And now he would fight to defend that realm, against the greatest of enemies. He turned. The ramparts of the Third Circle stretched away to either side of him, curling up and away from the thick sludge of the sea like the petals of some putrid flower. Jagged turrets, decorated with the ragged banners of the Order, rose over the ramparts. The banners, crafted from filthy rags and diseased flesh, flapped loudly in the sea breeze.
The citadel itself was shaped like a bubo, with high, thick walls composed of fossilised sargassum and the bones of the great sea beasts which had once hunted these waters. Within the walls, a crude, if enormous, web of gantries and clapboard bridges stretched in all directions, leading to a variety of internal portcullises and inner walkways. These walkways, as well as the courtyard below, were a hive of activity.
Besides a few high-ranked Chaos knights like Gatrog, each citadel was garrisoned by a substantial force of Rotbringers. Many of these were mortal, though some were not. Most were ill-trained zealots, clad in tattered robes and bearing the mark of the fly on what scraps of armour they had been able to scavenge. They beat drums and rang bells with carnival exuberance as they went about their duties in disorderly mobs.
Others, like Agak and the armsmen on the ramparts, were of a more professional disposition. Armed and armoured adequately, they were led into battle by putrid blightkings, obese, god-touched warriors, their bodies swollen with holy corruption. Unlike mortal warriors, the blightkings were slabs of unnatural fat and muscle, bound in straining skin, and clad in rust-pitted war-plate.
Agak peeled away a scab and stuck the wet lump on the kite-shield, adding it to the others. ‘Will we sally out to meet them, my lord?’ he asked.
Gatrog didn’t answer for a moment, instead listening to the gentle drone of the rot flies which swarmed about the rampart. He found the sound of insects soothing. Occasionally, he fancied he could even make out words amongst the droning. Onogal the troubadour sang that Nurgle spoke through the flies, to any who had the wit to hear. Gatrog dearly wished to hear the voice of the King of all Flies, even if just once.
‘My lord?’ Agak pressed, hesitantly.
Gatrog shook himself and said, ‘No, I suspect not, though I dearly wish it were otherwise.’ He clenched his fists, enjoying the sensation of his boils splitting beneath the corroded metal of his gauntlets. ‘Would that I might meet a worthy foe before this day is done. How else am I to show Grandfather my merit, save in battle?’ He’d missed his chance to come to grips with the storm-warriors at the Living City, and it galled him.
‘Perhaps prayer?’ Agak suggested.
Gatrog stared at him. The little Rotbringer looked away hurriedly. ‘No, Agak,’ Gatrog said, heavily. ‘Not prayer.’ Frustrated now, he thumped the rampart. It cracked beneath his fist, oozing pus.
Third Circle, like the other sargasso-citadels, had not been constructed so much as grown. Its foundations had been dredged from the depths of the water by the magics of the Order’s hireling witches centuries earlier. Day by day, it had grown larger, spreading across the water like a fungus, until it had become connected to the other citadels by a latticework of hardened pus, sargassum and bone. Troops could move easily and swiftly from one Circle to the other as needed. And looking at the forces arrayed on shore, Gatrog suspected they’d be needed sooner, rather than later.
The storm-warriors were fierce foes. They carried themselves as knights, though they fought on foot. Gatrog snorted in contempt. No true knight would lower himself so. Just as no true knight would vanish in a crackle of lightning when slain, rather than leaving his body to lie, so that it might fertilise the soil. In death was new life spread. Such was the will of the King of all Flies.
But the storm-warriors had their own king. Instinctively, Gatrog made the sign of the fly as he glanced skyward. Nothing good resided in that starlit void. That, he was certain of. Whatever creed originated there, it was an unwholesome one. A thing of harsh purity, scoured free of all traces of life. Like the storm-warriors themselves, lacking even honest bile in their veins. He spat over the side of the rampart.
‘Would that I could slaughter them all, Agak.’
Agak nodded obsequiously. ‘Aye, my lord. Would that you could.’
‘Are you saying I can’t?’
‘No, no,’ Agak said hurriedly. ‘Merely that… that the moment is not yet upon us, yes. Yes. That’s what I meant, oh most glopsome one.’
Gatrog nodded. ‘Yes. I assumed that was what you meant.’
