The Gnomad Feastmasters are a secretive people of the hidden Trails, custodians of the great herds and the quiet places between war. Long ago, they were cast from the World-That-Was into Ghyran, where merciful spirits and the land itself concealed them. They have wandered for so long that the memory of humankind has faded, but not their duty: to follow the migrations, tend the wounded earth and preserve the countless small lives that greater powers overlook.

Gnomads seek neither dominion nor renown. Their caravans travel from Habbinkerr Grove to Habbinkerr Grove, guided by Trail Masters and borne upon Hollowain War-Wagons that renew the hidden ways beneath their wheels. When danger threatens, these wandering communities close into Gastrognome Encampments. Drove Kin and Drove Archers hold the line, Trencher Proudfeet and Canopy Riders strike from flank and sky, while Abstemious Scouts range far ahead. Head Chefs, Boscage Hermits, LeyLord Ancients and their Sylvaneth allies lend wisdom and strength. Every blade is raised in defence of the Trail, never for conquest.

For an age, the Gnomiad Trail and the other hidden Trails concealed the gnomads from the hungry eyes of the realms. The Necroquake changed everything. Cracks tore through the old protections, exposing fertile sanctuaries to marauders, monsters and those who see only bounty to be taken. Suspicious of outsiders and reluctant to surrender their secrecy, the gnomads nevertheless know that retreat alone will not save the herds. Stout defenders of all things pure, the gnomads now guard their hidden ways with a vigilance born of hard necessity.

‘Jared Prisefault, you put that down this instant!’

Jared jerked his hand away from the copper tin as if it were red hot. ‘Sorry, Chef,’ he mumbled. ‘I just…’

Melton glared up at him, a grown man’s rage condensed into a figure no more than four feet high.

‘You thought what?’

‘Nothing, Chef.’ Jared hung his head.

Anger faded from the pudgy face. ‘Do you even know what you were toying with?’

‘No, Chef.’

‘That’s Hanyas, you young idiot. A tiny pinch adds a delicate sharpness to a dish. Two pinches will make you spew.’ The halfling wrinkled his nose. ‘From both ends.’

‘Sorry, Chef.’

‘You live and learn. That’s what apprentices are for. Now, where is that layabout Klaus? He should have had that jugged hare on the table ten minutes ago!’

Jared blanched. ‘He’s in the cold store, Chef. He’s… not well.’

The head cook pursed his lips. ‘Drunk?’

There was a pause.

‘Yes, Chef.’

Melton sighed. ‘Well, there’s nobody else.’ He stripped off his stained apron and hung it over a stool. ‘I’ll have to take it up myself.’

‘I can do it, Chef!’ Jared’s eyes were shining.

Melton looked him up and down, suppressing a smile. ‘It’s not for the likes of you to wait on the fine Lords and Ladies,’ he said, as kindly as he could. ‘But you know your way around a kitchen. No, you bring the Foole out from the cold store, then take a pot of coffee from the stove and ladle it into Klaus. I can’t be running up and down stairs all night!’

Two spiral flights separated the kitchen from the great hall. By the time he reached the top, the halfling was puffing hard. He rested the dish on the top step for a moment, took a deep breath and entered the hall.

‘I say, I say!’ A braying voice rose above the hubbub as Melton set the jugged hare down on the table. A young man, his face flushed with wine, addressed the figure in the high-backed chair at the centre of the feast. ‘I didn’t know your jester was serving us tonight, Lord Yelten. Are the kitchens a little short-handed, what?’

Laughter exploded around the hall. Melton bowed stiffly and made to withdraw.

A growl from the high-backed chair stopped him.

‘You aren’t Chaligny.’

‘No, my lord.’

‘Then who in the hells are you? What are you?’

Melton bowed again. ‘My name is Melton, Lord. A Gno…’ He swallowed. ‘A… mongrel creature, your worship. I have the honour to serve as your chef.’

‘And to serve at table, it seems. Well, I won’t have a fool interrupt my dinner without him giving us a little entertainment.’ He cupped his hands around his mouth and roared: ‘Chaligny!’

A hidden door in the wooden panelling sprang open, and a diminutive figure tumbled out.

A duardin, dressed in motley and clutching a mandolin, sporting an enormous ginger beard.

The company giggled expectantly. Looking closer, Melton realised that the duardin was clean-shaven, the beard false. He drew in his breath.

‘Chaligny,’ continued Lord Yelten, ‘you have competition for your place! I’ll warrant this fine fellow is a better dancer than you. Play him a tune, and let’s see him caper.’

Obediently the duardin struck a few notes on his mandolin. Dozens of eager faces turned to Melton. Scalding humiliation washed over him. He blushed scarlet.

A few laughs echoed in the awkward silence. Chaligny’s eyes met Melton’s, silently pleading as he hopped and jiggled with the music. Melton’s feet felt as if they were encased in lead. He wished the weight would break the floorboards under him and send him tumbling back to the kitchen below.

‘Come on,’ snarled Yelten, ‘let’s see a few steps. We haven’t got all night!’

Melton stared back, the choler rising within him. Yelten blinked. His nostrils flared.

Chaligny moved first. He snatched up the wooden serving spoon from the jugged hare and tossed it at Melton, who caught it instinctively.

‘A duel, my lord,’ he cried. ‘This cook has danced better than I. My honour will not stand it.’ He hefted the mandolin like a battleaxe. ‘I must fight him or lose face.’

The rising fury in Lord Yelten’s face vanished in a snort of amusement. ‘Quite right, Chaligny. Have at him!’

Chaligny took a tentative swipe at Melton, who blocked it without thinking. A second blow caught Melton on the backside, making him stagger forward. The crowd roared.

Furious, Melton lashed out at the duardin with his wooden spoon. It bounced off the mandolin with a musical twang, to howls of laughter from the crowd. He struck again, hitting the duardin on the cheek, spattering jugged hare across his face and beard. Chaligny somersaulted backwards, exaggerating the force of the blow to comic effect. He staggered in circles a few times and threw himself to his knees in front of Yelten.

‘I yield, my lord. Spare me from the halfling’s fury, I beg of thee.’

Melton found his tongue at last.

‘With my lord’s permission, I must withdraw to prepare the next dish.’

Yelten waved a hand dismissively. His attention was on his neighbour, who was wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. Melton fled for the cool darkness of the stairs.

Jared emerged from the cold store, Klaus unsteadily in tow. He saw Melton and frowned.

‘What are you doing, Chef? You aren’t trying to leave? Lord Yelten will be furious.’

Melton took the last pot chain off the hearth and linked it to its fellows.

‘Yes, Jared,’ he replied. ‘I’ve let them keep me here for longer than I should. The road is calling me.’ He linked one end of the long chain to a meat hook and tested the joint with a grunt.

‘But Chef…’ Jared’s voice cracked a little. ‘I don’t understand. How will we cope without you?’

The gnomad winked at him. ‘I daresay his lordship is used to hiring a new cook from time to time.’ He reached up and pinched Jared’s cheek. ‘And one day, it will be you. You’ve got the makings of a good cook in you. Farewell.’

Jared looked shell-shocked. ‘Can… can I help, Chef?’

