Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  Angstun found much to admire in that, even as he suspected that it would never occur. The war would never end, and they would march beneath the banners of heaven until the stars burned out and the suns became cold. While Sigmar still fought, so too would the Hallowed Knights. They were the faithful, and could do no less.

  For now, his duty was to secure this place against the enemy, lest the Steel Souls lose whatever ground they had gained. Part of him was tempted to summon aid – there were other Stormhosts abroad in Ghyran, and those Prosecutors left to him could seek them out swiftly enough. But there was no need, as of yet. He snapped orders at a passing retinue of Judicators, and felt somewhat better. This place was corrupted, and required cleansing. That much, at least, they could do, while they awaited Gardus’ return.

  He heard a voice call out and saw Yare, hand raised. The old man had been moved by his followers from the wet ground to the top of a massive, reptilian skull. The skull had once been part of the wall, but the sound of Kurunta’s horn had shaken it loose from the sargassum. Now it lay in a nest of splintered timbers, glaring sightlessly out at the courtyard. Much like Yare himself. Another prisoner crouched by the old man, whispering into his ear. Blind eyes sought out Ang­stun. ‘He has gone, hasn’t he?’ the old man called.

  ‘Our fellows were swallowed up by dark magics,’ Angstun said, after a moment. He made his way towards the skull. Mortals scattered from his path. ‘The Steel Soul goes to free them.’ He forced himself to relax. Gardus had ordered him to stay, and so he would stay. But he didn’t have to like it.

  ‘You fear for him.’

  Angstun frowned and looked up at Yare. ‘I know neither fear nor doubt, old man. They have long since been burned out of me, in the forges of Azyr.’

  ‘A shame,’ Yare said. He winced and rubbed his face. Angstun wondered if his wounds pained him. Yare had refused to be escorted to the shore, declaring that he would leave last, or not at all. His followers had remained as well, and now those healthy enough to do so were helping in the rescue efforts, or else standing sentry, watching for the foe.

  Angstun admired their grit, but couldn’t help but feel that they’d made themselves an unnecessary burden to the Stormcasts still stationed in the citadels. The Hallowed Knights couldn’t both hunt down the remaining Rotbringers and guard the mortals. Yare sighed. ‘Doubts are the currency of discourse.’ He leaned forward, coughing. Wheezing, he added, ‘I have not engaged in proper debate for many years.’

  Angstun’s frown faded. ‘Nor I,’ he said softly. His mind had been scoured free of unimportant things on the Anvil. But some brief memories yet clung to the blade of his soul. He remembered columns of marble, and mirrored domes. The sound of voices, raised in heated discussion on the properties of reflected light. Shaken, he reached up and unlatched his helmet, wishing to feel the sea breeze on his face. ‘But it seems we both have time on our hands, old man. Would you care to cross blades with one who is equally out of practice?’

  Yare smiled. ‘I would like that, I think.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  BOTTLED LIGHTNING

  Gardus opened his eyes. Ghosts surrounded him, wispy fingers clutching at his war-plate. Indistinct faces pressed close as a wave of whispers washed over him. Garradan… help us… Garradan… it hurts… He swept his runeblade out, as gently as he could, and dispersed them. As ever, the voices were the last thing to fade.

  Oily rain fell across a leprous glen. Nurgle’s garden was much as he remembered, down to the sickly stink of the air as it scoured his lungs. He tensed and, for a moment, he was lost once more, fleeing for his life across the endless mire, sustained only by faith and desperation. He forced himself to relax. Now was not then, and Bolathrax was dead, or as good as. Slain by a goddess. Gardus wished he had been there to see it.

  ‘It’s like breathing soup,’ Aetius muttered. The Liberator-Prime stood nearby, scraping at the brownish-grey mould growing patchily on his armour. It was the rain that brought it. Rain created by the clouds, which were fed by the smoke from Nurgle’s cauldrons. Or so their unwilling guide swore. He glanced at the Rotbringer crouched in the mud.

  ‘It gets worse,’ Gardus said. His own armour, while grimy, was free of mould. The rain sizzled when it struck him, purified by the nimbus of light seeping from his pores. Where he strode, the water bubbled and the flabby vegetation withered and blackened. He wondered if Sigmar had foreseen this moment during his Reforging, and welded the light to his renewed soul for this very purpose. If so, to what end? Was he merely another weapon, to be employed on corrupted battlefields? Or was there some deeper meaning?

