Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  Once, such a hunt would have come easily to him. But in the months since his Reforging, he’d come to realise that his mind was not as sharp as it had been. It was as if part of him had been erased. His eyes were as keen as ever, but the old instincts had been blunted somehow, and replaced with… something else. Something he could not articulate. It was as if there was some strange song, just at the edge of his hearing. It taunted and teased him, drawing his mind from his duties to the contemplation of the winds, the sound of the trees, the murmur of the storm-blown grasses. Things he’d never noticed before.

  Tegrus could not help but wonder if it had something to do with the circumstances of his death. Had something been planted within him by Alarielle? She had grown Lord-Castellant Grymn a new hand. Had she done something similar to him? Whatever it was, he could not feel it here, and that absence was almost as distracting. He shook his head, and checked his warriors’ positions.

  His Prosecutors were spread out, to either side of him, flying in a dispersed formation. Enyo, as ever, ranged far ahead. The Knight-Venator swooped low through the mists, her wings cutting the water and causing jets of steam to billow upwards. Tegrus watched her for a moment, and then let his attention drift. He banked again, cutting left. Below him, he saw what he took to be walled gardens of filth, containing quivering rows of blighted vegetation, or skull-shaped blossoms, which screamed shrilly as his shadow fell over them. Hunched shapes tended to the shrieking flowers, and stared upwards in dull-eyed curiosity asthe Prosecutors passed overhead.

  ‘What is this foulness?’ one of Tegrus’ huntsmen growled, swooping close to him. ‘Everywhere we look, they till the soil, as if anything of worth could grow here.’

  ‘A death’s head garden,’ Tegrus said. ‘I saw its like when we burnt the Rotfane. They are farmers, tending to a blighted crop.’

  ‘We should destroy these hovels,’ the Prosecutor said. His voice was strained with emotion. Tegrus glanced at him. All of them were feeling stretched thin. The air here was almost poison, and the omnipresent stench ate away at their composure like acid.

  ‘And, like mushrooms, they would sprout anew in a few days.’ Tegrus bent his head. Something had caught his eye. ‘No. Such destruction would serve no purpose, save to alert the enemy and waste what little time we have.’

  ‘I think they’re already aware of us,’ the warrior muttered. The dull tones of a funerary bell began to sound from a crooked bell tower. The tower’s pointed roof was decorated with a plethora of fish carcasses nailed to the mossy slates, and something bloated and giggling dangled from the weathercock. More bells sounded, in response to the first, until all the air was trembling with the vibration of them.

  Tegrus flinched back as an arrow cut past him to embed itself in a nearby rooftop. He turned and saw Enyo hurtling towards them as swiftly as her wings could carry her. She’d loosed the shaft to catch his attention. She signalled urgently, and he followed her gestures.

  Down below, dark shapes nosed through the narrow, winding canals between islands. Though they were shrouded by the mists, he nonetheless recognised the shapes of galleys. A dozen or more, converging swiftly on the blue glow of the Stormcasts’ commandeered vessel. The thump of drums echoed up, and the watery glow of balefire illuminated the decks, revealing the daemonic shapes which crowded them.

  How had they got so close without him noticing? Was there some enchantment at work, or had he simply been inattentive?

  ‘Spread out,’ he said, even as he cursed his carelessness. ‘Strike swiftly. Aim for the rudders and the masts, and retreat after.’ Without waiting for a reply, he swooped around a ruined turret, scattering a flock of scaly pigeons, and dived down through the rain towards the closest galley. There was no time to send warning. All they could do was hope to delay the enemy, and alert the others with the crash of battle.

  As his hammers shimmered into his waiting hands, Tegrus prayed that it would be enough.

  ‘You can feel it, can’t you, Torglug?’ Gatrog said. The Rotbringer stood at the farthest extension of his chains, so close Tornus could smell the stink of his armour. ‘How familiar this all is?’

  ‘Torglug is never coming here,’ Tornus said. His eyes remained fixed on the islands, with their tottering towers and slumping rooftops. Strange birds, their feathers waxy with rot, watched the passing galley with flat eyes. Their cries sounded like laughter. Every mould-drenched wall and square of sloughing thatch seemed to twist itself into a leering, jovial face. His hands tightened around his bow.

