‘They come,’ a voice croaked, as the armsmen continued to cheer. Bubonicus turned. The hag was blind, her eyes lost beneath pus-filled growths. She had carved the sign of Nurgle into her own skull with a rusty spoon, and it still wept an oily discharge. The witch was blessed of the King of all Flies, and nursed maggots in her pouchy flesh.
The other members of her coven echoed her, their voices like the rustling of dry leaves. They were all broken things, with bloat-bellies and withered limbs beneath their ragged robes. They squatted in the weeds, turning the clean waters that burbled up from below blessedly foul with their magics. It was only by their attention that the spells holding the sargassum to its current shape were maintained. Without it, the citadels would slowly, but surely, crumble back into patches of gulfweed and rock roses.
‘They come, Sir Knight,’ the witch said again. Her voice scraped the air like a knife.
‘I have ears,’ Bubonicus said mildly. He didn’t, really. Not for a long time. In fact, there wasn’t much flesh left beneath his armour at all. He had sacrificed it strip by strip in service to the King of all Flies. He felt neither pride nor dismay at this. It was simply a fact. One more milestone in his five centuries of service.
He was now the oldest of the surviving blightmasters. Gentle Wolgus was dead these long centuries, his bones fertilising the dry soil of Shyish. Gaspax Gahool had vanished into the depths of Ulgu, leading the fifth pox-crusade. Even Ephraim Bollos, Lord Rotskull himself, was gone, lost to the fires of fate. Of the others, they had been but seedlings when the Lady had first come to Cankerwall and brought Nurgle’s blessings with her. It had not been Cankerwall then, but he could not recall its original name. Like so many of his memories, it was lost in the morass of time.
‘You are thinking of her, not them,’ the witch said. ‘Your thoughts smell of moss and rotting flowers. A lover’s bouquet.’ Her coven fell into stuttering, nervous silence. To speak of the Lady was to draw her eye, and few save Bubonicus and his fellow knights were eager to do that. It was only right that the lower orders fear her, for she was Nurgle’s daughter, and a goddess in all but name.
‘I am always thinking of her,’ Bubonicus said. ‘The very moment we met is engraved upon my heart like a scar. She was beautiful then, in her slow decay. The beauty of despair, of new life waxing strong in dying flesh. The eternal dance.’ His voice tolled out, echoing through the chamber. ‘How we danced that night, around and around, as all about us the world was falling down.’
‘Falling down,’ the witch echoed, and her coven with her.
Bubonicus glanced at them, annoyed. A scribe crouched at her feet, recording all of Bubonicus’ words on his flesh with a sharpened stylus. The scribe moaned as the stylus cut through a scab. Such was the way of the Order. The words and deeds of its blightmasters must be captured and recorded for those who came after. Else how would any know of their heroism? The deeds of the Order of the Fly were an inspiration for all who despaired in Nurgle’s shadow, for in them was the true glory of desolation made flesh. They were the fly that laid the egg, which would become the maggot.
At that thought, the Gatherer of Souls grumbled in agreement. He lifted the flail-halberd. Power rippled through it. A mighty strength, such as only the gods could bestow. The Gatherer of Souls had once belonged to another. A greater champion by far than Bubonicus. He sought each day to ensure his worthiness to wield it, in Grandfather’s name. Its rusted blades bit more than bone, hooking and consuming the souls of its victims, and lending their strength to Bubonicus himself. The more he killed, the stronger he grew. And the stronger he grew, the more he could kill.
‘But only with purpose,’ he murmured. He was no frenzied Bloodbound, to kill without thought. No, like a reaper, he took only what was owed. The souls he harvested were sent to Nurgle’s garden, there to toil for all time beneath the beneficent eye of the Lord of All Things. A good afterlife, and better than most deserved.
The more souls he sent to the garden, the greater it grew. Soon, if the Order were successful, it might even spill into Ghyran itself. That would be a great day, if it ever came. The culmination of all their efforts, since the beginning.
He held out no hope for it, however. Hope was the enemy. Despair was his armour, and misery his shield. His strength waxed as that of the world waned. Whatever the outcome, the Blighted Duchies would hold to the oaths they’d made the day the Lady had come to Cankerwall. They could do no less, for a knight without honour was nothing more than a brigand.
