Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘I see a man traumatised by the torture he has suffered in pursuing a just cause. I see a man who has survived unthinkable agonies, and yet continues to fight against the darkness with all the strength he can muster.’

‘Lord-Castellant—’ Mykos said, shaking his head.

‘With respect, Lord-Celestant,’ said Eldroc, ‘you are yet to experience the true cost of this war we fight. You have not been reforged a second time.’

The Lord-Castellant stared out across the field of corpses.

‘Agony,’ he said at last. ‘An infinity of torment. And at the centre of it all, a sure knowledge that you will never be the same even if you survive. It almost broke me, Argellon.’

‘Yet you remain calm. Thoughtful,’ said Mykos. ‘You do not carelessly risk your life or those of our fellow warriors.’

‘I can afford to be the voice of reason. Thostos must lead. He must be the epitome of what every Celestial Vindicator aspires to be. That is no easy task, especially for one suffering as he is. Yet despite your concerns, Thostos has not led us astray.’

‘He has been reckless,’ insisted Mykos.

Eldroc turned to the Lord-Celestant.

‘Are you sure it is the Lord Bladestorm that concerns you, my friend?’ he asked, softly.

Mykos bristled. ‘What do you imply, Lord-Castellant?’

‘Thostos unnerves you because you know that in time every Stormcast Eternal will fall in battle. Including you.’

‘I do not fear death,’ said Mykos.

‘But we do not talk of death, do we?’ Eldroc replied. ‘You are a man who prides himself on his humanity, and the thought of losing your grip on that is what you fear.’

Mykos said nothing.

‘I tell you truly, my friend,’ said Eldroc. ‘The Reforging was a crucible that almost destroyed me, but I came out of it a stronger man, and a greater warrior. Thostos will too.’

Mykos shook his head. ‘I hear your words, my friend, but I know you do not believe what you say. I see the way you look at him. I hear the concern in your voice when you speak his name. You are as afraid at what is happening to Thostos as anyone.’

Varash heard the sorcerer’s cackling before he even entered the grand tower. It was a high-pitched, joyless sound, and he had only ever heard the stunted whelp utter it when he was taking some poor wretch apart on the ritual tables. It echoed around him as he climbed the circular steps that wound towards the battlements. Even now, before they had begun the ritual proper, blood was dripping down the central shaft of the tower, pooling in the recesses of the great bronze skull that adorned the ground floor chamber.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ came that voice again. ‘Scream and curse all you like, for all the good it’s going to do you. You cannot halt progress, my unfortunate friend.’

Reaching the top step, Varash swung the wrought-iron door open and stepped out into a scene of butchery.

The gorepriests were busy removing the innards of the latest unfortunates to be chosen for Xos’Phet’s haruspicy. They worked in silence, mouths stitched closed — the sorcerer hated any noise while he worked, save for his own blathering — and dirty smocks stained red and brown with dried viscera.

The centre of the tower was slightly concave, forming an oval bowl into which drained the blood of the slaves and prisoners that had been sacrificed in the name of the sorcerer’s work. Running around the outside of the tower were cages, and as Varash passed he saw dead-eyed mortals stare out at him. They no longer screamed or begged. They knew that doing so would only mark them as the next to be given to the gorepriests.

Xos’Phet stood on the other side of the charnel pit. Before him was a wooden rack, upon which was impaled the hulking, green-skinned figure of an orruk shaman, its eyes and mouth stitched shut. The sorcerer turned.

‘Lord Sunken-Eye,’ he chirped, in that obsequious squeal that made Varash want to crush his skull to dust. ‘We have made much progress today, much progress.’

The sorcerer was hardly an imposing figure. A stick-thin sliver of a man wrapped in blood-stained purple robes, he hardly reached past Varash’s waist. He was bald and ill-looking, with watery eyes and a mouthful of yellowed teeth. The right side of his face, from temple to chin, was covered in iridescent scales like those of a fish, no doubt the result of some sorcerous accident. Varash despised every inch of the man.

‘You will make this work,’ he said, and it was not a question.

Xos’Phet wiped blood from his face with the hem of his robe, and gave a grin that turned his sallow face into a leering skull.

‘Oh yes,’ said the sorcerer. ‘So much power here. The gate of the Manticore, it has been doused in blood, saturated in it. They sense it. They taste it. All that is left is to send the invitation.’

‘You asked for more slaves for the sacrifice,’ said Varash. ‘I have already dispatched a raiding party, and they should return soon with fresh mortals.’

Xos’Phet giggled, and foamy yellow froth formed at the corner of his mouth.

‘Oh, I’m afraid not, Lord Varash,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid your little man-eaters have run into some trouble.’

He made a series of intricate gestures with his wrinkled hands, and the blood pooling in the grooves of the stone floor dribbled into the air, coming together to form a flat, circular disk. The blood-mirror shimmered, and an image formed like a reflection on the surface of a lake. It was dark, and hard to pick out, but Varash saw dozens of torn and broken corpses scattered across a field of grass. They wore scraps of leather and chain, and their flesh was marked and seared with both old ritual scars and fresher wounds. His men, he realised.

‘Dead,’ he growled. ‘Orruks?’

‘No,’ replied Xos’Phet. ‘Something far more interesting. Observe.’

As the sorcerer gestured at the image, a towering armoured figure stepped into view. This warrior was broad and tall, his imposing physique exacerbated by wondrously crafted warplate decorated with lighting bolts and the angry maw of a lion. His helm was a stern mask of cold fury, and he carried a warhammer and longsword of equally magnificent quality as his armour.

‘Sigmar’s whelps,’ snarled Varash, and cursed.

‘They fight impressively,’ said Xos’Phet. ‘Perhaps as well as you and your chosen warriors. None of your scouts will return, and they will bring with them no fresh meat for the sacrifice.’

Varash grabbed one of the gorepriests around the neck, and smashed the mute creature’s head into the table upon which he was working. Once, twice, three times. He felt its skull collapse and let the dead thing fall to the ground. The Stormcasts, these warriors called themselves. They had fallen to earth on bolts of lightning in all corners of the realms, taking the fight to the bastions of Chaos with the sickening fervour of the righteous. At any other time, Varash would have welcomed their appearance and the opportunity to match blades with the preening upstarts, but the timing here was too delicate for such complications.

‘Do not be concerned, Lord Sunken-Eye,’ said Xos’Phet. ‘I have taken steps. We will have our sacrifices.’

‘Explain.’

The sorcerer’s eyes flared suddenly, and his smile disappeared. Xos’Phet might be a stunted weakling, but he was not used to being spoken to in such a manner.

‘The human tribes that dwell here are on the verge of extinction,’ the sorcerer said. ‘They are weak and near broken, and in the absence of hope all that is left to them is shame and regret. Easy emotions to prey upon.’

He waved a pallid hand, and the blood-mirror warped and twisted again, now showing a solitary mortal warrior kneeling amongst several corpses. The man shook and wrapped his arms around himself, and Varash realised he was sobbing.