Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  Gatrog sank to his knees. ‘My lady, forgive me, but I swore an oath.’ He knew she was not truly there. Like Goral and the others, she was but a manifestation of this place. But was it a sign of favour, or a warning from the King of all Flies?

  ‘Art thou a true knight, and bold?’ Her voice was like the rustle of dead leaves.

  He bowed his head. ‘I am.’

  A pale finger was pressed to his lips. ‘If you are, then why do you hesitate? What is honour, weighed against the necessity of the gardener?’

  Before he could even attempt to formulate a reply, he heard a crash, and saw Gardus flung to the deck by a blow from Torglug’s axe. The Lord-Celestant’s runeblade skidded towards him, and his hand twitched for the hilt. A savage heat rose from the weapon, and he jerked back. He looked up as a shadow passed over him. Cadoc Kel plunged towards Torglug, roaring in fury. His attack drove the Despised One back from his opponent. The Knight-Azyros swung his beacon down, like a club. Torglug batted it from his hand with a curse, sending it rolling away.

  Cadoc’s sword hissed out, adding to the collection of wounds that marked Torglug’s corpus. He lunged, blade extended. Torglug avoided the blow with inhuman grace and replied in kind, before his opponent could react.

  Cadoc screamed as the blighted axe slammed down on his shoulder, shearing through his armour. His sword fell from nerveless fingers as he stumbled back. Torglug ripped the axe free and the Knight-Azyros collapsed onto the deck. Torglug turned to face Gardus, chortling. Gatrog could see the weakness in the Lord-Celestant’s movements. This place, the miasma, it was eating away at Gardus’ strength, though he didn’t realise it. He faced Torglug, his back to Gatrog. The perfect target.

  ‘I swore an oath,’ he said.

  ‘Victory is inevitable,’ the Lady whispered. ‘All is as the Lord of All Things wills.’ Gatrog felt her guide his hand towards the hilt of the runeblade. Despite the heat, and the pain, he caught it up.

  He rose to his feet, certain of what he must do.

  ‘Desolation is on the horizon.’

  Grymn cracked an eye and looked up at his captor. Spume stared down at him. The pirate nudged him with his axe. ‘Thought ye would like to be awake for it.’ Grymn tried to push himself up, but Spume’s boot thumped down between his shoulders, flattening him. ‘I said awake, not on your feet.’

  Grymn stared down into the bilges. The slaves who’d once occupied them were nowhere to be seen. ‘Dead weight,’ Spume said. ‘We need speed now, so I had them chopped up and fed to the crew. Rest assured that they did not suffer unduly.’

  The Lord-Castellant gave a hollow cry and tried to rise, fingers groping for Spume’s fat neck. Spume drove the ferrule of his axe into Grymn’s stomach, doubling him over. A single blow from the pirate’s meaty fist dropped him back onto all fours. ‘Angry, are ye? Mad enough to spit nails, I’d guess. Good.’

  Grymn sagged, trying to catch his breath. Everything ached. Every joint felt swollen, his arms and legs felt as if they had been dislocated, his lungs burned. Spume let his axe sink into the deck. ‘The maggot-curse has you. But it’s slow – takes time. The little buggers chew away at body and soul, and I bet they’ve never tasted anything like you before.’

  For a blood-simple reaver, he’s astute, Bubonicus murmured.

  Spume twitched. ‘I can hear ye, stowaway. And you’ll pay mightily for those insults ye toss off so readily. Whoever ye are, your failure is evident. Elsewise, ye wouldn’t be walking the maggot-road.’ He chuckled. ‘You’re just a bit of gristle, to be stripped from the bone, and no more than that.’ He indicated Grymn. ‘This one is the real meat.’

  Grymn tried to ignore Bubonicus’ growing anger, but it clouded his thoughts as if it had been his own. It was growing harder and harder to tell where his thoughts left off and those of his unwelcome tenant began.

  ‘Ye think your falling into my lap was just happenstance?’ Spume laughed. ‘Nurgle is called the Lord of All Things for good reason. All that lives serves him in some way. Even a half-life such as yours.’ He rolled Grymn onto his side and sank down into a crouch beside him. Thick fingers fumbled Grymn’s helmet from his head and sent it clattering away.

