“True,” Gerhard said, and sipped at the warming drink, “but at least we know what we’re doing now.”
“Which is what?” Rudi sipped at his own drink, feeling the welcome sensation of warmth washing through his body as it drifted down into his stomach. “I’m only the vessel, don’t forget. Nobody tells me anything.”
“How very remiss of us,” Gerhard said dryly. He sat down, in his accustomed chair in front of the fire, stretching his legs towards the flames. “I’m sure the daemon inside you would like to know how we intend to destroy it almost as much as you do.” The calm confidence in the witch hunter’s voice sparked a flood of conflicting feelings within Rudi: a fierce elation, which he recognised as his own, and raw unreasoning hatred from that abominable other that shared his skin. He fought down the interloper’s emotions almost reflexively, and nodded.
“I take your point,” he said, more calmly than he would have thought possible. “So what can you tell me?” Gerhard looked at him thoughtfully.
“Only that it appears to be possible,” he said. “The ritual you found so fortuitously in that book should enable us to separate your soul from the essence of the daemon. After that, a conventional service of exorcism should be sufficient to banish it back to whatever hell it came from in the first place.”
“I see,” Rudi said, feeling the first faint stirrings of apprehension, although whether they were his or the daemon’s he couldn’t, for once, be certain. “And how soon do we try this?”
Gerhard smiled at him, in the bleakly humourless fashion that Rudi had grown all too familiar with since their fateful meeting little more than half a year ago.
“Tonight,” he said simply.
To Rudi’s surprise, after leaving his room the witch hunter led him away from the familiar path towards the temple, disappearing instead down a small side passage that he had always vaguely assumed led to a cellar or storage room somewhere. The snow was falling thickly around them, and even the sporadic gleams of lamplight from the windows they passed, or the flickering torches in their wall brackets, revealed little of their surroundings. Muffled inside his hooded cloak, for which he was more than grateful, Rudi glanced around in an effort to orientate himself.
“Where are we going?” he asked, completely lost.
Gerhard shrugged, an indistinct shape in the darkness ahead of him. “To one of the subsidiary chapels. You didn’t think we were going to use the temple itself for this, did you?”
“Of course not.” Rudi hadn’t actually considered the matter before, but now he came to think about it, it did seem pretty obvious. The ceremony, or whatever else Gerhard had in mind, would have to be held somewhere private and out of the way, far from prying eyes, especially if something went wrong and the daemon escaped after all… The shudder that rippled though him at that thought came from more than just the cold.
“In here.” Gerhard led the way through another door, larger and more ornate than most of those that Rudi had seen around the complex, but before he could fully assimilate the details of it the heavy wooden portal had slammed shut behind him, sucking him down into a welcome haven of warmth and light.
At first, Rudi was simply too busy doffing his cloak and savouring the cessation of the bone-chilling cold to fully take in his surroundings. When he eventually did so, he was unable to suppress a gasp of astonishment.
The room was huge and circular, and dominated by an altar to Sigmar at its exact centre. The carving and workmanship of the shrine was exquisite, easily the equal of anything he had seen in the temple itself. Even this paled into insignificance compared to the magnificence of the walls enfolding the small but grim-faced congregation, however.
Every square inch of them was covered in a finely detailed mosaic, depicting men and dwarfs of breathtaking nobility in savage conflict with the most bestial orcs imaginable, and after a moment Rudi recognised the scene as the Battle of Black Fire Pass. The only figure missing seemed to be that of Sigmar, and as he approached the altar, turning to take in every detail of the amazing panorama surrounding him, he discovered the reason for that. The god himself, still then in his mortal form, was behind him, standing guard over the entrance to this staggering sanctuary. At the sight of the incarnate deity Rudi felt the hideous presence within him quail, and his confidence grew.
His gaze travelled upwards, drinking in the ornamentation of the dome, which rose from the walls around them to enclose the whole space in a magnificently airy fashion. The mosaics continued without a break, chronicling the rest of the mortal life of Sigmar, culminating in the great twin-tailed comet that blazed across the centre of the dome. The whole space beneath it was lit by gently swinging lamps, depending from chains fixed into the ceiling so cunningly that their very presence seemed a part of the overall design, like stars surrounding and illuminating the comet itself.
