Hallowed Knights: Ghosts of Demesnus Page 4

  ‘Garradan…’ she whispered, reaching for him. ‘Your face… I knew…’

  ‘No,’ Gardus said. Softly at first, and then more insistently. ‘Garradan is dead. He died here. I am Gardus.’ He made to draw her to her feet, but she fell onto her face.

  ‘No, I am not worthy,’ she moaned.

  Gardus hesitated, momentarily at a loss. Then, with a sigh, he dropped to his haunches. ‘Get up, please.’

  She looked up at him, tears streaking her face. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ she whispered. ‘You came, and we did not know – I am not worthy.’ She made to fall forward again, but Gardus caught her.

  ‘Up,’ he said, helping her to her feet. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘I – I questioned, I doubted, I thought – I thought…’

  ‘You thought Garradan would not come.’

  She nodded. She turned away, shivering. ‘I was going to leave.’

  ‘That is why you were at the wharfs.’

  ‘I wanted to leave. To go. But they caught me, and then – and then…’ She trailed off. ‘My faith was not strong enough. Carazo’s faith is like iron. I wish mine was.’

  ‘No. Be like water,’ Gardus said softly. ‘Water flows and renews.’ He tapped his head and his chest. ‘Running water never grows stale. When water – when faith – stagnates, it becomes something else. Fanaticism. Obsession. It makes your soul and mind sick. You must be water, always flowing into the sea, to rise up as vapour and fall as rain.’

  ‘I-I do not understand,’ Dumala said haltingly.

  ‘Faith without question, is not faith. To be truly faithful, you must always question. You must always be flowing away from certainty, for in certainty, there is only stagnation. Perhaps not immediately, but it will come.’ Even as he said it, he realised that he had answered his own questions. He had come here seeking some sort of assurance, and found only more uncertainty. And perhaps that was what he had always been meant to find.

  ‘Why did you call us here?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t.’ He looked at the ground. ‘There is a sickness in this place. Whatever drew you all here, it feeds on you now. If you stay, it will only get stronger.’

  She shook her head, not understanding. ‘Carazo will not leave. Nor will most of the others.’ She frowned. ‘Some of them can’t. Too sick.’

  Gardus nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Will you stay with us?’ She touched his arm. ‘Will you help us?’

  He looked down at her. ‘For one night more, at least.’

  Gardus spent the rest of the evening and most of the next day in silent vigil over the gravesite. The daemon-thing would come again. But this time, it would not leave the chamber. He would make certain of it.

  Now that he had seen it, it was impossible to ignore the thing’s presence below his feet. Waiting for nightfall, when it might rise and feed again. As it had likely done for months. It was no wonder that illness was rampant here.

  Others might have seen that as evidence of corruption. Enough, at least, to warrant burning this place to the foundations, and salting the ashes. But Gardus was not others. Sickness was to be fought, here more than anywhere else.

  ‘Was this why I was drawn back here, now, of all times?’ he murmured, looking up at the mural of Sigmar. ‘To confront hungry ghosts? I should not be surprised, I suppose. We were forged for war, and it seeks us out.’ Sigmar, as ever, remained silent as to his intentions. Even the few times Gardus had spoken to the God-King face to face, he had found himself questioning what was said, and whether what he had heard had been what was meant.

  Questions and uncertainty. These, not hardship, were the whetstones of faith. He felt that he was where he needed to be, whatever the reason. And so he would wait, and do as Sigmar willed. As he hoped Sigmar willed.

  ‘Patience is something of a burden,’ he grumbled. He patted his runeblade in its plain sheath, sitting across his knees. He could feel the heat of the blade, the echo of its forging. Like him, it was more than just a sword. He hoped it would be enough. He hoped he would be enough. But only time would tell.

  Behind him, he could hear the faithful of Saint Garradan singing an old Verdian hymn. A song of life and renewal, of hope. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he almost thought himself in Azyr once more, walking the rim of the Sigmarabulum, listening to the song of the stars. As Dumala had said, Carazo had decided not to leave. Some few had departed, but most of the congregation had stayed.

