If Gardus had somehow found a way to the Hidden Vale, they could bring Sigmar’s words to Alarielle. They might even be able to encourage her to rouse herself to fight alongside the Stormcasts in defence of the Jade Kingdoms.
Tegrus turned his attentions back to the words of his Lord-Celestant. Gardus’ face had a haunted look, and he was silent for several moments, as if trying to marshal his thoughts. Then, slowly, he began to speak.
‘We must first find the Oak of Ages Past,’ Gardus said, speaking carefully, as might one who was trying to convey something he only barely understood. ‘Celestial driftwood, cast through the void of time, which came to rest in the misty swamps of this realm. A stream of immaculate water, cleaner than any in the Mortal Realms, gushes forth from its ancient trunk. It is a river, bestowing life-giving energy to every part of this realm.’ His voice faded, and he stood silent, as if lost in thought.
‘Gardus,’ Grymn said, harshly. Tegrus glared at the Lord-Castellant and put his hand on Gardus’ shoulder. There was no telling what horrors the Steel Soul had experienced in his sojourn through Nurgle’s garden. Gardus looked at the Prosecutor-Prime and nodded his thanks. He cleared his throat and continued his tale.
‘While I was… elsewhere, I learned that this river – the River Vitalis – has become corrupted. Waters that once carried life now carry only the seeds of death.’
‘A plague?’ Grymn asked. They had seen similar pestilences far too often since arriving in the Realm of Life. Nurgle’s influence had corrupted the very air itself.
‘A daemon,’ Gardus said. ‘A Great Unclean One, like the beast I… fought at the Gates of Dawn.’ He shook his head. ‘The servants of Nurgle call it Pupa Grotesse, but that is not its true name.’ He spoke with an iron certainty. ‘I know its name. And we must break its hold over the watercourse, if we are to have any hope of finding the Hidden Vale and its mistress.’
He lifted his head. ‘We must fight our way to the mouth of the River Vitalis, and destroy the daemon that festers at its heart.’ He looked around, catching the eyes of every man present.
Tegrus raised his hammer. ‘If you so command, Steel Soul, then that is what we shall do.’ Grymn had led them well, and he was the reason they had survived to reach this point, but Gardus was their true leader.
Grymn grunted and shook his head. ‘Lead on, then, Steel Soul. Lead on.’
Chapter Seven
Ambush on the fen road
‘Oh, my boils and scabs,’ Morbidex Twiceborn said as he cut a coiling forest spite out of the air with his scythe. ‘Look at them all, marching in lockstep, so pretty in their shiny armour. What do you think, Tripletongue? Think they’d taste of starlight, my pet?’ he asked the burly pox-maggoth he rode. Tripletongue roared and stamped in reply.
The arrayed ranks of Stormcast Eternals – or so they were said to call themselves – marched towards Morbidex’s forces through the field of high cairnstones, driving forward in a stoic rhythm. The nurglings that made up his army, for their part, either hadn’t noticed the newcomers or else didn’t care. They were too busy fighting the horde of forest spites.
And it was such a wonderful ambush as well. Took me weeks to get the little fellows to understand what that word meant, Morbidex thought as he snatched a glittering spite out of the air and stuffed it in his mouth. But the spites had ruined it when they’d provoked the nurglings from concealment and put paid to all of Morbidex’s hard effort and planning.
Brightly hued and peculiar, the diminutive arboreal spirits had forms ranging from horned serpents to enormous dragonflies that glowed with an inner light, and they fought savagely against the fat-bellied nurglings. They slashed, clawed and bit at one another in the mire along the wide sprawl of moss-covered cairnstones that served as Rotwater Blight’s only true road, making a loud mess of things.
The forest spites might have had the upper hand despite being outnumbered if Morbidex had not joined the fray. Granted, his attack had been made more out of boredom and annoyance than any concern for his nurglings. The fat little daemons could take care of themselves, and they regarded war as play.
And who am I to ruin their fun, eh? Morbidex thought, as he drove his knees into the sides of Tripletongue’s skull, turning the beast towards the newcomers. Besides which, we’ve accomplished what we set out to do… Our foes’ eyes are on us, even as Grandfather wanted…
‘Hup, Tripletongue,’ Morbidex said. ‘Up my beauty, up and at them!’
