Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Page 10

  He and Cadoc had been dispatched by Knight-Vexillor Angstun to see to the Rotbringer reinforcements spilling over from one of the other citadels. If they could not be checked, the Hallowed Knights might be overwhelmed.

  It felt strange, fighting against warriors he might once have commanded. He looked into the featureless helms of blightkings, and saw a reflection of who he had been. As he had been twisted into Torglug, so too had these warriors been corrupted. The mortal Rotbringers had been similarly broken. Their hope had been replaced with despair, and their faith stretched all out of joint. Could they be saved, as he had been? Or had there been something different about him?

  Even if they could have been redeemed, Cadoc seemed to have no interest in doing so. The Knight-Azyros fought like a maddened ghyrlion, jade in fang and claw. Cadoc burst through walkways and severed the ropes binding the rickety bridges, spilling enemies to the ground far below. He shattered bones and hacked through limbs, leaving a trail of bodies to mark his ascent. Hallowed Knights cheered wherever he passed, though the tenor of those cries was different to those Gardus received. The Steel Souls loved Gardus. But there could be no loving a warrior like Cadoc.

  Tornus watched in uncomfortable fascination as Cadoc caught up a pox-monk, wrapped in stinking robes and an antiquated breastplate, and carried him high into the air. ‘Look, Tornus, I have caught a mouse,’ Cadoc called out, gripping the struggling, screaming Rotbringer by his throat. ‘Would your eagle like a snack?’

  ‘I am thinking such meat would be disagreeing with him,’ Tornus said.

  ‘You’re probably right. Back you go, little mouse.’ Cadoc opened his hand, and the monk plummeted downwards, trailing a despairing scream. Cadoc chuckled. ‘You’d think their fly-god would gift them with wings.’

  Tornus shook his head, somewhat taken aback. Following Cadoc was proving to be a valuable lesson. Thus far, the other Stormcasts he’d met had been stern, or even savage. But none so cruel as Cadoc Kel. The Dark Gods must have wept in rage to see his soul ascend to Azyr, for such a warrior might have risen high in their ranks. Then, perhaps not. Cadoc was zealously devoted to Sigmar. His faith pulsed in him the way Gardus’ did. But it was not the same sort of faith at all. For Gardus, war was a grim necessity. A thing to be done well, but swiftly. For Cadoc, war was a celebration, and every foe slain was another sacrifice in Sigmar’s name.

  Indeed, he’d come to discover that few of the Hallowed Knights shared the same tenets of faith. They had all called upon Sigmar in their final moments, but not the same Sigmar. Some had called upon Zig’mar Thundercracker, or Sehgmar the Benevolent, or any one of a thousand other iterations of the God-King.

  Did they still see him that way? Or had they traded one Sigmar for another, once they met him face to face? Tornus had called upon Sigmar the Builder, and there seemed to be little difference in the being he’d worshipped and the one who’d redeemed him. But he could not believe that the wise God-King he had knelt before would countenance the brutal worship of a being like Cadoc.

  The Knight-Azyros dropped down onto the edge of the largest walkway. It had been carved from a single, massive bone, and was suspended in a web of chains from a framework of rotting wood, which extended across the gap between citadel walls. Far below, the sea slapped at the foundations of the sargasso-citadels. The dark waters heaved and swelled as strange, vast shapes fought over the bodies that fell from above.

  Rotbringers, led by a phalanx of blightkings, were flooding across the walkway towards the citadel. They rang plague-bells and sang bilious songs, as the blightkings chanted dolorously. More groups pressed forwards behind them, eager to make their own crossing. The leading blightkings slowed as they caught sight of Cadoc, standing in their path. The Knight-Azyros laughed. ‘Look at them, Tornus. Are they not ridiculous, in their tatters and rust?’

  Tornus said nothing. Cadoc was speaking for his own benefit. A common occurrence, he was coming to learn. Cadoc drew his starblade and set it point first into the walkway. ‘None here can stop me,’ he said, raising his celestial beacon. ‘I am a Prince of Ekran. You are like worms fighting an eagle, with as much hope of survival.’ The light washed across the walkways, boiling the advancing Rotbringers in their own skins. The blightkings pressed forwards, despite the smoke rising from their ruined frames. None got close. One by one, they sank down, wreathed in azure flames.

