‘He is gone. They are gone. Lost to the garden.’ Morbus shook his head. ‘Nothing not of Chaos could survive that for long.’
‘I did,’ Gardus said.
Morbus looked at him. ‘Yes.’
‘So too might they.’
Morbus looked down at the bubbling froth. ‘Grymn is not Gardus. The others are not Gardus. They cannot survive.’
‘I was not Gardus, once.’ Gardus let his hand rest on the hilt of his runeblade. ‘And perhaps Gardus might vanish entirely, come some future calamity. But I am here now, and I say that they might yet live.’
‘And what of it?’ Angstun asked. The Knight-Vexillor shook his head. ‘Their survival might be measured in moments, or eternities. The realms of Chaos are madness manifest. You might arrive before they do, or centuries after they’ve perished.’ He looked at Gardus. ‘You have only just returned to us, and the Lord-Castellant will not thank you for throwing your life away merely to save his.’
Gardus said nothing. Angstun was right. Grymn would not thank him. He would berate him, instead. Call him a fool. And it was foolish. To even contemplate such an act was a thing of hubris, greater than any he knew of. And yet… the thought of leaving the souls of his warriors in such a place was equally unbearable.
‘Is the realmgate stable?’ Gardus asked.
Morbus nodded, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Whatever was done to it has stabilised it. It will remain open, unless I close it. But the longer it does so, the harder it will be to close. In time, it will be beyond even my abilities.’
‘How much time?’
Morbus shrugged. ‘Hours. Days. Years. Such things are impossible to predict.’
Kurunta laughed. ‘It is Chaos. That’s its nature.’ The Knight-Heraldor shook his head. ‘So long as it’s quiescent, it shouldn’t be much of a problem.’ He stepped back as the gelid waters stirred, lapping lazily at the floor. He lifted his war-horn. ‘One good tune will bring this chamber down, and destroy the portal with it. But say the word, Lord-Celestant, and I shall play a merry refrain.’
‘No.’ Gardus gestured sharply. ‘Not yet.’
He found himself casting back to Sigmaron and the Sepulchre of the Faithful. To Ramus of the Shadowed Soul and the burden he carried. To know that his Lord-Celestant might yet persist, suffering in captivity, while he could do nothing. Much was demanded of those to whom much had been given. But when the demands began to outweigh the gifts, what was one to do? Ramus had asked him the same question, and Gardus had had no answer then, either.
A shout from the entrance to the chamber drew his attention. He turned and saw a chained Rotbringer stumble and sink to his knees in the muck. Three winged figures surrounded him, their hands on their weapons. ‘What is this?’ Gardus said. ‘Cadoc? I have warned you about your… offerings, Knight-Azyros.’
‘Not mine, Steel Soul, not this time,’ Cadoc Kel said, sinking to one knee before him. ‘This foolishness is his.’ He gestured sharply to Tornus. The Knight-Venator bowed his head.
‘He is being speaking true, Lord-Celestant.’ He caught the back of the Rotbringer’s twisted helmet and dragged his head back. Gardus knew a warrior of Chaos when he saw one. This one appeared to be on his last legs, given the state of him. ‘This is being my burden and request, to be sparing the life of this wretched creature.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Gardus said. He looked at Enyo, wondering if she could shed some light on whatever this was about. The Steel Souls’ Knight-Venator shook her head. Gardus turned back to Tornus. ‘Explain. And quickly.’
‘He is surviving the light of Azyr,’ Tornus said, simply.
Gardus stared at him, wondering if he’d misheard. ‘That is not possible.’
‘I am surviving the light of Azyr. Before.’ Tornus met Gardus’ gaze. ‘Before I am being Tornus again, I am being a greater monster than this one, I am thinking. And I am surviving. Light calls to light, yes? Is that not being the way of it?’
Gardus shook his head and looked to Morbus, hoping he had an answer. But the Lord-Relictor stared silently at Tornus in what might have been consternation. Gardus turned back to the Knight-Venator. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, finally. ‘You were cleansed, but that is no guarantee…’ He trailed off, wondering at his own words. He gestured to Cadoc. ‘He survived your beacon’s gaze?’
Cadoc shrugged. ‘Evidently. Myself, I would burn him again, until it takes. But the Redeemed One refused that mercy on his behalf.’ He glanced at the Knight-Venator. ‘Perhaps he still feels some kinship with such creatures. Who can say?’
