Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  The beasts had made their final stand in the reed banks, amongst the high salt grasses and toppled stones of a long vanished harbour. In better times, port cities had clustered like barnacles along the coastline, and ironwood galleys had plied the waters. Now nothing occupied the coasts of the Verdant Bay save ruins and monsters.

  The Lord-Castellant looked out over the turgid waters, towards the distant sargasso-citadels that ringed the mouth of the bay like sores. The sea wind carried with it the monotonous thud of distant drums, and the screams of the dying. The sky was thick with noxious clouds, which occasionally wept an acidic rain that could mar even the silvery finish of the Stormcasts’ armour. The clouds, like the beasts he’d just slain, had their origin in the citadels. And, like the beasts, the citadels and clouds would soon be cast down. He’d sworn as much, during the siege of the Living City.

  He closed his eyes, wishing that he stood once more amid the bulwarks of ironoak and thornwood. He could still recall the warm scent of the sunfire blossoms as they stirred in Alarielle’s wake, that final day at the Twelve-Thorn Gate. He could feel the deep, basso war-chant of the duardin root-kings resonating through him, as they marched to war. Sylvaneth, duardin and Hallowed Knight had fought as one, driving back the Rotbringers and casting down their flyblown standards. Alarielle had given full vent to her fury in that final hour, and the enemy had been throttled, torn and impaled from every side by thorny creepers and jagged boughs. She had been a sight to behold, and, though he would never admit it to another soul, he felt honoured to have witnessed it.

  Afterwards, they had marched out, to harry the foe and bring them to heel. He opened his eyes and cast a cool gaze over the battlefield. They had forced the beasts back, into the reed beds and the shallows of the bay, even as he’d planned. The creatures had sought to flee across the three massive viaducts of boil-encrusted stone and fossilised sargassum, which connected the distant citadels to the shore, but found their way barred by closed gatehouses and sealed portcullises. Their masters had deserted them. Or perhaps they’d sacrificed their servants to buy the time they needed to ready themselves for the storm to come.

  ‘They are wise in their wickedness,’ he murmured. Tallon chirped and leaned against his leg. He stroked the gryph-hound’s neck as he studied the three great gatehouses, which loomed above the shallows. They were crude bastions of stone, balanced on pylons of bone and cankerous wood. The structures were functional, almost utilitarian compared to some he’d seen since arriving in the Jade Kingdoms. Monstrous, but more so in conception than appearance. Then, that was the nature of the enemy they faced.

  He nudged one of the dead beastmen over with the toe of his boot. Like the others, it wore a crude hauberk marked with a fly-shaped emblem. Bits and pieces of rusty armour, culled from a dozen battlefields, decorated its twisted frame. It was as if it had been trying to ape the appearance of something greater than itself.

  ‘Like master, like beast,’ Grymn murmured. The monsters who ruled these lands claimed membership in a knightly order, and boasted of honour and glory. But their honour was built on the bones of the innocent, and their glory was a lie. It offended him, in a way few things did, though he could not say why. Some half-forgotten memory of who he had been, perhaps, rising up like the ache of an old wound.

  ‘My lord?’

  Grymn turned. Aetius, one of the chamber’s Liberator-Primes, saluted briskly. Known to his warriors as the Shieldborn, Aetius was a stolid sort, a born fulcrum, able to anchor any battle line by dint of plain stubbornness. His silver war-plate was scratched and begrimed, as was his shield. The warhammer in his hand was coated in gore.

  ‘Idle musing, Aetius, nothing more,’ Grymn said. He peered past Aetius, where a retinue of Liberators saw to the merciful dispatch of wounded enemies. Beyond them, Judicators took up positions along the shore to watch for any movement from the citadels, and a retinue of Retributors set to breaking open the closest of the gatehouses. The monstrous structure shuddered like a wounded animal with every strike of their lightning hammers. The few guards who had manned the gatehouses were dead, picked off by Judicators and Prosecutors, or fled. Grymn looked at Aetius. ‘Speak, Shieldborn. Tell me a tale.’

  ‘We have driven them into the sea, Lord-Castellant. Some few chose to drown rather than face us.’ Aetius gestured to the body. ‘I saw the same sigils in the reed-city of Gramin, before it sank. Have we truly found their redoubt, then?’

