Wardens of the Everqueen Page 8

  More and more of the corruption streamed across the gap. From a mire, the flow hardened into an icy mush. The swampy substance grew thicker, concentrating into a ghoulish mass. By the time the streams of filth died out, a putrid glacier stretched across the gap.

  Slaugoth fell to his knees as the sickening spell petered out. He wiped residue from his face and ripped the corroded Coin of Thak from his neck. The talisman had served its purpose. Glancing towards where Vorak had been dumped, he saw that his rival hadn’t survived the spell, his belly ruptured by the enormity of Nurgle’s power. It was odd to see that the minor witch next to Vorak had survived, but the ways of Chaos were capricious.

  The sorcerer laughed as he heaved himself back onto his feet and watched the plaguehost charging across the bridge he’d conjured. Torglug was certain to catch the enemy now, to seize the prize Nurgle coveted so dearly. The warlord would be exalted by the Grandfather for such a triumph, and when he was, Slaugoth would share in that glory.

  Chapter four

  As he hurried his men across the ice, Lord-Castellant Grymn kept looking up at the stormy sky. He depended upon Tegrus and his Prosecutors to monitor the enemy, to keep him informed of Torglug’s movements.

  If Tegrus couldn’t keep watch on the enemy, the Hallowed Knights were deprived of their most vital advantage over the plaguehosts. Grymn could hear the keening song of the Lady of Vines drifting back to him on the wintry wind. Alarielle might have called the jotunberg, but he felt it was her handmaiden who was shaping the living mountain’s primal powers, focusing them into the snow-storm that raged across sea and shore. There was an elemental magic in the branchwraith’s song, an arcane force that flowed from her into the atmosphere, twisting the environment itself to suit the needs of the sylvaneth exodus.

  The storm was now their greatest defence. The veil of icy mist hid the Stormcasts and their allies from the eyes of their pursuers, rendering them nearly invisible unless the observer was within a few hundred yards of them. If Tegrus and his Prosecutors couldn’t find the enemy, then it was doubly certain that the enemy couldn’t find them.

  Or was it? Grymn remonstrated himself for falling into the trap of underestimating the foe. Perhaps he needed a touch of Morbus’ dour outlook; maybe the Lord-Relictor’s bleak opinions were something every leader had to take into account when making his plans. ‘Believe in victory but have a strategy for failure,’ had been one of Lord-Celestant Gardus’ maxims. At the same time, Gardus had also advised that it was better to be mistaken than hesitant.

  Grymn’s focus turned from his inner thoughts to the men around him. Once more he’d deployed the Stormcasts so that they covered the flanks and rear of the sylvaneth march. The human warriors were faster and more agile than the lumbering tree-creatures and treelords who made up the bulk of the retreat. They would be more capable of reacting to a sudden threat than their allies. Moreover, he noted with a sting of guilt, a Stormcast who fell in battle would be reforged in Sigmaron. The sylvaneth killed by the enemy were simply dead. It gave him pause to consider how the tree-creatures regarded their own mortality. Some of the treelords were so ancient that the Jade Kingdoms had literally bloomed around them. The Lady of Vines, it was said, was even older still and had been handmaiden to the Everqueen even before she came into the realm of Ghyran. When such beings perished, it was so much more than the death of a man. It was centuries, even millennia, of life and experience extinguished, knowledge beyond the ken of scholars and sages.

  That was why the Stormcast Eternals had been forged, why they had devoted themselves to an existence of unending war. Sigmar would turn back the outrages of the Dark Gods, would redeem the realms from the desecration of Chaos. For Grymn, for all the Hallowed Knights, there could be no mightier or more noble cause, no greater purpose a man could serve. Throughout the realms there were many who struggled to oppose the spread of the Ruinous Powers, men who fought only with their own courage and conviction to turn back the darkness. Truly blessed were those chosen by the God-King to continue the war in armour of sigmarite and with weapons forged in the armouries of Azyr.

  His hand reached to the icon of Sigmar he wore. The silver hammer was small in Grymn’s gauntlet, but it represented something more powerful than thunderaxes and boltstorm crossbows. It was faith, trust in the God-King’s power and the God-King’s beneficence – the knowledge that however dark and dire things became, Sigmar wouldn’t abandon His servants.

