[Daemon Gates 03] - Hour of the Daemon

by Aaron Rosenberg - (ebook by Undead)

  As they walked, Alaric struggled to study the structures he was hauled past, his curiosity keeping his fear in check. The elves had evidently wrought well, and these buildings were surprisingly well preserved considering their age, although, as with the well, any paint had long since peeled away. They passed several gaping doorways, and he guessed that the original doors had been wood instead of stone, and had succumbed to nature centuries past.

  He was not allowed time to linger. Instead, he was dragged down the path, to where it ended in a wide square. This was clearly the city centre, a vast open space surrounded by balconies and walkways, smoothly paved and focused around a large fountain. With a start, Alaric realised that he recognised this place. He had seen it once before, in his dreams, and every detail matched: the flagstones under his feet, the crumbling structures around the square’s edge, the faint traces of flowers and leaves in the stonework, the truncated fountain base that functioned as a crude table, or altar, and the mammoth figure waiting for him beside that fountain.

  He was exactly as he had appeared in Alaric’s dream. Tall, broad, and massively built, the man was easily the largest human Alaric had ever seen, and that was before the armour. The red, gold, and black armour seemed less like a protective suit than like skin, the man wore it so easily, and when he shifted Alaric was sure he saw the plates on the man’s arms and legs shift, but not in the way that well-handled metal might, more in the manner of flesh shifting on an arm or a leg when a person moves about. The hulking figure was intimidating, even terrifying, with its barbed, horned helm and the crest of strange black hair, plus the sheer carnage manifest in his armour. The colossal two-headed axe he never let leave his grip was equally frightening, with its blood-stained blades, long haft and Chaos runes.

  As awful as the Chaos champion was in the real world, his appearance before Alaric’s tainted eyes was even more severe, even more horrifying, even more mind-numbing and awe-inspiring.

  Seen through that strange Chaos vision, the Chaos champion was clearly marked, not only as a servant of Chaos, but as an avatar of Chaos. He seemed to grow taller when seen that way, with his muscles stretching to match his newly increased frame. Darkness spilled forth from the man, like a campfire hidden from direct view, but still producing heat and light. Nor was the darkness still. It extended long tendrils all around, sweeping the open area with smoky trails of darkness. The tendrils seemed unable to do any damage; they merely left one feeling uneasy and unclean, but that might change at a moment’s notice.

  Alaric could not look away from the aura of the man before him, even though it was so awful he could barely breathe. He was a giant figure, seven feet if he was an inch, and looked almost as if he was carved from bronze and iron, and blood streaked marble. Alaric shuddered as he took in the black flames that licked around the large man’s body, and the blazing black light that poured from the heavy iron circlet around his neck. If blackness could shine, that circlet was the source of the light, and Alaric vaguely remembered something, something important, but it would not surface. Ah well, it would come to him in time, assuming he had time, of course.

  The beastman dragged Alaric to the former fountain. As they drew closer, he saw a familiar multi-hued shape resting atop it: a curving oval, carved of some banded golden stone, and shaped into a face that mixed feline and human to create a singular visage of grace, cruelty, and power: the mask.

  Despite his current circumstances, Alaric felt a tiny flicker of joy. He and Dietz had done it! They had found the mask.

  Of course, finding it and retrieving it, or destroying it, were very different things.

  His captor stopped him with a sudden jerk, only two feet from the makeshift table, and Alaric gaped up at the champion. He could still see the strange, darker, even more powerful image overlaid upon reality, and knew from bitter experience that the daemons and their pet sorcerers could actually manipulate the reality around them, altering it in small and sometimes not-so-small ways. Judging by the way the air churned around the champion, Alaric suspected he had that capability as well.

  “Greetings, Alaric von Jungfreud,” the champion called out. “We have been waiting for you.” His voice was deep and raspy, like worn metal dragged over sturdy stone.

  Alaric stared up at the hulking figure. “How did you… I mean, who are you?”

  The Chaos champion laughed: a horrible rending noise that sounded as if his throat were tearing apart from the inside out. “I am Deathmaul.”

