Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden

by Josh Reynolds

  Grymn slammed the ferrule of his halberd down, splitting the dull cacophony that rose from the robed figures kneeling around the realmgate. ‘Osric. Pallas. Single rank. Lock shields.’ The Liberators moved up, arraying themselves in a square centred on Grymn and the Protectors. The Rotbringers charged, droning obscene chants to their blighted god. ‘Kahya, clear this filth from our path,’ Grymn said.

  The Protector-Prime nodded and stepped through the shieldwall, her warriors spreading out to either side. As one, they began to advance across the chamber to meet the foe. Grymn and the Liberators followed at a distance.

  Stormstrike glaives lanced out in sweeping rhythm, and Rotbringers fell, their chants silenced. Kahya’s warriors were the image of martial perfection, every blow synchronised and efficiently timed. But the Rotbringers did not break as Grymn expected. Instead, they fought all the harder. The wounded and dying clutched at the Stormcasts’ legs and arms, trying to bog them down so that their fellows could strike. The Protectors’ heavy sigmarite armour absorbed most of these blows, but some few got through.

  Grymn saw a Protector stagger and sink to one knee. A Rotbringer clubbed him with an axe. The blade shattered on his armour, but even so, he was knocked sprawling. Grymn extended his halberd. ‘Tallon!’ The gryph-hound sprang forward, winnowing through the melee. He leapt on the Rotbringer, beak piercing the mortal’s throat as they fell backwards in a tangle. The Protector got to his feet, using his weapon for leverage. As he rose, he swept the glaive out, slicing through a Rotbringer’s midsection.

  The Chaos knight continued to chuckle as his followers spent their lives in useless battle. ‘Inevitability in silver,’ the creature rumbled, his voice carrying easily over the noise. ‘One might even call you knights. But you serve a lie, and your honour is built upon falsehood. You must be burned to ash, before anything of worth can grow in you.’ He lifted the torch he held. ‘These fires were lit by the King of all Flies himself. They guide us in our quest for ruination. And now they shall light the path to your doom, invader.’

  With that, the bloated warrior tossed the torch into the murky waters. Green flame erupted, spreading across the water as if it were oil. The surviving Rotbringers screamed joyfully as the flames consumed them, reducing them to the basest of elements. The water began to boil and froth. Grymn felt the semi-solid sludge of the floor shift beneath his feet. As on the viaduct, the flames were warping the substance of their surroundings.

  ‘Guard yourselves,’ he shouted, as the first burning tendril of sargassum rose, serpent-like, from the burning waters. It shot forward, and punched through an unlucky Liberator’s shield and armour. The Stormcast was driven backwards and pinned to a pillar with bone-cracking force. He groaned and slumped. Grymn lashed out with his halberd and hacked through the twisting vine, freeing the wounded warrior. More tendrils burst from the water and sought their prey. ‘Kahya, defensive cordon,’ Grymn said, dragging the Liberator to his feet. Bloody craters marked the Stormcast’s chest and arm.

  At his command, the Protectors fell back, slicing tendrils as they did so. Where their stormstrike glaives passed, the air rippled with celestial energies. Sargassum vines struck the burgeoning arcane veil, and exploded into fiery bits. But not all of them. Some darted past the Protectors, and slammed into the shieldwall. Shields buckled, and Liberators perished. As the flames spread, more tendrils burst from the water beneath the Protectors to coil about them. Several of the warriors were dragged beneath the water, still struggling. The defensive cordon came apart, and soon every Stormcast was battling for their life, all but isolated from their fellows by the weaving thicket of barbed vines.

  Grymn whirled his halberd about, defending himself. There were too many tendrils, darting in from every direction. Despite their discipline, and the strength of their armour, he and his warriors would soon be overwhelmed. Thinking quickly, he opened his lantern and thrust it beneath the water. Azure light swelled, stretching beneath the churning murk. Steam rose from the surface as filth bubbled away, and the closest tendrils stiffened and dried. They cracked and fell apart as the waters were cleansed of the balefire’s curse. As he bent to retrieve his lantern, Tallon screeched in warning. Grymn twisted aside as the skull-shaped ball of a flail slammed down, narrowly missing him. He jerked back, halberd extended.

  The Chaos knight loomed over him. ‘I am Bubonicus, Blightmaster of the Order of the Fly, and Knight of the Feverish Oath. Give me your name, so that I might know who it is I have sent to the garden.’

