Backlist

Discover more stories set in the Age of Sigmar from Black Library

~ THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

THE GATES OF AZYR
An Age of Sigmar novella

~ THE REALMGATE WARS ~

WAR STORM
An Age of Sigmar anthology

GHAL MARAZ
An Age of Sigmar anthology

HAMMERS OF SIGMAR
An Age of Sigmar anthology

CALL OF ARCHAON
An Age of Sigmar anthology

WARDENS OF THE EVERQUEEN
An Age of Sigmar novel

WARBEAST
An Age of Sigmar novel

FURY OF GORK
An Age of Sigmar novel

~ BLADESTORM ~

PART ONE: VENGEANCE ETERNAL

PART TWO: RIGHTEOUS BLOOD

PART THREE: THE MANTICORE DREADHOLD

PART FOUR: IRON TIDE

PART FIVE: SPLITSKULL PASS

PART SIX: CHOSEN OF SIGMAR

PART SEVEN: THE SPIRAL TOWER

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

The Resolute – Josh Reynolds

Heartwood – Robbie MacNiven

The Splintered – Rob Sanders

Wrathspring – Gav Thorpe

The Outcast – Josh Reynolds

About the Authors

An Extract from ‘Labyrinth of the Lost’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

From the maelstrom of a sundered world, the Eight Realms were born. The formless and the divine exploded into life.

Strange, new worlds appeared in the firmament, each one gilded with spirits, gods and men. Noblest of the gods was Sigmar. For years beyond reckoning he illuminated the realms, wreathed in light and majesty as he carved out his reign. His strength was the power of thunder. His wisdom was infinite. Mortal and immortal alike kneeled before his lofty throne. Great empires rose and, for a while, treachery was banished. Sigmar claimed the land and sky as his own and ruled over a glorious age of myth.

But cruelty is tenacious. As had been foreseen, the great alliance of gods and men tore itself apart. Myth and legend crumbled into Chaos. Darkness flooded the realms. Torture, slavery and fear replaced the glory that came before. Sigmar turned his back on the mortal kingdoms, disgusted by their fate. He fixed his gaze instead on the remains of the world he had lost long ago, brooding over its charred core, searching endlessly for a sign of hope. And then, in the dark heat of his rage, he caught a glimpse of something magnificent. He pictured a weapon born of the heavens. A beacon powerful enough to pierce the endless night. An army hewn from everything he had lost.

Sigmar set his artisans to work and for long ages they toiled, striving to harness the power of the stars. As Sigmar’s great work neared completion, he turned back to the realms and saw that the dominion of Chaos was almost complete. The hour for vengeance had come. Finally, with lightning blazing across his brow, he stepped forth to unleash his creation.

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

The Resolute

Josh Reynolds

The rotling roared out a challenge and Felyndael, Guardian of the Waning Light, turned to meet it. They always sought to challenge him. It was not bravery, he thought, so much as hunger. Hunger for challenge, hunger for conquest… hunger for death. They were like the roots of a blighted tree, still stretching for nourishment even though the trunk was dead. They belonged dead, but could not die. He gestured contemptuously, and the rotling lumbered towards him.

Around him, his fellow tree-revenants fought with other rotlings, leaping and slashing among the clumsy plague-lovers. Scarred Caradrael bisected a bloated warrior from crown to groin as lithe Yvael cut the sagging throats of three with a single blow. Daemonic ichor splashed across the wondrous curved structures of the reed-city of Gramin as the rotlings stumbled and died beneath the blades of his twenty-strong kin-band.

Felyndael felt a surge of satisfaction as his warriors fought with their customary flowing grace. They flickered in and out of sight, lunging and striking at their opponents from every direction at once. They were veterans of the withering years, and could easily dispatch three times their number in open combat.

He turned his attention back to his challenger as the brute, bulbous and clad in stinking furs and pitted metal, came at him in a clumsy rush, roaring out the name of its foul god. It seared the air with its murk. An axe swept down, and Moonsorrow rose to meet it. The ancient blade hummed with strength and struck with the force of an avalanche. The jagged blade of the axe shivered apart. The rotling reeled back, pustule-dotted jaw working in shock beneath the rim of its foetid helmet. Flabby paws waved in hapless defiance as Felyndael darted forwards, quick as the wind.

Moonsorrow screamed in joy as it pierced the noisome bulk. Flesh, muscle and bone parted like smoke before the bite of the sword. The rotling hunched forward with a shrill wheeze, clawing helplessly at Felyndael’s bark-clad arms. Wriggling worms spilled from its mouth and pattered to the ground as its stinking ichor gushed from the wound.

Ably done, noble one, Yvael thought, her compliment pulsing through Felyndael’s mind as he pulled Moonsorrow free of the rotling’s cancerous body. He let the creature sag to the ground and looked around.

I am not alone in that, my sister, Felyndael thought. Around him, his tree-revenants finished off the last of the dead thing’s companions, killing the bellowing brutes with graceful savagery. The rotlings had become separated from the flow of the horde now occupying the circular streets of Gramin, and thus were easy prey for him and his kin-band as they erupted from the spirit paths close to the heart of the city.

The reed-city was as much a thing of Ghyran as Felyndael and his warriors. Alarielle’s magics had constructed it in ages past. She had drawn up the reeds that grew thick and wild in the shallows of Verdant Bay and woven them together into a great metropolis of canals, bridges and high, sweeping arches, spreading outwards from the Basilica of Reeds at Gramin’s heart. All as a gift for the mortals who had sworn to care for that which she had entrusted to them in ages past – a clutch of slumbering soulpods.

It was a duty that the citizens of Gramin had upheld until the final days of the withering years, when the rotlings had come from the sea. Their plague ships had clustered like maggots along the shore, befouling the green waters of the lagoon, kept pure until then by the budding soulpods. The raiders swept through the city with fire and axe, killing or enslaving all who inhabited it.

Felyndael’s grip on his sword tightened at the thought. Though they had not been of his soil, the mortals had been caretakers, even as the sylvaneth were. They had not deserved such a fate, and he wished that he had been there. Perhaps– no. The season was done, and the cycle continued. Though his heartwood cried out for vengeance for the atrocities of the past, his task now was more important than simple slaughter.

The raiders had left the city itself – and that which even now slumbered beneath it – untouched, after scouring it of all mortal life. Perhaps they had deemed it unimportant, or indefensible. Regardless, they had retreated to the great sargasso, where they had raised foul citadels upon the floating weeds and left the reed-city and its hidden treasure to sit silent and undisturbed.

Until now. Until Alarielle had awoken, and her scream had set the skies to burning and the winds to roaring. As the echoes of that scream spread throughout Ghyran, the rotlings had returned in their scabrous galleys, stinking of ruin, and their return endangered the slumbering grove of hidden soulpods. Now the city shuddered in the grip of a malaise, and the waters beneath screamed without ceasing.

Moonsorrow trembled sympathetically in his grasp. He could feel the ghost of the mountain for which the sword was named stir within the blade. A sorrowful weight, a millennium of tragedy, condensed and compacted into the weapon he now held. A burden and an honour both. It sang to him sometimes, when the moonlight struck the blade just so, and the din of battle had faded.

But it was not singing now. Even if it had been, Felyndael could hear but one song – the war-song, the song of the reaping. Alarielle’s voice resounded through him, branch and root, summoning him, driving him to war. It had been centuries since he had last heard the Everqueen’s voice. It was like a gale wind, ripsawing through the realmroots. She sang and screamed and whispered all at once, crying out in wordless command.

It was a command he had no difficulty obeying. Indeed, he had never stopped fighting. Felyndael of the Fading Light had never set aside his sword, had never set down roots or shrunk into the dark and quiet like many of the others. He had fought without ceasing since the first rotling had set ragged claw on the good soil of Ghyran. And he would not stop until the last of them were mulch beneath his feet. He would not stop until they had been punished in full for their crimes against life itself.

The sword hummed in his grip, the voice of the mountain murmuring to him. Calming him, settling its weight upon the rage that rose up within him like a wildfire, snuffing it. But not for long, he suspected. It grew more difficult to ignore with every turn of the seasons. The harder he fought, the harder it became to do anything but fight.

He had become a hollow thing, burned black and made brittle by war. But he would serve until his roots shrank and his branches cracked. Calmer now, Felyndael examined the body at his feet. Why had the rotlings come back? The servants of Chaos always sought to destroy the soulpods, when they knew of them. But that was not the case here. He would have sensed it if the soulpods were in any direct danger. Something else was going on.

One of his warriors, Lathrael, stretched out her hand. The air is wrong here, she thought. Her words pulsed gravely through the connection that bound them.

It is sour, Caradrael the Scarred thought, with the mental equivalent of a shrug. Like everywhere the rotlings infest. And so? Caradrael’s bark had been kissed by fire long ago, and it had made him short-tempered. Let us kill them, and cleanse this place.

Their numbers are great, Yvael thought.

Then our vengeance will be all the greater. Caradrael’s thought was the hiss of a slashing branch.

No. Lathrael is right. It is different, Felyndael thought. Like the calm before a storm. It trembles, like a thing afraid. Wait – something is–

The air shuddered as unseen bells tolled. The sound of it was every axe-thud, every root-snap and crackle of flame. It was the sound of bark sloughing, curling, decaying and the scream of dry grass in the burgeoning. Felyndael nearly dropped Moonsorrow as he clutched at his head. The others were similarly afflicted by the droning reverberation.

As the tree-revenants recovered their wits, horns brayed in the distance, and drums thudded. The rotlings were agitated. But not, Felyndael thought, by his kin-band. Something else had come to Gramin. Come, brothers and sisters, he thought. Let us see what has our foes so excited.

Aetius Shieldborn, Liberator-Prime of the Hallowed Knights, led his warriors through the deepening murk that clogged the streets and plazas of Gramin. Three retinues of Stormcast Eternals from the Steel Souls Warrior Chamber marched in his wake. Their panoply of war gleamed silver where it was not befouled by grime and mud. Their shoulder guards were of deepest regal blue, such as the heavens themselves, as were their heavy shields, where they were not scored and marked by battle. The weapons they carried shimmered with holy fire, lighting their way through the gloom.

The Hallowed Knights were the fourth Stormhost of the First Striking, and only the faithful filled their ranks. Each warrior had called upon Sigmar’s name in battle, and each had shed their mortal flesh in the name of a righteous cause. Their courage had been proven in battles all but forgotten in the haze of their Reforging. And among the Warrior Chambers of the Faithful, the Steel Souls were pre-eminent.

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.

Over the din of battle, Aetius could still hear the sombre tolling of the dreadful bells. It was a summons, he thought, calling the Rotbringers and driving them into combat. More of them flooded out of side streets and doorways, coming at the Stormcasts from all sides. Some were chanting the name of their monstrous patron, while others were singing abominable hymns even as they fell to crushing hammer blows or sizzling arrows.

The Rotbringers pressed on with little regard for their own well-being, driven forwards by the bulky, lumbering shapes that strode slowly through the press of battle towards the gleaming silver battle-line of the Stormcasts. Aetius recognised the grotesque warriors instantly – putrid blightkings, the chosen of Nurgle. He had fought them before, and they were far more dangerous than the diseased fodder dying beneath the hammers of his retinue. There were more of them than his retinues could hope to hold at bay, at least while they were caught in the open. They had to fall back and find a more defensible position, one they could hold until reinforcements could be summoned, if need be.

Thinking quickly, Aetius fell to one knee and brought his hammer down on the street, sending a shockwave through the hard-packed soil. Rotbringers stumbled and fell as his Liberators stalked forwards, shields held high. Aetius rose to his feet, backhanding a Rotbringer with his shield as he did so. A mutant, her flesh encrusted in buboes, saw the opening and lunged forwards with her rusted blade held in both paws. She cackled with bitter amusement as the sword struck his breastplate and shivered to flinders. He crushed her hairless skull with a blow from his hammer and turned. ‘Solus – fall back,’ he called out.

The Judicators retreated, loosing crackling arrows at any Rotbringer who managed to squirm past the shield wall. Aetius struck out left and right. Their foes were as thick as fleas, and somewhere the great bell was still ringing mournfully. The blightkings drew closer, smashing aside Rotbringers in their lumbering haste to close with the hated Stormcasts. ‘Tomas, pull your retinue back and reform the shield wall – we will hold them while you disengage,’ Aetius shouted, gesturing with his hammer.

At his order, half of the Liberators disengaged and retreated. His own retinue tightened their lines, covering their brothers as they fell back. One of the blightkings bellowed something, a challenge perhaps, and tottered towards Aetius with a roar. A crackling arrow sprouted from the visor of the warrior’s helm, and he sank down with a choking sigh. ‘Thank you, Solus,’ Aetius murmured. Then, more loudly, ‘Fall back!’

He and his warriors fought their way free of the Rotbringers and backed away, shields raised and held steady. The arrows of the Judicators seared the air as they fell, ripping through those enemies who sought to pursue them. Aetius led his retinue past Tomas and the others, who waited to take their place in battle. The manoeuvre was repeated again and again, as the Hallowed Knights steadily retreated back the way they’d come.

Their withdrawal wasn’t without casualties. A Liberator fell, skull cloven in two by a blightking’s festering blade. Another was swarmed by chanting Rotbringers as blades and claws sought the joins in his war-plate. Aetius could do nothing to help either as they were reduced to crackling columns of azure lightning and returned to Sigmar’s forges. As the glare of their passing faded, however, he saw a thin shape, neither Rotbringer nor Stormcast, rise suddenly from the packed reeds that made up the street, a glowing sword clutched in its bark-covered hands. Long, vine-like hair whipped about a lean, almost human face as the newcomer removed the head from a Rotbringer with a single blow, before vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared. ‘What in Sigmar’s name…’ Aetius muttered. ‘Sylvaneth.’

It had been weeks since they had last seen any of the treefolk. After the Battle of Blackstone, and Alarielle’s rebirth, the sylvaneth had gone their own way, leaving the Steel Souls to fight where they would. They were fickle beings, and Aetius had been somewhat glad to see the back of them. What were they doing here?

A moment later, more of the strange sylvaneth burst from the reeds, their spindly forms moving with mercurial speed – first fast, and then slow, and always with a lethal, inhuman grace. Unlike the dryads, these creatures fought with weapons, albeit ones made from bark and stone. Despite the seeming crudity of their manufacture, the weapons cut through the diseased flesh of the Rotbringers with ease.

‘Tree-revenants,’ Solus said. ‘I saw them up close at the battle in the Hidden Vale. They’re some sort of royal guard, I think.’ He looked at Aetius. ‘They serve her will. And her will is not Sigmar’s.’ The Steel Souls had learned much about the sylvaneth in the weeks and months since Gardus had led them into the Hidden Vale. The treefolk did not forget or forgive, and they were as savage as they were enigmatic.

‘No. But we are allies, until the God-King commands otherwise.’ Aetius watched as the tree-revenants swarmed through the faltering ranks of the Rotbringers, butchering them in deadly silence. The enemy were confused, and in their confusion were growing frightened. Horns signalled the retreat as Rotbringers began to fall back in disarray. ‘Either way, they’ve given us the respite we needed,’ he said. He raised his hammer. ‘Forward!’

As he led his warriors into the fray, he watched the sylvaneth fight. Sometimes, they disappeared even as one foe fell, only to reappear across the battlefield, stepping from the seemingly solid reed-walls to attack another opponent from behind. Soon, the Rotbringers gave in to their growing panic and fled, streaming around the bewildered knot of blightkings, who roared in frustration and grunted vain commands to stop, to fight. Solus’ Judicators added to the panic, loosing volley after volley into the disorganised rabble.

Aetius and his Liberators slammed into the blightkings. Without the Rotbringers to support them, the fight that followed was swift and brutal. Preoccupied as they were, the blighted warriors were easy prey, though it took some doing to put them down for good. Luckily, the Steel Souls had had enough practice to know when to cease bludgeoning a fallen blightking and when to continue.

When the last of the brutes had fallen, Aetius looked up and found the tree-revenants watching them. He stepped forwards warily, ready to defend himself if it should prove necessary. While the treefolk had fought beside them as allies, there were stories of less friendly encounters, especially in the Wyldwoods, where sylvaneth were said to hunt anything not of Ghyran, regardless of whether it was Rotbringer or Stormcast.

One of the tree-revenants moved to meet him. It was the first one he’d seen, a long, glowing blade clutched in one talon. Rough bark covered its form, though whether it was armour or flesh, Aetius couldn’t say. ‘Hail, warriors,’ he said, wondering how one addressed a sylvaneth properly. Lord-Celestant Gardus had made it look so easy. ‘A fortunate thing, to find you here. We thank you for your aid.’

‘We… have come to… free this place,’ the tree-revenant said. Its – no, Aetius thought, his – voice was like the rattle of windblown branches and the scratch of leaves through wet grass. His face was akin to a mask pulled taut over knotted vines, with features that reminded Aetius of the strange, reclusive folk known as aelves. But this creature’s face moved in odd ways, twitching and twisting strangely.

‘As have we,’ Aetius said. He held his shield away from his body and very slowly hung his hammer from his belt. ‘We come to silence the curse-bells that call the servants of Nurgle to this place. Will you fight beside us?’

‘Fight…?’ the tree-revenant said, head cocked.

‘Your aid… would be appreciated,’ Aetius said. ‘I am Aetius Shieldborn, Liberator of the Steel Souls.’ He extended his hand, and waited.

Felyndael felt something in him tighten at the sound of the Stormcast’s voice. It was a deep sound, low and grumbling, like the progress of rocks down a mountain slope. Or the crash of distant thunder. They smelled of rain and heat and raw iron, newly scraped from the good earth. They were not of Ghyran, these beings, but of Azyr, and they burned with a cold light that stung his senses.

These silver ones were known to him. They, alongside the amethyst ones, had fought to free the Gates of Dawn. They were also the ones who had unwittingly led the forces of the great enemy to the Everqueen’s hidden bower. Had they made the same mistake again, leading Alarielle’s foes to this place?

Many sylvaneth have died because of these silver-skins, thought Caradrael.

And many more have been saved, Yvael replied. These defended the Everqueen, even unto death and beyond.

The Everqueen is not here, Caradrael thought. He shifted impatiently, his blackened bark creaking with every twitch. Leave them, noble one. We have more pressing matters to concern ourselves with. Did you hear that tolling as we fought? It was like being in the fire all over again.

Yes, Felyndael thought. The echoes of the – what had the Stormcasts called them, curse-bells? – had finally faded. He tilted his head, listening to the wind and the crash of the sea, the creak of the reeds and the cry of marsh birds. Within that ineffable song was a hidden note, dim now, and weak. But growing stronger.

Those bells will shatter the soulpods if they continue to ring, Lathrael thought. We all felt their power. If these silver-skins come to destroy them, why not aid them?

We have no need of them, Caradrael thought.

Maybe, Felyndael thought, still listening to the call of the soulpods. The pulse of life as yet dreaming, a wellspring preparing to gush forth and leave something new in its wake. But if they were not recovered soon, their blooming could be twisted, and that was something he would not, could not allow.

He looked into the thoughts of his warriors, sensing the same resolution in each of the tree-revenants who had accompanied him to Gramin. Twenty in all, each was a child of the Heartwood Glade, and connected by bonds older than thought. Felyndael drew strength from that connection. Within it was a thunderous echo of glories past, which reverberated in the soul of every child of the forest. He felt again the savage exultation of the Third Harvest, and the sorrowful joy of the Crucible of Life.

We have known glories, he thought.

We will know glories again, Yvael replied.

In a span of moments he saw again every battle he had ever fought, every long war waged down the winding path of his people’s slow waning. His heartwood ached from the weight of those long centuries of retreat and loss. More, it ached with fear. Not for himself, or even his kin, but for that which nestled helpless and unawares somewhere beneath Gramin.

Fear that he would fail them. Fear that twenty warriors – even these twenty – would not be enough to confront the horde he could feel gathering elsewhere in the city. The reeds of Gramin whispered of their numbers to him, and whispered too of the pain the soulpods felt every time the bells rang. Lathrael was right – they might be destroyed if that monstrous tolling were not silenced.

The foe were too numerous for his warriors to fight through alone, too many to avoid even, too many between him and his goal. All of this passed across his mind in the blink of a mortal eye, and he turned, opening his thoughts to his kin.

Sensing his frustration, they reached out to him, to comfort him. Even seething, impatient Caradrael. Fingers of bark and vine touched his shoulders and face, as each sung a single note which merged into a calming melody, pulling him back to himself. The Stormcast lowered his hand and stepped back, as if he could feel the edges of the spirit-song.

They had all suffered as much or more – Yvael had been with him at Ghoremfel where the Lady of Vines had led them into battle for the Tear of Grace, and seen the pride of House Lathrien splintered by daemons; Caradrael still bore the burns he’d suffered at the fall of the enclave of Verdantia; Lathrael… mighty Lathrael, who had fought her way free of the pox-waters which had drowned the Hidden Vale; and the others, whose voices and sorrows were as one with his own.

We will know glories again, they said.

Slowly, he added his own voice to theirs, until the air shivered with their song. Many became one, and in an instant, a decision was made. He turned back to the Stormcast called Aetius. ‘I… am Felyndael, of the Heartwood. We will aid you,’ he said.

Aetius blinked. He had felt something in that moment, as the sylvaneth communed with one another. A pulsing echo that had tugged at his soul. There had been pain there, and something that might have been… faith. A form of it, at any rate. Pushing the thought aside, he nodded gratefully. ‘I thank you, Felyndael of the Heartwood. With your help, we might yet cleanse this place of the filth that afflicts it.’

‘We must silence the bells,’ Felyndael said. He turned, chin raised, as if he were scenting the wind. ‘There.’ He extended his sword towards the distant dome of the basilica.

‘I told you it was the basilica,’ Solus said, from behind him.

‘Yes, well, now we must reach it in one piece,’ Aetius said, annoyed. He looked at Felyndael. ‘Can you lead us there? Lead us past the foe?’

‘Yes,’ the sylvaneth said. ‘We will go–’

‘Wait,’ Aetius said. Without thinking, he caught hold of the tree-revenant’s arm. Felyndael froze, and the others suddenly surrounded them, the tips of their blades pressed to Aetius’ throat. He heard the rattle of sigmarite, and flung up his hand, signalling for the other Steel Souls to stand down. ‘You as well – wait. Wait.’

Felyndael looked down at Aetius’ hand and then up. His face did not change expression. A moment later, the other sylvaneth stepped back. ‘We must go now,’ Felyndael said. ‘We must silence the bells.’

‘Will you wait for us to summon reinforcements?’ Aetius said carefully, releasing Felyndael’s arm. The tree-revenant seemed impatient. Aetius was not trusting by nature. Something told him that the sylvaneth had not intervened out of friendship. Or at least not for that reason alone.

‘There is no time,’ Felyndael said. The bells began to ring again, filling the air with hideous noise. The tree-revenants turned as one. ‘No time,’ Felyndael said again.

Aetius glanced at Solus. ‘No time,’ he said.

‘We are taking a chance,’ Solus said, a moment later, as they pounded after the sylvaneth. The treefolk were leading them a circuitous route through the curving streets, avoiding the largest groups of Rotbringers. The Stormcasts moved in perfect synchronisation, jogging shoulder to shoulder. The tree-revenants, for their part, moved more swiftly. Their thin shapes bled in and out of sight as they passed through the very walls of the surrounding buildings, or sprang across the sloping rooftops. ‘Lord-Castellant Grymn would say we are being fools, not calling for reinforcements.’

‘Why call for them, when they have come to us?’ Aetius said. Occasionally, he heard the sounds of fighting, and screams. He wondered what other horrors might stalk the city. ‘Besides, the bells grow louder. Time is against us, I think. We must silence them.’ He could hear the winding of horns and the stamp of feet. They were not the only ones moving towards the sound. So far, however, they had managed to avoid any further conflict. It wouldn’t last. The enemy knew they were here, and some of them, at least, were likely rushing to find them. He picked up the pace.

‘And then?’ Solus asked.

Aetius shook his head. ‘Let the Lord-Castellant figure it out. Perhaps we will take this place for our own, and fortify it. It would make an adequate staging area from which to launch an assault against the sargasso-citadels of the enemy. If we held this place, we might sweep Verdant Bay clean in months.’

Solus chuckled. ‘Sound thinking. I see now why they put you in command.’

‘I should have thought my qualities were obvious from the outset,’ Aetius said. Solus laughed and pounded a fist on Aetius’ shoulder-plate as they ran.

‘Only some of them,’ Solus said.

Felyndael listened to the dull grumble of the Stormcasts’ voices echoing up from below. They had no song to unite them, only artifice and discipline, and he pitied them their blindness. Though the one called Aetius had almost heard the spirit-song, he thought. What must he have made of it, Felyndael thought.

He feared it. Like all meat fears the song of life, Caradrael thought dismissively, as he outpaced Felyndael. The tree-revenants ran smoothly across the rooftops of the reed city, leading the silver-skins on, safely past the clumps and eddies of warrior-filth that clogged the streets of Gramin. Those foes who drew too close or seemed likely to stumble upon their allies’ trail were diverted by his warriors, led away or butchered before they realised their danger.

They fear the dark and the forest, as well they should. Those places are not theirs, Caradrael continued. His blade and bark dripped with blood, and he had scattered the severed heads of rotlings across the rooftops in his wake.

They are no longer ours, either, Yvael thought, as she kept pace with Felyndael. But these ones will help us claim something back.

Caradrael growled in disgust. Felyndael ignored his displeasure, and stretched his mind outwards. They were close to the centre of the city, and the hidden grove where the soulpods slumbered on, unaware of the danger crouched above them. He felt their song swelling in the dark. It had protected them thus far, but the city was infested with rot.

The buildings were weeping black tears, and the streets sagged in places, expelling geysers of foul water. The curse-bells were somehow warping the ancient enchantments that bound this place, twisting them into a new, more horrifying shape. Every time the bells rang, some part of Gramin died. They all felt its pain, twisting within them.

We should grant this place mercy, noble one, Lathrael thought. Let it die, lest its pain bend it all out of joint and into something monstrous.

The silver-skins seek to claim it, Yvael protested. Let them care for it, and it might yet flourish. She pressed close to Felyndael, and he felt her plea. If we but grant them soil to take root in, they will fight all the harder.

I cannot, he thought. Gramin holds our quarry within its heart. They are bound together, and when the one is removed, the other must die. Once, they might have flourished together, but now… Now the sick branch must be pruned, for the good of all.

And Gramin was sick. As the Jade Kingdoms were sick. As Ghyran was sick. But the sylvaneth could not purge the realm alone. They lacked the proper tools. Or had, at any rate. Until the coming of the silver-skins. Felyndael tightened his grip on Moonsorrow’s hilt, annoyed by the thought. He had fought since the mountains were first birthed by the seas. He would fight until the last leaf fell from the last tree. The Everqueen had grown him for war. He would be true to his nature. But hollow as he was, a seed of honour yet remained. To treat these sons of Azyr as tools went against everything House Lathrien and the Heartwood Glade had stood for.

You are disturbed, Yvael thought.

Perhaps we should tell them, Felyndael replied. Let them know what must happen. Let them know why we must do this thing.

It would serve no purpose, even if they could understand, Caradrael interjected. He slid to a stop and turned. We should use them as the noble one uses his sword – plunge them in and watch them bleed our foes.

And leave them there, I suppose, Felyndael thought. Caradrael looked away.

They are not our kin. Caradrael’s thought was shrouded in sullen resentment, but the sentiment was shared. Felyndael could feel the agreement of others – not all, but some. Alarielle’s rage burned brightly within them. How capricious, how inconstant they must appear to their allies, driven as they were by the war-song.

The wide dome of the great basilica came into view. The air throbbed like an open wound, and he felt his insides twist in revulsion. But beneath that maddening knell came the whisper of the soulpods. Still alive, still safe, but not for much longer.

No, Felyndael thought, looking down at the Stormcasts. They are not our kin. But they aid us regardless.

Aetius slowed. The tree-revenants had stopped. He raised his hammer. They had come to a narrow alleyway, which wound between two tall, windowless buildings. Liberators moved forwards, blocking the centre of the alley with their shields.

A great bawling rolled between the buildings, trapped in the curves and angles of the alley. The smell of rot was thick on the air, and the sky above was black with smoke. ‘What is that din?’ Aetius said. The sound crashed over the Stormcasts like the roar of the sea, impossibly loud in the narrow space.

‘Come up,’ Felyndael called down, looking at them from the edge of the roof. ‘I will show you.’ He rose and slipped up the incline, moving swiftly. Aetius exchanged glances with the closest Liberators, who sidled backwards. Aetius sighed, hung his hammer from his belt and slipped his shield over his back. Then, digging his fingers into the packed reed-wall, he began to climb. The reeds bent beneath him, providing natural handholds. It wasn’t easy, but the climb wasn’t long. Few of the buildings in the city were more than three times the height of a Stormcast, and that was no real exertion for one of Sigmar’s chosen.

‘Still… sometimes… I wish… Sigmar had seen fit to give me wings. This… would be… much easier if I could fly,’ Aetius grunted as he hauled himself onto the roof of flattened reeds. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky. He lay for a moment, watching the distant stars flicker in the jade firmament. ‘Azyr…’ he murmured.

‘The realms weave together like the roots of a great forest. It is hard to say where one ends and another begins,’ Felyndael said, looking down at him. He extended his hand.

‘Or even how big the forest is,’ Aetius said, grabbing the proffered hand, though he needed no aid. Felyndael easily pulled him to his feet, and Aetius was surprised by the tree-revenant’s strength. Carefully, they crept to the edge of the roof. The rest of Felyndael’s warriors crouched nearby, scattered across the rooftops which overlooked the great plaza beyond. Aetius looked down. ‘More of them than I was expecting,’ he murmured.

While crossing the Plains of Vo, the Steel Souls had encountered only scattered warbands. But here, below him, was a true warhorde in the making. Arrayed before the steps of the Basilica of Reeds, the gathering had the exuberance of a carnival. Great fires burned in pits scooped from the reeds. Dozens of pestilent standards rose over the mighty throng of monsters spread through the vast plaza. Chieftains gurgled greetings to one another, warriors bellowed prayers to the fly-infested sky, and gales of phlegm-choked laughter echoed across the open space.

Felyndael peered towards the basilica, and the hordes gathered there. ‘There are too many. Even if we slip past them, they will soon know where we are.’ He looked at Aetius, his expression inscrutable.

‘Unless they’re already looking somewhere else,’ Aetius said, in instant understanding. ‘The servants of the Ruinous Powers are strong but fragile… They are still mortal, for all their monstrousness. Kill enough of them and they will lose heart. Kill their chieftains and they will flee.’

‘How will we know which are the chieftains?’ Felyndael said.

‘They’ll be the ones trying to get to us first,’ Aetius said.

‘Ah. Those,’ Felyndael said. ‘We can kill those.’

‘I encourage you to do so, and with all due haste,’ Aetius said, making his way back the way he’d come. ‘The more of them we kill, the less chance they’ll regroup when they break.’ He dropped heavily to the ground.

‘How many?’ Solus said, peering down the alleyway towards the plaza.

‘Many. We will meet them head-on and punch through them. Tight formation, shields locked,’ Aetius said, meeting the gazes of his warriors. ‘We are not many, but Sigmar is with us. We will prevail.’ He looked at Felyndael. ‘We will stop only when we reach the steps of the basilica. We will make our stand there.’

‘I will meet you there,’ Felyndael said, without further elaboration. He stepped back, and vanished into the packed reeds that made up the wall of the alleyway.

‘Can we trust them?’ Solus said, staring at the wall.

‘I have faith,’ Aetius said, softly. ‘Whatever their reasons, we want the same thing – the bells silenced and the enemy routed. Let us draw some attention to ourselves. Shields up.’ At his signal, his Liberators started forwards, shields raised, hammers ready. They marched into the plaza, moving with steady precision. The rattle of their war-plate clashed with the tolling of the great bells, filling the air with discordance.

One by one, the gathered Rotbringers turned. Chieftains bellowed commands as blightkings began to shove their way through the mass of bodies towards the approaching enemy. Horns whined and iron-shod bones thumped festering drums as the Rotbringers reformed to face the Hallowed Knights. Aetius slammed his hammer against the face of his shield. ‘Who will hold the dark at bay?’ he roared. ‘Who strides forth, when all is lost?’

‘Only the faithful!’ the Hallowed Knights bellowed in reply. As they did so, Solus raised his hand, and his Judicators sent a volley of arrows streaking up over the heads of the Liberators. Aetius gestured, and the Liberators picked up the pace. The square broke and reformed, becoming a wedge with Aetius at the point. He bent forwards, shield lifted, and began to run. The first Rotbringer he struck fell beneath him, and was crushed by the unyielding tread of the Liberators. The wedge blossomed like a murderous flower as the battle-line expanded at Aetius’ bark of command.

Hammers and war-blades rose and fell. Ichor splashed the reeds as the silver-armoured warriors hacked and crushed their way through the forces of the enemy. Where once they might have displayed caution, the Steel Souls now gave full vent to the fury that pulsed bone-deep within each and every Stormcast Eternal. They had clashed again and again with the servants of Nurgle since their arrival in the Jade Kingdoms. They had seen first-hand the monstrous cruelty such filth inflicted on the innocent and defiant alike. And here and now, that vile debt had at last come due.

‘Push through them,’ Aetius shouted. A featureless helm, covered in blighted sigils, burst like an overripe fruit beneath his hammer. ‘Hold the line, but do not stop!’ A Rotbringer lunged for him, and squamous tendrils slithered about his throat. Without stopping, Aetius slammed his head against that of his attacker, shattering malformed bone and bursting one faceted eye. The mutant reeled, squealing, and Aetius shoved it aside with a blow from his shield. Arrows slammed down ahead of him, erupting into crackling streamers of lightning as they felled squalling Rotbringers.

Axes and swords thudded against his shield or bounced off his armour as he waded through them. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a flash of crooked bark. A Rotbringer staggered, clutching at his spilling intestines in confusion. Another slumped, his head neatly removed from a spurting neck. The sylvaneth danced with a deadly elegance, their branch-like limbs sliding through flesh or launching deceptively gentle blows that nonetheless broke bones or punctured armour and flesh with ease.

