by Various
She nodded her thanks, though she was not sure of just what she might have accomplished. She took a two-handed grip on the runeblade, wondering what had possessed her to do as she had done. It was as if some force, far greater than herself, had guided her actions. She could still feel the heady pulse of it pounding in her veins.
Around them, the battle continued. There were so few of her brothers and sisters now – of the twenty who had accompanied Gardus, fewer than half remained standing. Feros was among them, roaring out oaths as he smashed tzaangors from their feet. The lightning danced across them, lending new strength to flagging limbs. Serena blocked a blow and bisected her attacker from its crown of horns to its gem-studded belt.
Above them all, the silvery shapes grew more distinct as they grew brighter. They contained a multiplicity of possibilities. Some held tall, winding stalks with feathery leaves, while others were heavy with golden, glowing cocoons. Inside still more were shimmering fungal orbs surrounded by haloes of diaphanous seeds. Hundreds of shapes, each stranger and more glorious than the last. And all of them sang with the same voice: a roaring tidal wave of joy that washed over the vale and set the pine needles to clicking.
Serena heard a screech of denial, and saw the tzaangor shaman fighting its way through the melee towards them, surrounded by a bodyguard of its bestial kin. As the creature wove its claws in a mystic gesture, its followers surged towards Gardus. He turned to meet them, hammer in hand, but before he could strike a single blow, a flurry of movement interrupted them.
In the glare of the light, she saw impossibly quick, thin shapes burst from the trees all around. The sylvaneth were at once humanoid and utterly unlike any living thing. The tree-kin emerged from all sides of the vale, and fell upon the remaining tzaangors en masse.
Bark-sheathed, bladed limbs scythed through tzaangor flesh. Root-like talons propelled lean, trunk-like bodies into battle. Jagged mouths opened in a communal hiss, as branch-laced skulls thrust forwards fiercely. The sounds of the sylvaneth pulsated on the air, like the crash of old trees toppling. Tzaangors died, and those that did not, fled.
‘What is this?’ Serena asked.
‘Something I’d wager that they have been waiting for for some time,’ Gardus said.
The shaman was taken by surprise. Sylvaneth fell upon it from all sides, their splintery talons tearing into the startled creature. Their screams were vengeful, rasping things that sent a chill through Serena. The tzaangor gave a despairing shriek and fell, all thoughts of vengeance forgotten. Roots and vines ensnared the creature, dragging it to the ground.
All across the vale, a similar entrapment was taking place. All of the surviving beastkin were afflicted by grasping roots. Some were dragged out of sight, deeper into the woods, while others were jerked, struggling, up into the trees. But most were pulled flat to the ground and then, slowly, beneath it. Their screams echoed through the vale.
Serena watched as the shaman tried to hack itself free of the entwining vegetation with its knife, but to no avail. Slowly, inexorably, the shaman was drawn beneath the churning soil, babbling prayers and curses. Then, it – and all of its kin – was gone, leaving no more than a faint smear of ichor upon the ground.
Wrath sated, the sylvaneth looked up as, with a final roar, the silvery soulpods surged upwards and away into the green skies. There they scattered on the wind like shimmering pollen until they were at last lost to sight. As the light of their passing faded, the first of the stones began to crack and shift. The lightning too had faded, but it had completed its task: the flux-cairn was dying. Its glowing facets had grown dim and cracked. One by one, they began to crumble into glittering fragments.
As the last of them collapsed into dust, the sylvaneth turned to study Gardus and Serena. She hesitated beneath those flat, inhuman gazes. She could still hear their song in her mind, though only faintly now. The tree-kin undulated closer, one reaching out with a barbed talon to push aside her sword. It tapped a claw against her chest-plate, and she looked down to see that strange, knotted patterns – reminiscent of the twisting shapes of the soulpods – had seared themselves into the sigmarite. From the pain in her chest, she suspected that similar markings now scarred her flesh as well.
‘What…?’ she began. She glanced at Gardus.
‘A token of esteem,’ he said. He bowed his head to the sylvaneth. ‘From one ally to another.’ The tree-kin hesitated, and then emulated the gesture. They were not human, but some things were universal.
