Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

When the last of the defilers dangles ruined from her claws, she stops. The song of the heartstones has caught her attention and for an instant, just an instant, the song of the reaping gives way to the blooming and war is drowned out by peace. The Outcast sways in place, listening, and in that moment, she is outcast no longer. She is Drycha Hamadreth, first daughter of the sylvaneth, auspicious and honoured. She hears the song of her kin for the first time in a long time, and feels the tears of Isha upon her cheeks. See me… hear me… she croons, reaching out with one monstrous talon.

She wishes to touch them, just for a moment. To feel again the warmth of the blooming and the suns. To taste the sweet waters, so long denied her. She wishes…

A sour one moans at her feet. The moment is broken. She lifts a foot and stomps down, turning bones to powder and flesh to jelly. No… do not touch me… fear me, the Outcast hisses, glaring at the trembling heartstones. For an instant, she almost forgot… no. She will never forget and never remember. For her, there is no song. There is only the now. There is only the reaping and the wind.

The Outcast throws back her head and screams.

The treelord was gone.

A trail of golden sap marked its stumbling flight. The trees sought to hide it, but Uctor’s hounds found it and followed it regardless. They led Goral and the others on a yelping chase, away from the glade and the hateful light of the stones. Golden handprints and smears led them deeper into the dark and the quiet of the forest, until the only light was that of their torches and the only sound was the susurrus of the leaves.

But their quarry was nowhere to be found. Even Uctor’s hounds seemed to have lost the trail, and they now circled and yelped in apparent confusion. Goral cursed and smacked a fist on his saddle horn. Some part of him had expected as much. ‘Where is that cursed thing? It can’t have gotten far, not with the wounds I gave it,’ he said. He glared down at Uctor, wanting an answer, though he knew the hound-master would not know.

Before Uctor could reply, a monstrous shriek echoed through the forest. The yelping Chaos hounds fell silent and slunk back towards their master, tails tucked between their legs. The shriek seemed to grow in strength, reverberating in the dark, before finally fading away. Goral gripped Lifebiter more tightly. ‘What is that blasted thing? Why does it not come out, if it wishes to challenge us?’ he said. He straightened in his saddle and peered into the dark. He thought he saw something moving beneath the shroud of roots, but dismissed the idea. A serpent, he thought. Or some weak spirit, seeking to hide from them.

‘My hounds don’t like it, my lord,’ Uctor said, peering at the trees warily. ‘There’s something new in the air, a smell…’

Goral nodded. He could detect it as well. At first, he’d thought it was the stones and whatever magic was seeping from them inundating the surrounding trees, but this wasn’t the smell of either rock or sorcery. Not quite. It was a sickly sweet reek, like too-ripe flowers. Close to the pleasing odour of rot, but not quite. And it was everywhere, and growing stronger. Like the hint of rain, heralding a storm, he thought. But the smell wasn’t the whole of it.

The trees were trembling. But not, he thought, from fear. No, they were trembling with anticipation. As if the forest were a wounded animal, and it was about to turn on its hunters. They seemed to crowd around his warriors, and the roots beneath their feet twisted slowly into new and horrid shapes. It’s waking up, he thought, and he couldn’t say why he’d thought it. They’d hacked and burned a scar across its face, but it was only now stirring.

For the first time in a long time, Goral felt what might have been the embers of an old and forgotten fear stirring. Uctor’s maggot-hounds were whimpering, and his warriors were sounding little better. They had faced the shimmer-scaled devils of the stars, and the silver-armoured warriors who rode the lightning. But now… here… their courage was stretched thin, like a ligament extended past its breaking point. The joy they’d felt only moments ago had dissipated, leaving behind only silence.

‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ Uctor said. ‘Once we shatter those stones, whatever lurks here will wither and be no more threat. We can call on aid from the rest of the Order, or rouse the musters of Festerfane and Cankerwall if need be.’

Goral ground his teeth in frustration. In the dark, something laughed. The Chaos hounds began to bay shrilly, and their horses whinnied and stamped. ‘Light — more light,’ Goral snapped. He reached down and snatched a crackling torch out of a Rotbringer’s hand. He slung it away. It rolled across the carpet of roots, casting weird shadows. His knights and warriors followed suit. The dark retreated in bits and pieces, leaving oily pools of blackness between the trees.