Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

He climbed up through the air, away from the worm, into the amber skies. He could see the vast plumes of dust rising from the steppes as the worm crawled across them. In the distance, through the dust and rain, he could make out the hunched, mountainous form of one of the other great worms, and the long columns of smoke which rose from the bastion on its back. Guh’hath, the Brass Bastion, he thought. The Great Worm of Khorne.

The Brass Bastion had been squirming towards Shu’gohl for months — years even — in slow, agonizing pursuit. It would have caught up with the Crawling City in ten years, maybe less, if warriors from the Sons of Mallus Stormhost had not intercepted it. No less than three Warrior Chambers from the Sons now laid siege to the Brass Bastion.

It would fall, as the skaven would fall. They would free the steppes of the taint of Chaos, and harry its followers wherever they found them. Mantius snarled, unable to contain the sudden surge of savage joy which filled him. The air rushed around him as he rose towards the ochre storm clouds. He swooped down, crackling wings spread, and scanned the tops of the setae towers which rose along Shu’gohl’s back.

He could just make out the shapes of his Prosecutors, spread out across the city, hunting the skaven wherever they might choose to congregate. After the fall of the Dorsal Barbicans, the vast majority of the vermin had scattered, streaming into the crooked streets beyond. They had occupied the city long enough that there would be innumerable warrens and burrows for them to seek refuge in. Lord-Celestant Zephacleas was determined that the ratmen would find none, and have no chance to regroup. And so Mantius’ huntsmen had been dispatched to range ahead of the combined host and harass the skaven.

Mantius himself had already claimed the tails of over a dozen reeking rat-monks as they sought to ambush the seraphon vanguard which followed the trail of the largest group of skaven. But while he’d paused to deal with the ratmen, the seraphon had continued their hunt, and seemingly vanished.

Somewhere above him, Aurora shrieked. The raptor swooped past him and he followed. She had seen something. A moment later, so did he. The bird’s swelling starlight rose up, washing over the towers. He felt a tingling in his limbs as it blazed over and past him. As it cleared, he spotted a shape fleeing the fading edge of the light. He recognised the verminlord easily enough. The daemon was running flat out, springing from tower to tower with all the agility of the vermin it resembled, outpacing the light with desperate speed.

I see you, beast, and no shadows to hide in thanks to that light, he thought as he angled himself and swooped downwards. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it as he dove towards the daemon.

He held the arrow steady, waiting. When the rat-daemon made a leap, he loosed the shaft. It caught the verminlord between its shaggy shoulder-blades, and sent it plummeting down into the gap between the two towers. Mantius pursued it, Aurora streaking ahead of him with a predatory shriek. But so intent was he on taking the beast’s head, that he nearly lost his own. As he tucked his wings and sped down between the towers, a flash of reflected light stung his eyes. He twisted aside, and a curved blade drew fat sparks from his shoulder-plate.

The force of the blow drove him into the opposite tower. The verminlord sprang at him. Its blades slashed down, gouging his amethyst armour. He lashed out, driving his feet into the creature’s gut. They fell in a tangle, and the street cracked beneath them. The verminlord stabbed one of its blades through the joint of his wing, pinning him to the ground. It slapped his realmhunter’s bow from his grip, and caught his war-helm in its free talon. It raised its remaining blade. ‘Scream loud, storm-thing,’ the daemon chittered. ‘Only Skuralanx to hear you…’

Mantius whistled. Aurora screeched and dove towards the verminlord like a shimmering comet. The star-eagle tore at the daemon’s head with beak and talons, scoring the pox-warped bone again and again. The verminlord staggered back, flailing blindly at its avian attacker.

While his opponent was distracted, Mantius tore his wing free of the daemon’s blade and drew two arrows from his quiver. They crackled as he thrust them into the daemon’s hip and midsection, eliciting a shriek of agony. The verminlord’s knee came up and struck his face. Mantius staggered back, vision spinning. ‘Aurora,’ he rasped.

The star-eagle shrieked and so too did the verminlord, as the raptor’s talons tore at its throat and muzzle. The daemon swung an arm, driving the star-eagle back, and whirled to plunge into the shadows gathered about the base of the tower. The creature vanished with a shrill hiss. Mantius swiftly reclaimed his bow and nocked an arrow, waiting.

He heard the shriek of the flying seraphon overhead, and the rattle of sigmarite echoing through the streets beyond the towers. He relaxed slightly. The verminlord was gone, but he’d hurt the creature. He could smell the foul tang of its ichors. And if he could smell it, he could track it.

He raised a hand, and Aurora swooped low about him. ‘Find it, my friend,’ he said, to the star-eagle. ‘Seek it out with your void-spanning eyes and lead me to it.’

Twice now he’d fought the verminlord, and twice it had escaped.

It would not do so a third time.

Skuralanx scuttled through the shadows of the worm, moving through the dark trails of rot and poison which pierced the great beast as easily as a skaven might scurry through a gnaw hole. The places where the raptor had clawed at him ached, and he longed to tear the bird to pieces. But he would wait, yes, wait and choose the right time and place for vengeance, rather than being drawn into a pointless scuffle with such an annoyance.

He scratched at the suppurating wounds left by the Stormcast’s arrows as he scurried. They had been infused with the raw stuff of Azyr, and had come close to severing the bonds that held him tied to this realm. Daemons rarely felt pain, unless the Horned Rat so willed it, in his infinite patience, and Skuralanx did not care for the sensation. He wished to avoid it in the future.

Such a cunning scheme, so nearly undone by chance — no, treachery, he thought, as he scuttled. It was always treachery. Chance had been allowed for, but this… this was an attack. Someone — some force — was trying to prevent him from finding the eighth Great Plague. Another verminlord, perhaps… yes, that made sense. How else to explain these same purple-clad Stormcast Eternals and the star-devils showing up here, on the eve of his triumph?

Vermalanx had been close to finding the Hidden Vale, and was defeated, he thought. I am close to success here and… He hissed. Treachery, yes. But who? Which among his kin had driven this blade into his back? He shook his shaggy head. He would discover their identity soon enough. Once he had the lost Liber in his clutches, none would stand before him.

He twisted about and plummeted deeper through the shadows, into the depths of the worm, following the particular trails of rot and filth left by Vretch and his followers. He cursed his lot, having to use and keep track of such flawed tools. Was any child of the Horned Rat so beset by foolishness? No, he thought. Only Skuralanx. All the better to prove his worth, perhaps. But only if he succeeded. And that meant keeping track of his servants and ensuring that they got where they needed to go, before it was too late.

He emerged onto the last of Vretch’s rafts, from the shadows behind the palanquin where the plague priest’s Conglomeration sat, tittering to itself. The mass of conjoined skaven thrashed as it sensed his presence, and it mewled softly from many mouths. Vretch, standing beside it, stiffened, his whiskers twitching. ‘Is — is that you, O most beloved and officious one?’