Wardens of the Everqueen Read online

  A spasm from the distant jotunberg caused the ice between Torglug and his prey to fracture. Lunging forwards with a grace that belied his bloated bulk, the warlord leapt across the crevice and balanced himself upon the broken ice. His trio of eyes fixed once more upon the Lady of Vines.

  ‘You are giving her to me,’ he said. ‘I am knowing just the Garden where that seed is being planted. The Grandfather will be growing something special there…’

  Torglug knew the sylvaneth would never surrender Alarielle to him without a fight. His words were but a cruel barb to spur them into reckless action. The foolish lightning-man with the lantern was to thank for giving him the idea.

  With a wailing shriek, several of the dryads attending the Lady of Vines charged at Torglug. He leapt towards them, abandoning his precarious stand on the ice. Slamming down, he brought his axe slashing around, hewing through the trunk of one dryad with a single blow. The creature’s severed halves crashed into the charging figures of its companions. Before they could recover, the warlord was among them. A chop of his blade split the face of one tree-creature; a driving blow ripped the leg from another and sent the mangled sylvaneth tumbling into the water.

  It was only a matter of moments before Torglug had dispatched his enemies. He looked across at the Lady of Vines and the rest of her entourage. He could feel the hate rolling off them. To the sylvaneth he was the Tree-cutter of Thyrr, most hated of all Nurgle’s warlords. Now he could style himself the Annihilator of Athelwyrd. Soon he would be the Sorrow of the Sylvaneth.

  Torglug pressed his thumb against his vile axe, slicing his blubbery skin and drawing a bead of yellow pus from his diseased veins. ‘You are surrendering her to me, or I am taking her from your splintered corpses.’

  The warlord was ready to make good his promise when the sounds of battle rang out from the fog behind him. Enemies had engaged his putrid blightkings – lightning-men and sylvaneth trying to rescue the Lady of Vines and her charge. Well, his warriors would hold them off, keep them back until it was too late. This close to victory, there would be no escape.

  Rushing forwards, Torglug brought his axe chopping towards the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith leapt back, just beyond his reach, then stunned the warlord by darting in to rake him with her claws. Grey-brown filth slopped from his flabby flesh, as his skin was shredded. Torglug tried to smash down his antagonist, but again she slipped past his assault.

  Hefting his diseased axe, Torglug moved to press his attack. Before he could take more than a few steps, the rest of the dryads flew at him with their claws outstretched. Indescribable fury seized the warlord. All the frustration and impatience of the campaign boiled up inside him, spilling over in a paroxysm of savagery. Torglug swept his axe across the plunging bodies of the dryads, splitting trunks and severing limbs with each blow. He didn’t even feel the talons that slashed his flesh, despite the ragged wounds they left. What injury could compare to the plagues Nurgle had visited upon His favoured champion?

  Torglug stalked across a litter of dead and dismembered dryads. He glared in disbelief as the fallen sylvaneth began to rise, sprouting new limbs to replace the ones he’d cut away, glowing with a new vibrancy that echoed the light of the queen-seed.

  The queen-seed! The miraculous restoration must be Alarielle’s doing, an exertion of her divine powers. Torglug would have that power. He would make a present of it to Nurgle, use it to buy him the respite and relief that was his due.

  Ignoring the claws of the revived dryads, Torglug strode towards the Lady of Vines.

  ‘You are standing between me and my destiny,’ he told her. ‘That is being bad place for standing,’ he added, raising his axe.

  Even as Torglug moved to attack, burning pain flared through his bloated body. A wave of searing light spilled over him, throwing him across the ice. Smoke rose from his charred flesh and strips of melted armour dropped from him as he struggled to his feet. Through a haze of smouldering agony, he turned to face his assailant.

  His foe was another lightning-man, this one clad in white armour with a radiant crest bolted to his helm. Wings of shimmering light spread from the warrior’s back and in his hand he held a lantern more terrible to the plaguelord’s eyes than the one he had cut from Lord-Castellant Grymn. Torglug’s adversary pointed a golden sword at the warlord.

  ‘Face me, monster,’ the white warrior said. ‘I am Knight-Azyros Diomar and I bring you this message – your time is over.’

