SHORT STORIES THE CYCLE INTERRUPTED Horticulous Slimux frowned, the slick skin of his ‘Any moment now,’ he said, ‘and we’ll bring some forehead furrowing like a well-ploughed field. The lovely life to this place.’ He chewed on a splintered bone ancient daemon had been thinking pleasant thoughts and peered with an expert’s eye at the earth, but it re- about running down the last survivors of Zintalis Old mained cracked and dry. How could it be? His skill as a Town, his lolloping Beasts of Nurgle driving the citi- cultivator was such that even the most arid desert was zens into the open so their corpses could bring soon rich compost for the blessings of the garden, and Grandfather’s fecundity to the meadows and plains his seeds were the finest in all the lands. beyond. It would be a welcome and hard-earned change from desperate battle against that cursed axe- Up ahead, some of the scattered townspeople had no- woman Blacktalon and her Rangers, that much was ticed that Horticulous and his entourage had halted in sure. But to his frustration, his quarry was escaping. their pursuit. One of the humans gave a strange laugh, his tone somewhere between relief and madness. ‘Perhaps runnin’ ’em down is a bit of a stretch,’ droned Slimux – given the sluggard’s pace of his mollusc-steed ‘Not havin’ that,’ grumbled Horticulous. ‘Mulch! Lead Mulch, the humans would outpace them for days yet. the charge!’ The daemon molluscoid shambled forward, But there was something to be said for doing things but as soon as his front set of legs touched the cracked slowly, steadily and properly. ‘Run, my little hares,’ flatlands, he screeched and recoiled as if stung by a pala- muttered Horticulous. ‘The snail always wins in the din-wasp. ‘That ain’t right,’ said Horticulous. He peered end.’ But there was something on the wind that made his down once more at the spore-seeds. Instead of bursting usual certainty ring hollow, into glorious life as they should have, they had shriv- elled away to black ruin. Nurgle’s magic was not taking. A scent of death blew from the cracked plains to the north of Zintalis, with another smell cutting through it. ‘We made it!’ shouted one of the Zintalis humans. Was that the cold, nostril-scouring tang of sterility? ‘They’re not coming after us!’ Slimux shuddered at the very thought. Death was all fine Horticulous ground his crumbled molars, his choler and well by him, an integral part of Grandfather’s great souring with every passing moment. He took a greenclay cycle and a necessary prelude to the birth of glorious urn from Mulch’s shell, the one containing his most new life. He had brought that gift to millions of souls prized plague flies, and cracked it open with his lopping over his long existence, and extensively travelled Shy- shears to release a cloud of fat-bodied insects. ‘Swarm ish, the Realm of Death, in his time. But as he always ’em, little ’uns!’ he cried out, but the insects just buzzed told his wide-eyed Nurgling helpers in the Plague God’s around him, not trespassing so much as a foot onto the Garden, a creature’s demise was always followed by re- cracked lands. birth, whether of body or spirit, and from the tiniest forms of life blossomed vast and malodorous entities ‘He can’t touch us,’ came the call from up ahead. One of that pleased Grandfather with their foulness – until one them took out a shortbow, and a moment later an arrow day they, too, died and the cycle continued. struck Horticulous right in the chest. It caused a momen- tary flicker of pain as it pierced his heart. The daemon ‘Ah well,’ said Horticulous, snorting at his own intro- plucked out the arrow and snapped it, his anger rising up spection. He could still see the town’s survivors ahead, to consume all reason. He slid off Mulch’s shell, took up crossing the plain with his Beasts in gleeful pursuit. ‘On his shears, and stepped out onto the flatlands, grimacing with the great labour.’ He kicked his steed hard in its at the stinging pain he felt in the soles of his feet. slime-clotted shell and waggled the Nurgling he had tied to his stick as bait. ‘Get ’em, Mulch.’ The molluscoid daemon sighed heavily, rolled its eyes and pulled itself forwards as fast as it could, accelerating from the pace of an asthmatic Nurgling to that of a leper at a danger- ously fast walk. THE CYCLE INTERRUPTED The cracked earth shivered and shook as if revulsed, and a hundred skeletal hands thrust upwards from the earth with a noise like a thousand earthenware jars shattering at once. Those closest were grabbing at Horticulous but could not quite reach him, for they were repelled by the spore-seeds scattered on the ground. ‘Huh,’ he grunted, slashing one of the hands with a backhand swipe of his shears. It came apart in a scattering of bones. Those hands bursting out nearest the human survivors experienced no such obstacle. They clawed at Zintalis’ survivors in ever-greater numbers, the earth around them crumbling away to reveal an entire layer of juddering skeletons beneath. Bony fingers sank into soft skin and ripped away chunks of pink flesh as the townspeople were dragged screaming into their graves. Horticulous raised his eyebrow, drinking in the spectacle with a mixture of satisfaction and disquiet. ‘Strange times indeed,’ he muttered, climbing slowly back into Mulch’s saddle-shell. ‘But this old dog has plenty of tricks yet. Come on, my fine little lads, back to the gar- den with you. We have work to do.’ DEATH AT THE DOOR Verric’s mouth was dry and his heart hammered like to see his strong, courageous lad laid so low. So many a forge-piston, but his hands were steady. Fear was had been lost to the plague that had spread like wildfire an old friend. It had kept him alive this long, through throughout Sorrowcreek, but still Julen fought on. two decades in the free guilds and another raising a boy alone out on the frontier. “Upstairs, son,” Verric whispered, and the ragged croak of his voice sounded unnatural and repulsive even to He pulled back the curtain and peered out into the lash- himself. “Find a place to hide. Don’t move until I tell ing rain. Sorrowcreek’s makeshift palisade of vine- you.” lashed timbers loomed out of the mist, and beyond that the canopy of the Chiltus forest, writhing beneath a gan- “I can fight with you!” Julen said, shaking his head and grenous sky. Screams and pitiful wails echoed in the dis- stumbling down the stairs towards Verric. Even as he tance. They had come again, the depraved tribes of the reached the floor, his strength left him, and he tripped deep forest. Rotskins. Bringers of disease and ruin, wor- and sprawled into the hall, landing hard. He coughed a shippers of unspeakable gods. trail of black phlegm that stained the stone floor. Verric rushed to his son, and hauled him to his feet, placing a He could see an orange glow in the distance, flickering hand on each side of his face. faintly in the downpour. Was that the old Fhendel place aflame? At least the fires would claim no fresh victims – “I know you can fight,” he said. “But there’s a time for Goodman Fhendel and his wife had passed weeks back. blades and a time for good sense, my boy. You can He choked back a bitter laugh. The Rotskin tribes would hardly stand, much less swing a sword. Look at me, find naught here but emaciated bodies and maggot- Julen. Look at me now.” ridden timbers. The able-bodied had long ago abandoned this cursed place, taking their chances upon the long, Julen’s sunken, bloodshot eyes met his own. dangerous road back to Greywater rather than facing the slow decay of the Weeping Ague. Verric would have “You go and hide,” he said. “Whatever’s coming, you joined them himself, were Julen well enough to travel. leave it to me. I’ve dealt with heretics and savages. A Death had already visited Sorrowcreek, and it had left well-aimed bolt or two will send them running, mark my only the ill-fated and the foolish in its wake. words.” Another scream cut through the storm, piercing and Julen nodded, lips quivering just a bit. Verric ruffled the ragged with terror. youth’s sweat-slicked hair, and gave him a gentle shove towards the stairs. With a last, pained look back, Julen Verric crossed the room and reached for the varnished retreated back to his room. repeater that hung above the fireplace of his humble homestead. He hefted the heavy bow and cranked the Verric turned back to the heavy door. Brackish rainwater lever, then checked the chamber and saw five gleaming seeped under the frame, soaking his boots and running bolts of steel stacked and ready. Simply holding the re- between the cobbled stones. Verric grasped the wooden peater seemed to steady his frayed nerves. A duardin- charm that hung at his neck, a simple image of the Ever- forged piece, it had been with him since he had donned queen he had whittled himself from the shining sprig of his first uniform. In all that time, it had never failed him. goldwood on a sun-washed afternoon long ago. So long ago it seemed another life entirely.