Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

The seraphon were attempting to aid their allies. He saw Sutok slam his great mace down on a gibbet, nearly ripping it from its chain. The writhing mass inside launched its vines at the Sunblood, trying to snag him. Sutok roared and slashed at them. Zephacleas turned slowly, fighting against the strength of the vines that held him. He heard a shrill voice chitter in amusement, somewhere far above.

Chains rattled and robes flapped. The chamber was dark, but with a single chirp, Takatakk filled it with a soft blue light. Dozens of skaven clung to the chains of the spinning, thrashing gibbets, glaring down at the invaders. At a shrilled command, they descended en masse, leaping first to attack those Stormcasts who were caught by the tendrils.

A disgusting-looking skaven, wrapped in stinking rags and rattling chains, scurried down towards Zephacleas, whirling its censers wildly. The ratman darted across the straining lengths of tendril towards him. It squealed at him in obvious challenge.

Zephacleas heaved his body to the side, jolting the skaven from its claws and sending it tumbling to the ground. The gibbet creaked on its chain as he twisted it, and the tendrils trembled. Hissing ichor seeped from them to spatter his armour. He set his feet and slowly, achingly, pulled his arms back until, one by one, the tendrils snapped. Freed, he lurched backwards to avoid the ratman’s whirling censers. Across the chamber, his warriors and the seraphon had engaged the other skaven.

The censer bearer drove him back in a swirling cloud of poisonous fumes. Zephacleas held his breath, knowing that to inhale one lungful of the reeking smoke was to die. As the whirring censers slashed down at him again, he thrust his sword out and twisted, snagging the chains. He tore them from their owner’s claws with a single heave and caught the off-balance skaven with a blow that crushed its bandaged skull.

As it fell to the floor, twitching in its death-throes, Zephacleas turned to see that the writhing shapes in the gibbets were beginning to pull themselves free. Split tendrils reformed or sprouted anew as the musk of the blossoms thickened. Strands of fleshy matter shot towards the pillars and roof. Blotches of foulness spread wherever they touched. He started chopping through the questing tendrils.

He caught Seker’s attention. ‘Gravewalker — call down the lightning. Purge this place in fire and storm.’

The Lord-Relictor didn’t hesitate. His voice roared out, strong and clear, and the air in the chamber grew thick and sharp. Bits of paper and loose debris were caught up by the dervish winds that seemed to emanate outward from him. Lightning coalesced around his reliquary staff as he lifted it in both hands.

As tendrils surged towards him from the arboreal abominations, he slammed the ferrule of his staff down, and lightning erupted from it, immolating everything in the chamber save the Stormcasts and their seraphon allies. Skaven stumbled out of the conflagration, screeching in agony. They were swiftly put out of their misery.

Zephacleas nodded in satisfaction. ‘Death and ruin,’ he murmured.

Deep within the ruins of Geistmaw, Vretch reacted with all of the instinctive savagery of his race. He lunged forward, throat swelling as he belched forth a cloud of noxious mist. The creatures nearest him crumpled as the cloud enveloped them. Shimmering scales turned dull and began to drop off their frames as, one by one, they fell into the darkness below. Mist trailing from between his clenched teeth, Vretch whirled on his perch of stone, the susurrus of the worms loud in his head.

A reptile sprang towards him, and he caught the seraphon by the throat before it could land a blow with the barbed dart in its talon. It struggled for a moment, trying to break his grip, and he glared at it. ‘You think to kill me? Me? ’ he hissed. The lizard twisted about in his grip and sank needle-like teeth into his arm. Vretch shrieked and dashed the creature’s head against the ground.

Darts sprouted from his back and shoulders. He staggered. A trick — a distraction to get him to turn his back. Whatever celestial poison was in the darts was as nothing next to the toxins already running riot through his system, but it still burned like fire. Screeching continuously, heedless of his condition, he lashed out with his magics. More darts sank into his rotting flesh, but he was too far gone to feel them.

And then, at last, he sank down, too weary to do anything more than hold onto the plaques. Smoke filled the air, and he could hear stone collapsing; he smelled the too-clean scent of starlight as what was left of the seraphon dissolved. As with their darts, their deaths would not be enough to cleanse this place. Once he was cured, he would come back. He would study the worms and the brew they swum in and he would unleash a blight unlike any other.

He would–

Vretch sagged, coughing. His perch wobbled. He could hear stone grinding, and the splashing of the worms. He had no strength left. He coughed again, spitting ichor. Dying, he thought, and his musk gland spasmed painfully. It was spent, as was he.

Youuu are not dying, Vretch…

Vretch blinked blearily, searching for the daemon. ‘Is… is that you, O most resplendent of… of…’ His body was wracked with pain. As he coughed, fangs pattered from his mouth and mucus ran from his snout. There were worms in it. There were worms in everything now. He could feel them moving behind his eyes.

You stand on unstable ground, Vretch. You must jump, yes-yes… jump and bring me the Liber, Skuralanx murmured. The daemon’s voice sounded odd, as if it were… hurt?

I can help you, fool… but you must jump . Jump now!

Vretch sprang for one of the remaining walls. As he leapt, his perch collapsed at last. He hit the stone and scrabbled for a moment, trying to find a hold with his free claw. It was only through a supreme effort of will that he managed to force himself not to fall. The stones he clung to were embedded in the gut-lining of the worm. Digestive juices spilled across him, burning him. What was left of his fur bristled and he shifted his weight painfully. He could see a speck of blue far above. He could smell…

Do you smell the storm, Vretch? You are in the worm’s head, close to its jaws — listen, you can hear them grinding. You are not far from the surface, Vretch. You can hear the lightning , the daemon said, its words echoing in his head.

‘I–I can, yes-yes,’ Vretch coughed.

Then climb, Vretch. Climb, for your very soul!

‘He is gone, then,’ Zephacleas said heavily. He stood outside, on the palisade wall, away from the chamber at the top of the tower and its stink of death. He closed his eyes for a moment, praying silently for the soul of the Far-killer. They would meet again, but it would be… different. Those who fell and were reforged were not the same. Death — even if it was but a temporary one — took something from them. Something indefinable. When next the Far-killer flew, would he be the same keen-eyed hunter whom Zephacleas had relied on, or would he be something, someone else? The thought was not a pleasant one.

‘The daemon killed him,’ the mortal said, her voice hollow with shock. ‘He freed us, and then the daemon killed him.’ Her name was S’ual and she was one of the few survivors of the slave-gangs. She trembled with fear and weakness, her malnourished body clad in the remains of once-rich robes and the now-rusted armour of a Setaen Guard. She held a spar of bone, slick with skaven-blood, in her remaining hand. Her other was bandaged tight and lashed to her chest by strips of filthy cloth torn from her robes. As she spoke, she tossed the spar aside in obvious disgust. ‘He freed us, but it… it came out of the shadows and…’ She looked up at Zephacleas, eyes wide. ‘What are you?’