No. Not death. There is no death here, friend.
Grymn stiffened. The voice had slipped in, as if on the wind. It was familiar. He looked around, grip tightening on the hilt of his gladius. Soft lights swooped through the dark, just at the edge of his vision. Something, a voice, a song, tugged at his hearing, trying to draw him away, and deeper into the swamp. He ignored it. ‘What was that?’
‘What was what, Lord-Castellant?’ Osric asked.
Kahya held up her hand. ‘Hsst. I hear it as well. It sounds like… oars.’
Tallon hissed. The gryph-hound stood stiff, tail lashing. The feathers on his neck flared out, and he snapped his beak. A moment later, they heard the drum beat. Slow and sonorous, like the heartbeat of a dying gargant. ‘Defensive positions,’ Grymn said. The two Liberators moved into a line, shields locked tight. Osric took up position behind them. Kahya and her remaining warrior moved to flank Grymn.
A pitiful force. But brave.
Grymn shook his head. Kahya glanced at him. ‘Lord-Castellant?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Look to yourself.’ It came out more harshly than he’d intended, but perhaps that was good. He was not known for his consideration, and if they doubted him it could be fatal. The rhythmic sound of oars striking sludgy water grew louder. And with it came the groaning chants of mortals in pain, their voices rising and falling with the drum beat. The water rippled, and the sound of trees creaking and crashing rose up to join the rest of the noise. Something heavy was coming towards them.
It stopped.
Silence fell, broken only by the shrill cries of things that were not birds. Then, a heavy splash, as of something weighty being shoved into the water. A moment later, a squashy, moist sound, like fat raindrops slapping metal. It was joined by the sound of rustling reeds, and a droning dirge that rose up from all directions.
Tallon turned in a circle, clacking his beak in obvious agitation. ‘They’re all around us,’ Grymn said. ‘They must not be allowed to reach the realmgate.’ Forms moved in the murk, indistinct, but growing more solid with every passing moment. Dozens of them. No, twice that. More. More than they had any hope of seeing off. Inhuman voices rose from the stinking mists, joined together in a malignant song. The sound of it curdled Grymn’s soul.
The first plaguebearer burst out of the murk, jaws lolling in an almost cheerful expression. Bloat-bellied and thin limbed, the daemon was covered in mottled, scabrous flesh, through which decaying bone and rotting muscle showed. A single, curving horn rose from its shapeless head, and its lone, bulging eye fixed on the Liberators with a merry gleam. The blade it clasped in its knotted fingers was designed for cleaving, and its edge was pockmarked with rust and other, less respectable substances.
The festering blade slapped down against a shield, rocking the unsteady Liberator on his feet. Osric’s grandhammer looped out and smashed in whatever passed for the daemon’s skull. It slumped back with a disgruntled sigh. A second daemon slid from the tree line. Then a third. A fourth. More. Until the Stormcasts were surrounded by more than three times their number. Grymn turned, trying to count them. Had the creatures been waiting for them, or was this merely happenstance?
It didn’t matter. If they wanted a fight, he would be happy to oblige. ‘Who are the unluckiest souls in creation?’ he asked, a crooked smile on his lips.
‘Only the faithful,’ Kahya said, laughing.
‘Who will teach these creatures what it means to dare Sigmar’s wrath?’
‘Only the faithful,’ Osric growled.
‘Only the faithful,’ Grymn echoed. He extended his gladius towards the closest daemon. ‘Well? Get to it. We don’t have all day.’
The plaguebearers jerked into motion, and loped through the reed-choked waters, chuckling darkly. Osric’s Liberators fought back to back, making themselves an obstruction in the tide. Osric sent daemons sprawling with precise blows from his grandhammer, displaying an impressive skill with the bulky weapon. Kahya and her remaining warrior wove a wall of shimmering energy between their opponents and the other Stormcasts, protecting them. Grymn and Tallon fought on the edge of the fray, forcing the daemons to split their attention.
But even Stormcasts had their limits, and they couldn’t be everywhere at once. The first to fall was the last Protector. The heavily armoured warrior lost his footing in the muck and slid to one knee. The daemons were quick to capitalise and they swarmed him. Kahya noticed his predicament, but too late. The warrior fell, and was buried beneath a heap of hacking, slashing forms.
