‘No, no, no,’ Father Decay groaned, as it tried to heave itself over. ‘This is not how the game is played. This is our place of power, our garden… it isn’t fair.’
‘This is not a game,’ Gardus said, striding towards the creature. ‘It was never a game.’
‘Cheat!’ Father Decay vomited a stream of effluvial discharge. It steamed away to nothing as Gardus’ light swelled. The daemon covered its good eye and tried to squirm away. ‘No, you are cheating somehow. Cheating god. Thief. Usurper!’ It continued to curse and moan, even as Gardus planted a foot on the side of its bloated skull. ‘We’ve already won, you can’t change the way the game is played.’ Its flesh sizzled and blackened as Gardus’ light washed over it. ‘No,’ it moaned. ‘No, I was promised victory.’ It stretched a hand out towards the cistern. ‘Papa, help me. Help your child…’
‘There is no help for you. I have died, and I live again. I am the light and the fire, and I will burn this garden clean.’ The tempestos hammer rose, its head crackling with energy. Father Decay’s final shriek was cut short as the blow collapsed its skull. A cracked monocle rolled free of the decaying morass.
Gardus turned. Daemons massed on all sides, eager to avenge their fallen lord. Behind the ranks of plaguebearers, massive Rotguard lumbered into motion. Plague drones swooped overhead and lolloping beasts appeared, yanking against the chains of their daemonic handlers. A thousand and one ways to die, with no reprieve in sight. ‘Aetius – get them into line,’ he barked. ‘We make our stand here.’
‘Well, it’s not as if we can go anywhere else, is it?’ Grymn called out, as Enyo deposited him on the ground nearby. ‘Of all the idiotic, vainglorious things you could have done, you chose this one.’ He sank down as Tallon scrambled towards him, shrieking joyfully. He bowed his head, murmuring softly to the gryph-hound for a moment. Then he looked up. ‘You shouldn’t have come. It was obviously a trap.’
‘Obviously,’ Gardus said. He flipped his hammer around and extended the haft to Grymn. ‘And yet, here we are.’
Grymn accepted the hammer with a nod of thanks. ‘I suppose we should make the best of it then.’ He glanced at Morbus, eyebrow raised. ‘You’re on fire.’
‘I hadn’t noticed,’ Morbus said.
Grymn didn’t smile. ‘Spume?’
‘We sank his ship, and Enyo put an arrow in him.’ Seeing Grymn’s frown, Gardus shrugged. ‘We were in a hurry.’
‘That’s your problem. Always in a hurry. You never think.’
‘Brother, while it is good to hear your voice, perhaps we should save the lectures for another time.’ Gardus glanced at Tornus. ‘If it comes to it, I want you and Enyo to make for the realmgate, as quickly as you can. There is no reason for all of us to perish here.’
‘I am to be staying here,’ Tornus said, drawing an arrow from his quiver. ‘Here is where I am supposed to be.’
‘And I as well, Lord-Celestant,’ Enyo said. ‘You will need my bow.’
Gardus looked at them and nodded. ‘So be it. Do what you can. We must – eh?’ He turned at a shout from Tegrus. The Prosecutor-Prime had swooped out over the cistern, and was now plunging back towards them. He struck the ground and rolled, clawing at his helmet. Pox-smoke rose from his armour, and the silver was marred by black motes. Gardus knelt beside him, trying to help without knowing how. ‘Tegrus, what is it?’
‘It’s coming,’ Tegrus said, his voice almost shrill. He thrashed, as if trying to free himself from the clutches of something only he could see. A moment later, a dull boom echoed up out of the cistern and washed over them. Gardus felt his heart pause in its rhythm, and gasped, clutching his chest. Nauseated, he saw several Stormcast fall to their knees, retching. The daemons had stopped their advance and fallen silent, seemingly expectant.
Another boom, like the collision of distant stars. Gardus tasted blood. He’d bitten his tongue. Tallon shrieked loud and long, every feather on the gryph-hound’s neck stiff and flared in fear.
‘What is that?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.
‘The Lord of Flies himself,’ Morbus said. The Lord-Relictor strode past them towards the edge of the cistern. Gardus rose quickly and followed him, after waving the others back. They knew enough to hold their positions, unless otherwise ordered.
