Wardens of the Everqueen

by C. L. Werner

  Morbus was comforted by the branchwraith’s explanation.

  ‘Seraphon,’ he said, giving a name to their enigmatic allies. ‘If they have struck and departed, then it can only mean whatever foe they opposed has been vanquished. The reptiles will not relent from their purpose once they are committed.’ He uttered a relieved laugh. ‘It eases my mind greatly not to think a corpse-caller is haunting the path ahead of us.’

  ‘The legions of Nurgle are enemy enough,’ Grymn agreed. He turned to the Lady of Vines. ‘Should we bypass the battlefield my scouts found? Is there a way around it?’

  The Lady of Vines waved her slender claw towards the petrified trees about them. ‘There will be no danger from that quarter. The last stretch of the path lies before us. We must take the goddess atop Blackstone Summit.’ The branchwraith’s voice dropped to a worried hiss. ‘Unless I am mistaken, our foe will find us ‘ere journey’s end.’

  Chapter eleven

  The Victory Fields stretched before Lord-Castellant Grymn in a broad expanse of black soil. Old bones, petrified like the trees and menhirs that lined the Path of the Purified, protruded from the ground. Encrusted snags of metal suggested the husks of armour and shield, stalagmite spikes stabbing up from the earth evoked images of swords and spears, and ovoid lumps echoed ancient helms and breastplates – the vanquished of a near-mythical confrontation, left to the embrace of the land they had fought for and ultimately died for.

  A strange feeling of oppression swept through Grymn as he marched across the blackened earth. Leaving the Path of the Purified, he’d felt somehow diminished. Having satisfied the judgement of Greengyr, the enchantment of the path had become almost comforting in its way. To leave that comfort behind for this morbid expanse made for a shocking contrast. Even Tallon felt it, keeping close to his leg as he led the Stormcasts forwards.

  Ahead, a great stairway rose upwards. Megalithic in its construction, it was a reminder of the vanished Kingdom of Blackstone. The immense steps spiralled around a colossal rise formed from the boughs of three enormous trees. In ages past, the three trees had grown together, fusing into a single growth. Like the rest of the forest, however, their greenery had turned to grey, hardening into solid stone. Whether the stair had been raised around them before or after their petrification was a question Grymn couldn’t answer. The summit itself was wrapped in green clouds that crackled with eldritch emanations.

  Grymn could see the queen-seed pulsing within the recess of the Lady of Vines’ trunk. He looked down at his hand, aglow with the nurturing power of Alarielle, and wondered what that power would be transformed into. What would it truly mean for the Radiant Queen to alter her aspect from guardian to avenger? He had seen for himself the terrible nature of the sylvaneth when they became enraged. The prospect of such fury endowed with the might of a goddess was daunting. The Radiant Queen had been tolerant, even indulgent of the Stormcasts when they intruded upon Athelwyrd. Her court hadn’t been so accommodating. Even the Lady of Vines had met them with barely restrained hostility.

  ‘Only the faithful,’ Grymn whispered to himself. The Hallowed Knights had been sent to find Athelwyrd by Sigmar for a purpose. It wasn’t for him to question the strategy of his god. Whatever lay ahead, he had to have faith that it was according to the God-King’s design. He had to have faith that the benevolence he’d sensed in Alarielle, the compassion that had replaced his missing hand, would endure no matter what aspect the Radiant Queen took on.

  Grymn gazed back at the Blackstone Summit, at the great stair up which their path must lead. So close, yet he felt now was the time of their greatest danger. Again he recalled the warning Lord-Celestant Gardus had so often given. Never underestimate the enemy. The Plague God had to know how close the Radiant Queen was to escaping his pestilent grasp. Even if Torglug’s legion had perished on the Sea of Serpents, Nurgle had other warlords and other armies scattered across Ghyran. Surely that foul deity would send one of those armies to try to stop them.

  ‘Tegrus, Giomachus,’ Grymn called out to the winged warriors. The two Stormcasts hastened to their commander’s side. Grymn gestured at the Victory Fields and the petrified forest that surrounded it. ‘I have need of your eyes again,’ he told them. ‘Take the rest of the Prosecutors and scout the Blackstone Summit. Watch for any trace of the enemy.’