  ‘I find that hard to believe. The Woodsman was most devout.’ Gatrog shuffled closer, so that he stood beside Tornus. ‘It is sad to see faith twisted so.’

  Tornus looked at him. ‘Yes.’ He wished he were anywhere else. Even in the air, with Tegrus and the others. Instead, Gardus had tasked him with guarding their prisoner.

  Gatrog smiled and nodded, acknowledging the point. ‘It is even as Blightmaster Gahool said, in his thirty-second missive to the Oakdwell King. Faith, like a river, must occasionally find its course altered, for the good of the land.’

  ‘The Oakdwell King is being dead,’ Tornus said. He knew this, because Torglug had been the one to kill the ancient creature, in his robes of leaf and vine. He could still hear the snap of an antler as it broke off in his fist. Still feel the warm gush of sap, as it coursed over his hand, and the Oakdwell King gasped his last.

  ‘And his people serve the King of all Flies to this day,’ Gatrog said, solemnly. He peered at Tornus. ‘They live, because they chose a new course.’

  Tornus said nothing. Gatrog leaned close. ‘The King of all Flies offers life, my friend. Freedom from doubt and pain. Freedom from those raw, red things that taint even the smallest of moments. To know, to understand and give oneself over to him, is to know, with unalterable certainty, that you are loved.’

  ‘His love is being a lie.’

  Gatrog looked away. ‘No. The lie is that there is any hope at all. That there is something better awaiting you, in the dark and the quiet.’ He shook his head. ‘Hope is the chain that drags you in the wake of the universal wheel. Free yourself of it, Torglug.’

  ‘I am not being Torglug,’ Tornus said. But, even as he spoke, he heard a rasping, glottal whisper of rebuttal… you are, you are. Ospheonis stirred on his shoulder, talons tightening their grip. He wondered if the star-eagle could hear what he heard.

  ‘You are, for I see the seed of holy despair in you.’ Gatrog thrust a grimy finger into Tornus’ chest. ‘Like a corpse-blossom, buried under ash. Awaiting the rain, to draw it to the surface once more. Torglug you were, and are…’

  Tornus caught Gatrog’s finger and twisted it back. It popped free with a squeal of metal and a crack of bone. He stared at it in disgust, and flung it at the Rotbringer. Gatrog scrabbled to retrieve it, cursing. ‘I am not being him anymore. Torglug is being dead, and only Tornus is remaining.’

  ‘That which is not dead can forever lie, until even Death himself dies,’ Gatrog said, as he tried to reattach his finger. ‘Those touched by Nurgle cannot die. When the old sun goes cold and dark, we will sink beneath the ground to await the touch of the new, in millennia to come. Not even the cursed light of Azyr can sear the realms clean.’

  Tornus caught Gatrog by the throat and shoved him back against the mast. ‘That is being a lie. I am being cleansed. As you are being, soon.’

  Gatrog’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

  ‘There is being a seed in me, you are saying? Well, there is being one in you as well. I am seeing it, earlier. It is being the seed of humanity. It is being the flicker of order, amidst the chaos.’ Tornus spoke softly, intently. ‘Your rules, your honour, is it being playacting, or something real?’

  ‘How dare you question my honour?’ Gatrog growled. ‘If I but had a blade, I would silence you.’ His hands clenched uselessly, and he sagged. ‘But I do not. So we must fence with words instead.’ He g
lared at Tornus. ‘You were a hero, once. What happened?’

  ‘I am seeing the light,’ Tornus said. He stepped back. ‘As you will be seeing it.’

  ‘Never. Better death than such a dishonour.’ He stopped, as a glittering blade came to rest against his throat. Cadoc Kel studied the Rotbringer.

  ‘Easily done. But say the word, and I shall feed you to whatever passes for fish in these waters.’ Cadoc looked at Tornus. ‘Why do you insist on talking to this… thing?’

  ‘Every deed is having a seed which is remaining,’ Tornus said. He used his bow to pull the starblade from Gatrog’s throat. ‘I am learning such, at the Lifewells.’

  ‘These would be the same Lifewells you destroyed?’ Cadoc sheathed his blade with a flourish. ‘Yes, I can see that you must have learned much from them.’

  Tornus flinched. ‘That was not being me.’

  ‘Oh, but it was.’ Cadoc gestured to Gatrog. ‘On this one point, I agree with this creature. It was you.’ He leaned close. ‘You lost your faith, and your people suffered. You have found it again, but how do we know that you will not lose it once more?’