He ignored Agak’s sigh of relief, and turned his attention to the viaducts. Festering mantlets had been erected across the width of each of the viaducts, and Rotbringers waited behind them, making a joyful noise with their drums and pipes. Like the beastmen, or the mortal guards of the shoreline gatehouses, they were a sacrifice on the altar of time. He frowned. He had not cared for the creatures, but to see them die so ingloriously pricked his sense of chivalry. Nonetheless, in dying they had served the Order better than they ever had alive. That was the black truth of it.
Clarity was Nurgle’s gift to his servants. To see the world as it was, stripped bare of the tattered masks of yearning and expectation, leaving only a beautiful desolation. There was comfort in surrender, and joy in acceptance. There was love there, as well. A great serenity at the end of all things. And it was that bleak serenity that the Order of the Fly served. It was that serenity which they sought to impart to all equally, be they lowborn or high. For were not all lives of equal worth, in the eyes of Nurgle?
Goral had taught him that. He had served his cousin as a squire, before the time came for him to earn his own spurs. Goral had trained him, teaching him all there was to know about being a knight. About being worthy to serve the King of all Flies.
‘Ah, cousin, what I would not give to fight beside you once more,’ Gatrog murmured. But Goral had perished in the depths of Writhing Weald with his entire muster, and the responsibilities of the duchy had passed to Gatrog. ‘Would that you were here to see this day, and stand with me, against such foes.’
‘Would that all of our lost brothers were here this day, Gatrog,’ a deep, hollow voice intoned. ‘Your brave cousin, and Count Dolorugus the devoted, or even brawny Sir Culgus, who held the Bridge of Scabs alongside Blightmaster Wolgus in the days before the storm’s coming. We fight as much in their name as our own.’
Agak fell to his hands and knees, bumping his head against the stones. The other armsmen did the same. Gatrog looked up into the leering, daemon-shaped war-helm of his brother-knight and commander, and bowed shallowly. ‘Blightmaster Bubonicus, you honour me with your presence.’
‘And you honour me with your service, Lord-Duke of Festerfane.’
Bubonicus was swollen with the raw stuff of Nurgle. He was almost twice Gatrog’s height, and easily three times his width, clad in thick war-plate the colour of gangrenous flesh, and draped in a mouldering cloak and tabard of dull brown. He carried a monstrous halberd in one hand, its rusted blades surmounted with the chains of a deadly flail.
The plates of his armour vibrated slightly, and Gatrog heard a faint buzzing from within it. Bubonicus had not been seen without his armour for centuries, and some whispered that the King of all Flies had bestowed the best of his blessings on one avowed to be one of, if not the greatest of the Blightmasters.
While Bubonicus was in overall command of the sargasso-citadels, he had delegated the defensive preparations to three hand-picked champions, Gatrog among them. Gatrog didn’t begrudge his new-found responsibilities. Bubonicus had other, worthier concerns. That he was even up here was a surprise. Gatrog felt a flicker of unease as Bubonicus raised his great tri-headed flail. ‘Do you see this flail, Gatrog?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ It was hard to miss it. The flail-halberd was old, older even than the Mortal Realms, some claimed. The troubadours sang that it had floated through the void for millennia, only to become caught up in the birth of the realm
s like a bit of grit. And that even then it had thrummed with the feculent power of Nurgle.
‘It is called the Gatherer of Souls,’ Bubonicus said. ‘Once, in another world, in a distant time, it was wielded by the greatest of Grandfather’s champions.’
‘It still is, my lord,’ Gatrog said quickly.
Bubonicus chuckled. ‘How perspicacious of you, Gatrog. Yes. With it, I have reaped a steady yield. But out there stands the greatest harvest of all.’ He extended the flail out, towards the distant gleaming of the enemy. The silvery shimmer hurt to look at, even from this distance. And their chanting beat at the air like the growl of some great beast. ‘Look at them, the enemies who have pressed us so fiercely. They who have cast down the banners of our allies. Where now valiant Torglug, or the Brothers Glott? We stand alone, perhaps the last defenders of the Realm Desolate.’
‘But not for long, my lord,’ Gatrog said, caught up in Bubonicus’ stirring misery. The blightmaster had a tendency to become worryingly grandiloquent at times like this. ‘What of the Gate of Weeds, and our allies beyond?’
