Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

He realised he could no longer hear the daemon’s basso rumble. Kruk too had fallen silent. Squeelch froze, scarcely daring to breathe. He fought the urge to squirt the musk of fear. Had they heard him coming? Had Kruk fled while he dithered? Had he been left in the library, to face their enemies alone?

‘Cunning Squeelch, crafty Squeelch. Yessss,’ came a voice, from just over his shoulder. At first, he feared it was Skug. Then, as the voice’s owner began to titter, he realised with mounting horror that it wasn’t Skug at all. He turned, knife raised, and stared up — up! — into the skeletal grimace of Skuralanx.

The daemon’s prehensile tails coiled about him faster than he could follow. He shrieked as Skuralanx jerked him from the floor and slammed him against a shelf. His knife clattered from his grip. He tried to summon the strength to unleash a spell, but everything hurt too much. The bony leer thrust forward, so close that Squeelch could smell the hideous stench radiating from his captor. ‘And what were you going to do with that, hmmm?’ the daemon murmured.

Squeelch squeezed his eyes shut and began to whimper a prayer to the Great Witherer. He begged the Horned Rat to take and shelter his soul, for it seemed his body was about to be torn asunder. He felt a dribble of foulness run down his leg. He cracked an eye, and saw Kruk and Skug hurrying towards them, the censer bearer trying to hold his master back.

‘Squeelch? Treachery!’ Kruk chittered, reaching for the other plague priest with his good claw. Skuralanx yanked Squeelch out of reach and pointed a filthy talon at Kruk.

‘I will deal with this faithless one, yes-yes. You will take the Scar-roads, where the teeth of the great stone-wyrm Bolestros tore wounds in Shu’gohl’s flesh, in the days when the sky wept fire and the black blood of the earth sought to drown the land,’ Skuralanx snarled. ‘Take one of the man-things to show you. Leave the others here. Let our enemies see what awaits them.’

‘But—’ Kruk began.

‘I said go-go,’ Skuralanx roared. Skug prostrated himself immediately, but Kruk only stepped back, head bowed. Despite his predicament, Squeelch could only marvel at the other plague priest’s sheer stubborn viciousness. With a final glare and growl, Kruk spun and stumped off, barking orders as he went.

Skuralanx leapt from the floor to one of the thick pillars which supported the domed roof of the library. ‘It is a shame,’ he said, as he climbed up the pillar, dragging the helpless Squeelch behind him. ‘You show much promise, Squeelch. Much cunning, yes-yes. But needs must.’ The daemon reached the top of the pillar, and crouched there, deep in the all-concealing shadows.

‘Skuralanx’s needs, if you were wondering,’ the daemon said, as he twitched the struggling plague priest closer. His eyes glowed like the coals beneath a cauldron as he examined Squeelch. He sniffed the air, and Squeelch’s aching scent-glands spasmed, trying to squirt fear musk though there was none left to give.

He began to babble, begging for his life, promising the verminlord anything he could think of. ‘Squeelch will serve you, most cunning one! Squeelch will be your slave, he will—!’ His squeals died away as the daemon pressed the tip of a claw to his muzzle.

‘Shhh, little pox-maker. Shhh. Yes, you will serve Skuralanx. You will serve him, and all skaven, to the utmost of your ability. I told you that you would hold this place, and you will.’ Skuralanx’s hell-spark eyes gleamed. ‘Yes-yes, you will…’

Zephacleas swept his runeblade out and sliced a leaping skaven in two. The sore-covered ratman fell past him as he forced his way out onto the bridge. Made from woven worm-bristles and hardened with unguents and ichors, it connected those crooked setaen towers which still stood to the Dorsal Barbicans. Zephacleas and his chosen vanguard had fought their way up the rat-infested incline and through ruined towers to get to this point. Now only a single, shuddering span separated them from their goal. As he set foot on the swaying bridge, skaven scurried towards him from the opposite side, squealing and chittering.

He glanced at the massive shape of the Sunblood, Sutok, crouched beside him. Between them, they were the width of the bridge. No skaven would get past them. ‘Look, they come to greet us my friend,’ he said.

Sutok threw back his scaly head and roared. Together, they lunged to meet the swarming vermin.