Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  ‘Good work, lad,’ the corporal said.

  They filed through Custin’s shortcut, tramping over the accumulated filth of the Excelsis poor. Fragments of bottles and burnt-out glimmerings, the tell-tale remnants of a drunkard’s futile quest for a secret that could get him out of this hell-hole for good – a half-glimpse of a valley festooned with precious amberglass, perhaps, or the location of a swarm of rare quarrelfish. When they were fresh from the mint, the small, silver glimmerings would have flickered and gleamed with the faintest hint of prophetic magic, imbued as they were with fragments of the strange metals found within the Spear of Mallus. Now, their magical properties consumed, they were a dull grey-black and appeared charred, as if they had been sifted out of the ashes of a house fire. Malnourished figures scuttled away into the darkness as the guardsmen approached, like beetles fleeing from underneath an upturned rock.

  ‘What a waste,’ said Longholme derisively, her long, oft-broken nose crinkling in disgust. ‘You don’t get nothing from a few glimmerings. Odd feeling in your guts, maybe. Might get lucky at the card table a couple of times. Nothing you can actually use. Imagine if these gin-wits had saved up all this. Earned themselves a decent living. Typical native-born, can’t even…’

  She tailed off as Happer dug an elbow into her arm. With an apologetic and fearful expression, she turned to the corporal.

  ‘Ah, what I mean to say, sir,’ she stammered. ‘Just that some of them…’

  Callis allowed himself a few moments of enjoyment from her embarrassed guilt. He was second generation reclaimed himself, descended from the nomadic tribesmen who had flocked to Excelsis when the light of Sigmar had returned to the realms. He had the same dark skin and slight, lithe frame of his mother, a legacy of the many generations his ancestors had spent scratching an existence from the ruthless plains and valleys of the Coast of Tusks. Despite their insistence that all were equal in Sigmar’s realm, many pure-blood Azyrites still harboured a mistrust of those descended from the reclaimed tribes. The unspoken assumption was that such folk were untrustworthy somehow, as if their people’s long years without the light of Sigmar must surely have left them tainted.

  ‘In all likelihood these lot were born within the city walls same as you, Longholme,’ he said. ‘And if you think Azyrites don’t get augur-haunted, you’re deluding yourself. They just tend to frequent cheap brothels rather than back-alley streets.’

  There was a chuckle from the patrol.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ said Longholme. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  From an alley to his left, Callis caught a glimpse of a figure staring out at them. It was as pale as snow, and so gaunt that in the darkness it could quite easily be mistaken for a risen corpse. The eyes were the worst. They were swirling pools of ice-blue and white, pupil-less and staring. Not staring sightlessly. It was clear the poor wretch was seeing something. That was the thing about recklessly consuming prophecies – after a while, the world as it was ceased to mean anything to you. You became lost in a world of half-seen, potential futures, lost out of time and uprooted from everything you had once held dear. All that mattered was the next omen, the next secret that you could devour. The figure faded away into darkness, and Callis breathed easily again.

  They marched on, quieter now. Any lingering good spirits had been well and truly extinguished by this place. After another hour or so of trudging onwards, they emerged in a small, cramped square, in the centre of which was a bent and broken hand-pump. Posts, some of iron and some of rotted wood, were scattered around the far edge of the square, and various crumbling porches and balconies overlooked the clearing on all sides. The corporal took a wild guess that the original idea had been for this place to act as a communal well while doubling as a place to hitch beasts of burden. An idea typical of the efficient – or insane – approach that those who had thrown together the Veins seemed to favour. Sigmar alone knew what kind of liquid source that pump would have drawn on.

  Two figures stood in the shadow of a rotten, storm-blasted balcony, directly in front of the patrol. Runoff from the slanting roof to their left poured through holes in the sickly green wood, spattering off the hooded and cloaked forms. Beside them sat a two-wheeled dray cart, a canvas thrown over whatever cargo it carried. A rheumy-eyed flathorn was harnessed to the cart, stomping its hind legs irritably and snorting rainwater from its broad snout. Its thick armoured hide glittered as another fork of lightning split the sky above them.

