Grymn turned his attentions to the warrior he’d saved. The Liberator stumbled against him as they moved away from the water, half-torpid, weapon and shield dangling from his grip. He was an Astral Templar, clad in amethyst and gold.
‘Awaken,’ Grymn said, shaking the Liberator. The warrior slumped, and Grymn grunted as he caught him. ‘Awaken, I say – do not give in. Heed me!’ He set his halberd so that the light of his lantern caught the warrior full. As the light bathed him, the Liberator struggled upright, gaining strength from the healing glow of the warding lantern.
‘I just… I just wanted to clean this filth from my war-plate,’ the Stormcast said, his voice slurred. ‘To wash myself clean of the taint of this place. To drink…’
‘Yes, brother, there is no shame in that,’ Grymn said urgently. ‘But this place devours warriors as surely as any beast. You must keep to the road. Stay in the light.’
Some among the Stormhost were beginning to succumb to the waking nightmare of this realm, their spirits sapped by the relentless blare of the Dirgehorn and the miasma that clung to the land around them. Their war mantras were drowned out by the growing cacophony of the horn, denying them succour, and every day saw more warriors sent back to Azyr in a blaze of blue light. Rotwater Blight was as much their enemy as the servants of Nurgle.
‘I can… I can hear it, Lord-Castellant,’ the Liberator said. ‘It’s… burrowing into my mind… my soul.’ He reached up as if to tear his helmet off, and fumbled with his weapon and shield, nearly dropping them. ‘It’s echoing in my head!’
Grymn seized the warrior’s hands.
‘Stop,’ he snarled, shouting to be heard over the shriek of the Dirgehorn. ‘You are Stormcast. Remember what that means, brother.’
‘I have him, Lord-Castellant,’ a voice said.
Grymn looked up and saw the heavy shape of the Lord-Celestant of the Astral Templars. Zephacleas had been a big man, even before his Reforging, and he loomed over Grymn now, his amethyst armour scorched in places and scored with the marks of claws and fangs. Now he caught the Liberator by the shoulders.
‘Arcos, isn’t it? You stood with me at the Lake of Screaming Reeds, when that toad dragon hurled itself at the shieldwall of our brothers. I nearly broke my blade on its blubbery hide and you were there, shielding me from its vile spew. And at the Grove of Blighted Lanterns, did you not raise your hammer in defence of your brothers, as the jabberslythes screamed? Stand tall, Arcos. We are the Beast-Bane, slayers of the Black Bull of Nordrath, and we shall not allow a mere winding tune to break us.’
The warrior nodded wearily and allowed his Lord-Celestant to urge him back towards his brethren. Zephacleas watched him go, and then turned to Grymn.
‘Death is a high price, but not without its allure,’ the Lord-Celestant said, watching the lake.
‘Is your resolve so fragile, Beast-Bane?’ Grymn asked harshly.
‘No, but this hellish landscape has worn us down, Grymn. For some among our warriors, to return in failure is beginning to seem preferable to slogging through this foulness for even a single hour more,’ Zephacleas growled. ‘Even the air attacks us.’ He clutched at his head for a moment. ‘And that blasted wail never ends! It gnaws at us every moment, digging into us. I can’t even hear myself think.’
‘We must press on. We are close,’ Grymn said. ‘The horn grows louder, and we are assailed more frequently. We are close, Zephacleas. And only the faithful shall prevail.’ He thumped the other Stormcast on the shoulder. ‘Much is demanded…’
‘…of those to whom much has been given,’ Zephacleas finished. ‘Gardus says – said – that often.’ He shook his head. ‘I wish that he were here.’
‘As do I,’ Grymn said. ‘But we must–’ A cry from above interrupted him. He looked up, saw the Prosecutors circling a high, sloping hill that overlooked the lake and said, ‘Tegrus has found something.’
‘The enemy?’ Zephacleas asked.
‘Better, I think,’ Grymn said. ‘Come, we must alert the others.’
Chapter Two
The land itself
In the light cast by his lantern, Grymn looked out over the cluster of bubbling springs surrounded by lush green vegetation and took a deep breath.
‘The air is cleaner here,’ he said. The Prosecutors had led them up the hill and to the crest, where amidst the crags they had discovered this quiet oasis. Grymn, determined to investigate before he risked his warriors, had led his vanguard in.
