Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

From chimneys and smokeholes issued a dozen columns of fumes, ranging from thick black smoke to misty green vapours. The effluence of the plague furnaces within spilled down pipes and rusted gutters, a spew of noxious liquids that pooled and spattered across the splintered remains of royal chambers and courtly cloisters.

At the summit stood a towering framework of rotted timbers and chain, from which hung the great gong of the Withering Canker. Lit from above by weak sunlight coming through a great crack in the roof of the cavern, at first it looked to be made of simple copper stained by verdigris, but the surface shimmered with something like oil. On a rope-bound arm next to it was a warpstone-headed hammer. A network of wheels, belts and tackle descended into the Great Shrine to a capstan where three hundred slaves waited for the command to work the hammer.

The approach to the Great Shrine was joined by smaller temples that housed the plague monks, and a warren-like mess of barracks that held the spitevermin regiments. A causeway zigzagged up from the huddled abodes, joining with a stained arch that might have once been the vault of an immense cathedral, but was now the last bridge to the gate of Felk’s inner domain.

The gate was made of overlapping planks and boards nailed and bolted together, reinforced by bars of untreated tree trunks and rusting rivets. It hung on two tusks that formed the entry arch, each higher than the duardin gate in the depths.

Felk started his ascent, dismissing his plague monks with a waved claw, though his priests and bodyguard remained close at hand. As he passed under the shadow of a broken human tower he felt a presence beside him that had not been there a moment earlier.

He suppressed a squeal, turning his fear to anger.

‘You approach unannounced, Eshin lackey,’ he snarled at the black-clad scout who had materialised at his left hand. The gutter runner cocked an emerald eye towards him, showing no fear or apology. The spitevermin belatedly dashed forwards but Felk stayed their attack with a sneer and a dismissive gesture.

‘Come, quick-quick!’ whispered the assassin-scout. ‘Very important news. Come see!’

‘Tell me,’ said Felk. ‘What news?’

Thriss, the agent Felk had hired from Clan Darkclaw, glanced warily at the nearby plague priests and shook his head.

‘Come see. Alone.’

‘Not mad,’ snapped Felk, fearing duplicity. ‘Tell me!’

The assassin’s tail twitched twice, the blade attached to its end glinting. He shook his head again.

‘Must see for self. Not let others see yet. Big problem .’ These last words were delivered sotto voce , so vehemently that Felk stopped in his tracks, every nerve taut. He had never heard the gutter runner speak in such a way.

‘Prepare for dismal feast,’ Felk commanded his underlings, affecting an imperious stature to glare at them. ‘I return soon.’

Before any of them could offer complaint or question, Felk directed Thriss to lead the way with a quick glance. The spitevermin split at their approach, uncertain what to do. Their fangleader, a hulking one-eyed blackfur called Skarth, moved to block his master’s route, the tip of his halberd moving towards Thriss.

‘What orders, Poxmaster?’ His one good eye fixed on the assassin, the words issued as though he were chewing a gristly remnant of a victim. Foaming saliva wetted balding fur. ‘We spill blood-blood?’

‘Not now, fangleader.’ Felk considered Thriss’ short but worrying report. ‘Soon-soon. Very soon. Guard Great Shrine ready for dismal feast. None but priests to enter.’

With a last surly glare at Thriss, Skarth moved aside, bringing up his wickedly bladed halberd. Felk hurried past, his thoughts a sudden whirl. It was enough to balance the contesting loyalties and usefulness of his own priests and monks, without worrying about developing rivalries between Thriss and his hired elites from the Savage Fang. The success at the realmgate and the dismal feast he had ordered in celebration were fast becoming overshadowed in his mind.

He made no complaint when Thriss set a brisk pace, leading the Poxmaster down through the barracks and into the widespread skaven dwellings beyond.

Along tunnels and alleys they sped, Felk feeling more and more out of his element with every step. Much of the city was deserted, its inhabitants hunting and scavenging in the Whiteworld Above during the last sunlight — the skaven disliked the sun, but knew better than to venture at night when all manner of monstrous beasts and birds searched for prey on the mountain slopes. The twilight of dawn and dusk was their domain.

They travelled for some time, leaving behind the dropping-strewn streets and passageways, coming into a poorly explored part of the duardin ruins that had only recently been uncovered by a quake.

‘Must climb,’ said Thriss, stopping beside a crack opened in the side of a broad, smooth-hewn tunnel. Without another word he disappeared into the fissure, claws scraping on rock.

It had been some time since Felk had needed to perform such physical activity. He tightened his rope belt and tucked in the hem of his robe to free his legs. Wedging his staff into a safe crevice, he started the ascent, finding easy purchase in the jagged break.

To his relief the climb did not last long, the split rock chimney taking them to a columned gallery somewhere in the mountainside. Clambering over the edge, Felk found himself on a neatly tiled floor, the colour faded but a duardin design just about visible in the dusk glow. The long balcony stretched for dozens of paces to the left and right, archways in both directions blocked by debris or overgrown by roots from trees in the soil above.

Thriss was at the edge, looking down over the low stone balustrade.

‘There!’ He pointed to the right, jabbing a claw repeatedly at something below. ‘There-there! Quick-quick!’

Felk approached cautiously, not wishing to give Thriss the opportunity to throw him over the edge if that was his intent. Staying far out of reach, he risked a glance into the valley below.

At first he was not sure what he could see. Something shone in the light of the setting sun, a ribbon of white winding along the valley floor. He thought it was a river at first, but as his eyes adjusted he saw that there was a column of figures picking their way between the rocks and broken remnants of duardin architecture.

From this height it was hard to make out details, but Felk could see that the armoured warriors were gigantic, almost as large as the rat ogres of the Moulder clans. They bore unsheathed weapons and many had broad shields decorated with a design: a stylised golden star with a long tail.

‘What-what is it?’ snapped Thriss. ‘Not tribes. Not human.’

‘Not human,’ Felk murmured, caught between intrigue and dread. They might have been warriors of Chaos, but he saw no mark or icon that indicated which power they served.

‘Back-back!’

Thriss threw himself at Felk, snatching hold of the Poxmaster’s robe to drag him away from the edge of the gallery. Felk thrashed from the assassin’s grip in time to see more of the giants swooping past on shining wings. He slithered back across the tiles, worming his way into the dark shadows where Thriss had already taken shelter.

Eyes wide, teeth bared, they watched in trembling silence while five of the winged soldiers peeled away, wheeling through the sky towards the gallery. It seemed as though their leader looked directly at him, the red eyes of the masked helm blank and pitiless. A moment later the strange warriors changed trajectory, descending out of sight.

‘Bad-bad,’ he said. They were so close to unearthing the realmgate. The imminence of that victory, a few timely decapitations by Skarth and a couple of accidents engineered by Thriss had stayed off the worst of his underlings’ latest efforts to grab power, but an outside threat could provoke a coup more dangerous than the daily infighting of skaven politics. ‘Bad-bad. Bad-bad.’