“Awe-inspiring, isn’t it?” Gerhard asked quietly. Rudi nodded.
“I never knew anything like this existed,” he said. “Not even in…” He broke off, suddenly sure of where they were, but not quite able to believe it. “This is the Sun Chapel, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.” Gerhard nodded. “One of the most holy places in the whole of the Empire.” Looking around, his jaw slack, Rudi didn’t feel too inclined to disagree. The gold-plated exterior dome, which gave the building its name, housed the private chapel of the Grand Theogonist himself, and few others were ever granted the privilege of entering it. If the Church of Sigmar could be said to have a single spiritual centre it was undeniably here, where the man who led it came to commune with the Empire’s patron deity in person. The main temple, sanctified as it was, would merely follow the spiritual path that began here, at the altar in the centre of the room.
“Is the Grand Theogonist going to perform the ritual himself?” Rudi asked, his voice trembling a little despite his best efforts to prevent it. Gerhard shook his head.
“He has other matters to deal with.” The tone of his voice was enough to imply that in the witch hunter’s opinion there were none that couldn’t have been delegated with a little more willingness to make the effort. “And if things were to go wrong…” He shrugged. “Another difficult succession would hardly be in anyone’s interests at the moment.” Again, it was quite evident from his tone that Gerhard had little time for the internal politics of the Church.
“He has, however, pronounced his blessing on our efforts here this evening,” a new voice chimed in. Rudi took the proffered hand of a chubby little man in clerical robes more by reflex than design, and shook it automatically. “For that, we should at least be duly grateful.”
“Perhaps you’ll thank him for us when you see him,” Gerhard said, his due gratitude sounding distinctly muted.
“I’m Lector Markzell,” the man said, introducing himself to Rudi as if they’d met purely by chance at some kind of social function. Only his old watchman’s instincts enabled Rudi to spot the undercurrent of nervousness beneath the podgy clergyman’s veneer of relaxed affability.
“Rudi Walder,” Rudi said, as if Markzell hadn’t already known precisely who he was, and the lector nodded. Despite his air of evident good living his handshake had been firm and purposeful, and Rudi wondered how many people had made the fatal mistake of underestimating him over the years.
“Herr Gerhard has explained what we’re about to do?” Markzell asked. Rudi nodded.
“In principle,” he said.
“Good, then we might as well get started.” Markzell stepped back a pace and turned, gesturing to the rest of the people present. Rudi expected him to attract their attention by calling out, or clapping his hands perhaps, but such was the force of the stout little priest’s personality that everyone fell silent at once, and began to take up what were clearly prearranged positions around the room. Markzell turned back to Rudi. “If you would care to make yourself as comfortable as you can on the steps of the altar? Anywhere you like, it shouldn’t matter.”
“Right.” Rudi turned to fo
llow the lector’s instructions, and found Gerhard barring his way. He was about to push past, when, to his surprise, the witch hunter took him by the arm.
“Sigmar bless and keep you, Rudi,” he said quietly. By the time Rudi had got over his astonishment enough to respond, Gerhard had already turned away and gone to join the pair of templars flanking the ornately carved door of the shrine.
Perhaps it was because of this that Rudi sat where he did, facing the giant icon of Sigmar himself, the stern visage of the god gazing down at him from his vantage point over the portal. Or perhaps he would have done so anyway, drawing comfort from the deity’s protection. In either case, it was a decision that was to save his life before the hour was out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Once the ritual actually began, Rudi thought, it seemed oddly anti-climactic. Eight priests spaced themselves in a perfect circle around the altar, midway between the shrine and the walls, at the cardinal points of the compass and equidistantly between them, chanting sonorous phrases which Rudi couldn’t understand but which seemed to resonate deep inside his bones. Markzell bustled about at the altar, sometimes chanting in counterpoint to the others, and at other times doing mysterious things with incense burners or drizzling uncomfortable doses of sanctified oil over Rudi’s head. Gerhard and his templars continued to stand before the doors, their expressions either intent or indifferent, it was hard to be sure.