‘It could be a trick,’ Zephacleas said.
‘It is a trick,’ Ultrades of the Broken Spear said. Like Grymn, the Lord-Celestant of the Guardians of the Firmament was stoicism given form – a warrior of iron will and determination, who had earned his name by killing an enemy warlord with a broken spear blade torn from the Stormcast’s own bloody side. ‘Another ploy of the enemy. They could not bring us down by force, and so they seek to gull us with a safe haven in a landscape of horrors.’ He shook his head. ‘We should press on.’
‘Our warriors require rest,’ Grymn said, glancing back at the vanguard of Decimators and Retributors who had followed them to the hill’s summit. The bulk of the Stormhost still waited on the slopes below, grateful for the pause. All save Tegrus and his retinue of Prosecutors, who had flown on to see what could be seen of the trail ahead.
While Stormcasts had incredible endurance, Zephacleas had been right – they were all worn down. The Rotwater Blight had sapped even the hardiest of them of their strength. Grymn had been able to keep the worst of it from his Warrior Chamber thanks to the light of his lantern, but even they skirted the edges of exhaustion. The other Warrior Chambers had lost brothers to the mire and sucking loam, as well as the myriad dangers that lurked on the fringes of their path.
‘We need rest,’ he said again. ‘And this place could provide it,’ he added. He lifted his hand. ‘Listen…’
‘I hear nothing,’ Ultrades said.
‘Exactly,’ Grymn said. ‘The drone of the Dirgehorn has receded. Listen!’
‘He’s right,’ Zephacleas said, as he looked around. ‘I can barely hear it.’ He laughed. ‘I almost forgot what my own voice sounded like.’
‘And more, there’s fresh water – no flies, no steaming clumps of filth or poison,’ Grymn said, as he started towards the closest spring. Ultrades caught his arm.
‘What are you doing?’
‘One of us must test it. We have been without pure water for days. If this is truly a trap, better to lose one than many. I am Lord-Castellant of the Steel Souls. It was given to me to be the shield for my brothers, and so it falls to me,’ Grymn said. He pulled himself free of Ultrades’ grip, and took off his crested helm of office. ‘Do not fear, my brother. I have faith and Sigmar watches over me, even here.’
‘As he watches over us all,’ Zephacleas said.
Grymn turned and went to the closest spring, where he dropped to one knee, leaned his halberd against his shoulder and made to scoop out a handful of the clear water bubbling there. He hesitated, considering Ultrades’ suspicions as well as his own. Then he plunged his fingers into the water and brought a handful of spring water to his mouth. At his side, Tallon watched intently. The gryph-hound cocked his head, and clicked his beak interrogatively.
‘Easy,’ Grymn murmured, ruffling the beast’s neck feathers. He took a drink, closing his eyes as the cool water rushed down his throat. After a moment, he cracked one eye and looked at Tallon. ‘Well, the water’s clean, all right.’
He drank again, relishing the taste of it. He felt as if a warm, golden light were filling him, and his fatigue sloughed away, as if it had never been. Tallon ducked his head and began to lap at the water with eager chirrups as Grymn turned to the others. For the first time since his Reforging, a broad smile split his face. Zephacleas stepped back.
‘By Sigmar, it’s poisoned him,’ he said.
‘I
’m smiling, you slack-jawed oaf,’ Grymn laughed. He waved a hand at those Prosecutors hovering above, signalling them to alert the rest of the Stormhost that it was safe to climb to the summit. ‘Get in here and drink, all of you. It looks as if we’ve found the only pure water in this land.’ He paused, and added, ‘Better than pure.’ He examined his gauntlet and the crystal-clear droplets glittering on his palm. ‘It seems our allies have not deserted us. And perhaps this land is not entirely lost, after all.’
He closed his hand, and looked to the north, where another hill rose sharp and foul from the forest that clung to its slopes, like a cankerous tooth. That was where his scouts had marked the sound of the Dirgehorn as emanating from. That would be where they would meet the enemy, and set it to flight once more.
You started this fight, Gardus, and now I shall finish it. The steel in your soul is now in ours, and we shall not fail, he thought.