When they reached the steps, the Liberators turned, sweeping their shields out, driving the closest of their foes back so that Solus could lead his retinue through. As soon as the Judicators reached the top of the dais, they loosed volley after volley into the packed ranks of the Rotbringers. At Aetius’ command, his warriors reformed their battle-line on the steps. Shield rims crashed together, forming a wall of gleaming sigmarite between the stunned Rotbringers and the Basilica of Reeds.

More of Felyndael’s tree-revenants erupted from the walls of the structures surrounding the plaza as the foe reeled in momentary confusion. They savaged isolated Rotbringers, reducing them to screaming wreckage before whirling away. Caught between the sylvaneth and the unyielding shield wall of the Stormcasts, the followers of Nurgle reeled as if in a daze. It wouldn’t last for long. The servants of the plague god were nothing if not resilient. And the bells were ringing again, impossibly loud, filling the debased creatures with courage and zeal. Aetius turned to Solus. ‘Hold the line. Let none of them pass. Felyndael and I shall silence the bells.’

‘Where is he? I don’t see him out there,’ Solus said, as he loosed an arrow.

Aetius looked towards the basilica. ‘Likely already inside.’ He caught Solus by the neck and brought their heads together. ‘Sigmar be with you, my friend.’

‘Better he go with you, I think. I’m perfectly safe where I am, sitting behind all of these shields,’ Solus said, pulling another arrow from his quiver. Aetius laughed and stepped past him. He hurried across the portico towards the sagging doors of the colossal basilica. The bells were pealing steadily, such that he half-hoped they might shatter.

‘Felyndael…’ he whispered, looking around. In kinder times, the basilica would have been impressive. Now, it was simply horrifying. A tarry substance marred the delicate whorls of the bent reeds, and the great pillars that supported the dome were covered in bunches of buzzing flies. Sickly green balefires burned in rusted braziers scattered along the length of the nave. The reeds making up the basilica seemed to pull away from their light and the weird shadows it cast. Grotesque censers had been hung from every cornice and arch, and they filled the air with a noxious miasma.

‘Here,’ Felyndael said, stepping into view. ‘The bells are above, within the dome.’

Aetius nodded. ‘Then let us silence them. The noise is wearing on me.’ Side by side, they stepped into the nave. There were no guards. Only a single figure, kneeling at the far end of the nave before a bloated idol. The idol was monstrous, its expression one of diabolical mirth, and flies clustered about it, clinging to its horns and ruined belly. Past the idol was a set of narrow steps, curving upwards and away around a pillar, rising towards the ceiling and the dome above. The kneeling figure shifted slightly, as they approached.

‘Stand aside,’ Aetius called out. Flies hummed in agitation.

‘What?’ The voice was a guttural thing, rough like hot mud splashing over jagged stones. ‘What was that?’

‘I said step aside,’ Aetius said, waving a fly out of his face. He peered upwards, and through the rotted gaps in the ceiling was just able to make out two great black-iron shapes, swinging back and forth within the dome. The curse-bells rang without need for human hands. Daemons, perhaps, or some sort of fell spirit, he suspected.

‘You must speak up, I cannot hear you for the bells,’ the hunched shape said loudly. ‘Or better yet, do not speak and return from whence you came. This place is for quiet contemplation, on the eve of doom. I commune with Grandfather. I would not be interrupted by… Hnh.’ The figure grunted. ‘The flies… The flies say you are not mine.’

‘No, we are not,’ Aetius said. He looked at Felyndael. The tree-revenant’s head was cocked, as if he were listening to something only he could hear.

‘In that case, forgive me,’ the hunched shape said. ‘I was but meditating on certain truths, as espoused by Blight-Master Wolgus in his seventh treatise on the nature of the warrior. It is said that the hope of a moment is but the foundation stone of everlasting regret, and that today’s palace is tomorrow’s ruin.’ The warrior glanced over one broad shoulder. ‘An appropriate quotation in this moment, I suspect. Now… who are you to interrupt my prayers?’

Aetius traded a glance with Felyndael, but said nothing.

‘Have you lost your voices, then? Or are you cowards? I shall ask again.’ The creature sighed and rose, massive frame creaking with protest. He wore heavy armour, covered in barnacles and seeping tumours where it was not etched with grimacing faces, and his helm was wrought in the shape of a frowning, daemonic visage. Great antlers, fuzzy with mould, rose from the sides of the helm. ‘How unexpected. A tree-devil and a broken soul. Worthy opponents indeed. The gathering faithful brought word of silver-skinned giants. You must be the authors of that clamouring I hear even now…’

Aetius took another step forwards, wondering at the size of the creature before him. This was nothing less than a champion of the Dark Gods. He gripped his hammer more tightly, drawing reassurance from its deadly weight. Champion or no, the creature would fall.

The Chaos warrior lifted an enormous flail. ‘Have you come to stop me, then? A last test, perhaps.’ The chains of the flail clinked softly as it was thrust upwards. ‘Or come, mayhap, to silence the bells. Seven witches cast seven spells on them, and when they lay spent and weak, my blight-brother Goral and I took their bones to make the clappers, which sound without ceasing as their strength waxes.’ Laughter burbled from within the helm. ‘Brave Goral is dead now. Slain in the dark by devils of bark and moss. A beautiful death, as the troubadour, Onogal, might say.’ He spread his arms. ‘Well, faithless one? Well, cruel spirit? Here I stand, a pilgrim most inflamed. I am Count Dolorugus, knight of the Order of the Fly. Come and test my faith, if you would.’

‘Gladly,’ Aetius said, stung by the creature’s remarks. Why did Nurgle’s servants always prattle so much? He stepped forwards and Felyndael followed his example. ‘This city will belong to Sigmar once more, beast, whatever your name, whatever weapon you wield.’

‘Fie on thee, fie and ruin,’ the Rotbringer rumbled. ‘This land is ours, by blight and conquest. You shall not have it – the Lady of Cankerwall has seen it and so it must be. I, Dolorugus, say thee nay.’ He swung his flail towards Felyndael, and the tree-revenant ducked aside. The blow arced over his head and obliterated a pillar of winding reeds.

Aetius charged, hammer thudding down to draw sludgy ichor from the surface of Dolorugus’ chest-plate. The gibbering faces set there began to wail and howl as the hammer cracked steaming scars across them. Dolorugus stepped back. His flail smashed down. Aetius interposed his shield, but the force of the blow drove him to one knee.

‘The basilica is mine. I will ring the pox-bells and call forth every mouldering thing in these marshy lands to my banner, and more besides. We will make this place a bastion – a temple to the King of All Flies. We will be the gate to the Garden, and break armies in Grandfather’s name,’ Dolorugus rumbled as he drove his cloven hoof into Aetius’ chest and sent him flying backwards. ‘Starting with yours, faithless one.’

Aetius groaned and clambered to his feet. His chest ached. Dolorugus was strong. But his faith in Sigmar was stronger. He shoved himself forwards, hammer raised in both hands. Dolorugus swatted him aside. Aetius stumbled, sinking to one knee. Dolorugus reached out with one wide paw and caught the Liberator-Prime by the back of his head. Aetius clawed at his foe’s fingers as Dolorugus’ grip tightened. Smoke rose from his hand as the blessed sigmarite seared his cankerous flesh.

Dolorugus roared in pain and hurled Aetius aside. The Rotbringer flexed his hand. ‘That stung,’ he grunted. ‘The pain is good, though. Victory without pain is anything but. I knew pain, dragging those bells here from Cankerwall, and I will know pain again, before long. Pain brings clarity of purpose. Let me show you.’

Aetius barely heard him. He forced himself up, groping blindly for the haft of his hammer. The chamber seemed to be shaking, and the reeds beneath him were loose and soft. Water bubbled up from between them. He looked around for Felyndael, but didn’t see him. Had the tree-revenant abandoned him?

He caught up his hammer, but before he could rise, Dolorugus planted a hoof between his shoulder blades. ‘A valiant effort,’ the Chaos champion rumbled. ‘But as I said – clarity. It is too late. The bells still ring, and the walls of this pale world grow thin. The tallymen heed the summoning knell… see! See!’

And Aetius did. Strange shapes shimmered in the murk of the chamber, not quite solid yet, but growing more so with every clang of the unseen bells. Suddenly, Aetius knew what his foe had meant by ‘more besides’. He’d faced daemons before. He couldn’t help but recognise their infernal stink as it grew stronger and stronger, almost choking him. ‘Sigmar give me strength,’ he whispered in growing horror.

‘There is no Sigmar here, my friend,’ Dolorugus rumbled. ‘Only Nurgle.’

Felyndael dived into the reeds as the blow arced over him. The sounds of the struggle and the bells faded, swallowed by the reeds and water. Aetius would have to fight alone. Only while the enemy was distracted would Felyndael have the time he needed to do what must be done. Though he knew it was necessary, it rankled. The Stormcast had hurled himself into battle on Felyndael’s behalf with a resolve that reminded the tree-revenant of glories past.

He shot from the underside of the city like an arrow loosed from a bow. Foetid at first, the waters stung his eyes and flesh. But the murk faded and the dark paled as he raced downwards, following the spirit-trail to the heart of Gramin. He coursed along the ancient realmroot, travelling deeper and deeper beneath the lagoon. The primeval root-pylons Alarielle had crafted in an age long past stretched beyond him. Hundreds of them, rising from the lagoon’s bottom to the underside of the city. Some floated listlessly, their reeds black with rot, while others were still whole and healthy. It was the largest of these he followed, slipping around and within it, following the song of the soulpods.

He could feel the struggles of his kin as he descended. Caradrael fought with a fury worthy of the Protectors of old, leaping and whirling amidst his foes, reaping a red harvest. In contrast, Yvael fought with subtle precision, wounding an opponent so that his bellows of agony might dishearten others. And Lathrael was destruction personified. Where she danced, no rotling remained in one piece.

Felyndael felt a fierce joy. Drawing strength from the bond, he began to sing, casting his thoughts down, down into the silt and sand. Calling out to the sleeping spirits. Every sylvaneth heard the spirit-song, from even before their first moments of life. It flowed through their thoughts and coursed through their bodies, binding them to the land itself. Heed me, spirits of the lagoon. Heed the Guardian of the Fading Light. I am Felyndael and I say awaken, he thought. Awaken and rise, for it is not safe here. You must rise… Rise!

Groggily, the soulpods stirred, sending up great plumes of silt. The root-pylons wavered, creaking, groaning. The oldest roots began to unravel, while the youngest snapped. Felyndael dropped to the lagoon bottom in a cloud of silt. His mind was rebuffed, cast back. They did not wish to wake, now was not the time, not yet, they whispered in drowsy petulance. They were stubborn and powerful, and he wondered what slumbered within them. Alarielle herself didn’t know. Life was ever capricious, even where the Everqueen was concerned.

But whatever they were, they would awaken. They must.

With a cry that was as much thought as sound, he drove Moonsorrow into the ground between his feet. The blade shivered in his hands, adding its voice to his own. He cast images of what might be into the stubborn, unformed minds – of places of exquisite beauty reduced to wastelands, of soulpod groves uprooted and burning, of pyres heaped with the kindlewood corpses of their people. This – this is what will happen, unless you rise, he thought, as their despairing screams rang loud in his head.

If he failed, if they did not stir, they would die. Another piece of his people would fade into the long dwindling. Worse, those he had brought here would die for nothing. He thought of Aetius above, and felt the reeds give and bend as the Stormcast and his foe fought. He felt Caradrael’s pain, as old wounds opened anew to spill golden sap across the ground. Heard Yvael’s scream as a rusted blade pierced her leg. Felt the reeds burn as lightning speared down to claim Azyr’s dead. All of this he felt, and all of it he thrust down through Moonsorrow’s blade and into the ground.

You must rise. You must.

The ground beneath his feet churned and split. Light, pure and radiant, speared upwards. The water frothed and grew warm. Felyndael stretched out his hand. Rise, he thought. Rise!

And in a blaze of light and song, they did.

Aetius groaned in pain as Dolorugus’ hoof pressed him down. ‘It is even as the Lady of Cankerwall claimed,’ the Nurglite said as half-seen shapes capered about them in jolly encouragement. ‘They rise, and I shall rise with them. Look upon the end made flesh, my friend, and know a perfect despair.’

Aetius ignored the creature’s babbling, and the growing solidity of the daemons. If he could not stop the bells, Solus and the others would be overwhelmed. More, the rest of his chamber might be taken unawares when Dolorugus’ hellish force erupted from the marshlands. ‘Who… Who will stand, when all others fall?’ he hissed, between clenched teeth. He dragged his hammer up to use as leverage.

‘What?’ Dolorugus looked down. ‘Is that a riddle?’

‘No. It is the faithful,’ Aetius said, as he forced himself up and back. The sudden movement knocked Dolorugus backwards a few steps, freeing the Liberator-Prime. Aetius staggered to his feet, hammer in hand. ‘I am the faithful. And I stand.’

‘Ha! Still some fight left in you? Good,’ the Nurglite burbled. ‘I will– eh?’ The Chaos champion turned. Aetius looked past him. A light rose from beneath the floor, spilling upwards, growing in radiance. Dolorugus hissed in pain and flung a hand up as the warm light washed over them, expanding to fill the chamber.

At the centre of the light, the reeds of the floor tore themselves free of the weft and pulled away from that which churned in the dark waters below. The foul idol Dolorugus had been praying to toppled from its altar, and the murk which clung to the walls was seared clean. Daemons, half-solid, were reduced to whimpering shadows by the scorching radiance. Within the burning heart of the light, something rose.

To Aetius, it was all shapes and none, constantly changing. They were tall, winding stalks, heavy with golden, glowing cocoons, but also strangely shimmering fungal orbs or perhaps a cloud of seeds with diaphanous wings. There were other shapes as well, hundreds of them, each more disturbing and unrecognizable than the last. They shifted from one to the next almost faster than his eye could follow, and the light which contained them took on a shape of its own – a shape that planted what might have been legs and set its burning shoulders against the ceiling above.

Then, with a roar like that of the sea, the light surged upwards. Reeds popped and burst, tearing away from the whole. The dome ruptured, bursting open like a seedpod. The ringing of the bells wavered, as if in panic, before continuing their tolling. The light flowed upwards, burning a path through the smoke, cleansing the air of toxins where it passed.

Higher and higher it rose, until at last it was lost to sight. What was left of the ceiling creaked and began to peel away in mats of dying reeds. The whole basilica shuddered like a dying animal, and a vast moan seemed to rise up from the depths of the city.

‘Well. There was a wonder,’ Dolorugus said. He lunged forwards, and caught Aetius by his throat. A blow from his flail knocked the hammer from the Liberator-Prime’s grasp. With a grunt, he dragged the struggling Stormcast from his feet. ‘But it matters not. Listen. The plague-bells still ring where I hung them.’ He gestured to the ceiling with his flail.

Aetius pounded on the Nurglite’s arm, but the creature’s grip was unyielding. ‘Grandfather’s hand stretches out, as implacable as time itself. He shall clutch you to his bosom, my friend, and teach you the true meaning of faith.’ Dolorugus shook him, the way a dog might shake a rat. ‘Perhaps you will even join me as a blight-brother, in time. You already have the armour and bearing of a knight, after all,’ Dolorugus said, chortling.

‘No.’

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. ‘Felyndael,’ Aetius gasped, still trying to free himself.

Dolorugus grunted. ‘Where are you, spirit? I thought you gone.’ He turned, dragging Aetius with him. ‘Come out. Were those lights some witchery of yours?’ He laughed. ‘You should have fled while you had the chance, spirit. Now, I shall break your limbs and use them for tinder. The fire of your passing shall light our path to victory. But first…’ He looked down at Aetius. ‘You die, my friend, but you will be reborn, I have no doubt. Perhaps we will meet again, in days to come.’ His grip began to tighten. His flesh sizzled, but the sigmarite creaked, as did Aetius’ neck.

Suddenly, Felyndael was there, flowing up the nave towards Dolorugus. His blade flashed, chopping into the Nurglite’s arm. Ichor spurted and Dolorugus cried out, more in rage than pain. Aetius fell to the ground. Dolorugus whirled his flail out, driving Felyndael back. The floor buckled and split as the Chaos champion lunged after the tree-revenant. Water, clean and crystal pure, geysered upwards.

Aetius stood, fighting for his balance. It felt as if the whole basilica were coming apart. The passing of the light had wrecked everything in its path. But the bells were still ringing, and Dolorugus still roared and fought. As Aetius watched, his flail caught Felyndael a glancing blow and knocked the tree-revenant sprawling. Aetius charged barehanded and crashed into Dolorugus, driving him back against one of the reed pillars. The force of it bent the pillar and caused the damaged ceiling above to buckle and warp. The clangour of the bells lost its monotony, becoming arrhythmic and erratic.

Aetius’ silver-clad fists thudded into his foe’s greasy armour until Dolorugus brought both of his own down between Aetius’ shoulder blades and dropped him to one knee. As he sank down, head ringing, he heard the sound of splintering wood and the scream of reeds giving way. He looked up as, with a roar, the curse-bells at last tore through what was left of the ceiling and hurtled downwards.

Dolorugus looked up at the last instant, as Aetius hurled himself aside. As he rolled away, he thought he heard the Chaos champion laugh. Then the bells struck home, and smashed through the floor and into the waters below. They carried Count Dolorugus with them into the black depths of Verdant Bay.

As the echoes of the bells’ final tolling faded, Aetius hauled himself to his feet. He looked at Felyndael as he recovered his hammer. ‘I thought you had abandoned me.’ The tree-revenant didn’t look at him.

‘We must go.’

As they hurried towards the doors, the reeds crawled and split beneath their feet. Everywhere Aetius looked, the basilica was beginning to unravel. Outside, Solus was waiting for him, with the remaining Stormcasts. There was no sign of the other tree-revenants. ‘Our allies?’ Aetius asked, fighting to be heard over the creaking and groaning of the city.

‘They’re gone,’ Solus said, casting a wary glance at Felyndael. ‘They vanished as soon as that light did. Left us to clean up.’ He looked around. ‘So much for garrisoning this place. The streets are coming undone and the buildings are unwinding like so much thread. What happened?’

‘Victory. I’m just not certain as to whose. What of our foes?’ Aetius asked.

Solus shook his head. ‘Gone. Dead or else fled, once the unlucky ones started slipping through the holes in the streets. The whole city is sinking.’

‘Whatever magic was holding it together has been lost,’ Aetius said, looking at Felyndael. The tree-revenant nodded.

‘Go,’ Felyndael said. ‘The city has served its purpose. It will sleep now, until its season comes again. You must not be here when it does.’

‘You heard him. Rally the others. We need to make it back to the quays before we join the Rotbringers in the lagoon,’ Aetius said, gripping Solus by the shoulder. As the Judicator-Prime turned away, Aetius looked at Felyndael. ‘That light… What was it?’

Felyndael said nothing. Aetius sighed. ‘Next time, perhaps, you will simply tell us,’ Aetius said, softly. Felyndael looked at him, his expression impenetrable. Aetius held out his hand. ‘But you have my thanks for coming back, Felyndael of the Heartwood.’

Felyndael looked down at his hand. The sylvaneth’s deceptively delicate features split in a small smile. ‘And you have mine, Aetius Shieldborn,’ he said as he clasped the Stormcast’s armoured forearm. A moment later he was gone, leaving Aetius standing alone.

‘Next time,’ he said to himself. Then, as the Basilica of Reeds unravelled and Gramin came undone, Aetius Shieldborn hurried to join his warriors.

Heartwood

Robbie MacNiven

The Realm of Life had become a place of death.

Blood and bark, iron and earth, the glade shook with the fury of battle. At its centre a warband of Rotbringers had turned at bay, their tight cohorts of rusting plate armour and sagging, rotten flesh split apart by nature’s wrath.

Nellas the Harvester, branchwych of House Il’leath, swung her greenwood scythe in a hissing upward arc, parrying the blightking’s stroke. The hulking Rotbringer leant into the blow, trying to use his bulk to force Nellas’ guard down. The sylvaneth was dwarfed by the warrior, but she stood her ground, willowy limbs invested with the strength of the Wyldwood’s deepest roots. Bark creaked and the scythe shuddered in her grip as she held the blightking in place, while from the trees all around the sylvaneth poured. The whole forest keened with the battle-song of the Wargrove; the encroachment of the Great Corruptor’s minions into Brocélann would not be tolerated.

The bittergrub that coiled among Nellas’ branches saw its opening. It darted forward and locked its mandibles around the upper thigh of the Rotbringer, slicing through corroded plate and neatly snipping a hamstring. The blightking grunted and went down on one knee. The bittergrub held on.

Nellas leant back to give herself room, and plied her scythe in a great arc. There was a crunch, and the warrior’s cyclopean helmet thumped to the ground, a jet of pus-like ichor pattering across the glade’s trampled grass.

Nellas was pushing past the decapitated corpse before it had even slumped, her bittergrub wrapping around her once more. The Rotbringer champion was ahead, bellowing vile curses as he swung a great, rusting mace at Thaark. The treelord ancient’s own household revenants were struggling to reach him, locked in a grinding melee with the Chaos lord’s bodyguard. Nellas shrieked with fury as she saw the Rotbringer’s blow thump home into Thaark’s thigh, splintering wood and splattering thick amber bloodsap. The head of House Il’leath tore into the champion’s flesh in response, his great talons splitting armour and spilling rancid guts, but to no avail. The Rotbringer’s wounds regenerated as soon as they were made, the obese armoured body bound together by more than mere mortal willpower.

The Rotbringer heard Nellas’ cry and turned in time to swat aside her first blow, moving with a speed that belied his diseased bulk. Nellas darted back to avoid the warrior’s backswing, the forest air thrumming with the force of the mace’s passing. Thaark lunged at the champion’s exposed back, dragging fresh gashes down his spine, but he simply shrugged off the wound and stepped in closer to Nellas. She attempted a shortened slash with her scythe, but this time it merely clanged off corroded battle-plate. For all her strength, the branchwych didn’t possess Thaark’s oaken might.

And now she had overextended. The Rotbringer was too close to strike at her properly, but the thrust of his mace was still deadly. The blow smashed into Nellas’ side, and pain fired through the branchwych. She went down, roots questing for purchase in the glade’s bloody earth. Her bittergrub lashed out at the plague champion, maw snapping at the wounds already dealt by Thaark, but the Rotbringer simply snatched its writhing, segmented body in one iron gauntlet. With a bile-choked laugh he crushed the spite, popping it with a hideous crunch.

Nellas tried to rise, shuddering at the departing soul-shriek of the grub. Her bark was splintered, bloodsap running down her side. The Rotbringer turned to Thaark, another stroke of his mace splitting a great gash down the treelord ancient’s trunk. Nellas could feel her lord’s life force draining as he swayed back from the blow.

‘Your Wyldwood is mine, tree spirit,’ the Rotbringer said, the voice rasping as though from two separate, phlegm-choked throats. ‘Skathis Rot claims this kingdom for the Grandfather.’

Thaark was able to ward away another huge blow with his upper branches, but he teetered as the Rotbringer kept swinging, snapping limbs and scattering leaves. Around him the tree-revenants of Thaark’s guard were battling furiously to reach him, but the phalanx of blightkings protecting their own champion were still unmovable. Only Nellas had broken through.

The branchwych rose silently. The whole glade shuddered as Thaark went down on his knees, a creaking groan seeming to run through the surrounding forest spirits as they felt his agony. Nellas hissed at their song of pain and loss.

‘Surrender your pathetic kingdom to Grandfather’s mercy,’ Skathis Rot spat, standing over Thaark’s splintered form. ‘Share in his magnificent blessings, and embrace the majesty of abundant decay.’ The Chaos champion smashed another blow against Thaark’s torso, breaking the iron-hard bark and exposing the soft heartwood. Chuckling grotesquely, the Rotbringer leant forward, one gauntlet probing at the sap-soaked wound.

Whatever it was doing, the distraction was enough. Nellas swung at the plague champion’s exposed back. There was a crunch as the greenwood scythe parted Skathis Rot’s skull. Grey brain matter, thick with maggots, splattered the branchwych. She shrieked with furious triumph.

The champion’s corpse fell heavily, the ground sizzling where vile ichor pulsed from its split skull. Nellas went on her knees before Thaark, running slender fingers over the great rent splitting her master’s trunk.

‘It is no use,’ the head of the clan said slowly, voice creaking like a great oak bending in a tempest. ‘He cut to my heartwood.’

‘You must rest, lord,’ Nellas responded, willing the broken bark to reknit beneath her fingers. It could not be too grievous a wound. House Il’leath could not lose Thaark.

‘Take my lifeseed, branchwych,’ the treelord said, gently brushing aside Nellas’ touch. ‘Plant it in the Evergreen with the others who have fallen here. Give Brocélann new life, and we will resist these invaders for an eternity. Ghyran endures.’

Around them the tree-revenants had finally broken through the remaining blightkings, butchering them with blade and talon. Nellas was oblivious to it all, looking up into the eye knots of her lord. The green battle-fury which had burned there was dimming.

The song of the Wyldwood shifted fractionally, a new melody struck by the dying treelord. The sound pricked at Nellas’ memory.

‘The song of Everdusk’s Waxing,’ she said.

‘It always was my favourite,’ Thaark murmured, swaying slightly. Nellas could only nod. Around them the last sounds of slaughter faded, and the survivors of House Il’leath gathered with bowed branches to hear the final spirit-song of their lord and master.

After death, the harvest.

The glade had once been a tranquil place, an enclave of lush green grass dappled by the shade of overhanging ash and yew boughs. Now it was a circle of hell, the grass trampled into churned mud, the spiked, armoured forms of butchered Rotbringers intermingling with the smashed kindlewood corpses of felled sylvaneth, dark blood and amber sap mixing in the furrowed muck.

Nellas passed over it in silence, using her scythe as a crutch. The wound in her side still throbbed. It would heal in time, when she had an opportunity to rest in the Evergreen and channel the forest’s healing song. Until then she pressed on. She had a duty to perform.

One by one, she harvested the lifeseeds of her fallen kin. As a branchwych it was her most vital task, a part of the ever-turning cycles of the Wyldwood. From the day she had sprouted from her soulpod many seasons ago, Nellas had served House Il’leath as one of its harvesters, plying her scythe and carrying each and every lifeseed fallen, in peace or in war, back to Brocélann’s heartglade – the Evergreen. Amidst a reaping of death she was a sower of life, of tender branches and new shoots.

As she went, Nellas hummed a new song. She sensed other little voices joining in, one by one, answering her lilting call. She spoke to them as allies and as friends, not with orders, as she would have her fellow sylvaneth clansfolk. And one by one they answered her. They came buzzing, fluttering or leaping from the surrounding Wyldwood, dozens of tiny forest spirits that gathered around her, their bodies glittering with fey light. They had come to show their respect to the ones who guarded their homes. They had come to bear away the fallen.

Every time Nellas plucked a lifeseed from the dead wood before her, one of the spites flitting around her would retrieve it, ready to carry it with the branchwych to its resting place in the Evergreen. The creatures did so in silence, their playful jostling and bickering suppressed for the moment by the gravity of their task.

Near the far edge of the clearing Nellas paused, her flock of spites going still around her. She had been one of three. Her sisters, Llanae and Sylanna, had completed Il’leath’s triumvirate of branchwyches. Between them the trio had reaped the echoharvest of the lamentiri, the sylvaneth spirit-songs, and ensured the continuing existence of the Wyldwood of Brocélann since Thaark had been a sapling. But no more. Nellas found Llanae and Sylanna side by side, bark broken and lifeless, their bittergrubs crushed alongside them. She had sensed them fall during the fighting, had heard their battle-song cut short, but in the fury and desperation of the glade’s killing she hadn’t had time to mourn. Now, as a pair of little spites reverently received their lifeseeds, Nellas felt the ache of their felling keener than the wound still burning in her side.

It had been a grim day for Brocélann. By the time Nellas had passed over the whole glade, the sun was sinking below the treetops and the air was thick with attendant spites. The urge to dig her roots in and rest was almost overwhelming, but she resisted. She was now the only one capable of seeing so many lifeseeds replanted. As the Forest Folk set about piling the Rotbringer corpses for burning, she made her way to the Evergreen.

It was a long walk, through hidden vales and along the high paths of Brocélann’s wooded uplands. Few outside the noble houses travelled such routes, fewer still at so late an hour. As she went, her way lit by the light of her buzzing companions, Nellas felt the ancient forest sigh and creak in sympathy around her. The whole of Brocélann had suffered, the loss of so many venerable sylvaneth sending an undertone of pain through the Wyldwood’s spirit-song. Nellas could still feel the shared agony in every rustle and moan of the forest around her.

By the time she arrived at the outskirts of the Evergreen, darkness had fallen. The woodland was restless, still distressed by the violation it had suffered. Things darted past Nellas, their shapes insubstantial in the dark. She felt the beat of wings as a woodland owl soared overhead, hunting. The killing, Nellas reflected, was never done. Around her she felt the ever-present song of the Wyldwood waver, as though the chorus had become suddenly doubtful. A colder, more cutting note entered the recital.

‘Stop.’ The command seemed to breathe from the trees themselves. Nellas halted, grip tightening around her scythe’s haft. There were few creatures capable of taking a sylvaneth by surprise in her own woods. None of them meant her well.

Shapes melted from the shadows beneath the surrounding boughs, taking physical form seemingly only with great reluctance. They were sylvaneth, but they possessed none of the graceful bearing of the Noble Spirits Nellas was used to communing with. Their outlines were jagged and sharp, their trunks stooped, features twisted with fang-filled disdain. They blocked the path ahead, pressing in on the branchwych from all sides. The song of the woodland grew colder still around them.

Spite-revenants, she thought. Outcasts. Nature’s most merciless aspect given form and thought.

‘You go no further,’ one of the malevolent spirits said. He was big, bristling with jagged fir needles, his eyes glowing a bitter, icy blue in the creaking darkness. ‘You are not welcome here.’

Nellas faced the Outcast, straightening despite the pain that flared from her wound.

‘The shadows are deep, so I will forgive you your mistake. I am Nellas the Harvester, of House Il’leath of the Heartwood Glade. I am bearing the lifeseeds of many of my house. Too many. In the name of the Everqueen, stand aside.’

‘We know who you are, branchwych,’ the spite-revenant said, showing no sign of moving. ‘And I am Du’gath, of the Loneroot. Your presence defiles the sanctity of this enclave. These woodlands do not want you here. Their roots squirm at your passing.’

‘Are you delirious with barkrot?’ Nellas snapped. ‘These little spites with me carry the very future of this Wyldwood. You have no right to impede us.’

‘You carry corruption. We can feel the taint that infects you. We cannot allow you to spread it to the Evergreen. Whether you are aware of it or not, you could bring about the destruction of the heartglade and the death of the whole forest.’

Nellas shook her head angrily, leaves rustling. ‘You refer to my wound? It was earned today in battle with those who would defile these sacred glades. I did not see you or your kindred there when Lord Thaark was felled.’

‘That does not mean we weren’t present,’ Du’gath countered, taking a step closer to Nellas. He stretched out one jagged talon, moving to touch her splintered side. The branchwych darted back instinctively, hissing as the sudden movement sent a pulse of pain through her body. She felt her anger flare.

‘It won’t heal,’ Du’gath said. ‘It is infected with the rot of the Great Corruptor. If you enter the Evergreen you may pass the taint on to the saplings there.’

‘If I don’t enter, the lamentiri will wither and be lost,’ Nellas countered. ‘Make way for me, Outcast. Unless you wish to see this Wyldwood brought to ruin.’

‘You know not what you carry,’ the spite-revenant said. ‘But I cannot bar a branchwych from her own glade. Tread with care, Nellas the Harvester. We will be watching you.’

The spite-revenants receded back into the darkness, their bitterness lingering on the night air. Nellas continued up the path, until the final branches parted before her.

The Evergreen, Brocélann’s heart, lay ahead. A clearing at the peak of the Wyldwood’s uplands, at its centre stood the great Kingstree, the oldest oak in the forest. It was here that the lords of Brocélann’s noble families gathered in council and mustered the Wargrove in times of conflict. It was also the focal point of the forest’s combined memory-echoes, the well that collected the reverberations of House Il’leath’s many life songs. Some, like the melodies of the Kingstree itself, were as old as the Jade Kingdoms’ deepest roots, while those soulpod groves newly planted in the shade of the great oak had only just begun to add their own cadence to the forest’s choir. Through them, Ghyran endured.

At night the clearing space was lit by the flickering of a thousand fireflies, and the colourful flashes that marked the passage of lesser spites weaving darts of light among the shadows of soulpod saplings and thick wildflowers. Nellas began to murmur her greetings to the many forest spirits as she stepped into the clearing, brushing gently past fresh shoots and leaves. As she did so more spites fluttered to her, perching in her branches, their tiny songs full of concern.

‘Do not worry yourselves, little lights,’ the branchwych murmured gently to them. ‘I will heal. Many others this day will not.’

As the spites that came to greet Nellas wove among those already carrying the lifeseeds, their songs melded into a mournful chorus. It was a tale of passing and of withering, of falling leaves and dry, dead wood. Nellas let it play out around her as she began the replanting.

Each of the lifeseeds had its place, a soulpod in the Evergreen. Those who had been Forest Folk, the dryads and the branchwraiths, were planted among those that formed a great grove arcing around the clearing’s edge, nearest to the trees which grew thick all around. The tree-revenants and the other members of the noble houses were planted among the pods closer to the clearing’s heart, ranked by their dedication to each of the Wyldwood’s ever-changing seasons. Then, nearest of all to Brocélann’s heartwood, in the shade of the mighty Kingstree itself, the treelords were laid to their final rest, the lamentiri of all planted in the fertile soil around them, their echo-memories allowed to rejoin the great chorus of the Wyldwood.

Not even the Everqueen knew what form, great or small, any of the lifeseeds would take when they sprouted once more from their soulpods. But regardless, all would serve the natural cycles. Nellas planted Thaark last of all, among the very roots of the Kingstree. The flourishing soulpods round about the old oak would take both strength and wisdom from its presence, and from the same soil new life would one day join the ranks of the sylvaneth.