‘It remains closed as yet, my friend. Shuttered and barred against our rightful passage.’ Bubonicus’ massive shoulders sagged. The Gate of Weeds was an ancient realmgate, located deep in the heart of the sargassum from which Third Circle had been formed. Its luminescent surface had remained inviolate, despite the best efforts of the Order’s sages and seers, including the Lady of Cankerwall, Nurgle bless her name. Thus had begun the long, arduous task of making the land bend to Nurgle’s will.
Gatrog glanced at the titanic balefire cauldron that occupied the heart of the citadel. There was one like it in each citadel. Its massive circumference filled the courtyard, and many bridges and walkways crossed around it and over its smoking rim. For all intents and purposes, the citadel was but the hard outer shell for the cauldron. Flames roared deep within the stone plinth that supported the cauldron. The broken shapes of still-living sylvaneth were fed into the fire, bit by screaming bit, through grotesquely shaped openings.
Thick clouds of effluvium spewed upwards from the cauldron, filling the air with pox-smoke. The smoke crept across land and sea alike, spreading Nurgle’s influence wherever its poisonous rains fell. The cauldrons were kept bubbling day and night by gangs of slaves. When slaves fell, they were hacked free of their chains by an overseer and fed into the fire by their fellows. Nothing was to be wasted. And with every passing day, the land and waters grew sicker. A slow process, to be sure, but Nurgle was nothing if not patient.
‘The Gate of Weeds will open in time,’ Bubonicus continued. ‘But that time is not now. This land, these waters, the people yet resist our blessed contagion.’ He shook his head sadly, pus dripping from the antlers that rose from either side of his helmet.
Gatrog cast a disdainful glare at the slaves below. ‘Brute savages. They know nothing of life, only persistence. Hope blinds them to the serenity of despair.’
Bubonicus shook his head. ‘Nay, Gatrog. Do not blame them for their ignorance. Hope is the weed in Nurgle’s garden. It spreads swiftly, though we uproot it with every moment. Left unchecked, it would strangle Grandfather’s blossoms in their beds.’ He raised a finger in admonishment. ‘Remember, hope is but the foundation stone of everlasting regret…’
‘And today’s palace is tomorrow’s ruin. Yes, my lord.’ Gatrog spat a wad of phlegm over the edge of the rampart. ‘Even so, they irk me.’
‘You must grasp the nettle, my friend, and find clarity in the pain. That is why we are here, in these untamed lands. We will free these gentle folk from the tyranny of hope, and teach them the peace of desolation.’ Bubonicus gestured to the slaves. ‘Only when all know their place in the garden can true harmony be attained. Only when they learn what men such as this already know.’ He clapped a heavy hand on Agak’s shoulder, nearly driving the little Rotbringer to his knees. ‘Then, and only then, shall the soil of their souls be made fertile and welcoming for the attention of the Lord of All Things.’
Gatrog bowed his head, suddenly ashamed. Part of him had hoped never to return to the Verdant Bay, after their pox-crusade had ridden forth to bring battle to the Living City. He was no armsman, to spend his eternities watching over a fortress. Let others tend the garden. He’d thought himself the smile of Grandfather’s scythe. ‘I had almost forgotten, my lord. Our duty is a sacred one, and I am honoured to be a part of it.’
‘That is good. For you play a most vital part.’ Bubonicus sounded amused. ‘Especially given what comes next.’ He gestured loosely to the shoreline, and the gathered silvery shapes arrayed there.
‘So it is to be battle, then.’ Gatrog felt a thrill of anticipation. He had fought storm-warriors before, but not for some time, and never in such numbers.
‘Eventually,’ Bubonicus said. ‘For now, we shall shatter the central and leftmost viaducts. I have already given the order to your fellow knights. The honour of meeting and holding the enemy shall fall to Count Pustulix and the garrison of the First Circle.’
Gatrog felt a flush of disappointment. He had hoped to meet the foe in open battle himself. As if reading his thoughts, Bubonicus chuckled wetly and said, ‘Fear not, sir knight, for I doubt that the enemy will spare us his attention. We cannot avoid battle, but we must delay it. With the Gate of Weeds open, these bastions will serve as Nurgle’s new antechamber in Ghyran. Through here shall seven times seven blighted legions pour forth, and take back what the false goddess and her allies have stolen.’