Tornus visibly bristled, but held his tongue. Gardus waved Cadoc to silence as Morbus stepped forward. The Lord-Relictor extended his staff. ‘Your soul was freed when Torglug’s body was destroyed by the touch of Ghal Maraz, wielded by the hand of the Celestant-Prime.’
Gardus felt, rather than heard, the intake of breath from the assembled Stormcasts at the mention of the first, and greatest, of their kind. He was nothing less than the Storm of Sigmar itself, Bearer of the World-Hammer, and the Light of Azyr, carried into the darkness. Resplendent in the first, and finest, suit of sigmarite war-plate to be forged, he hurtled forth on blazing wings, wrapped in chains of lightning and purpose.
From what he knew of the battle of the Blackstone Summit, it was only the arrival of the Celestant-Prime that had turned the tide in favour of the Stormcasts and sylvaneth. Torglug had nearly claimed Alarielle’s soulpod when the first Stormcast fell upon him like a thunderbolt. Torglug had perished in that moment, and what was left of him had ascended to Azyr, to be Reforged on the Anvil of Apotheosis.
He looked at Tornus. What changes had his Reforging wrought upon him? Could he, in some way, sense the embers of humanity in a fallen foe? Or was this merely wishful thinking? He hesitated. Was this what Sigmar had meant, when he’d mentioned the foundations of what was to come? Tornus was the first. There would be others. Was this creature one such? Was it a brother to be?
‘What is he called?’ he asked.
‘I am Gatrog,’ the Rotbringer croaked. ‘Lord-Duke of Festerfane, and true knight of the Most Blightsome Order of the Fly. Release me. Give me a sword. If you mean my death, let it be an honourable one.’
‘Festerfane,’ Morbus said. ‘One of the seven Blighted Duchies. A tumour in the body of the Jade Kingdoms.’
‘Aye, and an old and respected tumour we are. We have always fought, and will do so until the last flower withers. For Nurgle, and the Realm Desolate.’ Gatrog tried to get to his feet, but Cadoc forced him back down. ‘Give me a sword, even one of these flimsy ones you carry will do. I will fight you all, one at a time, or all at once, it makes no difference. I will show you how a lord of Festerfane dies.’
He was brave. That much, Gardus would admit. But bravery by itself was no sign that one was capable of redemption. Gardus had fought many servants of the Dark Gods, and few of them could be called cowards. Yet, if this creature had endured the light, it might mean that there was more to his valour than simple animal courage.
‘Remove his helmet,’ Gardus said. ‘I wish to see the face of our enemy.’
Tornus stooped and pried the filth-encrusted helmet loose. The ancient scabs lining the gorget burst, weeping clear pus and oily blood as the helmet slid upwards. The face within had clearly once been a man’s, but not for some time. Blisters and leaking sores rose out of mounds of scabbed-over flesh, and what hair was in evidence was colourless and lank. One eye was as opaque as the waters of the realmgate, while the other looked as if it had been boiled. Yet Gardus knew that the warrior could see him clearly. A ruined slash of a mouth twisted up into a smile.
‘Aye, I am handsome, am I not?’
‘No,’ Gardus said.
Gatrog gave a gurgling laugh. ‘Then I am in good company.’ Cadoc growled and drove a boot into the Rotbringer’s side. Gatrog wheezed and nearly toppled over.
&
nbsp; Gardus gestured sharply.
‘Leave him, Cadoc.’ His tone brooked no argument, and the Knight-Azyros stepped back, head bent in contrition. Gardus looked down at Gatrog. ‘Look at me.’ Gatrog did, a sneer on his malformed features. That sneer faded as Gardus let the light within him blaze forth. Gatrog winced. Yellowish tears streamed from his eyes as he twisted away.
Gardus reached up and removed his own helmet. He hung the helmet from his belt, and then caught Gatrog’s chin. He forced the Rotbringer’s face up. ‘Look at me, I said.’
‘No,’ Gatrog snarled, trying to twist away from him. Thin wisps of smoke rose from his scabrous features as Gardus gazed down at him. ‘Get your filthy hands off me.’
Gardus looked into the Rotbringer’s eyes, seeking a sign. Gatrog tried to meet his gaze and failed. He made again to pull away. He was afraid. Not of death, but something else. Gardus didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Gatrog was afraid.
‘I will give you a sword,’ Gardus said, softly.
