Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘Vretch is not attacking because he is more cunning than that,’ a deep voice growled. Squeelch looked up and saw the muscular shape of Skuralanx crouched atop the closest plagueclaw. When the daemon had arrived, Squeelch couldn’t say — the creature moved more silently than a shadow, appearing and disappearing at will.

The verminlord glared down at them. ‘Vretch is counting on you to occupy the foe, while he accomplishes his goal.’

Kruk growled wordlessly. Skuralanx chittered in amusement. ‘You’re a fool, Kruk. Your enemies approach through your pox-rain, and your true foe goes to accomplish what you could not,’ the daemon said.

Kruk cocked his head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Fool-fool,’ Skuralanx hissed. ‘You came here looking for the lost Liber, and so did he. But while you suffer here, he nears your goal. Poor Kruk… perhaps I should have let you die in Putris Bog…’

‘No-no-no!’ Kruk shrilled. ‘I will kill-kill Vretch myself, yes-yes. Where is he?’

The verminlord pointed a talon downwards. ‘In the belly of the beast, Kruk. You must leave, go to the Setaen Palisades. The sooner the better. You must get me that Liber Pestilent before Vretch gets his claws on it.’

‘But the barbicans…’ Kruk began.

‘Squeelch will hold them,’ Skuralanx said, looking at Squeelch, who cowered back. ‘Won’t you, Squeelch?’ he hissed, even as his form twisted and shrank into a wisp of shadow and vanished from sight.

‘Yes-yes, to hear is to obey, O most merciful of potentates,’ Squeelch chittered. As he said it, he wondered whether he should have taken the chance to shove Kruk over the edge after all.

Oxtl-Kor sniffed the air and growled. The Oldblood could smell the rat-stink on the air. It pervaded this place, and drove him to distraction. It grew stronger the closer they drew to the Dorsal Barbicans. They would have been there already, had they not been forced to slow their pace to accommodate their allies.

He sniffed, inhaling the scent of celestial lightning and the world-that-was. The Stormcasts wore the flesh of a broken dream, as if it belonged to them alone. He licked his muzzle angrily. Were it not for Great Lord Kurkori’s command, he would not have countenanced his warriors to march beside them. They were not worthy to fight alongside the Dreaming Constellation — they were but pale ghosts, newborn and unaware.

Irritated by the smells and sounds, Oxtl-Kor rubbed his snout. He was covered in a latticework of scars, each one a page in his history since the final beginning and the first ending. Sometimes, in the red moments between the his master’s call and the triumphal dissolution which saw him returned to the calm and quiet of Azyr, the Oldblood wondered where he had gained them all. It seemed to him that he’d had some for longer than he had been alive.

There were scars on his mind as well as his body. Gaps in his memory, where his thoughts grew thin and faded, and when he became frustrated by them, only the death of his foes could sate him. The Oldblood longed to deal death to the vermin, to feel their flesh tear between his jaws, the hot rush of their blood sliding down his throat. That was his part in the Great Lord’s dream. He was the savage longing of his master made flesh. He was Kurkori’s rage, and he was content only when killing. Sawtooth grumbled in seeming agreement, and Oxtl-Kor patted the carnosaur’s thick neck.

Sawtooth, like his master, was covered in the scars of battle. He was a mighty beast, with jaws capable of crushing stone and a hide as thick as the celestite armour Oxtl-Kor wore. Together, they were virtually unstoppable. Around him, the cold ones ridden by his saurus knights easily kept pace with the loping carnosaur. More animalistic than their riders, the cold ones were foul-tempered and vicious, but possessed the same instinctual hatred for the stuff of Chaos as did the rest of the seraphon. Like Sawtooth, they had no need for sustenance, but they desired the flesh and blood of their foes regardless.

Oxtl-Kor gazed with pride at the ranks of saurus warriors advancing in Sawtooth’s shadow, their stardrake icons held aloft. They were a scarred and scaly instrument of war, understanding well the ebb and flow of the eternal battle. Their rage, like his, was tempered by an instinctive adherence to order. The order of the stars, the order of spheres, of the sacred mathematics of being crafted and nurtured by the Starmasters and the Great Drake.

He glanced back at the Dreaming Seer, slumbering peacefully on his floating palanquin. Time and celestial tide had taken their toll on the Great Masters, the Oldblood knew. But some, like Great Lord Kurkori, yet remained. They slept, their minds elsewhere, contemplating more important matters. And Oxtl-Kor was determined to see that the slann continued to sleep undisturbed.