Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘Is this how you treat your allies?’

  A blade sank between the plates of his armour, drawing pungent ichor. He heaved himself to the side, shouldering the ratman away. A skaven leapt to the mast, a blade clamped between its leprous jaws. It crawled down towards him, its eyes lit by a feverish glow. But, before it could reach him, an arrow sprouted from its skull. The skaven flopped down to the deck. The others scattered, like the cowardly vermin they were. Gatrog kicked the corpse and looked up.

  ‘You saved me.’

  ‘Torglug would not have been saving you,’ Tornus said, as he descended. ‘Torglug would have been letting you die.’

  ‘A lie,’ Gatrog said. The Knight-Venator drew another arrow from his quiver and turned away. ‘Torglug was – you are a noble warrior. A hero…’ But the words sounded hollow. The Woodsman had been a mighty warrior, it was true. But honourable?

  ‘When I am being Torglug, I am being consumed with hatred,’ Tornus said. ‘It is eating away at me, every moment of every day. I am hating all that lives, even myself. I am even hating Nurgle, though I am fearing him as well.’

  Gatrog frowned. ‘Hate is good. It is as the rain that nourishes the soil.’

  ‘Nothing of worth is growing in that soil.’

  Tornus loosed his arrow, and a skaven died. He reached for another, moving without hurry. The skaven were fleeing, hurling themselves over the rails rather than face the Stormcasts. Though the plague-bells still rang, the signal was one of retreat rather than attack.

  Gatrog hauled himself to his feet. ‘My home flourishes because of Nurgle’s kindness. We survive only because our garden pleases him. We despaired, and in our despair, the Lady came to us and showed us the truth of the world.’

  ‘Whose truth?’ Tornus turned and held up his hand, displaying the twin-tailed comet emblazoned on his gauntlet. ‘This is being my truth. What is being yours?’

  Gatrog spat on Tornus’ hand. ‘That,’ the Rotbringer growled.

  ‘And yet, my truth is still being here. Beneath yours.’ Tornus scraped the spittle from the silver. ‘Just as I am always being beneath Torglug.’ He hesitated. Then, ‘Yes. Yes, I am always being within Torglug. As there is something being within you.’

  ‘Whatever is in me was planted by the King of all Flies.’

  ‘But in what soil is he planting it?’

  Gatrog stared at him. He made to answer, but could find no words. He didn’t remember much of his life before he’d sipped from the Flyblown Chalice. It had been hard. Harsh. A tempering, so that he was fit to serve. But when had he chosen to serve? Had he done so, or had his choice been made for him?

  Once, that might have filled him with pride, but now, being here, on this vessel, burned day and night by this unrelenting radiance, he felt… uncertain. And he didn’t like it. There was a comforting certainty in despair. The worst had come, and he was all the stronger for it. But hope was the weed in Grandfather’s garden.

  It always crept back when he least expected it.

  ‘Avast, ye vermin,’ Gutrot Spume bellowed as rusty blades bit into his blubbery flesh. He caught one of the frothing skaven about the throat with a tentacle and dashed the creature’s brains out against the deck. His axe licked out, bisecting another ratkin in mid-leap. ‘I have safe passage, ye pestiferous brutes!’

  Skaven scurried everywhere across the galley, attacking his crew with maddened savagery. Others clung to his mast, or the rail, and banged gongs as they chittered high-pitched praises to their verminous god. They’d appeared suddenly, pouring out of the tunnels and high places that marked either side of the river, and raining themselves down on his galley with berserker glee. While the ratmen of the Clans Pestilens were known to be a sight braver than their less infectious kin, this was something else again. It was almost as if something were driving them towards him.

  Spume flung the twitching body he held over the rail and shook his head. ‘Rats on a ship. What’s the garden coming to?’

  ‘One might say the same thing about pirates,’ Urslaug said, from her spot on the mast. The witch seemed amused. Then, she was always amused. He was starting to remember why they’d parted ways. It wasn’t just the treachery. Urslaug had always seemed to be laughing at him, no matter the situation.

  ‘This is your doing, witch,’ Spume said, pointing a tentacle towards Urslaug’s head. ‘How many foes have you put on my trail?’

  ‘Not so many as all that,’ Urslaug said. ‘You did interrupt me, after all.’

