by Various
‘Aye. They’re there, my lord. Your fires have flushed them out and my hounds have their scent now,’ Uctor said, with a phlegm-soaked cough. ‘We caught this one out easily enough, but it was a straggler.’ He patted the head of one of the Chaos hounds affectionately and the squirming beast wriggled in pleasure, blistered tail thumping the ground. The others gambolled about their master’s bandaged feet, gargling in excitement or snuffling at the dying tree spirit. ‘The others are deeper in the wood. All fleeing in the same direction, I’d wager.’
‘To the stones at the forest’s heart,’ Goral growled.
‘Aye,’ Uctor said, giving a gap-toothed smile. He slapped his corroded breastplate with a flabby hand. ‘Sure as my black heart beats, my lord. We find the others, and we find the heartstones. All together, and waiting for the axe to fall.’
Goral sat back in his saddle and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Finally,’ he murmured. The heartstones were the unyielding soul of this place, or so the Lady of Cankerwall had claimed – an unnatural outcrop of sorcerous rock, which spilled crystal-clear waters to feed the ever-growing roots of the forest. She was a seer without equal, and could read the skeins of fate and moment in the effluvial smoke of her bubbling pox-cauldrons. He remembered her voice in that instant, and the way she had looked at him with her blind, crusted eyes. There had been something there, he thought. Some trace of… what? Sadness? What did you see, my lady? He pushed the thought aside and ran a thumb along the edge of Lifebiter’s blade and relished the moment of pain.
Pain brought clarity. Clarity was Nurgle’s gift to his chosen. To see the world as it was, stripped bare of the tattered masks of desire and hope, leaving only a beautiful despair. There was comfort in surrender, and joy in acceptance. There was love there, at the heart of all endings, and serenity at the end of all things. And it was that bleak serenity which the Order of the Fly served. Goral glanced at his knights. He knew their names and stories, for they were all brothers in despair – some were heroes in their own right, like brawny, boil-encrusted Sir Culgus, who had held the Bridge of Scabs for twelve days against the blood-mad hordes of Khorne, while others, like young Pallid Woes in his seeping, ochre tabard and rune-marked bandages, had yet to earn their spurs in battle.
Pride swept through him, as, one and all, they met his gaze. He raised Lifebiter. ‘For the honour of the Order of the Fly, and for the glory of Nurgle,’ he said. Serrated swords, jagged axes and filth-encrusted maces rose in salute. All around the clearing, Rotbringers, seeing the gesture, readied themselves to march.
He looked down at Uctor. ‘We go quietly from here, like the sleeping sickness on a summer’s eve. Lead the way, hound-master. Take us to our prize.’ Uctor nodded and turned, chivvying his maggot-hounds into motion. The beasts gurgled in pleasure and loped away, Uctor trotting in their wake. Goral and his warriors followed.
Goral felt Lifebiter squirm in his grip. The axe was eager. It knew its business, as did he. The heartstones of the Writhing Weald were close. And when he had them in his power, this place would know true dread. He looked down at the dying tree spirit as he rode past it. ‘Toss that rubbish on the fire. Then lead me to my prey, hound-master. I have a forest to tame.’
The Outcast sleeps.
Her addled thoughts surge up and drop down into the darkness at the root of her, crashing and cascading over rocks made from broken memories. There is only the rush and roar of it in her mind, drowning out all else save the wind of the reaping.
The war-wind.
The Outcast cannot hear anything over the shriek of the wind save her own voice, and that but dimly. It has always been that way, for as long as she can remember. Which is not long, as her folk judge things. Her mind fades with the seasons, reason growing bare like wind-stripped branches before renewing itself once more. In the season of flourishing, she can almost hear the song of the sylvaneth. In the season of lifeswell, she can hear the trees whispering to one another as they stretch towards the sun. They do not speak to her, but she hears them nonetheless.
But now, at this moment, the Outcast hears only the sounds of war. She hears the weeping of the trees as their bark splits and their sap runs. She hears the leaves of the canopy shriek as the flames gobble them up. She hears the groan of the soil as poison spills over it, and the impotent roaring of the rocks as their surfaces are left seeping and scarred. But there are other stones and these do not roar, but instead sing. Desperately, defiantly, they sing.
The Outcast hears it all, but does not stir. She refuses to stir. She will sleep. She will sleep until the world rots to nothing, and then she will sleep forevermore. Better to sleep, better to rot away with the world than to hear, to see… what?
What do you fear, Drycha Hamadreth?
The voice is soft, at first. Like the sound of newly sprouted leaves rustling in a breeze. A gentle sound, and its placidity infuriates the Outcast, though she cannot fathom why.
Awaken, daughter of my soul. Awaken, Drycha Hamadreth.
The voice grows stronger and the Outcast shivers in her sleep. The sound of rain striking the canopy, the hint of distant thunder. There is pleading there, but also warning. The Outcast wants to speak, to reach out, but something in her… refuses. It is stubborn. She is stubborn. She will not be moved by pleas, by whispered entreaties.
