Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

More of Felyndael’s tree-revenants erupted from the walls of the structures surrounding the plaza as the foe reeled in momentary confusion. They savaged isolated Rotbringers, reducing them to screaming wreckage before whirling away. Caught between the sylvaneth and the unyielding shield wall of the Stormcasts, the followers of Nurgle reeled as if in a daze. It wouldn’t last for long. The servants of the plague god were nothing if not resilient. And the bells were ringing again, impossibly loud, filling the debased creatures with courage and zeal. Aetius turned to Solus. ‘Hold the line. Let none of them pass. Felyndael and I shall silence the bells.’

‘Where is he? I don’t see him out there,’ Solus said, as he loosed an arrow.

Aetius looked towards the basilica. ‘Likely already inside.’ He caught Solus by the neck and brought their heads together. ‘Sigmar be with you, my friend.’

‘Better he go with you, I think. I’m perfectly safe where I am, sitting behind all of these shields,’ Solus said, pulling another arrow from his quiver. Aetius laughed and stepped past him. He hurried across the portico towards the sagging doors of the colossal basilica. The bells were pealing steadily, such that he half-hoped they might shatter.

‘Felyndael…’ he whispered, looking around. In kinder times, the basilica would have been impressive. Now, it was simply horrifying. A tarry substance marred the delicate whorls of the bent reeds, and the great pillars that supported the dome were covered in bunches of buzzing flies. Sickly green balefires burned in rusted braziers scattered along the length of the nave. The reeds making up the basilica seemed to pull away from their light and the weird shadows it cast. Grotesque censers had been hung from every cornice and arch, and they filled the air with a noxious miasma.

‘Here,’ Felyndael said, stepping into view. ‘The bells are above, within the dome.’

Aetius nodded. ‘Then let us silence them. The noise is wearing on me.’ Side by side, they stepped into the nave. There were no guards. Only a single figure, kneeling at the far end of the nave before a bloated idol. The idol was monstrous, its expression one of diabolical mirth, and flies clustered about it, clinging to its horns and ruined belly. Past the idol was a set of narrow steps, curving upwards and away around a pillar, rising towards the ceiling and the dome above. The kneeling figure shifted slightly, as they approached.

‘Stand aside,’ Aetius called out. Flies hummed in agitation.

‘What?’ The voice was a guttural thing, rough like hot mud splashing over jagged stones. ‘What was that?’

‘I said step aside,’ Aetius said, waving a fly out of his face. He peered upwards, and through the rotted gaps in the ceiling was just able to make out two great black-iron shapes, swinging back and forth within the dome. The curse-bells rang without need for human hands. Daemons, perhaps, or some sort of fell spirit, he suspected.

‘You must speak up, I cannot hear you for the bells,’ the hunched shape said loudly. ‘Or better yet, do not speak and return from whence you came. This place is for quiet contemplation, on the eve of doom. I commune with Grandfather. I would not be interrupted by… Hnh.’ The figure grunted. ‘The flies… The flies say you are not mine.’

‘No, we are not,’ Aetius said. He looked at Felyndael. The tree-revenant’s head was cocked, as if he were listening to something only he could hear.

‘In that case, forgive me,’ the hunched shape said. ‘I was but meditating on certain truths, as espoused by Blight-Master Wolgus in his seventh treatise on the nature of the warrior. It is said that the hope of a moment is but the foundation stone of everlasting regret, and that today’s palace is tomorrow’s ruin.’ The warrior glanced over one broad shoulder. ‘An appropriate quotation in this moment, I suspect. Now… who are you to interrupt my prayers?’

Aetius traded a glance with Felyndael, but said nothing.

‘Have you lost your voices, then? Or are you cowards? I shall ask again.’ The creature sighed and rose, massive frame creaking with protest. He wore heavy armour, covered in barnacles and seeping tumours where it was not etched with grimacing faces, and his helm was wrought in the shape of a frowning, daemonic visage. Great antlers, fuzzy with mould, rose from the sides of the helm. ‘How unexpected. A tree-devil and a broken soul. Worthy opponents indeed. The gathering faithful brought word of silver-skinned giants. You must be the authors of that clamouring I hear even now…’

Aetius took another step forwards, wondering at the size of the creature before him. This was nothing less than a champion of the Dark Gods. He gripped his hammer more tightly, drawing reassurance from its deadly weight. Champion or no, the creature would fall.