Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

The Prosecutors stayed high, and well clear of the camp, using the clouds for cover. Their resplendent wings did not lend themselves to subterfuge, and if even one orruk happened to look up and see them it could spell disaster for the rest of the Stormcasts. It was hardly as if they needed to get any closer, thought Evios. Any fool could see that this force of orruks outnumbered the Celestial Vindicators’ own army several times over.

‘I’ve never seen the like,’ said Prosecutor Galeth, who was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How can we possibly triumph against such numbers?’

Normally Evios would have chastised the warrior for such a comment, but in the face of the apocalypse gathered below them, it hardly seemed appropriate.

‘We cannot break through that,’ said Omeris, and there was no fear in his voice, just simple and unavoidable logic. ‘Not if we wish to have anyone left to complete our mission.’

‘There must be some other way,’ said Galeth. ‘Some way to circumvent this.’

‘Just keep watch over the orruks,’ said Evios. ‘And keep out of sight. If they move even an inch, I want to know about it. If this force catches us in the open field, we are lost.’

He turned to let the roaring wind fill his wings and carry him back out across the plain towards the main force of the Celestial Vindicators. The Lord-Celestants would not welcome the news he bore.

‘So the pass is blocked,’ said Eldroc. ‘That complicates things.’

‘How many orruks are camped there?’ asked Thostos.

‘Many thousands,’ said Goldfeather. ‘Many, many thousands. We did not get close enough to provide an entirely accurate estimation, but their wretched hovels are thick across the ground. I can still smell the stench from here.’

Stormcasts spent so much time with their faces masked beneath their war-helms that, for a leader like Mykos, reading his warriors’ voices was almost second nature. He could tell that Evios was worried. That concerned the Lord-Celestant as much as the grim news, because for all his bluster the Prosecutor-Prime was one of his most eager and unflappable fighters. It must be a mighty force indeed that they faced.

‘If we strike hard, before they are ready,’ said Thostos, ‘can we push through their line?’

‘They do not have any lines, Lord-Celestant,’ said Evios, shaking his head. ‘Just one huge mass of iron. A force a quarter of their size could hold that pass. We would be surrounded and picked apart.’

‘Then we examine our options,’ said Mykos. ‘The mortals. Alzheer says they know every inch of this region. Perhaps they know an alternative route through the mountain.’

‘Time runs short,’ said Eldroc. ‘The God-King stressed the importance of completing this mission as quickly as possible. The longer we delay, the more likely it is that the forces of Chaos will discover our presence and reinforce the dreadhold.’

‘Then our choices are limited,’ said Thostos.

The Lord-Celestant signalled for the mortals to be brought forward, and in short order Liberator Phalryn had gathered them. They looked even more ragged than when they had first been rescued. The Stormcasts had given them what water and food they could spare, but exhaustion and dehydration had already taken their toll. Their lips were cracked and dry, their eyes bloodshot. Mykos felt a stab of guilt for pushing them so hard, but quickly pushed it aside. Better they were given the chance to survive than left to a certain death out on the plain.

Thostos came forward, approaching the priestess and ignoring her fellow warriors.

‘You aided us once,’ he said. ‘I require you to do so again. A large orruk camp blocks Splitskull Pass, preventing us from reaching our objective. We need an alternate route.’

‘You seek the dreadhold, and the gate of fire,’ said Alzheer, nodding as if that was the clear and obvious answer. ‘The Sky Seekers can help you, son of Zi’Mar. There are ways to reach the fortress.’

‘You can lead us there?’ asked Mykos.

‘The paths through the mountain are dangerous and twisted,’ said Alzheer. ‘To traverse them, we will require the help of my people. I can take you to our camp, and our scouts will be able to guide you.’

Thostos stared into the priestess’ eyes, and again she did not avert her gaze.

‘I believe that I can trust you,’ said the Bladestorm. ‘I warn you, however, that if I sense even the slightest hint of betrayal, you and your people will not live long enough to realise the depth of your error.’

Alzheer nodded.

‘The God-King granted me this quest, and I will let nothing interfere with its successful completion. We are clear?’

‘We are.’

Before the Stormcasts rose two great towers of wind-scoured, vine-wrapped rock, one shaped like a spear, the other a wide, rough semi-circle that enclosed the smaller formation. Together, they provided a small lee of natural cover from the blazing sun, and in this sheltered valley Eldroc could see the leather coverings of tents and yurts. As they marched closer, they saw no occupants.

‘We are here,’ said Alzheer.

‘Abandoned,’ said Mykos. ‘Perhaps your people came under attack?’

Alzheer simply smiled, put two fingers to her mouth and gave a series of sharp whistles.

Lean human warriors appeared suddenly from every angle, dropping from cleverly disguised apertures in the walls of the mesa, or bursting forth from tents and thickets of grass.

‘Shields,’ roared Axilon, and the Stormcasts put a wall of sigmarite between themselves and the mortals. Evios and his warrior-heralds took flight, wings glittering in the midday sun as they readied their storm-called javelins.

‘Hold,’ yelled Alzheer, breaking free from the line of Stormcast Eternals and raising her hands. She approached the tribesmen, speaking fast and low in a language that Eldroc did not understand.

Two warriors came forward, one male and one female. Both wore chitinous chestplates and greaves, painted with the same lightning-bolt sigil that was tattooed upon Alzheer’s neck.

‘Priestess,’ said the woman, coming forward and lowering a forked spear. ‘You bring strangers to our home. Well-armed strangers.’

‘Saviours,’ said Alzheer. ‘Warriors of the Sky God, sister. They slaughtered a greenskin warband as if they were lame dogs.’

Mykos came forward. In his turquoise plate, emblazoned with lightning bolts and the flaming comet of Sigmar, his blue eyes blazing through his unforgiving war-mask, he looked every inch the herald of a vengeful god. Several of the mortal warriors dropped to their knees and traced a lightning bolt down their chests with the first two fingers of their free hands. Most stayed standing, weapons levelled and ready. These people have been battered, but their spirit is not broken yet, the Lord-Celestant thought with some admiration.

The female warrior whistled, and looked to her companion.

‘He’s a big one, alright,’ she said.

The other warrior was a wiry, flint-eyed greybeard, still corded with muscle despite his advanced years and obvious signs of malnutrition. He stepped forward, an arrow nocked on his bow but lowered to the floor, and peered at Thostos’ armour.

‘This metalwork,’ he said, and his voice was full of awe. ‘I’ve never seen the like.’

‘Elder Diash is our smith and weapon-crafter,’ said Alzheer, smiling warmly at the man.

‘By which she means I spend my days tying flint to arrows,’ said Diash. ‘There’s no good, solid metal here, sky warrior, unless you fancy asking the orruks for some of theirs. Mind you, don’t seem like you need any.’

‘This warplate comes from the forge-castles of blessed Azyrheim,’ said Mykos. ‘It was crafted from the remnants of a dying world, shaped by the matchless skill of the Six Smiths. It has saved my life a hundred times.’