Grymn shoved himself around, borrowed gladius whirling in a tight circle, as he opened a daemon’s throat and popped the eye of a second. ‘Kahya, Osric, guard yourselves,’ he roared.
Osric spun, his grandhammer snapping out to crush a daemon’s skull. But two more of the creatures bore him to the water, their festering blades stabbing. Osric’s shout of anger became a scream of pain, before fading to silence. The two Liberators fell, each in their turn, joining their Prime in death.
But, to Grymn’s horror, their souls did not burst free, did not rise to Azyr as they should have. Instead, the bodies lay where they had fallen, broken and bleeding. At once, he knew the reason. Somehow, this place was caging their souls, preventing them from fleeing. Enraged, he removed a plaguebearer’s head. He spun his blade and drove it into a bloated belly, bursting it like a pimple. He slung the deflating plaguebearer aside and turned to see Kahya sink down, a daemon-blade in her back. He was alone.
Tallon squalled and pounced on a daemon, driving the creature face first into the murk. The gryph-hound snapped the chortling plaguebearer’s spine and silenced its laughter with a vicious snap of his beak. Grymn splashed towards the animal as more plaguebearers plunged nearer. He caught hold of a horn and ripped it free of its skull, before jabbing it into a grinning maw. A plaguebearer hurled itself at him, hoping to tangle his limbs, and he caught it by the throat. He dashed its maggoty brains out against the bole of a tree, and removed the sword hand of another.
Tallon caught the wounded daemon by the leg and jerked it off its feet. As it flailed in the water, Grymn trod on its head, squashing it. Breathing heavily, he looked around. No daemon remained standing. ‘Only the faithful,’ he muttered.
What good faith, in a place like this?
Grymn closed his eyes, trying to block out the voice. It was just a trick. A whisper of ill wind, trying to undermine his certitude. Gardus had spoken rarely of his time in this place, but Grymn remembered his warnings well enough. He’d spoken of weeping trees, and accusing ghosts. Of a swamp that extended forever, and every breath made fouler than the last. ‘I am not Gardus,’ Grymn said. His lungs ached, and his limbs felt heavy. He looked at Tallon. ‘I am the shield, and I will endure whatever this place can throw at me.’
But he would need more than a gladius. He belted the short blade about his waist and lifted a warblade from the mud. The longer sword would give him the reach he needed. He caught up a shield. It was dented and cracked, but still serviceable. He slung it over his back. They weren’t the weapons he preferred, but they would serve. He heard the winding of a horn, and realised more daemons were on the way.
The sounds they’d heard earlier had been some sort of conveyance. A vessel. That meant a crew. Perhaps even an army, looking to enter the realmgate. He glanced back at the dark waters they’d emerged from. Alone, he could not mount a proper defence, of either the gate or the bodies of the fallen. If their souls were caught here, they needed protecting as much as the path to Ghyran itself.
When defence was impossible, offence was the only option. He would build a rampart out of motion, and make himself a fortress to be conquered. He would lead the enemy away for as long as he could.
As he started towards the sound of the approaching daemons, Tallon splashed after him, chirruping. Grymn waved the animal back with a sharp gesture. ‘No. Stay. Guard.’ Grymn caught Tallon’s
beak and bent, so that their heads touched. ‘Guard them until I return. Let nothing touch them.’ The words came harsh and swift and, even as he said them, he knew they were a lie. He would not return, and Tallon too would perish, eventually. Either from starvation, or an enemy’s blade. He wanted to apologise to the beast, to say something, anything, but knew the animal wouldn’t understand. But he would fight. He would protect the souls of the dead until there was no strength left in his spotted frame.
The sounds of approaching daemons drove Grymn to his feet. His hand ached for his lantern, but he would have to make do with what he had. Taking a tighter grip on his warblade, he started towards the daemons, picking up speed as he went. A single charge ought to carry him through and past them. They would turn and follow. He would lead them a merry chase for as long as he was able. And when he wasn’t, he would die.
But not easily.
