The Ur-River roiled, seething in the throes of new creation. From a hundred mouths it had seeped into the foundations of Eklysium. From portals across the length and breadth of the realms it had flowed into this place long denied. It crept and crawled through invisible cracks in ancient stone, working its fingers deep into the earth. It roared across rapids that once had been high streets, plazas of peaceful repast lost in the waters below. Where courses met they merged and grew stronger, meeting more again, and again. As the unstable portals closed, more would open. Like tendrils reaching out in the dark, it sought anchors across its banks, points where it could ground its flow. To those with the eyes to see such things, the Ur-River was seething, the magic within building towards a critical mass. Soon, it would burst its banks, tearing a new pathway through the space between realms. A new, stable realmgate would be made, and a new tributary of the Ur-River formed.
Yet something was wrong. From the deep, dark depths below, immense and ungodly powers bled like lightning into this churning cauldron of potential magics. The Ur-River itself, the life-blood and thread connecting all the realms, seethed at their touch. Hostile magics boiled, and pressure built across the web of waters entrenching the city.
Like a City standing on the edge of a storm, all could feel the pressure building in the air, building and building until it pounded in the ears and throat and mind, building so unbearably that they prayed for the tempest to come.
The Suicide Run
(Mandatory Death or Glory condition)
Mogrek staggered forward. His strength spent, only fury and pride drove each step. Green blood fell turgidly from the rent in his side, shining against torn flesh and gleaming bone. Where it touched the black stone, it sprouted into a vivid emerald patch of fungal blossoms, marking his passage. A red ruin lay behind. Ahead, Za’loc-ta waited.
* * *
Barely an hour before, the unified force of Eklysium had rallied together in the vaulted chamber that lay at the Citadel’s black heart. The battles they had fought so recently above had not been forgotten and animosity rippled between the assembled camps, yet the tension was underscored by a shared anxiety. Everyone there knew the simple truth - who held the City would mean less than nothing if they allowed Za’loc-ta’s machinations to destroy it. Some of the assembled warriors still held on to a hope that they might be able to stop the Slann, perhaps even destroy it, but the grim truth hung heavy in the air. This was to be a forlorn hope, a suicidal assault that would trade blood for time. Each camp had delved into the mysteries of the Citadel, and while the March understood their meanings the clearest, enough knowledge had been gained to form a single, desperate plan. With time, the Wards that surrounded the Citadel’s central chamber could be repurposed, the magics that once shielded this place from the outer realms turned instead to shield the City above from what would soon be unleashed below. Their job was to buy that time. Every minute they could delay Za’loc-ta, every step they could hinder his forces, bought a chance for survival for everyone in the Vale. And so they marched, side by side and heads held high in grim determination.
The battle began with the thunderous roar of artillery. Starfall Glade cannons, supplied with highly potent munitions by their Wolfram allies, were joined by the jarring rapport of the convoy of the Penumbra 3rd’s cogwagons. Rocket trails streaked through the still, underground air, arcing towards the densely packed columns of the Perfected. For a moment, the dark chamber was split by the piercing light of a Luminark, forcing Daergran Shatteraxe to shield his eyes at the head of the convoy. When he could look again, he saw the after-image of the beam splashed across a wide, aetheric blue veil that had fallen across the Seraphon columns. Instead of wreaking destruction on the densely packed troops below, he saw the artillery rounds scream downwards to explode harmlessly against the shimmering barrier overhead. Daergran nodded to himself. As deadly as their firepower could be, he’d not expected it to have much effect against the magical might of this foe. That had never been the point. As long as the starpriests were forced to maintain this shield, they would only be able to advance at a crawl. Command their attention, force them to respond to the threat, that was the plan. And they responded exactly as the duardin had predicted.
* * *
Streaking out from under the protection of the shield came a herd of raptadons, taking a wide slashing path towards the artillery column. The word ‘herd’ sounded wrong in Knight-Questor Kadriye’s mind, but ‘pack’ did not convey the sheer number of the beasts. Larger, heavily armoured aggradons rode among them like shepherds, their saurus riders goading the smaller beasts into an ever faster charge. Last of all came a line of lumbering bastilodons, living tanks that charged more with momentum than speed. Kadriye was briefly disappointed not to see any carnosaurs among them, but the menagerie bearing down would be more than enough to turn the column into so much expensive scrap.