Melton raised an eyebrow. ‘You can keep an eye out for the sentry while I’m going over the wall. If you see him, whistle. But no heroics.’ He turned to Klaus. ‘The Foole is on the sideboard by the door. Take it up, and don’t drop the damn thing.’

Jared watched the little figure disappear into the darkness. A clink of chain reached him as the makeshift grappling hook found its mark among the crenellations. He stared into the darkness for some minutes, but saw nothing more. Then he busied himself tidying up the kitchen, surreptitiously dabbing at his eyes from time to time. He opened a cupboard. His gaze fell upon the copper tin of Hanyas.

It was empty.

The sun that blessed the World-That-Was drowned within an ocean of tears as it was toppled from the sky. Howled lamentations accompanied bells pealing in desperation as the Three-Eyed King wrought the final apocalypse. Mallus lolls now in its place, a fiery, ruined thing, boiling in its fury, devoid of the once merry song of the Moot.

In the first apocalypse, entire civilisations perish and ruin’s flotsam is cast asunder. Paralysed Gods concern themselves only with their children, and any living thing left forsaken is cast into the pit.

In a time before myth, the progenitors are abandoned to inescapable doom. The Lesser Betrayer, Khaal Phranx, turns his back on the lamentations of his subjects. That Eicheschatten was burned and the Moot’s pastoral idyll desecrated is remembered still. Tales of melancholy and sorrow are immaculately commemorated, in this present era, in towering dishes dripping with metaphor. After the cataclysm of the End Times, the Greater Betrayer, Sigmar, augments the treachery of his corporeal embodiment and declines to find a place at the pantheon’s table for Nuffle, Deity of the Last Chance. Before the reality of the World-That-Was is forever snuffed out, the terrified refugees of the Moot are pursued by throngs of slavering Gors into the deep Alter Forest where they cling together and pray for deliverance. Their earnest pleas are heard by a despairing Nuffle and in a compact demanded of him by his thirsting cousins, his godhood is surrendered to the void in a fell exchange.

Eleven extended familial groups are spared, and two single digits are forever woven into the fabric of Chaos by myriad clawed hands.

Mallus’s survivors tumble from reality and are mercilessly tossed through the maelstrom of the black void. As they plummet, the halflings’ piteous squeals attract predators of the aether. Several are snatched as playthings and are consigned to an eternity of unbearable agonies. Disorientation and abject despair grip the survivors of this ordeal in the seasons that follow. They are lonely, in an alien heaven stripped of civilisation. Depression sinks its hungry teeth into the remnants of Nuffle’s ark. The fearful newcomers soothe their trauma with their undiscriminating dedication to the little things of the new forest, gradually adopting the role of guardians. Though the Jade Kingdoms are their new true home, they do not learn of it and cling to the rocks of former culture. These halflings make not a ripple upon the surface of the known realms in the golden days of yore. They are busy and conscientious in their labours – nurturing the burgeoning flora and fauna, the small things: the pollinators, the primary producers, the mellow and the mild. For that long era, though Alarielle traverses the Jade Kingdoms, the inconsequential and quiet communities remain in their ignorant and harmonious seclusion, shrouded from her explorations within their unremarkable enclave. Tiring of solitude, the Queen of the Radiant Wood sows the soulpods to reunite her with her children from the World-That-Was. Sacred groves and glades blossom and the sleeping Sylvaneth wake from their dormancy.

In this pompous age of vainglorious godhood, mighty empires are built, and brutish races ascend to hold dominion over vast swathes of land. With grim inevitability, these mortal kings succumb to base instincts. Alliances crumble and treaties are wrecked. The rich tapestry of peace begins to irrevocably unravel and is consumed within the raging fires of turmoil that follow. It is the lowly Seedlingkin who first stumble upon these newcomers, as the taint of Chaos begins to infect the realms. The Seedlingkin have no word for halflings, knowing only the small folk of root and burrow long vanished from the old world, and they name these survivors after them. The little folk never thought themselves half of anything, and none cares to correct a friendly giant. Majesty is unknown to this quietly indignant grove, divorced from the glorious deeds of its kin. They are never set to battle by their mother but rather bound to the soil, to the seething masses of crawling bugs, the dark-forest fungi, the unknotting of weeds and other unvaunted labours. Upon witnessing the gnomes’ devotion to the same, and sensitive to Ghyran’s own innate counsel, they tell their brother-groves not of their discovery, and the existence of this community within the Jade Kingdoms remains veiled. Mother-Alarielle remains absent, making parley at the court of the Greater Betrayer or else brooding upon his decrees and machinations within the Verdant Palace.

The diaspora finds purpose in exile, their eyes cast low so that their people may rise, unseen and unobserved. Purposefully blind to the wicked horrors haunting Sigmar’s accursed realms, the new custodians become vessels for Ghyran’s survival.

Far from the gaze of a distant Goddess, and with the soft song barely audible in the low places, the Seedlingkin form close bonds with the genial stowaways. The gnomes are set to honest labour in a hidden corner of Ghyran’s garden known as the Root Holme. They prove exemplary custodians of the meek and the mundane. As countless seasons pass, the gnomes’ memories of Mallus blur and literal history becomes lost to fable and proverb.

The gnomes remain wholly ignorant of godly schemes and of the precipice of Chaos until the realms are fair set ablaze. The Jade Kingdoms are ravaged by blight, their crystal waters tainted, and the blood of their children saturates the soil. Untold billions of their denizens are slaughtered or afflicted with cankerous plagues. Entire species are consigned to the stygian depths. As Chaos threatens to overwhelm Ghyran, Trails are fabricated by the Seedlingkin in metaphysical tandem with the immaterial will of the Realm itself. Arteries of sanctuary burst across the war-torn surface of Ghyran, hidden in plain sight within the grim fabric of reality. Lest the dull beasts stumble from light to darkness, the Seedlingkin burden the gnomes with a vital task. Soon to lay down the hoes of the Root Holme forever, the gnomes will become gnomads.

Uninvited guests have set the realms burning. The gnomads turn the other cheek to the unimaginable horrors and focus only on the safe custody of their new charges. Solemnly and resolutely, they strive not to interfere in the furious maelstrom that howls across a ravaged land. Rather, they ensure that the Trails flourish regardless and patiently await an end to the centuries of war. As desperate battles are fought the length and breadth of Ghyran, the gnomads think only of the litany of sweet pasture and the dutiful task of rebirth. Favourable auguries are celebrated with elaborate feasts. Regard for Ghyran’s plentiful bounty passes from mere consumption to veneration and eulogy. Gateways between realms are discovered and new networks of Trails are pioneered. The increasingly doughty and weather-beaten communities of the gnomads surrender any lingering amenities of the World-That-Was to the rigours of perpetual migration.

As the Greater Betrayer’s crusade plunges the realms into endless war, the hidden ones emerge from their long concealment.

