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KNIGHT OF CORRUPTION

David Annandale

The daemon considered the nature of vision. It was his power, it was his goal and it was his frustration. Through vision, the Many-Eyed served Archaon. In serving, he saw more and more. The more he saw, the more distant the moment of great revelation became. That sight, lost to him except in blurs and fragments, was his eternal torment and goad.

No accumulation of knowledge came close to what had been. It must never stop. His vision must reach further and further, embracing more and more. Piece by piece, he would construct infinity.

The Many-Eyed Servant thought about the eyes of a fly, of the mosaic of a single insect’s vision, limited in distance yet all-encompassing in the immediate. Sight compounded then compounded again by the multiplicity of a swarm. So many pieces coming together, creating clarity.

For those with eyes to see.

How well does he answer the call? The voice came, as deep with power and with the thunder of Chaos as if the speaker were present. It was the voice of the sorcerer’s master, the voice of Archaon, reaching across the realms.

‘He hears,’ the Many-Eyed said. ‘He strives. He lacks clarity.’

He is aware of his shortcoming?

‘He is, Everchosen. He seeks to know what he must do.’

Then the trial continues.

‘As you command.’ Standing in the empty throne room, the Many-Eyed Servant looked beyond its walls. He received the vision of the swarm.

The flies were speaking to Copsys Bule again. They burrowed into his scalp, took his blood and laid their eggs in his lank, dripping strands of hair. Their buzzing was music that had accompanied him for years. It was the sound of Grandfather Nurgle’s growing garden, the melody of blessed corruption. Now, though, it had become something else. It sounded very close to whispers. The drone of insects, growing louder and softer as the nimbus circled him, had a shape just beyond his ability to perceive. He wondered if that shape would match the apparition that had spoken to him. The drone was urgent. It was commanding. It pulled, but he could not discern the direction of the tug. Since the retreat from the seraphon, the call had become both more insistent and more vague. He had a duty to fulfil, one different from any he had known until now.

He seeks a champion, the apparition had said. And then, with meaningful symmetry: Seek him, champion.

And Fistula, deep in fever, speaking unconsciously, had said Archaon.

And there were other duties too. A portion of the garden had been uprooted. Nurgle’s blessings had been rejected. There were reparations to be made.

So Fistula was quick to remind him.

‘We should go back,’ said Fistula. He marched beside Bule. His words were for the commander’s ears alone, but he did not temper their volume as much as he should have.

Bule did not know if any of the other Rotbringers heard. He thought not. But Fistula’s anger was clear. His tone was on the verge of a challenge.

‘You would have us return to annihilation?’ Bule asked.

‘No, for vengeance. For Grandfather.’

‘Your zeal is sound. Your judgement is not. We cannot go back. What makes you think the gate would return us to our point of departure? Do you even know what realm this is?’

‘No,’ Fistula admitted.

‘We are fortunate to have emerged where we have,’ said Bule. ‘Grandfather Nurgle still blesses us.’

The realm was blighted; the Plaguefather’s gifts were everywhere. The warband moved through a diseased forest. The gate was far behind but Bule wanted it further yet. He didn’t think pursuit was likely, but until his diminished warband had recovered some of its strength, it was better not to risk another clash with the seraphon. He had lost his trident in the most recent clash and now carried a pock-marked axe. He looked back at his warriors. They had been bloodied. Their numbers were reduced and the shame of retreat hung over them. This portion of Nurgle’s following had withered, and it needed to blossom once more.

‘There is no glory in luck,’ Fistula said. His bald head reddened with anger. The white spots of emerging blisters appeared. They gave him no joy. ‘And we are still retreating.’

Bule did not argue. Whether an enemy pursued or not, the effect was the same. The march had begun as desperate flight. Nothing had changed that initial impulse. Bule needed to turn the retreat into an advance. There was still strength in his warriors, and there was strength all around them. For the day and the night since their arrival, they had been surrounded by the glorious blight. The garden was flourishing. There was cause to rejoice even as there was work to do.

The terrain was rolling and gaining altitude. A river flowed on Bule’s left. The water was brown and grey and gelid, despite a fast current, and soft, rotting shapes tumbled through it. Black-crusted foam burbled around rocks, leaving a patina of slime. On both sides of the river, the forest quivered. Pendulous fungi hung from trees. There were no leaves. Huge colonies of mould covered the branches, the growths thicker than the trunks. They hauled the branches down toward the ground. The loam was thick, a festering carpet of decomposition. It rippled with feasting insects.

‘Children of the Plaguefather!’ Bule shouted. Phlegm thickened his voice, and he revelled in the wet, crackling pain at the back of his throat. ‘We turn our backs on sorrow, and march towards the ecstasy of blight. Enough of retreat! Now we hunt!’

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Published in Great Britain in 2015.
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