The eyeless maggoth gave vent to a burbling warble as it knuckled towards the approaching invaders, scattering spites and nurglings alike. Lightning-men, Torglug calls ’em, Morbidex thought, as he hunched forward in his saddle and swung his scythe back. Fools, is what I think. ‘Think they can just roll over Nurgle’s own children, don’t they? Let’s show them what we think of such foolishness,’ the maggoth-rider roared, as he swung his scythe out in a savage blow towards the vanguard of the newcomers. One of the silver-armoured Stormcasts was torn from his feet by the force of the blow and sent flying. Tripletongue struck out with simian fists, battering others flat, or else rending them crown to gullet.
The nurglings followed, swarming over the warriors. Morbidex bellowed encouragement to his little friends, and smiled in pride every time a Stormcast went down, blanketed by squirming, bloated little bodies. ‘Good! Keep it up, my little friends – Grandfather smiles on us all,’ he shouted. I bet old Bloab and the Daemonspew wish they were here, he thought. His fellow maggoth lords were as much lovers of a good brawl as Morbidex himself; one reason among many that he found them such good company.
But the best company were his diminutive followers – the nurglings who had been his closest companions since the day he’d climbed Pox Peak, looking for a way into the Grandfather’s garden. Aye, that was a good day – the best day, he thought, smiling widely. Since his slimy rebirth he had become more powerful than ever. ‘And sitting atop you, my beastly beauty, I’m unbeatable,’ he said, patting Tripletongue’s head. The maggoth gave a gurgle of pleasure at the gesture. Morbidex laughed and swung his scythe out, catching a Stormcast in the back and wrenching the armoured warrior into the air with ease.
He eyed his struggling prey for a moment before slinging him over his shoulder. Take a lot of killing, these fellows, he thought, as Tripletongue smashed into another phalanx. These ones were the colour of overripe fruit, rather than gold or silver, but they fought just as hard. How many of you are there? And how many flavours do you come in, he thought, as he saw a host of winged warriors hurtle towards him.
Tripletongue was surrounded, but Morbidex wasn’t unduly concerned. Getting their attention had been the whole point of his little display. The Stormcasts had been making a nuisance of themselves since they’d shattered the Dirgehorn and killed old Gluhak.
In the days since the Dirgehorn had fallen silent, the silver-armoured invaders had clashed again and again with Grandfather’s children – from running battles with the skaven to the siege of jolly Slaugoth’s Rotfane, even as Torglug had predicted. They’d erased the avian defenders of the Vulturine Geysers, and sent Gutrot Spume’s Drowned Men into flight at the battle of Canker Cascade. Slaugoth and Spume were fit to be tied. Their stock with the Glottkin had fallen sharply in the aftermath of their defeats and new favourites had been chosen. So this matter had fallen to him. Good old reliable Morbidex. He’d been tasked with pulling the Stormcasts into the swamp, and keeping them distracted long enough for…
Ha! he thought, as the festering swamp on the other side of the Stormcast column began to boil. That’s it… keep looking at me, my fancy friends. Eyes on ol’ Morbidex. Pay no attention to the fellows rising out of the mud.
Rising from the muck, brackish water sluicing from their twisted frames, came the tallymen of Nurgle. The plaguebearers uttered a monotonous drone, counting the diseases abroad in the swamp as they strode towards their unsuspecting enemies. In their lead was an old
friend – the creature known as Wrech Gab’larr, Herald of Nurgle. He glared at the Stormcasts with malign intent, and whipped one warty hand forward. Plaguebearers loped past him to slam their plagueswords into the backs of the Stormcast Eternals. Wrech’s expression became one of befuddlement when the silver armour remained unmarked where a blow wasn’t immediately fatal. Stormcasts who didn’t immediately discorporate in a blur of azure energy whirled with a fierce precision to lay their attackers low. Wrech bellowed in frustration as his carefully prepared afflictions failed to take root.
I could have told you that wouldn’t work, Morbidex thought, as he ducked a blow from one of the winged Stormcasts. These warriors, wherever they were from, were singularly resistant to the plagues and diseases born in Grandfather’s laboratories and gardens. The stuff of them burned too hot for sickness to take hold, Morbidex suspected. Wrech roared and hacked a gap in the Stormcast lines. He and his plaguebearers stormed into the midst of the enemy, determined to bury their blades in Stormcast flesh.