  ‘My name is no concern of yours,’ Grymn spat. He saw his lantern, rolling beneath the water. But there was no way to reach it without opening himself up to his enemy. The Chaos knight laughed.

  ‘So be it. Die nameless and forgotten. I salute you nonetheless.’ He swept back his flail, ready to strike. A shout distracted him. One of the remaining Liberators charged, hammer raised. Bubonicus spun his weapon, so that the halberd blade extended towards this new threat. With an impossible smoothness, he lunged. The blade scraped past the rim of the Liberator’s shield and struck his armour. Momentum did the rest. The Liberator stumbled back, cursing. A moment later, he screamed, clutching at his head.

  Maggots erupted from the visor of his war-helm, spilling from the mouth and eye-slits. The Liberator gave out a piteous groan and sank to one knee. More maggots squirmed from the joins of his armour, plopping into the water. A moment later, he collapsed, and lightning flashed upwards.

  ‘Fie,’ Bubonicus rumbled, as the glare faded. ‘Fie on all cowards. That soul was owed to the King of all Flies, even as yours is. The Gatherer of Souls must have its due.’ He lifted his flail meaningfully.

  Grymn set his feet. ‘Come and take it, then.’

  Bubonicus threw back his head and gave a hollow laugh. ‘I will, friend. Of that, have no doubts.’ He started forward, flail clattering. The remaining Stormcasts moved to intercept, but Grymn waved them off.

  ‘This one is mine. Take care of the others. Whatever happens, that gate must not open.’ He raised his halberd, deflecting a blow that might have crushed his skull. Bubonicus was strong, and faster than he looked. Grymn circled him, searching for a weak point. There was always a weak point. An old wound, a gap in the armour, something. The creature’s plate rattled as he moved, as if it were full of metal flinders.

  Grymn’s eyes fastened on his opponent’s joints. They were baroque monstrosities, shaped like fluted buboes or grimacing faces, and far larger than they needed to be. All of Bubonicus’ armour was of similar style. Ornamental, rather than functional. Sturdy, but with obvious flaws to the trained eye. Grymn pivoted, avoiding a sweeping blow, and jabbed with the spike-tip of his halberd like a spear. It punched into a buckle strap, tearing it away. Bubonicus clapped a hand to it and spun.

  Grymn dropped to one knee. The Gatherer of Souls smashed through the column of bone. Splinters pattered across Grymn’s visor as he rose up, driving the ferrule of his halberd into Bubonicus’ chest. Bubonicus staggered back with a grumble of protest, and Grymn gave him no time to recover. The blade of his halberd carved a deep gouge across his opponent’s chest-plate. ‘You’re too slow,’ Grymn said, circling the off-balance Chaos warrior. ‘Your armour is ornate to the point of impracticality, hindering your range of motion. And that flail is unwieldy and badly balanced.’

  ‘It was a gift,’ Bubonicus said, chuckling.

  Grymn tensed, and slid forward, letting the halberd extend ahead of him. The head of the blade punched into his opponent’s elbow joint, buckling it. With a twist of his wrists, Grymn jerked Bubonicus off balance and sent him to the floor. The flail hummed out, faster than he’d expected, and he threw himself backwards. Bubonicus was on his feet in moments. It lashed out again and Grymn awkwardly rolled aside. The floor cracked.

  Grymn shoved himself to his feet, and was suddenly flying backwards, his world spinning. He struck a column and bounced off, falling to his hands and knees. He groped for h
is halberd, but he’d lost it. His chest-plate was cracked and smoking from where the flail had touched it. Vision blurring, he clawed for his warding lantern. He heard Tallon shriek in rage, and Bubonicus roar in frustration. The gryph-hound hurtled overhead, and struck a pillar before flopping limply into the water.

  The floor shuddered beneath him as Bubonicus charged towards him. ‘You send a dog to face me?’ the Chaos knight roared, all trace of humour gone from his voice. ‘Have you no honour, son of Azyr?’

  Honour. They were always yelling about honour, these monsters. As if honour excused their actions. As if honour explained their crimes. Grymn caught hold of the warding lantern and surged to his feet. The flail hissed down, barely scraping his armour, as he slammed the warding lantern across Bubonicus’ head. There was a sound of tearing metal and bursting rivets, and the helm popped loose and went spinning away. Bubonicus staggered. Grymn hit him again, and again, bludgeoning his opponent with the lantern.

