For Aetius, it was not so much a matter of pride as it was a simple fact. The Steel Souls had been at the forefront of the war for the Jade Kingdoms, and the entirety of Ghyran itself. They had forged a path for their brothers to follow, hurling back the servants of the Plague God wherever they found them, from the Grove of Blighted Lanterns to the Mirkwater.
As they would do here, Sigmar willing.
Gramin had been beautiful once, Aetius thought, as he led his fellow Stormcasts through the vacant streets. The city was a living thing, shaped rather than built, and reeking of the strange magics that permeated much of this realm. Once it had been home to thousands. Now it was a husk, emptied and abandoned, and falling to the same blight which was slowly devouring all of Ghyran. Black ichor seeped from the reed-walls, and stinking water bubbled up through the mat of the street. Flies choked the air.
So far, their advance into the city had been uncontested. They had discovered great ironwood barges abandoned in the marshes and used them to reach the city. The barges now sat beside the beslimed quays of Gramin, guarded by a few volunteers from among his retinue. The outer ring of the city had devolved back into a quagmire of reeds and marsh-grass, uninhabited save by unseen beasts. But the enemy were near. The sea-wind carried with it the monotonous thud of their war-drums to Aetius’ ears.
The mortals who had once lived in this place had fought when the Rotbringers laid siege to their sea-gates and lagoon-walls. But without Sigmar to guide them, they had faltered and fallen. Those who had survived the sack that followed the shattering of the sea-gates had been taken in chains to the miasma-shrouded sargasso-citadels that now dotted the mouth of Verdant Bay like sores. There they had likely been cast into the plague-gardens as fuel for the balefires that now ceaselessly vomited pox-smoke into the skies above the marshy coastline.
But Gramin had remained, abandoned and forgotten. Until now. Until the bells. When they rang, they filled the air with their dolorous cacophony. The sound of the bells spread like a plague, stretching from the coastal marshes and onto the Plains of Vo. And the lovers-of-plague had come following it, drawn like maggots to dead flesh. Hundreds of them, moving from the north and the south, trudging towards the source of the clangour. The curse-bells, calling Nurgle’s children to war.
The rest of the chamber was to the north, somewhere on the Plains of Vo. Lord-Castellant Grymn had ordered scouting parties sent out to search for the bells while he led the other Steel Souls in battle with the migrating warbands. Numerous ruins dotted the coastline for leagues in either direction, and any one of them could have been the origin of the din.
‘It’s the basilica.’
Aetius glanced at Solus, his second-in-command. ‘What?’
‘That’s where they are, I’d wager. It’s the highest point in the city,’ Solus said, pointing towards the domed roof that was just visible over the tops of the other buildings. The great structure known as the Basilica of Reeds occupied the heart of the city. Once, Sigmar’s worshippers had filled it with the sound of song and reverence. Now the God-King alone knew what horrors stalked its aisles.
‘Maybe,’ Aetius said.
‘Definitely.’ Solus was possessed of a calm certainty that Aetius could scarcely fathom. Sometimes he fancied that the Judicator-Prime was the eye of a storm made manifest. When Solus deigned to speak, even Lord-Celestant Gardus, the Steel Soul himself, listened. Aetius envied his brother Stormcast that steadiness. Solus seemed to have no doubts as to his place or purpose in the world.
In contrast, Aetius had nothing but questions. Unlike some Stormcasts, Aetius had no memory of who he had been — no recollection of what event had prompted Sigmar to choose him for a life of eternal war. There was an emptiness in him, a hollow space in his soul that he’d hidden behind a wall of faith and now tried his best to ignore. For Aetius Shieldborn, there was nothing in the world save duty.
‘If they are here, we will find them,’ Aetius said.
‘If? That doesn’t sound like if,’ Solus said, as he drew and readied a crackling arrow. One by one, the Judicators of his retinue followed suit. ‘That’s not just the wind we’re hearing, Aetius. Listen!’
Aetius cocked his head. The sea wind rolled through the streets of reed and soil, carrying the sour smell of the distant sargasso. And something else. A low sound that spread like a fog rolling in off the sea… The sound of the bells of Gramin. A hollow groan rolled over the assembled Stormcasts, reverberating through their bones and souls alike with a horrible finality — it was the sound of dirt striking a coffin lid and the last cry of a dying beast, the crumbling of stone and the sifting of sand through an hourglass, the sound of futility and ruin. One of the Liberators stumbled forwards, vomit spewing from the mouthpiece of his helm.
‘Back in line,’ Aetius growled, as the warrior mumbled apologies for his moment of weakness. His brothers helped him to his feet. Aetius kept his eyes on the broad avenue ahead. The thick miasma clung to everything in this sour place and seemed to be thickening, growing more opaque with every toll of the unseen bells. It stank of the sea and of decaying seaweed and rotting fish. And from within it came the padding of many feet.
‘I know that smell… Rotbringers,’ Solus said.
‘Form a square, brothers.’ Aetius raised his hammer as his warriors shifted position, forming a loose phalanx. ‘Lock shields and brace yourselves,’ he continued. The Hallowed Knights had come seeking sign of the enemy, but it appeared that their foes had found them instead. ‘Solus, take your retinue behind the shield wall and ready your arrows.’
‘Aye, Shieldborn,’ Solus said, leading his men into the square of sigmarite. The Judicators would be able to ply their trade freely there. Few foes could break a Liberator shield wall and survive. Aetius stepped back into line. The miasma crept closer, billowing upwards and thickening. It reminded Aetius of nothing so much as a snake readying itself to strike.
The wall of mist ruptured, expelling a pestilent horde. The Rotbringers were clad in filthy rags and rusted armour. They had been mortal once, before they had surrendered their souls and sanity to Nurgle. Now they were a braying morass of suppurating flesh, stumbling forwards on bandaged feet and cloven hooves.
‘Solus — split the log,’ Aetius said. A moment later, the Judicators loosed a crackling volley over the heads of the waiting Liberators. Arrows struck the oncoming Rotbringers with unerring aim. Those in the front ranks were pitched backwards into their fellows or else hurled into the air by the explosive impact. A second volley followed the first, and then a third, as quick as thought. Slowly but surely, the foetid mass of enemy warriors buckled and split, dividing in two.
Sigmarite shields creaked as the Rotbringers slammed into two sides of the square. Aetius drove his hammer into a bloated belly, popping it like a pustule. The blessed metal of the hammer cauterised the creature’s seeping organs even as it crushed them. ‘Hold the line, brothers,’ Aetius cried as he ripped his hammer free of the dying warrior’s intestines in a plume of smoke. ‘Who will stand, as the world crumbles?’
‘Only the faithful,’ the other Stormcasts shouted, as one.
‘We are the faithful, brothers. We are the steadfast,’ Aetius said, as a moss-encrusted club thudded harmlessly from his shield. ‘Solus — scour these barnacles from our shields.’ A volley shrieked up over the wall, and fell screaming amongst the foe. ‘Push them back,’ Aetius said as he shoved forwards, arm and shoulder braced behind his shield. The front line of Liberators followed his example, and the Rotbringers reeled back. But not for long.