Castle of blood, p.12
Castle of Blood, page 12
The lock was weakening. Soon the door would open.
‘Come on,’ Magda said. She drew away from Klueger and stepped towards the gate. The witch hunter drew the sword he carried, a slender blade fashioned from silvery metal. Klueger had told her that it had been fashioned in Azyrheim from sigmarite, the fabulous metal used by the mighty Stormcast Eternals. It could harm creatures otherwise inured to physical injury. Things like daemons.
‘Keep behind me,’ Klueger said as he stepped past Magda and cautiously entered the chapel. He emphasised his meaning by nodding at the falchion she’d brought with her from the parlour. ‘Your blade is merely steel.’ He reached to the holster on his hip and handed her the gold-handled pistol he carried. ‘If there’s something here, use this. The bullets are blessed by the grand lector. The charge will hold for six shots. Just aim, squeeze the trigger and pray to Sigmar.’
‘I’d be more use with the sword,’ Magda reminded him. She was unfamiliar with pistols, but almost from the cradle she’d learned how to handle a blade.
The witch hunter strode forwards, his gaze sweeping across the dusty pews. ‘If there’s something here, I know how I’ll react to its presence.’ He turned, a pained look on his face. ‘I mean I have been trained…’
Magda just nodded in reply. Klueger did not have to say anything else. There was the threat that the daemon might possess her, just as it might possess any of the children. The witch hunter was willing to risk the pistol – he had a second on his belt – but not his sigmarite sword. Magda did not press him further. She didn’t want to know if, should she be possessed, Klueger would be able to strike her down.
The guests had done nothing to cover the gory scene around the altar. The bodies lay strewn about the bloody pulp that had once been Reiner. Magda stifled a sob when she saw the twisted remains of Ottokar’s silver arm. Tears welled up in her eyes when she saw her father’s corpse. It was more than a look of horror that was frozen on his face – an expression of agonising despair. In his last moments, he’d tried to save her. When death took him, it came with the knowledge that he’d failed.
This time Klueger was oblivious to Magda’s distress. Training and instinct took over, and the witch hunter prowled about the carnage like a gryph-hound. He examined the bodies, the shattered altar. He stood beside the broken sepulchre and studied what was inside. Then, with a visible repugnance, he knelt beside the fleshy mash that had been the daemon’s host body. He drew a long silvery pin from a pocket and began to prod the remains.
‘I hoped… I prayed that your stories were wrong,’ Klueger said. ‘I wanted to believe you were all mistaken, that the count had conjured some lesser fiend to haunt you.’
Magda approached the altar. Her eyes kept straying back to Ottokar’s body. ‘Whatever he conjured, it has to be killed.’
Klueger stood. His face was desolate. ‘A daemon can’t be killed, because it’s not really alive. It can only be vanquished, sent back to the cursed Realm of Chaos.’ His voice dropped to a grave whisper. ‘Magda, this thing is more powerful than anything I have seen. Every speck of Reiner’s flesh has been corrupted, befouled with the daemon’s essence. Only a manifestation of obscene power could do such a thing.’ A shudder passed through him as he told her the bitter truth he’d been forced to accept. ‘Magda, I don’t know if I can stop this thing.’
Magda felt her insides turn cold. The bold, confident witch hunter was now unsure of himself. To hear a man of sincere faith express doubt was somehow more horrible than the fear and despair of all the others.
Magda stared at the fleshy pulp. She reached down and withdrew the blade that was partially buried in the gore. Ottokar’s sword. Her father’s sword. It was why she’d come back to the chapel. She intended to avenge her father.
‘Maybe we can’t stop the daemon,’ she said, ‘but that doesn’t mean it takes us without a fight.’
Bernger stood with the others as they tried to interrogate the duardin. After the witch hunter left, Hartmann had brought up the idea that they shouldn’t waste time trying to fight the daemon. They should get out of the castle. Abarahm supported the idea. The stronger the daemon, the harder it was for the fiend to maintain itself away from the Realm of Chaos. The ancient sorceries that had once dominated Mhurghast might allow it to manifest in the castle, but outside would be different. Or so it was hoped. Of one thing there was certainty. Remaining inside the castle was waiting for certain death.
