Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Kruk screeched as a bolt of sizzling lightning took him in the back.

The plague priest released the reptile and stumbled, flames licking from his robes. He whirled and saw the skull-masked storm-thing striding towards him. Kruk cursed and flung out his good claw. The vapours rising from his censer suddenly stiffened and solidified. They shot towards the approaching figure like glistening arrows. The storm-thing staggered as the semi-solid vapours tore at him.

Before he could finish the smaller creature off, it drove a dagger into his shoulder. Kruk spun and backhanded the seraphon with his censer, knocking it sprawling. He tried to call to mind a killing spell, but his rage was too great — he wanted to rend, to tear. He raised his censer, ready to bring it down on the skink’s head.

He heard a shout from behind him and half-turned to see the skull-faced storm-thing extend his staff. A moment later, a bolt of lightning speared down through rain-choked skies and struck his censer. Every nerve in Kruk’s form wept in sudden, all-consuming agony. The lightning ran through him and into the ground. The stone crumbled beneath his smoking claws as a radius of devastation spread outward around him.

He fought against the pain, against the clutches of the lightning, trying to lower his arm, to thrust himself towards his enemies once more. He refused to be defeated so close to his ultimate triumph. He heard the shrieks of his closest followers as they were immolated, or slipped between the cracking stones, vanishing into the shadowed depths.

His squeals of frustration were swallowed up by the dark, as he plummeted down into the depths of the worm, his robes and body alight.

‘For Sigmar,’ Zephacleas growled, clashing his weapons together in the silence that followed the collapse of the plaza, and the disappearance of the rat-priest. ‘For the Far-killer and every fallen brother, death to the dealers of death!’ He charged forward, Sutok at his side, Thetaleas and the Decimators racing in his wake. They met the skaven in what was left of the central plaza, in the shadow of lightning-wreathed statues.

All around Zephacleas, seraphon and Stormcasts advanced and fought as one. At the rear of their lines, the slann slumbered on his palanquin as all around him his warriors fought and died to defend him from the desperate skaven. The Starmaster hadn’t stirred since he’d aided Seker in calming the agonies of the worm, and Zephacleas wondered whether the ancient being even knew what was going on.

The skaven fought like maddened animals, driven by fear and desperation and the reeking smoke that spewed from their censers. They fought to overwhelm, to break free, to escape. But there would be no escape. Not this time. Like an infection, they would be purged from Shu’gohl’s body. He hacked a squealing rat-monk in two, and snapped the spine of another. The force of his blow sent the creature flying. He saw Thetaleas bisect three of the creatures with one blow, and Sutok obliterate a frothing censer bearer with his war-mace.

Zephacleas laughed as Seker’s lightning flashed and the enemies of Azyr died. ‘Death to the dealers of death,’ he roared, arms spread. ‘Ruin to the bringers of ruin.’

Go.

The voice echoed like a bell within his head. It was not a human voice. It wasn’t even really a voice at all — rather, it was the slow rumble of stars wheeling in the heavens. It was a heavenly roar, hammered into the shape of words, made small enough for his mind to comprehend. He glanced back at the slann, resting on its palanquin. The heavy-lidded eyes were half-open and fixed on him.

Go.

Images filled his mind. He saw a dying skaven, staggering up stone steps, something golden clutched in its trembling arms. He saw a verminlord, slinking from the shadows. The same creature, the voice whispered, which had killed the Far-killer and Oxtl-Kor both. A creature which had claimed the lives of too many Stormcasts and seraphon to be allowed to escape. It deserved death no less than its servants.

Go.

‘Yes, I hear you,’ Zephacleas growled and signalled to Seker. ‘Cleanse this place, Lord-Relictor. Let not a rat survive. I go to deal with the one who brought them here.’

‘Zephacleas — wait,’ Seker began, but Zephacleas was already moving forward, bulling his way through the disorganised mob of skaven. He chopped two of them down, and they began to scatter, flowing around the great, roaring amethyst giant ploughing through their ranks. In moments, he had slaughtered a path through them and was storming across the plaza towards the domed central chamber of the temple.

He caught glimpses of the rat-priest through the pelting rain and flashing lightning. It was limping up the temple steps. It was hurt, and moving slowly, but it had a head-start. He pushed himself to greater speed. He knew somehow that he needed to be there when it died. As he pounded up the temple steps, he heard the creature cry out in a strained squeal.

The interior of the chamber was dominated by a statue of Sigmar, Ghal Maraz lifted over his head. Lightning crawled across the raised hammer and the crown of the statue, cascading down it in shimmering waves. More lightning wept out of an iron hatch set into the statue’s plinth — the hatch was easily twice the size of a man, and at a glance he recognised it for what it was.

The realmgate. Still sealed though, thank Sigmar, he thought. He’d seen firsthand what happened when a realmgate became twisted by the forces of Chaos. Thankfully, that didn’t appear to be the case here.

The rat-priest was standing before the statue of Sigmar, swaying on its claws. As Zephacleas entered the chamber, it staggered and fell. It dragged its broken body forward, clutching the golden item to its chest.

Zephacleas stalked towards it, intent on finishing the creature off for good. But before he could reach it, the beast gave a grunting cough, shuddered and lay still. Its body came apart with a vile sound, and a tarry substance spread across the floor. Black, writhing shapes rose from the waste and he stepped back with a curse.

Above him, in the dark, something laughed. ‘You have come far just to die, storm-thing,’ a voice hissed. ‘Yes-yes, die-die.’

Zephacleas looked up. Something hideous stared down at him from its perch atop the head of Ghal Maraz. He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed it before. The side of the verminlord’s skull was scarred as if by fire, and one eye socket had gone dark. Several of its horns had been sheared off, and smoke still rose from the broken nubs. The daemon slunk down and crawled across the statue’s shoulders, leering at him with its single flickering eye. ‘Die-die beneath the gaze of your man-thing god. Die for the glory of the Great Corruptor.’ Its eye narrowed as it looked down at the body of the rat-priest. ‘Ahhh… poor Vretch. Poor, cunning Vretch.’

It sprang from its perch and Zephacleas stepped back as it landed in a crouch before him. He could hear the crash of weapons and the screams of dying skaven. The creatures were making their last stand and fighting like cornered rats. But none of that mattered if the daemon got what it came for.

It yanked the remains of the rat-priest’s body up and shook the golden plaques loose from the corpse’s grip. They clattered to the ground where they lay gleaming with a strange radiance. ‘Not what I was looking for, no-no, but perhaps valuable all the same…’ the verminlord chittered as it stared at them, its tail lashing. ‘Yes, valuable…’ it hissed softly. It looked up at him. ‘Is this what they came for? Is this why the serpent slithered down out of the stars? What secrets of theirs will it reveal, I wonder?’

Whatever those are, best not to let that thing have them, Zephacleas thought. He stepped forward, sword extended. ‘Step back, daemon. You’ll claim no prize today. Not unless you go through me.’ Lightning crawled across his armour as he faced the monstrous verminlord.