Gobbets of steaming meat fell to the deck. Spume uprooted his axe and used the blade to shift and smear the bloody spray. He began to murmur as he did so, speaking the seven words taught to him by the one he was trying to reach. As he did so, the gore began to bubble and burst. Rot flies squirmed out of the smeared redness and flew lazily upwards, circling about Spume’s head like a halo. The flies joined together in a cloud, bunching and roiling until they formed what might have been monstrous features. The vaguely mouth-shaped clump of flies undulated, humming.
‘What do you want, pirate?’
‘Careful there, Urslaug,’ Spume chided. ‘I’m not the sort to endure disrespect. Especially from a thin-shank mollyboggle such as ye.’
The flies hummed for a moment. Then, ‘My question stands.’
Spume snorted. ‘I have a gift for ye.’
If a cloud of flies could look suspicious, this one did. The swarm convulsed, and the flies hummed, ‘What sort of gift?’
Spume laid his axe over his shoulder and chuckled.
‘One that’ll benefit us both mightily.’
Chapter Twelve
INTO THE DARK
At the centre of the chamber, Morbus knelt before the frothing, black waters of the corrupted realmgate. The Lord-Relictor’s head was bowed in prayer, and the purity runes etched into his mortis armour shone harshly. He held his staff out before him, and the reliquary mounted atop it burned with a blue light. All around him, the sargassum smouldered in its purifying glow, and thin streamers of smoke danced about his kneeling form, as if alive. And perhaps they were, or had been, once upon a time.
Gardus had seen Morbus commune with spirits before. Once, in the Nihiliad Mountains, he had witnessed the Lord-Relictor sit and speak with the desiccated inhabitants of a long forgotten barrow. And later, he had drawn up the ghosts of the drowned, to lead them safely through the Canker Cascade. Despite this, Gardus still felt a frisson of elemental unease as he watched more smoky shapes rise up to join the rest in their silent dance.
Kurunta, Lion of the Hyaketes, seemed to share his opinions. He growled softly as he watched the Lord-Relictor at his task. ‘I hate when he does that.’ He shifted the weight of his broadsword from one shoulder to the other.
The Knight-Heraldor wasn’t tall, but he was big, with a chest and shoulders thicker by half than any other warrior in the chamber. His silver war-plate strained to contain him, as if the force of his mighty voice were threatening to burst his frame. The profusion of amethyst plumes that sprouted from his helm like a mane were threaded through with silver coins. These clinked softly as he glanced at Gardus. ‘I still say you should let me cap this wretched hole, Steel Soul,’ he said, indicating the war-horn slung across his back.
Gardus looked at him. ‘Admit it – you want to come with me.’
Kurunta shook his head. ‘Of course I do. We should still bury it, though.’
Gardus nodded. ‘So we should. And yet we cannot.’
‘No,’ Kurunta said. He toyed idly with one of the prayer scrolls hanging from his armour. ‘I don’t like being left behind. You might need me.’
‘To announce my coming to Nurgle, you mean?’
‘Well… yes.’ Kurunta shook his head. ‘It’s only polite. Not honourable, invading in secret.’ The look in his eyes was disapproving. ‘How will they know who defeated them, if we don’t announce ourselves?’
Gardus laughed. ‘I don’t think that’s something we have to worry about, my friend.’ No, he had no doubt that their arrival would not go unnoticed. A snarl of hoarse laughter made him turn. He looked at their prisoner, crouched before Tornus. The Rotbringer had remained on the ground since their confrontation, but he seemed to have regained some of his courage, despite the situation. Or, perhaps, because of it.
‘The King of all Flies sees all,’ the creature croaked. ‘If you invade his demesnes, he will respond in kind.’ He sounded pleased.
‘You are being silent,’ Tornus said, catching a handful of the Rotbringer’s sparse hair. Gardus raised his hand, and Tornus released his hold. Gardus looked down at the creature.
‘What is waiting for us on the other side of that gate?’
Gatrog grinned, displaying rotten teeth. ‘Nothing you wish to meet, I assure you. The garden is fit only for the courageous.’
Kurunta let the blade of his sword swing down to rest on the Rotbringer’s shoulder. ‘Have a care with your words, filth,’ he said darkly. ‘I am inclined to take offence.’