As she nestled Thaark’s seed in the knotted core of the shining soulpod, Nellas swayed. Her exhaustion was coming close to overwhelming her. The harsh words of the spite-revenant returned unbidden, disrupting the mourning of the spites and the gentle songs she sang to the fresh seedlings. Corruption. Taint. She was infected. Her wound still throbbed, and every step brought with it a deep, aching pain. The growth song of the Evergreen called to her, promising the chance to rest and heal, but she pushed it gently from her mind. She had one more duty still to perform. Sensing her distress, the spites around her fluttered and darted to and fro.

Thaark’s seed safely buried, she took one of the lesser tracks out of the clearing, leaving the Evergreen’s hum of renewal behind her. The darting lights of the spites lit her way, guiding her faithfully down a steep, twisting path tangled with briars and thorns. As she went, the number of spites multiplied, until the whole Wyldwood seemed to be illuminated with buzzing, kaleidoscopic colour, the flying forest spirits dancing and spinning around, over and under one another with glittering, preternatural grace.

She paused at the edge of the path, beneath the boughs of a soaring beech tree. Its branches were laden with small sacks, around which the creatures dashed and darted. They were cocoons, each one bearing within it the germinations of a new forest spirit. Nellas reached out and delicately brushed one of the larger sacks, its skin black and mottled with orange blotches. It was ripe, close to hatching. As she came into contact with it, she prayed to the spirits of Ghyran that she would have a new bittergrub to accompany her. Her song throbbed through the cocoon, binding the small creature’s first memories to her own, imprinting on it the work of the Harvester. The loss of Nellas’ former grub, and the lack of the soothing, simple counterpoint of its little spirit-song, tugged at the branchwych’s subconscious. Just one more pain for the day’s tally, both mental and physical.

She no longer had the strength to return to the Evergreen. Instead, she walked a little way into the forest and planted her roots, letting her mind join the wider thoughts of the Wyldwood. As her consciousness fragmented, her last memory was of Thaark, and his final moments.

In the surrounding darkness, the Outcasts watched her, silent, waiting.

Realisation struck her. It was time. She pulled her scattered thoughts together, easing the forest’s drowsy night-time murmur to the edge of her thoughts. It was right that she witness this. The first song it should hear ought to be her own.

She returned to the beech, scythe in hand. The spites had gathered, adorning the boughs of the tree with shining, bickering brilliance. They crooned and fluttered as she appeared, excited at what was about to take place.

The black-and-orange cocoon stirred beneath its branch. She reached out a hand and touched it, twigs splayed. Through the fragile membrane, she could feel warmth and the squirming pulse of fresh life. Yes, she thought. It was time.

She withdrew her hand as a split appeared in the sack, oozing a thick, clear substance. The watching spites chittered all the louder, pushing and shoving one another as they tried to get a better view. The hatching of a new bittergrub was an uncommon occurrence. She prayed to the Everqueen that her new companion recognised her.

There was a pop, and the cocoon burst. A flood of green-grey slime poured from the ruptured sack, splattering the beech’s roots. With it came a thin, segmented form, gripping onto the branch it had hatched from with vicious pincers. A vile stink filled the cool forest air.

She knew immediately this was no bittergrub. It only bore a single segmented black eye, and hissing, acidic toxins dripped from its wicked mandibles. Its body was worm-like and its flesh translucent, exposing inner organs that were riddled with pulsing, yellow veins and swollen by globules of raw filth.

As the plague wyrm uncoiled, the attending spites shrieked with terror, scattering in a great, roiling cloud. She found herself rooted to the spot, frozen in a moment of horror as she understood that the rot had reached the very heart of the forest. The Outcasts had been right. The monstrosity that had hatched from the Wyldwood cocoon hissed at her and lunged, its slime-coated pincers snapping–

Nellas!

Her thoughts returned like a springsfed flood. She gasped and twitched, the first sensation that of the pain in her side, her second the realisation that at some time during the night she’d fallen, and now lay among the tangled thorns and bracken near the beech tree.

The bittergrub. A nightmare or a vision – she couldn’t tell, but the memory of the vile creature that had hatched so close to the forest’s heartglade made her branches shudder. She tried to rise. The pain of her wound was worse than it had been the night before. Not only had the splintered bark refused to heal, but now dark veins criss-crossed the injury, spreading like an ugly latticework along the bottom half of her trunk.

The accusations of the spite-revenant came back to her. She was infected. She was spreading the Rotbringer’s plague to Brocélann. The nightmare made her shudder again. Then she remembered what had woken her.

The voice of Thoaken of the Blackroot, snapping and splintering with a rare urgency.

She dragged herself up by her scythe, body trembling. Light was filtering through the forest canopy. It was well after dawn, she realised. The Wyldwood was quiet and still, as though the forest spirits around her were straining to overhear something momentous.

My lord, Nellas thought, letting the shoots of her mind quest out through the woodland and join the wider spirit-song. There, at its heart, she found him, along with the other treelords. They were gathered at the Kingstree. That could only mean an impromptu council had been called.

Where are you, Nellas? The treelord ancient’s creaking tone filled her thoughts. We have summoned the noble house to a moot. Grave news has reached us from beyond the treeline.

I’m on my way, lord, Nellas responded. She took a step, and found she was able to stay upright. Leaning heavily on her scythe, she began to make her way back towards the Evergreen. On the way she glanced at the beech tree, still surrounded by darting spites. The bittergrub cocoon hung among the others, whole and unblemished. Had it merely been a nightmare, a discordant tremor in the forest’s evening song, or a vision of something yet to transpire? She pressed on.

In the Evergreen, the noble household of Il’leath had assembled. A host of tree-revenants ringed the edge of the clearing, their attention fixed on the Kingstree at its centre. Beside its great trunk, the lords and ladies of the woodland clan stood in a close circle, swaying gently with the rhythms of their discussion. There were the treelords Bitterbough and Thenuil, the two loremasters, Ancients Gillehad and Whitebark, and Thoaken himself. The absence of Boughmaster Thaark leading the debate sent a stab of sorrow through Nellas’ heartwood.

The murmured contemplation of the watching tree-revenants stilled as she arrived. They parted wordlessly for her. She could feel their eyes on her injury. The sudden hush caused the treelord conclave to cease their own discussion and turn to watch her slow approach. She felt her anger spike under the scrutiny.

‘You need not bow, Nellas,’ Thoaken said as she drew closer. ‘I did not know you were wounded.’

‘It will heal with time, my lord,’ Nellas said, letting her roots sink in a little as she stopped before the gathered moot.

‘The whole Wyldwood aches for the loss of your sisters, branchwych,’ Thenuil said. He was a redwood by nature, his rust-coloured bark giving him a warlike appearance as he loomed over his fellow treelords.

‘And for the head of the clan, the venerable Thaark,’ Gillehad added, the ageing willow bent almost double. ‘The goodness of his spirit and the wisdom of his leadership will not soon be forgotten. May his lamentiri enrich many a sylvaneth as-yet unplanted.’

‘Such a loss makes your well-being all the more important, Nellas,’ Thoaken added. He was old, even by the standards of the ancients. A slender pine, his highest needles matched the canopy of Thenuil, while his grey bark was knotted and craggy with age. He swayed gently as he talked, each word as inexorable and measured as the passage of years.

‘Until the soulpods sprout fresh branchwyches, you alone can safely harvest the lifeseeds and tend to the Evergreen. And until we have elected a new head of the clan, Brocélann needs you now more than ever. We already miss Thaark’s guidance.’

Doubt made Nellas hesitate. Should she admit her fears? Should she tell the conclave that she believed Skathis Rot’s blow to her side had brought on some form of infection? That the Outcasts had accused her of corruption?

‘Spite-messengers have brought us grievous news,’ Thoaken said before Nellas could order her thoughts. ‘From both Ithilia and Mer’thorn. Our sister woods have been overrun by the worshippers of blight.’

His words chased all thoughts of self-doubt from Nellas’ mind, and she felt a keening at the thought of such desecration flare in her breast.

‘Surely not,’ she heard herself say.

‘It has been confirmed by those Forest Folk that escaped the felling,’ Gillehad creaked. ‘And we ourselves feel the spirit-song ache of many great lords cut down and wise ancients forever uprooted. Tragedy has finally caught up with our corner of Ghyran.’

‘How is this possible?’ Nellas demanded, turning from one treelord to the next. ‘The glamours have kept Ithilia and Mer’thorn safe ever since the Great Corruptor set foot in the Jade Kingdoms. How have the Rotbringers been able to overcome them?’

‘How did that warband pierce our own treeline?’ Gillehad replied.

‘Bands of Rotbringers stumble across us from time to time,’ Nellas said, voice snapping angrily like broken branches. ‘There were no survivors to tell of what this squirm-scum uncovered. There never are.’

‘I agree,’ said Whitebark. The ancient loremaster was the least vocal of the conclave, so old that he seemed in a perpetual doze, his spirit-song drifting and languid. A knotted silver birch, he leant heavily on one drooping branch like a crutch. ‘The chances of not one but two great Wyldwoods falling to the random roving of a warband large enough to overcome their enchantments are almost non-existent. We must assume their glamours failed them.’

Or that some rot beset them from within, thought Nellas. The realisation hardened her resolve.

‘We must discover the state of our sister woods,’ she said. ‘And find how the Rotbringer filth were able to locate them. I propose to the moot that I be allowed to spirit-walk to Mer’thorn for this purpose.’

‘Out of the question,’ Thoaken replied. ‘I have already told you of the vital place you now hold in Brocélann, Nellas. If we lose you, the very future of this Wyldwood would be threatened.’

‘If we do not discover how the sister woods fell, we will be next,’ Nellas said. Her anger drove out any thought of admitting her private fears, of agonising over what even now gnawed at her bark.

‘Spites are being dispatched,’ Thoaken said. ‘And the Wargrove assembled once again. We shall begin a muster as soon as our household has rested its roots.’

‘That will take time. A spirit-walk will be faster and safer.’

‘Not if the Wyldwoods have indeed become as corrupt as we fear.’

Nellas didn’t respond immediately. As far as preserving Brocélann was concerned, Thoaken was right, and the whole woodland knew that once he dug his roots in, the fury of all the gods, great and small, would not move him. But if Nellas’ fears were correct, they didn’t have time to assess the threat from afar. She bowed, ignoring the discomfort the motion brought her.

‘As you wish, venerable lord.’

She could feel the scrutiny of the conclave as she spoke, prickling with suspicions. Most of them, she suspected, perceived her intentions. She kept her eyes on the Evergreen’s nearest soulpod saplings, praying by bough and branch that they didn’t demand assurances of her. She could not disrupt the natural cycle by refusing a direct order from the conclave, but nor would she wait passively for events to play out around her. The fury smouldering inside her demanded her sister woods be avenged. Eventually, Thoaken spoke.

‘The moot will continue to ponder these dark events. You are clearly in need of rest, Nellas. You are dismissed, for now. May the Everqueen’s blessings be upon you.’

‘My thanks, lord,’ the branchwych replied, turning her back on the conclave.

She would have to be swift.

Nellas slid gently into the clear depths of the woodland spring, slender bark limbs immersed in its cool flow. The waters embraced her, whispering a song of renewal as they slid over the thick tangle of thorns and vines that sprouted from her scalp. Her green eyes opened beneath the surface, following the redfins and minnowspawn as they darted back and forth through the clear depths. The water was brimming with life, just like the soil it fed.

She could not allow a place such as this to fall to corruption. Ghyran endured.

Closing her eyes once more, she let the stream’s song fulfil her. The healing waters had reduced the agony of her wound to a numb throb. She could spend an eternity in here, watched over by the spirits of the spring, sustained by their soothing embrace. But in her mind’s eye she saw the waters congeal, the clear flow discoloured by filth. To stay would be to surrender Brocélann to damnation, a truth she had known even as she had paid lip service to Thoaken’s commands. Her bark would not leave the Wyldwood’s treeline, but her spirit would.

She hummed to herself, communing with the spring’s song, letting its melodies entwine with hers. As she did, she felt the flow around her tug, teasing at her branches. Though her roots remained sunken into the slick stones at the spring’s bottom, her mind started to drift.

There were many ways for the spirit-song of a sylvaneth to travel between the Wyldwoods of Ghyran, and the sacred waterways were one of them. The stream was one of several that flowed from Brocélann to her neighbouring woodlands, one of the realmroots blessed by the Everqueen to bring her life-giving energies to this part of the Jade Kingdoms. As Nellas’ spirit-song left her physical form, the water’s flow snatched at her and carried her along. She bound herself to the form of a passing bluescale, the big fish darting over rocks and between lazy fronds and watermoss, following the current as it carried her beyond Brocélann’s borders.

The sense of detachment was exhilarating. The pain of Nellas’ wound had become a distant ache, left far behind. The natural rhythms of the stream flooded her thoughts, the instinctive concerns and needs of its wildlife merging with her own desires. It was only with difficulty that she slid free from the bluescale, forging through the current towards the bank.

She emerged without disturbing the water’s surface, her spirit-form invisible to mortal eyes. It was immediately apparent that she was in Brocélann no more. Around her, trees stretched, but these were not the healthy boughs and branches Nellas had passed through when she had last visited Mer’thorn, many seasons ago. The forest was skeletal, leafless, the trunks bare and gnarled, each tree seemingly struggling to stand beneath the weight of its own dead wood.

Their song cut to the branchwych’s heartwood. It had none of Brocélann’s spirited cadence, none of the vibrant pitch and swell that coursed through the Jade Kingdoms still resisting the Great Corruptor. Instead it was a low, weary moan, the creak and sigh of a tree that had long given up the hope of ever sprouting fresh shoots again.

Nor were there any spites. The lack of the little darting lights and the elegant counterpoint of their songs was like a void in the branchwych’s core. A forest without spites was a forest that had lost the essence of its being.

Nellas eased her own song into that of Mer’thorn’s, her light, quicker tempo seeking to stoke the Wyldwood’s sentience.

Who has done this to you?

The tired answer drew her on along the bank of the stream, deeper into the Wyldwood. As she went, she noticed the waters beside her were also changing. The stream no longer possessed the crystalline clarity it had in Brocélann, but instead grew steadily murkier. Soon it was brown and discoloured. It began to congeal around the edges, the banks thick with green scum. Eventually it took on the appearance of tar, oozing and black, a pestilential stink coming off its bubbling surface.

The woodland, too, grew worse with every ethereal step Nellas took. The trees were no longer bent over and gaunt, like bare old beggars. Now they were clothed, but in all manner of vileness. In her time tending to the Evergreen, the branchwych had uprooted and carved out many diseases and blights before they could take hold among root and bark. Ever since the distant days of the Great Corruptor’s arrival in Ghyran, constant vigilance had been needed to ensure his plagues didn’t achieve what his Rotbringers could not.

Here, those plagues had run rampant. As she passed through the fallen Wyldwood, she saw every blight she had ever encountered in evidence around her. Spinemould covered entire trees, turning them into bristling, puffy growths. Sap with the consistency of pus poured from the hideous gouges bored by Weeping Rot, while all manner of monstrous worms and maggots had burrowed out nests among bark and branches. Leaves were black and slippery with Slimestench and Daemon’s Spit, while the forest floor beneath was rapidly becoming a rotting, shifting mulch. Instead of mischievous spites and darting forest spirits, great swarms of black flies now droned, filling the air with their buzzing, ugly insistence.

Nellas stopped trying to commune with the Wyldwood. Its song was no longer weak and breathless. It was no longer the voice of something dying a slow, inevitable death. It had become a drone, unhealthy but strong, a sonorous chant that she wanted no part in. The forest here, she realised, was no longer dying. It was alive, but it was not the life granted by the changing of the seasons or the Everqueen’s grace. It was unwholesome and twisted, a vile parody. It was the fresh life of maggots bursting from a boil, of a virus coiling in a bloodstream, of flies hatching from rancid meat. It was a mockery of everything green and vibrant, of everything Nellas had spent her entire existence nurturing and protecting. The realisation sent righteous anger coursing through her.

She began to seek out the Everqueen’s distant song, holding onto it like a beacon amidst the encroaching darkness. Even though she was invisible, the sensation of being observed made her thorns prickle. The forest was aware of her. She knotted a glamour about herself with whispered words, clutching her scythe close. Even her spirit-self felt as though it was swarming with lice and maggots, and each step became more difficult, more repulsive, than the last.

Before her, a clearing emerged. She realised as soon as she gazed beyond the final dripping, cancerous boughs that her worst fears were true. The heart of Mer’thorn and the heart of the corruption were one and the same.

Like all Wyldwoods, Mer’thorn had also once had an enclave at its heart, a grove where the energies of life swirled and eddied the strongest, where the soulpods thrived and the spirit-song reached its crescendo. Such places could take many forms, and Brocélann’s mighty Kingstree was only one expression of a heartglade. Mer’thorn’s had once been a menhir, a great, jagged pillar of primordial stone standing tall upon a grassy knoll, thick with moss and carved with the swirling heraldry of the enclave’s sylvaneth clan.

That menhir still stood, but it was split and deformed almost beyond recognition. Something had burrowed out its core, and now the space within was no longer a part of the Realm of Life. A sickly yellow light pulsed from its heart, and whenever Nellas tried to look directly at the rent in reality, her gaze instinctively flinched away, her spirit shuddering with revulsion.

From the open rift daemons came, clawing their way into the Wyldwood. They already infested the heartglade around the menhir, a sea of sagging, diseased flesh and corroded iron. Clusters of plaguebearers circled the space with an endless, limping gait, the tolling of their rusting bells a counterpoint to their throaty chanting. Great flies, bigger than Nellas and dripping with thick strings of venom, droned overhead. Underfoot, a living carpet of nurglings writhed, bickering and giggling like a nightmarish parody of the spites that had once inhabited Mer’thorn. The entire clearing was alive and bursting with the vital virulence of entropy and decay.

The Wyldwood’s heart was still beating, Nellas realised. It was choked and rancid with rot, a rot that had first taken root not at its borders, but at its very core.

The horror of realisation momentarily eclipsed all of Nellas’ other concerns. Her glamour shimmered, and she heard the chanting of the daemons skip a beat. The dirge of the trees around her rose in pitch. Her spirit-self tensed. She sensed a thousand rheumy, cyclopean eyes turn towards her.

Branchwych. The words, squelching like maggots writhing in rotten bark, slipped directly into Nellas’ thoughts. Skathis said you would come. He wants us to tell you it is too late. He wants us to thank you, branchwych. He wants to bless the rot that already works through your bark, for welcoming him into your home. Grandfather’s glory be upon you, and upon his Tallybands.

She had been right. Mer’thorn was lost. Shaking, she fled.

Nellas returned to her body with a scream of pain and rage. For a second, she didn’t remember where she was, her branches thrashing through the water as she surfaced.

But the agony in her side, worse than ever before, stung her thoughts into order. She had been right. She had brought corruption into Brocélann, but it hadn’t been in her. It had been in what she had carried.

Scythe in hand, she made for the Evergreen, keening a song of fear and warning for the forest spirits to spread around her. She had to rouse the Wyldwood, before it was too late.

‘She took the realmroot to Mer’thorn,’ said Brak. Du’gath dipped his branches in acknowledgement, fangs bared as he watched the branchwych race towards the Evergreen. To the spite-revenant’s attuned senses, the wound in her side reeked of corruption. Her visit to the fallen Wyldwood and her sudden madness were the final confirmation.

‘She must die,’ he said to his surrounding kin. ‘Before she can spread her foulness any further. Follow me.’

As she neared the Evergreen, Nellas’ spirit-song quested ahead. Even now, a sliver of defiance within her held out the hope that she was wrong. Maybe it had simply been her wound the daemons had referred to. Maybe, with time, the rot could be excised, and she could be made whole again. Maybe Brocélann was untouched.

Thaark.

She pushed her song ahead into the clearing, seeking out the individual voices that flowed from the Evergreen. She should be able to commune with them. She should be able to know for certain that her fears were misplaced.

Nellas.

The voice that answered her did not belong to any sylvaneth. It didn’t run in harmony with the melodies of the forest, but cut across it, a discordant baritone rich with rot.

Thank you, Nellas. Thank you for bringing me here.

She had heard the voice before. It belonged to Skathis Rot – not the mortal Rotbringer champion she had cut down, but the daemon that had inhabited his flesh. The daemon which had been transferred by hand to Thaark’s heartwood even as Nellas had split the champion’s skull. The daemon her spites had carried in the treelord’s infected lifeseed, right into the centre of Brocélann.

I will destroy you, monster, Nellas keened, her fury eclipsing even the pain of her wound as she threw herself through the last of the undergrowth and into the Evergreen.

Around her the trees were no longer singing. They were screaming. Nellas had planted Thaark’s lamentiri in a soulpod right beside the Kingstree, nestled among its very roots. In doing so, she now realised, she had carried the lifeseed tainted by Skathis Rot right into her home’s heartglade.

The Evergreen was under attack. What had once been Thaark’s budding soulpod was now a sinkhole, a black pit from which the filth of Chaos welled and poured. Plaguebearers were already limping and staggering through the Evergreen, chanting and muttering darkly to themselves as they hacked at the groves surrounding the Kingstree with rusty blades. The nurglings that accompanied them gnawed on roots or gleefully ripped down saplings, destroying future sylvaneth generations before they had even had a chance to bud. Around the clearing, great swarms of fat flies buzzed, breeding and hatching in a frenzy of infestation.

Worst of all was the thing at the Evergreen’s centre. Skathis had taken on physical form, a tall, emaciated, one-eyed daemon who now sat languidly above the sinkhole, reclining amongst the roots of the Kingstree as though they were his throne. Maggots longer than Nellas’ forebranches squirmed and writhed across the great oak’s bark, seeking to burrow in and defile its core. As the branchwych laid eyes on him, Skathis spread both skeletal arms, his long face split by a warm grin.

‘Welcome home, Nellas,’ the daemon boomed, his voice unnaturally deep and vibrant for such a wasted frame. ‘Good Boughmaster Thaark told me all about you before I consumed the last of him. How joyous it is to finally meet you!’

Shrieking, Nellas flung herself at the nearest plaguebearer. It was attempting to uproot a briarthorn soulpod with both hands, seemingly numb to the gashes the plant was leaving in its diseased skin. It was too slow to avoid Nellas as she sliced its head from its shoulders. Its daemonic form exploded into a great cloud of flies.

Nellas surged on, even the pain of her wound momentarily burned away by the rage that blazed through her bark. She disembowelled a second plaguebearer, then a third, Skathis’ merry laughter ringing around her all the while.

‘Curse you, maggotkin!’ she screamed, a single swing of her scythe eviscerating a clutch of squirming nurglings. ‘Die!’

‘Not before you, Nellas,’ Skathis chuckled, pointing one long, bony finger at her. ‘Not before you.’

Around the branchwych, the Tallyband closed.

‘Drycha’s curse,’ Du’gath spat as he looked down into the Evergreen. ‘We’re too late.’

‘It was the lifeseed,’ Brak said. ‘Not the branchwych. The disease was in what she planted, not her wound.’

‘We must help her,’ another of the spite-revenants added. ‘If we wait for the Wargrove to muster, the heartglade will already have fallen.’

Du’gath was moving. He burst from the treeline into the Evergreen like an icy gale, fangs bared and talons out. Keening their own cold war-song, the Outcasts followed.

Nellas plied her scythe, the harvester come home. One monstrosity after another fell, their corroded blades no match for her greenwood, their daemonic bodies disintegrating with every strike. But still they came, on and on, as inevitable as time’s decaying grip, and Skathis laughed all the harder. Nellas had barely managed to take a dozen paces towards him, and with every passing moment the sinkhole between them grew larger, and more filth hauled itself up from the depths. The Kingstree had started to bow slightly as the hole reached its roots. The ancient oak’s throaty song of pain and fear drove Nellas into an even more violent fury.

So busy was she with hacking and slashing, swinging and slicing, that she didn’t notice the press of rotting bodies easing around her. It was only when a clawed hand caught the downward stroke of a rusting sword meant for her upper branches that she realised she was no longer alone. With a contemptuous twist, Du’gath snapped the plaguebearer’s blade and tore the leprous daemon limb from limb.

There was no time for a greeting, much less for explanations. Nellas pressed forward, screeching at the woodland around her to rise up and strike down the violators of the heartglade. To her left and right, the spite-revenants ripped into the Tallyband, their features twisted with hideous fury, the same rage that now gave Nellas strength. For a moment, Skathis’ laughter faltered.

‘Slow yourself, dear Nellas,’ the daemonic herald said, weaving a complex pattern in the air before him. ‘That wound in your side looks like it may be infected.’

Pain, worse than any she had ever felt, speared through the branchwych. Her limbs seized up and her scythe slipped from her fingers. In a daze she fell to her knees, discoloured bloodsap oozing from her wound. Du’gath stood over her, driving back a trio of plaguebearers with a savage swipe of his talons.

‘We won’t reach the Kingstree in time,’ the Outcast called back to her. ‘We’re too few!’

Nellas couldn’t reply. The taint Skathis had planted in her side drove out all else, its agony threatening to eclipse her own spirit-song and cut her off from the strength of the Wyldwood. A single melody remained connected with hers, entwining itself with her thoughts. It refused to let her go. Through the haze, she recognised its voice. It was a bittergrub. It had been born, hatching pure and unblemished from the nearby beech tree. It lived, and with it came hope, sure as the first buds among the snows.

Nellas closed her eyes, seeking to focus through the pain. She could not save Brocélann alone. She could not even save it with the strongbranch fury of the likes of Du’gath and his Outcasts. But Brocélann could save itself. She only had to show it how.

She began to sing. It was not the terrible battle-cant of sharpened bark-claws and crushing roots, nor did it possess the violent beat of the fury that motivated the sylvaneth when they saw their sacred enclaves defiled. It was something deeper, something even more primal, a rhythm only the branchwyches, with their instinctive connection to all the creatures of the Wyldwood, could access. It spoke of shared lives and shared fates, of the bonds forged in the changing of Ghyran’s natural cycles. It was directed not at the noble houses, nor the Forest Folk, or any of her forest spirits. It was sung to the smaller creatures, dedicated to the multitude of tiny, vibrant souls that called Brocélann home. They were all the Everqueen’s children, as worthy as the most gnarled treelord ancient, and the death of the Wyldwood spelt their doom as assuredly as it did that of the sylvaneth.

Nellas heard it first as a hum, a counterpoint to the infernal buzzing of the flies that choked the air around her. She continued to sing, her voice rising and becoming stronger as the hum grew. Pain flared once more as Skathis sought to silence her. She ignored it now. Her spirit was no longer wholly bound to her body, but rose above the fighting to direct the Wyldwood’s salvation. Skathis had stopped laughing altogether.

From the trees the spites came. They were a cloud, a nebulous, darting, roiling swarm that shrieked with a rage as potent as their branchwych’s. They struck the flies first. The Great Corruptor’s emissaries, countless as they seemed, were squashed or snapped up, or had their buzzing wings ripped off. The spites engulfed the whole of the Evergreen in a multihued blizzard, poking out plaguebearers’ eyes and bursting nurglings like little pus sacks.

Nellas unleashed them on Skathis Rot. The herald of Nurgle wailed first with rage and then fear as the cloud descended upon him. The spites picked the bark of the Kingstree clean, plucking off and crushing each and every loathsome maggot that sought to defile the venerable oak. Then they set upon Skathis, ten thousand little limbs raking and pulling at his flesh, gnawing at his eye, slicing and slashing with little claws.

‘You cannot stop me now!’ the daemon wailed, flailing ineffectually with his gaunt limbs. ‘You are too late! A thricepox curse on each and every one of you! Grandfather take your miserable little souls!’

The daemon screamed all the louder as a spite lanced his eye with a long sliver of living wood. He staggered forwards and lost his footing on the edge of the sinkhole, teetering for balance. With a concerted heave, the swarm of spites tipped him. The daemon bellowed as he plummeted over the edge, knocking a clutch of plaguebearers back down into the pit even as they sought to climb up out of it.

As the daemon fell, the Evergreen resounded with the call of hunting horns. Nellas, still engulfed in the breaks and eddies of the spites’ great spirit-song, was only dimly aware of a furious roar. It was one the forest hadn’t heard in a very long time, and it was enough to make the roots beneath her quiver. From the trees around the glade the Forest Folk poured, twisted with their war aspect, and at the fore of their vengeful tide came Gillehad. The stooped treelord ancient roared once more.

The sound was echoed by the battle cries of tree-revenants as they too emerged into the heartglade. Striding in their midst were Bitterbough and Thenuil, talons bared and branches firm. The Tallyband broke before their thunderous blows, diseased forms flickering and turning insubstantial as they were banished back to their master’s blighted realm.

Nellas felt the grasp on her spirit-song waver and break. Her voice faltered. Her mind returned to her body, dragged down by exhaustion and pain. Her wound, she realised, was killing her. Du’gath still stood over her, roots planted and immovable, his bark scored and slashed in dozens of places by daemonic blades. She remained on her knees, bent and broken. She felt her consciousness slipping, the song of the Wyldwood suddenly distant and muffled. She could feel something crawling among her branches and gnawing at her bark. Memories of diseased worms and maggots made her shudder. Her thoughts finally slipped away, and her song faded into nothingness.

It was the singing of her new companion that woke her.

Her bittergrub was coiled on her breast, watching her with beady eyes. She stretched out a limb to let the creature run along her branches, and was surprised to notice the absence of a shock of pain for the first time in what felt like many seasons.

Tentatively, she shifted her body so she could look down at her side.

Her wound was healing. The flow of bloodsap had finally been stemmed, and tender greenwood had now replaced the rotten bark. She realised abruptly that the final sensation she’d felt before her spirit-song had faded was the bittergrub eating away at the diseased bark, freeing her body from the Great Corruptor’s foul grasp. It had saved her life, and with it possibly the future of Brocélann.

‘Your new grub would not leave you,’ Du’gath said, looming over her. ‘It gnawed away the rotting wood and gave your wound a chance to reknit.’

Wordlessly, Nellas thanked the creature, letting it scuttle appreciatively up one limb and nestle among her boughs.

‘I thought about cutting it in half,’ Du’gath said coldly. ‘But I trust the spites more than I trust you, Harvester. May you serve them well.’

‘Branchwych,’ boomed the venerable tones of Gillehad. The treelord ancient was striding across the Evergreen towards Nellas, who rose to meet him with the assistance of her scythe. She looked around as she did so. The heartglade was scattered with the dead wood of fallen sylvaneth, and the swiftly decomposing filth of the Tallyband, but of the sinkhole that had nearly consumed the Kingstree there was no sign. Soulpods had been ripped up or brutally slashed, and lifeseeds lost forever. But the Evergreen stood, and with it the future of the Wyldwood remained secure. For now.

‘You are healing, I see,’ Gillehad noted. ‘Thoaken has been beset with worry. We all have. We sensed your spirit travelling the realmroot to Mer’thorn.’

‘I beg forgiveness from the conclave,’ Nellas said, voice firm. ‘But I would have done it again if need be. It was necessary, for the good of all Brocélann.’

‘And in doing so you undoubtedly saved the entire Wyldwood,’ Gillehad replied. ‘By the time we were aware of what was afoot, it was almost too late.’

‘I would have made little difference if it weren’t for the Outcasts,’ Nellas continued. She turned to gesture towards Du’gath, before realising the spite-revenant and his sinister kin had vanished.

‘They do what they can, as do we all,’ Gillehad said slowly, casting his wizened gaze across the treeline. ‘There can be no bystanders in the war against the blight. Noble houses and Forest Folk, spites and Outcasts, we are all a part of the great Wargrove.’

‘I will tend to the soulpods until I have sisters again,’ Nellas said. ‘Once they have been fully instructed in their duties as branchwyches, I will travel the realmroots to all the remaining Wyldwoods of the Jade Kingdoms. They must be warned not to make the same mistakes we made. They must be told to examine all things, especially where it concerns their heartglades. The rot that festers from within may yet prove more deadly than that which gnaws from without. Thaark’s passing must not have been in vain.’

‘True words, Nellas,’ Gillehad agreed. ‘I wish all the seasons’ blessings upon such a task.’ 

‘Many thanks. Now, with the greatest respect, venerable lord, I must be about my duties.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Nellas bowed again, hefted her scythe, and began the harvest afresh. She sang as she made her way slowly through the Evergreen, a recital of both triumph and sorrow, the intertwining roots that ran through everything. It had always been so, the branchwych mused as she worked. And it would always be so, long after she and all she had ever planted had returned to the ground.

The seasons changed, but Ghyran endured.

The Splintered

Rob Sanders

The realm was dying.

Diseased. The myriad lands of Ghyran were like the gangrenous limbs of one great body, cut off from the spirit paths, heartglades and roots of Alarielle’s Realm of Life.

The taint of Chaos had spread across the skies, over the mightiest mountains and through forests that had once stretched forever. Nurgle, the Lord of Decay, walked the lands in the guise of plague-touched hordes, daemons and the contagions that swirled about their rank presence. His indomitable armies marched everywhere, and wretched death went with them. Ghyran swelled, pulsed and wept with Nurgle’s magnificence – he was father to all rancid misfortune.

Amongst the sickness and suffering the sylvaneth endured. As spirits of the forests and wild places, they were a hardy people. Their displeasure could be heard in the hiss of the rain. Their fury was the thunder of the storm and the quake of the mountains.

These noble guardians of life had survived the mortal tribes that had tried to claim the untameable tracts for their own, and the hordes of orruks that had swept through the lands with axe and flame. And they survived still. Hidden in plain sight, Forest Folk were the trees and boulders, the vines and tangled roots of ancient woodland. The magics of life and land disguised their knotted forms and numbers. Many marshalled the strength of their glades against the bringers of rot, while others fought a guerrilla war in the shadows. They were the creaking of branches in the night and the rustling of things unseen through the undergrowth. They slit the throats of warriors bloated with plague, and entangled sorcerers in their thorny brush, dragging the polluted servants of Nurgle off to silent deaths.

