Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Your studies have served you well , say the princes, looking back at me from their skeleton steeds at the head of the chariot.

I nod. ‘There are few left who still have knowledge of the back ways through these lifeless groves.’ Just a few hundred feet from the flanks of my army, Khorne’s armour-clad monsters are scouring the landscape for something, anything to destroy.

They are blind to your passing.

I feel a swell of pride as I hear the respect in the spirits’ voices.

‘An open mind is hard to suppress.’ I grimace at the lumbering brutes that are trying to crush all the wonder from my world. ‘And a closed mind is easily confused.’ I glance at my pale legions of spearmen. ‘We’ll show our face once we reach Giraldus, but not a moment before. And, as long as he sees sense, we’ll be gone before they know we were there.’

Giraldus always had a penchant for grand displays of power but now, as we approach his fortress, I see how he has been diminished. His fortress was once a mountain of iron-hard bone, warped into solid, squatting towers and thick, hunched buttresses, but the sight that greets me now is far less impressive. The walls have been shattered by countless assaults and the colossal gargoyles are slumped and broken. His vampiric sentries still man the walls, wearing their distinctive winged helmets, but they’re a tiny fraction of the army that once marched beneath Giraldus’ banner. Still, I can’t help but feel a little respect. Almost every inch of this land has been flattened by Khorne’s armies, but Giraldus stands defiant.

‘How has he survived?’ I ask, turning to the princes.

Sorcery and courage. At the first sign of Khorne’s armies he severed his link with the land. His fortress is here today but tomorrow it will be gone. He stays long enough to strike a quick blow, then leaves. His luck can’t hold out much longer though. The spirits hesitate. They say he is very proud. What if he refuses to help?

I scowl. ‘He may only be here for today but that would be long enough for me to teach him a little humility.’ I wave my staff at my army. ‘That ruin could not withstand this for an hour. Still, I have no desire to waste my energy fighting Giraldus. I will find a better way to convince him.’

I give an order and the morghast lifts into the sky, filling the night with a cry torn from beneath the rain-drenched sod.

As my army pours from the shadowy hills, the full size of it is revealed. I wonder what Giraldus must be thinking as this dread host surrounds his crumbling walls. I nod to the princes and they pull my Coven Throne down towards the palace’s towering gates.

They open before we reach them, revealing a ridiculous fanfare of gaudy, fluttering banners and a column of ornately armoured knights. They’re all long dead, of course, even Giraldus himself, but they’re dressed as lordly, mortal knights. Their black armour is polished to a dazzling sheen and their rictus grins are hidden behind tall, winged helmets. Only Giraldus, riding proudly at the front, has his face on display. A life of murder and unholy pacts has kept his skin intact, but even the thick rouge on his cheeks can’t mask his antiquity.

He’s one of the few lords who has not fallen to Chaos, whisper the princes.

I’m unimpressed. ‘Look at that makeup and finery. Even after so many centuries of life he’s not learned to discard the baser pleasures. He could have used all that time devoting himself to study.’

Try to suppress your distaste. This will be so much quicker if you don’t have to kill him. Try to at least—

I wave the princes to silence as Giraldus approaches.

‘Menuasaraz,’ he says, performing an elaborate bow on the back of his horse. As he moves, his armour clatters with icons and medals, filling the night with jaunty music. ‘It’s rare to see you abroad.’ His voice is as inhuman as the cry of the morghast.

He makes no mention of the huge army circling his home but I can hear the outrage in his voice.

I nod in reply. ‘You’re looking well, Giraldus.’

He recognises the mockery in my voice and lights flicker deep in his hollow eye sockets. ‘What brings you to my door?’

I steer the Coven Throne closer and signal for my skeletal honour guard to remain behind.

Giraldus follows my lead and we meet, alone, in the centre of the road. The spirits that haunt my army have filled the night sky with vaporous robes and, as we dismount and approach each other, we’re bathed in green light.

‘I seek your advice,’ I say.

His expression remains wary as he studies me. ‘From what I hear, there can’t be many questions you can’t answer by looking in your own library. What has dragged you from the fane?’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Perhaps I’m not the only one who’s been hearing strange rumours.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard rumours, Giraldus — rumours of golden knights purporting to carry the might of Sigmar in their hammers.’ I feel my irritation growing as I say it out loud. ‘An army come to rid us of Chaos.’

‘It’s more than that,’ he replies. ‘They say these knights are fragments of Sigmar himself — avatars of his will.’

There’s a flicker of excitement in his eyes and I can’t hide my disbelief. I wave at the ruined landscape. ‘Giraldus, you’ve been trying to throw off this yoke for centuries and look where it’s got you. Do you really think a few gold hammers will turn back the legions of the Dark Gods? And if they did, what love do you think they would have for us? True wisdom means nothing to religious zealots. They’d probably see us as tomb robbers and necromancers.’

Giraldus grips the gilded handle of his sword. ‘What did you want to ask me?’

I curse my lack of control as I realise he’s almost as much of a zealot as Boreas.

‘What do you know about the Nomad City?’ I ask.

He laughs, surprised by my change of tack. ‘The Nomad City? What makes you ask me that?’

Before I can reply he draws back his shoulders. ‘No matter. I’m not ashamed of my past. Yes, necromancer, I was born on the Kharvall Steppe, your books have not misled you. I lived in the shadow of the Nomad City, but that was long ages ago. Have you really braved this journey to ask me about the adventures of my youth?’

‘Sigmar’s knights are heading for the Nomad City. That’s where they mean to strike — there’s a shrine of some kind, a brass skull called the Crucible of Blood. Of all the places they could attack, why choose that particular site?’

At the mention of the crucible he looks so pained that I think he might turn and leave. Then he shakes his head. ‘Forgive me. I have no love for the Blood God, Menuasaraz. If you’ve found a way to hurt him, I would be glad to help. What do you want to know?’

‘I want to know what the crucible is.’

‘It’s a monument to a tragedy, Menuasaraz. You have unearthed a great pain in uttering that name in front of me.’ He closes his eyes for a moment, then continues. ‘When Khorne’s legions began spreading across the steppe, the lords of the Nomad City demanded that we stand together against them. They said that it was crucial that their city didn’t fall.’ I notice a hint of emotion in his voice — shame perhaps.

‘But you didn’t aid them?’

He glares at me. ‘I’m no coward, but I’d been studying the obscure arts for a long time by then. I was consumed by my desire to uncover the secrets of Shyish. I was so obsessed by my studies that I barely registered what was happening to my kingdom.’ He waves at the bone-clad peaks that surround us. ‘I knew there was a finer, less transient world than my own and I could think of nothing but reaching it. Some of my subjects tried to save the Nomad City, but I paid them no heed — I had my eyes on something greater.’