by Andy Clark
Tarion blinked, deciphering the Branchwraith’s strange words.
‘You and I both,’ he said after a moment. ‘But still, I give you thanks for your aid.’
‘Thank not this thicketling yet, winged storm caster,’ said the Branchwraith with a sharp-fanged smile. Tarion was suddenly acutely aware of the veritable grove of sylvaneth that now sprouted around him at the crater’s heart. There were dozens, large and small, a whole warband of the fey creatures. The sylvaneth of Dreadwood had the darkest reputation of all their kind.
‘Why do you say so?’ he asked slowly. ‘Do you mean me harm?’
A susurrus passed through the assembled sylvaneth, and it took him a moment to understand that he was hearing a cruel approximation of laughter.
‘Harming you? Why that would we do?’ asked the Branchwraith. ‘Safehold your flesh from the rotlings’ touch, just about the turn and strike you down? No, caprice has its roots and its branches both, and neither reach such lengths.’
‘Then what?’ asked Tarion. ‘Is there some debt I now owe you?’
‘This, only, do you need to attend,’ said the Branchwraith, leaning close. He smelt deep, wet loam and the cold bark of the night-time forest in driving rain. ‘Hear you the words of Ithary, she the handmaid thrice-coiled of the woodsenwych Wytha. It is time for the unworthy changeling child to come to us. It is time that her seeings became doings, became payings of the debt that long planted now ripens and bursts to seed. Tell her step she through the Brazenreach gate her swiftly-trod self, and mere look she upon the lands beyond the river’s third winding. There, skyling, she’ll see her truths and come she back to where the bloodsy crop must be plucked.’
Tarion gaped.
‘You’re talking about Blacktalon! How do you know all this? How did you know to find me here?’
‘Just speaken the words to her and let her fresh shoots grow to the shadow’d place,’ said Ithary. ‘And be gladde we’ve use for such as yourself, lesten we leave you ragged to feed the flowers as well.’
With that, the sylvaneth turned as one and, ignoring Tarion’s shouted questions, they flowed up the sides of the crater. As they entered the shadows around the crater’s walls, they seemed to flow into them and vanish, one by one. In moments Tarion stood alone, bewildered, exhausted and angry amidst the bodies of the dead.
Shaking his head, he hobbled over to the ruined remains of Thindrael.
‘I have absolutely no idea what just happened,’ he said quietly. ‘What those creatures told me or why it will help. But it was answer enough, and for that, and your sorrowful sacrifice, I thank you. I only hope that I can keep my promise and take your vengeance for you one day. Go with Sigmar’s blessings.’
With that, Tarion launched himself painfully skywards. He would gain the lower slopes before he rested, find food and a safe place to meditate for a time before attempting the flight back to Neave. He knew roughly where his comrades must be by now, but still he had a gruelling journey ahead of him and only uncertain answers to give.
‘I hope it’s enough,’ said Tarion as he swooped over the crater’s rim and left that dark and shadowed place behind him.
Neave strode through the gloom, running one hand absently through the long, blue-grey grass that rose up to her waist. Troubled thoughts chased one another through her mind, the memory of an axe stroke missed due to a phantom child’s cry followed by the awful recollection of collapsing in a vision-wracked fugue, far out amongst the rockspires. She had remained undetected by friend or foe through nothing more than good fortune. Neave recalled two days past, when Kalparius Foerunner had called her name three times before she had responded to him; the first two, she had been sure that she was hearing the crackle of burning huts, the whispering creak of branches in the wind.
‘It is getting ever worse,’ she whispered to herself. ‘I do not know how much longer I can conceal this curse. Damnation, Tarion, if you do not return soon I will be forced to set out on my own account. Perhaps I should simply have done so in the first place.’
Neave stared out into the darkness of the steppes, her hunter’s eyes piercing the darkness in search of movement. None who saw her would guess that she was watching not for foes, but for the telltale glimmer of her comrade’s wings approaching in the night sky. Neave knew that, without some hint of where to start her quest for answers, she would risk wandering aimlessly for many moons, leaving her duty to Sigmar neglected all the while. Yet she couldn’t simply wait for others to come to her rescue, and the longer she waited, the worse her affliction seemed to become.
