Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘Lord-Celestant,’ says a voice from behind me.

I look down from Zarax to see Boreas striding through the Field of Blades. He looks no different, but as he reaches my side the scent of death pours from him. He reeks of the grave.

‘What have you wrought?’ I ask, looking from my brother to the tumult that surrounds us.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ he says, ‘we must back away from the Anvil.’

‘This is our only path.’

‘Trust me,’ he says and there is an uncharacteristic note of urgency in his voice that makes me listen.

‘Fall back!’ I cry, pointing Grius at the Field of Blades.

We barely make it clear in time. As my army floods into the rows of broken swords, the rumbling sound behind us becomes deafening: an oceanic roar followed by masonry whistling past my ears. As huge chunks of stone slam into the ground all around me I glance back and see what Boreas has done.

The talons at the centre of the watchtowers have risen into the sky, like the shoots of a strange plant. As they rise they’re tearing the Anvil apart, creating a new wall of dust and crimson light. As the spikes rise higher I see that they form the spine of an enormous fossilised serpentine skeleton — a snaking mass of ancient bones big enough to dwarf a mountain.

‘They never knew,’ cries Boreas, over the din. ‘They built the Anvil on the back of a fossil.’

I try to speak, but my words are lost beneath a new sound. As the mountainous, twisting skeleton rears up into the clouds, shrugging off the Anvil like a coat, it opens its jaws and bellows. The sound is unbearable, a cry of torment so loud that my ears ring when it ceases.

The ground rolls like a storm-lashed sea and whole towers fall from the sky. I’m blinded by dust and deafened by falling rocks, but my mind is racing. The blood warriors were still inside the courtyard. Nothing could survive this. I see Boreas up ahead and stare at him. Who could summon such a thing from the grave? What has my brother become?

We emerge near the shore, slipping from the fumes like a troupe of ghosts. Smoke whips up over rippling basalt, coating our metal steeds in ash and making us all gleam in the moonlight. It’s less than an hour since we rode out from the Anvil and we’re dead already; Hakh just doesn’t know it yet. I find it hard to suppress a victorious smile. The warlord rides on, blinded by his lust for power, carrying me behind him through the blazing heat. Tylos must be attacking the Anvil by now and I thank the fumes for the eerie, muffled quiet. If Hakh realised my trick, he might still have time to return and fight a battle he could win. I’m not going to give him that chance.

The Blood Creed ride behind us, the hooves of their hideous mounts crunching across the black rock. They make a monstrous sight, but it won’t make any difference. Nothing will survive what lies ahead. Not even Tylos and his gleaming host. As I recall his noble figure striding through the battle I feel a trace of guilt, but quickly suppress it. I didn’t choose Tylos’ path — I’m just turning it to my advantage.

Shapes loom out of the smoke and I gasp. The lakeshore is crowded with hulking beasts. They’re crouched menacingly on the rock, as though about to charge.

Hakh grunts with what might be laughter and rides on.

As we near the shapes I see that they’re not creatures but buildings — hovels, built in the shape of enormous horned heads. They’re all painted blood red and, as we walk past the mouth-like doorways, terrified faces peer out at us. There are few survivors of the old kingdoms left but some still eke out a pitiful existence as slaves and lackeys for Hakh and his ilk.

‘My kinsmen,’ I mutter.

As they realise that the Blood Creed hasn’t come for them, a few dare to wander out into the moonlight and I see their strange outfits. They’ve made costumes from scraps of wood in an attempt to impersonate the monsters they’ve based their homes on. They wear horned, wooden helmets, painted to resemble brutal, bestial faces. They look so absurd that I would laugh, if not for the pitifully deranged expressions on their faces. My beloved people have descended into superstition and barbarity. Khorne has broken their minds as completely as he has broken their land.

Our destination looms into view — a blackened fort, a hulking slab of scorched metal layered with dozens of smoke-belching chimneys and oil-spewing pipes. The artifice of the Blood God may be graceless, but it is powerful. I feel a growing nausea as we near its grumbling walls. Unlike the towers of the Anvil, the fort leans back at a drunken angle, as though straining against the huge chains that link it to the bubbling lava. The chains are each thicker than Hakh’s chest and there are so many of them that they form a kind of rattling skirt, spreading out from one side of the tower.

There is only one door and Hakh strides towards it, climbing a row of steps that circle the tower’s base. He leaves his army behind and drags me along with him. There’s nowhere I could run even if I wished to, but Hakh won’t let me out of his sight. As we wind around the scarred rock, I get a better look at the strange machinery that adorns the metal bastion. Illuminated by the hellish light of the lake is a vast collection of gears and spindles, scorched and blackened but still intact and coated in thick black tar. The chains are threaded through various wheels and jammed in place by hunks of rusted iron. I’ve seen such infernal engines in use before and I prayed never to do so again.

After several minutes, Hakh reaches the door — a brutal riveted slab of brass tall enough to admit a giant but with no obvious handle. Next to the crudely wrought door is a stone plinth, topped with a long, curved horn.

Hakh glances at me, then pounds the door.

The clanging echoes through the tower and soon I hear the slamming of doors and the clattering of armoured feet on metal walkways. After a few moments, the door swings inwards with a grudging moan. We’re greeted by the smell of old machines and rotting meat.

There are figures in the gloomy entrance hall — more of the brutish, armour-clad Blood Creed — and one of them steps out into the moonlight. I’ve met Khorlagh the Keeper once before but familiarity doesn’t lessen the shock. He’s almost as massive as Hakh but, rather than weapons, he carries the brutal tools of his trade. His bloodstained armour is adorned with billhooks, iron staves and thick, studded manacles. In his hand he clutches a jagged trident, warped and glowing with heat, as though recently drawn from a furnace. Tucked into his belt is a cruel, barbed whip. It’s not the brutal implements that make me shrink away from him though; it’s his skin. It is corpse-white, marbled with indigo streaks, and sags away from his body like an ill-fitting suit, revealing glimpses of the glistening flesh beneath. The effect is made all the more disturbing by his oddly gracious manner. He performs a ridiculous, formal bow and then gestures towards the open doorway.

‘My Lord Hakh,’ he says, his words turned into a moist rasp by his flapping, bloodless lips. ‘What an honour. What an honour indeed.’ He glances back at the figures loitering inside the tower. ‘I received no word from Vhaal that you would be inspecting the fort. We have made no preparations.’ He tries to tidy his face, tucking his skin back into place and smoothing it down like a courtier adjusting his wig.

‘Get us across,’ says Hakh, nodding at the ranks of knights gathered below.

Khorlagh frowns and then laughs. ‘For a moment there I thought you meant you were going to the crucible right now.’ His laughter causes his skin mask to sag again. ‘But of course you don’t mean that.’ He waves us inside again. ‘You’ll have to excuse our lack of preparation. You can use my chambers to rest until it’s safe to make the crossing.’