Hallowed Knights: Plague Garden Read online

  Grymn heard Kurunta’s war-horn sound, and felt the rumble of collapsing masonry. He’d left the Knight-Heraldor in charge of the forces still outside. If anyone could punch a hole in those walls, it was Kurunta. ‘Best be there to greet him when he does,’ he said.

  He reached down and flipped open his warding lantern, letting the holy light swell and fill the passageway. He took the lantern from his belt and hung it from the blade of his halberd. He lifted the weapon high, like a standard.

  Mortal Rotbringers screamed and clawed at their eyes as the light struck them, and blightkings stumbled back, altered flesh bubbling. Liberators seized the moment, tramping forwards to close the gap. Sigmarite shields crashed into the wavering line, and men fell screaming, to be trampled underfoot. There could be no stopping, no mercy. Distasteful as it was, if the only way to their objective was over the crushed bodies of these corrupt mortals, then so be it. Grymn followed the front rank of Liberators, keeping his halberd high.

  Behind him, Feros and his Retributors fell in, moving to protect him should any enemy get close. Tallon was more than enough protection, but he saw no need to insult Feros or the others. It was a sign of respect, if nothing else. Given that it was Feros of the Heavy Hand, it was something of a surprise as well.

  The Retributor-Prime had never been what one could call especially respectful. The Hero of the Celestine Glacier had always been the wrath of the heavens made flesh, with a personality to match. At times, Grymn had suspected that Feros cared about the opinions of only one man. Irksome, but understandable. Gardus was Lord-Celestant, and his was the hand that wielded the Steel Souls in battle.

  But Feros, like Tegrus and various others, was not the same bellicose warrior who had once stalked the Celestine Ice, lightning hammer in hand. He had been Reforged, crafted anew after his death in the Ghyr­tract Fen. The warrior who had come back was as fierce as ever, yet more biddable, less prone to the battle lust that had once afflicted him.

  Grymn was not entirely certain that he liked the implications. For if Feros could become more obedient, and if Tegrus could lose his wit, then so too could Gardus change. Would he even recognise the Lord-Celestant when he stood before him once more? Or would he face a stranger, stripped of all familiarity? He had heard stories of the transformations of Thostos Bladestorm and Gaius Greel. Of mighty warriors, reduced somehow. Lessened. He smelled the tang of scorched metal, and felt a chill. ‘We could use a bit of divine intervention,’ he said.

  ‘A bit more, you mean,’ Morbus said. He leaned against his reliquary staff, visibly weary. He’d taken part in the initial assault, and his mortis armour had been marked and scored by enemy blades. ‘It is all I can do to keep the balefires from spreading.’

  Grymn glanced at him. ‘Are you injured?’ he asked gruffly. ‘If so, you are only a burden here. One I do not need.’ The words came out more harshly than he’d intended, but Morbus only chuckled.

  ‘Simply weary.’ Morbus straightened. ‘Can you feel it?’

  ‘Feel what?’ Grymn asked, but he knew the answer. He’d been feeling it since they’d pushed through the outer gates. The air felt heavy, as if a storm were brewing somewhere. ‘Reinforcements?’

  Morbus nodded. ‘Gardus is coming. We must make ready to greet him.’

  Grymn frowned, though his heart leapt. He’d hoped to have this battle done with by the time the Steel Soul arrived, but it seemed not to be. ‘We need to break their lines for good. Give them no chance to recover.’ He glanced around, and then slammed the ferrule of his halberd down. ‘Hold,’ he roared, his voice carrying easily above the din. Liberators clattered to a halt, hunkered behind their shields. ‘Highwall formation.’

  The front rank of Liberators knelt, planting the rims of their shields on the ground. The second rank moved in behind them, slamming the bottoms of their shields atop those in the front rank, until a wall of sigmarite filled the passageway. The third rank raised their shields over their heads, parallel to the ground, and formed a narrow column. Those at the back knelt, creating an improvised ramp to the top of the wall.

  The Lord-Castellant nodded in satisfaction. He was proud of this particular formation. It had never failed to win him victory on the fields of the Gladitorium. It made use of all available space in the most efficient manner possible, and his warriors could hold their position for hours, if need be. ‘Solus,’ he called out. Beyond the wall, he could hear the muffled cries of the Rotbringers as they regrouped. Not much time, now.