  For her part, Dumala told no one of her realisation, not even Carazo. Her faith in him was somewhat unnerving, even as he made use of it. She and a few others would keep watch for Wale’s men, and ring the hospice bells when they spotted them. Gardus suspected that a show of force would be enough to make the sellswords rethink any plans to violence. And if not, he would deal with them, if necessary.

  As you dealt with the Skineaters?

  The question caused him to stiffen. He was not sure whether he had thought it, or not. He took his sword off his knees and stood. ‘I did what I thought was right,’ he said.

  Right… right… right…

  Long shadows crept along the unsettled earth. The night came on, and a chill prickled across the nape of his neck. ‘Do you know me?’ he asked. He felt foolish as he did so. ‘Have you been calling to me, all this time?’

  Silence. But he felt as if he were being watched. The air had taken on a pall, as before a storm. He drew his blade, and cast aside his sheath. ‘You called. I am here. Answer me.’

  Still, no reply. Then…

  Garradan…

  ‘Yes,’ he said, bringing his runeblade up. ‘I hear you. I have been hearing you for a long time, I think. I am sorry I could not come sooner.’

  Garradan… help us…

  ‘I will. If I can.’ He turned, seeking any sign of the daemon-thing. He’d half hoped his presence would keep it quiescent. It had seemed to fear him, the night before. But there was no fear in its voice now – only a raw, ugly need.

  In the other chamber, the song rose. He felt the ground shudder beneath his feet, as if the sound pained it. Had their prayers woken it, that first night? Had the hymns stirred some faint memory, and brought what had been growing in the dark to the surface?

  Garradan… where are you… Garradan… please…

  ‘I am here.’ He raised his blade, watching the ground. ‘I am waiting.’

  The song faltered. He spun, as the bells began to ring, and a babble of worry rose. He could hear Carazo trying to keep people calm, and something else – shouts, and the clatter of weapons. He started towards the archway.

  Garradan… don’t leave us… You can’t leave us…

  Gardus paused, and turned back, as the daemon-spirit erupted from beneath the churning soil, its many mouths open in a manifold scream. Hands and arms sprouted from its serpentine length, like the legs of a centipede. He staggered, and fingers and fists thudded into him, striking with inhuman force, bruising his flesh as he was driven back, against a broken support timber. It was at once there and not – incorporeal, but somehow hideously solid. The thing surged up, larger than he’d imagined, and coiled about him, knocking aside fire-scarred rubble in its fury.

  Gardus smashed a gibbering, gnawing face, and slashed out with his runeblade. The moist spirit-stuff parted like jelly, rippling and splitting around the edge of the sword, before reforming with a wet splat. Gardus grunted in frustration and redoubled his efforts, chopping at the viscous matter as it rose up around him. As he fought, the whispers of the dead insinuated themselves, burrowing through the walls of his concentration.

  Garradan… help us…

  My hands… I can’t feel my hands…

  Dark… So dark… Why can’t I see…

  Garradan…

  Garradan…

  ‘Silence,’ Gardus roared. But the voices continued, doubli
ng and redoubling, drowning out his own thoughts. The daemon’s coils convulsed about him, nearly crushing the air from his lungs. He fought to free himself, as fingers and teeth dug into his flesh. Blood ran down his arms and legs, dripping to the broken ground.

  He tore himself free of the entity’s coils, splitting it in two with a wild blow, and staggered back against another fallen timber. There was blood in his eyes, and his breath thick in his lungs. The daemon-spirit hissed and writhed, reforming slowly.

  He heard a chuckle, from somewhere close by. ‘It’s strong, for something so young. Then, good soil does wonders with even the smallest seed.’

  Wale.

  Gardus blinked blood and sweat from his eyes. He could hear screams. The shouts of Wale’s men, and the rattle of weapons. ‘No,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘I warned you. I gave you a chance. But here it is, evensong, and this stone is still in my field.’ Wale sighed. ‘I’m no butcher. Just a man of the soil. But this field is mine, by right.’ Gardus heard the click of Wale’s walking stick, striking a rock. ‘As is this harvest. Someone else might have planted the seeds, but the crop is Grandfather’s, through and through. I’ve been waiting for it to ripen for decades.’

