Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

A figure races towards him through the madness — Boreas. He is holding his bone standard aloft as he runs, and power is radiating from it, blasting the acid away.

My brother plants the staff of his grim reliquary in the ground, lifts up one of his artefacts, a bone-handled knife, and starts writing invisible symbols in the air over Arion’s head as the Liberator paws at the congealed mess that used to be his face. A moment later, he ceases his thrashing and slumps back onto the broken ground, seeming to be at peace. He grips Boreas’ arm in gratitude.

The clouds part and light engulfs the pair of them as a column of lightning slams down into the ground. The Liberators standing nearby are thrown clear by the blast and the world is plunged into shadow by the brightness of Arion’s pyre. After a few seconds the light fades and when Boreas heads my way, there’s no sign of the fallen warrior.

‘What becomes of us when we fall?’ I ask Boreas as he comes to stand beside Zarax. ‘What have you done to him?’

He is too exhausted to speak for a moment and the storm is still crackling across his armour. Whatever happened between him and Arion has left him trembling and dazed. He watches the sparks dancing across his gauntlets.

‘I have…’ He pauses and closes his fist, extinguishing the light. ‘I only ended his pain, brother. Sigmar did the rest.’

He says nothing more on the subject and looks back at the Anvil.

‘We’re almost through,’ I say, jabbing Grius at the bloodreavers. ‘They’re trapped at the foot of the gates. Drusus and the rest of his Harbinger retinues are swinging back through the clouds, preparing for another attack on the gargoyles. When they strike, we’ll charge. We’ll slaughter the remaining bloodreavers and enter the Anvil. After that I will mount the walls and bring Sigmar’s judgement down on those stone horrors.’

The sky burns white as Drusus leads another attack. His Prosecutors form a dazzling ‘V’ as they dive from the heavens, hurling hammers at the walls. The torrent of blood ceases as the gargoyles are thrown back, enveloped in jagged arcs of light.

‘Advance!’ I cry.

Zarax hurls me forwards, bounding over charred, buckled limbs and leaping at the line of bloodreavers. As she locks her jaws around her prey, I bring Grius down into the first face I see.

Each hammer blow takes me further from my undisciplined past. Bones and teeth splinter around me as I advance with cold, inhuman precision. Zarax, meanwhile, is a vision of taloned, snarling fury. Her blue-scaled hide burns in the gloom and lightning pours from her jaws as she careers through the enemy lines.

The bloodreavers collapse before her in a shower of blood and broken weapons and I bring Grius down against the gates with a prayer. The runic hammer blazes like a star, a blinding fragment of Sigmar’s soul.

A splinter races up the centre of the door, glinting like quicksilver. Zarax roars and my men pause mid-strike, joining their voices to hers. The sound floods my mind and my second blow is twice as hard. As Grius hits the door again, it shudders beneath the blow and the crack widens to reveal rows of moonlit buildings.

Blood-acid rains down again as the gargoyles recover from Drusus’ attack, but Zarax and I are sheltered in the threshold and I swing my hammer for a third time. Grius burns with a flame so bright it lights up the whole doorway as it gives way.

My men roar as Zarax carries me through the splintering wood.

Their cheers falter as the dust clears and we see what lies beyond.

Gathered in the courtyard beyond, at the foot of the Anvil’s second wall, are ranks of red-armoured knights. As my vision clears I see that the guardians are heavily clad in suits of thick, brass-rimmed plate and their faces are hidden behind brutal, jagged helmets, all crowned with the icon of the Blood God. They wait in disciplined, orderly lines, and they’re huge — maybe as big as my own men. Standing ahead of them is what I take to be their captain. He’s as heavily armoured as the other knights but his head is uncovered and the reason is clear — his face is an angry mess of exposed muscle that he clearly wishes to display. As he strides confidently towards me he gives me the strangest look — a wry smile that implies we’re sharing some kind of joke. The idea that I could share anything with him turns my stomach but, before I can call the charge, Boreas steps through the broken gate and speaks.

‘There are too many,’ he says, looking up at me.

My men are clambering through the broken gate behind him, smashing the hole wider as they rush to escape the red death outside, but the crimson ranks make no move to advance. The one with a wound for a face is holding them back, studying us.

Boreas is shoved against Zarax as others crowd into the passageway. ‘Look at them,’ he says.

There are countless hundreds of these goliaths and they display a carefully drilled discipline quite unlike the lunatic barbarians on the bridge.

I look down at Boreas, unable to hide my anger. ‘Remember what we are, Lord-Relictor.’

I catch another glimpse of Boreas’ strange eyes and I see that he’s taken aback. For the first time since we landed in this hellish realm I’ve surprised my brother.

‘If you think we can’t break through by strength of arms,’ I continue, ‘use whatever secrets Sigmar has entrusted you with. This first strike against Chaos cannot falter, Boreas. Sigmar’s Stormhosts must be free to advance without fear of constant attack from behind. We will reach the Crucible of Blood and we will sanctify it.’ I reach down from Zarax’s back and grip his shoulder, hauling him towards me. ‘Forward is the only way.’

A clanging sound echoes across the vast courtyard as the red-armoured knights prepare to advance.

‘What would you have me do?’ he asks, an edge of pride in his voice.

I keep my tones level, not wishing to sound like the common street fighter I once was. ‘You carry death in you, Boreas, I can smell it. Bring it to our aid.’

‘I’m a storm-priest, Tylos, not a necromancer. Whatever you might remember from my past, I’m—’

‘Boreas!’ I wave at the mass of towers looming on the far side of the courtyard. ‘You’ve been to places I could barely dream of. Do what you were created to do.’ There’s no plea in my voice, only command.

He looks up at the Anvil and then back at me. ‘You’ll be stalled here for too long. When dawn comes you’ll still be battling through these dogs.’

As always, Boreas is infuriatingly insightful. I tighten my grip on his arm. ‘Then find us a way through.’

Horns blare out as the knights begin their charge.

I give an order and my men close ranks. A shield wall forms around Zarax and I turn to my rows of archers.

‘Seriphus,’ I cry, calling over the leader of my Judicators. I point at the steps inside the gate. ‘Take up positions inside the outer wall. Wait for my call.’

The Judicator leaps to obey, scaling the battlements and ordering his retinues to ready their bows.

‘Sigmar is with us,’ I say, looking back at Boreas as the archers take up their positions. ‘And I will win this battle’. I soften my voice. ‘But you must do whatever the God-King demands of you.’

He looks back through the broken gate at the Field of Blades and nods. ‘Hold them here. I will return.’

Then the battle engulfs me and Boreas is gone.

The guardians of the Anvil are no more human than we are. The air simmers and recoils from them as they approach, as if they are chiselled from hot coal. Their huge frames are bolstered by layers of red and brass plate and they smash into us like automata, animated by a rage so potent it pours off them like smoke. Blood warriors. Since Sigmar drove them back from the Gates of Azyr, their name has become infamous as Khorne’s most fearless attack dogs.