  “What do you want with me?” Alaric managed to ask, though he was gulping with fear.

  “You have been touched by Chaos,” he said, “and I will draw upon that influence for my own purposes, just as I will absorb the power of the mask, and of this!” With a flourish he picked something up from the ground beside the fountain and tossed it onto the broken stone beside the mask. It was long and heavy, and had spikes and barbs, just like the Chaos champion’s armour, only these were of a finer make and different materials.

  Alaric recognised it at once: the gauntlet.

  “How did you get that?” Alaric demanded, resisting the urge to flee blindly. There was nowhere he could go. In his Chaos vision, the gauntlet was a spinning, writhing black vortex, sucking everything around into its gaping maw. The mask was smoother, with that rainbow sheen, but between it and the gauntlet, and the champion, the centre of the square was an immensely powerful collection of Chaos tainted items.

  “We have been searching for it, and others like it, for some time,” Deathmaul told him, holding the gauntlet up so its spikes and barbs, and runes caught the light and shone blood-red. “One of my people heard of a man trying to sell an artefact, and met with him. He was a priest of the Jade Sceptre cult, but even he did not realise what he was offering me.”

  Alaric nodded. That matched what Lankdorf had seen. He had more questions, however. “And the mask?” he asked, pointing to the item that had caused him so much grief ever since Dietz had found and retrieved it from that temple in Ind.

  “My… associate is sensitive to the relics our dread and glorious masters have left upon this world,” Deathmaul answered, gesturing behind Alaric. A tall, thin man stood there; long, rune marked robes fluttering around him over dark clothes, rings bedecking his fingers. Alaric knew at once that he was facing a Chaos sorcerer, and the thought made his skin crawl. The tall man smiled at Alaric, and it was not a pleasant expression.

  “We covet such items, Varlek and I.” The helm shifted slightly, and Alaric knew his captor was smiling, the metal somehow reflecting the grisly expression within. “He sensed the mask when he was near Nuln and pinpointed its location. A band of cultists claimed to have stolen it from a shop in Middenheim, and were carrying it to their temple, but he intercepted them.” The warrior shrugged. “Our minions made short work of them, and when he departed the city, the mask was in his possession.”

  The sorcerer, Varlek, no doubt, bowed, and Alaric nodded again. That fit with what he and Dietz had encountered along the way. So, the cultists who had stolen the mask had merely had the misfortune to encounter this man, or at least the associate he mentioned. That associate had recognised the power in the mask, and had taken it from them by force. Well, he hardly felt pity for the dead cultists; the fewer Chaos worshippers in the world the better.

  One thing puzzled him, and Alaric concentrated on that, his curiosity temporarily holding back his fear. “Why me?” he asked with surprising calm, even though he knew he might only be hastening the grisly death they no doubt had planned for him. “You have the mask, you have the gauntlet, and you say you want to draw upon my influence, but I fail to see what other influence I might have.”

  “Do you?” Deathmaul asked, leaning across the table. He dropped the gauntlet upon the table, alongside the mask. Then he reached out, moving surprisingly fast for a man of such size, and grasped Alaric’s chin. Alaric gasped, breaking out into a cold sweat, both from the champion’s disquieting touch and from the lazy power he wielded. The barbs along D
eathmaul’s mailed fingers cut into Alaric’s jaw as his head was forced up, making him meet the Chaos champion’s gaze through the visor slits in his heavy helm. “Do you fail to see?” Again the massive figure laughed. “I doubt that. I think you see far more than you care to.” He released Alaric’s chin.

  Alaric took deep, gulping breaths, trying to bring the fear back under control, and concentrated on the champion’s words instead of his actions. What did he mean?

  Deep down, however, Alaric knew all too well what he meant, and his expression must have given that away, because behind him Varlek laughed, a short barking sound.

  “You have been touched,” the sorcerer confirmed. “Your senses have been opened to levels beyond the mortal realm. It is a great gift!”