The Rotbringer looked up at him, eyes narrowed. ‘Give me a sword, and I will attempt a proper apology.’
Gardus waved Kurunta back. ‘I asked you a question. By your oath, give me a clear answer. What waits for us beyond the gate?’
Gatrog hawked and spat. ‘By my oath, I will answer. The garden is sevenfold, and has been for seven centuries. Seven gardens, which are nonetheless one, each atop the next. Some say the King of all Flies saw the hanging gardens of the Lantic Empire and did admire them. And so he shaped his realm in similar, though inverted, fashion.’ His chains rattled as he tried to gesture with his newly grown hand.
‘And no doubt each tier is more dangerous than the last,’ a new voice interjected. Gardus turned to see Angstun making his way towards them. ‘Morbus is soon finished,’ Angstun said. Like Kurunta, the Knight-Vexillor didn’t sound pleased about it. ‘Are you sure it is wise to depart so soon?’
‘Soonest begun is soonest done,’ Gardus said. ‘Foolish as I am, I would rather spend no more time than I have to in that foul realm.’ He hoped that Grymn would be close by. That this assault would be swift. But in his heart, he knew that it wasn’t likely. Time travelled strangely beyond the Mortal Realms. Centuries passed in seconds, and moments stretched into days. They might return moments after they’d left, or not at all.
Gatrog seemed to have similar thoughts. The Rotbringer gave a gurgling laugh. ‘An eternity awaits you, storm-warrior. Deny it all you like, but no soul leaves the garden, save by Nurgle’s will.’
‘I have,’ Gardus said solemnly. ‘I walked in willingly, and left in the same fashion.’ His solemnity seemed to unsettle the Rotbringer, and the creature looked away. A crackle of lightning caught his attention, and Gardus saw Morbus push himself to his feet.
‘The way is as safe as I can make it,’ the Lord-Relictor intoned. He held up a hand wreathed in snarling bands of lightning. ‘My prayers will bind us together, so that none are lost in the under-realms, and will serve to abate the horrors there somewhat. Kneel, oh sons and daughters of Azyr.’
Stormcasts sank to their knees, heads bowed, hands clasped about their weapons. Gardus moved through the rows, hammer on his shoulder. ‘Who kneels here, to receive the blessings of the heavens?’ he asked, as he walked towards Morbus.
‘Only the faithful.’
Gardus looked at Morbus. ‘We are the faithful, Lord-Relictor. Say your prayers.’
Morbus nodded. He spoke, softly at first, and then more loudly. His words were lost the moment he said them, carried away in the roar of the lightning as it speared from his hand. The shimmering bolt caromed from Stormcast to Stormcast, striking each in turn and binding them to one another. Gardus was last and, when the lightning struck him, he staggered slightly. Heat rushed through him, flooding his limbs and driving out all the aches and pains he’d accrued. His head swam as, for an instant, he heard the dim echoes of his warriors’ thoughts, fears and hopes. More than that, he felt their faith in him, in their mission, and in Sigmar.
Faith was the torch in the dark of the cave. Only faith had led him safely out of Nurgle’s realm. Now he trusted it to lead him into the garden once more. To lead them all. Gardus straightened and turned towards the black waters. ‘It is time,’ he said.
‘Why are we doing this?’ Morbus asked, as he stepped up beside Gardus.
‘A bit late to be asking that,’ Gardus said.
‘Answer the question.’
‘For Lorrus, and the others.’
Morbus nodded. ‘Perhaps. Partially, at least. But that’s not the whole of it. Why?’
Gardus paused. ‘I don’t know.’ He looked up, wishing with all his heart that he could see the stars. His conscience would have to make do, in their absence. He drew his runeblade. ‘Perhaps simply to prove that it can be done, and that we are the ones to do it. We are the faithful. Who better to march into this green hell than us?’
‘You know that if Sigmar were here, he would command us otherwise.’
‘Would he? Or would he lead us himself?’ Gardus looked around. His warriors were ready. But was he? He felt the familiar weight of doubt curled up inside him and waiting for its moment. Was this the right thing to do? He wished that the God-King were here to tell him whether he was on the correct path, but Sigmar could not be everywhere. Or perhaps he simply had faith in Gardus, as Gardus had in him.
