Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘But—’ Kruk began.

‘I said go-go,’ Skuralanx roared. Skug prostrated himself immediately, but Kruk only stepped back, head bowed. Despite his predicament, Squeelch could only marvel at the other plague priest’s sheer stubborn viciousness. With a final glare and growl, Kruk spun and stumped off, barking orders as he went.

Skuralanx leapt from the floor to one of the thick pillars which supported the domed roof of the library. ‘It is a shame,’ he said, as he climbed up the pillar, dragging the helpless Squeelch behind him. ‘You show much promise, Squeelch. Much cunning, yes-yes. But needs must.’ The daemon reached the top of the pillar, and crouched there, deep in the all-concealing shadows.

‘Skuralanx’s needs, if you were wondering,’ the daemon said, as he twitched the struggling plague priest closer. His eyes glowed like the coals beneath a cauldron as he examined Squeelch. He sniffed the air, and Squeelch’s aching scent-glands spasmed, trying to squirt fear musk though there was none left to give.

He began to babble, begging for his life, promising the verminlord anything he could think of. ‘Squeelch will serve you, most cunning one! Squeelch will be your slave, he will—!’ His squeals died away as the daemon pressed the tip of a claw to his muzzle.

‘Shhh, little pox-maker. Shhh. Yes, you will serve Skuralanx. You will serve him, and all skaven, to the utmost of your ability. I told you that you would hold this place, and you will.’ Skuralanx’s hell-spark eyes gleamed. ‘Yes-yes, you will…’

Zephacleas swept his runeblade out and sliced a leaping skaven in two. The sore-covered ratman fell past him as he forced his way out onto the bridge. Made from woven worm-bristles and hardened with unguents and ichors, it connected those crooked setaen towers which still stood to the Dorsal Barbicans. Zephacleas and his chosen vanguard had fought their way up the rat-infested incline and through ruined towers to get to this point. Now only a single, shuddering span separated them from their goal. As he set foot on the swaying bridge, skaven scurried towards him from the opposite side, squealing and chittering.

He glanced at the massive shape of the Sunblood, Sutok, crouched beside him. Between them, they were the width of the bridge. No skaven would get past them. ‘Look, they come to greet us my friend,’ he said.

Sutok threw back his scaly head and roared. Together, they lunged to meet the swarming vermin.

‘Death and ruin,’ Zephacleas shouted as he and the Sunblood ploughed into their foes, driving them back through sheer momentum. Stormcasts advanced behind them along the narrow walkway, weapons raised, their voices raised in unison with his. Skinks and saurus scaled the underside and sides of their bridge, as well as those above and below, climbing with a speed that put their verminous foes to shame. Flying reptiles swooped low over the bridges, jerking screeching ratmen up and dropping them. Prosecutors darted past the leather-winged reptiles to strike at the skaven, sending twitching bodies plummeting to the streets below.

The Dreaming Seer’s magics had turned the bubbling pox-froth which covered the streets to shimmering green glass, and Oxtl-Kor led the bulk of the seraphon host across it with earth-shaking strides. Behind the saurian host, the Gravewalker led the rest of the Stormcast Eternals in support of their allies. And he is welcome to that role, Zephacleas thought, as he booted a skaven over the edge of the bridge. I am the blade of the axe, not its haft.

Together, step by step, he and Sutok pushed the skaven back. The rabid rat-monks flung themselves heedlessly into death, and Zephacleas’ armour was scored by the marks of foetid blades and rusty bludgeons. Thin trickles of starlight ran down Sutok’s scales as he waded through the enemy, ignoring the bite of their blades. Whatever filth clung to them was seared clean by the touch of his blood, and the skaven seemed more frightened of that than the war-mace the seraphon wielded.

‘We’ve arrived, my friend — let us make the most of it,’ Zephacleas said, as he and Sutok reached the upper ramparts at last. Squealing skaven raced towards them, though some seemed less than enthused to get anywhere near the Sunblood and the Lord-Celestant. Behind them, their chosen warriors flooded onto the ramparts. ‘Thetaleas, the catapults,’ Zephacleas said, signalling the Decimators to attend their task. He turned and motioned to the nearest retinue of Liberators. ‘Duras, keep the skaven back.’

The warblade-armed Liberators surged forward, forming a wall of amethyst-hued sigmarite between the axemen and the screaming mobs of rat-monks seeking to intercept them. Thetaleas and his Decimators chopped down the crew of the nearest catapult. When the last sore-ridden skaven fell, they began to hack the war engine apart. Zephacleas turned to see that Sutok had his own ideas about how to dispose of the enemy artillery.

As he watched, the Sunblood wrenched the arm from a catapult and whirled it about like a staff, smashing a dozen skaven from the rampart. The seraphon roared in what Zephacleas took to be pleasure. He swung the arm around again, bringing it down on one of the other catapults, destroying it. Skaven scurried towards the lizard-man, whirling their smoking censers with fanatical intensity, and Zephacleas moved to meet them.

He chopped through the chain of one of the smoke-spewing spheres and crushed its wielder’s bandage-shrouded skull. Sutok’s war-mace whirled in a tight circle, filling the air with broken bodies and squealing vermin. Skaven sped towards them from every direction, driven into a berserk fury by the roiling clouds of poisonous incense and smoke which clogged the air. Zephacleas heard the crackle of lightning as unlucky warriors were pulled down by sheer numbers. He saw seraphon stagger and burst into motes of blinding star-light as pus-daubed blades opened reeking wounds in their scaly bodies.

Through it all, the catapults continued to launch their foul burdens into the city. The Stormcasts and their reptilian allies had destroyed three of the plague-engines, but more remained. As he fought his way forward, he saw that the crew of one was hastily attempting to haul the catapult around so that it could be aimed at the forces gathered on the rampart. Before he could alert his warriors, he heard a bone-rattling roar and turned to see Oxtl-Kor’s monstrous reptile leap from the courtyard.

Its claws dug into the surface of the barbican wall and it began to haul itself up, Oxtl-Kor urging it on with bellicose snarls. It scaled the wall in moments and clambered over the rampart between Zephacleas and his foes. With a hungry growl, it lunged for the closest knot of skaven, jaws wide. Teeth like swords tore into cringing, furry bodies. Oxtl-Kor impaled a fleeing rat-monk with his spear. The Oldblood lifted the wriggling skaven into the air and hurled it over the barbican.

Smaller beasts followed the larger creature’s example, scrambling up the wall with reptilian agility, carrying their saurian riders to the top. Spears flashed, piercing and gutting the skaven defenders, even as the cold ones savaged them with jaws and dewclaws. Zephacleas stepped back, momentarily awed by the ferocity of his allies.

A flash of fire leapt from Oxtl-Kor’s gauntlet, incinerating the crew of the nearest catapult. The giant reptile closed its jaws on the arm of the catapult and tore it loose from the frame, before sending what remained of the infernal device toppling into the courtyard below with a shove of its shoulder. The beast reared up and let loose a triumphant bellow. The Oldblood looked down from his saddle and met Zephacleas’ gaze. The Lord-Celestant lifted his hammer in salute, but the creature turned away with a snort.