Wardens of the Everqueen Page 2

  Angstun pointed towards the light. ‘She isn’t like the sylvaneth,’ he said. ‘Queen Alarielle is no spectre of bark and branch. Her shape is one of beauty, a visage of wonder and marvel. To gaze upon her is to feel serenity, even with the hordes of the plague god snapping at our heels.’

  Grymn stood silent for a moment. He envied Angstun’s serenity. For the Lord-Castellant, even the thought of the Everqueen made him feel as though a great burden was pressing down upon him. Angstun had called him ‘commander’, but it had not been so when the Hallowed Knights entered Athelwyrd. Their commander had been Lord-Celestant Gardus, a courageous warrior and a great leader of men. It was he who had been entrusted with this mission, not Grymn – charged with rescuing Alarielle from the legions of Nurgle. Gardus had fallen in battle against the hordes of Torglug the Despised, his body and soul flung back to the holy halls of Sigmaron. With his passing, command of the expedition had become Grymn’s. Defending a position or building fortifications, these were the duties he was accustomed to, the tasks for which he was best suited. This retreat was something different. The necessity of it was unquestionable, for only in flight could Alarielle be protected, but there was no glory to be had running from the enemy. The other Hallowed Knights could satisfy their honour in the knowledge that they were obeying orders. Grymn had no such recourse, for it was he who issued those orders.

  ‘Do you think that is how she appears to them?’ Angstun asked.

  Grymn shook his head, missing the Knight-Vexillor’s meaning. Angstun pointed to a spindly dryad as it stepped out onto the path. ‘She is a goddess, so I wonder if her appearance changes to suit the senses of those who look upon her. To us, she is a woman of unmatched beauty, an echo of lost wonder. To the trees, perhaps she is a slender willow with golden leaves.’ He paused, glancing down the path at the forest behind them. ‘I wonder how she looks to our enemy?’

  ‘Like prey,’ Grymn said. He clapped his hand against Angstun’s shoulder. ‘But they will not catch their quarry. Not while a single Hallowed Knight still stands.’

  The Lord-Castellant turned away from Angstun and began to make his way back along the trail. Tallon, his gryph-hound and loyal companion, fell into step beside him. The creature’s canine body was tense, rippling with agitation. Its eyes roved along the edges of the path, its sharp eagle-like beak snapping with alarm each time the bushes stirred or the trees swayed.

  The eerie sylvaneth were growing in number with every moment that passed, more and more of them striding out from the deeper forest. Some were slight, almost frail-looking things, near human in their proportions. Others were great towering giants, many times the size of a man, their heads bent down so they did not tear the forest canopy above them. Smaller, wispy beings fluttered about the dryads and treelords, glowing shapes with gossamer wings, as phantasmal as a cobweb. Watching the sylvaneth creep out from the forest, Grymn realised he was wrong to describe what was happening as a retreat. This was an exodus, an abandonment of Athelwyrd. The sylvaneth were conceding their last stronghold to the plaguehosts.

  A sense of frustration rushed through Grymn. They should stand and fight, should turn right now and meet the legions of Torglug. The path through the forest wasn’t wide. It could be held. The Hallowed Knights could hold it. Even with the sacrifice of Gardus and the warriors left behind as rearguard, there were enough Stormcasts to contest Torglug’s advance. Tegrus and his winged Prosecutors, Markius and his stalwart Retributors, the valiant companies of Judicators and Liberators. They could make a fight of it. They could force Torglug to pay dearly to conquer Athelwyrd.

  Grymn shook his head as he watched the armoured warriors of his chamber marching past him. Yes, they could bleed Torglug’s army white, but that wasn’t their task. Their duty was to rescue Alarielle from the grip of Chaos, to protect her until she was safely beyond the enemy’s reach. That was their purpose. Later, when their duty was done, they could think about driving the foe from Athelwyrd and the whole of the Jade Kingdoms.

  Still, Grymn lamented the necessity of such a choice. Every hour the plaguehosts were left to ravage and despoil, their filth corrupted more of the forest. More of Ghyran became consumed, distorted into a diseased shadow. Every step back left that much less to save when the time did come for the Stormhost to fight.

