Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

THIS I SEE. FOR A LIFETIME YOU HAVE PROMISED WHITEWORLD ABOVE.

‘Yes-yes, but patient Felk has been. Good priest, loyal-loyal servant. Let humans kill and fight, look for realmgate. Now-now it is ours. Yours! Realmgate yours, great herald of oblivion, master of the thirteen deadly ways. Metal giants come-come. Much slaughter. Celebration not certain. Victory unclear. Beseech you, conjurer of abyssal torment, thirteen-times blessed lord of the realms. Grant power. Grant magic. Much-much power.’

IT SHALL BE.

Felk was snatched up by an invisible claw, lifted bodily into the air above his minions. He clutched his staff tightly to his chest, clenching every muscle to stop his musk glands betraying his terror. Tendrils of power flickered around him, caressing his fur to make it stand on end and sparking from his exposed teeth.

He looked down and saw the blazing rune of the Great Horned One, the lines of plague monks duplicating it within, the corpses of the slaves spattered in replica of that awful, awesome sigil.

KNOW MY POWER. FAIL ME NOT.

The gong of the Great Shrine tolled, louder than ever before, the shockwave of noise rolling out across the feast, tossing bodies into the air, passing on to flatten the walls of the spitevermin, toppling the hovels and ramshackle streets beyond. On and on it seemed to echo until Felk’s world was nothing but his claws digging into the wood of his staff and the dreadful ring of the Horned Rat’s declaration shuddering through his whole body.

In the silence that followed he thought he was falling. Falling so far he had to have passed into a great chasm, dropping into the gap between realms, disappearing along the gnawholes of the skaven and into the lair of the Great Witherer.

Felk saw the fang of the verminlord hanging in the air before him, glinting cruelly in the light. His hand reached out, not of his volition, clawed fingers opening to grasp the cursed tooth. He did not resist, knowing that it was the will of his god. His arm shaking, he held the tooth before him like a dagger.

Everything was darkness, but for the light from that jagged tooth. Felk moved his arm to expose his chest, his robes parting with their own life to bare his furred flesh.

With a hiss, he dragged the tooth closer, plunging it into his heart.

Pain engulfed Felk. Pain of every pox, every plague, every disease unleashed by the pestilent lords combined. He felt their power spreading from the wound, infecting him with their potency, the virulent energy rippling along arteries and veins, infusing organs with eternal power, the energy of Chaos itself.

In a blast of ecstatic fusion he was joined with the Great Horned One. His minds were filled with blistering images, of the gnaw-tunnels between worlds, stretching into the past and future, coiling through infinities, an impossible maze that burrowed through and under every mortal thing. And further still, into the Realm of Chaos, undermining the dominions of the four great powers.

The scurrying, gnawing, endlessly teeming mass of skaven thrived in the under-empire, enslaving, scavenging, growing in numbers beyond counting, ready to burst forth across all of the realms.

And there — a glimpse of realm-burrows working towards the bastions of Azyr, locked for so long by the will of the human god-king. An army of golden warriors bringing fire and death to the followers of Chaos. The metal giants, the soldiers of Sigmar.

For some it was the end. The last war that would see the worlds of mortals destroyed. Not for the Children of the Horned Rat. Death brought opportunity. Famine and plague, the companions of war, were ever ripe ground for the disciples of the Great Witherer.

Felk opened his eyes. A shadow loomed over him and he held a hand up, reflexively squealing in panic.

‘Poxmaster?’

The blur resolved into Skarth’s face. He bared his teeth, halberd held at the ready. A slight movement allowed Felk to see the ring of plague priests around him, concerned more by the blade of his fangleader than the state of their master’s health. Some looked openly disappointed at his recovery.

Felk sat up, fingers unconsciously questing for the reassuring feel of his staff, seeking the familiar cracked wood.

He remembered a last image, of the collapsing under-empire, of the dominions of the Great Horned One imploding back into him. Felk recalled the surge of power, and his staff exploding into threads and splinters.

It was his badge of office, his weapon and the channel for his power. He felt naked without it.

He stood up, staying close to Skarth. The priests and the spitevermin forming a cordon against the plague monks beyond let out a communal hiss of surprise. Skarth took a step back, lips curling back over dark gums.

Where Felk’s robe had fallen open, his chest was in plain view. The roots of Skixakoth’s fang could be seen just over his heart, protruding slightly from suppurating flesh. Threads of corruption pulsed like a web from the wound, spreading from the tooth across Felk’s chest and abdomen. He lifted a claw, allowing the voluminous sleeve to roll back, revealing corded tendrils of warp power gently gleaming beneath the skin. His nails were long and sharp as he flexed his fingers.

He pulled his robe closed and rose to his full height — a little taller than before, he thought, though perhaps he had always stooped without realising. The power of the Horned Rat’s blessing was evident not just in the visible signs. Felk could feel the energy flowing through him, spiralling and weaving through his body, suffusing his organs with putrid vitality.

‘Come-come, brothers.’ He gestured for his priests to gather closer. ‘Disciples of Felk, chosen of the Great Horned Rat. Bear witness to our master’s divine will.’

Cautiously, the plague priests approached, clutching their staves and knives, casting glances at each other.

‘Time has come,’ declared Felk. ‘Wrong we are, poor worshippers, selfish rat-rats! War we make. War good.’ He clenched his fists. Warp power dribbled from between his fingers like smoke. ‘Not fight with fist. Not fight with sword or halberd. We the masters of disease! Not conquer Whiteworld Above. Destroy it! All life, all humans, all giant men of Sigmar! My ruin-bringers, my plague-heralds, my warp-fiends, bear witness! Corpse-mountain we build. Plague furnaces we make. Wind of annihilation blows. Death-death, all things dead! When realmgate opens, tide of death unleashed. Much work to be done. Felk decrees, you obey.’

Cowed by this grand oratory and the halo of power wreathing their leader, the plague priests bowed and fell to their knees, faces hidden inside their hoods.

‘Praise Felk,’ cried the Poxmaster. ‘Lord of the Withered Canker, Slayer of the Whiteworld Above.’

‘Praise Felk,’ they intoned.

Not only had the Black River dammed itself to aid Arkas, it had steepened its banks downriver, swallowing the makeshift road beneath jagged rocks and mudslides. Some of the Chaos clans were not content to funnel up the gorge and attempted to scale the shallower sides of the defile to reach the wide expanse of the Bear’s Pelt. Arkas took this as the sign to announce the presence of his warriors.

Having crossed the stone bridges on the lake to set their ambush along both sides, Judicators lined the precipice edges to welcome the climbing warriors with volleys of shockbolts and skybolts. Burning from the touch of the celestial missiles, an avalanche of corpses fell back into the defile, causing panic amongst the packed tribal warriors below. Those not caught under their falling companions responded with angry shouts and a surge that sent many splashing into the river, scrapping with each other to forge their way to the easier ascent further along.