Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Kruk could almost respect such skulduggery, had he not been on the receiving end. He was tempted to discard everything he’d brought to buy sanctuary from Vretch. No. No-no — cunning, Kruk. Cunning is what’s called for here, he thought. He could be cunning if he wanted. It was just that he saw little purpose in schemes, when open murder often accomplished the same objective in half the time.

But Skuralanx was insistent, and Skuralanx knew best, yes-yes. Unless he didn’t… Kruk growled as he scurried. His suspicions had been growing by leaps and bounds — he knew when he was being used. Indeed, the daemon had never made any secret of it — Kruk was his weapon, wielded in the name of the Horned Rat. But one could have more than one weapon.

What if Vretch was one as well? What if that was why he was being sent here, to pretend-parley with Vretch, not to murder him, but to be murdered? What if Skuralanx had grown tired of him? What if the daemon wished to steal his glorious destiny and bestow it upon unworthy Vretch? He ground his teeth in growing fury. Why else send him into the heart of his enemy’s lair? Question after question chopped at the foundation of his surety.

Kruk glanced around at the Reeking Choir. Skug and his smoke-wreathed followers were loyal, and almost as ferocious as Kruk himself. With them, he could bully almost any congregation into line. And, indeed, had — his forces had swelled threefold as they retreated from the Dorsal Barbicans. Newly loyal bands of plague monks sought his benevolent protection, and swarmed to the sound of his bells. Unless they too had been suborned. A plot, then. Enemies all around him. Should he kill Skug first — or wait and see?

‘Where are they?’ one of the others chittered. Kruk blinked.

‘What? Speak up,’ he snapped.

‘No guards,’ Skug said, whirling his censer absently. The gates to the Setaen Palisades loomed above them, unguarded, unlit, seemingly unbarred. The gates were massive sections of worm-scale, shaped to fit in a gap between the first tier of the palisades. Scenes from the history of the Crawling City had been carved on their sprawling surface. All in all, a magnificent sight.

Kruk gestured, and a geyser of greenish light washed over the gates, reducing them to sloughing ruin. Gouts of thick, reeking smoke rolled over them and filled the narrow streets behind them, momentarily obscuring the sky above. Kruk stumped forward through the smoke, shoulders hunched, tail lashing. His congregation followed at a respectful distance.

Screams rose up from the courtyard beyond, as Kruk and his congregation swarmed up the wide steps towards it. If any of Vretch’s warriors were waiting for them, Kruk would give them more than they bargained for. Skug and the others howled out prayers as they streamed into the courtyard, ready for battle. But there was no one there to greet them, save a pathetic lot of man-things, trapped in domed slave-cages. These were scattered about a series of rickety scaffolds and mine-works, set up over vast, bubbling wounds in the worm’s flesh.

The man-things set up a wail as they caught sight of the skaven. Kruk paid them no heed. They would make for adequate chattel, when the time came, and, even better, they were already in cages. He caught sight of a massive doom gong set up in the centre of the courtyard. He stalked towards it, eye scanning the towers and tiers of the palace-citadel. Why did the man-things always build up ? It made no sense. Madness was what it was. When the worm was dead and Vretch was dead and all of his enemies were dead-dead-dead, Kruk would burrow deep into the putrefying flesh of Shu’gohl and build his warren in the worm’s guts.

He struck the gong with his censer, summoning the defenders of this place. He struck it again, before the echoes of the first had faded. Kruk smashed the gong again and again until it warped beneath the force of his blows. He heard a soft scurrying, somewhere high up and far away. His tail lashed. Cowards. Of course they were hiding. Well, they would come out, or his congregation would drag them out by their tails.

‘Skug, you and the Reeking Choir shall accompany me. The rest of you — find our hosts. Drag them out if you must. Bang the gongs, ring the bells, call them, let them know that the Archfumigant, their new master, has arrived. This place is ours now — Glory to the Fumes!’ he snarled.

By nature, however fractious they became at those rare intervals when greed and ambition overcame their natural amiability, the skaven inevitably sought safety in numbers. Unlike Kruk, the laity needed companionship. They needed to be surrounded by their kin and fellow believers. An illness shared was an illness strengthened. Besides, how could you stab someone in the back if there was no one in front of you? More would come, every scattered clawband and isolated procession, because there was nowhere else to go. But would they arrive before the enemy?

Kruk started towards the tallest of the towers, Skug hurrying in his wake. ‘Master, where do we go?’ the censer bearer gurgled.

‘Vretch is a vainglorious fool. He knows nothing of humbleness or piety, of servitude. He will have taken the largest of these for himself. I will claim it as mine, yes-yes, as is my right,’ Kruk growled. If Vretch had found the Liber, that was where it would be. Skug opened his flayed muzzle as if to comment, but quickly fell silent.

Stiff-legged with righteous fury, Kruk led his followers up through the tower. It took a long time to reach the domed chamber at the summit, but Kruk’s energy was inexhaustible. His claw still tingled from the touch of the star-devil’s weapon. It hurt like an old burn, and the pain drove him on.

That was Kruk’s truest and best secret — pain was his ally. Unlike many plague priests, his nerves had only grown all the sharper during his service to the Great Witherer. He felt every clogged pore and peeling scab, every leaking sore and rotting fang. He felt the weight and pressure of the thing growing in his head, pressing down on his cunning brain. That was the Horned Rat’s greatest gift to him, for the pain kept him sharp, kept his thoughts flowing like the most cunning and quicksilver lightning.

He could almost feel the weight of the Liber in his claw. The weight of its power — a power undreamt of save by those who’d felt the withering touch of the Grand Corruptor — dragged him forward and set his claws on the path of glory. The world would be remade into a rotting husk, and Kruk its king, on a throne of sour meat and stacked corpses. He was Kruk and Kruk was him, and Kruk was the best beloved of the many-horned god. Kruk would be Archfumigant and Pox-Master, Kruk would–

‘Yesss Kruk, all this and more. So swears Skuralanx.’

Kruk blinked. They’d reached the high chamber where Vretch had obviously made his lair. It was circular and open to the elements on almost all sides. Tools and cauldrons lay scattered everywhere, among empty cages. There were no books, no scrolls, and certainly no Libers, Pestilent or otherwise. The only signs of life were the whimpering things in the gibbet-cages which hung from the domed roof. ‘Where are the books?’ he hissed.

‘You did not seem interested in books before, Kruk,’ Skuralanx’s voice hissed from the darkness above. The gibbets suddenly rattled on their chains as something heavy moved over them. A familiar stink filled Kruk’s nose.

‘Where are they, Skuralanx?’ Kruk growled, trying to spot the daemon among the shadows. His anger flared out of control. Tricked! He had been tricked! ‘Where is Vretch? You told me to come here, but Vretch is not here… the Liber is not here!’

‘No. He has gone below,’ Skuralanx said, prowling across the top of the gibbets. ‘But I know where he will appear next. There.’ The daemon flung out one long arm and pointed towards the window, through which the distant lightning storm which flickered about Shu’gohl’s head was visible.