Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

‘It is I, Vretch,’ Skuralanx growled. He rose to his full height, causing the raft to dip dangerously. Several plague monks darted looks at him, but hurriedly turned away to bend over their oars once more. ‘Prepare your congregation, Vretch. The enemy follow you,’ Skuralanx said. He spoke softly, so as not to attract the undue attention of the others. They knew he was here, but they also knew better than to look. They were not worthy to gaze upon the Scurrying Dark, and he had done horrible things to those who dared.

‘What? How?’ Vretch muttered, his eyes widening in sudden panic. ‘What have you done?’ He made as if to confront the daemon and rose from his seat.

Skuralanx caught Vretch by the back of his head and prevented him from turning. His tails coiled about the plague priest. Not too tight, but just enough to make Vretch’s bones creak audibly. ‘I? I have done nothing save bring you warning, you ungrateful squealer. And more besides — Kruk is on his way, O most unworthy of my many servants. He flees to the Setaen Palisades, and your enemies give chase. Have you found my Liber yet, lackadaisical one?’

He could feel Vretch squirm in his grip, and hear the quick thump of his heart. He could smell the fear of all of the skaven on the raft. ‘You — you honour me, O most conniving one,’ Vretch whimpered. ‘It is — I mean — you speak to me in the flesh, not through my creation…’ He gestured jerkily to the Conglomeration. Skuralanx growled softly. He hated wearing that fleshy guise, but it had served to keep some distance between himself and Vretch.

Skaven, whatever their clan, whatever their overriding devotion, were natural spies. Plague monks moved between congregations like germs, their allegiances as ephemeral as a morning mist. He could not risk Kruk learning that he spoke with Vretch. Vretch was also more easily impressed by such tricks as possession.

Now, however, none of that mattered. He needed the Liber. If the enemy had arrived closer to the worm’s head, rather than its tail… He hissed. Another sign of the Horned Rat’s favour. He was tempted to squeeze its location out of Vretch and find it himself, but some instinct warned him against it. His mighty brain would be needed to distract and harry the enemy, to slow them so that Vretch could claim his prize. Kruk was too simple to be anything more than a minor distraction. Besides which, the Liber could very well be guarded in some manner. Best to let Vretch weather whatever dangers waited in these depths. ‘My Liber, Vretch… how soon?’

‘C-close, O most kindly and patient of pestilences,’ Vretch squeaked. Skuralanx tightened his grip on the back of the skaven’s skull.

‘How. Close,’ Skuralanx said. Normally, Vretch’s prevarications amused him, but there was little time for it now. He needed to be sure that Vretch was sure.

‘The— the books say near here — see, see! Look-look, O greatest of baleful shadows, look, there-there… a ruin!’ Vretch shrilled, gesticulating wildly.

‘Yesss, there are many ruins here, Vretch. Many-many,’ Skuralanx murmured. His tail tensed, slithering more tightly about the plague priest. ‘I feel nothing, see nothing.’

‘Th-the Liber is hidden! Yes-yes! Hidden deep-deep,’ Vretch said, in a shrill warble. ‘But I can find it! The Conglomeration knows its scent!’

‘Does it now,’ Skuralanx said, glancing at the mass of twitching flesh. Vretch might be telling the truth. Had not the Third Liber been hidden so well that the magics of a hundred plague priests failed to pinpoint its location? Such things hid themselves even from the eyes of the gods. Once again, he congratulated himself on sparing Vretch’s life.

‘Well — no, not yet, no-no,’ Vretch admitted. ‘But it will!’ He thrust a claw into his filthy robes and extracted a stoppered pot. Skuralanx reached over and took it from Vretch’s unresisting grasp.

‘What isss thisss, Vretch? Some new unguent?’ he said, examining the pot. Something sloshed within it.

‘It is that which we seek, O most pernickety one,’ Vretch said, reaching haplessly for the vial. ‘Or a dilution of such. I shall feed it to the brute and use it to find the Liber.’

‘A cunning plan, my servant… but a slow one. Would it not be better to have a hunter which can move under its own power?’ Skuralanx murmured, eyeing the Conglomeration. He twisted to the side and drove a hoof into the centre of the mass, eliciting a clamour of squealing. The obese monstrosity wobbled on its palanquin and, with a flurry of despairing shrieks, rolled into the hissing waters of the Squirming Sea. It sank swiftly, and left no trace.

Vretch stared in shock at the now-empty palanquin. The skaven at the oars had picked up speed, and Skuralanx settled back on his haunches with a sigh. Vretch hunched inward, head bowed. Skuralanx could almost hear the priest’s mind whirring.

‘You — ah — you have another suggestion then, O most mighty scion of a hundred-thousand horrors?’ He twitched a claw forward, gesturing towards one of the monks. ‘One of — ah — one of them perhaps? Who shall we see blessed this day, my most tolerant and wise of mentors?’

‘No, Vretch, no… though I do not doubt your loyalty, I feel that you would not pursue our goal so diligently, so expediently, if you had to rely on another,’ Skuralanx said. He shook the pot slightly. ‘Tell me, Vretch… are you immune to this pestilence?’

Vretch’s eyes bulged. ‘N-no, O most wise and gentle of counsellors,’ he whimpered. ‘My magics might keep it at bay for some time, but — but…’ He trailed off into strangled silence.

‘But it will kill you eventually, yes-yes? Unless you find the Liber quick-fast, yes-yes?’ Skuralanx flicked the cork out of the pot with a thumbnail. Vretch began to struggle, but too late, and not too fiercely. Unlike Kruk, he knew when he was beaten. Skuralanx caught the squirming plague priest’s muzzle and squeezed it open.

‘Do not be wrong, Vretch, or I will find your soul amid the cacophony of the Horned Rat’s great warren and gnaw upon it for time out of mind,’ Skuralanx said. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he poured the contents of the pot down the plague priest’s gullet.

Vretch coughed and retched. Skuralanx let him fall forward. The plague priest gasped out an incantation, as great boils began to rise on his exposed flesh. The boils shrank slightly, but did not disappear entirely. Even diluted, the disease was potent. Skuralanx sighed and drove a claw into Vretch’s bowed back. Ignoring his servant’s writhing and shrieking, he carved a ruinous sigil on Vretch’s flesh. ‘Be still,’ he hissed. ‘This is for your own good, fool.’

When he’d finished, he leaned forward, over the gasping, whimpering priest. ‘Know this, Vretch… I have carved my sigil in you, and no sickness shall claim your life until I say otherwise. If you fail me, I will whisper a word and you shall be food for worms. If you succeed, your pain shall be at an end.’

Skuralanx rose and backed away, into the shadows that clung to the edge of the raft. ‘Do not fail me, Vretch, or I shall sharpen my teeth on your soul for the rest of this age and the next.’

Unlike most skaven, Kruk was not in favour of running. At least not away from the enemy. It wasn’t really courage, so much as the realization that your foes were more likely to die if you ran screaming at them, rather than away. It was simply more practical to charge and ride the roiling wave of poisonous fumes to inevitable and sudden victory. Unfortunately, the treacherously cunning storm-things and the cunningly treacherous star-devils were cheating. And it was making him angry.

He could come up with no other explanation for their continued pursuit. Perhaps they are in the pay of Vretch, he thought, as he scampered towards the massive, slanted gates of the Setaen Palisades. Yes. Yes . That would explain their dogged pursuit — Vretch had summoned them, with his devious and sneaky magics, drawn them down from the hateful stars and unleashed them on his rival. Perhaps Vretch had even suborned Squeelch.