He fought desperately, trying to hold them at bay. His wings snapped out, swift as sword-strikes, their crackling feathers burning open loathsome guts as his hammers shattered diseased blades and plague-ridden bones alike, but there were too many of them. Rotting hands caught his limbs and he was yanked off-balance. He fell onto his back in the water, frantically parrying the weapons that sought his belly and head. Plaguebearers flung themselves on him, weighing him down, scrabbling at his armour, seeking to pry open the gaps so that their fellows could finish him off. Tegrus screamed in futile rage as his forearms were pinned beneath the water and a flabby, peeling foot crashed onto his chest, holding him down.
The plaguebearer that stood on him raised its sword in two hands for a killing thrust. It leered down at him, single eye burning with malign pleasure as it considered his plight. Tegrus thrashed, but was unable to tear himself free.
Suddenly, his would-be killer’s skull burst like an overripe fruit. A sword flashed, lopping off limbs and chopping through heads, and then Tegrus was free. He looked up as Gardus sheathed his sword and extended his free hand.
‘Up, Tegrus… I need you in the sky, Prosecutor.’
‘Gladly, Lord-Celestant. I confess, I am not at my best on the ground,’ Tegrus said, as Gardus pulled him to his feet.
Gardus nodded.
‘So I noticed.’ He stepped back and raised his hammer. Beyond him, Tegrus saw silver-clad shapes emerge from the murk thrown up by the death-throes of the island. Grymn, Morbus and others, including Astral Templars and Guardians of the Firmament, strode through the swirling waters, weapons in hand. Gardus, hammer held over his head, shouted, ‘Who will be triumphant?’
‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply. Tegrus added his voice to the rest, glorying in the thought of the battle to come. Gardus was with them. They had survived every horror the enemy could throw at them, and now they stood on the cusp of victory.
Pupa Grotesse roared in fury, and slammed his flail down again and again. Every time the weapon crashed down, the water erupted in flopping, splashing shapes – slug-like monstrosities, with gnashing teeth and flailing limbs, which bounded through the river towards the Stormcasts with unseemly speed. Gardus faced the oncoming horde, and drew his runeblade with his free hand.
‘Who stands with me?’ he called.
‘Only the faithful,’ Tegrus and the others responded, their voices rising into a communal roar as they clashed weapons and struck shields in a fierce display.
‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus shouted.
And then the enemy was upon them, and there was no more time for words.
Chapter Twelve
The naming of the beast
‘Forward – for Sigmar, for Ghyran, and the Celestial Realm,’ Gardus called out. He crushed the skull of one of the beasts of Nurgle as it tried to flatten him beneath its weight. The great beasts had crashed into the Stormcasts’ vanguard like eager children, shrugging off stab wounds and hammer blows with gurgling aplomb. They bellied and crushed their way through the ranks of the Hallowed Knights, warbling as they surged through the water. They had been joined by plaguebearers, who rose from the befouled river and launched themselves at the distracted Stormcasts. But it was the beasts of Nurgle who were the true danger here, large and tough as they were.
Only the Retributors had proven capable of felling the creatures, and with each swing of their hammers they had reduced the daemons to gobbets of wet ash. Zephacleas led the Retributors of all three Stormhosts forward, his armour dappled with gore as he fought his way to the front. Gardus’ fellow Lord-Celestant was a man of few words, but possessed an almost limitless capacity for violence, and was in his own way almost as eager for battle as the beasts he fought.
In contrast to the savagery of Zephacleas and his amethyst-armoured warriors, Ultrades and his Guardians of the Firmament were of a more stolid philosophy. They fought with a stoicism second only to that of the Hallowed Knights themselves, their circular phalanxes grinding forwards like millstones to crush the unruly mobs of daemons between them. Shields slammed forward to trap plaguebearers and yelping beasts, as Prosecutors dove down to smash them flat with all the precision of the arrows fired from the bows of the Judicators advancing behind the Liberators.
He saw a Liberator driven beneath the water by a flailing creature. Before he could reach the unfortunate warrior’s side, blue light exploded upwards from the water, signalling another hero’s soul sent back to Sigmar’s forges. He killed the daemon as it turned towards him, and then whirled, bisecting a plaguebearer as it leapt into the air, sword raised over its head.
