Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

He’d known from the start that Vretch harboured ambitions above his station. It was one of the reasons he’d brought Kruk along… while Vretch was focused on his hated rival, there had been less chance of him coming up with ways to free himself from Skuralanx’s influence.

In a way, the daemon was almost sad that it was all coming to an end. Vretch and Kruk had been entertaining in their way. But better days awaited, greater glories and mightier triumphs. He chittered in anticipation and hunched forward, clawing at the statue. Soon… soon it would all be done.

Soon, Skuralanx, the Scurrying Dark, would unleash a pestilence like no other. And reap the rewards thereof…

Kruk scuttled across the plaza towards the causeway and the advancing star-devils and storm-things, the remnants of the Reeking Choir at his back. He felt neither fear nor pain, though he would feel both, he suspected, before the day was done. ‘Kill-kill, for the glory of the Great Corruptor! For the glory of your Archfumigant,’ he shrilled, slashing the air with his censer-gauntlet. ‘Keep them from the temple! Hurl them from the causeway!’

It would be a close-run thing, he thought. They only outnumbered their foes five to one, and those weren’t the best of odds. But he was Kruk — the Horned Rat had marked him for greatness. Why else would he have survived every misfortune that sought to waylay his one, true destiny? Tests! All of it — tests! To prove his worthiness in the eyes of the Great Witherer! He was Kruk, and he would spread the Effluvial Gospels into every nostril and lung, yes-yes!

He slammed into the enemy, wreathed in a choking murk. He caught the edge of a bladed shield and hauled himself up, so that he could brain the scaly warrior who bore it. The seraphon fell and Kruk flung himself forward. As he dropped, his jaws sprang open and he vomited a cloud of noxious gas. Seraphon collapsed, their scaly bodies sloughing away into nothing. Kruk staggered back as starlight flared and his cloud was dispersed.

Spears tore holes in his robes and slashed his flesh as the seraphon closed ranks, forcing him to backpedal quickly. He pointed a talon at one of the snarling saurians and the creature staggered as its body began to shrivel and rot. The rot swept through their ranks, killing half a dozen of them before its potency faded. Kruk cackled as he crushed a shrunken skull with his censer. ‘Die-die! Die for the glory of Kruk,’ he shrilled.

He heard agonised squeals and smelled burning hair as a blast of celestial energy incinerated a skaven to his left. Kruk spun to see a reptile, clad in a cloak made of brightly hued feathers, step through the ashes of the fallen skaven, a glowing staff extended before it. The skink met his gaze and cocked its crested head, as if in challenge. Kruk snarled and darted beneath the stabbing spears of the intervening seraphon. He sprang towards the feather-clad reptile, who released a second searing burst of light from its staff. Kruk bulled through the burning luminescence with a scream.

‘Kruk is to be killing you, star-devil,’ the plague priest shrieked, as he snatched up the reptile and slammed it back against a statue. ‘Not even you can prevent Kruk from achieving his destiny — Kruk will rise, like the vapours of death, and strangle all the world. Kruk will—’

Kruk screeched as a bolt of sizzling lightning took him in the back.

The plague priest released the reptile and stumbled, flames licking from his robes. He whirled and saw the skull-masked storm-thing striding towards him. Kruk cursed and flung out his good claw. The vapours rising from his censer suddenly stiffened and solidified. They shot towards the approaching figure like glistening arrows. The storm-thing staggered as the semi-solid vapours tore at him.

Before he could finish the smaller creature off, it drove a dagger into his shoulder. Kruk spun and backhanded the seraphon with his censer, knocking it sprawling. He tried to call to mind a killing spell, but his rage was too great — he wanted to rend, to tear. He raised his censer, ready to bring it down on the skink’s head.

He heard a shout from behind him and half-turned to see the skull-faced storm-thing extend his staff. A moment later, a bolt of lightning speared down through rain-choked skies and struck his censer. Every nerve in Kruk’s form wept in sudden, all-consuming agony. The lightning ran through him and into the ground. The stone crumbled beneath his smoking claws as a radius of devastation spread outward around him.

He fought against the pain, against the clutches of the lightning, trying to lower his arm, to thrust himself towards his enemies once more. He refused to be defeated so close to his ultimate triumph. He heard the shrieks of his closest followers as they were immolated, or slipped between the cracking stones, vanishing into the shadowed depths.

His squeals of frustration were swallowed up by the dark, as he plummeted down into the depths of the worm, his robes and body alight.