Whether by the withering of the Trails’ magicks, or by confidence and curiosity both, gnomads inexorably join the tumult of races contesting for Ghyran’s spoils. Sigmar’s reckless immortals descend to Ghyran to wage bitter war against Nurgle’s foetid legions. Cacophonous thunder peals through the leaves of the Jade Kingdoms and the ruin of Mallus is illuminated a brilliant gold by storms of astral lightning. Alarielle emerges from the besieged Athelwyrd, and together the allied forces of Order scour the blight of Nurgle’s New Garden. The Everqueen reigns supreme over a much-cleansed dominion as the pestilent tide begins to ebb. The Seedlingkin, deprived of glory and already quiet for an aeon, are wary of the resurgent Goddess’s wrath, choosing instead to maintain their dissimulation. The Trails continue to thrive and the gnomads follow them to every corner of the Jade Kingdoms, and beyond.

Generations of gnomads happen upon the Realmgates, and via those conduits the migrations begin to span realms. The Shimmerfalls of the Genesis Gate are first discovered by the legendary Smorgan Petakcraic, who, it is said, lost near half his bodyweight in those wakeful days after first glimpsing Shyish beyond its threshold; no caravan followed him towards that deathly realm. In the Verdant Bay, the first among Trail Masters, Caan Hadriel, reconquers the Sargasso-Citadel and emancipates the Orca-Maesi from the yoke of Scourge Privateer slavery. Upon him is bestowed the honorific Tyromancer Nautilius, and upon his descendants the name Nautilae.

Caravans return from the Realm of Aqshy, through the Hammerhalian Stormrift Realmgate, laden with spice, everflame and desiccated berries, quite under the noses of the Betrayer’s dead-eyed giants. In this golden age of exploration the gnomads thrive. The mycelial networks impel regrowth, herds and flocks boom, and the gnomad communities grow bold with them. Tzeentch relearns of Nuffle’s children and ten thousand Azyrite Swallows career into the side of the Jade Temple in a grisly riot of feather and gore. Nagashizzar, hitherto unknown to gnomads, implodes, sending a radial shockwave of death pulsating through the realms. In an instant, the deep roots of Ghyran’s Trails are destabilised. Weakness corrupts them and some begin to decay. Others are lost to the reawakening of long-buried tombs, and ancient barrows stir to the drone of the restless dead. Their occupants, so very, very hungry, blissfully gorge themselves on the herds before horrified gnomads can react. Swathes of mycelium perish and Trails that pass over such lands become infertile and barren. New terrors – sentient invocations – blaze across the realms unchained. Magicks become known to the gnomads and through the Boscage Hermits the Lore of Terraforma is honed. Trinkets and articles of ancestry glitter with amplified significance and begin to channel lost enchantments. The relationship between the Trails, the mycelial networks and Ghyran’s cycle of birth and rebirth becomes demystified.

The powerful tremors of the Necroquake rupture the delicate fabric of the Trails’ shroud. Through these tears in Ghyran’s protective magic come spilling the many-varied horrors of the realms. Hundreds of migration routes become entirely unveiled, naked to the legions of predators that descend to feast on the vital lifeblood. Like never before, the gnomads bear arms and call upon their phlegmatic forest allies for aid. Warped pans are beaten into spear-tips by sweating smiths and ducks plucked furiously by overworked fletchers. In this new Age of Sigmar, the forces that sucked the halflings of yore from the World-That-Was seek now to renege on Nuffle’s deal, and to bring about a reimagining of the horrors of Eicheschatten.

The Adjudicator glared at the defendant with barely concealed derision. Like others on campaign in these leanest of times, he had a grumbling belly and sallow, greying cheeks. He nodded to the accompanying warden who promptly gave the judged man a tap – a lusty tap, mind – with the butt of his pike.

‘Rise!’ the officer commanded, with splendid theatre, and labouring with a glacial inertia, the wide-eyed trooper managed to obey.

‘Best-of-Fellows Tarafis, we shall hear what Spearman Nhort, Sub-Exemplar, has to say for himself. I am given to understand it is quite the tale.’ The Adjudicator exchanged a mocking glance with the Best-of-Fellows whose lip curled proudly in reply. Spearman Nhort’s tongue wobbled but no words fell forth. With a pudgy hand he flicked at a bead of sweat that had formed, somewhat incongruously, on his plump forehead.

‘Out with it, Sub-Exemplar,’ the Adjudicator chided sharply. ‘Don’t keep the Best-of-Fellows and I from our dinner!’ Spearman Nhort’s heart sank, and tears of injustice began to well up in his eyes. He took a quavering breath, regarded his betters, and began.

‘I swear, Sirs, that one of Sigmar’s own bolts may strike me if I utter a false word, for everything I say is true. Sirs will note that after the battalion’s last action against the Beast Drove territories the battalion was compelled to fall back in disorder… eh, that is to say withdraw from the fighting, Sirs. As you can see from my missing ear, I suffered a mighty grievous blow and was knocked senseless. I knew not of where I was and all recollection of the retreat, eh, that is to say the withdrawal, is lost to me.

‘I remember nothing of how I came to be in that wagon. In and out I came, Sirs, of this world and that of slumber – the only memory being the fair hand of the tiny one spooning that porridge into me. Sirs, I cannot do it justice. Thick and creamy and uncommonly good, sweetened with molasses and dotted gaily with soft fruits. For it is that, that I thank for my recovery, I’m certain. Over many days these quiet, little people would fill me so full of the stuff that my stomach groaned. On no account would they tell me where they came from, nor where they were headed. A queer folk, all told, Sirs. I partook of a great banquet, a Great Feast they called it, the likes of which no man has seen. Three days it lasted, dish after glorious dish. Crispy pies brimming with honeyed damsons, great wobbling platters of steaming buns.

‘Pungent cheeses that set my mouth fit to drool. Each dish was met with a chorus of song, and stories too; though I do admit, Sirs, to not recollect them as cup was a’plenty. “Shir-betz” they called them, unworldly drinks that popped and spat, cooled with virgin ice, fine meads also and powerfully thick porters. I confess I was three shades giddy and merry as a wet pig. The final dish, Sirs…’

Sub-Exemplar Nhort wiped the saliva from his chin before continuing.

‘’Twas a whole she-ox rubbed with salt and dressed with rare herbs, warmed-through with spice. Its own butter basted it, jewelled with fat and meat that fell from the bone and…’

‘Enough!’ bellowed the Adjudicator. He held his head in his hands until his composure was regained. ‘Enough,’ he repeated quietly in a hungry whisper. He regarded the man before him with disgust as he contemplated what punishment he might mete out.

‘Sub-Exemplar Nhort, first-hand accounts of your disappearance cannot be found. Stores were looted in the withdrawal and though I may suspect you of making free with their contents, I cannot sentence you for it. The regimental physician concurs that your wound would have knocked you senseless and that, I suppose, accounts for your absence from camp.’

The Adjudicator rested his chin atop his pressed palms as he scrutinised the trooper before him.

‘Sub-Exemplar Nhort, you might have escaped punishment if not for your fantastical tales. A race of travelling, beardless dwarfs! Do you think our scouts would not have encountered such careless merriment?’

The Spearman took an involuntary half step forward, but his protestations were met by the Adjudicator’s staying palm.

‘For conduct unbecoming a Sub-Exemplar, I dock three-quarters campaign pay. For untruths uttered in the company of officers I sentence you to a half-season in penal ranks.’