‘So far, so good,’ she thought, and with a cry, kicked her mount into motion. All along the lines, similar cries echoed back, and within a moment a mounted force of Eklysium’s own leapt out to meet the monstrous charge. Thunder followed in their footsteps, and as the wide arc of the charge swept into view of the artillerymen, the source became clear. A half-dozen stegadons, captured and corralled in the days leading up to the battle, were driven forward at the head of the charge. She heard a whooping cry from the far end of the line, and she saw Knight Marshal Serpanya herding a Trogglodon, its massive frill splayed wide and its hissing cry driving the stegadon into even greater panic. ‘I’ll have to ask the Knight Marshal how she managed that when this is over,’ Kadriye thought with a smile.
As the panicked beasts before them drew close to the charging Seraphon, a volley of rifle fire split the air, followed a half-second later by the hissing of quarrels. The shots struck home among the approaching Seraphon, and while many missed their mark, the quality of their allies showed through as saurus after saurus were plucked from their saddles in puffs of void-born ichor. Suddenly freed of their masters' hands, the warbeasts looked at the approaching herd of ancient reptiles, and responding to some primal instinct still intact at the core of their beings, turned away from the artillery column to join the stampede. Driven forward, under the cover of artillery fire, the crush of charging beasts were now headed straight back towards the saurus lines. Around her, the Brazen Sun cheered, and a smile split the Knight-Questor’s face.
The cheering did not last long.
A small, almost delicate figure emerged through the magical barrier surrounding the Perfected, borne high above the battlefield on a cloak of feathers. For most mortals, it was hard to differentiate individual skinks, yet for the veterans of the Prime Dominion Wars there was no mistaking the form of Tetar-Muntaq. The starpriest floated almost serenely outwards, as artillery fire and cannon shells passed by it harmlessly to strike against the shield below. Its wide, inhuman eyes scanned the battlefield, and to Kadriye’s mind seemed to settle on her. She heard its voice echo in her head, a strangely clear and atonal sound when not being pushed through lips and throat not made for human speech.
‘You sad creatures still do not truly grasp what it is you fight against.’
Though the skink’s form did not change, in the mind’s eye its features suddenly shifted, taking on a mien of impossibly ancient wisdom and power. It passed a hand in front of its face, as though sweeping away chalk writing from an unseen wall, and as it did the entire stampeding line of creatures shifted and waivered. Kadriye was thrown from the back of her pilfered aggradon, its form suddenly as solid as mist beneath her, and hit the ground hard. The stampeding creatures shimmered and dissolved, flowing together into a formless black void shot through with starlight.
Kadriye pushed herself up to her elbows, trying to regain the breath the heavy sigmarite armour had knocked from her in the fall. The careful planning, the work of days capturing those beasts, gone in the wave of a hand. She could only hope it was enough of a distraction for the main body of the attack.
As Kadriye looked up, she saw that the cloud of void was not bleeding off into the aether, as it had done the few times she had seen before. Instead, it was drawing in, coalescing around a new shape.
The monstrous head of a dread saurian emerged from the void, snaking forward towards the Knight-Questor like a colossal viper. Kadriye scrabbled back, reaching for a fallen blade, but like a flash the scaled maw slammed down upon her. There was a crunch of Sigmarite buckling, then the muffled sound of distant thunder.
Up and down the line, the void where the stampeding saurians had been coalesced into new, more monstrous forms. Carnosaurs of brilliant emerald and rudy red roared in defiance, their oldblood riders hefting celestite weapons in challenge. At their head stalked the Dread Saurian, now fully formed from the coruscating star-light. It moved like a great shark parting the waters, ancient and strong, the apex predator of its domain, matched only by the warrior that sat atop it. Gleaming golden plate covered its white scales, shining in the subterranean gloom like liquid fire and aged in patina that pre-dated the realms. It held a long spear at its side that glowed with a supernal light, white flames curling at the air just on the edge of vision. With a roar that echoed up and down the newly emerged battleline, the warbeasts of the Perfected charged.
