Chapter 15
Alarming sounds of hunting horns rang out, seemingly from all directions.
— Back, back! — Erik demanded frantically.
Magg was clearly hesitant. He looked first at the bushes where the Beastman with the moose head had vanished, then at his small cook.
— We must protect the people! — Javier exclaimed, but Magg seemed to ignore that argument completely.
— Let's return to the squad, — Erik supported. — Our food and spices are there.
The Ogre appreciated that line of reasoning. He rumbled:
— Follow me, runts!
And with those words, the Ogre dashed back into the forest. The deadwood crackled heartily under the massive brute's feet. We followed him, constantly looking over our shoulders. The sounds of the hunting horns became less frequent but continued to ring out from all sides. It seemed the Chaos bands were trying to gather into a single force.
We retreated to the main camp without problems. The people there were already armed, anxiously awaiting the new enemy.
— You two to the cart! — Javier began to command. — Women, over here! Don't stand too close together!
— Praise be to great Sigmar who exists in the heavens…
Praise to his most brilliant power that is in our hearts… — Markus mumbled, leaning on his glaive, and a dozen and a half other Sigmarites echoed him.
I took several practice swings with my sword, loosening my shoulder and elbow. My heart raced, pumping adrenaline-laced blood through my body. My senses were heightened. It seemed like the bushes would burst open on all sides at any moment and a herd of Beastmen would rush at us with wild roars, brandishing axes.
Seconds passed, stacking into minutes and… Nothing. That is, the sounds of hunting horns continued to sometimes ring out somewhere relatively far away, but the enemies were in no hurry to attack us right now.
— Perhaps their main band is far away, — Adora suggested, standing with a spear behind my back.
— Or the foul creatures want to attack at night, — Markus added his version. — When the unholy light of Morrslieb especially fuels all vices.
We stood in full combat readiness for another thirty minutes or so, but the enemy never appeared. Several times, some noise drifted from the forest thicket. Someone was clearly there, but they did not approach us too closely.
— They are watching and waiting for the moment, — Javier reasoned. — May Myrmidia and Sigmar protect us.
— We need to return to the road, — Erik correctly pointed out. — We won't be able to leave stealthily anymore, so we must leave as quickly as possible.
The squad slowly began to prepare for the journey, but no one put away their weapons. We continued our journey in a tense atmosphere. Only Magg and the apathetic pointy-ear were calm. However, the Ogre complained that the new food did not want to come out of the forest and fight.
"The servants of the destructive powers, warm-blood," Loom-Pia addressed me. "They must not interfere with our mission."
Well, thanks for sharing your age-old wisdom, hypnotoad. I would never have figured that out myself.
The Chaos horns annoyed us for a few more hours, and then gradually fell silent. We returned to the forest path before evening. We made camp there for the night. We looked anxiously at the darkening skies. The coming twilight threatened us with mortal danger.
— Everyone keep your weapons close, — Javier gave instructions. — Two-thirds sleep, one-third guard. No one leaves the camp into the woods, even to relieve themselves. We will dig latrines nearby.
No one was willing to argue with the Estalian. The people showed commendable unity in the face of the impending danger. Only a few of the most nervous women occasionally began to wail, sowing panic, but Adora put them down.
No one came during the night. I even managed to get a decent night's sleep, watching the rerun of the misty knight's address.
— There probably aren't many beasts out there, — suggested a former slave named Stefan. — I heard from a friend in Talabecland that the beasts are afraid to attack if there are few of them.
— Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, — Javier replied to him.
Our next day passed under that motto. People walked in silence, in constant expectation of a swift attack. As soon as someone like Stefan tried to lighten the mood with a joke, the others angrily shushed him. Even the Sigmarites were silent. Only occasionally did the one-eyed Markus barely move his lips in a silent prayer to his god.
And no one attacked during the day either.
Only a couple of times did hunting horns sound somewhere deep in the thicket. It was as if the Beastmen were reminding us of themselves to rattle our nerves. However, the next night was noticeably calmer. Javier even had to shout at some of the men who had become too relaxed. The Estalian continued to keep us on high alert, but the attack by the forces of Chaos did not materialize.
And on the next day of our journey, the trail led us out of the forest. Many people cried out in joy and praise to the gods when they saw the mountains ahead. Mighty peaks buttressed the blue firmament. Untouched snows adorned the heads of the stone giants.
— Not much farther, friends, — encouraged Erik, puffing on an old wooden pipe. — Soon we will be safe.
The forest trail here connected with a wide road that went up into the mountains. There were noticeably fewer trees around. The rocky soil did not allow the forest to grow properly here. Boulders or even entire rock outcrops were scattered here and there. The road climbed uphill.
And just when the flame of our hope was burning particularly brightly, cruel fate covered it with a cold, bony hand, to plunge us once again into the darkness of despair.
As soon as we had walked a little way towards the mountains, a large detachment emerged from behind the rocks and folds in the terrain, blocking the road.