He turned and surveyed his warriors. ‘Who is this I see before me?’ he said, his voice carrying throughout the chamber. As one, the Steel Souls rose to their feet, heads held up, weapons at the ready. ‘Who will dare the darkest road at my side?’
‘Only the faithful,’ Morbus intoned. The others echoed him, the steady growl of their voices rising to fill the chamber. Gatrog twitched in his chains, as if the sound of those words pained him. And maybe they did.
‘We are the faithful,’ Gardus said. ‘And we shall carry the light and Storm of Sigmar into the heart of darkness, as only we can. Who will be remembered?’
‘Only the faithful,’ came the response.
‘Who will the darkness fear?’
‘Only the faithful!’
Weapons thumped against shields or the floor, until voice and sound merged into a single roar of challenge. It echoed throughout the chamber, throughout the citadel itself. The waters of the realmgate rippled from the fury of it. Gardus turned away from the silvered ranks and started into the water. ‘Pray us a path, Lord-Relictor. Open the way to the garden.’
The waters began to bubble and froth. Gardus felt unseen hands clawing at his legs, trying to pull him down into the depths. He smiled as he allowed them to draw him down. They would take him where he wanted to go.
It was time that the Dark Gods knew the true strength of the faithful.
Tornus cringed inwardly as he waited his turn to follow Gardus into the dark waters of the realmgate. He could feel the evil radiating from them. No, not evil. Evil implied malice. There was precious little malice in the workings of Nurgle. Cruelty, yes, as life was cruel. Rapaciousness, even. But the horror of Nurgle was one of cosmic consideration. Khorne cared not from whence the blood flowed, but Nurgle cared for every life, no matter how tiny. Nurgle noticed every life. Every soul that crossed the threshold of the Lord of All Things received a splinter of his attention, and suffered for it.
Even those souls that had escaped his clutches once already. The water surged up about him as he watched Enyo wade out into the oily lake. It slopped against his armour, tarnishing the silver. He longed to spread his wings and fly away, to leave this place, with its reeking odour and hazy glow. Ospheonis, perched on his shoulder, gave an interrogative screech and he reached up to ruffle the star-eagle’s feathers.
‘The others might be blind, but your bird and I see the truth well enough. You are scared,’ Cadoc said, from just behind him. The Knight-Azyros leaned forwards. ‘Have you no faith, Tornus?’
‘I am being faithful,’ Tornus said. Cadoc’s friendship had quickly turned to spite. But then, princes were known to be mercurial in temperament.
Cadoc chuckled. ‘We’ll see about that. And if that proves a lie, I’ll set your soul alight and purge it once more.’ He clasped Tornus’ shoulder with mock-friendliness, and pushed past him. The Knight-Azyros waded into the waters, beacon raised.
‘He’s a foul one, and no mistake,’ Gatrog said, from beside him. The Rotbringer stood nearby, waiting to follow Tornus into the realmgate. In contrast to the Stormcasts around him, the pox-knight displayed little evident nervousness at the thought of entering the black waters. ‘Your taste in friends has become poor, Torglug.’
Tornus jerked the Rotbringer’s chains, nearly pulling him off his feet. ‘You are being silent, monster.’ He looped the chain about his forearm, so that there was no chance of the Rotbringer slipping free during their journey. Though there was small chance of that, a treacherous part of him whispered. The knights of the Order of the Fly were honourable, if nothing else. Gatrog could no more break an oath than he could burst his chains.
Gatrog stumbled, but steadied himself. ‘I am no more a monster than you yourself once were, Torglug.’ He spoke slowly, almost pleadingly.
‘Torglug is being dead. I am being Tornus.’
Gatrog chuckled thickly. ‘Not so, not so.’ He bowed his head. Tornus followed his gaze and saw his reflection, wavering on the dark surface of the water. Only it wasn’t him. Not as he was. But as he had been. A bloated thing, swollen with unholy power. Eyes like rotten pomegranates met his, but only for an instant. A moment later, Torglug was gone, leaving only Tornus.
‘No,’ Tornus murmured. ‘It is not being so.’ He stumbled into the water, splashing heedlessly, dragging Gatrog in his wake. ‘It is being a trick of this place.’
‘Is it? Or is the silver you wear the trick? A trick played on a noble hero, by a deceitful godling.’ Gatrog grimaced. ‘A warrior such as the one I knew would not so easily be twisted out of shape as this. Some speck of blessed cancer yet clings to your soul, Torglug. Pray to the King of all Flies, that he might nourish it until it blossoms once more.’
