But whatever they were, they would awaken. They must.
With a cry that was as much thought as sound, he drove Moonsorrow into the ground between his feet. The blade shivered in his hands, adding its voice to his own. He cast images of what might be into the stubborn, unformed minds — of places of exquisite beauty reduced to wastelands, of soulpod groves uprooted and burning, of pyres heaped with the kindlewood corpses of their people. This — this is what will happen, unless you rise, he thought, as their despairing screams rang loud in his head.
If he failed, if they did not stir, they would die. Another piece of his people would fade into the long dwindling. Worse, those he had brought here would die for nothing. He thought of Aetius above, and felt the reeds give and bend as the Stormcast and his foe fought. He felt Caradrael’s pain, as old wounds opened anew to spill golden sap across the ground. Heard Yvael’s scream as a rusted blade pierced her leg. Felt the reeds burn as lightning speared down to claim Azyr’s dead. All of this he felt, and all of it he thrust down through Moonsorrow’s blade and into the ground.
You must rise. You must.
The ground beneath his feet churned and split. Light, pure and radiant, speared upwards. The water frothed and grew warm. Felyndael stretched out his hand. Rise, he thought. Rise!
And in a blaze of light and song, they did.
Aetius groaned in pain as Dolorugus’ hoof pressed him down. ‘It is even as the Lady of Cankerwall claimed,’ the Nurglite said as half-seen shapes capered about them in jolly encouragement. ‘They rise, and I shall rise with them. Look upon the end made flesh, my friend, and know a perfect despair.’
Aetius ignored the creature’s babbling, and the growing solidity of the daemons. If he could not stop the bells, Solus and the others would be overwhelmed. More, the rest of his chamber might be taken unawares when Dolorugus’ hellish force erupted from the marshlands. ‘Who… Who will stand, when all others fall?’ he hissed, between clenched teeth. He dragged his hammer up to use as leverage.
‘What?’ Dolorugus looked down. ‘Is that a riddle?’
‘No. It is the faithful,’ Aetius said, as he forced himself up and back. The sudden movement knocked Dolorugus backwards a few steps, freeing the Liberator-Prime. Aetius staggered to his feet, hammer in hand. ‘I am the faithful. And I stand.’
‘Ha! Still some fight left in you? Good,’ the Nurglite burbled. ‘I will— eh?’ The Chaos champion turned. Aetius looked past him. A light rose from beneath the floor, spilling upwards, growing in radiance. Dolorugus hissed in pain and flung a hand up as the warm light washed over them, expanding to fill the chamber.
At the centre of the light, the reeds of the floor tore themselves free of the weft and pulled away from that which churned in the dark waters below. The foul idol Dolorugus had been praying to toppled from its altar, and the murk which clung to the walls was seared clean. Daemons, half-solid, were reduced to whimpering shadows by the scorching radiance. Within the burning heart of the light, something rose.
To Aetius, it was all shapes and none, constantly changing. They were tall, winding stalks, heavy with golden, glowing cocoons, but also strangely shimmering fungal orbs or perhaps a cloud of seeds with diaphanous wings. There were other shapes as well, hundreds of them, each more disturbing and unrecognizable than the last. They shifted from one to the next almost faster than his eye could follow, and the light which contained them took on a shape of its own — a shape that planted what might have been legs and set its burning shoulders against the ceiling above.
Then, with a roar like that of the sea, the light surged upwards. Reeds popped and burst, tearing away from the whole. The dome ruptured, bursting open like a seedpod. The ringing of the bells wavered, as if in panic, before continuing their tolling. The light flowed upwards, burning a path through the smoke, cleansing the air of toxins where it passed.
Higher and higher it rose, until at last it was lost to sight. What was left of the ceiling creaked and began to peel away in mats of dying reeds. The whole basilica shuddered like a dying animal, and a vast moan seemed to rise up from the depths of the city.
‘Well. There was a wonder,’ Dolorugus said. He lunged forwards, and caught Aetius by his throat. A blow from his flail knocked the hammer from the Liberator-Prime’s grasp. With a grunt, he dragged the struggling Stormcast from his feet. ‘But it matters not. Listen. The plague-bells still ring where I hung them.’ He gestured to the ceiling with his flail.
Aetius pounded on the Nurglite’s arm, but the creature’s grip was unyielding. ‘Grandfather’s hand stretches out, as implacable as time itself. He shall clutch you to his bosom, my friend, and teach you the true meaning of faith.’ Dolorugus shook him, the way a dog might shake a rat. ‘Perhaps you will even join me as a blight-brother, in time. You already have the armour and bearing of a knight, after all,’ Dolorugus said, chortling.
‘No.’
The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. ‘Felyndael,’ Aetius gasped, still trying to free himself.
Dolorugus grunted. ‘Where are you, spirit? I thought you gone.’ He turned, dragging Aetius with him. ‘Come out. Were those lights some witchery of yours?’ He laughed. ‘You should have fled while you had the chance, spirit. Now, I shall break your limbs and use them for tinder. The fire of your passing shall light our path to victory. But first…’ He looked down at Aetius. ‘You die, my friend, but you will be reborn, I have no doubt. Perhaps we will meet again, in days to come.’ His grip began to tighten. His flesh sizzled, but the sigmarite creaked, as did Aetius’ neck.
Suddenly, Felyndael was there, flowing up the nave towards Dolorugus. His blade flashed, chopping into the Nurglite’s arm. Ichor spurted and Dolorugus cried out, more in rage than pain. Aetius fell to the ground. Dolorugus whirled his flail out, driving Felyndael back. The floor buckled and split as the Chaos champion lunged after the tree-revenant. Water, clean and crystal pure, geysered upwards.
Aetius stood, fighting for his balance. It felt as if the whole basilica were coming apart. The passing of the light had wrecked everything in its path. But the bells were still ringing, and Dolorugus still roared and fought. As Aetius watched, his flail caught Felyndael a glancing blow and knocked the tree-revenant sprawling. Aetius charged barehanded and crashed into Dolorugus, driving him back against one of the reed pillars. The force of it bent the pillar and caused the damaged ceiling above to buckle and warp. The clangour of the bells lost its monotony, becoming arrhythmic and erratic.
Aetius’ silver-clad fists thudded into his foe’s greasy armour until Dolorugus brought both of his own down between Aetius’ shoulder blades and dropped him to one knee. As he sank down, head ringing, he heard the sound of splintering wood and the scream of reeds giving way. He looked up as, with a roar, the curse-bells at last tore through what was left of the ceiling and hurtled downwards.
Dolorugus looked up at the last instant, as Aetius hurled himself aside. As he rolled away, he thought he heard the Chaos champion laugh. Then the bells struck home, and smashed through the floor and into the waters below. They carried Count Dolorugus with them into the black depths of Verdant Bay.
As the echoes of the bells’ final tolling faded, Aetius hauled himself to his feet. He looked at Felyndael as he recovered his hammer. ‘I thought you had abandoned me.’ The tree-revenant didn’t look at him.