The realmgate. Still sealed though, thank Sigmar, he thought. He’d seen firsthand what happened when a realmgate became twisted by the forces of Chaos. Thankfully, that didn’t appear to be the case here.
The rat-priest was standing before the statue of Sigmar, swaying on its claws. As Zephacleas entered the chamber, it staggered and fell. It dragged its broken body forward, clutching the golden item to its chest.
Zephacleas stalked towards it, intent on finishing the creature off for good. But before he could reach it, the beast gave a grunting cough, shuddered and lay still. Its body came apart with a vile sound, and a tarry substance spread across the floor. Black, writhing shapes rose from the waste and he stepped back with a curse.
Above him, in the dark, something laughed. ‘You have come far just to die, storm-thing,’ a voice hissed. ‘Yes-yes, die-die.’
Zephacleas looked up. Something hideous stared down at him from its perch atop the head of Ghal Maraz. He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed it before. The side of the verminlord’s skull was scarred as if by fire, and one eye socket had gone dark. Several of its horns had been sheared off, and smoke still rose from the broken nubs. The daemon slunk down and crawled across the statue’s shoulders, leering at him with its single flickering eye. ‘Die-die beneath the gaze of your man-thing god. Die for the glory of the Great Corruptor.’ Its eye narrowed as it looked down at the body of the rat-priest. ‘Ahhh… poor Vretch. Poor, cunning Vretch.’
It sprang from its perch and Zephacleas stepped back as it landed in a crouch before him. He could hear the crash of weapons and the screams of dying skaven. The creatures were making their last stand and fighting like cornered rats. But none of that mattered if the daemon got what it came for.
It yanked the remains of the rat-priest’s body up and shook the golden plaques loose from the corpse’s grip. They clattered to the ground where they lay gleaming with a strange radiance. ‘Not what I was looking for, no-no, but perhaps valuable all the same…’ the verminlord chittered as it stared at them, its tail lashing. ‘Yes, valuable…’ it hissed softly. It looked up at him. ‘Is this what they came for? Is this why the serpent slithered down out of the stars? What secrets of theirs will it reveal, I wonder?’
Whatever those are, best not to let that thing have them, Zephacleas thought. He stepped forward, sword extended. ‘Step back, daemon. You’ll claim no prize today. Not unless you go through me.’ Lightning crawled across his armour as he faced the monstrous verminlord.
The verminlord hunched over and spread its long arms.
‘Aye, I’ve faced one of your kind before,’ Zephacleas growled. He brought his weapons together with a crash. The lightning flared in response, coiling about the blade of his sword and the head of his hammer as he wrenched them apart. ‘It fled, rather than fight me… what about you, beast? Fight or flight?’
The verminlord shrieked and sprang towards him, curved blades sweeping out. Zephacleas jerked back, avoiding the first of them. The second connected with his sword in a spray of sparks. The force of the blow knocked him back a step. The daemon landed two more strikes before he could drive it back with his hammer. Faster than me, for all that it’s bigger, he thought, following it.
But he’d fought bigger, faster things since before he’d been chosen to wage Sigmar’s war. It had been a way of life in the Ghurlands. There was always something bigger and faster and hungrier on the other side of your tribe’s palisade. There was always something that wanted to make a meal of you. The trick was in making it regret the attempt.
‘Did Mantius give you that?’ he asked, gesturing at the verminlord’s fire-scarred skull. ‘Did the Far-killer get in a bite, before you killed him?’
Heat flared in the daemon’s remaining eye and it gave a shriek of anger. It lunged for him again and he managed to side-step the blow. As it charged past, he caught it in the midsection with his hammer. The blow knocked it off of its hooves. It tumbled to the ground, but almost immediately rolled upright, steam rising from the point where he’d hit it.
He glanced back as something else entered the chamber through the great doors. The Dreaming Seer, on his palanquin, watched through half-closed eyes as he and the verminlord circled one another. He expected the slann to banish the daemon with but a gesture, but the creature did nothing. ‘Well?’ he growled. ‘What are you waiting for?’
The end.
The voice rang dully and deeply within him, and he shook his head to clear it.
He heard the daemon laugh. ‘It has not come to help-aid you, storm-thing,’ the verminlord hissed, darting glances at the waiting slann. ‘It comes only to watch.’
The daemon circled him, scraping its dripping blades together menacingly. ‘They only ever watch… they watched as we ate them, in the world-that-was, and they shall watch as we take our rightful place in this one. And it shall watch as you die.’
Its sickle-like blades whipped about, faster than his eyes could follow. First his runeblade, then his hammer, were torn from his grip. Before it could capitalise, he drove his head into its skull, causing it to stagger back. He lunged forward with a bellow and wrapped his arms around its midsection, lifting it off its hooves.
Its blades carved gouges in his war-plate as his charge carried it backwards into the statue of Sigmar. Stone legs cracked and the daemon squealed. It drove its elbows down on his shoulders, trying to break his hold. He ignored the blows and tightened his grip. Steam rose from the daemon’s maggoty flesh as the blessed sigmarite contracted about it. Its struggles grew more frantic and it hacked wildly at him, shearing slivers from his armour. Its knee caught him in the chest, and with a sudden, convulsive heave it broke his hold and flung him backwards.
The daemon was on him before he hit the ground. He caught the downward sweep of its blades on his bracer and knocked them from the creature’s grip. Before it could recover, he caught it by the throat. It grabbed hold of his head and slammed him back, rattling him. He drove his fist into its skull until the yellowing bone cracked.
The daemon rolled away from him, the lightning playing about its monstrous form. Zephacleas gave it no chance to recover, no chance to flee. He scrambled to his feet and hurled himself upon its back. He caught one of its remaining horns with one hand and snaked his arm around its shaggy throat. With a roar, he snapped its horn loose and drove the length of splintered bone into its good eye.
The daemon flung him off with a wail. He crashed into the statue of Sigmar. Stone cracked and split. Zephacleas rolled aside as the statue broke at the knees and fell. Ghal Maraz crashed down on the verminlord’s skull, silencing the daemon’s wails with dull finality. Its body thrashed for a moment, and then slumped in defeat. Slowly, it began to dissolve into a putrid mess of bubbling, tarry excrescence.
Zephacleas hauled himself to his feet, breathing heavily. He met the stony gaze of the statue and then looked up, through the hole in the roof, at the storm overhead. With a grunt of mingled annoyance and thanks he shook his head and picked up the golden plaques. They were warm to the touch, even through the metal of his gauntlet. He hefted them, feeling their weight. They were covered in strange pictograms, indecipherable to his eye.
It is done, the voice said, as vast and as deep as the dark between the stars. The words pulsed through him, echoing through flesh and bone. He heard a crack, as of great wings, and felt the heat of undimmed stars and blazing suns.
He looked at the Dreaming Seer. The slann was fully awake for the first time since his arrival, bulbous eyes wide open. The Starmaster gazed at him unblinkingly. Takatakk and Sutok were there as well, though he had not noticed them arrive. The skink crouched on his master’s throne, head cocked. ‘Do you hear, dream-of-Sigmar?’ the little creature chirped. ‘It is time. All has happened, as the Great Lord foresaw. And now our dream ends, and we will sleep again.’