Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘Safety,’ Alarielle intoned. Her voice echoed in his very marrow, and he trembled slightly to hear such despair. ‘There is no safety now,’ Alarielle said, ‘no safe haven or sanctum left in all the Jade Kingdoms.’ The Radiant Queen smiled sadly.

‘Only war remains.’

The heavens writhed with flames of blue and pink. In every corner of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok smoke rose. Only Elixia, the Sculpted City, held firm, but it could not do so for much longer. A circle of unmarred sky hung over the Great Monument as the city’s already lurid lightning flickered hungrily around this single, pure space.

In the shadow of the Great Monument stood the House of the Aldermen. It was here that Celemnis, Swordmaiden of the Argent Sisterhood, had come.

She entered the central chamber, a space forbidden to everyone but the council, at a swift stride, accompanied by a handful of her men. All the guard were at the walls and the council had fled; Celemnis was not denied.

Within the council chamber an uneasy peace held sway. The clamour of war breaking the city’s defences was distant. Above the ring of arms and roars of beasts was a dreadful keening. Odd and terrible were the sounds of Chaos as it forced itself upon the realms of Order, but this too was muted in the chamber.

From the courtyard garden outside the chamber a blackbird sang as if there were nothing amiss with the world. Celemnis could almost convince herself that the breeze wafting the window drapes was born of the summer, and not the burning of her home.

‘Celemnis!’ Forge Leader Jethelir waved at her from a curtained doorway. ‘He’s in here.’

Celemnis crossed the room. Her whole life she had walked quickly; there was always more to do. Why waste one’s time in ambling? And now time had nearly run out and she could walk no faster.

The High Alderman was sitting behind a desk in one of the many clerks’ cubicles of bronze and marble. He had taken refuge there, seeking some last pocket of sanity. His long beard brushed over thin sheets of tin as he read and reread the glyphs impressed into them. His fine clothes were dirty and his eyes red-rimmed with smoke and tears.

‘Ah, Celemnis,’ he said. ‘Do come in.’

Celemnis rested her fists on the desk and leaned over him.

‘Now will you return the hammer?’ she said.

The High Alderman glanced out of the window. He frowned as if he had noticed it were about to rain. ‘The hammer?’

‘Ghal Maraz. The Great Shatterer. Sigmar’s weapon. Now will you return it to him?’

‘We have had this conversation many times, my dear,’ he said. The High Alderman rolled up the tin scroll. ‘There is no one to return it to. The only way Sigmar would have parted from his hammer is if he were dead.’

‘The oracles told us he was tricked into casting it away,’ she said.

‘The oracles went mad not long after the gods abandoned the realms. Why do you trust books written a century ago?’

Celemnis thrust her arm out behind her, pointing in the direction of the battle. ‘Because the oracles prophesied this, Alderman. Let us offer up prayer and unlock the shrine. Let him know where it is!’

The Alderman radiated defeat; he had no more of himself left to give to this world.

‘And why should we? If the oracles were correct and Sigmar himself cast it away, why should we strive to return it to him? He left us. His hammer was drawn here by fate. Who are we to question fate?’

‘Everyone should question fate when it dances to Tzeentch’s tune,’ said Celemnis. ‘The armies of Chaos are breaking through the walls! The hammer cannot protect us, not anymore. We should never have kept it.’

‘Oh, my dear, dear Celemnis,’ said the High Alderman. His usual vitality had been stripped away by sorrow; now he looked his age, and worn out by it. ‘It is all rather academic.’ He took one of her callused hands gently in his own. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps you were right all along. Perhaps—’

The rattle of armoured men interrupted him. Celemnis ran from the room to witness a band of Chaos warriors thundering into the main hall. Each one was a head taller than a mortal man, far heavier and clad in ornate blue plate armour. They reeked of dark power.

Celemnis’ last few men attacked immediately. Their arms were strong from years in her smithies, and they carried her silver blades. The swords’ keen edges bit deeply, felling three of the warriors, sell-souls who had betrayed their own kind for a touch of power. But these men were mighty beyond her workers’ skill in war, and her swords were not enough. Within seconds the blood of her followers ran red on the marble floor.

Her hand flew to the hilt of her own weapon. The Chaos warriors surrounded her, swords levelled at her throat. Their leader’s face was drunk on triumph.

‘Now now, my lady,’ he said. ‘Stay your hand. We will not harm you.’

A delicate cough sounded behind the warriors, and they parted. There in the doorway stood a thin man, entirely bald. He was clad in robes covered in arcane sigils and wore a great deal of jewellery. His skin shone with scented oil. But the richness of his garb hid a sickness; a second glance showed his slenderness to be cadaverous and his skin grey beneath its copper tan. Behind his make-up his eyes were pouched and sunken, and there was something of the vulture to him. His smile was reptilian.

‘Celemnis of the Swords, the maiden who makes blades of such legendary strength and sharpness.’ He approached her, his eyes gleaming. ‘Here we are again.’

‘Ephryx of Denvrok,’ she said. ‘I should have realised that your hand was behind this.’

He dipped his head modestly. ‘I have worked a long time to undo this city’s defences. It was not easy. I am humbled that you see through my artifice and recognise me as the mind behind Elixia’s downfall.’ He held out his hand. ‘Are you not impressed? I have more to show. I agree circumstances could be better, but my offer still stands.’

‘I would not have you when you were merely a sorcerer. Now you are a slave to darkness. Never.’ She spat full in his face. Swords came closer to her neck.

Ephryx’s outstretched hand clenched. He withdrew it and waved his men back.

‘You are the daughter of a Ninemage, and should have greater respect for wielders of magic.’ He wiped her spittle away with a silken handkerchief. ‘Have you not heard, my dear? It is the season for treachery. The war against Chaos is lost. Only those who side with the victors have any hope of survival.’

‘Better to die with a clean soul than to sell it for baubles,’ she said. ‘You do not act from expediency. You chose your side a long time ago.’

‘Ah, if only it were so simple,’ he said. He beckoned forward a group of nine lesser sorcerers waiting by the bronze doors. They stepped nervously around the pooled blood of Celemnis’ men.

Ephryx waved another hand. A cruel-faced Chaos lord went into the cubicle where the High Alderman sat, his sword drawn. A moment later he came out, and his sword dripped red. The Alderman died as he had lived his last days: meekly, and without protest.

Ephryx smiled thinly. ‘We go to the vault. I must be sure that the treasure of Elixia is what it is purported to be.’

Celemnis was roughly disarmed and forced along with Ephryx and his acolytes through the gardens of the House of the Aldermen. The gates had fallen and the enemy ran riot through the streets of the city; a chorus of screams rose and fell in shrill waves. The smell of burning was overpowering, but in the garden peace lingered and the blackbird still sang its song.