  ‘Can they have anticipated our goal?’ Giomachus asked, his star-eagle fluttering its wings angrily as he spoke the last word. Tallon barked at the raptor, unsettled by its show of ire.

  ‘We can’t dismiss that threat,’ Grymn decided after a moment of thought. ‘They have powerful magics of their own to draw upon. Desperation may have moved them to take chances with their sorcery no sane mind would consider. It is too risky to believe their evil cannot strike at us here.’

  ‘Would you have me see what waits ahead of us?’ Giomachus asked.

  Grymn shook his head. ‘You are the ranking officer of the Knights Excelsior,’ he told the Knight-Venator. ‘Your place is here with your warriors. I know the valour in their hearts, but I also know they will fight the harder with you leading them.’ He turned towards Tegrus. ‘I fear the burden of this task must rest with you, my friend.’

  ‘Then it will be our honour to scout the way and bring you warning if the plaguehosts appear,’ Tegrus said. He motioned to the surviving Prosecutors. One by one they spread their wings and rose into the sky.

  Grymn watched the scouts ascend. They were so few now. Tegrus and the Prosecutors were all resilient warriors, but even the most heroic could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

  The Lord-Castellant turned towards Lord-Relictor Morbus. ‘Send Agrippa’s retinue to act as the vanguard as we climb the stair. I want the rest of the warriors on the flanks.’

  ‘Once we are on the stair, shall I have the paladins and the rest of the Liberators fall back as a rearguard?’ Morbus asked. Like Grymn, he was worried about the prospect of the plaguehosts rushing them from the forest and trying to overrun them as they climbed the Blackstone Summit.

  Grymn nodded his agreement. ‘Have the Judicators form up on the exposed flank as we go up the stair. Their angle might be limited, but I think they’ll be more adaptable if we keep them out of the rearguard.’

  Grymn looked across the retinues of his mixed command. Leading the Hallowed Knights had been an honour, but taking responsibility for the Knights Excelsior was an even greater one. Giomachus and the other officers of the Knights Excelsior had deferred to him without question, accepting his leadership as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He would prove himself worthy of that confidence in his skill.

  Morbus pointed to the towering figure of Haldroot. The treelord had gathered the largest of his kindred to act as a bodyguard for the Lady of Vines. The sight evoked comparison of the walking fortress that had surrounded Alarielle’s palanquin as they marched from the Cascading Path. It wasn’t a comforting reminder.

  ‘Even with such powerful allies, we have lost much,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

  The statement was one that made Grymn reflect upon how much it had cost them just to get this far. There were just under fifty Hallowed Knights left, and only slightly more Knights Excelsior. A handful of dryads and other tree-creatures had escaped the ice, and Haldroot’s wargroves, though more numerous than the Lady of Vines’ escort, were hardly a great host. Warrior by warrior, the strength was bleeding away from their cause.

  Grymn looked again at his new hand. He could still feel the invigorating energy of the queen-seed flowing through him, strengthening him in both body and spirit. Leaving Morbus to attend to the deployment of the remaining Stormcasts, Grymn made his way through the masses of sylvaneth marching towards the stair. The tree-creatures exhibited a marked deference to him; even Haldroot didn’t oppose him as he approached the Lady of Vines.

  ‘My lady,’ Grymn said, ‘the honour you have shown to me by allowing me to hold the queen-seed is
one that I will never forget, but I am unfit to decide our course now. I cannot shake the warning you’ve given, that the enemy may yet come upon us. There is risk in taking the queen-seed to Blackstone Summit, but if that is your decision I will see it done. It is you who were Alarielle’s handmaiden, you who know her best. You who understand how she can be restored and what must be done to ready her for this war.’

  The Lady of Vines stared at him, a questioning light in her eyes. He sensed the branchwraith’s sympathy. ‘It is here that the Everqueen can be replanted. Here is the soil in which the queen-seed will blossom. The enemy will try to thwart our effort if he can,’ she said.

  ‘Then the Stormcasts will see this done, my lady,’ Grymn vowed.