In an instant, Spearman Nhort’s healthy glow blanched of all colour.

‘Tomorrow you will join the diversionary vanguard detachment at Gorgon’s Bight. I would advise you to abstain from next day’s rations entirely, Sub-Exemplar Nhort, that you may become fleeter of foot. Good day, Spearman!’

The Necroquake tore open the hidden Trails and exposed their tender bounty to the slavering appetites of Sigmar’s realms. Yet wounds, though cruelly given, may crust and close. Through patient husbandry, solemn labour and the alchemic ministrations of the Hollowain War-Wagons, the gnomads set themselves to darning Ghyran’s ruptured tapestry. New growth crawled over the scars. Habbinkerr Groves flourished anew beside mended pathways, and the first timid migrations returned to lands abandoned in the wake of death’s great upheaval. The gnomads believed the worst had passed. Beneath their calloused feet, something laughed.

The first warnings were small enough to be dismissed. Barley ripened grey upon its stalk. Wheel-ruts filled overnight with greasy water though no rain had fallen. Milk soured in the udder and fresh butter sweated a viridescent oil. At several Habbinkerr Groves, mushrooms erupted in obscene profusion, their pallid caps marked by curious rents resembling gnawing mouths.

Boscage Hermits pressed their ears to root and bole and heard only confusion. Messages travelling along the mycelial networks arrived knotted and incomplete. A warning sent from the Root Holme might emerge three valleys distant as a shriek of hunger. Tidings of a Great Feast became instructions to bury the ovens. In some places, the whisper of Ghyran was crowded out entirely by an incessant scratching.

The herds knew before their custodians. Ancient migrations faltered. Dromedhari refused the familiar turns of the Blazed Trail and spat foaming abuse at their Drovers. Hirvi scattered from quiet pasture and stampeded into winter storms. Even the steadfast Crag Ibexes baulked at empty ground, iron-hard horns lowered towards foes no gnomad eye could perceive.

Abstemious Scouts ranged ahead and returned with thin lips and troubled stares. Some spoke of tracks that began in the middle of untouched paths. One scout, fevered and trembling, emptied his pack before the elders of the caravan. Every ration within had been eaten, yet its wrapping remained perfectly tied. The old ones muttered of capricious Trails and the lingering spite of the Necroquake. The younger ones reached for their bows. The scratching grew louder.

Far across the Realm of Fire, the heavens convulsed. The proud garrisons of the long-legs looked to their walls, their engines and their golden immortals. Instead, the ground split its grin from horizon to horizon. Mountains buckled. Cities sagged into chasms. The firmament was stained by a sickly brilliance, as though some monstrous lantern had been lit beneath the skin of reality.

From that impossible wound came vermin beyond counting. The ratmen did not march so much as spill. They poured through the broken lands in shrieking multitudes. Bells pealed with such malignancy that unborn creatures twisted in the womb. Every vile clan of that treacherous race hurried forth to claim dominion over the ruins.

The self-proclaimed greater peoples named this catastrophe the Vermindoom. They declared an hour of ruin and made ready for magnificent wars, for desperate crusades and all the other pageantries by which the mighty disguise their failures. The gnomads knew it by another name. To them it was the Seasons of Spoiling.

The Blazed Trail suffered first. Its already-thin concealments blistered and tore as the Realm of Fire lurched beneath the Skaven assault. Trails which had once meandered through the Great Parch buckled into impossible geometries. Caravans might pass a scorched acacia at dawn and find the same tree awaiting them at every mile until nightfall. Hollowain War-Wagons laboured to renew the wounded routes, but the land no longer answered with gratitude.

Something else had entered the conversation. Warpstone lodged within the Trail’s metaphysical roots, and its corruption crept along the hidden arteries, borne through soil, water and mycelium. Sickly light pulsed beneath pathways in Ghyran. Feral Trails in Ghur developed cankerous offshoots which led only to lightless warrens. The waters of the Shimmering Trail reflected moons that did not exist. Along the Fallow Trail, graves opened not to release their dead, but to admit living things from below. The Necroquake had fractured the shroud. The Vermindoom entered through the cracks.

The first Habbinkerr to fall was Bollen’s Rest, a generous grove at the meeting of three major Trails. For eleven generations its orchards had provided ruby apples, sweet roots and a particularly celebrated blue-veined cheese. Caravans timed their circuits to arrive at its pressing-season, and more than one Symposium had been convened beneath its boughs. The Trail Masters counted it a waypoint of the first rank; the Drove Kin simply called it good ground.

The grove was preparing for a feast when the ground opened beneath the kitchens. The ovens vanished first, swallowed whole with three bakers and the entire winter store of candied plums. From the steaming gulf erupted a tide of clawed bodies. Clanrats spilled into the grove while hulking brutes tore apart larders and gobbled anything they could seize – grain, candles, harness leather and one another. Panic overtook the gathered herds. Oxen thundered through tents. Terrified woolbeasts tangled themselves in guy ropes, dragging whole family yurts into the mud.

The gnomads rallied with admirable speed. Drove Archers climbed onto overturned wagons and loosed feathered wrath into the heaving swarm. Drove Kin formed around the youngest and oldest, cleavers and crooks rising and falling in bloody rhythm. Trencher Proudfeet plunged through the orchards in a storm of horn and steel, their Crag Ibexes trampling armoured ratmen into the mashed fruit beneath. Above them swept the Canopy Riders. Crownwing Eagles shrieked as their riders drove keen-tipped lances into the press. A Trail Master on a Dawnspur Wattlecrest charged along the grove’s collapsing terraces, his furious mount reducing every foe before it to a haze of red ruin, feathers and broken teeth.

Yet for every Skaven slain, another crawled from the pit. Hawthorn Hotpots were rolled to the breach and fired until their barrels glowed. Scalding stews burst amongst the invaders – meat, marrow and caustic herbs clinging to fur and flesh. The enemy squealed, maddened by smells they could not decide whether to fear or devour. Still they came.

Only when Brindlecap Mossroot, the Boscage Hermit of Bollen’s Rest, staggered from the grove’s deepest hollow did the elders understand. Warpstone growths had infested the root-heart. The Habbinkerr was not merely under attack; it had become a mouth through which the Skaven could pass.

No axe was raised and no torch brought near. Instead, every surviving hand was turned to the grove’s salvation. Hollowain War-Wagons were drawn wheel-to-wheel around the breach. Their Glamour Shrouds unfurled in overlapping waves, coaxing thorn, root and living stone across the gnawhole. Brindlecap Mossroot sank his hands into the poisoned soil and begged the grove to sleep.

For nine days the gnomads laboured. The infected roots were gently separated from the healthy whole, not hewn but persuaded apart through patient sorcery. The oldest trees withdrew their sap from blackened limbs and surrendered those branches willingly to the earth. Beneath the grove, roots knotted themselves into a living seal, layer upon layer, until the gnawhole’s green glare was smothered. Bollen’s Rest did not die. It slept.

