Skuralanx clawed at the ground, fighting the panic which gnawed at him. Strong jaws snapped at his throat. He rolled over, trying to shove the creature off him. It pushed its gauntlet towards his snout, the crackling energies singing his whiskers. The creature’s yellow eyes widened suddenly, and it reared back with an agonised roar.
The seraphon fell away from him, its own spear jutting from its back. Skuralanx looked up and saw Kruk backing away, his claw still smoking from where he’d touched the star-forged weapon. ‘You live, yes-yes?’ he chittered. ‘Kruk has saved you, Skuralanx, yes he has.’ His good eye blazed with fanatical fervour as he gazed at the dying seraphon. ‘Kruk could not abandon you, O most holy of holies. Whatever you commanded…’
Skuralanx gazed at the plague priest. ‘You mean it,’ he muttered. ‘You actually mean it.’ Wonder of wonders — an honest skaven. Kruk was utterly mad.
The plague priest rubbed his burnt claw against his filthy robes. ‘Filthy star-devil,’ he gurgled, gazing down at the thing’s dissolving form. He shuffled back as the creature’s blood pooled on the floor. It cleansed the ground as it spread and Kruk hissed in repulsion. ‘Your nests will rot untended, when the Horned Rat ascends to his proper place. And Kruk will be there to feast on them, yes-yes.’
He looked at Skuralanx. Before he could speak, the verminlord rose to his full height.
‘Go back to your congregation, fool. They require your guidance. You must get to the Setaen Palisades, quick-quick. I will see to any further pursuit. Go!’ he snarled.
It would not do to let Kruk realise how close Skuralanx had come to being defeated, until his intervention. Kruk eyed him for a moment, and then scampered away.
Skuralanx shook his head. Yes, Kruk would be a fine figurehead, when victory had been achieved, but until then… he stiffened, sniffing the air. He turned to see his blight steaming away as the last of the trapped seraphon finally succumbed. Their blood and flesh shimmered as it dissolved and he stepped back, scalp bristling with an inexplicable fear.
The bubbling ichors were burnt away by the blinding light as the corrupting magics were cleansed from the worm’s flesh. Skuralanx turned and saw that the same was happening around the dissipating carcass of the star-devil as well, and its fallen mount. The light swelled, rising up, and he felt the grime-stiffened hairs of his mane sizzle as a terrible cleansing heat stretched out towards him. With a hiss, he leapt for the shadows.
Mantius Far-killer swooped over the Crawling City, sickened by what he saw. The skaven had left a trail of destruction from the Dorsal Barbicans to the outskirts of the Setaen Palisades. The streets between the tall bristle-towers were full of toxic smog and pits eaten away in the worm’s flesh, thick with bubbling pox-waters. The worm’s convulsions were growing worse as it twisted first one way and then the next, as if trying to shed its abused flesh.
Shu’gohl was strong, befitting a creature that had lived for uncounted centuries on the open steppes of Ghur. But the great worm was approaching its limits, he suspected. He looked towards its head, where the eternal lightning storm shimmered. The storm acted as the great worm’s eyes in some manner, Mantius suspected, allowing it to know where it was crawling. Whatever its purpose, the storm also marked the site of the Sahg’gohl. He could almost make out the tiers and shattered minarets of the ancient temple.
The loremasters of Sigmaron spoke of a calamity, in the early days of the Age of Chaos, when some hell-sent beast had attacked Shu’gohl on its unending travels. The great worm had almost died then, and the ancient temple-crown which clung to its head had been destroyed, its priests killed to a man.
But Shu’gohl had survived, and the Crawling City had survived, even as the folk of Azyr had done. Chaos surges wild, but it cannot drown us all, he thought, his earlier bitterness forgotten. It was one of Zephacleas’ favourite sayings, and was always punctuated by a bellow of laughter. His Lord-Celestant was capable of great mirth, for all that he was an implacable warrior. But there was a fatalistic streak to his commander as well — a surety of death. The only surety Mantius possessed was that of finding his mark when he loosed an arrow.
He climbed up through the air, away from the worm, into the amber skies. He could see the vast plumes of dust rising from the steppes as the worm crawled across them. In the distance, through the dust and rain, he could make out the hunched, mountainous form of one of the other great worms, and the long columns of smoke which rose from the bastion on its back. Guh’hath, the Brass Bastion, he thought. The Great Worm of Khorne.
The Brass Bastion had been squirming towards Shu’gohl for months — years even — in slow, agonizing pursuit. It would have caught up with the Crawling City in ten years, maybe less, if warriors from the Sons of Mallus Stormhost had not intercepted it. No less than three Warrior Chambers from the Sons now laid siege to the Brass Bastion.
It would fall, as the skaven would fall. They would free the steppes of the taint of Chaos, and harry its followers wherever they found them. Mantius snarled, unable to contain the sudden surge of savage joy which filled him. The air rushed around him as he rose towards the ochre storm clouds. He swooped down, crackling wings spread, and scanned the tops of the setae towers which rose along Shu’gohl’s back.
He could just make out the shapes of his Prosecutors, spread out across the city, hunting the skaven wherever they might choose to congregate. After the fall of the Dorsal Barbicans, the vast majority of the vermin had scattered, streaming into the crooked streets beyond. They had occupied the city long enough that there would be innumerable warrens and burrows for them to seek refuge in. Lord-Celestant Zephacleas was determined that the ratmen would find none, and have no chance to regroup. And so Mantius’ huntsmen had been dispatched to range ahead of the combined host and harass the skaven.
Mantius himself had already claimed the tails of over a dozen reeking rat-monks as they sought to ambush the seraphon vanguard which followed the trail of the largest group of skaven. But while he’d paused to deal with the ratmen, the seraphon had continued their hunt, and seemingly vanished.
Somewhere above him, Aurora shrieked. The raptor swooped past him and he followed. She had seen something. A moment later, so did he. The bird’s swelling starlight rose up, washing over the towers. He felt a tingling in his limbs as it blazed over and past him. As it cleared, he spotted a shape fleeing the fading edge of the light. He recognised the verminlord easily enough. The daemon was running flat out, springing from tower to tower with all the agility of the vermin it resembled, outpacing the light with desperate speed.
I see you, beast, and no shadows to hide in thanks to that light, he thought as he angled himself and swooped downwards. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it as he dove towards the daemon.
He held the arrow steady, waiting. When the rat-daemon made a leap, he loosed the shaft. It caught the verminlord between its shaggy shoulder-blades, and sent it plummeting down into the gap between the two towers. Mantius pursued it, Aurora streaking ahead of him with a predatory shriek. But so intent was he on taking the beast’s head, that he nearly lost his own. As he tucked his wings and sped down between the towers, a flash of reflected light stung his eyes. He twisted aside, and a curved blade drew fat sparks from his shoulder-plate.
The force of the blow drove him into the opposite tower. The verminlord sprang at him. Its blades slashed down, gouging his amethyst armour. He lashed out, driving his feet into the creature’s gut. They fell in a tangle, and the street cracked beneath them. The verminlord stabbed one of its blades through the joint of his wing, pinning him to the ground. It slapped his realmhunter’s bow from his grip, and caught his war-helm in its free talon. It raised its remaining blade. ‘Scream loud, storm-thing,’ the daemon chittered. ‘Only Skuralanx to hear you…’