Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Author

Legal

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 creations.

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

Chapter One

The groaning roar of the arboreal colossus rippled through the ravaged wood. Braying beasts and howling marauders fell silent as the primal fury of the sound came smashing down upon them. It was a rage beyond flesh and bone, a hate at once elemental and remorseless, the last tremendous defiance left in a land violated and despoiled. Warriors who had mocked the defiance of mortal nations, who had butchered entire kingdoms without remorse, now felt dread quiver through their hearts. Almost before they recognised what they were doing, the vanguard of the horde began to fall back, to shrink away from the ferocious bellow and the giant that gave it voice. That roar held within it the wrath of all the victims that had withered on their blades, the curse of vengeance unsatisfied.

The secret vale of Athelwyrd was dying. Its glades had been trampled by boot and hoof, its forests gashed and torn by axe and claw, its meadows scorched by the fires of sorcery. Once pristine streams of crystal water had been transformed into trickles of diseased muck, as black and rancid as the souls of the rampaging invaders. In all the realm of Ghyran there had been no place better hidden, better protected than Athelwyrd, but now even this sanctuary had been discovered. This fortress would fall to the conquerors, but while the rest of the vale was even now being ravaged by the invaders, here alone did one last foe rise to oppose them.

Huge and ancient, the enormous tree-creature lumbered out from the depths of the wood. It stood five times the height of a man, its branch-like arms ending in gigantic talons of blade-sharp bark. Its face was a cluster of knotholes that pitted the creature’s trunk, a sylvan glow shining deep within their depths. The mouth was a jagged gash lined with fang-like splinters, groans of enraged anguish rumbling continuously from within. Roots still clotted with the rich dark soil of Athelwyrd dragged behind pillar-like legs as the creature surged towards the massed invaders.

For only a moment did terror hold the horde back, for fear of the treelord couldn’t eclipse the greater fear that infected each of the invaders: fear of the infernal god they served and the remorseless warlord who bore that god’s noxious blessings. The sylvaneth colossus could, in the end, only kill them. Plaguefather Nurgle could do far worse, and through his mortal general, such retribution would be swift in coming.

Bellowing their own war cries, the legions of decay turned upon the wooden hulk. All across the realm of Ghyran, the diseased hosts of Nurgle had erupted like a plague, ravaging the Jade Kingdoms and despoiling the once vibrant and fecund forests. Step by step, blow by blow, they were transforming the land into a new garden of disease and corruption for their obscene master, but none of those innumerable conflicts could match the duty that had been entrusted to the invaders of Athelwyrd. To them had been bestowed the honour of claiming for their god the prize he desired most keenly. Success would increase their unholy vitality and grant them leprous boons beyond measure; failure would result in shame and endless suffering.

So it was that human warriors in corroded armour and with blades pitted by rust and verdigris flung themselves at the hulking treelord. Bestial gors, their mangy fur peppered with grisly rashes and cancerous blisters, sprang upon the creature with axes of bone and flint. Wizened daemons with leprous eyes and oozing sores prowled towards their foe with blackened swords of raw corruption.

The glow in the pits of the treelord’s face burned with even sharper malignance. Again the creaking groan rumbled through the forest. The forest spirit brought its immense feet crashing down, the trailing roots stabbing into the earth, sinking down to bind it to the ground it defended. Charging foes came howling towards it, weapons raised for the kill.

A sweep of the treelord’s great claw hurled the broken bodies of half a dozen pox-ridden warriors into the air. A downward swipe of its fist burst an advancing plaguebearer like a pimple, the daemon’s foul essence spattering across a herd of beastmen, sizzling against their fur and flesh. A bloated gor, its diseased body swathed in strips of mail and patches of steel plate, was caught in the forest spirit’s hand and raised high into the air. The treelord tightened its grip and crushed the creature to bloody paste.

Scores of invaders were smashed and crushed by the treelord, their corpses heaped around its feet. The attack faltered, warriors drawing back as they wondered whether the death before them was worse than that threatened by their pestilent god. The tribal marauders snarled obscenities at their foe, jeering at the monster, steeling themselves for another attack. The beastmen growled and snapped at one another, trying to force the weakest among them to engage the enemy. The daemons gibbered and muttered, distracted by the fresh corruption spreading through the glade and by the timidity of their mortal allies.

One of the tribal chieftains charged forwards, hubris emboldening him where others quailed. He was mighty in the councils of their warlord, honoured for his ruthlessness and ferocity, and his abject devotion to the decayed glories of Nurgle. For all of this, a single glare from the treelord’s glowing eyes sent the man cringing away in fright, retreating back into the diseased mob.

An awed hush fell across the putrid legion, beasts and men, mortals and daemons falling silent as a grotesque figure pushed his way through their ranks – a huge warrior, his belly swollen with rot and putrescence, a gigantic axe with a blackened blade clenched in his scarred hands. A massive pauldron guarded his left shoulder, through which a clutch of immense bony spines had erupted from his flesh and through the corroded steel. The warrior’s face was locked inside a horned helm, only the eye-slots marring the smooth mask. There were three of these, spaced in the triangular pattern of the fly-rune, the diseased emblem of Nurgle himself. From each of the openings, a blemished eye glowered at the hesitant marauders.

A violent, cough-like cry bubbled up from the horned helm. Without further warning, the huge fighter brought his axe swinging around. The blackened blade sheared the arm off the chieftain who had retreated, pitching the maimed barbarian to the earth. Before the man could even scream, the wound he’d been dealt was a blackened mass of necrotic tissue, the sorcerous pollution of the axe rushing through his veins to infest the rest of his body. Those around the man drew back, gazing at his agonies with a mixture of horror and awe. They glanced from the dying chieftain to the one who’d struck him down with the same regard, for this was no mere champion of the Dark Gods, but the chosen of Nurgle, the warlord who had been granted the distinction of laying waste to Athelwyrd. This was Torglug the Despised.

Brandishing his axe, Torglug advanced alone towards the treelord. He nodded his horned head towards the writhing body of the chieftain he’d cut down.

‘This is being the fate of my enemies.’ Torglug’s voiced seeped from behind his helm. ‘Being through cowardice or defiance, I am sparing none who are opposing me. Be looking upon your destruction, vine-blood, and knowing despair!’

The treelord reared back, its roots still fastened deep in the earth. From the depths of its mighty frame there sounded a cachinnation of primordial hate. The claws tipping its hands appeared to lengthen, darkening into black thorns. The sylvan glow of its eyes blazed ever brighter.

Torglug wasted no more threats upon the monster. His words had been for the benefit of his warriors, a reminder to them that he was the chosen of Nurgle. A warning to them all of what it meant to be the favoured champion of the Crow God.

Storming towards his hulking foe, Torglug brought his axe cracking around in a double-handed strike. He caught the treelord’s claw, shearing through the oaken talon in a spray of splinters and sap. His foe flinched back, more in surprise than pain, stunned that the weapon could inflict such damage. It was only when the severed stump of its claw began to change, began to turn a ghoulish grey, that a moan of suffering rippled through the treelord. Its glowing eyes stared at the ghastly discolouration, watching as it began to spread. Mould, virulent and rapacious as any fever, now infested the creature’s bark.

The treelord’s wail of pain turned to a creaking snarl of fury. Whipping around, it brought its other hand hurtling towards Torglug, intent upon smashing the warlord into the ground. Exhibiting an agility that belied his bloated bulk, Torglug dived under the plummeting hand, rolling past the creature’s guard. As he came out of his roll, he brought his grisly axe chopping into the treelord’s leg, tearing a great chunk from the pillar-like limb and delivering a second infection of mould even greater than that infesting the creature’s hand. The grey contagion spread rapidly through the mutilated leg, crawling upwards and outwards with ferocious speed.

The tree-creature tried to swing around, to withdraw its roots and smash Torglug flat, but the treelord’s crippled leg remained fast, only its left limb obeying. Unbalanced, it teetered for a moment. It was the only moment Torglug allowed it. Charging into the paralysed hulk, he hacked away at its free leg, gouging deep cuts into the trunk where it joined the supporting limb. The grey mould exploded across the colossal sylvaneth with each blow, sinking deeper and deeper into the heartwood beneath the bark. As the infection intensified, the trunk became rotten and brittle, each attack wreaking greater and greater havoc.

A cough of laughter escaped Torglug as the creature’s leg gave out beneath it. The huge treelord crashed to the ground, its momentum tearing its frozen leg from the earth, roots and all. The exultant warlord leaped atop the trunk, hacking away with vicious, vindictive blows of his axe. As he chopped away, gibbering daemon-spawn capered out from the ranks of his legion to gnaw at slivers of heartwood and lap up the sap oozing from the treelord’s wounds. Torglug allowed the hideous, toad-like atrocities their sport. Nurglings were minuscule echoes of the Grandfather, cast in the dreaded god’s image. Even Nurgle’s chosen warlord would not deny the mites. The rest of his warriors, however, knew better than to intrude upon his triumph.

Triumph? The word had a bitter taste for Torglug. As delicious as it was to feel the ancient sylvaneth withering beneath his boots, as much as he savoured the agonies of the treelord as mould and disease gnawed away at its essence, he knew that this wasn’t triumph. This was only a delay, an interlude standing between him and true victory.

Torglug watched the glow gradually fade from the pits of the treelord’s face. How much more satisfying it was to watch these creatures die than the armoured warriors of Azyr. When penetrating the illusions that concealed Athelwyrd, Torglug’s legion had been opposed by a great company of the lightning-men. There was no satisfaction smiting such foes, no delicious transition from the suffering of life to the decay of death. The moment the spark was extinguished, they simply vanished in a blaze of blue lightning. It left Torglug bitter to be cheated of his pleasures. Strange and eerie as they were, at least the wooden creatures of the Jade Kingdoms were real enough to suffer for him while they died.

The last ember faded from the treelord, its spirit finally extinguished by the contagion Torglug’s axe had brought to it. The warlord stared down into its empty face, then brought his boot stomping down again and again into the rotten bark, obliterating the visage utterly. He turned and glared at his waiting legion. All through their march across Athelwyrd they had been drawn into petty battles with the sylvaneth and the lightning-men, meaningless conflicts that delayed them while the real prize threatened to slip out of their reach.

He wouldn’t let that happen. Torglug had fought too long and hard, had endured too much to fail now. It was his horde that had found the vale of Athelwyrd, his warriors who had penetrated into the refuge of their enemy. Victory, true victory, was within their grasp. The enemy had fled – all the protections that had guarded her for so long were falling away. She was in retreat, nothing more than hunted prey. The great prize Nurgle had coveted for so long would soon be rendered up to him.

When the Everqueen, Alarielle, was given to Nurgle, Torglug would transcend the limitations of mortality. He would be free of the frailties of flesh. He would become eternal, a prince of the Grandfather’s blighted empire.

Torglug thrust his axe outwards, pointing it towards the copse from which the treelord had emerged.

‘She is escaped!’ he shouted to his warriors. ‘Be upforming! We are marching and bringing Grandfather Nurgle a mighty prize! You are finding her or Torglug is teaching you all what it is to despair!’

The warlord’s eyes gleamed with murderous ambition as he watched packs of beastkin and barbarians rush into the woods. They would find the trail. Whatever the sylvaneth threw at them, his troops would find their trail.

It was only a matter of time.

Amber light streamed through the soaring canopy, stabbing earthwards through a maze of silvery branches and alabaster leaves. Flowers endowed with the vibrant lustre of emerald and sapphire blossomed from a cascade of hanging vines and spiralling creepers. Great strands of coruscating moss spilled from ancient boughs, alight with faerie brilliance and fey luminance. The groans and creaks of swaying trees melded into a harmonious melody, a sussuration that throbbed through both flesh and soul. The rich loamy smell of fertile soil flowed into the enticing fragrance of petal and bloom. The very air was filled with a warm adoration, a celebration of vitality and the shifting cadence of life itself.

Through this marvellous landscape, a great exodus trod an ancient path. A vast throng of tree-like beings flocked to a trail none had set eyes upon before but which each knew deep within its heartwood. Smaller figures shared the path, armoured shapes mightier yet not dissimilar to those of men. Fewer in number, they kept apart from the tree-creatures, sharing their journey but not their confidence. The Hallowed Knights, one of Sigmar’s great Stormhosts, had shared many of the ordeals endured by the tree-like sylvaneth, but they were still not wholly accepted by their uncanny companions.

Lord-Castellant Lorrus Grymn’s fingers tightened about the grip of his halberd, every muscle in his body growing tense as he spun to confront the faint blur of motion he’d caught out of the corner of his eye. With eerie silence, the bushes on the edge of the path were shifting aside, pulling themselves out of the way of the creature trying to move past them. He caught himself before moving to intercept the inhuman shape that suddenly emerged. The spindly figure, its head crowned by a crest of leafy branches, fixed him with its weirdly luminous eyes before striding off down the path.

‘I sympathise with you, commander.’ Grymn turned to find Angstun beside him, the sheen of the halo that circled the Knight-Vexillor’s helm dulled by the shadow of the forest canopy overhead. ‘It is hard to think of something so cold and inhuman as friendly.’

Grymn watched as the sylvaneth joined several similar beings marching along the forest trail. There were hundreds of the tree-like creatures in the procession, some much larger than the one that had just surprised the Lord-Castellant. Every moment brought another out from the forest and onto the path. They moved with a chilling silence, passing without a trace across the wooded trail. Though he sensed no threat from them, Grymn couldn’t shake an impression of restrained hostility smouldering within them.

‘They are our allies,’ Grymn corrected Angstun. ‘Do not mistake them for friends. If not for our common foe, I don’t know that they would suffer us to be among them.’ He looked ahead, his gaze fixing upon a brilliant light shining far down the path. ‘Certainly we wouldn’t be permitted so near to their queen. Emissaries from Azyr were turned from her court even after the plaguehosts breached the realmgates and descended upon Ghyran. No, they travel a different road than we can follow. For a space, that road may lead in the same direction, but that is all we share.’

Angstun pointed towards the light. ‘She isn’t like the sylvaneth,’ he said. ‘Queen Alarielle is no spectre of bark and branch. Her shape is one of beauty, a visage of wonder and marvel. To gaze upon her is to feel serenity, even with the hordes of the plague god snapping at our heels.’

Grymn stood silent for a moment. He envied Angstun’s serenity. For the Lord-Castellant, even the thought of the Everqueen made him feel as though a great burden was pressing down upon him. Angstun had called him ‘commander’, but it had not been so when the Hallowed Knights entered Athelwyrd. Their commander had been Lord-Celestant Gardus, a courageous warrior and a great leader of men. It was he who had been entrusted with this mission, not Grymn – charged with rescuing Alarielle from the legions of Nurgle. Gardus had fallen in battle against the hordes of Torglug the Despised, his body and soul flung back to the holy halls of Sigmaron. With his passing, command of the expedition had become Grymn’s. Defending a position or building fortifications, these were the duties he was accustomed to, the tasks for which he was best suited. This retreat was something different. The necessity of it was unquestionable, for only in flight could Alarielle be protected, but there was no glory to be had running from the enemy. The other Hallowed Knights could satisfy their honour in the knowledge that they were obeying orders. Grymn had no such recourse, for it was he who issued those orders.

‘Do you think that is how she appears to them?’ Angstun asked.

Grymn shook his head, missing the Knight-Vexillor’s meaning. Angstun pointed to a spindly dryad as it stepped out onto the path. ‘She is a goddess, so I wonder if her appearance changes to suit the senses of those who look upon her. To us, she is a woman of unmatched beauty, an echo of lost wonder. To the trees, perhaps she is a slender willow with golden leaves.’ He paused, glancing down the path at the forest behind them. ‘I wonder how she looks to our enemy?’

‘Like prey,’ Grymn said. He clapped his hand against Angstun’s shoulder. ‘But they will not catch their quarry. Not while a single Hallowed Knight still stands.’

The Lord-Castellant turned away from Angstun and began to make his way back along the trail. Tallon, his gryph-hound and loyal companion, fell into step beside him. The creature’s canine body was tense, rippling with agitation. Its eyes roved along the edges of the path, its sharp eagle-like beak snapping with alarm each time the bushes stirred or the trees swayed.

The eerie sylvaneth were growing in number with every moment that passed, more and more of them striding out from the deeper forest. Some were slight, almost frail-looking things, near human in their proportions. Others were great towering giants, many times the size of a man, their heads bent down so they did not tear the forest canopy above them. Smaller, wispy beings fluttered about the dryads and treelords, glowing shapes with gossamer wings, as phantasmal as a cobweb. Watching the sylvaneth creep out from the forest, Grymn realised he was wrong to describe what was happening as a retreat. This was an exodus, an abandonment of Athelwyrd. The sylvaneth were conceding their last stronghold to the plaguehosts.

A sense of frustration rushed through Grymn. They should stand and fight, should turn right now and meet the legions of Torglug. The path through the forest wasn’t wide. It could be held. The Hallowed Knights could hold it. Even with the sacrifice of Gardus and the warriors left behind as rearguard, there were enough Stormcasts to contest Torglug’s advance. Tegrus and his winged Prosecutors, Markius and his stalwart Retributors, the valiant companies of Judicators and Liberators. They could make a fight of it. They could force Torglug to pay dearly to conquer Athelwyrd.

Grymn shook his head as he watched the armoured warriors of his chamber marching past him. Yes, they could bleed Torglug’s army white, but that wasn’t their task. Their duty was to rescue Alarielle from the grip of Chaos, to protect her until she was safely beyond the enemy’s reach. That was their purpose. Later, when their duty was done, they could think about driving the foe from Athelwyrd and the whole of the Jade Kingdoms.

Still, Grymn lamented the necessity of such a choice. Every hour the plaguehosts were left to ravage and despoil, their filth corrupted more of the forest. More of Ghyran became consumed, distorted into a diseased shadow. Every step back left that much less to save when the time did come for the Stormhost to fight.

A retinue of Decimators, their mighty thunderaxes slung over their shoulders, marched past Grymn, each of the paladins saluting their commander as he drew near. Of all the Hallowed Knights, the sylvaneth seemed to especially shun the Decimators. Early on in the retreat, Grymn had decided to move those Stormcasts to the back of the line so they might avoid the tree-creatures leaving the forest to join the column. A misunderstanding between the paladins and newcomers might be enough to shatter the fragile alliance.

After the Decimators, only a dozen Judicators were left to bring up the rear, each warrior armed with a deadly boltstorm crossbow. The bulky weapons could unleash a vicious barrage of sigmarite bolts in rapid succession. Within the cramped confines of the forest, that quality made them a greater asset than the longer reach of the skybolt bows carried by most of the Hallowed Knights’ Judicators.

Marching alongside the Judicators was a macabre figure. Though he was clad in the same burnished sigmarite plate as the rest of the Hallowed Knights, this man’s helm had been cast in the semblance of a leering skull. A halo of sharpened spikes rose above the death’s head, each metal stake inscribed with invocations and funerary lamentations. This sinister warrior was Lord-Relictor Morbus.

‘The queen’s court grows,’ Morbus stated as Grymn fell in beside him. ‘The sylvaneth rally to her. They leave their secret places to join her in exile.’ He chuckled darkly, the sound echoing strangely within his helm. ‘Let us pray to Mighty Sigmar that her court does not grow so substantial that she finds no further need for us.’

Grymn turned to the Lord-Relictor, shock in his eyes. ‘You think Alarielle capable of such treachery?’ His tone was accusing, bordering on outrage.

Morbus laughed again. ‘Calm yourself, Lord-Castellant. It is naught but a conjecture crafted from observation. The sylvaneth do not like us,’ he said gesturing with the relic hammer he bore, indicating the Decimators ahead. ‘Perhaps we remind them too much of the plaguehosts with their blades and torches. Or perhaps they blame us for bringing the enemy into Athelwyrd.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Grymn scoffed. ‘We came here to defend the vale, not expose it to the enemy!’

‘The Hallowed Knights know that,’ Morbus said, ‘but do the sylvaneth believe it?’ He shook his head. ‘I think you may content yourself that at least the Radiant Queen knows us to be friends. You are right, she will not abandon us, not if every tree and shrub were to uproot itself and march to her banner. However much her subjects may resent us, they won’t–’

Morbus broke off, his attention fixed upon a creature marching towards them from the fore of the column. It was one of the more human-sized sylvaneth, its trunk-like body having more definition about it than the usual dryads, its contours flowing into a woman’s form. Its branch-like limbs were more like true arms and legs than others of its kind had, the moss and leaves that topped the creature’s head approximating the tresses and locks of a maiden’s hair. The echoes of femininity faded around the face, formed from jagged cracks in the bark within which embers of faerie light pulsated. Around the wispy body, great lengths of green vine were coiled, entwined about each limb and every curve, their leaves full and healthy.

Grymn had seen this creature before – it had nearly killed him when first they met – and he recognised it for the handmaiden of Alarielle. The Hallowed Knights had taken to referring to it as the ‘Lady of Vines’. Somehow, the title felt like more than an affectation bestowed upon her by the Stormhost. He thought it was something that belonged to the sylvaneth in fact as well as fancy.

The branchwraith stopped before Grymn and Morbus, her glowing gaze piercing into each man. There was an unmistakable enmity in that gaze, and Grymn felt his sense of guilt swell within him as the accusing stare fastened onto him. Fighting down his own uneasiness, he forced himself to meet the sylvaneth’s glare. The Lady of Vines simply raised one of her branch-like arms and pointed at the forest behind them.

Almost reflexively, Grymn and Morbus turned towards the trees. All that greeted them was the same maze of greenery that had surrounded them ever since their withdrawal. Grymn swung around, to try and get some explanation from the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith was already gone, walking back towards the light of her queen.

‘Are we being dismissed?’ Morbus wondered. ‘Is this her way of telling us to leave?’

Grymn shook his head, his gaze returning to the trees. ‘We’ve sworn to protect Queen Alarielle. No mere handmaiden will relieve us of that duty.’

A low growl from Tallon drew his attention to the gryph-hound. The creature was glaring at the path behind them, its hackles raised. As uneasy as the sylvaneth made it, Tallon had never reacted to them with such hostility. Something wasn’t right. Something was different than it had been only a few moments before. Grymn lifted his halberd as the sound of rustling in the undergrowth reached him.

‘More of the sylvaneth rallying to their queen,’ Morbus said.

‘You’ve been at the rear of the march,’ Grymn told the Lord-Relictor. ‘The sylvaneth make no sound when they move through the forest!’ Spinning around, he called to the Judicators around them. ‘On guard, brothers! The enemy has found us!’

The moment the warning left his mouth, Grymn saw a shaggy, muscled shape leap out at him from the forest edge. He brought his halberd slashing around, striking the beast before its powerful jaws could reach him. The broken brute crashed to the earth, its paws scratching at the dirt as life fled from it. Grymn could spare no more than a glance at the huge mutated hound before a second canine horror rushed at him from the trees. The beasts seemed enraged by the light of his warding lantern, drawn to it like murderous moths. Tallon lunged at one of the monsters, bearing it to the ground, the gryph-hound’s beak clamped about the dog’s throat.

Howls and snarls rose all around Grymn as more and more of the twisted hounds charged out onto the path. The crack of boltstorm crossbows boomed out, the Judicators loosing a fusillade of searing sigmarite into the attacking brutes. Yelps and whines of agony clawed at the air as the barrage brought down a dozen of the beasts. The path became strewn with dead and crippled hounds, yet still more of the monsters came loping out from the darkness.

Lord-Relictor Morbus pulverised the skull of one Chaos hound with his enchanted hammer, the maimed brute’s body flung back into the trees by the force of his blow. Others converged upon him, seeking to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers. Tallon rose from the carcass of his first enemy to lunge at a second, raking it with his paws and slashing it with his beak. A few of the mutant dogs weathered the storm of sigmarite bolts to drag down a Judicator, savaging the warrior in their grisly jaws. Behind the hounds, there now came a shrieking mob of skin-clad barbarians.

Grymn speared the hound snapping at his throat, kicking the dying beast from his blade as he turned to meet the charge of the marauders. They were abominable parodies of men, their bodies pitted with grisly sores and hideous lesions. Every manner of blight and blemish marred their flesh, proclaiming far louder than the cursed fly-rune daubed upon their armour and shields that here were the diseased slaves of Torglug.

Bolts from the Judicators struck down the first wave of marauders. Grymn’s halberd met the second. The Lord-Castellant was a whirlwind of ruin, tearing his way through every foe luckless enough to tempt his blade. A shrieking axeman, his eyes transformed into rheumy pits of pus by his afflictions, was cut in half. A howling savage with an extra arm growing from his neck fell with one leg severed at the knee.

‘Only the faithful!’ The war-cry of the Hallowed Knights thundered above the crash of blades and the crunch of bone. Decimator-Prime Diocletian was leading his paladins into the thick of the fray, energy crackling about the blades of their thunderaxes. Behind the Decimators came a formation of Liberators, their shields locked together to form a moving wall that stretched from one side of the path to the other. Even as he fought the barbarians assaulting him, Grymn felt proud that his warriors were adhering to the plan he had developed. There would be no great rush to the rear to meet the foe. If it were but a ruse, a feint to cover for an attack elsewhere, the enemy would find more Stormcasts waiting for them.

A fearsome howl rose above the cries and screams of fighting men. Through the press of marauders, Grymn saw a mounted chieftain gallop into view. Ghastly sores and profane brands peppered the flesh of both man and horse. The stallion stamped the ground with iron-shod hooves, chomping its teeth at the shrieks of the injured barbarians it trampled. The rider raised a double-headed axe in one fist, then crashed the weapon against the iron shield he held in the other. A challenging howl rose from his mouth.

Grymn met the grotesque jarl’s challenge, smashing his way through the marauders around him to rush at their leader. The stallion reared back, its hooves slamming into Grymn as he lunged at the chieftain. The Stormcast staggered back, his head ringing from the crack of a hoof against his helm.

The chieftain swung at him, his axe flashing downwards in a butchering sweep, all of the warrior’s weight behind the blow. His murderous eyes blinked in shock when Grymn’s halberd blocked the attack, when the Stormcast’s strength defied the malign power behind his assault. A sideward twist, an outward thrust, and the axe was ripped from the chieftain’s grip.

Whinnying in alarm, the stallion backed away, smashing down those marauders too slow to get out of its path. The chieftain glowered at Grymn, his savage face curled back in a feral snarl. From the belt that circled his waist, he withdrew a brutal instrument of chains festooned with blades and spikes. Armed with this gruesome flail, the rider forced the horse back into the fight and circled Grymn at a gallop, lashing at him with the chains.

‘Stay your bolts!’ Grymn ordered the Judicators. ‘Tallon, heel,’ he commanded his gryph-hound as the creature moved towards the chieftain. ‘The villain is mine!’

Even as he declared his intention, the warrior’s flail came whipping across his chest, drawing sparks from the sigmarite plate and slashing the strips of holy parchment fastened to his armour. Grymn swung about to confront his foe, but the rider was already galloping away, circling around to lash out at him from the other side. The fury of the second blow caused the Lord-Castellant to stagger back. A third strike knocked him to his knees.

The chieftain rushed in for another attack, arching down to hit his fallen opponent. It was then that Grymn revealed his deception. Leaving his halberd on the ground, he caught hold of the chains as they struck him. Mustering all his prodigious strength, the Stormcast pulled on the flail. The chieftain was dragged forwards, the flail torn from his fingers. Unbalanced for the instant, the horse wasn’t able to retreat out of Grymn’s reach as it had before. Arms widespread, Grymn rushed the steed, wrapping one arm around its leg while he put his shoulder against its side. Roaring with effort, straining every muscle in his mighty frame, he forced the brute upwards. The animal came crashing down onto its side.

Grymn leapt over the horse’s kicking hooves, pouncing upon its trapped rider. The chieftain tried to fend him off with his shield, but the Stormcast drove the iron disc back into the man’s face. Briefly they struggled, then Grymn pushed the shield down against the chieftain’s head. Now it was he who put all his muscle and weight into his attack. There was a grisly cracking sound as the marauder’s shield-arm snapped under Grymn’s assault. Then there was a garbled shriek as he pressed the iron implement still lower, smashing his enemy’s head beneath it.

The gruesome destruction of their chieftain brought horror to the surviving barbarians. The marauders turned, retreating into the dark forest. To lend speed to their rout, the blazing bolts of the Judicators chased after them until they were lost in the gloom.

Grymn rose from the chieftain’s carcass, marvelling that anything that smelled so foul in life could reek even worse in death. Tallon rushed over to him, nuzzling his head against Grymn’s leg. As he turned away from his fallen enemy, he found Decimator-Prime Diocletian waiting for him, extending to him the halberd he had discarded.

‘Losses?’ he asked.

‘Two Judicators,’ Diocletian replied. ‘One to hounds, the other to the marauders. We’ve claimed over fifty in return.’

Grymn ripped a strip of cloth from one of the dead barbarians, using it to wipe the blood from his blade. ‘Were any of the sylvaneth killed?’

‘Our allies took no part in the fighting,’ Morbus answered. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was scratched and bloodied, but the man within appeared to have suffered no injury beyond a darkening of his mood. He gestured down the path, towards the radiant glow of Queen Alarielle. ‘Perhaps they didn’t feel it was their fight.’

‘No,’ Grymn corrected him. ‘The Lady of Vines brought us warning. They know this is their battle as much as it is ours.’

Diocletian was puzzled. ‘Why then did they not render us aid?’

Morbus considered for a moment. ‘They are uncertain of us. They are putting us to the test, trying to determine our value. Trying to find our quality.’

Though it struck at his warrior’s pride, Grymn could find no argument to contest Morbus. As he turned his own eyes towards the radiant light, he knew the Lord-Relictor was right. They were being tested.

Now it was upon them to prove equal to the test.

Grymn felt the change that pulsed through the air, the flicker of energy that swept through the forest around them. The Stormcasts around him shared the same impression of unleashed power and vibrant energies. He could sense the fountainhead of the weird emanations.

On the path ahead, looming over the trail, was an impossibly gargantuan oak. The tree’s trunk had a great crack running through it, a titanic gash through which a strange coruscating glow was shining. As he watched, Grymn saw the crack widen, stretching outwards to become so incredibly vast that when the tree-creatures began to file into it, they looked to be no bigger than blades of grass. He shook his head, unable to reconcile the uncanny perspective, unable to decide if the crack was widening or if the sylvaneth were diminishing, or perhaps both at once. Whatever the truth, it was certain that the Everqueen and her people were passing into the gigantic oak.

‘There is powerful magic here,’ Morbus stated. He looked to Grymn. ‘Lord-Castellant, what are your orders?’

Grymn couldn’t determine what was happening on the path ahead. All he could be sure of was that Alarielle was taking the sylvaneth through the tree. ‘Our duty is to protect the Everqueen. To do that, we must follow her. Wherever that takes us.’

Chapter Two

In becoming Stormcast Eternals, the Hallowed Knights had transcended many of the limitations of flesh. When they were reforged, they found their endurance magnified far beyond that of even the hardiest man. They were nearly as indefatigable as the sigmarite armour they wore, tireless and unrelenting when they were deployed by the God-King Sigmar.

The sylvaneth showed a similarly formidable constitution. They paused neither for food nor rest, but maintained their steady march along the path. Grymn wondered if it was a quality of their own nature or some effect of the Radiant Queen’s glow that sustained the tree-creatures. Whatever the cause, he was thankful for it. The plaguehosts of Nurgle were many things, but they couldn’t match the tireless march of Alarielle’s protectors. Torglug could push his mortal forces only so far and so long before they would need food and rest. The daemons that flocked to his diseased banners would require spells and sacrifices to sustain them in the realm of Ghyran. These things would slow the enemy, even if the foul hosts had managed to follow them onto the Cascading Path.

The Cascading Path. It was an uncanny manifestation. Even once they had passed into the oak and entered the coruscating light, Grymn wasn’t able to tell if they had dwindled into some miniscule state or if some vastness of unimaginable magnitude had opened itself to receive them. The ground underfoot was at once firm yet constantly in motion, solid as granite wherever a foot was placed, nebulous as aether where nothing touched it. It was like ribbons of light and shadow, constantly streaming away, mocking the eye when it strove to discern shape or substance.

The sky overhead was a pearlescent splendour of throbbing brilliance, pounding with the vibrance of some gigantic heart. Figures seemed to dance across the sky, whirling and capering in phantasmal displays, shades and echoes of things unrealised and unborn. If he concentrated, Grymn felt certain he would be able to discern the nature of those apparitions. At the same time, he sensed that to do so would be exceedingly dangerous, that he could lose himself forever in that sea of undreamed possibilities.

At either side of the Cascading Path, the boles of an incredible forest rose. All around them were the trunks of mighty trees of every shape and contour, every colour and texture. They seemed as stark and vivid as anything Grymn had ever seen, the absolute antithesis of the aerial phantoms and the spectral ground. Yet whenever he looked away and turned his eyes back upon the forest – no matter how brief his inattention – he found that the setting had altered beyond recognition, shifting from silver-needled pines to gnarled beeches.

‘You appear pensive, commander.’ The observation came from the winged Prosecutor-Prime Tegrus. Like the warriors he led, Tegrus was agitated by the lengthy march. The uncanny vista above the path prevented the Prosecutors from taking to the sky and scouting ahead. It was frustrating for them to be grounded by circumstance, denied the opportunity to serve the chamber to their fullest capacity.

Grymn still felt a twinge of surprise when the officers of the Hallowed Knights addressed him as commander. That honour belonged to Gardus, and Grymn was reminded of that every time he tried to think like the vanquished Lord-Celestant. ‘I was trying to put myself in the mind of Torglug,’ he said. It wasn’t an untruth. When the weirdness of the Cascading Path didn’t distract him, it was their foe that was foremost in his thoughts.

Tegrus feigned a shudder, the wings on his back shaking with assumed fright. ‘A vile thing to contemplate,’ he said, though it seemed to Grymn that the Prosecutor-Prime was grateful for any subject that would allow him to forget their present surroundings.

‘Doubtless,’ Grymn agreed, ‘but if I can anticipate the enemy’s next move…’

‘You trouble yourself to no purpose,’ Tegrus declared. ‘Torglug is mad. They’re all mad, those who bend the knee to Chaos.’

‘No, it is too easy a thing to dismiss them as insane.’ This objection came from Lord-Relictor Morbus as he joined the two heroes. ‘It is tempting, comfortable, to damn the enemy as mad and leave it at that, to use madness as an excuse for their atrocities.’

‘What then would you say moves them to such deeds?’ Tegrus asked.

Grymn had the answer. ‘Evil. They are evil. They plan and plot and scheme. Each outrage is towards a purpose, every atrocity has its reason. They aren’t reasons we would understand, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. There is strategy behind Torglug’s campaign.’ He pointed down the path where the bright glow of the Radiant Queen was visible even among the eerie manifestations of the Cascading Path. ‘She is his objective, the prize he would bear back to his abominable god. It is dangerous to think the enemy incapable of planning how to capture their quarry. To hate the foe is to steel the heart, but to underestimate him is to blunt the sword.’ He turned and glanced across the armoured files of Liberators marching along the edges of the path, at the stolid companies of Judicators at the centre of the trail ready to provide support with their bows. ‘Torglug will try again, make no mistake. It will be the honour of the Hallowed Knights to defy him.’

From the path before them, the sinuous shape of the Lady of Vines came striding towards them. The branchwraith’s aspect was still hard and thorny, her eyes little more than smouldering cuts in her gnarled face. She peered from Grymn to Tegrus and back again.

‘Such a meeting may not be as inevitable as you think,’ the Lady of Vines declared. She gestured with one willowy talon at the forest beyond the path. ‘The power of Sigmar sent you here, but His isn’t the only power opposed to Chaos. Ever since we left Athelwyrd, there has been powerful magic at work, the magic of the Everqueen. Yes, a mighty and terrible kind of magic. That it works to aid us is small consolation when one contemplates its magnitude.’

Grymn and Tegrus paused, following the branchwraith’s gaze. All they could see was the forest.

‘I see only the woods, the lands Alarielle is leaving behind,’ Grymn insisted, though the words felt hollow even to himself.

‘That is an illusion,’ the Lady of Vines said. ‘A mirage, woven for your benefit. You are right, Lord-Castellant, Queen Alarielle does have compassion to spare for your kind, even when her subjects don’t. Even in this incredible conjuration, she diverts some slight measure of her power so that servants of the God-King aren’t driven mad.’

‘An illusion?’ Tegrus studied the forest, trying to will himself to see through whatever veil had been woven around the path. ‘What is she trying to hide?’

‘Everything,’ the Lady of Vines said. ‘I am more attuned to the ebb and flow of magic than you. That is how I know what she has done.’ Again, she gestured with her talon, sweeping it from one side to the other. ‘The Jade Kingdoms are out there, and other lands for which you have no name. They rush past us, shifting and fading like waves upon the sea. We march upon this path, yes, but the path itself isn’t a thing to be measured in hours and leagues. It runs not through the places a mortal can travel, but between and around them. This slipstream of magic Queen Alarielle has woven around us, it transcends the very concepts of place and time.’

Grymn found his hand closing about the silver hammer that hung around his neck, the holy emblem of the God-King. Not for a moment did he doubt the branchwraith’s explanation of their situation. Yet it was a daunting prospect, to wander the cracks between existence, to walk the borderlands of time.

‘If she has done this, then Alarielle has placed us beyond the reach of Torglug’s legions,’ Grymn suggested. Even if the plaguelord were to send scouts to find them and skirmishers to delay them, his efforts would be in vain while they marched in this between-land.

The Lady of Vines stared into Grymn’s eyes, seeming to bore into his mind. ‘As you have warned, we cannot afford to underestimate the enemy. Even if he is unable to reach us here, that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware of where we are. Moreover, such powerful magic is taxing. Queen Alarielle has lost much of her power. She will not be able to sustain even we sylvaneth on this path for long.’

Grymn looked towards the warm glow that denoted the Everqueen’s position on the path ahead. He tried to detect any lessening of that divine aura, any weakening of its majestic brilliance. ‘Her magic speeds us away from her hunters. Already we may be beyond their reach.’

‘Perhaps,’ Tegrus said, ‘but what of the things that lie before us? What of the obstacles that lie ahead?’

It was a good question, and one for which Grymn had no ready answer. Torglug’s plaguehosts had breached the vale of Athelwyrd, but the whole of Ghyran was overrun by other armies of the Plaguefather. It would be a miracle indeed if the exodus could escape unhindered by enemies once it did emerge from the protection of Alarielle’s magic.

‘The obstacles ahead are the sole reason I suffer you to linger in the queen’s presence,’ the Lady of Vines declared. ‘Prove worthy of my forbearance,’ she added as she slipped back down the path to rejoin the Everqueen.

All around him was darkness, foetid and rank. Filth squelched under his feet as he tried to move, slogging his way through a revolting mire that was well past his knees. Verminous things squirmed and crawled through the muck, brushing against his naked flesh. Disgust boiled up from his guts as he thought of how those creatures would taste on his tongue. Now, now he was sickened by the thought, but in a few days he would be eagerly pawing through the slime to feast on such noxious fodder. A starving man had neither scruples nor dignity. Pride was forgotten when survival was the only law.

Despair rolled through him as he lifted his face and looked upwards. They’d slid the cover over the pit, blocking his view of the sky. It was the only delight left to him, looking up at the sky. That at least had remained untarnished, uncorrupted by the profane taint of the conquerors. Everything else was gone. The villages, the temples, the strongholds. It was all gone, demolished and despoiled, changed by the very presence of the invaders.

But the sky was still there. The sky they couldn’t take away. Please, if any gods of mercy still lingered, don’t let them take the sky away!

The fallen champion looked up with terror etched across his face. Arms bound behind him, face pressed into the mud, he was a sorry spectacle. He hadn’t submitted easily to capture and his body was a patchwork of bruises and gashes. His armour had been stripped away, the talismans and fetishes cut from around his neck. An iron bit was jammed into his mouth, stifling his voice. Even now, however, there was violence and defiance in his gaze, and more – accusation.

All things considered, Torglug thought the wretch should be grateful. He was going to die beyond the confines of Athelwyrd, out in the diseased lands they’d conquered and ravaged. A place where the Grandfather would have a clear and undisturbed view of his sacrifice.

Torglug stared up into the heavens, watching as the blue sky gradually faded to a scummy green far to the east. That was where the realmgate stood, the great portal through which the legions of Nurgle had poured into the Jade Kingdoms. The miasma of the Grandfather’s gardens was seeping into Ghyran, corrupting the very air with the god’s diseased essence. The whole realm would be transformed in the end, despoiled and blighted to feed the ascendency of the Plaguefather.

The warlord lowered his gaze and met that of his captive. He chuckled at the indignation he saw there, the outraged sense of betrayal. What need had Torglug the Despised for loyalty when fear would serve him just as well! Did this man expect mercy? Did he understand so little of the ways of Chaos? Torglug had learned – oh, how he had learned! Only ability and power were respected by the Dark Gods, the capacity to survive and accomplish. Torglug had earned the favour of Nurgle only because he was strong enough to survive and ruthless enough to accomplish his goals.

Torglug shifted his bloated bulk upon the crude throne his followers had raised to honour him. Crafted from the hewn trunks of sylvaneth, the warlord imagined he could feel the anguish of the tree-creatures flowing through him. Perhaps it was more than imagination, for the life-force of the forest spirits was notoriously stubborn and slow to expire. Fragments might yet linger in the wooden carcasses bound into his throne.

Seven-score sylvaneth prisoners had already been cut down as an offering to Nurgle, sacrifices to whet the Crow God’s appetite and draw His diseased gaze. It needed now only a final morsel, a last offering to complete the rite Torglug would see performed.

The captive struggled, trying to squirm out from beneath the boot that pressed down on his neck and kept his face in the mud. Vargl Fellhand had been a mighty jarl before Torglug had made him leader of his own bodyguard of putrid blightkings. He very nearly upset Goregus Festermaw, the hideously mutated blightlord who stood above him, despite the warrior’s heavy suit of plate and massive weight. The ghastly mouth that opened across Goregus’ exposed belly gibbered wickedly, sizzling spittle falling from its fangs to burn Vargl’s flesh. The champion cried out more from outrage than pain, struggling even more fiercely to be free. The blightkings gripping Vargl’s legs threw themselves upon his limbs as the prisoner kicked and thrashed. Torglug chuckled again. Given even the flicker of a chance, Vargl would try to kill him. His helplessness to act, to lash out at the betrayer who sat only a few feet from him, this would swell the deposed jarl’s heart with despair.

But Torglug wanted more. He needed every last speck of hope and pride obliterated. Vargl’s very soul must shrivel from despair.

‘Be removing the marks,’ Torglug commanded.

At the warlord’s order, Vargl was rolled onto his back. The captive tried to cry out as his bound arms were pressed cruelly against his spine, but the iron bit in his mouth reduced the sound to a whispered moan. Goregus brought his boot stamping down again, this time pressing upon Vargl’s shoulder to hold him in place.

The host of mortal and daemon warriors watching Vargl’s ordeal parted so that a fat, swollen boil of a man could stalk towards the prisoner. He was dressed in a scabrous cloak, horrible enchantments endowing it with a ghoulish echo of vitality. The man’s skin was mouldy, his hands pudgy, with each finger resembling a boiled sausage. His belly was bloated with corruption, protruding through tears in his tattered raiment. His face was flat and almost toadlike, great flaps of loose skin hanging from his cheeks. His eyes were aglow with the sadistic curiosity of a vicious child. When he smiled, worms wriggled from between his blackened teeth.

This was Slaugoth Maggotfang, principal sorcerer in the whole of Torglug’s plaguehost. As he advanced upon Vargl, the sorcerer stabbed the butt of his staff into the mud, leaving the charm-festooned pole standing behind him as he leaned over his victim. A worm fell from his mouth, burrowing into Vargl’s chest. Slaugoth waited until it had vanished completely before drawing an ornate dagger from his belt, a once elegant blade now caked in a patina of filth and decay.

The sorcerer swept his gaze across the assembled plague warriors, relishing the sense of horrified anticipation. Slaugoth chuckled in amusement. Each spectator was eager to see what grisly rite he would perform, yet in the back of each mind was the knowledge that it could just as easily be they and not Vargl who died to feed his magic. The laugh faded into a cough of irritation as Slaugoth spotted the emaciated figure of Vorak of Fell. The cadaverous warlock was watching with an intensity far different from that of the warriors around him. He could almost see the mystic’s mind at work, trying to ferret out the arcane mysteries behind each step of the ritual. Every sorcerer was wary of his fellows, only too aware how eagerly they would steal each other’s secrets – indeed, Slaugoth had included several meaningless ceremonies in this current ritual to frustrate such thievery. He wasn’t certain they’d trick Vorak. The warlock was his chief rival among Torglug’s plaguehosts, guarded by the profane Coin of Thak against even the most subtle hexes and curses Slaugoth might loose against him. Indeed, Vorak made a point of closing his bony fist around the Coin when he saw Slaugoth looking at him.

Forcing a grin he didn’t feel onto his flabby cheeks, the sorcerer turned from his rival and attended to the sacrifice. Slaugoth played the dagger across Vargl’s flesh, cutting away each brand and tattoo, every ritual scar and birthmark that marred the champion’s skin. Anything that displayed the man’s dedication to Nurgle was taken from him, thrown to the onlooking horde in bloodied strips. When he was finished, the sorcerer looked up at Torglug.

‘The Grandfather’s gift must be cut away,’ Slaugoth chuckled. Torglug nodded his consent and he snapped orders to the blightkings holding Vargl. Goregus nodded his armoured head and the prisoner was flipped back onto his belly.

Torglug watched the gruesome process to the end. Vargl would make a fitting sacrifice to the Grandfather now. With the god’s marks removed, with even the mutated claw that was Nurgle’s blessing taken from him, the jarl would feel abandoned not simply by the warlord he’d served but by the god he’d devoted himself to. There could be no greater magnitude of despair than that. His misery would call out to the Grandfather, a succulent morsel to feed Nurgle’s hunger, a diseased capstone to the tower of sylvaneth that had already been rendered up to the Crow God.

Perhaps it would be enough to appease Nurgle’s wrath for a time. Despite his best efforts, Torglug had failed to seize Alarielle in her refuge. The daemonic worm nestled in his gut had made him feel the god’s displeasure by gnawing at his ulcers and lashing its tail against his intestines. Now he had to beg his god for another chance. More than that, he had to beg Nurgle for wisdom. He had to know where the Everqueen had fled and how his legions could still catch her.

Torglug recoiled from his doubts and fears, instead focusing on the grisly ritual Slaugoth was performing at the foot of his throne. He was amazed that Vargl lingered as long as he did when the sorcerer began cutting into him. When he was finished, when the organs were arrayed around Vargl’s body, Slaugoth’s fat fingers curled into cabalistic signs. Slobbering invocations filled the air, soon drowned by the buzzing of flies as swarms of the insects descended upon the offering. Vargl’s remains quickly vanished beneath a crawling blanket, yet still more of the flies flew to his corpse. From a blanket they became a mound; from a mound they grew into a hill. The plaguehost retreated from the expanding heap of flies, even Slaugoth falling back. Only Torglug held his place, staring at the crawling heap, boldly defying it even as it lapped about the feet of his throne.

The buzzing drone of the flies had swollen to a thunderous clamour, drowning out all other sounds. It was like the roar of the sea and the hiss of a volcano, primal in its elemental fury. When it seemed the noise could grow no more deafening, it suddenly began to recede. Rapidly the buzzing clamour died away, and with it died the flies. Droves of the insects dropped from the heap, their tiny carcasses falling away into the mud.