  The daemon-spirit had finished reforming. It lurched towards him with a slug-like undulation. Faces and hands bulged like blisters on its gelatinous body, biting and groping at the air. The voices of the dead hung on the air like the hum of insects. He felt weak – as if the daemon’s miasma were sapping his strength.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Wale said. Gardus saw him, standing near the far wall, his hands folded over the head of his cane. ‘A new thing, under Grandfather’s sun. That’s a true joy, that is. Bringing something new into the world.’

  The daemon-thing turned at his words, its faces contorted in expressions ranging from confusion to frustration. It snarled, in many voices, and Wale frowned. ‘Now, now, little one. None of that. I’m not here to harm you.’

  It stretched its upper half towards him, faces splitting and sprouting anew as they extended. Mouths moved, voicing a babble of what might have been questions. Wale gestured, and there was a sudden sickly light. The daemon-thing jerked back, with a startled hiss. ‘Go back to your meal, little one. You’ll find no nourishment from my withered frame.’ The thing turned, and began to slither back towards Gardus.

  Gardus lifted his sword. ‘Is this your doing, then? Is this monstrosity something you’ve conjured?’

  The daemon-thing undulated closer, mouths opening and closing. Parts of it were singing. Some were praying – to Sigmar, to Khorne – but the words twisted, becoming a paean to Nurgle. Gardus twisted aside as it lunged, its malformed jaws tearing a chunk from the timber behind him.

  Garradan… help us…

  Wale laughed. ‘Me? No. This is the fruit of death, and I’m no killer. Just a farmer. A man of the soil, as I told you. I know a few tricks, but I’m no sorcerer or rotbringer. But isn’t it magnificent? Grandfather loves all things that live and grow, friend. Even this. Even you. You should remember that, should you walk these green places again.’

  Garradan… we need you…

  The daemon-thing shimmered in the dark, shining with the ugly light of a bruise or an infected wound. The runeblade felt heavy in his hand. The thing seemed to shrug off his strongest blow, and he wondered at the weakness he felt. He touched one of the wounds on his arm, rubbing the blood between his fingers. The thing licked its lips. His blood marked its mouths and limbs, and crimson pulses ran through its semi-opaque form.

  It was feeding on him. The mortals had given it the strength to manifest, but it needed more than they could provide. He lowered his sword, as realisation flooded him. Fighting it would only make it stronger. It would bleed him, and leave him a broken husk.

  It was greedy, like an infant. And like an infant, it needed comfort.

  Garradan… please…

  He stabbed his sword into the ground. ‘Yes,’ he said, stepping forward, weaponless. He spread his arms. ‘I hear you.’

  It surged towards him, with a murmur of triumph. He heard Wale cackle in pleasure. The daemon-thing engulfed him. It was like being struck by a spray of icy water, and he fought the urge to resist. He felt teeth fasten into his flesh, and fingers clutch at him, with desperate ferocity.

  He sank down, drowning in effluvia, and let loose his hold on the light within him. It burst forth, from every pore. It swelled, filling the daemon-thing. The entity screamed in many tongues, and heaved itself away from him, its form writhing. Gardus stumbled after it. The blood that slicked his limbs shimmered like fire, and where it struck the ground, plumes of smoke curled upwards. He caught hold of the daemon-thing and dragged it towards him, as the light grew blinding in its intensity. It squirmed in his grip, babbling.

  Garradan… Garradan… Garradan…

  ‘I am here,’ he said. ‘I am here. I will help you.’ It twisted, coming apart in his hands, boiling away to nothing. Faces stretched like clay, bubbled and fell away, leaving only fading moans to mark their passing. His light filled the chamber as he gathered the dissolving remnants to him, hugging it close. He murmured to the struggling entity, whispering words of comfort. ‘I did not mean to leave you here,’ he said. ‘But I will not leave you again.’

