Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

He pulled the last ropes of flesh free from his armour, and wiped his gladius on a cluster of lichen. The priestess, meanwhile, dropped to study the shorn tendrils that scattered the floor. Drawing several arrows, she began to cover them in the clear blue liquid that seeped from the thick bristles.

‘Some kind of poison?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘It can freeze a man’s muscles in moments. The porsuka uses it to numb its victims, to make the feeding easier. It will be useful.’

Atrin watched her work.

‘Where are your people?’ he asked at last.

‘Slaughtered or forced to run,’ she said, and he saw a deep sigh run through her body. ‘I misjudged the sorcerer, sky warrior. I thought he was weak, near death.’

‘Witchkin have a nasty habit of surviving. Like cockroaches.’

‘He must die. And so must Rusik, whatever that creature has made of him.’

‘We agree on that,’ said Atrin. ‘Know that we will likely die in the attempt. My arm is broken, and my leg likely fractured. I have lost my crossbow also. The odds of us surviving are… comical.’

She looked at him, and he was once again surprised by the determination and ferocity in her mortal eyes. Another time, another place, and this one would have made a fine Celestial Vindicator.

‘I do not fear death, sky warrior,’ she said. ‘My people have lived in its shadow every day of our lives.’

He knelt, so that their eyes were level.

‘I know your quality, and that of the Sky Seekers. But this does not have to be your fight, daughter of Sigmar. Your people need your leadership.’

‘Enough,’ she snapped. ‘As long as this Xos’Phet creature lives, we will never be safe. So it is with the traitor Rusik. In any case, your fellow warrior is still alive, and I would not abandon him to death and torment. No more of this talk. We go together, and we die together if that is what Zi’Mar wishes.’

Atrin smiled underneath his war-mask, and nodded.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘In any case, I confess I am quite lost. Your guidance out of this wretched hole would be much appreciated.’

‘You’re a fine shot with the bow,’ said Atrin, breaking the silence as they trudged through the tunnels.

Alzheer smiled. ‘Out on the plain, that is often the difference between life and death. My father taught me, and he was the finest hunter our tribe has ever known.’

They walked on, the water that dripped and ran from the cavern ceiling the only sound aside from the tramp of their boots.

‘He took me on my first hunt,’ the priestess said at last. ‘I was too young, but it had been a hard season, and everyone was needed. I carried the weapon he had crafted for me, and in all the years since I have never held a finer bow. ‘

She smiled at the memory.

‘So proud, I was. So excited. And then we came upon a pack of qualhorn, by some miracle. Most had been slaughtered by the orruks, but these were fine, strong beasts. My father guided my arm, taught me where the arrow rested, how to breathe before I loosed. I remember the wind rushing through my hair, the rumble of hunger in my belly. My first arrow took the nearest creature in the heart.’

‘That was a fine shot,’ said Atrin.

‘Lucky, perhaps. In any case, it was a swift death. Clean. My father said that was what a hunter owed his prey. He was not a man easily given to words of encouragement, but I saw the pride in his eyes and that was enough.’

They passed a chimney of rock, through which trickled a steady stream of clear water. Alzheer stretched out a hand and let the liquid spatter off her palm.

‘My father said the words, gave thanks to Zi’Mar for the kill. Then we headed home, imagining the taste of good, rich meat after months of surviving on little more than nuts and scraps. We were almost home when the claw-hound struck.’

Her hand went to the necklace she wore, gripping it tightly.

‘It was half-mad from hunger. Thin, ragged, but with the strength of desperation. That was the first time I felt true terror. I remember that, and nothing else but a frenzy of teeth and claws and stabbing blades. When I finally gathered my wits the creature was dead and its blood was everywhere. In my eyes, in my mouth. My arms, up to the elbow. My father lay there, his chest torn open. I met his eyes, and we both knew the truth of it. I stayed with him for hours, holding his hand while his breathing slowed and his blood drained. He never cried out, not once. His skin went grey, and his breathing shallow. He spoke his last words to me before he left. ‘This place wants you dead, Alzheer. Every plant, every creature. The land itself. All you have is the tribe. Keep them together, my daughter. Keep them strong.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Atrin, knowing from experience how little such words mattered to the grieving.

‘I had a choice, once my father was gone. I could drag his body back to the camp, where the elders could say the words and give him the hero’s funeral he deserved. Or I could return home with our kill, and at least a few of my people would go to their sleep without the ache of hunger in their bellies.’

She looked straight at him, and he saw the sorrow and the strength in her deep, brown eyes.

‘Diash found me stumbling into camp at dusk, near-dead from exhaustion. But my people did not go hungry that night.’

‘You did what your father would want,’ said Atrin. ‘And in the years since you have kept your people alive. He was proud when he died, and he is still proud of you now.’

She showed him the necklace. Upon a simple leather bond was a single jagged tooth.

‘I keep this, not as a trophy, but as a reminder of my father’s last words to me. All you have is the tribe. ’

Her hand clasped the tooth so hard her knuckles turned white, and blood trickled down her palm. Her eyes were no longer filled with sorrow, but with a burning rage.

‘The traitor Rusik made a mockery of those words. He abandoned us, sent my warriors to their deaths. That is why I will not leave these caverns until I have driven a knife into his foul heart.’

They did not speak again for a long time. Finally, they reached the site of the ambush. It was eerily quiet. Blood was spattered across the ground, though various insects and glistening molluscs were currently in the process of siphoning it up. They squelched and crunched underfoot as Atrin moved cautiously forwards into the cramped chamber, gladius raised. With some surprise and a little relief, he saw his boltstorm crossbow nestled next to the gap in the stone through which he had fallen. He gathered it up and checked the firing mechanism and the limbs. It seemed in workable order — Sigmar’s craftsmen forged weapons to last. He tried handling it, using his damaged arm to depress the trigger and his stronger arm to support its weight.

Workable. He had to awkwardly cradle the weapon and thus his usual standard of accuracy would suffer, but it could be done despite the lance of agony that it sent down his arm.

‘They went this way,’ said Alzheer. This time the trail was so obvious that a child could have spotted it. The bandaged servants that the sorcerer employed had simply dragged Callan along, by the look of things, and a great scuff was scraped across the stone. ‘They were not travelling at great speed.’

‘A Stormcast in full armour is no easy burden,’ said Atrin. ‘These creatures must lurk nearby, or have some stronghold close to here.’

‘I think you are right,’ the priestess nodded. ‘In his ranting, the sorcerer spoke of some hidden refuge within these mountains.’

‘Then we must push on. I will not leave Callan at that madman’s mercy for a moment longer.’

Corpses littered the cavern floor. The Stormcasts had accounted for many of the sorcerer’s wizened pets before they had fallen, and the surviving enemy had left their dead to rot. Carrion organisms had already begun their work.