Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘No,’ Tokl chirruped. ‘We keep our distance.’ The sickening fumes rising from the cauldrons mounted on the rafts would kill a skink as easily as whatever predators lurked in the great worm’s stomach. They would follow their quarry at a distance, and strike when the time was right. When Takatakk commanded.

They were guided by the will of the Dreaming Seer, and they would not fail.

The wind had turned, and the stink of melting setae washed over the Dorsal Barbicans. The streets and furrows before the barbicans were covered in steaming, bubbling sludge. The great worm thrashed in continual agony, setting the barbicans to shuddering. Skaven lined the walls, chanting the Thirty-three Rapturous Hymns to the Third Great Plague as they swayed amidst the thick smoke emitted by the censers of the Reeking Choir. The plagueclaws continued to hurl their frothy projectiles, filling the streets of the Crawling City with poisonous smog. And as they launched, Squeelch worked steadily to brew new plague-slop for them to toss into the city.

‘Load-load,’ he chittered as he stirred the mixture in the pox-cauldron before him with his staff. ‘Faster, fools, faster!’

His crews hurriedly ladled the brew into the plagueclaws, scratching at their sloughing flesh as they worked. His assistants were stationed before similar cauldrons up and down the barbicans, using the recipes he had taught them to prepare ever more powerful mixtures. Plague monks staggered towards him, dragging baskets full of shrieking rats. Squeelch stepped back, allowing them to dunk the baskets in the cauldron.

The baskets were then dragged to the buckets of the plagueclaws, where they would be hurled into the city. Some of the rats would endure the landing and scurry forth to spread sickness. They were hardy creatures, as befitting creations of the Horned Rat, and were easily capable of surviving long-distance, high-speed travel, especially when bolstered by a healthy mixture of plague-broth. It was an old tactic, a traditional tactic. Squeelch had learned it from his master, and his master before him, before murdering them both with a tainted bowl of fish heads. He sighed happily as he hawked a huge glob of phlegm into the pox-cauldron and continued to stir the soupy mixture.

He took a cursory sniff, and instantly his lungs filled with a cloying weight. He hacked in satisfaction, pounding on his chest. One of the crew-skaven, overcome, toppled forward face-first into the cauldron. At his gesture, the others stuffed the body into the thick soup. He jabbed at the still-twitching carcass with his staff. It would add to the potency.

This was a good brew. One of his best yet, he thought. His sores tingled in pride as he filched his snuff-bag from within his robes and stuffed a talon in it. The powdered warpstone within was mixed with dried pus scraped from the bodies of plague victims, and something vaguely sweet. He stuffed his powder-coated talon into his mouth. Green sparks danced behind his eyes, and he felt as if he could out-think a hundred rivals.

Sniffing, Squeelch stared at Kruk’s broad back, and wondered whether he could shove him over the edge of the rampart before Skug reacted. He lifted his staff from the cauldron, considering. One good poke, yes-yes, and much-dead Kruk, he thought. It was glaringly obvious to his superior intellect that even Kruk couldn’t survive such a fall.

Kruk might not even mind. It was how he’d taken control of the Congregation of Fumes in the first place, after all. And the title of Archfumigant had passed through at least a dozen claws before Kruk had pitched old Frekt into a toad dragon’s mouth at the Guttering Fen. No, Kruk wouldn’t mind. He was a traditionalist at heart.

Kruk turned, his good eye narrowing, as if he’d read Squeelch’s mind.

Maybe not yet, Squeelch thought, trying to look as if he hadn’t just been contemplating assassinating his superior. ‘Why has Vretch not attacked yet?’ Kruk demanded.

Squeelch blinked. ‘What, O most potent of poxes?’

‘Why… hasn’t… Vretch… attacked,’ Kruk growled, thrusting his muzzle towards Squeelch. ‘We are distracted. I would have attacked. You would have attacked. Why has Vretch not attacked?’

‘Prudence, O most pestilential of priests?’

‘Prrrudence, squealer? Is that what you call it?’ Skug rasped.

Squeelch glared at the censer bearer. He was about to snarl a reply, when Kruk grunted.

‘Whatever you call it, it is an itch in the back of my mind,’ the plague priest said, glaring towards the ever-present lightning storm which swirled over the worm’s head. ‘But I will not give him the pleasure of abandoning this place, no-no. Vretch wants the Libraria Vurmis. He will come — he must.’ Kruk smacked his censer into his palm.

So that was it. Squeelch had wondered why Kruk had seemed so bent on defending the Dorsal Barbicans. He almost pitied the brute. Vretch no longer needed the library or its contents, for Squeelch had given him the pick of its bounty already.