They were, however, making headway, and were less than ten paces from both Bloodgore and Deathmaul, who were only a few paces from each other.
“Right,” Dietz heard Alaric say beside him. Then his friend stiffened, his face turning bright red and his eyes rolling back. What was going on? Dietz caught Alaric as the noble began spasming, his head lolling, but then Alaric’s mouth opened and he shouted something. Dietz had no idea what the words were, but he felt as if he could almost see them, like stains upon the air, and their very utterance made him shiver and sweat, and feel horribly unclean.
Bloodgore also heard them, however, and the beastman turned to look over at Alaric. Then it nodded, and threw itself across the remaining distance, its entire bulk hurled like a missile at the startled Deathmaul.
Bloodgore’s gauntleted fist smashed into the Chaos champion’s neck, its spikes slicing deep into the heavy collar, the impact sending cracks spiralling through the dark metal and etched stone alike.
Dietz heard what sounded like a moan, which rose quickly to a shrill shriek. The air turned thick and fetid, swirling darkly overhead, battering him and choking him. Then he was tossed aside by some sort of explosion, as the wind, the shrieking and the smell all swept in and then burst outward.
Shaking his head, Dietz sat up, and stared. Bloodgore lay nearby, the beastman’s body twitching from pain and blood loss. His arm was gone from the elbow down, the gauntlet nothing but flakes of rust and a pile of ash just beyond his truncated limb. The circlet was gone without a trace.
“You gain nothing, but your death,” Deathmaul choked out. The Chaos champion had been knocked to the ground, but staggered back to his feet. The circlet was gone without a trace, and black blood poured from a gaping wound at his neck, but still Deathmaul managed to haul himself up and raise his axe. Bloodgore tried to rise, but couldn’t. His blood-flecked lips pulled back in a silent snarl as the champion’s weapon struck, cleaving head from shoulders. Then the massive figure shuddered and lay still.
“What does it take to kill him?” Lankdorf gasped beside Dietz. The bounty hunter had several cuts and scrapes from being hurled off his feet, and swayed slightly, staring at the victorious Deathmaul.
“Someone of equal power,” Alaric said softly from behind them, “someone like me.”
The strange tone as much as the words made Dietz turn, dreading what he might see. He and Lankdorf had not been the only ones affected by the explosion. He saw other bodies nearby, beastman, human and elf alike, all tossed aside by the force of the two relics’ destruction. The ruined fountain had been caught up in the event as well, its already shattered base blasted to rubble by the impact, and several chunks of stone had landed near them, as had the mask.
It was this treasure that Alaric held. Then, in one swift move, Alaric brought his hands up. The mask of the tiger-god of Ind, slid onto his face as if they were two halves of a whole, finally brought together.
“No!” Dietz shouted hoarsely, trying to get to his feet, but it was already too late. Alaric was standing bolt upright. The mask gleamed in the dim light, seeming to glow from within, and it looked as though Alaric’s eyes caught fire, turning red-gold and almost cat-like.
“Yes,” Alaric said, his voice rough. He rose smoothly to his feet. “Yes, this body will do nicely. I said you would be mine, Alaric von Jungfreud, and it is so. Soon,” Alaric announced, his voice harsh and grating, “soon this world will as well.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“By Ulric’s, no!” Dietz howled, rising to his feet and hurling himself at Alaric. His friend extended one hand and caught Dietz in the chest, stopping him cold. It felt to Dietz as if he had slammed into a solid stone wall, yet Alaric did not even seem to be exerting himself. Glouste exploded out of the jacket, hissing with rage, but upon seeing Alaric she froze. She sniffed once, twice, trying to figure out why her friend was battling her master. Then she gave up and ducked back to safety, making confused sounds.
“Your gods have no power over me, Dietrich Froebel.” It was Alaric speaking, yet the strangely resonant voice was not his and the words were not either, nor was the cold gleam in his glowing eyes. “Soon he too will bow before me, as I devour his soul along with those of his flock.” Alaric’s arm twitched, no more than when one bats away a fly, but Dietz was tossed several yards, and landed heavily halfway across the courtyard.
