Gods & Mortals Page 8

  The balefire crackled and popped with a sound suspiciously close to laughter. It cast strange shadows across the fat, twisted trees of the Bullawood. The shadows danced joyfully as the ancient gnarlmaws and hunched seeproots of the forest sagged and sighed, shaking their polypus branches in the night-wind.

  Carkus Gryme watched as the eerie green flames bunched and twisted, and, for a brief moment, thought he spied a face most fair. Then she was gone.

  ‘My lady,’ he murmured, through ragged lips. ‘I will save you, though I must brave the crystal labyrinths of the Great Foe himself. Though I must wade through seas of blood and traverse glades of silk, your truest knight shall bring you home to the garden once more.’

  Across the fire from him, Gryme’s only companion snorted. ‘Stop talking. Have soup.’ A hairy arm thick with fleas and buboes stretched over the flames, holding a bowl made from the cap of a man’s skull.

  ‘How dare you speak so, Blisterback,’ Gryme said, incensed. ‘Hold your diseased tongue. And anyway, I am not hungry.’

  Blisterback continued to proffer the soup. The pestigor was a bulky thing, with gangling limbs and a swollen belly. He wore a tattered hood over his goatish skull, and a rotting leather hauberk. A cleaver-like blade lay beside him on the coarse grass, near the small, bubbling cauldron he’d just pulled off the fire.

  ‘Is good soup. Made from maggoth squeezings. Must keep up strength. Get fat.’

  ‘Grandfather will bless me with a knight’s girth in his own time,’ Gryme said, sourly. He laid his gauntleted hands reverentially over the sheathed blade that lay across his lap. The sword had been old when the Blighted Duchies were young, and it thrummed gently with baneful curses. An honest blade – a knight’s blade. Though its wielder was not yet a true knight, save in his heart.

  ‘Not a knight,’ Blisterback grunted.

  ‘But I shall be,’ Gryme murmured. ‘When I have rescued the Lady from him who stole her, and returned her to Cankerwall, I will reclaim my birthright.’ Angrily, he thrust a stick into the flames, stirring the embers.

  As the balefire roared up, so too did his memories. He heard again the clash of blades, the rattle of lances, the cries of the common pustules – the sounds of a tourney, to determine the rightful heir to the duchy of Festerfane. He snorted at the thought.

  The very idea was an insult. The duchy was his, by bile-right – whatever others such as that blowhard, Feculus, claimed. But he had not yet earned his spurs. He had not yet drunk from the Flyblown Chalice. He was not a knight, and so could not rule. Thus, a tourney had been held to find a new duke. One worthy of the title.

  ‘Worthy,’ he muttered. ‘And what am I, if not that? I am – I will be the greatest knight in the seven duchies.’ Was he not a descendant of the great Gaspax Gahool, who vanished into the shadowed canyons of Ulgu? Was he not cousin to Goral, who had carried war to the Writhing Weald, or Gatrog, who had faced the enemy at the Verdant Bay, and died a true knight’s death? How could he be anything but worthy?

  And so he had entered the tourney with the intent to prove his claim. He grinned, baring black teeth. Oh, how they had exclaimed when he had revealed himself. He closed his eyes, remembering the look his lady had bestowed upon him.

  Remembering her.

  So momentous a tourney had required the presence of royalty. The Lady of Cankerwall had come, and in her train seventy-seven ladies-in-waiting, daughters of the noblest and most rotten of families. Sevenfold paladins of Cankerwall had escorted her, clad in verdigris and filth, bearing the heavy, suppurating blades gifted them by the great Bolathrax himself, in ancient days.

  But compared to her, those beautiful ladies and mighty paladins faded to irrelevance. The Lady for whom all dukes bowed, who had forged seven warring duchies into a kingdom which might bestride the realms – a kingdom built upon the pillars of despair, acceptance and chivalry. The Lady of Cankerwall, in her rotting gown and mouldering furs, her face veiled, her pallid hair bound and coiled about her slim shoulders like a great, white serpent.

  Hers was the beauty of the eternal cycle, of new life waxing fat in the ruins of death. Where she walked, grasses died, and the earth turned. The lower orders feared her, but no knight – no true knight – could help but love her, and despair.

  He recalled the look she had given him as he demanded to enter the tourney, as was his right. At once dismissive and… intrigued. She had laughed and gestured, from her seat in the stands, granting him his wish.