The surviving caravans departed with its seeds, saplings and the precious cultures from its cheese stores. Behind them remained a silent grove wrapped tightly within its own roots, guarded by Brindlecap Mossroot, who swore to remain until the first clean bud opened – or until Ghyran called him elsewhere.

No Great Feast marked the victory. Yet before leaving, every gnomad placed a morsel of food upon the sleeping earth. The scratching continued below.

Thereafter, no Trail was assumed safe. Abstemious Scouts were sent not only ahead of the caravans but beneath them, squeezing through root-tunnels in search of warpstone spoor. Some did not return. Others emerged with their hair turned white and their ration bags mysteriously full of meat they refused to name.

Halfloaf Thieves accepted darker labours still. They crept through gnawholes to silence Skaven mapmakers and steal warpstone instruments. The enemy had begun to understand their worth.

To the Skaven, the hidden pathways were roads unseen by rival armies. Grey Seers dreamed of seizing them whole; Master Moulders coveted the beasts

that travelled their courses. Hollowain War-Wagons travelled in close companies, their Glamour Shrouds woven together over wounded pathways while Boscage Hermits worked to draw the corruption from root, soil and mycelium. Where a Trail could not yet be cleansed, it was coaxed instead into dormancy, its entrances folded beneath fern and thorn, and the migrations turned towards longer and more perilous routes. Some Trail Masters ordered entire branches hidden from use, so that caravans woke to find the road behind them sunk into dreamless slumber, cutting them off from kin with whom they had shared fires only days before. Such Trails were not abandoned but entrusted to Ghyran’s keeping until healing might begin.

There were arguments. There was sorrow. There were even empty places at the dinner cloth. But there was no surrender. Owain’jax, Son of the Jade Forest, strode to war wherever the corruption bit deepest, his ancient roots crushing warpstone growths to glittering powder; yet even he could not cleanse every wound, and the venerable LeyLord Ancient’s sorrow could be heard in the creak of his limbs whenever another Trail was lulled into dormancy. Still the pact remained. Ghyran’s progeny must migrate, and the meek creatures of the world must be shepherded, however loudly gods war or vermin scratch beneath the soil. The Necroquake taught the gnomads to bear arms; the Vermindoom taught them that not every wound can be healed at once.

Across the Mortal Realms the caravans move still, Drove Kin marching beside the wheels, Drove Archers watching every ridge, Hawthorn Hotpots bubbling ominously in the vanguard. At night the gnomads gather close about their fires. They eat, for tomorrow may bring hunger. They sing, lest the scratching drown all merriment. They recount the names of sleeping groves through dishes whose ingredients they carry in hope of planting anew. Far behind them Bollen’s Rest sleeps on, its first clean bud still unopened, its Hermit still waiting. Beneath them the enemy gnaws at the roots of the world. Above, the caravans roll onward.

The mysteries and wonderment of the realms have long been witnessed through the sanctuary of the Gnomad Trails. Through invigorating migrations the gnomads plough life-bringing courses across the breadth of Ghyran and beyond. In savage times these arteries may split, spasm and falter, exposing the Gnomad Feastmasters to the true horrors of Sigmar’s lands.

The Gnomiad Trail is the root from which all others stray. The Feral and Blazed Trails were pioneered through Realmgates by bold caravans following living migrations beyond Ghyran. The Necroquake opened a stranger course: one wounded branch bled unbidden into Shyish, where the gnomads discovered the beast-souls of every realm hunted and claimed by Nagash. The Fallow Trail grew from their resolve to guide those dead charges home or onwards to peace. Only thereafter did the gnomads deliberately seek Hysh, cultivating the Shimmering Trail so its pitiless light might reveal the origins and proper destinations of spirits made lost. These later Trails carry fainter protections than their Gnomiad parent, but duty does not lessen merely because concealment does.

Wanderlust bit hard on the more inquisitive gnomad communities once the timeless presence of the Realmgates was discovered. Bold and weatherworn Trail Masters looked long into their unfathomable, shimmering majesty as Ghyran’s Trails disappeared into the beyond. It is said the one-eyed Teoneder Orangi was the first pioneer to set a tentative gnomad foot past the threshold and the first to witness Ghur’s teeming primordial jungles and soaring, storm-crowned peaks. Legendary dishes tell that he was the first to lead a caravan through the toppled, weed-choked monuments of long-dead empires that dotted the gouged earth of its bone-blighted canyons.

For some creatures of the nine realms, as for their guardians, the vital lure of Ghur is intoxicating. Though the threat of natural death is more palpable, more urgent in Ghur than in other realms, humble beasts submit themselves to its irresistible grasp in incalculable numbers. Autochthonous predators, never dethroned from the natural apex by ceaseless incursions, stalk the dark places. Colossal herbivores, rugged carpets of impenetrable fur or calcified latticeworks of gleaming scales, lumber over the ever-changing topography.

Where the droves lead, the gnomad caravans follow, safeguarding their herds, discovering rare ingredients and conducting furtive trade and illicit skulduggery. The fertile contours of the Realm of

Beasts are initially responsive to the caress of Ghyran’s lingering touch, bursting into an abundance of flora in the wake of the caravans… but this is short-lived. Ghurish Trails are mere footsteps in the rain – insubstantial and temporary, destined to swiftly disappear as the restless lands devour the feeble wards of lesser realms and force submission to Ghur’s irrepressible will.

Providence was it that augured the intersection of Trail and Mawpath? An unlikely and uneasy alliance of gnomad and ogor was founded following decades of bitter bloodshed, retaliation and recrimination. Battles were fought over continents between the Sovanheng and the Splintergut mawtribe. From the ashes of sorrow, a slow-dawning relationship quelled the violence. The peacemaker – their mutual devotion to food – was anointed with best-brewed grog.

Outcast or uncommonly inquisitive ogors – with ideas above their station – began to throw their lot in with the funny little pixies. These exiles found little competition for the choicest cuts from the caravan butcher-shops and were quickly dumbstruck at the free availability of juicy spine-marrow and

luscious mating organs. Their uncomplicated tastes were irrevocably twisted with the addition of szalt, phiperi, Ambermani and popzing-shurbitz. Their palates became so posh and queer that they were shunned by their Mawtribes, none of them able to muster the willpower to turn their backs on rich gnomad cuisine.

It is whispered that some deep-country Halfloaf Thieves have gone native in the other, blood-curdling direction, succumbing to the Glutthold, seduced by the carnivorous ecstasy of the glistening Mawpot.

It was in Ghur that the gnomads first encountered the Crag Ibex. These noble beasts haunted the misty scree escarpments and reigned supreme over precipices of fool’s footing. Over generations, gnomads and Crag Ibexes formed bonds of trust still evident to this day. Domesticated specimens are much valued for their temperament and fortitude, and not least for their ferocious loyalty and iron-hard horns. They shoulder many a burden, hauling the community’s trappings along the meandering

Trails. Ghurish gnomads have seen the Mountains of Maraz and the Sea of Bones. They have traversed the ruined sky bridges following colonies of Moon Apes on their great diaspora. The Solar Guard of Jercho have been met, and well met. Glimmerlings and Torope Gold have been located, and traded, and… borrowed.

