A blow from Mordrek nearly sent him toppling from the steps, but instead he fell back. He swung his sword wildly, holding Mordrek at bay. His opponent retreated and stood, waiting.
‘Stand, boy.’
Breathing heavily, Gryme clambered to his feet. He was only mortal, and Mordrek was taxing him to his limits. The warrior seemed tireless. Relentless.
Trying to buy time, he spoke. ‘Did you – did you slay the others? In the glen.’
‘Some. Those the Stalking Keep did not. They were brave, if foolish.’
‘Why?’
‘I am bound to him who raised me from the dim past.’ Mordrek held up a hand, and stared at it. ‘I do not even know if I can exist, outside this place. Am I a dream, made flesh? A memory, cloaked in iron? Or something else? The one who knows the answer holds my leash. All I know is that I am as I remember being. And that is enough.’ He climbed a step. ‘Now, lay your sword aside, and I will make it quick, boy.’
‘I am a knight of the Order of the Fly, and I would rather die a thousand times than surrender.’ Gryme lunged. Mordrek avoided his blow, and drove a fist into his abdomen. Gryme stumbled, turned, and caught hold of Mordrek’s tabard. Tangled, they fell from the steps. They struck stone and pinwheeled out, slamming against sharp edges and solid panes. Everything was moving. Grinding. Chewing.
Then, a circle of white, growing beneath him. Gryme felt glass shatter as he struck the circle, and a wash of cold swallowed him up. A moment later he was rolling down an icy slope, snow whipping about him. He heard the howl of a northern wind as he rolled to a stop at the base of the slope. He fumbled blindly for his sword, laying nearby, and snatched it up.
Everything hurt. His joints ached, his heart hammered. He could taste blood. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the echoes of grinding stone.
A vast tundra spread out around him. On the horizon, he saw what he thought to be a migration of ogors, atop their barbarous beasts, their great forms made tiny by distance. Or so he thought, until they scattered with thin, shrill cries as he shoved himself to his feet. He stared at them in bemusement, and was half tempted to pluck one up.
He turned. The slope he had rolled down was a mountain in miniature, its cloud-crowned peak an arm’s length above his head. ‘What is this madness?’
‘Madness is right,’ Mordrek said, from behind him. Gryme whirled, even as his opponent lunged through the swirling snows. Their blades locked, and Gryme slammed back into the mountain, causing an avalanche. Mordrek loomed over him. For the first time, Gryme realised that his foe’s eyes were those of a man – they did not glow or blaze, the pupils were not slit or warped. They were simply… eyes. But the look in them sent a chill through him nonetheless.
Mordrek laughed harshly. ‘You fight well, for one who has not a tenth of my strength. You might have made a fine champion for the Lord of All Things, equal even to Valnir himself.’
‘I do not know that name, but I thank thee for the compliment,’ Gryme said, through gritted teeth. He tried to force Mordrek back, but his limbs resisted the effort. Mordrek was too strong, and Gryme was drawing near the limits of his endurance.
‘What realm is this that a servant of the Plague God knows not the name of his greatest servant? Or perhaps you are simply ignorant, as well as foolish?’ Mordrek pivoted, and sent Gryme crashing to the snow with a single twist of his blade. Gryme scrambled away, trying to catch his breath. Mordrek stalked after him. ‘Get up, boy. Get up and fight.’
Gryme roared and surged to his feet. His wild blow drove Mordrek back a step. And then another. And another. Back and back, with blows that were more force than skill. Snow gave way to ice, and he could hear it cracking with every step.
‘You cannot win, boy,’ Mordrek said. ‘This battle’s end is preordained. Your fate is sealed.’
‘No.’ Gryme pressed on, remembering Abigos’ words, and the taunts of the songbirds. There was no fate. Only acceptance that what would be, would be. And what would be was yet to be seen. He redoubled his efforts, fighting through the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him.
The ice splintered. Mordrek staggered, as one of his feet sank into the water. Gryme’s blow caught him on the side of the helm, and there was a sound like cracking wood. Mordrek fell, and the ice ruptured as he struck it. Gryme cursed as the chill waters reached up to snare him. Cold surged up around him, and through him, as his armour dragged him down.