  “A gift?” Alaric sputtered, finally forced to acknowledge the source of those visions. He felt lightheaded and swayed on his feet. He would have fallen if the beastlord had not reached out to grab him, claws cutting into his arms. “You call that a gift? I call it a curse!” He let the anger wash over him, clearing his thoughts, although the rage left his limbs weak. “Those visions are horrible. I’ve barely kept my sanity.” Something else occurred to him then. “You said I’d been touched. You meant that literally, didn’t you?”

  Deathmaul nodded. “My master marked you as his, beneath Middenheim,” he confirmed, “and infused you with the tiniest spark of his own daemonic essence. He has been with you since, guiding you along this path.”

  Alaric reeled back, stunned, his breath catching in his throat.

  No! A great racking sob welled up within him, tearing forth, despite clenched jaw and gritted teeth. Alaric felt matching tears spring to his eyes, his entire body shaking with emotion, rage and sheer terror. The daemon had infected him. He had been tainted with Chaos, just like the creatures, things and people he had seen along the way, just like the creatures standing around him. All those dreams, all those nightmares, all those strange sensations of being watched had all come from the daemon. The map in the Border Princes, no wonder Dietz hadn’t seen the same markings he had. The daemon had put them in his head, to get him to the tomb and thus to the gauntlet. It had burrowed its way into his mind and his heart, manipulating his thoughts and emotions, controlling what he saw and felt and thought, its foul stench wound around him all the while.

  It had made him its own, not with his permission, but by force, ravaging his soul and leaving it twisted and diseased. Alaric was Chaos-touched, and he knew only too well what happened to those who bore such a mark. They died, horribly mutated and twisted, their flesh altered by contact with such horrors it could no longer remain stable. He was doomed to madness, mutation, and destruction, and had been sliding down that path for months without realising it.

  The daemon had given him the strange blood trail, and led him straight here.

  “You have been chosen by the Blood God, and your sacrifice will bring me great honour,” the Chaos champion continued. “With his blessing I will become a fit vessel for my master’s power.” He reached out and stroked the mask and the gauntlet almost lovingly, while his other hand rose to the strange circlet that Alaric had noticed around his neck, a twisted piece of blackened iron and blood-red copper heavy with runes. No doubt it was the source of that dark illumination Alaric had seen with his Chaos vision moments before. “With these, and my armour and axe, I will be all but invincible,” Deathmaul said. “I shall carve a path across the world, slaughtering thousands and laying waste to whole cities in my master’s name! There will be such destruction as has not been seen for centuries! The very mountains will bear the scars of my passing, and the seas will weep blood from my conquests! Then he will come forth, and look upon this world, and reward me as the greatest of all his servants!”

  Alaric shook his head, forcing himself not to think about the champion’s recent revelation. Why did all cultists have the same grandiose schemes? Deathmaul was no different to Strykssen or even Kristoff.

  That was fine, he and Dietz had defeated those two, although not without some help, and they could stop this one as well. He would deal with his own taint later, if there was a later.

  “Enough talk.” Deathmaul strode around the table, gesturing, and the beastman who had dragged Alaric from his cell stepped forward, lifting Alaric and tossing him down atop the broken fountain. Then he wrapped the rest of the rope around its base to secure him there. “Varlek, perform the ritual, now!”

  The Chaos sorcerer nodded, a nasty smile playing across his narrow face, and raised both hands. Then he began chanting something in a language that Alaric recognised, as the very sound of it tore at his mind and twisted his guts. It was the same language that Bloodgore had been muttering in, only less broken. It was the foul tongue of Chaos.

  “Varlek calls to our master,” Deathmaul announced. “He will come, and then…” The Chaos champion raised his massive axe. “Then you will die. As your lifeblood pours from you, my master will see my loyalty and reward me by granting me his power!”

  Deathmaul hefted his axe, drawing it back with all the power in his enormous arms, and Alaric knew that this was the end.

  Then he had an idea. It was a desperate one, and might only make the situation worse, but he had nothing to lose.

  “The gauntlet,” he called out, and Deathmaul paused. “Do you have any idea how powerful that gauntlet is?” Alaric took a deep breath and channelled what strength he had left into his voice. “That gauntlet nearly destroyed armies. It razed a temple!” Reaching deep inside, Alaric forced himself into the Chaos visions again, and called out in the same language as the sorcerer’s chant, a chant that had paused while the tall man listened. “That gauntlet has the power to destroy you.”

