Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘Stay close,’ growled Rusik, at the head of the line. ‘Another five hundred yards and we will send back a rider to the sky warriors.’

As he spoke his men, identifiable by those ragged, crow-skin cloaks, dropped back to the flanks. Their hands rested on their curved sabres, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. Diash frowned. A lot of good that would be in such tight quarters. It would take a single rockfall or a few good bowmen to end this little expedition in short order.

‘I do not like this place,’ said Emni, riding at his side. ‘It has an ill feeling.’

They emerged from the tight canyon into a small, oval clearing, mottled with fallen sunlight. Vines wrapped around the edges of the space, pouring forth from the pockmarked and crumbling walls. Here the canyon forked left and right, and Rusik’s men spread out to guard each exit.

‘We are stopping here?’ asked Alzheer. ‘We should send back a messenger to inform the Stormcasts that it is safe to progress.’

A blood-curdling roar split the air, echoing loud enough that Diash cursed and covered his ears. Then, the sound of dozens of iron boots rattling on stone.

‘Orruks!’ shouted Alzheer, drawing her sword.

‘No,’ said Rusik softly. His own blade was in his hand. He sliced it into the neck of Alzheer’s horse, and the animal gave a horrifying shriek, rearing and kicking out as arterial blood fountained into the air. Alzheer gasped and toppled from her mount, and the beast collapsed on top of her, writhing and whinnying.

‘We are betrayed,’ shouted Diash, scrabbling for his own blade.

‘To the priestess!’ shouted Emni, but it was already too late.

Ragged, filthy warriors came towards the Sky Seekers from all sides, hurtling from hidden gaps in the canyon wall, brandishing cleavers and wicked, serrated blades. They leapt at the surprised riders, slashing, hacking and dragging them from their mounts.

Emni was already in motion. She hefted her spear, aimed and hurled it in one fluid motion. It sailed through the air, hitting one of the reavers in the gut and dropping him screaming to the floor.

‘Come on, old man!’ she shouted, drawing her sword and gripping the reins of her horse as it reared in panic. ‘We must break through.’

Diash was still fumbling with his blade, which he had tangled awkwardly in his reins. He got it loose, and slashed at a warrior who was charging at him with blood-flecked saliva dropping from his screaming mouth. The blade sliced flesh and scraped across teeth, and the weight of the blow flipped the attacker to the ground like a ragdoll.

‘Run, Diash,’ screamed Emni, and through a blur of sweat and blood he saw her fall, unhorsed by a wicked, hooked glaive. ‘Warn them!’

Someone struck her in the face, and she spat blood before she struck back. Her assailant howled, and as he spun around Diash could see the knife Emni had left in his eye.

‘Run, you old bas—’ she yelled, and her voice was cut off as someone struck her with an axe haft from behind.

Grinning, gore-streaked faces turned to him, and fear cut through the haze of pain and confusion. He wheeled his horse around, saw a spear arc through the air and miss his head by only a hair’s width. He kicked the beast into motion, making for the path they had entered from, angling his mount away from the screaming reavers that were bludgeoning and battering his fellow warriors into submission.

Something punched him hard in the chest, and Diash reeled, almost toppling out of the saddle. Gods, but it hurt. Whatever was attacking him struck his leg, in the meat of his calf, and scratched at his cheek. His vision blurred, and he hacked and coughed blood. Desperately, drunkenly, he kicked his horse forwards, leaning down low as the creature built up speed and barrelled through a cluster of painted warriors wielding barbed axes.

He was dimly aware of a jolt in his gut as his mount leapt over another obstacle, and the clattering of spears as more of the enemy sought to strike him from his saddle. Then the horse was running free, every single step taking him closer to the Stormcasts and hammering a nail deeper into his chest.

‘Lord-Celestant Thostos,’ came the cry from one of Goldfeather’s Prosecutors. ‘A rider.’

A pale horse broke free from the teeth of the cavern at a gallop, carrying a solitary figure upon its back. The rider was slumped low in the saddle, and as the beast drew closer Eldroc could see arrows protruding from his chest. Within his bloody, matted hair could be seen streaks of silver-grey. It was the old warrior, Diash.

The Lord-Castellant rushed forwards, placing himself before the terrified horse, which was frothing at the mouth with pain and fear. It came to a stop, and made to rear back, but Eldroc grasped its reins and placed a calming hand upon its panting chest.

‘Easy, my lad,’ he whispered, ‘easy there. Your task here is done. Be at rest.’

The creature whinnied and shook, but allowed him to gently lift Diash free and lay him on the floor. He was in a bad shape. Two arrows had struck him, one in the shoulder, just under the collarbone, and another between his ribs.

‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ said Eldroc. ‘Removing the arrowheads may kill him.’

‘Let me see,’ said Yereth, the leader of the tribal infantry that had remained behind with the Stormcasts. He was a squat, bullish man of middle years, with a shaved head covered in intricate tattoos. He knelt down beside Diash, and studied the wounds, then reached for a pouch at his belt.

‘You can help him?’ asked Mykos.

‘I can clean the flesh and numb the pain, but these are deep wounds,’ Yereth said. ‘He will likely not survive.’

Diash’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped and choked for air.

‘Easy, old man,’ said Yereth. He dipped his fingers into the leather pouch, and when he withdrew them they were covered in a thick, green paste. He began to apply the ointment to the arrow wounds on Diash’s chest.

‘They… they,’ gasped Diash. He coughed blood.

‘Do not speak, friend,’ said Eldroc. ‘Rest now.’

The old man shook his head furiously, and looked fiercely at the Lord-Castellant, reaching out to grasp the warrior’s arm in one trembling hand.

‘We were… betrayed,’ he whispered. ‘Rusik.’

‘The others,’ asked Mykos, ‘where are they?’

But the old man’s eyes had lost focus, and his hand fell limply to the ground. Yereth shook his head and cursed.

‘Bury your dead,’ said Thostos, ‘and return home.’

Yereth opened his mouth to protest, but the Lord-Celestant ignored him and turned to Mykos.

‘We must make haste,’ he said.

Unheeding of their own safety, the Stormcasts hurled themselves into the depths of the pass. Each dark corner of the path promised an ambush that did not come. There was little time for an ordered, safe advance. Instead they marched apace, in loose formation, shields raised, while Prosecutors swooped overhead with celestial hammers and javelins raised and ready.

After some time they emerged into an oval clearing, where dead mounts and shattered weapons covered the floor. Blood was spattered liberally across every surface, though only a few bodies littered the ground.

‘Reavers,’ spat Axilon, turning one of the corpses over with his boot. ‘Flesh-hungry savages. Chaos filth.’

‘No tribal corpses,’ said Goldfeather, scanning the scene. ‘This was a swift and well-planned ambush. They intended to capture, not slay.’

‘Food for their vile feasts,’ spat Axilon. ‘No loyal mortal deserves such a fate. We must pursue this raiding party and crush them beneath our boots.’

The Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden knelt, examining one of the dead horses. It had been run through with a barbed spear, and hacked apart with axes. Pointless barbarism of the sort that the enemy hordes delighted in.