Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘Hush,’ Spume said. ‘Ye can keep fighting me, or have a bigger prize all to yourself, Rancik. What’s it going to be?’ Spume’s kraken snapped its beak and his tentacles intertwined in agitation. He lifted his axe.

  ‘Best hurry now. I’m not known for my patience.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE HOPELESS CITY

  Gardus heaved the last of the ratkin overboard, and looked up as a shadow swept over him. ‘Enyo, what news? Is the path clear? Is our quarry at hand?’

  ‘The way ahead is blocked,’ Enyo said. The Knight-Venator dropped to the deck, folding her wings behind her. ‘Our quarry has escaped, and the skaven seem to have turned their full attention to us.’ She pointed to the vessels lurching towards the galley.

  The barges were inelegant things, even in comparison to their commandeered galley. Flat and low, their motion was controlled by creaking paddle-wheels that struck the water inharmoniously. The sound of it merged with the clangour of bells that hung from their hulls and masts, and sent discordant echoes shivering through the close air.

  ‘A trap,’ Cadoc said, scraping blood from his armour. He was covered in gore, none of it his. ‘They seek to drown us in rat flesh.’

  The Knight-Azyros sounded eager. Gardus gave him a wary glance. Cadoc was one of the faithful, but his faith was a thing of sharp edges and searing heat. Of judgement and sentencing. And it seemed to grow worse with time. He was the tip of the God-King’s spear, meant only for drawing blood.

  Gardus waved him to silence. ‘And our prey? Where has it gone?’

  Tegrus had brought word that the galley carrying Grymn was close by, and similarly afflicted by the skaven. They now appeared to have come to some accord, which boded ill for their rescue attempt. He’d hoped their quarry would be brought to bay and unable to slip away.

  ‘Speeding ahead, driven by a plague wind,’ Enyo said. Her star-eagle circled her, shrieking in frustration. ‘Some fell conjuring, by the look of it.’

  ‘You expected something else in this place?’ Morbus said. The Lord-Relictor sat slumped on the steps to the forward deck, head bowed. His armour gleamed with an azure luminosity, and the air around him stank of scorched metal and ozone. ‘We are running short of time. I can feel something gathering its strength, preparing itself to strike.’

  Gardus gave him a sharp look. ‘The skaven?’

  Morbus shook his head. ‘I do not think so. They are but one piece of the whole.’ He looked up. His eyes shone with a cold, eerie radiance. ‘We are being baited. Drawn deeper and deeper into this place.’

  ‘Then all of this has been a trap,’ Gardus said, softly. ‘And I have led us into it, like a blind fool.’ He watched as Solus barked an order, forming up Judicators along the rail. They would scythe the life from one barge, maybe two, before the rest reached them. After that, it would be down to blade-work.

  ‘It is not being a trap,’ Tornus spoke up. The Knight-Venator leaned on his bow, studying the approaching enemy. ‘Nurgle is not thinking like that. Nurgle is merely reacting. He is… slow, yes? Slow of thought, slow of deed. Nurgle is being patient. If we are to be coming to him, then he is to be simply laying out a welcome.’ He shrugged. ‘Of the Four, he is being the most content in the moment. What is being, will be.’

  ‘That isn’t exactly comforting,’ Gardus said.

  ‘I am not meaning it to be.’ Tornus shook his head. ‘I am feeling him watching us.’ He struck his chest with a fist. ‘I am feeling it in my head and in my soul. Like cold water dripping through cloth.’

  ‘He is right,’ Morbus said. ‘Nurgle is watching us. And so far, we have done exactly as he wishes. We chase, and they run. We are like the child in the fable, following the singing lights into a mire. The longer we run, the thicker the mist grows and the deeper the mud. Soon, we might well be swallowed up.’

  Gardus didn’t reply. He let his gaze wander over those who had chosen to follow him. Liberators plied the oars in silence, their silver armour encrusted with a black patina of filth. Others sat slumped, heads bowed, weapons at their feet. The smell of blood and vomit was thick on the air. They’d lost six warriors in the attack. Six more lives added to the burden Morbus carried. Only thirty of those who’d volunteered to come were left. And of those, a third were wounded. Worse still, the enchantments that bound their weapons were fading in this place. The quivers of his archers were slow to refill, and the shields and armour of the others were cracked and damaged by the hard fighting. Soon, the magics of the Six Smiths would fade entirely and they’d be down to rocks and harsh language.

