Briardark, p.1
Briardark, page 1
• TALES OF MHURGHAST •
Book 1: GOTHGHUL HOLLOW
Anna Stephens
Book 2: BRIARDARK
C L Werner
THE VAMPIRE GENEVIEVE
An omnibus by Kim Newman
THE WICKED AND THE DAMNED
A portmanteau novel by Josh Reynolds, Phil Kelly and David Annandale
MALEDICTIONS
An anthology by various authors
INVOCATIONS
An anthology by various authors
ANATHEMAS
An anthology by various authors
THE HARROWED PATHS
An anthology by various authors
THE ACCURSED
An anthology by various authors
THE HOUSE OF NIGHT AND CHAIN
A novel by David Annandale
CASTLE OF BLOOD
A novel by C L Werner
DARK HARVEST
A novel by Josh Reynolds
THE OUBLIETTE
A novel by J C Stearns
SEPULTURUM
A novel by Nick Kyme
THE REVERIE
A novel by Peter Fehervari
THE DEACON OF WOUNDS
A novel by David Annandale
THE BOOKKEEPER’S SKULL
A novel by Justin D Hill
PERDITION’S FLAME
An audio drama by Alec Worley
THE WAY OUT
An audio drama by Rachel Harrison
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Warhammer Horror
Briardark
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Castle of Blood’
A Black Library Imprint
eBook license
A dark bell tolls in the abyss.
It echoes across cold and unforgiving worlds, mourning the fate of humanity. Terror has been unleashed, and every foul creature of the night haunts the shadows. There is naught but evil here. Alien monstrosities drift in tomblike vessels. Watching. Waiting. Ravenous. Baleful magicks whisper in gloom-shrouded forests, spectres scuttle across disquiet minds. From the depths of the void to the blood-soaked earth, diabolic horrors stalk the endless night to feast upon unworthy souls.
Abandon hope. Do not trust to faith. Sacrifices burn on pyres of madness, rotting corpses stir in unquiet graves. Daemonic abominations leer with rictus grins and stare into the eyes of the accursed. And the Ruinous Gods, with indifference, look on.
This is a time of reckoning, where every mortal soul is at the mercy of the things that lurk in the dark. This is the night eternal, the province of monsters and daemons. This is Warhammer Horror. None shall escape damnation.
And so, the bell tolls on.
CHAPTER ONE
Fog seeped into the fur cloak, chilling the man within. The heavy pelt of a barrow-bear was ordinarily enough to fend off the cold, but when the mist drifted in from the Sea of Sorrows and Lhunaghast was on the rise, someone might sit right beside a roaring bonfire and never feel warm. At such times, the chill wasn’t a thing of the flesh but of the spirit. A draft from the underworlds of Shyish.
Such days as this, gloomy and forbidding, were ones when most folk kept close to home and huddled together around the hearth. A steaming mug of spiced flip and a bowl of warmed nuts to turn back the cold, witchbloom hung at all the windows and a bone effigy over the door to ward off restless gheists. The image of his wife tempering her drink with a toddyrod flashed through the man’s mind, the sound of his children giggling as foam boiled up from the mug and spilled on the floor. Emelda, no matter how many times she made flip, was always surprised by the eruption of foam, and her disgruntlement was always a source of amusement to Cicely and Marden, no matter how big they’d grown.
Samuel Helmgaart felt cheated that he’d had to forsake that tranquil scene. There were few such indulgences for the people of Felstein. Life in the frontier community was relentlessly grim, so what pleasures presented themselves had to be enjoyed when they arose. There was a bitter corner of his heart that resented Hochmueller for taking him away from the hearth. Certainly, one of the man’s cattle had been killed, but the animal would be just as dead tomorrow as it was today. Samuel was annoyed with himself that worrying about the townmaster’s reaction could intimidate him so much that he’d gone out to follow whatever signs he could make out and try to track the predator, even when he knew it would be a fruitless chore in such conditions. He knew from the start that the trail would lead back to Briardark, and once there, he’d never be able to follow the tracks in the fog.
