Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Fire licked from the windows of his home, black fumes pouring from the roof. He did not need to ride any closer to be able to see what the pale bundles hanging from the walls were.

‘No!’ screamed Caeran. He spurred his horse harder, foam frothing at its mouth. The steed’s flanks were lathered with sweat, but he did not relent.

The sky rumbled. A thunderhead was building over the mountains, black and heavy as an anvil.

He came across the first warband minutes later, a motley collection of beastfolk and savage tribesmen. They sat in the ruins of a hamlet around a fire of broken timbers, gorging on the flesh of innocents. The beastfolk were drunk, butting bloodied horns with each other. The men laughed bitter, empty laughs. The humour of the desperate and the insane. Without thinking, Caeran drew his sword and rode at them.

The first man turned at the thunder of his approach, only to die with his skull split open. Another pair were barged aside by the weight of Caeran’s horse, weapons falling from limp fingers. Others flung themselves aside. A beastman lunged for his reins. Caeran reared his horse, its hooves crushing the head of the creature. A second beastman ran at him, head bowed to impale his horse upon sharp horns, but Caeran cut it down and it died with a gurgling bleat.

Caeran wheeled his horse round and lashed out at another of the children of Chaos, but the impetus of his charge was spent, and the creature parried his blow with a maul of bloody iron. His horse’s breath came raggedly, exhausted; the animal was close to blown. The men and beastmen were gathering around him, a circle of brutal, shouting faces that kept out of the reach of his sword.

A huge muscled creature with the head of a goat pushed its way forward and thrust its spear deep into the horse’s breast. With a scream the horse reared up and toppled over, and Caeran was thrown free. He rolled, and an axe buried itself into the ground where his head had been. He sprang to his feet, driving his blade up to the hilt in a beastman’s gut. It screamed in Caeran’s face as it died, and he snatched out his sword before the creature fell down. Its fellows hesitated; Caeran did not.

‘Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance!’ he cried, and leapt among them, slaying all who came close. The sky was clouding over rapidly, pregnant with the promise of rain.

Then Tarm was there, bursting through the crowd on his horse and sending them down hard. He cut at the warband with his sword, slaying two and scattering the rest, then brought his horse to a staggering halt and held out his hand.

‘Get up behind me. There are hundreds coming!’

The beastmen and tribesmen lay dead or dying. One man pawed ineffectually at his ruined throat, attempting to stem the flood of blood. Caeran scanned the destruction, everywhere he looked revealing a new horror. He screwed his eyes shut at the sight of the torn corpses. Thunder sounded closer.

‘It’s going to rain,’ Caeran said.

‘Get up!’ shouted Tarm, looking behind his friend and beckoning again frantically. An awful, bleating roar brought Caeran out of his fugue.

Through the burning cottages of the hamlet strode a great beastlord, half as tall as Caeran again. In clumsy fingers it gripped an axe shaft as thick as Caeran’s thigh, the blunt head atop it dark with gore. It wore a mask of pale leather over its animal face, and a shallow helm covered its low skull. A dirty black and white crest rose from this between two pairs of horns. The first pair curved around its cheeks like a ram’s horns, while the second pair stood upright. These were sharp as scimitars, and dripped with blood. Crude mail studded with roundels and square plates protected its torso. Its hooves were shod with spiked iron, but its arms and the legs were unprotected, a sign of its confidence in its own might, perhaps. There were few who could hope to survive its ire.

‘Caeran!’ shouted Tarm.

‘No, no!’ said Caeran. ‘I will not run while our kinsfolk lie dead and defiled.’ He raised his sword in a double-handed grip, and prepared to meet the creature’s charge.

Tarm swore and charged past his friend, his horse leaping over the corpses of the fallen. His sword sang through the air, but the beastlord was swift. It stepped aside, punching Tarm’s steed with a huge fist. Hefting its axe, it swung hard at the reeling horse, a woodsman’s chop that half-severed the head. A tremendous spray of blood fountained from the horse’s neck and it fell sideways heavily, trapping Tarm beneath.

The beastlord raised its axe again, aiming for Tarm’s head. Caeran screamed and ran, swinging his sword with all his strength at the creature’s unprotected thigh. His blade bit deep, but the creature did not appear to feel the wound, and twisted its massive body to intercept the prince. A swipe from its arm caught him in the chest and knocked him back six feet to crash into a cart. He flipped over the back, landing in the offal of slaughtered farmers. Caeran scrambled to his feet, barely keeping his revulsion in check. His sword he held ready. The beastlord only smiled, thick lips parting around the flat, square teeth of a grazing animal stained pink with blood. It blew out a steaming huff of breath. Red eyes glowed with menace, and it laughed: a bleating corruption of human joy.

But the beast-thing was mistaken if it thought to kill another brave guildsman defending his home from the tide of Chaos. This was a prince before him, a mighty warrior sworn to protect his father’s people to the last, and he was wild with vengeance.

Lightning flashed, whiting out the valley. The beast lifted its axe and charged at Caeran. The prince waited for his moment, stepping aside and backward at the last possible second, and extended his sword to take the creature in the chest. The momentum of the beast forced the weapon’s point through its armour and deep into its chest just below the heart. Caeran’s sword was wrenched painfully from his hand as the beastlord stumbled past him, its axe biting into a splintered timber. It shook its head, and turned again, unaware that it was already dead. One step it came on, then another. The beastlord groggily raised its axe. Dark blood pumped from the wound. The creature never made the blow, but fell forward dead.

Caeran ran to Tarm. His friend was badly hurt. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

‘You killed it?’ he croaked.

‘It is dead,’ said Caeran. ‘If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead.’

‘As always,’ said Tarm. The blood coming from his mouth was pink and bubbled, his breath was short, and he struggled to speak. ‘But no more, my friend. Crushed by my own horse. Not the heroic end I had intended.’

‘I’ll get you out from under him,’ said Caeran, trying to reassure his companion, but he could see no way to move the horse pinning Tarm.

‘You’ll do no such thing. Get out of here! Get away now! If Wolf Keep has fallen, it will not be long until all of Amcarsh is overrun. Live as long as you can. Make them pay for their crimes.’

A fat drop of rain fell onto the back of Caeran’s hand. Then another, and another. They spattered all over Tarm’s face. He closed his eyes and smiled.

‘See, Caeran! There is some purity left. For once, the water is sweet.’

Caeran stood. Rain sheeted down. A blazing bolt of lightning cracked the sky. Thunder boomed. Shouts and the gruntings of beastmen came through the downpour. They approached him from all sides. He stood over the body of his friend, and shouted out a challenge.

‘If I am to die, let it be well!’

The foes of all that was good and right drew around, none daring to be the first. Caeran stared at them, smiling wildly. ‘Give me strength, great Sigmar!’ There was more lightning and another peal of thunder, deafening now. The storm was directly overhead.