Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

The forest spites might have had the upper hand despite being outnumbered if Morbidex had not joined the fray. Granted, his attack had been made more out of boredom and annoyance than any concern for his nurglings. The fat little daemons could take care of themselves, and they regarded war as play.

And who am I to ruin their fun, eh? Morbidex thought, as he drove his knees into the sides of Tripletongue’s skull, turning the beast towards the newcomers. Besides which, we’ve accomplished what we set out to do… Our foes’ eyes are on us, even as Grandfather wanted…

‘Hup, Tripletongue,’ Morbidex said. ‘Up my beauty, up and at them!’

The eyeless maggoth gave vent to a burbling warble as it knuckled towards the approaching invaders, scattering spites and nurglings alike. Lightning-men, Torglug calls ’em, Morbidex thought, as he hunched forward in his saddle and swung his scythe back. Fools, is what I think. ‘Think they can just roll over Nurgle’s own children, don’t they? Let’s show them what we think of such foolishness,’ the maggoth-rider roared, as he swung his scythe out in a savage blow towards the vanguard of the newcomers. One of the silver-armoured Stormcasts was torn from his feet by the force of the blow and sent flying. Tripletongue struck out with simian fists, battering others flat, or else rending them crown to gullet.

The nurglings followed, swarming over the warriors. Morbidex bellowed encouragement to his little friends, and smiled in pride every time a Stormcast went down, blanketed by squirming, bloated little bodies. ‘Good! Keep it up, my little friends — Grandfather smiles on us all,’ he shouted. I bet old Bloab and the Daemonspew wish they were here, he thought. His fellow maggoth lords were as much lovers of a good brawl as Morbidex himself; one reason among many that he found them such good company.

But the best company were his diminutive followers — the nurglings who had been his closest companions since the day he’d climbed Pox Peak, looking for a way into the Grandfather’s garden. Aye, that was a good day — the best day, he thought, smiling widely. Since his slimy rebirth he had become more powerful than ever. ‘And sitting atop you, my beastly beauty, I’m unbeatable,’ he said, patting Tripletongue’s head. The maggoth gave a gurgle of pleasure at the gesture. Morbidex laughed and swung his scythe out, catching a Stormcast in the back and wrenching the armoured warrior into the air with ease.

He eyed his struggling prey for a moment before slinging him over his shoulder. Take a lot of killing, these fellows, he thought, as Tripletongue smashed into another phalanx. These ones were the colour of overripe fruit, rather than gold or silver, but they fought just as hard. How many of you are there? And how many flavours do you come in, he thought, as he saw a host of winged warriors hurtle towards him.

Tripletongue was surrounded, but Morbidex wasn’t unduly concerned. Getting their attention had been the whole point of his little display. The Stormcasts had been making a nuisance of themselves since they’d shattered the Dirgehorn and killed old Gluhak.

In the days since the Dirgehorn had fallen silent, the silver-armoured invaders had clashed again and again with Grandfather’s children — from running battles with the skaven to the siege of jolly Slaugoth’s Rotfane, even as Torglug had predicted. They’d erased the avian defenders of the Vulturine Geysers, and sent Gutrot Spume’s Drowned Men into flight at the battle of Canker Cascade. Slaugoth and Spume were fit to be tied. Their stock with the Glottkin had fallen sharply in the aftermath of their defeats and new favourites had been chosen. So this matter had fallen to him. Good old reliable Morbidex. He’d been tasked with pulling the Stormcasts into the swamp, and keeping them distracted long enough for…

Ha! he thought, as the festering swamp on the other side of the Stormcast column began to boil. That’s it… keep looking at me, my fancy friends. Eyes on ol’ Morbidex. Pay no attention to the fellows rising out of the mud.

Rising from the muck, brackish water sluicing from their twisted frames, came the tallymen of Nurgle. The plaguebearers uttered a monotonous drone, counting the diseases abroad in the swamp as they strode towards their unsuspecting enemies. In their lead was an old friend — the creature known as Wrech Gab’larr, Herald of Nurgle. He glared at the Stormcasts with malign intent, and whipped one warty hand forward. Plaguebearers loped past him to slam their plagueswords into the backs of the Stormcast Eternals. Wrech’s expression became one of befuddlement when the silver armour remained unmarked where a blow wasn’t immediately fatal. Stormcasts who didn’t immediately discorporate in a blur of azure energy whirled with a fierce precision to lay their attackers low. Wrech bellowed in frustration as his carefully prepared afflictions failed to take root.