by C. L. Werner
Dirty tricks, abominable speed and crazed ferocity weren’t enough. All it needed was one instant of opportunity for Grymn to bring about the ruin of his foe. The skaven’s own frenzy provided that chance. Slashing at Grymn’s neck with its poisoned dagger, the ratman tried to slice the tendons of his arm with a backhanded cut across the Stormcast’s shoulder. Grymn dropped and twisted, dancing away from the weeping dagger, letting it scrape across his pauldron. At the same time, he brought his halberd spinning downwards, catching the skaven as it pushed forwards. The cleaving blade struck the vermin’s snout, crunching through flesh and bone to leave the better part of the rat-like visage lying on the ground.
Although mortally stricken, the cocktail of courage-bolstering potions rushing through the plague priest’s veins continued to lend it an atrocious vitality. The creature flung itself at Grymn, black blood gushing from its severed face. In its crazed state, the skaven dropped its weapons, instead scratching at its enemy with its claws and snapping at him with what was left of its mouth. Slowly, the horrific energy drained out of the white-furred maniac. With a whining gargle, the skaven conceded the fact of its death and slipped to the ground at its killer’s feet.
Grymn had only a moment to stare at his vanquished adversary before a seething stream of corruption swept down upon him. Raising his arms, trying to fend off the boiling filth, the Lord-Castellant staggered back. The halberd fell from his grasp, slipping into the gory heap at his feet. Agony lanced through every nerve in his body. It was all he could do to remain on his feet.
It was no natural assault, this searing torment. Grymn knew he was beset by the malignant conjuration of a sorcerer.
Watching Poxmonger Kriknitt perish was deeply satisfying for Slaugoth Maggotfang. The plague priest had been Torglug’s captive, subjugated by the warlord, yet it had continued to try to wheedle and connive to gain some advantage for itself. It had brought hundreds of its warriors to join the plaguehosts, happily guiding the legion through its reeking tunnels. All the while it insisted the arrangement between them was one of alliance rather than enslavement. Slaugoth had come to despise the ratman’s whining intrigues as it tried to insinuate itself into Torglug’s confidence.
The spew of corruption that boiled from Slaugoth’s mouth was like the breath of the Plague God Himself. Under that withering blast of virulent magic, steel would corrode, flesh would bubble and blood would be reduced to sludge. True, the enchanted stamina of a lightning-man might endure a bit longer and sigmarite plate might resist a few more heartbeats than simple steel, but the final result would be the same. A slow and agonising dissolution within the corrosive juices of Slaugoth’s sorcery.
When the leader of the lightning-men began to falter, when the halberd fell from his grasp, Slaugoth exulted. Triumph over his foe seemed assured. A few moments longer and the fell magic would finish his enemy and reduce him to a smouldering husk.
Even as he anticipated this annihilation, Slaugoth became aware of a change in the aether, a familiar disruption of the tides of magic, the evocation of a power he recognised as belonging to the hated God-King. Hurriedly, the sorcerer swept his hands in arcane passes, strengthening the phantasmal barriers and eldritch wards that guarded him. To be doubly certain of protection, he tightened the soul-bond between himself and his acolytes. Whatever hostile magic did penetrate his defensive wards would be passed along to the survivors of the plague coven, working its belligerence against the witches and warlocks instead of Slaugoth.
From the sky overhead, a barrage of lightning lanced downwards into the Chaos horde. The ratkin’s decayed carriage was smashed into splinters, the smouldering censer upset and its burning contents splashed across scores of the verminous skaven. Slithering, slug-like daemons were immolated in the shrivelling blasts of electricity. An entire tribe of marauders was routed as their jarls and champions were transformed into charred husks by the celestial fires.
Slaugoth could see the skull-helmed lightning-man mystic rushing to his leader’s aid. The relic hammer clutched in the enemy cleric’s fist pointed once again at the stormy sky, drawing down the elemental might of the God-King’s wrath. The sorcerer could feel the death-screams of his acolytes as the destructive energies rippled from himself to the plague coven. His black soul shuddered to contemplate the nearness of his own dissolution.