  Tornus winced in sympathy. He well recalled that light, and what it felt like to be caught up in it. A scalding pain, heaped upon agony. A pain so unbearable that even death was preferable to enduring it for more than a moment. Even the Dark Gods themselves could not conceive of such a pain. It was the pain of negation, of obliteration. Of the complete and utter dissolution of being. Only the strongest could survive its touch.

  Cadoc shuttered his beacon and chuckled. ‘See, Tornus, the mercy of Azyr.’

  ‘This is being a mercy?’

  Cadoc laughed. ‘Of course! Now they do not have to suffer beneath the lashes of their false gods.’ He hung the beacon from his belt. ‘In another life, I would have bound them in cages of iron and hung them over the fire pits, to sweat away their sins in Sigmar’s name.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh well.’

  ‘Enough reminiscing. There is being more of them.’ Tornus nocked an arrow and let it fly, pinning a Rotbringer to the walkway frame. The servants of Nurgle were nothing if not fearless. Pain was a gift, and one eagerly sought. Mostly, at any rate.

  ‘Ah, good!’ Cadoc spread his wings with a shrieking crackle. ‘More souls for Sigmar’s fires.’ The Rotbringers stumbled to a halt, those at the back falling over those in front. ‘Best get ready to die, friends,’ he called out. ‘I will be along in just a moment.’

  Tornus stared in consternation at his fellow Stormcast. Cadoc slapped the flat of his blade against his chest as he strode along the smoke-wreathed walkway. ‘Come on, don’t be scared. I bring you peace, friends. I bring you absolution.’ He spread his arms. ‘But I grow impatient. Come. Hurry! You were so eager before. Are you scared?’

  A blightking shoved his way to the fore and bellowed a gurgling challenge. Cadoc inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘There we are,’ he said. He took a step, and then another, and then, with a single flap of his wings, he was airborne.

  ‘Come see how a Kel fights, maggots,’ Cadoc roared. His starblade looped out, removing the blightking’s head. ‘Cadoc Kel, last Prince of the Ekran, demands your attention.’ The air boomed as he surged forwards with a snap of his crackling wings. He tore through the Rotbringer ranks, leaving a path of severed limbs and headless necks in his wake. Few of the foe sought to stand against him, preferring instead to take their chances against less swift-moving opponents. They turned and fled back across the walkway, Cadoc in pursuit, roaring out a song in praise of Sigmar.

  Tornus swooped in his wake, realmhunter’s bow humming as he loosed arrow after arrow at the Rotbringers trapped on the walkway, caught between Cadoc and their fellows behind. As quickly as he could grasp an arrow from his quiver, he sent it flying. Ospheonis flew at his side, talons tearing at any Rotbringer who sought to grab him. Cadoc ploughed on, hurling Rotbringers from the walkway as he sought to tear the heart out of them.

  Prosecutors swooped towards the mass of Rotbringers from behind. The chamber’s Angelos Conclave had been dispatched to distract the forces occupying the other two citadels. To that end, they’d freed the captives from the slave-cages in all three citadels. Now, reinforced by the newly arrived Reforged Prosecutors, they could help those freed slaves do more than just escape. A part of Tornus was sickened at the thought of using mortals in such a fashion. Another, wiser part knew that it was a sad necessity.

  The Stormcast Eternals were too few to do more than pierce the dark. For their light to flourish, they needed to rally the mortal inhabitants of the realms. From the lowliest grot to the greatest gargant, and everyone in between. Every arm that could wield a sword would be
needed, before the Varanspire was toppled and Archaon Everchosen, the Grand Marshal of Chaos, was cast from his throne.

  As Torglug, he had feared Archaon. The thought of that volcanic presence, of the harsh weight of that three-eyed gaze, had been one of the few things capable of shaking the Despised One’s certainty. Archaon was the end made flesh. The null point, where all light and courage was reduced to memory. Few Chaos lords would even consider openly defying Archaon, and those that would were either mad or foolish. Torglug had been neither.

  Tornus pushed the thought aside. He didn’t like to think on those days. Torglug was gone, and good riddance. As Lord-Celestant Silus had said, he was Tornus now, and forevermore. He loosed an arrow, pinning a blightking’s arm to the walkway before the warrior could land a blow on Cadoc. The Knight-Azyros’ wing sliced out, burning through the trapped blightking’s neck and sending his head tumbling into the waters below.

