Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

Vretch stared in shock at the now-empty palanquin. The skaven at the oars had picked up speed, and Skuralanx settled back on his haunches with a sigh. Vretch hunched inward, head bowed. Skuralanx could almost hear the priest’s mind whirring.

‘You — ah — you have another suggestion then, O most mighty scion of a hundred-thousand horrors?’ He twitched a claw forward, gesturing towards one of the monks. ‘One of — ah — one of them perhaps? Who shall we see blessed this day, my most tolerant and wise of mentors?’

‘No, Vretch, no… though I do not doubt your loyalty, I feel that you would not pursue our goal so diligently, so expediently, if you had to rely on another,’ Skuralanx said. He shook the pot slightly. ‘Tell me, Vretch… are you immune to this pestilence?’

Vretch’s eyes bulged. ‘N-no, O most wise and gentle of counsellors,’ he whimpered. ‘My magics might keep it at bay for some time, but — but…’ He trailed off into strangled silence.

‘But it will kill you eventually, yes-yes? Unless you find the Liber quick-fast, yes-yes?’ Skuralanx flicked the cork out of the pot with a thumbnail. Vretch began to struggle, but too late, and not too fiercely. Unlike Kruk, he knew when he was beaten. Skuralanx caught the squirming plague priest’s muzzle and squeezed it open.

‘Do not be wrong, Vretch, or I will find your soul amid the cacophony of the Horned Rat’s great warren and gnaw upon it for time out of mind,’ Skuralanx said. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he poured the contents of the pot down the plague priest’s gullet.

Vretch coughed and retched. Skuralanx let him fall forward. The plague priest gasped out an incantation, as great boils began to rise on his exposed flesh. The boils shrank slightly, but did not disappear entirely. Even diluted, the disease was potent. Skuralanx sighed and drove a claw into Vretch’s bowed back. Ignoring his servant’s writhing and shrieking, he carved a ruinous sigil on Vretch’s flesh. ‘Be still,’ he hissed. ‘This is for your own good, fool.’

When he’d finished, he leaned forward, over the gasping, whimpering priest. ‘Know this, Vretch… I have carved my sigil in you, and no sickness shall claim your life until I say otherwise. If you fail me, I will whisper a word and you shall be food for worms. If you succeed, your pain shall be at an end.’

Skuralanx rose and backed away, into the shadows that clung to the edge of the raft. ‘Do not fail me, Vretch, or I shall sharpen my teeth on your soul for the rest of this age and the next.’

Unlike most skaven, Kruk was not in favour of running. At least not away from the enemy. It wasn’t really courage, so much as the realization that your foes were more likely to die if you ran screaming at them, rather than away. It was simply more practical to charge and ride the roiling wave of poisonous fumes to inevitable and sudden victory. Unfortunately, the treacherously cunning storm-things and the cunningly treacherous star-devils were cheating. And it was making him angry.

He could come up with no other explanation for their continued pursuit. Perhaps they are in the pay of Vretch, he thought, as he scampered towards the massive, slanted gates of the Setaen Palisades. Yes. Yes. That would explain their dogged pursuit — Vretch had summoned them, with his devious and sneaky magics, drawn them down from the hateful stars and unleashed them on his rival. Perhaps Vretch had even suborned Squeelch.

Kruk could almost respect such skulduggery, had he not been on the receiving end. He was tempted to discard everything he’d brought to buy sanctuary from Vretch. No. No-no — cunning, Kruk. Cunning is what’s called for here, he thought. He could be cunning if he wanted. It was just that he saw little purpose in schemes, when open murder often accomplished the same objective in half the time.

But Skuralanx was insistent, and Skuralanx knew best, yes-yes. Unless he didn’t… Kruk growled as he scurried. His suspicions had been growing by leaps and bounds — he knew when he was being used. Indeed, the daemon had never made any secret of it — Kruk was his weapon, wielded in the name of the Horned Rat. But one could have more than one weapon.

What if Vretch was one as well? What if that was why he was being sent here, to pretend-parley with Vretch, not to murder him, but to be murdered? What if Skuralanx had grown tired of him? What if the daemon wished to steal his glorious destiny and bestow it upon unworthy Vretch? He ground his teeth in growing fury. Why else send him into the heart of his enemy’s lair? Question after question chopped at the foundation of his surety.