The incongruous partnership of the hidden and the hefty has endured in this treacherous realm. The most pliant and well-adjusted of the brutish ogor guardians may accompany, and even lead, communities for many a season. Their bough-clubs, studded with cruel pig-iron spikes, make merry music alongside the fizz of draw-strings and the screeching swoops of Crownwing Eagles, perplexing enemies with a variety of opponents rarely encountered.

Ghyran’s benign influence is attenuated once the threshold of reality is breached. Protections which shield the Trails from maleficence are scant in this realm of fiery tempest. On some Trails salivating predators might catch glimpses of meek folds through a porous mesh of faltering magic, whilst on others the bounty within might be on naked display and entirely unprotected save by the spear tips of lusty drovers.

The gnomad communities who ply the channels of Aqshy have been quick to set aside the memory of Sigmar’s betrayal. Here they freely consort with his children, the honourless long-legs, in the pursuit of mercantile trade and acquisition. Caravans have become newly wealthy, returning to Ghyran laden with exotic ingredients: daggerbite, dawnspice and heaving bunches of flammaberry.

To their dutiful brethren of Ghyran, returnees from the Realm of Fire can appear brash and reckless, given to uncharacteristic outbursts of temper and dangerous passion, such is the influence of time spent in a landscape of quick-blood and urgency. Still, they are admired and rightly lauded for their bravery. Their Trail Masters are duly respected by

their more cautious peers and the Head Chefs of Aqshy Trails are held in high regard; their marvellous creations reddening the cheeks and sweating the brow of intoxicated and awestruck partakers.

The emboldened caravans bravely follow their tentative charges from the Aqua Ghyranis out into the arid lands, irrigating those lands with the lifeblood of renewal as far as the lip of the Great Parch, to the ruined gates of Bataar and Aspiria. The arts of war have been quickly adopted and ruthlessly implemented by ambitious Trail Masters, who, in the reflection of Aqshy’s fury, have stooped to pre-emptive attacks on those they consider future threats.

The Brimstone Peninsula has witnessed the first tense exchanges between gnomads and the Stormcast Eternals, the blank-eyed vessels of Sigmar’s wrath. Upon the barren Flamescar Plateau, the Hollowain War-Wagons have fought pitched battles against apoplectic Doombulls and thundering Bloodcrushers, forever in ruinous limbo following Korghos Khul’s bitter defeat. Beyond their benefactors’ guiding hand, the drovers of the Blazed Trails face dangers like no others and reap rewards in kind.

The Necroquake did not merely split the hidden Trails. In places, it pulled them loose from the realms through which they had been so carefully threaded.

One such wound opened beneath a caravan travelling the Gnomiad Trail. No Realmgate marked the crossing. No shimmer of sorcery announced a threshold. The grasses simply paled beneath the wheels, their seed-heads bowing though no wind passed over them. Birdsong thinned to a single distant note. Cooking fires gave heat but cast no light, and the shadows of the droves lengthened in directions contrary to the failing sun.

The gnomads travelled on, believing the Trail merely sick. Only when a calf long dead appeared beside its grieving dam did they understand that they had passed into Shyish. At first the apparition was mistaken for some cruelty of memory. It walked with neither sound nor weight, its milk-white form visible only where the evening gloom gathered thickest. Yet the living cow knew it. She lowed until her throat was raw and pressed her muzzle against the empty air where her lost young trotted beside her. Other spirits soon emerged. Pale Hirvi moved through copses of bone-white trees. Flights of translucent birds crossed skies without stars. Herds long vanished from Ghyran wandered beneath dead moons, repeating migrations remembered only by the land. Some passed peacefully and paid no heed to the living caravan. Others crowded close to its wheels, fearful and bewildered, as though the scent of beasts and hearth-smoke offered the first familiar comfort they had known since death. Even the wariest spirits drew near the fires.

The gnomads discovered that these were no simple memories. The beast-souls were being drawn away. To Nagash, all that had died was his by right. The gnomads considered this self-evidently absurd. No beast had bent knee to the Lord of Undeath in life. No migrating herd had acknowledged his borders, nor had any humble pollinator entered into compact with his morbid empire. Death did not make them chattel. The body returned to soil, water, flame or tooth. The spirit, too, must be permitted its natural course.

Thus did the gnomads’ ancient duty widen. A migration did not necessarily end when the heart grew still. The wounded Trail became a place of refuge. Living herds and spectral ones travelled side by side beneath the protection of the caravans. The presence of mortal beasts soothed their dead kin, while the familiar sounds of bells, whistles and rattling cookware drew lost spirits from the wastelands. Drove Kin guarded the wheels from the revenant hunters that followed. The dead, at last, had shepherds too.

Drove Archers loosed polished shafts into shrieking corporeal shapes that swooped from the darkness above. Abstemious Scouts ranged ahead through ruined afterlives, marking routes with crumbs that never mouldered and strings of tiny bells whose chimes could be heard by the dead alone.

Across the underworlds of Shyish, the imperious will of Nagash reached for all that death surrendered. Spirits were swept from ancient grazing grounds and dragged from quiet resting places.

The Fallow Trail revealed a duty for which the gnomads were ill-prepared. They could defend beast-souls from Nagash’s hunters, calm the frightened and shelter the weary. Yet many had wandered too long to remember where peace might be found.

Death had confused them. The Necroquake had torn old pathways apart, while Nagash’s grasp dragged spirits far from their proper course. Creatures born in one realm and slain in another carried memories of both. Ancient migratory beasts remembered routes that no longer existed; some belonged to species extinct before the Age of Myth, their homelands altered beyond all recognition. Instinct alone could not guide every soul.

The gnomads therefore turned their eyes towards Hysh. This was no accidental wandering. For the first time, Trail Masters deliberately sought a realm not to follow living migrations, but to gain knowledge essential to their sacred charge. Boscage Hermits communed through mycelial networks. Abstemious Scouts studied skies and reflections, while Halfloaf Thieves acquired maps, lenses and astronomical instruments from those with no pressing need to retain them.

At length, a caravan passed through a Realmgate into the Realm of Light. Hysh received them without kindness. The first plains were so bright that colour seemed stripped from the world. Distances folded beneath the glare. Mountains appeared close enough to touch yet remained a month away. Shadows pointed wrongly. Pools reflected caravans that had not arrived, and the shadows of passing creatures persisted long after their owners had disappeared. The gnomads quickly understood that revelation and comprehension were not the same.

Hysh exposed much, but explained little. Here the impressions carried by beast-souls became visible. Spirits from the Fallow Trail cast strange radiances across the mirrored earth. Ghyranite creatures trailed green-gold light like pollen. Aqshian souls glowed with banked heat, leaving brief embers in the dust. The dead of Ghur bore shifting outlines of predators, prey and rivals remembered in life. Those touched by Nagash cast two shadows. One followed the light. The other stretched towards Shyish.

With patient observation, the gnomads learned to read these signs. They followed coloured threads across salt plains, through crystalline forests and over mountain passes sharp with brilliance. The expedition became a route, and the route was slowly coaxed into a Trail. Thus was the Shimmering Trail deliberately made.

