03 - Death's Legacy (35 page)

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, the 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.

“Kill the witch!” Gerhard bellowed, ducking under Hans’
latest attack, and laying open a wound across the mutant’s belly, which barely
slowed him. The daemon howled as rainbow flames engulfed it, and Rudi felt a
faint echo of its suffering in the hollow space in the centre of his being,
which it had occupied for so long.

“Don’t you know any other songs?” the third figure asked, a
familiar edge of sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Hanna strode unhurriedly
into the middle of the melee, a nimbus of raw, red fire rippling into existence
in front of her. Rudi stood, dumbfounded, suddenly paralysed by indecision
again. “Hello, Rudi.” She smiled warmly at him. “Ready to go?”

“Go where?” he asked.

“Wherever you like,” said Hanna. “It’s almost over. As soon
as that thing’s dead, you’re free.” The echo of the daemon’s terror quivered
inside him, and at last he understood.

“She’s really killing it, isn’t she? Not just banishing it
back to the Realm of Chaos like Markzell’s trying to do.”

“That’s right.” Hanna flung the fireball she’d conjured into
existence at another of the priests, but instead of striking and immolating him,
it fizzled and went out. A moue of disappointment crossed the girl’s face for a
moment, to be replaced by one of alarm as the cleric responded with a short
prayer, and a streak of golden fire shot through the space between them. Hanna
cried out as it struck home, scorching through the concealing cloak she wore,
and staggered.

“Hanna!” Concerned for her safety, Rudi took a step forwards,
and then hesitated. Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but confusion.
Gerhard and Hans were still exchanging blows, neither apparently able to gain
the upper hand, and the daemon was still shrieking, engulfed in mystical flames
that flickered and danced like Rhya’s Veil, the mysterious polychromatic lights
that occasionally appeared in the night time skies of the northlands. Markzell
was still groaning, trying to regain his feet, and the other priests, far from
running in panic after the gruesome deaths of their comrades, as Rudi had
expected, were coming together, a common expression of grim resolution on their
faces.

His decision made, Rudi took Hanna by the arm. Whatever else
happened, he had to get her to safety.

“Rudi!” Gerhard ducked a slash from Hans’ talons, which tore
a small hailstorm of multicoloured tiles from the wall. “Don’t let her kill it!”
To Rudi’s astonishment there was a clear edge of panic in the witch hunter’s
voice, something he’d never expected to hear there. He hesitated again,
wondering why the man was suddenly so frightened, and what he should do for the
best.

“Help me, Rudi.” Hanna turned a pale face to his, and
staggered against him.

“What happens if it dies?” Rudi asked, reaching out an arm to
support her. The priests were muttering among themselves again, and more bright
streaks of light, like miniature comets, were hurtling across the room. Some
struck Hans, making him stagger, while the rest expended themselves against a
sudden flare of yellow flame that sprang up to surround Greta. Only his
proximity to the girl, Rudi assumed, prevented Hanna from being a target as
well. “Tell me!”

“What does it matter?” Hanna asked, leaning in towards him.
Once again, Rudi felt the strength of his love for her warring against his
rational mind. “When it’s gone, you’re free. We can go wherever you like, make a
real life together.”

“What happens?” Rudi insisted. The backwash of agony from the
dying daemon was diminishing, becoming barely perceptible. The point would
become moot in a matter of moments anyway. Hanna sighed, and looked up at him,
her eyes alight with a disturbing joy that he’d never seen there before.

“Isn’t it obvious? We’ll have sacrificed a daemon here, in
the name of Tzeentch! You can’t imagine the power that will unleash. This place
will become his, along with everything it touches!”

“The Church of Sigmar. The Empire itself.” Rudi staggered
back, releasing her, the enormity of the idea almost too huge to grasp. “You’re
delivering it all into the hands of Chaos!” Hanna straightened, apparently no
longer needing his support to stand.

“That’s right. So you might as well be on the winning side.
After all, you made it possible.” She smiled, with the same expression of
disdainful amusement that he remembered so well from Kohlstadt. “It’s not as if
there’s anything you can do to stop it.”

His mind spinning, Rudi glanced around the chapel, hoping to
find some form of inspiration. The daemon had stopped howling, and was
whimpering, making a sound like thick sludge trickling down a faraway drain. It
seemed smaller, diminished, dwindling away even as he watched. Hans was
staggering, his armour-like skin pockmarked from the impact of the priests’
miraculous fire, and Gerhard was pressing him hard, his sword a blur of motion
in the light from the swinging lamps. Greta remained invulnerable behind her
curtain of shimmering yellow flame. It seemed that Hanna was right. There was
nothing he could do, and no one he could call upon for help.

Then his eyes fell on the huge icon of Sigmar, protector of
the Empire, and a new sense of resolve flooded through him. Almost as if the
idea had come from somewhere outside himself, he suddenly knew what he had to
do. Quickly, before his courage failed him, he felt for the last fading vestiges
of his connection to the dying daemon.

“Hurry,” he thought, hoping the link still functioned both
ways, and that the crippled abomination was still whole enough to respond,
“while there’s still time!”

Suddenly the thing vanished, disappearing from the mortal
world again in a single burst of imploding air. Greta staggered, as if she’d
been struck, and the nimbus of flames surrounding her abruptly went out.