With a frustrated sigh, Neave turned back towards the inviting light of the Rangers’ camp-fire.
‘One more night,’ she promised herself. ‘Two at the most, while we hunt the Gor-kin. Then, if he’s not back, I’ll seek my own damned answers.’
The light welcomed her as she approached, reaching out to bathe her in its amber glow. Karias Wintercrest and several of his Rangers sat on rocks around the crackling fire. Neave’s old comrade nodded a greeting as she settled on her own rock.
‘Anything out there?’ he asked. Neave, removing her helm and setting it by her feet, quirked an eyebrow at him.
‘If there is, I’d hope to Sigmar that your sentries are up to the task of spotting it. We’re dealing with Gor-kin, Karias. Not subtle creatures.’
‘True enough,’ said the Ranger-Prime. ‘I’ve not seen my astral compass so much as twitch in two days, though. Wherever the bulk of the enemy are hiding, they’re not out here.’
‘I still don’t understand this,’ said Neave, shaking her head. ‘The Craven Steppes have never, in all the time they’ve been observed, remained passive when the creatures of Chaos drew near. They’ve always fled, often violently. So why did they allow the Brayherd to pass unremarked?’
‘It’s as though the land is sleeping, or bewitched,’ said Wintercrest. ‘It is no wonder that Fort Vigilance had no warning of the attack.’
‘It’s the work of the Tzaangor, the bray as are sworn to Tzeentch the changer,’ said Galyth Hammerfist. One of Karias’ longest-serving Rangers, Hammerfist had seen more battle than most. He was always utterly certain in his pronouncements.
‘You believe so?’ asked Wintercrest.
‘Aye, likely as Sigmar sits his throne in the heavens, I do,’ said Hammerfist. ‘Magic and illusion are meat and bread to those twisted monsters. And the way the fortress’ wall came down? I’ve seen a lot, but nothing that’s ever made me believe in such a thing as shoddy duardin craftsmanship. No chance that came down without unnatural aid.’
‘At least we know now what happened to the garrison,’ said Neave grimly. They had found the remains of the unfortunate soldiers several days’ march to the east of the fortress, at the end of a broad and blood-splattered trail of hoof prints. Those that had not been left part-devoured along the way had been skinned and impaled upon crude wooden stakes around a huge stone idol in the deep wilds. The sight of over a hundred such abused corpses screaming sightlessly at the skies had been enough to shock even the war-hardened Shadowhammers. They had brought the bodies down quickly, and used some of their precious alchemical oils to burn them.
‘Yes, it’s a revenge hunt now,’ said Karias thoughtfully. ‘And a search for some damned answers. This whole business has been bloody and strange, and I look forward to seeing its end.’
‘Let us hope that we don’t lose too many more brothers and sisters before we conclude this fight,’ said Elorra Fireshot, another of the seated Rangers.
‘Casualties have been light, thus far,’ said Karias, ‘and those that have fallen will be reforged soon enough.’
‘Aye, but at what cost?’ asked Hammerfist. ‘You’ve seen the signs, same as all of us. Reforging isn’t the perfect resurrection they told us it was, Karias.’
Neave felt her chest tighten at the sudden turn the conversation had taken. She kept
her face carefully neutral, took a swig from her canteen.
‘Careful, now,’ said Wintercrest. ‘Signs and sedition aren’t talk for the Hammers of Sigmar.’
‘We’re away and gone in the wilds, Karias,’ said Fireshot. ‘What safer place to speak our minds? You know, same as we do, what’s been going on.’
‘I know there are stories,’ said Wintercrest. ‘Stories that true warriors of Sigmar should know better than to put stock in.’ He shot a pointed glance at Neave, the gesture almost stopping her heart for a second with the fear of detection.
She had been so careful.
Had he seen something?
‘Blacktalon is a warrior, not some starch-cloaked lord,’ said Fireshot, and Neave breathed again as she realised that Wintercrest had been cautioning his warriors about the presence of a senior officer, not indicating some veiled blame.
‘No harm ever came from asking questions,’ said Neave carefully. ‘But we’re Hammers, the firstforged, don’t forget. We’ve no room for failure, and doubt makes us weak.’
