...As the Three Eyed King marches south three heroes will emerge to hinder him and his dark masters. A long sleeping queen, from a cradle of stone and steel, awakened by death. A king long dead, fuelled by rage and sorrow, restored by the gods of sand and sun. A boy newly found, blessed by two gods to take up arms against the Everchosen in battle beneath fire and thunder...
Prophesy of the End Times
The land that was once Kislev
A dozen severed heads stuck at odd angles on pikes in front of the Three Eyed King, each of them belonging to a sorcerer who had told Archaon that they could tear down the cursed wall of faith that had been erected across the Empire's border. He sat brooding for days on end, staring at the wall that shot into the clouds like a great grey shield, not uttering a word to his subordinates, all of them feared to approach him and instead turned themselves to other pursuits, Sigvald had set himself upon the remaining people of Kislev with abandon and Doctor Festus was brewing his foul concoctions. Perhaps the champions of Khorne would have dared to stand before the Everchosen and his rage, but Valkia was pursuing a campaign against the Druchii and the other servants were collecting skulls for their patron.
There were another three heads to the side of Archaon, others who had failed him. One belonged to a Skaven warchief who had promised that he would bring great devices that would tear down the wall. They had utterly malfunctioned, exploding in great green flashes when they arrived. Archaon had calmly summoned the Swords of Chaos, convinced one of the surviving ratmen to tell him where the Clan's lair was, and then butchered every single one of them, returning with the head of the creature that had promised him and then failed him. The next was the warlord he had left in charge of protecting the navy that had been stationed in Erengrad since the city's fall. It was not nearly enough to transport his vast hordes around the bastion, but they could have landed armies in the Empire's heartlands. The norscans still had ships in their homeland, but thousands had been destroyed when an imperial fleet, together with a high elf patrol ship had attacked them in harbour. With them was the Ice Queen of Kislev who had her revenge, turning the bay to ice and summoning great ice spears from beneath to spear the longships like meat on a skewer, while cannons and fire breath from the imperial and high elf ships reduced more to splinters and ash. The last was a trophy of his, the last Boyar of Kislev, who had attempted to resist his advance. He had fought valiantly, if fruitlessly, and Archaon had done him the honour of allowing him single combat. He forbade the Boyar's body to be desecrated, having it buried, keeping only a head as a memorial to Kislev's courage. If only his own legions showed such strength.
Archaon meanwhile let his rage simmer, his drive burn beneath his skin. He had destroyed Kislev in a day, broken it like an egg and sent the whites running towards the Empire, the pitiful remnants of the Ice Nation were nothing, now the Empire was all that mattered. The Dwarfs were broken and isolated from the centuries, Bretonnia's knights were simple minded and deluded, allowing Archaon to seed a rebellion in their heartlands, but the Empire's armies were disciplined and strong, driven, well led and utterly dedicated. The Empire was everything, once he broke the realm of the false god Sigmar, the world was his.
But to break the Empire he needed to break this wall, and to break this wall he needed... something. The vast fleets of Norsca were being assembled at his order, but they couldn't carry nearly a tenth of the strength of his forces to the Empire, no, the wall had to fall. Others would scurry back to their patrons, or hurl themselves at the wall of faith and try to tear it down with their bare hands, many had and regretted it swiftly. But he was Everchosen, the last Everchosen, he was not like those that are or those that came before, he stood above them all, and he would devise his way through this barrier as he had every one that had come before. Time itself was his and if it took him an eternity he would get through the wall and have his vengeance on the land of Sigmar behind it.
()()()
The Oak of Ages – Athel Loren
The sea wind brushed the waves gently up and down the coast of Lothern like the stroke of a painter's brush, the warm water rushing over Aliathra's bare feet, her toes sinking into the soft sand. Her brother Yulerian dived on his eagle, the claws of the mighty beast stroking the water like a teasing lover as he laughed joyfully, his hair flying behind him like the plume of a helm.
"He improves daily," her father said, walking up beside her, his Chracian guardsmen holding respectfully back. "One day he will lead Asur armies from that eagle."
