And then, at last, he sank down, too weary to do anything more than hold onto the plaques. Smoke filled the air, and he could hear stone collapsing; he smelled the too-clean scent of starlight as what was left of the seraphon dissolved. As with their darts, their deaths would not be enough to cleanse this place. Once he was cured, he would come back. He would study the worms and the brew they swum in and he would unleash a blight unlike any other.
He would–
Vretch sagged, coughing. His perch wobbled. He could hear stone grinding, and the splashing of the worms. He had no strength left. He coughed again, spitting ichor. Dying, he thought, and his musk gland spasmed painfully. It was spent, as was he.
Youuu are not dying, Vretch…
Vretch blinked blearily, searching for the daemon. ‘Is… is that you, O most resplendent of… of…’ His body was wracked with pain. As he coughed, fangs pattered from his mouth and mucus ran from his snout. There were worms in it. There were worms in everything now. He could feel them moving behind his eyes.
You stand on unstable ground, Vretch. You must jump, yes-yes… jump and bring me the Liber, Skuralanx murmured. The daemon’s voice sounded odd, as if it were… hurt?
I can help you, fool… but you must jump. Jump now!
Vretch sprang for one of the remaining walls. As he leapt, his perch collapsed at last. He hit the stone and scrabbled for a moment, trying to find a hold with his free claw. It was only through a supreme effort of will that he managed to force himself not to fall. The stones he clung to were embedded in the gut-lining of the worm. Digestive juices spilled across him, burning him. What was left of his fur bristled and he shifted his weight painfully. He could see a speck of blue far above. He could smell…
Do you smell the storm, Vretch? You are in the worm’s head, close to its jaws — listen, you can hear them grinding. You are not far from the surface, Vretch. You can hear the lightning, the daemon said, its words echoing in his head.
‘I–I can, yes-yes,’ Vretch coughed.
Then climb, Vretch. Climb, for your very soul!
‘He is gone, then,’ Zephacleas said heavily. He stood outside, on the palisade wall, away from the chamber at the top of the tower and its stink of death. He closed his eyes for a moment, praying silently for the soul of the Far-killer. They would meet again, but it would be… different. Those who fell and were reforged were not the same. Death — even if it was but a temporary one — took something from them. Something indefinable. When next the Far-killer flew, would he be the same keen-eyed hunter whom Zephacleas had relied on, or would he be something, someone else? The thought was not a pleasant one.
‘The daemon killed him,’ the mortal said, her voice hollow with shock. ‘He freed us, and then the daemon killed him.’ Her name was S’ual and she was one of the few survivors of the slave-gangs. She trembled with fear and weakness, her malnourished body clad in the remains of once-rich robes and the now-rusted armour of a Setaen Guard. She held a spar of bone, slick with skaven-blood, in her remaining hand. Her other was bandaged tight and lashed to her chest by strips of filthy cloth torn from her robes. As she spoke, she tossed the spar aside in obvious disgust. ‘He freed us, but it… it came out of the shadows and…’ She looked up at Zephacleas, eyes wide. ‘What are you?’
‘Friends,’ Zephacleas rumbled. She flinched, and he softened his voice. ‘We are friends.’ He looked past her, towards the inner courtyard of the Setaen Palisades, where hundreds of sickly mortals waited — the survivors of those who’d made their stand here, when the skaven had attacked. Soldiers and nobility, now reduced to a pitiful state. The skaven had worked most of them to death, and abused the others terribly. Many had been broken in body and soul, their spirits crushed beyond repair.
But the rest… they would survive. The folk of the Ghurlands were hardy; if it didn’t kill them outright, they’d survive it. At least in my day, Zephacleas thought.
S’ual reached out, hesitantly, and traced the sign of the lightning bolt carved on his chest-plate. ‘Warm,’ she said, softly, wonderingly. ‘Your armour is… warm.’
‘As the day it was forged,’ he said. ‘Where did the daemon go? After it killed him?’
‘Away,’ she said, absently. She blinked. ‘The others — they fled towards the Sahg’gohl and the Storm-Crown, across the great causeway.’ She looked up at him, not quite meeting his eyes. She extended her good arm, pointing out across the structure in question. The causeway was not long, but it had once been an impressive span, lined with tall statues and prayer-towers. Now those towers were in ruins and the statues shattered. It extended from the rear of the highest tier of the palisades to the lightning-wreathed structure which crowned the worm’s head. ‘Will you follow them?’ S’ual asked.
He nodded. ‘We must. Can you lead the others back? The Dorsal Barbicans have been cleansed, and your folk hold them once more. There is safety there, if anywhere.’
‘Nowhere is safe. The great worm is dying,’ S’ual said.
‘Not if we can help it,’ he said. After a moment’s hesitation, he placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Go. Sigmar shall watch over you, sister.’
She straightened at his touch. Her fingers found his gauntlet briefly, and then she bowed her head and stepped back. Zephacleas watched her go, and felt the faint stirring of a half-forgotten memory… a proud face, hair like fire, bound in thick plaits, and a voice… sharp, like a knife. His hand curled into a fist and he shook his head, angry at himself, though he couldn’t say why.
‘The Storm-Crown… an apt name,’ Seker said behind him, diplomatically. He peered towards the head of the worm. ‘It was a temple, once. A way to Azyr and back — a realmgate — shattered at the beginning of the Age of Chaos.’
‘That’s not what the vermin came here for, otherwise they’d have already taken it,’ Zephacleas said, irritated with himself for a number of reasons, not the least of which was not sending warriors to take the place when he’d had the chance — a mistake he would not make again. ‘From what we’ve seen, I doubt they even knew it was there,’ he continued.
‘I wonder if our allies do.’ The Lord-Relictor indicated the seraphon as he spoke.
The slann hovered nearby, expressionless features gazing out over the causeway. Takatakk crouched atop the ancient being’s throne and chirped quietly to his master in the hissing tongue of the seraphon. ‘They know more than they’re telling… all this talk of helping us, of fate and dreams.’ He shook his head. ‘Why are they really here?’
‘It doesn’t matter. We came to free this place and that’s what I intend to do,’ Zephacleas said. ‘We must—’
Without warning, a geyser of ichor and poison spewed upwards from the great shafts carved around the courtyard as Shu’gohl thrashed in agony. The air reverberated with the worm’s groans, and all around him mortal, Stormcast and seraphon alike clutched at their heads in agony. The world shuddered and the sky spun as the leviathan writhed in pain. Chunks of stone fell from the towers, and lightning flashed as a Liberator was crushed. The ground bucked beneath them, sending warriors and mortals sprawling. The causeway shook on its supports and swayed so perilously that Zephacleas thought it might be destroyed.
‘There must be a way to calm the beast, else we’ll all be crushed — or worse, the causeway will shatter,’ Zephacleas shouted, grabbing Seker by the shoulder. ‘Work your healing magics, Gravewalker, or we’re all bound for Reforging!’
‘I can try,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘The beast might be beyond saving.’ He extended his reliquary staff, holding it above the ground. As he did so, Takatakk reached out to set his own staff across it. The skink looked back at his master, and then at the Lord-Relictor.