Through the bubble of corruption and the groans of the dying, something else could be heard. While the taint and suffering was great, a spirit-song – light with hope – rose above the browning canopies. It soared above the clouds of flies and echoed through root-lined caverns. The dull senses of Nurgle’s Tallybands were deaf to the song, but the sap and sinew of the sylvaneth rang with its beauty. It was Alarielle’s song. The Queen of the Radiant Wood was calling to them.

To some, the song carried with it an invigorating sustenance, a fortification against the illness sweeping through their boughs and branches. For others it was a choral announcement, resounding from the heads of flowers, from the swirls and knots in trees and depths of forest grottos. Something to give them hope: a song of solace and unity. As it carried across the never-ending reaches of Ghyran, it grew to a sonorous boom. It was a trumpeting call to war in the Everqueen’s name, one that even Great Shaddock heard, hundreds of years into hibernation and slumber, deep within the Arkenwood.

Shaddock was a towering totem of ironwood and stone, indistinguishable from the trees around him. A Spirit of Durthu, he was a being of age-earned wisdom. His golden sap flowed with nobility while his bole creaked with formidable power. His thick bark, like the surface of a cocoon, had sheltered him from the concerns of the realm, both large and small. He had slept away the Greater Upheavals and the Season of Storms. He had slumbered through the invasion of orruks from the Skullfang tribe. When the Queen of the Radiant Wood sang, however, something stirred deep within Shaddock’s soul. The fires of his ardour were stoked to amber brilliance and lit up the Arkenwood, drawing the Forest Folk and their enemies down upon him.

Great Shaddock, Wardwood of Athelwyrd – wise counsel and glade-guardian of the Everqueen – hear me.

Golden soul-light flickered within Shaddock’s eyes and mouth.

Spirit of Durthu, hear me. There isn’t much time.

Shaddock could see. It was night. The blurriness of centuries in slumber began to fade, and the Arkenwood took shape around the ancient. Instead of the mighty trees of the forest, vaulting for the clear sky, he found bark dripping with a veneer of filth and trunks leaning drunkenly over. Criss-crossing each other through the forest depths, the trees of the Arkenwood were suffering some great affliction. Leaves fell from the canopy in a constant shower, forming a carpet on the surface of foetid waters that had risen about the trunks and throughout the woodland. The once-proud Arkenwood was a veritable mangrove, with root systems rotting beneath the surface of the swamp.

‘To whom do I speak?’ Shaddock said. His voice emanated from the very depths of his being. While his face remained unmoved, words laden with age and wisdom rumbled from the sylvaneth.

‘I am Ardaneth,’ a voice returned, like a melodious breeze through the treetops. ‘Priestess of the Arkenwood and branchwraith to the people that once called this forest home.’

Shaddock saw her. The priestess was a spirit of lithe limbs and smooth wood. Roots snaked down her body from her head, writhing and entwining ceaselessly. Standing up to her knees in the filth that flooded the forest, she sketched a bow with talons of rough bark.

Other senses were returning to the ancient. The stench of the diseased forest was overpowering. He felt the cold floodwater about his trunk and roots. Looking around, Shaddock saw that the surrounding Arkenwood was full of eyes that burned amber with the spirits of Forest Folk. He could make out the crook and twist of dryads, their bodies curved like antlers.

‘You said we had little time, priestess,’ Shaddock rumbled. ‘I had nothing but time – but now my Everqueen calls for me.’

‘Mighty ancient,’ Ardaneth said with urgency, ‘you do not understand.’

‘A bold claim,’ the Spirit of Durthu told her, ‘from one so young, to one who was awake when the realm was new.’

‘You have slept too long, Great Shaddock,’ the priestess said. ‘This realm is not the one you left behind. Chaos infects our lands and our people. The sylvaneth are dying.’

As the wardwood shook off the bleariness of aeons, his leaves and branches rattled. He reached out with his waking senses.

‘This corruption is here?’

‘It is, Great Shaddock,’ the priestess said. ‘We implore you, mighty spirit, to protect us as we have protected you. To defend the Arkenwood that has been your home.’

‘We will fight with you, noble ancient,’ a dryad said, venturing forth to stand next to the priestess. Her horned head was a tangle of ivy. ‘For the Arkenwood and for Radiant Alarielle–’

‘Forgive, Great Shaddock,’ Ardaneth said. ‘Laurelwort leads the Forest Folk but forgets herself.’

Now that Laurelwort had come forwards, her eyes burning with the bravery of her kind, other dryads crept forth. They were less warriors than rangers and glade tenders. Their willowy limbs splashed through the liquid muck.

‘You must help now, ancient one,’ Laurelwort went on.

As the branch nymph spoke, the clash of weapons and armour rose close by. A dryad stumbled from the trees, an axe lodged in her bark. She fell face-first in the foetid shallows as Forest Folk scattered to the safety of the ailing trees. A bloated warrior of Chaos, his plate a rusting remnant and his flesh spoiling, pulled the great blade of his axe from where it was embedded. He pushed away and trudged through the swamp towards the sylvaneth. Other putrid warriors followed him, carrying filth-smeared weapons. Horrific spawn leapt from tottering trunk to trunk, drooling and gibbering.

‘Great Shaddock, help us,’ Ardaneth called out, her snake-like roots squirming with terror, ‘for the love of all that is living and pure!’

The Spirit of Durthu had heard enough, had seen enough. He felt the fear and revulsion of the Forest Folk and the shock of the life taken before him. The dryads had prayed for aid in his sacred grove, before the hardwood effigy he had become in the years long gone. He was the only tree in the Arkenwood not to fall to disease and decay, for the golden purity of Shaddock’s sap still burned within. But now, his amber light had brought enemies down on his tenders. If the Realm of Life was indeed under attack from the forces of Chaos, Alarielle would need every forest spirit to fight and drive back this plague.

Shaddock stirred. He willed his limbs to move. Roots began to tear and pop. Leaves and breaking branches rained down from his canopy. His bole squealed and his crust of petrified bark began to splinter and shred. The crack and boom of the wardwood’s stirring turned into a roar that shook the forest and sent ripples through the fell waters.

While the Spirit of Durthu struggled to be free, Ardaneth, Laurelwort and the dryads fought for their lives. The sylvaneth were usually swift and agile, but in the thick swamp their movements were slow and restricted. Such terrain did not bother Nurgle’s foul servants, however. Blighted warriors trudged through the mire with indomitable certainty, and their rust-eaten blades cleaved through the limbs and slender bodies of the sylvaneth. Spawn set upon the dryads, finding purchase in their offshoots and branching forms, enveloping shrieking heads with dribbling maws.

Laurelwort and the priestess ran to the aid of their people, advancing as one through the swarm of plague-swollen warriors. A monstrously bloated warrior strode through the filth towards them. His helm was twisted with horns that had erupted through his rusted helm. Pus dribbled through the slits of his visor as he gurgled in his own rot. The warrior gestured for the Forest Folk to approach with his rusted battle axe.

Moving with a fluid grace, Ardaneth ducked and weaved out of the clumsy path of his blade. Simply laying her bark-encrusted talons on his wrist and then shoulder, she allowed her powerful magic to flow through his tainted form. Infected limbs turned to stone, creaking and transforming before the warrior’s very eyes.

Two of his grotesque companions waded through the waters towards them. Ardaneth’s powerful magic left a gallery of rough statues in her wake. Laurelwort stretched out her sharpened talons, moving with a dancer’s confidence. Stabbing, slashing and crashing through the statues of Nurgle’s warriors, the branch nymph sent their shattered remains sinking to the bottom of the mire.

‘Fight for the Everqueen!’ Ardaneth called out to her people, but the dryads were dying. With the servants of Nurgle smashing through their lean forms, the dryads were fast becoming kindling that floated on the surface of the swamp. Drawn by the amber blaze of Shaddock’s awakening, diseased warriors closed on the ancient and began sinking their axes into his body and trunk.

With a creak, Shaddock brought a mighty arm around. Shredded bark and moss fell from the limb to reveal smooth ironwood and encrusting stone. A pair of bloated shapes emerged from a buzzing cloud of flies, their axe blades dripping with golden sap. As they hammered them into the ancient’s hallowed form, he snatched up the first Chaos warrior in his great talon and crushed him with the impunity of a natural force. Corroded plate crumpled, and the warrior’s diseased body distended until finally his head popped within his helm. Shaddock smashed the second axe-wielding monster away with such force that he came apart in a spatter of pus-laden gore.

A rabid spawn leapt on the wardwood’s arm but Shaddock flung it away with monstrous force, breaking its miserable body against the trunk of an Arkenwood tree. He felt the bite of new axe blades in his bark and grabbed for the putrid warriors attempting to fell his emerging form. He crushed them against his own bole like ripe fruit. He picked up armoured bulks by the tips of his bark-clad fingers before tossing them into the unyielding trunks of surrounding trees. He flicked heads from shoulders, allowing decapitated bodies to crash into the shallows.

As he fought, Shaddock tried to heave himself out of the ground. He could only do so much, rooted to the spot. Bark sheared and splintered away, and foliage cascaded down to carpet waters that began to bubble about him. The stench intensified as he unearthed the filth in which his resistant roots had been sat.

Suddenly, the waterlogged ground gave way and a sinkhole of foetid water gaped open. Thrashing his mighty limbs and splashing filth about him, the ancient disappeared beneath the surface with the warriors of Chaos attempting to chop him down.

‘No!’ Laurelwort yelled, splashing through the shallows towards the ancient. Ardaneth hauled the branch nymph back. A maggot-infested warrior stomped through the swamp towards them, but Laurelwort took out his leg with a swipe of her talons. As the servant of Nurgle splashed down into the shallows, the dryad ended him with vicious strikes.

Suddenly, Shaddock erupted from the mire. A wave of filth radiated from his emerging form, swamping Rotbringers and carrying Forest Folk out of the reach of axes and cleaving blades. Mud and decaying weed dribbled from his body. Clawing his way out of the sinkhole, Shaddock reared to his full height. Cocooning bark, branches and roots were gone, and the golden light of his spirit blazed from within, lighting up the forest. Filth steamed away from the glowing runes on his trunk.

The wardwood drew an elegant blade from the crooks and hollows of his back. Crafted from razor-sharp stone, it glowed like a blade drawn from a blacksmith’s forge – only it burned not with the heat of the furnace, but the golden energies of Shaddock’s sap.

‘Get down,’ the Spirit of Durthu commanded. Each and every dryad felt the power of his words reverberate through their being. They dropped, kneeling in the disgusting waters. Shaddock swung his glowing blade. Trailing a golden haze, the sword passed over the spirits and cleaved through the bodies of the still-standing servants of Nurgle. Rotten armour offered no protection, and sour flesh parted. Some warriors were sheared in half by the passage of the glorious blade, their rank innards displayed for all to see. Others, ripe with their myriad afflictions, simply came apart in a rain of gore.

Few were fast enough to avoid the devastation. Spawn gibbered and leapt at Shaddock, clawing and biting at his crooked trunk. He tore them from his body, crushing their spindly forms within a fist of ironwood and stone.

As Laurelwort ran to her people, the surviving dryads were helping each other back to their feet. Ardaneth approached their towering saviour. Shaddock looked down at the priestess. Thickets of sprouting shoots grew from his head, while those cascading from the bottom edge of his face gave the impression of a beard.

‘You are truly Queen-sent,’ she told him.

‘The Everqueen has not had need for my kind since the Splintering,’ Shaddock said. ‘But at long last she calls for my return.’

‘Of course, you must go,’ the priestess said. ‘As the Radiant Queen commands. She will have need of you.’

‘But she is not the only one in need,’ the Spirit of Durthu said, burning bright from within. ‘Where are the fell sorcerers and daemons that have damned the mighty Arkenwood?’

‘While the flood rises about us, they take to high ground,’ Laurelwort said, supporting a smashed dryad.

‘They weave their spells above the Ebon Tarn,’ Ardaneth said, ‘a place once sacred to our kind – but not anymore.’

‘Take me to this place.’

Shaddock knelt down once more, offering his branches and trunk to the Forest Folk. Led by Ardaneth and Laurelwort, dryads climbed up the crooks and stumps of his towering form. Rising once more, the Spirit of Durthu strode off through the diseased shallows and the forest of leaning trees.

The closer they got to the Ebon Tarn, the sicker the Arkenwood became. Trees were bare, diseased and abloom with warped fungi. Through the leafless canopy and drooping branches, Shaddock saw a rocky mound that rose above the forest floor. The mighty pines that had crowned the rise had been cut down and used as fuel for fires about which the noisome warriors of Nurgle were gathered. On the crest of the hillock, looking over the Ebon Tarn beyond, stood bloated sorcerers engaged in dread ceremonies.

The wardwood stopped at the foot of the rise, allowing the Forest Folk to disembark on dry land. He rose, looking towards the hillock.

‘You’re going to fight them?’ Ardaneth said, her voice light with hope.

‘They must be purged,’ Shaddock said.

‘Then let us help you,’ Laurelwort insisted.

‘She is right,’ the priestess added, ‘there are many and you are one.’

‘One that will not be stopped,’ Shaddock told them.

‘What will you do?’ Laurelwort said. The wardwood paused. He gestured towards the ailing Arkenwood.

‘I was but one tree unseen among many,’ Shaddock said. ‘Our enemies shall see me now. They shall hear the wrath of the wild places and feel the forest’s vengeance. These Rotbringers are a disease. I shall deliver what all diseases deserve. Eradication.’

Leaving the Forest Folk at the base of the stump-dotted hillock, Shaddock strode up the rise. He smelled the rot of flesh and heard gurgling laughter. The servants of Nurgle seemed to find a madness and hilarity in their suffering. While their bodies broke down about their souls, they belly-laughed and roared through their pain. Fires crackled and rusted plate jangled about the camp. By the time any of them realised that an ancient of the forest towered over them, it was too late. Shaddock had his stone blade in hand.

Like a terrifying entity of the forest, the wardwood suddenly raged with the stoked fires of his soul. His blade hit a group of Rotbringers with such force that they burst and were scattered across the hillside in streams of blood and pus.

Across the rise, it was slowly dawning on Nurgle’s servants that they were under attack. Some had been sleeping, their corrupt bodies putrefying in the warmth of the fires. Others had removed their weapons and plate. Shaddock made them bleed for their lack of discipline. The suffering was brief, however, as with each sweeping strike of his sword, he sent mobs of diseased warriors into oblivion.

Warriors that all suffered from the same horrific affliction woke from their slumber and scrabbled for their weapons. Their pox-ravaged leader shook himself awake, but before he could issue an order from his lipless mouth, Shaddock squelched him into the ground with his roots. Using the flat of his sword, he batted the blighted warriors aside. The last he snatched up and crushed, allowing spoilage to dribble between his wicked talons.

Shaddock could hear the sorcerers atop the rise gabbling orders. As he worked his way towards them, more pox-ridden warriors of Nurgle charged at him from around the sides of the hillock. Taking a ground-shaking run-up, the spirit kicked the blazing embers of one of the campfires flying through the air. Caught in a fiery blizzard, warriors were set alight. While most were consumed by the inferno, some exploded due to the gases that had long been building within their swollen bodies. Those that did make it through were stolid mountains of sickly flesh, ignoring their burning garb, skin and hair. Shaddock wheeled his mighty blade about him like a golden storm, cutting them down and sending leprous limbs and slabs of diseased meat bouncing down the slope.

As he neared the top of the hillock, Shaddock found that it hung over the Ebon Tarn like the crest of a wave. The lake was a festering expanse of filth. Flies swarmed across its surface, which in places had formed a scabby crust. The Plague God’s sorcerers had turned the obsidian waters of the Ebon Tarn into their own steaming cauldron of effluence. Shaddock could see a shadow slowly rising from beneath the bubbling waters. Something huge and daemonic was using the tarn as a gateway to the Realm of Life. The sheer size of the thing was displacing the lake water. It was the water gushing over the banks in bubbling waves of filth that had flooded the surrounding Arkenwood. The Spirit of Durthu might not have been able to save the forest, but he could do something about the sorcerers that had doomed it.

Reaching the summit upon which the sorcerers had conducted their fell rituals, Shaddock found that they were no less corrupted than the warriors who had died for them. The hooded coven closed on an improvised altar in defence of the profane offering still chained to it. Spread across the stump of a once-magnificent ironwood lay a sacrificial victim so diseased and mutilated its race was unrecognisable. The sorcerers clutched staffs and blades in their slime-slick hands that glowed with unhallowed energies.

As one sorcerer made to visit some dread pollution upon Shaddock, the ancient kicked him off the summit and out across the Ebon Tarn. With a vengeful swing of his sword, the Spirit of Durthu felled a whole gaggle of sorcerers. Shaddock stepped forwards, and released the prisoner from its woes. He obliterated the suffering soul with a stamping foot and sent several sorcerers stumbling back. The fell thing leading the ritual launched itself at him, only for the wardwood to snatch him up in his talon.

Turning the blade of his sword about, Shaddock stabbed it deep into the earth of the summit. The ancient heard rock and root give beneath his feet. A crack ripped through the ground before the overhang tore free and plunged down towards the Ebon Tarn, taking a throng of sorcerers with it.

As he clasped the last of their foetid kind, Shaddock felt the sorcerer’s futile resistance. The thing stabbed its sacrificial blade into the thick bark of his arm and pulled back its stained hood to reveal an abhorrent face. Instead of a mouth, the sorcerer had a hooked pit, like that of some parasitic worm. Opening it wide, he vomited forth a stream of corruption at Shaddock’s face. The filth dripped from his frightful visage and steamed away on the amber brilliance that burned within. Shaddock pulverised the sorcerer, feeling blubber burst and bones break within his mighty talon. The sacrificial knife thudded to the ground amongst the mess dribbling down from his fist.

With his sword still burning gold in his hand, he looked down into the festering birthing pool. Without the sorcerers’ spells to sustain its entry into Ghyran, the surfacing daemon sank back beneath the fly-swarming filth. As the daemon’s monstrous form descended, returning to whatever unhallowed place from whence it originated, the waters crusted over, growing thick and still.

Shaddock stood there for a moment. There was no roar of defiance, no celebratory rage. There was only a deep, dark sadness as the ancient looked out across the Arkenwood from the rise. The forest was beyond saving. From the top of the hillock he could see the damage wrought by the Chaos sorcerers and their plague magic. He could see the bare branches of dead trees surrounding a few ancient survivors. Their canopies dribbled with pus, were smothered by moulds, choked with blooms of warped fungus or tangled with the webs of voracious insects.

The Spirit of Durthu soaked up the hopelessness of a diseased land. If the rest of the realm was like this, then the Everqueen would be in dire peril. It was no wonder that the searing call of her spirit-song now passed through the plague-ridden lands of Ghyran. She would need all her noble guardians. Ancients long banished, wardwoods that had once towered at her side, before the Splintering. They would again, Shaddock promised silently. He saw Ardaneth, Laurelwort and the Forest Folk climb the rise. They picked their way through the wounded Rotbringers and groaning sorcerers, finishing with stabbing talons what Shaddock had started on the hillock. The dryads gathered around the wardwood like a circle of forest menhirs.

‘We thank the Radiant Queen for your coming, Great Shaddock,’ the priestess said. ‘You have saved the Arkenwood and its attendant spirits.’

‘You can do more than thank her,’ the Spirit of Durthu said. Ardaneth nodded, looking out across the diseased forest.

‘You are right, of course,’ the priestess said. ‘The Arkenwood is ailing – it will take an eternity of care to undo what has been done. To heal what has been afflicted. To purge, replant and tend.’

‘And what of the next warband or sorcerous coven to lay claim to this land?’ Shaddock asked her. ‘The next daemon to burrow beneath its bark or army to pass beneath its bowers with axe and flame?’

‘We are the spirits of the Arkenwood,’ Ardaneth said. ‘We live, as those that sprang forth before us, to tend the ancient groves of our homeland. We shall defend what remains of this sacred place, as will those that follow. We shall bring it back from the brink, no matter what it takes. I should have expected a denizen of the Arkenwood to understand such a pledge.’

‘I understand it,’ Shaddock said, ‘and honour it. I have great faith in your care and custodianship and am here because of it. But you plant your hopes in rocky ground, priestess. The Arkenwood is lost, the land defiled.’

Ardaneth stared up at the Spirit of Durthu in disbelief before casting her gaze across the diseased forest.

‘I do not believe that,’ the priestess said finally.

‘Only the Everqueen can heal this place,’ Shaddock said, ‘Arkenwood and all. But she needs all of her spirits now. I am her wardwood. She has called to me and I must obey. Come with me and find fresh service in her ranks. Priestess, you are needed.’

Ardaneth looked to the ground. Laurelwort knelt before her.

‘Priestess,’ the branch nymph said. ‘Let the Forest Folk fight for their Everqueen.’

‘And abandon our ancestral home?’ Ardaneth asked. ‘Leave it to sink into the mire, to wither and die?’

‘The Arkenwood is dead already,’ Shaddock told her.

‘My lady–’ Laurelwort began.

‘No,’ Ardaneth said, her words hard like the barbed wood of her bark. ‘I forbid it. The fight is here. Let all dryads stand their ground. Let all the ancient places endure. This invasion, like the fever, shall pass. Even if we can save but one single tree, then our efforts will not be in vain. Let the Queen of the Radiant Wood take glory in that. For from one fruit can great forests grow. The Arkenwood will survive this. I will ensure it.’

Following Laurelwort’s example, the remaining dryads on the rise knelt down before their priestess. Shaddock nodded slowly to himself.

‘Your loyalty and belief do you credit, priestess,’ Shaddock said.

‘As do yours, mighty wardwood,’ Ardaneth told him. ‘May the Everqueen be safe in your hands – as her lands are safe in ours.’

Shaddock sheathed his colossal blade in the tangled roots on his back. Turning with a creak, the wardwood strode down the rise. Wading through the sickening swamp in which the Arkenwood died, he left the Forest Folk there. They knew the spirit-song of Alarielle was calling him on.

Shaddock strode across the festering lands of Ghyran.

Towering above the suffering and blight, the Spirit of Durthu travelled across great expanses, festering forests, dead grasslands, and mountain ranges capped with frozen filth. He crossed foul rivers and strode along the coastlines of deep seas, once full of life. The bright, blossoming green of life unbound was gone. The blue of sea and sky had been drowned in the murk of pollution.

As Shaddock walked on, there seemed no part of the realm he had once known that had not been tainted and transformed. Once, the great lands of Ghyran supported huge, migrating herds and a plethora of mighty predators that stalked them. The air sang with colourful birds and insects. The shallows thrashed with the bounty of fish while the depths boomed with ancient behemoths. Mortal tribes flourished, as did the fleet spirits of the forest, their lords and their ancients, living as one with the land. Even the strange forces of the realm were in tune with Alarielle’s will, creating marvels of nature. Crystal waterfalls, flowing up into the sky. Storms of flowers and seeds. Sky forests floating through the clouds. Cavernous underpeaks reaching down through the earth.

The breathtaking grandeur of Ghyran was now gone, rotted through. The daemons of Nurgle stalked the lands, polluting everything with which they came into contact. The crystal mountains of Quartzendor darkened, shivered and quaked with affliction. The surrounding rivers feeding Lake Serenity had steamed away to nothing in the fevered land, leaving behind crusty beds and channels.

Worst of all for Shaddock was the sight of sylvaneth laid low. The dryads of Winterbirch had been transformed into kindling that hacked, coughed and cackled at his passing. Shaddock found the lowland Wyldwoods of Hanging Forest impassable, the Forest Folk having strangled one another with root and vine. The resulting knot was like a contracted muscle that knew not how to let go. Crossing the wooded peaks of the Realmspine, the Spirit of Durthu struggled across lands laced with Nurgle’s affliction. The caves of the Illythrian Deep had grown sharp, yellowing teeth and babbled madness that infected creatures for leagues around.

In what remained of the Sorreldawn, Shaddock passed amongst the scaly trunks of treelord ancients who wandered blind across the realm, their limbs and branches withered and drooping. He encountered the revenants of the Gloomwood in a terrible state. Blooming with unnatural growths that restricted their movements, the tumorous bark hardened, turning the spirits into warped statues of petrified horror.

Wherever his kin was suffering, he found the servants of the Plague God. With Alarielle’s song lifting him, the wardwood took the wrath of wild places to the abominations in his path.

In the Dell of Gort, warbands of rot-withered knights surrounded Shaddock, chopping the ironwood of his legs with their tarnished blades. The wardwood crushed them into the suppurating ground. About the felled Bronze Willow, Shaddock encountered warriors of insensible fortitude. Emerging from the stumps of toppled bronzewoods, they threw axes blistered with a metallic infection at him. As the blades found their mark, Shaddock stepped between the stumps to skewer the bloated warriors into ground they had defiled with their recent butchery.

In the Darknid Vale, Shaddock found himself set upon by three monstrous maggoths that tried to fasten their lamprey maws onto his ironwood and tear him limb from limb. Hefting a blood-sweating boulder from the valley floor, the Spirit of Durthu crushed the head of one of the beasts. He sank his talons into the belly of another, spilling its foul guts as he tore the wicked claw free. The last maggoth stomped through its companions’ remains, flashing concentric rows of shearing teeth. The ancient drew back his mighty blade and thrust it deep into the thing’s gullet. Holding the creature transfixed, Shaddock waited while it vomited its stinking insides out onto the vale floor before finally falling still.

At the Verdenhold, Shaddock found its walls of thorn and tangled roots writhing in agony. The realmgate it had guarded – the Glimmerfall – had been a rainbow cascade of light and water. Now it was a slurping cataract of blood and pus, swarmed by fat, black flies. Plaguebearers issued forth from the realmgate, wading through the morass of filth before reaching the shore. They found Shaddock there. With savage kicks and sweeps of his long arms, the wardwood cast scores of the daemons back into the swarming gateway. Those that remained began to climb his towering form, trying to use their combined weight to bear him down to the floor. He plucked each one from his branches, dashing them on the ground like rotten fruit.

As the Spirit of Durthu forged on, his progress became a blur. Crossing lands that seemed to rise and fall with laboured breath, Shaddock found himself wandering in a malaise. The thunder of his staggering step took him through a horde of marauding Rotbringers and grotesque sorcerers. His grasping talon missed as often as it found foes, while the bludgeoning stone of his blade carved furrows in the infected earth. Still, Shaddock scattered the spoiling warriors and pulled down an ailing tree on the spell-mouthing sorcerers as he steadied himself.

The ancient felt only worse as he stomped on absently. The ironwood of his arm creaked with inner agonies, and his sap ran hot beneath his bark. The brilliance of his inner fire burned low, while the spilled blood and diseased filth that he wore like a second skin felt like it was finally working its way through his defences.

Over the festering mess that had been the Rivenglades, it began to rain. While the ground crunched like a mouldering carpet of leathery flesh and snapping ribs, tiny, pot-bellied daemons began to fall from the sky. The shrieking green creatures had miniature horns and needle-toothed smiles. Shattering against Shaddock’s meandering form, they coated him with a burning ichor that smouldered on his canopy. Lifting an arm before his face, the Spirit of Durthu staggered on, the squelching bodies making the ground slippery underfoot. Through the gloom of his fevered mind, Shaddock saw the suggestion of shelter ahead. Groaning through the torment that wracked his body, he crawled for the woodland ahead.

Under the cover of bare and twisted branches, the Spirit of Durthu took shelter from the shower of daemons. What little light Shaddock had been aware of was now gone. Even his own light burned sickly and low like a dying camp fire. The Wyldwoods about him were packed tight, huddled together in their joint suffering. The woodland creaked and groaned as it attempted to flee the daemon rain.

Shaddock rose and stumbled from trunk to trunk, making his way through the writhing trees. He had no idea where he was going. The song of Alarielle had long been lost to him – its distant beauty drowned out by suffering. Instead of the Everqueen’s sonorous call to war, the wardwood began to hear other voices in the darkness. There were three of them: voices of abyssal woe that were deep, knowing and inescapably evil.

‘Give yourself to me, doomed spirit.’

‘Soak up your suffering. Be one with it. Become the exquisite torment that already wracks your body and mind.’

‘A dark agony lives in you. Embrace it. Unlock its soul-withering potential.’

‘For every living thing there is a season. Let yours be the warm dread between life and death. Revel in the rot.’

‘Let me save you from your suffering. I can make you strong again. Indomitable, and impervious to the pain that is to come.’

‘Affliction is but the beginning. Beyond such misery and anguish is a world of woe – a world that is yours for the taking. Savour it. Draw upon its strength.’

‘The Great Lord of Decay holds sway in both your spirit and your realm. There is no escape. Contagion claims all in the end…’

Shaddock stopped. He grabbed his head, which creaked with the pressure. The last flashes of golden brilliance flared behind the eyes and mouth. Letting go, the Spirit of Durthu looked down at his talon. In the thick bark, burning with a cruel malevolence, was a dark sigil. It had been carved into the wood by the sorcerer leading the sacrifice above the Ebon Tarn. Before Shaddock had crushed him, the sorcerer had afflicted him with his master’s mark. Three wretched circles, conjoined.

‘Yes…’ the daemon said. ‘Your sap belongs to me, forest spirit. As this realm falls to my feculent lord.’

The Spirit of Durthu brought his talon up close to his face. His vision was darkening. His thoughts ran thin. The mark of the daemon glowed with fell power. About it, the bark was soggy and pus-threaded. The ironwood beneath was weak and swollen. Worms riddled the wood while lice swarmed the surface of the thick bark.

The mighty talon moved with sudden violence. It started shaking uncontrollably. The wardwood grabbed the wrist with his other hand. As he held it there, maggot-thick pus dribbled down his fingers.

Shaddock fell to his knees in the darkness. His aeons of wisdom, his warrior’s spirit were beyond him now.

‘Radiant Queen…’ he managed.

‘Your queen cannot save you from me,’ the daemon told him, his every word intensifying the pain within the limb. Shaddock felt the pollution spreading through him.

‘Alarielle…’

‘You are Feytor’s now,’ the daemon told him. ‘A child of the Thrice-Father’s reborn. You thought you could deny me entry to this place, but I am the touch that taints. The wound that seeps. The blade that contaminates. There are a thousand ways into your doomed realm. A thousand acolytes to ensure my entry.’

Shaddock tried to stand. Beyond the taunts of the daemon echoing through his infected being, he could hear friction – the sound of wood being rubbed together. There was light in the darkness. Heat. A terrible brilliance that grew into a crackling blaze. Shaddock recoiled but the flames were everywhere. The Wyldwoods, unable to face the corruption around them, had set light to themselves. Their bare branches raged with cleansing flame. Through the spit and roar of the fires erupting all about Shaddock, he could hear the agony of the tree spirits.

Shielding himself from the heat and billowing cinders, the Spirit of Durthu staggered through the inferno the forest had become. The Wyldwoods had not intended to trap the ancient – they had simply been overwhelmed with dread. Shaddock crashed through briars and tangled branches. Smoke swirled and flames roared about him. His leaves shrivelled and curled up before blowing away. Fires took about his twigs.

At last, Shaddock burst free of the twisted wood. A suffering silhouette against the furious flames, he stumbled on without care or thought. He listened for the Everqueen’s song but could hear nothing. The sky was a poisoned smear of greens, browns and black. All but blind, he was alone in the darkness. He could hear the festering creak of his infected limb. He felt agonies blossom throughout his form, the heralds of spreading corruption. All the while he heard Feytor the Thrice-Father, the daemon’s merry madness reaching through him.

Shaddock did not know how long he had been staggering across the afflicted lands but suddenly the ground wasn’t there anymore. His foot stepped out into nothingness. The wardwood reached out to save himself. His mighty talon was crippled and useless. Hooking the sharp digits of his other hand into crumbling rock, Shaddock slowed his fall. With the weight of his mighty frame hanging off some kind of cliff or precipice, the wardwood tried to hold on. For what remained of his dwindling spirit. For the dying realm. For Alarielle.

He could not, however. Rock came away in his hand, and Shaddock tumbled. Air rushed through his branches and hollows. The ancient waited for oblivion, welcomed it. The impact that would break his hallowed form and end his suffering. Shaddock was not granted his wish, however.

He hit liquid, something soft, thick and disgusting. His mighty form plunged down into the vile warmth of blood and pus. It was a river of diseased filth, swelled by the ichor of the raining daemons. The torrent bubbled and slurped along, with Shaddock’s frame floating on the surface. He crashed into the shattered forms of felled trees, the river crowded with debris from further upstream. His spirit all but extinguished, the wardwood rode out the thick current as it meandered through the valley.

Shaddock was carried by the filth, bumping into logs that formed a tangled dam. He drifted to the slimy bank, where he became beached on the shore. There he lay, caked in blood and pus, smothered in flies. He felt the slime below him squirm with daemonic worms. They bit at the wardwood tentatively before opening their jaws wide to devour his limbs.

Through Feytor the Thrice-Father’s dark chuckle of satisfaction, Shaddock thought he heard a familiar voice.

‘Skewer these sacks of filth,’ Laurelwort called.

All about him, Shaddock felt the fleet footsteps of dryads. The wardwood heard the thud of sharp thorns and talons puncturing daemon flesh. The beasts thrashed and squirmed as Forest Folk descended upon them, stabbing skulls and slitting throats. At first, Shaddock thought that Laurelwort must have abandoned her priestess, but as he heard Ardaneth’s soft commands he knew that the Forest Folk of the Arkenwood had left their sacred glade.

‘Get him up,’ the priestess said. Shaddock felt dryads swarm about him, their talons locked about his limbs and branches. Heaving him up onto their shoulders, the Forest Folk carried the wardwood away from the bubble and glug of the disgusting river. He felt Ardaneth come in close, her face next to his.

‘We found you, mighty ancient,’ she said. ‘Now know the peace of a realm thought lost. Once, you awoke to deliver us from a plague. Sleep again, Great Shaddock, and let us save you…’

So the wardwood slept. Gone were the fevered thoughts. Gone was the madness of voices in his troubled mind. Gone were dreams of sickliness and smothering. When he awoke, his sight had returned. The land was pure and he saw it crystal clear.

His spirit burned like a furnace within the fortitude of his body. Looking up, he saw skies of blue, framed by branches heavy with fruit and greenery. A mountain peak, dashed with a cap of glittering diamonds, reached into the heavens. Beyond, he could hear the tinkle and splash of a stream.

