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Hallowed Knights: Ghosts of Demesnus – Josh Reynolds
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Hallowed Knights:
Ghosts of Demesnus
Josh Reynolds
The boat carved a slow track through the thick bulrushes. Clouds of insects, disturbed by its passing, rose towards the pale green sky with an audible hum.
The vessel was a flat-bottomed riverboat, its aft deck stacked with cargo. Bales of cloth from Verdia, and bolts of silk from some far, eastern kingdom were stacked precariously beneath a heavy tarpaulin to keep off the weather. Gardus sat on a large cask of sweet wine beneath the tarpaulin, and watched the home he had all but forgotten draw nearer, through the curtain of morning mist.
The Lord-Celestant shifted on his perch, feeling oddly unbalanced without his weighty silver war-plate. The simple tunic and leather jerkin he wore beneath his woollen Nordrathi cloak had been cut especially for his immortal frame, as had his boots. None of it helped him to fit in.
The crew had given him a wide berth since they had left the riverside docks of Hammerhal Ghyra, despite his initial, hesitant attempts to engage them in conversation. Perhaps it was his size. Or the runeblade he wore at his side. The sword was almost as long as one of the oars the crew used to ply the waters, and its wielder was almost twice the size of the tallest crewman.
Regardless of the reason, they had left him alone. He’d half hoped they would encounter a troggoth or some other malign river-beast on the voyage south along the Quamus River, if only to prove that he and his sword meant them no harm. Such an encounter might have kept him from thinking of what awaited him at the end of his journey. He frowned and turned away from the city as it drew closer.
The dreams had started innocuously.
Gardus barely noticed them, so rarely did he sleep. A fact of his new reality was that the needs of mortality had all but abated. But he’d had time, of late, to ponder such things. To think and consider the echoes within his own head.
Such rumination was not encouraged among the ranks of the Stormcast Eternals. Even less so, when one was not simply a Liberator standing in the battle line, but a Lord-Celestant, with all the duties and obligations that came with such a rank. The past was the past – to try to grasp it was a distraction at best, and outright folly at worst. Warriors had perished, seeking the answers to unspoken questions.
Then, death was not an unfamiliar experience for Gardus.
Nonetheless, he’d done as always and sought solace in the movement of the stars. He had climbed the highest peaks of Azyr, and then further still, following the winding celestine bastions of Sigmaron to the uppermost heights, where the blue gave way to the black. Finally, he had wandered the outer rings of the Sigmarabulum, so close to the firmament that he’d fancied he might slip and fall upwards forever.
He’d hoped to find forgetfulness there, or at least a way to calm the sudden turbulence that afflicted his soul. But all he’d found was more dreams. And more time to think about the dreams. He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his shaggy white hair. It had been black, once. Before his second death. Now, it was the hue of moonlit ice.
That wasn’t the only change. There were others – some subtle, others not. He could feel the light, shimmering beneath his skin. That strange radiance, pulsing within him. If he relaxed, even for a moment, it would escape. It grew brighter with every passing day, as if seeking to return to wherever it had come from.
He was not the only Stormcast Eternal to change after being reforged on the Anvil of Apotheosis, but he took little comfort from that fact. Some lost memories, or pieces of themselves. Others became hollow, as if they were mechanisms of steel, rather than flesh and blood. He shone like a star, and dreamed strange dreams.
He let his gaze wander across the slow, sunlit waters. Bulrushes clumped thick and long to either side of the boat and stretched away into the morning mist. If he looked hard enough, he could almost make out familiar faces in the swirling vapours. Men and women he had known, and helped – or failed to help.
He heard their voices in his dreams – the voices of the living and the dead, or perhaps those caught somewhere in between. Ghosts of a past that was drawing further away with every decade that slipped unnoticed through his fingers. The ghosts of those he’d laboured among, and laughed with, and even loved, before a crash of lightning had stolen him away.
Gardus felt no resentment. His faith was not a rock to be broken, or iron to rust and chip. His faith was a river, always changing and renewing itself with every passing day. But sometimes, like every river, he felt a need to find the sea.
