Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘Shields!’ Gardus roared. ‘Use your shields. No blades. These are not our enemies.’ He charged towards the creature that had wounded Grymn, bulling aside the shrieking dryads that tried to intercept him. Grymn’s gryph-hound loped at his side. Why is this happening? he thought. The being crouched over Grymn was the Lady of Vines. He recognized the branchwraith from the Glade of Horned Growths; it was she who had saved him from his wounds, and whispered answers to his questions. It was she who had seen to his return to his Stormhost.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he called out.

Behind him, he heard the sound of his Stormcasts striving to defend themselves from the sylvaneth pouring out of the forest on all sides. As the men died and the sky was filled with blue light, he bolted into the ring of menhirs.

The branchwraith shrieked and lashed out at Tegrus and his Prosecutors as they dived at her, trying to draw her away from the limp form of the Lord-Castellant. As Gardus drew close, she spun and lashed out at him with a thorny tendril. Tallon leapt, catching hold of the vine in his beak before it could reach Gardus. The gryph-hound held on, even as the branchwraith swung him through the air, trying to dislodge him.

Gardus caught another vine as it slashed at him, and wrapped it around his forearm. ‘Lady, heed me,’ he cried, trying to catch the creature’s attention. ‘Why are you doing this? How have we offended you? Why has it come to this?’

The creature’s blazing green eyes met his, and the Lady of Vines stretched out a gnarled hand and pointed, trembling with rage, towards the other side of the vale. Gardus turned, his heart sinking, as he heard the blare of grotesque horns and the thud of war drums. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Oh no…’

Pouring down the opposite valley wall was a wave of feculent fluid, and knee-deep in it were horde upon horde of Chaos worshippers, of every size and description. It was as if every follower of Nurgle in Ghyran had come to this place in answer to some powerful call — there were goat-headed beastmen, scurrying skaven and fat-bellied daemons, and at their head a lumpen giant, upon whose shoulders sat two gesticulating champions of the plague god. As Gardus watched in growing horror, the vanguard of the plague-legion smashed headlong into the dryads spilling from the trees.

‘We led them here,’ Gardus said hollowly. It was the only way the lost and the damned could have found their way to this place. He turned back to the Lady of Vines, but no words came to his lips as he looked up into the grief-twisted features of the branchwraith.

‘Yes, son of Azyr.’

Gardus turned as all about the menhir glade the trees shook down to their roots. As one, the dryads sank to their knees and the air grew still and heavy. Every loose leaf, twig, and branch in the glade was caught up in a whirlwind that carried them towards the trees and as they moved, Gardus thought he saw a shape coalescing within them. Not human, not quite, but something else… something older, and at once as vast as the Hidden Vale and as small as the flowers that sprouted in its wake. As the whirlwind struck them and dissipated, the trees twisted towards one another, entwining their branches together, weaving twig and leaf to form a female face — a face Gardus recognized, though he had never seen it before, save in murals and bas-reliefs.

‘Alarielle,’ he whispered.

Burning jade eyes met his own, and a voice as powerful as a summer storm, as piercing as the whisper of a thousand winds, spoke.

‘You have led the enemy to my sanctuary, Gardus of Azyr. Whatever your reasons, I have awakened from my dreams of more pleasant times. Athelwyrd is invaded. This day the armies of Azyr and Ghyran must fight together, or we will surely die apart,’ the Radiant Queen said, her words carried by creaking branches and rustling leaves. ‘Whatever I once desired, now only sad necessity remains — fight, my children. Fight, sons of the storm. Fight…’

Her voice rose to a keening wail, shaking the menhirs and causing Gardus to clutch at his ears. As the trees returned to their previous positions and the echoes of her voice faded, a wash of emerald light flooded the glade.

Grymn groaned as the Lady of Vines stepped back. Gardus looked down and saw, to his amazement, that the other man’s wounds had been healed. Grymn looked up at him.

‘I’m not dead,’ he said, as he grabbed his halberd and levered himself up. The Lady of Vines strode past them, stalking towards the battle, her thorny tendrils lashing in fury.