The Starfall Glade Knights were the first to meet them, charging forward to regroup as the plan collapsed around them. Darting through the line of oncoming beasts on their faster steeds, the knights struck quickly and efficiently, targeting the softer joints and underbellies. Serpanya spurred her mount hard, steering it between the loping legs of the Dread Saurian, and with a slash opened a wound across its belly. The beast reared up, letting loose a roar of pain that shook dust from the distant ceiling, and she darted out from under it once again. Strike and fade, strike and fade, she thought. If they could distract them, get them angry enough to chase her knights, she could lead the beasts on a fruitless pursuit away from the main battleline. If only-
She was nearly fast enough to duck away from the lance that struck down at her, twisted in her saddle so it only grazed the side of her arm. She turned quickly, putting distance between herself and the white-scaled champion, and for a brief moment smiled at the near brush with death. Then, she felt the fire racing through her. Looking down, she saw the wooden arm gifted to her by Alarielle twisting and spasming. Where it had been marred by the corrupting touch of Chaos, she saw white fire racing through it, over the wood and under her skin. She cried out in pain, clutching the arm tightly. Another Knight rode close to her, calling out if she was injured. She managed to raise her good arm in warding, began to form a cry of warning, when a surge of white fire engulfed her completely, consuming flesh and bone, corrupted wood and sanctified form all as one.
* * *
Shielding his eyes from the sudden flare of white light, Vallash Kall watched from across the battlefield as the initial phase of their plan was collapsing. Alongside the ragtag collection of other mages from across the coalition, he had been aiding in the artillery’s bombardment of the Seraphon’s main force, yet as he saw the few remaining Starfell Glade Knights scatter he knew more drastic action was needed. Steeling himself, and calling upon the powers of Nyura learned on the distant shores of Lake Bykaal, Kall cast his spirit out from his physical form and sent it spiralling up above the battlefield. Drawing up all his magical strength and talent, he grasped at the winds of magic, sculpting them until they appeared like a living vortex around him.
“Za’loc-ta!,” his spirit cried into the aethyric wind, “show yourself and face me!”
A spiritual form began to materialize before him, far too small and skinny to be the slaan, but Kall’s eyes narrowed nonetheless. The projection of Tetar-Muntaq looked him up and down, their expression one of quizzical interest more than actual malice, at least so far as the sorcerer could tell.
“Interesting,” it croaked. “The Lord of Pure Waters and Saviour of Bykaal recognizes this magic you wield. It is not your own, little warlock. Where is the book?”
A psychic blade drawn of will and shimmering with anger appeared above Kall’s hand, and was sent screaming down towards the aethyric form of the skink. Arcane wards sprang to life around it, deflecting the magical sword though they shattered to motes of aetheric light as they did. Again and again Kall pressed the mental attack, stripping away the layers of Tetar-Muntaq’s protections. The skink responded with a torrent of magical shards, splinters of hard light that pierced through the astral projections where they met, yet Kall was ready with shields of his own. More and more power he pulled into his onslaught, though he could feel the damage it was causing his unconscious body down on the field below, and he sensed his foe’s defenses failing.
Once more, Tetar-Muntaq’s form shuddered, and when the skink opened its eyes it was Za’loc-ta that looked out through them. Kall sent a desperate swing at its astral form, and felt his arm shattered in the physical world as the magical blade slammed against the shield conjured by the starmaster. He registered the pain distantly, as one might remember a bill that would soon come due, but all of his concentration was bound to the spell in his hands. The manifested sword he held split apart, breaking into dozens of rope-like tendrils that flowed around and over the shield. Lashing out, they wrapped themselves around the skink’s astral form, blinding into a solid shadowy mass of fibres like a spider’s cocoon. He saw anger flicker across the skink’s brow, and he fed upon the emotion. The spell, another learned from the Book of Nyura, would bind the slann’s consciousness to the skink’s form for as long as he could hold his concentration.
Tetar-Muntaq thrashed against the binding, then went still, its eyes jet black.
* * *
Daergran Shatteraxe yelled to be heard above the sound of leathery wings battering against the armoured sides of the cogwagon. Scores of terradons swept down upon the artillery convoy, dropping magical payloads of their own before swooping down to pluck crews from their guns and drivers from their wagons. They had been prepared for this, and he saw from the corner of his eye one of the winged reptiles suddenly alight in blue fire as the Hurricanums they had placed at regular intervals along their line arced lightning through the sky. Still, the beasts kept coming, the weight of their numbers overwhelming the warmachines.
Through an aiming port, he saw Corona Twice-Damned and the Ebon Claw fighting over the prone body of the wizard Kall. Standing back to back, the dark warriors fended off wave after wave of diving ripperdactyls, their great blades carving a crimson curtain through the air. Yet even as he watched, their numbers were thinning fast. One large warrior in stout armour with curving horns above his head was borne over by three of the flying beasts, their wedge-like beaks cracking through his breastplate as a gull breaking through the shell of a crab. Another fell to a hail of poisoned darts from the skink riders. Their numbers were thinning fast.
