Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

The nine Lords of Change shuffled inside. As the last entered, the particles of light gathered themselves, and gates barred the way once more.

‘There, the first piece is in place.’ One of Kairos’ heads swung to address Ephryx directly. ‘Now for the second.’

Kairos raised his hands and extended his long necks. A yellow and green nimbus flickered around his staff. The Lord of Change said nothing, only held his arms aloft for a moment, then lowered them slowly.

‘It is done.’

The ground heaved. The space around the inner keep became hot as a forge, and the stone of the ground glowed white with heat. From this bubbling pool rose up a complex machine, plucked from the hidden workings of reality, its spars and cogs dripping molten rock.

‘To work, Ephryx,’ said Kairos. ‘I am afraid you must perform this rite. I do not wish to suffer the energies myself.’

‘Quickly now,’ said Kairos’ other head.

Ephryx stepped close to the machine as it fully emerged. His clothes smouldered. His eyes watered, but he could not close them. The machine and the ground were cooling, and it was this alone that saved Ephryx’s skin and sight.

‘Begin the reversal!’ said Kairos.

Ephryx set his body into motion. He knew the spell, of course, and locked inside his body he cursed himself for the curiosity that had set him to learning it.

At the black-worded incantation, the machine began to work, turning against the way its creator intended. Although physically divorced from the world, it retained a connection with it, and as it screeched into life reality grumbled around it. The natural order of things was flung into reverse.

‘Glorious! Glorious!’ cackled Kairos. ‘Magic infuses everything, a heady mix of so many colours and winds! Feel it, Ephryx — this is true power! Further, further! Make the silver flow away, so that we may greet our master in person.’

The ground shook, the tower encasing the keep swayed. With a groan of tortured metal, Ephryx’s dwelling sheared away from the tower’s stalk, revealing the Shardgate blazing directly above.

‘That’s the way, small sorcerer,’ said Kairos indulgently.

Ephryx’s limbs ached. Age ran cold claws over his bones. He had lived for hundreds of years and his powers promised thousands more, but the Arcanabulum ran roughshod over the laws of nature and magic both, and the sorcerer withered as he chanted. His spine twisted and his horns lost their lustre, becoming flaky and dull. His hands clawed with arthritis. All the while, Kairos croaked and clattered his beaks in laughter, and true hate bloomed in Ephryx’s heart.

‘Success! Ha! Well done!’ shouted Kairos.

The moon ground to a halt and slowly, reluctantly, began to slide backwards. It went back past the point of apogee, and with a sudden rush, the silver holding the fortress liquefied and ran back into the sea.

A cackling daemon ripped the head from the Retributor at Vandus’ side. His body vanished into a blaze of light that reached for the churning clouds, only to veer sideways and be dragged into the fabric of the Eldritch Fortress. Vandus shouted out his anger, smashing the pink daemon down with his warhammer. It burst, and from the gory remains climbed two smaller, blue daemons. Where the first had laughed and howled, these scowled and grumbled as they fought.

Vandus slew these two also, and spurred Calanax onward. Thostos fought nearby, an unstoppable tornado of hammer and sword. They were through the breach, into the first courtyard. Many ways led off the ward, leading into a labyrinth of passages and walls, but ahead the route was clear. The walls were riven by magic and war, and the tower’s base was visible to him through a further gap.

Vandus pushed his way on. The Stormcasts were dwindling in number, but remained in good order. With Liberators in solid lines, Judicators behind, Retributors and Decimators working in small groups to bring down the worst of the daemons and the greatest champions.

There was a screech like that of tortured metal. The Shardgate pulsed ever quicker. The ground shook and the top of the tower fell down. Incredibly, the moon was reversing its course.

‘We do not have much time!’ shouted Vandus. ‘Onwards, before they steal the hammer from us!’

With a ringing of trumpets, the Stormcasts pushed forward to the gap in the next wall. They poured through, routing the few warriors of Chaos that dared stand before them.

Vandus felt a surge of relief as they crossed the second courtyard, but then the walls rippled and became convoluted, trapping two score of his men within. The courtyard became smaller, then opened up at one end.

A fresh foe waited behind — a huge warlord with a skull for a helm and a daemonic hound beside him. He bore a daemon-weapon, a two-headed brass-bound axe the size of a mortal man. A band of massively muscled warriors attended him, eyes bereft of reason, teeth stained brown with the blood of the innocents. They stood tensely, a rabidity coming off them as a wall of iron-tinged heat.

‘Khul!’ said Vandus.

‘I have come for you, Blackfist. You are the last of your tribe. You think yourself my equal, raised up by your puny god.’ Khul swept his axe around to point at Vandus. It trailed streamers of unlight. The fabric of reality tore upon its edge. The air shed droplets of blood and screamed. ‘You are nothing! Craven! Fleeing into the arms of Sigmar when I proved stronger. I will destroy you and offer up your skull to Khorne as I gave the skulls of your wife and children to him!’

Vandus was nearly overcome by the urge to rush at Khul. Hatred boiled in every part of his being. The ghost of the man he had been demanded vengeance. Calanax felt his wrath and stamped and snorted.

Perhaps Vendell Blackfist would have broken from his men, his anger overcoming reason and sense. But Vandus was Vendell no longer. He fought down his fury and shouted out an order to his few remaining warriors. ‘Defensive square!’ he bellowed. Horns rang, and his men ran quickly into a formation opposing the mob of Khul’s warriors.

Khul laughed hollowly, a madman’s humour, sick and shot with bloodgreed. ‘Coward. Very well. Hide behind your golden weaklings. No matter how much magic Sigmar has imbued you with, it will not help you.’

The tribesmen around Khul gripped their weapons and growled, barely holding their anger in check.

‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ shouted Khul, his words so thick and crazed they were barely discernable; a raw cry of unfettered rage.

With an animal shout, the warriors of Korghos Khul surged forwards.

The Bloodbound crashed into the shieldwall of the Liberators with shocking force, only to be thrown back. A bloody toll was levied by the Judicators behind the Liberators, the last Prosecutors picking off Khul’s elite deep within their own ranks, while Protectors plugged gaps in the line. Again the Bloodbound charged, and again. Vandus and Thostos fought side by side, slaughtering the followers of Khorne by the dozen wherever they went. Soon enough, Vandus realised that no man of Khul’s dared raise a blade against him, and he used this reticence to his advantage.

But Vandus’ Stormcasts were fatigued and diminished in number, and the Bloodbound of Khul fresh and numerous. One by one the Protectors were slain, and the Prosecutors dragged from the air. Before long, the ranks of the Stormcasts were in tatters and the battle had descended into a swirling maelstrom of individual melees.

At this moment, Korghos Khul chose to strike. He burst through his own men, his great axe parting their souls from their bodies in his eagerness to bring down his enemy. The daemonic hound at his side leapt at Thostos. The strange magic infusing the Lord-Celestant saved his flesh from the creature’s teeth, but he was knocked sprawling and clanged off the cobbles of the courtyard.