Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  In contrast, Aetius felt as if he had nothing but questions. Unlike some Stormcasts, Aetius recalled nothing of his mortal life. Where the fragments of memory should have been was only an emptiness, an absence secreted behind a wall of faith. For him, there was nothing in the world save his duty.

  Perhaps that was for the best. Memories seemed to bring only pain.

  A war-horn sounded, somewhere ahead. Knight-Heraldor Kurunta fought in the vanguard alongside the Devastation Brotherhoods. The other auxiliary commanders were scattered throughout the chamber, where they could be of the most use. Lord-Castellant Grymn marched at the centre of the advance, the aleph around which the assault would pivot. Lord-Relictor Morbus had command of the far flank, on the other side of the viaduct from Aetius and his warriors.

  Aetius turned to bellow at two nearby Liberators. ‘Serena, Berkut… keep your shields locked. If a single Judicator falls because of your inattention, I shall send you back to Azyr myself.’ He gestured to another. ‘Taya, five paces to the left. Bolster the flank.’

  Ahead of them, Feros and his retinue maintained their momentum. The Retributors moved as one, without speed, but steadily. A millstone of silver and azure, lightning hammers slamming down to crush bone and pulp flesh as the heavily armoured warriors ground forwards. The Retributors fought in the vanguard, clearing a path for those who followed.

  The Steel Souls fought not as a single battle line, but as independent formations of Thunderhead Brotherhoods, composed of Liberators and Judicators. They marched in the wake of the Devastation Brotherhoods, consisting of Retributors and Decimators, capitalising on the carnage wreaked by the Paladin Conclaves. The Devastation Brother­hoods were a scythe, cutting through the field of foes. In contrast, the Thunderhead Brotherhoods fought as tight squares, grinding apart any enemy caught between them.

  It was not a subtle stratagem, but it was certainly effective. The Rotbringers collapsed inwards, like a lanced boil. The mortal servants of Nurgle could not hope to match the sheer, destructive fury of warriors like Feros. Even the blightkings hesitated to put themselves in the Heavy Hand’s path. And those that did inevitably found themselves broken, and left to the mercies of Aetius and his Liberators.

  Aetius cursed as a streak of blue lightning speared upwards from the thick of battle. Another one lost, returned to the heavens to be Reforged. How many had they lost in these past weeks? How many since they’d first set foot in the Jade Kingdoms? Whatever the total, it was too many.

  Infuriated, he slammed his shield into the skull of a blightking as the obese warrior heaved himself to his feet, suppurating coils of intestine tangling his legs. The blightking sank to one knee with a phlegmatic cough. Aetius hit him with the shield again, knocking him backwards. Before the blightking could rise, he brought his hammer down, crushing the rust-riddled helm and the rotten skull within. A swarm of biting flies exploded from the ruptured helmet, forcing him to take a step back. The insects dispersed swiftly.

  ‘I hate when they do that,’ he snarled.

  ‘So you insist on reminding me,’ Solus said. He turned, loosing an arrow into a charging Rotbringer. ‘Dispersed volley,’ he said. His Judicators turned, breaking ranks to send their arrows flying in all directions. ‘There seem to be more of them than there were a few moments ago.’

  ‘Feros is getting sloppy,’ Aetius said. A rust-edged axe slammed down against his shield, gouging the sigmarite. He swept the weapon aside and pulped the blightking’s exposed knee. The Rotbringer staggered, and an arrow sprouted from the visor of his helm, pitching him backwards. ‘I had him,’ Aetius growled.

  ‘There’s plenty more where he came from, brother. Have your pick.’

  Aetius shook his head, annoyed. The battle for the bridge was becoming confused. The Rotbringers squeezed between the Thunderhead formations were fighting back, trying to win through, or else form up in ranks. They would fail, but it was a hindrance nonetheless. Spears skittered off his shield, as a trio of hauberk-clad armsmen tried to make a stand. The mortal warriors were tough and strong, but not enough of either. Aetius crashed his shield into theirs, driving the three men back step by step. They continued to stab at him, cursing and shouting prayers to their foul god.

  He swept his arm out, sending them sprawling. His hammer caught the first in the head, spilling his brains across the faces of his fellows. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a heavy shape surging towards him. He turned at the last moment, only just avoiding a blow that would have sent him back to the forges of Azyr.

