Mantius whistled. Aurora screeched and dove towards the verminlord like a shimmering comet. The star-eagle tore at the daemon’s head with beak and talons, scoring the pox-warped bone again and again. The verminlord staggered back, flailing blindly at its avian attacker.
While his opponent was distracted, Mantius tore his wing free of the daemon’s blade and drew two arrows from his quiver. They crackled as he thrust them into the daemon’s hip and midsection, eliciting a shriek of agony. The verminlord’s knee came up and struck his face. Mantius staggered back, vision spinning. ‘Aurora,’ he rasped.
The star-eagle shrieked and so too did the verminlord, as the raptor’s talons tore at its throat and muzzle. The daemon swung an arm, driving the star-eagle back, and whirled to plunge into the shadows gathered about the base of the tower. The creature vanished with a shrill hiss. Mantius swiftly reclaimed his bow and nocked an arrow, waiting.
He heard the shriek of the flying seraphon overhead, and the rattle of sigmarite echoing through the streets beyond the towers. He relaxed slightly. The verminlord was gone, but he’d hurt the creature. He could smell the foul tang of its ichors. And if he could smell it, he could track it.
He raised a hand, and Aurora swooped low about him. ‘Find it, my friend,’ he said, to the star-eagle. ‘Seek it out with your void-spanning eyes and lead me to it.’
Twice now he’d fought the verminlord, and twice it had escaped.
It would not do so a third time.
Chapter SEVEN
The Setaen Palisades
Skuralanx scuttled through the shadows of the worm, moving through the dark trails of rot and poison which pierced the great beast as easily as a skaven might scurry through a gnaw hole. The places where the raptor had clawed at him ached, and he longed to tear the bird to pieces. But he would wait, yes, wait and choose the right time and place for vengeance, rather than being drawn into a pointless scuffle with such an annoyance.
He scratched at the suppurating wounds left by the Stormcast’s arrows as he scurried. They had been infused with the raw stuff of Azyr, and had come close to severing the bonds that held him tied to this realm. Daemons rarely felt pain, unless the Horned Rat so willed it, in his infinite patience, and Skuralanx did not care for the sensation. He wished to avoid it in the future.
Such a cunning scheme, so nearly undone by chance — no, treachery, he thought, as he scuttled. It was always treachery. Chance had been allowed for, but this… this was an attack. Someone — some force — was trying to prevent him from finding the eighth Great Plague. Another verminlord, perhaps… yes, that made sense. How else to explain these same purple-clad Stormcast Eternals and the star-devils showing up here, on the eve of his triumph?
Vermalanx had been close to finding the Hidden Vale, and was defeated, he thought. I am close to success here and… He hissed. Treachery, yes. But who? Which among his kin had driven this blade into his back? He shook his shaggy head. He would discover their identity soon enough. Once he had the lost Liber in his clutches, none would stand before him.
He twisted about and plummeted deeper through the shadows, into the depths of the worm, following the particular trails of rot and filth left by Vretch and his followers. He cursed his lot, having to use and keep track of such flawed tools. Was any child of the Horned Rat so beset by foolishness? No, he thought. Only Skuralanx. All the better to prove his worth, perhaps. But only if he succeeded. And that meant keeping track of his servants and ensuring that they got where they needed to go, before it was too late.
He emerged onto the last of Vretch’s rafts, from the shadows behind the palanquin where the plague priest’s Conglomeration sat, tittering to itself. The mass of conjoined skaven thrashed as it sensed his presence, and it mewled softly from many mouths. Vretch, standing beside it, stiffened, his whiskers twitching. ‘Is — is that you, O most beloved and officious one?’
‘It is I, Vretch,’ Skuralanx growled. He rose to his full height, causing the raft to dip dangerously. Several plague monks darted looks at him, but hurriedly turned away to bend over their oars once more. ‘Prepare your congregation, Vretch. The enemy follow you,’ Skuralanx said. He spoke softly, so as not to attract the undue attention of the others. They knew he was here, but they also knew better than to look. They were not worthy to gaze upon the Scurrying Dark, and he had done horrible things to those who dared.
‘What? How?’ Vretch muttered, his eyes widening in sudden panic. ‘What have you done?’ He made as if to confront the daemon and rose from his seat.
Skuralanx caught Vretch by the back of his head and prevented him from turning. His tails coiled about the plague priest. Not too tight, but just enough to make Vretch’s bones creak audibly. ‘I? I have done nothing save bring you warning, you ungrateful squealer. And more besides — Kruk is on his way, O most unworthy of my many servants. He flees to the Setaen Palisades, and your enemies give chase. Have you found my Liber yet, lackadaisical one?’
He could feel Vretch squirm in his grip, and hear the quick thump of his heart. He could smell the fear of all of the skaven on the raft. ‘You — you honour me, O most conniving one,’ Vretch whimpered. ‘It is — I mean — you speak to me in the flesh, not through my creation…’ He gestured jerkily to the Conglomeration. Skuralanx growled softly. He hated wearing that fleshy guise, but it had served to keep some distance between himself and Vretch.
Skaven, whatever their clan, whatever their overriding devotion, were natural spies. Plague monks moved between congregations like germs, their allegiances as ephemeral as a morning mist. He could not risk Kruk learning that he spoke with Vretch. Vretch was also more easily impressed by such tricks as possession.
Now, however, none of that mattered. He needed the Liber. If the enemy had arrived closer to the worm’s head, rather than its tail… He hissed. Another sign of the Horned Rat’s favour. He was tempted to squeeze its location out of Vretch and find it himself, but some instinct warned him against it. His mighty brain would be needed to distract and harry the enemy, to slow them so that Vretch could claim his prize. Kruk was too simple to be anything more than a minor distraction. Besides which, the Liber could very well be guarded in some manner. Best to let Vretch weather whatever dangers waited in these depths. ‘My Liber, Vretch… how soon?’
‘C-close, O most kindly and patient of pestilences,’ Vretch squeaked. Skuralanx tightened his grip on the back of the skaven’s skull.
‘How. Close,’ Skuralanx said. Normally, Vretch’s prevarications amused him, but there was little time for it now. He needed to be sure that Vretch was sure.
‘The— the books say near here — see, see! Look-look, O greatest of baleful shadows, look, there-there… a ruin!’ Vretch shrilled, gesticulating wildly.
‘Yesss, there are many ruins here, Vretch. Many-many,’ Skuralanx murmured. His tail tensed, slithering more tightly about the plague priest. ‘I feel nothing, see nothing.’
‘Th-the Liber is hidden! Yes-yes! Hidden deep-deep,’ Vretch said, in a shrill warble. ‘But I can find it! The Conglomeration knows its scent!’
‘Does it now,’ Skuralanx said, glancing at the mass of twitching flesh. Vretch might be telling the truth. Had not the Third Liber been hidden so well that the magics of a hundred plague priests failed to pinpoint its location? Such things hid themselves even from the eyes of the gods. Once again, he congratulated himself on sparing Vretch’s life.