  Reaching to her breast, the branchwraith let her fingers caress the radiant soulpod of her queen. ‘This place is rich in the valour of past battle and the courage of fallen heroes. Those energies will nurture the seed as it grows. I cannot say what change that may have upon her aspect when she is reborn. Before Alarielle wore an aspect of beauty and wonder, nurturing and vital. She was the embodiment of the growing season. Now it is a season of claw and blade. She may assume a more warlike aspect, a form better suited for the trials of conflict.’ The Lady of Vines bowed her head to Grymn. ‘It may be that in her new aspect she will be less tolerant of outsiders than she was in her old one.’

  ‘What must be, must be,’ Grymn said, recalling Morbus’ words about gods and mortals. ‘If it is the goddess’ will that she be reborn in a form of wrath and retribution, then it is my duty still to stand beside her.’ He flexed his regrown hand, feeling the echoes of the Everqueen’s power within his flesh. ‘If there were only me, I would stand between her and the foe and give my last breath to keep her from harm.’

  ‘Let us pray it does not come to that,’ the Lady of Vines said.

  Tegrus soared high above the black earth of Victory Fields, climbing towards the immense tower of Blackstone Summit. Closer to the ancient structure now, he could see the incredible details of the colossal spire. Indeed, he wondered if the titanic stone trees were things of nature or constructions of man. Certainly the men of Blackstone had brought tools against the trunks and branches of the trees at some point, reshaping them into a chronicle of the battle that had unfolded before their very roots.

  The enormity of such labour, whether with chisel or knife, was almost beyond belief. The trees, together, were the size of a hill. A small city could have fit atop their branches. Yet as far as Tegrus could see, every inch of them had been worked, carved to provide a pictorial record of the battle. Across the length of one outstretched branch he could see strange chariots bearing warriors in crude armour against warherds of slavering beastmen. Upon one stretch of trunk, druids clad in animal hides pitted their magic against the pestilent daemons of Chaos. Everywhere, the struggle of men against the monstrous invaders was depicted, rising upwards along with the spiral stair, ascending towards the top of the interwoven trees. Climbing to the Blackstone Summit.

  Tegrus neared its top now. He could see the great stone branches of the trees arching outwards to surround the plateau like the battlements of some mighty fortress. Even these had seen the attentions of artisans, each branch displaying some facet of the battle that had unfolded below. He recognised some of the daemonic creatures that had been part of Torglug’s legion, monstrosities that hadn’t changed in form or foulness for all the ages since their likeness had been carved into the trees. Recalling how formidable the fiends had been on the ice, Tegrus was impressed that the ancient tribesmen had been able to prevail with only their own valour and the magic of their druids to drive the daemons back. Even for the Stormcasts, such manifestations of Chaos were a challenge to vanquish.

  The three trees, fusing together in their growth, had created a great plateau where their trunks merged. The same ancient craftsmen who had carved the rest of the colossal trees had been at work here as well, smoothing the surface until it resembled a vast courtyard. Cloud obscured all but the borders of that courtyard, leaving the rest of its expanse veiled in mystery.

  Around him the remaining Prosecutors wheeled through the immense branches, scouring the summit for any trace of the enemy. Below them, like a great shroud, lay the green cloud with its flashes of energy. The weird manifestation forced the fliers lower, drawing them down into its mists. Tegrus could see no great distance once he was in the cloud. Twice he nearly collided with a stony branch, mustering all of his aerobatic skill to swing away from the obstruction.

  His vision obscured, Tegrus keyed his other senses to the task before him. To his ears there came only the groans of the wind flashing between the branches. In his nose there was only the smell of stone. And those other senses, those inner impressions that shifted mood and emotion – they felt strangely dull, as though smothered by a heavy cloak. It was a peculiar, uncanny affliction, one that Tegrus couldn’t quite convince himself was merely a mani­festation of Blackstone Summit’s magic.

  Hammers at the ready, Tegrus swooped through the clouds. If there was danger here, he was determined to find it before it found Grymn and the Lady of Vines.