  The Rotbringer was no blightking, but something far worse – a Chaos knight, clad in thick war-plate, decorated with eye-searing sigils, and wearing a tabard marked with the ruinous symbol of his patron god. He wore a helmet decorated with grotesquely wrought flies, and a cloak of toad-dragon hide. ‘Have at thee,’ the creature intoned, its voice a hollow moan. A festering blade, twice as wide as a normal sword, marked with notches, slashed out. It carved a scar across Aetius’ chest-plate, staggering him.

  He bulled forwards, crashing into the Chaos knight, driving him back a step. The warrior caught the edge of his shield and checked Aetius’ rush. The sword swept down, hacking into the rim of his shield and driving him to one knee. ‘I shall give thee a beautiful death, interloper,’ the Chaos knight groaned, wrenching his sword free of the shield and raising it. Before the blow could fall, an arrow sank into a gap in his armour. The knight stumbled, turning instinctively. A second arrow followed the first, piercing his cuirass.

  Aetius rose to his feet and slammed his hammer into the back of the knight’s knees, dropping him to the ground. The warrior tried to turn, but too late. The hammer sang down and the knight slumped, skull crushed. Aetius looked up. ‘Now who’s being sloppy?’ Solus said. Before Aetius could reply, the Judicator-Prime pointed. ‘Look, we’ve reached the mantlets.’ Aetius turned.

  Ahead of them, Feros and his Retributors had slowed their advance. The mantlets were massive shields, arrayed across the width of the viaduct, and held in place by iron spikes and heavy chains. Behind them, more enemy warriors crouched, these clutching bows. As the broken remnants of the Rotbringer advance streamed between the mantlets, seeking refuge, the archers rose, arrows nocked. The broad heads of their arrows glowed with sickly green fire. ‘Balefire arrows,’ Solus said.

  ‘Reform the line, shields up,’ Aetius shouted, even as the first volley of arrows streaked into the air, leaving trails of pestilential smoke in their wake.

  The viaduct shuddered as the balefire ripsawed across it, reducing fossilised sargassum to bubbling liquidity. Ancient bones tore loose from the structure and surfaced explosively, scattering Stormcasts and Rotbringers alike. Where the green flames touched, cohesion gave way to chaos. And, amidst the crackling hellstorm, immense maggots rose into sight, burrowing up through the surface of the bridge. They launched themselves at the Stormcasts, mandibles clicking wetly.

  Lord-Relictor Morbus Stormwarden slammed the ferrule of his reliquary staff down. It struck the surface of the bridge with a loud crack. Lightning thrummed through the bridge, spitting and clawing at the maggots. One of the creatures burst, and where its foul ichor fell, more flames blazed up, adding to the conflagration. The heat washed down the length of the bridge, driving nearby retinues of Stormcast Eternals back in momentary disorder.

  ‘Back,’ he called out, gesturing with his hammer. ‘Do not let the flames touch you.’ Liberators and Judicators fell back, pursued by the squirming maggot-beasts.

  Morbus found himself facing one of the creatures. It reared up over him, mouth-parts clicking, its body pulsing with unnatural energies. Whether these creatures had been created by the balefires, or simply awakened by them, was immaterial. Only the method and surety of their dispatch mattered. The maggot-thing lunged, and he struck it with his hammer, knocking it aside. It squealed and thrashed, body undulating in repellent fashion. Another came at him, its slobbery maw f
astening on his arm, swallowing both hand and hammer whole.

  Its acidic bile began to eat into his vambrace and gauntlet. A gleaming blade swept down suddenly, separating its head from its body. Kurunta kicked the squirming carcass aside, taking care to avoid the balefire that sprang up. The Knight-Heraldor helped Morbus extricate his arm. ‘Where in the name of the Great Bear did these things come from?’ he said. ‘They’re all over the bridge.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Join the advance. Let nothing stand in your path.’ Morbus raised his staff and intoned a prayer to the celestial storm, as Kurunta hurried to join his warriors. His words echoed out over the clangour of battle, rising up to the skies. Far above, the clouds contracted and twisted in on themselves. In moments, the thick pox-clouds were pierced through by a shimmering rain. Where it fell, the maggots screamed. Their flesh steamed and blistered as the cleansing waters washed them away to nothing.

