HARBINGERS OF SPRING "Springtide" by Wade Long

“Springtide”

By Wade Long

Of The Fall of Doriath:

The Dawn of the Age of Chaos

   

The aelven King’s face was grim as he took in the reports of his scouts and the tidings of the messengers that gathered in his command pavilion. “The God-King himself is on the run, my lord. It is said he was stripped of his weapon by the Enemy and forced to retreat. A terrible defeat was dealt to the marshalled hosts of his Great Alliance at what is being called the Battle of Burning Skies. The armies of Azyr have been swept aside and scattered to the winds. Sigmar heads for the gates of his own realm, with word that he plans to seal the realmgates behind him ‘ere Archaon approaches.”

A human messenger stepped forward, a priest bearing the sigil of the twin-tailed comet, “What your scouts report is regrettably true, your grace, Sigmar makes for Azyr, but is not without plan. He sends his servants forth to every realm with this message: Chaos has poured into the realms in legions uncounted. The gates of Azyr must soon close if anything that the united peoples of the realms hold dear is to be preserved. All those free and good peoples of the realms he urges to join him in Azyr, where we shall marshall our resources once more and prepare for our vengeful counterblow.”

The others in the tent spoke as the King’s gaze fell upon them in turn, “My lord, the stronghold of Oakenbrow Clan Erith’or has fallen, and it’s last noble sylvaneth defenders forced to flee. The waywatchers report that the vast tallybands of that siege march now upon Doriath, and are but 3 days hence.”

“My king, the realmgate atop Mount Anvil has been seized by an unholy alliance between the rat-men and a daemon-lord of the blood god. Khorne’s legions pour through the breach and have turned the streets of the numerous nearby human kingdoms into rivers of blood.”

“Reports are thin, sire, but it would seem that bright Verdantia has fallen to the machinations and treachery of the Changer of Ways. Only one aelven survivor were we ever able to find, and her words were little more than babbling madness.”

The King’s eyes narrowed as the dismaying reports continued. Never before had so many kindreds of the proud and independent tribes been gathered from across the realms in one place. Their camps spilled and stretched out beyond the bounds of the great and beautiful city of Doriath, the strongest bastion and most ancient home of the Asrai people. Though he now could claim to command greater strength of arms than any king or warlord in the history of his people, war was on his doorstep on all sides and everywhere his numbers were as nothing compared to the endless legions of the dark powers that now flooded Ghyran from every corner.

As the last of the scouts and emissaries finished giving their accounts, The King turned and spoke to aelf upon his right, “Bladesinger Aredhel, my lady, you have been quiet in all this, yet your counsel has ever steered me well. What say you to our plight, to these many ill tidings?”

Aredhel straightened to her full height; she was tall, even for an elf, pale of skin and broad of shoulder. She was a born warrior, herself a queen of noble birth, and the chosen High Bladesinger of the trickster deity Loec. For an age of the world she had been nearly a constant companion to the King in the Woods, his bodyguard as well as his consort and closest counsellor. Her voice was low and melodious as she spoke, “We lack the strength to hold the city for much longer, my king; sooner or late we shall be overwhelmed. I cannot, and do not, counsel prudence in this matter. A new age has begun, an age of darkness and Winter. Our people must adapt, or fade from this world. But I, for one, will not be so quick to run and hide behind the cloak of Sigmar, not while the Everqueen still draws breath. For while Alarielle still fights, our place is here in Ghyran, defending the forest and the land from ill, as was sworn by our ancestors to Lord Durthu himself so long ago when the world-that-was was yet young. So this I say to you, my king, pull up thine roots and those of our people! Have the strength to cast aside our way of life and our very homeland and by so doing you may yet secure hope, that the seeds of the Asrai can flourish and grow once more in the ages of the world yet to come. It may seem unthinkable; to abandon the beauty of fair Doriath will count among the greatest sorrows in the long history of aelvenkind, but all other roads lead to sorrows greater still. Though our valor might make the glory of the Fall of Doriath worthy of song, none would be left to sing it. If, across the realms, all noble enclaves of civilization must soon become islands amongst a storm of chaos, doomed to fall, then let us march ever one step ahead of the storm! Go forth, my king, go forth and meet thine enemies. If we are to be hopelessly outnumbered, then let us fight in the manner the Asrai have always fought best, not in headlong battle but rather on our own terms. We shall stalk the shadows around the legions of chaos, cutting down their warlords and burning their supply lines before melting away once more, and the servants of the dark powers will know fear. The Kindreds have united here under your banner, and we are awaiting your word! Give it, and we shall cut a swath across Ghyran and sow terror amongst our enemies. If we can make our way to the Everqueen and join our forces with Hers, then by Her will we may yet defend Ghyran long enough for aid to arrive from one of the other gods.”

