Daemon Gates Trilogy

Title Page

A WARHAMMER NOVEL

BOOK THREE OF THE DAEMON GATES TRILOGY

HOUR OF THE DAEMON

AARON ROSENBERG

this is a dark
age. a bloody age. an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart
of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are
far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north,

come rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge Mountains, the ore tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven. emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and bcastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.

As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

PROLOGUE

'How
goes it
, Ernst?'

The sailor spat over the side and glanced up. 'All's quiet, cap'n.'

'Good, good.' The barge captain moved away again, heading back towards his small cabin to the rear of the ship, while Ernst went back to staring out over the water. It was a quiet night, but that didn't mean it was safe. The Sol River was hardly Black Fire Pass - it wound its way past Nuln and on, but still there were mutants, skaven, beast- men, and of course bandits. The worst they encountered was the occasional lowlife in a skiff, armed with a cross­bow and delusions, and demanding a toll before allowing them past. The river was wide enough to simply ignore any posturing from the shore, but whenever the threat was waterborne, Helmuth deliberately steered towards it instead. He felt that letting such creatures sail the river, and make their demands, without repercussion set a bad prece­dent, whereas destroying them and their boats left a clear

message to other would-be obstacles. They were no war­ship, but the Battered Eye was a good solid barge, and outside of port no one told her where to go.

Ernst reached down for the wineskin at his side, and frowned when it proved lighter than he'd hoped; not a drop left, damn. He wouldn't be able to refill it now, not while on watch. He wasn't supposed to drink at his post anyway, but the captain didn't mind, as long as it was just the one wineskin and he was still able to answer coher­ently. Now the rest of his shift would be long, dry and deadly dull.

He was so busy lamenting his lack of drink that he didn't hear the faint slosh of water against the barge's side, or if he did, he thought it was merely the current. Nor did Ernst notice the soft scratching sound against the hull, a sound like an animal's claws might make, but louder and slower, and almost cautious somehow. He was shaking his wine­skin over his mouth, hoping for a few tiny drops to help assuage his thirst, and failed to see the shadows that rose from the water and slipped over the rails.

Movement close by caught his eye, and Ernst turned, a question half-formed on his lips, but it was too late. The blow caught him full on the neck, shredding his throat, and only a faint gurgle escaped his lips as his lifeblood bubbled out. His body toppled to one side, over the rail and into the water, making a splash louder than any of the sounds he had missed, and the helmsman started at the sudden noise. Then a shadowy figure was upon him, and his torn body struck the deck a second later.

Other sailors were emerging, hearing the sounds, some holding clubs, hooks and knives, but they were still befud­dled with sleep and the night was dark, thin clouds hiding Morrslieb and the stars. The men saw only shadows, shad­ows that tore into them like wild beasts, with hisses and snarls. Throats were carved open, heads were smashed in, limbs were torn from torsos, ribs were laid bare and organs

ripped loose, all within seconds. Men were choking on blood and bile, and clutching desperately at their wounds, trying to keep their lives from spilling out, even as they fought off additional attacks. Blood washed across the deck, and panicking sailors slipped in their blood and that of their fallen comrades, sliding and scrambling for pur­chase. Their attackers had no such difficulty, clattering across the wooden planks with ease. Within minutes, the screams, shouts and curses had stopped, leaving only the sounds of breathing, snuffling and chewing.

Then a new figure appeared from the water, a man dressed in dark robes, climbing carefully over the railing and approaching the victorious attackers. They noticed him, but did not react. They were too busy enjoying the first spoils of their victory.

'Enough!' the man snapped something in a guttural tongue, pulling one of the shadowy figures away from the body it was gnawing on. A quick cuff to the head and the creature rose, growling, and disappeared into the hold. Several of the others followed, urged on by the man's blows and snarls. After a few minutes the first creature returned, a long wrapped bundle beneath one arm. More bundles followed, and then several small casks and heavy crates. The bundles were lowered onto a small raft floating alongside the barge and stacked across its tar-coated planks.

