Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Vretch sniffed and looked around. So far, he’d only lost one raft to the hungry denizens of the Olgu’gohl. Something massive had surfaced from beneath a reef of worms and hooked the raft with a flabby claw, pulling it and its crew of plague monks down into the gastric morass. But he was determined to lose no more.

After all, who knew what dangers awaited him in the lost warren? He needed as many loyal — but more importantly, expendable — bodies between him and what might be waiting for him as possible. Geistmaw could be infested by all manner of horrors, given how long it had rested forgotten in the worm’s belly.

‘Faster-faster,’ he chittered, swatting one of the closest plague monks with his staff. ‘Row faster or we’ll all be food for the worms!’

As the monks bent over their oars and the raft picked up speed, he shuffled to the back and took his place at the rear, with the Conglomeration. The thing had been quiescent since its last outburst, but it still jerked fitfully on its palanquin. Every so often, he caught it looking at him and wondered whether Skuralanx was keeping an eye on him. Annoyed by its twitching, he looked away, out over the narrow sea of digestive juices.

The flickering torches mounted in the prow of the rafts cast an eerie light over the cavernous interior of the worm’s gullet. Strange shapes crawled through the shadowed upper reaches, or splashed through the shallows. Chunks of rubble thrust up on every side of the floating rafts like broken islands. A thousand cities had perished to Shu’gohl’s hunger before it had been tamed, and their ruins littered its craw. The tattered remnants of orruk encampments flapped in the foul sea-wind, and once, Vretch thought he saw the carcass of a gargant, covered in a pelt of hungry worms.

His snout wrinkled as he sniffed the air. He could smell the tang of strange moulds and ichors on the wind. Occasionally, they had passed thick patches of poison and infection, seeping down from above. Who knew what sort of poxes could be brewed here, in these humid depths? Perhaps he’d made a mistake, making his encampment above. The belly of the beast was fertile ground for the planting of pestilences. Yes-yes, it would make the perfect cauldron for the brewing of the Great Plague, once the Liber was in his grasp.

A hollow, tooth-rattling groan swept over the Squirming Sea, and the sizzling waters suddenly swirled ferociously, causing the rafts to bob in an alarming fashion. His followers cowered, and the air was thick with the musk of fear. Vretch was tempted to follow suit, but he clamped down on his panic, trying to think instead of the successes to come. His stomach lurched nonetheless and he awkwardly snatched up his tail and stuffed it in his mouth. He felt no pain, despite the way his chisel-like teeth cut into his wrinkly flesh, but the coppery taste of blood and pus calmed him.

The bubbling waters slopped over the edges of the raft, stinging his claws. The worm was weakening. It was succumbing to the thousands of pox-brews and pestilences unleashed on its flesh, and the damage from the fighting above. Sheets of rotting muscle fell from above, splashing down into the Squirming Sea as the monster convulsed. Another moan echoed through its craw, and Vretch found himself momentarily deafened. The noise reminded him — unpleasantly — of the thunder he’d heard, and the knowledge of what it meant.

He bit down harder, juggling the Mappo Vurmio and his staff as he tried to feed more of his tail into his mouth in a moment of stress. Kruk would keep the enemy occupied. That much he was certain of. Kruk had all the survival instincts of a rat ogre with a snout full of warpdust, and less sense. Once he sank his teeth into a foe, he didn’t let go until they were dead. He would fight the storm-things until he won or, more likely, they killed him.

Vretch chittered in pleasure at the thought. Kruk had dogged his trail for too long. Yes-yes, Skuralanx would see to it, and even if the storm-things failed, then Squeelch would…

He stiffened, the thought lost. There was a new scent on the air, a familiar stink, though he’d never encountered it before. He remembered what the daemon had shown him, and what he’d felt in those visions, and he spat out his tail. Vretch whirled, searching the curved walls of Shu’gohl’s gut-pipe for some sign of the enemy he knew must be close by.

Nearby, a plague monk pitched backwards, clawing at a shimmering dart that had sprouted suddenly from his throat. The skaven gurgled and slumped, steam rising from his flesh. As Vretch watched in horrified fascination, the dying monk’s flesh began to putrefy even faster than normal. ‘Poison,’ he hissed. ‘Guard yourselves, fools.’

A sudden shout from one of the other rafts drew his attention and he turned to see reptilian shapes bleeding into view, their scales shimmering strangely as they raced across the cliffs and crags of muscle and meat. They were there one moment and gone the next, as if blending into the background.

He watched in horror as the raft behind his came under attack. The plague monks aboard gave in to panic, rocking the raft wildly as they sought to find cover from the hissing death which shot out of the darkness. It availed them nothing; one by one, they slumped or pitched over the sides, their rotting bodies vanishing into the digestives juices of the worm. The empty raft, bereft of rowers, wafted along, drawn in the wake of his own craft.

‘Faster! Row-row rapid-quick,’ Vretch shrieked, battering at his followers with his staff. ‘Stroke — stroke — stroke — faster-faster!’ Satisfied that they were following his commands, Vretch turned his attentions back to the foe. His eyes narrowed. They were gone. He spun, searching the opposite shore, but saw not even the barest hint of movement.

He heard screams from the rafts behind, and snapped his jaws in frustrated realization. Of course, he thought. They’re trying to weaken my magnificent forces, to rob me of my mighty congregation! That thought was soon followed by another, slightly more panicked one. They know! Somehow, they know… He looked around, trying to spot the other rafts. Two had been sent ahead to test the waters, but there were four behind — how many yet remained?

Enough, perhaps, to occupy the unseen enemy’s attentions, he thought. He stood, steadying himself with his staff, and called out to the flickering light of the warp torches. ‘Vilebroth, Pux — my most loyal and courageous brothers, do you yet live?’ When squeals of assent greeted his cry, he said, ‘You must row for shore, my brave ones! Vretch shall meet you there. Together, we shall sweep aside these sneaking, treacherous assassins, yes-yes!’

He counted to ten, waiting until he heard the excited splashing of oars carrying the rafts to shore, and then let out a breath. Then, with a hiss, he raised his staff and conjured forth a sickly radiance which swelled and filled the air, illuminating even the deepest shadow.

The light washed across the shore, revealing the startled plague monks as they clambered out of their rafts. Yet also, it revealed the lurking shapes of the seraphon.

Vretch flung out a hand. ‘There! There, Pux — see them, get them, fast-slay them, lest they kill you all.’

The two bands of warriors hesitated, staring at one another. Then a skink raised its blowpipe, and one of the plague monks gasped and fell backwards into the water. With that, the battle was joined. Vretch watched for a moment, until he was satisfied that the skinks were too preoccupied to pursue.

‘Hold this, wretched one,’ he snarled, tossing the Mappo Vurmio to one of his servants. ‘Guard it with your worthless life, or be prepared to face the wrath of the Horned Rat himself, as embodied by me.’