—<FIVE>—

Daemon Moon

 

 

Thirty of Sigmar’s warriors marched through the gates of Marburg with purposeful strides, their faces set and determined. The moonlight made their wolfskin cloaks glow, and reflected from the few pieces of armour they had been able to put on as Sigmar roused them from their beds. Wolfgart and Redwane followed Sigmar as he splashed from the roadway onto the boggy ground at its side.

He stopped, feeling the cold water seeping through the worn leather of his boots. Beyond the road, the marsh was shrouded in ghostly mist. Sigmar shivered as he remembered the last time he had seen such a desolate, soulless landscape. It had been ten years ago, when he had lain close to death and his soul wandered the barren wastelands of the Grey Vaults.

The souls of the damned haunted that netherworld between life and death, and these marshes would be little different. The mist writhed and coiled around itself, an opaque wall of grey with distant flickering lights bobbing in its depths.

“What in the name of Shallya’s mercy is going on?” asked Redwane. “Why are we here?”

“Aye,” said Wolfgart, still clad in his stained tunic. “It’s bad luck to fight beneath the dread moon, especially when it’s full. No good can come of it.”

“We are here to save an innocent life,” said Sigmar, hefting Ghal Maraz in both hands. The runes worked into its haft shone in the moonlight, as though energised by the thought of wreaking havoc against creatures of darkness once more.

“What are you talking about?”

“You remember telling me about the Old Faith and their sacrifices of virgins?” asked Sigmar.

“Vaguely,” replied Wolfgart.

“Turns out they’re not just stories after all. I saw Aldred lead the Raven Helms into the marsh with Marika as their prisoner. Idris Gwylt means to offer her to the mist daemons.”

“Bastard!” snarled Redwane. “I’ll break his skull open with my hammer and tear his damn heart out!”

Sigmar was surprised at the strength of Redwane’s anger, but was pleased to see the outrage on his warriors’ faces as word of what was happening spread amongst them. He turned to face the White Wolves, knowing that some might not survive the night. Wolfgart was right, it was bad luck to go into battle beneath the spectral light of the dread moon, but they had no choice if they hoped to save Marika’s life.

“A deluded old man seeks to murder an innocent girl!” Sigmar cried, though the mist seemed to swallow his words, throwing back strange echoes as if to mock him. “I will not allow this to happen, and I need your strength to stop it. Are you with me?”

As one, the White Wolves raised their hammers and roared their affirmation, as Sigmar had known they would. Though the thought of entering this terrible marsh was a fearful prospect, the Wolves would never dream of letting their Emperor go into battle without them.

Sigmar nodded and set off into the mist, splashing through sucking mud and icy pools of stagnant water the colour of pitch. He had no way of knowing exactly where the Endals had gone, for brackish water poured into every footprint and erased it in seconds. Sigmar wished he had thought to bring Cuthwin to Marburg, but wishes were for fools and children, and they would need to find the Endals without their finest tracker.

The mist closed around the Unberogen as they forged a slow, stumbling path into the marsh. Their passage was lit by the sickly glow of lifeless moonbeams, and strange burping and bubbling sounds gurgled from the bog. A whispering wind dropped the temperature, but did not stir the heavy mist.

Nightcrawlers wriggled in the reeds and flies buzzed low over the ground. Sigmar saw an enormous dragonfly droning softly as it hunted in the hungry glow of the moon. His skin crawled and the hairs on the back of his neck itched as though a clawed hand was poised to strike him. This marsh was not like the Brackenwalsch, which wore its dangers openly. It was a haunted place where death crept up on a man and took him unawares.

“Look!” shouted Redwane. “Over there!”

Sigmar turned to where Redwane was pointing, and his eyes narrowed as he saw bobbing lights in the distance, like hooded lamps borne by weary travellers. He tried to remember if the Endals had carried such illumination. He thought they had, but couldn’t be sure.