  Garradan… help us…

  He closed his eyes. ‘I will.’ It beat at him, trying to free itself, but its struggles grew weak, and finally ceased entirely. As it fell silent, he looked down, and saw that he held something frail and broken and pale – something that murmured wordlessly as it came apart in his hands and spilled away like dust.

  ‘No!’

  Something caught him on the back of the head, and shattered. He staggered, sinking to one knee. Wale roared and struck him again, with the remains of his cane. Despite his withered frame, the old man was far stronger than he looked – stronger than any mortal. Wale cast aside the fragments of his cane and caught Gardus by the scalp. ‘You killed it! Murderer!’

  Wale drove him face first into a timber. Gardus slumped, dazed. Wale kicked him in the side, knocking him onto his back. ‘What harm did it ever do you? It was no more than a seedling.’ The old man drew his sword. The blade was dull and brown with old rust. Ugly runes decorated its length, and Gardus could feel the malignant heat of its magics. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  ‘It was a monster,’ he said hoarsely. ‘As are you.’

  ‘Just a farmer, friend,’ Wale said, as he raised his blade. ‘And after I’m done with you, I’ll grow such a crop here as this city has never seen.’

  ‘Gardus!’

  Gardus looked up, and saw Dumala. She had his runeblade in both hands and sent it skidding across the ground towards him, as Wale spun towards her, face twisted with fury. Gardus caught the hilt, and lunged to his feet. Wale, realising his error, turned back. Their blades connected with a hollow clang. Gardus forced Wale back.

  ‘You’ll grow nothing,’ he said.

  ‘It’s – You can’t! This place is mine,’ Wale snarled. ‘Mine by right!’

  ‘No,’ Gardus said. ‘It is mine.’ Wale’s blade shattered as Gardus swept it aside. Wale fell back, mouth open in denial. Gardus slammed his sword through Wale’s chest, and drove him back against a timber. He loosed the hilt and stepped back, leaving Wale impaled.

  Wale clawed at the runeblade as his thin form began to unravel. His coat shed its feathers, as his limbs shed skin and muscle. He crumpled inwards, like fruit gone rotten, and fell away, leaving only one more black stain to mark his passing. Gardus pulled his blade free, and turned. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Dumala nodded. ‘Just returning the favour.’ She gestured. ‘Look,’ she said softly.

  The chamber had changed. Was changing.

  Blue flames danced across black walls, leaving only bare stone in its wake. The unsightly vegetation crumbled away, and new, vibrant growth re
placed it. Wherever his blood had fallen, green shoots pushed through the soil, and spread outwards.

  His light had seared away the filth. The pall he’d felt was gone, and the whispers of the ghosts had fallen silent. ‘Wale’s men?’ he asked.

  ‘Gone,’ Dumala said. ‘You were right. They had no stomach for a fight. They ran, the moment we began to resist.’ She smiled. ‘You should have seen Carazo, waving his canes as if they were warhammers.’ Her smile faded, as she took in his wounds, and the black mark of Wale’s demise. ‘What happened here, Garradan – Gardus?’

  For a moment, he had no answer for her. ‘What was meant to,’ he said finally.

  She frowned. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I don’t.’ He looked up at the mural of Sigmar, and smiled.

  ‘But I have faith.’

  About the Author

  Josh Reynolds is the author of the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and the audio dramas Blackshields: The False War and Blackshields: The Red Fief. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes Lukas the Trickster, Fabius Bile: Primogenitor, Fabius Bile: Clonelord and Deathstorm, and the novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden, Nagash: The Undying King and Soul Wars. His tales of the Warhammer old world include The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and two Gotrek & Felix novels. He lives and works in Sheffield.

  An extract from Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden.

  The sigmarite runeblade gleamed in the soft glow of infinity, as it etched complex patterns upon the air. Wherever the blade passed, light followed. The light, that of ancient stars and newborn suns, glimmered briefly but brightly before fading away. There was a lesson in that, the blade’s wielder mused, as he swept the sword around in a curving slash. But then, lessons were all around, for the attentive student.