Daergran stuck his arm out of the firing port, firing his trusty shotgun at the creatures swarming over Corona, then felt a sudden immense pressure. There was a wet, snapping sound, and he stared in disbelief as a terradon took off from the side of the cogwagon, his severed arm held in its mouth. His precious shotgun tumbled from unfeeling fingers to the chamber floor below.
The duardin stumbled out of the cogwagon, clutching the remains of his right arm to his chest. He could feel his brain shutting down, blood loss and shock fighting to wrest control from him. He watched, faintly, as another flight of terradons swooped down from the air. He saw the arc of the Hurricanum’s lightning sweep across them. One, the largest, burst into flames at the lightning’s touch. He could only stare, dimly aware as consciousness faded, as the burning terradon dropped like a blazing comet into the midst of the Starfall Glade cannons, and the mass of highly unstable munitions they had been given.
The blast, when it came, rocked through the artillery convoy shattering wood and steel with equal ease. Daergran was gone in an instant, along with the remaining cannon. Nearby, Corona was flung from her feet, hitting the ground hard. Some of her warriors, those closer, had fared worse, torn apart by the force of the blast or the scything wall of shrapnel. The explosion had, at least for a moment, cleared the skies, and Corona thanked the dark gods, though that blessing proved short-lived. She heard the sound of clawed feet approaching, and looked up to see a saurus guard heading towards her and the still form of Vallash Kall. The seraphon paused above her, raising a jagged warclub high, but with a yell of defiance she lunged forward and bore it bodily to the ground. She felt its jaws snapping at her face, trying to find the room to close on her throat, but she was faster. Drawing a dagger from her belt, she slammed it up into the underside of the warrior’s jaw. It spasmed in her grip, bleeding black void flecked with starlight across her hands, then went still. Corona pushed the dead weight aside. Her hands found the hilt of her sword, and with an effort she planted its point in the ground and pulled herself up to her knees. Three more saurus stood, watching her. The shadowed eye sockets of their skull helms stared at her blankly. Pulling the sword free, she swept it through the air, then gestured at the three of them. The first to approach easily avoided the sweeping blow of her blade, then with a spinning strike of its halberd knocked the weapon from her hands. A vicious kick knocked her back to her knees, and with a cruel indifference, it brought its blade spinning round to lop the head from her shoulders. Her last vision saw the saurus moving past her, dispatching the last of the Ebon Claw, and stalking towards the prone sorcerer.
* * *
In astral form, high above the battlefield, Vallash Kall poured every ounce of strength and will into the magical binding. Yet even as he watched, the ropes of magic burned and snapped, their shadowy forms withering away against the white light of the spirit they held.
“Disappointing,” came the voice of the skink Tetar-Muntaq in his head. “Your spell piqued the master’s interest, but the power you wield belongs to another, and your patron has no influence here.”
He felt the words of the skink wash over him and down onto the battlefield, into the minds of his allies.
“Pathetic creatures. Do you not see what you are fighting for? Your mortal kind breeds chaos. You invite it into yourself willingly, anxiously, for your own selfish ends. If you only corrupted yourselves, it would be bad enough, but your presence tarnishes the realms around you. Across worlds we have seen this, every time. You ruin life, all life, for your own weak wants. We are the cure. You fight us because you do not yet understand. But you will.”
With a shrug of its shoulders, the magical bindings along the skink burst apart, their dark fibres dissolving in white light. Kall dredged up what last shreds of power he had reserved to cast a shield before him, but the magical blast that struck it washed over the shield and through it, shattering his guard. It struck his astral form, tearing through it like wet paper in a hurricane and sending his mind screaming back down to his body. He opened his eyes just in time to see a saurus pike pierce down through his chest. Blood foaming at his mouth, Kall tried to speak, but could not. Distantly, he could hear horns sounding, and the last thing he felt before the clawing darkness took him was hope that his ploy had distracted Za’loc-ta long enough.
* * *
With a resounding battlecry, the main body of the coalitions’ force struck into Za’loc-ta’s column. As costly as the efforts had been, the artillery barrage and the stampede had only ever been meant to slow down the slann’s progress and provide a cover for this attack.
Bellowing an almighty WAAAGH, Mogrek drove across the underground chamber like a swooping dragon. Fire trailed in his wake from the blazing Longblade, awake once more in his grasp. In the full panoply of war, he looked like the very image of Gorkamorka returned to the realms once more, fighting in the distant Age of Myth with gods and heroes. Many of the surviving orruks from all sides had flocked around him, pulled by the WAAAGH, and banners streamed around him as they charged at his sides. While there was no Heldenhammer to match the God of Destruction’s rebirth here, the role was taken by the assembled armies of the coalitions, who roared with a fury to match the god-king’s thunder.
