‘Who?’
‘Tarsus.’
Gardus frowned. ‘Then why have we gathered here?’
‘It was not of my doing,’ Ramus said, his tone faintly bitter. He glanced over his shoulder. Gardus followed his gaze. The other Lord-Relictors stood in quiet conversation with Lord-Celestants Iorek and Silus. The latter raised a hand in silent greeting. Gardus returned the gesture, wondering what they were discussing.
‘Why would they declare him dead, if he lives?’ he asked, as he turned back.
‘Because it suits the God-King’s purposes,’ Ramus said. Gardus gave him a sharp look. Ramus glanced away, as if ashamed of his bitterness.
‘I have heard that you petitioned Sigmar for the chance to return to Shyish.’
‘And you also heard that he did not grant my request, I’d wager.’
‘I did.’
Gardus understood the God-King’s decision. What Ramus had asked for was nothing less than leave to invade the realms of a nominal ally. Or at the very least one who was not yet an open enemy. Sigmar did not wish to provoke open war with the Undying King, until there was no other option. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.
Ramus gave a hollow laugh. ‘That is good to hear. I had hoped you might lend a sympathetic ear, and listen to what I propose.’
Gardus blinked. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I will not – I cannot allow Tarsus’ soul to remain in Nagash’s possession. It goes against every oath I swore in the Temple of Ages, and all bonds of brotherhood. I… I failed him, both in Shyish, and in the wilds of Ghur.’
‘No,’ Gardus said firmly. ‘You achieved your mission, whatever else. That is all that Sigmar asks of us, brother.’
Ramus gave an irritated twitch. ‘And what about what we ask of ourselves, Steel Soul? Whatever our loyalties, are our wills not our own?’ He hunched forwards, the haft of his hammer creaking as his grip on it tightened. ‘Tarsus died for us. As you died for your warriors. And I would not have it be for nothing.’
‘And you think it was?’ Gardus asked, softly. ‘Because it seems to me that your presence here contradicts that.’ Tarsus had made the ultimate sacrifice for his chamber, and Ramus seemed determined to throw it all away, out of the same sense of devotion.
Ramus ignored him. ‘I hoped, in the aftermath of Gothizzar, that Sigmar might grant my request. Nagash has proven himself as much our enemy as the Ruinous Powers.’ He shook his head. ‘Instead, I was told that Tarsus was lost to us, and that command of the Bull Hearts would fall to me.’
‘As Sigmar commands, so must we obey,’ Gardus said.
‘So we must,’ Ramus said, his voice harsh. ‘But that does not mean I will give up. I will not fail Tarsus a third time. No matter the cost, I will see him freed.’ He straightened. ‘And so, I ask you, Gardus of the Steel Soul, if you will lend your voice to mine in this petition. Together, we might make Sigmar hear us.’
‘To what end?’
Ramus hesitated. ‘What do you mean? Have you not been listening?’
‘Gardus always listens, Shadow Soul, even when he shouldn’t,’ Cassandora interjected, as she joined them. She fixed Ramus with a steady gaze. ‘You know better than anyone that our brother is lost to us, Lord-Relictor. How many must be sacrificed before you admit it?’ Her words were sharp, but her voice calm.
Ramus grunted, as if she’d struck him, and Gardus was forced to catch him by the shoulder as he wheeled about angrily. Ramus glanced at Gardus, and visibly composed himself before replying. ‘What would you have of me, sister?’ he asked, his voice almost a whisper. ‘Why can none of you see?’
‘We do see,’ Gardus said, trading looks with Cassandora. ‘I see your pain, brother, and, more than anything, I wish I could take the burden from you.’ He felt the light stir within him and crushed it down, stifling it. ‘But I cannot. Sigmar has made his decision. It is not for us to question it. Much is demanded…’
Ramus bowed his head. ‘Of those to whom much is given,’ he finished. He shook off Gardus’ hand and turned away. ‘But how much must we give, until we are allowed to say enough?’ With that, he walked away, head held high, back straight.
‘I see I am not the only one whose aid Ramus sought,’ Silus the Untarnished said, as he strode towards Gardus and Cassandora, trailed by an unfamiliar Knight-Venator. Gardus was studying the Knight-Venator when Silus’ words registered.
‘He asked for your support as well?’