  Something flashed across the snowy sky overhead. For just an instant, Grymn thought it was a flash of lighting, a token of the God-King’s vigilance. Then the phenomenon was repeated and Grymn was better able to see what it was that sped through the air. It was one of the Prosecutors, silver armour gleaming, great wings outstretched as he rode upon the winds. A mighty cheer rose from the Hallowed Knights, a shout of welcome to their airborne brother. The Prosecutor saluted them then wheeled away, climbing high into the sky until he was lost from view. A few moments later, he descended once more. This time he wasn’t alone but instead was accompanied by the rest of the winged Stormcasts. Tegrus, the plumes of his helm fluttering in the chill breeze, spotted Grymn and wheeled away from his troops.

  Grymn returned the Prosecutor-Prime’s salute as Tegrus landed beside him, cheered by the scout’s return. When he noted the severe expression in the warrior’s eyes, he found his relief dulled by a sense of foreboding. ‘You were able to keep watch on Torglug through the storm?’ At the moment, his greatest concern was that the Prosecutors had lost contact with the enemy. What Tegrus had to report was far worse, graver than any prediction Morbus could have made.

  ‘We found them, commander,’ Tegrus said. ‘They have already crossed onto the ice.’

  ‘How many of them?’ Grymn asked. He’d anticipated that Torglug would get a few troops across as quickly as possible in order to harass and delay their retreat.

  ‘The whole legion,’ Tegrus reported, his voice graver than Grymn had ever heard it. ‘Their accursed sorcerers worked some abominable magic to bridge the sea, an arch of filth spanning from the shore to the ice. The entire horde is across by now, sped by Torglug’s threats and barbarities.’

  Other officers of the Hallowed Knights drew near to hear Tegrus’ observations and to attend whatever orders Grymn had for them. It was Angstun who expressed the most immediate concern.

  ‘How long ago did the enemy get onto the ice and how far away are they now?’

  Tegrus shook his head. ‘The storm hindered our efforts to keep watch on the enemy. We were forced to fly low to make our observations. When we saw that they were conjuring a bridge with their magic, we tried to speed back to make our report. The storm made it difficult to locate the column again. It’s covering your tracks, so there is no trace of the march upon the ice. We were forced to disperse and glide closer to the surface than we should have liked to find you.’ The Prosecutor-Prime spread his wings with a frustrated twitch. ‘I fear my report has been delayed some hours now because of the storm.’

  The news brought uneasy murmurs from the other officers. If the plaguehosts had been loose upon the ice for hours then the enemy might have covered considerable distance. With the storm to hide their advance, they might be anywhere. The cold had chilled the sylvaneth and slowed their advance, even if it hadn’t diminished their prodigious endurance. Torglug would not allow similar setbacks, even if it killed his warriors.

  ‘If the storm has hidden us from the Prosecutors, then surely it will hide us from the enemy,’ Retributor-Prime Markius said.

  ‘The enemy counts more than mere men among their ranks,’ Morbus stated. ‘There are any number of strange beasts and monsters among them that might be able to pick up our scent and chase us down. Some of the daemons Torglug has conjured from the pits of Nurgle could track us by the light of our souls.’

  ‘Or the light of the queen-seed,’ Grymn added, turning his gaze towards the sylvaneth marching ahead of them. Tho
ugh he could still hear the Lady of Vines singing her spell-song, he couldn’t see the branchwraith through the mist, nor the radiant glow of the soulpod she carried. For all that he had been reforged in body and soul upon the Anvil of Apotheosis, his senses were still those of a man. Would the snows conceal the presence of the Lady of Vines and the treasure she bore from the profane malignance of daemons? Grymn decided they could take no such chance. Alarielle lived on in the queen-seed and it was their duty to protect her.

  ‘Our purpose remains the same,’ Grymn told his officers. ‘We will protect and defend the Radiant Queen.’

  ‘What are your orders?’ Angstun asked.

  ‘For now, we continue our march,’ Grymn told him, ‘but I want the Retributors withdrawn from the flanks and brought to the rear. Those Judicators armed with crossbows will likewise fall back. I want a double-rank of Liberators behind the last of the sylvaneth and a tightening of the forces deployed to either side at the back of the column.’

