Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘ Vrrretch ,’ the thing said, with many mouths.

‘I am here, my most verminous of masters,’ Vretch said. The Conglomeration was an oracle, of sorts. On the rare occasions when it spoke, it did so with the voice of the Great Witherer. Other plague priests looked for their omens in the froth of cauldrons or the guts of boil-afflicted rats, but Vretch had provided the god and his servants a suitable receptacle for their mighty will.

‘You are too slow, Vretch,’ the Conglomeration hissed. The various heads spoke all at once, their individual voices merging into a familiar baritone snarl that shook Vretch to his bones. It was ever thus; his patron spoke with the voice of the Destroyer, the Crawling Entropy, the Eater of All Things… Skuralanx, the Scurrying Dark. One of the mightiest of those verminlords blessed to serve the Horned Rat in his truest aspect — that of the Corruptor. ‘Too slow, too slow. That heretical fool Kruk is ahead of you. Where is my pox, Vretch? Where are my blisters, my buboes, my worm-plagues?’

Vretch thrust a claw beneath his robes and scratched furiously at his greasy fur. Mention of his rival always made him itch. Red buboes, red ! he thought. ‘Coming, coming, O mighty Skuralanx,’ he said. ‘I read-study quick-quick, yes? I must learn-know all there is, yes-yes?’ He scanned his chambers — the piles of scrolls, the bubbling cauldrons, the dismembered prisoners. Then, more firmly, he said, ‘Yes.’

The conjoined mass of skaven-flesh gave an impatient growl. Loose limbs flailed and claws smacked the stone floor. Blind eyes rolled in their sockets as froth-stained muzzles snapped in apparent frustration. The whole mass gave the impression that it was about to tear itself apart. Vretch stepped back warily.

‘Are you lying to me, Vretch?’ Skuralanx hissed. ‘What is there to study here? Kruk controls the great library in the Dorsal Barbicans, not you.’

And many thanks for reminding me of that , O most scurvy one, Vretch thought sourly. The Libraria Vurmis, the repository of centuries of knowledge gleaned from the far reaches and diverse kingdoms of Ghur by the scholar-knights who’d founded it, lay in the hands of the one skaven singularly unsuited to possess such a treasure.

‘Much-much, yes,’ he said, gesturing around in what he hoped was a placatory fashion. ‘More than one library in this squirming bastion, O mighty one.’

He hunched forward and swept out a crusty claw, indicating his surroundings. ‘I have found many-much secrets, O Conniving Shadow,’ he said obsequiously. ‘There is a world apart, in the guts of the great worm. One of the missing Libers is there — your most loyal and faithful and devoted servant is certain!’

The blind eyes of the conjoined skaven rolled towards him, as if peering at him in judgement. The bulk swelled and quivered for a moment. Then Skuralanx said, ‘Yessss. Find this world for me, Vretch of Clan Morbidus, and Skuralanx the Cunning shall see that you are rewarded beyond your wildest imaginings.’ Several gnarled claws rose and gestured contemptuously. ‘First, however, you must hurry-quick and send your devotees tailwards. The old enemy has come, riding sky-fire and bringing pain for the Children of the Horned Rat.’

‘The lightning,’ Vretch said. He had seen the storm-things before, at a distance, some months ago. It had been in the Jade Kingdoms, and he twitched as he recalled the gigantic silver-armoured warrior who had slaughtered so many of his fellows in the Glade of Horned Growths. That was where he’d first made Skuralanx’s acquaintance. The Scurrying Dark had filched his broken form from the battlefield, and they had made their bargain in the shadow of the great Blight Oak.

‘Yes,’ Skuralanx murmured, through many mouths. ‘The destroyers of Clan Rikkit, the harrowers of Murgid Fein and Cripple Fang, have come to Shu’gohl.’

‘And you want me to… go towards them, greatest of authorities?’ Vretch asked.

‘Yesss.’

Vretch scrubbed at his muzzle. After a moment, he said, ‘Why, O most scurviest of scurvies?’