‘He’s making the rounds,’ Cassandora said, glaring after the departed Lord-Relictor. ‘Ever since the God-King recalled him from the Realm of Beasts. He approached me earlier, and the Ironheart a day ago. The others as well.’
‘And after all of you turned him down, he came to me,’ Gardus said, bleakly amused. ‘I suppose I should feel insulted.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Silus said. He looked at Gardus. ‘You suffered a similar fate to the Bull Heart, lost to Sigmar’s sight in a harsh realm. But unlike Tarsus, you came back. Ramus is probably wondering how you managed it.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ Gardus said. He noticed Lord-Celestant Iorek watching him. The commander of the Ironhearts leaned towards his Lord-Relictor and murmured something. Gardus sighed. There were some among the Hallowed Knights who feared he was tainted by his wanderings in the realm of Nurgle. It was a fear he’d shared, before his second Reforging. But any stain that might have existed would have been blasted from him on the Anvil of Apotheosis. Or so he hoped. He shook his head. ‘Perhaps we should–’
‘What? Go to the God-King and demand his leave to invade the Realm of Death, to start a second war before the first is finished?’ Cassandora gestured sharply. ‘I am all for taking a hammer to Nagash’s bones, but now is not the time.’
‘Our sister is right, I fear,’ Silus said. ‘In any event, we all have our responsibilities. Some more pressing than others.’ He knocked his knuckles against Gardus’ shoulder-plate. ‘And speaking of them, might I ask a boon of you, brother?’
‘If it is in my power,’ Gardus said.
‘You are returning to the Realm of Life, are you not? To rejoin your chamber in the Jade Kingdoms?’
Gardus nodded. ‘I am.’
‘I ask that you allow one of my warriors to accompany you. He has knowledge which may be of use, for he knows those lands intimately.’ Silus motioned to the silent form of the Knight-Venator. The warrior twitched, as if in surprise. ‘Tornus, step forward.’
‘Tornus?’ Cassandora said, eyes widening. ‘The Redeemed One.’
‘The who?’ Gardus said, looking back and forth. The Knight-Venator glanced at his Lord-Celestant before he sank to one knee, head bowed.
‘I am being Tornus the Redeemed, Lord-Celestant. And we are having met before.’
Gardus stared down at him. He recognised the warrior now, though he had only seen him at a distance, loosing his deadly arrows into the ranks of the foe during the battle for the Great Green Torc. ‘Have we, brother?’
‘Yes. In battle.’ Tornus looked up. ‘But we are being on opposite sides.’
Gardus paused, wondering what he meant. Then it hit him. ‘The Athelwyrd.’ This, then, was the warrior who’d once been known as Torglug the Despised. The first to feel the purifying touch of the enigmatic Celestant-Prime, and the first servant of the Dark Gods to be Reforged. Bemused, he gestured. ‘Up, brother. On your feet. There is no need to kneel before me. I am not the God-King.’
Tornus rose smoothly. Gardus studied him. ‘I heard that you pursued one of the Maggoth Lords for thirty days and nights across the Scabrous Sprawl. Such dedication is impressive.’ Then, given how tenaciously Torglug had hunted Alarielle, perhaps that wasn’t surprising. ‘I would welcome your company,’ he said. He glanced at Silus. ‘If it is your Lord-Celestant’s wish that you join me.’
Silus frowned. But before he could reply, someone did so for him.
> ‘It was not his wish, Steel Soul. It was mine.’
The voice reverberated through the antechamber like the pealing of some great bell. It echoed through every heart and shook the marrow in every bone. One by one, the gathered Hallowed Knights sank to their knees. Gardus was the last, and as he dropped to one knee, he gazed up at the towering presence of the God-King.
Sigmar stood only a little taller than his warriors but, even so, he loomed over them, a giant made of starlight and the sound of clashing steel. He seemed more real than the world around him, as if all of the light and heat of the universe had been poured into him. His golden armour shone like a beacon, and his broad features were like new-carved marble. He carried no weapon, but needed none, such was the power he radiated. Here were the hands that had drawn up mountains and drained seas. Here, the arms that had wielded Ghal Maraz in the age before time, and cracked loose the pillars of the heavens, so that life might begin. And the eyes, which had seen the black rim of eternity and the birth of suns. The air crackled about him, as if his merest gesture might set it alight.
Sigmar Heldenhammer. Sigmar Stormlord. Sigmar, the God-King.
