Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘Let us take the lead,’ he told her. They had left the grand cavern and passed through a seemingly endless coil of tunnels and hollows, eventually entering a far smaller chamber packed with glistening stalactites, each of which shone with a faint, flickering luminescence. Ahead, a vague path led through a field of mushrooms, before spiralling up around a colossal column of black rock to a shelf of stone some dozen yards above them. The roof of the cavern was far overhead, and in the soft light Atrin could see movement up there — a flock of small, dark creatures that twitched and jostled nervously as the warriors passed.

‘Cave hawks,’ said Alzheer, gesturing at the movement. ‘Their presence is a good thing. They would not nest here if other predators were close.’

As one, the entire flock of dark, black birds took flight.

They whipped around the heads of the hunting party in a mass of whirling feathers and jabbing beaks. They moved too fast and the light was too poor for Atrin to get a good look at them, but he caught a glimpse of pale, milk-white eyes and sharp, toothed beaks.

‘And what does this mean?’ shouted Callan, buffeting the small birds away irritably with the haft of his great hammer.

‘Either we made too much noise,’ said Alzheer, drawing her shortbow and peering into the darkness, ‘or something worse…’

A terrible, hollow shriek echoed around the cavern, and they heard the sound of running boots. The sound reverberated around the cavern, making it almost impossible to pick out which direction it originated from.

‘Something worse then,’ said Retributor Callan, hefting his weapon and not even attempting to hide his delight. ‘Finally.’

No sooner had he spoken than the shadows before them shifted. A figure stood on the ledge before them at the top of the stone stair, curved blade in hand. Its eyes shone with a cold, white malice, and it bellowed in a voice that could not possibly come from a mortal throat.

It was him, Alzheer was sure. Rusik the betrayer, the man who had abandoned her people to the depredations of the men of the fortress.

She stood, raised her bow and felt the tickle of the crow-feather arrow at her cheek. She loosed, and it zipped away into the darkness and struck the thing that looked like Rusik in the chest. He did not even stagger. The arrow whipped away as it struck something hard as stone, and he looked straight at her.

His pale eyes glittered, and he raised his blade towards her silently.

‘Get back,’ said Atrin, stepping forwards and unleashing a flurry of shots with his crossbow. Each bolt that issued forth crackled with the power of the storm, and the far wall disintegrated as the volley slammed home. Alzheer caught a blur of movement in the strobing light of the cavern as something impossibly fast dived out of the way of the barrage.

‘Did you get him?’ asked Oreus, who had his own bow raised.

Atrin said nothing. He was still scanning the rise, searching for a hint of movement. Something dropped from the far left wall of the cavern. More shapes emerged from the depths of the mushroom field. He held his aim until one passed into the shimmering light. Thin, unnaturally so. Eyes hidden behind a wrap of bloody bandages. Air wheezing from behind a stitched mouth.

Oreus loosed an arrow. It struck the thing in the chest, and an explosion of light blasted the creature backwards.

‘Ambush!’ the Judicator shouted. ‘Ready your blades.’

The mortals were already loosing arrows into the thick of the creatures that rushed at them, but in the darkness and the chaos, few found their mark. Oreus and Atrin continued to shoot, blasting chunks of stone free and shredding the fungi as they hammered the advancing mob. Those that survived the barrage met the hammer of Retributor Callan. He moved the heavy weapon as if it weighed less than a child’s toy, sweeping it from side to side to clear out groups of the creatures, letting his constant momentum add fearsome power to his attacks.

Atrin had no idea where the damned things were coming from, but there appeared to be no end to them. He heard screams from behind and turned to see more of the bandaged creatures hacking and slashing their way into the ranks of the mortal warriors. He tried to aim, but there were simply too many bodies in the way for him to get a clear shot. He slung his crossbow and drew his gladius.

‘Out of the way,’ he yelled, grabbing hold of a tribal warrior and yanking him backwards to safety, trying to get his sigmarite armour in the way of the enemy’s frenzied attacks. To their credit, the mortals had responded well, falling back and forming a defensive circle of blades and spears. Yet from every direction more of the creatures dropped, scrambling through holes in the wall or appearing from behind the great clusters of fungi that spiralled around stalagmites and across the cavern walls.

Atrin grabbed one of the creatures around the throat, stabbed his gladius into its chest and threw the thing away, then landed a punch that snapped another’s jaw with a sickening crunch. He leapt out in front of the mortals, stabbing and slicing with his blade, forcing a breach for them to exploit.

‘Atrin!’ shouted Oreus from behind. ‘More of them come. We will be surrounded.’

He cut another bandaged horror down with a diagonal slash that opened its wrappings from throat to belly, and turned to see Callan almost drowning under the sheer number of hacking, slashing creatures. The Retributor battered away at the swarm, but there were too many of them inside the range of his hammer. Oreus risked shots where he could, blasting several into smoking ruins.

‘Hold them here,’ yelled Atrin, grabbing the shoulder of the nearest mortal. ‘Keep them at bay with your spears.’

With that he rushed to aid his stricken brother, drawing his crossbow once more.

‘Callan, get down,’ he shouted, and the Retributor trusted his comrade’s word instantly, dropping to the floor and shielding himself as the enemy fell with him, dragged down by his weight.

Atrin loosed, sending a volley of deadly projectiles ripping through the ranks of the enemy. Fragments of scorched wrapping and torn flesh splattered the walls of the cave as Oreus added his own missiles to the barrage.

No sooner had Callan staggered to his feet amongst the wreckage of his assailants than something struck Atrin with astonishing force, propelling him across the clearing and into a cluster of rocks, which crumbled under the weight of his armour. He groaned in shock and pain. By the Eight Realms, that one had hurt. Distantly, as if he were underwater, he heard a muffled, high-pitched laughter, and a fell green light doused the walls of the cavern.

Someone was screaming. It was Callan. His armour was on fire, a curtain of searing viridian flame clinging to him even as he rolled on the ground in an attempt to quell it.

‘Brother!’ shouted Oreus, drawing his gladius and barrelling, shoulder down, into the press of bodies, smashing his way through to his fallen comrade.

The Judicator made it a dozen paces before a swirl of purple and yellow motes enveloped him. They looked harmless, but as Atrin watched on helplessly his brother’s armour sloughed away like dust, bursting into the air as if someone had rustled a great field of pollinating flowers. The warrior turned, and looked straight at Atrin, then down at his hands. He did not even scream as his body came apart.

Tharros could feel his skin starting to burn. One did not summon the celestial storm without cost. It was a pure and violent power, wondrous yes, but not something to be taken lightly. Channelling it, shaping it was akin to grasping a burning ember from a roaring fire. Leave your hand in that fire too long, and the flames would begin to consume you.