The drawn-out sound of a horn rang out again. It was our old acquaintance with the moose head, blowing self-forgetfully. Drums thundered, cymbals and bells jingled.
In the abominable cacophony of savage music, a repulsive panopticon of Chaos spawn unfolded before our eyes.
On the enemy's left flank, a furious crowd of hideous creatures raged. Mutants. Every one of them bore the marks of Chaos. Many were covered in whip marks. Some still looked like humans, while others had the faces of a wolf, a goat, or a ram. Such creatures were particularly active in beating the primitive drums.
Some of the mutants had clawed paws, tentacles, or bone clubs instead of hands. One had its head growing directly out of its stomach, and its neck resembled a stump. Another had a hump on its back, on which a wet mouth gleamed. Their unkempt weaponry was quite diverse: makeshift clubs, shovel handles, peasant pitchforks, jagged rusty sabres, spears with stone tips, and hunting axes. The mutants were led by an extremely fat bald brute, smaller than Magg in size, but noticeably surpassing ordinary humans. He was so fat that he seemed sculpted from pinkish dough. Huge, trembling folds of flesh jiggled up and down with every step. His head resembled the ugly face of a grotesque infant.
How many of these freaks were there? About seventy, I suppose. I think we could defeat them if we faced them as one detachment against another. However, there was also the right flank. It worried me much more. It was mostly composed of humans. Not mutants or Beastmen, but Chaos Cultists. Some of them were dressed quite decently. Green or brown doublets, cloaks, padded jackets, berets decorated with feathers. The only abnormal element of their attire was wooden half-masks and pink ribbons tied to their arms. These cultists were thoroughly armed. I saw swords, hunting spears, crossbows, and even a couple of arquebuses among them. In total, there were about twenty of these "civilized" cultists.
Another four dozen Chaos worshipers looked much more… exotic and exalted. Half-naked or practically nude men and women covered in ritual drawings. They carried the heads of the cult's recent hunting victims on long poles. These were Goblins, Orcs, as well as careless travelers. Their faces were contorted in grimaces of suffering and agony.
As weapons, the exalted cultists carried curved blades, sickles, spiked whips, and war scythes. It was this crowd that jingled the cymbals, dancing in place and indecently hugging each other. One of the women stood, legs spread wide and leaning on a pole with a Goblin's head impaled on it, while a swarthy man in a boar mask copulated with her from behind, loudly slapping her buttocks.
Among this crowd of cultists, I saw our red-bearded defector. He now sported only a loincloth. A crude tattoo with some unholy runes was inked on his stomach. Unnaturally dense fur and some strange growths could be seen on his shoulders. Adora was right. This freak had begun to mutate.
At the junction of the Chaos flanks stood two leaders, surrounded by a squad of five especially large Beastman bodyguards with goat heads.
One of the leaders was probably a sorcerer. A tall man in a purple robe and a bronze mask that completely covered his face. He solemnly held a massive iron staff with the Star of Chaos at its end in his right hand. His left rested on the hilt of a heavy sword, the scabbard of which was covered with slightly shimmering runes.
The other cult leader looked practically like an ordinary person. He was a tall man in a pink robe and a loincloth. He didn't wear a mask, constantly surveying everyone present with an arrogant gaze. The cultist's beard was neatly trimmed. His chestnut hair was slicked back like that of Italian mobsters in old movies. Perhaps he was a fallen nobleman who had swayed all his people to the service of the dark powers. That would explain the presence of a couple of dozen well-armed fighters here. They could have been the guard and mercenaries of the debauched noble.
Also present was a completely naked woman in a mask made of fresh human skin, holding an unholy standard in both hands. Instead of milk, some kind of pink slime oozed from her swollen nipples on her fifth-sized breasts.
In principle, one look at the procession was enough to figure out which dark god these degenerates had entrusted their souls and bodies to. However, the sign of Slaanesh on the banner left no doubt.
Over a hundred deranged Chaos perverts, who even have firearms…
To quote an old comedy: "We're in the shit!" Although, I suppose that would be the expression if we ran into a Nurgle band. In this situation, the expression "We're deep in the arse" is more fitting.
A nervous laugh almost escaped me at these thoughts. Meanwhile, one of the sect leaders began to speak. It was the tall man in the pink robe:
— My name is Helsigal Pearl-Claw, — he announced, looking at us with the arrogance of a well-born aristocrat. — I was chosen by the Dark Prince himself. Today I will be your judge, assessor, and executioner. I will decide who among you will die and who will be given a chance to serve us. Although… Ah-ha-ha! — Helsigal laughed hysterically, shaking all over. — Those who serve will also mostly die. But before death, they will know countless pleasures. And a few out of hundreds will continue on the path of Chaos. They will get a tiny chance at greatness. And for the sake of even that tiny chance, it is worth risking everything.
