Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Read online

  ‘My Lady Cassandora, a pleasure as ever,’ Zephacleas said, making an attempt at a courtly bow. He peered up at her as he did so. ‘How’s that for respect?’

  ‘Adequate,’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘Barely.’

  Lord-Celestant Cassandora Stormforged had been among the first of their Stormhost to wage war in the Mortal Realms. It was by her hand that the Queen of Swords had been cast down, and the ancient rim-citadel of Ytalan claimed in Sigmar’s name, during the Crater-War. The Stormforged struck like lightning, and left nothing standing in their wake. ‘Still as foolish as ever, Beast-Bane. I recall it was almost the death of you, in Klaxus.’

  ‘And yet, here I stand,’ Zephacleas said, gesturing expansively.

  ‘Yes, thanks to me,’ Cassandora said. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’ She looked at Gardus, as Zephacleas spluttered. ‘It’s time, brother. The Shadowed Soul requests our presence. The lords of the fourth Stormhost gather in the Sepulchre of the Faithful.’

  Gardus nodded. ‘Yes.’ He tapped Zephacleas’ shoulder-plate with his hammer. ‘It was good to see you again, brother.’

  ‘So it was,’ Zephacleas said. He caught Gardus up in a rib-rattling bear hug, squeezing him hard enough to make his sigmarite creak. ‘Go with Sigmar, my brother. And if you need help, I shall be there, come death or ruin.’

  Cassandora coughed politely. ‘Time runs swift, brother.’

  ‘Indeed it does,’ Gardus said. He extended his hammer. ‘Lead on, sister. The Sepulchre of the Faithful awaits us.’

  The celestine vaults of Sigmaron rang with the sounds of eternal industry as Tornus the Redeemed strode swiftly after his Lord-Celestant. The Knight-Venator tried his best to hide his uncertainty as he said, ‘I am not understanding, my lord. It is being a – a funeral?’

  ‘Of sorts,’ Silus the Untarnished said, not unkindly. He led Tornus along the high outer platform, past the great emptiness of the universal sea. In the distance, the aetherdomes crackled with captured lightning, funnelling the fury of the storm into the forges of the citadel. Tornus flinched inwardly as he heard what might have been the faint screams of those undergoing their Reforging, beneath the growl of distant thunder.

  ‘But we are not dying. We are being Reforged.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Tornus looked up as the shadow of shimmering wings passed over him, and caught sight of his star-eagle, Ospheonis, gliding overhead. The bird accompanied him everywhere. It had become his constant companion since his Reforging. When no further explanation seemed forthcoming from Silus, he asked, ‘Who is to be dead?’

  Silus stopped. His shoulders sagged slightly as he turned. ‘A brother of our Stormhost. Tarsus Bull Heart.’

  ‘I am not knowing him,’ Tornus said. Even now, he knew precious few of his new-found brothers. None had been unwelcoming of him, but few sought him out. He found no fault with them for this reluctance. He was who he was, and who he had been.

  ‘No. He met his fate before you were Reforged.’

  Tornus noted a hesitation in Silus’ answer. He nodded slowly. ‘Before I am being Tornus again, you mean,’ he said softly. Silus frowned.

  ‘You were always Tornus. Everything else was a lie.’

  ‘It was not feeling like a lie at the time,’ Tornus said. He smiled, to show it was a joke. Though there was precious little humour to be found in his situation. The few memories he still possessed of his time as defender of the Lifewells, and then later of his imprisonment in the Pit of Filth, welled up unbidden, and he took a deep breath. For seventy-six days, he had resisted the miasmic attention of Nurgle’s chosen, until his stubborn refusal to succumb became the very thing which spelled his doom.

  On the seventy-seventh day, Tornus had died. And Torglug the Despised had emerged from the ruin of him, like a maggot from a wound. The things he had done as Torglug still haunted him… He remembered clearly the drowning of the Athelwyrd and the toppling of the Moon-Oak, the screams of his own people and the rasping cries of the tree-kin… All crimes committed by his hand. He had been the Woodsman, the sharp edge of Nurgle’s axe pressed against the bark of the World Tree.

