Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Amid the wreckage of the thunderstrike, something stirred that was not smoke or ash. A figure climbed out from the charred hole. Towering in stature, he was of more than merely human proportion. The armour that encased him was a thing of wondrous craft and fearsome design, forged from sigmarite, with a nimbus of gold secured to the top of the backplate to provide a permanent halo framing the warrior’s metal helm, a helm cast in the shape of a human visage frozen in a scowl of perpetual and inexorable judgement. Mighty wings stretched outwards from the figure’s back, endowed with dazzling purity and a starry lustre. Upon the heavy pauldrons that shielded the warrior’s upper arms and shoulders was emblazoned the shape of a twin-tailed comet, sacred symbol of the God-King himself. Hanging from a loop on his belt was a golden sceptre cast in the same shape.

An even greater symbol of the God-King was gripped in the warrior’s hands. Crackling with ancient enchantments and the energies of Azyr, the Celestial Realm, the great warhammer was of such massive size that even in the grip of this formidable warrior it looked gigantic. Jewels shone from its golden haft and upon the broad and brutal head were inscribed runes that had been old even in the Age of Myth.

The blast of the thunderstrike was still echoing across the land as the crackling blaze dissipated from the warrior’s eyes and his vision resolved itself to take in the savage tableau. He had descended upon a primordial scene, sluggish streams of silvery muck that were neither liquid nor metal flowing past islands of rusty earth peppered with black spineferns and predatory leechpines. Jagged spires of raw, twisted iron stabbed up from the creeks, scratching at the murky sky. There was a hot, heavy quality to the air, fetid and stifling with a dull coppery reek.

The grisly environment was far from deserted. All around him the warrior could see feral, savage figures. Two great packs of barbarous fighters had converged upon a broad lagoon of the semi-metal swamp muck. Hideously mangled bodies floated downstream, their flesh sundered by claw and blade. Some of the bodies were human, though of a brutish and monstrous aspect. Other carcasses were those of horned beasts, their frames covered in matted fur and cabalistic brands. Man or monster, even in death the things carried the stench of cruelty and depravity.

More numerous than the slain were the living: horned creatures armed with axes fashioned from bone and stone and hulking men, their brawny frames draped in skins and scraps of armour. The combatants drew apart, stunned and bewildered by the warrior’s sudden appearance.

Beyond the brutish tribes, lumbering through the morass, two colossal horrors of muscle and sinew gave battle to a third monstrosity. The pair had the rough semblance of human form, though swollen and twisted with primordial ferocity. The foe of these monstrous giants was still more hideous. Squat and bloated, the thing was like some mammoth toad. One of the ox-headed giants wrapped its arms about an iron spur, wrenching it from side to side and trying to rip it free. While the creature was engaged, the other giant kept the abomination busy, swatting at it with the uprooted length of a spinefern. Blows that would have pulverized a man struck the toad-thing’s side, slamming against its shifting skin, splitting the slimy surface and drawing syrupy blood from the monster.

A mighty shout pierced the air, arresting the battle. The golden warrior could feel the black sorcery that leant the words forcefulness and command. Every creature turned, compelled to attend. Even the warrior felt his eyes drawn to the grotesque sorcerer who marched across the swamp. The mystic was a gangrel figure, draped in a feathered cloak, hands encased in gauntlets of black steel, head locked within a faceless helm of obsidian tipped with spiralling horns.

Another shout came, less forbidding and imperious than the first, and the mystic raised one of its armoured hands. The warrior could feel the fell energies rush out at him. He saw a tangle of leechpines between himself and the sorcerer wilt and crumble. Then the malefic magic was searing across his body. The dire power of the spell dissipated in a crackling nimbus of darkling sparks as it crashed against sigmarite armour. Unharmed, the warrior strode through the arcane residue and pointed his hammer in challenge at the horned enchanter.

Memories rushed through the warrior’s mind, images and imperatives that thrust themselves upon him. He had descended upon this realm to confront the Prismatic King, to bring an end to the tyrant’s sorceries. Such was his mission, his purpose, the duty stamped upon his very soul. Was this horned magician the fiend he sought?

The sorcerer cried out again, waving its armoured hands in an imperious gesture. Barbarians and beastmen alike responded to that call, roused from their shock by the command. Howling with bloodlust, braying with animalistic savagery, they rallied and surged towards the golden figure.

The warrior didn’t wait to meet the charge of his foes. Stretching his wings wide, he soared up into the misty sky to come diving down upon them. He arrowed into the midst of the horde. His warhammer cracked against the breastplate of a barbarian fighter, collapsing the man’s chest and tossing his broken body back into his bestial comrades. A goat-headed gor was next, its pelvis splintered by the crushing force of the golden hammer and its neck broken beneath the golden warrior’s boot as he trampled it underfoot.

The unearthly figure charged, striking left and right. With every blow, another of the Chaos creatures was struck down, their mangled bodies slipping away in the semi-silver lagoon. A hulking beastlord toppled into the muck with its horned skull split in half. A barbarian chieftain thrashed in the sludge with his side caved in. Packs of snarling gors were smashed aside, gangs of howling marauders beaten into the mire. Scores of the enemy dead lay strewn in his path, yet none had landed a blow. As unstoppable as an avalanche, he thundered through the horde, drawing closer to the horned sorcerer.

The Prismatic King. That title banged through the winged warrior’s thoughts as he smashed aside the brutish fighters. To vanquish that tyrant was his cause, yet with every step that took him nearer to the sorcerer, the more his mind made him question. Disconnected memories and images rose up, impressions of shadowy courtyards and mirrored halls, foggy battlements and moats of boiling fire.

A sweep of his warhammer spilled the wreckage of a dozen furred beastmen into the muck. King or minion, it was sufficient for the moment to know that the sorcerer was his foe.

The sorcerer fell back, hurling its magic at the oncoming avenger. Its conjurations, growing rapidly more desperate, pelted against the golden plates of its adversary. Spells that should have melted organs, enchantments that could pulverize stone: these sorceries simply dissipated as they drew near the warrior, fading away like smoke.

The barrage of sorcery swelled into a storm of destruction. Raging clouds of flame immolated packs of marauders as the sorcerer loosed his power against the winged avenger. Crackling spears of black lightning seared through herds of beastmen, yet whatever havoc the magic wrought against incidental victims caught in its path, upon the warrior himself they lost their terrible potency.

A fierce bellow boomed over the lagoon. The golden avenger swung around in time to face the charging one-eyed giant. With a great leap he flung himself into the sky and away from the brute’s path, leaving his enemies to be crushed beneath the cyclopean titan’s hooves and impaled upon its bovine horns. The great beast turned, stamping and braying in frustration, furious at missing its prey. Angrily, it tore the still writhing bodies of men and monsters from its horns, rending them in its enormous claws.