Still, he was wary. The old men of Reikdorf spoke of such lights in the Brackenwalsch. They called them doom-lanterns, for the treacherous illumination they provided was said to lure men to their deaths with the promise of safety. Pendrag had told him that such lights were merely ignited swamp gases or moonlight reflecting from the feathers of night owls, but neither explanation gave Sigmar much comfort.

If these lights were indeed those of the Endals, then they had to follow them.

“This way,” called Sigmar, setting off after the lights. “Keep watch on the ground!”

Once more the Unberogen plunged deep into the marsh, the ground becoming progressively softer and wetter underfoot. Flies buzzed around Sigmar’s head and he saw yet more of the lights surrounding them, flickering like dancing torches. Bubbles burst around his feet, sounding like the mirthless laughter of dead things.

Time ceased to have meaning, for the thick fog made it impossible to judge the moon’s passage across the night sky. Sigmar looked up, wincing as the dread moon’s leering face seemed to stare back at him. Ill-favour followed those who turned their faces too long to that malevolent orb, and Sigmar hurriedly made the sign of the horns.

He started as he felt something brush his legs, and jumped back, seeing a pale shape, like a darting eel beneath the surface of the water. Sigmar lifted his boot from the sucking marsh, the fine leather stained and ruined. A filmy residue of reeking ichor, like pale syrup, dripped from the buckles. Once they got out of the marsh, he would never wear these boots again.

Sigmar heard a dreadful cry, followed by a heavy splash behind him. He spun to see a group of men holding out their hammers to a fallen warrior who thrashed his arms in a hidden pool of murky water. Sigmar recognised him as Volko, a man who had fought at his side in the charge to rescue the Merogen flank at Black Fire.

Volko was waist-deep in the bog, but his armour was dragging him down swiftly. He reached for the outstretched weapons, but the marsh was not about to release its victim. Volko’s head vanished beneath the surface of the water as he drew breath to scream, leaving only a froth of bubbles in his wake.

“Ulric save us,” said Wolfgart, stepping back from the water. “I knew this was bad luck.”

Sigmar fought his way through the mud and water to the bog where Volko had died. Tendrils of fog gathered around the legs of every warrior, and it was next to impossible to tell solid ground from deadly bog.

“Move out,” ordered Sigmar. “Check every footstep and stay close to your comrades.”

“What about Volko?” demanded Redwane. “No warrior deserves to die without hearing the sound of wolves.”

Sigmar risked a glance into the darkened sky. “You’re right, lad, but this is a night when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.”

“So we’re just going to leave him?”

“We will mourn him later,” said Sigmar, setting off once more.

He had no way of knowing which way to go, but felt a slight pull to the north-east, as though Ghal Maraz knew better than he in which direction its enemies lay. Sigmar put his trust in the craft of the dwarfs and followed the wordless urging.

Wolfgart came alongside him, his eyes flicking from left to right.

“None of us are going to make it out of here alive,” he said.

Sigmar felt his fear, but said, “Let none of the men hear you say that.”

“It’s true though, isn’t it?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Sigmar. “We are Unberogen and there is nothing we cannot do.”

Wolfgart nodded, visibly controlling himself.

“You know we might have to fight the Raven Helms to save the girl,” he said.

“I know,” nodded Sigmar, keeping a close eye on the ground. “And if that’s what it takes, then so be it. I drove the Norsii from the empire for such barbarism, and I’ll do the same to the Endals if that’s what’s needed.”

“Aye,” said Wolfgart. “It’s wrong is what this is. Utterly wrong.”

Sigmar halted and raised his hand. His warriors stopped with a series of splashes and curses. Ahead, more of the doom-lanterns were moving through the dark, but this time it appeared as though they were borne by indistinct, shadowy forms.

“Unberogen! Stand ready!” shouted Sigmar.

The White Wolves swung their hammers to their shoulders and formed a ragged battle line as best they were able.

The lights drew closer and the mist parted as the ghostly figures came into sight.