Through the ragged shroud of smoke, Gardus saw what lay below the Inevitable Citadel, at the heart of Nurgle’s garden. Almost immediately, he closed his eyes and turned away, unable to bear it.
It was impossible to describe. Impossible to comprehend. To his eyes, it was a wallowing swamp of black stars and dying worlds, of rotting galaxies alive with immense, writhing shapes as large as nebulas. Cosmic maggots, gnawing at the roots of infinity. Galactic plagues, eating away at the very flesh of existence, reducing all that was to leprous ruin in their unending hunger. It was a dark mirror of Azyr, corrupted, reduced, strangled. All glory vanished, all hope quashed. A thunder of screams echoed upwards, driving him back. A million million voices, raised up in anguish and despair. Forever crying out for that which would never come.
Again, the world shook. The reverberations were the death knell of the worlds below, Gardus knew, though he could not say how. Worlds claimed by Nurgle, realms older than Azyr or Ghyran, now broken and ground into filth. He felt sick. He wanted to see the clean stars of Azyr once more, even if it meant enduring the Reforging. But still the voices cried out, crying for aid, for him.
Garradan… help us…
It hurts… why does it hurt…
Everything is burning… help us…
Garradan…
Garradan…
Help us…
The voices assailed him from every side, filling his head, squeezing his heart. He staggered, and felt Morbus’ hand steadying him. Another tolling of the death knell.
Down below, something began to crawl out of the black heart of that cancerous infinity. It was no shape, and all shapes. Fat and thin, a plume of smoke, a puddle of oil, spreading ever upwards. There were eyes in the smoke, as round as cold, dead suns, and teeth that stretched in a grin as wide as the horizon. Fingers like comets clutched at the void, as the Lord of All Things stirred from his manse, and began the long, arduous climb to his garden. Moons crumbled beneath that impossible bulk, and stars were snuffed out.
‘He is coming,’ Morbus said, hollowly. ‘An honour, of sorts.’
Gardus closed his eyes. ‘He is coming for me. I escaped once before. I should not have. My fate was written the day I stepped through the Gates of Dawn.’
Gardus stepped away from the edge of the cistern. He did not wish to see the swamp of dead universes swirling below, or the thing rising from within them. The thing that had been trying to claim his soul since before the burning of Demesnus Harbour, in one way or another. He looked up, and saw the others approaching. ‘Stay back,’ he roared. He looked at Morbus. ‘Keep them back. Keep them from seeing that, if you can.’
‘Soon that will not be an option.’
Gardus shook his head. The ground trembled beneath his feet. It felt as if the garden were set to tear itself apart. Perhaps Nurgle had grown bored, and had decided to reshape it all again. ‘Much is demanded–’ he said.
‘–of those to whom much is given,’ Morbus said.
‘Lead them to glory, Morbus,’ Gardus said softly. ‘Temper them, as I might have. Be the light that guides them.’ He took a breath and stepped to the edge of the cistern. His hands tightened on his weapons. He wanted to run. To leave this place. To see the stars again. But the voices cried out, and he could not turn away from such pain. He would not. Whatever the cost.
‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘If Nurgle wants me, I will go to him. I will carry the light of Sigmar’s wrath into the dark, as the only the faithful can.’
Morbus laughed softly and extended his staff, blocking Gardus. ‘I think not.’
‘What?’
‘I think I have waited all of my life for this one moment,’ Morbus said. ‘I was ancient before I heard Sigmar’s call. And I have only grown more ancient still in the centuries since. I am old, and I am tired, but I have one storm yet left in me. A storm bolstered by the souls of the living and the dead alike.’ He looked at Gardus, lightning trailing from his eyes. ‘I think you are wrong, my friend. This is not your doom. It is mine.’
‘Morbus,’ Gardus began. Morbus flicked a finger and Gardus was hurled backwards by a flash of celestial energies. He struggled to his feet, smoke rising from his armour.
‘I know now why I came here with you. In death, we prove ourselves worthy of life. The fifth canticle.’ Morbus unclasped the remains of his cloak and let it crumple to the ground. He cast aside his staff. ‘Our souls are pure, and by their light is darkness banished. I hold an army within me now. You are the sword. Grymn is the shield. But I am become the hammer stroke, which puts an end to the conflict.’ He stepped to the edge of the great, cosmic cistern. He stared down into untold abysses of foulness, into the very eyes of the Lord of All Things.
