Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

And he’d followed Skuralanx ever since, waging war at the whim of his horned patron. The Congregation of Fumes had sacked the ivory temples of Ghurok-kol, and filled the deep corridors of Iron-Bear Hold with poisonous smoke, slaying three in five of its duardin defenders. They had spread contagion and death across the Ghurlands at Skuralanx’s whispered word.

That the verminlord hadn’t saved him out of the kindness of his heart was not lost on Kruk. That too was in the Effluvial Gospels, and he bore the creature no grudge for its manipulations. After all, he had given Kruk and his congregation a purpose more glorious than any other, and now he had set them at the throats of their foes. And once this battle was done, once the foe was beaten and choking on their own blood, then Kruk could turn his attentions to his true purpose. He would find the Liber that the verminlord said was hidden here and offer it up to mighty Skuralanx, and through him, the Great Corruptor.

As if in fear, the worm-flesh beneath his foot-claws began to convulse. It was as hard as stone normally, but as the great beast trembled in pain, it became pliable and unsteady. Two of the tall setae-structures swayed into one another with a sound like grinding rock, and splinters of the iron-hard bristles rained down upon the Congregation of Fumes. Screeching skaven were crushed between the structures, but Kruk paid their panicked cries no heed.

Overhead, the storm-tossed amber skies were streaked with green, as Squeelch — loyal, fearful Squeelch — saw to the plagueclaws. Kruk was glad that he had not yet had reason to kill the other plague priest — Squeelch was useful, and his cringing was amusing. He also brewed the most magnificent poxes, capable of felling whole tribes of orruks or even a rampaging gargant at the merest whiff. Yes, Kruk would have to learn Squeelch’s secrets before he killed him.

From behind him rose a familiar squealing and creaking. Kruk stopped and turned, his good eye widening in anticipation. A heavy archway of stone, mounted on a precarious assembly of rickety wooden timbers and massive wheels, loomed above the press of his congregation. The archway acted as a frame for an enormous blazing orb of pure filth which swung on rusty chains. A coterie of plague monks, all members of the Reeking Choir, pushed the Plague Furnace forward through the crush of skaven. Some were caught beneath its wheels and pulped, still singing their praises to the Great Corruptor.

It was the war-altar of the Congregation of Fumes, a mobile pulpit from which Kruk could shriek out the blessings and the curses of the Horned Rat. The massive censer which swung from its arch had been doused in rancid warpstone and virulent concoctions and set alight. The fumes which wafted from it drove his followers into a sacred battle-fury.

Plague monks flooded out of the doorways and the side-streets between the towering structures of the city. More of them scuttled across the creaking bridges and woven net-paths which were strung between the wide tiers of the towers, following the summoning knells. Kruk began to chitter the seventh hymn of the Effluvial Gospels as he clambered aboard the creaking Plague Furnace, and Skug joined him. Soon the rest of his followers took up the chant. The sound of their screeching rose high into the air, until it seemed as if the whole world were screaming with them.

The Congregation of Fumes was racing, rapid-quick, to war.

Skuralanx crouched atop the tower of hair, claws dangling between his knees as he observed the goings-on below. Around him rose heavy barrels, meant to collect falling rain and filter it down into the tower below. Somewhere within the tower, he knew, were the fungus farms which had fed the folk of Shu’gohl and now served as breeding grounds for poisonous moulds. Idly, he dug a talon into one of the barrels and let the water spill out to rain down on the foetid tide of skaven flowing through the street below.

The verminlord watched as Kruk led his congregation away from the Dorsal Barbicans and towards the approaching Stormcast Eternals in his usual joyous fashion. To his credit, the one-eyed plague priest was always at the forefront, leading his censer bearers right into the heart of the foe. He was like an unchecked pestilence, reaping a heady toll in the Corruptor’s name.

Vretch, on the other claw, was akin to a more subtle pox, creeping along on mouse-feet. Very, very slow mouse-feet. Skuralanx hissed in momentary annoyance and glanced over his shoulder towards the Setaen Palisades. Of the two of them, he favoured Kruk, if only because the brute was easier to control. But Vretch was closer to their goal.