  ‘One of them, certainly,’ Grymn said. ‘But after today, the Order of the Fly will have one less.’ He spat as he said it, the taste of the enemy’s name foul in his mouth. Even that was a corruption of sorts, a twisted shadow of a once fine thing.

  In the days of myth and legend, the Jade Kingdoms had been defended not just by the sylvaneth, but by mortal armies as well. And the greatest warriors of these armies had been the knights of the chivalric orders, whose names were now all but forgotten. Lost to time and tide, as so many things were in this broken age.

  It was possible that the Order of the Fly had once been counted among those ancient brotherhoods, before its warriors had become twisted, pestilential mockeries that now sought to drown these lands in filth. And that was the saddest thought of all, that such men might have fallen, trading hope for despair and honour for cruelty. Perhaps that was why they offended him so. The true victory of Chaos was not measured in battles won, but in the hearts and souls of their enemies. To twist and break all things out of shape. When they convinced the righteous that they were wicked, and stole faith from the faithful, the Dark Gods rejoiced as never before.

  Whatever their origins, the Order had rapidly spread its miasma across Ghyran, declaring pox-crusades on the few remaining free peoples, and conquering many lands in Nurgle’s name. But now, at last, they were in retreat, their holdings smashed, many of their blightmasters slain. Grymn’s grip on his halberd tightened as he thought of battles past, and the hard-fought victories that had led to this point.

  But, more than that, he thought of the savageries the retreating Rotbringers had inflicted on the land and its peoples. Tribes, long in hiding, were rooted out and put to the sword or enslaved. Groves of slumbering sylvaneth, chopped and burnt to make siege weapons and hasty fortifications. They had left a scar across the face of the Jade Kingdoms. A black path, leading from the gates of the Living City to this very shore.

  The sargasso-citadels, with their immense balefire cauldrons, were the last of the enemy’s holdings in this region. Like a boil fit to burst. If he could break them here, the southern kingdoms might at last be freed of Nurgle’s contagion.

  A shadow passed overhead, and he looked up to see a familiar armoured shape swooping low. The Prosecutor-Prime called down a friendly greeting to Aetius, who raised his hammer in reply.

  ‘Tegrus,’ Grymn called, signalling the winged warrior. ‘Gather Lord-Relictor Morbus and the others. Your fellow Primes as well. There are matters to be discussed before we push forwards.’

  The Prosecutor-Prime gave a lazy salute as he circled once overhead and then shot off to do as he had been ordered. Grymn watched him go. Tegrus of the Sainted Eye, hero of the Nihiliad Mountains. One of the first of their number to return to battle after being Reforged. Like many of their brethren, he had perished in the Athelwyrd. But his death had been a merciful one, at the hands of Alarielle herself, after he had suffered a horrific transformation brought about by their foes.

  Tegrus Reforged was not much changed from the bold warrior Grymn knew. A trifle slower in employing what he considered wit, and quicker to follow orders. It could almost be considered an improvement. Even so, it was a change. And Grymn did not care for change. He glanced at his hand, and then away quickly. He had lost the original in battle with the Rotbringers. But the sylvaneth known as the Lady of Vines had grown him a new one. The alien sensation of new-grown flesh and bone had faded over time, as had the green tinge, but even so he sometimes found himself studying
it for any irregularities.

  ‘It is not going to sprout blossoms, you know. Or, in your case, thorns.’

  The voice was a rasping rumble, like the promise of thunder. Grymn turned. ‘And how do you know this, Morbus? Some spiritual insight, forbidden to the rest of us?’

  ‘Common sense,’ Morbus said. The Lord-Relictor resembled nothing so much as death made flesh. His mortis armour was streaked with muck, and the runic plates steamed with fading heat. Pale eyes fixed on Grymn, and the Lord-Relictor wondered if there was a smile beneath that grisly skull-helm. ‘If it was planning on it, it would have done so by now.’

  Grymn made a fist. ‘Possibly. Maybe it’s biding its time.’

  Morbus gave a hollow chuckle. ‘Perhaps.’ His amusement faded as he studied the waters of the bay. He leaned against his reliquary staff, fingers tapping against the sigils of faith and death that marked the haft. ‘We have come far.’