  He pounded the ground with a fist. ‘And I would have won the tourney, too. If only that foul Knight of Change had not interfered!’

  That, too, he recalled – and with almost painful intensity. The interruption of a joyous event. Horses screaming, men dying – the smell of Changefire, sweeping through the tourney-ground.

  And then, the ground-shaking tread of the Stalking Keep.

  He paused, the image of the keep-beast vivid in his mind. A living fortress, stamping clumsily but swiftly on great talons, its stones clashing like scales, smashing aside all lesser dwellings in its haste. He shook his head.

  ‘I would have won,’ he said again.

  ‘You would not have won. Too young. Too thin. Have some soup.’

  ‘Fine. If it will shut you up!’ Gryme snatched the bowl from his servant and loudly slurped the bilious broth. It was tepid, and greasy. Just as he liked it. Then, Blisterback had been making it for him for a long time. Since Gryme’s childhood, in fact. Blisterback had been his father’s squire, once upon a time. Now he served Gryme, though his patchy fur was going white, and the pus of his sores had long since dried up.

  In contrast to Blisterback’s bestial frame, Gryme was the epitome of knighthood – tall, but not yet swollen with the first and least of Grandfather’s gifts. He was clad in rusty plate and a worm-eaten tabard, marked with the tripartite Sigil of the Fly. A great helm with a stylised toad-dragon crouched atop it sat beside him.

  The war-plate had belonged to his father, and his father before him. At the moment, it did not fit him as well as it had them. His frame still possessed the leanness of youth, and it hung loose in places. Nonetheless, it, like the sword, was proof of his lineage – of his bile-right to the duchy of Festerfane – and so he would wear it.

  He took another slurp of soup. ‘We shall catch up with them on the morrow, I think.’ They had followed the Stalking Keep’s trail for days, from the feculent fields of Festerfane, to the gnarled depths of the Bullawood. It was not hard, for the great keep-beast left a trail a blind man could follow – singing flowers sprouted in its wake, and the trees lost their loathsome vitality. But they were not alone in following its trail.

  A full two score and ten knights had ridden out in pursuit, accompanied by armsmen and troubadours. Gryme, possessing no steed, had been forced to follow more sedately in their wake. The humiliation only lent him speed. He would not be denied his chance at glory. Even if he had to walk from one end of Ghyran to the other.

  ‘Not going to catch them,’ the pestigor grunted. ‘Don’t even have a horse.’

  ‘I don’t need a horse. I am quite fast.’

  Blisterback shook his head. ‘Not fast enough.’ He paused. ‘Hope is the weed in Grandfather’s garden.’ Almost consolingly, he added, ‘What will be, will be, young master.’

  ‘Enough,’ Gryme said, flatly. ‘I have sworn an oath. That is an end to it.’

  Blisterback subsided grumpily. The pestigor was unhappy. Granted, he was always unhappy – but particularly so, at the moment. Blisterback had been his family’s most loyal servant – a truer son of the garden there never was. It had been Blisterback who had helped him plant his father’s skull in the family orchard, so that his service to Nurgle did not end in death. But the old brute was something of a nanny-goat. To him, this was all so much foolishness. Then, he was not a knight.

  Gryme sighed and stirred the fire with his stick. ‘I must
do this, old beast. Can’t you see?’

  Blisterback said nothing. Gryme could hear him snuffling, and for a moment wondered if the beastman was weeping. Before he could speak, Blisterback’s head snapped up.

  ‘Danger,’ the pestigor growled, heaving himself to his feet. ‘Bird-stink.’

  ‘Bird–?’ Gryme began, but was interrupted by a raucous screech from somewhere out in the trees. He lurched to his feet, war-plate clattering, and drew his sword. It hummed in his grip, eager to dole out pain and suffering. ‘What is it?’

  Blisterback only growled phlegmatically and brandished his cleaver. Gryme turned, putting his back to the flames. Around him, the forest rose wild and dark. It was not a place for honest men. He heard twigs snap, and branches rustle. Not the wind, this time, but something else. Many somethings, all moving closer.

  Once, these lands had been safe for honest travellers. But of late, they had become dangerous. There was war on the air, and the scent drew strange things from their holes.

  He smelled it now – the stink of Change. Like wet iron one moment, and sweet perfumes the next. He straightened.

