Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

But that was not his purpose here. Not yet at any rate. He was no brutish Warbringer or treacherous Warpseer, looking to conquer for conquest’s sake. No, he was a child of the Great Witherer, born of blessed foulness and blighted shadows, and his was a higher calling. The Eater of All Things was in turmoil, roiling with conflicting desires which could only be assuaged by that which Skuralanx sought — or rather, by that which his servants sought on his behalf.

One of the Thirteen Great Plagues was here. He was certain of it. Hidden away from the eyes of mortals and daemons alike. Skuralanx had followed its trail from the Jade Kingdoms of Ghyran to the rime-encrusted tarnholds of the fallen duchies of Shyish, and now, at last, here, to the Ghurlands and a city built on the broad, ever-undulating back of a colossal worm.

And he had not come alone, no-no. Skuralanx was a craftsman, and like all craftsmen, he possessed many tools. Two had come to the city-worm at his command, though neither knew that the other served him. The skaven of the Red Bubo Procession and the Congregation of Fumes, drawn from the Clans Pestilens, had risen at his order and drowned the inhabitants of the city in a foetid tide of pox and pestilence. Led by their quarrelsome plague priests, the two congregations had burst from the body of the worm, ringing their doom-gongs and spreading noxious death wherever they scurried.

It had been a thing of beauty and horror in equal measure. A civilization, millennia old, ruined in a fortnight by the teeming, pestilent hordes that scurried forth at his behest. Even better, his chittering servants were now hard at work making this place fit for the children of the Horned Rat. Soon, this city, which had once belonged to the man-things, would instead be home to the Clans Pestilens. And Skuralanx would rule over them — whichever ones managed to survive, that is. He played no favourites and was content to allow them the freedom to murder one another with vicious abandon.

As long as one or the other found that which he desired, he cared nothing for their fate. They were in competition, and every setback and victory spurred them on to greater heights of cunning, just as he’d planned. Live or die, his triumph was assured. One of them would find the Liber and bring it to him.

Had he wished, he could easily have sought out the object of his desire himself. Indeed, there were some among his kin-rivals who would have done just that. But Skuralanx was patient. And besides, what was the point of having minions if one didn’t let them serve? Had not the Horned Rat spawned his children to serve him, after all?

Snickering, the verminlord leapt onto the shoulder of Sigmar. Or his statue, at least. Stern, bearded, unforgiving, the massive sculpture of the man-thing god glared out over the chamber where once his followers had gathered in worship. The chamber glowed with an unpleasant radiance. The glow emanated from the vast iron hatch composed of intersecting plates and set into the base of the statue’s plinth. Lightning dripped from it, crawling across the walls and floor in crackling sheets. It filled the air and made his hide prickle.

The interlocking plates had been designed to be opened only in the proper order. Skuralanx had no doubt that his cunning would prove equal to the task, when the need arose. At but a touch, he would wrench the realmgate open and twist it back upon itself, turning the way to the Jade Kingdoms and the maggot-infested warrens his minions called home. Plague congregations and clawbands without number awaited but the merest whisper of his voice, for his schemes and the tools with which he enacted them were infinite.

Beyond the chamber, through the shattered walls, Skuralanx could see the wide, pillar-lined causeway which connected the ruined temple to the rest of the city.

‘Blind, so blind, yes-yes,’ the daemon hissed, carving filthy runes into the statue’s cheek. He had come here every day for weeks to do so, because it amused him, and the statue’s face was all but swallowed up by the daemonic graffiti. ‘Can’t see what’s right in front of him, oh no. Blind god, broken god, dead god.’

He looked up past the lightning to the amber skies of the Ghurlands, where strange birds flew and worse things besides. ‘Soon, all of the gods will be dead, yes. Only one left, only the strongest, the stealthiest, the most brilliant of gods, yes-yes… all dead, and we will ascend in their place.’

They would rise and flourish, spreading decay across the Eight Realms. Yes, and more besides. All realms, all worlds, all peoples would fall. All would rot, never to be renewed. From out of this glorious corruption, new life would swell, but not mortal life, not man-thing life or hated duardin, no-no — only skaven life. Only the faithful skaven-life — no place for the unbelievers. All things would die.

And Shu’gohl, the Crawling City, would be the first.