He turned around and watched as the Stormcasts knelt to drink, or to splash the clear waters across their filth-stained armour. He could hear the newfound hope in their voices, and the bitter outrage. They had been tested in the Blight, and it had not been easy., but they had persevered. The Hallowed Knights shall not falter, he thought, as he set his helm back over his head. I shall see to that, if nothing else.
‘Their faith has been renewed.’
‘Aye, Morbus. That it has. It has been sorely tested, these past few weeks. With Gardus gone…’ Grymn looked at the Lord-Relictor. Morbus Stormwarden was an imposing figure, his weapons and armour replete with icons of faith, death and the storm. It fell to him to keep the souls of his fellow Hallowed Knights from the gloom of the underworld, should such a fate loom close.
‘Gardus is gone,’ Morbus agreed. ‘But we yet stand, to carry on in his name.’ He touched one of the icons on his chest-plate. ‘When I saw… what I saw, I never truly imagined that it would come to pass.’ Morbus had seen Gardus’ demise in a dream, and though both he and the Lord-Castellant had sought to warn their Lord-Celestant, they had been too late. ‘I never truly thought that the Steel Soul could fall.’
‘Nor did I,’ Grymn said. Why did you have to do it, he thought. But he knew the answer well enough. Gardus was the sword, and Grymn the shield. It was the sword’s way, to thrust itself into the enemy’s heart, even if it shattered in doing so. ‘If only…’
‘We did not know,’ Morbus said, watching over the Stormcasts solemnly. ‘A vague premonition of doom is of little importance in times like these, when all of reality shudders beneath the weight of war. And Gardus was… Gardus.’
‘That he was, my friend,’ Grymn said. ‘And we are left to carry on.’ He cocked his head. ‘Tegrus,’ he called out, as he glimpsed a familiar silver-clad shape circling above.
The Prosecutor-Prime swooped low over them. ‘We are close, Lord-Castellant. No more than a few hours’ march,’ Tegrus said, anticipating his question.
‘And the enemy?’
‘Beastmen,’ Tegrus said, dropping to the ground before them. ‘From what we could see through the trees, we are outnumbered. A dozen of them for every one of us – ungor and gors, some in armour. Bullgors as well.’
‘They gather in strength,’ Morbus said, leaning against his reliquary staff.
‘More enemies means more glory,’ Grymn said. He stroked Tallon’s narrow skull. ‘What of the Dirgehorn?’
‘At the summit of the tor, I believe. Although even I couldn’t get close enough to see for sure. They’re clustered up there as thick as fleas, and they sent a hail of arrows my way,’ Tegrus said, gesturing with one of his hammers. ‘We shall have to fight our way up.’ He looked at Grymn. ‘It will be bloody.’
‘Good. I am in the mood for it,’ Grymn said.
‘As am I,’ Tegrus said grimly. ‘Would that Gardus were here to share in this battle.’ He crossed his hammers and bent his head. Grymn and Morbus bowed their heads as well.
‘Would that he was. But he is not, and so we must fight in his name. We will teach the enemy that the Steel Soul is not so easily broken. We will teach them, Tegrus.’
‘So we shall, Lord-Castellant,’ Tegrus said, rising into the air with a snap of his wings.
Morbus watched him go, and said, ‘What next, Lorrus?’
‘We are owed a debt of pain, Morbus. I intend to collect it.’ Grymn lifted his lantern high, so that its light was reflected from the sigmarite that armoured his warriors, and threw back the shadows. ‘Who are we?’ he asked, his voice carrying to every ear. ‘Who are we?’ he said again, thumping the ground with the haft of his halberd. ‘We are the tempest-borne, the warriors of lightning, and the sons of Sigmar himself. We are Stormcasts. Who will be triumphant?’
‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply, from hundreds of throats.
‘They almost made us forget that, in these days and weeks of horror. They have drowned us in filth, but we still stand, brothers.’ He thumped the ground again. ‘We are Stormcasts! Who will stand, when all others fall?’ Grymn cried.
‘Only the faithful!’ the Hallowed Knights roared. Astral Templars and Guardians of the Firmament added their voices to the cry.
‘They thought to defeat us with noise, with ambushes. They thought to make us despair. These are the tools of a coward,’ Grymn said. ‘Who knows no despair, save in failure?’
‘Only the faithful,’ the Stormcasts cried as one.