Tornus wrenched Gatrog around to face him, and lifted the Rotbringer from his feet. The pox-knight thrashed helplessly as Tornus heaved his bulk up. Stormcasts drew back as the Knight-Venator shook his prisoner the way a gryph-hound shook a rat. ‘My soul is being my own, creature. And the sooner you are to be learning that, the better it is being.’
Gatrog began to rasp a reply, but Tornus flung him into the water. The pox-knight swiftly sank out of sight, drawn down by the magic of the realmgate. A moment later, Tornus followed.
He plunged into the water, Ospheonis behind him. There was no flash of light, no radiant coruscation. Instead, it was like sinking into mud, at once constricting and irresistible. It pulled him down, even as it sought to suffocate him. He felt as if he had fallen into a grave, thick with worms. His war-plate creaked as things slithered about it, testing its strength. Then, with a sluicing sensation, he was through and tumbling between realms.
The dark yawned beneath him, broken at first only by a dwindling silver chain of glowing figures. The water surged, drawing him down. He spread his wings and dived deeper, pursuing the tumbling form of Gatrog. Bruised lights flickered all about him as the dark bled into distinct and familiar greens, browns and greys. The colours of rot and mulch, of fertilised soil and stagnant water. Holy colours, he’d thought, once upon a time.
Eerie shapes writhed about him: pale wyrms and dark, batrachian forms, as vast as sunken islands or as tiny as dust-motes. Entities of all shape and no shape at all passed over and through the sinking Stormcasts, without noticing them or being noticed in turn. Tornus had seen such malignancies before, though he could not recall where, and had no wish to do so. Horrors without name sprang from the soil of Nurgle’s garden.
Morbus’ rites kept the waters, and what lurked within them, from penetrating his armour or interfering with his descent. Even so, Tornus shuddered as a curving pillar of iridescent scales shot past him, rising up and away. He caught glimpses of fangs and milky eyes, heard the roar of passing leviathans. And something more, besides.
A voice. So great as to be almost unperceivable. It rumbled up out of the depths, speaking to him. Calling to him. He could not make out the words, but he knew what it was saying. It was welcoming him home. Wor
se, it forgave him his mistakes. His failures. He tried to ignore it, to block it out, but it was omnipresent. A bell, tolling him on.
Below him and opposite him a shadow swam. It kept pace with him easily, despite its bulk. I am still being here, fool, it said, in a voice like the creaking of a coffin lid. I am being a weed which is not so easy to pluck.
Light, sickly and grey, swelled up below. He dived towards the weak, watery shimmer, following the others, trying to ignore the mocking shadow. It clutched at him, but almost playfully. As if there would be other, better opportunities to catch him. He broke free with a desperate convulsion, leaving it laughing in the dark.
He felt the soul-deep ache of its grip all the way down.
Angstun Drahn stepped into the open, and took a deep breath. The murk had not faded from the air yet, but the crisp sting of the sea breeze was growing stronger. Kurunta had offered to take the first watch on the bubbling pool, and Angstun had readily agreed.
He had little patience for such things, since his death and Reforging. He closed his eyes and leaned against his standard, trying to recall the moment Sigmar’s voice had called him up out of the black. A strange moment, balanced on the precipice of agony and peace. Between death and life.
Of late, he had begun to wonder whether the one was not preferable to the other. In death, there was peace. To drift, at one with Azyr itself, would be a fine thing. In life, there was only another death to look forward to. He shook his head, banishing the thought, and looked up at the comet sigil that topped his battle standard. ‘To be a part of the eternal tempest,’ he murmured. ‘That is the reward I shall claim, when the storm rolls on.’ A selfish desire, perhaps, but it was his, and he held to it.
Others had their own dreams for when the war was done and the darkness was cast back for the last time. Kurunta intended to return to his people, on the Felstone Plains of Aqshy, and unite the clans of the Caldera once more. Enyo desired time to explore the vast, celestial sea. And Gardus – it was whispered, in the corridors of the Sigmarabulum, that the Steel Soul wished only to rebuild that which he had lost. That the war-leader of their chamber desired to set aside runeblade and hammer and once more tend to the sick.
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 18
