Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

I nod. ‘To survive and continue learning is an honourable goal.’

‘So I thought.’ He sounds either angry or ashamed.

‘What is the Crucible of Blood? Why would Sigmar care about it? Why would he send his army there, rather than to one of the great Chaos strongholds? Or some other shrine?’

‘Because it’s more than just a shrine. I know because I witnessed its creation. I was almost ready to leave when Khorne grew tired of the Nomad City’s insolence. He sent a powerful general…’ His voice becomes unsteady. ‘A being from Khorne’s own realm. It was like an army trapped in a single body. It dwarfed even the giants who guarded the Nomad City, but it couldn’t defeat them. Even from the very edge of the steppe I could see the battle. It raged across the heavens — three times the daemon attempted to level the city, smashing the walls with an axe as big as the watchtowers, and three times it failed. The titans wouldn’t yield. I realised then that I should have gone to help them, but it was too late.’

He shakes his head, and I get the sense he’s forgotten me. The emotion in his voice is now unmistakable — a potent mixture of rage and regret. ‘The daemon was called Khurnac. Its rage was so great that the ground bled in pain. The ground. The giants of the Nomad City had bound their city with powerful wards though, and their walls refused to fall.’

He’s speaking quietly now and I have to step closer to hear. ‘After the third attack failed, Khorne arrived to take matters into his own hands.’

‘You saw a god?’

Giraldus stares into the darkness. ‘After a fashion, yes. My rites were finished and I was already leaving, but I caught a glimpse. Gods spare me, I caught a glimpse.’

I find myself caught up in his story. I can almost imagine I’m there with him, witnessing the fury of Khorne himself.

‘My body was free,’ he continues. ‘Only a shadow of my being was there when the Nomad City fell, otherwise I doubt my sanity could have endured. Even now I don’t know exactly what I saw — a crimson thunderhead, perhaps, filling the horizon. My memory has spared me the details. I didn’t look directly, of course, and I was miles away, but Khorne was in my mind, of that I’m sure. As I slipped away, I saw a figure. It drew a brass skull from the storm, a skull as large as a mountain, and hammered it down into the Nomad City, destroying it utterly.’

He looks me in the eye, returning to the present. ‘The skull has since been named the Crucible of Blood and it stands there to this day, surrounded by the ruins of the Nomad City. The giants had poured so much magic into those walls that they’ll never crumble. They’re still there, hanging in the clouds — a reminder of Khorne’s wrath. For a long time I used to hunt down every record of those places I could find. The thought of that skull’s existence, even in the form of books or art, troubled me.’

‘You destroyed all that knowledge without studying any of it?’

‘I studied it — even when I would rather not. I can tell you what I know. I found out why the titans were so desperate to defend their home. The Nomad City was a doorway between worlds — a realmgate. The giants had been tasked with guarding it and they knew what would happen if Khorne seized control. Their worst fears came to pass — the brass skull claimed the realmgate for Khorne’s legions.’

I nod as all the pieces fall into place. ‘And Sigmar’s knights mean to take the realmgate back.’

He shrugs. ‘Perhaps. If they took control of the realmgate, they could travel from world to world. They could attack wherever they wish.’

Finally, I grasp the nameless fear that has been looming at the edge of my thoughts. ‘And they could attack whomever they wish.’

Giraldus frowns. I continue.

‘Don’t you see? Sigmar is the warrior-god. He won’t stop at defeating Khorne. He won’t stop until every realm is back under his golden boot. He has no love for necromancy.’ I laugh. ‘Imagine what kind of fate he will have in store for kings who abandoned their subjects and refused to aid those who tried to fight?’

Giraldus gives me a look of cold disdain. ‘I fear no mortal foe.’

‘Sigmar is no mortal foe. But if fear is not a reason to act then think what it would mean if we could seize the realmgate for our own.’

Giraldus looks past my Coven Throne to the army gathered behind me. His white lips roll back from long, curved incisors. It’s a chilling sight to see him smile.

He grips his sword again. ‘I would give a lot to have the upper hand, Menuasaraz, for one last time. I grow tired of this slow, pitiful defeat.’

‘Think what we could do together,’ I say, waving at the army behind me and the figures watching from the walls of his fortress.

He keeps smiling and rests a death-cold hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re more of a man than I realised, necromancer.’

There’s something odd about his smile. I get the impression that he’s holding something back from me — that he has different plans to my own. I decide that I don’t care, as long as he adds his army to mine.

I point at my army. ‘We have real power here, Giraldus. We could seize the realmgate for our own and use it to uncover the secrets of countless realms. And we would garner such power that we could keep all of those bickering gods from our doors. We could finally be rid of them — as long as we get there before Sigmar’s knights.’

He nods slowly. ‘But Sigmar is a step ahead of us. You said he has already sent his armies to the skull.’

‘But they were delayed. Somebody sent them astray. They are only now nearing their goal. There’s still time.’

Giraldus nods. ‘When dawn comes the daemon returns. Khorne bound it to the skull as a punishment. Khurnac’s rage is unimaginable, and it grows every year. From sunrise until nightfall it rages and thrashes at its chain, and as it tries to break free, other daemons pour from its bath of blood, born of its rage. They’re thrown everywhere: other kingdoms, other worlds, other wars, but many of them simply flood out onto the steppe. The region becomes a mirror of Khorne’s own realm. Nothing survives the slaughter that follows.’

I keep Zarax on a tight rein as we approach the ruins. The Chaos knights wait patiently on their grunting steeds and I count them as we march. There are at least as many as we faced in the Anvil. There will be no skeleton monster to rise up and save us this time and the thought makes me smile. We will finish this alone. I can feel the determination of my men beating down on my back, Sigmar’s light, blazing through their mirrored amour. It will not dim until we have broken through every line of red and brass that comes before us.

The Crucible of Blood is visible, jutting out of the crater beyond us. Our prize is so close now.

As we pass beneath the first of the drifting ruins my head fills with the sound of a roaring, anguished voice. The words hammer against my mind like a choir of lunatics, all wailing in a different key. It’s an agonised, inhuman cry and it’s impossibly deep. It sounds as though the rocks themselves are crying out in pain.

‘What is it?’ I gasp, looking back.

My men hear it too. Several are clutching at their golden helmets, trying to drown out the horrible din. Some of them have even dropped their shields and fallen to their knees.

I look back at the Chaos knights and see that they’re now riding slowly towards us. They were waiting for this to happen. The world shakes beneath the weight of their snorting juggernauts.

‘Boreas!’ I cry, scouring the crowds of staggering Liberators for a sign of the Lord-Relictor.