Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Not even one made of steel, Grymn thought. Angry now, he turned his thoughts to the present. They had a duty to fulfil and they would meet it no matter the cost. The Dirgehorn would be silenced. Of this Grymn was confident. But he knew that while the artefact had sorely afflicted the inhabitants of these wooded realms, it was not the sole cause of their pain.

Flies droned and swamp-sludge bubbled as rotted boughs creaked in the unnatural pall that marked the places where Nurgle’s influence had eclipsed that of the Realm of Life’s rightful ruler. Chain-throttled oaks moaned wordlessly about them and forest spirits struggled helplessly in the mires of Nurgle’s making. The Stormcasts who fought across the ever-shifting landscape of Ghyran were doing what they could to free the Jade Kingdoms from the clutches of the Plague Lord, but they could not do it alone. Sigmar had sent representatives to find the Lady Alarielle, in her seclusion, and re-establish old ties, but as far as Grymn knew they had all returned to Azyr empty-handed.

Alarielle had, like Sigmar himself, existed for untold aeons, and there were murals in Sigmaron dedicated to her. The largest and greatest of these showed Sigmar waking the Radiant Queen from her centuries of slumber, and the two throwing back the forces of darkness together. Once, she had been the God-King’s ally. Once… but not for many years, since the powers of ruin had swept through the Mortal Realms and the great celestine Gates of Azyr had slammed shut, sealing the Realm of Heavens off from the rest of the Eight Realms. Now those gates were open once more, and Sigmar had stretched forth his hand to old and new allies alike, so that together they might throw off the chains of monstrous tyranny.

A good dream, if as yet unproven, Grymn thought.

‘Lord-Castellant!’

Grymn looked up as the silver swooping form of Tegrus of the Sainted Eye, Prosecutor-Prime of the Steel Souls, gestured towards the shore of the lake. Grymn cursed as he saw several Stormcasts stumble towards the dark waters.

‘Tallon — go!’ he said urgently as he hurried towards the warriors. The gryph-hound chirped and bounded away. The animal slid between the Stormcasts, snapping and shrieking, stopping them in their tracks long enough for Grymn to reach them. ‘Back, you fools, get away from the water,’ he roared.

As he caught hold of a stumbling Stormcast’s shoulder and pulled the warrior back, the still waters of the lake erupted in a storm of lashing, mouth-studded tendrils. Several of the Stormcasts were snatched up before they even had time to cry out. Tallon flung himself upon one tendril, severing it with his beak and freeing the warrior it held.

‘Back,’ Grymn roared again, hooking his lantern on the blade of his halberd and extending it out over the water. The light of the warding lantern shone across the frothing lake, and the tendrils retreated as if burned. In the darkness, something wailed like a damned soul, and Grymn heard heavy bodies flopping and thrashing.

‘Tegrus,’ Grymn called out to the Prosecutor swooping overhead. ‘Drive these beasts back into the depths!’

Overhead, Tegrus led his winged warriors out over the water. They hurled their celestial hammers at the vast shapes that dwelled beneath the murk. The monsters plunged deeper into the waters to avoid the barrage, leaving behind only a sour smell and the shooting blue light of those warriors they had managed to drown before Grymn had stymied them.

‘Away,’ he snarled, gesturing back towards the path. ‘Get back. Move!’

Grymn turned his attentions to the warrior he’d saved. The Liberator stumbled against him as they moved away from the water, half-torpid, weapon and shield dangling from his grip. He was an Astral Templar, clad in amethyst and gold.

‘Awaken,’ Grymn said, shaking the Liberator. The warrior slumped, and Grymn grunted as he caught him. ‘Awaken, I say — do not give in. Heed me!’ He set his halberd so that the light of his lantern caught the warrior full. As the light bathed him, the Liberator struggled upright, gaining strength from the healing glow of the warding lantern.

‘I just… I just wanted to clean this filth from my war-plate,’ the Stormcast said, his voice slurred. ‘To wash myself clean of the taint of this place. To drink…’

‘Yes, brother, there is no shame in that,’ Grymn said urgently. ‘But this place devours warriors as surely as any beast. You must keep to the road. Stay in the light.’

Some among the Stormhost were beginning to succumb to the waking nightmare of this realm, their spirits sapped by the relentless blare of the Dirgehorn and the miasma that clung to the land around them. Their war mantras were drowned out by the growing cacophony of the horn, denying them succour, and every day saw more warriors sent back to Azyr in a blaze of blue light. Rotwater Blight was as much their enemy as the servants of Nurgle.