  Spume gave a guttural snarl, and considered pitching Urslaug’s head over the side. But that was likely what she wanted. ‘Silence, witch.’

  The skaven warren abutted one of the immense runnels of tumour-stricken root, fossilised vegetation, and fallen trees that stretched down from the jungle into the upper levels of the Hopeless City. The river that wound through the third tier split into seven branches, each one cascading down through part of the city and into the tier below. If they could reach the runnel, and swiftly, they might yet outpace their pursuers.

  A shout from one of his daemon crewmen brought him around. Heavy shapes slunk in the black galley’s wake. Crude, flat-hulled vessels, driven forward by rat-powered paddle-wheels, with rickety, tower-like decks, occupied by plagueclaw catapults or plague furnaces. Their crews numbered in the hundreds. But skaven, and plague monks in particular, made for poor sailors. Their bulky scows could wallow in his wake for as long as they liked. They would never catch him.

  One of the catapults launched a boiling mass of filth towards the galley. Spume held up his axe and tentacles as the sludge rained down. He bellowed with laughter. Trust the skaven to think a bit of hot sludge would be enough to stop him. Ignoring the cries of the rowers who’d been struck by the sludge, he made to turn towards the prow. A flash of silver caught his eye, and he stopped.

  One of the skaven barges cracked in two with a thunderous roar. Bits of rotting wood pattered against his helmet, despite the distance. He cursed as a silvery figure darted over the surface of the water. Something blazed in its hand, before spinning out and away to strike the paddle-wheel of another barge, shattering it.

  ‘Closer than barnacles,’ Spume snarled. He chopped through another plague monk as the creature sought to take advantage of his distraction. His blow split the creature crown to tail. Flicking the wreckage from his axe, he turned, seeking an escape route. More barges were up ahead at the bend in the river, moving to cut him off. He had to get past them before the other shiny-skins, or the rest of the skaven, caught up.

  A whisper of sound caused Spume to whirl. A curved blade sank into his chest. A bare skull, carved with eye-searing sigils, rose above him. Twisted, curving horns rose from within a shaggy lice-filled mane. Eyes like glowing embers met his. A second blade looped out, heading for his neck. He interposed his axe, blocking the blow.

  ‘I was wondering if one of you would show up,’ Spume said. His tentacles curled about the blade embedded in his chest. ‘You’re the rat Urslaug was chattering to, aye?’

  The Verminlord ripped its blade free and drove a hoof into Spume’s abdomen, knocking him sprawling.

  ‘Yes-yes, reaver-fool,’ the daemon growled. ‘I am Rancik, most-high favoured whelp of the Great Corrupter. And you are dead-dead.’

  All was sound and fury. The clangour of weapons biting ironwood. The bone-rattling war-hymns of the root-kings as they marched into the balefires, on behalf of a lie. The servants of the Great Conspirator had duped the duardin into war against the servants of the King of all Flies. The Black Cistern glistened with the blood of the slain.

  Grymn stared about him in horror. The battle had been won centuries past, but the smells and sounds of it inundated his senses, overwhelming him. He felt as if he were drowning. Everything had a watery, colourless tinge to it. He clutched at his head, trying to look away as a phalanx of blightkings, led by Torglug the Despised, lumbere
d towards the reeling duardin. Axes flashed. Shields, scorched by balefire, split and shattered. A severed head struck him in the chest, its green-dyed beard clotted with blood.

  The Woodsman was magnificent that day. A hero of old, unleashed upon the enemies of all life. His axe severed the hearth-trees of fourfold clans.

  Grymn looked up. Bubonicus stood beside him, arms crossed. ‘This is your memory, isn’t it? Get out of my head.’ He made to lurch towards the Chaos knight, but found himself unable to move. He groped uselessly, willing his limbs to work. Bubonicus looked at him.

  It will soon be my head. Look.

  Grymn did, and wished he hadn’t. Maggots squirmed between the plates of his armour, thousands of them. He wanted to rip them off, to scrape them away, but he remained frozen as they began to gnaw at him. He screamed.

  Pain brings clarity. That is Nurgle’s gift. Look. See. Lord Rotskull meets his foe upon the field, the Change-knight, Ompallious Zeyros.