‘Where am I?’ Shaddock said, half expecting the vision to be a dream.

‘The spirit awakes,’ Laurelwort said. The branch nymph came into view, standing over him. The wardwood got the impression of Forest Folk gathered amongst the trees. Ardaneth came forth.

‘Great Shaddock,’ the priestess said, her words like a rejuvenating tonic. ‘You are in the Draconite Glade.’

‘How…’ the wardwood said, ‘how can this be?’

‘Like Alarielle’s servants,’ Ardaneth said, ‘there are places that have yet to succumb to the grip of Chaos. Sites of significance that resist the corruption as you have, mighty Shaddock. This glade is protected by Draconyth, the spirit of this mountain. Trees grow on his slopes unmolested and the blessed waters of his meltwater streams are pure.’

With a creak, Shaddock sat up. He had been slumbering in a circle of standing stones. Each was a crystalline menhir, draped with moss. The ancient looked around to see Ardaneth, Laurelwort and the gathered Forest Folk. These were not the dryads he had left behind in the Arkenwood. They looked hopeful but hardened. Their boughs were notched and splinted. Their thorns and sharpened talons were stained with blood and ichor. His own form, however, had been washed in the shimmering waters of the nearby stream. The filth was gone from the ironwood and encrusted mineral of his frame. And so too was the diseased remnant of his left arm.

‘To save you,’ Ardaneth said, seeing him look at the stump of his shoulder, ‘I had to sacrifice the limb. I did not undertake such a thing lightly, but the pulp and sinew was cursed, spreading further taint through your mighty form. So I laid my own talon upon it and petrified the wood. To be sure that you were beyond Nurgle’s reach, I shattered the stone limb from your shoulder.’

‘Thank you,’ Shaddock said.

‘I do not expect your gratitude, mighty ancient,’ the priestess said. ‘I have mutilated a wardwood of the Radiant Queen.’

‘The shrub pruned,’ Shaddock said, ‘grows the better for such attention. Forest fires bring forth the sun to benighted groves and nourish the soil. I shall become the stronger for your care and determination. Besides,’ the wardwood said, reaching behind him and slipping his stone blade from where it still rested in its scabbard of roots. The weapon burned bright with the amber brilliance of Shaddock’s rejuvenated spirit. ‘I still have one good hand with which to protect my queen and fight, side by side with the sylvaneth of the Arkenwood.’

‘And we are glad for it,’ Laurelwort said.

‘While glad of your presence here,’ Shaddock said, ‘I am painfully aware that you are folk without a forest. What of the Arkenwood?’

‘You were right,’ Ardaneth said. ‘Like your limb, the Arkenwood could not be saved. Like you, its spirits survive and fight on. I said we would defend what remains of that sacred place. Mighty wardwood – you are all that remains.’

Shaddock nodded solemnly. His frightful visage was once again lit with golden brilliance. He had lived through the ages and yet rarely encountered spirits such as these.

‘How did you find me?’

‘Alarielle’s song grew louder and clearer with our every step,’ the priestess said. She hesitated slightly before going on. ‘The path of destruction that you left in your wake might have helped also.’

The wardwood stomped down the slope, pushing through the branches of the trees. From the greenery of the mountainside, the wardwood could see that the surrounding lands were blighted and foul. The canopies of nearby forests were a patchwork of yellowing leaves and bare branches, while the untamed reaches beyond were blanketed in sour marshland and the black smoke of torched sylvaneth.

‘Tell me, Great Shaddock,’ Ardaneth said, standing beside him. ‘Are the sylvaneth doomed?’

‘Do you hear that?’ the wardwood said, cocking his head.

‘Yes,’ the priestess said, startled.

‘That is the spirit-song of the Everqueen,’ Shaddock said, himself gladdened to hear it once again. ‘As strong as I’ve ever heard it. Alarielle is close, and she calls to us – to all the spirits of her realm. It is time to take back the wild places from those that would defile them, and drive the plague from this sacred land.’

‘From which direction does the Radiant Queen call?’ Ardaneth asked.

Shaddock pointed his blade towards the stained horizon, towards a distant place where land and sky met in a blackened blot of disease and creeping death. A decimated forest – more blasted battlefield than ancient grove – that seemed to draw in the festering legions of Nurgle from leagues around.

‘Our queen needs us,’ the Spirit of Durthu said.

Leaving the sanctity of Draconite Glade and the shadow of Mount Draconyth, Shaddock led the Forest Folk through the dismal land. The sickness of the sylvaneth was everywhere, reminding the spirits of what was a stake. They passed toppled treelords, blooming with spore-spitting fungus. Altered Wyldwoods, dragging their corrupt trunks along with grasping roots, hindered their advance. Shattered dryads, brittle to the touch, lay about in mottles of mildew. Everywhere there was evidence of the Plague God. Meadows had been marred by the rotting remains of camps, forests reduced to mulch by sorcerous contagion and grasslands turned to tracks of mud and pus.

As they approached the blighted woodland formerly known as the Forest of Aspengard, the sky grew dark. The heavens were stained black with filth and the air was thick with flies. The forest itself had been reduced to islands of standing Wyldwoods, isolated by a bitter and war-torn wasteland. The ground of the blasted expanse was littered with stumps, slithering roots and mouldering logs.

Plague-infested daemons and columns of putrid warriors weaved across the battlefield to reinforce the hordes of Nurgle battling the sylvaneth warhosts of Aspengard. Shaddock and the Forest Folk of the Arkenwood used the ailing Wyldwoods to cover their approach. With virulent pus showering from the canopy and infected trees reaching out for them with root and branch, Shaddock and the dryads had to take as much care with the forest as they did with the servants of Nurgle.

Those plague lords and rancid champions that did spy the approach of the sylvaneth despatched warbands to deal with the interlopers. Believing that they were isolated spirits of the Aspengard fleeing the slaughter, they never for a moment considered that they were reinforcements searching for their Radiant Queen. Withdrawing into the wailing thickets, Laurelwort and her dryads prepared an ambush for the Rotbringers. They moved through the roots and branches of the fevered Wyldwoods, hiding, stalking and striking at their infested foes. They gutted bloated warriors who were ready to burst. They sliced the throats and stabbed at the rusted helms of passing outriders from concealed nooks and hollows. They garrotted Rotbringers with noose-like vines that they heaved up through the canopy, leaving the hanging warriors there to choke.

While the Forest Folk stabbed and sliced their way through the servants of Nurgle, Shaddock drew them into a clearing. As corpulent knights charged from the trees, Shaddock whirled his blade around in an amber flash. The wardwood cleaved through corroding plate and diseased flesh. He swept ripe warriors aside with the flat of his blade. He kicked a leprous champion apart and chopped clean through the trunks of warped Wyldwoods, burying Rotbringers under toppling trees.

As they moved from copse to copse, Shaddock and the dryads found the wastelands between crowded with marauding warbands. With the searing song of Alarielle getting louder, the wardwood marched on towards his Everqueen. Towering above the hordes, he impaled daemons on the length of his sword and stamped down on plague knights in green plate. With the creaking sinew of his sword arm guided by his age-old form, the wardwood smashed a path through the scourges of Aspengard. Picking their way through the corpses Shaddock left behind, the dryads of Arkenwood swept in on half-dead foes. Stabbing warriors and skewering the hearts of felled champions, the dryads followed the Spirit of Durthu through the death and disease.

Before long, the sylvaneth reached the centre of the battlefield. The bloated servants of Nurgle were crushed up against each other, the plate of unclean knights crumpling against the brawn of cyclopean daemons, as scythe-wielding champions chanted foul prayers astride monstrous maggoths.

Like a constricting wall of muscle, the hordes of Nurgle surrounded what was left of the Aspengard glades. Known as the Silver Dell, argent oaks and mirrorwoods formed the centre of the besieged forest and stood uncontaminated amongst the mud, blight and destruction. The dell was teeming with the silver-barked spirits of Aspengard – Forest Folk who had fallen back to protect it and the treelords who ruled from there.

While the dryads entangled the servants of Nurgle in a thicket of thorns, the roots of treelords burst free of the earth behind their enemies. They bludgeoned grasping sorcerers and champions into the ground before dragging their smashed bodies beneath the surface of the soil. Silvered Wyldwoods swung their heavy branches, sweeping hordes of sickly warriors aside with bone-breaking force.

As Shaddock strode through the packed ranks of Chaos warriors, axes and spears embedded themselves in his bole and branches. Forging a path through the crush of corrupted bodies with sweeping sword and stamping feet, the wardwood pushed on. The air rang with the sound of wood snapped, split and cleaved in two by rusted blades. Nurgle’s servants fought with an indomitable fervour, rank after rank of diseased warriors gladly walking into blood-slick talons and the pulverising sweep of branches.

The wardwood tried to block out the sickening cheers. He concentrated on the song of the Everqueen, fighting his way through the hordes to reach Alarielle.

‘Stay close to Great Shaddock,’ Ardaneth called to her dryads as they were swamped by a wave of sour bodies. Horned daemons and Rotbringers were attempting either to smash the sylvaneth to kindling or visit their myriad contagions on the Forest Folk. As the dryads of the Arkenwood began to shriek and fall, Shaddock’s mighty blade passed like an amber blaze through the packed ranks. It sheared off elephantine limbs, cut swollen warriors in half and clipped fat heads and helms from shoulders.

Ardaneth and Laurelwort whirled about one another in a deadly dance. A mighty daemon warrior swung a rust-eaten sword at the branch nymph, forcing her to duck. Sprigs and leaves were chopped from her head as the cursed weapon sheared through the tips of her foliage. Laurelwort charged at the monster, slamming her body into its own. Its cyclopean eye rolled in its socket as the branch nymph knocked it back. Ripping furiously into its swollen belly with her talons, Laurelwort tore the rancid guts out of the thing.

The daemon would not be stopped, however. Grabbing her with unnatural strength, the plague-ridden monster tossed her at Ardaneth. Both of them fell back into the stinking ranks of Nurgle’s servants. As the daemon stomped towards Ardaneth with its blade held high, she reached out at the Nurglites surrounding her. As the petrifying power of her talons touched their slimy flesh, their bodies were immortalised in standing stone. Immortality, however, lasted only the few seconds it took for the daemon to smash through the wall of statues.

‘Help me,’ Ardaneth called to the branch nymph as the daemon crawled over the rubble to get to her. Laurelwort came up behind it and entangled its limbs in vines that sprouted from her branches. Seeing her chance, Ardaneth lunged forwards and placed her talon squarely on the daemon’s horned face. As the creature turned to stone, Laurelwort let it fall, its head snapping off at the neck where it struck the rubble.

‘Where is she?’ Ardaneth called up to the wardwood. ‘Where is our Radiant Queen?’

‘I don’t know,’ Shaddock told her. Alarielle’s song was all around. He looked about the blasted battlefield and argent oaks of the Silver Dell but the Everqueen was nowhere to be seen. ‘She should be here.’

Something suddenly gave. The hordes of Nurgle were never-ending, but up to that point the sylvaneth of Aspengard had proven immovable. Neither army had given way. Sorcerous catapults, however, had finally reached range through the crush of foetid warriors. Mouldering barrels leaking a horrific green concoction were flung through the air, high over the heads of Shaddock and the diseased hordes. Smashing into the canopy of the Silver Dell, the shattered barrels hung in the shimmering branches, cascading fell liquid down on the treelords and forest spirits holding the dread masses at bay. Some kind of acid ate its way through the trees and the sylvaneth below, stripping leaves and burning through bark. As a dirty silver cloud rose over the dell and a further barrage of barrels were fired up into the sky, Shaddock could hear the sounds of horrific suffering amongst the argent oaks.

‘Radiant Queen,’ the wardwood roared. ‘Where are you?’

Looking over at the siege engines, Shaddock saw that they were not the only reinforcements to arrive on the battlefield. Walking mountains of festering corpulence were making their way towards the Silver Dell, wading through the Plague God’s jubilant hordes. With the bombardment intensifying and the sylvaneth faltering, these daemons were advancing like shock troops to break the siege and lead the horde into the ancient glade.

A monstrous daemon had assumed command near the catapults and brought the siege engines forth. The abomination was not one but three bloated creatures conjoined – an echo of the symbol carved into Shaddock’s bark. The Spirit of Durthu realised that he was looking at Feytor, the Thrice-Father, the daemon he had prevented from manifesting at the Ebon Tarn. The monster that had taken his arm and sullied his essence. A sound like thunder boomed from the wardwood as the golden fire of his wrath burned bright.

‘Kill the crews,’ Shaddock said, stabbing his colossal blade into the ground and offering his hand to the dryads of the Arkenwood. ‘Sabotage the engines.’

Laurelwort and a barbed cluster of surviving Forest Folk crawled up the crooks and branches of the wardwood’s arm. Ardaneth joined them.

‘What are you doing?’ the priestess asked.

‘I’m curing this blessed land of its affliction,’ Shaddock told her.

With a heave, he became a catapult of his own, sending the spirits sailing across the battlefield. As their light frames landed amongst the sorcerers and siege engines, he saw dryads throw themselves valiantly at the withered crews. Laurelwort kicked over barrels of acid and stabbed a sorcerer in the chest, while Ardaneth petrified the workings of the engines so that they tore themselves apart upon firing.

Shaddock crushed warriors underfoot as he closed on the Thrice-Father. Spotting the towering ancient, the greater daemon heaved his bulk around.

‘Welcome, spirit,’ Feytor said, lifting a colossal cleaver. ‘Your sap belongs to me.’

‘Then take it, daemon,’ Shaddock roared.

‘I shall,’ the Thrice-Father said. ‘One drop at a time, if I have to.’

The daemon moved with a swiftness that belied its rancid bulk. Knots of Rotbringers were crushed beneath the Thrice-Father as he leaned in to strike with his cleaver. Parrying with an arcing swing of his own, Shaddock felt the weight and power of his foe. As he staggered back, one of the creature’s bodies twisted towards him to reveal a monstrous axe. The weapon’s rusted blade clipped some of the wardwood’s branches as he swept his head below the strike. Then the third and final body came around, knocking Shaddock into the ranks of plague-ridden warriors with its swollen belly. The Spirit of Durthu turned aside as one of the greater daemon’s heads vomited a stream of sizzling bile.

Shaking the filth from his canopy, Shaddock found himself near the catapults. He began to fear that despite several ages of service to the Everqueen, he had failed her. She had called to him and he had been unable to reach her – and now he was going to fall to some monstrous servant of her sworn enemy. A foul creature that was not one great daemon but three.

As the Thrice-Father dragged its obscene carcass towards him, booming with abyssal laughter, Shaddock readied himself for the end.

‘Wardwood,’ Ardaneth called up from a demolished engine. ‘Look.’

The priestess was pointing up into the sky. Turning, Shaddock saw massive islands of stone drift down through the miasma of pestilence that stained the heavens. Atop the floating islands stood mighty ironwoods, their roots dangling down from their rocky undersides. He had seen the islands before. They were the Skyforests of Jynnt, towering sentient woodlands that traversed the heavens, hanging in the clouds and soaking up the sun’s rays. The sylvaneth of Jynnt had descended to offer reinforcement.

Shaddock watched as several islands settled over the Silver Dell, draping their writhing root systems across the glade and allowing the inhabitants of Aspengard to climb to safety. Other islands drifted across the battlefield, their roots squirming. Boulders rained down on the Nurgle forces, crushing corrupt mortal and daemon alike. The Spirit of Durthu spotted ranks of Kurnoth Hunters at the forest’s edge, their bows drawn over the island precipice and aimed at the enemy below. Releasing their weapons in unison, the Free Spirits loosed volleys of huge arrows into the servants of the Plague God.

‘Go!’ Shaddock told Ardaneth as an island floated towards them.

‘Not without you, mighty ancient,’ the priestess called back. The wardwood put himself between Ardaneth and the Thrice-Father.

‘Get the Forest Folk to safety,’ the Spirit of Durthu commanded. As Ardaneth, Laurelwort and the dryads of the Arkenwood made for the roots reaching down towards them, the daemon Feytor heaved his great bulk around and levelled the broad blade of his cleaver at the wardwood.

‘I’m going to smash you to splinters, spirit,’ the Thrice-Father told him. ‘I will bury each one of them in my infected flesh.’

‘I am beyond your reach now, monster,’ Shaddock told him. His sword pulsed with energy, just before he leaned into a mighty throw. As he released the weapon, it flew hilt over heavy blade until it finally thudded into the nearest of the Thrice-Father’s vast bellies. It was held there, glowing through his stretched, leathery skin and spoiling guts. Feytor’s booming laughter rolled across the battlefield. Such an attack might have felled other monstrous beings, but Nurgle blessed his servants with unnatural resilience. The sword simply sat there, in its scabbard of diseased flesh.

‘We are the cure,’ Shaddock told Feytor the Thrice-Father as the sylvaneth pushed back against the forces of Nurgle.

The amber glow of the wardwood’s blade faded, the weapon reverting to cold, inert stone. Feytor’s faces dropped in unison, each suddenly aware of something terrible happening deep amidst the daemon’s corpulent form. The tips of branches prodded, stretched and then burst through the monster’s skin. The blade had transferred some of Shaddock’s energy into the daemon, fuelling the growth of a tree inside the Thrice-Father’s grotesque bodies. Swollen bellies burst open as the life within could not be contained, flooding the surrounding battlefield with spoilage. As branches reached up through the rotting guts of the daemon, they skewered his hearts.

The Thrice-Father tried to say something, but his words were smothered by the thick foliage bursting free of his mouths. Branches pierced his eyes and ripped the flesh from his faces, their growth finally slowing and coming to a halt. Shaddock watched the daemon’s bellies rise and fall for the last time around the tree that had grown up within him.

As a floating island cast the wardwood in shadow, a giant, trailing root grasped him. Lifted clear of the battlefield, Shaddock snatched his sword from the carcass of the defeated daemon. Sheathing the weapon, the Spirit of Durthu allowed the root to draw him up towards the Skyforests of Jynnt.

With the sylvaneth of Aspengard rescued, the islands rose up through the filth and back into the glory of the sun’s rays, leaving the hordes of Nurgle behind. Kurnoth Hunters extended their talons down to haul Shaddock and the dryads of Arkenwood up over the precipice, welcoming them to their glade. The Skyforest bustled with the spirits of Jynnt, Aspengard, the Arkenwood and other spoiled lands. The ancient felt Ardaneth and Laurelwort beside him.

‘I am Shaddock,’ he said. ‘Wardwood of Athelwyrd, former counsellor and glade-guardian to the Radiant Queen. I humbly present myself, with the refugees of the Arkenwood, as a true servant of the Everqueen and request a meeting with the presiding ancient of the Skyforest.’

‘Your request is denied,’ a voice replied from the ironwoods. It was the imperious rumble of thunder. It was the playful splash of the stream. It was the calm breeze through the leaves and the fury of a forest fire – all as one. Dryads, Hunters and ironwoods parted to admit Alarielle, Everqueen of the sylvaneth and all Ghyran, riding high on a gargantuan wardroth beetle.

Shaddock went down on one knee, bowing his head. He came to understand how Alarielle’s song had led him to the battlefield but not to the Everqueen herself. She had been drifting high above on the islands of the Skyforest. Like the wardwood, the spirits of Aspengard and the Arkenwood knelt also.

‘There is no presiding ancient here,’ Alarielle told the Spirit of Durthu. ‘Only a queen – with a request of her own. That an old friend can forgive her foolishness and take his rightful place by her side once more, as wise counsellor and as glade-guardian. The time of the Splintering is at an end and the war for Ghyran begins. What say you, my wardwood?’

Shaddock sagged. Then, the weight of his trials and travels was lifted from his shoulders. He rose before Alarielle, to bathe in her glory and her love for all living things.

‘My queen calls,’ Shaddock said, ‘and her subject obeys.’

Wrathspring

Gav Thorpe

Something noisome carried on the wind. The reek was born of blood and rotten offal and rodent droppings. It was a harbinger, the vanguard of a thoroughly loathsome tide. Not just the air carried the taint. The Wrathwaters knew what was coming. Even the springsfed surge churning down from the peaks of the White Stair could not clear the pollution from the winding waterways and rising pools. The trees drew in their roots, sickened by the presence of the corruption. Fish lay gut-to-sky, rotting amongst withered leaves and decaying rushes.

In the heartwaters below the rivers and lakes, deeper than the delving of millennia-old trees, the miasma of decay spread through the veins of the forests. The font of wyldmagic – the essence of life, the meltwater of souls – thickened into sluggish swells, bloated and bubble-ridden like a stream choked with noxious gasses and rank sludge.

Diraceth, Leafmaster of Clan Arleath, felt all of these changes – upon his bark, in his sap, on the tips of his taproots. The cloying, stifling Chaos taint was like a fungus on his spirit, leeching his essence, spreading fibrous tendrils through the lands of the Wrathwaters into every part of him.

It was hard to rouse himself, even with the strength of the long-awaited blooming forcing rivulets of life energy into his body. All of the worldwood sickened – it was folly to believe that the Wrathwaters could hold out. Better to succumb, to give up the last clinging vestige of life. Oblivion was preferable to further torture, the never-ending gnawing of soul and strength.

‘Lord!’ Callicaith, the branchwych, had climbed into his upper limbs and was dragging her wood talons against his rough bark – insistent but not painful, nor deep enough to draw sap. Her heartsong was an agitated twittering like the alarm of a bird. On her shoulder, a glimmersilk grub twitched with agitation. ‘Lord Diraceth! The ratmen, they come at last. They come for the lamentiri!’

He opened deep green eyes and looked at the slender tree maiden.

‘The soulpod groves?’ His voice was sonorous, as deep as the earth into which his roots ran. He quivered at the thought. Diraceth’s drooping branches scattered leaves onto the surface of the lake. Around him the bloodwillows responded, straightening their trunks, pulling up ruddy-leafed limbs.

Beyond his copse, other spirits were answering the growing strength of the clan-song. His fellow treelords rumbled echoes in their diminishing slumber. Sylvaneth warriors stirred in the dappled gloom at the water’s edge. Polished wood and firestone of bared blades caught the scant sunlight, scattering glints like water droplets.

‘No more pestilence, no more sickness,’ Callicaith continued. ‘Ratmen with blades, with spears. Creatures we can fight. Creatures we can kill!’

The thought brought Diraceth further from his slumber, drawing up an influx of the essence of Ghyran, the magic of the Realm of Life streaming through his sap.

‘A poor move,’ he growled. He let his roots fall away and drew up a foot. ‘Skaven, always impatient. Another hundred seasons and we would be quite beyond resistance.’

‘There are many, lord.’

‘There always are, my glade-daughter.’ Diraceth levered his other foot out of the sodden lakeside bank and took a step, his sap continuing to rise. It felt good to move again. ‘Rouse the clan. We go to war!’

The wailing of trees competed with the deafening chitter of rats. Arboreal screeches and thrashing leaves beset the river glades of the Wrathwaters as the skaven advanced within a bank of burning mist. Tainted by warpstone, the deathfog of Pestilens scorched leaves and blistered bark. Droplets of warp-touched acid settled on the pools and meres, sinking slowly into the waters with greenish trails.

Diraceth waited, ignoring the pulses of pain that ran through him from the wickedly deep cut across his trunk – a wound that still seeped with the corrupted taint from the blade of the plague priest that had struck him. He wept streams of thick sap, the agony of his body nothing compared to the injuries inflicted upon his domains. The treelord ancient could feel a shudder of misery throbbing through the pools and rivers every time the filth-ridden missiles of the catapults crashed through the canopy. A dozen of the accursed engines had pounded the last scraps of territory for two days, littering the banks and water with heaps of steaming, disease-ridden offal and corrupting shards of warpstone.

Most of the trees were dead, and the rest had retreated with the sylvaneth. Beyond the painfully slender ring of forest sheltering Clan Arleath, the Wrathwaters had been turned into a steaming mire, a wasteland of sucking marsh and drifting, suffocating clouds.

They waited, the last Wrathwater scions of Glade Winterleaf. They waited without hope. At their backs lay the lifepool, the last vestige of their home. Heartseeds covered the surface, but the replenishing waters did not rouse the spirits within. The taint of the skaven came before them, quelling the life force that sustained the lake of the sacred grove. Even more faintly luminescent heartseeds gleamed beyond the perimeter of the clan’s remaining realm – lost in the fog, overrun by the skaven, beyond reclaiming by the branchwyches.

As the last of the warp-wounded trees succumbed to the deadly miasma, the Wrathwaters fell silent. The impenetrable mists surrounded the dell, obscuring everything beyond a bowshot of the water’s edge, revealing only dim silhouettes of trees bowing beneath the effect of the toxic cloud, curling like parched leaves. Diraceth shifted, sensing that something approached through the mist.

Drums. Slow-beating drums. The death fog muted the sound, every percussive rumble seeming to come from all directions. The distant crack of catapults had stopped too. Diraceth could hear the rustling of his glade-daughters and the creak of the other treefolk as they shifted, turning to and fro to watch the closing mists.

‘We die here,’ the Leafmaster told his glade-kin. He looked down at Callicaith. Like all of them, the branchwych bore the injuries of furious battle against the Chaos ratmen. Her leaf-limbs were snapped, her arms scored by deep marks from notched, rusted blades. ‘On the shore of our life-grove, we fight to the last. No more retreats. Without our soulpods, there can be no Clan Arleath.’

The sap in his veins felt clammy and cold. The last of the Wrathwaters were succumbing to the encroachment of Pestilens. Diraceth could feel it like claws dragging at his spirit, trying to pull him down into the ground to suffocate him.

‘There!’ hissed Callicaith, pointing a talon towards the fog.

Others were calling out, indicating a growing darkness in the mists, the approach of the plague monks. Along with the sombre beat of the drums drifted the sound of feet splashing through the swamp.

Screeches split the air a few moments before individual shapes solidified and burst from the fog bank. Fanatics bearing fog-spouting censers sprinted towards the line of sylvaneth, faces flecked with saliva, thick tongues lolling, eyes wild. They swung their censer-maces in wide arcs, surrounding themselves with wreathing spirals of poisonous fumes.

Diraceth let his will flow back into the sustaining pool. He pushed his essence out into the remnants of the Wrathwaters, tapping into what little life magic remained. He felt a reciprocal force, as the Wrathwaters themselves sought a response to the invaders.

‘’Tis the last time your feet shall sully these lands, children of the Horned Rat!’ bellowed Diraceth, letting his rage flow free in a torrent of magic.

The ground beneath the onrushing censer bearers erupted with the Leafmaster’s power. Tiny rootlets sprang into full-grown rushes that speared up through the skaven, spitting them as surely as any lance strike. Grasses with blades like swords slashed through others, turning ragged robes and flesh to red tatters, gizzards hanging like blossoms on the tips of their rapidly growing stalks.

The spattering of running feet heralded the final rush of the plague monks. Hooded and robed, the ratmen advanced out of the fog bank, rank after rank of snarling, spitting vermin. With them, they brought a great wheeled altar, on which was hung a giant censer of burning warpstone. The fumes from this infernal engine streamed over the coming horde, roiling and bubbling with a life of their own.

The sylvaneth did not wait for the skaven to charge, but counter-attacked at a signal from their lord. Dryads and tree-revenants fell upon the Chaos vermin with sweeping branches and shredding claws, their war-song like the cawing of crows and shriek of hunting hawks. The plague monks fought with serrated daggers and warpstone-tipped staffs, their own cries every bit as strident as the calls of Clan Arleath.

The greater treefolk, Diraceth’s glade-cousins, were about to move forwards to support their smaller kin but the Leafmaster halted their long strides. Callicaith glanced up at him, feeling it too. The Leafmaster pointed into the fog.

‘Await, kin of the glades! Do you feel its presence? A greater darkness comes upon us this eve.’

As he spoke, the sensation grew stronger. It was like a deeper pit in the darkness that was the Pestilens horde. The magic of Ghyran swirled as it approached, turned away like dead leaves before a gale, scattering and burning at its touch.

In the fog, something as large as Diraceth loomed through the withered remains of the trees. The Leafmaster drew in all the life magic that he could, expelling it as storm of sharp, glittering kernels that parted the encroaching deathfog.

As the miasma billowed back, it revealed the daemonic master of the skaven.

A crown of curling, twisted horns framed its huge, rattish head. Its tail was like a barbed whip longer than it was tall, tipped with rusted blades. Pink-grey flesh was draped in a ragged brown tunic, over which sat overlapping plates of serrated oil-black armour. A helm with long cheek-guards protected its skull. A huge book hung on its waist, chained to a thick belt of hide, and an unnatural breeze fluttered the pages, spilling forth seeping tendrils of sorcerous mist. The dark magic of the grimoire was like a heavy weight in Diraceth’s thoughts, an artefact of corruption and decay wholly anathema to the Leafmaster and the life-giving magic that had given birth to him.

Bellowing wordless hatred for the greater daemon, the Leafmaster’s tree-cousins stomped forth, whipping lacerating limbs against the Verminlord’s armour, thrusting penetrating branches towards its flesh.

The creature reeled back, allowing more of its underlings to stream forwards, hurling themselves at the treelords and tree-revenants. While the arboreal giants crushed these attackers beneath root-splayed feet and pulverised them with hammering fists, the rat-daemon belched forth a noxious cloud of vile fumes. The treefolk retreated from this poisonous mist, their bark withering and drying at its touch, blighted sap erupting from widening skin-cracks and splitting knotholes. At the touch of the sorcerous fumes, their leaves shrivelled to blackened wisps. Low moans of pain made the earth shake.

All around the ancient, the song of his kin was falling in volume, as spirit after spirit fell silent. He tried to rouse them with bass urgings of his own, infusing them with his renewed desire to fight.

Snarling, glittering spites erupted from Diraceth’s canopy as he stormed forwards, surrounding him with a whirling shield of biting, spitting spirits. He hardened his limbs into lance-points and drew his arm back, ready to strike.

The daemon creature turned, as swift as any of its rapacious minions, its tail whipping around Diraceth’s arm. The two titanic beings braced against each other, pulling, each trying to tear the limb from their foe.

Fog swirled and lightning crackled around the daemon’s free hand. It coalesced into a four-tined spear. Stepping closer, allowing Diraceth to drag it forwards, the greater daemon of the Horned Rat plunged the weapon into the trunk of the Leafmaster, the points opening up the wound already marking his bark.

Chaos power flared through the injury, a thousand tiny bites engulfing Diraceth. He lashed out, throwing dagger-needles into the face of his foe. Ripping the spear free with a spray of golden sap, the skaven-beast stepped back, its tail unwrapping from Diraceth’s arm.

The treelord ancient staggered away, life fluid spurting in thick fountains from the gash in his torso. He thrust a hand into the wound, growing branch-fingers to bind it together. The ancient felt the burn of the Chaos magic, tiny flecks of corrupted rust burrowing through his exposed heartwood.

Even as he stumbled and almost fell, Diraceth let forth a retort. Vines burst from the broken ground at the monster’s feet, snaking around its legs, seeking its throat and eyes.

The Verminlord took a step closer, spear raised for the kill. Diraceth looked up into its red eyes, undaunted by its horrific majesty.

The Verminlord hesitated.

As it was about to strike the blow, it shifted, cocking its head to one side. A moment later a breeze rippled through Diraceth’s leaves. Fresh, restorative. The fogs were swirling, becoming ragged tufts on the gusts of a new wind. The darkness beyond was diminishing, overpowered by a burgeoning yellow gleam.

Sunlight.

Warmth touched Diraceth. The heat of the sun. The power of Ghyran.

With it came a new spirit-song. It was like nothing he could remember, swelling up from the heartrock of the ground and cascading down from the sky, melodic and subtle, but dramatic and discordant all at once. Fuelled anew, the wound in his chest sealed by the magical touch, the Leafmaster surged to his feet. His hands crooked into wicked blades as he advanced towards his enemy with renewed purpose.

The daemon thrust its spear into one of its own followers, spitting the mewling plague monk upon the points. Sorcerous lightning crackled again, forming an arc that pulled the skaven apart, its scattered body forming a swirling circle of green fog that flickered with Chaos power. Through the miasma Diraceth felt a yawning chasm, a deep shaft that dropped away between the physical realms.

The daemon stepped into the fresh gnawhole with a last look at the Leafmaster. Though its expression was impossible to read, the spear thrust towards the ancient was a clear threat – this would not be their last encounter.

With a wet sucking noise the portal closed, the remnants of the sacrificed plague monk splashing to the mulch-covered ground.

Diraceth’s attention was drawn back to the strange sunrise. The fogs were almost completely dissipated now, taking on more of the cast of mountain lake mists at dawn.

The plague monks felt it too, and having been abandoned by their immortal master did not take flight but threw themselves upon the sylvaneth with frenetic desperation.

Where the gold light touched, the Wrathwaters responded. The blackened, withered morass burst into renewed life, saplings and bushes springing forth from the groundwaters, blossoming into full growth as Diraceth watched.

The rush of magic flowed around and over and beneath him, through air and water and ground. Heartseeds thought lost in the mire crackled with energy amongst the fronds and strands of fresh growth. He heard the tremulous strains of their nascent soul-songs quivering into life, ready to grow into fresh generations of sylvaneth.

Behind him the waters of the lifepool glimmered with the magic of birth. Sylvaneth souls that had long been repressed by the noxious flow of skaven corruption suddenly burst into full bloom, brought to fruition by the influx of life essence. Out of the heartseeds his clan had salvaged from the incessant skaven encroachment burst forth a fresh surge of dryads, branchwraiths and tree-revenants. These newborns splashed out of the waters, their birth-songs tainted by rage and bloodthirst, and they fell upon the skaven with vengeful cries and haunting moans.

And then it was as though the sun itself entered the sacred grove.

The presence was blinding, both in light and as a spring of the energy of Ghyran. Diraceth could not quite comprehend what was in their midst, all senses both physical and spiritual overwhelmed by the force of the entity that had arrived. The sound of thrumming wings made the air and ground vibrate. Heat prickled on his bark, like fingers caressing the folds and cracks, bringing forth green buds where they passed.

As the wave of life magic seeped into the earth of the grove, its power restoring tree and spirit alike, the Leafmaster looked upon their saviour.