It was unlike the Gnomiad Trail. Ghyran’s paths concealed themselves beneath root and abundance. The Shimmering Trail hid by excess of perception. A pursuing host might see a caravan crossing an open plain, yet march for days and nights together

without ever drawing nearer. Droves appeared doubled upon opposing horizons. Reflections moved where no water lay, while true paths could be followed only by looking away. At noon the Trail vanished beneath perfect illumination; at dawn it multiplied into a thousand equally convincing routes. Even those within it were not always certain which image was real. Hollowain War-Wagons moved cautiously, their Glamour Shrouds softening the pitiless radiance and gathering stray light into protective veils. Polished panels hung beneath their canopies, fine beadwork broke dangerous reflections, and coloured glass distinguished true wheels from mirrored counterparts.

Gnomads of the Shimmering Trail became patient interpreters of pattern. They charted celestial alignments, studied shadows and learned which colours marked each realm’s spiritual signature. Head Chefs devised dishes whose flavours revealed themselves in sequence: translucent broths with herbs suspended at precise depths, crystal sugars layered by lunar conjunction and mirrored pastries served in pairs so diners might debate which was the original. Such debates could last several courses. Aqshian visitors seldom allowed them to.

Hysh’s living migrations soon drew gnomad attention. Prism-shelled tortoises crossed white deserts in pursuit of a sun visible only through their carapaces. Mirror-plumed birds turned valleys to sudden daylight as their wings caught the dawn. Transparent grazers wandered salt flats, betrayed only by the shadows of bones and organs within their crystal flesh. Many Hyshians regarded these creatures as symbols, resources or philosophical puzzles. The gnomads recognised them as animals. This distinction caused friction. Before the Trail was made, no glamour could hide a caravan beneath that pitiless light, and so the gnomads were found. Hyshian sages wished to classify spectral herds and measure the traces of their passage. Some proposed containing rare souls for study. Others insisted migrations conform to geomantic principles established in lengthy treatises. The gnomads endured all of it, ate what was pressed upon them and continued doing what the beasts required. To their frustration, some of Hysh’s greatest minds could not understand why a creature might know its destination without explaining it. They learned much from such company nevertheless, and rather more from watching it.

They learned to distinguish true spiritual memory from necromantic corruption, how light revealed connections between realms, and how a beast-soul retained traces of every land through which it had migrated. They learned that extinct creatures might be guided not to their birthplace, but to where the last memory of their kind endured. Yet light alone could not complete the task. A path might be perfectly illuminated and still be wrong. The Shimmering Trail became a place where reason and instinct were forced into uneasy companionship. Boscage Hermits interpreted radiant patterns. Abstemious Scouts tested each route. Living beasts made the final choice, for their senses perceived truths beyond any lens or theorem. Through Hysh, lost spirits were sorted from the spectral migrations of the Fallow Trail. Some returned to Ghyran, others to Ghur or Aqshy. Those whose resting places lay within Shyish were guided towards underworlds beyond Nagash’s immediate grasp.

In time, living herds also used the Shimmering Trail. Their passage renewed sterile places more quietly than it did in Ghyran, without any of the riotous green. Crystal flowers opened beneath their hooves, salt plains bloomed with geometric gardens and hidden springs rose in perfect circles before sinking again.

The Trail remains dangerous. False routes offer beautiful certainties. Reflections whisper of easier journeys. Travellers glimpse idealised selves and abandon the true path for lives never lived. Even seasoned Trail Masters may pursue a distant destination that forever retreats before them. The gnomads endure through humility. They do not presume that illumination grants wisdom, nor that a thing clearly seen is understood. When lost, they watch the beasts. When confused, they wait. When sages proclaim the correct road, they check whether the herd agrees. Hysh itself taught the gnomads how to see the path. The beasts taught them which way to walk.

Harodin breathed deeply, savouring the scent of crushed mint fresh from his garden. He gave the stalks a final blow with the flat of his cleaver and scattered them liberally over the dish before him. A dash of vinegar, and it was done.

The grove that he tended had not seen a visitor for three moons, nor did Harodin expect another for some time. But that was no excuse for sloppy cuisine.

This was the moment of the day Harodin loved most. The delicious anticipation, with just a hint of nerves. Would the dish be exquisite? Or merely edible? He tucked the cleaver back into the leather pocket of his apron and reached for the silver tasting spoon at his belt.

The dish… would do. The salted tongues were a little past their best, but that was to be expected. No visitor to a Habbinkerr Grove would dream of seeking sanctuary there without presenting a suitable gift. But no visitors meant no fresh supplies, and Harodin’s stock was dwindling.

Still, he had certainly got the best out of what he had, and that was the true art, in Harodin’s mind. Head Chefs might compete on who could deliver transcendence on a silver platter, garnished with truffles and flavoured with rare spices. But could they turn a handful of grass and a pail of swampwater into a passable stew? Harodin thought not.

He was about to sit down to his solitary meal when a tap at the window made him drop his dining spoon. Sitting on the frame was a tiny brown bird, smaller than a sparrow. It tapped again on the glass. As if in a dream, Harodin opened the casement. The bird hopped inside. Clutched in its beak were half a dozen red-gold strands, which it deposited gently on the counter.

Harodin’s eyes widened.

‘Is that… saffron?’ he murmured. ‘Then tha’ art an honoured guest indeed! Come in, come in.’

It amused him to see the tiny creature flutter onto the back of a chair, as if it really were a guest. Perhaps, he thought, it had been too long since he last had company. Solitude was often the lot of a Boscage Hermit, of course, but good companions were the greatest garnish, as his grandsire used to say.

‘Bide thee there,’ he said aloud, ‘and I’ll fetch thee out some grain.’

The bird, it seemed, had other ideas. It flapped over to the edge of the dish of tongues, and made as if to eat. ‘Now, now,’ said Harodin, shooing it back to its chair. ‘If that’s thy wish, I’ll fetch a bowl for thy own.’

The bird pecked at the dish, plucking out the slivers of chopped tongue with every appearance of relish.

‘Tha’ art a strange little bird, to have such a taste for meat,’ mused Harodin, as he cleared away the plates. ‘But,’ he added, as the bird gave a bob, quite like a bow, and fluttered back to the window, ‘tha’ hast manners, I’ll grant.’ He opened the window and the bird flew out, disappearing among the trees of the grove without a backward glance.

The following day, Harodin was less surprised, and more than a little pleased, to hear a tap at the window. The bird perched there was a little fatter than the day before, and the brown feathers had a bluish tinge, but Harodin would have sworn it was the same animal.

It brought him half a truffle, and Harodin returned the favour with a tiny bowl of saffron rice.

The day after that, it came again. A fraction bigger, a little more brightly coloured, carrying a ripe vanilla pod. Harodin fed it a broth made from the last of his hens, seethed into tenderness and flavoured with grated truffle. After that, it became a regular guest at his table.

On the bird’s ninth visit, it spoke.

‘Hello,’ it squawked, in a passable imitation of the Azyrite tongue. By now it was about the size and shape of a parrot, with a beautiful blue-gold plumage.

Harodin nodded and smiled, but did not reply.

He understood, of course, but did not like to speak the language if he could avoid it. Instead he passed the bird a roast dormouse, which it ate with relish.