Briardark. Instinctively, he brushed his fingers down his right arm. It wasn’t a thing of flesh and blood but an instrument of gears and pistons, a bronze-plated replacement for the one he’d lost years ago to a skullsnapper that had decided to make its lair in the forest. The ghoulish beast, as much wight as it was bear, had torn the arm out by its roots with its jaws. By some miracle, Samuel was able to crawl back to Felstein. An even greater miracle had been the arrival of duardin traders months later. It was the clever forgemaster among their group who’d crafted his new arm for him, demanding only the skullsnapper’s carcass for payment.
A month after getting accustomed to the mechanical arm, Samuel returned to Briardark. When next the duardin came, he had the forgemaster’s payment waiting for him.
‘You’re the beasthunter of Felstein and it’s your job to hunt these things,’ Samuel muttered to himself, annoyed that with all the monsters he’d killed he should be stymied by a mere wolf. The gears in his arm grumbled as he shifted his grip on the barbed boar spear he carried, the tines of its vicious crosspiece dripping with condensation. He glanced back at the dark forest with its labyrinth of thorny undergrowth. He was better than anyone in Felstein when it came to following a trail. Mama Ouspenskaya claimed it was because the spirits of Shyish hovered about him and gave him guidance even if he was unaware of their presence. Samuel preferred to believe it was his own talent and skill that made him so capable.
‘Spirits or no, you’ve failed this day,’ the beasthunter scolded himself. As he tightened the bronze hand about the boar spear a low, lonely howl rang out from deep in the forest. There was a mocking quality to the animal’s cry. Letting him know without question that it was somewhere in Briardark and he’d failed to find it. Barrow-foxes sometimes showed that kind of mischievousness, but Samuel had never seen a wolf display such a jeering attitude. Then, it held true that wolves were pack animals, and a lone wolf, such as the beast that had raided Hochmueller’s pasture, became strange and capricious in its ways.
‘Keep laughing, old dog,’ Samuel grumbled. ‘We’ll play this game again, you and I. You think you’re clever, but you’re not clever enough to stay away. When your belly’s empty, you’ll come back, and next time I’ll not lose your trail.’ He firmed his oath by reaching under his tunic and drawing out the little bone disc he wore around his throat. The skeletal visage of Nagash, Emperor of the Underworlds, leered back at him. Samuel spat on his fingers and rubbed the spittle onto the carved skull, sealing his vow to run the wolf to ground. He felt a new chill rush through his veins, as though his own blood curdled at the promise he’d made to the grim god of Shyish.
‘Tomorrow,’ Samuel sighed, turning his back on the forest. ‘For today there’s nothing more to be done.’ He smiled as he let the bone charm fall back against his chest. It wasn’t quite true. There was the long walk home and then the waiting hearth and a mug of spiced flip, the smiles of his children and the arms of his wife. No, there were still things to be done, but not such things as concerned wolves or his vow to Nagash.
The tall meadows of stalk-grass beyond the borders of Briardark gradually faded into the cultivated surroundings of Felstein. The insane grins of scarecrows greeted him as he approached the fields, their ragged clothes festooned with bits of glass and shiny metal to entice birds to them. The wooden frames were coated in a gluey resin to trap the crows and provide some meat to go along with the farmers’ harvest. Here and there a columnar haystack reared up above the ploughed rows, each surmounted by a carved pumpkin to frighten grots and make the greenskinned thieves think the settlement was surrounded by gargants. Samuel thought only the stupidest greenskin would be deceived by such a crude trick, but if it eased the worries of his neighbours, there was no harm done.
