Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘For Sigmar, and for the lost,’ said Mykos. Then he turned to Eldroc. The Lord-Castellant placed a hand on his shoulder.

Mykos smiled. ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said.

‘Hold to your oaths, brother,’ said Eldroc. ‘We shall meet again.’

There was little time to waste, and so in only a few minutes the five hundred warriors of the Argellonites Warrior Chamber were marching out of the Dreadhold, passing through the shattered gatehouse with its warped symbols of ruin and bronzed skulls. As they marched through, the Stormcasts assigned to shore up the ruined entrance saluted solemnly, striking a single fist against their chests. Despite the danger that awaited him, Mykos was not sad to see the last of the cursed fortress. It was tainted in a way that could never truly be cleansed, and the Lord-Celestant hoped that one day the forces of order would find the time to tear it down, stone by stone.

Knight-Heraldor Axilon marched at his side, singing along in his deep baritone to the Battle-hymn of Defiance, a favourite amongst the ranks of the Argellonites. The deep, determined voices of the Stormcasts drowned out the witless howl of the orruks.

‘Send them a message, Knight-Heraldor,’ said Mykos as they stepped out onto the dry earth outside the Dreadhold. ‘Let them know that Sigmar reclaims this land.’

‘As you say, Lord-Celestant,’ said Axilon with a grin, reaching for his battle-horn.

The voices of the Bladestorm warriors on the battlements blended with the singing of the Argellonites as they marched towards the mouth of the canyon. A clear, perfect note issued forth from Axilon’s battle-horn, a radiant sound of hope and glory that echoed out across the savage wilderness.

‘He will give us the time we need,’ said Eldroc, watching his friend march out towards an almost certain death.

‘Let us hope so,’ replied Thostos. His voice was as cold and emotionless as ever. ‘All rests on the next few hours. If the fortress falls, we will not be in position at the Crystal Forest as Sigmar demands. The entire offensive may unravel.’

Eldroc understood his Lord-Celestant’s concern. The timing was too tight. They must cleanse the Manticore Realmgate and pass through it into hostile territory, there to meet with the contact that would lead them to their ultimate objective. Sigmar was once again set to take the war directly to the forces of Chaos, and to do so every piece on the board had to be in the correct place at the correct time. There was a long path still to travel, and doubly so considering the losses they had already taken.

‘He will give us the time we need,’ he repeated.

‘It will hurt us to lose him,’ said Thostos. ‘Too often he lets his emotion rule him, but he is a fine warrior and a clever leader. His Argellonites fight well.’

‘He is a good man,’ agreed Eldroc.

The Lord-Castellant sighed, deeply and wearily. Mykos Argellon would likely die this day, and in a flash of celestial power he would be called back to the halls of Azyrheim, where he would be reforged by the wondrous power of Sigmar’s storm. Perhaps he would retain a memory of the man he had been. In all likelihood, he would not. The thoughtful, noble man that Eldroc had grown to admire would be gone, and in his place would be… someone else. Someone damaged, and uncertain. Or perhaps someone cold and distant, like Lord-Celestant Thostos himself.

This war would claim the best of them all.

The sky above the Roaring Plains crackled and thundered, great grey clouds rumbling above the Manticore Dreadhold and bringing with them a stinging sheet of rain. Evios Goldfeather felt the downpour on his armour as he spiralled into the sky, climbing high above the canyon and searching for signs of the enemy.

He could see them now. The walls of the canyon had a slight overhang which masked the winding tunnel, but even through the heavy rain he could see the bright yellow of the orruks’ spiked iron armour, splattered liberally with red symbols that contrasted violently with the green flesh of the brutish creatures.

They had made the mouth of the cavern just in time. It would be only a few moments until the leading edge of the orruk horde crashed into the shields of the Celestial Vindicators. Evios was no coward, but he did not envy the Liberators who would stand in the front ranks, the first wall against which the tidal wave of enemy cavalry would crash.

Movement above the canyon wall caught his eye. Out into the open air came strange, bloated, reptilian creatures, each with a whooping orruk astride its back. They were so stocky and powerful that it seemed impossible that their leathery wings could keep them aloft, let alone with a heavy creature upon their backs, but on they came at a fair speed, accelerating now that they saw Goldfeather’s Prosecutors heading towards them. Goldfeather nodded, satisfied.

His first target of the day.

Ideally, Mykos Argellon would have liked to push further into the canyon, establishing fallback points and switchbacks from which his reserve could launch fresh attacks when the momentum of the enemy charge played out. The ground here was stable, only just beginning to dampen and fill with the constant downpour. There were divots, potholes and occasional scattered rocks, but it was still decent cavalry terrain, largely flat and featureless.

‘Give me an hour and I could make this a killing ground,’ the Lord-Celestant muttered in frustration.

There was simply no time. Perhaps two hundred yards into the canyon they halted and began to form up. The sound of the orruks’ chanting was overwhelming now, backed by the chaotic, arrhythmic sound of thousands of iron-shod hooves. The ground shook beneath their feet, and rocks crumbled from the canyon wall and clattered off sigmarite plate.

‘Form the line!’ shouted Axilon. ‘Quickly now.’

Barely heeding the cacophony that grew louder and louder with each passing moment, Mykos’ Warrior Chamber began to take up their assigned positions. Liberator-Primes bellowed orders, forming their men into compact blocks, wondrous tower shields raised, warhammers and blades held at the ready. This would be the solid core of the Argellonites’ defence, the beating heart of their formation. If they could hold the line in the face of the enemy charge, the Paladin retinues could push forwards from the second rank, exploiting gaps in the enemy line with ruthless aggression.

Behind the infantry were the Justicars. They held their bows taut, ready to pour lightning up and over the heads of their brothers and into the orruk ranks.

His warriors had barely finished manoeuvring into position when Mykos Argellon saw the leading edge of the enemy charge.

‘Sigmar’s blood,’ said Axilon beside him.

It was no army. No organised fighting force. Such definitions seemed entirely inappropriate. This was an extinction event, roaring down the channel of the canyon towards them. It was a tidal wave of rusting iron and hollering green flesh, borne aloft on tusked beasts with eyes that glowed with murderous red delight. There was no measured charge, no effort to form a cohesive line. They charged as a great spear, bounding towards the Vindicators’ position with no thought to their own, simply a demented glee at the prospect of battle. Mykos saw more than one rider disappear under the storm of iron as his mount stumbled and fell. Others were crushed against the canyon wall, the momentum of their fellows grinding them to pieces upon the unyielding stone. The first arrows of the Judicators fell in arcs of searing lightning, scorching and blasting riders from their crude saddles. It was like throwing pebbles into an ocean. They were only two hundred paces away now, and gaining speed.

‘Stand firm, brothers of the storm,’ Mykos shouted above the noise of the enemy charge. ‘Here we make these witless creatures pay for every loyal human life they have taken. They will break upon our shields and die upon our blades.’