Her wings were feathery streamers of dawn light, luminescent and hot. Her face was serene, her eyes a rich leaf-green. Diraceth met that godly gaze and felt a moment of connection, from root to branch, spreading out across the entire Realm of Life. Here was the font, the spring of creation, the mother of his people.

Alarielle, Everqueen of the sylvaneth.

His gaze moved away, freeing him from the trance. It was now that he saw that his goddess was not as he remembered, in robes of autumnal growth. She wore armour, her body clad in shimmering plates of birch-silver edged with ironbark and studded with firestones. The apparition held a spear as tall as she was, its head shimmering with destructive magic. The Leafmaster watched as she turned her attention to the skaven. Alarielle’s tranquil expression changed, and the light of her presence changed with it. Ire twisted her features. The dawn light aura became a crackling halo of incarnate fury that burned with the fire of an unrelenting noon sun.

‘Kill them all,’ she commanded in the voice of a burgeoning storm.

As her children eradicated the stain of the ratmen from her realm, Alarielle’s anger faded. It did not disappear completely, for how could she not feel rage whilst her children teetered on the edge of extinction? She could not rest while her people in the Realm of Life and far beyond suffered from the malignance of Chaos. But for the moment, in this place and at this time, her vengeance was temporarily sated.

She held up a hand and the heavens opened at her command, bringing rain as sweet as nectar. The Wrathwaters responded to her call, swelling in a spume-topped mass over the shores of the lakes to wash away every vestige of the skaven. Her tree-kin set down their roots as the deluge swirled past them, making sanctuary for the smaller sylvaneth in their branches. A glorious wind swept down from the Laureneth Peaks, driving away the last of the rat-must. The rustle of green leaves and the creak of swaying canopy was a song in her ears after the thunder of the skaven drums.

While the floodwaters drained, a carpet of new grass and flowers in their wake, Alarielle turned her attention to the deeper wounds, the taint laid upon the souls of the Wrathwaters. She settled, furling her nebulous wings, letting her armour fade so that she could feel cool breeze on her flesh. Its touch brought flashes of recollection, scattered images of her previous lives.

She held the pain at bay, a mortal memory not suited to an immortal spirit.

Alarielle purged the taint of Chaos from the Wrathwaters, using her magic as she had used the Wrathwaters, driving out the corruption from the lowest earth. She became part of the Realm of Life, splitting again and again, allowing her essence to be one with the land and water and air.

She tumbled over rocks, her cleansing current bringing freshwater to algae-swathed pools where rat corpses bobbed. Her essence eased through cracks, nourishing the broken-stemmed plants, the pressure of her spirit forcing the magic of life into the deepest roots of the maligned forests. She lapped against the banks and gurgled over the rapids, reed beds and rushes growing fulsome in her light. Lilies rippled on the pools amidst the crackle of life magic shimmering in the waters. She nestled with the crabs in the sands of the Scarlet Sea, into which the vast delta of the Wrathwaters flowed.

All that lived felt her coming, renewed by the Everqueen’s magic.

Even as she danced on waves as sparkles of sunlight, she spiralled along high branches. Blossom erupted in her wake. Snapped limbs healed and trunks marked by welts and rot were made anew.

Winds carried the Everqueen’s spirit far over the swamps that had engulfed the Wrathwaters. From murky pools sprang every variety of marsh flower in a profusion of rainbow colours. Even in the darkest regions she could not be denied. Grubs and beetles, worms burrowing through the dark mud, acted as a conduit for her power.

Bringing together her energies, Alarielle ascended, leaping skywards from one drop of falling rain to another. She reached the clouds and looked down upon the great rivers and winding streams of Clan Arleath’s territory. Renewed, it stretched in vibrant greens down to the white sands of the coast, and was lost in the haze of the mountains.

Higher still she climbed, into the stars bordering the Celestial Realm. She could feel Ghyran, the Realm of Life, pulsing and changing, awakened by her return.

Yet it was only the start, the first breaking of bud through hardened frost. All across her lands, Chaos lay like a choking clot, stifling and repugnant. Even to touch upon it in thought revolted the Everqueen. The pollution made her soul sicken.

They had come so close to ruin. Chaos had almost overrun everything. Though the enclaves of the sylvaneth were like bright sparks, they were almost lost in the darkness – here and in other realms. Even the great glades where Alarielle had arisen as the war maiden seemed like a pinprick against the vast pustulant expanse.

And through the decay, on the far side of the rot and destruction, she could feel the thunderous heartbeat and ponderous breaths of the power that desired dominion over her. Life perverted, built upon death. The tendrils of Nurgle’s Garden stretched far and deep into the Jade Kingdoms, coursing with vile purpose, throbbing with vigorous intent. And the gnawholes of the skaven ran like maggot trails through rotten meat.

So close to utter destruction, so much to reclaim.

It seemed not so long ago, to her immortal reckoning, that she had conquered all, that victory over Chaos had seemed but a breath away.

Yet it had been lost, and the darkness had prevailed again.

Alarielle woke, returning to her physical shell. In her absence, her council had gathered – mighty treelords and ancients from across the Royal Glades and woodland clans. The Old King of Winterleaf conversed with Leafmaster Diraceth, newly reacquainted with his clan-cousins. Their senior, the High King of Oakenbrow, noticed first the return of the queen. Rippling his leaves, he pushed silence out into the song of his clan, quietening both it and their boisterous mood.

‘The Wrathwaters run fresh once more, Jade Mother,’ the High King intoned solemnly. ‘Clan Arleath returns its strength to Winterleaf, and your reach extends once more. Whither now shall the attention of your host fall?’

She ignored the question for the moment and beckoned to the Winterleaf conclave.

‘Attend me for a moment, lords and ladies of Winterleaf.’

The tree-beings approached, their silver bark and leaves pale in the sunlight. A procession of branchwraiths followed, wearing long coats of golden leaves, each accompanied by a tree-revenant – spirits of the forest clad in the guise of wood-dwellers from an older age. In stately accord they arrayed themselves behind the treelords, bowing before their queen.

Diraceth was ushered forwards by the High King. The ancient approached with eyes cast down, his long strides slow and purposeful. Callicaith and a few branchwyches nestled in his limbs. They averted their gaze from the Everqueen.

‘Look upon me,’ Alarielle instructed. ‘See your queen as she is now.’

Diraceth looked up, almost flinching. He met her gaze for a moment and then looked away, branches trembling with shame.

‘I am thankful, bounteous goddess, but unworthy. I have failed you and the Winterleaf clan. But for your miraculous presence the Wrathwaters would be lost forever. Our guard was not strong enough.’

‘You are not alone in such tribulation, and I do not absolve you of blame. But know this, Leafmaster. Clan Arleath held when others did not. The Wrathwaters, though tainted, remained a part of my domain.’ She held out a hand and stroked his bark, comforting the troubled spirit. ‘You resisted a long time. Long enough.’

‘Thank you, queen of the forests. Clan Arleath shall repay the debt in whatever fashion is required. We owe our existence to you, mother of hope.’

‘Mother of hope no more,’ Alarielle replied, her expression turning grim. ‘The avenger, the scourge, the cleansing sun I have become. None failed the Jade Kingdoms more than I, and none has more for which to atone.’

‘No, my queen, that is not so…’

‘It was not the lords of the clans that turned back at the very brink of victory. It was not my ancient warriors that lacked the heart to finish what had been begun.’

Diraceth said nothing, not understanding what she meant. Even he, an age old as he was, could not remember the first wars against Chaos, when the Realm of Life had been wrested from their grip and the sylvaneth first born.

Alarielle remembered well enough, and too well the part she failed to play. How could she judge any of her children harshly, who had done more than she to resist the encroachment of Nurgle’s touch, who had battled daily against the incursions of the skaven? While she had slumbered, afraid and spent, her people had died without hope.

‘I have returned, but I cannot bring hope,’ she told the treelord ancient. ‘We stand upon the brink of oblivion and have only taken a single step from the edge. My return will herald not hope, but war, and suffering on a scale none but the immortals have known. I am strife-bringer, woe-seeder. Look not to me for hope, Diraceth, for I have none.’

‘Then why…?’

‘Because we must fight or surrender. Victory is so far away that even I cannot see it, but it is not victory for which we strive at the moment. This is a war to survive, to push back from the precipice, to claw our lands free of the grip of darkness and corruption.’ Alarielle stepped back, her canopy-wings turning to golden streamers behind her. ‘I guarantee nothing, Leafmaster, but bloodshed, misery and death. I am clothed in the light of the sun, but I cast the shadow of the grave. Without hope, without even hope of hope, will you fight beside me?’

The Leafmaster lowered himself to one knee, a lengthy process accompanied by much creaking and swaying of his branches.

‘You fight without hope, majestic sunqueen, but I cannot deny mine at your return. In the mire of despair I almost succumbed. With the great lords and ladies of the Royal Glades to stand witness, I swear I will not show such weakness again.’

Alarielle gestured for him to rise. He retreated to the company of his clan-kin as the Everqueen addressed her entire council. Her voice carried without effort, as thunderous as a waterfall and yet like the sigh of a playful breeze.

‘There was greater purpose in coming to the Wrathwaters than freeing Diraceth and his kin. The path to the Vale of Winternight has been opened.’

A fractious rustling disturbed the council. The Willowqueen of Harvestboon voiced the discontent.

‘We are not yet strong enough to reclaim the Vale of Winternight, dawnqueen. And little will its liberation add to our cause.’

‘What of the besieged clans of the Verdant Cliffs?’ suggested the Archduke of Ironbark.

‘Or the Mooncrags?’ added the Oakenbrow High King. ‘My bud-brother holds still against Foulslug and his corrupted host. A brave ally.’

‘We owe it to those that stayed loyal, my queen,’ said the Willowqueen. ‘More allies will bring greater strength.’

‘The bargain has already been struck!’ The voice was a whip crack like snapping limbs, silencing the others. The members of the Royal Moot turned like a forest bending in a new wind, directing their glares to the speaker – the Keeper of Dreadwood. Bark blackened along one side by recent battle, the scarred ancient stepped forwards. Fanged and clawed spite-revenants swung through his limbs, whispering angrily to their master.

‘The Dreadwood fight no less than any other Royal Glade,’ the Keeper snarled. He thrust an accusing limb at the councillors, fingers stained dark with the blood of humans and skaven – and the sap of other sylvaneth, if the dark rumours were true. ‘At the Emerald Moors my kin and folk fought beside you, Everqueen, for promise that my forest-kin of the Winternight would be freed from captivity.’

‘A fortress holds them,’ said the Oakenbrow ancient. ‘Many heartseeds will be scattered to take it from the enemy.’

‘No fortress can stand against the will of the forest,’ countered the Keeper. He looked at the Everqueen. ‘And the Royal Moot does not stand against the will of its ruler. What say you, Alarielle the warrior-reborn?’

‘They did not answer our call for aid,’ said Diraceth before Alarielle replied. ‘We offered aid when the Rotbringers came, but they did not want us. When Pestilens beset the Wrathwaters, they turned a deaf ear upon our pleas for help. Ancient Holodrin cares nothing for others. Clan Faech are traitors to their own, corrupted seeds that fell far from their mother-tree!’

‘Recant your accusations!’ roared the Dreadwood Keeper. ‘Vile lies!’

‘The truth burns deeper than flame,’ retorted the Willowqueen, moving to stand between the Dreadwood entourage and the lords of Winterleaf. Her branchwraiths jeered and snarled at their counterparts in the Dreadwood, and tree-revenants looked on with glowering stares.

‘My word is the law,’ declared Alarielle, drawing herself up to her full battle-aspect. The Spear of Kurnoth appeared in her right hand. Her other manifested as the Talon of the Dwindling, flaking dead wood falling from her fingers as glittering dust. ‘I have spoken and so it shall be. Clan Faech live on, trapped within the festering walls, hiding in the deepest shadows. But they are not yet lost. Not to death and not to darkness. I feel them, their pain and suffering. We shall free them. Go now, spread the word, ready your armies.’

The Keeper of Dreadwood withdrew, bowing in deference to the Everqueen. The others followed in turn, their leaves rustling with murmured apologies. Only Diraceth remained, trembling with sorrow and rage.

‘You will find nothing but rot in the heart of the Vale of Winternight, my queen,’ he said quietly. He uprooted and turned away, following the trail of rucked earth left by his clan-kin.

Alarielle diffused her power again and sighed. She no more wanted to travel to the Winternight than any of the others, but the Keeper was right. A bargain had been made, and it needed the alliance of all the Royal Groves, including the Dreadwood. If she was to reclaim the Jade Kingdoms from Chaos, she would have to win back the loyalty of the Outcasts, the dark and broken spirits she had denied.

There had been a time when the Vale of Winternight might justifiably have been called a jewel of the Jade Kingdoms. Though an age had passed during her slumber, Alarielle could still recall the white-and-silver trees, the sparkling mists that rose from the tarns each morning, the threads of streams that glittered on the walls of the deep valley.

Dark rock and bright ice, that was how she remembered this place, how it had come by its name. The twin peaks that stood as sentries to the valley were steep-sided, their white-clad summits lost in the haze of cloud above the vale. The Sisters of Serenity they were called, but there was little peace to be found on their slopes since the coming of Chaos.

A bastion had been raised across the mouth of the Vale of Winternight, running from one Sister to the other in an uneven line. She could feel the wall like scar tissue on her flesh. It was not a thing merely built, but constructed from the spirit-stuff of the lands, warped by corrupted magic into something far more hideous than a simple fortification. It was a mortuary-thing, made of corpses and tree-carcasses, heaped between with black rock and baked earth, a core of dead roots binding its foundation. Thornweave grew along its length, spines as long as swords, seeping toxic sap that would slay even the sylvaneth.

In three places the wall was broken by broad arches, through which flowed the great rivers of the vale. Gone were the bright waters. Now the banks brought forth bile, blood and seeping ichor. Their pollution stained the groves into which they flowed, carrying the taint of Chaos into the Jade Kingdoms and towards the shores shared by the Wrathwaters.

The bastion was broken irregularly by seven towers, each grown from an immense tree with branches of bone and fumaroles where knotholes should be, spewing a dark smog along the entire wall. Cadavers hung from the branches like fruit, and on the dead flesh puckered fungal growths and bright moulds.

The stench of death lay on the vale as surely as the fog-mire of the towers. The corruption was near total. Alarielle could scarce stand to be so close, as though she walked on the borders of Nurgle’s Garden itself. She shuddered at the prospect of wandering into such accursed territory, but it was for this reason that she had come. Here, the grip of decay was so great that the Realm of Chaos and the Realm of Life were almost indistinguishable. From this vile sanctuary, the warriors and daemons of Nurgle could march with impunity to conquer and despoil.

Just as sight could not penetrate the fog shrouding the valley past the wall, so the Chaos magic held at bay the questing tendrils of the realmroots sent forth by Alarielle. Linked to all the parts of the Jade Kingdoms, the realmroots allowed her and her children to pass from one glade to the next without effort. In such fashion had they come upon many foes unaware of their approach, and encircled even enemies that were.

The Everqueen was baulked by the corruption. There would be no infiltration from without, and so heavy lay the hand of Nurgle she could scarce detect the tiniest flutter of spirits within. But they were there, she was certain of it. She heard their lamentations and felt their despair. As much as the other Royal Glades despised the Dreadwood, they were all her children, wayward or not. She bore the suffering of them all with equal sorrow.

The ground trembled and the realmroots quivered as Alarielle sent the summons to her Royal Moot. Life force swelled like a springsfed tide, pulsing along the arteries of the Jade Kingdoms, each flutter the spirit of one of her children. Along the realmroots surged the power of the Wyldwoods, animated by the will of the queen, root and branch responding to her demand as surely as the clansfolk of the glades.

The Wyldwoods ploughed towards the wall of decay, bush and tree and grass flowing like an incoming sea, until it reached the extent of her power just a bowshot from the wall. There the grip of Nurgle was too great for her to push through. Only when the plague bastion had been broken, when her children entered the valley, would she be able to thrust her power deep into the heart of the enemy and tear it out from within.

With the Wyldwoods came the glade hosts. From Oakenbrow and Harvestboon, Ironbark and Winterleaf, Gnarlroot and Heartwood. Dryad tree-maids and ancient treelords, tree-revenants in arboreal likeness of the ancient dwellers of the world-that-was. From each Royal Glade, from their clan groves spread across the reclaimed realms they came.

And like the touch of first frost creeping along a stem, the army of Dreadwood heeded her call. Led by their Keeper they came into the Wyldwoods – tree spirits and forestkin that had dwelt long in the shadow of Chaos. Vicious and bitter spite-revenants accompanied them, and branchwraiths and dryads that had been cast from their clans for their disruptive behaviour and bloodthirsty ways.

In the near-forgotten time of reconquest, when Alarielle had required alliance with Sigmar and his kind, such creatures had been a liability, preying on allies as well as foes. Now the Everqueen needed them back, and was willing to deal with whatever consequences that might bring.

‘Break it,’ she told her children, pointing at the wall. Her voice rippled through the realmroots, touching the spirit of every sylvaneth that had gathered. ‘Tear it asunder and make bloody mulch of its defenders. Open up the vale for me, my children, and become the vengeance we all crave.’

Diraceth advanced with his clan elders, proud to stride amongst the great army of the Winterleaf Glade. His loremasters walked beside him, two ancients called Drudoth and Ceddial, and behind came the lesser nobles and forest folk of Clan Arleath.

Each stride that took him closer to the looming wall made his sap rise in ire. Through his roots he could feel the death and decay woven into the barrier, seeping into the good earth of the Jade Kingdoms. It was a deeper, more malignant curse than the gnaw-wounds of the skaven. He felt his leaves shrivelling at its touch.

The sylvaneth host pushed out from the sanctuary of the Wyldwoods, a gathering of spirits such as Diraceth had never witnessed before. Treelords and ancients by the score led their clans, following the stern warriors of the Royal Glade households. Hundreds of tree-revenants and thousands of dryads flowed from the mystical forest, thorn-fingered and bright-eyed.

And on the periphery, from the darkest patches beneath the boughs, the Outcasts came. Like shadows they lingered near their clans, spite-revenants that lusted after mortal flesh, whose wickedness had earned them exile in ages past. Diraceth noticed that more than half the host of the Dreadwood was made up of these dispossessed spirits and wondered what manner of clan they marched to liberate. Ancient Holodrin and his folk had always kept to their own glades, but it had been a shock when messenger-spites of Diraceth had returned with tidings that Clan Arleath would stand alone against the skaven.

The forest host passed into the thick smog. It smeared along Diraceth’s leaves and bark, slicking his twigs and buds with its oily, noisome touch. The branchwyches and branchwraiths spat and cursed, and flicked droplets of the foul vapour from their talons. By his side, Callicaith adjusted her grip on the long greenwood scythe she carried. Her glimmersilk grub wriggled back and forth across her shoulders, reacting to the tension.

‘I can see nothing,’ she said.

It was true, the smog was as thick as marsh water. It felt as though Diraceth waded through a mire as much as pushed through the dank fog. He could barely see the branchwyches and ancient treelords to either side. The armies of his fellow Winterleaf clans were lost from view.

‘Press on,’ he told them, sensing the unease of his folk. Their spirit-song was quiet and flat. Diraceth set free his own song, a martial beat that resounded through the thoughts of his followers. He quickened the pace of his stride and the tempo of his war-song.

It was then that he felt the glade-voice of the Old King, calling him on, adding its weight to the harmony of Clan Arleath. And the other houses around him, each clan-song different but called from the same source, creating a growing chorus, making his sap rise further. Like an echo rebounding, the booming of the ancients was returned by the heart-songs of the lesser folk, a staccato of expectation and fury over the deliberate percussion of their leaders, the intensity growing as they continued through the smog.

Diraceth was taken aback as they broke through the fog and came upon the wall itself. The mists were still thick, but the great darkness of the edifice rose up before the ancient, more than twice as high as his topmost branches.

The spirit-song reached a crescendo as Diraceth and the treefolk charged the bastion. It sang in his heartwood, filling him with strength and purpose. He raised his own voice, urging his clan to prevail.

Thorny tentacles lashed from the wall, and a storm of projectiles flew down from above. Dryads were snared by the bloodvines and crushed, tree-revenants pierced by the spines. Bloodsap fell in glimmering rain, showers of light in the dark fog.

Bellowing his rage, Diraceth hurled himself at the wall, sinking branch-claws deep into the blackened mud. Forming rootlets from his fingers, he pushed deeper, feeling the bone and sinew of dead animals parting, trickles of ichor dribbling down his arms as though blood from a living thing.

He ignored the slash of the thorn-vines against his bark, leaning close to the filthy wall to penetrate deeper and deeper with his thrusting attack. Callicaith and the other branchwyches led the clan maidens up his back and across his upper limbs, leaping from branch to branch to reach higher up the wall. They ascended through the bodies of the other treelords and ancients, and set about with scythe and claw to hew at the pseudo-tentacles.

Spreading rootlet-fingers wide, Diraceth pulled back, wrenching the guts from the wall. Like intestines splayed from a wounded animal, ropes of rotting flesh and sodden wood erupted from the bastion. Hurling the vegetative offal aside, the Leafmaster attacked again, tearing and ripping, splitting foundation roots and ribcages, engulfed by spores from exploding fungi.

Around him the other Noble Spirits tore at the skin of the bastion, severed roots flopping like eels on the ground, broken pustules spewing ichor over limb and trunk, matting their canopies with greenish-yellow gobbets.

With a sound of snapping bone and branch, a portion of the wall collapsed into a rotten heap. Armoured warriors toppled into the morass, crashing into the piles of steaming mulch. They struggled to their feet, reaching for rusted axes and serrated blades. Their armour was pitted with corrosion, the plates covered with a film of filth that leaked from rents and breaks in the metal. Some were bloated creatures, their guts barely contained by their armour. Others were skeletal-thin, rusted mail hanging loosely over famine-wasted frames.

The dryads shrieked in triumph and leapt upon the Nurgle warriors, their claws seeking visors, piercing chainmail at the joints of their armour, pulling the warriors apart.

Other foes, more lightly armoured, leapt down onto Diraceth. They sawed at his limbs with their blades and jabbed spears into his knotholes and cracks.

‘Begone, minions of the decaying one,’ rumbled the treelord, plucking a tribesman from his branches. He crushed the human in his fist, splitting him like overripened fruit. Lance-claws speared another, piercing him from belly to throat. Diraceth flung the corpse away and turned swiftly, shaking another three of his assailants from his canopy.

Widening the gap in the wall, the ancient stepped into the barrier while more branchwraiths and dryads scaled the breach to spill along the rampart above. Pulling up the last vestiges of the wall, Diraceth broke through into the valley proper.

Elsewhere the bastion was breached too, the sylvaneth flowing into the Vale of Winternight like water through a broken dam.

‘For the Everqueen and the Jade Kingdoms!’ rose the roar of the treelords.

Spite-revenants flowed around Diraceth, snarling, eager to be at the enemy. He recognised spirits he had banished from the clan long ago, but they paid him little heed, their hatred now focussed on a mutual foe. Their enraged howls were quickly joined by the cries of dying Chaos followers.

Seeing that the wall had fallen in many places, her subjects pouring through the breaches, Alarielle sent the summons to her own grove-host. Her song carried the furthest of all, light and lilting, rippling through the Wyldwoods and the rootways to all parts of the reclaimed kingdom.

She held out a hand to one of the nearby Wyldwood trees. Its trunk shuddered and a knothole parted, disgorging a bulbous grub. Though but a larva, it was as long as her forearm. It crawled over the leaf-carpeted ground and burrowed into the magic-rich dirt at her feet. A few moments passed before the ground under her feet started to tremble. Leaf and earth parted as an immense swarm of glinting fireflies erupted around her. Swirling like sparks, they coalesced into a single creature. The massive wardroth beetle bore up the Everqueen, its carapace glistening like oil, antlers gleaming in the light of Alarielle’s aura.

She added a fresh melody to her call, the long note of a horn that echoed through the trees. Haunting, distant replies drifted back to her, rebounding and growing in volume. She felt the flow of magic changing, becoming a stream and then a river, converging on her location from many directions.

From the trees came forth her Kurnoth Hunters, each taller than any warrior of Chaos, with bark stronger than metal armour. Some carried long, straight swords, others bore scythes that could slay the largest mortal monster with a single blow. The rest were armed with greatbows, accompanied by scurrying quiverlings – spites that grew fresh missiles from their backs.

Their leader, Raldorath the Huntmaster, came forwards and bowed low. He looked at the broken bastion, wooden brow furrowing.

‘A harsh task, my queen,’ he said. ‘Though the wall be broken, the Vale of Winternight holds an army of foes.’

‘Yet not enough to hold back my ire,’ said the queen. ‘With me, Hunters of Kurnoth – your prey awaits.’

High upon the hunched back of the wardroth beetle, her wings of light flowing behind her, the Everqueen advanced quickly through the Wyldwoods. The Kurnoth Hunters spread around her, loping strides carrying them as swiftly as their queen. More treelords and ancients answered her call as she moved. Among them marched the mightiest of the old nobles – the Spirits of Durthu.

The fog had all but dissipated, and as Alarielle emerged from the Wyldwoods she saw that two of the seven towers had fallen. Yet from the upper reaches of those remaining, missiles and fire cascaded down upon the spirits surging through the breaches.

‘Break the towers, bring them down!’ she commanded. The Spirits of Durthu responded to her command, breaking away to fall upon the nearest fortification.

She felt the swirl of magic as the revered treelords summoned the energy of the Jade Kingdoms, letting it pass through their bodies. It erupted from outstretched limbs in gusts of emerald energy, scouring the armoured warriors from the higher limbs and platforms of the tower. The treelords smashed against the blackened trunk with their fists and stomped upon the ground to break open its foundations, root-claws driving deep into the earth. Throwing their weight against the tower while others dragged at the upper limbs, three of the huge forest spirits sent the entire tree-edifice crashing down. More armoured warriors plummeted to their doom as it fell, and those that picked their way out of the splintered, black-leafed foliage were swiftly crushed by the raging Spirits of Durthu.

The wall was shattered, more towers falling as the sylvaneth ascended into the heights and tore at their roots. Alarielle could feel the Vale of Winternight responding. She let her essence gush free into the land beyond, bracing herself against the clammy touch of decay that still lingered within.

She searched back and forth, seeking the slightest trace of Clan Faech, steeling herself against the cold darkness as she plunged deeper into the Chaos-tainted magic permeating the vale. Her song became a strident call, ringing clear through the wash of wyldmagic flowing into the valley.

The flutter of an answering spirit-song drew her into the heart of the vale, the loathsome power of Nurgle like a cold corpse hand pawing at her body. Pressing past, she looked for the tiniest glimmer of the song’s source.

She found it ringed with Chaos power, a cornered animal panting and whining with fear. Anger replaced Alarielle’s distaste and she forged on, fuelled by ire. At the approach of the Everqueen’s presence the corruption parted, scattered like leaves in a gale, but swiftly the taint returned, pressing hard against her soulform.

The grim surroundings nearly silenced her voice. The crushing stench of Chaos energy was overpowering, endless waves of decrepitude and corruption crashing over her. Her light was no star, nothing more than a guttering spark in everlasting darkness. Timidity all but stilled the tongue of her spirit-song.

Gathering her nerve, ignoring the fear that she would draw unwanted attention upon herself, Alarielle sang loud and clear, calling to the quivering spirits of Clan Faech. She pushed back the darkness as it encroached on the path she had made behind her. The Everqueen beckoned and cajoled, tried to soothe away the primal dread that trapped the sylvaneth as surely as the warriors of the Plague God.

‘Fight it!’ she insisted, bursting forth with fresh soulsong. Alarielle could almost touch them, could almost make the magic flow into the spirits to rouse them from their terrified stupor. ‘Reach out to me. Break free!’

But they did not. Not only dread quelled them. Bitterness spat back from the renegade forest spirits.

Recoiling, Alarielle could do nothing as the grip of Nurgle tightened again, a black sludge that filled the space around Clan Faech as tar bubbling up from its pit. It hardened, seizing them fast once more. Their song was muted and deathly silence engulfed Alarielle.

The Everqueen realised she was alone in the great sea of darkness. She fought back panic, searching for the rivers of life-essence that had brought her here, desperate as a ship’s crew tossed on a tempestuous sea.

She caught upon a glimmering trail and started to follow it, but in her agitation did not sense the approach of something else. It was too late that she detected another presence in the mystical strata – a triumvirate entity. A three-spawn fly of Nurgle made into bodily form somewhere in the vale. A sting strike, a spine of pure Chaos, pierced her spirit, pumping darkness into her soul. Like a toxin in the blood of a mortal, the Chaos energy flowed through her, trying to drag the Everqueen into the mire of death that surrounded her.

She fled.

Returning to her body, Alarielle gasped, suppressing the scream of horror that wanted to break free – her subjects had to fight on, could not know anything was amiss.

The Chaos taint was still in her. She could see it now, like a blackness in her veins, darkening her skin, dimming the light of her presence. It worked fast, weakening her, trying to consume her with burning pain.

Horror gripped her. All that she had feared, all that had cowed her for those long years of slumber, was coming to pass. The touch of Nurgle was in her. Beneath the surface of her being, raw wyldmagic and Chaos power thrashed against each other, their conflict sending agonising stabs through her.

‘My queen?’ A Spirit of Durthu stood over her, its spirit-song a sombre throb of concern. She realised a single crystal tear marked her cheek, a sign of the struggle within.

She took in a shuddering breath but dared not speak of what had happened. The Everqueen mastered her fear and urged the tree spirit to leave her.

Unprompted, the Spirit of Durthu lay a twig-fingered hand upon Alarielle’s arm. At his touch she felt the foul magic burst forth, engulfing both of them. The spirit’s branches shuddered and its soulsong became a low moan of age-old aching.

She felt the spirit drawing forth the blight. Alarielle tried to fight it, to hold the poison in herself. But the spirit would not be deterred, placing another leaf-limb on her to bring forth more of the taint.

‘It is not… yours to… take…’ she gasped, but the spirit silently looked at her with deep emerald eyes as the corruption flowed into its heartsap.

When it had siphoned away the last of the dark power, the Spirit of Durthu reared up, taking a step back from the Everqueen. Already its leaves were wilting, branches drooping with the weight of the poison in them. Its spirit-song was little more than a few whimpering notes as wood turned to dust and sloughed away, revealing blistered greenwood beneath.

‘My queen, everlasting font of life,’ croaked the spirit, sinking down. Threads of mould spread over its splintering, disintegrating form. ‘Lead our people to fresh life. Fear nothing more. Let the wrath of the sylvaneth carry you to victory.’

The spirit slumped, degenerating into scattering motes and spores that drifted away, leaving nothing but a blackened heartseed. The last vestiges of its song died away with its body.

She had almost failed her people again. Freed of the taint, Alarielle calmed herself, her sorrow short-lived. In the past she had allowed fear to rule her, to break her resolve. Not this time. Not now.

The fire of her wrath flared from her body like a fresh dawn. Where its light touched, Alarielle’s presence filled the sylvaneth with a deep rage. She drove the wardroth beetle forwards with a thought, weapon held high. Her spirit-song called to her glade-warriors to follow.

Incandescent with fury, the Spear of Kurnoth singing its own bloodthirsty hymn in her thoughts, the Everqueen passed into the Vale of Winternight.

If the breaking of the wall was a dam bursting, the coming of Alarielle was an ocean rising to engulf the Vale of Winternight. With her came the Wyldwoods, limbs and leaves angrily swaying, creepers and thorn bushes advancing beneath their shadowed canopies. Ahead of her life magic streamed. The gale of her approach washed away the thick fog, revealing the parched lands of the Vale of Winternight.

All had been drained of vitality, the cracked earth like the dry skin of an ancient mortal. Scrubby bushes with blood-red thorns grew out of split heartseeds, and fungal fronds played in colourful profusion from the corpses of animals. Such trees as had survived were twisted, stunted things with flies as big as birds buzzing in their limbs. More insects fluttered in thick swarms, fighting against the rush of air that heralded the Everqueen’s arrival.

At the heart of the valley, where once had stood the lifetree of Clan Faech, a tower now rose at the centre of a soulpod-studded grove that had become a thick mire of bubbling mud. Threefold were its bastions, winding about each other like vines, becoming one at the pinnacle. It seemed to have grown of tumorous bone, split and blistered, cracked and flaking. No windows broke its surface, but a single fracture formed a jagged door at its root.

The warriors of Nurgle were arrayed about this fortress, grotesque and bloated, cadaverous and vile. In ranks of rusted mail and blood-spattered plate they awaited the attack of the sylvaneth.

They did not have to wait long.

The earth erupted with choking, snaring vines, and the spirits of the worldwood descended upon the Nurgle army. Branch and root vied against hammer and spear, talon versus blade. Whipping leaf-limbs crashed against shields marked with the fly rune of the Plague God. Ensorcelled iron bit deep into spirit-folk flesh. Blood and phlegm, bark and sap flew.

The trembling ground beneath the stride of the wardroth beetle set the beat of the battle-song that rose from Alarielle. From her heart poured out a rhythm of defiance and death. It drove the sylvaneth, enriching their hatred as mulch fertilises soil, filling their limbs with vigour and growth. Where Alarielle fought, the followers of Chaos died.

A dozen armoured warriors set themselves against her advance, their axes flaking rust and dried blood. Alarielle did not hesitate, but met them head-on. Their blades broke on the carapace of her wardroth beetle, and other blows went astray in the blinding light of her presence. The beetle charged without pause, trampling foes and spearing another on its antlers. The Spear of Kurnoth whirled and plunged, lancing through the bodies of the survivors, foetid blood streaming from the mortal wounds left by its touch.

The Wyldwoods enveloped the fighting, dragging tribesmen and beasts into the foliage where birds and spites plucked at eyes and clawing twigs lacerated flesh. The screams of the dying were accompanied by the patter of blood falling like rain form the canopy. Roots quested for the pools of life fluid, drinking deep of the Chaos followers’ suffering.

