Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

The sound of thunder echoed up from the streets below, signalling the approaching enemy. There was a strange musk on the air — dry and harsh. Squeelch felt his insides twist in knots at the merest whiff, and knew he was not alone. All across the barbicans, skaven muttered to one another in growing fear. They could all feel it — all save Kruk and his Reeking Choir, whose noses were dead to anything save the scent of decay.

It came with the star-devils, swooping down on searing celestial winds to burn away all save the urge to run, to flee. Only their numbers and the bilious fumes spewing from the censers of the Reeking Choir kept those crouched atop the barbicans from scattering and fleeing.

Squeelch found comfort in his plague-engines. The plagueclaws were the holiest of the holy, and Squeelch felt his sores pucker in pride as he gazed at the rancid contraptions of rusty metal and festering wood. They were as the filth-encrusted talons of the Horned Rat himself, gouging at the enemy. Plagues brewed by his own claws were ladled into the catapults to be hurled into the enemy’s midst. With his plagueclaws, Squeelch had spread many a blessed sickness through strongholds and citadels, through streets and caverns. He had rewarded many of his most fervent followers with the honour of crewing one of the machines.

Those who now crewed the plagueclaws had shed their robes, so as to better saturate themselves in the hissing virulence of the ammunition. Their mangy hides were covered in abscesses and weeping tumours, and many had lost most, if not all of their hair. Soon, they would rot away entirely, their shrieking essences becoming one with the Great Witherer. He would have to remember to choose their replacements.

To Squeelch, that was the truest way of war — to share the blessings of the Horned Rat with the foe, but from afar. Very, very far. A rain of death, rather than a poke with an infected stick. That was the best way.

Kruk held up his gauntlet and examined it with his good eye. It was a smaller, fist-sized censer, taken from Skug’s plethora and mounted on a heavy iron bracer. Greenish fumes rose from it, flowing up Kruk’s arm and around his bandaged head. ‘It’ll do,’ he grunted, inhaling the smoke with a sigh. He looked at Squeelch. ‘Destroy it.’

‘Destroy what, holiest of holies?’

‘The city. All of it. Turn it to sludge, now-now!’ Kruk snarled, thrusting his censer beneath Squeelch’s nose. ‘Fire the plagueclaws — destroy everything. Let the star-devils wade through oceans of filth, if they would.’

‘But— but our warriors, most powerful of plague-winds,’ Squeelch began, flinching at the mention of the scaly creatures. He had never seen them before, but something in him recognised them regardless. Rising up in him, he felt the instinctive urge to find a hole and hide away from them, to burrow deeper than they could follow. For a moment, he was lost, and he knew the full terror of being prey.

‘They die for the glory of the Corruptor. If you would not join them, you will do as I command,’ Kruk growled, his eye glittering with malice. He did not seem afraid. Then, Squeelch would have been astounded to learn that Kruk even knew what the word meant. ‘Destroy everything — the city, the lightning-riders, the star-devils, all of it.’

‘A— as you command, O mighty Summoner of a Thousand Pestilences.’ Squeelch turned, ready to screech orders at the plagueclaw crews to begin loading his deadliest poxes. If the foe wanted to take the Dorsal Barbicans, they would have to do so through a rain of plagues. But before he could give the order, something caught his eye.

He turned, gazing up into the storm-tossed sky. Gleaming shapes glided out of the clouds on crackling wings and dove towards the barbicans. He peered up at them, trying to understand what he was seeing. His eyes widened. ‘Fire-fire! Hurry! Quick-quick,’ he shrilled, flinging out his claws in panic.

Kruk whirled, glaring up at the descending shapes as the plagueclaw crew hurried to ready the war engines to fire. ‘What—?’ he growled. ‘Treachery!’

The first plagueclaw fired, hurling a steaming mass of putrescence into the air. The diving storm-things rolled through the sky, nimbly dodging the missile. There were twelve of them, and their wings gleamed like fire. Storm-swift, they swooped. Heavy hammers appeared in their waiting hands, manifesting in a blaze of light. A moment later, those hammers were spinning through the air towards the barbicans.

They struck like comets, shaking the great walls down to their foundations. Squeelch was knocked from his claws. He cowered for a moment, expecting the nearest plagueclaw to topple over on him, but it merely swayed in place. The crews scrambled across it, readying it to fire.

Skug jerked him to his feet. ‘Up-up, squealer,’ the skull-faced skaven gurgled. Squeelch slapped his claws aside.