Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘What do you mean?’ Seker said.

Zephacleas looked at him, and then at Takatakk, when he realised that the Lord-Relictor’s question had been directed at the skink.

‘You are made of light,’ the skink chirped, as it circled the Lord-Relictor. ‘Storm-light, sun-light, ghost-light…’

‘But not star-light,’ Seker said. The Gravewalker had been talking with the little seraphon since they had begun their march towards the Dorsal Barbicans, trying to learn all he could about their strange allies. Or perhaps it was the other way around, Zephacleas mused. ‘Not like you,’ the Lord-Relictor continued.

‘Same, but different, yes? Yes,’ the skink said, head cocked. ‘You are a different type of dream, I think.’ The creature glanced back towards the hovering bulk of its master. ‘Yes, a different dream,’ the lizard-man said, more firmly.

‘I’m solid enough,’ Zephacleas said. He pounded his fist against his chest-plate.

‘Hrr,’ the big seraphon called Sutok grunted throatily. One claw swatted Zephacleas in the back, nearly knocking him from his feet. The ‘Sunblood’, as the skink called him, was impossibly strong — Zephacleas counted himself among the strongest of the Astral Templars, but he knew that the seraphon could tear him limb from limb without much effort.

‘Sutok agrees,’ Takatakk chirped. ‘He likes you.’

‘Does he?’ Zephacleas said, regaining his balance. ‘How can you tell?’

‘He has not eaten you,’ the skink said.

‘Luckily for the both of them,’ the Lord-Relictor said. Zephacleas glanced at Seker, but, as ever, the Lord-Relictor’s skull-faced helm gave no hint as to what the man beneath might be thinking. He looked back at the Sunblood. The creature gave a chortling grunt and slammed his war-mace against his shield.

‘I still do not understand why you march with us,’ the Lord-Celestant said, with a shake of his head. ‘Why not simply strike the Setaen Palisades, if that is where your true foe waits? Why spend your strength here?’

‘To help,’ Takatakk chirped. ‘Great Lord Kurkori dreamed it, and so it must be. The Dreaming Constellation moves to aid Sigmar, so that future events occur as they must.’ The skink nodded. ‘All things flow towards their predestined end, and so we must flow with them.’

‘But aren’t you afraid that by aiding us, you will fail in your own mission?’ the Lord-Relictor asked. Takatakk looked at him as if confused.

‘We cannot fail. Great Lord Kurkori has seen it.’

‘Yes, but—’ Seker pressed.

‘Besides, we follow them even as we march beside you. Great Lord Kurkori’s dream is vast and composed of many parts. He sees all at once, and simultaneously.’ The skink made another of his complex gestures, as if attempting to help them visualise his statement.

‘He’s saying that they sent scouts, I think,’ Zephacleas said. As he spoke, he heard the whistle-crack of the distant catapults on the Dorsal Barbicans. ‘Cover!’ he roared.

A cascade of yellowish spheres of muck struck the towers far above, and a rain of hissing plague-liquid pattered down. Both Stormcast and seraphon alike raised their shields as the noxious fluid fell over them. Takatakk raised his staff and hissed out a guttural string of syllables, filling the air with a strong wind which blew some of the foulness away before it reached its targets.

Despite this, the pox-rain grew stronger, and Zephacleas heard it sizzle as it struck his armour. ‘That wind isn’t enough. Summon a proper storm, Lord-Relictor — wash this foulness from the skies,’ he called out. But even as Seker began to intone a prayer, Zephacleas heard a deep, rumbling croak from the Dreaming Seer. He turned and saw the slann Starmaster stir blearily, as if the stink of the rain had disturbed his slumber. The pox-rain abruptly steamed away to nothing in the air, leaving behind only a foul smoke. The slann grunted, his head sagging once more, eyelids drooping.

‘That works as well,’ the Lord-Celestant said, trading glances with his Lord-Relictor. As the stinking fog cleared, the air quavered with a shrill cacophony. Rats flooded towards them. They seemed without number, and came in a great, squealing wave. The vermin were bloated with disease and covered in runny sores. Zephacleas roared and stamped, crushing the rats with hammer and boots. His warriors followed suit, and the seraphon stabbed at the scurrying creatures with their broad-bladed spears.

The vermin were more interested in fleeing than fighting, however. A moment later, as the breeze called into being by Seker’s prayers shredded and dispersed the miasmic fog, Zephacleas saw why. Before them was a slick, slowly spreading mass of bubbling putrescence, occupying what had once been the wide courtyard before the central gateway of the Dorsal Barbicans. It would have been a magnificent sight once, he thought. The plaza had been a semi-circle of setaen tiles, dyed and shaped to create an intricate mosaic, now hidden beneath the frothing foulness. Great statues had once lined the curve of the plaza, wrought in the likeness of the heroes of the Shu’gohl — knights-militant of the Order of the Worm, nobles of the setaen houses, warrior-priests of the Sahg’gohl. Those statues were broken now, fallen and shrouded in muck. Everywhere he looked was ruin and filth.

Toppled towers, sheared from their foundations by the boiling foulness, lay atop others, creating a tangled mass of ruined stone and hair. Red eyes gleamed in the shadows of those fallen structures, and a dolorous chittering rose. Bells rang and gongs crashed. High atop the curved walls of the barbicans, the catapults continued to rain down plague and filth on the city. The massive gates which occupied the centre of the barbicans were barred and chained, the ancient surface marked and scarred with skaven-sign.

The ratmen had claimed this place for their own — but they would not hold it for much longer. Zephacleas clashed his weapons together and glanced down at Takatakk. ‘You wish to fight beside us, seraphon? Now is your chance.’ He raised his hammer. ‘Forward! For Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’

With a shared roar, the two hosts of Azyr began their advance.

Great Lord Kurkori, the Dreaming Seer of the Second Departure, stirred reluctantly on his palanquin. His dreams held tight to his vast consciousness, drawing him into better and brighter worlds than the broken, limping thing he now found himself in.

In his deep dreaming, he saw an empire of order and light, a thing of perfect structure and harsh angles. The universe would move in perfect harmony, every realm, every inhabitant perfectly synchronised and in rhythm with the cosmic plan. It was a good dream, and one he intended to see made real, whatever the cost.

He cracked his eyes. The world drew into stark focus through a veil of celestial light. He could feel the agonies of the great worm upon whose back they fought as a dull pressure upon his thoughts. The beast was ancient as the Mortal Realms judged things, though its existence was barely a blip to his perceptions. Nonetheless, its death was not a part of the pattern and thus he saw no reason to allow it. With a thought, he sent waves of soothing energy through the great beast’s simple mind, easing its distress, if only for the moment.

He could feel the pulse of star-born energies that were his chosen cohorts. Each one was as unique as the stars in the firmament, and as precious to him. They were his claws, his fangs, his darkest dreams made scaly flesh. When they roared, they roared with his voice; when they bled, they bled with his blood. They were his dreams, and he wielded them with a deftness that was spoken of in awe by his fellow slann.