Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

The Lord-Celestant was a giant of a man, even among the Stormcasts, and he sang with joy as he wielded hammer and blade. Once, he’d fought simply for food to ensure the survival of his tribe in a land full of monsters. Now, he fought to sweep the Mortal Realms clean of Chaos in all of its forms.

He scanned the interior of the stockade and saw a dozen large, crude cages made from pox-warped bone and disease-toughened ligament. Inside the cages, men, women and children screamed and wept.

Zephacleas growled in anger and took a step towards the cages. A skaven leapt at him from the crumbling stockade, a filth-covered mace clutched in its grimy claws. He spun, smashing it from the air with a blow of his hammer. More of the vermin scuttled forward in a disorganised rabble, flowing around and between the cages, chanting in high-squealing voices and swinging spiked censers with berserk abandon.

‘To me, my brothers — let us show them how the Astral Templars wage war,’ he said, spitting a frenzied rat-monk on his runeblade.

Liberators armed with dual warblades joined Zephacleas and his Decimators in hacking away at the charging skaven. The amethyst-armoured Stormcasts fought as savagely as their Lord-Celestant, as savagely as they had in the Gnarlwood so long ago. But the ratkin were as thick as fleas on the ground and showed no signs of retreat.

‘Thetaleas,’ Zephacleas said, signalling to the Decimator-Prime of a nearby retinue of axemen. ‘Teach them to fear us, as you and your men did in the Gnarlwood.’

‘As you command, Lord-Celestant,’ Thetaleas said, lifting his thunderaxe. ‘I shall give them peace, one strike at a time.’ The Decimators surged forward, away from the other Stormcasts, where they could ply their trade freely. With broad sweeps of their axes they cut a path through the swarming skaven. They hacked down droves of the ratkin, until at last, even the most maddened of the skaven began to fall back before their inexorable advance. The remains of the horde began to scurry away, shrieking.

‘Well done, Thetaleas,’ Zephacleas said, as the last of the skaven vanished through the outer wall of the stockade. ‘Now see to those cages.’ He gestured with his hammer. ‘We’ve only got a few moments before they regroup.’

As one, the Decimators moved to obey, as they had every time before. They had freed captives in a hundred such stockades since arriving on the back of the great worm. Zephacleas joined his warriors in tearing apart the cages.

The folk of the city were not familiar to him, though they might have been descendants of those tribes he’d once fought beside and against. But they were mortal and free of the taint of Chaos, and that was enough. He chopped through the warped bars of a cage and tore apart chains of ligament and muscle.

‘Out, hurry,’ he boomed at the cowering captives. He drove his sword into the ground and extended his hand. ‘Come on, the way is clear.’ The captives stared at him, awed and terrified by the armour-clad giant. Zephacleas grunted in frustration. ‘Out with you,’ he barked.

‘Calm yourself, Zephacleas. They are frightened.’

Zephacleas turned as a figure loomed up behind him. ‘There you are, Gravewalker. Help me with them. We do not have much time.’

‘If you stop shouting, they might be more inclined to listen.’ Like all those who held the post of Lord-Relictor, Seker Gravewalker was a fearsome sight. He was clad in heavy, ornate amethyst armour marked with sigils of death and rebirth. His face was hidden beneath an imposing skull-helm, and the ragged hide of a fire-wyrm hung from one shoulder plate. The beast’s narrow skull was set into the Gravewalker’s reliquary standard, alongside ornaments of gilded bone. A heavy warhammer hung from his belt. He raised his hand, and a crackle of soft lightning played about his fingers. Every mortal eye turned towards him.

‘Go, my children. We come in Sigmar’s name, and strike your foes with his fury. Go, and spread the word to those who yet fight that the God-King has come, and his storm shall sweep your kingdom clean,’ he intoned, his voice swelling to fill the air like the peal of a bell. A man, his flesh bruised and bloody, took a step forward. A woman joined him. Then others, young and old alike, until all were pushing their way free of the cage and fleeing the stockade.

‘I could have done that,’ Zephacleas said, as the last of the captives flowed past him, joining those freed from the other cages. There were places in the city which yet resisted the skaven, isolated enclaves where they might find safety.

‘You have other concerns, my Lord-Celestant. The skaven have regrouped,’ Seker said, drawing his relic hammer from his belt. Zephacleas uprooted his sword and moved towards the rear of the stockade, the Lord-Relictor following close behind.