by C. L. Werner
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 cour
se 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.