Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘Have no fear, Lorrus. I will not let you fall,’ Gardus said.

Grymn said nothing as he caught hold of a thick net of roots and began to push himself up towards his fellow Stormcast. Morbus appeared above him and reached out a hand. Grymn took the Lord-Relictor’s aid gladly, and soon found himself kneeling on relatively solid ground. He looked about, heart thudding in his chest. More Stormcasts appeared, dropping through the mist to fall onto the island’s mossy scree. From the look of it, almost all of their warriors had made it. He could see Zephacleas and Ultrades and their men as well.

‘Tegrus wasn’t playing the fool after all,’ he said, fighting to keep all sign of the fear he’d felt out of his voice.

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Gardus said. He spread his arms. ‘Behold — the lost island of Talbion!’

Grymn looked at Morbus, who nodded tersely. Grymn rose to his feet and let Tallon out of his sling.

‘Well, now what, Lord-Celestant?’ he said. ‘We’re here… wherever here is.’

‘Talbion,’ Gardus repeated.

How did he know its name? Grymn wondered. Obviously, he’d learned it wherever he’d learned of its existence, but it was nonetheless disconcerting — Gardus knew things no other Stormcast did.

‘It might as well be the Brimstone Peninsula for all that that name means to me, Gardus. My question stands… what now?’ Grymn asked.

Overhead, the grey-green fog clouds that plagued the floating isles rumbled angrily and an unclean rain began to fall. Grymn grunted in disgust as the oily water pelted his armour and the mist seemed to condense about them, like the coils of an agitated serpent.

Zephacleas and Ultrades trotted towards them. The Lord-Celestant of the Astral Templars swiped at the mist. ‘Nothing like a good climb. Don’t care for this mist, though. Smells like those beasts we fought at the Vulturine Geysers.’

‘It is the work of the Ruinous Powers,’ Ultrades said.

‘This island, much like the realm of Ghyran itself, is a prisoner of Nurgle,’ Gardus said. ‘This cursed pox-mist is holding the island in place. We must somehow disperse it, and in doing so, free the island and then Ghyran itself.’ He looked at the Lord-Relictor and gestured with his hammer. ‘Morbus, call down the lightning.’

Morbus inclined his head and lifted his reliquary. He began to chant, his hollow tones rising above the patter of the rain. Azure lightning began to crackle within the depths of the reliquary, and it spread to the mist, flashing through it. It grew in strength, until it was blinding in its ferocity. The mist and smog writhed in the grip of the energy, like a serpent in the claws of a bird of prey. Morbus’ voice rose in pitch, his harsh tones lashing out with the savagery of the storm itself. Grymn could feel the power of the Lord-Relictor as it thrummed through the air and waged war on the very elements themselves.

Morbus rarely stirred himself to such heights, but when he did, it was a sight to behold. Grymn watched in awe as the mist began to burn away, seared to nothing by the fury of Morbus’ storm. He felt the ground beneath his feet shudder, as if in gratitude. Grymn looked up, and met Gardus’ solemn gaze.

‘Do you feel it, Lorrus? The island quakes, grateful to its bedrock. This is the realm of Ghyran, and even the stones themselves bristle with the stuff of life,’ he said.

The rain, once filthy, became as clean and pure as the summer storms of Azyr itself. Gardus lifted his arms and tilted his head back.

‘We have freed you, great island! Now bear us east, to the river’s mouth!’ Gardus’ voice echoed from the low peaks of the floating island.

Silence stretched out for several long moments. Not a single soul in the gathered Stormhosts dared speak. Then, with a rumble, the island began to shudder beneath their feet. Grymn looked about and saw the clouds in the sky moving. No, not the clouds… the island itself. The airborne mountain had begun to slide eastward through the pale emerald skies of Ghyran.

Grymn shook his head, incredulous. ‘How?’ he asked.

Gardus said nothing for a moment. Grymn wondered if the Lord-Celestant was as surprised as he was. Then Gardus lifted his hammer and roared, ‘Who will be victorious?’

‘Only the faithful!’

‘ Only the faithful! ’

‘Well… there’s something you don’t see every day,’ Morbidex Twiceborn said, looking up at the island as it hove to through the clouds far above. Its shadow stretched across the heartlands of Rotwater Blight. Tripletongue grunted, and Morbidex patted the maggoth’s head.

Morbidex and his fellow maggoth lords had been stationed here to prevent the Stormcasts from advancing on the source of the Gelid Gush, as well as the roots of the Oak of Ages Past. Torglug, Spume and the others were positioned at the other various crossings and headwaters; every conceivable route to Pupa Grotesse and his bathwaters was guarded by the Grandfather’s own, on the orders of the Glottkin.

Morbidex glanced over his shoulder, back towards the distant shape of the Great Unclean One. Pupa Grotesse was larger than any other examples of his kind that Morbidex had ever had the pleasure of knowing. He was a mountain of jolly filth, though even he was made to look small next to the immense roots of the Oak of Ages Past.

‘Ever seen the like, Bloab?’ he called out to his fellow maggoth lord. Bloab Rotspawned shook his hooded head, causing the swarm of insects that accompanied him everywhere to flutter about in agitation. He was a bulky lump whose flesh, where it was not hidden by his black armour, was covered in insect bites and raised pustules, and his tattered robes were stained with strange ichor and covered in squirming maggots.

‘A new one on me, Morbidex,’ Bloab droned. ‘Even Bilespurter izz in awe, eh?’ He scratched the mottled flesh of his maggoth. Bilespurter gave a warbling snort in reply. Bloab turned towards Orghotts Daemonspew, the third of the maggoth riders present at the edge of the Gelid Gush, where the world pimples bulged obscenely. ‘What zzay you, Orghotts?’

‘What is there to say, companions-mine? ’tis an island, and she floats,’ Orghotts rumbled, through malformed lips. His maggoth shifted impatiently, and he gave its scaly skull a thump with the flat of one of the two large Rotaxes he carried. ‘Be still, Whippermaw. Thy hunger will soon be sated.’ He sat back in his saddle, his armour creaking. ‘I do wonder at it, aye.’ He stroked the great horn of daemon-bone that sprouted from the side of his face, jaw to crown. ‘Think it be our enemies, Twiceborn?’

‘The Glotts certainly must, otherwise Ghurk wouldn’t be ambling towards us with all the grace of an avalanche,’ Morbidex said, pointing towards the massive shape of Ghurk Glott, knuckling his way across the mire towards them, his siblings perched securely on his immense shoulders. Ghurk splashed through the shallow waters with an excited bellow, shouldering aside a mossy cairn in his haste.

‘What ho, Glottkin? Come to deliver us victory?’ Morbidex shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘Do the silver-skins draw close? Is it to be battle at last? Tripletongue is hungry.’

‘Not here, not yet,’ Otto Glott replied loudly. ‘Not if Ethrac is right.’

‘Of course I’m right, brother-mine. The evidence hangs above us. They’re not stopping here,’ Ethrac said, as Ghurk loped past them, scattering maggoths and nurglings alike in his haste. ‘They bypassed Torglug’s forces, at river’s crossing, and Slaugoth’s host as well.’ The sorcerer pointed towards the island, sliding through the sky above. ‘Somehow, they freed one of the cursed sky-mountains of Talbion from the Grandfather’s pox-clouds and convinced it to float towards the source-waters of the Gelid Gush.’