Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘Who will be victorious?’ His voice boomed out across the chamber.

  ‘Only the faithful!’

  Gardus lowered his hammer. ‘Only the faithful. It is good to see you, my brothers and sisters. That you stand here, ready to return to the fires of war, is testament to your faith. And I am humbled by it.’

  ‘It is we who are humbled by you, Steel Soul,’ a voice called out from overhead. A heavy shape dropped to the ground with a snap of crackling wings. ‘Though some among us would not admit it.’ The warrior rose to his full height, celestial beacon shimmering in his grasp. ‘Not me, though. I admit it freely.’

  ‘I doubt there is anyone short of Sigmar himself who could humble you, Cadoc,’ Gardus said, smiling. ‘Though I recall making the attempt several times in the Gladitorium.’ He extended his hand, and the Knight-Azyros took it.

  Tornus studied the other warrior. He knew Cadoc Kel by reputation. Cadoc was often the tip of the Steel Souls’ spear, speeding into battle alone, or accompanied only by the swiftest of the Angelos Conclave. His armour was decorated with prayer scrolls and reliquary sigils, and words in a tight, curling script had been etched into every flat surface. Cadoc noticed Tornus’ gaze and tapped his armour. ‘Canticles. I add a new one for every victory, and with every one added, the strength of my faith grows.’

  ‘Is being the truth?’ Tornus asked.

  ‘He seems to think so,’ Gardus said. ‘Cadoc, this is Tornus of the Gleaming Host. He will be accompanying us into battle.’

  ‘Can he keep up?’ Cadoc asked.

  ‘I am being quite swift.’

  Cadoc burst into laughter and slapped Tornus on the shoulder. ‘I have no doubt.’ He swept out a hand, indicating the silver ranks of the Hallowed Knights. ‘Your warriors await you, my lord. We stand ready to make war.’

  ‘He has eyes, Cadoc,’ a deep voice growled. The heavy shape of the Steel Souls’ Knight-Vexillor stepped from the ranks, his meteoric standard clutched in one hand, and a warhammer in the other. ‘He knew we would be ready before he ever entered this chamber.’ He nodded to Gardus. ‘It is good to see you again, my lord.’

  ‘And you, Angstun,’ Gardus said. ‘Are you ready to return to the fields of war? Lorrus must miss your council.’

  ‘Lord-Castellant Grymn is more than capable of making up for my absence,’ Angstun said. He glanced at Tornus, and then again, staring. ‘You,’ he said, flatly.

  ‘I am remembering you,’ Tornus said, softly.

  ‘I hope so,’ Angstun growled, eyes flashing. His hammer twitched in his hand. ‘You… you sent many of my brothers back to the Anvil of Apotheosis. And now, here you stand, clad in silver.’ Behind him, a murmur swept through the Stormcasts’ ranks. Tornus was suddenly very aware that many of these warriors had likely fallen due to Torglug’s axe. Ospheonis screeched a warning, and Angstun stepped back. Tornus reached up to silence the star-eagle, stroking his feathers.

  ‘I am not being the one who was killing you, not anymore,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure of that? Because you sound like him.’ Angstun leaned forwards, dark eyes fixed on him. ‘If you were truly one of the faithful, you would not have fallen.’

  ‘Faith is only tested in the falling, Angstun,’ Gardus said, firmly and loudly. He stepped between them, frowning. ‘It can only be forged in the fire of misfortune. And even then, the most stalwart soul can succumb to those flames. Else, how have all things come to this? Would we stand here now, our veins filled with lightning, if faith alone were enough?’

  He raised his head, looking at the assembled Stormcasts. ‘No. We are the faithful, and we know the limits of faith. But as with steel, strength comes from the testing of those limits. Steel may break, but it has the potential to be forged anew. If it is but given the chance.’ He caught Tornus by the shoulder and said, ‘See! Here stands a blade Reforged. Proof that a spark of light exists even in the darkest soul.’

  He looked at Angstun. ‘Your anger is understandable, brother. But you must put it aside. For he is but the first of the Redeemed, Sigmar willing. Would you turn them all away, out of anger and spite? Or will you call them brother, and welcome them?’ He reached out, caught hold of the Knight-Vexillor’s helm and gently pressed his bare brow to Angstun’s armoured one. ‘Much is demanded, of those to whom much is given.’

