Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Goral jerked on Blighthoof’s reins, turning his steed about. ‘They are trying to steal our prize, brothers. Teach them the folly of denying Grandfather his due,’ he roared, urging Blighthoof towards more of the tree-things that lurched out of the forest, seeking to defend their cowardly ritual. The one in the lead was far larger than the others, more than three times the height of a man, with a gnarled bulk that bespoke a monstrous strength. Goral thought it was surely a lord of its kind. The massive being strode to meet his charge as its followers swarmed in its wake, its every step causing the ground to shake.

As he drew close, roots suddenly rose up like striking serpents and tangled about Blighthoof’s legs. The horse-thing shrilled and lashed out, but the roots were everywhere. Goral struck with Lifebiter, hacking through the writhing tendrils. The axe vibrated in his hand, pleased. A moment later, the treelord loomed over him. Goral gagged as the stink of the living forest engulfed him.

Scything talons scraped down his armour. The force of the blow nearly tore him from the saddle. Goral laughed, despite the pain. ‘Yes, yes! Fight me, you creaking horror,’ he roared, spinning Lifebiter about. He sliced a divot out of his opponent’s flesh, shattering branches and tearing vines. Black strands of corruption spread from the edges of the wound, and the treelord staggered. Its agonised wheeze sounded like branches clattering in a windstorm. Bark bubbled and sloughed away. The treelord flung out a talon, and Goral was forced to turn Blighthoof aside as a storm of squirming roots shot towards him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pallid Woes gallop towards the treelord, flail whirling above his head. The creature creaked aside, more swiftly than Goral would have thought possible, avoiding the charge. Long arms snapped out, and Woes was snatched from his saddle. He cried out Nurgle’s name, but to no avail. The treelord gave a twist of its claws, and wrung the young knight’s body like a wet rag, crushing him and dappling the thirsty roots with his blood. It flung what was left aside and turned as Goral gave a cry and charged.

More roots pierced the air, arrowing towards the Lord-Duke. They struck his armour and spread like oil, wriggling into every nook and cranny. Others burrowed beneath Blighthoof’s flesh, causing the horse-thing to buck and squeal in pain. Roaring, Goral slashed at the writhing roots, trying to cut his way free. He could feel them tightening about him as the treelord stomped towards him.

‘Leave him, beast,’ Uctor shouted. The loyal hound-master hewed at the treelord’s legs with wild abandon, his rusted sword carving weeping gouges in the creature’s jagged bark. Uctor’s maggot-hounds burbled and snarled as they worried at the darting roots. The treelord turned, eyes blazing with an eerie light. It swatted Uctor from his feet with a swing of its long arm.

‘Mistake,’ Goral said, with a guttural laugh. ‘I’m the one you should be worried about, brute.’ Blighthoof surged forwards with a whinny and drove its shoulder into the treelord’s back. As the monstrosity turned with a creaking roar, Goral drove Lifebiter into the centre of its face. The treelord staggered back with a scream, a pungent smoke spewing from the wound. Golden trails of sap spattered Goral’s arm and chest as he swung the axe again and sheared off one of his opponent’s branches.

The treelord stumbled away from him, clutching at its ruined head. It sank down, moaning hoarsely. Satisfied that it was all but finished, Goral turned. He saw Sir Culgus tear the head from a tree-thing with one sweep of his sword as it tried to crawl away. A few of his warriors had fallen, but not so many that they could not do what they had come here to do, and they had not died alone. Sap-oozing bodies lay broken and twisted across the glade.

He felt some relief in finding that the heartstones still stood where he’d seen them last. They still glowed and pulsed, but not with the stinging brightness. Their vibratory song had grown muted, like the panting of a wounded animal. Soon, you will sing again — but this time, it will be a tune more to Grandfather’s liking, Goral thought, pleased. He felt like howling his triumph to the skies. Instead, he turned, seeking the fallen treelord. He would extract a measure of joy from the creature’s stiff hide. Perhaps he would even lay its head at the feet of his Lady of Cankerwall, as proof of his devotion. Will you offer me a smile then, my lady? His own smile faded as he realised that the treelord was gone.

Goral cursed. A trail of spilled sap led out of the glade. It hadn’t been as wounded as he’d thought. ‘Hunt the wounded one down, Uctor,’ Goral snarled, angry at himself. ‘I want that brute’s branches for my trophy-rack. It must pay for daring to defy Nurgle’s will.’ And for denying me the joy of the kill, he thought savagely.