‘Ha! That’s the way, Wrech,’ Morbidex shouted. ‘That’s the way to do it, O Herald of Fresh Woes… Smash these shiny upstarts.’ He hefted his scythe and lashed out at one of the winged warriors, who swooped around him like so many stinging insects. He cut the Stormcast from the sky, and cursed as the warrior dissolved into azure light. ‘I hate it when they do that,’ he snarled.
‘Not as much as we do, I’d wager, brute,’ a voice tolled. Morbidex twisted in his saddle, searching for the voice’s owner. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the winged shape diving towards him on wings of crackling flame.
‘Oh buboes,’ Morbidex said, moments before the warrior swooped past him. The Stormcast lashed out with a hammer as he hurtled past and caught Morbidex in the face with a thunderous boom. The force of the blow catapulted the Twiceborn from his saddle. He hit the marshy ground with a splash. Every bone in his face felt as if it had been splintered, and he groaned as he rolled over. Tripletongue shrieked and reared up, pawing blindly at the swarm of winged killers. Without Morbidex’s guidance, the beast was reacting on instinct.
Morbidex pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. He’d lost his scythe in the fall and he stumbled back as the warrior who’d struck him landed nearby. Lightning crackled across the Stormcast’s limbs. Eyes the colour of the unclouded sky stared at Morbidex from behind the too perfect features of a silver mask. He held two hammers, the heads of which were wreathed in energy. Morbidex flexed his thick fingers.
‘Well… come on then, silver-back,’ he gurgled, setting his feet. ‘You caught me by surprise once, but you’ll not do so twice, or my name isn’t Morbidex Twiceborn…’
The warrior shot forward, quicker than Morbidex’s eyes could follow. One hammer crashed into his chest, and a blow from the second snapped his head to the side. Morbidex fell onto his back, wheezing for breath.
‘Ow. Fine. Fine. Best… best two out of three,’ he groaned, as he rolled onto his belly. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The Stormcast dived forward again, intent on finishing the job. Morbidex twisted aside, and clamped a hand down on the back of the warrior’s crested helm. With a roar, he cut short the Stormcast’s flight, and flung him down. Morbidex stomped down, but his opponent rolled aside. One wing snapped out, and the crackling feathers gave Morbidex’s belly a searing kiss. He staggered back, hands clamped to his burned and ruptured gut.
The Stormcast pushed himself to his feet. Morbidex grinned at him.
‘Didn’t like that, did you? Faster than I look, aren’t I?’ he chortled. He looked down at his wound, and gingerly took his hands away. Bloated entrails pressed against the blackened flesh, and he gave a grunt of consternation. ‘I’m going to twist your head off for that one, friend.’
The Stormcast sprang forward, and his hammers snapped out. Morbidex caught one on his palm, but the second smashed into his shoulder. He roared and slugged his foe, denting his silvery helm. A wing flared out and blinded Morbidex. He clawed at his eyes, cursing virulently. Hammer-blows rained down, striking his head, shoulders, arms and back.
Morbidex sank to one knee, ears ringing. He’d never been hit so hard, or so fast. The Stormcast was fast, faster than any creature that Morbidex had ever had the pleasure of fighting. But speed wasn’t the sole route to victory. Morbidex dug his hand into the muck as he bent forward, and, with a wild howl, hurled a gobbet of mud into the Stormcast’s face. The warrior avoided the improvised missile, as Morbidex had known he would, and stepped within reach of his opponent.
The maggoth lord gave a shout and lunged, arms spread wide. The Stormcast pivoted, hammers raised, but this time Morbidex was ready. He caught the warrior’s wrists and prevented the blows from landing. The two strained against one another, their feet sliding back and forth through the muck. Morbidex grinned down at his opponent. ‘I’ve introduced myself, it’s only polite you do the same,’ he said.
‘My name is Tegrus, monster. Treasure it – it’s the last name you’ll ever hear,’ the Stormcast growled.
Morbidex laughed. He was still laughing when Tegrus abruptly fell backwards and pulled the maggoth lord off his feet. He bellowed in shock as Tegrus’ boots slammed into his wounded belly. Morbidex rolled onto his back, but too slowly. Tegrus dropped towards him, hammers raised, and the maggoth lord squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact.
However, rather than the pain he’d been expecting, he felt a wash of hot, foul air and heard a familiar guttural roar. He cracked an eye open, and saw Tegrus flying backwards. A shadow fell over him, and he looked up, a smile spreading across his wide, green face.