  As one, the assembled Hallowed Knights repeated the mantra, Tornus included. Gardus’ words echoed through his head. He thought he understood now why Sigmar had chosen to place him here. Lord-Celestant Silus was a great warrior, and fair commander, but he had never called Tornus ‘brother’. Only Gardus had, and done so without hesitation. The Steel Soul shone with an inner light that was all but blinding. As if his faith were a tangible thing. Then and there, Tornus knew that whatever Gardus asked of him, he would do.

  Gardus unhooked his helmet from his belt and pulled it on. He met Tornus’ gaze and tapped the Knight-Venator on the chest with his hammer.

  ‘Gird yourself, brother. It is time for us to go to war.’

  Chapter Four

  THE BRIDGE OF MAGGOTS

  Water hissed away to vapour as Enyo sped just above the surface of the Verdant Bay. She moved so swiftly that her Prosecutors lagged behind, unable to match her speed. Only Periphas, her star-eagle, could keep pace with her. The Knight-Venator rolled through the air, letting the edge of one shimmering wing strike the water. A gout of steam burst upwards, trailing after her as she swooped towards the underside of the viaduct. She reached for an arrow as she rose past the lip of the bridge. Without slowing, she nocked and loosed, quicker than mortal eye could follow, quicker even than thought.

  On the bridge, a blightking whirled as the arrow sprouted from his helm’s visor. The great bulk flopped to the ground, dead before he hit. All eyes on the bridge rose, following Enyo as she continued her ascent. Even as she’d intended. Arrows from the Rotbringer ranks clattered uselessly in her wake. She banked, twisting in mid-air, loosing another arrow of her own. And then a second and a third.

  Each found its mark, each removed another blighted soul from the world-weave. Her wings snapped downwards, propelling her to even greater height. The viaduct shrank away, and its defenders were reduced to ants. The bridge was larger than it had any right to be, given the shoddiness of its construction. It was wide enough for a hundred warriors to walk abreast along its length. But it was not a straight path; instead it was a twisting, curving morass of bone and sargassum. It more resembled a mountain trail than the gleaming platinum viaducts her folk had once constructed.

  For an instant, she was again sailing through the red-veined clouds above the great scholariums of Cypria, wings of clockwork clicking and humming. Those had been good days. Or so she hoped. Her memories of that time were but the basest of elements, unmingled and inert. She brushed the sigil of the twin-tailed comet engraved upon her chest-plate. She had worn another like it, before Sigmar had drawn her up into the sea of stars, Cypria burning beneath her. Though the City of Scholars was dead, it yet lived on in her.

  ‘And that is the heaviest burden of all,’ Enyo murmured. When she fell for the last time, would any still remember Cypria, and its clockwork legions? Or would they too pass into dim legend, as so many kingdoms had? If that was Sigmar’s will, so be it. Much was demanded of those to whom much had been given, and she would not balk at the debt.

  She spun lazily, knowing that those below could easily make out the gleam of her armour amid the dark clouds. ‘That’s right, keep looking at me. Here I am, death on high…’ She drew an arrow from her quiver and nocked it. Her wings thrummed, pushing at the air to keep her steady. ‘Quite a distance, this. What do you think, Periphas?’

  The star-eagle shrieked, impatient. Enyo laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, my friend. One must have faith. Sigmar will guide it to its target.’ She released the arrow, and it streaked downwards like a blazing comet.

&nb
sp; Below, a Rotbringer died. And then, so too did the viaduct. Enyo smiled in satisfaction as her Prosecutors did their work. She had held the eyes of the foe, allowing her warriors to complete their task unhindered. She folded her wings and fell, following the same course as her arrow.

  The viaduct twisted up on itself like a wounded animal. Prosecutors swooped beneath and around it, hurling their celestial hammers with precise aim. They struck at the viaduct’s weak points, reducing whole sections of the bridge to smoking slag.

  Enyo swooped over the bridge, pursuing the Rotbringers as they fled back towards the citadel gates. Prosecutors fell in behind her. Hammers slammed down among the fleeing enemy, pulping many. Broken bodies hurtled into the air and tumbled away into the sea. ‘The bridge falls,’ one of the Prosecutors called out. Tegrus of the Sainted Eye. Once, he would have spoken with levity, but now, there was only grim satisfaction in his voice. ‘What of the other?’