The King in the Woods nodded thoughtfully, “What you say is true. Doriath cannot stand alone for long, beset on all sides by the darkness. But ah! Aredhel, always with a mind turned to warfare and tactics! Your strategy is a sound one, to be sure, but what to be done of the many innocents in my charge, those whom I am sworn to defend? As the shadow of war has spread, many and more refugees have taken shelter here in Doriath, and the many kindreds that have rallied to our banner have brought with them their peoples as well. What of the many tender hearted aelves who may sooner strum a harp than a bowstring? Such a campaign as you describe would hold only death and despair for them. If the Asrai are truly to survive, then we must endeavor to preserve more than simply our ways of war, which we must remember are merely a means to an end. And if there is hope that I may secure a life for some of our fair folk, untainted by the grasping reach of chaos’ corruption, then that is a chance I must allow for them.”

The King turned then to the priest of Sigmar, “Go and tell your God-King that I will lead my people with all haste to the gates of Azyr, that all my kinfolk and those in my care who wish to live free of the threat of chaos may live and prosper in the celestial realm. I shall not deny nor begrudge them that chance. Once the innocent have been safeguarded, however, I will call upon all those proud warriors willing to face the darkness of this new age beside me. We shall then become Wanderers, though not lost, and at home only in battle. We shall go wherever we are needed, doing all that we may to turn back this shadow that has fallen upon the land. And we will see the will of the Everqueen done. Mark my words, Aredhel, the oaths of our ancestors are Eternal, never to be forsaken. By our blood Ghyran will be defended. And our Enemy will know Fear.”

The Age of Chaos had begun.

………...

Of The Gift of Alarielle:

Six Hundred Years Later, The Age of Sigmar

   

“For his part,” the Everqueen continued, “Gorkamorka understood that real power must always have a price, and that a curse can be made to be far more powerful than any mere blessing. This curse of his, cast upon his own followers in some brutally capricious jest, now sows discord across the realms and makes a mockery of the natural cycle of seasons. It ravages the land and devours all living things in its path. My children grow drowsy and sluggish in the presence of its profane and unnatural frost. Ever did the aelves defend the forest from Winter’s bite in ages past, and so it must be again, but this is no mere Winter’s watch that I task ye with. To restore balance to the land you must walk as one with Spring, to bring its bright dawn to lands long denied it. That is your charge, to root out this curse wherever ye find it; to hunt down these Lords of Frost and slay them to the last. You will be the instrument of my wrath upon these children of Gorkamorka, for his callous arrogance. But the power required to enact my will shall not come without price, and in this I shall not deceive you, as other gods might. Do you then accept this gift, this curse? Do you accept, knowing that doing so your people may forevermore be Wanderers, Aredhel of Doriath?”

At the fore of a reverent host that had gathered in the bright glade before the image of their goddess, a tall aelf with green hair and sharp blue eyes raised her bowed head to meet Alarielle’s piercing gaze. Though the aelf’s face was ageless, in it could be seen the memory of both joy and great sorrow alike. “My Eternal Queen, even now, as the seasons turn in our favor and your wargroves send the servants of chaos reeling across all fronts, even now Ghyran remains in constant threat. The very realms themselves remain on the precipice of darkness, as you well know. I have lived to see three ages of this world, and have borne witness to many defeats, and many fruitless victories. All I have ever desired is the strength to do what is right and good, to see thy will done. To fight to secure a place for harmony, love, and beauty in this harsh world. And to protect those whom I love most.”