Heed me, best beloved one. Heed the words of the Everqueen. Awaken.
Petulant, the Outcast turns away. She is almost awake now, for the first time in a long time. Or perhaps not. She only stirs when time stands still, when the world shudders and whines on its track. The Outcast stirs only with the war-wind. That is what she knows. She is not beloved, best or otherwise. She is unloved, unheard, unremembered. She is forgotten, until the season of reaping and despair, until the roots suckle seas of blood. Until the stones which anchor the worldroots scream out in desperation.
The voice rises like the wind. There are no words now, merely force of will. It pushes at her, jostling against the walls of sleep, shaking her from the dark. The Outcast screams in rage, trying to resist. She is strong, and her roots stretch deep. But the voice – her voice – is the soil which holds those roots. It is the moisture which nourishes them, and the wind which rips them loose. The Outcast grips the darkness nonetheless, even as the shadows slip away, caught in the whirlwind of the voice. Her voice.
Alarielle.
Up, cruel one. Up, wildling. Up, Outcast. Awaken and rise.
Awaken.
Awaken, Drycha Hamadreth.
The Outcast awakens and screams.
The howl set the carrion crows in the upper branches to flight, and caused Blighthoof to snarl in agitation. It had come from close by. Too close for comfort. Goral twisted in his saddle, searching for the source of the sound. But rather than having one point of origin, it seemed to echo from every knothole and shadow. It slithered between the trees and filled the empty silence of the Writhing Weald. It was like a rumble of thunder, or the growl of an avalanche. ‘Steady,’ he called out, as his warriors muttered among themselves.
Even with the comforting, sickly light that spilled from the balefire torches his warriors carried, the darkness felt as if it were pressing in on them. ‘These cursed trees fair swallow the light,’ Sir Culgus croaked. In the silence which had descended in the wake of the scream, his voice seemed abominably loud.
‘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.
As he drew close, roots suddenly rose up like striking serpents and tangled about Blighthoof’s legs. The horse-thing shrilled and lashed out, but the roots were everywhere. Goral struck with Lifebiter, hacking through the writhing tendrils. The axe vibrated in his hand, pleased. A moment later, the treelord loomed over him. Goral gagged as the stink of the living forest engulfed him.
Scything talons scraped down his armour. The force of the blow nearly tore him from the saddle. Goral laughed, despite the pain. ‘Yes, yes! Fight me, you creaking horror,’ he roared, spinning Lifebiter about. He sliced a divot out of his opponent’s flesh, shattering branches and tearing vines. Black strands of corruption spread from the edges of the wound, and the treelord staggered. Its agonised wheeze sounded like branches clattering in a windstorm. Bark bubbled and sloughed away. The treelord flung out a talon, and Goral was forced to turn Blighthoof aside as a storm of squirming roots shot towards him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pallid Woes gallop towards the treelord, flail whirling above his head. The creature creaked aside, more sw
iftly than Goral would have thought possible, avoiding the charge. Long arms snapped out, and Woes was snatched from his saddle. He cried out Nurgle’s name, but to no avail. The treelord gave a twist of its claws, and wrung the young knight’s body like a wet rag, crushing him and dappling the thirsty roots with his blood. It flung what was left aside and turned as Goral gave a cry and charged.
More roots pierced the air, arrowing towards the Lord-Duke. They struck his armour and spread like oil, wriggling into every nook and cranny. Others burrowed beneath Blighthoof’s flesh, causing the horse-thing to buck and squeal in pain. Roaring, Goral slashed at the writhing roots, trying to cut his way free. He could feel them tightening about him as the treelord stomped towards him.
‘Leave him, beast,’ Uctor shouted. The loyal hound-master hewed at the treelord’s legs with wild abandon, his rusted sword carving weeping gouges in the creature’s jagged bark. Uctor’s maggot-hounds burbled and snarled as they worried at the darting roots. The treelord turned, eyes blazing with an eerie light. It swatted Uctor from his feet with a swing of its long arm.
‘Mistake,’ Goral said, with a guttural laugh. ‘I’m the one you should be worried about, brute.’ Blighthoof surged forwards with a whinny and drove its shoulder into the treelord’s back. As the monstrosity turned with a creaking roar, Goral drove Lifebiter into the centre of its face. The treelord staggered back with a scream, a pungent smoke spewing from the wound. Golden trails of sap spattered Goral’s arm and chest as he swung the axe again and sheared off one of his opponent’s branches.
The treelord stumbled away from him, clutching at its ruined head. It sank down, moaning hoarsely. Satisfied that it was all but finished, Goral turned. He saw Sir Culgus tear the head from a tree-thing with one sweep of his sword as it tried to crawl away. A few of his warriors had fallen, but not so many that they could not do what they had come here to do, and they had not died alone. Sap-oozing bodies lay broken and twisted across the glade.