Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘That’s what confuses me,’ admitted Arkas. He shook his head. ‘I resigned myself to the fact that my people were no more, slain or fallen to Chaos worship. Now you tell me that a woman approaches, unmarked by the Dark Gods, which suggests that there are yet some that still resist the skaven and their allies. Your report stirs hope where I had none. Its loss would be a fresh wound.’

‘It seems your hope is not misplaced, my lord. Her trail across the snow was simple to follow for a while, though it petered out eventually. She has been heading directly towards us for the better part of a day. She is seeking us out, I wager my reputation on it. How she can know of us or where we travel I cannot say.’

Arkas looked up and gestured with his hammer. Across the river there were dark specks moving over the clouds — crows and other carrion eaters. They had been growing in number since the Celestial Vindicators had descended to the lower slopes, having quickly learnt that the Stormcasts would provide ample pickings.

‘In my days as a mortal there were those that could speak with the birds and the beasts.’ He thought of Radomira, a reader of bird sign, and remembered the times she would have a raven or hawk or finch upon her wrist, woman and bird cawing and chirping intently to each other. ‘If there were survivors of the alliance, if their descendants still strive for freedom, such secrets might still be known.’

‘Not only by potential allies,’ said Venian. ‘Such spies could serve our enemies also, my lord.’

‘I have been counting on it,’ said Arkas. ‘Do not forget our part in this campaign. We are the rod that attracts the lightning. We will stir the Chaos followers and skaven from their camps and holes and bring them to us, so that Theuderis and his Knights Excelsior can lay the vengeance of Sigmar down upon them with their arrival. We shall be the bait that draws the serpent’s strike, the Silverhands the blade that severs its head.’

The path veered away from the bank, moving around a block of stone mounted on the bank of the river. On its worn surface could still be seen faint markings — duardin runes worn nearly smooth by the elements. Even so, Arkas could read them, running his fingers over the faint indentations.

‘A mile marker,’ he said aloud. ‘A day’s marching to another duardin city, though long ago it was swallowed by the glacier we called meshka kozia . The Bear’s Pelt. The city lies beneath the ice field you have just come back from.’

‘It has been swallowed deep then, my lord,’ said Venian. ‘We saw no sign of tower, gate or wall.’

A thought occurred to Arkas and he turned, his gaze seeking out his Knight-Vexillor. Dolmetis followed a hundred paces behind with a guard of Decimators and Retributors. Seeing that his lord required him, the standard bearer hurried forwards, his icon gripped in both hands.

‘A new command to the chamber, Dolmetis,’ said Arkas, as soon as the Knight-Vexillor was within earshot. ‘We leave the river and head across the ice field.’

‘Towards the stranger?’ asked Venian.

‘Of course. I’m sure she has something important to tell us. We shan’t make her labour longer than necessary.’ Arkas leaned closer, placing a hand on the shoulder of the Prosecutor-Prime. ‘You assured me she was no threat, yes? You staked your reputation on it. Let us see what that is worth.’

The dark cavern stank of human sweat and fear. Felk breathed in deeply, whiskers trembling with delight. The captives huddled naked in their rope bonds, most kneeling or sitting, some lying down from weakness. There were four hundred in total, eyes wide with fear, shaking with cold and hunger. The Poxmaster rubbed spindly hands together as he paced back and forth, examining his prizes.

‘Good-good meat,’ said Felk, addressing nobody in particular. ‘Good tribute, yes-yes. Great Horned Rat touched you, yes-yes. Honoured, to become the flesh of the Great Witherer. Dismal feast will be grand, grander than all before. Gaze of the Great Horned Rat be upon the Withering Canker. Felk will rise, yes-yes, rise past all, even Skixakoth. Not to fat rotting god will life-woods fall. To the children of the Horned Rat, to the Clans Pestilens, to the Withering Canker. Plague and pox and pustule, yes-yes, the flesh of the life-queen will crawl with gifts of Pestilens.’

The cluster of pale faces stared up at him in horror as the prisoners recoiled from his presence, shifting like a single organism to avoid being in the Poxmaster’s vicinity as he stalked back and forth, staff clacking on the stone floor. In the light of the warp-lamps, their skin seemed so white, so smooth and pale, and their eyes, glistening with tears, were almost good enough to pluck out and swallow right there.

Felk fought back against the urge.

‘Not for now. For dismal feast, yes-yes.’ He stopped and leaned on his staff, peering down at the captives, broken claws tapping an arrhythmic tattoo on the twisted wood. He inspected the closest specimens, finding on each one some mark of the Great Horned Rat — a wart or cluster of boils, a suppurating lesion or weeping sore, cataract or rash.

‘Chosen, yes-yes. You will be punished. Great Horned One has taken blessing from you, bad-bad man-things. Roast and boil and spitted, for the dismal feast your bones broken, such crispy skin, flesh purged of evil and devoured for Blessed Plague of Plagues.’

Drool flowed as Felk imagined the eating pits filled with the meat of his sacrifices. One of the captives started to moan and others broke into sobs, their despair a virus that spread quickly through the craven mass until all were crying and groaning. Some wailed with lament, clawing at their hair and skin.

‘Stop-stop!’ snapped Felk, claws and tail shaking violently.

The temptation was too much, he had to turn away. Skarth, whose spitevermin ringed the cave, approached a few steps. He said nothing but jerked his head towards the entrance to the chamber. Thriss lurked in the shadows, hands wringing close to his chest.

The gutter runner’s demeanour punctured Felk’s good mood, concern sweeping away his anticipation of the dismal feast. With an irritated wave Felk commanded Thriss to enter.

The gutter runner sidled up to his employer, head held low, tail limp. The Poxmaster had never seen Thriss so subordinate and he instantly suspected trickery.

‘Stay-stay there,’ Felk snapped, prodding the gutter runner with his staff to force him back several paces. Thriss complied without resistance, heightening Felk’s suspicion.

‘Bad-bad news, legendary Poxmaster,’ began Thriss, head bobbing in deference. ‘Makargas. The Beast-caller… ‘

‘Yes-yes? Demanding higher price? Treachery?’

‘Is dead-dead.’

Felk shrugged. ‘Not problem for us.’

‘All beasts dead. Metal giants kill-kill Makargas and all beasts.’

The Poxmaster thought he had misheard for a moment.

‘Beast army dead? All dead?’

Thriss nodded and bared yellowing fangs. He shifted from one foot to the other and back, unable to hold still any longer.

‘Metal giants bring magic and fire. Much-much magic.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘ Star magic , power of storm and sun!’

This news sent a fresh shudder of fear through Felk. He had heard tales — many of them from Thriss, it was true — regarding a new foe that had been seen throughout the many realms. They were carried on a dire storm, relentless and merciless. Several clans had been wiped out and terrified survivors of others had fled back to the Blight City with stories of indestructible armies and warriors that rode lightning.

‘Is true-true?’ Felk’s gaze flicked around the room, from Thriss to the slaves to Skarth and back again, suddenly wary of everything. ‘Very bad-bad for us.’