Gatrog’s eyes widened.
‘But first, you will swear an oath,’ Gardus said.
Gatrog blinked back tears. ‘I’ll swear no oath to a silver-skinned lubberwort.’
Gardus reached down and gripped the chains that bound the Rotbringer. He jerked the bloated warrior to his feet with no sign of effort. ‘You will, or I will strike your head from your shoulders here and now.’
‘Better death than bondage,’ Gatrog spluttered. But the undercurrent of fear was still there. Gardus wondered at that. What did such creatures see in the light that he did not? Tornus might know, but he hesitated to pose such a question.
‘Says the slave to the free soul.’ Gardus pulled him close. ‘An oath. Your life, for the oath of but a moment. You will serve us, until such time as I grant you your freedom. And then you will be free to die as you choose.’
‘And what is this service that you require?’ Gatrog grunted, squinting against the glare. ‘Shall I best some foe for you, or hunt a questing beast? For those are my only skills.’ He twisted away, blinking. ‘What do you want?’
‘You have the look of one who has been to the garden.’
‘A… Aye,’ Gatrog said. ‘I won my spurs fairly, in its noisome glens.’
‘Good. I require a guide.’
‘A guide?’ Gatrog stared at him through slitted eyes. ‘You would go into the garden. You are either especially brave or mad.’
‘Neither,’ Gardus said. ‘Merely determined.’
‘You actually want me to lead you through the garden?’ Gatrog threw back his head and laughed. ‘Give me a sword, and bare your neck, if you’re so eager to die.’
‘Do you swear?’ Gardus said. His light swelled. The water bubbled around him, and a rivet on Gatrog’s armour burst as if from a sudden heat.
‘I… I swear,’ Gatrog said, turning away.
‘On your honour as a knight,’ Gardus continued, relentless.
Gatrog’s head snapped around, eyes narrowed. ‘Yes. Fie on thee, yes. On my honour as a true knight, I’ll guide you where you wish to go.’
Tornus watched in astonishment as Gardus let the Rotbringer slump to his knees. ‘You are to be sparing him, then?’ he asked.
‘That is what you wished,’ Gardus said. His aura had faded somewhat, dwindling to a soft glow. He looked at Tornus, his expression calm. ‘Isn’t it?’
Tornus nodded. ‘I am to be thanking you, Lord-Celestant.’
‘Do not thank me, Tornus. This may yet prove to be a mistake on both our parts.’ He gripped Tornus’ shoulder. ‘I leave him in your hands for the moment.’ He turned away to speak to Angstun and the others, leaving Tornus looking down at the kneeling Rotbringer. Gatrog’s bravado had melted away beneath Gardus’ attention. His head was bowed, and he mumbled what might have been prayers. Tornus shivered, knowing well who the Chaos knight was praying to.
Morbus joined him. Tornus glanced sidelong at the Lord-Relictor, wondering what he wanted. Morbus studied him for long moments. ‘Your soul was fractured. Now it is whole. Truly, a blessing from Sigmar.’
‘Yes,’ Tornus said, uncertain as to what the other Stormcast meant.
‘You hope to see lightning strike twice.’ Morbus looked down at Gatrog.
‘Is it being so impossible?’
‘No. But we lack a crucial element.’ Morbus gestured. ‘I do not see the Celestant-Prime in evidence, do you?’
Tornus turned away. ‘The Rotbringer is being frightened,’ he said, avoiding the question.
‘Compassion can be as terrible in its own way as cruelty,’ Morbus said. ‘And Gardus’ compassion even more so. Like the light of Azyr, it burns without judgement or hatred. But it burns all the same. And few can bear its light.’
‘He still lives,’ Tornus said.
‘No. He persists.’ Morbus looked at Tornus. ‘As you persisted. A perversion of the natural order, skewed all out of joint and made monstrous.’ He shook his head. ‘There is a point where resignation and stoicism are warped into an unholy perseverance. A refusal to accept what must come, while at the same time losing all hope as to a worthy ending. That is the point where our enemy raises his walls and erects his towers. You fell to it, as this one did. Your refusal to die, when all hope fled, brought you to ruin.’
Tornus, confused, shook his head. ‘You are saying we are to be surrendering?’
‘No. Only that we must recognise the difference between acceptance and surrender. All things have their season. All things have a beginning and an ending. To cast that aside is to deny the natural order.’
