Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

‘My servants are a fecund folk. You have no need to worry on their account,’ Vermalanx hissed. ‘And in any event, enough of them remain to see to Nurgle’s needs in this bitter place. Your own blightkings suffered below as well. Look to them, rather than mine.’

‘My warriors are being very hardy, rat-king, hardier than your vermin,’ Torglug said. He hefted his axe and set it on one wide shoulder as he turned to face the verminlord. The rat-daemon was larger than the Despised One, a thing of rangy muscle and mangy hair. It clung to the stone, fleshless head cocked, and eye sockets glowing with a sickly light. Its tail lashed at the implied insult. ‘And hardier especially than your drowned men, Spume,’ Torglug continued, looking past the stone and its occupier.

Vermalanx hissed and turned. Several figures made their way through the ring of broken stones and heaps of piled bodies. Gutrot Spume, tentacles coiling in agitation, spat a salty oath at Torglug’s words.

‘At least my blightkings fought an army — yours fell to a lone warrior,’ Spume growled. He swung his axe out and shattered a nearby stone.

‘One not even Bolathrax could bring low,’ said the sorcerer Slaugoth. His jowls wobbled in amusement. ‘I should have liked to have seen that great bowl of jelly waddling after our silver-skinned friend. Old Bolathrax has never been run so hard in his life, I’ll warrant.’ The master of the Rotfane chuckled at the thought.

‘You are finding this funny, Maggotfang?’ Torglug demanded, turning his bleary-eyed glare on the sorcerer. He threw out a hand. ‘They are ruining things, these newcomers. How soon until they are coming for your Rotfane? Or the world pimple?’

The lightning-men had come far, or so buzzing blightfly and scurrying pox-rat had claimed. They had fought their way through the quagmires of Rotwater Blight from the Ghyrtract Fen. They had slain fat old Ga’Blorrgh the toad dragon at the Lake of Screaming Reeds. They had survived the horrors of the Grove of Blighted Lanterns and the Greenglow Lake, before they had shattered the Dirgehorn atop Profane Tor.

And now, the vile treekin had been roused to war. It was as if the Realm of Life were preparing itself for a final battle. Foolishness… arrogance, Torglug thought. Why do they fight? Can they not see that the Grandfather only wishes to take care of them? To take away their pain, their uncertainty. He shook his head. He had fought, as they fought, once upon a time. He did not like to think of that time, for it shamed him to remember how he had resisted Grandfather’s kindness. He had been ungrateful. Rude, even. His grip on his axe tightened, and the ancient wood creaked, as if in pain.

But the Grandfather had opened his eyes and made him see that the world was not as he had believed. And with each day that followed, Torglug tried to earn the kindness and patience that the Grandfather had shown him. His axe had reaped glory for his new patron. He had poisoned the lifewells he had once fought so hard to defend, and brought the blessings of pestilence to his people, in their ignorance. And soon, his past transgressions were but a thing to be chuckled over by both disciple and divinity.

He knew, deep in the core of him, that the lightning-men represented something dangerous. Something that even the Grandfather feared, in his way. A power long forgotten, rising anew. Drums sounded in the deep realms, the skies boiled with strange lightning, and the whole of creation seemed to be holding its breath. None of the others seemed to understand, which only made it all the more infuriating.

‘Be at ease, Despised One, we’re all children of the garden,’ Morbidex Twiceborn gurgled, stroking the mottled hide of his pox-maggoth. The Twiceborn resembled nothing so much as an overlarge nurgling, squeezed into rusty armour. He grinned toothily into the face of Torglug’s annoyance. ‘Some days, you just have to laugh.’

‘And some days are for being serious, Twiceborn,’ Torglug growled. His axe dropped from his shoulder and embedded itself in the soft loam at his feet. Morbidex’s maggoth shifted uneasily, and the big beast gave a grunt of warning. Torglug glanced warily at it. The maggoth was like some unholy combination of ape, plaguebearer and giant, with a temperament to put all three to shame. ‘You are silencing that beast, or else…’ Torglug said.

‘Easy, Tripletongue,’ Morbidex murmured. He patted the monster’s fang-studded muzzle. ‘He didn’t mean it, my sweet.’ He looked at Torglug. ‘Did he?’

Torglug grunted and placed his axe back on his shoulder. ‘Now is not the time for laughing. You are thinking maybe the Glottkin will be so amused?’