  He shook his head, annoyed with himself. ‘Only the faithful,’ he murmured. Whatever Sigmar’s purpose, Gardus would see it through. He had faith in the God-King’s design. He pushed his doubts aside and moved among his warriors, speaking quiet words of comfort and encouragement to those who needed it. And there were more of those than he liked.

  The pox-rain did not simply stain armour; it tarnished mind and soul as well. He was not the only one seeing ghosts, or hearing the voices of those they’d failed. One Judicator leaned slumped against a tree, breathing heavily. Gardus could smell the acidic stink of vomit on the warrior’s breath. He set a hand on the Stormcast’s shoulder. ‘Breathe easy, brother. And shallow. It helps, somewhat.’

  ‘I… I did not think it would be this way,’ the Judicator said. He fumbled at the clasps of his helmet. ‘I can’t breathe. There… there are flies in my armour. I can hear them. Feel them.’ His voice cracked.

  ‘Cadoc,’ Gardus barked, as he caught the warrior’s hands. ‘I require your beacon, Knight-Azyros.’ Cadoc dropped like a stone from the sky. He unhooked his beacon from his belt and opened it wide. The radiance within washed over the struggling Judicator. He stiffened and then, gradually, relaxed. Gardus turned. ‘Solus, Aetius. Check your men. This place affects some more strongly than others, even with the protection of Morbus’ prayers. I would not lose anyone else.’

  He left the afflicted Judicator in the care of his Prime, and splashed towards Morbus. ‘Any sign of them?’ Overhead, Tegrus led his Prosecutors in an ever-widening circle. The winged Stormcast flew lower than normal, hampered by the thick air and the poisonous clouds above. Morbus shook his head.

  ‘No, but they are close. I can feel something. Like heat from newly stirred ashes.’ He turned. ‘And something else as well. Hotter. Brighter.’

  He was interrupted by a long, ululating shriek. Stormcasts whirled, groping for weapons or nocking arrows. Overhead, Enyo called out something. The Knight-Venator dived into the tree line, moving so swiftly that she was no more than a blur of silver. As Gardus hurried towards where she’d vanished, he heard the hiss-crack of her bow. ‘Tornus,’ he roared, extending his hammer. Tornus shot past him, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he did so, his star-eagle at his side.

  Gardus burst through a clump of trees and slid to a halt in the slippery mud. The clearing was alive with savage movement. A serpentine length of scaly flesh thrashed, seeking to coil about a spotted shape, which screeched and snapped in a frenzy. The two Knight-Venators peppered the scaly coils with arrows, but the crackling missiles seemed to have little effect on the monster, whatever it was.

  ‘Poxwyrm,’ Gatrog said from behind Gardus. The Rotbringer stood within a phalanx of Liberators, and Aetius held his chains. ‘Ugly brutes. Always hungry. And venomous.’ He looked around. ‘Give me a blade, and I’ll soon have its head off, if you like.’

  ‘Keep him back,’ Gardus said. He splashed towards the battle, drawing his runeblade as he did so. A wedge-shaped head, marked by tattered fins and bloody wounds, shot forwards to meet him, jaws wide. A blow from his hammer shattered the blackened fangs as they tried to close about him. His blade carved apart the wormy tongue, filling the air with poisonous ichors. He ignored its shriek of agony and lunged, carving through the muscles of its mouth. Unnatural flesh spli
t and tore as he bulled forwards, chopping away at its maw and throat.

  Finally, it swayed back from him, shattering trees in its death throes. As the coils settled into the water, the poxwyrm’s opponent was revealed. ‘Tallon,’ Gardus said, dropping to one knee. ‘That is you, isn’t it?’

  The gryph-hound stood shakily, his spotted form scored by bloody wounds. He favoured one paw, and chunks of fur and feathers were missing from his hide. Flanks heaving, the creature stared at Gardus suspiciously, as if unable to believe the evidence of his senses. The Lord-Celestant set aside his hammer and extended a hand, murmuring soothingly. A wounded gryph-hound was a dangerous thing, as the poxwyrm had discovered. They had even been known to turn on their handlers, on occasion.

  Tallon leaned forwards, beak scraping down his palm. After a moment, the animal stumbled against him, chirping softly. Gardus stroked the beast’s neck. ‘Easy,’ he murmured. ‘Easy. You’re among friends.’

  The gryph-hound pushed away from him and growled. Gardus rose as the animal limped away, casting backward glances every few steps. He splashed after the beast. Morbus was waiting on them nearby. The Lord-Relictor crouched beside something shrouded in moss and mud. ‘Tallon was protecting them,’ Morbus said, scraping a chunk of mud away to reveal a swathe of silver.