‘So does ignorance,’ said Hammerfist. He pulled a skinning knife from his boot, held out his bare palm and ran the blade quickly across it. He turned his hand over and squeezed. They all saw the crackling sparks that fell amidst his trickling blood.
‘Only since my last Reforging,’ he said. ‘Happens every time I’m cut. Don’t try to tell me that’s normal.’
The Rangers sat in silence for a moment, watching the sparking blood drip to the ground.
‘You’ve all heard the whispers of worse,’ said Hammerfist, as the flow stopped, and he replaced his gauntlet. ‘Hammers that come back without the power of speech, sealed into their bloody armour. Hammers that aren’t ’owt but armour with the storm’s energy inside. Voices made of thunder. Visions of men made purely of the storm…’
‘What if it’s the Chaos taint?’ asked Fireshot. ‘We’re down here in the realms, fighting through all these terrible places where Chaos has reigned for hundreds of years. We’ve all seen what the raw power of the Dark Gods can do to living flesh, to the lands themselves even. What if something has seeped into our souls as we’ve fought? Vandus was fighting Archaon himself before he started to see visions, or so they say.’
Neave gritted her teeth, willing the conversation to turn elsewhere.
‘Vandus is our greatest hero,’ she heard herself say, voice tight. The others looked at her in surprise, but Neave pushed on. ‘It’s one thing to speak your minds, but another to forget yourselves and start casting aspersions and repeating rumours. Do you really believe that Sigmar, in all his infinite wisdom and compassion, would allow the Reforging process to become flawed? Or that he’d let matters deteriorate in that fashion if it was? Talk of taints and visions… you lessen yourselves.’
The Rangers stared at Neave as though remembering for the first time that she was a Knight, and not simply a comrade-in-arms. She saw a distance in their eyes that had not been there a moment before, a wariness that made her feel tired and forlorn.
‘Just promise me one thing,’ said Hammerfist to Karias. ‘It may all be rubbish, but if I go that way, deal with me and don’t let me come back. I don’t care how, just don’t let me come back… wrong.’
Neave could take no more. She rose abruptly, snatching up her helm, and strode off into the darkness, muttering something about sweeping the perimeter again. In her head, that one word echoed over and over again. Wrong.
Had she come back wrong? Had she been reforged too many times? Had something worse tainted her soul? She saw again that terrible vision of infinity spreading out before her as the blue fire seared away her flesh and shuddered in the darkness of the steppes. For a moment, she thought she saw blue eyes staring at her from the dark night skies.
Her breath caught, and she stared hard into the darkness. There were lights in the sky, distant glimmers growing closer. Two of them, one smaller than the other.
‘Tarion,’ she said, and set off at a sprint towards him.
The two met in a barren clearing amidst the grasslands. Tarion staggered as he landed, and Neave hastened to catch him before he collapsed.
She ran her eyes over the ragged tears in his armour, the half-healed wounds beneath.
‘Sigmar’s throne, you look as though you fought your way through the Allpoints single-handed. What happened?’
‘I’ve got you an answer, of sorts,’ said Tarion, his voice a pained croak. Neave offered him her canteen and he removed his helm to drink greedily, before tipping the water into the canteen’s lid and setting it down for Krien. The star eagle dipped his head with a grateful ruffle of feathers, and Neave noted that even his light seemed dim with exhaustion.
‘Tell me everything. Be quick,’ said Neave. ‘Wintercrest and his brotherhood are out here with us. I can hear his sentries off to the south and east. They’re far enough away now, but they may return in this direction at any moment.’
Tarion nodded and began his tale, giving Neave a concise and abridged account of everything he had endured in the days that had passed. When he reached mention of the abomination that had accompanied the Rotbringers, she stiffened with shock.
‘You’re describing the creatures that I saw in that village, Tarion,’ she said. ‘This Lord Ungholghott… could he be the one I saw upon the fly beast?’
‘I don’t know, but how many such horrors can there be in the realms?’ said Tarion. ‘I don’t understand how it ties to your visions, but it seems likely.’
He finished his account and then leaned heavily on his bow, staring at her.
‘The sylvaneth… they must be the ones I saw,’ said Neave, ‘and they said I had to pass through the Brazenreach gate to find them?’
