CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They walked for what felt like hours, their eyes adjusting enough to the darkness so that they could make out the tunnel walls. Some light did filter down from various grates here and there, the dim light of the moon and stars providing at least some illumination. In other places the tunnels’ walls were coated with a strange ooze that glowed faintly. Some sort of fungus, Alaric decided, and would have taken a sample if Dietz had not stopped him, pointing out that the substance could be poisonous. Between the two light sources, they found they could manoeuvre without too much stumbling into things. More than once they detoured around large, still shapes that rose from the standing water, unsure whether they were rocks or refuse, or corpses, and unwilling to find out. Water dripped down on them, slicking their hair and fouling their clothes—at least, most of it was water.

“This is disgusting,” Alaric offered after a particularly thick, smelly glop of something struck his shoulder, leaving a dark splotch and a wet trail down his back. “I’ll never be clean again.”

“It’s just water and refuse,” Dietz commented, though not without a shudder at the thought of how much offal was now caked into his hair and clothes. “City waste.”

“How is trudging through this helping us?” Alaric asked, wiping at his shoulder and doing little more than smearing the filth about. “Why are we still down here?”

Twice they had passed rungs hammered into the rock walls, the first time finding them only when Dietz skinned his elbow against one. The rungs rose to the ceiling, where thin beams of light marked a grating overhead. These were the sewer entrances, set so that workers could clean them if necessary. They had considered leaving each time they’d found more rungs, but had decided against it.

“We still need to find Kristoff,” Dietz reminded his employer, “and quickly.”

“And wandering lost down here is helping with that?” Alaric retorted. “We don’t even know where he is! Taal’s teeth, I’m not even sure where we are!”

“Below the crafters,” Dietz replied. He pointed towards a tunnel ahead. “That leads to Canal Street, where we found that livery.”

“How can you be sure?”

Dietz shrugged. “The first set of rungs. They led up near the marketplace. I know my way from there.”

“Oh.” Alaric brightened. “If we know where we are, then, we can find any place else in Middenheim, correct?” Dietz nodded. “Then we just need to determine where Kristoff would go and find our way there.” He frowned. “Where would he take that statue?”

“Someplace he could feed it,” Dietz said, still intent upon their path. “The cultists said they fed it regularly.”

“So some place they could bring victims?” Alaric asked, but shook his head immediately. “No, that makes no sense. Why drag victims down here and then kill them? It’d be far quicker to kill them above and just bring the blood down in buckets.”

They passed below another drip of something and a drizzle struck Dietz’s cheek. He wiped it away quickly before his nose could register the smell. Then he paused and turned back towards his friend.

“Why carry it at all?” he asked. He gestured towards the walls around them and the small holes near the top. “Those are drainpipes,” he pointed out. “They carry the waste down here.”

“So all they’d need is a place that has a lot of blood,” Alaric finished, catching on immediately, “and they could feed the statue with no effort and without anyone noticing! Brilliant!” He looked around. “Where would you go in Middenheim to find a lot of blood?”

Dietz thought about it. “The hospital,” he said finally. “Marketplace, maybe, but it might be spread too thin there, Morr’s central chamber.” He shuddered a little, as if mentioning the place of death might invoke its patron god. “The witch hunters’ headquarters—that’s always awash in blood.”

Alaric frowned. “But they haven’t been killing people there lately, have they?” he asked, trying to remember what Rolf’s widow had said. “They’ve been performing public executions instead; in great numbers.”

“The execution square, then.” Dietz nodded, glancing around. “This way.” He led them off to the right, down another tunnel, which branched off into three more corridors. At each branching Dietz stopped to glance around and mentally compare their location to the city above, and then led them on. After some time they rounded a corner and saw a light flickering up ahead.

“The execution square is right above that,” Dietz confirmed, gesturing towards the glow.

“And the statue will be there as well,” Alaric agreed. He straightened and made one last futile attempt to clean his clothes, face, and hair, before finally giving up with a grimace. “Well, let’s not keep Kristoff waiting, shall we?” And he strode towards the light.

The tunnel emptied into a larger chamber, one of the few they had seen underground. Several more tunnels branched off from the other sides, but the chamber itself was the size of a large room, almost as big as the cavern beneath the Black Fire Pass. This chamber was much smoother, however, its walls chiselled and its ceiling domed, and the floor had been cleared of protrusions as well. Fortunately several large, rough columns had been carved on either side of the tunnel entrance. Alaric and Dietz quickly moved to one side and pressed themselves into the shadows of a column, hoping it would be enough to conceal them. From their new vantage they studied their surroundings more carefully.