A moment later, they departed, with only the rustle of loose leaves to mark their passing. They vanished into the shadows between the trees, and were gone.
Serena turned to gaze at the shattered cairn. ‘What happened here?’
‘I told you,’ Gardus said, ‘sometimes even the strongest warrior requires aid, even if they cannot ask for it directly.’ He pulled off his helmet and tucked it beneath his arm. His hair was white, and though the face it framed was that of a young man, his eyes were old, and tired. But still vibrant. Still faithful.
‘But, these cairns… I saw pathways…’ She stared at the rubble.
Gardus nodded. ‘Perhaps the sylvaneth were not the only ones who needed help. Sigmar moves in mysterious ways.’ He looked up at the stars above. ‘To defend one realm is to defend all eight. We stand together, or fall separately.’ He made a fist with his free hand. ‘We are more than Sigmar’s wrath, sister.’ He opened it again. ‘We can also be his hand, extended in friendship. Today, we were both.’
‘And what of tomorrow?’
‘We are the faithful, and we will stand, whatever the cost.’ He looked at her. ‘Never doubt that, sister. Whatever the future holds, whatever waits for us there – remember this moment. Remember what you did. That is our purpose, above all others. Much is demanded…’
‘Of those to whom much is given,’ Serena said. She straightened her shoulders, her fingers tracing the new patterns burned into her armour. Only time would tell what they meant.
Gardus clasped her shoulder. ‘What awaits us when the last war is won, and the last march home begins, is a mystery. I doubt even the God-King himself knows. But today, you have brought us one step closer.’ He smiled. ‘And tomorrow, I have faith we will be one step closer still.’
Chapter Nine
THE GREAT GAME
Aek opened his eyes. The howl of eldritch winds had died away, leaving his ears ringing and his skull full of echoes. It had been a risk to leap into the ritual fires. There was no guarantee that they would do anything more than consume him. But Tzeentch loved a gambler, and Aek had seen no other option.
The fatemaster staggered to his feet, the Windblade gripped tightly in his blistered hand. The daemon-blade growled softly, as if in warning. Groaning, he used the blade to lever himself upright. Everything hurt, but the Feathered Lords had blessed him with a durability far beyond that of any mortal. A durability that had been sorely tested this day…
The Stormcast warrior had been stronger than any that he had yet had the misfortune to face. And a passable swordsman, besides. Aek ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair, grimacing at the throb of pain in his skull. If not for his helmet, his head would have been split, and the Windblade in the hands of a new master.
‘But not today,’ he muttered, tightening his grip on the sword. It quivered in his grip, though whether in pleasure or annoyance, he could not say.
He looked around. He stood in a circle of flame atop a stone dais. Masked acolytes watched him from beyond its glare. They stank of fear. Some bore wounds, but others were conspicuously unharmed. He grunted in satisfaction – some of them had been wise enough to restrain themselves from joining the battle. Perhaps Tzeentch had whispered in their ears, warning them of the failures to come. The Great Schemer wove plans within plans; every eventuality was prepared for.
Especially defeat.
‘Where is the Grand Vizier?’ he croaked
as he staggered out of the circle, ignoring the flames that licked at his battered form.
He recognised his surroundings. It was another warehouse, somewhere in the River District – one of Tarn’s many properties scattered throughout the city. The smell of sawdust and rotten fish was thick on the air. Empty pallets were scattered across the wooden floors. He could hear the slap of water against docking posts somewhere close by. There would be boats, waiting to take the survivors to safety, where they could plot and scheme anew.
‘H-here, coven-brother.’ The voice slipped out of the darkness. Weak. Full of pain. The acolytes made a path, and Aek stepped through them. Some bowed, murmuring obsequious pleasantries. Others glared at the fatemaster, as if blaming him for the setback.
That was to be expected. Every scheme set its ripples in the ocean of fate. The coven would splinter, and the disaffected would form their own covens and weave their own schemes. Thus was the glory of Tzeentch promulgated. Thus would the infection spread through the cities of men. Even in defeat, there was victory of a sort. For every grand scheme that failed, a hundred smaller ones might succeed, and in each of them was the seed of greater plans yet.