He burst through a patch of fungus-trees, shield raised, and slid to a stop. Plaguebearers lurched towards him from all directions, chuckling. Grymn slammed the flat of his blade against his shield. ‘Who will face the dark and cast it back?’ he said. ‘Only the faithful.’ Another crash of sigmarite against sigmarite. ‘Who will walk the world’s black rim and fear no shadow?’ Slam. ‘Only the faithful.’
He backhanded a plaguebearer with the shield. As it tried to climb to its feet, he drove the warblade down, bursting its single eye. Another lunged from the side, and he ducked beneath its blow, driving his shoulder into its sunken chest. It stumbled and he bisected its horned skull, crown to jaw. ‘Only the faithful. That is who stands before you. Only the faithful!’ Grymn cried, as he surged into their ranks, chopping and slashing. ‘Come and get me, you bastards.’
He pressed forward without stopping, absorbing blows on his battered shield. The plaguebearers seemed perturbed by his enthusiasm, and their chuckles had faded to dark mutterings. They got in one another’s way in their haste to attack, and he made the most of it. ‘Lazy. No tactical acumen. I am one, you are many. For shame.’ He booted a daemon in the face and trod on it until its swollen belly burst, releasing a cloud of flies.
He whipped away from them, barrelling on. He swept aside any creature that sought to bar his path. His heavy war-plate turned aside those blows that landed. But he remained in motion, never halting unless he had no choice. Daemons splashed in his wake, their chants devolving to incoherent snarls of frustration.
Several times, he caught sight of great, low-slung shapes slipping through the mangrove-like depths of the swamp. Galleys, he thought. Though like no galley he’d ever seen, with sails of billowing mould and creaking, fungus-spotted hulls. He couldn’t tell which way they were sailing, in the murk. It grew thick about him, and soon he couldn’t even tell which way he was going. But he kept moving, regardless, until his breath burned in his lungs and sweat stung his eyes. His muscles cramped, but he shook it off.
Time stretched strangely. Minutes passed, or perhaps hours. Trees rose up and fell away like agonised figures. And still, Grymn pressed on. The attacks came less often, as if the creatures had grown tired of him. But still, they followed. Still, he could hear the slap of oars and the creak of rigging. Stinging flies swarmed about him, rising in clouds from the muck beneath him. Strange, half-familiar faces swam to the surface of the loathly water, mouthing silent imprecations.
Grymn shook it all off. He ignored the murk, the ghosts, the sounds, all of it, and concentrated on putting one foot after the other. Another Stormcast might have faltered, but Grymn would not. Could not. The same strength of will that had carried him through the Rotwater Blight would sustain him here. It had to. Exhaustion clawed at him, but he pressed on. Until, finally, he stumbled. A root, perhaps, or something more sinister. It caught his ankle, wrenching it painfully. He sagged, catching himself with the edge of the shield.
All at once, the daemons swarmed towards him. They came from every direction, chortling in satisfaction. He snarled in frustration and slashed out with his warblade. A daemon folded over, its chortles cut short. A blow crashed against his shield, rocking him. Another caromed off his helmet, making sparks dance before his eyes. He needed to clear some space. He swung the shield out, driving several of his attackers back. But even as he rose to his feet, a blade skidded off his side. Acidic grime ate away at the sigmarite. He pivoted and brought his warblade down on the creature’s skull, splitting it.
They pressed in around him, an unceasing tide of filth and degradation. Blades stabbed at him, and the droning chant filled his mind, drowning out all coherent thought. Still he fought on, his body moving by instinct. He was not merely a wielder of weapons, but a weapon himself. Honed to a lethal, killing edge.
But even the strongest blade eventually breaks.
‘Only the faithful,’ Grymn hissed, between clenched teeth. There was blood in his eyes, but he didn’t need to see this enemy to fight them. ‘Only the faithful.’
You fight well, for an Azyrite. But this battle is done.
The voice echoed through him, and he stumbled, momentarily disorientated. He recovered quickly, removing a plaguebearer’s hands as it tried to hack at him. He slammed the rim of his shield into its throat, silencing its droning cry.
You are strong. Quick. You’d have made a fine knight, were your soul your own. Instead, you are chained by lightning to Sigmar’s throne.