The mound remained, however. As the flies died, they revealed the thing that had grown beneath their crawling feet. It was a gigantic obese bulk, larger in size and proportion than the treelord Torglug had slain. Sores and boils littered its body, and great folds of fat rolled down its ghastly form. Flabby wattles hung from its long arms and dripped from between its clawed fingers. Its toad-like legs were swollen to such extent that they seemed to flow into one another, the feet invisible beneath the flesh that sagged across them. The abomination’s belly was bloated with putrescence, the green skin split to expose the diseased guts within. The monster’s head was broad, massive antlers jutting out from the sides of its skull. The face was hideous in its expression of obscene amusement, spittle hanging from its crooked fangs. The light that shone from the daemon’s plate-sized eyes was baleful and pitiless.

Howls of disgust and adoration rose from the plaguehosts. Some of the most debased of the throng rushed towards the gigantic daemon, collapsing as the putrid emanations spurting from the fiend’s foulness washed over them. Their bodies fell to the earth, writhing in diseased agony as the corruption melted the flesh from their bones. The grisly sight provoked still louder cries of terror and devotion from the army.

Slaugoth laughed boisterously when he saw the way Vorak’s pallid face took on a sickly hue. His rival wasn’t afraid of the daemon so much as he was terrified of Slaugoth’s ability to summon it.

‘Why do you bother your Grandfather with misdeeds, Torglug the Woodsman?’ the daemon’s voice bubbled from deep within its belly. ‘Why have you taken Guthrax Kingeater from his supper?’

Torglug felt the eyes of his army upon him. Though his soul trembled before the awful presence of the great daemon, he refused to bow before it. He would treat with this horror not as its petitioner or even as its equal, but as its master. ‘I am summoning you, Guthrax, so you are rendering service to Nurgle. I am choosing you to grant you the boon of serving your master.’

The Great Unclean One’s bulk quivered as a hacking laugh rippled through it. ‘You have chosen to share some of your glorious failure with me, Torglug the Kind? Even now, the Grandfather prepares a special place in His garden for the gift you were to bring Him.’

The warlord joined in the daemon’s laughter and some of the amusement left Guthrax’s hideous face.

‘Lightning-men are hiding Everqueen,’ Torglug stated. ‘Trouble I am having for finding her again. So I am deciding to invite Guthrax for sharing my labour. When the Grandfather is rewarding me, so He is to be rewarding you. When I am being punished for failure, so is Great Guthrax being punished with me.’

Guthrax reared back, towering over Torglug. It brought one of its immense claws slamming down beside the wooden throne, splattering the warlord with mud. A few inches closer and the daemon would have pounded him into the earth like a post.

‘Simpering mortal whelp!’ Guthrax croaked. ‘You think yourself clever enough to bind Guthrax to your fate!’

For an instant, Torglug stood in stunned silence, even his terrible determination shaken by the daemon’s rage. Then the warlord slowly wiped the mud from his armour, making a great show to his warriors that the Great Unclean One held no terror for him.

‘I am already having done this,’ he told Guthrax. ‘When I am calling you to me, I am saying “Guthrax is sharing my fate. Guthrax and Torglug are now being brothers in same doom.” Is this not being most clever?’ He laughed at the wrath in the daemon’s gigantic eyes. It was aware of the strictures that bound it. Now it knew that Torglug was likewise aware, and prepared to exploit those strictures. ‘The Grandfather is desiring Alarielle as He is coveting nothing before. She is becoming crowning glory in His garden. Without her, His wrath is being enough for making the Blood God trembling. All are being suffering, daemon or mortal.’ He stepped down from his throne and walked around the Great Unclean One. ‘You are sharing in my victory or being partner in my defeat. Those are being only choices, Kingeater.’

‘She is beyond your reach,’ Guthrax said. ‘The path she walks is one you cannot follow.’ The daemon wheezed, choking on the knowledge it now felt compelled to share with the mortal. It disgusted Guthrax to divulge anything that might give Torglug hope, for of all emotions, it was hope that most revoltedhim. ‘She cannot remain upon that path much longer. I know where she must leave it.’

Torglug spun around, staring up into the daemon’s grisly eyes. ‘You are to be leading us there,’ he ordered the fiend.

‘It is not so easy,’ Guthrax said. ‘Her path has allowed her to flee far from Athelwyrd. If we would find her, we must find our own passage across the Jade Kingdoms, a route swifter than that of forest and glade.’

Slaugoth Maggotfang crept towards Torglug, bowing before his master. ‘The daemon plays at riddles, but I know what it means when it speaks of a “passage”. The ratkin have gnawed holes beneath much of Ghyran. With Guthrax to guide us, we could find the one that will lead us to the Radiant Queen.’

Laughter oozed from Guthrax. ‘The ratkin will not meekly stand aside and let you trespass in their burrows. There will be much killing.’

‘Yes,’ Torglug agreed, his voice sharp with anticipation. ‘Much killing.’

The bewildering currents of the Cascading Path rippled and streamed past Grymn. At every step it seemed as though the phantasmal shapes around him grew more insistent, more demanding, compelling him to focus upon them and risk being drawn into the nothingness between existence and eternity. At his side, Tallon whined, his fur standing on end as the eerie apparitions flowed alongside them. He could almost envy the gryph-hound’s distress. The creature lacked the awareness to do more than react to those shadows. The threat of contemplating them, being drawn into them, was beyond his animal mind.

‘Commander, may I speak with you?’ The question came from Retributor-Prime Markius. The paladin, his great hammer slung over his shoulder, fell into step beside Grymn as the Lord-Castellant moved between companies of Liberators.

As commander of their expedition, Grymn had seen it as his duty to encourage his warriors, mingling among them to raise their spirits and gauge their mood. The Stormcasts were as firm as granite when it came to courage and loyalty. In battle their determination was unquestionable. But this was a different kind of ordeal for them, the deranged riot of shapeless shadow and formless light rushing around them, made all the worse by the nebulous passage of time within Alarielle’s enchanted path. Was it hours or days they had been marching? None among the Stormcasts, not even Morbus, could say for certain. All that they could be certain of was that the semblance of forest was becoming ever more illusory, exposing them to the riotous confusion of the unveiled path. The Everqueen’s power was diminishing, Alarielle unable to spare the energy to shield them. How long the Hallowed Knights could endure the full madness of the Cascading Path was a question none of them cared to think about.

Grymn knew what Markius would ask before the first word left the paladin’s mouth. Of all the officers among the Hallowed Knights, Markius was the most eager. In battle he was one of their boldest fighters, but he was also the most impetuous. Gardus had always tried to curb Markius’ excess of valour by assigning him defensive points to keep and hold. In their present situation, Grymn had no such objectives to blunt Markius’ lust for action.

‘I don’t know how long we’ve been on the march,’ Grymn told the paladin. ‘Nor can I say how long we must continue. All I would remind you is that our duty isn’t to fight the enemy but to protect the queen.’

‘My men grow weary. We’ve been marching for Sigmar knows how long without rest or relief. If we had an enemy we could fight, that would be an ordeal we could understand.’ Markius slapped the heft of his hammer, then dipped his head apologetically to Grymn. ‘I speak for my retinue. We don’t know how much longer we can maintain the pace and we worry that if we fall behind then the sylvaneth will leave us on this infernal path.’

‘Our obligation is to Queen Alarielle,’ Grymn repeated. ‘There is no glory without honour and no honour for the Hallowed Knights unless we protect the queen. We must go where our duty takes us.’

Markius slapped his fist against the side of his hammer again. ‘But if we…’ The paladin’s words broke off. He was staring in surprise as the graceful shape of the Lady of Vines came striding down the path. The branchwraith circled between the armoured ranks of Liberators, but not once did her eyes appear to look on them. Those sylvan embers were focused in one direction and one direction only.

She was looking at Grymn.

Grymn found it hard to meet the branchwraith’s gaze. There was resentment there, a reproving judgement that seemed to reach inside him, to tease every doubt and self-recrimination to the forefront of his mind. Yet as she came nearer, Grymn felt a different sensation spinning through his thoughts. It was less than an impulse, more phantasmal than a compulsion, but it was still there, tugging at him and drawing him forwards. He knew he was free to reject or embrace the peculiar sensation. Since it was his choice, he increased his pace and advanced up the path.

‘Commander, what is it?’ Markius asked.

Grymn didn’t turn his head, only watched as the Lady of Vines began to withdraw the way she had come. ‘I’ve been summoned to join the queen,’ he told the paladin. ‘Keep the men here,’ he ordered. ‘Maybe I’m about to learn how much further we have to go.’

The trail ahead was filled with sylvaneth creatures. Slight dryads and gigantic treelords were there in such profusion that it seemed the entire vale of Athelwyrd had uprooted itself and joined their queen’s exodus. Ahead, growing more pronounced and vibrant with each step, was the glowing aura of the Everqueen. Grymn had seen many marvels in his campaigns, had encountered many wonders in his battles across the realms, yet never had he experienced anything like that warm, inviting glow. There was none of the judgement and resentment he had felt emanating from the Lady of Vines. There was only acceptance and appreciation, gratitude for one who had striven to help a dying cause.

The last impression made Grymn stumble. A dying cause? He railed against the sense of defeat, the fatalistic resignation to an inevitable doom. Yet now, as that possibility crept into his awareness, he noticed that a change had come upon the glowing aura of Alarielle. It seemed to him that the light was less brilliant than it had been at the start of the exodus.

The Lady of Vines led him onwards, into the very midst of the Radiant Queen’s glow. It was strange, Grymn thought, that no matter how bright the light became, how near to the source he drew, it never became blinding or hurt his eyes. He could see that he was in the midst of a great company of treelords, mammoth creatures that he instinctively knew were ancients of their kind. The dryads who walked among them were more graceful and enchanting than any he had seen before, their branches filled with the exuberance of spring and the bloom of life. Even Tallon seemed less agitated, the gryph-hound’s instincts taking comfort from the warmth of the Everqueen’s radiance.

In the midst of her court, he found Queen Alarielle.

She was borne upon a living palanquin, a great carriage of intertwined trees, vines and shrubs that crawled forwards upon thousands of writhing roots. The branches of her carriage twisted and curled to form magnificent lattices that rose into a great dome. A dazzling array of leaves, gold and bronze and crimson, framed the carriage, shivering with each creeping step the living vessel took.

Beneath the dome, behind the lattice and the leaves, the Radiant Queen sat upon an amber chair. Grymn’s breath caught as he saw her, such was the transcendent beauty of the goddess. It was a beauty so pure, so perfect, that it couldn’t evoke anything so crude as desire or love. Instead of these things, the beauty of Alarielle commanded devotion. Even a Stormcast Eternal, forged upon the Anvil of Apotheosis and sworn to Sigmar, felt that urge to serve.

‘You will stay behind me,’ the Lady of Vines told Grymn as he approached the palanquin. There was a feeling of wariness about the branchwraith and he noted that she didn’t let her eyes stray far from him. The role of handmaiden had become entwined with that of guardian, he realised. If she decided he was a threat to her mistress, she would attack instantly.

Alarielle turned her face towards Grymn, her regal reserve displaying no sign of the long retreat and the fierce battles behind them. Only in her eyes did he spot any trace of the ordeal, a suggestion of terrible weariness and mournful regret.

‘The Cascading Path has taken us as far as it can,’ Alarielle told him, though Grymn didn’t know if she actually uttered words or if they were simply placed in his mind by her magic. ‘Too much of my realm has fallen to the enemy, too much of the life in it has been destroyed and defiled. As the land fades, so too does the power within this aspect.’

Again, Grymn’s heart recoiled at the suggestion of defeat. ‘The Hallowed Knights are sworn to protect you. Whether you are mighty or helpless, we will not swerve from our duty.’

‘What lies ahead will be more arduous than what lies behind,’ Alarielle warned. ‘The Cascading Path has proven your determination and resolve. But the courage demanded of a leader is a bitter one. For it is not her life she must spend, but the lives of those who have given her their trust and devotion.’ Grymn saw that she was looking past him now, gazing upon her handmaiden. Then the Radiant Queen’s eyes returned to him. ‘Your oaths will be put to the test, Lord-Castellant. You will be called to sacrifice much, and with each sacrifice the blight of doubt will grow within you. Then it will be faith, not honour, that is put to the test.’

The Radiant Queen’s words reverberated through Grymn. At once he felt both pride and foreboding. While he was still in the grip of the conflicting sensations, he felt a pulsation course through the path around him. Stormcasts and sylvaneth alike gazed about them in alarm, disconcerted by the sudden change. Then, ahead of them, for the first time since they’d left Athelwyrd, a light beyond that of Alarielle fell upon them. They were through the Cascading Path.

It was somehow not surprising to Grymn that the end of the trail led through a gash in the trunk of some tree as vast and incredible as the one they had passed into when leaving Athelwyrd. Once more he was seized by that strange sensation of enormity and reduction, but in reverse. Was the opening ahead truly as colossal as it seemed or was it the Stormcasts and sylvaneth who dwindled to pass through the gap? To the disconcerting experience was added the almost unbearable eagerness to slip beyond the uncanny environs of the Cascading Path and again stand in the solidity of the Jade Kingdoms.

Tallon sprinted ahead of his master by several paces, an uncharacteristic exhibition of anxiety on the part of the gryph-hound. Like all of them, he wanted to be free of the enchanted trail. A curt command from Grymn brought him to a halt. The creature whined, casting a guilty look back at Grymn before slinking back to his side. He laid his hand on Tallon’s feathered head, giving him a reassuring scratch. He knew the gryph-hound couldn’t understand the necessity of discipline or the restraint that kept the Hallowed Knights marching at the same steady pace when they were just as anxious to see an end to their ordeal. Tallon knew loyalty and obedience, but honour and pride were things he couldn’t be expected to appreciate.

The light that shone beyond the opening in the gigantic oak lacked the mystical glow Grymn had seen filtering through the boughs of Athelwyrd. Here the sunlight had a greenish cast about it, diffused through the veils of scummy haze that stained the skies. That sickly light shone across an endless, rolling landscape of pasturelands and woods.

Grymn’s relief at reaching the end of the Cascading Path withered when he gazed on those lands. Perhaps they had once been filled with vibrant flowers and lush greenery, but now they were pox-ridden and diseased, befouled by the contagion of Nurgle’s legions. The only flowers that grew here were thorny deathblooms, each petal curled into the bleached semblance of a leering skull. The sickly sweet stench of decay smote his senses as a foetid wind drove the stink of the fields towards him.

Tallon bounded out into the field, growling. The gryph-hound’s feathers ruffled in agitation as he whipped his head from side to side. Grymn could tell that the creature’s keen senses had perceived some sort of danger, a threat far more physical than that of the Cascading Path. While the column of sylvaneth and the Stormcasts flanking their march emerged from the enchanted crack in reality, Grymn stood beside Tallon and tried to make out what had so alarmed the beast.

Faintly at first, then more clearly, Grymn picked out the tolling of rusted bells and the howls of brutish men. The fields hadn’t merely felt the touch of the invaders’ malign presence – there were forces of Nurgle here already, waiting for them somewhere across the expanse of deathblooms. Whether they were actively searching for the Everqueen or simply marauding across the countryside, they posed a threat to the sylvaneth exodus.

Grymn signalled to the officers of the Hallowed Knights to join him. He looked towards the sylvaneth, debating for a moment whether he should make an effort to confer with their queen. Alarielle’s palanquin was surrounded by a wargrove of ancient treelords, the huge wooden creatures forming a palisade all around Alarielle’s carriage. Behind this entourage of towering protectors, the Radiant Queen’s glowing aura shone like a lonely candle locked in a distant fortress. There was something both tragic and forbidding about seeing the goddess withdrawn from the rest of her people.

‘It looks as though the sylvaneth consider these lands as perilous as those we’ve left behind,’ Lord-Relictor Morbus commented as he followed Grymn’s gaze.

‘They are wise to be wary,’ Prosecutor-Prime Tegrus said. ‘The Jade Kingdoms are overwhelmed by the hordes of Chaos. If you had gazed upon these lands from above as I have, you would appreciate better the magnitude of the destruction. We may have left Torglug the Despised and his plaguehosts behind us in Athelwyrd, but there are other legions abroad in Ghyran.’

‘Possibly nearer than any of us would like them to be,’ Grymn said, pointing down to Tallon. The other Stormcasts knew the gryph-hound well enough to know it never snarled at shadows. An enemy was out there. How close and how numerous, it was beyond the creature’s ability to convey. ‘Tegrus, I need your eyes again,’ Grymn said. ‘Send your Prosecutors to scout the terrain. Learn where and who our foes are but don’t engage them. Simply return to me and report what you’ve seen.’

Tegrus bowed his armoured head and saluted the Lord-Castellant. ‘After being restricted to the earth while on the Cascading Path, there isn’t a warrior among my Prosecutors who won’t be thrilled at the chance to take wing again. If we spy so much as a sickly spinejackal, you will know of it, commander.’ Turning on his heel, Tegrus hurried towards the column to gather the Prosecutor retinues to him.

Grymn faced Knight-Vexillor Angstun, presenting him with his own set of orders. ‘The strength of the sylvaneth lies more in endurance than speed. They can march longer than we can, but not faster. If there is fighting to be done, the Hallowed Knights must be ready to react with a swiftness to take advantage of that fact. I want the Liberator retinues gathered into three groups, one deployed on each flank and another taking the vanguard position ahead of the sylvaneth. Each Liberator formation is to be supported by attached retinues of Judicators with skybolt bows. Those warriors equipped with crossbows will act as a flying reserve.’

‘What of the paladins?’ Retributor-Prime Markius asked. His fingers tightened about the haft of the huge hammer he bore, as though already swinging the weapon into the skull of an enemy.

‘The paladins will follow behind,’ Grymn said, instantly sensing the disappointment of the eager Markius. ‘There are none better to act as a rearguard, should it be necessary. Our duty is to protect the Everqueen, and it may not be feasible to both support the rearguard and execute that duty. If you are left on your own, I know there are no warriors among the Hallowed Knights who are capable of acquitting themselves better.’ Grymn pointed the tip of his halberd towards the colossal oak that the last of the sylvaneth were emerging from. ‘Torglug can’t use the Cascading Path, but the Despised One may not be as far behind us as we would hope. If his plaguehosts come upon us from the rear, the paladins must keep them from reaching the column.’

Decimator-Prime Diocletian clapped Markius on the back. ‘Honour is where you find it as much as where it finds you,’ he said. ‘Besides, the forest spirits don’t care for we Decimators and our axes. We’ve grown accustomed to bringing up the tail of this exodus. It will be cheering to have some company for this leg of the journey.’

Angstun had a different concern. ‘Forgive me for asking, Lord-Castellant, but to what purpose is this retreat? If it is to simply keep the Everqueen out of the grasp of her hunters, then our situation fares no better here than skulking about in Athelwyrd.’ He raked the end of his standard across the deathblooms, knocking petals from the foul flowers. ‘The enemy is already here and even if he isn’t deployed as numerously as Torglug’s plaguehosts, it can be but a matter of time before word of our presence carries to Nurgle’s warlords and brings them hastening to overwhelm us.’ He looked across the other Stormcast officers. ‘There isn’t one of us who fears to perform our duty, but our minds should rest easier if we were aware of the Everqueen’s intentions.’

Grymn nodded. ‘I cannot command words from a goddess,’ he told the Knight-Vexillor. ‘But I can make her aware of our concerns and the necessity of knowing where she is taking her people.’

He saluted his officers, then marched across the fecund deathblooms towards the walking palisade of Alarielle’s guardians. With each step, the radiant glow of the Everqueen grew more distinct, no longer a lonely candle locked away in a forgotten keep, but a shining beacon that drew him on. He felt a stirring within him, a gentle whisper that wafted through his soul and urged him forwards.

When Grymn neared the lumbering barrier of treelords, the huge creatures parted for him, receding like the gates of a castle to allow him ingress. It was the merest crack, the slightest gap to permit himself and no other. Tallon started to follow him, but instead fell back, a petulant whine rasping from his throat. The audience with the Everqueen was for the Lord-Castellant alone.

Only the Lady of Vines was with Alarielle behind the ring of treelords. The branchwraith fixed him with an inscrutable look when he passed through the guardians, the light in her eyes somehow colder and more withdrawn than he’d seen it before. Grymn noted that her bark had taken on a scaly, brittle appearance, her figure grown more spindly than her martial aspect. He didn’t know why, but he had the impression of a tree in a graveyard, its vibrancy choked with mourning.

‘The Radiant Queen will receive you,’ the Lady of Vines told him in a creaking voice. ‘She would allay some of your misgivings.’

Grymn fixed the branchwraith with a hard stare. There was something unspoken entwined with her words. Something that sent a thrill of warning through him.

‘Your warriors have withstood the Cascading Path,’ Alarielle called down to him from her crawling carriage. Some of the leafy tendrils drew back, revealing the splendour of her divine countenance once more. ‘Such a feat is not to be lightly praised, but there is small opportunity to applaud the resolve that guides your steps.’

‘It is your resolve I must be bold enough to inquire about,’ Grymn said with deep apology in his voice. ‘These lands you’ve led your people into are filled with the enemy. There is no safety for you here.’

‘Our destination lies to the south,’ the Everqueen declared. ‘Beyond these poisoned bloomfields lies the Sea of Serpents, and across those waters we will find places where the enemy cannot follow. Places of old magic that are more resistant to corruption, more resilient in their own right than even the vale of Athelwyrd.’

Grymn took reassurance from the Radiant Queen’s speech. ‘My warriors will fight the harder for being taken into your confidence, highness,’ he said. ‘This sea you speak of. You have plans for crossing it?’

‘All things stand revealed in time,’ the Lady of Vines said. ‘Sometimes it is easy to suspect treachery within discretion. It becomes simpler to forget the dictates of necessity.’ She gestured with her claw and the treelords parted again to allow Grymn to depart. ‘It is easier to understand the tests the enemy places before us than those posed by a friend.’

Grymn pondered the branchwraith’s curious turn of phrase as he marched out from the walking palisade. Was she apologising for her earlier resentment? Repenting the hostility with which she and the other sylvaneth had regarded the Hallowed Knights? The more he thought about her words and the mournful aspect she had assumed, the less he thought her words were an apology. At least not in the way he had thought.

The Lady of Vines was apologising to him, indeed, but not for the past. She was explaining to Grymn something that lay before them. Trying to imagine what the Everqueen and her people were planning was more forbidding than trying to outguess Torglug. However diseased, at least the plaguelord had a human mind. Maybe Lord-Celestant Gardus could have predicted the reasoning of the tree-creatures, but Grymn knew it was beyond his own abilities. He was not an oracle.

Try as he might, Grymn knew he would have to leave the shadows of the future to set upon him in their own course.

Chapter Three

The fields of deathblooms spilled across the landscape far beyond the giant oak that had been their gate out of the Cascading Path. The noxious flowers had spread like a contagion, consuming everything in their path. The Stormcasts had seen clumps of trees covered in skull-like petals, entire woods that were veiled in the parasitic growths. They’d escorted the sylvaneth column over hills heavy with the deathly flowers and across streams choked by the pestilent weeds. Sometimes they found the sorry remnants of human settlements mouldering beneath a patina of deathblooms. Here would be a tribal totem standing forlorn above a vanished encampment, and over there might be the rubble of a tower carpeted by the vile plants.

Wherever they went, the slaves of the Plague God were there. Sometimes entire warherds of braying gors would come tramping across the fields to challenge their passage. With the advance warning of Tegrus and the other scouts, these mass attacks were steadily beaten back. More arduous were the raids and ambushes staged by smaller warbands. Barbaric horsemen would gallop out from the shelter of diseased woods to mount hit-and-run assaults. A host of armoured Chaos warriors sprang upon them from concealed pits, dealing several casualties before they were annihilated. In the wreckage of a village, the vanguard was surprised by a lurking maggoth, the monstrosity sending three Liberators back to Sigmaron before a salvo from the boltstorm crossbows brought the thing to ruin.

The gauntlet of skirmishes posed no immediate peril to the column, but Grymn was deeply concerned just the same. Each attack taxed their strength a little more, wore down their endurance that tiny bit further. On their own, the raids were nothing. Put together, they became an insidious drain on the Hallowed Knights and their allies. They were forced to press on without rest or respite. Never could they let their guard down or relent in their vigilance.

The moment when Tegrus came back to Grymn to report that the land ahead of them sloped down towards a vast sea was the first cheering news he had heard in a long time – surely this was the Sea of Serpents the Everqueen had told him of. His cheer faded when Tegrus couldn’t report any isthmus or other feature that offered some way of crossing the waters, no fleet waiting on the beach to carry the Everqueen and her protectors across. There was only the rocky shingle of the shore and the rolling waves.

Grymn recalled Alarielle’s earlier words to him about peril and faith. The Radiant Queen was neither mad nor a fool. She hadn’t rescued her people from the doom of Athelwyrd simply to trap them with their backs to the sea. She had some plan, even if she chose to keep it from her allies. Grymn felt a shiver pass through him when he reasoned that her plan likely involved another arcane crack in reality, some trail perhaps even more unsettling than the Cascading Path. He kept this concern to himself, however. It served no purpose to have his warriors worrying about something over which they had neither control nor influence.

The sharp briny smell of salt water reached Grymn an hour or so before the column crested a hill and finally gazed upon the Sea of Serpents. It was as Tegrus had reported, a great expanse of rolling waves that stretched out to the distant horizon, its far shore somewhere beyond. The vile deathblooms spread only as far as the rocky shingle, their vitality finally overcome by the combination of barren rock and salt spray.

The sylvaneth marched down to the shingle with what struck Grymn as almost an exhibition of urgency. The Stormcasts in the vanguard parted to let the tree-creatures pass through them. With the sea in front of them, it was certain that if an attack came, the plague warriors wouldn’t be charging from that quarter. The primes of the displaced retinues redeployed their Liberators with the paladins in the rearguard. At Grymn’s command, the Judicators fell back and took up formation on the hill overlooking the shore. From such a vantage they’d be able to both support the column and rain volleys upon any foe moving along the shingle.

Lord-Relictor Morbus waited while Grymn dispatched Tegrus and his scouts back into the air. Now that they had the sea blocking their way, it was more vital than ever to know where the enemy was and how great his numbers. Once the Prosecutors were airborne, Morbus addressed the Lord-Castellant.

‘Unless we build ships from our allies, we seem to be at an impasse,’ Morbus said. ‘We can’t go forwards and with the plaguehosts all around us, we can’t go back.’

Grymn looked towards the sylvaneth column, watching the glowing form of the Everqueen as her carriage crawled ahead with its ring of treelord guardians. ‘I think your true worry is that she will set us upon a road even stranger than the Cascading Path.’

Morbus nodded. ‘Such a worry was in my mind,’ he confessed. He gestured at the shore, at the rolling waves. ‘This place has its own power, but I don’t sense the same potential as when we were in Athelwyrd. If there is a gate such as we passed through before, it is well hidden indeed.’

‘Such may have been her purpose in bringing us here,’ Grymn said. ‘Any magic that hides from friend is able to hide from foe as well.’ He patted Tallon’s head. ‘Sometimes faith is needed,’ he said, echoing the advice Alarielle had given him.

A querulous bark from the gryph-hound had him looking again towards the sylvaneth. The tree-creatures were on the shore now. He watched as the ring of treelords parted. The radiant glow of the Everqueen shone more brightly as she emerged from behind her protectors. To Grymn’s eyes, it appeared that the deathblooms wilted wherever that light reached them, that even the ghoulish stain in the air was diminished.

The sylvaneth hung back as their queen’s carriage crawled out onto the shingle. Only the Lady of Vines remained to attend the Everqueen, the handmaiden gliding alongside the palanquin. It made Grymn anxious to see Alarielle exposing herself in such a manner. With all deference to her power and authority, while he was responsible for protecting her he felt obliged to demand greater caution. He started to march towards the shingle when Morbus caught him by the arm.

‘She’s weaving some kind of spell,’ Morbus told him. ‘Something of enormous potential.’

Grymn felt that shiver pass through him again. ‘You said this place wouldn’t lend itself to any great conjuration.’ He looked towards the beach. While he watched, Alarielle descended from her carriage. The moment her feet touched the earth, the palanquin began to shrivel and wither, crumbling into a dried mess of wilted foliage. She stood poised where the waters crashed upon the shingle, the transition from one element to another. Her arms were outstretched, her head tilted back and gazing away to the east. Now even the Lady of Vines kept herself at a distance, standing well up on the beach and away from her mistress’ conjuration.

‘It isn’t the land she is drawing power from,’ Morbus said. He pointed at the Radiant Queen. ‘Observe,’ he told Grymn.

Alarielle was standing at the edge of the sea, the waves rippling just ahead of her feet. While he looked on, Grymn noted a change. It took him a moment to understand it was the fading of her radiance. The brilliant aura was collapsing, compressing closer and closer around her.

‘Her light is dying,’ Grymn said.

‘She’s using her own energies to power whatever enchantment she’s trying to invoke,’ Morbus said.

Grymn recalled the mournful aspect the Lady of Vines had assumed during his last audience with the Everqueen. He remembered the branchwraith’s words about discretion and concealing things from friends. It was this she had been trying to prepare him for: the sacrifice of the Radiant Queen.

‘We can’t permit this,’ Grymn told Morbus as he hurried down towards the shore. ‘Our duty is to protect the Everqueen, not stand idle while she destroys herself. Whatever her reasons, it must be stopped.’

They raced towards Alarielle, yet even as they did so Grymn could see that they were too late. The mighty conjuration the Radiant Queen had evoked was too much for her dwindling energies. Her light was vanishing, drawing tighter and tighter around her. He didn’t know what would happen when the radiance pressed against Alarielle’s body, when glow and form became one. He was determined not to put that question to the test.

Ahead of them, Grymn saw the Lady of Vines prowling towards him, putting herself between him and Alarielle. The branchwraith paced like a hungry lion, her bark transformed into a black, scaly wood. Thorns projected from the coils of vines now, poison dripping from each needle. Her hands had elongated, her fingers hardening into great claws. The glow within her eyes was fierce and threatening, the glower of a wolf protecting its pups.

‘This doesn’t concern you, Stormcast,’ the branchwraith declared.

‘Step away,’ Grymn ordered the Lady of Vines. He waved his halberd at the collapsing radiance. ‘Whatever her purpose, I can’t allow her to sacrifice herself!’

For just a moment, Grymn thought he saw a flicker pass through the branchwraith’s burning gaze, a lessening of that threatening glower.

‘You cannot stop what must be,’ she warned. The Lady of Vines stretched her hand towards him. A spray of splinters and thorns shot out at Grymn, blinding him momentarily. He took a staggering step back, but the branchwraith made no move to press her attack. Instead she turned towards the dwindling light of her queen.

‘It’s too late,’ Morbus told Grymn. ‘The damage is done.’

The glow of the Radiant Queen was collapsing now, rapidly vanishing. Alarielle’s power was expended, but it was more than that. To his horror, Grymn could see no body behind the light – she was vanishing with her power! Before his eyes he saw the glow shrivel and wither, becoming ever smaller and smaller.

The skies overhead darkened, great storm-laden clouds boiling outward from the horizon. The warm, almost foetid air grew cold. Life itself seemed to be draining out of the land. Snow fell from the grey skies, carpeting the fields and glades in a deathly mantle.

‘Why?’ Grymn asked himself. ‘What was worth such a sacrifice?’

As if in answer to his question, Grymn saw far away to the east a shudder of motion. One of the distant mountains started to tremble, great avalanches of rock and snow crashing down from its peak. While he looked on in wonder, the terrain lurched upwards with a mighty heave. He could feel a tremor pass through the ground under his feet.

It wasn’t his imagination. The mountain was moving.

Tall as a man, yet cast in the revolting shape of a rat, the monster bled sickly black blood across Torglug’s axe. In its death spasms, the verminous creature snapped at the warlord with its yellowed fangs and raked at him with its clawed fingers. Torglug pressed the ratkin against the earthen wall, putting his immense strength and bloated bulk behind his blade. There was a delicious sound of crunching bone as the axe chewed its way deeper into the skaven, polluted blood jetted from severed arteries and torn veins. The creature’s anguished flailing became even more frenzied, its thrashing causing the axe to saw even deeper into its flesh.

When the light of suffering drained out of the ratman’s eyes, Torglug ripped his axe free. The body of his foe clung to the wall, plastered there by its own gore. He spun around, hewing through the shoulder of a second skaven seeking to strike at his back. The vermin squealed as the blighted axe ripped through it and sent its carcass spinning through the air. A pack of scrawny spear-armed ratkin abandoned their charge towards the bloated warlord as the mangled body crashed among their ranks. Squeaks of fright and a musty reek rose from the skaven as they turned tail and scurried back down the passage.

Torglug looked around for something to kill, but there was only the pile of dead ratkin strewn about his feet. The tunnel was monumental in its dimensions, stretching hundreds of yards across, and of such height that even Guthrax didn’t need to crouch as it waddled down the corridor. The walls were like black stretches of solidified shadow, pitted and scratched with the marks of shovels, picks and drills. Crude supports of onyx and malachite propped up the blackness of the roof in sporadic fashion. Beams of grey crystal leaned against walls where they’d started to sag inwards, or lay toppled to the ground where the entropic miasma had come spilling in anyway.

Skaven infested the tunnel, scurrying from tiny side-passages, popping up from rents in the floor or dropping down from tears in the ceiling. Cloaked in filthy robes, froth bubbling from their mouths and frenzied madness gleaming in their eyes, the ratkin swarmed to confront Torglug’s legion. Squealing mobs of plague monks wielding staves of diseased wood and daggers of polluted metal charged into herds of goat-headed beastmen, the ringing of profane bells and the snarls of obscene chants goading them onto the horns of their enemies. Packs of decayed monsters with their fur sloughing away from their putrid bodies rushed into the armoured ranks of Chaos warriors, exploding in bursts of burning pus when their foes struck them down. Grisly ratmen, their twisted bodies hidden in crusty robes, waved smoking censers at tribes of marauders, the vile fumes causing armour to rust and rot off the stricken men. Chittering their shrill war-cries, the hordes of the Clans Pestilens fought to drive the plaguehosts back up to the surface.

The legion of Torglug, however, wouldn’t be denied so easily. His tribesmen trampled the bodies of their own dead to reach the vermin waving the censers, dragging the plague monks down one after another and hacking them apart with cruel axes and serrated swords. Enraged gors carved a path through the mobs of ratmen, rending them to pieces in their fury. Vengefully, the Chaos warriors pursued their tormentors, ignoring the scores of tribesmen they left writhing on the floor in their determination to cut down the slinking ratkin. Cyclopean plaguebearers and swarms of nurglings scrambled towards the sorcerous gongs the skaven were striking, their daemonic essence immune to the diseased magic of the ratmen.

Across the tunnel, Torglug saw a plague monk cowering in front of Guthrax, apparently overcome by the monstrous daemon’s aura. Its squeaks turned into wails of terror as the obese monstrosity fixed its malignant gaze upon the ratman, hideous lights blazing from its rheumy orbs. The skaven shrieked as its body was engulfed in Guthrax’s magic, fur sloughing away and flesh breaking out in black sores and red boils. The sorcerous plague leapt from the shrieking chanter to infect the monks around it, spreading its virulence to dozens of the vermin before its malign impetus was expended.

Nearby, a hunched plague priest was locked in an arcane duel with Slaugoth Maggotfang. The skaven magician sent tendrils of withering energy leaping from its paws. Ratmen and marauders fighting in the space between the plague priest and Slaugoth were struck down by the corrosive magic, the spell making no distinction between friend and foe. Yet when it came rushing towards the sorcerer, the spell fizzled into a cloud of greenish vapour. While the plague priest was snarling in frustration, Slaugoth retaliated, laughing as he sent a bolt of putrid fire exploding from the head of his staff and streaking towards the skaven. Some spell or charm preserved the ratman from the worst of the sorcerer’s fury – while the vermin around it were reduced to puddles of slime, the only effect upon the plague priest was a green tinge to its mangy fur and a layer of muck upon its robes.

Torglug left Slaugoth to settle the contest on his own. The warlord had spotted a more immediate problem much closer at hand – a large swarm of skaven warriors sweeping around to smash against the right flank of the plaguehost. Unlike the other ratmen, their robes had been fashioned from flayed hide, foul symbols inked into the leather, and in their hands were filthy swords that blazed with fell and corrupt energies. They moved with a confidence and discipline absent from the rest of the horde. At their fore was a white-furred chief bedecked in a rathide cloak and robes. Guthrax had told him that this was the leader of the vermin infesting the tunnel, a high priest of Pestilens named Poxmonger Kriknitt.

The threat to the flank of his army was enough motivation to send Torglug running towards the fight, but he also had an idea to bring the fray to a quick end. Each warrior he lost fighting his way past the skaven was one less fighter he could bring against the Everqueen’s protectors. Skaven were slinking, cowardly creatures, bold only when they were confident of victory. There were two ways to break that confidence – butcher most of their horde or kill their leader.

Torglug reached the Threespine tribe securing his right flank just as the skin-robed plague monks thrust their way through an intervening pack of smaller skaven warriors and struck the front ranks of the barbarian fighters. The fell energies of their filthy blades smouldered against the steel mail of the humans, shearing through what armour they wore. Cruel hooks on the heads of the blades caught in flesh, dragging warriors from the midst of their comrades to be hacked apart by opportunistic skaven.

The Threespine were faltering when Torglug joined them, but the presence of their warlord fired their determination and made them redouble their assault against the ratkin. Torglug pushed his way through the press of warriors, shouting for his enemy. ‘Kriknitt! Be facing me, prince of vermin! Be facing me, digger of holes!’

Thrusting his way to the front of the battle, Torglug brought his axe chopping down into the head of a plague monk, splitting both the ratman’s manskin cowl and the skull beneath.

‘Kriknitt! Torglug of the Twelve Plagues is for challenging you!’ the warlord bellowed as his blade hacked through the arm of another plague monk. Off to his right he could see the skaven leader, its white fur standing out in stark contrast to the mangy pelts of the vermin surrounding it. Kriknitt looked in Torglug’s direction, its ears curling close against the sides of its head and its eyes going wide with fright.

‘Be facing me! Be facing the favoured son of Nurgle!’ Torglug butchered his way through the intervening skaven, leaving the Threespine tribesmen to finish those foes he merely maimed and injured in his vicious advance.

The poxmonger fled, slinking back through the ranks of its warriors, pushing hapless ratmen into Torglug’s path, squeaking angrily at those of its minions that tried to protest their leader’s retreat. It appeared that Kriknitt wanted nothing to do with Torglug or the diseased axe that could wreak such carnage among its warriors. With unabashed cowardice, the ratman left its fellows to face the warlord’s onslaught. Soon, despite the murderous fury of Torglug’s assault, Kriknitt had withdrawn from the pack of skin-clad monks and was scurrying down one of the side passages. Frustrated, Torglug flung the head of a decapitated skaven after the fleeing ratkin.

Squeals of fright now rang out all across the tunnel. The air became rank with the stink of musk, smothering even the necrotic reek of Torglug’s followers. Clutches of ratkin followed the example set by their high priest, abandoning the fight to slip down holes and scramble into side passages. Swifter even than the sorcerous plague Guthrax had conjured against the skaven, terror spread among the ratmen. The retreat of a few became a general rout, swarms of vermin fighting and clawing at one another as they sought to flee.

Torglug cut down the plague monks near to him, carving a gory trail through them. The broken skaven retreated before him, but their flight was blocked by other packs of routed ratkin. The fight had left the vermin, but Torglug’s legion was of no mind to offer them mercy. They pursued their enemy, massacring them as they tried to climb over one another in their eagerness to escape.

Torglug the Despised drank in the cries of panic and pain. However many of the ratkin managed to escape, they wouldn’t rally for another attack. They’d make no move to interfere with the plaguehost’s march through the tunnels.

Dismissing the skaven from his thoughts, Torglug anticipated finding his quarry and how he would steal her from her protectors.

Impossibly vast, a living mountain lumbered out from beyond the horizon. Every step of its craggy legs made the earth shiver and sent a tremble rolling across the landscape. Its stony shoulders seemed to scrape the clouds, and veils of mist and fog spilled down the cliffs of its chest. Mighty boulders ground against one another as the giant’s rocky arms swung at its sides. Slabs of granite and limestone clashed together, groaning with the deafening bellow of an avalanche. As the titan slogged across field and stream, an atmosphere of bitter cold and driving snow swept ahead of it. Frost seized the vegetation, ice grasped at the waters and gales of pallid snow blanketed the land.

The animate mountain trudged along the edge of the sea to the south, each step cracking the earth. Snow came swirling across the fields of deathblooms now, smothering the diseased growths under a white blanket of oblivion. The giant, oblivious or indifferent to the destruction it provoked, lumbered on, making towards the great expanse of water ahead of it. It seemed impossible to Grymn that such a gargantuan being could exist, and much less that it could be summoned by even the mightiest of magic.

It was the thought of magic that broke the awed fascination that held him. Alarielle! The Everqueen had sacrificed herself to call this titan, expending the last of her essence to work her spell. Grymn might have stopped her if not for the interference of her handmaiden. He tore his eyes from the awesome sight of the walking mountain to glare at the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith still had her back to him, turned instead to the spot where Alarielle had stood. A keening harmony sounded from the handmaiden, a melody of both loss and promise.

‘In any language, that sounds like a song of mourning,’ Lord-Relictor Morbus told Grymn.

‘She kept us from stopping Alarielle,’ Grymn snarled, clenching his halberd tight. ‘We’ve failed in our mission, and I’m going to find out why.’

Grymn marched towards the Lady of Vines, Morbus following behind him. He could hear Retributor-Prime Markius and his paladins coming up behind them. It wouldn’t be long before the warriors and their lightning hammers were available to support him. He risked a glance at the vast gathering of sylvaneth that had accompanied their queen on her final journey. If the tree-creatures supported the Lady of Vines, Grymn knew his small group of Stormcasts would be overwhelmed before the rest of the Hallowed Knights could reach them. The sylvaneth, however, were silent, as still as the trees they resembled. There was an expectant quality about that silence, like the quiet before a storm.

As he walked towards the Lady of Vines, Grymn noted that her aspect had changed once again. Her bark had lightened, taking on a rich amber colour and becoming smooth as a river rock. The vines twined about her lithe shape had lost their thorns, the leaves becoming rich and full with little clusters of berries hanging from them. Her hands had lost their claws, shifting into delicate fingers that were curled around–

Grymn looked in confusion at the object the branchwraith held. At first he thought it was some kind of jewel, so brilliantly did it sparkle. Then he appreciated that the shine wasn’t the play of light upon the object but rather a glow that emanated from within it. A few steps more and he realised that the radiance was familiar to him, exuding that same atmosphere of comfort and invitation he’d felt in the Radiant Queen’s presence. Peering closer, he could see something beneath the light, an ovoid shape about the size of his fist.

It was a seed!

The observation spurred a thousand questions in Grymn’s mind. Was this what Alarielle had intended, to expend her energies until all that was left of her was this seed? Did she think this was the only way she’d be able to escape Torglug’s legions? What was the power of this remnant, this relic? Was it simply a talisman, a legacy left to the sylvaneth, or was it something more than that? A promise for the future?

The Lady of Vines closed her hands protectively around the glowing seed. Still singing her keening song, she turned from Grymn and walked towards the massed sylvaneth. When she was only a few feet from the edge of the exiles, she held her arms out to them, showing them the relic she held. A sound rolled through the living forest, a great thrum unlike anything Grymn had ever heard before. There was a sense of both adoration and praise in that sound. The sylvaneth were swearing a vow, but the nature of that promise was something Grymn was unable to fathom.

‘Leave her be,’ Grymn told Morbus as the Lord-Relictor moved towards the branchwraith. He looked across the masses of sylvaneth, struck by the reverent sense of loss and promise that rose from them. For the Hallowed Knights, the Everqueen had represented honour and duty, but for the sylvaneth she had been everything. ‘Leave them to their sorrow while they have the chance to indulge it.’

The Stormcasts withdrew, falling back from the shingle and letting their allies pay respect to their queen.

Grymn turned his attention back to the lumbering mountain. Many of the Stormcasts were gazing in awe at the colossus. The behemoth was nearer now, though the pace of its quaking steps had slackened. It was still circling around the edge of the sea, though Grymn noticed its path wasn’t one that would bring it towards the sylvaneth but rather out into a bay a league or so away.

‘It is a jotunberg,’ Morbus said, giving name to the giant. ‘They are supposed to be few in number, stewards of Ghyran’s seasons, heralds of the dying time.’ He pointed at the immense titan; at each step, boulders and slabs of rock tumbled away from its body, smashing to the ground in an avalanche of destruction.

Grymn watched as the jotunberg stumbled onwards through the haze of snow and fog spilling from its body. Had the giant truly come in response to Alarielle’s magic? If so, to what purpose had she called this behemoth, and why did it now turn from the sylvaneth? He shook his head. Puzzles without answer and of little consequence now that the Radiant Queen was unable to answer them.

‘Forget the giant,’ Grymn said. ‘Our purpose here has changed. Queen Alarielle–’

Before the Lord-Castellant could finish speaking, a blast of icy air rushed past him, turning his breath to frost. He looked as the jotunberg stepped out into the sea. A quaking groan boomed across the land as the behemoth stumbled. Then the living mountain pitched forwards, slamming down into the sea in a cataclysmic crash that set the earth itself shivering. The water displaced by its impact flashed outwards in mighty waves, then hardened into crests of ice. The chill raced outwards from the fallen giant, coursing through the sea and freezing its surface. In the matter of only a few heartbeats, a distance of several hundred yards around the giant had been turned to ice, expanding outwards quicker than Grymn’s eye could follow. The skies unleashed their fury in earnest now, great swirling gales of icy snow whipping across the land.

Heralds of the dying time, Morbus had called the jotunberg. The giants were the bearers of winter.

As the ice spread towards their piece of shoreline, Grymn saw the sylvaneth start forwards. The tree-creatures stepped out onto the ice, making their way across the frozen sea. It was a strange sight, a walking forest marching over the frozen waves. Grymn was solemn as he watched that exodus, wondering where the sylvaneth would go, what it was that awaited them on the other side. Would they find the refuge towards which the Everqueen had been leading them? Was there indeed anywhere in the realm of Ghyran that could be called safe from Nurgle’s corruption?

Grymn looked down when he heard Tallon start growling. The gryph-hound’s fur was on end, his feathers ruffled. He knew the creature well enough to recognise it sensed the nearness of enemies.

‘Tegrus!’ Grymn shouted. ‘Get your Prosecutors into the air and scout for the enemy. Numbers and disposition. I want to know how long we can buy for our allies to cross the ice. Angstun, gather the Liberator conclaves and form a shield wall along the beach. Judicators on the flanks to provide supporting fire.’

Even as Angstun started deploying the Stormcasts, the clatter of armour and the snarls of beasts reached the Hallowed Knights. Plague warriors were indeed close, nearer than Grymn had feared them to be.

‘Commander, what about us, do we follow them?’ Markius asked, pointing at the sylvaneth.

With the sylvaneth marching out onto the ice, the Hallowed Knights Grymn had deployed to guard the flanks and act as pickets were falling back towards the stony shingle lining the shore. He started to answer Markius, to tell him there was no reason to follow the sylvaneth, but then he noticed that the Lady of Vines was standing at the edge of the ice, hesitating to join the march. Still singing her eerie song.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, her eyes fastened upon Grymn’s. The branchwraith held her hands towards him, her fingers parting to show him the seed. Deftly she reached to a hollow in her breast, carefully setting the seed into the recess. Then she turned, quickly disappearing into the moving forest of sylvaneth, her keening song drifting away with her as she walked out towards the ice.