  ‘I am being redeemed,’ Tornus said. His words sounded weak, even to him.

  ‘There is no redemption,’ Cadoc said. ‘No forgiveness. There is only faith. You either have it, or you do not.’ His hand slipped to the hilt of his sword. ‘Do you have faith?’

  Tornus’ fingers curled into a fist. He wanted nothing more than to strike the Knight-Azyros. To pummel him into silence. Instead, he forced himself to relax. ‘My faith is not being yours to judge.’ He glanced at Gatrog. ‘Or his.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Cadoc said. He clapped a hand on Tornus’ shoulder then strode away. Tornus watched him go. Was this a test, then? Was Sigmar judging his worthiness even now?

  Ospheonis chirruped and flapped his wings. Tornus turned, scanning the waters. They gleamed greenly in the pale light of Arghus, the Plague-Moon. Something was moving out there. He heard the thud of drums and the slap of oars. Swiftly, he drew an arrow and loosed it into the mist. A scream pierced the air as the arrow struck home. Lightning flashed in the distance, revealing the outline of something drawing close. He heard the crash of thunder, and recognised the sound of a Prosecutor’s hammer. A moment later, the black prow of a galley pierced the murk and surged towards them.

  ‘To arms,’ Tornus called. ‘To arms!’

  ‘Wake up, sir knight.’

  Grymn stirred in his chains. Blearily, he shook his head, trying to clear it. Had he fallen asleep? A hand, small and smelling of strange unguents, stroked the cheek of his war-mask. He jerked back, alert now. Flies crawled across his helmet and chest-plate.

  The woman who stood before him was beautiful and repugnant in equal measure. She was dressed as a noblewoman of the Jade Kingdoms, in a rotting gown, and her face was covered by a filth-encrusted veil. He was thankful for that, as he had no desire to see the face beneath. Her hair hung in a lank coil down her back, and trailed after her like a serpent’s tail. A corroded chalice, dotted with maggots and boils in place of gemstones, hung from a corded belt about her narrow waist.

  ‘Who…’ he began. He trailed off as the smell of her hit him. She stank of damp rock and sour water, of mossy coolness and wet shadows. But beneath that was a more foetid odour, one that was hot and scalding. She reached up with pale fingers, wet with what might have been blood, and traced them across his chest.

  ‘Seven days from never, we dance always and do not fall,’ she said, drawing shapes on his chest-plate. ‘History dreams of us, my knight. We are its shadow and soil, all in one. We carry his blessings on our skin, wherever we go. We shimmer with the light of black stars, so that those who know the way might dance in our wake.’ She leaned close, and he could see things squirming beneath her veil. ‘The burning in your blood will set you free.’

  Grymn closed his eyes. ‘You are not here. You are some evil dream.’

  He felt warm, wet breath wash across his face. ‘I am a dream,’ she said. ‘Your dream. Will you, won’t you, dance with me?’

  ‘Begone, witch,’ Grymn snarled, twisting his head aside. A sound like dead leaves dancing across stones greeted his words. He opened his eyes, and saw that she was gone. She had never been there in the first place.

  She was beautiful, was she not?

  Bubonicus’ voice tore through him like a spasm. Grymn’s hands curled into his fists, and he relished the sensation, painful as it was. He preferred pain to numbness.

  ‘She was not,’ he said.

  You have no eye for beauty, then. She is life itself, that sweet lady. Queens are as the dust beneath her gentle hooves, and goddesses even less. You should feel honoured, Lorrus.

  ‘Do not speak my name.’

  I shall. Soon it, like all that you are, will be mine.

  Grymn shook his head. ‘Who was she, then?’

  Do you not recognise the Lady of Cankerwall, when she graces you with her presence? For shame. It is no wonder you did not bow.

  ‘I am chained up.’

  That as well. Laughter burbled up inside Grymn, threatening to burst through his lips. It was not his laughter. Grymn felt sick. He wanted nothing more than to cut himself open and drag out the cancer he felt festering in his gut. Tear it out, in red, wet gobbets, and fling it into a cleansing fire.

  And you would die in the doing so.

  ‘Better death than whatever it is you intend,’ Grymn said.

  Then you’d best be quick about it.

