Gardus looked around in confusion, uncertain as to what was happening. How was this possible? All around him, the mortals sank to their knees. ‘No,’ he said. Then, more loudly, ‘No. Up. I am not the one to whom you should kneel.’ Gently, he pulled those closest to him to their feet. ‘In fact, it is I who should kneel before you.’
‘And why is that?’
Gardus turned. The old man was blind. His eye sockets were a ruin of faded scars, and his face was worse still. His nose had been partially eaten away by some disease, and his brown teeth showed through gaps in his lips and cheeks. A halo of stringy white hair framed the wreckage. He sat cross-legged in the lee of a makeshift tent made from a tattered cloak, stretched over a quartet of broken spears. What was left of the old man’s mouth twisted in a faint smile. ‘I can smell the storm on you. You smell of spring rains and clean water. I remember those things, though not well.’
Gardus allowed the crowd to carry him towards the old man. ‘You speak for these people?’ he said. The old man chuckled. The laugh degenerated into a racking cough, and he bent forward, wheezing. Gardus reached for him, but the old man waved him back.
‘I speak only for myself.’ He coughed. ‘That they choose to listen is more a sign of our desperation than any wisdom I might possess. I am Yare of Demesnus.’
Demesnus. The name rang through Gardus’ mind like a bell. ‘I am Gardus.’
‘You are not a mortal man, Gardus. I can hear the echoes of your voice in what remains of my marrow, and feel the heat of your armour on my face.’
‘No,’ Gardus said. ‘I am not mortal.’
Yare nodded weakly. ‘That is good. The days of mortal men are drawing to a close, I think. We are too fragile to survive what these lands have become. We pass into myth, and leave the ruins of the world to gods and monsters.’
‘Do not leave on my account,’ Gardus said.
The old man laughed again. ‘I’m in no hurry. I merely state a belief. I was a philosopher, you know. One of the last, I suspect. Not much use for philosophers, these days.’
‘You are wrong.’
Yare cocked his head. ‘Am I? That would be a welcome thing. Come closer. You said you should kneel before us, Gardus, and I asked why. You have not answered my question.’
Gardus sank to one knee before the old man. ‘I want to ask your forgiveness. And to make a promise.’
‘Promise?’ the old man said, searching blindly for a face he would never see. Gardus removed his helmet and set it aside. He caught the old man’s groping hand, and guided it to his face. Yare hissed in surprise. Gardus wondered what he had been expecting.
‘Yes. You are the faithful. And we shall not abandon you again.’
‘A fine sentiment,’ Yare said quietly. ‘But is it the truth?’
Gardus hesitated, uncertain how to answer such a question. Despite the kinship he felt with them, these people were no longer his, not truly. There was an ocean of time between them, and the realm Garradan of Demesnus had left was not this one, not any more. Things had changed, and the healer was now the warrior. Demesnus, a ruin. And philosophers made slaves. He was spared having to articulate any of this by a sudden rumbling from below. He rose swiftly to his feet, and the mortals drew back, their adoration turning to fright.
‘What?’ Yare asked. ‘What is it?’
‘Something has happened.’
The ground trembled. Gardus heard a great cracking sound, as of rock shearing from a cliff-face. The ground split, and murky water spewed upwards. Mortals were knocked sprawling as liquid spilled across the ground, slopping against the walls. Scaffolding tore away from the inner walls of the citadel as the destructive vibration rose. It crashed down, filling the air with dust and jagged splinters. Gardus interposed himself, shielding Yare and several others from the worst of it. He turned, scanning the courtyard. He spotted Morbus hurrying towards him, accompanied by Aetius and a retinue of Liberators.
‘Aetius, get these people to safety,’ Gardus said. ‘Morbus, what is this? What’s going on?’ The Lord-Relictor staggered as another tremor shook the ground. Gardus steadied him. ‘Is this some new trick of the enemy?’
‘I do not think so. At least, not an intentional one.’ Morbus braced himself with his staff as the citadel juddered again. ‘Lord-Castellant Grymn has not yet returned. I fear the two are connected.’
‘Lorrus…?’ Gardus pulled on his helmet. ‘We must find him. And swiftly.’