  ‘A fine shot. Cadoc would have been angry if you’d stolen his kill.’

  Tornus glanced around and saw another Knight-Venator perched on a nearby buttress, her bow lying across her knees. Her star-eagle swooped towards Ospheonis, and the two birds circled one another in a graceful dance.

  ‘I am thinking the same,’ he said. He glided towards her.

  ‘I see you walk the Realmhunter’s Path,’ she said. ‘And you bear the colours of the faithful. But you are not of our chamber.’

  ‘Silus the Untarnished is being my commander.’

  ‘Have the Gleaming Host come to aid us, then?’ She sounded almost disappointed. Tornus shook his head.

  ‘It is only being me.’

  ‘Ah, well, you are welcome.’ She spread her arms. ‘Stay, and shoot, if you like.’ She gestured to the walkway. ‘Plenty of targets.’ She rose to her feet.

  ‘Is that how you are thinking of them?’

  ‘How would you refer to them?’ She eyed him. ‘I am Enyo.’

  ‘Tornus.’

  ‘Well, Tornus, if they are targets, they have chosen to make themselves such. We held true to our faith, and suffered for it. Let them now do the same.’ She drew an arrow, sighted, loosed. ‘I will not pity them their choices.’

  Tornus drew an arrow of his own. ‘They are possibly not having one.’

  She did not reply, simply sent a second arrow after the first. For a moment, they loosed in silent harmony, peppering the Rotbringers with arrow after arrow. There was a strange sort of peace in the rhythm of it. Tornus let his thoughts fall away, his worries and doubts. The only thing that mattered was the crackle-snap of the bowstring, and the vibration of an arrow leaving his hand.

  All too soon, it was over. Rotbringers fled back the way they’d come, seeking the dubious safety of the citadel below. On the ramparts, retinues of Liberators and Judicators began to follow them. Thunderhead Brotherhoods, supported by Prosecutors, had been dispatched to see to the taking of the ramparts of the other two citadels. They would take control of the upper levels and dig in, awaiting reinforcements. Once the central fortress had fallen, and the various routes between the three were under control, the Stormcasts would be free to concentrate the full might of the chamber on the others, each in turn.

  ‘They flee,’ Enyo murmured, lowering her bow. She glanced at Tornus. ‘I know who you are now. Not at first, but there is only one Tornus.’

  He did not look at her. ‘And so?’

  ‘So nothing,’ she said. ‘You wear our symbol. You are bonded to a celestial bird. That is enough, I think. I have faith.’

  Tornus nodded, and perched beside her on the buttress. ‘I am glad to be hearing you saying that.’ He flexed his hand, watching the sigmarite plates of his gauntlet move. ‘There are not many who are being so forgiving.’

  ‘No. I expect not. Nor should you.’ She looked away. ‘We were not forged with forgiveness in mind. We are the storm, and like the storm, we do only as we must, not as we might wish. A good thing, I think. Otherwise, Cadoc would be more unbearable than he already is.’ She looked up. ‘Speaking of whom…’

  ‘Ha, Enyo,’ Cadoc called, swooping about them. ‘My tally stands at seven and thirty souls sent to Sigmar’s fires.’

  ‘You must be pleased,’ the Knight-Venator said.

  ‘What is yours?’ he demanded.

  ‘I do not count my kills, Prince of Ekran.’

  Cadoc laughed. ‘That means I’m winning.’

  Enyo gestured. ‘You see? A savage. Faith is his only saving grace.’

  ‘My faith is shown in victory,’ Cadoc said. Tornus couldn’t tell whether he was angry or pleased at the insult. He swatted his beacon with the flat of his blade. ‘By my light are the faithful guided to their triumph. And the false burnt to ashes.’

  ‘I’d like to think the rest of us had a little something to do with it,’ Enyo said.

  ‘A bit, perhaps,’ Cadoc admitted. ‘But I shine the brightest in His eyes. Come, Tornus, join me! I go to spread my light to the darkest corners of the far citadel. Let them know the glory and terror that comes of standing against a Prince of Ekran.’ He swooped upwards, without waiting for a reply.

