Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘We’ll give them more light than they can choke down, when we set our balefires to blazing,’ Goral rumbled. ‘We shall cast back the shadows of life, and reveal our horrors with perfect clarity.’ The words sounded good, but the dark remained, and the echoes of the scream as well. What had it been? Some animal, perhaps. There were beasts aplenty in these forests — iridescent wyrms, their scales flashing emerald, and packs of scuttling spiders, each as large as a Chaos hound. But no beast he knew of screamed like that.

Despite his bravado, his warriors crowded together. The voice of Grandfather was but a dim rumble here. There were the bones of men and monsters filling the hollows within the roots — a stark reminder that they were not the first warband to attempt this feat. Every Rotbringer felt the choking weight of uncorrupted life on the air, seeking to smother them. Uctor used his broad, broken-tipped sword to chop a path through the tangled density of the forest. Sir Culgus and the others did the same, hacking at the branches and roots which seemed to rise up in opposition to them.

Goral longed to topple the trees, and burn their roots to ash. But that was a fool’s game. They could burn a thousand trees and make no impact on the Writhing Weald’s size. It grew larger with every passing year, denying Nurgle his rightful due. The forest swallowed bastions and pox-gardens, setting back the hard work of ages. Only by taking control of the heartstones of the Writhing Weald could Nurgle claim this forest as he had others, such as the Grove of Blighted Lanterns or the Glade of Horned Growths. Only by cleaving the great stones he’d seen in the visions conjured by the Lady of Cankerwall, and blighting the crystal source-waters which fed the cursed trees looming above them, could he salvage this place.

Branches cracked and splintered in the dark, noises separate from the thud of axes and the rattle of swords. Unseen things were moving past the Rotbringers, flowing away from them, heading… where? Goral peered into the dark as he urged Blighthoof on. What were they fleeing from — his Rotbringers, or something else? Again, he wondered what the Lady had seen, and what she had not told him. He shook his head, banishing his fears. ‘We are the hunters in this forest, not the hunted. Grandfather stands at my right hand, and the King of Flies at my left,’ he murmured. Lifebiter quivered encouragingly.

‘Almost there, my lord,’ Uctor murmured. The hound-master was trudging alongside him. ‘We caught the other one around here. You can hear them… and feel that? Something is calling them home to the forest’s heart.’ He shook his head. ‘They always run.’

Goral grunted. The air was reverberating now with a bone-deep throb that set his remaining teeth to itching. It was as if the scream had been but a prelude to this new intrusion of noise. The heartstones, he thought. He could feel it in his bones. Blighthoof whickered softly. He looked up, eyes narrowed.

Something shone, out in the dark. At first, he thought it was balefire, but it lacked the oily sheen. Instead, it put him in mind of sunlight reflected on rolling waters. Goral’s lip curled. The forest was filled with sound now, so that the noise of the Rotbringers’ approach was obscured. The trees were shuddering as if caught in a hurricane wind, and the shadows were full of movement. He kicked Blighthoof into a gallop, and Sir Culgus and the others followed his example. Uctor led the rest of the Rotbringers in Goral’s wake, his hounds yelping and scuttling around him.

Goral slowed as he reached the edges of the light, and lifted Lifebiter in a signal to dismount. The other knights jerked on their reins, causing their steeds to rear and screech. Goral slid from the saddle and led Blighthoof forwards. The light, soft as it was, stung his eyes and skin, and he raised Lifebiter to shade his face. The trees and their tangling roots began to thin and bend, revealing a vast, rotunda-like glade. The canopy overhead was so thick that no light could pierce its shadowed recesses.

The trees at the edges of the clearing bent outwards, as if pushed away from the edifice which occupied its grassy heart. Even the roots were humped and coiled, like paving stones leading into a sacred temple. And at the centre of the glade, radiating a soft light and unbearable warmth, were the stones. Goral hissed in satisfaction. Even as the Lady of Cankerwall had promised.

The stones were large, many hands taller than the gaunt, branch-antlered tree spirits which had gathered before them, crooked talons raised as if in supplication. The man-sized creatures surrounded the stones in a loose circle. A trickle of gleaming water poured down from some unseen source within the stones, and dampened the verdant grasses. A shroud of vibrant green moss almost obscured the strange sigils which had been carved into the flat face of each of the stones. Goral didn’t recognise the markings, for they were unlike any dread marking or bane-symbol he was familiar with. But whatever they were, Lifebiter was eager to deface them.

The axe strained in his hands like one of Uctor’s hounds, its thorny haft digging painfully into his palms. Some instinct held him back. If they attacked now, the tree spirits would simply scatter and vanish. The forest would swallow them up, and even Uctor wouldn’t be able to track them. Let them begin, he thought. Let them start whatever they had come to this place to do. Then, and only then, would come the time to strike.

As one, the tree spirits extended their arms and their bark-like flesh began to unravel and stretch with a cacophonous hiss. Talon and claw blended, forming an unbroken ring of bodies about the circumference of the shining stones. Root-like toes dug into the soil, anchoring them. Branch-laced skulls tipped back as jagged mouths opened, and a dirge-like groan rose. Softly at first, but growing louder and deeper with every moment. The sound pulsated on the air, pounding at Goral’s ears as he climbed back into Blighthoof’s saddle.

‘What are they doing?’ the young knight, Pallid Woes, mumbled through the seeping bandages wrapped about his head. He pointed as he hauled himself up onto his own steed, and Goral looked. The stones were shining as brightly as the moon, where they were not covered in moss. Leaves rose, cast into the air by the wind. The song of the tree spirits rose, higher and fiercer. The stones shimmered and grew indistinct as the light swelled.

It was even as the Lady of Cankerwall had said, and Grandfather through her. The secret of the Writhing Weald, and why no one had been able to find its thudding, stony heart. The accursed tree-things were singing it elsewhere. Singing it to safety. If it was allowed to vanish, Goral and his warriors might spend a century searching before stumbling across it again.

‘Now. Take them now.’ Goral kicked Blighthoof into a gallop and charged towards the ring of preoccupied tree-folk. ‘For Nurgle and the Garden!’ Lifebiter wailed eagerly as he swung it down on one of the tree-things, splitting it from branches to trunk. The edges of the wound turned black and powdery and the golden sap of the creature became turgid and murky as the axe’s venom took hold. The tree spirit toppled with a rattling cry, tearing loose from its fellows, and the dreadful song faltered for a moment before rising anew.

Goral jerked on Blighthoof’s reins, turning his steed about. ‘They are trying to steal our prize, brothers. Teach them the folly of denying Grandfather his due,’ he roared, urging Blighthoof towards more of the tree-things that lurched out of the forest, seeking to defend their cowardly ritual. The one in the lead was far larger than the others, more than three times the height of a man, with a gnarled bulk that bespoke a monstrous strength. Goral thought it was surely a lord of its kind. The massive being strode to meet his charge as its followers swarmed in its wake, its every step causing the ground to shake.