Idris Gwylt, eyes wide with surprise, halted at the sight of Sigmar. Laredus stood beside the priest of the Old Faith, supporting the weeping form of Count Aldred. The Raven Helm’s face was grim and etched with regret. Of the twenty warriors he had led into the marsh, Sigmar counted only a dozen left alive.

Of Count Aldred’s sister, there was no sign.

Redwane surged forward and lifted Gwylt by the throat.

“Where is Marika?” he roared. “What have you done with her?”

 

Sigmar saw the Raven Helms reach for their swords and knew that this desolate stretch of marshland might become a battleground in a matter of moments. It was madness, and he would be damned if this one moment would undo the long years of sacrifice spent in building the empire.

The Raven Helms looked to their ruler for orders, and Sigmar marched over to him. The tension racked up a notch, but instead of words of rebuke Sigmar said, “Count Aldred, where is your sister?”

Ulfshard dropped from Aldred’s hand, landing point down in the water with a soft splash as the lord of the Endals sank to his haunches. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed aching tears.

“We left her,” he cried. “Ulric forgive me, we left her there.”

“Where?” asked Sigmar, kneeling next to Aldred. “Tell me where and we will get her back. You and me both. This is wrong, Aldred, you know that.”

“It had to be done!” cried Aldred. “A plague ravages my people and my brother is dead!”

Sigmar was shocked.

“Egil is dead?” he asked.

Aldred nodded, tears cutting clean lines through the mud on his cheeks. “A few hours ago, and now my sister will join him in Morr’s realm. It was the only way to save my people.”

“You are wrong,” said Sigmar.

Aldred wiped his sleeve across his face.

“What choice did I have?” he asked. “Everything was being taken from us and only the sacrifice of a pure and noble born maiden could save us.”

Sigmar took Aldred by the shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze.

“You have been deceived,” he said, looking over his shoulder to where Redwane stood with his hammer poised to smash Idris Gwylt’s skull to shards. “Did he tell you that?”

“The daemons demanded a sacrifice!” shouted Gwylt, struggling in vain to free himself from Redwane’s iron grip. “And the girl went willingly! She knew that the land must be nourished by virgin’s blood, as it was in the elder days. Aldred, you know I speak only the truth!”

“Shut your mouth, you dog,” snarled Redwane, squeezing Gwylt’s throat.

Sigmar stood and snatched Gwylt’s staff. He broke it over his knee before hurling the shards into the marsh. The Raven Helms still gripped their swords and the White Wolves were braced to meet their charge. With the wrong word, Sigmar could have a civil war on his hands.

“All of you listen to me!” he shouted. “And listen well, your lives depend upon it. This is a black day for the Endals, for you have heeded the words of a madman. You are warriors of honour and this act shames you. Leading a young girl to her death in this evil place is a vile deed, and if she dies, I will damn your names for all eternity. This curse, if curse it is, will only be lifted if we seek out these daemons of the mist and destroy them. Now I am going to find Marika, and I am going to bring her back to Marburg. You can either come with me and regain your honour, or you can slink back to your homes and live the rest of your lives known forever as cowards and nithings, to be cast out and shunned by all men.”

Sigmar turned from the warriors as Aldred pushed himself to his feet. The count of the Endals rubbed the heels of his palms against his face, as though waking from a dreadful nightmare, and Sigmar saw the strength he had seen in Aldred’s father.

“Aye,” said Sigmar, gripping Aldred’s hand. “Take up your sword, brother. We will get her back, I swear.”

Aldred lifted Ulfshard from the water, the blade’s ghostly glow banishing the darkness with its brilliance. No trace of the foul marsh-water stained its blade.

“When my father died, light fled from our lives,” said Aldred, his voice choked with emotion. “Since then I have lived in darkness. It has been so long that I cannot remember the light.”

“Help me rescue your sister and the light will return,” said Sigmar.

Aldred nodded, and a fierce determination shone in his eyes. He turned his gaze upon Idris Gwylt and said, “Aye, and this old fool will lead us back to their domain or I will cut his throat.”