Grymn shook his head, trying to clear it. But the hateful words resonated like the boom of a drum, shaking him to his core. A blade caught him in the back of the head, shattering on his helmet, but knocking him from his feet. He rolled over and tried to rise, but more blows came, hammering him down. The shield was smashed from his grip. A blade sawed across his forearm, and the warblade fell away, lost to the mire. He lashed out with a fist, pulping a cancerous jaw, and clawed for the gladius. His stomach churned. He felt as if something were reaching up from within him to grasp at his heart. A dreadful weight settled on his lungs, and he began to cough.
Do you feel it, Azyrite? My hand, on your heart. Will you tell me your name, now?
‘W… who?’ Grymn spat. Bile filled his mouth. More than bile. Wriggling shapes. He pitched forward, spitting an oily discharge. Fat maggots plopped to the water. Vision wavering, he found he could no longer rise.
Am I so quickly forgotten, then? Fie on thee, Azyrite. Fie and fie again. Ah. The captain of this merry crew approaches.
The plaguebearers retreated as the sound of heavy, splashing footsteps sounded. As the daemons parted ranks, a broad figure strode through them. The creature was taller than any daemon, and twice as broad, with a bulk that would have put an ogor to shame. Clad in broken war-plate and filthy leathers, the monstrosity wore a featureless helm, dominated by a sharp-edged horn, and carried a heavy, single-bladed axe in his one human hand. Fully half of the being’s body was rent asunder, and from the gaping wound emerged the snapping beak and twisting tentacles of some vile sea-beast.
‘Well, there’s a familiar face,’ the bloated creature said, in a voice like water spilling over barnacles. He extended his axe and caught Grymn’s chin with the flat of it. ‘Insofar as all of you shiny-skins have the same one.’
‘You,’ Grymn said, as he was overcome by a wracking cough. He recognised the creature well enough, for they’d fought before, atop the vile peak known as Profane Tor. The abhorrent thing had almost killed him then, and would have, if Tallon hadn’t intervened.
‘Aye, me,’ Gutrot Spume, the Lord of Tentacles, said. ‘And I’m thinking that I know ye, don’t I, shiny-skin? Have we traded blows, then? Who won?’ Spume sank to his haunches with a grunt. The seven writhing tendrils wrapped tightly around Grymn’s head and arms, dragging him closer. ‘Must’ve been a draw, if we’re both still alive, then. Though, with your sort, maybe not.’ Dark laughter rippled through the daemonic ranks.
‘Still, you’re a pretty prize, and no mistake. I don’t think you’ll be dying today, either.’ Spume ro
se to his feet and rested his axe on one flabby shoulder. ‘Get him up. And be gentle with him, my lads. He’s worth more than any blighted soul in this garden.’
Chapter Ten
AN OATH AND A PROMISE
The warding lantern, or what was left of it, shone with a steady light. It sat amid the filth of the corrupted realmgate, its silvery frame bent and twisted out of shape. Even now, damaged beyond belief, it shone with the light of Azyr. The Six Smiths had no equal, save the duardin god Grungni, when it came to the crafting of weapons and tools.
‘The Rotbringers succeeded in opening the realmgate, but only briefly,’ Morbus said. ‘For which we should be thankful. If it had stayed open any longer, it would have vomited forth more than just filthy water and a few half-made daemons.’
‘Why only briefly?’ Gardus asked, circling the black waters of the realmgate. Where once it might have glowed with the reflected light of the heavens, it was now opaque and reeking. Turgid waves lapped at the crumbling sargassum, expanding the circumference of the lake with every undulation. ‘Did Lorrus interrupt them?’
‘Yes, but I doubt that’s the whole of it.’ Morbus indicated the softly glowing lantern. ‘The warding lantern. Its light keeps the pox-waters at bay, so long as Grymn lives.’ He sank to his haunches and poked at the muck-encrusted beacon. ‘In time, it might even cleanse this place. Unfortunately, time is a luxury we cannot afford. If this gate has been corrupted, it must be closed forever.’ He looked at Gardus, his gaze unreadable. ‘Nurgle cannot be allowed another foothold in this realm.’
‘And what of Lorrus, then? Or Kahya, or Osric? What of our brothers and sisters?’ Gardus gestured to the lantern. ‘If it still glows, they must still live.’
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 15