The Outcasts were a nightmare to behold, led by the ancients of the Dreadwood glade. Though fire and axe were set against them, the bitter forest spirits would not be stayed by the shield walls and warped spawn of the Chaos army. Armoured plate was no obstacle to piercing talons powered by magical sinew. With banshee howls of glee, dryads tore the limbs from their foes, glorying in the sprays of blood. Flesh and bone parted under the razor-strikes of the branchwyches, strips of gory flesh flung into the air. So vengeful was their aspect that even as lumbering beasts crushed them underfoot the Outcasts bit and clawed with their last strength. Spite-revenants leapt into their foes without regard, happy to tear down an armoured warrior even if in turn they were battered and slashed by the corroded weapons of their enemies.

As a root prises apart a rock, the sylvaneth drove through the corrupting host to within striking distance of the tower. Alarielle’s magic washed up to the perimeter of the fortress, unable to penetrate it but still gathering strength. The spirits of Clan Faech murmured beyond her reach, trapped. Alarielle urged them to rise up, to tear down their captors from within. She was greeted with a quiet echo of spite and dread.

The gate of the tower widened with a terrible tearing of wood, and from the dark interior emerged a trio of bloated figures. The three sorcerers let free swarms of biting flies and choking mists, stalling the sylvaneth attack. Whirring, buzzing things beset Alarielle, flying into her eyes, trying to crawl into her mouth. She choked and spat, fighting back the memory of the cloying power of Chaos that had nearly taken her.

Out of the swarm lumbered an immense gargant, its skin falling away in strips to reveal bloody fat and muscle. Its shadow fell over Alarielle, bathing her in a sudden chill.

Her beetle hissed its anger. At her command it dashed forwards, but its antlers simply sloughed away rotten flesh from its enemy’s shins and thighs. The gargant seized up the wardroth, trying to tip the Everqueen from its back. The beetle sank its antlers deep into the sore-ridden flesh of the gargant’s hand and arm, fixing itself there while blood streamed over its head, bathing Alarielle in thick crimson fluid.

Though repelled by its stench, Alarielle took the pouring vital fluid as a libation, as refreshing to her as the cascade of a waterfall. Blood-masked, she reached out with the Talon of the Dwindling and drove a claw into the gargant’s arm. At her bidding, dire power flowed. Not the magic of life, but the turning of seasons, years, centuries.

In a few heartbeats the monstrous creature’s flesh fell in dried scraps and its bones turned to dust, pitching the wardroth and its rider back to the blood-soaked earth. A triumphant melody erupted from Alarielle, sweeping her warriors into the enemy.

A great moan of despair erupted from the Nurgle host at the loss of the gargant. Surrounded and pushed back, they were forced into a semicircle about their sorcerous masters, battered and torn but not yet broken.

Alarielle pulsed a warning note to her servants as she felt a surge of Chaos power flow from the dark tower. It bubbled up into the three sorcerers, filling them with unnatural energy. The trio of warlocks swelled, metaphysically and literally, their robed bodies distending, skin stretching further and further until it split with cascades of blood. Each Chaos wizard bloated beyond possibility until they formed a single quivering mass of plague-ridden flesh.

With a final influx of power, the sorcerers burst, showering pus and ichor, flesh-gobbets and organs over a wide area, their scattered entrails forming a triple-sided sigil of Nurgle. Within the unholy pattern, the air seethed and the skein of reality stretched just as the skin of the wizards had done.

Daemonic things pressed against the thinning barrier, their power seeping through the sundered gap. Alarielle knew that in moments a host of the Plague God’s daemons would break through, summoned by the destruction, for Nurgle found life in all death.

At the heart of the flesh-icon, the sorcerers remained – small mounds of sentient meat no bigger than a fist, forming porcine eyes and fanged mouths. Yet for all she urged her spirit-warriors to attack, the line of Chaos followers held amidst the bellows of ancients and the crash of blades.

Alarielle summoned the depths of her hatred and with it fuelled her courage. She dared one more time to send her spirit into the quagmire of Nurgle that filled the tower. Holding tight to the threads of magic that sustained her, the Everqueen dived into the spirit-morass.

Ignoring the slithering, sliding things that were breaking through into her realm, she drove directly for the final remnants of Ancient Holodrin and Clan Faech. This time she would not be repulsed. Like a bolt she sped into their midst with the full glory of her battle-song.

We are afraid! You abandoned us! You will desert us again.

Their plaintive wails did not sway her. Whatever wrong had been done to these spirits in the past, whatever transgressions she and they had committed against their own people, the sylvaneth fought and died as one.

‘I am the Everqueen – the font of life, the despairing storm, the wrathspring. I do not command your loyalty, I demand it!’ She reached out as though with her hand and seized up the guttering remnants of the sylvaneth souls. ‘Your fear counts for nothing. You will fight!’

The ground shuddered, and a moment later the dark tower split asunder, dividing into its three parts in a shower of offal and rotten wood. The great tree of the Vale of Winternight, silver-barked and white-leaved, erupted from the falling ruin, its branches gleaming with soulpods.

Alarielle’s essence raced along the branches, liberating trapped spirits even as the first daemons tore their way into the Realm of Life. Heartseeds fell like rain, and where each landed a sylvaneth sprang forth – branchwyches and branchwraiths, treelords and dryads, tree-revenants and ancients. And with them was unleashed wrathful Ancient Holodrin, a towering pine-lord with silver needles and claws like scimitars.

The lord of Clan Faech brought down a foot onto the mewling flesh-pile that was the sorcerer trio. Grinding them under his roots, the ancient tore the heart out of the Nurgle sigil, blood and mud and daemon becoming a single bubbling cataract of dissipating power. His booming roar crashed as a wave over the fighting, swelling the war-song of the sylvaneth.

‘The Vale of Winternight belongs to us! Obliterate the defilers!’

Screaming, bellowing and howling, the freed spirits of Clan Faech hurled themselves at the beset Chaos warriors.

‘Would that I had felt such courage sooner, great queen,’ said Ancient Holodrin, making obeisance to his ruler. The taint of Nurgle was already seeping away, fresh tufts of grass and red blooms consuming the bodies of the Plague God’s mortal followers.

‘There are none of my folk that are strangers to fear,’ Alarielle replied. ‘When all is nearly lost, one thinks only to cling to what is left. I am not guiltless in such regard. The ages have turned and a different season is upon us. We cannot seek to simply resist our inevitable decline. A new power is coming, and we must allow ourselves to be borne up on the fresh tide or be washed away forever.’

‘What new power, Everqueen?’ asked Holodrin.

She looked up to the skies. Against any natural wind, clouds were gathering, tinged with azure light. Lightning flickered, not of any mortal origin.

‘We are not alone,’ she said. Sadness marred her divine features for a moment. ‘It was only fear that made me think that we ever were.’

The Outcast

Josh Reynolds

‘Filthy trees,’ Goral rumbled. ‘They offend me, Blighthoof.’ The Lord-Duke of Festerfane stroked his steed’s cadaverous neck as he spoke. The horse-thing squealed, shaking its lice-infested mane in what might have been agreement. It pawed at the ground with a hoof, causing the root-riddled soil to split and smoke. Goral leaned forwards in his mouldering saddle as his Rotbringers felled another tree. It toppled with a bone-shaking groan and struck the ground with a loud crash.

‘That’s the way. Hew them down, my brothers. Shatter their branches and befoul their stumps. Make the land weep sweet tears, in Nurgle’s name,’ Goral said, gesturing with his axe, Lifebiter. Filth-stained blades and rusty cleavers bit down again and again, tearing, gouging, chopping. Bark ruptured and roots tore loose of the soil with popping sounds as branches cracked and bent. More trees fell, clearing his warband a path into the heart of the vast, black forest known as the Writhing Weald.

It had taken them days to get this far. Then, the Writhing Weald was more stubborn than most. It had swallowed a dozen warbands over the centuries, remaining verdant and untamed despite the best efforts of Nurgle’s servants. But no longer. As a knight in good standing of the Order of the Fly, it was Goral’s duty – no, his honour – to make these simpering lands fit for the glopsome tread of Grandfather himself. And once he found the forest’s heart, Nurgle’s will would be done.

‘Chop them down and stoke the fires,’ Goral said, trusting his voice to carry to the flyblown ears of all seventy-seven of his warriors. ‘We will choke the air with smoke and ash, and call down a boiling rain once we have found the great stones which are the heart of this place. Grandfather will water the soil with the blessed pus of his Garden, and we shall make this wild place fit for civilised men. By this axe, I so swear.’

Goral lifted Lifebiter and felt the weight of the baleful blessing wrought into its rust-streaked blade. It pulled at his soul and left pleasant welts on his flesh where he clutched it. The weapon had a cruel life of its own, desirous of nothing save the chopping of bark and bone. It had been a gift – a token of appreciation by the Lady of Cankerwall, whose fungal demesne he’d preserved from the depredations of the ancient change-wyrm, Yhul.

He thought of her and smiled. Regal and infested, clad in tattered, mouldering finery, she had seemed sad at his leaving, and pressed Lifebiter on him as a sign of her esteem. The axe had been borne by her father-in-decay, and his father before him all the way back to the beginning of the Age of Chaos, and now Goral carried it, with her blessing and in her service. Its pitted blade had been touched by the finger of Nurgle himself, and imbued with a mighty weird. It was an axe worthy of the name Lifebiter and he hoped he was worthy of its destructive potential, and her trust in him. Like Blighthoof, or the scabrous armour fused to his swollen flesh, it was a sign of Grandfather’s favour.

And that favour was why he, above all others, had been sent to accomplish this task. For it required speed of thought and surety of limb, as well as faith in the will of Nurgle. Goral raised his axe and bellowed encouragement as another tree fell. Around him, his vanguard of pestilent knights did the same, calling out to their brothers in support or mockery as they saw fit. Like Goral, they too served the Order of the Fly, and had supped from the unhallowed grail which dangled from Nurgle’s belt. In them was the strength of despair and the will of the gods made manifest.

‘Beat them, break them, burn them,’ the knights chanted, in low, hollow voices. Their flyblown steeds screeched and buzzed, tearing at the ground with claws and hooves. Goral joined his voice to theirs, but as he did so, the remaining trees began to sway slightly, as if in a breeze. The chanting died away, as did the sounds of labour, as every rotten ear strained to hear the sound, in case it was the sign that they had been seeking.

It was a soft thing. Like loose leaves scraping across stone. Goral tightened his grip on his axe. Soft sounds were dangerous in the forests of Ghyran. Blighthoof stirred restlessly. The horse-thing whickered and Goral patted the sagging flesh of its neck. ‘Easy,’ he murmured. Far above, in the high canopy, branches rustled and then fell silent.

Goral looked around. He feared no mortal enemy, but this was something else. He could smell it, stirring in the dark. Like sap gone sour and rotting leaves. An old smell, almost familiar, but… not. It choked him, and made his stomach turn. The forest was alive with a thousand eyes, watching, waiting.

He’d fought the tree spirits before, with axe and balefire. Nevertheless, it was unnerving. They came so suddenly, and with such ferocity that even a moment of inattention could mean the difference between life and death. ‘Where are you?’ he muttered. ‘I can feel you, watching. Are you afraid, little saplings? Do you fear the bite of my steel?’ He lifted his weapon, waiting. Nothing answered his challenge.

But they would. This realm, the Jade Kingdoms entire, was waking up now, and all of the dark things within it. The forest-queen had been driven from her hidden vale, and into the wilds. Now trees marched on Festerfane and a thousand of Nurgle’s other holdings. What was once a certainty had become mutable. Goral couldn’t have been more pleased. It had been decades at least since he had faced a worthy challenge.

The sound faded, as quickly as it had come. As it paled, a new, more welcome noise replaced it. The guttural barking of Chaos hounds. The beasts loped into view, bounding over fallen trees with long-limbed grace. They were shaggy and covered in sores, their blunt, squashed muzzles streaming with slobber and snot. They had bulging, compound eyes and worm-pale tongues which lolled as they sprang at Goral in greeting. Their high-pitched yelps momentarily overwhelmed even the crash of falling trees and Goral laughed as he swatted an overly affectionate hound off his saddle.

‘Hail and well met, my lord,’ a rasping voice said. A broad figure, swaddled in grimy furs and filthy armour stepped out of the trees, one bandage-wrapped hand resting on the cracked hilt of his sword. His other hand held a thin, broken shape balanced on his shoulder. The hound-master’s face was swollen with what might have been insect bites, and tiny black shapes writhed beneath his tight, shiny flesh.

‘Hail and well met, Uctor. Good hunting, then?’ Goral asked. Uctor had fought beside him for longer than any other, and was, like Goral, a servant of the Order of the Fly. The hound-master was strong in the ways of war, and as loyal as one of the four-legged beasts which trotted at his side. Goral had dispatched him to locate their prey, as his Rotbringers set the fires that would flush them from hiding. He gestured to the thing on Uctor’s shoulder. ‘Have you brought me a prize?’

‘Aye, my lord,’ Uctor said. He let his burden fall to the ground and planted a foot on its back. He caught hold of the protruding, antler-like branches and bent its inhuman features up for his lord’s inspection. The tree-thing was dead, or as good as. Golden sap ran from the cracks in its face and stained the ground where Uctor had deposited it.

‘Can it speak?’

Uctor made a face. ‘Can they ever? They are but brutes. No more capable of conversation than my maggot-hounds,’ he said. He let the head sag, and it thumped to the ground. The whole thing had begun to shiver and crack apart. It was dying. Goral could see the blistered wounds where the infectious jaws of Uctor’s hounds had savaged the tree spirit. They were such fragile things, for being so deadly.

‘But where there is one, there are others,’ Goral said. Uctor nodded.

‘Aye. They’re there, my lord. Your fires have flushed them out and my hounds have their scent now,’ Uctor said, with a phlegm-soaked cough. ‘We caught this one out easily enough, but it was a straggler.’ He patted the head of one of the Chaos hounds affectionately and the squirming beast wriggled in pleasure, blistered tail thumping the ground. The others gambolled about their master’s bandaged feet, gargling in excitement or snuffling at the dying tree spirit. ‘The others are deeper in the wood. All fleeing in the same direction, I’d wager.’

‘To the stones at the forest’s heart,’ Goral growled.

‘Aye,’ Uctor said, giving a gap-toothed smile. He slapped his corroded breastplate with a flabby hand. ‘Sure as my black heart beats, my lord. We find the others, and we find the heartstones. All together, and waiting for the axe to fall.’

Goral sat back in his saddle and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Finally,’ he murmured. The heartstones were the unyielding soul of this place, or so the Lady of Cankerwall had claimed – an unnatural outcrop of sorcerous rock, which spilled crystal-clear waters to feed the ever-growing roots of the forest. She was a seer without equal, and could read the skeins of fate and moment in the effluvial smoke of her bubbling pox-cauldrons. He remembered her voice in that instant, and the way she had looked at him with her blind, crusted eyes. There had been something there, he thought. Some trace of… what? Sadness? What did you see, my lady? He pushed the thought aside and ran a thumb along the edge of Lifebiter’s blade and relished the moment of pain.

Pain brought clarity. Clarity was Nurgle’s gift to his chosen. To see the world as it was, stripped bare of the tattered masks of desire and hope, leaving only a beautiful despair. There was comfort in surrender, and joy in acceptance. There was love there, at the heart of all endings, and serenity at the end of all things. And it was that bleak serenity which the Order of the Fly served. Goral glanced at his knights. He knew their names and stories, for they were all brothers in despair – some were heroes in their own right, like brawny, boil-encrusted Sir Culgus, who had held the Bridge of Scabs for twelve days against the blood-mad hordes of Khorne, while others, like young Pallid Woes in his seeping, ochre tabard and rune-marked bandages, had yet to earn their spurs in battle.

Pride swept through him, as, one and all, they met his gaze. He raised Lifebiter. ‘For the honour of the Order of the Fly, and for the glory of Nurgle,’ he said. Serrated swords, jagged axes and filth-encrusted maces rose in salute. All around the clearing, Rotbringers, seeing the gesture, readied themselves to march.

He looked down at Uctor. ‘We go quietly from here, like the sleeping sickness on a summer’s eve. Lead the way, hound-master. Take us to our prize.’ Uctor nodded and turned, chivvying his maggot-hounds into motion. The beasts gurgled in pleasure and loped away, Uctor trotting in their wake. Goral and his warriors followed.

Goral felt Lifebiter squirm in his grip. The axe was eager. It knew its business, as did he. The heartstones of the Writhing Weald were close. And when he had them in his power, this place would know true dread. He looked down at the dying tree spirit as he rode past it. ‘Toss that rubbish on the fire. Then lead me to my prey, hound-master. I have a forest to tame.’

The Outcast sleeps.

Her addled thoughts surge up and drop down into the darkness at the root of her, crashing and cascading over rocks made from broken memories. There is only the rush and roar of it in her mind, drowning out all else save the wind of the reaping.

The war-wind.

The Outcast cannot hear anything over the shriek of the wind save her own voice, and that but dimly. It has always been that way, for as long as she can remember. Which is not long, as her folk judge things. Her mind fades with the seasons, reason growing bare like wind-stripped branches before renewing itself once more. In the season of flourishing, she can almost hear the song of the sylvaneth. In the season of lifeswell, she can hear the trees whispering to one another as they stretch towards the sun. They do not speak to her, but she hears them nonetheless.

But now, at this moment, the Outcast hears only the sounds of war. She hears the weeping of the trees as their bark splits and their sap runs. She hears the leaves of the canopy shriek as the flames gobble them up. She hears the groan of the soil as poison spills over it, and the impotent roaring of the rocks as their surfaces are left seeping and scarred. But there are other stones and these do not roar, but instead sing. Desperately, defiantly, they sing.

The Outcast hears it all, but does not stir. She refuses to stir. She will sleep. She will sleep until the world rots to nothing, and then she will sleep forevermore. Better to sleep, better to rot away with the world than to hear, to see… what?

What do you fear, Drycha Hamadreth?

The voice is soft, at first. Like the sound of newly sprouted leaves rustling in a breeze. A gentle sound, and its placidity infuriates the Outcast, though she cannot fathom why.

Awaken, daughter of my soul. Awaken, Drycha Hamadreth.

The voice grows stronger and the Outcast shivers in her sleep. The sound of rain striking the canopy, the hint of distant thunder. There is pleading there, but also warning. The Outcast wants to speak, to reach out, but something in her… refuses. It is stubborn. She is stubborn. She will not be moved by pleas, by whispered entreaties.

Heed me, best beloved one. Heed the words of the Everqueen. Awaken.

Petulant, the Outcast turns away. She is almost awake now, for the first time in a long time. Or perhaps not. She only stirs when time stands still, when the world shudders and whines on its track. The Outcast stirs only with the war-wind. That is what she knows. She is not beloved, best or otherwise. She is unloved, unheard, unremembered. She is forgotten, until the season of reaping and despair, until the roots suckle seas of blood. Until the stones which anchor the worldroots scream out in desperation.

The voice rises like the wind. There are no words now, merely force of will. It pushes at her, jostling against the walls of sleep, shaking her from the dark. The Outcast screams in rage, trying to resist. She is strong, and her roots stretch deep. But the voice – her voice – is the soil which holds those roots. It is the moisture which nourishes them, and the wind which rips them loose. The Outcast grips the darkness nonetheless, even as the shadows slip away, caught in the whirlwind of the voice. Her voice.

Alarielle.

Up, cruel one. Up, wildling. Up, Outcast. Awaken and rise.

Awaken.

Awaken, Drycha Hamadreth.

The Outcast awakens and screams.

The howl set the carrion crows in the upper branches to flight, and caused Blighthoof to snarl in agitation. It had come from close by. Too close for comfort. Goral twisted in his saddle, searching for the source of the sound. But rather than having one point of origin, it seemed to echo from every knothole and shadow. It slithered between the trees and filled the empty silence of the Writhing Weald. It was like a rumble of thunder, or the growl of an avalanche. ‘Steady,’ he called out, as his warriors muttered among themselves.

Even with the comforting, sickly light that spilled from the balefire torches his warriors carried, the darkness felt as if it were pressing in on them. ‘These cursed trees fair swallow the light,’ Sir Culgus croaked. In the silence which had descended in the wake of the scream, his voice seemed abominably loud.

‘We’ll give them more light than they can choke down, when we set our balefires to blazing,’ Goral rumbled. ‘We shall cast back the shadows of life, and reveal our horrors with perfect clarity.’ The words sounded good, but the dark remained, and the echoes of the scream as well. What had it been? Some animal, perhaps. There were beasts aplenty in these forests – iridescent wyrms, their scales flashing emerald, and packs of scuttling spiders, each as large as a Chaos hound. But no beast he knew of screamed like that.

Despite his bravado, his warriors crowded together. The voice of Grandfather was but a dim rumble here. There were the bones of men and monsters filling the hollows within the roots – a stark reminder that they were not the first warband to attempt this feat. Every Rotbringer felt the choking weight of uncorrupted life on the air, seeking to smother them. Uctor used his broad, broken-tipped sword to chop a path through the tangled density of the forest. Sir Culgus and the others did the same, hacking at the branches and roots which seemed to rise up in opposition to them.

Goral longed to topple the trees, and burn their roots to ash. But that was a fool’s game. They could burn a thousand trees and make no impact on the Writhing Weald’s size. It grew larger with every passing year, denying Nurgle his rightful due. The forest swallowed bastions and pox-gardens, setting back the hard work of ages. Only by taking control of the heartstones of the Writhing Weald could Nurgle claim this forest as he had others, such as the Grove of Blighted Lanterns or the Glade of Horned Growths. Only by cleaving the great stones he’d seen in the visions conjured by the Lady of Cankerwall, and blighting the crystal source-waters which fed the cursed trees looming above them, could he salvage this place.

Branches cracked and splintered in the dark, noises separate from the thud of axes and the rattle of swords. Unseen things were moving past the Rotbringers, flowing away from them, heading… where? Goral peered into the dark as he urged Blighthoof on. What were they fleeing from – his Rotbringers, or something else? Again, he wondered what the Lady had seen, and what she had not told him. He shook his head, banishing his fears. ‘We are the hunters in this forest, not the hunted. Grandfather stands at my right hand, and the King of Flies at my left,’ he murmured. Lifebiter quivered encouragingly.

‘Almost there, my lord,’ Uctor murmured. The hound-master was trudging alongside him. ‘We caught the other one around here. You can hear them… and feel that? Something is calling them home to the forest’s heart.’ He shook his head. ‘They always run.’

Goral grunted. The air was reverberating now with a bone-deep throb that set his remaining teeth to itching. It was as if the scream had been but a prelude to this new intrusion of noise. The heartstones, he thought. He could feel it in his bones. Blighthoof whickered softly. He looked up, eyes narrowed.

Something shone, out in the dark. At first, he thought it was balefire, but it lacked the oily sheen. Instead, it put him in mind of sunlight reflected on rolling waters. Goral’s lip curled. The forest was filled with sound now, so that the noise of the Rotbringers’ approach was obscured. The trees were shuddering as if caught in a hurricane wind, and the shadows were full of movement. He kicked Blighthoof into a gallop, and Sir Culgus and the others followed his example. Uctor led the rest of the Rotbringers in Goral’s wake, his hounds yelping and scuttling around him.

Goral slowed as he reached the edges of the light, and lifted Lifebiter in a signal to dismount. The other knights jerked on their reins, causing their steeds to rear and screech. Goral slid from the saddle and led Blighthoof forwards. The light, soft as it was, stung his eyes and skin, and he raised Lifebiter to shade his face. The trees and their tangling roots began to thin and bend, revealing a vast, rotunda-like glade. The canopy overhead was so thick that no light could pierce its shadowed recesses.

The trees at the edges of the clearing bent outwards, as if pushed away from the edifice which occupied its grassy heart. Even the roots were humped and coiled, like paving stones leading into a sacred temple. And at the centre of the glade, radiating a soft light and unbearable warmth, were the stones. Goral hissed in satisfaction. Even as the Lady of Cankerwall had promised.

The stones were large, many hands taller than the gaunt, branch-antlered tree spirits which had gathered before them, crooked talons raised as if in supplication. The man-sized creatures surrounded the stones in a loose circle. A trickle of gleaming water poured down from some unseen source within the stones, and dampened the verdant grasses. A shroud of vibrant green moss almost obscured the strange sigils which had been carved into the flat face of each of the stones. Goral didn’t recognise the markings, for they were unlike any dread marking or bane-symbol he was familiar with. But whatever they were, Lifebiter was eager to deface them.

The axe strained in his hands like one of Uctor’s hounds, its thorny haft digging painfully into his palms. Some instinct held him back. If they attacked now, the tree spirits would simply scatter and vanish. The forest would swallow them up, and even Uctor wouldn’t be able to track them. Let them begin, he thought. Let them start whatever they had come to this place to do. Then, and only then, would come the time to strike.

As one, the tree spirits extended their arms and their bark-like flesh began to unravel and stretch with a cacophonous hiss. Talon and claw blended, forming an unbroken ring of bodies about the circumference of the shining stones. Root-like toes dug into the soil, anchoring them. Branch-laced skulls tipped back as jagged mouths opened, and a dirge-like groan rose. Softly at first, but growing louder and deeper with every moment. The sound pulsated on the air, pounding at Goral’s ears as he climbed back into Blighthoof’s saddle.

‘What are they doing?’ the young knight, Pallid Woes, mumbled through the seeping bandages wrapped about his head. He pointed as he hauled himself up onto his own steed, and Goral looked. The stones were shining as brightly as the moon, where they were not covered in moss. Leaves rose, cast into the air by the wind. The song of the tree spirits rose, higher and fiercer. The stones shimmered and grew indistinct as the light swelled.

It was even as the Lady of Cankerwall had said, and Grandfather through her. The secret of the Writhing Weald, and why no one had been able to find its thudding, stony heart. The accursed tree-things were singing it elsewhere. Singing it to safety. If it was allowed to vanish, Goral and his warriors might spend a century searching before stumbling across it again.

‘Now. Take them now.’ Goral kicked Blighthoof into a gallop and charged towards the ring of preoccupied tree-folk. ‘For Nurgle and the Garden!’ Lifebiter wailed eagerly as he swung it down on one of the tree-things, splitting it from branches to trunk. The edges of the wound turned black and powdery and the golden sap of the creature became turgid and murky as the axe’s venom took hold. The tree spirit toppled with a rattling cry, tearing loose from its fellows, and the dreadful song faltered for a moment before rising anew.

Goral jerked on Blighthoof’s reins, turning his steed about. ‘They are trying to steal our prize, brothers. Teach them the folly of denying Grandfather his due,’ he roared, urging Blighthoof towards more of the tree-things that lurched out of the forest, seeking to defend their cowardly ritual. The one in the lead was far larger than the others, more than three times the height of a man, with a gnarled bulk that bespoke a monstrous strength. Goral thought it was surely a lord of its kind. The massive being strode to meet his charge as its followers swarmed in its wake, its every step causing the ground to shake.

As he drew close, roots suddenly rose up like striking serpents and tangled about Blighthoof’s legs. The horse-thing shrilled and lashed out, but the roots were everywhere. Goral struck with Lifebiter, hacking through the writhing tendrils. The axe vibrated in his hand, pleased. A moment later, the treelord loomed over him. Goral gagged as the stink of the living forest engulfed him.

Scything talons scraped down his armour. The force of the blow nearly tore him from the saddle. Goral laughed, despite the pain. ‘Yes, yes! Fight me, you creaking horror,’ he roared, spinning Lifebiter about. He sliced a divot out of his opponent’s flesh, shattering branches and tearing vines. Black strands of corruption spread from the edges of the wound, and the treelord staggered. Its agonised wheeze sounded like branches clattering in a windstorm. Bark bubbled and sloughed away. The treelord flung out a talon, and Goral was forced to turn Blighthoof aside as a storm of squirming roots shot towards him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pallid Woes gallop towards the treelord, flail whirling above his head. The creature creaked aside, more swiftly than Goral would have thought possible, avoiding the charge. Long arms snapped out, and Woes was snatched from his saddle. He cried out Nurgle’s name, but to no avail. The treelord gave a twist of its claws, and wrung the young knight’s body like a wet rag, crushing him and dappling the thirsty roots with his blood. It flung what was left aside and turned as Goral gave a cry and charged.

More roots pierced the air, arrowing towards the Lord-Duke. They struck his armour and spread like oil, wriggling into every nook and cranny. Others burrowed beneath Blighthoof’s flesh, causing the horse-thing to buck and squeal in pain. Roaring, Goral slashed at the writhing roots, trying to cut his way free. He could feel them tightening about him as the treelord stomped towards him.

‘Leave him, beast,’ Uctor shouted. The loyal hound-master hewed at the treelord’s legs with wild abandon, his rusted sword carving weeping gouges in the creature’s jagged bark. Uctor’s maggot-hounds burbled and snarled as they worried at the darting roots. The treelord turned, eyes blazing with an eerie light. It swatted Uctor from his feet with a swing of its long arm.

‘Mistake,’ Goral said, with a guttural laugh. ‘I’m the one you should be worried about, brute.’ Blighthoof surged forwards with a whinny and drove its shoulder into the treelord’s back. As the monstrosity turned with a creaking roar, Goral drove Lifebiter into the centre of its face. The treelord staggered back with a scream, a pungent smoke spewing from the wound. Golden trails of sap spattered Goral’s arm and chest as he swung the axe again and sheared off one of his opponent’s branches.

The treelord stumbled away from him, clutching at its ruined head. It sank down, moaning hoarsely. Satisfied that it was all but finished, Goral turned. He saw Sir Culgus tear the head from a tree-thing with one sweep of his sword as it tried to crawl away. A few of his warriors had fallen, but not so many that they could not do what they had come here to do, and they had not died alone. Sap-oozing bodies lay broken and twisted across the glade.

He felt some relief in finding that the heartstones still stood where he’d seen them last. They still glowed and pulsed, but not with the stinging brightness. Their vibratory song had grown muted, like the panting of a wounded animal. Soon, you will sing again – but this time, it will be a tune more to Grandfather’s liking, Goral thought, pleased. He felt like howling his triumph to the skies. Instead, he turned, seeking the fallen treelord. He would extract a measure of joy from the creature’s stiff hide. Perhaps he would even lay its head at the feet of his Lady of Cankerwall, as proof of his devotion. Will you offer me a smile then, my lady? His own smile faded as he realised that the treelord was gone.

Goral cursed. A trail of spilled sap led out of the glade. It hadn’t been as wounded as he’d thought. ‘Hunt the wounded one down, Uctor,’ Goral snarled, angry at himself. ‘I want that brute’s branches for my trophy-rack. It must pay for daring to defy Nurgle’s will.’ And for denying me the joy of the kill, he thought savagely.

‘We’ll strip the bark from whatever passes for its bones, my lord,’ the huntsman said, whistling for his dogs. The wormy Chaos hounds yelped and bounded out of the glen, loping after the wounded treelord. They had gotten a taste of its roots and were excited to finish the job they had started. Goral knew how they felt.

He knew he should not leave. The Lady had said he must embed Lifebiter in the heart of this place to accomplish his quest. But there was time enough for that, after he’d indulged himself. Perhaps he would chain the thing, rather than kill it, and drag it back to Cankerwall. Such thoughts were pleasant, if untoward. They reeked of hope, but Goral thought Grandfather would forgive him his vices.

‘Sir Culgus – see to these damnable stones. Topple them and make this place fit for Nurgle’s chosen. I’m for the hunt,’ Goral said as he thudded his heels into Blighthoof’s flanks and urged his steed after Uctor and his hounds. A number of the others followed him, ignoring Culgus’ raspy commands. Goral laughed. He was inclined to leniency. After all, was Grandfather not indulgent of his children?

‘Come brothers, ride hard,’ he shouted, still laughing. ‘Our prey awaits us!’

In her delirium, the Outcast calls out. She casts her voice into the teeth of the world, listening as it echoes through shadows and knotholes. The wind carries her call to the secret places of this weald, this wood, where sane things fear to tread. She is not alone in her status as outcast, though some part of her believes that perhaps she was the first. There are others: broken things with cracked souls and minds riven by hunger and fear.

Inside her flesh, hive-spites stir, and she feels their confusion. They have slumbered too, these tiny spirits. As they awaken, they begin to speak in their high, buzzing voices, murmuring to her as children to their mother. They seek comfort and reassurance, but she has none to give them. There is nothing of the nurturer in her, nothing of the caretaker. The song of the sylvaneth is not for her, or hers. Only the song of the reaping. Only the war-song.

She begins to sing. And as she sings, she strides the root-road through the shadows of the forest, at once insubstantial and implacable. The forest is under attack. The sound of its pain catches and tears at her secret knots, loosening some and pulling others painfully taut. Memories mutter deep in her, the sound of them almost lost among the murmurings of her spites. She twitches, trying to see through the murk of what once was or what might have been, and find the trail of the now. Her feet seek the hard path of the present.

Something happened. That is all the Outcast knows. Some black moment, forever etched in the bark of the world. The Everqueen knows, but will not say. The Outcast shrieks again, in frustration now, rather than command. She can feel the edges of that black moment in the air and soil, like a wound that will not heal. It reverberates through her, searing her mind and filling her with dread purpose. The land is sick and dying, but not dead yet. Not yet, and never again. The Outcast will not allow it. Not again.

The thought snags, uncomfortably close to epiphany. The Outcast remembers lies and forgets truth, or so the Everqueen has said. That is why she is outcast. And the word of the Everqueen is law, thus her words must be true. But then why does the Outcast remember them? Questions hum through her mind like wasps in a hive. Her thoughts race like fire through dry grass, igniting old fears and desires. She has been asleep for so long… so long… Her roots ache with need, and the hive-spites nestled within her hiss eagerly.

It is time to hunt… to hunt… to hunt, she sings. The need is like a creek swelled by the springsfed tide, unnoticed until it is no longer ignorable, and then all-consuming, all at once. It races through her roots and branches, filling her.

