CHAPTER SIX
Soul of the Hunter
Fires burned within the Dorsal Barbicans. Mortal men and women, newly freed and healed by the magics of the Stormcast Eternals, carried fire and blade into the dark, cleansing the ancient fortress of those lingering packs of skaven. Takatakk watched them from the dome of the Libraria Vurmis. The mortal inhabitants of the Crawling City glowed with a pale amber light, and he could trace their lifelines back along the solid orange river of Shu’gohl’s existence. That river stretched back to the birth of the realm and forward, into the misty reaches of the future. Strands of infection threaded through that thick skein of existence — the lives of the vermin. Those strands grew thicker and then faded abruptly as they intersected with the cerulean threads of Azyr.
Takatakk nodded to himself, satisfied that things were progressing as Great Lord Kurkori had foreseen. Shu’gohl’s progress towards its ultimate end would continue unhindered. What part the great leviathan would play in those distant, yet-undreamed events, Takatakk did not know, but the Dreaming Constellation would see that it was around to do so.
Down below, the Stormcast Eternals made ready to march. They glowed with a flickering radiance that Takatakk found comforting, though strange. It was akin to the light which flared through the seraphon, and yet not — weaker, perhaps. The Stormcasts were yet merely memories-to-be, rather than memories-of-what-was. In time, perhaps, they would become as one with the light of Azyr — things of pure order, even as the seraphon were. But for now…
He heard the bellow of Zephacleas’ laughter, and thought, just for an instant, about the inevitable and the inexorable. Claws scraped on stone and he turned. Oxtl-Kor stood behind him. ‘They are too slow,’ the Oldblood growled. ‘The vermin will escape us.’
Takatakk cocked his head. ‘Great Lord Kurkori says—’
‘I know what he says, Starpriest,’ the Oldblood rumbled. He tapped his skull with a claw. ‘I hear his words in my blood as well as you. I will not fail. The stink of the vermin-spoor is strong, and Sawtooth’s belly is empty.’ He looked at their master, reclining on his throne. ‘His wishes are many, and all must be fulfilled, even the least of them. I follow the Dreaming Seer’s design, even as you do.’
The skink grunted. He clicked his jaw, uncertain. The plan stretched before him, but even he was not aware of every facet of its infinite complexity. He was but a conduit for the wisdom of his master, an extension of the Dreaming Seer’s will. To him fell the mundane responsibilities of battle, the guiding of the unruly along the predestined path. Oxtl-Kor was more unruly than some. ‘We will march for the great worm’s head. You must mark our path, O veteran of wars yet undreamt. Show us their trail,’ he chirped.
Oxtl-Kor grunted and turned to clamber back down the dome. Takatakk watched him rejoin his warriors, waiting below on the ramparts. He could subtly alter the outcome of a battle, or call forth the destructive energies of Azyr itself, but he could not change what was written. Victory was bought by the blood of the star-born, and even in death, they would serve the Great Plan. Where they stood, death would not pass. And where they fell, the taint which afflicted the worm would be purged.
He closed his eyes, and let his mind stretch forth, into the deep places, where Tokl and his chameleon skinks stalked the vermin scurrying in the dark. Go, he pulsed.
Down deep, on the twisting intestinal currents of the Squirming Sea, Vretch waved his staff and unleashed a wave of sizzling, entropic energy. The lashing, fang-studded leech-maw came apart in smouldering clumps of rotting meat. More of the thrashing, hungry tendrils erupted from the boiling digestive juices and darted for the squealing skaven manning the rafts.
Panicked plague monks hacked at the gnashing, serpentine shapes with rusty blades, as Vretch, annoyed, began to chant. The sliver of warpstone set into the top of his staff glowed, and waves of oily light rippled out from it. He thumped his staff down, and the light flared. The tendrils caught in its radiance abruptly stiffened and began to swell. One by one, they burst, spewing maggots into the bubbling waters.
Vretch sniffed and looked around. So far, he’d only lost one raft to the hungry denizens of the Olgu’gohl. Something massive had surfaced from beneath a reef of worms and hooked the raft with a flabby claw, pulling it and its crew of plague monks down into the gastric morass. But he was determined to lose no more.
After all, who knew what dangers awaited him in the lost warren? He needed as many loyal — but more importantly, expendable — bodies between him and what might be waiting for him as possible. Geistmaw could be infested by all manner of horrors, given how long it had rested forgotten in the worm’s belly.
‘Faster-faster,’ he chittered, swatting one of the closest plague monks with his staff. ‘Row faster or we’ll all be food for the worms!’
As the monks bent over their oars and the raft picked up speed, he shuffled to the back and took his place at the rear, with the Conglomeration. The thing had been quiescent since its last outburst, but it still jerked fitfully on its palanquin. Every so often, he caught it looking at him and wondered whether Skuralanx was keeping an eye on him. Annoyed by its twitching, he looked away, out over the narrow sea of digestive juices.
The flickering torches mounted in the prow of the rafts cast an eerie light over the cavernous interior of the worm’s gullet. Strange shapes crawled through the shadowed upper reaches, or splashed through the shallows. Chunks of rubble thrust up on every side of the floating rafts like broken islands. A thousand cities had perished to Shu’gohl’s hunger before it had been tamed, and their ruins littered its craw. The tattered remnants of orruk encampments flapped in the foul sea-wind, and once, Vretch thought he saw the carcass of a gargant, covered in a pelt of hungry worms.
His snout wrinkled as he sniffed the air. He could smell the tang of strange moulds and ichors on the wind. Occasionally, they had passed thick patches of poison and infection, seeping down from above. Who knew what sort of poxes could be brewed here, in these humid depths? Perhaps he’d made a mistake, making his encampment above. The belly of the beast was fertile ground for the planting of pestilences. Yes-yes, it would make the perfect cauldron for the brewing of the Great Plague, once the Liber was in his grasp.
A hollow, tooth-rattling groan swept over the Squirming Sea, and the sizzling waters suddenly swirled ferociously, causing the rafts to bob in an alarming fashion. His followers cowered, and the air was thick with the musk of fear. Vretch was tempted to follow suit, but he clamped down on his panic, trying to think instead of the successes to come. His stomach lurched nonetheless and he awkwardly snatched up his tail and stuffed it in his mouth. He felt no pain, despite the way his chisel-like teeth cut into his wrinkly flesh, but the coppery taste of blood and pus calmed him.
The bubbling waters slopped over the edges of the raft, stinging his claws. The worm was weakening. It was succumbing to the thousands of pox-brews and pestilences unleashed on its flesh, and the damage from the fighting above. Sheets of rotting muscle fell from above, splashing down into the Squirming Sea as the monster convulsed. Another moan echoed through its craw, and Vretch found himself momentarily deafened. The noise reminded him — unpleasantly — of the thunder he’d heard, and the knowledge of what it meant.
He bit down harder, juggling the Mappo Vurmio and his staff as he tried to feed more of his tail into his mouth in a moment of stress. Kruk would keep the enemy occupied. That much he was certain of. Kruk had all the survival instincts of a rat ogre with a snout full of warpdust, and less sense. Once he sank his teeth into a foe, he didn’t let go until they were dead. He would fight the storm-things until he won or, more likely, they killed him.