“Get out of him!” he demanded, heaving himself upright again. “Leave him alone!”
Alaric—or the creature in Alaric—merely laughed, a chilling sound like bones grating together.
If he intended to say more he was prevented, however, because Deathmaul attacked him.
“First the gauntlet, and now you steal the mask from me!” the Chaos champion raged.
He swung his blood-drenched axe, the muscles in his thick arms bunching and releasing with the powerful blow.
Alaric caught the axe mid-swing, stopping it one-handed as if it were merely a child’s toy. Then he plucked the heavy weapon from Deathmaul’s numb fingers.
“You cannot harm me,” Alaric said contemptuously, whirling the axe lightly between them. “For all your prowess, your arrogance has become… tiring.”
Alaric turned as if to walk away, and then spun back, the axe flashing in a crimson arc, slicing across Deathmaul’s already ravaged neck, armour and all.
“No!” the Chaos champion gasped. He clamped one mailed hand over the wound, but blood welled up between his fingers. “I will not die like this! I am the Deathmaul, chosen of my master! I will triumph!”
“You have been cast aside,” Alaric corrected, his tone sharp enough to etch glass. With his free hand, he reached up and peeled Deathmaul’s fingers from his throat. “Now you die, alone and broken.” With one mighty blow, he smote the Chaos champion on his helm with his axe, smashing his head from his body. Deathmaul’s head toppled to the ground, a fountain of blood following it from the neck before the massive body collapsed.
“Such a waste,” Alaric said, resting the axe easily over one shoulder.
“Master!” The tall man Dietz had seen earlier strode forward, men and elves alike dying with a flick of his hands in a torrent of dark magic. Dietz could see the stranger was as tall as him, but thinner, almost gaunt, with long features and the bright eyes of a fanatic. He was wearing long loose robes marked with strange symbols, and jewels glittered at his ears, throat, arms and fingers. “It is I, Varlek, your most faithful servant!”
Alaric glanced at the sorcerer, then turned away. “I know your heart, Varlek,” he said softly, each word a sharp knife stabbing the tall man in the chest. “I know your true ambitions. You will never supplant me. I have you to thank for this fine mask, and this body, and thus I shall be lenient. Depart now, or face my wrath.”
Varlek looked startled at first, then terrified, then resigned, and then hopeful. He did not bother to argue his own innocence. Instead, he raised both arms, uttered something, twisted sideways… and disappeared, leaving only a flickering after-image behind.
Dietz looked around, wondering what to do next. The battle still raged around them, though in smaller clusters. There were fewer beastmen, but fewer elves and humans as well. It was still unclear which side would win. Meanwhile, Alaric was stalking about the courtyard. He seemed taller, more powerful, although Dietz could not tell if the noble had truly grown, or if it was an illusion created by the aura of power radiating from him.
As he watched, an elf leapt in front of Alaric, sword drawn. Alaric caught the blade as it swung, ripping it from his attacker, and the sword arm with it. Then he clubbed the elf with his own arm before finally, almost negligently cutting it in half with the axe.
“By Sigmar!” Kleiber said, stepping up beside Dietz and making the sign of his order before him. “How can we stop such a creature?”
“We can’t,” Dietz admitted. “That mask makes him stronger and faster than any of us, probably than all of us put together.”
Kleiber looked at him, and nodded.
“So we remove the mask,” he said finally.
Dietz stared at him. If only it were that simple! But maybe… he actually began to think about it. Yes, maybe they could.
“All right,” Dietz agreed. “We get that mask off him, and it weakens the daemon’s hold on him, maybe frees him altogether. The question is, how can we get close enough to do that?”
“I can get close.” The speaker was an elf, and she stepped in front of them, her footsteps silent even on the rubble-strewn courtyard. She was tall and lovely, as were the others, but her beauty had a wild aspect. She wore only a brief tunic, no armour, and much of her bare flesh was covered in swirling tattoos.
“Who—?” Dietz started to ask, but the elf woman cut him off.
