The Paradise of Worms

Slowly, cautiously, the warriors of the Living City navigated the bubbling swamp. The mottled green uniforms of the Freeguild disappeared amidst Thyria’s dense foliage. The jungles surrounding the foot of the Purgepeaks seethed with life, and much of it was still of tainted origin. But the pathfinders of the Viridian Shield were veterans all, and theirs was a confidence born from experience.

Sweat prickled upon Brael’s weather-beaten brow as he crept through the steaming bog. The crossbowman’s fingers curled around his trusty ironoak weapon. His vision was keen even as the cloying scent on the air saw his eyes water. For all the gains that had been made, much of Thyria still stank of rot. The further you wandered from the sparse outposts of civilisation, the worse the stench became. But that was just another reality of life in the Shield – albeit not one the ranger-captains were keen to promote.

At his side, Lessin sniffed in displeasure. ‘Weren’t we winning this war?’ The other soldier asked, cursing as a patch of brackish filth threatened to rob her of her footing. ‘I distinctly remember being told that we were winning.’

‘I expressed such a sentiment to one of the storm-blessed, once,’ Brael said as he continued to watch the treeline – for all the help peering into the shadowy depths provided. A smile tugged at his lips as he felt the rest of the patrol stare at him. Few mortals had the nerve to express anything approaching doubt to a Stormcast. ‘He said that if we think this is a swamp, you should have seen it during the Season.’

That elicited a few nods of contemplation amongst the Freeguilders. All of them had been raised on stories of the Season of War, of the foundation of the Living City and its sister-metropolises across the Everspring Swathe. They’d all been scared into behaving by their parents’ whispered legends of the Plague God’s ravages.

‘Besides,’ the trooper said. ‘We know how the rotlings fight. All droning and clanging their bells as they trollop through the mud. We’ll give ’em the Everqueen’s regards before they get anywhere close,’ as the resulting laughter subsided, the crossbowman glanced towards the lone figure crouching upon a moss-covered rock nearby. ‘Especially with the noble Oakenbrow to aid us.’

The Dryad did not reply. Though he hadn’t shared the thought with his fellow Freeguilders, Brael held the sneaking suspicion that Fyrillia had performed some transgression that had seen her condemned to accompany the patrol. Certainly the Sylvaneth did not seem pleased about it. As her sisters stalked the dark woods surrounding the bog, the Dryad looked to the crossbowman. Brael got the distinct impression that she was scowling at him.

‘You talk overmuch, soft-flesh.’

‘Just trying to keep spirits up, m’lady,’ the crossbowman said. ‘Keeps their minds off the smell.’

‘Keep their minds on their duties,’ the Sylvaneth said, her voice a hissing creak of displeasure. ‘These woods seethe with foes still. There are bleak omens whispered through the spirit-song. Fell groves rise amidst the shadows, and it is said the accursed Cultivator walks these woods once more.’

The name meant nothing to Brael, though his gut roiled instinctively at the words. Fyrillia noted his ignorance, hissing in frustration. ‘Mortals. I do not—’

The Dryad froze mid-sentence. The suddenness saw Brael’s heart skip a beat. Around him, the other pathfinders paused, crouching down further into the mire and readying their crossbows. Fyrillia remained staring off into the distance, talons tensed.

‘My sisters,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot sense my sisters.’

Brael’s heart hammered a furious rhythm. Any moment now he expected to hear the distinctive droning of flies amidst the trees, the tolling of daemonic bells and gurgling chortles of the Plague God’s favoured. Fyrilia seemed to agree, raising to her full height atop the rock and letting out warning shrieks.

Brael’s eyes dropped, ever so briefly, to the thick bog surrounding them. Amidst the filth a set of tri-lobed eyes blinked open, staring back up at him.

The Plague Father’s children, it seemed, were more subtle than he had expected.

The Beasts burst from concealment before he could shout a warning. They had restrained their enthusiasm thus far, but now – with so many new friends to play with – they could not help themselves. Several crossbowmen, Lessin amongst them, were knocked from their feet by the sudden ambush. Those that were not crushed beneath the slobbering daemon-slugs were drowned amidst the foul bog-waters, or had their flesh melted by the corrosive juices dripping from the creatures’ lapping tongues.

Only now did the blight-lords emerge from the trees. Many bore axes still dripping with fresh sap. As Brael watched Fyrilia launched herself at one of the Nurglites, talons extended. The Blightking staggered back a step as she impacted, but it did not fall. A rusting cleaver swung out and caught the Dryad around the waist, smashing her into splinters.

One of the tainted warriors stomping through the bog was coming straight for Brael. He took aim down his crossbow and let the sharpened bolt fly. The projectile lodged fast in the Blightking’s gut. The warrior paused to glance at the irritant protruding from it, before looking back at Brael.

‘You are lucky,’ it said, voice choked with phlegm and bile. ‘You will do.’