  ‘That I leave to you, Tegrus. Take your retinue and see to it,’ Enyo shouted. ‘I and the others shall remind the enemy of the true extent of what they face.’

  Tegrus saluted and banked, hurtling away, out over the water. Half a dozen Prosecutors followed him. Enyo continued on her course, followed by the remaining warriors.

  From the high ramparts of the citadel, war-engines sang a brutal song. Catapults groaned, hurling gobbets of fly-ridden sargassum at the darting Prosecutors. Creaking ballistae loosed iron-headed bolts that bit only empty air, as the winged Stormcasts banked, rolled and dropped, easily avoiding them.

  ‘I will take the war-machines,’ Enyo called, as she sped up the incline of the walls. ‘Galatus, Carva, smash open those gates. The rest of you, follow me.’

  Explosions tore at the reeking walls as she rose. She shot past the ramparts. The armsmen of the Order of the Fly scurried like insects. More disciplined than the Rotbringers on the viaduct, they were nonetheless mortal. She drew a crackling arrow from her quiver and loosed, knocking a blightking from the ramparts. Without their officers, the armsmen would break. She loosed a flurry of arrows, aiming at random. Behind her, Prosecutors rose into the sky. Celestial hammers tore divots from the rampart, filling the air with smoke and death.

  A ballista bolt tore through the smoke, and hummed past her, dangerously close. She folded her wings and dropped from the air. The wooden platform of the rampart squealed beneath her weight. Revulsion welled up in her as she realised that it had been crafted from still-living sylvaneth. Bonded together by pox-hardened sap and iron bolts, the tree-kin had been forced to grow into one another, and form the internal structure of the citadel – every walkway, every platform, all of one eternally suffering piece.

  A blightking thudded towards her across the whimpering planks, his notched and blunted blade raised for a killing blow. He chortled as she ducked aside. Her bow smashed into the blightking’s side, the force of it cracking the corroded armour. The blightking staggered, choking on his laughter. She leapt into the air and drove both feet into his chest, kicking him off the rampart.

  An arrow spanged off her helm as she landed. She spun, drawing and loosing one of her own in a single, smooth motion. Armsmen boiled out of the smoke, rusty blades hacking at her. She backed away, loosing an arrow with every step. Only one made it within striking distance of her. She caught the blow on her bow and twisted the weapon out of its wielder’s grip. The armsman gaped at her. He turned to flee, and ran into Periphas. The star-eagle fell screeching upon the Rotbringer, and knocked him flat.

  Ignoring his cries, Enyo looked out over the interior of the sargasso-citadel. Pox-smoke billowed up from a central structure that reminded her of nothing so much as a vast cauldron. Warriors ran to and fro, as Prosecutors rained down hammer strike after hammer strike, destroying ramparts, walkways and bridges. Where the celestial hammers struck, sargassum burned with a cleansing fire.

  It wasn’t enough. They couldn’t destroy this place, not on their own. There were too many of the foe, and the citadel was too large. But they weren’t here for that. They were here to remind both the enemy and their fell gods that there was nothing they could claim that Sigmar could not take away.

  A scream pierced the din. Human. Enyo turned, seeking out its source. She caught sight of the cages through a gap in the smoke – heavy things, made from wood and iron. And inside, the sickly, wasted figures of mortal captives. ‘Periphas,’ she said, as she dashed to the edge of the rampart and hurled herself into the air. The star-eagle shot after her, beak and talons wet with blood.

  There were hundreds of slaves, crammed cheek to jowl in the pens. Olive-skinned and dark eyed, they reminded her somewhat of her own lost folk. They reached out through the rusty bars towards her, screaming and crying. Desperate to escape the heat of the rising flames and the agitated brutality of the overseers who lashed at them with barbed whips, trying to silence them. She descended in a snarl of lightning, scattering the overseers. One, a bloat-bellied brute clad in mouldering rags and rusty mail, snapped his whip at her, spitting curses.

  She caught the coils of the whip around a forearm and jerked it taut, nearly pulling him off his feet. Periphas streaked down, talons slicing through the whip. The Rotbringer staggered back against a cage, and pale hands caught at him. He bellowed in anger and tore himself loose. Enyo sent an arrow into his throat before he had staggered more than a few paces. More overseers raced towards her. She waited patiently, letting them draw close.

