ORDER OF THE FLY: TOURNEY OF FATE Josh Reynolds Thou shall never play false, and shall ever honour thy oaths, even unto ruin. – Ocander Wolgus, Codex Maggotirim 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. To see them laid low – to see them broken and crushed, like mere mortals… It shook him, and he felt a flicker of doubt. ‘What has done this?’ ‘Zeyros,’ Blisterback growled. ‘Not alone. True, Zeyros is a doughty knight, despite his persuasion, but this – what man can stand against an army of heroes?’ ‘Better hero.’ Blisterback picked among the dead with interest. Scavenging was second nature to beasts, and Gryme restrained the urge to chastise his servant. He sniffed the air and caught the stink of Change. Once, this forest would have reeked of delightful stagnation. Now, there was wind, and the smell of flowers, of running water. He gagged and shook his head. Blisterback appeared at his elbow, holding a battered shield. ‘Need shield.’ Gryme took it reluctantly. ‘It didn’t do its previous wielder much good.’ The pestigor shrugged. ‘Knight has shield. Want to be a knight, take shield. Or not. Die the same, either way, probably.’ Gryme sighed and slid the shield on. ‘My thanks, old beast.’ He turned, studying the trees. They were not the bent, crooked things they should have been. Instead, they stood tall, their leaves wet with morning dew. Songbirds sang in their branches. A light, airy song. ‘There,’ Blisterback said, pointing. Gryme saw that the trail of flowers widened as it passed among the unbent trees, stretching deeper into the glade. The Stalking Keep was close. He could feel it. This was all too new, the deaths too recent. He looked down at a nearby body. ‘Abigos spoke of thirty knights – but there are only half that number here. Come. We press on.’ He advanced, trampling the flowers beneath his feet, hoping to silence their ebullient caterwauling. Their song melded with that of the songbirds in the trees. It grated on his nerves, incongruous as it was. As if they were celebrating the deaths of so many great warriors. Gryme plucked a rock from the ground and made to hurl it at the nearest branch. ‘No,’ Blisterback snarled, grabbing his wrist. Gryme shoved him back. ‘Unhand me,’ he snapped. ‘I grow weary of their chirping.’ ‘Listen,’ Blisterback said, lifting a finger. ‘Listen, master.’ Gryme started to retort, when he heard it. Silence. The birds were quiet. And they were watching. Every little black eye in the glen was on him and his servant. As one, the songbirds rose into the air. They swooped and dived in perfect harmony, sweeping past him in a multicoloured swirl of tiny, feathered bodies. They skated low over the ground, and he heard the harsh clatter of armour. Bits and pieces of war-plate tumbled across the ground in the wake of the songbirds. Gryme drew his sword, as the birds spilled upwards – a vibrant cyclone, the armour caught in the darting, spinning vortex of small shapes. The cyclone spun faster and faster, sending the bodies of the dead tumbling like leaves. Wind pulled at Gryme, and he raised his shield to block it, as Blisterback huddled behind him. Only when it had died away did he lower his shield. Before him, a warrior stood – or, rather, hundreds of songbirds, in the shape of a warrior – blocking his path. Their wings fluttered, and the pieces of armour had been assembled roughly in the right shape, including a helm. A single gauntlet rose, clutching a broken sword. The whirr of their wings sounded almost like a voice, though Gryme could not tell what it was saying. ‘I have no quarrel with you, whatever you are,’ he said, striking the edge of his shield with his sword. ‘Stand – fly – aside. I shall not ask twice.’ Go… back… the birds sang. Gryme frowned. ‘What?’ Go… back… go… back… go… back… ‘No. I made an oath. Stand aside.’ He set the flat of his blade across the top of his shield, as his tutors had taught him. He set his feet, ready for what he knew would come next. Wings whirred, and the mass – the knight – raced towards him, on legs that were nothing more than many small forms moving in concert. The sword struck, glancing from his shield. He returned the blow, but his own sword found no purchase. The songbirds were too quick, darting about the blade. He backed away as the bird-knight struck at him again and again, singing shrilly as it – they – advanced. Unable to wound his foe, he settled for trying to disarm them. The birds slid over him, chirping and pecking. He swept his shield out, trying to scatter them, and almost lost his head. His foe’s blade slashed past him, quicker than any mortal arm would have managed. The birds’ song swelled as they undulated about him, encircling him and then drifting away, in a parody of a man’s movements. The song had changed from one of warning, to being mocking. Wings beat at his helm, deafening him. Go… back… go… back… ‘No!’ Gryme roared, hacking at the shape before him. ‘Not until my quest is complete, and my oath fulfilled!’ He swung his sword wildly, trying to break up the flock, to scatter them. He flailed with his shield and felt feathered bodies thump against it. But not enough. ‘Blisterback – where are you, old beast?’ ‘Here, young master,’ the pestigor brayed. Gryme caught a glimpse of Blisterback, readying himself as if to lunge. The brute sprang, long arms shooting out. Gnarled paws clapped together on something, and the bird-knight suddenly came apart. ‘Got you,’ Blisterback roared. Birds flew chirping in every direction, leaving their stolen war-plate to tumble to the ground. Gryme shook his head to clear it of their song. ‘What happened? What did you do?’ ‘Heart-bird,’ Blisterback said, raising a finger to reveal the crimson bird trapped in his hands. ‘Always a heart-bird. Catch it, others don’t know what to do. Can’t think.’ The bird trembled in his grip, shimmering feathers ruffled. ‘What do we do with it?’ Gryme asked. Blisterback looked at it for a moment. Then, he stuffed the struggling bird into his mouth. Tiny bones splintered, and the chirping stopped. In the trees, the other birds sang what might have been a song of mourning for their fallen leader. Gryme shook his head and turned back to the trail. ‘Enough foolishness. Our quarry lies somewhere close to hand, I can feel it. Let us hurry.’ As they passed through the trees, the birds followed them. Their song had become aggressive, dissonant – almost savage. But they made no move to attack. Gryme did his best to ignore them. But what he could not ignore was the way the trees changed the closer they came to the heart of the glen. They became pale, almost colourless, and finally almost… crystalline. Their reflections marched alongside them, stretching and warping all out of proportion in the faceted bark. Blisterback snorted unhappily. ‘Bad air,’ he grumbled. ‘Quiet,’ Gryme said, softly. The birds had grown loud, screaming from every branch, beating at the air with their wings. A shimmering miasma rested just above the ground. As they strode through it, it stirred, thinned and parted. ‘There.’ More bodies slumped in slaughtered piles at the heart of the glen, left to rot where they had fallen. The last of the knights Abigos had seen, Gryme knew, though he could not tell who they were. Creeping vines of silver, shaggy with heavy, golden blossoms, crawled across the bloody ground, all but shrouding them from sight. Crystalline trees leaned forward like penitents, their glittering branches twitching. The stink of raw Change hovered over everything. A sickly radiance that was all colours and none clung to the trees and the soil, and motes of pallid light danced on the convulsing air. And sitting amidst the dead, like a fox among slaughtered hens, was that which Gryme sought. The refuge of Ompallious Zeyros. The monster which men called the Stalking Keep. The birds fell silent as he stepped into the heart of the glen. All at once, they rose in a multicoloured cloud and sped away, as if abandoning him to his fate. He watched them for a moment, and then turned back to his quarry. It resembled a grey tower, no taller than a gatehouse, but wide and ill-formed. Gates and windows bulged from its flat walls, seemingly at random. Its roof was shingled with bone and flaps of raw meat. Vibrant feathers tufted its parapets and sluice gates, emerging from the stone. It crouched on two great, knobbly legs, like those of some immense bird. The legs were flesh, unlike its body. Where its clawed toes gouged the earth, flowers of shimmering hue sprouted in clumps and bunches. They wept and sighed in the voices of children, and some sang a soft, unintelligible song. The structure stirred as he moved further into the clearing. ‘Very well,’ he muttered. ‘I am a knight, and I will conduct myself accordingly.’ Raising his sword, and his newly procured shield, he took a step towards his quarry. He heard stone rasp against stone, and the edifice trembled slightly. Like a beast, readying itself to leap. The great claws clenched, digging into the earth. Unseen things laughed. Faces, wide and unnaturally pink, grimaced and grinned from within the crystal trees. ‘Wait.’ Blisterback caught him by the arm. ‘Look,’ he growled. ‘Horn.’ Gryme shoved him back. ‘What are you– Oh.’ The slughorn hung from a branch to his left. Had it been there before? He did not know. It did not matter. It was a war-horn, shaped like a mollusc shell. It dangled by a strap of frayed silk, and as he took it, it moved like a thing alive. ‘Just as Abigos said,’ he murmured as he sheathed his sword. Carefully, he took the horn down. Gryme pulled off his helm and lifted the slughorn to his lips. The Stalking Keep rose on its birdlike legs, talons clicking. Unnatural muscles bulged, as if in readiness to leap. Gryme licked his lips and blew a single, quavering note. The Stalking Keep froze. Roof-slates clattered like dragon scales. Windows seemed to thin, like the narrowed eyes of a wary beast. ‘Again,’ Blisterback muttered. ‘Blow it again.’ Gryme blew again, and louder. The note lashed at the air, clear as a sword-stroke. The Stalking Keep shuddered, with a sound like an avalanche. Then, with a sound that might have been a disgruntled sigh, it sank back down on its bestial haunches. Crenellations of stone writhed back with a hideous grinding sound, exposing a portcullis of bone and iron. The portcullis ratcheted upwards with a groan, as unseen chains rattled. A gust of foul air washed through the glen. ‘Come,’ Gryme said, knotting the cord of the slughorn to his belt. As they approached the monstrous edifice, it suddenly made a rumbling sound – almost a growl. Gryme stopped short. He glanced at Blisterback, and then at the dark aperture behind the portcullis. ‘I think – I think I had best go on alone,’ he said. ‘Stay here.’ Blisterback began to growl a denial but subsided at Gryme’s glare. ‘Stay here, old beast. Someone must live to carry word to Festerfane if I fail.’ Blisterback was silent for a moment. Then, he grunted softly, ‘Trust in Grandfather, young master. Hope is the weed in his garden, and failure, his mulch.’ Gryme swallowed and nodded. ‘Hope is the weed,’ he said. Hope was the enemy. Only by seeing the world as it was could a knight attain true serenity. All things fed the garden, in the end. But even so, he could not help but feel a flicker of – what? – joy, perhaps. Excitement. But not hope. Never that. He turned back to the portcullis. It rustled invitingly. Taking a deep breath, he stepped beneath it, and into the darkness. As he did so, the portcullis slammed down behind him with a satisfied clang. For a time, there was no light. Then, slowly, he became aware of a growing radiance. It emanated from curious gemstones set haphazardly into the walls, revealing the crudely carved passage before him. The gems flickered with an eerie light. It had no colour that he could perceive, and he felt a creeping chill on his pockmarked flesh as he followed the passage. It sloped vaguely upwards, and the stones beneath his feet were unsettlingly soft and spongy. The passage