Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Through the wave of torment, one thought coalesced. He would not fall here. Not when there were people counting on him.

Slaadh watched the stricken Stormcast with amusement. These fools. They thought they had power within them to rival the Lord of Skulls. They thought a set of shining armour and some heaven-wrought weapons gave them license to defy the true power in the realms. Their arrogance had not only doomed them, it had revealed the presence of the last bastion of humanity. Gates opened two ways.

Astonishingly, the warrior in sea-green and gold armour was still moving, despite the blood that boiled in his veins. Slaadh felt his heart sink. These were such worthy foes, but someday soon they would all be dead, their idols cast down and their cities burned around them. Who would be left then to challenge the might of the blood-chosen? It was almost a waste.

Still, there was a tally to collect. He raised his axe for the killing stroke.

Mykos could not see through the haze of pain, but he could hear the heavy steps of the scarred warrior coming towards him and could smell his rancid, rotten-meat stench. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the hilt of his grandblade, which lay in the dirt only a few inches from his face, and waited. He would only have one chance.

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ came the creature’s ragged, eager hiss. Too close.

Mercutia sang as she whipped through the air.

The blade swept across so fast that Thostos could not see if it had struck home. Through the rain of blood he saw the Chaos priest standing before Mykos, axe raised and ready to strike.

The brute’s head slowly slid free, tumbling down to splash in a puddle of gore, a grin still etched across its savage features.

Mykos was struggling to his feet, digging his grandblade into the earth to lever himself upright. Thostos hacked another enemy down to the ground, finished him with a crushing blow from his hammer, and ran to his fellow Lord-Celestant. Argellon was staggering towards the curtain of blood that enclosed the tower. One hand was outstretched, and Thostos could see the sheer heat of the sorcerous power begin to melt the sigmarite.

‘Hold, brother,’ he shouted over the roaring, boiling sound of the bloodfall. ‘You cannot pass.’

‘Someone must,’ said Mykos, collapsing to his knees. His voice was little more than a ragged whisper. ‘We must end whatever is happening, and I am near dead already. Let me go.’

‘This is my task,’ said Thostos. ‘You will stay, and you will lead our men to victory.’ He grabbed the man around the shoulders, and locked eyes with his brother. ‘They must reach the muster point. You must lead them there, as Sigmar ordered us. You will do this.’

‘Thostos—’ Mykos said, but the other Lord-Celestant was already moving.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he stepped into the curtain of boiling blood.

Where it fell, the acidic gore ate through sigmarite and flesh with contemptuous ease. Thostos could feel his glorious armour, forged to deflect the blows of Chaos-forged axes and deny the spell-fire of twisted wizards, coming apart around him. The finely wrought image of the lion that he bore on his chest melted away. The icons of his beloved Warrior Chamber were obliterated. Yet Thostos did not fall.

Where once his flesh had been pale-white, now it glinted with the strength of purest sigmarite. A gift from the sorcerer Ephryx, the Ninth Disciple and lord of the Eldritch Fortress. Where once it had nearly destroyed him, now it saved his life. The blood ate away at the metal of his flesh, searing and scarring him, but where soft flesh would have been utterly destroyed, his new form endured. Soon he was through the burning bloodfall, and he collapsed to a hard iron floor.

He growled, trying to fight back the waves of agony that enveloped him. Smoke rose from his mutilated body, and melted sigmarite dripped free to spark and smoulder on the ground. Gritting his teeth and roaring in defiance, he punched one gleaming metal fist down, and forced himself to his feet. He staggered and almost fell, but reached out to grab a wrought-iron sconce shaped in the image of a screaming face. Through the blue-red haze of his vision, he took in his surroundings.

Inside the tower a circular staircase wound to the upper floors, while a steady stream of blood, shed naturally rather than summoned from some hellish realm, fell to pool in the indentations of a great bronze skull engraved upon the floor.

There was a sharp hiss, like the sound of a punctured lung, and Thostos heard movement above him. From an upper landing, two creatures bounded down the iron stairs to meet him. They were tall, spindle-limbed, with bloodied, bandaged faces and smocks stained with gore. One clutched a short, rusted bone-saw, while the other wielded two thin-bladed knives.

Thostos pushed away from the wall, and set himself upon the lowest stair. As the saw-wielding creature drew close, it leaped down at him. As it fell, Thostos could see the stitches that bound its mouth and eyes closed. Blood flecked its maggot-white skin as it hissed in fury.

He raised his blade, shifted to the side and let the thing impale itself. It groaned and wailed, yet still tried to hack at him with the saw. He let it slide free of his sword, and brought his hammer up to fend off the second creature. Somehow it got a knife past his guard, but it skittered off his metallic flesh. He stuck his sword through its chest, and as it gurgled he brought the hammer down to crush its head in a splatter of bone fragments and pink meat. The first attacker had staggered upright, so he spun and planted a boot in its chest. Bones shattered with an audible snap, and the thing flew away to land with a splash in the pool of blood at the tower base.

Thostos turned, and began to ascend the stair.

Mykos Argellon could barely stand. His entire body was aflame, and the slightest motion sent a ripple of torment through his wracked body. Around him the battle raged. The Stormcasts had established a defensive position in front of the gatehouse, but even as they hacked down scores of Bloodreavers, more rushed from the depths of the fortress or around the rock formation upon which stood the Manticore Realmgate. They could not hold here forever. Unless they could break the back of the enemy, they would be slowly picked apart.

The great relic-staff of Lord-Relictor Tharros was a blazing totem of celestial energy at the rear of the formation, but even the waves of healing energy that emanated forth and closed the wounds of stricken warriors could not reach every corner of the battlefield. Despite the attempts of the Prosecutors to clear the wall, more and more axes were being hurled down into the ranks of the Celestial Vindicators, and Mykos could see explosions of light all across the field as fallen warriors were called home by the storm.

He staggered down the steps, where a band of Argellonite Liberators held the stair leading to the central tower. They fought as one, shields intercepting the frenzied strikes of the enemy and opening just long enough for the warriors to thrust their runeblades through chests, stomachs and throats, or crush skulls with their heavy warhammers. In front of their formation lay a carpet of ripped and torn bodies, but the Stormcasts’ numbers were steadily dwindling. As Mykos stumbled forwards to join them, a flaming anvil head attached to a wicked, barbed chain sailed over the top of a Liberator’s shield, caving in the man’s helm with a splatter of flesh. Booming laughter echoed over the din of clashing blades as a broad warrior with bare, burn-scorched arms barrelled into the Stormcasts, whirling and rattling skull-tipped chains. He brought the anvil and chain around in a full circle, and swept it low, underneath the shield of another Liberator, who went down with a cry as his leg folded sideways.