Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Rhulmok was hard at work, igniting the fire of the ur-gold. The sound of his labours punctuated the chanting of Yuhvir and the berzerkers’ shouts of praise to Grimnir, and so the Fyreslayers countered the foul music of the daemons with a song of their own. Pure and hard and unforgiving, it rumbled over the plateau. It was a challenge, and it was a reclamation. The sons of Grimnir had come to his holy place, and they would take it back, beginning by returning the true sounds of the anvil.

As the Fyreslayers advanced, they built up speed. The magmadroths began to lope. The berzerkers broke into a run. Every second they were not lopping off the heads of daemons was a second wasted. The ground shook beneath the pounding of their feet.

When the Fyreslayers were halfway to the enemy, the sound and the vibrations of their challenge broke through the daemons’ celebration. The daemons hesitated in their dance. They stopped. They turned to see who had interrupted them, and who it was who did not fear them.

Distensiath’s grotesque smiles grew even wider.

Hills of struggling nurglings giggled in delight.

The more solemn plaguebearers clustered together and took up their weapons.

Distensiath spoke. The words came first from one mouth, then another. They overlapped in their speech, so that some words were spoken by two maws at once. The voice of the Great Unclean One was the sound of a mountain coughing up its lungs. The syllables were moist. The mockery was acid.

‘You are welcome, children of Grimnir. We have been waiting for you to join us. What has taken you so long? We have been calling you and calling you and calling you. Were you deaf and blind to our invitation?’

Do not answer, Thrumnor thought. Do not exchange words with the abomination. There is nothing to be gained in doing so.

But he could not remain silent.

‘Your taunts mean nothing!’ he shouted. ‘Your revels are over!’

‘Over?’ Distensiath repeated. All the mouths of the daemon laughed. Its corpulence trembled with mirth. ‘But they have only just begun! Your coming was foretold! Let the prophecy be fulfilled!’

Thrumnor felt the touch of an icy claw in his chest. Had he been wrong? He had seen the storm, and he had seen the light on the Great Weld, and he had believed a Fyreslayer prophecy was coming to pass. That had been the reason to urge action to keep the oath. But Grimnir’s hammer was not striking the anvil once more.

Did the daemon speak the truth?

The possibility was ghastly. Worse than the Krelstrag prophecy not being fulfilled was a daemonic one reaching fruition instead.

Are we the tools of that realisation?

No. Thrumnor would not permit such a thing. No Krelstrag would. The daemons had infested ground sacred to Grimnir, and for this crime they would suffer.

The daemons waited until the Fyreslayers had almost reached their position before they moved. Then they advanced, howling joyfully. The nurglings spilled around the legs of the plaguebearers, rushing to be the first to greet the newcomers to the revel. Distensiath’s maws unleashed a cacophony of laughter, and the Great Unclean One began to walk. Each step was ponderous, dragging and thunderous, shaking the ground and spreading new webs of cracks over the surface. The daemon could barely move, yet as it rocked forwards it spread its arms as if to gather new worshippers to its flock.

Rhulmok pounded the war altar with mounting fury. Thrumnor’s ur-gold sigils blazed in response, and he was consumed with the ferocity of battle. No enemy could stand before the rage he embodied. He roared. The entire host of the Krelstrag lodge roared. The Fyreslayers fell upon the daemons.

A battering ram in red and gold slammed into the abominations. Nurglings burst apart upon impact. The Krelstrag wasted no blows on them. Their charge was enough to part the stream of lesser daemons and hurl them back the way they had come. The plaguebearers were the more worthy opponents. Things of swollen bellies and rotten limbs, they sprouted long horns on their heads and wielded foul blades. They waded into combat with the Fyreslayers with mutters and nods. They appeared to be counting, and they attacked with purpose. The purifying rage of the Krelstrag clashed with the essence of disease.