  ‘By strengthening the rearguard, you weaken the rest of the formation,’ Morbus cautioned. ‘What if the enemy moves parallel to us and intends to fall upon us from the sides?’

  Grymn shook his head. ‘I do not think Torglug would show such restraint. He is too keen on catching us. The moment he finds us, I think he will attack.’ He paused for a moment, reminding himself that underestimating the enemy was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make. ‘Still, we must guard against that possibility. Remove only every third retinue from the flanks. Angstun will be in command of the forces to the left of the column, Lord-Relictor Morbus of those to the right.’ He turned and faced Tegrus. ‘Do you think your scouts could find their way back to us in this storm?’

  ‘Only if we flew in a straight line from this point to our objective,’ Tegrus answered. ‘That would necessitate the column remaining while we were gone.’ There was worry in his tone, regret that his Prosecutors might cause the retreat to be delayed.

  ‘We’ll leave a relay of pickets to guide you back,’ Grymn said. He glanced over at Angstun. ‘We detach a warrior to hang behind and wait. The moment the mist starts to obscure him from view, another man falls back to keep him in sight.’

  ‘It could be done,’ the Knight-Vexillor said. ‘The only hazard would be if the storm grows worse and reduces visibility.’

  ‘That is a chance we’ll have to take,’ Grymn said. Again he turned to Tegrus. ‘I need to call upon your eyes once more. Deploy scouts to our left and right, but most especially I want you to retrace the trail behind us. I think it is from that direction the possibility of pursuit is greatest. Each of you will scout a distance of three leagues, then return.’ A note of apology sounded in Grymn’s voice. ‘I fear I’m going to abuse the stamina of your Prosecutors. Each time you return to report, you’ll be sent out again. Until we either find the enemy or–’ He hesitated, looking again to where the sylvaneth column was marching. ‘Or until we get wherever the Lady of Vines is leading us.’

  Grymn watched as Tegrus and the other Prosecutors rose back into the sky. He didn’t like to put the scouts at such risk. They’d have to fly low over the surface and though the slaves of Chaos weren’t known for fielding companies of bowmen, there was always the potential for a lucky spearcast or dark witchcraft to bring down the scouts. Moreover, even with the line of pickets left in the wake of the column, it would be an easy thing for the Prosecutors to miss them and lose their way in the storm. Still, the risk was necessary, however burdensome to Grymn’s conscience. They had to know where Torglug’s legion was.

  Angstun was just deploying the second picket when Tegrus and three of his Prosecutors came flying back. The winged warriors didn’t circle above the column to slow their speed but instead came diving down straight towards Grymn, their boots digging into the ice and snow as they hastily arrested their momentum. Tallon growled at them, upset by the haste of their return. Tegrus shouted to his commander, ‘Torglug’s legion is less than a mile behind the column and moving fast!’

  ‘Morbus, Angstun, you have your orders,’ Grymn told the two officers. ‘Keep the column moving. As you march, bring a mixed force of Liberators and Judicators to guard the rear. If it’s possible, we’ll rejoin you, but I’ll send a Prosecutor to alert you first. If you see anyone coming out of the storm without warning, cut them down.’

  Grymn busied himself with bringing the rearguard back. The frozen bulk of what must have been an island loomed off to their right, presenting a natural impediment to assault from that direction. Some of the more agile creatures among Torglug’s horde might be able to climb the frozen shingle that surrounded the snow-covered mound, but his heavier troops would find it tough going and it would be next to impossible for his cavalry.

  ‘Form the line adjacent to the island,’ Grymn told the officers of his rearguard. Half of the Hallowed Knights were dropping out of the column – a double-rank of Liberators, their massive shields locked together to form an unbroken wall of sigmarite and steel. Behind the second file of Liberators was the Annihilation Brotherhood, the Retributors under Markius. Most of the hammer-bearing paladins were deployed at the exposed left side of the shield wall, ready to crush any foe seeking to lap around the formation; others were staggered along the wall itself, a reserve to deal with any enemies strong enough to smash their way through the Liberators. Finally, there were the Judicators. Grymn had left the archers equipped with skybolt bows with Morbus and Angstun, withdrawing only those retinues bearing quick-firing boltstorm crossbows. Their role in the coming combat would be the deciding factor, even more vital than the Liberators and their shield wall.

