Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Behind the bark-born giant came a clattering warglade of Sylvaneth dryads, crooning an eerie song of slaughter. With whipping, vicious talons they stabbed and strangled any daemons that had survived the treelord’s initial charge. The Lord-Celestant stepped back as a sharp-limbed dryad bounded past him to pounce upon a plaguebearer. He stepped forward, hammer raised, to help the treekin and the dryad whirled with a hiss.

He lowered his weapon and took a step back. The dryad turned back to its prey and stabbed branch-like fingers into the daemon’s one bleary eye. The plaguebearer bucked and kicked as the dryad peeled its skull apart.

After a moment, the dryad rose, hissed at Zephacleas again, and then loped away. He watched it go, uncertain as to whether it was advisable to follow. Had Sigmar’s messengers found Alarielle? Or were these treekin acting on their own savage initiative?

A moment later, his question was answered. The last daemon fell, pulled apart by two squabbling dryads. The treelord shoved the two creatures aside and moved ponderously towards the remaining Stormcast. Zephacleas rejoined the others; Gravewalker and the Judicator-Prime of the Hallowed Knights followed him.

‘Solus,’ Zephacleas murmured. ‘Good to see you still breathing.’

‘For now, at any rate,’ Solus said, wiping pestilential muck from the blade of his gladius. His once-pristine armour was caked in mud and grime. ‘Gardus?’

‘Gone,’ Zephacleas said.

Solus nodded, knowing well enough what that meant. ‘Most of us are,’ he said softly.

Zephacleas tossed a quick glance behind him. There were fewer than three dozen warriors between their hosts who could stand unassisted. The Hallowed Knights and the Astral Templars had paid a heavy toll to take the Ghyrtract Fen. ‘The rest of us might soon be joining them,’ Solus continued, jerking his chin towards the approaching treelord.

‘Well, only one way to find out,’ Zephacleas said. He looked at Gravewalker. ‘You know what to do. If they decide we’re not allies, call down the lightning until there isn’t a tree left standing.’

‘And then what?’ Gravewalker asked, leaning against his standard.

‘Whatever you see fit — I’ll be back in the forges by then,’ Zephacleas shot back, over his shoulder, as he strode to meet the treelord. He turned to face the immense being, and studied it closely, looking for any hint of its intentions.

I wish it was you standing here my friend, rather than me, he thought, glancing at the remains of the realmgate. Gardus would have known what to do, that much he was sure of.

He swung his hammer up onto his shoulder and sheathed his sword as the treelord came to a creaking halt before him. The ancient being stared down at him for a long moment, its green eyes glowing strangely. Zephacleas felt a chill as he met its gaze. There was a power there, unlike anything he had yet encountered. Behind it, dryads prowled and hissed, clattering leafy claws. He had never seen such creatures before, and the way they moved set his teeth on edge. They watched him with what he took to be wariness, and suspected that if he said the wrong thing, the dryads would leap on him and seek to tear him limb from limb.

Zephacleas cleared his throat and hesitated. What was the proper way to address a walking tree? How did one talk to a creature like this? Would it even understand him? ‘We… thank you, forest-lord.’

The treelord stared down at him for long moments. ‘ Weee… haaave… cooome, ’ it said, speaking slowly, as if human speech were difficult for it. Its voice sounded like branches creaking in a wind storm. ‘ Weee… have… come… to… aid… thee, ’ it continued.

‘And we thank thee, mighty one. Your arrival was timely, and much appreciated,’ Zephacleas said. The creature’s voice reverberated through him, and he was suddenly glad that he didn’t have to fight this being. He had no doubt he would be victorious, but it would be a close thing.

The treelord was silent for a time. Then, with a rustling groan, it said, ‘ Aaaazyr… There… is… a… way… baaack… to… Azyr. ’ It turned slightly, following his glance towards the realmgate. A sound like leaves swirling in the wind emerged from the treekin’s bark-covered jaws. ‘ Not… thaaat… way.’ It turned away. ‘Weee… will… show… you.’

Slowly, with great earth-shaking strides, the treelord began to depart. Dryads clustered about it like adoring courtiers. Zephacleas shook his head. A being of few words, he thought. He looked at the smashed and mangled remains of the skaven. Then, who needs words?

‘Thank you,’ he called after the treelord. Turning, he spoke to his brothers. ‘Seker, take Solus and two others — see what our… allies have to show us.’ He still wasn’t certain whether the sudden arrival of the warglades meant that Sigmar’s emissaries had been successful in their task, or that the creatures had come on their own initiative, but it hardly mattered. If they knew of a functioning realmgate, one that could provide a route to Azyr, then it would be the height of foolishness to ignore it. They needed reinforcements badly, and the Hallowed Knights needed their Lord-Castellant now that their Lord-Celestant had fallen.

Zephacleas looked towards the shattered realmgate. Dust and smoke still rose from the fallen stones, marking the final resting place of the Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights. He could not say whether a soul could find its way back to Azyr from within the Realm of Chaos. Somehow, he didn’t think so, else what was all of this for? Why bother to wage war, if the Ruinous Powers could be defeated so easily? Gardus would not reappear in the celestine vaults of far off Sigmaron, hale and hearty.

Grymn will not forgive me, he thought. The Lord-Castellant had asked him to keep Gardus safe, and he had failed. It would not matter that Gardus had chosen his fate as a warrior.

Zephacleas sighed and bowed his head. I am sorry, my friend, he thought.

He slowly sank to one knee, planting his hammer and sword in the earth before him. All around him the remaining Stormcasts followed suit, bowing in silence — Hallowed Knights and Astral Templars alike, offering prayers for Gardus, the Steel Soul.

Zephacleas closed his eyes.

Go in peace, Gardus. Fight well. Wherever you are now, I hope that your faith has not deserted you.

Gardus ran.

His breath burned in his lungs. His heart pounded feverishly. Every step was a titanic struggle, and his limbs felt like weights of pure sigmarite. The weapons in his hands were heavier than he had ever known them to be, but he dared not drop them. Not here.

He ran, pushing himself through thigh-deep muck, and sucking ordure. He knew that, were it not for his faith, he would have been dead a hundred times over.

‘Only the faithful,’ he gasped ‘Only the faithful.’ The words escaped his cracked and bleeding lips over and over again, a mantra against madness, a reminder of who he was. The words kept his limbs moving and his abused lungs snatching in the foul air.

He heard a thunderous splash behind him, but did not dare look back. He would have seen nothing, he knew, save the miasmic haze that cloaked this place. In a way, he was thankful for it — no mortal could gaze upon the loathsome horrors of Nurgle’s garden and emerge sane.

Then, perhaps you are already mad, he thought, and choked on a wild laugh. If he started laughing, he would not stop. Around him, he heard the tinny giggles of nurglings and worse things, as they watched him go by. So far, none had sought to bar his path, and why would they? There was no escape from the garden, and he was already marked by one greater than they. ‘Only the faithful,’ he hissed. ‘Only the faithful. Only the faithful.’