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All is Foretold – Extract

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ALL IS FORETOLD

Alexander Dan Vilhjálmsson

The nightmare’s remnants clung to Setrima like cobwebs as she exited her hut. Much of the night had been spent in studying the strange movements of the stars above, the nebulous sky unusually clear of Ulgu’s cloying fog. Such had been the case in recent days – except Hysh was not in ascendance and the shades of Ulgu remained as strong as ever. The hedge-witch did not fully comprehend what these omens portended. Only one thing was writ clear in these strange constellations, their stars pulsating with uncanny light:

A doom was coming to Whitemist.

Setrima had barely slept. It was approaching noon, the brightest hour, when thin, grey light struggled through the shadowy fog and barely illuminated the hill-fortress village. Short-lived as it was, Setrima had always found it to be the most unsettling time of shade.

Even generations since their invasion, the Azyrites still talked about day and night instead of shade and night. They never adjusted to the rhythm of darkness; it was as if their very souls abhorred the region’s cycle of shadows. To Setrima, it was all she knew – a comfort. The brightest light casts the deepest darkness. She knew where she stood with the gloom.

Whitemist was a fortified village located atop a rounded hill, between the Coldhearth Peaks and the Bleak Forest. It had been a safe haven in a dangerous part of the Ulguroth Spiral, a remote frontier of Sigmar’s people before the Age of Chaos. The ancient stone foundations had been built upon during the years since its reclaiming, with ramshackle buildings of moonwhite birch and black wood piling on top of each other, claustrophobically pushing up against the walls.

Setrima had one last chance to alter the course of fate, whose elusive waters rushed ever onward. She could feel it in her bones. Finding an optimal spot by the main thoroughfare leading to the square, she waited for the wizard to show himself. Catching movement out of the corner of her eye, she saw a raven perch on an awning across the street. Discreetly, she made the Sign of Welcoming. The portent’s meaning remained obfuscated to her, but she couldn’t help but feel assured that she was doing the right thing.

People moved quickly but quietly – always quietly – on the narrow streets, rushing to the square. Not all were successful in masking their approach. It was clear to Setrima which villagers were Reclaimed and which were Azyrites. The people of the heavens clung to their heritage of gaudy colours and shining splendour, with the thin half-light reducing their vibrant fashions to desaturated spectres. They looked sad and lost in Setrima’s eyes, like faint reflections of their true selves.

A group of Azyrites stomped loudly by Setrima, heading towards the square. She knew them well – impoverished former nobles who still carried their empty titles. Arrogant like their god, their ancestors had thought themselves capable of overcoming the shadows with blazing light and relentless fury. They’d ignored the first unwritten law of Ulgu: that one needed to use the dark to survive, lest one become prey. They’d been eager to colonise, or ‘reclaim’ as they vulgarly phrased it, but they’d never intended to adapt to Ulgu. In their eyes, a safe haven could only be established by conquering the land and recasting it into a new mould – just like their god made his eternal warriors.

But bloodthirsty shadows could not be broken, could not be restrained. Their attempt had been doomed to fail from the start. Still they endured, still they clutched the reins of power tightly. Praying and waiting for their saviour to come.

And like the desperate fools that they were, they fervently believed that the portentous stars dominating the firmament like an executioner’s axe about to fall were the sign they had been waiting for.

At last Setrima caught a glimpse of crimson robes amongst the crowd. Retreating into the shadow of a by-street, roofed by overbuilt houses, she whispered a word in a forbidden tongue. The man halted, looking over his shoulder to the source of the sound, heard only by him. His eyes darted around suspiciously before he noticed Setrima.

‘Amusing parlour trick,’ the mage mused as he sauntered casually towards her, his caution evaporating in an instant. His crimson robes were decorated with sigils woven in dull golden thread. ‘Silly me, I thought the umbral tongue was outlawed. What do you want, witch?’

‘I’m asking you one last time, Syserak. Advise the Gerent to call off the march. If not, then at least let me and the other Reclaimed join you in the hunt.’

‘Again with this nonsense. I already told you no.’

‘Have you studied the sky, as I asked you? Really studied it, instead of seeing only what you want to see?’