At this Aredhel looked away, for a moment suddenly unable to meet the eyes of her goddess. Fury and doubt washed over her and threatened to overwhelm her, as they had for many a dark year. But the grace of the Everqueen was upon her and before her, and recalling some memory through the mists of time she smiled, and wanted to laugh. When her eyes raised once more they seemed to smolder in the light of the afternoon sun. “For such strength we would gladly pay any price that you might ask of us, my Lady Alarielle. We are willing to give up all that we have and all that we are.”


“A willing sacrifice for a willing recipient then, and all the stronger for it,” the Everqueen smiled. Her smile was of the first warm breeze of Spring sweeping over the survivors of a long Winter. She gestured to an enormous figure slumped upon a great altar of stone, “Before us lies the ancient Ur-Stag. Long and nobly has he served the land as the physical embodiment of Spring itself. But all that begins, must end. The time has come for the Mantle of Spring to pass to another, for Spring to go to war, and its power turned as a weapon against the darkness. Restore the Balance. If you accept, then step forth, Bladesinger. I believe you know what you must do.”

Aredhel rose, approaching with purpose. The great beast loomed above her head upon the high stone table, heaving the rasping breaths of the twilight of its life. With a single swift bound the aelf leapt lightly upon the altar. Looking into the eyes of the greatest of all stags she saw nothing but a stoic serenity. Acceptance. Drawing the ceremonial shortsword from her belt she raised it high above her head, and gripping it in both hands she brought it downwards with all her might. The aelven blade struck true, slicing beneath ribs to cut deep into the Ur-Stag’s chest. The beast was silent through it all. With a deftness that would be the envy of the greatest human surgeons of the Free Guilds, the hunter-queen cut free the creature’s heart and drew it forth. Strangely, the sizeable organ still beat as she held it aloft in her hands, blood flowing freely. Her fast had lasted thirteen days and thirteen nights, and now she ate eagerly, tearing fiercely at the heart with her teeth in quick bites. The thing seemed to continue to pulse and beat even as it was consumed to the last. As the last bite slid pulsating down her throat Aredhel doubled over in shock and fell to her hands and knees, slumping over the carcass of the king of stags. For one instant the reverberations of the fey heart pounded furiously in her stomach, reaching a fever pitch. Then, suddenly, she could feel it through her whole body, and her very being seemed to hum with magic and vigour. She could perceive the throb of the energy that flowed in the lands beneath her, undulating and harmonizing with the song that now echoed from her soul. She could feel the warm dawn of Spring that kindled in the hearts of the aelves gathered behind her. Around her came an explosion of flowers of a thousand colors, bursting forth as new growth enveloped the altar until the noble stag rested upon a bed of bright viridian. And when she raised her bloodied face to meet her goddess’ burning gaze this time, her own eyes blazed with a glowing blue fire to match.

Spring is Coming

……….

Of The Hunt of Hope:

Arrival at Hirestel

An aelf wanderer knows where there is a way, and there is one here. She could feel the trickle of otherworldly eldritch energy flowing past her, like a warm breeze through a window left ajar. As the aelf wizard stared intently at the wall of rock before her, long and graceful aelven fingers began to excitedly trace along unseen patterns upon its smooth surface.

“Utúvienyes! High Bladesinger, it is here, my Lady!” the Spellweaver cried, turning to Aredhel with a sly smirk on her face, “It was hidden well, but it appears the last to use it didn’t quite shut the door behind them.” Without looking back at the wall the wizard slammed it with an open palm filled with mystic power. Runes, and markings stranger still, lit on the stone surface and began to glow, and the Spellweaver’s smirk widened into a grin as the sound of stone shifting and groaning filled the shaded vale.

Queen Aredhel strode forward, beaming, flowers of many colors springing up and around at each graceful step she took. “Fine work, indeed, Yavanna. Our trials in the Outcasts’ court have proved to not wholly be without fruit, then. This much at least lines up with what our source had told us. The key to discovering, and unraveling, the secrets of the curse of Everwinter may yet lie in this mysterious, hidden realm. What we know for certain is that a Frostlord of immense power spent a great deal of time in this ‘Hirestel,’ and that the minions of Everwinter remain active there in great number.”

“Then that is all we need to know,” the young Prince Finarfindel spoke up, “say the word and by our blades we shall bring the bright dawn of Spring to this mysterious and fey ‘realm of hope.’”