Tornus swooped low as the citadel continued to shudder. Already, pox-waters had filled the lower courtyard and extinguished many of the funeral pyres. He wondered if the fortress were dying. Sometimes, the bastions of Nurgle possessed a crude life of their own. If that were the case, the entire edifice might soon sink into the sea. The thought gave him no pleasure. There were too many mortals yet to be freed, too many sick, too many wounded. They would not be able to save them all.
Already, hundreds were being shepherded across the remaining viaduct by Liberators and Judicators. But not quickly enough. Prosecutors swooped overhead, carrying those too weak to move on their own. While much of the chamber was engaged in the evacuation, a substantial portion of its strength, led by Lord-Celestant Gardus, had descended into the depths, seeking the source of the pox-waters that threatened to drown them all.
Tornus banked sharply, his keen gaze searching the rubble below, seeking any signs of life. The task of searching for any survivors not yet gathered with the others had fallen to he, Cadoc and Enyo. While many of the mortals had turned on the Rotbringers as soon as they were given the opportunity, others had fled, seeking a safe place to wait out the fighting. Further, the surviving Rotbringers were mustering. Those who hadn’t fled in their ironwood barges across the bay would be readying themselves to counterattack. In their madness, they would see the death of this place not as a threat, but as an opportunity.
His wings dipped, and he swooped beneath a tilting scaffold. Loose ropes and chains slapped against his armour like vines as he drew close to the ground. Ospheonis screeched from somewhere above. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I saw it as well.’
Movement. Below a mound of fallen timbers. A steady stream of murky water curled through it, threatening to drown anyone who might be trapped beneath it. He dropped to the ground with a splash, slung his bow across his chest, and caught hold of a heavy timber. While not so strong as he once had been, he was still far more powerful than a mortal. The timber shifted with a creak and he got his shoulder under it, forcing it up. ‘Whoever you are, if you can hear me, try to crawl out.’
Something moved beneath the rubble. A noxious odour enveloped him. ‘My thanks, friend. Without your aid, I might have mouldered in the dark o’er long.’ The voice was a deep rasp, like a dull knife across burnt flesh. Tornus hurled the timber aside as something foul and dripping rose out of the dark to clutch at him with thick, wet fingers. He fell backwards, his attacker on top of him. A strong grip fastened onto the sides of his helmet and slung him to the ground, hard enough to smash the air from his lungs.
‘My apologies, friend. I dislike attacking one who has done me a good turn, but we are enemies, after all. Now, lie there and I shall crush your skull quickly, by way of thanks.’ The Chaos knight caught up another timber, this one not quite as large as himself, and lifted it like a club. Tornus rolled aside as the timber crashed down. One of his wings extended, and its shimmering length sawed across his opponent’s arm, raising a burst of sparks. The Chaos knight staggered back, clutching at his arm. The timber dropped to the ground, forgotten.
‘I almost felt that. Perhaps I spoke too soon.’ He inclined his head. Ragged strands of silk hung from the crown of his enclosed great helm, woven among a circlet of stubby horns. The tusks of an orruk decorated the front of the helm and his oversized gorget. His armour was dark and plain, save for the clumps of blisters that marked its plates. He wore a threadbare tabard, marked by the sign of t
he fly, and a belt of broken skulls around his waist. He spread his arms and said, ‘I have no weapon, as you can see. Will you permit me to recover my sword?’
Tornus unslung his bow and reached for an arrow. ‘No.’
‘Fie, sir, fie! Will you shoot me down like a cur?’
‘It is being more than you are deserving, pox-knight.’
The Chaos knight cocked his head. ‘Those mangled words seem overly familiar. Only one other have I ever heard speak in such a barbaric manner, and he is dead. Perished in honourable combat.’
‘Not honourable,’ Tornus said. Did this creature know him? Or who he had been? He could not recall, though he had fought alongside the knights of the Order more than once. Compelled by some dark curiosity, he said, ‘Be speaking your name.’
‘I am Gatrog, Duke of Festerfane.’
‘Is Goral being dead then?’ Tornus asked, despite himself. Torglug had met Goral, though only once. Torglug had found Goral infuriating, he recalled.
‘Aye, and these many months. I suppose the duchy shall fall to our cousin now.’ Gatrog took a step forwards. ‘Whatever happens, Festerfane shall always have a duke. So we were promised, and upon that promise we made our oaths.’
