Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

And for the greater glory of Vretch, he thought, sniggering. The Crawling City would become a great warren of rot, a sacred temple of putrescence. All of skavenkind would flock to it, in time, as the word of its dreadful miasma spread from it. And Vretch would be its master. Vretch, master of one of the Great Plagues. Vretch, best-beloved of the Great Corruptor. Vretch, Grand Squealer of the Basilica of Red Buboes.

First, however, he must find that which he sought.

A noise caught his attention. He glanced behind him at his procession. A great mass of plague monks shuffled in his wake, their robes and weapons dripping with filth. They twitched and coughed, like true members of the Clans Pestilens — their bodies were temples to the many and multifarious blessings of the Horned Rat. They felt no pain, no weakness. The skaven of less faithful clans did not understand them or the purity of their purpose. They were the most worthy of all the Great Corruptor’s children, and Vretch was the worthiest of the worthy.

Doom gongs rang out in gloomy fashion, and bale-chimes clanged as his chosen servants followed him, murmuring the praises of the Great Witherer. Those closest to the front of the procession carried those tomes and scrolls he’d chosen to bring with him, often staggering slightly beneath their weight. At the centre of the procession was the Conglomeration, squatting on its palanquin of bone.

He had considered leaving the thing behind, but it was his conduit to Skuralanx and the will of the Great Horned Rat. That wasn’t the only reason he would need it where he was going, however — the thing was the only creature he’d discovered so far to be immune to the strange plague which had brought the skaven to Shu’gohl in the first place. He patted his robes, where a jar of the pox-froth which had spilled earlier rested. When the time came, the Conglomeration would ingest it and sniff out the source of the Great Plague. As if reading his thoughts, the mass of scab-melded skaven shook, its many tails lashing with surprising vigour.

Vretch watched the Conglomeration twitch and shriek with some concern. While the accumulation of diseased flesh was prone to paroxysms, this was something different. A number of its larger abscesses burst, expelling steam and superheated pus. They sprayed across the plague monks who bore its palanquin on their shoulders. One of the bearers screamed as boiling pus spattered across his muzzle, burning his flesh to the bone. The monk staggered away, clutching at his snout, squealing in agony. The stink of fear-musk filled the air as the palanquin dipped and shifted. His congregation scattered, abandoning their fellows with commendable speed.

Vretch backed away as the Conglomeration heaved itself to the side and bit off the head of another bearer. The other two couldn’t hold up the palanquin by themselves, and it crashed to the ground, spilling the monstrosity off. It shrilled out in what might have been pain, or perhaps hunger. Its heads jerked and bit at the dying bearer. All save one.

That one turned towards him, malformed features contorted in a snarl. ‘Vvvvretch,’ it groaned in the unmistakable tones of the verminlord. ‘Heed me, most subservient one…’ Flailing limbs caught handfuls of the ground and it began to drag itself towards him. Vretch backed away.

‘I hear and heed, O most puissant and shadowed one,’ he chittered, jabbing at the roiling mass of infected flesh with his staff. ‘You don’t have to come any closer, no-no.’

‘Vretch, an old-new enemy comes slithering down out of the stars,’ Skuralanx hissed. The Conglomeration’s other heads turned, jaws still mindlessly chewing bits of bearer. They fixed Vretch with the daemon’s gaze and he froze in place, staff hanging forgotten in his hands. ‘They come for Kruk first, but they will come for you as well…’

Images flashed through the plague priest’s head — vague, ghostly moments, stolen from the world-that-was, the world the Horned Rat had led his children from at the tolling of the great plague-bell. The beginnings of the Virulent Exodus, when the Horned Rat carried the forefathers of all skaven through the tunnel of stars.

Vretch’s body spasmed as he felt the stinging rain of fire that had consumed that despoiled world, and the fear of those who’d fled. More, he heard the thump of monstrous drums, rising out of the deep jungles to reverberate through his wormy bones. He heard the earth-shaking tread of great beasts as they pursued him, and the ever-hungry roars of titanic predators, hungry for the flesh of cringing skaven. He felt the Fear — the old fear, the first fear — flood him, and he squealed in panic.

The sky yawned wide above him, like the jaws of something infinite and terrible. A serpent of clouds and stars, its eyes swirling vortices, its scales the light of flaring suns. Vretch fell to all fours, clawing at the ground, trying to dig a hole, to escape the eyes of the Fear. His only thought — escape, escape, escape!

‘There is no escape, Vretch. You are cornered. Your burrow is aflame, your warrens invaded. The old enemy comes, and no shadow can save you. Only victory — victory, Vretch! Only that can save you from the jaws of the serpent.’ The hands of the Conglomeration clutched at him, tearing at his robes. Vretch shook himself and skittered back, trying not to thrust at the thing with his staff.

‘I am near-close, yes-yes, Mightiest of Mightiness,’ he chittered. His heart thudded in his chest, and his ears echoed with the dull scrape of scales over stone. He fought against the urge to squirt the musk of fear. From the smell, his followers had not been victorious in that regard. A number of plague monks had sought safety on the struts and framework of the shafts, while others stared at the Conglomeration, frozen in huddled masses.

‘Near? Then where is my pox, Vretch?’ Skuralanx growled. ‘Do you hear the thunder? Do you hear the serpent’s hiss? They are coming, Vretch — only the pox can stop them. Where is it? Where?’

‘O— Olgu’gohl, the Squirming Sea, O savage scurrying one,’ Vretch squealed. He sank to his haunches and lifted his head, instinctively baring his throat to his master. ‘It is below — far below! Through the Gut-shafts, most insidious one,’ Vretch chittered in what he hoped was a placatory fashion. ‘They will take me — take us! Us! — to that which we seek. I go now, below.’

‘Hrrryes, below,’ Skuralanx grunted. The quivering bulk grew still, but the hell-spark eyes remained fixed. ‘Run, Vretch. Scurry-fast, quick-quick… the old serpent is on your trail, looking to snap you up. Only once all of the Great Plagues are gathered can the Horned Rat hurl his other aspects aside and become the Great Witherer Ascendant. Only then can he bite through the throat of the old serpent, and silence its hisses for good. And Skuralanx shall be the one who brings that final victory about,’ Skuralanx hissed. ‘Find me that Liber, Vretch.’

The Conglomeration fell silent, and its gazes again became dull. It squirmed and gibbered as Vretch gestured for his assistants to roll it back onto its palanquin.

‘Yes,’ Vretch muttered. ‘But not Skuralanx, no-no. Only Vretch.’ He warily jabbed the insensate bulk and then looked around at the hunched and cowering shapes of his followers. ‘Well? Pick it up, you fools. We have wasted enough time! The Squirming Sea awaits!’

The Dorsal Barbicans were a hive of activity. Skaven ran to and fro, congregations jostling for space behind the stone ramparts or within the towers. At the highest point of the worm-spanning fortress, the Archfumigant of the Congregation of Fumes was being treated for his sadly non-fatal injuries. Squeelch watched as Kruk stripped the filthy bandage from his maimed limb. A pale steam rose from the wound — the mark of the enemy’s magic. It burned the flesh free of blessed diseases. Squeelch’s lice-ridden flesh crawled at the thought. He had worked very hard on his collection of skin diseases. He stepped back, putting another claw’s length between himself and Kruk.