Tightening his arcane protections against the lightning, Slaugoth began to evoke the most powerful spell known to him. He would channel power from the daemons into nearby mortals who bore the Plague God’s mark. The stream of energy would swell the bodies of its victims, bloating them with noxious gases and corrosive acids. Eventually they would burst, spilling a fog of death across Blackstone Summit.
A web of lightning crackled all around Slaugoth. The sorcerer laughed as he imagined the skull-helmed mystic’s frustration. There seemed something desperate about the concentrated storm. Perhaps his enemy had some suspicion as to the magic Slaugoth was working and was trying everything in his power to thwart him. If so, then the futility of the lightning attacks was doubly delicious. He would have to listen for his enemy’s scream when the death fog rolled across the battlefield.
Slaugoth watched the lightning crash harmlessly around him for a moment, savouring the spectacle. Then he sensed a shift in his eldritch protections. The surviving acolytes of his plague coven were trying to defend themselves, severing the link between their master and their own rotten souls!
Too late Slaugoth tried to refocus his protections, to shift the magical shells around him, but a final crackling shaft of lightning crashed down upon him from the sky. Slaugoth heard the worms in his mouth explode as the bolt seared through him, and smelt his own flesh boiling off his bones. He could see the smoke rising from his charred body. The sorcerer tried to summon a last effort, a last spell.
In a burst of noxious foulness, Slaugoth Maggotfang was gone.
Torglug watched as the avenging figure of the Celestant-Prime smashed into the monstrous ranks of his legion. A sweep of the godhammer Ghal Maraz and a score of daemons were obliterated, destroyed so completely that not even a splash of ichor or a drift of greasy smoke marked their passing. Troops of plaguebearers, packs of daemon-beasts, swarms of rot flies, mobs of atrocities for which even Torglug had no name – all were cut down by the divine avenger. The Celestant-Prime was an army unto himself, single-handedly negating the numerical supremacy the plaguehosts had enjoyed only moments before.
The warrior’s heart buried deep within the bloated corruption of Torglug’s body burned with anticipation. It had been a long time since he’d faced such an enemy, a worthy foe to pit his skills against. The lightning-men he’d vanquished, the sylvaneth treelords, the tribal kings and heroes – these were all nothing and less than nothing! In a year, in a decade, Torglug wouldn’t even remember their names, much less the ease with which he’d overcome them. But here, here was a foe of such legendary stature that even mighty daemons quailed before him. Here was an enemy Torglug could be proud to cut down with his axe. This victory would be no hollow, shallow thing, forgotten in the bleak morass of unremitting carnage and contagion.
Torglug started to call to Goregus Festermaw, to urge the putrid blightkings forwards, to command them to carve a path for him through the line of white-armoured lightning-men so that he wouldn’t sully himself against such wretches before pitting his might against that of Sigmar’s champion.
As the command formed on Torglug’s tongue, ripping pain shot through his swollen gut. Entombed within the foulness of his innards, the warlord knew his daemonic rotworm was angry. In its violence, the parasite communicated to its host the displeasure of his god. When the rotworm writhed it was a warning to the Grandfather’s favourite that Nurgle was watching him.
Pain ripping at his insides, Torglug fought the desire to plunge his hands into his own abdomen and tear the rotworm loose. There would be no relief from such madness, not even in death. Nurgle had many wa
ys of both inflicting and prolonging the suffering of His victims. No, there was but one respite and that was to submit to the Grandfather’s demands.
Tearing his eyes from the Celestant-Prime, Torglug looked across the plateau. There was only one thing that Nurgle desired more than besting Sigmar’s champion on the battlefield. It was there in the gnarled hands of the Lady of Vines, glowing with the ethereal radiance that had drawn Torglug through the snow and fog – the queen-seed, the soulpod of Alarielle, the prize Nurgle would sow in His own pestilent gardens. It was to capture this prize for the Plague God that Torglug had been granted such power, and given authority over such a host of mortals and daemons. The Grandfather cared nothing about the scraps of martial pride that yet persisted in the septic flesh of his slave. All that concerned Nurgle was the treasure he’d coveted for so long.
Choking on his own bitterness, Torglug turned and glowered at the colossal Great Unclean Ones. Guthrax and his infernal brethren had held themselves back from the fighting, content to let the Celestant-Prime expend his energies slaughtering wave after wave of plaguebearers and Chaos warriors. The threat of the greater daemons was one Torglug had intended to hold over the heads of his foes, keeping his mightiest weapon as a reserve, letting the lightning-men and sylvaneth know that however many of his minions they killed, the trio would be waiting for them.
