Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘Master,’ he whispered. ‘Are you near?’

The din of the battle below seemed to fade as the voice of his master filled his skull. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his warriors coming to grips with the closest of the newcomers. Fat-bellied blightkings hacked at gleaming shields with notched axes, only to reel back as lightning-wreathed hammers struck them in return. But though they stumbled, his chosen refused to fall. Their seared flesh congealed and repaired itself, as Grandfather willed, and they lurched back into the fight.

Near, yet still sadly far, my servant, his master replied. My rotguard and I come as fast as the winds of plague can carry me, but you must open the door and let me in. Hurry, Grelch… I would wallow in the murk of the Ghyrtract Fen, taste the sweet heart of the Greenglades, and wade in the Shimmertarn. Hurry, my servant. Pile the stones and spill the blood… Open the gates to Grandfather’s garden…

The voice faded and Grelch let out a shaky breath. The clangour of battle grew loud once more: the air filling with screams and the rattle of weapons. The voice of his master, his mentor, was proof enough of Grandfather’s favour. Why else would such an enormity as his master deign to speak with him, and so kindly?

‘Don’t worry, master, there’s plenty of blood to go around,’ he said, out loud. He looked out over the Fen, and saw the silver ranks of newcomers stalk forward with ground-shaking strides, their wide shields locked rim to rim. They resembled nothing so much as a gleaming wall, and he felt a hint of unease as they drew closer to the slope and the steps. But their march slowed as his chosen warriors interposed themselves once more, crying out the name of Grandfather Nurgle as they sought to break the shieldwall. Once his warriors had finished off these shiny-skinned interlopers, he’d have them gutted and squeezed to fertilise the stones and open the garden gate.

He closed his eyes, revelling in the thought of it. Long had he yearned to see Grandfather’s garden again, in all its pestilential splendour. Now, at last, his chance had come round. A little blood, a little death, and it would be done.

However, his good humour evaporated quickly as he plodded down the steps, axe in hand. His chosen warriors had never before been bested in battle, yet these newcomers smashed them aside more quickly than he’d thought possible. Warriors bloated with the blessings of the Plaguefather were driven to their knees by hammer strikes that crushed armour and tore flesh as easily as any axe or sword. Every blow was accompanied by a snarl of lightning and the thud of a smoking body as it struck the ground.

As Grelch made his way down the last few steps, he saw that his men had become disorganised, save for a few chieftains around whom the cannier warriors rallied. The rest charged in knots and dribbles, alone or in small packs, and were ground under by the silver-armoured retinues of the newcomers. The latter had formed themselves into an impenetrable shieldwall, rim to rim and edge to edge. Shields dipped and hammers shot out to strike and return as the shields rose once more with a discipline completely alien to Grelch’s experience. The silver warriors moved as one, clearing themselves a bloody path towards the stone steps and the arch, and right towards him. He raised his axe in welcome and lumbered to meet them.

Some of his followers rose, even after they had been battered bloody or hacked apart, as the great rents in their obese frames scabbed over and their severed limbs re-grew. But that wasn’t enough, and soon they fell a second time. The weapons of the enemy were too deadly, even for those in whose veins the blessings of Nurgle ran.

Grelch moved more quickly now, lumbering towards the forefront of the battle. If he could rally his troops, they might still stand a chance. However, that hope dwindled as he saw the last of his chieftains fall to a great mauling blow from one of those deadly hammers, crushing its horned helm into an unrecognizable mass. The few warriors who remained launched themselves at the enemy, despite his commands, only to be swatted down as if they were of no more importance than flies.