No words had been spoken, for the Lady of Vines couldn’t allow her song to falter, but Grymn understood the meaning the branchwraith had tried to convey. She knew the duty that the Hallowed Knights were sworn to. They had been sent to protect the Radiant Queen. Grymn had thought they’d failed in that purpose, but now he understood he was wrong. The seed was more than a relic or a legacy: it was Alarielle herself, the Everqueen’s essence collapsed into a soulpod, waiting to be reborn.

‘Join the sylvaneth,’ Grymn told Markius. ‘We must protect the Lady of Vines and guard the seed she carries.’

‘You think Alarielle lives on in the seed?’ Morbus asked.

‘I do not think it, I know it,’ Grymn said. ‘The Lady of Vines has told me it is so.’ He saw the uncertainty in the Lord-Relictor’s eyes. ‘We still have a chance to fulfil our duty here and deny the enemy his victory.’

‘It is true no man can every fully understand the ways of magic,’ Morbus said. ‘But to believe the Radiant Queen lives on as a seed…’

The sound of wings brought the eyes of the Stormcasts skywards. Tegrus and his Prosecutors came swooping down, diving towards Grymn and his companions. At the last instant, the winged warriors pulled back, arresting the momentum of their dive. Ordinarily the daunting exhibition would be accomplished with an air of bravado and showmanship. Now, however, it was laced with an air of urgency.

‘Lord-Castellant,’ Tegrus addressed Grymn with a bow. ‘We’ve sighted a vast throng of enemy warriors advancing in this direction.’

‘A confederation of scavenging warbands?’ Markius suggested.

Tegrus shook his head. ‘They are too many to be mere scavengers,’ he reported. ‘We flew low enough to see the banners they bore. I recognised the emblems of Torglug the Despised.’ His tone grew still darker. ‘There is an enormous daemon with them, some gigantic obscenity spat out by Nurgle himself.’

Morbus clenched his fist. ‘Then the Radiant Queen’s magic was for naught,’ he snarled. ‘She sped us away from Athelwyrd only for the enemy to catch up to us just the same.’ A grim laugh sounded from behind his skull-like mask. ‘At least we can make Torglug regret finding us.’

‘We still have our duty,’ Grymn told Morbus. ‘We protect the queen-seed. That is more important than killing the enemy.’ He looked back to Tegrus. ‘How far away would you say Torglug is?’

‘If not for the snow-storm, they’d already have seen us,’ Tegrus said.

Grymn nodded. He turned and faced towards the ice, studying the shoreline and the march of the sylvaneth. The chilling effect of the jotunberg’s fall had been capricious in its action. There were gaps in the ice, great expanses of frigid water sloshing around the frozen crests. A hundred yards out from the shore the ice narrowed into a bridge between two stretches of icy water.

‘Tegrus, take your Prosecutors and watch Torglug’s legion. Any change, fly back here and report it to me.’ Grymn saluted the Prosecutor-Prime as he climbed back into the air with his warriors. Turning, he addressed Markius. ‘Take your Retributors and form up around that bridge,’ he said, pointing at the span he’d noticed. ‘When Diocletian comes up, I’ll send his paladins to join you.’

‘What is it that you have in mind?’ Morbus asked.

‘Once we’re out on the ice, if we break that bridge there’ll be no connection to the shore,’ Grymn said. ‘Torglug’s warriors will be trapped on this side of the sea.’

‘A sound plan,’ Morbus said, ‘but I think it will need more than lightning hammers and thunderaxes to split the ice.’ He waved at the snow falling around them. ‘The enemy has his own magic to call upon. I don’t think we can rely on this flurry to hide us from Torglug for long. There may not be time to crack the ice by force of arms.’

Grymn felt cold inside. Morbus was right, of course. He couldn’t depend upon the enemy giving him the time to execute his plan. But what was the alternative? What would Gardus have done if he were here? How would he have made use of the assets at his command?

‘Morbus, breaking the ice is your job,’ Grymn told the Lord-Relictor.

Morbus patted his hammer’s head like it was a gryph-hound. ‘I’ve shattered the bones of troggoths and broken the backs of daemons with this,’ he said. ‘It would be shameful if I told you I could be beaten by a little ice.’

The last of the sylvaneth were crossing the bridge when the vanguard of Torglug’s horde emerged from the snow-storm. Even from his position out on the ice, Grymn could see the look of surprise on the first marauder’s face as he suddenly found his quarry in front of him. Before the barbarian could shout to his fellows, one of the Judicators loosed an arrow into him, knocking the man back into the oblivion of the storm. Tallon growled at the fallen enemy, his hackles raised. Grymn quieted the gryph-hound with a curt command.

It was only a momentary respite. More of Torglug’s warriors appeared, loping out of the storm like ravening wolves. Now there were too many for the Judicators to put down before their cries of discovery reached the ears of the horde. Through a rain of sigmarite arrows and bolts, the enemy pressed forwards, rushing out onto the shingle in a howling mob of men and monsters.

The line of Liberators bringing up the rear were just crossing the bridge. Grymn scowled as his mind turned over the distance between them and the foe. It was going to be close. Closer than was comfortable. The same thought must have come to Morbus. The Lord-Relictor started back towards the bridge. Grymn laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘Wait,’ Grymn told Morbus.

The Lord-Relictor looked at him, but didn’t offer an objection. Morbus had a penchant for seeing the dark side of everything, of always finding the worst possibilities. Grymn prayed to Sigmar that this time the dour warrior was wrong.

Packs of beasthounds loped out from the storm, rushing past the enemies already on the shingle. The mutated beasts howled and snarled as they pursued the scent of the Hallowed Knights, moving with such speed that only a few of them fell to Judicators’ arrows as they came. Their claws raking the ice, the hideous brutes charged after the Liberators, baying in triumph as they came rushing onto the bridge.

Grymn felt a chill rush through his heart. If the Liberators turned to face the beasthounds, then the enemies on the shingle would gain the time they needed to reach the bridge. The Judicators couldn’t loose their arrows directly into the dogs because their own comrades were in the way. Grymn had to depend on the inability of the brutish creatures to realise that fact.

‘By volley… loose!’ The command was given by Angstun, the Knight-Vexillor. The Judicators with him raised their skybolt bows and sent a rain of arrows arcing into the air. The missiles came hurtling downwards, a dozen yards behind the withdrawing Liberators. Many of the beasthounds were caught in the descending volley, their thick hides pierced over and again by the sigmarite shafts. Yelps of pain rang out as the injured creatures writhed on the ice, others toppled into the icy slush to either side. Panicked by the whines of the other beasts, even those hounds that had charged ahead of the volley turned around and fled back towards the shore.

Now Grymn motioned Morbus forwards. The Lord-Relictor marched past the Liberator rearguard and raised his relic hammer high. Invoking the divine power of Sigmar, he called out to the God-King. Even as the first marauders and gors ventured out onto the ice, mighty blasts of lightning came hurtling downwards. Where the bolts struck, the ice was vaporised, steaming craters gouged out of the bridge by each strike, exposing great pits of icy water and slush. The main span of the bridge was fractured and fragmented, but the aftermath left behind dozens of smaller, slighter spans.

For once, Morbus’ pessimism had missed a possibility. The relic hammer’s power had failed to crack the bridge completely and there was no guarantee another lightning-strike would accomplish what the first had not. When the enemy recovered from the shock inflicted on them by Morbus’ magic, they’d come swarming across the spans that remained. If only a few of them held, it would be a disaster.

The creaking groan of marching sylvaneth drew Grymn’s attention away from the bridge. He watched as a file of towering treelords came striding back across the ice, their branches heavy with snow from the storm. The huge sylvaneth walked past him, converging upon the near side of the bridge where Morbus stood.

As the first of the Chaos warriors came charging out onto the battered bridge, the treelords slammed their massive feet against the seaward edge. Roots snaked out from their feet, burrowing into the ice. A tremor rushed through the frozen waves, and the sharp crack of splitting ice rang out. The enemies rushing onto the span shouted in horror. Not a man or beast lingered; almost as one they turned and fled back towards the shingle.

The cracks caused by the treelords widened, catching the slowest of the enemy warriors and pitching them into the icy slush of the sea. Still the sylvaneth roots burrowed, causing the spans to split and collapse into the water. Only when the gap between the frozen sea and the shore was too wide for even the most agile beasthound to leap did the treelords relent. Glaring at the men and monsters on the shore, the huge sylvaneth strode back the way they had come, vanishing into the swirling flurries of snow.

Grymn looked over the vast expanse of water that now lay between him and the shore. It would take Torglug’s forces hours to throw a bridge across that span. By then, the Hallowed Knights and the sylvaneth would be far across the ice. With the snow-storm to hide their trail and conceal their position, they just might be able to slip away entirely.

‘Withdraw,’ Grymn called out to his warriors, turning a deaf ear to the jeers and curses of the foes clustered along the shoreline. The Hallowed Knights turned at his command, falling back across the ice. As with the treelords, it wasn’t long before the storm hid them from the eyes of their foe.

Torglug the Despised looked down at the corpse of the beastlord. Rakthor had been one of his chieftains ever since it had slaughtered its own leader in single combat. Vicious and cunning, it had been a capable enough lieutenant. Still, at the moment, Torglug didn’t need a lieutenant. He needed an example.

‘I am not being cheated of my prize!’ Torglug bellowed, pointing his axe at the rest of his champions. ‘I am not being denied my destiny!’ He kicked the horned head at his feet, causing blood to slosh out of the gaping wound in Rakthor’s neck. ‘Whole of Ghyran can be falling to Grandfather, but it is being nothing to Him without Everqueen!’

The warlord’s minions were silent. They knew Torglug’s rages and knew that the best way to survive them was to escape his notice. Only a brave man, or a foolish one, would tempt the anger of Nurgle’s chosen. Walking out across the shingle and diving down into the icy slush would be preferable to falling foul of their master. Guthrax alone seemed to find humour in the situation, chuckling darkly at the warlord’s distress and the fright of his chieftains.

The Great Unclean One’s mockery vexed Torglug. Guthrax was a formidable ally, but an obnoxious one. Whirling around, the warlord pointed his axe at his most powerful sorcerer. Slaugoth Maggotfang muttered a nervous laugh when he felt the warlord’s eyes on him. The chieftains around him edged away. If Slaugoth was due a tortuous doom from the warlord, then let the sorcerer suffer alone.

‘You are boasting always of your magic. You are telling always how mighty your sorcery is being. Now I am to be putting your magic to test. You are knowing what I am offering those who fail me,’ Torglug warned. He settled back into the seat of the throne that had been raised for him on the shingle, a chair crafted from the corpses of warriors who’d failed to cross the ice before it cracked.

‘I can get your army across,’ Slaugoth grinned. ‘But the cost will be high.’ He raised his swollen hand to fend off the fury he saw blazing in Torglug’s blemished eyes. ‘It is not a reward I seek,’ he hurried to explain. ‘This particular sorcery is dangerous and demanding. It will need the lives of many of your followers.’

‘To be dying in my service is a glory all who are serving me should be happy to embrace,’ Torglug said, threat bubbling behind each word.

Slaugoth came closer to the throne. He thrust one hand towards Torglug, while the other he held before his own mouth. When he spoke again, only the warlord could understand him – the rest of the chieftains heard only the buzz of flies. ‘I will need the Coin of Thak. It is in the possession of Vorak of Fell.’

‘Agreed,’ Torglug said.

The sorcerer smiled, worms dripping from between his teeth. ‘I will also need Vorak himself. I will need another twenty sorcerers from among your legion, drawn from the strongest of your shamans and warlocks.’ Slaugoth let a note of mock severity slip into his tone. ‘I must warn that it is unlikely they will survive the ritual.’

‘Be careful, Woodsman,’ Guthrax advised, the daemon’s vast gut quivering with amusement. ‘Wormteeth intends to eliminate all of his rivals. He’ll make himself even more vital to your ambitions.’

One glance at the face of Slaugoth was proof enough that the daemon, for once at least, was speaking the truth. It was a gamble, but the plaguelord felt the risk was worth the stake. Besides, if Slaugoth forgot his place, he still had Guthrax to put him down again. Torglug chuckled, the sound slobbering up from the depths of his bloated bulk.

‘Be getting me to my prize and I am letting you kill any that are surviving.’

The putrid blightkings were dispatched to subdue the needed materials for Slaugoth’s ritual. Some of the more recalcitrant required Guthrax to convince them to cooperate, the daemon’s power easily swatting aside the wards and protections they tried to use to preserve themselves. It was as well that the rite needed intact minds rather than intact bodies. Torglug himself secured Vorak’s participation, ignoring the warlock’s assurances that he could perform the rite just as adeptly as Slaugoth could. When Vorak was dragged before his rival, he was missing the Coin of Thak as well as his left leg.

The sorcerers chosen by Slaugoth were dumped along the shingle, facing out towards the ice – three great circles of witches, warlocks and shamans, the rock about their feet stained with cabalistic sigils and the profane runes of Nurgle. A few of the most powerful among them, such as Vorak, had some inclination of what was coming, but their wisdom only made them appreciate that there was no escape.

Slaugoth stood at the centre of the three circles, the speck in the middle of the fly-rune. With the Coin of Thak hanging about his neck, he was certain he’d be able to protect himself from the hazards involved in such a hasty ritual. He raised his arms high and began an invocation to his diseased god. Nurgle’s armies infested the whole of Ghyran, and it was here that the god’s attention was fixed. It wasn’t strange then that the Grandfather heard Slaugoth’s appeal and answered his cry.

The diseased might of Nurgle poured into the gathered sorcerers. Slaugoth felt his bloated belly churn and quiver with the boiling corruption of his god. Crying out in agony, he disgorged the filth growing inside him. A stream of foul water, stagnant muck from the swamps of Nurgle’s own domain, vomited from his mouth, flowing out across the shingle, towards the distant ice.

From each of the other sorcerers, a stream of putrescence erupted and cascaded towards the ice. The diseased fluid merged with the other streams, gathering into a single rancid river. As the flow struck the frigid air, it began to harden, congealing into a mire of corruption. Gallon upon gallon spewed from the sorcerers, channelled from the Grandfather’s garden. Horned shamans and bloated witches perished as the malignant spell ripped them apart from the inside out, yet even death didn’t end the foul discharge spilling from them.

More and more of the corruption streamed across the gap. From a mire, the flow hardened into an icy mush. The swampy substance grew thicker, concentrating into a ghoulish mass. By the time the streams of filth died out, a putrid glacier stretched across the gap.

Slaugoth fell to his knees as the sickening spell petered out. He wiped residue from his face and ripped the corroded Coin of Thak from his neck. The talisman had served its purpose. Glancing towards where Vorak had been dumped, he saw that his rival hadn’t survived the spell, his belly ruptured by the enormity of Nurgle’s power. It was odd to see that the minor witch next to Vorak had survived, but the ways of Chaos were capricious.

The sorcerer laughed as he heaved himself back onto his feet and watched the plaguehost charging across the bridge he’d conjured. Torglug was certain to catch the enemy now, to seize the prize Nurgle coveted so dearly. The warlord would be exalted by the Grandfather for such a triumph, and when he was, Slaugoth would share in that glory.

Chapter four

As he hurried his men across the ice, Lord-Castellant Grymn kept looking up at the stormy sky. He depended upon Tegrus and his Prosecutors to monitor the enemy, to keep him informed of Torglug’s movements.

If Tegrus couldn’t keep watch on the enemy, the Hallowed Knights were deprived of their most vital advantage over the plaguehosts. Grymn could hear the keening song of the Lady of Vines drifting back to him on the wintry wind. Alarielle might have called the jotunberg, but he felt it was her handmaiden who was shaping the living mountain’s primal powers, focusing them into the snow-storm that raged across sea and shore. There was an elemental magic in the branchwraith’s song, an arcane force that flowed from her into the atmosphere, twisting the environment itself to suit the needs of the sylvaneth exodus.

The storm was now their greatest defence. The veil of icy mist hid the Stormcasts and their allies from the eyes of their pursuers, rendering them nearly invisible unless the observer was within a few hundred yards of them. If Tegrus and his Prosecutors couldn’t find the enemy, then it was doubly certain that the enemy couldn’t find them.

Or was it? Grymn remonstrated himself for falling into the trap of underestimating the foe. Perhaps he needed a touch of Morbus’ dour outlook; maybe the Lord-Relictor’s bleak opinions were something every leader had to take into account when making his plans. ‘Believe in victory but have a strategy for failure,’ had been one of Lord-Celestant Gardus’ maxims. At the same time, Gardus had also advised that it was better to be mistaken than hesitant.

Grymn’s focus turned from his inner thoughts to the men around him. Once more he’d deployed the Stormcasts so that they covered the flanks and rear of the sylvaneth march. The human warriors were faster and more agile than the lumbering tree-creatures and treelords who made up the bulk of the retreat. They would be more capable of reacting to a sudden threat than their allies. Moreover, he noted with a sting of guilt, a Stormcast who fell in battle would be reforged in Sigmaron. The sylvaneth killed by the enemy were simply dead. It gave him pause to consider how the tree-creatures regarded their own mortality. Some of the treelords were so ancient that the Jade Kingdoms had literally bloomed around them. The Lady of Vines, it was said, was even older still and had been handmaiden to the Everqueen even before she came into the realm of Ghyran. When such beings perished, it was so much more than the death of a man. It was centuries, even millennia, of life and experience extinguished, knowledge beyond the ken of scholars and sages.

That was why the Stormcast Eternals had been forged, why they had devoted themselves to an existence of unending war. Sigmar would turn back the outrages of the Dark Gods, would redeem the realms from the desecration of Chaos. For Grymn, for all the Hallowed Knights, there could be no mightier or more noble cause, no greater purpose a man could serve. Throughout the realms there were many who struggled to oppose the spread of the Ruinous Powers, men who fought only with their own courage and conviction to turn back the darkness. Truly blessed were those chosen by the God-King to continue the war in armour of sigmarite and with weapons forged in the armouries of Azyr.

His hand reached to the icon of Sigmar he wore. The silver hammer was small in Grymn’s gauntlet, but it represented something more powerful than thunderaxes and boltstorm crossbows. It was faith, trust in the God-King’s power and the God-King’s beneficence – the knowledge that however dark and dire things became, Sigmar wouldn’t abandon His servants.

Something flashed across the snowy sky overhead. For just an instant, Grymn thought it was a flash of lighting, a token of the God-King’s vigilance. Then the phenomenon was repeated and Grymn was better able to see what it was that sped through the air. It was one of the Prosecutors, silver armour gleaming, great wings outstretched as he rode upon the winds. A mighty cheer rose from the Hallowed Knights, a shout of welcome to their airborne brother. The Prosecutor saluted them then wheeled away, climbing high into the sky until he was lost from view. A few moments later, he descended once more. This time he wasn’t alone but instead was accompanied by the rest of the winged Stormcasts. Tegrus, the plumes of his helm fluttering in the chill breeze, spotted Grymn and wheeled away from his troops.

Grymn returned the Prosecutor-Prime’s salute as Tegrus landed beside him, cheered by the scout’s return. When he noted the severe expression in the warrior’s eyes, he found his relief dulled by a sense of foreboding. ‘You were able to keep watch on Torglug through the storm?’ At the moment, his greatest concern was that the Prosecutors had lost contact with the enemy. What Tegrus had to report was far worse, graver than any prediction Morbus could have made.

‘We found them, commander,’ Tegrus said. ‘They have already crossed onto the ice.’

‘How many of them?’ Grymn asked. He’d anticipated that Torglug would get a few troops across as quickly as possible in order to harass and delay their retreat.

‘The whole legion,’ Tegrus reported, his voice graver than Grymn had ever heard it. ‘Their accursed sorcerers worked some abominable magic to bridge the sea, an arch of filth spanning from the shore to the ice. The entire horde is across by now, sped by Torglug’s threats and barbarities.’

Other officers of the Hallowed Knights drew near to hear Tegrus’ observations and to attend whatever orders Grymn had for them. It was Angstun who expressed the most immediate concern.

‘How long ago did the enemy get onto the ice and how far away are they now?’

Tegrus shook his head. ‘The storm hindered our efforts to keep watch on the enemy. We were forced to fly low to make our observations. When we saw that they were conjuring a bridge with their magic, we tried to speed back to make our report. The storm made it difficult to locate the column again. It’s covering your tracks, so there is no trace of the march upon the ice. We were forced to disperse and glide closer to the surface than we should have liked to find you.’ The Prosecutor-Prime spread his wings with a frustrated twitch. ‘I fear my report has been delayed some hours now because of the storm.’

The news brought uneasy murmurs from the other officers. If the plaguehosts had been loose upon the ice for hours then the enemy might have covered considerable distance. With the storm to hide their advance, they might be anywhere. The cold had chilled the sylvaneth and slowed their advance, even if it hadn’t diminished their prodigious endurance. Torglug would not allow similar setbacks, even if it killed his warriors.

‘If the storm has hidden us from the Prosecutors, then surely it will hide us from the enemy,’ Retributor-Prime Markius said.

‘The enemy counts more than mere men among their ranks,’ Morbus stated. ‘There are any number of strange beasts and monsters among them that might be able to pick up our scent and chase us down. Some of the daemons Torglug has conjured from the pits of Nurgle could track us by the light of our souls.’

‘Or the light of the queen-seed,’ Grymn added, turning his gaze towards the sylvaneth marching ahead of them. Though he could still hear the Lady of Vines singing her spell-song, he couldn’t see the branchwraith through the mist, nor the radiant glow of the soulpod she carried. For all that he had been reforged in body and soul upon the Anvil of Apotheosis, his senses were still those of a man. Would the snows conceal the presence of the Lady of Vines and the treasure she bore from the profane malignance of daemons? Grymn decided they could take no such chance. Alarielle lived on in the queen-seed and it was their duty to protect her.

‘Our purpose remains the same,’ Grymn told his officers. ‘We will protect and defend the Radiant Queen.’

‘What are your orders?’ Angstun asked.

‘For now, we continue our march,’ Grymn told him, ‘but I want the Retributors withdrawn from the flanks and brought to the rear. Those Judicators armed with crossbows will likewise fall back. I want a double-rank of Liberators behind the last of the sylvaneth and a tightening of the forces deployed to either side at the back of the column.’

‘By strengthening the rearguard, you weaken the rest of the formation,’ Morbus cautioned. ‘What if the enemy moves parallel to us and intends to fall upon us from the sides?’

Grymn shook his head. ‘I do not think Torglug would show such restraint. He is too keen on catching us. The moment he finds us, I think he will attack.’ He paused for a moment, reminding himself that underestimating the enemy was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make. ‘Still, we must guard against that possibility. Remove only every third retinue from the flanks. Angstun will be in command of the forces to the left of the column, Lord-Relictor Morbus of those to the right.’ He turned and faced Tegrus. ‘Do you think your scouts could find their way back to us in this storm?’

‘Only if we flew in a straight line from this point to our objective,’ Tegrus answered. ‘That would necessitate the column remaining while we were gone.’ There was worry in his tone, regret that his Prosecutors might cause the retreat to be delayed.

‘We’ll leave a relay of pickets to guide you back,’ Grymn said. He glanced over at Angstun. ‘We detach a warrior to hang behind and wait. The moment the mist starts to obscure him from view, another man falls back to keep him in sight.’

‘It could be done,’ the Knight-Vexillor said. ‘The only hazard would be if the storm grows worse and reduces visibility.’

‘That is a chance we’ll have to take,’ Grymn said. Again he turned to Tegrus. ‘I need to call upon your eyes once more. Deploy scouts to our left and right, but most especially I want you to retrace the trail behind us. I think it is from that direction the possibility of pursuit is greatest. Each of you will scout a distance of three leagues, then return.’ A note of apology sounded in Grymn’s voice. ‘I fear I’m going to abuse the stamina of your Prosecutors. Each time you return to report, you’ll be sent out again. Until we either find the enemy or–’ He hesitated, looking again to where the sylvaneth column was marching. ‘Or until we get wherever the Lady of Vines is leading us.’

Grymn watched as Tegrus and the other Prosecutors rose back into the sky. He didn’t like to put the scouts at such risk. They’d have to fly low over the surface and though the slaves of Chaos weren’t known for fielding companies of bowmen, there was always the potential for a lucky spearcast or dark witchcraft to bring down the scouts. Moreover, even with the line of pickets left in the wake of the column, it would be an easy thing for the Prosecutors to miss them and lose their way in the storm. Still, the risk was necessary, however burdensome to Grymn’s conscience. They had to know where Torglug’s legion was.

Angstun was just deploying the second picket when Tegrus and three of his Prosecutors came flying back. The winged warriors didn’t circle above the column to slow their speed but instead came diving down straight towards Grymn, their boots digging into the ice and snow as they hastily arrested their momentum. Tallon growled at them, upset by the haste of their return. Tegrus shouted to his commander, ‘Torglug’s legion is less than a mile behind the column and moving fast!’

‘Morbus, Angstun, you have your orders,’ Grymn told the two officers. ‘Keep the column moving. As you march, bring a mixed force of Liberators and Judicators to guard the rear. If it’s possible, we’ll rejoin you, but I’ll send a Prosecutor to alert you first. If you see anyone coming out of the storm without warning, cut them down.’

Grymn busied himself with bringing the rearguard back. The frozen bulk of what must have been an island loomed off to their right, presenting a natural impediment to assault from that direction. Some of the more agile creatures among Torglug’s horde might be able to climb the frozen shingle that surrounded the snow-covered mound, but his heavier troops would find it tough going and it would be next to impossible for his cavalry.

‘Form the line adjacent to the island,’ Grymn told the officers of his rearguard. Half of the Hallowed Knights were dropping out of the column – a double-rank of Liberators, their massive shields locked together to form an unbroken wall of sigmarite and steel. Behind the second file of Liberators was the Annihilation Brotherhood, the Retributors under Markius. Most of the hammer-bearing paladins were deployed at the exposed left side of the shield wall, ready to crush any foe seeking to lap around the formation; others were staggered along the wall itself, a reserve to deal with any enemies strong enough to smash their way through the Liberators. Finally, there were the Judicators. Grymn had left the archers equipped with skybolt bows with Morbus and Angstun, withdrawing only those retinues bearing quick-firing boltstorm crossbows. Their role in the coming combat would be the deciding factor, even more vital than the Liberators and their shield wall.

‘Did you see much cavalry?’ Grymn asked Tegrus as the Hallowed Knights moved into position.

The Prosecutor-Prime nodded. ‘From what I saw, it seems largely infantry and light cavalry.’ He followed Grymn’s gaze as the Lord-Castellant gave the left flank of the Hallowed Knights a concerned look. Swift-moving enemies would be able to roll around the exposed flank before the Stormcasts could react. Chaos hounds and other brutish beasts would simply circle around and attack the wall from behind, their predatory instincts oblivious to any strategic advantage. Horsemen, however, would recognise the opportunity to bypass the rearguard.

‘If they get around us, they’ll catch the column,’ Grymn said. His hand closed around the icon of Sigmar he wore. ‘If we only had more troops, if we could just extend the line more–’

Even as he spoke, a yelp from Tallon caused Grymn to turn his head. The column had withdrawn behind the veil of the storm some time ago, vanishing into the snow and mist while the rearguard took up its position. Now, however, vague figures were moving towards them, monstrous shadows stalking through the fog. For a hideous moment, Grymn’s heart darkened. Had the enemy somehow already managed to get behind them?

A swelling of wonder and relief rushed through Grymn when the shapes started to emerge from the obscuring veil. Inhuman, yes, but they weren’t the monstrous horrors of Torglug’s legions. It was the sylvaneth, a great body of tree-creatures marching back to help the Hallowed Knights in their holding action. Gigantic treelords with strong branches and ironbark trunks, nimble dryads with sharp talons and fanged mouths, and other less distinct tree-creatures strode across the ice to join the Stormcasts. As though answering Grymn’s concerns, the sylvaneth placed themselves along the exposed left flank, almost doubling the length of the line.

‘They look to be adopting your tactics,’ Tegrus observed, looking at the massed tree-creatures that had assembled into a wall of bark and branches. The mighty treelords kept place behind the smaller sylvaneth, ready to react to any break in the line. The swifter dryads took a post that appeared to mimic that of the Judicators, though Grymn was certain their role would be far different than what he’d planned for his bowmen.

‘The Lady of Vines must have sent them,’ Grymn said. Studying the mass of sylvaneth, he estimated that almost a tenth of the column had been sent back to support the rearguard. It was tempting to believe the action indicated some expression of acceptance and fellowship between Stormcasts and sylvaneth, but he doubted the branchwraith was concerned about the men. Her focus was on keeping the queen-seed away from Torglug, and she was intelligent enough to understand that the longer Grymn’s rearguard could hold, the better her chances of escaping. He didn’t begrudge her such pragmatism. All of them, man and sylvaneth, had obligations far greater than themselves.

‘Sigmar grant that their aid is enough,’ Tegrus said. He pointed away from the shield wall. More dark, shadowy shapes could be seen behind the veil of mist and snow. This time the tense anticipation Grymn felt was justified. These would be no sylvaneth allies; only the plaguehosts of Torglug the Despised would be coming from this direction.

‘Sigmar grant us victory,’ Grymn prayed. His strategy was about to be put to the test.

There is a point at which the pain of flesh reaches its end. Flesh can only withstand so much before it can suffer no more. The mercy of flesh is the dulling of the senses, the numbness of indifference as agony breaks the last boundaries.

The spirit, however, the mind and heart of a mortal, these are things for which the only relief from torment is madness. Bit by bit, all that a mortal believes and trusts is eaten away by suffering. What oppression, what degradation can eclipse the futility of faith betrayed? In hope there lurks the greatest of all pain, for when it is extinguished, nothing is left behind but darkness. The mockery of treacherous hope is the most malicious of tortures, for it is a torment that stabs to the very depths of the soul.

How long can one be abandoned to the darkness before the only thing left is to curse the light?

Torglug’s blemished eyes squinted as he shook away his thoughts and focused on the captive who had been brought before him. It was a rare accomplishment to subdue one of Sigmar’s accursed lightning-men. Far easier to destroy them outright, to slay them and send their bodies crackling into nothingness. He was more impressed that Guthrax’s daemonic bile had taken the winged knight alive than he was at the abomination’s skill in shooting the flying spy out of the air.

Torglug peered closely at the captive scout, appreciating the remarkable resistance he exhibited. Only those as favoured and blessed by the Grandfather as himself could endure the diseased emanations exuding from the Great Unclean One. Clutched in one of Guthrax’s immense claws, encased in the daemon’s congealed bile, the lightning-man should be a mass of boils and buboes, his armour reduced to a corroded mess of rusted scrap. To be certain, there was the stink of decay, the mark of contagion. The spy was resistant, but hardly immune. In time, the dread might of Nurgle would consume his body as it did everything else. The knight would die, his body disintegrating in the blaze of light that devoured all vanquished lightning-men.

Yes, the rot of Nurgle would kill this man’s flesh, but could it destroy his spirit? Torglug’s fingers curled around the haft of his axe, twisting the metal out of shape. Destruction was so much more difficult to achieve than death. Any brute beast could bring death. Destruction demanded far greater finesse.

‘You are being abandoned by your God-King,’ Torglug gloated. He waved his blackened axe, gesturing at the huge throng of warriors and monsters marching across the ice. ‘Sigmar is fleeing Ghyran. This realm is being Nurgle’s dominion. For you there is being no victory here, only illusion of purpose. You are giving your loyalty to a dream, a myth. To what end? To what good is sacrifice of your comrades serving when battle already is being lost? What you would be saving is already belonging to Nurgle.’ As he spoke, Torglug studied the inscrutable helm of his prisoner.

A mighty cough of laughter rippled through Guthrax’s obese enormity. ‘The pup’s thoughts turn to your prize, Torglug Treefell,’ the daemon chortled. ‘It seems in conjuring this winter, the Radiant Queen expended too much of herself. Her body has withered away, leaving only a seed behind. It is carried now by one of her sylvaneth, a branchwraith called the Lady of Vines.’

Torglug’s face curled into a greedy smile beneath the mask of his helm. ‘This seed is to being planted in Grandfather’s gardens, to be sprouting amidst the deathblooms and corpsevines, to be flowering beneath the leprous boughs of widow-oak and beside the stagnant pools of Blightreach.

‘Shall I be telling you a secret?’ Torglug said, his blemished eyes fastened upon those of the lightning-man. ‘Are you knowing what is putting victory within my grasp? After so much fruitless searching, I am finding way into Athelwyrd. I am telling you,’ the warlord chortled. ‘Lightning-men who are finding refuge for me. You are uncovering door I am not finding. You are coming here seeking audience with Alarielle, to be promising her aid of your Sigmar. Instead, you are breaking spells that are hiding her from me. Belonging to you is glory of exposing Radiant Queen’s redoubt.’

Guthrax’s swollen belly shook with laughter. ‘The whelp tries to seal his mind against my power, to hide his thoughts from the Kingeater,’ the daemon declared, ‘but the truth of Athelwyrd’s fall has sown disorder within him. There is doubt there.’ The Great Unclean One shrugged its cancerous shoulders. ‘Not enough to corrupt or consume,’ it admitted, ‘but enough to show me what he would hide.’

‘And what are you seeing?’ Torglug asked, still gazing into the eyes of his prisoner. He was disappointed that there was still so much defiance there, that the rot of despair had failed to take root even now. He wanted to see that moment when faith died and hope withered inside the lightning-man.

‘I have seen their line of retreat,’ Guthrax announced. ‘I have seen the sylvaneth and the shiny knights traipsing across the ice, as though they have any real chance of escaping the Grandfather’s power.’ The daemon lowered its head, leaning closer to Torglug. ‘Their leader turns to confront you,’ the daemon said. ‘He would bring battle to your horde, to win through force of arms what he can’t through retreat. He thinks to prove the valour and might of those who serve his simpering godling.’ Feeling a flicker of devotion stir within the captive clenched in its fist, the daemon sought to snuff out the warrior’s defiance. ‘The leader’s name is Grymn and he is but the replacement for the warrior you vanquished in Athelwyrd. Ill-suited and ill-prepared to oppose the triumph of Torglug the Despised.’

‘My legion is meeting your comrades in battle,’ Torglug assured the prisoner. Despite all the information that Guthrax had ripped from the man’s mind, despite the sickening revelation that it was the lightning-men who’d exposed the way into Athelwyrd, despite the ascendency of Nurgle across all Ghyran, the warrior’s faith refused to break. ‘They are not keeping me from claiming queen-seed for Grandfather,’ he promised. Still failing to see despair in his enemy’s bearing, Torglug turned away in disgust. ‘Fanatic,’ he hissed, disgorging the word with revulsion. It was simple for a fanatic to be brave. Madness couldn’t destroy what it had already claimed.

Torglug turned from the prisoner. His bodyguard, the putrid blightkings, stood ready to attend their master, safely beyond the pestilential aura of Guthrax.

‘We are learning nothing more from him,’ he told the daemon. ‘Be sending him back to Sigmar. Be letting his spirit tell his god that I am crossing blades with lightning-men and after I am cutting my way through them, I am claiming my prize.’

Marching away to join his warriors, Torglug heard the shriek of metal and the crunch of bone as Guthrax crushed the prisoner in its claws. What he failed to hear was a scream. Right to the last the lightning-man strove to defy him.

Fanatic, Torglug thought. There was no power that could long deny the might of Nurgle. Experience had taught him that. Everything else was delusion, the mocking lies of deceitful hope.

Out of the mist and snow they came, a mongrel host of men and beasts. Herds of braying, goat-headed monsters stampeded towards the Hallowed Knights, grotesque banners of flayed skin fluttering above them. Tribes of barbaric marauders slowly marched forwards, banging their axes against their shields and snarling hymns to the Father of Crows. Swarms of tiny daemons, like bloated toads, hopped and slithered across the ice, insane giggles of vicious anticipation spilling from their fanged mouths. Looming above the beastmen and marauders, diseased ogors slogged through the snow, huge clubs torn from fallen sylvaneth now clenched in their murderous fists. Ghastly troggoths, their scaly hides slimy with decay and fecund growth, loped among the warherds, their dull minds hearkening to the call of battle.

As he watched the horde advance, Grymn prayed that Sigmar’s blessing would guard his Stormcasts and their sylvaneth allies. The numbers of Torglug’s vile legion were daunting; with every breath more enemies came marching out from the icy fog. Yet there was a terrible comfort in watching the host descend upon the rearguard. By holding the army of Chaos here they would be giving the Lady of Vines her chance to escape and carry the queen-seed beyond the reach of Nurgle’s abominable slaves.

The first of the warherds crashed into the Hallowed Knights. The slavering gors hurled themselves against the stalwart warriors with savage abandon. Bone clubs and stone axes shattered against sigmarite shields. Clawed hands raked futilely across silver helms. Bony hooves kicked at armoured legs without avail.

For a moment, the Stormcasts held their shields high, absorbing the impact of the charging beastmen. Then, at Grymn’s shouted command, they retaliated in kind. Swords flashed out from between the heavy shields, stabbing and slashing the hairy hides of the gors. Hammers smashed into horned heads or slammed into branded chests, shattering skulls and splintering ribs. Soon there were bleats of pain and cries of fear mixing with the murderous braying of the warherd. Monstrous foes crumpled at the feet of the Liberators, dead and dying alike trampled into the bloodied snow as enemies rushed forwards to the attack.

To the right, diseased tribesmen slammed into the battle line, striving to pull aside the shields with hooked axes and whipping flails. Liberators from the rear rank stepped forwards each time a comrade’s guard was overcome by such tactics, stabbing their blades into the faces of startled barbarians. Following an order issued by Grymn, the Liberators beset by the diseased marauders brought their shields cracking into the howling mass, a violent wave of shining sigmarite that knocked the tribesmen back, flinging them into the faces of the enemies following behind them. The momentum of their rush broken, the rage of the Chaos worshippers swelled. They lunged back to the attack with the disordered fury of a mob. Disciplined, steady, the Stormcasts met the assault with precision and unity, cutting down scores of the enemy in only a few heartbeats.

Near the left flank, where the line of Hallowed Knights met the sylvaneth formation, a bellowing bullgor accomplished what masses of beastmen and marauders had failed to manage. Ploughing through its own comrades, the hulking monster smashed through the double-rank of Liberators. Stormcasts were flung aside by the bull-monster’s horns while others were cut down by the beast’s enormous axe. The flash and clamour of vanquished Hallowed Knights rose from the battlefield as the rampaging brute broke through the shield wall.

Survivors closed ranks behind the charging bullgor, blocking the rush of snarling ungors that came loping forwards to exploit the gap. The Liberators devoted themselves completely to the foes before them, sparing not so much as a glance for the bovine monster that had won through to their rear. Settling with the bullgor would be for others to attend to. Paladins ran towards the blood-crazed beast, Retributor-Prime Markius bringing his heavy lightning hammer crashing against the creature’s leg, pulverising the bone beneath. As the brute pitched towards the ground, Markius delivered another brutal blow to its head, cracking its vicious horns. A pained groan rose from the stricken beast, then it collapsed against the ice as life fled from its mutated flesh.

Wheeling around the assaulting infantry, a host of barbarian horsemen charged into the sylvaneth position. Dressed in skins and furs, their leather helms adorned with antlers and iron spikes, the mounted marauders roared their tribal cries as they thundered towards the tree-creatures. Those at the fore of the attack gripped blazing torches in their fists, swinging the brands overhead to stir the flames as they galloped closer. Snarling in defiance, they hurled the torches at their enemy, then spun their chargers to the right, making way for the horsemen following behind them.

The marauders had intended to throw the sylvaneth into disarray. After their long campaign to conquer Ghyran, the Chaos warriors had learned how to fight the tree-creatures and come to appreciate that the only thing which could sow fear in their wooden hearts was fire. In their attack, however, the barbarians failed to appreciate the effect of the snow storm. The trunks of the tree-creatures were slick with frost and ice, wearing the chill of winter like a layer of armour. The blazing brands struck against them only to glance off without taking light, crashing to the ground and fizzling at the feet of the sylvaneth.

Charging onwards, the mounted axemen found an unbroken wall of foes waiting for them. There were no holes in the line, no burning forest spirits to rush past or cut down with their blades. Instead the marauders struck an enemy boiling with inhuman rage. The effort to set the sylvaneth alight had only succeeded in stirring their fury. Claw-like hands and spear-like branches stabbed out at the cavalry, impaling men and horses, ripping shrieking barbarians from their saddles, tossing screaming chargers through the air. Hissing dryads darted beneath the boughs of the larger tree-creatures, raking their talons across the bellies of frightened steeds and dragging down dismounted fighters. Havoc and carnage had indeed been the result of the cavalry attack, but it was visited upon the forces of Chaos rather than the defenders.

The snow-storm had lost much of its fury over this part of the frozen sea and from where he stood atop a spur of rock, Grymn could see almost the entirety of his battle line. Everywhere the enemy was throwing himself upon the ranks of Stormcasts and sylvaneth, but it was rare the slaves of Chaos managed to force their way through and each of these brief incursions was swiftly put down by lurking dryads and the flying squads of Retributors. For every enemy the defenders struck down, however, it seemed two more came marching out of the storm.

‘They will have to try much harder if they want to break us,’ Tegrus told his commander. The Prosecutors had been held back among the Judicators, waiting as a reserve or to serve as messengers should Grymn need to communicate with Morbus and Angstun in the main column.

‘If ferocity was enough, they might prevail,’ Grymn observed. ‘But these creatures lack the strength and valour to accomplish their purpose. Inside all but the most degenerate minion of darkness there is buried an awareness of its own wickedness. That self-loathing is what denies them the fortitude of those with righteousness in their hearts.’

‘They’re stubborn,’ Tegrus said, pointing to where the remnants of a warherd were leaping over their own dead to reach the Liberators. ‘If this keeps up, we’ll bleed Torglug’s legion white before nightfall.’

A cold that had nothing to do with snow and ice shivered through Grymn’s mind as he listened to Tegrus’ words. It was true, the Hallowed Knights were butchering the Chaos warriors by the bushel. Yet nowhere amidst the carnage had Grymn spotted any of Torglug’s heavy troops. There were no dark knights in black armour or packs of gors clad in chain and plate. He had yet to see the bloated, diseased hulks of the putrid blightkings or hear the murderous drone of rot flies. Except for the diminutive nurglings, none of the obscene daemons that marched under Torglug’s diseased banner had taken part in the attack.

‘By nightfall, the enemy will be cutting a path through the column,’ Grymn cursed, sick realisation coursing through him. Beside him, Tallon snarled in sympathy with its master’s alarm. ‘We’re not holding them here, they’re holding us! Torglug’s sending the chaff to pin us down while his best troops bypass us.

‘He’s trying to reach the column!’

Chapter five

‘Hounds! Hounds at our heels!’

The shout of warning rose from Decimator-Prime Diocletian. Their presence disturbing to the sylvaneth, the paladins and their immense thunderaxes continued to maintain a place at the rear of the column. With black humour, they whispered among themselves that with axes following behind them, the tree-creatures would be encouraged to maintain a hearty pace. Now it was the Decimators who found it necessary to lag behind.

Lord-Relictor Morbus dashed towards the rear of the column, warning the Stormcasts he passed to keep a wary eye upon the flanks. As he rounded the vast gathering of sylvaneth refugees, he spotted Knight-Vexillor Angstun rushing out from the icy mist that obscured the other side of the column. Ahead of them, both of the Stormcasts could see Diocletian and his paladins. The silver warriors were locked in vicious combat with a slavering pack of mutant hounds. The beasts charged out from the storm, baying and snarling, foam flecking their fangs. With a thunderous crack, the Decimators would bring their enormous axes hacking into the putrid hides of the diseased dogs, but such was the rabid frenzy of the pack that the gory destruction of their fellows did nothing to dissipate their ferocity. Angstun and Morbus hurriedly called for Liberators to redeploy at the back of the column and form a shield wall to protect the sylvaneth.

‘One could almost feel sorry for the beasts,’ Angstun told Morbus. ‘Claws and fangs will never pierce sigmarite plate.’ He looked at the standard clenched in his hand. ‘There is no glory in cutting down a dull brute corrupted by the Dark Gods.’

Morbus shook his head, pointing his gauntlet at the embattled Decimators. ‘It is not glory but necessity that must rule us here,’ he said. Already, more packs of Chaos hounds were loping out from the storm. Catching the scent of combat, they hastened to pounce upon the Decimators. ‘The beasts have found us. That means Torglug has already overwhelmed Grymn’s rearguard.’

‘No,’ Angstun objected, shaking his sword at the heavens. ‘The enemy couldn’t have overcome so many Hallowed Knights so quickly.’

‘Then they found a way around them,’ Morbus declared. He watched as one of the Decimators brought a gigantic mace swinging down. From between the weapon’s metal flanges, a withering blast of energy streamed out, engulfing a horned hound as it leapt towards him. The beast’s body dissolved into a burst of gore and ash. Even as it died, a dozen more of the animals came rushing out of the mist. ‘Diocletian’s paladins could make short work of these curs if they came upon them all at once. Staggered as the attacks are, the Decimators can neither wipe them out nor disengage.’

Angstun scowled at the cruel purposefulness of the enemy. Somewhere behind the veil of mist and storm was Torglug’s horde – and the beastmasters who controlled these warhounds. Knowing the mutated dogs couldn’t harm the Stormcasts on their own, the villains had decided upon a more callous use for them. They were being expended like shafts loosed from a bow, flung at the Hallowed Knights in volleys. Not to kill, but to delay, to keep them tied down while the full might of the plaguehosts drew closer.

‘Bring up Osric’s retinue,’ Angstun called out. Morbus caught at the Knight-Vexillor’s arm. ‘You’ll weaken the right flank if you withdraw them. That will leave Justinian’s retinue as the only Judicators to defend that side of the column,’ the Lord-Relictor warned.

‘You said it yourself,’ Angstun declared, ‘the hounds are meant to delay us here. We’ve got to free ourselves of them and I’m not about to leave Diocletian’s warriors behind. We’ve left too many of our brothers behind us already.’

Osric’s retinue took up position ahead of the shield wall. Each of the Judicators took careful aim, fastening his keen eye upon the loping shapes emerging from the mist. They ignored the beasts already engaged with the Decimators, confident that the paladins were more than equal to the dogs. It was the waves of warhounds that had yet to close upon their comrades which posed the true menace. At Angstun’s command, they loosed their arrows into the charging brutes. Yelps and whines sounded from the stricken creatures as one after another crashed into the snow.

‘Brothers, fall back!’ Diocletian shouted to his paladins, bringing his own thunderaxe sweeping around in a crimson arc that tore the head from one dog and split a second in two. A third beast, its muzzle distorted by insect-like mandibles, sprang at him, the nails on its paws raking at his armour as it struggled to reach his throat. Diocletian slammed the butt of his axe into the hound’s ribs, shattering its bones and sending its infected carcass sliding across the ice.

With the Judicators and their skybolt bows keeping fresh packs of hounds from closing upon the Decimators, the axemen were able to withdraw, joining the massed ranks of the Liberators. Diocletian saluted Angstun, quickly reporting to the Knight-Vexillor.

‘I do not think it will be long before the enemy finds us,’ Diocletian said. ‘The dogs must have caught our scent even on the ice, but what follows them needs a stronger trail. Each of the beasts we fought was already cut before our blades so much as scratched them. They’ve left a track of putrid blood behind them, straight from us back to their masters.’