The havoc wrought by the Celestant-Prime and the demands of Nurgle changed all of that. Now Torglug would throw the greater daemons into the fight. Their might would test even Sigmar’s champion, and while the enemy was occupied, Torglug would have a free hand on the battlefield.
Uttering a foul word of power given to him by Nurgle Himself, Torglug ordered the Great Unclean Ones to the attack. Slobbering and laughing, the immense fiends waddled towards the thin line of lightning-men, careless of the lesser daemons and corrupt mortals they smashed under their ponderous immensity. Guthrax bore once more the grisly flail of skulls he had wielded upon the Sea of Serpents. Each of his brother daemons carried a titanic sword caked in diseased filth. Swarms of nurglings, each the tiny image of the Great Unclean Ones, scampered in the wake of the grotesque goliaths.
Torglug didn’t linger to watch the greater daemons attack the lightning-men and the Celestant-Prime. Though its agitation had diminished, he could still feel the rotworm wriggling inside him, reminding him that Nurgle’s gaze was fixed upon him.
Between the armoured ranks of the lightning-men, Torglug could see the sylvaneth. He could see what the Lady of Vines intended. She was trying to reach the obelisk at the centre of the plateau, the memorial erected ages ago to honour those who had fought against the first incursions of Nurgle’s forces against the Jade Kingdoms. Though twisted and eroded by the continuous assaults of Chaos against the ruins of Blackstone, the obelisk still retained its aura of power.
Standing in the branchwraith’s way, of course, was Torglug the Despised. ‘Be forgetting the lightning-men,’ he growled at his bodyguards. ‘While they are being busy with Guthrax and his kin, the way is being clear for to be striking tree people.’ He glared at Goregus, fingering his blackened axe when he saw the scowl on the blightlord’s loathsome face. ‘Be forgetting them,’ he snarled again. ‘Once I am taking queen-seed, Grandfather will be destroying them all!’
Torglug waved his axe overhead, pointing the corroded blade at the tree-creatures. The putrid blightkings formed up behind their master, following him across the plateau. The daemons and marauders in their path hurried to clear the way for the ghastly entourage. Those who had rushed forwards to engage the sylvaneth were the ones without the courage to face the Celestant-Prime and the lightning-men. They had no stomach to interfere with the blightkings either.
From the masses of sylvaneth, the towering shape of Haldroot and lesser tree-creatures lumbered out to block Torglug’s advance. The huge arboreal beings hurled chunks of stone knocked from the petrified trees at the plaguelord’s retinue. Several of the blightkings were pulverised under the enormous shards of rock, their bodies popping in greasy bursts. Other forest spirits stomped forwards, swinging their massive arms like bludgeons. Two more of Torglug’s companions were crushed by the sylvaneth, their rusted armour crumpling under the titanic blows of the forest spirits.
Then the blightkings swept forwards, their fearsome axes hacking into the bodies of the sylvaneth. Torglug’s blighted blade chopped through the leg of one treelord, then split the toppling creature’s trunk in half as it slammed to the earth. Well had he earned the infamous sobriquet of ‘Treecutter’, and as he plied his axe, the stench of blood-sap filled the air. Mighty as they were, the sylvaneth were no match for the murderous fury of Torglug and his bodyguard.
The warlord’s eyes glistened with gruesome anticipation. Past the dwindling ranks of the forest spirits, he could see the Lady of Vines and her dryads. He could see the radiant light of the queen-seed, the prize Nurgle demanded as tribute from His favoured champion. Ultimate triumph was within Torglug’s reach.
A thunderous roar shook the plateau. Torglug looked away from the last foes standing before him, turning his blemished eyes to the sky. Through the storm-clouds, he could see the vengeful glow of a comet hurtling downwards.
Aware of the threat to the queen-seed, the Celestant-Prime had ignored the oncoming Great Unclean Ones and the swarms of lesser foes all around him. Raising his sceptre, he had called another comet down from the heavens, loosing its celestial fury against Torglug and his bodyguard.
