Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘While glad of your presence here,’ Shaddock said, ‘I am painfully aware that you are folk without a forest. What of the Arkenwood?’

‘You were right,’ Ardaneth said. ‘Like your limb, the Arkenwood could not be saved. Like you, its spirits survive and fight on. I said we would defend what remains of that sacred place. Mighty wardwood — you are all that remains.’

Shaddock nodded solemnly. His frightful visage was once again lit with golden brilliance. He had lived through the ages and yet rarely encountered spirits such as these.

‘How did you find me?’

‘Alarielle’s song grew louder and clearer with our every step,’ the priestess said. She hesitated slightly before going on. ‘The path of destruction that you left in your wake might have helped also.’

The wardwood stomped down the slope, pushing through the branches of the trees. From the greenery of the mountainside, the wardwood could see that the surrounding lands were blighted and foul. The canopies of nearby forests were a patchwork of yellowing leaves and bare branches, while the untamed reaches beyond were blanketed in sour marshland and the black smoke of torched sylvaneth.

‘Tell me, Great Shaddock,’ Ardaneth said, standing beside him. ‘Are the sylvaneth doomed?’

‘Do you hear that?’ the wardwood said, cocking his head.

‘Yes,’ the priestess said, startled.

‘That is the spirit-song of the Everqueen,’ Shaddock said, himself gladdened to hear it once again. ‘As strong as I’ve ever heard it. Alarielle is close, and she calls to us — to all the spirits of her realm. It is time to take back the wild places from those that would defile them, and drive the plague from this sacred land.’

‘From which direction does the Radiant Queen call?’ Ardaneth asked.

Shaddock pointed his blade towards the stained horizon, towards a distant place where land and sky met in a blackened blot of disease and creeping death. A decimated forest — more blasted battlefield than ancient grove — that seemed to draw in the festering legions of Nurgle from leagues around.

‘Our queen needs us,’ the Spirit of Durthu said.

Leaving the sanctity of Draconite Glade and the shadow of Mount Draconyth, Shaddock led the Forest Folk through the dismal land. The sickness of the sylvaneth was everywhere, reminding the spirits of what was a stake. They passed toppled treelords, blooming with spore-spitting fungus. Altered Wyldwoods, dragging their corrupt trunks along with grasping roots, hindered their advance. Shattered dryads, brittle to the touch, lay about in mottles of mildew. Everywhere there was evidence of the Plague God. Meadows had been marred by the rotting remains of camps, forests reduced to mulch by sorcerous contagion and grasslands turned to tracks of mud and pus.

As they approached the blighted woodland formerly known as the Forest of Aspengard, the sky grew dark. The heavens were stained black with filth and the air was thick with flies. The forest itself had been reduced to islands of standing Wyldwoods, isolated by a bitter and war-torn wasteland. The ground of the blasted expanse was littered with stumps, slithering roots and mouldering logs.

Plague-infested daemons and columns of putrid warriors weaved across the battlefield to reinforce the hordes of Nurgle battling the sylvaneth warhosts of Aspengard. Shaddock and the Forest Folk of the Arkenwood used the ailing Wyldwoods to cover their approach. With virulent pus showering from the canopy and infected trees reaching out for them with root and branch, Shaddock and the dryads had to take as much care with the forest as they did with the servants of Nurgle.

Those plague lords and rancid champions that did spy the approach of the sylvaneth despatched warbands to deal with the interlopers. Believing that they were isolated spirits of the Aspengard fleeing the slaughter, they never for a moment considered that they were reinforcements searching for their Radiant Queen. Withdrawing into the wailing thickets, Laurelwort and her dryads prepared an ambush for the Rotbringers. They moved through the roots and branches of the fevered Wyldwoods, hiding, stalking and striking at their infested foes. They gutted bloated warriors who were ready to burst. They sliced the throats and stabbed at the rusted helms of passing outriders from concealed nooks and hollows. They garrotted Rotbringers with noose-like vines that they heaved up through the canopy, leaving the hanging warriors there to choke.

While the Forest Folk stabbed and sliced their way through the servants of Nurgle, Shaddock drew them into a clearing. As corpulent knights charged from the trees, Shaddock whirled his blade around in an amber flash. The wardwood cleaved through corroding plate and diseased flesh. He swept ripe warriors aside with the flat of his blade. He kicked a leprous champion apart and chopped clean through the trunks of warped Wyldwoods, burying Rotbringers under toppling trees.