Vretch chittered in pleasure at the thought. Kruk had dogged his trail for too long. Yes-yes, Skuralanx would see to it, and even if the storm-things failed, then Squeelch would…
He stiffened, the thought lost. There was a new scent on the air, a familiar stink, though he’d never encountered it before. He remembered what the daemon had shown him, and what he’d felt in those visions, and he spat out his tail. Vretch whirled, searching the curved walls of Shu’gohl’s gut-pipe for some sign of the enemy he knew must be close by.
Nearby, a plague monk pitched backwards, clawing at a shimmering dart that had sprouted suddenly from his throat. The skaven gurgled and slumped, steam rising from his flesh. As Vretch watched in horrified fascination, the dying monk’s flesh began to putrefy even faster than normal. ‘Poison,’ he hissed. ‘Guard yourselves, fools.’
A sudden shout from one of the other rafts drew his attention and he turned to see reptilian shapes bleeding into view, their scales shimmering strangely as they raced across the cliffs and crags of muscle and meat. They were there one moment and gone the next, as if blending into the background.
He watched in horror as the raft behind his came under attack. The plague monks aboard gave in to panic, rocking the raft wildly as they sought to find cover from the hissing death which shot out of the darkness. It availed them nothing; one by one, they slumped or pitched over the sides, their rotting bodies vanishing into the digestives juices of the worm. The empty raft, bereft of rowers, wafted along, drawn in the wake of his own craft.
‘Faster! Row-row rapid-quick,’ Vretch shrieked, battering at his followers with his staff. ‘Stroke — stroke — stroke — faster-faster!’ Satisfied that they were following his commands, Vretch turned his attentions back to the foe. His eyes narrowed. They were gone. He spun, searching the opposite shore, but saw not even the barest hint of movement.
He heard screams from the rafts behind, and snapped his jaws in frustrated realization. Of course, he thought. They’re trying to weaken my magnificent forces, to rob me of my mighty congregation! That thought was soon followed by another, slightly more panicked one. They know! Somehow, they know… He looked around, trying to spot the other rafts. Two had been sent ahead to test the waters, but there were four behind — how many yet remained?
Enough, perhaps, to occupy the unseen enemy’s attentions, he thought. He stood, steadying himself with his staff, and called out to the flickering light of the warp torches. ‘Vilebroth, Pux — my most loyal and courageous brothers, do you yet live?’ When squeals of assent greeted his cry, he said, ‘You must row for shore, my brave ones! Vretch shall meet you there. Together, we shall sweep aside these sneaking, treacherous assassins, yes-yes!’
He counted to ten, waiting until he heard the excited splashing of oars carrying the rafts to shore, and then let out a breath. Then, with a hiss, he raised his staff and conjured forth a sickly radiance which swelled and filled the air, illuminating even the deepest shadow.
The light washed across the shore, revealing the startled plague monks as they clambered out of their rafts. Yet also, it revealed the lurking shapes of the seraphon.
Vretch flung out a hand. ‘There! There, Pux — see them, get them, fast-slay them, lest they kill you all.’
The two bands of warriors hesitated, staring at one another. Then a skink raised its blowpipe, and one of the plague monks gasped and fell backwards into the water. With that, the battle was joined. Vretch watched for a moment, until he was satisfied that the skinks were too preoccupied to pursue.
‘Hold this, wretched one,’ he snarled, tossing the Mappo Vurmio to one of his servants. ‘Guard it with your worthless life, or be prepared to face the wrath of the Horned Rat himself, as embodied by me.’
Vretch turned from the cowering skaven and thrust his voluminous sleeves up, exposing his pallid, mange-ridden foreclaws. Clutching his staff in both claws, he began to sweep it in a wide circle, as if he were standing over a pox-cauldron.
The air turned oily and thick. Half-seen shapes formed in the murk, and the water roiled about them as the edges of the raft were caught in insubstantial talons.
‘Pull in your oars, lazy fools,’ he said. ‘You are not going fast enough. As ever, it has been left up to me to see us through.’ He thrust his staff forward, and the newly-conjured pox-winds swelled, shoving the raft on through the water.
The sounds of battle faded as he manipulated the murky wind. He grunted in satisfaction. It was as he’d always said. If you wanted a bone gnawed properly, it was best to gnaw it yourself.
Skuralanx, clinging to the side of a setae tower, watched the seraphon lizard-riders charge through the rolling streets of the Crawling City in pursuit of their prey. They were led by a bestial war-leader on a monstrous steed. The verminlord shook his shaggy head, wondering at the thrill of fear that shot through him at the sight of the star-devils — he had never encountered them before.
The whispers of the Horned Rat, the daemon thought, after a moment. Like all of his kind, the verminlord was but a mote of something greater; a vast intelligence whose attentions he feared, resented and craved in equal measure. He crawled around the other side of the tower as a flock of flying lizards swooped past, their riders chirping to one another. Skuralanx watched them go, half-formed memories of wickedly sharp beaks ripping the steaming innards out of squealing skaven filling his crooked mind.
Skuralanx recognised his true foe easily enough. The name of the Dreaming Seer was a whispered curse in the plague-gardens and filth-warrens of skaven and mortal Rotbringer alike. Kurkori, last survivor of the Nightmare War and slayer of Balagrex, one of the Seven Virulent Sons of Bolathrax. The Dreaming Seer had cooled the ever-burning sea, so that his star-blooded legions could march across and lay waste to the Fortress of Malady and burn the seven great plague-gardens within.
Skuralanx scrambled to the top of the tower and sprang across the gap separating it from its closest neighbour. The tower swayed gently as he landed. Before it had stilled, he was moving again, hunting the hunters. They were on Kruk’s trail, and would catch him if he didn’t intervene. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have worried about it — Kruk had more than served his purpose — but he suspected he would need the fanatic again before this affair was ended, if only to have something durable to throw at his enemies, when the time came.
The seraphon were as implacable as they were deadly, and single-minded besides. That would be their downfall. The storm-things were a different matter. He’d recognised their great, roaring brute of a leader — that one had almost done for Skuralanx’s kin-rival, Vermalanx, at the Gates of Dawn in the Jade Kingdoms.
Skuralanx had watched from the shadows alongside the rest of his sniggering, chittering kin as Vermalanx had gone to aid his ally, the Great Unclean One Bolathrax. His kin-rival had paid the price for his lack of caution. Skuralanx did not intend to follow his example. This was not the Ghyrtract Fen, and he was not a fool.
Far behind the seraphon riders rose the storm clouds that marked the rest of their host. Where the warriors of Azyr marched, lightning flashed and cleansing rains fell, ruining all that the Clans Pestilens had worked so hard to build. Skuralanx hissed. They were moving faster than he’d anticipated. He’d left Squeelch to cover their tracks, but it hadn’t been enough. Even as a distraction, that one was a disappointment. He scratched a talon down the side of his skull, dislodging one of the bone-beetles nesting there. He caught the insect and popped it between his incisors. Crunching idly, he considered his options.