For a long time, it seemed, nothing was happening, and Rudi began to find the warmth and the chanting soporific. His vision began to blur, the encircling line of clerics and the inspiring mosaics beyond them rippling as if through a summer heat haze. He blinked, trying to clear his eyes, and as he did so he realised with a sudden shock that Markzell and the altar were still perfectly in focus. Something was happening to the air itself, the power of the ritual sealing the altar off from the room beyond. Inside him, the daemon stirred, and a howl of impotent rage burst from his throat.
“Good! Fight it Rudi, fight it!” Gerhard’s voice came as if from a long way away, forcing itself through the thickening air between them. Markzell was chanting again, facing the shrine, his voice deepening, and beads of sweat beginning to settle in the folds around his jowls. Without pausing for breath, he lifted a silver hammer from the surface of the altar and turned, suddenly, bringing it down in one smooth motion towards Rudi.
Taken completely by surprise, Rudi tried to parry the blow with his forearm, rising to his feet as he did so, but for once, his fighter’s reflexes seemed to have deserted him. He stumbled, his muscles cramping painfully, and Markzell’s silver hammer came down upon his head.
Agony greater than anything he had ever experienced roared through his body like a tidal bore, reducing the world to a white-hot core of pain that seemed to go on forever. Deep inside him something seemed to tear, and as the onslaught of anguish diminished, he became aware of his surroundings again. Rolling over on the chill marble floor, he staggered to his feet and looked around, dazed and confused.
Markzell was still standing by the altar, the silver hammer in his hand, and Rudi took up a street brawler’s guard position as best he could on trembling legs, ready for another attack. It never came; the priest’s attention was on something else, something that was inside the circle of curdled air with them. Rudi felt his stomach begin to lurch, and mastered it with an almost superhuman effort, grateful that he’d eaten lightly that evening.
A bloated mass of putrescence, nearly twice the height of a man, was oozing out of the air to take physical form before the altar, the stench of it almost beyond endurance. Arms and legs bulged obscenely from the sack of decay that caricatured the shape of a body, through which pus and rotting flesh seeped from a thousand gaping wounds. Loops of intestine, shining with mucus, twitched and writhed like sinuous creepers of putrescence. A cloud of buzzing flies circled endlessly around the mass of corruption, the noise they made drilling into Rudi’s temples like an augur.
The tearing sensation inside him was diminishing, and he began to realise that the less he could feel of the daemon’s presence, the more solid it appeared to be. Carried away by anger and loathing, he staggered forwards, seizing a candlestick from the altar to strike at the thing.
“Wait!” Gerhard’s voice echoed thinly through the mystical barrier, and the incessant whining of the inserts. “If the connection isn’t completely severed…” He never completed the warning, as the door behind him banged open to admit a blast of frigid air, a flurry of snow, and a trio of ragged figures bundled up against the freezing night outside.
For a moment Rudi assumed they were beggars from the city, lost like the ones he’d seen before, but that impression only lasted seconds. With a gleeful howl, the largest of the intruders ripped away his concealing rags to reveal a well-remembered enemy.
Without further warning, the mutant form of Hans Katzenjammer leapt into the attack, his talons extended to rake at the torso of the nearest chanting priest. For a moment Rudi thought the man was surely dead, but Gerhard was faster, his sword leaping from its scabbard to deflect the blow. The blade met the ridge of bone along Hans’ forearm, swinging him around to meet this new threat, and the cleric continued to chant, his voice faltering for a moment, but picking up the rhythm again with barely a pause.
“You dare to pollute this holy place with your presence?” Gerhard’s voice was thick with outrage as he pressed his attack, and the two templars circled, striking at the mutant’s thick armoured torso with their own blades. Several of the hits were striking home, but Hans’ skin seemed to have thickened to the consistency of leather, and the blows that landed appeared to be having little effect. His three eyes blinked lazily, and he laughed as they fell on Rudi.