Racing ahead of the main body, Mogrek brought the Longblade down against the magical barrier that surrounded the Perfected lines. Screaming metal and fire met celestial magic, and there was a sound like inrushing air. The barrier shuddered, bowing inward, then shattered into a shower of falling motes of light. The coalition forces streamed through the suddenly empty space, already at a full charge, and onto the saurus warriors caught off guard by the falling barrier.
The fighting that followed was close and bloody. Both sides were fully committed. There would be no retreat, no quarter given and none asked for. Lord-Celestant Steelios drove his cohort hard to keep up with Mogrek’s passage, the stormcast breaking through walls of saurus spears and opening gaps for their allies behind. It was costly work, and for each step gained more of the Death Watch fell. Steelios himself met his end breaking through a saurus shieldwall, his body pierced through by a dozen pikes, and even then his momentum carried him forward, raising his impaled body up into the air. When the lightning came to claim him, it smashed down into the saurus below, opening a gap for the attack to hammer.
Another blast came shortly after, as the Shattered Sky host fell upon a group of skink starpriests in a ritual circle. Lord Vytravius barrelled through waves of magical fire and fell among them, diving into the maelstrom of starlight as the skinks attempted to reform the barrier. He struck fast and hard, taking one priest down with a precise thrust and crushing another with his heavy shield. The ritual vortex wavered and frayed, its magics dissipating harmlessly into spinning motes of light. Vytravius had a moment to savour the victory before the kroxigor guards fell on him. He parried the first but not the second, and as the warpack fell upon him, another flash of lightning brought brief illumination to the darkened chamber.
The ghouls of the Iridian Company swarmed across the backs of a trio of stegadons, their claws pulling and rending apart the arcane warmachines carried atop it. Drunk on kingsblood and lost in whatever delusion had taken it, the Gorewarden Owain’s moment of triumph came as it pulled the arcane heart from an Engine of the Gods. Delight lit across his face for just a moment before the warmachine exploded, taking out the stegadon herd and the Gorewarden’s company in a brilliant crimson fireball.
Mogrek stood in the midst of the melee, his flaming sword wreaking destruction all around. A thunderous WAAAAGH split his lips, matched only a moment later by an equally monstrous roar. The ground shook, and space cleared in the middle of the battle as the Dread Saurian and its sunblooded rider stalked forward. Grinning from tusk to tusk, the warboss streaked across the field, meeting the Dread Saurian mid-leap. Straining to hold back its jaws, Mogrek twisted as they met, trying to slam its back down against the stone. Long claws raked his side and legs, tearing armor and flesh alike, but he gave as much as he got, carving deep into the beast with his sword. Locked as he was in grappling with the beast, it was the Sunblood that wounded him deepest. Leaping from the saddle, the white-scaled champion brought his flaming spear down in a diving leap where Mogrek had lost his eye. The celestite bit deep into the giant orruk, piercing through his shoulder and rending the bone and muscle there. The orruk pushed himself free of the Dread Saurian, but his left arm hung limp below the spear wound. The beast rolled itself back to its feet, and began to circle around Mogrek. The warboss’s good eye darted between champion and beast as he tried to shake life back into his arm to no avail.
Tensing itself, waiting for the moment Mogrek’s back was turned, the Dread Saurian leapt - then was met mid-leap by a streaking form trailing crimson lightning. Grakko Thunderhide slammed shoulder first into the leaping lizard, sending it sprawling off-course. He spun, flaming sword held high, and brought it screaming down like an infernal banshee. The fires of Aqshy roared, and the Dread Saurian’s head came tumbling from its shoulders. Mogrek expected to feel the bite of the Champion’s lance behind him, but as he turned, he saw Glottul Coalcutter instead. The ogor rocked back on his feet, the spear meant for Mogrek two thirds of the way through his torso. As the rest of the Coalcut Tribe fell on the Champion, driving it back, Glottul gave one last look back at Mogrek, and collapsed.
* * *
Bleeding and limping, Varn Kul hefted his hammer for another blow. Most of his men had already fallen on the way here, himself only making it by the skin of his teeth. At some point he’d lost sight of Grakko, but there was no sense in worrying about that now. There was killing to do.