narrowed and widened at random intervals, and he felt as if the walls were somehow moving, if imperceptibly. Like contractions of breath. There was a smell on the stones, like raw meat turning sour in the sun. It reminded him of home – of the death’s-head orchards in the sprouting season. But it was not enough to settle his unease. Something was dripping, he could hear it. He could hear other things, as well. The sound of crashing stones, and laughter. Something that might have been music, playing in the distance. He stopped. Ahead of him, the passage had given way to a set of slabbed steps, rising ever upwards. The steps were crude things, chipped and broken. Veins of gold ran through the dark stones, and they seemed to twist and squirm in the light. At the top of the steps, there was a great archway, wrought in the shape of a bird’s open beak. To either side of the archway were two vast windows of coloured crystal. Things moved within them. Shadow-shapes, twisting and dancing in the light, stretching insubstantial hands out to him. Something told him not to look too closely at them. Gryme steeled himself and climbed the steps. They were slick and wet, like the throat of an animal. His boots rang against the steps as he climbed towards the archway. There was a heavy, wooden door, set within the great stone beak. The door trembled as he reached for it. It pulsed like living flesh. At his touch, it swung inwards with a raspy sigh. Behind it were curtains of tattered silk, which he parted with his sword, revealing a chamber greater in size than was possible. Somehow, it was larger than the Stalking Keep itself. The walls were red and raw, and beams of bone rose from the floor to intersect overhead, like the join of a ribcage. The red places flexed and throbbed with silent heat, and the floor was made of what looked like yellow slabs of vitrified bile. Great mirrors of crystal were set in the wall at intervals, and within each he saw not his reflection, but other chambers. He saw gardens and laboratories, armouries and bedchambers, and places of strange purpose and function – great thickets of statuary, and galleries of black mirrors, stretching away into seeming infinity. Opposite the doorway was another set of steps, curving upwards in a tight spiral. But at their foot was set a throne, carved into the very stone of the base. And in that throne slumped an armoured figure. Gryme stopped. Sweat beaded on his flesh and ran beneath his gambeson. The heat of this place had grown steadily more oppressive, and he murmured a prayer to Nurgle for the strength to endure it. As the words left his lips, the armoured figure straightened. ‘What is that I hear? The puling whimpers of one of the Plague God’s curs?’ Black gauntlets gripped the armrests of the throne and the figure stood. ‘I thought I had killed all of you.’ Gryme stepped back, staring. The armour resembled his own, but it was older by far. Antiquated and baroque, even by the standards of the Blighted Duchies. The warrior wore a frayed tabard of white, bearing only the eight-pointed star of Chaos. He reached down beside the throne and hefted a great blade. The sword seemed to writhe in his grip, like an ill-tempered cat. ‘Who are you?’ Gryme demanded, hoping the unease he felt was not evident. ‘Do you not know my name, mortal?’ The warrior lifted his blade. ‘Am I truly forgotten in this benighted age?’ He twisted his sword, letting the light play along its length. It was an evil-looking thing, and Gryme could feel the heat of its hunger from where he stood. ‘In this time out of mind, is the lamentable tale of Mordrek, whom men call the Damned, remembered at all?’ ‘I do not know you. But I do not fear you.’ ‘Then you are a fool. All men should fear me, for I am the ­allchosen, and proof of the gods’ whimsy.’ Mordrek stepped down from the throne. Something about his movements spoke of an incredible weariness. Gryme was reminded of Abigos – here was a warrior for whom existence carried an incalculable weight. ‘I am the price manifest – loyalty, honour, all knightly virtues cast aside or trammelled by my oath to the Dark Gods.’ ‘Nevertheless, step aside. I have no quarrel with you.’ ‘Then why do you come here, boy? Why disturb my solitude?’ ‘I come to rescue a lady fair, and slay her captor.’ Mordrek was silent for a moment. Then he laughed. ‘Go back, boy. Show better judgement than your fellows.’ ‘I cannot.’ Gryme shook his head. ‘I swore an oath.’ Mordrek extended his sword. ‘Then I fear your soul is already lost.’ ‘My soul is my own. I give it freely, and if it is my fate to be mulch for Grandfather’s garden, well then – let me be mulch.’ Gryme lifted his sword. ‘Stand aside, Sir Mordrek. Or prepare to defend yourself.’ Mordrek gave a hollow laugh. ‘I cannot stand aside.’ ‘Then have at thee,’ Gryme shouted, lunging forwards. Mordrek reacted with inhuman swiftness, and his blade nearly split Gryme’s shield in two. The force of the blow sent Gryme stumbling towards the shimmering mirrors. Mordrek pounded after him. His second blow tore the ruined shield from Gryme’s arm, and numbed the limb to the shoulder. Gryme reeled back, and fell against one of the mirrors. The silvery surface split like water, enveloping him. He fell backwards, and then upwards, slamming into a set of stone steps. More steps rose all around him, rising up and falling down, running parallel to him, or horizontal. A chamber of hundreds of steps, all going nowhere and everywhere at once. The scrape of metal echoed as if from far away, and he heard what might have been a door slam. ‘Mordrek?’ he called out. The echoes of his voice taunted him. …Mordrek… drek… drek… ‘Here.’ Gryme spun. Mordrek stood above him, standing upside down on the steps that curved overhead. He leapt, and for a moment, it seemed as if he were falling towards Gryme. Then, something twisted and Mordrek was charging up the steps towards him, blade held low. Gryme interposed his blade at the last moment, and was driven back. Mordrek was strong – incredibly so. They traded desperate blows in tight spaces, the echoes of their duel rippling outwards through the chamber of steps. As Gryme was driven back and up, he felt the steps beginning to move. Around and above, they seemed to oscillate like immense clockwork gears. He could hear them scraping against one another, like some enormous, unseen millstone. A blow from Mordrek nearly sent him toppling from the steps, but instead he fell back. He swung his sword wildly, holding Mordrek at bay. His opponent retreated and stood, waiting. ‘Stand, boy.’ Breathing heavily, Gryme clambered to his feet. He was only mortal, and Mordrek was taxing him to his limits. The warrior seemed tireless. Relentless. Trying to buy time, he spoke. ‘Did you – did you slay the others? In the glen.’ ‘Some. Those the Stalking Keep did not. They were brave, if foolish.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I am bound to him who raised me from the dim past.’ Mordrek held up a hand, and stared at it. ‘I do not even know if I can exist, outside this place. Am I a dream, made flesh? A memory, cloaked in iron? Or something else? The one who knows the answer holds my leash. All I know is that I am as I remember being. And that is enough.’ He climbed a step. ‘Now, lay your sword aside, and I will make it quick, boy.’ ‘I am a knight of the Order of the Fly, and I would rather die a thousand times than surrender.’ Gryme lunged. Mordrek avoided his blow, and drove a fist into his abdomen. Gryme stumbled, turned, and caught hold of Mordrek’s tabard. Tangled, they fell from the steps. They struck stone and pinwheeled out, slamming against sharp edges and solid panes. Everything was moving. Grinding. Chewing. Then, a circle of white, growing beneath him. Gryme felt glass shatter as he struck the circle, and a wash of cold swallowed him up. A moment later he was rolling down an icy slope, snow whipping about him. He heard the howl of a northern wind as he rolled to a stop at the base of the slope. He fumbled blindly for his sword, laying nearby, and snatched it up. Everything hurt. His joints ached, his heart hammered. He could taste blood. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the echoes of grinding stone. A vast tundra spread out around him. On the horizon, he saw what he thought to be a migration of ogors, atop their barbarous beasts, their great forms made tiny by distance. Or so he thought, until they scattered with thin, shrill cries as he shoved himself to his feet. He stared at them in bemusement, and was half tempted to pluck one up. He turned. The slope he had rolled down was a mountain in miniature, its cloud-crowned peak an arm’s length above his head. ‘What is this madness?’ ‘Madness is right,’ Mordrek said, from behind him. Gryme whirled, even as his opponent lunged through the swirling snows. Their blades locked, and Gryme slammed back into the mountain, causing an avalanche. Mordrek loomed over him. For the first time, Gryme realised that his foe’s eyes were those of a man – they did not glow or blaze, the pupils were not slit or warped. They were simply… eyes. But the look in them sent a chill through him nonetheless. Mordrek laughed harshly. ‘You fight well, for one who has not a tenth of my strength. You might have made a fine champion for the Lord of All Things, equal even to Valnir himself.’ ‘I do not know that name, but I thank thee for the compliment,’ Gryme said, through gritted teeth. He tried to force Mordrek back, but his limbs resisted the effort. Mordrek was too strong, and Gryme was drawing near the limits of his endurance. ‘What realm is this that a servant of the Plague God knows not the name of his greatest servant? Or perhaps you are simply ignorant, as well as foolish?’ Mordrek pivoted, and sent Gryme crashing to the snow with a single twist of his blade. Gryme scrambled away, trying to catch his breath. Mordrek stalked after him. ‘Get up, boy. Get up and fight.’ Gryme roared and surged to his feet. His wild blow drove Mordrek back a step. And then another. And another. Back and back, with blows that were more force than skill. Snow gave way to ice, and he could hear it cracking with every step. ‘You cannot win, boy,’ Mordrek said. ‘This battle’s end is preordained. Your fate is sealed.’ ‘No.’ Gryme pressed on, remembering Abigos’ words, and the taunts of the songbirds. There was no fate. Only acceptance that what would be, would be. And what would be was yet to be seen. He redoubled his efforts, fighting through the fatigue that threatened to overwhelm him. The ice splintered. Mordrek staggered, as one of his feet sank into the water. Gryme’s blow caught him on the side of the helm, and there was a sound like cracking wood. Mordrek fell, and the ice ruptured as he struck it. Gryme cursed as the chill waters reached up to snare him. Cold surged up around him, and through him, as his armour dragged him down. He sank down, unable to tell which way was up. He clawed for the surface, lungs straining against the crushing weight of suffocation. Things moved around him, in the dark. Shapes so large that he could only dimly perceive them, as they slithered through the cold, dark waters. Then – light, somewhere below. A moment later, he was caught in a riptide, and dragged down towards the light. There was no ice, no glass to crash through this time. Instead, he surfaced with a gasp, and found himself floundering in what appeared to be an ornamental fountain, surrounded by statues carved to resemble kneeling knights. Some of them looked vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen them somewhere before. As he splashed towards the edge of the fountain, he caught sight of Mordrek’s half-submerged form nearby. From the angle of his opponent’s neck, Gryme could tell it was broken. He shook his head. ‘A foul end to a fair tourney.’ He rolled onto his belly, and tried to gather his legs beneath him. ‘A valiant foe, killed by chance. But lucky for me, perhaps.’ He looked at the broken body of his foe. ‘I do not think I could have bested you, Mordrek.’ He caught hold of one of the statues that lined the fountain, and drew himself up. ‘I am not dead, despite my wishes to the contrary.’ Gryme turned, stomach sinking. Mordrek shoved himself upright, water rolling from his armour. ‘Is that what you think this is, boy? A tourney?’ He laughed and twisted his head until it righted itself with a sickening crack. ‘I cannot be beaten by one such as you. Only one whose fate outweighs mine can defeat me and end my curse.’ He paused. ‘Once, I thought it done, at last. A world was dying around me, and I hoped to die with it. Instead, it is gone – all that I was is gone – and I am still here.’ ‘Life is a gift, and you should not throw it away so recklessly,’ Gryme said, hauling himself to his feet. Everything hurt, but he could endure it – what was pain, but life’s song? If he had been a knight, such pain would have troubled him not at all. He spat up a mouthful of ichor and blood. ‘If you live, it is because the gods wish it. Why deny them?’ ‘I do not deny them. I curse them. I cast my hate into their teeth.’ Mordrek caught up his sword and pushed himself to his feet. He looked down at his blade. ‘This sword can make monsters, if it tastes flesh. Do you wish to be a monster, boy? I think you do. Else you would not be here, seeking such a creature as your Lady.’ ‘I wish many things,’ Gryme said. ‘But I hope for none. I will not surrender. Lay on, Mordrek.’ He staggered through the water, blade low. ‘And the Dark Gods take him who yields first!’ Their blades connected with a scream of metal. Mordrek snarled and shoved Gryme back, to the edge of the fountain. ‘Why persist? The others could not beat me – what hope have you?’ ‘None,’ Gryme panted. ‘But I swore an oath.’ He lunged again, and again. Mordrek swatted him aside, this time knocking him from the fountain entirely. Gryme crawled away from it. The chamber seemed to spin about him. He saw great pillars of jasper and gold, rising from a floor of the same. Clouds of incense wafted through the air, and strange lights danced in the shadowed recesses between pillars. Something was broken inside him. He could feel it, grating against something soft. He felt as if he could not lift his sword, or even himself. He was not blessed by Grandfather’s touch, nor by the waters of the Flyblown Chalice. He was not a knight, and barely yet a man. He heard Mordrek climb from the fountain, and something else – the soft whisper of a woman’s voice, swiftly answered by the dull rumble of a man’s. ‘Surrender, boy,’ Mordrek said, his voice echoing through the chamber. ‘I am as inevitable as death itself. There is no shame in sparing yourself pain. My blow will be swift, and sure. You will feel nothing.’ For an instant, Gryme imagined himself back on the tourney field, the eyes of lord and pusling alike upon him. He felt the weight of unknown gazes, of unspoken attentions. Blood dripped through his visor, to splatter on the floor. Maggots squirmed in the spreading red. From somewhere far away, he heard what might have been the susurrus of many iridescent wings, and knew that the King of All Flies was watching. ‘A true knight does not surrender,’ he croaked, shaking his head. ‘Not when he has made an oath.’ Mordrek was close. ‘I am sorry to kill you, boy. But my fate holds me tight. And yours claims you now.’ Gryme saw Mordrek lift his blade. And more – a gap. A single gap, where chest-plate met mail. ‘Farewell, boy. You fought well. But not well enough.’ Gryme’s hand convulsed, tightening about the hilt of his own blade, and with a bellow, he twisted and lurched up, driving his sword full through the gap in Mordrek’s armour. Desperation gave him strength, and the momentum of his lunge carried them back against the fountain. Mordrek slammed into one of the statues, and Gryme’s sword pierced him through and struck stone. Mordrek cried out, and Gryme stumbled back, all strength fled. He swayed on his feet, watching as Mordrek struggled to free himself, to no avail. He sagged back, with an almost relieved sigh. ‘Impossible,’ he whispered. ‘And yet, the deed is done. Kill me, then. Free me.’ Mordrek reached up to awkwardly remove his helm. When it came away, Gryme bit back a curse. There was nothing there at all, except an unnatural radiance, pierced through by two all-too-human eyes. The eyes of a man, hovering inside a flickering colour of no possible description. ‘Free me, sir knight.’ ‘I… I cannot,’ Gryme said, as he straightened. ‘I will not. You have fought valiantly and well, and I will not cut your thread.’ He caught hold of his blade with both hands and tore it loose. Mordrek slumped to the floor with a groan. ‘The battle is won, the tourney finished. That is the end of it.’ Gryme turned in the direction he’d heard the voices emanating from. ‘Do you hear, Zeyros? I have beaten your champion. I have won!’ Silence. Then, a sigh. ‘So you have,’ a voice said. A spark bloomed, and the darkness faded, receding into the stones of the walls and floor, revealing a high dais with a crystal egg the size of a man at its summit. Within the egg, a lithe form huddled, long arms wrapped about her knees, veiled head bowed. The Lady of Cankerwall herself. Gryme’s heart leapt in his chest, and he started towards the dais. ‘Stop,’ the voice commanded. ‘Come no closer.’ Gryme paused at the bottom of the dais. A tall, armoured shape stepped out from behind the egg, silver-bladed glaive in one hand. ‘Ompallious Zeyros,’ Gryme said. ‘That is my name. Might I have the courtesy of knowing yours?’ ‘Gryme. Carkus Gryme, heir to the dukedom of Festerfane. I’ve come for the Lady.’ Gryme raised his sword, though his muscles protested the gesture. ‘Release her, and we shall depart in peace.’ ‘Bold words for a man who can barely stand. I thought you pox-knights were supposed to be tough.’ Zeyros tilted his head. ‘Then, you aren’t a knight, are you?’ Gryme ignored the jibe. He studied Zeyros. The Changeknight was tall and slim, his armour almost moulded to his lean frame. He wore a hauberk of gold beneath azure plate, and a helm topped by the shape of a swooping bird – or a daemon, its visor wrought in the shape of a frowning face. Streamers of varying hues of blue dangled from his war-plate, and a trio of small books had been chained to his belt. Opposite them was a slughorn, similar to the one still dangling from Gryme’s own belt. But it was not this that drew Gryme’s eye. Instead, he stared at the patches of greenish mould growing in small clumps on Zeyros’ armour. An utterly incongruous thing. As he watched, Zeyros brushed at one of the clumps, ripping it away. The mould plopped to the dais and spread suddenly, creeping across the stone, giggling shrilly. Zeyros thrust his glaive down, and Changefire engulfed the mould, reducing it to ash, even as it shrieked. Gryme saw that a new patch was already growing on his armour where the other had been removed. Zeyros laughed hollowly. ‘Am I not what you expected?’ ‘You are… less radiant than I was led to believe.’ Zeyros chuckled wetly. He gestured to the patches of mould on his mail. ‘A parting gift from a friend. A curse.’ He hunched forward, coughing. Something wet and dark dripped through the visor of his helm to splatter upon the steps. ‘No matter how much I scour my flesh, the mould returns. It is in my lungs and my blood. It eats me hollow.’ He looked at the crystal cage and its captive. ‘Soon, I will be dead. Or worse.’ ‘It is not a curse, Ompallious. That you think it is only shows your blindness to the beautiful thing that awaits you.’ The Lady looked up. Slowly, regally, she stood. Her dress was torn, exposing patches of mottled flesh, and her hair was unbound, casting a gorgon’s nest of colourless locks over her shoulders and back. Her veil stirred, and her eyes blazed with feverish heat behind its mouldering folds. She splayed her fingers across the surface of the crystal and looked at Gryme. She sighed, softly and sweetly. ‘Oh, Carkus. You should not be here. This is no place for one such as you.’ ‘I-I came to free you,’ Gryme stammered, unable to look away from her burning gaze. It felt as if some delicious fever had gripped him, and he made to climb the dais. Yet even as he started up the steps, he found her allure strangely diminished. He was reminded again of Abigos, and wondered at the nature of the magics Zeyros had employed to cage her so effectively. Zeyros struck the stones with his glaive, and Changefire boiled up, driving Gryme back. ‘Be silent, daemon.’ Zeyros looked down at Gryme. ‘I sent a messenger to warn you away. You ignored him. I sent a spirit to humble you, and you defeated it. The Stalking Keep itself should have devoured you, and yet you passed through its portcullis without harm.’ He glanced past Gryme. ‘And finally, my champion. Drawn from the shadows of a vanished epoch, through no little sacrifice.’ Gryme glanced back at Mordrek, and saw the ancient warrior slowly dragging himself to his feet, gaze unreadable. ‘He should have been your end. And yet, here you are. Why?’ ‘I made an oath.’ ‘That is not an explanation,’ Zeyros said. ‘It is a boast, cloaked in false humility.’ He shook his head. ‘What am I to do with you?’ He snapped his fingers, and Changefire danced in the air. ‘Shall I set you alight, and scatter your ashes from the windows of this place?’ Another gesture, and the Changefire became a bird, perched on Zeyros’ palm. ‘Or shall I set the birds upon you again – not one knight this time, but two or three.’ Gryme heard a chirp, and glanced up. Tiny, colourful shapes moved in the dim recesses of the ceiling. They sang a trilling note, and he hastily looked away. ‘Send an army, if you would. I will not turn from my path.’ He set his foot on the bottom step. He could hear Mordrek approaching behind him, and wondered if he had the strength to face both foes. He tried to catch the Lady’s gaze, seeking some answer, some sign. But she turned her face away. So be it. He would die here. But not easily. Or quickly. ‘No. Of course not. That would be entirely too sensible to even expect.’ Zeyros sighed. ‘Things have changed little, since my day.’ ‘That was the bargain we made, your brothers and I,’ the Lady said, suddenly, from within her prison. She looked at Zeyros. ‘That Change be slowed and the waters of fate go still. And I have held to it. The duchies flourish, in Grandfather’s shadow.’ Zeyros turned. ‘They stagnate, you mean. Only rot flourishes in still waters.’ ‘Nonetheless, it is life.’ ‘But one not worth the living.’ Zeyros looked at Gryme. ‘Do you understand, boy? Do you even notice the absence of what might have been, or are you too blinded by this shroud of chivalry she has woven about our folk?’ When Gryme didn’t answer, Zeyros laughed. ‘You are a fool, young knight. Then, perhaps we are all fools together.’ The Radiant Knight extended his glaive. ‘The Lady is mine. She holds in her the secret to my salvation. I shall prise it from her, and scour the rot from my veins at last.’ ‘You are right. You are a fool. Only a fool would toss aside a gift from Nurgle.’ Gryme climbed another step. He was within seven steps of his foe – an auspicious number. Zeyros laughed. ‘A gift?’ He looked at the Lady, in her cage of crystal. ‘How low my folk have fallen that they think what you offer them is a gift.’ ‘Do not speak to her so,’ Gryme barked. ‘I shall speak to her as I wish,’ Zeyros snarled. ‘Would that I had killed her then, as the skies grew black with flies and she traipsed among us on dainty hooves.’ He slammed a fist against his chest. ‘I was there the day the first Grandmaster of our Order supped from her vile chalice, and became something monstrous. The day so many of my sword-brothers swore themselves to the banners of despair, all in a vain attempt to hold time itself at bay.’ Gryme stopped. ‘You were… one of us?’ ‘Oh yes, I and Ephraim Bollos. Timar Bellicos, who took the name Bubonicus. Ocander Wolgus and Gaspax Gahool. Culgus of the Iron Ridge. The knights of the seven duchies, bound by honour and blood. And now, I alone remember those days clearly, my thoughts untainted by the stink of rot.’ Gryme started at the names. Heroes, all, who had led pox-crusades into far realms, and fallen in glorious battle against gods and heathens. And yet Zeyros spoke as if he had known them. The Lady laughed, and Gryme felt a shiver run through him. ‘Oh, Ompallious – once, you might have ridden at my right hand,’ she said. ‘Was the dukedom of Festerfane not enough for you?’ ‘That was not its name then,’ Zeyros said, softly. ‘And what was its name?’ the Lady asked, gently. ‘Do you even remember?’ Zeyros turned away, and Gryme saw the Lady nod. ‘You gave up so much, for vengeance. You let the Great Changer hollow you out of all but that singular ambition. But your end is here, and there is love yet in the ending. And serenity in acceptance. Come back to me, my love – my sweetest knight…’ Gryme felt something in his heart twist for the pain he heard in her voice. The truest love, of a lady for her knight. ‘Love,’ Zeyros said, harshly. ‘What do you know of love?’ He turned. ‘You pitted us against one another, for love. My brothers and I fought, for your love. My brothers in arms. All lost now. All dead…’ He began to cough, and bent nearly double from the force of it. The mould on his armour was shrieking with laughter. He clawed at it frantically, scraping it away. ‘Not dead,’ the Lady said. ‘Nothing truly dies in the gardens of the King of All Flies. They sleep and dream of the day when they are needed again, to safeguard the seven duchies.’ ‘Be silent, rot-hag,’ Zeyros snarled. He struck the crystal egg with a fist, and its facets flared with a monstrous radiance. The Lady screamed, and Gryme screamed with her. He launched himself up the steps, blade raised to shatter the crystal. Zeyros’ glaive swept out, driving Gryme back. ‘No. Not until I have what I want. The cure to this malady that infects me. Then I will banish her from this realm, and send her back to Nurgle’s vile garden, as I – I…’ He half turned away from Gryme, his body wracked by coughing. The blade of the glaive dipped. ‘As I should have – have…’ The rest of his words were lost in a deluge of hoarse hacking. The mould clinging to his raiment was spreading, and singing, now. Zeyros clutched at his abdomen, as if in pain. Gryme turned. The Lady was looking at him, now. ‘My knight,’ she murmured. He did not stop to think who she might be referring to. Instead, he spun, sword raised. He would slay Zeyros, and free her. He would fulfil his oath. But as he whirled, the haft of Zeyros’ glaive slammed into his helm. He crashed backwards, against the egg, and rolled down the steps. His sword slid from his grip and then Zeyros was upon him, one golden boot pinning him to the floor. The glaive swept his sword out of reach. Zeyros spun the weapon about, and placed the tip of the blade to Gryme’s throat. Almost gently, he prised Gryme’s helm off, and sent it clattering away. Zeyros looked down at Gryme. ‘I have tried to avoid this, boy. You are of my blood – though centuries have thinned the stuff in your veins to gruel – and I would have spared you this, out of love for kin and kingdom.’ He raised his glaive. ‘But that was never our fate.’ Gryme did not flinch. If this was to be the end, he would meet it as a true knight. Zeyros tensed, readying the thrust. ‘Wait.’ Zeyros turned. ‘What is it, daemon?’ ‘Spare him, and I will spare you, Ompallious Zeyros.’ Zeyros paused. ‘You would bargain with me?’ She spoke slowly, as if the words pained her. ‘His life means more to me than yours. Spare him, and your skein is untangled. Kill him, and suffer the fate you fear most.’ Zeyros lowered his glaive. ‘Do it, then. Cure me of Ephraim Bollos’ last gift. And I will spare your newest toy.’ He gestured, and the crystal egg splintered and fell away into flickering shards. The Lady brushed a shard from her shoulder and sang a single, sibilant note. Zeyros staggered. Clumps of giggling mould fell from his form and clumped together on the floor. One of them slid towards Gryme, wriggling like a worm, and he closed his hand about it, quickly, before his captor could see. The rest of the mould was not so lucky. Before it could go far, Zeyros thrust his glaive into it and Changefire swept across the floor, burning it clean. The Lady hung her head and sighed, sadly. ‘It is done.’ Zeyros looked down at his cleansed armour, and took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’ He looked at Gryme, and swept his glaive up once more. The Lady cried out in consternation. Gryme bit back a cry of his own, as the glaive drove down towards his heart. ‘No.’ Mordrek’s blade caught Zeyros’ glaive and turned it aside. The Radiant Knight stepped back in surprise. Gryme looked up at his saviour, and saw no sign of the wound he’d given the other warrior. ‘The battle is finished, Zeyros. You have what you wish. To take any more than what fate provides is simple greed.’ ‘You defy me?’ Zeyros said, incredulous. ‘My geas is broken,’ Mordrek said. ‘You bound me until my defeat, trusting in my pride. But this boy – this knight – set me on my back, and fairly.’ Mordrek glanced at Gryme, and then back at Zeyros. ‘Thus, my will is my own.’ ‘I could send you back to death with but a word.’ ‘If you could, you would have said it already.’ Mordrek lowered his sword. ‘You were a knight, once. And you swore an oath.’ Zeyros stared at him. Then, with a disgruntled sigh, he nodded. ‘Fine.’ He let Gryme rise, and stepped aside so that the young warrior could escort the Lady from the dais. She extended her hand as Gryme ­stumbled towards her. ‘My lady,’ he mumbled. ‘My Carkus,’ she said, softly. ‘Whatever am I to do with you?’ Pushing aside the sudden thought that she was somehow disappointed in him, Gryme took her hand carefully, and helped her down. She stood tall and regal, despite her bedraggled state. She looked at Zeyros. He met her gaze steadily. ‘Fair warning… I am not the only one who smelled the duchies’ weakness on the winds of Chaos,’ he said. ‘I am but the first to try my hand. There is a war brewing, in the spaces between. Nurgle recedes and Tzeentch ascends.’ The Lady looked away. ‘As Nurgle will ascend, and Tzeentch will descend, in days to come. Such is the eternal cycle. All seasons have their moment.’ Zeyros laughed. ‘As you say, my lady. But all things change. Even the dance of the seasons. A storm sweeps the realms, and what was once set is now upended. Malign portents crowd the minds of seers, and ancient things best forgotten stir.’ ‘Let them stir,’ Gryme said. ‘Let them come. We will ride out to meet them. The Blighted Duchies belong to the King of All Flies, and he shall rule them for evermore.’ Zeyros looked at Gryme. ‘Your bravado, misplaced as it is, reminds me of another. A man I called friend. And then slew, for his treachery.’ He pointed at Gryme. ‘Do not cross my path again, or it shall be the same end for you.’ He turned away, and gestured dismissively. ‘Now be gone, all of you. I grow weary of the stink.’ Gryme watched as the Stalking Keep prowled away from the glen, crushing trees beneath its great talons. It somehow felt wrong to allow a foe to escape without even a token resistance, but the Lady had commanded, and he could but obey. He turned. The others stood nearby. Blisterback crouched protectively next to the Lady, his cleaver over one shoulder. The old beast had waited loyally for them to emerge from the Stalking Keep’s craw, and had seemed unsurprised to see them. The Lady watched the Stalking Keep depart, her expression unreadable behind her veil. She seemed stronger than she had within the monstrous edifice, as if whatever force had been sapping her power was now gone. Around her, the glen was returning to normal. The trees were darkening and twisting back into their usual shapes, and the flowers were dying. The sad notes of their dwindling song hung on the air, and Gryme sighed in satisfaction. Then he winced and clutched his chest. Pain flared in him. Blisterback scuttled towards him. The beast caught Gryme’s arm and wrapped it about his hairy shoulders. ‘You live, young master. Pain is good.’ ‘The beast speaks true,’ Mordrek said. He stood some distance away, studying the stars overhead. ‘Pain is good, in moderation. It means you are still a man, whatever else.’ He looked at Gryme. ‘The stars are foreign to me.’ ‘You get used to them,’ Gryme said. He winced again, as Blisterback helped him to Mordrek’s side. ‘What now, Mordrek? Will you return to Festerfane with us?’ He glanced at the Lady. ‘There will be feasting, I think. A celebration.’ Mordrek shook his head. ‘No, boy. I would explore this new realm I have been drawn up into. Perhaps there are wonders and horrors yet that I have not witnessed. If so, they might enliven the tedium of eternity, if only for a few centuries.’ He turned and extended his hand. ‘But if you need me, simply blow the slughorn you carry, and Count Mordrek will ride with all haste to your aid.’ Gryme glanced down at the horn. At the time, he had not thought to question its presence. Now, though, he wondered how it had come to be in this place. When he looked up, a question on his lips, Mordrek was already gone. Vanished into the rising miasma. ‘He has ever travelled strange roads, that one,’ the Lady said, without turning around. ‘No man or daemon can say where or when he will appear, or on whose side he will fight. A mystery.’ She turned, then, her gaze bright and scalding. ‘I do not like mysteries. I find them tedious. Almost as tedious as mortals.’ Gryme swallowed, suddenly struck dumb. ‘I did not require your aid,’ she continued. ‘Or that of these brave fools.’ She looked around at the heaps of fallen knights as if somehow… disappointed. ‘The matter was well in hand. Ompallious would not have harmed me.’ ‘I – I thought…’ he began. She laughed, softly. The sound was like a knife in his heart. ‘No. I doubt that greatly. Do you know what you have cost me, today? What you have cost the King of All Flies? From the ashes of Ompallious Zeyros, Ephraim Bollos might have risen, returned to us. Something which is sorely needed, in these dangerous times.’ She pointed an accusing finger. ‘I traded that possibility, for your life. What have you to say for yourself?’ Gryme shook his head. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered. ‘I have disappointed you.’ He fell to his knees, head bowed. ‘But I have not failed you.’ He reached into his armour and withdrew the softly chuckling clump of mould he’d saved. It squirmed on his palms. Without a word he proffered it to her. He felt the heat of her gaze falter. ‘Oh… Ephraim,’ she murmured, as if to a lost pet, newly found. Gently, she took the quivering mould from him and stroked it. ‘With this, he might yet return.’ She looked down at him. After a moment’s silence, she said, ‘Rise, young Carkus. Only knights must kneel before me. And you are not that. Not yet.’ Gryme hesitated. He rose slowly, staring at her. She laughed softly, and he was reminded of the gentle dapple of a plague-rain upon glass. Her fingers caressed his blistered chin, and her smile was as lovely as the reflected gleam of balefire on still waters. At her touch, the pain of his wounds and the ache in his limbs faded, and a sweet numbness flooded him. ‘Not yet,’ she murmured, again. ‘Seven are the trials every knight must face to earn his spurs. This is but the first. Six remain for you, before you are deemed worthy to sup from the Flyblown Chalice.’ Gryme frowned. He wanted to argue. To proclaim his worth. But if he were truly worthy, would he need to say so? Finally, he nodded. ‘I am at your service, my lady.’ She stepped past him, crossing the clearing on dainty hooves. ‘That remains to be seen, young Carkus. But do not hope. Only in acceptance is worth found. Now come. Festerfane awaits. And there is a tourney to finish, I believe.’ ‘As you say, my lady,’ he replied. ‘What will be, will be.’ But even as he said it, he felt a twinge deep in him. As of a weed, growing in a garden.