Angstun cast a glance at the Judicators. The bowmen were still picking off hounds charging out from the mist. He realised that deploying Osric’s retinue hadn’t improved their situation much. True, he’d enabled the Decimators to withdraw, but they still had the mongrels snapping at their backs – with the promise of worse to come. Now it was the Judicators he had to think about leaving behind. The prospect revolted him.

‘We have to keep the column moving,’ Morbus said, seeming to reach into Angstun’s thoughts. ‘Our duty is to protect the Lady of Vines and the seed she carries.’

‘If we let the enemy pick away at us piece by piece, we’ll be incapable of executing that duty,’ Angstun countered. ‘We have to conserve our strength. If we stage two companies of Judicators and pull them back in relays…’

Shouts from the right flank of the column drew the attention of the officers away from the hounds behind them. While they were combating the foe at their back, other enemies had slipped around to assault them from the side. Snapping orders to the Liberators and Judicators to defend the rear, Angstun, Morbus and the Decimators rushed to the new conflict.

A sickly sweet smell, a stench he could only liken to decaying honey, smashed into Angstun’s senses at the same time as a cacophony of buzzing struck his ears. Through the mist he could see Stormcasts with shields upraised, guarding themselves against some threat from above. Then, out of the storm, a vile shape descended, a gigantic fly with a monstrous rider astride its back. Well did he know these abominations, the obscene plague drones, daemons of Nurgle. These then were the fiendish foes that had followed the trail of diseased blood, enemies with the intelligence to strike not at the first Stormcasts they had found, but against that part of the column that seemed weakest.

‘Sigmar’s hammer,’ Angstun growled. ‘They strive to split the column!’ More of the enormous flies and their monstrous riders were dipping out of the storm now. They swept across the Hallowed Knights, slashing at them with plague-infested swords and chitinous claws. A Liberator was lifted into the air as a disgusting barb at the end of one fly’s abdomen pierced his chestplate. Another Stormcast lost his shield when the slobbering proboscis of a winged daemon latched onto it. However, as vicious as the attack against the Hallowed Knights was, the monsters were more interested in striking the sylvaneth. The bloated horrors buzzed about the branches of treelords, ripping away great chunks of bark with their claws while the plaguebearers riding them chopped at the trunks of smaller tree-creatures, each cut delivering a white scum of rot to the wounded wood.

Justinian’s retinue strove to shoot down the diseased daemons. Sigmarite shafts slammed into the bloated rot flies, rupturing their swollen abdomens and piercing the membranes of their wings. A few of the monsters succumbed to the arrows, but many more flew on, oblivious to the wounds inflicted upon their rotten bodies.

‘The daemons seek to use the storm against us,’ Morbus said. ‘That is their mistake.’ Holding his relic hammer high, the skull-helmed warrior prayed to the God-King for a small measure of His divine might. Light flashed within the overhead clouds, crackling and booming with an elemental indignation. A lance of lightning came streaking down, sizzling into the grotesque shape of a plague drone. Rot fly and rider exploded in a burst of green muck, spattering across the snow in steaming drops. More spears of lightning came searing out of the clouds, blasting the flying daemons with vindictive wrath.

Their aerial assault dissolved in the fury of Morbus’ invocation and, driven downwards, they found themselves victim to the flashing hammers and swords of the Liberators and the branchclaws of the vengeful sylvaneth. One after another the fiends were struck down, their loathsome essence steaming away in bursts of corruption as their putrid vitality was extinguished.

Angstun watched as a handful of the flying daemons vanished into the snow squall.

‘Casualties,’ he called out to the Primes.

‘One of mine and two from Ishiro’s,’ Judicator-Prime Asterion reported. ‘Our skybolt bows were enough to keep them from closing with our warriors but not enough to keep them from reaching the sylvaneth.’

Angstun nodded, feeling the weight of his decision to withdraw Oscric’s retinue. With more of the Judicators on the right flank, perhaps they could have kept the daemons back entirely. He glanced up at the standard he bore, the forked lightning bolt of Sigmar’s Stormhosts. When he left command to Angstun, Lord-Castellant Grymn had done more than entrust the honour of their chamber to him; he’d made the Knight-Vexillor responsible for it as well.

Angstun turned towards the sylvaneth. The visages of the tree-creatures were inscrutable, but there was no mistaking the pained movements of those that had been struck by the daemons or the malignant mould that encrusted the noxious wounds the plaguebearers left behind. A sickening appreciation for their condition filled him with regret. They had to keep moving, had to get the Lady of Vines beyond the reach of Torglug’s pursuing legion. They couldn’t slow the retreat for the sick and wounded. How could he make these strange creatures understand that? Could he make them understand? Without Alarielle to mediate for them, the Stormcasts were without any firm method of commanding their allies, relying on the vagaries of shared purpose and common enemy.

‘Let me attend them,’ Morbus said as he stepped towards the sylvaneth. The Lord-Relictor held his relic hammer before him, both hands wrapped about its leather-bound grip. He bore it not as a weapon now but rather as a symbol, the standard not of the Hallowed Knights but of Sigmar himself. ‘I have called upon the God-King’s power to destroy, now may His beneficence grant me the power to heal as well.’

A golden glow slowly began to suffuse the hammer, extending from the relic to engulf the man who carried it. While he moved among the sylvaneth, the tree-creatures drew back, uncertain of the power they could sense flowing through Morbus. Then a dryad, hideously stricken by a daemon’s plaguesword, found itself unable to draw back. The golden light washed across the sylvaneth and as it did the mould withered away, and the gashes in its trunk and branches began to close up. When the small dryad was restored, the uncertainty of the other tree-creatures was banished. One after another they lumbered towards Morbus to bathe in the healing light his prayers had invoked.

Angstun looked on in fascination for a moment. He’d seen Morbus heal wounded Stormcasts, humans and even duardin before, but he’d never seen the power used on creatures as strange and uncanny as the sylvaneth. It was a relief to him that there would be no need to leave any injured allies behind. He even fancied that there was a change in the keening song of the Lady of Vines, a quality of appreciation that hadn’t been there before.

Casting aside his interest in Morbus’ power and the branchwraith’s song, Angstun turned back to the rear of the column. From the sound of things, it seemed Osric’s retinue had dropped the last of the hounds during the fight with the plague drones. He hoped such was the case. They had to get moving again. The daemons that had escaped would certainly return to Torglug and try to guide the plaguehosts back.

By then, if the Hallowed Knights were to fulfil their mission, the Lady of Vines would have to be far away.

Lord-Castellant Grymn felt cold certainty pulse through him. The more he looked at the nature of the enemy attacking them, the more convinced he was that they’d been tricked. Torglug had recognised Grymn’s strategy and taken measures to bypass them entirely.

‘Tegrus, you’ve seen Torglug’s horde,’ Grymn stated. ‘He has troops under his command far worse than herds of beastmen and barbarians. Why hasn’t he brought them against us? He knows the warriors he’s using can’t break through.’

The Prosecutor-Prime followed Grymn’s gaze. ‘Perhaps he thinks he can tire us and then deploy his best warriors?’

‘No,’ Grymn disagreed. ‘He’s fought Stormcasts already.’ The image of Lord-Celestant Gardus and all the fallen Hallowed Knights flashed through his mind. ‘Torglug knows he can’t wear us down. What he can do is pin us down, hold us where our strength is no longer an obstacle for him.’

Raising his warding lantern high, Grymn called out to the Stormcasts. ‘Hallowed Knights! They aren’t trying to break through! They’re just keeping us pinned. We need to pull back. All save the Annihilation Brotherhood retreat in good order.’ He looked across the ranks of Judicators with their boltstorm crossbows. They would be called into action soon. Swinging the lantern from side to side, he gave them the signal they had been waiting for. He glanced across to where the sylvaneth fought. It seemed the tree-creatures were following the example set by the Stormcasts. The beastmen pursued them every step, just as they did the Hallowed Knights. The difference was that the sylvaneth didn’t have the Judicators behind them.

‘Liberators! Stand!’ Grymn shouted the command. Following upon his call for retreat, the order meant something far different to all the Hallowed Knights. The squads of Retributors pulled away to the sides, leaving no one between the Liberators and the Judicators. The shield wall, almost like a single creature, arrested its slow backwards march. The warriors fell to one knee, holding their shields upward to fend off the fury of blows unleashed upon them by their foes. Savage in their bloodlust, the beastmen failed to notice the ranks of crossbows now aimed at them.

The crack of the boltstorm crossbows was like the rumble of thunder as the Judicators loosed a barrage of bolts into the monsters. Shooting above the heads of their comrades, the missiles slammed into the gors and ungors, hurling their bloodied bodies into the beasts following behind them. Only some of the human marauders had sense enough to throw themselves flat as the Judicators continued to rake the Chaos horde. Scores of beastmen were killed outright, and dozens more lay gasping and bleating as rancid blood pumped from their wounds. Again and again, the crack of crossbows sounded until at last Grymn’s voice cried out. ‘Recover!’

Instantly the Liberators were back on their feet, the shield wall ready to defy the mob of snarling beasts that charged at them across the litter of their own dead and wounded. While the Stormcasts absorbed the crushing impact of the enraged gors, the Judicators readied themselves for another salvo.

Grymn started down from his vantage. His place now was with his men. Turning, he gave one more order to Tegrus. ‘I need your Prosecutors back in the air. Find out if the plaguehost are outflanking us or if they’re simply chasing Alarielle.’

Stepping back, Tegrus spread his wings and climbed into the sky. Seeing their leader ascend, the rest of the Prosecutors followed him, pausing to hurl a few stormcall javelins into the massed Chaos horde below. The winged warriors circled the battlefield once, then flew off in different directions to scout the storm-wracked terrain.

The slow, steady withdrawal of the Liberators continued, the Stormcasts cutting down swathes of beastmen at every step. Beside them, the sylvaneth gradually fell back as well, their own ranks exhibiting as much order and discipline as their allies, leaving behind the few tree-creatures dragged down by the pursuing gors so as not to break the pace of their retreat. It took Grymn a few moments to appreciate the cold and inhuman strategy of the sylvaneth. The tree-creatures left behind were abandoned deliberately, sacrificed so the rest could gain ground while the beastmen hacked apart the lost sylvaneth in an orgy of violence.

‘Liberators! Stand!’ Grymn called out as he marched out to join his men. Once again, the tactic was repeated, but this time with a twist that further surprised the beastmen. After the initial salvo, the Liberators rushed at the bedraggled survivors, slamming into them with sword, shield and hammer. Grymn’s warding lantern cast its holy light across the fray, blinding and tormenting the diseased gors while invigorating and revivifying the Stormcasts. The Lord-Castellant’s halberd slashed at the goat-headed monsters, gouging their mangy pelts and branded hides. Tallon snapped and savaged any foe that strove to slip past his master’s guard.

Soon the gors were routed, stampeding back into the faces of the warherds following behind. When the enemy was entangled in a confusion of retreat and advance, Grymn shouted a command and the Stormcasts turned about. The shield wall disintegrated as the Liberators withdrew towards the Judicators.

The beastmen behind howled in fury and smashed down their routed kin, leaping forwards in pursuit. The smell of blood broke any semblance of restraint; those few human marauders near the crazed warherds were butchered, the ancient hate of the gors for mankind overcoming their common allegiance and mutual master. The rest of the barbarians fled, hurrying away lest they share the fate of their comrades.

The great crush of beastmen came charging after the Liberators, determined to pull them down and slake their thirst for carnage. The Hallowed Knights met their rush. Swords and hammers struck down scores of the howling herd. Grymn’s halberd pierced the brutish bulk of a snarling chieftain, lifting the monster off the ground and flinging it back into the masses of its herd. ‘Only the faithful!’ the Lord-Castellant shouted as he pressed forwards, driving the beasts back. Twice he gave voice to the war cry, each time driving his warriors to greater effort. Then, a new cry rang from his silvered helm, a signal to Judicators and Liberators alike.

‘Sigmar’s wrath!’ Grymn roared. As he did so, the Liberators crouched down, shields upraised against the press of foes before them.

The Judicators were ready for the command. Arranged in a double file, half of them standing while those in the front rank knelt, they unleashed a devastating barrage into the charging beastmen. Dozens of the monsters were struck down by the murderous fire, pierced over and again by powerful bolts of sigmarite. Those in the front ranks pitched and fell, exposing those coming behind to the rapid salvoes cycling through the boltstorm crossbows.

One murderous fusillade and the Judicators on the flanks stopped shooting. At the same time, the Liberators ahead of them stood and advanced against the beastmen, shields locked together in a wall of sigmarite. The process was repeated all down the line, the crossbows falling silent while the Liberators regained their feet and their position. Soon, an unbroken shield wall again faced the horde, only now it was a horde in retreat, fleeing across an ice field heaped with their dead. Grymn knew it was but a momentary respite. The beastlords would soon have their warherds on the attack again. The threat of Torglug’s rage, if nothing else, would goad them onwards.

Grymn signalled Retributor-Prime Markius to join him on the battle line. ‘I fear I need to call upon the Annihilation Brotherhood for a dangerous duty,’ he told the mighty paladin.

‘Your word is my command,’ Markius vowed. ‘Whatever sacrifice you would ask of us, it is yours.’

The loyalty of a paladin was forged in sigmarite, an asset no commander could afford to squander. Grymn knew what he was asking might cost him the Retributors – he only hoped it was to good purpose. If what he felt in his gut was true – that this attack was but a ruse concocted by Torglug to hold them while he brought the main body of his force against the column – then it was worth that risk.

‘Break the ice and fall back to join us,’ Grymn told Markius. He returned the paladin’s salute, then cast his gaze out towards the swirling eddies of the storm. More beastmen were loping out from the snow, grunting and snarling at the wretched survivors of the initial assault. It was a doubtful prospect that Markius would be able to break the ice in time to prevent the gors from reaching them. If that was the case, the Retributors would find themselves surrounded by hundreds of merciless enemies.

Yet the alternative was to have the beastmen dogging them all the way back to the column. Time was a commodity that Grymn didn’t have in such abundance that he could waste it driving back the harassing attacks of warherds. They had to reach the column before Torglug’s main force and prevent the warlord from overtaking the Lady of Vines and the queen-seed.

‘Hallowed Knights, fall back,’ Grymn shouted to the Stormcasts as he climbed down from the icy rise, Tallon loping ahead of him. The sylvaneth appeared to understand his meaning, and leaving a small number of their tree-creatures to hold the beastmen still attacking them, they withdrew to join their allies. He wondered if it was genuine initiative on their part or orders they had been given by the Lady of Vines to follow his example and support his warriors. Whichever way, he knew the sylvaneth would be a tremendous asset if they found Torglug before they rejoined the column.

Casting his eyes skywards, Grymn prayed that Tegrus and his scouts would return soon. He needed to know if he’d seen through Torglug’s ploy or if he’d played right into the warlord’s diseased hands.

Lord-Relictor Morbus raised his relic hammer high, calling down the divine lightning. Ice split and cracked, dropping into the frigid waters below. Jagged gashes snaked across the frozen sea, a spider-web of fissures and crevices. Stunned by the devastation wrought by the Stormcast’s magic, the barbarian horsemen were thrown into complete disarray. Charging stallions pitched and fell as the ice buckled or crumbled, smashing their riders beneath them. Men and steeds were sent hurtling into the icy sea as holes opened before them or the fractured ground shattered under their weight.

Morbus, however, was less impressed with the damage he had caused. The ice was thicker here, stronger than it had been near the beach. It was tougher to break, more difficult to split. He wondered if they were straying too near to the jotunberg and if the giant’s wintery emanations were strengthening the ice.

Angstun held his standard high, using it to signal the Judicators defending the flanks. Poised at the rear of the column, standing well behind the marching sylvaneth, the Knight-Vexillor was in an exposed position, but it was the best place from which to issue commands to all of the Stormcasts. Only Diocletian’s Decimators stood with him as a bodyguard, their presence close to the tree-creatures still proving a strain upon the strange alliance of men and sylvaneth.

As the shrieks of crippled and drowning horses rang out over the howling storm, Angstun felt regret. It was an easy thing to kill marauders and beastmen, but he loathed the necessity of destroying simpler creatures like horses and hounds. There was a quality of innocence about animals, even those twisted and mutated by Chaos, that made them tragic to Angstun. While the men and monsters that goaded them to war had come to revel in their corruption and praise the very powers that plagued their bodies, the horses were merely victims of the contagion. Death was the only release for them, but that did not make Angstun revel in the deed.

Tipping the standard towards the left, Angstun directed a volley of arrows across a split that Morbus’ lightning shower had caused. As the Judicators loosed against their target, the crack widened, creating a fissure large enough to thwart the marauder horsemen trying to close upon the sylvaneth exodus. Cursing the Stormcasts, the cavalry wheeled away from the crack, galloping off back into the icy fog.

The crash of blades against armour rose from the column’s left flank. Turning about, Angstun saw a mob of unspeakably vile mutants throwing themselves upon the Liberators and their shield wall. The flesh of the attackers rippled with disgusting energies, hideous growths erupting from them in spurts of spontaneous mutation. One raider’s head collapsed into a nest of spiny tendrils that whipped and lashed at the Hallowed Knights, while another had his arms slough away to be replaced by great crab-like pincers. Each attacker’s form descended into horrors more grotesque than the last, great spears of horn and bone stabbing out from their skin or massive claws exploding from their hands. It was a sight of such concentrated madness and terror that any warrior less stalwart than the Stormcasts would have lost heart against such foes.

For all their monstrous aspect, Angstun could see at once that these mutants wouldn’t be able to break through. They fought like wild beasts, lone madmen. They lacked the cohesion and discipline to force a way past the Liberators. The Hallowed Knights, by contrast, fought as a single body, supporting and guarding one another as they defied their attackers.

No, it wasn’t the claws and fangs of the mutants caused Angstun to be uneasy – it was the very presence of such enemies that troubled him. Horsemen, hounds and flying daemons had been one thing – swift foes who could range far ahead of Torglug’s legion – but these were infantry, however abominable of aspect. Even sent ahead as scouts or skirmishers, they couldn’t have strayed too far from the plaguehosts. The main enemy force had to be getting close.

Even as he made that realisation, Angstun felt a change in the air. It took him a moment to determine that the Lady of Vines had altered the timbre of her song in some fashion. What that meant, he didn’t immediately know. What he saw at once, however, was the sylvaneth marchers fall still. They’d stopped their retreat. The tree-creatures shifted and swayed, the creaks and groans of their wooden bodies mixing into a weird harmony as they came to rest.

‘They’ve stopped?’ Decimator-Prime Diocletian couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Don’t they know the enemy is close?’

Angstun shook his head. ‘It must be the Lady of Vines. She’s told them to stop. Maybe she is weary of running.’ He wondered if that was the meaning of the branchwraith’s changing song, but somehow he thought there had to be some deeper purpose. Some glimmer of understanding came to him as he saw a group of towering treelords lumber out from among the sylvaneth, pressing their way past the Liberators and out across the ice field. They cast their inscrutable gaze across the cracked and pitted terrain, studying the fissures Morbus’ lightning had caused.

Morbus! With his affinity for things arcane, perhaps he would have some understanding of what was happening. Angstun looked towards the left flank, trying to find the Lord-Relictor. He couldn’t see him among the Liberators or the Judicators as they picked off charging mutants as they came lunging out of the fog. The absence puzzled Angstun; Morbus was always the first to take up a fight.

Then Angstun recalled Lord-Castellant Grymn’s words. Their duty wasn’t to fight, but to protect Queen Alarielle – even if it meant protecting her from herself. That same injunction would apply to the Radiant Queen’s retinue. He knew where Morbus had gone. The moment the sylvaneth stopped, the instant the keening song had changed, the Lord-Relictor had withdrawn. He was going to speak to the Lady of Vines herself and find out why she’d brought her people to a stop and put the queen-seed she carried at jeopardy.

Morbus was going to demand an accounting from the Lady of Vines.

Lord-Relictor Morbus ran through the midst of the sylvaneth. The great tree-creatures parted before him, shifting and twisting aside to allow him passage through their ranks. Though they were silent, he could sense the resentment that smouldered within each wooden body. It wasn’t by their own volition they allowed him to move among them, but a command from a higher authority. He knew that command could only have issued from the Lady of Vines, perhaps woven within the melody of her shifting song. It seemed she knew his purpose and had prepared the way for their meeting.

Behind him, Morbus could hear the sounds of battle. If the sylvaneth resented the Stormcasts, then they had good company with his own offence. His place was back there, helping Angstun fend off Torglug’s raiders, not wasting time urging the branchwraith to get moving again. Whatever madness had caused her to stop the column, he was of no mind to listen to it. Their mission was to keep Alarielle from the grasping hands of Chaos and that was precisely what they were going to do, with or without the help of the sylvaneth.

A copse of towering treelords stepped aside as Morbus dashed around their root-like feet. He could feel the incredible age of these creatures, could see the ancient wisdom glowing within their eyes and scratched across their knotted faces. Unlike the other sylvaneth, these primordial creatures didn’t exude a feeling of resentment, but instead evoked a sense of profound disappointment. Even Morbus felt a flicker of guilt as he passed the treelords, as though he himself were responsible for some grave tragedy.

His resolve, his obligations to faith and duty, made Morbus crush down the sliver of doubt. The Stormcasts were the holy warriors of the God-King Sigmar. Whatever they did, wherever they fought, it was by His design and towards His purpose. The nobility of such service couldn’t suffer the pollution of doubt.

Emerging from the shadow of the treelords, Morbus found he had reached the fore of the sylvaneth column. Before him, her legs folded beneath her arboreal body, was the Lady of Vines. In her lap, the brilliant radiance of the queen-seed cast its glow, bathing the branchwraith in a magical light. In another place, another time, the sight would have been wondrous and enchanting. With the plaguehosts snapping at the rear of the column, it instead provoked only disbelief and frustration.

‘Lady,’ Morbus called out. ‘Why have your people stopped? Why do you sit here when Torglug’s army is almost upon us? We must keep moving!’

The branchwraith turned her head, fixing Morbus with her inscrutable gaze. The eerie song continued to wind from her wooden mouth, but no words disturbed the harmony. Instead she raised one of her slender arms and pointed a sharp finger at the relic hammer clenched in his hands. In the same motion, her finger dropped towards the ice.

Morbus felt a slight quiver in the ice beneath his feet. Looking aside, he saw several of the ancient treelords leave the column and step towards the Lady of Vines. The gigantic sylvaneth turned towards Morbus. He could sense the tremendous effort they made as tendrils snaked out from their feet and tried to burrow into the ice. Strain as they might, they could do no more than bore holes to the churning sea beneath. The ice pack here was too thick for their roots to dig in and fracture.

The tactic they’d used to escape the plaguehosts before, cracking the ice and leaving Torglug’s warriors stranded on the shore, wouldn’t work here. The pack ice was too tough for either the roots of the treelords or Morbus’ relic hammer. The Stormcast scowled within his helm. The Lady of Vines had reached the same conclusion that the Hallowed Knights had – they couldn’t outrun the enemy.

The branchwraith pointed her clawed hand off towards the horizon. A lessening of the storm’s fury allowed Morbus to see what lay in that direction. Huge and monstrous, the craggy body of the jotunberg rose from the frozen waves like some impossible island. Their retreat across the Sea of Serpents had brought them close to where the giant had fallen. This close to the giant, he could see the mossy growths that pockmarked its body, the ugly lines of corruption that snaked through its enormity. Sections of rock sloughed away and went crashing down into the ice. The jotunberg, like so much of the Jade Kingdoms, had been poisoned by Nurgle’s contagion. At first he thought the thing must be dead, but then he saw a slight stir shudder through one of its legs, a faint motion crackle along one of its arms. Even such faint movements sent a noticeable shiver through the ice.

Morbus held the branchwraith’s gaze. He knew her intention now and it stunned him with its sheer magnitude.

‘It’s impossible,’ he declared. ‘No one could command such a behemoth. You can see for yourself that it is infected with Nurgle’s rot.’

Before he could move forwards to try and intervene, Morbus was struck from behind. The warrior pitched forwards, slamming into the unyielding ice. Before he could recover, he felt fibrous coils winding around his body, lifting him into the air. He was in the grip of one of the treelords, caught in the web of sinuous branches creeping from its beard. The mighty sylvaneth’s clawed hand closed around Morbus’ arm, trapping his hammer within a fist of wood.

Morbus could have drawn upon the hammer’s power to shatter the treelord’s grip, but it sat ill with him to strike this ancient creature without first trying to reason with it.

‘Whatever she’s told you, your first duty is to protect your queen!’ he shouted at the treelord. This time there was no denying the feeling of regret that emanated from the treelord. The creature adjusted its hold on Morbus, allowing him to see what was unfolding around the Lady of Vines.

The other treelords Morbus had passed, the most ancient of their kind to guard the vale of Athelwyrd, had formed a circle around the Lady of Vines. Their heavy, creaking voices joined in her song, forming an eerily mournful accompaniment to her magic. The queen-seed blazed even more brilliantly; the light surrounding the branchwraith became almost blinding. Even in his captor’s grip, Morbus could feel a tremor crackle through the ice and knew that the jotunberg was stirring.

How the Lady of Vines fed such a vast conjuration Morbus soon discovered. The ancients of Athelwyrd were withering before his eyes. Strips of bark sloughed away from their trunks, branches yellowed and snapped as their wood rotted from the inside. The face of one treelord crumbled away in a mass of dust. The arm of another fell from its shoulder to explode into splinters as it struck the ice. She was drawing upon their primordial vitality to feed the colossal magic she was evoking.

The tremors rumbling through the ice became more violent. Through the lessening flurry of snow, Morbus could see the jotunberg lurch back onto its feet. The gargantua took one quaking step and then another, forcing its way out across the frozen sea and creating a shattering wave of elemental fury through the ice already packed around it. The pack ice shattered and crumbled, unleashing a flood of surging waves that reared high into the sky before splashing down in pulverising cataracts of destruction. Even as the tidal waves slammed down and splintered great swathes of ice, the frigid emanations surging from the giant’s body froze them once more, creating weird crests and valleys upon the again unmoving sea. The formations shattered and collapsed as the giant took a second quaking step and sent new tremors through the ice and fresh tides of rolling waves spraying across the sea.

But the giant didn’t take a third step. With bits of its diseased body crashing away in an avalanche of stone and snow, the jotunberg toppled back into the Sea of Serpents, throwing up one last great sheet of water from the depths that froze around its wintry mass like an icy shroud.

Around the Lady of Vines, the last of the ancient treelords crashed to the ground, its body little more than a hollow log. The rest of the circle had fared even worse, some reduced to only a few scattered twigs and a heap of dust. They’d sacrificed their immense vitalities, their untold centuries of existence, and all the branchwraith had been able to gain was a few shuddering steps out of the jotunberg.

The Lady of Vines looked solemnly at the residue of the sacrificed treelords. She rose to her feet, the queen-seed’s glow clenched in one of her hands. Her eyes looked up at Morbus, then shifted away from him, gazing out across the sylvaneth column. It seemed to him that she peered through the tree-creatures, looking instead at the battle unfolding behind them.

‘It wasn’t enough,’ the branchwraith said. ‘The spell took too much from them, but it wasn’t enough.’ She returned the glowing queen-seed to the hollow in her chest, then raised her voice in a dirge for those who had sacrificed themselves for a desperate effort.

No word or gesture passed between the Lady of Vines and the treelord who held him, but Morbus found himself lowered to the ice and released. He could see the jagged crack that ran through it and wondered if the jotunberg’s violence had managed even greater havoc closer to the giant.

Morbus saw the Lady of Vines turn and begin moving onwards once more. Many of the sylvaneth followed after her, but Morbus noted that many more were turning and marching in the other direction. Her magic had accomplished less than she’d hoped. The Lady of Vines was leaving some of her followers behind to help the Hallowed Knights fend off Torglug’s legion.

The Lord-Relictor hurried to reach his warriors. If the Lady of Vines was moving on, then some of the Hallowed Knights had to accompany her. To do less would be to forsake their duty.

Chapter six

To struggle against Chaos is to embrace pain. It is the misery of hope, the mockery of fading dreams and the anguish of vanquished tomorrows. Defying the Ruinous Powers is but hollow vanity. What triumph can there be, opposing the Dark Gods? Win one battle or a hundred, the war will end the same way. The enemy grows stronger while the valour of men withers and fades.

In the stinking darkness, in the black pit of despair, the captive looked up. Faint and fragile, a tiny light beckoned, offering comfort and solace. Trembling hands, weak from abuse and neglect, reached up from the filth, desperate to embrace whatever respite the light might give him. To his starving soul, even the smallest scrap of compassion would be a feast.

Ugly, brutish shapes loomed above him, blotting out the feeble light. The rank stench of their evil wafted down upon him, the slime of their festering sores dripped onto his body. In his ears their hacking laughter roared. It was a laughter that transcended mere flesh and mortality. It was the jeering viciousness of monstrous gods as they snuffed out the dying embers of resistance.

Torglug’s boots crunched across the bloodied snow. The warlord had stood in silence while Slaugoth Maggotfang cut open the sacrifice. There had been a distant, detached quality in his three eyes, as though he already gazed upon some unseen vista without the benefit of the sorcerer’s magic. Even the closest of his retainers, the fearsome putrid blightkings, knew better than to intrude upon their master’s reverie.

‘The spleen is spotted with the black crab and its offspring,’ Slaugoth giggled, lifting the organ from the butchered body. ‘The stomach is pitted with ulcers and I have found seven stones in the kidneys. Most auspicious, Abominable Torglug.’ The sorcerer raked his dagger across the exposed belly, pulling a parasitic worm from the ruptured flesh. He held it before his face, examining the spots along its slimy, mottled skin. Then he popped it into his mouth and swallowed it in a single greedy gulp.

Torglug was unmoved by the revolting spectacle of Slaugoth’s auguries. There was nothing the sorcerer could do that might match the horror of simply knowing a being like Guthrax Kingeater was nearby. The Great Unclean One had offered its own prophecies, devouring seven tribesmen and then extruding their still screaming skulls from its gargantuan gut. The daemon claimed the shrieks of its dissolving victims foretold the path before Torglug, offering a confused medley of promises and warnings. Mortal or daemon, prescience, it seemed, was an arcane art riddled with evasiveness and ambiguity.

‘Enough,’ Torglug coughed, clapping his hand against the blackened edge of his axe. Flecks of rust and clotted gore crumbled away at his touch, sizzling as they struck the snow. ‘You are weaving victory and failure in every utterance that is slipping from your tongue. I am seeking answers, not looking for more questions.’ A baleful malignance shone in the warlord’s eyes as he turned his horned head towards the storm-swept horizon.

He could see the beckoning glow, the radiant flicker of Alarielle, shining behind the veil of mist and falling snow. There were many among Torglug’s plaguehosts who could feel that radiance even if they couldn’t see it, men and monsters in which the corruption of Nurgle’s blessings was great.

The warlord’s forces were closing in upon the prize now. It would have been easy to surround and exterminate the rearguard of lightning-men and tree-creatures that had tried to bar his path. A less determined warlord might have succumbed to the temptation to massacre his enemies. Slaughter, however, wouldn’t be enough to exalt Torglug in the eyes of his god. The offering Nurgle demanded was Queen Alarielle; nothing less would satisfy Him. Though many of his chieftains and champions demurred, Torglug had driven them onwards, bypassing the rearguard, leaving behind the great brayherds and some of the smaller marauder tribes to tie down the lightning-men and use their own strategy against them – trappers caught in their own snare.

Overhead, a few plague drones came buzzing back to rejoin the horde. Torglug had sent advance elements of his army to harass and delay Alarielle’s guardians at every stage of the hunt. Relays of warhounds, flights of plague drones, howling packs of forsaken, herds of centigors. Anything that could hit the enemy fast and even if only for a few minutes throw their retreat into disorder. It was a sacrifice of resources, but while Torglug’s army bled warriors, the enemy was bleeding time. Of the two resources, Torglug’s losses were the easier to bear.

Scratching the boils along his neck, Torglug glowered at his followers. Infested with superstitions and tribal atavisms, the barbarians would fight harder now that they’d seen Slaugoth perform his divinations with sacrificial innards.

‘Nurgle is smiling on me,’ Torglug declared, pointing his thumb at the butchered body. His legion didn’t need to know the particulars of Slaugoth’s divinations, only what their warlord told them. ‘Be serving me, and you too are being granted Grandfather’s favour.’ He raised his blackened axe high. ‘None are escaping us! All are sharing in our contagion and discovering glory of decay!’

Torglug brought his axe chopping down, pointing the blade at the swirling snow behind which he could see the light of Alarielle shining. At his gesture, a chorus of shrieks and war cries rose from his diseased legion. The vast horde surged forwards, marching towards the unseen enemy.

Through the snow gale a dark outline could be distinguished. As the horde continued to advance the shape resolved itself as a wall of trees before which stood a line of tall warriors in shining silver armour. Expecting their enemy to be fleeing before them, the sight surprised the Chaos host. For just a moment, their onward rush lost its impetus. In that moment, arrows came flying out at them from the ranks of silver warriors, each missile transforming into a bolt of lightning as it came searing down to pierce a marching tribesman or strike down a galloping Chaos knight.

The smell of blood, even that of their own comrades, goaded the plaguehosts forwards once more. Again the tolling of rusted bells and the pounding of primitive drums echoed across the ice, the bubbling cacophony of men and monsters invoking the favour of the Plaguefather. Black armoured knights charged through the swirling snow, mobs of tribesmen marched with sinister determination across the ice, and clutches of half-reptilian dragon ogres clawed their way over the frozen sea. Daemons waddled on batrachian legs or slithered on slug-like bellies. The putrid blightkings, the greenfly guard, the pox-bringers and all the other chosen of Nurgle moved towards the enemy.

Torglug chortled in delight. Alarielle’s guardians had surprised him in the most pleasant way. They’d come to appreciate that there was no escape for them. Instead of trying to run, instead of fleeing further across the frozen Sea of Serpents, they’d turned to make a fight of it. Some noble and delusional notion that they might accomplish something by giving battle to their pursuers. The warlord wasn’t certain if it was mad or pathetic. The whole of Ghyran was being devoured by Nurgle – did these fools think they truly stood any chance? There would be none who would remember their last stand as anything but an impotent absurdity.

More arrows fell into the advancing horde, striking down dozens of Torglug’s warriors. They were small losses in the grand scheme of things. Final martyrs rendered up in anticipation of Torglug’s ultimate victory. The archers of the lightning-men couldn’t stem the tide of Chaos. A wave of axes and swords, fangs and claws would soon come crashing down upon them. Against the might of the plaguehosts, the silver warriors would be crushed to nothing, the sylvaneth behind them utterly annihilated. From their carrion, Torglug would seize the queen-seed and deliver to Nurgle the prize He demanded. Nothing would stand between the warlord and his destiny.

Suddenly, the storm began to abate, blue skies emerging from behind the clouds. Torglug could hear a strange keening song. As he listened to the eerie melody, he noted a change in the harmony, a shift in pitch and tone. Ancient and inhuman, there was something threatening in that song, something that made him feel like a bird caught in a snake’s gaze.

As the snow gale ebbed and some of the storm faded, Torglug’s blemished eyes looked upon an impossible sight. A gargantuan shape rose up from the frozen waves, incredibly colossal in its proportions. It was big as a mountain, its craggy body locked in the ice, pained shudders rumbling through its frame as it languished. An almost forgotten sense of dread swept through Torglug as he looked upon the living mountain and realised that the ancient song he heard was calling out to the trapped behemoth.

A moment before, Torglug had believed victory within his grasp, that he’d trapped Alarielle’s guardians. As he looked upon the stirring jotunberg, he wondered who it was that had been trapped.

Angstun raised the standard of the Hallowed Knights high, pouring new determination into the ranks of the Liberators. The Stormcasts had been fending off wave upon wave of Torglug’s diseased minions, littering the snow with the ruined husks of putrid daemons and black-armoured Chaos warriors. Again and again the forces of darkness crashed against the shield wall, pushed back only by heroic effort. Behind the Liberators, the Judicators loosed volley after volley of sigmarite arrows into the oncoming horde, shafts of crackling lightning slamming down into the barbaric legion.

Shouts of alarm rose from the left flank of the shield wall. Angstun turned to see several silver-armoured warriors flung into the air, swatted aside by a monstrous creature. It was a hulking beast of chitinous plates and reptilian claws, massive horns curling away from its savage face. A nest of tongues stabbed out from between its fangs jaws, punching through the sigmarite armour of the Stormcasts they struck. The beast’s great forepaws hurled aside those who moved to close the gap, tossing them as though they weighed nothing. Smaller paws slashed and tore at those warriors who were able to slip past the mangling swipes of its forepaws, crumpling armour and shattering bone.

When he saw the daggers protruding from the beast’s back, Angstun knew what sort of beast his warriors faced – a Slaughterbrute, a diseased atrocity created by the corrupt energies of Chaos, a living engine of carnage and destruction.

Lightning crackled about the head of his standard as Angstun called out to Agrippa’s retinue, praying they would catch his signal. Liberator-Prime Agrippa lifted his own sword high, alerting the Knight-Vexillor that he was ready for his orders. Angstun paused. It was no easy thing, what he contemplated. Left alone, the beast would open a gap in the shield wall that other foes could widen. If they let the monster through, the Liberators would be able to close ranks behind it, slamming the door in the face of Torglug’s legion.

It would also leave the monster free to rampage among the sylvaneth, perhaps even force its way to the Lady of Vines.

There was no other choice.

‘Preserve the wall and let the big one through!’ Angstun commanded. The Liberators disengaged, allowing the slavering brute past, then reformed the shield wall before the Chaos warriors could come pouring in. The Knight-Vexillor could hear the monster’s howl of ferocious glee as it sprang past Agrippa’s men and rushed towards the sylvaneth.

Spinning around, Angstun snapped orders to the paladins he had kept in reserve – Diocletian and his Decimators.

‘Bring down that monster we let through,’ he ordered. ‘Stop it before it can get to the Lady of Vines.’

Diocletian saluted the Knight-Vexillor, then hastened to lead his paladins after their quarry. The beast wouldn’t be hard to follow. Exhibiting the same primitive ferocity it had at the shield wall, the beast was hacking its way through the sylvaneth, leaving the ice littered with broken tree-creatures and shattered dryads.

Angstun could spare no more time for the Decimators and their hunt. Cries of alarm rose from the ranks of tribesmen and Chaos knights assailing his part of the shield wall. The attackers parted, falling to the wayside as they hurried to clear a path for the forces now stalking into battle. An oily, reptilian stink accompanied their advance, the musky reek of dank caves and forsaken grottos. The creatures that now moved against the Hallowed Knights were huge brutes with grotesque lizard-like lower bodies, from which sprouted hideous humanoid torsos. Their leering faces were twisted with pitiless hate and their eyes burned with an almost elemental fury. In their hands, they carried massive axes, fell runes etched upon the blackened blades.

Leading the dragon-bodied monsters was a gigantic specimen of their breed. The fly-rune of Nurgle was branded upon the creature’s chest, a filthy mix of blood and pus oozing from the loathsome scar. Strips of armour, bent and distorted from the plate of human warriors, covered the huge beast’s arms while in its clawed hands it carried an enormous axe that seemed fashioned from obsidian. The monster’s face had a crude resemblance to that of a man, but blotted with a mire of boils and lesions, the dubious blessings of the Plaguefather.

The Judicators loosed a volley of arrows from their skybolt bows at the huge dragon ogre. As the sigmarite missiles changed into bolts of lightning and crashed down upon the reptilian monster, it threw its head back and bellowed. It was a cry not of agony but of exultation. Far from being harmed by the lightning, the creature was revelling in it.

‘Stand down!’ Angstun cried to his archers. ‘Do not shoot the dragon-beasts!’

Across the din of battle, the immense dragon ogre seemed to hear him, a grisly smile twisting its already hideous face. Hefting its huge axe, the monster charged towards the shield wall, dozens of its smaller kin rushing behind it. Without the Judicators to hold them back, the reptilian brutes would slam into the Liberators with the intensity of an avalanche.

Angstun pushed his way to the fore of the battle line, ready to confront the hulking leader of the dragon ogres. Their one hope, fragile as it might be, was to slay the huge chieftain quickly. That might break the courage of the others – if indeed such inhuman foes were capable of fear.

When he felt the ice trembling beneath his feet, Angstun thought it was the fury of the charging reptiles provoking it. Then the violence swelled, increasing steadily. The pack began to shudder and shake, jagged fissures snaking through the ice. Great chunks went crashing into the suddenly exposed water below. Crevices opened up beneath bands of Chaos warriors, sending them plummeting to the bottom of the icy sea. Pits swallowed mobs of daemons, plunging them beneath the waves. Knights were thrown from their saddles and tribesmen were sent sliding across the pack.

Angstun marvelled as the ice ahead of the shield wall split apart, a great gash opening up in the pack. The huge dragon ogre, rearing up on its hind legs, ready to bring its gigantic axe slamming down, was swallowed by the gap. The massive creature vanished beneath the surface, sucked down by its own weight. A dozen of its fellows, unable to arrest the impetus of their charge, were likewise sent crashing into the sea, floundering for a moment on the slippery surface before being dragged under by their prodigious bulk.

It was more than accident that directed the tremors which had split and shattered the ice. Angstun could see at once that the quake’s force was focused against Torglug’s legion, sparing the Stormcasts and their sylvaneth allies. The plaguehosts were thrown into disarray, retreating before the elemental wrath that had been turned against them. Where but a moment before their diseased claws had been closing around the refugees, now the horde was flung back, sent reeling back into the mist.

Looking out upon the ice-field, Angstun felt his relief tempered by cold realization. The fissure that had swallowed the dragon ogres, the pits that had consumed bands of marauders and daemons, were scattered and disparate, leaving several bridges across the churning sea. Torglug’s attack on the column had been disrupted, but the plaguehosts still had an avenue to resume their assault once their warlord rallied them.

Through the fog, Angstun sighted huge figures approaching the nearest of the ice bridges. It seemed some of Torglug’s horde had rallied already. ‘Judicators!’ he called out, raising the standard high. ‘At my signal…’

Before Angstun could give the command to loose, a figure came hurtling down from the stormy sky. The Knight-Vexillor was shocked to see Tegrus descending towards him. Moments before, the skies had belonged to Torglug’s daemonic plague drones. One glance at the blood and ichor staining the Prosecutor-Prime’s silver armour told him that the winged warrior had had to fight his way back to the column.

‘Stay your arrows,’ Tegrus told Angstun, pointing towards the men advancing towards the ice bridge. ‘That is Lord-Castellant Grymn’s command you would loose against!’

Quickly, Angstun warned the archers to hold their fire. A moment later he recognised the glow of Grymn’s warding lantern shining through the mist. Seldom had he seen a more welcome sight.

‘I must alert you,’ Tegrus reported. ‘Torglug’s horde bypassed the rearguard. His main force could be upon you at any moment.’

Angstun laughed and shook his head. ‘I fear your warning is late, my friend. But I am happy to say you’re still in time for the fighting.’ He turned and gestured to the sylvaneth column at his back. The tree-creatures were moving again, but the trail of carnage left by the Slaughterbrute was still visible. ‘One of Torglug’s monsters broke through. I sent Diocletian and his Decimators to attend to it, but I’m certain they wouldn’t mind your help.’

Tegrus opened his wings. ‘I will leave you to welcome the commander then,’ he said as he climbed back into the sky. He circled above the Liberators, then peeled away to pursue the Slaughterbrute.

Angstun turned his attention back to the advancing force of Stormcasts and sylvaneth. Even with Grymn’s warriors to bolster their strength he wondered if they would be powerful enough to hold back Torglug’s legion.

The murderous roar drowned out the sullen creaks and groans of the sylvaneth. The Slaughterbrute lashed out with its vicious claws, snapping limbs and splitting trunks with each swipe. The monster’s stabbing tongues pierced the heartwood of dryads, provoking a frustrated growl from the beast when it found not blood but only sap within the bodies of its victims. The mutant clamped its jaws around the trunk of a knotted tree-creature, shaking its prey with such rage that branches were shorn away with each twist of its neck.

‘Only the faithful!’ The war cry of the Hallowed Knights rang out as Decimator-Prime Diocletian brought his thunderaxe chopping into the chitinous hide of the monster. The Slaughterbrute snarled, a spasm of pain causing its jaws to clench tight and crack the body of its last victim. The severed halves of the sylvaneth crashed to the ice, limbs twitching as vitality slowly faded away.

Diocletian glared at the mutant, vowing that the tree-creature would indeed be its last victim. The rest of the Decimators were following close behind their leader, but for the moment it was he alone who held the Slaughterbrute’s attention.

The monster snarled at him, its claws slashing out at him. Diocletian dodged from the raking talons and struck out once again with his axe. This time the blade slashed deep into the beast’s hide, drawing a spurt of greasy blood. The Slaughterbrute shuffled backwards, sniffing at its own wound. When it looked back at Diocletian, the fury in its eyes was even more malignant than before.

Even as the Slaughterbrute made ready to spring at him, the beast’s body quivered. Diocletian could see weird, eerie lights flickering around the daggers embedded in the monster’s back. Without so much as a snarl, the brute swung around, hurling itself against the sylvaneth, once more trying to claw its way through the tree-creatures and dryads. Slowed by the cold, they couldn’t match the berserk magnitude of the assault.

Diocletian rushed after the crazed monster. ‘How dare you ignore me!’ he growled, hacking at its hind leg with his axe. The weapon crackled against its scaly flesh, crunching through one of the bony plates that protected it. Shrieking in pain, the Slaughterbrute swung around once more. This time the paladin wasn’t swift enough to dodge its paw. He was sent tumbling across the ice, landing in an armoured heap among sylvaneth crippled by the brute. He expected to feel the monster’s weight slam down on him as it pounced on its fallen foe. Instead he saw the beast again turn and charge into the sylvaneth ahead of it.

‘My prime, are you hurt?’ The question came from Brother Scipio, one of Diocletian’s paladins.

Diocletian waved aside the warrior’s concern. He pointed at the starsoul mace Scipio carried. ‘The beast thinks it can ignore us. It is time we taught it otherwise.’ Recovering his axe, Diocletian led the paladins after the Slaughterbrute. Whatever sorcery controlled the monster, he hoped the magic of the mace would act as a countermeasure – at least enough to disrupt the beast’s rampage so the Decimators could surround and kill it.

The sylvaneth might be unable to thwart the Slaughterbrute’s advance, but they were able to slow its progress. It was a gruesome exchange, splintered carcasses littering the monster’s path. The sight encouraged the Decimators to greater speed, knowing each moment lost would bring death to more of their allies. When they caught up with the monster, it was smashing its way through a nest of dryads, trying to win its way clear.

‘Only the faithful!’ Diocletian shouted as he charged the Slaughterbrute. The other paladins took up his cry, rushing to the attack. They spread out to engage the beast from every side. Thunderaxes hacked into its chitinous hide while Scipio’s mace sent a blazing starblast scorching through the brute’s body. The monster retaliated with its massive claws and snapping jaws, its tongues whipping around to swat at the Stormcasts. Its wrath was unfocused, however, for the eldritch glow surrounding the daggers in its back was becoming more persistent. The beast kept turning back in the direction it had been pursuing, goaded onwards by a force as irresistible as that of the thunderaxes and starsoul mace.

‘Don’t let it escape,’ Diocletian told his warriors. He could guess what it was that compelled the Slaughterbrute on despite the wounds the Decimators visited against it. The sorcerer controlling it was after the Lady of Vines and the queen-seed she carried. That made stopping the monster’s rampage even more imperative.