 

The lair of the daemons sat upon a large hill that reared from the heart of the benighted marsh. Banks of fog gathered at its base as the Unberogen and Endal warriors crept up its rocky slopes. Towering menhirs carved with spirals, circles and one-eyed monsters punctured the sodden gorse of the hill, like jagged teeth growing from within the body of the mound.

Nearly fifty warriors darted between the grotesque monuments as they approached the summit, keeping as low and silent as possible. The deadening qualities of the mist worked in their favour, and the clatter of plate and mail was muffled.

Sigmar kept his eyes upon the ridge at the top of the hill, feeling Ghal Maraz tingling in his grasp. The ancient weapon knew that evil creatures were near, and the urge to split their skulls coursed through Sigmar’s veins. Count Aldred climbed next to him, while Wolfgart and Redwane followed close behind. The young White Wolf kept a tight grip on Idris Gwylt.

They were almost at the summit, and Sigmar halted, moving forward on his belly to a jagged, rock-crowned ridge that overlooked the daemons’ lair. Looking through a gap in the rocks, he saw the top of the hill was in fact a vast crater, and the breath caught in Sigmar’s throat at what lay within.

Colossal blocks of pale, moonlit stone lay scattered throughout the crater, all that remained of a city raised in a forgotten age by unknown hands. It covered an area at least the size of Reikdorf and Marburg combined, and Sigmar could only imagine the scale of the beings that had lived here if the size of the streets was any indication.

“Ulric’s bones,” hissed Wolfgart, as he reached the ridge and saw the city. “What is this place? Who lived here?”

“I don’t know,” said Sigmar. “Aldred?”

“Gwylt took Marika through the mist to the top of the hill. I know nothing of this place.”

“It looks like it was built for giants,” said Redwane.

“Then let’s hope they’re as dead as their city,” said Wolfgart.

All thoughts of the city’s builders fled from Sigmar’s mind as he saw a flash of golden hair below them in what looked like a crude arena. Marika was bound to one of the soaring menhirs, and Aldred cried out as he too saw her.

“Blood of my fathers!” swore Redwane. “Daemons!”

Sigmar felt his blood chill as monsters emerged from the darkness. A host of vile creatures hauled themselves from lairs carved beneath the arena, and even from a distance they were repulsive.

There were around a hundred of the pallid-fleshed daemons, their bodies hairless and hunched. Bronze shields strapped to their torsos protected their wasted bodies, and barbed tails swayed beneath kilts of tattered mail. Each daemon carried a rusted weapon, either an axe or a spiked club, and beak-like snouts filled with savage, needle-like teeth snapped and gnashed as they closed on Marika.

Each of the daemons saw the world through but a single eye, and such a hideous aberration of form left Sigmar in no doubt as to their diabolical nature. More hideous than even the worst of the daemons was the loathsome creature that lurched and shuffled at the centre of the pack. Though shaped like its lesser brethren, this monstrous cyclops was much larger, the height of three tall men. Its limbs were bloated and its distended belly was like that of a woman on the verge of giving birth. Lank hair hung from this creature’s skull like tarred ropes and two shapeless dugs of withered flesh hung from its breast.

Was this some form of abominable daemon-queen?

The vast creature advanced on Marika, and Sigmar’s stomach turned as he saw a vile lust in its cyclopean features.

There was no time for subtlety here, only action.

Sigmar shouted, “Into them!” and surged over the ridge with Ghal Maraz raised over his shoulder. The hammer’s runes shimmered in the weak light, and the daemons let loose a gurgling shriek of warning at the sight of him.

The mass of Unberogen and Endal warriors charged after Sigmar, ululating war cries splitting the dead air with their ferocity. Wolfgart and Aldred charged alongside Sigmar, and the wiry count of the Endals pulled ahead of him, the desperate need to redeem himself and save his sister lending his tired limbs fresh strength. Redwane ran with a look of hatred twisting his young features. The daemons shambled from the arena towards them, brandishing their rusted weapons and answering the war cries of their enemies with hoarse roars of their own.