Another Skink fell at his feet in a bloody heap. He readjusted his grip, turned, and readied himself for the next. But the face that greeted him was not a scaled, fanged maw: it was the masked visage of the Stormcast Dailor Elephas. The man was paying no attention to him, too focussed on the horde of Seraphon swarming about him to give any mind to a supposed ally. It was the perfect opportunity. He could take out a hated rival and strengthen Grakko’s chance of dominion over Eklysium with a single blow. Nobody would suspect the death to be anything but one of many unfortunate losses against the overwhelming numbers of the Perfected.
Just as his hammer began to fall towards the Stormcast’s skull, he found himself blinded by a sudden burst of crimson light. His momentum halted as his swing met not sigmarite, but the lightning wreathed blade of Grakko Thunderhide herself. With a roar, the Dragon Ogor forced him back, sending him reeling in shock. “No more treachery,” Grakko bellowed, “no more pointless killing in my name. This is no family, I’ve just brought more monsters to the Vale.”
Then, with an expression of dawning surprise, Grakko looked down to see a Seraphon blade blossoming forth from her chest. Then another. She fell to her knees, the saurus that had climbed onto her back wrenching their blades out messily. They quickly fell as Dailor dispatched them with his own blade, but it was already too late. More starmetal spears pierced her flesh from every angle. She tried to raise her own blade, but was met with a colossal hammer wielded by a scarred Kroxigor. The blade shattered under the impact and with it came a blast of lightning strong enough to send Varn Kul sprawling. The last thing he saw was the sundered blade as it arced through the air, its jagged edge rapidly approaching his skull. Then, with a dull thud, it hit, and Varn Kul was no more.
As the dust settled, Dailor steadied himself and looked at his unexpected saviour. Grakko was laid out on the floor, surrounded by dead enemies, but her gaze was somewhere else entirely. “Papa,” she said to no one in particular. “...you came back for me.”
Then the light went from her old, old eyes, and Grakko Thunderhide was gone.
* * *
As Mogrek pushed deeper into the Seraphon lines, the edges of the Coalition charge began to crumble under the attrition of the seemingly never-ending Saurus. Fighting back to back, an exhausted Ghargon Bloodpyre and Karghaz Ebonheart matched each other skull for skull, their bitter rivalry turned to competition once more. Piles of saurus lay about them, the handiwork of the last failed attack, but each knew they were near to the end of their endurance. As Ghargon watched the duardin bend down to dispatch a stricken warrior, he saw a sudden surge of light as the solar engine of a bastilodon flared to life. Acting without thought, the blood warrior threw himself in front of Karghaz. Searing light washed over him, scouring away armour and flesh, and in an instant Ghargon was gone. Karghaz roared in rage, flying across the intervening ground in an instant. The first blow of his axe rebounded off the bastilodon’s armoured head, but he used the turning momentum to hurl a throwing axe into the skink chief looking down in surprise and attempting to realign the solar crystals. His second blow struck the creature at the knee, and this time it found purchase. The bastilodon bellowed in pain, collapsing on its side, and as it did Karghaz came around and brought his axe down through the creature’s exposed throat. The duardin stumbled forward, the rage receding for a moment, and found himself barely standing on unsteady feet. Looking down, he saw a skink’s javelin sticking out of his torso. His breath was getting heavy and wet, and blood flecked his mouth. Looking around, he saw the fallen solar engine still primed with magical energy. None of the rest of the lodge had made it this far. The last of the Bloodpyre had sacrificed itself for him. Enemies were closing in all around. With nothing better to do, Karghaz Ebonheart brought his axe down on the solar engine. There was a scream of shattering crystal, and the fyreslayer felt the warm embrace of a good death.
* * *
Léofolat crept closer along the edge of the battlefield, trusting in the magic of his torc of illusions to keep the eyes of the slann off him. As soon as there was a chance, he planned to rush over and stab the frog, or perhaps smite him with the power of Sigmar, or whatever else the delusions suggested at the moment. It might have worked, had the Seraphon been under the same delusions. Convinced he could not be seen, the ghoul loped out and made towards the distant figure of the slann. He did not get far. As the contingent of temple guard that surrounded Za’loc-ta turned to stare at the Charnel Stormcourt, the first trace of unease crept into the ghoul, cutting through all delusions.
