The Stolen Sons-Act 1-Scene 1.

I

Solidus never liked officers. They pried into his business, dictated his every move, regulated and categorized his time. On the whole, officers were no good to Solidus, and neither were his fellow soldiers. His memory was shaky to the subject but he could not remember a time when he desired sentient companionship nor a time when he appreciated people telling him what to do. He had been fine on his own long before the lightning took him. Long before he was reforged by that grabby god Sigmar. Long before he was lost in these woods. The last thing he wanted was a patrol of liberators interfering in his affairs, but here they were, and one of them was an officer. Not just any officer, no nothing so mundane for Solidus the lost liberator. This officer’s crest was purple, dim in the gray twilight of the woods, and his shield bore divided colors, red and black behind Sigmar's hammer embossed on the foreground. The shield was dented and stained, but that golden hammer design still shone, even in the dim light. It was really annoying. The hammer could do with some dimming. Every corpse walker, plague eater, and mind twister across the realms could probably see that sigil, shining as it was in the dark. Solidus kept thinking he saw them, behind every tree, glistening from the cold rain or emerging from the fog. Every snapping twig and echoing dew drop set him on edge. If nothing else he had to respect the officer for sneaking up on him unawares.

“Where is your hammer, son of Sigmar?” asked the officer. Not a minute had passed and already Solidus was in trouble for being out of regulation. Old habits died hard though, and the habit of answering when an officer's asked was one such custom that had been drilled deep in Solidus’ psyche on the plains outside Sigmaron.

“Lost, Liberator Prime,” Solidus said, saluting.

“And your unit, Liberator?”

“Lost them too, Prime.”

“How were they lost, liberator?”

Solidus rolled his eyes behind the emotionless face of his battle mask. He cut off a frustrated sigh just in time, but honestly! If Solidus knew where his unit had disappeared to, would he be lost? Then it dawned on him. The Liberator Prime thought Solidus meant the unit had fallen in combat. He inhaled to tell the prime this was not true, when the sound of approaching footsteps came from behind. Solidus whirled, right hand ripping the short storm-sword from its scabbard as he dropped to one knee, pulling his shield up to cover his body. It all happened in a well practiced blur and ended with the blade clashing on a storm forged sigmarite pauldron crafted in imitation of a roaring lion. On any other creature, Solidus’ blow would have carved off a limb. It left but a scratch on the blessed armor.

“Peace, little friend. No harm meant in it,” said a deep, elderly voice.

Two paladins had emerged from the woods behind Solidus’ temporary camp. They were Retributor class. Tall, well armored, carrying two handed lightning hammers and sigmarite gospel tablets on their broad backs.

“Three Liberators and two Retributors. I’m honored. Who’s next, the bleeding Celestant Prime? Body Snatcher Sigmar himself?” asked Solidus, standing and sliding his blade home in its scabbard.

“Watch your tongue, storm-son,” barked one of the Liberators, hand going to his hammer. He bore a red shield.

“Peace, Inritos,” said the Prime. “How long have you been away from your unit, liberator?”

“I…” Solidus began, but stopped. Truth was, he did not know. The passage of time was odd in the black wood. Diffferent. He could have sworn a week had passed, and yet he had felt no need for food or rest until today.

“I’m not sure,” he said finally. “Time is…”

“Different here,” said the retributor who bore the scratch of Solidus’ sword.

“Yes,” said Solidus. “My exact thought.”

“So we have seen,” said the Prime. He sounded...tired. Solidus did not begrudge him that. The lack of natural fatigue and hunger did not diminish the soul weariness of the dim, gray sky and the bony, dark trees. It only seemed to enhance the strain.

“We have been in these woods two days, as best I can tell, liberator, with no chance for rest. May we share your camp ground?” asked the prime.

“Of course, liberator prime,” said solidus. As if he could say anything else? The purple crest and divided colors on his shield meant he was a split-unit prime. When he took to the field, behind him came at least two full units of liberators, each with their own prime who reported to him. For a lowly liberator such as solidus to deny him in any way was an insubordination warranting certain if not immediate death.

No, solidus had no use for officers, but it seemed he could not evade them either.