  ‘Did you see much cavalry?’ Grymn asked Tegrus as the Hallowed Knights moved into position.

  The Prosecutor-Prime nodded. ‘From what I saw, it seems largely infantry and light cavalry.’ He followed Grymn’s gaze as the Lord-Castellant gave the left flank of the Hallowed Knights a concerned look. Swift-moving enemies would be able to roll around the exposed flank before the Stormcasts could react. Chaos hounds and other brutish beasts would simply circle around and attack the wall from behind, their predatory instincts oblivious to any strategic advantage. Horsemen, however, would recognise the opportunity to bypass the rearguard.

  ‘If they get around us, they’ll catch the column,’ Grymn said. His hand closed around the icon of Sigmar he wore. ‘If we only had more troops, if we could just extend the line more–’

  Even as he spoke, a yelp from Tallon caused Grymn to turn his head. The column had withdrawn behind the veil of the storm some time ago, vanishing into the snow and mist while the rearguard took up its position. Now, however, vague figures were moving towards them, monstrous shadows stalking through the fog. For a hideous moment, Grymn’s heart darkened. Had the enemy somehow already managed to get behind them?

  A swelling of wonder and relief rushed through Grymn when the shapes started to emerge from the obscuring veil. Inhuman, yes, but they weren’t the monstrous horrors of Torglug’s legions. It was the sylvaneth, a great body of tree-creatures marching back to help the Hallowed Knights in their holding action. Gigantic treelords with strong branches and ironbark trunks, nimble dryads with sharp talons and fanged mouths, and other less distinct tree-creatures strode across the ice to join the Stormcasts. As though answering Grymn’s concerns, the sylvaneth placed themselves along the exposed left flank, almost doubling the length of the line.

  ‘They look to be adopting your tactics,’ Tegrus observed, looking at the massed tree-creatures that had assembled into a wall of bark and branches. The mighty treelords kept place behind the smaller sylvaneth, ready to react to any break in the line. The swifter dryads took a post that appeared to mimic that of the Judicators, though Grymn was certain their role would be far different than what he’d planned for his bowmen.

  ‘The Lady of Vines must have sent them,’ Grymn said. Studying the mass of sylvaneth, he estimated that almost a tenth of the column had been sent back to s
upport the rearguard. It was tempting to believe the action indicated some expression of acceptance and fellowship between Stormcasts and sylvaneth, but he doubted the branchwraith was concerned about the men. Her focus was on keeping the queen-seed away from Torglug, and she was intelligent enough to understand that the longer Grymn’s rearguard could hold, the better her chances of escaping. He didn’t begrudge her such pragmatism. All of them, man and sylvaneth, had obligations far greater than themselves.

  ‘Sigmar grant that their aid is enough,’ Tegrus said. He pointed away from the shield wall. More dark, shadowy shapes could be seen behind the veil of mist and snow. This time the tense anticipation Grymn felt was justified. These would be no sylvaneth allies; only the plaguehosts of Torglug the Despised would be coming from this direction.

  ‘Sigmar grant us victory,’ Grymn prayed. His strategy was about to be put to the test.

  There is a point at which the pain of flesh reaches its end. Flesh can only withstand so much before it can suffer no more. The mercy of flesh is the dulling of the senses, the numbness of indifference as agony breaks the last boundaries.

  The spirit, however, the mind and heart of a mortal, these are things for which the only relief from torment is madness. Bit by bit, all that a mortal believes and trusts is eaten away by suffering. What oppression, what degradation can eclipse the futility of faith betrayed? In hope there lurks the greatest of all pain, for when it is extinguished, nothing is left behind but darkness. The mockery of treacherous hope is the most malicious of tortures, for it is a torment that stabs to the very depths of the soul.

  How long can one be abandoned to the darkness before the only thing left is to curse the light?

  Torglug’s blemished eyes squinted as he shook away his thoughts and focused on the captive who had been brought before him. It was a rare accomplishment to subdue one of Sigmar’s accursed lightning-men. Far easier to destroy them outright, to slay them and send their bodies crackling into nothingness. He was more impressed that Guthrax’s daemonic bile had taken the winged knight alive than he was at the abomination’s skill in shooting the flying spy out of the air.