Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Amongst the carnage lay a small, scattered pile of faintly purple dust. All that was left of Oreus. Atrin knelt by the pitiful remains. He hoped his brother would find his way back to Azyr, but in truth he was not sure if such a death would allow Oreus to make that journey. Magic violated everything it touched. He had fought at the Eldritch Fortress, against the vile minions of the wizard known as the Ninth Disciple. He had seen brothers warped and twisted beyond recognition by powers no mortal should ever wield. Many of those touched by such raw sorcery had never returned to the forge. He whispered a prayer to Sigmar, that he might see his brother again.

‘We must go,’ said Alzheer.

Atrin nodded and, hefting his crossbow, turned to follow her.

This far into the tunnels, the signs of some forgotten civilisation were obvious. The caverns here were circular in shape, and had a rough, natural quality that suggested to Atrin that they had originated as ancient lava flumes, and had been converted for civilian function many hundreds or thousands of years ago, after the volcanic activity in this region had ceased. Finely carved cobbles, traced with an orange-gold metal he did not recognise, made up the floor, and the walls had regularly placed apertures in which were hung sconces shaped like drakes’ heads. Dust and cobwebs marred the impressive quality of the metalwork.

‘I hear movement,’ whispered Alzheer. She raised her shortbow, a recurved weapon of simple yet impressive design. Like the sabres that the Sky Seekers favoured, this was a cavalry weapon. It lacked the range of a longbow, but it was far easier to draw and loose from horseback, and powerful at close range. As she drew one of her poison-tipped arrows and eased back the string, the sinews and wood that formed its powerful composite structure gave a slight creak.

A scream echoed down the hall. Ragged and drawn out.

‘Callan,’ whispered Atrin. He had never heard the redoubtable warrior utter so much as a grunt of pain, yet somehow he knew it was his comrade that suffered. ‘We must hurry.’

They set off down the winding tunnel, which eventually opened into a junction. To the right a set of curving stairs led down, while to the left the cave opened into what looked like a burial chamber. Thick, dark stone blocks lay stacked in neat rows. The dim flicker of his torchlight revealed lines of ancient runes that covered the surface of each block, but from where he stood, Atrin could not tell in which language they were carved.

‘The sounds came from below us,’ said Alzheer. She did not wait for Atrin, simply drew an arrow to her cheek and headed for the stairs.

‘Wait,’ he hissed, but she took no notice of him, slipping down the stairs as quickly and quietly as a hunting cat.

For all their manifold virtues, stealth was not the domain of the Stormcast Eternals. Especially not one who had recently been dropped down a very deep hole, and subsequently almost devoured by a cave-dwelling predator. Atrin could not keep up with her without breaking into a shuffling run, so instead he put out the torch and drew his crossbow, then followed on as quietly as he could manage. He was uncomfortably aware of the shift-scrape his heavy boots made on the stone cobbles.

The steps ended at the foot of another tunnel. This one was wider, with channels that opened into small chambers on each side. As he made his way forwards, he could smell the stench of burned flesh and charred bone, and underneath that a pervading odour of spoiled meat. The floor here was stained a muddy brown. Slumped against the wall to his left was a gangly, stick-limbed figure with an arrow in its gut. Another of the bandaged creatures that the sorcerer favoured as minions. Coming closer, he saw that its throat had been neatly sliced. Foul-smelling, dark blood had already clotted around the wound. Atrin wrinkled his nose in distaste. He did not know what gave these foul creatures life, but they stank of the grave.

‘Interesting, interesting,’ came a high-pitched voice from the far end of the corridor. The sorcerer. ‘You have the anatomy of a mortal. Stronger and larger, of course, but you bleed as well as any man. Yet I saw your kind fall at the fortress, and disappear in a burst of light even as your corpse hit the ground. There is magic in you. I must not yet have cut deep enough to find it.’

There was another ear-splitting scream. Atrin abandoned all attempts at stealth, and rushed forwards. The sound of his boots on the rough stone drew two more of the bandaged horrors forth from the chamber at the end of the hall. He fired his crossbow, gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain it sent shooting down his shattered arm. Bolts of burning blue light roared down the length of the tunnel, and the two creatures simply came apart under the barrage. Dark chunks of flesh splattered the walls, and a mist of gore spurted forth. What was left of the things slumped to the floor, and Atrin charged down the hall towards the sound of his brother’s torment.

He entered a low-ceilinged chamber dimly lit by several blue-glowing lamps set into thick columns of carved, spiralling stone. In the centre of the chamber were more of those carved stone slabs, though the runes that covered their surface were masked by brown and red stains, or chipped and broken. Fragments of bones littered the floor, along with filthy strips of cloth and tattered parchments. Arranged on shelves, warped by the crude glass containers that kept them, were all manner of gruesome paraphernalia, from severed digits to grinning, polished skulls whose dimensions were unnaturally stretched. Across the walls someone had scrawled unknowable celestial configurations and twisted, sickening symbols in a child’s hand. A scored and seared archway of stone lay in pieces against one wall, the runes that ran across its surface pulsing softly with a wan green light. The room smelt of acrid chemicals and rotting filth.

‘Callan,’ he shouted, seeing no sign of his brother or the fiend that kept him. ‘Where are you?’

More of the bandaged wretches scampered towards him from the gloom, their silence as unnerving as the howls of a blood-crazed warrior. He tucked his crossbow to his chest and drew his gladius, ramming it through the chest of the first creature and whipping it across the throat of the next.

He carved them apart as if they were little more than straw mannequins. The air was thick with the tattered remnants of age-old cloth, and reeking blood spattered across his war-mask. Suddenly the aches and pains that wracked his body faded into insignificance. All he felt was the rapture of battle, the joyous roaring of his blood and the ecstasy of righteous vengeance.

‘Sorcerer,’ he shouted. ‘Face me, coward!’

The rain had ceased and the sun was shining down with furious strength once more as Thostos Bladestorm strode out to what would likely be his death. He did not fear the prospect. He cared only that the Celestial Vindicators still had a task to complete, and that if the fortress fell before Tharros could complete his spell and make safe the realmgate, his mission would fail. The only currency that mattered now was time, and Thostos could see only one way to prevent the orruks throwing themselves against the walls of the Dreadfort for even a few more minutes. Eldroc would be able to lead the men on without him, he had faith in that.

Archaon’s pitiless eyes stared down at him as he passed beneath the great statue of the Everchosen. Lord of the armies of darkness. Symbol of everything that Thostos had dedicated his life to destroying. The stonework was not as fine as that of the marble sculptures found in the halls of Azyrheim, yet the statue possessed a blunt and foreboding presence. If they had time, the Lord-Celestant would have had it torn down, piece by piece. Its very presence was an offense to the divine rulership of Sigmar.