  Spume grunted. ‘Hnh. I expected something else. But you’re only flesh and blood after all.’ He pinched Grymn’s cheek. ‘Not for long, though. I can smell the stink of that second soul, rising wild and strong.’ Spume slapped him and rose, chuckling. ‘Taking a while, though. You’re a hard one, no doubt about it. Parched soil, as they say. Hard to grow anything of worth in that.’

  Grymn struggled to rise, and Spume casually kicked him back over. ‘But it’s taken all the fight out of ye. Pity. You’ll be hollow and limp by the time we reach Desolation.’ The kraken beak in Spume’s armpit snapped in what might have been frustration. ‘If I had my druthers, I’d rip that stowaway out of you, and set him adrift.’

  ‘A-and if I had m-mine, I’d silence your f-flapping tongue,’ Grymn growled.

  Spume’s tentacles shot forward, wrapping about his head and throat. The pirate rose, dragging Grymn into the air.

  ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ Spume gurgled. ‘Keep that fire in your belly lit. It’ll serve ye well, in the nightmare to come. Perhaps, if there’s anything left of ye after Father Decay has had his way, I’ll find a berth for ye on my ship.’

  Grymn laughed harshly. Spume cocked his head. ‘And why are ye laughing?’

  ‘Y-you boast so, I assumed that y-you were more than just a-another slave.’

  Are you mad? He will kill you, Bubonicus hissed.

  Grymn ignored him.

  The tentacles tightened about Grymn’s neck. ‘I’m no slave,’ Spume said.

  ‘No?’ Grymn met the pallid gaze of his captor and smiled. ‘Then why do you hurry so, to do the bidding of another?’

  The barbs lining the underside of the tentacles dug into his flesh, and blood spilled down inside his armour.

  No! I will not let you do this.

  Grymn bit back a groan as something shifted inside him. He felt as if he had a bellyful of sour wine, and brambles pressing against his lungs and throat. His limbs twitched, and he fought to remain still.

  ‘Ye think ye are the only one trapped here, shiny-skin? There are seas beyond this one, and I would sail them. If that means I must lick the boots of some pampered lubberwort, so be it. All that matters to me is rejoining my armada.’

  ‘A-and it is the nature of daemons to f-fairly reward those who serve th-them, is it?’ Grymn’s vision was blackening at the edges. He could barely breathe, and his spine ached from Spume’s grip.

  Then, abruptly, Spume’s grip slackened. The pirate let him fall to the deck. ‘Ye are a fool, but… maybe a wise one.’ Spume retrieved his axe. ‘I told ye before, I will not be denied my glory by anyone. Even the Hand of Nurgle himself.’ He turned away. ‘So have no fear on that score, lubber. You and I will settle up properly, when all is said and done.’

  You fool. While I understand the urge to silence his prattling, I will not allow you to endanger us so. Bubonicus sounded fearful. Not when I am… am…

  ‘Am what?’ Grymn said. ‘You think to possess my body? Sigmar made us of sterner stuff than that. Else why haven’t you done it yet?’

  Bubonicus growled. Grymn laughed mirthlessly. ‘You can’t.’ He tapped his head. ‘My mind is a fortress, with walls made of faith. You can scale them, but you cannot take them. Again and again, I have driven you back. I have held you in place.’

  And I have held you.

  Grymn nodded. ‘Yes. Stalemate. If this were a proper siege, I’d give myself odds. But it’s not. The best outcome is death. A meaningful one, preferably, but I’m not picky.’

  You have no honour.

  ‘A child’s insult. Honour is the privilege of good men. You boast of having seen my memories, maggot. Tell me… am I a good man?’


  Bubonicus fell silent. After a moment, he murmured, There is honour in such a death, I suppose. And I am tired. I have fought for the King of all Flies for centuries. I have waged a thousand wars, in a thousand kingdoms, and died a thousand times. But every cycle reaches its end. If this be my final battle, let it be a glorious one. Lay on, friend. And damned be him who cries hold.

  For an instant, Grymn felt a flicker of pity for the creature crouched within his soul. Here was a warrior, lost and damned though he was. What might he have been, had Nurgle not poisoned his mind and soul? Grymn closed his eyes.

  ‘To the death, then,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty

  MISERICORDIA

  Tornus stared in horror at his shadow. The bloated, gargantuan figure that he had once been, and would be again. Despair clawed at the edges of his mind as he forced himself to his feet. He felt as if he had been poured dry and wrung out. His strength was all but gone, perhaps drawn into Torglug, and his wings hung silent and dark from his back. He could not see his bow, and his quiver was empty. It was as if Sigmar had reclaimed all the gifts he had once freely bestowed.