He sank down, unable to tell which way was up. He clawed for the surface, lungs straining against the crushing weight of suffocation. Things moved around him, in the dark. Shapes so large that he could only dimly perceive them, as they slithered through the cold, dark waters. Then – light, somewhere below. A moment later, he was caught in a riptide, and dragged down towards the light.
There was no ice, no glass to crash through this time. Instead, he surfaced with a gasp, and found himself floundering in what appeared to be an ornamental fountain, surrounded by statues carved to resemble kneeling knights. Some of them looked vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen them somewhere before. As he splashed towards the edge of the fountain, he caught sight of Mordrek’s half-submerged form nearby. From the angle of his opponent’s neck, Gryme could tell it was broken.
He shook his head. ‘A foul end to a fair tourney.’ He rolled onto his belly, and tried to gather his legs beneath him. ‘A valiant foe, killed by chance. But lucky for me, perhaps.’ He looked at the broken body of his foe. ‘I do not think I could have bested you, Mordrek.’ He caught hold of one of the statues that lined the fountain, and drew himself up.
‘I am not dead, despite my wishes to the contrary.’
Gryme turned, stomach sinking. Mordrek shoved himself upright, water rolling from his armour. ‘Is that what you think this is, boy? A tourney?’ He laughed and twisted his head until it righted itself with a sickening crack. ‘I cannot be beaten by one such as you. Only one whose fate outweighs mine can defeat me and end my curse.’ He paused. ‘Once, I thought it done, at last. A world was dying around me, and I hoped to die with it. Instead, it is gone – all that I was is gone – and I am still here.’
‘Life is a gift, and you should not throw it away so recklessly,’ Gryme said, hauling himself to his feet. Everything hurt, but he could endure it – what was pain, but life’s song? If he had been a knight, such pain would have troubled him not at all. He spat up a mouthful of ichor and blood. ‘If you live, it is because the gods wish it. Why deny them?’
‘I do not deny them. I curse them. I cast my hate into their teeth.’ Mordrek caught up his sword and pushed himself to his feet. He looked down at his blade. ‘This sword can make monsters, if it tastes flesh. Do you wish to be a monster, boy? I think you do. Else you would not be here, seeking such a creature as your Lady.’
‘I wish many things,’ Gryme said. ‘But I hope for none. I will not surrender. Lay on, Mordrek.’ He staggered through the water, blade low. ‘And the Dark Gods take him who yields first!’ Their blades connected with a scream of metal. Mordrek snarled and shoved Gryme back, to the edge of the fountain.
‘Why persist? The others could not beat me – what hope have you?’
‘None,’ Gryme panted. ‘But I swore an oath.’ He lunged again, and again. Mordrek swatted him aside, this time knocking him from the fountain entirely. Gryme crawled away from it. The chamber seemed to spin about him. He saw great pillars of jasper and gold, rising from a floor of the same. Clouds of incense wafted through the air, and strange lights danced in the shadowed recesses between pillars.
Something was broken inside him. He could feel it, grating against something soft. He felt as if he could not lift his sword, or even himself. He was not blessed by Grandfather’s touch, nor by the waters of the Flyblown Chalice. He was not a knight, and barely yet a man. He heard Mordrek climb from the fountain, and something else – the soft whisper of a woman’s voice, swiftly answered by the dull r
umble of a man’s.
‘Surrender, boy,’ Mordrek said, his voice echoing through the chamber. ‘I am as inevitable as death itself. There is no shame in sparing yourself pain. My blow will be swift, and sure. You will feel nothing.’
For an instant, Gryme imagined himself back on the tourney field, the eyes of lord and pusling alike upon him. He felt the weight of unknown gazes, of unspoken attentions. Blood dripped through his visor, to splatter on the floor. Maggots squirmed in the spreading red. From somewhere far away, he heard what might have been the susurrus of many iridescent wings, and knew that the King of All Flies was watching.
‘A true knight does not surrender,’ he croaked, shaking his head. ‘Not when he has made an oath.’
Mordrek was close. ‘I am sorry to kill you, boy. But my fate holds me tight. And yours claims you now.’ Gryme saw Mordrek lift his blade. And more – a gap. A single gap, where chest-plate met mail. ‘Farewell, boy. You fought well. But not well enough.’