  A retinue of Decimators, their mighty thunderaxes slung over their shoulders, marched past Grymn, each of the paladins saluting their commander as he drew near. Of all the Hallowed Knights, the sylvaneth seemed to especially shun the Decimators. Early on in the retreat, Grymn had decided to move those Stormcasts to the back of the line so they might avoid the tree-creatures leaving the forest to join the column. A misunderstanding between the paladins and newcomers might be enough to shatter the fragile alliance.

  After the Decimators, only a dozen Judicators were left to bring up the rear, each warrior armed with a deadly boltstorm crossbow. The bulky weapons could unleash a vicious barrage of sigmarite bolts in rapid succession. Within the cramped confines of the forest, that quality made them a greater asset than the longer reach of the skybolt bows carried by most of the Hallowed Knights’ Judicators.

  Marching alongside the Judicators was a macabre figure. Though he was clad in the same burnished sigmarite plate as the rest of the Hallowed Knights, this man’s helm had been cast in the semblance of a leering skull. A halo of sharpened spikes rose above the death’s head, each metal stake inscribed with invocations and funerary lamentations. This sinister warrior was Lord-Relictor Morbus.

  ‘The queen’s court grows,’ Morbus stated as Grymn fell in beside him. ‘The sylvaneth rally to her. They leave their secret places to join her in exile.’ He chuckled darkly, the sound echoing strangely within his helm. ‘Let us pray to Mighty Sigmar that her court does not grow so substantial that she finds no further need for us.’

  Grymn turned to the Lord-Relictor, shock in his eyes. ‘You think Alarielle capable of such treachery?’ His tone was accusing, bordering on outrage.

  Morbus laughed again. ‘Calm yourself, Lord-Castellant. It is naught but a conjecture crafted from observation. The sylvaneth do not like us,’ he said gesturing with the relic hammer he bore, indicating the Decimators ahead. ‘Perhaps we remind them too much of the plaguehosts with their blades and torches. Or perhaps they blame us for bringing the enemy into Athelwyrd.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Grymn scoffed. ‘We came here to defend the vale, not expose it to the enemy!’

  ‘The Hallowed Knights know that,’ Morbus said, ‘but do the sylvaneth believe it?’ He shook his head. ‘I think you may content yourself that at least the Radiant Queen knows us to be friends. You are right, she will not abandon us, not if every tree and shrub were to uproot itself and march to her banner. However much her subjects may resent us, they won’t–’

  Morbus broke off, his attention fixed upon a creature marching towards them from the fore of the column. It was one of the more human-sized sylvaneth, its trunk-like body having more definition about it than the usual dryads, its contours flowing into a woman’s form. Its branch-like limbs were more like true arms and legs than others of its kind had, the moss and leaves that topped the creature’s head approximating the tresses and locks of a maiden’s hair. The echoes of femininity faded around the face, formed from jagged cracks in the bark within which embers of faerie light pulsated. Around the wispy body, great lengths of green vine were coiled, entwined about each limb and every curve, their leaves full and healthy.

  Grymn had seen this creature before – it had nearly killed him when first they met – and he recognised it for the handmaiden of Alarielle. The Hallowed Knights had taken to referring to it as the ‘Lady of Vines’. Somehow, the title felt like more than an affectation bestowed upon her by the Stormhost. He thought it was something that belonged to the sylvaneth in fact as well as fancy.

  The branchwraith stopped before Grymn and Morbus, her glowing gaze piercing into each man. T
here was an unmistakable enmity in that gaze, and Grymn felt his sense of guilt swell within him as the accusing stare fastened onto him. Fighting down his own uneasiness, he forced himself to meet the sylvaneth’s glare. The Lady of Vines simply raised one of her branch-like arms and pointed at the forest behind them.

  Almost reflexively, Grymn and Morbus turned towards the trees. All that greeted them was the same maze of greenery that had surrounded them ever since their withdrawal. Grymn swung around, to try and get some explanation from the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith was already gone, walking back towards the light of her queen.

  ‘Are we being dismissed?’ Morbus wondered. ‘Is this her way of telling us to leave?’