  A bloated, horned figure, wearing a fraying tabard marked with the sigil of the fly, waded through the battle towards an iridescent shape clad in multi-coloured armour. The two clashed, amid dying duardin.

  Once closer than brothers, now enemies. It was from Lord Rotskull that I learned of the memory of maggots. He learned it from a sage in the Grove of Blighted Lanterns. It was said that the sage himself had been taught by the Lady or one of her sisters, but I feared to ask. Some secrets are best left to moulder.

  The pain was worse now. Things moved within him, chewing away at all that made him, him. Something rose up in his throat, and he gagged. Squirming shapes filled his mouth and pressed against the backs of his eyes.

  In death, I bring life. In life, I bring death. I am the eternal cycle manifest, and am honoured to bear that burden. As you will be honoured, when you become me. For as you witness my memories, I, too, see yours. You are a warrior without peer, cruelly used by your half-god. What is a man, but a collection of memories? The very things he strips from you, with each blow of his hammer.

  ‘Get… out… of… my… head,’ Grymn croaked. His limbs twitched. The maggots squirmed in agitation. Fragments of memory flashed across the surface of his mind. Pale shadows of a life once lived, and now lost to the roar of the storm.

  Why do you resist me? Your death is certain. Let it be with honour. I shall not rip you asunder and torment you, as the reaver intends. I am no savage. I am a true knight, and I shall slay thee truly, with all due respect.

  Bubonicus’ hollow tones were almost pleading. Grymn smiled, despite the pain. ‘If… I am torn asunder… you shall be as well.’ There was no such thing as a good death. But that might be a tolerable one. Bubonicus snarled in frustration and reached for him.

  Grymn’s eyes snapped open. He smelled smoke. Heat washed down over him from somewhere above decks. In the dimness of the hold, something chittered. Skaven scurried towards him, eyes gleaming feverishly. The ratmen wore filthy robes and cowls, and what flesh was visible beneath them was lice-ridden and blotchy. They carried mattocks with hollow cores, into which shards of warpstone had been inserted. The mattocks wept an oily light that made the shadows twist and buckle.

  ‘See-see, storm-thing is chained, yes-yes,’ one of the plague monks chittered, licking its rotting snout with a black tongue. ‘Helpless, yes-yes.’

  ‘Has eyes, fool,’ the other growled. One of its eyes was milky in hue, and wept a white discharge. It pawed at the afflicted orb, snuffling.

  ‘Eye,’ the other corrected, with a snigger.

  For a moment, Grymn thought the one with the bad eye would strike its fellow. Then it turned its attention to him with a shrill snarl. ‘Helpless, yes-yes,’ it hissed, drawing close. ‘Break its limbs, drag it up-up.’ It reared back, readying its mattock for a blow. The warpstone glow swept down.

  Chain links snapped and Grymn caught the mattock on his palm. The obscene heat of the shards scorched his gauntlet black, and made blisters rise on the flesh beneath. He ignored the pain and wrenched the weapon from its wielder’s paws. The skaven fell back, bad eye twitching fit to pop. ‘What-what…?’

  More chains burst, and Grymn fell forwards. He caught the skaven and dragged it beneath him. The vermin squealed as his weight crushed it to the deck. As it squirmed, he smashed its throat, silencing it. The remaining skaven gave a squeal of panic and swung at him with its mattock. He caught the blow on his forearm, and the mattock came apart like so much rotten wood.

  Grymn rose to his feet, dragging the broken chains with him. The skaven stared at him, snout twitching. Then it turned to flee. Grymn smashed its skull with a loop of chain. He kicked the body aside, and looked down at the souls trapped in the bilges.

  There was no hope in their eyes. Nothing save the despair of broken animals on their way to the abattoir.

  If you would flee, now is the time.

  ‘No.’ Swiftly, Grymn threaded the chains through the bars.

  They have found peace, Lorrus. Would you steal that from them?

  ‘Gladly,’ Grymn said as he hauled back on the chains, exerting every bit of his remaining strength. ‘I would spill an ocean of my blood to spare one soul the horrors you call peace, monster.’

  The bars bent, buckled, burst. Grymn staggered back. No soul emerged. They squatted in the filthy bilge water, uncomprehending. Grymn cursed. ‘Up, damn you – up! We must go!’

  They cannot hear you, Lorrus. You speak words of hope, and these blessed ones are deaf to such foolishness.