  Until the Blackstone Summit, and the coming of the Celestant-Prime. Tornus could still feel the heat of the divine warrior’s first and final blow, as it burnt away the rotten husk of Torglug and freed the dwindled spark of Tornus within. That spark had flourished on the Anvil of Apotheosis, hammered and shaped into a weapon of vengeance and redemption. And yet, he still heard the screams of the innocent who’d perished by his hand. Sometimes he wondered if he had been left those memories for a purpose. A reminder, perhaps, of how far he’d fallen. Or a warning of what awaited him should he fail again.

  Silus made as if to clasp Tornus’ shoulder, but stopped short. ‘Whatever you once were, Tornus, you are a Stormcast Eternal now.’ He let his hand fall. ‘You are a Hallowed Knight. A scion of the fourth Stormhost, one of the faithful. Who will stand, when all others fall?’

  ‘Only the faithful,’ Tornus said. He was all of those things, to be sure. But Silus had never once called him brother. None of them had, as yet. Perhaps it would come with time. He hoped so. In the interim, he was determined to do all that he could to earn it.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ Silus echoed. ‘Now come, it is time you knew what that truly entails. It is time for you to learn the true price of faith.’

  Tornus nodded, but said nothing. He was already familiar with the price Silus spoke of, but saw little reason to insist on it. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘The Sepulchre of the Faithful,’ Silus said. ‘All Stormhosts have such mausoleums, though they call them by different names. A place of quiet contemplation, where the truly dead are honoured, and the memories of our mortal lives are recounted and recorded so that even if we… forget, those moments are not lost.’

  Tornus shivered slightly. ‘I am thinking my memories are best forgotten, yes?’

  ‘No,’ Silus said, firmly. ‘Do you think you are alone in your darkling past? There are many among us who found their faith only in their final moments, or who discovered the light only after a lifetime of darkness.’ He glanced at the Knight-Venator. ‘None fell so far as you, Tornus, but some… came close. That is why Sigmar placed you with us.’

  Tornus fell silent. He had his own suspicions as to why he had been inducted into the ranks of those he had, until recently, been trying his level best to kill. Another lesson. Another reminder. This new world was full of them.

  Somewhere, the Great Mourning Bell was ringing, sounding a eulogy for the fallen. Stormcasts from other Stormhosts moved to and fro about their own business, and Tornus studied them. He could not help but compare them to those corrupt warriors he had fought alongside in the Jade Kingdoms. Here, there was little of the incessant bickering that afflicted the servants of the Ruinous Powers. Rather than a horde of individuals, each warrior fighting for his own glory, the Stormcasts were truly united, both in war and peace. Indeed, so too were most of those who inhabited Sigmar’s realm.

  Sigmaron was not only inhabited by Stormcast Eternals these days. Representatives from Azyrheim, engineers of the Ironweld Arsenal, even envoys from the reclusive clans of the Dispossessed, moved about their business everywhere Tornus looked. In the dark days when the assaults of Chaos had set the Mortal Realms reeling, many had sought refuge in Azyr. As the war had progressed, the descendants of those refugees now prepared themselves to reclaim that which had been lost.

  Silus nodded in a friendly fashion to certain of these mortal envoys – among them a tall, dark-skinned warrior-priest, clutching a heavy tome to his chest, a soldier of the Freeguilds, his helmet resplendent with plumage, and a grim-faced duardin warrior, clad in finely crafted armour and carrying a rune-inscribed hammer – though he spoke to none of them. Tornus studied the duardin wonderingly. He had fought such beings before, in darker times. Torglug the Woodsman had hewn apart
the ironwood shields of the root-kings, and cast down their stoneoak citadels. The Lord-Celestant noticed Tornus’ fascination with the mortals and said, ‘We are the storm, and these the seeds that flourish in the wake of our rains.’

  ‘There are being so many of them,’ Tornus said. ‘My folk, the guardians of the Lifewells, were being few in number. As the land grew sick, so too did we, dwindling generation upon generation.’

  ‘And now, both land and people will grow great again, if we but hold firm to the course the God-King has laid out.’ Silus spoke confidently.

  Tornus kept his doubts to himself. He had seen too much to believe victory a certainty. But without that belief, could he truly call himself one of the faithful?

