Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Her beetle hissed its anger. At her command it dashed forwards, but its antlers simply sloughed away rotten flesh from its enemy’s shins and thighs. The gargant seized up the wardroth, trying to tip the Everqueen from its back. The beetle sank its antlers deep into the sore-ridden flesh of the gargant’s hand and arm, fixing itself there while blood streamed over its head, bathing Alarielle in thick crimson fluid.

Though repelled by its stench, Alarielle took the pouring vital fluid as a libation, as refreshing to her as the cascade of a waterfall. Blood-masked, she reached out with the Talon of the Dwindling and drove a claw into the gargant’s arm. At her bidding, dire power flowed. Not the magic of life, but the turning of seasons, years, centuries.

In a few heartbeats the monstrous creature’s flesh fell in dried scraps and its bones turned to dust, pitching the wardroth and its rider back to the blood-soaked earth. A triumphant melody erupted from Alarielle, sweeping her warriors into the enemy.

A great moan of despair erupted from the Nurgle host at the loss of the gargant. Surrounded and pushed back, they were forced into a semicircle about their sorcerous masters, battered and torn but not yet broken.

Alarielle pulsed a warning note to her servants as she felt a surge of Chaos power flow from the dark tower. It bubbled up into the three sorcerers, filling them with unnatural energy. The trio of warlocks swelled, metaphysically and literally, their robed bodies distending, skin stretching further and further until it split with cascades of blood. Each Chaos wizard bloated beyond possibility until they formed a single quivering mass of plague-ridden flesh.

With a final influx of power, the sorcerers burst, showering pus and ichor, flesh-gobbets and organs over a wide area, their scattered entrails forming a triple-sided sigil of Nurgle. Within the unholy pattern, the air seethed and the skein of reality stretched just as the skin of the wizards had done.

Daemonic things pressed against the thinning barrier, their power seeping through the sundered gap. Alarielle knew that in moments a host of the Plague God’s daemons would break through, summoned by the destruction, for Nurgle found life in all death.

At the heart of the flesh-icon, the sorcerers remained — small mounds of sentient meat no bigger than a fist, forming porcine eyes and fanged mouths. Yet for all she urged her spirit-warriors to attack, the line of Chaos followers held amidst the bellows of ancients and the crash of blades.

Alarielle summoned the depths of her hatred and with it fuelled her courage. She dared one more time to send her spirit into the quagmire of Nurgle that filled the tower. Holding tight to the threads of magic that sustained her, the Everqueen dived into the spirit-morass.

Ignoring the slithering, sliding things that were breaking through into her realm, she drove directly for the final remnants of Ancient Holodrin and Clan Faech. This time she would not be repulsed. Like a bolt she sped into their midst with the full glory of her battle-song.

We are afraid! You abandoned us! You will desert us again.

Their plaintive wails did not sway her. Whatever wrong had been done to these spirits in the past, whatever transgressions she and they had committed against their own people, the sylvaneth fought and died as one.

‘I am the Everqueen — the font of life, the despairing storm, the wrathspring. I do not command your loyalty, I demand it!’ She reached out as though with her hand and seized up the guttering remnants of the sylvaneth souls. ‘Your fear counts for nothing. You will fight!’

The ground shuddered, and a moment later the dark tower split asunder, dividing into its three parts in a shower of offal and rotten wood. The great tree of the Vale of Winternight, silver-barked and white-leaved, erupted from the falling ruin, its branches gleaming with soulpods.

Alarielle’s essence raced along the branches, liberating trapped spirits even as the first daemons tore their way into the Realm of Life. Heartseeds fell like rain, and where each landed a sylvaneth sprang forth — branchwyches and branchwraiths, treelords and dryads, tree-revenants and ancients. And with them was unleashed wrathful Ancient Holodrin, a towering pine-lord with silver needles and claws like scimitars.

The lord of Clan Faech brought down a foot onto the mewling flesh-pile that was the sorcerer trio. Grinding them under his roots, the ancient tore the heart out of the Nurgle sigil, blood and mud and daemon becoming a single bubbling cataract of dissipating power. His booming roar crashed as a wave over the fighting, swelling the war-song of the sylvaneth.

‘The Vale of Winternight belongs to us! Obliterate the defilers!’

Screaming, bellowing and howling, the freed spirits of Clan Faech hurled themselves at the beset Chaos warriors.