Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘Thank you,’ he called out. The spites had led their Stormcast allies to Arborea by secret paths only they knew, and Gardus was grateful to them. It had been the first time in many days that the Stormcasts had been able to travel without fear of attack or ambush, and such a respite had been much needed, though it would be brief. Even Sigmar’s chosen warriors required rest, and Rotwater Blight had more dangers than just those that came armed with swords and axes. The servants of the Ruinous Powers were many and varied, and the Hallowed Knights and their allies had fought for every patch of ground between Profane Tor and here.

He looked about in wonder. What stories were in these stones, he wondered, tracing the faded features of a vine-shrouded statue as he looked around the vast plaza he had wandered into. What folk had built this city? What had happened to them? Where were they now?

He closed his eyes, suddenly recalling the guttural laughter of the daemon Bolathrax and the nightmare pursuit through the Garden of Nurgle. He knew what happened to the people of Arborea as surely as he knew what had happened to his own folk, before Sigmar had claimed him.

Garradan… help us…

Weathered stone and withered vine crumbled beneath his fingers. Gardus opened his eyes and took his hand away from the statue.

‘No more,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Never again.’

‘Gardus,’ a harsh voice said from behind him. He turned, and saw Lord-Castellant Grymn stalking towards him, his gryph-hound padding at his side, his lantern glowing with a soft, warming light. ‘Are you ill?’

Gardus smiled thinly. ‘You sound almost concerned.’

‘I would not have asked if I wasn’t,’ Grymn said. ‘You have… been through much.’

Gardus said nothing for a moment as he marshalled his thoughts. He wanted to tell Grymn what he had seen in Nurgle’s grim garden. Even now, safely returned to the Mortal Realms, he could not cleanse himself of the stink of that place. It ate away at him, mind, body and soul. His armour was clean, but sometimes he could not help but see filth, a slow, creeping mould, insidious and inexorable. Idly, he scraped at his chest. ‘I am fine, Lorrus.’

As they had traversed Rotwater Blight, Gardus had sent his Prosecutors winging ahead to scout out the lay of the land. They had brought back word of the great, hollow trunk of the Oak of Ages Past, rising up from the horizon, and Arborea smouldering in its shadow.

Too, Tegrus had spied a number of strange, floating islands, their snow-capped peaks crowned by ugly green clouds.

Gardus shook his head.

‘Tegrus,’ he called out to one of the winged shapes flying through the upper reaches of the city above. ‘Is this the place?’

‘This is the city I saw, my lord,’ Tegrus said as he dropped to the ground. His wings blazed once, stirring dust and pollen, and then folded behind his back. ‘We sit in the very shadow of the Oak of Ages Past.’ He extended his hammer to the northeast. ‘And there, the river’s source. We’re close, Gardus.’

Lord-Castellant Grymn grunted. ‘It seems those forest spites did not play us false.’

‘Why would they?’ Gardus asked. ‘It is in their best interests to aid us.’ He looked at Grymn. ‘Or do you still not trust them, Lorrus?’

‘I trust nothing in this realm,’ Grymn said, one eyebrow raised. ‘Nor should you, Gardus. We are strangers here, however much blood we’ve shed. The sylvaneth are allies of moment, nothing more. Who knows what goes through the heads of creatures like that?’

‘I know,’ Gardus said, softly. ‘They could have killed me, Lorrus. Instead, they brought me back. They told me of this city, and the islands in the sky. We are their best hope for awakening Alarielle to the danger she is in. The talons of the Plague God seek her heart, and they close about her, even now. We must get to her first, to put ourselves between her and her enemies. That is why we are here, my friend.’

‘Yes, to take control of the realmgates in Sigmar’s name,’ Grymn said. ‘Why must we…’ He fell silent and turned away.

Gardus called after him, but the Lord-Castellant walked away, bellowing orders to a phalanx of nearby Liberators.

‘As pleasant as ever,’ Tegrus murmured.

‘He is worried. We are all worried. It has been a hard path to walk, and we have shed much blood in the name of something I saw in a mad realm,’ Gardus said. They had done much good along the way. Or so he hoped. They had torn down the vile redoubts of Nurgle’s champions, and slain many a corrupted warrior on their trek across the Blight. But they had not been able to continue to follow the river. To tarry too long in the vicinity of such a corrupted body of water was dangerous, even to Stormcast Eternals. They’d had to find a safer way to the river’s source — and a quicker one. When the forest spites had offered to lead them by hidden paths to Arborea, Gardus had quickly accepted, despite Grymn’s misgivings.