‘An oath is an oath,’ Alrik snarled. He held the broken leg of a chair in his hands and waved it menacingly at his interrogators. ‘I’d sooner die than be an oathbreaker.’
‘Be sensible,’ Abarahm advised. ‘It is not just your life in jeopardy, but that of your son. Would you sacrifice him because of a promise made to a dead man? A dead man who planned for both of you to die?’
Alrik glanced over at his son, then sneered at the aelf. ‘If I broke my oath, the shame of it would pass on to Brond, and to his children and their children’s children.’
‘Don’t you feel any responsibility for those people who died in your traps?’ Bernger demanded. ‘I saw them. Impaled on spikes. Cooked alive on those red-hot walls.’
The cogsmith shrugged. ‘I only did what I was paid to do.’
Hiltrude began removing her jewellery. ‘If it is a question of money, I will pay you to show us how to get past–’
‘It isn’t the money,’ Brond said. ‘It’s our oath. We cannot break it.’
Bernger gestured to Bruno. ‘I would do anything for my father,’ he said. ‘What about you? You can save your father by telling us how to get past the traps.’
‘Don’t let them turn your head,’ Alrik warned Brond. ‘I’ll not have an oathbreaker for a son. Tell them anything and you are no longer of my blood.’
‘This is idiotic!’ Roald shouted. He stormed towards the duardin. ‘You would let all of us die for some bombastic notion of honour!’ He glanced around at the other guests. ‘There are only two of them. I say we rush them and make them tell.’ He pointed at Alrik. ‘Maybe after I use a hot poker to trim that beard, you’ll feel more like talking.’
Howling with outrage, Brond rushed Roald. The nobleman retreated before the duardin’s charge. He fell over the divan and lay sprawled on the floor. Brond stood over him and raised his mattock for a downward swing.
Bruno and Bernger hurried to catch hold of the duardin while Roald scrambled away. Brond proved surprisingly strong. He threw them off and glared at the baron’s defenders.
‘His eyes! By Sigmar, look at his eyes!’ Bruno cried as he backed away.
Bernger stared in horror at Brond. The duardin’s eyes were completely red. A trickle of blood dripped from the corner of each like crimson tears.
Brond’s rage faltered. Haltingly, he lifted a hand to his face and touched the blood falling down his cheeks. A wail of terror rose from him when he saw the crimson patina on his fingers. He cast aside his mattock and ran out into the hallway.
‘Brond!’ Alrik shouted. He started to chase after his son, but only managed a few steps before guests were swarming over him. Heimo threw a chair in the cogsmith’s path, sending him to the floor. Thilo and Abarahm pounced on the sprawled duardin, pinning him down while Lothar poured a strange liquid onto a blanket. Before Alrik could free himself, the alchemist threw the damp blanket over his head. Almost instantly the cogsmith’s efforts to escape lessened. Soon he was completely insensible.
‘We can’t let the other one go,’ Roald shouted in panic. ‘The daemon’s inside him. It’ll come back.’
‘I’ll get him,’ Bernger said. Only after the words left his mouth and he was dashing out into the hallway did it occur to him that he had no idea what he would do even if he caught up to Brond. What could he possibly do with someone who at any moment might turn into a daemon and rend his flesh as it had those it butchered in the chapel?
Bernger turned when he heard footsteps pounding after him. His father came dashing down the hallway, his sword drawn. There was an intense severity in his expression.
‘If we catch up to him, we kill him,’ Bruno told his son, shocking him with the brutality of his words. ‘It might be the only way. Kill the host while he’s still mortal enough to be killed. Brond’s already as good as dead anyway. If we act fast, maybe we can keep him from killing his own father.’
Bernger was still aghast at the plan. ‘It’s monstrous.’
Bruno agreed. ‘Sometimes what needs to be done isn’t what we’d like it to be.’
The two men could hear Brond’s steps far ahead of them. Terror had lent the duardin a shocking fleetness. Or perhaps it was the daemon possessing him that made him so quick. Bernger wondered if it might already be too late to stop the fiend.
