The Witch Takers - C L Werner

by Warhammer

  ‘Please! I’ll get it for you! Don’t hurt her!’ the hunter pleaded. Desperation made his effort to get the armlet away from his lover violent. In his move to wrest the armband free, the rough edge of the bronze ripped open the palm of his hand. Blood gushed from the wound, streaming down the woman’s arm.

  The huge girasol began to glow with a hellish light. A hideous chill swept through the village. Grass wilted. Breath turned to frost. A charnel stink filled the air, the stench of busy abattoirs and old battlefields.

  ‘Get away from her!’ Esselt shouted a second time. The warning came too late. Even if the hunter had intended to listen to her, the hand of his lover closed around his arm in a steely grip. He looked into the woman’s face, screaming when he found her eyes vanishing beneath a glaze of blood. Crimson tears ran down her face as her mouth curled back and long fangs sprouted from her gums. The cursed woman’s other arm drew back, slamming her fist into his chest with such colossal force that it erupted from his back in a spray of blood and splintered bone.

  Terror raced through the village. The crowd parted, scattering in every direction. Morleo cried in horror and fled into the Sigmarite shrine. Animals bleated and howled in their pens, trying to trample through their enclosures. Dogs and chickens fled out into the desert, yelping and shrieking. Even the trees of the oasis seemed to shudder as the profane power of Khorne was unleashed.

  The possessed woman moved with ghastly speed and power. In one swift motion she peeled her dead hunter from her clawed hand, casting the carcass aside like an old glove. Bones could be seen shifting and changing beneath her skin and clothes, a fringe of spikes stabbing out from her shoulders and spine. Hideous knots of muscle swelled around her arms and bulged from her legs while her face elongated into a lupine muzzle.

  ‘Butcher of Khorne!’ Talorcan shouted, firing his pistol into the monster. ‘By Sigmar, you will kill no more!’ The shot smashed against the thing’s breast, burrowing through to the heart. The shot alone would have finished a mortal, the blessings on the bullet should have vanquished a daemon. The awful power of the thing the witch hunters faced was that it was neither mortal nor daemon, but rather the murderous legacy of the ancient chieftain made flesh.

  With steaming ichor spilling from the bullet wound, the abomination turned on Talorcan. It sprang at him like a rabid jackal, crimson froth dripping from its fangs. One clawed hand slashed for his face. Talorcan matched the incredible speed of his foe, bringing his sword licking across the mutated arm. A deep furrow was gouged into the corrupted flesh; bestial fingers were hewn from the gnarled hand. Yet the beast was oblivious to its hurt and its attack did not falter. Talorcan was thrown back as the maimed limb smashed into him. Unable to penetrate his armour, the blow still had enough force to send him flying. He crashed down on his back, almost cracking his skull against the edge of the log platform.

  ‘Leave him!’ Esselt’s cry rang through the air, so fierce it rose even above the screams of the villagers. She charged at the possessed creature, bringing her greatsword chopping down in a vicious arc. The thing snarled in fury of its own as the silvered sword chewed through its neck and sent its head slopping to the ground.

  Esselt turned away from the mangled thing as it slumped to its knees. She looked for Talorcan, alarm in her eyes. He managed to sit up, making a dismissive wave of his arm to allay her concerns. Esselt was hardly reassured. She knew he would conceal the gravity of any injury from her in order to calm her fears. Slinging her greatsword up onto her shoulder, she started towards Talorcan.

  It was Talorcan’s face that suddenly became twisted with fear. Eyes wide with horror, he thrust his hand and pointed. ‘Esselt – behind!’ he shouted.

  Even as Esselt turned, the headless fiend attacked. Far from vanquished, its claws came sweeping down, scratching across her vambrace and tearing away her pauldron. She dived to the ground to avoid the vicious talons. She struck hard against the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust. She scuttled back as the dust settled and found herself staring into the grisly eyes of the fiend’s severed head. The monster noticed her, rolling its eyes and gnashing its fangs as it tried vainly to strike at her. Then a feral grin contorted its visage. The eyes stared upwards. It was warning enough for Esselt. Rolling across the ground she avoided the slashing claws of the thing’s body by the narrowest margin. Strips of shredded cloak fluttered upon the beast’s talons when it stalked after her.

  Esselt had no intention of running from the possessed monster. Once she was clear of its reach, she regained her feet and waited for her opportunity. Removing the beast’s head had not killed it, but at least it had slowed the creature down, made its movements less agile. When it failed to strike her with another sweep of its claws, she lunged at its body. Esselt drove her sword deep into the thing’s side. With a brutal wrenching motion, she tore the blade free, ripping open a great gash from sternum to flank. A confusion of entrails spilled from the wound, flopping against the monster’s legs in a welter of gore.

  Still the fiend would not fall. The back of its hand slammed into Esselt, sending her reeling. The headless horror came after her, relentless as a juggernaut.

  At the base of the platform, Talorcan rallied. His head ringing from his violent impact, all pain was banished when he saw Esselt. A wave of dread seized him. Snatching up his sword from the ground, he staggered to where the decapitated head lay. The thing glared at him, clacking its fangs together in a display of mute fury. Then he brought his sword crunching down into the mutated skull. Twisting the blade, he bisected the head, the two halves sizzling as the ichor within them steamed away.