— I will shove those unholy words back down your corrupted throat! Sigmar will give me the strength! — Markus shouted, brandishing his glaive. — You pitiful, dishonorable, heretical… bastard!
The old man shouldn't have provoked them. Several of the "civilized" Chaos worshipers raised their crossbows, already preparing to finish off the Sigmarite, but Helsigal stopped them with an authoritative gesture.
— No. Don't kill him immediately. This one is amusing. He will entertain us with his empty prayers when the beasts begin to tear his flesh.
Markus wanted to retort with curses again, but the masked sorcerer struck the rocky ground with his staff, generating bright sparks. All sounds, except for Helsigal's voice, instantly quieted. The arrogant cultist continued his speech:
— One of yours joined us. This wretched dog told us a lot, and I'm even slightly intrigued. Where is the Elf woman? The Dark Prince is especially benevolent to those who present him with the souls of that race. Hand her over to me immediately. And let the woman named Adora come out to us. Let her tear off her rags and kneel before me naked. I will peer into the depths of her soul. I will judge and assess this girl.
The sorcerer struck the staff again, returning the sounds to normal. Immediately after, Adora's unexpectedly loud, determined voice rang out beside me:
— If I come out to you and we hand over the Elf, will you let the others go?
A repulsive smile, worthy of an ugly bastard from some particularly vile hentai, spread across Helsigal's face. Then the Slaaneshi laughed hysterically again before giving the girl an answer:
— Let them go? What nonsense! Everyone here is either my servant or my entertainment. No one will leave. But… I see your soul. You are not saying this sincerely, but merely wanting to survive. You are trying to play the heroine so that your own people won't stab you in the back if you crawl to me on your knees. A lying little bitch. I like your attitude. I see your vile, vile heart. Cold and sharp as a stone from the rat dungeons. Come to me, girl. Fall into the embrace of my depravity!
— Be silent, creature! — Javier cried out angrily, stepping forward. — If you want someone, here I am. Javier Esteban de Sousa. I challenge you to a duel, you fallen soul. Will you accept my challenge or hide behind your goat-horned lovers?
I thought the cult leader would order the Estalian shot, but Helsigal unexpectedly agreed.
— I accept, — the Slaaneshi said with a lazy smile, taking off his pink robe and handing it to the woman with the banner. — A little bloodshed before the orgy won't hurt.
The cult leader and Javier walked toward each other. Their duel was to take place on the wide, rocky section of the road leading into the mountains.
Helsigal was tall, but he hardly resembled a fighter or a strongman. His body looked pale and flabby. A beer belly poked out above his loincloth.
Javier, conversely, was a knot of sinew and muscle. Training, campaigning, and then the Skaven mine had hardened him. De Sousa took a stance, raising his curved ratman sword. Helsigal carried no weapon.
— What a wretched blade, — the Slaaneshi grimaced. — Give this meat a proper sword or rapier.
— I will take nothing from you, Chaos spawn, — the Estalian replied. — But where is your blade, heretic?
— This is the only sword I carry right now, — Helsigal smirked, clapping his hand over his groin, a la Michael Jackson. — And the gifts of my Lord will bring me victory.
Magic? Should I perhaps challenge him instead of Javier or at least lend him my sword? However, I didn't want to part with my blade right now. Before I could decide anything, Javier rushed into the attack.
The Estalian was fast, but Helsigal managed to increase the distance with his long legs. The Slaaneshi dodged three of Javier's lunges.
— I see your soul, — the cultist said, stepping away from the line of attack again. — You are boring. Stupid. You don't suit us. I will spill your guts, sever your tendons and…
— You talk too much! — Javier chuckled, skillfully pursuing his opponent.
The Estalian was like a hound that had scented blood. He moved faster and faster, giving the enemy no quarter. No matter how nimble the Slaaneshi was, going against a master with a blade without a weapon was madness. However, madness is the lot of many servants of Chaos.
The strange dance continued for another twenty seconds, and then Javier finally reached the enemy. A long horizontal wound appeared on Helsigal's stomach area.
The mutants went into hysterics at the sight, and the Beastmen started beating their drums again.
— Well now, — Helsigal smiled condescendingly. — We've played enough. It's time!
The Beastmen drums roared desperately. The wound on Helsigal's torso suddenly swelled. His stomach inflated. Blood flowed from the cultist's eyes and ears, and he smiled maniacally. A second later and…
Blood sprayed everywhere. Clawed paws emerged from the widening wound on his stomach. They tore Helsigal in half. Something was climbing out of the cultist's body as if from a cocoon. Only a few seconds later, this creature stood before us.
Taller than a human. A long, lean figure covered in bloodied fur with pieces of skin clinging to it. A wolf's face bared its teeth, showing pearl-white fangs. The creature's paws ended in claws of the same color. An upright wolf. Helsigal Pearl-Claw turned out to be a Werewolf. A Chaos Spawn of the Lycanthropic strain.