  ‘And farther yet to go.’ Grymn looked at him. ‘What do the spirits say, brother?’

  ‘They say much, little of it of any use to us,’ Morbus sighed. ‘The very aether is in upheaval, and all that is balances upon a knife edge.’ He gestured, motes of crackling energy dancing upon his fingertips. ‘Possibilities sprout like saplings, spreading and branching as never before.’

  ‘That is a good thing, surely.’

  Morbus looked at him. ‘Only if we nurture the right ones.’ He fell silent.

  Grymn shook his head, annoyed. Morbus had always taken a certain pleasure in playing the cryptic seer. He cherished his portents of doom the way a duardin cherished ur-gold. Grymn released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and turned to greet several newcomers.

  Tegrus swooped overhead, accompanied by the Knight-Venator, Enyo. Aetius’ fellow Liberator-Primes, Osric and Justinian, splashed heavily through the low waters, accompanied by the Judicator-Prime Solus, the Retributor-Primes Feros and Markius, and the Decimator-Prime Diocletian. Last came the Knight-Heraldor Kurunta, his heavy sigmarite broadsword balanced on one shoulder. The self-proclaimed Lion of the Hyaketes was singing loudly as he splashed through the reeds. A battle hymn, as usual.

  Grymn greeted them with a nod. His command had shrunk and flourished with the seasons of this realm, as the war for the Jade Kingdoms dragged on. The dead vanished with a crackle, only to return, Reforged and renewed, days or months later. Even so, a grinding attrition had set in, as the fortunes of war turned and the scope of things widened.

  By the time of the assault on the Genesis Gate, the Steel Souls numbered just a hardy few. But those few had been honed into a lethal blade, capable of piercing even the most resilient battle line. Now, in the aftermath of the Allpoints Campaign, and the Great Reforging, the chamber was set to expand again. And, most importantly of all, its long-absent Lord-Celestant would once more take command.

  The thought of Gardus’ return brought a brief smile to Grymn’s face. It was a day that had been long in coming, and one he had anticipated greatly. Grymn was satisfied with the part he had played in recent events. He had built something here that could not be easily toppled, and the Steel Souls had become an engine of war second to none in the entirety of Ghyran. But he was growing tired of the march, of the unceasing advance and the burden of overall command. That was not his duty, not truly. He was the shield, not the sword. And his skills could be put to better use elsewhere.

  But for now, he would lead.

  He observed his auxiliary commanders for a moment, noting the condition of their armour, the faint signs of fatigue in some of them. Part of him considered waiting for reinforcements to arrive. But that would only serve to give the enemy time to strengthen their defences. No, best to strike now, before they’d made ready.

  ‘Who stands before me, clad in silver and blood?’ he asked.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ Kurunta said, his deep voice booming out. A flock of saltwater stabberbeaks hurtled skyward, startled. Several of the others chuckled, until Grymn’s stern gaze silenced them.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ Grymn said. ‘Only the faithful could have come this far. But we have farther still to go before our journey’s end.’ He extended his halberd towards the distant sargasso-citadels. ‘There. Those stones offend me, brothers. I would see them pulled down and something better erected in their place.’

  ‘And how shall we get there?’ Kurunta asked.

  Grymn shook his head. ‘You have eyes, surely – look, see… The three great viaducts that stretch out over the bay. We shall smash the gatehouses asunder and use the enemy’s own roads against them.’

  ‘The viaducts will be defended,’ Morbus said. ‘Or worse, destroyed.’

  ‘No. I believe they will destroy all but one.’ Grymn used the ferrule of his halberd to draw an image in the dirt. ‘Forcing us onto a path to their liking, which they will then defend to the utmost. So, we must choose our own path, and swiftly.’ He glanced at the Knight-Venator. ‘That task shall fall to you, Enyo.’

  The Knight-Venator nodded, her eyes alight with eagerness behind the false calm of her war-helm. ‘You have but to name a target, brother, and I shall pierce it through.’

  Grymn tapped the ground with his halberd. ‘Take your skyhost and destroy the two lateral crossings. If I have judged them right, they will attempt to guide us to one of the outer citadels, where they can contain us. We shall deny them that option, and force them to meet us on the central viaduct.’ He looked at Aetius and the other Primes. ‘We shall push forwards down the centre, crushing any opposition.’