  The Judicator-Prime hurried to join him. Grymn pointed to the rampart. ‘I need your lightning, Solus. We have tarried in these cramped confines too long.’

  ‘Not much room,’ Solus said, eyeing the ceiling of the passageway. He turned and signalled to his Judicators. ‘Enough, though. Gatius, Parnas, bring your warriors up.’ Judicators carrying heavy skybolt bows and thunderbolt crossbows moved quickly up through the ranks, and then began to climb the makeshift ramp of shields.

  When they’d reached the top, they sank to their knees and waited, balancing perfectly on the raised shields of their fellow Stormcasts. Grymn struck the ground with his halberd again. ‘Steel Souls, make your judgement.’

  With a snarl of thunder, the Judicators unleashed a devastating volley on the packed ranks of Rotbringers below. The raised shields of the Liberators acted akin to the embrasures of a battlement, protecting the archers from harm. Blasts of celestial energy were followed by bursts of chained lightning, and soon the air was thick with the stink of charred meat.

  ‘Feros, Markius,’ Grymn said, as another volley thundered into the enemy. ‘Ready yourselves. Whatever is left out there, I want it ground into mulch.’

  ‘As you command, Lord-Castellant,’ Feros said, raising his hammer in salute. The Retributors arrayed themselves in two queues behind the shieldwall, ready to stream out when the order was given. Grymn waited, eyes closed, counting volleys. The second would alert the Rotbringers to the change in tactics. The third would knock them back on their heels. The fourth and fifth would set the rear ranks to flight. The sixth would sweep the immediate area of survivors. There would be eight volleys in all. No more, no less.

  There was a certain amount of peace to be found in contemplating the machinery of war. Individual warriors, retinues, all parts of the machine. Machine against machine, and the first to break, lost. Keep the machine moving, and you win. For Grymn, war was all about calculation. It was a thing of minute variables, observed and processed by a mind trained in the mathematics of battle. For others, he knew, war was a more instinctive thing.

  Gardus, for instance. Defensive by nature, he simply endured, until the enemy made a mistake. And then exploited that moment of weakness. The Steel Soul did not lack for courage or skill, but he had a distinct absence of aggression. More than once, that absence had caused Grymn worry, and to question his Lord-Celestant. Some small part of him, an unworthy part, wondered if perhaps Sigmar had not made a mistake in assigning them their separate roles. He shook his head, banishing the thought.

  ‘He, the sword, and I, the shield,’ he muttered.

  ‘What was that?’ Morbus asked.

  ‘Nothing. That’s eight volleys. Open the gates.’ He slashed a hand down, signalling for a section of the shieldwall to disengage and fall back. They left a wide gap in the line, through which Feros and Markius led their warriors. For long moments, the only sound was the tromp of the Retributors’ advance. Then came the crack of a lightning hammer. Another. A third. Grymn struck the ground with his halberd.

  ‘Bulwark formation – quickly now!’

  The shieldwall broke apart and reformed in moments, with a rattle of war-plate. The bulwark formation was simple, similar to the highwall. It was a shieldwall two ranks high, with the uppermost rank angled so as to prevent arrows, javelins or stones from crashing down immediately behind. Slowly, but surely, the bulwark advanced, moving over the bodies of the dead. Judicators dis
persed along the bulwark as it moved, loosing crackling arrows through gaps in the shieldwall.

  Morbus grunted. Grymn turned in time to see a shudder run through the Lord-Relictor. ‘What is it?’ Grymn asked, catching hold of Morbus’ arm as he stumbled.

  ‘Something…’ Morbus shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘I can feel something…’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Not that,’ Morbus snapped. Grymn blinked. It was a rare thing for the Lord-Relictor to raise his voice, even in the most stressful of moments. ‘There’s something stirring now. Below us. In the roots of this place.’ He looked at Grymn. ‘Something sick. It feels like a… a wound going septic. As if the waters, the very air, are crying out in sudden pain, Lorrus.’

  Grymn hesitated at the Lord-Relictor’s use of his given name. Whatever Morbus felt, it was bad. He pushed himself away from Grymn. ‘I have felt something akin to this before, when we first arrived in the Jade Kingdoms. At the Gates of Dawn.’