  He was still mulling this over when they arrived at their destination at last. They were not alone. Other Stormcasts, all wearing the silver and azure of the Hallowed Knights, were gathering there in the vast antechamber. Tornus found himself awestruck by his surroundings, and somewhat intimidated by their solemnity. Great bas-reliefs of intricate craftsmanship covered the walls, and the massive pillars that lined the path to the inner chamber were inscribed with the Canticles of Faith. Ornate lanterns hung suspended from the ceiling, each one casting a soft, blue radiance over everything.

  But what caught Tornus’ attention were the great ironbound books chained to the stone shelves along one wall. It was said that the mortal memories, however patchy or incomplete, of every Hallowed Knight, from Lord-Celestant to Liberator, were recorded in the Books of the Faithful. It was the responsibility of a select few Lord-Relictors to protect and add to the books, but all Hallowed Knights were allowed to read from them, to renew the wellsprings of their faith.

  Tornus wondered when his memories would be added to the records. He suspected his deeds might somehow taint the purity of it all. Perhaps he would refuse, when the time came. Why burden others with his sins?

  No one spoke as they filed into the inner chamber, where a group of skull-helmed Lord-Relictors awaited them with sombre patience. Clad in their baroque mortis armour, the lords of the living lightning made for an intimidating sight, even for Stormcasts. Eldritch energies crackled across their silver war-plate, illuminating the fell sigils and grim relics that decorated it. They stood arrayed around an enormous pillar of pale stone, larger than the others, erected at the chamber’s heart.

  Said to have been carved from purest celestine by the claws of Dracothian himself, and chiselled into its present shape by the ancestral tools of the greatest masons of the Dispossessed, the pillar shone like starlight. It was bare of all decoration, save for a scattering of what appeared to be sigmarite spikes hammered into its surface.

  Tornus looked around, studying the Stormcasts around him, searching for familiar faces amongst the sea of silver. It appeared that the commanders and officers of every chamber of the fourth Stormhost were here at the ceremony. He recognised a few of them. Iorek Ironheart, Cassandora Stormforged, even Gardus of the Steel Soul were all in attendance.

  The sight of the latter made his heart clench. The Steel Souls had been a persistent thorn in Torglug’s bloated paw. It was said by some that Gardus had hurled himself into the Garden of Nurgle, and escaped unsullied. Tornus could almost believe it, for the Lord-Celestant’s broad form shone with a faint, eerie radiance that reminded him of the purifying energies of the Celestant-Prime. The tribulations the Steel Soul had endured had changed him in undeniable ways.

  Tornus knew those changes had come about after Gardus had perished in the battle for the Athelwyrd. While Torglug had not struck the fatal blow, it had been by his hand that the situation came about. Tornus could still feel the echo of his own laughter as he watched a daemon summoned by his command crush the struggling, silver form.

  A Lord-Relictor thumped the floor with the ferrule of his staff, startling him. Tornus recognised Cerberac Darkfane, the Lord-Relictor of the Ironhearts warrior chamber. When he spoke, his voice was a hollow rasp. ‘The Bell of Lamentation rings. The stars weep. Who shall stand, when the foundations of the heavens crumble?’

  ‘Only the faithful,’ the assembled Lord-Relictors intoned.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ Cerberac repeated. ‘Come forth, Ramus of the Shadowed Soul. Come forth and perform your duty.’

  One of the other Lord-Relictors stepped forwards. His armour showed signs of wear, its silver sheen dulled in places, the azure trim stripped and patchy. A great crack ran down one side of his skull-helm, allowing a thin glimpse at the pale features beneath. His dark cloak was singed and tattered. Like all Lord-Relictors, his armour was decorated with sigils of faith, death and the storm. A shield of mirrored silver, carrying a relief of a twin-tailed comet, hung from one shoulder. He carried no reliquary staff like the others, instead clutching his relic hammer in one hand, and a sigmarite spike in the other.

  He raised the spike. ‘How many times?’ he asked, his sepulchral voice echoing through the chamber. ‘How many times have we faithful few stood here since the Gates of Azyr opened, and Sigmar’s storm was unleashed upon the Mortal Realms?’ Without waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘How many times will we gather here, in days yet to come?’