  He saw a Judicator scratching at a bandage around her arm, pus leaking from beneath it. Nearby, a Retributor sat on the rail, cradling his head. One of the skaven’s acidic censers had shattered too close to him, and his face was a mass of weeping burns. As if sensing Gardus’ attention, he raised his head, revealing eyes made opaque and sightless. Gardus looked away. They could be healed, if Morbus were strong enough. But for how much longer could the Lord-Relictor’s prayers keep them in the fight?

  A Liberator stood near the rail, mumbling to someone only he could see. Aetius caught him by the arm and gently pulled him away, just in case. They’d nearly lost several warriors that way, led into the darkness by ghosts from half-remembered pasts. More and more of them were seeing things that could not be, or hearing the voices of those lost centuries past. Flies crawled over their faces, mould spread across the plates of their armour, and the smell of decay hung heavy on the air. And above it all, the distant but ever-present rumble of stone grinding against stone.

  It was wearing them down. Nurgle was patient. Nurgle was slow. And Nurgle was inevitable. The longer they stayed here, the worse it would get. Their faith held firm for now, but soon even it would begin to crack. And as they pressed deeper and deeper, not even the radiance which infused their vessel would protect them.

  He heard Solus’ voice crackle in command, and the hiss of bowstrings. The scream of lightning as it ravaged among the enemy. In that roar, he heard the whisper of a god’s voice. And knew at last what he must do. He turned back to his officers.

  ‘I’ve been down this road before. I have passed through this dark garden and into the light. I have denied our foe in his very manse, and I intend to do so again, even if it means my destruction. It is time the Plague God learned that we are made of sterner stuff than he knows. We were forged in lightning and thunder, clad in starlight and carry the heat of suns in our veins.’ Gardus turned, letting his light shine forth. It blazed upwards around him, casting back every shadow. ‘It is time we showed him – showed all of the Ruinous Powers – not simply how the Stormcast do battle… but how the faithful wage war.’

  He drove his runeblade point first into the deck and held his hand out to Morbus. ‘Do you have the strength to call upon one last storm, brother?’

  Morbus heaved himself to his feet. ‘One more and a thousand others, if need be.’

  ‘Good. For we will need them.’ Gardus caught Cadoc by the shoulder. ‘Fly ahead of us, and take word of our coming to the enemy, Prince of Ekran. Morbus…?’

  ‘I can summon a storm for Cadoc to drag behind him. It will collapse this part of the warren and carry us down through the next tier.’ The Lord-Relictor’s voice crackled strangely. But he sounded certain. He set aside his staff and raised his hands. Lightning writhed between his palms. As he pulled his hands apart, the lightning formed itself into the links of a flickering chain. ‘Lift your beacon once more, Knight-Azyros.’

  Cadoc did so. Morbus opened it, and fed one end of the chain into the shimmering light. He turned swiftly, dragging the other end over his shoulder, causing it to spontaneously lengthen. Flickering loops pooled on the deck. Cadoc staggered, as if the chain were connected to the interior of his beacon. He extended it out over the deck, and the light crawled across the links and spread over the deck, merging with and feeding the radiance the
re. Morbus turned and knelt, proffering the links to Gardus. ‘Take your place at the prow, Steel Soul. Your light will serve as our anchor.’

  Gardus strode towards the prow, knotting the chains about his forearms and torso as he did so. The heat of the lightning was incredible, but it did not burn him. Cadoc swooped overhead, beacon extended, hauling the chain behind him. Gardus could hear Morbus beginning to chant, and the dull boom of his staff striking the deck. The heat grew more intense, as did his own radiance. He felt as if a storm were roiling within him, raging to be let free.

  The skaven vessels were drawing closer, and he could make out their squeals as the light washed over them. Cadoc’s wings snapped out and back, and he surged forwards, pulling the chain taut. Gardus braced himself, and held firm. ‘Make a joyful noise, my brethren,’ he called out. ‘Sing the war-song of our Stormhost. Give them thunder and lightning.’