  ‘Honour, is it? What honour is there in befouling the land? In enslaving its people? You say my honour is a lie? Then what does that make yours?’ Every question was punctuated with a blow. Bubonicus sank to his knees with a groan. ‘Answer me,’ Grymn snarled. ‘Answer me!’

  The lantern swung down again. It smacked into Bubonicus’ palm. Smoke bloomed from his gauntlet as the holy light burned the corroded metal. More burns scarred his armour; it had been reduced to slag in places. Bubonicus lifted his head. Grymn bit back an oath. The Chaos knight had no face. Indeed, his head was nothing more than a rotten skull, permeated with maggots and larvae. His blows had cracked the skull in places, and shattered its jaw, but Bubonicus still spoke. ‘My answer is ever thus… for the Lady.’ With that, he shoved Grymn back and crashed into him, knocking him backwards. They slewed through the water, struggling for control of the lantern.

  ‘I recognise you now, friend,’ Bubonicus hissed. ‘I saw your stand at the Twelve-Thorn Gate, and marked you then for a brave warrior. I am pleased to see that I was right.’ His jaw sagged and maggots spilled out, splattering across Grymn’s visor.

  Grymn cried out in disgust and drove his fist into Bubonicus’ skull. Bone crumpled and burst. Maggots spilled over him, squirming through the slits in his visor and the cracks in his armour, carried by the splattering ichors. Grymn fumbled for the lantern and flipped it all of the way open, allowing the full power of the light to beam forth. The maggots shrivelled and the ichors steamed, as his stomach heaved. He forced the twitching body away from him.

  He couldn’t say whether any of them had got into his mouth. He clawed at the clasps on his helmet and pulled it off. He pounded on his chest and coughed, letting the light of his lantern wash over him. Tallon limped towards him, favouring one paw. The gryph-hound chirruped in concern, and Grymn leaned against his flank, breathing heavily.

  Several of his warriors started towards what was left of Bubonicus, weapons raised. Grymn waved them off, still coughing. ‘Stay… stay back. Don’t get near it.’ He heaved himself to his feet and snatched up the warding lantern. ‘Only the light of Azyr can purify such a creature,’ he rasped. His throat felt as if he had swallowed jagged shards of metal. He swept the light over Bubonicus’ body until the baroque armour collapsed in on itself and was reduced to a scum of rust, floating on the water.

  Only when the last of it had dispersed did he turn his attention to the realmgate. Bodies lay scattered about it. Kahya and Osric had done as he asked, with brutal efficiency. ‘All of them?’ he asked, glancing at the Protector-Prime. She nodded.

  ‘They continued to chant, even as we cut them down.’ By her tone, he could tell she was sickened both by their foes and what she had been forced to do. ‘Why did they not resist us?’ she asked, shaking her head.

  ‘I don’t think they even knew we were here,’ Osric said, peering into the depths of the realmgate. ‘As if there were weightier matters that better held their attention.’ He stepped back. ‘Something’s wrong. The water…’

  ‘Get back, Osric,’ Grymn said as he pulled on his helmet. The air throbbed with the buzzing of innumerable flies. The abominable runes marked on the walls began to glow with a faint radiance. The balefire torches whipped, as if caught in a strong wind. The surface of the realmgate began to bubble and foam, and the compacted reeds writhed in place, as if in agony. The clear waters turned an iridescent black, before suddenly spewing upwards in an unending flood. From out of the dark came a sound. Deep and dolorous.

  As the black waters swept towards him, Grymn thought that it might have been the tolling of some vast funerary bell.

  Chapter Eight

  POX-WATERS

  The sounds of battle had faded. Now, only its echoes remained. The moans of the wounded, the soft susurrus of a healing rain, the sizzle of the last embers of balefire as they were snuffed. The great cauldron had been shattered, and its contents reduced to stinking clouds by Gardus’ arrival. Throughout the citadel, Stormcasts worked diligently to stack and burn the corpses of their slain foes in clean fires set by the lightning strikes.

  Lord-Celestant Gardus knew it was much the same in the other two citadels. The Steel Souls had dispersed upon arrival, moving to take control of the walkways and glistening paths of sargassum that connected the trio of floating fortresses. They had been met there by enemies, and by newly freed captives as well. Hundreds of them.

