An infernal miasma clung to the ghost-winds here, choking the skeins of fate and death with life unbound. Life without purpose or place in the heavenly mechanism, life that could only grow, stagnate and rot eternally on the vine. All things had their season, but now those seasons were in disarray. Even now, despite the victories they’d won, Ghyran was still in upheaval. The spirits of the land screamed, and it was all Morbus could do to ignore them and forge on. Just as he’d ignored the obvious flaw in the Lord-Castellant’s plan.
The realmgates were a Lord-Castellant’s responsibility, true enough… but purging them of corruption was a Lord-Relictor’s. He’d allowed Grymn to divert him, and now they would pay the price for his failure. He tightened his grip on his staff, drawing strength from the whispers of the dead. Spirits clung to him like a second cloak. Fallen heroes, spared Reforging by some whim of Sigmar’s. They added their potency to his.
But that potency came with a price. Beneath the comforting whispers was the echo of another voice. A darker one by far, and as vast and deep as the sea itself. Morbus knew that voice intimately, as all Lord-Relictors did. It rode the night winds and spoke in the language of the charnel fields. It gnawed their very being like a jackal with a bone, and demanded obedience. Of the Twelve Rites, four, in their entirety, were devoted to resisting that demand, and enduring the wrath of the one who’d made it. Failure in either case was unthinkable. There were worse fates than death.
Sigmarite-hard mantras slid into place, drifting in tight whispers from parched lips. The dark voice grew faint, and was soon drowned out entirely by the crash of the storm. Morbus’ head rang with the crash of blades and the music of the spheres, as his limbs began to tremble from the fury of the forces at his command. He knew that he had to unleash it, or risk being torn apart by his own magics. But to do so too soon would only add to the destruction the pox-waters had already caused. Gardus wanted the citadel to remain intact until it could be fully evacuated.
That sense of mercy was both the Steel Soul’s greatest weakness and his greatest strength. Other Lord-Celestants burned with a desire for vengeance or justice. Gardus shone with compassion. For him, war was but the difficult first step. It was what came after that was the most important task. If Gardus survived the battles to come, he might rebuild the Mortal Realms singlehandedly. Morbus hoped he would be there to witness it.
Behind him, he could hear the firm rumble of Gardus’ voice, and Kurunta’s roaring bellow, but ignored both. They knew better than to speak to him at such a moment. A small, brief smile cracked his composure. Well, perhaps not Kurunta.
The passageway bucked around him as he channelled the storm winds through its narrow coil. The waters surged forward and back, their strength blunted and tamed by his winds. Lightning surged, spreading through the noxious liquid, reducing much of its volume to steam. Not all of it, but enough to lessen the risk of flooding. He’d drawn more and more of the wind to him as they’d descended, using it to contain the waters, or else force them back. Behind him, Liberators smashed crude drainage points into the walls and floor, bleeding off the remaining liquid a bit at a time.
They had employed the same tactics to good effect in the storming of Quagmire Keep, much to the detriment of its semi-amphibious masters. If it worked as well here as there, the citadel might not sink into the Verdant Bay. At least not yet.
Morbus stumbled as another convulsion shook the passageway. Hardened sargassum ground against itself. Ochre dust sifted down in thick clouds. Behind him, Gardus barked an order, and shields rose with a rattle, forming an improvised roof over the heads of the Stormcasts. ‘Enough,’ Morbus murmured. He raised a hand, and the others halted. He kept moving, until he was some distance ahead of them.
He raised his staff, channelling the power of the storm into its sigmarite core. The reliquary at the top of the staff began to clatter. Lightning crawled across the skull, licking out to scorch the walls to either side. The air in the passageway thickened and his breath congealed in his lungs. He closed his eyes and slammed the staff down. The moment the ferrule struck the floor, the water evaporated. Steam swelled up, filling the corridor. It billowed away from him, spilling outwards in all directions. Where the steam passed, the water boiled away to nothing. The passageway shook as the echoes of his unspoken prayer reverberated through it.
A moment later, he felt the first ebbing of the pox-waters, though not solely through any effort of his. Some power worked at them from their source, choking it off, even as he weakened them. He suspected he knew the source of it, however. He took a step, and staggered. Without the fury of the storm keeping him upright, he felt barely able to stand. Gardus caught his arm. ‘Lord-Relictor…?’