  Hammers spiralled down, striking with meteoric force. The overseers were pulped and broken. She glanced up. ‘My thanks, Galatus. Now, free the mortals.’

  The Prosecutors swooped to obey. She made her way towards the closest cage, wondering what she would say. The mortals shrank back from her Prosecutors, afraid of the strange, winged beings. She could not blame them. Their armour, their height, all of it was frightening, by design.

  She heard a roar of lightning and turned. Above, on a low platform, one of her warriors vanished in a blaze of azure energy. A heavy form, clad in thick armour and wearing a helm topped by what appeared to be the head of a stylised toad-dragon, stepped into view. Quickly, she loosed an arrow, splitting one of the platform supports. The structure shifted and began to sag, threatening to dump the newcomer to the ground.

  ‘I am Count Pustulix, and I claim the right of combat,’ the warrior roared, leaping from the sagging platform. He dropped down with a crash, baroque armour weeping smoke. A Chaos knight, she realised. Larger and stronger than any blightking. ‘Come, face a true knight and champion of the King of all Flies.’ Streamers of filthy silk snapped about his helm. He extended the heavy splitting maul he clutched towards her. ‘Face me, warrior, for the honour and glory of–’

  Enyo drew an arrow and loosed. The star-fated projectile left behind a bright, iridescent trail as it leapt towards its target. When it struck, it did so in a clap of thunder. Pustulix’s head snapped back as it pierced his helm and entered whatever passed for his brain. The Chaos knight tottered, limbs twitching. Then, with a sigh, he toppled backwards to land with a thud of finality.

  ‘There is no honour in battle, only in victory,’ Enyo said, as she stepped over the body and continued on her way to the cages. ‘And victory belongs to the faithful.’

  As the lateral viaducts fell, the full might of the Steel Souls pressed forward down the remaining bridge. The Rotbringers there had been working to destroy the central supports for the viaduct, obviously hoping to collapse those sections closest to shore. The assault had interrupted their labours, and now they retreated in disarray, or else fought like cornered animals. Most were retreating to make a stand at the line of mantlets stretching across the centre of the viaducts. That was where the real battle would be.

  Aetius Shieldborn led his Liberators towards the enemy, moving forwards at a steady pace. There was no need for haste, for they were not the hammer, but the anvil. Across the bay, he caught sight of the leftmost viaduct finishing its
slow collapse, thanks to the efforts of Tegrus and his Prosecutors. The enemy would have no choice now but to face them head-on. Unless they destroyed the remaining bridge out of spite.

  No, he thought. No, that was not the Order’s way. He had fought such enemies before, in the winding streets of the reed-city of Gramin, and the Chaos knights had a twisted sense of martial honour. They wanted – needed – battle in a way that few other servants of the Plague God did. He suspected that whatever forces awaited them in the citadel were eager to greet them. A roar of lightning from up ahead caught his attention. Feros had met the enemy, and found them wanting.

  ‘Make way, make way, for Feros of the Heavy Hand has come,’ the Retributor-Prime roared. His lightning hammer smashed down through an upraised shield and the cowering figure beneath. ‘Where I walk, no gate, no wall, shall bar the way.’ His voice boomed out over the viaduct, as loud as thunder. ‘Come and set your shields, I shall crack them and make a bonfire of your bones. Make way, make way!’

  ‘Do you think they heard him?’ Solus asked, as he loosed another arrow. The Judicator-Prime spoke calmly, displaying none of the excitement one might expect. His Judicators marched in the lee of their brethren’s shieldwall, trusting in the Liberators to see them safely through the press of battle. It was an old tactic, but reliable. The Judicators drew and loosed with drilled precision, following their commander’s example.

  ‘I think Nurgle in his garden heard him,’ Aetius said, glancing at the Judicator-Prime. ‘But he’s clearing us a path, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘So he is. How thoughtful of him.’ Solus loosed an arrow as he spoke, sending it high, so that it might arc down on the enemy. His aim was second only to that of the Steel Souls’ Knight-Venator, Enyo. ‘We should probably catch up to him, before he gets himself in trouble,’ he added mildly.

  Aetius nodded. He envied Solus his serenity, especially in battle. Sometimes he fancied that the other warrior was the eye of the storm made manifest. Solus had no doubts as to his place in the world, or his purpose.