The next day, the bird tried Khazalid. Harodin stroked his smooth chin, to show he was no duardin, and fed it his last scraps of cheese, beautifully toasted.

A few days after that, the bird landed with a thump, carrying the body of a hare in its talons. Harodin accepted the gift gratefully, even though the animal had clearly been dead a few days.

‘Hello,’ croaked the bird, trying the Sylvan tongue. Harodin shook his head, and passed the bird a bowl of lobscouse, made with the last of his salt beef.

By the eighteenth day, the bird had tried most of the languages of the Mortal Realms, including a few that Harodin did not recognise, and one he could have sworn was Queekish. But today was different.

‘Hello,’ said the bird. Harodin smiled and put down his forkful of jugged hare.

‘How do tha’ come to speak the Habbish?’ he asked.

‘I speak many tongues,’ said the bird, preening its multicoloured feathers. ‘It is a gift from the gods.’

‘A fine gift indeed,’ said Harodin, politely.

‘You are a gnomad, then?’ the bird asked, with a tilt of its head. Harodin bowed. ‘What is your name?’

‘Harodin,’ replied the Boscage Hermit. ‘What is thine?’

‘Some call me Kairos,’ replied the bird. ‘I have never met a gnomad. Will you tell me about them?’

Over the weeks and months that followed, Harodin told Kairos of the stories recited by the Feastmasters, of the great gnomad caravans and of the solitary life of a Boscage Hermit. In return, Kairos described his travels to faraway places; he spoke of the strange sights he had seen, and the strange people he had met. Travel was in Harodin’s blood, and if there was one thing he found harder than the solitude of a Boscage Hermit, it was being tied to one place. Kairos’s companionship made both of these burdens far easier to bear.

By the time winter had begun to fade, Harodin’s supplies were exhausted. He was feeding them both on root vegetables from his garden, and whatever game Kairos could pluck from the air or snatch up from the ground. By now he was the size of an eagle, almost as tall as Harodin. He could quite easily carry a mountain goat or a wild boar piglet back to their table.

Today, however, he arrived far earlier than usual, in a flurry of wings, his talons empty. He rapped furiously on the window.

‘Quick,’ he said, ‘I must warn you. A hunter is coming.’

Harodin, who had been enjoying a quiet smoke between finishing lunch and starting to make dinner, took his pipe from his mouth. ‘I know many hunters,’ he said. ‘Why art tha’ feart of this one?’

‘He is trying to kill me,’ said Kairos. He shivered, making his feathers sparkle. ‘He has always tried to kill me. Will you keep me safe?’

‘The Lore of Hospitality keeps thee safe here, my friend,’ said Harodin, placidly.

‘You don’t understand,’ quavered Kairos. ‘He’s a monster. A fiend. You have to help me. Please, take this.’ He dug in the feathers covering his breast, brought out a small, dull green rock, and dropped it into Harodin’s hand. It caught the light in funny ways, making it hard to look at for long. ‘Crumble a little of that into his food. Just a little, and I will be free of fear for the rest of my days.’

Harodin looked shocked. ‘Come, Kairos, that’s no way to treat a guest.’

‘It won’t harm him,’ insisted the bird. ‘Just make him change his ways. Change him for the better.’

The jangling of a bell announced the presence of a visitor at the outer gate.

‘Please,’ begged Kairos. ‘He’s here. You have to help me. You have to hide me!’

Harodin unhooked his chef’s apron from behind the door, tying the straps around his waist with all the deliberation of a knight donning his armour. He checked his cleaver was still in its leather pocket. ‘I ain’t afraid,’ he said. ‘Come along with me, into the larder.’ He led the bird inside and shut the door behind them.

The bell jangled again. And again. At last, Harodin emerged from the larder. Stony-faced, he made his way to the gate, and threw back the bolts.

Outside stood a tall figure. Over one shoulder was slung a hunting bow, and over the other a quiver of arrows. At its feet lay a stag, fresh blood seeping from a wound above its heart.

Harodin bowed. ‘My Lord Rhandir,’ he said. ‘Tha’ art most welcome here. As is yer gift. The grove has not seen visitors for many months now.’

The aelf placed a hand over his heart. ‘Harodin, my dearest, stoutest friend. It gives me joy to see you.’ He smiled, and went on: ‘I hope your supplies are not so low you cannot feed a hungry traveller?’

‘I confess the shelves are almost bare,’ Harodin replied. ‘But never fear. For you, my Lord, I have just the thing.’

He winked.

‘A fresh roast fowl.’

Osanja curled her little fists into tight balls as she tried to keep her voice from trembling. But fear had already electrified her and the pale hairs on her arms kissed the warm night air.

‘We must go, Brinna,’ she said, as earnestly as she dared. Her anxious eyes darted back down from the bluff to the marshlights of the fledgling path.

‘Brinna, please!’ she hissed, tugging on her true-love’s sleeve.

Brinna’s gaze was locked, though, on the unholy spectacle played out in the valley below and with eyes transfixed, the gnomad maiden’s jaw slowly fell into a hungry gape. Words seemed to roll around her full lips as thoughts attempted to articulate the profound display of depravity on show.

‘What… where… is she putting that… thing?’ Brinna enthused.

Osanja peeked over the lip of the crag and gasped.

‘Brinna!’ she scolded, horrified and flushed in equal measure, but she could conjure no reaction from her dearest.

‘Brinna!’ The next cry was accompanied by a slap of hopelessness and desperately tender words followed. ‘Duck-foot, my poppin, my love, come now, this place reeks of danger and…’ Osanja trailed off and swallowed a sob. Tears wove an unhappy delta down her dimpled cheeks as she looked into the dark brown eyes of her love. The flames of the fire danced in them and her pupils were dark pools of promises already sealed.

‘Please!’ Osanja sobbed, but Brinna was enraptured. Osanja screamed and stumbled backwards into a knot of reeking blossom as the She-daemon climbed lizard-like to the redoubt. Its wet lips dripped tales of ecstasy but its cruelly barbed whip snapped the breeze with its sharp crack. Its slender, vein-clotted finger lifted Brinna’s chin and it breathed a slow, sensual breath into the gnomad’s vital lungs.

‘Get away from her!’ Osanja roared, hurling rock and stick; even the best egg-pan was unhooked and launched at the creature of undoubted Chaos. More of these fiends climbed the edifice and moved towards her, their limbs distended and their movements at odds with the natural passage of time.

Fighting desperate sobs and wracked with a furious shame, Osanja turned her back and ran for the safe embrace of the twisted Trails, vowing forever to seek out and avenge her one true love.

It is whispered that these ever-unrequited lovers were thereafter conjoined in opposition. Some say Brinna succumbed to the embers of her desire that always burned within, and that she serves now as cup-bearer to a great blubbering mass atop a foul and sophomoric palanquin. A tragic caravan, in its own way. For Osanja the Mirthless, the lithest of gnomads, a laconic existence in the darkest shadows of the most overgrown and thorn-knotted Trails. A reliever of sin, Osanja’s boning blade of blackest steel has silently ended life’s pleasures for many a vile despoiler.