  ‘Come out, whatever you are. Come out and face me.’ A peculiar, croaking laughter greeted his words. And then, a lilting, sing-song murmuring.

  Go back… go back… the garden is ours…

  ‘Never,’ Gryme snarled.

  The garden… the garden… and the Lady…

  He tensed. ‘The Lady… Where is she?’ He took a step towards the trees. ‘Answer me!’ As his words echoed, he caught a glimpse of azure among the shadows. The gleam of untarnished gold. He heard the soft rustle of feathers. Then, a voice floated out of the dark.

  ‘Go back, young knight. Only death awaits you at the end of your journey.’

  Gryme shook his head. ‘And who are you, to care about my death?’

  ‘One who has been set upon your path to warn you, of course. Such is my geas, and I shall fulfil it, as I am bound.’ A hunched figure, clad in tatterdemalion robes and a concealing hood, shuffled into the light. Knotted, withered hands that resembled talons clutched an iron staff, topped by a bird’s head wrought in silver. Its back was odd and malformed, as if by some unsightly growth or deformity. The figure leaned against the staff, breathing heavily, as if weary beyond belief. ‘Well? Are you going to invite me to sit?’

  Gryme traded glances with Blisterback. The pestigor shrugged, and Gryme turned back to the newcomer. ‘I would have your name, first.’

  ‘Abigos. What sort of knight will not invite an old man to sit?’ The hooded head bobbed, as if in laughter. ‘Then, you are not a knight yet, eh? Perhaps never. Perhaps there shall be no more knights. What will become of you then, eh?’

  Gryme felt a flush of anger and lifted his sword. ‘Perhaps I should run you through instead, old man. What will become of you, then, I wonder?’

  Abigos sighed. ‘So pestiferous, your lot. I warned him, I did. Did he listen? No. Never. Who is he, to listen to me? Arrogance. It’s bred into your kind, whatever your persuasion.’ Eyes like gemstones shimmered in the shadowed depths of his cowl. ‘I am old. My back aches. I would sit, if for only a moment. Surely you will not deny me that?’

  Gryme frowned, and lowered his sword. ‘No. No, I will not. Sit, old man.’ He paused. ‘Would you like some soup?’

  Abigos shuddered. ‘Is that what I smell? No.’

  ‘What about your companions?’

  Abigos levered himself down with a grunt. ‘No. Ignore them. They are but the hounds of fate – bit players in this drama, meant to ensure that things proceed as they must.’

  ‘Fate,’ Gryme said, dismissively.

  ‘Not a believer in fate, then?’

  ‘I believe only in acceptance. Men only speak of fate when they seek to change it, or tame it.’ Gryme sheathed his sword and sat. Blisterback sank into a crouch on the opposite side of the fire, his eyes never leaving the trees. ‘Change is but one more link in the chain of hope. Better to find freedom in despair, than be trapped by hope.’

  ‘And yet, here you are.’

  Gryme paused. ‘Yes. Speak, sage. Why are you here?’

  ‘As I said. I was sent to warn you.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Ompallious Zeyros. The Radiant Knight.’

  ‘He is no knight,’ Gryme spat, lurching once more to his feet. ‘He is a base coward and a sorcerer.’ He drew his sword and extended it. ‘I will have his head.’ He could hear a rustling in the trees, but ignored it. ‘Do you serve him, then?’

  Abigos used his staff to gently push the tip of Gryme’s sword aside. ‘Only because I have no choice in the matter. I am bound, and thus bound, I must obey.’ He slipped back his hood, revealing an avian countenance – like that of a crow or rook. Abigos’ feathered neck unfolded, raising his head, and Gryme felt a shudder of disgust run through him.

  ‘What are you?’

  ‘Less than I was,’ Abigos said. He hissed softly, as if in pain – or perhaps the memory of pain. ‘Once, I was as great as the stars, as vast as the seas. Now, I am folded and spindled into this weary flesh.’ He gestured to his body. ‘My wings, once mighty, will not support me. I must hobble, where once I flew. I feel the weight of the realms, pressing me down.’

  Gryme felt a sudden flash of pity. He had met daemons before. The least of Grandfather’s children were ever underfoot in the halls of Festerfane, and they had been his truest playmates as a pusling. To see one – even one who served the Great Changer – so diminished was unsettling.