“We have little time,” she said sharply. “I am Nelyann Swiftwing. I will help you, for this beast must not be allowed loose upon the land.” She paused, and Dietz nodded. “I will distract the creature,” she assured them. “He will not be able to touch me, but I shall touch him many times.” She raised a pair of matched swords.
“Fine,” Dietz said. “Play decoy. Lure him out. Then we have him.”
Nelyann nodded, and then she was sprinting towards Alaric, a strange song bursting from her lips. Alaric heard her and turned to meet her, his axe rising to strike. She ducked, in perfect time to a dip in her song, and the deadly blow missed. Dietz blinked. Nelyann danced around the daemon-possessed scholar, her blades flickering in and out, too fast to be seen clearly, and somehow her weaving and twisting allowed her to sidestep Alaric’s powerful, but clumsy attacks. Her swords danced as she did, moving to the same pounding beat pouring from her lips. Alaric was unable to block them. Cuts appeared by the handful on his body, although he made no noise, nor gave any indication that he felt the pain.
Dietz shook his head. “Come on!” he urged Kleiber, running towards Alaric. He still did not understand why an elf, who had so recently threatened their lives, was now trying to save it, but this was not the time to ponder such things. If Alaric hit her, even once, she would most likely die. That meant they had to take advantage of her help as quickly as possible.
Dietz veered off to the side as he approached, gesturing to Kleiber to do the same, but from the opposite side. Sensing their plan, Nelyann stayed in front of Alaric, holding his attention. They converged behind Alaric. The question was, now what?
Dietz looked over at Kleiber, and the witch hunter shrugged. Then he threw himself at Alaric’s back.
“Sigmar grant me strength!” Kleiber called out. He wrapped his arms around Alaric’s neck and his legs around Alaric’s waist, and began tugging and twisting, and shoving at the mask.
Dietz shrugged. He didn’t exactly have any better ideas, so as Nelyann twisted to one side, he stepped up and reached for the mask’s right edge. His callused fingers clamped onto the thin stone of the mask, and he began to tug with all his might.
“You wish to rob me of my treasure?” Alaric asked, rage throbbing in his voice. “You will die for such blasphemy!” He swept the axe in a massive arc all around him. Dietz leapt backward, just avoiding the weapon’s glittering blood-red edge. Kleiber simply hung on, shifting his grip to Alaric’s neck in order to retain his perch and prevent Alaric from reaching him. Nelyann leapt up instead of away, the axe skimming through the air just below her feet, and arcing back just before she began falling to earth again.
“Grab it!” Kleiber hissed at Dietz, his hands rising from Alaric’s throat to tug at the mask.
Dietz ran back up and grasped the mask with both hands, trying to pull it free.
The mask fought him. It clung to Alaric’s face as if it had been nailed down, but Dietz refused to let go, except when Alaric tried to attack him, and then he simply returned and tried again. Glouste emerged again, saw what he was doing, and lent her own help. The agile tree fox leapt from his jacket onto Alaric’s head, anchored herself by clinging to his scalp, and planted her sharp hind claws along the edge where the mask met Alaric’s forehead. Then she started digging furiously. Nelyann did her best to keep Alaric busy by attacking him constantly and daring him to attack her, and Kleiber hampered Alaric’s movements and helped Dietz work at prying up the mask’s edges.
It seemed like hours, but might have been only minutes. Dietz had several burning cuts where he had not been quite fast enough to avoid Alaric’s blows completely. Kleiber’s grip had slackened and he was starting to slip off Alaric’s back. If he fell, the noble would simply turn and chop him in half. Fortunately, Nelyann showed no signs of slowing down, and Dietz felt like he was making progress. He could now get the tips of his fingers under the mask’s outer edges, wedging his flesh between the accursed stone and the flesh of his friend.
Then Nelyann apparently misjudged. She skipped in, her blades leaping forward in time with her song, and Alaric growled and hacked at her. The female elf spun lightly back and away, but in the instant that she turned, Alaric flipped the axe over suddenly, so its head was near his right hand instead of his left. That meant that Nelyann twirled right into the heavy blade, her momentum slamming the crimson edge deep into her chest and halfway through her torso. Her song faltered and died as blood bubbled up between her lips.
