Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

The Everqueen was baulked by the corruption. There would be no infiltration from without, and so heavy lay the hand of Nurgle she could scarce detect the tiniest flutter of spirits within. But they were there, she was certain of it. She heard their lamentations and felt their despair. As much as the other Royal Glades despised the Dreadwood, they were all her children, wayward or not. She bore the suffering of them all with equal sorrow.

The ground trembled and the realmroots quivered as Alarielle sent the summons to her Royal Moot. Life force swelled like a springsfed tide, pulsing along the arteries of the Jade Kingdoms, each flutter the spirit of one of her children. Along the realmroots surged the power of the Wyldwoods, animated by the will of the queen, root and branch responding to her demand as surely as the clansfolk of the glades.

The Wyldwoods ploughed towards the wall of decay, bush and tree and grass flowing like an incoming sea, until it reached the extent of her power just a bowshot from the wall. There the grip of Nurgle was too great for her to push through. Only when the plague bastion had been broken, when her children entered the valley, would she be able to thrust her power deep into the heart of the enemy and tear it out from within.

With the Wyldwoods came the glade hosts. From Oakenbrow and Harvestboon, Ironbark and Winterleaf, Gnarlroot and Heartwood. Dryad tree-maids and ancient treelords, tree-revenants in arboreal likeness of the ancient dwellers of the world-that-was. From each Royal Glade, from their clan groves spread across the reclaimed realms they came.

And like the touch of first frost creeping along a stem, the army of Dreadwood heeded her call. Led by their Keeper they came into the Wyldwoods — tree spirits and forestkin that had dwelt long in the shadow of Chaos. Vicious and bitter spite-revenants accompanied them, and branchwraiths and dryads that had been cast from their clans for their disruptive behaviour and bloodthirsty ways.

In the near-forgotten time of reconquest, when Alarielle had required alliance with Sigmar and his kind, such creatures had been a liability, preying on allies as well as foes. Now the Everqueen needed them back, and was willing to deal with whatever consequences that might bring.

‘Break it,’ she told her children, pointing at the wall. Her voice rippled through the realmroots, touching the spirit of every sylvaneth that had gathered. ‘Tear it asunder and make bloody mulch of its defenders. Open up the vale for me, my children, and become the vengeance we all crave.’

Diraceth advanced with his clan elders, proud to stride amongst the great army of the Winterleaf Glade. His loremasters walked beside him, two ancients called Drudoth and Ceddial, and behind came the lesser nobles and forest folk of Clan Arleath.

Each stride that took him closer to the looming wall made his sap rise in ire. Through his roots he could feel the death and decay woven into the barrier, seeping into the good earth of the Jade Kingdoms. It was a deeper, more malignant curse than the gnaw-wounds of the skaven. He felt his leaves shrivelling at its touch.

The sylvaneth host pushed out from the sanctuary of the Wyldwoods, a gathering of spirits such as Diraceth had never witnessed before. Treelords and ancients by the score led their clans, following the stern warriors of the Royal Glade households. Hundreds of tree-revenants and thousands of dryads flowed from the mystical forest, thorn-fingered and bright-eyed.

And on the periphery, from the darkest patches beneath the boughs, the Outcasts came. Like shadows they lingered near their clans, spite-revenants that lusted after mortal flesh, whose wickedness had earned them exile in ages past. Diraceth noticed that more than half the host of the Dreadwood was made up of these dispossessed spirits and wondered what manner of clan they marched to liberate. Ancient Holodrin and his folk had always kept to their own glades, but it had been a shock when messenger-spites of Diraceth had returned with tidings that Clan Arleath would stand alone against the skaven.

The forest host passed into the thick smog. It smeared along Diraceth’s leaves and bark, slicking his twigs and buds with its oily, noisome touch. The branchwyches and branchwraiths spat and cursed, and flicked droplets of the foul vapour from their talons. By his side, Callicaith adjusted her grip on the long greenwood scythe she carried. Her glimmersilk grub wriggled back and forth across her shoulders, reacting to the tension.

‘I can see nothing,’ she said.

It was true, the smog was as thick as marsh water. It felt as though Diraceth waded through a mire as much as pushed through the dank fog. He could barely see the branchwyches and ancient treelords to either side. The armies of his fellow Winterleaf clans were lost from view.