The Slaughterbrute spun around as one of the paladins chopped at its leg, and its tongues stabbed out, puncturing the warrior’s helm. There was a crack of thunder and a flash of blue lightning as the vanquished Stormcast was drawn back to Azyr. A sweep of the beast’s claws knocked Scipio across the ice, his leg folded almost double beneath him.

Howling at the remaining Decimators, the monster looked ready to exploit its attack, but again the persistent glow of the binding daggers made it turn away. Diocletian cursed and rallied the rest of his men. Whatever it cost them, they had to bring the monster down.

Before it could hurl itself against the sylvaneth once more, the Slaughterbrute was confronted by a lone warrior. Darting down from the sky, Tegrus wheeled around the beast’s head, smashing his hammers into the berserk abomination. Lightning crackled against its horns, slicing through one of its barbed tongues, smashing into its fangs. The monster reared back, clawing at the air with its forepaws, vainly trying to drag the Prosecutor-Prime from the sky.

Tegrus continued to torment the Slaughterbrute, allowing Diocletian and the other Decimators to close with it. Chopping at it with their axes, the paladins gouged hideous rents in its bony plates and scaly flesh. The brute flopped against the ice as one of its mangled legs crumpled beneath it. The paladins were moving in for the kill when a commanding voice arrested their attack. They turned to find the macabre figure of Lord-Relictor Morbus marching towards them from beyond the sylvaneth host.

‘It is not by axe and arrow that this beast must be finished,’ Morbus told the perplexed warriors. Raising his relic hammer high, he called down a shower of lightning. The bolts seared into the crippled Slaughterbrute, striking the binding daggers embedded in its hide. The monster cried out, clawing at the ice as the storm seared its flesh. Smoke rose from the cooking beast as it struggled to reach Morbus, either instinct or the commanding force of the daggers drawing it towards its tormentor.

The Slaughterbrute rallied, lunging for Morbus with outstretched claws. Before it could reach him, however, the beast was swatted down by the gnarled fist of a treelord. The same ancient that had held Morbus while the Lady of Vines roused the jotunberg now stood between the monster and the Lord-Relictor. Its glowing eyes flashed vengefully as it surveyed the carnage already wrought by the Slaughterbrute.

Uttering a groaning bellow of rage, the treelord lumbered towards the Slaughterbrute. The maimed monster sprang at it, sinking its claws into the ancient bark of its trunk. The treelord gave no notice to the blood-sap spurting from its wounds, but simply reached down and seized hold of the monster’s head. Wooden claws pierced deep into the beast’s hide, then with a savage wrenching motion, the treelord tore the head from its neck. Spurting foulness too rancid to be called blood spilled from the wound as the Slaughterbrute’s abominable vitality drained away.

Tossing the head aside, the treelord used both of its mighty talons to pull the beast’s body from its trunk. Morbus waited until the sylvaneth had divested itself of the Slaughterbrute’s claws before using his magic to minister to its wounds. Only when the huge tree-creature’s blood-sap stopped dripping down its trunk did the Lord-Relictor turn back to his fellow Stormcasts.

‘Some dark sorcerer guided that monster here,’ Morbus stated as he met Diocletian and Tegrus. He gestured at the dripping remains of the binding daggers. ‘Through those he was able to guide the beast. By striking at it through the daggers, it is just possible that the sorcerer himself has shared his creature’s fate.’

‘Sigmar willing,’ Tegrus said.

Morbus nodded, then turned towards the fallen Scipio. Moving across the ice, he knelt beside the injured paladin, drawing upon his healing powers to mend the leg shattered by the Slaughterbrute. While Morbus attended the wounded Decimator, Tegrus reported the return of Lord-Castellant Grymn and the rearguard.

‘We will need every warrior we can get,’ Diocletian said.

‘Some will be needed here,’ Morbus stated. He pointed to the sylvaneth. Many of them were moving onwards, joining the Lady of Vines as she resumed her retreat.

‘That role must be left to others,’ Diocletian observed. ‘The tree-folk don’t regard my Decimators with favour.’

‘It is your axes they distrust,’ Morbus told him. He nodded at the steaming carcass of the Slaughterbrute. ‘After your heroic stand against that monster, I think perhaps they regard you with less suspicion.’

‘We will be of more use fighting than running,’ Diocletian protested.

Tegrus was quick to support the paladin. ‘Lord-Castellant Grymn left Retributor-Prime Markius and the Annihilation Brotherhood behind to contain Torglug’s delaying force. Without their hammers, the axes of the Decimators will be most welcome.’

‘Then I must entrust the duty to others,’ Morbus said, turning towards Tegrus. ‘Speed back to Angstun and tell him to dispatch a unit of Liberators to accompany the Lady of Vines. Impress upon him that the Hallowed Knights must maintain a presence among the sylvaneth. It is our duty to safeguard Queen Alarielle against all dangers that threaten her. Whatever shape they take.’

They had spent so long under storm clouds and moving through fog that the light pouring down from the clear sky was almost dazzling to Grymn and his warriors. The view afforded by the light, however, was anything but reassuring. They could see the cracked and broken ice, the litter of bodies left by Torglug’s assault. The very magnitude of the destruction bespoke both the might of the plaguehosts and the violence of the jotunberg’s movements. Both were forces that yet hung over the ice fields. Somewhere beyond the veil of fog, Torglug’s legions lurked, while the rumblings and shudders that crackled through the ice told them that the jotunberg’s agitation wasn’t so easily pacified as it was to evoke. Any moment might see a catastrophic ice quake send all of them sinking into the Sea of Serpents.

There was nothing Grymn could do about the jotunberg except to trust in Sigmar that the giant’s throes wouldn’t bring ruin to the forces of order. Against Torglug, however, he was already formulating his plans. To advance and continue his pursuit of Alarielle, the warlord would have to bring his army across the ice bridges that spanned the churning sea. If the Stormcasts and their allies could control the bridges they could frustrate Torglug’s ambition. However vast his horde, only a small number of them could strike out across the bridges at one time.

‘If we can hold them here we can give the Lady of Vines time to make good her escape,’ Grymn told Angstun.

‘Lord-Relictor Morbus worries that Torglug will use some ploy to slip past us and catch up with her,’ Tegrus said. The Prosecutor-Prime had brought word back from Morbus and forwarded his request for warriors to accompany the branchwraith. Angstun had sent Gault’s retinue and those of Agrippa to act as escort for the Lady of Vines. Both retinues of Liberators had been badly mauled throwing back the plaguehosts and so were the easiest to remove from the line.

‘Morbus always sees the dark side of everything,’ Angstun declared. ‘For all of that, I hope he and Diocletian return before the enemy attacks again.’

Grymn shared the sentiment. The thunderaxes of Diocletian’s Decimators would be vital right now. He had it in mind to use them to break the bridges and restrict Torglug’s horde to the other side of the gap.

The cheers of his comrades and Tallon’s excited barks brought Grymn turning around. Emerging from the fog was a sight he’d never expected to see – Retributor-Prime Markius and the Annihilation Brotherhood. The paladins had fought their way clear and against all odds had managed to find their way back even without the light of Grymn’s warding lantern to guide them.

‘Sigmar be praised,’ Angstun exclaimed as he spotted the Retributors.

Even as the Knight-Vexillor’s words reached his ears, Grymn felt a chill rush through him. Tallon’s barks turned into angry growls. There were other figures emerging from the mist now, shapes far less welcome than those of the paladins. ‘Assign Markius to one of the bridges,’ Grymn told Angstun. ‘Have his men start breaking it at once.’

Angstun needed no explanation as he followed Grymn’s gaze. Torglug’s legion was marching out from the fog once more – rank upon rank of armoured warriors and slavering monsters, a seemingly numberless horde of putrescence. Among the throng he could see the putrid bulk of a greater daemon, the slithering loathsomeness of slug-like monsters, the banners of flayed skin that were carried by Nurgle’s chosen.

Marching at the fore of a mob of bloated, mutated warriors in rusted armour was the warlord himself. Torglug the Despised. Torglug Treecutter. Torglug, the favoured son of Nurgle. He was marching out with his army. The Stormcast understood what his presence meant. This attack would be an all-out effort. There would be no retreat, no compromise. The plaguehosts would either conquer or be destroyed.

Gazing across the magnitude of Torglug’s forces, Grymn prayed to Sigmar that the Hallowed Knights would be worthy of the ordeal before them. If it was their destiny to fall before the plaguehosts, then he hoped they would at least delay the enemy long enough to cheat him of his prize.

Chapter seven

‘Much is demanded of those to whom much is given.’

Lord-Castellant Grymn recited the First Canticle to himself as he watched Torglug’s legion charge towards the bridges. They were the words upon which the Hallowed Knights had been founded. In them was written the promise of woe and struggle, but also the promise of triumph. Grymn took solace in such solemn wisdom. The greater the test of faith, the darker the ordeal, the brighter and more magnificent the glory to be gained.

Grymn felt pride as he heard the shouts of the Hallowed Knights ringing out all across the ice. ‘Only the faithful!’ they cried, reaffirming their devotion to their chamber and to Sigmar, the God-King. Even faced by the onslaught of Torglug’s hideous horde, the Stormcasts were without fear. To lay down their lives in service to their god was the noblest purpose to which they could aspire. Before that resolve, the horrors of Chaos had no power.

The sylvaneth were ranged across the gap, dispatched by the Lady of Vines to support their efforts against Torglug’s plaguehosts. Commanded by the mighty treelords, the wargroves glared across the gap at their foes, vengeance blazing in their eyes. A terrible groaning litany rose from the tree-creatures, a horrifying paean promising merciless retribution for those who had despoiled their lands.

Judicators loosed volleys of arrows into the Chaos legion, each sigmarite missile descending as a shaft of crackling lightning. Armoured knights sizzled in the saddles of their mutated steeds, howling tribesmen fell to the ice as smoking husks, hopping daemons burst in showers of ichor and corruption. Yet for every foe the archers brought down, it seemed a dozen more came boiling out from the fog. They trampled their dead and dying underfoot, concerned only with reaching the bridges and the prize that awaited them on the other side.

The grotesque daemons, the hideous knights, the warlord’s elite troops – the advance of so many formidable enemies told Grymn that Torglug had taken the bait. The warlord was impatient to capture Alarielle, casting aside prudence in his dash to seize the bridges. Now was the moment to frustrate the villain’s ambition. With his army committed to the assault, Torglug would lose valuable time withdrawing and reorganizing if he failed to capture the bridges and cross the gulf.

While the Judicators continued to whittle away at the horde with their arrows, Grymn raised his warding lantern high. It was the signal to the paladins deployed at the ends of the bridges. Lightning hammers and thunderaxes smashed into the ice, chopping deep into the frozen spans. Chips and slush exploded beneath each blow, but Grymn could tell the Retributors and Decimators were making little progress. The pack was too thick. Even the lightning called down by Lord-Relictor Morbus failed to do more than sink smouldering pits in the surface of one bridge, the energy diverting away to crackle across the open water beneath. Towering treelords shambled towards several of the spans, trying to crack them with their burrowing roots, but even this effort proved futile.

‘Tegrus,’ Grymn called to the Prosecutor-Prime. ‘The ice is too thick on our side. I need your brethren to assault the bridges from above and try to crack them from the middle.’

‘By Sigmar’s will, it shall be done,’ Tegrus vowed. Spreading his great wings, he climbed into the air, the rest of his command rising up to join him. Their silver armour glistened in the sunlight as they soared above their fellow Stormcasts, then they were speeding away towards the churning waters.

The Prosecutors hadn’t gone far before abominable shapes dived at them from the stormy skies. Obscenely bloated, their membranous wings caked in frost, the daemonic rot flies flew at Tegrus and his warriors with ravenous abandon. Upon the back of each droning insect, a cyclopean plaguebearer shrieked its own slobbering battle-cry, waving its rusted daemon-blade overhead.

‘Sigmar be with you,’ Grymn prayed as he watched the aerial combatants close. The task he’d set the Prosecutors would be doubly difficult now. He remembered Gardus’ admonition about always having a plan for failure. Swinging his warding lantern across his body, he signalled the other Hallowed Knights. The Liberators closed ranks at the end of the spans the paladins were chopping away at, forming a shield wall to block any enemy trying to get across. As if following the example set by the Stormcasts, dryads and larger tree-creatures marched into tight-knit formations behind the bridges being attacked by the treelords.

It had been his intention to hold Torglug on the other side of the gap, but now Grymn had to prepare for the eventuality that the plaguehosts would reach at least some of the bridges. Their objective now was to keep the diseased legion from securing a foothold on their side of the ice. Every moment they could delay the hordes of Chaos was one more chance for the Lady of Vines and her precious burden to escape.

Wind whipped across Tegrus’ body as he banked before the murderous dive of a plague drone. The serrated claws of the rot fly scraped across his armoured leg but failed to seize hold of him. The coroded plaguesword of the insect’s rider came much closer to knocking him from the sky, the foul blade blackening the bright aura of his arcane wings. The Prosecutor-Prime arched around his attacker, bringing his hammer cracking against the fly’s swollen abdomen. A vile spray of ooze and putrescence spilled from the ruptured insect. It floundered in mid-air, the plaguebearer hurtling from its saddle to splatter on the ice far below. Tegrus dived down upon the wounded rot fly, smashing his hammer into its head. Already dead from the blow, the monster plummeted from the sky to join its rider.

Tegrus was buffeted by the fierce winter winds, thrown through the air by a wave of driving ice and snow. It was a struggle for him to correct the spin he was thrown into, diving and juking in an effort to tear himself from the gale’s grip. Around him, he could see other Prosecutors sharing his struggle, fighting to win free of the howling winds. Some of the plague drones were sent down towards the ice, but more of the fiendish creatures managed to get away. They circled around, rising above the driving force, ready to dive back at the winged Stormcast.

‘Prosecutors, our objective remains the bridges,’ Tegrus called to his brethren. It was an onerous order to inflict upon them. To strike at the bridges would mean exposing themselves to the plague drones. Even so, the havoc the flying daemons could wreak was inconsequential beside the utter carnage that would result if Torglug’s legion was able to cross the gulf. Firming his grip upon his hammers, Tegrus swooped towards the bridges.

The hammer-strikes exploded with a thunderous crack as Tegrus hurled his weapons against the bridge, blasting chunks of ice into the air. He darted through the flying debris, risking a glance back at the damage he’d managed to inflict. A section of the bridge had crumbled away, slamming down into the churning water below. He could see sleek, sinuous sea serpents striking at the sinking ice, lashing out in blind retaliation against the wreckage. Anything of flesh and blood falling into those waters would be quickly devoured.

The span across those waters, however, remained intact. The gouge Tegrus’ hammers had inflicted against it wasn’t enough to break the bridge. Even now, Chaos warriors and marauders were marching out, goaded onwards by threats from their chiefs and champions. Wheeling around, drawing another hammer from Sigmar’s storm, the weapon crackling into his armoured fist, Tegrus dived down to try again.

Around Tegrus, the other Prosecutors tried to follow his lead. Several of them were beset by the plague drones, slashed by the claws and mandibles of the rot flies or else cut down by the plagueswords of their riders. He saw one of the Prosecutors dip beneath the onslaught of two adversaries only to be impaled by a spear cast at him by the barbarians rushing across the bridge. The injured Stormcast spun towards the water, his armoured body snapped up by one of the gigantic serpents when it lunged at him from beneath the sea. An instant later a blue flash of light shot up from the churning waves.

Another set of plague drones dived at Tegrus. The plaguebearers were taking charge of their brutish steeds now, restraining the rot flies’ mindless aggression and turning them towards more disciplined methods of attack. The daemons that pursued him were co-ordinating their assault, supporting one another as they sought to knock the Prosecutor-Prime from the sky.

The daemons little guessed the enemy they now faced. Tegrus was in his element, exulting in the thrill of diving and weaving around his foes. Far more nimble than the rot flies, he was able to soar around and behind the vile creatures. Casting his hammer at one of the daemons as he climbed above it, Tegrus had the satisfaction of seeing its thorax cut in half by the missile. The bisected monstrosity crashed into the bridge below, pitching a clutch of screaming marauders into the hungry maws of the serpents.

The other plague drone tried to capitalise on the distraction of its companion’s destruction, whipping so close to Tegrus that some of the acidic slime drooling from the rot fly’s proboscis splashed across his armour. The Stormcast threw himself into a downward spiral, wings folded close against his back. The icy air rushed past him as he hurtled straight towards the open water. He could sense the plague drone pursuing him, refusing to abandon its prey.

Lower and still lower Tegrus plummeted, then at the last instant he unfurled his wings and propelled himself skywards once more, speeding himself upwards with the momentum of his fall. It was a manoeuvre the bulky creature couldn’t match. The ghastly daemon and its fiendish rider slammed into the churning sea, the impact ripping limbs from the bloated insect and sending its one-eyed rider vanishing into the depths.

As he rose back into the storm-swept sky, Tegrus could see his warriors were sorely beset by the plague drones. Valiantly, some of them continued to make sorties against the bridges, but they were too few to bring any concentration of force to bear against the spans. Though their javelins sent many of the enemy falling into the water, they weren’t enough to complete the demolition. More and more, the Prosecutors were compelled to use their weapons against swarms of plague drones, annihilating them before they could close with the Stormcasts.

Tegrus drew another hammer from Sigmar’s storm and looked for the gouge his earlier cast had inflicted. It might be a desperate hope, but if the first hammers had weakened the span enough, a second impact in the same spot might be enough to break it. Desperate or not, he was determined to try. Whatever the risk.

‘Sigmar guide my hand,’ Tegrus cried out as he dove past the circling plague drones and towards the bridge below.

Grymn felt as though the snow swirling down from the sky had closed around his own heart. He saw the Prosecutors being attacked by the pernicious rot flies. The daemons were too numerous, the elements too capricious and the target too formidable. One of the winged warriors swooped down with a stormcall javelin in each hand. Though he hurled both missiles into one of the bridges, though he himself was caught in the resultant explosion and hurtled into the icy sea, the span remained standing.

It needed more strength to crack the bridges. A more direct approach than what Tegrus and his Prosecutors had so valiantly attempted. Perhaps some of Morbus’ dour perspective had infected him, but Grymn had planned for this possibility from the first. Much as he disliked to give the command.

Angstun knew what troubled the Lord-Castellant’s mind. ‘We can try to hold them,’ he suggested.

Grymn shook his head. ‘No, my friend, our only chance to hold them is to force them into a bottleneck. They have to be driven into a killing ground where we can bring our full strength against them. If we let them come at us across a broad front, they will prevail simply through force of numbers.’ He turned to Markius, Diocletian and the primes of the other paladin retinues. Quietly he gave them the command. The Stormcasts gave the Lord-Castellant a grim salute, then hastened to the bridges.

Retributors and Decimators sprinted out onto the spans and began to attack the ice beneath them, the Liberators closing the shield walls behind them as the paladins ranged onto the bridges. Here, out over the churning water, the pack was far thinner and at once the terrifying crack and creak of the weakening bridges snapped across the battlefield.

The reckless action of the paladins sowed confusion among the oncoming plaguehosts. Some of the barbarians and mutated monsters tried to retreat while others attempted to redouble their rush across and fall upon the Stormcasts before they could achieve their purpose. Turmoil erupted between the panicked and the determined, and along several of the spans fratricidal conflict broke out between the factions – the dead and dying of both sides cast into the sea and the hungry maws of the giant serpents.

Upon one of the bridges, a squadron of Chaos knights trampled their craven compatriots and charged for the far side. In their path stood the Retributors, their lightning hammers digging great gouges in the ice. Grymn could see Retributor-Prime Markius among the paladins, a massive hammer gripped in his armoured hands. ‘Only the faithful,’ Markius cried out as he raised the weapon overhead and brought it smashing down into the bridge.

The span shattered beneath Markius’ blow. With the Chaos knights only a few yards away, the entire bridge crumbled. Shrieking horses and shouting men were sent pitching into the roiling waters below. The same destruction that reached out to drag down the plague riders also claimed the Retributors. The ice upon which they stood tilted upwards for an instant, then dropped away in a great sheet, knifing down into the sea. Flares of blue lightning streaked up into the sky after the paladins sank into the icy waters.

‘Sigmar take you into His keeping,’ Grymn whispered, bowing his head in tribute to Markius’ sacrifice.

Similar scenes unfolded across several of the other bridges. Often the defenders were successful in their demolition. Diocletian and his Decimators were snatched from the verge of destruction by the intercession of a pair of treelords, who caught them as their end of the bridge began to pitch down into the sea. After the fall of the Slaughterbrute, its seemed the sylvaneth had decided some axes could be used for good instead of ill.

Grymn’s plan was to funnel the plaguehosts down three specific bridges, spans positioned so that his Judicators would have the enemy in a crossfire as they advanced and where the defenders on the other side would be able to form a unified front. Instead, the enemy was able to capture a few bridges not in his calculations.

The first was seized when a unit of Retributors was obliterated by plague drones soon after the dramatic sacrifice of Markius and his men. The flying daemons swarmed down onto the paladins in a frantic mass of slashing claws and stabbing proboscises. The fiends following behind the first assault attacked their own, ripping open abdomens swollen with acidic putrescence to coat the Retributors in caustic filth. Whenever a Stormcast faltered, a rot fly was quick to seize him in its claws and dive with him into the sea. By the time the loathsome attack was finished, the Retributors had been exterminated and the bridge belonged to Torglug.

A second span was seized when three mighty treelords attempted to destroy it by sending their roots burrowing into the ice at the middle of the bridge. Before they’d proceeded far, a marauder chieftain unleashed a mob of hideously mutated Chosen against the sylvaneth. The howling Chosen, their bodies twisting and changing at each step, hurled themselves upon the great tree-creatures. Though many of them were crushed in the hands of the treelords or impaled upon their branches, too many won through to attack the sylvaneth with bronze axes, iron swords, and their own grisly claws. The Chosen hacked and hewed until the mighty treelords were overcome. Roaring in victory, the mutants pushed the splintered carcasses over the side. Though their triumph was short and the arrows from Judicators’ bows soon avenged the treelords, the damage was done. As they had with the other bridge, detachments of Stormcast Eternals and wargroves of sylvaneth removed themselves from the main formations to guard these crossings.

‘We can defend twelve,’ Angstun assured Grymn.

The Lord-Castellant nodded. ‘We will defend twelve,’ he said. Glancing away from the plaguehosts striving to cross the sea, he looked behind their own defensive line. He could just see the Lady of Vines and her last bodyguard slipping away behind the concealment of another snow flurry. If not for the radiant glow of the queen-seed, he doubted he would have been able to spot her at all. The branchwraith had left half of her people behind to aid the Hallowed Knights. Grymn was uncertain if it was a reflection of the growing unity between their factions or a dire testament to the gravity of the situation. Either way, he was certain she hadn’t made such a decision lightly. She had to know that those she left behind were unlikely to return.

Grymn turned his gaze back upon Torglug’s diseased horde. He could see the warlord himself, bloated with corruption, his horned helm caked in filth and decay. Survival didn’t matter here. Their only purpose was to hold for as long as they could. To hold and deny Torglug the prize his infernal master coveted.

‘By Sigmar’s grace,’ Grymn said. ‘We will hold them back.’

There was a man once. He fell into a hole and thought he would die there. He prayed he would die there – how he begged and pleaded. But he didn’t die. He suffered on and on and on. Hours became days became weeks became months. He was lost and he was alone, and even the company of his enemies was denied to him. How he would have savoured their taunts and jeers! How he would have welcomed their abuses! What torture could compare to being alone, abandoned even by those he hated?

There was a man once. He dared a god to do its worst and that was just what it did. The sweet relief of death was denied him; the blissful release of madness eluded him. The sicknesses that consumed his flesh refused to fully destroy him. They left him just enough coherency to appreciate the pain they brought. They withdrew and faded, only to return, easing his agony only so that the relapse would hurt so much more. Dread hounded his mind when pox and plague relented, terror tightening around him as he anticipated their return.

Those whom the gods destroy they make mad. A far worse fate beckons those whom the gods covet. Flesh, spirit and mind alike must be broken. Broken and formed anew. Changed into the vessel that can best serve its new master.

Torglug’s blemished eyes fastened upon the hateful light shining from the enemy leader’s lantern. He forced himself to look upon it, grinding his teeth against the pain it provoked. Another of Sigmar’s pathetic champions, another delusional fool who trusted in a power mightier than Chaos. Right to the end, Lord-Celestant Gardus had believed in the God-King’s power. That hadn’t saved him from the might of Nurgle. That hadn’t stopped Torglug from adding the vale of Athelwyrd to his long list of conquests.

Now this one thought to oppose him. Torglug could appreciate the craft his adversary displayed. He was trying to negate the strength of the plaguehosts by funnelling them across the few bridges still standing. The warriors of Chaos had lost hundreds when the lightning-men and sylvaneth started demolishing those bridges. Torglug’s legion was suffering further casualties as his forces tried to advance across the narrow spans. Beastmen savaged human marauders in their feral bloodlust, impatient to close with the enemy that awaited them on the other side. Crazed forsaken, their bodies erupting with grotesque mutations, ploughed through ranks of tribesmen in their berserk fury. Scores of his diseased followers were hurled into the churning sea by their own comrades, lost to the icy waves and the ravenous serpents undulating through the water. Overhead, the last of his plague drones were overcome by the winged lightning-men, their broken husks splattering as they crashed into the snow. The flying daemons had served their purpose, however. Only a handful of the airborne enemy remained – too few to pose a threat to Torglug’s army or to menace the remaining bridges.

The strain of gazing upon the holy lantern at last made Torglug close his eyes and look away. It was a gesture of weakness that stirred in his guts, the daemonic rotworm that dwelled there recoiling from the holy light. He would make the lightning-men suffer for that indignity. It was said to be impossible to make one of Sigmar’s champions feel fear, but he wondered if they could recognize despair when it stretched forth its claws to claim them? What was fear for oneself, after all, compared to the knowledge that your own failure had brought damnation upon those who depended upon your strength?

‘Guthrax!’ Torglug’s slobbering call bellowed from the rusted face of his helm. His putrid blightkings retreated from their master’s presence as the enormous daemon waddled towards him. Only Slaugoth Maggotfang stayed by his side, potent charms and talismans guarding him against the Great Unclean One’s pestilent aura. Torglug had no need of such fetishes to protect him. The favour of Nurgle was stronger than any daemon’s malignance.

‘Your command, Torglug Ice-walker?’ Guthrax croaked, steaming spittle falling from its rancid tongues.

Torglug studied the bridges, crowded now with his warriors. He turned over in his mind the warbands that belonged to each tattered banner, the warherds that marched behind each primitive totem. He put a value to each, estimated how many men and monsters might be committed to each crossing. Finally he pointed his axe towards the largest of the bridges. ‘There you are finding your road,’ he told Guthrax. ‘You are crossing there and bringing destruction for my enemies.’

The huge daemon clapped its hands together in a gesture that would have suggested childish excitement had it come from anything less grotesque. ‘It seems there are many who will grow closer to the Grandfather,’ it gobbled. ‘Are you so certain you would feed so many of your own to me? Your warriors already on the bridge will have the choice of drowning or being in my way.’

‘That is being your road,’ Torglug repeated. He knew the daemon meant to horrify him with the thought of how many of his own followers would be destroyed when Guthrax crossed the bridge. The monster had no appreciation of his ambition. If it cost the life of every mortal that bent their knee to him, he would spend them. Once he captured the Everqueen and gave Nurgle the prize he coveted, Torglug would be rewarded with armies so vast as to make this legion seem a rabble of brigands.

Slobbering and chuckling, Guthrax shambled off towards the bridge. The Great Unclean One’s advance was noted by friend and foe alike. The Chaos warriors near the bridge scattered, those already on the span fleeing back to the closer shore. Some made it, but others were caught between Guthrax’s advance and the shield wall of lightning-men at the other end. A few of these wretches leapt into the sea rather than being crushed under the daemon’s waddling bulk. Many more hurled themselves against the shield wall, fighting with desperate abandon. The archers on the far side stopped loosing arrows and bolts into Torglug’s mortal warriors and instead directed their shots at Guthrax. The warlord laughed at their futile attempts to bring down the greater daemon.

‘Is it wise to commit Guthrax by himself?’ Slaugoth asked the warlord. ‘The enemy may call on the power of their own god. The lightning that–’

‘Against Guthrax, we are letting them be doing their worst,’ Torglug said. ‘More attention daemon is drawing to itself is being better for me. More resources enemy is setting against Guthrax, less they are having to be bringing against real threat.’

Slaugoth looked puzzled, the worms between his blackened teeth even growing still. ‘The real threat?’

Torglug brought his blackened axe down, hacking a sliver from the ice at his feet. ‘Me,’ he said. ‘While lightning-men are committing themselves against Guthrax and other bridgeheads, I am leading my best warriors against them – only we not be using one of bridges they are leaving us. We are making own bridge.’

The sorcerer’s stomach tightened. To defy Torglug was to invite death, but trying to repeat the ritual he’d performed before would certainly destroy him. He didn’t have the legion’s warlocks and shamans to exploit this time – indeed the only resources he could draw upon were his own acolytes. Trying to repeat the spell with so little energy to syphon would reduce him to a withered husk.

Looking back at Guthrax, an idea occurred to Slaugoth. He couldn’t cross the gap as he had before, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other ways to accomplish the feat. Among Torglug’s legion were the disgusting Slothcrawlers, a pack of daemonic beasts. The immense, slug-like monstrosities would serve the sorcerer’s purpose.

Removing from the head of his staff one of his most potent talismans, Slaugoth began his spell. The sickening Slothcrawlers slithered towards the frozen wave on which Torglug stood. ‘The daemons will build your bridge,’ he told the warlord.

‘Then be building it,’ Torglug commanded, pointing to the spot where he would make his crossing.

Gibbering in crazed jubilation, the first of the daemonic creatures sank its claws into the side of the ice shelf, leaving its body to dangle over the edge. The second beast slithered down the body of the first, its tentacles biting into the flesh of its companion. Viscous ooze drooled from each of the ropey tendrils, fusing the hideous beasts together. A third monster soon followed, repeating the process. Daemon by daemon, Slaugoth was creating a living bridge across the gap. The serpents beneath the waves poked their head up from the waters, but recoiled from the diseased essence of the loathsome daemons.

Torglug laughed at the gruesome novelty of such a passage, then summoned his putrid blightkings to him. Once the daemonic bridge was set, they would follow the vile path to the other side. Already he could see the enemy reacting to Slaugoth’s ploy, a wall of lightning-men forming up where they judged the living bridge would stretch across.

Torglug laughed when he caught the flash of the holy lantern. It seemed the enemy commander was going to personally receive him when he staged his crossing. Destroying him would be an enjoyable appetiser before he seized the queen-seed.

‘It will need more than courage to stand against that obscenity,’ Angstun told Grymn, pointing to the hideous bulk of the Great Unclean One as it waddled across the bridge, drawing ever closer to the formation of Liberators at the other end. The daemon chortled hideously as it crushed marauders and Chaos knights under its bulk or grabbed hapless beastmen from the ice to drop into its gash-like maw. The abomination’s mere presence caused the ice to become blemished, crusted with a leprous foam.

Lord-Relictor Morbus added his agreement to Angstun’s words. ‘Like the claw of Nurgle himself,’ he said. ‘A trial to test even the most stalwart.’ Tallon snarled as though to add his own support.

‘We must hold,’ Grymn swore. ‘The daemon can’t be allowed to break through. Every heartbeat we keep them here increases the chance for the Lady of Vines to escape.’

‘You’ll need the reserves to meet Torglug when he crosses that damnable bridge he’s made,’ Angstun said. He looked to Morbus, waited for a nod from his skull-shaped helm. ‘Let us stop the daemon for you, commander.’

Grymn hesitated. Angstun could appreciate the Lord-Castellant’s dilemma. The risk was enormous and if they failed, the Hallowed Knights would be deprived of two of their leaders. To do nothing, however, would see the daemon break through. Alone the monster would be capable of holding the bridgehead, and the plaguehosts would pour across. Whatever his reservations, Angstun knew Grymn would do what was necessary to protect the queen-seed.

‘Sigmar watch over you,’ Grymn said, laying his hand upon Angstun’s shoulder. ‘Whatever it takes, hold the daemon.’ He looked back to the living bridge and the advancing mass of Torglug’s champions. ‘I will keep the plaguelord from crossing here.’

Angstun saluted Grymn and hurried towards the span threatened by the greater daemon. Morbus lagged just behind him, the Lord-Relictor’s stamina drained by the lightning storms he had called down from the skies. Some fell power was interceding on behalf of the plaguehosts, distorting the bolts as they came crackling down and denying them the precision and power they usually possessed. Efforts to bring the fury of the heavens raining down on Torglug and his monstrous bridge had only sent slivers of electricity sparking across the surface of the sea.

‘Nearer to the enemy I may be able to defy the magic that strives against my powers,’ Morbus told Angstun as they ran, giving voice to the Knight-Vexillor’s concerns.

‘What can be done will be done,’ Angstun replied. ‘Sigmar grant that it is enough.’

The obscene bulk of the Great Unclean One lumbered nearer to the shield wall. Arrows from the Judicators continued to slam into the daemon, but without effect, provoking only a glottal cough of amusement from the fiend. As it trudged along, a string of bones and slime oozed out from one of the monster’s hands, hardening until it became a gigantic flail. The daemon dragged the loathsome weapon behind it, cracking it from side to side in its impatience to close with the Liberators.

Morbus stopped as they approached the defensive position. Holding his relic hammer high, he tried to call down the celestial fury of Sigmar upon the Great Unclean One. Divine power suffused the head of his weapon, but at once he realised something was wrong. A discordant vibration was burrowing its way into the energies he was summoning.

‘Torglug’s sorcerer strives against me,’ he growled through clenched teeth. ‘But he shall not prevail.’ Crouching down, he set the heft of his hammer against his knee. Ancient prayers of appeal, entreaties to the God-King, issued from behind the skull-faced helm.

For an instant, Angstun saw the celestial glow surrounding Morbus’ relic hammer intensify. The Hallowed Knights nearby, reserves waiting to support the shield wall, gasped in awe at the power the Lord-Relictor was calling upon, but awe gave way to revulsion as a sickly green luminance began to infect the divine glow. The grisly taint cast eerie shadows across Morbus, lending his aspect a sickly and perverse quality.

‘The daemon lends its power to the sorcerer,’ Morbus hissed, his voice creaking with the strain of defying his arcane foes. ‘They turn the foulness of their Crow God against me.’ He raised his head, staring at Angstun. ‘Leave me! All of you!’

The Hallowed Knights might have demurred, reluctant to abandon a leader in such distress, but Angstun could hear the strain in Morbus’ voice. It wasn’t fear for himself, but concern for his warriors that tore at the Lord-Relictor. Better than any of them, he knew the malignity of the magical forces the enemy was bringing to bear and what havoc might be unleashed. Raising their standard, Angstun called the Hallowed Knights to attend his command, ordering them back, leaving Morbus alone among the ice and snow.

It pained Angstun tremendously to leave Morbus, but almost at once his decision saw validation. The pestilent green glow continued to grow, expanding into a cloud of diseased miasma. Ice steamed within that noxious fog, falling snow sizzled and sparked as it struck the foetid vapour. Just visible within the veil of sorcerous contagion, Morbus struggled on, trying to defy the atrocious evil that was turned against him. Smoke rose from his armour as even the sigmarite plate began to corrode beneath the aura of decay.

Ghastly shapes leapt into being all around Morbus, rising up with the foul vapours. Daemonic creatures conjured by the magic of the Lord-Relictor’s foes, the monsters converged upon him, dragging him down onto the ice. From the midst of the grisly melee, Morbus’ voice reached Angstun. ‘Forget me! Stop the greater daemon!’

Angstun forced himself to turn away. He had to concentrate on the daemon and prevent it from crossing. With the Lord-Relictor gone, there was no chance to stop the beast before it reached the shield wall. He looked across the warriors acting as reserves for the Liberators. A retinue of Judicators with boltstorm crossbows, a wargrove of sylvaneth and, most formidable of all, Decimator-Prime Diocletian and his paladins.

‘Diocletian, your men will support me. I’m going for the daemon.’ He looked to the Judicators and cast a hopeful glance at the tree-creatures. ‘If we fall, it will be left to you to turn back our enemy.’

The daemon’s lumbering steps finally brought it to the shield wall. Even as sigmarite arrows rained down upon it, the Great Unclean One struck at the Liberators barring its way. The obscene flail lashed out, whipping across the stolid ranks of Stormcasts. Some of the armoured warriors were flattened by the heavy, skull-shaped bludgeons fixed to the ends of each ropey chain. Others were snagged on the spikes and spurs that thrust out from the surface of the flail, hooked on the putrid barbs and dragged out of formation by the daemon’s prodigious strength. Before the reeling Liberators could recover, its clawed hand swept out, swatting them over the edge of the bridge.

The Hallowed Knights held fast, closing together where the daemon’s attack had claimed their comrades. Swords and hammers flashed as they struck back at the abomination, but the monster would not be denied. From its plague-infested innards, a bilious stream of corruption spewed across the silver warriors. Shields lowered, weapons faltered as the searing slime boiled against sigmarite plate. Again, the Great Unclean One surged forwards, its flail cracking down to annihilate a dozen Stormcasts. The daemon drove its decayed enormity full into the shield wall, crushing more warriors beneath its waddling obesity. Swarms of diminutive nurglings erupted from the Great Unclean One’s exposed gut to fall upon the injured.

A bubbling cry of malicious triumph rattled from the daemon’s toad-like maw as it slaughtered the Liberators and reached the far side of the bridge. Its grisly humour only increased when it found Angstun and the Decimators moving to block its path. Clearly the daemon considered this small group of adversaries an insignificant obstacle.

Angstun could see the flashes of vanquished Hallowed Knights flaring behind the daemon, testimony to the carnage it had wrought. He was determined that it would pay for what it had done. He would make it pay for the loss of Morbus. He would show it the divine might of Sigmar, the God-King.

‘Only the faithful!’ Angstun cried out. The Knight-Vexillor brought the standard slamming down into the thick pack ice. From the great icon at its top a shaft of blue light leapt skywards. The bolt vanished into the stormclouds.

Obscene laughter slobbered from the daemon’s maw as it reached for Angstun. Whatever power the Stormcast had called upon, it seemed it wasn’t answering. Before it could close its flabby claw around its prey, however, a blazing ball of fire came hurtling down from the heavens. A twin-tailed comet, the manifestation of Sigmar’s godly wrath.

The comet slammed into the ice, fracturing the thick pack, sending great slabs crashing down into the sea. The bridge the greater daemon had crossed collapsed, pitching dozens of Chaos warriors and beastmen into the churning waters below. The daemon lord itself stumbled, sliding back towards the gap behind it.

Bellowing in rage, the Great Unclean One tried to escape the crumbling shelf. Angstun and the Decimators still stood in its path, however. The Knight-Vexillor struck at it with the end of his standard while the paladins brought their thunderaxes chopping at its flanks. Something akin to panic seized the daemon as the ice continued to collapse behind it.

Angstun thrust the end of his standard into the Great Unclean One’s grasping claw. Puncturing the rancid flesh, the weapon became embedded in the daemon’s palm. Snarling in wrath, the monster jerked its arm upwards, pulling Angstun into the air. The monster stared hatefully at the dangling warrior, then its frog-like tongue shot out, wrapping around its helpless enemy. Angstun struggled against the daemon’s grip, but was unable to break the crushing embrace of the slimy coils.

Decimator-Prime Diocletian cried out to his paladins. Together they hurled themselves against the hulking daemon, hacking at it with their thunderaxes. The daemon swatted at them with its flail, trying to drive them back, while its tongue retracted into its sickly maw.

Angstun felt his armour crumpling under the mounting pressure of Guthrax’s tongue. His very soul recoiled in disgust as the daemon’s maw loomed before him. Death was the sacrifice every Stormcast was ready to accept, but this would be a terrible end. If only he could content himself with the knowledge that he’d succeeded in thwarting the daemon’s assault and prevented it from continuing its pursuit of the Lady of Vines.

As if in response to the Knight-Vexillor’s entreaty, the ice around Guthrax rumbled. The cosmic violence of the comet had weakened the shelf terribly, but the daemon’s own efforts with its monstrous flail had finally decided the matter. In trying to ward off Diocletian’s warriors, the Great Unclean One had sealed its own fate. Angstun sneered as he saw Guthrax react to the groan that shuddered through the ice.

‘Darkness cannot prevail against faith,’ Angstun spat, even as he felt his bones breaking in the daemon’s coils.

With a monumental clamour, the ice crumbled away. Guthrax was sent plummeting into the sea, but with it the daemon dragged Angstun and the Decimators to destruction. The Great Unclean One’s push had been thwarted, but not without sacrifice.

From where he stood at the end of Torglug’s living bridge, Grymn watched Angstun and the Decimators die as they followed the greater daemon down into the sea. He saw the bright flashes of light as they were sent hurtling back to Azyr and into Sigmar’s keeping. Tallon whined sadly, but the gryph-hound’s master could afford no sorrow. There was no time to mourn their loss or even to salute their valour. Grymn had his own battle to fight.

The grotesque figure of Torglug the Despised advanced across the abominable bridge formed from the bodies of his slug-like daemons. With the warlord came his mightiest and most depraved fighters, his bodyguard elite. Hideous warriors, their bloated bodies spilling out from rents in their armour and splits in the corroded mail that straddled their frames, all Torglug’s entourage bore the ghastly fly-rune branded upon their flesh. Gigantic cleaver-like axes and obscene swords were clenched in the fists of each man, vile talismans and trophies tied about their hafts or hanging from their guards. A diseased, slobbering cough dripped from the barbarians, a paean to Nurgle himself. Behind the warlord’s retinue, careful to keep their distance lest they trespass upon Torglug’s victory, packs of skin-clad marauders and one-eyed plaguebearers marched.

Grymn knew only too well how little he had to oppose Torglug and defy the plaguelord’s attack. A pair of treelords and a retinue of Protectors armed with stormstrike glaives were all that stood with him to hold the enemy back and buy more time for the Lady of Vines to make good her escape. Perhaps Lord-Celestant Gardus would have taken different measures, adopted a better strategy to oppose the warlord, but Grymn had done all he could. His mission wasn’t to destroy the enemy, but to keep him from capturing Alarielle. To achieve that, he needed something the Stormcasts couldn’t provide.

His greatest weapon in this struggle wouldn’t be the Hallowed Knights, but Torglug himself. Grymn held his warding lantern higher, letting its purifying light shine into the faces of the warlord’s bodyguard. Pained snarls and foul curses sputtered from the lips of the advancing foe. The divine energies of the lantern acted as a restorative to the Stormcasts, but for the slaves of Chaos they were a withering affliction. They were not enough to destroy villains steeped in such infamy as Torglug’s elite bodyguard, but they could still weaken and distract these diseased foes.

Grymn hoped to provoke a further reaction from Torglug’s retinue. He wanted to enrage them, to fan the flames of fury in their corrupt hearts, goad them into a reckless attack that would be fought not with a mind towards strategy but simply with the raw instincts of berserk beasts.

Torglug hung back as his bodyguard spurred themselves forwards at a run. The first of the hideous plague warriors were snatched from the bridge just as they reached the ice, caught in the wooden talons of the treelords. The huge sylvaneth flung their diseased captives from them in an almost human display of revulsion, sending the warriors hurtling into the sea.

Other warriors followed, rushing at the treelords as the sylvaneth threw the first wave into the icy waters. Many of these were confronted by the Protectors, the mighty paladins skewering their corpulent enemies upon their glaives, ripping apart the plague-infested warriors with the searing energies bound within their weapons. Over and again the silver-armoured Stormcasts sent a cursing adversary crashing to the ice, rancid blood spurting from severed limbs and ruptured organs.

Yet Torglug’s bodyguard were no normal enemy. Their bodies infested by the most virulent of Nurgle’s diseased blessings, their souls corrupted by the sting of the daemonfly, they fought on despite their wounds. A hulking warrior, his face lost in a mass of pustules and sores, crawled down the length of the stormglaive that impaled him so that he could smash the skull of a paladin with his spiked mace. Another monstrosity crawled out from under the stomping foot of a treelord, chest collapsed and splintered ribs tearing through his flesh, so that he might slash at the sylvaneth’s roots with a crescent-bladed scythe.

The filth encrusting the blades of Torglug’s elite troops brought ruin to the treelords. From each cut and gash, a vile stream of contagion crackled through their wooden bodies. Bark whitened and split, falling away in wormy strips. Blood-sap bubbled up from ruptured roots or dribbled from withered branches. Even as they smashed their enemies underfoot or crushed them in their mighty hands, the treelords were being destroyed by the noxious wounds dealt to them.

With death coursing through their bodies, the sylvaneth struggled to push through Torglug’s bodyguard and reach their ghastly leader. Though their language was alien to him, Grymn knew the treelords recognised Torglug, and with that recognition came a terrible rage. To destroy the plaguelord, the sylvaneth were willing to trade their lives. Unfortunately such a bargain wasn’t in the offing. The plague warriors brought down their towering opponents, hacking them apart with ugly axes and splintering their trunks with brutal mauls.

The treelords were the first to fall before the warlord’s elite troops, but they weren’t the last. As more of Torglug’s bodyguard charged onto the ice, the Protectors found themselves overcome. One after another the paladins were cut down, ravaged by the sorcerous contagion bound within the diseased blades of their enemies.

At the centre of the fray, Lord-Castellant Lorrus Grymn continued to hold his ground. Bearing the warding lantern, he had become the target of choice for the enraged servants of Chaos. His halberd had ripped the head from one of Torglug’s bodyguard, shorn the clawed arm from a second and pierced the heart of a third. Tallon ripped at the vile enemies, savaging their diseased flesh with his beak and claws. A heap of mangled bodies lay strewn about him, yet still they came, determined to extinguish the hurtful light and the one who bore it. The assault only abated when a vicious snarl cut through the howls and shrieks of the plague warriors.

‘This man being mine! He is belonging to me!’ The voice was like the gargle of a bog and the death rattle of a toad, an auditory stench of corruption and obscenity. The warlord’s troops withdrew from Grymn, making way for their master’s advance. Grymn commanded Tallon to keep back. If the plaguelord wanted a duel, then he would oblige the fiend.

Grymn had only seen Torglug at a distance before. Closer now, he could appreciate the horror of this monstrous servant of Nurgle. He was a huge man, powerfully muscled despite the bloated, corrupt swell of his gut. What little armour he wore was pitted and stained with corrosion, though each segment looked solid despite the patina of decay. Upon his vambrace the fly-rune had been daubed in a crust of filth, glowing with a foetid vitality. A single horn curled outwards from the helm that encased his head, only three holes affording a glimpse of the monster within.

Grymn looked through them into Torglug’s blemished eyes, studying their spoiled depths, seeking some clue as to the mind behind them. Through the infestation of depravity, he saw a pitiless hate. A hate now directed against him.

Torglug hefted his massive axe, specks of foulness spilling from its blackened blade. ‘God-King is abandoning you,’ he told Grymn. ‘He is leaving you alone to be facing wrath of Torglug.’

‘Sigmar has blessed me with the honour of ending your atrocities,’ Grymn snarled in the warlord’s face.

‘Too late is fanatic learning despair,’ Torglug laughed. ‘First I am killing your light. Then I am killing your faith. When you are begging for death, then, perhaps, I am killing you.’