  ‘Evening,’ said one of the figures, nodding as the guardsmen began to file past.

  In later times, Armand Callis would wonder what made him hold his hand up just then, signalling his men to halt. He would go over this seemingly unremarkable situation, and wonder why it had sent alarm bells ringing in his mind. Perhaps it was the fact that no one in their right mind would be outside that stormy night, not least loitering in the depths of the Veins. Perhaps he heard a tension in the man’s voice, a flicker of nerves. All he would ever be certain of was that he made a subconscious choice that would change his life forever.

  He approached the pair, his hand resting easily on the hilt of his sabre.

  ‘Hell of a night, eh?’ he said.

  The nearest figure lifted his hood, revealing a narrow, angular face with high cheekbones and sharp blue eyes. The man smiled, and wiped rainwater from his brow.

  ‘That’s the truth,’ he said. ‘No night to be hauling ale through the narrows, for certain. We’re just waiting for the worst to pass.’

  Callis nodded. The second figure was leaning against a jutting beam of hardwood, hood still concealing his face. His arms were buried in the pockets of a long, patched coat, and his head was pointed down at the muddy quagmire of the square. Callis quickly flicked his eyes to the balconies and rooftops surrounding them. Not a flicker of movement.

  ‘Don’t recall there being any taverns nearby. Where are you headed?’ he asked, keeping his tone light and friendly. ‘Perhaps we could give you some help?’

  ‘No need,’ said the man, waving one hand. ‘Stein’s doing all the heavy lifting. We’re bound for the Hole in the Wall, off Arkhall Lane. It’s not such a distance.’

  ‘That’s Kofel’s place, right?’

  There was that smile again, though this time it was masking a flash of irritation. ‘Aye, that’s the one.’

  ‘Strange, I always thought he brewed his own stuff. Tastes like sewer runoff and nettles, far as I recall.’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ said the second figure, stepping out of the shadows, and there was no false bonhomie in his voice. ‘We’ve duardin amberfire here, and it needs getting where it’s goin’. If you’ll pardon us, now.’

  Callis’ hand squeezed the hilt of his blade. ‘Hold there,’ he said, and he spoke the words like he meant them. Behind him there was the sound of sliding steel, and the creak of crossbow winches. ‘Happer, Longholme, watch these gentlefolk. Jammud? Check the cart.’

  The lanky guardsman crept forward, holding his sword ready in one hand and a lantern in the other. The two strangers didn’t move a muscle. Jammud gently jabbed at the canvas with his blade. There was the clink of something like glass. For a moment, Callis thought that perhaps he had misjudged the situation after all. Then Jammud lifted the cover off, and a wan blue light washed across the pooling water around their feet. In the lantern light, Callis caught a glimpse of row upon row of cylindrical containers, dark blue crystals that pulsed with ghostlight.

  ‘Augur smugglers!’ shouted Jammud, his face creased with an excited grin.

  The arrow took him in the throat.

  Callis felt something colder than the freezing rain clench around his gut. Jammud’s eyes widened, and he dropped his sword and lantern, trembling hands reaching for the shaft. He coughed up a gout of blood and slumped backwards into the muddy water.

  ‘Shields!’ yelled Callis, dragging his blade free and hauling his pistol from the depths of his overcoat. An
other arrow was fired from the roof to their left, and Longholme spat blood, clutching her belly, her crossbow tumbling to the ground. The water was a red river around their feet. The narrow-faced stranger was slamming his fist into Happer’s side, and it was only when Callis saw a spray of scarlet that he realised the old man’s assailant held a knife. Happer was gasping and groaning, a horrid wet mockery of that familiar cough.

  One of the hooded archers crouched on the roofs raised his bow to take a shot, and Callis felt himself move with the swiftness of instinct. His pistol bucked in his hand, and the acrid tang of black powder filled his nostrils. The figure toppled, turning a half-somersault in midair and smashing a rotted hitching post to splinters as he hit the ground, and Callis jammed the pistol back into its holster.