  The flames too seemed to struggle against the falling rain, flaring eerily in places. While parts of the conflagration were snuffed, in other places the balefires grew fiercer and continued to spread. Nearby, an unlucky Liberator was caught in one such expanding blaze. Morbus turned as he heard the warrior’s scream of pain.

  The Hallowed Knight’s silver armour turned black almost instantly. The sigmarite plates began to blister and slough away from his frame as he screamed in agony. His limbs bulged with unnatural growth, sprouting pustules that wailed like newborn infants. His intestines swelled, splitting his body open from within. The groaning mass collapsed, convulsed and lay still. No lightning speared upwards, no spark escaped. Morbus took a step towards the steaming mass. If the soul of the warrior had not escaped, it was his duty to reclaim it, whatever the cost.

  The mass heaved up. A gash split down the middle, expelling dagger-like fangs from within the roiling meat. Awkward arms, thick with infected muscle and splintered bone, thudded down, pulling the newborn monstrosity forwards, useless hind limbs dragging behind it. It shrieked in agony as it lunged with crippled ferocity towards the closest Stormcasts. New-grown teeth shattered on a sigmarite shield, only for the splinters to sprout anew. The Liberators struck at the creature. Every blow released sprays of reeking pus, which sizzled where it struck their armour.

  A tendril-like arm whipped out, sending warriors flying. A Liberator slammed into the side of the viaduct and vanished over the edge. Another crunched down at an awkward angle, neck clearly broken. Blue lightning shot upwards and Morbus stepped through it, drawing strength from its connection to Azyr. He struck the bridge with his staff again, catching the attention of his warriors. ‘Back, all of you back. This is my duty.’

  Liberators pulled back warily, shields raised in case the abomination decided to ignore the Lord-Relictor. The monstrous bulk heaved itself towards Morbus as he approached, its limbs rupturing and expelling thick, root-like shoots as it did so. It was becoming a part of the bridge, a living bulwark, formed of pox-ridden meat and sorcery. ‘Brother, can you hear me?’ Morbus said.

  A bony limb slashed at him, and he deftly avoided it. As it tried to retract, he pinned it in place with his staff. The creature shuddered and screamed again, its voice distorted into a bestial wail. Pustules formed and burst on its bulk, and he could hear the cracking of bones within it. With every moment that passed, it lost more of its shape. It tried to yank its limb free of him, but failed.

  ‘Brother,’ he said again, trying to pierce the fog of agony he knew was clouding the creature’s mind. ‘You will listen.’ He twisted his staff, grinding the ferrule into the suppurating flesh. It roared and thrashed, but soon subsided.

  ‘Kuh-kuhlmeee,’ the thing gurgled from its gash-like mouth. An eye rolled in a shrunken socket, only to burst as it fixed on him. He could still make out part of the Liberator’s face, taut with agony, within the altered hulk. That he was still alive was testament to the durability of the God-King’s design. But in this case, it was more curse than blessing. Morbus nodded slowly, and raised his hammer.

  ‘By the bones that I bear and call my own, I bid ye heed now, brother. Heed only the call of the God-King, and accept his blessing.’ It was a poor sort of prayer, but he had little time for anything better. An urgency he could not explain gripped him.

  The hammer fell. Thunder rolled. Lightning flared upwards, freed at last from a tormented husk. Morbus watched it ascend, and then turned his attention back to the battle. He started forwards. He gave no orders. None were necessary. Behind him, Liberators and Judicators followed his example.

  The last few of the giant maggots squirmed towards the advancing Stormcasts, their vile flesh bubbling from the touch of the cleansing rain. Morbus met them with lightning. They had no time to waste, fighting mindless beasts. The charred husks were crushed and scattered by the warriors in his wake.

  He could feel the ebb and flow of the storm above him. It was growing stronger, its rains washing the pox-clouds from the air. Sigmar – or some aspect of him – was watching and aiding his faithful. But there was something else in the air as well… a twisting, churning sensation. His stomach roiled, and he could feel the strange magics percolating through the hardened sargassum of the bridge. It was a resonance, of sorts. Like called to like, and whatever was happening, it had its origins in the same sort of corrupt sorcery that had originally formed the bridges and citadels.

  Ahead of him, a shieldwall of Rotbringers were readying themselves to make a stand. He saw the corpulent shapes of blightkings among them, steadying the line with hoarse shouts of encouragement. Kurunta had shattered the mantlets and driven the Rotbringers back across to this point. They had likely expected the balefires to hold the Stormcasts at bay while they retreated. Morbus smiled thinly. The storm could not be held back so easily.