The trees are singing as well, but she cannot hear them. She sees them swaying with the wind, their roots stretching deeper and deeper, seeking strength as she strides past, cloaked all in shadow. Leaves twitch back, afraid to touch her or be touched. She is anathema, forgotten, outcast. So Alarielle has said and the word of the Everqueen is law. The forests fear her, and rivers recede at her approach. Animals and spirits fall silent in her wake. Root-claws gouge the earth as she stalks forwards now, growing, unfolding. Sap runs and forms, layer after layer. Scything talons of bark and stone and vine sprout, swell and flatten. They thin to well-used points. They will tear iron and crush bone. The Outcast is still singing as she pulls herself through the shuddering trees, leaving tiny scratches on their trembling bark to remind them of this moment.

Remember me… Remember this moment, she sings, as the forest begins to scream. She can hear the wails of the dryads and the agonised bellow of one of the ancients. The great song falters, interrupted. Its last notes hang suspended, quavering, on the air. Her song matches the echo and drives it to flight. Hers is the only melody now, whatever the Everqueen intended. You have called, and I have come. I am here… I hunt… I slay… Remember.

The Outcast laughs and the forest falls silent, abashed. Then, a sigh of noise fills the emptiness, like a soft black whisper. The broken ones. They have found her trail, and follow her now, snuffling at her heels. They slash past her, broken bat-like shapes and gaunt, loping shades, chittering and shrieking. The reaper-kin, the reavers and outcast-kind. They have heard her song, and found it to their liking. They fly at her command, laughing in mad joy. They will hunt the forest, and harry the foe, and drive them back towards her.

She does not slow as she reaches the glade where the heartstones thud in fear. The pounding of the stones calls out to her, drawing her on as Alarielle knew it would. Fully awake now, the Outcast feels the weight of the world’s pain and she desires nothing more than to punish those who would dare set foot in the holy places of the sylvaneth. The glade glows with warm light as she enters its circle in a skirl of leaves.

She sees the defilers, the rotten ones, the grub-men, through the eyes of every tree and blade of grass, all at once and from a thousand directions. They are small, compared to her, and their souls are weak things, flickering on the edge of awareness. Like her, they are deaf to the song, though they lack even the knowledge of their handicap. But she will show them.

The Outcast tears through the veil of worlds. They are slow to react, slow to understand. She lunges towards the closest of them, and fills the air with sour blood. Trees bend towards her as she attacks, uprooted and added to her mass, despite their protests. She reaches out, crushing the head of another of the would-be defilers as easily as she might snatch a worm from the soil. They are so fragile, the Outcast thinks, these piles of meat and muscle. They are ephemeral things, bundles of scattered moments soon forgotten. But dangerous… so dangerous.

They have wounded the realm. The sky weeps poison and the rivers are stagnant. She feels it all with every breath, and tears of sap run down her cheeks. But it is rage she feels, not sadness. The Outcast is not the Everqueen. I will not run… I will not hide, she thinks. I will hunt… I will slay… I will kill until the trees grow fat on red water.

She kills two more before they see her fully, for she is cloaked in a storm of leaves and splintered branches. The forest seeks to hide her monstrousness, ashamed. It needs her and hates her for that need, though she does not understand why. Animals squeal and stamp as she ravages among them, snapping their greenstick bones and tearing their filthy flesh. They are half-dead already, these things, as are their riders. So much mulch, for the hungry soil. A heavyset warrior, clad in boils and barnacled iron, heaves himself towards her, spewing the high-pitched bird noises which pass for words among his kind.

The Outcast cannot stand the shrill screams of the meat. They do not sing. They squeak and scream, too fast, too high. She desires their silence. A foul blade bites into her hives, eliciting shrieks of outrage from her spites. Flitterfuries pour from the honeycombs in her arms and shoulders and swirl about the warrior in a glittering, stinging cloud. The spites drive him back as the Outcast advances. She tears the blade from his hands and catches his flabby face in her talons. He hammers at her bark with ineffectual fists, still squeaking.

Why do they talk so much, she wonders. Why do they clog the air with words and the sound of meat slapping against meat? Fragile… so fragile, she thinks, as she pulls the sour one’s head apart, stripping flesh and muscle from bone, one red blossom at a time. His squeals fall silent, and she sighs in relief. Bits of his flesh dangle from her claws, but the Outcast loses interest as a ring of iron and fire surrounds her. She hisses and her spites hiss with her. They stream from her hives and launch themselves at the enemy. The ring of iron and fire comes apart as she strides through the glen, stalking and killing.

Some flee, rather than face her. These, the Outcast ignores as she continues her butchery. The forest will take them. The broken ones will drag them into the dark. That is their pleasure. Like her, they are hidden beneath the canopy, forgotten and ignored until the reaping comes and the war-wind blows.

When the last of the defilers dangles ruined from her claws, she stops. The song of the heartstones has caught her attention and for an instant, just an instant, the song of the reaping gives way to the blooming and war is drowned out by peace. The Outcast sways in place, listening, and in that moment, she is outcast no longer. She is Drycha Hamadreth, first daughter of the sylvaneth, auspicious and honoured. She hears the song of her kin for the first time in a long time, and feels the tears of Isha upon her cheeks. See me… hear me… she croons, reaching out with one monstrous talon.

She wishes to touch them, just for a moment. To feel again the warmth of the blooming and the suns. To taste the sweet waters, so long denied her. She wishes…

A sour one moans at her feet. The moment is broken. She lifts a foot and stomps down, turning bones to powder and flesh to jelly. No… do not touch me… fear me, the Outcast hisses, glaring at the trembling heartstones. For an instant, she almost forgot… no. She will never forget and never remember. For her, there is no song. There is only the now. There is only the reaping and the wind.

The Outcast throws back her head and screams.

The treelord was gone.

A trail of golden sap marked its stumbling flight. The trees sought to hide it, but Uctor’s hounds found it and followed it regardless. They led Goral and the others on a yelping chase, away from the glade and the hateful light of the stones. Golden handprints and smears led them deeper into the dark and the quiet of the forest, until the only light was that of their torches and the only sound was the susurrus of the leaves.

But their quarry was nowhere to be found. Even Uctor’s hounds seemed to have lost the trail, and they now circled and yelped in apparent confusion. Goral cursed and smacked a fist on his saddle horn. Some part of him had expected as much. ‘Where is that cursed thing? It can’t have gotten far, not with the wounds I gave it,’ he said. He glared down at Uctor, wanting an answer, though he knew the hound-master would not know.

Before Uctor could reply, a monstrous shriek echoed through the forest. The yelping Chaos hounds fell silent and slunk back towards their master, tails tucked between their legs. The shriek seemed to grow in strength, reverberating in the dark, before finally fading away. Goral gripped Lifebiter more tightly. ‘What is that blasted thing? Why does it not come out, if it wishes to challenge us?’ he said. He straightened in his saddle and peered into the dark. He thought he saw something moving beneath the shroud of roots, but dismissed the idea. A serpent, he thought. Or some weak spirit, seeking to hide from them.

‘My hounds don’t like it, my lord,’ Uctor said, peering at the trees warily. ‘There’s something new in the air, a smell…’

Goral nodded. He could detect it as well. At first, he’d thought it was the stones and whatever magic was seeping from them inundating the surrounding trees, but this wasn’t the smell of either rock or sorcery. Not quite. It was a sickly sweet reek, like too-ripe flowers. Close to the pleasing odour of rot, but not quite. And it was everywhere, and growing stronger. Like the hint of rain, heralding a storm, he thought. But the smell wasn’t the whole of it.

The trees were trembling. But not, he thought, from fear. No, they were trembling with anticipation. As if the forest were a wounded animal, and it was about to turn on its hunters. They seemed to crowd around his warriors, and the roots beneath their feet twisted slowly into new and horrid shapes. It’s waking up, he thought, and he couldn’t say why he’d thought it. They’d hacked and burned a scar across its face, but it was only now stirring.

For the first time in a long time, Goral felt what might have been the embers of an old and forgotten fear stirring. Uctor’s maggot-hounds were whimpering, and his warriors were sounding little better. They had faced the shimmer-scaled devils of the stars, and the silver-armoured warriors who rode the lightning. But now… here… their courage was stretched thin, like a ligament extended past its breaking point. The joy they’d felt only moments ago had dissipated, leaving behind only silence.

‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ Uctor said. ‘Once we shatter those stones, whatever lurks here will wither and be no more threat. We can call on aid from the rest of the Order, or rouse the musters of Festerfane and Cankerwall if need be.’

Goral ground his teeth in frustration. In the dark, something laughed. The Chaos hounds began to bay shrilly, and their horses whinnied and stamped. ‘Light – more light,’ Goral snapped. He reached down and snatched a crackling torch out of a Rotbringer’s hand. He slung it away. It rolled across the carpet of roots, casting weird shadows. His knights and warriors followed suit. The dark retreated in bits and pieces, leaving oily pools of blackness between the trees.

More laughter. Something peered at him from behind a tree. Goral twisted in his saddle, but whatever it was, it was gone. Chuckles echoed down like raindrops. Childish laughter slithered up from the roots. Goral heard wood scrape against wood. He caught glimpses of pale flesh or tangled bark, never in the same place twice.

‘Steady, brothers,’ Goral said as he tried to control his restive steed. ‘We are the hunters here. What we have claimed, they cannot take back.’ As he spoke, the laughter ceased. Silence fell.

Then, the crackling. Not of balefire, but like twigs snapping. One of his warriors gestured with his sword. ‘I saw something,’ he gurgled. ‘In that tree.’ Goral looked. The tree was a stunted thing, sheared in half by some long-ago axe stroke. In the flickering glare of the fallen torches, he could make out something moving. Many somethings.

Then, cackling, shrieking, they spilled out of the cloven tree, crooked bark-talons reaching. Pest-swollen flesh popped and tore as they swarmed over Goral’s warriors, biting and clawing. They moved quickly, like dead leaves caught in a cold wind. A Rotbringer stumbled, clutching at his torn throat. Another was yanked upwards, into the shadowy canopy, legs kicking. More of them descended on his knights, knocking them from their horses. Armour buckled and split as blows rained down. Shields splintered and shivered apart. Axes and swords were yanked from hands, or left embedded in trees. Bellowing warriors were mobbed by dozens of spirits and dragged away. Chaos hounds were pulled howling beneath the roots by unseen claws.

The blessings of Nurgle granted strength and durability, but those gifts were useless here. Cyclones of stabbing bark talons and gnashing fangs tore even the most doughty Rotbringer to bloody strips. ‘Back, fall back,’ Goral roared. He lashed out with his axe, removing a groping claw. ‘Leave me,’ he snarled as the cackling tree spirits crowded around Blighthoof. They had the faces of aged children, stretched taut across bones of root and vine. Teeth like splinters tore at his legs and Blighthoof’s neck. The horse-thing shrilled in agony and reared, lashing out with its hooves even as Goral swept his axe out, hacking at them savagely. The tree spirits retreated, but only for a moment.

Laughing, they scuttled across the trees and over the roots like insects, pursuing his remaining warriors as they retreated. Goral hauled on Blighthoof’s reins, turning his steed about. ‘Fall back to the heartstones,’ he bellowed. He couldn’t say whether any of the others heard him. He bisected a chittering spirit with Lifebiter and then turned Blighthoof away. He raced through the forest, and the tree spirits followed him, swooping and surging out of the dark. He fended them off with wild blows from his axe. Toying with me, he thought, as he bent low over Blighthoof’s neck.

He had heard stories about the malevolent spirits which lurked in the shadows of the forests. Things which were of the tree spirits, but apart from them. Twisted things, more savage and cruel than any daemon, for they were bound by no god’s will. Old things, blighted, embittered and monstrous. If these creatures infested the Writhing Weald, it was no wonder Nurgle desired its taming.

If he could make it back to the stones – shatter them, defile them – they might yet have a chance. The forest would grow weak. Goral looked around, trying to spot the light of the stones. But he saw only darkness, or the brief, bounding motion of a torch swiftly snuffed. He wondered whether Uctor was one of those. He’d lost sight of the hound-master in the attack. Goral hoped the warrior was still alive.

As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, he heard Uctor cry out, in pain or perhaps in challenge. Goral twisted Blighthoof about, pursuing the sound, and the horse-thing brayed in protest. ‘Uctor! Hold on my friend – I am coming,’ he shouted. If anyone could find their way back to the stones, it was Uctor.

‘This way my lord,’ Uctor’s voice called out, and Goral saw a spark of light. ‘Hurry! This way…’ Goral pointed Blighthoof towards the flickering of the hound-master’s torch. When he reached its light, he saw the torch on the ground, and Uctor standing just out of sight, gesturing to him. What was the fool doing? Trying to hide behind a tree? Goral grimaced. Perhaps he was injured.

‘Uctor? What–?’ Goral began. Uctor made a horrid, wet sound and what was left of him staggered into the light. His flesh had been perforated at a hundred points by thin tendrils of bark, which stretched back towards the creatures which followed close behind him. The two grey-faced spirits grinned wickedly at him as they manipulated their tendrils and made Uctor stumble like a marionette. One reached around and caught his sagging features, squeezing his mouth open. As it did so, it said, ‘This… way… this… way,’ in a raspy approximation of Uctor’s voice. The other cackled and added its voice to that of its companion. ‘This… way… this… way… this… this… this… way… hurry… hurry.’

Goral watched in revulsion as the tree spirits made his hound-master dance a merry jig, scattering droplets of blood around and around. Uctor groaned pitiably as they jerked his limbs this way and that. Then, with a final, mocking cackle, the spirits hunched forwards and stretched their talons wide, tearing Uctor apart in a welter of steaming gore. The sight of his warrior’s demise snapped Goral from his fugue and he drove his heels into Blighthoof’s sides. The horse-thing screamed and charged.

The spirits retreated, still laughing. They bounded from tree to tree, as if they were no more substantial than shadows. Enraged, Goral urged Blighthoof to greater speed. Roots blackened and decayed beneath the horse-thing’s thundering hooves. But no matter how fast his steed ran, the tree spirits stayed just out of reach.

Suddenly, Blighthoof fell screaming and Goral was hurled from the saddle. He scrambled to his feet, broken ribs scraping his heaving lungs. Blighthoof kicked and screeched in distress as roots burrowed into the muscles of its legs. Flowers and moss sprouted from the horse-thing’s abused flesh, obscuring its tattered hide. Blighthoof snapped blindly at the air as its greasy mane began to crawl with grass and thistles. More roots snaked around the horse-thing, restraining its thrashing form as it sought to rise.

‘No – Blighthoof, no, no,’ Goral wheezed as he stumbled towards Lifebiter, embedded in a stump during his fall. He jerked the axe free and staggered back towards his faithful steed. Vainly, he chopped at the vines and roots. But it was useless. Almost all of Blighthoof was shrouded in verdant greenery now, eaten away from the inside out. ‘Up, get up,’ Goral cried, trying to tear the roots away from his steed’s neck and muzzle. ‘Fight it, you stupid beast… fight…’ he trailed off. Only one of Blighthoof’s eyes was visible now, rolling madly in its weeping socket. But he could still hear the horse-thing’s agonised grunts. Goral laid his hand on the side of his steed’s head. ‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ he whispered.

Then, crying out in rage, he brought Lifebiter down on Blighthoof’s skull. The horse-thing’s thrashings slowed, then stilled. Goral tore his axe free and turned away. He limped through the trees, not caring whether he was going the right way or not. Sometimes he heard the screams of his warriors, and occasionally the pained shrieking of one of Uctor’s poor hounds. But mostly, he heard the pale, giggling things as they swept past him and above him, always out of sight. Whenever he dared to slow, to catch his breath, they hurtled towards him out of the dark, attacking until he began to move again.

Black blood and bile was running down his limbs when he at last staggered back into the glade. He shouted for Sir Culgus, but received no reply. Blearily, he scanned the glade. Besides the stones, and the crumbling bodies of the slain tree spirits, it was empty. There was no sign of the warriors he’d left to deface the glade, save for a sword embedded in the ground. He limped towards it, and as he drew close, he recognised it as Sir Culgus’ blade. Roots clung to it, and, as he watched in sickened fascination, they drew the sword down into the dark soil until it was completely lost to sight.

Goral looked down. He caught glimpses of rounded armour plates and twitching fingers covered in grass, and suspicious hummocks of moss and flowers which might have once been bodies. Branches creaked above him, but he did not look. He could hear the laughter of the tree spirits, just past the edge of the glade. They were taunting him, trying to draw him out. As they have before, he thought angrily.

The forest had drawn them in and swallowed them whole, the way it had done to uncounted others. But Goral intended to show it that it bitten off more than it could chew this time. As if they knew what he was thinking, the unseen spirits laughed again, filling his ears with their mockery.

‘I do not fear you. This is the moment I was created for,’ Goral said, lifting Lifebiter. But his words sounded hollow, and his axe shuddered fearfully in his grip. I am not afraid. I am the Lord-Duke of Festerfane and I am not afraid, he thought. The carpet of grass undulated beneath his feet. ‘I am not afraid – my moment has come! Come, come and die, monster,’ he shouted, turning slowly. ‘Where are you?’

Screams were the only reply. The screams of his warriors, as something hurt them, deep in the dark. He heard the whine of crumpling armour, and the squeals of dying horses. And above it all, the laughter. It spread like a miasma, creeping under the branches and winding about him. A low, sad sound, made horrifying by its incongruity. Whatever was out there was laughing as it spilt seas of sour blood. But there was no humour in the sound, no joy. They weren’t even enjoying the slaughter, and that made it all the worse.

Goral turned. The heartstones still throbbed. They pulsed with heat, like an infected wound. But it wasn’t the right sort of infection. It was wrong, like the forest. It was all wrong. He wondered whether the others who had fallen here had known as much, in their final moments. This place lived. It would not, could not surrender. Not to axes or fire. Not to despair. The mad did not know when they were beaten, and this place was truly mad.

He felt the old familiar fingers of despair, such as he had known only once before, when he’d been who he was, before Blighthoof had come to him. He had not been Goral then, but in despair he’d found strength. In surrender, he’d found purpose. ‘As I have found it now,’ he said, raising Lifebiter.

If he could not befoul the stones, he would destroy them. If he could not tame this place, he would lay it low, at least. He would hurt it as it had never been hurt. ‘Lend me your strength, Grandfather,’ Goral said, as he advanced on the stones. One blow would be enough to spread a contagion that would never be cured. This place would wither and die, though not immediately, and he suspected he would not be here to see it.

The pulse quickened, as if the stones knew what he intended and were afraid. He smiled. Good. It was good that he had taught them that much, at least. Lifebiter sang in his hands as he readied the killing blow. ‘In Grandfather’s name, for the honour of the Order of the Fly–’

A branch snapped behind him.

Goral spun. A blow smashed him from his feet. Somehow he managed to hold onto Lifebiter, and used the haft of the axe to lever himself upright. The thing followed him as he rose and stumbled back. How had he not seen it before? How could such a creature hide? Or had it been following him?

It was like nothing he had ever seen before, a hideous instrument of life run riot. It towered over him. Long, bestial limbs sprouted horrid blossoms across a surface that was swelling and contracting constantly. Great, honey-soaked hives clung to its shoulders and torso, their chambers full of squirming, humming shapes. Iridescent insects bored in and out of its flesh in continuous activity. Flowers blossomed, unfurled and withered in the space of moments, before repeating the cycle. Long, flat talons, dripping with gore, flexed as if in anticipation. But its face was the worst of all, at once feminine and monstrous in its nest of thorny locks.

That hideous head cocked, watching him. Gleaming tears of sap ran down its face. Goral couldn’t breathe. The air had grown thick and sweet. Insects circled him, wings shimmering with dew and light. He could no longer feel Grandfather’s presence. Lifebiter whimpered in his hands, and he knew the axe was afraid.

The moment stretched taut. The abomination lifted a claw. Goral recognised what was left of Sir Culgus’ face, twisting on a talon-tip.

‘For Nurgle, and the Garden,’ Goral roared. He lunged, Lifebiter raised. A blow rocked him back on his heels. A second lifted him into the air. Lifebiter slipped from numb fingers as he hurtled backwards. His back struck something unyielding, and he felt his spine crack. The warmth of the stones spread over him, and he clawed uselessly at the ground, trying to move away from it. He could feel it burning the blessings of Nurgle from him. The grass caressed his limbs, snaring them. Soil filled his mouth and he gagged. His legs didn’t work. In time, if he managed to get away, his back might heal, but for now, he was all but helpless. Crippled and broken. The grass pressed against him, seeking a way beneath his armour. It murmured to him and the heartstones sang softly, but he refused to listen.

Desperate now, remembering what had happened to Blighthoof, Goral tore an arm free of the winding grasses and groped for Lifebiter’s haft. If he could reach the axe… if… if… if. Wood creaked and the smell of honey filled his nose. The abomination sank to its haunches and watched him. Strange insect-like things crawled in and out of its hives. It reached out with one claw and touched Lifebiter.

The axe made a sound like a wounded cat as vines and roots rose up about its haft and slid into the wood. The haft cracked and burst, growing. The blade, blessed by Nurgle, lay where it was, avoided and ignored. Goral wondered if anyone would ever find it. Or would it lay here forever, a tainted patch in this verdant hell?

Maybe that had been Grandfather’s will all along. Infection grew from the smallest scratch, after all. He looked up at the creature, struggling to meet its gaze. His bones ached where they were not numb, and his blood was seeping into the soil. Even Grandfather’s blessings couldn’t save him. But the pain, as ever, brought clarity. I am… done, he thought. He had striven and failed and now the grass would shroud his bones. Was this what his Lady had seen, in her pox clouds? Was this moment the cause of her sadness on that final day? Had she despaired of him? He thought so, and gave silent thanks for it.

Goral looked into the dull, black eyes of his killer, and saw a most beautiful despair there. Like him, it had surrendered. Not to Nurgle, but perhaps to something worse, for its surrender had brought it no comfort. There was no joy in its eyes, no serenity. Goral smiled weakly and said, ‘You are truly beautiful, my lady. And far more damned than I.’ And when the first roots pierced his armour and the flesh beneath, Lord-Duke Goral of Festerfane smiled in contentment.

The Outcast watches the last of the defilers vanish into the soil. His rotted body, like the others, will be purged and cleansed before it is used to feed the roots of this place. The Writhing Weald grows strong on the bodies of those who seek to kill it.

And yet… she feels no satisfaction at this. She wonders what he said, in his hummingbird voice, too high and swift for her to understand. A curse, perhaps. The Outcast knows all about curses, for she is wreathed in them. They inundate her and strengthen her. More, she is a curse. Alarielle’s curse.

She hears the Everqueen’s voice on the wind, murmuring soft comforts to the trees and the sylvaneth who hide in their depths. Her words send the other Outcasts fleeing, seeking their safe places now that they are no longer needed. The reaping has passed, the Everqueen whispers, let the wind fade.

The Outcast looks up, into the canopy which twists and coils in on itself and becomes a face, vast and wise and hateful. Her face. Mother and betrayer, queen and usurper, friend and foe. To the Outcast, Alarielle slides from one to the next with every breath. She is unpredictable and terrible and weak.

The reaping has passed, Drycha Hamadreth. Cease your song, daughter.

The voice is soft, and insistent. Persistent, it dapples her mind like dew, spreading warmth, driving back the cold. And as it spreads, the Outcast hears the song, swelling out of a hundred-hundred glades, resonating within the very heart of her. In the song are echoes of other years and other lives, of time out of time, and broken worlds. The song is ancient and redolent of a world-that-was, and it rises to a triumphal thunder in her mind.

It weighs on her, burying her in its warmth. The heartstones echo with it, and as before, the Outcast wishes to feel once more the warmth of the blooming and the suns. To remember the taste of sweet waters. She is Drycha Hamadreth, first daughter of the sylvaneth. She is auspicious and honoured. She hears the song, and feels its warmth blow through her.

And then, all at once, it is gone.

The reaping is done for now, best beloved one. Sleep. Sleep.

Enraged, the Outcast stiffens. The fires of her fury, growing dim, are stoked anew. She remembers now. She will not sleep. The reaping has come, and there is yet more to be done. She is not beloved. She is unloved. She is forgotten, until the forests scream in pain, and the world trembles. Until the very realmroots call out in desperation.

No, she is awake now and she will not go back to sleep. Alarielle’s voice falls silent and her presence recedes. Perhaps she is angry at her wayward daughter, or maybe even pleased, but the Outcast does not care.

A storm is coming and Drycha Hamadreth will fight at its forefront.

She is the roar of the forest fire and the crushing weight of the avalanche. She is the moment of madness which makes animals foam and gnaw the air. She is all of these things and worse. She is the dark at the heart of the forest, and she is angry. The song of the sylvaneth is not for her or those she will call up.

Only the war-song, howling down from the high places to the low.

About the Authors

Robbie MacNiven is a highland-born History graduate from the University of Edinburgh. His hobbies include reenacting, football and obsessing over Warhammer 40,000. He has written the Deathwatch short story ‘Redblade’, and the Warhammer 40,000 stories ‘A Song for the Lost’ and ‘Blood and Iron’ for Black Library.

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Blood Angels novel Deathstorm and the Warhammer 40,000 novellas Hunter’s Snare and Dante’s Canyon, along with the audio drama Master of the Hunt, all three featuring the White Scars. In the Warhammer World, he has written the End Times novels The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, the Gotrek & Felix tales Charnel Congress, Road of Skulls and The Serpent Queen, and the novels Neferata, Master of Death and Knight of the Blazing Sun. He lives and works in Northampton.

Rob Sanders is the author of The Serpent Beneath, a novella that appeared in the New York Times bestselling Horus Heresy anthology The Primarchs. His other Black Library credits include the Warhammer 40,000 titles Adeptus Mechanicus: Skitarius and Tech-Priest, Legion of the Damned, Atlas Infernal and Redemption Corps and the audio drama The Path Forsaken. He has also written the Warhammer Archaon duology, Everchosen and Lord of Chaos along with many Quick Reads for the Horus Heresy and Warhammer 40,000. He lives in the city of Lincoln, UK.

Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Deliverance Lost, as well as the novellas Corax: Soulforge, Ravenlord and The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.

An extract from Labyrinth of the Lost.

The chamber was vast, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Its walls were smooth marble, black as night and dotted with false constellations of glinting silver. The chamber’s floor was formed from irregular flagstones of blue and purple crystal that interlocked in a chaotic tangle. Dark doorways studded the chamber’s walls, seemingly at random, while huge statues loomed menacingly along its edges. Sinister and avian beneath the stone robes that swathed them, these towering figures clutched burning braziers from which unclean firelight spilled.

At the foot of one of the strange statues, a figure stirred. A duardin Fyreslayer, clad in a dirt-stained loincloth and little else. The duardin’s hair and beard were a deep, fiery red, matching the crest that rose from his battered helm. With a groan, the Fyreslayer opened his eyes. He breathed out slowly, muted sparks dancing upon his exhalation. Then he jerked suddenly, as though shocked.

The duardin pushed himself to his feet and cast around frantically. Spotting his axe and pick lying nearby, he snatched them up. Beyond the weapons was his pack, a threadbare satchel, clearly empty. He grasped it close all the same, clutching the meagre thing to his chest as though it were precious ur-gold.

With his belongings secured, the Fyreslayer closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths before opening them again. He dragged the fingers of one hand absently through his unkempt beard as he took in the statues, the crystalline floor, the distant ceiling hidden in shadow. Lastly the duardin inspected his own limbs and torso, eyes resting on the ur-gold runes that glimmered dully in his flesh.

‘No,’ he muttered to himself, the word coming out like the rustle of dead leaves. The duardin coughed, more sparks billowing forth as he cleared his bone-dry throat. ‘No,’ he rumbled again, voice louder now and tinged with something like anger, or panic, or both. ‘This isn’t… It’s not…’

With a sudden cry, the Fyreslayer swung his axe, and forgeflame danced in its wake. He smote the base of the nearest statue, striking sparks and chips of stone from its taloned foot. With a hoarse roar, the duardin struck again and again, momentarily lost to the act of violence. On the fourth swing he stopped himself as suddenly as he had started, eyes widening and head darting left and right like a hunted animal.

‘Fool,’ he hissed at himself. ‘Witless fool. Too much noise.’

The duardin’s fears seemed borne out just moments later as, from a nearby entrance to the chamber, there came a low growl. Something bestial moved in the gloom, and keen, birdlike eyes glinted in the darkness. With a muttered curse, the Fyreslayer planted his feet and raised his axe in readiness.

‘Well c’mon then,’ he shouted into the darkness, ‘come and get it over with. You’ll not find Vargi Sornsson easy prey, you bird-faced bastards.’

There was movement in the darkened portal, and then a low, lithe animal emerged. Sornsson’s eyes widened as he took in the leopard-like body and proud, feathered head of an adolescent gryph-hound. The creature paced deliberately towards him, eyes locked on his. It emitted a low, warning growl as it came, clacking its beak menacingly. The Fyreslayer tensed, ready for the beast to pounce. Then another figure emerged from the doorway. Sornsson took in white and blue robes, a heavy warhammer, and dark skin, but his attention was still fixed on the animal that stalked him.

‘Goldclaw!’ called the newcomer in a deep, commanding voice. ‘Away, girl. This is no creature of evil.’ The gryph-hound bristled, then relented, circling protectively back to its master’s side.

The Fyreslayer did not lower his axe, simply shifting his attention from hound to master.

‘You’re not, are you?’ spoke the newcomer again, with a hard smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘A creature of evil, I mean. So you can lower those weapons.’

Sornsson shook his head, the gesture quick and jerky.

‘Don’t be so sure, stranger. Trust nothing in the tower. First appearances’ll get you killed.’

‘I have faith,’ responded the robed newcomer. ‘I am Masudro Yaleh. I am a warrior priest of Sigmar, and all I see is rendered clear in his light. Was there foulness in you, I would have seen it from the first.’

‘Aye?’ responded Sornsson. ‘That’s well and good, but how do I know you are what you say you are? I know I’m no servant of Tzeentch, but what of you?’

Masudro frowned thoughtfully, then held forth the small sigmarite hammer that hung on a cord around his neck.

‘Were I a thing of evil, a creature of the Chaos God of change, could I wear this emblem, or let it touch my bare flesh?’

Sornsson spat.

‘That could be as fake as the rest of your appearance. The tower… the tower cheats. It changes things. It lies.’

Masudro stared at Sornsson, gaze filled with concern.

‘If that is so then there is truly no way I can convince you to trust me, and for that I am sorry. But that is the second time you have mentioned the tower, Vargi Sornsson. Of what tower do you speak? Where are we?’

For a moment longer, Sornsson stayed as still as graven stone, weapons raised and ready while his eyes searched Masudro’s weathered features. Finally, as though he had come to some decision, the duardin let out a long sigh of exhaustion. His shoulders slumped, and he lowered his weapon.

‘You truly don’t know?’ he asked, and Masudro frowned deeper at the resignation in the duardin’s voice.

‘Truly,’ replied the warrior priest, ‘but my suspicions are bleak.’

‘Aye, and so they should be,’ rumbled Sornsson. ‘Welcome, Masudro Yaleh, to the accursed bloody halls of the Silver Tower.’

Man and duardin sat at the feet of the damaged statue, while Goldclaw pressed close to her master’s side. Masudro’s face was as grim as the sense of foreboding he felt. He absently rubbed his hammer amulet between finger and thumb as they spoke.

‘So this is the tower of which the legends speak? The lair of the Gaunt Summoner?’

‘It is,’ replied Sornsson. ‘And it’s everything the legends claim and worse. A more evil place I’ve never seen, as twisted as the daemon that rules over it.’

The warrior priest nodded slowly. He looked at the duardin, sitting a few clear paces away, eyes watchful, weapons close to hand. Cautious as a hunted animal, thought Masudro.

‘You have been here some time.’ The priest’s words were not a question.

‘Aye,’ said Sornsson, his eyes hollow. ‘I’m a Doomseeker, of the Volturung Lodge. My oath brought me to the tower with… Well. They’re gone now. It’s just me.’

‘So you came to this place on purpose?’ pressed Masudro. ‘You know how you got here?’ For a moment the priest’s hopes rose, but they were dashed again as the Doomseeker barked a grim laugh.

‘I see where you’re going with this. Forget it. The tower lets you in, but it doesn’t let you out. It… moves. It changes. It cheats.’

The two were silent for a moment.

‘And how long…?’ began Masudro.

‘A span of time,’ interrupted Sornsson, suddenly angry. ‘But what of you, priest of Sigmar? Eh? You ask a lot of questions, but you’ve told me precious little of yourself.’

Masudro raised his hands in a placating gesture.

‘I am sorry, Vargi Sornsson. Truly. These are dire tidings, and in times of trouble I’ve a habit of looking to others’ problems before my own.’

The Doomseeker said nothing, watching from under beetled red brows with one hand wrapped around the haft of his axe.

‘I am a warrior priest of Sigmar, as I said,’ continued Masudro, ‘Goldclaw and I marched out of Azyrheim through the Clarion Realmgate. We accompanied an army bound for the siege of Darkenrift. We stepped through the realmgate and, instead of our staging area in the Sha’dena Valley, we found ourselves here. That was shortly before we met you. And honestly, that’s all I know. How we came to be in this hellish place, I’ve no idea.’

Sornsson was quiet for a moment after Masudro’s brief tale concluded, his expression unreadable. Then the Fyreslayer gave a grunt and pushed himself to his feet.

‘Well, newfound companion, there’s no point just sitting here forever. Eh?’

The warrior priest rose, and squared his shoulders.

‘No indeed,’ he responded, his resolve returning. ‘I have a duty to the God-King. Goldclaw and I are needed at Darkenrift. Let us find a way out of this Tzeentchian prison, Doomseeker. But which way do we go?’

Sornsson scowled at each of the scattered entrances to the chamber. Masudro saw his new companion’s eyes narrow in what looked like recognition, and gesture with his axe at an ornate bronze archway some distance to their left.

‘That one looks familiar. I think,’ said the Fyreslayer. Masudro nodded and, with Goldclaw prowling at their side, the priest and the duardin set off across the chamber.

At the companions’ backs, a robed figure melted silently from the shadows and drifted slowly in their wake.

Click here to buy Labyrinth of the Lost.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2016.
This eBook edition published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Cover illustration by Mark Holmes.
Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Sylvaneth © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. Sylvaneth, Legends of the Age of Sigmar, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer, Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world. All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-087-1

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.