Smiling at the impetuous fire of youth, the High Bladesinger turned to speak to her chief seer, the Lady Olena Roseblood of the Sisters of the Thorn. But before she could detail her plan to lead a small group of riders to scout this new realm for danger, she was interrupted by a figure appearing from out of the shadows nearby. She had seldom seen the Waywatcher so out of breath before, and might have laughed at the sight if it did not portend the dire news that was upon them.

Athradir, Warden-Lord of the Watch, gasped for breath as he relayed the word from the rearguard, “It’s the Outcasts, Bladesinger, they’ve followed us! The mad queen Drycha herself leads them, a vast horde of darkened spirits beyond count. There is little doubt to their intent. If we are not yet already surrounded, their noose will close around us soon.”

“That old bitter root had caught wind of our hasty exit from her court, then. So nice of her to see us off on what will surely be such a hazardous journey,” Yavanna giggled, a wide grin still glued to her face.

A wry smile lingered at the corners of Aredhel’s own mouth as she answered, “Damn. It was too much to hope that we could pass through the hornet's nest without stirring the ire of that mad one. Quickly then, we shall not spill the bloodsap of any of Alarielle’s children willingly, mad or no. Prince Finarfindel, Lord Erenion, rally the kindreds and bring the host through the realmgate with all the speed that wanderer aelves may muster. Warden Celedhros, Warden Athradir, lead your scouts forth into this new realm and ensure there are no other surprises waiting for us in Hirestel as the bulk of our forces establish a realmhead. Spellweaver Yavanna, Lady Roseblood, prepare a ritual on the other side, unlike this gate’s previous user we have great and powerful need to close the door behind us. Hard. Perhaps permanently, if such is within our means. I shall hold the rear, in the hope that words between queens may yet forestall needless violence.”

Aredhel winked at Yavanna, and the lords and ladies bowed and nodded their assent and hurried off to carry out their queen’s orders. Prince Finarfindel opened his mouth as if to protest, but Aredhel silenced him with a steady hand and a smile, “Not to worry, me and ‘ol Queen Drycha go way back. I’ll smooth out this misunderstanding and be right behind you through the gate.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Now go!”

She watched as the wanderer host spun silently into action. Bright plant growth erupted everywhere under lithe aelven feet as the kindreds of Eternal Guard and Sisters of the Watch and the Thorn maneuvered to file through the gate in ranks, four at a time.

The power of the Springtide, as the aelves had taken to call it, flowed brightest and most readily in those greatest heroes of their kind, though indeed within all the aelves sworn to the Harbingers of Spring and Queen Aredhel’s service there burned an inner-fire that brought forth Spring itself from any land upon which they walked. On sandy desert and ice-blasted tundra alike it came, heedless. It seemed to shift and shape to fit the mood and personality of the aelf who brought it forth. Meadow grasses, flowers, and shrubberies laden with bright fruit. Thick hedge, choking braken, and fierce dark-thorned vines. Trees; Elms and Oaks and Evergreen. Luminous, glistening mushrooms and roses that wept a bloodlike sap. All are Spring’s domain and more.

Erecting Waystones upon the natural ley lines of the land, they had found that the Springtide’s hold over the land could be bolstered and sustained, as well as fortified against corrupting influence. In this way, the lands in their wake were left in an enchanted eternal spring that could last centuries. The energy in these ritual stones seemed to attract every possible adversary imaginable, for even amongst the forces of order there were many that were eager to seize such power and magical energy for their own purposes. As often as not their hunts would prove vain however, as the Spellweavers became greatly skilled in the creative fashioning of such Waystones, which could be as large as a greenskins’ Rogue Idol or carved into a rock little more than the size of a pebble. More than once an incensed beastlord of chaos was driven smell-blind and mad standing right atop such a hidden stone, as the scent of the pure power of Spring filled their senses but they were yet unable to find and despoil the object of their hatred.

To accept the aid of the Harbingers of Spring in defending your village could mean the most bountiful harvest in centuries, or an Oak bursting through the roof of your humble farmhouse, or both. To welcome them into a great city would be to invite twisting vines thick as a duardin’s leg to come cracking through paving stone and masonry alike. They kept on the move; their sacred charge required them to. They must live as their quarry did, and the white whale of winter they sought remained ever on the move.