  Tornus watched the Knight-Azyros soar away. ‘He is seeming to remember much of his life from before.’

  On the ramparts, a few remaining Rotbringers were attempting to drive back the shieldwall of Liberators advancing on them. They shouted out praises to Nurgle with hysterical abandon, as if begging their god to intervene and save them.

  ‘It would take more than a single forging on the Anvil of Apotheosis to dent that ego.’ Enyo sighted along an arrow. She let it fly, and a Rotbringer fell. ‘From what little I know of the Ekran, they were a fierce folk. And proud.’

  ‘Pride is being a weakness,’ Tornus said. Enyo glanced at him.

  ‘You sound as if you know that from experience,’ she said.

  ‘Cadoc is not being alone in his memories,’ Tornus said. He tracked a lumbering blightking along a lower scaffold. ‘I am also remembering where I am coming from. And I am remembering how I got there.’ He loosed the arrow. The blightking shot backwards, striking the wall, then toppled forwards through the rail of the scaffold, and down.

  Tornus watched him fall.

  Chapter Seven

  THE GATE OF WEEDS

  Blightmaster Bubonicus sighed as he felt the marshy floor of the vaulted chamber tremble beneath his feet. The battle above was not going as well as he might have hoped. He considered joining the fray himself, but then discarded the idea. One more or less warrior would change the situation little, even if that warrior was himself. The die had been cast, and a doom set in motion. Either his or theirs, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was his duty to protect the Gate of Weeds until it could be opened.

  The chamber was a large, hollowed-out cavern, dripping with slimes and moulds. It was damp and humid, and clouds of flies undulated through the air, dancing in time to a tune only they could hear. The walls were slick and wet, and skeletal shapes swam slowly through the hardened sargassum, moving inches across centuries. Support pillars made from dredged bones and basalt held up the ceiling, and the seven­fold rune of Nurgle had been carved into every flat surface. Balefire torches had been thrust through holes carved in protruding bones, and they cast their sickly glow over the space.

  The chamber was a holy place, a sacred tumour. But not for much longer, Bubonicus feared. The chamber shuddered. Water bubbled up from within the cracks in the sargassum, and the weeds, which sprouted like a carpet, rustled. ‘It was inevitable, I suppose. All great quests encounter hardship. It is the price of a good song, as the troubadours say.’ He could smell lightning on the air. Smell was the wrong word. Taste? Yes, that sounded right.

  It all tasted of lightning. Harsh and sharp. An unpleasant taste, lacking in even the most basic of subtleties. The enemy possessed little in the way of subtlety. What could one expect of such garish creatures? B
ut perhaps that was the point. That very lack of subtlety was what made them so fearsome an enemy, as evidenced by the armsmen scattered around the chamber, muttering nervously amongst themselves.

  More than two dozen of the strongest and most disciplined of the Order’s warriors were about him. Each and every one of them was blooded, and experienced in the ways of war. They were veterans of the Spindlewood War and the conquest of the Rothorn. They had faced Bloodbound, Arcanites and orruks without a backwards step. And yet now they were afraid. Afraid of implacable silver shapes with unmoving faces. Afraid of the storm.

  ‘Be not fearful, friends,’ Bubonicus said as he walked among them, reminding them of the power he wielded. He caught one by the shoulder. The armsman yelped. ‘You, Cutchuk, your grandfather stood with me at the Black Cistern, I recall.’

  The armsman gave him a hesitant, gap-toothed grimace. ‘Aye, my lord. He passed there, and watered the ground with his blood.’

  ‘A worthy death. And you, Galnag, isn’t it? You and your shield-sisters helped strike down the Unsung Champion in the Spindlewood, did you not?’ Galnag nodded jerkily, her ratty locks slipping from beneath her helm. ‘A good day, that. A fine day. As this day will be.’ Bubonicus looked around. ‘Death is not the end, for any of us. Fall here, and an eternity of blissful servitude awaits you in the gardens of the King of all Flies. That I swear to you.’

  The armsmen cheered, their mucus-roughened voices resounding through the chamber. Bubonicus nodded in satisfaction. They would likely not survive this day. But all deaths served Grandfather’s will, for only in death could new life flourish. So long as they died bravely, and in service to a righteous cause, the garden would be waiting for them.