him. He hurled a handaxe at it and split its horned skull. Another one came close behind it. Waasen picked up a discarded spear, braced it against the steps behind him and held it ready, skewering the second brute upon it. The Templar next to him swung his sword and decapitated the creature while it was still pushing itself forward down the blood-slickened spear haft to get at Waasen.