Gryme’s hand convulsed, tightening about the hilt of his own blade, and with a bellow, he twisted and lurched up, driving his sword full through the gap in Mordrek’s armour. Desperation gave him strength, and the momentum of his lunge carried them back against the fountain. Mordrek slammed into one of the statues, and Gryme’s sword pierced him through and struck stone. Mordrek cried out, and Gryme stumbled back, all strength fled.
He swayed on his feet, watching as Mordrek struggled to free himself, to no avail. He sagged back, with an almost relieved sigh.
‘Impossible,’ he whispered. ‘And yet, the deed is done. Kill me, then. Free me.’ Mordrek reached up to awkwardly remove his helm. When it came away, Gryme bit back a curse. There was nothing there at all, except an unnatural radiance, pierced through by two all-too-human eyes. The eyes of a man, hovering inside a flickering colour of no possible description. ‘Free me, sir knight.’
‘I… I cannot,’ Gryme said, as he straightened. ‘I will not. You have fought valiantly and well, and I will not cut your thread.’ He caught hold of his blade with both hands and tore it loose. Mordrek slumped to the floor with a groan. ‘The battle is won, the tourney finished. That is the end of it.’ Gryme turned in the direction he’d heard the voices emanating from. ‘Do you hear, Zeyros? I have beaten your champion. I have won!’
Silence. Then, a sigh. ‘So you have,’ a voice said. A spark bloomed, and the darkness faded, receding into the stones of the walls and floor, revealing a high dais with a crystal egg the size of a man at its summit. Within the egg, a lithe form huddled, long arms wrapped about her knees, veiled head bowed. The Lady of Cankerwall herself.
Gryme’s heart leapt in his chest, and he started towards the dais.
‘Stop,’ the voice commanded. ‘Come no closer.’
Gryme paused at the bottom of the dais. A tall, armoured shape stepped out from behind the egg, silver-bladed glaive in one hand.
‘Ompallious Zeyros,’ Gryme said.
‘That is my name. Might I have the courtesy of knowing yours?’
‘Gryme. Carkus Gryme, heir to the dukedom of Festerfane. I’ve come for the Lady.’ Gryme raised his sword, though his muscles protested the gesture. ‘Release her, and we shall depart in peace.’
‘Bold words for a man who can barely stand. I thought you pox-knights were supposed to be tough.’ Zeyros tilted his head. ‘Then, you aren’t a knight, are you?’
Gryme ignored the jibe. He studied Zeyros. The Changeknight was tall and slim, his armour almost moulded to his lean frame. He wore a hauberk of gold beneath azure plate, and a helm topped by the shape of a swooping bird – or a daemon, its visor wrought in the shape of a frowning face. Streamers of varying hues of blue dangled from his war-plate, and a trio of small books had been chained to his belt. Opposite them was a slughorn, similar to the one still dangling from Gryme’s own belt.
But it was not this that drew Gryme’s eye. Instead, he stared at the patches of greenish mould growing in small clumps on Zeyros’ armour. An utterly incongruous thing. As he watched, Zeyros brushed at one of the clumps, ripping it away. The mould plopped to the dais and spread suddenly, creeping across the stone, giggling shrilly.
Zeyros thrust his glaive down, and Changefire engulfed the mould, reducing it to ash, even as it shrieked. Gryme saw that a new patch was already growing on his armour where the other had been removed. Zeyros laughed hollowly.
‘Am I not what you expected?’
‘You are… less radiant than I was led to believe.’
Zeyros chuckled wetly. He gestured to the patches of mould on his mail. ‘A parting gift from a friend. A curse.’ He hunched forward, coughing. Something wet and dark dripped through the visor of his helm to splatter upon the steps. ‘No matter how much I scour my flesh, the mould returns. It is in my lungs and my blood. It eats me hollow.’ He looked at the crystal cage and its captive. ‘Soon, I will be dead. Or worse.’
‘It is not a curse, Ompallious. That you think it is only shows your blindness to the beautiful thing that awaits you.’ The Lady looked up. Slowly, regally, she stood. Her dress was torn, exposing patches of mottled flesh, and her hair was unbound, casting a gorgon’s nest of colourless locks over her shoulders and back. Her veil stirred, and her eyes blazed with feverish heat behind its mouldering folds. She splayed her fingers across the surface of the crystal and looked at Gryme. She sighed, softly and sweetly. ‘Oh, Carkus. You should not be here. This is no place for one such as you.’
