Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

The world would be better when such things knew their place, in any event. Ghyran had yet to be tamed. That was why the Glotts were so determined to find the so-called Radiant Queen. It was Alarielle who was somehow stymieing Nurgle’s advances in this realm, Alarielle whose subtle song raised forests to walk and cleansed that which had been fairly befouled. And it was Alarielle whom Nurgle wanted. It was said, by those who would know, that there was a cage of crystalline pus, hardened in the heat of Nurgle’s cauldron, somewhere in the garden, waiting for its prisoner. When the Radiant Queen was at last his, these knowledgeable sorts said, Grandfather would cage her, and hang her from his bower, and listen to her beautiful song into eternity.

Who says the gods don’t understand romance, Morbidex thought, as he brought Tripletongue to a halt in a cloud of dust. The largest of the world pimples was a truly mountainous boil of dripping earth, topped by a cloudy bubble of beautiful vileness. It was magnificent.

‘Too bad,’ Morbidex murmured.

‘What was that, Twiceborn?’ Otto asked, peering down at him. The oldest of the Glotts was a bulky warrior, as big as Morbidex, and his lumpen frame was fair to bursting with the favour of Nurgle. He carried a scythe, like Morbidex, though his was wreathed with even more baleful enchantments.

‘I said it’s a shame,’ Morbidex said, reclining in his saddle. He scratched the chin of a nurgling. ‘Think of how big it might get…’

‘We all must make sacrifices to keep pests out of the garden,’ Otto said. He smacked Ghurk on the head with the butt of his scythe. ‘Hup, Ghurk. Give it a squeeze.’

Ghurk made a sound of assent and reached out with his giant tentacle. The tendril slithered about the cusp of the world pimple and contracted with a sound like grinding rocks.

‘Hurry, Ghurk,’ Otto said, as he hunched forward. ‘Hurry! They are almost past us!’

Morbidex looked up, and saw the island pass overhead. Soil and rocks fell from its vast belly, to smash into the mire below. Water exploded upwards as a chunk of rock hammered down nearby, and Tripletongue gave a bleat of surprise. Morbidex leaned forward and dug his fingers into the maggoth’s hide.

‘Easy, you fearful brute, it’s just a bit of soil, think nothing of it,’ he grated, even as he cocked an eye towards the hovering landmass.

‘Mayhap we should seek safer ground,’ Orghotts said, looking around warily. More stones fell, plopping into the water with ground-shaking finality. Bodies fell with them too, some clad in silver, others dripping with Nurgle’s blessings. Ethrac’s daemons had met the enemy, and the air was rent by the sounds of battle as winged Stormcasts clashed with plague drones. Morbidex watched, momentarily distracted by the aerial war. He’d never seen the like, at least not in the Mortal Realms. Where the Grandfather’s garden abutted the killing fields of Khorne or the colorful palaces of Tzeentch’s realm, such conflicts were commonplace. But those things were but grand duels, exaggerated and only mockingly serious.

This, however, was true war, and part of him longed to be up there amidst it. He glanced around and saw that his fellow maggoth lords were as rapt as he was, watching the sky-borne battle. Then Ghurk roared, and with a sound like splitting rock, the world pimple ruptured.

Chapter Eleven Battle in the sky

‘Only the faithful,’ Tegrus shouted as he folded his wings and arrowed towards the plague drone. Hammer crashed against plaguesword as he swept past. Prosecutors from three Stormhosts had launched themselves aloft to engage the daemon-flyers, as the latter swarmed the island, seeking to attack those who stood upon it.

As he swooped through the air, back towards his quarry, Tegrus could see the grey-green reaches of Rotwater Blight spreading out far below him. There too was the shattered husk of the Oak of Ages Past, larger than a range of foothills and rising up as if to catch hold of the sky. From its end flowed a ribbon of pure crystal water, turning midstream to a flow of putrid slop. There, squatting amidst that filth, was the being they had come to find, the Great Unclean One that Gardus had spoken of.

You were right, Steel Soul, he thought, as he rolled through the air.

One of his hammers snapped out to catch a plaguebearer in the head. His blow sent the daemon tumbling from its buzzing mount. The fly contorted with malign urgency, its hairy legs crashing against Tegrus’ armour as it sought to crush him. The acrid stench of it washed over him, choking him. With a strangled shout, he drove his hammers into its pulsing thorax, rupturing the shiny carapace and covering himself in a pungent tide of squirming maggots. The fly plummeted from the air, following its rider to the ground far below. Tegrus grimaced and pressed his hammer to his chest, burning away the creatures that clung to the sigmarite.