Grymn swung his halberd up and pointed north.
‘Listen, brothers. Hear the wailing of their horn and know that it is the scream of a frightened beast. They thought to make us fear, brothers… Let us return the favour.’
Chapter Three
The blighted glade
Light. All around him, light and something else… the voice, the song, swelling in his head, drowning out all thought. Gardus staggered on, limbs heavy with the weight of ghosts, and the light grew brighter, until he thought it might blind him.
In the light, in the song, he heard and saw things… the future? The past? Images of islands in the sky, and a heaving foulness thrashing in once-clear waters. Of great roots stretching towards the pale sun as rats gnawed at them. Of a valley, reflected. And, finally, a face composed of branches and leaves, of spider-silk and moonlight… a woman, with eyes like flickering green suns, not human, but a queen. She spoke in a voice like distant thunder. At first her words made no sense, but then, like turbulent waters grown still, everything was clear.
Yes, he thought. Yes, I know what I must do. Then, all at once, both light and song were gone, and he heard stone scrape beneath his feet and felt acrid air burn his lungs. His armour was covered in filth and his cloak was slime-slicked, but he was free. Coughing, he staggered and wearily sank down to one knee. His stomach roiled and he toppled forwards, vomit spewing from the mouth-slit of his war-helm. His stomach heaved as he purged himself of the sour taste of Nurgle’s garden. Free, he thought.
Once his stomach was empty, he used his hammer and sword to shove himself to his feet. He could hear fighting in the distance. He could smell fire and war, and knew that he had returned to the Mortal Realms. Gardus looked around. He stood upon the cracked stone dais of a realmgate. It flickered luridly behind him, the tall, fungus-covered archway still aglow with the now-fading energies of its activation. The realmgate occupied the centre of a clearing, surrounded by trees on all sides. The ground below the lip of the dais was hidden by an eerie green mist. It stank of rotting meat and worse, though not as badly as Nurgle’s garden.
The trees around him had been infested with grotesque fungi, and they dripped slime and mould. Foul, fleshy blossoms clustered in hollow trunks, and a throbbing canopy of moist, spore-ridden tendrils spread across the upper reaches of the forest, blocking out the weak sunlight. Where the mist was thin, Gardus could see bubbling mounds of black ooze that rose from the forest floor like boils on the flesh of the afflicted. Somewhere amidst the trees, he heard the
frantic clanging of gongs and a squealing, as if from the throats of giant rats.
‘Only the faithful,’ he said hoarsely, his throat scraped raw. He stepped down off the dais, weapons in hand, and began to follow the noise of battle. Though the song had fallen silent, still its melody remained in him, and he knew what he must do. Ghyran suffered a blight, and it was up to him to help cleanse it. Whatever afflicted this glade would be first.
Gardus picked up speed, the ache in his muscles and the burning in his lungs forgotten as he followed the screams of the dying and the splintering of wood. A discordant blaring of horns sounded from the southern edge of the clearing, sending a tremor of disgust through his soul. He had heard that sound before, in Nurgle’s realm. He swept out his hammer, smashing a toppled branch thick with maggoty fungus from his path. The servants of Nurgle were close, and Gardus would see them pay for all that he had endured. He struck a rotting, fallen tree with his shoulder, reducing it to a cloud of splinters. Then he was half-staggering into the midst of a battle, surrounded by noise and slaughter.
Heaps of dead skaven lay everywhere, and mingled amongst them were the shattered bodies of sylvaneth dryads. Hordes of ratmen clad in filthy robes scuttled through the trees towards the retreating dryad-groves. Nearby, a fallen treelord groaned and collapsed into a pile of rotting wood and rancid sap as a skaven, larger than the others, struck him with a smoking censer-ball. Gardus took a half-step forward, but as the treelord’s dying groan swept through the clearing, he saw hulking warriors force themselves between the fungus-riddled trees on the glade’s southern edge. The bloated blightkings charged towards the dryads with glottal war cries. Axes and scythes hacked down treekin and spilled ruddy sap into the muck.
Already in disarray, the treekin recoiled in obvious panic. More dryads fell to the skaven; frenzied plague monks stabbed rusted blades into supple bark, tearing festering wounds in their foes. The blightkings added to the tally of the fallen with single-minded brutality.
Ghal Maraz Page 2