‘False promises, false oaths,’ Tornus said, stepping back. He pulled on the glimmering drawstring, arrow nocked and ready. But he did not fire. Something stayed his hand. ‘You are being a living falsehood.’
‘You speak as if you know me,’ Gatrog said. He took another step forwards, fingers flexing. ‘I’d heard that Torglug died in battle with the storm-warriors…’
Tornus shook his head. He felt as if he were in a thick fug, as if his lungs were constricting in his chest. ‘Torglug is being dead,’ he said, his voice hollow.
Why could he not loose his arrow? He had killed numberless Rotbringers since his apotheosis. Why did he hesitate with this one?
‘Is he?’ Gatrog asked. ‘No. I can see the shadow of his blighted hand on you, whatever you call yourself. Hidden in starlight and silver, but it’s there nonetheless. Nurgle’s seeds are tough things, and life always finds a way.’ He reached out. ‘Is it you, Torglug?’
Tornus lurched back and loosed his arrow. Gatrog grunted, but lunged forwards regardless, hands spread. He drove Tornus back, clutching at his throat. ‘It is you, isn’t it? You’ve been enchanted. Ripped from Grandfather’s bower by some Azyrite curse.’ One big fist slammed down on Tornus’ shoulder-plate, driving him to his knees. A second blow sent him sprawling in the water.
Dazed, he lashed out with his bow. Gatrog reeled back, cursing. Ospheonis shrieked and darted about the Chaos knight. Gatrog’s curses grew in volume as he swatted at the star-eagle, until they were cut short by an arrow hammering into his chest. Three more arrows sprouted from his chest-plate and pauldrons, staggering him.
Tornus looked up. Cadoc crashed to the ground with a splash, starblade flashing as he removed one of Gatrog’s hands at the wrist. He kicked the stunned Chaos knight in the chest, knocking him back into the pile of broken timbers. Gatrog roared in protest and shoved himself to his feet.
Cadoc laughed. ‘Some fight in this one, eh, sister?’
‘Finish him, Cadoc,’ Enyo said, as she dropped to the ground beside Tornus. ‘Are you injured, Tornus?’
Tornus shook his head. ‘It is only being my pride.’ He felt like a fool, allowing a creature like Gatrog to get so close. And more so for requiring aid. Enyo nodded, as if reading his thoughts.
‘Better your pride than your body,’ she said, extending a hand. He caught it, and allowed her to pull him to his feet. ‘Surprisingly durable, some of these pox-knights.’
‘Knight or slave, they all burn the same,’ Cadoc said, flipping open his beacon. ‘Look, abomination, look upon the light of Azyr one time before you perish. A gift to you, from the last Prince of Ekran.’
The azure radiance spilled forth, and Gatrog screamed. He stumbled forward against the light. His armour blackened and warped. Smoke rose from between its plates, and his tabard smouldered. Nonetheless, he groped blindly for Cadoc. One step. Then two. Three. Cadoc cursed and lifted his beacon higher. ‘Fall, filth,’ he snarled. ‘Yield to the light.’
‘A true knight… never yields,’ Gatrog said, his voice little more than a hoarse rattle. His remaining hand fumbled towards the beacon, as if to snatch it from the Knight-Azyros’ grip. Instead, he sank to one knee, with a groan. Cadoc, incensed, kicked him onto his back and set a foot on his chest, pinning him to the ground. He raised his starblade.
‘No,’ Tornus said.
Cadoc glanced at him. ‘What?’
‘Be staying your sword.’ Tornus extended his bow, forcing Cadoc to step back.
‘Tornus, he is an enemy, a slave of the Dark Gods,’ Enyo said.
‘Even as I was being once.’ Tornus looked at them. ‘And now, I am standing before you, being clad in silver and bearing a realmhunter’s bow.’ He gestured to Gatrog. ‘Who is to be saying that he could not be doing the same?’
‘Did that last blow to the head addle your wits?’ Cadoc demanded. ‘He is an enemy! His sort must be purged in the holy fires of Azyr.’ He took a step towards the fallen Rotbringer. Tornus interposed himself. Cadoc extended his blade. ‘Do not think that because you wear silver, you are safe from my judgement.’