Perhaps there would be answers there. Or maybe, only more questions. In any case, he’d decided to come back to the beginning. His journey had begun in Demesnus. And so, it had brought him back, many centuries after he had left. He felt the hull of the boat scrape against something and opened his eyes.
‘Are you awake, then?’
Gardus looked up, as the captain of the riverboat stumped towards him, her round features set in a scowl. The duardin was as broad as all of her kind, but dressed in simple garb, befitting a sailor. Thick iron bracers encased her forearms, and her red hair was bound tight and coiled atop her head in a bun. A small fyresteel axe was thrust through the wide leather belt strapped about her midsection.
‘I am awake, Fulda.’
‘Good. I hate to throw a sleeping man off my boat.’
Gardus stood. He loomed over her, but she didn’t seem unduly concerned. He smiled. ‘I trust I have not inconvenienced you overmuch.’
‘You mean other than scaring my crew half to death?’
‘Yes, other than that.’ Gardus looked towards the docks. ‘It smells the same.’
Fulda’s frown deepened. ‘It’s Demesnus. It doesn’t change. It just sinks a bit deeper into the bulrushes.’ She turned her scowl on the city. ‘What does one of your sort want here anyway? There’s nothing here but mud, fish and moss-lepers.’
Gardus felt a prickle of irritation. ‘Demesnus is one of the greatest centres of learning in southern Ghyran.’
Fulda peered up at him. ‘Maybe a hundred years ago. Now it’s the biggest fish market in southern Ghyran.’ She hiked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Which is why I need you off, so I can make room for the load of salted fish I’m taking to the markets in Hammerhal.’
Gardus chuckled. ‘I understand.’ He held out his hand. Fulda looked at it for a moment, and then clasped it.
‘You’re an odd one, Azyrite.’
‘So I’ve been told.’ Gardus left her shaking her head, and made his way towards the gangplank and the wharf beyond. The crew were already hard at work unloading cargo as he tromped down the wooden boards, but paused to watch his departure warily. Gardus pretended not to notice.
The wharfs stretched along the untidy curve of the Quamus. Berths of varying sizes jutted out into the shallows of the river, alongside raised piers. Warehouses lined the path opposite, their doors flung open as the dockhands and crews went about their duties. Fulda’s vessel wasn’t alone. Dozens of riverboats crowded the berths. There were flat-bottomed rafts and multi-storeyed paddle-wheels, as well as stranger craft – vessels made from woven, living reeds and even a lithe dragger, pulled by a coterie of gigantic, highly vocal waterfowl.
While Demesnus was not the largest port in southern Ghyran, it had carved itself a niche as a necessary stopover along the
intersection of several rivers. Or, at least, such had been the case when Gardus had been mortal. It was still as busy as he remembered. Overhead, birds swooped and squalled with raucous disapproval.
As he stepped onto dry land, he saw mortals in the dull ochre uniforms and troggoth-hide armour of the city guard escorting scribes through the crowd. The scribes likely worked for the Rushes – the leading families of Demesnus, who formed the city’s ruling council. There was cargo to be inspected, and taxes on foreign goods to be collected.
Several of the warriors studied him with narrowed gazes. Gardus knew they were taking note of his size and his blade, but they made no move to stop him as he walked along the wharf. Most mortals would take him for an outlander – from the wilds of Ghur, perhaps, or the hinterlands of Aqshy, where some folk grew to great size. Others would recognise him for what he was. Either way, they would steer clear of him.
He made his way along the wharf, moving carefully through the crowd. Over the sounds of ships being unloaded and dockhands shouting, he heard a sharp cry. At first, he dismissed it for the call of a bird. But when it came again, he recognised it as human. He turned, seeking the origin of the sound.
He saw a flash of movement – too abrupt to be a part of the normal routine of the wharfs – and started towards it. Near a freshly unloaded fishing boat, a trio of men herded a slim, ragged shape against a mooring post. The men were of a sort Gardus had seen in every city – rough-looking and brutal, wearing a mishmash of armour. Sellswords and bravos, of the sort that even the most desperate freeguild would think twice about contracting.
