Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘Aetius, can you stand?’ he asked.

Aetius grunted and, with Gardus’s help, rose to his feet. Blood dripped from between his fingers as he threw an arm over Gardus’s shoulders and sagged against the Lord-Celestant. Gardus uprooted his blade and, with one arm around Aetius’s waist, he hacked them a path back towards the shieldwall. As he handed Aetius over to a pair of Liberators, he turned back towards the Gates of Dawn.

The Great Unclean One wove his hands in obscene gestures. With every pass of the greater daemon’s hands, the archway flexed like a thing in pain, and an ugly light seeped out from between the aged stones. The insect-drone in the air had grown louder, and it was accompanied by a new sound — the stomp of great feet, growing closer.

‘I did try and warn you, you can’t say I didn’t,’ Bolathrax croaked, as the archway shuddered down to its keystones. ‘I gave you a chance, little pustlings, but you spat upon my kind offer.’

The daemon glanced slyly in Gardus’s direction, somehow finding him amidst the confusion of battle. Behind the daemon, the stones of the archway seemed to tremble with the reverberations of whatever monstrosity approached. ‘Though, I expected no better from the spawn of Sigmar.’

As the name of his god left the beast’s blubbery lips, Gardus hesitated. Bolathrax’s smile widened, sensing the reaction his words had caused. ‘Yes, I know who you serve. I recognize that sign, on your armour. And I do not fear him, pustule. I withstood his wrath before, and I will withstand it now. I have outlived many gods. Bolathrax was there at the Battle of Black Skies, when the Great Necromancer fell. Bolathrax corrupted the Skyoak and broke the champions of mankind in the Allpoints War. And it was Bolathrax who cracked the City of Branches and made Alarielle weep tears of jade.’

With every boast, the Great Unclean One slapped his rubbery chest.

‘Bolathrax, pustule! Bolathrax, blessed above all of Grandfather Nurgle’s children. Bolathrax, greatest of all those who dwell in the garden.’

Bolathrax extended one wide paw, as if in command, and roared out, ‘Heed me, my sons. Come forth, brothers in bile, come forth my rotguard!’

Chapter Four In the halls of Azyr

Zephacleas moved quickly through the celestine vaults. Gardus was his friend — in many ways, his only friend — and the thought that he might be in danger was not a pleasant one. Stormcasts could not die, as such, but the Reforging process was not easy. Those who fell and returned were… different. No one could say how or why, but they were, and that thought lent speed to Zephacleas’s stride. He did not want Gardus to change, to be something other than the man he was now. He did not want him to endure the agonies of rebirth a second time.

I do not want to lose my friend, he thought. As he passed the Forbidden Vaults, he averted his eyes, as tradition and prudence demanded. He was not the only Stormcast moving through the halls. The turquoise war-plate of the Celestial Vindicators was in evidence, as well as the golden armour of the Hammers of Sigmar. The great mourning bell was ringing steadily, its despairing song echoing everywhere as he made his way to where his Warrior Chamber waited.

He caught the arm of one of the Celestial Vindicators. ‘What news, brother? How goes the war for the realmgates of Chamon? What of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok, of Thostos Bladestorm and Lord-Castellant Eldroc?’

The other Stormcast pulled his arm free of Zephacleas’s grip. The Celestial Vindicators were not known for their even temperament, and Zephacleas stepped back, hands raised.

‘Peace, brother, I am merely curious.’

‘The battle goes well,’ the other Stormcast rumbled. ‘The Silverway is ours. Chamon will follow.’ He cocked his head. ‘What of Ghyran? Have you heard?’

‘Badly,’ Zephacleas said, tersely. ‘I go now, to see that it fares better. Sigmar be with you, brother,’ he added, extending his hand. They clasped forearms, and turned to go their separate ways. Before Zephacleas had made more than a few steps, however, a voice called out to him, stopping him in his tracks.

‘Hold, Beast-Bane,’ a rough voice said. ‘I would have words with you.’

Zephacleas stopped, more out of curiosity than any respect for the speaker’s authority. He’d earned his war-name in the wilds of Azyrheim, hunting the monstrous beasts that still lurked in the high crags and deep canyons of the mountains of the Celestial Realm. He’d fought the Black Bull of Nordrath and harried the beast-packs of the Antarktos Ridge to extinction, slaughtering the white-furred goat-headed servants of Chaos to the last ungor. He turned.

‘Hail and well met, Lord-Castellant. Shouldn’t you be with the remainder of your Warrior Chamber, waiting for the order to march?’

‘Who are you to say where I should or should not be?’ Lorrus Grymn, Lord-Castellant of the Steel Souls, said.