The host had made it fully three quarters through before she felt, rather than saw, eyes upon her from all directions. Malice and shadow hung in the air, and the glade was deadly quiet save for a whisper on the wind. Silently she gave thanks to Alarielle that the Outcasts had always seemed to shun missile weapons - they prefered to get up close and personal with their talons and watch the light fade from their victims eyes. She had seen as much during the bleakest campaigns of the Age of Chaos, fighting alongside many such grief-twisted soulpods under darkened skies and dimming hope. There was a rustling of leaves from all directions and then a great thumping footfall came into earshot. A towering figure crashed through the thick undergrowth not thirty yards away. With a roar it gestured a taloned finger at Aredhel, and a swarm of black-carapaced insects burst forth from the figure’s form and hurtled at startling speed towards the aelf.

Undaunted, the Nomad Queen waited until the last moment before speaking a word of command in an ancient tongue. The was a flash of white and a beating of wings. Striking talons and piercing beaks sent a disoriented swarm of flitterfuries stunned and reeling. When the air cleared five large doves had perched themselves on the aelven bladesinger; one bird upon each shoulder, two more sitting high on her antlered crown, and the largest of them upon her outstretched arm as it chomped down with gusto on a particularly fat insect.

“Ah, if it isn’t the lovely Queen Drycha of the Hamadrithil! But you do know how to make an entrance, as ever. How many centuries has it been now? And may I say, you look ravishing in Spring, my lady.” She gave the Outcasts’ Regent an over-exaggerated bow and could see that her own forces were nearly through the realmgate. Aredhel took a half step back. If she could hold the mad queen’s ire on herself and delay for just a few more moments…

“Well, well, well,” Drycha tasted each snarling word, the ancient spirit taking the aelf queen’s measure, “Aredhel, last daughter of House Iceni. Sworn servant to a dead god. Sworn protector to a dead King. I had thought your ilk faded long ago.”

“Still hearty and well, as you can see,” Aredhel gestured happily to her intact limbs and full set of fingers, “though your concern for the welfare of the old aelven kindreds of Ghryan is noted and welcomed, o wise queen.”

“Yes, and here you are, little more than a wandering beggar—”

“Queen of a whole troupe of ‘Wandering Beggars’ actually—” Just a little further, Aredhel thought...

“—passing like thieves in the night through MY realm, stealing away with MY secrets—”

“We’re on a mission from the Goddess—”

“Ha! So it would seem. Aelves who are blessed —or should I say cursed?— by Alarielle’s power. But can you truly believe there is any escape? Across all the realms you walk with a target on your back for all to see, and leave a blazing trail of flowers in your wake. Wherever you scurry off to, you shall be laughably easy to track. I’ve tasted this new scent of yours now, ‘Bladesinger.’ That power you bear belongs in sylvaneth hands. You may run on for a while, aelf, but someday I will rend that precious little heart from your chest and consume its power for myself.” Then she grinned, a terrible, evil grin. “Unless, of course, everyone else beats me to it.”

Almost there... “Well, it’s sure been a real pleasure catching up and all, brings up such great memories of the old times — but, ah, would you look at the time! I really gotta fly, the whole ‘winter never rests and the eternal hunt thing’ and all. Loving that new spring look! Termárelai, selde!”

The surrounding spite revenants charged from the shadows. A massive swarm of the great black insects smashed into the spot the where Aredhel had been standing, but she was gone.

For a moment she felt the ethereal energy, and emptiness, of the In-Between. Then she was stumbling out of the realmgate and onto the other side. Sliding down to her knees, she gave the awaited command. “Now!”

Several bolts of green and purple fire the size of a gargant’s fists sailed over her head, smashing into the face of the rock just above the gate’s exit. Meanwhile, massive twisting roots split the ground and sent jagged fissures through the rock to either side of the gate. Within moments the whole thing came crashing down in a cavalcade of stone. The passageway of the gate itself popped out of existence and sent many of the nearest Wanderers sprawling in a shockwave of released energy.

“Nice shot, Ladies.” Aredhel rose to her feet as the dust settled, “They won’t be following us by that gate for a while.”

Beware ye tyrants

Winter is almost ended

And Spring is Coming