At this Syserak arched his eyebrows in amused surprise. Setrima was not someone he considered worthy of challenging his capability. ‘I would say you are stubborn as a mule, Setrima,’ he said dismissively. ‘But even a mule has its uses. You truly think so highly of yourself, that a hedge-witch could divine the mysteries of the stars?’

She ignored the comment, trying to focus on what mattered. ‘Grave portents have manifested themselves these last few nights. Whitemist will be reduced to ruins.’

He forced a mocking laugh. ‘Have you stopped to consider that might be because you are doomed – not the rest of us? I do not think that the God-King will take kindly to the likes of you once we are taken back into his fold. Only a devout follower of Sigmar can comprehend his divine message. The rumours are true, writ clear across Azyr’s luminous glory – a great crusade is being launched. Sigmar’s blessing will ensure our victory against the vile things lurking in the forest.’

She should have known better – on the Ulguroth Spiral, a direct approach was most often a shortcut to death. Burying her anger at the insults and sheer arrogance, she tried to find a better angle in the hope of convincing him.

‘I know that I am not as devout or learned as you, Syserak. But please believe this – I do not doubt that the God-King will return. I pray that the crusade is real – that once again true light will permeate this unending darkness, that we will know peace and prosperity. Perhaps I am wrong – perhaps Sigmar is truly coming to our aid, or giving us his blessing. I am just asking you to consider the possibility that Sigmar is trying to warn us. If we are to eliminate the daemons at our doorstep, we must do so as one. Let the Reclaimed fight alongside you against our enemies.’

The words were like bitter ash on her tongue. To sing the praises of a god who had abandoned her ancestors, sentencing them to a fate worse than death, was outrageous. Sigmar had made his choice when he locked himself within the heavens to sullenly nurse his shattered ego for an age of Chaos. Adding insult to injury, Sigmar had the nerve to return and ‘reclaim’ those few souls who survived that dark era – only to abandon them yet again. The newly established city of Azyrsen had fallen to darkness within a generation. Setrima’s grandmother had spoken rarely of the exodus from burning Azyrsen, located on the southern shores of the Spiral. She’d only been a child, witnessing horrors that still followed her decades later. As far as everyone in Whitemist knew, they were all that remained.

Setrima desperately hoped that she was wrong. In the moment, she recognised that she was also trying to convince herself. She knew better than to believe her own lies. All Ulguans knew well just how quickly that treacherous weapon could turn in one’s own hands.

Her words could not be unspoken. All that remained was bitter, rancid ash. Ravens sounded in the distance, echoing through the misty streets.

Setrima’s praise of the God-King caught Syserak off-guard. He clearly believed it to be a heartfelt confession, perhaps in part because she had been lying to herself as well. She could see him doubting, re-evaluating – but it wasn’t enough. This was her chance to deliver the decisive blow.

‘Please, Syserak – remember fallen Azyrsen. Its rulers ostracised the Reclaimed and ignored the omens until it was too late. We cannot risk repeating the mistakes of the past.’

In an instant, she knew she had failed. Anger and contempt distorted his face at the mention of the fallen city.

‘It was because of heretics like you that Azyrsen fell. We should have burned you all at the stake when we had the chance.’

The mage spat at her feet and turned to leave. Anger flared up in her and she struggled to smother it down, to keep herself in control.

‘I only repeat the words of Master Atruvius, who lived through those dark times himself. He was not above listening to those of the old faith. Do you so readily dismiss his wisdom?’ He didn’t stop. She permitted herself one barb. ‘Did none of his teachings penetrate your thick skull in all those years?’

Syserak halted briefly, muttering over his shoulder. ‘The old man is long dead, witch. As is your heretical belief.’

Her heart was racing, her clenched fists trembling with anger. She felt words of power at the tip of her tongue, and letting them remain unspoken proved more bitter than singing Sigmar’s praises. She didn’t know why she had bothered trying to convince this smug idiot.

Except that she did. She’d do anything if it meant saving the lives of her people.

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

This eBook edition published in 2024 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

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Cover illustration by Phil Moss.

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