The man watched all this silently, impatiently, and finally he nodded. He clambered back onto the raft and gestured for the others to grab the casks and crates, saying something short and sharp in that strange language. Shouldering their burdens and casting one last, longing glance towards the fresh meat they were leaving behind, the creatures stepped back over the railings and dropped into the water. The casks and crates floated before them as they swam silently away alongside the raft, the night and the river swallowing any hint of their presence.

The Battered Eye was silent. Bodies lay everywhere, flesh torn as if by wild beasts. The largest pile of them was by the door leading down into the crew quarters, where sailors had been killed before they could even set foot on the main deck. The bodies lay in a jumble of limbs and torsos, blood and darkness making it difficult to see where one corpse ended and another began.

Then a hand moved. It twitched, and then twitched again. It twisted, its fingers feeling around it, recoiling as they felt the shredded torso above them, then pushing against the body's upper arm, trying desperately to break free.

CHAPTER
ONE

'Great,' Dietrich 'Dietz
' Froebel said, reining in.
'A
festival.'

He glanced around. They had just passed through Alt- dorfs North Gate, still dusty and tired from their long journey, and rode into a scene from someone's nightmare. Skulls and strange, leering masks hung from walls and windows, and across distant bridges, as did ominous cloaked figures, death symbols, and even distorted ani­mals. Streamers hung everywhere, creating a low ceiling to the wide street, hiding the late afternoon sunlight, and giv­ing the city a closed-in feel. The large crowd didn't help, filling the Empire capital's broad avenues with a throng of bodies, and adding to the midsummer heat. From the look of things, the streets would be packed right down to where the River Reik cut through the city, and possibly across it. Many of the revellers wore hoods and masks, and Dietz saw a number of beasts and birds, and even fish, cavorting with the rest, masked in bestial visages.

'Of course,' his companion, Alaric von Jungfreud, said, slapping his horse's reins lightly against his leg. 'It must be Geheimnistag today. We've lost all sense of time.' He rubbed absently at his right eye, which had been bothering him since they'd left the Border Princes, the irritation no doubt increased by the mild cold he had apparently acquired. Specks of dust and minor illnesses were the least of their troubles, though.

Dietz had hoped, when they'd arrived in Middenheim two weeks ago, that they'd be staying put for a while. The trek to the Border Princes had been long and harrowing; they'd survived exploring an ancient tomb, fighting off the liche king within it, battling evil cultists, miraculously fending off a daemon, and manoeuvring their way through a four-way war. That was more than most men had to handle in a lifetime, and it had only been a month. He was tired, and he knew his friend and employer was as well. Alaric's normal good looks were wan, his face pale, his eyes glazed (especially the right one, which looked bloodshot), and Dietz had noticed a faint tremor in his friend's hands from time to time. Who could blame him? Most men never had to learn that daemons were real. They had faced two, or the same one two times, and the second time it had known Alaric's name and had taunted him. That was enough to drive even the sturdiest warrior stark raving mad. The fact that Alaric only looked exhausted and distracted was a mark of the strength hidden beneath his handsome features and elegant attire.

They both needed rest, and Middenheim was the place for it. Dietz's father, sister and brother were there, which meant they had a place to stay, and with any luck there wouldn't be any more statues or cults, or maps, or any­thing else to draw them back onto the road, at least for a little while. Dietz had been looking forward to a soft bed, a decent mug of ale, and a home-cooked meal.

Only Alaric had insisted on collecting the mask first.

That damnable mask! Dietz wished he'd never taken it from that temple in Ind. If he hadn't, maybe none of this would have happened. They never would have seen those statues in Rolf s shop, they never would have fought the cultists beneath the city, they never would have been given that map, and they never would have wound up in the Border Princes fighting for their lives against a daemon. They could have led much quieter, saner lives if he'd only passed the mask by and brought back a vase or a bracelet instead.