The Dawnbringer Crusades are upon us, and Book I of the series, Harbingers, is on the horizon. Welcome to a regular series of new fiction from the Warhammer Age of Sigmar team. At the personal decree of the God-king Sigmar, the faithful from Azyr and other bastions of order are setting out to reclaim the Mortal Realms from the forces of Chaos, Death, and Destruction. Our tale begins at the Sigmarite outpost of Greenwater, which receives a visit from one such Harbinger.
The watchtower trapdoor was thrown back with an urgent crash as Captain Hazelwood came barrelling to the top. Only Private Iason was still healthy enough to remain on duty, and he glanced over his shoulder revealing a stricken expression that made Hazelwood sweat even harder.
'Have you got the viewing lens, Cap’n?' Private Iason asked, shielding his eyes as he peered towards the south. 'I can’t tell how many of ’em. But it’s more than before.'
Hazelwood shook out the tube and pressed it to one puffy eye. The sickly fug that had thickened over the stronghold in recent days made it hard to see too far, but sure enough, the light of Hysh illuminated a gaggle of silhouettes cresting the horizon.
'There’s more than one this time,' he said. 'And they’re… different. Not a horse, horn, or unhallowed growth in sight.' He let out a shaking breath.
'Could they be troops? Do you think Ghyra changed their minds? Everqueen be praised!' Iason tapped two fingers softly against his heart.
'Don’t count your chimeras. Let’s meet them at the gate,' Hazelwood replied. His fingers itched over the hilt of his sword as he headed for the ladder once more.
The people gathering at Greenwater’s gates were a shambling bunch. They wore rags from head to toe, which led Hazelwood to believe they were more refugees than reinforcements. Their leader carried a crescent scythe over his shoulder, and from the amount of bones strung from it, he was a fighter of no small skill. The guards that were still healthy enough to stand had positioned themselves as far from this figure as possible, and Hazelwood could hardly blame them.
'Do you think they were sent by the faith?' whispered Iason, his voice not as quiet as Hazelwood would have liked.
‘Let’s not speculate right in front of them,’ replied Hazelwood, before approaching the band’s hooded leader. He extended a hand. ‘Captain Hazelwood, Marshal of Greenwater. Your presence here is much appreciated.'
The ragged warrior stared at the proffered hand and didn’t move. Saliva glistened on his chapped lips.
'Please welcome my liege, Sir Jerrion, wandering knight and friend of the people,' rasped a hunched woman at the hero’s side. Excited murmurs rippled through the gathered guards. 'He bears a missive from his patron, the Summerking. The good people of Cristoria shall be saved from the foul curse that has befallen their lands.'Hazelwood frowned and opened his mouth, but he was interrupted by a flurry of other voices.
‘Is it true you fought off the plagued armies of Chaos for three days and three nights?’ one of the guards asked, barely restraining himself from pushing the captain out of the way.
‘I heard he slew Lord Wolgax of the Blighted Hort in one-on-one combat,’ Iason said, a great grin on his face. ‘He’s been rallying many nearby settlements against the despair-plague. They say he’s a miracle worker.’
Hazelwood hesitated. The heat of a hundred eyes burned upon his back. At last, he let out a heavy sigh. 'I suppose any ally is a welcome addition in these beleaguered times.'
'Summon your peasants to the square, good sir,' rasped Jerrion’s handmaid. 'Our men shall prepare a stage. Our holy message shall stir the hearts.'
While Sir Jerrion’s followers were quick, they were not neat. The stage they were creating seemed more like a haphazard pile of debris than any true work of craftsmanship. Those settlers who had not yet been fully incapacitated by the despair-plague were being shepherded into the square by the guards. Though their faces were sallow and their shuddering frames were hunched under the weight of the malaise afflicting them, they gazed upon their ragged saviour with the intensity of a starving man staring at his next meal.
'Sir Jerrion’s lot are an odd bunch,' sighed Hazelwood as he leaned against the watchtower’s outer wall. 'Greenwater is only marked as Cristoria on maps in history books.'
'It adds to the grandeur, captain,' Iason insisted. He was still standing to attention, his eyes following the proceedings with rekindled attention. 'If he wants to play the hero, who’re we to stop him?'
Sir Jerrion emerged from the crowd and hauled himself up the haphazard pile of timber. A hush fell over the gathered sufferers.
The gathered crowd stared as an unintelligible babbling erupted from the lone herald. Their shock swiftly dissipated, however, as the sound gradually coalesced into words that instilled a strange sense of comfort in many who heard them.
'The Summerking… offers you mercy…'
Hazelwood’s grip on his sword hilt immediately tightened. His nails dug into the wood as Jerrion’s voice scraped the air. But all around him, he could see the settlers were enraptured.
'Hear now… his message.'
Sir Jerrion reached up to his scythe and pulled off a single femur bone, still slick with ichor. His sleeve fell back, revealing an emaciated hand that twisted the bone as if he were attempting to open a scroll case.
Hazelwood drew his sword.
'GUARDS—'
Jerrion tipped back his head, letting his hood fall away to reveal the bald, distorted face beneath. He smiled with a mouthful of jagged fangs as he raised the bone and snapped it. A red miasma fountained from the bone like blood from a severed artery, billowing over the screaming crowd.
Hazelwood and Iason charged towards Jerrion, weapons raised, but the thick miasma forced them to stagger to a halt. All around, the shivering villagers let out wails of confusion. Some were desperately trying to leave, but a greater number urgently pushed towards the stage. And above it all, Jerrion’s voice continued.
'I hear the voice of your suffering, o noble folk of Cristoria.'
From the thick red mist leered one of Jerrion’s disciples. Hazelwood turned just in time, feeling the creature’s claw nick his cheek before he skewered it and pushed it back with his sword. Even upon the blade’s point, the thing yowled and reached for him with bloodied fingers.
'I send out my loyal knights… to save your great city…’
With every word, Jerrion’s voice became louder and clearer. Gone was his bestial rasp, replaced with the rich baritone of a man in his prime. The strangeness of this shift caused Hazelwood to hesitate – just long enough for another ghoulish assailant to rake its filthy claws across his shoulder. He howled and clutched at the wound, blood spilling through his fingers.
The settlers’ screams were giving way to laughter. Joyous peals echoed throughout the square as the red mist thickened. Many were jumping up and down, dancing, or running towards the stage.
'Pledge fealty to the Summerking… and you will surely be saved.'
Hazelwood felt a wave of agony as a wet splatter met his ears. The first ghoul had pulled itself free of his sword and plunged its claws into his side. He opened his mouth to cry out, but it was drowned under the jubilant cheers of the crowd.
A few feet away, he could see Iason’s body lying amongst the churning mass of people. A woman was crouched above it. Her skin was scarred and pocked by the despair-plague, but the colour had returned to her cheeks and her eyes were aflame with passion.As Hazelwood let out his last stuttered breath, he watched as she scooped up a generous portion of Iason’s flesh, raised it towards the herald upon the stage, before bringing it to her plump and smiling lips. He felt hot tears streak down his cheeks as darkness took him.
Check back next week for the latest edition of the Dawnbringer Chronicles…