Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

She spat. ‘Foolish. They hacked our mounts to pieces, killed Jevir and a dozen others. The rest of us ran.’

‘And you survived,’ said Thostos Bladestorm.

The woman looked up and stared right at the Lord-Celestant. Her wolf-grey eyes met his own unnerving gaze and did not falter for a moment.

‘They could have slaughtered us all, but instead they welcomed the chase. We made good sport.’

‘What do they call you?’ asked Mykos.

‘I am Alzheer Nahazim,’ the woman said. ‘And this is what is left of my hunt.’

As she gestured, one of the prisoners let out a low groan and doubled over. Alzheer rushed to his side. Thick leaves of grass were bound around the man’s waist, stained a dark red. Alzheer gently removed them, and Mykos caught a glimpse of angry purple. Blood poured from the man’s midriff, and his pale face contorted in agony. A gut wound. If it was as bad as it looked, it was fairly remarkable that the man had made it this far. The Celestial Vindicators could do little to help. They carried no medical supplies, and the healing touch of Lord-Castellant Eldroc’s warding lantern only soothed the wounds of the storm-forged scions of Azyr.

‘How many of your people live?’ asked Mykos.

She shrugged. ‘We number a few thousand. Perhaps less, now. As I say, it has been a hard season. The orruks grow restless, and several of our hunting parties have disappeared without trace. Without food and water…’

Thostos turned to Mykos, and signalled him and the Lord-Castellant Eldroc over. The trio moved away from the prisoners, and were joined by Prosecutor-Prime Evios Goldfeather and Axilon, the Knight-Heraldor.

‘What do we do with them?’ asked Eldroc. ‘They may look savage, but they do not bear the marks of Chaos.’

‘Lord-Castellant,’ said Evios, ‘I do not think we can discount the possibility that these mortals may have been corrupted by the dark powers. We shouldn’t blindly trust them simply because they aren’t covered in flayed skulls and severed extremities.’

Mykos frowned. ‘Neither should we judge them simply because they aren’t well-dressed enough for your liking, Prosecutor-Prime. Look around you. This is a harsh place, and it breeds hard people.’

Goldfeather’s helm twitched slightly, and for a moment it seemed like the Prosecutor was about to argue the point. Instead he nodded abruptly, and fell silent.

‘We leave them,’ said Thostos.

‘They will die here,’ said Mykos. ‘They have no mounts and they’re deep in hostile territory. They’re exhausted and malnourished. Why did we save their lives, if we are simply to abandon them now?’

‘We cannot spare the men to guard them, and we do not have time to wait for mortals to keep up with us,’ said Thostos. ‘They will obstruct our mission.’

‘Our duty is to protect the sons and daughters of Sigmar,’ said Mykos.

‘You are wrong. Our duty, our only duty, is to defeat the forces of Chaos. If we fail to take the Manticore Dreadhold, the life of every mortal in this region is forfeit. Do not let emotion blind you to the importance of our task.’

‘We do not know the Roaring Plains,’ insisted Mykos. ‘These people do. They have survived here against all the odds. Their resilience and bravery is not in doubt, and their advice may be invaluable.’

Thostos looked out across the plain. Carrion birds were already circling above the piles of dead orruks. The wind was picking up again, whistling as it whipped through the clusters of long grass.

‘If they fail to keep the pace, we will not stop for them,’ he said. ‘Keep them under watch at all times.’

By the time the column was moving once more, the field of dead orruks was almost entirely carpeted by scavengers. Rat-mawed canine beasts ripped and tore, snapping at each other as often as they did the flesh of the corpses. Wiry, vicious-looking avian creatures tore strips of skin free and gobbled them down, while the ground itself began to crumble away as something unseen opened up great sinkholes to claim its own meal. Mykos Argellon watched the carnage with a kind of horrified fascination. Before the Stormcasts had passed out of sight of the battlefield, almost every scrap of matter had already been dragged away or consumed, even the orruks’ thick iron armour.

‘So much for the orruks stumbling across our little encounter,’ said Knight-Heraldor Axilon. ‘Almost makes one feel a little hungry, doesn’t it?’

‘Your appetite concerns me,’ replied Mykos.

They advanced out onto the open plain, the Celestial Vindicators setting a fierce pace that quickly saw the craggy foothills shrink into the distance behind them. The prisoners marched along behind the Stormcast column, guarded closely by the Liberators, who formed a rough circle around the group. Despite the harsh pace, the mortals showed no signs of exhaustion, save the wounded man, who was being supported by two of his fellows. His skin was pallid, and sweat poured down his face. It was astonishing that he was still standing, let alone keeping up with the others. Whether that would last, Mykos was uncertain. The Lord-Celestant felt the mortal leader’s eyes on his back. He turned, and she met his gaze unbowed.

‘What do you seek here, sky warrior?’ she said. Her voice had a soft, sing-song quality, at odds with her barbarous appearance.

‘Silence,’ said Liberator Phalryn, but Mykos held up a hand.

‘I cannot tell you,’ he said. ‘We do not know if you are trustworthy yet, and I will not risk my brothers’ lives on a hunch.’

She nodded. ‘Wise. But you have no need to mistrust us. You are sons of the Sky God, and you are our salvation. It is written.’

‘This Sky God you worship,’ asked Mykos. ‘Tell me more of him.’

‘Zi’Mar, the Rage upon the Storm. It is he who guides our arrows. He who welcomes brave warriors home when they fall in battle. He who blesses the hunt. He is far from us, but his strength guides us still. I am his daughter, and his priestess.’

‘You’re not exactly what I expect from a priestess, my lady,’ said Mykos.

She smiled, pulling aside the leather armour at her neck to reveal a lightning tattoo that reached from beneath her jaw to just above her collarbone. A symbol of a god of the sky, of battle and of lightning. It had been observed before amongst mortals who had survived the age of darkness without succumbing to the wiles of Chaos. Faith in a being as mighty as Sigmar did not die easily, even if the finer details of worship had been altered during the long years of his absence.

‘He sent you, didn’t he?’ she went on. ‘He sent you to kill the orruks and help us reclaim our lands.’

Mykos marched beside her in silence for a while.

‘No,’ he said, finally. The truth was best, always. ‘The God-King Sigmar created us, forged us in celestial fire. Our task is to take back the Eight Realms from Chaos and restore the law of order. But we are not here for you. Not today.’

She fell silent for a while.

‘Chaos?’ she said at last. ‘You mean the orruks?’

‘No,’ Mykos replied. ‘Warped human warriors. Minions of the Dark Gods.’

‘The Bloodstarved,’ she said. ‘The men of the fortress.’

‘You know of them?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. They have held that place for many years. Once their raiding parties were common. Now that the orruks have them holed up in the mountains, they rarely bother us.’

‘You don’t seem to bear them much ill will,’ said Mykos.

‘On the plain, everything but your fellow tribesman wants you dead,’ she said, and shrugged. ‘The Bloodstarved are cruel, and despised amongst my people, but they are one of many foes. For us, it is good that they hold the dark fortress. It keeps the greenskins’ eyes fixed on them.’