Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Caeran ran to Tarm. His friend was badly hurt. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

‘You killed it?’ he croaked.

‘It is dead,’ said Caeran. ‘If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead.’

‘As always,’ said Tarm. The blood coming from his mouth was pink and bubbled, his breath was short, and he struggled to speak. ‘But no more, my friend. Crushed by my own horse. Not the heroic end I had intended.’

‘I’ll get you out from under him,’ said Caeran, trying to reassure his companion, but he could see no way to move the horse pinning Tarm.

‘You’ll do no such thing. Get out of here! Get away now! If Wolf Keep has fallen, it will not be long until all of Amcarsh is overrun. Live as long as you can. Make them pay for their crimes.’

A fat drop of rain fell onto the back of Caeran’s hand. Then another, and another. They spattered all over Tarm’s face. He closed his eyes and smiled.

‘See, Caeran! There is some purity left. For once, the water is sweet.’

Caeran stood. Rain sheeted down. A blazing bolt of lightning cracked the sky. Thunder boomed. Shouts and the gruntings of beastmen came through the downpour. They approached him from all sides. He stood over the body of his friend, and shouted out a challenge.

‘If I am to die, let it be well!’

The foes of all that was good and right drew around, none daring to be the first. Caeran stared at them, smiling wildly. ‘Give me strength, great Sigmar!’ There was more lightning and another peal of thunder, deafening now. The storm was directly overhead.

‘Lend me your might! If you can still hear me, if you care still for the lives and deeds of mortal men, then grant me as much of your power as you might spare, so that I may be avenged upon the slayers of my folk, that I might kill them and kill them and never rest, not until every last drop of Chaos-ruined blood has been spilt and washed away from the soil of Amcarsh by clean rains. I do not ask to be saved. I do not plead for my life. I ask only for strength. I ask only to be avenged!’

He raised his bloodied sword to the sky, kissed the guard, and prepared to die.

The horde of men and twisted monsters charged as one. A blazing spear of light lanced down from the sky, pure and dazzling. It connected with the tip of Caeran’s sword, bathing the youth in a stark radiance that cut him into shapes of white and hard black shadow. The followers of Chaos were flung back by the blast, shrieking at the pain of the light.

When they recovered themselves, they stood in amazement. A depression was smote into the land, charcoal black and steaming. Around it, twists of grass smoked in the rain.

Of the prince, there was no sign.

CHAPTER TWO To Chamon

Caeran of Wolf Keep was no more. He had been snatched from the jaws of death and made anew. In his stead stood Thostos Bladestorm, a Lord-Celestant of the Stormhosts of Azyr. The man had ceased to be, but from his unmaking a Stormcast Eternal had been forged. Stronger, taller, faster, imbued with a fragment of a god’s potency; that of Sigmar Heldenhammer, last of the old pantheon to stand in opposition to the four great powers.

That first time, Thostos’s memory did not die. During his remaking his mind was unmade and refashioned many times upon the anvil of Sigmar’s art. Yet he remembered the smell of blood, and the stink of smoke. He remembered white shapes dangling from the walls of his burning home. He remembered a dead friend, and he remembered his oath.

The need for vengeance coursed through his every vein as surely as the magic of Azyr.

‘Stand tall, Thostos Bladestorm, and face your benefactor!’

The Lord-Heraldor’s voice resonated throughout the Celestine Vault with the force of a trumpet fanfare, snatching Thostos back from the past. Vengeance. Yes. It was coming after centuries of waiting. It was his due. On the great ring of the Sigmarabulum the bells of war tolled.

Thostos Bladestorm rose from his knees and opened his eyes upon his master. Sigmar stood upon the balcony, the God-King, lord of the last free mortal realm. The Celestial Vindicators were gathered in glorious array, panoplied for war in armour of purest sigmarite coloured a rich turquoise. They stood in ranks in a vault of gold and smooth stone, topped by a dome of sapphire carved with the twin-tailed comet — Sigmar’s sigil.

The vaults were glorious, but Sigmar’s perfection made all appear dull and lustreless. Mightier than the Stormcast Eternals, this was the god who had answered Thostos’s prayers — the survivor of a ruined world and the near ruin of another.

Pure of feature, every line of Sigmar’s face radiated grace. His poise was beyond compare, and his armour shone brighter than the sun, with gold and sigmarite studded with sapphires. Long hair cascaded down his back, mingling with the gryphon feathers of his cloak. The aura of power around him was staggering, but there was no arrogance inherent to it.