‘Filthy leper,’ one of the men spat. ‘Ought to burn the lot of you.’ His ire was directed at the young woman huddled against the post. She was clad in threadbare robes and rags, that might once have been of better quality. She held a knife in one hand, and jabbed at the air.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said, her voice high and thin with dismay. ‘Someone help me!’ Gardus saw nearby fishermen turn away, as the sellswords patted their weapons meaningfully. He stalked towards the confrontation, hands balling into fists.
One of the sellswords leered. ‘No one is going to help you, leper. They know better.’
‘She is not a leper,’ Gardus said, as he caught the closest of the men by the scruff of his neck, and without pause, flung him from the wharf. The second spun, hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Gardus caught his wrist and squeezed. The mortal’s eyes bulged. ‘There is no sign of moss, no odour,’ Gardus continued. He slapped his prisoner from his feet, and sent him tumbling into a nearby pile of fish.
The third man – the one who had threatened the woman – backed away, sword out. It was a cheap, back alley blade, its length pitted and chipped. ‘Stay back,’ he shrilled. Gardus lunged, moving more swiftly than mortal eyes could follow. He slapped the sword aside and drove a fist into its wielder’s sternum. Bone cracked, and the swordsman folded up into a heap. He wasn’t dead, but he would soon wish he was. Gardus turned, looking for the woman. But she was gone – fled as he had dealt with her tormentors. He frowned and shook his head.
He reached down and hauled the second man out of the fish. ‘Get your friend to a hospice,’ he rumbled, shoving the frightened man towards his downed companion. The man bent hurriedly to do as Gardus had commanded, his injured hand pressed to his chest. Gardus watched them go, noting with some chagrin that he had attracted an undue amount of attention. ‘Can’t be helped, I suppose,’ he murmured.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat. ‘Mercy is a sword with two edges. Or so Elim of Vyras had it, in his seminal treatise, On Clemency.’
‘But an honest man need never fear its cut,’ Gardus said, finishing the quote. He smiled and turned. ‘Hello, Yare.’
‘Hello, Steel Soul. I thought I recognised the rumble of your voice. We were supposed to meet at the northern wharf.’ The old man was tall, despite his accumulation of years. A halo of white hair encircled a bald head. Yare’s ravaged eye sockets had healed in the years since Gardus had last seen him, forming a thick mask of scar tissue, balanced atop the remnants of a once proud nose.
‘Someone was in trouble.’
Yare nodded. ‘This is Demesnus, my friend. Someone is always in trouble.’ The philosopher wore thick robes of wool and fur against the growing chill of the season, and held a wooden staff. Beside him, a small gryph-hound leaned against his leg, its tail twitching. It shrieked softly in challenge, as Gardus neared. Yare patted the creature’s wedge-shaped skull. ‘Easy, Dullas. The Lord-Celestant means me no harm.’
Gardus looked down at the gryph-hound. Solid black, with feathers the colour of ash, the beast was a stocky mix of leopard and falcon, with a temper to match. He acted as Yare’s eyes, when the old man let him. ‘He was just a hatchling, when we gifted him to you.’
‘He grew quickly. Likes his fish,’ Yare said, stroking the beast’s feathers. Dullas hissed in pleasure and wound himself about the old man’s legs. ‘Then, so do I.’ Yare smiled and extended his hand. Gardus took it gently, all too aware how fragile Yare was, these days. He had been old when they’d first met, in the slave-pens of Nurgle’s Rotbringers. He was ancient now – almost a hundred seasons, but still surprisingly spry.
Gardus studied him. ‘You look well, my friend. Better than when I last saw you.’
‘Home is a healer,’ Yare said. ‘And fresh marsh honey is a wonderful preservative. A spoonful a day helps to keep me from feeling the full weight of my years.’ He cocked his head. ‘Is Angstun with you? He and I have a discussion – several, really – to continue.’
Gardus chuckled. ‘I’m sorry, no. But he sends his greetings.’