‘He’s headed for the courtyard,’ Bruno suddenly realised as they started into the long corridor that led to the castle entrance.
Bernger appreciated what motivated Brond. ‘He has the same idea we do. He thinks if he can die quick enough he can dislodge the daemon and keep it from going after his father.’
‘Prey without a hunter,’ Bruno muttered. ‘Hunter without prey.’
Bernger thought of something else. ‘Grand Lector Sieghard! What’ll he think if he sees Brond like this?’
‘He might be moved to storm the castle and burn everything – everyone – inside!’
Bernger redoubled his pace, coaxing every last speck of speed he could from his body. He had to catch the duardin now. He couldn’t let the men in the courtyard see him.
‘Bernger!’ Bruno yelled. ‘He’s turned away. He isn’t running for the courtyard any more!’ He pointed to a side passage. He waited only long enough to be sure his son knew where he was going before he ducked into the corridor.
Bernger found there was something familiar about the passage. After the second turn he knew what it was. This was the way Goswin and the servants had gone to reach the trophy room.
‘He’s headed for the dungeons!’ Bernger shouted to Bruno.
Bruno let his pace slacken. ‘Then we’re too late.’
‘We can catch him,’ Bernger assured his father.
‘Why did he turn back from the courtyard? I don’t think it was because he was afraid of upsetting Sieghard.’
‘He may have. He may have decided to use the traps to…’
Bruno shook his head. ‘We’ll see,’ he said, but there was no confidence in his voice.
The two men reached the trophy room without catching sight of Brond. Bernger thought he heard hurried footsteps echoing from the hidden passage. He raced over to the secret door and peered into the dark opening. He could detect the faint noise of someone moving below.
‘He’s here!’ Bernger called before darting into the stairway. Bruno hurried after him.
Bernger emerged from the passage just in time to see Brond finish crossing the first of the trapped corridors. ‘We have him now!’ He started for the dungeon, but his father caught hold of him and pulled him back.
‘It’s too late,’ Bruno said.
‘I know how to cross the first two rooms. I saw Goswin do it.’
Bruno gestured to the corridor where one wrong step would see a trespasser impaled on the spikes. ‘Brond could have killed himself right here. He didn’t. That means he didn’t come here to destroy himself. He came to hide somewhere we can’t follow. Just like Reiner, the daemon needs time to fully claim its host.’
‘Then Baron von Woernhoer is right,’ Bernger said. ‘We have to make Alrik tell us the secrets of the dungeon.’
Bruno nodded. ‘Maybe he’ll listen now. Maybe now that he sees what has happened to his son, he’ll see everything else in a new light.’
There was a sombre note in Bruno’s tone that echoed through the cellar. To Bernger it had all the qualities of a portent of doom.
Chapter VII
Roald watched the iron heating in the fire. He wasn’t a squeamish man, but he did consider such things to be dirty and sordid. The kind of work he paid people to do for him, not perform on his own. He sent a contemptuous glance at Lothar. Of course the alchemist would have a few of his vile potions among his effects, such as the one that had subdued Alrik, but he didn’t happen to have any of the ingredients for the mixture he claimed could compel anyone to answer questions put to them.
‘Be sensible, damn you!’ Roald spun around and glared at the duardin. Alrik was bound hand and foot, sitting in the same seat Goswin had sat in hours ago. There was no fear in the cogsmith’s gaze, only an insolent defiance that to the baron felt like a personal affront.
‘It is foolish of you to stay quiet,’ Hiltrude said, her tone more diplomatic than Roald’s. She was always like that, always adopting a manner that would make her appear more controlled and commanding than her husband. ‘Brond has become the daemon’s new host. That means you are its next victim. Time is short for all of us, but even more so for you.’
Hartmann dropped to his knees beside Alrik. ‘You’ve got to tell us how to get past the traps,’ he implored. ‘None of us are poor. We’ll pay you handsomely–’
‘Stop grovelling,’ Roald snarled. ‘You won’t make an impression on him that way. He’s already made it clear he doesn’t care about money.’ He withdrew the iron from the fire. The faint glow around its pronged tip wasn’t to his satisfaction, so he thrust it back into the flames.