  ‘And what of the slaves?’ Morbus rumbled. The Lord-Relictor looked out over the bay, rather than at the map. ‘I can feel the emanations of their despair from here. Thousands of mortal souls, trapped on those false islands. Will we leave them to their fates?’ The beastherd they had just crushed had taken many captives during its rampages. As the Stormcasts harried the herd they’d discovered that the captives were being sent to the sargasso-citadels, though they had yet to discover the reason why.

  Grymn frowned. The thought of freeing the captives had occurred to him, but he had dismissed it. There was no time and their numbers were too few. Perhaps when Gardus arrived with reinforcements, but not before. He cleared his throat. ‘We have no warriors to spare, brother. Not if we wish to achieve victory here, at last.’

  ‘And what good is victory, if it is built on the bones of those we seek to win it for?’ There was no judgement in Morbus’ voice. No displeasure. Or at least it was not evident. Grymn’s frown became thunderous, and he felt a flush of guilt. The Lord-Relictor was right, as ever. Morbus nodded slightly, as if aware of Grymn’s thoughts.

  Grymn looked at Enyo. ‘Sister?’

  The Knight-Venator thumped her chest-plate with a fist. ‘We shall shatter their chains, brother. And the bones of their enslavers besides.’

  ‘Good. See to the viaducts first, however. And go swiftly. Speed is our only ally here.’ Grymn looked around. ‘Markius, you will oversee the destruction of the gatehouses. Spread your warriors equally. Favour no single point. For the moment, I wish to keep our foes wondering. Solus, post Judicator retinues along the shoreline. Harry any foe who tries to cross. They may attempt a breakout when they realise what we’re up to.’

  Grymn turned, studying the distant citadels. Black, noxious smoke spewed upwards from behind their high, sloped walls, filling the sky, blotting out the suns. There was sickness in that smoke. A sickness that had afflicted these lands for far too long, but which would now be cured. ‘Our Lord-Celestant returns to us soon, brothers and sisters. I wish to present those citadels to him upon his arrival.’ Grymn raised his halberd. ‘Who shall be triumphant?’

  ‘Only the faithful,’ the Steel Souls roared in reply.

  ‘They’re at it again,’ Gatrog said, his voice a liquid rumble. He leaned his armoured bulk against the rampart of the fortress known as Third Circle, his thick fing
ers splayed out over the fossilised sargassum. His maggoty war-plate creaked thinly as he shifted his weight, the blistered plates seeping sacred pus. Their sickly sweet perfume enveloped him and he sighed. ‘That chanting is enough to drive a fellow mad.’

  ‘Lucky for us you’re already mad, eh?’ his shield bearer, Agak, said, picking at his ever-increasing collection of boils and scabs. Gatrog glanced at the little Rotbringer. Agak was a starveling, bloat-bellied and thin limbed. He wore an oozing hauberk, made from the hide of a toad-dragon, and a rusted sallet helm, as was his right as a chosen armsman of the Most Suppurating and Blightsome Order of the Fly. He leaned against Gatrog’s massive kite-shield. Occasionally, he would hawk and spit on its rugose surface, helpfully adding to its lustre with his nasal discharge.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said, we’re lucky you’re here with us, my lord.’

  Gatrog chuckled. ‘One of us is lucky, anyway.’ He patted the Rotbringer heavily on the head, nearly flattening him. Agak had served him faithfully, if not always wisely, since the day Gatrog had ascended to the dukedom of Festerfane. Like the other armsmen who crouched on the ramparts of the sargasso-citadel, Agak had been among the levy drawn from the heartlands of the Blighted Duchies, and brought south to garrison these lands. An honest serf, bound to the King of all Flies and the Duchy of Festerfane.

  Gatrog, too, had flourished in the damp shadow of the Lord of All Things. Like a mushroom, he had grown strong and wide with Nurgle’s noisome blessings. He had quested for and won a taste of the sour syrup of the most holy Flyblown Chalice, and knelt at the cloven feet of the Lady of Cankerwall to receive it. He had made the seven times seventy-seven oaths to the King of all Flies, and now rode for the glory and honour of Nurgle, as a true knight of the Realm Desolate.