  The Lord-Relictor looked around, his gaze lingering upon some faces longer than others. Tornus felt the weight of his gaze, and found himself wondering what trials Ramus of the Shadowed Soul had endured. ‘I cannot say, for on this matter, the spirits are silent. Whatever the number, we endure it gladly. Much is demanded…’

  ‘Of those to whom much is given,’ Tornus and the others said in response. The Hallowed Knights spoke as one, their voices soft and low.

  ‘This spike of precious sigmarite I bless in the name of him who is lost to us. Tarsus Bull Heart, Lord-Celestant of the Bull Hearts. Hero of the Cerulean Shore.’ The Lord-Relictor placed the spike against the pillar, and raised his hammer. ‘Let… let his name join those of the others who are now gone, never to be Reforged.’ Tornus noticed the slight hesitation, and from the faces of some of the others, he knew he was not alone in that.

  For a Stormcast Eternal, death was not the end. But there were fates worse than death, and there were endings even for immortals. There was not a single Stormhost that had not suffered such casualties over the course of the war. Tornus resisted the urge to count the spikes that studded the pillar. One was too many.

  Lightning flashed as the relic hammer struck the flat head of the spike, driving it into the pillar. It took but a single blow, and the reverberations filled the chamber, drowning out all sound for a brief instant. The Lord-Relictor stepped back, hammer dangling loosely from his hand. ‘It is done,’ he said. He sounded almost defeated.

  Cerberac Darkfane thumped the ground again. ‘It is done. Another soul lost. But while one remains, we will hold true. Who will preserve the light, to its last gleaming?’

  ‘Only the faithful,’ the Hallowed Knights answered, in unison.

  ‘Louder, brothers and sisters,’ Cerberac chided. ‘Let Sigmar hear your voices, in this, our hour of grief. Who will defend all that is, even unto oblivion?’

  ‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply, thunderous in its intensity.

  As the echoes of the mantra faded, the pillar began to glow with a harsh radiance. Sparks of lightning leapt from spike to spike, limning each in an azure radiance, if only briefly. As the light and sound faded, Tornus bowed his head, mourning a warrior he had never met, and now, never would.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ he murmured.

  Chapter Two

  THE BAY OF FLIES

  Lord-Castellant Lorrus Grymn braced himself and swept his halberd out in a wide arc. The beastman’s bray of challenge was cut short as the halberd bit into its hairy neck and tore its goatish head from its shoulders. Grymn spun the weapon, sluicing the blade clean of gore, before planting it on the ground. His stern gaze passed over the surviving beastmen as they edged back from him. ‘Well?’ he said, his voice m
ild. ‘Which of you wishes to die next?’

  One of the gors tossed its horned head and pawed the wet earth. It extended its notched and rust-bitten blade and spat something in the dark tongue. Maggots writhed in its eye sockets, and large, fat fleas danced in its hair. Though the rest of the brute’s herd snarled and gibbered in response, none of them were eager to meet the same fate as their fellow. Grymn had little patience for such antics. He reached down to the warding lantern hanging from his belt and flipped it open.

  Gold light washed out over the closest beastmen, searing their unnatural flesh to the bone the instant it touched them. Bestial screams filled the air, and several of the creatures stumbled away, eyes boiling, hairy bodies alight. The few who were unaffected lunged for him as a group, snorting and stamping, desperate to douse his light.

  Grymn smiled in satisfaction. ‘Tallon.’

  The gryph-hound gave a shriek of joy and sprang out from behind him, hurling himself at the foe. He was a heavy-bodied creature, with the limbs and loyalty of a hunting hound, and the head of a bird of prey. Tallon knocked one of the beastmen to the ground and began to savage the brute with his beak. Grymn faced the others.

  It was no contest. A moment later, he jerked his halberd free of a twitching body and allowed himself to take stock of the current situation. The battle among the salt grasses had ended almost before it had begun. The beasts had been all but beaten before the first warblade had been drawn. Which was only as it should be.

  Grymn had led his Hallowed Knights in pursuit of the warherd for weeks, driving them back across the Plains of Vo and down to the mosquito-haunted coasts of the Verdant Bay, burning their filthy camps and toppling their maggot-infested herdstones. It had been the largest herd of beasts in the region, and the best organised, in the wake of the closing of the Genesis Gate. Now it was nothing more than a trail of dead, stretching across the mud flats, tidal shallows and salt marshes of the embayment.