‘They did,’ said Tarion. ‘But we must be careful, Neave. I don’t know what attacked the watchtower, but it was destructive and deeply unnatural. What if it was some weapon unleashed by this Ungholghott’s forces?’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Neave. ‘You said the Rotbringers seemed as confused as you, were shouting about answers. No, there’s some other power at work here, and I can’t help but feel that it’s connected in some way to this business with the fort, too.’
‘The sylvaneth, maybe?’ asked Tarion.
‘Perhaps,’ said Neave, sounding unconvinced. ‘But why would they want me to come to them, if that were so? And to what end? I believe they hold answers for me, but I don’t believe they’re the cause of all this. Don’t ask me why, but on some level, I trust them.’
‘Who, then, or what?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, but in her mind’s eye Neave saw again the infernal power spilling up from the well, and heard Xerkanos’ muttered chant before she struck off his hand. Dread swelled within her and she forced it back down. Panicking now would only aid the sorcerer’s agenda, if it truly was him that had cursed her.
‘This cannot stay between us any longer, Neave,’ said Tarion, pulling himself up with only a slight sway. ‘We must seek an audience with Lord-Aquilor Hawkseye at once, if only to tell him of the weapon that was used against Highcrater Watch. It’s time we let him know what’s happening and sought his wisdom.’
Neave frowned behind her helm, shook her head slightly.
‘What do we know, Tarion? We have a series of questions and riddles. We can’t risk the Lord-Aquilor detaining me for questioning by the Sacrosanct Chamber. With so little information what other recourse would he have?’
‘What then?’ asked Tarion. ‘This business fills me with ever more confusion and dread. What was the dire fate that Skywarden spoke of? Is it something that Xelkyn set in motion, or something altogether other? What involvement do the sylvaneth have in this matter? Why do they seem so keen to have you come to them? For that matter, how did they know to find me at Highcrater Watch when they did? In all the vast realms, that cannot have been coincidence. Neave, wha
t if it was they and not Xelkyn who did this to you?’
‘I believe it’s likely the beings I saw in my vision, the ones that saved the child, were sylvaneth,’ said Neave. ‘If that’s so, then…’ She trailed off, frustrated as she realised she didn’t know what conclusions to draw. Were her visions linked in some way to the unleashing of this horrible weapon? Or were multiple, unconnected threats converging at once? Uncertainty was not a familiar sensation for her, and she found she disliked it intensely. It lit a fire in her, made her feel the need to act, to seize control of matters before they spiralled beyond her control.
‘I’ll do whatever you ask of me, you know that I will,’ said Tarion. ‘But the two of us cannot face this alone.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. Her punch came lightning-fast, connecting with Tarion’s jaw, snapping his head back with its force. The Knight-Venator crumpled, eyes rolling up into the back of his head, and Krien shrieked with shock.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Neave. ‘I can’t endanger the chamber with this. I can’t have whispers spreading that the Shadowhammers are seeing things, that we’re becoming corrupt. It’s my curse, and I’ll lift it alone. You’ve done enough.’
With that, Neave sped away into the darkness, sprinting as fast as her limbs would carry her. She felt terrible for striking her friend, again, and she hoped that he would understand. She also knew that the Lord-Aquilor might well see her actions as desertion while on campaign; there would be consequences, of that she was sure.
Yet at the same time Neave felt an incredible relief, and a sense of purpose. At last she had a place to start. Her hunt would begin with the Brazenreach Realmgate, and it would end with the lifting of the curse that afflicted her, the death of those responsible, and the return of her abilities to serve the God-King as she should.
Neave would hunt her mark, and she would emerge victorious.
Lord Ungholghott sat upon his throne. It was carved from a single slab of rotted ivory, set atop a rusted dais in the midst of his slime-fouled audience chamber. Parasitic worms crawled down the slick tunnels that they had chewed through the throne’s substance. Ungholghott knew how the worms were made, inside and out. He knew what they ate, and how, and why. He heard their blind, idiot fumblings and understood everything about them. He had been gifted by Nurgle with an awareness of all living things, an encyclopaedic understanding of their inner workings that transcended the capacity of a mortal mind.