Past the fields, the barns of Felstein rose. Each was painted a vivid red, and on their sides were drawn complex hex signs to repulse the attentions of wandering nighthaunts and malevolent spirits. Samuel was even more dubious of the efficacy of the hex signs than he was of the pumpkins. Certainly, they hadn’t kept a glaivewraith from preying on Felstein when he was a child. Twelve people had died before an exorcist from Gothghul Hollow arrived to dispose of the murdering phant om.
The town itself appeared beyond the barns and stables of the outlying farms, a few lanes of tamped earth that wound their way between several dozen shops and houses. The market square was at the centre of the settlement, with the sprawling town hall stretching across one side and the sombre temple of Nagash squatting in one corner like a great stone spider. Warehouses, workshops and the Skintaker’s Swallow, Felstein’s only inn, formed the other borders of the square. The ghoulish bulk of the witches’ tree loomed at its centre. A massive black gallowsoak, it had been struck dead in the days of Samuel’s grandfather when the depraved sorceress Natalia Kolb cursed it before she was hanged from its branches. Even dead, the tree persisted as a place of execution, and the skulls of four witches were nailed to its trunk with spikes of iron – a warning to any others who would treat with the Ruinous Powers.
Samuel nodded to those he passed in the square as he made his way to the far side of town. It was a smart thing to keep on friendly terms with his neighbours, especially when the post of beasthunter was keenly desired by so many. Results weren’t enough to retain the position – there was a fair amount of politicking to take into account as well. Samuel was grateful not to run into Hochmueller, however. No amount of politicking was going to offset his failure to catch the wolf, especially if the beast started ranging into more pastures. Felstein’s townmaster, Thayer Greimhalt, would like an excuse to dismiss Samuel and appoint one of his cronies as the new beasthunter. It irked Thayer to have a man in that role who wasn’t a subservient lickspittle.
It was with a sigh of relief that Samuel started up the path to home. The half-timbered house had a small plot of land attached to it, just enough to grow a kitchen garden and keep several dozen chickens. An old gryph-hound was curled up in a nest just inside the gate. Its plumage was dull and a few bald spots showed where its feathers had fallen out. The creature raised its head at the sound of Samuel’s approach and opened its beak to chirp an excited greeting.
‘There, boy, I’ve come back safe again,’ Samuel said, scratching the gryph-hound’s neck. He could feel Saint’s disappointment as it detected the smell of Briardark on his clothes. The creature had loved roving with him in the forest, helping him on his hunts. Now the animal was too infirm for such activity, all but blind and without the stamina to trot across Felstein, much less prowl the forest. He’d been chided several times by friends and relatives for keeping such a useless animal, but Samuel felt otherwise. Saint had accompanied him on many a hunt in its prime, and he wasn’t about to desert a loyal companion in its old age.
‘I was looking for a wolf,’ the hunter told Saint, ‘but the dog was too crafty for me.’ The gryph-hound uttered a mournful clack deep in its throat. Samuel often suspected that it understood far more of what was being said to it than people thought. He patted the top of the feathered head. ‘Maybe if you’d been with me, things would have been different.’
Saint stretched its lean body, its clawed paws displaying their talons. They were still sharp and deadly, but the gryph-hound wasn’t fast enough to use them effectively. A neighbour’s cat liked to tease Saint every morning, jumping down in the yard and slinking just out of reach of those claws. Saint tried to catch the intruder every day, but the cat was always two steps ahead. A contest between the old gryph-hound and a more substantial predator would end far worse.
Samuel shook his head, and in doing so he noticed Saint’s food bowl close to the nest. A few scraps of meat remained at the bottom of the dish. ‘You’ve had your supper, I see,’ Samuel stated, stepping away from the gryph-hound. ‘Well, I must see about getting my own. Since breakfast I’ve only had some dried sausage to keep me going.’ The gryph-hound settled back into its nest but watched him until he’d reached the door. In everything, Saint remained protective of its master and his family.