*

The two retributors built the fire. Rather, the prime whose lion shoulder plate bore the scar of solidus’ sword, pointed out what his subordinate was doing wrong while the lower ranking paladin argued right back. Solidus thought it rather like two old friends arguing, or perhaps a father and son. They kept their booming voices low but solidus still wondered why all the forces of chaos had not descended, nor the minions of death risen to silence the squabbling. Even destructive brutes such as the Ironjawz or Ogors might yet appear, if for no other reason than to join in the argument.

“I might silence them myself,” Solidus muttered.

“Mm-hmm,” said a voice behind the liberator. Solidus dropped his hand to sword hilt. He had it halfway drawn before seeing the speaker. The third liberator, the one with the black shield. He had spoken very little since arriving. An aura of the grave came away from him. Surely he was no lord Relictor, but something was not right about the silent liberator with the funeral shroud over his shield.

When the fire was lit each stormcast contributed to preparing the meal. All but the liberator prime, of course. He sat beside the fire, brooding over a scroll. Another good reason for Solidus’ dislike of officers. Most were too high and important to be bothered with the mundane chores of camp life.

The Retributor Prime was as different from other officers Solidus had known as the prime was similar. The retributor had, as all stormcasts had, possessed a different life before his reforging. Warriors and heroes, priests and prophets, those dedicated heart and soul to Sigmar had been called, remade, born anew. As solidus watched the big paladin prepare the meal and then when Solidus took his first bite, the liberator could only assume Almighty Sigmar had rescued the retributor prime from the chaos blasted realms for no other merit than his skill as a chef. Solidus could not remember tasting anything better since the deployment feast in the halls of Sigmaron.

The retributor prime’s name was Glorias and his subordinate was Aequitus. The liberators were, of course, Inritos of the red shield and Assenssus of the black. The liberator prime was a stormcast whose name even solidus knew. Eorus Rex, a hero of the Aqshy plain who had fought alongside Lord Vandus Hammerhand himself and won great valor. Upon his reforging he had been reassigned, a new crested split-unit prime and minor legend. And he appeared to know it.

It was enough to make solidus want to vomit in his battle mask. But then, that was life, and you had to deal with it.

The dinner was simple, good, and short. Purple Plume Eorus Rex assigned Assenssus to first watch. The fire was kept small by necessity, but the Stormcasts huddled around it as best they could. Inritos the red gave the best spot to purple plume before lying down with head on his shield. Eorus followed suit while Glorias and Aequitus sat on their heels, talking in low, quiet voices. Assenssus vanished in the shadows, but Solidus sat with his back against a tree, shield propped on his left, sword drawn and resting across his lap.

The sigmarite heavy plate mail was uncomfortable to sleep in, but as the other stormcast removed helmet, gloves, and heavy armor, solidus did not even remove his battle mask. They may trust one another to guard each other’s backs, but Solidus was not so foolish. Not in these woods.

The slow creeping fog had begun its slow exit of the woodland floor. It was all so very unnatural here. The realm of Ulgu was just that, though, a realm of mystery. Mystery and shadow. The other stormcast may have rested that night, but solidus did not even close his eyes.

*

No dawn came in the twilight woods, only the seemingly permanent blue glow on gray fog and glistening black trees. The glow bothered Solidus. It had not origin, no point of reference, and yet it shone wherever it willed, casting shadows first to the north and the east. However, with no frame of reference, Solidus did not know east from west. This caused no end of frustration to Purple Plume who, after organizing an orderly marching formation, could not then decided which way to march.

“We could follow our tracks,” suggested Inritos. “Back the way we came.”

“And why would we want to do that, laddie?” asked Glorias as he replaced his battle mask.

“To find the end of these woods,” said Inritos. Aequitus visibly bristled when the liberator left off the proper title of ‘prime’ when addressing the officer. Glorias held up his hammer across his subordinate’s chest, stopping his menacing advance.

“Going back will do us no good, Inritos,” said Eorus Rex, gazing distantly at the surrounding branches, one foot resting on a small boulder, one side of which was covered in green moss.

“Of course, my prime,” said Inritos, with a side glance at the big retributor. Glorias shook his head, but Aequitus appeared to have had enough.

“Are ya forgettin’’ sumat, ya wee little toadstool?” demanded the retributor.

“Can’t imagine that I am, though in these woods it is difficult to retain one’s comprehension. Perhaps you should sit down, brother retributor, you appear to have lost yours.” With a bellowing, almost orkish roar, the retributor raised his hammer and Inritos drew his own, shield rising. Glorias leaped between them. Eorus Rex stood by, watching curiously. Solidus looked around, fearing an ambush at any moment when the other stormcast were distracted.