  Grymn shook his head, his gaze returning to the trees. ‘We’ve sworn to protect Queen Alarielle. No mere handmaiden will relieve us of that duty.’

  A low growl from Tallon drew his attention to the gryph-hound. The creature was glaring at the path behind them, its hackles raised. As uneasy as the sylvaneth made it, Tallon had never reacted to them with such hostility. Something wasn’t right. Something was different than it had been only a few moments before. Grymn lifted his halberd as the sound of rustling in the undergrowth reached him.

  ‘More of the sylvaneth rallying to their queen,’ Morbus said.

  ‘You’ve been at the rear of the march,’ Grymn told the Lord-Relictor. ‘The sylvaneth make no sound when they move through the forest!’ Spinning around, he called to the Judicators around them. ‘On guard, brothers! The enemy has found us!’

  The moment the warning left his mouth, Grymn saw a shaggy, muscled shape leap out at him from the forest edge. He brought his halberd slashing around, striking the beast before its powerful jaws could reach him. The broken brute crashed to the earth, its paws scratching at the dirt as life fled from it. Grymn could spare no more than a glance at the huge mutated hound before a second canine horror rushed at him from the trees. The beasts seemed enraged by the light of his warding lantern, drawn to it like murderous moths. Tallon lunged at one of the monsters, bearing it to the ground, the gryph-hound’s beak clamped about the dog’s throat.

  Howls and snarls rose all around Grymn as more and more of the twisted hounds charged out onto the path. The crack of boltstorm crossbows boomed out, the Judicators loosing a fusillade of searing sigmarite into the attacking brutes. Yelps and whines of agony clawed at the air as the barrage brought down a dozen of the beasts. The path became strewn with dead and crippled hounds, yet still more of the monsters came loping out from the darkness.

  Lord-Relictor Morbus pulverised the skull of one Chaos hound with his enchanted hammer, the maimed brute’s body flung back into the trees by the force of his blow. Others converged upon him, seeking to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers. Tallon rose from the carcass of his first enemy to lunge at a second, raking it with his paws and slashing it with his beak. A few of the mutant dogs weathered the storm of sigmarite bolts to drag down a Judicator, savaging the warrior in their grisly jaws. Behind the hounds, there now came a shrieking mob of skin-clad barbarians.

  Grymn speared the hound snapping at his throat, kicking the dying beast from his blade as he turned to meet the charge of the marauders. They were abominable parodies of men, their bodies pitted with grisly sores and hideous lesions. Every manner of blight and blemish marred their flesh, proclaiming far louder than the cursed fly-rune daubed upon their armour and shields that here were the diseased slaves of Torglug.

  Bolts from the Judicators struck down the first wave of marauders. Grymn’s halberd met the second. The Lord-Castellant was a whirlwind of ruin, tearing his way through every foe luckless enough to tempt his blade. A shrieking axeman, his eyes transformed into rheumy pits of pus by his afflictions, was cut in half. A howling savage with an extra arm growing from his neck fell with one leg severed at the knee.

  ‘Only the faithful!’ The war-cry of the Hallowed Knights thundered above the crash of blades and the crunch of bone. Decimator-Prime Diocletian was leading his paladins into the thick of the fray, energy crackling about the blades of their thunderaxes. Behind the Decimators came a formation of Liberators, their shields locked together to form a moving wall that stretched from one side of the path to the other. Even as he fought the barbarians assaulting him, Grymn felt proud that his warriors were adhering to the plan he had developed. There would be no great rush to the rear to meet the foe. If it were but a ruse, a feint to cover for an attack elsewhere, the enemy would find more Stormcasts waiting for them.

  A fearsome howl rose above the cries and screams of fighting men. Through the press of marauders, Grymn saw a mounted chieftain gallop into view. Ghastly sores and profane brands peppered the flesh of both man and horse. The stallion stamped the ground with iron-shod hooves, chomping its teeth at the shrieks of the injured barbarians it trampled. The rider raised a double-headed axe in one fist, then crashed the weapon against the iron shield he held in the other. A challenging howl rose from his mouth.

  Grymn met the grotesque jarl’s challenge, smashing his way through the marauders around him to rush at their leader. The stallion reared back, its hooves slamming into Grymn as he lunged at the chieftain. The Stormcast staggered back, his head ringing from the crack of a hoof against his helm.