Though it had to be said that honour had not been enough to win the day at the siege of the Living City. The Order of the Fly had fought in the vanguard, as was their right, but they had been cruelly rebuffed, time and again. At the Twelve-Thorn Gate, their standards had been cast down, and heroes had fallen. Gatrog had been there, Bubonicus recalled. The Lord-Duke of Festerfane had fought with all the courage of one of Grandfather’s own beasts, but to no avail. Courage and honour meant little to the foes they faced.
The floor cracked as the enemy’s thunder reverberated again through the chamber. Clean water steamed as it pattered across his armour. He glanced down at the Gate of Weeds. The realmgate had risen up through the muck of the sargassum like a pearl from an oyster. It was round and flat, a pool of crystalline water rising from within a flattened circle of bent weeds, glowing with a pleasant light that left him feeling uncomfortably ill.
Where the glow fell, the waters remained clear of all contagion. Once, that glow had filled the entire chamber. Slowly, but surely, thanks to the efforts of his witches, it had dwindled. Patience and persistence. These were a gardener’s greatest tools, and Grandfather had gifted them to him in abundance. But there were all kinds of tools.
Besides the witches and armsmen, seven times seven pox-monks occupied the chamber floor, arrayed in three interlocking rings about the shimmering circumference of the Gate of Weeds. While the witches saw to the befouling of the waters, the Blessed Brothers of the Blistered Sepulchre had been droning prayers to Nurgle for as long as the sargasso-citadels had stood. Each prayer was another brick in the garden wall, bending the Gate of Weeds from its former path to another. What Sigmar had abandoned, Nurgle would claim, through the labours of his most devoted servants.
It was the most sacred of duties, and one any pox-monk worth his tattered cowl would kill for. Indeed, some of them had killed for it. Such devotion to the Lord of All Things was truly humbling, and Bubonicus had felt honoured to even witness it. But the time for such pleasures was fast vanishing. Now was the moment of ultimate desolation. All that remained was triumph or tragedy.
He found himself gazing into the realmgate, hoping to spot some speck of blessed filth or murk. But all that he could see were the strange, indistinct shapes that haunted the depths. Vast shapes, like clouds, or nebulae of distant stars. Slaves they had taken from Gramin and the other reed-cities believed that, once, the sylvaneth of the Verdant Bay had used the gate to swim between Ghyran and Azyr, before Sigmar had sealed all routes to his high realm. Another false god. What sort of god fled honourable combat? What sort of god stole the harvest of another? The King of all Flies was no thief, whatever else. And what he claimed, he held.
The sylvaneth who’d inhabited the bay were gone now, fed to the first balefires, or else broken and bent into servitude as scaffolding and bridges. Bubonicus sometimes regretted that. There were better uses for such creatures, and their screams had gone silent all too swiftly. But necessity had left little time for creativity.
The chamber shook again. More cracks appeared in the floor and walls. More clean water spewed up, eliciting a squeal from one of the witches. The coven-mistress shushed her follower with a clout on the side of the head. The storm-warriors were drawing close. Perhaps that was why he sought comfort in memories of better times. He tightened his grip on his flail. ‘Will it open soon, do you think?’ he asked, looking down at one of the pox-monks seated on the floor. The leprous
fanatic continued his droning hum, eyes closed, bandaged fingers tight on his bony knees. ‘No, I suppose not.’ Bubonicus sighed ponderously.
‘Will she think of me, should I fall?’ he asked. ‘Will she sing sweetly of me, or will I be a lesson to those who come after?’ He shook his head. He had died before. Many times. But like Grandfather’s flowers, he always blossomed anew, in fertile soil. But each time was shorter than the last. Such was the will of the King of all Flies.
Soon, another would take his place as blightmaster. Gatrog, perhaps. There was one destined to rise high in the esteem of the Lord of All Things. His cousin had been much the same, and he had perished before his time. ‘Nurgle’s will,’ Bubonicus said. What would be, would be, and no sense in worrying.
‘Nurgle’s will,’ the witch said, bowing. Her head snapped up, and her nostrils flared. ‘Someone comes.’
‘So you’ve said.’ Nonetheless, Bubonicus gestured to the armsmen. Those closest to the only entrance to the chamber snapped to attention. The aperture was not a proper portal. Instead, it was a great crack in the sargassum, smoothed and widened by years of use. Water slithered through it, and soon enough, the sound of splashing could be heard.
