Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

As if in fear, the worm-flesh beneath his foot-claws began to convulse. It was as hard as stone normally, but as the great beast trembled in pain, it became pliable and unsteady. Two of the tall setae-structures swayed into one another with a sound like grinding rock, and splinters of the iron-hard bristles rained down upon the Congregation of Fumes. Screeching skaven were crushed between the structures, but Kruk paid their panicked cries no heed.

Overhead, the storm-tossed amber skies were streaked with green, as Squeelch — loyal, fearful Squeelch — saw to the plagueclaws. Kruk was glad that he had not yet had reason to kill the other plague priest — Squeelch was useful, and his cringing was amusing. He also brewed the most magnificent poxes, capable of felling whole tribes of orruks or even a rampaging gargant at the merest whiff. Yes, Kruk would have to learn Squeelch’s secrets before he killed him.

From behind him rose a familiar squealing and creaking. Kruk stopped and turned, his good eye widening in anticipation. A heavy archway of stone, mounted on a precarious assembly of rickety wooden timbers and massive wheels, loomed above the press of his congregation. The archway acted as a frame for an enormous blazing orb of pure filth which swung on rusty chains. A coterie of plague monks, all members of the Reeking Choir, pushed the Plague Furnace forward through the crush of skaven. Some were caught beneath its wheels and pulped, still singing their praises to the Great Corruptor.

It was the war-altar of the Congregation of Fumes, a mobile pulpit from which Kruk could shriek out the blessings and the curses of the Horned Rat. The massive censer which swung from its arch had been doused in rancid warpstone and virulent concoctions and set alight. The fumes which wafted from it drove his followers into a sacred battle-fury.

Plague monks flooded out of the doorways and the side-streets between the towering structures of the city. More of them scuttled across the creaking bridges and woven net-paths which were strung between the wide tiers of the towers, following the summoning knells. Kruk began to chitter the seventh hymn of the Effluvial Gospels as he clambered aboard the creaking Plague Furnace, and Skug joined him. Soon the rest of his followers took up the chant. The sound of their screeching rose high into the air, until it seemed as if the whole world were screaming with them.

The Congregation of Fumes was racing, rapid-quick, to war.

Skuralanx crouched atop the tower of hair, claws dangling between his knees as he observed the goings-on below. Around him rose heavy barrels, meant to collect falling rain and filter it down into the tower below. Somewhere within the tower, he knew, were the fungus farms which had fed the folk of Shu’gohl and now served as breeding grounds for poisonous moulds. Idly, he dug a talon into one of the barrels and let the water spill out to rain down on the foetid tide of skaven flowing through the street below.

The verminlord watched as Kruk led his congregation away from the Dorsal Barbicans and towards the approaching Stormcast Eternals in his usual joyous fashion. To his credit, the one-eyed plague priest was always at the forefront, leading his censer bearers right into the heart of the foe. He was like an unchecked pestilence, reaping a heady toll in the Corruptor’s name.

Vretch, on the other claw, was akin to a more subtle pox, creeping along on mouse-feet. Very, very slow mouse-feet. Skuralanx hissed in momentary annoyance and glanced over his shoulder towards the Setaen Palisades. Of the two of them, he favoured Kruk, if only because the brute was easier to control. But Vretch was closer to their goal.

A good decision, to spare that one’s life, the daemon thought, as he picked at the lice in his matted mane of hair. A good decision to spare both, though for different reasons. And to pit the one against the other had been a masterstroke, worthy of even the Verminking himself. Only through conflict could victory be achieved.

Survival of the fittest. That was the one law, the true law, to which all of the children of the Horned Rat were beholden. Only through struggle could they grow in strength, only through fear of a rival could deviousness be honed to a razor’s edge. They must be strong, in order to survive what was to come. The Age of Chaos was ending. Soon, the Age of the Rat would begin. When all thirteen Great Plagues had been reclaimed, the Mortal Realms would groan in anguish. All man-things would die, no matter what god they served. They would fall and rot, never to rise again. And only the children of the Horned Rat would…

Skuralanx stiffened. The wind had turned. Shu’gohl twisted suddenly, and great clouds of dust rose up over the distant horizons of the worm’s flanks. Skuralanx hesitated, and then glanced upwards. The daemon hated the yawning emptiness of the open skies. When there was only wind on his whiskers, he felt exposed and alone, despite his divine might. There were no shadows to hide in, no defence from that which might swoop down from the wide, hungry sky. Even so, he forced himself to look. The sky above had grown dark with deep ochre storm clouds, and lightning flashed in their depths. He bared his teeth at the clouds and wondered if the man-thing god, Sigmar, was sending more warriors.

But no, this was different. He could feel it in the air. Not the storm, which was unpleasant enough, but something else. The sensation of something approaching, something vast and serpentine, slithering down the long trail of years on his tail. Daemons could not, as a rule, feel fear. Fear was for mortal beings, and Skuralanx had never been mortal. He was a facet of something greater, something mightier than any mortal being, and more cunning than any man-thing god. The Horned Rat contained squealing multitudes. And yet… and yet.

And yet, there it was. That clench of nonexistent muscles, that cold shiver racing from brain to tail, telling him to run, to flee back to the warm and the dark, away from whatever was coming. It was an ancient feeling, reverberating outward from a single moment of pain the origins of which were hidden even from Skuralanx. He thought it must be akin to what a louse might feel, when its host was struck. The part of him that was not just Skuralanx the Cunning, but was a sliver of that elemental malevolence known as the Horned Rat, squealed deep in its lair in the holes between moments. Squealing in fury and something that could only be… fear.

Fear of an old foe, come anew. Fear of a forgotten enemy, newly recalled.

The verminlord hunched forward, digging his claws into his perch, and gnashed his teeth. His tail lashed back and forth, causing his perch to sway slightly. In his mind’s eye, he saw the ragged tatters of broken days, and felt the weight of forgotten moments as scaled shapes glided through jungle shadows. He heard the hiss of a fiery rain striking the steps of squat pyramids. He felt the air grow hot, and saw the sky go dark as the moon came apart and was swallowed by a serpent made of stars and… and… and Skuralanx screeched as he tore his claws free and raised them to the sky. The sky, he thought. The sky!

Like arrows of light, they streaked down through the storm, and the curve of the worm’s back seemed to rise to meet them.

The stars were falling from the sky.

The worm-wind swept down through the setae, bringing with it the iron odour of distant lightning and the stink of open wounds. Shu’gohl shuddered, and stones cracked and shifted. A tiered building tore away from a jutting hair and smashed down across the wide street, filling the air with dust and splinters of stone. The great worm groaned in agony and the air rang with the sound of the beast’s distress.

‘Forget the skaven — this thrashing will be our death,’ Zephacleas growled, as he pressed forward through the roiling surge of dust, his bones reverberating with the echoes of Shu’gohl’s pain. He splashed through steaming rivulets of filthy water as he slashed out, killing a dust-blind skaven. There were hundreds of the creatures fleeing ahead of the advancing Astral Templars, though whether they were running from their foes, or simply trying to escape being crushed by the worm’s paroxysms Zephacleas couldn’t say. ‘This poor brute will crush us before we can save it from the vermin gnawing its innards.’