An Age of Sigmar Short.
***
A crimson armoured boot smashed the fragile wooden door to splinters, causing the children huddled within the homestead to scream out in terror. The muscled axe-wielding silhouette that filled the door frame snorted in derision. “Hnh. You are no challenge to me, striplings. Your skulls are too small and your blood is too thin.” Garnak the Slaughterpriest, demagogue of Khorne, turned his back on the terrified infants and strode back into the village proper. “Is there no one here to challenge me?” His voice carried further than it should, the terrified screams of the children wailing in counterpoint.
“The battle is long over. You lost.” A calm voice reached the Slaughterpriests ears, slightly muffled. Garnak turned to see a figure clad in gold and blue plate, radiance seeping from his form even though the sky above was cloudy and overcast. He was armed with a warblade and shield, the latter emblazoned with the lightning wreathed emblem of the hammer of Sigmar. A plumed helm obscured his features. A Stormcast Eternal, one of Sigmars lapdogs.
“An empty vessel from an impotent god,” Garnak snarled. “We are not done, you and I. Not while there are skulls to be reaped and blood to be spilled.” The Liberators brethren had devastated his Bloodreaver congregation earlier that day and while Khorne cared not from where the blood flowed, Garnak had certainly taken issue with it. Yelling litanies of butchery and hatred, the Slaughterpriest charged the Liberator.
The fight was an even match. Garnaks two handed greataxe had reach and power, while the Liberators sigmarite shield turned aside each blow, the Slaughterpriest having to reposition himself to avoid the counterstrike of the Stormcasts warblade. Even so the blessed sigmarite shield soon became dented, it’s once blue and gold lustre chipped and scratched. The Khorne devotees fury seemed undimmed, though likewise the Eternal didn’t seem to show any sign of tiring or making a misstep.
The blood priest bellowed once more, bringing his blood bathed axe down in an overhead arc, only to be deflected by the sigmarite bulwark the Stormcast bore. “Even when you perish you cheat Khorne of his due,” Garnak spat. “You flee back to your god like a whipped cur. It is a waste of my time.”
“You could always surrender,” the Liberator replied, his tone devoid of sarcasm, meeting another bellicose swing of his opponents axe with his shield. The Stormcast snapped out a riposte with his warblade, only to have it deflected by the ferrule on the axes butt end, shearing bright fragments of brass from the fixing.
The very suggestion seemed to drive the Slaughterpriest to new heights of fury as he shoulder barged the Liberators shield, pushing the Azyrite warrior off balance, then swinging his axe in an arc from his left. The Liberator raised his warblade to parry only to have it torn from his grasp by the blow, leaving his gauntleted fingers nearly numb from the impact. Garnak’s axe continued its path, though it had been deflected from its initial trajectory by the warblade it still struck a ringing blow against the Stormcasts helm, knocking it askew. The Liberator lost his footing on the rocky ground and landed on his back. Using his free hand he yanked off his helm, revealing the Slaughterpriest bearing down on him for a killing blow. With a desperate effort he threw the helmet at his opponent with a mighty heave, blessed sigmarite thudding into Garnaks face with a cracking of bone and an explosion of blood. The blood priest chuckled through the pain. “You fight on until the end, even knowing your god will remake you. You have my respect, Stormcast.”
The Liberator scrabbled to his feet and glanced around desperately for his warblade while his opponent was expounding on his virtues, but it was nowhere to be seen. He looked back to his opponent, shield raised and braced for another attack.
The Slaughterpriest was staring at him, red eyes glaring over the top of a broken nose and a bloodied face. His fury seemed to subside for a moment, the great blade of his axe lowering slightly in his grip. “So it is true,” he rasped. “Sigmars greed truly knows no bounds. Do you remember me?”
The Liberator stared at his foe in a moment of confusion, in equal parts because of the Khorne worshippers odd behaviour and a sudden fleeting sense of familiarity that passed over him like a cold wave, disappearing as quickly as it arrived. “I’ve seen many battlefields. Perhaps we have met on one before.” A glimmer of silver sigmarite caught his attention, the lost warblade sparkling in a fleeting shaft of sunlight.
Anger welled up within Garnak and redoubled, the darkwood shaft of his axe creaking as his grip tightened on it. He resolved to destroy the abomination that now wore his brothers face, in open mockery of the warrior he once was. With an ear splitting scream he swung his gore soaked axe towards the Stormcast in a display of unfettered fury.
The Liberator dived forward, interposing his shield between himself and the blood priests axe swing. The shield buckled finally, but had served its purpose as the Stormcast grabbed the hilt of his warblade, rolling to his feet in a clatter of sigmarite. His blade took Garnak in the side as he sought to free his axe from the mangled remains of the Liberators shield. In any other opponent a mortal wound like that would signal the end of the fight, but the Slaughterpriest seemed driven to new heights of violence even while his lifeblood sprayed the ground.
Garnaks return stroke opened a jagged rent in the sigmarite armour covering the Liberators torso, while the twist of his body tore the warblade from the Stormcasts hand once more, still jammed between the Bloodbounds ribs. “Go back to your god, hollow thing,” Garnak growled, as lightning poured from the Liberators wound, causing the Slaughterpriest to take a step back, even while his own blood soaked the ground.
“Perhaps we will meet him together,” the Liberator gasped, using the last ergs of his strength to dart forward, wrapping his arms round the Slaughterpriests shoulders as he expired.
A blast of azure energy consumed them both, the Liberators essence stabbing into the grey sky in a spear of lightning as he was returned to Azyr to be reforged. Garnak shouted in defiance as his flesh burned and crisped, quickly leaving him a smoking burnt husk that stood upright for the barest moment before the weight of the axe he held caused his corpse to topple, his flesh now nothing but ash. His scorched skull rolled to a stop next to the Liberators warblade, smoking gently.
The village was quiet once more, save for the sobs of terrified children and the distant laughter of a cruel god.
***
“Roses are red, Blood is red, My axe is red, I see red, I’m really quite fond of red, actually,”
-Khorne, never.
***
This non-profit short story is written for fun and any Intellectual Property used within belongs to Games Workshop
HamsterOfWrath 