  The lightning-man’s beacon opened once more and from it another surge of searing light slammed into Torglug’s diseased bulk. The warlord was sent reeling, smoke rising from his scorched flesh. The stink of burst boils filled his lungs and his ears rang with the deafening echoes of the blast. Struggling once more to his feet, Torglug shook his horned head. He could see Diomar turn towards the Lady of Vines. Faintly, he could hear his words to her.

  ‘Flee, Lady – I will hold them.’

  Torglug wondered at the lightning-man’s choice of words. Then his eyes strayed to the ice at his feet. He could see the vast, worm-like shape slithering just below the surface. He looked back towards Diomar and laughed.

  ‘I am thinking not for long,’ he hissed.

  Grymn knew he was still alive by the pain that surged through his body. It felt as if liquid fire had been poured into his veins, searing and scorching every speck of his being. The memory of Torglug’s axe smashing his warding lantern and hacking through his hand flared across his vision. As he slowly opened his eyes, he expected to see the ghastly warlord standing over him, ready to finish the job with another swing of his blade.

  What he saw instead was the angry sky above the Sea of Serpents. The storm had intensified, lightning and thunder joining the downpour of freezing rain and snow. Grymn gasped as he realised how familiar the storm was to him. No natural tempest, not even a magical snowburst conjured by the Lady of Vines – this was one of Sigmar’s storms, a manifestation of the God-King’s power. It was upon such storms that the Stormcasts descended to the realms to confront the slaves of Chaos.

  The dismay of a moment before vanished. Grymn had felt at a loss when Torglug saw through his ploy and sent his vile warriors hunting after the queen-seed. His failure seemed complete when the enemy struck Tallon, cut off his hand and left him for dead on the ice. Now, however, he was filled with a new determination. Sigmar had not forgotten the Hallowed Knights. Contrary to the mocking suggestions of Torglug, the God-King hadn’t forsaken His faithful warriors. There was still hope. While there was life, the prospect of victory was never impossible.

  He heard a whine and turned his head to see Tallon sitting beside him, guarding his body and his halberd. Grymn was heartened to see the gryph-hound had survived the fight, though the creature looked the worse for wear. He needed his weapon now, not to strike down his enemies but to help him back to his feet. Standing the halberd upright, he pulled himself along its haft, gradually lifting himself until he was off the ice. Every motion brought a surge of agony rushing through him. The ghastly wound in his side opened up again, blood dribbling out to spatter in the snow. Drawing a deep breath made his ribs ache and jostled the splintered bones piercing his flesh. Grymn realised that he would need to be judicious about how much he taxed his mangled body. Without the warding lantern, he couldn’t call upon its healing light to restore himself. He searched across the ice, finding the lamp lying on its side. It had been badly damaged by Torglug’s assault, but he could feel the faintest flicker of enchantment still smouldering within it. Carefully he lifted it off the ice and fastened it to his belt.

  Reluctantly, Grymn looked to the ragged stump where his hand had been. Compounding the horror of his mutilation was the diseased crust that discoloured the wound. It was that filth which had prevented him from bleeding out, but he knew it was no mercy it offered him. He could almost see the corruption from Torglug’s axe gnawing away at him, polluting his body with its purulent inf
luence. It was no mundane contagion that could inflict itself upon a Stormcast.

  Sounds of battle made Grymn forget his own pain. Tearing his eyes away from the gory stump, he looked out across the frozen sea. He couldn’t see any of Torglug’s warriors, but just behind the swirling fog he caught the distinct flash of skybolt bows loosing arrows. It was from this direction the sounds of conflict rose. Whether the embattled warriors were Hallowed Knights or from another Stormhost, it was enough that they were enemies of Torglug. Steeling himself against the pain, Grymn limped towards the fighting, Tallon following faithfully after him.

  When he emerged from the fog, Grymn found himself behind a chamber of Judicators and a wargrove of dryads. Hallowed Knights and sylvaneth had come against a tribe of marauders, striking at the barbarians from behind. He recognised the foul banners the enemy carried as belonging to the accursed Threespine tribe. The marauders had been caught in the valley between two frozen waves. Had they retreated or regrouped, they might have come around and surrounded their attackers. Instead, with the viciousness of their breed, the Threespines had simply turned about and charged into their tormentors.