Too many of them, Gardus thought. Everywhere he looked, daemons leapt and capered. It was like the Ghyrtract Fen all over again, only this time, there was no realmgate to close. He looked at the Great Unclean One. It was no Bolathrax. Though such creatures bore a resemblance to one another, they were as much individuals as any Stormcast. He’d learned that much in his time in Nurgle’s garden, and more besides.
It had been Bolathrax who had first spoken the name of Pupa Grotesse, as he pursued Gardus. The daemon had bellowed of the canker afflicting the Oak of Ages Past, of the champions arrayed against the Stormcasts, of the Rotfane, the Profane Tor, and the Gelid Gush, and more than that. Bolathrax had been overly loquacious, in the way of those who think words alone can break a spirit.
But Gardus’ spirit was not broken. He would do what no other champion of Sigmar had been able to do and bring the God-King’s words to the Radiant Queen, thus removing the mark that Nurgle’s garden had left on his soul. And maybe he would silence the ghosts which yet clung to him in doing so.
Garradan… help us…
‘Only the faithful,’ he croaked. He could see their faces everywhere, rising from the sludge in the spray of daemonic bile. Victims of plagues long past: men, women and children he had not been able to save. Nurgle had been his enemy for longer than he had ever suspected. The ghosts crowded around him, clutching at him, begging him for aid that he could not give. Anger lent him new strength.
‘Only the faithful,’ he snarled, shattering a daemon blade and chopping into its wielder’s chest.
A second blade glanced from his shoulderplate and he spun. Gardus bashed the plaguebearer from its feet with a swipe of his hammer. Before it could even attempt to rise, a halberd flashed, removing its head from its shoulders. Grymn tore his weapon free of the daemon’s remains as it sank below the swirling waters and said, ‘The big one is our true foe.’
‘Agreed, Lorrus,’ Gardus said. ‘But there’s an army between him and us.’ He crossed his weapons and caught a descending plaguesword at their crux. The plaguebearer groaned and Gardus kicked it in its bulging belly, knocking it backwards. As it fell, Grymn’s gryph-hound shot forward and leapt upon it, savaging it mercilessly. He ignored the daemon’s squeals and turned back to Grymn. ‘We’ll have to carve ourselves a–’
‘A path? It seems Ultrades beat us to it,’ Grymn said, gesturing with his halberd. ‘Look!’
Gardus did, and felt his heart stutter in his chest, as his fellow Lord-Celestant led a wedge of Stormcasts through a gap in the enemy ranks, straight towards the greater daemon. Their charge slowed as they reached the thick slop emanating from the daemon’s flabby haunches, where filth and water had mingled to form a tarry barrier. Ultrades tore his men a path and a phalanx of Liberators lurched forward, shields raised.
Pupa Grotesse glared down at the interlopers and bellowed in rage. A boulder-like fist descended from on high and Stormcasts were crushed, their bloody forms swiftly discorporating. The massive flail whirled and whole retinues were hurled back like broken dolls. Only Ultrades and his Decimators made it past these obstacles, but their blows rebounded harmlessly from the Great Unclean One’s elephantine hide. Pupa Grotesse roared in fury and swiped out one long arm to send shattered bodies flying. Many vanished in explosions of blue light, while others sank
without a trace in the noxious waters.
Ultrades himself was nearly felled, driven to one knee in the water by a blow from Pupa Grotesse’s flail. He strained against the weight of the weapon, even as he was driven deeper and deeper into the filthy waters. Ultrades was strong – all Stormcasts were – but even he was no match for such a creature. Nonetheless, he was keeping the beast occupied, which meant they had a chance, however slim. We have to move quickly, Gardus thought, and looked at Grymn. ‘Hold here, rally our brothers, keep them away from that beast.’ He turned. ‘Morbus – to me!’
A burst of lightning danced across the water, frying a plague-beast in mid-bound. Lord-Relictor Morbus stepped through the swirling cloud of ashes.
‘I am here, Lord-Celestant. Proceed, and I shall follow,’ he rasped. Gardus nodded sharply, and began to bludgeon his way towards the greater daemon.
