Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Nonetheless, they would persevere. Much was demanded of those to whom much had been given… Those were the words by which the Hallowed Knights lived, fought and died. They, and all Stormcast Eternals, owed a debt to the one who had forged them into a force capable of wresting the Mortal Realms from the Ruinous Powers. And Gardus would not be the first to fail in that regard. Not now, not ever, even unto the day of his Reforging.

He quickly surveyed the field, taking in the ebb and flow of the battle in the blink of an eye. Droning ranks of plaguebearers and tumbling tides of nurglings flooded the field, pressing so close to the warriors of the Hallowed Knights and the Astral Templars that the latter could only bring the most basic tactics to bear. Many of his Stormcasts were still locked in combat with the remaining rotguard, unable to bring down the behemoths. He recalled a training bout he had witnessed on the practice fields of Sigmaron… two warriors, on a dais no wider across than his shoulders, punching and kicking until one man fell. A test of endurance, rather than skill. That was what this was. Unfortunately, if there was one thing the servants of Nurgle were known for, it was endurance.

Gardus looked up, towards the Gates of Dawn. Bolathrax still stood in the archway, chanting words of foul summoning, drawing more and more flies out of the pulsing void beyond the stones. As before, at the obese monster’s command, the flies swarmed down and congealed into staggering, cyclopean plaguebearers, who lurched forward into battle. ‘Unless we seal that gate, we’ll drown in a tide of rotting flesh,’ Gardus said. ‘My warriors are too few, and yours are doing all they can to hold their own.’

‘There’s no sign that any more help is coming, either from our own realm, or this one,’ Zephacleas grunted. A plaguebearer bounded towards them, jaw sagging loosely, and pushed Gardus aside as it hacked at them. Zephacleas whipped his sword up and around in a tight pattern, chopping through the daemon in three places. It fell and did not move again. ‘The question is, what do we do about it?’

‘What we must,’ Gardus said. ‘We came to take that gate in Sigmar’s name, and I intend to do just that.’ He started forward, but Zephacleas caught his arm.

‘You can’t do it alone. We’ll rally the others, make a concentrated push,’ he said.

Gardus shook him off. ‘There’s no time for that. Every moment we waste sees the enemy renewed and his number redoubled. I–Look out!’ He swung his hammer around and bashed Zephacleas off his feet, knocking the other Stormcast aside, even as the rotguard’s flail swung down through the space that the Lord-Celestant had been occupying.

The Astral Templar rolled to his feet, chopping through the haft of the daemon’s weapon, even as it tried to draw it back. He backed towards Gardus as the greater daemon tossed the broken weapon aside, and made to pull the heavy blade which hung from a tattered sheath strapped to its gut.

Zephacleas glanced over his shoulder and jerked his head towards Bolathrax. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ he said. ‘I’ll handle this one. The other one is all yours.’

Gardus nodded, turned and began to run. Shield held before him, he crashed into the masses of plaguebearers, hurling daemons aside or else trampling them underfoot. He was determined that nothing and no one would stop him.

He would reach the Gates of Dawn or die trying.

Chapter Eight Swarm of contagion

Zephacleas stepped back as the Great Unclean One chopped at him with a wedge-shaped blade that was more rust than iron. The Lord-Celestant slid aside, avoiding the blow. The jagged length of metal slammed down, tearing the murk of the fen. The daemon wrenched its blade free and slashed at him, moving quicker than a beast so bulky ought to. Zephacleas turned the blow aside with his hammer and his arm went numb to the elbow. Behind the creature, he could see a group of his warriors, led by Seker Gravewalker, fighting their way towards him. A plan began to form.

He backed away, teeth bared beneath the expressionless mask of his war-helm, and spread his arms. The greater daemon waddled after him, its sword weaving before it like the tongue of a serpent.

‘Come on then. Come and get me,’ he called.

The daemon-sword tore towards him, and he slammed his weapons together, catching the square tip of the blade. For a moment, the tableau held. Then, little by little, Zephacleas was forced back. The greater daemon lurched forward, its greater weight pushing against him, and loomed over him like a farmer struggling with a stubborn root. It exhaled a stinking mist through its gritted, rotting fangs.

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas grunted. ‘I’m not moving…’ His wrists and shoulders began to ache as he struggled to hold his enemy’s blade at bay. ‘Not yet.’