  Torglug stood before Gardus, gloating. ‘I am thanking Nurgle for this chance to be settling old scores,’ he said. ‘Ironhood the Woodsman is not putting down his axe yet, no, no. By and by, he will be claiming all of these souls for Grandfather.’ He spread his arms, axe hanging loosely from his grip. He swung it up to point at Gardus. ‘But for now, he will be taking your head to Desolation, Steel Soul.’ The words sounded like an insult.

  ‘I do not know how you came to be here, shade, but it will take more than threats to remove my head.’ Gardus lifted his hammer. Blood stained his silver armour, and the thickening mists dragged his limbs down. The despairing dead crowded about him, whispering and clutching at him with insubstantial claws. The Lord-Celestant’s light wavered, but did not fade. It was only a matter of time, though. His strength was being leached from him by the clutching wraiths, and Torglug was stronger than ever.

  Tornus looked around. There was no help to be had from the others. They seemed blind to what was happening, as if the miasma had claimed their wits as surely as it was stealing Gardus’ strength. Even Morbus was afflicted, his crumpled shape shuddering with convulsions as the wraiths crouched about him. Only Cadoc had been unaffected, and he lay unmoving at Torglug’s feet.

  Torglug’s axe looped around, carving a path towards Gardus’ neck. Gardus blocked the blow, but was knocked off balance by the force of it. Another blow smashed aside his defences, and a third sent him reeling. Torglug drove the haft of his axe into Gardus’ chest and knocked him to the deck. Gardus rolled aside as the axe crashed down. The blade became wedged in the deck. Before Gardus could get his feet under him, Torglug drove a meaty fist into his head, dropping him to his hands and knees.

  Tornus took a wavering step towards his shadow. Torglug spun and pointed. ‘Be waiting your turn, little lie. I am returning you to oblivion soon enough.’

  ‘No,’ Tornus said. Weaponless, he faced Torglug. ‘You are being dead.’

  ‘I am being eternal,’ Torglug said. ‘While you are living, a seed of me is yet remaining. While Tornus is drawing breath, Torglug is gathering his strength.’ He laughed. The sound was like oil spreading across water. ‘You are never being free of me.’

  Tornus lunged, and Torglug caught him by the throat. He lifted Tornus as if he were a child and slammed him down against the deck, splintering the wood. Torglug dragged him up and repeated the process again and again. ‘When you are dying here, when your soul is returning to Nurgle’s manse, I am being born again. I am rising from you like mushrooms are rising from corpses.’ He wrenched Tornus up and held him. ‘But I am not killing you yet, little lie. I am wanting you to see what is happening to your new tribe. I am to be slaughtering them, the way I am slaughtering the people of the Everdawn.’

  Tornus drove his fist into Torglug’s head, crumpling the side of his helm. Torglug roared and hurled him to the deck, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Ospheonis shrieked and dived down. The star-eagle had been circling above, uncertain as to what was going on. But it understood now. It ripped and tore at Torglug, causing him to bellow in frustration. He swiped at the bird, driving it away. Tornus tried to rise, but couldn’t find the strength. He collapsed onto his back.

  A massive, hoof-like foot dropped onto his chest, pinning him in place. Torglug stretched a hand towards his axe. ‘Now, you are to be watching as I am taking the head of your new chieftain.’

  ‘Not today, Despised One.’

  Torglug turned. A phlegmatic laugh burbled up. ‘Is this being a jest?’

  ‘I am Lord-Duke of Festerfane,’ Gatrog said, lifting the runeblade in both hands. ‘And I swore an oath.’ Smoke billowed up from between his fingers, and streamers of blue flame crept up his arms as he lunged and drove the blade into Torglug’s flabby chest. Torglug screamed in incomprehension and backhanded the Chaos knight away. Gatrog struck the mast and sank down, stunned. Torglug snatched up his axe and stomped towards the Chaos knight. Swifter than thought, he buried the pitted blade in Gatrog’s chest with a wet thunk.

  ‘No!’ Tornus flung himself towards his shadow. Torglug whirled. Tornus slammed into him and drove him backwards. Torglug lost his grip on his axe. Tornus caught hold of the hilt of the runeblade.

