Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

The man looked anxiously at the splattered husk of the horror that had seized him, then focussed upon the armoured visage of his rescuer. Folding his hands across his chest, he prostrated himself. ‘Glory to you, noble hero, that you should redeem the life of one so wretched.’

The warrior stared down at the cloaked man, studying him with a penetrating gaze.

‘Who are you and why do you follow me?’ he demanded.

‘Peace mighty master!’ the reply came. ‘I mean you no ill! No ill at all!’

‘Then answer me,’ the warrior said. ‘To survive in lands such as these you must either have a dangerously cunning mind or powers not apparent to the eye.’

An almost embarrassed look fell upon the man’s lean face. ‘Mind and powers wouldn’t have saved me this day.’ He pointed at the splattered husk. ‘A moment of incaution is all it needs to draw the attention of the Prismatic King.’

The warrior felt a tremor of hate boil inside him at the mention of the tyrant, the foe he knew he’d come here to vanquish. ‘You are an enemy of the Prismatic King?’

‘I am Throl of Shaard,’ the man said. Despite his fear and the quiver in his voice, there was pride when he spoke the name Shaard.

‘Shaard?’ the warrior repeated, finding the name strangely familiar.

Throl gestured to the misty scrubland around them. ‘All of this was the indomitable nation of Shaard, with its crystal palaces and golden cities. Towers of diamond and ruby that soared up to the heavens themselves. Roads of alabaster upon which were borne the treasures of discovery and the glories of empire.’ He shook his head, closing eyes that were suddenly watery. ‘Lost now,’ he whispered. ‘Torn down by the destroyers. All the wonder and all the beauty, all the craft and art crushed beneath the talons of our conquerors.’

The warrior nodded in sympathy. It was a tale that might be heard throughout the realms. Mighty kingdoms and great nations reduced to ash by the coming of Chaos. The despoilers left nothing in their wake, the corruption of the Dark Gods transforming the land itself into an unrecognizable horror.

‘I am all that is left of my people now,’ the man declared. ‘Throl of the Malachite Throne, greatest wizard of the empire. Once potentates and viziers grovelled before me, offering fortunes for my enchantments. My palace was more glorious than the sun — thousands of pilgrims would journey hundreds of leagues simply to gaze upon its splendour before they died. Princesses from a dozen kingdoms attended me…’ Throl waved his arms in an expression of helplessness. ‘Now I lurk in the swamps among the newts and vipers, living on a diet of rats and snails, hiding from those who are the new masters of the land.’

‘You saw the storm?’ the warrior asked.

Throl nodded. ‘The thunderstrike echoed throughout the swamps of Krahl. To me, its import could not be mistaken. I have seen such warriors before, descending upon Chamon from the realms beyond.’

At mention of others, a memory stirred deep within the warrior’s mind. There were others. Yes, others who he had been sent to find. Others who had fought against the Prismatic King.

‘You have seen the Thriceblessed?’ he asked, giving voice to the name as it emerged from the fog of memory.

‘A golden host wrapt in splendour and glory,’ Throl said. ‘But even they couldn’t prevail against the Prismatic King.’

Anger flared within the warrior’s heart. His eyes glared from behind his golden mask. ‘Yet somehow you have managed to succeed where the Stormcast Eternals have failed?’

Bitter laughter rose from the wizard. ‘You call this success?’ he scoffed. ‘I have magic enough to reflect his power. It is how I have remained as the last echo of my nation, the last shadow of my people. Yet what good does it serve? The Prismatic King’s power flows from his Eyrie of Illusion, contaminating the lands of Shaard. Nothing in these lands has been spared the touch of the Soulshriver. He is the lord of this blight. From his stronghold his corruption ebbs and flows like the tides of damnation, polluting all. Only I have remained unchanged.’

Throl pointed his finger at the warhammer. ‘My spirit is yet pure enough to recognize the energies that course through that weapon. Merely to gaze upon such a force would pain any creature of the Prismatic King.’

The warrior lifted the hammer high. Even in the misty darkness, there was a gleam of light reflecting from its golden surface.

‘Ghal Maraz,’ he declared.

‘The godhammer of Sigmar.’ The words came to the wizard in an awed gasp. ‘I had thought the relic lost, vanished into the mists of legend. It is spoken of in the oldest myths of my people, but never did I dare dream the stories to be true.’ He turned his eyes from the hammer to the man who bore it. ‘Now I understand how a lone warrior could decimate so many of the Prismatic King’s creatures. It pains me that I did not see your battle, only the aftermath. I had thought an entire warhost had wrought such havoc upon the enemy. I was confused to find the trail leading only to you. Tell me, who is this great hero who bears the godhammer to the very doorstep of the enemy?’

The question gave the warrior pause. Throl asked him for his name, yet there was none he could give the wizard. Perhaps there wasn’t an answer. Perhaps no name had been bestowed upon him. Perhaps it was something he had yet to earn. He looked down at the hammer he bore, at the ancient script etched into the golden metal. Here was all he needed to know. Here was all the identity necessary to him.

‘I am the Celestant-Prime,’ he declared, sensing the title buried deep within him. He looked at the holy relic in his hand. ‘But if you must name me, call me by the name of the weapon I bear. Ghal Maraz.’

‘There is power in names,’ Throl said. ‘Names are things to be guarded, especially in the domain of the Prismatic King. I will call you Ghal Maraz, for there is a name even the lords of Chaos fear to utter.’

‘You spoke of seeing my brothers? Others like me?’ the Celestant-Prime asked.

‘They descended upon Shaard in a rain of lightning,’ Throl recalled. ‘They were a glorious warhost, so vibrant and strong. The legions of the Prismatic King fell before them like wheat before the scythe. Man, daemon or monster, none could prevail against the golden warriors. Through the storm I could see a great gilded lord holding his hammer aloft in triumph, leading his army forth across my ruined homeland. In their wake they left the wreckage of the Prismatic King’s legions strewn about the plain. Such battles they must have fought as they pressed deeper into his blighted domain.’

The wizard sank down upon the ground sadly. The wonder left his voice, replaced by a mournful bitterness. ‘I dared to hope my people would finally be avenged, but it was not to be. I followed the path of their march from the swamps of Krahl to the hills of Zehnthi and the gates of the Maze of Reflection. And that is where their journey must have ended, and where my hope died.’

The Celestant-Prime shook his head. ‘It is impossible that the Thriceblessed could have been destroyed,’ he said.

‘There are things worse than death that await the enemies of the Prismatic King,’ Throl declared. ‘The Maze of Reflection is a trap that has claimed many who would oppose the tyrant. It was raised when he first brought his legions against Shaard. A great treasure is hidden in the maze, something of such power that it could break the Soulshriver’s magic. In the early days of his invasion, the knights of Shaard tried to breech the maze and seize the treasure, but none were ever seen again. Mighty wizards and cunning thieves matched their prowess against the maze, but never emerged. Dragons and giants, even rebellious warlords from the Prismatic King’s legions, have sought to seize the treasure.’ Throl waved his hands in a gesture of futility.