Torches hung in sconces mounted around the space and in their light Alaric and Dietz could see several figures swaying around the centre of the room. The figures all wore the red-brown robes of the Carrion Hounds. Before them stood Kristoff, his own robe offset by scarlet gloves and a matching cape, and his hood thrown back. Just beyond him sat the statue.

Alaric glanced at the statue and then quickly looked away, shuddering. Each of the hideous carvings had repulsed him, but this one was worse than the others had been, far worse than it had been in Rolf’s shop. A reddish sheen coated it and he knew it was blood dripping from the large circular grating directly above it.

This statue had indeed been fed regularly. It looked bloated, if stone could manage that feat, and he realised with a jolt that it was in fact larger than he remembered. As if it had swelled from its offerings. The stone possessed an odd lustre, resembling well-polished old brass, and its edges seemed softer, almost hazy. The details were sharper and more hidden—harder to make out right away, but then suddenly a tentacle or claw would spring into focus. The entire statue throbbed, stabbing at his eyes even after he had averted them, and it was not the torchlight creating that impression. The statue was beating, expanding and contracting like a massive misshapen heart.

“It’s almost open,” he whispered, realising the truth even as he said it. “The sacrifices are opening the gate.” He turned to Dietz and grabbed his arm. “We have to stop it!”

Dietz nodded and pointed towards the grating. “Almost dawn,” he said. Alaric followed his gesture and saw that the grating was providing a faint rosy light of its own, heralding the moment when night would give way and the sun would reveal itself once more. “Executions are at dawn.”

“They’re waiting,” Alaric said, glancing at the cultists who all stood and swayed, but did not otherwise move. “Waiting for the witch hunters to kill their latest victims and for the blood to pour down. It will open the gate!”

“Not if we shatter that thing first,” Dietz said grimly. He drew his knives and strode forward, forcing Alaric to follow.

The cultists were so wrapped in ecstatic worship they did not notice the pair approaching. Dietz reached one of them, a middle-aged man standing at the rear of the group, and quickly yanked the man back, one arm wrapping around the cultist’s throat. His other arm jerked across, slicing his knife along the man’s throat, and then he hurled the spasming cultist aside to lie bleeding upon the ground. It was only then Alaric realised the stone floor was bone dry, unlike the slimy water-coated floors of the various tunnels. He also noticed a slight slope. This room had been carved so the refuse that fell through the ceiling grate would strike the centre of the floor and then spill down on every side, eventually washing into the tunnels beyond.

Then one of the cultists had turned, hearing his brother’s choking gasps, and saw Alaric.

“Intruders!” the man shouted, raising his short sword. Alaric had his dagger still in hand and stabbed the man in the stomach, pulling the sword from his grasp and shoving him to one side just in time to block an axe from another cultist.

“Kill them!” Kristoff shrieked, raising both arms high. “Kill them, my Carrion Hounds! Offer their blood to the Lord of Skulls and he will praise your devotion! Give their bodily fluids that we might open the gate and usher forth his champion!”

All the cultists turned towards them and Alaric realised that the group they’d encountered before had only been half of the whole, perhaps less. Nor did they have any mutants to aid them this time. He slashed with his stolen short sword, cursing the weapon’s short reach and awkward weight, but nonetheless carving a long gash into a man charging him with a club. Even before the man stumbled back two more had taken his place, and Alaric quickly forgot all sense as he slashed and blocked, and kicked.

“Kristoff!” he shouted, trying to distract both the cult leader and his followers. “Is this the best you can do, sending your minions against us? Afraid to face us yourself?” he taunted. “What would Khorne say about that?”

For an instant, everyone fell silent, shocked at such casual blasphemy. Then Kristoff tilted back his head and howled in rage, more like a beast than a man.

“Release him!” he shouted, pointing at Alaric, and the cultists around him fell back. Unfortunately that left more of them to swarm Dietz, who all but disappeared beneath a barrage of arms, fists, clubs, and blades. “Do not kill him!” Kristoff added, this time gesturing towards Dietz, and the cultists obediently stepped back, raising their weapons, several of them hauling a bleeding, stunned Dietz back to his feet. His knives were knocked from his hands and his arms secured on either side. “Let him watch as his friend dies,” Kristoff commanded, “and as the Blood God steps forth to destroy this city!”

“Impressive,” Alaric commented, turning towards Kristoff and advancing a step, but only one step, which forced the cult leader to take several towards him instead. “You command them well, Kristoff. Like well-trained dogs, they are. I suppose that suits you.”