‘Ah, Tripletongue my beauty, just in time,’ he rumbled, as the maggoth bent towards him, its teeth clicking in concern. It snuffled worriedly at him as he got to his feet, and he patted its scaly skull. ‘Who’s a sweet brute, eh?’ Morbidex said, as he hauled himself back into the saddle.
As Tripletongue rose to its full height, Morbidex took in the battlefield at a glance. What he saw wasn’t good. Wrech’s ambush had gone sour and the Stormcasts were counter-attacking, led by a figure who blazed with holy light. Morbidex shaded his eyes and peered at the figure. That’s the one old Bolathrax was after, he thought, doubtfully. As he watched, nurgling swarms were crushed underfoot, hammers fell, horned heads burst and Nurgle’s tallymen reeled.
Wrech bellowed a command and the remaining plaguebearers belly-flopped into the swamp, digging into the muck and disappearing from sight.
‘Well, that tears it,’ Morbidex murmured as he sat up in his saddle. He slapped Tripletongue on the head. ‘Time to go, my lad.’ The maggoth rumbled assent and turned, smashing a tree out of its path as it dived deeper into the swamp, moving as quickly as its thick legs could carry him.
No sense remaining to fight all on his lonesome. Grandfather didn’t favour fools, despite his sentimentality. He hunched forward in his saddle, urging his mount to greater speed. Have to fall back, get to the Gelid Gush and make a final stand, Morbidex thought. That was where they were going. It was the only place of value in the immediate vicinity.
He twitched his head abruptly, trying to dislodge the flies that were gathering about his face. Wait – flies? His eyes widened as the flies suddenly rose from his flesh, and swirled about in a cloud, coalescing into a familiar face.
‘Going somewhere, Twiceborn?’ Ethrac Glott asked, in a voice made from the droning of a hundred flies. ‘I could have sworn we asked you to handle these invaders…’
‘Our ambush was ambushed,’ Morbidex said, unapologetically. ‘Forest spites got the nurglings all riled up. The Stormcasts interrupted a very satisfying drubbing, if you want my opinion.’
‘Did I ask for it?’
‘Well… no.’
‘Then what makes you think I would?’
‘A sense of unbridled optimism,’ Morbidex said. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing. No pursuit appeared to be forthcoming. ‘What no
w, Glott?’
‘Bloab Rotspawned and Orghotts Daemonspew are making for the Gelid Gush. Join them, Twiceborn…’ Ethrac hissed. ‘It is time for Grandfather Nurgle’s children to go to war.’
Chapter Eight
The ruins of Arborea
Lord-Celestant Gardus pushed through the veil of vines, and gazed at the faded glory of the fallen city of Arborea. The treetop city was a thing of flowing curves and soft angles, of great stones held aloft by the thick branches and boles of an immense elder tree, perhaps grown from a seed of the Oak of Ages Past itself. The latter was visible in the distance, its broken shape jutting across the pale green sky. He could just make out the pale swathe of foulness that was their destination on the horizon.
He repressed a shudder as he stared at that foulness.
Help us, Garradan… help us, the ghosts murmured in the back of his head. They had been whispering to him since he had reeled out of that mad garden and back into the Mortal Realms, aflame with white fire. They had clung to him, like the tatters of his warcloak, as he had waded into the fray between the sylvaneth and the skaven in the Glade of Horned Growths. He had instinctively sought out his foes, and ruined any who sought to bar his path, seeing not ratkin but the barbarians who had murdered the man he had been, in another time, another place.
Help us… Garradan, help us…
‘Quiet.’ He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the voices back into the cage of his memories. When they had at last fallen silent he strode forward, following the scampering forms of the forest spites the Stormcasts had rescued from Nurgle’s followers a few days before. The colourful spirits swirled about him for a moment, clicking and murmuring in their strange tongue, before they faded, like reflections on water. Where they went, he could not say, and did not like to guess.
‘Thank you,’ he called out. The spites had led their Stormcast allies to Arborea by secret paths only they knew, and Gardus was grateful to them. It had been the first time in many days that the Stormcasts had been able to travel without fear of attack or ambush, and such a respite had been much needed, though it would be brief. Even Sigmar’s chosen warriors required rest, and Rotwater Blight had more dangers than just those that came armed with swords and axes. The servants of the Ruinous Powers were many and varied, and the Hallowed Knights and their allies had fought for every patch of ground between Profane Tor and here.
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