‘Enough, the pair of you.’ Enyo thrust her bow between them. She tapped an arrow against Cadoc’s chest-plate. ‘You speak of judgement as if you were Sigmar himself, rather than his servant.’ She looked at Tornus. ‘And you have chosen an inopportune moment to come to these conclusions, worthy though they may be.’ As if to emphasize her point, the citadel gave another shudder. Chunks of rotting sargassum tumbled down from above, raining across the courtyard.
Tornus lowered his head. ‘I am bowing to your wisdom, Enyo.’ He reached down and snatched up a length of rusty chain from the rising waters. ‘We shall be binding him and taking him before Lord-Celestant Gardus. Let him be deciding what we are to be doing, yes?’ He looked at Cadoc, waiting to see if the Knight-Azyros protested.
Cadoc snorted and hung his beacon from his belt. ‘I await his judgement with interest.’ He pointed at Tornus. ‘Know this, though, do not seek to come between the Prince of Ekran and his prey again, Redeemed One. Else we shall see which of us Sigmar truly favours.’ He laughed. The sound was decidedly lacking in mirth.
Tornus turned to Enyo. ‘I am to be thanking you, huntress.’
Enyo nodded. ‘Well you should. Now, let us chain this blubbersome creature before he recovers his strength. Having gone to the trouble to spare him, I would rather not be forced to kill him now.’ Swiftly, they bound Gatrog in the chains, melting the links together with the heat of their arrows. Injured as the Rotbringer was, he gave them little trouble.
‘What sorcery is this, that can transform a great warrior so?’ Gatrog croaked, as they stepped back, task complete. His body still smouldered from Cadoc’s beacon, but his wrist stump had begun to scab over. He would heal, Tornus knew, but not soon. ‘What fell curse has reduced you to this base treachery, Torglug?’
‘No curse,’ Tornus said. ‘Hope. There was being one last spark of hope in me, one last ember of faith.’ He looked down at his foe. ‘There is being a spark of hope in you as well, Gatrog.’ Even as he said the words, he knew they were true. He believed that hope, that faith, was what had allowed him – had allowed Torglug – to endure the celestial beacons of the Stormcast Eternals. Where his followers had been reduced to ash, Torglug had stumbled on. As Gatrog had. Somewhere, deep inside the pox-knight, was a spark of the man he might have been, before Nurgle had corrupted him.
Gatrog slumped. ‘Hope is the weed in Grandfather’s garden.’
‘Yes,’ Tornus said. ‘That is being the truth of the thing.’
Morbus Stormwarden felt old. Fingers locked about his reliquary staff, he bent mind and will against the
rushing pox-waters that sought to flood the depths of the sargasso-citadel. A force of nature, even a corrupted one, was not an enemy to be attacked. Instead, it had to be redirected, its fury purged. Behind him, Stormcasts advanced, protected from the rising deluge by his magics. Ahead of him, the storm raged, and he let the leash slip, matching wind and lightning against water.
It was no easy thing to carry the storm, and this campaign had all but worn him to a nub. Cleansing the skies, the waters, the land itself was no simple task. Added to his burden was the constant threat of Nurgle’s shadow. Here, in Ghyran, the Plague God held more sway than he ought, and every Stormcast who fell in battle with the Rotbringers risked having his or her soul devoured by the daemons capering unseen just behind the veil of reality. It took a great deal of concentration to guide the souls of the fallen back to Azyr, and he’d spent many restless nights in communion with the dead.
Morbus had never spoken of these difficulties to anyone. They were his burden, as Bearer of the Bones of Heroes, and he endured them gladly. Even as he had centuries past, as Ar-Morr of Baran-Ulut. He could not recall much about his mortal life, but he remembered his title, and the smell of incense. The weight of his ceremonial armour, and the stiff, scratchy fabric of his robes of office. The feel of the scythe in his hands, as he harvested the souls of the soon-to-be dead. He had been old then, as well. And though his body was young now, his mind and soul still bowed beneath an accumulation of years. Age brought wisdom, and only the wise could endure the Twelve Rites.
However, he didn’t feel particularly wise at this moment. Tired, angry, but not wise. Something had gone wrong. Or perhaps right. It was hard to tell. The spirits of the air and water were in an uproar, screaming of a black wound in the belly of the sea. A wound that spat bilious water and shook the foundations of the citadel. He could feel the rawness of it at the edge of his perceptions. A phantom pain, impinging on his ability to focus. Then, that had been the way of it since he’d first set foot in the Jade Kingdoms.
Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 13