Sigmar sprinted downhill towards the arena, vaulting a fallen monolith and bellowing the name of Ulric. There was no way he could reach Marika before the daemon-queen tore her to pieces, but if nothing else, he would avenge her.

The running warriors struck the daemons in a clash of iron and bronze. As horrifying as the creatures were, they died as any creature of flesh and blood could die. Wolfgart’s huge blade clove through three of the monsters with a single blow, while Aldred spun through the daemons with the elegant sweeps of a fencing master. Redwane killed with brutally precise hammer-blows, the heavy, wolf-shaped head spinning around his body in devastating arcs.

Sigmar fought to keep up with Aldred, smashing a daemon from its feet with a chopping blow from Ghal Maraz. The beast howled in agony as the runes on the dwarf weapon seared its flesh and crushed its bones. Another monster came at him, but Sigmar ducked a skull-crushing sweep of its axe and slammed the head of his hammer against the creature’s midriff. Its belly split open and a bubbling gruel of stinking fluids spilled onto the hillside. Dank mist began forming in the bowl of the arena, and the vile smell of rotten meat increased on every stale breath of wind.

Sigmar pushed onwards, killing a daemon with every blow, but too many of the beasts were between him and Marika. All around him the battle raged, and the courage of his warriors, both Unberogen and Endal, was a thing of rare magnificence.

White Wolves fought with a brutal directness, always pushing forward with chopping blows from their hammers. Such weapons were designed for swinging from the back of a charging steed, but such was the skill of the Unberogen warriors that it made little difference to their tally of kills.

The Raven Helms fought to expunge the shame of leading their princess into the marsh, and each man cut into the daemons with no thought for his own defence, their swords stained with the blood of their enemies. The months of misery and suffering caused by these daemons were repaid in full, as the Endals vented their hatred and grief in every blow.

The daemons fought with equal ferocity, their axes and clubs landing with dreadful strength that smashed plate armour asunder, and tore through mail as though it were woven from cloth. Their limbs were wiry, but they were strong and brutal, and many a warrior had marched into this battle without armour.

Thick banks of mist rolled out from the enormous daemon at the centre of the horde, flowing up the hill in an unnatural tide. The stink of it was like a midden at the height of summer and it coiled through the battle like a host of wet grey snakes. Soon the entire hillside was wreathed in mist, and every warrior fought his own battle in the smothering fog, unable to tell friend from foe.

Blood stained the hillside as men and daemons hacked into each other. The Endals and Unberogen still pushed forward, but the greater number of their inhuman foes was beginning to tell. Their courageous charge slowed and finally stopped.

Sigmar caught up to Aldred, the Endal count’s glowing sword blade a beacon in the obscuring fog. The mist seemed reluctant to close around Sigmar and Aldred, as though kept at bay by the magic of their weapons.

Redwane fought towards them.

“The girl!” he shouted. “Get to the girl!”

Sigmar saw the hideous beast rear over the Endal princess. It reached for the struggling girl and let out a screeching, gurgling cry of triumph. Aldred cried out in despair, but no sooner did the daemon-queen touch Marika, than it recoiled as though burned. It loosed a hideous shriek, its monstrous features twisted in revulsion, as though disgusted by the young girl before it.

Aldred fought at Sigmar’s side. Together they cut a path through the daemons, parting the mist before them with their enchanted weapons. Side by side, Emperor and count slew their foes, each protecting the other, and each fighting as though they had trained together since childhood. Their weapons wove killing arcs, and Sigmar sensed a kinship between these wondrous artefacts, as though they had slain creatures of the dark together in ages past in the hands of their makers. Though forged by craftsmen from very different races, oath-sworn pacts of ancient days still bound the fates of the weapons.

The moment passed, and Sigmar felt stone beneath his boots as he stepped onto the marble-flagged floor of the arena. He killed another monster as Aldred slew the last of the daemon-queen’s protectors and ran to his sister. Marika still screamed and wept in terror, sagging against the chains that bound her to the menhir.

