Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

He thought for a moment that he had been swallowed by a star, suffused with light and heat.

And then he was no more.

Watching his adjutant turn away, Theuderis considered his command. Every warrior had been selected by Sigmar himself, chosen from across the Mortal Realms to be the best fighters in history. His own feats had marked him out for leadership, but each and every Stormcast Eternal had a similar story of heroism and defiance to tell. There was not one amongst them that would take a step back in the face of the enemy, or flinch from the battle ahead. These were concerns for leaders of mortal soldiers.

Yet for all that, the Strike Chamber of the Silverhands was untested in war. The training fields of Sigmaron and the orchestrated battles of the Gladitorium were tests, nothing more. Theuderis did not fear death, for he would be remade if he fell, just as would all who followed him. There was a price for immortality, he had heard, but the greater loss would be the pang of failure. Though Neros Stormfather’s comment had been light-hearted, it had cast a doubt in Theuderis’ thoughts — the Silverhands were ready to be tempered in battle, but what of the Warbeast and his warriors? More than skill, bravery and fury were required to overcome the foes ahead.

In his former life, Theuderis had never known defeat. The Silverhand was not about to commence his eternal service to Sigmar with anything less than total victory.

Much had changed, though much had stayed the same. Arkas found the spot where he had been standing when Sigmar had ascended him to the Celestial Realm. Not only was he able to pick the place from the general layout of the collapsed fortifications, he could feel an imprint on the world from where he had been plucked for a new existence. The bolt of Sigmar that had taken him, the same cosmic energy that had deposited him earlier that day, left an indelible mark in the fabric of Ursungorod.

‘How long?’ he whispered as he looked at the tumbled ruin of what had once been Kurzengor.

‘Did you say something, Lord Arkas?’ asked Dolmetis, a few paces behind his lord.

‘When I last stood upon these stones they were mounted on each other as a great gatehouse,’ he told his companion. ‘I suppose they were knocked down by the sorceries of the foes that came that day, but it is the passage of time that has buried them. How long would you say, Dolmetis, would it take for the land to claim back its own?’

‘Centuries, Lord Arkas, as judged in the Realm of Heavens. Perhaps half a dozen or more.’ He stepped closer. ‘It is only a mortal measure, my lord. The past is of no consequence, only the future holds the hope of change. Many of the God-King’s host were taken from their realms in even more distant times.’

‘A good point, Dolmetis.’ He stamped a booted foot on the hard block beneath him. Blue sparks flew. ‘These walls were old even when I held them, set down in a time long past, along with the rest of the city below Ursungorod.’

‘The Shadowgulf?’

‘The lowest parts are called that. We thought they were the tomb of those that hollowed Ursungorod. I know better now. Gnaw-burrows of the skaven, bleeding the realms together, spreading canker into the depths of this place and the neighbouring regions.’

‘That is where we are heading?’

‘In time. We do not simply thrust our hands into the vermin nest. The clans of the Ursungorod I knew are no more — the hand of Chaos stretched far across these lands and despoiled the souls of its people. We will purge this taint and secure our route to the realmgate. Theuderis the Silverhand marches from the dusk to rendezvous for our attack and we shall crush the followers of Chaos between us like a fist closing. The battle will wet our blades and whet our wrath for the true war below.’

Doridun had been close at hand too and now stepped forward. His clarion was slung across his back and he held a blade slicked with blood.

‘And where will we find these enemies, lord?’ He sounded eager.

‘Everywhere,’ Arkas replied with a chuckle. He turned and pointed up the mountainside, to where the slopes disappeared into dark clouds. ‘But there is somewhere else we must go first.’

The Lord-Celestant raised his hammer thrice and from the gloomy skies a spark of light dropped in response, quickly resolving into the shape of Hastor, his Knight-Venator. On blazing sapphire wings he descended, the long curve of his realmhunter’s bow in hand. He landed as softly as a feather and held out his free arm. A blur of colour streaked across the pale mountainside and a few moments later Hastor’s star-eagle settled on his wrist, resplendent with yellow and red plumage.

‘Hastor, take the Prosecutors and scout me a route to the summit. You will find an old outpost there, I hope, of duardin style. Do not enter, simply return to me with the news if it still stands.’

‘There are duardin in Ursungorod, my lord?’ Dolmetis looked up the slope as if he might see one of Grungni’s stocky descendants. ‘I did not know.’

‘No cause for excitement, they were driven out by the skaven before I was born. Another… person makes her lair in their old workings though, and she will have invaluable intelligence about the Pestilens and the corrupted tribes.’ He looked at Hastor. ‘On no account are you to enter the tower. The Queen of the Peak may be a useful ally, but she will certainly be a foe if you come upon her unannounced.’

‘How are we to announce our presence, my lord?’ asked Hastor.

‘Leave that to me. Though I am reforged, I still have a few tricks from the old times.’

Hastor nodded and tossed his star-eagle into the air, leaping effortlessly after it a moment later. His shrill cry cut across the wind and the Knight-Venator’s twenty Prosecutors rose up to meet him, the pale spines of their Azyr-crafted wings shimmering.

‘Dolmetis, you will remain here with a small rearguard. Take Martox and his Decimators, and half the Retributors. Doridun, call the rest of the chamber to column. We have a long climb ahead of us.’

The march across the foothills passed without incident. The peaks rose abruptly ahead of Theuderis’ army, delineating the boundary between the Capricious Wilds and Ursungorod. As the Lord-Celestant had commanded, the host had started ascending the lower slopes before the light of the rising sun fell upon their backs. They advanced without pause, covering the ground with giant strides, as relentless as the pistons of a duardin engine.

The formation changed organically to match the variations in terrain, the different elements repositioning as they passed along defiles or spread out across valley floors. By mid-morning the sun was hidden behind the clouds again, its wan light barely penetrating the deep gorges and ravines.

At times they were hemmed in by vertiginous cliff faces of solid ice, chasms barely wide enough for the Stormcasts to walk three abreast. Inside the frozen walls could be seen the dim shapes of carcasses from gigantic beasts and the bones of monsters consumed in aeons past. More disturbing were the shark-like apparitions that lived within the solid ice scavenging on these remains, half-seen creatures with long fangs and dagger-spined fins.

Amongst the blue-needled trees, they would hear the tinkling of metal and come across great oak-like arboreal giants with bark of iron and leaves of bronze. The column found itself negotiating winding trails that seemed to shift as they passed, the trees moving imperceptibly, subtly closing off routes and opening others, directing their progress towards dark ravines and coursing rivers that fumed like boiling blood.