Tarn lay on a pallet, his body a burnt shell of its former strength. His robes had cooked to his flesh, and his mask was now a melted cage for his head. His hands were weeping, blackened claws. Several acolytes sat close to him, tending to him as best they could; some among their ranks were apothecaries and herbalists.
One of them looked up as Aek joined them. ‘He doesn’t have long. We’ve done what we can.’ He wiped bloody fingers on his robes. ‘The wounds are magical, and our art can do nothing to heal him.’
Aek nodded. That was to be expected. Few in the coven had the knowledge to undo what the mystic flames had done, save Tarn himself. And he was in no condition to do so.
‘Your diligence is appreciated. Go now.’ Aek gestured. ‘The servants of the Storm will be combing the city for any sign of us.’ He looked around. ‘Remove your masks. Slip back into old rhythms until the call to meet comes again.’
‘Will it?’ someone asked, half in challenge.
‘As sure as the sun rises, and fate claims the unwary,’ Aek said firmly. He set the Windblade point-first into the floor. ‘Go. Now. I would speak with my coven-brother, before the end of his thread.’
He summoned a soft wind to emphasise his point. It moaned through the warehouse, rustling papers and tugging at the acolytes’ robes. They left, swiftly, all heading in different directions, careful not to let anyone see where they went.
Aek waited until the last of them was gone. Then, he sank to his haunches beside Tarn. ‘You’ve looked better,’ he said.
‘So have you,’ Tarn croaked. He reached up and caught Aek’s wrist. ‘Tzanghyr is dead. I can feel his soul rotting in me. It saps what is left of my strength. And when I perish, we will both be truly dead.’
Aek nodded. ‘I suspected as much. The Stormcast did something. The crooked path is closed to us, and all those on it, lost.’
Tarn closed his eyes. ‘Lost,’ he muttered. ‘All lost.’
‘Regret is the spice of a life well lived,’ Aek said gently. Part of him – that part that was still human after all these centuries of service to the Great Schemer – mourned the wreck of a man before him. Tarn had sacrificed much, raising the stakes with every gamble, and now it had come to this. Somewhere, the gods were laughing.
‘You’ve said that before,’ Tarn coughed. ‘Vetch is dead.’
Aek nodded. ‘He came to the end of his thread. As Tzanghyr has. As we all must, in our own time.’ The names of those who had slipped from ambition’s path were legion. Tzeentch’s game was complex and ever-changing, and every gambit had its sacrificial pawns. This scheme had failed, but new ones would be born from the ashes.
‘And when will you come to the end of yours, Aek?’
Aek was silent. He had often wondered the same thing. But it was useless to worry: Tzeentch would preserve him until he chose not to, and not a day longer. His grip on the Windblade tightened, and the sword groaned.
Tarn laughed weakly. ‘Never mind.’ He patted Aek’s hand. ‘You must walk the path alone, now, as you did before you joined us.’
Aek stood. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, coven-brother.’
‘Goodbye, Aek. And good fortune.’ Tarn closed his eyes.
Aek raised the Windblade in both hands. It moaned eagerly as it slipped into Tarn’s heart. The magister shuddered and died. The glimmering motes of his bifurcated soul, entwined with that of Tzanghyr’s, rose with the Windblade as Aek extricated the sword. He reached out and gathered the motes to him, as he had so many times before.
Nine hundred times or more. He had lost count now. With every setback, his strength grew, just as Tzeentch planned. Wheels within wheels. Every eventuality was planned for. Especially defeat. Soon, his strength would be enough to tip the balance of the board and secure victory when it was most needed.
‘You were wrong,’ he said to the flickering motes. ‘I have not walked alone for many centuries. And I will not, so long as you and all those who came before are with me.’ He pressed the motes to his chest, and felt their warmth as they became one with him. ‘Together.’ A rush of possibilities, of fates unwritten, filled him, and his aches faded. ‘We are all but facets of a whole, pieces in a game greater than any of us.’