In a blast of blue fire, the warlord was hurled skywards, blown back by the calamitous impact.
Grymn brought his halberd shearing through the diving rot fly, severing the daemon’s thorax and abdomen. The crippled abomination crashed to the ground, crushing several marauders under its diseased mass. A quick stab to its chitinous head extinguished the monster’s stubborn vitality.
Turning from his late foe, Grymn braced himself to meet the rush of another horrific opponent. Instead, he found the daemons and barbarians drawing back, retreating from the line of Hallowed Knights. Any ideas that their withdrawal owed anything to the valour and tenacity of the Stormcasts quickly faded as a tremor shuddered through the plateau, swiftly followed by another and still another. The quakes were like colossal footfalls and when Grymn raised his gaze to look past the enemies nearby, he saw that the impression was justified. The Great Unclean Ones, the titanic daemons that had made even the Lord-Castellant’s confidence falter, were waddling forwards to join the battle.
Alarm pulsed through Grymn’s mind. He knew there could be but one adversary on the field against which Torglug would unleash these daemonic obscenities. He had seen the awesome power of the Celestant-Prime, but the memory of Guthrax’s assault against his forces on the frozen sea was a vivid one. Now there were three such horrors. Against such a concentration of festering evil, he feared even the avenging angel of Azyr would be swept aside.
Concern for the Celestant-Prime galvanised Grymn’s thoughts. Tightening his grip about his halberd, he raised his voice in a fierce shout. ‘For Sigmar!’ he thundered, hurling himself against the foe once more. Even if they all were to fall, all that mattered was aiding the Celestant-Prime in his moment of need.
All around Grymn, warriors in armour of silver and white struck down plaguebearers and beastmen with hammer and sword. Arrows from the remaining Judicators arced upwards to come crackling down into the massed slaves of Chaos. Foot by foot, yard by yard, the Stormcasts were cutting their way through the horde of enemies and to the embattled Celestant-Prime. If the winged hero could hold his own against the Great Unclean Ones for even a short time, then the Hallowed Knights and Knights Excelsior would be at his side.
The Celestant-Prime, however, was unable to focus upon the threat to himself. He had been vigilant in his fight against the plaguehosts, and when Torglug’s bodyguard charged towards the sylvaneth in a rush to reach the Lady of Vines, it was his actions that had blunted the warlord’s sch
eme. Evoking the might of his sceptre, he had sent a fiery orb searing down from the heavens to strike the diseased warlord and his entourage.
The measure, however, left the Celestant-Prime exposed to the colossal daemons waddling towards him. While he loosed the magic of his sceptre against Torglug, the Great Unclean Ones unleashed their own noxious powers against the avenging angel. Two of the bloated monstrosities opened their cavernous maws, vomiting a spume of sizzling filth against the warrior. The Celestant-Prime reeled against the attack, trying to shield himself against the boiling corruption with his wings. Steam billowed about the Celestant-Prime as the daemonic foulness splashed across him and evaporated in his holy aura.
The monstrous daemons had anticipated the limitation of their corrupt spew against a hero as sacred and mighty as the Celestant-Prime. All their vile assault could really do was occupy their enemy’s focus and keep him distracted. The real attack came from Guthrax. While its brother daemons spat their bile, Guthrax whipped its flail of skulls through the air, swinging it faster and faster in an ever-widening ring above its horned head. When the spinning flail had reached the peak of its momentum, Guthrax brought it lashing against the Celestant-Prime.
The flail struck the Celestant-Prime with an ear-splitting crack. The incredible momentum of the blow sent the hero hurtling high into the sky. The bloated daemons guffawed with obscene glee as they watched their foe vanish into the clouds.
An inarticulate shout of rage and disbelief ripped its way from Grymn’s throat. Redoubling his efforts, he butchered his way through the cheering masses of the plaguehosts. Damned mortal and diseased daemon alike perished upon his blade as he waded through the foul army. He gave no thought to his own protection or even to the impossible task he’d set himself. The only thought in Grymn’s mind was the awareness that he’d seen two mighty heroes vanquished by Guthrax. First Angstun and now the Celestant-Prime. If it cost him his own life, he was determined that the daemon would pay for its outrages. It would have no chance to savour its crimes.