  The flathorn screeched and bucked. Arrows were whipping past them from all sides. Callis was dimly aware of Custin at his side, screaming incoherently as bolts rattled against the shield he held overhead.

  ‘Move!’ Callis yelled, grabbing a handful of the younger guardsman’s cloak and hauling him through the storm of missiles, which came whickering down from above to splash in the bloody swamp beneath their feet. The only way to go was forwards, under the cover of the derelict awning. The pinch-faced, blue-eyed man moved to intercept them, a rapier held at low guard. Callis slashed his sword at head height, forcing the man to stagger backwards, and followed up with a series of low to high thrusts. His opponent easily picked those strikes off, working his feet with the practised ease of a veteran swordsman. Somewhere deep in the rational part of Callis’ mind that wasn’t overrun by adrenaline and fear, that struck him as odd. This was no back-alley thug.

  Custin bellowed and rushed forwards, but the swing of his mace was clumsy and panicked. His shield dropped as he threw himself forward, and the hooded man pirouetted neatly and extended his leading arm. He barely had to put any power behind the strike. Custin’s momentum carried him onto the blade, and there was a ghastly rattling sound as a lung was torn open. His killer turned to the corporal, a cold smile on his face.

  With a choked cry of mingled rage and sorrow, Callis leapt forward, hacking with the sabre, giving the hooded killer no time to redress and steady himself. The man quick-stepped backwards, splashing through the ankle-high water. His foot caught on a rotting plank, and he stumbled only for a moment. Heart thumping so hard he thought it might burst through his chest, Callis stepped in close, grabbed the rapier blade in one gloved hand and yanked it to the side. The blade dug deep into his flesh, but he held on. His opponent’s eyes went wide. Callis punched out with the pommel of his blade, and felt the man’s nose crunch. He staggered, tripped over Custin’s prone form and toppled backwards into the water.

  Something struck Callis in the shoulder. It tore through the leather strap of his breastplate and punched him to the ground. The air rushed from his lungs, and bloody water seeped into his mouth and nose. He lost his grip on his sword. He felt a pair of rough hands haul him to his feet, and stared into the face of the second hooded figure that had been guarding the cart. The man’s hood had fallen back, and Callis saw a broad, pugilist’s face, heavy-jawed and marked by a distinct scar that ran from chin to cheek. It was a face he recognised.

  ‘Guardsman… Werrigen,’ he gasped.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come here, son,’ the man he had once called comrade rasped. His face was an unreadable blank. Blood trickled down his brow and he drew a curved dagger back in one fist, ready to strike.

  There was a snap-clunk of machinery, and a thick wooden shaft grew from the side of Werrigen’s head. The traitor swayed a moment, his hand still pawing at Callis’ chest, and then slumped against the corporal. Callis heaved the dead weight free, and spun to see Happer, propped up against the corpse of a fellow guardsman, heavy crossbow held in shaking hands, his belly a ruin of blood and shredded leather.

  ‘Get out of here, Armand,’ the old guardsman groaned. ‘The cart–’

  A hail of bolts rained down from above, spitting Happer from all directions. The old man coughed once, foamy blood spilling into his long beard, and slumped forward. More bolts continued to thwack down into his back, jerking his body unnaturally, like a broken child’s toy.

  Callis willed his legs into motion, biting back the grief that threatened to drop him to his knees. They were all dead. His men. He had led them to the slaughter. Yet if he did not make it out of this alive, their deaths would never be avenged. The person responsible for whatever they had stumbled on would go free. That was something he could not allow.

  Behind him the flathorn was still roaring, pulling against the iron chains that bound it. The beast’s great muscles rippled and strained in protest, and foaming drool poured from its armour-plated maw. Callis saw what had the creature in a frenzy. A stray crossbow bolt had hit the beast between its armoured exoskeletal plates, in the soft flesh of its neck.

  It was then that Corporal Callis had a particularly bad idea.