Yare laughed. ‘I bet he does.’ The Knight-Vexillor of the Steel Souls and the elderly philosopher had become good friends, in the days following the fall of the Sargasso Citadels. They shared a love of esoteric philosophies, as well as a willingness to argue a point for days on end. Having witnessed some of this verbal sparring first hand, Gardus couldn’t help but feel admiration for the old man’s stamina.
A stiff breeze curled in off the wharf. Yare shivered, and Gardus shifted himself so that he stood between the old man and the river. ‘You did not have to meet me here, Yare.’
‘I know. But I am not an invalid, yet.’ Yare smiled. ‘My students tell me that the fog is getting thicker. It slouches in off the water in the mornings, and creeps on cat-feet through the maze of streets and alleys, filling them sometimes until noontide.’
Gardus nodded. ‘There’ll be ice on the river soon, then,’ he said. He glanced at the river, remembering. ‘I recall those days. Sometimes, the frost on them was so thick, the rushes broke. You could hear them snapping, all throughout the day.’
‘The music of winter,’ Yare said.
Gardus felt an ache in him, as he remembered. He turned away from the water. ‘It is good to see you, Yare.’
‘And it is good to hear you, my friend.’ Yare clutched at Gardus’ arm, just for a moment. ‘I’m glad you came. I feared that Sigmar had sent you beyond the reach of my letters once again.’
‘Not of late. Though there are rumours that we will be descending into the dark of Shyish soon.’ A petition had come, to re-open one of the few remaining realmgates that connected Shyish and Azyr. Gardus had little doubt that Sigmar would grant it, as he had other, similar petitions recently. In the last decade, expeditions had entered the underworlds of Lyria and Shadem, among others. New cities rose, amidst the ghosts and dust.
‘Is that why you finally decided to come, then?’ Yare tilted his head, as if studying Gardus. ‘And clad as a mortal.’ He reached out and tugged on Gardus’ sleeve. As ever, the blind man’s perceptions were sharper than Gardus gave them credit for.
‘I would prefer not to go into the lands of death encumbered by malign dreams,’ he admitted. He flexed his hands, as a breeze blew in off the river. For a moment, he thought he heard something,
in the space where the susurrus of the wind met the slap of water. Voices, rising up and falling away, just at the edge of hearing. He looked at Yare. ‘It’s still here, then. I thought… I hoped it would not be.’
Yare smiled sadly. ‘It took some time to find. I had my students compare half a dozen maps of the city, from this century to the last. The way Demesnus has grown, even since I returned, is startling. New streets appear by the months, new voices, new smells.’
‘The light of Azyr brings new growth, even to the Realm of Life.’
Yare chuckled. ‘But is it merely growth for the sake of growth?’ He raised a hand, forestalling Gardus’ reply. ‘I know, you didn’t come here to debate philosophy, much as I might wish otherwise.’
‘Afterwards, my friend. I promise.’ Gardus felt gripped by a sudden urgency. ‘After I have laid these ghosts to rest, once and for all.’
Yare sighed. ‘There have been three Grand Hospices, since yours burned. They are all tangled together, in the histories. The same place, scattered across different locations. The one I knew was destroyed when the servants of the Plague God last attacked. Another was closed when its master fell into disfavour with the Rushes. And the third… the third became a plague pit and was torn down…’
‘You found mine, though,’ Gardus said. The urgency was all but unbearable. ‘The one I built…’ He flexed his hands, feeling the ghost of an old ache. He had built it himself. Not alone, but he had worked alongside the others, stacking stones. He remembered the songs the others had sung, as they’d worked, and the prayers the priests had spoken as the foundations had been sunk.
He remembered, but not clearly or well. It was like a particularly vivid dream.
Or a nightmare.
Yare nodded. ‘I think so. A set of ruins, on the western edge of the city, overlooking the wharfs there. Overgrown, now, like much of that part of the old city.’ He frowned. ‘We’ve lost so much in the centuries since you were mortal. Demesnus was once a major port – a centre of learning and wisdom. There were broadsheets on every corner, and the air bristled with debate. Now…’ He shook his head. ‘I fear the students I tutor in the art of dialectics and rhetoric will be the last.’
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