“So much for willing, eh?” said Redwane, coming alongside Sigmar.

The daemon-queen backed away from them, though it hissed and spat in Marika’s direction. The sounds of battle still raged on the hillside above, but Sigmar knew that the daemons’ curse would only be ended with the death of this monster.

“Let’s finish this,” said Sigmar.

“Gladly,” agreed Redwane.

The two warriors charged towards the daemon-queen, but they had travelled no more than a few yards when the ground underfoot transformed from solid marble to sucking mud and water. Redwane stumbled, and Sigmar sank to his calves.

“Sorcery!” cried Redwane, hauling himself from the mud and pushing on. Sigmar extricated himself and splashed over the boggy ground after Redwane. Columns of yellow fog boiled from the suddenly marshy ground, and a powerful stench like rotten eggs assailed him. He gagged on the acrid mist, feeling his guts rebel at the foulness. In seconds, he was as good as blind.

A shadow moved in the fog, and Sigmar threw himself to one side as a huge clawed arm slashed towards him. He splashed into the stinking water as filth-encrusted talons flashed over his head, a hand’s span from decapitating him. He tasted the rank marsh water the daemon-queen had conjured.

Sigmar coughed and spat the black fluid clear, rolling in the mud as a huge, clawed foot slammed down. He swung his hammer, and the creature shrieked as the ancient weapon struck its wet and spongy flesh.

Redwane’s hammer tore into the creature’s side, and a froth of blood and lumpen matter spilled from the wound. That matter flapped and writhed as though alive, but thankfully sank into the swamp before Sigmar could see its true nature. The White Wolf’s hammer was a blur of dark iron, slamming home again and again into the daemon-queen’s flesh.

Sigmar struggled to his feet in the slippery mud, feeling the desire of the swampy ground to suck him down to his death. The beast lurched towards Redwane, faster than its bulk would suggest, and its clawed arms plucked him from the ground. The mist closed in around the combat, and Sigmar heard Redwane roar in pain, before his cries were suddenly silenced. A heavy splash sounded, and Sigmar swung Ghal Maraz up to his shoulder.

A bloated shape moved in the mist, and the daemon-queen loomed over him, its lank hair whipping around its head as it snapped at him. Sigmar threw up his hammer, holding it above his head with both hands, and the creature’s beaked jaw snapped down on the haft.

The force of the bite drove Sigmar into the sodden ground, and marsh water sucked greedily at his body, pulling him deeper into the mire. The monster’s foetid breath enveloped him, and gobs of stinging drool spattered him as it tried to bite through Ghal Maraz. Mud rose past his waist, and bubbles burst around him as he sank even further.

A flash of movement caught Sigmar’s eye as a dark shape leapt to the attack.

Sigmar’s heart leapt as he saw Redwane. The young warrior’s mail shirt was shredded, splintered links falling from him like droplets of silver. Blood soaked his side where the daemon-queen had torn his flesh, but the fury of battle was upon him and no force in the world was going to stop him.

Redwane yelled, “Ulric give me strength!” and brought his hammer down over his head.

The weapon thundered against the side of the daemon-queen’s head, and its lower jaw was smashed from its skull. Greenish-brown blood spattered Sigmar, and the pressure on his arms vanished. He wrenched Ghal Maraz free, and swung it one-handed over the splintered remains of the monster’s chitinous beak. All his strength was behind the blow, and the head of the rune hammer slammed into the daemon-queen’s eye.

It burst like a ruptured bladder, showering Sigmar and Redwane in reeking gelatinous fluids, and the daemon-queen howled in agony. The enormous beast crashed down, its flailing arms clutching its ruined socket. Blood squirted from the wound, and the mists that cloaked it began to fade as its life bled out. The monster convulsed in its death throes, and it vomited an enormous slick of wriggling things that flopped and thrashed like landed fish.

