Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

He fumbled at his side, underneath the stinking rags that now enveloped his bleeding form, and as his fingers touched the wound that the savage had left in his flesh he gave another yelp of pain.

‘Watch where you step, you brainless fools,’ he snapped, though conversing with the creatures at all was largely pointless.

The first of them had been accomplices of his, those he had consulted with now and then on the various intricacies of blood magic. There had been a reasonable level of collaborative progress for a while, but as always happened in the sorcerer’s experience, their professional partnership had eventually become strained. They had made the unforgivable error of disagreeing with him on several key theoretical points. He had removed their troubling capacity for reason and defiance along with their eyes and their tongues. Over the years he had added to his collection, until he had quite the retinue of mute, compliant slaves that were little more than husks, bound to his will.

Clumsy, stupid, inconsiderate husks who were going to be the death of him.

‘How did it come to this?’ he moaned, as his bearers splashed through the freezing waters of an underground stream, which sent ripples of silver, phosphorescent light playing across the stone walls.

He had been so close. So damnably close. The ritual had worked, and he had been mere moments away from summoning a horde of screaming neverborn into being, and into his service.

‘That fool Varash, how I would have savoured the look on his face when I ordered my army to tear him and his men limb from limb,’ he said. ‘Yet the dullard could not even hold a few overzealous warriors at bay.’

Xos’Phet was dimly aware of just how much blood poured from his stab wound. He was also beginning to feel light-headed and weightless, as if he had just drunk a bottle of duardin fire-ale after a week without water. If he did not make it to his sanctum soon, he would die. The thought terrified him. There was so much left to do, so many secrets on the verge of being uncovered.

The gorepriests rounded a corner, and the wall to their left simply fell away. The cavern they had entered was enormous, so wide and high that it could have housed the Dreadhold itself with room to spare. The path they travelled narrowed, and hugged the right-hand side of this enormous chamber, winding up towards the far wall. They were halfway across the chamber, so close to the safety of Xos’Phet’s subterranean sanctuary, when the gorepriest carrying him staggered to a halt.

‘Did I order you to stop?’ shrieked the sorcerer, flailing weakly at his servant with one pallid hand.

The creature took one step forwards, and then toppled to the floor. The other gorepriest just above managed to keep its burden upright, but then a blade flashed in from the shadows, and its throat sprayed dark, clotted blood. Xos’Phet rolled onto the hard floor of the cavern with a yelp, and saw more blood spray as a wiry, thin man with a dirty beard and the rags of a plains-dwelling savage knelt over his servant, hacking and slashing with maniacal intensity.

Had he been his normal self, Xos’Phet would have slain the man in an instant. Perhaps with a single sheet of magical flame, or a sizzling bolt of acid. As it was, he could barely concentrate enough through the blur of pain to raise his hands in a futile gesture of surrender before the attacker was upon him.

Wild, frenzied eyes. Dried blood staining a narrow, angular face with dark, sun-baked skin. And, most importantly, a wicked curved blade in hand that was currently cutting into his tender neck.

‘Wait,’ he gasped. ‘The plains rider. Rusik.’

His captor growled, and the sword dug a little deeper. Xos’Phet summoned every ounce of his self-control, and whispered an arcane phrase while weaving a complex pattern with his free hand.

He gestured, an open-palmed push, and his assailant flew to crash into the wall of the cavern with a bone-shaking thud. The man slid to the floor and rolled, coming to a rest only an inch from the lip of the abyss.

Xos’Phet clambered to his feet, still holding his hand out, locking the man in place. Rusik roared and strained, but could not break free of the binding spell.

‘I should cut your heart out,’ the sorcerer spat. ‘Filthy savage, daring to attack me. After all I have done for you.’

Rusik shouted something unintelligible, and spat at him.

‘I should,’ Xos’Phet continued, ‘but given our current situation, I may require your assistance. Those warriors in turquoise, they think us defeated. That wretched woman thinks she has slain me, but Xos’Phet the Eternal does not pass so easily.’

The warrior continued to grunt and snarl. Xos’Phet sighed. It had been an easy thing, to play upon this one’s guilt and shame, but the trouble with tempting a man into sacrificing his soul to the Dark Gods was that they tended to take the whole thing very seriously.

‘You want revenge, don’t you?’ he said, staring into the man’s haunted eyes. ‘I can give you that. I can give you the slaughter you desire, that and so much more.’

He stepped closer. The man’s dark eyes had gone strangely still, as if he had slipped into a trance.

‘Would you like that, Rusik?’ he whispered. ‘To have your revenge on those that have wronged you? To have power, true power?’

The warrior’s eyes flashed, and he broke from Xos’Phet’s hold for just a moment, swiping his curved blade up at an awkward angle, trying to slash the sorcerer’s throat. Xos’Phet skittered backwards, laughing.

‘Oh, very close,’ he laughed. ‘You almost had me fooled. In truth, however, it does not matter if you want this or not. I have great plans for you, my savage friend.’

He stepped to the body of one of his gorepriests and knelt to run his fingers through the thing’s belt. He found the knife, and turned back to his prisoner.

‘I mean to make you useful to me regardless,’ he said.

‘Something is wrong,’ said Thostos.

They had been watching the Lord-Relictor weaving his spells upon the gate for over an hour, and for the majority of that time he had been as still as stone, only the sonorous muttering that came from deep in his throat any indication that he was at work. Now he was twitching, jerking as if wracked by lightning. Gone was the calm authority of his magic. His face was masked by the grinning skull that all Lord-Relictors wore, but Thostos could see the tightness of his posture and the shudder that ran through his frame.

‘The gate,’ gasped Mykos.

The harsh but pure light that poured into the Manticore Realmgate began to darken and twist, turning to thick red veins of spiralling, crackling energy that pushed back at Tharros’ storm magic. The Lord-Relictor set his feet and leaned into the onslaught, but it did not cease. The surface of the realmgate began to boil and surge, and a choir of sibilant whispers echoed around the fortress.

A grasping, red-scaled limb reached through the membrane of the portal.

‘Shield!’ shouted Mykos. ‘Raise your blades.’

They belched forth from one reality into another, spewing into the mortal realm with eager hunger and the thunder of brimstone fire. They were slaughter given flesh, the psychic resonance of the violence and fury of battle condensed into a brutal physical form. Their flesh was the deep red of a sword wound, corded with powerful muscles and branded with runes of loyalty to their dread master. Sharp tongues hung over wicked, finger-length teeth, drooling acidic spittle that hissed as it dropped onto the hard stone floor. Great, curving horns capped their heads, wound with brass rings and capped with bronze. Each carried a wicked sword of unique design. Some writhed like snakes in their wielder’s hands. Others bore eyes that blinked obscenely as the blade swept through the air, or blue-red veins that pulsed with blood.