"It's a shame about his griffon," she commented. Something had happened to it, but she couldn't quite remember what, though he seemed to be just as capable with the great eagle. Though the joy she remembered her brother having when he flew was gone, he was not laughing or smiling or performing in the wind, every move was methodical, practiced, functional in war, his face hard set with determination and concentration.
"It is a shame, though there is far more to pity for him than that his griffon was slain. He will need you, you know."
She glanced up at her father who was watching his son with sorrow in his eyes. "He'll need you as well father."
Her father looked down at her, tears racing down his cheeks. "You'll have to make up for me, I can't be there for him, not anymore. Or for you."
"What do you mean father?"
He set off slowly down the beach and she followed. "When you return, you will find the world much changed, I'm sorry, I can't be there. I never wanted to leave you alone. There are things you should know, things I should have told you, things I never could. I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" She asked, trepidation rising within her. "What are you talking about?"
He started to pull away from her and though she sped up she couldn't catch him. "Father!"
"I'm sorry, Aliathra."
"FATHER!"
"Aliathra," her father sounded distant, but less ethereal, familiar and different, more alive. "Aliathra!"
A buzzing pain in her throat woke Aliathra deep within the bowels of the Oak of Ages. Everything hurt, to crack her eyes open sent a lance of pain straight to her brain, when she tried to make a noise the air passed through her wind pipe like a fistful of serrated blades and her limbs weighed her down like great lumps of lead yoked to her shoulders with paste.
She couldn't remember much but pain, death and light, a glowing sword and great howl of power and pain. A knife at her throat and her drawing on every power she could find to keep herself alive and it seemed to have worked. She didn't think she was bound to her waystone, and if this was the belly of She-Who-Thirsts then the Asur were wrong about what that meant. But she felt a different power, a familiar one, one of life, one that she grown up around in Avelorn. Her mother's power.
"Aliathra," her mother's voice murmured beside her.
"Mother," she rasped, her voice dragging up her throat.
A soothing sensation ran along her throat like honey on the inside and a warm fur on the outside, but the cold bite of metal was a constant inside her. "Try not to talk, you are still being healed," her mother said, voice flushed with relief. "But you're alive, that's what's important."
"Wh-"
"Shhh," she said. "Go back to sleep my daughter, we'll talk when you are done."
A mist-like sensation swept over her and sleep took her once more.
She woke again, this time to silence and a great ache in her bones. The pain was submerged, still there but present, as though screaming at her from the bottom of a lake. She reached her hand up to her throat but recoiled it sharply, she could feel the jagged mark on her skin, splitting the front of her throat and she remembered the dagger and the cold sharp pain of it ripping her throat open. But that was all it was, a memory.
"Aliathra!"
She looked around. Prince Tyrion was standing beside her, tall proud and powerful, but with a weariness scrawled across his face. "Lord Tyrion," she whispered. He was meant to save me, she remembered. And he had, he had carved through the foul shield of the Liche that had slain her fath- wait, no, he hadn't, the glowing sword wasn't the sunmaker, and the man who came to her rescue wasn't Prince Tyrion. It had been... someone else. "Where... where am I?"
"You are within the Oak of Ages," came a voice more beautiful than any that she had heard before, soothing, calming and reverberating through the air with power. She could feel the power as well, as one with the voice and looked up to see the speaker. A woman, as beautiful as her mother, glowing with a radiant blue light. "Welcome to my home, Aliathra the Everchild. I am Ariel, Lady of the Wood, Incarnate of Isha and Eternal Queen of the Asrai."
"With the lady Ariel's help, you were healed," her mother said, stepping up from behind the Asrai Goddess-Queen. Her mother smiled down upon her, smoothing her hair back. "Lord Tyrion has been standing guard over you while we did so, he hasn't slept since we began.
"And the bargain was fulfilled," Ariel finished, showing none of the warmth her mother did. "Now I must return, and you must leave. I will not have two who bear the Curse of Khaine in their blood in my home any longer, the Oak of Ages will not allow it in it's tender form, I must finish it's regrowth."
