Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘But she is not the only one in need,’ the Spirit of Durthu said, burning bright from within. ‘Where are the fell sorcerers and daemons that have damned the mighty Arkenwood?’

‘While the flood rises about us, they take to high ground,’ Laurelwort said, supporting a smashed dryad.

‘They weave their spells above the Ebon Tarn,’ Ardaneth said, ‘a place once sacred to our kind — but not anymore.’

‘Take me to this place.’

Shaddock knelt down once more, offering his branches and trunk to the Forest Folk. Led by Ardaneth and Laurelwort, dryads climbed up the crooks and stumps of his towering form. Rising once more, the Spirit of Durthu strode off through the diseased shallows and the forest of leaning trees.

The closer they got to the Ebon Tarn, the sicker the Arkenwood became. Trees were bare, diseased and abloom with warped fungi. Through the leafless canopy and drooping branches, Shaddock saw a rocky mound that rose above the forest floor. The mighty pines that had crowned the rise had been cut down and used as fuel for fires about which the noisome warriors of Nurgle were gathered. On the crest of the hillock, looking over the Ebon Tarn beyond, stood bloated sorcerers engaged in dread ceremonies.

The wardwood stopped at the foot of the rise, allowing the Forest Folk to disembark on dry land. He rose, looking towards the hillock.

‘You’re going to fight them?’ Ardaneth said, her voice light with hope.

‘They must be purged,’ Shaddock said.

‘Then let us help you,’ Laurelwort insisted.

‘She is right,’ the priestess added, ‘there are many and you are one.’

‘One that will not be stopped,’ Shaddock told them.

‘What will you do?’ Laurelwort said. The wardwood paused. He gestured towards the ailing Arkenwood.

‘I was but one tree unseen among many,’ Shaddock said. ‘Our enemies shall see me now. They shall hear the wrath of the wild places and feel the forest’s vengeance. These Rotbringers are a disease. I shall deliver what all diseases deserve. Eradication.’

Leaving the Forest Folk at the base of the stump-dotted hillock, Shaddock strode up the rise. He smelled the rot of flesh and heard gurgling laughter. The servants of Nurgle seemed to find a madness and hilarity in their suffering. While their bodies broke down about their souls, they belly-laughed and roared through their pain. Fires crackled and rusted plate jangled about the camp. By the time any of them realised that an ancient of the forest towered over them, it was too late. Shaddock had his stone blade in hand.

Like a terrifying entity of the forest, the wardwood suddenly raged with the stoked fires of his soul. His blade hit a group of Rotbringers with such force that they burst and were scattered across the hillside in streams of blood and pus.

Across the rise, it was slowly dawning on Nurgle’s servants that they were under attack. Some had been sleeping, their corrupt bodies putrefying in the warmth of the fires. Others had removed their weapons and plate. Shaddock made them bleed for their lack of discipline. The suffering was brief, however, as with each sweeping strike of his sword, he sent mobs of diseased warriors into oblivion.

Warriors that all suffered from the same horrific affliction woke from their slumber and scrabbled for their weapons. Their pox-ravaged leader shook himself awake, but before he could issue an order from his lipless mouth, Shaddock squelched him into the ground with his roots. Using the flat of his sword, he batted the blighted warriors aside. The last he snatched up and crushed, allowing spoilage to dribble between his wicked talons.

Shaddock could hear the sorcerers atop the rise gabbling orders. As he worked his way towards them, more pox-ridden warriors of Nurgle charged at him from around the sides of the hillock. Taking a ground-shaking run-up, the spirit kicked the blazing embers of one of the campfires flying through the air. Caught in a fiery blizzard, warriors were set alight. While most were consumed by the inferno, some exploded due to the gases that had long been building within their swollen bodies. Those that did make it through were stolid mountains of sickly flesh, ignoring their burning garb, skin and hair. Shaddock wheeled his mighty blade about him like a golden storm, cutting them down and sending leprous limbs and slabs of diseased meat bouncing down the slope.