Exhibiting a speed Grymn thought impossible for a man of his size, Torglug rushed at him. The Lord-Castellant whispered a prayer to Sigmar. Not for victory in this fray, but that he could hold the warlord long enough for the Lady of Vines to slip beyond his reach.

Chapter eight

Torglug’s axe swept towards Grymn’s side. The blow was brutal and vicious with the might and malignity of the plaguelord’s bulk behind it. What the attack lacked was discipline and finesse, skill to complement strength. Grymn twisted away from his enemy’s strike, catching the blow on the haft of his halberd. The collision of blighted steel against holy sigmarite sent a metallic trill ringing out across the frozen sea. Grymn rolled with the impact, turning his block into a sliding parry. Before Torglug was aware of the manoeuvre, the Stormcast drove the blade of his halberd into the warlord’s ribs.

Grymn felt his weapon pierce the diseased warlord, heard the blade slice deep into his corrupt flesh. A soupy broth of blood and maggots streamed down his halberd as he drew back. Against a normal foe, it would have been a mortal wound. Torglug, however, didn’t even seem to notice. Instead he lunged at Grymn once more, chopping at him with a downward sweep of his axe that would have split the Lord-Castellant from crown to hip had it connected. Again, Grymn exploited his enemy’s rage, using Torglug’s own fury and impatience to provide an opening for retaliation.

It wasn’t long before the warlord left himself exposed. Torglug’s axe was a blur as he delivered a blizzard of attacks, trying to cut down Grymn. The assault fell into a rhythm before long, a pattern a more controlled warrior would never have allowed himself to slip into. Grymn followed that pattern, blocking and dodging until he found the opening he was waiting for. When Torglug swung his body around to strike at Grymn’s leg, the Stormcast plunged ahead, driving the edge of his halberd against the warlord’s hip. The sigmarite blade slashed through Torglug’s armour, leaving a jagged strip flapping against his knee. The body beneath was no less savaged, bile gushing from a wound in which the white of bone glistened.

This time Grymn knew better than to trust the severity of the injury to cripple Torglug’s counter. Instead he raised the warding lantern, shining its light into the cluster of blemished eyes. More than his wound, it was the stinging rays from the lantern that caused the warlord to stagger back.

Grymn glanced past Torglug. The way was clear for the warlord’s blightkings to range out across the ice and resume their hunt for the Lady of Vines. Instead the hideous throng stood idle, diseased spectators to the fray betwixt their master and the commander of the Hallowed Knights. The warbands crossing the living bridge displayed no desire to press onwards while the fate of their warlord was in question. By holding Torglug here, Grymn was delaying the strongest and fiercest fighters in the warlord’s entire legion.

A moment before, Grymn had cursed the abominable vitality that preserved Torglug and allowed the warlord to keep fighting. Now he was thankful for the dark blessing that hung over his enemy. Alive and fighting, the warlord would make the greater part of his legion tarry here, waiting to learn his fate. Grymn had to draw out their duel for as long as possible.

For a third time, Grymn’s halberd slashed into Torglug’s body. This time the blade gnawed at the plaguelord’s swollen gut, slicing across his skin. The instant the blow landed, Grymn pulled back, blunting the impetus behind the stroke.

He had no need of the warding lantern to fend off Torglug’s retaliation. The warlord withdrew of his own accord, retreating several paces. As Grymn’s halberd cut into his body, Torglug had felt the sudden lack of force behind the blow. Now Grymn could see the gleam of suspicion in his foe’s eyes. Taking another step back, the warlord called out to his men.

‘Worms of Crow God!’ he shouted. ‘You are being across crevice. Path is being clear for you. Be finding Radiant Queen!’ Torglug raised his axe, catching Grymn’s halberd on its haft and pushing the Lord-Castellany back.

Grymn fought in earnest now, his gambit for delaying the plaguehosts undone. While he fought Torglug, diseased warriors streamed out across the ice, charging into the snow as they tried to find the Lady of Vines. He couldn’t hold back that plague-addled tide – all he could do was try to hurt the enemy as dearly as he could before he was overwhelmed. If he could cut down Torglug then the slaves of Nurgle would be thrown into confusion, plunged into bickering among themselves while they decided upon a new warlord to lead them.

Now it was Torglug who fought with cold detachment and steely discipline. Gone were the reckless, brutal assaults. Instead the warlord fought with insidious craft, exploiting to the full his monstrous strength and uncanny speed. Grymn found himself giving ground to his foe, hard-pressed to fend off the relentless string of attacks with his halberd in one hand and his lantern in the other.

One advantage yet remained with Grymn. The light of his warding lantern continued to vex Torglug, nettling the warlord and causing him to instinctively flinch from it. It was a slim advantage, serving only to blunt some of the precision and ardour of the warlord’s blows.

Torglug abandoned the heavy-handed attacks he’d been inflicting. Taking up his monstrous axe in one hand, he swung the weapon with horrifying ease, trading the sheer strength of his double-handed strikes for the speed of single-handed chops. Grymn found it harder to intercept the swifter blows, but far less arduous to parry. After a minute or so of falling into a pattern of strike and block, it was Grymn who became the victim of settling into the rhythm of battle.

With shocking abruptness, Torglug suddenly tossed his axe from one hand to the other. In almost the same motion, he brought the blackened blade slashing upwards. The diseased axe clove across the face of the warding lantern, quenching its holy light. The blade swept on, crunching through the broken lamp to hew into the hand that held it.

Grymn cried out in agony as his hand was severed by Torglug’s axe. He saw it go spinning away, sliding across the ice. The stump burned with the putrid bite of the unclean blade, sending pain lancing through his body. Blood bubbled up from his torn flesh, spraying across the ice and snow. Even his endurance struggled to overcome the agony of his mutilation; only his devotion to Sigmar and to the duty entrusted to him by Gardus kept him standing.

As he was struck, Grymn heard Tallon snarl. The dutiful gryph-hound lunged at Torglug, his beak snapping shut around the warlord’s arm, savaging his putrid flesh with sidewise twists of its head. Torglug howled in pain and brought his armoured boot slamming into Tallon’s side. The hound cried out in pain and was thrown back, ripping a grisly gash in its enemy as its beak was torn free.

Grymn cried out in rage, flinging himself at the warlord. Torglug swatted the Lord-Castellant aside, mocking him. ‘I am killing the master then his dog!’ he chuckled.

Torglug was back to swinging his axe with both hands again. The warlord expected his crippled foe to be easy prey. A snarl of surprise and aggravation rattled from behind his helm when Grymn refused to be slaughtered. ‘Fanatic is not knowing when to quit,’ he spat at Grymn.

Grymn chopped at Torglug with his halberd, nearly striking the plaguelord’s leg. ‘Duty ends only in death,’ he told the diseased monster.

‘I am being ending your duty,’ Torglug snarled. The warlord spun his bloated bulk, putting all of his weight behind a murderous blow that slammed into Grymn’s side. Sigmarite plate stove in as the axe smashed into him. He felt ribs splinter, slivers of bone stabbing through his flesh. The impact knocked him from his feet, sent him hurtling across the ice.

For an instant, Grymn tried to regain his feet, unwilling to concede the field to Torglug. He’d failed in his mission, such was the thought that tormented him as darkness began to blot out his vision.

As the darkness settled over him, a prayer tumbled from Grymn’s lips. ‘Mighty Sigmar... do not forget the faithful.’

Surrounded by his acolytes, Slaugoth Maggotfang peered at the entrails he’d removed from a slaughtered rot fly. The omens he read in the cancerous organs were anything but reassuring. For a moment he tried to tell himself that the calamity he read there represented the fall of Guthrax into the Sea of Serpents.

The adepts of the Plague Coven called out to the sorcerer as their rotten familiars came flying back to them, buzzing and cawing as they reported Torglug’s victory over the leader of the lightning-men. The way ahead was open to the plaguehosts now. Entire tribes and warherds were charging across the bridge Slaugoth had formed from the Slothcrawlers. The frozen sea would soon be rife with hunters seeking the Lady of Vines. The Everqueen’s guardian might elude them for a time, but she wouldn’t escape.

How to explain the ominous portent he saw in the guts of the rot fly? Should he seek out Torglug and warn him of the ill omens? Slaugoth was at a loss for an answer until a peal of thunder drew his eyes skywards. At once he could see the change in the clouds. They had become even darker and more violent than during the worst of the snow-storm, and to his witchsight there was an unmistakable glamour shining behind the clouds, an aura that was as hateful as it was familiar. It was the same brilliance that burned within each lightning-man, the despised light of Sigmar.

Slaugoth watched as the storm descended, sending sheets of hail splattering down upon the frozen sea. Lightning and thunder hurtled down from the sky. It was no coincidence that the storm’s fury struck in the path of Torglug’s hunters. The sorcerer chided himself for his arrogance. He had felt the pestilent hand of Nurgle reach out to help his followers when they needed to cross onto the ice. Now a different god had intervened to aid the enemy. Slaugoth should have anticipated such a possibility and taken whatever steps he could to offset it.

As the lightning crashed downwards, Slaugoth caught hold of a worm-eaten vulture, the consort of one of his acolytes. Wringing the creature’s neck, he sent its spirit soaring into the sky, seeing in his mind what it saw with its spectral eyes. Where the lightning had struck there now stood dozens of warriors, lightning-men arrayed in armour of white and gold rather than the silver and blue of the enemies they’d been fighting. Sigmar God-King had answered the prayers of his followers and sent them reinforcements from Azyr.

The Plague Coven sensed the sorcerer’s alarm. They began to murmur among themselves, fright pulsing through their veins. Slaugoth quietened them with a threatening glare. By calling upon Nurgle, he had drawn the Grandfather’s attention to himself. If Torglug failed it wouldn’t be the warlord alone who suffered their god’s wrath. The sorcerer was determined to escape such a fate. A second Stormhost was a formidable obstacle, but one that might be offset by summoning allies of their own.

From the crest of a frozen wave, Slaugoth and his acolytes could see the churning waters of the Sea of Serpents. They could see the marine reptiles that feasted so greedily upon the warriors who fell within their reach. Slaugoth could feel the contagion that polluted those mighty monsters, the diseased infestations that had altered them when the Jade Kingdoms sickened. Already they were changing, becoming creatures of the Plaguefather. All it needed was a comparatively simple ritual to make them servants as well, to bind their ophidian minds to the will of Nurgle.

At a gesture from the sorcerer, his acolytes fell upon one of their own, dragging the weakest of the adepts into the circle within which the rot fly had been butchered. Slaugoth drew his dagger across the man’s throat, silencing his screams and sending a spray of arterial blood shooting across the snow. With his staff, the sorcerer dragged the blood across the ice, pulling it into sinuous shapes and sigils. Old magic coursed through his body as he drew upon arcane forces ancient beyond imagining. The bloody shapes began to writhe and wriggle in a noxious semblance of life. In the water, the vast serpents copied the movements of the pictures Slaugoth had drawn from the acolyte’s blood.

‘Go,’ Slaugoth hissed to the sea monsters. ‘Go. Find. Seek. Kill.’ A black-toothed smile crawled across his face as he watched the serpents submerge and slip beneath the ice. The Stormcasts might intercede with Torglug’s hunters above the ice, but there was precious little they could do to oppose the serpentine hounds the sorcerer had sent to stalk the Lady of Vines from below.

The sylvaneth could feel the thinning of the ice beneath their feet, sense the flowing waves underneath them. They were closing upon the far shore of the frozen sea. The Lady of Vines would soon be on firm ground again and much closer to the ancient places where she hoped to take the queen-seed.

Suddenly, the ice split open only a few yards from the branchwraith. A gigantic serpent boiled up from the rent, hissing and snapping as it struck at her. The creature’s grey hide was mottled with foul red growths, and clumps of black mites scuttled between its scales. The mark of Nurgle was upon it, shining in its eyes.

The Lady of Vines leaped from the path of the striking reptile, its jaws slamming into the ice at her feet. Before it could strike again, the last of the Hallowed Knights in her retinue rushed forwards to engage the monster. A mixed force of sword-armed Liberators and Judicators with skybolt bows, they harried the monstrosity, pinning it down while shouting to the branchwraith to press on without them.

It was a scene that had been repeated several times since the Lady of Vines had left so many of her defenders behind to guard the bridges. Rushing up from the depths, the mammoth serpents had shattered the ice in their vicious efforts to stop the branchwraith’s escape. Some of the snakes had ripped open their own hides when they smashed through the frozen surface, striking at everything around them in agonised fury. Others had displayed an eerie craftiness, smashing a series of holes from which to surprise and confuse their prey.

With each encounter her retinue was lessened until all that was left to her now was a bodyguard of dryads. Even these might have been enough if the branchwraith could have crossed the frozen sea faster.

The sea serpents conjured from the depths of the sea were but one obstacle. Another was the mounting tremors caused by the jotunberg. The giant hadn’t relapsed into a deathly sleep as it had when summoned by Alarielle. The jotunberg shivered and quaked as its body was slowly consumed by the rot of Nurgle. Each movement sent a rumble through the ice, fracturing and splitting the surface, causing the dryads to sink their roots down lest they pitch and fall. The very storm that concealed them from the plaguehosts wrought its own toll, chilling the blood-sap flowing through the sylvaneth and slowing their bodies.

The Lady of Vines refused to waver from her cause. The queen-seed cradled in her hands spurred her onwards. Nothing could make her abandon the task before her. The radiant light of Alarielle could not be allowed to depart from Ghyran.

Ahead, the Lady of Vines could just see the shore, which was lined with statues, their huge forms rendered shapeless by age and decay. The race was nearly won. Beyond the statues were the ancient places where benevolent enchantments could still hold sway.

This near to the shore, far from the fallen jotunberg, the ice was thin, crackling beneath the probing steps of the dryads. Cautiously, the sylvaneth tried to advance, but a mighty worm-like horror erupted from beneath the ice, gulping down a pair of dryads in its quivering maw. The Lady of Vines and her court retreated before the revolting monstrosity, watching for it to sink into the depths.

Suddenly, the Lady of Vines turned, the glow of her eyes dipping into a baleful light. On the verge of escape, the enemy came for her once more. Out of the swirling snow and ice she could see hideous figures marching towards her. At their head was one no sylvaneth could forget – the one-horned figure of Torglug Treecutter.

Caught, cornered between the gigantic worm and the advancing warriors, the Lady of Vines altered her song once more. The keening wail became an angry screech. The slight aspects of the branchwraith and her dryads darkened, their hands lengthening into dagger-like talons. The time for running was over. Now it was time to fight.

Torglug roared at his warriors, goading them on through the raging storm. He cared not for the driving rain or the crashing thunder. His attention was fixed upon the radiant glow of the queen-seed, the prize he would capture for Nurgle. He alone could see the glow of the seed through the fog and snow.

It was enough that he could see it. His role was to lead; it was for others to follow him to glory.

That glory was near enough to taste when Torglug stalked out of the fog to see the Lady of Vines standing before him. The branchwraith had stopped running and had turned to confront her pursuers. Torglug smiled when he saw the gigantic worm lashing about the shallows behind her. The last stand hadn’t been her choice then, but rather a gift from Nurgle. He didn’t feel cheated to find his quarry already trapped. After such a long campaign, nothing could spoil the taste of victory for him.

Torglug motioned his putrid blightkings to stay back while he approached the Lady of Vines. His armoured boots crunched across the ice as he closed upon his prey. He was disappointed that even now he was incapable of detecting anything like fear or despair in the branchwraith’s visage. The sylvaneth were an eldritch breed. The eight realms would be better once their kind were exterminated.

The warlord forgot about the branchwraith when he saw the glowing object nestled in the hollow of her trunk. He could feel the vital energies that pulsated from the queen-seed; the parasitic rotworm nestling in his gut writhed in response to that invigorating aura. The light shining from the seed was different than the harsh glare of the warding lantern, though unsettling in its own way. The warding lantern had felt hard and condemning, while the radiance of the queen-seed was mournful, redolent of disappointment and regret. Torglug could recognize the entreaty, even if it had no power over him. He had been damned long ago. It was too late for mercy.

A spasm from the distant jotunberg caused the ice between Torglug and his prey to fracture. Lunging forwards with a grace that belied his bloated bulk, the warlord leapt across the crevice and balanced himself upon the broken ice. His trio of eyes fixed once more upon the Lady of Vines.

‘You are giving her to me,’ he said. ‘I am knowing just the Garden where that seed is being planted. The Grandfather will be growing something special there…’

Torglug knew the sylvaneth would never surrender Alarielle to him without a fight. His words were but a cruel barb to spur them into reckless action. The foolish lightning-man with the lantern was to thank for giving him the idea.

With a wailing shriek, several of the dryads attending the Lady of Vines charged at Torglug. He leapt towards them, abandoning his precarious stand on the ice. Slamming down, he brought his axe slashing around, hewing through the trunk of one dryad with a single blow. The creature’s severed halves crashed into the charging figures of its companions. Before they could recover, the warlord was among them. A chop of his blade split the face of one tree-creature; a driving blow ripped the leg from another and sent the mangled sylvaneth tumbling into the water.

It was only a matter of moments before Torglug had dispatched his enemies. He looked across at the Lady of Vines and the rest of her entourage. He could feel the hate rolling off them. To the sylvaneth he was the Tree-cutter of Thyrr, most hated of all Nurgle’s warlords. Now he could style himself the Annihilator of Athelwyrd. Soon he would be the Sorrow of the Sylvaneth.

Torglug pressed his thumb against his vile axe, slicing his blubbery skin and drawing a bead of yellow pus from his diseased veins. ‘You are surrendering her to me, or I am taking her from your splintered corpses.’

The warlord was ready to make good his promise when the sounds of battle rang out from the fog behind him. Enemies had engaged his putrid blightkings – lightning-men and sylvaneth trying to rescue the Lady of Vines and her charge. Well, his warriors would hold them off, keep them back until it was too late. This close to victory, there would be no escape.

Rushing forwards, Torglug brought his axe chopping towards the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith leapt back, just beyond his reach, then stunned the warlord by darting in to rake him with her claws. Grey-brown filth slopped from his flabby flesh, as his skin was shredded. Torglug tried to smash down his antagonist, but again she slipped past his assault.

Hefting his diseased axe, Torglug moved to press his attack. Before he could take more than a few steps, the rest of the dryads flew at him with their claws outstretched. Indescribable fury seized the warlord. All the frustration and impatience of the campaign boiled up inside him, spilling over in a paroxysm of savagery. Torglug swept his axe across the plunging bodies of the dryads, splitting trunks and severing limbs with each blow. He didn’t even feel the talons that slashed his flesh, despite the ragged wounds they left. What injury could compare to the plagues Nurgle had visited upon His favoured champion?

Torglug stalked across a litter of dead and dismembered dryads. He glared in disbelief as the fallen sylvaneth began to rise, sprouting new limbs to replace the ones he’d cut away, glowing with a new vibrancy that echoed the light of the queen-seed.

The queen-seed! The miraculous restoration must be Alarielle’s doing, an exertion of her divine powers. Torglug would have that power. He would make a present of it to Nurgle, use it to buy him the respite and relief that was his due.

Ignoring the claws of the revived dryads, Torglug strode towards the Lady of Vines.

‘You are standing between me and my destiny,’ he told her. ‘That is being bad place for standing,’ he added, raising his axe.

Even as Torglug moved to attack, burning pain flared through his bloated body. A wave of searing light spilled over him, throwing him across the ice. Smoke rose from his charred flesh and strips of melted armour dropped from him as he struggled to his feet. Through a haze of smouldering agony, he turned to face his assailant.

His foe was another lightning-man, this one clad in white armour with a radiant crest bolted to his helm. Wings of shimmering light spread from the warrior’s back and in his hand he held a lantern more terrible to the plaguelord’s eyes than the one he had cut from Lord-Castellant Grymn. Torglug’s adversary pointed a golden sword at the warlord.

‘Face me, monster,’ the white warrior said. ‘I am Knight-Azyros Diomar and I bring you this message – your time is over.’

The lightning-man’s beacon opened once more and from it another surge of searing light slammed into Torglug’s diseased bulk. The warlord was sent reeling, smoke rising from his scorched flesh. The stink of burst boils filled his lungs and his ears rang with the deafening echoes of the blast. Struggling once more to his feet, Torglug shook his horned head. He could see Diomar turn towards the Lady of Vines. Faintly, he could hear his words to her.

‘Flee, Lady – I will hold them.’

Torglug wondered at the lightning-man’s choice of words. Then his eyes strayed to the ice at his feet. He could see the vast, worm-like shape slithering just below the surface. He looked back towards Diomar and laughed.

‘I am thinking not for long,’ he hissed.

Grymn knew he was still alive by the pain that surged through his body. It felt as if liquid fire had been poured into his veins, searing and scorching every speck of his being. The memory of Torglug’s axe smashing his warding lantern and hacking through his hand flared across his vision. As he slowly opened his eyes, he expected to see the ghastly warlord standing over him, ready to finish the job with another swing of his blade.

What he saw instead was the angry sky above the Sea of Serpents. The storm had intensified, lightning and thunder joining the downpour of freezing rain and snow. Grymn gasped as he realised how familiar the storm was to him. No natural tempest, not even a magical snowburst conjured by the Lady of Vines – this was one of Sigmar’s storms, a manifestation of the God-King’s power. It was upon such storms that the Stormcasts descended to the realms to confront the slaves of Chaos.

The dismay of a moment before vanished. Grymn had felt at a loss when Torglug saw through his ploy and sent his vile warriors hunting after the queen-seed. His failure seemed complete when the enemy struck Tallon, cut off his hand and left him for dead on the ice. Now, however, he was filled with a new determination. Sigmar had not forgotten the Hallowed Knights. Contrary to the mocking suggestions of Torglug, the God-King hadn’t forsaken His faithful warriors. There was still hope. While there was life, the prospect of victory was never impossible.

He heard a whine and turned his head to see Tallon sitting beside him, guarding his body and his halberd. Grymn was heartened to see the gryph-hound had survived the fight, though the creature looked the worse for wear. He needed his weapon now, not to strike down his enemies but to help him back to his feet. Standing the halberd upright, he pulled himself along its haft, gradually lifting himself until he was off the ice. Every motion brought a surge of agony rushing through him. The ghastly wound in his side opened up again, blood dribbling out to spatter in the snow. Drawing a deep breath made his ribs ache and jostled the splintered bones piercing his flesh. Grymn realised that he would need to be judicious about how much he taxed his mangled body. Without the warding lantern, he couldn’t call upon its healing light to restore himself. He searched across the ice, finding the lamp lying on its side. It had been badly damaged by Torglug’s assault, but he could feel the faintest flicker of enchantment still smouldering within it. Carefully he lifted it off the ice and fastened it to his belt.

Reluctantly, Grymn looked to the ragged stump where his hand had been. Compounding the horror of his mutilation was the diseased crust that discoloured the wound. It was that filth which had prevented him from bleeding out, but he knew it was no mercy it offered him. He could almost see the corruption from Torglug’s axe gnawing away at him, polluting his body with its purulent influence. It was no mundane contagion that could inflict itself upon a Stormcast.

Sounds of battle made Grymn forget his own pain. Tearing his eyes away from the gory stump, he looked out across the frozen sea. He couldn’t see any of Torglug’s warriors, but just behind the swirling fog he caught the distinct flash of skybolt bows loosing arrows. It was from this direction the sounds of conflict rose. Whether the embattled warriors were Hallowed Knights or from another Stormhost, it was enough that they were enemies of Torglug. Steeling himself against the pain, Grymn limped towards the fighting, Tallon following faithfully after him.

When he emerged from the fog, Grymn found himself behind a chamber of Judicators and a wargrove of dryads. Hallowed Knights and sylvaneth had come against a tribe of marauders, striking at the barbarians from behind. He recognised the foul banners the enemy carried as belonging to the accursed Threespine tribe. The marauders had been caught in the valley between two frozen waves. Had they retreated or regrouped, they might have come around and surrounded their attackers. Instead, with the viciousness of their breed, the Threespines had simply turned about and charged into their tormentors.

The Judicators and their allies had adopted a simple but effective deployment. While the dryads barred the gap between the waves, the archers loosed volley after volley into the massed barbarians. The resultant slaughter was considerable, the shafts of lightning falling with such frequency that pits had opened in the ice to drop luckless marauders to a watery grave.

A fierce cheer rose from the Judicators when they spotted Lord-Castellant Grymn emerge from the fog. ‘Only the faithful!’ they shouted. Despite the pain it caused him, Grymn returned their cry.

The shouts had a profound effect upon the Threespines. Thinking their adversaries had received substantial reinforcements, the barbarian attack faltered and then broke. The marauders turned to retreat back the way they had come. Grymn was surprised when the dryads didn’t pursue them, even more surprised when the Judicators sent no arrows against the reeling enemy.

It was then that he spotted a lone figure standing upon the crest of one of the waves. Garbed in silver armour, the apparition raised his hammer skywards. In response, a crackling storm of lightning came smashing down. The ice towards which the Threespines fled was shattered. Fissures snaked away, opening beneath the very feet of the marauders. Howling in shock and terror, the barbaric warriors were sucked down into the icy water. In the space of only heartbeats, the entire tribe was obliterated.

‘Morbus,’ Grymn laughed. He had thought the Lord-Relictor destroyed along with Angstun and the Decimators. It was a relief beyond measure to find his friend still alive.

By the time Grymn reached the Judicators, Morbus had climbed down from the icy summit. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was scorched and blackened, and half of his skull-helm was melted away, looking as if it had been torn apart by monstrous claws. Grymn shuddered to think what Morbus’ wounds must have looked like before he turned his healing powers upon himself.

From the expression he saw on the exposed half of Morbus’ face, Grymn imagined it would have been similar to the injuries he’d been dealt. The Lord-Relictor studied him closely, shaking his head when he came to examine the infected stump.

‘My power can mend the gash in your side,’ Morbus told him. ‘I may even be able to mend your lantern, but cleansing your hand – or where your hand should be – is another thing.’

Grymn glanced away, looking over the Judicators. He could see the hope in their eyes, the hope that he knew his presence as their commander inspired. He was surprised to find even the dryads displaying an interest in him, something perhaps more profound than simple curiosity. After all they had endured upon the ice, maybe even the sylvaneth had come to depend upon him.

‘Can you mend me enough so I can fight?’ Grymn asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Morbus nodded. ‘The stump will torment you,’ he warned. ‘If you can ignore the pain, you might hold your own.’ He stared hard into Grymn’s eyes. ‘But I wouldn’t advise it. We’ve lost too many already. If they see you fall…’

‘And if they see me fight it will inspire them,’ Grymn objected. Things were dire enough already without Morbus’ bleak perspective to further darken them. ‘They need that more than anything right now.’

‘I’ve said my piece.’ Morbus shrugged. He pointed to the sky above. ‘You saw the thunderstrike. Great Sigmar has dispatched reinforcements to aid us. I saw some of them from a distance, Prosecutors soaring above the ice. They bore the colours of the Knights Excelsior.’

Grymn digested this information. He must have been insensible during the thunderstrike, but to know their reinforcements were from the Knights Excelsior gave him comfort. They were a fierce and determined Stormhost, a formidable ally and a daunting enemy.

‘I didn’t see how many descended in the storm,’ Morbus said. ‘The numbers of Chaos warriors I’ve seen prowling the ice makes me think there can’t be many. Not enough to simply brush aside Torglug’s legion.’

Looking again at the angry sky, Grymn felt the bite of the Lord-Relictor’s words.

‘Then it is still up to us to protect the Everqueen,’ he said. ‘Minister to me as best you can, old friend, for we must find the Lady of Vines and keep her from Torglug’s grasp.’

Morbus gave Grymn another severe look. ‘Which concerns you more? Protecting the queen-seed or getting a chance to cross blades with that scum again?’

‘Sigmar willing, both are in my future,’ Grymn told him.

The enormous sea worm burst through the ice pack, sending great chunks flying in every direction. An undulating wail rippled from its heaving bulk as it angrily lashed about trying to find prey. Nearly blind, all but mindless, the monstrous thing posed as much of a threat to the servants of Nurgle as it did to Diomar.

Clutches of Torglug’s minions came stalking out of the fog while he battled the lightning-man. Blightlord Goregus Festermaw had rallied some of the putrid blightkings. The diseased warriors rushed out of the fog like crazed beasts, charging towards the winged Stormcast. The abruptness of the assault made Diomar climb into the air and turn his beacon against the blightkings. Torglug forced his battered body into action, seizing upon his foe’s distraction to close the distance between them.

Before he could reach Diomar, the sea worm struck. Torglug had seen it swimming beneath the ice for some minutes, but the monstrosity had kept its distance. Perhaps even its brute instinct was intimidated by the lightning-man’s beacon. Whatever the cause, the howls of battle as the putrid blightkings rushed towards Diomar had lured the leviathan up from the deeps.

Ice split and fractured as the wormy titan snapped its ghoulish jaws in search of prey. Blightkings were pitched into the watery depths as the surface shattered under their feet.

Torglug fought his way across the splintering ice, hurdling the pits that the worm’s ferocity opened, sprinting across crumbling ledges before they could finish disintegrating. The warlord heard the worm slip back beneath the water. What eerie senses guided the obscenity, he could not say, but somehow the blind beast felt his presence on the ice. He saw its grisly shadow start towards him from below. Torglug raised his voice in a defiant shout, hurling insults up at the hovering Diomar. ‘Are God-King’s dogs being afraid to be crossing blades with Torglug?’

‘Worms of Nurgle aren’t fought,’ Diomar declared. ‘They’re purged.’ Swooping downwards, he turned the beam of his beacon upon the bloated plaguelord.

Torglug’s body was wracked by agony as his flesh cooked under the searing light. Every nerve in his body spasmed at once. Only a caprice of chance kept his fingers locked about the haft of his axe, only the abnormal vitality Nurgle had gifted him kept his heart from bursting or his lungs from collapsing. His mouth tightened in a rictus grin, his teeth severing the tip of his tongue as they bit down.

Diomar dived towards the smouldering warlord. He raised his glistening starblade, its ancient symbols glowing with power.

‘Too long has this realm suffered your presence,’ he snarled.

Through the searing pain that ravaged him, Torglug managed to laugh. He could see his enemy coming towards him, but he wondered if Diomar noticed the shadow writhing under the ice.

‘Glory I am finding here, dog of Sigmar,’ Torglug spat, blood dripping from the mask of his helm. ‘But you are finding only death.’

The warlord brought his blackened axe swinging upwards, blocking Diomar’s blade and pushing the winged warrior back. At the same time, the sea worm erupted from below, rising in a leprous column of quivering flesh and snapping jaws. The creature’s maw chomped at the lightning-man, narrowly missing him as he plunged back towards the ice. He crashed hard against the pack, the fragile surface cracking beneath his weight. Cautiously he regained his feet, starblade gripped in one mailed fist, the beacon clenched in his other. Torglug could feel the righteous outrage of his enemy as Diomar turned towards him.

‘You will pay for that, monster,’ Diomar snarled.

‘Be having dinner with worm of Nurgle,’ Torglug sneered as he tossed a chunk of ice thrown up by the sea monster towards Diomar. It landed on the already cracked surface, sending a spider-web of fresh splits snaking away in every direction. Pops and groans rose from the impact, presaging the collapse to come.

Before the surface broke beneath his feet, Diomar was in motion. The lightning-man leapt forwards as the ice gave way completely, flinging himself at Torglug.

Plaguelord and Knight-Azyros collided, their armoured bodies rolling across the ice. More cracks and creaks accompanied their struggling figures, the weakened surface unable to support both their weight and their violence. At last it split under them, dropping both into the frigid water. Torglug lunged for one side of the pit, his axe hooking the edge before his armour could drag him down. Diomar floundered on the other side of the pool, forced to let his beacon sink into the depths while he pulled himself back onto the ice.

The two adversaries glared at one another from opposite sides of the pool. Diomar glanced at the weakening storm and at the shore behind him. Torglug understood his enemy’s mind. Somewhere, beyond the ice, the Lady of Vines was even now hurrying away from her hunters.

‘She is not escaping,’ Torglug sneered. ‘Jade Kingdoms are belonging to Nurgle. All Ghyran is being his domain! I am finding her. I am claiming my destiny.’

Diomar glared back at the warlord. ‘Only when you get past me.’

‘As you are saying,’ Torglug laughed. The warlord circled around the pool at a run, ice creaking and cracking beneath his every step. Across from him, Diomar did the same. The two enemies reached one another in moments, starblade pitted against the diseased corruption of Torglug’s blighted axe. Slivers of corroded steel flew from the black axe as Diomar blocked his enemy’s assault. Streaks of filth marred the purity of the lightning-man’s blade as the noxious enchantments of Nurgle sizzled against it.

At last the furious struggle came to an end. The smallest spot of rot gained a hold upon Diomar’s starblade, the slightest pollution in its sanctity. This flaw gave way beneath Torglug’s axe. The blackened blade slipped through his guard to chop down into the crest of his helm and then into the sigmarite mask itself. Diomar’s free hand caught at Torglug’s wrist, striving to push the warlord back. Against the bloated bulk and tremendous strength of Nurgle’s favoured champion, he was unable to prevail. Inch by inch the axe sank lower, hewing through the metal and into the flesh and bone beneath it. Diomar could feel the fiery sting of the axe’s plague-infested edge racing through him.

‘She is not escaping,’ Torglug promised as he pushed the axe deeper and watched the light start to fade from Diomar’s eyes. ‘I am claiming prize that the Grandfather is demanding. Be letting that truth speeding you back to Sigmar.’

Torglug pulled away as Diomar’s dying body blazed into light and the Stormcast’s spirit departed the Sea of Serpents. He shielded his eyes against the holy flare, finding its momentary brilliance even more painful than Grymn’s warding lantern. Yet he took comfort from this hurt, for with Diomar’s destruction there was nothing to keep him from running down the Lady of Vines.

The rotworm nestled inside him began to twist and writhe, undulating with such a frenzied spasm that Torglug fell to his knees in pain. The torment wracking his body was unspeakable, yet at the same time there was a strange sense of comfort bound within that agony. This wasn’t a punishment being meted out to him by Nurgle, but rather the Plague God’s expression of delight and appreciation that his favourite had vanquished the mighty Knight-Azyros Diomar. The torture that crawled through Torglug wasn’t a curse, but a blessing.

From the slits in his helm, Torglug’s three eyes watched as the many boils and pustules scattered about his skin began to slither across his flesh, oozing down his limbs or across his swollen belly to clump together in triangular clusters that echoed the shape of the despicable fly-rune which was Nurgle’s sacred sigil. The pain was incredible, the horror of watching his skin ripple with sores. Yet as each of the clusters of boils gathered together, a thrill surged through Torglug’s entire being. He could feel Nurgle’s malign essence pouring into him, strengthening him, infecting him with still fouler corruption and disease.

When it was finished, Torglug could see wisps of necrotic smoke drifting away from his mutated flesh. The rotworm in his belly grew still once more, no longer feeding Nurgle’s power into its host. He had received his god’s blessing, had been rewarded for the destruction of Diomar. It was but a taste, a sampling, of the even greater gifts that would be his once he captured Alarielle for his master.

Filled with the pestilent power of the Plaguefather, Torglug was re-energised. He looked towards the shore, trying to pierce the veil of mist that clung about the beach. Dimly he could perceive the radiant glow of the queen-seed ahead. Raising his voice, Torglug shouted for Goregus and the rest of his bodyguard. The Lady of Vines was close, and only her entourage of dryads remained to defy them.

As he called out to his putrid blightkings, demanding them to brave the crumbling ice and head for shore, Torglug heard the keening song of his prey. Again he felt the commanding tones of her harmony, the appeal in her wordless melody. Somewhere, far across the sea, he knew the jotunberg was stirring once more.

Torglug hastened towards the shore, but he was too late. The giant’s agitation sent tremors across the frozen sea. The surface crumbled away, pitching his followers into the deep. Torglug clutched at a sliver of broken pack ice as the world around him descended into catastrophic upheaval.

In the very moment of his triumph, Torglug could only watch helplessly as all his plans fell into abject ruin.

Chapter nine

For Lorrus Grymn and his companions – Stormcasts and sylvaneth alike – the trek across the frozen sea was a seemingly endless gauntlet of skirmishes and battles. With the fog and snow to conceal them, the first they were aware of enemies was when they were almost upon them. Warherds of beastmen, tribes of marauders and packs of diseased daemons infested the ice, prowling among the frozen waves in search of their prey. One after another, Grymn’s warriors struck out against the scattered warbands of Torglug’s legion, cutting down many of them and routing the survivors.

Not all they encountered were foes, however. Several times Grymn discovered clutches of sylvaneth or retinues of Hallowed Knights. Some had been separated from the entourage that attended the Lady of Vines, others were survivors from the battle at the bridges. Grymn was especially pleased when Prosecutor-Prime Tegrus and two of his winged warriors dipped down out of the storm-wracked sky to join his disparate company. He had thought all of the Prosecutors slain in their aerial battle with the plague drones. It cheered him to find that Tegrus had endured.

A greater discovery lay ahead, however. As he led his followers across the ice, he heard a friendly horn-blast. It was the trumpet of a Knight-Heraldor, a call to arms for all Stormcasts. Grymn led his small army through the dips and valleys of the frozen waves, urging them towards the sound. As the sound grew louder, other noises rang out above the moaning winter wind – the crash of blades and the roar of battle. Rushing onwards, Grymn finally saw figures moving within the fog. A few yards more and they changed from misty shadows to shapes of flesh and metal. Some were the grotesque minions of Torglug, a horde of half-naked tribesmen with a few of the hideous Chosen mixed among them.

It was the foes these disciples of disease fought that gave Grymn new hope. They were Stormcasts, but not of the Hallowed Knights. The armour they wore was white, blue and gold; the symbols they displayed on their shields were those of sun and moon. These were warriors from the Knights Excelsior. As Morbus had postulated, another Stormhost, or at least elements from one, had descended upon the Sea of Serpents to aid them in defending the Lady of Vines and protecting the queen-seed of Alarielle.

There were scores of Stormcasts, a mixed body of Liberators, Judicators and paladins, struggling to turn back hundreds of Torglug’s warriors. In their midst, resplendent in his elaborate armour, stood a winged Knight-Venator, a deadly realmhunter’s bow clenched in his mailed fists, a shrieking star-eagle sweeping out to rake its master’s enemies with vicious talons. At the Knight-Venator’s signal, the Knight-Heraldor raised the horn to his mask and blew again the rallying call, inflaming the hearts of his comrades as they strove to turn back the pestilent tide of Chaos which crashed against them.

The Knights Excelsior were more than equal to overwhelming their enemy – given time. Foot by foot, yard by yard, they were trying to fight their way clear. Like the Hallowed Knights before them, they’d been dispatched to Ghyran with a purpose far greater than simply slaughtering the slaves of Nurgle. They were trying to guard Alarielle, but to do so they had to break free of Torglug’s barbarians.

Reflexively, Grymn started to raise the stump of his hand, to signal his warriors with the warding lantern he’d carried into battle so many times before. Instead, he turned and shouted to his followers, ordering them to the attack. Falling upon the marauders and Chaos warriors from the rear, they would either drive them full into the shield wall of the Knights Excelsior or else throw them into complete panic. The mortals who marched under Torglug’s banner were both determined and depraved, but they didn’t adapt well to surprises on the battlefield. Without a firm hand to throw them back into the fray, once they scattered it would take them a long time to regroup.

‘Only the faithful!’ Grymn cried out, signalling his warriors to charge. The sylvaneth joined in the assault, a wargrove of tree-creatures slamming into the marauders with the fury of an avalanche and hurling the wreckage of broken barbarians far into their own ranks. Grymn’s Liberators struck next, slashing and bludgeoning dozens of marauders before they were even aware the silver warriors were there. When a fly-headed champion tried to rally his tribesmen and mount some sort of reprisal, the Hallowed Knights locked their shields and presented an unbroken wall of sigmarite to the pestilent throng. An arrow from the Knight-Venator struck down the mutant leader, searing through his body and leaving him a smouldering husk on the ice. The shrieking star-eagle dived down with raking claws to tear at the faces of the diseased marauders. As the barbarians tried to batter and slash their way through, the Liberators struck them down with overhand smashes of their hammers and stabbing thrusts of their swords.

Judicators joined in the assault, protecting the flanks of Grymn’s attackers with deadly volleys of arrows. Confusion and panic reigned among Torglug’s warriors as they found themselves being inexorably squeezed between the Knights Excelsior on one side and Grymn’s mixed force of Hallowed Knights and sylvaneth on the other. The pressure was finally too much for the disciples of disease, their putrid courage failing. As the barbarians broke, the sylvaneth fell upon them with vengeful ire, tearing into them with their wooden claws and spear-like branches.

The Stormcasts kept back, allowing their inhuman allies to slake their need for retribution. Across the heaps of enemy dead, the Hallowed Knights greeted their fellows of the Knights Excelsior. Their commander, the Knight-Venator, bowed his head in salute as he approached Grymn.

‘Well met, Lord-Castellant,’ the Knight-Venator said. ‘We were sent to the Jade Kingdoms to render aid to your Stormhost, but it seems that you have helped us instead.’

Grymn returned the Knight-Venator’s salute. ‘It is the fortune of battle that few plans unfold as they are designed. But your intervention is timely. The fighting has drawn us far from the one whose protection is our duty. It is imperative that we find her before the enemy. If your Knights Excelsior would help us in that purpose, Knight-Venator....’

‘Giomachus,’ the Knight-Venator said, providing his name. ‘I am acting commander, Lord-Castellant. Our leader, Knight-Azyros Diomar has gone to detain Torglug’s vanguard. My assignment was to prevent reinforcements from reaching the warlord.’

Moving to Grymn’s side, Lord-Relictor Morbus shook his head, a scowl twisting the exposed part of his face. ‘Diomar should have brought his full strength against Torglug. It is dangerous to underestimate that diseased scum.’ He waved his hammer, indicating the battered condition of the Hallowed Knights, the many wounds they had already suffered. Giomachus took a step back when he noted the grisly condition of Grymn’s disfigurement.

‘We should hasten to my lord’s side then,’ Giomachus declared, his star-eagle shrieking in sympathy with its master’s agitation.

Tallon reflected the bird’s agitation, whining in turn. ‘None here has greater desire to see Torglug brought down than I,’ Grymn said, calming the gryph-hound. ‘But such isn’t our duty here. We are charged to defend the Radiant Queen, and right now that means protecting the one who carries Alarielle’s soulpod, the Lady of Vines.’

‘You would leave my lord Diomar to fight alone?’ Giomachus asked, a steely edge to his voice. The other Knights Excelsior drew back from the Hallowed Knights, their meeting suddenly chilled by the agitation of their commander.

‘It isn’t a choice,’ Morbus told him. ‘It is our duty. We must find the Lady of Vines. If we lose her and what she carries, then it will count for nothing if we kill a hundred Torglugs. The victory will belong to Chaos.’

Grymn came close to Giomachus, every step sending pain rushing through his body. ‘I know exactly what this burden is to you. We were forced to leave our own Lord-Celestant, Gardus. What we fight for is greater than any of us. The God-King has charged us with preserving the Radiant Queen. While Alarielle lives, there is hope that Ghyran can be reclaimed. If she falls, then the blight of Nurgle will never be expunged from this realm.’

The Knight-Venator shook his head. ‘However wise the words, it doesn’t change the shame of leaving a comrade behind.’

‘Nor should it,’ Morbus told him. ‘Let that feeling drive you on. Let it sustain you when you would falter. Let it goad you to the supreme effort. Prove yourself loyal to Sigmar, no matter how onerous the burden.’ As he said the last, Morbus looked across the white-armoured warriors. He could see that his words made an impact upon them. ‘Fight to win the war, not simply the battle.’

A tremor suddenly rumbled through the ice, cracking the pack and causing fissures to ripple across the surface. Spouts of frigid water lashed upwards as the violent sea erupted through gashes and crevices. Stormcasts were thrown down by the quake, clawing at the ice as huge slabs split and rose. Knights Excelsior and Hallowed Knights rushed to one another’s aid as the terrain tore itself apart.

Beneath the groaning, popping clamour of the breaking ice, Grymn could hear the keening song of the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith was near, or at least near enough for her melody to reach them. That fact, however, brought him little solace. She was rousing the jotunberg once more, goading the winter giant into catastrophic agitation. He was certain only grave duress could have driven her to such action. Perhaps Torglug had already vanquished Diomar and was closing upon his prey. It wasn’t her willingness to sacrifice all the Stormcasts and sylvaneth still upon the Sea of Serpents that unsettled him. He knew such an act, callous as it might seem, might be necessary to preserve the queen-seed. No, it was the drain upon the fading energies of Alarielle that such action would demand that concerned him. He had heard from Morbus the toll it had taken for the Lady of Vines to rouse the jotunberg before.

Morbus, as though reading Grymn’s mind, caught hold of the Lord-Castellant.

‘The song is different,’ he told him. ‘I can sense the soothing enchantments woven into the harmony. She isn’t trying to rouse the jotunberg, she’s trying to put it back to sleep.’

Grymn shook his head. ‘Why would she do that?’

Tegrus had an answer. ‘We must be near the other shore by now.’ He pointed towards the fog on the horizon, indicating its relative thinness. Dimly, the Stormcast could see shadowy shapes behind the misty veil – the outlines of massive statues. ‘She is trying to give us time to get across the ice.’

‘Her duty is to protect her queen,’ Grymn almost growled.

‘Maybe that is what she’s doing,’ Morbus observed. ‘Maybe she needs us to help her do just that.’

Grymn swung about, stabbing the butt of his halberd into the shivering ice to steady himself. ‘Tegrus, I must call upon you to take wing once more. Into the storm. Try to seek out the Lady of Vines.’

Grymn could feel the tremors running through the ice growing worse. Right or wrong, they couldn’t stay where they were. He had no choice – they would strike out for what they hoped was the shore while Tegrus went aloft to locate the branchwraith.

Sigmar willing, they would all find what they sought.

The Lady of Vines stood amidst the ancient menhirs. The great standing stones had been raised long ago, before even the Jade Kingdoms were realised. The earliest inhabitants of Ghyran, the first to rise from the soulpods grown by the Radiant Queen, had raised these megaliths. The massive pillars acted as a capstone, a fulcrum for the magical vibrations flowing through the realm. With the right rituals and the proper alignment of stars, the menhirs would harness those arcane energies and allow them to be tapped by those wise and powerful enough to wield them.

The branchwraith’s distress didn’t allow her the time for lengthy rituals or propitious celestial alignments. Her need was immediate, and therefore she was forced to desperate measures. Using a small portion of the force within the queen-seed, the Lady of Vines began to syphon the residual energies that had seeped into the stones themselves. The ancient megaliths cracked and fractured as she drew the magic out of them, great slices of stone sloughing away as the rock began to crumble.

From the branchwraith’s entourage of dryads, a harmony somewhere between moan and song rose into the air. The tree-creatures clasped their wooden hands together, forming a ring around the Lady of Vines. Wisps of light streamed from their trunks and branches, weaving themselves around the branchwraith and forming an ethereal skein about her.

The magic the Lady of Vines conjured now was of a more reserved and restrained sort than the mighty enchantment that had roused the jotunberg. There was no necessity for sacrifice, no need to drain the essence of her followers. It was enough for them to surrender themselves to the radiance of the queen-seed, to lose themselves for a moment in the sacred vibrations of the Everqueen.

