Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

The Astral Templars forced the confused skaven back, herding them towards the advancing seraphon. ‘Thetaleas, with me,’ Zephacleas said, calling out to the Decimator-Prime. ‘I intend to turn that war engine of theirs into kindling.’

Alongside the Decimators, Zephacleas began to carve himself a path towards the skaven catapult. But as they drew near, it seemed as if others had the same idea. At the urging of its scaly rider, the monstrous reptile broke into a ground-shaking run, followed by the rest of the mounted seraphon. The great beast rammed the war engine, knocking it over. The machine crashed down on its side, crushing any skaven too slow to get out of the way and spilling the priest and its bodyguards to the ground.

The rat-priest was on its feet in a moment, whirling to face the first of the smaller saurian knights as its mount scrambled over the fallen war engine. A crackling burst of sickly green energy erupted from the rat-priest’s claw. Great sores opened all over the scaly forms of both rider and mount. Jaws gaped in a silent shriek and a shimmering light burst from yawning wounds, as both vanished in a flare of starlight.

The rat-priest chittered and swung its claw towards another of the seraphon. Zephacleas charged forward, knocking the creature’s guards sprawling. As it turned towards him, its single eye widening, his runeblade swept down, removing its glowing claw. It screeched in agony and staggered back amongst its fellows, where the Lord-Celestant lost sight of it. The other rat-monks surged backwards in a wave of foulness, carrying their leader with them.

The saurian riders moved to pursue them, their scales glittering like starlight. Zephacleas and the others held their ground as the seraphon swept past them in silence. He killed a foam-jawed skaven and then was left with nothing to do but watch as the reptilian beings drove the skaven back or butchered them where they stood. The ratkin retreated, scurrying down side-streets and up the sides of the towering setae, vanishing almost as quickly as they’d arrived. The great reptile crouched over the remains of the war engine, roaring in triumph.

‘Zephacleas—’ Seker began, as he joined Zephacleas. Steam rose from the Lord-Relictor’s armour, and Zephacleas could smell the iron tang of celestial lightning.

The Lord-Celestant shook his head, still watching the carnosaur and its rider. The saurian warrior was a battle-scarred creature clad in golden armour. It clutched a spear in one talon and bore a golden gauntlet on the other.

‘We need to reform the lines, before they finish with the vermin. I don’t want to be caught out in the open, if they decide to turn on us after.’

‘They won’t,’ the Lord-Relictor said, softly.

‘How do you know?’

‘The Moon Monks of Hysh say that they are the children of Dracothion, spawned by his breath in the Age of Myth. They say that the Great Drake’s hatred of Chaos burns like a star in the heart of each seraphon,’ Seker said.

‘They say — don’t they also say that they usually vanish, when the battle’s been won?’ Zephacleas asked, watching the ranks of scaled warriors move with enviable meticulousness. Stormcast Eternals were drilled past the point of perfection, but the seraphon arrayed themselves with inhuman precision, as if they were not individual creatures at all, but rather the components of some greater pattern that was beyond human comprehension.

‘Indeed. Which implies that the battle has not yet been won,’ Seker said, in reply.

The ranks of the seraphon stood inhumanly still, facing the Stormcast line. Silence fell, broken only by the cry of distant birds and the dull grinding pulse of Shu’gohl’s progress across the steppes. Zephacleas shook his head. ‘What are they waiting for?’

‘Us,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘I believe — I feel — that they wish to speak.’

‘Have they ever done that before?’ he asked.

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Oh,’ Zephacleas said. ‘I’m not exactly one for diplomacy, Gravewalker.’

‘Speak to them as you spoke to the sylvaneth, in the Jade Kingdoms,’ the Lord-Relictor murmured. ‘Someone must, and you are here. We are here. We are Sigmar’s voice, raised in greeting, and his hand, extended in friendship.’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said, doubtfully. ‘Let us hope they don’t bite it off.’ He stepped forward, weapons held low and away from his body. He left the shield wall behind and moved to meet the seraphon as they approached. The Lord-Relictor was right. This was as much their duty as the breaking of chains and the felling of tyrants. Besides, the creatures were between the Stormcasts and the Dorsal Barbicans; best to find out now whether they were allies or obstacles. As he drew close, he could sense the celestial energies radiating from the creatures. It unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Zephacleas stopped and raised his hammer. ‘In the name of Sigmar, and the Realm Celestial, I bid thee greetings…’

The air of the Setaen Palisades smelled of the sweetest rot and rising infection to Vretch as he strode across them, warpstone-tipped staff in one claw and the Mappo Vurmio clutched in the other. The hard flesh under his foot-claws was growing soft with inflammation, and small geysers of seepage erupted here and there, pooling about the raised platforms which held the slave-cages. The cages had once held the many-legged parasites that nestled in the furrows and folds of the worm’s flesh, which the folk of Shu’gohl raised for meat. Now they held man-things, and stank of fear and pain, as well as the various illnesses which ran rampant through the imprisoned population.

The man-things were veritable gardens of delight, in that regard. Every little pox found its place, and they rotted so swiftly that his plague monks were hard-pressed to keep up. When one of the man-things succumbed, a pox-bell rang and his followers scurried to see which plague was responsible. Only those which brought about swift rot and ruin were extracted and fostered — the swifter the better. The Horned Rat cared nothing for fecundity or the propagation of his poxes — only the end result.

All in all, the palisades were a thing of beauty, Vretch thought. It was almost a shame to leave. But the Gut-shafts waited, and he was impatient. The sooner he found the missing Liber, the sooner he could sweep his enemies — Kruk included — before him. It was also far too open out here, away from the cramped safety of the towers. He glanced at the swirling clouds above, before hastily looking away. He seized his few remaining whiskers and began to groom them to calm himself.

He occasionally heard the sounds of battle carried on the wind. He wondered whether Squeelch still lived, and whether he’d made his assassination attempt on Kruk yet. If not, he might have to punish his not-quite underling. He sighed. Squeelch had showed such promise, but even if the other plague priest had failed, Vretch would not. Yes, the sooner he was safely below, the sooner victory could be achieved.

Each of the Gut-shafts was topped by a rickety frame of mouldy setaen timbers. Platforms of worm-meat and cauldrons of ichor were drawn up by gangs of chained slaves, under the watchful gazes of his most trustworthy plague monks. As new loads were drawn up, bells rang out, summoning more slaves to unload the platforms.

Not all of the shafts were being emptied — some were being filled with the bodies of dead and dying man-things. As they decomposed, the stuff of their rot would seep into the raw, wounded flesh of Shu’gohl, further weakening the great worm. It would die, as all things must die, for the greater glory of the Horned Rat.