  Heavy steps thumped on the stair. Spume ducked beneath the entrance, followed by a group of stunted figures. The creatures wore filthy robes over their malformed bodies, and carried a large cauldron on their shoulders. They moaned a soft, sad song as they went about their labours. Boiling liquid sloshed over the rim as they set the cauldron down, and Grymn gagged at the smell.

  ‘Still breathing, then? Good.’ Spume scratched himself, dislodging fat, black lice from beneath his armour. ‘I’d hate for you to miss this.’

  ‘Where are we?’ Grymn demanded.

  ‘The Port of Despair,’ a thin, hissing voice answered. A hunched, feminine shape stepped out from behind Spume and shuffled towards him. ‘Is this the one?’

  ‘Do you see any other shiny-skins, Urslaug?’ Spume drawled, dismissing the slaves. They trooped back above decks, still moaning their sad song.

  ‘Mm.’ The woman peered up at Grymn, her eyes hidden beneath a filthy blindfold. She might once have been beautiful, but centuries of neglect had left her a ruin of a woman. Her body was frail and bent, her hair lank and tangled. The faded remnants of tattoos marked her grimy skin, and Grymn wondered who she had been.

  ‘A witch,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. She reached out as if to touch him, and then drew back. ‘There’s a storm in this one. Lightning in his veins and thunder in his bones.’

  ‘Yes, and silver on his fingers. Can you divine his secrets?’ Spume sounded testy. ‘Or should I take you back to your garden and leave you to tend your death’s heads in peace?’

  ‘If I thought you would, I might say the latter.’ Urslaug cocked her head and whistled.

  Tiny, bloated shapes bounded and bounced down the steps into the hold, giggling and shrieking. Grymn felt his stomach churn as the nurglings spilled and slid across the deck. They clambered up Urslaug’s robes and clawed pitifully at Spume’s shins. He kicked them aside, eliciting screams of laughter. Urslaug gathered several into her arms, and stroked their bulbous heads. She turned towards Grymn. ‘It’s a very nice garden, I assure you.’

  ‘They all tend gardens here. Grubbers and growers.’ Spume chuckled. ‘They refuse to give in, ye see,’ he said. He tapped the side of his head. ‘Stubborn, like you. So here they stay. Too afraid to travel deeper, or attempt escape. Too foolish to resign themselves, as they ought. So they sit, and grow moss in their garde
ns and on themselves.’

  ‘We are necessary to Grandfather’s great plan,’ the witch said. ‘Even as much as yourself, reaver.’

  ‘Pfaugh. What use a farmer, when you can simply take the crops of another?’ Spume’s tentacles yanked gently on one of her wormy braids. ‘I am the fire that makes the soil black and fertile. A true servant of Nurgle, and Life itself. Just as you once were.’

  ‘And who tends the soil, when the fire burns itself out?’

  Spume shrugged. ‘The Lord of All Things provides.’

  Urslaug shook her head. ‘And that is why they say you are a fool, Gutrot Spume. Even the Woodsman, in his madness, recognised the purpose behind his actions. But you might as well serve the Blood God.’

  Spume grunted, and his grip on her hair tightened, eliciting a pained hiss. ‘Careful what you say to me, Urslaug. My patience runs thin these days.’

  A fat spark of balefire leapt between them. Spume released her and stepped back, swatting at the flames that smouldered on his chest. ‘As does mine,’ Urslaug said. ‘I grew tired of your bullying long ago, Spume.’

  ‘Then you’d best be about your task, eh?’ Spume wriggled a tentacle towards Grymn.

  ‘Many have tried to divine the secrets of these half-souls,’ Urslaug said, as she selected a squealing nurgling and gave it a gentle squeeze. The tiny daemon giggled in pleasure. ‘They all failed.’ It gave a squeak of pure delight as she tossed it into the cauldron. ‘What makes you think that I’ll be any more successful in my own attempt?’

  ‘I have confidence in the quality of your cunning, witch,’ Spume said, running a calloused tendril over the blade of his axe. ‘The knowledge you seek would earn the pair of us much esteem in the eyes of the Lord of All Things.’

  ‘And you’d willingly share such plunder, would you?’

  ‘I pay my debts,’ Spume said.

  Urslaug laughed until she coughed. ‘You lie as well as you sing, Lord of Tentacles.’