Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

As he fought, he caught glimpses of the battle swirling about him. He saw dryads tear through skaven ranks and a massive treelord overturn a bubbling, poison-spewing plague furnace with a roar, crushing those plague monks unlucky enough to be close by. He spilled the rotten guts of another opponent, preventing the warrior from smashing the skull of a wounded dryad. The remaining blightkings forgot about the branchwraith and her followers as Gardus continued his rampage. The bloated warriors hurled themselves at him in growing desperation. Axes scored his armour but he refused to fall. He swung and slashed, chopped and crushed, littering the ground with the dead. He reared back and kicked a blightking in the chest, sending the brute staggering into the talons of the branchwraith, who caught the warrior’s head with her vines and crushed it, helm and all.

Gardus met her inhuman gaze. For a moment, Stormcast and sylvaneth stared at one another. Then the branchwraith threw back her head and shrieked, vines lashing. Her dryads echoed her cry and plunged past Gardus, hurling themselves back into the fray to aid their kin. Gardus followed them, his weapons slick with bile and spoiled blood.

Together, Stormcast and sylvaneth fought against the enemies of Life itself. Squealing skaven and groaning blightkings met them in the centre of the clearing, and Gardus roared out the battle-cry of the Hallowed Knights until his voice became a strained rasp. He left a trail of the dead and dying behind him as he fought to keep pace with the branchwraith and her sisters. The white fire thatwreathed him burned brighter and brighter as he pushed himself past the point of exhaustion. Despite the pain of his wounds and the fatigue that poisoned his muscles and numbed his mind, Gardus was determined to see the glade cleansed of its affliction.

As he fought, he saw the branchwraith stride through the swirling ashes thrown up by the plague furnace’s destruction to confront a shrieking skaven. The skaven, swathed in foul robes, its hairy flesh puckered with scars and buboes, chattered a challenge. Gardus made to step forwards, but the branchwraith threw an arm across his chest, stopping him.

‘No,’ she said, in a voice like branches crackling on a fire. ‘Our sap runs hot, son of Sigmar. But Thellembhol’s runs hotter still.’

Gardus looked past the skaven, and saw an immense shape loom out of the smoke. The treelord that had upset the plague furnace rose up over the foul creature. The skaven whirled about, claws raised, eyes glowing as verminous lips writhed in the beginnings of a croaked incantation. Thellembhol raised one massive foot and slammed it down, stamping the life from it.

Gardus looked around; the battle was over. If any of the skaven had survived the wrath of the dryads, they had fled. The blightkings were all dead, their bodies dissolving into rancid sludge. His limbs felt heavy, and the fires which had seared his armour clean began to gutter and fade. He staggered and sank to one knee. Thick vines caught him before he fell, their thorns clattering almost gently against the plates of his armour.

‘You are tired almost unto death, son of Sigmar,’ the branchwraith said, looking down at him, her inhuman features twisted into an expression of what he thought was concern. ‘Know that you have the thanks of the sylvaneth and the Lady of Vines, war-hand of the Radiant Queen.’

‘Lady,’ Gardus said, as he pushed himself up, ‘I have waded through a sea of horrors to return to this realm… I must get back to my brothers. I — I must tell them of what I have seen. I have seen the Hidden Vale, and Alarielle. I can lead them…’

He trailed off as he suddenly recalled to whom he spoke. The Lady of Vines had stiffened at his words, and he felt the treelord approach, a rumbling growl slipping from its bark-maw.

‘Fear you to tell your tale, son of Sigmar?’ the Lady of Vines hissed. ‘You have learned a dangerous truth, it seems.’ The vines about him tightened, and he tensed, ready to fight his way free. Then, with a rattling sigh, the branchwraith released him. ‘Then, perhaps your coming shall bestir my mother from the darkling dreams which do assail her. Be not afraid, son of Sigmar — we shall take you to your brothers.’

Gardus sagged, relief flooding him. Then, with reserves of strength he did not know he possessed, he pulled himself upright. He met the branchwraith’s flickering gaze and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Lead on, O Lady of Vines… and I shall follow.’

Chapter Four Blare of the Dirgehorn

‘Forwards!’ Grymn roared, as he raised his halberd high, casting the light of his warding lantern across the blasted expanse of Profane Tor. Thunder snarled overhead, and a cerulean rain pounded down on faithful and foul alike. Strobing lightning revealed a gore-streaked tableau. ‘Forwards, for Sigmar… for Azyr… and for the Steel Soul,’ Grymn bellowed, fighting to drown out the drone of the monstrous Dirgehorn.