The trader smiled, a far less pleasant expression than the one he had worn so often on their travels. “The Carrion Hounds are loyal,” he replied. “They know I serve the Lord of Skulls, as do they. Together we will summon forth his champion to rend this city from within. Then the Empire will fall around us, feeding our master with its demise!”

“Interesting notion,” Alaric replied, taking another small step and watching as Kristoff took two more in return. That’s it, he thought, away from the statue. He wasn’t sure how that would help prevent it from receiving the blood from above, but at least the cult leader would not be able to aid the process. “Yet you helped us destroy the other three statues. Why?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw several cultists stiffen and remembered what the youth in the tunnels had said. Kristoff had not told them about the statues’ destruction, or his part in it.

Kristoff only grimaced at him and took another step, his hand going to the sword at his side. “I knew you would accomplish your mission,” he replied. “There was no way to stop you altogether. I delayed you as much as possible, though.” Alaric suddenly remembered how Kristoff had often been the voice of caution, even of negativity, pointing out ways they might fail and things to worry about. “And with every delay the statues received more blood and the gates came closer to opening.”

“You had moved this one before we even left,” Alaric stated more than asked, though the cult leader nodded anyway, “before even meeting us.” Another nod and another step forward. Only ten feet separated them now and Alaric knew he could not stall much longer. “This was always the one you wanted open.”

“I wanted them all open,” Kristoff corrected, grinning, “but this was the most important one, yes. It was the key, both to summoning the Blood God’s champion and to atoning for our previous failure.” His face showed that the last comment had slipped out unintended, and Alaric pounced upon it.

“Failure? What happened?” he asked, taking a small step back as the cult leader took several forward. “You tried this once before?”

Kristoff eyed him carefully, clearly weighing how much to reveal, and then shrugged. “Aye, during the siege,” he admitted finally. “We hoped to summon the Blood God through battle, through our own sacrifices and the blood of our enemies. His champion would come forth and slaughter all the city’s defenders, and then lay waste its walls.”

“Not enough blood?” Alaric asked. “You and your friends not as skilled as you’d thought?” He gestured towards the other cultists, who still held Dietz captive off to one side, watching the exchange.

“Them?” Kristoff’s face twisted into a snarl. “They are nothing, replacements only, filling in the space my true brethren left behind!” If he heard the gasps from his followers he paid them no heed. “We were warriors, my brothers and I! The Warmongers’ elite! We slaughtered men by the dozens, the hundreds!” His eyes blazed. “Many of my brethren are called hero now, for their deeds upon the battlefield!”

“Yet you failed,” Alaric reminded him, pleased to see the trader losing control, “and where are they now?”

“Dead!” Kristoff howled at him. “All dead, all but myself and one other! Too many of them, even for us—the swarms overwhelmed us! We could not kill enough to open the gate!” He drew a great, shuddering breath and for a moment Alaric thought the trader would charge at him. Much to his disappointment, Kristoff took several more rapid breaths, and then several deep ones, visibly forcing himself to remain calm. “But I survived,” he admitted, and there was an odd mixture of shame and pride in his voice. “I kept the cult from being discovered. My brethren were treated as fallen heroes and buried with all honours, their souls laughing at the irony. We rebuilt the cult, brought in new members, and continued with our ultimate goal.” He grinned, in full control of himself again. “And I realised the truth. We did not need to perform the kills ourselves. Any deaths would do. The gates require blood, blood spilled by violence, but they care not about the source.” He took another step towards Alaric, who realised that he was almost to the wall behind him. “As long as the statues were dedicated to the Blood God every drop of blood that struck them became an offering,” the trader said, clearly pleased with his own cleverness. “And now,” he added, grinning, “now your blood will join the rest.” He yanked his sword from its sheath, his grin showing that he knew Alaric had nowhere to run.

“We’ll see about that,” Alaric replied finally. He raised the short sword, and then studied it with distaste. Finally he threw it aside. “Shoddy blade, that,” he commented, enjoying the look of surprise on Kristoff’s face. “No balance, poor edge—really, you should be providing better.” He drew his rapier instead, holding it out so the point was aimed at the trader’s right eye and the blade caught the light. “This is far more to my liking.”

“Use any weapon you like,” Kristoff told him, lips drawing back in a snarl. “I’ll still spill your blood and take your life! For Khorne!”

He leaped forward, his wave-edged longsword slashing through the air, its razor-sharp edge aimed at Alaric’s throat.