Alaric snarled, and tugged the blade free. He reversed his grip a second time, and chopped off her head. The elf woman fell, her body toppling one way and her head another, her two blades clattering to the ground.
“Morr’s blood!” Dietz knew it was now or never. Without her as a distraction, Alaric would turn on him next, and he lacked the dead elf’s grace or training. What he did have, however, was pure stubbornness, and strong hands and arms from years of manual labour. He latched onto the mask again, shoving his fingertips as far under it as he could get them, gouging Alaric’s flesh in the process. Then he pulled with all his might.
“You will perish!” Alaric warned him, laughing as he raised the axe and let the elf’s blood soak into its surface. “You will all die, and your death cries will feed me, just as your souls will slake my thirst!”
“Never, foul creature!” Kleiber replied from his perch. The witch hunter drew his blackpowder pistol, and levelled it, not at Alaric’s eye, but at his temple, right where flesh met stone. “Sigmar protects us, just as he protects our friend whose body you have usurped. Release him!” And he fired.
The bullet struck with enough force to send Alaric reeling, and Dietz planted his feet, and yanked at the same time as his friend staggered back. With a terrible wet tearing sound the mask ripped free. Glouste followed, leaping from Alaric back onto Dietz’s shoulder, where she chittered proudly about her contribution.
“No!” Alaric reached for the mask, his face a bloody ruin, even as Kleiber’s hold weakened and he dropped to the ground behind the noble. “Return my mask!”
Dietz held the thing up so he could look at it. It was still as lovely and as terrifying as when he had first seen it in that temple, even though its inner surface was now coated with blood, gore and flesh. He could almost feel the power radiating from it, and a dull force pushed at his mind, trying to sway him into wearing the mask. Dietz set his mind against it, and poured all of his rage and fear into resisting. “No,” he replied.
“Give it to me!” Alaric shrieked, hefting his axe. “Now!”
Dietz backed away, out of swinging range.
Then he saw something change. Behind the blood, he saw the strange light fade from his friend’s eyes.
“Dietz?” The voice was different, smoother, less powerful, and filled with pain and confusion. The axe dropped from his hands, and he staggered.
“Alaric?”
“Sigmar be praised,” Kleiber announced, making the sign of his order. “The daemon has fled your body.”
Dietz saw the frown on his friend’s lips. “No,” Alaric admitted hoarsely, his voice raw, but recognisably his own. “It’s still inside me, still gripping me. Weaker, though. Taking my—its—face helped.”
“What can we do to get it out of you completel
y?” Dietz asked.
Alaric started to shake his head. “I don’t—” Then he stopped, a gleam in his eyes. It was a gleam that Dietz knew all too well, and had often cursed. “Destroy its face!”
Dietz looked down at the mask in his hand. “Are you sure?”
His friend giggled. “It’s calling to me, Dietz. It wants to get back inside my head.” His hands flew to his head, tugging at the hair at his temples. “Its whispers are drowning out all my thoughts.”
Worried by the way his friend sounded, Dietz tossed the mask onto the paving stones. Glouste, startled by the motion, returned to her usual place in his jacket.
“Grind it beneath your feet!” Alaric urged, his voice a pain-filled whisper. “Stamp it into the earth. Shatter it with your heel.”
Dietz cursed. Clearly, Alaric wasn’t going to be much more help, but he thought he could manage on his own. Seeing Deathmaul’s axe, he ran to the massive bloodstained weapon, gripped its heavy handle with both hands, and heaved.
The axe did not move an inch.
“Morr’s blood!” Dietz glanced around. Most of their friends were still battling the remaining beastmen, and Kleiber was doing something in front of Alaric, most likely blessing him to hold the daemon’s influence at bay. Dietz wasn’t sure that would help, but he didn’t want to risk disrupting it. Lankdorf was nearby, however, and Dietz shouted at the tracker. “Lankdorf! I need your help!”
The former bounty hunter dispatched his latest foe and came running. He saw at once what Dietz was doing, nodded, and joined him on the weapon. Together, they managed to lift it off the ground, but only just.
03 - Hour of the Daemon Page 20