Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘Very well,’ said Kairos, gesturing theatrically. He was getting into the spirit of the occasion. ‘Kill the one called Hammerhand and the fates shall align as you wish.’

The skaven paused, nose bobbing up and down as if it would smell the veracity of what Kairos had said.

The daemon leaned forward.

‘You may go.’

‘Yes-yes!’ chittered the skaven, scampering into the darkness. ‘Biters! Drillfiends! Hurry! Follow the tell-smoke!’

The skaven ran out of the fane. Kairos extinguished the flame and nodded both his heads.

‘It will not be enough.’

‘I know.’

‘I shall call the rest of the Nine,’ said both heads together. ‘They will be needed.’

Kairos, the place he inhabited and everything within it winked out of existence, leaving an oily trail of magic that faded away into the formless void.

Upon the narrow plain by the great Silver River of Anvrok stood the Bright Tor Gate, an ancient edifice open once more by Sigmar’s decree. A camp had sprung up. The ruins about the gate were thick with artisans from the Eternal City, working under the watchful protection of the Lord-Castellants and their warriors, whose keen eyes were ever searching for signs of attack.

Everywhere were the signs of fresh works. Wizard-wrights levitated the tumbled blocks of broken fortifications to stand once more atop one another, their fellows mortaring them into place with molten stone jetting from lances that burned with a magical heat. New life returned to the bones of the dead town. The gate shone with pure energies of untainted magic. Chrono-smiths worked their gentle but potent spells, walking solemnly around and around the gate’s town, and their deep, sonorous chants provided a calming counter note to the clamour of construction. Wherever their sandalled feet passed, the land seemed changed, cleansed.

The realm was healing.

Trumpets and warhorns blared. An honour guard formed up along the wide highway leading out of the gate eastwards towards the Shattered City. These men wore the turquoise armour of the Celestial Vindicators, and had left their Warrior Chambers to hold the gate when the first attack on Elixia had been undertaken. They stood tall and proud, eager to welcome their brothers back.

Black clouds raced overhead and lightning blazed. A vanguard of Stormcasts from five Stormhosts was deposited along the cliffs to the north and upon the road ahead of the gate. Liberators and Judicators took up defensive positions. Prosecutors leapt skyward, scanning the lands for enemies. All was expertly done, but done for the sake of procedure. The lands around the gate already belonged to the forces of Azyr.

Trumpets blew again. The Bright Tor Gate throbbed and opened. The field of magic bowed, glowing brightly, swelling forward over the road. Shining motes detached themselves from this luminescence, dimmed, and took on the shapes of marching men. Lord Thostos Bladestorm, as finder of the hammer, emerged first. A swaying forest of standards followed, the icons and banners of the Celestial Vindicators all together. Then the remainder of the Stormhosts came out.

Excepting a few brotherhoods assigned to guard the Silverway and the Bright Tor Gate, the entire host emerged in a long column. Their fellows lining the way cheered and shouted, but their welcome stumbled and quietened when their greetings were not returned.

The singing of the Celestial Vindicators, once renowned for its volume and fervour, had become restrained, though they marched with no less purpose. Thostos passed beyond the gate plaza, through a tumbled gateway that was already covered in scaffolding. Mortal craftsmen stepped back, first in respect but then in fear. Thostos’ armour sparked and fizzed with magic. His eyes glowed a dull blue, not bright enough to outshine daylight, but when he walked in shadow one could see them glimmer coldly. Many of the warriors who walked behind him showed similar signs of change. There was a silence and a certain dreaminess in their bearing. As more and more of those who had fallen and been reforged marched forth, the shouts of their brothers lining the route died altogether.

The grim rearguard of the Celestial Vindicators came out from the gate. A gap opened up. More trumpets sounded, and the gate’s light swelled again, and the Hammers of Sigmar came forth. The Hammerhands were at the fore, Lord-Celestant Vandus Hammerhand upon the dracoth Calanax leading them.

Amid Vandus’ own ranks were many who had fallen, and this was giving the Lord-Celestant cause for concern.

Vandus had summoned his Lord-Relictor, Ionus Cryptborn, to march at his side. They spoke quietly. Overly cautious perhaps, for the trudge of thousands of feet covered all but the loudest clarions and warsongs.

‘Thostos has changed,’ said Vandus to Ionus. ‘He speaks only a little, and what he says is distant. I feel that I must strive constantly for his attention. His eyes burn with blue fire. The air crackles around him and all who approach him feel the heat of his rage. And he is not alone.’

‘Small wonder,’ replied Ionus, ‘for here in the Bright Tor Mountains, Thostos died. Under these same peaks, he will be avenged.’

‘I spoke with him on the way to the muster chamber. I asked him if he had been changed, if we were truly eternal as Lord Sigmar promised.’

‘And what did he reply?’

‘He said “yes”. To which of the two questions, I cannot fathom. Then he strode away from me.’

Calanax rumbled. Vandus absently scratched at the celestial beast’s neck.

‘I see,’ said Ionus.

‘Ionus, I call you to me for counsel. You wield the magics of the storm.’

‘At my lord Sigmar’s command.’

‘You came from death, so they say.’

‘I have two masters. You know that, friend of old.’

‘Then please, as my friend and adviser, tell me what has occurred? We are promised eternity to bring war upon the minions of the Four, but I did not expect it to take this course. I see it in others too, many of my own. Andricus and Laudus are reluctant to discuss it with me.’

‘It is simple, Lord-Celestant. Your warriors have died and returned. Their alteration is inevitable.’

The Lord-Relictor carried a heavy reliquary: the bones of a hero from the Age of Myth in an open casket upon a staff. The casket was surmounted by a starburst of gold, and many other fittings of metal besides. It was heavy, but Ionus carried it as if it were nothing, and easily kept pace with Calanax’s swaying stride.

‘How is this inevitable?’

‘Death is a constant. It wraps everything, binding all fate as tight as a funeral shroud. One day, all this will die. Sigmar will die, you and I will die, the Four will die. We are eternal, yes, but even eternity is not without end. When all else is dead, then death will be the last to die. Sigmar defies death with his magic, plucking us from the underworlds and reforging our mortal form. Death is jealous. When our warriors skirt the borders of that dark country, a part of them is stolen away.’

‘None can defy Sigmar,’ said Vandus.

‘Death can, Vandus. Death only seeks to take its due. Sigmar is the thief in this affair, not death,’ said Ionus. ‘And so death snatches at our spirits, and we return to this life a little diminished as we pass him by. The shortfall has to be made up somehow.’

‘With what?’

Ionus shrugged. ‘Sigmar is the lord of the storm — I serve him but I am of death’s realm. You ask me of death, and are right to do so, for I guard the souls of our comrades. But to know the secrets of the storm, one must ask the lord of storms. And I do not think he will give up his knowledge.’

Vandus blew out a breath.