Over the din of battle, Aetius could still hear the sombre tolling of the dreadful bells. It was a summons, he thought, calling the Rotbringers and driving them into combat. More of them flooded out of side streets and doorways, coming at the Stormcasts from all sides. Some were chanting the name of their monstrous patron, while others were singing abominable hymns even as they fell to crushing hammer blows or sizzling arrows.
The Rotbringers pressed on with little regard for their own well-being, driven forwards by the bulky, lumbering shapes that strode slowly through the press of battle towards the gleaming silver battle-line of the Stormcasts. Aetius recognised the grotesque warriors instantly — putrid blightkings, the chosen of Nurgle. He had fought them before, and they were far more dangerous than the diseased fodder dying beneath the hammers of his retinue. There were more of them than his retinues could hope to hold at bay, at least while they were caught in the open. They had to fall back and find a more defensible position, one they could hold until reinforcements could be summoned, if need be.
Thinking quickly, Aetius fell to one knee and brought his hammer down on the street, sending a shockwave through the hard-packed soil. Rotbringers stumbled and fell as his Liberators stalked forwards, shields held high. Aetius rose to his feet, backhanding a Rotbringer with his shield as he did so. A mutant, her flesh encrusted in buboes, saw the opening and lunged forwards with her rusted blade held in both paws. She cackled with bitter amusement as the sword struck his breastplate and shivered to flinders. He crushed her hairless skull with a blow from his hammer and turned. ‘Solus — fall back,’ he called out.
The Judicators retreated, loosing crackling arrows at any Rotbringer who managed to squirm past the shield wall. Aetius struck out left and right. Their foes were as thick as fleas, and somewhere the great bell was still ringing mournfully. The blightkings drew closer, smashing aside Rotbringers in their lumbering haste to close with the hated Stormcasts. ‘Tomas, pull your retinue back and reform the shield wall — we will hold them while you disengage,’ Aetius shouted, gesturing with his hammer.
At his order, half of the Liberators disengaged and retreated. His own retinue tightened their lines, covering their brothers as they fell back. One of the blightkings bellowed something, a challenge perhaps, and tottered towards Aetius with a roar. A crackling arrow sprouted from the visor of the warrior’s helm, and he sank down with a choking sigh. ‘Thank you, Solus,’ Aetius murmured. Then, more loudly, ‘Fall back!’
He and his warriors fought their way free of the Rotbringers and backed away, shields raised and held steady. The arrows of the Judicators seared the air as they fell, ripping through those enemies who sought to pursue them. Aetius led his retinue past Tomas and the others, who waited to take their place in battle. The manoeuvre was repeated again and again, as the Hallowed Knights steadily retreated back the way they’d come.
Their withdrawal wasn’t without casualties. A Liberator fell, skull cloven in two by a blightking’s festering blade. Another was swarmed by chanting Rotbringers as blades and claws sought the joins in his war-plate. Aetius could do nothing to help either as they were reduced to crackling columns of azure lightning and returned to Sigmar’s forges. As the glare of their passing faded, however, he saw a thin shape, neither Rotbringer nor Stormcast, rise suddenly from the packed reeds that made up the street, a glowing sword clutched in its bark-covered hands. Long, vine-like hair whipped about a lean, almost human face as the newcomer removed the head from a Rotbringer with a single blow, before vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared. ‘What in Sigmar’s name…’ Aetius muttered. ‘Sylvaneth.’
It had been weeks since they had last seen any of the treefolk. After the Battle of Blackstone, and Alarielle’s rebirth, the sylvaneth had gone their own way, leaving the Steel Souls to fight where they would. They were fickle beings, and Aetius had been somewhat glad to see the back of them. What were they doing here?
A moment later, more of the strange sylvaneth burst from the reeds, their spindly forms moving with mercurial speed — first fast, and then slow, and always with a lethal, inhuman grace. Unlike the dryads, these creatures fought with weapons, albeit ones made from bark and stone. Despite the seeming crudity of their manufacture, the weapons cut through the diseased flesh of the Rotbringers with ease.
‘Tree-revenants,’ Solus said. ‘I saw them up close at the battle in the Hidden Vale. They’re some sort of royal guard, I think.’ He looked at Aetius. ‘They serve her will. And her will is not Sigmar’s.’ The Steel Souls had learned much about the sylvaneth in the weeks and months since Gardus had led them into the Hidden Vale. The treefolk did not forget or forgive, and they were as savage as they were enigmatic.
‘No. But we are allies, until the God-King commands otherwise.’ Aetius watched as the tree-revenants swarmed through the faltering ranks of the Rotbringers, butchering them in deadly silence. The enemy were confused, and in their confusion were growing frightened. Horns signalled the retreat as Rotbringers began to fall back in disarray. ‘Either way, they’ve given us the respite we needed,’ he said. He raised his hammer. ‘Forward!’
As he led his warriors into the fray, he watched the sylvaneth fight. Sometimes, they disappeared even as one foe fell, only to reappear across the battlefield, stepping from the seemingly solid reed-walls to attack another opponent from behind. Soon, the Rotbringers gave in to their growing panic and fled, streaming around the bewildered knot of blightkings, who roared in frustration and grunted vain commands to stop, to fight. Solus’ Judicators added to the panic, loosing volley after volley into the disorganised rabble.
Aetius and his Liberators slammed into the blightkings. Without the Rotbringers to support them, the fight that followed was swift and brutal. Preoccupied as they were, the blighted warriors were easy prey, though it took some doing to put them down for good. Luckily, the Steel Souls had had enough practice to know when to cease bludgeoning a fallen blightking and when to continue.
When the last of the brutes had fallen, Aetius looked up and found the tree-revenants watching them. He stepped forwards warily, ready to defend himself if it should prove necessary. While the treefolk had fought beside them as allies, there were stories of less friendly encounters, especially in the Wyldwoods, where sylvaneth were said to hunt anything not of Ghyran, regardless of whether it was Rotbringer or Stormcast.
One of the tree-revenants moved to meet him. It was the first one he’d seen, a long, glowing blade clutched in one talon. Rough bark covered its form, though whether it was armour or flesh, Aetius couldn’t say. ‘Hail, warriors,’ he said, wondering how one addressed a sylvaneth properly. Lord-Celestant Gardus had made it look so easy. ‘A fortunate thing, to find you here. We thank you for your aid.’
‘We… have come to… free this place,’ the tree-revenant said. Its — no, Aetius thought, his — voice was like the rattle of windblown branches and the scratch of leaves through wet grass. His face was akin to a mask pulled taut over knotted vines, with features that reminded Aetius of the strange, reclusive folk known as aelves. But this creature’s face moved in odd ways, twitching and twisting strangely.
‘As have we,’ Aetius said. He held his shield away from his body and very slowly hung his hammer from his belt. ‘We come to silence the curse-bells that call the servants of Nurgle to this place. Will you fight beside us?’
‘Fight…?’ the tree-revenant said, head cocked.