  The Judicators and their allies had adopted a simple but effective deployment. While the dryads barred the gap between the waves, the archers loosed volley after volley into the massed barbarians. The resultant slaughter was considerable, the shafts of lightning falling with such frequency that pits had opened in the ice to drop luckless marauders to a watery grave.

  A fierce cheer rose from the Judicators when they spotted Lord-Castellant Grymn emerge from the fog. ‘Only the faithful!’ they shouted. Despite the pain it caused him, Grymn returned their cry.

  The shouts had a profound effect upon the Threespines. Thinking their adversaries had received substantial reinforcements, the barbarian attack faltered and then broke. The marauders turned to retreat back the way they had come. Grymn was surprised when the dryads didn’t pursue them, even more surprised when the Judicators sent no arrows against the reeling enemy.

  It was then that he spotted a lone figure standing upon the crest of one of the waves. Garbed in silver armour, the apparition raised his hammer skywards. In response, a crackling storm of lightning came smashing down. The ice towards which the Threespines fled was shattered. Fissures snaked away, opening beneath the very feet of the marauders. Howling in shock and terror, the barbaric warriors were sucked down into the icy water. In the space of only heartbeats, the entire tribe was obliterated.

  ‘Morbus,’ Grymn laughed. He had thought the Lord-Relictor destroyed along with Angstun and the Decimators. It was a relief beyond measure to find his friend still alive.

  By the time Grymn reached the Judicators, Morbus had climbed down from the icy summit. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was scorched and blackened, and half of his skull-helm was melted away, looking as if it had been torn apart by monstrous claws. Grymn shuddered to think what Morbus’ wounds must have looked like before he turned his healing powers upon himself.

  From the expression he saw on the exposed half of Morbus’ face, Grymn imagined it would have been similar to the injuries he’d been dealt. The Lord-Relictor studied him closely, shaking his head when he came to examine the infected stump.

  ‘My power can mend the gash in your side,’ Morbus told him. ‘I may even be able to mend your lantern, but cleansing your hand – or where your hand should be – is another thing.’

  Grymn glanced away, looking over the Judicators. He could see the hope in their eyes, the hope that he knew his presence as their commander inspired. He was surprised to find even the dryads displaying an interest in him, something perhaps more profound than simple curiosity. After all they had endured upon the ice, maybe even the sylvaneth had come to depend upon him.

  ‘Can you mend me enough so I can fight?’ Grymn asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.

  Morbus nodded. ‘The stump will torment you,’ he warned. ‘If you can ignore the pain, you might hold your own.’ He stared hard into Grymn’s eyes. ‘But I wouldn’t advise it. We’ve lost too many already. If they see you fall…’

  ‘And if they see me fight it will inspire them,’ Grymn objected. Things were dire enough already without Morbus’ bleak perspective to further darken them. ‘They need that more than anything right now.’

  ‘I’ve said my piece.’ Morbus shrugged. He pointed to the sky above. ‘You saw the thunderstrike. Great Sigmar has dispatched reinforcements to aid us. I saw some of them from a distance, Prosecutors soaring above the ice. They bore the colours of the Knights Excelsior.’

  Grymn digested this information. He must have been insensible during the thunderstrike, but to know their reinforcements were from the Knights Excelsior gave him comfort. They were a fierce and determined Stormhost, a formidable ally and a daunting enemy.

  ‘I didn’t see how many descended in the storm,’ Morbus said. ‘The numbers of Chaos warriors I’ve seen prowling the ice makes me think there can’t be many. Not enough to simply brush aside Torglug’s legion.’

  Looking again at the angry sky, Grymn felt the bite of the Lord-Relictor’s words.

  ‘Then it is still up to us to protect the Everqueen,’ he said. ‘Minister to me as best you can, old friend, for we must find the Lady of Vines and keep her from Torglug’s grasp.’

  Morbus gave Grymn another severe look. ‘Which concerns you more? Protecting the queen-seed or getting a chance to cross blades with that scum again?’

  ‘Sigmar willing, both are in my future,’ Grymn told him.