  ‘Shut up.’ Grymn reached down. The prisoners shied away from him. They began to chant a low dirge, their voices barely audible over the noise of the battle above. It was a prayer to Nurgle. Disgusted and horrified in equal measure, he pulled back his hand and stood. He could not save those who did not wish to be saved, but even so, he could not leave them. Whatever the state of their souls, they did not deserve this.

  Deserve? And who are you to judge such things, my friend? You are but a mote in the eye of a god. That you think such stubbornness will earn you anything save death is laughable. A child’s bravery, matched against the will of one who was witness to the birth of stars. Run, if you would. But do not seek to steal that which has been rightfully earned.

  Grymn staggered as something struck the ship. Steaming sludge dripped from the deck above to plop into the bilge waters. The souls moved beneath the searing wetness, bathing in it, though it marked their flesh with burns. Repulsed, the Lord-Castellant turned away towards the steps. There was nothing more he could do here.

  And what will you do up there, eh? Swim to shore?

  ‘No.’ Grymn pulled his chains taut. ‘I intend to render this ship adrift.’

  Warily, he climbed above decks. Skaven scurried everywhere, locked in battle with Spume’s crew. Grymn searched for Spume amid the confusion. He spotted the pirate trading blows with a towering skaven Verminlord. The creature moved swiftly, despite its size, but so did Spume. Wherever its curved blades slashed, his axe was there to meet them.

  Grymn waded into the melee, broken chains swinging in a tight circle over his head. Skaven and daemons alike were smashed from their feet or slapped aside by his charge. He thudded down the centre line towards his captor. If he could kill Spume, even if he died in the process, he would have removed a potent threat to the Mortal Realms.

  A plaguebearer attempted to interpose itself, and lashed at him with a thorn-studded whip. Grymn knocked it sprawling, and split its mossy skull with a slash of the chain. ‘Spume,’ he roared. The pirate whirled, and the Verminlord embedded both of its blades in his back. Spume screamed and sank to one knee. The Verminlord planted a hoof against his head and tore its scythes free in a welter of gore. Spume toppled to the deck.

  ‘There you are,’ the Verminlord hissed, pointing a blade at Grymn. It bounded towards him, more quickly than he could move. He lashed out with the chain, driving it back, but only momentarily. It lun
ged and drove its shoulder into him, knocking him from his feet. The deck cracked beneath him as he fell, and the world spun about him.

  ‘Rancik will claim your soul, storm-thing, yes-yes,’ the Verminlord hissed as it circled Grymn. It scraped its curved blades together, forming fat sparks of green heat. ‘I will gnaw-strip it of all secrets, yes-yes.’

  Grymn groaned and tried to push himself to his feet. But his limbs refused to obey him. His head ached.

  Surrender to me, Lorrus. Surrender, and I will dispatch this beast.

  ‘No,’ Grymn said, from between clenched teeth.

  A hoof slammed down on the back of his head, driving him face first into the deck. ‘Yes-yes,’ the Verminlord growled, resting its full weight on the back of his head. ‘Take you back, strip you to the bone, learn your secrets.’

  Let me do this, fool, or we both die, Bubonicus said. Grymn didn’t have the breath to answer, nor the strength to resist the claws of pain tearing at his muscles. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t muster the strength to throw the daemon off him.

  ‘If anyone is going to peel the meat from his bones, it’s going to be me.’

  The Verminlord turned, and the haft of Spume’s axe cracked into its fleshless muzzle. The daemon stumbled back, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have sliced it in half. The two faced each other over Grymn’s crumpled form.

  ‘Ye look to be a smart rat,’ Spume said, aiming the bite of his axe at the Verminlord’s shaggy throat. ‘So I’ll make ye and your scabrous brood an offer.’ Blood dripped from his bulky form, but the wounds in his back were already healing.

  ‘An… offer?’ Rancik grunted.

  ‘Ye want these shiny-skins, aye?’ Spume motioned to Grymn with a tentacle. ‘Well, there’s a whole galley of them coming fast in our wake.’

  ‘No,’ Grymn croaked, trying to get up.

  Spume slammed the ferrule of his axe into the back of Grymn’s head, flattening him. Black spots danced before Grymn’s eyes, as the world faded to a dull roar.