Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘In truth I am not so skilled at the more delicate uses of magic,’ said Xos’Phet, considering the weeping figure. ‘This one, however, barely needed any prodding at all. It is all in hand, Lord Varash. I will have my subjects and you will have the opportunity not only to wipe out the orruk threat, but to take care of these new interlopers as well.’

He snapped his fingers and the blood-mirror collapsed. The sorcerer crossed to the inner wall, and Varash followed. They looked out across the courtyard, to the rear wall where the fortifications met the mountain. Rough stone steps wound into the rock, leading up to the hollowed-out platform upon which the gigantic Manticore Realmgate stood. Tendrils of baleful red light lashed across its rune-scarred surface, bathing the rear of the fortress in a crimson glow. Above the gate, crouching with wings outstretched and so intricately carved and engraved it seemed perpetually on the verge of bursting into life, was the gate’s namesake, a monstrous, bat-winged fiend with a leonine head.

‘See how it hungers, Lord Varash?’ whispered Xos’Phet, staring at the portal like a starving man at a grand feast. ‘Such incredible power. This realmgate is different. It has been awakened, weaned on blood and fear. Given the proper sacrifice, it will birth a legion that will drown the Roaring Plains in blood.’

The sorcerer looked up at him, crimson light shimmering in his eyes and across the iridescent scales that marked his face.

‘I will unlock the secrets of this realmgate, and you will have your army. And together we will tear the Mortal Realms apart.’

They said goodbye to their dead upon the dawn. There was little ritual to speak of; a score of tribespeople slain in the raid were carried out of the town to a cluster of flat-topped rocks stained a vibrant green with moss and lichen. While several of the elders droned a deep, sonorous prayer, the bodies were laid gently upon the stone, hands crossed over their hearts and eyes open towards the sky.

As the funeral party made their way back to town, the carrion birds began to descend, in a flock thick enough to blot out the early morning sun. They whirled and circled, a murmuration of black and grey specks that was oddly beautiful despite its predatory intent.

‘There’s a savage sort of poetry to it,’ said Knight-Heraldor Axilon, glancing back. ‘Though I’m not sure I would choose to be devoured by crows upon my death.’

‘Death feeds life,’ said Alzheer, priestess of the Sky Seekers. She still wore her leather armour, and carried a curved blade at her hip. ‘We return our bodies to the sky, and begin the circle anew.’

‘I am sorry for your losses,’ said Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon.

‘They would be much greater if you had not been there to defend us,’ said Alzheer. ‘We will not forget this.’

‘I wish I could promise your people more than further battle and bloodshed,’ said Mykos. ‘I wish I could say that the armies of Azyr will pour into this realm and make it safe for humanity once more, let you hunt the plains and grow your crops in peace.’

He shook his head, and lifted his war helm. It was the first time he had done so in her presence. His skin was a rich, dark black, almost perfect in complexion, unmarked at all by the many battles he must have fought. He had a round, boyish face, topped with a strip of shaved hair that ran down the centre of his skull.

She looked upon him, and for a moment she was surprised that she pitied him. His fight would never end, she knew. There must be uncounted realms that were equally stricken as this one, endless, shattered remnants of humanity praying desperately for relief from the long darkness. Mykos and his warriors would likely never see their task completed. How could even warriors as brave, as skilled as this defy so great an evil as the shadow that lay across the world?

‘I can only promise that the Celestial Vindicators will make our enemies pay,’ he said, and there was a fire in his voice that she had not heard before. His stark brown eyes bored into her. ‘We will seek them wherever they hide, in their fortresses where they think themselves safe from justice. We will tear down their walls, and we will put them to the sword. They will die as their victims did, begging for a mercy I shall not grant them.’

As quickly as it had flared, his rage was gone. He blinked and swallowed, and looked almost surprised at his own vehemence. She smiled sadly, and traced her fingers across the lion carved upon his breastplate.

‘Your vengeance is Zi’Mar’s justice,’ she said. ‘But do not lose yourself in it, my friend. You are a good man, in a world where few exist. Do not let revenge define you.’

They did not spare much time for grief. Led by the warrior Rusik’s horsemen, the Celestial Vindicators made good time to the mouth of the Dragonmaw Canyons. It was easy to see how they had earned their name. Jutting out of the low range of mountains like a snapping jaw, the entrance was a jagged cluster of sharp stone that seemed almost impassable, a twisting spiral of serrated rock keen enough to draw blood. As the Stormcasts approached, a thunderous rumble shook the earth beneath their feet. It was a drawn-out, grating roar, the sound of a hundred fortress walls collapsing.

‘The earth here, it moves and shifts,’ said Rusik. ‘One moment the path through the mountain may be clear, the next it is a forest of razor-sharp stone.’

‘Then how in Sigmar’s name are we going to march several hundred plate-armoured warriors through it?’ snapped Prosecutor-Prime Goldfeather.

‘We will pass through because I know this land well, and I know when it is about to betray me. Priestess, I will need your riders,’ Rusik said. ‘We will scout ahead on horseback, find a route through. Once we are sure, we will send back a rider to signal that things are safe and guide you in.’

‘You require every single rider?’ asked Lord-Celestant Argellon.

Rusik nodded. ‘These canyons are vast, and not friendly to trespassers. Many dangerous creatures hunt within.’

Alzheer’s force numbered around a hundred mortals, fifty or so on horseback and the rest lightly armoured skirmish troops carrying bows and simple hatchets. Rusik led another fifteen horse riders — dour, battle-scarred men who eyed the Stormcasts sullenly. Clearly their leader had not extolled the virtues of the Celestial Vindicators to them after his treatment at the hands of Thostos.

‘Be careful, priestess,’ said Mykos as Alzheer made her way over to Rusik’s band.

‘I am always careful, my friend,’ she replied. ‘And besides, I would not miss the chance to see you and your warriors in battle once again.’

As she and the rest of the riders filtered into the maze of jagged rocks, Mykos Argellon got the uneasy impression that those had been the last words he would ever hear her speak.

Diash felt the hard ground beneath him clatter his old bones with every step taken by the ancient, rheumy horse that carried him. Not for the first time he wondered why he had decided to join this damned fool expedition. He had never intended to. Then that foul-tempered troublemaker Rusik had opined loudly that it was good he was not coming, as coddling old, frail warriors past their prime would only slow them down. Well, he could hardly stay after that, could he?

They had been travelling for almost an hour now, and the sunlight of the plain had given way to a gloomy darkness as the canyon walls loomed overhead, knotted together far above with a canopy of twisting vines. As they rounded a sharp turn, dust fell from the canyon wall, and another loud groan echoed around them.

This was a cursed place, as the tales said.