  The enormous sea worm burst through the ice pack, sending great chunks flying in every direction. An undulating wail rippled from its heaving bulk as it angrily lashed about trying to find prey. Nearly blind, all but mindless, the monstrous thing posed as much of a threat to the servants of Nurgle as it did to Diomar.

  Clutches of Torglug’s minions came stalking out of the fog while he battled the lightning-man. Blightlord Goregus Festermaw had rallied some of the putrid blightkings. The diseased warriors rushed out of the fog like crazed beasts, charging towards the winged Stormcast. The abruptness of the assault made Diomar climb into the air and turn his beacon against the blightkings. Torglug forced his battered body into action, seizing upon his foe’s distraction to close the distance between them.

  Before he could reach Diomar, the sea worm struck. Torglug had seen it swimming beneath the ice for some minutes, but the monstrosity had kept its distance. Perhaps even its brute instinct was intimidated by the lightning-man’s beacon. Whatever the cause, the howls of battle as the putrid blightkings rushed towards Diomar had lured the leviathan up from the deeps.

  Ice split and fractured as the wormy titan snapped its ghoulish jaws in search of prey. Blightkings were pitched into the watery depths as the surface shattered under their feet.

  Torglug fought his way across the splintering ice, hurdling the pits that the worm’s ferocity opened, sprinting across crumbling ledges before they could finish disintegrating. The warlord heard the worm slip back beneath the water. What eerie senses guided the obscenity, he could not say, but somehow the blind beast felt his presence on the ice. He saw its grisly shadow start towards him from below. Torglug raised his voice in a defiant shout, hurling insults up at the hovering Diomar. ‘Are God-King’s dogs being afraid to be crossing blades with Torglug?’

  ‘Worms of Nurgle aren’t fought,’ Diomar declared. ‘They’re purged.’ Swooping downwards, he turned the beam of his beacon upon the bloated plaguelord.

  Torglug’s body was wracked by agony as his flesh cooked under the searing light. Every nerve in his body spasmed at once. Only a caprice of chance kept his fingers locked about the haft of his axe, only the abnormal vitality Nurgle had gifted him kept his heart from bursting or his lungs from collapsing. His mouth tightened in a rictus grin, his teeth severing the tip of his tongue as they bit down.

  Diomar dived towards the smouldering warlo
rd. He raised his glistening starblade, its ancient symbols glowing with power.

  ‘Too long has this realm suffered your presence,’ he snarled.

  Through the searing pain that ravaged him, Torglug managed to laugh. He could see his enemy coming towards him, but he wondered if Diomar noticed the shadow writhing under the ice.

  ‘Glory I am finding here, dog of Sigmar,’ Torglug spat, blood dripping from the mask of his helm. ‘But you are finding only death.’

  The warlord brought his blackened axe swinging upwards, blocking Diomar’s blade and pushing the winged warrior back. At the same time, the sea worm erupted from below, rising in a leprous column of quivering flesh and snapping jaws. The creature’s maw chomped at the lightning-man, narrowly missing him as he plunged back towards the ice. He crashed hard against the pack, the fragile surface cracking beneath his weight. Cautiously he regained his feet, starblade gripped in one mailed fist, the beacon clenched in his other. Torglug could feel the righteous outrage of his enemy as Diomar turned towards him.

  ‘You will pay for that, monster,’ Diomar snarled.

  ‘Be having dinner with worm of Nurgle,’ Torglug sneered as he tossed a chunk of ice thrown up by the sea monster towards Diomar. It landed on the already cracked surface, sending a spider-web of fresh splits snaking away in every direction. Pops and groans rose from the impact, presaging the collapse to come.

  Before the surface broke beneath his feet, Diomar was in motion. The lightning-man leapt forwards as the ice gave way completely, flinging himself at Torglug.

  Plaguelord and Knight-Azyros collided, their armoured bodies rolling across the ice. More cracks and creaks accompanied their struggling figures, the weakened surface unable to support both their weight and their violence. At last it split under them, dropping both into the frigid water. Torglug lunged for one side of the pit, his axe hooking the edge before his armour could drag him down. Diomar floundered on the other side of the pool, forced to let his beacon sink into the depths while he pulled himself back onto the ice.