  Deathmaul laughed. “What of it?” he replied, sneering. “Its power will soon add to my own.”

  Alaric hadn’t aimed his words at Deathmaul, or at his pet sorcerer. His statements had been directed at another, and that other was staring at the gauntlet, power-lust bright in its eyes. With his Chaos vision, Alaric could see the snake within Bloodgore uncurl and rise, head back and flaring, as it prepared to strike.

  The beastlord bellowed as it lunged across Alaric’s bound form, and seized the gauntlet.

  “No!” the Chaos sorcerer shrieked from the side.

  It was too late. With a fierce, echoing snarl the beastlord shoved the gauntlet onto his hand.

  Alaric thought he could hear the tiny clicks as the barbs within the gauntlet pierced deep into his the beastlord’s flesh, but perhaps he was only remembering that from the Border Princes. He watched, unable to turn away, as the creature arched back, a scream frozen in his throat, his gauntleted hand thrust up into the air. Blood dripped down his arm, tiny rivulets from the many small wounds the relic had inflicted upon him. As Alaric stared, the blood flows slowed, and then stopped. They thickened like cooling porridge, hardening across his flesh and creating strange ridges that spread out until the beastlord’s entire arm was coated in thick, ridged flesh the red-brown of dried blood.

  Alaric heard the creature half hiss, as other changes spread across his body. His flesh rippled, and beneath it his bones seemed to shift and grow. Spikes sprouted from his upper arms and shoulders, shards of bone that pierced his flesh and grew until they stood out like spines. He seemed to grow even taller, and his heavy hooves became more massive, with great jutting spikes across their fronts almost like toes, or claws.

  The beastlord’s face also changed. The ridged skin covered that too, darkening him, and his features shifted, his jaw and brow becoming heavier. His lips bent down as heavy, barbed tusks shoved past them. The creature’s red eyes held black swirls at their centres.

  The transformed beastlord snarled at the Chaos champion, his face twisted in rage, his voice a deep rumble that sent shivers through Alaric. “Now I regain leadership of my herd!”

  “You have stolen that gauntlet and its power from me,” Deathmaul bellowed in reply. “For that you will suffer a thousand deaths, and thi
s will be the first.”

  The massive Chaos champion leapt forward, his axe spinning in a great arc. Bloodgore caught it just below the twin blades, his gauntleted fingers clamping down around the handle and pulling the weapon from the surprised Deathmaul’s grasp.

  “It is you who shall die,” the beastlord shouted, tossing the weapon aside and slamming his other hand into his foe’s helm.

  Still bound to the altar, all Alaric could do was watch helplessly as the two titans collided, each one burning with the power of Chaos, each one determined to destroy the other. All he could do was watch, and hope they did not crush him between them.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Onward, men! Sigmar will guide us to victory!”

  Wilcreitz brandished his sword and pistol, and led the eight mercenaries he’d chosen across the last few feet to the ruins. An elf jumped out of the smoke, long slender blade already in motion, and Wilcreitz shot the creature in the head, kicking its corpse to one side and continuing on. He felt no remorse; elves were almost as unnatural as beastmen, and just as dangerous to right-thinking men.

  They were not his main concern, however. Kleiber and the remaining mercenaries would handle the rest of the battle. His task was to locate and retrieve the stolen blackpowder weapons.

  “How will we find them in all this?” Jarl asked. The burly mercenary carried a large axe and swung it from side to side as they ran, sweeping beastmen aside like blades of grass. “Do we have an idea where the monsters might have hidden them?”

  “None,” Wilcreitz admitted, skewering a beastman who leapt at him, jaws wide to bite and claws poised to tear. He used the butt of his pistol to shove the dead creature back off his blade, paused to reload, and continued on, “But Sigmar will grant us a sign.”

  He studied the wide path or road they were on. Stone buildings, or what was left of them, lined both sides; many had no roof, and their walls were crumbling, but here and there a structure seemed to be intact.