‘They will defeat Kruk. Or he will defeat them. But either way, the Libraria Vurmis will be lost to you. You must claim it and all of its wisdom,’ Skuralanx hissed. The Conglomeration grew agitated, and the plinth creaked beneath its weight.

‘But… I already have it, most blemished one,’ Vretch said, peering at the Conglomeration. ‘Access to it, at least.’ He scratched at his chin, dislodging a shower of lice. ‘Yes-yes, all mine — ours! Ours! — most lordliest of lords.’

The blistered muzzles of the Conglomeration turned towards him. The question hung unspoken on the air. Vretch shrunk back, somewhat unnerved by the expressions on its faces. ‘I–I have a claw in Kruk’s camp, my most cunning and wise and beautiful master,’ he said, slyly.

The daemonically possessed mass grew still. Then, as one, the many mouths sighed, ‘Of course you do.’

The smell of blood hung as heavy as dust on the air of the Libraria Vurmis, and it only grew stronger as Kruk dug one blistered talon into the cheek of the man-thing. Squeelch clutched at his ears as the man-thing began to scream again. The cries echoed through the wide, circular chamber and even out along the ramparts of the Dorsal Barbicans, in which the library nestled. Kruk chittered in pleasure and continued with his ministrations, pulling and peeling the human’s abused flesh until bone gleamed through the raw red.

‘Talk-talk, man-thing,’ Kruk gurgled, holding up a gobbet of dripping meat. ‘Talk, or lose more bits, yes-yes.’

Squeelch looked away. He wasn’t particularly squeamish, but between the noise and the smell, he was getting hungry. He gazed about him, taking in the Libraria Vurmis and the bodies which now decorated its floors. In life, they had been something the man-things called Vurmites — an order of holy warriors, devoted to the library and its secrets. In death, most of them had begun the delightful slide into putrescence. Those who were not quite dead yet were chained or nailed to the great curved shelves which occupied the chamber, to await Kruk’s attentions.

Throughout the chamber, the most trusted members of Kruk’s congregation searched the great shelves for anything of interest, or fuel to feed the fires which heated their pox-cauldrons. The plague monks worked under the watchful gazes of Kruk’s personal censer bearers. The deranged fanatics held their spiked, smoke-spewing flails tightly and dribbled quietly, twitching in time to a sound only they could hear.

Squeelch grimaced and turned as the man-thing librarian sagged in his bonds. He moaned softly as his blood spattered across the piles of loose pages and torn parchments which covered the floor. He was the seventh in as many days, and was sadly proving about as useful as the other six. Squeelch could only assume that the weeks of deprivation and torture had rendered them senseless. Either that, or the fact that neither he nor Kruk could speak their language was proving a greater stumbling block than expected. Regardless, Kruk’s frustration was palpable. His scarred tail lashed like a whip as he dug his claws into the dying man’s flesh.

Squeelch cleaned his whiskers nervously, watching as Kruk tore the hapless man-thing apart. The plague priest was a brute, even among the black-furred monstrosities of Clan Festerlingus. He was broad for a skaven, and his heavy robes made him seem all the larger. His cowl was thrown back to reveal a flat, wide skull wrapped in seeping bandages. Kruk was missing his right ear and his left eye, courtesy of a rival plague priest — Vretch, of Clan Morbidus, current occupier of the other half of the Crawling City.

Vretch had tried to obliterate Kruk with a meticulously planned trap. As Squeelch recalled, it had mostly involved certain explosives, procured from the Clans Skryre at what was no doubt great expense, stuffed down the gullet of the man-thing Kruk had selected for his second interrogation. Squeelch recalled this because he had been the one to plant them, at Vretch’s behest. It was always a behest, with Vretch. An imploration, a request, a favour… commands by any other name. Commands that Squeelch was happy enough to follow, as long as it led to his assumption of the Archsquealership of the Congregation of Fumes. Even if Vretch was a heretical Red Bubite. Purple, that’s a proper bubo, Squeelch thought. But still, by clinging to Vretch’s tail, he might rise very far indeed.