The crossbowman had no time to wonder what it meant before the Blightking reached out and grasped him by the throat. It was monstrously strong, lifting him with ease and carrying him off. The smell was overpowering; Brael retched and strained, dropping his crossbow into the muck. Some distant part of his mind acknowledged that the sounds of battle had ceased.

Some of the Nurglites lingered to befoul the dead, but many accompanied the warrior carrying Brael. The man only had a vague notion of where they passed; as they pressed deeper into the woods the trees turned withered and decrepit, or bloated with unclean life. The ground writhed with the scurrying of insects. Things watched their passage from the shadows, rotted deer-husks with maggots wriggling in empty eye sockets.

At last, Brael was dumped at the centre of a stinking glade. A heavy boot pinned him down, eliciting a cry of pain as it drove him into the muck. With escape impossible, the crossbowman attempted to take a breath – swallowing a mouthful of putrid mud in the process – and raised his eyes.

More Blightkings lingered nearby, offering dark praise to their master or affectionately petting slobbering daemon-beasts. They were not the worst of it, though. Nor were the daemonic scribes muttering to themselves as they endlessly scribbled across thick rolls of parchment. It was not even the twin black trees that dominated the glade, though they were terrible enough, their bark contorted into the image of vomiting faces and their roots digging hungrily into the earth. No, the worst was the squat figure mounted atop some bloated gastropod, scattering pus-filled organs around the bases of the trees.

‘That’s it, me lovelies. Grow big and strong.’

As the daemon spoke, its head whipped round. The solitary eye in the centre of its forehead glared at Brael; the malice-fuelled orb transfixed him, the mortal’s gut roiling and convulsing painfully as a wave of half-maddened terror sent his limbs thrashing. With a grunt, the daemonic overseer waggled a stick before the stalk-eyes of its abominable mount. Upon its end was tied one of the daemon’s diminutive brethren; it wailed, but provided a sufficient lure for the gastropod, setting it slithering across the ground closer to Brael.

‘This the best ye can do, then?’ the daemon was looking at him, but speaking to its disciples. Brael tried to avoid the acidic slobber dribbling from the slug creature’s mouth as the Blightking pinning him spoke.

‘He will suffice, noble Cultivator.’

‘Bah. “He will suffice”. That’s the story of your entire ephemeral domain,’ the daemon grunted miserably. Its attention snapped back to Brael. ‘Up you get, then’. Corrupted woodsman’s tools clattered against the saddle of its mount. The pressure lifted from Brael’s back, only for him to be yanked upwards; as the daemon turned to slither away the crossbowman was dragged along in its wake. They soon paused at a deep hole dug between the great black oaks. Roots slithered through the dripping soil, plunging deep into Ghryan’s realmcrust.

‘Hold this,’ the daemon said. It reached into one of the pouches surrounding the saddle, retrieving a small black seed. Brael kicked and screamed in wordless desperation; the Cultivator grumbled something indecipherable before forcing the seed into his mouth. His tongue burnt and blistered at the slimy thing’s touch, a muffled scream of pain escaping as he felt his teeth begin to putrefy. ‘Hold on tight,’ the daemon ordered. ‘Don’t you be lettin’ go, now.’

The pain was horrendous, yet shock kept Brael’s jaw locked tight. Still, the daemon seemed to read the fearful question written in his eyes. It snarled, turning away and spitting a lump of seeping bile into the rotten undergrowth

‘Bah. Questions, always questions. Your man-god tried to hide these little beauties away, long ago. But old Horticulous found ’em though, didn’t he? Oh yes, cracked open the stormling’s vaults and brought these precious treasures back into Grandfather’s embrace. The roots they make run deep. They send our gifts pumping right through the crust of this miserable realm,’ it was rambling now, lost in the sound of its own phlegmatic voice.

‘The forest-folk, they don’t like it. Some of them tried to knock down one of these lovely oaks recently, while we were a-rooting through Sigmar’s storehouses. Maybe they succeeded. Maybe they didn’t,’ it shrugged. ‘We’ll grow more. We always do. The next great sowing is a-coming, mortal. Ye should feel honoured to be playin’ your part in the cycle.’

The daemon looked away, distracted. Its claws tapped along the handles of rust-encrusted shears. ‘Do me a favour, would ye? When your soul reaches Shyish – if it reaches Shyish – tell Nagash that the Cultivator has unfinished business with him.’

Brael did not have time to wonder what the daemon meant before it plunged the pointed tips of the shears deep into his chest. He convulsed as his ribs collapsed; gore sprayed from the ragged wound and welled up his throat as a thick crimson river. Unceremoniously, Brael’s body – still clutching the black seedling between his teeth – was dropped into the pit, landing with a muted thud amidst the tainted loam. The last thing the crossbowman knew was his open grave being filled with soil, and the seed pulsating as it was coated in his clotting blood.

PRODUCED BY GAMES WORKSHOP IN NOTTINGHAM

The Paradise of Worms © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. The Paradise of Worms, Forbidden Power, GW, Games Workshop, Warhammer, 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.

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