  Gardus’ mouth was dry. ‘How many?’

  ‘Five. All dead.’ Morbus stood. ‘Lorrus is not among them.’

  Gardus felt a flash of relief. ‘Then he might still live.’ He hesitated. ‘But if they’re dead, why are they here?’

  ‘Their souls are trapped in their flesh. Caught fast by the baleful magics of this place. Like lightning in a bottle.’

  ‘Is there anything to be done?’ Gardus said, looking down at the corpse.

  ‘One thing.’ Morbus extended his staff, and Gardus took it. The Lord-Relictor raised his hands over the body and began to murmur a prayer. The body started to shimmer, and twitch. A thin web of lightning crackled between Morbus’ fingers. He uttered a single, hammer-stroke word, and slammed his hands down. The body bucked, and Morbus wrenched his hands up, drawing out the energies trapped in the body. He lurched to his feet, forcing Gardus to step back. Lightning crawled over Morbus’ arms and chest as the body was reduced to swirling ash. He clenched his fists and bent double. The lightning faded until only a faint glow remained.

  ‘Now, the others,’ Morbus hissed. He shoved past Gardus and stumbled towards the other bodies, where they lay shrouded in filth. Morbus repeated the ceremony, drawing the lightning of the fallen Stormcasts, their very essences, into himself. His eyes sparked as he reclaimed his staff. ‘I have their souls. They are safe, in my keeping.’

  ‘And what of you?’ Gardus said. ‘I have never seen this rite. Never even heard a whisper of it. What is it?’

  ‘It has no name, and you have not seen it because it has not yet been necessary,’ Morbus said. He leaned against his staff. ‘The rites of the Temple of Ages are manifold. This is but one.’ He fixed Gardus with a burning gaze. ‘Would you see the others? Shall I draw down the full fury of the celestial storm here and burn this garden to its roots? It would mean our deaths, but better a quick death than what I fear is to come.’

  ‘No,’ Gardus said, shaken. Morbus was among the most powerful of the Storm Summoners. Some said that he was second in wisdom only to Ionus Cryptborn, though Morbus kept his opinions in that regard to himself. ‘No. We go forward.’

  ‘Whatever the cost?’

  Again, Gardus paused. ‘We must do this, Morbus.’

  Morbus nodded. ‘So we must. Lead on, Lord-Celestant.’ He gestured briskly, and Gardus almost smiled. He turned to where their unwilling guide knelt in the mire under the watchful eyes of Tornus. He waved his hand, and the Knight-Venator roughly dragged the Rotbringer to his feet.

  ‘Which direction?’ Gardus said.

  ‘There are no directions,’ Gatrog said with a laugh. ‘Not here.’ He gagged as Gardus caught him by the throat. ‘But we should definitely go that way,’ he gurgled, jerking his head to indicate a path. Gardus released him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s where the current goes, and where the galleys will be.’ Gatrog hawked and spat. ‘This is but the first tier of the garden. The antechamber, if you will. The place where souls drift into the garden, and become lost. The servants of the King of all Flies haunt these waters and capture any they come across.’

  ‘And take them where?’

  ‘Despair. Despondency. Desolation.’

  ‘He talks nonsense,’ Cadoc said, reaching for his starblade.

  ‘No. They are being places,’ Tornus said. He clutched his head, as if trying to pry the information free. ‘At least, I am thinking they are.’ The Knight-Venator sounded shaken. Worried. Gardus wondered if it had been a mistake to bring him; not because he doubted Tornus’ loyalty, but because of the obvious strain the situation was placing on him.

  ‘Then that is where we must go,’ Morbus said. ‘I can sense the Lord-Castellant’s soulfire, but it is growing faint.’ He shook his head. ‘We may not be able to catch up in time. Lorrus might well be lost to us, Gardus.’

  Before Gardus could reply, a whistle from above caught his attention. Tegrus swooped low, and gestured. ‘Something approaches, Steel Soul. A vessel of some sort.’

  Gardus glanced at Morbus. ‘Sigmar provides,’ the Lord-Relictor said with a shrug, as they followed Tegrus to the edge of the dripping glade. Through a curtain of fungal trees, Gardus spotted a wedge-shaped prow nosing through the miasma, and heard the thump of drums. Great oars struck the water, and dragged the bottom of the galley across the more solid areas. He heard croaking voices raised in an abominable song, and the rattle of rusty weapons. The flies swarming about them seemed to grow more agitated, and Gardus swept out his hand in a futile attempt to disperse them.