Bit by bit, a change began to occur within the circle of menhirs, a shifting of the air that wasn’t unlike the distorted shimmer of a heat haze. Through that phantom veil, the shades of a distant landscape began to take shape. Instead of the grey moorland over which the menhirs loomed, it seemed the boughs of some great woodland were becoming visible.

With shocking abruptness, the Lady of Vines silenced her song and let the energies she’d tapped into flow back into both menhir and dryad. The phantom landscape winked out, evaporating back into nothingness. The radiant glow of the queen-seed flickered, but quickly began to burn with a greater light. The branchwraith cradled the soulpod in her clawed hand as she turned from the standing stones and gazed back down towards the shore.

There, making their way through the piled tumuli of tribal kings and the windswept statues of a forgotten race, a file of shapes was making its way towards the stone circle. A gladness flared within the branchwraith’s being when she saw some of the sylvaneth from Athelwyrd marching towards her. She’d thought them lost on the ice, condemned to destruction by the jotunberg’s tremulous anguish. To see them again eased the burden of guilt she bore for commanding them to stay behind while she fled with the queen-seed. Her cheer soured when she saw how few were left. Many had fallen to the blades of Torglug and his warriors, many had been thrown into the sea by the dying jotunberg.

Others marched with the sylvaneth – the silver Hallowed Knights and other Stormcast Eternals wearing the white armour that Knight-Azyros Diomar had worn. The Lady of Vines was surprised by the sense of relief she felt when she saw Lord-Castellant Grymn leading them. She was even more surprised by the concern she felt for his condition. Grymn’s armour was rent in several places, scarred and dented by vicious blows. His battered warding lantern hung at his side and even his gryph-hound was limping. More, she saw the grisly stump where his hand should be. Her arcane senses told her of the ghastly putrescence that afflicted the wound, filth of such malignity that even the Stormcast’s vitality was being sickened by it.

In all the ages of her existence, the Lady of Vines had never felt sympathy for anything human. She considered the quick-bloods to be too rash and impetuous, too individualistic to ever be trusted. They were too brief, their lives vanishing with such rapidity that they soon faded from memory. The Stormcast Eternals were a different breed, she understood that well enough. Perhaps they truly did enjoy an existence as lengthy as that of the sylvaneth. Perhaps they could focus upon needs and goals that took centuries to achieve. Yet, for all of that, they had seemed to her as kindred to the tribesmen of the Jade Kingdoms.

Now, as she looked upon Grymn, as each step nearer the circle made his injuries and suffering clearer to her, the Lady of Vines repented her earlier disdain. The Hallowed Knights had suffered and sacrificed much to protect Alarielle; they had fought harder even than the sylvaneth to defy the Treecutter. Their ordeal was nowhere more manifest than in the battered shape of their commander.

The Lady of Vines stepped away from the ring of dryads, motioning to them to remain where they were. With rapid steps, she climbed down to the tumuli of the old kings and met the advancing survivors.

‘Fortune favours you,’ the branchwraith greeted Grymn. ‘I had just begun the rite that opens the gate to the Path of the Purified. Had your arrival been much later, you could not have crossed the doorway.’

Lorrus Grymn looked up at her, his gaze grave. ‘My lady, if there was the least chance of slipping away, you should have taken it.’ He groaned and leaned against his halberd, trying to suppress the cough that shuddered through him. ‘Our lives don’t matter. The only thing that does is keeping the queen-seed safe.’

‘The Treecutter has been left behind us on the ice,’ the branchwraith declared. She pointed at the winged Stormcast in white armour who marched in Grymn’s party. ‘Your Diomar met the plaguelord in battle and gave me the chance to escape.’ Her tone dipped with reverence. ‘I don’t think he prevailed, but he did keep the enemy from pressing his pursuit. With the jotunberg’s throes splitting the ice, the plaguehosts will need another way to cross. For the moment, we are beyond their reach.’

‘All the more reason why you cannot delay,’ Grymn said. ‘Torglug cannot have the queen-seed.’

‘He will not touch my queen,’ the branchwraith hissed, her branches shifting angrily. ‘But keeping her beyond his reach is a duty I share with Sigmar’s chosen.’ She pointed up at the circle of menhirs. At her gesture, the sylvaneth began climbing towards the stones to join the ring of dryads already there. ‘Your warriors must join my people,’ she told Grymn. ‘All of you must stand within the circle, that I may bring you to the Path of the Purified.’ She hesitated, then pointed to Grymn. ‘And you must stand with me at the centre of the ritual.’

Bidding Tallon stay behind, Grymn let the Lady of Vines lead him up to the stone circle, allowing her to help him when his step faltered and he had to use his halberd as a crutch. She kept looking at the stump of his hand, at the crust of filth that was sending streams of plague into his veins. She tried to hurry him, recognising the bite of Torglug’s axe and remembering much too well how swiftly its foulness had brought low even the oldest forest spirits. It was astounding to her that Grymn had endured this long.

Drawing Grymn into the middle of the ring of dryads, the Lady of Vines took his hand in hers. She saw the look of awe and shock that filled his eyes when he felt the warmth of the queen-seed pressed into his palm.

‘You have given much to defend our queen,’ the branchwraith told him. ‘Now let her give something back.’

She had no more words for Grymn. Again the enchanting song rose from her, drawing out the energies of the menhirs and the sylvaneth. The skein of power surrounded her, spilling down into the queen-seed, reaching out through the ley lines to once again summon a phantom landscape, to create a gateway between distant places.

The branchwraith only partially observed the opening of the way. Another part of her watched the effect of the Everqueen’s power upon the warrior who now held her soulpod. Her arcane sight could see streams of emerald fire racing through his body, burning away the black rot of Nurgle. Grymn was being purged of the contagion, scoured of it in both flesh and soul.

Then the Lady of Vines saw something even she hadn’t anticipated. The healing power of Alarielle was doing more than simply burning away the infection. A green stalk spread from the mangled stump of Grymn’s wrist, thickening and expanding until it became an entirely new hand. Even the battered warding lantern hanging from Grymn’s belt was shining once more, its lingering enchantment restored and revitalised by the Radiant Queen.

As the ritual continued to gather force, Grymn’s entire being was bathed in the glow of the goddess. The Lady of Vines became anxious, wondering how much of the divine power he could withstand. Carefully she retrieved the queen-seed from his hand. Just as carefully she raised a gnarled finger and pointed to the shimmering forest beyond the stone circle. The sylvaneth began drawing away from the ring, filing out into the phantasmal forest.

Grymn hesitated, but a gesture from the Lady of Vines had him shouting orders to the Stormcasts and the warriors followed after the sylvaneth. As her followers and the Stormcasts withdrew, the gateway began to close. The branchwraith braced herself for one last effort. Drawing only upon her own power and that of the queen-seed, she forced the slightest crack to remain open. With a bounding leap, she threw herself through the magical slit, hurling herself from the stone circle to the forest beyond.

The sylvaneth waited for their mistress, standing sombre and stolid among the slender trees of the woods. The Stormcasts were gathered around Grymn, marvelling at his regrown hand. He turned from them when he saw the Lady of Vines appear.

‘You have worked a mighty magic,’ he said, flexing the fingers of his new hand and gesturing at the forest around them.

The branchwraith reached to her breast and replaced the queen-seed in its hollow. ‘We will need mightier magic still,’ she said. ‘We must set upon the Path of the Purified and cleanse ourselves of any trace of Nurgle’s taint.

‘Where we would go, we must bring nothing of the enemy with us.’

The ice cracked and spluttered all around them as Torglug led the last of his putrid blightkings towards the shore. Only seven of them had braved the cataclysmic upheaval of the sea to reach him. The warlord was dismayed that so few of his minions had proven themselves so devoted, but he took solace in the auspicious aspect of their number. Seven, after all, was the sacred number of Nurgle. For seven of his bodyguard to endure was an omen, a sign that the Grandfather was guiding his favoured vassal.

Small groups of battered, bloodied figures emerged from the fog, drawn towards the noxious presence of Torglug like iron filings to a lodestone, called to him by the noxious blessing Nurgle had bestowed upon him, the diseased mark of the Plague God’s touch. Remnants of marauder tribes and beastman warherds, lone Chaos knights and mutants, clutches of armoured warriors and clumps of squirming nurglings, the survivors of the plaguehosts returned to their warlord. To the very last they had fought against their enemy, but in the end the elemental fury of the jotunberg was too much to endure. Now they were falling back to the deathbloom fields where at least the giant’s wintry hold wasn’t so fierce.

The decimation of his legion didn’t disturb Torglug. He would have expended all their lives to secure for Nurgle the queen-seed of Alarielle. That they had died by the hundreds without accomplishing the task he’d set them was what worried the warlord. It would take time to enslave and recruit the warriors to rebuild his army – time that would allow the Lady of Vines to slip away and carry the faltering essence of the Everqueen beyond his reach. He couldn’t allow his enemy such respite. He had to resume the hunt, maintain the pressure and drive his enemies to destruction.

Out from the snow, the ghoulish shapes of Slaugoth Maggotfang and the remains of his plague coven emerged. The sorcerer leaned heavily upon his staff and even the eldritch glow in his eyes seemed faded. Torglug didn’t know what magic Slaugoth had worked to aid his legion or what spells had exacted such a toll from the man. All he knew was that however great the sorcerer’s exertions, they hadn’t been enough to bring him victory.

‘You are daring to come creeping back to me?’ Torglug snarled at Slaugoth. He raised his axe, pointing the blackened blade at the sorcerer. ‘Your vaunted magic is failing me, spell-spitter! You are letting Radiant Queen be slipping through my fingers!’

Slaugoth drew back, his hands grasping at talismans blackened by Morbus’ lightning. Better than any of the plague warriors, he could sense the might of the blessing Nurgle had bestowed upon Torglug. Fear fought with anger for mastery of his features as he spoke. ‘The Grandfather offered you the glory of securing His prize. The Grandfather gave you this chance to show your devotion to Him. The victory would have been yours, so don’t presume you can escape the blame for failure. You have come far, but the higher you rise the further you can fall.’

A roar of inarticulate rage bubbled up from Torglug’s bloated bulk. The warlord lunged at Slaugoth, seizing the weakened sorcerer in his fist and lifting his obese frame off the ground. Blightlord Goregus and the other putrid blightkings converged upon the plague coven, cutting two of them down in a heartbeat. The adepts retaliated with a skein of spells that reduced one of the bodyguards to a smouldering heap of mush and left the rest reeling.

Torglug drew Slaugoth towards him, holding the sorcerer so close that the warlord’s horn stabbed into his cheek and drew a trickle of brown sludge from his pierced flesh. ‘You are being useful in past. What are you doing for me lately? What are you doing for me now?’

A cruel smile flashed across Slaugoth’s face, exposing the masses of worms wriggling between his teeth. ‘I can keep the rats from gnawing your miserable bones.’ Drained as he was, Slaugoth exhaled a blast of noxious wind, sending the sorcerous gale smashing into the fog. The veil of mist and snow rolled back, revealing the shingle of the shore. Hundreds of bodies were strewn across the beach, cast there by the turbulent currents that raged beneath the ice and through the great rifts created by the jotunberg’s spasms – the dead of Torglug’s legion, both beast and man, spat up by the Sea of Serpents as though the very waters were disgusted by them.

Others were far less discriminating. Swarming over the dead, tearing weapons from cold fingers, stripping armour from icy flesh, cutting hunks of meat from bloated bodies, was an army more loathsome than even that which Torglug had led. A mass of humanoid rats had descended upon the wreckage of the plaguehosts, scavenging off the carrion. The warlord recognised the horns and white pelt of the vermin who led the swarm of skaven. It was the same plague priest he had beaten down in the tunnels. Poxmonger Kriknitt had rallied its routed minions and driven them in pursuit of Torglug. The vermin had intended to simply plunder the leavings of his army, but finding the legion so weakened he knew it wouldn’t be long before they exacted a far more vicious retaliation for the invasion of their tunnels.

‘Kill me and they will pick their fangs with your bones,’ Slaugoth said.

Torglug threw the sorcerer down. ‘Same fate is being hanging over your head,’ he snarled. ‘Whatever magic you are having left, it better be good.’

Across the ice, Torglug saw the skaven pointing at the plague warriors, squealing in their shrill voices. The white-furred Poxmonger Kriknitt leapt atop the shoulders of a massive ratman and began shrieking commands to the scavengers, who dropped their loot, glancing around in uncertainty. The increasingly vicious harangue from their priest made them draw weapons and form a rough battle line along the shore. Torglug sneered at their cringing display of bravado. It was seeing how few his warriors now numbered that was giving the vermin courage. Driven by the prospect of more plunder and the promise of an easy victory, the skaven rushed out onto the ice. A squealing, squeaking tide of gnashing fangs and rusted blades charged towards the decimated legion.

Torglug’s fist tightened about the haft of his axe. He could see Kriknitt goading a pack of frenzied plague monks straight towards him. Like its minions, the skaven priest was eager to slake its vengeance. ‘If you are doing something, be doing it,’ the warlord snarled at Slaugoth.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Slaugoth chortled, eyes agleam with ghoulish mirth. ‘My spells have hidden the blessing the Grandfather has bestowed upon you. Too late will they discover what you’ve become.’ He pointed at the white-furred plague priest. ‘You will need to take that one… alive.’

Torglug nodded. Some of the skaven were now reaching the survivors, hurling themselves at the warriors with rabid ferocity. More and more of the vermin were rushing onto the ice, lured by the smell of blood and the din of combat. Thrusting their way through the swarm were Kriknitt and its rabid retinue. Torglug noted that the filth kept well behind its troops, content to let others finish the warlord for it.

The sight and smell of Torglug caused the skaven to falter. Closer now to the plaguelord, they could sense the terrible power that squirmed within his flesh, the awful might of the Plague God. A censer bearer, more frenzied than the rest of its ilk, scurried towards the warlord, poisons billowing from the weapon it bore. Torglug waded through the noxious cloud, withstanding fumes that would corrode iron and melt flesh. His axe came chopping down, tearing through the ratman and splitting it from crown to groin. The bisected halves of the skaven flopped onto the ice. Torglug laughed as he trampled the corpse underfoot and charged towards Kriknitt’s plague monks.

A squeal of horror rose from the skaven as their glands spurted the pungent musk of fear. The easy prey they had hoped to overwhelm now looked far less appealing to them. Kriknitt raised its voice in a panicked screech, torn between the urge to run and the fear that it would be trampled by its own bodyguard should it turn its back to them. Torglug eased the plague priest’s dilemma. Calling to his putrid blightkings, he drove into the mob of skaven, his black axe shearing through them in a riot of gory havoc. The ice steamed with the rank black blood of slaughtered ratmen, verminous carcasses strewn in his wake. Each step, each cut, brought him closer to his enemy.

The plague monks broke before the malign fury of Nurgle’s champion. Shrieking in terror, the robed ratkin fled back towards the shore, but there was to be no escape for Kriknitt. Cutting down the last robed vermin between them, Torglug rushed the priest. Cornered by its enemy, Kriknitt lunged at him with its sword, faking a slash at the champion’s neck before treacherously stabbing at his belly. The serrated blade pierced Torglug’s gut, eliciting a squeak of triumph from the skaven. The squeak ended in a choked gargle as the stricken warlord seized Kriknitt by the throat.

‘If it is being so easy to be killing me, I am being dead long ago,’ Torglug snarled at his terrified prisoner. Carrying the struggling ratman as though it were no more than a child, he marched back towards Slaugoth. He wasn’t certain what use the sorcerer had for Kriknitt, but he trusted it would be something unpleasant.

The sorcerer bowed before his master, touching his head to the ice in a show of abject devotion. ‘The Grandfather has truly shown you His pestilent favour!’ he gasped in delight. Slaugoth could feel the bilious energies seething within Torglug’s flesh and spirit, energies which he could use to work mighty spells for his master.

‘Your plaguehosts have been diminished,’ Slaugoth told Torglug. ‘We will need a new army to settle with the branchwraith and her guardians.’ The sorcerer laughed, one of the worms tumbling from his teeth. ‘Fortunately it is in my power to summon the troops we will need. Have your men gather up the dead – our own and those of the ratkin. Pile them upon the shore. I will call upon the Grandfather’s own household to provide us the warriors we need.’

Torglug nodded, unable to doubt that the sorcerer could do exactly what he promised. The frightened whimpers of Kriknitt recalled to him the existence of his captive. He held the trembling plague priest towards Slaugoth. ‘And what am I doing with this?’

Slaugoth picked the worm that had fallen from his mouth off the sleeve of his robe. He stared at the writhing creature. ‘I will commune with the Grandfather, seek His wisdom. Learn from Him where the branchwraith has gone.’ His eyes narrowed as he leaned down to stare into Kriknitt’s face. ‘When I learn where she is going, we will use the skaven tunnels to get there first. I am certain our ratty friend will be happy to help.’

Torglug shook Kriknitt by its neck. ‘If he isn’t helping then he is learning death comes slow to those who are defying me.’

Chapter ten

The Sea of Serpents was leagues behind them, or at least so it seemed to Lorrus Grymn. The same uncanny distortion of space and time that had characterised their exodus from Athelwyrd had once again settled over the refugees. It was difficult to determine the direction in which they travelled and equally hard to decide how long they’d been marching. The lands through which they wandered were both hideously twisted and wondrously beautiful, places blighted by the corruption of Nurgle and ones yet undefiled by the Plague God’s grasping hand. Their trail led them through copses of loudwillows, their leaves whispering in the breeze, and across despoiled fields strewn with the wreckage of war. Meadows of vibrant flowers and swordgrass where only the first noxious deathblooms had taken root and glades where the last pines withered in the clutch of gnawing creepers.

Grymn wondered if the other Stormcasts shared the eerie divorce from his surroundings that he felt. He wondered if it was an aspect of the miraculous change that flowed through him. The glowing energies of the queen-seed pulsed through his body, scouring him of the rot left by Torglug’s axe. He could feel the last of the filth being purged, burned away in the radiant vibration. The same vibration throbbed inside his mind, sharpening his senses, expanding them to a keenness he’d never known before. He imagined it was similar to how Morbus perceived the world, the Lord-Relictor’s mystic connection to the God-King granting him a degree of perception inconceivable to most men.

The most astonishing change worked by Alarielle’s soulpod was that which had occurred to his hand. True, it had a strange, fibrous feel to it and there was a distinct greenish tinge about the skin, but it was a thing of flesh! He could feel his blood pumping through it. He could move the fingers, manipulate them as easily as he had his old ones.

Ahead of him, Grymn could see the Lady of Vines guiding the other sylvaneth into a forest path. Giant petrified toweroaks loomed above the trail, casting their imposing shadows across the wood. He was struck by the solemn majesty of these trees and the aura of incredible antiquity that emanated from them. If Morbus were to tell him these stone trees had stood since the Age of Myth he would have been hesitant to disbelieve the claim. They might have been brought down with Alarielle when the Radiant Queen descended into the realm of Ghyran.

The Branchwraith turned towards the Stormcasts, her eyes passing across each warrior before fixing upon Grymn. ‘We pass through Greengyr now, upon the Path of the Purified. The foulness of the Plague God will be burned away by the enchantments of the ley lines that flow through this place. All will be cleansed,’ she said. ‘Even the most vile of infection cannot withstand the old magic for long.’

Grymn looked across the masses of stony trees that loomed all around them. Each was pitted by wind and rain, scoured by an eerie atmosphere. Each of the Stormcasts felt it, as though his valour and determination were being balanced against the contagion they’d been exposed to. They were being judged, not by the sylvaneth but by Greengyr itself. It was testament to the strength and devotion of the Stormcasts that each was permitted to proceed upon that path.

‘Your presence here does credit to you,’ the Lady of Vines told Grymn. ‘It proves your soul is firm and your devotion to the Everqueen is true. An unclean spirit would be cast from the Path of the Purified, expelled into the forests beyond. Few who are rejected by Greengyr emerge with mind and spirit unmarred. They prowl the deep woods, crazed and alone.’

Grymn clenched his regrown hand, letting it close about the roof of his restored lantern. ‘Is that why you allowed the queen-seed’s magic to heal me? Is that why you paid me such honour, so that the Path of the Purified wouldn’t reject me?’

There was a warmth in the Lady of Vines when she answered him. ‘Long has it been since any of the quick-blood displayed such courage on behalf of the Radiant Queen. Yours has been the most arduous burden of all, for of you is demanded not only that you place your life in jeopardy, but also the lives of those who follow you.’ The last was said with a sorrowful note. Since the passing of Alarielle, the branchwraith had become leader of the sylvaneth. Many of the tree-creatures had perished on the Sea of Serpents. Morbus had told Grymn how heavily the sacrifice of the ancient treelords had affected her, but he knew that all of the lives lost were equally painful to her. The onus of command was a burden not easily shouldered.

The branchwraith had gone only a little way into the petrified forest when huge figures emerged from the maze of frozen trees, stepping out onto the path and blocking her progress. Tallon snarled at them, his hackles raised. The Stormcasts brought their weapons to the ready, only marginally eased in their minds by the realization that the force ahead of them was sylvaneth rather than more warriors of Chaos. Though their shared ordeal upon the frozen sea had instilled some sense of camaraderie towards the tree-creatures that had made the journey with them, the Hallowed Knights couldn’t forget the hostile resentment that had been their reception when they entered the vale of Athelwyrd.

Grymn could feel the anger boiling off of the sylvaneth that stole out of the petrified forest. Many of them bore the cuts and burns of battle, their trunks marked by the bite of axe and claw. It wasn’t their encounters with the plaguehosts that stoked their ire, however. He could feel the glowing gaze of tree-creatures and dryads fixing on him, the beings glowering at him with an outraged regard. Nowhere was the sensation more pronounced than when he looked up at the creature who led these wargroves. He was a colossal treelord, stouter and grander than even the most ancient of their kind that had accompanied Alarielle’s court into exile. Grymn felt the incredible age of the huge sylvaneth when it met his eyes, the incalculable centuries that lay behind its threatening stare. He could feel the treelord’s consciousness pressing against his own, pushing its name into his mind. He was called Haldroot and he had become shepherd of the sylvaneth that yet lingered on this side of the sea. They had marched to answer the call issued by the Lady of Vines. They had expected battle, anticipated death. Instead they discovered something they hadn’t been prepared to face.

Haldroot raised one of his arms, pointing an accusing claw at Grymn. An angry murmur rustled through the wargroves that followed the treelord. Grymn wasn’t sure exactly what the new tree-creatures were angry about – that the Lady of the Vines and the Stormcasts were so obviously allied, or some deeper concern?

Morbus came up beside Grymn, hands closed tight around the haft of his relic hammer. ‘They should know that we’re friends. After all we’ve endured on the ice, it would sicken me to have to fight sylvaneth.’

Grymn glanced back at his mixed command. Warriors in both silver and white armour were slowly regrouping, gathering into formations that would be ready to support one another if fighting broke out. Tegrus and Giomachus were eyeing the stony branches overhead, seeking the best perches from which they could rain missiles down upon their opponents.

The Stormcasts were ready to fight, but they weren’t eager. The sylvaneth weren’t minions of Chaos. It would be necessity not justice that forced them against the tree-creatures. There would be no glory to be found here, only the absurd waste of fighters who should have been turned against Chaos, not one another.

‘Stand back,’ Grymn told Morbus. ‘It seems I am the centre of their anger. If I give myself to them, perhaps it will ease their rage and make them see reason.’

‘There will be no need,’ the Lady of Vines stated.

The branchwraith stepped towards Haldroot, her fiery gaze matching his own. The two sylvaneth conversed for a time in the rumbling, rolling speech of the forest. Ancient and mighty, the treelord nevertheless bowed his head in respect, acknowledging her authority even over him. However hot his rage, it didn’t eclipse devotion to his queen or to the handmaiden who ruled in her stead.

Whatever communion passed between the Lady of Vines and Haldroot, Grymn couldn’t say. Maybe the treelord was offended that the branchwraith had allowed a mere human to touch the queen-seed – the sylvaneth might well see this as tantamount to sacrilege. Haldroot’s anger was causing strips of bark to split and crack from his body, some of the branches growing from his head to snap and break. The roots from his feet stabbed down into the earth, gouging the ground in a manifestation of suppressed fury.

The Lady of Vines was unperturbed by Haldroot’s rage. She gestured only once towards Grymn. She pointed at his regrown hand, something that seemed to particularly agitate the treelord. Her position was clear enough: if what she’d done was truly the outrage Haldroot held it to be, then the Radiant Queen’s power wouldn’t have healed Grymn’s wounds. The giant tree-creature looked towards Grymn, the hostility in his eyes dimmed by the branchwraith’s reprimand.

When the treelord turned back to the Lady of Vines, there was something suggestive of contrition in his demeanour. The roots that had so angrily raked the earth now took firm hold upon the ground. More tendrils uncoiled from his hands, securing his arms.

‘I have reminded Haldroot and his companions that there are many who fight Chaos as fiercely as the sylvaneth,’ the Lady of Vines told Grymn. ‘It will take them some time to cool their anger, but it will drain away. When it has, we will be ready to march once more.’

The Lady of Vines walked towards Grymn. Her glowing eyes stared down at his new hand. He was struck by the weird sense of kinship he experienced, as though he’d somehow become a part of the branchwraith. No, that wasn’t quite right. Deep in his memories long-buried emotions flickered, the bond between brother and sister. Once, long before he’d been reforged upon the Anvil of Apotheosis, such a connection must have existed, though he couldn’t remember names or even faces. All he did know was that Alarielle’s handmaiden evoked this forgotten regard.

Grymn thought he understood. In some way, the branchwraith too had grown from the fertile magic of the Radiant Queen. He didn’t know if it was in part or in whole, but like his new hand, the Lady of Vines had been shaped by Alarielle’s power. It created a sympathy between them, a connection at once detached from his kinship to his fellow Hallowed Knights, yet in some ways even stronger.

The branchwraith nodded, sensing the turn of Grymn’s thoughts. She beckoned to him. ‘Come, step into the flow of the ley line. Then you will understand.’

Slowly Grymn advanced onto the path Haldroot and his followers had blocked. As he did so, strange lights filled his vision. Weird emanations he hadn’t been aware of now became visible to him. He could see a bright green glow suffusing the sylvaneth, blazing brightest around Haldroot and the oldest of their kind. The Stormcasts too were aglow, radiating a pristine white light. When he looked towards the Lady of Vines, he saw that she was engulfed in an aura of jade-coloured energy, shining with an almost blinding brilliance. The same aura spilled from the queen-seed.

Grymn’s own body didn’t quite radiate the same white light as his fellow Stormcast. There was a faint greenish tinge to it, and when he looked at his regrown hand, he saw it burned with the same glow as that which surrounded the Lady of Vines and her sacred charge. He had become more than an ally of Alarielle and the branchwraith – he had become something almost kindred to them. From that kinship, he sensed the mighty purpose towards which the Lady of Vines was striving.

‘It is so,’ the branchwraith said, answering the question he would have put to her before he could ask it. Sombrely, Grymn bowed his head in respect to her decision.

Morbus caught at Grymn’s arm, puzzled by the uncanny rapport he sensed between his leader and the branchwraith. ‘What was that about? What is it she expects you to understand?’

‘She remains devoted to her queen,’ Grymn declared. ‘After the fight on the ice, she’s come to appreciate that we’re the best hope of restoring Alarielle’s power.’

Morbus shook his head. ‘Restoring Alarielle? Is that what she intends?’

Grymn hesitated, wondering how to put into words the thoughts and visions that trickled into his mind from the arcane link between himself and the branchwraith. ‘The queen-seed must be planted, cultivated to revive Alarielle’s power. The aspect Alarielle bore before was benevolent and nurturing, devoted to growing the lands of Ghyran. The time for growth has passed, however. Now this realm needs a more martial goddess to hold dominion. The Lady of Vines aspires to give the realm what it needs.’ Grymn gestured at the petrified trees around them. ‘All of this was once the Kingdom of Blackstone, where men fought the first intrusions of Chaos. Their long war to cast out the Ruinous Powers has left its legacy written upon the very soil of their vanished nation. The Lady of Vines will plant the queen-seed in ground steeped in valour and sacrifice, rich in a heritage of heroic deeds. She hopes the courage and determination of the past will shape the Radiant Queen’s new aspect.’

An awed expression gripped the exposed half of Morbus’ face. ‘Growing a goddess,’ he muttered. ‘I have seen many wonders and incredible magics during this campaign, but to believe it is within anyone’s power to shape the gods themselves is–’

‘Impossible?’ Grymn suggested.

‘Frightening,’ was Morbus’ answer. Grymn noted that the Lord-Relictor had one hand closed about the icon of Sigmar he carried. ‘Gods give men their form. Men, or sylvaneth for that matter, don’t give the gods form. To even contemplate such disorder, such confusion, is a greater heresy than Chaos itself.’

Grymn looked at the glowing soulpod nestled in the Lady of Vines’ breast. ‘It is the mystery of choice,’ he said. ‘Do we act of our own volition, or do we act because it is what the gods would have us do? When the Lady of Vines plants this seed, is it her decision or Alarielle’s design?’

‘Your new hand is planting strange ideas in your brain,’ Morbus cautioned. He waved his hand towards the sylvaneth clumped further down the trail. ‘How long do we wait for them?’

‘As long as they need,’ Grymn said. He could see that his decision wasn’t what Morbus had been hoping for. ‘Don’t mistake the delay as an indulgence. This halt is a needful thing. These are lands new to us, if not to the sylvaneth. We cannot assume them to be free of the enemy’s presence. We need to know if some new danger lies ahead of us.’

Morbus nodded. ‘You want Tegrus and the Prosecutors to scout ahead?’

‘Giomachus too, if the Knight-Venator is agreeable,’ Grymn said. ‘If the enemy is lying in wait for us, I want to know.’

The Lord-Relictor saluted Grymn and marched back among the Stormcasts to relay their commander’s orders. Grymn turned back, peering through the stony trees. Drifting between them he could see the rippling energies of the ley line, the magical pulse of the Path of the Purified. For all the power he sensed there, he knew it was but a trickle beside the putrid might of the Plague God.

The closer the Lady of Vines came to her goal, the more desperate the enemy would become and the more vigilant her protectors would need to be. Once more, he cast his gaze skywards and asked Sigmar to guide their course.

It was some time before the winged scouts returned. Grymn marvelled at their aerobatics, the effortless manoeuvrability with which they dropped down through the petrified branches. Tegrus, never the one to shy from daring, plummeted straight down like a stone, then arrested his momentum with a billowing sweep of his wings. The Prosecutor-Prime saluted as he walked towards Grymn. Knight-Venator Giomachus, though he outranked Tegrus, deferred to his position within the Hallowed Knights and waited until he was given permission by Tegrus to make his report.

‘There is a stone circle ahead,’ Giomachus said, bowing his head to the Lady of Vines, acknowledging the mighty conjuration she had effected on the shores of the Sea of Serpents. ‘There the ground is pitted and steaming, as from recent battle. But we saw no signs of friend or foe, and there were no fallen.’

Grymn shook his head, puzzled by the strange report. What was the meaning of what the scouts had discovered? Was it some deception woven by Chaos? If there had been a battle, then who were the combatants and what were their motives? More importantly, if the fighting had been as fierce as Giomachus said, where were the dead? ‘You are certain there weren’t any bodies?’ Grymn asked.

‘We searched thoroughly,’ Giomachus replied. ‘We could find no dead.’

‘This is an ill thing,’ Morbus said. ‘It may mean that other powers as malignant as those of Nurgle have taken an interest in our plight.’ The Lord-Relictor left unsaid what it was that he feared, but Grymn knew his meaning. A necromancer of some sort, one of the infamous disciples of Nagash, would leave no corpses on the field of battle but would revive the fallen of both sides as undead horrors.

The Lady of Vines looked keenly at Giomachus.

‘In the craters,’ she asked, ‘were there broken fragments of a strange shimmering rock, as if something had hatched from within?’

Giomachus removed his plumed helm and stared at the branchwraith. ‘Aye, my lady, it was just as you say.’

Turning towards Grymn and Morbus, the Lady of Vines explained her strange question. ‘I have seen such long ago. There are others who fight against Chaos, though to us they are as cold and distant as the stars. I do not doubt these strange allies have helped us, but we should expect no further aid.’

Morbus was comforted by the branchwraith’s explanation.

‘Seraphon,’ he said, giving a name to their enigmatic allies. ‘If they have struck and departed, then it can only mean whatever foe they opposed has been vanquished. The reptiles will not relent from their purpose once they are committed.’ He uttered a relieved laugh. ‘It eases my mind greatly not to think a corpse-caller is haunting the path ahead of us.’

‘The legions of Nurgle are enemy enough,’ Grymn agreed. He turned to the Lady of Vines. ‘Should we bypass the battlefield my scouts found? Is there a way around it?’

The Lady of Vines waved her slender claw towards the petrified trees about them. ‘There will be no danger from that quarter. The last stretch of the path lies before us. We must take the goddess atop Blackstone Summit.’ The branchwraith’s voice dropped to a worried hiss. ‘Unless I am mistaken, our foe will find us ‘ere journey’s end.’

Chapter eleven

The Victory Fields stretched before Lord-Castellant Grymn in a broad expanse of black soil. Old bones, petrified like the trees and menhirs that lined the Path of the Purified, protruded from the ground. Encrusted snags of metal suggested the husks of armour and shield, stalagmite spikes stabbing up from the earth evoked images of swords and spears, and ovoid lumps echoed ancient helms and breastplates – the vanquished of a near-mythical confrontation, left to the embrace of the land they had fought for and ultimately died for.

A strange feeling of oppression swept through Grymn as he marched across the blackened earth. Leaving the Path of the Purified, he’d felt somehow diminished. Having satisfied the judgement of Greengyr, the enchantment of the path had become almost comforting in its way. To leave that comfort behind for this morbid expanse made for a shocking contrast. Even Tallon felt it, keeping close to his leg as he led the Stormcasts forwards.

Ahead, a great stairway rose upwards. Megalithic in its construction, it was a reminder of the vanished Kingdom of Blackstone. The immense steps spiralled around a colossal rise formed from the boughs of three enormous trees. In ages past, the three trees had grown together, fusing into a single growth. Like the rest of the forest, however, their greenery had turned to grey, hardening into solid stone. Whether the stair had been raised around them before or after their petrification was a question Grymn couldn’t answer. The summit itself was wrapped in green clouds that crackled with eldritch emanations.

Grymn could see the queen-seed pulsing within the recess of the Lady of Vines’ trunk. He looked down at his hand, aglow with the nurturing power of Alarielle, and wondered what that power would be transformed into. What would it truly mean for the Radiant Queen to alter her aspect from guardian to avenger? He had seen for himself the terrible nature of the sylvaneth when they became enraged. The prospect of such fury endowed with the might of a goddess was daunting. The Radiant Queen had been tolerant, even indulgent of the Stormcasts when they intruded upon Athelwyrd. Her court hadn’t been so accommodating. Even the Lady of Vines had met them with barely restrained hostility.

‘Only the faithful,’ Grymn whispered to himself. The Hallowed Knights had been sent to find Athelwyrd by Sigmar for a purpose. It wasn’t for him to question the strategy of his god. Whatever lay ahead, he had to have faith that it was according to the God-King’s design. He had to have faith that the benevolence he’d sensed in Alarielle, the compassion that had replaced his missing hand, would endure no matter what aspect the Radiant Queen took on.

Grymn gazed back at the Blackstone Summit, at the great stair up which their path must lead. So close, yet he felt now was the time of their greatest danger. Again he recalled the warning Lord-Celestant Gardus had so often given. Never underestimate the enemy. The Plague God had to know how close the Radiant Queen was to escaping his pestilent grasp. Even if Torglug’s legion had perished on the Sea of Serpents, Nurgle had other warlords and other armies scattered across Ghyran. Surely that foul deity would send one of those armies to try to stop them.

‘Tegrus, Giomachus,’ Grymn called out to the winged warriors. The two Stormcasts hastened to their commander’s side. Grymn gestured at the Victory Fields and the petrified forest that surrounded it. ‘I have need of your eyes again,’ he told them. ‘Take the rest of the Prosecutors and scout the Blackstone Summit. Watch for any trace of the enemy.’

‘Can they have anticipated our goal?’ Giomachus asked, his star-eagle fluttering its wings angrily as he spoke the last word. Tallon barked at the raptor, unsettled by its show of ire.

‘We can’t dismiss that threat,’ Grymn decided after a moment of thought. ‘They have powerful magics of their own to draw upon. Desperation may have moved them to take chances with their sorcery no sane mind would consider. It is too risky to believe their evil cannot strike at us here.’

‘Would you have me see what waits ahead of us?’ Giomachus asked.

Grymn shook his head. ‘You are the ranking officer of the Knights Excelsior,’ he told the Knight-Venator. ‘Your place is here with your warriors. I know the valour in their hearts, but I also know they will fight the harder with you leading them.’ He turned towards Tegrus. ‘I fear the burden of this task must rest with you, my friend.’

‘Then it will be our honour to scout the way and bring you warning if the plaguehosts appear,’ Tegrus said. He motioned to the surviving Prosecutors. One by one they spread their wings and rose into the sky.

Grymn watched the scouts ascend. They were so few now. Tegrus and the Prosecutors were all resilient warriors, but even the most heroic could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

The Lord-Castellant turned towards Lord-Relictor Morbus. ‘Send Agrippa’s retinue to act as the vanguard as we climb the stair. I want the rest of the warriors on the flanks.’

‘Once we are on the stair, shall I have the paladins and the rest of the Liberators fall back as a rearguard?’ Morbus asked. Like Grymn, he was worried about the prospect of the plaguehosts rushing them from the forest and trying to overrun them as they climbed the Blackstone Summit.

Grymn nodded his agreement. ‘Have the Judicators form up on the exposed flank as we go up the stair. Their angle might be limited, but I think they’ll be more adaptable if we keep them out of the rearguard.’

Grymn looked across the retinues of his mixed command. Leading the Hallowed Knights had been an honour, but taking responsibility for the Knights Excelsior was an even greater one. Giomachus and the other officers of the Knights Excelsior had deferred to him without question, accepting his leadership as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He would prove himself worthy of that confidence in his skill.

Morbus pointed to the towering figure of Haldroot. The treelord had gathered the largest of his kindred to act as a bodyguard for the Lady of Vines. The sight evoked comparison of the walking fortress that had surrounded Alarielle’s palanquin as they marched from the Cascading Path. It wasn’t a comforting reminder.

‘Even with such powerful allies, we have lost much,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

The statement was one that made Grymn reflect upon how much it had cost them just to get this far. There were just under fifty Hallowed Knights left, and only slightly more Knights Excelsior. A handful of dryads and other tree-creatures had escaped the ice, and Haldroot’s wargroves, though more numerous than the Lady of Vines’ escort, were hardly a great host. Warrior by warrior, the strength was bleeding away from their cause.

Grymn looked again at his new hand. He could still feel the invigorating energy of the queen-seed flowing through him, strengthening him in both body and spirit. Leaving Morbus to attend to the deployment of the remaining Stormcasts, Grymn made his way through the masses of sylvaneth marching towards the stair. The tree-creatures exhibited a marked deference to him; even Haldroot didn’t oppose him as he approached the Lady of Vines.

‘My lady,’ Grymn said, ‘the honour you have shown to me by allowing me to hold the queen-seed is one that I will never forget, but I am unfit to decide our course now. I cannot shake the warning you’ve given, that the enemy may yet come upon us. There is risk in taking the queen-seed to Blackstone Summit, but if that is your decision I will see it done. It is you who were Alarielle’s handmaiden, you who know her best. You who understand how she can be restored and what must be done to ready her for this war.’

The Lady of Vines stared at him, a questioning light in her eyes. He sensed the branchwraith’s sympathy. ‘It is here that the Everqueen can be replanted. Here is the soil in which the queen-seed will blossom. The enemy will try to thwart our effort if he can,’ she said.

‘Then the Stormcasts will see this done, my lady,’ Grymn vowed.

Reaching to her breast, the branchwraith let her fingers caress the radiant soulpod of her queen. ‘This place is rich in the valour of past battle and the courage of fallen heroes. Those energies will nurture the seed as it grows. I cannot say what change that may have upon her aspect when she is reborn. Before Alarielle wore an aspect of beauty and wonder, nurturing and vital. She was the embodiment of the growing season. Now it is a season of claw and blade. She may assume a more warlike aspect, a form better suited for the trials of conflict.’ The Lady of Vines bowed her head to Grymn. ‘It may be that in her new aspect she will be less tolerant of outsiders than she was in her old one.’

‘What must be, must be,’ Grymn said, recalling Morbus’ words about gods and mortals. ‘If it is the goddess’ will that she be reborn in a form of wrath and retribution, then it is my duty still to stand beside her.’ He flexed his regrown hand, feeling the echoes of the Everqueen’s power within his flesh. ‘If there were only me, I would stand between her and the foe and give my last breath to keep her from harm.’

‘Let us pray it does not come to that,’ the Lady of Vines said.

Tegrus soared high above the black earth of Victory Fields, climbing towards the immense tower of Blackstone Summit. Closer to the ancient structure now, he could see the incredible details of the colossal spire. Indeed, he wondered if the titanic stone trees were things of nature or constructions of man. Certainly the men of Blackstone had brought tools against the trunks and branches of the trees at some point, reshaping them into a chronicle of the battle that had unfolded before their very roots.

The enormity of such labour, whether with chisel or knife, was almost beyond belief. The trees, together, were the size of a hill. A small city could have fit atop their branches. Yet as far as Tegrus could see, every inch of them had been worked, carved to provide a pictorial record of the battle. Across the length of one outstretched branch he could see strange chariots bearing warriors in crude armour against warherds of slavering beastmen. Upon one stretch of trunk, druids clad in animal hides pitted their magic against the pestilent daemons of Chaos. Everywhere, the struggle of men against the monstrous invaders was depicted, rising upwards along with the spiral stair, ascending towards the top of the interwoven trees. Climbing to the Blackstone Summit.

Tegrus neared its top now. He could see the great stone branches of the trees arching outwards to surround the plateau like the battlements of some mighty fortress. Even these had seen the attentions of artisans, each branch displaying some facet of the battle that had unfolded below. He recognised some of the daemonic creatures that had been part of Torglug’s legion, monstrosities that hadn’t changed in form or foulness for all the ages since their likeness had been carved into the trees. Recalling how formidable the fiends had been on the ice, Tegrus was impressed that the ancient tribesmen had been able to prevail with only their own valour and the magic of their druids to drive the daemons back. Even for the Stormcasts, such manifestations of Chaos were a challenge to vanquish.

The three trees, fusing together in their growth, had created a great plateau where their trunks merged. The same ancient craftsmen who had carved the rest of the colossal trees had been at work here as well, smoothing the surface until it resembled a vast courtyard. Cloud obscured all but the borders of that courtyard, leaving the rest of its expanse veiled in mystery.

Around him the remaining Prosecutors wheeled through the immense branches, scouring the summit for any trace of the enemy. Below them, like a great shroud, lay the green cloud with its flashes of energy. The weird manifestation forced the fliers lower, drawing them down into its mists. Tegrus could see no great distance once he was in the cloud. Twice he nearly collided with a stony branch, mustering all of his aerobatic skill to swing away from the obstruction.

His vision obscured, Tegrus keyed his other senses to the task before him. To his ears there came only the groans of the wind flashing between the branches. In his nose there was only the smell of stone. And those other senses, those inner impressions that shifted mood and emotion – they felt strangely dull, as though smothered by a heavy cloak. It was a peculiar, uncanny affliction, one that Tegrus couldn’t quite convince himself was merely a manifestation of Blackstone Summit’s magic.

Hammers at the ready, Tegrus swooped through the clouds. If there was danger here, he was determined to find it before it found Grymn and the Lady of Vines.

The steps wound around the colossal stone trees, climbing higher and higher above the Victory Fields. As they ascended towards the top of Blackstone Summit, Grymn kept looking earthwards. He expected any moment to hear the war cries and howls of the plaguehosts as Nurgle’s diseased armies tried to steal victory from them. Sometimes he caught the gleam of a Prosecutor’s armour as they circled above the tower searching for enemies, but such sightings became increasingly rare. The closer they came to the top, the thicker the veil of green cloud became, settling around them like fog. Still, the horn of the Knight-Heraldor and the light of his own warding lantern would lead the scouts back, however thick the mist grew. Every moment that didn’t see them streaking back to the column to give the alarm seemed like a gift from the God-King to Grymn. The higher they climbed, the more confident he became that they’d be able to hold the stair against any attackers. The closer the Everqueen was brought to their goal, the more he began to believe they had managed to escape the Plague God’s minions.

Still he was tense with alertness. The plaguehosts were everywhere, waging their campaign of conquest against the inhabitants of Ghyran and the other Chaos powers that would try to steal those conquests from them. Grymn couldn’t see Nurgle abandoning his hunt so easily after all the time his minions had searched for Alarielle’s refuge. Having driven the Radiant Queen into the open, having caused her to expend nearly all of her power, it was too much to hope that the Plague God had relented.

No, there had to be something. Grymn was certain of it. If Gardus were still here, they could have discussed the matter, and perhaps together come up with some new insight into what course of action the Plague God might be attempting. But he had to live in the present now, and rely on his own faith and wisdom.

Grymn noted their ascent to the Blackstone Summit more by instinct than conscious thought. His attention wasn’t on the terrain, but the hideous fog that occupied it. As they reached the top, the clouds suddenly diminished, drawn back as though they’d breached some illusory wall. He understood now why there had been no diseased army to meet them as they emerged from the Path of the Purified or to come charging after them from the petrified forest. Tallon growled as the enemy stood revealed before them.

Torglug and his legions, hidden by the green cloud and the illusions of their sorcerers, had gained Blackstone Summit first.

A nauseating reek struck Grymn as the spells that had concealed the presence of the army evaporated. There was no further need of such sorcery. The prey had already walked into the trap. There could be no retreat now. All the advantages Grymn had intended to hold on the stair would belong to the enemy if they tried to withdraw back to the Victory Fields. The plaguehosts were certain to pursue them, enjoying the high ground at every step.

It was a doubtful prospect. Grymn knew how few his Stormcasts were, how slight the sylvaneth contingent. Arrayed against them was a monstrous horde. Ranks of Chaos warriors in blackened armour. Tribes of skin-clad marauders, their bodies daubed in the sickening runes of their vile god. Mobs of abominable Chosen, their mutations twisting their corrupt flesh. A great swarm of ratmen pushing a rotted carriage from which swung a smouldering censer of pestilence. A slavering warherd of armoured beastmen, their hides falling away in mangy strips.

Most numerous of all, however, were the daemons. Flocks of rot flies, buzzing above the heads of the warriors below, their abdomens bloated with corruption and disease. Slug-like plaguebeasts, clutches of tentacles and eye-stalks writhing from their slimy bodies. Companies of cyclopean plaguebearers, filthy swords clenched in their clawed hands. Masses of toad-like nurglings, hopping about in the foulness dripping from the larger daemons.

Looming above them all, like great mountains of festering meat, were three Great Unclean Ones. Each of the greater daemons was an obscenity of loathsomeness, its hide blotched and broken with disease and decay. For Grymn, however, it was the centremost of that gigantic triumvirate that was the most sickening of all. He recognised it as the fiend that Angstun had sacrificed himself to destroy on the frozen sea. To see the daemon here was an obscenity, a cruel mockery of the Stormcasts who had been vanquished on the ice bridge.