As he surveyed the ranks of kneeling Stormcasts, a slow, sad smile split his features. Like a man who knew the end of the story, and found it bittersweet. ‘Rise, sons and daughters of the storm. I would not keep you from your appointed rounds. There is much work yet to be done.’ He looked down at Gardus. ‘You stay. You as well, Tornus. I would speak to you both.’
Gardus remained kneeling. So, too, did Tornus. Cassandora, Silus and the others rose and departed. Ramus was the last to leave. He stared steadily at Sigmar, as if preparing to confront him. Gardus felt a surge of relief when the Lord-Relictor left without speaking. When he had gone, Sigmar turned his attention to the bas-reliefs and said, ‘On your feet, Gardus.’
Gardus rose, feeling somewhat apprehensive. ‘What is it you wished to speak of, my lord?’ he asked. He glanced at Tornus, who still knelt, head bowed.
‘Do you know why I wish for Tornus to accompany you?’ Sigmar rumbled, still studying the bas-reliefs. Gardus shook his head.
‘I do not.’
‘Do you object?’
‘I do not.’
‘That is the reason,’ Sigmar said. He turned. ‘Even now, there are some who doubt him, who see the echo of his former self in him. They see a shadow where there is none, and I grow weary of it.’ For a moment, lightning flashed in the God-King’s gaze, and the Sepulchre trembled, as thunder boomed somewhere overhead. ‘So weary that I must remind myself I am not a tyrant. That I cannot force them to see sense. I can only show them the way, and hope that they follow the path I have set them on.’
‘I have endeavoured to do so, always,’ Gardus began. Sigmar smiled, and the burgeoning rage of a moment before was gone, dispersed like a fading storm.
‘If you had not, we would not be having this discussion, Gardus.’ He placed a hand on the wall. Lightning crackled, limning the carvings, each in its turn. ‘The story of your Stormhost is writ on these walls, as well as in the pages of the great, ironbound books your Lord-Relictors hide here from me, as if ashamed.’ He caught Gardus’ frown of consternation. ‘Do you truly think that such a thing would anger me?’
‘It is not that, my lord. But they are ours. Our memories, however scattered and fragmentary. All that we might once have been, before we were chosen to serve you.’ Gardus looked at the books. Which one contained his story? There was no way of knowing. ‘In those pages are the last remnants of vanished peoples and cultures, the vestiges of better worlds, and the people who inhabited them.’ His hands clenched, as he smelled again the faint whiff of smoke and saw white robes, gone red. ‘Without these memories, what are we but shadows clad in sigmarite?’
Sigmar was silent. Gardus turned. Sigmar smiled. It was not a gentle smile, but neither was it wrathful. A smile of satisfaction, perhaps. ‘Shadows have their purpose, Gardus. Even if it is only to make the light shine all the brighter.’
Gardus bowed his head. ‘As you say, my lord.’
Sigmar looked at Tornus. ‘You’re still kneeling. Why?’
‘I am not being worthy of standing, my lord.’
‘Are you not? Well, we shall have to rectify that. For the moment, however, humour me. On your feet.’ Sigmar gestured. Tornus rose. Sigmar nodded. ‘Good.’ He looked back at Gardus. ‘I entrust this task to you, for the same reasons I sent you to the Everqueen, in her darkest hour. I have many weapons, Gardus of the Steel Soul, and not all of them are used to break things.’ He pointed to the tempestos hammer dangling from Gardus’ belt. ‘The Stormcast Eternals are my hammer, and a hammer may be used to build as well as destroy. I think you, above all others, recognise that.’
Gardus said nothing. Sigmar continued. ‘Among all the lights of the faithful, yours shines the brightest, I think. Your brothers and sisters in arms look to you, to see what path they should follow. That is why Ramus came to you last, for if you had denied him, the others would not have even listened.’
‘You know, then?’
‘Very little occurs in this citadel that I am not aware of, Gardus.’ Sigmar tapped him on the chest-plate. It was the gentlest of touches, and even so, it rocked him slightly. ‘Each of you bears a bit of me, and the same lightning courses through our veins.’
‘Do not be angry with him,’ Gardus said, quickly. ‘He suffers a pain of the soul. One only time will heal.’