‘I am fine, Gardus. I endure, as ever.’
‘Like the stones of the mountains?’
‘Like the faithful,’ Morbus corrected. He stepped away from the Lord-Celestant. Gardus was glowing again. The light shone out between the plates of his armour, casting its soft glow over everything. It felt similar to the light of Grymn’s warding lantern. Invigorating and comforting, all at once. As if Gardus had become a living beacon. Did blood still course through his veins, or was it all just starlight now?
Morbus had heard the stories. Every Lord-Relictor had. The souls of their fellow Stormcasts were their responsibility, and when the souls came back changed, so too did their responsibilities change. To watch, to judge. Sigmar was a wise god, and left little to chance. If something happened, if a Reforged soul displayed a flaw, it needed to be dealt with. And swiftly. Before that flaw spread. But was this light of Gardus’ a flaw – or a blessing?
As if noticing Morbus’ unease, Gardus tensed. His light flickered, dimmed, faded. ‘I forget, sometimes,’ he said softly.
‘Unobservant, as I said,’ Morbus chided. He turned and gestured. ‘That way.’ He could feel the pulse of celestial energies somewhere close by. It spoke to him in a way few things did, in the language of the stars themselves. That the stars spoke to one another had not come as a surprise to him, when he’d learned of it. All things spoke, if one but had the wit to listen. And sometimes what they said was important.
This particular strand of energy spoke to him of desperation. Of loss and determination. It flickered, growing weaker by the moment. Tired as he was, he quickened his pace. The passageway echoed with the crash of sigmarite as the others followed his example. When they found the entrance to the chamber, Gardus laughed. ‘Lorrus has definitely been this way,’ he said.
Morbus eyed the devastation, noting the black scarring and scattered chunks of hardened sargassum. Grymn had his faults, but vacillation wasn’t among them. Upon finding a wall, he’d made a door. ‘Through here,’ he said. The Stormcasts warily picked their way through the rubble.
The chamber beyond was waterlogged. The floor was lower than the passage, its expanse interrupted by fallen support pillars. Muddy filth rose in miniature mountain ranges, before dwindling into valleys and dog-leg canyons. There were bodies entombed in the mud, their pale faces peering out from beneath folds of rotting sargassum.
Morbus ignored all of this. His eyes were drawn to the black, bubbling lake at the chamber’s heart, and the half-formed things that floundered in its shallows. Cyclopean eyes rolled in sagging sockets, glaring blearily at the Stormcasts. Faces caught in a constant cycle of death and rebirth twisted into mocking smiles, as shapeless mouths droned out a dull razor of sound. The closest of the daemons struggled up out of the muck, leaving bits of itself behind. It made as if to speak.
‘Kurunta,’ Gardus said, his voice flat.
Kurunta moved swiftly, his broadsword looping out in a wide arc. The daemon’s head plopped into the water, dissolving even as it did so. Its body followed suit, collapsing in on itself, until nothing remained but a thick scum on the surface of the water.
More daemons crawled towards them, hauling themselves half out of the muck, their bodies crumbling wi
th every second. Morbus stepped back with a grunt of disgust. ‘They cannot sustain themselves here. They are already being pulled back to their master’s realm.’
‘Then let us hurry them along. Solus, pass a fitting judgement.’ Gardus’ hand flashed down. A moment later, the wasp-hum of skybolt bows echoed through the chamber. Daemons burst like rotten fruit. Those that survived the volley were dealt with by blade and hammer. Long moments passed, as the Stormcasts fought in grim silence. Only when the last had subsided with a disgruntled sigh, was Morbus free to seek the reason for their abortive manifestation.
‘Where are they, Morbus? I see no sign of our brothers and sisters.’ Gardus gestured. ‘Kurunta, Aetius, I want this chamber searched. If they’re here, I want them found.’
Morbus was only half listening to the Lord-Celestant. He stepped to the edge of the dark water and sank down to one knee. Heedless of the bubbling daemonic detritus nearby, he let his hand sink into the mire. It resonated with the echo of foul magics, and his skin crawled. But there was something else. A mote of light, deep in the dark.
