‘And then?’ Solus asked.
Aetius shook his head. ‘Let the Lord-Castellant figure it out. Perhaps we will take this place for our own, and fortify it. It would make an adequate staging area from which to launch an assault against the sargasso-citadels of the enemy. If we held this place, we might sweep Verdant Bay clean in months.’
Solus chuckled. ‘Sound thinking. I see now why they put you in command.’
‘I should have thought my qualities were obvious from the outset,’ Aetius said. Solus laughed and pounded a fist on Aetius’ shoulder-plate as they ran.
‘Only some of them,’ Solus said.
Felyndael listened to the dull grumble of the Stormcasts’ voices echoing up from below. They had no song to unite them, only artifice and discipline, and he pitied them their blindness. Though the one called Aetius had almost heard the spirit-song, he thought. What must he have made of it, Felyndael thought.
He feared it. Like all meat fears the song of life, Caradrael thought dismissively, as he outpaced Felyndael. The tree-revenants ran smoothly across the rooftops of the reed city, leading the silver-skins on, safely past the clumps and eddies of warrior-filth that clogged the streets of Gramin. Those foes who drew too close or seemed likely to stumble upon their allies’ trail were diverted by his warriors, led away or butchered before they realised their danger.
They fear the dark and the forest, as well they should. Those places are not theirs, Caradrael continued. His blade and bark dripped with blood, and he had scattered the severed heads of rotlings across the rooftops in his wake.
They are no longer ours, either, Yvael thought, as she kept pace with Felyndael. But these ones will help us claim something back.
Caradrael growled in disgust. Felyndael ignored his displeasure, and stretched his mind outwards. They were close to the centre of the city, and the hidden grove where the soulpods slumbered on, unaware of the danger crouched above them. He felt their song swelling in the dark. It had protected them thus far, but the city was infested with rot.
The buildings were weeping black tears, and the streets sagged in places, expelling geysers of foul water. The curse-bells were somehow warping the ancient enchantments that bound this place, twisting them into a new, more horrifying shape. Every time the bells rang, some part of Gramin died. They all felt its pain, twisting within them.
We should grant this place mercy, noble one, Lathrael thought. Let it die, lest its pain bend it all out of joint and into something monstrous.
The silver-skins seek to claim it, Yvael protested. Let them care for it, and it might yet flourish. She pressed close to Felyndael, and he felt her plea. If we but grant them soil to take root in, they will fight all the harder.
I cannot, he thought. Gramin holds our quarry within its heart. They are bound together, and when the one is removed, the other must die. Once, they might have flourished together, but now… Now the sick branch must be pruned, for the good of all.
And Gramin was sick. As the Jade Kingdoms were sick. As Ghyran was sick. But the sylvaneth could not purge the realm alone. They lacked the proper tools. Or had, at any rate. Until the coming of the silver-skins. Felyndael tightened his grip on Moonsorrow’s hilt, annoyed by the thought. He had fought since the mountains were first birthed by the seas. He would fight until the last leaf fell from the last tree. The Everqueen had grown him for war. He would be true to his nature. But hollow as he was, a seed of honour yet remained. To treat these sons of Azyr as tools went against everything House Lathrien and the Heartwood Glade had stood for.
You are disturbed, Yvael thought.
Perhaps we should tell them, Felyndael replied. Let them know what must happen. Let them know why we must do this thing.
It would serve no purpose, even if they could understand, Caradrael interjected. He slid to a stop and turned. We should use them as the noble one uses his sword — plunge them in and watch them bleed our foes.
And leave them there, I suppose, Felyndael thought. Caradrael looked away.
They are not our kin. Caradrael’s thought was shrouded in sullen resentment, but the sentiment was shared. Felyndael could feel the agreement of others — not all, but some. Alarielle’s rage burned brightly within them. How capricious, how inconstant they must appear to their allies, driven as they were by the war-song.
The wide dome of the great basilica came into view. The air throbbed like an open wound, and he felt his insides twist in revulsion. But beneath that maddening knell came the whisper of the soulpods. Still alive, still safe, but not for much longer.
No, Felyndael thought, looking down at the Stormcasts. They are not our kin. But they aid us regardless.
Aetius slowed. The tree-revenants had stopped. He raised his hammer. They had come to a narrow alleyway, which wound between two tall, windowless buildings. Liberators moved forwards, blocking the centre of the alley with their shields.
A great bawling rolled between the buildings, trapped in the curves and angles of the alley. The smell of rot was thick on the air, and the sky above was black with smoke. ‘What is that din?’ Aetius said. The sound crashed over the Stormcasts like the roar of the sea, impossibly loud in the narrow space.
‘Come up,’ Felyndael called down, looking at them from the edge of the roof. ‘I will show you.’ He rose and slipped up the incline, moving swiftly. Aetius exchanged glances with the closest Liberators, who sidled backwards. Aetius sighed, hung his hammer from his belt and slipped his shield over his back. Then, digging his fingers into the packed reed-wall, he began to climb. The reeds bent beneath him, providing natural handholds. It wasn’t easy, but the climb wasn’t long. Few of the buildings in the city were more than three times the height of a Stormcast, and that was no real exertion for one of Sigmar’s chosen.
‘Still… sometimes… I wish… Sigmar had seen fit to give me wings. This… would be… much easier if I could fly,’ Aetius grunted as he hauled himself onto the roof of flattened reeds. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky. He lay for a moment, watching the distant stars flicker in the jade firmament. ‘Azyr…’ he murmured.
‘The realms weave together like the roots of a great forest. It is hard to say where one ends and another begins,’ Felyndael said, looking down at him. He extended his hand.
‘Or even how big the forest is,’ Aetius said, grabbing the proffered hand, though he needed no aid. Felyndael easily pulled him to his feet, and Aetius was surprised by the tree-revenant’s strength. Carefully, they crept to the edge of the roof. The rest of Felyndael’s warriors crouched nearby, scattered across the rooftops which overlooked the great plaza beyond. Aetius looked down. ‘More of them than I was expecting,’ he murmured.
While crossing the Plains of Vo, the Steel Souls had encountered only scattered warbands. But here, below him, was a true warhorde in the making. Arrayed before the steps of the Basilica of Reeds, the gathering had the exuberance of a carnival. Great fires burned in pits scooped from the reeds. Dozens of pestilent standards rose over the mighty throng of monsters spread through the vast plaza. Chieftains gurgled greetings to one another, warriors bellowed prayers to the fly-infested sky, and gales of phlegm-choked laughter echoed across the open space.
Felyndael peered towards the basilica, and the hordes gathered there. ‘There are too many. Even if we slip past them, they will soon know where we are.’ He looked at Aetius, his expression inscrutable.