Sensing that no better moment for surprise would be found, the rest of the assassins sent by the coalitions chose that moment to make their presence known. Emerging from their hidden tunnels, the Zharrdron survivors led by Smiles Nasir leapt into action, charging towards the nearest skink priests. Heterfer was among them, her hierophant cradling the relic kanopi close. Already it glowed faintly red with the ambient magic it was absorbing. Even Alpharisson, his ‘Hydra Fangs’ bared, joined the charge towards the slann’s guard.
Daemonic shots rang out, shadowy daggers whispered, and deadly magics rushed towards Za’loc-ta and his guards. Projectiles were thrown off course by spiteful winds, blades dodged as if every attack was foretold, and even skillful magics were unbound like parlor tricks. A few managed to pierce through the layers of arcane defences, felling skink mages, but the impenetrable wall of temple guard allowed none to get within reach of their charge. As mortal and immortal assassin sacrificed themselves in an effort to break through the enemy’s line, the palanquin slowly turned towards them. Before they could even see the starmaster, they felt his power cascade over them. Every mage-trained assassin from the coalitions worked to unweave his flurry of spells, their artifacts draining what power they could.
With an ominous shotgun crack, the smooth, black ground fractured. Cracks opened, their edges like ragged teeth, swallowing capable assassins despite all the protections they brought to bear. Rocks like cannonballs shot forward, scything down ghoul and duardin alike, then exploding into razor shards that left only red mist in their wake. Korzek stumbled, rock shards tearing through shadow armour to pulp a leg, while Queen Heterfer was forced to scoop up the kanopi herself after a boulder smashed the skull of her hierophant. After only a few seconds, the rent earth ceased its pained roar. The survivors of ‘dagger group’, less than half their original number, found themselves in a deep crevasse, staring up sheer sides. At the top, Za’loc-ta looked down on them.
Alpharisson was the first to react, hurling a Hydra Fang with all his strength upwards. The weapon was deflected by unnatural winds, sailing past the slann and striking one of his skink attendants. Cutting through the priest’s arcane wards like they were not there, it sank deep into the skink’s chest. An almost human look of surprise crossed the skink’s face, then it pitched over the side of the palanquin.
It did not hit the ground.
Za’loc-ta raised a hand, and the skink caught in the air, hovering before him. Even for those extremely rare few who had seen a slann before, seeing it move was a jarring experience. It had an uncanny motion to it, moving more like a puppet than a being driven by internal muscles. With a wet sound, the Hydra Fang slowly slid out of the skink’s body. As it came free, the black, starlit void that filled the skink churned, and the flesh reknit itself. As the wound closed over completely, the skink’s eyes suddenly shot open, and it drew in a startled breath. Letting it drift back down to the palanquin, Za’loc-ta’s eyes shifted down to the group below. Nothing seemed to move, not even a twitch of warning, and the Hydra Fang suddenly pierced Alpharisson’s forehead. There was no groan or gurgle, the duardin simply dropped quietly to the ground.
Those in the pit began to slowly back away, none wishing to draw the slann’s attention. Heterfer held the kanopi above her head, as though it would shield her, but it seemed a scant comfort. All of their defensive artifacts burned with the power they had collectively absorbed, but the starmaster before them seemed to draw upon limitless energy from the Citadel Wards and wield it with otherworldly skill. Za’loc-ta scanned the survivors for more curiosities, then swiped a hand languidly through the air. There was a dry, slushing sound, a very brief shout, and the ground was smooth and flat once again. No trace was left of the cleft that had been ripped in it, or the dagger group that lay entombed in its depths.
* * *
Mogrek drove the main body of the Coalition forces hard into the Seraphon ranks, yet behind the spearhead of the assault the tides were rapidly turning. Attrition had wrought a heavy toll on the warriors of the Vale, and the overwhelming numbers of saurus were coming to bear. The gap opened in the initial assault had closed shut behind them, forcing those at the rear of the column to fight on three sides. If they paused in their advance, or became locked in combat, the Coalition warriors quickly found themselves isolated and surrounded. With each that fell, the rear of the charge frayed and splintered more, consumed by the enveloping warhost. It was like a paper dragon whose tail had caught on fire, struggling to outrun its own demise.