Sigmar struggled to free himself from the sucking marsh, as he felt the ground begin to solidify around him. He had no wish to be trapped when the magic that had transformed the stone to swamp was exhausted.

“Need a hand?” asked Redwane. His face was deathly white, and Sigmar saw how deeply the daemon-queen had cut him. Bright blood flowed from his side and drenched his leggings.

“If you can,” said Sigmar.

“I think I’ll manage,” said Redwane, taking hold of Sigmar’s wrist and pulling. Though his face contorted in pain, Redwane hauled Sigmar free of the mud without complaint. Sigmar got to his feet, feeling that the ground beneath him was solid stone once more.

“Right,” whispered Redwane, “I think I’ll lie down now.”

Sigmar caught the youth as he fell, and laid him down gently before lifting the torn mail from his body. The skin was ashen and slick with blood, three parallel scars running from Redwane’s ribs to his pelvis. “I need water!” shouted Sigmar.

“Damn, but that stings,” hissed Redwane. “The bitch was quicker than she looked.”

“These?” asked Sigmar. “Ach, they’re nothing, lad. I’ve had bigger scars from the bites of Ortulf’s fleas.”

“That old dog must have some damn big fleas,” said Redwane, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Perhaps Wolfgart should throw saddles on them and we’ll fly into battle.”

Sigmar smiled and looked uphill to where Wolfgart and the White Wolves stood triumphant with Laredus and the Raven Helms amid a field of corpses. Daemons and men lay scattered across the hillside, for it had been a battle won with the blood of heroes. The dead would be mourned in time, but for now, the victory belonged to the living.

“Here,” said a voice at Sigmar’s side. “Water.”

Sigmar looked up into Aldred’s battle-weary face. The Count of the Endals and his sister stood over Sigmar. Aldred held out a leather canteen. Sigmar took it and poured clear liquid over Redwane’s wounds.

“Will he live?” asked Marika, dropping to her knees beside Redwane.

“His wounds are wide, but shallow,” said Sigmar, trying not to think of the filth encrusted on the daemon-queen’s claws. “So long as the wounds do not fester, I believe he will live.”

“That’s good to know,” hissed Redwane.

“He will receive the best care in Marburg, my emperor,” said Aldred.

“I will nurse him myself,” promised Marika.

Aldred offered Sigmar his hand and said, “I have been a fool, my friend. I doubted your vision, and my father’s death blinded me to its truth. Idris Gwylt fanned the flames of that doubt and his dark faith almost cost me the life of my sister.”

“He promised my sacrifice would save our people,” said Marika, and Sigmar was impressed at how quickly she had recovered her composure after so close a brush with death. Clearly Endal women were as hardy as those of the Unberogen. “His lies had me convinced that only I could save us, that I should walk into the marsh and let that… thing devour me.”

“Aye, and for that he will pay with his life,” said Aldred. “I will curse his soul to eternal torment with a thrice death in the waters of the marsh.”

“It is no more than he deserves,” said Sigmar.

Marika rose from Redwane’s side and Aldred took her by the hand, holding it as though he meant to never let go.

“The mists are lifting,” said Aldred. “I think the journey out of the marshes will be happier than the journey in.”

“Indeed it will,” agreed Sigmar, “but we should move quickly. It will be dark soon.”

Aldred nodded and led Marika away as Wolfgart came over to help him with Redwane.

“Well, lad,” said Wolfgart. “You have fought daemons now. Was it all you hoped for?”

“Oh yes,” snapped Redwane. “I’ve always wanted to be mauled by a fat daemon bitch.”

Wolfgart grinned, tearing strips from the lining of his cloak to use as bandages.

As Wolfgart bound Redwane’s wounds, Sigmar looked over at the mouldering corpse of the daemon-queen, picturing how the creature had recoiled from its intended victim.

“There is one thing I don’t understand,” said Sigmar. “Why did the beast not kill Marika? I thought daemons hungered for the blood of virgins.”

“Trust me,” said Redwane with a sly grimace. “That lass is no virgin.”