Grymn’s focus shifted away from the daemons to the mortal warlord who commanded this sea of corruption: Torglug the Despised, his body swollen with the vile blessings of his abominable god. He could actually see a haze of green vapour rising from the villain’s pockmarked flesh, a miasma of decay that caused even the bodyguard around him to break out in weeping sores and blackheaded boils. Torglug’s eyes blazed with an unholy light, burning like putrescent lamps behind the rusted mask of his helm. In that gibbous, ghoulish luminance was the promise of ruination and torment, the lingering tortures of sickness and decay.

Torglug raised his cleaver-like axe. The warlord favoured him with a mocking salute, gesturing with the filth-encrusted weapon as though to promise the Lord-Castellant that this time he would lose more than just his hand.

Grymn heard the Lady of Vines raise her voice in a song of enchantment, the radiance of the queen-seed spilling from her outstretched hand and flowing across the trunks of her followers. This time the melody was harsh, rolling like the tramp of marching feet and the crash of war drums. The sylvaneth joined in her song and as their deep groaning voices rose, their bark began to darken, hardening into steely armour. The claws of the tree-creatures lengthened into spear-like talons, their branches sharpened into sword-like barbs. With an eerie unison, they closed around the Lady of Vines, surrounding her in a wall of arboreal fury. They would protect the queen-seed to the last, a living bastion against the enormity of the plaguehosts.

Grymn ordered his warriors into formation, drawing up the Liberators to form a wall of sigmarite, grouping the Judicators where their skybolt bows could be concentrated into murderous volleys. The stamina and conviction of his Stormcasts would be tested sorely, for the enemy outnumbered them by several orders of magnitude.

A lesser man would have been smothered beneath the burden of leadership in such grisly circumstances. The overwhelming enormity of the enemy, the frustrating closeness of their destination. These would have crushed even the noblest king with despair. It was not in Grymn’s nature to despair, however. The God-King Sigmar had brought him to this place. Grymn was the instrument Sigmar had chosen to lead His warriors into battle. This was all Grymn needed to know. Whatever courage and valour could accomplish here, the Stormcasts would see it done. Hallowed Knights and Knights Excelsior, they would stand before Torglug’s legion of daemons.

‘Only the faithful,’ Grymn whispered to himself. He looked across the ranks of his warriors, his brothers in arms. Raising his halberd aloft, he roared a wordless battle cry that echoed across the plateau.

The Hallowed Knights repeated the battle cry of their Stormhost: ‘Only the faithful!’ The words rolled like thunder across the Blackstone Summit. The mortal warriors of Torglug’s legion drew back a pace, glancing anxiously at their warlord as the ferocity of the shout cracked against their ears.

‘For Sigmar!’ The cry filled the voices of the Knights Excelsior as well as the silver-clad Hallowed Knights. This time even some of the daemons drew back in anxiety.

Grymn felt his heart swell with pride at the courage of his warriors. Whatever happened here, of one thing he was certain. The plaguehosts would not win this battle easily.

Torglug laughed when he saw how few the sylvaneth and their meddlesome allies were. It almost seemed embarrassing to him that after the long search for Athelwyrd, the hunt through the Cascading Path, the numberless battles on the Sea of Serpents, that it should all end like this. Not that he had anything against a massacre – it just felt anticlimactic.

Some of the plaguelord’s hubris faltered when the Lord-Castellant who led the motley assemblage of lightning-men and sylvaneth raised his halberd and shouted his battle cry. Torglug realised he should find such foolish defiance amusing rather than threatening, but he couldn’t still the trepidation that stirred in his gut. The rotworm nestled there was warning him against overconfidence.

Torglug could feel the uncertainty that surged through the daemons and monsters around him. The stink of skaven fear-musk seeped into the air as the ratmen chittered in fright. He refused to share in their trembling. Like a rotten mountain, the champion of Nurgle stood unbowed and unconquered. He knew his hour had come. It only remained to teach the enemy how futile their resistance was.

‘Be killing their leader,’ Torglug snarled at Slaugoth Maggotfang. He pointed at the ranks of lightning-men. ‘From these fools be cutting out the heart.’

The sorcerer raised his staff, words of power crawling onto his tongue. Like an arcane parasite, he drew upon the miasma of power exuded by Torglug’s blessing, weaving it into his own magic.

Even as he began his incantation, Slaugoth’s spell faltered. The worms in his mouth retreated behind his teeth, curling up into little coils of fright. His eyes strayed upwards. Beyond the green fug of pollution rising from the plaguehosts, past the stony branches of the summit, storm-clouds swiftly gathered. Thunder growled and lightning flashed with divine ire. Stone branches were blasted asunder as a boiling lance of lightning came smashing down to strike Blackstone Summit. Chaos warriors and daemons howled in pain as hail came pelting down at them from above.

The tremulous impact of the stormstrike shook the plateau as though it were in the grip of an enraged colossus. Thick smoke billowed from the impact crater, flaring embers shining within the black drift. Then, from behind the angry clouds above, a blinding light hurtled downwards.

Smoke evaporated in that descending brilliance. As it cleared away, a mighty figure was revealed. It was the armoured shape of a lightning-man, great wings of light stretching out from his back, a golden halo framing the stern and unforgiving mask of his helm. In one hand the warrior gripped a long sceptre tipped with a fiery twin-tailed comet. In the other he bore a massive warhammer, its head engraved with runes of such arcane might that Torglug thought they would burn themselves into his eyes as he gazed upon them.

Only the three Great Unclean Ones could bear to look upon the winged lightning-man. The rest of the daemons hissed in pain, turning their faces at the sight of the hammer the hero bore. Many of the nurglings squealed in agony and burst into foul puddles of slime and ichor simply from chancing to look upon the warhammer.

Torglug had been disappointed to think the hunt for the Radiant Queen would end in a simple massacre. Now he regretted the arrogance that had made him look askance at the good fortune the plaguehosts had enjoyed so briefly.

Grymn looked on in amazement as a twin-tailed fork of lightning smashed down in the space between the two armies. The mighty peal of thunder that roared across Blackstone Summit was unmistakably that of a stormstrike. For an instant he dared to believe that Sigmar had sent an entire Stormhost to reinforce them, that when the blinding flash faded from his visions he should see rank upon rank of stolid warriors arrayed against Torglug’s vile legion.

Instead, what he saw was a single warrior. Engaged in conflict throughout the realms, the God-King’s resources were committed to the struggle against the Ruinous Powers on many fronts. To draw even a single warrior chamber out of battle would have been to jeopardise whole campaigns.

Blazing wings of light supported the armoured warrior as he hovered above the plateau. Flickers of lightning snaked across his armour of blue and silver, the roaring lion sculpted upon his breastplate picked out in gold. The halo of golden spikes that framed his helm formed a solar nimbus around his head. In his left hand he held a mighty sceptre, celestial power pulsing through its enchanted sigmarite.

Gripped in the hero’s right hand was a weapon mightier still. It was nothing less than the godhammer itself, Ghal Maraz, forged in the dim mists of time in the world that was. Now the God-King had entrusted the warhammer to his mightiest champion, the one hero worthy of such honour. The Hallowed Knights had heard rumours of such a hero, but never before had they beheld his awesome manifestation.

The Celestant-Prime.

Almost without realising what he did, Grymn fell to one knee and bowed towards the divine champion. Around him, he was dimly aware of the other Stormcasts doing the same. Hallowed Knights and Knights Excelsior, all were in awe of this legendary hero. None of them had felt the presence of Sigmar’s champion before, had experienced the divine aura that surrounded him and radiated from him with a fiery intensity. Grymn felt his heart gripped by a righteous wrath, the clarion call of justice and retribution. Many were the outrages and atrocities of Chaos, sins unnumbered that cried out for vengeance. The Celestant-Prime was that vengeance manifest, the great avenger who would set to right the offences of the Ruinous Powers.

As the Celestant-Prime turned the stern visage of his helm towards the plaguehosts, he raised Ghal Maraz high. The heavens themselves roared in answer, booming with divine rage. He glared at the sea of daemons and monsters that had flocked to the banner of Torglug the Despised. For the Stormcasts and sylvaneth, his avenging presence carried the promise of triumph. For the pawns of Nurgle, it held only the inevitability of destruction.

Chapter twelve

Long had Tornus struggled against the malign might of Nurgle. He’d led his people again and again onto the field of battle. By the score, by the hundred, by the thousand his armies had diminished. The noble dead, lying upon a field of honour, fighting to the last to turn back the fiends of Chaos. The cowards who fled, seeking to hide from the invader and preserve their own worthless lives. Most vile of all, however, were the traitors, those who abandoned hearth and home to bow before the abominations of the Plague God.

Tornus fought through the bleak tarns and across the desolate moors. In the fog-shrouded forests and in the craggy hills, he met the enemy with axe and sword. Battle upon battle, he led the tribes, pitting mortal flesh and mortal courage against all the monstrosities born of Nurgle’s diseased corruption. Daemons and beastkin, sorcerers and mutants, all had been set loose against the steadings of his people. One after another the villages burned. One after another the castles were torn down. One after another the temples were defiled.

The tribes lost heart as the legions of Nurgle claimed victory after victory. They cried out to the gods for deliverance, prayed for mercy from the divinities that had watched over their people since the dim ages of myth. The only answer was silence, the cold indifference of oblivion.

Time after time, Tornus led his people into battle against the forces of Chaos, until, in the end, he was the only one left to fight. The only one who still dared to hope that the gods would not abandon them.

Outrage boiled in the bloated body of Torglug the Despised. When he saw the shining figure descend with the lightning strike, he at first thought Sigmar Himself had come to Blackstone Summit to take the field of battle. He thought the God-King was personally intervening to preserve the queen-seed and its guardians. Bitterness welled up inside him, a spiteful rage that eclipsed any fury he’d ever known before. Sigmar had left nations to be destroyed and enslaved, forsaken entire peoples to the cruelties of Chaos, abandoned even the most innocent to the savageries of beasts and daemons. Torglug had presided over the slaughter of kingdoms, yet Sigmar had failed to rescue so much as a single life. For the God-King to reveal Himself now was an insult to all Torglug’s victims.

The warlord’s massive gut rolled in amusement when he realised his mistake. The figure who hovered before him was no god, only another of Sigmar’s lightning-men. Torglug should have known the God-King wouldn’t show Himself, staying safe behind the fastness of Azyr while others fought and died in His name.

Sapphire flame blazed from the head of the sceptre the winged champion bore as he raised it high. Far overhead, in the swirling storm-clouds, a shimmering light appeared. Swiftly the light grew in size and intensity, plummeting down through the heavens. A fiery ball of celestial fury crashed into the sea of diseased daemons, immolating scores of plaguebearers in a blinding flash of annihilation. As the deafening clamour of the impact shuddered across the plateau, another sound rose to overwhelm it.

‘Only the faithful!’ The battle-cry of the lightning-men was like a clap of thunder. The silver warriors surged forwards, weapons and shields held before them as they charged across the plateau. At their head was the warlord Torglug had fought on the ice, the blade of his halberd shining in the glow of the Celestant-Prime’s blazing wings. Across from the silver warriors, the white-armoured lightning-men shouted their own battle-cry as they swept out to strike the plaguehosts on their left flank.

Inspired by their winged hero’s arrival, the lightning-men were committing themselves to the attack, charging into the plague horde. Torglug scowled behind the rusted mask of his helm. He had savoured the notion of dismantling the tiny retinue that clung to the Lady of Vines. He’d relished the vision of plucking Alarielle’s soulpod from the branchwraith’s dead clutch, of trampling the carcasses of her defenders underfoot as he celebrated his triumph. The last thing he’d expected was that these fools would have the temerity to steal the initiative away from him. The absurdity of it caused his swollen gut to roll with laughter.

Raising his blackened axe high, Torglug bellowed to his followers. ‘Be killing them all!’ The cry was both command and threat.

Mortal and daemon alike, those who marched under the decayed banner of Torglug understood that the warlord would spare none who failed him in this battle.

In a seething, bubbling wave of corruption and decay, the plaguehosts rushed forwards to meet the oncoming lightning-men.

Grymn brought his halberd shearing through the horned helm of a Chaos warrior, splashing the barbarian’s brains across the shield of his comrade. The foeman raised a flanged mace to retaliate, but Grymn’s blade struck down the second warrior as readily as the first, punching through both shield and breastplate to leave the enemy impaled. He shook the dying warrior free, casting his body into the howling mass of madmen and monsters. Each blow he visited against the enemy was delivered with righteous fury. Now that the Hallowed Knights were in battle with the minions of Nurgle once more, his warding lantern crackled with energy. An echo of Alarielle’s radiance glowed from the lamp, a nimbus of green light that shone about Grymn like a beacon to both friend and enemy alike. Stormcasts rallied to his side, drawn by the jade light. Tallon snapped at the foe with frenzied viciousness. Daemons and Chaos warriors converged upon him, lured by the eerie luminance.

Inspired by the presence of the Celestant-Prime, Grymn fought with a ferocity unmatched by any of the diseased disciples of Chaos. That Sigmar would dispatch His mightiest champion to aid them in their moment of greatest need was a blessing beyond measure in the Lord-Castellant’s mind. To him it was vindication of his leadership over the Hallowed Knights since the fall of Lord-Celestant Gardus. All of his uncertainty, all of the doubts about the choices he’d made and the paths he’d taken, had been extinguished the moment he’d seen Sigmar’s living avatar emerge from the stormstrike. His efforts had brought his warriors to this place, his protection had kept the Lady of Vines and her sacred charge safe until this moment. He had achieved all it was possible to achieve. Now the God-King would help them to reach their journey’s end.

Torglug’s obscene throng was far from defeated, however. Rot flies swept down from the green miasma overhead to assault the sylvaneth formation. The foul daemons were ripped out of the air by the defiant tree-creatures, impaled upon arms that were like pikes and mangled by rending talons of wood and thorn. The immense Haldroot caught one of the bloated monstrosities in his hands, squeezing it in a tremendous grip until the abomination burst like a rancid pustule. Such injuries as the aerial attackers visited upon the sylvaneth began to mend almost immediately, torn bark knitting together as the energies of the queen-seed swirled around them. Above it all, the warlike song of the Lady of Vines sounded.

The Knights Excelsior were charged by a troop of grotesque Chaos knights, their armour pitted with rust and decay, their steeds branded with obscene runes. As the riders ploughed towards the Stormcasts, Giomachus lifted himself into the air above his warriors. Blazing arrows flew from his bow, striking down several of the foremost riders while his star-eagle shot forwards to claw the face of the leading knight. The charge faltered as the riders following behind stumbled upon the bodies of their own fallen comrades. Before they could regain the impetus of their attack, Giomachus ordered the white-armoured line forwards, rushing at the diseased knights with hammer and sword. Judicators from the Knights Excelsior sent a volley of sigmarite arrows searing down into the routed cavalry as they tried to flee.

As the Hallowed Knights smashed their way through the motley assemblage of marauders and plaguebearers that hurled themselves upon the Stormcasts, new enemies swarmed forwards. A fume of poison billowed across the formation of Liberators as the grotesque ratmen scurried to the attack, pushing their rotten carriage ahead of them. The noxious cloud boiling from the swinging censer smothered several of the valiant warriors, seeping inside their sigmarite armour to choke the men within. The skaven were swift to leap into the gap their insidious weapon created, chittering and squeaking with despicable glee.

Grymn swung around to meet the skaven surge. His halberd slashed and chopped at the fiendish vermin, cutting them down like weeds. A driving blow from his blade hacked through an entire file of the creatures, tearing through their mangy fur and rotten robes. The ratkin who found themselves pitted against him squealed in fright, their eyes round with terror, but the pressure of their own frenzied comrades pushing at their backs forced them forwards. Black ratkin blood steamed against his armour and his boots slogged through a morass of skaven dead, yet still the monsters came.

A white-furred ratman arrayed in leathery robes appeared before Grymn, thrusting at him with a notched sword and a curved dagger that dripped with arcane poisons. Flecks of foam dripped from the plague priest’s fangs and its beady eyes gleamed with bestial frenzy. It slashed and hacked at him with inhuman speed and craven cunning. When Grymn parried a feint of its sword, the rat-chief would stab at him with its envenomed dagger, gouging his sigmarite plate as the enchanted poison burned the metal. Tallon flung itself at the crazed ratman, but the vermin struck the gryph-hound down with a swat of its blade, leaving the creature stunned and bloodied on the ground.

The larger conflict raging around Grymn faded to the edge of his awareness as his fury fixed itself on the skaven leader. In strength and skill, the vermin was laughably outmatched by the Stormcast, but its devilish nimbleness and contemptible dearth of scruples rendered it more dangerous than a more refined opponent. Its long, scaly tail slapped at his legs, trying to trip him and leave him vulnerable to the creature’s blades. Spittle flew from the ratman’s mouth, spattering across the mask of Grymn’s helm as the skaven tried to blind him.

Dirty tricks, abominable speed and crazed ferocity weren’t enough. All it needed was one instant of opportunity for Grymn to bring about the ruin of his foe. The skaven’s own frenzy provided that chance. Slashing at Grymn’s neck with its poisoned dagger, the ratman tried to slice the tendons of his arm with a backhanded cut across the Stormcast’s shoulder. Grymn dropped and twisted, dancing away from the weeping dagger, letting it scrape across his pauldron. At the same time, he brought his halberd spinning downwards, catching the skaven as it pushed forwards. The cleaving blade struck the vermin’s snout, crunching through flesh and bone to leave the better part of the rat-like visage lying on the ground.

Although mortally stricken, the cocktail of courage-bolstering potions rushing through the plague priest’s veins continued to lend it an atrocious vitality. The creature flung itself at Grymn, black blood gushing from its severed face. In its crazed state, the skaven dropped its weapons, instead scratching at its enemy with its claws and snapping at him with what was left of its mouth. Slowly, the horrific energy drained out of the white-furred maniac. With a whining gargle, the skaven conceded the fact of its death and slipped to the ground at its killer’s feet.

Grymn had only a moment to stare at his vanquished adversary before a seething stream of corruption swept down upon him. Raising his arms, trying to fend off the boiling filth, the Lord-Castellant staggered back. The halberd fell from his grasp, slipping into the gory heap at his feet. Agony lanced through every nerve in his body. It was all he could do to remain on his feet.

It was no natural assault, this searing torment. Grymn knew he was beset by the malignant conjuration of a sorcerer.

Watching Poxmonger Kriknitt perish was deeply satisfying for Slaugoth Maggotfang. The plague priest had been Torglug’s captive, subjugated by the warlord, yet it had continued to try to wheedle and connive to gain some advantage for itself. It had brought hundreds of its warriors to join the plaguehosts, happily guiding the legion through its reeking tunnels. All the while it insisted the arrangement between them was one of alliance rather than enslavement. Slaugoth had come to despise the ratman’s whining intrigues as it tried to insinuate itself into Torglug’s confidence.

The spew of corruption that boiled from Slaugoth’s mouth was like the breath of the Plague God Himself. Under that withering blast of virulent magic, steel would corrode, flesh would bubble and blood would be reduced to sludge. True, the enchanted stamina of a lightning-man might endure a bit longer and sigmarite plate might resist a few more heartbeats than simple steel, but the final result would be the same. A slow and agonising dissolution within the corrosive juices of Slaugoth’s sorcery.

When the leader of the lightning-men began to falter, when the halberd fell from his grasp, Slaugoth exulted. Triumph over his foe seemed assured. A few moments longer and the fell magic would finish his enemy and reduce him to a smouldering husk.

Even as he anticipated this annihilation, Slaugoth became aware of a change in the aether, a familiar disruption of the tides of magic, the evocation of a power he recognised as belonging to the hated God-King. Hurriedly, the sorcerer swept his hands in arcane passes, strengthening the phantasmal barriers and eldritch wards that guarded him. To be doubly certain of protection, he tightened the soul-bond between himself and his acolytes. Whatever hostile magic did penetrate his defensive wards would be passed along to the survivors of the plague coven, working its belligerence against the witches and warlocks instead of Slaugoth.

From the sky overhead, a barrage of lightning lanced downwards into the Chaos horde. The ratkin’s decayed carriage was smashed into splinters, the smouldering censer upset and its burning contents splashed across scores of the verminous skaven. Slithering, slug-like daemons were immolated in the shrivelling blasts of electricity. An entire tribe of marauders was routed as their jarls and champions were transformed into charred husks by the celestial fires.

Slaugoth could see the skull-helmed lightning-man mystic rushing to his leader’s aid. The relic hammer clutched in the enemy cleric’s fist pointed once again at the stormy sky, drawing down the elemental might of the God-King’s wrath. The sorcerer could feel the death-screams of his acolytes as the destructive energies rippled from himself to the plague coven. His black soul shuddered to contemplate the nearness of his own dissolution.

Tightening his arcane protections against the lightning, Slaugoth began to evoke the most powerful spell known to him. He would channel power from the daemons into nearby mortals who bore the Plague God’s mark. The stream of energy would swell the bodies of its victims, bloating them with noxious gases and corrosive acids. Eventually they would burst, spilling a fog of death across Blackstone Summit.

A web of lightning crackled all around Slaugoth. The sorcerer laughed as he imagined the skull-helmed mystic’s frustration. There seemed something desperate about the concentrated storm. Perhaps his enemy had some suspicion as to the magic Slaugoth was working and was trying everything in his power to thwart him. If so, then the futility of the lightning attacks was doubly delicious. He would have to listen for his enemy’s scream when the death fog rolled across the battlefield.

Slaugoth watched the lightning crash harmlessly around him for a moment, savouring the spectacle. Then he sensed a shift in his eldritch protections. The surviving acolytes of his plague coven were trying to defend themselves, severing the link between their master and their own rotten souls!

Too late Slaugoth tried to refocus his protections, to shift the magical shells around him, but a final crackling shaft of lightning crashed down upon him from the sky. Slaugoth heard the worms in his mouth explode as the bolt seared through him, and smelt his own flesh boiling off his bones. He could see the smoke rising from his charred body. The sorcerer tried to summon a last effort, a last spell.

In a burst of noxious foulness, Slaugoth Maggotfang was gone.

Torglug watched as the avenging figure of the Celestant-Prime smashed into the monstrous ranks of his legion. A sweep of the godhammer Ghal Maraz and a score of daemons were obliterated, destroyed so completely that not even a splash of ichor or a drift of greasy smoke marked their passing. Troops of plaguebearers, packs of daemon-beasts, swarms of rot flies, mobs of atrocities for which even Torglug had no name – all were cut down by the divine avenger. The Celestant-Prime was an army unto himself, single-handedly negating the numerical supremacy the plaguehosts had enjoyed only moments before.

The warrior’s heart buried deep within the bloated corruption of Torglug’s body burned with anticipation. It had been a long time since he’d faced such an enemy, a worthy foe to pit his skills against. The lightning-men he’d vanquished, the sylvaneth treelords, the tribal kings and heroes – these were all nothing and less than nothing! In a year, in a decade, Torglug wouldn’t even remember their names, much less the ease with which he’d overcome them. But here, here was a foe of such legendary stature that even mighty daemons quailed before him. Here was an enemy Torglug could be proud to cut down with his axe. This victory would be no hollow, shallow thing, forgotten in the bleak morass of unremitting carnage and contagion.

Torglug started to call to Goregus Festermaw, to urge the putrid blightkings forwards, to command them to carve a path for him through the line of white-armoured lightning-men so that he wouldn’t sully himself against such wretches before pitting his might against that of Sigmar’s champion.

As the command formed on Torglug’s tongue, ripping pain shot through his swollen gut. Entombed within the foulness of his innards, the warlord knew his daemonic rotworm was angry. In its violence, the parasite communicated to its host the displeasure of his god. When the rotworm writhed it was a warning to the Grandfather’s favourite that Nurgle was watching him.

Pain ripping at his insides, Torglug fought the desire to plunge his hands into his own abdomen and tear the rotworm loose. There would be no relief from such madness, not even in death. Nurgle had many ways of both inflicting and prolonging the suffering of His victims. No, there was but one respite and that was to submit to the Grandfather’s demands.

Tearing his eyes from the Celestant-Prime, Torglug looked across the plateau. There was only one thing that Nurgle desired more than besting Sigmar’s champion on the battlefield. It was there in the gnarled hands of the Lady of Vines, glowing with the ethereal radiance that had drawn Torglug through the snow and fog – the queen-seed, the soulpod of Alarielle, the prize Nurgle would sow in His own pestilent gardens. It was to capture this prize for the Plague God that Torglug had been granted such power, and given authority over such a host of mortals and daemons. The Grandfather cared nothing about the scraps of martial pride that yet persisted in the septic flesh of his slave. All that concerned Nurgle was the treasure he’d coveted for so long.

Choking on his own bitterness, Torglug turned and glowered at the colossal Great Unclean Ones. Guthrax and his infernal brethren had held themselves back from the fighting, content to let the Celestant-Prime expend his energies slaughtering wave after wave of plaguebearers and Chaos warriors. The threat of the greater daemons was one Torglug had intended to hold over the heads of his foes, keeping his mightiest weapon as a reserve, letting the lightning-men and sylvaneth know that however many of his minions they killed, the trio would be waiting for them.

The havoc wrought by the Celestant-Prime and the demands of Nurgle changed all of that. Now Torglug would throw the greater daemons into the fight. Their might would test even Sigmar’s champion, and while the enemy was occupied, Torglug would have a free hand on the battlefield.

Uttering a foul word of power given to him by Nurgle Himself, Torglug ordered the Great Unclean Ones to the attack. Slobbering and laughing, the immense fiends waddled towards the thin line of lightning-men, careless of the lesser daemons and corrupt mortals they smashed under their ponderous immensity. Guthrax bore once more the grisly flail of skulls he had wielded upon the Sea of Serpents. Each of his brother daemons carried a titanic sword caked in diseased filth. Swarms of nurglings, each the tiny image of the Great Unclean Ones, scampered in the wake of the grotesque goliaths.

Torglug didn’t linger to watch the greater daemons attack the lightning-men and the Celestant-Prime. Though its agitation had diminished, he could still feel the rotworm wriggling inside him, reminding him that Nurgle’s gaze was fixed upon him.

Between the armoured ranks of the lightning-men, Torglug could see the sylvaneth. He could see what the Lady of Vines intended. She was trying to reach the obelisk at the centre of the plateau, the memorial erected ages ago to honour those who had fought against the first incursions of Nurgle’s forces against the Jade Kingdoms. Though twisted and eroded by the continuous assaults of Chaos against the ruins of Blackstone, the obelisk still retained its aura of power.

Standing in the branchwraith’s way, of course, was Torglug the Despised. ‘Be forgetting the lightning-men,’ he growled at his bodyguards. ‘While they are being busy with Guthrax and his kin, the way is being clear for to be striking tree people.’ He glared at Goregus, fingering his blackened axe when he saw the scowl on the blightlord’s loathsome face. ‘Be forgetting them,’ he snarled again. ‘Once I am taking queen-seed, Grandfather will be destroying them all!’

Torglug waved his axe overhead, pointing the corroded blade at the tree-creatures. The putrid blightkings formed up behind their master, following him across the plateau. The daemons and marauders in their path hurried to clear the way for the ghastly entourage. Those who had rushed forwards to engage the sylvaneth were the ones without the courage to face the Celestant-Prime and the lightning-men. They had no stomach to interfere with the blightkings either.

From the masses of sylvaneth, the towering shape of Haldroot and lesser tree-creatures lumbered out to block Torglug’s advance. The huge arboreal beings hurled chunks of stone knocked from the petrified trees at the plaguelord’s retinue. Several of the blightkings were pulverised under the enormous shards of rock, their bodies popping in greasy bursts. Other forest spirits stomped forwards, swinging their massive arms like bludgeons. Two more of Torglug’s companions were crushed by the sylvaneth, their rusted armour crumpling under the titanic blows of the forest spirits.

Then the blightkings swept forwards, their fearsome axes hacking into the bodies of the sylvaneth. Torglug’s blighted blade chopped through the leg of one treelord, then split the toppling creature’s trunk in half as it slammed to the earth. Well had he earned the infamous sobriquet of ‘Treecutter’, and as he plied his axe, the stench of blood-sap filled the air. Mighty as they were, the sylvaneth were no match for the murderous fury of Torglug and his bodyguard.

The warlord’s eyes glistened with gruesome anticipation. Past the dwindling ranks of the forest spirits, he could see the Lady of Vines and her dryads. He could see the radiant light of the queen-seed, the prize Nurgle demanded as tribute from His favoured champion. Ultimate triumph was within Torglug’s reach.

A thunderous roar shook the plateau. Torglug looked away from the last foes standing before him, turning his blemished eyes to the sky. Through the storm-clouds, he could see the vengeful glow of a comet hurtling downwards.

Aware of the threat to the queen-seed, the Celestant-Prime had ignored the oncoming Great Unclean Ones and the swarms of lesser foes all around him. Raising his sceptre, he had called another comet down from the heavens, loosing its celestial fury against Torglug and his bodyguard.

In a blast of blue fire, the warlord was hurled skywards, blown back by the calamitous impact.

Grymn brought his halberd shearing through the diving rot fly, severing the daemon’s thorax and abdomen. The crippled abomination crashed to the ground, crushing several marauders under its diseased mass. A quick stab to its chitinous head extinguished the monster’s stubborn vitality.

Turning from his late foe, Grymn braced himself to meet the rush of another horrific opponent. Instead, he found the daemons and barbarians drawing back, retreating from the line of Hallowed Knights. Any ideas that their withdrawal owed anything to the valour and tenacity of the Stormcasts quickly faded as a tremor shuddered through the plateau, swiftly followed by another and still another. The quakes were like colossal footfalls and when Grymn raised his gaze to look past the enemies nearby, he saw that the impression was justified. The Great Unclean Ones, the titanic daemons that had made even the Lord-Castellant’s confidence falter, were waddling forwards to join the battle.

Alarm pulsed through Grymn’s mind. He knew there could be but one adversary on the field against which Torglug would unleash these daemonic obscenities. He had seen the awesome power of the Celestant-Prime, but the memory of Guthrax’s assault against his forces on the frozen sea was a vivid one. Now there were three such horrors. Against such a concentration of festering evil, he feared even the avenging angel of Azyr would be swept aside.

Concern for the Celestant-Prime galvanised Grymn’s thoughts. Tightening his grip about his halberd, he raised his voice in a fierce shout. ‘For Sigmar!’ he thundered, hurling himself against the foe once more. Even if they all were to fall, all that mattered was aiding the Celestant-Prime in his moment of need.

All around Grymn, warriors in armour of silver and white struck down plaguebearers and beastmen with hammer and sword. Arrows from the remaining Judicators arced upwards to come crackling down into the massed slaves of Chaos. Foot by foot, yard by yard, the Stormcasts were cutting their way through the horde of enemies and to the embattled Celestant-Prime. If the winged hero could hold his own against the Great Unclean Ones for even a short time, then the Hallowed Knights and Knights Excelsior would be at his side.

The Celestant-Prime, however, was unable to focus upon the threat to himself. He had been vigilant in his fight against the plaguehosts, and when Torglug’s bodyguard charged towards the sylvaneth in a rush to reach the Lady of Vines, it was his actions that had blunted the warlord’s scheme. Evoking the might of his sceptre, he had sent a fiery orb searing down from the heavens to strike the diseased warlord and his entourage.

The measure, however, left the Celestant-Prime exposed to the colossal daemons waddling towards him. While he loosed the magic of his sceptre against Torglug, the Great Unclean Ones unleashed their own noxious powers against the avenging angel. Two of the bloated monstrosities opened their cavernous maws, vomiting a spume of sizzling filth against the warrior. The Celestant-Prime reeled against the attack, trying to shield himself against the boiling corruption with his wings. Steam billowed about the Celestant-Prime as the daemonic foulness splashed across him and evaporated in his holy aura.

The monstrous daemons had anticipated the limitation of their corrupt spew against a hero as sacred and mighty as the Celestant-Prime. All their vile assault could really do was occupy their enemy’s focus and keep him distracted. The real attack came from Guthrax. While its brother daemons spat their bile, Guthrax whipped its flail of skulls through the air, swinging it faster and faster in an ever-widening ring above its horned head. When the spinning flail had reached the peak of its momentum, Guthrax brought it lashing against the Celestant-Prime.

The flail struck the Celestant-Prime with an ear-splitting crack. The incredible momentum of the blow sent the hero hurtling high into the sky. The bloated daemons guffawed with obscene glee as they watched their foe vanish into the clouds.

An inarticulate shout of rage and disbelief ripped its way from Grymn’s throat. Redoubling his efforts, he butchered his way through the cheering masses of the plaguehosts. Damned mortal and diseased daemon alike perished upon his blade as he waded through the foul army. He gave no thought to his own protection or even to the impossible task he’d set himself. The only thought in Grymn’s mind was the awareness that he’d seen two mighty heroes vanquished by Guthrax. First Angstun and now the Celestant-Prime. If it cost him his own life, he was determined that the daemon would pay for its outrages. It would have no chance to savour its crimes.

Just as Grymn fought his way through a warherd of pestilent gors and found his path to the Great Unclean Ones clear, the slobbering laughter of the daemons died away. He could see the horned monsters turning their heads from side to side, trying to spot the Celestant-Prime’s battered body as it came crashing back to earth. When no such vision rewarded their search, the fiends craned their fat necks back and stared up at the storm-swept sky.

From those turbulent heavens, a winged shape appeared, darting down out of the clouds. Only for a heartbeat did Grymn mistake the figure for that of the Celestant-Prime; he quickly realised it was in fact Giomachus. His white armour gleaming with the lightning of the storm, the Knight-Venator hurtled downwards. He had an arrow nocked, his powerful arms holding the weapon taut against the winds that buffeted his plunging form. Lower and lower he descended, his aim never wavering. At last, the archer took his shot.

One of the greater daemons howled in agony as its leprous eye was pierced by a blazing arrow. Purifying magics surged from the star-fated arrow, pulsing through the obscene corruption of the daemon’s bulk. The Great Unclean One wailed and writhed, pawing towards its brother daemons in search of aid. Still calling to its brothers, the bloated daemon began to dissolve, its horrible essence collapsing under the purging force of the arrow. Soon all that was left of the monstrosity was a pond of bubbling muck and slime.

Other winged warriors dived down through the storm. Grymn could see his old comrade Tegrus, a hammer gripped in each hand. He dropped down towards the Great Unclean Ones, casting his crackling hammers into one of the swollen abominations. After him came the rest of the Prosecutors Grymn had sent to scout Blackstone Summit. They had seen the stormstrike from which the Celestant-Prime descended, and now they were lending their strength against the obscenities that had attacked Sigmar’s champion.

Trying to drag the Prosecutors from the sky with gouts of acidic vomit, Guthrax brought himself nearer to Grymn’s vengeful blade. Despite the hideous stench and sight of his enemy, regardless of the festering aura of sickness and death that swirled about the daemon, Grymn lunged at the putrid bulk. Shouting the war cry of the Hallowed Knights, he swung his halberd into the monster’s knee.

Sludge oozed from the wound Grymn visited against his foe. Guthrax’s bulk shuddered under the halberd’s bite. As the hulking daemon swayed around, he brought his flail crashing against the earth. Grymn dodged the pulverising smash of the hideous weapon. Lifting his warding lantern, he shone the holy light full up into the blemished eyes of his abominable foe.

Guthrax roared in agony, blinded by the divine light. Furious, he leaned downwards, trying to seize Grymn in a flabby claw. The Lord-Castellant braced himself. ‘Only the faithful,’ he vowed as he saw his opportunity. Firming his grip about the haft of his halberd, he thrust upwards with the weapon. Rotten flesh parted before the blade as he drove it deep into the Great Unclean One’s breast and impaled the diseased triple heart that throbbed within the obscene enormity.

Grymn ripped his weapon free and withdrew from his stricken foe. With a slobbering groan, the abominable bulk of Guthrax slammed face-first into the dirt. A final shudder and the daemon’s vitality abandoned his rapidly decaying carcass.

Grymn had no time to savour his triumph. A powerful blow sent him tumbling across the ground. Flat on his back, he looked up as the last of the Great Unclean Ones came waddling towards him, its blackened sword raised for a killing blow.

Before the daemon could strike, something flashed down from the sky above. Grymn felt his spirit soar as the Celestant-Prime hurtled back to the fray. Sigmar’s champion was returning to the battlefield. His wings seemed as if they were threads of lightning. His armour looked as though it were sheathed in flame. The head of Ghal Maraz burned with the brilliance of the sun, blinding in its majesty.

The Great Unclean One followed Grymn’s gaze. It was afforded the merest glimpse of its own doom in the instant before Ghal Maraz struck it down. Supercharged in the middle of the storm, the godhammer’s impact evaporated the daemon’s horned head, reducing it to naught but a steaming sizzle of pollution. The decapitated monster slammed down, decaying with the same intensity as the corpses of its brothers. The Celestant-Prime hovered above the vanquished abomination, his blazing wings fanning the air.

Shrieks of panic rose from the surviving daemons. With Guthrax and its kin destroyed, without the bindings of Slaugoth’s magic to hold them, the plagued throng began to dissipate, receding into the shadows rather than face the wrath of the Celestant-Prime.

Grymn looked up at the victorious hero, but already the Celestant-Prime was in motion. His fight with the daemons had been brief, but in even so slight a delay, the powers of darkness had been active. While they were destroying the Great Unclean Ones, the Stormcasts had presented an opportunity for their enemy to snatch a still greater victory from them.

Once there had been a great hero named Tornus, warrior-guardian of the Everdawn tribe, defender of the Lifewell upon which the very existence of his people had depended. He had been heralded as a scion of human perfection by his people, worshipped as an aspirational paragon to inspire the dreams and ambitions of king and druid alike. The desires of Tornus had been neither for wealth nor for glory. Improvement, the achievement of a greater and purer kind of perfection: this had been the vision that ruled his heart.

When the plaguehosts descended upon his people, Tornus had fought them to the very last. He had endured within the Pit of Filth, surviving upon the basest and barest of essentials. For a time, he had continued to cling to his ideals, his vision of perfection of body and spirit. Within the pit, however, his flesh began to decay, his body corrupted and defiled. With the contamination of his flesh, seeds of despair were sown in his mind. Through that despair, his soul was enslaved by Nurgle. Tornus the hero became Torglug the Despised.

In the depths of his hopelessness, Torglug reviled his old aspirations as naivety. There was no such perfection of body and soul as that which he had struggled to find. All a man could wrest from his existence was power. It was in might alone that a mortal exhibited his worth. Power, raw merciless force, was the only reality. Only through his capacity to conquer and destroy did a man prove his value to the gods.

Such were the truths Nurgle whispered to Torglug as he fell into despair. How long he had lived by the diseased mantra of the Plague God, he couldn’t remember, but there were times, moments of doubt, when a flicker of the man he had once been stirred within him. In such moments he looked upon the bloated, ghastly horror he had become, considered the atrocities he had exacted as tribute to the very power that had inflicted this fate upon him. He recognised the stubborn pride that drove him on for the madness it was. He understood how low he had fallen.

Seeing the Celestant-Prime, Torglug knew everything he’d been told was a lie. It was impossible to deny the majestic perfection of Sigmar’s champion as he struck out against the daemonic hosts of Nurgle. The aspirations that had stirred the heart of Tornus were possible. It would have been better for him to have perished in the Pit of Filth than to lose the hope that had once ennobled him.

Torglug staggered back to his feet, his body blasted and broken by the comet hurled down upon him by the Celestant-Prime. The warlord’s physical injuries were nothing beside the doubt that roared through his spirit. His fealty to Nurgle flickered, withering before the divine might of the Celestant-Prime.

The eye of Nurgle was yet upon His favoured champion, however, and He would not allow His slave to slip free of His domination so easily. The queen-seed was within Torglug’s grasp. All that was needed was a slight push, a tiny infusion of power, and the plaguelord would prevail.

From the heavens, malignant power once again descended upon Torglug, but this time it was to strengthen rather than destroy. A bilious shower rained down upon him from the poisoned sky, a stream of toxic contagion that seeped into his corrupt flesh. Broken bones were infused with abominable vitality and scorched skin hardened into leathery endurance. The thousand pains that wracked the warlord’s body were transformed into naked, brutal power, saturating his mind with images of carnage and destruction. Snatching his ghastly axe from the scorched earth, Torglug lifted his horned head and slobbered a renewed oath of fealty to his grisly god.

Around Torglug, the putrid blightkings likewise rose from the dissolution that had threatened them. Wherever the spark of life lingered, the profane infection of Nurgle’s obscene baptism revived flesh and corrupted soul. A gibbous light shone from the eyes of the warlord’s entourage as they surged once more to the attack.

The sylvaneth were before them, the wounds visited against them by Torglug’s first push regenerated by the healing radiance of the queen-seed. Limbs hacked away by the axes and swords of the blightkings had regrown, and bark gouged by the disciples of decay had knitted together. The decimated wargroves were restored, ready to defend the Lady of Vines and the sacred burden she bore.

It was an eerie battle as Torglug drove his retinue against the sylvaneth. Flushed with the obscene power of Nurgle, the putrid blightkings were walking engines of destruction. The wounds caused by the forest spirits regenerated as swiftly as the cuts they dealt in return. Two unkillable forces locked in merciless battle. Haldroot seized Goregus in his gnarled hands, lifting the blightlord high before applying a tremendous pressure that threatened to rend the warrior to pulp. Goregus, even as his body was tortured out of any semblance of shape, hacked away at the treelord, stripping away slivers of heartwood that were restored the instant his blade pulled free.

The malign might of Nurgle was invested too heavily in Torglug to be defied by the diminished energies of the Everqueen. Where Torglug’s axe struck the sylvaneth, a crust of corruption was left behind. Limbs shorn away by his blackened blade regrew as weak, twisted things, devoid of the strength to oppose him. While his bodyguard languished in futile conflict, Torglug was able to press on, driving a wedge deep within the ranks of the tree-creatures.

At last the warlord found himself cutting down the file of dryads surrounding the Lady of Vines. A guttural laugh drooled from behind his horned helm as Torglug found himself alone with the branchwraith. His three eyes focused upon the radiant glow of the queen-seed she clutched in her hand.

‘That is mine,’ he hissed. ‘Too long are you keeping it from me. You are cheating me of my prize no longer!’

Rushing forwards, Torglug brought his axe swinging around. The Lady of Vines expended some measure of her power, conjuring a web of thorns that erupted from the ground to ensnare her enemy. The vines wound about the warlord’s body, stabbing his flesh with their spines, but the impetus of his charge was barely blunted. He drove his swollen bulk through the thorns, defiant of the ruin wrought upon his body. This close to the prize he’d promised Nurgle, Torglug would not be denied.

The filthy axe of the Treecutter slammed into the branchwraith, ripping deep into her trunk. The Lady of Vines slashed at him with her claws, but even with the power of the Radiant Queen to empower her assault, it wasn’t enough to overcome Torglug. Gloating, the plaguelord brought his axe hewing down once more, chopping into the crown of branches atop the Lady of Vines’ head. Lifesap sprayed from the grisly wound. Propelled by the infernal might that rippled through Torglug’s polluted frame, the axe dug deep, splitting the branchwraith’s head, gouging a ruinous cut down the middle of her visage.

The Lady of Vines crumpled at Torglug’s feet. Down came the blackened axe once more, shearing through her arm and sending it rolling across the ground. Again the foul blade chopped into her, ripping through her trunk in a spray of gooey lifesap. Splinters of wood flew from her mangled body as the plaguelord hacked away at his beaten foe. All the frustration of his long hunt was visited upon the branchwraith. Each gash, each cut, was delivered with vengeance. When he had finished, the Lady of Vines had been reduced to a heap of kindling.

Torglug bellowed with delight as he reached down to rip the glowing queen-seed from where it lay amid the hewn remains of the Lady of Vines.

Before he could seize the prize Nurgle had coveted for so long, Torglug heard the rumbling fury of the remaining sylvaneth and the enraged shout of the surviving Stormcasts. Even as his pestilent fingers stretched down, doom descended upon Torglug the Despised.

Storming from the sky, the Celestant-Prime dived upon the bloated warlord. Crackling with the vengeful wrath of the God-King, Ghal Maraz came hurtling downwards at Torglug. He raised his fell axe to parry the two-handed blow, but the iridescent fury of the avenging angel would not be denied. The warhammer shattered Torglug’s foul axe, exploding the weapon in a spray of black sorcery and rusted shards. Ghal Maraz drove onwards, its momentum unimpaired by the destruction of Torglug’s blade. The plaguelord’s horned helm shattered like an egg as the hammer crashed down upon it, the head within reduced to a mire of diseased pulp. A filthy miasma of green vapour spilled from the carcass, sizzling and steaming as it stained the earth around the body.

Torglug slopped to the ground. From his ruptured head, a bright blue light leapt into the stormy sky, vanishing into the celestial tempest of Sigmar’s justice. A single peal of cosmic thunder boomed above Blackstone Summit. Nurgle’s favourite had found his doom.

Lord-Castellant Lorrus Grymn led the last of the Hallowed Knights towards the broken husk that had been the Lady of Vines. Giomachus and the surviving Knights Excelsior maintained the battle line, falling back towards the ruined sylvaneth formations while keeping the remaining plague warriors at bay. The Celestant-Prime, after defeating Torglug, returned to the battle, hurling the awesome might of his vengeance against the enemy ranks.

The sylvaneth stood around their lost leader, mourning her in their sombre fashion. Strangely, none of the tree-creatures had moved to take the queen-seed from the branchwraith’s hand. Instead they were forming into a defensive ring around the body of their fallen mistress. The great treelord Haldroot noted the approach of Grymn. There was a look of acceptance in the creature’s gaze now, a mark of respect for how keenly Grymn had tried to fight on their behalf.

Grymn looked down upon the fading light of the queen-seed, and wondered whether Alarielle could ever be safe here. What if another and mightier plaguehost descended upon Blackstone Summit before her powers were replenished? Could the Ruinous Powers be defeated a second time?

Grymn cast his questioning gaze across the faces of Lord-Relictor Morbus, Prosecutor-Prime Tegrus and all the other Hallowed Knights who had survived the long campaign. Tallon, limping to his master’s side, turned and growled at the battle yet raging on the plateau.

The Lord-Castellant was happy to see his companion again, but he took more than comfort from the gryph-hound’s simple display of devotion and service. Tallon didn’t question the shadows of the future. For him, the demands of the moment were all that mattered.

‘Liberator-Prime Agrippa!’ Grymn called out. ‘Form a shield wall ahead of the sylvaneth! Judicators, take position at the flanks! Prosecutors, support the Knights Excelsior!’

As his warriors hastened to carry out his commands, Grymn took his place among the Liberators, the light of his warding lantern shining upon them, reinvigorating them. This was their purpose, to defend the innocent against the ravages of Chaos. They would not stray from that purpose. For as long as Sigmar asked it of them, they would hold back the tide of darkness and keep safe the ember of hope than shone within the Everqueen’s soulpod.

Victory was measured in moments, but enough moments bound together would build the future.

About the Author

C L Werner’s Black Library credits include the Space Marine Battles novel The Siege of Castellax, the Age of Sigmar novella ‘Scion of the Storm’ in Hammers of Sigmar, the End Times novel Deathblade, Mathias Thulmann: Witch Hunter, Runefang, the Brunner the Bounty Hunter trilogy, the Thanquol and Boneripper series and Time of Legends: The Black Plague series. Currently living in the American south-west, he continues to write stories of mayhem and madness set in the worlds of Warhammer 40,000 and the Age of Sigmar.

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.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

The Realmgate Wars: Wardens of the Everqueen © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. The Realmgate Wars: Wardens of the Everqueen, 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: 978-1-78572-055-0

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.