Hi all,
Welcome, faithful warriors and avid readers, to an exciting new chapter in the ever-expanding world of Warhammer Age of Sigmar. The time has come for the Dawnbringer Crusades to shine, bringing with them a fresh wave of breathtaking fiction. Today, we embark on a journey through the realms as we delve into Book I of the series, aptly named “Harbingers.” Brace yourselves, for a tale of bravery, sacrifice, and the unyielding fight for order against the encroaching forces of Chaos, Death, and Destruction.
This is the second narrative snippet GW has shown ahead of the book’s release:
With a crinkled scowl, the little girl placed her hands on either side of her head and wriggled her stubby fingers.
‘Like this, from the sides,’ she added. ‘And then a big swoopy moon in the back, like this—’ she swept her arms over her shoulder in an arc.
Thom finished his charcoal sketch and sat back. What was left was a monstrous heap of darkness borne aloft by four legs and a long smudge of ink with spidery horns sat atop it. He grimaced through a smile as he placed a small phial of Aqua Ghyranis into her waiting palms.
‘I’m sure Mistress Beryn will find this very helpful. You may go,’ he said, waving her away. The girl skittered out of the door and vanished into the overwhelming fug of the settlement. A slender figure in a long jade cape poked her head around the stairwell.
‘Did you get anything?’ she asked, voice feral with curiosity.
‘This is nothing,’ shrugged Thom. ‘An aelf on a deer, maybe. Or perhaps a—’
‘—a portent of doom!’ she declared as she leaned over the shoulder of her tired assistant. ‘Don’t you see it, Thom? I told them I’d prove it. It’s all part of the cycle. The deaths of the animals, the heavy malaise, the flies… they’re all connected to each other.’ And with this declaration, she snatched the drawing from below Thom’s nose and began frantically scribbling notes across it.
‘And what will happen to Furtherfield when the cycle finishes?’ Thom asked, but Mistress Beryn had already stopped listening. He heaved a deep sigh and picked up his bag. ‘I’m going home for the night. I’m leaving, okay?’
After receiving a non-committal grunt and a hand wave, the young assistant quietly let himself out, into air that was far too heavy, and a stronghold that was far too quiet.
The bells began like an itch in Thom’s ears deep within his dreams. They swelled to a horrendous, disharmonic crescendo until he jolted awake so hard that his neck cracked in protest. He plunged his fingers into his ear canals and twisted them until they came away red, but still the bells continued their never-ending peal.
As he stumbled across the centre of the stronghold, Thom noticed dozens of settlers leaning against the sides of houses or resting against the wall, their heads in their hands. Many more were curled up in doorways, unable to even stand as they clutched their temples in pain. He burst into his mistress’s domicile in a fresh panic.
Mistress Beryn was sitting exactly where Thom had left her yesterday. She was reading her notes with a glazed expression, and the ink at the end of her pen had dribbled into a large blot.
‘Mistress Beryn!’ he called over the thundering of the bells. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Hmm…? Ah, Thom. Sorry, time must’ve gotten away from me.’ Whilst her voice had calmed since yesterday, sweat beaded across her pale brow. ‘Where were we?’
‘The bells – the fifth portent,’ he prompted. ‘What do we do about the bells?’
‘Just let me take a break,’ she reassured him. ‘We can deal with it later.’
‘Everyone is—’
‘We’ll deal with it later.’
Thom peeled his master’s herb bag from her limp shoulder. He tore two small strips from the bottom of his tunic and stuffed them into his ears.
‘Join me when you’re ready,’ he said, giving her shoulder a reassuring pat. It dampened his skin with sweat. ‘I’ll go on ahead.’
Across the road from Master Beryn’s hut, the girl from yesterday was standing next to her mother. The woman was half-lying, half-sitting against the wall of her domicile as her daughter tried desperately to push the contents of the Aqua Ghyranis phial past her lips.
Thom crouched down next to the pair, fighting the urge to curl up himself and scratch at his stuffed-up ears until they bled. He gave the girl a shallow smile.
‘Help me get her to bed, eh? There’s a good girl.’
They hooked the mother’s arms around one each of their shoulders. She was even colder and sweatier than Master Beryn had been, and her rotting breath caused bile to rise in Thom’s throat. He swallowed it down and began to lift.
The woman was stuck fast.
Was this part of a previous portent? Was this another? Thom wasn’t sure anymore. He looked down to the woman’s legs. Dark pools of blood had formed all over her dress where the skin of her body had begun to melt away and fuse into the floor. He could see the daughter’s lips part as she screamed, but the fabric in his ears and the distant ringing of the bells rendered him all but deaf. The girl dropped her mother’s lifeless arm and fled into the darkness of the domicile, slamming the door behind her.
Thom made his way across the centre of the settlement. He had to reach the Aqualith. Perhaps he could somehow cleanse the woman’s legs of corruption and help her to stand. His breath had become laboured; the strain of trying to help her up had drained a lot of his strength. He slowed from a run to a walk, before finally stopping a few metres away from the great stone structure.
He’d sit just for a few moments, and then make the rest of the journey.
By the time Thom came around, the sun was setting – or perhaps rising? – in a sickly green sky. A small part of him thought he should stand, but his body just felt so heavy. He had been on his way to get something for someone. He wasn’t quite sure how long ago that had been.
The fell half-light that had settled over the stronghold picked out strange shapes loping past the walls. Their sallow skin was covered with a sheen of pus. In their centre, he saw a dark blot upon the warping, weeping landscape. A horse so decayed that its bare skull hung out of its shredded neck, ridden by a single robed figure. From the rider’s head sprouted a pair of gore-slicked antlers.
As his servants laughed and danced around the corpses of fly-pocked settlers, the figure dismounted with a wet thump and shuffled forwards. He rested his great scythe against his shoulder as he knelt by Thom’s body.
‘You have done well to survive thus far, o woeful youth.’
Thom winced as the baleful words echoed directly into his mind.
‘Thy will hath rendered thee a worthy sacrifice.’
Thom dimly felt the tip of the rider’s scythe draw gently across his stomach. A bloom of pain cut through his stupor, but he no longer had the energy to scream. His bleary eyes followed his own intestines as the rider gathered them up and spread them out. The merry creatures around them laughed and offered soft smatters of applause.
‘Sir Jerrion approacheth with his men from the west,’ whispered the man’s voice, though all of his servants seemed to hear and heed his words. ‘We shall meet them at daybreak.’
As his servants scattered to prepare their ambush, the figure turned to Thom and smiled. Flies nestled in the holes of his crusted helmet. ‘Thou hast earned a quick death,’ he said, drawing to his full height and brandishing his scythe.
Then he stepped away.
‘‘Tis truly too bad that the great Grandfather wishes nothing more than thy slow decay.’
As the authors of Furtherfield’s premonitions scattered and vanished, Thom lay with his back against the stones. His eyes were too dry to shed tears. All he could hear now was the bells’ final knell, hollow and keening, welcoming him home.
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