  Kurunta fell into step beside him, followed by a retinue of Retributors. The Knight-Heraldor’s armour was blackened in places, and marked by weapon strikes. ‘Your rain was well-timed, Lord-Relictor.’

  Morbus inclined his head in acknowledgement, but didn’t reply. Lightning writhed over his armour and weapons as he marched towards the enemy. It sparked and snarled around him like a gryph-hound straining at the leash. ‘Who will be redeemed?’ Morbus said, his voice like a peal of a funerary bell.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ Kurunta and the others responded, their voices a low growl.

  ‘Who will stand until the last stone is dust?’

  ‘Only the faithful.’ As one, the Liberators began to strike the flats of their shields with their hammers and warblades. Kurunta raised his war-horn to his lips and blew a single, sterling note, which shivered out across the air.

  Morbus could feel the song of the storm building within him. It yearned to be free, to rage across all the worlds, to drown and burn all that was not pure. ‘Who will rise, when all others fall?’ he called out. He could make out the faces of the enemy now, frightened and pale beneath their corroded helms. The line of spears wavered, brittle and hesitant.

  ‘Only the faithful.’ A roar now, a crash of thunder.

  Morbus thudded forwards, Kurunta and his Retributors following close behind. Lightning ricocheted from the Lord-Relictor, leaping towards the Rotbringers. It ripped through their ranks, killing dozens. A blightking, either brave or desperate, pushed towards him, sword raised. ‘Who will know victory?’ Morbus roared, as his hammer descended with all the fury of the celestial storm.

  ‘Only the faithful!’

  Chapter Five

  THE SARGASSO-CITADEL

  ‘You have come this far only to be mulch for Grandfather’s garden, silver-skin,’ the blightking burbled as he stomped forwards. Gelid rolls of fat quivered on bowed limbs, and air wheezed from between its folds. Crumbling armour squealed in protest as the blightking raised his pitted axe and gave a joyful bellow.

  Lord-Castellant Grymn ignored his opponent’s taunts and swung his halberd out in a narrow arc. The blightking fell in two directions, b
ile pumping. Grymn shook the foulness from his blade and surveyed his surroundings. The advance had almost ground to a halt. The air smelled of burning flesh and lightning. Balefire arrows shrieked out from murder holes, and greenish fire roared up, only to be snuffed by the cool wind and clean rain that filled the passageway. Lord-Relictor Morbus’ healing storm soothed the hurts of the Stormcasts and kept the fell magics of the enemy at bay.

  Ahead of Grymn, Order armsmen held the line against the Hallowed Knights, amid the smoking ruins of the citadel gatehouse. The front of the gatehouse had once been the jaws of some ancient leviathan, now twisted out of shape and stretched into a monstrous parody of a portcullis. A jungle of rotting flesh and sargassum stretched beyond, and more Rotbringers lumbered to join the battle line. It was as if every able-bodied warrior were being funnelled into the gatehouse to stall their entrance.

  Tallon chirruped, and Grymn scratched the gryph-hound’s angular skull. The animal paced beside him as he advanced behind the front ranks of Liberators. ‘Yes, I know. Too slow. We need room to manoeuvre. But they’re determined not to give it to us.’

  The mortals were disciplined, great iron-rimmed shields locked in a wall, spears lowered, blocking all ingress. When one fell, another stepped into his place. They were exhorted on by the blubbery champions who lurked in the rear ranks, only to squirm forth at the least opportune moment. The blightkings fought only long enough to buy their mortal followers breathing room, and then retreated back behind their shields. Unless someone killed them first. Grymn glanced at the body of the one he’d just killed and then back at the enemy shieldwall. He could not help but admire such discipline, even as he sought to destroy those who displayed it. They knew what they were doing, these fly-worshippers.

  The gatehouse wasn’t wide enough to accommodate more than a few dozen Stormcasts moving forwards at a time. They were still advancing, but slowly, more slowly than he liked. At times, hidden passages sluiced open in the boggy walls of the gatehouse, releasing fly-ridden fanatics and beastmen to hurl themselves into the fray. Outside the gatehouse, those Stormcasts arrayed on the viaduct fought to smash handholds and steps in the glutinous surface of the walls. If they couldn’t get through, they would have to go over.