“We can use the moss.”

The five stormcast looked at Assenssus, the one who had spoken.

“The moss, liberator?” asked Eorus Rex.

“Yes, the moss,” said Assenssus.

“Watch your tongue, acolyte,” Inritos snapped. “Address your officer with respect.”

“My commander carries a different seal,” said Assenssus, voice low and dangerous, rumbling from behind his battle mask like the promise of rain within dark clouds. Solidus was thoroughly confused. What seal did the liberator’s master carry? And why was there so much enmity between Inritos and everyone but the liberator prime? Inritos himself looked ready to spit sparks and Assenssus ready to deal death when Glorias stepped in again.

“Peace, lads. We all serve the Lord Celestant.”

“Do we, grandfather?” hissed Inritos with his barbed tongue. “Because there are some here who cause me to wonder.” Assenssus’ hand dropped to his hammer once more and Inritos raised his own. Solidus grimaced. Not only had he met unwelcome allies, but allies who were at each other’s throats. He braced for action, hand gripping the leather hold on his shield. Fog gusted in from his left, cold and clammy. For a moment the tension eased. The stormcast looked around, as if wondering what it is they were doing, and why they were there. But then the fog thinned and, with shaking heads the rage began to grow again.

“What do you mean, ‘moss?’” asked Eorus Rex. he stood a little way off from the imminent scuffle, looking off into the woods and rubbing something between the gloved fingers of one hand.

“It only grows on the north side, prime, of rocks and trees and slopes. What have you, moss only grows in the north.”

“Interesting,” said Eorus and dropped what he had been playing with. A patch of gray-green moss.

“Come along, brothers,” said the split-prime. “We march north.”

*

The landscape did not change. Twisted trees and sodden earth under a gray sky comprised the world in which the six stormcast trudged along in with weary but cautious steps. Dripping dew and cold keening winds filled their ears. Then they stood outside a village. No warning, no roads or signs, no indication by sound or scent that civilization lay near. Or something that could be misconstrued as some sort of primitive civilization. One moment, the warriors stood in twilit forest. The next moment, a gray and muddy village.

“I don’t take to this, not a wee bit,” rumbled the big Glorias. Aequitus grunted his agreement.

“Do the muddy peasants frighten you, retributor?” asked Inritos quietly, and Aequitus’ hands gripped tightly his hammer haft.

“Keep your eyes open,” said purple plume. “We’ve come to liberate these people, not fear their circumstance. Move forward, but with caution. Chaos is everywhere.”

And here i wanted to walk with my eyes closed, thought Solidus with a snort.

The line automatically took up a staggered, defensive formation as they entered the village. The commoners looked on with surprise and fear, most often halting in their daily routine, turning the village into a museum of waxy, wan figures in clothes of washed out colors, spattered in mud. One man they passed scowled at them. A woman ushered her boil covered brats into a hovel of mud and twigs. A young man made old by some trauma sat naked on the damp earth, bony knees drawn up to his receded chin. He rocked back and forth, hands constantly moving, long fingers tracing complex patterns in empty space before his bright, feverish eyes. Solidus heard him muttering as he passed, rambling disjointed, chaotic, and insane streams of thought. The liberator hurried past.

The line of stormcast came to an abrupt halt. All around them rose gray trees and black fog. A dim blue light shone from everywhere but without direction. Dripping dew and keening wind filled their ears. Then the village was gone.

“What in Sigmar’s name?” wailed Inritos, pulling out his hammer, but finding it could not solve the problem.

“A realm of mystery and shadow,” was all Eorus Rex would say, before moving north again, following the moss. No other phantom village appeared right away, but Assenssus’ question chilled Solidus to the core.

“What did that man mean? The muttering one?”

“I can’t remember hardly what he said,” responded Glorias. “Two steps and above the three...ach, it was blither.”

“No,” said Solidus. “‘Two steps over, five steps from behind. Lead me lost in’’...” he stopped, the final words catching in his throat.

“‘Lead me lost in the silver tower,’” finished Aequitus. “‘help me find my mind.’”

“Gods!” hissed Glorias, and Assensus nodded darkly.

Around them the fog swirled, cool and inviting, until it obscured them amidst the dripping, black trees.