  ‘You are not to be killing me,’ Torglug said, clawing at him.

  ‘I am. I am killing you this time, filth. As I should have been doing then.’

  Torglug tried to pry the blade from his chest, but Tornus held it in place. The celestial energies surged through Torglug’s bloated frame, burning him up from the inside out. He clawed at Tornus’ helm with charring fingers. ‘No,’ he gurgled. ‘No, not again.’

  ‘Yes, again. And forevermore.’ Tornus twisted the blade. He ripped it loose in a spray of superheated bile and turned away from the crumbling shape of his former self. ‘Go back to the filth that has being spawned you.’ A thin scream tripped across the murky air as, for the second and final time, Torglug the Despised passed from the world and into oblivion.

  The light from the runeblade set the wraiths to fleeing as well. They retreated as the last of Torglug crumbled away to nothing. They would return, in time, but for now, they had been sated. Tornus quickly made his way to Gatrog’s side.

  The Chaos knight was broken. Torglug’s axe had cleaved him open, and shattered the bones in his chest and back. There were some wounds even an infernal resilience could not mitigate. ‘You are saving me,’ Tornus said. ‘And Gardus.’

  Gatrog chuckled wetly and studied his blackened hands. ‘Yes. It appears that our journey is coming to an end.’ He looked at Tornus. ‘But it has been a pleasure. Such sights have I seen… such glories. And my honour is upheld.’

  Tornus sank to one knee beside the dying Chaos knight. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘I swore an oath to aid thee, and so I did.’

  ‘That is not being the reason.’

  Gatrog laughed. ‘Maybe not. Maybe I simply saw a chance to pay my debt.’ His laughter choked off into a groan. ‘I am a true knight, Torglug. That is all I have ever wished to be…’ His voice trailed off into silence.

  Tornus could think of nothing to say as Gatrog coughed, shuddered, and sagged back into death. Slowly, softly, his body came apart like dry fungus. Tornus rose as the blightwind swept the remnants up and carried them away, out over the turgid waters. He turned, runeblade hanging loosely in his hand.

  ‘I am not understanding,’ he said. Then something Gardus had said came back to him. Mercy was the sharpest blade there was. And for every deed, there was a seed that remained. His grip on Gardus’ blade tightened. For perhaps the first time, he truly understood those words. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned.

  ‘He died as he lived,’ Gardus said. ‘That is all any of us can hope for.’

  ‘Could h
e have been finding redemption?’

  Gardus extended his hand. Tornus returned his blade. ‘I think, in his own way, he did.’ He sheathed the blade and retrieved his hammer. ‘And now it is time we found ours.’

  The other Stormcasts were slow to recover. Many knelt in prayer, seeking to shore up the foundations of a shaken faith. Some had been wounded in Torglug’s rampage, and concentrated on binding up their wounds with shreds torn from cloaks and the tattered remnants of the sail.

  Morbus and Enyo crouched near Cadoc. The Knight-Azyros wasn’t dead, but that would change soon enough. Blood pooled beneath him, spreading like the folds of a crimson cloak. His war-plate had been torn open, exposing the ravaged flesh within. Enyo had recovered Cadoc’s beacon, and Tornus could see that its glow was fast fading.

  ‘I failed you,’ Cadoc gasped, as Gardus knelt beside him. ‘My faith was not equal to the task, Steel Soul. Forgive me.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Gardus said. ‘You will return to us, with faith and form renewed, soon enough.’

  Cadoc tried to laugh, but it came out as a gulping cough. ‘I pray that it is so. The realms need cleansing, and who better than the Prince of Ekran to light the fire?’ He sagged, gasping for air to fill lungs that had all but collapsed.

  Gardus looked at Morbus. ‘How long do we have before this place tests us anew?’

  ‘For so long as the beacon lasts,’ Morbus said. His voice was dull with pain. ‘The power it contains will protect us, but only for so long as it burns. When Cadoc’s heart beats its last, so too will the light fade. And we will be defenceless.’

  ‘Can you get us moving?’

  Morbus hesitated before answering. ‘If the light is freed from the beacon, it might be enough to propel us to where we need to go. After that… it will be up to us.’

  ‘You mean we must shatter the beacon,’ Gardus said.

  Morbus bowed his head. ‘Yes. And such an act may well kill the one who attempts it.’