The ogor Chungus met his demise at the steps of the Emerald Wine Basin, the graven prophecies of a skink oracle in one hand and a warspawned’s club in the other. Shërbëtor and Dailor fell together a dozen paces further, the once bitter rivals working together to bring down a kroxigor chieftain of frightening strength, only to fall beneath the claws of a monstrous carnosaur. Anaris Rime-Wrought and his brood found at last an end to their curse of unlife charging headlong into the fiery maws of a hunting pack of salamanders that would have incinerated the rest of the column, slaying the beasts even as their unnaturally tough bodies were consumed in the flame, a final call to Old Bones upon their lips. Heldan was among the last to fall. An ancient stegadon charged into Mogrek, goring the orruk deeply, and might have borne the warboss over if the stormcast had not leapt on its back and dueled with the skink chieftain that directed it. With speed and skill, the Angel of Retribution made quick work of the chieftain, but had barely a moment of triumph before a shimmering incarnate in the form of a feathered serpent struck him down. For each of these fabled warriors that fell, a hundred more died in their wake. Angels of war and the champions of gods lay on the blood stained stone next to worldweary mercenaries and bent-backed ghouls, their stories unrecorded but that they died together deep below the earth. In their companies and units, then by twos and threes, until at last all on their own, every member of the Coalition that marched out to intercept Za’loc-ta’s forces died there. Only one warrior, at the head of the charge, was still moving.
Mogrek staggered forward. His strength spent, only fury and pride drove each step. Green blood fell turgidly from the rent in his side, shining against torn flesh and gleaming bone. Where it touched the black stone, it sprouted into vivid emerald patches of fungal blossoms, marking his passage. A red ruin lay behind. Ahead, Za’loc-ta waited.
The slann turned to look at Mogrek, its ancient eyes scouring the warrior. The warboss’ panoply was tattered and torn. A few armour plates still clung to tattered straps, but most had long been lost to the grinding melee. He walked evenly, dragging one leg behind him, and his skin was awash in green blood from the haphazard network of fresh cuts. The Longblade hung heavy in his hand, its tip leaving a scorched gash in the black marble floor. Its fire was nearly spent, and Za’loc-ta could see scorch marks up the warboss’ sword arm. He had drawn too much from its fire, and the flames had taken their fuel, as they would for any mortal that tried to wield the blade. In the slann’s astral vision, Mogrek still radiated with undiluted WAAAGH energy, but it was weak, wisping away from his form like mist dissolving in the sunlight. As weak as he was, Za’loc-ta watched as Mogrek caught a leaping aggradon from the air, holding the struggling creature aloft before crushing it, spine and rider together, with a flex of his arm. The orruk looked around himself. A hundred more beasts of all shapes and sizes surrounded it, ready to pounce. A hundred times that number of saurus stood on hand to finish the job. Mogrek forced himself to stand straight, and raised the blade before him.
On his palanquin, Za’loc-ta raised a hand. The aggradon’s form at Mogrek’s feet shimmered, becoming a black void flecked with starlight, before dissolving off into the air. At a quick crawl, like ink spilled across parchment, the shimmering wave of insubstantiality spread across the ring of Seraphon that surrounded the warboss. Flowing outwards like ripples in a pond, the Perfected disappeared into the aether, back into the memory that had spawned them. In a long drawn out moment, only Za’loc-ta and Mogrek remained.
The warboss turned to look at the slann. It was a look that spoke volumes and spanned centuries. Anger etched his brow, but it was coloured by so much more. The madness, frustration and isolation of his long imprisonment in the ice. The betrayal of a destiny that so much blood had been shed to achieve. The incredible, soul-crushing loss of a certainty held so long and so fiercely that it had become a fundamental pillar of the orruk’s world.
The slann’s own eyes said nothing. It was the look of a tradesman regarding a tool that had outlived its usefulness and could easily be replaced, devoid of sentiment or consideration.
What words, if any, passed between their minds, none could know. What words, if any, were left to say?
Mogrek raised his sword, and with a bellowing WAAAAGH, charged.
Za’loc-ta raised a hand, and the Son of Gork was no more.
* * *
A few minutes later, the palanquin settled down onto the surface of the water. The black pool lay at the heart of the Citadel, its deepest and final secret. Steam rose languidly from its surface, curling up like caressing fingers, but it was a demon’s beckons. Touching the water, even breathing in the vapour that rose from it, would be instant death for any mortal.
Za’loc-ta stirred from his seat, rising for the first time in centuries, and stepped down into the black pool. As the waters closed over his head, the ancient being stretched languidly and glided downwards. Its squat, awkward body and ungainly limbs on land unfurled into long and elegant motion, carrying it with regal grace towards the sarcophagus that thrummed at the bottom of the pool.
It was time, at last. The final words were spoken. The only hope for the City above and all the peoples of the Vale was that this desperate, forlorn hope had bought them the time they needed.