Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Ephryx’s patience wore thin. For the next twenty days she was confined to a cold cell. Foul food and stagnant water was all she was given. This she forced herself to eat, for she was still hopeful of opportunity and would not let her strength dwindle. None came. Awful screams broke her sleep.

The enchanted window came with her, magically set into the dripping metal of her cell wall, and her view of the world remained. Through it she saw Ephryx’s armies of slaves labouring in the Shattered City, melting its grand arches of steel and adamant and recasting them as giant plates bedecked with grimacing faces and spikes.

Over Ghal Maraz, they raised a cairn of lead, and then around that a stone keep. The foundations of a giant tower were being laid to encase the keep when she was moved again.

For the next ten days she was subjected to physical torments. Nothing that might mar her body permanently, for her beauty Ephryx coveted above all other things save the hammer, but excruciating nonetheless.

Still she would not yield.

‘I can make it stop. I will make it stop. Be mine, join with me and rule this land,’ said Ephryx on the final night. ‘Help me, guide me. Chaos does not have to be excess. We can coax beauty from the world.’ He had become more wan than before, and on his forehead were the buds of horns. A mark of favour from his dark master.

Celemnis burned with fever. Her red hair was matted, her body filthy. Every muscle ached.

‘No,’ she said, her voice made little more than a croak by thirst. ‘There is no beauty to be had from evil. Even if I were to sell my soul to Tzeentch, if I were to embrace his madness myself, then still I would not submit myself to you, Ephryx. I will never be yours.’

Ephryx snarled.

‘Poor Ephryx,’ she said. ‘The whole of the realm might fall under your spell, but I will not.’

Ephryx’s face hardened. ‘So be it.’

He performed a series of conjurer’s gestures, and a large crucible appeared. Above it was a cage shaped to hold the human body. Silent torturers stood either side, their heads horned, faces hooded. A jet of warpflame hissed from thin air to warm the crucible, and the iron of it glowed as prettily as roses. From the crucible’s gaping mouth came the unmistakable smell of molten silver.

‘By your own favoured metal will you be killed,’ said Ephryx. ‘I shall boil you in it, and coat your corpse in it, and make of you a statue. You shall stand where all other statues have been cast down. There you shall watch for all time the city you so loved. Your beauty will be mine to enjoy, and my victory your torment. Now, you have one last chance. Join with me, and rule forever, or die in agony and suffer for an eternity.’

At that point Celemnis’ resolve wavered. She looked upon the end Ephryx had devised for her with mute horror. The sorcerer leaned forward in his golden throne, keenly anticipating her surrender.

She stood tall, and shook her head.

He threw himself back in his throne pettishly.

‘Very well! Executioners!’

They came for her and strapped her into the cage, and hung it out over the bubbling metal.

‘Ephryx!’ she said.

He looked sidelong at her.

‘Victory is fleeting. The day will come when I shall return, and I will play my part in your downfall. This I swear.’

‘Impossible,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Magic blows strongly in this age of Chaos. Your lord unwittingly makes wizards of us all! This is your doom and mine, Ephryx. Ask your master.’

‘I would have made you a queen,’ he said bitterly. He jerked his hand down. The cage dropped.

Ephryx found Celemnis’ screams were not to his taste, and he was glad when they were over.

Celemnis’ death did not pass unremarked. In Sigmaron, in Azyr, upon the half-finished tails of the Sigmarabulum which embraced the world fragment of Mallus, the Bell of Lamentation tolled. The God-King Sigmar looked up from his labours. Mallus quivered, pulsed, and pulled in on itself, diminished by another victory for Chaos. A moan went up from Azyrheim far below.

Sigmar looked to the shrunken world fragment, half visible through the tracery of his great endeavour. Soon the tendrils of iron and steel would reach for each other, close all gaps, and hide the secrets of his plans until they ripened to fruition.

On the other side of sealed gates, the denizens of a dozen hells beat their fists upon doors that would not open. The tolling of the bell focused Sigmar’s thoughts on all those trapped outside Azyr, those who must suffer the age of Chaos while he completed his work.

He returned his attention to his forge, and his tears fizzled on hot metal as he took up his tools again.

Chapter One The Age of Sigmar

Now…

Vandus Hammerhand crouched in a world of light. He was alone, naked, bereft of comrades. Was he dead? Had the measure of godly power bestowed upon him been taken away? Was he Vendell Blackfist once more?