  Feros was the first. His voice rose in a hymn of reckoning, deep and low. Aetius joined him, then Tegrus and Solus. Their warriors joined them, until every voice was raised in a song of war and judgement. Stormcasts began to stamp their feet in time to the rhythm. The hafts of hammers hit the deck, and warblades struck the rims of shields. The sounds merged, joining into a pulsing rumble. As it rose up and swept over him, Gardus felt the heat of the chain grow, and the silver of his gauntlets began to blacken.

  For a moment, there was only the thud of sigmarite and the clangour of plague-bells. Then, with a deafening groan, the bow of the ship rose out of the water. Lightning raced down the chain and outwards along the rails, striking the water and turning it to steam. It lanced out, cascading across the blighted structures to either shore of the river, setting some aflame and destroying others utterly. Gardus tightened his grip on the chain. Cadoc gave a great cry and swooped towards the approaching skaven barges. From behind Gardus came the rumble of Morbus’ voice as he called out, ‘Who will ride the storm winds?’

  ‘Only the faithful,’ the others replied, as one.

  ‘Who will be the light in the darkness?’

  ‘Only the faithful.’

  The words echoed through Gardus, giving him strength. And as he spoke them himself, his light blazed ever more brightly. The chains tightened. The links twisted in his grip like a living thing. And the galley’s stern followed the bow. The water beneath bubbled away into nothing as the galley rose fully into the air and swept after Cadoc.

  Their hull crashed through the forest of masts, splintering them and scattering the crews of the barges. The force of their ascent set the river heaving, and great waves slammed to either side of the tunnel, flooding the caves and warrens beyond. Skaven were swept screeching into the depths as their vessels capsized, or were reduced to fragments.

  Gardus strained against the pull of the chain. Morbus’ prayers and the song of the faithful rose to a fevered pitch, until their voices were lost in the roar of the galley’s passage. Lightning streaked out from the galley, striking the walls of the tunnel or the barges below. Smoke filled the air, roiling in their wake. Cadoc blazed with elemental fury, and the light from his beacon speared out to pierce the gloom ahead.

  The chain bowed suddenly. Gardus stiffened as a blotch of darkness swirled into being above the midpoint. It raced down towards him, gradually resolving itself into a monstrous and familiar shape. The Verminlord sped down the chain, the azure energies drawing smoke from its greasy pelt. Its monstrous form was streaked with ichor, and splinters of wood stood out from its flesh. It shrilled out a cry of challenge as it gathered itself and leapt towards him, curved blades raised. Gardus tensed, unable to risk releasing his grip on the chain to defend himself. He ducked his head, hoping that his armour would absorb the worst of the blow.

  Twin arrows shot past him, one on either side. The arrows punched into the Verminlord, knocking it sprawling to the deck. The curved scythe-blades clattered from its grip. It shrieked in pain and clawed at the arrows embedded in its flesh.

  Gardus acted swiftly. He reared back and kicked it in the head, dropping it on to its back. Tornus and Enyo moved up from behind him. The Knight-Venators raised their bows, new arrows nocked and ready. Still holding tight to the chain, Gardus looked down at the injured daemon. ‘Run,’ he said. ‘Run fast, and run far.’

  The Verminlord hissed and struggled to its hooves, bifurcated tail lashing. For a moment, he thought it might attack him. Then, with a screech of frustration, it flung itself over the prow and was gone.

  ‘You are sparing it,’ Tornus said.

  ‘Mercy is the sharpest blade there is,’ Gardus said. He lifted a loop of chain and handed it to Tornus. ‘Lash this about the mast.’ He glanced at Enyo. ‘Help Cadoc.’

  Tornus flew back towards the mast, dragging the chain. Gardus turned, holding tight to both lengths of chain. He could feel the galley trembling beneath his feet, and he said a silent prayer that it would survive the next stage of their journey. It was no longer solely a vessel of wood and iron, but also one of faith. And only faith would sustain it.

  A bone-deep rumble filled the air as the galley swept on. The river below was reduced to wisps of steam by the constant barrage of lightning streaking from the hull. The cavern began to crack and crumble. Sections of stone plummeted down, only to be obliterated by the talons of celestial energy emanating from the galley. A wall of dust spewed upwards as the skaven palisades collapsed in on themselves. The galley burst through the dust, and Gardus heard the roar of falling water.