A familiar form burst through the crack, slipping and sliding towards Bubonicus. The armsman stumbled to a halt and fell to his hands and knees. ‘M… my lord, Duke Gatrog sends word, the enemy–’
‘Are here, yes,’ Bubonicus said, looking down at the little Rotbringer. Agak. That was his name. Gatrog’s servant. ‘So I gathered. It is even as Gaspax Gahool said, in his seminal treatise on siege-craft. No ploy survives contact with a motivated enemy.’ Bubonicus sighed and gestured. ‘Up, gentle Agak, up. There is no time for kneeling.’
The witch moaned. ‘They are coming, Sir Knight. Silver and fire.’
Bubonicus grunted. He looked down at Agak. ‘You were followed.’
Agak fell back, cowering in the filthy water. ‘No, no!’
Bubonicus reached down and hauled him to his feet. ‘Yes.’ He swatted the armsman in the chest, nearly knocking him back down. ‘Do not cower so, fool.’ He looked at the witch. ‘Close, are they?’
‘Getting closer,’ she said, squeezing her pustules. ‘The blessed miasma recoils from them. They stink of fresh water and starlight.’
Agak stumbled back. ‘I… I must go. Duke Gatrog needs me.’
Bubonicus fixed him in place with a glare. ‘If the enemy has descended, he is likely beyond needing any aid you can provide. But I may yet make use of you. Draw your sword, Agak of Festerfane.’
Agak paled, but did as Bubonicus commanded. The blightmaster reached down and unhooked a wormy, rust-edged chalice from his belt. One of seven, the chalice was a sign of his rank and the esteem in which he was held by the King of all Flies. The bowl of the chalice quivered with pus-filled veins, and somnolent flies clustered about its rim. The seventy-seven verses of the Feverish Oath had been etched into its circumference by the delicate blade of the Lady of Cankerwall on the very day she had gifted it to him.
Normally, the ritual he was about to undertake was meant only for chosen knights of the Order. It was a communion with Nurgle himself, and only the worthy were fit to participate. But in some rare cases, exceptions could be made. Needs must, when daemons drove. He looked at the witch. He realised that he did not know her name. Too late to ask now. ‘Bend your magics to the realmgate, help the holy brothers. I would see the garden, before I pass from this world and into the next.’
‘It will not open in time,’ she said.
‘So long as it opens, my oaths are fulfilled. Do it.’ He gestured sharply, and she bowed her head. Her coven shuffled towards the shimmering realmgate, already adding their voices to those of the pox-monks. Without the witches, the chamber would grow unstable. A price worth paying, if Nurgle’s will were done.
Awkwardly, Bubonicus knelt and dragged the chalice through the murky waters. The liquid frothed and fumed, turning as black as tar. When the cup was full, he rose and said, ‘Come, gentles. Come ye true servants of the King, and drink from the Flyblown Chalice. Taste the blood of Nurgle, and rejoice.’
Agak and the other armsmen gathered around, eyes wide. It was a rare thing for a commoner to be given a sip from a blightmaster’s chalice. It spoke to the necessity of the moment, rather than any worthiness on their part, but no one would complain. One by one, the armsmen took a sip and passed it along, until all of them had done so. When they had finished, their flesh steamed, and their eyes were alight with the febrile strength of Nurgle. They would fight to the last now.
Bubonicus nodded in satisfaction. ‘It is good. Those of you who survive shall rise up and be made true knights of the Most Blightsome Order of the Fly. Those who fall shall fertilise this ground in Nurgle’s name.’
He lifted the chalice high, and poured what was left over the gaps in his visor. The frothy brew inundated what was left of him, filling him with Nurgle’s blessing. He felt stronger. Invigorated by the touch of his god. All too soon, it would fade, bringing weakness and sweet despair. The anticipation was a gift in and of itself.
‘By our life or our death, we shall serve the King of all Flies.’
‘Keep moving. Through the gap. Quickly now.’ Lord-Castellant Grymn’s voice echoed oddly in the twisting passage, as he braced the shifting sargassum with his halberd. The lintel of the gap had cracked, and had begun to sink until he’d interposed his weapon. His warriors squeezed past, moving as quickly as they were able.
