Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

A flash of fire leapt from Oxtl-Kor’s gauntlet, incinerating the crew of the nearest catapult. The giant reptile closed its jaws on the arm of the catapult and tore it loose from the frame, before sending what remained of the infernal device toppling into the courtyard below with a shove of its shoulder. The beast reared up and let loose a triumphant bellow. The Oldblood looked down from his saddle and met Zephacleas’ gaze. The Lord-Celestant lifted his hammer in salute, but the creature turned away with a snort.

Down below, more seraphon had appeared in flashes of coruscating light — massive reptilian warriors, larger than any saurus and wielding heavy war-clubs and maces, marched into being behind a gigantic horned creature. The sound of war-drums filled the air as the howdah full of skinks mounted on the brute’s back kept time with its ground-shaking tread. The living, bellowing war engine stomped towards the central gates of the barbicans, horns lowered. They groaned as the brute struck them. Hardened setaen fibres burst and split as the armoured monster shoved its way through to the courtyard beyond.

The gigantic seraphon warriors surged past the creature, wading into those skaven unlucky enough to be nearby when the gates finally gave way. Great clubs and hammers, their heads infused with shifting motes of light, rose and fell, leaving a path of broken bodies in their wake.

Zephacleas felt a grim sort of admiration well up in him — even Stormcast Eternals did not fight so fiercely, or so ruthlessly. ‘Worthy allies indeed,’ he murmured, glancing at Sutok.

The scar-faced Sunblood dipped his broad skull, as if in acknowledgement.

‘Your comrade seems to have things here well in hand,’ the Lord-Celestant said, nodding towards Oxtl-Kor and his mount as they tore apart another skaven catapult. ‘What say we find new prey, my friend?’

Sutok showed his teeth and pounded his shield. Zephacleas took that as assent and shouted, ‘Thetaleas, Duras — leave the remaining engines to our scaly friends.’ As he spoke, Sutok roared. Stormcasts and saurus alike moved towards their commanders.

Side by side, Zephacleas and Sutok led their warriors across the ramparts and towards the inner bridges. The wide walkways led to the central network of barbicans, and beyond them, the walls and gates on the other side, which overlooked the anterior avenues of the Crawling City. The Lord-Celestant raised his sword in greeting as he caught sight of Seker and Takatakk hurrying to meet them, a retinue of Protectors and skinks following in their wake.

‘Zephacleas — quickly,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘We must take the central barbican before the skaven can regroup.’ Zephacleas nodded and waved his warriors forward. He thudded across the bridge as the Lord-Relictor’s lightning-storm snarled above.

Once past the outer walls, he saw few skaven. Those he did encounter seemed more interested in escape than in preventing the Stormcasts from entering the inner chambers of the barbicans. Those few who tried to intercept them were dispatched with ease. As they crossed over the courtyard below, he saw mortals armed with makeshift weapons locked in battle with their former captors. Mantius and his Prosecutors swooped overhead, lending aid to the former prisoners where necessary. Zephacleas growled in satisfaction as he watched a woman clad in the stained remnants of what might once have been robes of office brain an unwary skaven with a chunk of setae. Despite being sick, malnourished and outnumbered, the mortals were giving a good account of themselves.

‘Should we aid them, Lord-Celestant?’ Duras said. The eagerness in his voice was echoed in the murmurs of the other Astral Templars. Each and every Stormcast Eternal knew what it was to be a victim of the Ruinous Powers, and each and every one of them desired restitution of the most bloody sort.

‘No. Mantius has it well in hand. Let them fight,’ Zephacleas said. Several of his warriors made as if to protest and he turned, fixing them with a stern glare. ‘Are they not owed for what they have suffered? Would you take that from them, merely to sate your own desire? We have many battles before us, brothers, and victories aplenty — let them have theirs.’

Satisfied, he turned. The central barbican rose over them, rounded walls now mostly covered in a shroud of filth and mould. Wherever the plague-rats went, such foulness was sure to follow. The massive doors had been torn off their hinges and the way in was unguarded.

The sounds of battle grew dim as the allies entered the structure. The chamber spread out around them, the air thick with the stink of vermin and illness.

‘The Libraria Vurmis,’ the Lord-Relictor murmured, with what might have been awe. ‘I have rarely seen its like, save in Azyr. It is spoken of admiringly, even by the scholars of Sigmaron and the liche-monks of the Dead Vaults. They say it holds all the secrets of the Ghurlands.’