He concentrated on it, probing it. His submerged fingers bent and curled into a fist. The tainted water began to bubble. Cries of alarm sounded from behind him, but Morbus ignored them. It was taking all of his focus to reclaim that which the dark had sought to claim. Slowly, he drew it towards him. As it rose, its light grew bright, stretching through the water, until it seemed as if a star were shining beneath the surface.
Morbus stood, drawing his hand up, water streaming between his fingers. As he did so, the light broke the surface in a cloud of steam. He heard Kurunta curse, and couldn’t fault the Knight-Heraldor his reaction. The light bled from the shattered casing of a Lord-Castellant’s warding lantern.
‘Morbus, what does this mean?’ Gardus asked.
Morbus bowed his head.
‘It means we are too late.’ He looked at Gardus. ‘Lord-Castellant Grymn is gone.’
Chapter Nine
IN THE GARDEN
Grymn floated in darkness. No. Not floated. Drowned. He came to awareness, wrapped in sargassum. He pawed at the shroud of decaying plants, spinning in place, end over end, unable to see anything save a cloud of rippling, oily bubbles. He tore the weeds aside, searching for something, anything, he could use to orient himself. His lungs strained, and black clouds clung to the edge of his perceptions. The foulness of the waters permeated his armour, mouth and lungs. It clawed at his insides like poison. He forced aside the pain, trying to find a way out of his predicament.
As he ripped the thickest fold of sargassum away, he caught sight of the corpses. Innumerable and spreading out away from him in all directions. An infinity of the dead. Bodies bloated with rot and blackened with disease floated together, a reef of decaying meat. Blind eyes met his everywhere he looked, and he pushed them aside. Limp fingers flopped against his helmet and war-plate.
For a moment, the reef broke apart, revealing the dark beyond. He glimpsed something vast and squamous undulating away into the black. Hints of impossible shapes, mighty in their foulness, teased him, drawing his eyes this way and that. Beyond the corpses, he saw forests of splintered teeth, clashing together in silent ferocity, and rolling waves of blistered scales as immense leviathans tore at one another in elemental fury. A tail the size of a mountain range whipped out of sight. Its movement stirred the waters and the dead. The force of it pummelled him like the blow of a gargant’s fist. He felt like a sailor adrift in a sea of monsters, and knew that should one of those shapes turn its attention to him, he would be lost, without hope of ever seeing Azyr again.
He tried to swim away from the distant shapes, but his armour was dragging him down. No, up. Dead hands tangled themselves in his cloak and the straps of his war-plate. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the growing ache of oxygen deprivation through sheer force of will. Far below him, he glimpsed something, like a twist of smoke rising from a chimney flue. But it was not smoke, nor even sargassum. It seemed to grow larger, even as he was pulled away from it. He twisted, seeking some sign of Sigmar’s grace in the roiling darkness. He couldn’t believe that it was his destiny to die here, drowned in an ocean of corpses.
And then there was light. Not a bright light. A weak, watery shimmer. But it was better than the dark. Lungs burning, he groped towards the light above, no, below him, dragging his armoured bulk free of the entangling weeds and corpses. The dead seemed to follow him, and the waters turned thick as their buboes and boils burst. He had to fight the urge to gag, and concentrated on swimming.
Grymn’s head split the water, and he inhaled a lungful of dense, caustic air. Flies buzzed around his head as he dragged himself to a weed-covered shore. Strange lumpen trees rose above him, partially obscured by a yellowish mist. Patches of soft mould turned to spore clouds as he floundered through them. He felt semi-solid earth beneath his hands and feet and pushed himself upright. Water poured off his begrimed armour as he staggered to shore.
He turned, taking in his surroundings. He appeared to be on the edge of a mere. Strange, unnatural plants loomed on all sides, jostling with the gnarled arthritic trees for space. He could hear heavy shapes floundering in the distance, and the croaking roars of things best left unseen. A vile rain streaked down and, where the droplets cascaded across his war-plate, patches of mould sprouted.
He scraped a patch of the newly grown mould from his armour. A moment later, it began to creep back. He hissed in disgust. The canopy overhead dripped constantly, and, besides the rain, the air was alive with stinging flies and drifting spores. Empty hands clenched uselessly. He’d lost his halberd and his lantern both. He was weaponless and seemingly alone. But where was he?