  The chieftain swung at him, his axe flashing downwards in a butchering sweep, all of the warrior’s weight behind the blow. His murderous eyes blinked in shock when Grymn’s halberd blocked the attack, when the Stormcast’s strength defied the malign power behind his assault. A sideward twist, an outward thrust, and the axe was ripped from the chieftain’s grip.

  Whinnying in alarm, the stallion backed away, smashing down those marauders too slow to get out of its path. The chieftain glowered at Grymn, his savage face curled back in a feral snarl. From the belt that circled his waist, he withdrew a brutal instrument of chains festooned with blades and spikes. Armed with this gruesome flail, the rider forced the horse back into the fight and circled Grymn at a gallop, lashing at him with the chains.

  ‘Stay your bolts!’ Grymn ordered the Judicators. ‘Tallon, heel,’ he commanded his gryph-hound as the creature moved towards the chieftain. ‘The villain is mine!’

  Even as he declared his intention, the warrior’s flail came whipping across his chest, drawing sparks from the sigmarite plate and slashing the strips of holy parchment fastened to his armour. Grymn swung about to confront his foe, but the rider was already galloping away, circling around to lash out at him from the other side. The fury of the second blow caused the Lord-Castellant to stagger back. A third strike knocked him to his knees.

  The chieftain rushed in for another attack, arching down to hit his fallen opponent. It was then that Grymn revealed his deception. Leaving his halberd on the ground, he caught hold of the chains as they struck him. Mustering all his prodigious strength, the Stormcast pulled on the flail. The chieftain was dragged forwards, the flail torn from his fingers. Unbalanced for the instant, the horse wasn’t able to retreat out of Grymn’s reach as it had before. Arms widespread, Grymn rushed the steed, wrapping one arm around its leg while he put his shoulder against its side. Roaring with effort, straining every muscle in his mighty frame, he forced the brute upwards. The animal came crashing down onto its side.

  Grymn leapt over the horse’s kicking hooves, pouncing upon its trapped rider. The chieftain tried to fend him off with his shield, but the Stormcast drove the iron disc back into the man’s face. Briefly they struggled, then Grymn pushed the shield down against the chieftain’s head. Now it was he who put all his muscle and weight into his attack. There was a grisly cracking sound as the marauder’s shield-arm snapped under Grymn’s assault. Then there was a garbled shriek as he pressed the iron implement still lower, smashing his enemy’s head beneath it.

  The gruesome destruction of their chieftain brought horror to the surviving barbarians. The marauders turned, retreating into the dark forest. To lend speed to thei
r rout, the blazing bolts of the Judicators chased after them until they were lost in the gloom.

  Grymn rose from the chieftain’s carcass, marvelling that anything that smelled so foul in life could reek even worse in death. Tallon rushed over to him, nuzzling his head against Grymn’s leg. As he turned away from his fallen enemy, he found Decimator-Prime Diocletian waiting for him, extending to him the halberd he had discarded.

  ‘Losses?’ he asked.

  ‘Two Judicators,’ Diocletian replied. ‘One to hounds, the other to the marauders. We’ve claimed over fifty in return.’

  Grymn ripped a strip of cloth from one of the dead barbarians, using it to wipe the blood from his blade. ‘Were any of the sylvaneth killed?’

  ‘Our allies took no part in the fighting,’ Morbus answered. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was scratched and bloodied, but the man within appeared to have suffered no injury beyond a darkening of his mood. He gestured down the path, towards the radiant glow of Queen Alarielle. ‘Perhaps they didn’t feel it was their fight.’

  ‘No,’ Grymn corrected him. ‘The Lady of Vines brought us warning. They know this is their battle as much as it is ours.’

  Diocletian was puzzled. ‘Why then did they not render us aid?’

  Morbus considered for a moment. ‘They are uncertain of us. They are putting us to the test, trying to determine our value. Trying to find our quality.’

  Though it struck at his warrior’s pride, Grymn could find no argument to contest Morbus. As he turned his own eyes towards the radiant light, he knew the Lord-Relictor was right. They were being tested.