‘I-I came to free you,’ Gryme stammered, unable to look away from her burning gaze. It felt as if some delicious fever had gripped him, and he made to climb the dais. Yet even as he started up the steps, he found her allure strangely diminished. He was reminded again of Abigos, and wondered at the nature of the magics Zeyros had employed to cage her so effectively.
Zeyros struck the stones with his glaive, and Changefire boiled up, driving Gryme back. ‘Be silent, daemon.’ Zeyros looked down at Gryme. ‘I sent a messenger to warn you away. You ignored him. I sent a spirit to humble you, and you defeated it. The Stalking Keep itself should have devoured you, and yet you passed through its portcullis without harm.’ He glanced past Gryme. ‘And finally, my champion. Drawn from the shadows of a vanished epoch, through no little sacrifice.’ Gryme glanced back at Mordrek, and saw the ancient warrior slowly dragging himself to his feet, gaze unreadable. ‘He should have been your end. And yet, here you are. Why?’
‘I made an oath.’
‘That is not an explanation,’ Zeyros said. ‘It is a boast, cloaked in false humility.’ He shook his head. ‘What am I to do with you?’ He snapped his fingers, and Changefire danced in the air. ‘Shall I set you alight, and scatter your ashes from the windows of this place?’ Another gesture, and the Changefire became a bird, perched on Zeyros’ palm. ‘Or shall I set the birds upon you again – not one knight this time, but two or three.’
Gryme heard a chirp, and glanced up. Tiny, colourful shapes moved in the dim recesses of the ceiling. They sang a trilling note, and he hastily looked away.
‘Send an army, if you would. I will not turn from my path.’ He set his foot on the bottom step. He could hear Mordrek approaching behind him, and wondered if he had the strength to face both foes.
He tried to catch the Lady’s gaze, seeking some answer, some sign. But she turned her face away. So be it. He would die here. But not easily. Or quickly.
‘No. Of course not. That would be entirely too sensible to even expect.’ Zeyros sighed. ‘Things have changed little, since my day.’
‘That was the bargain we made, your brothers and I,’ the Lady said, suddenly, from within her prison. She looked at Zeyros. ‘That Change be slowed and the waters of fate go still. And I have held to it. The duchies flourish, in Grandfather’s shadow.’
Zeyros turned. ‘They stagnate, you mean. Only rot flourishes in still waters.’
‘Nonetheless, it is life.�
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‘But one not worth the living.’ Zeyros looked at Gryme. ‘Do you understand, boy? Do you even notice the absence of what might have been, or are you too blinded by this shroud of chivalry she has woven about our folk?’ When Gryme didn’t answer, Zeyros laughed. ‘You are a fool, young knight. Then, perhaps we are all fools together.’ The Radiant Knight extended his glaive. ‘The Lady is mine. She holds in her the secret to my salvation. I shall prise it from her, and scour the rot from my veins at last.’
‘You are right. You are a fool. Only a fool would toss aside a gift from Nurgle.’ Gryme climbed another step. He was within seven steps of his foe – an auspicious number.
Zeyros laughed. ‘A gift?’ He looked at the Lady, in her cage of crystal. ‘How low my folk have fallen that they think what you offer them is a gift.’
‘Do not speak to her so,’ Gryme barked.
‘I shall speak to her as I wish,’ Zeyros snarled. ‘Would that I had killed her then, as the skies grew black with flies and she traipsed among us on dainty hooves.’ He slammed a fist against his chest. ‘I was there the day the first Grandmaster of our Order supped from her vile chalice, and became something monstrous. The day so many of my sword-brothers swore themselves to the banners of despair, all in a vain attempt to hold time itself at bay.’
Gryme stopped. ‘You were… one of us?’
‘Oh yes, I and Ephraim Bollos. Timar Bellicos, who took the name Bubonicus. Ocander Wolgus and Gaspax Gahool. Culgus of the Iron Ridge. The knights of the seven duchies, bound by honour and blood. And now, I alone remember those days clearly, my thoughts untainted by the stink of rot.’
Gryme started at the names. Heroes, all, who had led pox-crusades into far realms, and fallen in glorious battle against gods and heathens. And yet Zeyros spoke as if he had known them.
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