“You’re next, Walder, as soon as I’ve finished with these fools.” The words seemed to come even more painfully than Rudi remembered, as if he was losing the ability to use human speech at all. “We don’t need you anymore, and you’re mine.” He felled one of the templars with a vicious backhanded swipe, which threw the man against the wall. A splash of blood marred the exquisite mosaic behind him as he slithered to the floor.
“I dare anything,” a cool feminine voice responded to the witch hunter’s challenge. “The filth daemon is mine to destroy, not yours. The Changer wills it, and thus it must be.” The second figure walked calmly forwards, raising a hand, and the hood fell back from her face. For a moment, Rudi’s heart skipped at the sight of a familiar mane of blonde hair, and then his eyes fell on the pair of horns protruding through it.
“Blasphemy!” The surviving templar dashed forwards to challenge Greta Reifenstahl, aiming a cut at her head with his sword. “This is Sigmar’s domain!”
“Not for much longer.” The horned sorceress evaded the strike easily extending her hand as if to push the man away. He staggered backwards, screaming, as his flesh seemed to flow and melt, twisting into unnatural shapes. His sword clattered to the floor as the arm wielding it sprouted feathers and lost its fingers, becoming something akin to a bird’s wing.
“Sigmar take your soul!” Gerhard evaded another swipe from Hans’ taloned hands, and took the head off his luckless comrade with a single swing of his sword. Rudi couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw something like gratitude in the templar’s ruined face as his corpse crumpled to the floor, fountaining blood.
“How very noble.” Greta turned towards the nearest chanting cleric. “Are you going to save me the trouble of killing all these fools?” Rudi felt a spasm of insensate hatred for the sorceress, but a surprisingly muted one, and at the same time, the putrid daemon roared a challenge. The two of them must still be linked, he thought, but only barely. The mountain of filth charged towards Greta, but recoiled on the brink of touching the encircling barrier of shimmering air.
“Defend yourselves!” Markzell called to his brethren. He turned to Rudi. “The daemon is ours. We must destroy it ourselves. If the witch does—” He had no time to continue his explanation, as, baulked of its intended target, th
e daemon turned towards them instead, lashing out with a huge, festering limb. The lector leapt to one side with surprising agility for a man of his bulk, and the impact of the huge fist against the floor sent splinters of marble spinning through the air. Rudi felt his cheek sting from a sudden sharp blow, and a slow trickle of blood began to make its way down the side of his face.
“What do I do?” Rudi turned to the priest for guidance, but Markzell had stumbled into the altar, striking his head, and was stirring feebly on the floor, trying to rise. The young forester was on his own, at least for the next few minutes.
For an instant, he quailed at the magnitude of the challenge before him. How could he possibly fight an abomination like this unaided? Then he rallied with a rush of fierce determination. He’d been fighting the daemon all his life, albeit unknowingly, and it hadn’t beaten him yet. With a desperate scream of “For Sigmar!” he leapt forwards, striking at it with all the strength he could muster.
It was like hitting a sack full of dung. The base of the candlestick slid smoothly through the putrid flesh, leaving a long, stinking gash, from which fluids, rank with corruption, spurted. It didn’t seem to disconcert the monster in the slightest though. To Rudi’s horrified astonishment, it laughed, a long, thick sticky bubbling of amusement, like gas rising through a festering cesspool.
“Such spirit, little fleshling,” it gurgled delightedly. “What a tasty morsel your soul will make for our grandfather. Embrace his blessings, for they come to all, whether they will it or nay.”
“A mere sideshow,” Greta said, flinging a ball of sizzling flame at the nearest priest with a flick of her wrist. It burst, engulfing the man, who staggered back, screaming. Within seconds, he had been reduced to a small pile of ashes, marring the pristine marble floor of the chapel. “Change is the essence of Chaos, in all its infinite variety. Corruption is only a tiny part of that, presided over by a weakling of a god.” She strode forwards, the barrier of rippling air in front of her abruptly dissolved by the death of the priest, and flung a stream of arcane fire at the daemon.
[Blood on the Reik 03] - Death's Legacy Page 26