No. He shook his head, chiding himself. To pretend ignorance served no purpose. He knew where he was, at all times, in all ways. Every Stormcast did. Whatever the realm, they knew. They could feel the distinct power of it, deep in their bones. And they could feel when they were elsewhere. Outside the realms. Out of reach of Azyr’s light.
There was no light here. Not really.
Only the soft sheen of infected flesh, reflected and refracted a million times.
Above him, the clouds of murk briefly parted and revealed a grin as wide as a chasm, and two pus-cream eyes like infant moons. The rains dripped from those titanic eyes like tears. Then the apparition was gone, leaving behind only the ghost of a single, thunderous, sardonic chuckle. Nothing occurred in the garden that its master was not aware of, in some fashion. He felt cold and feverish all at once.
Water splashed. Grymn whirled, and saw a silver gauntlet pierce the skin of the water. Without hesitating, Grymn waded back into the waters, hoping to reach whoever it was before they were drawn back down into the depths.
Even as he clasped the groping hand and hauled back, he saw more flashes of silver. And, among them, a flurry of spotted limbs, followed by a shrill cry of disapproval. Tallon burst to the surface, feathers and fur slick with foulness. The gryph-hound floundered to shore, issuing sharp shrieks of discontent as he did so. Grymn laughed in relief as he dragged a Liberator out of the water. Osric coughed up yellow liquid as Grymn helped him to shore. Kahya had survived as well, and one of her Protectors. Grymn took a head count. Only six Stormcast in all, counting himself. And Tallon.
‘I suppose misery loves company,’ he said, as he stroked the gryph-hound’s head. Tallon’s tail lashed in agitation and he trembled, as if ready to bolt. Grymn understood the feeling. The air here was wrong. Every inhalation was an effort, and it seared the lungs. Though he had the strength of the storm in his limbs, he could feel it ebbing. They were far from Sigmar’s light. Too far.
‘Where are we?’ Osric growled, fumbling with his grandhammer. The weapon looked as if it had been put to use recently, and Grymn wondered what the Liberator-Prime had encountered in the depths.
‘Use your senses,’ Grymn said. ‘Smell the air. Where do you think?’
‘It can’t be,’ Osric said. But they could all hear the lie in his words. A murmur ran through the group. Fear, Grymn knew. Stormcast were courageous, filled with righteous fury, but there were some things even courage and fury weren’t enough to overcome.
‘Of course it can. The realmgate twisted in upon itself, and was corrupted.’ Grymn let a harsh edge creep into his voice, startling his warriors from their worries. If they faltered now, they were lost. Those final few moments came back to him. He recalled a frantic struggle to open his warding lantern, to release its light and hopefully purge the gate of its taint. That they were here now, implied that he had failed.
Something chuckled.
Grymn turned, searching. The sky was obscured again, in roiling, sickly clouds. The others appeared to have heard nothing. He shook his head. A trick of this place. The dangers here would not simply be physical. He would have to be wary. They all would, if they were to survive. ‘I require a weapon,’ he said.
Osric unsheathed his gladius. ‘Here, take my blade, Lord-Castellant.’
‘My thanks, Osric.’ Grymn took it and sighted down the length of the sword. ‘Have you been caring for this properly?’
‘Every day,’ Osric said.
‘Only it feels a bit off.’ Grymn flipped the blade and caught the hilt as it came down. ‘No matter. I shall soon have it gleaming like new.’
Kahya laughed, though there was little humour in the sound. ‘Even here, he seeks to teach us a lesson,’ she said, leaning on her stormstrike glaive. ‘Lecture on, Lord-Castellant. Shall we practise our drills?’
‘You should have thought of that earlier,’ Grymn snapped. ‘Then, perhaps we would not be here.’ Kahya fell silent, as did Osric. Grymn took a breath. ‘My apologies, Protector-Prime. The fault is that of our foes.’ Kahya nodded after a moment’s hesitation. Grymn looked around, taking in the trees and bubo-like hummocks of soft mud. He could hear sad, soft moans on the wind, and there were things that might have been faces in the vegetation. Creeping fronds groped for him like the fingers of penitents. ‘We must stay together. To become separated here, now, even if only in spirit, will be the death of us.’
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 14