Aliathra didn't see Tyrion and Alarielle glance at each other fearfully at Ariel's words. Instead she struggled to her feet and Tyrion lunged forward to help her. Together with her mother, who cast one last glance back at Ariel, they helped her out of the Oak of Ages and into the King's Glade.
The King's Glade was dark and brooding. Winter had come to the trees, the God King Orion was burned, waiting to be reborn come the Spring, the trees were silent, the Asrai retreated apart from the Eternal Guard, who stood watch over the glade, surrounding the small Asur force that had gathered, those that remained of the army sent to rescue Aliathra from the clutches of Arkhan the Black and Mannfred von Carstein.
At the fore was Korhil, the captain of her father's White Lions. "My lady," he said with relief when she appeared, approaching her respectfully, but bowing her head. "You're alive."
She nodded. "I am."
"We are ready to depart at your command, Everqueen." Korhil said. "The ships at Marienburg await our arrival, from where we can depart for Ulthuan."
"Why not somewhere closer, why not Bordeleaux or L'Anguille, or even the World Roots?" Tyrion asked.
"The Roots cannot be used in winter," Alarielle told Tyrion. "But Marienburg is some distance away, and the Empire is at war."
"As is Bretonnia, my lady," Korhil said. "A great civil war rages in the north, and threatens to spill south, passage to L'Anguille is blocked by the armies of Louen Leoncouer and the rebels, Bordeleaux is not yet affected by the war but is too close for comfort. The Empire may be at war, but the Free City of Marienburg is far from it, it is the safest harbour for the ships, and gives us the safest route to them. Even if the journey is longer, we will not be beset by foes."
She and Tyrion nodded. "Very well, prepare for travel."
"Not yet!" Aliathra declared suddenly.
They all looked at her.
"There is something I must do first. The knight, the human who saved my life, who was he?"
"Human?" Alarielle asked.
She nodded. "A human battled Arkhan the Black, tried to stop him from casting the ritual, did stop him from killing me outright, but he died, I need to thank his people for doing so. Without them I would not be here."
"Duke Tancred of Quenelles," said Eldyra, the knight bore a new scar upon her face from the battle. "He and his Pegasus knights got to the top of Drakenhoff first. They all died, but he was right in the circle, reduced to bone and dust. He was likely the knight you spoke of."
Quenelles was in Bretonnia, Duke Tancred a servant of King Louen Leoncouer. "Then I must go to King Louen and give thanks for his Duke's sacrifice." That's what her father would do.
"Aliathra you are weak, we must go home," her mother insisted.
"No," she reaffirmed, pulling away from Tyrion's guiding arms. "I go to King Louen. And I would visit Duke Tancred's family as well, though as loyal servants of the King they are likely at his side."
"You cannot go, I won't allow it." Her mother said firmly.
Aliathra ignored her and turned instead to Korhil. "Captain Korhil, did my father send you to me?"
He paused, glancing at Alarielle and Tyrion for a moment before nodding. "He did."
"I am going to King Louen's court, whether that be at his home city or on the battlefield to give my thanks. Will you escort me?"
Korhil looked at her for only a moment before nodding. "It would be our honour and pledge," he replied, his detachment of White Lions standing with him.
Aliathra turned back to her mother. "I am going now mother, if you and Prince Tyrion wish to return home you may do so. I will see you when I return."
Alarielle looked at her then at Tyrion who sighed. "You have so much of King Finu- of your father in you," he said. "I will go with you."
"So will I," said Alarielle, her face flashed with something at the mention of her husband, but it passed and Aliathra didn't notice it. As Aliathra, accompanied by Korhil, walked a short distance away, she approached Tyrion. "She may not be Finubar's daughter. But she is so like him."
"She is," Tyrion replied a note of pain in his voice. He always sounded like that when he was reminded that Aliathra could not be his. He looked at her. "When do we tell her he is dead?"