  He looked around at the faces of those who crowded about him. They were silent and hollow-eyed, sullen with fear and resignation. They had suffered much in their short, brutal lives, and his heart twisted in his chest, convulsing in sympathy.

  But not pity. Pity was what one felt for a lesser thing, like a wounded animal or a dying foe. These folk were neither animals nor foes. They might as well have been his own people, his kith and kin, at a remove of many centuries and generations. It pained him to see them, to see any being brought to such ruin. But, Sigmar willing, it was but a temporary thing.

  Already, great cities were being constructed in the wild places of Ghyran. And not all of them with the blessings of the Everqueen, if the rumours he’d heard about the Greywater Fastness were true. But others, such as the Living City, were constructed from the very bedrock of Ghyran, by the magics of Alarielle herself. The Steel Souls had bled on the ironoak bulwarks of that place, and Grymn had held the Twelve-Thorn Gate against the Rotbringer forces besieging it. The same forces they had pursued here, to the Verdant Bay, in the aftermath of the war.

  Morbus had told him of the trail of devastation they had followed south, of the burned forests and desecrated groves. Of the gallows raised on every hill and peak, and the bodies swinging in the breeze. And of the slave-caravans, many miles long. The Order of the Fly had much to answer for, and Gardus intended to see to it that they did so. The destruction of the sargasso-citadels was but the first step on that road. Gardus would not rest until he had restored all that Nurgle had taken from this realm. Including hope.

  That was the heart of their campaign here, the reason for their presence. Other Stormhosts brought vengeance or freedom. Some inspired the downtrodden to take up the fight anew. But the Hallowed Knights brought hope. For hope was the seed of faith, and once planted, it could not be easily destroyed.

  And the beginnings of hope were what he saw in the faces of those gathered about him. Beneath the pain and fear, the first flickers of belief in something better. And that was why he allowed them to gather about him, and followed them where they led. Though they refused to look at him, or answer his questions, he had faith that they meant him no harm, and had bid his warriors to leave him to discover the reason for himself.

  The crowd that encompassed him was made up of men and women and children, all ages and descriptions. Many were thin with privation, bones visible beneath grimy skin. The sickly sweet smell of gangrene hung thick over the crowd, and there were too many gaps where legs and arms ought to be. Too many faces sagged with clusters of boils or lepro
us encrustation. All were sick. Broken. But at least these could stand.

  The cages were full of those too weak to do so, as Morbus had shown him. Those too sick to rise, or too crippled. The worst of it was, they had not been brutalised. Their state was due to negligence and proximity, rather than harsh treatment. His stomach clenched as a nearby child plucked at the sores on her cheek. She led her mother by the hand. The woman was blind, the sockets of her eyes scabbed over. A hunched form scraped past him, hands braced on wooden blocks, the stumps of useless legs dragging in the dirt. Everywhere Gardus looked, there was decay and ruin. And he had the feeling there were worse things yet to be discovered.

  A few hundred enemy warriors remained at large, having retreated into the tunnels below or else escaped on slow moving, barnacle-ridden barges for the far shore. Even now, his Steel Souls hunted them, under the direction of his auxiliary commanders. The citadels were not yet fully conquered, but they soon would be. Even so, he felt uneasy. As if… something was wrong. As if the battle were not yet won, but only just beginning.

  He’d felt this way once before, in the Ghyrtract Fen. A Rotbringer tribe, dead at his feet, and the Gates of Dawn pulsing with corrupt life. He felt again the sudden sense of nausea, as the realmgate had convulsed and gaped, vomiting forth a thing out of nightmare. Bolathrax. He closed his eyes, banishing the image from his mind. Bolathrax was gone, sent back to the realm of its master in tatters, thanks to the Everqueen.

  He heard a gasp, and realised that his light had grown bright as his mind had wandered. It shone as fiercely as the glow of Grymn’s warding lantern, washing aside all shadows. The mortals huddled closer, murmuring in awe. Grimy bandages steamed in the glow, and infected wounds began to bubble and leak. Without thinking, Gardus reached out to them. Where his hands touched, open wounds began to scab over and buboes shrank. Men and women wept in mingled fear and joy as his light blazed ever more vibrantly.