He lashed out with sword and hammer as he moved. Both weapons crackled with white fire as he slew plaguebearer and beast of Nurgle alike when they dared interpose themselves. Morbus followed close behind, lightning snarling from his reliquary to streak across the waters towards their foe. The crackling bolt slammed home, and the Great Unclean One reeled with an agonized roar. Smoke boiled from his gaping pores as he stretched out his long arm towards Morbus, who drew the beast’s attention away from his Lord-Celestant with a second bolt of lightning, as accurately aimed as the first. Sigmar bless you, Morbus – as ever, you know what I require before I ask, Gardus thought, as he charged beneath the sweep of the daemon’s flail. The daemon turned away from Ultrades, who sank back into the water, exhausted.
Morbus lashed out with his hammer, shattering one of the creature’s fingers. Pupa Grotesse roared out unintelligible curses and, ignoring his wounded digit, plucked Morbus from the water. He raised the struggling Lord-Relictor up and examined him, as Morbus struggled futilely in his grip. He said something in a rumbling, glottal voice that was too deep to be understood by human ears, and lifted Morbus higher. The Great Unclean One’s grotesque jaw distended, gaping wider than seemed entirely possible, even for such a massive being.
Gardus put on a burst of speed and ran up a stump of rotten driftwood. As he moved, he summoned a word from the pits of his memory – no, not a word, rather, a name. A name spoken by Bolathrax, in his heedless gloating. The true name of the being that called itself Pupa Grotesse – and to a daemon, its true name might as well be a blade aimed at its black heart. Gardus leapt, sword raised, and screamed the name, spitting the deranged syllables as if they were bolts from a crossbow. The name quavered on the stinking air, and the Great Unclean One turned, eyes wide, Morbus all but forgotten.
Gardus brought his sword down, chopping through the daemon’s thick wrist, freeing the Lord-Relictor in a geyser of foulness. The daemon shrieked and reeled, clutching at his wounded limb. Stormcast and daemon-hand crashed into the water, and Morbus swiftly bulled his way free of the spasmodically twitching hand.
‘Morbus – now!’ Gardus cried as he landed.
Morbus rose, reliquary in both hands, and began to chant. He called out to the tempest, and the tempest answered. Crackling bolts split the skies, swathing Grotesse in sacred lightning. Gardus watched as bolt after bolt struck the staggering monstrosity, even as the daemons around him turned away, eyes seared by the light of Sigmar’s wrath. Pupa Grotesse’s flesh began to smoulder and turn black. Steaming cracks appeared in his body, and the daemon abruptly stiffened, mouth wide in a scream that never came.
There was a deafening bang, and the daemon exploded like a sack of rotting offal left too long in the hot sun. The effect was immediate. The filth and sludge that marked the waters began to clear, turning to ash and crumbling away beneath newly crystalline waters. The clean waters ate at the remaining daemons like acid, dissolving them even as they fought, or tried to flee.
Gardus dipped his hand into the waters as they surged around him, and felt his weaknesses and hurts fade away.
‘It is like the rivers of home,’ Ultrades said in wonder, as Morbus helped him to his feet. He looked at Gardus. ‘Did you know that this would happen?’
‘I had hoped,’ Gardus said. He watched as the last of the daemons were dispatched, and turned, staring out over the river. In the sound of its waters, he thought he could hear a woman’s voice, singing an unfamiliar song. Hesitantly, he placed his palms over the water, trying to feel something, anything that might tell him that he wasn’t simply hearing things. As he peered down, he thought he could see something in the reflection on the water. He looked up as a shadow passed over it. ‘Tegrus, can you see anything?’ he called out as the Prosecutor-Prime swooped overhead.
‘Aye, though it might simply be a trick of the light,’ Tegrus called down, as he circled around. ‘There is an emerald light, where the river’s bed should be.’
Gardus looked at Morbus. ‘Morbus, do you–’
‘He feels it,’ Grymn said, splashing towards them, accompanied by his gryph-hound and Zephacleas. ‘We all do, Gardus. Every one of us.’
The Lord-Castellant looked at him warily. ‘What is it? Who is she? Who is singing?’
Gardus shook his head. ‘You know as well as I, Lorrus. She is the one we have come to find.’ He motioned to the vast shape of the Oak of Ages Past, and the clear, shining waters that now spilled from the cleft in its trunk. ‘There is a reason the enemy had no more luck finding her than we did. She was hiding beneath their very noses, in a place they thought already conquered. She is here,’ he said, voice rising. ‘The gate to Athelwyrd is here. We have found the Hidden Vale.’