After the damp chill of the forest, the warmth inside Samuel’s home was almost intoxicating. He had to stop just over the threshold and let himself adjust to the difference. The smell of roast mutton greeted his nose, and he could see that settings were still in place around the long table that dominated the common room. The flicker of rushlights burning from sconces on the beams and pillars created an inviting glow, while the fire in the hearth crackled and sparked. Samuel swung the door shut and savoured the tranquillity.
Leaning against one wall, he could see the shaft of the spear Marden had been carving and polishing for a fortnight. His son idolised Samuel and had no greater dream than to become Felstein’s beasthunter after his father. The boy was well on his way, too. His eyes were sharp, his ears were keen, and he had an almost instinctive knack for woodcraft. Samuel thought his only advantage over Marden was that of experience, but that would come in time. When he was ready, Marden was going to be a better beasthunter than Samuel ever was.
The handiwork of his other child was draped across a chair. Samuel shook his head. He had to stop thinking of Cicely as a child. She was old enough to be married – indeed, some of the gossip-mongers complained that he hadn’t married her off several years ago. There was certainly no dearth of suitors for such a pretty daughter. Some people thought it was miserliness on Samuel’s part, his reluctance to part with a dowry. The truth was that some of Cicely’s admirers had hinted they’d expect no dowry at all, but still they’d been turned away. When his daughter wed, Samuel wanted it to be a matter entirely of her own choice. She was too bright and inventive to be smothered by a loveless marriage.
Samuel took a few steps towards the chair and studied his daughter’s work. Unlike Marden, Cicely was following their mother’s example, learning the trade of seamstress and weaver. Aside from helping Emelda with the mending and tailoring that came their way, Cicely had decided to embark on a project of her own. She was weaving a tapestry, one that when finished would depict their entire family, from immediate siblings to distant cousins. The hunter was careful not to touch the rich burgundy cloth with his rough hands – he’d been scolded before for inadvertently undoing some loose threads – but instead let his eyes range across the woven figures. There were only rough outlines for now, but he enjoyed trying to decipher who each one would be when she was finished. So far, the only image he was certain of was his own, and only because there was a second figure crouched at his feet that had the unmistakable shape of a weary old gryph-hound.
‘We raised good children,’ Samuel whispered to himself. That was Emelda’s testament, the home all around him. It wasn’t the crude efforts of a beasthunter that made the house a fit place to inhabit, much less bring up children.
‘I thought I heard you come in.’
Samuel was so lost in his thoughts that he spun around in surprise when he heard the voice. Emelda stood at the door leading into the larder, a platter of turnips in her hands. There was a smile on her face, but there was worry in her eyes and an edge of doubt in her tone.
‘I’m sorry I left it off so late,’ Samuel said. He rested his boar spear beside the weapon Marden was carving. His metal fingers clung to the haft for a moment, forcing him to concentrate harder on making them let go. When a bit of damp got into the duardin mechanism, the arm sometimes became sluggish about obeying him. ‘The track wasn’t so easy to follow as I thought it would be.’ He shook his head and sat down at the table. ‘If I’d been better equipped, I’d have stayed out tonight. Try to catch it when it comes out again.’
Emelda set the platter down. ‘I hate it when you stay in the forest. I worry all night when you do. I pray to Nagash when you aren’t home.’ She closed her hand over Samuel’s, the one that was truly his own, and her eyes were bright with emotion. ‘I tell him if he wants to take somebody, he should take me, not you.’
Samuel stroked his wife’s cheek and presented what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘When Nagash decides to harvest someone, no prayers will stay his hand. And the King of Death doesn’t swap, so don’t waste your breath trying to make deals.’ He eased his hand from Emelda’s grip and began carving slivers of meat from the leg of mutton on the table. ‘Is all of this for me, or haven’t any of you eaten?’ he asked. He glanced at the other plates. ‘I’ve said before you shouldn’t wait on me.’
‘Marden insisted,’ Emelda said. She turned towards the hall leading to the other rooms. ‘He wanted to celebrate your killing the wolf.’