Grymn was accompanied by two retinues of Liberators and a group of Protectors, a force he was confident could face anything lurking in these depths. Already, they had dispatched beastmen and Rotbringers alike, leaving a trail of burnt and twisted corpses in their wake. Once the last Liberator was through, Grymn ripped his halberd free and joined them. The lintel collapsed, and the passageway sealed itself behind them. Stinking dust billowed, enveloping them for a moment. Grymn had pushed his way to the front before it had settled. ‘Come. This is neither the time nor the place to dawdle.’
The depths of the citadel were a warren of ill-shaped chambers and narrow passageways that curved and twisted in random fashion. Oily balefire torches flickered in crudely scooped alcoves, casting a sickening green haze over everything. It reminded Grymn of maggots chewing through the carcass of a dead animal, or termites boring through wood. The Rotbringers had carved routes through the fossilised sargassum, and worn them smooth with constant use. Luckily, most of their forces were above, fighting. Those left below were of little threat to either he or his warriors.
It had been a lucky thing, spotting that Rotbringer as he descended. Without him, Grymn might have searched for a way down for hours without finding it. Certainly too late to halt whatever he felt building in the air even now. Morbus’ senses had not misled him. The air was thick with a growing miasma, and the deeper they went, the stronger it became. This place was like the root of a rotten tooth. One he intended to pluck out, before it was too late.
At his side, Tallon growled softly. The gryph-hound’s hackles were stiff, and his feathers ruffled in agitation. Grymn ran his fingers over the beast’s skull. ‘You have the scent? Good. Lead the way.’
The gryph-hound broke into a lope. Grymn followed. There was no need for silence, even if he had been so inclined. Better to let the enemy hear the oncoming storm, and know fear. A frightened enemy was as good as defeated.
As the Stormcasts hurried after the gryph-hound, the passageway bucked and shuddered. Cracks grew along the walls and soon they were splashing through murky waters that bubbled up between gaps in the floor. Tallon led them unerringly through the twisting labyrinth, following the stink of the magics brewing at its corrupt heart.
The portal, when they found it, was less an entrance than an open scab in the surface of a wall. An oily light oozed from within, and flies clogged the air. There were no guards, no sentinels or sentries. Just t
he light and the flies. Water pulsed through the gap, trickling towards them. Tallon raked the entrance with his claws and slunk back to sit beside Grymn. It was wide enough for a single Stormcast to pass through. Grymn gestured, impatiently.
‘Osric, liberate the path.’
The Liberator-Prime stepped forward, two-handed grandhammer raised. He struck the wall with all of his might. Cracks spider-webbed from the point of impact. He spun the grandhammer, striking a second point, and then a third. His Liberators moved to join him, their hammers thumping against the areas he’d weakened. In moments, the whole wall gave way and collapsed. A cloud of flies erupted through the curtain of dust. Grymn lifted his warding lantern and let its light spear out, eradicating the swarm of insects.
The gap had been enlarged significantly. Now it was large enough for at least five Stormcasts to march through it abreast. Without waiting for Grymn’s command, Osric led his retinue through and into the chamber beyond. Grymn and the others followed.
The chamber stank of rot and age, and was clearly not man-made, despite the pillars that studded its circumference. It resembled the hulled shell of a nut, and bones cluttered the walls. Balefire torches cast a greenish glow across the recesses of the chamber, and weird shadows danced on the scabrous walls. Reeds and water covered the floor, making it resemble a marsh more than anything else.
Grymn’s eyes were immediately drawn to the realmgate. For it could be nothing else, glowing as it did. He recognised that light, felt it in his marrow, its warmth in his veins. ‘Azyr,’ he whispered. A guttural, echoing laugh caught his attention, snapping him from his reverie. He turned, scanning the weirdly lit chamber.
A group of Rotbringers carrying heavy shields, spears and swords, advanced across the chamber. They did so at the direction of the massive Chaos knight who stalked unhurriedly in their wake, his form bloated with fell power. He held a heavy halberd-like weapon in one hand, and a balefire torch in the other. The creature laughed again. ‘I expected an army.’ The words boomed out, bouncing from pillar to pillar. ‘If this is the best you can muster, perhaps my doubts are unfounded.’
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 11
