Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Let the others, like that nitwit Kraderblob or brutes like Torglug and Gutrot Spume, scramble about in the filthy Greenglades, hunting the witch Alarielle and getting themselves ambushed by Nurgle alone knew what. Grandfather had sent three captains to find her, for without her there could be no lasting victory for Nurgle.

He flexed his wounded arm, and remembered the talon-like branch, whipping forward faster than his rheumy eyes could follow to lay open his flesh to the pitted bone. It hadn’t hurt; his sense of pain had been one of his first offerings to the Grandfather. He remembered too the fierce green hatred burning in the eyes of the monstrous bark-creature as it had smashed him back on his heels, before he’d driven the rusty edge of his axe into its creaking maw. They’d used what was left of it and its fellows for kindling the witchfires that now burned about Ghyrtract Fen, providing an eerie light for the slaves to work by.

Let’s see Spume do that, the kraken-bellied oaf, Grelch thought.

A baleful drone suddenly echoed through the trees, causing the foetid air to quiver like a frightened animal. Grelch’s eyes popped open and he turned, all thoughts of gardens forgotten. It was the Dirgehorn, originally hewn from the skull of the great plague-beast Brondtos by Beastlord Gluhak, the Crusted Blade — a feat it never stopped barking about. The Dirgehorn had been hollowed out and consecrated to Grandfather, and now sat atop Profane Tor. Its whining call, sluggish and flat, could be heard even in the Grandfather’s garden.

Someone somewhere in the vast woodlands that stretched from the Shimmertarn to Ghyrtract Fen had found some sign of the radiant queen, Alarielle. Like hounds on the scent, the other disparate warbands, searching for places such as this archway, would follow the winding echo of the Dirgehorn to wherever it led.

At the same moment, the sky darkened, grey turning to black. The snap of whips slowed and fell silent as slaves and slavers alike found their eyes drawn upwards to the roiling clouds. Grelch felt his stomach lurch, and not in the usual pleasing fashion. A moment later, the air was split by a sound greater even than the Dirgehorn — a crack of thunder which reverberated through the trees, and even his bones, deafening him.

He slapped his hands to his ears, teeth gritted against the pain of it. Instinctively he cast his gaze up and saw the black sky rupture, torn apart by fangs of crackling azure light. Bolts of twin-tailed lightning struck the ground again and again, splitting the air and searing the fog away. The ground bucked and heaved, and his warriors and slaves were tossed about like sparks from an anvil as the hammer struck. Trees burst into flame and sluggish rivulets of mud were burned dry. The air tasted of iron and clean winds, and Grelch gagged at the stink of it.

As the smoke cleared, he saw rank upon rank of armoured warriors standing where each sky-borne bolt had struck. Crackling chains of lightning crawled across their masks and the heads of the great warhammers they carried. It danced along the rims of their shields and illuminated the awful sigils which marked their armour.

He felt as if something fearful had come, fiercer even than the bark-beasts, and he shoved himself to his feet, snatching up his helm from where it sat on the steps beside him. His heart thudded in his chest as he began to descend. Few dared defy the Ghyrtribe since he’d earned Grandfather’s favour, and fewer still had ever mustered the courage to attack them head on. Whoever they were, they would be good sport, if nothing else.

‘And they’re all ours, my warriors,’ he roared. ‘To battle!’

His warriors roared in reply and hurled themselves towards the interlopers, scattering untrampled slaves aside. His chosen warriors, his sons and cousins and brothers, putrid blightkings all, led the way towards the centre of the invaders’ battle line. Grelch’s heart swelled as the battle was joined. This was the way it was supposed to be. The newcomers had numbers on their side, but his warriors were swollen with the strength of Nurgle.

He’d led his folk into the garden and pledged a glopsome oath to Grandfather Nurgle, offering service and souls in return for protection and power. And he’d fought to earn those protections, fought hard or harder than his rivals, performing deeds of valour. It was Grelch who had tamed the toad-dragon Ga’Blorrgh, and Grelch who had poisoned the Sweetwater.

You did indeed, my servant, something burbled in his head.

The voice was like an itch at the back of his skull. Painful, but welcome, it gurgled and slopped across the surface of his thoughts. As if they too heard it, the maggots in his arm suddenly stiffened and began to move in strange ways, causing his flesh to ripple and pulse. Grelch stopped and looked up, towards his prize. There was an oily sheen in the air at the top of the steps, and he could hear faint buzzing as of thousands of flies.