‘Still the physician,’ Sigmar said. ‘Ramus is not alone in his pain. Others suffer from similar ailments, even as you once did. Doubt, anger, uncertainty. These things can weaken the bonds of faith that bind us all. That is why I ask you to guide him.’ He indicated Tornus. ‘Guide them all, by example. Build the foundations of what is to come.’
‘I will do my best, my lord,’ Gardus said.
Sigmar studied the Lord-Celestant, his gaze unreadable. Then he nodded, and somewhere high above, thunder rumbled. ‘Good. Now, it is time for you to return to your warrior chamber at last, Gardus of the Steel Soul. There is much work to be done, and I would see it done well.’
Tornus followed Gardus at a respectful distance as they made their way to the Basilica of the Storm, where the Reforged Steel Souls waited. The meeting with Sigmar had left him shaken. He could still feel the reverberations of the God-King’s voice in his bones. Sigmar was akin to a storm caged in iron, ever pulsing and crackling with repressed fury. How Gardus had been able to meet the Heldenhammer’s gaze, Tornus couldn’t fathom. Perhaps the stories he’d heard about the Steel Soul were true.
Even so, it made him feel no better about being passed around like a burden. Lord-Celestant Silus had departed without a word, all but abandoning him. No, that was unfair. This arrangement had not been by Silus’ choice, that much was clear.
Tornus felt broken. He had hoped that feeling would fade, after he had achieved some measure of revenge. He had struck down the followers of Nurgle in the Scabrous Sprawl with a fury second only to that of the storm itself. But the fire inside had burned hot, and left nothing but ashes in its wake.
Part of him wondered if he ought to seek death, and thus be Reforged anew. Would it purify him of his doubts? Or would they grow worse, as his sense of self frayed even further? It would be better to be an automaton, he thought. A weapon did not question its purpose. It merely fulfilled it. Doubt had brought him low in the Pit of Filth. He could not afford to sink into that ever-waiting mire again, for he knew he would not escape it a second time.
‘Where are we to be going?’ he asked, more to fill the silence than out of curiosity. ‘Lord-Celestant Silus said it was being the Jade Kingdoms…’
‘Yes. The Plains of Vo.’ Gardus slowed his pace, forcing Tornus to walk beside him. ‘You know of them?’
‘I am being there, in the long ago,’ Tornus said. ‘Before I am being changed.’ Ospheonis chirped, and he reached up to stro
ke the star-eagle’s beak. ‘Many cities. Many people.’ He hesitated, sifting through faded memories. ‘Fancy hats.’
‘Hats?’
‘Big hats.’ Tornus looked at him. ‘And many boats. Is that being helpful?’
Gardus chuckled. ‘Possibly. I’m more interested in the sargasso-citadels.’
Tornus grunted. ‘The Order of the Fly.’ He recalled few interactions with the Order. He – Torglug – had found them annoying and frustrating in equal measure. Their cheerful despair and adherence to a frankly ridiculous martial code had made them burdensome allies at best and nuisances at worst. Even the Glottkin hadn’t been able to stand them. ‘They are being dangerous. True fanatics. Strong warriors.’
‘You almost sound as if you admire them.’
Tornus shook his head. ‘They are being foolish and strange.’
‘But dangerous.’
‘Yes, very much so.’ Ahead of them, a set of massive doors swung inwards on groaning hinges, pushed open by a retinue of Liberators. Beyond them, the Basilica of the Storm waited. The huge chamber jutted out from the edge of Sigmaron, extending over the sea of stars. Hallowed Knights stood within the chamber, standing in disciplined ranks. Thick pillars rose from the floor towards a high aether dome, composed of blue-tinted glass, set into a golden framework. Lightning crawled across the glass, twisting and crackling into strange, unsettling shapes.
As they entered the chamber, the Hallowed Knights turned as one, with a crash of sigmarite. Members of every conclave were represented among the Reforged: Liberators with warblade and shield; Retributors in their heavy armour, lightning hammers sparking with barely restrained power; Decimators, gleaming thunderaxes ready to hack a path through any foe; and Protectors, their silvery bulk distorted by the mystic shimmer of their stormstrike glaives. Above them all, Prosecutors swooped and glided, ready to launch themselves into the warm air of Ghyran.
Gardus stopped. He raised his tempestos hammer. ‘Who stands ready?’
‘Only the faithful,’ came the thunderous reply.
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 5