‘Dark god blight her roots,’ Gatrog said fervently, making the sign of the fly. Alarielle, the Queen of Weeds, who forced life itself to bow to her whims. She was no true goddess, for what sort of divinity would seek to set limits on the act of creation?
Bubonicus nodded approvingly. ‘Even so.’ He caught Gatrog by the shoulder and squeezed, causing the tarnished metal to creak. ‘With warriors like you, the Order of the Fly cannot fail. Hold fast to your oaths, Duke Gatrog. Third Circle is in your hands.’ He turned and clomped away, armsmen scattering from his path. He would be heading below, Gatrog knew, to oversee the continued unbinding of the Gate of Weeds.
‘So, no fighting?’ Agak said, after a moment. He sounded pleased.
Annoyed, Gatrog waved him to silence. Agak was no coward, but he was lazy – battle was too much like work for him. He turned to watch as a group of chosen slaves was herded across a high walkway, towards the rim of the vast cauldron. They wailed and wept, and their despair was sweet to hear. Despair was Nurgle’s gift to his children, and one they freely shared. To know such beautiful desolation was to be freed of the cruel burdens of life. To be released from a most insidious slavery.
That was the Order’s remit. They were not conquerors, but liberators, freeing the innocent from the chains of hope. Hope was a grievous lie, whispered into the skulls of men by treacherous spirits. Only when all hope was extinguished from the realms would mortal men be truly free. It was a heavy burden, but one all true knights bore willingly. Such was their oath to the King of all Flies.
One by one, the slaves were sent screaming into the noxious stew, and Gatrog chuckled. Such sounds they made! As if they had something to fear. He glanced at his shield bearer. Agak always enjoyed watching slaves fall into the cauldron. But the little Rotbringer was frowning out at the bay. ‘What troubles you, Agak?’
‘Why aren’t they moving yet?’
Gatrog grunted and turned his attention to the enemy. Agak was right. Going by all previous experience, the storm-warriors should have been advancing by now, attempting to take the viaducts from the paltry forces stationed on them. The invaders did not normally hesitate when it came to seizing the initiative. ‘Perhaps they are frightened…’
Agak looked at him. Gatrog frowned. ‘Perhaps not.’
Somewhere high above, from one of the turrets, a horn sounded. Gatrog spun, hand slapping against the hilt of his blade. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw
the far right viaduct crack and splinter on its foundations. A thunderous groan filled the air as the immense bridge shuddered, and its middle span abruptly collapsed into the steamy waters. He felt the reverberations of its fall through the stones beneath his feet.
He caught sight of silvery winged shapes, hurtling through the noxious clouds above, and cursed virulently. Of course. He’d forgotten. Some of them could fly. ‘Well, there goes that plan,’ he rumbled, unable to hide his growing excitement.
Agak sighed and lifted Gatrog’s shield.
‘Guess we’re going to have to fight after all.’
Chapter Three
THE WORD
OF THE GOD-KING
Gardus studied the bas-reliefs that marked the walls of the antechamber. The scenes depicted there were somehow familiar. While they were mostly battles, some were of gentler pursuits. He saw reapers harvesting wheat, and shepherds tending their flock. His eyes strayed most often to the image of what could only be a hospice, where a robed figure tended the sick and the lame.
Garradan… help us… Garradan… healer, help me…
He closed his eyes, banishing the ghostly whispers. Not forever. They inevitably crept back, to remind him of what had been lost. By now, they were almost like old friends.
‘The dead can be persistent.’
Gardus opened his eyes to find Ramus of the Shadowed Soul watching him. ‘You would know better than I, Lord-Relictor.’ Around them, the gathered commanders of the Hallowed Knights spoke quietly to one another. It was rare that so many of them were all gathered in one place, and they took advantage of the opportunity, renewing old friendships and arguments alike. A Stormhost was, first and foremost, a brotherhood, united by bonds stronger than sigmarite. And it was only amongst their brothers and sisters in arms that a Stormcast Eternal truly felt at ease.
Ramus nodded. ‘To my sorrow. He is not truly dead, you know.’
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 4
