Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

The ranks of the seraphon stood inhumanly still, facing the Stormcast line. Silence fell, broken only by the cry of distant birds and the dull grinding pulse of Shu’gohl’s progress across the steppes. Zephacleas shook his head. ‘What are they waiting for?’

‘Us,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘I believe — I feel — that they wish to speak.’

‘Have they ever done that before?’ he asked.

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Oh,’ Zephacleas said. ‘I’m not exactly one for diplomacy, Gravewalker.’

‘Speak to them as you spoke to the sylvaneth, in the Jade Kingdoms,’ the Lord-Relictor murmured. ‘Someone must, and you are here. We are here. We are Sigmar’s voice, raised in greeting, and his hand, extended in friendship.’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said, doubtfully. ‘Let us hope they don’t bite it off.’ He stepped forward, weapons held low and away from his body. He left the shield wall behind and moved to meet the seraphon as they approached. The Lord-Relictor was right. This was as much their duty as the breaking of chains and the felling of tyrants. Besides, the creatures were between the Stormcasts and the Dorsal Barbicans; best to find out now whether they were allies or obstacles. As he drew close, he could sense the celestial energies radiating from the creatures. It unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Zephacleas stopped and raised his hammer. ‘In the name of Sigmar, and the Realm Celestial, I bid thee greetings…’

CHAPTER THREE The Dreaming Constellation

The air of the Setaen Palisades smelled of the sweetest rot and rising infection to Vretch as he strode across them, warpstone-tipped staff in one claw and the Mappo Vurmio clutched in the other. The hard flesh under his foot-claws was growing soft with inflammation, and small geysers of seepage erupted here and there, pooling about the raised platforms which held the slave-cages. The cages had once held the many-legged parasites that nestled in the furrows and folds of the worm’s flesh, which the folk of Shu’gohl raised for meat. Now they held man-things, and stank of fear and pain, as well as the various illnesses which ran rampant through the imprisoned population.

The man-things were veritable gardens of delight, in that regard. Every little pox found its place, and they rotted so swiftly that his plague monks were hard-pressed to keep up. When one of the man-things succumbed, a pox-bell rang and his followers scurried to see which plague was responsible. Only those which brought about swift rot and ruin were extracted and fostered — the swifter the better. The Horned Rat cared nothing for fecundity or the propagation of his poxes — only the end result.

All in all, the palisades were a thing of beauty, Vretch thought. It was almost a shame to leave. But the Gut-shafts waited, and he was impatient. The sooner he found the missing Liber, the sooner he could sweep his enemies — Kruk included — before him. It was also far too open out here, away from the cramped safety of the towers. He glanced at the swirling clouds above, before hastily looking away. He seized his few remaining whiskers and began to groom them to calm himself.

He occasionally heard the sounds of battle carried on the wind. He wondered whether Squeelch still lived, and whether he’d made his assassination attempt on Kruk yet. If not, he might have to punish his not-quite underling. He sighed. Squeelch had showed such promise, but even if the other plague priest had failed, Vretch would not. Yes, the sooner he was safely below, the sooner victory could be achieved.

Each of the Gut-shafts was topped by a rickety frame of mouldy setaen timbers. Platforms of worm-meat and cauldrons of ichor were drawn up by gangs of chained slaves, under the watchful gazes of his most trustworthy plague monks. As new loads were drawn up, bells rang out, summoning more slaves to unload the platforms.

Not all of the shafts were being emptied — some were being filled with the bodies of dead and dying man-things. As they decomposed, the stuff of their rot would seep into the raw, wounded flesh of Shu’gohl, further weakening the great worm. It would die, as all things must die, for the greater glory of the Horned Rat.

And for the greater glory of Vretch, he thought, sniggering. The Crawling City would become a great warren of rot, a sacred temple of putrescence. All of skavenkind would flock to it, in time, as the word of its dreadful miasma spread from it. And Vretch would be its master. Vretch, master of one of the Great Plagues. Vretch, best-beloved of the Great Corruptor. Vretch, Grand Squealer of the Basilica of Red Buboes.

First, however, he must find that which he sought.