Chapter Thirteen
Nurgle’s deluge
Torglug shook his head, trying to clear the flies from his ears, as the skaven grey seer chattered obsequiously up at the Glottkin. The creature had summoned them to the banks of the Gelid Gush. At Torglug’s suggestion, the ratkin had been placed on the invaders’ trail, and had pursued the enemy across Rotwater Blight. Their skulking spies had scurried in the wake of every battle, keeping track of the foe’s movements. And now, at last, it seemed the time had come to run their quarry to ground. ‘Storm-things pass into the river,’ the grey seer chittered, gesticulating towards the water. ‘The water… it is the portal!’
As it spoke, there came a sound like a hundred rats gnawing a hundred stones, and the verminlord Vermalanx dropped into reality. The rat-daemon shrieked at his charge, snapping long fangs in obvious agitation. The grey seer shied away from this display, and Torglug wondered what contest was being waged between master and servant. The rats aped men in that way more than any other, always seeking the advantage even over their own kind. The rat-daemon was clearly enraged, and Torglug suspected that the grey seer had been ordered to report the whereabouts of Athelwyrd to Vermalanx first.
Whatever the reason for it, the verminlord’s anger was like the sweetest bile to Torglug, and he extended his axe between the rat-daemon and his servant.
‘You are ceasing this unseemly display, vermin,’ he rasped. ‘We are being allies in this endeavour, and we will be needing every one of us to take the Hidden Vale and its mistress.’
‘If this treacherous rat isn’t simply lying,’ Vermalanx hissed, glaring at the cowering grey seer. ‘If this place is indeed beneath the river.’
‘It would make a certain sense,’ Otto Glott said, twirling his scythe. Idly he swatted at the flies that clustered about the crusted wounds in his belly. ‘Why else would they come here, into the very heart of Grandfather’s blight?’ He looked at Torglug and inclined his head. ‘A good plan, this, letting the rats skulk and spy.’
‘I am pleased you are satisfied, Master Glott,’ Torglug rumbled. He shook his head and looked at the now-pristine river, sparkling in the setting sun. ‘It is under us the whole time,’ he murmured, leaning on his axe. ‘We are running around, and here it is. How she must be laughing.’ He looked aside, at the portly shape of the sorcerer, Slaugoth, who stoo
d nearby, wrapped in his ragged cloak, leaning on his boil-covered staff. ‘Why did we not look here, jolly one? Why was it the rats who are finding it first?’
‘We assumed nothing would survive in such close proximity to Pupa Grotesse, that’s why,’ Gutrot Spume interjected before the sorcerer could reply, his tentacles coiling and clenching about the haft of his axe. The champion stood on the other side of Slaugoth, glaring at the river as if it had offended him. ‘More fool us, I’d say.’
‘Quiet,’ Torglug snapped, irritated by Spume’s presence. The other champion had grown increasingly infuriating since the fall of Profane Tor. Spume seemed to regard the continued assaults of the lightning-men as a personal affront, rather than as the danger it truly was. But Torglug knew better… The Stormcasts were anything but weak to get as far as they had. They had humbled Spume, Slaugoth and the maggoth lords alike, and crushed every obstacle that the Grandfather had placed in their path. Normal men they were not.
There were vast things afoot, in the spaces between moments. Torglug could feel them, deep in his blighted marrow. The Grandfather stirred uneasily on his throne, and the world shuddered, as if slowly coming awake after a long sleep. He looked up at the sky, peering at the greenish clouds, wondering what force lurked above, watching. What power had sent them, these Stormcasts? And why now? He looked at the Glotts, considering.
They were not worthy, those three. Ghurk, perhaps, but Otto and Ethrac were fools, and lazy ones at that. Industry was a dirty word to them. They knew nothing of effort, and their only loyalty was to one another. It was not they who had poisoned the lifewells, or conquered the tribes of the Ghyranic highlands. It was not the Glotts who had tamed the ogors of the Graven Peaks or decimated the sacred groves of Thyrr. Yet they reaped the Grandfather’s rewards while better men were left to sit and simmer, forgotten. Torglug’s grip on his axe tightened, and he wondered what might happen in the hours to come.
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