  A sudden chill ran through the Lord-Castellant. The Gates of Dawn had been the reason they’d come to the Realm of Life in the first place. The ancient realmgate had supposedly led from Ghyran to Aqshy. But in actuality, it had been twisted out of joint and corrupted, as so many things in these lands had been. Instead of revealing a path to the red sands of Aqshy, the Gates of Dawn had opened up into the sour heart of Chaos itself. The gate had vomited forth daemons devoted to Nurgle. The horrors that followed had set the tone for all that was to come.

  The Gates of Dawn had been destroyed, thanks to Gardus. But a noisome taint yet lingered over those crippled stones. Nothing could feel the touch of the Ruinous Powers and not be changed in some way. ‘Could there be a realmgate here?’ he asked, one eye on the advancing Liberators.

  ‘I would stake my soul on it,’ Morbus said.

  ‘Then it’s best we finish this now.’ Grymn paused, taking stock of the Lord-Relictor. Morbus appeared on the verge of exhaustion. Decision made, he continued, ‘When we clear the gatehouse, I will seek it out. You maintain our lines, and wait for Gardus. When he arrives, tell him what he needs to know.’

  Morbus shook his head. ‘But–’

  Grymn gripped Morbus’ shoulder, briefly. ‘We all have our parts to play, Morbus. This is mine. After all, am I not a Guardian of the Gateway and Keeper of the Keys? The spirits and their ways are your responsibility. Realmgates are mine.’

  ‘You cannot go alone,’ Morbus insisted. ‘You will need me.’

  ‘The Steel Souls need you,’ Grymn said. ‘Gardus will need you. And I need only myself.’ Tallon screeched, and Grymn laughed.

  ‘Well, myself and one other.’

  When the first of the storm-warriors advanced out of the barbican, they did so in a deluge of rain and serpentine lightning. They were heavily armoured, their ornate panoply shining silver and gold. They wielded their great two-handed hammers as if they weighed no more than feathers, and set to work with grim purpose.

  Duke Gatrog watched them from an overhanging platform, studying them with interest. It was rare that he could watch his foe in action from a safe remove, and he did not intend to waste the opportunity. A foe studied was a foe defeated, as Blightmaster Wolgus supposedly said, upon the commencement of the Second Pox-Crusade into the northern wilds of Shyish. That Wolgus had perished soon after did not take away from the sentiment.

  If ever there was an enemy that required study, it was these storm-warriors. The destruction of the outer viaducts had been unexpected. The storm-warriors had reacted more swiftly than expected. Runners from the other two citadels reported confusion and devastation. Freed slaves running amok, walls torn down. Count Pustulix was dead, slain in a most dishonourable fashion. And poor Baron Feculast had been buried beneath his own walls by the relentless hammer-strikes of the enemy’s winged harbingers. Gatrog shivered. That was no sort of end for a knight.

  Things weren’t going well at all. Gatrog couldn’t help but wonder if the King of all Flies had removed his guiding hand from their shoulders. A defeat here would cripple the Order of the Fly for centuries to come. They might even be forced to abandon their holdings outside the Blighted Duchies. And all because of these silver-skinned invaders. He growled low in his throat, incensed at the mere thought of it.

  ‘They fight like ghyrlions,’ Agak said. The shieldbearer crouched nearby, eyes wide. Gatrog’s great shield was strapped to his back, and he was almost bent double beneath the weight. ‘How can any mortal man hope to stand against that?’

  ‘He who holds Grandfather in his heart shall live forevermore,’ Gatrog said piously. The first wave of armsmen to reach the storm-warriors died. As did the second wave. And the third. By the fourth, they were leaving some alive, though only by accident, and mostly because the smarter armsmen were using the corpses for cover.

  ‘I guess Grandfather must not be in their hearts,’ Agak mused. Gatrog looked at him, and the shieldbearer cringed. The Chaos knight turned his attention back to the enemy. Each one was an island, a silver blaze shining in a night-dark sea. They defended the inner portcullis, preventing anyone from lowering it and sealing off the barbican.

