Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

All around him, seraphon poured up the steps and into the courtyard beyond. The skaven had been caught by surprise and only a few of them were putting up any sort of fight. That had always been the way of it — the rat ran and snake pursued, until at last, the rat could run no more. It shed its tail, its fur, all in haste to escape, until there was barely a mouthful left.

It had always been that way, and would be that way again. Again and again, without end, the Great Serpent chewing its tail. Wherever the rat ran, the serpent would follow. Sutok took comfort in that thought. He stomped forward, crushing skulls and flattening skaven.

His smaller brethren followed him, and fell upon the skaven with pleasing vigour. Spears and clubs rose and fell, and the broken bodies of the vermin were crushed underfoot. Sutok swept his mace out in a wide arc, smashing several of the ratmen from their claws. Their diseased flesh pulped easily, for all that it was less sensitive to pain. They stank of sickness and rot. Faint memories flickered within the depths of his thoughts, fragments of a lost past.

The Sunblood swung his head about, studying the ebb and flow of the enemy tide. He could perceive a foe’s weakness as another might scent the blood of a wounded animal. Spotting the weak link in the swarm of skaven, he roared. Instinctively, the nearby seraphon lunged forward. They fell upon the skaven with a savage joy that was a match for his own. They all remembered, and in remembering, felt the old hate rise anew.

But they were not alone in that hate. Sutok glanced down at the armoured figures fighting alongside him. Yes, they were not alone. It was good not to be alone. Oxtl-Kor did not understand that. Sutok felt no sadness at the Oldblood’s death. It was the thing of but a moment. Sutok himself had fought and died a thousand times, and each of those deaths was but a moment experienced and then forgotten.

It was a good thing, to be a dream.

‘Any sign of the Far-killer?’ Thetaleas asked as he swept his axe out in a wide arc, chopping through another cage. Zephacleas helped the Decimator-Prime pry it open, freeing the mortals within. They were inside the Setaen Palisades, having pushed the skaven back from the outer defences and into the courtyard.

‘No,’ the Lord-Celestant grunted. They’d seen a flash of celestial lightning spear upwards from within the palisades as they breached the lower gates. Stormcast Eternals did not truly die, but the thought that any foe had sent the Far-killer back to Sigmaron was almost inconceivable. ‘Keep to your task, brother — as he would, were he here. Ho, Duras, come help Thetaleas get the rest of these cages open.’ As the Liberator-Prime moved to obey, Zephacleas stepped into the battle-line of Stormcasts arrayed between the cages and the bloody melee going on in the courtyard. The seraphon had fallen on the skaven in a frenzy, and the ratkin were fighting like the cornered rats they resembled.

‘We should have the last of the cages open in a moment,’ Zephacleas said. He glanced at Seker, who was standing nearby. ‘We’ll advance then, but slowly. Drive the foe back.’

‘Most fled the moment the huntsmen arrived,’ Seker said, gesturing upwards with his staff. A retinue of Prosecutors swooped overhead, herding a group of the former prisoners back behind the Stormcast line. The mortals had been fighting the skaven when they first arrived. Many had died from their wounds or the illness which burned in them, but some yet remained. And these he was determined to defend.

‘Is that the last of them?’ he said.

‘Aye,’ Seker said. ‘Shall we proceed, Lord-Celestant?’

‘I shall take the vanguard,’ Zephacleas growled.

‘Naturally,’ the Lord-Relictor murmured.

Zephacleas ignored him and stepped forward. The skaven were distracted and scattered. There was only one true knot of resistance left — a band of smoke-wreathed skaven, whirling censers. No seraphon could get near them, so thick was the miasma surrounding them.

‘Duras, you and your warriors follow me. Seker, summon a storm, wash that miasma from the air. The rest of you, advance slowly — keep your shields locked, let no vermin get past you, and no mortal come to harm,’ the Lord-Celestant roared out. ‘With me, brothers… there’s red work yet to be done.’

As he started towards the knot of ratmen, he began to pick up speed, slamming his weapons together as he went. Duras and his warriors followed him, clashing their warblades. The harsh, scraping rhythm rose over the sound of the fray. Skaven fled before their approach.

‘Death,’ Zephacleas shouted.

‘Ruin,’ Duras and the others growled.

‘Death to the dealers of death,’ Zephacleas bellowed. ‘Ruin to the bringers of ruin.’