And Morbus Stormwarden laughed.
He spread his arms. Lightning swelled out around him, melting the stones to slag, and driving back the mass of daemons which surrounded the remaining Stormcasts. ‘This is why we are here, Gardus. This is the first blow, and the last. This is the settling of a question millennia old.’
Gardus lunged, reaching for him. Morbus leapt. He fell into the black, a shining comet of azure. The rising presence paused in its ascent. Something that might have been a hand, miles across and as wide as a universe, reached up to intercept the light. Fingers closed. The light was gone. Snuffed.
Nurgle screamed.
The light returned. A spark, at first. Then a blazing column of fire and heat, spearing upwards through the black, pursued by the agonised screams of a daemon-god. Twenty souls, thirty, more, all those who’d fallen in this diseased realm, rising up, at last, to the forges of Azyr. The light swept out as it rose, filling the amphitheatre. Daemons screamed as they were reduced to floating motes of ash. Everything wavered and came apart, reduced to shards of darkness. The light grew brighter and brighter, until it was the only thing Gardus could see. He felt a wrenching sensation deep within him. And then he was rushing upwards, carried on wings of lightning and thunder.
Below him, he could see the darkness returning in the wake of the light’s ascent. He could hear the enraged bellows of a consciousness as old as the stars. Neither Nurgle nor his garden could be so easily destroyed. But they could be hurt. They could be reminded of why they had once feared the storm. And should do so again.
Reminded. Warned. Challenged.
Who shall carry my light into the darkness? Sigmar’s voice whispered.
‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus said.
He closed his eyes, and let the light carry him home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ONLY THE FAITHFUL
Kurunta sent the plaguebearer’s head spinning out over the realmgate with a blow from his broadsword. ‘It’s been long enough,’ the Knight-Heraldor growled, shoving the daemon’s headless body aside. ‘I’m starting to get worried.’
‘Starting,’ Angstun repeated, incredulously. ‘Starting?’ The Knight-Vexillor crushed a daemon’s skull with his warhammer and rounded on his fellow Stormcast. ‘They’ve been gone for seven days. And these attacks are growing worse with every passing hour.’ A plaguebearer lunged for him, blade raised in both hands. He whirled his standard about and clubbed it from its feet. He drove the end of the standard down into its chest and gave it a twist, silencing the creature’s groan of protest.
All around them, the battle for the chamber was in full swing. Every warrior that could be spared from the evacuation efforts was down here, fighting against the daemonic intruders. Liberators formed a living cordon around the only way in or out, with a thin screen of Judicators to break up the momentum of the enemy. Machus and his Decimators waded into the thick of battle, further reducing the pressure on the Liberators’ shieldwall.
But it wasn’t enough. The enemy’s numbers were steadily increasing – for every one that fell, three more pulled themselves up out of the muck. And the flickering light of the Lord-Castellant’s lantern was dim and barely perceptible. The realmgate was close to opening fully and, when it did, the daemons would flood through in an unstoppable horde.
He still wondered whether or not this whole affair had been some sort of trap. The broken remnants of the Order of the Fly had assaulted the walls, bleeding themselves white in an attempt to retake their citadels. Though he had driven them off, the distraction had almost cost them control of the realmgate. Kurunta had nearly been overwhelmed before Angstun had managed to lead several retinues’ worth of reinforcements to his aid.
Since then, it had been a near constant battle. The daemons continued to squeeze through the gate and fling themselves at its defenders. It was a grim reminder of those early battles in the Ghyrtract Fen, and the Grove of Blighted Lanterns. A war of attrition that the Hallowed Knights must ultimately lose, unless something turned the tide.
Angstun hoped that Yare and his followers had made it to safety. He had ordered their evacuation over the old man’s objections. If the citadels were to be overrun, Angstun had no intention of allowing the deaths of the prisoners they’d freed. The retinues he’d left to oversee the final stages of the evacuation would be enough to shepherd the mortals to safety, if it came to it. They had orders to escort the mortals to the Living Citadel, where they would be safe. Angstun wondered if he would miss his conversations with Yare, when he was Reforged anew. Would he even remember the old philosopher, or would Yare become another face without a name, lodged in the roots of his consciousness?