  ‘I am… sorry,’ he said, as he sat down once more.

  Abigos peered at him. ‘You are, aren’t you? How curious.’ He ruffled his feathers and looked at the flames. ‘Never mind. It is but the pain of a moment. My story is not yours, and yours is not mine.’ He pointed a cracked talon at Gryme. ‘You have the blood of heroes in your withered veins, and it burns like poison. I can smell it. It drives you to seek the Stalking Keep and its castellan.’

  ‘I have sworn an oath.’

  ‘And your kind do love their oaths, more even than their ­Grandfather, eh?’

  ‘He stole away the Lady of Cankerwall, in full view of a hundred knights of the Most Suppurating and Blightsome Order of the Fly. What else could I do?’

  ‘But you are no knight. Where is your horse? Your spurs? In truth, you are barely more than a boy, tilting at a windmill.’

  ‘An oath is an oath, whoever gives it.’ Gryme shifted uncomfortably. ‘Speak, daemon. Say as you wish and be gone.’

  ‘Very well. Zeyros sent me to turn you from your path. Your skein and his intersect, and he seeks to avoid that confrontation.’

  ‘He is afraid of me.’

  ‘Or for you.’

  Gryme looked at the daemon. ‘Speak sense.’

  Abigos gave a croaking laugh. ‘There is no such thing, in this realm or any other.’ He leaned against his staff and clacked his beak. ‘You are not the first of your Order to seek him. Thirty knights rode this way, two days ago.’

  Gryme was silent for a moment. Then, ‘And?’

  Abigos fixed him with a glittering eye. ‘I would not be here if they had succeeded.’

  ‘But you did not warn them, as you now warn me,’ Gryme said.

  ‘No.’

  Gryme nodded. ‘Because they had no chance. And I do.’

  Abigos shrugged, a faintly grotesque gesture as things moved and twitched beneath his robes. ‘Who can say? The skeins of fate are tightly knotted. One can pluck at them, but they remain tangled.’ He clacked his beak again. ‘There is a clearing to the east. Follow the trail of flowers, and you will find what you seek.’

  Suspicious, Gryme peered at the daemon. ‘Why tell me this?’

  Abigos struggled to his feet. ‘I am bound to warn you, not hinder you. Go where you wish, do as you must. I will watch with interest.’

>   Gryme chuckled. ‘And if I slay Zeyros, will you be freed from your bondage?’

  Abigos gave another harsh, cawing laugh. ‘What will be, will be. Isn’t that what you knights say? What will be, will be.’ The daemon turned to go, but stopped and glanced back. ‘Remember the slughorn, young knight.’ Then, in a rustle of tatterdemalion robes, he was gone. Gryme could hear the sounds of their unseen watchers retreating.

  He looked at Blisterback. ‘I told you we would catch them.’

  ‘Not a knight,’ Blisterback replied, morosely. ‘Don’t even have a horse. Or a shield.’

  Gryme frowned. ‘I will be a knight, you obstreperous brute.’

  He stared into the flames, seeking some sign of her face. But there was only fire.

  ‘Or I will perish in the attempt.’

  The flowers were singing.

  That was how they knew that they had found the place. It was even as Abigos had said. The flowers clumped and crooned in wide, shrill swathes, covering the broken bodies of the knights and armsmen that lay scattered about the strange glen. Their bloated forms were rent and torn, as if by great blows. The smell of blood and ichor still hung thick on the air, as did the miasma of their passing. More than a dozen knights, Gryme estimated, and three times that number of armsmen.

  As he and Blisterback traversed the charnel ground, he caught glimpses of familiar heraldry.

  ‘There – I think that’s Sir Veinsplit of Sludgewater… and beside him, Rourm Blotch of Bitterbile. There are knights from across the seven duchies here.’

  All of them had been present at the tourney. Some participating, others only watching. They had all sworn there, on the bloodied field, to track and slay the one who had taken their Lady, blessed be her name. And Gryme had sworn as well, though they had heeded him not, save to laugh, though not unkindly, at his hubris.

  Blisterback grunted. ‘All dead.’

  ‘From death, new life,’ Gryme said, softly. The words rang hollow to him. He had known some of these warriors. Had thrilled to their exploits as a pusling. Some of them had fought beside his father, and his cousins. They had plied lance and blade in the name of the Lady, and the King of All Flies.