  Unlike the discarded hosts they had found before, destroying the head was not enough to end the monster’s rampage. Talorcan saw the headless body lunge at Esselt once again, its claws just missing her face. Then he spotted the armlet still fastened around the beast’s arm, the girasol still ablaze with hellish light.

  ‘The relic!’ Talorcan shouted. ‘That is its power!’

  Esselt gave no sign of hearing Talorcan’s cry, but her actions showed that she understood. When the monster came at her again, she ducked beneath its talons and attacked it from the side. The cleaving edge of her silvered sword smashed down on the thing’s shoulder, cutting through bone, muscle and tendon. The arm went rolling across the ground. Esselt was sent spinning through the dirt as the monster’s remaining hand caught hold of her cloak and flung her backwards.

  Talorcan hurried towards the severed arm. The fingers were scratching at the earth, trying to flip the limb over so it could drag itself back into the fray. He stamped down on its palm, pinning it in place. His eyes stared down at the armlet locked about the bicep, the ghastly girasol still aglow with infernal power. Taking his sword in both hands, he brought it chopping down, striking the ancient bronze in which the gem was set.

  A mighty howl roared across Tora Grae as the armlet was severed and the girasol was sent tumbling away from its host. At once the unnatural cold and gory scent that had descended upon the oasis was banished. The headless monster that only a moment before had been ready to attack Esselt now slumped to its knees. Esselt prodded it with her sword and it fell onto its side, already losing its monstrous proportions. Soon it wilted into the maimed body of a young woman.

  Talorcan reached to his belt and removed a strip of golden cloth from one of its pouches. Carefully he set the cloth over the loosened girasol, noting with some dismay the way the cloth darkened when it came into contact with the gem. He didn’t ponder the phenomenon for long. Turning from the cursed relic, he staggered over to where Esselt stood above the carcass of their late enemy.

  ‘Are you harmed?’ Talorcan asked, his voice heavy with concern.

  Esselt gave her companion an appraising look and raised an eyebrow. ‘I think I should be asking you that question, Tal,’ she told him.

  ‘Nothing that won’t heal,’ Talorcan said. He tried to smile, but the effort was ruined
by a wince of pain. ‘I am more ashamed than hurt. I thought I had some idea of what we were up against, but the first thing you should never forget is that Chaos obeys few rules in its manifestations.’

  Esselt removed what was left of her cloak and draped it across the mangled remains of the woman’s body. ‘What matters is that our faith in Sigmar brought us victory,’ she said. ‘How many times have we visited judgement on the filth of the Dark Gods? It will need more than a cursed bauble to overcome us.’

  Talorcan looked back at the cloth he’d set over the girasol. The golden colour had turned a deep scarlet, almost the colour of clotted blood. ‘It still has power and I am not sure it is safe to carry back to the temple for disposal.’

  ‘What do we do with it then?’ Esselt asked. ‘We can’t just leave it.’

  ‘No, we can’t,’ Talorcan agreed. His gaze turned to the little shrine of Sigmar. ‘But maybe we won’t need to take it away with us.’

  It was late the next day when the witch hunters left Tora Grae. The cool of dusk would soon descend upon the desert of Droost and the keen-eyed demi-gryphs would be able to pick their way across the dunes by moonlight as easily as they could by sunlight. With a long journey between themselves and the temple complex of Vorthion, Esselt and Talorcan were eager to avoid as much of the daytime heat as they could.

  The villagers watched them ride away from the tops of the barrier rocks. They had seen enough of the fight to know the peril they had been saved from. The witch hunters had their gratitude if not their adoration. Even for simple desert folk it was difficult to be at ease knowing the Order of Azyr was watching.

  Old Morleo didn’t join his people on the rocks. Instead he was crouched inside the shrine, bowing his head before the altar and praying to Sigmar that Talorcan and Esselt would have a safe journey. The basin to one side of the altar was empty now and on the morrow he would have to bring up a new supply from the pool to bless in Sigmar’s holy name.

  The box of offerings at the other side of the shrine was a little fuller than it had been before. There was a new stone there, a plain and withered-looking thing. All that remained of the brilliant girasol after it had been drowned in holy water and offered up to Sigmar.

  All that was left of Khorne’s obscene relic once the Blood God’s malice was removed.

  About the Author

  C L Werner’s Black Library credits include the Space Marine Battles novel The Siege of Castellax, the Age of Sigmar novel Overlords of the Iron Dragon, and the novella ‘Scion of the Storm’ in Hammers of Sigmar, the End Times novel Deathblade, Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter, Runefang, the Brunner the Bounty Hunter trilogy, the Thanquol and Boneripper series and Time of Legends: The Black Plague series. Currently living in the American south-west, he continues to write stories of mayhem and madness set in the worlds of Warhammer 40,000 and the Age of Sigmar.

  A group of heroes assemble to hunt the Eight Lamentations, mighty artefacts of the Dark God from the Age of Chaos.

  A Black Library Publication

  Published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

  Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

  Cover illustration by John Michelbach.

  The Witch Takers © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. The Witch Takers, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.

  All Rights Reserved.

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-78572-851-8

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

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