  He leapt headlong into the cart that the creature was pulling, landing with a crunch amongst shattering crystal vials. An odd, azure mist gathered around his ankles as he rolled through the shards, hauling himself up on the edge of the vehicle, and for a moment he thought he heard a soft chorus of whispers at the edges of his conscience. He fumbled for the pistol at his belt, and fed the shot and powder into the barrel with trembling hands. The rain was pouring down still, and the awning was little cover, but he had no time for care. He cycled the wheel and locked in the cartridge before raising the weapon to take aim at the chain that held the flathorn in place. A crossbow bolt sank into the meat of his thigh, and he howled in pain, almost letting the pistol fall from his hands. With the last of his energy, he slumped against the side of the cart, pressed the pistol against the chain link and pulled the trigger.

  By some merciful miracle the powder ignited, and the pistol kicked and roared in his hand. There was a scream of metal, and the chain snapped in two.

  The flathorn reared, and took another flurry of bolts meant for Callis in its softer underbelly. Pink foam dripped from its mouth, and it bellowed in agony. Then it kicked its powerful back legs, and barrelled forwards.

  Callis lost his grip on the cart rail as the flathorn bolted, and was thrown backwards, head over heels. Crystal crunched beneath him, and he felt hot spikes of agony as shards dug into his unarmoured arms and legs. Yet that was not the worst of it. The azure mist washed over him, enveloping him. He could hear a thousand whispered promises in his skull. Visions followed. Seams of pure ur-gold, entwined about the skeleton of a long-dead magma dragon. A city of a distant realm in flames, its spice mines gutted and scoured. A mother weeping for her dead son. A gleaming knight, singing songs of valour as he slaughtered helpless, screaming townsfolk. Behind it all was laughter, high-pitched and creaking.

  Something struck Callis’ head, and the visions swam and blurred, a kaleidoscope of worlds and peoples that he had never seen. He was distantly aware of his body being thrown back and forth in the cart, but it was just another dream, and far, far away. The laughter was so loud now. The images began to coalesce, and finally Callis saw something he recognised.

  He saw Excelsis. He saw it fall. Consumed by blue flame, the city crumbled. Winged shapes dipped and dived through the smoke-filled ruins of the city’s streets, swooping down upon helpless humans to bear them off into the sky. Other forms moved in the shadows. Shapeless, chortling things, delighting in the fear and chaos of dying innocents. Above it all rang the laughter. Suddenly he was hurled across this hellscape of the city that had been his home, past tumbling spires and burning streets. He slammed to earth with a sickening jolt. He was on the roof of an ornate domed structure that dominated the centre of Excelsis. This was the Prophesier’s Guild, where the city’s valuable stock of secrets was vetted and auctioned. Behind him towered the Guild’s great occulum fulgurest, and even now the Collegiate-designed machine was whirling and crackling with storm-siphone
d energy. Lightning surged from the six aetheric machines along the city’s inner wall, forming a chain of surging fulminations that stretched out towards the sky like a grasping claw. From here he could see the sheer breadth of the devastation. Battle raged in the square beneath him. The ground was shrouded in gun-smoke and ash, yet he could see the proud banners of the Excelsis Guard held high. He could not see what they fought, but he could hear well the screams of dying soldiers, and the fearful cries of men about to break.

  The laughter welled up again. He turned. A wizened, crooked man shuffled towards him, leaning on a staff of black iron. As Callis watched, the man threw back his hood with liver-spotted, claw-like hands, exposing a thin, hook-nosed face. He was bald, and his skin was grey and sallow. Long eyebrows, white and thick as eagle feathers, sat above a pair of piercing blue eyes. Those eyes blazed with a furious, reckless joy as Excelsis burned.

  The old man raised his staff. The occulum fulgurest whirled ever faster, so violently that it began to creak and groan. Lightning arced down from the great machine, crackling and spitting in protest as it haloed around the head of the old man’s staff. With a cackle of joy, the wizard stabbed his weapon down, aiming directly at Callis. The torrent of energy crackled towards him, and the guardsman screamed and held up his arms, knowing it was futile even as he did it. Then he was tumbling through the air, every fibre of his being on fire, until at last he struck something hard and the world around him went mercifully black.

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  A Black Library Publication

  First published in Great Britain in 2017.

  This eBook edition published in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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