He lifted the Windblade, and he felt the hands of his coven-brothers on the hilt. It was lighter than ever, and he wondered to what purpose it would next be put. Only Tzeentch could say. For now, Aek would simply go where the winds blew him.
‘The greatest game.’ He smiled. ‘And one we will surely win, in time.’
HALLOWED KNIGHTS: PLAGUE GARDEN
by Josh Reynolds
During the greatest battles of the War for Life, the Stormcast Eternals suffered a great tragedy: the Hallowed Knights Lord-Castellant Lorus Grymn was lost to the Realm of Chaos. Now his fellow Steel Souls venture into the domain of the Plague God Nurgle in search of their lost comrade…
Find this title, and many others, on blacklibrary.com
Vengeance Eternal
Matt Westbrook
They gathered in their hundreds to hear the words of their God-King. Azyrheim was a changed place since the blessed hammer Ghal Maraz, symbol of Sigmar’s might, had been returned. It had always been a city of wonders, of soaring archways and winding crystalline stairs, of boundless treasures that echoed an age when the light of humanity had shone in every corner of the realms, but now its glory appeared greater. When the first realmgate had been opened by the heroism of Vandus Hammerhand, there had been relief and joy, and then a frisson of nervous excitement as the Stormhosts poured forth into the Mortal Realms, taking the war to the great enemy with the indefatigable fervour of the righteous.
But it was symbolic victories that incited a people at war like little else, and nothing could be more emblematic of the changing times than witnessing the God-King take up his fabled weapon once more.
The hammer had been reclaimed, and with that triumph the halls of Sigmaron rang with renewed purpose. Mortal servants and workers rushed here and there, filling serene halls and quiet chambers with a flurry of excited whispers. Stormhosts were despatched in ever greater numbers, marching to war with thunderous fanfare, roaring their hymns of faith in a tumult so loud it could be heard all across the great city. And then there was the rhythmic ringing of the forges, which truly never ceased; Azyr’s armouries were the miracle that kept the gears of re-conquest moving at their relentless pace.
The Bladestorm, a Warrior Chamber of the Celestial Vindicators, had barely rested since their return from the Eldritch Fortress. They had forged countless new legends in their pursuit of Ghal Maraz there, and now they were summoned to Sigmar’s throne room. From there, the God-King himself would send them forth once more. Mortal warriors might have balked at bein
g thrown back into the war so quickly, but these demigods were no mortals; they were giants, forged for war and destined for battle.
The Stormcasts’ boots beat a perfect rhythm on the gleaming floor of Sigmar’s throne room, a vaulted wonder filled with flawlessly carved sculptures and artisanal iconography celebrating the countless legends of the God-King. All this splendour was nothing compared to the vision of Sigmar himself. He sat upon his throne, watching proudly as his loyal warriors assembled, an avatar of righteousness and strength, radiant armour glittering, eyes burning with resolve.
Lord-Castellant Eldroc’s heart rose to see his master’s glory. It felt like an age since they had last returned to Azyr, and he drank in every wondrous sight anew, from the breathtaking statuary to the masterful paintings and tapestries that draped the walls. This was what they were fighting for, he reminded himself: to return the light of civilisation to every corner of the Mortal Realms, to bring about a world where smiths and artisans could create such works, and where simple, honest folk could bask in their glory. They would earn that future, he swore, as he took his place in the front rank of warriors. Armour creaking under the weight of relic-bones and holy parchments, the Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden came to a halt by his side.
‘I cannot help but wonder at this place, no matter how many times I see it,’ Eldroc whispered.
‘It has a certain grandeur to it,’ the Lord-Relictor said, briefly regarding the vaulted ceiling above, which was immaculately painted with images of great heroes, captured in the moment of their triumph.
‘You have no art in your soul, my friend,’ said Eldroc, grinning. ‘You would be just as happy if we gathered in some dusty old crypt to hear Sigmar’s words.’
‘In my experience there is often a great deal to be learned from dusty old crypts.’