  He signalled and Tornus dragged Gatrog forward. Gardus stared down at the pox-knight. ‘What is it?’

  ‘As I said, a galley. Soul-slavers. They gather up the lost spirits who wander aimlessly in these swamps and sell them into useful servitude, deeper in the garden.’ Gatrog spat. ‘Sometimes honest travellers, as well, it must be said.’ He frowned. ‘I was almost taken by such an opportunistic crew of malcontents as I sought to win my spurs.’ He shook his head, as if in disappointment. ‘Base creatures they were, lowborn and lacking in honour.’

  ‘Will they disembark?’ Gardus asked, cutting the Rotbringer’s reminiscences short.

  ‘Aye, if they see a soul in need of capture. Like as not, they already know you’re here.’ Gatrog laughed. ‘The flies that swarm so thickly on the air sometimes carry word to favoured captains, and lead them to their prey.’

  ‘Tactics,’ Gardus said tersely.

  ‘None. They are rabble,’ Gatrog sneered dismissively. ‘Daemons too lowly to join one of the blighted legions, or half-things, unfit for any other task.’ He strained slightly. ‘But give me a blade, and I would defeat them myself.’

  Gardus shoved him back towards a retinue of Liberators. ‘Hold him safe.’

  ‘I need no protection,’ Gatrog spluttered.

  ‘I did not mean for your sake.’

  A plan was already forming in his mind. A crude one, to be sure, but subtlety required time they didn’t have. They needed a vessel, and here was one, ready to be taken. But they would have to do it swiftly, and without damaging the galley. He gave his orders briskly. ‘Solus, pin down those brave enough to disembark. Tegrus, keep any stragglers from retreating. Enyo, Tornus, see to any left on board. The rest of you, move in on my signal. I want that galley in one piece.’

  ‘And what will you be doing?’ Morbus said.

  ‘I should have thought that would be obvious. I’ll be getting their attention.’ Without waiting for the Lord-Relictor’s reply, Gardus swept aside a fungal tree with a single blow from his hammer and strode into th
e open. The galley had come to a halt not far away, beaching itself on a soggy hummock. In shape, it reminded Gardus of similar vessels he’d seen in his mortal years. They’d crowded the docklands of Demesnus Harbour, crewed by people from the southern coasts. Merchants and travellers, offering up exotic spices and silks from across the Great Sea.

  But no vessel such as this had ever blighted those waters. It was a shaggy thing, its stern scabbed with hairy pustules and raw blisters. Its splintery hull was daubed in pitch and studded with rusty iron sigils, which gleamed in a sickly fashion. The mast was a looming gallows, and the sails were flabby and unnatural. A ramp, made from wood and iron, thudded down from the upper deck into the muck, scattering a swarm of flies, and sending something large slithering away into the mists.

  From where he stood, Gardus could just make out the crew as they swarmed across the deck, shouting to one another in deep, inhuman voices. A lean shape appeared at the bow, its single, bulbous eye narrowed in curiosity. The cyclopean daemon wore a cuirass of beaten, mouldy leather, and a cloak of what looked to be filthy silk. The plaguebearer gave a monotone cry and pointed at him with a festering blade.

  Gardus clashed his weapons together. ‘Come and get me,’ he called.

  Plaguebearers galumphed down the boarding ramp, their droning cries filling the air. There were men, or things that were almost men, among them, their bodies covered in cancerous encrustations and weeping barnacles. These half-daemons splashed ahead of their more sedate companions, closing in on Gardus with excited yelps.

  The Lord-Celestant stepped back into the trees. The creatures raced after him. He killed the first with a single slash of his runeblade. The second fell with a crushed skull. The others slowed, suddenly uncertain. ‘Aetius,’ Gardus said.

  Liberators pressed forwards from between the dripping trees. As the mortals fell, Solus gave the order, and skybolt bows hummed as the Judicators loosed a fiery rain on the approaching daemons. Gardus led Feros and his Retributors towards the creatures. The fight that followed was swift. These daemons were clearly not used to their prey fighting back. Lightning hammers crashed down, rupturing ragged bodies and reducing them to sludge. Gardus cut himself a path through the throng, and was soon pounding up the boarding ramp. Decaying daemons lay everywhere, their bodies marked by glowing arrows.