The axe made a sound like a wounded cat as vines and roots rose up about its haft and slid into the wood. The haft cracked and burst, growing. The blade, blessed by Nurgle, lay where it was, avoided and ignored. Goral wondered if anyone would ever find it. Or would it lay here forever, a tainted patch in this verdant hell?
Maybe that had been Grandfather’s will all along. Infection grew from the smallest scratch, after all. He looked up at the creature, struggling to meet its gaze. His bones ached where they were not numb, and his blood was seeping into the soil. Even Grandfather’s blessings couldn’t save him. But the pain, as ever, brought clarity. I am… done, he thought. He had striven and failed and now the grass would shroud his bones. Was this what his Lady had seen, in her pox clouds? Was this moment the cause of her sadness on that final day? Had she despaired of him? He thought so, and gave silent thanks for it.
Goral looked into the dull, black eyes of his killer, and saw a most beautiful despair there. Like him, it had surrendered. Not to Nurgle, but perhaps to something worse, for its surrender had brought it no comfort. There was no joy in its eyes, no serenity. Goral smiled weakly and said, ‘You are truly beautiful, my lady. And far more damned than I.’ And when the first roots pierced his armour and the flesh beneath, Lord-Duke Goral of Festerfane smiled in contentment.
The Outcast watches the last of the defilers vanish into the soil. His rotted body, like the others, will be purged and cleansed before it is used to feed the roots of this place. The Writhing Weald grows strong on the bodies of those who seek to kill it.
And yet… she feels no satisfaction at this. She wonders what he said, in his hummingbird voice, too high and swift for her to understand. A curse, perhaps. The Outcast knows all about curses, for she is wreathed in them. They inundate her and strengthen her. More, she is a curse. Alarielle’s curse.
She hears the Everqueen’s voice on the wind, murmuring soft comforts to the trees and the sylvaneth who hide in their depths. Her words send the other Outcasts fleeing, seeking their safe places now that they are no longer needed. The reaping has passed, the Everqueen whispers, let the wind fade.
The Outcast looks up, into the canopy which twists and coils in on itself and becomes a face, vast and wise and hateful. Her face. Mother and betrayer, queen and usurper, friend and foe. To the Outcast, Alarielle slides from one to the next with every breath. She is unpredictable and terrible and weak.
The reaping has passed, Drycha Hamadreth. Cease your song, daughter.
The voice is soft, and insistent. Persistent, it dapples her mind like dew, spreading warmth, driving back the cold. And as it spreads, the Outcast hears the song, swelling out of a hundred-hundred glades, resonating within the very heart of her. In the song are echoes of other years and other lives, of time out of time, and broken worlds. The song is ancient and redolent of a world-that-was, and it rises to a triumphal thunder in her mind.
It weighs on her, burying her in its warmth. The heartstones echo with it, and as before, the Outcast wishes to feel once more the warmth of the blooming and the suns. To remember the taste of sweet waters. She is Drycha Hamadreth, first daughter of the sylvaneth. She is auspicious and honoured. She hears the song, and feels its warmth blow through her.
And then, all at once, it is gone.
The reaping is done for now, best beloved one. Sleep. Sleep.
Enraged, the Outcast stiffens. The fires of her fury, growing dim, are stoked anew. She remembers now. She will not sleep. The reaping has come, and there is yet more to be done. She is not beloved. She is unloved. She is forgotten, until the forests scream in pain, and the world trembles. Until the very realmroots call out in desperation.
No, she is awake now and she will not go back to sleep. Alarielle’s voice falls silent and her presence recedes. Perhaps she is angry at her wayward daughter, or maybe even pleased, but the Outcast does not care.
A storm is coming and Drycha Hamadreth will fight at its forefront.
She is the roar of the forest fire and the crushing weight of the avalanche. She is the moment of madness which makes animals foam and gnaw the air. She is all of these things and worse. She is the dark at the heart of the forest, and she is angry. The song of the sylvaneth is not for her or those she will call up.
Only the war-song, howling down from the high places to the low.
Short stories
David Guymer
Bear eater
The sun was searing bright, the sky a lens of crystal blue, shaped by gods for the glorification of their oasis of light. Towers of white stone with domed roofs of mosaic gold shone with a splendour that stole a man’s breath, and drew sweat even from an immortal’s brow. The trek across the Sea of Bones had been arduous, but dust and battle damage aside, the dozen Astral Templars still standing could outshine any Mortal Realm for glory.
Liberators in heavy armour of deep amethyst and gold marched in silent ranks; their shields were up in defiance of the sun, hammers strapped across their backs, heads high. The Prosecutors flanked them, walking in lockstep, but with the mechanisms of their wings unfurled, enhancing their size threefold. Their pinions sizzled with god-wrought might. To the rear came a pair of Judicators, the stocks of their crossbows each held in one heavy gauntlet, the stirrups to their shoulders. In the absence of the wrath of Azyr, the weapons were bright but otherwise inert arcs of blessed sigmarite. Impressive regardless, their function plain enough to anyone who knew war.
Even they were but a foretaste.
Hamilcar Bear-Eater marched a stride ahead, his helmet carried under the crook of his arm. His face was tattooed and bearded, his thick pile of red hair sweaty under the desert sun. His teeth were painted black, and he grinned for the awed men and terrified children that lined the Sacred Mile of Jercho to witness the return of Sigmar. Stick-figure representations of sacred beasts marked the rugged sigmarite of his armour, sandblasted, sun-faded, dim now as his own memory of the land and people that had spawned them. It clanked as he walked, the strapping loosened against the heat, his warding lantern banging on the opposite hip. A cloak of tattered Carthic bearskin trailed limply over one shoulder.
Larger than life, men had once called him, when he too had still been a man.
What then, he wondered, could they call him now?
The soldiery of Jercho lined the approach in their finest war gear. They were armoured in short-sleeved leather lorica and skirts sewn with bronze plates. Masks of the same metal, cast in the likeness of a rising sun, covered the upper halves of their faces, eyes peering through slit holes, only their frowns visible. The exposed skin of their arms, legs and chins was the brown of baked bread. Several ranks stood flawlessly to attention under the punishing midday heat — the sun was always high over Jercho — a line of spearmen that ran the Sacred Mile all the way from the Gates of Noon and the citadel of Jercho itself. Archers with long composite bowstaves made of hewnbeam and grindworm tooth tracked the procession from the rooftops.
The Astral Templars were not the only ones intent on making an impression.
‘There certainly are a lot of them,’ muttered Broudiccan.
The Decimator-Prime was a man of heroic stature and few words, which was what Hamilcar, a man of many words of tremendous import, appreciated about him most. His helmet bore a dent from a battle with the sankrit, a reptilian people whose small empire straddled the northernmost reaches of the Sea of Bones. The sankrit had clawed knuckles, and the blow to Broudiccan’s faceplate had left a deep gouge across the mask’s impassive mouth that only deepened the warrior’s gloomy aspect.