  From within the depths of the gatehouse came the clangour of metal-shod boots, and the rattle of weapons. The outer walls shook from the assault of those storm-warriors still outside. Above him, the ramparts echoed with the creak of war-engines as their crews tried to guide them into new positions. It was unlikely to do any good, but there was strength in despair, and that was all any warrior could ask for.

  Well, that and the high ground.

  Gatrog raised his hand. ‘Ready,’ he said. Behind him, fifty of the best bowmen in the Order raised their wormbows. The corroded tips of the arrows glistened with the sweetest of effluvia. A man struck by one would sicken and die in moments. He was curious to see whether the same could be said of the storm-warriors.

  He dropped his hand. ‘Loose.’

  The arrows hissed overhead, arcing above the courtyard before plummeting downwards with impressive accuracy. A single silver warrior staggered. Slumped. Fell. His body exploded into a writhing nest of lightning. It surged upwards, knocking several armsmen from their feet, and setting their jerkins alight. They rolled in the muck, howling in pain. The other storm-warriors fought on, despite the arrows bristling from their war-plate. Gatrog hissed in frustration. ‘Make ready,’ he snapped.

  If they could not close the barbican in time, the enemy would enter the citadel, endangering all that the Order of the Fly had worked so long and hard for. He could not allow that to happen. The King of all Flies had tasked them, and Gatrog would see it done, upon his honour as a true and faithful knight. ‘Loose–’

  His command was interrupted as a gleaming arrow pierced the skull of the archer closest to him. The bowman collapsed in a heap. Gatrog looked up. A winged shape circled high overhead. More arrows thudded down, faster than Gatrog thought possible. He scrambled for cover in the lee of the wall. The bowmen weren’t so lucky, and soon the platform was clogged with bodies. Cursing, Gatrog plucked an arrow from his forearm. It hurt, but pain was a gift from Grandfather, reminding one of the sweet brevity of life.

  The arrow turned to motes of stinging light before his eyes. Such was the nature of their foe. Nothing but starlight and lightning. Where was the blood? The crunch of bone? Could these creatures even feel, or were they simply ghosts, stirred from maggotless graves by a jealous godling?

  In a way, he almost pitied them. They would never know Grandfather’s love, or the glory of service to the King of all Flies. But they would die in his name, all the same. He sought out Agak, who hunkered nearby, hiding beneath his master’s shield. He gestured brusquely. ‘Agak! Shield.’

  ‘Keep forgetting they can fly, don’t you, my lord?’ Agak puffed as he carried the heavy, iron-banded shield across the platform. The winged bowmen had found other targets. Shimmering arrows pierced the murk, sending armsmen and
blightkings tumbling from the ramparts and platforms. Down below, the battle continued. The storm-warriors held doggedly to their position, beating back every attempt to shift them.

  ‘Silence, Agak. Save your breath for issuing my challenge to yon poltroon. I would have words with them.’

  ‘Which poltroon would that be, my lord? The one with the wings, or…?’

  Gatrog caught Agak by the throat, and dragged him close. ‘I don’t care. Pick one.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Agak gurgled, eyes bulging. ‘Right away, my lord.’

  Gatrog tossed him aside and hefted his shield. It had been made from the faceted scale of one of the great water-drakes of the southern reach, and reinforced with iron and bone. Ruinous sigils had been etched into every flat surface, however small. The shield had been a gift from the great Lady of Cankerwall herself, and had carried him safely through fire and war for a century. He drew his sword and slammed the flat against the surface of the shield. ‘Send forth my challenge, Agak. I go to confront the foe.’

  Agak screamed.

  Gatrog turned to chastise him, and saw the shadow. He raised his shield just in time, absorbing the brunt of the hammer’s impact. Lightning snapped out, clawing at him around the edges of the shield. His bones trembled in their envelope of flesh and he staggered back, shoulder aching. He swept the shield aside, dispersing the smoke of the strike. A gleaming form arrowed towards him, crackling wings extended to their limits.

  He raised his shield and set his feet, bracing himself against the imminent impact. The storm-warrior banked at the last moment, sweeping past him. The crackling feathers of one wing brushed against him, tearing through his armour and searing the flesh beneath. Gatrog bellowed and spun. His sword thudded down, narrowly missing his attacker.