Abarahm paced behind Alrik’s chair, the aelf’s clothing rippling with an uncanny motion, as though it were woven from oceanic waves. ‘The duardin are renowned for their stubbornness,’ he said. ‘It will be useless to threaten him. Even more to torture him.’
‘I must agree,’ Thilo said. He walked towards Roald. ‘If we lower ourselves to this kind of thing… what does that make us?’
Roald’s eyes were cold when he answered. ‘Alive. And that is all that matters right now.’ He glanced over at Hiltrude, but the baroness had nothing to add. Liebgarde was sitting at the far end of the room, putting as much distance between herself and Alrik as she could. She was always timid, Roald reflected. That was Hiltrude’s fault, for pampering her too much.
‘There is the chance the witch hunter could find a way to stop the daemon,’ Lothar suggested. ‘Men in that profession are not without their own abilities.’
‘The only person here Klueger cares about saving is that girl,’ Roald said. He turned towards Inge. ‘Is that not so, Frau Hausler? If not for your daughter, would that man have dared pass through Sieghard’s quarantine?’
Inge met the baron’s sharp gaze. ‘I often advised her against associating with that man. They’re a fearsome breed. I wanted better things for her, a loftier future. But right now I thank Sigmar for the bond between them. Klueger will do everything he can to protect Magda.’ She looked across the room at the rest of the guests. ‘Magda is the only one I care about.’ She pointed at Alrik. ‘This barbarous farce makes me wonder if any of you even deserve to live.’
Roald smiled at the retort. ‘There you have it. From the mother’s own mouth. All the witch hunter cares about is saving that girl.’ He moved back towards the chair and loomed over Alrik. ‘You’ll talk. I promise you. I’ll singe that beard down to stubble. Brand your cheeks down to the jawbone if I have to. You’ll talk. Save yourself a lot of pain and just tell us now.’
Alrik merely stared back at Roald. Not with anger, or fear, but with that same fatalistic insolence. Roald spun around and snatched the iron from the fire. He tested its heat on the rug, searing a long stripe across it. He gestured with its glowing tip at the cogsmith’s face.
‘This against that,’ Roald warned. He fought to keep his tone measured, to keep an edge of panic from his voice. For the first time it had occurred to him that even under torture Alrik might stay silent. ‘Last chance. How do we get through the traps in the dungeon?’
‘Do it already,’ Hartmann hissed. The merchant’s eyes were frantic, his face glistening with sweat. ‘Make him tell us how to get away! Force it out of him!’
Roald hesitated. He looked aside to Hiltrude. He caught the slight nod she gave him. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about her disapproval later. He firmed his grip on the poker and stepped towards the chair. The hot iron slashed down, raking across Alrik’s cheek. The stink of burnt hair rose from the duardin. Just like the rug, a blackened stripe ran through the cogsmith’s beard.
Roald took a step back when Alrik didn’t cry out. He simply stared at the baron with the same defiant indifference. Roald was prepared for rage or terror, but not this sort of resignation. How could he torture someone who didn’t even care about what was happening to him?
‘Make him talk!’ Hartmann cried. ‘He has to talk!’
Roald raised the iron to strike again. Before he could, the sound of someone running in the corridor outside brought him up short. Except for the captive Alrik, everyone turned towards the doorway, their hands tightening around whatever weapon they’d found for themselves. Hartmann scrambled back and uttered a sob of horror.
Their dread proved unfounded when Bernger came into the parlour. He was flushed from his recent exertions and it took him several moments to recover his breath so that he could speak.
‘We didn’t catch Brond,’ Bernger finally reported. ‘It looked like he was headed towards the courtyard. That he might use Sieghard’s men to kill himself before the daemon could take complete control.’
Roald clenched his fist in frustration. Now it was going to be even harder to get Alrik to talk. However, the germ of an idea took shape in his mind. An idea that horrified even him.
