Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘Still repeating that phrase, as if that’ll help you,’ came the rumbling taunt. ‘Your thoughts hang heavy on the perfumed air of the Grandfather’s garden. It disturbs the flies, Gardus — or should I call you Garradan?’

So far, Bolathrax had kept itself at a distance, seemingly more interested in the chase than the kill. That was the sole reason he still lived, Gardus knew. The garden of Nurgle was populated by more than the stinging flies that crawled across his armour. Great beasts, brawling daemons and cackling, pestilential sprites had all shown themselves at one point or another. Most crept out of the dripping undergrowth to watch his flight. Others tried to stop him, but were warded off by a roar from Bolathrax or else fell to Gardus’ hammer and sword. The deaths of these creatures were greeted by a rumbling from the poisonous clouds above.

He ignored those clouds now, after the first time, when he’d looked up and they’d briefly cleared to reveal a grin as wide as the sky itself and two pus-cream eyes as big as moons. This was Nurgle’s realm, and nothing happened here that the God of Decay did not see and approve of. Gardus did not look up now, or to the side. He kept his gaze to the fore and ploughed on, trying to ignore the exhaustion that clawed at his mind.

‘Tired, aren’t you, Garradan?’ Bolathrax gloated. ‘But not as tired as you were that final night in Demesnus Harbour, eh? When the skinstealers at last crested the walls and the hospice of Grand Lazzar came under attack, you had been awake for three days, tending the wounded and dying. Was that why you picked up those candlesticks as they butchered your patients? White robes gone red, Garradan… That’s what you dream of.’

The ghosts redoubled their efforts to gain his attention as Bolathrax spoke. He saw the faces of lepers and wounded soldiers, of starvelings and nobles alike, mingling with the howling, scarred features of skinstealers. He brought his hands up.

Garradan… help me…

So sick…

Help us teacher…

Burning up…

Can’t move…

Help us…

Garradan…

Garradan…

Gardus stumbled on, driven by a resolve as hard as steel. Sigmar would sustain him. He was faithful.

He swept his arms out, trying to drive the ghosts away, but it was no use. He could see faces in the surface of the waters he waded through, and in the murk before him. All of them cursing him, begging him for help, screaming his name. The ground trembled beneath his feet as Bolathrax continued to follow and to chortle grotesquely.

‘Where are you going, Garradan? The garden is boundless and you will never breach its walls. Stop, give in, and Bolathrax will be merciful…’

‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus said, driving himself forward. He was not Garradan the healer, not anymore; he was Gardus, the Stormcast Eternal. He was no mere mortal, he was Sigmar’s lightning made flesh. And he would not stop. ‘Only the faithful… Only the faithful…’

The words were less a prayer now than a mantra, a chant to keep him sane in this mad garden of horrors. He scraped the thick shroud of mould off his helm, clearing his vision, and blinked in shock as a brilliant glimmer of light flickered through the haze ahead.

‘What?’ he croaked. A trick? A trap? Or something else? He heard a rumble from above and risked a look. The mouth in the clouds was no longer leering, but instead… frowning. Hope blossomed in his chest and he took a trembling step forwards. It was so beautiful. He took another step. His breath caught in his throat.

Wherever that glow originated from, it could not be of this hideous realm. The song in his head, the whisper of sound that pulled him on, swelled to a crescendo as Gardus ploughed on. At last, he knew where he was going. Weapons in hand, he pressed forward, wading towards the swelling, lambent light…

Chapter One To silence the dirge

The sound of the Dirgehorn hung over everything.

Here, so close to the source, it was almost a physical pressure, beating upon the minds and souls of the Stormcast Eternals who fought their way through the crooked, fungus-slick trees and overgrown fen of Rotwater Blight.

The call of the Dirgehorn was in everything, reverberating from every stone and stump, quavering in the fly-blown air like an unending groan. The hideous sound of it rolled on and on, each note slithering into the next. It was a wave of pure discord, sluggish and flat, carrying with it despondency and gloom. It was a constant drone that shivered along on the wings of flies and miasmic breezes, withering trees and cracking rocks. Where it passed, green leaves turned black and the very stones sprouted quivering boils and buboes.