  The steps wound around the colossal stone trees, climbing higher and higher above the Victory Fields. As they ascended towards the top of Blackstone Summit, Grymn kept looking earthwards. He expected any moment to hear the war cries and howls of the plaguehosts as Nurgle’s diseased armies tried to steal victory from them. Sometimes he caught the gleam of a Prosecutor’s armour as they circled above the tower searching for enemies, but such sightings became increasingly rare. The closer they came to the top, the thicker the veil of green cloud became, settling around them like fog. Still, the horn of the Knight-Heraldor and the light of his own warding lantern would lead the scouts back, however thick the mist grew. Every moment that didn’t see them streaking back to the column to give the alarm seemed like a gift from the God-King to Grymn. The higher they climbed, the more confident he became that they’d be able to hold the stair against any attackers. The closer the Everqueen was brought to their goal, the more he began to believe they had managed to escape the Plague God’s minions.

  Still he was tense with alertness. The plaguehosts were everywhere, waging their campaign of conquest against the inhabitants of Ghyran and the other Chaos powers that would try to steal those conquests from them. Grymn couldn’t see Nurgle abandoning his hunt so easily after all the time his minions had searched for Alarielle’s refuge. Having driven the Radiant Queen into the open, having caused her to expend nearly all of her power, it was too much to hope that the Plague God had relented.

  No, there had to be something. Grymn was certain of it. If Gardus were still here, they could have discussed the matter, and perhaps together come up with some new insight into what course of action the Plague God might be attempting. But he had to live in the present now, and rely on his own faith and wisdom.

  Grymn noted their ascent to the Blackstone Summit more by instinct than conscious thought. His attention wasn’t on the terrain, but the hideous fog that occupied it. As they reached the top, the clouds suddenly diminished, drawn back as though they’d breached some illusory wall. He understood now why there had been no diseased army to meet them as they emerged from the Path of the Purified or to come charging after them from the petrified forest. Tallon growled as the enemy stood revealed before them.

  Torglug and his legions, hidden by the green cloud and the illusions of their sorcerers, had gained Blackstone Summit first.

  A nauseating reek struck Grymn as the spells that had concealed the presence of the army evaporated. There was no further need of such sorcery. The prey had already walked into the trap. There could be no retreat now. All the advantages Grymn had intended to hold on the stair would belong to the enemy if they tried to withdraw back to the Victory Fields. The plaguehosts were certain to pursue them, enjoying the high ground at every step.

  It was a doubtful prospect. Grymn k
new how few his Stormcasts were, how slight the sylvaneth contingent. Arrayed against them was a monstrous horde. Ranks of Chaos warriors in blackened armour. Tribes of skin-clad marauders, their bodies daubed in the sickening runes of their vile god. Mobs of abominable Chosen, their mutations twisting their corrupt flesh. A great swarm of ratmen pushing a rotted carriage from which swung a smouldering censer of pestilence. A slavering warherd of armoured beastmen, their hides falling away in mangy strips.

  Most numerous of all, however, were the daemons. Flocks of rot flies, buzzing above the heads of the warriors below, their abdomens bloated with corruption and disease. Slug-like plaguebeasts, clutches of tentacles and eye-stalks writhing from their slimy bodies. Companies of cyclopean plaguebearers, filthy swords clenched in their clawed hands. Masses of toad-like nurglings, hopping about in the foulness dripping from the larger daemons.

  Looming above them all, like great mountains of festering meat, were three Great Unclean Ones. Each of the greater daemons was an obscenity of loathsomeness, its hide blotched and broken with disease and decay. For Grymn, however, it was the centremost of that gigantic triumvirate that was the most sickening of all. He recognised it as the fiend that Angstun had sacrificed himself to destroy on the frozen sea. To see the daemon here was an obscenity, a cruel mockery of the Stormcasts who had been vanquished on the ice bridge.

  Grymn’s focus shifted away from the daemons to the mortal warlord who commanded this sea of corruption: Torglug the Despised, his body swollen with the vile blessings of his abominable god. He could actually see a haze of green vapour rising from the villain’s pockmarked flesh, a miasma of decay that caused even the bodyguard around him to break out in weeping sores and blackheaded boils. Torglug’s eyes blazed with an unholy light, burning like putrescent lamps behind the rusted mask of his helm. In that gibbous, ghoulish luminance was the promise of ruination and torment, the lingering tortures of sickness and decay.