‘Your aid… would be appreciated,’ Aetius said. ‘I am Aetius Shieldborn, Liberator of the Steel Souls.’ He extended his hand, and waited.
Felyndael felt something in him tighten at the sound of the Stormcast’s voice. It was a deep sound, low and grumbling, like the progress of rocks down a mountain slope. Or the crash of distant thunder. They smelled of rain and heat and raw iron, newly scraped from the good earth. They were not of Ghyran, these beings, but of Azyr, and they burned with a cold light that stung his senses.
These silver ones were known to him. They, alongside the amethyst ones, had fought to free the Gates of Dawn. They were also the ones who had unwittingly led the forces of the great enemy to the Everqueen’s hidden bower. Had they made the same mistake again, leading Alarielle’s foes to this place?
Many sylvaneth have died because of these silver-skins, thought Caradrael.
And many more have been saved, Yvael replied. These defended the Everqueen, even unto death and beyond.
The Everqueen is not here, Caradrael thought. He shifted impatiently, his blackened bark creaking with every twitch. Leave them, noble one. We have more pressing matters to concern ourselves with. Did you hear that tolling as we fought? It was like being in the fire all over again.
Yes, Felyndael thought. The echoes of the — what had the Stormcasts called them, curse-bells? — had finally faded. He tilted his head, listening to the wind and the crash of the sea, the creak of the reeds and the cry of marsh birds. Within that ineffable song was a hidden note, dim now, and weak. But growing stronger.
Those bells will shatter the soulpods if they continue to ring, Lathrael thought. We all felt their power. If these silver-skins come to destroy them, why not aid them?
We have no need of them, Caradrael thought.
Maybe, Felyndael thought, still listening to the call of the soulpods. The pulse of life as yet dreaming, a wellspring preparing to gush forth and leave something new in its wake. But if they were not recovered soon, their blooming could be twisted, and that was something he would not, could not allow.
He looked into the thoughts of his warriors, sensing the same resolution in each of the tree-revenants who had accompanied him to Gramin. Twenty in all, each was a child of the Heartwood Glade, and connected by bonds older than thought. Felyndael drew strength from that connection. Within it was a thunderous echo of glories past, which reverberated in the soul of every child of the forest. He felt again the savage exultation of the Third Harvest, and the sorrowful joy of the Crucible of Life.
We have known glories, he thought.
We will know glories again, Yvael replied.
In a span of moments he saw again every battle he had ever fought, every long war waged down the winding path of his people’s slow waning. His heartwood ached from the weight of those long centuries of retreat and loss. More, it ached with fear. Not for himself, or even his kin, but for that which nestled helpless and unawares somewhere beneath Gramin.
Fear that he would fail them. Fear that twenty warriors — even these twenty — would not be enough to confront the horde he could feel gathering elsewhere in the city. The reeds of Gramin whispered of their numbers to him, and whispered too of the pain the soulpods felt every time the bells rang. Lathrael was right — they might be destroyed if that monstrous tolling were not silenced.
The foe were too numerous for his warriors to fight through alone, too many to avoid even, too many between him and his goal. All of this passed across his mind in the blink of a mortal eye, and he turned, opening his thoughts to his kin.
Sensing his frustration, they reached out to him, to comfort him. Even seething, impatient Caradrael. Fingers of bark and vine touched his shoulders and face, as each sung a single note which merged into a calming melody, pulling him back to himself. The Stormcast lowered his hand and stepped back, as if he could feel the edges of the spirit-song.
They had all suffered as much or more — Yvael had been with him at Ghoremfel where the Lady of Vines had led them into battle for the Tear of Grace, and seen the pride of House Lathrien splintered by daemons; Caradrael still bore the burns he’d suffered at the fall of the enclave of Verdantia; Lathrael… mighty Lathrael, who had fought her way free of the pox-waters which had drowned the Hidden Vale; and the others, whose voices and sorrows were as one with his own.
We will know glories again, they said.
Slowly, he added his own voice to theirs, until the air shivered with their song. Many became one, and in an instant, a decision was made. He turned back to the Stormcast called Aetius. ‘I… am Felyndael, of the Heartwood. We will aid you,’ he said.
Aetius blinked. He had felt something in that moment, as the sylvaneth communed with one another. A pulsing echo that had tugged at his soul. There had been pain there, and something that might have been… faith. A form of it, at any rate. Pushing the thought aside, he nodded gratefully. ‘I thank you, Felyndael of the Heartwood. With your help, we might yet cleanse this place of the filth that afflicts it.’
‘We must silence the bells,’ Felyndael said. He turned, chin raised, as if he were scenting the wind. ‘There.’ He extended his sword towards the distant dome of the basilica.
‘I told you it was the basilica,’ Solus said, from behind him.
‘Yes, well, now we must reach it in one piece,’ Aetius said, annoyed. He looked at Felyndael. ‘Can you lead us there? Lead us past the foe?’
‘Yes,’ the sylvaneth said. ‘We will go—’
‘Wait,’ Aetius said. Without thinking, he caught hold of the tree-revenant’s arm. Felyndael froze, and the others suddenly surrounded them, the tips of their blades pressed to Aetius’ throat. He heard the rattle of sigmarite, and flung up his hand, signalling for the other Steel Souls to stand down. ‘You as well — wait. Wait.’
Felyndael looked down at Aetius’ hand and then up. His face did not change expression. A moment later, the other sylvaneth stepped back. ‘We must go now,’ Felyndael said. ‘We must silence the bells.’
‘Will you wait for us to summon reinforcements?’ Aetius said carefully, releasing Felyndael’s arm. The tree-revenant seemed impatient. Aetius was not trusting by nature. Something told him that the sylvaneth had not intervened out of friendship. Or at least not for that reason alone.
‘There is no time,’ Felyndael said. The bells began to ring again, filling the air with hideous noise. The tree-revenants turned as one. ‘No time,’ Felyndael said again.
Aetius glanced at Solus. ‘No time,’ he said.
‘We are taking a chance,’ Solus said, a moment later, as they pounded after the sylvaneth. The treefolk were leading them a circuitous route through the curving streets, avoiding the largest groups of Rotbringers. The Stormcasts moved in perfect synchronisation, jogging shoulder to shoulder. The tree-revenants, for their part, moved more swiftly. Their thin shapes bled in and out of sight as they passed through the very walls of the surrounding buildings, or sprang across the sloping rooftops. ‘Lord-Castellant Grymn would say we are being fools, not calling for reinforcements.’
‘Why call for them, when they have come to us?’ Aetius said. Occasionally, he heard the sounds of fighting, and screams. He wondered what other horrors might stalk the city. ‘Besides, the bells grow louder. Time is against us, I think. We must silence them.’ He could hear the winding of horns and the stamp of feet. They were not the only ones moving towards the sound. So far, however, they had managed to avoid any further conflict. It wouldn’t last. The enemy knew they were here, and some of them, at least, were likely rushing to find them. He picked up the pace.