‘Angstun – watch yourself,’ Kurunta roared.
Angstun snapped out of his reverie and whirled as a blade skidded from his shoulder-plate. He caught the plaguebearer in its swollen abdomen, bursting it, and doubling the creature over. It clutched at him with swollen fingers as he tried to yank his hammer free of its guts. He finally succeeded and, with a snarl of satisfaction, shattered its skull. It sank to its knees, dissolving. Sweeping its remains from his hammer with a flick of his wrist, he turned towards the bubbling waters of the realmgate. ‘It is time to close this gate, Kurunta,’ he said. ‘One way or another, this invasion will be halted.’
‘What of Gardus and the others?’ Kurunta protested. He backhanded a daemon, catapulting it away from him. More of them clawed at his legs, their half-formed bodies trailing off into trails of sludge. ‘We cannot simply abandon them.’
‘And what would you have me do? Follow them?’
‘I can do it. Allow me to lead a few–’
‘No,’ Angstun barked. He smashed a daemon to the ground and started for the bubbling black waters. ‘I will seal the portal. You fall back with the others. Command of the Steel Souls falls to you. Retreat to the Living City and – eh?’
Something was happening at the heart of the realmgate. Where before it had only been black, now there was a spark of light. The water began to roil, more than ever before. The daemons had not yet noticed that anything was amiss, and continued to press their attack. Streams of light pierced the surface of the water. The shattered remnants of Grymn’s warding lantern responded, the glow in its depths strengthening.
Where the light washed across daemonic flesh, it blackened and disintegrated. Some daemons turned, cyclopean eyes widening. The black waters turned grey, and then white, as the light swelled up – up, washing out over the chamber. The grime and filth that stained Angstun’s war-plate began to smoulder and flake away. ‘What in Sigmar’s name…?’
Kurunta laughed. ‘Exactly. In Sigmar’s name.’ He drove his sword point first into a struggling daemon and lifted his war-horn. He raised it to his lips and blew a single n
ote – a rallying call. The sound resonated through Angstun and, suddenly, he understood.
‘Gardus,’ he said. He turned, raising his standard high, so that all the Steel Souls might see it. ‘Make a joyful noise, my brethren. Our brothers and sisters return to us. Sing to them, sing so that they might hear us, and know we are waiting.’
As one, the Hallowed Knights began to chant, softly at first, and then more loudly. A song of praise and gratitude. A song the first men had sung to welcome Sigmar to their feasting halls. A song taught to all the sons and daughters of the fourth Stormhost. And for the first time in a long time, Angstun joined his voice to those of his warriors.
Plaguebearers burned. Their droning chants became garbled and soon dripped away into nothing. Some still fought, even as they were reduced to ash. Others simply collapsed. The realmgate shone like the sun. Shapes breached the surface, wading towards solid ground. Angstun recognised Gardus… Enyo… and Grymn. A sense of relief filled him as he caught sight of the Lord-Castellant. There were others as well – Feros of the Heavy Hand, the unconscious form of Tegrus slung over one shoulder. Aetius Shieldborn, supporting a limping Solus. Less than twenty had returned, but that was more than he’d expected.
And Tornus. The Redeemed One had an arm about the waist of a wounded Liberator, and was helping her to shore. Relief warred with – not anger, but surprise. He had not expected the Knight-Venator to return. Perhaps Tornus had not expected it either, for he stared about him in obvious bewilderment.
The light continued to grow and, within it, he thought he glimpsed the ghostly shapes of the fallen, rising up. Thunder rumbled, far above. One by one, the ghostly shapes were whisked upwards in flashes of lightning. The last was more recognisable than the others, for all that it was a ragged, threadbare thing.
‘The Lord-Relictor,’ Kurunta murmured, in awe. ‘His soul, it’s…’
‘More powerful than any of us ever imagined,’ Gardus said, as he approached. His armour was blackened and bent. He removed his helmet, revealing burnt, bloody features. ‘He carried us all, living and dead alike, out of the garden, in the moment of his death.’
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 35