  A moment later, he caught sight of the immense tangled root system that led down into the next level of the garden. It was a slumped bastion of ruptured roots, broken mountains and crushed structures, pouring down into an abyss at a gentle angle. Water flowed in crooked rivers, winding through the ruins to eventually splash into the depths. Cadoc’s arc took him out over the descent.

  Gardus could see that the next tier began where the one above it ended. The gates of the Hopeless City were almost flush with the rim of the drop. They resembled a circular trapdoor, many leagues across and covered in enormous malformations, which resembled gigantic, leering faces. Grated apertures had been built into the immense portcullis to allow for the passage of water, and crude towers rose around them, manned by legions of daemons. Fascinated despite himself, Gardus watched as the great gates creaked open to allow for the passage of a flotilla of galleys. They swung inwards and down, casting up clouds of water vapour and startling flocks of mould-winged birds. The creatures rose in a shrieking spiral towards their galley, only to scatter as they came close.

  Down below, horns began to sound and warning bells tolled. Cadoc dived towards the creaking gateway, dragging the galley behind him. Gardus fought to remain standing, and heard the shouts and curses of his warriors as they found themselves knocked from their feet by the sudden acceleration. Tegrus and his Prosecutors took to the air, swooping around the galley in a protective cordon. Their hammers spun down to pummel the watch-towers like a rain of meteors. Cadoc hurtled downwards and through the closing gates.

  ‘Morbus,’ Gardus cried.

  He heard the Lord-Relictor strike the deck with his staff, and felt the galley tremble. Lightning sheared away from the vessel to rampage across the gateway. The leering faces twisted, becoming grimaces of pain and shock. Watch-towers were set aflame, and hapless vessels were reduced to smouldering wreckage as they swept by them. And then they passed the gates of Despondency and entered the Hopeless City.

  Enyo swooped around the blazing length of chain. She drew an arrow from her quiver and loosed it, plucking a periwig-wearing rider from its grotesque rot fly. The daemons boiled upwards from within the round hive of the city, emerging from off-kilter apertures and upside-down portcullises in a solid cloud.

  The Hopeless City was a lunatic’s dream. It resembled the interior of a colossal, hollowed-out tower, many leagues across and of seemingly infinite height, with crooked streets and skeletal buildings that looped and ju
tted in every direction at once. The city was in constant motion, built as it was against the grindstone tiers of the garden. Its blocks and districts slowly rasped against one another, filling the air with spurting clouds of noxious dust. Water cascaded down through crazily angled aqueducts, spilling out over parts of the city in cacophonous arcs and jets. Oily vapour mingled with dust, to create a greasy pall over everything. Ships rode the jets of water to and fro, heedless of the pull of gravity. She swooped by a tri-masted galley moving vertically up a waterfall. The deformed faces of the crew were twisted in confusion, and perhaps fear, as they watched her plummet past them.

  Below Enyo, Cadoc roared out prayers and imprecations as he plunged through the horde of plague drones, his starblade carving him a path. The Prince of Ekran was many things, but hesitant wasn’t one of them. To him, more enemies only meant more chances to show the strength of his faith.

  Enyo banked, loosing two more arrows in quick succession. These daemons were of a different sort to those they’d encountered earlier. They wore filth-encrusted, foppish uniforms beneath corroded armour, and basket helmets decorated with stylised insect mandibles. Some carried crude lances or hunting spears, while others waved serrated blades. Her arrows punched through them easily enough, however they were clad.

  Periphas streaked ahead of her, clawing at the compound eyes of the rot flies. The star-eagle’s hunting cry pierced the muggy air. She rolled through the air, letting the edges of her wings caress the abdomens of a pair of flies. The insects convulsed as the shimmering feathers ate through their flesh like acid. Their riders were thrown from their saddles and tumbled away, striking bridges and walkways before vanishing into the gloom below.

  Enyo spun in a tight gavotte as she drew an arrow from her quiver. Her last, as it happened. She felt the electric tingle of the Six Smiths enchantments as new shafts appeared, refilling the quiver. But there were fewer arrows than there ought to have been, and they were taking longer to reform. The enchantments were fading, the longer they stayed in this place. She pushed the thought aside and loosed the arrow she held, piercing the brain of a darting rot fly. She reached for another.