‘I was once knowing much of seasons,’ Tornus said. He realised that he could recall the Lifewells, but only dimly. As if they had been seen by someone else, in another place and time. He was Tornus again, but not the same. ‘I was once feeling the turning of the leaves in my heart. Now, I am feeling only the storm.’
Morbus looked at him. ‘And this too shall pass. Storms have their ending, as all things do. The stars burn out, suns go dark and storms pass. Only death does not die.’
‘So long as there is being life,’ Tornus said, looking at the Lord-Relictor. For a moment, Morbus’ voice had had an odd resonance. One that chilled him to the marrow. But the feeling passed quickly, as Morbus looked away. Tornus cleared his throat. ‘I am being sorry. For when I am trying to be killing you.’
Morbus gave a dry, hoarse laugh. ‘You will forgive me if I do not tender my own apologies.’ He looked at the Knight-Venator, and Tornus was relieved to see the humour in his gaze. ‘Still, that was in another kingdom, and Torglug is dead.’ He bent his staff, so that its charms and prayer scrolls thumped against Tornus’ armour. ‘You are who you are, and Sigmar would not have sent you to us if there was not reason.’
The ferrule of Angstun’s standard striking the ground filled the chamber. The Knight-Vexillor struck the ground twice more, drawing all eyes. ‘The Lord-Celestant wishes to speak,’ he said. Given his tone, Tornus suspected he didn’t approve of what Gardus was about to say. Gardus, helmet tucked under one arm, shot a bemused glance at his subordinate.
‘Thank you, Angstun.’ The Lord-Celestant looked around. ‘I intend to enter the realmgate, and follow its path wherever it leads. Our brethren are somewhere on the other side, and I would find them and bring them back.’ He spoke softly. Nonetheless, his voice carried, echoing through the chamber.
‘I will not command you to follow me,’ he continued. ‘I would not sacrifice us all on the altar of my hubris. But I will not abandon Lorrus and the others to the horrors of that place. Not while even the slightest hope yet remains.’ He looked around at the gathered warriors. ‘Without hope, we are no better than the enemy.’
‘You cannot go alone,’ Morbus said.
‘No. I go to make war on a god. It would be preferable if I did so in good company.’ Gardus’ smile was crooked. ‘I will not com
mand you. But I will ask you. Those who wish to join me may do so. No shame will fall upon those who do not. This is, as Angstun and Morbus have so respectfully reminded me, a fool’s errand. It is thus fitting that only the foolish should attempt it.’
A small ripple of laughter greeted these words. Tornus wondered at it. Among the Gleaming Host, humour was often seen as a sign of a lack of discipline. Laughter wasn’t proper equipment for the battlefield. But for the Steel Souls, it seemed to function almost as a shield against the dark. Humour, like faith, was their armour. The laughter faded soon enough, as the import of Gardus’ words sank in. Stormcast looked at one another, waiting to see who would go first.
‘I will go,’ Cadoc Kel growled, pushing his way through the throng. ‘What better soul to feed to the fire than that of a false god? My beacon shall light your way, Lord-Celestant.’
‘And I,’ Enyo said. ‘You will need my bow.’
‘My thanks to you both,’ Gardus said.
Aetius Shieldborn cleared his throat. ‘We have decided. We shall accompany you. And our retinues as well.’ The Liberator-Prime gestured to Solus and Feros. Tegrus of the Sainted Eye landed behind the Liberator-Prime and set a hand on his shoulder.
‘And I, also. You will need eyes in whatever passes for the sky there.’
‘We stood beside you at the Gates of Dawn, Steel Soul, and we shall not abandon you here,’ Feros rumbled. The Retributor-Prime leaned on the haft of his lightning hammer. ‘Besides, it sounds as if it’ll be a fight worth the name, and I’d not miss it. What say you, Solus?’ He glanced at the Judicator-Prime.
Solus shrugged. ‘Someone has to keep these three out of trouble.’
Gardus laughed. ‘Well said.’
A deluge of voices followed. Individual warriors, pledging warblade and hammer to their Lord-Celestant’s service. Gardus seemed at once pleased and saddened, Tornus thought. ‘What about you, Redeemed One? Will you test your new-forged soul in good cause?’ Cadoc said, startling him. The Knight-Azyros glared at him challengingly. And he wasn’t alone in his challenge. Tornus looked around, feeling suddenly very isolated.
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 16
